VI




September 6, 1947


My Hedgehog,

How are you this week? We are doing very wonderful. Sherry is enrolled into Cianfracco's preschool, and she's learning how to read some very complex books now. She's got a first grade reading level, I'm told. I think you'd be very proud of her; I know she is proud of herself. She always asks about you, and I know I won't be able to explain to her very well, because everything you do now is so secret.

Your father Hiriam's doing all right, but he can't shake the cough. He went to the doctor this past Tuesday, and he said that they said he was "fine", though the cough's getting worse and the doctor's been calling him quite a bit. I've also been finding some dark residue on his shirts whenever I've been washing them. No matter what, he's not telling me anything, and I'm quite a bit worried.

Also, I am planning on coming to you at the end of this month, if its all right to do so. My brother Jake came up to see me from the island three days ago, and he thinks that all of us coming to see you for a weekend or something like that would be a swell idea. Of course, we have no idea where you are, or if its even safe to go out there with all the protocol you must be under. Will it be all right, if we could come sometime in two or three weeks?

Also, I want you to go see a doctor yourself while you're here. I noticed before you left that you seemed depressed, and if the battle fatigue's come back, I want you to go see someone about it right away. I don't want you to be a complete wreck, and I certainly don't want you to be down on yourself over nothing. Besides which, I have a surprise for you when or if we get to see you before October.


I love you, Hedgehog, and Sherry and I send you our best.


Love,
Mary




September 10, 1947


Dear Mary,

It is good to see that you are doing well, as well as Sherry. I'm sorry if my letter is brief again, but I am afraid that time and my duties here greatly constrict my writing to you. But I look forward to your next letter as I perform my job here.

I look forward to hopefully seeing you soon.

Your Hedgehog,
Scott
XXOOLL




September 14, 1947


"Looking good, Captain, Looking good. Over."
"Roger that. Over."

Richard Frost nodded as the correspondence switched back and forth on the Muroe tower radio. He wiped his brow as he replied.

"Copy, Swindell. Relay mark time from Hoover when maximum is reached. Over."

It was a somewhat complex way of receiving and relaying the messages that Project Blue Gale used; they didn't want their transmissions to be directly caught by any spies or unauthorized personnel that may have decided to eavesdrop. First the messages would come from the pilot of the XS-1, Captain Chuck Yeager; then to the spotter plan manned by Lieutenant Robert Hoover. Hoover then relayed the information to Capt. Edward Swindell, the pilot of the B-29 that was assigned to drop the XS-1 into the sky at 29,000 feet; the aerodynamic design of the jet did not allow it to have wheels to land or take off with.

Finally, the messages from Swindell were received by Richard Frost, Jack Russel, Capt. Jack Ridley and Col. Albert Boyd back at the tower, which was about two stories high. They would likewise return and relay commands to Yeager through the two other pilots.

"Beginning mark. We're at .91 Mach, over."
"Proceed with the goal of .95 Mach, over."
"I just damn well hope that Yeager doesn't show off and dive over the tower again." Jack Russel shook his head. "Damn near scared me half to death when I thought he was going to crash."
"Yeager's the best pilot I've got," Boyd smiled with confidence. "He's a showoff sometimes, but he's certainly not your average gung-ho buckaroo pilot. He knows his limits. I doubt he'll do it again if he's done a trick once."

As the conversation between the heads of the project went on in the tower, the flying was also watched - via binoculars - by Captain Scott Garnet outside on the airfield. At the moment, he was still searching for where the plane was, as it was very far up at the moment (for Yeager was ordered not to fly low again after the tower fiasco several days before). Tedious as it was, however, he felt a great sense of enjoyment.

He's going really fast… Scott thought as his binoculars searched. Like a blur. I can't find him anywhere…

"Hey therrrr, Hedgehog…."

Scott turned around, taking off his binoculars. He gave a sigh, shaking his head, as John Redson came towards him, his coordination noticeably off-balance.

"John…." Scott put his hands to his side. "You've been drinking again?"
"A little." John smiled sheepishly. "Hada throw up a bit. Bu it be all last night, so I'm getting ov'r it well right."
"You should really stop drinking so much," Scott turned back around. "The NACA is coming tomorrow for a report, right?"
"Righto, but I'll be right for tomorrow."

With a chuckle, John staggered off, leaving Scott to his own. With another sigh, Scott shook his head and took the binoculars up once more. He searched through the skies, through the cumulonimbus clouds high up. His mind wandered on the color; blue was his favorite color, regardless of the hues.

