by E. R. Mason
Shock Diamonds
by
E.R. Mason
Copyright 2014 by E.R. Mason
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved
All characters in this book are fictional
and any resemblance to persons living
or dead is purely coincidental
ISBN: 978-0-615-81218-2
EDITORS:
Joe Summars
FLUXFAZE Creative Enterprises, LLC
http://www.fluxfaze.com
contact info:
[email protected]
Nancy Larson
contact info:
[email protected]
Chapter 1
The impact was just above the Sabre Jet’s nose, splattering half the bird over the front of the canopy, leaving the other half to be sucked into the intake. There were deathly thumping sounds and a sickening shudder, followed by a screaming whine as the turbine spun down. Suddenly, time seemed to have stopped.
I was thirty feet off the ground, directly over the runway, just at crowd center. We were in the three-V and from the corner of my eye I saw the other two hurry to peel upward and away. Having seen the hit, they knew my Sabre was probably now ballistic. They did not wish to share in the next maneuver.
Vanity is such a devious little rascal. It waits for you to be certain of your modesty and wisdom before stepping out. Your well-intentioned friends help it along. Flying this air show had been a setup from the beginning. They knew what a whore I was. You wave a fully restored Sabre Jet in front of my face and tunnel vision sets in. First, they just needed me to fill in a few practices while pilot number three was away with sick kin. After the orientation and training, it suddenly became possible pilot three wouldn’t make the show. I could take the outside line and that would keep me out of trouble and be easy. After enough practices, they got happy with my rudder work and decided wouldn’t it be great to announce the inside man was Commander Adrian Tarn of the spacecraft Griffin, the Commander whose ship and crew had rescued the Japanese expedition vessel Akuma.
Vanity took over from there, which was why I now found myself in a crippled Sabre Jet, thirty feet over a hardened runway with several thousand people sitting in bleachers a few dozen yards to my port.
In a stupid, panicky move, I jammed the thrust lever fully forward hoping to leave the crowd out of it. The grinding and howling of the jet’s engine destroying itself remained unchanged. Adding to the finality of it, I suddenly rolled right and snapped inverted as if to say, “and you thought an exploding engine was bad.” The white stripes on the runway strobed by overhead.
There is little sense in ejecting upside down that close to the ground. Some call it the pancake, though others have coined the phrase cow flop maneuver, which in many ways is more appropriate. Ejecting upside down over a hardened runway directly in front of an air show crowd would be the consummate version of that idiocy.
At that point, there was no sense in hoping to live, but there was the urgent desire not to take anyone along. Having established the thrust lever as quite a useless thing, that left me with only stick and pedals. For some reason, I remembered a dear friend long ago jokingly warning me to keep an eye on the airspeed indicator. I checked it and realized I still had enough energy, e ven inverted, to do something, one last and final choice in life to be made. I banged the stick to the left hoping to roll the aircraft back upright. It offered me halfway, leaving the cockpit sideways to the ground. Then, without warning, the ship suddenly nosed upward. I yanked back on the stick hoping that in a sideways attitude that would take me away from the crowd and allow an honorable flaming burrow into the ground. It worked. The hardened runway disappeared beneath me, replaced by the blur of centerfield grass. The aircraft continued to nose up sideways, bleeding off what remaining airspeed there was. The sound of the wind outside died with me as the nose approached the point where it would begin its death drop. I was now slightly better than sideways, the crowd somewhere behind me. For some reason, ejecting sideways away from the crowd seemed like a better way to go than in an exploding, compressing cockpit. I grabbed at the handle between my legs and yanked with all my might.
There are two kinds of fear at the top of the fear charts. The first could be labeled "stark terror." It is an alarm that switches off all cognizant reasoning and transfers all physical systems directly to the brainstem. It is an impetus that demands one run like hell in any direction available for as long as possible. It has served wild horses quite well throughout their evolution. The only fear rated higher is the end-of-life kind. Time is no longer a constant in those final seconds. The last two or three ticks suddenly become portionable and can be divided and delegated in a variety of ways. Some people elect to relive their entire life in those moments, proof of just how long a second can last when reality is in transition. Others use the time to evaluate the horror of death, followed by a command for the mouth to open and scream. In some cases, “I love you” is transmitted to someone not present, who does indeed get the message on a level we don’t yet understand.
Test pilots and stunt pilots are different. They are trained to keep thought and focus right through impact and bond with the object that is killing them. It is amazing how many of them have escaped death at the very last instant. Maybe some unknown time shift of material objects happens in those brief, horrid time strobes, instantaneous quantum changes that we don’t know about, or instead maybe angels play a role.
The Sabre jet canopy was supposed to unlock .078 seconds after eject command. It felt like I had to wait for it. In that nauseating period between death and explosive departure, I had time to recount the entire day of briefing on the state-of-the-art ejection seats required for the Sabre before she was certified to perform air shows. Gyros were estimated to provide vertical correction for an ejection up to eighty degrees off vertical. I guessed I was still a bit beyond that. Still waiting, I realized my hands were positioned against my chest and my head bent down, acts initiated by my subconscious. Just as the first glimmer of fearful doubt began to rear its ugly head, there was a dull bang and the canopy snapped and slid back. I had the insane impulse to look up and see where everything was. I did not have the time.
