by Daniel Wyatt
* * * *
Inside the bomber cockpit, the commander and the pilot stared in astonishment at the F-18’s needle nose and twin tails, silvered by the half-moonlight. For a long moment they couldn’t speak.
“IS THIS CLOSE ENOUGH FOR YOU, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX?”
“WHAT THE BLAZES IS THAT?” the navigator yelled over the intercom.
“WHAT YOU GOT THERE, LITTLE FRIEND? WHAT KIND OF MACHINE IS THAT?”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? SHE’S A US NAVY F-18 HORNET.”
“WHERE’D YUH GET IT?”
“WHAT! WHERE YUH BEEN, BIG FRIEND?”
“The Navy must be holding out on us,” the pilot said to the commander, his eyes on the strange fighter off port.
“I SAY AGAIN, TURN BACK, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX,” the fighter pilot’s voice demanded.
“WHAT IF I SAY NO, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE?”
* * * *
Les blew up. “DON’T GIVE ME THAT CRAP. GET THIS CRATE DOWN AT THE NEAREST ISLAND OR I’LL BLAST YOU TO KINGDOM COME WITH A HEAT SEEKER.”
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR ORDERS ARE, LITTLE FRIEND. I’M LOSING PATIENCE WITH YOU. MY ORDERS ARE NO ABORT UNLESS I GET CONFIRMATION. AND YOU BETTER NOT DO ANYTHING WITH YOUR — WHATEVER YOU CALL IT — BECAUSE THERE WON’T BE ANYTHING LEFT OF YOU OR ME, PAL, BELIEVE ME.”
* * * *
GUAM
Gail got up Saturday morning before the kids and the guests did. She put the coffee on and turned the radio to the local station giving the stateside major league baseball scores. She tied her housecoat a little tighter around her slim waist, then sat at the table to enjoy the quiet of the kitchen. Soon she was joined by Cameron’s wife, Denise, a tall, graceful woman in her mid-sixties.
“The coffee smells good. The men will be sawing logs for a while,” Denise said in her French accent. “I thought they had their fill at the reunion.”
“Apparently not,” Gail replied.
“I’ll take a shower, Gail, if you don’t mind.”
“Go right ahead.”
While Denise ran the water, the kitchen phone rang. Gail reached for it.
“Mrs. Shilling?”
“Yes.”
“Captain MacDonald calling. Is General Cameron available? I need to speak to him.”
“He’s... still sleeping, I think.”
“Would you wake him, please? It’s important.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
Gail set the receiver on the counter and made her way down the hallway to the guest room. She tapped lightly on the half-opened door that blocked her view of the bed. “General Cameron?” She knocked again. “General Cameron?”
She heard a groan and some bed sheets ruffling in the darkened room. “Yes?”
“Captain MacDonald from the naval base is on the phone. He said it’s important. You can take the phonecall in there, if you like.”
“Ah, yeah, thanks, Gail. I will.”
Gail gently closed the door, went to the kitchen, and when she heard Cameron greet Les’s CO, hung the kitchen receiver up.
Inside the guest room, Cameron sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes nearly closed, the phone held loosely against his ear. His head was slightly dizzy from rising too quickly. “Hello.”
“OK, General Cameron. I’ll get to the point. I made some phone calls to the air force archives in the States. I did a little checking about the Mary Jane. Apparently, she didn’t disappear on the August 14 raid to Hikari, like you said. In fact, the Mary Jane didn’t fly that mission. None of the 509th bombers went that day or any other day. They never flew any conventional bombing missions at all during the war. Another thing, do the callsigns Hawkeye Three-Six and Baker Two mean anything to you?”
Cameron’s eyes suddenly opened. “Where did you get those callsigns?”
“How about ‘Fat Baby wired for sound?’ Does that ring a bell?”
“It might,” Cameron admitted.
“It should. I’ve got another. ‘Hawkeye Three Six to Baker Two. Number Eight complete.’”
“All right, captain, I get the picture.”
“I wouldn’t mind the whole truth this time, General Cameron. From A to Z. We need to meet somewhere. Breakfast is on me. There’s a place on Marine Drive called the Round Top. I can reserve a private booth where we can talk.”
