Supergirl and the Military Exercise Chapter 3  

By Dr. Dominator

The character of Supergirl in this story is owned by DC Comics and is only being used here for parody purposes. The other characters are my own and cannot be used without permission from the author.

The costume pictured here is the one that Supergirl wore during some of her years when operating out of Midvale. This story takes place after she graduated Stanhope College. I’ve taken liberties with some of the timing and realities of what occurred in the comics and set it in today’s technology but in this story she’s a young reporter on the Midvale Sentinel newspaper.

There are strong sexual elements in this story and you shouldn’t read this if you are offended by such material or you’re underage. This story is fan fiction only and no profit is being made from it.

Chapter 3

Pacing back and forth on the sidewalk bordering a weed-strewn parking lot scattered with about a dozen cars, Terry Sykes awaits the arrival of Supergirl. The short, somewhat portly brunette is dressed in a knee-length navy blue skirt, matching navy high heels, a white blouse and powder blue hoodie. She’s carrying a small notepad and pen in one hand while her other is pushed into her jacket pocket. Linda told her to wait for the heroine before the two of them proceeded.

Slightly chilled by the threatening weather, Terry eyes the storm clouds looming overhead and then takes in the long single-story steel and concrete bunker-like structure that is the main building at McKeever Field. It looks ominous and she feels gloomy despite the break of getting this important assignment. Maybe she was just projecting her sadness at her parents’ negative reaction to her brother’s announcement.

Bowing her hooded head against a gust of wind and wrapping her arms around herself, the reporter hopes Supergirl isn’t delayed. Checking her watch, it reads 7:27. She walks to the end of the building and looks north. Several acres of tall grass grow rampant behind the building. Terry notes it is bisected by a macadam runway. Scattered around the field, she sees a few out-buildings, fuel pumps and a small steel tower just behind the bunker she stands beside with a high-tech anemometer and low-tech wind sock. The barely-maintained facility just a few miles north of Midvale has seen better days.

The sock is limp on this placid evening until it suddenly straightens out with a strong gust as a bright red and blue clad figure swoops down out of the large gray cloud cover and alights smoothly next to the smiling reporter.

“I always love how you make such a dramatic entrance, Supergirl.”

“I suppose. When one can fly, it’s hard not to. How have you been, Terry? It’s been months since we last worked together.”

“Yeah, that Joe Collins kidnapping ring. What a creep he was. I’m glad you caught him, Kara.”

“It was your research and perseverance that tipped the scales, Terry.”

“Let’s just say we make a good team. Hey, can we get inside? I know you don’t feel a chill despite showing all that skin but I do.”

“Oh sure,” Supergirl grins at the teasing barb and flips her hair a bit before tossing back a jab at her friend. “I forget how fragile you humans are.” The smiling pair heads toward the main entrance to the long low building.

“So, what’s the deal here,” Terry asks. “Is this test dangerous? Is that why they need you here?”

“From what Linda told me, the general didn’t seem overly concerned,” Supergirl replies. “More of a precaution, I believe. Did you find out anything irregular that I should know about him?”

“No, he came up clean. A record of steady advancement through his career. Nothing out of order from him.” Terry knocks on the steel door and as the duo awaits someone to come to greet them, she adds, “He does have a son that went to prison about three years back. But the general seemed to be a bit cold about it in the one story our paper wrote about it. Acted as if the kid had it coming. Guess that’s the straight arrow aspect that gets you promoted to general, huh?”

“I suppose. Do you know…”

The door swinging open cuts off Supergirl’s query. Standing before them is a military officer in his 50s standing ramrod straight, about 5’10” wearing a green Army cap sporting a wealth of gold filigree on the visor and band as well as an imposing embroidered eagle on its peak. The brush cut steel gray hair matches the man’s intense eyes. His features are almost hawk-like but he sports a broad smile and an outstretched hand towards the Maid of Steel.

“Good evening, Supergirl, Ms. Sykes. I am General Simon Daniels. I’m so pleased that you two could join us for our little test. Again, I apologize for the lack of notice.” He ushers the two women inside the building’s anteroom and firmly closes the bulky steel door behind them. The décor of the anteroom is less than basic, with cold beige cement walls, a lone four-foot fluorescent hanging fixture and two uncomfortable-looking blue and red plastic stacking chairs flanking a wood table with a People magazine with a youthful Jessica Alba on the cover.

“It’s no problem, General Daniels. I’m glad you thought to ask for my assistance if there’s going to be any real danger,” Supergirl states.

