Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  “Thanks,” Anthony sighed. “You're really giving me a lot of hope, here."

  “Ah hell, don't get down in the dumps, ‘cause here's the good part. The original H model cockpits were configured for a crew of three: Pilot, co-pilot and loadmaster, but the Herk you're flying on tonight has an extra station for an engineer-navigator equipped. I've seen it too, and man, is it slick! The station has its own set of fully integrated digital color multifunctional LCD displays for radar, navigation and engineering plus engine controls. But what takes the cake is this new weather radar installed in the nose of the craft. They can see up to 300 miles ahead of them, so they can usually fly around the big ash streams without much of a problem. The little ones are hard to spot, and they're the only real danger, but the crew of the Flying Circus has this uncanny ability to avoid the little ash streams too. Yup, you'll get there with no problems at all, providing the engines hold up."

  “Did you say ‘engines'?"

  “Yeah, seems they're all overdue for a major overhaul but they'll keep ‘em turnin', anyway, so don't sweat the small stuff, sir."

  * * * *

  OVERLOADED AS USUAL, the tired airframe of the Flying Circus creaked and groaned as it clawed and bucked its way to California through the dark and turbulent skies. Mindful of his precious cargo of supplies and souls, Captain Jerome Richard, peered through his ash-pitted windshield into the gritty darkness. The forty-year-old knew that piloting his C-130J Hercules through the reddish black sky would depend upon combination of skill and luck, with a special emphasis on luck. However, he often wondered if his luck was receding and graying as fast as his medium brown hairline.

  He had piloted this route more times than he cared to remember and was well aware of Mount Shasta's tendency to spew ash storms now. Scanning the reddish black night before them through his heads-up display, his dark brown eyes moved in quick jumps from right to left and back again. Even though his eyes were red with strain and buttressed by recently formed deep bags and worry lines, he still relied on his own peripheral vision to aid him in spotting trouble before it found them. However, this time, things were worse. During his preflight briefing, he and his crew had been warned about the unusual pattern of the current stream of volcanic ash working its way across the lifeless, black and red colored night sky.

  This new violence seemed a bit pointless to him, yet inevitable. Mount Shasta had already snuffed the life out of everything within its immediate reach. “Maybe it wasn't satisfied with that much death,” he wondered to himself, “and now it wants to add us to the toll as well.” Which is exactly what would happen if they flew through a small volcanic ash stream. The big streams were easy to spot with their advanced radar system. It was the little ones that worried them all.

  Nearly invisible at night, the only sign of a small ash stream would be in the form of sound jokingly referred to as flying through sandpaper and the blackening of his windshield. If they didn't react in time, the next sound they'd hear would be the engines grinding themselves to pieces. Then would come the screams of tearing aluminum and the helpless cries of the crew and passengers as men and machine plummeted downward, forging a fiery trail to the life-bleached landscape below.

  Craving sleep, he peered ahead into the starless night and remembered how Northern California had once been famous for its good weather and sunny, blue skies. He mumbled in a prayerful tone, “I don't know where you are, Dad, but at least I know you can see your beloved stars again. I sure wish you were here."

  He glanced back at his young navigator-engineer, Second Lieutenant Jeff Stanton. With his medium height and small shoulders, the glow of the radar display seemed to envelop him. Time-and-again, the young Stanton had displayed an almost psychic ability to find ash streams in the night sky even when they failed to appear on the color LCD radar display on the pilot's own instrument panel.

  There were still forty-five minutes out from the Livermore airfield and that landing would be tough. During the preflight briefing, they'd been advised that a recent quake had left a huge fracture in the main runway at Livermore, which meant he'd have to make a tough short-field landing in a fully loaded aircraft. Crabbing a beat up old Herky Bird at night to bring it down on the runway numbers would be challenging, to say the least. He doubted if his mental sharpness was up to it and decided to take a quick power nap to refresh himself.

