by Alan James
Kelly stood, “I’m gonna go talk to the doctor. We’ve got to get Cory movin’ or we’ll have to hide him in here, and that’ll put a kink in my plans. I’d like you to sit here and keep your eyes peeled on that stretch of sky,” he pointed, “to the northeast. The sun’s up above the horizon now, so we should catch a glint or two off of the choppers. Give me a yell if you see anything.”
As Kelly turned to leave, Matson queried, “Plans?”
“Well yeah, we gotta have a plan, right?” he smiled, “Don’t worry; I’ll fill you in after I talk to Doc.”
As he walked away he turned back to Matson, “There’s a question I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. Is this a black project, this little plane?”
“Well, at one point in time I suppose it was, but we never called it that. All we ever called it was S.W.I.F.T.”
“Swift,” he puzzled, “why swift?”
“You know, the little bird, like a swallow. When they first take to the wing they stay aloft, sometimes for the first three or four years of their life. They eat, crap, and even mate on the wing. They land only to nest. It seemed to fit perfectly with the military’s love of acronyms. Es-doubleyew-eye-ef-tee. It stands for Strategic Weapon Infinite Flight Time.”
A HUN IN THE SUN
The doctor had pronounced Cory fit enough to get to his feet. Oddly enough, they found an old bottle of headache tablets in the glove box of the old Ford. Cory dissolved a couple under his tongue. He was still in pretty bad shape, but after Kelly explained that he planned to booby trap the hangar, they decided that moving him would pose much less of a threat to his health than staying where he was.
Kelly and the doctor walked Cory the length of the hangar. Matson steadied him while the other two slid the huge door open enough to walk through. At the next hangar, to the north, Kelly found an unlocked window along the side facing the building they had just left. He muscled himself up and in, then handed out a couple pallets. With the added height, and a little help from their patient, the doctor and Matson were able to hand Cory through the window to Kelly.
While the other two made Cory comfortable inside, Kelly tossed the pallets back inside, and as he closed the window he said, “Ken, grab a hammer or something heavy. Take a position at the corner window and keep watchin’ to the northeast. As soon as you see ‘em, Bang on the side of the hangar as hard as you can, then hide yourselves and don’t come out ‘till I come for you.”
He backtracked, making sure to wipe out any evidence of their move. Inside the hangar once again, he opened the same window that he and Matson had sat in front of, then went back outside to the massive door. With all the strength he could muster, he rolled it closed. Replacing the padlock, he slammed up on the base to lock it completely.
He shimmied through the window he had just left open, closed it, and ran to the other end of the hangar and looked at the trailer that had been his temporary duty station just minutes before. He couldn’t make out much at this distance, but he could tell it was still covered by the long morning shadows cast by the hangars at this side of the runway. He knew the people from Nevada would wait ‘till the sun was up enough to blind anyone looking to the east. He remembered his flight school and combat training, years before, when he was taught the same tactics the Germans had used back in World War I. They called it “the Hun in the sun.” Any pilot unlucky enough to be caught in the down sun position … was dead meat.
Earlier, Kelly had spotted four drop tanks, similar to the ones used on the eighty-six. They were against the east wall at this end of the hangar. He spun the filler cap off of each and rocked them gently, checking their contents. Each held about three inches of kerosene except the fourth, which was nearly full. ‘Strange,’ he thought, ‘we would always burn off as much fuel in the wing tanks as possible, or we’d just get rid of the tank over water or open land.’ He smelled at the filler spout. There was no mistaking the strong odor of gasoline. Somebody had used this tank to store gas for use as cleaning solvent. They had even installed a petcock on the underside for drawing small amounts at a time. Suddenly, inexplicably, one of his monsters had smiled at him. He couldn’t remember that happening before. The tanks had been stored on bomb dollies for easy transport. He moved the gas laden tank, and one other, to a position along side the old Ford near its right front fender.
