An Excerpt from: Crystal Birch
Copyright © 2011 Jessie A. McPeeke
All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.
Prologue
The four pilots strode across the rolling deck of the aircraft carrier. Their postures matched—tall, confident, and filled with subdued excitement. They walked together, and then split, each heading toward an A-7 Skyhawk. Below each plane stood a team of men standing at attention. Each crew saluted its pilot and the pilot responded briskly.
The tallest of the four, a broad-shouldered man with a haze of red framing his head, handed his helmet to the seaman standing at the ladder to the cockpit. He climbed to the cockpit. The seaman followed, waiting until the pilot strapped into his seat to hand the man his helmet. The pilot put the helmet on, checking his oxygen and radio connections. The seaman made a double check of the pilot’s safety harness and jumped to the flight deck.
“It’s a hell of a day at sea, sir!” The comment sounded loud and clear through the intercom.
Marty glanced over the edge of the cockpit and grinned as he pulled his face mask up and spoke.
“By the numbers please, gentlemen.”
“Pixie two.”
“Pixie three.”
“Pixie four.”
“Let’s do it.” Lieutenant Martin McPherson grabbed his checklist off the instrument panel. The ground crew worked in precision with his barked words over the intercom connecting the cockpit with the crew below.
The roar of four engines split the evening air. Intercoms were disconnected, chocks moved from the wheels. The planes, positioned on deck earlier for easy access to the catapult, taxied into place. One at a time, the pilots pushed throttles to the wall and were thrown back in their seats as the aircraft raced down the flight deck, gaining lift under their wings.
The flight deck ended. The plane dipped. The big engine roared. Forward momentum increased and the plane lifted and climbed toward the setting sun.
Thirty quiet minutes later, the Lieutenant flashed his wing lights and they went dark. Three other sets of wing lights disappeared into the moonless night. Each pilot counting, separately, yet in unison, moved into formation.
The wing leader knew the radar at Nam Dinh would pick up their signatures shortly. What the radar would see, however, would only indicate one aircraft. That wouldn’t stop the anti-aircraft fire when they reached land. All four pilots knew that.
The quiet in the cockpit of Marty McPherson’s A7 didn’t surprise him or cause him concern. The sound of the huge engine pushing him through the air at 400 knots soothed him, a low, smooth roar that told him everything was well with his aircraft. His entire flight echoed his thoughts at that moment.
He looked to the left and could see the light of coastal villages flickering dimly 100 miles to the west. No lights sailed the sea below him, but he knew boats sailed the Gulf with crews looking up trying to see the jets producing the sounds over their heads.
His instruments indicated they had passed the radar station at Nam Dihn. A touch to the stick, a press on the rudder pedal, and the planes turned from their track of three-eight-zero to two-seven-zero.
A light changed from red to green on his instrument panel. He made the last course correction, easing right in unspoken unison with the rest of his flight.
This is it, Marty thought. And it began.
Tracers flew up from the ground. The anti-aircraft fire had begun. Lights on the outskirts of Hai Phong drew patterns in the partly cloudy sky in search of the aircraft flying overhead. Anti-aircraft units on the ground raced for their guns and aimed at the sound from above. The sound of the aircraft spread wide behind them. The rounds flew upward into the air after the sound. But the four A7’s flew past without harm.
All four men checked their harnesses, scanned their instruments, and said prayers. The dangerous part of their mission was about to begin. Two of them reached up in the dark of the cockpit and touched photos taped somewhere near them.
Lieutenant McPherson saw the small green light indicating contact with a navigational aid near Hanoi. He flipped a switch on the panel; radio silence meant nothing now.
“Let’s hit the deck, gentlemen. Descend to 500 feet on my tail. My favorite formation, on my mark.” His voice had dropped nearly an octave in tone. It sounded like rolling gravel.
“Now, gentlemen!”
He eased the stick forward. The nose dipped and the big hand on the altimeter circled its face frantically, counterclockwise. The stick moved back toward its centerline, and the plane leveled out. The hand on the face of the altimeter slowed and came to rest half way between 0 and 1.
“The target is 12 o’clock, six miles. Do not, I repeat, do not drop over the city. Drop on my mark. Good luck to us all, gentlemen.”
The last line was whispered. They had been chosen for this mission because they were the best, but their chances of success were still slim. It was possible that they'd all be returning to the ship together, but not probable.
* * * *
She saw the cockpit of a fast moving aircraft with only instrument lights showing. A gloved hand wrapped around the stick. Bright light streaked upward around the aircraft. Momentarily, she caught sight of another aircraft, its wing almost touching the wing of hers. She heard herself say, “Target ahead, gentlemen. As close to the center as you can get. Single file, Indian style.”
There seemed to be a pause in the action, everything slowing to half speed. The eyes she looked from focused on the fast approaching brilliant lights ahead. Fear coursed through her, yet she also felt calm and focused.
“Pixie One. One away!”
She felt a hand pull back on the stick and afterburner ignition push her back into the seat. Her mind yelled, Climb! Climb! Climb!
Slowly the big hand on the altimeter moved clockwise around its face. One thousand. Two thousand. Three thousand. She felt some fear break through the controlled mind behind the eyes.
She looked at the left wing. Fire erupted at that moment. Don’t look at it! her mind screamed. The eyes moved to the altimeter. The left hand automatically found a handle on the left side of the cockpit. The right hand grabbed another on the right. It pulled. She felt the thrust and heard the low sound of an explosion. The eyes closed. Blackness. Crushing weight. Breathlessness.
The eyes opened into the dark, starry night. Another small explosion and she felt herself falling, faster and faster. Then, with a sharp jerk, she came to a sudden stop, the harness tightening against her chest. She looked up. In the darkness her body hung, swinging slightly, under a huge grey outline. Relief washed over her.
Then she heard the sound of tearing fabric, followed by the sensation of falling again. As she plummeted to the hard ground below, she heard herself scream...
Katy sat up suddenly in the bed. Her whole body shook as she fought against the blackness attempting to fill her mind. The last sounds she heard as she pulled herself out of the dark void were voices shouting in a language she did not understand. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking, her mind racing between the reality of her bedroom and the dream. Or was it a dream? Only a few months before, she and Marty had talked about the link between their minds, laughing about it.
Katy put her hands over her eyes trying to keep from shaking again. Oh my God! Is this real? Was it a dream? It seemed so real! She threw the covers back and got out of bed. As she paced the floor of the bedroom, her body coming fully awake, her mind began to go over what she had witnessed.
It’s not going away. I actually felt pain. I don’t normally feel pain in dreams. I can still see the stars and smell the explosion from the seat ejection.
She drifted into the living room. Katy took another deep breath, and looked around her. Yes, she was home, but the memory of the hot night air, the sudden stop in mid-air, and the pain of hitting something and stopping suddenly was real.
This can’t be real, she thought as she sat down on the couch and laid her head against the back of it. No! It’s a dream! I have to pull myself out of this. It’s not real!
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