Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 (3 page)

 
          
Not
ideal fishing weather, but what the hell—nothing else to do except sit around
and look at the mountain of unpacked boxes still cluttering his little mobile
home in Southbeach, an isolated vacation and retirement village on Oregon’s
central coast, about eighty miles southwest of Portland. The Air
Force-contracted movers had delivered his household goods seven months before,
but there they sat, virtually untouched. He saw a small hole the size of a
pencil in the corner of one box marked “Memorabilia” and wondered if the mice
were enjoying nibbling on the plaques, awards, photos, and mementos he had
stuffed in there. At least someone was enjoying them.

 
          
The
man decided just to get the hell out and do what he had planned to do, and to
hell with the bad memories and bitterness. Concentrating on his boat, the sea,
and staying alive on the cold waters of coastal
Oregon
in freshening breezes would take his mind
off the neglected remnants of the life that had been taken away from him. The
prospect of catching a glimpse of a migrating pod of whales filled him with a
sense of excitement, and soon he was speeding down the long gravel driveway,
eagerly looking forward to getting on the water.

 
          
It
was a short drive north on Highway 101 to the marina, just south of the
Yaquina
Bay
bridge. The marina’s general store had just
opened, so he had his thermos filled with coffee, his cooler packed full of
orange juice, fresh and dried fruit, and some live sardines for bait—he didn’t
have the money to buy live mackerel or squid, which would really improve his
chances. What he knew about fishing would embarrass himself if he tried to talk
about it, but it didn’t matter—if he caught anything, which was unlikely these
days in the fished-out waters of central
Oregon
, he would probably let it go. He filled out
a slip of paper that explained where he was headed and how long he was going to
be out—somewhat akin to filing a flight plan before a sortie—stuck the paper in
the “Gone Fishin’ ” box near the door on his way out, and headed for the piers.

 
          
His
boat was a thirty-year-old thirty-two-foot Grand Banks Sedan, bought with most
of his savings and the sixty days’ worth of unused accumulated leave time he
had sold back to the United States Air Force. Made of Philippine mahogany
instead of fiberglass, the heavy little trawler was easy enough to handle solo,
and stable in seas up to about five feet. It had a single Lehman diesel engine,
covered flybridge, a good-size fishing cockpit aft, a large salon with lower
helm station, settee, and galley, and a forward cabin with a head/shower and a
V-berth with decent but fish-smelling foam cushions. He turned on the marine
band radio and got the weather and sea states from WX1, the Newport Coast Guard
weather band, while he pulled off the canvas covers, checked his equipment and
made ready to get under way—he still called it “preflighting” his ship,
although the fastest he’d fly would be ten knots—then motored over to the
pumps, filled the fuel and water tanks, and headed out of the marina into
Yaquina Bay and then to the open ocean.

 
          
There
was a very light drizzle and a fresh breeze blowing, but the man did make his
way up to the flybridge to get a better feel for the sea. Visibility was about
three to five miles offshore, but the Otter Rock light was visible nine miles
north. The waves were maybe a foot, short and choppy, with the first hint of
whitecaps, and it was cool and damp—again, typical weather in
Oregon
for early summer. He headed northwest,
using an eyeball bearing off the lighthouse to sail into the fishing area. When
he’d first started sailing, he’d brought an entire bag full of electronic
satellite navigation gear, backup radios, and charts for almost the entire West
Coast with him, because that’s how he had prepared for a flying mission. After
ten trips, he’d learned to navigate by compass and speedometer and left the GPS
satellite navigation gear at home; after fifteen trips, by compass and tachometer
and currents; after twenty trips, by compass alone; after twenty-five, by
bearings off landmarks; just off feel and birds and whale sightings thereafter.
Now, he could sail just about anywhere with confidence and skill.

 
          
The
man thought that perhaps flying could also be just as uncomplicated and
carefree as this, the way pilot-authors Richard Bach and Stephen Coonts wrote
about it, but in his ten thousand-plus hours of flying he had never done it
that way. Every sortie needed a flight plan, a precise schedule of each and
every event and a precise route to follow. Every sortie needed a weather
briefing, target study, and a crew briefing, even if the crew had flown that
sortie a hundred times before. Hop in and go? Navigate by watching birds and
listening for horns? That was for kids, for irresponsible captains. Plan the
flight, then fly the plan—that had been the man’s motto for decades. Now he
followed birds and looked for
whales.              
-

 
          
Almost
an hour later, just as the eastern sky began to show signs of sunrise, the man
shut down his engine, threw a sea anchor out by the bow to keep pointed into
the wind, poured a cup of coffee, stuck a granola bar in his shirt pocket, and
got his gear ready for fishing. Halibut and salmon were running now, and he
might get lucky with live sardines on a big hook with one-hundred-pound test
and a little weight. He cast out about a hundred feet, couched the pole, set
the reel clutch, sat out on deck surveying the horizon . . .

 
          
.
. . and said aloud, “What in hell am I doing out here? I don’t belong here. I
hate fishing, I’ve never caught a damned thing, and I don’t know what the hell
I’m doing. I like boats, but I’ve been out here an hour and I’m bored. I’m wet,
I’m cold, I’m miserable, and I feel like tying the fucking anchor around my
neck and seeing exactly how long I can hold my breath underwater. I feel like
shit. I feel like—”

 
          
And
then the cell phone rang.

 
          
At
first he was surprised at the sudden, unexpected noise. Then he was angry at
the intrusion. Then he was curious—who knew his number? He’d left his home
number on the little slip of paper at the general store, not the cell phone
number. He was even outside max range of the
Newport
cell site—he didn’t think he could get
calls way out here. Puzzled and still a bit peeved, he retrieved the phone from
his fanny pack, flipped it open, and growled, “Who the hell is this?”