He quickly surveyed the area. Up in the loft he pulled at an overhead light that was hanging from a cross member some twenty feet above. The wire separated at the junction box above so he was able to salvage all twenty feet of wire along with the old incandescent light bulb. He found an old partial roll of rusty pigging wire on the workbench under the loft, along with a couple short lengths of two-by-four, a few shop rags that had been thoroughly covered in grease, and a pair of pliers that had wire cutters built into the jaws.
Sliding himself under the rear of the old forty-seven, with a little banging and cussing he was able to coax the drain plug loose from the bottom of the fuel tank. He sized up the two-by-fours and chose one to his liking, and, while holding a carefully folded grease soaked rag in his left hand, he made the final twist on the fuel plug with his right. As he pulled it clear he shoved the rag up over the opening; grabbed the two-by-four and laid one end against the rag and wedged the other end against the floor. A couple quick punches with the heel of his closed fist drove the piece of wood straight up and down under the drain plug. The old rag wasn’t stopping the fuel completely, but it was good enough for his purpose. He tied one end of the bailing wire around the bottom of the same two-by-four and shoved the roll to the front of the car where he fed the end outside the hangar through a small space in the wall sill-plate.
An old rusty coffee can served as a container to transfer about half of the gas from the near fully laden drop tank to the one sitting next to it. Kelly then spun the outside tank so that its opening was facing the other (with the fuel just showing, but not spilling).
Carefully, he tapped the light bulb with the pair of pliers, first getting it to crack, then, pulling away the glass without damaging the filament; he lowered it into the first tank to a point just above the gasoline. He took one turn with the wire around the thread boss to hold it in place and then strung the other end of the wire over to the Ford.
Opening the hood and reaching for the distributor cap, Kelly popped the clips and pulled it free and pushed it aside. Standing in front of the car he placed his right hand on one of the fan blades while pushing hard against the fan belt with his other. Now, putting his weight down on the fan, he was able to turn the engine just enough to open the breaker points. He cut the wires coming from the light filament just long enough to reach under the hood and replaced the distributor cap. Then, pulling a plug wire from one of the forward spark plugs, he wrapped a bare end of one of the wires around the brass end cap of the plug wire. He bared the end of the other wire and wrapped it several times around the engine block lift ring at the front of the engine.
He now had a length of double wire left. It was just long enough to reach from the car to a point outside where the end of the piggin’ wire sat. Feeding it through an unused grommet in the firewall, he climbed under the dash and pulled it up toward the starter button where he carefully removed the two wires from the button and wrapped one to each wire coming from outside.
He opened the hangar window in front of the car and looked closely at the last two wires he had just shoved through the sill plate. The bare ends were a good three or four inches apart. Satisfied, he walked back to the driver’s side door, reached in, closed his eyes tightly, and turned the key to the on position. Kelly suddenly flinched at a loud noise. He thought he might have blown himself to pieces, but instead, it was Matson beating on the side of the hangar next door.
Kelly checked the shift lever to make sure the transmission was in neutral, then slid out of the hangar through the window, closing it behind him. He dragged three pallets from the side of the hangar and le
aned them against the wall under the window, leaving enough room for a man to crawl behind them. Then he made his way to the waiting trio at the next building.
Cory was up and moving about, much to Forest’s chagrin. The doctor had tried to keep him down awhile longer, but Cory was having none of it.
“They’re coming,” said Matson, “but it looks like there’s more than three of them. It looked like the whole sky was glitterin’ just above that tree line on the horizon,” he pointed.
“Yeah, I know Ken, there’s nine of ‘em.” They walked to the window. “The horizon is about three miles away on flat ground, but they’re flying at least five hundred feet off the deck. At that altitude you could’ve seen them as far out as twenty-five miles, so, I’m guessing, minus the time from when you saw them ‘til now, we’ve got about ten minutes.”
“So, what do we do, just sit here and wait?” asked Cory.
