A blog post with every single category marked (I'm doing this for scribefire)
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
2008-07-03
2008-02-25
Unnamed police drama. Chapter two.
This is chapter two. To read chapter one, click here.
It has been years since Ed Jakes felt this tired. He sat nursing his cup of coffee – his third that morning – while his stomach digested the oatmeal the diner had provided.
He thought back to the previous evening. The town meeting went the way he wanted it to but not without controversy. A meeting which officially ended at 8pm with the Mayor's declaration did not stop the questions, the accusations and the fear of an endless line of Gerrold county residents who saw him as a cross between a character from the Turner Diaries who was bent on getting the United Nations to invade America, and Virgil Tibbs, the mild mannered homicide detective played by actor Sidney Poitier.
Of course he was neither, and was at pains to let every individual he spoke to that he was just trying to make things better for everyone. Jakes' career was boosted by his capacity to negotiate and compromise, rather than to dominate and control. A spell as a hostage negotiator ten years previously had given his superiors ample reason to promote him to assistant director.
But, successful though he was in almost single-handedly winning over two-thirds of the vote, he knew that the challenge had only just begun. Like a President elected to power on the basis of change, he knew that results, not his effective rhetoric, would determine what happened next.
“'Scuse me?” a voice said to his left. Jakes looked up and saw a grizzled man who looked far older than he really was. Like a badge of honour, this man wore his ill-fitted clothes with a pride Jakes rarely saw. The man was a “cracker”, a West Virginian mountain man whose family had been part of the county for generations. He was what some people called a “hillbilly”.
“I just like t'say, I thought you spoke real good last night” the man said, “I never thought man o' your skin colour would be able to settle us down like you did.”
“Thank you very much” Jakes replied, feeling grateful for the man's words.
“I can't speak for all the Crackers you understand, but me and mine, we're right behind you.”
“Again, thank you.” Jakes said. The man smiled and walked away.
Ordinarily he would've used this sort of opening to find out the man's name so that could speak to him in the future. A little red book he carried in his jacket pocket was full of names and contact details of people he had spoken to the night before. This morning, however, he was just too weary.
Crackers. That was one of the first things he had learned when he came here – that the “hillbillies” in Gerrold county actually called themselves by that word. Like many, he assumed that, because it was a racist term in many places in Appalachia, that its usage would insult and divide. It didn't. They were proud to be called Crackers and not the least bit offended by its usage.
Gerrold County was, in Jakes' opinion, one of the strangest rural counties he had ever encountered. Oh it was similar to many in that there was a mixture of poverty and wealth, a mixture of different sub-cultures that were invisible at first glance – yes Gerrold County was not dissimilar at all. Nevertheless, there was a feeling, a “vibe” that Jakes had felt for the past few months of investigation and which came to a head during the meeting.
There were around 500 people packed into the town hall. Even with so many people he could notice distinct groups. The crackers, for example, seemed to be seated in three different sections of the hall. What was this about? One group looked especially angry at the goings on while the other two groups seemed quite interested. A small contingent of black Crackers was also present, and they seemed to be on good terms with one group of white crackers but not the other two. The townsfolk were typical middle America somehow transported into Appalachia – small business owners; professionals like lawyers and doctors and teachers. But even they seemed divided, though he could not see where. The strangest group were the Intech people. These people were mainly biomedical engineers and researchers and had taken the 20 mile trip to Gerrold itself, out of their protective gated community. They knew little of the people in the hall and hardly spoke to townsfolk, or even one another. Amongst them Jakes spotted a number of Intech security personnel. Mean, well built and dangerous looking, they seemed more concerned with the Intech employees than they did with anyone else.
Of course, all the Intech people voted against him, but that wasn't enough to make a difference.
Jakes blinked his eyes hard. He finished off his coffee and decided that he wasn't going to get any more awake than he was going to get. He had collapsed into bed at 3am, fell asleep 90 minutes later, and then woke with a blinding headache at 6.00am.
He looked at his watch. It was 7.21am. The headache was still there, though dulled somewhat by a combination of Tylenol and caffeine.
Then the door of the diner opened. In walked the man he was waiting for. The man spied Jakes immediately and smiled a greeting. He wore blue jeans, a check shirt and a fashionable light leather jacket. He didn't need the moustache to look Hispanic.
“Hey! Can I have an autograph?” yelled a man at a table on the other side of the diner. Customers looked around and saw who it was at the door. Some – those who had been at the meeting – laughed out loud. The man at the door laughed with them as he sat down opposite Jakes.
“You know I figure that that joke gets pretty old” Jakes said.
“You wouldn't believe how old it got in New York.” he said “People would make jokes about it every week in the precinct”
Jakes smiled. The Hispanic man sitting opposite him was a former NYPD police captain and one of the most competent police officers he had ever met. He was a bona fide hero, retired gloriously from the force through injury, and then moved to Quantico, Virginia, to work with FBI special agent training.
That, of course, was not the reason for the joke. The reason was that this man's name was Keith Hernandez.
When Hernandez arrived at Quantico to teach he made it very clear to everyone that yes, he likes baseball, but he rooted for the Yankees because that's what the NYPD did. He also assured people that he never watched Seinfeld, but he knew everything about that episode from what people had told him over the years. After that things were easy, except when he got into conversations with any woman named Elaine.
Unfortunately, he wasn't able to tell anyone last night, which resulted in a whole evening of people making up jokes he had heard too many times and being introduced to a number of Elaines who smiled and laughed. He would smile tightly and tried to steer the conversation back to something meaningful.
“I can see you're exhausted” said Hernandez, “I managed to fall asleep around 2am. You?”
“Three.”
At that point the waitress appeared. Hernandez ordered his breakfast and the woman walked away.
“Well, people really took to you, that's for sure” Jakes said.
Hernandez sighed and then laughed. “Well, from what I could see, they really took to you. I don't envy you man!”
“It wasn't anything that I hadn't heard before, but it was certainly more intense”
“You happy with the outcome?” Hernandez asked.
Jakes nodded “Yeah. Yes of course.”
There was a pause.
“....but?” asked Hernandez
“Well, it's obvious that everything is going according to plan which means...”
“More work for you...” Hernandez finished.
“Hmmm. What about you. What do you think?”
“Well, it looks like a nice place to work in for a while” Hernandez said meaningfully.
“So is that a yes?”
“Won't look good on my resume though. NYPD: 20 years. Rank: Captain. Medically retired. Lecturing at Quantico. Current employment: Sheriff of nowhere county, Western West Virginia. So. Yeah. It's a yes.”
“What about your health?”
“I'll manage. There are some Sheriffs out there who are more unhealthy than me.”
“That's true, but not many have had Mesothelioma”
Hernandez grimaced and paused. “Well, you're right. But. At least it got cured in time huh?”
Another person walked over to the table. This time it was a middle aged woman. She knelt down on one knee and placed her hand on the former NYPD officer's shoulder. She was on the verge of crying.
“Mr Hernandez, I'd just like to say thank you for all that you've done for our country.” she choked.
“Well. As I said last night, I wish I could've done more.”
“My cousin was... I was speaking to her on the phone before... before...”
The woman stopped suddenly. Her eyes were wet and red. Hernandez grabbed her hand firmly and looked at her directly.
“It's okay... I know.” he said.
“Thank you” she whispered. “I'm so glad you're here”.
The woman walked back to her table, wiping her nose and eyes.
“Does that happen often?” Jakes asked quietly.
Hernandez looked embarrassed. “Not very often. Only when I meet a family member of someone who died who knew that I was there. You know I never really liked the 'hero' label...”
“But you are a hero...”
“I just don't like the label. Besides. As I said, I didn't do much.”
Jakes sat back and exhaled. He looked around. Some of the customers in the diner were at the meeting last night. He knew that some were lifting their heads and looking at them, wondering what they had been discussing, wondering what the woman had said to Hernandez, wondering what the Cracker had said to him.
He turned back to Hernandez.
“You know as well as I that these people need a hero at a time like this.” he said quietly.
Hernandez nodded. “That's why I'm in.”
--------------------
Sorry for the delay. I was lacking inspiration! I originally wanted a scene depicting the town hall meeting but worked out that I could pretty much tell everything that happened through this scene with Jakes and Hernandez.
Keith Hernandez does not look like Keith Hernandez. He looks like Thomas Rosales Jr.
As for Hernandez's history, I've given plenty of hints here as to why he is considered a "hero".
Regarding the use of the term "cracker". From what I can gather, the term is similar to the Australian expression "Wog". "Wogs" were essentially Italian and Greek immigrants to Australia in the 50s and 60s. They were called "wogs" as a racist epithet but as time went by and the culture changed, the term "wog" lost its power and many 2nd generation Italians and Greeks didn't mind the term as it had become more "friendly". I realise that to some rural people who live in the Appalachians, such a term might be offensive but others might not. Read the Wikipedia article.
Quantico, Virginia, is where the FBI academy is. Everyone who saw Silence of the Lambs or The X-Files knows this.
It has been years since Ed Jakes felt this tired. He sat nursing his cup of coffee – his third that morning – while his stomach digested the oatmeal the diner had provided.
He thought back to the previous evening. The town meeting went the way he wanted it to but not without controversy. A meeting which officially ended at 8pm with the Mayor's declaration did not stop the questions, the accusations and the fear of an endless line of Gerrold county residents who saw him as a cross between a character from the Turner Diaries who was bent on getting the United Nations to invade America, and Virgil Tibbs, the mild mannered homicide detective played by actor Sidney Poitier.
Of course he was neither, and was at pains to let every individual he spoke to that he was just trying to make things better for everyone. Jakes' career was boosted by his capacity to negotiate and compromise, rather than to dominate and control. A spell as a hostage negotiator ten years previously had given his superiors ample reason to promote him to assistant director.
But, successful though he was in almost single-handedly winning over two-thirds of the vote, he knew that the challenge had only just begun. Like a President elected to power on the basis of change, he knew that results, not his effective rhetoric, would determine what happened next.
“'Scuse me?” a voice said to his left. Jakes looked up and saw a grizzled man who looked far older than he really was. Like a badge of honour, this man wore his ill-fitted clothes with a pride Jakes rarely saw. The man was a “cracker”, a West Virginian mountain man whose family had been part of the county for generations. He was what some people called a “hillbilly”.
“I just like t'say, I thought you spoke real good last night” the man said, “I never thought man o' your skin colour would be able to settle us down like you did.”
“Thank you very much” Jakes replied, feeling grateful for the man's words.
“I can't speak for all the Crackers you understand, but me and mine, we're right behind you.”
“Again, thank you.” Jakes said. The man smiled and walked away.
Ordinarily he would've used this sort of opening to find out the man's name so that could speak to him in the future. A little red book he carried in his jacket pocket was full of names and contact details of people he had spoken to the night before. This morning, however, he was just too weary.
Crackers. That was one of the first things he had learned when he came here – that the “hillbillies” in Gerrold county actually called themselves by that word. Like many, he assumed that, because it was a racist term in many places in Appalachia, that its usage would insult and divide. It didn't. They were proud to be called Crackers and not the least bit offended by its usage.
Gerrold County was, in Jakes' opinion, one of the strangest rural counties he had ever encountered. Oh it was similar to many in that there was a mixture of poverty and wealth, a mixture of different sub-cultures that were invisible at first glance – yes Gerrold County was not dissimilar at all. Nevertheless, there was a feeling, a “vibe” that Jakes had felt for the past few months of investigation and which came to a head during the meeting.
There were around 500 people packed into the town hall. Even with so many people he could notice distinct groups. The crackers, for example, seemed to be seated in three different sections of the hall. What was this about? One group looked especially angry at the goings on while the other two groups seemed quite interested. A small contingent of black Crackers was also present, and they seemed to be on good terms with one group of white crackers but not the other two. The townsfolk were typical middle America somehow transported into Appalachia – small business owners; professionals like lawyers and doctors and teachers. But even they seemed divided, though he could not see where. The strangest group were the Intech people. These people were mainly biomedical engineers and researchers and had taken the 20 mile trip to Gerrold itself, out of their protective gated community. They knew little of the people in the hall and hardly spoke to townsfolk, or even one another. Amongst them Jakes spotted a number of Intech security personnel. Mean, well built and dangerous looking, they seemed more concerned with the Intech employees than they did with anyone else.
Of course, all the Intech people voted against him, but that wasn't enough to make a difference.
Jakes blinked his eyes hard. He finished off his coffee and decided that he wasn't going to get any more awake than he was going to get. He had collapsed into bed at 3am, fell asleep 90 minutes later, and then woke with a blinding headache at 6.00am.
He looked at his watch. It was 7.21am. The headache was still there, though dulled somewhat by a combination of Tylenol and caffeine.
Then the door of the diner opened. In walked the man he was waiting for. The man spied Jakes immediately and smiled a greeting. He wore blue jeans, a check shirt and a fashionable light leather jacket. He didn't need the moustache to look Hispanic.
“Hey! Can I have an autograph?” yelled a man at a table on the other side of the diner. Customers looked around and saw who it was at the door. Some – those who had been at the meeting – laughed out loud. The man at the door laughed with them as he sat down opposite Jakes.
“You know I figure that that joke gets pretty old” Jakes said.
“You wouldn't believe how old it got in New York.” he said “People would make jokes about it every week in the precinct”
Jakes smiled. The Hispanic man sitting opposite him was a former NYPD police captain and one of the most competent police officers he had ever met. He was a bona fide hero, retired gloriously from the force through injury, and then moved to Quantico, Virginia, to work with FBI special agent training.
That, of course, was not the reason for the joke. The reason was that this man's name was Keith Hernandez.
When Hernandez arrived at Quantico to teach he made it very clear to everyone that yes, he likes baseball, but he rooted for the Yankees because that's what the NYPD did. He also assured people that he never watched Seinfeld, but he knew everything about that episode from what people had told him over the years. After that things were easy, except when he got into conversations with any woman named Elaine.
Unfortunately, he wasn't able to tell anyone last night, which resulted in a whole evening of people making up jokes he had heard too many times and being introduced to a number of Elaines who smiled and laughed. He would smile tightly and tried to steer the conversation back to something meaningful.
“I can see you're exhausted” said Hernandez, “I managed to fall asleep around 2am. You?”
“Three.”
At that point the waitress appeared. Hernandez ordered his breakfast and the woman walked away.
“Well, people really took to you, that's for sure” Jakes said.
Hernandez sighed and then laughed. “Well, from what I could see, they really took to you. I don't envy you man!”
“It wasn't anything that I hadn't heard before, but it was certainly more intense”
“You happy with the outcome?” Hernandez asked.
Jakes nodded “Yeah. Yes of course.”
There was a pause.
“....but?” asked Hernandez
“Well, it's obvious that everything is going according to plan which means...”
“More work for you...” Hernandez finished.
“Hmmm. What about you. What do you think?”
“Well, it looks like a nice place to work in for a while” Hernandez said meaningfully.
“So is that a yes?”
“Won't look good on my resume though. NYPD: 20 years. Rank: Captain. Medically retired. Lecturing at Quantico. Current employment: Sheriff of nowhere county, Western West Virginia. So. Yeah. It's a yes.”
