by Alan James
“That too, is true,” Matson again finished with, “sort of. You remember where you were before your two weeks in Tucson, don’t you?”
Kelly thought for a moment, then, “Yeah, after I was pulled off the line, I was sent over to Bolling, in DC; spent two days there before my flight left for Tucson.”
“Actually Kelly, you spent four days at Bolling.”
“Hell I did. I was there for two days.”
“Kelly, listen to me. You were there for four days. Two of those days were spent in the local city lockup, for drunk and reckless driving. If you don’t believe me, check the paperwork in your briefcase. I’ll bet you haven’t looked at half of what’s in there, have you?”
Kelly reached for his case. Matson stopped him with a quick grab to his elbow. “Believe me Kelly. It’s in there.”
“How? How can you do that?” Kelly asked, letting his briefcase drop back to the floor. “How can you mess with my record like that? Why wasn’t I asked to volunteer for a mission like this?”
Matson answered, straight faced, “This all came down from a position a lot higher on the ladder than mine. And as far as being asked to volunteer, well, you can imagine how much information would be passed around the country if we went askin’ every Tom, Dick and Lieutenant, if he wanted to come out here to “hell and gone” and fly some alien technology for us. Hell, the boys in Nevada would send the suits with dark glasses over here in a heartbeat. We’d be outta business, and probably out of air to breath. We’re talkin’ national secrets here, Kelly. Hell, this is bigger than a national secret. Couldn’t take a chance like that.”
Kelly sat back in his seat, his monster clearly visible. His problem now was how to deal with it. He needed one more question answered to make a better assessment of his position.
“So, if I’ve got this right, the people at Andrews think I’ve moved on to bigger and better things. The folks at Bolling think I spent two days there, and they’ve probably forgotten I ever existed. The guys in Tucson think I spent four days in Bolling, two of which were in the local hoosegow, and they too, probably don’t know, care, or remember a thing about me.”
Matson nodded affirmatively, “Yeah, that about sums it up pretty well.”
Kelly moved forward in his chair, closer to Matson, “Why me?”
“I’m not the one to ask that question … but I could hazard a guess, if you’ll be satisfied with that. Our people probably ran a psychological profile on you. I’ll bet it had “loner” written all over it.”
“Loner?”
“Well sure, think about it. When was the last time you saw anyone you’d consider to be a close friend?”
Kelly thought back to Florida after his graduation. He’d spent those few months with Jennings, on the beach, with the ladies. Even Jennings wasn’t what he’d call a close friend. He’d flunked out of flight school and they hadn’t seen each other since.
“See what I mean,” Matson said, after Kelly didn’t answer. “No close friends, no family, and, more than one person along the way has put down on paper, that you are a quality pilot. That’s a profile that our guys were looking for.” He paused, then he touched Kelly on the forearm and said, “That is… why … you.”
CHARLIE BRAVO SIX-FIVE-TWO-TWO-SEVEN
“Hey,” Perkins called down the length of the trailer, “if you two are done with your palaver, we need to get Will back on the scope.”
Matson drew his hand back from Kelly’s arm, and replied, “Yes, I think we’re done.” He looked into the Lieutenant’s eyes, “for now,” he said with a fatherly grin.
As Matson started to push his chair back, Kelly raised his hand with a questioning look.
”Yes Kelly … another question?” Matson said softly.
“Pilots,” Kelly said.
“I thought I mentioned the pilots Kelly.”
“I mean … the original pilots … in the disc.”
Matson paused, “Ah … yes, … there were pilots, indeed, there were … four … all dead. As far as we know, they are in Nevada.”
Matson stood to return to his station, not saying another word. He gave Will a nod as he offered him the empty seat. Will’s attention went directly to the radar scope. As Matson sat at the other end of the trailer he asked aloud, “Will, let’s send a request to squawk, see if we can get her to come out of hiding.”
Kelly had followed Matson back to his station. With the request being sent, he asked. “Won’t everybody in the neighborhood be able to see her, if she’s painted again?”
“Never happen,” Cory answered. “The only other primary radar system using the same frequency we do is in Nevada with those G-men, and they’re way over the horizon.”
“Then why bother to make her look like a KC-ninety-seven?”
“When we first set this project up, we didn’t have equipment capable of using clandestine radar frequencies. Once we switched over, we left our original protocols in place. That way, if she was flying high and wide and did happen to show up on Nevada’s scope, they’d just think they had an equipment problem of some kind. Remember? Like you said yourself, KC-ninety-sevens don’t fly at angels eighty.”
“Got her, Ken,” Will’s voice filled the trailer. “She’s due west, eighty miles out at fifty.”
“Is she headed our way?”
“She’s headed straight at us, losing altitude and doing about six hundred and fifty knots.”
“Damn-it,” he blurted, “she’s supersonic. She’s gonna wake up the whole southern half of the state.” Matson’s fingers went to his keyboard. “Any change in speed, Will?”
“Yeah, now she’s doing twelve hundred.”
Matson was at the keys again, “How ‘bout now?”
“Oh great, now you’ve got her on the deck and doing a little over fifteen hundred knots.”
