I





October 14th, 1987

It was the 40th anniversary of the Bell X-1, and Margaret Rye wished she was somewhere else.

"Edwards Air Force Base...." she mumbled. "I hate you, George."

For the past several months, Margaret - or Meg, as she preferred - had been covering the stock market in New York City. There was great speculation that the bull market was going to end, and she had been there for the Wall Street Journal, extensively covering it. After all, she was a part-time financial consultant for Charles Schwab on top of being a reporter, and the story mattered to her.

But her boss - also known as her ex-husband - had radically different plans for her.

With an angry huff, she pulled over to the side of the road and dialed up her car phone. It was an incredibly expensive device - one few people actually had in 1987. It also cost a bit with long-distance. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to call him once more. She tapped her fingers impatiently as the receiver was finally picked up.

"Hello?"
"George." Her voice was flat and angry. "This map's all wrong."
"Meg…." The voice became perturbed. "I told you, you junction off of Highway 5 to Route 58, fork to Route 14, and just keep going on 14 until you hit the right fork, then you'll get to the base."
"This is not my idea of a weekend gig."
"You're the only one I could spare. And this is an important moment; the guy could keel over any minute now."
"He's a robust 64 year-old. He doesn't need me to help him."
"Meg…"
"Don't 'Meg' me!" She was borderline shouting. "You have an aviation writer whom you could have sent out! Why'd you send me?!"
"Because he's out!
"….Then get another one." She slammed the phone down before he could reply. "@#%$."

She shifted the gear into drive and took back to driving on the dirt road. Her mind was whirring angrily with disgust. She was not interested in history; she hated it. To her, the past was past. She could care less which Chuck she was dealing with, especially if it was Chuck Yeager. Having grown up in a military town, he wasn't particularly big on the military, and he was a paragon of the military.

On top of her disgust of the military, she'd had a horrible flight. She was two hours late getting into Loa Angeles, then her luggage was lost. The rent-a-car almost never happened, even though she had sent for it two weeks in advance, and she had to yell out the Hertz office for an hour. Then, she almost got into a crash near Bakersfield, where she junctioned off to Route 58 (and found that she had gone in a wide semi-circle). Then she took another road, and she wasn't sure she was even on Route 14 or not.

But nothing could save her now. So she drove on, nothing happening, nothing to take her away from her assignment….

"....Eh?"

Something in the rearview of Meg's eye caught her attention, leading her mind away from her impending assignment and to the road. In the rearview mirror was smoke. She swerved to look.

It was coming in fast, whatever car was creating the smoke. It was rounding the bend of the desert road with a speed that was very dangerous for any car. The smoke that surrounded it, and was being created by it, looked thick and choking, especially to someone with a drop-top.

"What the....."

Meg checked her speedometer. She was only going 45. The smoky car was going several times faster than that. Something was definitely not right.

She looked back up. The smoke from behind her was becoming much thicker and much closer than she had thought. The driver - whomever it was - was coming fast and furious behind her, and seemed to show no signs of slowing down.

"Damn...."

Meg beeped several times, in hopes that the driver of the car kicking up the smoke would hear and slow down before slamming into her bumper. She could tell, however, that they were going to ignore her and were going to smash right into her.

"Shit.....shit.....!!!"

The smoke was coming up on her, and Meg began to shake nervously. The driver of the car in that smoke was deaf; worse, couldn't hear her because their car was on fire. They were almost on her....if they hit her.....she could only scream the one thing on her mind.

"SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

As hard and as fast as she could, she swerved to the right, right into a ditch on the side of the road.

A roar that could have almost been an engine came from within the smoke as it sped up even faster as it passed her car on the side of the road. Faster it went, kicking up more smoke and gravel and splattering it all over and into the car, before speeding off into the distance at even greater speeds.

"What........"

Meg could feel her heart pounding fast, her adrenaline pumping. The car....or whatever had been speeding....seemed to have no sign of slowing down to the point where it was willing to run her over. Furthermore, it wasn't on fire from what she could tell; in fact, it had gone faster.

"....Bastard....."

She leaned her head against the steering wheel. That had been a close call, and she needed to calm down. Taking several breaths, she looked up. There was a gas station in front of her; it was a few hundred feet ahead of her. She would ask for directions there.

Slowly, she pulled into the station lot, the heat wall hitting her upon exiting the car. Wiping her brow, she entered the Texaco - just a bit out of the way, she thought - and went straight to the counter.

"Excuse me."
"Hmm?" The teenaged cashier looked like his thumb was up his ass as his eyes slowly spotted Meg. "Yeash?"
"You know the way to Edwards Air Force Base?"
"Yeah. 20 miles until you get to a fork. Then its 20 miles after you turn right off this road."
"….Thanks."

