Decline and Fall of Alternative Civilization

by G S Oldman

  ~ ~ ~

  Beneath the wing of a B-17 was no place to be self-conscious. With him treading through the junkyard, past the Mustang, it was exactly what she felt. The beautiful underbelly struck her with the thought that old warplanes required being touched by the men who flew them. Given the enormity of primitive systems that made 'em work, made 'em so deadly effective, they had to be taken, grappled with, pushed and shoved, wrestled with like reluctant lovers overcome by passion: alternately resisting and striving for climax.

  Most of these planes had been built by women who were good with their hands and who proved it beyond the kitchens and gardens. They built machines that men stroked the skins of, bestowed feminine identities on and touched toward arenas where they had to look death square in the eye, train crosshairs on it, and fly their juggernauts straight into it. A man's severest weakness can be his greatest strength, his prime ability to keep his thoughts alive.

  June felt even more self-conscious, like wearing a miniskirt on a heavy flow day. She studied the undersides of the engine nacelles-propless, streaks of windblown oil etched onto aluminum panels-the bright sky edged the picture in high-contrast relief. Sensing the whirlwinds of mortality this plane must have ridden on, her fingers crept up to stiffening nipples, and an immense idea bore down on her like a Messerschmitt diving out of the sun. She was assaulted by nausea and by a weightless longing to be back in the air. If JHH were ever to get it operational again, she might be able to ride this bird. If not, she could be doomed to fantasizing it. Modern aircraft technology had been taking control out of pilots' hands and replacing it with arrays of computerized functions under the guise of automatic assurance. This made her more uneasy and sick. Was it a coincidence that most pilots were men? And did it follow that too many women, in their praising of technology as the great equalizer, were in danger of wresting more control from yet more hands?

  June was embarrassed to find her open palms scribing circles against the hard breast buttons. Chills cascaded down twin peaks like melting snow, and goose bumps peppered her arms and legs. She considered climbing up into the bomb bay to masturbate, and the sweet, private shame made her nauseous again. Fingers migrated down ribcage to hips and came to rest at her crotch. There was the faint skritch of fabric on pubic hair, the slide of skin against skin, one leg against the other and, rolling onto her side, she tucked hands between warm thighs. She hoped to doze off but the nose of the fuselage hijacked her vision. From this angle, the clear plexi-bubble made her think of an upside-down tit in a military Wonderbra.

  Mayday!

  Again, the old bomber was lifting from the dark runway into the low-end growl of vintage American fuzz. She wanted to kiss Bryan. Over and over until they did something stupid and the talented dork fell pleading and screaming: Marry me! Please! Marry me! This time her eyes were open and the climb to 35,000 feet rose past a life of restless corridors swarming with the pitiful and pitiless fools who would always be late to bed, late to rise, late to depart, late to arrive; above the lines of landscapes cut into squares of time, twinkling, pulsing onward toward uneasy dusks. There would be no wheeled luggage or suits of truth folded over garments of delicate lies-just a standby flight to the next destination.

  Level off!

  She pictured herself in a wartime WASP uniform, the throbbing of all four engines vibrating her chest, saw herself in the pilot's seat, maybe at the Norden bombsight, and once again she was chased by a short blonde idea that was strapped into a more potent Wonderbra. What would she do if Dedra were there? (Evasive action. Blonde bandit, 12 o'clock high.) She knew exactly what she'd do if Doug were there. June needed to relax more than her breasts-and the thoughts of others'. Wherever she was, whoever she was, there she was. Sailing through the flak of ideas that exploded and rattled her no matter how tightly she gripped the controls. She and the B-17, two of the last old warbirds approaching a target area where evasive maneuvers would be no match for guts; where survival would supersede philosophical ethics.

  On the earth of the tin soldier's refuge she was the queer goddess's daughter who fell from grace with the sky, splashed down and got chucked up by a graceless river. Maybe the goddess loved the world enough that she gave her only daughter to live in it and be of the world. If so, she didn't tell anyone. She didn't even give her offspring good credit. In a world where the goddess was trusted, her daughter had to pay cash. Scared to death of the next day's mission, her fears could no longer mask arousals that anyone sought to hide. As she loved her dear Uncle Kevin, men had always provided solace and she knew she actually liked JHH. Her hands reached deeper between legs that tightened on them when the blonde idea once again intruded. A little homophobia can go a long way and June hadn't forgotten the taste of Dedra's beautiful mouth or the Valentine's night they shared in June's bed.

