Quantum Storms - Aaron Seven

by Dennis Chamberland

  “Never mind,” Charles shrugged, stepping toward Warren .

  “Where’s he going?” Mel asked Wattenbarger.

  Wattenbarger merely shook his head and replied, “Who knows, but I think I wanna see what he’s up to.”

  The four followed along a maze of branches upward toward the bluff. Every six to ten feet, Warren stopped and turned a branch facing the direction of travel and left it in the middle of the path.

  “Why’s he doing that?” Mel asked.

  “He’s marking our pathway back,” Wattenbarger replied. “Every marker we used to know before is now gone.”

  They climbed toward the bluff face and, upon reaching it, Warren stopped. There, some 200 feet above them, was the top of the television tower laying down along the mountain crest and resting on the bluff, hanging out into the air as a piece of mangled wreckage. Its cables and wires hung down and over the face of the bluff, dangling in space as though some metallic monster had fallen just over their heads.

  “Well, there goes the need to climb the tower and move the antenna,” Warren said, trying in vain to eke out some amusement from the horrific situation. He then looked about them and chose a narrow, unobstructed but steep path up Concharty’s face. In a few minutes, they stood atop the mountain overlooking the prairie below and facing the Arkansas River to the east. The wrecked television tower wrapped in countless guy wires and transmission cables lay bound and quite dead beside them, dangling precipitously over the edge.

  They gasped together in astonishment as they surveyed the Oklahoma landscape. From this height, they could see all the way to the horizon. The tornado had obviously been at least fifteen to twenty miles wide, and along its center of destruction, it had sucked the pathway clean of all debris. The path of the storm was absolutely barren of any trees or structures and, from this height, it appeared that the twister had effectively vacuumed the ground.

  From their vantage point it was apparent that they stood along the side path of the vortex. From their location all the way to the horizon, and even beyond the river, the great tornado had piled up its wreckage along parallel courses consisting of trees, buildings, farm equipment and any object in its path. They could even see that the corridor was lined with house size boulders the storm had picked up and easily tossed in among the devastated corridor.

  “What’s that?” Warren asked, pointing to a single structure that lay right in the middle of the storm’s pathway, miles from them on the prairie.

  “I can’t believe it!” Charles gasped. “It totally missed that house!”

  “It’s common that twisters move and jump about with supersonic velocity,” Warren instructed, “but that – that house is the only thing remaining!”

  “Yeah, but that was my dad’s house!” Wattenbarger said solemnly. “That’s the house he built with his own hands - the one I grew up in!”

  They looked across the landscape eight miles west to the corridor of massive upheaval at the tiny dot that represented Wattenbarger’s boyhood home, directly in the center of the tornado’s pathway. Like a single island of shelter in a sea of destruction, the house still stood against all odds.

  “Your parents?” Mel asked.

  In the gathering darkness, Wattenbarger sighed and just shook his head as he bit his bottom lip and looked over the land that he had once loved.

  “All gone?” she innocently asked.

  “Yeah, almost…” he responded quietly, staring at the lone dot on the barren land that had been his home.

  “You piece of crap! “ Charles screamed from behind them.

  Warren quickly turned to face the shouting Charles who was frantically lashing the tower with the loose end of a dangling wire.

  “You messed up, broke up, worthless piece of crap!” Charles screamed as he continued to repeatedly lash the end of the tower dangling over the edge of the bluff.

  Warren paced quickly to Charles, taking care not to catch the end of the metal wire as it swung repeatedly over Charles’ head and onto the tower.

  “Lance, knock it off!” Warren shouted. But Charles continued to rant and pound the tower with the cable.

  “Lance!” Warren shouted again.

  Charles turned toward Warren , his face painted with a frightening fusion of rage, frustration and fear. Charles paused and raised the cable over his head as though he were going to strike Warren with it. Suddenly, a fist-sized sandstone rock struck Charles on the side of his head. It was expertly tossed with just enough energy to knock him down but not render him unconscious.

