The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 3): Lost Time

by White, Samuel Ben

  As he lowered his landing gear, Jason realized that something felt strange. He pulled up at the last moment, leading Lt. Dalmouth—who was about to pull another of her patented "coast in with no fuel" routines—to ask, "What's wrong, Ja—Captain?"

  "I'm going to fly over you and you look and see if you can see something wrong with my landing gear. It doesn't feel like the righthand wheel locked."

  As he pulled overhead, Bronwyn flew up under him and said, "Captain, you're righthand gear isn't down at all."

  "What about the left?"

  "Left looks fine. I had this happen on a '34 in flight school. Try cranking it like you're bringing the wheel back in manually, then release it manually."

  "Roger." After almost a minute, Kerrigan asked, "Anything happen?"

  "Not a thing, sir. Sir, I've got to land. I think I'm flying on fumes as it is."

  Kerrigan took a deep breath, then said, "You go ahead and land Lieutenant, and have them clear the runway. This just hasn't been our couple of days, has it?"

  "Good luck, sir," she told him before beginning her banking turn that would bring her in line with the dirt road-come-runway.

  Kerrigan swung his plane out over the desert and, making sure there was no one around who could be injured, dropped his remaining ordnance, then released all but a little bit of the fuel he was carrying. It wasn't much—after all the flying he had done in the last couple hours—but he didn't want to do what he was about to do with anything flammable nearby if he could help it.

  As he lined up on the makeshift runway, he raised his lefthand landing gear and prayed. He thought about praying for safety, but then he realized that death would just bring him to Susan, so he just prayed for calmness. "Your will, Lord," he concluded aloud.

  As Bronwyn stood out on the runway in the early morning, it occurred to her that what she was watching was one of her favorite sites under other circumstances. The sun was just peeking over the bluffs and the airplane was perfectly silhouetted against it. It would have been a beautiful site if not for the fact that one of her comrades—the last flying member of her squadron, the thought jolted her like a lightning bolt—was fighting for his life with the landing. Her pilot's eye wouldn't let her ignore the fact that he was landing without landing gear. She knew the theories—and that he was doing the right thing to bring in the left wheel—but seeing that wheel go up had added a strange sense of finality to what she was watching. As if there were no more hope that this could just be a regular landing.

  She held her breath as she saw him trying to ease it to the ground. She knew all the theories about landing a craft without gear, but she also knew that no one in their right mind had ever practiced the maneuver because it was so dangerous. You couldn't practice it because failure usually meant death, she knew. She bit her lip as she realized that the odds favored her watching her last comrade die rather than pull it off.

  She found her hand going to the badge in her pocket as she whispered to herself, "Bring him down safe, Lord. I can't lose anyone else." She almost jumped at a hand on her shoulder, but turned to find Mulchahey—who had made it back safely after all—standing there. She put a hand on his, then watched with held breath as she gripped the hand so hard as to almost cut off his circulation.

  The airplane touched the dirt road lightly, then skimmed back up into the air again before touching the road again lightly. It skidded along in a plume of dust for a moment before being brought further to the ground. It began to dig a shallow trench in the dirt as Kerrigan let if further down.

  Suddenly, the left wing dipped too far and touched the soil. It cut into the dirt and brought an end to most of the forward motion. The plane began to spin on the axis of its left wing, then jumped into the air as if about to do the sort of cartwheel that a child might play at with a toy airplane. For a horrifyingly long second, it was standing on the tip of wing then it slammed nose first into the dirt. Only it's angle of impact kept it from flipping over onto its top. It smashed back on its belly so hard that the left wing was snapped completely off and the right wing cracked at the mount to fall flat into the dirt.

  Dalmouth and Mulchahey were the first to the plane, before even the rescue personnel. Mulchahey jumped up on the stump of the right wing and was pulling on the cowling before Kerrigan even reached up and undid the latch. As the cowling sprung open, Mulchahey almost fell backwards off the wing with his momentum.

  Seeing that Kerrigan was frantically unstrapping himself from his seat as she stood close to the side of the plane with her arm out as if she were trying to hold it together, Dalmouth asked anxiously, "Captain, are you OK?"

  "I think so," he tried to stand up but fell back in his seat with a wave of nausea. If not for the fact that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast the day before, he probably would have thrown up. He put his hand to his head and it came away bloody. Seeing that really increased the nausea but he was able to keep himself from vomiting.

  Before he could even comment on the fact that he felt bad and was bleeding, a corpsman was leaning into the cockpit and saying, "Just sit still, Captain, 'til we can make sure it's safe to move you."

  "My plane—"

  "The plane's fine. Nothing is on fire so just calm down and let me check you out."

  "I'm fine, just—ow!" he said as the corpsman began to expertly probe the wound on his forehead.

  "How're your legs, Captain?"

  "Fine. Arms, too. Can I get out of this cockpit?"

  "Stand up slowly, sir," the corpsman said as he helped him to his feet. Another was soon helping him to the ground. He was a little woozy, and stuck out his hand to hold onto the side of the plane for a moment.

  "It was a beautiful landing, Captain," Bronwyn told him with a smile that she hoped looked genuinely encouraging.