  Over the last few months, Jerome had trained himself to power nap, and was able to quickly find that fuzzy but refreshing state between REM sleep and full consciousness in as little as ten minutes. Minutes later, he could awake rested enough to remain sharp and focused for at least another hour. In the meantime, he would be comfortable in the capable hands of co-pilot First Lieutenant Al Chan. Al had been born and raised in the bustling China Town district of San Francisco and had tried his hand at standup comedy clubs while finishing his engineering degree at Berkeley. At five foot nine, his thick frame and slight paunch made him look more like a Chinese warlord than a comedian—a fact that he managed to work in his favor with the audiences.

  Instead of pursing a questionable career as a stand up comedian, the thought of which had driven his entire extended family to frenetic distraction, he opted for a more respectable commission in the Air Force as a pilot. To everyone's delight, he graduated his training at the top of his class and was regarded as a natural born stick-and-rudder man by his instructors and classmates. Yet, the glare of the stage lights had never fully left him.

  “Take over,” Jerome said to his co-pilot; “I need to give it a rest for a bit.” Lieutenant Al Chan nodded, and Jerome felt his steady hand take the controls with the familiar ‘I'm in control’ tap. After flying together for over a year, the two men knew each other so well that a grunt or a tug on the control wheel was all they needed to communicate.

  With his co-pilot in control, Jerome slumped back into his seat and closed his eyes, but rest would not come immediately.

  “Say, Captain,” Al interrupted over the cockpit intercom so that all four men in the cockpit could hear him, “Why don't we have one of the stews back in first class cut up some cool fresh cucumber slices for your eyes? After all, Captain, don't you want to be looking your best for the folks at Livermore?"

  Jerome squeezed his eyes shut. “Crap,” he muttered to himself. He had been the one who first started this whole vegetable joke thing, and now it was coming back to haunt him like a Mafia leg-buster. He stretched his neck and decided that he could do one of two things. He could be a hard-ass, or he could play it out until everybody got tired of the gag. The latter suited his instincts and he keyed his microphone, “Well Al, you're certainly an officer and a gentleman tonight. While we're at it, why not have that stew toss what's left of the cucumber in a blender and make you up a nice cucumber-cleansing enema?"

  Stanton looked up from his radar display and slowly shook his head. They were at it again. ‘An officer and a gentleman—oh puhllleeeezzzeee ...’ he thought to himself. The only time Jerome and Al acted like officers and gentlemen was when someone with greater rank was watching them, or when they happened to watch an attractive young woman with an hourglass figure pass by. When the young engineer-navigator had first been assigned to the Flying Circus, he had expected a cool-headed military style cockpit. What he got was a virtual locker room where grab-ass wit ruled supreme and where thankfully, he could rightly hold his own, or so he thought.

  “Say, Captain,” Jeff chimed in, “I hear we've got a half case of some new non-carbonated French mineral water with a refreshing twist of lemon added. Ah yes, an invigorating filler for Al's cucumber enema. Whaddya think, Captain?"

  Before Jerome could answer, Al keyed his microphone, “OK, you two done shut my mouth ‘cause you got my butt squirming! All right, all right! You won this round. Now let me fly the damn plane!"

  Grinning ear-to-ear, the pilot and engineer-navigator keyed their microphones in silent acknowledgment. Still the same, Al felt he could hear them laughing over the drone of the engines, which w
as almost as bad as knowing that he would have to buy next round to shut them up. That was, if they could actually find an Officer's Club with refreshments to sell.

  Grateful for a bit of cockpit humor to break the tension, Captain Richard finished rolling his head to stretch the muscles in his neck in preparation for his power nap.

  Starting the power nap would be easy now, as always. As before, he'd think back to his childhood memory of when he and his father, Dusty Richard, a lineman for the local power company, first began looking at the stars together.

  He remembered how his father emptied the last of the cash from an old coffee can he used for his fishing trip fund, to buy him a 4.5” Meade telescope after it became apparent that he would never become a fishing enthusiast. He was interested in the stars, as was his father, and the telescope became a way for them to spend memorable evenings together marveling at objects in the night sky.

