Valley of Shadow
Sneak Peek

Prologue: Arrival of the Fallen

Twelve years prior

Republic Colony Zebulun

​

The sun over the colony world of Zebulun was a brilliant, warm amber, casting long shadows across the black, nutrient-rich topsoil of the southern plains. It was a day that felt like an ancient memory—row after row of young crops began to pierce the surface of the earth in perfect geometric lines, a testament to the Republic’s precision. In the distance, a small fenced-in pasture held a handful of black-and-white cows, their lowing the only sound against the gentle hum of a nearby automated irrigation unit.

Inside the farmhouse, the air smelled of sun-warmed wood and life. A young mother sat in a rocker, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards keeping time with the nursing infant in her arms. At her feet, a toddler scrambled with a set of wooden blocks, his laughter high and bright, reflecting the light in his mother’s eyes. She reached down to ruffle his hair, her expression one of profound, quiet contentment.

A hundred yards away in the cool shadows of the barn, the father knelt in the straw of a birthing pen. His hands, calloused and steady, worked with patient care. One of the cows was deep in labor, her breathing heavy and rhythmic. He spoke in low, soothing tones, his presence a calm anchor as the hooves of a new calf began to emerge. He was a man of the earth, accustomed to the slow, difficult work of bringing life into the world.

Then, the light began to fail.

It wasn’t the swift transit of a cloud, but a slow, parasitic draining of the amber sun. The temperature in the barn plummeted, the air turning brittle and metallic. The farmer’s hands slowed. He looked down at the struggling cow, then at the half-emerged calf. The patience that had defined his life for a decade began to evaporate, replaced by a sudden, hollow ache in his chest.

In the house, the toddler’s laughter died instantly. He stood among his blocks, his face contorting into a mask of senseless, jagged rage. He kicked the tower he had built, then began to shriek, throwing the heavy wooden cubes at the walls with a strength born of pure spite. The mother didn’t move. The warmth in her expression vanished, replaced first by a flicker of sharp anger, and then by a terrifying, flat indifference. She looked at her son as if he were a stranger, an inconvenience.

Back in the barn, the labor had turned disastrous. The calf was stuck, the mother cow bellowing in a mixture of exhaustion and agony. She dropped to her front knees, her eyes rolling back. The farmer stood up, stepping out of the muck. He didn’t look for a vet kit or a tow-strap. He looked at the dying animal with a sneer of pure disgust. The labor, the farm, the years of toil—it all felt like a joke with no punchline. With a guttural yell of frustration, he delivered a heavy, booted kick to the cow’s ribs. As she bellowed in pain, he turned his back and walked toward the light of the door. Behind him, the lifeless, twisted mass of the dead calf slid onto the straw.

The mother stood in the kitchen. She watched the toddler tear the curtains from the window, her eyes vacant. She looked down at the baby in her arms. The infant was crying now, a thin, needy sound. Disappointment etched itself into her features. She pulled the bottle away, tossing it onto the floorboards where it shattered. With the same care one might use to set down a bag of grain, she laid the infant on the hard kitchen table and walked out the front door without looking back.

She met her husband in the yard. Both of them turned their gazes upward.

The sky was gone. In its place hung a massive, obsidian warship, a jagged splinter of midnight that blotted out the sun. It didn’t roar; it hummed with a frequency that vibrated in the marrow of their bones. A cold dread was now absolute—a crushing weight of worthlessness that made the idea of survival seem tedious.

The horizon toward the town erupted in a series of silent, brilliant flashes as the warship’s heavy artillery began the bombardment. Plumes of black smoke rose like pillars, but the couple simply watched, their faces lit by the distant fire. There was a twisted, hollow satisfaction in their expressions, a shared relish in the destruction.

A black-hulled dropship, sleek and predatory, descended into the young crops, its thrusters scorching the black soil. The hatch hissed open, and a platoon of soldiers disembarked. They moved with a mechanical, soulless grace, their jet-black armor absorbing the flickering light of the fires. They didn’t offer terms. They didn’t demand surrender.

The couple stood side-by-side, watching the black-clad figures approach. They made no effort to run or plead. As the lead soldier raised a weapon of dark metal, the husband and wife simply waited, their eyes fixed on the obsidian ship above, almost smiling as the first volleys of fire tore through the spring air.

