The Mary Jane Mission

Prologue

If the radiance of a thousand suns

Were to burn at once in the sky,

That would be like the splendor of the Mighty One...

I am become death — the destroyer of the worlds.

the ancient Sanskrit writings of the Mahabharata

* * * *

GUAM — AUGUST 1945

Under the searing heat of the afternoon sun, two armed military policemen lingered by a navy jeep exchanging glances. For the last two hours they had been guarding a spot along a gravel roadway inside the fenced-in compound at Agana Naval Air Base. Flanking both sides of the road stretched solid jungle growth that was nearly as tall as a six-foot man. Jutting through the growth, ninety feet directly behind them, stood a silvery B-29 Superfortress bomber, her tail section dominating the tropical landscape like an old windmill on a deserted prairie farm.

The taller guard broke the silence, leaning the back of his legs against the jeep’s tires, the machine gun resting by his leg. Man, sure the hell is hot today!

The other guard nodded in agreement, looking to the bomber. Still can’t figure it. Why are we guarding that thing, anyway? Who’s going to steal it?

Ah, nobody, of course. The captain told us to not let anyone near it. That’s all.

The shorter guard licked his dry lips. I could sure handle a cold beer right now.

Hell, yeah. You and me both.

Hey, snap up, here comes somebody. The guard groped for his machine gun.

Huh?

Over there.

A jeep raced towards them, kicking up a cloud of dust. Two men inside. The machine skidded to a halt opposite the MP’s, who were now standing at stiff attention. Out hopped an army air force colonel and a navy captain.

There she be, Colonel Cameron. The chubby captain thumbed at the bomber. You wanna take a closer look at her?

The trim, square-jawed colonel stared purposefully at the navy man. You bet I do. Let’s go. Cameron gawked at the two sweaty MPs as he walked past them. He and the captain pushed and tugged through the jungle without uttering a word, only the occasional grunt of exertion. Cameron arrived at the bomber first, just under the giant port wing. He welcomed the shade. He stopped and inspected the B-29. It was from the special bomber group, of which he was the commanding officer. The markings confirmed it — the large R inside the circle on the tail, the painting of a redhead woman in a tight, green, one-piece bathing suit and the name MARY JANE in black block letters below the cockpit port window.

How did it get here, is what I want to know? It’s one of yours, isn’t it?

The colonel was too preoccupied to answer at first. She’s one of mine, all right, he finally answered. He studied the wing for any damage. But as far as how it got here... I don’t have a damn clue.

It’s weird there was no sign of damage to the aircraft, the navy captain observed, frowning. There aren’t even any flattened trees behind her tail. Looks... I guess... like a forced landing. What do you think, colonel?

Hell if I know.

The landing gear is intact. How could it have made a wheels-down landing in this mess of crap and brush. And... where are the crew?

Colonel Cameron didn’t know how to reply. He couldn’t. Nothing made sense. Shaking his head, he climbed through the open nose hatch while the captain waited outside. Cameron found the front cabin deathly hot and stifling. First, he checked the navigator’s station on the port side. No sign of the flight log. Good. He hoped that no one else had found it. He inspected the cockpit next. Hanging down from the fuselage, directly above the port seat, were two clean rags stuffed into two side-by-side bullet holes. The colonel pulled the rags out, examined them, then shoved his fingers through the holes. It seemed to him that the bomber must have been under enemy attack while in flight and that someone must have pushed rags into the bullet holes to keep the cabin pressure intact.

Next, he glanced down at the deck, where he saw dark stains. Blood spots? He squatted lower. Yeah. Blood spots. No mistake. He took a look around. Behind him, leading into the next aft compartment, more stains, only these were long and parallel, as if a person had dragged himself across the deck. The streaks ended abruptly at the opening to the bomb bay hatch, a few feet up from the deck. The colonel slowly opened the circular hatch door. Total darkness inside. He turned to catch the captain pulling himself up through the hole below.

Is that blood? the captain asked, bounding onto the deck.

Yeah. Sure is. You see a flashlight anywhere?

The captain spun around and checked the cockpit. No, sir.

Try the flight engineer’s station... on the right.

Got it. Here you are, colonel.

Thanks. The colonel took the flashlight and flicked it on, and the navy officer peered over his shoulder. Cameron examined the bomb bay from nose to tail. The payload was gone, but more blood stains. "Geez."

Looking aft, Cameron stepped onto the ladder and crawled into the tunnel over the bomb bay. He came out in what once was the gunners’ compartment on earlier B-29s. No guns or sights here on this machine. Only bare metal fuselage. Nothing out of the ordinary. Walking on through the next bulkhead, he saw that the radar room had been left in order. Every piece of equipment in place. He strolled to the tail gun section where he found a box camera on the deck below the gun sight. He picked it up. The body was marked and scratched. The back was open and bent. The film gone. He set the camera down.

