Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven

by Dennis Chamberland

  The howl of the wind penetrated the cockpit. No one spoke. Serea’s hand lay steady on the control stick. The VTOL continued to head west.

  “Dutch Harbor, Pacifica flight, do you read? Over,” Seven said through the nearly unbearable pressure of injury not only to his body but to his spirit.

  “Are you folks alright? We thought you were lost for sure… that was some amazing flying…”

  “Roger, ground. All vital systems are nominal. Pressure integrity gone, but we’re continuing on our assigned mission.”

  Silence.

  “Concur on your last, Pacifica. It’s far too hot here to return. Unless you’re declaring an emergency, you’re better off taking your chances flying west.”

  “Roger, Kevin. Thanks so much for the memorable send-off,” Seven quipped.

  Serea clicked the controls to autopilot then stuffed a flight glove into the hole in front of her face. Reaching under her seat she pulled out a small role of duct-tape and secured it in place. That cut some of the noise, but much of the clattering was coming from Seven’s half-door rattling incessantly on its hinges. Serea removed her helmet and looked directly at Seven. She reached across his lap and pulled his blood soaked hand from his flight suit. With her left hand she pulled a survival knife from the leg of her flight suit and raised it between them.

  Seven stared back through the visor of his flight helmet. “Fine. Go ahead, kill me. I certainly deserve it,” he quipped dryly. “Let’s just get on with the in-flight euthanasia deal. I’ve actually read about this, all the finer airlines have now included it on the first-class program…”

  “For heaven’s sake, be quiet, Aaron. I’m about to make that in-flight emergency decision myself and no one, but no one, is going to argue with me. I’m the pilot around here, and I make these decisions, no one else. I hope that’s clear to everyone on this aircraft,” she said strongly and with force in such a way that her command authority was understood and that she was most serious. “You guys can take your disagreements and arguments outside because I won’t tolerate them on this mission,” she added with emphasis, then slyly winked at Seven as he removed his flight helmet.

  Immediately she reached across Seven’s lap and sliced the leg of his suit open from thigh to knee. They both saw the gash in his leg seeping blood, about 6 inches in length, but certainly not life threatening.

  The Commander peered over his seat and handed Serea a roll of gauze from a first aid kit he held in Luci’s lap. Luci lay against the Commander’s chest sucking her thumb and clutching Flower tightly, her wide eyes pasted on Seven.

  Seven turned and smiled at Luci and mouthed, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  Serea began to mop up the blood with several gauze pads as Seven winced. “So how about it, Command Pilot? Are we going back now to give the local boys another chance to get it right this time, or are we going to call a flesh wound a flesh wound?”

  “By the look on your face you’d think I was performing a double amputation,” Serea responded with all the compassion of a school nurse.

  “Well hell, woman, you’re using that pad like it’s sandpaper on antique furniture,” Seven replied. “Besides, it was just a simple abrasion until you cut my suit open. Most of this damage you made with your knife!” he joked.

  “Aaron Seven you can’t even get injured with grace, can you?” Serea responded with a laugh. “Maybe I will go ahead and kill you and put you out of all our misery.” Then she sighed, “Well, before I make the final decision, you need to take the next ten minutes or so and calculate a revised flight plan. This time we can’t fly over any storm bands because our new un-pressurized ceiling is 10,000 feet, and nothing’s going to change that now. That’s going to alter our tail-wind estimate, fuel usage and timeline significantly. What I need to know is whether we can make it at all. Because of we can’t, we’ll have no choice but to return to Dutch Harbor. Give me that information and then I’ll let you know my decision.

  ”Now, keep pressure on that wound. It may just be a flesh wound, but if you let it continue to bleed, you could lose more blood than you think.”

  “I just can’t stand pushy pilots, you know that?” he responded. “Do the math, work the flight-plan, stop the bleeding. Next thing you know you’ll want me to serve hot beverages… where does this all end?” he sighed mockingly.

  “Down there,” she responded, her eyes shifting to the cold waters of the North Pacific Ocean.

