The Mary Jane Mission
Page 12
“The F404 has a dry thrust of 10,600 pounds and max afterburning thrust of 16,000 pounds, putting her in the same class as the J79, which powers the F-4 Phantom, the aircraft the Hornet was built to replace. The F404 is half the weight, two-thirds the length, and contains thirty percent fewer components than the J79. The F404 is fitted with seven modules for quick repair and maintenance, while suspended vertically. Engine removal is only necessary when a problem arises that needs immediate attention or when a module exceeds its life span.”
Suddenly, something in Digano’s headphones caught his attention, jerking his head to one side. “Yes, sir, right away,” he said into the headset. He turned to the two vets. “Gentlemen, let’s go. There’s action on the roof.”
* * * *
MARY JANE
Ainsworth bent over the navigator at his desk, and asked, “How far to the coast?”
Captain Marshall set down his pencil and calipers and pointed to his Mercator map. “In forty-five minutes, we’ll reach the enemy coast, right here,” he said. “The tip of this peninsula in Ise Bay. We go right up the Bay and turn here, at this point, for Lake Biwa.”
Marshall and Ainsworth exchanged glances. Both knew that a few miles west of Lake Biwa stood the ancient and beautiful city of Kyoto. The target.
Ainsworth smiled, moving away. He realized he had less than an hour to make his move. The turning point at the end of Ise Bay was the springboard. For several moments he had been eyeing Marshall’s maps and log notes. He fully understood navigational information such as true coarse, drift correction, true heading, magnetic heading that eventually arrived at the all-important compass heading. He had been studying such data secretly for months.
* * * *
USS MIDWAY
General Cameron, Robert Shilling, and Commander Digano fixed themselves behind the observation deck — called Vulture’s Row — on the carrier’s island, all watching the launch scene unfold.
At first, it seemed disorganized. But the opposite was the case. The engines of the two F-18s were running. Deckmen scurried about, then disappeared to the sides. Blast deflectors behind the fighters flipped up. The engine noise grew louder and louder, until the exhausts turned a bright white. Robert plugged his ears with his fingers. He had never heard such thunder in his life. It was enough to punch pains in his stomach. Then, his son’s aircraft screamed the length of the deck, flaming exhausts heating the surface. It was an impressive sight seeing Les’s fighter clear the deck in the blink of an eye and climb, nose up, into the morning sky. Robert had a great rear-view of the hellish orange-white flames shooting from the fighter. Seconds later, Tiger’s fighter bolted off the deck in the same shrieking fashion.
“Wow,” was all that Robert could whisper, glancing at Cameron and Digano. They had just witnessed an afterburner launch, known as a Zone Five.
“Gentlemen,” Digano broke the spell. “Commander Prentice would like us on the bridge.”
Chapter thirteen
GUAM
Gail got up from the bed and slipped her nightgown on. Yawning, she sat on the bed and used the remote to flick on the small color TV. Typhoon Matilda was the first thing on her mind. Was it closer? Was it building up steam? She thumbed the button for CNN.
She turned up the volume. A male reporter was giving a weather advisory. He covered the details of Matilda’s location, intensity, the direction she was moving, and the precautions to be taken. The eye of Matilda was now 1,100 miles to the southeast, ripping through the central portion of the Caroline Islands. Winds were packing 120 miles per hour. Ponape Island had already received ten inches of rain in the last twenty-four hours.
These Pacific typhoons weren’t new to Gail. She and Les had weathered out one before. Gail figured that if Matilda’s path veered towards Guam, it would probably reach the island in three or four days, providing that it traveled at the usual typhoon speed of 350 to 400 miles a day. Gail was an organized person, like most nurses. Even though no typhoon warning or typhoon watch had been issued for Guam yet — these were usually not done until twenty-four to thirty-six hours ahead — she was already thinking of stockpiling emergency foods, first-aid equipment, flashlights, battery packs, and filling the car’s tank up with gas.
Through the window, she saw the strong winds were making the palm trees in the back yard sway. A sign of worse things to come?
* * * *
KYOTO
“The colonel is up now, gentlemen,” the pretty Japanese nurse notified David Shilling and Ensign Walker.
The men thanked her and hurried into Mason’s room.
Same as the day before, Mason was found in his wheelchair, this time facing the door. A nurse inside quickly left. David sat on the couch nearest him. Walker stood.
“Colonel Mason, do you remember me? I’m David Shilling. Toshika and I came to visit you yesterday.”