  Now, the night sky was dominated by a blood-washed moon set against a reddish-black background that only permitted viewing of the brightest of the stars through the seemingly endless muck.

  As he slipped into his power nap, he thought of how deeply he missed his deceased father. “I hope the viewing is better where you're at now,” Jerome said to himself as his consciousness descended into a still darkness.

  * * * *

  DUSTY RICHARD HAD passed over peacefully two years earlier from pancreatic cancer. It had come on suddenly just after Jerome's wing had been deployed to Germany for special airlift missions, and his son had been asleep at the moment of his passing over. Jerome had intended to call his father before turning in, but was so exhausted he decided to put off a promised phone call until after he'd awakened; a decision that would haunt him with guilt. His lingering guilt over missing that last chance to tell his father how much he loved him now seemed like an impenetrable wall between them. Even though Dusty had clearly heard his son's question, he knew his son would not be able to hear his answer because of his own sense of guilt, so he kept focused on the issue at hand: the outboard starboard engine of the Flying Circus.

  As he examined the inner workings of the tired turboprop engine, he could see the failure that was soon to come. It was one that could spell disaster for his son as well all the other souls aboard the Flying Circus. He also sensed the presence of another spirit sitting calmly on top of the starboard wing between the fuselage and the inboard engine—a soul that had not fully crossed over. Perhaps one of the passengers was already near death and had begun crossing back and forth.

  In personal accounts, the dying often recall leaving their bodies for brief periods to visit loved ones. As an End of Life Management Officer, Captain Anthony Jarman had been exposed to this phenomenon so often that he had developed abilities far beyond those of common men and women—even beyond those of the most religiously devout. He had found a pathway from one side to the other—one he could travel time-and-again as easily as walking from a backdoor stoop to a well-cared-for garden in the yard.

  The deafening roar of wind and turboprops, jarring turbulence and the reeking stench of fuel, hydraulic fluid and vomit had made this flight a long roller coaster ride from hell. Anthony finally decided to step outside his body to escape the sheer physical agony of the trip if for only a brief moment in time.

  Invisible to the crew and other passengers in this state and unaffected by the elements, he floated close to the outer surfaces of the lumbering transport and perched himself on the leading edge of the wing between the fuselage and the inboard starboard engine. He could see the spirit of Dusty Richard examining the outboard engine and gave it no other thought, as he was preoccupied with the experience, itself. Being outside of his body, turned everything eerily peaceful as he imagined himself sitting on the wing with his feet dangling over the leading edge. Before him, the red and black night sky presented him with a macabre, red and black beauty.

  In time, Anthony's attention was drawn to Dusty as he moved around the outboard engine. He sensed that something beyond the usual was happening as the troubled engine's mighty propellers continued to slice through the night sky; then he realized that this other spirit was somehow connected to the pilot and oblivious to Anthony. Anthony, however, was used to being ignored by spirits on the other side; besides, he had not come to visit him, anyway. Yet, that clear connection between this other spirit and the pilot still intrigued him, and he listened for the thoughts of the pilot, who was now entering a controlled slumber. Bingo, a father and son match, just as he has first thought.

  Anthony now turned his attention to Dusty and said, “So what is so interesting about that engine."

  Moving closer to him on the wing, Dusty answered, “That pig of an engine is on its last legs. It should have been swapped out a long time ago. By the way, I'm Dusty Richard, or at least I was. Well—you know."

  “Yes, I know,” Anthony replied warmly.

  Looking at him more closely, the other spirit added, “You know, I thought there was something different about you. By golly, you're one of those Indigo kids. Only Indigo kids can step out like you are doing, but I'd say you're much better at it than most. Say, just how long can you stay out, anyway?"

  “It varies with time and distance,” Anthony replied, sensing that his own body was beginning to teeter. “I've got to be going back shortly,” he noted with reluctance.

  “Well don't worry about buying the farm tonight in this old heap,” Dusty answered, “That engine will make it far enough, and you couldn't have a better pilot than my son, Jerome. He's the one flying this thing."

