by Terry James
Susie put the question to the entities within the physicist’s body.
“The forces of the Holy One prevent us from doing so,” the voice answered, then added with a fading, sinister giggle, “But, our colleagues now know. They will be upon this charming house in the very, very near future…”
Lori packed the few things she knew she couldn’t do without, throwing them into the large sports bag. She turned, startled when her father came into the bedroom.
“We’ve got to move, Sunshine. No time to think about what you’re going to wear tomorrow,” James said, rushing to the bed and snapping suitcases shut, then lifting them and walking toward the door.
“I’ll be right there, Dad,” Lori said, seeing Mark stick his head through the doorway.
“I’ve talked to Greer. He’ll be waiting for us at the dock in Boothbay,” Mark said.
“Your mother and the rest are ready,” James Morgan said, before leaving the room.
Gessel Kirban’s Jeep wagon was loaded down. Mark drove as fast as the rutted road leading from Mitford House allowed, then turned onto Sharkton Highway. Christopher and Susie Banyon followed in the rental car, with Randall and Ruth Prouse in the back seat.
“You think we should go to Florida with them, then?” Ruth asked Christopher, who depressed the Plymouth’s accelerator to the floor to catch up with the Jeep.
“We’ve got to see this through,” he said, glancing at Ruth in the rearview mirror. “I believe it’s the Lord’s will that we do something. I’m not sure what.”
“I agree,” Randall Prouse said. “Mark says he can convince his senior officer friend to take this to a higher authority. He says the colonel will believe him.”
“Well, we know one Higher Authority we can trust, don’t we?” Susie said from the seat beside her husband.
“Did you hear the questions she asked those things?” Christopher asked, looking again at his passengers in the mirror. “Wasn’t she something?!”
“Sure was.” Prouse said. “That PND device … did it help, do you think, Susie?”
“I honestly don’t remember anything I said, not beyond the first few words I spoke once the device was turned on,” she said.
“The questions were perfect to get the answers we needed,” Ruth put in. “That means they came from the perfect Source.”
Gessel Kirban’s dirt-covered wagon creaked under the load of people, and the luggage strapped to its top. James Morgan had been thinking about it since they decided to get out of Mitford House.
“So, Dr. Kirban, you believe the thing possessing Clark are kept from escaping, and from contacting the people at Taos?”
“I am, of course, not certain. But, it seems that so long as he wears the PND, they are unable to remove from his physical being. His pupils continue to be dilated to an extent, and I believe the Dimensionals remain trapped within,” the Israeli said, examining Lansing, who sat beside him in the middle row of seats.
“And, does that mean they won’t be able to find us?” Laura Morgan said.
“These guys are professionals at hunting people down, Super L. And, they have these things helping them. Who knows? Maybe it’s time to ask that God of yours for help. We certainly need protection, wherever we can find it,” Morgan said, more serious than joking.
“He’s been helping all along, Dad,” Lori said from the shotgun position.
Her father looked at her, a smile crossing his lips. “Hope you’re right, sweetheart. But, I’m not going to rule out asking for help of a more earthly sort. How about it, Mark? You think this Col. Kenyon will believe us?”
“We’re pretty close. As close as a pilot and a former CO can allow themselves to get within the chain of command. He’ll get our problems in front of the right people,” Mark said, looking in the rearview mirror at one of their “problems” --his father’s face beneath the gold-colored PND helmet.
Clark Lansing had scarcely moved since the inquisition almost an hour earlier. Mark was worried.
“Dr. Kirban,” Mark said, glancing in the mirror at the Israeli scientist’s face. “What do you think his chances are? Do you think these demons, or whatever they are, have done permanent damage to Dad’s mind?”
“I find nothing organically amiss, neurologically speaking,” Kirban said. “I see no reason to not expect a significant recovery…in due time.”
Greer Swenson took the last of the load of luggage handed him by Mark, stashed it in the storage compartment, then slammed the storage area’s door shut.
