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Category: Science Fiction/Historical Fiction
Description: When the B29 Superfortress Mary Jane is discovered in 1945 sitting in thick jungle with no visible damage, and her crew and mysterious payload are missing, the incident is hushed up and forgotten. But in 1990, mysterious radar images start to appear. F18 crews sent up to investigate discover a B29 flying towards Japan. What is this mysterious plane? If it is the Mary Jane continuing her mission, how can they stop it?
eBook Publisher: Mushroom eBooks/Mushroom eBooks, 1992
Mushroom eBookstore Release Date: May 2008

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [200 KB], ePub (EPUB) [218 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [175 KB], Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [653 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [191 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [207 KB], Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [221 KB], hiebook (KML) [463 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [304 KB], iSilo (PDB) [161 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [201 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [259 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [274 KB]
Words: 55449
Reading time: 158-221 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
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All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Chapter one

GUAM--JULY 1990

Lieutenant Les Shilling opened his locker and appraised his flight equipment. He was going to work. But this was no normal nine-to-five job.

He began his routine by pulling on his G-suit, which he jokingly called his eighteen-hour girdle. He breathed in and zipped up the side. Then he sucked in his belly, held his breath, and bent down in order to zip up the leggings. Next, he threw on his chest harness and strapped the leg restraints on his calves. After that came the survival vest. He checked for his emergency items. Strobe light. Water bottle. Knife. Flare gun. Smoke signal ... He placed them all on his body. Somewhere. A pocket here. A pocket there. He reached for his gloves and oxygen mask.

Last but not least, he grabbed his helmet. He was now ready to do battle, if called upon, in the way he was trained. He was an aerial gladiator, in much the same tradition as the coliseum combatants in the days of the old Roman Empire, but now acted out in the technical, computerized times of the late twentieth century.

Les turned a sharp left and lined up his F-18 Hornet fighter to the edge of the runway. The stream of white light from his wing sliced the heavy night air. He stopped and ran through the final checks before takeoff. He fidgeted in his seat until he felt as comfortable as any pilot could be in his G-suit, helmet, and oxygen mask. He took one last glance around the cockpit. So tight in such a self-contained space.

His high-tech enclosure--full of screens, digits, and dials--winked codes in bright colors. Greens, yellows, whites. Three large cathode-ray tubes measuring five inches square dominated the cockpit. These were the Digital Display Indicators. DDI's, as they were known in the business. The left and right DDI's exhibited precise three-color information for such items as radar navigation, weapons, sensor data, and system checks. The bottom screen was a Multipurpose Color Display--MPCD--that contained navigational data and a digitally-generated colored moving map. At eye level ... the HUD. The Head-Up Display was an electro-optical instrument that superimposed numerical information onto the pilot's twelve-o'clock field of view. Les's cockpit was right out of Star Wars.

Finished with the final push-buttoning prior to flight, he readied himself for takeoff, gloved hand on the stick.

A voice crackled on his radio. "ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF. MAINTAIN RUNWAY HEADING AND CONTACT DEPARTURE CONTROL ON THREE-THREE-THREE DECIMAL THREE WHEN SAFELY AIRBORNE."

Les answered the tower with a prompt, "ROGER BARKSIDE."

Brakes on, he nudged the dual throttles forward to full military power. The roar of the engines, nearly 16,000 pounds of static thrust each, made him tingle, as it always did. He could hear the blast and felt the vibration through the cockpit Plexiglas and his padded helmet. Then he let go of the brakes. With two fingers of his left hand on the throttles, he lit the afterburners. The equivalent of one swift kick in the butt, and he was off and down the runway, gathering speed.

The acceleration was smooth and swift. With the stick in the neutral position and using the nose wheel steering button on the column, Les controlled the takeoff roll. He gently brought the stick back so that the angle of attack read seven degrees nose-up on the HUD. Then ... in a blink, he was in the air. Before the far edge of the runway the wheels sucked into the belly with a slight jar. The HUD data changed from gear down to gear up. Over the water now he turned north, leaving Agana Naval Air Station and the tropical island of Guam behind him. He glanced at the HUD. Airspeed--373 knots. Altitude--500 feet. It was a half-moon night, no turbulence in the air, the silhouette of clouds ahead. He changed radio frequencies.

"BARKSIDE, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE AIRBORNE."

"ROGER ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS BARKSIDE. TARGET TO PORT ON HEADING THREE-FIVE-ZERO. ANGELS ONE. SPEED 200 KNOTS. RANGE ONE-THREE-ZERO."

Les came off afterburners, climbed and leveled off. His right hand went for the right DDI. Using the push buttons, he selected the proper functions for the Range While Search--RWS--mode which detected targets out to eighty nautical miles. The DDI glowed brightly with symbols and bits of info. But no target. He tapped the decrease range and azimuth buttons to obtain the required range. In a short time, he saw the lights of Tinian below. His MPCD verified it. He recognized the Manhattan-shaped island on the color display.

Then a target appeared.

