Chasing Death Chapter One: Sitting Duck

Chasing Death: The Alternate Story of Mobius 1
Chapter One: Sitting Duck
Allenfort Airbase,
1405, September 19th, 2004.

Life wasn't a bad sparring partner if you could roll with the punches.  Just about every jab you dodged led to another opportunity that you could either take or try to counter.  In my case, my haymaker was always a bit lackluster, so I took just about everything that came at me with acceptance.  The drive and patience of a CEO being something I never had, I became comfortable with my ability to surf couches and open pre-packaged food wrappers with one hand.  Luckily, that lifestyle had set me up perfectly for this assignment.

"You're a damned fool, Russell Pritchard," my girlfriend told me, packing the last of her clothes in her beat-up economy hatchback just two weeks prior.  I'd have argued back if I had an argument.

War photographer.  Odd title, made me feel like I should have an impressive business card and far more facial hair.  It's a wonder I even got this job.  Beforehand I was doing marketing photos for car companies and architecture firms.  Although, that was only a side gig.  I paid the bills as a paramedic.  I often took my breaks at the Veterans hospital as they had the best coffee and vending machine food, so when a call led me there, I tended to hang out.  I made some friends, became a familiar face.  Eventually I told someone I took photos, which turned into covering their outreach and volunteer events.  Some of the Public Relations folks from the local base caught wind and offered me a contractor job.  The paycheck offered a comma in the figures that I wasn't quite used to.

I took it in a heartbeat.

Disconnected my utilities and paid my landlord for next month's rent.  Told him there wouldn't be anymore payments after that, despite having been contracted for another 4 months per the lease.  "Good luck finding me," I thought, "can't even fix a damn sink much less collect international debts."

The contract was another uppercut I had dodged; rather well, in fact. I dodged about 800 miles from home to the middle of the ocean on a little volcanic island that held a few pilots, a couple hundred airmen, and a dock for the Navy vessels that were constantly around.  From what I'd read this was an oddly shallow portion of the ocean, probably making it good for detecting subs with long range sonar.  Was long range sonar a thing?  Hell, I don't know.

I had a bunk and a pillow.  Luckily, no bunkmate, but there were two other bunks in this room that were occupied by maintenance personnel.  Kids, really.  Between eighteen and twenty.  Although at twenty four, I wasn't far removed from the naivety and tendency to stay up far too late.  They talked openly about booze, women, and taking shits.  Reminded me of the locker rooms of my high school after practices.  They likely lied just as much.

The unoccupied bed held the two bags that I kept my entire life in now.  A duffel with some clothes and a laptop to edit on the fly and email the Colonel I reported to and a camera bag I spent a little too much money on.  It was supposed to be for hardcore mountain climbers, thus had insulation and extra padding.  I realized after a week here at the base that I had little need for such a combat-proof bag.  I lamented at how that extra cash could have easily been a dimebag or a couple of books.

Today would have been unbearable without the strong breeze.  It clipped 90F by noon and didn't promise to let off until the sun was nearly down.  My feet bore the only pair of flip flops I'd seen on the entire island.  Cargo shorts and a button up jean shirt.  I did have to play the part, after all, right?  Wildlife photographers seemed to be in a constant struggle to see who could have the most pockets, and most of the pictures of photographers I'd seen from the Belkan incident in the 90's looked very much the same.  I'd have to get a dusty baseball cap to cover up how green I must have looked otherwise.

Old jets here.  There were some Phantoms and some F-5E's.  I didn't know much about jets, I'd only learned about what was here in casual conversation with the guys turning the wrenches.  I knew from photographing cars that I was far more partial to the Phantoms, however.  The downturn of the rear stabilizers and the sweeping angle of the wing tips made for a visual pleasing plane.  The engines being beside the cockpit rather than underneath gave it a spaceship quality, I thought.  Pictures I'd seen on posters of more modern jets had placed them more underneath, which felt more typical.  A phantom began to taxi out of a hangar.  Missiles populated every bit of space under it's wings.

