by L. S. Wood
On many occasions, the base pilots scrambled in order to escort a lost or very curious civilian pilot away from the restricted airspace above the experimental desert compound. Maybe a pilot was out for a fun-filled day or afternoon of flying, or others who may have lost their way while flying cross-country from one state to another who did not know about the newly enforced restricted air space over the small piece of desert floor below in New Mexico.
The young hotshot military pilots loved there assigned flying missions. They took great pleasure in every opportunity they had in escorting a pilot away from the compound when they had the chance to do so.
It seemed like a joyful way to practice one’s military flight training out on some poor soul and having a whole hell of a lot of fun in doing it at the same time. Most pilots hoped it would all be in fun and not a real combat mission, whilst some of the young members on the team hoped for some real action in the sky over the desert, even if it was in their own back yard and country.
CHAPTER TWO
Red Alert
Mr. Stew Jones, a well liked but gruff old chap flyer was lucky to be alive as he was a self-trained pilot when he was a young lad. He purchased his first two-winged airplane along with a friend who bought one also. The two did not know a thing about flying these aircrafts until they both jumped up into the cockpits of their beasts, and became a couple of young flying aces who loved to barnstorm people for the sheer fun of scaring the hell out of everyone on the ground below them.
One bright sunny day, he was out flying along all alone in his old open cockpit biplane. For some unforeseen reason, he knew nothing about the newly restricted air space of a no fly zone over the desert. He was out flying along minding his own business, he thought, when he became half scared to death. Suddenly from out of nowhere, a squadron of military wartime fighter airplanes surrounded his little old biplane midair out over the desolate desert in the bright of midday. He not knowingly had crossed over the invisible forbidden fly-zone airspace line drawn in the desert sands below flying not far from a newly built restricted research complex.
The squadron leader hand motioned Mr. Jones to leave the restricted airspace at once by signaling him off by hand-waving at him as one very young determined hotshot fighter pilot, fired a blast from his wing-mounted machine guns.
White smoke from tracer bullets he was firing went flashing out from his wing guns, as he went zooming out in front and across old Stew’s flight path. He had flown his warring plane right in front of old Stew’s double winged aircraft, coming just inches away from him. He thought this stupid young bastard pilot had almost run right into him on purpose it was such a close encounter.
He got the message real fast when a second warring aircraft came zooming in at him from the opposite side of his old aircraft at a similar high speed. The second young fool pilot zoomed up across from his right in front of him as the other one had done with both his winged machine guns ablaze, just barely in front of his old biplane.
Stew could see quite clearly the smoky trails left behind from the tracer bullets fired in front of him from the second plane as he had seen from the first dip shit pilot’s spray of bullets fired. He knew these damn fool warring fliers were not fooling around with him. The nose cone on the second aircraft looked more like a flying shark right up out the ocean ready to eat him alive.
After adjusting his old tired eyes and affixing them on the aircraft zooming in front of him, he almost wet his pants in fright seeing the sharp looking teeth painted on the cowling cover over the plane’s engine. Especially for the way the fool pilots were acting toward him, as if he was an enemy pilot from a foreign land attacking their country.
He figured it would not be long before he and his old Betsy biplane would be full of lead, if he did not do something real fast. Old Stew quickly yanked real hard right on his flight control stick sticking up between his two legs, and pushed it hard forward with a quick hard thrust. This placed his old two-winged biplane into a straight downward hard right roll out of the way of this crazy bunch of squadron flying maniacs.
He left in the direction the head pilot leading this bunch, the squadron commander, had intended for him to go. He did it in quite the military tactic fashion in his departing performance in evading this bunch of crazy flying bastards he thought, hoping they would not follow him and drive him deep into the desert floor below. The old coot really impressed the squadron commander with his quick instinctive military avoidance tactic.
The evasive maneuver was impressive for any pilot seeing Stew was an aging old fart of a pilot flying alone in an old frail looking relic of an aircraft not looking too flight worthy having no machine guns attached to it in any form, and ordered his squadron not to follow behind him, or to tantalize him any further.
Seeing he was fleeing the area as ordered, they returned to the airbase to await upon another stray pilot to enter the no-fly zone, and scare the hell right out of them if they could or take on a real enemy aircraft.
The squadron pilots both young and old got their jollies off by scaring the crap out of anyone they could find out in the desert flying too near the restricted airspace fly zone. They laughed like hell half the night away after returning to base telling their stories to anyone who would listen about the encounters they had with these unfortunate pilots of chance, until it was late and time to call it a night and retire to their bunks for an evening’s rest.
Old Stew Jones had to make an unexpected detour around the restricted fly area circling way up around to the north of the compound. He managed to land at a small farm and airfield not far from where he had run into the first demise of his last long flight he would ever make. He luckily landed at an airfield to refuel his aircraft low on fuel. He was running on gas fumes as his fuel tank was so empty in order to allow him to accomplish his preplanned cross-country flight to his destination. Filling his old airplane fuel tank with gasoline enabled him to fly to his destination.
