My Journal

By Harriman Nelson

~In God We Trust~

25

It had been an hour or so after Lee’s call and I was busy in the lab with Riley and Kowalski.

“Not great,” I said after another formulation test, this time using pressurization to alter the molecular structure. “But let’s try it using the Flying Sub.”

“Yes, sir,” Ski said, “sure hope the skipper’s idea works.”

“Same here, Lads.”

“Breaking news about the skipper,” Sparks said over the PA and the monitor came on....

“...We’re here at one of the local airfields in Cape Cod, where former President Nelson-Crane will be landing soon. Waiting for him is a large group of locals to welcome him back.”

Some banners, balloons, and signs simply said ‘Welcome Home’ but there were a few cartoons with various drawings of him, one of them as a bird (a Crane, of course) flying out of a jail cell with the words, ‘Welcome Home Jailbird’.

“...We don’t know who is piloting the craft, though Nelson-Crane’s private pilot’s license may have been revoked for breaking the law regarding the ‘no fly’ zone, and landing on a golf course without declaring an emergency, which it wasn’t.

“...Ahh, there he is,” the reporter continued as the Cessna came into view and landed, then taxiing toward the small craft ‘parking’ area. Soon after the prop stopped and the running lights turned off, Joe jumped out (no way to know if he’d been piloting or not), and placed chocks in front of and behind the wheels. Lee jumped out next o rapturous applause, the locals and press waiting for him behind a police barricade. He waved and gave everyone his sunshine smile, then turned briefly to pat the rental.

With Joe at his side, he walked through the overgrown grass on the cracked tarmac toward the locked wire mesh gate separating the area from a narrow paved road, and plucked a buttercup, kissing it.

When the boys reached it, and used their airfield codes to unlock the gate, they were swamped by the incoming well-wishers.

“...The two seem to be very happy to be home,” the reporter said, “Mrs. Crane is the first to welcome her son back with an embrace and kiss on the cheek, though it appears she might be scolding him now. But not for long as he hands her the buttercup and gives her a sheepish grin...Mr. President? Mr. President? How does it feel to be vindicated after your arrest?”

“...Just great,” Lee said, “and it’s just Lee now, remember?”

“...Not for long, we hope,” Joes said.

“...Will you still be going lobstering for the upcoming lobster bake or will you be taking some time for a little rest and relaxation instead?”

“...Well, I kind of figured on signing on with Al.’s trawler, but I do have a sailboat here and....”

“...Absolutely not!” Mrs. C. interrupted, “It must have dry rot and rats by now. Let’s get you boys home so you can clean up and have a good meal. The internet says you weren’t fed in jail, Lee.”

“...Was just a few hours, Mom.”

“...Well, I have brownies and cookies, warm from the oven waiting for you. And I made some extra for all of our friends. I won’t have enough milk for everyone, though.”

“...That’s okay, Mrs. Crane,” someone said, “we’re calling it a BYOM party.”

“...That’s right,” Lee’s former school teacher said. “This way, some of us who are lactose intolerant can bring their own specialty milk.”

“...Beer too,” someone else laughed.

“...Dunking brownies and cookies in beer? Sounds horrible!” Mrs. C. replied. “Still, to each their own. Just don’t drink it in the house. And don’t give any to Winston and Sweetie. Not even the milk, brownies and cookies. Bad for cats and dogs.”

As the crowd welcomed Lee with a lot of shoulder slapping, hand shaking, and even some ruffling of his hair, Joe wasn’t ignored, and received a fair share of the welcome too.

Soon Lee, Joe, and Mrs. C. were practically shoved into the waiting Dune Buggy, decorated with streamers and home blown and helium balloons. The mayor was the driver. Soon they led the various vehicles toward the narrow road and through the township toward the Sand Crap access road.

“...And so,” the reporter said from the checkpoint, and then from a loaned dune buggy, bumping along the sandy beach, “we’ve also been invited to join the community for the impromptu snack courtesy of Mrs. Crane, where beach chairs and beach blankets have been set out for those who can’t fit into the cottage or on the patio.

“...While we wait for Nelson-Crane to clean up, and for the party to begin, we’ve learned that the Evergreen Aviation and Space Museum has made an offer to purchase the damaged Citation jet that Nelson-Crane so valiantly used to save the Statue of Liberty. No details on the amount, or if the offer has been accepted by the aircraft company’s CEO and...ohmygod!”

The broadcast was interrupted with the sight of a black unidentified jet nose-diving and strafing the beach while everyone screamed and tried to run for cover.

