Wings of Steele - Destination Unknown (Book 1)

by Burger, Jeffrey

  Brian shook his head, smiling as he followed the pilot's instructions, "That was really slick, really, but now what?"

  "We climb," said Jack, as he pushed the throttles gently forward and nosed the B25 upward. "Anything on the radar?"

  Maria left then returned quickly. "Not only is it blank, but dark too, same with the nav system."

  The sky started to lighten and Jack leveled off the plane, not wanting to leave the protection of the clouds. "This is gonna be real seat-of-the-pants flying without gauges or compass. We should be, on a heading of..." His voice stopped abruptly when both engines started to sputter. He shot a look at Brian. "Touch anything?"

  Brian raised his hands, "No, not a thing, swear to God."

  "Shit, now what?! This can't be happening! This is all part of someone else's nightmare, they'll wake up and I'll get to go home..." Working while he ranted, nothing seemed to help, fuel mixture, throttle, switching fuel tanks, nothing. If anything, it got worse. With a shudder, the port engine wheezed as the prop windmilled slowly to a stop. He feathered the prop on the stricken engine and added power to the other. Steele ran his hand through his hair and keyed the mike on his headset, "Pan, Pan, Pan... this is the Sweet Susie, we have engine failure, losing altitude..." He broadcast their last known coordinates. "Brian, keep calling," Jack busied himself with trying to restart the stalled engine, he was not willing to give up on it.

  Steele became aware again of the tingling sensation creeping across his body, it was quite annoying, like pins and needles. Fritz fidgeted incessantly and Jack had to refrain from scolding him. Everyone seemed to be experiencing the same feeling. Jack refused to quit on the port engine, working feverishly to restart the stubborn power plant. He stared at it, out over the left wing, as if by sheer desire or virtue of his will, he could get it to run.

  When the sky lightened and the B25 broke through the clouds, the starboard engine began to vibrate wildly.

  "Fuck," said Jack. He triggered the mic, "Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, this is the Sweet Susie. We have total engine failure, we're losing altitude, we're going down."

  "Sweet Jesus..." the copilot's voice was low, almost hushed.

  "Madre mia, save us..." Maria's voice quivered.

  "I know, I know..." growled Jack, "I'm tryin'..." Maria grabbed his arm. "NOT NOW!" exclaimed Jack, shaking his arm free. She grabbed his arm again, this time with the strength of a vice. “I'm kinda busy here...” Jack looked away from the port engine controls and up into Maria's face with surprise. Her face was pale and her eyes wide with fear. He turned and followed her gaze. Letting go of the controls and running his hands through his hair, Jack slid back in his seat.

  Speechless, he covered his mouth with both hands, unable to voice his thoughts. He blinked, wide-eyed and inhaled deeply. When the starboard engine chugged to a stop, the prop windmilling slowly, no one moved or spoke, transfixed by the vision they saw before them. Suddenly everything became clear but more complex at the same time, the radar and electronics, the gauges, the engines, even that queer tingling sensation. “What the hell am I looking at...?” he breathed. “Someone please tell me what the fuck that is...”

  The sky above them, glowed brilliant blue, crisp and clear. Below them, stretching as far as the eye could see, was a deep valley of clouds. Canyon walls made of moisture reached up from the bottom, so thick, they looked solid. Suspended motionless in the center, fifteen thousand feet off the surface of the ocean, was a true marvel. Dark, silent and almost too incredible to comprehend... a ship of gargantuan proportions. At least two miles long and half a mile wide, it lay in hiding, creating its own camouflage.

  Jack realized no Earth technology had created this monster. Christ, the largest aircraft carrier he'd ever seen, looked like a tinker toy compared to this behemoth.