“What about your health?”
“I'll manage. There are some Sheriffs out there who are more unhealthy than me.”
“That's true, but not many have had Mesothelioma”
Hernandez grimaced and paused. “Well, you're right. But. At least it got cured in time huh?”
Another person walked over to the table. This time it was a middle aged woman. She knelt down on one knee and placed her hand on the former NYPD officer's shoulder. She was on the verge of crying.
“Mr Hernandez, I'd just like to say thank you for all that you've done for our country.” she choked.
“Well. As I said last night, I wish I could've done more.”
“My cousin was... I was speaking to her on the phone before... before...”
The woman stopped suddenly. Her eyes were wet and red. Hernandez grabbed her hand firmly and looked at her directly.
“It's okay... I know.” he said.
“Thank you” she whispered. “I'm so glad you're here”.
The woman walked back to her table, wiping her nose and eyes.
“Does that happen often?” Jakes asked quietly.
Hernandez looked embarrassed. “Not very often. Only when I meet a family member of someone who died who knew that I was there. You know I never really liked the 'hero' label...”
“But you are a hero...”
“I just don't like the label. Besides. As I said, I didn't do much.”
Jakes sat back and exhaled. He looked around. Some of the customers in the diner were at the meeting last night. He knew that some were lifting their heads and looking at them, wondering what they had been discussing, wondering what the woman had said to Hernandez, wondering what the Cracker had said to him.
He turned back to Hernandez.
“You know as well as I that these people need a hero at a time like this.” he said quietly.
Hernandez nodded. “That's why I'm in.”
--------------------
Sorry for the delay. I was lacking inspiration! I originally wanted a scene depicting the town hall meeting but worked out that I could pretty much tell everything that happened through this scene with Jakes and Hernandez.
Keith Hernandez does not look like Keith Hernandez. He looks like Thomas Rosales Jr.
As for Hernandez's history, I've given plenty of hints here as to why he is considered a "hero".
Regarding the use of the term "cracker". From what I can gather, the term is similar to the Australian expression "Wog". "Wogs" were essentially Italian and Greek immigrants to Australia in the 50s and 60s. They were called "wogs" as a racist epithet but as time went by and the culture changed, the term "wog" lost its power and many 2nd generation Italians and Greeks didn't mind the term as it had become more "friendly". I realise that to some rural people who live in the Appalachians, such a term might be offensive but others might not. Read the Wikipedia article.
Quantico, Virginia, is where the FBI academy is. Everyone who saw Silence of the Lambs or The X-Files knows this.
2008-02-15
Unnamed police drama. Chapter one.
Sheriff Baker placed his legs up on the table and yawned, stretching his aging arms wide. It was looking like a good morning, but it was probably his last good morning ever. This thought rattled him slightly.
The coffee was good, as it always was. The donut was, well, typical. The donut shop in town hadn't been doing too well since the owner died last month. In the age old fashion, he dipped the donut in the coffee and brought it into his mouth. Coffee and donuts – it was what police did, or at least what all those TV shows and films showed what police did. He didn't care. He liked it.
He was savouring the coffee-laced dough when the door opened. Ed Jakes, an African American, entered, carrying his usual briefcase and wearing his typical suit. Baker didn't get up.
“Well, look who it is. It's the Feds.” he said.
“Morning sheriff. Don't get up. May I come in?” he asked.
“Course you can” Sheriff Baker said “You only walked outta here past midnight last night.”
“That's the truth” he said, and sat down opposite Baker.
Ed Jakes was an assistant director in the FBI. At 60 years old he was the same age as the county sheriff opposite him but was leaner, meaner and younger looking. His G-man suit was freshly pressed. His skin and clothes and professional demeanour immediately put him at odds with the town outside. He spied the donut and coffee and shook his head.
“You know Sheriff, you're a walking talking stereotype having that stuff for breakfast.”
“It ain't breakfast, it's, well, let's say it's morning tea. You know, like the Queen has.”
Jakes laughed. “How's business?” he asked.
Sheriff Baker smiled and puffed up “Wouldn't ya know it? I gave out a parking ticket this morning.”
Jakes grinned. In the last few months of getting to know the Sheriff he had gotten to like him, despite all that had happened. Then he remembered what he had been doing before walking into the Sheriff's office, and his grin faded.
“You hear there was a shooting this morning?”
The Sheriff's eyes dropped. “Yeah, heard it in my prowler before I turned the radio off. Bad?”
“Pregnant teenager. Black girl. Shot in the head out the back of the supermarket.” Jakes replied.
“She dead?” Sheriff Baker asked. Jakes nodded and Baker shook his head.
“Shit” Baker declared. “You know, 20 years ago when citizens were murdered there was some sort of outcry. These days. Well. This county seems to be some crazy western town. Nobody'd think it was the 21st century. Any idea who the shooter was?”
“Well, who knows? I had a look at the body and it looked like a typical 9 millimetre entry wound. The brick wall behind her had two bullet holes in it. I had a look. The bullets went in further than the usual semi-automatic pistol which means they had the muzzle velocity of a sub machine gun. They were AP rounds as well. At a guess, I'd say someone with an MP5 fired a three round burst at her from close range.”
“MP5? There's only one people round here who use them.” The Sherriff said.
Jakes nodded.
The Sheriff continued. “And if the girl was killed by Intech security, they ain't gonna release the body for no one. Probably not even the family.”
Jakes nodded again. “Comes with their territory. I suppose they're just pissed that the county isn't renewing the contract.”
The Sheriff shook his head “Well, we'll see about that tonight.”
Jakes paused and then picked up his brief case. He opened it and brought out a manila folder, thick with documents inside.
“So. Is this a social visit or do you have something for me?' Baker asked.
“Every visit is a social visit with you Sheriff Baker. Here.”
Jakes handed the Sheriff the folder. The Sheriff put his donut and coffee on the table and sat upright as he took it. He opened it immediately and began to read.
“I like that picture of me,” the Sheriff presently said. “It makes me look thin”
Sheriff Baker continued to read. Every so often he would turn a few pages over. Sometimes he would turn back. After a couple of minutes he closed it up and put it back on the table. He picked up his mug of coffee, leaned back and put his feet back on the table again.
“Anything missing?” Jakes asked.
“No. It's all there. Even stuff I didn't know. You even got that bank account number in Bermuda right. I kept getting the last two digits wrong. So. How long?”
Jakes took an intake of breath as he considered. “Well if you don't co-operate, you'll probably spend the rest of your life behind bars at county.”
“Hmm.” said Sheriff Baker “And if I do co-operate?”
“Probably about twenty years in a Federal Prison. Interstate. Medium security. Private cell.”
“Do I get a Television?”
“Well that'll be up to the warden obviously. But at least you won't get raped by some of the guys in county you put away.”
Sheriff Baker was silent for a moment.
“Well, twenty years is life for someone like me I suppose. I might as well enjoy it at the Federal Government's expense”. Sheriff Baker re-dunked his donut in his coffee and consumed the rest of it.
“Is that a 'yes' Sheriff Baker?” asked Jakes.
“Mhhh Huhhh” the Sheriff nodded, moist crumbs falling from his full mouth.
Jakes produced a pen and handed it to Baker. “Last page. Where the X is.”
Sheriff Baker sat back up again, took the pen and opened up the folder again to the last page.
“Well, I better check the fine print. Don't want to discover I signed a document that has hidden interest charges or some such” Baker said as he pulled out his glasses. After another minute of careful reading he signed it.
“Couldn't understand a damn word anyway” he said, handing the pen back.
Jakes took the pen and returned it to his pocket. Baker returned to his horizontal position, coffee mug in hand as Jakes took the folder back.
“Do you think the townsfolk will approve?” asked Jakes.
“Well who knows?” Sheriff Baker mused. “Five years ago. No way in hell. Give me liberty or give me death and all that stuff. These days?” Baker shrugged. “There may be a few people waving the constitution around, but they ain't the ones who've lost loved ones. Yet.”
“That's what I figure” Jakes nodded “What we're doing is very unusual. To be honest I thought that, in West Virginia of all places, people would start talking about Waco or Ruby Ridge.”
“Well they did. For a while. Then they started to notice that it wasn't the government who was 'wielding the sword' and taking away their rights. Intech have tried their best to frighten people about you feds, and it would've worked 2 or 3 years ago. Now? If Senator McCarthy were alive today he would be saying we've turned communist.”
“Thankfully that's hardly what we're going to do.” Jakes comented.
“Yeah. That I know - now. So, when's the meeting?”
“Seven o'clock tonight. Town Hall obviously. It'd be good if you went. You are still Sheriff for another 24 hours.” Jakes suggested.
“Nah. I'll only get in the way. Mayor'll be there won't he? You're not arresting him are you?”
“No not yet. We have some evidence against him but, to be brutally honest, we need him where he is. He'll be more effective as mayor than sitting in jail.”
“Unlike me of course!” Sheriff Baker laughed “Someone had to take the fall I suppose. In many ways I'm glad that it was me.”
There was a pause. Jakes put the folder back into his briefcase and put it back on the ground.
“Two more things before I go.” Jakes tapped the table. “First. This building. Did Intech ever use it?”
“Nope. As soon as the contract got signed they did everything from HQ. We got rooms and cells here full of dust. If you guys get the contract you're welcome to the place. Is it up to FBI standards?”
“Of course not, but we'll spend a bit of taxpayers money to renovate it. Second question.”
“Shoot.”
Jakes paused. “You okay?”
Sheriff Baker knotted his eyebrows in confusion.
“What you talkin' about?”
“You spent twenty years here...”
“As Sheriff. I was here longer as a deputy.”
“Are you okay - you know. In your head. Your heart.”
Baker paused and looked into the FBI man's eyes. “Strange questions comin' from you. You asking me about my mental health? Is that it?”
Jakes nodded.
“Hmmm. I suppose I should be glad you asked. I suppose I should also say it's none of your damn business. But you've been good to me Director Jakes. You've been honest. You've done what you said you would.”
Sheriff Baker inhaled loudly as he thought.
“I take full responsibility for all that I've done. I was stupid, greedy and naïve – characteristics that shouldn't typify a 60 year old man, let alone a county sheriff. But in these last 6 months Director Jakes, I been reading the Bible a lot and praying. I sinned. I sinned against the people of this town and this county. I sinned against the people who've died in the last five years and some of their blood is on my hands because of what I failed to do. I can't deny that. But I also sinned against God. And the only thing that's kept me going, what's keeping me from taking my own life is the joy I feel. Do you believe in God director Jakes?”
“As a matter of fact I don't.”
“Well that's a pity right there. But then. Well. I'm the one who's joyful in the Lord who's the one going to prison. You're the unbeliever, but who's done the right thing. Even I know that ain't right.”
“So do you feel anxious. Depressed. Anything like that?” Jakes continued.
“Not any more. I did more weeping and gnashing of teeth before you Feds turned up. One of the reasons I believe God sent you all was to save me, amongst other things. So. No. I'm fine. Obviously a little sad. But I'm not going to cut my wrists or blow my brains out. That's for sure.”
Jakes stood. “That's good to hear. Federal prisons do have first rate counselling services. You may need it some time. It's no shame to admit it.”
Baker nodded. “I chose to face my sins and all my wrongdoing the day you walked in here and read me my rights. I chose not to be silent. I can assure you director Jakes, if I need some professional help for my head, my pride ain't going to get in the way any more.”
“Well. I'll see you later.” Jakes said as he turned to the door.
“See you in court” Baker responded with a grin.
Jakes walked out.
---------------------
Notes:
I imagine Sydney Poitier as Jakes and Jack Nance as Sheriff Baker.
Intech is a fictional company in this story and is not related in any way to any real companies called Intech.
Yes, TD Jakes was the first name in my mind for the FBI guy.
The story takes place in the fictional "Gerrold county" in West Virginia. It is on the western border with Kentucky and shares borders with the real counties of Wayne and Mingo.
The story is set in the year 2013.
© 2008 Neil McKenzie Cameron, http://one-salient-oversight.blogspot.com/
FAQ about the author
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 License.
The coffee was good, as it always was. The donut was, well, typical. The donut shop in town hadn't been doing too well since the owner died last month. In the age old fashion, he dipped the donut in the coffee and brought it into his mouth. Coffee and donuts – it was what police did, or at least what all those TV shows and films showed what police did. He didn't care. He liked it.
He was savouring the coffee-laced dough when the door opened. Ed Jakes, an African American, entered, carrying his usual briefcase and wearing his typical suit. Baker didn't get up.
“Well, look who it is. It's the Feds.” he said.
“Morning sheriff. Don't get up. May I come in?” he asked.
“Course you can” Sheriff Baker said “You only walked outta here past midnight last night.”
“That's the truth” he said, and sat down opposite Baker.
Ed Jakes was an assistant director in the FBI. At 60 years old he was the same age as the county sheriff opposite him but was leaner, meaner and younger looking. His G-man suit was freshly pressed. His skin and clothes and professional demeanour immediately put him at odds with the town outside. He spied the donut and coffee and shook his head.
“You know Sheriff, you're a walking talking stereotype having that stuff for breakfast.”
“It ain't breakfast, it's, well, let's say it's morning tea. You know, like the Queen has.”
Jakes laughed. “How's business?” he asked.
Sheriff Baker smiled and puffed up “Wouldn't ya know it? I gave out a parking ticket this morning.”
Jakes grinned. In the last few months of getting to know the Sheriff he had gotten to like him, despite all that had happened. Then he remembered what he had been doing before walking into the Sheriff's office, and his grin faded.
“You hear there was a shooting this morning?”
The Sheriff's eyes dropped. “Yeah, heard it in my prowler before I turned the radio off. Bad?”
“Pregnant teenager. Black girl. Shot in the head out the back of the supermarket.” Jakes replied.
“She dead?” Sheriff Baker asked. Jakes nodded and Baker shook his head.
“Shit” Baker declared. “You know, 20 years ago when citizens were murdered there was some sort of outcry. These days. Well. This county seems to be some crazy western town. Nobody'd think it was the 21st century. Any idea who the shooter was?”
“Well, who knows? I had a look at the body and it looked like a typical 9 millimetre entry wound. The brick wall behind her had two bullet holes in it. I had a look. The bullets went in further than the usual semi-automatic pistol which means they had the muzzle velocity of a sub machine gun. They were AP rounds as well. At a guess, I'd say someone with an MP5 fired a three round burst at her from close range.”
“MP5? There's only one people round here who use them.” The Sherriff said.
Jakes nodded.
The Sheriff continued. “And if the girl was killed by Intech security, they ain't gonna release the body for no one. Probably not even the family.”
Jakes nodded again. “Comes with their territory. I suppose they're just pissed that the county isn't renewing the contract.”
The Sheriff shook his head “Well, we'll see about that tonight.”
Jakes paused and then picked up his brief case. He opened it and brought out a manila folder, thick with documents inside.
“So. Is this a social visit or do you have something for me?' Baker asked.
“Every visit is a social visit with you Sheriff Baker. Here.”
Jakes handed the Sheriff the folder. The Sheriff put his donut and coffee on the table and sat upright as he took it. He opened it immediately and began to read.
