Chapter 15:
Baby Come Back
The Blackbird's computer/autopilot had put us through gut wrenching evasive maneuvers in trying to escape the exploding Soviet surface-to-air missile. I blacked-out from high G-forces while the clouds and the Black Sea spun wildly around the outside of the canopy. When I came-to, we were flying straight and level once again, but at a lower altitude - now we had to worry about Soviet aircraft intercepting us. The Interphone crackled and then I heard Wahoo's reassuring drawl: "Shuttin’ down port engine. Frankie, I'm takin' the controls back - we finally outta missile range.” Now I sniffled back tears of relief as he asked, “Frankie, we got any systems left that still work?"
Lieutenant Francona said, "Fire suppression system, fly-by-wire backup circuits and starboard engine hydraulics are green status. Life support is yellow status - the D-5 unit is down to 20 minutes of oxygen.” I happened to be sitting in the D-5, so my erstwhile relief evaporated instantly. "Radio and satellite communications are red status."
"Roger that. Sarge, I think one of yer oxygen tanks got damaged, but when we get under 20,000 feet in a few minutes, you can breath good ol' natural air." The Blackbirds are pressurized, but you can't take chances at extreme altitude - your blood boils instantly if cabin pressure is lost at 90,000 feet and you're not wearing a pressure suit. "And you got a few bottles of 'mergency oxygen back there, just in case."
"Affirmative."
"Hey is yer VHF transmitter still workin' back there?" After flipping some switches, I replied in the negative. "In that case, git on yer fancy phone and tell yer desk-flyin' boss to contact NATO Command at Izmir Air Base to let ‘im know that we're gonna be at the refueling co-ordinates 20 minutes late. At, let’s see - 1330 GMT. We're probably still outta yer communication range, but keep tryin’. Frankie, what’s our position?"
She replied, "Forty-five degrees 27 minutes north latitude, 33 degrees, 33 minutes east longitude. Five minutes to Turkish airspace at this speed.” With only one good engine, our speed was Mach 2, barely enough speed to outrun the fastest Soviet interceptors.
My phone call went through immediately, now that the US Air Force microwave radio relay towers at Izmir Air Base in Turkey had come into range. "Hey, John, now listen closely. We got shot at and hit, and we need in-flight refueling like yesterday. But all our radios are out so you need to contact NATO Command at Izmir Air Base in Turkey. Tell ‘em to rendezvous with us at 1330 GMT at the scheduled co-ordinates. But we might have to bail-out over the Black Sea before we make it there."
Gall said, "Holy fuck. Okay, you'll get your fuel - or get picked up. I'll request a fighter escort too." Then I heard clicking of computer keys while he continued, "Denny, there's a coup being attempted in Moscow right now - tanks in the streets, riots - it's nuts over there. The President just ordered Defcon 3." The Defcon 3 alert was two steps below a full nuclear war condition. "I got NATO Command on the line so see you soon, Denny," he added hopefully.
Did I just start World War Three? All because of a fucking cell phone?
* * *
Wahoo informed us, "We're losin' fuel big time. These crates ah-ways leak at low altitude even when they're not hit with a missile. We got about five minutes."
Francona said, "One minute til we enter Turkish airspace. The computer says at the current rate of loss, we won't make it to the refueling point."
"Roger that. Stand-by to eject - Hey, fuck-a-duck! We got bogies on our port wing! Sarge, you know these hombres? They're ridin’ in U-fuckin’-Ohs! Well, I'll be durned - people's lookin’ out the winduhs! White people!"
"I'll try to communicate with them."
He laughed mirthlessly and said, "Yeah, y’all do that, Sarge! Ya got two minutes. Those boys're crowdin' me."
I closed my eyes and concentrated on the jet engine noise, which sounded like a waterfall. I floated through the fuselage. Brilliant, iridescent colored lights flashed onto the SR-71, and six black diamond-shaped craft were pacing us. I sensed the presence of many minds, and one presence felt familiar to me. Mentally, I projected, "Please back off from our aircraft. Marcus, is that you?"
After a pregnant moment, a disembodied female voice said, "There is no such being by that name present amongst us. We are merely verifying that your craft is still functioning."
