Sea Devil

by Richard P. Henrick

  As it turned out, the Air Force had been good for him. Though he could have made more money playing football, his training was superb, and he genuinely enjoyed working with the service’s quality personnel. He was also soon to learn that above all, he loved to be airborne.

  A slight case of nearsightedness kept him from going for his pilot’s wings. Instead he did the next best thing and qualified as a boom operator. This allowed him plenty of flying time and placed him as one of the elite few trusted to handle this difficult and demanding task.

  What really bugged him, though, was the fact that today, a fellow could be both a professional athlete and in the armed forces at the very same time. Why, he had just read about a recent graduate of the Naval Academy who was allowed to do his duty aboard a ship from Monday through Friday, and then on weekends played professional football for the Raiders. In Lou’s day, such a thing was unheard of, and as far as he was concerned, it shouldn’t be permitted even now.

  Astounded by the salaries the NFL was offering its latest bunch of recruits, Lou disgustedly threw down the newspaper and dug into his jacket pocket for the Snickers that he had hidden there. Because of his diet, he knew he shouldn’t have even taken it along. But he had so few pleasures left in life, and one little candy bar certainly wasn’t going to hurt him any.

  He carefully unwrapped it and took a second to savor its chocolaty aroma before taking a bite full. The bar was fresh and tasted of roasted peanuts, creamy nougat, and rich milk chocolate. Only after he had completely devoured it did the first pangs of guilt possess him.

  Four months ago, he had made a New Year’s resolution that he would go on a strict diet and lose at least twenty pounds. At six-four, he was a naturally big man who had developed a lot of muscle as a young football player. His duties in the Air Force were mostly sedentary, and slowly but surely his muscles were turning to flab. To counter this deterioration, he decided on a diet and a strict exercise program.

  For the first two months he carefully monitored his diet, cut out all sweets, and exercised regularly. By the end of February he had lost seven pounds. Then, on March first, he was transferred from the States to the UK. The hectic move played havoc with his workout schedule, and the rich English food did the same to his diet. By the end of March, he had gained the seven pounds back and then some, his resolution all but forgotten.

  With the taste of the Snickers bar still fresh on his lips, Lou wondered how he’d ever find the willpower to resist such treats. He had to do something drastic, or soon he wouldn’t even be able to fit into his uniforms.

  His excess weight was even beginning to get in the way of his present duty. As boom operator he was required to lie on his stomach and crawl into the cramped passageway at the tail end of the airplane. It was here that he directed the boom down to the refueling aircraft.

  If he kept gaining weight, he wouldn’t be able to fit into this narrow section of the KC-135, and his days of being a boom operator would be over. He’d then most likely be grounded and forced to wait out his retirement at a desk. Such a future didn’t appeal to Lou, who wondered if the base hospital could help him find a compatible diet program and force him to stick to it. Promising himself that he would at the very least give this option a try, he sat forward. His intercom headset suddenly activated.

  “Master Sergeant Moretti,” greeted the distinctive bass voice of the pilot.

  “We’ve got our thirsty customer on radar, twenty miles ahead of us. Intercept will be in five minutes. Do you think that you can handle them?”

  “We aim to please,” returned the boom operator, who then pivoted, and after sucking in his bulging waist, began his way further into the KC-135’s tail.

  To accomplish the refueling process, it was necessary for Captain Lawrence Stockton to bring his B-52 down to 30,500 feet. This was some 2,000 feet below the tanker, that was in the process of initiating a sharp banked turn, to put itself several miles ahead of Red Dog two-niner. It was as the bomber began slowly closing this distance that the cockpit intercom rang.

  “Captain Stockton, this is Major Tabor. I’m showing a yellow light on the fusing circuit of bomb number four.

  I’m almost certain that it’s nothing but that of’ gremlin at work again, but I’d like permission to go down into the bomb rack and check for certain.”

  “I copy that, Major,” replied the pilot.

  “We’re just about to begin refueling up here. Couldn’t that eyeball check wait until we’ve finished this process and turn for home.”