His mind didn't get the chance to wander for too long. His eye suddenly caught the orange dot, far up into the sky, a small trail of smoke coming from behind it. Though it was very far up to see clearly in the glass, Scot almost thought he could see the plane shaking a bit.

Its slowing down…… Scott lowered the binoculars. I suppose the exercise is already over. That was unusually quick, though, for .95 Mach….

Slowly, the sleek orange plane began to descend from the sky, the column of smoke coming from it lessening a bit, though not disappearing completely. Slowly, surely, Scott could see Chuck's slightly disappointed face from the cockpit as the plane skidded onto the ground with a loud screech of metal. The plane then tilted to the side as its belly slid several yards on the runway before coming to a complete stop in front of the control tower.

"Chuck!"

Scott started to run towards the smoking plane, but stopped when he heard Ridley running. Several others, including Russel and Frost, suddenly appeared out of nowhere, pushing the young pilot out of the way as they scrambled towards the cockpit.

"Yeager!" Being first, Ridley quickly opened the door to the cockpit. "Jesus, Chuck, something up there exploded!"
"Yeah. Part of the wing broke, that's all." Chuck smiled warily as he took up his radio. " And the engine almost failed. Bob, you get the speed mark? Over."
"…I have .94 Mach on my mark. Over."
"Damn," Ridley nodded as he peeked inside. "Didn't make the target. Looks like Glamorous Glennis may have had some instrument problems going that fast!"
"Indeed, Jack…."

'Glamorous Glennis' was the nickname that was picked for the XS-1. After everyone had seen Glennis that night back in August had been taken away by her beauty and grace; almost every man in the room felt something towards her, be it truthfully or superficially. The fact that there was the song called "Glamorous Glennis", a song that everyone on the airfield in Muroe pretty much knew by heart from the war, didn't hurt the nickname either.

"All the wind resistance caused the plan to swerve everywhere on top of it." Chuck wiped the sweat off of his brow. "Or maybe it was the reason I was having my problems. I couldn't control the direction all that well with the tail being forced into every which direction."
"The rocket compressors?"
"All the swerving caused the wind to whip up into them, so there was no help from them. I was afraid I'd lose the boosters from all the turbulence messing up the instruments as well."
"Damn." Ridley looked around. "Looks like we've hit the ceiling going cold turkey."
"We were destined for modifications at this point anyways," Russel looked at the side of the plane, where the wing was chipped. "Wow, the wind did some pretty damage here."
"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us." Ridley took several steps back. "And when's the NACA agent coming?"
"Tomorrow at 1000."
"We'll have to get a move on." As Ridley spoke, the B-29 and the spotter planes both landed on the other side of the airfield. "Boyd'll skewer us all on a stick if we can't get all of this done."
"Ah, speaking of him, where is the colonel?" Yeager hopped out of the plane. "I have to tell him something. Going as fast as I was just now, I was somehow reminded of the time last week when-"
"Oh, no no no!" Ridley laughed. "Don't do that! He'll do more than skewer you if you remind him of that right now!"
"Aw, hell no, he wouldn't completely kill me like that. He'd send a few choice parts of my anatomy back to my wife first before the commencing of any other maiming project." This got a few chuckles. "If I had to die like that, I'm sure that Al would at the very least keep my privates out of any plot he may conceive against me."
"Oh yeah, I'm sure of that…"

Scott watched Ridley, Russel and Yeager as they chuckled about their superior. They walked off towards the barracks, and Scott could not help but feel slightly jealous towards their close fidelity. Close fidelity was not something he had felt for many years, and seeing it now made him jealous, but perhaps saddened as well.

"Aaah, Hedgehog."

Suddenly Scott felt a hand come down on his shoulder. His head swerved to see Edward Swindell smiling at him.

"Aaah, you've been seeming down a bit lately. Well, don't feel too left out there, Hedgehog." Swindell took his helmet off. "They've all known each other for several years. Its hard sometimes being from a different division for a lot of the people I've met; hell, Yeager had a few problems when he first transferred into the Flight Test Division because of his Southern-sounding accent."
"….Really?"
"Yes," Swindell nodded. "But I wouldn't worry too much about them being partial towards your accent….a little off what I was going to say, but where do you originally come from?"
"Before Rome…." Scott looked at Swindell. "Westbury. Its out on Long Island."
"Ah, I see." Swindell gave Scott a slap on the back. "Well, before you start working on repairing that slightly broken plane over there, I'll just tell you not to worry so much over their seeming lack of communication to you, Hedgehog. Actually, I'd say some of those men think highly of you for your contributions. Hard workers are," and at this, he may have been referring to Redson and his drinking, as he may a slight face towards his distant figure, "hard to come by. So don't you worry, kid."

