The Four Corners Hole – Women’s World (I) (1587 hits)
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Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-10-15 17:50:21 EDT
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Women's World (1)
Over the New Mexico Desert, Monday, June 5th 1944
The B-17 was flying heavy under a near-full moon. The massive four engine plane had only half the usual number of crewmen aboard, but the cargo they were carrying weighed over thirty thousand pounds and was the best-kept secret in the country.
Lieutenant Lloyd Covington watched the pilot. Covington was co-pilot on this mission, his presence hush-hush as well. He had only been 'over here' for a few months now and he still could not get his mind around the vastness of America. The plains that went on forever, the monstrous Rocky Mountains, and the silent beauty of the desert, teeming with hidden life. Although he missed the green of England, a green like nothing else in the world, he was excited by America and was honored beyond words when he heard that Churchill had personally approved his selection for this mission. He hoped to live in America some day, and realized he was more than willing to die for these newfound allies and friends.
Covington envied the ease with which the commander handled this American-made behemoth of a machine. The plane banked and gained altitude as it crested a high ridge of rock.
John Berger had never coveted the rank of captain the way some of his fellow airmen had. He was the commander of this mission because he was the best pilot in the covert Zebra Squadron. Berger loved to fly. He was thirty-five years old, and even though most of the guys in his unit called him the old man he didn't care. He had passed up promotions to stay in the cockpit. He had pissed off superior officers who felt they needed his strategy more than his sharp eyes and quick reflexes. He simply loved to fly. He'd been flying since he was fifteen, when he first took the throttle from his dad, who had made a living as a barnstormer, traveling the midway circuit as a stunt flyer after the Great War. Berger had taken part in everything from test flights on experimental aircraft to bombing runs over Germany. He and Pack and Grossmann had been called back home from England six months ago just to train for this flight.
Berger gave his head a shake, hating the way his earphones made his ears itch, and keyed his throat microphone to check in on one of his closest friends.
"Hey Pack, how's tricks back there, buddy?"
In the modified cargo compartment, Pelham Packard took his eyes off the steel framework in front of him and glanced out one of the windows.
"I know the moon is bright but to my eyes it's as black as a coal-miner's asshole out there, Cap. I hope you're keeping your eyes on the road."
Covington keyed in, amused. "I suspect Captain Berger could fly this bloody beast blind-folded, but I assure you Sergeant I'll be sure to keep him from nodding off."
Another voice joined the com system. "Hey Covey, say 'Broadway' for me," Edmund Grossmann said with a chuckle. Grossman had grown up back east on the family farm in upstate New York. He found an accent from the Deep South odd enough, but he got a real charge out of hearing Covington speak. He couldn't get enough of 'broadWAY' and 'blindFOLDed.'
"Ease up on the Redcoat, kid," Packard said, then to the Captain he replied, "We're four-square back here, Cap. This Cookie is as cool as a cucumber, and so is the cargo. All the little lights that are supposed to be lit are lit, and if the ones that aren't supposed to be lit start lighting up I'll give you a holler."
"You do that," Berger said, signing off with a laugh.
Packard had been building machines every since he could remember. He had been taking them apart to peek at their insides since before he could remember, according to his parents. He was set to take over the family machine shop in Los Angeles, where they custom manufactured everything from ball-bearings to engine blocks at request and at a price, when the Japs had blown Pearl Harbor to hell and back and Pete felt he had no choice but to enlist.
Within weeks of completing basic training his knack for fixing machines landed him a sweetheart gig, taking charge of a motor pool of over a hundred Army brass vehicles and reaping the benefits from the gratitude of the top dogs.
He began tinkering with plane engines on the side, and when the Air Force got wind of his speed and instinctive know-how they snapped him up, and it was then that he met the pilot everyone jawed about and struck up a solid friendship.
Since then he had tagged along on most of Berger's assignments. Berger had a lot of pull, and wasn't afraid to fly anything anywhere, but Johnny wouldn't even take a United flight in coach complete with cute stews and drinks up the ying-yang in a safe-as-houses DC-10, unless Pack gave him a thumbs-up on the craft's airworthy status.
This assignment definitely took the cake, though.
Pack was flight engineer on this run. There was no navigator, no radio operator, no bombardier, no gunners. He and Berger and the Limey and the kid had already made two dozen test runs over the same ground. He knew they were going to set down soon and let the gear-heads on this super-secret project take over, but he'd never pulled a duty where the worst-case scenario would involve a fireball that could consume anything it touched. If the rumors were to be believed.