“I like that picture of me,” the Sheriff presently said. “It makes me look thin”
Sheriff Baker continued to read. Every so often he would turn a few pages over. Sometimes he would turn back. After a couple of minutes he closed it up and put it back on the table. He picked up his mug of coffee, leaned back and put his feet back on the table again.
“Anything missing?” Jakes asked.
“No. It's all there. Even stuff I didn't know. You even got that bank account number in Bermuda right. I kept getting the last two digits wrong. So. How long?”
Jakes took an intake of breath as he considered. “Well if you don't co-operate, you'll probably spend the rest of your life behind bars at county.”
“Hmm.” said Sheriff Baker “And if I do co-operate?”
“Probably about twenty years in a Federal Prison. Interstate. Medium security. Private cell.”
“Do I get a Television?”
“Well that'll be up to the warden obviously. But at least you won't get raped by some of the guys in county you put away.”
Sheriff Baker was silent for a moment.
“Well, twenty years is life for someone like me I suppose. I might as well enjoy it at the Federal Government's expense”. Sheriff Baker re-dunked his donut in his coffee and consumed the rest of it.
“Is that a 'yes' Sheriff Baker?” asked Jakes.
“Mhhh Huhhh” the Sheriff nodded, moist crumbs falling from his full mouth.
Jakes produced a pen and handed it to Baker. “Last page. Where the X is.”
Sheriff Baker sat back up again, took the pen and opened up the folder again to the last page.
“Well, I better check the fine print. Don't want to discover I signed a document that has hidden interest charges or some such” Baker said as he pulled out his glasses. After another minute of careful reading he signed it.
“Couldn't understand a damn word anyway” he said, handing the pen back.
Jakes took the pen and returned it to his pocket. Baker returned to his horizontal position, coffee mug in hand as Jakes took the folder back.
“Do you think the townsfolk will approve?” asked Jakes.
“Well who knows?” Sheriff Baker mused. “Five years ago. No way in hell. Give me liberty or give me death and all that stuff. These days?” Baker shrugged. “There may be a few people waving the constitution around, but they ain't the ones who've lost loved ones. Yet.”
“That's what I figure” Jakes nodded “What we're doing is very unusual. To be honest I thought that, in West Virginia of all places, people would start talking about Waco or Ruby Ridge.”
“Well they did. For a while. Then they started to notice that it wasn't the government who was 'wielding the sword' and taking away their rights. Intech have tried their best to frighten people about you feds, and it would've worked 2 or 3 years ago. Now? If Senator McCarthy were alive today he would be saying we've turned communist.”
“Thankfully that's hardly what we're going to do.” Jakes comented.
“Yeah. That I know - now. So, when's the meeting?”
“Seven o'clock tonight. Town Hall obviously. It'd be good if you went. You are still Sheriff for another 24 hours.” Jakes suggested.
“Nah. I'll only get in the way. Mayor'll be there won't he? You're not arresting him are you?”
“No not yet. We have some evidence against him but, to be brutally honest, we need him where he is. He'll be more effective as mayor than sitting in jail.”
“Unlike me of course!” Sheriff Baker laughed “Someone had to take the fall I suppose. In many ways I'm glad that it was me.”
There was a pause. Jakes put the folder back into his briefcase and put it back on the ground.
“Two more things before I go.” Jakes tapped the table. “First. This building. Did Intech ever use it?”
“Nope. As soon as the contract got signed they did everything from HQ. We got rooms and cells here full of dust. If you guys get the contract you're welcome to the place. Is it up to FBI standards?”
“Of course not, but we'll spend a bit of taxpayers money to renovate it. Second question.”
“Shoot.”
Jakes paused. “You okay?”
Sheriff Baker knotted his eyebrows in confusion.
“What you talkin' about?”
“You spent twenty years here...”
“As Sheriff. I was here longer as a deputy.”
“Are you okay - you know. In your head. Your heart.”
Baker paused and looked into the FBI man's eyes. “Strange questions comin' from you. You asking me about my mental health? Is that it?”
Jakes nodded.
“Hmmm. I suppose I should be glad you asked. I suppose I should also say it's none of your damn business. But you've been good to me Director Jakes. You've been honest. You've done what you said you would.”
Sheriff Baker inhaled loudly as he thought.
“I take full responsibility for all that I've done. I was stupid, greedy and naïve – characteristics that shouldn't typify a 60 year old man, let alone a county sheriff. But in these last 6 months Director Jakes, I been reading the Bible a lot and praying. I sinned. I sinned against the people of this town and this county. I sinned against the people who've died in the last five years and some of their blood is on my hands because of what I failed to do. I can't deny that. But I also sinned against God. And the only thing that's kept me going, what's keeping me from taking my own life is the joy I feel. Do you believe in God director Jakes?”
“As a matter of fact I don't.”
“Well that's a pity right there. But then. Well. I'm the one who's joyful in the Lord who's the one going to prison. You're the unbeliever, but who's done the right thing. Even I know that ain't right.”
“So do you feel anxious. Depressed. Anything like that?” Jakes continued.
“Not any more. I did more weeping and gnashing of teeth before you Feds turned up. One of the reasons I believe God sent you all was to save me, amongst other things. So. No. I'm fine. Obviously a little sad. But I'm not going to cut my wrists or blow my brains out. That's for sure.”
Jakes stood. “That's good to hear. Federal prisons do have first rate counselling services. You may need it some time. It's no shame to admit it.”
Baker nodded. “I chose to face my sins and all my wrongdoing the day you walked in here and read me my rights. I chose not to be silent. I can assure you director Jakes, if I need some professional help for my head, my pride ain't going to get in the way any more.”
“Well. I'll see you later.” Jakes said as he turned to the door.
“See you in court” Baker responded with a grin.
Jakes walked out.
---------------------
Notes:
I imagine Sydney Poitier as Jakes and Jack Nance as Sheriff Baker.
Intech is a fictional company in this story and is not related in any way to any real companies called Intech.
Yes, TD Jakes was the first name in my mind for the FBI guy.
The story takes place in the fictional "Gerrold county" in West Virginia. It is on the western border with Kentucky and shares borders with the real counties of Wayne and Mingo.
The story is set in the year 2013.
© 2008 Neil McKenzie Cameron, http://one-salient-oversight.blogspot.com/
FAQ about the author
This work is licensed under a
Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 License.
2008-02-12
Writing fiction
I also have two other blogs which I never update. "Entropy" is a TV-like script I wrote about 10 years ago. Think of "X-Files" and "Brazil" and "Pulp Fiction" all mixed together. Caldera is an idea I had a few years ago for an alternative Police Drama, but didn't go beyond the ideas.
Lately I've been toying around with another idea. What I'm going to try to do is write a Police Drama story based in a fictional county in West Virginia. I've got the basic stuff thought up and Chapter One is nearly finished.
My aim is to write a chapter a week - about 2000 words - of one scene. This won't be a serious project (I'll licence it under a Creative Commons Attribution 2.5 Australia License which allows anyone to modify it, copy it and use it for commercial purposes without having to pay me) and it'll be done as a bit of fun. I'm not trying to become an author or anything silly like that - I just feel like I want to write and I have a good idea.
At this stage I'll be publishing every Friday. I will be including swear words in the dialogue and there will be descriptions of violence.
2007-04-03
F-14 Short Story
Victor Daedalovich walked out onto the sunny tarmac. The brightness of the sun and the heat from the Californian summer made him wince, even behind the sunglasses that helped hide his features from any prying eyes. But it was not the glare that bothered him, but the broken finger in his left hand, the result of a botched attempt to neutralise the F-14 pilot he was replacing.
It had taken too long to hide the body, but he knew that it would eventually be found. He felt a weight of regret that he was forced to kill the man after he managed to avoid being sedated in the men's toilet. He had been specifically instructed not to kill anyone on this mission for obvious reasons. Now he knew that his chances of making it out alive were even slimmer. But at least he could die knowing that he had done the right thing.
An African-American man in a flight suit walked up to him as he strode towards the Tomcat. His patches indicated his role as a Radar Intercept Officer - the man who sits behind the pilot on F-14s. Was he the man he was told about?
"Hey Charles, how are you?" he remarked "How's the man treating you?"
"I've had better days" Victor replied in his best American accent. It was true. This was probably the worst day of his life and, hopefully, one which he will be remembered for.
They strode together towards the Tomcat. On the tail of the aircraft he saw the squadron insignia, a grinning wolf. As someone who used to hunt Siberian wolves, he felt that it was appropriate.
"I sold my car finally", the man said "Guess I won't need it any more".
It took a second for Victor to decode the man's statement. Yes. It was him.
"You ready for this?" Victor asked.
"Yeah man. As ready as I'll ever be" he responded.
Victor purposefully began to mount the ladder to the cockpit. He had never flown one of these machines before. He'd had years of experience on Mig-21s and Mig-23s, but this was the first time he would be flying an American aircraft. He tried to be as nonchalant as possible, but he caught himself examining the nosecone of the special Phoenix missile under the wing for half a second before he stepped up on the ladder.
Victor knew the configuration. His F-14 had one Phoenix long range missile under the port wing, a dummy missile under the starboard wing to balance it out, and a drop tank on the belly with 280 gallons of jet fuel. The Phoenix was the world's most advanced air-to-air missile and took advantage of the Tomcat's massive AWG-9 radar. His bosses had briefed him that the missiles had a range of up to 100 clicks. Victor realised that he was probably the first Soviet agent to get this close to one.
This missile, though, was different. It was not white, but red. Its nosecone was also different - slightly fatter and flatter than the original design. His mission depended upon that missile.
A man was right behind him. "Hey. Don't look too long." he said "This is Air Force property. Not Navy.".
As Victor climbed up the ladder the man followed. He was a member of the ground crew and helped to fit Victor into the seat. His patches indicated that he was Air Force, not Navy.
Behind him, Victor's RIO was being fitted in by another member of the ground crew.
"Sparko" said his RIO behind him "You hear about what they're doing with Iran?"
"That is restricted information!" the Air Force crewman interrupted, "You are not allowed to discuss it. Get on with the mission."
The man climbed down and walked away across the tarmac. Sparko and his RIO were unusually quiet.
"We got one more day of this guy. Then we're free." Sparko said in a low voice as he finished strapping in the RIO.
"Air Force, man" the RIO muttered "They're all on Benzedrine. Makes them assholes."
"What's this about Iran?" Victor asked as Sparko climbed down.
"Ahh, nothing really. Just some deal the government's making. I'll tell you about it later."
Victor knew that they had to be careful - in more ways than one. The cockpit voice recorder was recording everything they were saying. He knew that, at some stage, they'd have to somehow shut it off. There couldn't be any record of what they were doing - even if their mission failed and they were dead.
Victor stopped thinking about the mission and started to look at the cockpit. He'd been given schematics before he'd left Moscow and had memorised what everything was. They'd even created a mock up for him to practice on but it was nothing compared to the real thing.
"Hey Charles" said the RIO behind him "Remember when you first flew this thing? You couldn't get off the ground for half an hour 'cause you forgot to disengage the safety!"
Ah yes, Victor thought, I almost forgot. Victor flipped off the safety. He could now start the jet.
"I was still hung over" Victor replied. "Too much Vodka".
They both laughed, but Victor knew it was hollow and forced. Whoever his RIO was, he was good. He knew exactly how to help him and what to say. He knew that he would the last man he ever trusted, and he couldn't even remember what he looked like.
Victor started the plane. The turbofans began to howl and the cockpit shut.
"**611 are you ready for flight, over?**" came the voice over the headset.
"Ready for mission. Waiting for TOP" replied Victor. His American accent still struggling.
"**Move to 24R, over**"
"24R is the long one Charles." his RIO reminded him
"I'm not drunk today. I know my left from right." Victor replied
"Yeah well, sometimes I think you're too thick to remember."
They both laughed again. It was like acting in a play, thought Victor.
The Tomcat taxied to the end of runway 24R. They waited. The body may be found soon, thought Victor.
"**611 you are cleared for takeoff**"
"Roger tower" Victor said.
He began to open the throttle. The F-14's massive engines began to spew out concentrated flame. The pain in his little finger continued to break into his concentration. They had only been moving down the runway for a second when suddenly his RIO piped up.
"ABORT TAKEOFF. I REPEAT, ABORT TAKEOFF" he yelled.
What the hell was going on? He couldn't risk it. Even in the world of espionage things could go wrong. He had to abort the takeoff. The Tomcat's engines stopped their flame and the plane simply coasted along the runway, propelled by the initial thrust.
"**611 what is your status over?**"
Victor hoped his RIO would reply. There was nothing forthcoming.
"Will advise tower. Over" Victor said.
The plane continued its slowing roll down the runway. Victor could see the anxious eyes of mechanics and technicians from the hanger looking over.
"Tower this is RIO. We have a short in progress. Will advise." the RIO said.
"**Confirm 611. Taxi to dearming area.**"
Victor nudged the throttle enough to keep the plane rolling down the runway.
"You anywhere with this?" Victor asked.
"Ahh, I'm still trying to find the sonofabitch"
Minutes passed. They reached the end of the runway. There they were greeted by about 20 men dressed in protective fire suits and carrying hoses. One of them, an officer in charge, indicated to Victor that he wanted to talk. Victor switched to ground frequency.
"You guys okay?" Victor asked.
"You're asking us?" the man asked back. He was Air Force.
"We got a short Captain, no problems at the moment" the RIO replied "You guys bored or something?"
"Hey with that missile on you, we have orders to act in case of any potential emergency."
The RIO muted the comm. "Humourless bastard" he commented.
"Sorry RIO, I was born with a stick up my ass." Said the man in the fire suit.
"Whoah! You sayin' you can hear me?" the RIO asked.
"As sure as you're an asshole."
"Well gosh darn, looks like I found the short." the RIO said.
"Much obliged dirtbag. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Yeah just stay here. I'm about to take out the fuse. I may need you guys just in case we blow up"
Victor could hear his RIO take off his gloves and begin to rattle around inside his cockpit.
"You sure you don't want the techs to take care of this?" asked the man in the fire suit.
"Negative captain" Victor replied "Ranger can do that for us. We're already late as it is."
Victor looked away from the group of firemen. Near the hanger he saw two other Tomcats with their cockpits open. He wondered if he would be forced to shoot one of them down later - that is, if they can get off the ground in time.
He heard a laugh from behind him.
"Hey, guess what I found it."
"You need us then?" the Captain asked.
"Thanks for your help Captain. See you in hell." The RIO said.
"Yeah whatever..." the man in fire suit replied. Victor could see him mouthing obscenities with the microphone off.
The RIO contacted the tower.
"Tower this is RIO 611. Problem isolated."
"**611 wait for clearance. Over.**"
Victor looked at the cockpit clock. They were running late. If they couldn't take off in ten minutes then he'd have to do it without permission - something which would obviously raise suspicion and make the mission even less likely. Another minute passed.
"**611 this is Tech-comm. What is your situation**
"A short in panel 12. Fuse 34CV has blown. Removed it and turned off C37 switch. I think the boys at Ranger can fix this, over" the RIO said.
"**Have you checked safety system 4?"
