Martyr's of the 12th Brigade international airport, Cairo, Egypt. October 2035

  Martyrs of the 12th Brigade International Airport, Cairo, Egypt. October 2035

  The airport terminal hummed with quiet activity, its vast glass windows reflecting the glow of overhead lights. Outside, the tarmac stretched into the night, dotted with the occasional flashing beacon of a taxiing aircraft. Inside, a handful of weary travelers dozed in their seats, their silhouettes softened by the dim, artificial glow. The air carried the faint scent of jet fuel and freshly brewed coffee from a nearby kiosk, where a lone barista wiped down the counter, waiting for the next late-night customer.

  Neslihan Demir, a veteran of the Turkish Air Force, had flown countless combat sorties throughout her career—against human enemies and, more often, against the Crabs during the war. Now, with only a few hours before her next Turkish Airlines flight, she sat with us, reflecting on the events of early October 2025.

  "Hadn't occurred to us that they would evolve, so to speak. From the start, we took them for wild beasts—just another horde pushing south for warmer coastlines, scavenging whatever biomatter they could find, be it tree bark or bodies, to fuel their war machine. But of course, they had technological abilities. Nothing sophisticated like ours, but their real edge was in firepower.

  Their CLBs—chemical laser beams—were brutal. Closest Earth equivalent? Deuterium fluoride lasers. Those were the visible beams, the kind their tripods and crab guns fired in streaks of searing light. But they had something else too, something nastier—an equivalent to hydrogen fluoride. You couldn’t see it. You only knew it hit you when your skin started melting.

  My F-16 took a hit from one of those once. Screwed up my right flap. A few seconds more, and it would've been over. It was a tier 2 tripod, those large ones that popped up by the time of Operation Ramadan. Limped back to the airbase and the entire right wing had to be replaced."

  "Our biggest mistake was underestimating them. The way they landed, they knew as little about us as we did about them. None of that ‘studying us for centuries’ crap.

  They had the industrial capacity—if you could call it that—to build their V2s, as people started calling them. But precision? That wasn’t their game. They didn’t go for railyards, barracks, or weapons factories. They just went straight for urban centers. These things were like oversized banshees—school bus-sized, delta-winged, crude but effective. Their radar deflection was abysmal. They built them using the cores of their meteorites, whatever material they had left from their arrival. Flew high, never the same route twice. Made it a nightmare to track them. And early on, we weren’t expecting to need radar so far behind the front lines.

  They’d use sheer momentum to cruise toward their target, then circle the city like vultures, waiting to pick their moment. At first, it seemed random—just hitting whatever city they felt like. But I knew something was wrong when the strikes around Istanbul became more and more frequent. At first, we wrote it off. It was one of the largest cities in the world."

  The smoking area was a patch of concrete with a metal railing, half-covered by a glass overhang. The floodlights cast a hard glow on the tarmac. A Turkish Airlines jet taxied in the distance, while military transports sat further out, dark shapes against the night.

  Neslihan took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the cold air. She was lean, compact, built for a cockpit. Short dark hair, sharp eyes. No nonsense.

  I leaned on the railing, the scent of jet fuel mixing with the smoke. My cigarette pack sat unopened.

  "Was circling northwest of the city, just me and my wingman," she continued, voice level but distant, as if she were still up there, watching it unfold. "We had just taken off, and more aircraft were inbound after the alarm went out. I looked toward the city when they cut the power. Fifteen million people, neighborhood by neighborhood, as if someone was pulling the plug of each one after the other. I put my game face on, waiting for commands from AWACS and SKYLIR."

  I flicked my lighter absentmindedly before asking, "Mind explaining to me what SKYLIR is?"

  She gave me a side glance, smirking slightly as she exhaled another stream of smoke. "Well, I hope you're ready to start writing down what I say."

  "In everyday terms," I pressed.

  She nodded, tapping the ash off her cigarette. "AWACS guided us to the V2s. SKYLIR lit them up inside our helmet-mounted displays. Like an IR beam that bounced off metal more easily. The V2s were radar-absorbent, sure, but against SKYLIR or infrared search systems? No such luck."

  She took another drag, her gaze drifting back toward the tarmac.

  "Saw our ships tens of kilometers away through my night vision. The missile engines flared bright as they shot straight up. I watched the plumes of smoke, the boosters burning out before the warheads streaked toward their targets. Some V2s exploded midair, torn apart by the dozen or so missiles fired from our ships and land-based S-400s. But the ones that made it through just kept coming, drifting down from the Black Sea like fireflies."

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  "I called it in. My wingman and I dived, trying to match their altitude. The radar on my F-16 was useless. Even AWACS couldn’t track them. We were carrying AIM-9s—had our jets specially modified to load more of them instead of the usual AIM-120 radar-guided missiles. Heat seekers were the only thing that worked despite the limited range. The other danger was blowing those v2's too close and have your jet eat the shockwave and fragments."