The framework he was babysitting had a complex cooling system of copper pipes. The pipes were protected by the steel frame. The pipes encircled the interior casing. Levers and valves projected out in every direction. Pack's job was to keep the damn thing cold.
The word was this was one of many ultra-secret projects the War Department was working on, something that could kick the nips in the ass and make them call off their nutso 'fight to the last man' plans. Word was there was fear that this particular version of weapon X was unstable, and had to be moved to Utah for proper disposal, however that would be managed.
Packard gave young Grossmann a pat on the back. He could see that the kid was worried.
Edmund had been repairing farm machinery when he was in the Boy Scouts, and had enlisted in the hopes of joining the Army Corps of Engineers or becoming a Seabee. One of the greatest days of his life came when he had been working with Packard for over a year and the Sarge had casually said, "Kid, if I ever lose you it'll be like losing one of my hands."
This job was damn strange, though. A short hop overland, transporting 'it' with just a skeleton crew aboard a Flying Fortress, all the guns and armor stripped out and the bomb bay refitted with a special hydraulic lift, just him and the Sarge, the Captain and Covey, and that odd bird in the back of the plane.
"That fella gives me the heebie-jeebies," Grossmann whispered.
"Ditto, kid," Packard replied. "But keep it under your hat. He's here at the request of the President, and that is one SOB I don't want to piss off."
Jereboah Long was buckled into his seat near the tail of the plane, arms folded, hands tucked out of sight. He didn't want these grease-monkeys to see his white knuckles, or the blood smearing his palms as his fingernails dug into his flesh.
He wasn't afraid of the cargo. Going out in a burst of glorious white light, an all-powerful cleansing that was clear proof God was on the Allies side, would be painless, instantaneous, a blessing. No, he was simply afraid of flying.
And the moon. He hated moonlight. It made him think of his mother and father. Rutting and blood. The screams of the unclean.
FDR wanted him here to keep an eye on the crew. And so he was here. If Roosevelt wanted him to pilot a suicide flight into Hitler's lair or strangle someone with his bare hands he would do it without hesitation.
Long wasn't a spy, as so many thought.
He was a killer. A man who snipped off loose ends. When needed, he was just the man to leave thing clean and neat.
No one on board knew exactly what was in the complex metal frame within a frame protecting a steel case, not the Americans, not one of the many Englishmen who had recently arrived at Los Alamos, not even Long.
Long's orders were simple. Protect the case. Maintain the secret. And should the plane touch down for any reason before reaching Utah, stop anyone from discovering what is in the case. And if necessary, destroy the plane and contents, living and inert.
The plane had been rigged. Every engine held a small seed of destruction. In one pocket, Long carried a tiny transmitter. He would use it if he had to.
Long watched the crew. He knew most of them were well-trained military men, but he found their discipline lacking. Indeed, the entire Air Force seemed to have a dangerously happy-go-lucky attitude, best indicated by their penchant for painting scantily-clad young women on the outside of every bomber and giving the planes' feminine names.
Although he had given the Captain a brief smile on boarding, Long had been both appalled and repulsed to learn that this grandiose engine of death had been named 'Tough Cookie.' The painting of a young harlot in skimpy underthings didn't help improve his opinion.
The crew knew little of their mission. Berger, Covington, Packard and Grossmann had taken off from Roswell Army Air Field and flown northwest to the brand new high-security base at Los Alamos. They had gotten off the plane and broken out Zippos and Lucky Strikes, watching as a very heavy metal framework had been loaded onto the Cookie. Long had come aboard at Los Alamos, and then they were in the air again.
Berger's orders were simple. Move the top secret cargo bfrom Point A to Point B. Keep the plane low and head northwest again, to Dugway Proving Ground up in Utah.
His CO had passed the cryptic warning about a fuck-up leading to a fireball that could incinerate everything. Berger hadn't pressed for details when told to "move along and stay mum."
The commander knew what orders to follow and which ones he could bend. He had told Packard of his concerns. If there was some kind of newfangled bomb on board, he wanted the best engineer he knew keeping an eye on the thing.
Berger had found Long to be remote, a bit of a strange egg, but he had to take the man along. Besides, he had other things on his mind. This routine flight was now anything but routine, and he wanted to stay sharp.