  Bleary-eyed and drowsy, he tried to absorb and comprehend all he was seeing but found it hard to believe something that size could fly, let alone sit suspended in mid-air. Although the ship was long and generally rectangular in shape, it was by no means smooth or even remotely streamlined. The alien ship looked more like a floating city than anything he would have expected. Staggered rows of low profile domes covered almost a quarter of the top of the hull. Farther forward, past the center, was a large dome, glittering in the sun... glass? He couldn't be sure. The gray-black hull made it difficult to see details clearly... or was it his eyes? He sat back and rubbed his eyes.

  The B25, silent and without power, was no longer flying, but yet still continued to move forward. She floated through the air, drawn to the great behemoth from deep space, like a moth to a flame. Jack felt at ease now, calm and relaxed. Organized thought was somewhat difficult, it seemed to come in disjointed segments. He looked to the others and found both Maria and Fritz lumped together, asleep on the floor. Brian, like Jack, was having great difficulty keeping his eyes open. Though he felt some distress at being unable to react, there seemed to be no point in resisting the great waves of warm sleepiness that washed over him, urging him to close his eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  US AIRCRAFT CARRIER, SHENANDOAH: BERMUDA TRIANGLE

  CIA Director of South American Operations, Stephen Miles, stood on the bridge of the U.S. aircraft carrier, Shenandoah. How he got there was unimportant and to the dismay of the ship's skipper, details of why, was classified well beyond top-secret. The fact was, that Stephen had gotten wind of the drama unfolding and finagled a ride in a US. military chopper, from San Juan to the carrier Shenandoah.

  Steve Richards was the Skipper of the Shenandoah. A lifer, he'd climbed steadily through the ranks since he joined the Navy at age seventeen. Now fifty-four and as protective as a mother hen, the former pilot had a love and an affinity for the aviators he called his Little Birds. Today had not been one of his better days, but he could ill afford to demonstrate his foul mood to the distinguished visitors, even if they were from the intelligence community. It wasn't that he hated intelligence people, it's just that his experience illustrated, that in many cases, the terms military and intelligence were highly contradictory. He also observed that this was not isolated to the military only.

  "Captain Steve Richards, skipper of this boat." The tall, silver-haired man, seemed at ease despite all the activity surrounding them. He extended his hand in greeting. "I hope you don't mind meeting up here, but as you can see, we're quite busy today."

  "Yes, thank you for seeing us. I'm Stephen Miles, CIA. Director of South American operations, and this is Special Agent Cummins." Everyone shook hands as proper manners dictated.

  "So, what can I do for you gentlemen?" The Captain was eager to get these men on their way, so he could get back to the urgent matters at hand.

  Stephen spoke calmly and matter-of-factly. "We understand you have a World War II, B25 Bomber, under surveillance in this area, is this true?"

  Captain Richards raised one eyebrow. This happened to be a sore subject. "Had."

  "Had? What do you mean had?!" Stephen snapped.

  "Had, as in no longer have," said the Captain with some irritation.

  "Had, have, whatever! What happened to it?" Stephen growled, fighting to keep his composure.

  The Skipper of the Shenandoah was beginning to get suspicious. "We're not sure... look Mr. Miles, what's really going on here? We get a direct request from the DEA office in Washington, for assistance in locating and escorting this aircraft back to Puerto Rico. Something about drugs, gun play, dead police officers... and that's fine, we're happy to help. But now, not only is the B25 missing, but two of my birds as well. SO, exactly what is your involvement?" he quickly added... "and I don't want to hear, need to know either."

  "I'm here because that plane is ours."

  "Oh really..."

  "It was on a classified assignm
ent. What happened in San Juan and why, is unclear. It'll take some time before we sort that out. But the aircraft definitely needs to be recovered. Bring me up to speed. What kind of progress have you made?"

  Captain Richards led the two CIA men to a plotting table which showed flight and search patterns. "We're here," said the Skipper pointing to an icon on the table.