The general sighed heavily into the receiver. “You may not want to hear what I know.”
“Try me... sir.”
* * * *
The heat and humidity had already taken root in the early morning as Robert Shilling drove Les’s station wagon down Marine Drive, he and Cameron deep in conversation.
“What do you think, Bob? Would you arrive at the same conclusion?” Cameron asked, his arm resting on the edge of the door. The front windows were down in the car, the two enjoying the breeze.
Robert grunted. “It’s too hard to believe, but you have to admit that it explains a lot. The callsigns. The codes. But damn it, Phil, this isn’t a science fiction movie. These things just don’t happen. I still think someone is playing a trick on the 509th.”
“I don’t. This is real.”
“What if MacDonald doesn’t believe you?”
“What do you mean, me?”
“You outrank me, remember, and you were the commanding officer of the 509th. He might believe this if it comes from you. I’ll put my two cents in when it’s needed. Just state it in such a way that MacDonald will have to arrive at only one logical conclusion.”
“Easier said than done, Bob.”
* * * *
The Round Top was crowded, with many of the customers in navy uniforms. Cameron gave his name at the counter, and he and Robert were quickly taken to a private booth — partially enclosed by a wall on three sides — where MacDonald, Les, and Jack Runsted were seated. As soon as they sat down, a chubby blonde waitress arrived.
“We’ll all take the breakfast special,” MacDonald said. “Could we have the coffee right away?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once the waitress disappeared, MacDonald turned to Cameron and Robert. “All right you two. We’re in this together. So let’s have it. The true story about the Mary Jane. What happened to her? And what’s with all those strange callsigns and radio talk that Hulk picked up this morning near Iwo Jima?”
Cameron removed his windbreaker and laid it on the chair behind him as the coffee came. The waitress poured and left. Cameron left his black and he stirred it... waiting... stalling. He looked over at his vet friend. “The truth. OK, here goes.” He leaned forward. “Following the Hiroshima and Nagasaki missions, the United States still weren’t certain whether the Japanese would surrender. We had no word from them. Therefore, in anticipation of them not surrendering, a third atomic mission was scheduled. The order came from the top. President Truman. The target would be the city of Kyoto, with a plutonium bomb that was more powerful than the first two atomic bombs put together. An estimated destructive force that could kill 200,000 people and injure another 300,000. History never knew about that mission. Mary Jane was the designated bomber deployed to carry out that third atomic mission on the morning of August 11, 1945. The crew was briefed the night before. They took off from Tinian at oh-one-hundred and,” Cameron paused, “they were never seen again.”
“Go on,” MacDonald said.
“Did you notice that I said the crew was never seen again?”
“I did.”
“Here’s the dope. Even you, Bob, don’t know this. The bomber was found on Guam the following morning.”
“It was?” Robert answered, caught by surprise.
“Yes. One day after the Kyoto mission.”
“Just the bomber?”
Cameron nodded. “Yes, Bob. The Mary Jane was discovered, intact, resting in the jungle near Agana Naval Air Station. The bomber didn’t have a mark on it. I saw it. No signs of a crash landing. No bodies found on Guam or in the water. There was approximately five minutes of fuel left, if that, in the wing tanks. The fuselage contained fo
ur bullet holes. Under attack, I suppose. To add to it, a series of bloodstains led from the cockpit all the way to and inside the bomb bay. It was the craziest thing I had ever seen. It should have had crash damage to it. But didn’t. The vegetation wasn’t touched, except for underneath the wheels. It was as if she had plunked down neat as could be in the middle of the night, and someone found it next day.”
“So, what happened to her after that?” MacDonald asked.
“We sensed something evil about the whole thing. Seeing that the mission was never completed, anyway, and the crew were never found, the bomber was supposed to be disposed of. At least, that’s the story I got. Our scientists had no more atomic bombs. Three days later, the Japs surrendered. We were all sworn to secrecy. Captain, you wanted to know about the callsigns?”
“Yes.”
“I hear Les had made contact with the Mary Jane. That true?”
“That’s correct, sir,” Les replied.
Cameron smiled slowly. “Les, did the pilot have a Georgian accent?”
“Yes, sir, he did. A very slow southern drawl.”
