by T I WADE
“Gee, kid,” laughed Jonesy. “It looks like the rich dude has the same amount of money as you have. He has the exact same car.”
They both watched as the R8 approached the inside of the gate, stopped and a tall, thin man wearing khaki pants, a white shirt and dark glasses got out and went into the guard house to talk to the guards. After a minute the man was escorted out of the gate by two security guards.
“Nice car, boys. What do you want?”
For once Jonesy couldn’t figure out what to say.
“Newer model than mine?” asked VIN looking across Jonesy at the man peering in.
“Last year’s model. Yours is three, maybe four years old. At least you got the eight-cylinder and not the ten. I didn’t like the ten much and downgraded back to the eight. Now, can I help you? I’m a busy man, and the truck driver behind you is about to turn your car into scrap metal.”
“Colonel John Jones, United States Air Force, retired; Lieutenant VIN Noble, Marine Force Recon unit, retired. Interested in what you have here, Mr…?” Jonesy finally found his mouth as the truck driver hooted his loud horn behind them.
“Richmond is the name. Guard!” he shouted to the men at the gate. “Let these guys in so that the truck can pass. Make sure they don’t go any further.” The gate opened, VIN started the engine, and they drove in and were directed behind the guard house and next to the other Audi.
“Now, just because you have a fancy car, young man, why come and harass me and my airfield?” the tall man stated as he walked up. They got out, and the truck drove in, passed them and disappeared over the brow of the hill.
“Hell, I don’t know!” VIN responded and was interrupted by his partner.
“This is a graded hill so nobody can see inside from the gate.” Jonesy added.
“Correct, Mr. Jones. This 50-foot brow surrounds my entire airfield inside the electrified fence I erected. Any more questions?”
“OK, we were just inquisitive. Let us see what is over the brow, and we will leave you in peace. Is that a deal?”
“That is a deal, Mr. Jones. There is a second brow and just after that, a second gate, so you won’t see much. I needed a walk so I will join you.” The three men began walking up the steep rise. VIN was slow and the other two had to wait halfway up for him.
“Unfit, Mr. Noble, I believe your name was?” asked Mr. Richmond.
“No, a tough marine, Mr. Richmond; just slow due to crappy off-the-shelf military leg prosthetics,” replied Jonesy protecting his friend.
“Afghanistan?” asked Richmond.
“No, Iraq during the pull out,” replied VIN catching up to them.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you, young man,” replied the owner and carried on to the top of the incline. They reached the top and saw the second gate, a second incline, several large one-story warehouses where the truck was unloading and, over the top of the incline, they could just see a few hangar roofs and the tall vertical tail of a military aircraft.
“Do I see a C-5 Galaxy over there?” asked Jonesy, his face showing interest.
“I believe you do,” was the reply. “You can only see the top half of the tail, and you know it’s a C-5? Pretty observant, but then you stated you were ex-Air Force?”
“Yes, I was a test pilot and flew those birds for hundreds of hours,” Jonesy replied standing on tip-toe trying to see more.
“Ever fly one with an enlarged rear door?” Ryan Richmond asked out of the blue. He didn’t know why he had asked that question, but it just slipped out.
“The ‘Dead Chicken’, sure. We had a C-5 with a large door. I tested her for two years when they put in that door and tried to pressurize it, and even when they added her new engine upgrades. Don’t tell the Air Force, but I got her up to 52,000 feet one time with her new engines, empty though, and their flight plan and instruction only cleared me to 47,000 feet.”
“Why the ‘Dead Chicken’?” asked Ryan, smiling.
“Well, the guys who flew her reckoned that if ever a chicken used a butt that size to lay an egg, the chicken would certainly be dead after laying that sized egg!” Jonesy replied smiling.
“Mr. Jones, do you have any plans for the next couple of years?”
“Nope, nothing a bit of flying and a $100 grand a year wouldn’t beat.”
“Mr. Noble, what about you? You aren’t a pilot, I believe, and I would assume you two are together?”
“I could be the side-gunner. Nothing a bit of side-gunning and a $100 grand a year wouldn’t beat!”