"As much as I can." the RIO replied
"**We are advising that the mission should be aborted"
Despite the heat of the sun, Victor suddenly felt a chill run through his spine. There was no way he would abort the mission. He'd have to die trying if need be. His RIO was patient though.
"To hell with that Harold! It's just a short. We're not going to lose out on this. Do we really want to piss off the Air Force on this one?"
"**Fred man I understand what you're saying but this is a code 5 breakdown."
"I know Harold, which is why Ranger can handle it after the mission is over."
"**This is a potential Broken Arrow"
Victor could hear his RIO getting hot.
"This is an Air Force mission Harold. It only becomes a Navy mission after I fire the damn thing! What do your procedures manual say about that?"
There was a pause.
"**What do you suggest Fred man?"
"Ranger can handle it when we land. Until then there's nothing to prevent us from starting the mission."
Another Pause
"**Confirm that Fred man. Will advise Ranger. Don't forget your sunglasses. Over"
"Jerk" the RIO breathed "He does come from Iowa so I suppose I'd better forgive his ass"
"**611 this is tower, move to 24R". Clearance had been given. They began to travel back towards the other end of the runway. Victor could see the firemen putting away their gear.
"I suppose you're wondering what that was all about hey Moscow?" said the RIO
"Explain it to me" Victor asked. Obviously they could talk now.
"I couldn't get the cockpit voice controller to malfunction without taking out that fuse. And I couldn't do it while we were flying either. Sorry to botch things up for you. My name's Frederick. You can call me Fred man. All my friends do."
"My name is Victor, you can call me Daedalovich. That's what my friends call me." Victor replied.
"Nice to meet you Dee Man. So. How's Charles. Is he okay?" Fred asked.
Victor felt that he couldn't do anything but tell the truth. Fred was probably the last human being he would know personally.
"I had to kill him"
"Shit man!" Fred replied "Why did you have to do that?"
"I couldn't sedate him in time. We had a fight. He broke one of my fingers. I had to store him in the back toilet."
"Shit. I did this 'cause I was told no one would die man!"
"Things go wrong my friend", Victor replied "It can't be helped"
"Ah well. He was a complete asshole but a good pilot." Fred finally said. Victor could sense the forced nature of the comment. Obviously Charles' death was unsettling for him, not to mention that his killer was sitting a few feet in front of him.
"Does it make you have second thoughts?" Victor asked. They were nearing the end of their taxi
"Huh? No way man. No way. I ain't doing this for your country man, I'm doing it for my own. I guess I wouldn't have believed it had I not looked into a telescope and seen it for myself."
"You could see it in a telescope?"
"Well, I saw a dot. Nothing orbits that low, man. Some astronaut dudes I know were even concerned."
They reached the end of the runway. Time was beginning to run out.
"What I don't understand is why we put it up there in the first place" Fred said
"Probably because of us" Victor replied
"Yeah I know, but man, think of the consequences if someone decides to use it."
"Has it got anything to do with what you were saying about Iran?"
"What? Iran? Oh no man, that was just a rumour I heard. Has nothing to do with anything."
"What was the rumour?"
"Oh, this same astronaut friend of mine - the same guy who took me to the telescope - he told me that the President wants to sell a bunch of F-14s and Phoenix missiles to Iran."
"My people won't like that" Victor replied.
"Yeah well it isn't like anyone cares any more. I mean check out this President of ours man, he wasn't even elected, no one voted for him. How does that work out?"
"My bosses would tell me that it has something to do with the evils of capitalism."
Fred laughed
"Shit man. I keep forgetting. Your accent is pretty cool man."
"Spasibo"
"How long you been with the KGB?"
"Only 12 months. Before that I was flying in East Germany."
"Flying what?"
"Mig-23s"
"They good?" Fred was genuinely interested. They were talking shop.
"Heavy. Better than the 21s. They were hard to fly in combat."
Fred whistled. "You were in combat?"
"I shot down five over Hanoi. Four F-104s and one F4"
"In a Mig-21?"
"Yes"
"You shot down five US aircraft over Hanoi?"
"Yes"
"Russian pilots shooting down American jets in Vietnam?"
"Da"
"Shit man. I always thought that was rumour."
"No. We were there all right. Many comrades... friends, were not as lucky, or as good, as I was. Mainly it was a case of American pilots shooting down Russian pilots."
Fred chuckled.
"**611 you are cleared for takeoff**"
"Roger tower" Victor said.
Again he pushed the throttle forward, and the flames spurt out the back of the Tomcat.
This time nothing halted their trajectory down the runway. Victor's time taxiing the Tomcat had perversely given him confidence in handling the plane. Finally the wheels left the tarmac and the Tomcat flew into the sky.
The F-14 was the heaviest plane he had flown. Although he was experienced at flying the swing-wing Mig-23, the Tomcat was a completely different aircraft. He felt he was driving a rocket-powered bus - heavy but fast.
"Man you handled that pretty well." Fred said
"Thanks"
"If we make it out alive, you could probably get a job back there. Top Gun instructor maybe."
"I would probably fire real ammunition. Stop you Americans from having good pilots." They laughed
"So you love your country huh?" Fred asked
"That's why I'm doing this Fred. Why are you doing this?"
"'Cause I love my country too."
San Diego was behind them. Their mission called for a flight into Nevada where they would engage a target drone with their experimental AWG-9 Rader. They would then fire the special Phoenix missile at the drone. At that point the USAF mission was complete and they would then make their way out into the North Pacific Ocean where they would land on the USS Ranger. That was the plan. That was not what they were doing.
"What now?" Victor asked. At some point they needed to fake an in-flight incident in order to conceal their real mission.
"Okay, you're familiar with where we're headed I take it?"
"I am heading in the right direction" Victor replied.
"Good. In a while we'll be near the Salton Sea. It's a giant ugly lake you'll see to the south."
"It sounds nice. A lake in the desert."
"The fishing is shit. When we get there I'll tell you to cut the power. You won't have to turn off the engines but you're going to have to force a stall."
"The wings?"
"Keep 'em back. We're pretending that we've had a complete loss of power. If you shift 'em forward they'll be able to tell your trajectory on radar."
"You have good radars then?"
"No, just a good radar operator. I know the guy. He's looking at us right now on his scope back in San Diego. He can tell just by looking man. It's freaky."
"Okay, so I keep the wings back."
"At the same time you do that I'll be sending static over the comm. We won't be able to hear their hails but they'll think something is wrong. They'll hear our static and see our trajectory and go 'Oh Shit'".
"Then what?"
"When you get down to around 2000 feet you can power up. Fly down low to around 300 feet and get rid of the drop tank - preferably on hillside or something."
"I see. They'll think we've crashed and they'll see the smoke from the fire"
"Hey they breed you smart in Moscow don't you?"
"And they breed people smart in the Bronx it seems too"
"Shut up man you got no idea what you're saying!" Fred laughed "I'm from South Central"
"Is that near the Bronx?" Victor asked
"Just shut up and fly the damn plane okay?" Fred responded, laughing. "'Is that near the Bronx?'"
They were cruising at 20,000 feet. Victor could see a small city to his left. Palm Springs if he remembered the map correctly. The Californian landscape below was dry, red and yellow and the occasional irrigated green of fruit groves. In the distance he could see the sun reflecting off a large body of water. The Salton Sea.
"There is nothing like flying over Taiga Fred" Victor said
"What you sayin?"
"Taiga. The Russian Forest. Flying over it gave me more joy than anything. It was cold. It was thick. It was living. It is Russia."
"Well I did fly over Alaska once. Cold place. Even inside the cockpit. Okay... there's a ridge of mountains about 30 clicks north of Salton." Fred said "Are we ready?"
"Da"
"We can't talk until I cut the static out - our internal comms won't work until you get us down in the weeds." Fred said
"Da"
"Let's go" Fred said.
A burst of static came through Victor's headphones. It was loud but Fred managed to turn the volume down. At the same time Fred hit the static, Victor pulled the throttle back to what he hoped was a minimum setting - enough to keep the engines spinning but without extinguishing them.
It was as though someone had opened a trapdoor beneath them. The Tomcat shuddered as the engines gave out and immediately pitched forward and downwards. The Tomcat was no longer flying, it was falling.
Victor resisted the urge to swing the wings forward. He remembered what it was like to pilot a Mig-21 with its engine out. The F-14 was different though.
Victor tried to push the plane into a loop, to give the impression that they were trying to corkscrew their way down. But the Tomcat was just too heavy. Eventually he had to force a dive. Victor pushed the stick forward and the Tomcat began a headlong plunge towards the ground. As they got closer he would attempt to pull it up.
Whoever had designed the F-14 had got it right. Victor had experienced free fall many times in often unreliable Soviet Migs, but, even when taking the Tomcat's enormous weight into consideration, he marveled at its aerodynamics as it fell. When a Mig lost power and fell from the sky, it was like a gigantic metal pipe spinning around. The Tomcat was different - it was more like a heavy steel feather.
His kept his eye on the altimeter. 5000 feet. 4000 feet. He flung the Tomcat around as much as he could. He hoped that his thrashing would impress whoever it was that was looking at them on radar.
2000 feet.
Victor swung the wings forward and immediately the Tomcat gained an enormous amount of lift. At the same time he throttled the engines up again. The Tomcat fell a further 1500 feet before he regained control over the desert.
"Shit man. That was impressive"
"Spasibo"
"Now all you need to do is drop the tank. 2 O'clock. do you see it?"
"Da"
Victor saw a series of ridges to his right. He dipped the Tomcat's right wing and headed in that direction. As soon as they passed over a ridge, Victor let the drop tank fall.
"Looks Beautiful. Like 4th of July. Smoke everywhere" Fred said.
Victor turned the plane around enough for him to see the smoke and flame of aviation fuel against the ridge line. It looked good but he knew it was probably too small to fool many people for long. He saw houses in the area and knew it was only a matter of time before law enforcement would come out to find out what was going on. Eventually it would make its way back to the Miramar tower and someone would put two and two together. Hopefully, by the time that equation was worked out, their mission would be complete.
Then Victor looked at the clock. They were running a full ten minutes late.
"We're late. We'll have to go supersonic"
"It's up to you, man. But if we do remember they'll find us sooner."
"If we're late we'll have to wait another month for another launch window. It may be too late by then."
"You're the man." said Fred.
Victor pulled the wings back again so that the Tomcat regained its delta-wing shape. Simultaneously he pushed the throttle forward as far as he felt was safe. Heading West, 200 feet off the desert floor, the F-14 went supersonic, causing a loud sonic boom to be heard by anyone in the vicinity as it passed. The noise would make people complain and eventually someone back in Miramar would realise what was going on. It was better than climbing up and getting detected by curious radar operators.
"Are they calling us?"
"Yeah. I shut your headset down 'cause I thought you might want to concentrate on flying."
"Many thanks"
"Dont mention it. I'll keep monitoring them until we get to the waypoint. Obviously then I'll have to concentrate on something else. I'll let you know of any developments."
Victor didn't respond. Flying at a mere 200ft at one point two times the speed of sound required him to use all the skills he had - not to mention luck. Not only did he have to keep an eye out for objects close by, but he also had to look out for hills and mountains approaching in the distance.
After a while the desert disappeared and was replaced by tree-lined ridges. Despite keeping themselves only a few hundred feet off the ground, they were quickly climbing thousands of feet into the sky, following the contours of the San Jacinto Mountains. They plunged down the western side, and Victor changed direction and headed South West.
"Okay they now think we're down. We've been pinged a few times by radars around the state but I don't think they realise we're the same contact"
"You have good radars" Victor said
"No, just a heck of lot of them."
"Who?"
"Well, apart from Miramar, there's also an ANG base at Riverside that will be interested in a supersonic contact flying over the mountains"
Victor was worried. Their mission called for them to essentially fly back towards the very air bases that would send up interceptors to shoot them down - even Miramar, the base they had taken off from. But he also knew that there was no other way.
"Okay Dee man, here's Vista. We'll be over the ocean soon."
A town streaked by a couple of clicks to their left.
"What's your plan Dee man?"
They were still late. They needed to risk more in order for speed.
"If we don't get to the waypoint soon our mission will be in vain."
"Okay, then put her up and push her out"
The Californian coast suddenly appeared and they were now streaking over blue ocean. Victor increased the throttle all the way and climbed up to 15,000 ft. The speed increased to Mach 1.8, the fastest they could go with their missile payload.
"Dee man they still we've crashed near Palm Springs, but we've been hailed by four different radar sites asking who we are."
"I suppose stalling them is out of the question?"
"I don't know what you Russkies do but US pilots do NOT go for joyrides. As soon as I speak to em they'll know who we are and then they'll wonder why we're here. We're still too close to Miramar..."
"And the Ranger is close to the waypoint. Oh well, we'll just have to give it our best shot."
"Well Dee Man, that's why I'm here. Do you want me to start her up?"
"You're the boss" Victor replied.
A few short jabs later and the Tomcat's massive AMG-9 radar came on line. Victor believed that the Tomcat actually slowed up slightly when the radar came online, such was the power required to run it.
"Shit man, they trained me for weeks on this thing. Hang on."
The AWG-9 radar, like the missile, was special, unlike the norm. It was still powerful, but had been geared for a different purpose. A special control unit inside the fuselage was directing different signals down special wires, squelching standard wavelengths and increasing others. The crew at Ranger were supposed to remove the control unit when they landed - but no chance of that now.
"Okay I've got it. Man this things sucks."
"What do you mean?" asked Victor
"I think I've got about half the range. If Ranger or anyone else has sent up someone to get us I won't know about it for a while"
"That's life my friend"
"Yeah whatever. I just hope it does what it's supposed to"
"Time will tell"
"Umm... Dee man I think they're getting unhappy. I'm hearing... hang on"
Fred paused, Victor knew he was listening carefully to something.
"Okay they found Charles. Ranger is being alerted, They know where we are. Shit."
"We have no choice Fred. We have to keep going."
"Man if I'm gonna die for something, I'd rather die for something I succeed in rather than something I failed to do... 'specially when it's my own guys going to shoot me down."
Victor peered out of the cockpit. The North Pacific Ocean spread out all around them.
"You know Fred, I always liked the sea"
"Yeah?"
"My Father was in the Soviet Navy."
"Well far out."
"He fought at Stalingrad against the Germans."
"Stalingrad ain't in the sea man. I don't know shit about Russia but I do know that cities tend to be on land."
Victor chuckled "They used anyone in those days for the army."
Victor felt safer. He was now confident that they would get to the waypoint before they were intercepted by units from Ranger or Miramar. Their mission could still fail, but at least they had gotten as far as they did.
Victor looked down at his instruments. The waypoint was approaching.
"Nearly there. Are you ready Fred?"
"We got a good time yet?"
Victor looked at the cockpit clock. The object would not be visible to the radar for another minute. He powered back on the throttle and dropped altitude.
"We're early. Believe it or not"
"I thought you were running late. What is this some weird Russian way of thinking?"
Victor couldn't fathom it. Maybe he had simply underestimated the sheer speed of the F-14. They were late when they reached the coast, now they were a minute or so early after having reached the waypoint. Victor shrugged to himself, might as well circle around for a while.
