by Alan James
“My God!” he screamed, as the canopy slammed open. He reached for the sides of the …
“Kelly,” his Brother spoke softly yet urgently, “Kelly, calm yourself … please … calm yourself. There is nothing to fear.”
As he stepped out onto the wing he held both arms out in front himself, then grabbed the jumpsuit at his chest and pulled it open.
“This looks like something to worry about to me,” he yelled, tucking his chin to look at his shiny chest; his lower lip trembling.
“Kelly, please, you must relax yourself … this will pass. This is merely another manifestation of the joining … you will soon see.”
“How on Earth am I supposed to relax with this happening to me? I’m going to be a solid piece of chromed steel in a few minutes … stiff as a board.”
“Oh, we do not think that will happen, Kelly.”
“You don’t think … what do you mean, you don’t think?” he blurted
“Kelly, we have watched this happening to you since you began healing from your injuries. It is a natural part of becoming one with the disc, or more precisely: one with the living material.”
Kelly took a deep breath and stared straight ahead. It occurred to him that he didn’t know where to look when talking to his Brother (without the figure standing in front of him). He felt foolish, on top of everything else, talking into thin air (even with no one else around). He pinched the skin over his pectoral muscles, then his biceps. ‘Still soft,’ he thought, then, “still soft,” he repeated out loud, his voice cracking with both fear and relief.
“Kelly,” his brother continued, “you must remember, there are parts of the disc that have remained supple throughout its transformation, and to this very day, remain so. There is no reason to believe that it will be any different with you.”
As he stood there, feeling himself all over his arms and chest, the chrome sheen slowly began to subside. He laughed a sheepish giggle of relief as the final vestiges of chrome patina gradually disappeared.
“You see Kelly? You are made whole again.”
“And if it happens again?” he returned with trepidation.
“Think Kelly … as we have told you … what you have seen is nothing more than a physical manifestation of your own state of mind. Once you learn to control your emotions, as in using the weapon (the Brownings) then it will not happen again … unless, and until, you wish it to.”
Kelly pulled his sleeves down and zipped the jumpsuit half way up. Sliding back into his seat, he looked at his hands once again, then, bringing the gravity drive up to speed, he watched the leaves on the oak trees as they began to dance in response to the excited gravity field around and below him. He thought up.
***
The three college students and their paleontology professor watched in amazement from their fossil dig in the eastern arm of the valley, as the disc rose not one-hundred yards in front of them. A second too late: one of the students grabbed his camera and snapped a hurried photo as Kelly suddenly barrel-rolled northward and disappeared over the cactus covered ridge. The blurred (and out of focus) photograph would eventually make its way to the Air Force Blue Book files, there to be derided as a classic example of desert mirage or light refraction phenomena. But, the students, and their professor, would forever, have an exciting story to tell for the rest of their lives.
***
Kelly leveled off at what he thought might be somewhere around thirty thousand feet. He had no way of knowing for sure at what altitude he was. He also knew that the folks at Nevada wouldn’t see him coming until he got very close, so, he wasn’t going to waste time, or energy, worrying about not being at an assigned altitude for the direction he was flying. Aircraft, depending on where they were headed, flew at even or odd angels (thousands) plus five hundred feet, and as far as he knew, nobody had assigned altitude corridors for flying discs. He chuckled as he thought about the absurdity of calling for an altitude assignment (if he had a radio).
He made a guess at his speed: somewhere around four or five hundred … no need to push any faster … he was in no hurry to get there. He needed time to develop a plan. He was going up against what he was certain would be a large force, but it would probably be made up of regular Air Force. He had defeated what he thought was the bulk of the CIA troops back at Marana and over the Mohawk Valley.
“They’ll have more of those new F-one-oh-twos, and a hangar full of eighty-sixes,” he said to himself, “and they’ll have a battery of ground based rocket launchers and regular artillery.”
He realized it would be downright “Stupid”, he voiced, to take on a force like that with what little firepower he had left. He wouldn’t even be able to test his ability to fire very short bursts with the Brownings. He couldn’t afford to waste what few rounds were left in the gun bay.
“No way,” he said aloud, “going in on-full-tilt won’t do.” He reached up to scratch what he thought was an unshaven cheek. “What a time to worry about appearances,” he said to himself, and as that thought was formulated in his mind, he felt his cheek suddenly go smooth. His hand was shiny chrome and he could see reflections, once again, in his own skin. His face was now casting the same shiny reflection back at his hand, and then back and forth, again and again, as if he were standing in the house-of-mirrors at the local carnival back home.
Now, getting somewhat used to the sight, he marveled at his reflection, moving the back of his hand, just so, in order to get the best view of his face. Startled, he reached for his head with both hands.
“Bald!” he yelled, and then, finding he was not all that dismayed by the thought, “Jeeze’, I’m balder than a damn que-ball.” He hadn’t noticed that his earlier experience with this changing (his arms and chest upon returning to normal) hadn’t returned the hair to those places. As an afterthought he slid his hand under his belt, just to make sure. Somehow he wasn’t surprised; he was bald everywhere.
