Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  For some odd reason, the young engineer-navigator sensed his Captain's thoughts down in his guts. Maybe everyone in the cockpit was thinking along the same lines he thought. “Captain, if you guys throttle up number 4 with a full reverse, the engine will definitely buy the farm. The moment it does, I'll trigger the extinguisher. After all, we gotta stop this old bird don't we?"

  For Al Chan, Jeff's words were honey in his ears. “Yes, we do,” he chimed in with a serious tone. “And as my dear departed Mother used to say,” he added, “in everything bad there is a little bit of good, and this is definitely good. That's because before we took off, I heard that the California Air Guard is stuck with a lot of wrecked airframes, which means there's a buyer's market on engine swaps. Hell, they've got to have a few Allison AE2100D3 turboprop engines somewhere in all that mess. Yes sir, this could be our lucky day!"

  Jerome nodded in agreement even though he felt their thinking had been warped by their lack of sleep and nodded reluctantly. Jeff's eyes lit up with hope. “I'll keep her turning for sure, and heck, maybe we'll even get some real shut eye while they do the swap. That is of course if we really need one.” With a big smile, he gave the pilots a thumbs-up sign and added, “Hey Al, please give my compliments to your dear departed Mother.” Not waiting for an answer, he turned back to his banks of consoles and began making the delicate adjustments need to fit the remaining life span of the engine into the next thirty or so minutes.

  * * * *

  THE UNUSUAL ENTHUSIASM in the cockpit chatter over the number 4 engine and awakened the napping loadmaster, Sergeant Skip Brown, who had been snoozing in the jump seat behind the pilot. Having caught the last of the conversation, he stretched and added his two cents, “Say sir, maybe they'll even fix those damned hydraulic leaks too. God, the stink back there's just awful. I think most of the passengers have tossed their cookies. It's a real gaggin’ gut wrencher if you ask me."

  The bloom was certainly off the rose now, Jerome thought to himself. “It so happens I didn't ask you,” Jerome snapped back in an irked tone. Looking over his shoulder while jabbing a thumb back at the loadmaster, he growled, “OK, who woke it up."

  Every member of the Flying Circus crew knew that when the Captain called you “it,” that you had put your foot or something similar into your mouth, and the loadmaster readied himself for the serious ass-chewing he knew would come next.

  “Skip, you're always giving us the puke reports,” Jerome intoned, “Christ almighty, sometimes I think you're auditioning for a Dramamine commercial! Damn, I wish Bill Jenkins would mend quick."

  Jerome paused, and held himself back. He was getting testy again, and this poor kid had innocently stepped on his tail. The last remark about Jenkins was over the line. He missed his old loadmaster who was still recovering from a broken leg while this young sergeant with the witless mouth was filling in for him. “Skip, why don't you go and see how our VIP passenger, Captain Jarman, is doing back there."

  “Yes sir,” the loadmaster dutifully replied as he unfastened himself.

  “While you're at it,” Jerome added, “tell him that Livermore control advised us that a driver from Port Ord will be waiting for him on the tarmac. Also, make sure he gets those two cases of .22 ammo after we land, as well."

  The young sergeant rose up from the jump seat. Moving towards the cockpit door, he stopped to look back over his shoulder. “Uh sir. Do I gotta speak to him? You see, I got family in the bay area ... and uh, well I reckon,” he swallowed hard. “I hate to think that our VIP back there would use some of those rounds to well uh..."

  “Sergeant, he's an ELMO; it's what he does,” Jerome answered tersely, wishing for the day the flight surgeon would release his regular loadmaster and send him back to the Flying Circus, where he was sorely missed. Till then, this “it” would have to be tolerated. “Look Skip, if one of your family members is past hope and facing an agonizing death, an ELMO can be a real Godsend."

  “Uh, no offense, sir, but I've seen what he does. Have you?"

  “Not personally, but I've seen the news reports, so I'm not going to get into it now."

  “I seen it up close,” the loadmaster insisted. “People who don't want to live but can still walk, got to line up in front of a trench and kneel down. Then, they wait for him to put his hand on their shoulders, and when they drop their heads, he shoots ‘em in the back of their heads and they just fall like rag dolls into the trench.” His hand began to shake a little. “I dream about those bodies in the trenches all covered with lime. It's hard to call that a Godsend. He gives me the willies."