During my week here, that was the first time I'd seen this.  Most routine flights after repairs were done bare to test out the plane with the least amount of variables involved.  However, this one was armed to the teeth.  The pilot might have even been wearing brass knuckles.  I raised my camera and flipped it to Aperture Priority, turning the settings to f/8 to capture all the details I could and take advantage of the sunlight.  I snapped a few, and looked down at my LCD screen to see how they'd come out.  In the background I noticed more planes, and looked up to find that there were two formations of planes exiting the hangars, every bit as ready for combat as the one I had just captured.

A man with a helmet and two orange sticks came running along, directing the planes.  As he ran past me I turned to ask him what was going on, but was cut short by the whirring of a loud siren.  The one they used to warn for air raids.


|||---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------|||


The droning was loud enough that hearing the orders and cries of those around me became a chore.  The loud report of jet engines offered enough warning to get out of the way, and I ducked away from the runways I was strolling along towards the hangars and flight tower.  I managed to scramble to the base of the tall structure and find a man in body armor and a helmet gripping firmly a pair of binoculars he held to his brow.  I yelled close, which didn't seem to startle him.  I asked what was happening.  He didn't tear away from his watchfulness as he answered.

"Bombers up there, friend." He seemed very calm considering the situation.  "Whole formation of them, with escorts.  Might even be able to see them with your eyes."  He pulled down the binos and pointed.  Through the sparse clouds I could faintly see dots of what I assumed were planes in the distance, I pulled a hand over my eyes to block the sun.  The military official offered the suggestion, "Hey, you're the camera guy.  Don't you got something that can zoom in that bag?"

"Yeah, but not near as well as those."  I took the suggestion anyway, affixing a  400mm lens to my camera, the longest zoom and biggest lens in my bag.  Peering through the viewfinder, it made the dots a tad larger, but would make for a worthless shot.  I used it only to try and count how many incoming planes there would be, but their movements made it difficult to keep track.

"Oh, look, right there.  There are the carrier guys."  The spotter-turned-tour-guide pointed towards my left, and a much closer formation was flying by just over the airfield.  I could faintly make out a formation of Phantoms in blue livery.  There was what looked to be a ribbon on the tailfin.

"Ah, the ribbon insignia.  Those are the Mobius boys alright," I heard adjacent to me.  I pulled my my camera, and was able to get a couple of closer photos.  The detail was sparse, I wondered if I could crop it down to get anything useful.  My lens was meant for long range sports photography, it certainly wouldn't be sufficient for air battles unless they came close enough to the ground that imminent doom became a reality.

The shriek of the afterburners was loud enough for it’s report to reach those of us on the ground.  The formation of four planes hovered over the airbase for just a brief second before careening left on a direct course towards the intruding aircraft.

“Won’t be long now.”  Binoculars still fixed to his head, my apparent sherpa announced that the action would start soon. As if a breeze came to a sudden still, the mood on the base seemed to change instantly with that omen.  Tension gathered; there wasn’t an armhair around that wasn’t raised.  The back of my neck grew uneasy with inklings of primal fear at the events to unfold.  His prophecy was correct, they didn’t keep us waiting.

The enemy fighters must have been coming in hot, a flurry of white trails exploded, twisting and straining to turn and climb.  Maybe six on their side?  In a mid-air joust, the jets all flew what seemed right next to one another, trading sparrows and death.

Two large explosions quickly flashed orange, but then polluted the sky with a thick black magma of smoke that trailed an enemy jet cracked in half all the way to the ground.  The other jet spiraled wildly, seemingly missing a wing.  This, too, must have been an enemy jet, as the four trails that entered the fray from our side almost simultaneously pulled high and flipped their planes.  I could barely see the craft, I was tracking the battle by the bits of cloud, atmosphere and exhaust left in the wake.

The bombers broke free.  A couple were being harassed, but with dogs still protecting the sheep, our fighters couldn’t pester them for too long before having to break contact.  There was a fast whipping sound, like someone had slapped ten or fifteen flyswatters on a table next to you.  I jumped, head shooting to the left.  Dirt was being kicked up at least six feet in a line in front of the hanger adjacent to us.

“Stray burst!  Watch it.  These guys don’t always know where their cannon rounds will end up.  Wait… oh shit.”

Puzzled, I yelled in a panicked question, “Oh shit what?”  I my shoulders instinctively hunkered up in anticipation and fear, it was clear survival mode was kicking in.