"We're about to run out of fuel and have to bail out. Are you guys gonna back off and give us a little room?”
“Yes, we have already done so, and we trust that your superiors appreciate the fact that we disabled the weapons of the hostile aircraft attempting to attack you, 10 of your minutes in the past. Unfortunately we did not arrive in time to disable the missiles launched at your craft."
"We got lucky, I guess - one engine still works. Why did you bother helping us, anyway?"
"To prevent a potentially catastrophic war. Not for your people's benefit but for ours."
"I've read reports that your own people had a nuclear war in Iraq about 4,000 years - Earth years - ago. Is that true?" There was no response, and I got the distinct impression that my question was not well received - as if I had not so subtly called her a hypocrite. That hadn't been my intention - I was just curious. "Well, I gotta get back now. Give my regards to Marcus.” Now the shiny black saucers shimmered for a moment, and then they evaporated like mist.
I opened my eyes and said, "They should be clear of us, Wahoo.”
"Affirmative. Did'ja see a KC-135 tanker out there? We need a few gallons-a gas right now or we gotta bail-out."
"Negative. I guess there’s no free re-fill today, Wahoo.”
"Roger that. We're well within friendly airspace, so stand-by to eject."
Since my air tanks were nearly empty, I disconnected the oxygen/nitrogen hoses from my pressure suit and popped open my helmet's visor so I could breath on my own. Then I retrieved the portable 2-way radio from its stowage compartment and turned it on, setting it to the emergency frequency. A minute later he said, “Leveling-off at 5,000 feet. Stand-by to initiate ejection procedure. Switchin' to auxiliary power...shuttin’ down starboard engine. Frankie, release the camera/film module.”
Frankie responded, “Roger. Camera/film module is released.”
“Ejectin' on my mark, one-minute self-destruct timer is runnin' - mark - “ A moment later, exploding bolts disengaged both cockpit capsules. Small rockets then propelled us above the now burning, disintegrating Blackbird.
Inside the tiny capsule, I ricocheted like a pinball as the parachutes unfurled 10 seconds later. My portable radio came to life then. "Sarge, when yer airbags deploy after ya hit the water, open the hatch pronto and beat it outta there. Frankie, how long til we hit the water?"
"In about 30 seconds - descending at 40 feet per second."
"That last 40 feet'll be the hardest. Yer a real half-astronaut, Sarge. Let's go fishin' someday. Brace yerself."
Francona: "20 seconds...10...”
U.S. fighter jets shrieked overhead as we descended. My escape capsule splashed down very hard - almost nose first - and warm salt water started gushing through the now damaged canopy seal. "Wahoo, water's coming in!" I shouted into the emergency radio.
"Don't panic, son! Remember yer trainin' - Just grab an oxygen bottle and hook it up to yer suit - just like we learned ya. Don't try openin' yer canopy yet...Ah-right, yer flotation bags should've deployed by now - skeedaddle outta there, Sarge."
"Affirmative - they deployed." I frantically yanked on the balky manual canopy release lever. "Hey, the release lever's jammed, and water's almost up to my neck! Who designed this fucker - Edgar Allan Poe?"
"Cut the bullshit, Sarge! The recovery ships a-comin', son."
I shut-up and snapped my visor closed. Since I couldn't open the canopy, I tried to pull it shut as best I could, but water still relentlessly oozed inside as wind driven waves sloshed over it. The sea soon rose above eye level outside my helmet, but at least I could breath. Although agnostic, I seriously prayed that the flotation bags would support the added weight of the water coming in. I shit my pants while helplessly visualizing myself sinking to the bottom, having goofy yet terrorizing thoughts: Entombed in the briny deep, just another skeleton in Davy Jones' Locker. The last thing I heard before the radio shorted-out was Wahoo saying: "Choppers - “
* * *
After Air Force Rescue divers pried me out of the waterlogged capsule and plucked Wahoo and Francona out of the sea, we were taken by helicopter 200 miles south to Izmir Air Base, where we were met by a group of USAF personnel wearing moon suits and carrying Geiger counters. To my pleasant surprise, the radiological team’s radiation detectors picked up only routine background radiation on our bodies.