Walking out with a huff (and a pack of Reeses candy), Meg leaned against the side of the door for a moment. She looked disdainfully out at the desert expanse before her; hot, sandy mountainous and dusty it lay for miles around. She started to go for her car.

"Oh....my...!"

Meg turned to see a young woman gasping in delight at a shoddily set up table next to the garage. Sitting at it was a fat, bald old man, smoking a cigarette.

"How do you get all this stuff, Joe?"
"I wheel it in at flea markets." The old man puffed. "Its not cheap though, lady. So if you want something, pay up."

Something tugged at Meg to look over at the table; it was most likely boredom, and the fact that, other than the teenager and her asshole ex, she had not talked to a single soul for five hours. Shopping through stuff found in flea markets wasn't Meg's specialty, but it was something to take her mind off of her fate.

"Hmm?" The fat man looked up and smiled with rotted teeth when he saw her approach. "Hmm. Nice clothing. San Fran, I presume?"
"No." Meg said icily. "New York."

And so the dialogue was intended to finish before it had started. Yet the man gave Meg a smirk as she bent to look at the items that he had to offer.

"A bit out of the way, arentcha?"
"I'm a journalist." Meg's eyes didn't even look at him. "I'm here to report."
"H'oh, nothing happens here much." The man snorted. "Unless you're here for that Yeager deal. Well, if so you aren't the only one, lady."

Meg could only look disdainfully as what the man had laid on the table. Most of it was bawdy, and not even worth anything - ashtrays, stained clothing, beer steins, even used douches and condoms were scattered everywhere. Meg was about to leave in total disgust at the old man when her eye caught something at the end of the table.

"…..What's that?"
"What's what?"

Meg didn't wait for him to say anything. Her hands were on the item instantly, and when she picked it up, mothballs fell out of it.

"…This."
"Oh…." The old man's eyes widened, then relaxed. "Oh. That. That's a jacket, lady."

Meg's stomach tugged within her for some reason upon first sight of the jacket. It was something she couldn't explain - it was very old and dusty, as if no one had worn it for many, many years, and covered in mothballs. Yet she could not help but suddenly yearn to buy it.

"Oh, WOW! Its a WWII bomber jacket!" Meg saw the woman gasping next to her. "Where did you get this one, Joe?"
"Oh, this one?" The fat old man laughed. "Oh, flea market a while ago, back in 1984. Got some strange decal on it. The man selling it didn't want in on it, and I sure as hell got tired of it. Its got no squadron regalia on it, and what the hell kind of use would I have for it out here?"

Meg slowly turned the jacket over, inspecting it, the strange tugging feeling within her growing. Indeed, what she was holding was a classic Phantom B-3 shear jacket - full leather exterior, full sheep fur interior. Anyone who had ever felt what a real B-3 jacket felt like in their hands never forgot, Meg knew - even with all of the dirt that had accumulated on it.

Turning it to the back. Meg noticed that it was decorated. Most pilots back when World War II ended decorated the back of their jackets with a symbol of what squadron they were in; this one, however, was a first. On the back of it was a strange, large blue decal that could looked like a large, oddly-shaped fireball of some sort. Under it was a single word, also in blue.

Meg stared at the decal for a moment, a flood of sudden nostalgia hitting her. It had seemed impossible, the new feeling that was overtaking her. Yet somehow she knew why the strange decal was on there.

………………….Sonic…………………….

"I'll take it."
"Hmm?" The old man seemed surprised. "Take what?"
"This jacket. I'll take it." Meg felt the stomach tugging feeling again, but her voice stayed firm. "I want it. And if someone else is already buying it, I'll double the amount."

For a moment, the old man's mouth was open, not sure of what to say to the hoity-toity lady in front of him. After a moment, he laughed.

"Sure, lady. Whatever you want. No one else clamoring to buy it anyways." He wiped his eyebrow, chortling. "Two hundred dollars."

Quickly, Meg took the money out from her pocket and handed it to him. She could not understand what was going on - after all, it was just a ratty jacket that a scumbag old man had kept lying in his closet. Yet somehow she wanted it. Desperately needed it.

"There. Have fun!" Meg quickly took the jacket and walked off. "And if your friends ask, tell 'em its from Chuck Yeager! HAHA!"

As quick as her feet could carry her, she scuttled back to her car, slamming the door behind her as she dropped into the driver's seat. She rubbed her eyes and head, a huff coming from her mouth.

"Sometimes," she murmured. "I just don't understand myself sometimes."

Without another word, she put on the jacket, blasted the air conditioner, put up the hood of the car and began to drive onto the road.