  "Wingman guessed they were 15 kilometers out. We had to stop them before they reached the denser parts of the city. So, pedal to the floor, afterburner at 100%, and we pushed hard to catch up. We were going straight at them. I was cursing at my missile guidance for not picking them up."

  "Then—finally—tone. The AIM-9 locked on, its seeker catching the heat from one of the V2s. I squeezed the trigger. Missile shot forward, a white-hot streak cutting through the dark. Tracked true, slammed into the target. Fireball. One down."

  "Second one, same deal. Lock, fire. But it must’ve been banking because the missile clipped a wing instead of detonating center mass. Sent it spiraling, still burning, still moving toward the city."

  "Third launch—this one had barely locked before I fired. The missile caught up fast, but the V2’s momentum carried it forward just long enough. It exploded almost directly over a suburb. Shrapnel and burning debris rained down. Not ideal, but better than a full impact."

  "Fourth one, my last. I had to make it count. It locked on right as I reached the edge of my range. Fired. Missile streaked ahead, caught the V2 high, and this time—complete kill. Nothing but dust and embers left."

  "I looked over—my wingman was still firing. But more were slipping through."

  "No time to think. More were getting through. I gritted my teeth, yanked the stick, and dove straight in."

  "My wingman followed. We cut right through the formation, head-on. The V2s weren’t maneuvering—they never did. Just cruising toward the city, unwavering, like they didn’t even recognize us as a threat. That was fine by me. If they had any visible cockpit we were close enough to give them the middle finger if only visible for half a second."

  "We cut through the last of them, then I told my wingman we’d turn right. Banked hard, feeling the Gs press me into my seat. We circled back toward the formation. SKYLIR was still working overtime, painting targets on our displays. Below, the city’s anti-air guns kept firing, tracers crisscrossing the night."

  "We weren’t supposed to be this low. Too many risks—clipping a mountain in the dark or, worse, catching a stray round from our own defenses. But we had no choice. The V2s were slipping through, and we had to get closer."

  "I leveled out behind one, lined up my shot. Finger on the trigger. The M61 Vulcan roared to life, sending a stream of 20mm rounds straight into its rear. Sparks, then fire, then it burst apart midair. I pulled up just in time to avoid the wreckage."

  "My wingman caught another, raking its fuselage with cannon fire. It didn’t explode immediately—just started bleeding smoke, losing altitude fast. It veered right, then slammed into what looked like a field."

  "More tracers whipped past my canopy—too close. Probably from the ground. I bit back a curse, stayed on target. Another V2 dead ahead. I squeezed the trigger again, shredding through its center mass. The thing wobbled for a second, then broke apart in a fiery spray."

  "I exhaled, scanning for more. The formation was breaking up, but there were still too many left."

  "Ground fire was getting worse. I needed to let them know we were friendlies before we got shot down by our own side. I flicked the switch and popped flares, a quick burst of bright white and red streaking from my jet. I banked hard left, releasing another set, one flare every three seconds hoping they’d see the pattern."

  "For a moment, the tracers thinned out. Maybe they got the message. Maybe they were just reloading."

  "Then I saw it—one of the V2s, trailing thick black smoke, diving fast. Too fast. It wasn’t breaking apart; it wasn’t burning up midair. It was going down intact."

  "‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘It’s gonna hit.’"

  "I followed it with my eyes as it plummeted toward the city. Toward a cluster of apartment blocks. It disappeared behind a row of buildings, and then—"

  "A deep orange flash. Then another. Windows shattered, a fireball rising up between the rooftops. A few seconds later, the shockwave rattled my canopy."

  "I gritted my teeth, knuckles white on the stick. We weren’t stopping enough of them. And I hoped the people in that apartment block had made it to their basements when the alarm sounded."

  "No time to dwell. More V2s were still in the air. I yanked the stick, climbing fast, scanning for the next target. My wingman was still with me, his jet silhouetted against the fire and smoke rising from the city below."

  "‘We need to thin them out before they get any closer,’ I called over the radio."

  "‘Copy,’ he said. ‘Going for the lead one.’"

  "I picked my own target, lined up the shot, and squeezed the trigger. The Vulcan spun up, another burst of tracers ripping through the dark sky."

  "Gun empty."

  "I squeezed the trigger again—nothing. Just the dull click of dry fire. I checked my stores. No missiles left either. My wingman’s voice crackled over comms."

  "‘I’m out.’"

  "Same here.’ I exhaled sharply, scanning the sky. Tracers still laced through the dark. More V2s were burning, but too many were still slipping through. My hands tightened around the stick."

  "I didn’t want to leave. Not while they were still coming. Not while the city was still getting hit."

  "‘Command, we’re Winchester,’ my wingman called. ‘RTB?’"

  "The reply came quick. ‘Affirmative. Get back and rearm.’"

  "I hesitated, then banked away, my wingman forming up beside me. Below, fires dotted the cityscape, smoke rising into the night. I clenched my jaw, stomach tight with frustration. We’d done what we could. But it wasn’t enough. And after three more days of such attacks, we learned Istanbul wasn't a random choice."