Several houses had their windows blown out and roofing was on fire, including Mrs. C’s.

We saw Lee, streaked with blood, dragging his mother who was carrying Sweetie, Winston at their feet, and what other injured neighbors, and their pets, that he could grab onto, yelling at everyone to take cover in the sand dunes, (which appeared to be behind a couple of the houses, a bit further away from beach access road).

Joe, blood running from a cut lip, was also helping the inhabitants to the dunes.

Lee looked back toward the beach just in time to see the plane return for another strafing run. He twisted his eyeball out of his socket, and punching some knobs on the back of it, aimed it toward the plane, the narrow green lasers striking the underbelly and cockpit, moving and bringing the craft down to explode in the shallow waves. A massive plume of fire and black smoke obliterated much of the view.

Lee continued to shout at and help everyone he could to the dunes, while shoving his eyeball into his shirt pocket, his other hand patting down his smoking hair, pulling out some shrapnel on his shirt and pants, and pulling off his melting shoes, all much worse than the wounds he’d incurred inside the strafed cottage.

Just then three US Coast Guard search and rescue helicopters came into view and landed on the beach and one intelligence gathering jet headed out to sea.

Once everyone, (and their pets) were safely seconded behind the dunes, Lee and Joe headed to the lead copter, the rotors having stopped. The pilots saluted the boys, (against protocol), and spoke with the pair, while another copter’s crew began to douse the houses with foam to stop the fires, and another crew raced to the dunes to render first aid to the victims.

Lee raced into his mother’s cottage with Joe, both soon emerging with heavy plastic bags, contents unknown, and climbed into the lead chopper which took off in the direction of the town. Had it too been attacked?

The wait for any news seemed to take forever, but finally the CNN reporter passed on what its global network had learned....

“...The attack on the beach,” the reporter said, “is probably an isolated attack, according to Homeland Defense, however, the US is again under attack by the PRA. There will be a press conference from the White House momentarily.”

“...Where have you taken Lee?” Mrs. C. was screaming at the remaining copter crew.

“...To the airfield to gas up his Cessna; his request. Calls it Operation Mosquito Delta this time. Afraid his prosthesis has a crack that might make it useless as both a weapon and a visual aid. Said he may have to simply rely on paint balls and Almighty God. Honest to God that’s what he said. I know it sounds crazy but anything’s better than just running interference for our cities and squadrons already under attack.”

“...I’ve already put the town on emergency management,” the mayor, dabbing a cut on his face, told the inhabitants, “Busses are on the way to take you to makeshift shelters in local businesses and residences that have basements. No time to go back to your homes to collect anything.”

Mrs. C. was sobbing with her friends as the camera went blank.

“Battle Stations! Battle Stations!” Chip’s voice came over. “Admiral? Fail Safe’s been activated by the Secretary of Defense. Apparently we’re back in the Navy, but your orders are to keep working on the anti-radiation project. Seaview is already headed to the DOD coordinates for launching our intercepts.”

“Very well,” I said into the mike, then to my companions, “Kowalski, report to the Control Room. Riley, you stay here and help me get this latest formulation pressurized for the Flying Sub.”

“Aye, sir...do you think the skipper will be okay? I mean, like, he really looks hurt. And what if his eyeball doesn’t work against the bogeys? And why was that jerkwater beach attacked.”

“Why do you think? The skipper was the target, especially if he might resume the presidency.”

Just then Sparks clicked the monitor back on, this time to Fox News...

“...My fellow Americans,” Sisemen said from behind the podium in the West Wing’s Press Room, “again we are under attack by the People’s Republic Alliance. All of our armed forces and allies, on land, at sea, have been alerted. While our armed forces are hard at work to keep us safe, do as your community emergency officials say. In the interest of peace, I have been trying to make contact with the Alliance in the hope of a cease fire....”

“...What does President Nelson-Crane think about that?” someone interrupted from the audience.

“...Has former President Nelson-Crane and Mr. Jackson been recalled to the Navy?” another question came on top of it.

“...No,” Sisemen said, “neither have been re-instated to active or reserve status. And if they insist on their hair brained scheme to use an unarmed propeller aircraft to augment our fighter squadrons, they’re on their own.”

“...Why not recall them to the Navy, Mr. President? Or are you still angry with Nelson-Crane for shouting at you on the golf course?”

“...We’re in the middle of a national crisis, damn it! Please refrain from topics that have no bearing with it. While the two men have not been re initiated to active or reserve service, the Seaview has been, still having intercepts and missiles at the ready to launch at the PRA’s missiles and aircraft as directed by the Dept. of Defense.”