Ryan smiled. “OK, follow me and I’ll get you to the second gate. There is a lot of paperwork to get through, a two-year contract to sign stating you will not leave this base without authorization, and then I can show you your Dead Chicken, Mr. Jones.”
“Is that the Dead Chicken? Crap! I should have asked for $200 grand!” he replied loudly.
Chapter 6
Do we have a job?
Both men were quite surprised at the amount of paperwork they had to complete. Jonesy stated several times that it was easier giving one’s life away to the U.S. military, than getting employed with this company, Astermine Co., and what did Astermine mean anyway?
After two hours of detailing their full life histories, nearly up to the baby food brand their parents had used, they were left alone in an office while Ryan Richmond went through the paperwork in the office next door and made several phone calls.
Then, a man dressed in a white coat arrived and gave them the same physicals any pilot would have received. A second man, also in a white coat, arrived and looked carefully at VIN’s limbs and prosthetic legs. He took measurements of the leg connections and then the rest of VIN’s body.
“Measuring me up for a suit, or a coffin?” VIN asked.
“Neither,” stated the bespectacled man in a foreign accent and left.
Slowly the day wore on and an hour before nightfall, both men, now extremely bored, watched as the owner, two men in suits and a pretty, young, blonde-haired girl in a wheelchair met in the glassed office next door and, trying not to look at the men next door, discussed them for a full twenty minutes.
“I think we have entered the lair of the unknown,” suggested Jonesy watching the proceedings.
“You got me into this,” replied VIN studying the girl in the wheelchair. “At least I’m not the only cripple in this institution. It seems they take cripples and half-humans, as well as totally mad ex-Air Force pilots, hopefully not for experiments. Jonesy, know how to lip read? I can’t.”
“No. Maybe they will take us up in the Galaxy, throw us all out and see who hits the ground first,” added Jonesy as the meeting broke up. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s time to leave Dr. Jekyll, and Mr. Hyde, and Ms. Wheelchair. I’m sure that guy checking you out for a body suit of armor was Russian.”
Ryan entered the room as the rest left the office. “Well done, gentlemen. Your attorney friend, Joe, back in Fayetteville North Carolina, filled me in on your history. Mr. Noble, it all fits and you passed muster. As for you Mr. Jones, your former base commander at Hill Air Force Base, after speaking to the Pentagon to allow him to answer my questions, gave you the worst report I have ever heard for a former Air Force pilot. He certainly doesn’t like you and for your information, I spoke to him as a civilian. He retired five years ago. Your Air Force Academy glider instructor from the 1970s, who is still alive, sort of sends his regards, and his report, although also pretty bad, stated that you would have been one of the best pilots the United States Air Force ever trained. ”
“Do we have a job?” VIN asked.
“Read and sign this last contract, gentlemen, and yes, you both have jobs.” They read the contracts.
“It states here $200,000 per year for two years. Is that right?” asked Jonesy first.
“That’s what you loudly suggested and, after my research into your background, I agree that it is a reasonable amount for what I’m getting; the best pilot the Air Force ever had.”
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p; “Mine only says a hundred grand?” stated VIN.
“You aren’t the best pilot in the country, and also a decade or so younger, Mr. Noble. I think my offer is more than the United States Marine Corps ever paid you, plus I’m only getting half a body!”
Hearing it put that way, VIN nodded slightly, seemed to agree with the owner and without further questions both men signed.
“Welcome, men, now we can get you to work to earn your pay,” Ryan Richmond stated collecting the contracts. “From now you call me Ryan.” Both men nodded. “We have a little daylight left, let’s check out your Dead Chicken, Mr. Jones, and then I’ll give you a full tour of the airfield. You guys haven’t eaten for a while, so I’ve had the kitchen “brown bag” us some sandwiches so that we can eat while we tour the aircraft. Mr. Noble, I will have a second carport built next to mine, and you can keep your R8 out of the sun. Give me a day and it will be done….and don’t try to take mine by mistake!” VIN and Ryan each gave their car keys to security.
The entered the inner security gates for the first time and, in a golf cart, they were driven over the brow where both men looked down at the massive hangar system and complete airfield below them; they could not have realized how big this setup—in the middle of nowhere—was.
