These Few Brave Souls

by Rodney Manchester

  "Tell ‘em we have received a distress call from two of our ships. We are responding to the emergency. We will render what assistance we can to their vessels if requested." The Admiral's reply was short and to the point.

  "Sting flight, Sentry ten, we have the unidentified aircraft one seven zero miles and inbound, bearing seventy-eight degrees, speed four hundred twelve knots."

  The tension jacked up several notches in CIC at this news. The Captain spoke into a microphone to the AWACS, "Are they squawking IFF?"

  "Negative," replied the controller aboard the Hawkeye.

  "Have the Hornets check it out. At four hundred knots out here it must be a fighter," the CAG replied.

  "Intercept and identify," the controller on the Hawkeye relayed the orders to Sting flight.

  Aboard the AWACS, radio operators were attempting to communicate with the unknown aircraft. It refused to answer.

  Lieutenants Jenson and Simmons both pushed the throttle detents into zone 5 afterburner and their Hornet fighter/bombers quickly and effortlessly accelerated through Mach one.

  The radar signal from the Hawkeye was digitally linked to the Hornets so no further radio traffic was necessary for the intercept. Identity was a different matter entirely.

  "Sting one oh four, I've got a visual. Stand by."

  Sting one oh nine dropped further back and to the side to cover his Flight leader as one oh four made a tight turn to come up beside the unknown aircraft. It continued on its course as if totally unaware of its pursuers.

  Inside Sting one oh nine, Lt. "Sleepy" Simmons squirmed in his seat. For him this was a dramatic show of emotion. The laid back image of a Naval Aviator who was always in control and able to coolly handle anything thrust at him was his goal in life. This was the first time in his short career at sea that he was placed in so dramatic a situation. The preflight brief had been short and to the point.

  "Two US Destroyers have been attacked with chemical weapons. Your flight will be first on the scene to evaluate the situation and protect those ships from any airborne or surface threat," The Intelligence Officer had said.

  Adrenalin surged into his bloodstream as his Flight leader moved in closer. Looking through the curved windscreen of his fighter/bomber, the two aircraft were nearly invisible in the night sky.

  "Sentry ten, Sting one oh four. I'm fifty yards to port of the unidentified aircraft. I've never seen anything like it. It has a high delta wing, with very little fuselage." His narrative broke abruptly as the craft changed course toward him.

  The controller aboard Sentry ten felt helpless as he watched the radar blips merge together in a midair collision. The bright pin of light on his display began to separate into several pieces as one or both aircraft broke apart.

  Aboard the Carl Vinson, the Captain and the CAG watched the same display as the radar picture was relayed to the mother ship. One piece of light stabilized and returned to the course the unidentified aircraft had been on. The other pieces had scattered to cover an ever increasing area before disappearing into ever smaller, and increasingly difficult to pick up pieces.

  CAG turned to Admiral Jacobs, "The son of a bitch hit one oh four."

  "Take it out," the Admiral replied.

  CAG relayed the message to the AWACs and ordered the immediate dispatch of the rescue helicopter.

  "Sting one oh nine, Sentry ten, splash the bogey, I say again, splash the bogey." The controller relayed the message from the Captain.

  "Sleepy" Simmons had watched in horror as his Flight leader was rammed in a mid-air collision. Searching the night sky for a parachute, he saw a white canopy blossom amid the expanding debris.

  He was surprised at the lack of damage the bogey seemed to sustain and he immediately had focused the heat-seeking ability of the Sidewinder AIM-9M air to air missiles on the remaining craft. The order to shoot it down was immensely satisfying. The growl of the missile indicating it had locked on the target filled his helmet. "Fox two," he said as he fired a Sidewinder. "Fox two," he repeated as he squeezed the trigger a second time.

  Lieutenant Simmons watched his missiles cover the distance to the bogey. The first one exploded and he could clearly see the right side of the craft in the flash. The second explosion caused the aircraft shake violently then dive toward the sea. Simmons followed the craft down, taking video along the way. He didn't know what he just killed, only that it had almost taken the life of a shipmate. He leveled out at a thousand feet and watched the ocean absorb the kinetic energy of the strange vehicle with a splash. There were no survivors from this one.