Mason looked slowly around the room. “Where is Toshika?”
“She’s not here, colonel.”
“I want to see Toshika.”
“Colonel, you told me yesterday that you did intelligence work for the 509th Composite Group during the Second World War.”
Mason stared across the room. “They dropped the atomic bombs.”
“I know, Colonel Mason. What about the third atomic mission to Kyoto?”
Mason closed his eyes. “The third mission?”
Walker’s face hardened. “The third atomic mission?” he whispered to David.
“Yes,” David answered.
“Who are you?” Mason asked Walker.
David ignored the remark, then said, “You remember, colonel. I told you yesterday that my father was the crew chief of the Mary Jane. Do you remember what you said after that?”
“I’m too old to remember.”
“Please try, colonel. You told me that the Mary Jane was on an atomic mission in 1945. Her target was Kyoto. Do you remember saying that?”
“I don’t remember you. I want to see Toshika.”
David sighed. “Colonel, did you work for air force intelligence during the war?”
Mason rubbed his face into his left hand. “Leave me be. Leave me be. I want my breakfast,” he said slowly.
“Listen, colonel,” David said, voice rising. “What was the codename for the Kyoto mission?”
“I think he’s falling asleep, Mr. Shilling.”
David stood. “Ah, shit. Now what?”
Confused, Walker shook his head. “What’s going on here?”
David put one hand in his pocket and with the other nudged Mason until he woke with a jump. “Colonel?”
Mason looked up. “What do you want?”
David squatted down until his eyes were level with Mason’s. “Colonel, did you like working for Mitsubishi after the war? You remember that Toshika’s father also worked for Mitsubishi, don’t you?”
“Where’s Toshika. I don’t know you. Who are you? Leave me alone!”
Walker leaned towards David and asked, “Who’s Toshika?”
“A lady friend of mine.”
“Well, we’re not getting anywhere with him, ourselves. Why not get her — Toshika — down here?”
Both hands in his pockets, David replied, “I think I just may do that, Ensign Walker.”
* * * *
USS MIDWAY
Commodore Prentice paced the bridge, a hot mug of coffee in his hand. In addition to the regular men in position at their equipment, he was joined by the communications officer, Lieutenant Commander Gary Cross, a skinny individual with a face much younger than his thirty years. Prentice turned and acknowledged Cameron, Digano, and Robert as they entered the room.
“It’s show time, gentlemen,” Prentice said. “Let’s see if we can talk Captain Clayton down. The audio communication on the bridge will soon be patched into the Combat Information Center, once we have made contact with the Mary Jane. By the flick of a switch on the console in front of me, we can speak directly to the F-18 or Captain Clayton himself. You’d bette
r be convincing because the target first showed on radar only one hundred miles off the Japanese coast.”
“We’ll try,” Cameron said.
“That means no word came through from my son yet on the codename?” Robert asked.
“Nothing.”
“COMMODORE?” It was a voice over the CIC console.
Prentice pressed a button. “YES.”
“WE’RE IN RADIO CONTACT WITH HULK AND TIGER, SIR. THEY HAVE A VISUAL OF THE TARGET AND HAVE ESTABLISHED RADIO CONTACT.”
“PATCH ME IN ON THE FIGHTER FREQUENCY.”
“AYE, AYE, SIR. COMMAND NINE.”
Prentice only had to press a button marked “9” and was in immediate contact with Les Shilling.
“ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS SCOUT ONE. DO YOU READ?”
“ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE TO SCOUT ONE. I READ YOU.”
“WHAT DO YOU HAVE FOR US, HULK? OVER.”
“WE’RE A THOUSAND YARDS BEHIND HER. RADIO CONTACT HAS BEEN MADE WITH HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. THAT’S ALL. OVER.”
“UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE, THE BRIDGE WILL TAKE OVER THE RADIO CONTACT WITH HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. THAT’S ALL. OVER.”
“ROGER THAT, SCOUT ONE.”
Prentice tapped another button for the CIC. “STEDNER?”
“SIR?”
“PATCH ME IN TO THE SAME FREQUENCY AS HULK AND THE MARY JANE.”
“AYE, SIR. COMMAND TEN.”
Prentice gestured for Cameron and Shilling to move closer to the metal microphone on the console. “Do your stuff, guys,” he said, stepping back. “The radio communication is probably being monitored by the Japanese, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Cameron and Robert took seats by the microphone.