The dropship’s turret swiveled toward the farmhouse. A single, high-intensity blast turned the structure into a blossoming fireball of splinters and glass.

Above, the warship moved on, a shadow passing over a world that had forgotten how to hope.

​

Part One

A Quiet Moment

Salem Carrier Strike Group, Flag Ship Salem, en route to Sidon System

The Salem, Chapel

​

Quietly, I slipped through the side door and made my way down the aisle. I instinctively bowed my head, more to avoid eye contact than out of reverence. The lighting was warm and subdued. Soft chords of piano and flute wafted through the still air, barely audible. A few rows of padded chairs faced a low table on a dais, the only furnishings in the room. On the front wall, a circular stained-glass mosaic backdrop. At its center, a soaring dove with an olive branch in its beak, a universal symbol of peace.

I smiled inwardly, considering the irony of a room dedicated to peace and love nestled between the bulkheads of a ship built for war. It felt so small and out of place, an afterthought—a minimal concession to some archaic regulatory requirement for religious accommodation. I didn’t consider it archaic.

I chose an end seat in a mostly vacant row, two-thirds of the way back, and took a moment to settle my thoughts. My fingers found the small gold cross on a fine chain around my neck, but my mind was too unsettled for words. The excitement and fear—mostly fear—of approaching battle stirred my emotions, while tactics and procedures raced through my mind.

Technically, I had hundreds of hours of combat time, but in all my previous operations, air and space superiority were established with threats contained well before we reached the objective. Not today. This would be my first mission into a truly contested battle-space, a real baptism by fire.

Failing to find my own words, I took a Bible from the selection of holy books in the seat back pocket. My grandmother had introduced it to me as bedtime stories—tales of shepherds, giants, and kings—but as I’d grown and the world had grown colder, I realized they weren’t fairy tales. There was truth and hope in those verses.

I paged through until I found the Twenty-third Psalm, one she had whispered over me a thousand times until the rhythm of the ancient Hebrew poetry was etched into my bones. I read:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

My fingers tightened on the cross as I repeated the line to myself, over and over, hearing her steady, aging voice behind my own: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Finally, I offered my own words: “Father, whatever your will is for this day, may I not let my crew down. This I pray, in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

My prayer said, it was time to get to work. I gently closed the book, replaced it in the pocket, and stood. I moved quickly and quietly, exiting the room. The sterile hum of the air recyclers and the faint thrum of the engines met me in the passageway. I was back on a warship again: the interstellar carrier, Salem.

​

Mike Charlie

Mission Brief

​

The main briefing room was a typical auditorium, dominated by a large hologram of the planet Sidon hovering front and center. As Mission Commander—callsign Mike Charlie—of the dropship formation, I took my seat in the front row. Aircrews and troop commanders filled the seats behind me, the rustle of their combat uniforms a low, restless murmur.

At exactly 0500, an anonymous voice boomed from the speakers: “SALEM, ‘TEN-SHUN!”

We leaped to our feet, snapping to a rigid position of attention. Rear Admiral “Bulldog” Joab, commander of the Salem Carrier Strike Group, strode down the center aisle. He was tall and barrel-chested, sporting a salt-and-pepper flattop and a thick mustache. His boots echoed with a rhythmic, heavy purpose.

They called him “Bulldog,” a name earned twenty years ago during the Siege of Sardis, when he’d refused to abandon a crippled destroyer, placing his own ship between the enemy and the survivors until the last escape pod cleared the atmosphere. His very presence exuded that same stubborn confidence now, as if he could deflect orbital fire with personality alone.

“As you were. Please take your seats.” He climbed the steps to the stage with the heavy grace of a man used to command.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our objective is Sidon.” He gestured toward the glowing hologram. The planet was a hostile marble of swirling gray clouds. “Our orders are to seize this world, denyin’ the enemy a strategic foothold and establishin’ our own Forward Logistics Area—a beachhead to sustain our advance into their space. This ain’t no border skirmish anymore. The enemy advance stops right here. It stops now!”

The Admiral touched a screen, and the hologram populated with data. Sidon’s two moons, Alpha and Beta, appeared, surrounded by a constellation of orbital defense platforms.

“This is the gauntlet y’all are gonna fly. The destroyers of Task Force Joshua have already moved in to clear a path, supported by fighter squadrons from the carrier Hazor.” The display zoomed out, revealing the Salem in the distance. “We are approachin’ from the shadow of the moon Alpha. It’s a standard tactic; so don’t expect the enemy to be surprised.”