“Lucky thing I had to come up earlier than I thought,” the pilot said. “Normally I wouldn’t be back this way for another three, maybe four days.”
“You know, Swen, I’ve come to believe that there’s more to it all than dumb luck,” Mark said, and jumped from the big plane’s cargo doorway onto the dock.
“Yeah? How’s that?”
“Somebody up there likes us, I think,” Mark said, reaching to the dock’s wooden-planked surface to pick up the long flashlight.
“Oh? You get religion, or something?” the pilot said with amusement.
“Something like that, I guess. I’ll tell you all about it sometime,” he said, beginning to walk toward the row of dilapidating buildings at the end and to one side of the dock.
He entered a doorway a minute later. He saw the white hair sticking out beneath the captain’s hat, while the shop owner stood on tiptoes straightening the blue marlin displayed on the back wall.
“Mr. Maddow. I’m back.”
The old man didn’t turn around, but moved to the next displayed fish, and straightened it.
“What you want?” he said, without turning.
“I’ve brought your flashlight back,” Mark said, walking to the counter and standing the instrument on its business end.
Still, the seaman said nothing, but continued straightening and dusting the trophies.
“Well, thanks again for the tour guide help, and for use of the light,” Mark said.
He turned several seconds later and walked toward the door, seeing the shop owner didn’t want to talk.
“Hey, boy!”
He turned to see Shad Maddow standing with his hands on the countertop, looking a lot like Popeye, Mark thought.
“Your old daddy’s going to make it just fine. He’s got a good boy,” the old man said gruffly, then turned back to his fish, when he had refused to acknowledge Mark’s thanks and wave of goodbye.
Pensacola, Florida – July 1, 1967
Christopher and Susie paid the motel manager by check. The man called the bank in San Antonio, and the check was declared acceptable.
“One town house unit for a week…seven days,” the manager said, putting in the information that would give the couple a receipt marked “paid in advance.”
“You got here just in time. It’s our last town house,” the manager said, handing Christopher the receipt.
“You folks going to have that big unit all to yourselves?” he asked.
“No…A family gathering,” Christopher answered, at the same time praying a short prayer, asking forgiveness for the lie.
They had all discussed the matter and concluded the wrong people might be checking transactions made by Gessel Kirban, who first offered to pay for the town house. Not likely that Cooper and his operatives would be watching the preacher’s bank account.
Laura stood on the front veranda with her husband’s arm around her. The scenery was spectacular.
“Remember our trip here…when was that?” James asked, knowing she could remember such things. It was an ability that always amazed him.
“1946,” his wife said.
The blue-green Gulf waters contrasted with the sugar-white sand to create a paradise-like setting. The brochures advertising vacations in a “A Paradise named Pensacola” were not just hype, Laura thought, enjoying her husband’s embrace, as well as the gorgeous vista.
The flight had been a relatively bumpy weather-free one. But the many landings and take-of
fs and hours waiting for Greer Swenson to conduct his necessary business at each port had fatigued them all. Except for Mark and Lori, who explored the beach, with dungarees rolled to the calf.
“I wish this would never have to end,” Lori said, holding Mark’s right hand while they strolled the surf. “It seems nothing could be wrong in a world that looks and feels like this one.”
They waded the edge of the gently breaking waves, enjoying the feel of the cool water while it rolled across their naked feet.
“Do you have to go?” Lori said, with one side of her face pressed against his chest while they held each other.
“You know I’ve got to. We can’t go on with them trying to find us, so they can shut us up about what’s going on at Taos--and who knows where else,” Mark said.
“How can your former commanding officer help?”
“I’m not sure he can. But I do know he’ll listen and will believe me. Especially when he sees the device…the helmet.”
They began walking through the surf again, Lori kicking the foaming water into the air with every other step for a few steps.
“I’m glad Daddy is going with you to Holloman,” she said. “Just getting back in the cockpit of an F-4 will do wonders for him.”
