The Mary Jane Mission

by Daniel Wyatt

  The words caught Robert off guard. He was suddenly proud — very proud — of his son. Obviously, Prentice meant everything he said. “He’s a good boy.”

  Looking around the room, before resting his eyes on his old friend, MacDonald said, “Will, we need to talk. And I think we should include Hulk and Tiger.”

  “Sure, George. Let’s go to my office.”

  Minutes later, inside the small office, Prentice waited for Les and Jack Runsted to arrive before he said, “OK, let’s have it. What’s this all about?”

  MacDonald told the incredible story of the Mary Jane in a precise step-by-step manner. Every so often, the others in the office broke in to confirm certain portions of the crazy tale. Prentice sat, arms folded.

  When MacDonald finished, Prentice said as calmly as he could, “I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or have all four of you thrown in the looney bin.”

  “I know it sounds bizarre, Will, but what else can we say? The Mary Jane has slipped through the time barrier.”

  Prentice twiddled his thumbs, then uttered, “Relax. I believe you. I think. Anyway, this message I received from Agana might have something to do with whatever we’re dealing with. Mr. Shilling, it’s for you.” The commodore pulled out a single piece of typed copy from under a file on his desk and handed it to Robert. “You might as well read it out loud.”

  Robert did.

  ROBERT SHILLING USS MIDWAY 2205 HOURS AUG 28. JUST MET COLONEL PAUL MASON IN KYOTO. HE TOLD ME ABOUT THE MARY JANE’S MISSION. PLEASE CONFIRM.

  DAVID.

  “Mason?” Cameron said. “I didn’t think he was still alive. He’s got to be in his nineties.”

  “Who’s this Mason?” Prentice asked.

  Glancing at the sheet, then looking squarely at the commodore, Cameron said, “He gave the briefing for the third atomic mission.”

  “Oh. So, how did your son happen to come across Colonel Mason?”

  Robert shrugged. “I honestly don’t have a clue. But–”

  “He must know the codename for the Kyoto mission,” Les said.

  “You’re right, son. Exactly what I was going to say.”

  “According to the pattern of these sightings,” the commodore said, “you must suspect that the B-29 will be spotted again. Soon. Correct?”

  “You bet, Will. We need your help.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “OK, this is what we do. Mr. Shilling,” Prentice said, turning to Robert, “we’ll send a priority message to your son in Kyoto. He has to — he must — get the codename.”

  “What if we don’t get it?” Les interrupted. “If the old guy’s in his nineties, he might not remember. Do we have another option?”

  Cameron smiled grimly. “We might have to blow the Mary Jane out of the sky before it reaches the Japanese coast.”

  “What if we don’t catch up to her again until she’s over the mainland?” Runsted asked. “Then what, sir?”

  “Then, we’ll have to talk her down,” Cameron answered. “We’ll have to prove to the pilot who we really are. I’m sure Robert and I can recall certain things here and there that only the pilot, and Bob, and myself were familiar with.”

  The commodore cleared his throat. “OK, listen. So far, only the five of us know about this whole damn thing, right?” The others nodded. “Of course, there will be a few members of my ship who will have to be briefed on the situation.”

  MacDonald folded his arms. “We expected that. You know your personnel. We’ll leave the chosen few up to you.”

  Prentice nodded, looking down at his desk. “All those aboard the bridge, the officer of the deck, the exec officer. Let’s see, the operations officer, the communications officer... and the CAG.”

  “Are you sure that’s enough,” MacDonald chuckled.

  Everyone laughed.

  “OK, I’ll get off that priority dispatch to your son, Mr. Shilling,” Prentice said. “Then... we sit tight and wait.”

  * * * *

  KYOTO

  David was in the middle of a deep sleep when his Japanese butler knocked on his bedroom door. “Mister Shilling. Mister Shilling.” He had to enter the room and shake his employer several times before he woke up.

  “What? What’s the matter?”

  “Mr. Shilling, a young man from the US Navy Department is at the door.”

  “What!” David rubbed his face. “He is? What for?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He said it’s urgent.”