“What the hell is she doing? At that speed, she’ll be here in less than a minute.”
“Yeah,” replied Will, “and if she holds her present heading she’ll take the roof clean off this place.”
Matson was once again beating on his keyboard, alternating between glances at Will who was constantly shaking his head ‘NO’.
Cory was counting down the time. “Thirty seconds guys,” he said in a loud voice.
Matson tried one more flurry with his fingers. Then Cory announced “ten seconds” and the trailer went quiet. They all knew there would be no warning. There is no sound wave to the front of an aircraft traveling supersonic.
Then, as Cory turned to look out the long window, it came.
“Popop”
Nearly simultaneously, each man reached for his ears as the pressure wave (that accompanied the sound) moved quickly through each of them.
They sat, or stood quietly, holding their ears. Then slowly, each man dropped his cupped hands in front of himself, as if expecting to see a palm full of blood. They remained nearly frozen until Will exclaimed, “What in God’s name just happened? That thing was less than a hundred feet off the deck and straight over the top of us. It should’ve took our heads off. It should’ve broke every pane of glass in the place.”
Matson asked, “Is everyone OK? Cory?”
“I’m fine boss, it just made my ears pop, that’s all.”
“Me too, I’m fine,” Perkins responded touching parts of his body as if looking for something broken.
“Kellerman? Where’s Kellerman?”
“Right behind you,” Kelly replied, “I’m OK.”
Matson turned to Will, but before he could ask:
“She’s turned to the south Ken. She’s about thirty miles out again, and coming to a dead stop at fifty thousand. I had her at eighteen hundred knots as she passed us.”
The disbelief slowly faded as each man began realizing that the devastation they had expected, hadn’t materialized.
“She’s just sitting there again, like before?” Matson asked.
“Yeah Ken, she’s not movin’ at all.”
Matson paused to take a breath as he looked around the room, then asked, “Anybody got any ideas?”
“No ideas boss,” said Cory, “but I got a question.”
“Yeah, I know son. The same one I got. What kind of solid object travels at over two thousand miles an hour and doesn’t create a significant pressure wave? She made no more noise than a small caliber pistol at a hundred yards.”
Kelly walked to the one spot along the window where the tables weren’t blocking access. He craned his neck and looked, as best he could, to the south. “Too bad we couldn’t have got a look at her when she went by.”
“Man,” said Cory, “she was traveling at more than three thousand feet-a-second. All you’d have seen was a blur.”
“Well, that might be, but, I’ll bet you’re going to have to get a look at her to find your answer.” Kelly motioned toward the end of the trailer, “Will told me that the original disc could change shape in order to travel through a planet’s atmosphere. Maybe that’s what you’re dealing with here.”
“That would be hard to believe,” said Matson. “She’s just disc skin stretched over an old Sabre superstructure. The techs did take five feet off of each wing when they figured out that they didn’t need wings on it at all. But that’s about all the shape shifting that’s in it. And that wouldn’t account for the lack of a pressure wave.”
“Why not remove the entire wing set?” Kelly asked.
“Believe me, they wanted to,” Matson answered, “but remember, if she was ever seen by anybody on the outside, she still had to look conventional.”
“Conventional,” Kelly half laughed, “I don’t care how conventional she looks, if anyone got a peek at what just buzzed us, they ain’t gonna be thinking conventional.”
“You’re probably right, but I don’t think it’s likely anyone got a look,” said Cory. “The sun’s not up yet, and the only possible visitors we might have around here are a few braceros sleepin’ in the old wrecks out there.”
Kelly thought it odd that no one seemed worried about the plane being seen. It didn’t seem to him that it would take much to draw a lot of attention this way, if this “thing” started showing off in the daylight. “So, what do you do next? It doesn’t look like your plane minds you very well.”
“I don’t know,” said Matson. “We’re sort of wingin’ it right now. She didn’t respond at all to the commands to reduce speed.” He looked at his blank screen then keyed his board for an event schedule. There was nothing. “She’s not responding at all guys, somebody give me a little help here. What are we missing?”
“Well, she answers to squawk, once in awhile, so we know she hears us,” said Cory.
“Only when she wants to,” quipped Perkins.
“You got the long range Omni-directional ILS on, right Ken?”
“Yeah, and that should be good all the way out to where she’s at.”
“And what about the short range?”
“Oh hell, no,” said Matson. “She came in so hot, I didn’t have time. I never even thought of it,” he paused. “You think it’s that simple? She was looking for short range ILS?”
“Well, as far as we know, she’s flying without a pilot, so she’s blind. Makes sense that she’d need help gettin’ lined up.”
“I’ll turn it on,” Matson said, “but it won’t make any difference now. It’s only got a range of about eight to ten miles. At least she’s just a little west of due south of us, so she’ll be close to an upwind leg when she heads this way. She ought to pick it up just fine when she gets close.”
“What else guys?” Matson continued, “anything else we missed?”
“Look Ken,” Perkins offered, “I know this sounds a little creepy, but I could try,” he paused”, I could try voice comm.”
“Yeah, you’re right Ben,” said Cory, “after all this time that is pretty creepy.”