"I'm getting dizzy doing this. I don't want to be dizzy before I die." Fred said after a while.
"Fred... spasibo, thank you"
"For what man?" Fred sounded interested.
"Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to meet the last person in my life. You've made this mission succeed so far... And you amuse me."
"Oh, I amuse you now huh?" Victor could hear the smile on his face "Well we ain't sleeping together after this if that's what you're getting at. IF we survive. And YOU still gotta shoot that thing down or blow it up or whatever. When we going up?"
Victor looked at the clock. 6 seconds to go.
"5...4...3...2...1..."
Victor lurched the F-14 directly up into the sky, flying vertical. The throttle was opened as far as it could go and he had engaged the afterburners. The g-forces were crushing him into his seat, but it wasn't anything he hadn't done before.
"You got it yet?" Victor asked over the din.
"I'm looking"
Precious seconds passed. Where was it?
Fred spoke loudly, it was getting hard to hear. "Still not there. We looking in the right place?"
Victor began to get annoyed. Not only were the g-forces slamming him backwards and the roar of the turbofans getting to him, but the Tomcat was bucking around from the wind turbulence from the missiles it carried. They were at Mach 1.5 but were slowing. The whine of the turbines reminded him of his two-stroke Trabant climbing a hill that was too steep.
The Tomcat flew past the 30,000 feet barrier. And they didn't even have a lock yet.
"We're doing it from the wrong direction!" yelled Fred "We need to face south!"
Victor corkscrewed the near vertical plane around so that their belly faced south. They sped past 35,000 feet at Mach 1.3. It was getting harder.
"Still no sign" yelled Fred.
Victor was less annoyed now than worried. He closed his eyes and brought his mind to bear. Suddenly he had it.
Fred flipped the Tomcat over. They were now making a steep inverted climb, their cockpit facing towards the ocean, and the radar pointing back over their heads. Not only were the g-forces forcing him back into his seat, but the inversion also meant he was upside down.
"Got it!" yelled Fred "Computer reckons Mach 8. Targeting now."
In front of them, the special AWG-9 rader, designed to punch through the atmosphere and detect things in orbit, locked onto the object.
"Locked... and away!" yelled Fred
Victor felt a shudder as the Phoenix missile left its moorings and rocketed upwards towards space. He saw the glare of the rocket engine and the trail of exhaust as it broke past Mach 3 on its way up.
Simultaneously, Victor unclipped the dummy missile that had balanced out the payload. The white object flipped backwards and fell towards the ocean. He immediately felt the Tomcat's ride smooth out. The speed increased to Mach 1.4 and 40,000 feet sped by. Things would be easier for a while, but they had to keep the object targeted and locked, which meant that their unusual inverted climb needed to continue.
A shrill beeping sounded throughout the cockpit. Victor didn't have to guess what it was.
"How long do you think?" Victor yelled
"Depends man. They're probably shooting a Phoenix at us right now. 50 clicks away, maybe a few minutes."
"What about ours?"
"Man that thing's flying vertical. Let's hope it gets there."
The incessant beeping continued as the Tomcat made its inverted climb upwards. 45,000 feet now.
"We need to get over on our belly. We have to keep that bitch locked." Fred yelled
Victor corkscrewed again. They were no longer inverted but still nearly vertical.
"Level out more. That thing is going at Mach 8. We're going to lose it!"
Victor leveled the plane out.
"Where we now?" Fred asked.
"50 thousand"
"Okay it's near. I hope you got your visor down. Don't forget, we're going to lose our instruments. Remember to keep your head..."
A blinding light filled the cockpit and Victor was momentarily dazzled. He had never witnessed a nuclear explosion before, but even the knowledge that one was going to happen could not prepare him for the experience.
The Phoenix had detonated at 110,000 feet. Its nuclear warhead was a 210 kiloton weapon that had recently been developed for the Air Force. The missile had been intended for the test that they had abandoned.
The explosion, when he could view it properly through his polarised visor, was an expanding ball of light and flame high up in the atmosphere.
Fred was yelling something behind him. Even though the blast was over 50,000 feet about him he could feel the heat searing into him through his flight suit. Victor inverted the Tomcat over to shield them from the light and heat.
It took a second for him to realise that the engines had stopped and that all his instruments were no longer functioning. He had a further second to think about how he knew this would happen but was interrupted by the shockwave hitting the crippled Tomcat, sending it into a spin. He knew that they were around 55,000 feet when the missile detonated since that was the number the dial was stuck on, the electronics of the plane now useless.
Victor wasn't a technician, but he knew that the stick still worked and that the engine was not run by anything electronic. Theoretically he knew that he could somehow get the engines started again - that's what they had told him back in Moscow anyway.
The F-14 was the most advanced plane that the US had. It was filled with electronic devices. But all of them, including the massive AMG-9 radar, was now smoldering away from the electromagnetic pulse. Yet he could still feel the plane through the stick, and he knew that the throttle was mechanically operated.
He managed to stop the Tomcat spinning, but it was now just a massive glider. Without the engines, they would plow into the ocean. Their mission had hopefully succeeded, now they were trying to escape.
"Hey Dee, you there?" Fred asked
"You got the communications working. How?" Victor asked as he began to prime the engines for restart.
"Backup system. I deliberately turned it off remember?"
"So we're being recorded?"
"Not since the tape device melted. Man what a smell there is."
The cockpit had been filled with an acrid smoke from the burnt electronics. He wondered if the Tomcat itself was aflame from the heat of the blast. He could still feel the radiant heat beating down from above him, like standing near a bonfire. It would be another few minutes before the fire extinguished and the upper jetstream blew the cloud into radioactive mist.
At least they were no longer concerned with being shot down. The other jets sent to intercept him were probably having the same problem. Their radars would have been burnt out, and any guided missiles that they had fired in his direction were probably even now plunging into the ocean, a place they would in soon if he didn't get the engines going again.
"So. What's the plan?"
"Mexico? Why not Cuba?" Victor tried to start the engines.
"Don't think we got the fuel for Cuba. We probably don't have the capacity to lower our landing gear either. That is, if we can get this bird flying again. You get the engines started yet dear?"
The left engine coughed into life again. It was a horrible sound, as if the engine was protesting against its very existence. Victor's Trabant sounded better. The Tomcat levelled out, driven by the smoky thrust of the single engine.
"What's your opinion on the engine?" Victor asked.
"Man that turbine may go. There were some control devices to fine tune the thing. Maybe they gone as well."
The right-hand engine coughed to life. It sounded better. Victor instinctively turned the left one off.
"Good move Dee man. I wouldn't want a turbine blade cutting into me."
They were probably at 10,000 feet, according to Victor's guess. The wings were swept back and could no longer be moved forward. The Tomcat was flying on one engine, heading towards Mexico. Victor's face began to tingle. Sunburn? Radiation? Who knows?
"So, you think we did it?" asked Fred.
"Hard to say. The EMP would've knocked out a few satellites. Why not that one?"
"I think even Ranger may be out. That'll make 'em pissed."
Victor smiled. If Ranger had been hit, then their radars and electronics should be out too.
"Hey Dee, can you speak Spanish?"
"Nyet"
"There's a bar I go to in La Paz. I gotta take you to it."
"Just none of your American beer okay? I must have good vodka."
They laughed.
-------------------
The Montana Air National Guard F-104 crept up unnoticed behind the crippled, smoking Tomcat. Its pilot, knowing that his own electronics were no longer functional, hoped that the Starfighter's cannon still worked. It did, and neither of the occupants of the F-14 were aware of anything as their aircraft shredded apart. The pilot watched as the remains of the Navy jet impacted the water, sinking to the bottom of the North Pacific Ocean.
As the pilot banked and headed towards home, he saw another flash of light in the sky, near the horizon to the north. Not another H-bomb, he hoped. No. It was bright but not blinding. Something was burning up high in the atmosphere a few hundred clicks from his position. Maybe a meteorite or something. Abruptly it went out. With all that had happened to him so far that day, he could be forgiven for not reporting it once he got back to base.
From the Eye of ArgOne Department
© 2007 Neil McKenzie Cameron, http://one-salient-oversight.blogspot.com/
FAQ about the author
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
It had taken too long to hide the body, but he knew that it would eventually be found. He felt a weight of regret that he was forced to kill the man after he managed to avoid being sedated in the men's toilet. He had been specifically instructed not to kill anyone on this mission for obvious reasons. Now he knew that his chances of making it out alive were even slimmer. But at least he could die knowing that he had done the right thing.
An African-American man in a flight suit walked up to him as he strode towards the Tomcat. His patches indicated his role as a Radar Intercept Officer - the man who sits behind the pilot on F-14s. Was he the man he was told about?
"Hey Charles, how are you?" he remarked "How's the man treating you?"
"I've had better days" Victor replied in his best American accent. It was true. This was probably the worst day of his life and, hopefully, one which he will be remembered for.
They strode together towards the Tomcat. On the tail of the aircraft he saw the squadron insignia, a grinning wolf. As someone who used to hunt Siberian wolves, he felt that it was appropriate.
"I sold my car finally", the man said "Guess I won't need it any more".
It took a second for Victor to decode the man's statement. Yes. It was him.
"You ready for this?" Victor asked.
"Yeah man. As ready as I'll ever be" he responded.
Victor purposefully began to mount the ladder to the cockpit. He had never flown one of these machines before. He'd had years of experience on Mig-21s and Mig-23s, but this was the first time he would be flying an American aircraft. He tried to be as nonchalant as possible, but he caught himself examining the nosecone of the special Phoenix missile under the wing for half a second before he stepped up on the ladder.
Victor knew the configuration. His F-14 had one Phoenix long range missile under the port wing, a dummy missile under the starboard wing to balance it out, and a drop tank on the belly with 280 gallons of jet fuel. The Phoenix was the world's most advanced air-to-air missile and took advantage of the Tomcat's massive AWG-9 radar. His bosses had briefed him that the missiles had a range of up to 100 clicks. Victor realised that he was probably the first Soviet agent to get this close to one.
This missile, though, was different. It was not white, but red. Its nosecone was also different - slightly fatter and flatter than the original design. His mission depended upon that missile.
A man was right behind him. "Hey. Don't look too long." he said "This is Air Force property. Not Navy.".
As Victor climbed up the ladder the man followed. He was a member of the ground crew and helped to fit Victor into the seat. His patches indicated that he was Air Force, not Navy.
Behind him, Victor's RIO was being fitted in by another member of the ground crew.
"Sparko" said his RIO behind him "You hear about what they're doing with Iran?"
"That is restricted information!" the Air Force crewman interrupted, "You are not allowed to discuss it. Get on with the mission."
The man climbed down and walked away across the tarmac. Sparko and his RIO were unusually quiet.
"We got one more day of this guy. Then we're free." Sparko said in a low voice as he finished strapping in the RIO.
"Air Force, man" the RIO muttered "They're all on Benzedrine. Makes them assholes."
"What's this about Iran?" Victor asked as Sparko climbed down.
"Ahh, nothing really. Just some deal the government's making. I'll tell you about it later."
Victor knew that they had to be careful - in more ways than one. The cockpit voice recorder was recording everything they were saying. He knew that, at some stage, they'd have to somehow shut it off. There couldn't be any record of what they were doing - even if their mission failed and they were dead.
Victor stopped thinking about the mission and started to look at the cockpit. He'd been given schematics before he'd left Moscow and had memorised what everything was. They'd even created a mock up for him to practice on but it was nothing compared to the real thing.
"Hey Charles" said the RIO behind him "Remember when you first flew this thing? You couldn't get off the ground for half an hour 'cause you forgot to disengage the safety!"
Ah yes, Victor thought, I almost forgot. Victor flipped off the safety. He could now start the jet.
"I was still hung over" Victor replied. "Too much Vodka".
They both laughed, but Victor knew it was hollow and forced. Whoever his RIO was, he was good. He knew exactly how to help him and what to say. He knew that he would the last man he ever trusted, and he couldn't even remember what he looked like.
Victor started the plane. The turbofans began to howl and the cockpit shut.
"**611 are you ready for flight, over?**" came the voice over the headset.
"Ready for mission. Waiting for TOP" replied Victor. His American accent still struggling.
"**Move to 24R, over**"
"24R is the long one Charles." his RIO reminded him
"I'm not drunk today. I know my left from right." Victor replied
"Yeah well, sometimes I think you're too thick to remember."
They both laughed again. It was like acting in a play, thought Victor.
The Tomcat taxied to the end of runway 24R. They waited. The body may be found soon, thought Victor.
"**611 you are cleared for takeoff**"
"Roger tower" Victor said.
He began to open the throttle. The F-14's massive engines began to spew out concentrated flame. The pain in his little finger continued to break into his concentration. They had only been moving down the runway for a second when suddenly his RIO piped up.
"ABORT TAKEOFF. I REPEAT, ABORT TAKEOFF" he yelled.
What the hell was going on? He couldn't risk it. Even in the world of espionage things could go wrong. He had to abort the takeoff. The Tomcat's engines stopped their flame and the plane simply coasted along the runway, propelled by the initial thrust.
"**611 what is your status over?**"
Victor hoped his RIO would reply. There was nothing forthcoming.
"Will advise tower. Over" Victor said.
The plane continued its slowing roll down the runway. Victor could see the anxious eyes of mechanics and technicians from the hanger looking over.
"Tower this is RIO. We have a short in progress. Will advise." the RIO said.
"**Confirm 611. Taxi to dearming area.**"
Victor nudged the throttle enough to keep the plane rolling down the runway.
"You anywhere with this?" Victor asked.
"Ahh, I'm still trying to find the sonofabitch"
Minutes passed. They reached the end of the runway. There they were greeted by about 20 men dressed in protective fire suits and carrying hoses. One of them, an officer in charge, indicated to Victor that he wanted to talk. Victor switched to ground frequency.
"You guys okay?" Victor asked.
"You're asking us?" the man asked back. He was Air Force.
"We got a short Captain, no problems at the moment" the RIO replied "You guys bored or something?"
"Hey with that missile on you, we have orders to act in case of any potential emergency."
The RIO muted the comm. "Humourless bastard" he commented.
"Sorry RIO, I was born with a stick up my ass." Said the man in the fire suit.
"Whoah! You sayin' you can hear me?" the RIO asked.
"As sure as you're an asshole."
"Well gosh darn, looks like I found the short." the RIO said.
"Much obliged dirtbag. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Yeah just stay here. I'm about to take out the fuse. I may need you guys just in case we blow up"
Victor could hear his RIO take off his gloves and begin to rattle around inside his cockpit.
"You sure you don't want the techs to take care of this?" asked the man in the fire suit.
"Negative captain" Victor replied "Ranger can do that for us. We're already late as it is."
Victor looked away from the group of firemen. Near the hanger he saw two other Tomcats with their cockpits open. He wondered if he would be forced to shoot one of them down later - that is, if they can get off the ground in time.
He heard a laugh from behind him.
"Hey, guess what I found it."
"You need us then?" the Captain asked.
"Thanks for your help Captain. See you in hell." The RIO said.
"Yeah whatever..." the man in fire suit replied. Victor could see him mouthing obscenities with the microphone off.
The RIO contacted the tower.