With a little practice he was able to control the change from chrome to flesh, and back again, almost instantly. He was even able to make himself shimmer, much like a cuttlefish does when approached by an enemy.
As he finished this phasmidic practice, a plan began to take shape in his mind. He might be able to use this new talent, in a ruse, to his advantage. He knew that he had at least three objectives in Nevada. He, first and foremost, had to rescue his three Brothers now residing in the captured disc. He also felt a need, almost as strong as the first, to save the disc itself (although he had no idea how he was going to handle something that large). And thirdly, if it was at all possible, he would try to recover the bodies of the corporeals, although this task, and he didn’t understand why, wasn’t a high priority in his mind.
***
Kelly closed his eyes and relaxed as much as he could (for a country boy doing four hundred miles an hour in a flying saucer). His idea now was all about building any advantages he could, no matter how small. He would circle to the east of this base in Nevada and come in from the north. To do this, he needed to know just where it was he was going.
“Brother,” Kelly said softly, “can you help me find our Brothers?”
“Of course … but you have already started. Continue to relax, and they will call to you.”
With his eyes closed Kelly could see the faint line of the horizon in front of him. It was a clear day aloft, but the mountains, in the distance, were veiled in a faint haze. Never-the-less, he could see a distinct rose colored glow at about his eleven o’clock.
“Ah, yes, I see them … but, you knew where they were … why not just tell me?”
“And what would you learn from that, Kelly?”
He took a heading due north and poured on the coals.
“Kelly,” his Brother said with enthusiasm, “by our new heading and acceleration, I can only surmise, you have finished the formulation of your plan.”
Kelly chuckled, “Nothing gets by you, does it?”
“You
mean, of course, nothing gets by us. I speak to you, whenever possible, now that I am getting more used to it, in the singular, to make you more comfortable.”
“So, you … and the others … you all know my thoughts? You know what I know, as soon as I think it?”
“As you will of us, once you have learned.” He paused, then, “You will find it a great advantage in this place you call Nevada.”
“That may be,” Kelly said, almost apologetically, but, here on Earth, we humans prefer … no … we treasure … our privacy.”
This time his Brother chuckled, “To use your own phrase Kelly, ‘That may be,’ but it should be obvious to you by now, that, strictly speaking, you are no longer human, and at this moment, you are not on Earth.”
Kelly was, ever more quickly, becoming used to the fact that he was on a one-way trip to wherever it was he was … not so much going … but, well, he felt like he was in a head long dive into becoming something else. Images from his yesterdays began to play through his mind, much like he imagined they do before one is about to die. But, there was not that impending-doom kind of urgency in these little vignettes: his parents; pictures of places he had been; things he had seen and done; his grade school days; high school; MIT, and even as late as on the beach in Miami. He felt as if he were being given a last chance to enjoy what it was he used to be … a last look at his past. He took them all in, savoring each little morsel as it passed. He knew that tomorrow, hell, he knew it would be no more than a few hours, he would be someone else; he would be something else. Kelly Kellerman was descending deeper and deeper into one of his familiar dark hallways, and soon, the old Kelly Kellerman, would be completely, and forever lost there.
“So … Kelly …” his Brother spoke with an inquiring tone, “you do have a plan?”
“Why do you ask, when you obviously know?”
“While that is true Kelly, your human side can confuse us at times. Perhaps it is a matter of semantics … you … you plan to surrender … again?”
“Brother, you are right on both counts. It is a matter of semantics … I do plan to surrender … in a manner of speaking.” He smiled inwardly, “Would you be less confused if I changed the word to … infiltrate?”
“Of course, that does help. With little or no weapons, it would be the only logical way to reach our objective. How can we help?”
“Just stay close, I will let you know.”
“But Kelly, I am already as close as …”
“It was only a figure of speech Brother,” Kelly said, rolling his eyes, “When I am ready for your help, I am sure, your course of action will become unmistakably clear.”
“Very well then, Kelly, we will … stay close.”
ON TO NEVADA
After thirty minutes of northing he looked to the west and the disc turned. Another hour or so, and he would make his final turn to the south. This approach from the north was not so much a tactical move anymore, as it was to give the impression that he was a worthy enemy. Upon reaching the base he would fire a few rounds here and there … do a bit of fancy flying; in general he would put on a good show. In the end, he would land somewhere, as close to his Brothers as possible, all the while giving the impression that he was being captured (more or less).
The Sun, now well on its way to the Pacific Ocean, hung in the western sky like the familiar yellow orb that he had always known (except for the slight rose tinge).
In all his previous military flight time he had always been busy. Flying, to him, had always been business. He had strived to become the best pilot he could. Like all American military pilots, he wanted to be the best there is, or ever was. Now, however, even though his near future portended a possible doom, he felt, somehow, relaxed. Every cattle pond below, every river or wet creek-bed, reflected the bright light of old Sol. He no longer needed to squint his eyes at their brightness, for his new vision compensated instantly. He studied them with a keenness he had never known. The meandering of every roadway drew his interest. He traced them, zooming in for detail, trying to guess if he had ever passed that way with his parents in years past.
