by D. F. Jones
Earth Has Been Found
D. F. Jones
© D. F. Jones 1979
D. F. Jones has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1979 by Dell Publishing Co, Inc.
This edition published in 2015 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.
FOR M.G. JACOBY
Table of Contents
Prologue
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX.
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
Epilogue
Prologue
Last in, Julius Pechall shut the airlock and spun the ancient wheel. He felt the bars slide home; one light in the array changed from red to green. Even as he turned, his companions were lost to sight in the comforting swirl of hydrocyanic gas as it filled the compartment.
This was the best moment: relaxed, free of fear, cocooned in friendly death; a respite from tension, a brief period of solitude, of no-thought.
All too soon the shower, then the drying wind. He and the rest rotated slowly, arms raised, grotesque marionettes performing the prescribed choreography. They stopped, waiting.
All lights green: airlock opening. Beyond, the secure warmth of the library of Congress …
I.
1984 …
The mere thought of that year filled many people with anxiety, yet their apprehension had no logical basis: All the ingredients for Orwell’s nightmarish vision had existed in 1955, but Orwell had chosen 1984, and logic could go to hell.
Not since the 1660s, when half of Europe had similar fears for 1666, had there been so much quiet disquiet. For astrologers, seldom unemployed since the fourth century B.C., the early 1980s were golden years; and when someone announced the existence of a new comet, and predicted it would cast its ill-omen radiance in the spring sky of Orwell’s year, a variety of natural disasters was effortlessly added to the catalog of woes to come. Of course, most folks denied any real belief in the predictions; it was “fun,” no more. Perhaps; but those who claimed to be able to read the future continued to prosper. The human mind, it would seem, had made minimal progress since the seventeenth century.
But 1983 came first, a year that brought with it a catastrophe so awful, so earthshaking, it made any atrocity man had ever inflicted on man seem absurdly insubstantial.
Many had done their best to shut their minds to it, had refused to think about it — until it was upon them, taking their children, shattering their lives.
1983 was not the year the world grew up, but it was the year humanity lost its last shred of innocence.
II.
Even when it began cannot be known. The chronology is virtually meaningless, but it is improbable that anything could have happened earlier than 1916. Beyond question the largest concentration of Events occurred in the 1970s — the largest so far, that is. The first Event, well documented and attested, occurred in 1974.
*
On April 12, at 0800 Pacific Standard Time, a USAF F-4, crewed by a pilot and an observer, took off from a California air base on a test flight. It climbed to forty thousand meters and, after various checks and tests, was cleared to climb another seven thousand meters and head seaward for two Mach 1 plus runs. At 0825 the ground control radar lost the aircraft’s blip. Urgent calls 0826 thru 0835 produced no answer from the plane. Consequently, full emergency procedure was initiated at 0837. At 0841 two more F-4’s screamed into the air, followed ten minutes later by specialized search aircraft.
The Combined Services Search and Rescue organization is very impressive, the net it spreads fine mesh. Lives cannot always be saved, but seldom does the SAR fail to come up with an answer. This was one such occasion.
After seventy-two hours of intensive effort, SAR headquarters reluctantly reported the F-4 lost at sea without a trace, cause unknown.
*
One of the few areas of genuine international cooperation is the distress communications set-up for ships and aircraft. Code words, procedures, and frequencies are the same worldwide. For aircraft there are two radio links, one HF, one VHF; both are monitored continuously by ground stations around the globe. Rarely does an aircraft in trouble go unheard.
At 1403 (local) on August 7, 1974, a radio man at the USAF base in Guam intercepted a Mayday distress call on VHF. He took a bearing and reported it to the station command post, where it was tied in with an unidentified radar contact that, noted at 1401, had already puzzled the duty officer enough for him to call the station commander.
While the chances of the unidentified airplane being hostile were minimal, no officer stuck with the responsibility dared treat this sort of situation lightly — not after Pearl Harbor. In this case, too many details were wrong: the plane’s radar was not transmitting the distress pattern, and when interrogated by ground radar the pilot gave a USAF-type response — but the wrong one. That was enough. The duty officer had automatically brought the base to yellow alert at 1401; at 1405 the sirens wailed for condition red. One minute later three fighters took off under full afterburner thrust and vectored to intercept the stranger, now six hundred kilometers out. At the same time the point defense SAM sites went fully operational. In case it was a genuine distress call, two Grumman HU-6 amphibians were rolling from their hangars before the howling of the sirens had died.
Events moved equally fast in the underground command post. The station commander, Colonel Marvin L. Buckner, a veteran of Korea and Vietnam, arrived on the run. A call had been put out to the stranger and an unintelligible answer heard; a second radar challenge evoked the correct response, the distress mode. The time was 1409.
By then Buckner had a microphone in his hand, buttoned to a transmitter on the distress frequency. He spared fifteen seconds to take in the radar plot: the intruder was five-fifty kilometers distant, tracking south at two thousand meters, estimated speed five hundred knots. On that course he’d never make the base. Buckner thought quickly, only dimly aware of the duty officer talking quietly into another mike, vectoring the fighters.