The Single Target Track--the STT--mode burned a prompt onto the HUD. A flick of a switch on the stick, he changed the air-to-air mode from RWS to STT. Now he could track a single target with more clarity, as well as be ready for steering commands and shoot prompts for the armed missiles he was carrying on the wing tips and fuselage.

"ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. TARGET SHOULD BE DEAD AHEAD. RANGE TEN MILES."

Les hit the radio button. "ROGER BARKSIDE. I SEE IT."

"ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, GO BUTTON ONE-FOUR LEFT."

"ROGER." Les's gloved hand reached to his up-front control at chest level and changed the radio frequency from the right radio to the left radio. The comm 1 channel display window confirmed the move. He turned the volume up. "ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE ON ONE-FOUR LEFT, BARKSIDE."

The Hughes APG-65 digital multi-mode radar burned into the right DDI. Les could see it was a large target. The readouts showed the aircraft to be ahead at a range of seven miles. He peered through the glass and the HUD, into the night, towards the direction of the dark, puffy clouds. No visual. Not yet. Two hundred knots was pretty damn slow. It had to be landing somewhere. Maybe the nearby island of Saipan.

"ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS BARKSIDE. FIND OUT WHO HE IS AND WHAT HE'S DOING IN OUR AIRSPACE. WE ARE UNABLE TO MAKE RADIO CONTACT. OVER."

"ROGER, BARKSIDE. COMING UP ON HIS SIX. CLOSING AT 500 KNOTS."

Then the radar target disappeared off the pilot's radar. "BARKSIDE, THIS IS ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. IT'S GONE. REPEAT, GONE."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN GONE?" Long pause. "HEY, YOU'RE RIGHT. SCOUT AROUND. FIND OUT WHERE HE WENT."

"ROGER, BARKSIDE."

After a thorough but unsuccessful search of the area, Les hit the radio transmitter. "BARKSIDE, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. NO VISUAL. OVER."

"COME ON BACK, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE," the controller sighed. "NO JOY TODAY."

"ROGER, BARKSIDE. COMING HOME."

Les pulled hard right on the stick and increased the throttles until the speed flashed to 600 knots on the HUD. The G-forces pressed against his body ... 3-G ... 4-G ... This was the second time in a week that a large unidentified target had appeared suddenly on the Agana radar screens, only to vanish without a trace once a navy fighter approached it. Both times, Les was in the cockpit. He wasn't too concerned about it, though. Often, especially in the last few weeks, Andersen Air Force Base, situated on the north end of Guam, would send up their USAF bomber aircraft and the lines of communication with the navy would get crossed. Right now, that aircraft--whatever the hell it was--was probably about to or had already landed on Saipan.

On the way back, he set up his waypoints and followed them on the overlaid display on the MPCD. The south edge of Tinian flashed by, then the small island of Rota. The waypoint bearing readout showed 184 degrees. Before he reached Guam, he made the selections for the TACAN--the Tactical Air Navigation--a navigational approach aid that gave both distance and bearing to a base.

Coming in downwind at 280 knots, eighty percent RPM, speedbrakes out, flaps in the auto mode, Les had the nose up at nine degrees. He fell easily and controllably out of the sky with a twenty-eight-degree bank turn. He retracted the speedbrakes and leveled out. His airspeed dropped to 240. Two miles out, he selected full gear down and full flaps.

He watched the HUD closely. He lined up the velocity vector symbol on the horizon line. On final approach, he throttled back and lowered the velocity vector three degrees. Now he was coming in at 125 knots, 300 feet above the runway. Les loved landing the Hornet. Simple as pie, he often said. One big computer game. He lined the HUD velocity vector with the edge of the touchdown markers that were painted on the runway and brought the armed monster in for a perfect landing.

Lieutenant Les Shilling was a twenty-eight-year-old, fresh out of Fightertown, USA, the famous Top Gun school in Miramir, California, where he completed a five-week training course with high honors. The calm, cool pilot had been a disciplined terror over the California desert. The instructors were impressed with the no-nonsense Shilling, who was rock steady at the controls. No one, including the instructors, had escaped him and his aircraft during the strenuous, competitive dog fighting. He could make the F-18 do what most other pilots couldn't. In short, he took to heart von Richthofen's words: "The quality of the crate matters little. Success depends on the men who sit in it."

Les relished flying, proud to be one of the chosen few. The US Navy stats spoke for themselves. Out of every thirty desirable applicants in the training program, ten went on to flight training. Four passed as pilots. Out of these four, only one was considered worthy to fly operationally. Les was that one. A notch above the rest. A naval aviator. An artist.

And he was part of a proud force--the United States Navy--who had never lost a war at sea. Going back to the War of 1812, the Americans, with a measly seventeen ships, held Britain's more than 600 vessels at bay. During the Second World War, the USN kept the sea lanes open to Britain and brought the Japanese to their knees in the Pacific, beginning with the Battle of Midway. Now, the USN was top dog in the Pacific, the only area of the world where they were not competing with the army and air force for recognition. Not so in places like Europe. Les had been stationed on Guam for five months now with a temporary special forces Hornet squadron, after coming over from Japan, where he had spent six months with another Hornet squadron. Prior to that he was attached to the USS Midway, home-ported in Yokosuka, Japan. Hornets in every case. His machine.