  “I’d rather get on it right away, Captain. If it’s something more serious than a bad circuit, I might have to open it up, and that could be a lengthy process.”

  Lawrence Stockton deliberated a second before responding.

  “I understand, Major. Go ahead and check it out. I’ll get Major Avila to relieve me and meet you down in the bomb rack. If it is that gremlin again, maybe this time we can catch him red handed

  Stockton unplugged his umbilical, and as he began removing his restraining harness, addressed his copilot.

  “I’d better get down to the bomb rack and see what’s upsetting Major Tabor. Ill send up Major Avila to take my place. It’s about time he earned his keep around here.”

  “Can I still handle the refueling, Captain?” asked the eager copilot.

  Stockton answered the rookie while slipping out of his ejection seat and carefully climbing over the console that held the throttles.

  “I don’t see why you can’t. Lieutenant.

  Make certain our friendly flying gas station cleans those windows while they’re at it, and checks under the hood as well. And if he asks for your charge card number, remind him to put in on Uncle Sam’s tab.”

  With this the veteran pilot playfully winked and turned to make his way out of the cockpit. As expected, he found the relief pilot sound asleep on the narrow bunk that lined the fuselage. He put his hand on Avila’s shoulder and shook him awake.

  “Rise and shine, Major.”

  Pete Avila groggily stirred.

  “Are we home yet, skipper?”

  “We won’t be back in Barksdale for another six hours.

  And we won’t be getting home at all unless you get your keister up into the flight deck and make certain that our tanks get filled. And by the way, I told the lieutenant that he could handle the controls when we link with the KC-135. He’s a sharp kid, but keep your eyes on him all the same.”

  “Will do, skipper,” replied the relief pilot as he stiffly sat up, yawned, and scratched his beard-stub bled chin.

  “I’ll be in the bomb rack with Major Tabor if you need me,” added the pilot, who continued on down a narrow passageway lined with snaking cables and electronics gear.

  A ladder brought Stockton to the deck below, where the B-52’s primary cargo was stored. Here he found the bombardier seated at a computer console, busily feeding a series of requests into the keyboard.

  “Find anything yet, Major?”

  The bombardier took a moment to scan the monitor screen.

  “It doesn’t look like that short is located on this side. Skipper. Even with an auxiliary circuit, it’s still flashing yellow.”

  Crossing the compartment to check this screen himself, Lawrence Stockton reflected.

  “If it is an internal short, then I bet it occurred when we initiated that practice run over Spitsbergen.”

  “That’s very possible,” returned the bombardier.

  “But I’m still going to have to open up number four to check that circuit board firsthand.”

  The pilot nodded.

  “Then let’s do it, Major. 111 open up the rack while you get the test kit.”

  As a duly qualified bombardier in his own right, Lawrence Stockton replaced the Major at the console.

  He needed to enter a series of security codes before depressing a large red toggle switch positioned directly above the keyboard. The muted hum of hydraulic machinery filled the air as two steel plates that had formed the
floor of the compartment opened with a loud popping hiss. This revealed a large hollow cavity, approximately twenty feet long and six feet wide. Mounted inside this opening was the tubular steel bomb rack.

  Four cigar-shaped objects were held inside this structure.

  Each of these cylinders, stored in side-by-side pairs, was seven feet in length and looked much like a fat torpedo.

  Lawrence Stockton carefully studied each of these objects, which he knew to be their four 1.5-megaton hydrogen bombs.

  The underside of the cavity was currently sealed, and led directly to the outer skin of the bomber. This was the bomb bay door, and would be opened only to service the weapons or to drop them.

  Major Tabor appeared with a compact tool kit. There was a serious look on his face as he began his way down a steel ladder bolted into the rear part of the rack. This allowed him access to the forward portion of the bomb positioned at the rear of the rack’s left side. He carefully used a tapered screwdriver to remove the protective plate that covered the fourth bomb’s trigger mechanism. Faced now with a number of wafer-thin circuit boards, the bombardier pulled out a probe and began gingerly searching for the malfunctioning chip.