With another pat and a nod, Swindell walked off towards the plane hangar, leaving Scott to his thoughts.

Respect, huh…. Scott turned towards the plane. …Well……What is wrong with this plane…..

He started to give the plane a once over, not noticing Bob Hoover walking briskly past him, almost stomping his feet as he went towards Boyd's office barracks.

--------------------------

"Once again, Colonel, I must request-"
"Bob, do I have to say it one more time…"
"With all due respect, Colonel, I think we're doing this the wrong way!"

Bob Hoover stood at attention in front of his boss's desk, his face slightly reddened as he spoke. He wore his uniform without a jacket as he stood at ease.

"I think it would be prudent that I could have some time up in Glamorous Glennis, or even the other plane, sir!"
"Bob," Boyd didn't even look up from his desk as he spoke. "How many times have we been over this? It wouldn't be a good idea for you to go cold turkey."
"It's a terrible idea to leave me out of the XS-1 exercises," Hoover replied, his face slightly darkened. "I understand that as the superior officer, you would like the more experienced pilot to handle the new equipment….but what will happen to the project if Chuck is injured, or worse, killed? Look at what happened today; the plane was having problems stabilizing in mid-air! What if something happens beyond our control and I had to fly the plane and I had no experience flying it? The entire future of the United States Army Air Force is hanging on this project; you said this yourself. And if so, you certainly can't just hang the fate of our program on one solitary person and expect a project that is still nothing more than an experiment is going to go without any ha-"
"That's enough, Bob." Boyd still didn't look up at Hoover as he wrote in a journal log. "As much as I sympathize," and at this, he looked at Hoover, "and believe me, I'd let you go up in the other XS-1 jet alongside Chuck if I could. But my orders are otherwise, from the government, from NACA, even from Bell. At the moment, this technology is experimental, yes…..which is why we can only expend one pilot at a time. Which is why we need other pilots to watch in on the progress, which is why we need everyone where they are at the moment, and that includes you marking the speeds. You may or may not think of that as important, and I can't assume that. But the fact that this is an experiment means that I can only use those who can adapt quickly; if they adapt quickly, they may be able to adapt to the existential situations that may come up." Hoover simply looked down at the ground, not looking up towards the colonel. "That, and we have a very short time table. They want us to have someone going supersonic before the end of the year. We don't have the time, nor the ability, to train two men simultaneously."

A knock came on the door. Boyd ignored it and kept speaking.

"This is how precarious our position is, and while we can wish otherwise, we cannot do it. I'm sorry, Lieutenant." Boyd stood up, raising his voice. "My apologies. Who's there?"
"Ridley, sir. I have Captain Garnet with me."
"Very well." Boyd turned to Hoover. "Dismissed."

With a half-hearted nod, Hoover turned and left, not once looking up at the colonel. Nor did he even bother to acknowledge Garnet or Ridley, technically his superiors as he left.

"Don't worry, sirs." Boyd sat back down. "I'm afraid Hoover is a little upset over what's going on with the pilot situation"
"He looks a little down," Ridley remarked. "I guess he's not flying unless something happens to Chuck?"
"No." Boyd looked up at Scott. "Ah, Captain Garnet. What brings you here?"
"Well…" Scott took up a piece of paper from his pocket. "I gave the plane a look after it landed, and I think I was able to figure out the problem, sir."
"With the wind resistance?"
"Yes, sir." Scott put the paper in front of the colonel. "You see, sir, most of the damage came from the wind resistance found at the speed that Glamorous Glennis was going. The jet plane, though designed to try to buffer the resistance to a minimum, is still obviously having problems with turbulent winds, and therefore wind is managing to hinder the flight of the XS-1, already front heavy with Black Betsy and practically weightless with the tail, with some effectiveness."
"Mmm hmm….."

Boyd took up the paper. It was a bunch of quick drawings, and had many scribbles on it pertaining to the damage. Some of it was relatively technical; '.50 cm tip break, left, mild but still bad' to simply being 'BAD! THIS IS BAD' in regards to the boosters.