As far as Les was concerned, there was no other fighter quite like the F-18 Hornet, the aircraft to beat at Top Gun. This multi-role fighter scared many pilots at first. It seemed too complicated, too computerized, too damn expensive. However, it quickly functioned beyond original expectations. The power, the maneuverability, the lightness of the controls, impressed fliers. From the time Les first stepped into the fighter, he found it unbelievably easy to fly, as if he had already been in it for months. He prized the visibility factor. He could see extremely well in all directions. He felt as though he was sitting on the aircraft. Not inside it. Damn good crate, she was.

Now in his work khaki, Les threw his gear in the locker marked by his callsign of HULK, and closed the door. Without a doubt a one-woman man, he was, a handsome, muscular specimen who often made the opposite sex's heads turn. He stood tall--just over six feet--and was richly tanned from the tropical sun. The strong, silent type, he was not one to waste words, almost taciturn at times, talking only when it seemed necessary. Only for something deemed important.

Turning around, he was suddenly and unexpectedly face to face with feisty Jack Runsted--callsign Tiger--another F-18 fighter pilot who had just finished an earlier night flight. Tiger was a skilled navy pilot who'd been bitten by the navy bug in his mid-teens. The women thought this six-foot bachelor was good looking enough, what with his blue eyes and short, curly, blond hair, although he was often irritating, arrogant, and a downright flake. Word was out that he was sowing his wild oats all over the island of Guam. While in a half-drunken state at a navy party a month earlier, he had even tried to make a pass at Les's wife. Les had calmly offered to re-arrange Tiger's face. Since then, Les avoided the young man with the Brooklyn accent. Today was no exception. Les turned to the hall, ready to leave. As far as he was concerned, Tiger wasn't there.

"The CO wants to see you in his office," Tiger said, breaking the silence. "Right away."

"Yeah. OK," Les grunted, over his shoulder.

A short stroll later to the CO's office, Les saluted his commanding officer, Captain George B. MacDonald. On the walls hung color photos of an F-14 Tomcat, an F-18 Hornet, and the same F-4 Phantom that MacDonald had flown in the Vietnam War.

"At ease, Hulk," the CO barked in his deep voice, looking up from his desk.

"Thank you, sir."

MacDonald's tanned face was long, with sunken, alert brown eyes. Nearing fifty, he kept himself in great shape, appearing to be a good ten years younger. A go-getter, he always wanted everything done in a hurry. And with precision. "What happened out there?" He leaned back in his chair, waiting. No expression.

Les took a breath. "Well, sir, the target disappeared before I could identify it."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's the second time this week. And you were there the other time."

"Yes, sir. That's right."

"Did you circle the area this time?"

"Yes, sir. Nothing."

"What do you make of it, lieutenant?"

"I don't rightly know, sir. It could be the air force are playing games with us."

The captain folded his arms. It was no secret that Andersen Air Force Base to the northeast, the old converted World War Two B-29 base, had been busy throughout the Mariana Islands all July with aerial activity. "The air force have been deploying some exercises lately where radio silence is vital. But I wish we'd know in advance so that we don't waste taxpayers' money sending up a thirty million dollar aircraft for nothing. Do you think it could have been the B-29 that's being repaired for the Second World War reunion coming up on Tinian? The--what's that squadron?"

"The 509th Composite Group, sir," Les replied.

"Yeah, the atomic outfit."

"It might have been the B-29, sir. The target was large enough. And it appeared to be landing. Maybe at Saipan. It never got above a thousand feet."

"But why this late at night." The CO smiled for the first time. "I remember your file. Your father was based with the 509th, was he not?"

"Indeed he was, sir. Ground crew."

"Is he coming out for the reunion?"

"I'm hoping he is, sir. I don't know yet."

"I'd like to meet him, if he does make it."

"You would?" Les tried to restrain his surprise. "Yes, of course, I'll let him know."

The CO smiled again. "OK. In the meantime, I'll see if I can find out what's going on. I'll make some calls. Dismiss, lieutenant. Go get some sleep. Say hello to Gail for me." Remaining in his chair, he snapped off a stiff salute.

"Yes, sir, I will."

Inside of five minutes, Les jumped into his newly-leased, white Nissan 240SX, opened the sunroof, and drove through the front gate. The night was warm. He opened the glove box and fingered through his assortment of 1950's and 1960's rock-and-roll tapes. Fats Domino, Ricky Nelson, Buddy Holly ... He chose Dion's Greatest Hits, one of his favorites, and snapped it into the tape deck. There wasn't a car on the road, not at two-thirty in the morning during the week. However, he still stuck to the island's strictly enforced thirty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit out of habit. When The Wanderer came on, he cranked the music up good and loud, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Home, his wife, the sack, ten minutes away.