Many folks back home have always asked me how it was like to pilot the most dangerous Machine man has ever created.
And I always say, it was like trying to curb a god to your will.
A machine where its instinct is to kill.
To destroy.
To dominate.
It wasn't exactly pleasant to have that feeling in your mind most of the time.
.....
But, I feel like.. Telling you the full story would do me some good.
That's what I think, at least.
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??????,??????,???????, August 1969... 0100 Hours
"And you think this will be what the Military needs, Caldwell? Do you realize how much is going to be needed to fund this endeavor?"
In a dimly lit office, under the cover of moonlight seeping through a nearby window, a man dressed in a USAF Dress Uniform stood, his hands grasping a file closed as he looked out beyond. Ground crews had been operating on the Tarmac outside, fussing over a Flatbed trailer—an object, a figure, hidden beneath a white tarp on top of it.
The Flatbed trailer was pulled inside a nearby Hangar, the ground crew quick to guide it inside as the doors shut. The man by the window then turned to the person who occupied the office with him. His eyes looked at Doctor James Caldwell with the fire of judgement clear for him to see.
"Well?"
Caldwell, for his part, remained calm as he sat by the desk. He did not mind getting judged by the Colonel Robert Myers, one of Lockheed's Military Liaisons to the US Department of Defense. He's been through this with the Colonel before, with probing and questioning every single one of his projects being all too familiar to him. It was welcome, however. Caldwell liked the challenge.
"I am well aware of the risks and needs of this project of ours, Colonel."
Leg shifting to rest upon the other, Caldwell placed his hands on top. He looked up at Colonel Myers with that knowing smile of his—the same smile that convinced the Colonel to represent every other project that Caldwell gave him. The Doctor had a way to make the most impossible of endeavors seem possible. And this one was no different.
"And I am more than willing to assure you that this will work. All it needs is a representative, and you're the man for the job."
Myers scoffed at the Doctor's words, throwing the file haphazardly onto his desk. He walked closer to Caldwell, looming over him with a sharp glare. The Colonel remained unconvinced.
"You say that as if this is not the greatest leap in technology since the Germans made the 262."
Rough hands reached out to the armrests of Caldwell's chair. Myers stared him down.
"What you are proposing could mean the total change of warfare itself, Caldwell. And the outcome won't be pretty."
Myers kept his eye leveled with the Doctor's. He stared into his soul like he could very well see past those nonchalant blue eyes, to make Caldwell pause and think.
"Are you willing to pay that price, Doctor Caldwell?"
There was silence for a moment as Caldwell weighed his words. He had managed to make pause—an achievement, to be sure. It was not long, however, before his eyes looked up at Myers with utter surety.
"That's simply just a price one must pay for the sake of dominance, Colonel."
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Quang Nam, South Central Coast, Republic of Vietnam, September 1969... 1500 Hours
The weather was overcast by the South Central Coast, the clouds large and grey while small droplets of rain fell down. The War in Vietnam still raged, and if there were any signs, it would've been obscured by all the bloodshed.
F-4 Phantoms shot through the clouds, screaming as they did, as the bleak grey afternoon kept up above them. There were four of them—it was a patrol going through the South Central Coast.
Ever since the Tet Offensive, there have been more incursions from the North Vietnamese Air Force than ever. With a tactical victory such as that, the North had grown much bolder. It was something that the Top Brass didn't want happening, especially now.
"This is Knight Lead to Knight Squadron. We've got contacts on radar. Moving to intercept. Over."
The callout was clear in its intent as the skies streaked past the Squadron in a blur. Not before long, a loud booming sound echoed through the air. Thunder. They saw a crack of blue streaked a distance away from them. An omen, or just a coincidence? One wouldn't know.
"Wilco, Knight Lead. Following. Over."
The lead Phantom disengaged from its Squadron, contrails chasing the wingtips as it banked to the right. Knight Lead didn't take long to dive into the clouds. And the others were quick to follow as they broke formation, their engines screeching through the clouds.
It was dark as Knight Lead dove through the cloud cover. His hand gripped tight onto Joystick as he kept his Aircraft steady. The jet shook in turbulence before he finally saw the light beyond the darkness. Knight Lead broke through the Heavens, his eyes narrowed. He scanned his radar, scrutinizing the screen. There were four red dots blinking in unison. And two more behind him.
Eyes widened, his arms jerked right against the Joystick in an attempted maneuver.
The Phantom shook a moment as it banked a hard right. Knight Lead barely escaped a storm of bullets as two Mig-21s streaked past him. It was an ambush amid the cover of clouds—a sight to see below, but a harrowing nightmare for those above.
His breath came hard through his respirator mask, his gaze looking upward to where those Migs had gone. Looking around in panic, he could only see clouds up above. In the grey of the skies around him, a shape—shapes more likely—could be made out in the distance. There were more of them, that he was sure of.
He immediately turned to his comms.