  “I’m on it,” he responded, wincing again as she taped a clean white pad across his leg with a large strip of adhesive tape.

  “It’s a bandage dear, not a tourniquet,” he said sincerely through gritted teeth.

  In short minutes and with a radio call for updated information from the Dutch Harbor meteorologists, Seven had worked a new flight-plan. They would lose a precious three-quarters of an hour from a loss of higher altitude tail winds, less fuselage friction and an estimate of how much darting around thunderstorms they would have to perform under 10,000 feet, but it was still marginally doable. The most troubling aspect of the new flight-plan was that their new return safely point was now significantly shifted east. If the typhoon decided to alter its course in their direction, their capacity to return to the relative safety of Dutch Harbor was diminished. Yet Seven argued that landing on the bobbing platform in the middle of the Pacific under the worst of conceivable conditions would be preferable to returning to the shooting gallery at Dutch Harbor.

  In the end he thankfully and purposefully presented the information to Serea for a final decision. If her father did not like whatever it was, then he could take it up with her. Likewise, if she decided to follow her father’s advice, he would go along without comment. Either way, she took the heat, which Seven felt was most advantageous to all concerned.

  Serea decided to fly on and take their chances with the ominous clouds and seas ahead of her rather than to fly back to Dutch Harbor. She stated her decision over the aircraft’s communications circuit so that everyone could clearly hear amid the clattering noise of the cockpit and the screaming wind pouring through Seven’s half door.

  Professor Raylond Desmond said nothing.

  gh

  Working together, the Commander and Seven wove the rest of the roll of duct tape around the door and the interior of the cabin to hold it together and reduce the roar of the wind and the door’s chattering vibrations. As they approached the critical no-return point, Seven again calculated the fuel and their position. He discovered that by some combination they would arrive at that critical point ten minutes ahead of the flight-plan and with almost 10 percent more fuel. Serea announced they were committed to fly on to Pacifica and that return to Dutch Harbor was now no longer possible.

  But, half an hour later, some 175 miles west of the no-return point, their troubles began in earnest.

  “Aaron, look at the radar,” Serea said quietly after switching the rear communications off. The Commander and Desmond had been quiet for some time under the black sky, presumably asleep. Luci lay sleeping soundly in Seven’s lap. The weight of her body applied all the pressure needed to ensure his leg wound did not reopen.

  “We’re going to need to fly around that cell, for sure,” he responded. “It looks plenty ugly.”

  “We can’t, Aaron. It’s too high to fly over and it’s too wide to fly around. If we attempted to fly around it, we’d run out of fuel before we reached Pacifica.”

  Seven considered the painted image of greens and mostly reds on the small radar screen. Serea was right, they would have to plow through it.

  “Okay, here’s the plan,” he said confidently. “We fly under the cloud right on the deck. That way we catch the surface winds and rain…”

  “And hail… Serea added.

  “… and hail…” Seven responded, “…but not the muscle of the beast. That monster will crush us if we try and fly through it. Not to mention the temperatures in that cell are probably well below freezing. It would ice us over in a matter of minutes.�
�

  “On my way down now,” Serea responded, pushing forward on her stick. “ETA ten minutes.” She masterfully reduced their altitude gently, then leveled off 200 feet above the surface of the churning black waters below.

  Seven switched on the wing lights and could clearly see that the seas beneath them were huge. “Don’t want to go down any further,” he said. “In fact, raise your altitude to 600 feet. 100 or 600, it won’t matter when we reach the first bands.”

  It was a decision that would save their lives. They approached the band of heavy rain at an altitude of 600 feet and a speed of 350 knots.

  What they could not see on their radar was that a wind shear was developing on the frontal line of the approaching storm.

  They collided with the vertical face of the falling wall of downward sliding wind. It gripped the aircraft as though it were a balsa wood toy and forced it toward the frothing surface of the sea. The nose of the VTOL pitched forward and down. They were diving straight into the black sea.