“That’s all we can do right now. You guys go get comfortable over in the corner where we’ll have a good view of the trailer. I’m gonna watch for ’em comin’ from this direction. I’ll join you as soon as they show over the top of those trees due east of us.”
“What about our plan,” Matson asked.
“That comes later. First we see how they react when they see the plane.”
The three headed for the corner. Kelly took a position at the window next to the door. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he could hear the muffled staccato of helicopter blades in the distance. ‘That many, all coming at once, should really rattle these old hangars,’ he thought.
As he sat waiting, his hand, the one with the wound, found its way to his breast pocket where the little scrap of chrome resided. He rubbed it from the outside of his pocket, pushing it harder and harder against his heart. He thought it strange how it warmed him, made him feel so … at ease.
Suddenly the choppers were passing overhead. “Wha …” he blurted, looking around, then up, “where in hell did they come from.”
‘Where had the time gone?’ he thought.
There were four Bell H-thirteens flying abreast, followed by five Sikorsky S-fifty-fives. Glass fell from the upper windows as shockwaves from the rotor blades slammed down and echoed through the empty hangars. Kelly ducked away from his window position, his hand still on his breast pocket.
He made his way to the other end of the hangar where they watched the nine helicopters descending on the little trailer, now in full sunlight, on the other side of the runway.
ENEMY AT THE DOOR
Kelly turned the latch and pushed the window open at the bottom. They listened as the rumble of the choppers slowly diminished. With the top half of their four heads just showing above the window sill, they watched the four H-thirteens hold their altitude while the big Sikorskys landed side by side in the grassy area just short of the little plane. The thirteens then turned themselves sideways so the passenger in each, with his feet out on the strut, could cover those on the ground.
As the Sikorskys began pouring soldiers onto the grass, Kelly said, “Let’s get a count fellas. We need to know how many we’re goin’ up against.”
“Look,” Matson offered, “the helicopter on the left end; those aren’t soldiers like the rest of ‘em.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Looks like four of those suited guys with the dark glasses you were tellin’ me about … and … that big guy … I’m guessin’ he’s a Colonel or a bird-Colonel. The short guy beside him is probably his aide.”
“I count thirty all together,” Cory said, sitting down and leaning against the wall under the window, “I ain’t feelin’ so hot again guys.”
“Sit there and rest, we won’t be seein’ any action for awhile yet,” Kelly said, patting him on the shoulder. Then turning to the others, “OK, that’s twenty-four soldiers … twenty-eight counting the gunners in the little thirteen’s; four suits, probably with weapons on them; two pilots in each Sikorsky, and one in each thirteen; … and the two brass.”
“That’s forty eight of them,” the Doctor whispered, “and they’ve all got guns.”
“No, I think you’re wrong Doc. I’d bet money the Colonel’s aide isn’t carryin’,” he said with a curled lip.
***
Soldiers from three of the helicopters set up a perimeter, while six, weapons at the ready, mounted the steps and entered the trailer. The Colonel and one of the suits stood pointing in varying directions, seeming to be paying no attention to the plane.
A head showed through the broken window, “The trailer’s clear,” the voice rang out, “but we’ve got a body … or at least, what’s left of one.”
The suit, standing with the Colonel, gave a nod, and the man ducked back inside. “Wait here Colonel,” he said, starting up the steps.
“Damn it Brandt, I’m coming inside with you. This is just as much my operation as yours.”
Brandt raised a hand and laid it on the Colonel’s chest as he tried to walk past, “Preston, don’t make…”
Colonel Preston grabbed the younger mans wrist and held it as they stared at one another. Brandt finally eased the tension in his arm and lowered his hand. Preston straightened his top coat and went inside.
It was obvious that the soldiers inside were working for Brandt. They all wore black fatigues as opposed to the regular camo on the men outside on perimeter guard.
Brandt said, looking at the pile of Perkin’s remains, “Does this one have identification on him?”