  David swallowed hard and glanced at the digital clock radio on his nightstand. Geez, five-fifteen. He raised himself to one elbow. It took him another moment or two to realize it must’ve had something to do with the message he had sent his father. What was the hurry? “Tell him I’ll be right there. Just let me throw a robe on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A minute later, David stumbled his way to the entrance to meet the young officer in blue who was waiting inside the door. Clutched in his hand was a sealed white envelope. “Mr. David Shilling?”

  “That’s me.” David squinted into the hall light. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a priority message for you, sir. I have orders to see that you open this letter, read it, and act upon it immediately. We are to meet a Colonel Paul Mason. I will accompany you, sir.”

  “Really now. At five in the morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer handed David the envelope, who tore it open to find the typed words on official US Navy stationery.

  DAVID SHILLING 0225 HOURS AUG 29. YOUR FATHER RECEIVED MESSAGE REGARDING MASON. DO NOT DELAY. FIND THE CODENAME FOR THE KYOTO MISSION.

  COMMODORE PRENTICE USS MIDWAY.

  David held the paper in his hand, staring ahead, thinking it through. Apparently, there really was a Kyoto mission. And Midway’s CO had his fingers in on it, too. Why?

  “Sir,” the officer said, “I will wait while you get dressed. Transportation is provided.”

  “I’ll be right with you.”

  In less than ten minutes, David was dressed and met the officer in the navy staff car in the driveway. David gave directions and the officer drove several miles per hour over the speed limit in the light traffic to the retirement home on the other side of the city. They went to the front office, where they were met by a pretty Japanese nurse.

  “Yes?”

  “I know it’s early, ma’am. But this is official United States Navy business. May we see Colonel Paul Mason, please? It’s urgent.”

  The nurse smiled at the young man in uniform. “If you can wait another half hour, Ensign–”

  “Walker, ma’am. Ensign Walker.”

  “Please, wait another half hour. He’s still sleeping. But he usually rises earlier than the others.”

  “But I have orders–”

  “That’ll be fine, ma’am,” David interrupted, touching the ensign’s shoulder. “We’ll wait. Let us know as soon as he’s awake, please.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” He turned to the officer. “Let’s take a seat, ensign.”

  The two found chairs in the nearby vacant lobby.

  “Take ’er cool, Walker,” David said. “Mason is closing in on a hundred. We better get him at his best. OK?”

  The officer removed his cap and held it. “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell me, Walker, why the great urgency here?”

  “Sir?”

  “What’s the damn big hurry?”

  “I can’t tell you that because I don’t know.”

  “Well, can you tell me what you do next?”

  “Next?”

  “Come on, after we talk to Mason? What were you told, anyway?”

  The officer leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Sir, you are to obtain a codename for what is termed the Kyoto Mission. I am to relay this codename — pronto — to USS Midway on the open sea via my base on Yokosuka.”

  “I see. So, did they brief you on the Mary Jane too?”

>   “What’s the Mary Jane?”

  David smiled. “You’ll soon find out. Just stick around.”

  “I intend to.”

  “By the way, how’s your World War Two history, Walker?”

  * * * *

  USS MIDWAY

  Commander Digano took Cameron and Robert to the hangar bay, down two steep flights of stairs, and down a hall to the cabin that the two would be sharing. Digano left promptly.

  “Upper or lower bunk, Bob?” Cameron joked.

  “Well, general, you outrank me. Your choice.”

  “In that case, I’ll take the upper.”

  The two tired men dropped their night bags on the floor. Cameron immediately climbed up to his bunk and laid down. In minutes, he was fast asleep in spite of the bright overhead light. Robert used the adjoining washroom and when he came back he turned the main light off and turned on a small desk lamp in one corner. He sat on the edge of the bunk, checking the cabin out. It was windowless, constructed of gray steel, with two dressers to one side, a chair, a desk, and a large closet along one full wall. He opened the closet and found a collection of half-dozen sweaters, some slacks, and flight jackets. In one dresser he found shirts, underwear, and work boots. The other dresser had the same for Cameron. Robert smiled. The navy were looking after them. First class all the way.