  Mulchahey, with the sort of humor only veterans can share, quipped, "I know a lot of people that hate the '34 but I've never seen anyone go to that much trouble to get rid of one.

  "Thanks," Kerrigan replied with a nod, then grabbed onto Mulchahey to keep from falling over. "Could you make the ground stop moving like this?"

  "Let's get you on this stretcher, Captain," one of the corpsmen told him.

  Kerrigan grimaced and requested, "Just let me sit down for a minute." He walked a few steps away from the airplane and sat down. "Now, could you do something about this blood?"

  Chapter Five

  "Captain Jason Kerrigan," the lanky, straw-haired general said as he looked over some papers on his desk. He talked slowly and quietly and one got the feeling those were the attributes that defined him best. He had a chaw of tobacco in his cheek that made him look like the cowboy he had probably been before the war broke out. He spit a long ugly stream with amazing accuracy into a spittoon that Kerrigan would have guessed ahead of time to have been out of range.

  "Yessir," Kerrigan replied. He was standing at attention and hating it. He always hated being at attention, but he especially hated it this day because he hated where he was: Las Cruces. Battle had finally come to his post and he'd been called away from it. Somewhere to the south east, Avery and Dalmouth might even then be in a dogfight and here he stood waiting for a general who was obviously in no hurry to tell him why he had been called away from the battle.

  "I want to compliment you on your actions at the Battle of Crockett, Captain. From what I hear, you were a hero on the ground as well as in the air. You got the survivors to safety one day then became an ace the next day."

  "Thank you sir. I wasn't the only one. The only hero—or the only one to become an ace that day."

  The general finally looked up from the papers and said, "I know that, Captain. But you are a hero. Picture on the fronts of newspapers and everything. Hate to pull a warrior like you off the front lines."

  Kerrigan's heart sank. They were probably going to send him on some stupid publicity tour. He'd be paraded all around the state and used as a poster boy for the war effort. And he'd never fight again. He started to object, but realiz
ed there was nothing to object to, yet. When no further words were coming, he finally said, "Excuse me, sir?"

  "At ease, Captain," the general mumbled. "Sorry I forgot to say that earlier." He slammed his fist down angrily on the desk and swore. "I need you at the front, not—"

  "Not where, sir? Sorry to interrupt," Kerrigan quickly added.

  "Haven't I seen your name come across my desk with an almost monthly request for a transfer?"

  "Yessir. I wanted—I want to be in the battle, sir. I want to be at Marathon—or wherever the battle is. It seems like it finally came to me."

  The general stood up and Jason was surprised to find that the man had to be six-six—if not taller. The general came around the desk and sat down on it, which barely brought him down to Kerrigan's level. "What do you know about experimental aircraft, Captain?"

  "Very little, sir. Just the rumors, mostly. Although, I guess all our aircraft were experimental at one time."

  The general nodded and asked, "What do you know about the test pilots for experimental aircraft?"

  "Even less, sir."

  "Basically, Captain, the Air Corps looks for three things in a test pilot: lightning reflexes, excellent flying skills, and no family." The general turned around and picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk. He waved them casually, then dropped them back where they were and explained, "I got a request yesterday for just such a man. An urgent request, and it's signed by the president himself."

  Knowing he was on touchy ground, Kerrigan hesitated. After all, there was a time when he would have jumped at the chance to be a test pilot, to fly experimental aircraft. Even though he didn't know what all that meant, it sounded like a great life—an exciting career. As much as he loved flying any new airplane that had come to Crockett—

  Just as Kerrigan was about to say something, the general spoke again, "This particular assignment calls for two other qualifications."

  It seemed as if the general were waiting for Kerrigan to ask what they were, so he did. The general said, "They want someone with an expert's rating in a Comal 38 and a masters degree in the sciences. Not any particular science," he grumbled, "Just the sciences." He gestured toward his door and said, "I had my sergeant out there do a search of all our pilots and you know how many he came up with that fit that bill?"

  "Just me, sir?" Kerrigan asked, the disappointment evident in his voice. At any other time, he thought, he would have been honored to have been so perfectly qualified for such a plum position.

  "No, actually," the general replied, standing up to go back around his desk. He sat down, seemingly oblivious to how irritating his conversational style was to people whose lives were being affected by it. He shuffled the papers on his desk for no good reason and seemed to have forgotten anyone else was in the room with him before finally speaking, "There are two of you who fit the bill perfectly and maybe a dozen others who come close—bachelor's degree or a living sister or something like that."

  "So why me?"

  "Seniority, Captain. Seniority. That and the fact that we have so many requests for a transfer from your own hand." He suddenly accented this statement by holding up a sheaf of papers, the forms Jason had been filling out for so long.

  Kerrigan shifted his feet nervously as he replied, "I realize that, sir. But even then, I was always requesting transfers to a fighting outfit. Not a," he searched for the words, "Not a research outfit."

  "Don't like research, Captain?"

  "I love research, sir. When this war is over I've got a chair at Tech in the engineering department waiting for me and I'm looking forward to sitting in it. But I—permission to speak freely, sir?"

  "Granted."