"Knight to Squadron! Bogies in the AO! Fishbeds! Over six contacts, possibly more!"
In his panic, he heard the screams of jet engines go past him. Something flew past Knight Lead, leaving behind a blazing trail in its wake. It was as if time slowed down at that moment.
He saw something amongst the black sky—green paint charred black. An F-4 Phantom had fallen from the clouds, like a meteor shot from the stratosphere. Fire licked at its wings and tail as it dove toward the Jungle Canopy way below. A fireball of debris and jet fuel erupted from the Jungle right after it landed.
Knight Lead blinked as he pulled back on the Joystick. He made a climb toward the clouds—the sound of his radio screaming in his ears had turned into nothing but ambience.
"They're everywhere!"
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Bogies on my tail! I can't shake 'em-! AHH-"
"Knight Alpha to Squadron! Where are you guys!? I can't- I can't get these Migs off my tail, they're—AHHH-!"
It was a slaughter. A trap all along. He could only hear it, but in his head, he saw and felt everything. Knight Lead didn’t know how, but they caught them dead to rights. The NVA Migs had snuck past their radar arrays and caught them in the middle of getting out of Cloud Cover. It was a nightmare come to life.
Hands gripped tight, Knight Lead jerked the controls forward, leveling his craft before...
The Phantom dove downward in a Split S, Contrails streaking along the wings as the Jet maneuvered. The F-4 righted itself, and It wasn't long before Knight Lead's sights locked down on a chasing Mig.
"Guns."
A hail of tracers erupted from gun pods underneath the fuselage, a torrent of flames spitting out of the barrel. The Vietnamese Mig didn't have enough time to dodge the incoming storm of lead. It burst into flames, with its wings and body torn to shreds as the Phantom flew by it in a close Dedication Pass—the cockpits of each plane barely four feet apart.
For just a split second, Knight Lead's eyes locked with the Vietnamese Pilot who banged against the glass of his cockpit, trying to escape the flames that were consuming him. The Mig imploded in a rose-like bloom as the F-4 flew past. It was harrowing, especially knowing it could've been him, but he needed not to think about that.
Knight Lead leveled his Phantom with a sigh.
But something struck the wings of his F-4. It was as if Hell itself bursted from the damaged section, with his eyes widening before his Craft shook once more. And after that was fire.
Fire everywhere.
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Airforce Plant 42, Palmdale, California, April 1971... 0800 Hours.
The sun beat down on the Tarmac as a single man sat down on a chair, covered by the roof of the Hangar above him. His boots tapped against the ground by reflex. In his hands was a clipboard, with the contents deliberately obscured.
It was a hot day in California, as per usual. No one else had gone out of the Facility Buildings, in fear of a heat stroke—or maybe because most of the people in this place were techs that spent their entire day in workshops, toiling away at some wacky design or other. Hell, maybe they'd blow up a hangar or two while they're at it.
That's just how it is here in Plant 42's Site 10 Facility, the home of Lockheed Martin's Skunk Works Division—the creators of some of the most downright insane machines the United States had in its arsenal. And the Blackbird was no minor example.
"Lieutenant Smith!"
Someone called out from further within the hangar. The man, annoyed, turned his head to the sound of the voice. His eyes narrowed as he stood up with a slight grunt. The person who called him, an Airman, approached him with a look of urgency. Seems like something went down inside, the man guessed. He sighed, his eyes closing in silent frustration. He's gone through this routine more times than he could count.
He opened his eyes and placed his right hand on his hip, looking at his subordinate with a stern look that screamed, "don't pull any bullshit." His aura grew more authoritative as a result.
"What is it this time, McKenney?"
Airman McKenney saluted as he stood at attention. His eyes were wide and alert. It wasn't farfetched to say that McKenney was afraid of the Lieutenant. It was a fair feeling to make, everyone knew Lieutenant Wesson "Gunner" Smith around the area. One would think they would be afraid of the sergeants, but here on site 10, they feared a mere lieutenant.
"Sir! The Colonel is requesting your presence, Sir!"
A brow quirked. Smith raised his clipboard to his head, using the board to scratch a particular itch. His eyes looked to the side in thought. The Colonel, huh? That's new.
"What could he possibly want?" the Lieutenant questioned, though it wasn't directly at McKenney. But the Airman answered anyway. His saluted hand moved down to scratch the back of his head as he looked down.
"No idea, Lieutenant. But there's talk down the ranks that something special is going on. It might just be that."
The heat outside cooled down as High Noon passed. There were already ground crews coming out to guide out a new test bed. Plant 42 was coming back to high gear as personnel started getting their tasks done outside.
Humming, Wesson thought it out for a bit as he looked outside. It might just be that, indeed. With his clipboard falling aside, the lieutenant turned to the airman with Authority back in his stance.
"Alright then, Airman. Dismissed."
Smith waved McKenney away, who was quick to comply as he left without any further objection.