Pack had been more emphatic in his opinion of Long, hating the man on sight and calling him a "long drink of water that should have been poured down the fucking sink." Packard was miffed that a civilian was coming along for the flight instead of military intelligence. Not to mention the fact that the kook was wearing a parka over his gray suit. A parka in the desert! Sure the nights got cool, but holy Hannah, that was overkill.
When introduced to Convington, Long's remoteness was matched by the Englishman's exaggerated British cool. The Lieutenant acknowledged Long with as little interest as possible.
Grossmann got the willies from Long. The guy was too thin, too pale, too quiet, and what the hell kind of outfit was he working for? Grossman had heard the commander talking to the Sarge saying Long was with 'the Compound,' some sort of hush-hush scientific liaison between the OSS and the FBI and the Joint Chiefs and the President. The guy was a spook-o-la, and a creepy one at that.
Berger keyed his mic again, this time for the benefit of Covington and Grossmann.
"Heads up, boys. You're about to spend a moment in four States at one time as we pass over the—"
Berger pulled back on the yoke even as he stomach floated and his seat dropped out from under his ass. The plane was dropping and he was fighting to keep it level.
Covington took at quick look at the instruments. Whatever was happening to the plane did not seem to be a problem with the plane, and that made no sense. Airspeed, flaps, everything was textbook, but they were being pulled down and...
An eye-watering screeling filled his headphones, and Covington pointed straight ahead.
"Oh my God."
Berger had been looking down at the yoke and wondering it the metal strut was screwy, which would mean all of the instruments were out of whack since they were reading fine, when Covey shouted and he looked up.
"Holy Mary, Mother of Christ."
Touching his throat mic Berger yelled, "Hang tight, boys!"
The commander pulled back on the yoke as hard as he could and raked the throttle control full forward. He needed every damned one of the twelve hundred horses the four engines could put out.
The engines began to whine and the aircraft started to shake.
"Come on baby," Berger said, willing himself to ignore the cylinder-head temperature gauges as he pushed the engines to their limit. "I don't often ask you to put out, but I'm asking now."
Pack and Grossmann were knocked out of their seats. Packard could hear liquids sloshing around in the copper pipes around the device they were babysitting, and on the panel attached to the frame one red light appeared among all the green ones. The indicator needles on a pair of gauges indicating temperature and pressure twitched.
Long had cinched his safety harness tight the moment he sat down. Now he safely looked out a small window and saw the horizon tip over while one hand snaked into the pocket of his bulky parka.
"Johnny," Packard yelled into his throat mic, "What the hell is going on up there?"
The men in the forward fuselage felt their center of gravity shifting. The plane had been climbing fast, but now it was turning nose down into what could only be a dive.
Covington spoke up. "Hold fast, gentlemen! Either something has hold of this aircraft or we are seeing the greatest mechanical malfunction in the history of aviation. We're going ass over tit and... we are heading for a bloody great hole in the ground!"
Berger watched the instrument panel and the horizon in disbelief, his eyes flicking up and down as he desperately struggled to keep the Cookie level. His headphones were screaming at him with a constant wail that reminded him of the bursts of noise that sometimes came when flying through flak. He could hear the bomber's aluminum struts creaking over the roar of the engines and he knew that Pack had to be shitting himself. If he got them out of this in one piece he was going to get an earful from his engineer.
The rate-of-climb and flight indicators were confirming his fear that something had control of the plane. They had gone from a balls-out climb to a full-on dive, and even though his flaps seemed to be working and the engines were throttling down his airspeed was actually increasing.
They weren't falling. They were being pulled.
By that... whatever it was, below them.
A hole had opened in the ground below them.
The hole had opened so suddenly that it had created a massive vacuum. Trees and scrub brush were being yanked out by the roots and pulled into the hole. A twister of loose dirt and stone rose up and dropped out of sight as the land around the hole was scoured clean.
Covington let out a mad laugh when he saw a pair of owls rush by the wide windshield, their wings flapping helplessly as they were sucked into the hole.
Then it was their turn, as the Tough Cookie dropped nose-first into darkness.
Berger couldn't see a damn thing, so he switched on the landing lights.
Long saw the blue-black of night turn to utter dark, and then realized he was seeing rough rock walls passing by the plane, illuminated by exterior lights. He took the transmitter out of his pocket and removed the heavy plastic protective cover.
The Tough Cookie was flying straight down, the too-close-for-comfort sides of the hole visible as far as the lights could reach, creating the illusion that they were cruising along an endless cylindrical tunnel.