  Serea instinctively pulled back on the stick hard as Seven’s hands throttled the engines to full open. They could both feel the crushing g-forces again try and rip them from their seats. Seven had no seat restraint, so he held onto the aircraft’s internal struts with his left hand and held Luci tightly with his right. But the forces won over his strength.

  The aircraft leveled out just above the highest waves but the final effect of the wind shear pushed the right wing down sharply. It was a torque motion that ripped Seven’s door completely away with the screaming chorus of wind against metal. In a second, it was lost into the blackness. Serea immediately reacted but the wild wind shoved them to the right again. Luci slid out of Seven’s grip and fell away, lost to the darkness below.

  The next instant became a memory that would last a whole lifetime. Seven looked to Serea and they locked eyes. It was not a choice, it was not a decision, it was not even a reflex. In that fraction of a moment, Seven knew he could not abandon this little one to the darkness all alone. And with that single thought, he said to Serea, “Pick us up,” then looked away from her and released himself to follow Luci into the dark sea.

  51

  For two full days after the tornado had denuded the top of Concharty Mountain, Warren and the little community sat in indecisive silence. Their plans to contact a government shelter had been obliterated by the tornado as surely as had the television tower from which they had counted on to broadcast their plight.

  “Well, you must have a plan B swirling about in that mind of yours,” Wattenbarger nearly whispered to Warren, who sat with his back against the hard sandstone of the cave.

  Warren just looked back at him with a hollow stare that Wattenbarger seemed to correctly surmise was a bout of depression.

  “Well, I have a plan B,” Wattenbarger offered. “Want to hear it?”

  “Nope,” Warren responded, looking away.

  “I’m going to tell you anyway, so suck that lower lip back up inside your mouth and listen.”

  “Screw you,” Warren responded with a snarl.

  “That wasn’t exactly my plan B,” Wattenbarger quipped instantly, “but I’ll humbly file that along with the rest of all the possible, but probably ineffective, survival strategies.”

  An unmistakable smile flickered across Warren ’s lips as he looked back at his friend.

  “Now listen to the whole plan carefully before you respond,” Wattenbarger began. “This may sound a bit boneheaded at first, but I believe it may offer an interesting possibility.”

  Warren just stared back at him.

  “Remember that field trip Mr. Arrow allowed us to take in his ninth grade science class? The one to the Leonard Mountain Observatory?” Wattenbarger reminded as he recalled the details leading up to the event. They had both been kicked out of Mrs. Lincoln’s study-hall for building, deploying and firing the largest rubber-band and spit wad gun ever created in a public school. She had told them to leave and never darken her door, ever again. Meanwhile, Mr. Arrow had discovered them wandering about the halls. After hearing their story, he was surprised at the creativeness involved in the 2 meter long rubber-band spit wad launcher invention. So he enrolled them into his ongoing science class and signed them up to do various projects and experiments for him under his watchful eye. It was a fateful decision, one that forged in both of them a life-long love of, and passion for, science.

  “Okay, what about it?”

  “That observatory is only 4.3 miles from this cave, as the crow flies.”

  “So?” Warren spat with a hard smile. “Do I really give a crap if we can ever monitor deep seismic events in Bumfizzle, Egypt?”

  “You’re determined not to make this easy for me, aren’t you?”

  “Go on,” Warren responded with a deep gloom.

  “Ever heard of ELF?” Wattenbarger asked.

  “It was one of the worst movies I have ever…”

  “No!” Wattenbarger cut him off. “Extremely Low Frequency: ELF. I believe we can build one, install it in the Leonard Mountain Observatory, then use the transmitter remotely from here.”

  Warren ’s eyes brightened and he looked directly at Wattenbarger. “Now you’ve got my attention, my friend – go on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Warren called a community meeting in Miller’s Cave. Assembled around him in a circle were Wattenbarger, Charles and Mel, who sat facing one another in the sand.

  “Dale here has birthed a brainchild, and I want to tell you about it. It may mean the difference between life and death to all of us,” Warren announced formally.

  “Birthed a brainchild?” Mel whispered, frowning with a pained expression. “What on earth does that mean? Who on earth even talks like that?”