"And what do you propose we do, Captain?"
"…Well, sir…."Scott took the paper back. "I'm not in charge, but I would say an extra buffer against stronger resistance is the most obvious course of action, sir."
"Very well, sir." Boyd pointed towards him. "Agents from the NACA is coming tomorrow to inspect our current progress. You and Captain Ridley have 16 hours to come up with a cost-effective way to solve our problem and make new this buffer a reality. Dismissed, both of you."

With that, the colonel stood up, tucked a pack of papers under his right arm and marched out of the room. Scott blinked; his salute came a little too late, as the colonel had already left as his hand went up to his forehead.

"Well," Ridley's voice came into his ears. "It looks like its just you and me tonight in the plot room."
"Plot room?"
"Oh, right, you've never been there." Ridley kept the door open for Scott. "Ah well, we'll have plenty of time to start this up. In the meantime, how about some tenderloin steak and beer down at Barnes…."

----------------------------

The seven hours that had passed went by slowly; they had dinner, picked up some drinks to take back with them, and had even managed to come to some agreement on what was to be done to the plane.

"Ok, Hedgehog, you ready to buckle down?"

Rubbing his eyes, Scott squeezed in and sat down next to Jack Ridley, looking down with little aid from the dim lighting of the so-called "plot room". It was a small, cluttered wooden cell, no more than five feet wide on each side, which was situated in between the wooden huts of the workers. The architect table that Ridley brought with him from his office took up most of this space, as this naturally took up about four feet on each side. The table itself was cluttered with construction plans, blueprints, and diagrams of the XS-1, as well as two cold Budweisers from Pancho Barnes.

"I….think so."
"Good." Ridley took up one of the diagrams. "We don't want a de Havilland on our hands, eh?"
"…..A what?"
"Oh, you don't know." Ridley gave a chuckle as he took a swig from his drink. "Its really well-known among us who's been around here long enough to know. Pretty much the best example of the sonic wind resistance query we've got on our hands."
"Go on." Scott popped his bottle of beer open.
"We weren't the only ones working on the supersonic jet idea; Brits were working on this a year or so before us. But they stopped after one of their guys - RAF Colonel George de Havilland - ended up getting in a very, very violent shimmey at the tail from all the wind resistance; plane just couldn't handle it. Pretty much did everything except blow up, only because the Brits say that 'blow up' is the wrong term for it."
"…The plane exploded?"
"Yeah." Ridley took up a pencil. "This is what we're working on. Now, then, Hedgehog, we - rather, more I than you - must find a solution to this problem. We know from our little talk back at Barnes that we'll need to stabilize and strengthen the tail so that it doesn't rip right off of our girl out there. Question is, where on the tail should we put this…and what exactly are we going to put on the tail….?"
"Is this our homework, or at least what's left of it?"
"You bet." Ridley handed Scott a pencil. "We've got nine hours to get this with all the right specifications and to hand it to Redson and Boyd for Bell and the NACA's approval, so lets get started, shall we?"

For about an hour, the two worked on the plane designs that were given to them. They didn't speak to each other as they worked on the problem; both had gotten into a quiet, concentrated mindset. The only sounds from either of them were the scraping of pencil graphite along the paper and an occasional gurgling and sipping of beer into the mouths of the two mechanics.

"….A hah."
"Hmm?" Scott turned to Ridley. "You figure something out?"
"Figured this was the problem." Ridley turned his piece of paper towards Scott. "You get anything like that, Hedgehog?"
"Sort of…"

Scott looked at the design. It was a swinging rudder on the tail; it was an idea that he had thought of. The difference, however, was that Ridley's design, which seemed to be much looser and less angular then Scott's finned design, was more aerodynamically logical, he realized.