  Breathlessly watching this delicate process, Lawrence Stockton commented, “Take your time, Major. And don’t forget that if those boards show clean, we can always temporarily cock the trigger to overload the circuit and then read it again.”

  Not bothering to respond to this except with a curt nod, the bombardier tried to keep his hand from shaking as he continued inserting the surgical probe deep into the juncture of each individual connection.

  It was a call from the tanker’s navigator that sent Master Sergeant Lou Moretti into the extreme rear portion of the KC-135’s tail. His hefty frame seemed to fill the entire enclosure as he stretched out on his stomach on an elongated red plastic-covered mattress. Before removing the tail’s outer plexiglass shield, he strapped himself firmly in place so as not to be sucked out if the inner window collapsed. Only when his bonds were taut did he remove the shield and peer out the viewing port that was cut into the very tip of the tanker’s tail.

  Less than a mile away he could make out the nose of the B-52 Stratofortress, illuminated by a pair of powerful spotlights. The bomber seemed to be perfectly aligned, and Lou spoke into his chin-mounted radio transmitter.

  “Red Dog two-niner, this is your friendly attendant, Master Sergeant Lou Moretti on Troubador Six. I have you on visual. You are cleared to close.”

  * * *

  For the next ten to fifteen minutes, Lou would in cf feet be commanding both planes during the actual refueling process. But first he had to guide the B-52 to the proper transfer distance. He did so by operating a set of red and green guidance lights that were mounted on the tanker’s tail.

  When the distance between the two planes was less than a half a mile, he activated the tanker’s 42-foot-long boom. This telescoping metallic tube had two stubby wings built onto it that Lou “flew” to a position straight behind their tail. On the end of this boom was a nozzle that would be fitted into an opening just at the upper rear of the bomber’s cockpit.

  Looking down from his cramped vantage point, the Master Sergeant could almost see the individual faces of the B-52’s flight crew as the bomber closed within 200 feet.

  “Come closer and elevate your nose slightly,” he commanded calmly.

  The two planes sped along one beneath the other at a speed of 275 miles per hour. All so gradually, the lower of the two aircraft began closing in.

  “Okay,” said Lou.

  “Now just a little bit closer and we’ve got it.”

  The nozzle of the boom was just about over the B52’s cockpit when the veteran operator noted a slight inconsistency in the bomber’s closure rate. Startled by this sighting, he called out excitedly, “Hey, heads up down there! You’re coming in too damn fast!”

  What followed next took place with the ponderous pace of a nightmare. For the bomber’s flight crew failed to heed his warning, and Lou looked on with disbelief as the boom pierced the B-52’s longeron. As this taut metal spine fractured, the bomber began breaking up in mid-air, and a fiery spark shot up the tanker’s refueling boom. Master Sergeant Lou Moretti had no time to cry out in horror as this spark ignited the 30,000 gallons of fuel stored in the KC-135’s tanks.

  * * *

  A blindingly bright flash lit the night sky, and in a blink of an eye, the Boeing Stratotanker was blown apart by a tremendous explosion. Lou Moretti and his crewmates never felt any pain, for their bodies were instantly vaporized, while the molten remains of their aircraft’s fuselage and wings spiraled downward to be buried in the cool depths of the sea below.

  The first hint that something was amiss was when the high-pitched wail of the bail-out alarm filled the bomb bay enclosure with its chilling sound. Captain Lawrence Stockton had little time to react as the plane around him violently shook and canted hard on its right side.

  Thrown off balance by the force of this unexpected roll, the pilot sensed that something was seriously wrong with his command. Seconds later, the plane rolled wildly in the opposite direction, and Lawrence Stockton found himself pinned to the roof of the compartment, the victim of the forces of gravity as the Stratofortress tumbled wildly from the skies.

