Ranma 1/2 Fan Fiction ❯ Phoenix ❯ Chapter 13 ( Chapter 15 )

The phone next to the bed began ringing, pulling Ranma out of a sound sleep.  "Marx residence," she said.  She cracked an eye open, and saw the friendly red letters on the clock proclaim 2:15 in the morning.

"Mrs. Marx, this is Staff Sergeant Summerall, the night operations NCO.  Sorry to bother you this early, but the Captain needs to report in as soon as possible."

"I'll wake him, but is there any reason why?"

"Sorry ma'am, I can't say over a nonsecure phone."

"Thank you, Sergeant.  Good night."  Ranma hung the phone back up, and began poking her husband.  "Chris, wake up."  No response, so she began poking harder. "Chris, wake up."  Still no response from him, so it was time for drastic measures.  She flipped him out of bed. 

"Why'd you do that for, tomboy?"  Marx asked sleepily.

"Because I couldn't wake you up any other way, baka."  She held out her hand to him.  Marx reached up, grabbed it, and pulled his wife to him.  "Not now," she said between passionate kisses.  "You have to report in immediately."

"Did they say why?"

"No, just as soon as possible," she replied, as her husband's hands roamed up under her pajama top.  "He did sound serious about it.  Hey, cut it out!"  Defending her honor against her husband, she used a new move that she'd learned from TV, of all places.  Ranma placed her hand at the junction of the neck and shoulder of her husband, and squeezed.  "Beware the dreaded Anything Goes Vulcan nerve pinch."

"Alright, alright already," Marx growled, with his wife's hand pinching off his vagus nerve.  He reached up and removed Ranma's hand from his neck.  As he pulled on his flightsuit and boots, he looked at his wife.  "I'll get you later, aisuru."

Ranma fluttered her eyes at him, coyly.  "You can try, anata.  You can try."

Marx kissed his wife, and headed out the door.  He jumped into his jeep, and pulled out of his driveway; Ranma waving to him from the upstairs window.  Racing through the streets of Summit, he surmised there was a reason for the early morning phone call with limited information.  The squadron was going on alert status.  He pushed the sixty year old four cylinder engine for all it was worth, to get to the base.

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Running into the briefing room, Marx grabbed a seat in the back.  Pilots were sitting there, in various states of alertness.  Some had just been woken up, others were bright-eyed and bushy tailed, yet others were sucking off of oxygen tanks that Life Support had "conveniently" placed in the briefing room.

The room was called to attention as Colonel Reed walked in.  He walked quickly to the podium, as the room lights dimmed.  "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.  I won't offer apologies on why you're here.  I will remind you that this briefing is classified.  No information is to be released to the public or your families at this time.  In the spirit of cooperation, the Soviet Union contacted the State Department with information pertaining to a piece of lost equipment.

"It seems our colleagues in the Soviet Air Force seem to have 'lost' a Backfire."  With that statement, the room shook from a massive face fault, as all twenty pilots hit the tiled floor.  Colonel Reed gave his pilots a few moments to recover.  "The Soviets did not say whether the bomber stolen was configured as a bomber or long range interceptor.  Nor did they say it where it was stolen from.

"Reports from Langley indicate that the bomber was stolen from one of the southern republics, and may have been 'acquired' by Al Qaida, for a new phase of terror attacks.  That information, however, has not been verified.

"What this means for us is this: 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Air Defense Commands are now on alert.  We will continue to run our standard strip alerts, but with patrols out 1200 miles.  Tanker support will be at 600 miles out, with standard callsign of 'Texaco'.  There will be Navy carriers will be operating at the 1800 to 2400 mile range, because of this situation.

"Patrol schedule will have First and Third elements on alert status, Second and Fourth are on patrol status every other month, until we get the stand down order.  Somehow, ladies and gentlemen, I don't see that order being rescinded anytime soon.

"Element leaders, you are dismissed schedule your elements."  Reed looked at his acting executive officer.  "Marx, my office."  Marx nodded and followed the squadron commander out of the briefing room.

"Yes sir," he asked, as he closed the door to Reed's office.

"How do you think you did on your board yesterday?"

Marx looked down at his feet, and scuffed his boot across the floor.  "Somehow, sir, I doubt I'm getting promoted."

"What makes you say that?"

"I was asked a few questions about my wife."

"Such as?"

"Her past-the fact that she's spent time in the People's Republic of China as a martial artist.  And her age when I married her."

"How old was Ranma when you married her?"

Marx sighed.  "She was sixteen sir," he said flatly.  Second time in less than twenty four hours he was asked how old his wife was when they met.

"I see," Reed said.  "I'm sure there where extenuating circumstances."