  Jerome turned towards the loadmaster with eyes of fire. “We don't need this immature, pathetic, wailing shit right now. So if it makes you feel better, our VIP is no frickin’ Godsend. Now get frosty and do your job or I'll toss you at Livermore and start looking for someone who can. Do you read me?"

  The young loadmaster withered under the pilot's steely glare. “Yes sir,” he answered obediently.

  “Now go back there and let him know that someone from Port Ord will meet him in Livermore. Then prepare for landing. It will be a rough one—a damn rough one!"

  The loadmaster dropped his eyes to the cabin floor and left. He'd wait till he was in the cargo hold before letting anyone see him wiping the tears from his eyes as his memories flashed through his mind.

  * * * *

  HAVING RETURNED TO his body several minutes earlier, Anthony Jarman now fought to keep himself in a dreamy state between REM sleep and consciousness. The time he spent out of his body had been a wonderful release from the persistent nausea but now his stomach twisted with painful spasms. In this semi-conscious state, he was mildly aware of his suffering, but not wretchedly so.

  Still the same, he could sense a young crewman working his way around the massive cargo pallets strapped to the floor of the Flying Circus towards him. Like it or not, the crewman would find him soon, and he'd have to experience the full agony that would accompany a complete state of consciousness.

  The young loadmaster found Anthony huddled against a stack of canvas tents. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and shouted over the loud drone of the tired engines; “Are you Captain Anthony Jarman, sir?"

  Fully awake now, Anthony kept his eyes closed as the cold stench of the overloaded cargo bay tore through his nostrils and turned his guts. All he could do was to nod his head in agreement.

  In the absence of a verbal acknowledgement, the loadmaster reached over to read his nametag just to be sure. “I'm Sergeant Skip Brown, the loadmaster. I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but the Captain ordered me to come back here and check on you."

  Anthony slowly opened his eyes and looked up into the loadmaster's face. The young sergeant froze with indecision as their eyes made direct contact for the first time. Anthony could see the experience was filling the nervous young man with more emotions than he could process at one time. He had seen that look thousands of times before and now it was just another faceless blur in the reality of his own miserable life. Another face he would have deal with; another soul behind a troubled face needing comfort and reassurance.

  He took a deep breath and, girding himself, smiled kindly to break the ice. “Not that I'm complaining, but your business class service sucks!” he shouted over the din of the cabin. Feeling the unpleasant gagging sensation again, he dropped his head towards the bag in his hands. “How long till we land?"

  The loadmaster knew what the Releaser wanted to know, as well as every other passenger on board. “We're not long out. I'd say about 20 minutes.” Anthony could only nod again, as he fought the urge to retch.

  It was then that the loadmaster realized that Jarman was still a person and that he deserved to be treated as such. Perhaps a little humor would distract him.

  “As to the business class service, sir, here is the way it works: No peanuts, no apple juice and no refunds. Also, we're fresh out of customer comment cards, which is OK since nobody gives a shit anyway, but thanks for flying Trans Moj
ave Airways just the same. Now please bring your seat back up to the forward position, fasten your tray table and pray your ass off that we don't buy the farm on landing. It has been a pleasure serving you and we hope you choose Trans Mojave Airways for your next flight."

  Grateful for the humor, Anthony answered, “If I hadn't been so damn busy pukin’ my guts out since I got on this miserable bucket, I'd have torn up my frequent flyer card way back!"

  “Breaks my heart to hear you say that, sir,” Skip replied. “By the way, a driver will be waiting for you in Livermore. Don't know more than that, but I'll make sure he gets those two cases of ammo for you.” Anthony nodded his acknowledgment, and the loadmaster continued moving towards the rear of the cargo compartment, making final checks of the cargo nets and tie-downs in preparation for landing.

  As he tugged at the webbing and checked the tie-downs, the loadmaster thought about what he'd said in the cockpit. He wished that he had kept his mouth shut and was surprised at himself for the way he had acted.