He glanced at his watch, his expression hardening. “We reach orbit in ninety minutes. The moment we break cover, the assault force launches. The target is the spaceport nestled right in this river oxbow.”

The image zoomed into the surface, showing a city flanked by mountain ridges. “Your Drop Zone is the airfield. Three flights of four C-260 Samson dropships will make the orbital jump. You’ll have fighter escorts all the way down to the deck. You go in low, you go in fast, and y’all put boots on that runway. This will not be a walk in the park, but you are ready. Keep faith with each other, and we will win the day. Godspeed. Mike Charlie, you’re up.”

The Admiral took a seat in the front row. I climbed the steps, my boots finding a steady rhythm on the metal.

“As the Admiral stated, we’re going in as three waves,” I began, my voice steady and professional. “My flight, Juda, leads the way. Reuben and Levi flights will follow at twenty-minute intervals. We’ll maintain radio silence through atmospheric entry. Once we’re through the blackout, I’ll send a tight-beam update to the Combat Information Center to launch the next wave.”

I punched a key, highlighting the mountain ranges around the city. “The Salem and her escorts will provide heavy naval artillery to suppress ground batteries, but don’t count on a clear sky. Each flight of dropships has two Cherub fighters for cover. We stay in a tight formation to minimize our sensor profile and keep the escorts close.”

“Once we hit the atmosphere, we’re dropping into the weeds. We’ll use these ridges for terrain masking, staying below their radar until the final run-in. At my command, the formation will split. Each ship will take a random route to the Drop Zone to confuse the local defenses, hitting the Point of Impact at fifteen-second intervals.”

My hand rested on the podium, my knuckles white. This was reality—all the planning in the galaxy narrowed down to a few seconds of exposure over a target.

“Juda flight’s package will secure the airfield and set up the command post. The following waves will reinforce the perimeter. We need mass on the ground immediately to overwhelm the defenders before they can dig in. Engine start is in forty-five minutes. Launch in fifty-five.”

I looked out at the sea of flight suits. I saw focus. I saw resolve.

“Intel, you’re up.”

​

Start-up

Checklists

​

With the crew briefing complete, we made our way to our stations. The cockpit of the C-260 Samson was my second home, a familiar sanctuary of toggle switches, glowing glass displays, and the scent of worn leather. I took the pilot’s seat on the left, with Captain Ruth—my steady copilot—to my right. With her wire-rimmed glasses and precise movements, she looked more like a librarian than a combat pilot, but I knew her focus was steel.

Aft of us, Master Sergeant Noah, our Flight Engineer, a burly black man with a shaved head that gleamed under the cockpit lights, sat center seat at the systems panel. Beside him was Lieutenant Caleb, our navigator—tall, rail-thin, and sporting a wispy hint of a mustache that he clearly hoped looked more “pilot-esque” than it actually did.

We began our preflight flows in a practiced, silent symphony. I moved panel to panel, my hands finding every switch by memory. It was a grounding rhythm that pushed back the tension and replaced it with focus.

“Crew check in,” I commanded over the intercom.

The replies were a rapid, practiced litany: “Copilot’s up,” came Ruth’s clear, steady voice. “Flight Engineer’s up,” followed Noah’s deep, calm tone. “Nav’s up,” snapped Caleb with his usual efficiency. “Primary load’s up,” “Secondary load’s up,” came the replies of Staff Sargent Mary and Senior Airmen Samuel from the cargo bay.

This was the ritual. This was how we transformed six individuals and a hunk of alloy into a single fighting unit.

“Engineer, Before Starting Engine checklist.”

“Yes sir,” Noah replied, his voice a familiar singsong. “Maintenance status.”

“Checked,” I said, thinking of the crew chief outside who had signed his name to this bird as flight worthy.

“Oxygen.”

“Set Pilot.” “Set Copilot.” “Set Nav.” “Set Engineer.”

We moved through the systems—navigation, radios, fuel, and sensors—a call-and-response born of a thousand missions. When Noah called for the APU, a low rumble vibrated through the floorboards—the beast stirring to life.

“Before Starting Engines Checklist complete,” Noah finally announced.