"Tower this is RIO 611. Problem isolated."
"**611 wait for clearance. Over.**"
Victor looked at the cockpit clock. They were running late. If they couldn't take off in ten minutes then he'd have to do it without permission - something which would obviously raise suspicion and make the mission even less likely. Another minute passed.
"**611 this is Tech-comm. What is your situation**
"A short in panel 12. Fuse 34CV has blown. Removed it and turned off C37 switch. I think the boys at Ranger can fix this, over" the RIO said.
"**Have you checked safety system 4?"
"As much as I can." the RIO replied
"**We are advising that the mission should be aborted"
Despite the heat of the sun, Victor suddenly felt a chill run through his spine. There was no way he would abort the mission. He'd have to die trying if need be. His RIO was patient though.
"To hell with that Harold! It's just a short. We're not going to lose out on this. Do we really want to piss off the Air Force on this one?"
"**Fred man I understand what you're saying but this is a code 5 breakdown."
"I know Harold, which is why Ranger can handle it after the mission is over."
"**This is a potential Broken Arrow"
Victor could hear his RIO getting hot.
"This is an Air Force mission Harold. It only becomes a Navy mission after I fire the damn thing! What do your procedures manual say about that?"
There was a pause.
"**What do you suggest Fred man?"
"Ranger can handle it when we land. Until then there's nothing to prevent us from starting the mission."
Another Pause
"**Confirm that Fred man. Will advise Ranger. Don't forget your sunglasses. Over"
"Jerk" the RIO breathed "He does come from Iowa so I suppose I'd better forgive his ass"
"**611 this is tower, move to 24R". Clearance had been given. They began to travel back towards the other end of the runway. Victor could see the firemen putting away their gear.
"I suppose you're wondering what that was all about hey Moscow?" said the RIO
"Explain it to me" Victor asked. Obviously they could talk now.
"I couldn't get the cockpit voice controller to malfunction without taking out that fuse. And I couldn't do it while we were flying either. Sorry to botch things up for you. My name's Frederick. You can call me Fred man. All my friends do."
"My name is Victor, you can call me Daedalovich. That's what my friends call me." Victor replied.
"Nice to meet you Dee Man. So. How's Charles. Is he okay?" Fred asked.
Victor felt that he couldn't do anything but tell the truth. Fred was probably the last human being he would know personally.
"I had to kill him"
"Shit man!" Fred replied "Why did you have to do that?"
"I couldn't sedate him in time. We had a fight. He broke one of my fingers. I had to store him in the back toilet."
"Shit. I did this 'cause I was told no one would die man!"
"Things go wrong my friend", Victor replied "It can't be helped"
"Ah well. He was a complete asshole but a good pilot." Fred finally said. Victor could sense the forced nature of the comment. Obviously Charles' death was unsettling for him, not to mention that his killer was sitting a few feet in front of him.
"Does it make you have second thoughts?" Victor asked. They were nearing the end of their taxi
"Huh? No way man. No way. I ain't doing this for your country man, I'm doing it for my own. I guess I wouldn't have believed it had I not looked into a telescope and seen it for myself."
"You could see it in a telescope?"
"Well, I saw a dot. Nothing orbits that low, man. Some astronaut dudes I know were even concerned."
They reached the end of the runway. Time was beginning to run out.
"What I don't understand is why we put it up there in the first place" Fred said
"Probably because of us" Victor replied
"Yeah I know, but man, think of the consequences if someone decides to use it."
"Has it got anything to do with what you were saying about Iran?"
"What? Iran? Oh no man, that was just a rumour I heard. Has nothing to do with anything."
"What was the rumour?"
"Oh, this same astronaut friend of mine - the same guy who took me to the telescope - he told me that the President wants to sell a bunch of F-14s and Phoenix missiles to Iran."
"My people won't like that" Victor replied.
"Yeah well it isn't like anyone cares any more. I mean check out this President of ours man, he wasn't even elected, no one voted for him. How does that work out?"
"My bosses would tell me that it has something to do with the evils of capitalism."
Fred laughed
"Shit man. I keep forgetting. Your accent is pretty cool man."
"Spasibo"
"How long you been with the KGB?"
"Only 12 months. Before that I was flying in East Germany."
"Flying what?"
"Mig-23s"
"They good?" Fred was genuinely interested. They were talking shop.
"Heavy. Better than the 21s. They were hard to fly in combat."
Fred whistled. "You were in combat?"
"I shot down five over Hanoi. Four F-104s and one F4"
"In a Mig-21?"
"Yes"
"You shot down five US aircraft over Hanoi?"
"Yes"
"Russian pilots shooting down American jets in Vietnam?"
"Da"
"Shit man. I always thought that was rumour."
"No. We were there all right. Many comrades... friends, were not as lucky, or as good, as I was. Mainly it was a case of American pilots shooting down Russian pilots."
Fred chuckled.
"**611 you are cleared for takeoff**"
"Roger tower" Victor said.
Again he pushed the throttle forward, and the flames spurt out the back of the Tomcat.
This time nothing halted their trajectory down the runway. Victor's time taxiing the Tomcat had perversely given him confidence in handling the plane. Finally the wheels left the tarmac and the Tomcat flew into the sky.
The F-14 was the heaviest plane he had flown. Although he was experienced at flying the swing-wing Mig-23, the Tomcat was a completely different aircraft. He felt he was driving a rocket-powered bus - heavy but fast.
"Man you handled that pretty well." Fred said
"Thanks"
"If we make it out alive, you could probably get a job back there. Top Gun instructor maybe."
"I would probably fire real ammunition. Stop you Americans from having good pilots." They laughed
"So you love your country huh?" Fred asked
"That's why I'm doing this Fred. Why are you doing this?"
"'Cause I love my country too."
San Diego was behind them. Their mission called for a flight into Nevada where they would engage a target drone with their experimental AWG-9 Rader. They would then fire the special Phoenix missile at the drone. At that point the USAF mission was complete and they would then make their way out into the North Pacific Ocean where they would land on the USS Ranger. That was the plan. That was not what they were doing.
"What now?" Victor asked. At some point they needed to fake an in-flight incident in order to conceal their real mission.
"Okay, you're familiar with where we're headed I take it?"
"I am heading in the right direction" Victor replied.
"Good. In a while we'll be near the Salton Sea. It's a giant ugly lake you'll see to the south."
"It sounds nice. A lake in the desert."
"The fishing is shit. When we get there I'll tell you to cut the power. You won't have to turn off the engines but you're going to have to force a stall."
"The wings?"
"Keep 'em back. We're pretending that we've had a complete loss of power. If you shift 'em forward they'll be able to tell your trajectory on radar."
"You have good radars then?"
"No, just a good radar operator. I know the guy. He's looking at us right now on his scope back in San Diego. He can tell just by looking man. It's freaky."
"Okay, so I keep the wings back."
"At the same time you do that I'll be sending static over the comm. We won't be able to hear their hails but they'll think something is wrong. They'll hear our static and see our trajectory and go 'Oh Shit'".
"Then what?"
"When you get down to around 2000 feet you can power up. Fly down low to around 300 feet and get rid of the drop tank - preferably on hillside or something."
"I see. They'll think we've crashed and they'll see the smoke from the fire"
"Hey they breed you smart in Moscow don't you?"
"And they breed people smart in the Bronx it seems too"
"Shut up man you got no idea what you're saying!" Fred laughed "I'm from South Central"
"Is that near the Bronx?" Victor asked
"Just shut up and fly the damn plane okay?" Fred responded, laughing. "'Is that near the Bronx?'"
They were cruising at 20,000 feet. Victor could see a small city to his left. Palm Springs if he remembered the map correctly. The Californian landscape below was dry, red and yellow and the occasional irrigated green of fruit groves. In the distance he could see the sun reflecting off a large body of water. The Salton Sea.
"There is nothing like flying over Taiga Fred" Victor said
"What you sayin?"
"Taiga. The Russian Forest. Flying over it gave me more joy than anything. It was cold. It was thick. It was living. It is Russia."
"Well I did fly over Alaska once. Cold place. Even inside the cockpit. Okay... there's a ridge of mountains about 30 clicks north of Salton." Fred said "Are we ready?"
"Da"
"We can't talk until I cut the static out - our internal comms won't work until you get us down in the weeds." Fred said
"Da"
"Let's go" Fred said.
A burst of static came through Victor's headphones. It was loud but Fred managed to turn the volume down. At the same time Fred hit the static, Victor pulled the throttle back to what he hoped was a minimum setting - enough to keep the engines spinning but without extinguishing them.
It was as though someone had opened a trapdoor beneath them. The Tomcat shuddered as the engines gave out and immediately pitched forward and downwards. The Tomcat was no longer flying, it was falling.
Victor resisted the urge to swing the wings forward. He remembered what it was like to pilot a Mig-21 with its engine out. The F-14 was different though.
Victor tried to push the plane into a loop, to give the impression that they were trying to corkscrew their way down. But the Tomcat was just too heavy. Eventually he had to force a dive. Victor pushed the stick forward and the Tomcat began a headlong plunge towards the ground. As they got closer he would attempt to pull it up.
Whoever had designed the F-14 had got it right. Victor had experienced free fall many times in often unreliable Soviet Migs, but, even when taking the Tomcat's enormous weight into consideration, he marveled at its aerodynamics as it fell. When a Mig lost power and fell from the sky, it was like a gigantic metal pipe spinning around. The Tomcat was different - it was more like a heavy steel feather.
His kept his eye on the altimeter. 5000 feet. 4000 feet. He flung the Tomcat around as much as he could. He hoped that his thrashing would impress whoever it was that was looking at them on radar.
2000 feet.
Victor swung the wings forward and immediately the Tomcat gained an enormous amount of lift. At the same time he throttled the engines up again. The Tomcat fell a further 1500 feet before he regained control over the desert.
"Shit man. That was impressive"
"Spasibo"
"Now all you need to do is drop the tank. 2 O'clock. do you see it?"
"Da"
Victor saw a series of ridges to his right. He dipped the Tomcat's right wing and headed in that direction. As soon as they passed over a ridge, Victor let the drop tank fall.
"Looks Beautiful. Like 4th of July. Smoke everywhere" Fred said.
Victor turned the plane around enough for him to see the smoke and flame of aviation fuel against the ridge line. It looked good but he knew it was probably too small to fool many people for long. He saw houses in the area and knew it was only a matter of time before law enforcement would come out to find out what was going on. Eventually it would make its way back to the Miramar tower and someone would put two and two together. Hopefully, by the time that equation was worked out, their mission would be complete.
Then Victor looked at the clock. They were running a full ten minutes late.
"We're late. We'll have to go supersonic"
"It's up to you, man. But if we do remember they'll find us sooner."
"If we're late we'll have to wait another month for another launch window. It may be too late by then."
"You're the man." said Fred.
Victor pulled the wings back again so that the Tomcat regained its delta-wing shape. Simultaneously he pushed the throttle forward as far as he felt was safe. Heading West, 200 feet off the desert floor, the F-14 went supersonic, causing a loud sonic boom to be heard by anyone in the vicinity as it passed. The noise would make people complain and eventually someone back in Miramar would realise what was going on. It was better than climbing up and getting detected by curious radar operators.
"Are they calling us?"
"Yeah. I shut your headset down 'cause I thought you might want to concentrate on flying."
"Many thanks"
"Dont mention it. I'll keep monitoring them until we get to the waypoint. Obviously then I'll have to concentrate on something else. I'll let you know of any developments."
Victor didn't respond. Flying at a mere 200ft at one point two times the speed of sound required him to use all the skills he had - not to mention luck. Not only did he have to keep an eye out for objects close by, but he also had to look out for hills and mountains approaching in the distance.
After a while the desert disappeared and was replaced by tree-lined ridges. Despite keeping themselves only a few hundred feet off the ground, they were quickly climbing thousands of feet into the sky, following the contours of the San Jacinto Mountains. They plunged down the western side, and Victor changed direction and headed South West.
"Okay they now think we're down. We've been pinged a few times by radars around the state but I don't think they realise we're the same contact"
"You have good radars" Victor said
"No, just a heck of lot of them."
"Who?"
"Well, apart from Miramar, there's also an ANG base at Riverside that will be interested in a supersonic contact flying over the mountains"
Victor was worried. Their mission called for them to essentially fly back towards the very air bases that would send up interceptors to shoot them down - even Miramar, the base they had taken off from. But he also knew that there was no other way.
"Okay Dee man, here's Vista. We'll be over the ocean soon."
A town streaked by a couple of clicks to their left.
"What's your plan Dee man?"
They were still late. They needed to risk more in order for speed.
"If we don't get to the waypoint soon our mission will be in vain."
"Okay, then put her up and push her out"
The Californian coast suddenly appeared and they were now streaking over blue ocean. Victor increased the throttle all the way and climbed up to 15,000 ft. The speed increased to Mach 1.8, the fastest they could go with their missile payload.
"Dee man they still we've crashed near Palm Springs, but we've been hailed by four different radar sites asking who we are."
"I suppose stalling them is out of the question?"
"I don't know what you Russkies do but US pilots do NOT go for joyrides. As soon as I speak to em they'll know who we are and then they'll wonder why we're here. We're still too close to Miramar..."
"And the Ranger is close to the waypoint. Oh well, we'll just have to give it our best shot."
"Well Dee Man, that's why I'm here. Do you want me to start her up?"
"You're the boss" Victor replied.
A few short jabs later and the Tomcat's massive AMG-9 radar came on line. Victor believed that the Tomcat actually slowed up slightly when the radar came online, such was the power required to run it.
"Shit man, they trained me for weeks on this thing. Hang on."
The AWG-9 radar, like the missile, was special, unlike the norm. It was still powerful, but had been geared for a different purpose. A special control unit inside the fuselage was directing different signals down special wires, squelching standard wavelengths and increasing others. The crew at Ranger were supposed to remove the control unit when they landed - but no chance of that now.
"Okay I've got it. Man this things sucks."
"What do you mean?" asked Victor
"I think I've got about half the range. If Ranger or anyone else has sent up someone to get us I won't know about it for a while"
"That's life my friend"
"Yeah whatever. I just hope it does what it's supposed to"
"Time will tell"
"Umm... Dee man I think they're getting unhappy. I'm hearing... hang on"
Fred paused, Victor knew he was listening carefully to something.
"Okay they found Charles. Ranger is being alerted, They know where we are. Shit."
"We have no choice Fred. We have to keep going."
"Man if I'm gonna die for something, I'd rather die for something I succeed in rather than something I failed to do... 'specially when it's my own guys going to shoot me down."
Victor peered out of the cockpit. The North Pacific Ocean spread out all around them.
"You know Fred, I always liked the sea"
"Yeah?"
"My Father was in the Soviet Navy."
"Well far out."
"He fought at Stalingrad against the Germans."
"Stalingrad ain't in the sea man. I don't know shit about Russia but I do know that cities tend to be on land."
Victor chuckled "They used anyone in those days for the army."
Victor felt safer. He was now confident that they would get to the waypoint before they were intercepted by units from Ranger or Miramar. Their mission could still fail, but at least they had gotten as far as they did.
Victor looked down at his instruments. The waypoint was approaching.