Then we got on a US State Department business jet for the flight back to Washington, D.C. The American Deputy Ambassador to Turkey accompanied us. Inside the cushy leather interior of the Gulfstream jet, I asked him: "What's up with the Soviet Union, sir?"
"Oh my, it's terrible chaos,” he fretted. “No one really knows who is in charge." The ambassador removed his glasses and patted his forehead with a hanky.
"What about their nuclear weapons?"
"Lord, I don't want to even think about that. God, I need a drink!" His bulky body lurched out of a leather chair.
I got a few hours of fitful sleep on the plane but was awakened by a lavatory door being unlatched and opened. Seconds later, Wahoo got back in his seat across the aisle from me, and Frankie returned to her seat a minute later. Amused, I feigned sleep with a tight smile on my face until dozing-off again.
Just before landing at Andrews AFB in Washington, I called John Gall. He mumbled, "Atlas...Shit, Denny, it's 4am, and I've been up two nights straight. Call me back in a few hours with a full report. We're back down to Defcon 4, thank gawd - Yeltin's faction of the military managed to stop the coup attempt, so the emergency's over - until the next emergency."
"I'll make it quick, then. The Russian's radar tracked my phone signals - that's how we got shot at - it came on by itself somehow. You know, if I'm going to be working for the NSC, I want to know exactly what I'm getting into when I do a job. If I had been fully briefed, maybe then I would've just left the fucking phone at home. Did the operation have anything to do with WMDs in Iraq? Man, you guys used me like toilet paper!"
He groaned in exasperation, "Denny, Denny, we weren't using you, and you were aware of the risk of physical danger, if that's what concerns you. Don't take it personally if we kept you in the dark - it's just the way it had to be. It was either withhold information, or give you a cyanide pill to swallow in case you got captured, like the military crews of SR-71s are prepared to do. Are you willing to commit suicide for Uncle Sam?"
"Nope," I replied honestly albeit sheepishly.
"Well neither am I - that's why I don't ask questions about shit I don't need to know. Do you feel like quitting? The Old Man wouldn't like it but it's really up to you."
"You mean I'm not fired yet?" I replied with a chuckle. "I'm tempted to quit but I won't - unless I'm expected to get shot-at again."
"That shouldn't be a problem for the foreseeable future. The situation in Russia's got to calm down before we try any projects like that again. I'll let you know how my meeting with the Old Man goes this morning - now goodnight!" I felt sympathy for him, now - he was about to get called on the President's carpet to explain the loss of an SR-71 spy plane.
At Andrews AFB, I signed a stack of NTD forms and endured a three-hour debriefing from the CIA, including the usual dire verbal warnings of a long prison sentence and huge fine if I ever revealed anything about the operation to unauthorized persons. Their interrogators didn't ask me if we had been attacked by nuclear weapons over Russia, so I played dumb on that subject, not volunteering information - no sense triggering Thermonuclear Holocaust for no good reason. In any event, Wahoo or Frankie probably told them already during their separate debriefings. When I vociferously complained about how long the debriefing was taking, a chain-smoking CIA interrogator asked me, "Did you see anything strange flying in Russia?"
"Strange? I'm not sure - depends what you're used to seeing, I guess. You mean like the latest Russian MIG fighter or something? No, I sure didn't."
He planted a scuffed leather shoe on a wooden chair and leaned toward me, exhaling a billow of smoke. "Come on, Denny. Did you see any UFOs?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny that - sorry."
"Hey, we're the CIA, you can tell us - I bet my clearance is higher than yours."
"Um, I can't talk about that, either."
"If you're worried that talking about it will adversely affect your job or personal life, I guarantee that nobody outside the agency will ever know."
"Naw, I can't respond to that." Paraphrasing federal law, I added, "Only the President of the United States can authorize the dissemination, to unauthorized persons, of classified information the public dissemination of which would cause grave damage to the National Security of the United States, within the meaning of the National Security Act of 1947, the Espionage Act of 1950 and Title 18 of the U.S. Code, sections - "
He slammed a palm down on the table. "Unauthorized persons! You're kiddin', right? I got to call the damned White House to get permission for you to tell us that you saw aliens?"
