Daniel Wyatt - The Mary Jane Mission

Checklist for loading charge in plane with special breech plug (after all 0-3 tests were complete)

1. Check that green plugs were installed.

2. Remove rear plate.

3. Remove armor plate.

4. Insert breech wrench in breech plug.

5. Unscrew breech plug, place on rubber pad.

6. Insert charge, 4 sections, red ends to breech.

7. Insert breech plug and tighten home.

8. Connect firing line.

9. Install armor plate.

10. Install rear plate.

11. Remove and secure catwalk and tools.

Four Eyes took some tools from the metal box left inside the bay and with the flight engineer as his assistant, went to work on the object. After a few minutes, the engineer stuck a hand through the hatch and held up three fingers for the radio operator to see, who in turn pressed his intercom.

“NUMBER THREE COMPLETE, COMMANDER.”

“ROGER.”

The commander’s thumb went to the PUSH-TO-TALK switch. “HAWKEYE THREE-SIX TO BAKER TWO. NUMBER THREE COMPLETE.”

By the time Four Eyes reached the point of injecting the gunpowder and charge, he wiped his brow and took a deep breath to calm himself.

“Steady, boy,” the flight engineer encouraged him as he handed the perspiring man the proper wrench.

Four Eyes followed step Number Six carefully. Finally, he inserted the gunpowder into the four sections, connected the firing line, and with exactly sixteen turns tightened the breech plate.

The flight engineer stuck a clenched fist through the hatch.

“NUMBER EIGHT DOWN, COMMANDER,” the radio operator said.

“Here we go again,” Les Shilling said to himself. Punching through the F-18’s radio frequencies, he tried to contact the B-29, only 2,000 yards astern to the bomber at two o’clock high.

“ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE TO TWO-NINE-SIX-FIVE-FOUR-SIX. DO YOU READ?”

Les had no choice but to try contacting the B-29 by using its six-digit original factory numbers as seen and documented from the photos. After some minutes, he heard what was probably the bomber trying to make contact on a low-frequency band with another party, which wasn’t answering.

He would wait… and listen in.

Working quickly now, Four Eyes tightened the armor and rear plates.

“THAT’S IT, COMMANDER.”

“HAWKEYE THREE-SIX TO BAKER TWO. FAT BABY WIRED FOR SOUND.”

The flight engineer patted Four Eyes on the back. Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Four Eyes looked relieved the job was over. All that was left — later — was to exchange the green plugs for red ones.

Les had something to go on now. “ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE TO HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. DO YOU READ?”

An answer came quickly. “ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. THIS IS HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. WHO ARE YOU? OVER.”

“I WAS GOING TO ASK YOU THE SAME QUESTION. WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE IN THAT OLD CRATE? OVER.”

The commander glanced across at his pilot. “What’s with this joker? What kind of callsign is Zulu with three numbers?”

“Zulu!” the pilot said.

“Yeah. Doesn’t he know the Able-Baker alphabet?”

“Guess not. How dare he call our airplane a crate.”

“Yeah. Yuh see anything?” the commander asked.

The two pilots strained into the night sky through the Plexiglas to either side.

Nothing.

“COMMANDER TO TAIL GUNNER. DO YOU SEE SOMEONE FOLLOWING US?”

“YES, SIR. THERE’S SOMETHING OUT THERE. A FIGHTER, I THINK. HE’S STAYING BACK AT 2,000 YARDS.”

“NO ID?”

“NO, SIR. TOO FAR AND TOO DARK.”

The commander took a breath and pressed the R/T. “CRATE, HUH? WHAT DO YOU WANT, LITTLE FRIEND? IF YOU ARE A FRIEND.”

“I’VE CAUGHT UP TO YOU. NOW TURN AROUND AND LAND IT.”

The two pilots exchanged bewildered glances.

“Caught up to us? What’s with him?” the commander wanted to know.

The pilot shrugged. “Maybe it means an abort.”

“An abort?”