"Nearly there. Are you ready Fred?"
"We got a good time yet?"
Victor looked at the cockpit clock. The object would not be visible to the radar for another minute. He powered back on the throttle and dropped altitude.
"We're early. Believe it or not"
"I thought you were running late. What is this some weird Russian way of thinking?"
Victor couldn't fathom it. Maybe he had simply underestimated the sheer speed of the F-14. They were late when they reached the coast, now they were a minute or so early after having reached the waypoint. Victor shrugged to himself, might as well circle around for a while.
"I'm getting dizzy doing this. I don't want to be dizzy before I die." Fred said after a while.
"Fred... spasibo, thank you"
"For what man?" Fred sounded interested.
"Sometimes I wondered what it would be like to meet the last person in my life. You've made this mission succeed so far... And you amuse me."
"Oh, I amuse you now huh?" Victor could hear the smile on his face "Well we ain't sleeping together after this if that's what you're getting at. IF we survive. And YOU still gotta shoot that thing down or blow it up or whatever. When we going up?"
Victor looked at the clock. 6 seconds to go.
"5...4...3...2...1..."
Victor lurched the F-14 directly up into the sky, flying vertical. The throttle was opened as far as it could go and he had engaged the afterburners. The g-forces were crushing him into his seat, but it wasn't anything he hadn't done before.
"You got it yet?" Victor asked over the din.
"I'm looking"
Precious seconds passed. Where was it?
Fred spoke loudly, it was getting hard to hear. "Still not there. We looking in the right place?"
Victor began to get annoyed. Not only were the g-forces slamming him backwards and the roar of the turbofans getting to him, but the Tomcat was bucking around from the wind turbulence from the missiles it carried. They were at Mach 1.5 but were slowing. The whine of the turbines reminded him of his two-stroke Trabant climbing a hill that was too steep.
The Tomcat flew past the 30,000 feet barrier. And they didn't even have a lock yet.
"We're doing it from the wrong direction!" yelled Fred "We need to face south!"
Victor corkscrewed the near vertical plane around so that their belly faced south. They sped past 35,000 feet at Mach 1.3. It was getting harder.
"Still no sign" yelled Fred.
Victor was less annoyed now than worried. He closed his eyes and brought his mind to bear. Suddenly he had it.
Fred flipped the Tomcat over. They were now making a steep inverted climb, their cockpit facing towards the ocean, and the radar pointing back over their heads. Not only were the g-forces forcing him back into his seat, but the inversion also meant he was upside down.
"Got it!" yelled Fred "Computer reckons Mach 8. Targeting now."
In front of them, the special AWG-9 rader, designed to punch through the atmosphere and detect things in orbit, locked onto the object.
"Locked... and away!" yelled Fred
Victor felt a shudder as the Phoenix missile left its moorings and rocketed upwards towards space. He saw the glare of the rocket engine and the trail of exhaust as it broke past Mach 3 on its way up.
Simultaneously, Victor unclipped the dummy missile that had balanced out the payload. The white object flipped backwards and fell towards the ocean. He immediately felt the Tomcat's ride smooth out. The speed increased to Mach 1.4 and 40,000 feet sped by. Things would be easier for a while, but they had to keep the object targeted and locked, which meant that their unusual inverted climb needed to continue.
A shrill beeping sounded throughout the cockpit. Victor didn't have to guess what it was.
"How long do you think?" Victor yelled
"Depends man. They're probably shooting a Phoenix at us right now. 50 clicks away, maybe a few minutes."
"What about ours?"
"Man that thing's flying vertical. Let's hope it gets there."
The incessant beeping continued as the Tomcat made its inverted climb upwards. 45,000 feet now.
"We need to get over on our belly. We have to keep that bitch locked." Fred yelled
Victor corkscrewed again. They were no longer inverted but still nearly vertical.
"Level out more. That thing is going at Mach 8. We're going to lose it!"
Victor leveled the plane out.
"Where we now?" Fred asked.
"50 thousand"
"Okay it's near. I hope you got your visor down. Don't forget, we're going to lose our instruments. Remember to keep your head..."
A blinding light filled the cockpit and Victor was momentarily dazzled. He had never witnessed a nuclear explosion before, but even the knowledge that one was going to happen could not prepare him for the experience.
The Phoenix had detonated at 110,000 feet. Its nuclear warhead was a 210 kiloton weapon that had recently been developed for the Air Force. The missile had been intended for the test that they had abandoned.
The explosion, when he could view it properly through his polarised visor, was an expanding ball of light and flame high up in the atmosphere.
Fred was yelling something behind him. Even though the blast was over 50,000 feet about him he could feel the heat searing into him through his flight suit. Victor inverted the Tomcat over to shield them from the light and heat.
It took a second for him to realise that the engines had stopped and that all his instruments were no longer functioning. He had a further second to think about how he knew this would happen but was interrupted by the shockwave hitting the crippled Tomcat, sending it into a spin. He knew that they were around 55,000 feet when the missile detonated since that was the number the dial was stuck on, the electronics of the plane now useless.
Victor wasn't a technician, but he knew that the stick still worked and that the engine was not run by anything electronic. Theoretically he knew that he could somehow get the engines started again - that's what they had told him back in Moscow anyway.
The F-14 was the most advanced plane that the US had. It was filled with electronic devices. But all of them, including the massive AMG-9 radar, was now smoldering away from the electromagnetic pulse. Yet he could still feel the plane through the stick, and he knew that the throttle was mechanically operated.
He managed to stop the Tomcat spinning, but it was now just a massive glider. Without the engines, they would plow into the ocean. Their mission had hopefully succeeded, now they were trying to escape.
"Hey Dee, you there?" Fred asked
"You got the communications working. How?" Victor asked as he began to prime the engines for restart.
"Backup system. I deliberately turned it off remember?"
"So we're being recorded?"
"Not since the tape device melted. Man what a smell there is."
The cockpit had been filled with an acrid smoke from the burnt electronics. He wondered if the Tomcat itself was aflame from the heat of the blast. He could still feel the radiant heat beating down from above him, like standing near a bonfire. It would be another few minutes before the fire extinguished and the upper jetstream blew the cloud into radioactive mist.
At least they were no longer concerned with being shot down. The other jets sent to intercept him were probably having the same problem. Their radars would have been burnt out, and any guided missiles that they had fired in his direction were probably even now plunging into the ocean, a place they would in soon if he didn't get the engines going again.
"So. What's the plan?"
"Mexico? Why not Cuba?" Victor tried to start the engines.
"Don't think we got the fuel for Cuba. We probably don't have the capacity to lower our landing gear either. That is, if we can get this bird flying again. You get the engines started yet dear?"
The left engine coughed into life again. It was a horrible sound, as if the engine was protesting against its very existence. Victor's Trabant sounded better. The Tomcat levelled out, driven by the smoky thrust of the single engine.
"What's your opinion on the engine?" Victor asked.
"Man that turbine may go. There were some control devices to fine tune the thing. Maybe they gone as well."
The right-hand engine coughed to life. It sounded better. Victor instinctively turned the left one off.
"Good move Dee man. I wouldn't want a turbine blade cutting into me."
They were probably at 10,000 feet, according to Victor's guess. The wings were swept back and could no longer be moved forward. The Tomcat was flying on one engine, heading towards Mexico. Victor's face began to tingle. Sunburn? Radiation? Who knows?
"So, you think we did it?" asked Fred.
"Hard to say. The EMP would've knocked out a few satellites. Why not that one?"
"I think even Ranger may be out. That'll make 'em pissed."
Victor smiled. If Ranger had been hit, then their radars and electronics should be out too.
"Hey Dee, can you speak Spanish?"
"Nyet"
"There's a bar I go to in La Paz. I gotta take you to it."
"Just none of your American beer okay? I must have good vodka."
They laughed.
-------------------
The Montana Air National Guard F-104 crept up unnoticed behind the crippled, smoking Tomcat. Its pilot, knowing that his own electronics were no longer functional, hoped that the Starfighter's cannon still worked. It did, and neither of the occupants of the F-14 were aware of anything as their aircraft shredded apart. The pilot watched as the remains of the Navy jet impacted the water, sinking to the bottom of the North Pacific Ocean.
As the pilot banked and headed towards home, he saw another flash of light in the sky, near the horizon to the north. Not another H-bomb, he hoped. No. It was bright but not blinding. Something was burning up high in the atmosphere a few hundred clicks from his position. Maybe a meteorite or something. Abruptly it went out. With all that had happened to him so far that day, he could be forgiven for not reporting it once he got back to base.
From the Eye of ArgOne Department
© 2007 Neil McKenzie Cameron, http://one-salient-oversight.blogspot.com/
FAQ about the author
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
2005-12-01
November 22, 1963
Lee Harvey Oswald got out of bed. It was the big day. He had slept maybe 1 hour the previous night, and it wasn't just the arguments with Marina that was getting to him. He'd taught her a lesson anyway - another black eye to remind her who the man was.
Despite being tired, he dressed in his work clothes. He opened the drawer and took out a magazine of 6.5mm ammunition, which he then placed into his bolt-action rifle. He placed a long paper bag over the weapon. "Curtain Rods" he mumbled to himself, reminding him of what he should say when his co-workers ask.
He also placed a .38 revolver in his pocket - just in case, he thought.
--------
He was thinking as he travelled to work. Finally he would get a chance to prove himself to be the strong man he knew he was. The Marines, the KGB - they dismissed him as being weak and stupid. Even his Marxist friends in the US thought he was weird.
"You gotta prove yourself" said Louie, the Mafia gangster he had gotten to know recently. "You can't just walk up to some Italian guy and ask him to become a hitman!"
It was embarrassing, he reminded himself. The Dallas Italian Restaurant where he had met some Mafia gangsters was not, he had hoped, full of people who were willing to utilise his services. "So da Marines gave ya a certificate 'cause you shot a rifle well" laughed one of the them "Well have ya killed anyone yet? huh?"
"^%&^% Italians" he thought to himself. Then the next day he opened the paper. The president was going to visit town. JFK, the guy who tried to invade Cuba, was going to parade his ass around Dallas as though he owned the place.
His workplace buzzed for a while about JFK's planned visit. Then, in the lunch room one day, a co-worker came in and told everybody the good news. "They've changed the route" he said "They'll be passing right by our building". Everyone became excited. Some even spoke of getting friends and family to come in so they could have a good view out of the depository windows at the President.
Oswald, too, had been stunned. "He's passing by our building?" he asked. "Yep!" they all said.
Oswald remembered going up to the 6th floor - a book storeroom and off-limits to the rest of the staff. He trembled as he realised that, if he used the rifle he had bought months ago, he could actually shoot the president if he chose to. After all, the floor was normally devoid of people, and most would go to the lower floors to get a better view.
Despite being tired, he dressed in his work clothes. He opened the drawer and took out a magazine of 6.5mm ammunition, which he then placed into his bolt-action rifle. He placed a long paper bag over the weapon. "Curtain Rods" he mumbled to himself, reminding him of what he should say when his co-workers ask.
He also placed a .38 revolver in his pocket - just in case, he thought.
--------
He was thinking as he travelled to work. Finally he would get a chance to prove himself to be the strong man he knew he was. The Marines, the KGB - they dismissed him as being weak and stupid. Even his Marxist friends in the US thought he was weird.
"You gotta prove yourself" said Louie, the Mafia gangster he had gotten to know recently. "You can't just walk up to some Italian guy and ask him to become a hitman!"
It was embarrassing, he reminded himself. The Dallas Italian Restaurant where he had met some Mafia gangsters was not, he had hoped, full of people who were willing to utilise his services. "So da Marines gave ya a certificate 'cause you shot a rifle well" laughed one of the them "Well have ya killed anyone yet? huh?"
"^%&^% Italians" he thought to himself. Then the next day he opened the paper. The president was going to visit town. JFK, the guy who tried to invade Cuba, was going to parade his ass around Dallas as though he owned the place.
His workplace buzzed for a while about JFK's planned visit. Then, in the lunch room one day, a co-worker came in and told everybody the good news. "They've changed the route" he said "They'll be passing right by our building". Everyone became excited. Some even spoke of getting friends and family to come in so they could have a good view out of the depository windows at the President.
Oswald, too, had been stunned. "He's passing by our building?" he asked. "Yep!" they all said.
Oswald remembered going up to the 6th floor - a book storeroom and off-limits to the rest of the staff. He trembled as he realised that, if he used the rifle he had bought months ago, he could actually shoot the president if he chose to. After all, the floor was normally devoid of people, and most would go to the lower floors to get a better view.
Suddenly his thoughts returned to the present, and to the actions he was about to undertake. As he walked in to the depository, he was greeted by fellow workers - most of whom he ignored. He was slightly sweating with nerves as he carried his rifle in. He couldn't remember how many times he said "Curtain rods" to those who asked what it was.
-------
Lou was reading. The phone rang. "Hey Lou, turn on the radio" said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Lou hung up and turned on the radio. The news reporters were babbling insanely about the president being killed - right here in Dallas.
Lou sniggered. "Who would have the balls to do that?" He thought to himself.
Half an hour later he walked into a bar. The atmosphere was dead. People were listening to the radio or watching the TV. Everyone was talking about it. One person even claimed to be there. Someone was weeping.
"^%^ Charles, give me a beer" he asked the bartender as he walked up to him.
"Sure thing Louie" he said, pouring the beer, "goes on yer tab like always"
"What's all this about Kennedy? Someone ice him or something?"
"You better believe it pal. Someone fired on him from somewhere. They just announced his death. Johnson's the new President."
Lou laughed. "Sheesh, who was the shooter? What did they do to him?"
"Ain't found him yet. Dallas police is all over the place"
"So the guy didn't walk up to him and unload? What's going on?"
"Louie, the guy was armed with a rifle. He was picked off from a distance."
The door opened, Rocco walked in. The bartender left as Rocco sat down next to Lou. Rocco didn't look happy as he sidled up to him.
"Hey Louie, I thought you were here. We gotta go, the boss is worried"
"What about?"
"The Dallas Police are everywhere, and man are they pissed!"
"What's to worry about? The boss has his people running the department!" Lou said, downing another mouthful.
"Louie, this is bigger than what you think. The boss is worried that they're getting pressure from above. We got the FBI, the CIA, the Secret Service, even the &^^% IRS is getting involved."
"Hey! Turn it up!" yelled a voice in the bar. A voice on the TV became louder.
"...Dallas police have now arrested a suspect. A Dallas policeman has been shot and killed and the suspect is the same as that who killed the President earlier today..."
A few people in the bar cheered. Some shouted out that the guy should be killed.
"..vey Oswald is the name of the suspect"
Lou went cold.
"Hey HEY!: he yelled out. "What was that name again?"
"Lee somebody" was a reply.
"Oh &^%!" he said quietly
Rocco stared "You know the guy?"
"I think so. We'd better go"
---------------
Louie was sweating badly as he sat on the chair. It was Oswald, that Commie weirdo he met at the bar a couple of months ago. He was so full of himself and Louie almost beat him up. Then he started talking about becoming a mafia hit-man. Louie remembered laughing at the guy. He'd bump into Oswald once a week and they'd talk about odd things. Oswald was a commie, Louie had worked out, and he had spent some time in Russia "working for the KGB". Now he was back in America trying to make a living. "Hey, if Russia is so *#&ing good, why did ya move back here?" he remembers asking.