He flew off again into the bright blue sky above the desert, flying cross-country far out and around the restricted airspace over the new compound getting some very worthy advice from the farmer gent managing the small farms airfield he had landed at to refuel.
After an extended hour-long unplanned flight around the new compound, he finally managed to land his old biplane Betsy. He landing her safely at his old school chum’s farm and home. His final destination and last flight ever to Silver Stone Creak just south of the new military laboratory facility and testing site.
Stew looked at the wind directional windsock attached above Brad’s old barn. Just his sucky lucky luck, same as the rest of this damn day had been going for him so far. He would have to land his bird down the airstrip into the wind away from Brad’s house and barn instead of up the field towards the barn and house his usual way when he flew there.
He gave it quick thought about landing his old bird with the wind up the field, but knew by doing so it would jeopardize his safe control over the plane near the ground, and did not want to become another dead statistic of a pilot for not using common sense when it came to making a safe landing. He knew landing into the wind was best control of his aircraft, and the right thing to do.
He knew his reaction time in flying old Betsy was not as it once was, so he set his bird down on the homemade airstrip with his biplane going into the wind as it should. He slowed old Betsy down finally at the far end of the airfield by the barbed wire cattle fence. He gave the engine a quick burst of fuel using the throttle, spinning his old bird around, and then slowly taxied his old biplane up the airfield strip to Brad’s house and barn at the far end of the bumpy landing strip.
He slowly reached down, and turned the knob beside his left leg shutting off the priming valve and fuel lines to the plane’s multi cylinder engine. He was preparing to put his old faithful Betsy to rest for the night, or two or three nights for an anticipated long stay with his friend Brad. When he finally regrouped h
imself from the long flight with enough energy and strength, he disembarked up and out the rear cockpit from his old biplane, getting himself down off his aircraft.
His face was still painted pale white from fright, almost white as a ghost. His skin color looked drained, as white as a preacher’s insipid white collar, from being so damn heart attack frightened just over an hour or so before from that stressful experience he had with all those stupid flying military pilots he had encountered earlier that afternoon. He felt half way between life and death it seemed, with his heart still racing like a racehorse that had just finished running the Kentucky Derby.
Brad Shaw and Old Stew were the ones who bought the two very similar airplanes together. He was also his old high school chum from way back in the 1870’s many long school years in the past. Stew enjoyed visiting him on special occasions at least once or twice a year. He loved to muse over their old times in their youthful younger years as wild young lads during the good old hay days of horse and buggy days of old like when they would dare one another to jump off the rear roof of the barn or grab a rattlesnake by its tail and snap it in the air as if it was a bull’s whip, breaking the snakes neck, skinning it, and cooking it up over a campfire to eat. They were two hellions.
The stories from yesteryear told on these special visits were repeated a thousand times over, but it rejuvenated their aging minds as they laughed wholeheartedly about them, as it brought them back to a time in youthfulness they once so loved.
Brad watched as his friend Stew slowly stepped out Old Betsy’s rear cockpit all stooped over as if in pain. He watched him slowly crawl out the fuselage down to the walking pad on the lower wing, and as he slowly shuffled his aging feet along down the frail wing to its end, jumping down to the ground below him in a painful bound.
He landed tepidly on both of his sore feet, almost falling over to the ground on his face. Brad thought it very funny not seeing Old Stew jump down off his bird with his quick old fancy foot stepping way, thinking there might be something drastically wrong with his old friend.
Stew began badass mad rambling on about his encounter earlier that afternoon with the warring squadron of fighter planes. He profusely started swearing out loud to his old bud Brad about the near mishap he had just experienced northeast of Silver Stone Creek. He was steaming mad beside himself and sizzling over the damn situation to Brad.
He sounded volcanically eruptive releasing built up pressure in pure anger, for he had been thinking about the disruptive incident all the way there since refueling his old biplane Betsy. He was truly pissed off about the whole encounter having taken place.
It was supposed to be a relaxing flight over to Brad’s farm as it usually was. He was expecting to enjoy the solitude in the quiet clear blue sky above on the flight, and was looking forward to a couple of well-deserved needy relaxing days with his old friend. Maybe he would stay a week or more with nothing to do but talk about happy days of old. He was just plain bullshit about the incident, and could not wait to get out whatever had bottled up inside him off his chest. He erupted like an exploding volcano before even saying hello to his old friend Brad.