"Those are your words. I can't say anything more."
"Okay we'll see about that, hot shot. I'm gonna make a few calls, and not to the friggin' White House."
He left the debriefing room in a huff, leaving me with his younger colleague, who took out a pack of smokes. "Hey you want a cigarette, man?"
"No thanks - I quit taking LSD years ago."
He smirked and put the pack away. "Funny."
"Humor is always good for breaking the tension," I said with a smirk of my own.
"Yeah, right." Our conversation died then, so I shut my eyes to meditate or even take a nap. Then he said, "So, your cell phone was turned on and the Russkies picked up the signals. I'd hate to be in your shoes with your boss - you're in for an ass chewing, huh."
I didn't bother to open my eyes. "Yes, but at least I'm gonna get laid sometime today."
"You hope. You haven't been very cooperative, Sergeant Smith, so this could take a several more hours - you might miss your flight. You may as well report everything you saw. Colonel McCoy and Lieutenant Francona did - they obey regulations, so they're already on their way home."
Then his dyspeptic partner burst open the door, and he looked angry. "Okay, Mister Secret Agent, we're cutting you loose now - I want your ass out of the building in five minutes!"
* * *
Four hours later:
Maintaining security to the bitter end, I hadn't told Angie and Tina that I was on my way home. When I opened the front door of my house, Tina held out her sculpted brown arms and cried, "Well, if it ain't James Bond! What planet were you on this time? Yer-anus? Hoo-ha!" she laughed, her teeth brilliant white.
"Amazon, I don't know where you get these crazy ideas." Then I teased, "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sleep for at least 12 hours - “
"You look so different now, and I think I like it - gimme some sugah." Our mouths met hungrily. "Mmmmm, I want your ugly little dick inside me."
I slapped her ass in reply, then asked, "Where's Angie?"
"She's out boozin' an' doin' coke with Jane and her freaky politician friends - just like she's been doin' ever since you left."
Hours later, at 1:30am, a key scraped at the lock, waking me. Angie and her friends made a shuffling racket as they came in. After pushing Tina's right thigh away from my face, I staggered out of the bedroom. Angie got flustered when she saw me, but she still wrapped a leg around my butt. Her eyes shined and her pupils were dilated. The familiar aroma of Jack Daniels wafted from her mouth. "Oh Den! I'm sorry. If I'd known you were home, I wouldn't have invited my friends in."
"Don't worry about it. Come on in, folks. How ya doin', Steve?" I shook hands with Steve Cromwell.
Angie continued, "Here's Steve's friend Donna." Donna was a gorgeous 20-year old black woman with long shapely legs and an hourglass waist. Viewed from behind, one could easily mistake her for Tina. "This is Senator Dodder's son Deke, and this is Monica." The athletically built, crew-cut Deke had been a college quarterback. Caucasian Monica was a bosomy, smiling brunette. Deke's arms were wrapped around her waist from behind.
I was being more polite than usual, since I wanted to get closer to Senator Dodder, whose political endorsement would give Williamson extra delegates at the convention - if he was even still in the race. I said, "Help yourself to the liquor. I guess I can stay up for a while. Angie, c'mere." We walked into the kitchen. "Is there something bugging you, Shortie? This ain't like you."
"Everything is great, Den! Oh, I love you so much."
"I love you too. You're sure everything is okay?"
"Yeah. Let’s stay in here for a few minutes, Den. I haven't seen you for so long." Now she squatted on her haunches and pulled my cock out from inside my robe.
Seconds later, Steve walked through the swinging doors. "Hey kids - oops!" He said with chagrin. He then did a 180 and fled the scene.
I patted Angie’s head and said, "Save it for later, Ange - heh-heh. We're being rude, y'know.”
In the living room, Steve poured brandy into snifters. Having recovered from the trauma of seeing Angie blowing me in the kitchen, Steve told me, "Angie said that Williamson is ready to declare for president."
"Pretty soon, but you never heard that from us, okay? When he does, I'm changing the name of the committee to Nevadans For Williamson in '92. We got thousands of fliers ready to mail-out to potential contributors, and nice signs for committee headquarters and wherever else we can plaster them. I tried to set-up a billboard deal, but the owner of Vegas' only billboard company is right-wing Republican so when I mentioned campaigning for Democrats, he wouldn't sell us space - except at a rip-off price. We do have bumper stickers, at least."