One night Oswald showed him his revolver - he was like a kid showing off a new toy. A week later he pulled a rifle out of his car. "I want to be a hit man" he had said. Lou had not told him he was a member of the boss's syndicate, but Oswald knew. The guy may have been pretty stupid, but he could work some people out.
Two weeks ago Oswald turned up at the restaurant. Rocco almost killed him when he walked in. The guy declared to everyone there - members of the syndicate all - that he was the best &^%&^ing hitman there was. Louie stood up and hustled him out as the others laughed. "You can't be a hitman" he said to Oswald outside the restaurant "Have you killed anyone yet? Huh?"
He didn't see Oswald after that. Not until he saw the police mugshot placed across the table at him.
Oswald - how did this loser end up shooting the most powerful man in the country?
Lou, like many minions in the syndicate, knew when to shut up and listen. When he was hauled in to see the big boss he was shaking. "Who the F&*^ is this guy?" the boss demanded.
He told the boss everything he knew about Oswald. People were not happy. The Boss screamed at him. "This guy is linked to you! If he starts squealing about the mafia then they're gonna get us"
"Hey Boss" Louie remembers saying "you gotta calm down. You got the chief commissioner on your payroll!". Bad move.
"You putz! That means S%##! We got the FBI invovled, the f&^%&ing CIA and the Secret Service! I got no links with them!! If they think we're involved in this thing then they'll come out hunting. And then they'll suspect that the Dallas police are involved too! All of us are going to go down! Think about that!"
Louie shook. He knew that by incurring the boss's wrath he was in line for something bad.
The door opened. It was the boss. He was smiling and waved his hand. Lou immediately felt better.
"Hey Lou, it's okay. Forget about it!"
"Boss, what do you mean?"
"I had another think. It's not your fault. But we hafta get rid of this guy Oswald before he says anything. We're gonna send someone in to ice him."
"Who's gonna do it? He'll probably get iced himself"
"I know just the guy. You remember Jack Ruby?"
Lou remembered - Jack Ruby. He was lucky to be alive. The guy should have been knocked off weeks ago for the stuff he did.
Lou nodded in agreement "So you gonna get Jack to do it? How?"
"Payment", the boss said "Plus we'd tell him that by doing this we won't kill his family"
----------
Officer Michaels was sitting exhausted in front of the TV. It had been another hard day. The FBI and Secret Service were going berserk, and there were rumours among fellow officers that the Feds were going to come down hard on the Dallas Police.
Michaels knew that Oswald did it - you could tell it from his face. He had shot Kennedy and killed J.D., a officer he knew and respected. Oswald was going to get the chair for this, no doubt whatsoever.
Like most in Dallas - like most in America - Officer Michaels was in shock. But while the words of shock and sadness that he had heard on the TV and over the radio were genuine, the fact that he was caught up in this mess himself was different. The Feds had set up their own temporary office in the station - East coast know-it-alls out of place in the south. He and the other Dallas officers felt that the G-men were sticking their noses where they shouldn't be stuck. He'll be damned if he was going to help them.
Michaels, like many in the Dallas police, knew that if the G-men found out that the Dallas mafia had their claws into the department then he would be jailed for many years - probably with some of the low-life scum that he had put away himself. Officer Michaels knew he was a corrupt cop - but he still wore a uniform, he still had his beat, and he still arrested the bad guys. Besides, the mafia guys had not really used him much any more. A let-off here, a warning there - he was just a simple cop who got some pocket money for letting certain criminals get away with the petty stuff. Not murder though - he decided that he would draw the line at that one, something his mob "friends" actually understood.
There was a knock at the door. It was 9.30 at night... who could it be?
"Honey? Who's that?" his wife called from the bedroom.
"I don't know - I'll check" he replied. As he walked over to the door he grabbed his service revolver - just in case.
He opened the door. It was Silvio, his mafia contact.
"Out to the car.. now!" ordered Silvio, his voice menacing.
"Um... honey... it's someone from work. I'll be back in a sec" Michaels hollered to his wife.
Silvio and Michaels walked out to the car. Silvio sat in the drivers seat while Michaels sat next to him. In the back seat were two men. One of them he had seen before - he was mafia. The other guy looked tense.
"Officer Michaels. I have an order for you." said the man in the back.
"What do you guys want, huh? Have I done anything wrong?" Micahels stammered
"It's okay officer. " The man said "Silvio here says he trusts you. And if Silivio trusts you, I trust you, okay?"
Michaels nodded.
"Okay, now - what time you on tomorrow morning at work?"
"My shift starts at 10.00am. I don't know exactly what I'm doing though. This whole Oswald thing has made everyone jumpy"
"That's okay officer Michaels because we know what you're doing. Tomorrow morning, some time after you start your shift, you will be guarding an entrance to the Dallas Police Headquarters. You'll be told to not let anyone enter. But I'm telling you that there is one exception to this rule."
"What do you mean?"
"Officer Michaels, at some point tomorrow the man sitting next to me will approach you. You will let him in, no questions asked."
"Okay, fine." Michaels nodded. But why would he be on guard duty at the police HQ? "Hey - hang on. If I'm guarding the HQ, then that means that Oswald is going to be moved..."
"Officer Michaels, you're a good officer and you have brains" the man said, "By doing us this favour, we will be giving you ten thousand dollars."
Michaels was stunned.
"Ten grand? But... Guys, is someone going to get killed? I have told you that I'm not gonna play ball if it ever comes to murder..."
"Hey!" the man yelled "We're killing Oswald! That piece of crap you've got in there is gonna fry anyway! He killed Kennedy didn't he? He killed J.D. didn't he? We have our reasons officer Michaels, and you've got to trust us."
"You're killing Oswald?"
"Yeah"
Michaels exhaled in resignation, "Okay I'll do it".
"Now listen - you know what happens if you change your mind don't you?" said the man.
There was a pause.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Nice wife you got there." Silvio suddenly said. "I see you've got a baby on the way, too. I saw her shopping for baby clothes today."
He went cold
"You saw my wife... but wh"
"Ten gees can buy you a lot for your kid, you know. Maybe even a college scholarship? Private School?" said the man in the back
"I think you know what to do Officer Michaels. Turn around and look at the man. Look at his face."
Michaels turned around. It was hard to see in the car's limited internal light, but he could make out the face clearly. He had seen him somewhere before.
"Officer Michaels... this is Jack"
Jack nodded silently at the policeman. The man - Jack - looked very tense.
"So are we agreed officer Michaels?" The mafia man asked.
What else could Michaels do?
"Yeah. I'll let him through"
"That's good. One more thing officier Michaels."
"What"
"You do this service for us, we're never gonna talk again. Ever. You understand? After you let Jack in tomorrow, you're a clean cop. We aint gonna bother you any more. Okay?"
"Okay"
--------------
One year. That's how much this assassination had taken out of Philip Brady's life.
He wasn't on call that day in Dallas, but he had spent time before guarding the President's life. Now that he looked at it, it was obvious that the level of protection that they had given to Kennedy had been pathetic. They had failed in their duty, no doubt about it.
Johnson had personally bawled him out - an experience he did not wish to repeat. He could still remember the smell of the president's breath as he backed Brady up against a table with their faces only an inch apart. There was no choice. He dedicated the next 12 months to the investigation.
It was all secret - he couldn't even tell his wife what he had discovered. More than that, he wouldn't want to, especially when he discovered that the FBI had put him under surveillance. It was obvious, though, that Hoover still wanted a piece of the Secret Service - he just happened to be part of the internal politics between the two.
It had taken him time, but he and the other Secret Service officers assigned to the case had begun to break down some of the barriers that the Dallas PD had put up. He knew that the Dallas Mafia were involved somehow - and that some of the officers he had interrogated were as corrupt as anyone he had met.
It was strange. He had originally been ordered to investigate Kennedy's Assassination, but now he was following up the loose ends left after Oswald had been shot.
Everyone he worked with concluded that Oswald's death was a mafia hit. The killer, Jack Ruby, was as skilled as any in keeping his mouth closed. Even when he allowed some of his men to "lean" on him, nothing was forthcoming. But it was Ruby's background that gave it away - his criminal career was obvious. Nevertheless, there were still questions that needed to be asked, and no one had been asking them.
The FBI were furious at Brady's investigation after Oswald was killed. Everything he was doing was their territory, they argued. But he would argue back that his task was to investigate the assassination of the president, which is what he was doing, so tell Hoover to get lost. And on his work went.
He was certainly not a popular figure whenever he interviewed Police Officers at the Dallas PD HQ. Every time he went in a code of silence descended, even from the top brass. He had put a number of them under surveillance and knew that he had enough evidence to get three of them indicted for corruption. He never drank their coffee.
But it was the FBI that was the real problem. They were keeping information from him, and he knew it. Questions that he posed to them were given perfunctory or incoherent answers. FBI men he wanted to speak to were strangely absent when he walked into their offices. Hoover had trained his men well.
So it was simply a matter of retaliation - he kept things from them, too. He was proud of the traditions and work of the Secret Service and there was no way he was going to let the FBI get any advantage from this.
After all, it wasn't as though the killer was still out there. Had Oswald escaped, he knew that the Service and the FBI would work well together to track him down and bring him to justice. Now that the killer was dead, and there were loose ends to tie up, it was simply back to internal politics.
And there was no way Hoover was going to get any kudos from his investigation.
The phone rang.
"Phil Brady? This is agent John Asquith from the Bureau. How are you today?" Said the voice at the other end.
Great, Brady groaned to himself, another FBI man to deal with.
"Good morning Agent Asquith, what can I do for you?"
"I hate to interrupt your investigation, but I have something here you should see." The voice sounded bright, almost arrogant.
"Yeah? What is it?"
"Come down to the Bureau offices. I'll set it up for you..."
Brady was getting a bit annoyed at this guy. The arrogance. Just pop down to the Bureau offices? Give me a break.
"Look agent Asquith, I'm a busy man. If you'd like to make an appointment with my secretary, you can come here."
"Okay Mr Brady, if that's the way you want it. However, I need to warn you that what I have will turn your investigation on its ear."
"Okay, I'll just put you through to my secretary..." said Brady, and promptly hung up. FBI agents, he thought, were complete jerks.
---------
Phil Brady shut the film off as Agent Asquith stood up and spoke.
"Anyone with any knowledge of the ballistic qualities of bullets can tell what happened here. The bullet that killed the President was fired from in front of the motorcade."
The gathered group of investigators looked horrified. A couple of them had their heads in their hands. A few looked angry.
"But all the evidence we have suggests that Oswald did it!" blurted out an FBI agent.
Brady stood up next to Asquith.
"I know about as much as any of you about Oswald. The evidence that he shot at Kennedy from the school book depository is overwhelming. But we are still faced with the Zapruder film."
"Is the film a fake?" questioned a Secret Service agent at the back.
"It would be so much simpler if it was... but no." said Brady "It's been tested rigorously and Zapruder himself has been subjected to all sorts of investigations."
A grey-haired man sitting in the front row broke his silence and looked at the FBI agent.
"So, agent Asquith, are you saying that there were two shooters?" he said
"Yes" said Asquith "I am certain of it"
The investigators groaned, one even looked as though he was going to break down.
Asquith continued. "Remember early on the investigation when we were interviewing those in front of the president's car? Do you remember their testimonies that the shot came from behind them, from the grassy area? We just thought they heard an echo. We discounted their evidence because it was clear Oswald was the shooter. Well, it turns out that they heard another shooter."
"So what are we going to do?" asked one of the more shaken agents.
Asquith sighed heavily. "I'm sure that there are plenty of police departments around the country that would welcome our expertise."
"I have spent 30 years of my life working for the Bureau!" yelled an angry investigator "I can't accept that it's all going to end like this!"
Brady spoke up.
"Gentlemen", he said slowly, "It was our duty to do the best we could to bring this matter to a conclusion. But our best was not good enough. No matter how you look at it, when the politicians begin to realise what has happened, we will be the first in line to be punished."
"That depends" the grey-haired man said. His words silenced the entire room.
He continued. "It depends upon who else is going to lose their jobs over this. We're not just looking at you people here, but the Dallas P.D., the Governor of Texas, and also the President himself."
Silence
"I beg your pardon, sir, but if you're saying that the President himself may lose out because of this, then I'm not sure how that could be." said the Secret Service agent sitting next to him.
"Oh, not directly of course..." the old man continued "But consider this. When the report from the commission is tabled and it is discovered that the best law-enforcement organisations in the country let the President's assassin escape, what do you think will happen?"
More silence. The grey-haired man continued.
"I'll be honest with you, the Dallas P.D. can go to hell for all I care. But in this room we have representatives from all three major federal investigation services. Even though there is always a low-level war going on between each department, I know I can trust these departments to act swiftly and professionally when our nation is threatened. It makes no sense to destroy and humiliate good people and good organisations over such a mistake."
Phil Brady saw that all the eyes in the room were on this man. "What are you saying sir?" he asked.
"All I'm saying is that there are many on the commission who will take a realistic view - a patriotic view if you like. They know what this film can do to the United States of America if it comes out."
"Sir, the film will eventually be made public" interrupted agent Asquith, "we can't keep it secret forever. And if we destroy or lose it then..."
"The film WILL eventually be made public" stated the grey-haired man "but the findings that we have discussed will not."
People looked around in confusion. For the first time a hint of annoyance came to face of the grey-haired man. "All I am saying is that your jobs are safe, gentlemen. As soon as is possible I will get every single one of you to my office for some individual instructions. In the meantime I have a lot of work to do with the commission."
He stood up and looked at the group of investigators keenly.
"And, of course, do I need to remind you that loyalty will be rewarded?"
--------------
It was good to be back in the modern world again, with cars and hamburgers and beds. No more did he need to stay low, keep quiet and live off the land.
The locals in the Oregon town were at first puzzled when the Texan walked in. They were good, honest people - not like Kennedy of course. Nevertheless, he had found himself a job and he worked hard at it. He made friends and on weekends often went out hunting with THE rifle.
It was a secret he was telling no one. He still remembers seeing the president's face in the scope - and a few moments later the deed had been done.
The Dallas police were idiots - they must have been since his escape and disappearance were so easy to achieve. When he discovered that they had arrested and killed the wrong man he could not contain his laughter. But he kept low, just in case. He left Texas and travelled to Oregon, living off the land in the vast forests there. It was cold and wet, but too many people knew him in Texas for him to feel safe. No - he was never going to return, lest he give away his secret to a friend.
Often he would sit there and replay the events in his mind. He had often done this after he served in Korea, and discovered that his memories of events would often not match those of his colleagues.
But often he would catch himself - did he really hear the sound of a gunshot before he pulled the trigger? Did he really notice flashes of gunfire from the building behind the motorcade? No, he concluded, it was just his mind and his memories playing tricks on him.
From the Eye of ArgONE Department
© 2005 Neil McKenzie Cameron, http://one-salient-oversight.blogspot.com/
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
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