Short Fiction

"Where the hell are we, anyway?" Jane yelled, above the roar of gunfire.

Ross peered over the side of the Blackhawk, watching the spill of shell casings on their journey down.

"Generic war-torn shanty, at a guess. Almost certainly Middle East. There's a mosque, look." The helicopter slewed conveniently at that moment, exposing the walls of a minaret, its dome scuffed and pocked by bullet damage. Below that, charred buildings, charred trees and charred bodies littered the dust-bowl, carbonised by the intense sun.

"Nice day for a barbie," the gunner chuckled, at his side. "Or a spit-roast."

"I want to get off, Jane said. "I feel sick." Her hands were clamped firmly over her ears. It was very noisy. Communication would have been impossible without the headsets.

"Don't be soft. It's hardly real is it? I'd be more worried what those fatigues are doing for your figure if I were you."

"Oh don't! Does my bum look big?" She leapt to her feet, jogging the gunner and knocking him off his stride. He cursed, and the chatter of projectiles faltered for a few seconds, before quickly taking up again. The big side-mounted minigun was giving off a lot of smoke.

"Ross! You know how sensitive we women are about our weight!"

"You're not a woman, you're my sister. Besides, there aren't any mirrors in the desert, Janie. Now how about we crack on?"

She continued to stand in the doorway, obscuring the view. "'Scuse me - do you want to leave off that for a while? My eardrums have gone." But the minigun carried on spitting out tracers at a ferocious rate, its operator smiling fixedly in his seat, firing off the rounds in long, whining volleys. _Brrroooooooo!_

"God," she tutted. "Well, whenever you get tired of shooting up dead cattle and palm trees, then."

A squawk came from the cockpit. "Someone take the controls. My tea's ready."

"Me?" said Ross. "I can't fly!"

"I have to go. You'll pick it up easy enough. Stick forward and back equals up and down. Twist to rudder. Side buttons for countermeasures."

"Counter what?" But the pilot had winked out of existence, and suddenly Ross found himself sitting in the midst of an awful lot of knobs and switches he knew nothing about.

"Oh charming. Sis! We're in trouble here."

"You're telling me. Look at the size of that plane!"

Outside, the blur of a fighter wing swept past, its painted red star gnashed by anti-aircraft fire.

"It's a MiG!" the gunner shouted. "Man the spare gun, big bum!"

"Oi!" Janie yelled back. "I'll give you a clip round the ear in a minute. That was a private conversation!"

"Err, I don't think so love, not in the public team channel. Anyway, my name's Mike."

Jane couldn't be sure if the ensuing chatter in her headset was cackle or crackle, but she angled a blushing retort while taking up the empty seat. "Well Mike, I hope you get whitefinger _and_ tinnitus. If I wasn't a lady I'd throw in camel AIDS as well."

"Do as he says," Ross urged. "The last thing we need is being shot down before we find dad, soppy legs."

Another burst of radio static, followed by: "We've got company overhead, over."

The chopper lunged sickeningly, dropping like a stone. Its sketchy relationship with stability under Ross's command was compromised time and again by the wild, mid-air lunges he made wrestling for control. The tail and cockpit swapped ends, buffeting like a kite in a cross-wind.

"I really will throw up," Jane declared, clinging to the double handles of the gatling gun.

"Where's it gone?" Ross cried, as he struggled to master the intricacies of the stick. "God, this is so sensitive."

In his seat, the gunner moaned. "Christ - this is all I need, a couple of noobs. Right. Mini-map. Red dot. Bottom left corner. Avoid it like the plague. I'd suggest going low, where it can't get at us so easily."

Ross squinted at the controls, his voice a panicky squeak. "I can hardly keep track - it's too fast."

"Yeah, well. Fighter jets tend to be."

Inside the helicopter, a warning klaxon started up, adding to the noise and chaos. "Heat seekers locked on! Deploy chaff and flares!"

"Wondered what happened to them. Weren't they a sixties beat combo?" Janie giggled.

"Hardly the time sis, eh?" But he seemed to have the chopper under some sort of control now, and within a moment more, a smoky swoosh of countermeasures fizzed into the sky. "Woo! I'm beginning to get the hang of this."

"We're here to find dad, Ross. Just put the macho stuff aside and get us down, won't you?"

"I am trying! You could help, you know. Start shooting, for example. Instead of chatting up the hired help."