I checked the Flight Management System—the “box.” We were two minutes from formation check-in. “Nav, send datalink request to the CIC for positive launch.”

“Copy,” Caleb said, his long fingers a blur across the keys.

I keyed the radio to Salem Clearance Delivery. “Juda-21 lead for Juda-20 flight of four… request engine start.”

“Juda-21, engine start at pilot’s discretion,” the controller replied.

I glanced at Ruth. “Check-in time.”

She hit the formation frequency. “Juda-20 flight, Juda-21 Lead, check in plain with alpha status.”

The replies from our wingmen—Juda-22, 23, and 24—snapped back in quick succession. Two-three reported a minor hitch with a cargo door, but the chief was already backing off. We cycled through the check-ins again on secure frequencies and then through the laser-comms—silent beams of light that the enemy couldn’t intercept.

“Juda-20 flight, we are cleared for engine start,” I commanded. “Push Salem tower, channel one.”

“Pilot, engine start in thirty seconds,” Noah chimed in, checking his monitors. “Chief is up on comms.”

I looked out the windshield at the crew chief standing near the number three engine. “Morning, Chief.”

“Mornin’, boss,” came his thick southern accent over the wire. “I got the ol’ girl purrin’ like a kitten. You just bring her back without a scratch, ya hear?”

“You have a deal, Chief,” I lied smoothly. “Just a walk in the park. We’ll deliver the load and be right back.”

A walk in the park. A grim smile pulled at my lips. I remembered the 23rd Psalm from the chapel: I will fear no evil . But as I called for the Starting Engines checklist, I knew where we were going.

“Clear number three,” Noah called.

“Number three turning,” I replied, hitting the start switch.

I watched the gauges climb—timing, rotation, ignition, on speed. One by one, the four massive plasma turbines roared to life, their collective howl drowning out the silence of the hangar.

Ruth reported the final clearance as the ship strained against its moorings. “Pilot, we’re launching from tubes six through nine. Controlled launch in twelve minutes, fifteen seconds.”

“Thanks, Co,” I said, feeling the Samson pulse with readiness. “Nav, load it in the box. Engineer, Before Taxi checklist, if you please.”

​

Into the Fire

Departure

​

The low thrum of the Auxiliary Power Unit was replaced by the deep, guttural roar of four main engines powering up. My Samson dropship shuddered around us, groaning as she came to life. Over the intercom, the Engineer’s voice crackles. “All power stabilized, Pilot. Go lights across the board. The chief was right, she’s purrin’ like a kitten.”

I glanced back, though the steel bulkhead cut me off from the cargo bay. I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them—the steady breathing of a veteran and the clipped, shallow exhales of a kid on his first drop. Sergeant Mary, a hardened veteran, and Airman Samuel, a fresh-faced kid on his first combat sortie, were in the belly of the beast. Ruth, my copilot and right-hand, gave a small, confident nod. She was a woman of few words and precise actions, a quality I valued when the flying got… interesting. Lieutenant Caleb, our navigator, was already hunched over his consoles, his fingers entered the flight plan into “the box”. He was a brilliant young man, the kind who found comfort in calculations.

With all systems online, I radioed for our final clearance. “Salem Tower, Juda-20 flight requesting launch.”

“Juda-20, you are cleared for controlled launch from tubes six through nine,” came the reply. “Launch time in two minutes, 15 seconds. Good luck, Juda.”

“Roger that. Juda-20, pushing to launch comms.”

A heavy pneumatic thump signaled the bay doors opening. Through the forward-view port, the blackness of space was momentarily replaced by the harsh, floodlit interior of Salem’s launch bay, a massive, cavernous space humming with activity. I felt the familiar weight of the launch clamps lock onto the dropship’s hull. This was the moment that was both exciting and dreadful. Launch was an adrenaline rush to be sure, but also control was out of my hands. Physics and the All Mighty were in control.

“Juda-20,” the Launch Officer’s voice buzzed, cold and clipped. “Launch sequence initiated. All dropships stand by for countdown.”

“This is it,” the Eng said over the intercom, his voice an anchor in the rising tension. “Hang on,” Noah’s ebony face was split by a wide, reckless grin—the look of a man who lived for the rail-shot.

The countdown appeared on our tactical display. 10…9… I gripped the yoke, my knuckles white. The Co’s hand was on the throttle, poised. 5…4… I could hear Samuel take a sharp, nervous breath over the intercom. 3… I glanced at my crew one last time, a silent exchange of trust. 2…1… The Launch Officer’s final, emotionless call: “Launch.”

