THERE’S SOMETHING UP THERE…
The young airman arrived at Charlie Fifty-four in the predawn hours of a Sunday. He was startled to see the shape of a crew member sitting in the navigator’s seat of the B-52. The officer was in the shadow but it looked like he was doing some paperwork… in almost total darkness. The airman just stood on the hatch steps in confusion, trying to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. The shape turned toward him and reached for the helmet in his hand. As it moved into the dim light from the hatch, the airman was horrified to see that the body ended above the shoulders. He could clearly see the lieutenant’s bars on the flight suit, but there was no head!
*****
It is the position of the air force that things such as ghosts and goblins do not exist. They have no basis in fact and are therefore not officially recognized. It is also a fact that from that day on, even with the ramp as crowded as it was, the air force never again used Charlie Fifty-four as a parking space for a B-52.
AND IT WILL TAKE YOU WITH IT—INSIDE
THE PAGES OF…
SCARE FORCE
“An entertaining revelation of the determination of ‘warriors’ to stand their watch, beyond the duration of life itself.”
—Richard Marcinko, bestselling author of Rogue Warrior
Copyright
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1995 by Charles D. Hough
All rights reserved.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.
First eBook Edition: September 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56635-3
This book is dedicated to my father…
who wouldn’t have believed a word of it.
Contents
THERE’S SOMETHING UP THERE…
COPYRIGHT
PREFACE
THE ALERT PHANTOM
NANNY’S GHOST
SCARY MOVIES
TRANSATLANTIC GHOST
DEATH REACHES OUT
THE GHOST OF CHARLIE FIFTY-FOUR
THE SIMULATED SPIRIT
WHITE CHIEF
THE WELCOMING COMMITTEE
DEADSTICK LANDING
SCHOOL SPIRIT
MISSED APPROACH
NEVER SURRENDER
ABOVE AND BEYOND
DUMB LUCK
STUDENT GHOST
HISTORY LESSON
A WAY TO GO
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
THE United States Air Force is made up of men and women who are intelligent, professional, well trained, capable, and haunted.
I don’t mean to say that every single one of the 400,000-odd blue-suiters has his or her own personal specter to keep them company. But if you can get them talking, if you can gain their confidence, if you can become a friend, then you might hear strange tales and fantastic stories that stretch the imagination.
The military profession is unique. So are the people who live the life. They’re given the best training, armed with the most advanced technology, and then pushed out to the edge to do impossible things.
After twenty-five years of association with the Air Force I’ve learned that strange things happen out there on the edge. When the people and their machines are pushed to the limit, all that pressure sometimes leads to surprising experiences.
I’m not a trained parapsychologist or professional investigator of the paranormal. I don’t know where the things that go bump in the night come from. I’ve heard conjecture that violent death creates ghosts. The Air Force provides its fair share of that. The first aircraft fatality was a member of the military. Lt. Thomas E. Selfridge died in a plane crash in 1908 while a member of a unit that evolved into the modern Air Force. And men and women of the Air Force have been dying in tragic ways ever since.
But whether these specters are formed by violence or pain or fear or something entirely different, I know they’re out there.
The stories that follow are from my own experience and the experience of my friends. Some of the names have been changed. Some of the places are different. But they’re all stories of the Air Force with a supernatural chill. Enjoy.
THE ALERT PHANTOM
IT was hard to lose friends to flying accidents, especially during peacetime training missions. But then again this wasn’t really peacetime. The cold war generated situations like Alert and dangerous training missions. Alert is gone now, and the missions are easier. But as you’ll see in the following story, all of the cold warriors haven’t been relieved of duty.
“On Alert again. Looks like they got me on Alert again.” Captain Gavin chuckled as the young gunner passed him, paraphrasing a popular country ballad. Some of the humor wore off as he considered his own situation. On Alert again. Alert was a necessary evil that helped to maintain the precarious balance of superpowers in the midst of a prolonged cold war. Here young men and women, the cream of the crop of modern day warriors, were gathered on the threshold of Armageddon. They were pilots and crew chiefs, navigators and bombardiers and munitions specialists. Together with their modern engine of war, the huge B-52 bomber, they lived on the edge of the sword for seven days at a time. High, razor-topped fences, motion detectors, vicious guard dogs, and a heavily armed security force kept them separated and protected from the normal world of the Air Force base. Protected also from family and friends. Nothing must distract them from their task. They had to be always ready. They were as isolated as if they were already in a war on foreign soil.
Captain Gavin felt that he had spent too many seven-day weeks poised on the sword’s edge. Being ready day and night to jump into the mighty bomber and fly in the teeth of the most dreadful of battles was a young man’s game. The way he saw it, four of his last twelve years had been spent in this Alert building prison.