  “I sensed the connection between you two,” Anthony replied. “While you were inspecting that engine, I listened to his thoughts. He was thinking about that telescope you bought him and all the good times you two shared while viewing the night sky together."

  Dusty smiled. “Some fathers and sons have sports or travel to share. We had astronomy. Personally, I would have preferred fishing.” He then looked out at the sooty black and red horizon spread out before the Flying Circus. “But is doesn't matter now, with all this mess, for fishing or for astronomy either, for that matter. I hope all this will clear up in time for Jerome to teach his own son astronomy. In the meantime, I'm going to do everything I can to see that they get that chance."

  “Let's hope so,” Anthony noted. “But I sensed that he's not really open to you."

  “I'm sure he is, but he's filled with guilt. Strong emotion, that,” Dusty admitted, “but that hasn't stopped me from watching out for him. That young flight engineer of his, Jeff, is how I do it. The kid really trusts his instincts and his feelings. That's how I reach him. Sometimes, I can wiggle Jeff's gauges, but since that really drains me, I only do it when I really have to. I sure wish I could find a way to connect with my son, but he's so difficult to reach now."

  “I think I can help,” Anthony replied as he began moving back towards the aircraft interior and his own body. As he slipped through the skin of the fuselage, he quickly shared his idea with Dusty, who was grateful for the help of an intermediary. Here was someone who could help him find a new way to connect with his son, even though they were worlds apart.

  * * * *

  SLOWLY RUBBING HIS eyes, Captain Jerome Richard slipped out of his power nap with the odd feeling that the spirit of his father, Dusty, was close. He knew he couldn't even explain the feeling to himself let along anyone else, so he just let the thought go.

  After a few bleary-eyed winks and a jaw-cracking yawn, he focused his eyes on the instrument panel. All seemed normal except for number four, his outboard starboard engine—as usual. With luck, they'd get it replaced or overhauled before it finally gave up.

  He stretched his arms and shoulders with a satisfied groan. The power nap had rejuvenated him enough for the landing, but not much more than that. He was still dog-tired and he knew it. He had spent more time in the air in the last few days than on the ground, and it was easy to lose focus with this kind of exhaustion. The same also held true for his crew. They'd have
to stay sharp, because there could be only one focus now—a safe landing at Livermore. After that, maybe they'd snag a few well-deserved hours of sleep before the next flight; and perhaps a hot meal as well.

  “Captain,” the flight engineer's voice on the intercom interrupted Richard's waking thoughts, “I think number 4 is pushing towards critical again."

  The pilot keyed his microphone, “Thanks Jeff. Always something with four,” he sighted. Swiveling to his right, he looked closely at the flight engineer-navigator to see how he was holding up. The young man's dulled eyes told him the whole story. A rested man would have shown at least a small sense of alarm about the failing engine, but all he could see was tired resignation in his face.

  “Jeff, we're loaded to the max with cargo and pushing the envelope on weight; and those limits assume we're flying a new Herky Bird,” Jerome reminded the navigator, who nodded glumly. “Look, we're 30 minutes out of Livermore, which is a short field and I need all four engines. Can you keep number 4 turning till we're on the ground?"

  Jeff scanned his gauges by force of habit even though he already knew the answer. “Captain, I can keep it turning till we land in Livermore, but if they wave us off, I doubt she'll take a full power go-around let alone a full reverse on landing.” He paused to bite his lip for moment and then continued, “Whatever number 4's got left; I'll kiss it out of her."

  For the first time in days, the hint of a smile crossed the Jerome Richard's lips as a devilish plan hatched in his mind. Once they were on the ground, he'd push Number Four to the wall on the reverse. Then, everyone would get eight hours of sleep while the failed engine was being replaced. That is, if he didn't blow up the Flying Circus in the process. His thought struck him as an odd sign of exhaustion that he could actually find the idea appealing. This was beginning to get really dangerous. He needed rest.