  Using the plotting table, he illustrated the chain of events. "Two F18's, Blue Flight, had a visual on the B25 about here. It was on a direct heading with this weather system here..." he said, tapping his fingertips on the table. "The F18's approached and contacted your plane, staying with it. We were monitoring the bird to bird communications and found the closer to the storm they got, the worse their signals got. I've seen a lot of strange weather out here in my time, but nothing like this."

  "What do you mean," said Stephen, scratching his head.

  "Well first, it was so dense the radar couldn't see into it, it produced some kind of intense interference. We're thinking EM – electromagnetic, though I'm not sure how that's possible. The pilots had serious difficulty communicating, both with each other and with us. By their own admission, there was no rain, no wind and no lightning. Just lots of interference. We tried to recall them, but they got so close to the front... well, we lost all contact. Period. All three aircraft went in, none came out. We had a second flight of two birds we vectored to join Blue Flight when they first reported contact. As the second flight approached the intercept point, they lost radar and communication started to break up. We recalled them to a safe distance, as they egressed, their electronics returned to normal...”

  "What do we do now?" Stephen rubbed his face with both hands.

  Richards pointed to the table. "We've got search and recovery birds out, here, here and here. They're flying overlapping patterns. We've even sent two birds through the front on the same heading. The weird thing is, is that the interference has stopped and communications are completely normal."

  "They wouldn't have shot it down would they?" Stephen was beginning to get increasingly worried, and the headache gripping his temples wasn't helping.

  "No, it's not likely, unless they were fired upon, they would need clearance from me to fire upon a civilian aircraft. Besides, that wouldn't account for my two missing birds, and it would've left some kind of debris."

  "So what you're saying, is you haven't found anything yet?"

  "That's right, not a thing."

  Stephen was trying to wrap his head around the whole situation, "So what the hell happened to them? They can't just disappear in thin air!"

  Richards shrugged. "Well, it's a big ocean... technically we're not in it, but we are near the edge of the Bermuda Triangle," he said offhandedly. “Lots of unexplained stuff happens out here. I don't have to like it, but it is a fact.”

  Stephen Miles never believed in the mysterious stories and was in no mood for levity. There always had to be a logical answer, even if it wasn't immediately apparent. He sat down on a chair at the Con and rubbed his throbbing temples. "Got any coffee?"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SWEET SUSIE, LOCATION UNKNOWN: DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

  Jack Steele opened his eyes with a start and smacked his knees sharply on the control yoke. He was greeted by a totally enveloping darkness and slowly came to realize he was still strapped into the pilot's seat of the Sweet Susie. After unbuckling himself, he rubbed his smarting knees.

  Fighting the strange disorientation he felt, his mind slowly began to work, and vague recollections of the F18s came to him. He struggled to remember more, but could get no further than the memory of the failure of the port engine. Jack slid open the vent window and peered into the darkness. The air smelled unusual, but the quiet distant thrumming interrupted his train of thought. Wanting to see into the inky darkness, he flipped on the running lights but they only produced a weak glow. "Damn..." he turned them off and turned on the interior cockpit lights which weren't much better.

  What'cha doin'?" asked the waking copilot, yawning.

  "Trying to figure out where the hell we are... any ideas?"

  "Not a clue... wow it's really dark...”

  Jack shook his head, “Thank you Captain Obvious...”

  “What's with the lights?"

  Jack toggled first the port then the starboard engine starter with no results. "Batteries must be down."

  Fritz stretched, dumping Maria on the floor with a thump.

  "Ow! Thanks a lot dog..!" she said, rubbing her head.

  "Mmmmmnnphhh!" sneezed Fritz, as he shook his coat into place.

  "Well, I think Fritz is right, we ought to get out and take a look around, see what's what." Jack worked his way out of the cockpit and to the rear of the plane. He sat on the floor in the near darkness and opened his flight bag. Brian and Maria moved to the back and sat with him, Brian opening a soda from the cooler.

  "Ok skipper, what do we do first?"