Crawling back through the tunnel, he stepped down to the deck and took another intrigued look at the blood streaks. He bent down on one knee and pushed his officer’s cap back on his head. He was feeling the heat, but not as much as the overweight captain, who was sweating heavily.

This is spooky, captain. Really spooky.

The captain tugged at his collar several times as if it were a fan to cool him off. I’ll say. It gives me the willies. Once the sun came up, there she was. You didn’t hear anything?

Not a thing. No crash. No engines. Nothing.

Cameron rose and strode again into the cockpit for one last look at the bloodstains. Maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe the stains started in the bomb bay and ended in the cockpit. Then he dropped to the deck until his knees touched metal. He saw two more rags stuffed into the fuselage, this time on the right side near the intercom jack box. And... he caught sight of another item, a pair of glasses under the starboard seat. Reaching down and picking them up, he noted they were custom-made. Very thick. The metal rims were bent and one of the lenses cracked.

What do you want done with your bomber, colonel? the captain called out from near the nose hatch. We’re waiting on your orders.

Cameron stood. He slowly, casually, slid a hand into his pocket, still holding the glasses with the other hand. I’ll get someone down from North Field to pull it out. We’ll look after it. Then he walked to the front hatch.

By the way, I’ve been wondering about that. What is it?

What?

That. The captain looked down, pointing at a set of long, thick wires connected to a metal box about the size of a small bookshelf.

Cameron pondered that for a while, then turned to the navy officer, and replied as cordially as he could. For your own good, pretend you never saw it.

Got yuh.

Chapter one

GUAM — JULY 1990

Lieutenant Les Shilling opened his locker and appraised his flight equipment. He was going to work. But this was no normal nine-to-five job.

He began his routine by pulling on his G-suit, which he jokingly called his eighteen-hour girdle. He breathed in and zipped up the side. Then he sucked in his belly, held his breath, and bent down in order to zip up the leggings. Next, he threw on his chest harness and strapped the leg restraints on his calves. After that came the survival vest. He checked for his emergency items. Strobe light. Water bottle. Knife. Flare gun. Smoke signal... He placed them all on his body. Somewhere. A pocket here. A pocket there. He reached for his gloves and oxygen mask.

Last but not least, he grabbed his helmet. He was now ready to do battle, if called upon, in the way he was trained. He was an aerial gladiator, in much the same tradition as the coliseum combatants in the days of the old Roman Empire, but now acted out in the technical, computerized times of the late twentieth century.

* * * *

Les turned a sharp left and lined up his F-18 Hornet fighter to the edge of the runway. The stream of white light from his wing sliced the heavy night air. He stopped and ran through the final checks before takeoff. He fidgeted in his seat until he felt as comfortable as any pilot could be in his G-suit, helmet, and oxygen mask. He took one last glance around the cockpit. So tight in such a self-contained space.

His high-tech enclosure — full of screens, digits, and dials — winked codes in bright colors. Greens, yellows, whites. Three large cathode-ray tubes measuring five inches square dominated the cockpit. These were the Digital Display Indicators. DDIs, as they were known in the business. The left and right DDIs exhibited precise three-color information for such items as radar navigation, weapons, sensor data, and system checks. The bottom screen was a Multipurpose Color Display — MPCD — that contained navigational data and a digitally-generated colored moving map. At eye level... the HUD. The Head-Up Display was an electro-optical instrument that superimposed numerical information onto the pilot’s twelve-o’clock field of view. Les’s cockpit was right out of Star Wars.

Finished with the final push-buttoning prior to flight, he readied himself for takeoff, gloved hand on the stick.

A voice crackled on his radio. ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE CLEARED FOR TAKEOFF. MAINTAIN RUNWAY HEADING AND CONTACT DEPARTURE CONTROL ON THREE-THREE-THREE DECIMAL THREE WHEN SAFELY AIRBORNE.

Les answered the tower with a prompt, ROGER BARKSIDE.

Brakes on, he nudged the dual throttles forward to full military power. The roar of the engines, nearly 16,000 pounds of static thrust each, made him tingle, as it always did. He could hear the blast and felt the vibration through the cockpit Plexiglas and his padded helmet. Then he let go of the brakes. With two fingers of his left hand on the throttles, he lit the afterburners. The equivalent of one swift kick in the butt, and he was off and down the runway, gathering speed.

The acceleration was smooth and swift. With the stick in the neutral position and using the nose wheel steering button on the column, Les controlled the takeoff roll. He gently brought the stick back so that the angle of attack read seven degrees nose-up on the HUD. Then... in a blink, he was in the air. Before the far edge of the runway the wheels sucked into the belly with a slight jar. The HUD data changed from gear down to gear up. Over the water now he turned north, leaving Agana Naval Air Station and the tropical island of Guam behind him. He glanced at the HUD. Airspeed — 373 knots. Altitude — 500 feet. It was a half-moon night, no turbulence in the air, the silhouette of clouds ahead. He changed radio frequencies.