One of the men stooped and rifled through the corpse’s blood covered pants pockets, acting for all the world like he had handled dead bodies all his life. He pulled a wallet from the remains and handed it to Brandt.
“It’s Perkins,” he said, turning to Preston, “this is the guy that called us.”
Just then, one of the perimeter guards, who had spotted Will’s lifeless body sitting against the north end of the trailer under the lean-to yelled, “We gotta ‘nother body back here.”
“And there’s another one under the porch,” came the call from the near end.
“It’s a regular slaughterhouse around here,” Brandt said, spinning on his heels as if looking for the announcement of yet another corpse.
As Brandt and the Colonel made their way down the steps, a couple of the black suits were uncovering the mummified remains.
“Look at that … I know who this is,” the colonel’s aide said as he approached, “it’s Colonel Parker.”
“Who?” Brandt asked.
Preston stepped forward, “Randall Thomas Parker … Colonel Randall Thomas Parker,” he corrected himself, looking at the body in bewilderment. “He died more than three years ago. What in God’s name happened to him?”
“And what the hell is he doing shoved under a porch in the middle of this hell hole?” Brandt said under his breath.
One of Preston’s men double-timed up and handed him Will’s wallet. ”He’s got what looks like a small arms round to the middle of his forehead, sir.”
“Thank you Sergeant,” he said pulling out the driver’s license. “William Henry Johnson,” he looked at Brandt, “sound familiar?”
“Yes, it does,” he said, taking a clipboard from one of the suits. “Here,” he said, folding a sheet back, “William Henry Johnson, radar and weapons specialist. This says he’s been here since this thing started.”
“That Perkins fella inside, is he on your list too?”
“Yeah, radio man,” he said, tilting the clipboard toward Preston. Then turning to one of the suits kneeling beside Parker’s body, “Can you tell what killed him?”
“No sir. He has some dried blood on the lower left side of his back, but it appears to be from a scratch or small puncture; nothing that should’ve killed him.”
“So, we’ve got one cause of death unknown, one small caliber to the head, and what,” he said to one of his black fatigued men coming down the steps, “Harris, what would you say killed that man inside?”
“I’ve s
een that before sir, in Korea. It takes at least a fifty caliber to cut a man up like that.”
Brandt moved away from the steps toward the plane. He looked at the damage to the outside of the trailer, then the nose of the plane, “Harris,” he yelled, “get your men out of that trailer on the double, that things got fifty cals pointed right at ‘em.”
As the black fatigues poured out of the trailer, Preston turned to one of his men, “Let’s get these bodies bagged up and stowed in one of the choppers. Gather all the tape reels from the recorders inside and any loose paperwork that looks at all pertinent.” As the soldier stepped away, “Oh, and son, don’t be worrying about getting shot up by that little plane, the cockpit’s empty,” he said loud enough for Brandt to hear.
Brandt was once again flipping pages on the clipboard, “Looks like there were three more people working here: a Corbin Thomas Brickman; Dr. Francis Forest, and one Kenneth Matson. Do you know any of these people?” he asked Preston.
“Never heard of them, why, would it make a difference?”
“Well no. Once we catch up with them, I’ll get what I want from them, one way or another. I just thought if you knew one or two of them, it might make things go a little … smoother.”
“Colonel Preston,” one of the green fatigued soldiers shouted as he ran down the steps carrying Kelly’s briefcase. “Look at this sir, these orders are dated yesterday, out of Tucson.”
Preston gave the document a quick glance and turned to Brandt, who was already reaching for it, “Looks like we’ve got one more. Is this guy on your list?”
Brandt checked Kelly’s name against his manifest. “No, and with his orders stamped with yesterdays date, I wouldn’t expect him to be.” He turned, “Harris, take your men and check the grounds. Make sure you get that shed to the north and anything else that’s big enough to hide in. Get the thirteens on the ground and have those guys help you.”
***