“...Sources are saying Nelson-Crane and Jackson have landed at Hanscom Air Force Base....”

“...Doesn’t matter. Any planes in flight will land at the nearest airport and those already on the ground, such as that Cessna, are beached in a manner of speaking, as befits two ex- naval officers. Any civilian violation is punishable by confiscation of the aircraft and a heavy fine.

“...If Nelson-Crane and Jackson wanted to be included with Hanscom’s squadrons they’ll simply have to be satisfied with the fact that those squadrons are already in flight and engaging the enemy without their interference.

“...Isn’t that exactly what Operation Mosquito is all about? Worked to defend the Statue of Liberty.”

“...That was totally different. Nelson-Crane and Jackson would only be in the way now....”

With that he huffed off.

“Admiral?” Riley asked me, “You think the skipper’s idea about using paint balls has a snowflake’s chance in hell of working, like, if he meets up with any bogeys?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Lad, though he may have been joking Now, let’s get this formulation finished.”
***

“All set, sir?” Chip asked me after Riley and I had loaded the pressurized formula into the Flying Sub’s laser cannon, climbing up through the hatch to the Observation Nose.

“The best I can do...not really sure if this is going to work, Lad.”

“We’re already tracking a missile right now we can try it out on. And if there’s enough formulation in the Flying Sub after she fires on it, they can do an aerial bombardment on Yosemite that got a direct hit by a PRA missile. Big mushroom cloud with measureable radiation.”

“Very well...update on Fail Safe?”

“Still on Stand By.”

Just then Sharkey and Ski pulled on their flight jackets and headed over to the Flying Sub’s hatch.

“Good luck, Lads,” I told them, “Fire at the formulated laser at the target, then get the hell out of Dodge as the saying goes. Splash down as far away and as deep as you can take her. Should the missile explode the water will help dilute the impact. Then you can begin to take undersea, surface, and aerial radiation readings. If the formulation works, fly to Yosemite and drop what’s left of the formulation in the area, taking radiation measurements of any reduction.”

“Yes sir,” both men said as they climbed down into the Flying Sub and within minutes had launched.

My heart was racing, putting them at risk so close and personal like this, but it was the only way to really test it, and Fail Safe was probably going to have us fire at it anyway.

“More from state-side,” Sparks called out.

“...While we’re waiting for coverage of Yosemite National Park, and the uninhabited volcanic atoll in the Hawaiian Islands, we have some telephoto images of dog fights going on along the coast of Massachusetts, Maine and New York. With the various squadrons from a number of military bases, is the Cessna renamed Mosquito One Delta. We also have access to our brave flyers communications with each other and the pentagon command center....keep in mind this is live....”

“...Green Hornet to Batman Four, how’s Mosquito One Delta doing?” a pilot was asking.

“...Almost got their prop torn off when they got too close to one of the bogey’s. Fell into a spiral before they could get her out of it...”

“...Wasn’t that bad,” Lee’s voice said.

“...At least the boss man managed a few paint balls up the bogey’s after burner,” Joe’s voice said. “Bogey stalled out for a few minutes....”

“...Yeah, we saw that...good aim for a bubblehead.”

“...We’re going to try to get closer to the next one,” Lee said, “gum up their engines and splatter their cockpit windows.”

“...Not too close, Mosquito One. They can just bump you into oblivion without firing a shot at you. Plus they can still fly on instruments if their window’s gummed up,”

“...Yeah, but you can use the few seconds before they do for your rockets to get a shot.”

“...Those heat seeking rockets could get you, Mosquito One.”

“...We don’t run as hot,” Lee said.

“...Good luck Mosquito One. Bite ‘em’ hard.”

“...Roger that. Don’t worry if we wobble a bit. Auto pilot’s limited...we’ll have to use one hand each in turns to keep her steady....”

There was silence except for the fire power. The broadcast’s telephoto lenses showed the massive dogfights between the enemy’s fighter jets, and our fighter jets, attack helicopters, stealth bombers, and various other military hard flying craft, and the lone Cessna right in the middle of it all, flying around indeed like a mosquito, at its much slower pace but with Lee and Joe aiming paint ball rifles through their cockpit’s open windows.

Soon the sky was streaked with exploding colors, some of the enemy aircraft stained with multi colored globs of paint. A couple of the enemy jets ingested paint into their engines and stalled out, swirling to the sea as their pilots ejected, some of them streaked with paint as they too, were covered with paint.