“Captain Clayton,” Cameron said to Robert. Then to MacDonald he said, “The callsigns are correct, captain. The ones used on the actual 1945 mission. Hawkeye Three-Six was designated for Clayton’s bomber. Baker Two was Iwo Jima. When Clayton said that Number Eight was complete, he was notifying the scientists on Iwo Jima that Number Eight on the checklist of eleven points for arming the bomb was complete. The critical stage was done. An explosives expert from the US Army, an odd fellow we called Four Eyes because he wore a pair of thick glasses, was to accompany the flight and was to arm the bomb with the flight engineer’s help.” The general paused for a moment, reflecting on the crushed glasses he had found on the cockpit deck forty-five years ago. “‘Fat Baby wired for sound’ was the signal to tell the scientists that the bomb had received the first arming stage, with the final arming coming later in the flight, where Fat Baby would be fully live. Over Iwo Jima, they were to climb to 9,500 feet. Where was your interception made, Les?”
“South of Iwo Jima, sir.”
“What altitude?”
“Five-thousand feet.”
“So, they must have climbed by now.”
“You’re speaking as if they are... still on the mission.”
“That’s right, captain. I am. This might sound totally insane and after this you might have me committed, but I am convinced that you have intercepted the real Mary Jane. And she’s carrying a lethal atomic bomb.”
The men fell silent.
“A real atomic bomb!”
“Yes, captain.”
“This isn’t the movies,” the captain said. “This... this is 1990.” He rubbed his face. “You’re talking like some science fiction novelist.”
“No. Not at all. But I am talking time travel.”
“That explains it,” Les exclaimed. “When the bomber refused to land, I told the pilot that I’d blast him from the sky. And he said that I better not do that because there wouldn’t be anything left of the bomber or me.”
“I don’t believe it,” MacDonald scoffed. “General, how could you arrive at such a hypothesis? You’re no scientist.”
“I didn’t say I was. I’m looking at this as level-headed as I can, considering all sides.”
“Time travel is only a theory.”
“No so, captain.” Cameron pulled out a paperback from the pocket of his windbreaker. “On the flight over from Los Angeles, I was reading an interesting book that I purchased at the LA Airport.” He showed the cover to the navy captain.
“The Devil Seas. So?”
“The author,” Cameron said, “has documented evidence of two areas of the world where strange disappearances have occurred over the last forty years or so. One of these areas is the Bermuda Triangle in the Atlantic. The other is in the Pacific, another triangle, directly opposite the Bermuda Triangle, should one drill a hole through the center of the earth.”
The general showed the others the paperback’s second page, a map of the portion of the Pacific that stretched from the Mariana Islands to Japan. A triangle was drawn over a large piece of the map. To the left of the middle of the triangle was Iwo Jima. Just outside the northerly point was Kyoto. Nudging the southern edge was Guam.
“Inside the triangle,” Cameron went on, “hundreds of disappearances have taken place. Ships, subs, people, aircraft. Many of those military aircraft. All have vanished without a trace. The largest vessels were over 200,000 tons. Very few radio signals were recorded, signifying that they vanished too quickly to even reach a transmitter to voice an SOS.”
MacDonald folded his arms. “How does this book prove time travel?”
Cameron held up two fingers. “Two stories. The first, October, 1962. Broad daylight. A DC-8 passenger jet en route from Tokyo to Guam. Just after take-off, several people aboard claimed to have seen a Japanese World War Two Betty Bomber pull up near the port wing, then bank away. One of the passengers was in the US Navy and knew his aircraft.
“The second, 1968, at the height of the Vietnam War. Many of us know that Andersen Air Force Base on the north end of Guam was used as a bomber base for the B-52s during the bombing campaign. This same field deployed Superfortresses during the Second World War. North Field, we called it then. Anyway, in 1968, also in daylight, a B-52 took off on a training run, turned north and flew 300 miles before turning south again. Twenty miles out of Guam, during the descent, the pilot and co-pilot both swore they saw a B-29 Superfortress flying in the opposite direction, a thousand feet below.