  Yes, he'd seen End of Life Management Officers like Jarman at work and those awful memories could never go away, but he never saw one up close. Only those who were near death would, for the most part. No wonder he always thought they were some kind of weird government clowns with warped personalities. However, this Jarman guy was no different from all the other poor bastards trying to make sense out of a world turned upside-down. At that moment, he realized that he began to both respect and pity Jarman. It had finally sunk in.

  * * * *

  THE HASTILY BUILT landing strip at the government research center in Livermore came into view as Captain Richard banked the Flying Circus to line it up with the ILS signal emanating from the portable ground control system. Meanwhile, the cyclic grinding noise from the number four engine was getting worse now, and it could now be clearly heard in the cockpit.

  On the far end of the runway, Captain Richard could see the heavy equipment lumbering off to each side of the runway. He made a mental note of their location. It was probably where the last quake had fractured the runway from edge to edge. If he didn't stop short of that fracture, it would rip the landing gear off the Flying Circus and turn it into an out-of-control Molotov cocktail.

  “Please, Jeff, keep number four turning,” Richard muttered under his breath. He knew his flight engineer-navigator was working a minor miracle with the troubled engine, but then again, everything has its limits. With luck, Jeff would squeeze one last dying gasp of power out of the tired engine. It was now or never. They had to land.

  With polished perfection, the two pilots guided the heavy airplane to the edge of the patchwork of metal that covered the small landing strip, as the main wheels literally touched on the numbers. Slamming the nose wheel down to the ground, the two pilots worked together to pull back the power so they could reverse the engine thrust, hoping to stop the Flying Circus short of the runway fracture line. With a silent prayer, Jerome pushed all four engine throttles to full power.

  As the blades of the props worked against the old cargo airplane's forward motion on the runway, the tired airframe fought the change of thrust with agonizing vibrations and loud, complaining metallic creaks. The whole craft jittered and complained as the passengers prayed for a safe stop.

  After what seemed an eternity to everyone on board, Jerome finally eased back on the power as the nose wheel came to full stop a few yards from the fracture in the runway.

  As though it had waited for its most benign moment of death, a bearing inside the number four engine began to seize as the propeller slowed. Thankfully, the reduction in power kept inner engine parts from exploding outward from the engine. Nevertheless, the damage internally was still massive, and the first licks of fire quickly sprang from the joined edges of the engine nacelle.

  Ready for just that moment, Jeff yanked the engine's red fire extinguisher knob and flooded the engine nacelle with fire retardant foam, while quickly shutting down the other three engines. As the foam filled the engine nacelle, the crew stared wide-eyed at the number four engine and then sighed with deep relief when the fire warning light on the instrument panel flickered out.

  The airbase fire crew raced up alongside the Flying Circus in their bright yellow crash trucks, continuing to foam the engine for good measure. Everyone would walk away from this one, and the Flying Circus would be in the air again as soon as it got a replacement engine. That in anybody's book, they all reasoned, was as good as any landing could get.

  Clicking his PTT switch, Richard said, “Livermore ground, this is Ohio Guard heavy, Yankee Zulu One Niner requesting a tow off the active, a new engine and a hot meal."

  “Tow is already on the way, Zulu One Niner. We've got to clear the runway quick. Be advised that another heavy is on a 5 minute final with bingo fuel. As to the engine and the meal, you're on your own. Now, kindly get the hell off our runway."

  “Zulu One Niner, we copy that,” Richard's co-pilot confirmed. Releasing the PTT switch so the tower would not hear him, he added, “and it's nice to see you too, you jerk.” With a big grin, he looked first at Jerome and then turned to face Jeff. “Hey miracle workers, I think we need to get us a few cucumbers and some of that French mineral water and pay those boys in the control tower a visit.” The cockpit filled with laughter as Al turned to face Jerome. “So what do you think boss?"

  “I think,” Jerome answered as he watched the ground crew back the tow engine toward the nose wheel of his airplane, “that them boys up in the control tower are playing with watermelons, and that they happen to outnumber us cucumber folk."

  “Watermelons!” Al exclaimed in an excited voice. “Now that, by God, is one heck of an idea!” Jerome silently shook his head. He'd gone and done it again. When would he ever learn, he wondered to himself as he felt the familiar jolt of a tow hook-up.