  Beneath her dress, untamed breezes became the flapping of wings that wanted to stay aloft. Air filtered through thin cloth into tiny streams of reason. The hunger to climb was what gave men their wings; not bells ringing, not any mumbo-jumbo about heaven or hell. A shifting of quiet desert air made something groan in the distance. She wanted him to come back, knew he wouldn't, and she might never know what intimate desires women painted on the sides of warplanes might share with their pilots.

  She fell asleep without dreaming. Waking an hour later, the temperature had dropped. Lifting herself up, she left the bra on the blanket and decided not to pack it with the rest of her clothes. Feet crunched past the junkyard, onto the porch and through the open door. He was lying on the futon, breathing calmly. Seating herself on the mattress, she covered her face with both hands, reclined next to him and watched his eyes open.

  "June? What is it?"

  "I have a request."

  "Yes?"

  "I know I've been difficult but I may never see you again after tomorrow. I'm sad and I regret anything bad I ever said to you. Will you take me out to the Saturn V warehouse tonight?"

  "But, why?"

  "I want to spend my last night there. With you."

  "No, you don't owe me anything like that."

  "I know. But this is what I want. No moral agenda." She rolled over and hugged him. "I'm the one being selfish now. I want to sleep with you in the bell of the engine."

  "It'll be freezing cold out there."

  "I'm sure you can dig up enough bedding and keep me warm."

  XXVIII

  "A sin takes on a new and real terror when there

  seems a chance that it is going to be found out."

  -Mark Twain

  D-Day:

  Silence. A valley between the peaks of clamor.

  JHH made June drive the Jeep since it would be her assault vehicle. They drove wordlessly back to the house about an hour after sun-up; uncertainties had been banished; all the right shots had been fired in the night, clocks and rhythms synchronized. Breakfast was almost ceremonial and the remainder of her packing effortless. In the B-17 she hung yesterday's bra across the pilot's control wheel, and last night's panties had been left in the bell of the Saturn V.

  At 1:55 p.m., she dragged him into the bathroom. Turning on the taps she undressed him, he undressed her and they stepped under the stream of the showerhead and surrendered to the flow. When the scrubbing was done and the hot water gone, they pulled apart, closed the taps and walked out to the front porch to dry. A nap was followed by lunch and coffee.

  In the gizmo room they gathered up devices, power packs, and carried them out to the Jeep and to the '56 for installation. June saw the coupe's already impressive interior transform into a full command deck with tricked out dashboard console and a rack filled with electronic hardware. For the first time, she noticed a ceiling-mounted panel a la cozy pilot's cockpit. After a last checklist she threw her pack into the backseat area of the car, stepped into the Jeep and pushed the start button. With the bag that contained her invisibility suit strapped to the passenger seat, she flashed thumbs-up and, at precisely 6:06 p.m., let out t
he clutch and drove away due east. Exactly 17 minutes later he gunned the Ford's big V-8, slipped it into gear and followed. One minute later he powered up the stealth generators and viewed the radar screen on the dashboard panel. There was her blip right where he wanted to see it. Perfect. Driving onward, he stopped in the middle of the dirt road and waited. Her blip fragmented into a multitude of impulses, each moving outward in a different direction, some flipping back to whence they came. Once again, perfect. Slowly pulling away, he watched his own blip join with the others and fragment the way hers had.

  Seeing the Jeep's tire tracks turning left, the mouse had just confused the cat. Two miles farther he U-turned off the road and paralleled back for one half mile, flipped on the infrared screen and there she was just south of her original locus. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Veering into a lazy arc to the right, the Ford crawled into visual contact. She was walking with the bag and a square electronic device. Continuing his northward swing, he saw the Jeep and tightened the turn until orbiting it again and again and again, imagining a perplexed feline's head following a circular prey, pondering when to raise its paw to attack. A few more orbits and he straightened in her direction, slid past her at 5 mph; they both nodded; he ordered, "Execute, 30 seconds."