Not that it was all that uncomfortable, as prisons go. The building was like a two-story, totally self-contained hotel. It had its own kitchen and dining room to serve up to a hundred warriors. It had a library, a well-appointed game room full of the latest video games, a couple of television lounges, and even a modern movie theater. It had its own fleet of vehicles maintained by its own service station; the old-fashioned kind that really provided service. It had a full suite of offices for the personnel who maintained this most exclusive of hotels, and a communications network that would have been the envy of most multinational companies. The living quarters were private and well furnished. The fact that the lower story was buried underground was only a little ominous. It was no more strange than the total lack of windows anywhere in the building. An attempt had been made to alleviate the gloom through the use of brightly colored walls and an eclectic collection of paintings. It was a vain attempt to relieve the air of doom from this final outpost on the road to nuclear holocaust.
The tension of Captain Gavin’s situation and his surroundings no longer had a serious effect on him. After twelve years he felt only a little of the terror of his situation. What did cause fear and trembling in him was the thought of his desk creaking under a terrible load of paperwork. Paperwork that was mostly overdue. And it looked like it was going to remain overdue for at least another week. All Alert personnel were restricted to the building because of problems with the Klaxons. The Klaxons were noisy horns located everywhere on the air base. Their banshee wail would summon the warriors to their planes when the time for war was called. When they weren’t working, nobody left the building.
Dale Gavin sighed as he paced down the long main hall. He felt restless and uneasy. Here he was isolated from a mountain of work. He guessed he should be grateful for the rest. All he really felt was boredom. When he had been a new young warrior, Alert was
exciting. The shared adversity drew the crews together in a camaraderie that was intense yet hard to describe to an outsider. Crews were like a strange, six-way marriage. They worked as a unit and they suffered or triumphed together.
Now he wasn’t really a member of all this. He was the outsider. He was a staff officer drafted to fill a vacancy left by a vacationing navigator. He had already played all the crew games and had been elevated to a different realm; an executive, if you will. He was considered an “old head” by the crew dogs now. A reservoir of corporate knowledge. A seasoned veteran. “Yeah,” he thought. “Old fart is more like it.”
Old Captain Gavin glanced up as the door at the end of the hallway swung open. He smiled as he recognized another “old head.” It was Mike Delane, a longtime friend. They had started out in the command together, attending the same flying class. They had been to war together and survived the danger of conflict and the boredom of Alert. Now they both served on the staff that administered the bomber wing, teaching old tricks to new dogs.
Mike came sauntering up the hallway with the easy stride of a man confident enough to take it easy. Dale noticed the ubiquitous coffee cup in his friend’s hand. Mike never seemed to be without it. He was looking down at the ground as he came, as if trying to remember the punch line to an old joke or another war story. The younger flyers had been known to ply him with free beer after long flights to loosen his memories of the outrageous youth of the command.
“See they caught you too,” Captain Gavin said as his friend drew near. “Guess they’ll let just about anybody defend the nation.”
Mike must have heard him. The corridor was quiet and empty except for the two. But he didn’t look up or acknowledge the greeting. He just plodded on.
Dale was confused. Maybe Mike had a lot on his mind. He was about to repeat the greeting when Delane drew even with him. Mike looked up; gazed steadily at Dale. Then he smiled slightly and winked. At that moment a cold breeze blew down the hall. Gavin turned to the side to see who had opened one of the flight line doors. He turned back to comment on the strange chill to Mike only to discover that the hallway was empty. Quickly he examined all the doors that led off the hallway. All were closed. It was as if Mike Delane had disappeared into thin air.
“Very funny.” Gavin spoke to the empty corridor. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing hide-and-seek, Mike?” The last was delivered with more conviction than he felt. He was aroused from his confusion by the loudspeaker on the wall above him.
“Captain Gavin, you’re wanted on the phone. Emergency!”
Dale forgot his missing friend as he sprinted down the hall to the communications room.
“Get your keys and be in front of the facility in five minutes. I need some crew training files, now!”
The wing commander’s voice rang in his ears as he headed to his room to retrieve his keys. Gooseflesh ran up his arms. A demand for crew files like this usually meant only one thing in the flying business: an accident.
Dale’s worst fears were realized by the commander.
“We lost one. About an hour ago. In Sand Fork. They landed right on top of the target.”
Sand Fork was a training route that the bombers used to practice low-level bombing. The bomb run was in a valley between mountains in Colorado. It was a desolate area that looked like the surface of a dead moon.
“Were there any survivors?” It was a hard question for Gavin to ask.
“No chance.” The answer even harder for the colonel.
The news was horrifying. Six men, fellow flyers, were now gone completely from the earth.
“Give me the folders for Jamie Bar’s crew.”
Now the dead men had names. Captain Gavin reluctantly pulled the training folders for the crew. They would be needed by the accident board, who had already been notified and would be convening rapidly. The Air Force moved quickly in situations of crises.
The colonel watched over his shoulder as he pulled the manilla folders from the cabinet.
“Not the nav. Not the lieutenant. He had a cold. The flight surgeon grounded him. They were flying with a substitute.”