"Mine's got fins, though. I think yours is probably better."
"It seems we both have the same idea." Ridley smiled. "But, Hedgehog, if we are to compare our designs, why do you think mine is better?"
"Well, yours is not as top heavy or of as large of an area as mine." Scott paused.
"Anything else?"
"Well….the swinging rudder on yours would stabilize the tail by placing the pressure and the wind onto one particular, flexible point, or at least to deflect the pressure enough to keep the tail from ripping off of the jet. This will also lessen the turbulence and the steering problems that the pilot has with a front heavy plane and a flimsy tail weight, right?"
"You know this plane pretty well for a novice, Hedgehog." Ridley took another swig. "You learn quickly, which is why I like you out of everyone else that came late on this mechanics team. If you weren't an officer here, I'd reckon that at least you'd be going places."
"Well." Scott was slightly flattered. "I….have been taking calculus and such. And really, measuring out designs and studying mechanical physics is almost all I do in Rome."
"But its not everything you do. You fly too."
"Yeah…" Scott nodded. "But certainly not to the degree Chuck or Bob has. I haven't been to a training school."
"But you fly well."
"Well, I guess I fly all right."
"No need to be modest, Hedgehog. That shouldn't be the way of a supersonic pilot."
"Well, I always thought…"

It took a while for Scott's slightly beer-numbed mind to actually figure out what Ridley had just said. When it did, he whipped his head over towards the mechanic, his eyes widened.

"What?"
"What's the matter?"
"Did you just call me…..a supersonic pilot?"
"You sound shocked, Hedgehog." Ridley looked amused. "Why are you shocked?"
"Because I'm not on the pilot payroll with Project Blue Gale."
"What?" Ridley frowned. "You mean Boyd didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"You're tertiary pilot on Project Blue Gale."
"What?!"
"I'm surprised you didn't know this whole time, Hedgehog!" Ridley looked at Scott seriously. "But I suppose I should tell you this now, also because of the way things are going with Hoover and Boyd. You weren't just picked because you do good mechanics; you were picked because you are a test pilot. You pick things up, you can figure how to work things real quick, like second nature. Boyd likes those types of guys to work on his projects. And because this project is very dangerous - hell, just firing up Black Betsy can blow the jet up - Boyd went all over the country to find as many qualified test pilots as he could." Ridley paused. "Chuck and Bob, they are the best, even though they're junior pilots in Boyd's section. After all, each of the boys in Boyd's Flight Test Division, from what I remember hearing, have more flight hours than the rest of the USAAF, the RAF, and even the Luftwaffe combined. You can't get much more experienced than that, believe you me. They're the best of the best."
"…..I'm tertiary……"

Scott was flabbergasted as he looked at his bottle, then down at the plans of the XS-1. He was shocked about this; it had come out of nowhere. It was completely new to him.

"But if Boyd's squadron is the best….How did I get into this?"
"Because of what I said. You're not only a pilot, you're a mechanic. You can spot problems with whatever you're flying. You've got ears, and you work quick to find the best solution to the problem. That's what a pilot is; a lot of the guys in Boyd's division never took much time to hone their intuitions, despite the fact they're good at flying, and they know it. So Boyd went out for pilots who had experience in fixing military grade machinery." Ridley went to drink his Bud, only to find he had none. "Damn. Hang on a moment, Hedgehog, I'll get you another one too."

Scott nodded slowly as Ridley left. He looked down at the desk, staring down at the jet blueprints.

I'm third in line…..

It seemed impossible to him. In comparison to Chuck Yeager - who, despite being a bit of a showoff, was the best he had ever seen - and Bob Hoover, he was practically nothing. He flew only two missions in Italy - his last being the Salerno campaign. And what had happened to him in Salerno, what he had always thought he had done there, was not all that becoming of any pilot, let alone a captain, in the United States Army Air Force. Why Boyd would have chosen him, especially if he knew what had happened, was beyond Scott's comprehension; he was not necessarily as brave or as resourceful as Chuck.

Yet deep down, he realized should have known. The strange feeling of interest and excitement of the unknown that had come to him throughout this mission returned. However, he forced it back down; he decided not to seem too eager to Ridley.

With a sigh, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt and aired it out; it was a hot night. He wore a white undershirt underneath; unlike many of the men on the field, he did not normally let his shirt out, he was not there to impress anyone. For good reason as well; from under his shirt, there could be seen small, dark splotches on his chest, on his shoulders, on his back, and on several portions of his collarbone.

Third in line…. The thought permeated through him again. It just seems so impossible. I'm not the kind of pilot that does this all the time. I mean, Chuck! All I have to do is look at Chuck; he's a fella cut out for this kind of stuff,. Am I really as good as Ridley says I am?

The sound of the doorknob turning brought Scott back to reality. Quickly, he buttoned his shirt back up before Ridley could come in and see the scars.