  "Sting one oh nine, Sentry ten, two more inbound bandits ninety-five miles bearing eighty-eight degrees speed four hundred twenty two knots. Bandits are in Peruvian airspace and headed your way. Return to Base, I say again, RTB. Joker flight will cover."

  Simmons acknowledged and turned toward the carrier.

  Joker flight, a pair of F-14s, was headed toward the area of conflict at just over thirteen hundred miles per hour. Loaded with four Phoenix missiles, two sparrows, and a pair of Sidewinders each, the Tomcats were a lethal combination against anything on earth that could fly. There were four more Tomcats about five minutes behind.

  "Joker flight, intercept the bandits and turn 'em around. We have rescue operations in progress," the controller said.

  Lt. Commander Jason McCoy wondered about the sanity of trying to warn off two potentially hostile planes from the area of a downed Hornet. He was a professional Naval Aviator and he would do what he was ordered to do. He didn't like it though.

  "Paint 'em," he ordered his Radar Intercept Officer in the back seat and repeated his order to his wingman.

  The RIO energized the Hughes phased array targeting radar in the nose of the Tomcat and immediately got a return on both the approaching planes. The Phoenix air to air missiles are unlike any other missile in the world. They are able to be fired from a distance of over a hundred miles. They are heavy, expensive, supersonic, and very deadly.

  His wingman acknowledged that he had both bandits on radar as they continued toward the intercept. The approaching aircraft seemed oblivious to the fast approaching warplanes.

  Again, aboard Sentry ten, the radio operators were trying in vain to warn off the unknowns. "We are getting emissions from the approaching bandits. Unusual, nonstandard wavelength. Must be radar, its SHF band, but a weird pulse waveform. Signal is very weak, like we're getting a side lobe of the main signal," said one of the air defense technicians.

  The oncoming craft changed course directly toward the F-14s and came into visual view on the nose camera of the Tomcats.

  Controllers became near frantic aboard the Hawkeye as they tried to warn the approaching planes away.

  Commander McCoy ordered his RIO "lock 'em up. If this guy wants to play games, we'll smoke his ass." Seconds later his wingman also got a warbling tone in his headset indicating radar lock.

  Just as the tension became nearly unbearable, as fiery conflict became imminent, the bandits turned and began circling in place. The Flight leader, Lt. Commander McCoy, ordered "break lock. Orbit a racetrack and we'll keep an eye on these guys," The relief clearly evident in his strained voice.

  With the addition of the next 4 Tomcats, the orbiting fighter planes were able to keep between the rescue operations and the tightly circling unknowns.

  Inside the Admiral's Flag CIC, Jacobs turned to his aide and said "Have the Houston head toward the position of the bogey when it went down. Keep Cincinnati here"

  Less than three minutes later, the Los Angeles Class Submarine, USS Houston, SSN 713, changed course and headed toward the downed UFO.

  Three hours later, helicopters from the Carrier Battle Group began ferrying injured from the Ingersoll and Deyo to the hospital facilities aboard the Vinson.

  Bouafra, Morocco

  Lieutenant Aliegiah finally reached town. He passed through the cut in the mountains and walked down the hill. Mohammed had passed several more wrecked automobiles, similar to his
first experience, each without a body, but clearly wrecked. One of them had gone off the road and hit a large bolder head on, destroying the car that was empty of people. Strange doesn’t begin to explain it, he thought.

  Aliegiah knocked on the door of the first house he came to without receiving an answer. He put his shoulder to the door and shoved it open. Inside the home he found a typical peasant’s furnishings. A simple table and chairs, an easy chair and couch plus another door opening off the main room. He walked over, opened the door and looked around. His first impression was one of neatness and cleanliness. The bed was made, there was no clothing on the floor. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

  He turned and walked back to the kitchen. Sink, propane stove and a simple wooden table with two chairs were in the corner of the room. There were clothes in the chairs and that moldy dirt smell was quite strong here.