 
          
“Good
morning, General. How are you, sir?”

 
          
He
recognized the voice immediately, of course, and it was as if the sun had just
popped out and the skies had turned clear and blue, even though it was still
gray and cold and wet out here. The man opened his mouth to ask a question,
answered it himself—dumb question; he
knew
they could find his number easily enough if they wanted—so remained silent.

 
          
“How
are you doing, sir?” the voice repeated.

 
          
Always
friendly, always disarming, always at ease, the man thought.

           
This was obviously some kind of
business call, but with this guy there was always time for business later.
Always so damned polite, too. You work with a guy for, what, almost ten years,
and even though there’s an age and rank difference you expect to be on a
first-name basis and can the “sir” stuff. Not this guy, at least most of the
time. “Fine . . . good,” Brad replied. “I’m doing . . . okay.”

 
          
“Any
luck out there?”

 
          
He knew I was out fishing?
That was odd.
It was no state secret or anything, but he hadn’t told anybody he was fishing,
or given out his phone numbers, or even told anyone he was living in a little
trailer in Nowhere,
Oregon
. “No,” Brad replied.

 
          
“Too
bad,” the voice on the phone said, “but I got an idea. Want to do some flying?”

 
          
The
sun that had come out in his heart a few moments before was now setting his
soul on fire, and Brad fairly leapt to his feet. The waders suddenly felt as if
they weighed a thousand pounds. “What’s going on?” Brad asked excitedly. “What
are you up to now?”

 
          
“Look
to the south and find out.”

 
          
Brad
did—and saw nothing. He had a brief, sinking feeling that this was all a hoax,
some complicated and brutal joke . . .

 
          
...
but then he felt it, that sound, that feeling. It was a change in the
atmosphere, an electricity flowing through the air stirring and ionizing the
moist sea breeze. It felt like an electric current flowing through nearby high-tension
power lines, a snap of unseen force that made little hairs stand up on your
skin. Then you feel the air pressure rising, of a thin column of air being
pushed ahead like air streaming out of a giant hypodermic needle aimed right at
you, the plunger being pushed by what could very well be God’s thumb, but was,
Brad knew, a very human construct . . .

 
          
.
. . and then the overcast parted and the clouds disgorged a huge black
aircraft. It was low, pointed, and very deadly-looking. Brad expected it to roar
past him, but instead it hissed by like a giant ebony viper on the move across
a jungle floor. Only when the monstrous vehicle had zoomed past him, barely a
hundred feet above the Pacific and almost directly overhead, could he hear the
thunder of its eight turbofan engines ... no, Brad realized with faint shock,
not eight, only
four
engines, but
four
huge
engines. The aircraft
banked hard to the left, showing its long, thin fuselage, its long, low,
swept-back V-tail ruddervators, its wide wings tipped with pointed tip
tanks—and yes, it carried weapon fairings on its wings, stealthy pods that
enclosed externally-carried weapons. It was not only flying, but the damned
beautiful creature was
armed.

 
          
“What
do you think, Brad?” retired Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan
asked on the cell phone. “You like it?”

 
          
“Like
it?” retired Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott gasped.
“Like it?
Its the ...” He had to be
careful—last he knew, the EB-52 Megafortress defense-suppression and attack bomber
was still highly classified. “. . . its flying again!”

 
          
“It
may be the only model flying in a few months, Brad,” McLanahan said. “The Air
Force let us play with a couple. We need crews to fly them and commanders to
organize a new unit. If you’re interested, climb aboard the Gulfstream that’ll
be waiting for you at Newport Municipal in two hours.”

 
          
“I’ll
be there!” Elliott shouted as the Megafortress climbed back into the overcast
and disappeared from view. “I’ll be there! Don’t you dare leave without me!”
Bradley James Elliott dropped the phone onto the deck, quickly stepped forward
to the bow, began reeling in the sea anchor, swore because it wasn’t coming in
fast enough, then simply detached it from the bow cleat and dropped it
overboard. He did the same with the fishing rod. The cold diesel engine was
cranky and wouldn’t start on the third try, but thankfully it started on the
fourth, because Elliott was ready to jump out and run all the way back to
Newport
. After seeing the Megafortress again, a
new
Megafortress, he felt light and
happy enough to give walking on water a try.

 
          
It
was back. It was really back . . . and so, with the grace of God, was he.

OVER THE
SOUTH
CHINA
SEA
,
TWO HUNDRED MILES

SOUTHWEST OF
PRATAS
ISLAND

SUNDAY, 18 MAY 1997
,
2200 HOURS LOCAL (
17
MAY, 1300
HOURS ET)

           
“Doors coming open! Stand by! All
hands, secure loose items and prepare for exposure!”

 
          
The
rear cargo doors of the Yunshuji-8C cargo plane motored open at one hundred and
twenty seconds time-to-go in the countdown. Admiral Sun Ji Guoming, deputy
chief of staff of the People’s Liberation Army of the
Peoples
Republic
of
China
, was standing in the forward section of the
cargo plane as the temperature of the cargo hold, already below freezing,
suddenly dropped nearly fifty degrees almost in the blink of an eye. The
ice-cold wind swirled around the huge cargo hold, tugging at legs and arms as
if trying to pull the humans out into the frigid sky. Yes, it was mid-May over
the generally warm, relaxing
South China Sea
, but at 30,000 feet just before
midnight
, the air, rushing into the plane at over a
hundred miles an hour, was still bone-snapping cold. The roar of the Y-8C’s
four Wojiang-6 turboprops, at 4,250 horsepower per engine, was deafening even
in the thin air.