  Warren looked over to Wattenbarger and Mel. She stood smugly dusting her hands off.

  “League fast-pitch softball. Muskogee District pitching champion,” she announced proudly. “What’s eating him?” she asked, nodding to Charles, now moaning on the ground.

  “That tower was his only ticket out,” Warren said kneeling to tend to Charles. “That tower was his ride out and your ride out and my ride out to the shelters. Now it’s gone and he’s upset. Imagine that…”

  Charles crawled up to his knees, openly sobbing as a trickle of blood dripped over his bushy eyebrow and into his right eye.

  48

  Seven slept deeply and was not interrupted during the short time he had allocated to his sleep period. The tiny seat in the VTOL laid back onto the seat behind him and allowed the sensation of sleeping in a reclined position. The gentle vibration, near total darkness and background roar of the engine created a powerfully seductive environment for sleep. His finely tuned and sensitive biological clock woke him five minutes before he was to take over the watch from Serea.

  Without opening his eyes, he asked in a low voice, “How did the autopilot perform?”

  “Just as designed,” she responded in a strong voice. “Not even a hiccup.”

  Seven opened his eyes slowly, willing his mind into full operation. He could see her reading an electronic book. “What’s that? An operations manual?”

  “No. A Robert Heinlein novel. I love classic scifi,” she responded without looking away.

  “Have you been able to raise Dutch Harbor?” he asked. Although they were unable to contact them from Pacifica, they felt that perhaps a higher altitude and a closer range might be successful.

  “No. Still blank across all their channels. I’ve initiated the automatic routine we developed back home and it’s running. It makes the attempt every ten minutes. No response.”

  Seven cranked his seatback fully forward and looked at his watch. It was just before 11 PM Pacifica time. “Off to sleep with you,” he ordered. “Put the book down and close those little peepers.”

  “You’ve only slept two hours. I was going to divide the difference with you,” she said to him with a wink.

  “No way. A deal’s a deal.”

  “Go ahead; I need to finish this chapter anyway,” she offered sincerely. “Half an hour and I’ll wake you, I promise.”

  “No. Go to sleep,” Seven ordered again. “Two and a half hours – you need it much more than I at this point.”

  Serea switched the book off, squinted her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose while yawning. “Talked me into it,” she said with a sleepy smile.

  “Good night, dear,” he responded, smiling back at her.

  Wordlessly, she reached across the seat and took his fingers in her hand as she laid her seat back and closed her eyes. She sighed deeply and immediately fell asleep.

  Seven allowed her hand to rest in his for a few moments, then squeezed it lightly and turned it loose. Then his fingers started to dance madly over the keys as he commenced a rigorous check of the navigational plot, VTOL systems and communication attempts with Dutch Harbor.

  The hours wore on as the craft hummed into the black sky without interruption. Hundreds of miles of ocean passed beneath them as a velvety blackness on this moonless night while the stars glowed brilliantly above their canopy. Seven’s next two and a half hour sleep period came and went, as did Serea’s, but he continued to monitor the f
light and did not bother to rouse her from her much needed sleep. During the final hour before approach to Dutch Harbor, they both sat awake anticipating their arrival at Unalaska Island that had remained mysteriously silent. They began to review their plans in detail.

  Upon landing, they would have less than one hour to find deep shelter. The key to staying alive, out of the sun’s reach, and successfully finishing the final leg of their trip to Seattle was somewhat complicated. They would search for shelter during their limited time before sunrise then, if there were any minutes remaining, they would search for aviation fuel. They would have exactly one hour the next sunset to find gas and refuel before they had to be airborne again. Failing that, they would have to delay takeoff another full 24 hour period or they would not make it to Seattle before the next sunrise.

  The other concern was what they would face at Dutch Harbor. Seven could not understand why they were not communicating on their guarded channels. Were they all dead? Would they be waiting for them with hostile intent? None of the reasons for his questions mattered, for the VTOL would be arriving on fumes and there was no hope of escape, no place to escape to and there would simply be no time left on the clock. They were on a mission of razor thin margins and any mistake at all would cost them their lives.