  He Searched for and found an old fashioned telephone of a style that was at least 40 years old. He picked it up and, using the rotary dial, called his Captain’s number from memory.

  “Captain Azziz here,” he heard after two rings.

  “Captain, it is me, Lieutenant Aliegiah.”

  “Lieutenant, what happened to you?”

  “My aircraft was attacked by another. I caught a glimpse of him before he ran right into me and I crashed. I managed to parachute to the ground, but my plane was a total wreck.

  “I walked to Bouafra and everyone’s gone! No people, wrecked automobiles, like the drivers just vanished. I walked into the first home I came across and it is empty. The whole town is deserted.”

  “Lieutenant, the Army is sending troops to Bouafra soon. A convoy has left and should be passing through Tendrara soon. I will let them know you are there. I suggest you wait for them by the side of Highway Seventeen.”

  “Yes sir. In the meantime I will explore the town and call you immediately if I find anything enlightening.”

  HMS Rooke

  Gibralter

  “Did you read this?” Admiral Hayes-Gentry turned toward his Flag Captain and gestured toward the paper in his hand.

  “About that dust up off Peru? Yes sir. I don’t know what to make of it though. Sounds too much like science fiction to me sir.” Captain Jones was a phlegmatic man of medium height and slightly on the paunchy side. His gray hair testament to his experience in the Royal Navy.

  “I saw the overnights,” the Admiral said. “Something big in orbit and we don’t know what it is, UFO’s attacking the Peruvian and US Navy. No communications with Lima.

  “Lima, millions of people and nothing from them. Our embassy is down too. I don’t like it one bit.

  “A meteor flies over our head at 4,000 knots and the Moroccan’s are going bonkers over some missing airplanes and empty check points. Coincidence?”

  “I don’t like it either Admiral. The Yanks have their hands full in their back yard. This is ours. What say we move some assets down this way?”

  “So ordered. I’ll call London and get things moving.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Varig Airlines Flight 845

  Ramon Juarez sat very still. His hand was purple and very cold within the scarlet stained cast. His wrist ached with a deep pain that threatened to make him whimper. He was trying desperately to contain his fear. Deep down within himself was a shiver that would slip down his arms or legs if his attention strayed for even a moment. Perspiration stood out on his forehead in stark contrast to the air conditioned breeze coming from the twist nozzle above his head.

  He was 10 hours out of Los Angeles International Airport, bound for Lima, Peru and home. His tension, wound ever tighter with each passing obstacle, was becoming the focus of his entire being. He felt almost claustrophobic in the confines of the Boeing seven thirty seven. The relief he expected to feel upon boarding the plane turned to terror when he thought of leaving it. They would catch him. He knew they would. All it would take is a phone call to the National Police in Lima and they would call his name at the gate.

  A cramp began deep in his intestines and spread upward. His stomach grumbled with an intensity that demanded his immediate attention. He arose and carefully made his way to the toilet, his teeth clenched tightly to ward off the inevitable retch to come.

  Ten minutes later the disheveled man returned to his seat. Several heads turned to follow his progress as the distinctive scent of nervous perspiration flowed behind him.

  Time passed in a pulsing, almost surrealistic manner. He would think about his family and home and time slid by graciously. Then his memory of recent events would snatch him back to reality and seconds became minutes at an agonizing pace. The pain in his wrist vied for his attention in near even contest with his fear of capture and the cramps in his stomach. The spring within him notched upward again as the pilot came over the P.A. in his native Spanish.

  "Your attention please. There is a problem with communications at the airport in Lima so we are diverting to the International Airport in Trujillo. Connecting flights will be made available as quickly as possible. Thank you for your patience."

  The passengers around him murmured their anxiety but Ramon breathed a sigh of relief. They would be waiting for him in Lima, not Trujillo.

  The plane landed smoothly and taxied to the debarkation area. While he was waiting in the shuffle to exit he caught fragments of conversation from the flight crew. "...just off the air" and "no one is allowed to land there."