If this was a suicide mission, maybe the pilot was crazy enough to assume the USAF would oblige and home him onto his target! On the other hand, if the guy was in real trouble, that plane had to be turned in the right direction fast. The fighters would not be up with him for another two or three minutes. That could be a long, long time …
Buckner called the intruder, demanding identification, beginning a sequence of events he would never forget.
Again the answer was slow in coming, the distant, lonely voice slurred, unsure; listening, Buckner had time to read a teletype thrust before him.
NO REPEAT NO USAF MISSION A/B THIS TIME WITHIN ONE THOUSAND KM YOUR LOCATION
“This — this is Mission AF 2419 — uh, no … Correction, Mission 2194. What’s going on? The sun’s all wrong — all wrong!” The voice climbed hysterically. “I’m lost! For Chrissake, help me!”
“Check that number,” snapped Buckner in a swift and unnecessary aside; his master sergeant was already pound
ing the Intercommand teletype. “Cool it, man!” The commander said sharply to the distant plane. “Report type of aircraft, nature of distress, and fuel state. Over.”
What the hell did he mean, the sun’s wrong? The basic aim of military discipline is not heel-clicking and salutes; it is to give a soldier the inner strength to obey when his whole being, his instincts, tell him to run like hell. It is no disgrace for a fighting man to foul his trousers so long as he obeys; and this is true of all armed forces, whatever their political color.
The tough discipline of the USAF got through to the pilot’s whirling, chaotic mind: For him the world was standing on its head, but the cold voice in his headset cut through the confusion.
“I’m riding an F-4, sir — fuel state, sixty percent remaining … My distress is … ” There he broke. “The sun’s gone haywire! My gyro’s crazy!”
Everyone in the command post froze, staring dumbly at Colonel Buckner. No less staggered than his staff, Buckner gazed unseeingly at the radar scan for several seconds, then slowly depressed the transmit button.
“Say again type of aircraft. Over.”
They heard a half-strangled sob. Silence. Then the pilot spoke, his voice high-pitched, teetering on hysteria. “This is an F-4 … Christ! Foxtrot figure four! One, two, three, four! You read me!” The man was screaming.
Buckner’s mind reeled. In his time he’d hit some sticky problems, but nothing like this. Without inflight refueling, no F-4 could be that far from land, and certainly no USAF tanker was airborne.
The anguished voice returned. “For Chrissake gimme a heading!”
“Wait! Out.” Now another voice, calm and business-like, came in on the fighter channel.
“This is Bantam One. Target held. Closing.”
Buckner switched microphones. “Roger, Bantam One. Ed, this is Marvin. Watch your step. Hold your section off at strike range, close, and identify the target yourself. Be careful — suspect the pilot has blown. Out.” He switched mikes again. “Mission 2194. Take it easy, don’t panic. We hold you and your fuel state’s good. Assistance will be with you in two minutes. Maintain present speed, height, and heading.”
“Sure glad to hear that, sir!” The lost pilot’s relief was obvious. “I can’t figure — ” he broke off. “Hey — I see a ship!” Again the voice climbed dangerously, “Great — oh, God! What a beautiful sight — ”
The colonel cut in sharply. “Mission 2194! Maintain circuit discipline — ” The master sergeant, his face pallid, thrust another flimsy before him.
IMMEDIATE. NO MISSION 2194 CURRENT THIS THEATER. NUMBER LAST USED FOR F-4 TEST FLIGHT EX CALIF AIRBASE EVALUATED LOST AT SEA APRIL 12. PD VERIFY MISSION NUMBER AND REPORT PD
Before Buckner had time to fully absorb this incredible news, Ed’s voice filled the room.
“Base, this is Bantam One.” The speaker struggled to retain his professional calm. “I’m alongside the plane.” He hesitated, then threw away his official voice. “You’re not gonna believe this, Marvin, but it is an F-4! I’m not seeing things: here are details … ” He gave tail number and squadron markings, ending with, “ … aircraft has no, repeat no, external weapon pack.”
Although outwardly calm, Buckner had to give himself five seconds to get his mind in gear. “Okay Ed, I’ve got that. Will instruct the stranger to take station two kilometers astern and one thousand meters below you — ” The utter impossibility of it all overwhelmed him. “Ed — you sure this is an F-4?”
“Marvin, I know how ya feel. I’m staring at the bastard right now, and I don’t believe it! But it’s still an F-4!”
“Okay, Ed. Keep your section back at engagement range — you copy that Bantam Two and Three? — If the guy even coughs, take him. Otherwise, come down to four hundred knots and bring him in. His reported fuel state is good. Will keep him on distress channel until he chops to approach control. Right now he needs things nice and simple. Acknowledge.”
As Bantam One answered, Buckner called the stranger. In short, clipped sentences he passed along his instructions, adding, … and report name, rank, and number.” He glanced meaningfully at the duty officer, pencil poised over his clipboard.
In seconds the Intercommand teletype was chattering with the F-4’s answer. Sweating, Buckner spoke as casually as he could, trying to ease the tense atmosphere. “If that dope fits, coronaries will be two-a-penny in Omaha!”