  * * *

  Blink Twice for Yes

  PEERING THROUGH A small porthole to mask his concern, the young loadmaster watched with a deep sense of relief as the fire retardant foam dripped to the ground. As a tug pulled the Flying Circus off the active runway, he lowered the rear ramp of the airplane three fourths of the way to the ground. The air that rushed in was foul with the odors of fire retardant and spent fuel but to those inside the cargo hold, it smelled of safety. However, it was the sight of ground personnel pointing at the smoke and steady drips of smoking fluids that oozed from the scarred engine nacelle reinforced their awareness of their close call. Their lack of enthusiasm was obvious to the passengers. This would be just one more gritty, filthy thing for them to fix.

  The young loadmaster girded himself and turned to face his anxious, wide-eyed passengers, “Listen up folks; we are in no danger. Just keep in mind that this is what tends to happen when you fly an airplane through sandpaper. Now, please kindly unbuckle yourselves, gather up your gear and prepare to de-plane in an orderly manner after I have finished lowering the ramp."

  The Flying Circus finally slowed to a stop, and the tug driver released the tow bar so he could pull into position for the next inbound C-130. It was low on fuel and overloaded. The loadmaster craned his neck around the side of the fuselage to see the tug rolling off and then lowered the rear cargo ramp the rest of the way down. “OK, folks,” he announced. “Please watch your step and if you've got to puke now, please wait until you're standing on the tarmac or I'll make you stay and clean it up."

  As the weary passengers filed past, most ignored him but a few with green faces still found the strength to loft a middle-finger salute in his direction. One of the last to deplane was Captain Anthony Jarman, who paused next to the loadmaster and tapped on his headset. “Sergeant, tell your captain I need to speak with him now, and also have him contact the base executive officer as well. I want to see them both out there on the tarmac as soon as possible."

  The young sergeant's head jerked back in disbelief. “I'll pass it along, Captain, but if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath."

  “Well, you're not me,” Anthony replied t
ersely. “So, just make sure they know who I am."

  Anthony limply dragged his bag to the edge of the ramp to be cheerfully greeted by a lean, middle-aged man. Nearly six feet tall, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, the Master Sergeant reminded him of exceptionally tall Roman centurion because of his square jaw and hard-set eyes, capped by large, bushy, dark brown eyebrows with light streaks of gray.

  “Now, you gotta be Captain Anthony Jarman,” the man said with a sharp salute. Anthony returned the salute and nodded in agreement.

  “I knew it, by golly! Ya know, they described you to a tee: Six foot one, lanky, brown hair and blue eyes that just seem to look right through you. But I gotta admit, they never mentioned anything about your green face,” he noted with a chuckle.

  Anthony's stomach twisted around with surge of pure pain. The last thing he needed was someone playing I'm Mr. Cheerful goes to the airport. “And who the hell are you?” Anthony grumbled.

  “Master Sergeant Vigo Jones at your service.” The sergeant winked. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, that there was one hell of a landing. Man, just look at that engine! I'm glad I wasn't on that bird. Flying through them volcanic ash streams is bad news; yes, sir; bad news. And by the way,” he thrust a sweaty grease-smeared hand towards Anthony, “my friends just call me Vigo."

  Anthony studied his outstretched hand for a moment, wondering whether to vomit on it as any moment now and he'd probably be tearing out what was left of his guts with dry heaves. He took a deep breath. “Later. Get my stuff,” was all he had the energy to say.

  Vigo dropped his hand with a knowing grin as the loadmaster joined them. “I'm to tell you the Captain will be here in a minute or two, and, while the base XO thinks you're as crazy as a peach orchard boar, he'll be here shortly as well. Pardon my being frank sir, but you sure do seem to have a knack for getting people's undivided attention."

  Anthony stared at the loadmaster and realized that vomiting on him instead would be far more satisfying, but then there was the issue of his personal belongings and ammunition. “Fine. See to it that this sergeant gets my things. I'll meet them out there.” He pointed to the lit tarmac just beyond the immense tail of the Flying Circus. Holding his stomach, he walked slowly off the ramp and out onto the tarmac where the glare of the mobile lights was blindingly bright for a man in his condition. He finally stopped and turned to Vigo who had followed quietly behind him, “so where is your vehicle, or are we on foot?"