The pilot cried out in victory, an inarticulate whoop of joy. Damn, he had thought he was going to die; he had been certain of it.

The victory sunk in as he hovered over the road. How many pilots could say they had shot down a UFO? Not that it was a subject he was ever going to talk about.

He looked at the body lying in front of the helicopter; there were winners and losers in every battle.

There was a mission to complete. If he wasted too much time in celebration, he would have to turn back to base for fuel, which would go over like a lead balloon with his superiors. There would be hell to pay if there were any survivors.

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He ascended above the treetops and began a slow glide to the house, avoiding the tower of flames and super-heated air.

The UFO had stayed in one place for too long. Why? What was so interesting in those woods?

Fire consumed the woods around the wreckage of the UFO, growing stronger as he neared the site and brought the Apache to a hover. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the tail was clear of the house, then pulled his night vision goggles over his eyes and studied the ground.

The flames were a bright splash surrounded by black with shadow trees reaching for the helicopter. He moved slowly north to one side of the burning alien ship. Then he saw them.

A group of silver forms huddled in a natural depression a dozen yards from the UFO. Survivors. With a smile, the pilot thumbed the selector for the chain gun and dipped the nose of the Apache.