  Kerrigan took a deep breath, then said, "But I believe that right now my talents can best be used to fight the Japanese. Research and the development of new aircraft is an important field, but I don't believe it to be the best use of my talents at this time. If I may say so, sir, I am an excellent combat pilot. You said yourself you could use me right where I am, on the front lines."

  "I understand how you feel, Captain and would have been disappointed if you had felt any other way. But, I believe you to be wrong and I am sending you to the Kirby Research Facility in Abilene." At Kerrigan's near objection, the general held up a hand and said, "I can't tell you what you'll be working on. You'll find that out when you've been cleared and briefed at the research facility. But I can tell you Captain that you are going to work on far more than just another new aircraft. I'm sending you to work on a project that—if successful—just may end this war before Christmas. So yes, I could use you at Marathon. But in the long run—I could—we all could use you better in Abilene."

  "Sir, I will go because, well, I have no choice and I follow orders. But I would like to register an official complaint."

  "So noted, Captain." He handed Kerrigan a thickly stuffed envelope and said, "Here are your new orders, Captain Kerrigan. You are to report to Kirby on Monday morning. You flew yourself up here, didn't you?"

  "Yessir."

  "Well," the general said slowly, as if thinking, "I'll let it be your choice. You can either go straight from here to Abilene and turn in the airplane there or go back to Marathon and turn it in there, then catch a transport to Abilene. Say goodbye to your friends if you would like."

  "I—uh—I believe I'll go back to Marathon, sir." Though, in the back of his mind, the idea of just avoiding having to tell everyone he was bowing out of the battle—even if against his will—was quite appealing.

  "Thank you, Captain," the general said. Before Kerrigan could ask what he was talking about, the general saluted and said, "Dismissed."

  Kerrigan returned the salute, lightly touching the bandage that covered the stitches on his forehead, and turned to go.

  "They transferred you?" Bronwyn asked in disbelief, in a voice a little louder than they had previously been using. The Crockett Pilots, as the quartet had come to be known, were gathered around a table.

  Kerrigan plopped the envelope of orders on the table and said, "Orders for Kirby Research Facility in Abilene. Apparently, I'll be flying experimental aircraft."

  "But they can't do this to us!" she demanded, slamming a fist against the table. It briefly occurred to Kerrigan that furniture probably didn't last long around the fiery redhead.

  "They can and they did. I have to report for duty on Monday morning."

  Avery asked, "Don't they even give you a chance to go see your folks or take some time off?"

  "No folks to see," Kerrigan replied, "That's why I'm perfect for the job, apparently." At their questioning glances, he said, "The life expectancy of a test pilot means of lot of family notifications. So one of the qualifications that I unfortunately match is to not have a family to notify. Makes things simpler for everyone."

  Bronwyn looked at him and practically spat, "Then I guess it's your dream job." She rose and walked away.

  "What was that about?" Lt. Avery asked, joined in his questioning look by Mulchahey.

  Kerrigan shrugged, then said, "I think I'll go find out." He put a half dollar on the table to pay for his share of the last round and, picking up his hat, left after Lt. Dalmouth.

  He found her standing outside, leaning against a lamppost and looking at the fading sunset. Overhead, one could hear the sounds of the 48th taking off for a nighttime sortie into Mexico. The Crockett Pilots, who were officially now part of the 141st, were off duty until the next evening. In deference to that—as she usually did on days when her hair wouldn't be cooped up in a flight helmet—she had taken the braids out of her hair and brushed it out to a very attractive fullness. In the fading light, it looked even redder than usual, and even more beautiful. Kerrigan tried not to think such things but wasn't always successful.

  Adjusting his hat, he asked, "You want to tell me what you meant by that, Lieutenant?"

  "Not really," she replied succinctly.

  "Shall I make it an order?"

  "I don't believe military protocol gives you
that authority, Sir."

  "You're right, it doesn't. So, can I ask you as a friend to tell me what you meant by that?"

  She turned around to face him and said, "Over the past week me, Lt. Avery and Captain Mulchahey have followed you on five missions. We've loved it because we're all aces now—more than once over. We'll probably all get the Flying Cross, just from our time flying with you. And I guess the other two haven't seen it, but I have."

  "Seen what, Lieutenant?" He thought about reprimanding her for not calling him 'sir' or 'captain,' but decided to let it ride this time. After all, he was the one who had brought it to the level of a conversation between friends and not one between superior and subordinate.

  "You have a death wish, Jason."

  "What are you talking about, Lieutenant?" This time he did emphasize the title, even if he didn't reprimand her for the familiarity.

  She put her hands on her hips and stood firm in her tracks at a good eight inches below his six feet and said, "Maybe it's not a death wish. Maybe it's something worse. My grandfather told me about a gunfighter he knew in the old west who was the best. Used to hang out around Fort Griffin. Poppy said he was the best not because he was the fastest but because he had TB and was dying anyway. You see, he didn't care if someone shot him. It was a better death than the one he was facing."

  "What's this got to do with me?"

  "I've watched you, Captain. You just don't care whether you live or die. That's why you take these incredible chances. And so far they've worked. And I don't think you care that one of these days one of them probably won't work. It's what you want, anyway."