“We’re out of radio range. Maybe something’s gone wrong. He does sound American.”

“I REPEAT. TURN HER AROUND. IF YOU DON’T I’LL BE FORCED TO TAKE ACTION.”

“ARE YOU AMERICAN?” the commander answered.

“AFFIRMATIVE. WHY?”

“HOW MANY HOME RUNS DID BABE RUTH HIT IN 1927?”

Les couldn’t believe his ears. These guys were really playing the game to the hilt. Little Friend was an American World War Two term for a friendly fighter. Big Friend for a friendly bomber. And asking how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in 1927 meant that these guys were trying to find out if he was an American or not.

Les shrugged. Sure, he’d go along with them. “THE BABE HIT SIXTY THAT YEAR, BIG FRIEND.”

“LET’S HAVE A LOOK AT YUH, LITTLE FRIEND. COME UP ON PORT.”

“LAST TIME WE DID, YOUR TAIL GUNNER TOOK A SHOT AT MY WINGMAN.”

“THAT WAS YOU, WAS IT? COME ON UP. WE WON’T BITE.”

Shilling pushed the throttle forward and eased through the night sky. In seconds, the B-29 grew larger through the canopy. Twenty-five yards off and above the B-29’s long port wing, he throttled back.

Inside the bomber cockpit, the commander and the pilot stared in astonishment at the F-18’s needle nose and twin tails, silvered by the half-moonlight. For a long moment they couldn’t speak.

“IS THIS CLOSE ENOUGH FOR YOU, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX?”

“WHAT THE BLAZES IS THAT?” the navigator yelled over the intercom.

“WHAT YOU GOT THERE, LITTLE FRIEND? WHAT KIND OF MACHINE IS THAT?”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? SHE’S A US NAVY F-18 HORNET.”

“WHERE’D YUH GET IT?”

“WHAT! WHERE YUH BEEN, BIG FRIEND?”

“The Navy must be holding out on us,” the pilot said to the commander, his eyes on the strange fighter off port.

“I SAY AGAIN, TURN BACK, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX,” the fighter pilot’s voice demanded.

“WHAT IF I SAY NO, ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE?”

Les blew up. “DON’T GIVE ME THAT CRAP. GET THIS CRATE DOWN AT THE NEAREST ISLAND OR I’LL BLAST YOU TO KINGDOM COME WITH A HEAT SEEKER.”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOUR ORDERS ARE, LITTLE FRIEND. I’M LOSING PATIENCE WITH YOU. MY ORDERS ARE NO ABORT UNLESS I GET CONFIRMATION. AND YOU BETTER NOT DO ANYTHING WITH YOUR — WHATEVER YOU CALL IT — BECAUSE THERE WON’T BE ANYTHING LEFT OF YOU OR ME, PAL, BELIEVE ME.”

GUAM

Gail got up Saturday morning before the kids and the guests did. She put the coffee on and turned the radio to the local station giving the stateside major league baseball scores. She tied her housecoat a little tighter around her slim waist, then sat at the table to enjoy the quiet of the kitchen. Soon she was joined by Cameron’s wife, Denise, a tall, graceful woman in her mid-sixties.

“The coffee smells good. The men will be sawing logs for a while,” Denise said in her French accent. “I thought they had their fill at the reunion.”

“Apparently not,” Gail replied.

“I’ll take a shower, Gail, if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead.”

While Denise ran the water, the kitchen phone rang. Gail reached for it.

“Mrs. Shilling?”

“Yes.”

“Captain MacDonald calling. Is General Cameron available? I need to speak to him.”

“He’s… still sleeping, I think.”

“Would you wake him, please? It’s important.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

Gail set the receiver on the counter and made her way down the hallway to the guest room. She tapped lightly on the half-opened door that blocked her view of the bed. “General Cameron?” She knocked again. “General Cameron?”

She heard a groan and some bed sheets ruffling in the darkened room. “Yes?”