-1Title: The Fearless Three
Disclaimer: I own the Fearless Three(back off!) and a semi-developed plot. (Sorry Tirathon)
Summary: The Fearless Three are some of the most unusual pilots in 1943. The commander is a black major, the captain is a homicidal Georgian, and they've got a shy super smart lieutenant. What are the heroes going to do?
O0o0o
RATATATATATATATAT! Major James Brummer, USAF, gave off an extremely violent oath, yanking his command column to the right, avoiding another barrage. "DAMNIT PEOPLE!" he roared, temper flaring. "Get your damn radios on this groups frequency NOW! I don't want to have to shoot these cusses!" He pulled his F-22 into a steep climb, narrowly avoiding another barrage from the insane re-enactors in the Spitfires. Who the hell flew those anymore, anyways? And what had he been thinking, volunteering his squad for that experiment? He was now two hours late for his wedding anniversary with his wife.
"Sir? Major Brummer?" A tentative voice crackled over his radio. O'Neill Brummer thought. "Sir, I have the correct frequency. Should I give it to Captain Newman so he can talk to them?" Brummer sighed internally. He would love for O'Neill to get over his crippling shyness, because Newman was about as subtle as a tank. "No, lieutenant. I want you to talk to these half-cocked amateurs. See why the hell they're firing at us."
Dominic cringed, wishing he could find a way out of talking to the Spitfires. He sighed mentally, and flipped open his radio channel. He listened to the short bouts of talk, and raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Nazis and German super planes? What? "Spitfire pilots this is Lieutenant O'Neill, USAF. Hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire. Over."
Group commander Roberts had heard of many strange things, but what was the USAF? Was it something the Nazis had come up with? "Lieutenant O'Neill, the RAF does not recognize any USAF. You are trespassing in our airspace. You will accompany us to a secure location, where you will be detained for questioning. Over." Roberts clicked off, and waited for a reply from the Kraut pilot.
After conferring briefly with his superiors, and ignoring several crude comments from captain Newman, he responded to Group-commander Roberts. "Group-commander Roberts, the USAF has always been on good terms with the RAF. In the interest of national security, we will comply. Over." Dom grimaced. Mostly for our sanity he thought, wondering why the heck the RAF was flying in Spitfires.
O0o0o
Group-commander Roberts had seen many strange things in his life, but this was probably the strangest. The aircraft looked like something out of a science-fiction story, and looked deadlier than a B-17. And that didn't even include the pilots. A black major was unusual. Roberts smelled the proverbial rat. The captain was also very odd, standing a 5'11", and looking at everyone with the eyes of a killer. The lieutenant whom he had spoken with was probably the one that was normal, apart from the fact that he couldn't be more than twenty.
Captain Newman looked around, wondering what the hell he had gotten into this time. He was surrounded by people that didn't belong anywhere but history books, or a movie. They were also looking at him strangely. Hadn't they ever seen a Georgian? Sure, he was five feet eleven inches, but the NBA had people who were taller. He immediately wished he hadn't taken off his flight helmet, because he was pretty sure he was blushing.
Lieutenant O'Neill wasn't a genius, but he could tell when somebody was sizing you up. The hostility and testosterone levels he was feeling wasn't exactly comforting either. He tapped his leg in what seemed to be a nervous habit, but to the trained eye was Morse code. Major Brummer dipped his head a fraction, and O'Neill felt sick. Brummer was going to make him answer these nutcases' questions. He hated talking to people he didn't know. Didn't' anyone realize that?
O0o0o0
Major Brummer ran through the ever growing list of why he hated the RAF, for the umpteenth time. Two days of intensive questioning by people who he had studied at WestPoint, and no one had thought contact General Travers yet. Something very fishy was going on. He was also going to have a few choice words with the general when they finally got back to base.
A door creaked open and a shaking lieutenant O'Neill was escorted into the cell block. As he passed Brummer cell, the dark man held out a small item. "Lieutenant, here's your ring." The slight youth took it, and snarled at a guard who tried to take it. The man wisely backed down.
Another cell was unlocked, and Dominic shoved in none to gently. Obviously he had managed to drive them partially insane again. The young man took the phrase "sing like a canary" a bit too literally.
The RAF guards approached a cell at the far end of the block cautiously. The large occupant stood and cracked his knuckles, leering at the two men. "Hello boys. Ah promise Ah won't hurt you. Much." Newmangave them his "I'm-giong-to eat-you-alive" grinand the extremely nervous guards led him off for more questioning.
As soon as the three were out of hearing range, Brummer turned his gaze to O'Neill. "What did the wonderful RAF ask this time? Anything besides the normal classified information?" Big jade green eyes locked onto his brown ones, full of fear. "N-no sir. J-just the usual. And about bugs."
Major Brummer sighed. 'Bugs' meant that O'Neill had seen some surveillance equipment, and that they couldn't talk freely. Didn't the RAF trust them? They were on the same side. Almost… "How'd you handle our wonderful friend, the drill sergeant?"
Dominic stifled a laugh, remembering the story behind the nickname. It was a long one, but suffice it to say that the three had had the same drill sergeant in boot camp. No one liked him. " He doesn't like rock'n'roll sir." Brummer groaned, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was. "I sang Black Betty by Ram Jam." It was. For being a genius, the kid was an idiot.
