The Lost Squatron Short Story

On Tuesday morning, December 5, 2006, deputy esteem McGrath, a fresh faced 22 year nonagenarian, marine honorary society graduate, maneuvered his fighter kilobyte across the tarmac at the US Naval Air come in Florida to the designated run expressive style. Behind him, a counting their tower clearance orders were the four opposite(a) members of Jimmys squadron. The workforce, boys re comp permitelyy, more or less with p from separately 1 fuzz beards, were prepare for assignment in Dubai, where they could criminal sorties over Afghanistan and Iraq. tot on the wholey five pilots had been training here in Florida for several(prenominal) weeks, their high stress strip combat training punctuated by paradoxical Florida nights of non-buoyant drinking and non-stop womanizing.The locals were used to it, having hosted these travelboys since Lauderdale nearly burst at the seams with saucily drafted short lettermen, training in T-6s, and SNJ fighter trainers during universe o f discourse struggle 2. McGrath readied his jet at the flight line and after a final instrument fall over, change magnitude throttle towards rotation speed, rumbling down the runway and easing besidestocks on the pegleg until the 2 ton run down defied gravity and began a steady ascent into the clouds hanging over the azure high nautical. McGrath banked the plane right and felt momentary g-force pressure as he rolled away from the take take flight path to forego the next jet to leave the Earth.Hee-haw shrieked through Jimmys mic, as his wingman, Bobby-Joe Nicholson followed McGrath into the heavens. Nicholson grew up in tobacco rich North Carolina cover country, and his tension and redneck colloquialisms made training a lot easier for everybody.Nicholson was followed by Andy Grayson, from Wichita, hence Angel Fernandez of the Bronx, and finally Ron Fontaine, a graduate of the Donnelly Housing Projects in Detroit. Fontaine was voted by his peers the run person some(pr enominal) adept wanted to meet in a back alley for a fight. He was also the most accomplished stick man among them. Despite his officer and gentleman status, Fontaines 6 foot 2 inch muscular frame and tattooed biceps gave off a menacing way respected and feared by the other young pilots.The five jets screamed through the gamyish sky, each planes engine creating enormous jet trails flowing behind, until they maneuvered into governance. The planes floated in the air next to each other as if dangling on tractile strings, their high-powered engines, flying in unison, making it appear as if they were non even moving.OK guys, McGrath bellowed, lets head s bug outh over the ocean and thusly take a bearing of 26 degrees, 3 minutes north, and soce 80 degrees, 7 minutes west toward Hen and Chickens Shoals. Although he did not mention it, the days flight path would eventually take them into them into heart of the Devils Triangle.The Devils Triangle, or Bermuda Triangle as it was some e pochs called, was a triangular patch of ocean in the Atlantic stretching from the Florida Keys south towards the Bermuda Islands. As every instill kid effs, the Triangles legend of mystery encompasses numerous claims of disappearing ships and aircraft.None of the men gave any serious thought to the Triangle legend, not many bulk did anymore since the quasi-pulp fiction exposes published in the 1970s tried to spread out pseudo-scientific credence to alleged supernatural happenings in that part of the Atlantic Ocean. However, they all knew about it.Where to skip,? crackled over the airwaves from Ron Fontaines cockpit.Were headed to the old junked freighter for some bombing and strafing practice, responded Lieutenant McGrath.And Ron, verbalise the flight leader, this season wait for my signal before you outset locking in on the laughingstock.Shiiiit, Fontaine screeched into his headset, and the other pilots chuckled at the exchange amidst the two men.Hey Lieutenant, this time c an we go in youngest pilot first,? verbalise Fernandez.What is it with you guys from New Yawk, drawled Nicholson, yall think youre born to tell the rest of us what to do.Hey, tobacco plant boy, I saw a guy like you in one case in the Bronx Zoo, behind bars, Fernandex replied with a laugh.Aw can it, you two, shouted McGrath, and tighten up the formation. Fernandez and Grayson pickax it up back there.Aye, aye sir, came the reply, in unison.The old freighter had been towed to this classified localization principle in 1945, near the wars end, and for 60 years had, along with several other decommissioned vessels, been used to train young hot-shot pilots in the art of air war.All right, in about 60 second well suffice up on the shoals bomb site, Nicholson and Fontaine, break right and take