“Yeah. I’m glad I asked Col. Kenyon to pull the strings to get him on the flight plan,” Mark said.
“Of course, I had to lie, but I think Col. Kenyon will look the other way about that, once he knows the things involved, the dangers to the country.”
“It’s a lot deeper, a lot worse than that, Mark,” Lori said. “These things are not just from other physical worlds, they’re supernatural.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still not sure about all that Bible prophecy stuff. Don’t know what the colonel will think about that part of it. But, I do know these things are real. We’ve got to do something.”
Chapter 21
Egland Air Force Base, Florida - July 2
Everything went smoothly. Mark’s former commanding officer, Col. Kenneth Kenyon, had arranged for the flight of the F-4C. Mark and a Lt. Col. John Finch were authorized to ferry the bird from Egland to Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico.
Mark and his co-pilot walked around the tail cones of the plane, half-way through the pre-flight.
“You’ve got some pretty good pull, kid,” James Morgan said, sticking his face partially into the tail cone for the number two engine. “Getting a bird, on such short notice, for personal business…that’s the stuff of generals.”
“Yes, sir, well, we’re not out of here yet. Let’s just hope somebody doesn’t decide to check out Lt. Col. John Finch.”
Mark investigated the tail cone, when James had moved to the tail cone for the number 1 engine.
“And you got one that’s loaded with ordnance, at that,” James said. “What’s that about?”
“Col. Kenyon wanted a loaded F-4C. He’s getting one. That’s all I know. Light on bombs, but plenty of other good stuff,” Mark said, looking, then into the next tail cone.
“It was good of your friend, that pilot…”
“Swenson, Greer Swenson,” Mark reminded.
“…yeah. It was nice of Swenson to load up everybody in his boat and get them away from the town house.”
“It’s a good move, I think. At least for a while. Until we make sure the bank transaction Christopher made wasn’t somehow picked up by somebody,” Mark said.
“He’s got a place on a small island?”
“Kind of remote. I’ve spent some time there. About ten miles--maybe more--off Pensacola,” Mark said, ducking to examine the belly of the F-4.
James squatted beside him and leaned his head to look for engine oil and hydraulic fluid leaks and loose or missing panel screws.
“Good. Maybe they’ll be out of harm’s way, in case our mission doesn’t go too well,” Morgan said, running his fingertips over one rear panel on the plane’s bottom, then examining his fingers. Just condensation, he determined.
They stood and briefly looked at the ailerons and flaps, then ducked beneath the left wing to begin examination of the landing gear.
“The device…how are we going to get out of here without them getting a look at it?” James Morgan asked.
“I packed it in the seat pack. I’ll have to open the seat pack in the cockpit before I get in. Guess I’ll be flying with the PND in my lap until we get airborne, then switch helmets. Be flying the rest of the way with the Marine-issue helmet loose somewhere in the cockpit.”
“What good will it do to wear the PND? I thought we’re taking it just to show and tell the colonel,” James said, checking the wheel-well, and pulling the red-flagged gear pin from its hole.
“I don’t know why Dr. Kirban wanted me to wear it. Said something about I would know, and he would know, if it could serve any productive purpose, once we’re in the air,” Mark said.
“Does he have to wear this awful thing?”
Laura Morgan stood beside Clark Lansing, who stared straight ahead. She gripped his left arm, watching others pack the pick-up with the clothing and things they would need for several days on Greer Swenson’s tiny island hide-away.
“Yes. The instrument apparently keeps the…entities…from escaping their host. At least, I believe and hope that is the case,” Gessel Kirban said, lifting several things and hoisting them into the bed of the truck.
Lori pitched the last of her things into the truck bed and walked to her mother.
“Mark will be with us again before we know it,” Dr. Lansing, she said, patting his arm. He made no indication he heard her.
“They should be leaving for Holloman about now, shouldn’t they?” Lori asked.