“I suspect there’s little chance of that but my superior on this project is a bit of a ‘Nervous Nellie’ so I’m placating him in this.” He turns to the reporter with a smile. “Still, your paper should be pleased, Ms. Sykes, to get an exclusive look at the new software and hardware we’re testing out today.” While the general is chatting with Terry, Supergirl takes a peek into the room next door through a window with a reddish glow seeping around the edges of thick gray vertical blinds. They block the view of the room beyond from normal eyes but Supergirl’s x-ray vision has no problem peering through them. She sees a staff of about a ten standing in clusters or sitting at monitors with a variety of scenes displayed on them.

The large 70” screen on the wall beside a large picture window shows a higher perspective of what can be seen through the window itself: the long black runway cutting through the overgrown field behind the building. One desk-mounted monitor presents a long-shot of a small hangar about 50 yards away with its wide entrance door raised completely. Another monitor shows the same scene but in closeup. Three other monitors in the front row across from the window wall currently offer nothing but white static. The room itself is bathed in traditional albeit somewhat old school red light to ensure distracting white lighting or glare does not impede whatever test is scheduled.

“…armored drones aren’t new but the laser guidance system of the ordinance has been upgraded for much more precise targeting. Anyway, with live subjects in the test range even though the drones are equipped with laser guns set to reduced power levels, we felt it would be prudent to have you here, Supergirl,” the general concludes with a smile. Adding with a bit of a twisted grin, “Nothing as dramatic as runaway nuclear missiles I’m afraid.”

“I can certainly live without that kind of drama, General Daniels.”

“Hey, I’m sure we all can. With rogue states rattling their nuclear sabers so frequently, it’s not all that funny frankly.”

“It’s not just rogue states we have to be concerned about, sir,” Supergirl replies, thinking about the huge confrontation between two superpowers that she’d prevented just before arriving here.

“No, of course, we’re all responsible for our world’s safety.” He offers this platitude with all the concern of a man choosing between an eggroll and won ton soup for his appetizer. Maybe less. “Shall we head in? The test is scheduled to begin in about 20 minutes.” He walks to the door at the opposite end of the dreary vestibule area and opens it, holding his arm out to guide Supergirl by her shoulder into the much larger red-lit room. Terry notes the bland smile on the general’s face and follows.

He probably hates having to do this public relations babysitting crap.

The general leads the two women to a monitor station where an army corporal concentrates intensely on finishing his calibration measurements of the crosshairs on the screen trained on the night’s target: a red and white painted pole topped by a brightly-painted cube measuring 2 feet across. Four blue and yellow checkerboard squares adorn each face of the cube. The large wall monitor shows a set of five such targets spread out across the field.

“Corporal Guidry, are we fully calibrated for Alpha Foxtrot Guidance Test B?”

“Just inputting the final targeting designations now, sir.” He presses the ENTER button and the crosshairs turn from yellow to bright white. “We are now ready for test mode, si...suh… Supergirl?” The corporal has turned in his seat and realized who is behind him. His face is at eye level with the bright yellow disks on her belt and his eyes are wide with the stunning view looming over him. From his vantage point her breasts loom like blue blimps with her nipples pointed at his hairline. She can’t help but smirk at his expression, one she’s seen from men of all ages when suddenly faced with her imposing presence.

“At ease, corporal,” she says gently, eying the crosshairs on his monitor before turning her own crosshairs on the sudden rising bulge in his lap. “Sorry to disturb you.”

“Yes, ma’am…miss… I’m not disturbed, Supergirl…Miss..Ms…”

“Why don’t we move on before young Guidry here loses his focus,” the General scowls at the soldier and presses the women onward.

“Too late,” murmurs Terry, writing down a capsule description of the test area in her notebook. She passes the embarrassed man with a smirk of her own as the corporal gawks past the somewhat rotund behind of the reporter to the shapely shifting rear end of the heroine as she moves on.

Pointing to the 70” television mounted to the left side of the window wall looking out onto McKeever Field’s single runway, the general alludes to the raised hangar door now shown in a closeup on the big screen. “That’s where our drone team is housed, Flight 404 as we call it. It’s seven units but we’re only using three of them for this test. Each drone is equipped with camera, a laser gun set to specific target parameters of our choosing as well as the newest laser guidance hardware and software. Drones carry enough fuel for 30 minutes of flight time. These drones are designed for rapid deployment to nearby combat scenarios and feature excellent maneuverability and precise targeting. They sacrifice armored resistance to enemy fire for low weight characteristics and enhanced speed. They can only be shot down if you’re lucky enough to hit them which isn’t likely when properly programmed.”

While Terry is writing furiously to get all that information into her notebook, Supergirl poses a question.

“What are the target parameters for this test?”

The general beams with pride at his toys out there and all around him. “We’ve set them to avoid the heat signatures of the soldiers involved in this test. Instead they will be targeted specifically to only the blue fields on those blue and yellow cubes mounted on the red and white poles out there. We can now target colors, heat signatures, even specific military insignias on uniforms that are in the data banks.”