"Yes sir.  She'd been thrown out of her family for refusing to an arranged marriage with someone she'd never met.  Plus, her father was a drunken bastard who'd think nothing of prostituting his daughter for his own gain."

"And you explained that to the board?"

"I did, sir."

Reed looked at the thirty seven year old promotable captain sitting in front of his desk.  "Marx," he said, "don't worry about it.  General Rodriguez is a fair man.  He'll see both sides of the issue."

"Understood sir.  If you'll excuse me, I'm going to rack out for a few in my office."  Marx stood, saluted his superior, and left the Colonel's office.  As he walked to his sanctuary, Marx hoped that Reed was correct in his assessment of the Wing Commander.

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The alarm went off as it did every morning at 6 am.  Ranma peeled an eye open, and looked at the evil device.  She was seriously contemplating destroying it, since she didn't need to be up that early.  Her son was with her mother-in-law; her husband was already at the squadron, so she didn't need to get up as early as it was.  Rationalizing, if she got up later, she'd never get out of bed early on a regular basis.  Changing into a warm up suit, she went into the backyard to begin her morning exercises. 

The pond her husband had added was a nice touch, creating a calming influence to the yard, making it almost like what was up in Cresskill.  Which was a nice effect, since the back of their property line abutted State Highway 24, making it an oasis in the noise of traffic on the other side of the sound barrier.  The yard had an almost Zen influence, the way the wind chimes complimented the bubbling of the falls in the pond.  Of course there were also the train tracks around the pond.  Ranma had laughed at her husband when he put them in.  But his response was he had trains when he was three, so why not let Saburo have them as well.  But it was her husband who played with the trains more than their son did.

She'd just finished her first warm up kata when the first wave of nausea hit her.  Ranma was barely in the kitchen when the second wave hit her, along with the remnants of dinner.  Maybe I shouldn't have made sukiyaki last night, she said to herself.  But that more rational part of her mind, the one that many years ago told she wasn't raped by her rescuer, said that she'd cooked sukiyaki before.  "I've also been late," she muttered to herself. 

The final pieces clicked in her head.  "Oh boy," she muttered, "I'm pregnant.  I guess Chris will be thrilled."  She rinsed her mouth out, and made a phone call to the base hospital.

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Marx was sleeping, fitfully, on a folding cot in his office.  The cot was there only for those nights that weather or mission requirements kept him on the base.  And owning an old jeep that made the weather requirements rare.  There was a knock at his office door.  Rolling upright, he opened it and squinted.  "Yes Sergeant?"

"Captain Marx, your wife is here to see you."

He rubbed his eyes and grabbed his glasses off the desk.  "Show her in."  He sat on the edge of the folding cot, still trying to get his bearings.  "So, what can I do for you, Ranma?"

"Oh, nothing really," she replied, coyly.  She teasingly ran her hand along her husband's nomex-clad chest.  Marx noticed that she was wearing was wearing the same lavender floral print kimono she'd been wearing before they met with Nodoka.

"'Oh, nothing really?'"  He quoted back to her.  "Then why are you wearing that particular kimono?"

"Well…I just wanted to tell you how much I love you.  And…" she gave him such a kawaii look.

"And?"

"You're going to be a father."

"I'm already a…" Marx's voice trailed off, as he realized what his wife just said.  He stood and swept Ranma up into a hug, twirling her around.  "How far along?"

"Two months, anata."

"Mom'll be happy."

"Hai.  Both our mothers."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Col. Reed said in the doorway, after clearing his throat.  "Mrs. Marx."

"Ah, no sir," Marx replied, putting his wife down.  Ranma looked embarrassed, blushing furiously.  "What's up sir?"

"I've heard some news from General Rodriguez.  His decision has not been set in stone yet, but you needn't worry about your wife's past coming back to haunt you right now."

Marx's smile got even bigger, if it was possible.  "Thank you, sir.  That's extremely good news."  It didn't hurt that Marx was also the only one in the Wing, and the F-106G community, with a red star painted on his intake for a lucky shot fired in the blind.  The Air Force has allowed him to keep the kill marking, even though it raised holy hell with the State Department.  For the General Dynamics division of Lockheed-Martin, it was vindication that their design could tangle with the best the Soviet Union had, especially after reviewing the gun camera footage, and quieting the naysayers in their parent corporation about such an obsolete design.

Ranma kissed her husband on the cheek.  "I've got to get to class, and then Saburo.  I'll see you later.  I hope."

Marx hugged his young wife.  "I hope so too."

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52°10"N 26°0"W

Out over the Atlantic, Al-Qaida was about to enter a new phase of terror on the Western nations.  Having launched from an abandoned WWII airbase in the interior of Morocco, their latest terror weapon was orbiting at an intercept point, well outside of radar range of most ATC radars.  Add that they were following total emissions control; the bomber did not exist on radar with their transponder turned off.  The terrorist crew had the bomber's twin Kuznetsov engines set at a reduced power, increasing their loiter time as they sipped from four external drop tanks.