“Their take-off time was 9:30,” Laura said.
Lori looked at her watch. “It’s almost 9 o’clock now,” she said, walking beside Clark Lansing, opposite her mother, who guided him toward the second pick-up that had just pulled into the parking spot in front of the town house.
“The boat’s ready,” Randall Prouse said from the driver’s seat. “Christopher, Susie and Ruth are on board. Swenson’s ready to go when we get there.
Mark, sitting in the front seat, gave a thumbs-up to the men who held up the red-flagged ordnance safety pins they had just removed from the bomb racks and rockets launching devices.
James Morgan gave the thumbs-up also, then adjusted the oxygen hose and resnapped it to the side of the helmet.
“Just like the old days in ‘Nam, huh, Major?” James said, watching the men salute while the F4 moved past them when Mark pushed the throttles forward and released the brakes.
James returned the salute from the back seat, and again gave the thumbs-up to the men who had made the safety checks near the end of the ramp before the F4C turned onto the taxiway.
“Only in ‘Nam, we would usually be wet from now until we landed,” Mark said.
“Man, it was something, that rain,” said James with a grunt, remembering that often the pilot would be soaked by the time he climbed in the cockpit.
James quickly ran his eyes over the cockpit set-up. Memories of his training flooded his mind. The back seat was devoted to the radar intercept mission of the plane. There were therefore many controls for utilizing the installed radar. There wasn’t much control of the radar in the front. As far as the weapons were concerned, the A/C had control of selection of the radar weapons, maneuvering and actual firing, once locked on. The bombs and such were selected in the front seat, as were the gun and sidewinder-type missiles.
Once the pilot in the rear seat had locked the equipment on target, it was mostly in the hands of the Aircraft Commander, the title most often given the man in the front seat. The flight to Holloman would be a treat, but James longed for a trip to the weapons range. Better yet, to a run over the jungles of South East Asia…
But, the time for Lt. Col. James Morgan to engage in combat had come and gone. They were to deliver one loaded Phantom to Col. Kenneth Kenyon, and, to deliver one strange device, which, m
aybe, the colonel would investigate, or see that someone who really counted would investigate the sinister goings on at Defense, or NSA, or wherever…
“Phantom Eagle, ready for take-off,” Mark’s voice crackled in James’ helmet earphones.
“Taxi into position and hold,” the voice from the tower replied.
Mark gave the F4 throttle and it moved into position on the runway and stopped, its nose pointed down the broad concrete expanse that narrowed in perspective. He trimmed the aircraft for take-off, manipulating several levers, and buttons on the stick.
“Phantom Eagle, winds eight zero at ten knots, cleared for take-off,” the voice came from the tower.
Mark and James pushed the top of the rudder pedals, locking the brakes. Mark powered one of the General Electric J79-GE-17 turbojets to 85 percent, watching the gauges while he felt the immense power of the engine straining to move the bird. All was as it should be. He pulled the throttle to idle, then pushed the other throttle to 85 percent of power, going through the same checks as before.
“Looks good, Colonel,” Mark said. “Here we go…”
He released the brakes, smoothly applying full power, then pushed the throttles into full afterburner. The F4 lifted from the runway seconds later, its engines thrusting it toward the altitude at which Mark would make the wide turn for Holloman Air Force Base. While they climbed, he turned the stick over to James Morgan, and replaced the Marine-issue helmet with the gleaming golden PND, as Gessel Kirban had instructed.
The cabin cruiser cut through the Gulf water at 20 knots, sending a spray of foam with each dive into the troughs created by the 3-foot swells. Greer Swenson scanned the distant water, feeling the cooling breeze mixed with the salt-spray that occasionally peppered his face. He steered the course for the small island he called Maryland--named after his late wife, Mary, who had died from breast cancer a year earlier. They were less than one-third of the way into the trip, and he estimated their time of arrival to be about 40 minutes away.