One of the enemy jet’s cockpit window was a mess though continued to fire blindly as it’s wipers diluted and smeared the paint while the boys zigged and zagged out of harms way.

“Must not have heat seeking missiles,” O’Brien muttered, relieved.

“...Joe?” we heard Lee finally say. “How good are you at skydiving?”

“...I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“...Well, we’re out of paintballs and we’re almost out of gas. We’re going to have to bail. After we turn the old girl smack toward that jet if we can keep it from veering.”

“...A suicide run toward it? Are you insane? ”

“...Yeah, well, the White House will do that to you....up for it? You can bail now if you want. But I’m going to taker her in.”

“...Mosquito One Delta to control,” Joe sighed, “we’re going in for the kill against our bogey. Boss Man’s pretty sure we can bail before impact. Okay, Lee,” Joe added, “she’s all yours.”

“...Here we go.”

There was only silence, as the Cessna headed toward the fighter, its cockpit window somewhat cleared. It fired at the small plane, head on.

The next thing I knew I was being helped off the deck, having fainted. The broadcast showed two fireballs and black plumes of smoke in the sky. The enemy jet fighter pilot had ejected, his parachute fully deployed.

“Oh gawd, oh gawd,” Riley was weeping as we waited and prayed to see two other chutes.

“There’s Joe!” Chip yelled as we saw him, from behind the smoke, his chute deployed.

“Where’s the skipper? Where’s the skipper?” Riley whined.

Seconds passed, then we saw Lee, his chute also deployed, but on fire, the black smoke quickly hiding him from view. Suddenly we saw him falling below the smoke and fire in the sky, free of his harness, toward the sea below, ahead of Joe, too far away to grab his friend’s harness.

“Ohmygod,” Chip gasped, “his Mae West was part of the harness....”

But by the time Joe splashed down, Lee had already splashed into the heavy sea. And he drowned? Had the impact with the water which must have felt like a brick wall knocked him out or broken his bones or his skull?

“FS-1 to Seaview,” Sharkey’s voice interrupted over the PA. “We have that missile we targeted in range.

“Fire when ready.” Chip barely managed to order, “Don’t forget to get to a safe distance afterward."

“Aye, sir. Prepare to fire laser gun, Ski.”

“Fire,” Sharkey’s voice ordered Ski.

“Jackpot!” Ski said a moment later as the laser cannon hit its mark.

The Flying Sub’s cam showed a very small puff of smoke, and fuselage..

“Seaview?” Sharkey said, “Looks like the formula worked. Radiation minimal. You did it Admiral!”

“Well done,” Chip said. “Radar shows two more missiles not much further away. Fire at will.”

“Aye sir...”

“Sparks,” I barely managed to call out, “Contact the DOD and inform them that our anti-radiation formulation seems to work....”

Just then the CNN cameras were focused on Joe being hauled up out of the sea by a Coast Guard Search and Rescue cutter, while the dog fights continued, though two more enemy fighters plunged into the sea, their pilots also having ejected, the rest of its flock veering away, our birds following and firing, making more contacts.

“Green Hornet to Rescue,” one of our pilots said, “Any sign of the Boss Man?”

“No visual yet. He might just be out of range of our heat sensors...and the satellite heat sensors are down. He might have been caught in a rip current. We’re continuing the search. Cdr. Jackson seems to be okay but has some previous injuries.

“By the way, flight, just heard from the DOD that Nelson’s anti- radiation formula works. Limited radioactive fallout plus negated full explosive force from an enemy missile. And Seaview’s Flying Sub is going after more.”

“Hot damn! Boss Man sure would have been proud.”

Jiggs took the mike and nodded to Sparks to tie him into the frequency. “We’re not giving up on him yet. He’s got nine lives you know...and he’s supposed to be anointed by God, so that Scotsman is always saying.”

“Roger that,” both flight and the cutter acknowledged as Jiggs took my arm, helping to steady me.

“Come along Harriman, let’s get you to Sick Bay”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking like a leaf. How about you, sailor?” he asked Riley, who had tears running down his face.

“The skipper would want me to stay at my post.”

“Good lad.”

“He’d want me to stay on top of things too, Jiggs” I added, heartbroken, as Lee’s death was about 99% certain.

“Well, best be supervising putting that formulation on Seaview’s torpedoes and missiles then, and faxing the DOD the specifics for all of our armed forces.”

All anyone could do now was wait. Come what may.

~***~

Chapter Twenty Six