  “Shhh,” Wattenbarger responded. “Just listen.”

  “We’re gonna take a fieldtrip, er, an expedition, to Leonard Mountain Observatory with the intent of evaluating the facility for use as a possible ELF transmitter,” Warren continued.

  “Oh, okay, I see. So now we’re trying to contact Santa to fly his sled out here and rescue us?” Charles asked nodding his head in mock sincerity. “Boy, am I glad I didn’t miss this important meeting.”

  “ELF – Extremely Low Frequency – it’s a transmitter that can be used to contact submarines.”

  “Oh, I actually like the Santa Claus idea better,” Charles laughed loudly. “So now we’re gonna waste another four months on settin’ up a transmitter to contact submarines for an Oklahoma cave rescue? I don’t know whether you were actually keeping up in geography class, pal, but the nearest submarine is at least a thousand miles to the south…Now I don’t want to spit in anybody’s soup here, but we can use that time better to go out and find supplies before there ain’t anymore to be had,” he continued. “I’m not, I repeat, I am not wasting any of my time on this foolishness. It’s even more foolish than the first bright idea you had that’s now so much junk metal hanging over the top of our cave.”

  “Will you just listen for once?” Mel asked with clear anger rising in her voice.

  “Why, so we can all die tryin’ to have big scientific plans and big important ideas when all we really need to do is go out and find as many canned beans as we can? Or, if I don’t happen to like trying to contact Santa Claus on a submarine, are y’all just gonna stone me again?” Charles ranted.

  Mel signed in frustration.

  “The plan is that we may be able to use the ELF transmitter as a back-door to the shelters,” Wattenbarger said. “I assume that the military and the shelters have a common communications path and they can relay the message to them…”

  “You assume! You assume!” Charles said. “Every one of your stupid assumptions costs us another day, another week or another month of life. This lame ELF idea is just another one of your stupid science fair projects that’s gonna end up just like all the rest, only one of these days soon they’re gonna end up killin’ us all.”

  “Shut up, Charles, shut up!” Mel raged. “I’m
just so sick and tired of your constant whining…”

  “Everyone shut up!” Warren shouted, rising to his feet. “No one’s permitted to speak until I’m finished talking!” he added in anger with a red face. “We’re going to the observatory tonight and evaluate it for setting up the ELF transmitter. Now, somebody has to remain here in the cave to watch over Alex. Mel, that’s gonna be you. Charles, you’re coming with us.”

  “No, I’m not comin’ with you,” Charles replied. “I’m not riskin’ my life and limb for another one of your asinine projects. In case you haven’t been payin’ attention, hikin’ over four miles, one way, in that tangle of black-jack hickory outside in the dark won’t exactly be a walk in the park. The chance of you makin’ it there and back, and getting’ any work done while you’re there, is just about zero.”

  Warren sighed deeply. “How is your plan any different? You want to walk that many miles or more in the dark to possibly find food and risk exposing our cave to any survivors that may capture and torture you. So how’s that any different?”

  “Meetin’s over,” Charles said, rising to his feet. “I’ve had it with this craziness and all you social zeroes. You geeks couldn’t get a date in high school and you can’t get one now.”

  “What does their social life have to do with anything?” Mel asked sincerely.

  “Ain’t it just obvious?” Charles retorted shaking his head slowly.

  “Not really,” Mel responded. “In fact, I think Dale here’s kinda cute.”

  “Oh my dear God in heaven,” Charles moaned. “I think I’m gonna throw up!”

  Wattenbarger’s face began to flush with redness. “Hmmmm…” he said, shifting his eyes to Mel.

  “Mommy, I’m hungry!” said a small voice from behind them.

  Mel’s face flashed with surprise. “Ohmagawd! Alex!” she shouted joyously, turning to face her son.

  “He’s awake!” Charles said with surprise.

  They all turned to face the young boy who had lain near death for days. He lay wrapped in sheets with an IV tucked in his right arm and taped fast to the end-piece of a broken yard-stick, his eyes wide open.