Supergirl nods sternly, simultaneously impressed and dismayed at the sophistication of the death-seeking capabilities that military minds never stop envisioning. She holds her tongue and scopes out the hangar about 70 yards away with her own eyes. Her remarkable x-ray capabilities show her a serviceman inside the hangar just setting down a second drone beside an identical one beside it. The Kryptonian beauty looks over the nearest of the two drones. It features some sort of rectangular lightweight composite metal body in gleaming white with black six-inch long arms attached to each corner of the drone’s body. A small angled propeller painted white with gold striping is fastened to each of the device’s four arms. The belly of the drone has a tubular barrel facing forward on a gimble. The gray housing and barrel look especially ominous under the friendly white and gold device. A front-mounted camera lens is currently sending its signal to a specific monitor in the control room. Currently it is just a view of high grass from a low angle through which a black stretch of runway tarmac can barely be seen.

Noting how Supergirl is looking at three side by side monitors, two of which have nearly identical low-angle views, the general explains, “Each drone has a dedicated data link to our mainframe computer which sends the signal to each specific monitor. The third drone will be set up momentarily and that blank monitor will show what its camera sees once the drone’s power is switched on. Each operator at the monitor has a joy-stick for aerial control of the drone based on what he sees, but during this test, that stick is only meant as an emergency override since all three drones have been programmed with a coordinated attack plan.”

“Can the drones be turned off in an emergency?” Terry asks, pen poised over her pad.

“Well, not turned off entirely per se, no. Each drone costs… well, they’re far too expensive to let them crash like some balsa wood toy,” the general huffs, then quickly adds “but their weapons systems and other secondary systems can be, you know, powered down in a pretty fast procedure. Of course.”

“How quickly?” Supergirl’s arms are crossed, her expression a bit irritable.

“About two or three minutes,” he replies. Her scowl broadcasts her disappointment.

A lot of damage can be inflicted in three minutes’ time.

Terry continues to take notes as the general continues with his presentation of the test.

“Don’t be overly concerned, Supergirl. For this test the drones are only emitting low-energy laser beams. At worse they might provide a momentary tingle akin to a low-level shock from a 12-volt battery. Lasting less than a second, if that. You’re here merely as a precaution. To be honest, it’s your friend Ms. Sykes who we hope will be most impressed. Some good publicity would certainly help this small base’s profile and frankly get some funding which we and Midvale itself could use, I’m sure you agree?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Terry answers with a shrug.

“So, to continue, each drone in this test has its own specific target mission, the team being coordinated as a trio for maximum effectiveness. That attack plan was designed by this bright young fellow,” Daniels beams, placing his hand on the short caramel-colored officer standing behind the trio of operators sitting at their stations. “Supergirl, Ms. Sykes, may I introduce Lieutenant Falak Mezwani. He is the pride of our 110th Aviation Brigade unit here.”

“Good evening, ladies. It’s a pleasure,” he says reaching out his hand to receive shakes from both.

“Falak? How appropriate,” smiles Supergirl. The confusion on Terry’s face has the heroine explaining quickly. “It means ‘of the air’ basically.”

“I’m impressed,” says the 28-year old officer.

“I’ve been called some derivative or other of the word when passing through India on occasion. ‘Soars through air’, ‘walks on air’, ‘rides the air.’ You name it,” grins the blonde.

“How about lots of hot air?” This barb from Terry draws a chuckle from Supergirl and a somewhat stunned silence from the two men. “Oh, I’m s..sorry,” Terry stammers a bit. “We’re good friends. I can say that.”

General Sykes shoots a quick glare at the reporter before brusquely suggesting, “Why don’t we get this test started, if everything is ready Lieutenant?”

“We’re just about good to go, sir. The third drone is just being put in place now.”

“Excellent. Supergirl, Ms. Sykes, you both can stand by Falak in his chair there and he will explain to you both what’s going on during the test. I’ll be in the command chair,” the general states, taking his seat, “monitoring the big screen. We’ll be receiving audio feedback from all stations as well as the outside observers over the sound system in the room here.”

“General?” Supergirl raises her palm up like a student in a classroom. “If I’m needed in the target range for any emergency rescue scenario, where’s my exit?” The heroine’s eyebrows rise up.

“Ahh, right. I was so sure there wouldn’t be an issue, I forgot to open the roof access panel.” Pressing a lever on a control board to his right starts up a small electric whine in the ceiling and a large rectangle slides open to reveal a plastic overlapping membrane. “Just fly up and out if there’s any problem. Otherwise enjoy the show. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”