He was beginning to feel more and more at peace, and it seemed to empower him. He noticed his vision was growing sharper as he continued to trace the dirt roads and highways along the way. His thought process was also beginning to organize itself in such a way that he could trace the roads and think about his plan of attack at the same time. ‘Oh,’ he thought, ‘what I wouldn’t give for a dog-fight now, with two or three adversaries. I’ll bet I could track them all, and with this machine, fire at them all, almost simultaneously … no problem.’
***
The turn to the south came about an hour later. It was an uneventful turn, except that Kelly fought off a little boredom by slewing to the south first, letting the disc slide sideways for awhile before actually changing direction by adding a sudden burst of speed (vectored at about forty-five degrees to cancel the westward drift).
“No wonder the government wants to get their hands on this thing,” he said to himself. “The Migs in Korea would have never stood a chance (not that they did anyway).”
The horizon to the southeast now showed clearly, the rosy signature of his three lost brothers, hanging there; not moving; waiting. He was also becoming troubled by the vision of several black objects moving around the glow. He knew they would be aircraft, probably Daggers. And then, off to his right, was a larger target.
“How did he sneak up on me,” he asked himself, sliding the disc toward this new, black object. As he moved closer, the craft started to present itself as a visual target. It was a KC-ninety-seven, and it had a radar dome.
“Well, there’s no sneaking up on anybody now,” he cursed, “they’ve probably got me painted five-by-five.”
He knew the 97 would be no immediate problem, as it carried no weapons, so, he slewed to his right and vectored his thrust again to fly a path over the top of it, in order to head almost due west. His only hope of getting close now, was to come in at them out of the sun. If he could only get inside the base perimeter before they did him too much damage, they would have to forego using their air or ground launched missiles for fear of hitting their own planes. That would make the F-one-oh-two’s useless, for they carried no guns. He would be up against the smaller, slower, but tighter turning Sabre Jets. That would make it a gun war (Brownings versus Brownings) and he knew he could come out on top in that fight.
He watched the pilot and co-pilot of the ninety-seven crane their necks to watch him as he flew no more than a hundred feet over the top of them.
***
The last hour saw him make two more turns, once again to the south, and the last to the east. He was now headed straight at his Brothers, and his enemy. He was detecting no targets anywhere near his position; they hadn’t come out to meet him. ‘That was good,’ he thought, ‘and that was bad, too.’ With an hours heads-up time, they would be re-fueling their planes, and waiting; planning.
The air was starting to thicken as the evening wore on. He could see his shadow cast in a dark cone in front of him and, lining it up on the glow of his brothers, he guaranteed he would be hidden by the glare of the sun.
The Daggers were done re-fueling and in the air again. They had been flying a tight formation to start, but now they broke in all directions. There were five of them, one holding course straight at him, others heading above, below, north and …
“Christ, this isn’t good,” he exclaimed.
They were going to surround him, and with each of them carrying four GAR’s, that posed a considerable problem. He had dodged four missiles earlier, but, if he read these guys right, he was going to face at least ten at a time. He didn’t see any way he was going to come out of this without damage. And now, looking south he could see another Dagger, not associated with the first five. Nevada had called Vincent Air Force Base in Yuma and arranged for a stray to cover Kelly’s six. That meant an even dozen GAR’s
at a time, for they would surely fire two each at a time.
He was still thirty minutes from his Brothers, and knowing that he had to come out of this first sortie with a flyable machine, he decided to take the battle to his attackers. He had to break free of this giant globe they were trying to trap him in. Once they fired their missiles with him in the center, he would have, literally, no place to turn.
The lead Dagger was holding course straight at him, but, since he was closing the fastest, he had cut back power in order to give the others time to form the globe. Kelly pegged this guy, with his power cut back, as the weakest link, and he guessed, or at least he hoped, that these new jets would suffer from the same weakness that his old F-eighty-six did. In order to increase from cruising speed to full power the pilot would simply push the throttle forward, and then wait; sometimes ten; sometimes twenty seconds, before he was back at attack speed. A fighter pilot never wanted to get caught with his pants down, or his throttle back.
Kelly increased his speed, deciding to close the distance with his forward adversary as quickly as possible. The other Dagger pilots had obviously been briefed on what to do if it looked like the disc was going to run or attack. They all changed headings immediately, giving up the big globe formation for an ever decreasing surround (each jet heading straight at him from above, below and all four directions on the level plane).
In a field of rose colored nothingness, Kelly spotted the forward Dagger. It had taken the shape as one of the monsters that had attacked his brother earlier.
“This isn’t necessary,” he said to his Brother, “I am completely committed here … we can do away with the motivational pictorials.”
In an instant the scene had changed to a magnified view of the jet bearing down on him. He asked for more magnification and the pointed nose and razor thin wings of the Dagger filled his field of vision.