The seat fired with a deafening "whomf." All visual was lost. Wind that felt like water ice struck me in the face and snapped my head deeper into the seat cushion. There were colors, green and blue, and white, but they were vibrating like a movie projector self-destructing. My chest had merged with my ass. There was no way to tell if I was heading for the blue or the green. The wind noise suddenly bled off and died. There seemed to be no blood left in my upper body. My stomach, which had been down around the rock hard seat cushion, suddenly catapulted into my throat. I was falling. The blur of green and blue quickly cleared to become ground and sky. Sideways. I was falling sideways. The wind noise was deafening again. A promising flutter from behind dared me to hope. The ground was too close. It filled my out-of-focus vision. There was a loud pop and I was jerked roughly upright, my chin forced down against my chest. I hit the ground hard. Tall grass. I laid there afraid to test body parts. Less than thirty seconds later, a face was staring down at me.
“Commander, how bad are you hurt?”
Vocalization did not seem to be available. Another terse voice was heard.
“Get out of the way, please. I’m the doctor.”
It was a woman’s voice. She appeared over me, long brown hair hanging down, bluish-gray eyes within a narrow stare. She began gently squeezing parts of my body, beginning with the legs. When she was done with my head, she yelled at those with her.
“Help me roll him over, easy.”
Now she was pressing all over my back and neck.
“My god, I’m not findin
g anything!” she said. She gently grabbed my shoulder and pulled me over onto my back.
“Can you move your arms and legs?”
I opened and closed my hands, silently rejoiced their obedience, and placed one hand on my chest. I bent both legs at the knee. They seemed to work okay.
“I don’t believe this. I can’t find a scratch on you.” She lifted my left eyelid, then the other. “Not even dilation. Can you stand?”
She sat me up. I looked around. Nothing but high grass and helpers. She stood and pulled me up by my shoulder. The world came into view. In the distance, there was fire and a brown column of smoke from what remained of the Sabre. I turned to find a stone-silent crowd standing in the bleachers, staring in our direction. For some odd reason, I raised one hand and waved. A deafening cheer erupted. People began throwing things in the air. It went on and on. I turned and tried to focus on the doctor, then did something I have never done, something that will annoy me the rest of my life.
I fainted.
It must have been only for five or ten seconds. I awoke on my back in the high grass again. The same bossy woman was in my face, strands of her brown hair partly blocking my vision. Her skin tone was tanned. Her hovering stare seemed to penetrate and embrace me. I decided she had too much makeup on to really be a doctor. Cherry red lipstick that highlighted either a permanent smug smile or cynicism. She smelled like roses.
“I think I’m okay. Just let me get back up a second.”
“Stay right where you are. I’m not convinced.”
“No, really. I’m fine. Just let me back up.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“I’m alright, I tell you. Get the hell out of my face and let me up.”
“Sorry, pal.”
I tried to push myself up, intending to butt her out of the way. A tiny projectile popped off of something in her hand. Something sharp and pointed jabbed me in the arm. I looked and saw her pull out a syringe. I wondered where she had gotten it. I snarled at her.
“Oh, yeah. Big jet jockey thinks he’s going to go lean against the nearest bar and tell tall tales of how he walked away from it, right?”
“You’re not the boss of me. You’re not even really a doctor, are you?” I tried harder to push myself against her. I was suddenly much heavier. A strange warmth began to flow through my brain. To my surprise, she suddenly started to look good to me.
“Hold that thought,” she said, and she pushed me back down with one finger on my shoulder.
“You can’t stop me.”
“Nighty-nite.”
I opened my eyes, found clean white sheets, white hospital room curtains pulled open to a view of park in the distance, an IV hanging, someone in farmer’s wear seated in a chair by the bed with coffee in one hand and a book held up to the face in the other. For some reason, I held up my right hand and inspected it. There was a tremor there, tingling like when some part of you is asleep. I could not shake it. I tucked it back under the sheets. The figure sitting by heard the rustle of sheets and lowered the book to look, but only stared and did not say a word. My partner in many an unorthodox scheme, R.J. Smith, gave a scolding grimace. He brought up his cup and sipped. We traded glances several times, both apparently unable to come up with something adequately absurd to mark the occasion. He looked as though he was daring me to say something snide. I decided not to give him the satisfaction. He sipped again, sat back, and in his most endearing tone said, “Anything to get attention, Tarn.” He pretended to go back to the book.
“Where am I this time?”
“Jess Parrish Hospital, Titusville.”
“Damned air show doctor gave me a shot.”
“She noted on your chart that you were less than cooperative.”
“She was trying to tell me what to do.”
“Imagine that.”
“Can I leave?”
“Only if you are comfortable with the Johnny. I believe she has withheld your other clothes.”
“See?”
