As his speed dropped below 250 knots, he lowered his landing gear and flaps. With only five miles to the runway, he let out a lungful of air and said to the jet, “We’re going to make it.”
But as the landing gear came down, both engine fire lights illuminated, accompanied by Betty’s repetitive warning. Looking into his canopy rear-view mirrors, he saw flames clearly visible between the fighter’s twin tails. Opening the landing gear doors must have pushed air into the engine bay, reigniting the fuel. His fire extinguisher was empty and the jet could explode at any second. The emergency procedure for this situation was clear — eject, but he was over a populated area and so close to the runway.
He coaxed his fighter. “Come on, baby. We’re almost there.” The fire trucks would be ready to spray him down after he landed.
The tower reported, “Hornet Zero Seven, you appear to be on fire!”
“I know. Got to get her over the fence.”
There was a pause and then, “God speed, sir.”
But three miles from the runway, he felt the jet decelerate. He jammed the throttle forward ... nothing. The fuel gauge said he still had 1,000 pounds of gas!
Betty added, “Engine right. Engine right,” as his last engine flamed out. The fire must have burned through the fuel lines. Only three miles from the runway, but it might as well have been three-hundred. Twenty-ton fighters made lousy gliders.
Everything began to move in slow motion. In 15 seconds, his beautiful new jet would slam into the ground, creating a fireball that would blow burning titanium and graphite across several acres ... but there were too many lights below. Each light was someone’s home ... someone’s life and family. The small airport was in the middle of suburbia. He couldn’t eject, not yet.
He saw a small, dark area a half mile to his left. No lights meant no houses. The floating green symbol in his helmet-mounted display projected his flight path or, in this case, impact point. He might have just enough altitude to glide the burning fighter into the dark area.
He banked the jet away from the runway, but as the engine spooled down, the hydraulic pressure powering his flight controls began to falter. The fighter responded sluggishly, as if angry with him for heading away from the runway. He had to use exaggerated stick inputs to control the dying jet.
To slow his descent, he held the nose up, but the Hornet began to buffet as it approached stall speed. If it stalled, it would roll over and tumble to the ground. There were houses on each side, and under his nose was a brightly lit and occupied soccer field. He fought his instincts and pushed the stick forward, increasing his descent to maintain flying speed. As he dropped through 200 feet, Betty pointlessly shared, “Altitude. Altitude.”
He felt a jolt in the stick.
Like blood from a severed artery, red hydraulic fluid sprayed across the wing as the fire burned through the hydraulic lines.
Betty’s final words were, “Flight controls. Flight controls.”
With no hydraulics, the jet began an uncontrolled roll to the right.
He slammed the stick left, but knew it was futile. His Hornet had bled out. She was dead. Letting go of the useless stick, he pulled the yellow and black handle between his legs.
The canopy blew off the top of the jet as the shoulder, waist and leg restraints yanked him against the seat. With the force of several sticks of dynamite, the ejection charge detonated. His spine compressed as the seat blasted up the rails like an artillery shell. Clearing the cockpit, its rocket motors ignited, firing him into the night. His last thought — trees!
The rocket-propelled seat tried to right itself as it accelerated away from the jet, but the fighter had rolled 90 degrees and the altitude was too low. The seat ripped through the top of the forest at 150 miles an hour, breaking branches and bones. Its barometric sensor quickly deployed the parachute, which immediately shredded in the treetops. The chute’s tangled shroud lines slung him against tree trunks like a puppet on the end of a string. His unconscious body finally slid to the forest floor. Shock constricted arteries as his heart struggled against the massive internal hemorrhaging.
Less than a quarter mile away, the fighter followed its pilot into the ground. Rolling thunder echoed through the woods as the young soccer players froze in their tracks. They watched the boiling cloud of orange and white flame rise above the forest.
Lying on his back, he opened his eyes. The fighter’s funeral pyre reflected off the low clouds, creating a soft orange glow that silhouetted the treetops. A few stars peeked through holes in the overcast sky, and faintly, he heard sirens in the distance. Otherwise, it was the peaceful quiet of an early spring evening before the crickets awoke.
He couldn’t move. Completely paralyzed, he felt no pain or physical sensation, only the metallic taste of blood. His thoughts went to Kelly. Not just his wife; she was his best friend. He wished he could see her one more time, but knew that wouldn’t happen.
He was dying. With surprising calm and clarity, he realized he’d had an incredible life and had done things most people only dreamt of. Like his father, the pragmatic scientist, he didn’t see evidence for the existence of a supreme being, but also knew lack of proof didn’t prove anything. He might soon find out.
His thoughts became less distinct and his vision began to fade. As he looked up at the stars ... his heart beat its last beat.
4
DEPART
At midnight, a dark sedan pulled up in front of a small house in a suburban neighborhood. Two Naval officers in uniform got out, walked to the front door and rang the doorbell. A pretty, redheaded woman in a bathrobe greeted the Captain by name. Her smile faded as she saw his expression.