"Track the target," Mike the gunner advised. "Shoot slightly ahead to compensate for speed. And watch for the recoil. It can be a bit intense for a - " His words became lost in static.

" - for a girl?" Janie scowled. "Well, I can manage fine, thanks all the same."

An unfamiliar voice sauced the airwaves with thick Brummie inflection. "Stop chewin' yer mic, Mike. We want the news, not the weather." This was followed by a laddish smattering of laughter.

"See - told you. Public channel. Meet your ground crew. Welcome to the war."

"Hello lads!" said Ross. "Any chance of a bit of help?"

Jane had gone quiet. For a few harmonious moments, the strident missile warning noise stopped while the two miniguns spat, in unison, white-hot flechettes toward the shrinking target. Then she cursed. "It's broken. Bloody thing!"

"Stoppage!" Mike shouted. "You've jammed it. Watch the temp gauge. Don't let it get into the red. Controlled bursts - like this." He demonstrated, strafing and swivelling expertly in the chair. "And I said 'rookie', not girl."

"Yeah, whatever. I've gone and chipped a nail now. Happy?"

From the cockpit window, Ross watched the jet circle in a tight blur around the sun's corona. Its missiles had been foxed by their flares, but now it had eturned for the kill. There wasn't a lot of time.

"Everyone? We're looking for our dad. He's called John. John Hebdon."

"Are you for real?" scoffed Mike. "Nobody uses their real names. Ahh, shit. Now I've overheated too." There was a long hiss of contracting metal as the rotary mechanism cooled, achingly slow.

"Hang on, I've got his tag. Here it is." There was a scuffling, a fumbling and a rustling of paper. "Deathbringer666."

"_Lieutenant Commander_ Deathbringer666?"

"Yes," Janie interrupted. "I suppose. Do you know him? We have to speak to him. It's really important." Outside, the MiG had completed a neat barrel-roll, and was now tearing back at them at speed, its main cannon screaming death. With no guns to defend the whirlybird, their goose was as good as cooked.

"He'll be at the main bridge, organising the ground offensive. We're gonna have to bail, you know. This is Fubar'ed."

"Fubar'ed?"

Ross was struggling to hear above the cockpit clamour. "What does he mean, sis?"

There was a pause they couldn't afford. "...Something something, 'Beyond All Repair'. He's chewing his mic again, I think."

"Never mind that. Bail how?" Bullets had begun thudding into the chopper's fuselage, stitching puckered holes all along the side like amateur surgery. "Mike!"

Mike's voice became mercifully clear at the right moment. "Due east. Two klicks. See you on terra firma, Ross. Bye big bum."

He disappeared. The siblings craned their necks to watch scorched earth consume him, far below.

"Cheeky b-!"

"Have we even got 'chutes?" asked Ross belatedly, as the chopper exploded in a huge fireball above their free-falling heads.

With the wind whistling in their ears, a faint crackle over the mic advised. "Middle mouse button. Click it, but wait until at least two thousand feet. You'll be picked off by snipers otherwise."

"Great. Thanks for the tip," Ross winced, as burning debris whizzed past their faces. "Whose idea was this again?"


***

"Sis, please!" Stop moaning. Your bum is not big, as you well know. Your make-up is, I'm sure, impeccable as always. This isn't an accurate representation of you, merely an avatar. Sorry to break it to you, but to me and everyone else, you're just a sweaty monobrow in desert combats, who looks like he washed with boot polish this morning and happens to have a girl's voice."

"Well, obviously! I'm not stupid, I know it isn't real. Still, you don't have to be so brutal with the truth. Pig."

"On top of that, we appear to have landed in the remotest part of the map, without so much as a dead yak to navigate by. Judging by our inability to contact Mike and his crew, we're out of radio range too."

"You can zoom the minimap out with 'Z'. Mike told me, while we were trying to shoot down the MiG thingy. The main bridge is marked by a star, over to the North-east. There. So, at least one of us knows where we're going."

"'_Mike told me,_'" Ross mimicked. "Well perhaps if you two hadn't been cosying up so much you might have actually succeeded. Then I could have landed us a bit nearer."

"Oh please. As if."

"Janie! You're blushing. How cute. Even under all that grease."

They walked forever until it finally became a little less desolate. Auto parts began to litter the parched earth, guiding them toward the recon point like a paper trail.