“That’s the Dead Chicken, all right,” stated Jonesy. “I can see her large, ugly, rear loading ramp from here.”
“How many hours did you spend in the C-5?” Ryan asked.
“About 300 hours over a decade,” replied the pilot. “What are you planning as the rest of the crew? The Air Force always uses a crew of seven to fly her; two pilots, two flight engineers, and three loadmasters.”
“Can you deal with only one flight engineer?” Ryan asked.
“Sure, with one flight engineer, a co-pilot who knows what he’s doing, and me, you can get away with a crew of three. What about the loadmasters?” Jonesy asked.
We are only taking up a second stage shuttle, and inside the shuttle a spacecraft, as high as the aircraft can fly to. On these flights, the rear doors will be removed and at a climbing altitude, the shuttle and space craft, released internally, will roll out of her rear, like the egg you described, drop away, ignite and climb past her into space. She then returns to base, simple and easy.”
“I understand,” replied Jonesy. The Air Force perfected this type of ejection with pallets out of the butts of the C-17s. The C-5 was before this new idea took form, and not many of the earlier ones were refitted for this role. The C-5s take off fully loaded, fly across the world and land fully loaded at their destination. The Dead Chicken was the result of the first tests to get the larger C-5 to achieve low-level pallet delivery by parachute from less than 100 feet. Something just didn’t work right. I reported the problem several times; lousy air turbulence behind the aircraft at low speeds, and the C-17 was designed to reduce this problem. They actually got rid of the problem altogether.”
“That’s why I managed to get her on loan,” replied Ryan walking towards the door of the largest aircraft VIN had ever been close to. “The ejection of a large, solid aerodynamic aircraft out of the rear area is best for any air turbulence at a fast forward and climbing speed above 400 knots,” he lectured. “The ejection of the load, hopefully above 50,000 feet at a high speed should allow the shuttle to roll out, fall away, ignite and get out of her way before her nose needs to be lowered to reduce any possibilities of stall. Can you do that, or at least teach your co-pilot to do that, Mr. Jones?”
“Sure!” he replied. Why 50,000 feet? I reckon I could do that at 52,500 feet or higher. Also why is the co-pilot going to be flying the C-5?”
“To answer your first question, every 1,000 feet of altitude saves a half of a percent of fuel needed to get the second stage into space. At nearly twenty million dollars to fill up the tanks of the second stage with a hybrid-type rocket fuel, every 1,000 feet will save me big bucks. Twenty grand, ten percent of your annual pay, Mr. Jones, if you can help us get her to your higher altitude. Secondly, Mr. Jones, you will be flying the second stage.”
“A little too high to be the side-gunner on that one?” suggested VIN, seeing that his partner was suddenly very excited for the first time since he had ever met him.
“I have other plans for you, Mr. Noble. You will be a test for new products we have been designing for a couple of years now and already under manufacture,” replied Ryan simply, and VIN gulped. “Your tests will be done in Hangar Five, but let us first be shown around the Dead Chicken by Mr. Jones.
The three men entered the mammoth aircraft and were introduced to the pilots going over flight checks in the cockpit. Ryan wanted to see if his current team knew Mr. Jones. The older one, the chief pilot, did.
“Oh! I remember you, Jones,” stated the senior pilot as they entered the large flight cockpit area made for four working crew. He was going over numbers with a much younger co-pilot, about fuel usage on a long flight. “Were you major, captain or of no rank when I last saw your sorry ass, when you were thrown out of the Air Force?”
“Actually all three, Colonel, and if I remember, you were flying a desk when you signed my discharge papers. Is this young kid trying to teach you how to fly aircraft again?” replied Jonesy in his usual polite manner.
“Ryan, I’m not working with this dead beat of a pilot. He’s dangerous, a loose cannon. If he’s going to be part of my flight crew, I‘m not flying!”