The colonel reached past him and pulled another folder from the drawer. Captain Gavin froze as he read the name on the folder. The blood rushed from his face and his mouth gaped open.
“It… it can’t be…” he stammered.
“Here, Dale, you better sit down.” The commander helped him to a chair. “I’m sorry I didn’t break it to you a little better. I forgot that you guys were good friends.”
Yes, good friends. Friends in adversity. Friends on Alert. But one of them was probably on a lot longer tour. Much longer than seven days.
Dale Gavin looked back at the name on the folder. The name of his friend, Mike Delane. For whatever reason the ghost of his recently deceased crew mate had returned to haunt the place that he haunted so often in life.
Sleep tight tonight, America. Your Alert Force is awake. But not all of us are alive.
NANNY’S GHOST
TRADlTlON defines England as one of the most haunted countries in the world. Steeped in history, the stately ghosts of England are admired and respected as professionals in the realm of the supernatural. Just as England perseveres, so do her haunts. But there’s a difference here that I think is important. Even though their days and nights in the old manor house were full of strange and supernatural occurrences, I never met a single participant who would have given up the experience. They seemed to actually cherish being haunted by ghosts like these.
Greenham Common is an unusual name for a United States Air Force base. That’s probably because technically it’s not a United States air base. It’s a British base on loan to the US military near the town of Newberry in the southern part of England. It lies in a beautiful section of Merry Old and is a prized assignment.
When Air Force members change bases and move their families to new locations, especially locations overseas, the service tries to make the move as painless as possible. One of the facilities they employ to take some of the difficulty out of a move is the provision of temporary living quarters or TLQs on the base. They’re like little motels furnished with most of the comforts of home. Servicemen can move their families in while they arrange for more permanent quarters either on or off the base.
Greenham Common was no different in this respect. But the TLQ itself was different. In fact it was probably the most “different” building ever used by the Air Force. Buildings were limited on the base proper. The USAF had looked around for a building to use off base and what they found was unusual to say the least.
Greenham Common TLQ was in fact a centuries-old manor house in the grand tradition of English nobility. It was still owned by the ancestral heirs of the builders and was leased to the government for the slight sum of one dollar per year. The only provision of the lease was that the Air Force do its best to preserve the manor house exactly as it had been given to them. No remodeling was to be done. It had already been modernized with plumbing, electricity, and heating before it was put into government service. The family could no longer afford to maintain so grand a dwelling.
And grand it was. It was three stories of antique beauty. The entryway was dominated by a bold staircase that swept up the entire three stories. Opposite the staircase was the entrance to the ballroom, a truly magnificent room. It occupied one-half of the entire structure, with a vaulted ceiling rising three stories above the marble floor. On one side of the room were two mezzanine levels leading off to multiple rooms. At another corner was an alcove housing an organ that seemed to float a story above the dance floor. At the end of this grand salon was a massive fireplace that easily accommodated logs eight feet long. People occupying the rooms off the ballroom could watch the activities below from the railing or join them by way of the enormous staircase. Other rooms led off the other side of the staircase. It was in all respects the most commodious and elegant building ever used by the Air Force. And it was probably one of the most haunted.
The manor certainly had enough provenance of age to allow for a host of phantoms. The building as it stood was some three hundred years old. In spite of this it was referred to as the new manor house. It was built on the ashes of an older house that had burned long before the United States got itself united.
Operating as it did as a temporary lodging facility, the stately TLQ did not house long-term residents who could build up a history of the ghostly happenings. But the Air Force is a close-knit family, especially in a foreign country. When family members got together for recreation, a favorite topic of discussion was the supernatural occurrences in the TLQ.
The most-commonly shared experience was the nightly footsteps of the busiest ghost. Many had heard the comings and goings late at night. The rooms were located on long narrow hallways with wooden floors. The ghost who walked there was not furtive or shy at all. He or she was bold and purposeful, even if no one living could determine what the purpose was.
A young sergeant recalled encountering the ghostly walker several times. He had a job that required him to work late hours. Returning to the manor house after dark, he usually sat up reading before retiring. The utter silence of the house would suddenly be disturbed by footsteps proceeding down the hallway. The steps were sharp and clear and he could tell that the walker was definitely a no-nonsense person. There was an almost-military precision to the staccato taps. No, it was more than military. It was a walk that demanded immediate attention. A walk like that feared and respected by most English boys. In other words, it sounded for all the world like the walk of a nanny. A nanny bent on ensuring that the rules, her rules, were adhered to straightaway.
This first night, as on many nights to follow, the footsteps came to a halt at his door. They were followed immediately by a sharp rap. The young sergeant, accustomed to reacting without question to authority, jumped to his feet and ran to the door. He was dumbfounded to find nobody in the hallway. In fact no other light showed from under any door in the corridor. He searched the hallway but could find no reason for the disturbance. He returned to his room and sat down to read again. In a few short minutes the walk and the knock were reenacted, with the same results.
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