“Ran into a whole damn bunch of those stupid damn asshole military highfalutin military fool hearty flying dip shits bastards up there in the air, Brad. Northeast of here this afternoon, Brad. Phew, a whole bunch of them stupid damn fools anyway. Really do not know for sure how many there were, but it was a bunch. They were all flying them there damn new high fancy fast flying machines with teeth sticking out all over the damn cowlings out-over their engine covers, the bastards! They surrounded the plane, Brad, just like a bunch of hungry locusts or a bunch of angry swarming honeybees. The bastards thinking me some sort a damned criminal or something out there going to harm the world, the way those bastards came flying up at me from all different directions. You might have thought I was one of those damn German enemies trying to take over the whole countries airspace all by myself around here in the desert, or something like that, I don’t’ know? One of the damn sons-of-bitches shot his machine guns off at us or almost at us. He shot it off right in front old Betsy here, and me. He scared the hell right out of us, Brad, and I almost pissed my pants. Thought for sure those sons-of-bitches were going to kill us both just to have a couple of freaking falling targets to get some damn killing practice in flying and shooting on us, with all those new fancy warplanes they were flying.
Maybe the bastards just wanted to fly around and watch us bury ourselves in to the damn desert floor below. Wanted to give the whole bunch them bastards the freaking fickle finger of fate I did, if you know what I mean. I decided it not a good idea to fickle finger them off at the time.
What in hell is going on up there, Brad? Did the damn Nazis, or them war seeking Japanese bastards land over here or something?”
“No Stew, the damned Nazis have not landed over here yet, nor have the warring Japanese landed here either. We sure as hell hope neither of them ever does land over here. You had better calm down a bit Stew, or you are going to have a heart attack.
There is talk going around about some new fang-dangled military fortress base being built up north of here somewhere. They do not let anyone from around these parts here, nowhere near the damn place. Guess its top secret or something, Stew. No one really knows.
I hear tell by some the folk round here, there is going to be some sort of a testing on some new kind of special weaponry of war up there, or some brand new fancy flying airplanes they don’t want anyone to see. Something real secret going on up there no one knows about. As if they were making special kites to carry tiny bombs over enemy lines being made for all anyone around here knows. Don’t really know much about it, Stew, and do not really gives a cat’s ass or cares either. Guess I am just too old to care about things like that anymore. It is just a whole bunch of hearsay and speculation in gossip being spread about the countryside by some of the towns folk that is all I know.
Folk around these parts hear, been telling people they got some poor Doctor folk over Niceville way working up there at the new airfield, or something like that. Poor kinfolk of his do not have any privacy to themselves at all.
Listen to this, Stew. This doctors kids has got to goes off to school with a military escort every day, everywhere they go, as does his lovely wife. They even go when she goes out to the damn store just to do some simple grocery shopping or goes to get her damn hair done. No way to live I tell you, is it? Having some strangers around your family all the time just does not seem quite right, does it Stu?
“Cannot say I would want to live my life that way, Brad! They probably have to have a damn escort just to go off to the damn bathroom, too.
It is not anyway we would want to live our lives. You got any that good old homemade brew of your, that special scotch you make so good for a very needy pal?
That experience I had today with all those damn assholes flying up there, makes a man kind a thirsty for some of the good stuff, if you know what I mean?”
“You know I do, Stew. Have a brand new fresh bottle along with several others in stash. Several new capped up bottles never been opened up yet. Have them well hidden away as usual. Put the bottles out in the grain stores bin in the barn. Saved the bottles out there for special days just like this one and other special days that might arise at different times.
Then some days just to forget about another tomorrow coming. Saved out a bottle or two of my scotch just for you to take along back home with you when you go. I’ll fetch your bags Stew from the front cockpit of old Betsy here so we can go off up to the house for you to have a good shot or two of my special brew and to relax a wee bit while we chat.
Just cannot believe why those stupid assholes did that to you up there today, Stew. There should be some sort of federal law against those damn fool highflying cowboys up there doing such a thing to innocent ordinary people like us, or too anybody.
If old Jessie and I had been u
p there with you Stew, we would have shot the bunch of those asshole fools the middle finger. Got myself a real short fuse when it comes to fools like them stupid bastards even if they did try to shoot us down.
We would have given them bastards a good run for their money if we were up there with you, Stew. We do talk pretty damn big for old farts right. Let us get you and your bags up to the house, then I shall fix the two of us up with a good strong drink to get your stay started. Maybe I should get out my old twin winged bird myself, and go half way back home with you, just to see what those bastards would do if there were the two of us up there flying around? We could give them damn cowboys a real good run for their money they would never forget, couldn’t we?
CHAPTER THREE
The Detonator
Look at this Charles, I cannot believe it. We have the answer right here in front of us! You would not think the solution was this simple. All we have to do is install a small sensitivity, activating chamber on the impact-detonating device. There the activating detonation switch could be used anywhere in the world just by using the changing pressure in altitude to activate it. We can place it alongside the atmospheric pressure regulating switch in the altimeter’s sensory pressure activity device, having the falling pressure in altitude at the delivery site activate the switch in its decent. I mean the rising pressure in the switch causing the detonator to activate right before the egg hits the damn ground wherever we were to deliver it. We can hatch this egg anywhere we want to. We can set this jewel off at any height in the atmosphere anywhere around the globe that we possibly want too. We can preset the altitude sensor to correspond with the height of altitude wherever we want to position the bomb to detonate. The bombardier can even set the activating pressure switch after takeoff or just before releasing it.