  Reaching for his night bag, Robert pulled out a small hardcover book he had come across in his son’s library only minutes before leaving for Agana Naval Air Station. He studied the cover which was a black and white picture of the 1945 atomic explosion over Hiroshima snapped from General Cameron’s bomber. Robert thumbed through the book until he came to photos of some Japanese atomic casualties. The pictures were horrible. Robert knew that. Women. Children. Scars. Skin falling off. As far as he was concerned, it was unfortunate so many people had to suffer for their government’s misguided aggressive motives. They had started it at Pearl Harbor, one well-placed torpedo alone entombing over 1,000 men in the USS Arizona. What was worse?

  Robert flipped through the book and began to read the results of the first atomic blast forty-five years ago. The bomb had exploded at 1,890 feet. The temperature at ground zero was several thousand degrees centigrade, with the core of the fireball reaching fifty million degrees centigrade. The blast burned the skin of people two miles away. Eighty thousand of Hiroshima’s 320,000 residents died instantly or were severely wounded. Sixty thousand buildings were destroyed. Bodies were vaporized. Of the city’s 200 doctors, 180 were soon dead or injured; 1,650 of 1,780 nurses were in the same state. The heat transferred the black lettering from books and newspapers onto skin and clothing. The patterns of caps and clothing were imprinted on bodies. Socks were burned onto legs.

  Robert put the book down and turned out the light. He undressed and climbed into the bunk. It had taken the book to emphasize the magnitude of the destruction. Now, the Mary Jane was carrying a plutonium bomb that would make the Hiroshima blast look like a fart by comparison. It had hit home. Damn it all to hell, his son David was right in the line of fire.

  He shook his head. And this was supposed to be a vacation!

  * * * *

  MARY JANE

  Staff Sergeant Nevin Brown zipped through the radio frequencies to find his favorite gal, Tokyo Rose.

  He stopped at a Glenn Miller tune, Tuxedo Junction. He found it. Now there was some familiar music. Not that other stuff. Haley’s Comets or whatever they were called. He listen until the song finished, then Tokyo Rose spoke in her soothing propaganda voice that never ceased to “thrill” the Americans stationed in the Pacific. Brown listened in only to catch the American big band selections she played.

  “WELL BOYS, I DO HOPE YOU’RE ENJOYING THE GLENN MILLER MUSIC I’VE BEEN PLAYING FOR YOUR LISTENING PLEASURE. DOESN’T BIG BAND MUSIC REMIND YOU A WHOLE LOT OF HOME? IT SHOULD. TUXEDO JUNCTION, THE CHATTANOOGA CHOO CHOO, KALAMAZOO. THAT’S WHERE YOU SHOULD BE RIGHT NOW, BOYS. BACK IN THE US OF A. THERE’S STILL A LOT OF FIGHT LEFT IN THE IMPERIAL FORCES OF JAPAN. WE DON’T SCARE EASY.”

  Brown shut the radio off and chuckled to himself. Who was the bitch trying to kid? Japan fight? After two atomic bombs? Wait till they get a load of the Mary Jane. An honest-to-goodness bomb load.

  * * * *

  USS MIDWAY

  After only three hours of sleep, Robert and Cameron were wakened and told by Commander Digano that they’d be taken on a short tour of the carrier. Twice below deck, Digano had to stop and speak into his headphones. Then he continued to lead the men outside.

  On the flight deck the two Hornets belonging to Les and Tiger had already been towed into position on Number One and Number Two catapults. To Robert, the deck seemed so huge... and never ending. He could hear the ocean fizzing and hissing below. The air stung from a mixture of salt and jet fuel. He saw the ocean horizon line, complete with white caps, superimposed on low clouds. The wind was cool, the sky bright and sunny to the east.

  “What do you think, Mr. Shilling?” Digano asked, pointing. “Your son’s.”

  They walked up to the silent fighters. This was Robert’s first point-blank look at Les’s F-18, so close that he could read the block letters stenciled on the fuselage below the port side of the cockpit.

  LT LES SHILLING.

  Underneath was his callsign.

  HULK.

  Robert also saw the three-digit modex numbers on the nose. Two-four-three designated the squadron, the same numbers used in radio communication. Then it hit him hard. Robert felt proud of his son. Real proud.