Grossmann was huddled beside his seat. He had taken one look out the window and that was it.
"We gonna die, Sarge?"
Packard was thinking how good a shot of bourbon would be right about now.
"Don't give up on the commander yet, kid. He's gotten out of tight spots before."
Pack glanced toward the tail of the bomber and saw Long holding up some kind of doodad with a row of buttons along the top, his pale thumb coming down one of the black nubs.
Berger was on the verge of loosing his cool when there was a shift in... everything.
The most of the instruments on the panel in front of Berger froze, including the clock.
Covington mumbled something about wishing he had followed his father into the insurance business.
Stomachs turned. Heads grew light and asses turned to lead. Grossman puked volumes and Long let out a cry of surprise. Packard rolled and dinged his head against the metal framework, noticing with alarm that the gauges on the device they were carrying were redlining. He reached out to adjust a value when a tremendous jolt knocked him sideways.
Covington shouted, "Commander, look!"
Berger saw it, spared half a second to think it was impossible, and then pushed the throttles to the max, acting on instinct.
They had turned around. Somehow the moon and the edges of the massive hole they were in were now above them, and Berger wasn't wasting any time getting them to the surface.
The pilots felt a jolt and the Cookie shuddered.
Berger looked outside and saw that the port outboard engine had exploded, the wreckage hidden by a plume of thick smoke.
"We just lost engine one," Berger said.
"Got it," Covington said. The engine fire extinguisher controls were in front of him, and he reached for them when there was another jolt.
"Jesus Christ," Berger said, "We just lost number two. It blew all to hell as I was looking at it!"
Berger set sight on the moon. The way the yoke was shivering in his hands it felt as if the Cookie was coming to pieces.
"Come on toots. Just a little more time on the dance floor then you can rest up."
Packard pulled off his headphones and started to crawl. He had experienced the loss of an engine before, the horribly familiar jolt, the shifts in the aircraft's altitude as the pilot compensated, the change in tone from the other engines as they picked up the slack.
He had seen Long thumbing that little black box in one hand and had felt two engines blow as if the bomber had received direct hits from an anti-aircraft battery, but no one was shooting at them in this damned hole.
There was only one other answer. Long was triggering explosives. It was insane, but it was the only thing that made sense under the circumstances.
He had to get that box away from Long. And maybe open a hatch and throw the ugly fuck out. Let him walk home.
Long saw the Sergeant coming for him and had to admit the glorified mechanic had drive to keep on course with the aircraft bucking and shaking the way it was. He released his safety harness and stood up, his free hand drawing an automatic pistol.
"Stop now or I shoot," Long said, taking a step.
He should have looked down. He stepped in a rivulet of Grossman's vomit and slipped.
Packard jumped onto him as Long went down, slamming the hand holding the black box against the floor and knocking it out of the man's grip, but not before Long pressed two more buttons.
The chin turret forward and below the cockpit blew apart, the plane bucking against the blast. The ball turret in the belly of the plane exploded. Shrapnel tore through the compartment like razor blades, puncturing the skin of the plane. A piece of metal sheared away a two-inch wide strip of Long's scalp. The blood running down his pale face looked like cherry syrup. Packard heard Grossman shout out and turned his head just a moment.
Long pointed the pistol at Packard. "You are discharged, Sergeant." He pulled the trigger as the plane shifted under him and blew a hole in the mechanic's right shoulder.
Berger felt like he was going crazy. The plane was being blown apart, but no one was firing on them. Just as the Cookie cleared the edge of the hole and roared up into the night, he thought he heard a gunshot.
The commander had enough trouble handling the plane to start worrying about what the hell was going on outside. All he knew was that the area around this hole had been scrubbed bare by the same force that had sucked them down into the darkness, he'd seen that with his own eyes, and now as Tough Cookie shot up and out of the hole he glimpsed rows of fencing, buildings and observation towers and lots of vehicles.
And a storm had passed over. Minutes ago the sky had been reasonably clear. Now the sky was hazy and the bare desert earth around that damned hole looked as if a heavy downpour had drenched it. Raindrops pattered against the windshield. The moon looked the same, but everything else was out of whack.
"Bugger me," Covington said, sounding remarkably calm. He was looking at a light on the instrument panel. "Whatever that last blast was, it may have damaged our landing gear."
Berger keyed his throat mic as he leveled out the plane. He didn't notice Covington looking out and down, the Englishman's mouth hanging open. He was having trouble keeping the plane on course. Whatever had taken out engine one and two had screwed-up the hydraulics big-time, and he was fighting to keep the plane level.
