Daniel Wyatt - The Mary Jane Mission

“Holy shit! That’s Guam!” Loran shouted. “The eye is over Guam. Hot damn! That looks like the navy base at Agana. Geez, those runways are too small, though. We have to make North Field where the B-29 base is.”

“Too late,” Clayton said, pointing in the direction of the base. “Look, North Field is too close to the storm wall. It’s the navy base, short runways or no short runways.”

“You’re right.”

Clayton banked left and began to descend quickly. “COMMANDER TO RADIO OPERATOR. CAN YOU MAKE RADIO CONTACT?”

“I’M RUNNING THROUGH THE FREQUENCIES NOW, SIR.”

AGANA

Captain MacDonald and a skeleton crew had kept the base open through the first stage of the typhoon, weathering it out in the administration building. Now, in the eye, MacDonald came out for air, standing on the steps of the building, scanning the base. Startled, he heard prop engines overhead and glanced up. What! Who the hell was out in this! At first the sight of a four-engined B-29 circling on final approach — gear down — didn’t register. As it kept banking, it was then that he clearly saw eight letters on the shiny metal surface below the port window.

What the… Crap! It was the Mary Jane .

Aboard the Mary Jane , Clayton aimed the nose for the very edge of the nearest runway so that he would have plenty of room to slow down at the other end. If he could.

“Wing flaps, forty-five degrees.”

Loran’s left hand went for the aisle stand where the switches for the landing sequence were situated. “Wing flaps, forty-five degrees.”

“COMMANDER TO RADIO OPERATOR. RETRACT ANTENNA.”

“ROGER, COMMANDER.”

Clayton nodded. By experience, Loran knew what that nod meant, and his hand went again to the aisle stand, this time for the automatic flight control system. He flicked the switch to OFF.

“COMMANDER TO ENGINEER. MIXTURE?”

“AUTO-RICH.”

“BOOSTER PUMPS?”

“ON.”

“FUEL PRESSURE?”

“SIXTEEN INCHES, COMMANDER.”

Loran moved the supercharger controls to ON and the propeller controls to a cruise speed of 2,000 RPM. At the same time, he carefully watched the speed as the ground and runway raced towards them.

“Speed 130, Ian… 125…”

MacDonald ran into the administration building and burst into his office.

“Tower!” he belted into the telephone receiver. “This is Captain MacDonald.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s the B-29 doing out there?”

“He said it’s an emergency, sir. He said he has to land. He only has ten minutes or less of fuel.”

“What was his callsign?”

“Hawkeye three-six.”

“Oh, no! Stop him!” MacDonald demanded.

“I can’t, sir. It just landed.”

MacDonald slammed the receiver down, then picked it up again and tapped out another number. It rang twice before someone answered.

“Security.”

“This is Captain MacDonald. I want two of your men to meet me in front of the runway side of the administration building in one minute, with a jeep and guns loaded. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Clayton feathered the brakes, pressing harder each time, as the end of the runway loomed closer. Finally, he was forced to press all the way.

“Come on, Mary Jane , stop. STOP!”

MacDonald sprinted down the hall, and by the time he flew out the door the jeep was waiting for him.

“Follow that bomber!” he yelled, out of breath, at the driver.

“Aye, aye, captain.”

At the end of the runway, the tired crew tramped down the nose hatch and walked free of the bomber. They had come to a stop only fifteen feet short of the runway’s edge.

“Where are we, Ian?” Loran asked. “I thought this was Guam.”

“Look over there,” Clayton said, pointing across the runway. “More of those strange fighters with no props.”

Schwartz felt for the film he had removed from the camera. It was still inside his breast pocket. His eyes went to the black skid marks down the runway. “What a ride that was!”

“Hey,” Marshall called out, “here comes a jeep.”

“Man alive, that’s a Superfortress,” the jeep driver commented, as he drove closer.

“Stop right here, now!” MacDonald said.

The driver slammed on the brakes sixty feet short of the bomber. MacDonald jumped out, ten feet from the aircrew and pulled a gun on them. Behind him, the two security men held their guns high while they jumped from the jeep. MacDonald stared at the bomber and saw the letters Mary Jane below the pilot window and the painting of the busty girl in a green bathing suit. This wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t. “Who’s Captain Clayton?” he wanted to know.

“Right here.” Clayton stepped forward. “How’d yuh know my name?”

“Never mind that. I know a lot of things about you.”

“What is this place? I thought we were landing at Agana.”

“Get out of here. Get back in your bomber and GO! Now!”

“Are you kidding?” Clayton shouted back. “Our tanks are nearly bone dry. Where are we supposed to go in this storm? We don’t have enough fuel for a proper takeoff!”

“I don’t care! Get out of here, or we’ll shoot you on the spot.” MacDonald couldn’t think of what to say next. Then… “This is… this is a restricted US Navy area. You have no business being here.”

The guards pointed their guns at Schwartz and Marshall.

Clayton glanced over his shoulder at his crew. “I think they mean it, boys. Let’s go.”

“Why did you let us land in the first place?” Loran asked MacDonald.

GUAM

Les heard the rustle of the palm tree leaves across the street. The wind was coming from the opposite direction and the sky was growing darker by the minute. “We better get back in the house,” he said to his father and Cameron. “The calm is over. Here comes the second blast.”

No sooner had they returned to the house than the typhoon roared through the neighborhood again, only stronger this time. The house shook and banged from the gusting rain-swept winds. For hours the wind gusts didn’t let up. In the evening, the gusts stopped. The wind still howled, but it soon subsided to a strong breeze.

Thirty minutes before nightfall, the Shilling family and Cameron emerged in the drizzling rain to check the damage. Two windows of the house were shattered, the front screen was nowhere to be seen, a backyard palm tree was uprooted and lying against the side of the house, and most of the eaves trough was torn away. They were the lucky ones on the block, though. The street resembled a disaster area. Several houses were demolished. Debris littered the sidewalks and the grass. One car was crushed by the weight of a palm. A few neighbors who had braved the storm were outside in the warm, drizzling rain. Some were crying, most were too shocked to shed tears.

“I hear someone yelling for help! That way!” a neighbor yelled, pointing.

Cameron, Les, and Robert ran three houses down the street. An elderly woman was trapped inside her collapsed living room. It took twenty minutes to remove the wood splinters, but they finally pulled her out, with the help of two other neighbors. Gail ran up with a first-aid kit and two flashlights, handing one to Les, as the woman lay on the grass of her littered property. Darkness had set in now. Several other flashlights were seen up and down the street.

“Les, Captain MacDonald is on the phone,” she said, as she tended to the woman.