"Whoo!" Ridley came in with two more beers as Scott was buttoning the last seam in. "Its sweltering in here, Hedgehog. We need a bigger room."
"Heh…..I'll say……"

Scott gave a sigh of relief as Ridley sat down and put the beers on the table. Indeed, to Scott it was too hot of a room. Not that it mattered much; Ridley knew nothing more than he really needed to know anyway.

With that, Scott pushed his real thoughts to the back of his head; there was still work to do and little time to do it.

---------------------------

"Well, Hedgehog, what do you think of that?"

The two men - Ridley and Garnet - both staggered with exhaustion into the hangar. It was two in the afternoon; they had not slept the whole night. Yet both men could feel nothing but relief over the NACA meeting. Their tail buffer had been approved and recommended overwhelmingly by the agents from the NACA, and the project was given the expected timetable of December 1947 for completion.

"Well, I'm off for the rest of today." Scott felt Redson slap him on the back. "Good luck, and I'll see you tomorrow."

Redson, also, was present, even sober, for parts of the meeting - he ended up having to call Bell concerning the buffers. He returned with the announcement that the buffers were expected to come in within the next several days.

"Right, Redson." Scott turned to Ridley. "Lets go check up on Glennis, right?"
"Right." Ridley opened the door to the hangar. "So, what do you think about the NACA?"
"Strange men."
"Well," Ridley nodded as they both entered. "NACA stands for the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, so that you know. With all the yapping we do, I'm not sure if you knew that."
"Well, what's the deal with them?"
"Heh. They are all essentially USAAF officers who are the brains of a lot of the stuff we do disguised as a suggestive panel, so a lot of what we do and how we do it is decided by the…..the….."

Ridley's voice trailed off as he turned on the lights of the hangar. His hand dropped from the light switch, and his eyes squinted.

"Jack?"
"…..Hedgehog….." Ridley's voice was low. "Its either me or there's a puddle of something under the plane."
"Huh?"

Scott knelt down to the ground, squinting his eyes to look. Indeed, there was a puddle of light blue, dropping on the ground under the propped up jet.

"Hmm…"
"The hydrochloric transmission tank. It wasn't leaking at all when the agents were here…." Ridley bent down. "Maybe we should check it out, Hedgehog."
"…I'll check it out." Scott bent down as well. "It may just be a loose screw or something. Here, get me a screwdriver so I can pop it back in."
"….Ok."

Ridley took a Phillips head screwdriver out of his pocket and handed it to Scott. Nodding, Scott proceeded to slowly and carefully maneuver himself under the flap of the airplane, the screwdriver in tow. It was not much to fix a simple loose screw under a plane for Scott; such things happened all the time, particularly when the plane was flying.

As he began to look for there the loose screw was, however, he stopped as he spotted the tank, which was just over the engine valve. He could feel the color drain from his face.

"Sweet Jesus...."

All over the transmission tank, large rusty nails were driven straight into the gray metal of the transmission tank's sheathing. Several large drops of the blue transmission fluid were dripping at a steady rate onto the puddle on the ground from each of the holes that the nails had created. Some of the fluid trails looked ready to land inside the engine valve, which indicated that a good amount of time had passed since the nails had been hammered in. What was worse was that, from Scott's best guess and panicked estimate, there were at least fifty nails driven in - all there with the sole purpose of leaking the fluid out.

"@#%$....."
"Hedgehog, what do you see?"
"........Jack....."

Scott gave a gulp as he snapped out his gloves. Transmission fluid was the last thing he needed to ingest into his system, but someone had to get the nails out.

"…Get the colonel, Jack" he managed to get out as he started to go under. "And get me a towel and a hammer.......quick....."

-------------

Boyd started to read the papers and notes from the NACA meeting at his desk. His eyes went over each line carefully, looking at the recommendations and critiques written towards Project Blue Gale. There were a few things unrelated to the plane itself - most of it was on security - that the agents frowned upon. However, in light of the fact that it was only an experiment, it was a very hopeful report. He gave a nod.

"Perfect."

The came the frantic knock on his door.

"COLONEL!"
"…Ridley?"
"Sir, are you there?!"
"What's wrong, Captain?" Boyd stood up slowly.
"Its Glennis, sir! She's been sabotaged!"

Boyd was at the door the instant the word 'sabotage' rang into his ears. His eyes slit as he marched towards the door. Opening it with an affinitive throw, he looked upon Ridley's horrified face with a rigid, almost angered exposure.