  “I see a light!” Serea said suddenly.

  Seven’s eyes strained to make anything out of the darkness below them, then he saw it, too - a single, blinking light far ahead of them on the black carpet below.

  “Is it a ship?” Serea asked.

  “No, it’s where the runway’s supposed to be – hopefully the end of runway 12!” Seven said enthusiastically.

  “Time to activate the navigation strobe?” Serea asked.

  “Absolutely,” he responded. “Take her down.”

  “I still don’t have any landing aids,” she said scanning her instruments.

  “Can you use the light?”

  “Yes, I just need to figure out where it is on the strip.”

  “Our fuel looks good,” Seven offered as she began to throttle the craft’s engines back and it started to bank down on its right wing. They had already agreed that they would attempt a winged landing if the runway looked passable but that they would use the vertical landing capability if there were any doubts.

  Suddenly, the aircraft’s displays sprang to life as its instruments picked up Dutch Harbor’s Instrument Landing System broadcast, and the landing strip below was simultaneously outlined in two parallel strips of blinking lights.

  “They see us!” Serea said triumphantly.

  “Yes, yes, they do,” Seven agreed. “Now let’s just pray they’re happy to see us.”

  The radio crackled to life. “Pacifica flight, this is Dutch Harbor. You’re cleared to land on my instructions. We’re happy you had a safe flight. Services are standing by at your request.”

  Seven looked at Serea who stared back at him with a frozen, unexpected smile. “I can’t believe this!” she said.

  “I’ll reserve my opinion for a few more minutes, if that’s okay,” he said suspiciously, turning and looking out his window. The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten and the edges of the island below began to take shape and emerge from the dark, cold waters. Then a crisp, clear and confident voice came to them over the radio.

  “Pacifica flight, this is Navy Commander Winsteed, how do you read me, over?”

  “Roger, we read you five by five,” Seven responded. “This is Aaron Seven.”

  “Okay Dr. Seven, I’ll be directing you in this morning. Please listen carefully to my instructions. Is your craft VTOL capable?”

  “Roger.”

  “Do you have enough fuel to affect a VTOL landing?”

  Seven’s eyes scanned the panel before him. “Roger.”

  “Very well. You’ll affect a VTOL landing. Are you familiar with the annual Army Navy football game?”

  Seven looked to Serea as they exchanged curious glances.

  “Ah… somewhat,” Seven replied uncertainly.

  “Does the Naval expression “Bill” have any meaning to you?”

  “Yes,” Seven responded immediately, whispering to Serea, “It’s their mascot, the goat.”

  “Do you understand the expression, ‘call the ball’? Winsteed continued.

  “Yes,” Seven responded into his lip mic, and then he looked to Serea and explained, “Calling the ball is how the pilots communicate glide slope with the ship’s air traffic control tower on an aircraft carrier.”

  “Very well,” Winsteed answered. “I’m going to name the ball ‘Bill’. In one minute, call the ball. Do you copy?”

  “Negative,” Seven responded instantly, his face lined with uncertainty.

  “Wait one,” Winsteed replied.

  There was continued silence from the radio as Seven looked to Serea and shrugged his shoulders. Meanwhile Serea had swung the aircraft around and lined it up with the oncoming runway lights, her altitude dropping rapidly. Below them, Seven could clearly see trucks and personnel scattered all over the runway surface.

  “What are you doing?” Seven asked her as she was lining the craft up for a conventional winged landing.

  “Well, in all this talk about football games and goats, I still have no idea where he wants this aircraft. So in the absence of some reasonable information, I’m setting her down the fastest and most efficient way possible under the circumstances and I just hope these people get out of my way.”

  “Pacifica, Pacifica, abort! Abort!” Winsteed cried excitedly. “Turn right to 270, maintain an altitude of 2,000 feet and return to base on zero forty-five.”