An immense, jarring force shoved the dropship forward. The g-forces compressed us into our seats, a physical assault on our bodies. It was a violent, brutal kick into space meant to get us out of the tube and away from the carrier as fast as possible. My vision blurred as the launch tube’s lights streamed past like tracers. It felt like being fired from a cosmic cannon.

The g-forces abated as we cleared the launch tube, and the darkness of space rushed back to fill the view port. “We are out,” the Co said, her voice strained but steady. “Primary systems are still clear.”

The tactical display lit up as the other dropships in our formation, Juda-22, 23, and 24, appeared as blue icons. I gave the command. “Juda-20 flight, cleared to rejoin in-trail.”

With practiced precision, the other three Samsons fell in behind us, a perfectly aligned chain in the void. We were a single entity now, four dropships with one purpose. “Nav, update on our escorts.”

“Creature-10 flight approaching from our starboard,” the Nav reported instantly. “ETA twenty seconds.”

We held our position as two squat, angular shapes appeared on our screen, their main engines glowing red. The A-21 Cherub fighters were affectionately called “Warthogs” by the fleet, and for good reason—they were all gun and armor, built for punishing ground attacks. Two smaller, leaner AX-21 drones flew in close formation with each manned fighter.

“Creature-10 flight, this is Juda-20 lead, we are joined.” I said over the secure comms.

“Copy, Juda-20,” the lead pilot’s voice came back. “Creature-10 flight is joined.”

With our escort in place, I gave the final command. “Juda-20 flight and Creature-10 flight, go radio silent. Maintain listening watch.”

We drifted in orbit, the dropship quiet for a few precious minutes before the chaos resumed. All of us gazed out at the void—stars twinkling, the blue-green curve of Sidon filling half the windscreen. For a moment, our thoughts were our own.

Samuel, the secondary Loadmaster, broke the silence over the intercom. “Any of you ever seen one of them—the enemy?”

“No one’s ever seen one outside that black armor they wear,” the navigator replied. “They always incinerate themselves before capture or death. Just—poof! Up in smoke. Nothing left but ash.”

The copilot, usually reserved, joined in. Her voice was low, almost hesitant. “They seem to be like us. Humanoid—two arms, two legs, about our size. Even their tech matches ours.” She paused, a shadow passing over her features. “Some call them the Fallen. I don’t know why. There’s something… wrong about them. Like they’re a reflection twisted in the dark.”

“But where did they come from? They just seem to pop up out of nowhere,” Samuel pressed, his battle nerves making him chatty.

The navigator answered, “No one knows for sure. They just appeared one day, out of the unexplored regions beyond this system. Speculation abounds. Some say we bumped into unfriendly, territorial galactic neighbors. Others claim they come from the fringes of the galaxy—those ancient, uncharted parts. Places where the stars themselves seem afraid to shine.”

The mention of the Fallen made acid stir in my gut. They weren’t just a military force; they were a shadow on the soul. I checked the clock. It was time to get the crew back on task.

“All I know is, they’re the enemy. All they seem to want is to kill, steal, and destroy—and we’re here to put a stop to it,” I said, hoping my voice carried enough resolve. “All right, crew. Back on task.”

The cockpit became eerily silent save for the low thrum of the engines. We maintained a listening watch as we began our slow, gravitational descent toward the planet below. I looked at the clock. Barely two hours had passed since I had knelt in the chapel, yet it felt like a lifetime.

Then, a faint crackle broke the silence on the listening channel. It was the next dropship formation. “Salem Tower, Reuben-30 flight, requesting launch.”

The universe seemed to hold its breath. Seconds later, a new set of icons appeared on our tactical display, fresh meat for the grinder. The Fallen were waiting for them in the clouds below. I felt a surge of worry for them, a premonition of the terror to come. I sent up a quick, silent prayer. A low, growing hiss began to shake the ship as the air molecules of the atmosphere began to press against our hull. It was time.

“Nav, initiate de-orbit.”

“Copy.” Caleb was back to business as usual, “De-orbit burn in 5…4…3…2…1”

There was a brief nudge and the Samson nose dipped below the curve of Sidon’s horizon.