  A red-shirted ordnance man stood on the side of Les’s fighter checking the AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking missile on the port wing tip. On the starboard wingtip dangled another AIM-9. Strapped to the starboard and port inboard wings were two AIM-7 Sparrow radar-guided missiles. A brown-shirted plane captain — white rag in hand — was busy cleaning the metal area just below the cockpit Plexiglas. Like the other F-18 pilots, Les insisted on a clean fighter. The large, dark navy-issue boots used by the crews would often leave behind marks on the gray, dull-finished wings. Because of this dull camouflage scheme, the fighters never seemed to look properly clean.

  “This is our flight deck,” the commander explained, his hand resting on the port fuselage of Les’s fighter near the nose. “We call it the roof. As you can see, two F-18s are ready for the launch. Shortly, these two aircraft will be placed on an Alert Five, meaning they will be armed and fueled, ready to be launched in five minutes. The pilots now are receiving their final briefing. We are only 200 miles from the Japanese shore.”

  “The Hornet is a unique fighter. It’s simple enough for one pilot to fly. It’s extremely versatile, an all-around, middle-weight, multi-role performer, with reliability, survivability, and ease of maintenance high on the priority list. Her service life is approximately 6,000 hours.” Digano slapped the fuselage. “She’s made of aluminum, titanium, steel, graphite/epoxy, and various other materials. Graphite/epoxy covers forty percent of the surface area — the fins and the rudders mostly — but accounts for only nine percent of her weight.

  “Start-ups are relatively simple in the Hornet. The pilot climbs in and hits the battery-operated APU, the Auxiliary Power Unit. This switch sends high-pressure air to the turbine starter to start each engine. Once the engine is lit, the Airframe Mounted Auxiliary Drive takes over. The AMAD is driven by a power shaft, which is connected to a fuel pump, a hydraulic pump and a generator, which kicks the engine over. This procedure eliminates the need for deck crews and ground support equipment getting in the way. You might say it’s all self-contained. Now, if you follow me to the nearest elevator, I’ll show you the hangar deck below us.”

  Inside the hangar deck, Cameron and Robert were impressed. To Robert, it was hard to believe that Midway was the smallest carrier in the United States arsenal. It was like another world below the flight deck, comparable to a small city. Several Hornets were lined up tail to tail, with many of them in various stages of maintenance. Men in coveralls were work
ing on engines, removing and installing drop tanks. A tow truck was moving one fighter into place opposite one wall. Two other men were directing the driver for a proper park.

  Digano led Cameron and Robert towards one F-18 where a four-man crew were installing a new engine with the aid of a sturdy dolly. The three stood back fifteen feet and watched the crew perform in an organized, coherent manner.

  “Are either of you familiar with the F404 turbofan engine?” Digano asked.

  “Not me,” Cameron said.

  “Me neither,” Robert replied. “I’m a retired mechanic, but even a turbofan is new to me. I think I have the general idea, though.”

  “The best way to explain it,” Digano continued, “is to say that there are turbojets and the more recent turbofans. A turbojet is a jet engine that has a turbo-driven compressor drawing in air at the front intake and forcing the compressed air into the combustion chamber. Into this chamber, fuel is injected and ignited. Hot gases rush through and drive the turbine. Fuel consumption can be brutal. The turbofan, on the other hand, has a by-pass tube where some of the incoming air goes around the combustion chamber and is pushed by a turbine-operated fan that mixes the air with the exhaust gases from the combustion chamber. This fan increases the air flow of the gases without sacrificing fuel consumption.”

  Robert nodded, watching a nearby F-18 crew installing an engine, noticing how easy it was for the men to slide the engine into place. “Times have sure changed, sir. Popping an engine in nowadays looks like a piece of cake.”

  “With the F404, the accent is on reliability and simple maintenance, and not brute force. Accessories are not mounted on the engine but rather on the airframe. A crew of four can change an engine in approximately twenty-five minutes. ‘Within the shadow of the aircraft’ as we call it.”

  Robert shook his head in amazement. If only things were done in the same way during the war.