Do you know what happened?
Suddenly conscious, he couldn’t see or feel anything, but remembered everything. He heard the voice again.
Do you know what happened?
“I waited too long to eject. I thought I was....” His statement trailed off as he realized what he was about to say.
You have a decision to make. Doctors can’t save your body, but you can be given a new life, a new mission.
“I don’t understand. Am I on life support?” He couldn’t even hear himself speak. The voice seemed to understand him but ignored his question.
If you accept, you can never go back to your old life. Those you knew will believe you died.
He had to be in bad shape. “I know I may not have long but I need to know I’m not making some kind of contract I don’t understand.”
You will be free to act in any way you wish, but no one can know you’re still alive.
He had a million questions, but he was out of time. With death the alternative, the decision was obvious. He should feel sad or frightened, but he felt nothing, no emotion at all. It was as if he were choosing a cell phone plan.
As he said, “OK,” his consciousness faded.
A flag-draped casket sat on a stand in a cemetery. Arrayed around the casket in neat rows of folding chairs were family and close friends. Surrounding them, and filling much of the small cemetery, was a sea of formal, white uniforms with colorful ribbons, contrasted by an equal number of dark suits and dresses.
A Navy color guard silently removed the flag from the casket and slowly, with great ceremony, folded it into a neatly tucked triangle. They handed it to a Navy Captain standing at attention. A large and imposing figure, he wore a formal dress-white uniform with a chest full of medals and ribbons. He accepted it, slowly moved to the widow’s side and dropped to one knee. Speaking to her softly, he presented her with the flag.
As she took it, four F-18 fighters approached the cemetery at low altitude. They flew in a tight “V” formation, one fighter to the left of the lead aircraft, and two on the right. Just before they reached the cemetery, the second jet on the right side pulled straight up and away from the formation. The single jet flew off toward the sunset, leaving an obvious hole. Breaking the solemn silence, the “missing man” formation flew over the cemetery. The widow, stoic to t
his point, looked up with tears streaming down her face.
He woke. He still couldn’t see, but he could sense his breathing and heartbeat. He had so many questions. Finally, he asked, “You guys were able to patch me back together?” The response was immediate.
Yes.
“But why can’t I see anything?”
Your body is adapting.
“Adapting to what?”
You will have enhanced abilities.
“What does that mean?”
Your abilities will not be unique, but they will be rare.
“Rare?”
One in one hundred million.
Many possibilities ran through his mind, but he remembered a course he took in college given by the famous Professor Carl Sagan. Sagan introduced them to Occam’s Razor. Dating back to the fourteenth century, it simply stated that all things being equal, the solution with the fewest assumptions was probably correct. He knew the state-of-the-art in robotics. There was no way. They were still decades away from the technology needed for some kind of Robocop. Genetic science, however, had advanced to the point where it was possible to clone almost anything. No doubt, that included human parts. He ventured, “You’re some type of classified agency with advanced medical technology?”
There was no response.
He was about to ask again, but wasn’t sure he wanted confirmation he was a lab rat. He’d try a different approach. “What’s the mission? What are we doing?”
What is the greatest threat to life on Earth?
“What?” He felt like he was talking to a fortune cookie. Finally, he said, “I don’t know ... probably us.”
Silence.
“Are you talking about, like, mass extinctions?” He paused. “We’re facing some kind of natural disaster?”
Yes.
“What is it?”
You’ll learn soon enough, but first, there are rules we must cover.
“Wait. So, your agency is classified, but what do I call you?”
Whatever you wish.
Irritated and feeling a little rebellious, he said, “When I was a kid, I pretended to have an invisible playmate. Called him Jesse.”
Silence.
He thought it was pretty funny. Clearly they didn’t. “OK, what are the rules?”
You can never return to your old life. Your friends and family will believe you’re dead and buried.
He had pushed those thoughts aside. “What about my wife?”
I’m sorry.
“But ... she’s OK?”
It’s been difficult for her, but she’s strong and has moved on. Success in your new life may save hers.
“Moved on? I don’t understand.”
It’s time for you to return.
“Return to what?”
You can ask for guidance any time.
“Guidance? For what? You haven’t told me what we’re facing or what I’m supposed to do!” As his awareness began to fade, he had an ironic and somewhat terrifying thought. He’d been the program manager for robotic fighters. What if he was about to become one? A biological drone ... with Jesse as his controller.
5
RE-ENTRY
A high-pitched hum penetrated his sleep. He was so tired. It was just too much effort to swat the insect away. He tried to ignore it and stay in his warm, comfortable half-dream state, but the hum wouldn’t stop. It grew louder and became more pervasive like the relentless noise of summer cicadas.
Frustrated, he finally opened his eyes to ... blurry white squares. He blinked. The white squares slowly came into focus as acoustic ceiling tiles. The annoying sound clarified into a combination of electronic beeps, clicks and voices.