“Re-entry angle nominal,” the Nav snapped. “We’re going in.”

Suddenly, a sound! It was a deep, powerful boom that shook the entire dropship. One. Then another. The sound of the naval artillery fire from the Salem, a thunderous crackle ripping through the thin atmosphere to provide cover. The dropship shuddered violently under the assault of the explosions. The ride was getting rough. Very rough.

​

Descent

​

After what seemed like an eternity, the ship’s shuddering subsided, and the ride smoothed out. The cabin’s low rumble returned, a comforting counterpoint to the thunder of our re-entry. I felt the physical tension drain from my body, a fleeting moment of relief. We’d survived the passage.

The Eng’s solid voice cut through my thoughts. “Heat shield integrity at 80% and beginning to recover, all systems still are go.”

The Nav piped up next, a familiar edge of efficiency in his voice. “We’re on course, on speed, on descent profile. We’re one-minute-thirty ahead of our Time-On-Target, Pilot. We’ll lose the slop in the low-level.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. Caleb was a master at bleeding off ‘slop’—that extra minute and a half of breathing room we didn’t want to carry into the hot zone. The Nav would make sure we hit our drop zone right on the second.

Now the real mission began. “Very good. Combat Entry Checklist.”

“Combat Entry Checklist Acknowledged, Eng,” Noah’s voice replied, the familiar sing-song of our well-practiced procedure carrying on. We were a well-oiled machine, transitioning from one state of being to the next without pause. The checklist was our bridge from the tranquility of space to the chaos of combat.

“Cargo locks” the Eng called.

“Set and secure,” came Samuel’s quavering voice from the back. The airman was still a bit shaken by the reentry.

“Defensive Systems.”

“Armed, Semi Auto, Program 2” the Co confirmed.

“Sensors.”

“Sweeping, clear,” the Nav snapped.

“Fuel status…”

The checklist continued, a litany of checks and confirmations that prepared us for the coming engagement. The moment Noah called the checklist complete, the world outside the glass turned into a furnace. The scream of ground-based fire tore through the quiet professionalism of the cockpit. The fight was on.

The cockpit erupted in noise. Klaxons shrieked a high-pitched, incessant wail. Our tactical display, a moment ago a clean picture of our formation, was now a chaotic mess of angry icons.

“Missile launch!” the Nav’s voice cut through the alarm, sharp as a whip. “Two inbound! At our twelve o’clock!” My eyes flicked to the display. Two glowing red lines streaked toward us from the planet’s surface seeking out the heat from our Samson’s massive engines.

“Creature-10, Juda-20 lead, two inbound, advise!” I yelled into the comms.

“Copy Juda!” Creature-11’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Creature-12, send out the dogs. Juda flight, maintain formation.”

“Roger that!” Then we saw Creature-12 responded immediately. The Co and Nav both confirmed his command on our console, a flash of shared, unspoken understanding. In my peripheral vision, I saw the two tiny icons representing Creature-12’s AX-21 drones detach from his wing. They blasted out, twin streaks of blue fire against the blackness of space.

The klaxons continued their deafening cry. A moment later, two small yellow explosions appeared on the display as the drones shot down the incoming missiles, detonating them harmlessly far from our formation.

“Good hits!” Creature-12 said. Then, a touch of grimness entered his voice. “One drone lost. Creature-11, I’m joining up on the remaining drone to engage the SAM site.”

“Copy Creature-12. Go get ‘em. Creature 11 is staying with the dropships.”

The conversation was a blur of efficiency, a testament to the seamless coordination that came from years of flying together. Just as the missiles were neutralized, a new threat appeared on our scopes.

“Triple-A!” the Nav yelled, his voice strained. “We’re painted! Heavy fire ahead!”

The dropship shuddered. Not from a close explosion, but from the combined force of a hundred automated cannons on the ground, all trying to zero in on our flight path. It felt like we were flying through a hailstorm of hot lead.

“MAYDAY! MAYDAY!” Creature-12’s voice broke in over the comms, a gut-wrenching scream. “I’m hit! I’m hit! Lost flight controls! I’m going down!”

The display showed Creature-12’s icon blinking red before vanishing entirely. My stomach turned to ice. The cockpit felt suddenly smaller, the armor plating thinner. One of our ‘Warthogs’ was just… gone.

“Creature-12 is gone!” the Co snapped, her voice breaking just for a second. “Creature-11, we have a man down!”