“I’d guess her to be no more than five-foot-eight. You could probably take her.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Ah yes, to quote Shakespeare, 'and though she be but little, she is fierce.'”
“Five-foot-eight? When she was looking down at me, she seemed like a monster.”
“Quite attractive and quick-witted, actually.”
“Well, why’s she got my clothes?”
“Seems there are test results to be evaluated, brain scans and such. Apparently your illustrious history provides a lot of previous data for comparison.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No.”
“One less Sabre, damn it.”
“It was heavily insured. The owner already has plans to recover another.”
“Still…”
“Somewhere in here is where you mention you’re glad to be alive.”
“You said she hid my clothes. We are talking about the same damn doctor, right?”
“Oh, yes. Dr. Adara. I like her.”
“Gestapo doctor.”
“Actually, she’s Australian by descent. No lineage to the Third Reich at all. In fact, she’s not even affiliated with any particular hospital. She travels around on consignment for air shows, NASCAR, the AMA, the NFL, and a bunch of other extreme sports organizations. She specializes in acute trauma. She seems to have the same taste for peril that you have. Oddly enough, the two of you seem to have something in common!”
“R.J., sneak me some clothes so I can get out of here.”
“And face her wrath? Not on your life. And your life is what this is all about, by the way.”
“I suppose there will be publicity from all this?”
“No…ya think? You eject a few feet off the ground in front of thousands of people in a televised air show?” R.J. traded his book for a folded newspaper from the table beside him and opened it to the front page. There was a half-page blurry photo of an ejection seat emerging from a Sabre cockpit. The caption read "Pilot Survives Bird Strike At Tico".
“Oh…my…god.”
“Some guys across the runway at the Zero-G hangar had the angle. The story picks up nicely on page 4. There’s a half page spread of photos showing you all the way to the ground. But personally, I like the spectator videos the best. There are three different angles. You went viral 30 minutes after it happened. To be honest, it made me so damn glad I was not able to make the show that day. Makes me sick to watch the clips. I look away when they come on now.”
“I’m sorry about that. It was a bird.”
“Cathartes aura, turkey vulture, one of the most beneficial birds that Florida has. They are continuously at work cleaning up the place. They do it for free. It was probably flushed out of the brush bordering the airport perimeter by one of the many booms going on around the place. You could say it was nature showing up to contest technology. In the end, technology may have won the day, but nature’s point was well made.”
“Uh-oh, have I started you up?”
“No, no, just pointing out that the perpetrator was an innocent victim as well.”
“Well, at least the safety systems worked.”
“Oh yeah, it’s okay that I have this 1950s General Electric jet engine stuck up my ass because I’m sitting on two gyro-guided solid rocket motors that will go off if anything fucks up. What could possibly go wrong.”
“Wow, I’ve never heard you this… profane?”
“I’m sorry. For millions the event was exciting. For me it was nauseating. Do you need water or anything?”
Before I could answer, two preoccupied figures came barging through the door. The first was a brunette in green scrubs, followed by Dr. Dictator herself in a white smock with a heavily laden clipboard. She was writing on it more than looking where she was going. I put on my indignant face.
“Dr. Adara, good morning!” declared R.J.
The aide went immediately to my left arm and began removing the IV. Adara stood at the
corner of the foot of the bed, still writing, not looking up. After a few seconds, she finally scanned me. No acknowledgment deemed necessary, she went back to writing.
Her long golden brown hair was captured back behind her head. Her makeup was too precisely applied. She looked more like someone playing doctor on a soap opera than a real doctor. She had faint, very attractive age lines on her face that complemented her perfect skin tone. They made her look mature for her age. Golden brown eyes with big dilation.
She spoke without looking. “I’m releasing you, Mr. Tarn.”
“Really? How wonderful. Will there be an ankle tracking bracelet?”
“We did not find any hidden fractures. No suggestion of spinal compression. I thought I might have seen an indication of post-traumatic stress disorder. You probably should consult a specialist.”
R.J. came to my defense. “Oh, he doesn’t get PTSD. He’s like immune. He’s wrecked himself much worse than this and never had any problems.”
The Doctor looked at R.J. skeptically. “And you are?”
“R.J. Smith, at your service, Doctor. I’m in charge of picking up the pieces every time he does this sort of thing.”
“Well, that’s not the way it works with PTSD, Mr. Smith. No one is 'immune,' as you say. It all depends on the event, when and where it occurs, and the condition of the patient’s psychology at the time.”
R.J. raised his eyebrows and considered the Doctor’s rebuttal.
Looking down at her tablet, she turned back to me and continued. "There was indication of a mild concussion. It’s surprising you did not have a mean little headache."
“Just one...”
She looked up with a subtle sneer and continued. “Lack of sensitivity to left hemisphere head trauma is characteristic of a small number of humans and most primates.”
R.J. choked back a laugh and then looked up at the ceiling, tongue in cheek. The aide wheeled my IV stand out the door. A second, in red scrubs, strolled in with my clothes and belongings. The doctor continued writing on her clipboard.