Their target was moving into the ambush fat, dumb and happy.  The crew of the Backfire turned their radar on, and flipped one of their longer range missiles at the Boeing 787.  Within moments of missile launch, the passenger jet turned into self feeding, expanding fireball.  Without a peep, the raider left the engagement area and headed back to their base, as the fireball extinguished itself.

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Morristown AFS

The television in the break room was tuned to Fox News, allowing the crews to listen to the latest breaking news.  No mention, however, was made of the missing Backfire, indicating how much wasn't coming from the Soviet Union.  "Breaking news from our Spanish office.  At 2 am, Eastern Time, El Al flight LY028 disappeared without a trace off the Iberian Peninsula.  At this time, there are no clues or leads as to what happened.

"There is, however, the speculation of a possible terror attack, no organization has claimed responsibility, and investigators are not ruling out a possibility of an aircraft design fault."

"Who wants to lay money on it being our missing Backfire," was the question being asked by several of the pilots in the squadron.

Marx stood at the back of the break room, watching the news, and listening to the conversations of the crews.  There was anger, there was outrage, and there was understanding.  A lot of the younger pilots didn't remember September 11th the way the older pilots did, the way the units were unable to intercept the airliners in time.  Marx remembered it very well because he was with his Guard unit at Teterboro the day after, awaiting a FEMA flight from Denver; he was in lower Manhattan the following week, helping with recovery operations, he saw the pile of rubble that was the World Trade Center.  Like December 7, 1941, 9/11 was a pivotal moment in history.

And now it seemed that the War on Terror was moving to a new phase.  No longer did it seem that Al-Qaida was content on trying to blow up airliners with suicide bombers.  Security controls at the airports prevented that, air marshals prevented that, passenger awareness prevented that.  The only thing that didn't prevent it was total air dominance.  It took so long to get fighters into the air, and into response locations.  And it was unfortunate that certain NATO allies were keeping their fighters on the ground, saying it wasn't their fight.

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Ranma stood outside the Customs checkpoint in Terminal 4 at JFK International Airport in New York, waiting for her guests.  She'd heard on the news about the attack on the flight in from Hong Kong, and hoped her sister was all right.  The doors opened, and out came the passengers from the flight, and it wasn't hard to pick out her sister.  "Xian Pu!"  Ranma called in rusty Joketsuzoku Mandarin, waving to the lavender-tressed Amazon.  The last time she spoke Mandarin was when she called Balm about her father-in-law.

Shampoo smiled and ran over to her sister.  "Ranma," she called in equally rusty Japanese.  The two sisters hugged each other fiercely, since they hadn't seen each other in almost seven years, and the Amazon had just survived a near-death experience.  Standing off to the side, like a proper Amazon male, was her husband with their daughter.  "Ranma, I'd like you to meet my husband Ming, and our daughter Xian Li."

"Pleased to meet you," Ranma said, with a bow.  She looked at her niece.  "I'm Aunty Ranma."

"The honor is mine, sister-in-law."

The seven year old hid cautiously behind her father's robes.  "She's still too too shy," Shampoo said, sighing.  "So unlike her mother but so much like her aunt."

Ranma looked at her sister.  "I had a reason to be shy, sister.  You know that."

"I know, but its fun teasing you about it.  Where's your husband?"

"Christopher-kun is at work.  He's been there for the past month."

"Oh.  I hope he was in one of the fighters that chased those terrorists away from our plane."

"So do I.  But he's second in command for his unit, so he doesn't always get the time in that he used to," Ranma replied with a sigh.  "But at least he's not moody because of it.  As much as he loves flying, he's also enjoying the responsibilities of command.  Odd as it may sound for him."

Shampoo looked at her Japanese sister.  "No, your husband is becoming a war leader.  Especially since it's an uncertain world we live in."

Ranma nodded, as they retrieved their luggage.  "So what ever happened to Mu Tzu?  Your last letters were kind of vague on it."

"Stupid blind boy fall in Nyanniichuan, but she got captured by Musk during raid.  Just desserts I say.  But infiltration party had to wash girl-type Mousse with Xi Fa Xiang Gao, so that Musk wouldn't get his Hidden Weapons technique."

Ranma chuckled, remembering the number of times that the blind Amazon glomped her thinking she was Shampoo.  That boy was a nuisance to the tribe, despite his mastery at an obscure Amazon martial art.

When they picked up Saburo from his grandmother's, Shampoo gushed at just how cute her nephew was, as did Ranma's mother-in-law did with Shampoo's daughter.

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