the first pass. Remember, nose guns first, then use one Sidewinder missile each the second time around, McGrath ordered.The silver jets streaked through the cloud-filled blue sky like frizzy knive s slicing through warm biscuits.The two pilots took the lead and banked towards the abandoned and anchored old ship and locked onto the keister with their computerized weapons gui bounce system. With todays technology they could hit a small-scale object from a distance of a mile or more, tho their state side training still required close target approaches. The planes would acquire within 500 yards of the target on the first pass.The tether other pilots kept a distance to watch the show and wait their turn, as determined by their flight leader, Lieutenant McGrath.Nicholson and Fontaine took turns firing their 30 Millimeter, seven barrel nose guns at the old tub, blasting holes in the rusting hull at apace of 3900 rounds a minute, which exploded with a fury of sparks, smoke and flying debris as they roared past elegant work guys, McGrath said. commandant Taylor, my fuel is low, and my instruments are still acting up, maybe we should be heading West crackled across his headphones in response.Come back, McGrath replied. Is that you Fernandez. take leave the bullshit, will ya.Not me, Lieutenant, Fernandez replied, Dont expect me to give you a promotion, he laughed. repel it out, McGrath said, as he scanned the skies around him, are one of you guys having instrument problems?Everyone check in, he commanded.Nicholson here, Im fine Lieutenant.This is Fontaine, Jimmy, no problems with my bird.This is Grayson, sir, it wasnt me.Well who the hell is playing around. McGrath shouted.I cant see any land, sir came the juncture again. This time someone else responded.Boys, this is Taylor, dont worry, we left-hand(a) the atomic number 31 swamp area 30 miles back, and we should be coming up on the Keys shortly,Whos on this frequency, identify yourselves, Lt. McGrath said into his helmet mic.He scanned his instrument radar control board and again looked outside his cockpit canopy but did not see any other planes in the bright, clear, mid-day sky.Without answering McGra th, the unknown chatter continued.Hey Brownie, if we ever date our way back, Im gonna propose to that nurse I met last week at the USO Holiday dance.Yeah, yeah sure, the one whose feet you kept stepping on during the Glen Miller composing?Shiiit, Glenn Miller, what the get laid is that all about, Fontaine said.Hey, one of you guys playing some sort of whoremonger on our boy Jimmy, Fernandez laughed.Yeah, one of those old radio shows, or some shit like that, Fontaine replied.I dont know about you but its freaking me out, said Grayson. Anyway, whoever it is mentioned Lauderdale, so its in all likelihood some old Navy guys out for a joyride. I see those guys come out on Sundays sometimes and fly around in those old radial engine trainers.Yeah, but it aint Sunday, and what they all doin on our radio frequency, drawled Nicholson.All right, all right, forget about it. Its probably just somebody playing around, bellowed McGrath, lets get ready for the second run. one(a) missile this time.Fontaine and Grayson broke away from the formation again and headed toward the target This time they programmed their guidance system to fire one AIM-9 Sidewinder missile each at a distance of a half mile.Within seconds each jet shimmied slightly as their missiles dislodged from under their wings and moved off in an arc of white smoke toward the old half-sunken freighter.The missile warheads were besotted with only small amounts of explosives so that they would create injure but not completely obliterate the boat, leaving it sufficiently intact for further training runs.The two missiles struck, on forward one aft, almost simultaneously, and a pillar of smoke, debris, and sea water rose high into the air.As the mix fell back again, the pilots who were all observing the action noticed small caustic objects off in the distance, beyond the target area, moving slowly toward them.What the fuck is that, sad Fernandez into his mic.Grayson and Fontaine, who had pulled up and over th e target, getting a birds-eye view of the damage they caused, rolled across the sky, unknowingly hurtling their jets directly in the path of the shadowy, abusive objects.Some three miles away, the rest of the squadron watched as Fontaine and Grayson blew past the objects and then banked and ascended up and to the left.As they had flown by, in the seconds they were adjacent to the objects, both pilots had seen something that had startled them.Grayson and Fontaine had peered into the cockpits of a squadron of World War 2 naval fighters, Avengers, each operated by a two or three man crew, a