Steve laughed heartily. "It's tough for Democrats in this city. And most of the local radio and TV stations are owned by Republican supporters."
"We'll buy advertising out-of-state too, whatever it takes to help Cliff. Hey, does the senator have any favorite PACs we could give money to? We'd be glad to help."
"Sure, call the office tomorrow and we'll discuss it. The senator will be very thankful."
Then Donna walked slowly and beautifully to me. "I finally get to meet you! Steve says you guys are really moving up in the world. I just love Cliff Williamson - so good-looking and smart."
"Similar to you, my dear," I said. Then, I sensed that Tina was getting out of bed.
"You devil," Donna purred.
"You sound like a Lady of the South."
"Yep - I'm from Georgia - Geo-juh, that ee-is."
"Really! No wonder you support the congressman. You moved to Vegas to be a showgirl, I take it."
"No, silly. I'm just a lounge singer - "
Steve interrupted us: "Donna, need a lift? I told the wife I'd be back by two, so, I should leave now, or she’ll brain me."
Donna replied, “Oh, that’s okay, Steve.” Then she asked Deke: “Can I catch a ride with you and Monica?"
Deke: "No sweat. Sorry about the late visit, Denny. Should we leave?"
Angie: "Not at all. We'll be up for a til at least two o'clock, I'm sure - “
Tina barged into the living room. She glared at Donna, who was leaning on me. Then she got right on Angie's case: "Rent a room on the Strip if ya wanna do this shit!” She clapped her hands once and announced to Angie's friends: “Hey people, the party's over. Sorry I'm being so bitchy about it, but." Donna stepped away from me as Tina's flashing eyes shot to hers.
As the door closed behind them Angie angrily asked Tina, "Do I talk to your friends that way? Not that you have any."
"Hey, if I was stuck with fuckin’ friends like those, I wouldn't want any friends. I just can't stand that Deke dude. He ain't nothin' but a crackhead and his daddy's pimp! All them politicians' kids are wack as shit."
I said, "Both of you ought to just clam-up! I've flown like a million miles in the past two days, so I'm in no mood for this. Do I have to check-in at a motel? Let's get some sleep." I staggered to bed, believing that their tempers would quickly cool, and that one or both of them would slip into my bedroom. But instead I fell asleep to the sounds of their loud argument in the living room.
"Loser!" ..."Crackhead!" ... "You think yer so fucking all-that!" ..."Stank-ho! ... "Slut!" ... "Hercules fucked the shit out of me while you were gone - HA! He don't need you!" ... "Fuck you, big-shot movie queen!" ... "No - fuck you, you jealous hanger-on leech!"... I drifted-off happily in the knowledge that life was getting back to normal again.
* * *
Two days after my return from Russia, I called the fertility clinic to make an appointment for a sperm donation. The doctor said, "We've been trying to contact someone at your house all day, Mr Smith. We have some good news for you for a change - a lab technician found several frozen embryos of yours that were miss-filed. Sorry about that."
"That's okay - I wasn't exactly looking forward to going back down there again.” I yelled across the room to Tina and Angie: “Hey, harem girls, Doctor Hadrian’s on the phone. He said you’re gonna be pregnant again!"
Later that day, they went back to the clinic to get re-implanted. When they returned much too quickly, I asked, "Uh-oh, what went wrong this time?"
"Nothin'. They didn't even have to do the procedure - “
Angie completed Tina’s sentence with: "Because Doctor Hadrian did another ultrasound and said we already have two-month old fetuses!“
"Weird," was all I could say.
Tina said, "You got that far away look in your eyes, Herc. What're you dreamin' about?"
"I'm just a little freaked-out by the idea that I'm actually gonna be a father." But that was just a cover for my real thoughts: Did the damned BLOBs have anything to do with it? They believe they can do whatever the fuck they want to people? Arrogant fuckers. The image of Marcus' smugly smiling face came to mind, and suddenly I wanted to punch out a few of his perfect teeth - if what I was thinking was true.
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