  It was sheer instinct and the will to survive that kept him from surrendering to his rising panic. Forcing himself to take deep even breaths, he scanned the now darkened compartment and failed to locate his crew mate

  The last he had seen of the bombardier was as the Major completed his testing of the circuit boards, and still finding nothing wrong with them, was in the process of activating the device’s trigger. This was only to be a temporary process, for he wanted to send a brief electrical charge through the circuit mechanism, and this was the easiest way to do so.

  The pilot vainly reached out to stabilize himself when the cabin once more rotated and he fell sprawling to the deck below. He landed painfully on his side, next to the console. As he struggled to right himself, there was a loud popping noise followed by the deafening roar of rushing air. The temperature immediately dropped a good forty degrees and Stockton realized that the bomb bay doors had just been wrenched open. His pulse quickened, for now he had a way out of the crippled aircraft.

  As always, he was wearing his parachute. Since there were no ejection seats in this portion of the plane, his only path to safety would be through the bomb bay doors. Yet the cabin was still spinning so wildly that it was a supreme effort for him just to get to his knees.

  A momentary vision of his family flashed in his mind, and he began desperately crawling toward the twenty foot-long opening. Inch by painful inch he moved his bruised body forward until he was able to peer into the enclosure. Looking down toward the four bombs, he could just see the open air beyond, through the struts of the rack mount. He was prepared to try crawling into the space that lay between the rack and bomb number one when the cabin spun upside down and he was once again sucked upward and pinned to the ceiling. Before he could cry out in frustration, another quick pitch of the cabin sent him spiraling back to the deck. He did his best to ignore the excruciating pain that coursed up his right arm as he crawled back to the bomb bay enclosure.

  Yet this time when he peered downward, he saw that the entire rack, including its lethal load of bombs, was no longer there. Only the spinning night sky greeted him as he wasted no time dropping into this welcome void.

  Liam Lafferty had been in the process of pulling in his fishing lines when the night sky seemed momentarily to catch on fire. The blindingly bright flash originated high in the pitch black heavens, and for a few startling seconds it was as if the sun had miraculously dawned.

  Yet the intense, mysterious light was all too soon snuffed out as abruptly as it had arrived.

  A muffled, explosive boom echoed in the distance, and the wizened fisherman scanned the sky in a vain effort to locate the source of this sound. His night vision temporarily lost
by the unexpected flare-up, Liam felt his pupils take a full minute to readjust to the blackness. When they eventually did, he viewed a sky full of familiar twinkling stars and exhaled a long breath of relief.

  His first concern had been that a sudden storm was on its way. Lightning could play curious tricks on the eyes, and he was certainly no stranger to the resonant blast that only thunder could produce. But a variety of phenomena were present that indicated that this was not the case. First of all, the heavens were still clear from horizon to horizon, meaning that there were no clouds belonging to an advancing storm front present in the area. And since the wind remained negligible and the seas calm, the veteran fisherman seriously doubted that a storm was responsible for the strange sighting.

  Several years ago, Liam had seen a movie on the television at his local pub that told the story of the day when a giant comet hit the earth. Of course this was mere fiction, but he did know that such a thing could happen. Why, whenever that rare clear night presented itself, he never failed to sight dozens of shooting stars streaking through the heavens. He had once read that these were caused by meteorites. Usually formed from rock, these meteors became visible only when they fell through the earth’s atmosphere, where friction burnt them up.

  It seemed logical to Liam that a large meteor could have been responsible for the intense flare-up. Yet that still didn’t account for the resounding explosion that followed it. To set his inquisitive mind at ease, he decided to ask Dr. Blackwater about it the next time he ran across the physician in town. The worldly doctor was ex46 tremely well read when it came to such matters, and would most likely be able to explain just what had caused the phenomenon.

  Liam was all set to return his attention back to his lines when of all things it began to rain. This shower didn’t consist of droplets of water, but was made up of thousands of pieces of what appeared to be shredded metal. Only lady fortune kept the veteran fisherman from being struck by this debris, which clattered down upon the deck and bombarded the surrounding waters.