“Sounds like you are right on the money, Colonel,” replied Ryan smiling. “Please head over to Gate One; Corporal Smith is already outside waiting for you by my golf cart. Captain Pitt, please escort the Colonel out of the aircraft immediately, and once he drives off with the Corporal please return to the cockpit.” Without another word, the angry Air Force pilot left the cockpit and headed to the aft area of the aircraft.
“How come you got that ass of a pilot to fly your plane?” Jonesy asked.
“He came with the loan and so did the captain; I’m sure the Air Force will send somebody else to replace him,” Ryan replied.
“The Air Force certainly doesn’t like you very much, sending you that quality of pilot!” exclaimed Jonesy.
“Yes, I couldn’t figure out their motive, except maybe to have somebody to keep an eye on my progress here and send back reports.”
“That sounds more logical. What about the captain?” Jonesy asked.
“He’s good. I assume their logic was to send me a “mole” and somebody who could actually fly this thing.” The captain returned, as Jonesy slipped into the left seat, a seat he had spent 300 hours in, and scanned the hundreds of dials and instruments with his eyes.
“What about him telling the Air Force about stuff you don’t want them to know?” VIN asked, surprised at how simple the dials on his R8 instrument panel looked compared to this monster. Now he knew why Jonesy hadn’t asked to drive.
“You mean ninety-nine percent of what we are doing here? No problem. He and the captain here, and the several mechanics and a few others, don’t see what is in the hangars, other than in Hangar Three where this aircraft is kept. They know absolutely nothing about the rest of the project. Your colonel friend has been apprehended twice by security for, as he said, taking walks where he shouldn’t have been. That’s why he knows he’s out of here. I asked Dover Air Force Base for a real pilot as a replacement over a week ago.”
“I’m happy to fly for you now, Mr. Richmond, now that you got rid of the colonel,” interjected Captain Pitt.
“I was hoping you would say that, Captain,” replied Ryan. “You can leave now; your day is done and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
“So we arrived at the right time?” VIN added as the captain left.
“Precisely,” replied Ryan. “I will have to take a replacement pilot from the Air Force, but I’m glad to have somebody in my own employ who, shall I say, will be more trustworthy than the chief pilot they give me. Plus, I think the younger captain has his heart in what he has seen here. I will offer him a bonus if he keeps any inf
ormation he learns here secret. As the saying goes, ‘what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’, and hopefully he will tell the Air Force the information I want him to. The same is going to happen with the guy heading out of here. He has been primed to tell them what we chose to allow him to know, and I’m sure he will proudly relay the false information, wherever he spits it out. All I want is for the Pentagon to not take more than necessary notice of my operation. I’m sure they look down at us from above, from space, but my control tower can tell if there is an aircraft, or even an unmanned drone within fifty miles of our tower. As yet they haven’t sent anything, except a small civilian Cessna a week ago, which came low overhead, and we gave the aircraft a small shock.”
“A small shock?” asked Jonesy.
Yes, in the tower I have a modern Russian-made system, a “Choking Device” they call it if you turn the name of it into direct English. Much like a small intermittent sort of mini-EMP burst, a pulse goes out every three seconds and causes havoc with any aircraft’s electronic instruments, which interrupts the smooth flow of all electrics aboard any aircraft within a five-mile radius of the airfield. Much like an engine coughing, all electrically controlled engines, dials, radar systems, radios, everything a pilot needs to fly the aircraft sort of goes on and off every few seconds. Very scary for anybody up there taking a peek at us when all their controls start acting up. That guy in the Cessna was out of here and aiming for Lida airstrip within seconds.”
For the next hour, as the night closed in and the airport’s lights came on, Jonesy started the four massive engines of the aircraft, so he could listen to them. He brought them up to power and taxied the aircraft slowly to the end of the runway; he used the C-5’s specially designed system to turn the massive beast 180 degrees around on the wide, freshly-surfaced 10,000-foot runway and returned the aircraft to its hangar position where it was to be turned and towed in by a large tractor for the night.
“I bet you don’t know that these four engines have the same thrust as the current Air Force One.” Ryan indicated that he didn’t know. “Yep! Fifty-six thousand pounds of thrust each instead of the usual 46,000 pounds most of the more modern C-5Ms have, and they sound as sweet as they ever did.”