In order to convince Clayton, Cameron realized he had to use Baker Two, which was the callsign for Iwo Jima, where he waited out the Mary Jane’s mission forty-five years ago. Baker Two was the base and Cameron’s specific callsign was Dimples. “HAWKEYE THREE-SIX, THIS IS BAKER TWO. DO YOU READ?”
“I READ YOU, BAKER TWO.”
Cameron recognized Clayton’s Southern accent. “THIS IS DIMPLES ONE.”
“GO AHEAD, DIMPLES ONE.”
“TURN BACK, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. MISSION IS AN ABORT. THE JAPS HAVE SURRENDERED. DO YOU READ?”
“GIVE ME THE CODENAME, DIMPLES ONE.”
Cameron swallowed hard. “THERE HAS BEEN A MIX-UP IN COMMUNICATIONS. LISTEN CLOSELY, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. THERE–”
“HOW DO I KNOW YOU ARE THE REAL DIMPLES ONE?”
“LISTEN, IAN. YOUR AIRCRAFT IS THE MARY JANE. YOUR NAME IS IAN CLAYTON. YOU’RE FROM GEORGIA. THE BOMBER IS NAMED AFTER YOUR GIRLFRIEND BACK HOME IN ATLANTA. REMEMBER, THE ONE YOU SAID WAS STACKED? YOU HAD HER IMAGE PAINTED ON THE NOSE JUST BEFORE THE MISSION AT HAND. I FLEW WITH YOU IN EUROPE. THE EIGHTH AIR FORCE. REMEMBER THE NIGHT WE GOT DRUNK AND DROVE THE TRACTOR BACK TO THE BASE BECAUSE WE MISSED THE LAST TRAIN OUT?”
“NICE TRY, WHOEVER THE HELL YOU ARE. NOW I GOT A QUESTION FOR YOU. HOW COULD YOU BE CALLING FROM BAKER TWO? THE RECEPTION IS PERFECT. NO TRANSMITTER CAN REACH THIS FAR FROM THERE.”
Cameron slipped his hand over the microphone, and leaned to Robert. “Geez, he’s got us there. We didn’t have the technology back then.”
“Never mind. Keep going,” Robert advised his friend.
“TURN BACK, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. YOU WILL BE MAKING A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.”
“IS THAT SO? GO TO HELL, WHOEVER YOU ARE. IT’S NOT GOING TO WORK, BUSTER. OVER AND OUT.”
Cameron grunted.
“Ah, at least you tried,” Robert said.
Prentice pressed his console button. “ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS SCOUT ONE. ARE YOU THERE?”
“I’M HERE, SCOUT ONE. OVER.”
“HOW FAR TO THE COAST?”
“WE JUST PASSED IT.”
Prentice sighed for all the room to hear. “STAY ON HIS TAIL, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. OVER.”
“ROGER, SCOUT ONE.”
* * * *
JAPAN
Les had an idea and it was probably crazy enough to work.
“HAWKEYE THREE-SIX, THIS IS ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE.”
“STAY OFF THE AIR! WHAT HAPPENED TO RADIO SILENCE?”
“WE’RE COMING UP CLOSE TO ESCORT YOU. YOU MAY NEED US. OVER.”
“WHAT!”
Les knew they weren’t being monitored by enemy radio operators, only modern-day friendly operators. However, they were 31,000 feet over Japan. The Japanese authorities could start asking questions. Flight paths were required in such instances. Worse, what if the Mary Jane slipped into 1945 again, alone over enemy territory?
Off starboard, Les saw three vapor trails a few thousand feet above him in the morning sky. He looked to his right. Tiger was fifty feet away. He waved his hand to catch Tiger’s attention. He pointed to himself, to Tiger, then to the B-29. Tiger nodded. He got it.
Les touched the throttles with his left hand. The rear view of Mary Jane came closer in seconds. He could almost reach out and touch the polished metal. Over the radio, he heard Commodore Prentice. “SCOUT ONE TO ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, DO YOU READ? SCOUT ONE–”
Then the transmission stopped cold. At the same time, Les felt a bang against his fighter, like a sudden wind turbulence. He looked up, twenty feet away, and saw the B-29’s tail gunner, a camera up to his face, snapping pictures of the F-18. Off to the side, tucked in close, was Tiger and his own F-18
* * * *
USS MIDWAY
“SIR, IT’S STEDNER.”
Prentice hit the CIC button. “GO AHEAD.”
“THEY’RE GONE OFF RADAR.”