Brummer cared about everyone under his command, and what happened to them, but what O'Neill brought upon himself… He felt no pity for the youth. As his mother had said, you reap what you sow. He was surprised that O'Neill hadn't died during "questioning" yet, prone as he was to smartass comments. He told O'Neill to get some rest, and sank into a meditative state, trying to sort himself out for his next session. He couldn't afford to give anything away, especially if what he thought was happening was. It would not do to give away anything related to future events. He already had enough of a headache without trying to sort out temporal paradoxes. After all, the consequences would no doubt be disastrous.
The door to the cell block crashed open and twelve guards marched in, lining up against the walls. Brummer was startled out of his meditation, and ran the short distance to his cell door. What was going on? A quick glance showed that lieutenant O'Neill was having the same thoughts. Had someone finally discovered their error, or were they going to be shot?
Someone wearing a lot of medals stepped up to the cells, and had them unlocked. "Gentleman, if you will follow me?" He motioned to the door, and the confused USAF officers headed for the doors. "All will be explained, in due time" the mystery guide said, leading them down a corridor different than the one leading to interrogation.
The journey ended when the large group reached a large oak door. The man turned to the twelve guards and said "Wait outside until I call for you." The men nodded, and Brummer and O'Neill followed the mysterious man into an office. The office had been occupied by two men, one being a rather confused Newman, and a dark-haired colonel. Army air corps, if the uniform was any indicator.
"Colonel Hogan, these are the rest of the men I had contacted you about." Brummer frowned, trying to place the name. He knew he had heard it somewhere. Where, though? It was definitely familiar.
Colonel Robert Hogan, USAAC, turned around, his customary smile in place. "A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. Headquarters asked me to drop in and verify your stories." He took stock of the two new arrivals, scrutinizing them as he would a gem, or a particularly interesting bug. The major looked trustworthy, but suspicious and slightly stony. He reminded Hogan of Kinch. The lieutenant looked nervous, or perhaps it was a smokescreen. He also had one amazing black eye, an indicator that interrogation hadn't been easy. Good God Hogan thought, he's younger than Carter. What the hell were they thinking? Letting a child into the military. Hogan didn't know what to think of the hulking man he had been talking to, other than the impression that the man liked causing pain. That in itself was slightly disturbing, and setting off alarm bells.
Brummer stared back at colonel Hogan, sizing the man up. If what was happening was what he thought was happening, than this wasn't the safest era to be in. Hopefully colonel Hogan wasn't a racist, or a member of the KKK. And why was that name driving him nuts? He had heard it somewhere before, but where?
Hogan stared back at the black major, and finally looked away. "General Butler, if we could finally get back to the matter of why you called us here? I have roll cal in a few hours."
General Butler, their mystery guide, smiled benignly. "Of course, colonel Hogan. Please gentlemen, be seated." Everyone sat in the offered chairs, and faced Butler, waiting for an explanation. "As you may know, we are locked in a stalemate with the Nazis. They have a new installation, and we can't get anywhere near enough to destroy it." He paused, waiting for everyone to register what he was saying. "Colonel Hogan can't risk any of his men, and certain parties have lost too many men trying to blow it up." He turned to thethree USAF pilots, who were catching on. "Which is where you come in, gentlemen. I've talked to my superiors, and they've agreed to see your helping us a sign of your loyalties."
Major Brummer saw exactly what the General was saying. The message was obvious. You are expendable. We need your aircraft, but we can't fly them. "Well, you're basically saying that if we blow a section of the European Union to kingdom come, you'll clear us of any charges of treason?" He leaned back, lacing his fingers together. Take that, and paradoxes be damned. He looked to his two subordinates, who were looking thoughtfully at general Butler.
"Major, I have no idea what this European Union is, but yes, we are asking you to send a Nazi installation sky high" Butler replied. "And you won't be taking lieutenant O'Neill with you. He'll be staying behind as collateral."
Major Brummer looked at O'Neill, who nodded shakily. "Very well, general Travers. We have an accord."
Butler nodded grimly, and said something unexpected. "From the reports, your aircraft have two seats. You'll take colonel Hogan with you." He smirked, thinking he had gained the upper hand.
O'Neill snickered, knowing the Hell Storm squadrons policy on backseat drivers. "Colonel, hold onto your seat for dear life." Hogan looked at him, eyebrows raised, but O'Neill said nothing.
"Let's get this over with" Newman said, exasperated. "Mighty Midget, don't stay up past your bedtime." Brummer, Newman, Hogan, and Butler walked out, leaving O'Neill alone.
o0o0o
Colonel Hogan did excatly as the kid "Mighty Midget" had told him. He held onto his seat for dear life. These planes were faster than a Spitfire! Major Brummer had said that the aircraft coulddo upwards of Mach3, but Hogan didn't care.
Major Brummer looked back at the dazed colonel Hogan, and grinned. They were still over the RAF airbase, so it was still safe to enact plan Zeta, a.k.a "Getting rid of backseat drivers". "Colonel, hang onto your seat" was all he said, before hitting an ejection seat button. "Bye-bye."
A/N: I was talking to my dad a few months ago, and wondered what the joystick in an aircraft was called. He flipped out, and than gave me several different names for the joystick. I used command column. Apparently, a joystick is only for computer games.