“What’s so unusual about these sightings? Well, according to the author, neither aircraft — the Betty bomber or the B-29 — existed in vintage form in those years. There may be a reconditioned Betty somewhere today, although I doubt it. But I know for a fact that there were absolutely no B-29s in flying condition in 1968. Fifi was not resurrected until the seventies, cannibalized from several other B-29s in the Mojave Desert. This Pacific triangle is a time barrier,” Cameron concluded, tapping his finger on the map.
MacDonald smacked his lips. Still unconvinced, he asked. “Tell me something, general. Do you recall anything, any stories at all, about this Pacific Triangle while you were stationed here during the war? Crazy things must have happened then too.”
“Hell! We had enough to worry about fighting the Japs.”
MacDonald smiled. “Well–”
“OK, I do remember one. I knew a pilot from the 40th Bomb Group who were based on Tinian with us, over on West Field. His group were on a mission to Japan in the early part of 1945, I think it was. May or June. Other B-29 groups too. Five hundred bombers or so in all. Over Iwo Jima they picked up a fighter escort, 150 Mustangs. Near the coast of Japan, a storm from sea level to 25,000 feet moved in out of nowhere. The fighters and bombers had no choice but to go right through it. Due to a cross-up in communication, several flights of Mustangs turned back, while other flights pushed on. Fifty P-51s went through the front. Because of their weight and better stability in the air, the B-29s made it to the other side. Twenty-five of the fifty fighters didn’t. No trace was found of any of them. Nothing! No bodies. No planes. No scraps of planes!”
“So... they hit a bad storm front,” MacDonald replied. “Are you trying to say they went through a time barrier?”
“Maybe.”
“I see. OK, getting back to the book you read, I would have to question the validity of what the pilot and co-pilot claimed to have seen. The rate of closure had to be at least 600 knots or thereabouts. That’s pretty damn quick to make a solid identification.”
Cameron shook his head, glancing over at Hulk and Tiger. “Those two were trained individuals. Your own pilots, here, I’m sure can establish a visual under the same circumstances. Don’t you think so? It’s their job.”
“All right, I see what you mean. I’ll give you that. Still, though–”
“Captain, I’m looking at this with a clear and open mind. So should you. I t
hink I’m the only one here who has clearly come to grips with this. The Mary Jane and her crew have traveled through a time barrier, pure and simple. By the way, another incident in the book caught my attention.”
“What?”
“Nobody really knew anything about the Bermuda Triangle either until after the war. It all hit the fan when those five US Navy Avenger torpedo bombers disappeared somewhere between Fort Lauderdale, Florida and the Bahamas on December 5, 1945. Six planes, plus a Martin Mariner search plane vanished! Twenty-seven men! The bombers’ last radio messages were something to the effect that they were flying over several islands that according to their maps did not exist and that something was terribly wrong. The squadron flight leader didn’t even know what direction they were flying. He said the ocean looked different to him. It was suggested by the author that the planes had gone back through time, when more islands had existed in that area. The search plane — the Mariner — was sent out and it never came back, either.
“Whatever is out there,” Cameron went on, “is something beyond human comprehension. Call it a magnetic field, a black hole, or whatever. But it exists.”
MacDonald shook his head. “I still can’t believe this.”
“I can, sir,” Les said. “When I contacted the bomber, they called me Little Friend and wanted to know how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in 1927.”
Cameron nodded, smiling. “Little Friend and Big Friend were terms we used in the war for fighters and bombers, and to tell if someone was American or not, we would ask baseball questions.”
“I went alongside his port wing and he wanted to know what kind of aircraft I was flying.”
“You mean he got a good look at you?” Cameron’s eyes grew wide with surprise.
“He sure did. He wanted to know what I had. I told him an F-18 Hornet and added a smart crack like, ‘Where’ve you been the last ten years?’”
Cameron chuckled. “This is fascinating. I have another crazy story for you. Back around ten years ago, I remember reading a book written by Martin Caiden, the air force writer. It was called Fork-Tailed Devil: The P-38. The epilogue of it went something like this. A flight of P-38 Lightnings left a North African base during the Second World War to take on some German fighters over the Mediterranean. Over the water, the battle started. When it came time to regroup and turn for home, the P-38 pilots realized that one of their boys was missing, but no one remembered him going down. Anyway, the flight returned to base. Hours later, he was finally reported missing in action, long after it was determined that he had to have run out of gas.