  In the rearview mirror she walked on, stopped and turned in the direction of the Jeep. Setting down the bag, she pushed two buttons, then a third, while pointing the electronic device in the direction of the Jeep. The blips on the radar screen jumped in a glitching Doppler ballet before a fourth button was pushed and she set the device on the ground, picked up the bag and continued walking. Radar images settled back to "normal" and he smiled. Two minutes later he slipped the car into neutral, stopped, and when she was 100 yards away he opened the door, stepped outside and barked, "Suit up and engage?now." Her progress on the dashboard showed two points on the infrared screen until she reached into a coverall pocket and pushed a button on a concealed box. Her point flickered and disappeared. He walked toward her and, twenty feet away, with a quick head gesture, turned back to the car. She followed. Easing behind the wheel and shutting the door, he slid to the passenger side and said, "Floor show, baby!" She pushed the button a second time and, reaching the driver door, a third time. He watched her point on the IR screen reappear and then vanish as she climbed through the window and began laughing. He tugged her onto his lap and commanded, "Quick. Into the back. Now." She scrambled, he shoved, she fell over into a hard landing as he slid behind the wheel again and drove south.

  "Damn," he said, "this is going almost too well. Stay down." The car rumbled across uneven terrain at low speed for 7 minutes before, "Number two, engage?now." She drew a small box from a different pocket and pressed a button. Her point on the IR screen flickered in an area miles southwest of where they were heading. "OK, trim and give it up." She pushed a slider until an LED glowed brightly, locked it into place under a patch of duct tape, held it over the seat back and touched it to his shoulder. He grabbed it, and after an arbitrary countdown, tossed it from the window and mashed the gas pedal. Once again, "Floor show, baby!" and June felt the car slide left, right, and into a hard spin that pitched her about like a rag doll. Finally straightening out, they bumped along until he said, "OK, end of first act. On to the reflection shack."

  They arrived at a low, shed-like structure and parked beneath its corrugated metal roof. He killed the engine, all was desert quiet, the cicadas resumed their rattling chorus after he stepped from the car and sat against the wall. "I trust you did leave the Jeep in neutral."

  "Sir. Yes, sir," her voice deadpanned.

  "Your suit is still engaged so you can get out and relieve yourself if need be."

  "I'm OK for now. I kinda like it down here." A minute later she groaned, "You didn't say there was no seat back here. Ouch."

  "Oh?that's right. I took it out. Sorry 'bout that." Neither said a word for minutes. He leaned in to retrieve a bag from under the driver's seat. "I'm gonna go ahead and suit up now."

  "Suit yourself."

  "Very funny."

  She heard him shake out, then step into the coveralls, fasten himself in and connect charge wires to boots and hood. It was an almost identical garment to the one she was wearing. He crunched away from the shack and there was the distant sound of his water hitting the dirt. Returning, he slipped on the gloves, clicked the charge wires together and laid on the front seat. "Now we wait." A minute later, "All right, June? You already know the plan but you need to listen to me very carefully now. We won't have time to discuss any of this later."

  "Shoot."

  "When we make our run you will absolutely need to do everything I tell you and it's utmost importance that you stay down and keep your head down. Otherwise?"

  "We're fucked."

  "I wouldn't put it quite that way but, yes. Anyway, I sewed a pouch into the lining of your suit. You'll find it if you feel for it. It may be a little difficult to break the seal but fingernails and persistence should suffice. Open it only when you're somewhere you feel safe. There's a thousand dollars in twenties and tens."

  "A thousand dollars?"

  "Yes. One thousand dollars. Cash. That should get you wherever you need to go by whatever means you decide, and it should help you jump-start your life back to whatever you want it to be. There's also two government IDs that'll give you an identity that no one can easily question. They're fake but they're the best fakes an international spy can get."

  "But how did you get those?"

  "Remember, I have my resources. And when you get back into your old identity, be sure to destroy them and any receipts with that name on it. After that you can deny anything with impunity. They're folded in a paper with information that'll be valuable in case anyone gives you the third degree. Read it and store it in your brain, then burn the paper. Got that?"

  "Sir, yes, sir."

  "Y'know, I can still slap you from here for being insolent."

  "I wish you'd come back here and do that."

  "I would like that," he sighed, "but we both need to focus unemotionally if we want to pull this off. You need to get back to your life, I need to get back to mine."

  "You're a good man," she said quietly.

  "De nada." He breathed heavily and added, "There's another package in the pouch. You may want to wait til you're home to open it but that's optional."

  "What is it?"

  "You'll figure it out. Will you do me a huge favor?"

  "Such as?"

  "There's a piece of paper that'll let you know how to contact me. Wait at least a week but please let me know that you got home safely. I'll lose sleep til I hear from you."

  June hoisted herself up and nosed over like a modern-day Kilroy, both hands gripping the top of the seat. "I thought we were going to be unemotional about this."

  "Maybe I lied."