"Pack, Grossmann, I need to know what shape our landing gear is in and I need to now right now!"
Grossmann responded a moment later. "Lots of smoke back here Captain, but I can tell you the landing gear is shot. Hydraulics, electric, that explosion took it all out. It even turned the gears to hash, so we can't use the cranks and lower the gear by hand."
"Acknowledged," Berger said. They were going to have to bail out and ditch the Cookie.
He reached out and rang the bailout bell three times, a heads up to the crew. When he rang it again, one long ring, it would be time to go.
Berger glanced at Covington who was still staring in disbelief, and then drew the yoke back. If they were going to bail, they needed to climb, and fast. The icing on the cake was now that they had cleared the hole, someone on the ground was shooting at them. Small arms only, but the Cookie was awfully damned low.
Covington had gotten a better look at what was happening on the ground than the commander had, and if he had been fifteen years old he would have been delighted.
The plane had leveled out very low to the ground, bucking as the captain fought for altitude. Floodlights on high towers had come on, illuminating a tight compound built around a gaping chasm in the earth. Jeeps that were smaller, faster, and flashier than anything Covey knew had already been racing along the bomber's projected course, and he had seen no men at all.
It was a world of women down there.
Well-trained and quick to respond women in white uniforms and helmets. An entire regiment of females. And from the bangs and clatters the co-pilot heard outside the plane, he could tell they were shooting at the aluminum skin of the bomber.
Long was about to shoot the sergeant again when the floor under him tilted and he grabbed at the back of his seat to stay on his feet. He was searching the floor for the transmitter when the youngest crewman limped out of the smoke filling the plane and swung a wrench at his head.
"Chew on this, you shitbag!"
Grossmann felt the wrench rap against the creepo's skull and grinned when the guy dropped like a sack of spuds.
He helped Packard to his feet and headed back toward the front of the compartment.
"Let's get suited up, Sarge. We gotta jump. The Cookie's going down."
Berger brought the plane up, up, fighting for every goddamned foot of altitude.
There was a lull as engines three and four simply died, and then the dead weight of the plane began to fall back to earth.
Berger gave the bailout bell a final long ring, and then pulled on the straps of his parachute while Covington checked the status of the emergency exit behind and below them and gave Berger a thumb's up.
On the ground, a young woman watched the plane fall out of the moonlit sky. All around her security details were rushing after the strange aircraft in armed cruisers, some of them shooting at this sudden intruder. She saw puffs of white in the wake of the plane and ran to her own truck, her eyes wide with wonder.
User Reviews
Submitted by haikumikoo (user info) at 2008-05-01 16:19:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: -1
Submitted by haikumikoo (user info) at 2008-05-01 13:19:21 PDT (#)
Ranking: -1
Stop linking to yourself all the time, Jesus.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-04-28 03:33:08 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm not a researcher either. Fuck it.
Submitted by ThineJericho (user info) at 2005-10-29 22:21:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Argh, I'm impatient for the next.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-10-18 19:55:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
go crazy with the Cheez Whiz!
Submitted by nrduncan (user info) at 2005-10-18 13:59:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2005-10-17 12:31:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 22:11:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
And jd finds another fuckup, driving Jack to another JD for comfort...
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-10-16 21:45:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i didn't notice it before, but the port-side inboard #2 engine is in a world of hurt.
engine #3 or 4 is found, in perfect working order, in the hole by someone?
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 21:15:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-16 18:15:48 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 12:45:49 (#)
Ranking: 0
The point of the 4CH is that NOTHING in it makes sense. Physics are wonky there.
***********************
I figured as much. But I thought one of the pilots would kind of mentally comment on that. They should be feeling lots of different pulls on their bodies, and seasoned airmen would expect it...so for it to not happen, contrary to what their eyes tell them, would be really unsettling. Or so I imagine.
--
Part of my problem is that I crank these fuckers out fast, and sometimes details get lost.
I don't know if it's ADD or an overactive imagination, but every day I've got another 10 story ideas and if I don't write 'em down they go out the window.
Sometimes I long for a good case of writer's block.
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-16 18:15:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 12:45:49 (#)
Ranking: 0
The point of the 4CH is that NOTHING in it makes sense. Physics are wonky there.