"You know what?" said Ross. "I even feel thirsty. It's very realistic isn't it. I mean, I can understand how dad might have become drawn in..."

"Ross! Mum's in bits. Not to mention my problems, and yours. Now is not the time for understanding him. How could he do this to us?"

"Yeah, I know. Just saying, like."

"Well don't. Unless you want to miss your rock festival, and listen to me moan forever about not going to Malaga. Because I'll haunt you."

The junk began to expand in size and frequency. Now it was wrecked vehicles and broken armaments pointing the way.

"How can they be on fire?" Jane queried, as they trudged by. "Machinery and animal bones and stuff."

"Who knows?Perhaps it's a mirage. Perhaps there's a giant Baked Alaska just over this hill."

"Ooh - shut up. I'm starving."

They crested the dune, and the theatre of war lay unexpectedly before them, its noise and smoke cutting in without transition. Convoys of wagons grunted through the sand. Choppers whirred overhead and tanks rumbled by the makeshift aerodrome, where a large, four-engined bomber had just taxied to a clumsy stop, cannoning into a nest of oil drums and squashing a uniformed comrade.

"WTF? - Noob! Check your six!" a sulky line of text scrolled across their comms screen.

"What's with all the jargon?" Janie complained. "I thought the Arabs were the ones with the foreign language. What the f*** does 'WTF' mean anyway?"

Ross gave her a look. They were both becoming irritable. Every turn seemed to bring another opportunity to be out of their depth. Noobs indeed.

"We'll never find him in amongst all this."

By the bridge, at the head of a double-line of infantry corps, a commander with pips on his chest barked orders.

"That's Deathbr... your, umm, dad." a voice cut in over the radio. Mike was at the back of an army-issue Humvee nearby. Naturally there was a big mounted gun in tow. Naturally he was sitting in it.

"Why can't we hear him over the headset?"

"You're not enlisted in his squad. You have to change channels. Press TAB then click left mouse on the desired name, then 'OK' to join. Welcome back, by the way."

"Thanks, Mike. Janie let's do it, c'mon!"

"You mean we've gone through all hell and we could've just done that? All that noise? All that heat?"

"All that drama?" Mike's estuary English chuckled. "Typical bird. From what I could see, you were loving it. And for what it's worth, you weren't a half bad gunner, either."


***

There wasn't time to delay. Jane rushed to the head of the platoon, dragging Ross along with her.

"Dad!"

"What is it, private?"

"Dad, we need to talk."

"Dad? What's your name, soldier?"

"It's me - Janie! Ross is here, too."

"Hi dad."

Ross had gone sheepish. He couldn't always be relied on when it came to a confrontation. Too much like his father, Jane thought.

"Look, I dunno how you got here, but I want nothing to do with it. Can't a bloke get a minute's peace...?" He cut an impressive figure. Not looking like their father, who rarely wore anything more dashing than slouch-arsed jeans and a t-shirt, with an invariable stain or two gracing it. His avatar was spruced; important. Shiny shoes. A gilded cap. Epaulettes. His voice sounded a bit more refined through the earphones, too. A bit like when he was on the phone to the gas board, or when mum's brother, Jeremy, who had his own business, came round.

"It's been days, Dad! Mum's worried sick. The dog does nothing but whine."

A soldier with a few less pips cast his shadow over them. "Sir, we need to get moving or the convoy won't reach the ridge before 0900."

"Very good. I'll just be two ticks."

"Sir, with respect, the enemy are advancing while we seem to be still here."

"That's exactly the problem, Lieutenant."

"Sir, your vanguard seem unusually, ahh, attentive today. Is something wrong?"

His voice was low, coming from between gritted teeth. "They've hemmed me in. The troop can't move off until I do. It’s pre-programmed in the game engine. So for the time being, we are, quite literally, stuck for answers."

“Can’t you just shoot them, sir.”

“Tempting, but no.”

Unwittingly, they had gained their father's full attention by pinning him to the game scenery. Jane gave a triumphant, "Ha!"

"Stand aside, you two. We'll talk about this later." He was using that voice they knew, suspiciously polite. That 'just wait till I get you home' voice.

Ross began to move, but Janie stood firm. "No. Don't you dare move. Stand up for your rights, Ross. Think about Metallica and glow-sticks. Whatever it takes."

"Righto."