“I see it,” Creature-11’s voice was ice cold, void of all emotion. “Creature-10 flight will break formation and gain separation from the dropships. We are now running attack and over-watch.”

I knew what that meant. He needed space to maneuver and deal with the threat and so did we. The Cherub’s icon peeled away, his engines screaming as he tore off toward the ground with drones in tow.

With our escorts gone, the responsibility fell to me alone. The Triple-A fire was getting heavier, tearing through our protective screen of atmosphere. “Juda-20 flight” I ordered. “Cleared fluid trail! Maneuvers at your discretion and don’t spare your countermeasures, but keep clear of each other!”

An audible boom came from our right side followed by the tight voice of Juda-24’s pilot. “Juda 24 has taken damage! Right wing is hit! Lost number 4 engine!”

“Juda-24, Lead. You are cleared to abort and return to Salem. Godspeed, Juda 24!”

The icon for Juda-24’s Samson peeled away on the tactical display. The rest of the formation was maneuvering defensively, popping chaff and flares while their electronic countermeasure sent our noise. Our once-perfect line scattering into a chaotic trail, each dropship fending for itself.

I squeezed the trigger on my yoke, sending a shimmering cloud of countermeasures into the atmosphere, a futile hope to confuse the fire below.

A moment later, the screaming of the Triple-A fire began to quiet as we descended into the mountainous low-level route. The shadows of the peaks gave us cover, a brief moment of respite.

Over the comms, Creature-11’s voice returned. He was all business. “Juda-20, we’ve got our hands full down here but will maintain over-watch for hostile fighters. We will rejoin with you after the drop. Good hunting.”

I didn’t answer. With palms sweating I just pushed the yoke forward, driving the C-260 deeper into the valleys.

​

A Valley of Shadow

Low-Level

​

We dropped into a mountain valley, pressing down to less than a hundred meters off the floor. Down low it was dark; the shadows of the mountains kept the valley in night while dawn broke on the rest of the planet. I flew at a height that followed the contours of the surface and kept us well below the mountain peaks. The formation maintained fluid trail, which gave each ship freedom to maneuver and also complicated the targeting solution of any hostiles on the ground. The threat warning systems went quiet, my ears relaxed. My crew was quiet, focused. The only sounds were the thrum of the engines and the rush of air past our fuselage as we raced across the planet’s surface. I was in the zone, my eyes focused through the Heads Up Display, picking my path through valleys, my hands moving the controls by second nature. I loved this part.

The Nav interrupted the moment. “Five klicks to waypoint Whiskey Alpha One. That’s our breakup point. We are TOT minus 27 seconds.”

“Co, send it over the D-link,” I ordered.

“Copy. D-link message sent, Juda-20 flight clear off at Whiskey Alpha One as briefed, single ship run-ins, TOT as fragged,” my Copilot announced in her no-nonsense tone.

“Pilot,” Caleb piped up again, “Turn now heading two-seven-five, for 53 klicks. Next is our Initial Point for the run-in to the DZ.”

As the instrument showed us passing the waypoint, I turned westbound. At the same time, our remaining two wingmen split up to take their own random routes to the Drop Zone. We would each run-in to the DZ from a different direction to keep the enemy guessing. Our drops would be 15 seconds apart to prevent a midair conflict with each other. Perfect timing was key, or this could go very bad, very fast. We were screaming toward the Initial Point—the IP. This was the start of the ‘no-fail’ leg of the flight. Time to get back to business. “Crew, Run-in Checklist.”

“Run-in Checklist Acknowledged, Co,” “Nav,” “Eng,” “Load,” each crew position sounded off. Their voices grew more intense as we rapidly approached the objective area.

The Copilot ran this checklist. “Computed Air Release Point—CARP, Checks Copilot.”

“Checks Pilot.”

“Checks Nav.”

“Drop altitude 130 meters. Checks Copilot.”

“Checks Pilot.”

“Pressurization.”

“Depress.”

“Altimeter setting, Checked Copilot.”

“Checked Pilot.”

“Red Light.”

“On.”

As I made the next turn, the Nav took over. “We are now IP inbound. Four minutes to drop, two minutes to slow down (SD).” He adjusted his display. The Nav adjusted his display, highlighting our Point of Impact—the PI—on the northeast corner of the airfield. In this business, being ten meters off was the difference between a successful delivery and a pile of scrap.”