***********************
I figured as much. But I thought one of the pilots would kind of mentally comment on that. They should be feeling lots of different pulls on their bodies, and seasoned airmen would expect it...so for it to not happen, contrary to what their eyes tell them, would be really unsettling. Or so I imagine.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 17:27:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-10-16 17:18:53 (#)
Ranking: 2
Why did you bump this off?.....it was good!
--
I know. I fucked up.
That happens a lot with me.
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-10-16 17:18:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Why did you bump this off?.....it was good!
*****
Wasn't research per se. It's 36yrs of.....nevermind.
It's irrevelant and I should have kept my mouth/keyboard closed.
Submitted by Crystle (user info) at 2005-10-16 16:04:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
damn
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2005-10-16 13:56:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Were you born this badass, or did you have to train to get this way?
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 12:45:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-16 08:24:30 (#)
Ranking: 2
I think that picture is all right.
I was a little confused as to the passenger's status when the plane started to nose dive...some of them didn't seem to be strapped in, so I was wondering what was happening to their bodies as they flew the plane straight down -- also when they "turned around" and started flying straight up. I wasn't sure if the hole f'd up the laws of physics or if you just forgot to mention it.
Also, if pilot-dude is losing engines and just coming out of a hole, wouldn't he try to land the plane early from a low altitude instead of climbing really high and jumping out? Meh. Minor point.
Good work Jack.
--
The point of the 4CH is that NOTHING in it makes sense. Physics are wonky there.
Jay-John Connaught could still be tooling around the hole and listening to oldies in his '67 Chevy.
I figured that with no landing gear he'd go for height so they could bail out. The safer option? I just guessed.
God damn I'm glad these guys are on the ground. All the technical plane stuff was busting my ass.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-16 12:37:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-10-16 00:14:56 (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-15 18:57:27 (#)
Ranking: 0
It has come to my attention that there are a few booboos in here...
***
you mean being 3600hp short?
or the lack of full rudder, elevators and failure to idle down the two remaining....wait
what am I talking about?........these guys are so dead!
***
Great story and pic.........as usual
--
I envy writers who can spend six months doing intensive research instead of a few hours of Googling...
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-10-16 12:12:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by thecaes (user info) at 2005-10-16 08:24:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I think that picture is all right.
I was a little confused as to the passenger's status when the plane started to nose dive...some of them didn't seem to be strapped in, so I was wondering what was happening to their bodies as they flew the plane straight down -- also when they "turned around" and started flying straight up. I wasn't sure if the hole f'd up the laws of physics or if you just forgot to mention it.
Also, if pilot-dude is losing engines and just coming out of a hole, wouldn't he try to land the plane early from a low altitude instead of climbing really high and jumping out? Meh. Minor point.
Good work Jack.
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2005-10-16 08:08:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-16 03:29:53 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
bonobos love to masterbate
learned that from a girl once. i don't know why it came up
Submitted by munkeypants (user info) at 2005-10-16 02:59:46 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-15 18:57:27 (#)
Ranking: 0
It has come to my attention that there are a few booboos in here... hopefully they are not distracting.
----------------------------
I am so tired that I read that wrong.
First I thought you said boobies. Then I thought it said bobos.
Then I thought "That makes no sense. It must say 'There are a few bonobos in here'"
I'm just pointing out the precise point where my train of thought started to derail.
Submitted by joedaddy (user info) at 2005-10-16 00:14:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-15 18:57:27 (#)
Ranking: 0
It has come to my attention that there are a few booboos in here...
***
you mean being 3600hp short?
or the lack of full rudder, elevators and failure to idle down the two remaining....wait
what am I talking about?........these guys are so dead!
***
Great story and pic.........as usual
Submitted by Spuds002 (user info) at 2005-10-15 20:29:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by tlozoot (user info) at 2005-10-15 19:52:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh my.
Submitted by stardamage (user info) at 2005-10-15 19:43:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow!
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-15 18:57:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
It has come to my attention that there are a few booboos in here... hopefully they are not distracting.
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-10-15 18:21:57 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
haha, 4000 words on the weekend. This goes against every natural law. You might as well try to walk on a molten tub o' cheese.
+2 for gumption, moxie, and burning planes. !
Submitted by Bob_Dole (user info) at 2005-10-15 18:06:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
wow, good stuff.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-10-15 17:52:15 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Christ on a stick, the pic looks like crap.
I was going for dreamlike and got shitty instead.
I should be doing chores, instead I finished this off.
Enjoy, everybody, and have a nice weekend.