The swift reply wiped out his weak attempt at humor. FLASH. ALL DETAILS MATCH PROFILE OF MISSING AIRCRAFT. IMPOUND PLANE AND CREW IN MAXIMUM SECURITY PENDING FULL INVESTIGATION BY TEAM FROM THIS COMMAND. TAKE ALL PRECAUTIONS.
As he read the last sentence, his face twisted in a sour grin: that put the weight firmly on his back. He concentrated on the first part, still trying to comprehend this incredible string of events. Suppose — somehow — the plane and crew had been captured and brainwashed? Instinctively he rejected that — the pilot was as much a Texan as he was. Suppose it had a nuclear device aboard and was hell-bent on a latter-day Kamikazi attack? What could he do? Again he rejected the notion; maybe the pilot was the best actor since Barrymore, but he didn’t believe that, either. Only one thing was certain — the man was terrified, lost; and again, why that weird bit about the sun being wrong?
He looked quickly at the radar plot; time was racing past, the formation barely a hundred kilometers out. He turned to the duty officer. “Chop 2194 to Channel Ten for final approach, Bantam One to cover him until he stops rolling. I want fire trucks and an armed guard to meet the plane, and once he’s in the circuit recall the HU-16’s.” He reached for his cap; this was one visitor he’d meet personally.
He never made it to the door. The duty officer chopped the plane to Channel Ten on loudspeaker. On the fighter channel Bantam One confirmed that the stranger was following orders. The duty officer cued the control tower.
“Mission 2194, this is Guam Control. QNH setting one zero zero six; reduce speed to two zero zero knots at one zero zero zero meters. You are cleared for runway two six, wind two four zero, ten knots, visibility unlimited. Approaching outer marker now. Over.”
They heard a series of clicks, a microphone cutting in, then out again, as if the pilot had trouble switching from intercom to radio. He spoke slowly, incoherently, his breathing heavy, irregular. He sounded drunk. “You … you say Guam?”
“That is affirmative. Check your speed — ”
It was more than the pilot could take; fifteen seconds earlier he might have had time to react, to absorb the shock. “Guam! That’s impossible!”
They were his last words.
The tower held the aircraft visually; it was over the inner marker, on the runway threshold, but not descending. It was too high, too slow.
“Abort!” screamed the controller. “Go round again — boost — ” The rest died in his throat. Nothing could be done.
The fighter seemed to hesitate, the port wing dropped as it stalled disastrously. The watchers in the tower hunched instinctively, each man mentally in the plane. Sunlight glinted on its upper surfaces, then the wing touched the ground; the plane cartwheeled, belching orange flame and black smoke as it careened down the runway: a wheel of fire spinning furiously, trailing black streamers, fragments arching upwards, sharply etched against the sun.
Four months late and five thousand miles off course, Mission 2194 had reached earth and died, its orisons the haunting wail of fire trucks and useless ambulances.
III.
When the investigation team arrived twenty hours later, preliminary inquiries had been completed.
The sad, obscene mess of torn and burned flesh had undergone postmortem examination by the station doctors. Faced with such appalling evidence, there was little they could say except that the man had died instantaneously at impact. Physical identification was impossible — he was identified by his dog tag.
After extensive aerial and ground photography, the wreckage had been moved to a hangar. Airframe and engine numbers were recovered, and a fuel sample taken
from a tank which had, fantastically, survived.
At the same time, statements were taken from all duty personnel and from anyone who had witnessed the accident. The taped records of radio links were impounded and sealed, and the film that had been shot from the control tower was processed.
The investigation team consisted of a brigadier general, a full colonel, and a major. Brigadier Hal Kelly, USAF — “Bull” to a few close friends — a large, balding man with a slab of ribbons on his chest, wasted no time. Hardly out of his plane, he was firing questions at Colonel Buckner, checking arrangements, steno services, waving aside the suggestion that he might care to shower or eat. No, the investigation would begin right now; coffee and sandwiches in the office would be fine.
In any crash, the investigators have to determine what happened and who was responsible. Marvin Buckner’s conscience was clear, but he appreciated that his command’s part in the tragedy would be worked over in every detail. It occurred to him that the brigadier might be leaning on him, flexing his muscles. Twenty hours back Bull Kelly had been doing something else in Washington, D.C. Since then he’d gotten his team together and flown eight thousand miles, and he still wouldn’t take time out to change his shirt before starting in on the job.
By the time he had the team in its temporary office, Marvin Buckner had concluded two things: Someone a lot higher up was leaning on Kelly, and this case looked as incredible from the top as it did from his restricted viewpoint.
Even before he unlocked his bulky dispatch case, Kelly fired off another order: All personnel who had been involved were to muster as soon as convenient — like now. Kelly had never been sweet tempered, and being dragged off a vital investigation into fatigue failure in an experimental plane had done nothing to soften him.
Fifteen minutes later Bull Kelly was on his feet, addressing a crowded room.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a rasping voice, “I was an aviator for fifteen years, and I’ve had seven years in accident investigation. I have to tell you that in all my time there’s never been a case like this one.” He paused, staring at his audience. “Never. And that goes for Air Force records, too.