"We're grown adults, Dad. You can't threaten to take away our teddy bears. I've been laid off from the supermarket. If I can't pay for Malaga by the end of month I'll lose my deposit. It's just a couple of hundred.I'll pay you back."

"I need to borrow the car," Ross blurted. “A few days - a week tops. There's this festival up Scotland, see. Dave's Punto's goosed and Thommo's been banned for speeding."

"It's not right. Mum's going out of her mind. She says she misses you."

"The only thing Mum's missing is the sound of her own voice, nagging me. Shall I tell you what I've missed? A lot. Too young for the Blitz, too old for Iraq. Too busy working the treadmill to ever make something proper of myself. Why? To feed and clothe my family. The same family who'll will one day rise to the aspirations I've always wanted for myself. That I've sacrificed for them. Do either of you know the meaning of 'sacrifice?"

"Course!" scoffed Jane. "It's when you have to tape _X-Factor_ 'cause _America's Next Top Model_ is on at the same time."

"Dad - about the car..."

"How's that degree coming along son?"

"Well, see. The thing is..."

"Oh, I forgot. Taking a year out wasn't it? How old are you now, incidentally. Twenty-one?"

"Time is an abstract concept, dad. Plus, I've gotten used to the pop factory. The money and that..."

"Enough! Ever heard of generation envy? Well maybe this gives me something to bring to the table. Maybe I've got respect here. My Grandad was a hero of Tobruk. His dad fought in the Boer war. They had respect, because of what they achieved. Because they got off their arses and fought for a cause. And you know what? - they didn't fancy it. Not one bit. They did it because they had to. Now all you two are bothered about is headbanging and San bloody Miguel."

"You've turned into them, by the sound of it," Janie muttered under her breath, but loud enough for Ross to hear. "Talk about moan..."

"Well, you're going to find out how to fend for yourselves without me. I give up. I'm staying here. My unit understands what it takes to overcome odds. They recognise the value of power, the force of will required to take it. And they give back, children. They're not takers who just – take, take, take, all the goddamned time!""

Jane was the one with the temper. "You're no hero," she said. "Sat in some dingy flat somewhere, neglecting your family. I can just see you now. Unfed, unwashed, unshaven and wired in to this bloody game."

"Yep, and I've never felt more liberated in all my life. All your mother and I do is argue. Mollycoddling you, knowing how useless you'll be when the time comes to stand and be counted, but too weak to refuse what we've nurtured. Fetch me, carry me. Wipe my arse. Well, the revolution starts here. I've tried everything else. This is my way of making you see sense. So get on with it."

"Pah!" Jane snorted. "It's nothing of the sort. You're just obsessed. You've always been the same. Mum told us, even while she was in labour, screaming in pain trying to squeeze us both out, you were even playing video games then!"

"That's my fault too is it? That you were late for your own births, you lazy pair of buggers!" His pixelated face became wistful, though. They both knew when Dad was smiling. It was in his voice. "_Namco Super Wars_ on the Wonderswan, an obscure little hand-held Japanese jobbie. I'd levelled up my character with Seventh Dan fireballs and, by the time your mother got to the pushing stage, I pretty much had to beat the last boss with one hand. You couldn't save your game, then, see. Had to do it all on one run. "

"Why one hand?" Ross asked, getting sucked in.

"She was crushing the other! Making the most horrendous racket. Anyone would think she was in pain. I was there, though. That's the point. I've always been there, haven't I?"

"If you just do this one thing for us, though" Janie pleaded.

"Two things, technically," Ross corrected, gaining for himself a kick in the process.

The scuffle was enough to dislodge their hamstrung parent, and both would-be war hero and long-haired layabout were cursed roundly as they took their opportunity to decamp.

"Just, just, just! Well time 'just' ran out for the gravy train. When I have to hide away in a virtual world to make you do things for yourselves, that should tell you something! That it's time to let go; that the well has dried up, and it's ‘just’ not happening any more. Don't you see?"

There was a roar of support from the ground troops as John Hebdon leapt over a hill of sandbags and charged, with his army at his heels yelling: "For the emperor!"

"We're US 46th today, sir," his adjutant reminded him. "Swap tomorrow. Battle of Midway, I believe."

"Then dust off my white tunic and sword, Lieutenant, because this is going to take some serious Banzai!"

"Sir, YES SIR!"