“GONE? WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY GONE?”
“HULK, TIGER AND THE MARY JANE WERE ON OUR SCOPE ONE SECOND AND THE NEXT SECOND THEY VANISHED. THAT’S WHAT I MEAN, SIR.”
Prentice turned to scan the faces in the room. “They didn’t. Tell me they didn’t do it.”
No one answered.
“THANKS, STEDNER. KEEP ME POSTED.”
“AYE, AYE, SIR.”
Prentice squeezed his forehead with his hand, as if he had a migraine. “I don’t believe this. They’re all back in 1945. They must be.”
“And I know how they did it,” Cameron said. “They all crowded in the same air space and when the Mary Jane went back to their own time, so did Tiger and Hulk. It sounds to me as if they planned it. Tiger and Hulk going back through time, I mean.”
“Why?” Robert asked. “Why would they do it?”
“Defend the Mary Jane. Think of the possibilities. An F-18 can track and eliminate multiple targets. Two F-18s would be a terror over the skies of 1945 Japan. I kind of wish I was there,” he smirked.
“But what if they don’t come back?” Robert said, with feeling.
“As long as they stay close to the Mary Jane, they’ll be back,” Prentice assured Les’s father as best he could.
“Let’s consider something else here,” the general said. “So far, we are all worried about the Mary Jane dropping this plutonium bomb in the present day. What if–”
“She drops it in 1945,” Prentice finished off the sentence for Cameron.
“Exactly, commander.”
“But it didn’t go off in 1945. We know that from history.”
“I know, commander. But history, here, now — for some reason — is not finished. Clayton could very well drop Fat Baby in 1945. Or enemy fighters may attack it. In that case, it was a smart move for Tiger and Hulk to go back to 1945 with the Mary Jane.”
“Maybe it was,” Prentice admitted. “I hope.”
“Also,” Cameron continued, “it might be a damn good idea to let Hulk and Tiger know, the next time we get them on the air, about the possibility of Fat Baby exploding in 1945. The fighter boys may be forced to shoot the Mary Jane down in 1945.”
“Wait a minute,” Robert said, his voice rising, “that means my son wouldn’t make it back to the present.”
Prentice waved his arms. “Let’s not go crazy here. Nobody’s going to shoot anything down in
1945. Let’s just wait this out. Somebody go get us some coffee. Strong coffee!”
* * * *
JAPAN
Les saw that the vapor trails he had seen earlier were gone. He glanced over his shoulder at Tiger in his F-18. They thumbed each other. Les then punched through the radio frequencies one at a time and was not surprised to hear a Japanese-language controller on one of the channels. Was he alerting fighters? Les had to think differently now. The Japanese were the enemy. Remember Pearl Harbor. He, Tiger, and the Mary Jane were all now in 1945. Son of a bitch, it worked.
Les shot a look over his wing and recognized Ise Bay from his 1990 days while stationed in Japan. Unmistakable shape to it. Kyoto was coming up. The target. He pressed the proper buttons on the right DDI to bring up the Track While Scan mode to search for enemy fighters. He selected a twenty-mile range and watched the screen. Then he changed back to the radio fighter frequency.
“ZULU TWO-FOUR-FOUR.”
Tiger answered with a quick, “ROGER.”
“DO YOU KNOW WHERE WE ARE, TIGER?”
“I’M WITH YUH. BUT I DON’T BELIEVE IT.”
“STAY CLOSE. KEEP AN EYE ON YOUR RADAR. TWENTY-MILE RANGE. ANYTHING IS TO BE TREATED AS HOSTILE.”
“ROGER.”
Suddenly, a large, single blip appeared on Les’s screen. More than ten miles. No visual. By its shape and size, he guessed it meant that several Japanese fighters were flying in close formation and showing up as one.
“I THINK WE GOT A BUNCHER, HULK.”
“MY GUESS, TOO. LET’S SEPARATE ’EM.”
“ROGER.”
Les switched to the Raid Assessment mode. It was all laid out for him. His airborne Doppler beam radar separated four individual targets. According to the system, the targets were now splitting up into battle formation pairs at ten miles out and coming head on, twelve o’clock, still unseen by the naked eye.
This was too easy, Les thought. Air chivalry was a myth and he knew it. Air combat always and always will be an I’ll get you before you get me approach, with the spoils going to the one who destroys the enemy before he himself is often even seen. The bravest or the strongest don’t necessarily win. Just the smartest.