BARKSIDE, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE AIRBORNE.

ROGER ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS BARKSIDE. TARGET TO PORT ON HEADING THREE-FIVE-ZERO. ANGELS ONE. SPEED 200 KNOTS. RANGE ONE-THREE-ZERO.

Les came off afterburners, climbed and leveled off. His right hand went for the right DDI. Using the push buttons, he selected the proper functions for the Range While Search — RWS — mode which detected targets out to eighty nautical miles. The DDI glowed brightly with symbols and bits of info. But no target. He tapped the decrease range and azimuth buttons to obtain the required range. In a short time, he saw the lights of Tinian below. His MPCD verified it. He recognized the Manhattan-shaped island on the color display.

Then a target appeared.

The Single Target Track — the STT — mode burned a prompt onto the HUD. A flick of a switch on the stick, he changed the air-to-air mode from RWS to STT. Now he could track a single target with more clarity, as well as be ready for steering commands and shoot prompts for the armed missiles he was carrying on the wing tips and fuselage.

ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. TARGET SHOULD BE DEAD AHEAD. RANGE TEN MILES.

Les hit the radio button. ROGER BARKSIDE. I SEE IT.

ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, GO BUTTON ONE-FOUR LEFT.

ROGER. Les’s gloved hand reached to his up-front control at chest level and changed the radio frequency from the right radio to the left radio. The comm 1 channel display window confirmed the move. He turned the volume up. ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE ON ONE-FOUR LEFT, BARKSIDE.

The Hughes APG-65 digital multi-mode radar burned into the right DDI. Les could see it was a large target. The readouts showed the aircraft to be ahead at a range of seven miles. He peered through the glass and the HUD, into the night, towards the direction of the dark, puffy clouds. No visual. Not yet. Two hundred knots was pretty damn slow. It had to be landing somewhere. Maybe the nearby island of Saipan.

ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, THIS IS BARKSIDE. FIND OUT WHO HE IS AND WHAT HE’S DOING IN OUR AIRSPACE. WE ARE UNABLE TO MAKE RADIO CONTACT. OVER.

ROGER, BARKSIDE. COMING UP ON HIS SIX. CLOSING AT 500 KNOTS.

Then the radar target disappeared off the pilot’s radar. BARKSIDE, THIS IS ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. IT’S GONE. REPEAT, GONE.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN GONE? Long pause. HEY, YOU’RE RIGHT. SCOUT AROUND. FIND OUT WHERE HE WENT.

ROGER, BARKSIDE.

* * * *

After a thorough but unsuccessful search of the area, Les hit the radio transmitter. BARKSIDE, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. NO VISUAL. OVER.

COME ON BACK, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE, the controller sighed. NO JOY TODAY.

ROGER, BARKSIDE. COMING HOME.

Les pulled hard right on the stick and increased the throttles until the speed flashed to 600 knots on the HUD. The G-forces pressed against his body... 3-G... 4-G... This was the second time in a week that a large unidentified target had appeared suddenly on the Agana radar screens, only to vanish without a trace once a navy fighter approached it. Both times, Les was in the cockpit. He wasn’t too concerned about it, though. Often, especially in the last few weeks, Andersen Air Force Base, situated on the north end of Guam, would send up their USAF bomber aircraft and the lines of communication with the navy would get crossed. Right now, that aircraft — whatever the hell it was — was probably about to or had already landed on Saipan.

On the way back, he set up his waypoints and followed them on the overlaid display on the MPCD. The south edge of Tinian flashed by, then the small island of Rota. The waypoint bearing readout showed 184 degrees. Before he reached Guam, he made the selections for the TACAN — the Tactical Air Navigation — a navigational approach aid that gave both distance and bearing to a base.

Coming in downwind at 280 knots, eighty percent RPM, speedbrakes out, flaps in the auto mode, Les had the nose up at nine degrees. He fell easily and controllably out of the sky with a twenty-eight-degree bank turn. He retracted the speedbrakes and leveled out. His airspeed dropped to 240. Two miles out, he selected full gear down and full flaps.

He watched the HUD closely. He lined up the velocity vector symbol on the horizon line. On final approach, he throttled back and lowered the velocity vector three degrees. Now he was coming in at 125 knots, 300 feet above the runway. Les loved landing the Hornet. Simple as pie, he often said. One big computer game. He lined the HUD velocity vector with the edge of the touchdown markers that were painted on the runway and brought the armed monster in for a perfect landing.

* * * *

Lieutenant Les Shilling was a twenty-eight-year-old, fresh out of Fightertown, USA, the famous