Foot turning toward the Administrative Office, Lieutenant Smith walked off with a pensive look on his face. In his mind, he felt as though something big was going on. Something that could change the world as he knew it. And he wasn't sure if whether that was a good or bad thing. Knowing the climate of warfare, though... it couldn't have been anything but bad.
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Plant 42, Site 10 Administrative Building.
Smith walked past the crowded corridors of the Administrative Office, with personnel walking toward different rooms in what seemed to be a rush. That, or they were simply wandering around as they passed the time. A nearby officer was shouting at his attendants about some unfinished documents or other, and MPs were guarding the corridors.
Pictures and murals of old planes lined the walls, along with shelves of small models that served as reminders of the achievements made here in Plant 42. There were mannequins that posed as the many proud Test Pilots that served here. Each one was more ostentatious than the last.
The Lieutenant went straight for the Colonel's office further into the Building. He did not care for the decorations. A potential assignment awaited him, and he wasn't one to make it wait.
A secretary worked on her computer, most likely writing out some document or other. Smith made his approach, acknowledging the MP that stood by the door. The Lieutenant stopped right by her desk beside the office door, looking toward her for permission. She glanced at him before nodding. Smith took the affirmation as is and entered the Colonel's domain with a deep breath. He’s gone through this many times before. It isn’t anything different from then.
Hands gripped onto the brass of the knob, Smith opened the door.
The Colonel's office was practically spotless, with not a single object out of place or mess to critique. There were leather couches by the center with a coffee table to match. To the sides were shelves filled with books and files, with trophies and awards alongside the mundanities. At the end of the room was a long oak desk, a myriad of documents stacked atop. A glass of water had been sitting idle on a coaster by the desk's edge in tandem with the documents. Behind that desk was a window viewing the main Tarmac of Plant 42, where a few experimental planes and prototypes sat in the Californian heat. And by that window stood Colonel Robert Myers.
Hands crossed behind his back, Colonel Myers looked outside the window with a strange look on his face. From that look alone, he could assume there was much the Colonel had to ponder. Surprise blossomed into his features. Smith never took the Colonel for a brooding man, with how he had always seen him take action first for all he had known. To him, this was something... out of character.
Realizing his prolonged silence, the Lieutenant cleared his throat to get the Colonel’s attention. It was just barely noticeable, but the way the Colonel’s fingers twitched so erratically caught the Lieutenant's attention. He must've snapped out of something. What was he so deep in thought about?
Colonel Myers turned to Smith with a sharp, piercing look in his eyes, his mouth set in a thin line. There it was. That’s the Colonel Myers that the Lieutenant was used to seeing. He was strangely relieved to see him that way.
“Lieutenant Smith.”
The Colonel finally spoke as he slowly walked away from the window. His hands remained at the small of his back as he approached his table. The Lieutenant stood at attention as he rested his hands by his sides.
“Colonel Myers. You called?”
Smith nodded in acknowledgment, eyes following the Colonel's movement as he sat down. A groan came out of Myers' lips. He was getting old, and was no longer the rough and tough CO that led Plant 42 by a tight rein. The Lieutenant knew, though, that it'd be stupid to think Myers was any less of a leader just because of that.
Settling into his seat, Colonel Myers reached for the glass sitting by his desk. He took a small sip, sighing. Myers looked up at the Lieutenant, a stern and calculating gaze striking him through the temples. "Yes, I did," he said. The Colonel gestured to the seat in front of his desk, his eyes narrowed with that same strange look. Smith didn't know why, but he was damn well sure that something unbelievable was just about to happen.
"Take a seat, Lieutenant. I have an assignment for you."
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Hangar 0.
It was damp, dark as the caverns in the deep mountainside. Machines blinked and emitted a constant beep. Wires lined the floors throughout the concrete ground, their sparks lighting the pitch-black hallway, and pipes growled a deep hum. Alongside the dreary edifice were multiple unfinished works that Skunk Works had left behind. Prototypes, concepts of varying degrees of success, and all in-between. Usually. At this moment, however, there stood only one project. One more magnificent than any the world had seen.
A man entered the hangar through a bulkhead door, a diagnostics tool in hand.
"Core is running smoothly. Stability is at a new 94%.."
He walked further inside the hangar, stepping over the wires as he fiddled with the tool in his hands. Still working on the diagnostics, he pressed a button on a machine he passed by. The machine blinked a deep blue on one of its lights. A whirr resonated throughout the chamber. It was a generator.
When he finished working, the man stopped. He stored the diagnostics tool inside his coat, looking toward the darkness that dominated the desolate part of the Hangar. He breathed in.
"Running optics test."
Something blinked. In the darkness, a small light flickered on. Eventually, two blue triangular lights slowly awoke in the dark. A flash of blue encompassed everything within the hangar as it groaned a deep growl.
The man stared into those eyes for a long while. And he was sure they were staring right back.
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To be continued...