Disaster Among the Heavens by Don E Peavy Sr (macos ebook reader .TXT) 📖

. . .

Chapter 9

John Theodore Baronford, a stringer for UPI, guided his Cessna 210F named Icarus over the vast mountain range towards the Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado as the recently released “Cherry, Cherry” cascaded from the radio rather than the usual air traffic chatter.
It was dawn though the sun had not yet entered the morning sky. He was well aware of the terrain over which he must travel and knew that there would be no eyes in this sparsely populated land to betray his quick entry and exit. Like any good first string reporter, he had done his research and knew that Colorado was the eighth largest state in terms of land mass but fell to number twenty eight when population was added to the mix and most of those people lived in and around the major cities.
“Groovy! Hit me again,” he said to Mark Anthony Periguni who sat in the back seat with his girlfriend, a brunette named Laura Browning. Mark rolled another joint and handed it to Melanie Danceford, the blonde who sat next to John.
Melanie took the cigarette, lit it, took a long drag, then handed it to John as she said, “Dahlin', this is crazy. Can’t you think of something better to do than trying to get a story in these God-forsaken mountains?”
John looked at her bulging breasts. He licked his lips as he received the aromatic cigarette. “Nope. This is one of those things which come once in a lifetime if at all. Someday I will be the head of UPI and I want the young people that I send into harm’s way to know that I have been there before them.”
He sucked on the reefer as if it were oxygen he needed for resuscitation then passed it back to Melanie as he slowly blew the smoke straight ahead. It bounced off the window and spread throughout the small plane. Everyone sniffed the air in an attempt to cleanse the air by defiling their lungs. Meanwhile, Mark rolled a fat one, lit it and handed it to Laura who sucked on it and said to Mark, “Ready for a shotgun?”
“Yea,” replied Mark enthusiastically. “Shoot me!”
Laura took a long, long, deep throated draw of the torch and then blew the mountainous smoke directly into the nostrils of Mark who sucked it deep within his lungs, brain and every other cavity. He gave a loud yell as his head felt like a balloon floating in the air.
“Hit me too!” shouted Melanie. She handed the smaller, near roach to John. Laura then shot her as she had Mark. She turned to Mark, handing the bulky smoke to him; and, he in turn shot Laura.
“Mark, get the camera ready. We’ll be there in a few moments,” commanded John.
“Aye, aye, Captain,” joked Mark. He accepted another shot from Laura before beginning the task of assembling his camera.
“Icarus, this is NORAD, you are approaching restricted airspace. Please turn around immediately!” boomed the radio. The incoming message started out as a faint whisper then increased in volume until it displaced the song.
“Shit!” exclaimed John. He wrestled with the controls.
“Aren’t you going to answer them?” Melanie asked.
“Naw, they’re just blowing smoke. We’ll be in and out before they can even wake up a pilot, much less get him in the air.”
Melanie heard the quiver in John’s voice more than the words he spoke and this heightened her tension. She reached into the back seat, snatched the shotgun from Laura, and sucked on it as if she hoped the smoke would infuse her with comfort and courage.
“Icarus, this is NORAD, you are approaching restricted airspace. You are ordered to turn around. This is not a drill,” repeated the radio.
“You better answer it, John,” pleaded Mark. “I don’t want no trouble.”
“C’mon guys, relax,” said John in an attempt to ebb the mounting tension. “We have a job to do and we’re going to do it. All we have to do is get a few shots of those open silos and then get the hell out of here. I tell you, this is Pulitzer Prize material!”
“I have but one question,” responded Mark as he completed getting the camera ready which he pointed at John and snapped his picture. “Is it safe?”
“Who the hell are you, Dr. Strangelove?” John asked in a nervous tone of voice. “Of course it’s safe. This ain’t no outbreak of military insanity. This is the U. S. of A. The military won’t fire on civilian aircraft, especially when the pilot has my last name. Jesus, just relax.”
John believed the words he spoke. They made perfect sense in his logical mind. Unfortunately, John knew the craft of reporting better than he knew history. He did not know of the BZ Ladder, Mai Lai, Area 51, the Tuskegee experiment, and Wounded Knee.
This young wide-eyed idealist believed in boundaries and limits – there was a limit to how far the military was willing to go. There was a line drawn in the sand of morality which our government would never trespass beyond. In John’s defence, it was four years before Kent State, five years before the publication of the Pentagon Papers, and six years before Watergate – the trifecta of events which would drive an irreparable crevice between government and the people – a gap which would be filled with cynicism and bridged by mistrust. Thus, the idealism which pushed him forward can be understood and forgiven.