On the horizon, I could just begin to see the outlying parts of the city ahead and the vague location of our target airfield. It struck me for a moment how peaceful the scene was, a quiet town in the predawn light set in a snow-covered valley. That was all about to change.

The next event would be the slow down. We were trading our only defense—speed—for a stable platform. If we dropped at 300 knots, the troopers would be shredded by the slipstream. At 130, they’d survive the jump, but we were a sitting duck for every rifleman on the ground. We would press in at speed until the last possible second, slow as aggressively as the Samson could, make the drop, then accelerate out as fast as possible.

“SD in 30 seconds!” the Nav barked. Then exactly 30 seconds later, “Slow Down, Slow Down Now!”

At his command, I ripped all four throttles to flight idle. My body lurched as the thrust driving us forward abruptly died off. I pulled back gently on the stick, climbing slightly to our drop altitude and leveling there. “Flaps, 50.” There was a momentary floating feeling as Ruth lowered the flap lever. I pushed the throttle forward part way to capture our drop airspeed.

As we closed in on the drop zone and the enemy position something strange happened. I felt cold soak into my bones and for a moment a heavy lethargy descended on me like a lead blanket. A voice seemed to hiss in the back of my mind, cold as a grave, “What’s the point? Let the Fallen have it all. Just go home.” A cue, flashing insistently on my Heads Up Display indicating 3 minutes to the drop broke me out of the momentary fog. The Nav had missed the time call too. Apparently I wasn’t the only one affected.

“Nav! Time! " I demanded.

“Sorry Pilot, I spaced out for a moment there. Not sure…” Caleb snapped out of his moment of stupor. “Inside three minutes to drop!” he barked.

“On altitude and airspeed,” the Co confirmed, shaking her head like she was trying to clear water from her ears.

I looked back at the Eng, Noah was rubbing his hands together vigorously. Whether he was warming them or trying to relieve some nervous tension, I didn’t know.

Something had rattled us, but I wasn’t sure what or how. Its was strange and visceral. I touch the cross on my neck and pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time to dwell on it. “Its game time crew. Stay focused!” I said to re-cage myself as much as the rest.

“Pilot, I show you 24 right, correcting left, on the bar,” the Nav continued, now back in the game. Caleb’s eyes were locked on the needle that displayed our course.

It was time to open up. “Clear to open ramp and door,” I advised the Loadmasters in the back. The cockpit’s quiet was invaded as the ramp and door cycled open. The roar of the slipstream flooded the ship—a violent, hungry wind that turned the cargo bay into a cave in the sky.

“Jumpers are standing, minimum maneuvering,” the Loadmaster informed us. We were now at our most vulnerable. Low and slow, and any aggressive defensive maneuvers would toss jumpers and equipment all over the cargo compartment and possibly out of the ship.

​

The Drop

​

It was exactly then when the Fallen decided to join the party. The air defense around the base spotted us, and the tranquil sky lit up with fire and flak. “Incoming!” Ruth shouted. At the same time, our Radar Warning Receiver began screaming warnings.

I began some gentle S-turns in an attempt to muddle the aim of the gunners on the ground. It was the best I could do with jumpers standing in the back. “Counter! Counter! Counter!” I commanded. I mashed the pickle button on the yoke. Several powerful thumps echoed through the hull as the Samson vomited bundles of chaff and flares to spoof the incoming fire. The flak went wide, and the missiles bit off on the decoys—for now.

“30 Seconds to drop! Pilot, you’re 100 left, track left, correct back to the right,” the Nav cried, his voice not quite panic, but close.

My S-turns had gotten me off the run-in course. I only had a few seconds to get us back to the CARP—the invisible release point that would put our boys in the center of the Drop Zone. I eased to the right, fighting the controls as thunderous explosions rattled us like rocks in a can. With white knuckles, I fought the controls to keep her steady. It was worse than flying through a hurricane. I wanted to offer up a quick prayer for deliverance but didn’t have the presence of mind left to do it.

“Back on altitude and airspeed,” the Co confirmed again, somehow still stoic and professional despite the chaos.

Her calm seemed to infect the Nav as well. Business was back in his tone. “Pilot, you’re back on the bar, nice job! 10 seconds to drop…5…4…3…2…

​