  Serea instantly obeyed the command and pulled up on her stick while gunning the engine and turning sharply to her right, away from the runway.

  “I’d just like to know what we’re dealing with here,” she said as the g-forces pulled them down into their seats. “One more maneuver like that and we’re not going to have enough fuel for a safe vertical landing.”

  “Commander Winsteed, clarify your landing instructions,” Seven said angrily.

  “Straighten her out and return to base at zero forty five,” Winsteed responded calmly. “Preserve your altitude as long as possible. Now - call the ball! Call the ball! Call the ball!”

  Serea had turned the aircraft around and was headed toward the runway perpendicular to its midpoint. Now they would have no other choice but to land vertically. As they made their turn, six brilliant flares lit the runway in three distinct pairs down the length of the landing strip. On the north end were a white and a green pair. On the south end two red flares glowed. In the center blazed a blue and yellow set. Seven understood immediately.

  “Dutch Harbor, Pacifica , roger ball! Roger ball!” he stated crisply as he looked to Serea. “Land on the blue and the gold!”

  Serea finally understood and shot Seven a glance laced with some fair amount of disgust. “Oh, brother. Are these guys really bored or what?”

  “No, this is a classic landing profile under enemy fire or behind enemy lines. Keep your eyes open for ground fire or incoming fire,” Seven said as he began to fully understand Winsteed’s instructions.

  Suddenly Serea’s face lost her smirk as her eyes scanned the ground beneath them. “Oh my God! They just fired a missile at us!”

  Seven’s eyes quickly scrutinized the scene below. A yellow streak from the opposite bank of the Shaishnikof River marked a curving path from the ground headed straight toward them.

  “I have the controls,” Seven said, his eyes sweeping the panel before him.

  “You’ve never taken a VTOL in for a landing before!” Serea responded, her eyes reflecting fear and uncertainty as her fingers gripped the stick even more tightly.

  “Incoming! Incoming! Incoming!” Winsteed screamed through the radio.

  “I have the controls,” Seven said firmly, his eyes glancing toward Serea’s. His voice and momentary look was icy calm and in total control. In the half second between decision and f
rozen fear, Serea knew if Seven did not take control, they both had but seconds to live. Her hand popped away from the stick and balled into a fist.

  “Make it fast…” she whispered.

  Seven’s hand began to fly over the face of the panel. His eyes and mind were now firmly glued to the instruments and not the ground or the incoming missile. Seven knew from his past experience that pilots could never rely on feel to fly. The feelings engendered by rapidly changing aircraft motions rarely associated with actual movements. Even moderate g-forces completely fooled and invalidated feelings.

  His fingers pulled back on the control that operated the swept wings of the vertical take off and landing craft. They swung instantly back at a 50 degree angle. Seven’s mind raced with inhuman speed, calculating the aerodynamic calculus of the aircraft. His eyes scanned the airspeed indicator and the altimeter just as the stall alarm went off.

  “We’re stalling,” Serea said tightly, her hand reflexively gripping Seven’s arm.

  “Yep,” Seven responded without a pause, “we’re stalling; that’s good…How about shutting that alarm off, please.”

  “I can’t… it won’t…” Serea said, her voice driven to the edge and nearly squeaking as her body braced for the parallel forces about to kill them either on this very second or at least in another five.

  The craft literally began to fall out of the sky, at first losing hundreds of feet per second. As Seven backed off sharply on the wing’s angle, the VTOL instantly lost all of its lift at once.

  In a feat of superhuman discipline, Seven allowed his eyes to glance away from the instruments for just a fraction of a second to observe the incoming missile. As he did so, his right hand tweaked the wing angle another five degrees while the stall alarm continued to scream in the background.

  The g-forces in the aircraft had dropped away to near zero as they were literally free-falling out of the sky. A marking pen and a coffee cup started to tremble as they lifted off their places and began to float about in the zero gravity of free-fall.

  “Oh, God, oh my God,” Serea said breathlessly. “We’re going down. We’re going down.”