Nevertheless, he was within minutes of having his idealism shattered. John would soon discover that he was not in any restricted airspace – he was in a Black Hole of government conspiracy where logic and morality do not apply. Light and reason enter this black mass but they never escape. There is nothing too inhumane, too insidious for our government to do when it seeks to keep the American people in the dark about a matter. John and his crew would learn this lesson sooner than they wanted.
“Hello Icarus, this is The General of the United States Air Force. John, is that you?”
“Why hello, General,” John said into the mike, dispensing with the formalities of radio transmissions. He was set at ease by the voice of someone he recognized as a friend of his father. “What the hell are you doing out here?”
“See, I told you we’d be okay. The General knows my dad,” said John to his crew. A sigh of relief was expressed by all.
“Son, listen to me – you are in restricted airspace. A Phantom F-4 is already approaching your position. It has orders to fire on you. Please son, this is no drill. I beg you to turn your aircraft around.” The General’s voice was cold, calculating as if he were a machine and not a friend of John’s father. He spoke tender words but the mundane, monotonous tone with which he spoke them gave the words sharp edges.
“John, dahlin’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’’', I’m gettin' a funny feelin',” pleaded Melanie. “It makes no sense to risk our lives. Let’s go. We can try again later,” Laura repeated her words. Mark aped them as well.
“Be cool folks. They’re bluffing. You know who my father is. No way in hell they’ll fire on me. Relax, I tell you. We are going to get those pictures and get the hell out of here.”
. . .
The General saw disaster lurking before him. He ran his hand through his crew cut salt and pepper hair. He tried one other desperate move. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number to the Command Centre.
“Your nickel. Spit it out.” The General recognized the voice of Hammer Head.
“This is The General of the Air Force. I have been authorized by The President to negotiate a settlement. What is it you want?” The General tried to sound firm but not desperate.
“Negotiator? We don’t need no damn negotiator!”
“Don’t give me that. Everybody wants something,” pleaded the General. “You haven’t gone through all this trouble for nothing. Listen to me, we can work things out. Tell me what it is you want.”
“I want you to die, dog breath!”
The General held the receiver away from his ear. He was getting desperate. Caught between his duty to his President and his love for his friend’s son, he struggled to find a reasonable solution. Time was running out. Each minute moved him closer to disaster. There was no way he could allow John to invade the airspace over NORAD and see the open silos. Equally perplexing, he could not give an order that would kill the only son of his best friend.
He tried again, “Look, everyone wants something. I can negotiate on behalf of the American people. I am The Negotiator. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to die, dog breath!”
The General was getting nowhere. Time was wasting away. Time was the one thing he did not have. “Look, send me a hostage and we can negotiate a settlement to this thing.”
“Okay. One’s coming.”
The General perked up. His lips turned into a sly grin. He saw the door to the Command Centre open up and a female, about twenty-two years of age with long blond hair which lifted off her shoulder in the morning air, walked out and headed towards the building where he was, which the General exited to receive the young woman who had begun to run.
“Jesus no!” shouted the General as he saw the six-feet four, two-hundred and fifty pounds Hammer Head exit the Command Centre. Hammer sported a large Afro and an equally unkempt large beard with side burns and moustache and wore an Army camouflage outfit. The General watched him level his M16 at the woman and let go a burst of fire power that threw the woman into the air. She fell to the ground dead. Blood gushed from the many bullet wounds to her once lovely body.
The General reached for his weapon. In his excitement he had left the building without one. Hammer Head looked at the General and let out a loud, boisterous laugh then ran into the Command Centre and closed the door. Defeated yet again, the General knew that his last resort was to contact The President.
. . .
The President eased his way out of bed, put on his blue silk robe, then made his way to the Chief of Staff’s office to accept the telephone call. Not wanting to wake his wife as she would have to get up early to make her flight, he walked quietly to the Chief of Staff’s office because he was dressed in