Matson dropped his head, then, “Anybody?” he questioned as he looked around at each man in turn. “OK then, so it’s creepy, let’s give it a try.”
Perkins turned his chair back to his table and pulled the old radio style microphone toward him. He threw the switch on the transmitter and waited for the tubes to come up to temperature. He leaned forward into the mike, and hit the key-to-talk. “Charlie Bravo six-five-two-two-seven this is King Alpha six-oh-oh-six-five, do you copy?” He looked around at the others as he waited, then tried again, “Charlie Bravo six-five-two-two-seven,” he paused again, “where are you two-two-seven? We’re about to start the poker game without you. Come in Charlie Bravo. Come in Charlie Bravo.”
“Anything on the scope?” Matson asked Will.
“No Ken, she’s dark.”
“Go ahead and try it again Ben.”
“Perkins leaned into the mike once more, “Charlie Bravo six-five-two-two-seven, this is King Alpha six-oh-oh-six-five, do you read two-two-seven?” He waited a few seconds, then, “C’mon two-two-seven, there’s five of us sitting here with chips and beer. Are you playing tonight, two-two-seven?”
Kelly listened to the steady hiss coming over the speaker. It reminded him of nights he had spent, as a kid, at his grandmothers place in Utah. He’d spent hours in front of Gram’s old Philco, with the “big knobs”, trying to tune in one of big stations out of Chicago or St. Louis. Nothing but the same hiss, broken by a crackle here and there, he imagined, caused by a lightening strike in some far off storm over the horizon.
Perkins turned the volume down but left the radio on. “Doesn’t look like were going to get voice, Ken,” he said turning to Matson. “I’ll leave the set on for awhile just in case.”
“Sure, can’t hurt,” Matson said, turning back to his screen. The last time he had looked at it, was just after his last request for an event schedule. It was empty then, but now, “Hey! look at this,” he said, almost startled. Perkins and Cory spun quickly.
“What is it Ken,” Cory asked.
“I’m not sure,” he answered as the rest of the men gathered around his station.
There, in the same general format as an event schedule was:
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
KA60065CB65227KA60065CB65227
And then on one line at the bottom of the page:
IWANTTOPLAY
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Will said, having left his radar scope, now looking in over Matson’s shoulders. “That’s our call sign.”
“Yeah, and that’s hers,” Perkins said, reaching over and touching the screen on a CB65227. He looked at Matson, “But how in the hell did they get on your screen?”
The trailer went silent. Then, all eyes focused on the single line at the bottom of the screen.
Without turning to face him, Matson asked Will, “Besides us, here in this trailer, who else knew about the poker game?”
“No one,” he answered.
“Well,” Cory offered, “that’s not completely true.”
Will looked puzzled as he turned first to Cory, then with raised eyebrows, as if remembering, to Matson, “Cory’s right. Rantman and Parker both knew.”
“But, I thought they were both dead,” said Kelly.
“Yeah, well,” Matson paused, “we know for sure that Rantman’s dead, and we’re reasonably sure that Parker is too. I mean, three years, nobody’s gonna survive up there for three years.”
“So,” asked Kelly, “then who does that leave?” He looked at the men staring back at him, “someone in this trailer?”
“Someone in this trailer?” Cory came back quickly, almost venomously.
“Whoa, ease up Cory, he’s just tryi
n’ to help,” said Matson. “Look Kelly,” he said turning to face the lieutenant, “we’ll look for answers to your question somewhere other than in this room. Besides, the way I’m looking at the problem, it gets a lot weirder: instead of asking ‘who else’ knows about the poker game, maybe we should ask … ‘what else’ knows.”
LIKE A BAT OUTTA HELL
Matson turned back to his keyboard and asked again for an event schedule. His screen went dark. It remained dark. He looked at Perkins.
“Try something simple Ken.”
“OK,” Matson replied, “can’t get any simpler than this.” He typed:
CB65227?
The screen replied:
CB65227
“It’s just repeating what you type,” said Cory.
“No, she’s not,” Matson replied. “I used a question mark. I asked her if she was CB65227? and she said yes, see, no question mark.”
“Ken,” Will spoke from behind, “ask it … or her … whatever … ask it, if it is … Colonel Parker.”
“OK, let’s try the same format.” He typed:
PARKER?
The screen answered:
PARKER
Matson typed without hesitation:
CB65227? OR PARKER?
The screen again answered:
CB65227PARKER
And then, one line down:
?
Matson, puzzled at the question mark, and more so, the combined name reply, turned to look at Will, then Perkins. “Guys, unless I’m mistaken, she’s,” he paused, “or it, is askin’ us a question.” He paused again, “C’mon guys, Give me some help again, what does it want to know?”
“Maybe she wants to know what she’s supposed to do.” Cory continued to use the feminine, “Maybe she’s just sittin’ there waiting for us to tell her what to do.”
“I’m sure it’s not going to be as easy as telling her to come home.”
“Try giving her something useful,” Will said as he turned to walk back to his station, “try runway heading, wind speed and direction, you know, like what you’d give any pilot for landing instructions.”
Matson typed: