Casey Hunter
project
PHOENIX
By Damien Conn
***
Smashwords Edition
***
Copyright 2011
1
The huge hanger was disguised as a factory in the heart of industrial Munich. Marcus James slid down a rope from the cathedral like ceiling until his combat boots touched the ground. He adjusted his night vision and scanned the floor.
There were ten planes in the wide open space. He couldn’t tell too much about them as they were covered in sheets. Each plane looked to be identical in proportion. They were only small, the size of prop engine stunt planes.
Marcus reached behind his back and pulled a tiny camera off a Velcro patch. He had been in the employ of the CIA for nearly ten years and the toys just kept getting smaller. Silently he cursed as he fumbled to switch on the camera. Three options came up on the menu. NORMAL, THERMAL and NIGHT.
Marcus selected NIGHT from the menu and began snapping pictures of the hanger. He walked on silent feet around the floor taking photographs of anything that appeared interesting. He switched the camera mode to THERMAL and continued to photograph his surroundings.
At the other end of the hanger the sound of a door opening caused him to turn into a statue. His ears strained for more sound and a bead of sweat found its way into his eye. Time passed slowly, a minute seemed like an hour.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
His heart began to beat just a little faster. He had a feeling things might get interesting. Behind him the rope dangled from the ceiling. A dead giveaway.
“Who’s there!” shouted a voice in German.
Marcus risked a move and rolled under one of the planes. Crouched low he drew a silenced Colt OHWS, an experimental pistol firing .45 calibre rounds with a 10 round clip. Only a few of the pistols existed and Marcus had been able to acquire one through his contacts.
Flattening himself to the ground Marcus saw the guard clearly walking around the hanger. A flashlight beam searched the corners. On the side of the pistol Marcus thumbed a small switch and a green laser dot, only visible to night vision, appeared on the guard’s chest.
Marcus held his position and watched the guard walk around. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach when he saw the guard begin to check under the planes and their sheets.
“Damn!” he whispered to himself.
Marcus was under the seventh plane in the line and the Guard was already up to checking the third.
The laser dot from his pistol cut a green beam through the room and hovered on the guard.
Fourth plane.
Marcus wondered how many other guards were in the area.
Fifth plane.
The guard lifted the sheet and scanned the undercarriage thoroughly.
Sixth plane.
Marcus gripped the pistol tightly.
Seventh plane.
He switched off his night vision lest the torch of the guard blind him. His finger put slight pressure on the trigger. The boots of the guard stopped just under the sheet and he began to lean down. Marucs could hear his breathing, smell his cheap aftershave. The beam from the flashlight lit up underneath the plane and Marcus felt his finger squeezing the trigger.
“Albert!”
The guard dropped the sheet and stood up.
“Over here!” said the Guard.
“What are you doing?” came the second voice in German.
“I thought I heard something – just checking the planes.”
“You know we’re not supposed to touch anything. Your wife’s on the phone.”
Albert the guard swore under his breath.
“Alright, I’m coming.”
Marcus switched back to night vision and watched the booted feet of the guard depart the hanger. The sound of a door shutting echoed through the vast empty space and Marcus allowed himself to exhale. "Your lucky night Albert."
That had been a little too close.
He rolled out from under the plane and went back up the rope almost as quickly as he had come down.
Up on the steel roof the lights of Munich sprawled out before him. The stars were out and the breeze was cold. He pulled up his line and tossed it over his shoulder. His last act before he disappeared into the night was to re-connect the pressure sensor roof alarm that he had disabled earlier.
Casey Hunter zipped up his flame patterned flight suit. He’d had it specially made when he had come second in the Air Race Grand Prix in 2009 – the year the series became a huge commercial success worldwide and the second most watched racing sport behind F1. Most of that success had come from countries like South Africa and France permitting races where the planes flew head to head rather than in heats.
The danger factor went up and so did the popularity of the sport.
Like it wasn’t already dangerous enough.
Outside the hanger he could hear the crowd calling his name. He was the most popular racer on the circuit, easily distinguishable with his spiky blonde hair and perfect smile. At only seventeen he was also the youngest.
Casey stood up and took a deep breath. Other teams filled the hanger with their pit crews and mechanical equipment. Each team employed a security detail for their pit and the opponents eyed each other warily as they worked on their shiny stunt planes. Casey’s team wearing his flaming colours pushed his plane out onto hydraulic lift. Along the side of the fuselage in running-writing was the planes name, the Phoenix. The Lycoming engine that powered the plane was rated to 224KW and could send the nimble stunt machine to a top speed of 407km/h.
The lift took the plane up away from the pit area and into a hanger. From there the pit crew pushed the plane towards the entrance.
When the crowd saw the sun shine off the Phoenix they went ballistic.
Casey walked out behind his crew and blinked as the light sparkled in his eyes.
Before him was a makeshift runway that floated on a converted oil tanker. The roar of the crowd filled his ears and his heart began to beat faster.
When his eyes adjusted to the light he took in the majestic New York skyline. On the harbour cruise ships had been turned into makeshift grandstands filled with cheering spectators. Three other tankers were strategically placed around the foreshore and each one supported massive one hundred foot high screens. New Yorkers turned out on every available space lining the route which the planes would take.
The ocean was as smooth as a billiard table and reflected the morning sun. The cameras were on him and he appeared as a giant on the huge screens. Casey Hunter lifted his helmet in the air and flashed a smile. The crowd roared their appreciation and without further delay he clambered up into the cockpit.
His ground crew surrounded the plane conducting final checks. The clear cockpit bubble was lowered. It was specially designed to allow the pilot nearly a full field of vision in order to perform the aerobatics required in the competition. Inside it the world seemed to take on a surreal feel. Casey knew that soon he would cheat death once more and the adrenaline began to flow through his veins.
One of his ground crew tapped the bubble.
“Ten thirty three point four!” the sound came muffled within the cockpit.
Casey nodded. Ten minutes and thirty three point four seconds was the time to beat – set by the competition leader Hans Goebel of Germany.
He gripped the stick in front of him and felt the reassuring responsiveness of the controls. He pushed the red starter button and the engine purred into instant life, the propeller spinning smoothly.
The signaller in front of the plane waved his flags and Casey throttled down.
The Phoenix shot off the mark and in an instant Casey felt the weightlessness as the plane lifted off the runway and flew over the waters of New York Harbour.
In front of him the first set of red gates rose up out of the water, each inflatable tube attached to an anchored buoy they wavered slightly in the wind. Behind the gates was the first landmark obstacle – the Statue of Liberty.
The Phoenix charged towards the gates as straight as an arrow. At the last instant Casey moved the stick and pedals. In a perfect half roll the plane flipped 180 degrees and flew neatly through the middle of the gates. He held the controls as tightly as he could and throttled down hard. The plane started to lose altitude but he kept it steady. The plane continued to fly sideways and out of the top of the cockpit he saw Liberty Island and the colossal statue.
Just as he passed the western side of the island he pulled up on the stick and the plane, still on its side, began a tight turn. The G-Force pushed him into his seat as he curled around the statue. Below him the island was packed with waving spectators.
The Phoenix came out of the turn on the eastern side of the statue and Casey flipped it back level. Straight ahead in the middle of the harbour and right beside the P&O cruise ship the Fair Princess was the first blue gate.
“Pit to Phoenix, good take off!” said Ronny Goldberg, the navigator for Team Hunter in Casey’s earpiece.
“Thanks Ron,” said Casey.
“Roll before next gate,” said Ron.
Casey knew the coarse well but Ron was there to make double sure there were no mistakes. Missing a trick or doing the wrong trick at the required time could lose a tournament.
He moved the stick and rudder controls. The Phoenix spun in a perfect 360 degree roll and levelled out to pass through the blue gate. Inside the cockpit of the Phoenix Casey could see the crowd on board the ship cheering.
The Phoenix blasted past the Fair Princess just thirty meters above the water.
“Take a left,” said Ron.
“Roger that,” said Casey.
Ahead Buildings sprung up out of Manhattan Island which divided New York Harbour into two. To the left was the Hudson River and to the right was the East River.
At the mouth of the Hudson River was a set of three red gates, one after the other and slightly offset. A slalom that required the pilot to turn rapidly from side to side.
“Take the first gate with a left pitch,” advised Ron.
Casey manoeuvred the Phoenix to twist left. He knew timing was everything as he pushed his pedals in practiced sequence.
The plane pitched left, travelled through the first gates on its wing tips, pitched right through the next gate and flipped on to its alternate wing, pitched left again and just passed through the last gate – the propeller missing one of the inflated tubes by inches.
“You shaved the paper off that one,” said Ron.
“Room to spare,” said Casey, the first beads of sweat running down his face.
“Fourteen seconds behind,” said Ron.
“I’ll make it up in the turns,” said Casey.
He knew his plane was slower than the German’s but it was faster to respond, more nimble.
He flew straight down the river keeping to the east bank and only forty meters above sea level.
“Hard right at the CBS Broadcasting Building.”
Casey followed the gentle right hand curve of the Hudson River until he sighted the building. Twitching the nose of the plane he adjusted it to make for the corner. Even from a distance he could see the camera crews on the rooftop waiting for him to pass by.
He left the waters of the Hudson River and skimmed the rooftops of New York. Just before he got to the building he pitched the plane to the right and pulled back on the stick. Compared to the giant structures the plane looked as small as a bird.
The Phoenix began a hard turn until the green of Central Park came into view. The news crews turned frantically to catch the action on film to broadcast it to the giant screens around the city. Kicking the pedals Casey righted the plane.
In the middle of the park was Bethesda Fountain on top of which stood the statue of an Angel with outstretched wings. Water spurted out of the top and the park was quiet except for the occasional chirp of a bird.
That was all about to change.
“Landmark turn Bethesda,” said Ron into the mike.
The Phoenix roared over the park and banked hard at the fountain, blowing the leaves off the treetops and scattering loose sheets of newspaper on the ground. Below a race official in a red and blue shirt who stood amongst the pointing crowd looked up and checked the turn. The official raised a portable radio and spoke into it. A moment later Ron’s voice came into his earpiece.
“Half second penalty, Landmark not cleared,”
“No way!” said Casey.
He was sure he had cleared the landmark. He tried to hold his composure and concentrate on the race.
“I’ll bet its Van Pragg down there!” said Casey.
“Take it easy kid, we’ll worry about it later,” said Ron in a calm voice. “Here come the turns. Queensboro Bridge loop.”
Casey knew that this was where the Phoenix would outshine the other planes. She had been specially set up for loops and tight turns. The Queensboro Bridge loop was where he could make up a full second, maybe more.
The rooftops below the plane turned to the blue rippled waters of the east river and Casey followed its path.
The Queensboro Bridge was built on an island in the middle of the east river and spanned to both banks. As such there were two sides to it. The course required a pilot to travel under the right hand side, perform a loop and travel under the left side before continuing on back down the East River towards the Harbour.
Casey checked his controls. Everything was still smooth.
“Time?”
“Twelve seconds,” said Ron.
Here goes, thought Casey.
He pointed the nose slightly downwards to begin the loop. The water rushed up to meet him.
Reefing hard back up on the stick and with only feet between the water and the propeller the Phoenix flew under the bridge and shot skyward. Casey’s neck strained to look backwards as New York City shrank below him. The Phoenix looped up and around until he was looking through the roof of the bubble at the tiny bridge. Careful adjustment brought the plane around to take on the left hand side of the bridge which was increasing in size rapidly as the Phoenix shot down out of the sky, engine screaming, in a straight dive. Casey pulled back hard on the lever and willed the plane to give a little more. On the dashboard the speed showed 405km/h. The G-Force pushed him backwards into his seat and he felt the skin on his face pull back.
The plane finished the loop at top speed and passed neatly under the left hand side of the bridge.
Casey turned this thoughts to the final leg know as the ‘Bridge Run’. The first bridge in the series was the Williamsburg Bridge. This was the easy part of the run and he flew under the bridge and drifted towards the next two bridges.
The first was the Manhattan Bridge followed by the famous Brooklyn Bridge. He had to fly over the Manhattan Bridge then under the Brooklyn Bridge. Both were close together so it was precision flying with speed and altitude key factors. Last year John Rockerfeller had clipped the second bridge and ended up in the water. Casey tried not to think too hard about John at this point in the race.
He judged his run and made for the low point of the suspension cables on the Manhattan Bridge, easing the throttle ever so slightly.
As the Phoenix began to pass over the bridge he banked slightly to the left and pushed forward on the stick. The roadway of the Brooklyn Bridge loomed ahead and filled his vision. The engine pushed him forward towards it and just when it looked like the plane would smash into the huge steel structure it passed within feet of the roadway.
Shooting out from underneath it into the sunlit waters of New York Harbour Casey Hunter pushed down on the throttle and let out the engine. The Green gates at the finish loomed on the waters and the crowds lining the harbour and on the ships shouted him home.
“Ten seconds,” said Ron.
The finishing gates grew in the distance as the Phoenix closed in.
“Seven,”
“Come on!” shouted Casey.
“Six,”
The engines red lined and smoke began to come from the exhausts leaving a streaking trail behind the plane.
“Four,”
The speedo needle began to wind back and the engine made an unhealthy sputter.
“ONE!” said Ron as the Phoenix crossed the finish line.
Within moments the photo finish was up on the big screens around the harbour. Casey spun his neck around desperate to see.
Ten minutes thirty three flat.
Plus half a second penalty.
He had lost by point one of a second.
Furious he punched the controls.
“Don’t worry about it kiddo, you still got the better time.” said Ron. “We were robbed. I’ll lodge a protest as soon as you land.”
2
The Director of Central Intelligence Dave Chalmers paced his office. He had served in Nam and some people said he had his patience shot off there. It wasn’t too far from the truth.
The door to his office opened and John Wilkins, a chief analyst, and Michael Lee from the Special Activities Division walked in. The two could not have been more different. John Wilkins was small and geeky with too many pens in his front pocket. Michael Lee was a middle aged man who would never find a suit to fit his muscled frame. A scar ran down his left cheek and he had a cold stare.
“Speak to me people,” said The Director. “These Nazi wannabes are up to something and I want to know what it is.”
John Wilkins stepped forward, “They’ve been buying up some pretty weird equipment through their companies. Big computers mostly which isn’t too unusual by itself, except some of the companies have no possible use to them. Six years ago they purchased a series of superconducting magnets through their offshore mining companies. They also bought a number of linear accelerators and they commissioned a series of Cockroft-Walton Generators – big ones. They went to a lot of trouble to try and conceal that particular purchase. Four companies bought the parts and we think they were assembled somewhere in France. They’ve also been hiring and possibly kidnapping physicists. ”
“A Cockcroft what? Are you swearing at me son? Speak English.” said The Director.
John Wilkins pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose, “A CW Generator is basically just a way of increasing voltage. Massively.”
“For powering up what?”
“They use them in X-Ray machines, televisions, bug zappers, photocopiers, atomic weapons manufacture.”
The Director’s ears pricked. “Atomic weapons?”
John Wilkins shrugged, “Maybe.”
The Director paced for a while and rubbed his wrinkled brow.
“What about you Lee?”
“Stunt planes,” said Lee.
“What? Don’t jerk me around Lee.”
“I’m not. My man tells me that initial observations are that the hanger contains stunt planes. We’ve sent our data over to the Analytical Division to await confirmation.”
The Director shook his head. What did a Neo Nazi organisation of business magnates want with stunt planes?
“Alright,” said The Director sitting down, “bring me updates. Leave the planes alone for the moment and concentrate on what they’re doing with those Cockcroft Generators. Their little organisation is becoming worrisome.”
John Wilkins left the room and Michael Lee paused at the door.
“What is it Mick,” said the Director in a tired voice.
Michael Lee was silent.
The Director looked up and leaned back into his chair. It dawned on him, “None of this is news to you is it? Black Ops right?”
Michael Lee shut the door and sat down opposite Dave Chalmers.
“How Black is it?” asked The Director.
“If it’s what I think it is – then you don’t even want to know sir. What Jenkins said gave me a few insights and will probably help quite a bit.”
The Director breathed out. He hated Black Operations but sometimes it was the only way things got done. He trusted Michael Lee and if he said he didn’t want to know then he definitely did want to know. He just needed it fixed.
“Alright Mike, you’re in charge of this one. Don’t mess it up.”
Michael Lee nodded and made for the door.
“One more thing Mike, you need anything, you call and let me know. I don't like Nazis. If you get a chance, plug one for me.”
"Yes sir."
3
The Phoenix circled the carrier and came in for an easy landing on the deck. Underneath the plane the tail hook dropped to the tarmac and caught the arrestor cable running across the deck. The cable went tight and the plane jolted to a halt. The Team Hunter ground crew ran out and started checking the plane. Casey pushed the bubble canopy up and began his climb down the ladder that the ground crew wheeled up.
Ron was there in his overalls that stretched over his ample stomach.
“Come on, let’s get through the media and we’ll talk about the race,”
Casey nodded and took off his sweat soaked helmet and undid the upper half of his flight suit.
“I passed the marker by a mile,” he said.
“Yeah, I saw it,” said Ron as they walked together towards the main hanger on the flight deck.
Another plane, a purple Zivko Edge 540 had been brought up the hydraulic lift from below decks. Beside the aircraft in a purple suit was Joseph Lopez of Columbia. A real lady’s man – or at least he thought. He would have been a better pilot if he concentrated more on his flying. Currently he was coming third. As he saw Casey he saluted. 'Too bad Hunter. You'll get him next race.'
'Good luck Joe,' said Casey dejectedly.
As Casey and Ron entered the hanger they had to walk through the media barrier, known by pilots as ‘The Gauntlet’.
Ron walked in front and tried to absorb as much of the light from the flashes as he could. Head down Casey Hunter walked behind the bigger man. Questions were asked like machine gun fire.
“What happened out there Casey?”
“How does it feel to come so close to winning?”
“Will you be able to win the last two races and take the title?”
“No one’s ever flown a ribbon match before – do you think you’ll beat Hans?”
Trying not to look at the cameras and ignoring the media scrum they finally made it through the gauntlet and to the lifts. The media were prohibited below decks for safety reasons and Casey breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator took him down to the next level on the ship.
Underneath the flight deck it was all business. The huge area was divided into ten bays, one for each team in the series. The flight deck above was supported by steel pillars so the pit area was more or less open air. To get to his bay he had to walk past Team Goebel. He dreaded it.
Hans Goebel was reclining in a chair in front of his jet black McDonnell DouglasF-45 Stunt plane – the only one of its kind.
“No good Casey, no good.” said Hans Goebel in his thick German accent.
Casey kept walking.
“Keep training Casey,” said Hans, “and maybe you win next time.”
“Get a life Hans,” said Ron.
“Are you threatening me fat man?”
“Just ignore him Ron,” said Casey pulling his friend away.
As Casey entered his bay he could still hear Hans chuckling to himself. He hated Hans Goebel. He wore his blonde hair in a comb over reminiscent of Hitler Youth and his black and red suit was practically a tribute to the Gestapo. Rumour had it that he was funded by Germany First, a right wing Neo Nazi political party. His plane was named Master Ace. Some said he had originally named it Master Race but had been told by race officials it wouldn’t be allowed. In almost every event except the Berlin Head to Head the crowds flocked to see him lose.
Unfortunately that was not very often.
Hans was an excellent pilot. Patient, precise and aggressive. He had the best plane in the competition and also held favour with race officials.
Casey slumped into his chair and drank deeply from a water bottle. Ron tinkered with his tool kit. The plane would be a few minutes coming and they needed to look at the engine to see what had gone wrong.
“I beat that bastard today,” said Casey, “but he’ll walk away with the points.”
“Winning’s not always about the points,” said Ron. “He knows you beat him and it hurts. That’s why he’s carrying on like he is now.”
“I wish there were no officials,” said Casey. “Just me and him and a clear sky. Then we’d see who was the best.”
“Next race is Berlin. Head to head.”
“In Germany with German officials,” said Casey.
“Try and think positive,” said Ron. “In the meantime I’ll type up the protest against the decision.”
Casey watched his friend typing away on the small computer amongst the other equipment in their bay. Ron had been there from the beginning. He was the one who had taken him from dusting crops on his parent’s farm to the Red Bull World Series. He had convinced the syndicate of companies that financed the team that he was the racer they wanted. Casey knew he was lucky to have Ron on his team. He was the best navigator and most experienced pilot on any of the teams in the series.
Not many people knew it but he also had four confirmed kills in Vietnam – one short of being an ace. Ron didn’t talk about that.
The flight crew wheeled the Phoenix into the hanger, wisps of smoke still coming from the engine. Ron turned around from the computer and shook his head.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do before Berlin,” he said.
John Wilkins immediately began sifting through the companies that funded the political party Germany First. The extreme right wing group had gone a little quiet lately which meant they were up to something. Indirectly a variety of influential business leaders contributed to the party’s funds.
He tapped some keys and images of those who bankrolled the venture began to come up on his screen until he found who he wanted.
Karl Goebel. A descendant of Prussian Royalty. His ancestors had managed to escape the Nazi purges after WWII. Karl Goebel was lucky to even exist.
“Alright Karl,” said John to his screen, “what have you been up to lately?”
John began to sift through the numerous companies which Goebel controlled. After a while his eyes began to sting from looking at the screen. It took a quick coffee injection and he was back in the game.
Finally he found a lead.
One hundred miles square of vacant woodland in Western Germany. Not a cheap purchase. What piqued John’s interest was that the property was bought by a company that was primarily involved with steel manufacture and had no possible use for that much land.
Could be something, he thought.
John picked up the phone and dialled.
“Hey Jerry, I’ve got a surveillance mission for one of our birds. Authorisation comes from the top – I’ll send you the co-ordinates and the instructions.”
Michael Lee’s black Jeep left a dust trail through the desert. The dying afternoon sun hit the windscreen and it reflected the golden rays. Outside the car the environment was harsh. Mostly small shrubs and cacti. Inside the Jeep it was all comfort. Leather backed seats, air conditioning and a GPS navigator that flashed the current position of Agent Lee.
Sixteen miles to destination said the slightly artificial voice on the GPS.
“Thanks babe,” said Lee.
The Jeep ate up those miles in no time and pulled up to a halt at a chain link fence topped with razor wire. There was a gate with a single United States Air Force Security Force guardsman. The USAFS were an elite group assigned to guard the United States Air Force’s nuclear arsenal. They were also posted as guards to the most Top Secret research installations. They were easy to pick out on an air base with their dark blue berets.
Michael Lee scanned around as he got out of the car. Somewhere in the desert would be a ten man team with rifles trained directly on him. The USAFS soldier walked up to him, MP-5 slung around his neck and silver sunglasses flashing.
“We’ve been expecting you Colonel,” said the Guard. “Go on through and stay to the main road.”
Michael Lee nodded and got back into his Jeep. The CIA had the power to authorise temporary military appointments up to the rank of Major. It was particularly convenient when entering a military base to hold rank to get through administration.
It wasn’t long after he entered the restricted area before the hanger loomed in the distance. The building grew larger and the corrugated metal walls shone in the last rays of the sun. The dirt road gave way to tarmac and Michael Lee drove right into the main hanger. The change from light to dark was dramatic and his eyes took a while to adjust.
Nothing.
No one.
It was like a ghost town, completely deserted. He stepped out of his car and walked around. He felt tiny in the huge vacant space. The wind blew up in dust swirls on the abandoned runway and rusting fuel drums littered the site.
“Hello there,”
Michael Lee spun around and instinctively his hand went to his hip. When he saw who it was he relaxed.
“You must be Dr Strauss.”
“In the flesh,” said the small man looking every inch the scientist with his white coat and unkempt hair. “You’re here about Operation MISTLETOE.”
“Yes,”
“I have to ask,” said Dr Strauss, “how did you people find out about it?”
Michael Lee allowed himself a small smile, “I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t.”
“I suppose there is some comfort in that,” said the Doctor. “But we did try so hard to conceal what we’re doing here. Come right this way.”
Michael Lee followed Dr Strauss to the middle of the hanger.
“Underground?” said Michael Lee.
The Doctor looked slightly disappointed that he had guessed right.
“Be careful where you stand,” he said fumbling with a small button control in his pocket. “A little to the left.”
Michael Lee obliged by stepping carefully to the left on the concrete floor.
“Hold on to your breakfast,” said the Dr and pressed the button.
Michael Lee exhaled in a silent scream as the floor disappeared beneath him.
The SR-71 Blackbird waited on the strip. It was without a doubt the most stunning plane ever pieced together with it’s twin rear engines sporting pointed nose cones, long central section from the tail to the cockpit and the smooth lines of the overall design – not to mention the colour, a deep dark blue, almost black. If it weren’t for the green runway lights the plane would have been lost in the night.
Officially only 32 were ever built before the factory machines required to make them were decommissioned and destroyed. Retired from service in 1998 NASA owned the last two of the thirty two operational Blackbirds.
The SR-71 being fuelled up on the tarmac was Blackbird number 33 . The unofficial Blackbird and the last to be built. Capable of travelling in excess of 2,200 mp/h it was the fastest jet aircraft ever made.
The pilot emerged from a small nearby building wearing an orange high altitude suit designed to allow survival on the edge of space where the SR-71 Blackbird liked to travel.
The lone figure was strapped in to the futuristic looking cockpit and the ground crew scattered.
Moments later the engines began to whine and the twin turbines fired the after burners. The sound was like that of a blowtorch big enough to warm up hell. The twin pointed flames lit up the runway and in an instant the jet shot forward and into the night. The afterburners grew small in an instant and were lost in the stars on the horizon.
The ground crew began dismantling the runway and prepared to move to the next rendezvous. The last SR-71 Blackbird never slept in the same place twice.
At his computer station CIA Analyst John Wilkins sipped a coke and waited. The SR-71 Blackbird would be over the target soon. He slammed down the Coke as the four screens in front of him came to life. The Blackbird had a ceiling of 85,000 feet. From 20,000 feet the equipment on board could make out a licence plate. It was considerably lower tonight and Germany in high definition sprawled out before him. His computer secured an uplink with the SR-71 and he began to control the camera, zooming in quickly until he had his destination.
On the screen the huge amount of vacant land purchased by Brauer Metals Incorporated could be seen in all its detail. There were a few buildings that could have been small factories but little else. Just a massive vacant lot.
“Alright,” said John, “that’s what we can see on top but what about infra red?”
He typed in the commands and the image turned to shades of blue, green, yellow and red. The softer the colour the cooler the object and right in the middle of the vacant lot were two huge spots of red.
“Yes!” said John standing up in his chair. Everyone else had long gone home and the office lights were off. He was allowed a little celebration.
“I think we have our CW Generators,” he said and sat back down.
Excitedly he began to type in the command that switched the sensors of the Blackbird to search for electronic fields. He wanted to know where those Generators were directing their power to. That should bring him one step closer to where the Atomic Bomb was being manufactured. He pressed the last key and sat back.
The results of the scan showed up on the screen.
“What in the Hell,” said John leaning forward, “is that?”
On the screen covering nearly the full 100 miles square parcel was an electromagnetic circle.
John sat back puzzled. There was no structure on the surface to indicate what the huge circle meant. Possibly there were sensors staked into the ground or maybe something underneath it.
One more test would tell. He began to type in the command to switch on the X-Ray sensors when suddenly all three screens flickered.
“Oh come on! What now?”
He quickly tried to finish the command when again the image on the screen twisted and fizzed before going completely black except for the message in the middle
UPLINK LOST
“Man!” said John throwing down his keyboard.
The Brauer Metals Incorporated factory complex consisted of four buildings. Two were huge factories with six cylindrical silos attached to each. There was a guardhouse building at the entrance to the fenced off secure area and a six story glass walled administrative building topped with satellite dishes.
It was completely quiet.
The top lids to the Silos opened like an iris, metal spiralling back to reveal a dark hole. A low noise began to build and the ground started to shake.
The silence of the night was shattered and four German made LFK –NG missiles launched out of the silos. The missiles were designed to track targets with an extremely low infra red signature - they had little trouble locking on to the rear jet flames of the SR-71 Blackbird as it passed overhead.
On board the SR-71 Blackbird warning systems were flashing. Four missiles showed up on the radar and they were closing fast. The on board computer systems identified the missile from their shape and speed. Flying at close to Mach 2 the missiles were like deadly fingers reaching out into the night to close around their prey, seeking the red hot signature of its afterburners. Warning systems on board started to go crazy and all reconnaissance systems were shut down. The pilot banked and saw the tail flames of the missiles turn and follow his path.
They were new generation missiles and they were gaining quickly.
The SR-71 wasn’t as stealth capable as some of the newer aircraft but it could do something modern aircraft couldn’t.
The Pilot tilted the sleek nose of the plane towards earth and pushed the throttle forward.
The twin engines sucked air and breathed fire. The G-Forces pressed the pilot into his seat.
It was going to be close.
The digital speed gauge on the head up display started to flash numbers until they were a blur.
BOOM!
The SR-71 Blackbird hit Mach 3.
One by one the tail flames of the missiles went out like candles in the breeze. They just couldn’t match pace with the fastest jet aircraft ever made.
John Wilkins hung up the phone.
That explained the systems failure.
The Brauer Metals Incorporated factory site had just become even more interesting. Someone really didn’t want anyone else looking in. LFK – NG missiles were not easy to come by. They were breaking edge military hardware and would have easily taken down any plane owned by the United States Air Force except the Blackbird. The fact that a supposed industrial company had possession of them suggested links to the German Government.
“What are they up to?” said John leaning back into his chair.
He picked up a hardcopy image that he had printed off just before the communications link between his computer and the Blackbird had gone down.
It showed that huge circle of electrical activity.
He picked up the phone again and dialled.
“Hi, it’s John Wilkins. I need to speak with Michael Lee immediately.”
He held the photograph in his hands and turned it every which way trying to think what it could be. Maybe when the data was physically downloaded off the SR-71 something else would come to light.
“I’m sorry,” said the female voice on the other end of the line, “Mr Lee can’t be contacted right now. Would you like to leave a message?”
4
Michael Lee fell.
The hatchway above became a small square of light as he dropped into the void. Everything was black but he could sense a floor rushing up to meet him. This was the end.
There was nothing he could do.
An earthshaking noise filled the cavernous black space. A whirring sound on a universal scale vibrated through his very bones and shook his skull.
A wind blast hit Michael Lee’s body like a truck and instantly he felt his fall broken by the wave of air. It took him a while to realise that he was going neither up nor down but hovering.
The sound began to wind down and a set of lights flashed on below him marking out a perfect square.
The bottom of the shaft.
It was then that he noticedDoctor Strauss hover in beside him in a classic skydivers pose. Michael Lee quickly gathered himself and rolled forward in a somersault before opening up with his arms and legs outstretched. The air tugged at his clothes and whipped his hair.
Together they were lowered by the air blast that continued to wind down. Finally they reached the bottom and placed their feet on the ground.
The fans shut down entirely and normalcy returned.
“That’s a very interesting entry,” said Michael Lee composing himself.
“You like it?” said the Doctor smiling. “The General thought it up. Since our funds are off the books it’s a lot easier to invest in high tech security like that. If anyone actually makes it in to the hanger and we don’t like them we shut off the fans.”
“What if they have a low altitude parachute?” asked Michael Lee.
“Then it gets even funnier. We turn the fans back on,”
Michael Lee nodded, “I like it.”
TheDoctor moved to the only doorway at the bottom of the shaft and swiped an identification card over a sensor.
The door slid open.
“After you Mr Lee,”
Michael Lee walked through the door and was closely followed by the Doctor. The door slid shut.
Michael Lee stood with his mouth open.
“Impossible,” he breathed.
Stretched out before Dr Strauss and his guest was an underground facility that disappeared into the distance. A circuit made up of giant clear pipe filled the cavity.
Tiny by comparison was the open workstation where numerous men in white coats tended to computers. Above them the roof was lost in blackness and there was a feeling of an enormous empty space above.
In the middle of the circuit stood the Cockroft-Walton Generators emitting a gentle hum of electricity.
“No, not impossible,” said Dr Strauss. “Just very expensive and very secret. The General only agreed to your meeting because he wants to know just how you found out about this project.”
In truth Michael had heard pieces of information about the project and had carefully put together the puzzle.
“Speaking of the General, here he is now.”
A tall man with grey hair and thin pursed lips walked over to where they stood. He was wearing a suit which surprised Michael.
“Colonel Lee isn’t it?” said the General extending his hand, “Or Agent Lee?”
“Michael Lee CIA, Special Activities Division. And you must be General Martin.”
“You are very well informed for someone from Special Activities. What could our research possibly have to do with your area of expertise? I can assure you it has no possible use in the field of political assassinations.”
Michael Lee smiled at the insult. He knew the General was testing him, waiting for a reaction.
“We haven’t performed a good old fashioned political assassination in years General. Drug dealers are our current sport.”
The General’s thin lips twisted into a smile.
“You haven’t answered my question Mr Lee. What do you want with Operation MISTLETOE?”
“Just curious,” said Michael guardedly.
“Information is a two way street,” said the General. “This is one of the most, if not the most secret operation in the United States. If the president knew what we were doing here he would shut us down and I would be court martialled. So you see Mr Lee, I’m putting a great deal of trust in you. I hope you can return me the same courtesy.”
Michael considered what the General had said. “Alright, I’ll tell you what I can. There’s a German syndicate which may be working on a similar project to yours. We can’t be certain though. When we heard about it I did a bit of research, then I found out about your operation.”
“Can I ask how you found out?”
“No,” said Michael bluntly.
“Very well,” said General Martin, “go on.”
“After I had made some preliminary enquiries I realised how black this operation was. Things like that make me suspicious, especially when a Neo Nazi organisation is working on a similar project – so here I am.”
The General looked at Michael, appraising whether or not he had told the truth.
“I believe you’ve earned your answers Mr Lee, however what we are about to tell you can never be repeated. Other people have come close to discovering this operation and they’ve been retired, permanently - understand?”
Michael nodded.
“What do you know about M-Theory?” asked the General.
Ron walked up the steps to the Aviation Museum of Kentucky at Bluegrass Airport Lexington and through the pillars that made the building look like an ancient Greek temple. Inside was an information desk and main entry. Past that the museum opened up into a huge hanger where World War II planes hung from the ceiling so that the crowds could stare up in awe at the undercarriages or stand head on in the sights of the old fighters. They were like statues of Titans, about to come to life and fly out of the hanger to again do battle in the skies.
Ron walked through the crowds until he found Casey. He was wearing a hat and trying to be inconspicuous.
“You know,” said Ron behind him. “If you didn’t want people to know you’re here you shouldn’t park the Ferrari out the front.”
Casey turned and gave Ron a sheepish grin.
“Hi Ron,” he said.
The two of them stood in front of an exhibit of a German Me-109 that was suspended above them in mid dive. The cockpit was empty and it looked like a ghost plane. The Me-109 was the best German fighter plane of the Second World War. Sleek and silver it looked dangerous, a steel predator.
“Nice looking planes weren’t they,” said Ron.
Casey stood in silence. A tour group moved on and it was only the two of them in the wide open section of the museum.
“Why do you always come here kid?” asked Ron.
“Just to look at the planes I guess,” said Casey.
“Couple of big races coming up,” said Ron.
Casey nodded.
“Head to Head in Berlin. That’s gonna be interesting. It’s a straighter course, doesn’t suit us. We lose that to Goebel and we lose the series.”
“And if we win that there’s still the ribbon race,” said Casey.
Now it was Ron’s turn to be quiet. The ribbon race was a mock dogfight where each plane had a long ribbon attached to their tail. The object was to cut your opponents ribbon with your propeller. This was the first year that they had introduced the Ribbon Race and there was a lot of hype about it.
Ron knew what was coming next.
“So are you going to show me a few things or not?” said Casey.
Ron breathed out. He remembered being strapped in to his McDonnell Douglas F-4 Phantom and waiting on the rain washed runway. By then he’d flown so many missions in that plane he could almost feel the flight crew’s hands as they fuelled up the bird and attached the AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles to the fuselage. Somewhere out in the dark was another bird of prey, with red Chinese Stars on its wings and a pilot with just a silver reflective piece of glass for a face. Only one of them could come back alive. Sometimes he still had the nightmares. It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying – he was afraid that he might become as lifeless as the steel plane, a stone cold killer that only knew joy from hunting human prey. Casey was asking him to relive his time in Vietnam.
“Alright,” said Ron. “I’ll do it.”
Casey clapped his friend on the shoulder, “Thanks Ron, I won’t let you down.”
Michael Lee followed Dr Strauss around the underground facility. The Doctor talked excitedly about his work and Michael Lee tried to keep up.
“M-Theory links all five string theories together. There’s some debate about the title of the theory. Some think ‘M’ stands for ‘Mother of all theories’, others say it stands for ‘Magic”’ or ‘Mystery’. The creator of the theory Edward Witten has hinted at various meanings but it’s generally agreed that ‘M’ stands for ‘Membrane’.”
“Membrane of what?” asked Michael.
“Universes,” said the Doctor turning to face him.
“You’re joking,”
“I can assure you he’s not,” said General Martin.
The three of them stood in front of the control centre of the underground facility. About a dozen scientists ignored them as they went about their business on the numerous computers that faced the huge Walton-Cockroft Generators in the centre of the complex.
“Alright, go on,” said Michael trying to keep an open mind.
“Everything in the Universe is made up of strings,” said Dr Strauss moving amongst the computer terminals, his hands gesturing excitedly as he spoke. “The five string theories tried to explain quantum mechanics and the theory of general relativity but couldn’t. M-theory does.”
“Translation?,” said Michael.
“Sorry,” said the Doctor. “Imagine our universe as a piece of paper moving in the breeze, and that there are other pieces of paper next to it like in a book. The other pieces of paper are moving as well. The pieces of paper never touch and nothing passes between them.”
“If nothing passes between them then how do we know they’re there?”
“Aha,” said the Doctor raising a finger in the air. “What if somehow something could pass between them?”
“Science fiction,” said Michael.
“No,” said General Martin. “Science fact. Doctor if you would.”
The Doctor turned to a computer and began to type in commands. The Walton Cockroft Generator began to power up and they all felt the tingle of electricity in the air.
“What we’re doing is looking at gravitons,” said Dr Strauss. “Gravitons are a type of string, or a type of particle that makes up our universe. What we’re doing is firing protons and anti protons at each other in opposite directions around the circuit you see before you. When they collide we see evidence of gravitons.”
Michael Lee folded his arms.
Dr Strauss pulled a small lever and the scientists about him worked frantically at the command station. There was a huge flash that filled the underground cavity, then another and another. Each flash was followed by a whip like crack and the smell of burning air.
The Generator powered down and the doctor pointed to the computer screen. A straight line appeared in green with two dots moving along it towards each other.
“The proton and the anti proton,” said the Doctor.
The dots collided and appeared to move in opposite directions. The Doctor tapped the keyboard and the sequence replayed. This time he stopped it at the point the two dots met.
“There it is,” whispered the Doctor.
Michael had to lean in closer. On the screen apart from the two dots was a tiny mark. The sequence continued and the mark disappeared.
“And there it goes,” said the Doctor.
“Goes where?” asked Michael.
“Through space and time,”
Michael Lee breathed out in exasperation.
“So this huge complex can’t be used as a weapon?”
The Doctor looked up puzzled, “Well…”
“And all it does is send these gravitons somewhere else?”
“It does a lot more than that,” interrupted the General. “It proves the existence of other universes. It showed us that travel between them was a possibility and it also led the way for our other experiments.”
“Like what?”
“Time travel,” said General Martin. “At first we thought we would find other universes completely different to our own. Instead we found out that these ‘universes’ are actually our past. Those sheets of paper the doctor was talking about are actually moments in time. We’ve developed a way to fire entire objects from our world like a bullet through those sheets and to stop at a specific point. We can also create a tear so that they can come back. The project is in its final stages.”
“Why does the air-force want a time machine?” said Michael.
“The jumps in time do not have to be huge and they also jump space. We can plot anywhere we want in the universe to send an object instantly.”
“Rapid deployment of forces,” said Michael.
The General nodded and smiled, “Since time memorial the tyranny of distance has always been a defeating factor for an army. Logistics are more important than the actual battles that are fought and usually twice as expensive.
“The work we’re doing here solves the problem for good. When the project is complete we will be able to strike anywhere on the globe instantly. Whole armadas of planes will appear suddenly above our enemies to drop their payload and disappear just as quickly as they came. So you can see, Mr Lee that Operation MISTLETOE is the ultimate weapon.”
“I’m guessing that you’re still working out the kinks,”
“We’ve been sending small objects too and from places around the globe in experiments,” said the Doctor. “But it takes an enormous amount of energy – not to mention the cost of approximately two million a shot.”
“Our funding is entirely off the books and we are having difficulty securing the money needed to complete the program,” said the General. “But when it’s needed in the next war the cost will be a lot cheaper than sending an army by conventional means.”
“This thing really works?” said Michael Lee.
“Absolutely,” said the General.
On the surface of the secret facility Michael Lee walked towards his black Jeep. He hopped inside and switched on the ignition. He was quite pleased that the General had agreed to co-operate. It made things so much easier.
He was about to turn on the ignition when his phone beeped.
Two missed calls.
He dialled the number for his message bank and listened.
He dialled another number.
“John, what have you got for me?”
On the other end of the line John Wilkins sounded excited, “They’re up to something pretty weird in Germany. There’s a block of land about a hundred acres square with an electromagnetic field running around its entire length. I was just about to do a subterranean scan when they fired missiles at our bird.”
“Really?” said Michael trying not to sound alarmed.
“I’ve got no idea what it’s for but it’s big.”
“Good work, I’ll be in touch shortly.”
One hundred acres square. That was nearly ten times as big as the facility beneath where he sat. Was it possible that this group, whoever they were, were more advanced in their research than the United States?
“I hope not,” he said to himself.
Now he knew what they were building he needed to know how they intended to use it.
He picked up his phone and dialled Marcus James’ number.
5
Berlin Olympic Stadium was crowded with 100,000 screaming spectators. Two planes stood on the tarmac that ran down the centre of the stadium. Casey’s hunter’s flaming Phoenix and Hans Goebel’s jet black McDonnell DouglasF-45.
Hans strutted around his plane in his black and red suit playing to the crowd. Casey watched on and felt the hostility of the people around him. When his name was called there was a resounding boo.
This was the one race where he was definitely not the crowd favourite.
Hans walked over and extended his hand to Casey.
Casey took Hans' hand and shook it. Hans squeezed hard until Casey thought bones would break but he tried not to show any discomfort.
Hans smiled, “Have a good race Hunter. Be careful, it’s dangerous up there.”
Casey pulled his hand away and returned the smile, “see you in the air ‘master ace’ – or is that ‘master race’?”
Hans laughed and turned his back on Casey. Before he got into his plane he raised his helmet to the sky. The crowd roared their appreciation
Casey pulled his red and yellow helmet down and adjusted the strap. He quickly got into the Phoenix and his flight crew began strapping him in. Ron clambered up the ladder and leaned on the cockpit rim.
“You’ve got no problems flying aggressively,” said Ron, “but you gotta know when to keep your cool. Do that in this race and we’re in with a chance. He’s going to try and force a mistake from you. Don’t let him.”
Casey nodded.
“Alright kid, have a good race,” said Ron and closed the bubble of the small plane. The noise of the crowd was subdued with the cockpit sealed and Casey checked his controls. At each end of the stadium a section had been removed so that the planes could fly through on a circuit of Berlin. This was where the race started and finished. The runway was only short so each plane needed a catapult wire to launch. The first gate was the northern end of the stadium and it was only wide enough for one plane.
Casey looked to his right and saw Hans eyeing him coolly with a confident smile.
“Alright Hans let’s see what you’ve got,” said Casey.
The race official waved a single flag and both pilots started their engines. The noise from the two planes made it impossible to speak in the pit area and the crowd stood to their feet cheering. In three laps of the circuit there would be a winner.
The race official ran from in front of the planes off to one side. Both pilots throttled up their engines as hard as they dared.
The make shift catapults fired in a blast of steam and sling shotted both planes forward. On the left was the Phoenix, first to lift off and on the right was the Master Ace rapidly catching up.
The end of the stadium rushed forward to meet them.
Their wingtips were nearly touching but neither gave way.
Only one would fit through the gap.
Casey could now make out faces in the crowd cheering on either side of the exit.
They were almost past the point of no return.
Turning to his right Casey saw Hans turn his head and smile. Hans looked forward and steadied himself. He turned his head again and noticed that Casey hadn’t taken his eyes off him. He was flying blind.
Five seconds to impact.
A bead of sweat ran down Hans’ forehead and his smile wavered.
Casey, stone-faced, never took his eyes from his opponent.
“Crazy Australian!” shouted Hans and eased back on his throttle.
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