  Jack pulled his stainless 1911 from the bag and ejected the empty magazine into his lap. "Not knowing where we're at, I think it's prudent to go fully prepared..." he said, sliding a full mag from the bag into his gun. "Take a carbine and a couple of mags, load 'em up, don't want to go out empty-handed... in fact, give me one too."

  Brian crawled past him and opened a crate, pulling out two of the carbines.

  "Hey, don't forget me..." urged Maria.

  "Are you sure you..." Brian suddenly recalled who operated the Sweet Susie's gun turret, "yeah, sure." He pulled out a third carbine and canvas belt pouches for the mags. Maria was already searching the ammo boxes for the proper shells. Finding a box, she dragged it back to where Jack was busy reloading the empty magazines for his 1911.

  The copilot slid himself beside Jack and handed one of the M1 carbines to Maria, "Here, this one's yours, take good care of it."

  "Thanks," she said with a smile, sliding the container of shells in the middle so everyone could reach.

  Jack, sitting cross-legged, remained silent as the trio went about the task at hand. Fritz sat on the pilot's seat in the cockpit, looking out through the open vent window into the darkness, trying to identify the strange smells only his sensitive nose could detect. What really bothered the Shepherd was, that he couldn't find anything vaguely familiar about this place. Even the sounds were completely alien to him. He grew more and more unsettled, anxious to explore this curious place.

  Steele stood, having traded the shoulder rig for the thumb break thigh holster. He belted it around his waist, which put the butt of the 1911 down on his upper thigh. Securing the holster to his lower thigh with an adjustable strap, he tested the height and draw. Satisfied with the results he snapped the holster strap over the gun.

  "You about ready there, Wyatt Earp..?" said Maria with some cynicism.

  "Oh, you're a real riot, Alice..!" he said in his best Ralph Cramden imitation, "keep it up and bang, zoom... to da' moon!"

  Fritz barked, he had just about enough of this, he wanted out.

  "Chill hamster...!" snapped Brian.

  "Are you two ready yet?" asked Jack, almost as impatient as the Shepherd.

  Maria and Brian stood, carbines in hand. Jack picked up his M1 and a loaded magazine, sliding it into the rifle and pulling back the bolt, chambering a round. "Do it just like that..." he instructed. Jack briefly instructed them on the use of the sights and safety switch. Maria, he thought, grasped it far better than she should have. The trio picked up their mag pouches and headed to the belly hatch. Fritz danced around the exit until Jack made the dog sit quietly.

  Laying the M1 down next to the open hatch Jack descended down the ladder. With one hand and foot still on the ladder, he stepped onto the concrete below. "Aaaarrrrggghhh..!" The shock of static electricity that arced
through his body from the floor, threw him off the ladder and to the ground, numbing his senses. He laid on the ground, thoroughly stunned.

  Maria descended the ladder, "Are you Ok? What happened..?"

  Steele was still too numb to speak although he tried to warn her before she touched down.

  "Aaaaaiiiieeeee..!" She was flung to the ground. Jack saw the blue flash of the shock and was amazed at its size.

  Brian, fearing a catastrophe and getting no response to his inquiries, jumped straight to the ground from the hatchway, carbine in hand. Fritz followed him down, neither being shocked.

  "What the hell is going on out here..?" Brian, seeing the two people prone but alive and responsive, confused him. Scratching his head, he turned to rest his M1 against the B25's ladder.

  Jack sat up. "NO..!" he was a millisecond too late.

  "Yyyyeeeeoooowww..!" It sat Brian three feet away, legs splayed. It was obvious, the buildup was dwindling, the copilot had not been shocked as severely as Maria or Jack. Fritz, running in circles, got the surprise of his life when his tail touched the ladder. He spun, barking into the darkness, soliciting giggles from the crew.

  Jack went cautiously back to the ladder, with a substantial amount of apprehension he put his hand on the rung... nothing happened. With a sigh of relief, he lifted himself inside to retrieve his carbine. When he dropped back to the ground, his comrades were waiting.

  "What the hell was that?"