pilot facing forward, sometimes with a co-pilot, and a gunner operating a ball gun enclosure weapon aft.Shiiit, Fontaine yelled into his helmet mic, did you see that Grayson.What the hell are those old warbirds doing way out here, the air museum operates outta Pensacola, Grayson replied. nuthouse if I know, Fontaine said, but they were sure as shittin surprised by us.Damn lucky we didnt clip their wings.Hey skip, Fontaine said, calling out to Lieutenant McGrath, you wont believe whats headed your way.I see em, Fontaine, were gonna give those old buckets some way so we dont blow their tails off with our engines, McGrath replied.The remaining jets luxurious their flight path to avoid the oncoming relics of the past, shooting with Mach speed into the cut down stratosphere.Commander, did you see that?, said one of the warbird pilots.I sure did, Tex, replied Taylor, I dont know what the hell it was but I saw a red, white and blue star on its side so it must be ours.Hell yes, Texs gunner cried, we must be close to the Shoals now. I see the target ship they towed out this way a some weeks ago.I represent that was some experimental jet the Nazis were using, I saw a few be worked on at the base. Just come over from Germany last week for testing, said one of the Avenger pilots.OK, men, settle down Commander Taylor ordered, set a course for the direction of the target vessels and lets get these threadbare birds home.Hey, my instruments are working again, Commander, said one of the pilots.Mine too, vomit, cried another.Looks like well devil it back after all, the Avenger flight leader said, and not a moment too soon with these near empty gas gauges. grip a tight formation as we head in boys. live my lead. Last one on the deck has to kiss Charlie McCarthys bald head.The jet pilots listened, without a word, to the entire conversation going on below them. Fontaine and Grayson had rejoined the root and they were all now headed due East at 400 miles an arcminute at an elevation of 25,000 feet.Finally, Fernandez spoke up.You catch that, Lieutenant.Probably some re-enactors, Lt. McGrath replied, although his voice had lost its usual firm, confident tone.What the hell they doin out here, Jimmy, said Nicholson, dont reserve no sense at all.McGrath had to agree. This area was restricted to Naval air traffic. He thought he better contact the base and let them k now what was going on. line of achievement leader Bravo calling Lauderdale, come in Lauderdale.The air was quiet.Flight leader Bravo calling Lauderdale, come in LauderdaleNothing.Hey Jimmy, Fontaine said, my computer just went down.Hey me too, Nicholson shouted.The five jets flew in tight formation through the clouds as chaos erupted in their cockpits.Flight leader Chuck Taylor calling Lauderdale, come in Lauderdale.This is Lauderdale, where the heck you guys been? came the reply. The Base Commanders been going crazy. They even called the War Department.You guys can tell the patrols to come back, were a little late but were home, replied Commander Taylor.On the stormy evening of December 5, 1945, five TBM Avengers, their heavy radial engines roaring across the Florida sky, approached US Naval Air Station in tight formation. One by one the gleaming blue fighter planes lowered their flaps, cut off their throttles and eased their tired coat frames onto the tarmac. As they rolled off the runway, they passed rows of B-17 bombers, fresh from the battle over Europe, being serviced and refit for duty in the Pacific against the Japanese.Worried ground crews raced in gray jeeps toward each plane, dropping heavy wooden blocks under the wheels, and climb up up on the wings to draw back the heavy canopies to throw in the human cargo.The fourteen crew members scrambled to the airfield grounds and embraced one another, removing their yellow Mae West vests and crush caps, giving thanks that what was lost was once again found.Meanwhile, miles away, five jet fighters crossed the sky into an ethereal graveyard. They hurtled at supersonic speed into an endless vortex of space and time without up or down, without time or space, without any connection to the world they left behind.At NORAD, desperate computer messages flooded the communications room on the qui vive the men and women who worked there of a crisis in the making.An Admiral rushed into the room in time to confront a telecommunications staffer who was the most novel recipient of the tragic news.Sir, the young ensign said to the astonished man, Flight 19 is missing.Get me Rumsfeld, the Admiral replied.Two wars, 6 decades apart. Two tragedies, dance partners in a macabre story with ironic parallels. The past and the future, melded together, and separated, one mystery solved, another one just beginning.