Someone else a hundred yards ahead of us yelled it first.  Echoing, the cries of “Incoming!” were on a constant call and repeat.  A hand grabbed my shoulder and turned me towards a makeshift bunker of concrete barriers somewhat near me.  A loud voiced commanded me to go and I did not hesitate.  Damning my shoe choice, I ran, sandals coming unfastened and flying aside as I ran, feet now meeting the hot pavement.  I rolled into the low entrance and into the sudden dark shade of the hasty protection.

The airmen I was with dove in after, without a second to spare.  The world became a tremor that threatened to dislodge the fillings from my teeth, and the groaning pressure wave of death assaulted the ears and balance of anyone in its wake.  He was knocked to the ground, head hitting first.  His helmet saved him from what would have certainly been a self-induced skull fracture from the force of his dive into the bunker.  He’d underestimated how short the entrance was and his head snapped back from catching the top of the doorframe.

I was disoriented, quickly fading was what seemed like a simultaneous migraine and car sickness.  The blast didn’t lodge any shrapnel near us, but the pressure wave had made it’s way through, and my abs and back ached. The universe seemed to pause in an excruciating moment. My vision was black, but started to come to.  First in the center, but my peripherals started creeping back to vision.  Had I been knocked out?  How long was I down?  Then the airman, whose nametag I could now said Gorman, groaned.

“Lay still!” I yelled, mostly coherently.  I knew he may have a broken back, or a head injury.  Movement wasn’t what the doctor ordered for those sorts of things.  “Gorman, just lay still.  I’ll get you some help.  Can you move your feet?”  Lying face down, he raised a leg at the knee, and wiggled his foot.  Good, nothing severed, but that wouldn’t mean there wouldn’t be some serious contusions or a slipped disc.

“Good!  Alright, you’re safe in here, I’ll be back!”  I lied, I didn’t even know if I was safe, much less have the ability to guarantee safety to him.  It just seemed like the thing to say.  Perhaps professional soldiers knew this was a lie.

I shook the thought and crawled outside the makeshift bunker.  Immediately apparent was that it wasn’t just one bomb.  The line of four hangers we were standing less than a football field away from before were modern art sculptures of scaffolding, sheet metal and demolition.  I used a hand to brace myself and regain my bearings.  I looked towards the sky.  The bomber hadn’t made it far after it’s run.  Fresh still was the streaming trail from the harpoon that gutted the beast.  A well placed missile must have skewered it directly above the airbase during it’s bomb run.  The heavy ocean air held the black smog of incineration in the air where the behemoth met it’s demise, and falling slowly still was a chunk of wing with a propeller still churning, circling towards the ocean in it’s death spasms.

From the hangars opposite I could hear the screams.  “He got him!  I saw the One on it’s tail, it was Mobius One!”  Airmen raised triumphant fists in the air and saluted the gods of wind and war.  Still bewildered, I didn’t register that I had captured a photo of this until after I snapped it.  I had just instinctually captured the humanity.  Swiveling, I turned towards the air battle to see who the rest was progressing.  Similarly, carnage hung in the salted air at the north end of the Island, becoming washed away in the currents and clouds.  It seemed a hasty retreat had been made by those who survived.

More heads started to poke out of their hiding places, many with stone resolve.  They’d had prepared themselves for these events since the first day of their training.  I hoped my fear wasn’t apparent.  Even now, in the aftermath of having my bell rung by a few hundred pounds of explosives, I worried about how tough I would seem in front of the men.

We all watched and celebrated as the Mobius Squadron reformed and headed towards home.  They flew low over the island towards our position.  I raised the camera to take a picture.  Hands still shaking, I fingered the switch and turned on my vibration reduction.

They flew triumphantly, seemingly with poise and confidence.  The leader, with the emblazoned number One under the cockpit, in the lead.  Men cheered feverishly as they made their pass.  One mechanic claiming, "I saw him hit five. That's an Ace!"  Men flashed joy amongst the canvas of wreckage, and I captured every frame I could.  The reality that a skyline of cranes and toil that this would fade into was pushed to the back of everyone's mind as the exuberance of still being alive overcame everyone.

Eventually, the blinking red lights of ambulances and firetrucks littered the area.  I flagged one down and pointed towards the concrete bunker.