For a terrifying second, he couldn’t remember anything, not even who he was. He felt as if he were falling, spinning out of control. He closed his eyes tightly.
After a few seconds, the spinning stopped and his memories began to filter back. He remembered. He remembered everything. He remembered that he no longer had any history, family or friends.
He opened his eyes again. In contrast to his fuzzy emotional state, his senses were razor-sharp. The lights were overly bright, colors artificially vivid. It was as if someone had maxed out the color and contrast settings on a TV. He could read the ridiculously tiny print on the needle disposal box mounted on the wall. He heard several voices outside what was obviously a hospital room, but he not only heard them, he could differentiate conversations.
“... her oxygen is 95 percent, but we still need to watch ...”
“... finished prepping the girl in room three for surgery ...”
“... comfortable for stilettos, and they were 50 percent off ...”
His vision and hearing were extremely sensitive, almost overwhelming. He propped himself up on his right elbow and immediately felt dizzy and queasy, reminiscent of the alcohol-induced spins following a squadron party. His body responded to commands, but sluggishly, as if he’d been given a head-to-toe Novocain injection. Lifting his left hand, he saw an IV attached. He turned his hand over and examined it.
“Look familiar?”
Startled, he looked up to see a woman in blue scrubs standing in the doorway. She watched him for a moment and then entered the room looking concerned.
He finally realized her comment had been in jest, and he must look like a deer in the headlights. He asked the obvious. “Where am I?” It came out as a raspy whisper.
Looking relieved, she said, “You’re at the Kansas City Medical Center. How are you feeling?”
He was in a public hospital? His voice was still hoarse but getting stronger. “What day is it?”
Pointing at a large digital clock and calendar on the wall, she said, “Monday, March 23rd.”
It had only been a few days since the crash, but as he looked at the calendar display closer, he blinked. That couldn’t be! It was a few days and one year! What happened? Where was Jesse or his team?
Again, she asked, “How are you feeling?”
“Huh?”
“Are you in any pain?”
Frowning, he finally looked back at his nurse, really seeing her for the first time. She was early thirties, athletically slim and attractive with dark eyes and blondish hair. Shaking his head, he said, “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’m just a little—”
“Disoriented?” she finished.
He nodded. As his voice grew stronger, it became stranger. His inflections and accent were the same, but his voice sounded different.
“That’s understandable. You’ve been unconscious for a few days. What’s your name?”
That was a good question. For some reason, he was on his own right now. He needed time to figure out what was happening. The best answer was probably closest to the truth. He cocked his head to one side and said, “I’m not sure.”
With a professional smile, she said, “Well, I’m Elizabeth, your ICU nurse.” She spoke slowly, as if he were a child. “Don’t worry; we’ll figure out what yours is.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Probably just temporary amnesia. I’m going to let your doctor know you’re awake. Be right back.”
After she left, he wanted to get to a bathroom mirror. He lifted his sheet and discovered that in addition to the IV, he was tethered with EKG leads and a catheter. He wasn’t going anywhere.
His nurse returned almost immediately with a doctor in tow.
“I’m Dr. Tracy Dutton, your Neurologist.”
He gave her a small smile. “Hi, I guess I’m ... not sure.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Do you hurt anywhere?”
“No.”
“Do you know what happened to you?”
“No.” That was the truth.
“Do you know where you are?”
He nodded toward his nurse. “She said I’m in Kansas.” He frowned. “How did I get here?”
The doctor exchanged a quick glance with the nurse. “A few days ago you were found by the side of the road w
ithout any clothes.” Continuing, she asked, “Do you know if you’re allergic to anything?”
He looked down. That didn’t make any sense at all. Why would they leave him like that? He frowned, shaking his head. Where were they? Where had he been for the past year?
Looking back up, he said, “I’m ... I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He saw compassion on the nurse’s face as the doctor slowly repeated the question.
He replied, “Allergies? I don’t know.”
With a slight frown the doctor said, “I’m going to check a few things, OK?”
He nodded dumbly.
She shined a penlight into each eye and asked him to watch her fingertips as they moved. She had him move his hands and feet, squeeze her fingers, and then tapped him on the knee. Pulling up a chair, she asked, “Can you remember anything at all from your past?”
He was hungry. “I like hamburgers.”
She smiled. “We’ll have food sent up right away.”
Trying to avoid more questions, he pointed to his IV. “May I get unhooked?”
“Now that you’re awake, I don’t see why not. Elizabeth will take care of that.”
She asked a few more questions, made some notes and left.
Elizabeth followed Dr. Dutton into the hall. Once outside the room, Dutton spoke quietly. “He checks out OK, but the amnesia worries me. Keep an eye on him.”
Elizabeth nodded. She’d been thinking the same.
Returning to his room, she said, “Let’s get you mobile.” She put on latex gloves and pulled a cart over. “We’ll start with the IV.”
He nodded, looked down at the needle in his hand and then looked away.
Impact (Fuzed Trilogy Book 1) Page 2