  When he entered the terminal the agitation of the crowd was obvious. He managed to get through customs quickly with just a cursory glance at his meager possessions and a perfunctory "Welcome back to Peru."

  The reservation desk was stacked with people so he headed toward the smaller, local airlines. The desk was closed so he sat in a chair with his hand propped up as best he could and went to sleep. Or he tried to. All that his mind would focus on was his wife. He had loved her with all his heart. She had taken his love and made it a thing of ridicule. He ached with his loss and his shame. Sometime in his self-reflection he dozed off.

  He awoke with a start. The counter before which he slept was now occupied. The casually dressed man had dropped a closed sign on the floor and the noise had startled him awake.

  Ramon stood and walked to the counter. "I'm sorry I woke you," the man said. "How can I help you?"

  "My mother is very sick and I need to get to Comas as soon as I can. I was on a flight to Lima and it diverted here."

  "I see. We have no traffic going south at all but there is a private pilot who might take you. Go through the doors and look to your left down the tarmac. He usually comes in around now."

  Ramon nodded his thanks and followed the directions to a rundown hanger at the end of the taxiway. Inside he found a neatly dressed man who was anxious to please.

  "Sure I can take you," he replied after hearing the story. "It's gonna cost you though. There's some kinda problem up that way this morning. Probably another Shining Path car bomb or something but I'll sneak you into Huacho. There's a dirt strip just east of town."

  "Thank you. I can catch a bus from there," Ramon replied waving his hand in front of his face to brush away an insect, grateful for the hint of breeze in the already oppressive heat. He was feeling better about his situation with each passing moment.

  The cost surprised him. After paying almost a thousand dollars to get this far, he needed to pay close attention to his dwindling money supply or soon he would be back working the ambulante or street. He realized with surprise that he was now one of the rich Yankees that he had dreamt so much about as a child.

  CHAPTER 10

  USS Coronado

  A drop of sweat slid down his cheek and rested upon the ridge of his upper lip before slipping into his mouth. The moisture, however slight and salty, was immediately absorbed by the dry tissue it encountered. Nicholas Murphy (never Nick) was a determined young man. He had graduated 12th in his class at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, Maryland and had been commanding his ow
n Recon platoon in the United States Marine Corps for 7 months now.

  He was reasonably sure his Platoon Sergeant didn't think him to be a totally incompetent asshole. He listened to Sergeant Adams when he had suggestions, but made his own decisions. More often than not, he made the right one. Sergeant Adams had, to date, always made the right recommendation. Even so, someone has to be in charge. Until they hang bars on Adams's shoulders, it's me he thought for the thousandth time.

  Adams slid down the bulkhead and joined his Platoon Leader in a brief respite from the Platoon's workout. Platoon Sergeant Chester Adams studied his Lieutenant as they rested on the small flight deck. Nicholas Murphy had come to the Platoon full of piss and vinegar. Overly confident in his first command, it was Adams job to mold the young man into a leader in the unspoken but time honored tradition of sergeants the world over. His evolving opinion was that this one would turn out better than most.

  "Only forty-five minutes to go sir. Like my daddy used to say, “it ain't no hill for a stepper”."

  Lieutenant Murphy thought Chester Adams was one of the toughest men he had ever met. Not the biggest, nor even the strongest, but by far the toughest. A character trait passed down from father to son from the sound of it. He could not imagine the obstacle Adams would consider to be a hill. Nicholas could easily picture Adams climbing over the side of a Landing Craft and wading 700 yards ashore into machine gun fire as had been done by Marines landing in the Tarawa atoll in 1943. Ever since he learned about this event during Military History class at the Academy, he had wondered if he could have done it. He knew his Platoon could, but could he?

  The concept of leading men into battle had been an esoteric exercise in thought until a few short months ago. Now the enormity of that concept was a burden upon his conscience. But, it was a weight he had chosen to carry. He rightly suspected that such deeds are done one thing at a time. Now, men such as Adams looked to him for leadership. Under such circumstances, failure was unthinkable.