"Captain Jack Ridley." Boyd's voice was calm even as his face turned red. "Am I correct in hearing that you said……the XS-1 in the hangar……..was sabotaged?"
"….Sir…." Ridley looked down to the ground. "I do apologize for interrupting you with the news, sir, but it couldn't wait-"
"What happened?"

Ridley looked up at Boyd's eyes to see that they blazed with a sudden lividness. The colonel's anger was well known to him, as well as to those who had worked at Wright. The colonel very rarely became truly enraged; he had a long fuse from which he could be annoyed. Something in the magnitude of sabotage, however, snipped that fuse very quickly.

"I…"
"Colonel."

Boyd's angry glare turned from Ridley to the origin of the voice down the hall. A pair of boots walked briskly towards them, and the colonel's eyes widened as the light hit the approaching soldier.

"…Garnet?" As Boyd spoke, Ridley turned to look at Scott. His eyes widened as well. "Good God, son, what the hell happened to you?!"

Scott winced with pain as he looked at the colonel. The towel had saved his face, and his gloves his hands, but his hair and scalp had been completely soaked by the fluid. Even after washing it several times, as quick as he could after getting out from under the plane, his head burned terribly from what got under his skin, and he felt almost woozy from it.

"The plane, sir..."
"What the hell happened?!"
"The transmission tank..." Scott slowly spoke; his head felt like it was on fire with every movement he made. "Someone punctured the transmission tank with fifty-three nails, sir. It was dripping quite a bit; at least half of the fluid was gone when I was finally able to check it, sir."

Shakily, he took out a paper bag, wrapped in a towel, from his jacket and showed it to Boyd. The horror and anger on Boyd's face was priceless as he slowly took the soaked bag from the captain, opening in and examining the contents.

"The plane transmission would not have gotten enough fluid to start if we had wanted to fly today…." Scott took a deep breath. "…and some of it was starting to drip onto Glennis' Black Betsy, sir."
"WHAT?!?!?"
"If Chuck had gone out there today, the plane wouldn't have worked." Ridley's expression became grim even as his voice shook. "Sir, it definitely sabotage. It must have happened after NACA came into the hangar to check the plane, sir."
"Sabotage.....!!"

Boyd walked to his desk, his face turning red. He looked at Scott, then at John, then back again.

".....Who did this?!"
"Sir, we don't know, sir."
"Well, dammit, find out!!!!" The colonel's hand slamming on the desk caused them both to jump. "It was someone on the team, wasn't it?"
"...I...." Scott gulped. "I'm afraid so, sir. We think it may have been a mechanic. This project is top secret, after all..."
"And its going to go successfully!" The colonel fumed. "Who among us would be so @#%$ callous to do this?!? I want everyone questioned, and I mean everyone questioned, Ridley. This will not be tolerated! This may put us back two weeks on Glennis until Bell can get us a new transmission fluid tank for the damn plane! She'll have to stay over somewhere, rusting, and we won't be able to use her for God knows how long until its fixed! Do you know how infuriating this is?" The colonel began to laugh. "Actually, no, strike that. You boys know. You're Air Force men; you know how time frames go. But I'll be damned.....DAMNED if someone's going to go out of their way to ruin this project!!!!"

With that, the general stormed out of the room. The two men looked at one another.

"Oh God……Hoover."
"Huh?" Scott's eyes widened at Jack's words.
"That's who must have done it. Not someone on the mechanical team."
"B-but..." Scott looked at the door. "He wouldn't do such things."
"He was angry because of the colonel's decision."
" Just because we saw him yesterday, and he was angry about what was happening, the colonel couldn't just immediately point to him!" Scott shut his eyes tightly from the pain. "No, Jack, I don't know-"
"That's the way it works...maybe it was him, maybe it wasn't." Jack sighs. "But you know as well as I do that when he's found to be innocent, it'll be us next."
"But none of us could have had access to the hangar after NACA left, Jack. We locked the door, and then we all went with the agents to Pancho Barnes, remember?"
"Yes, but there were several people still missing from the meeting, including Hoover, remember? And for every lock, there's a nailfile to pick it." Jack's eyes slit. "And heaven help the man who's decided to do this to us, Hedgehog. We haven't been working our asses off and risking our lives so that some hotshot can come and make a point, you know?."

With that, Ridley left the room, leaving Scott to tear up in pain from the burning sensation.

God…..this burns………this crap burns like fire….like flames on my head……

No matter what he did, as he walked, the pain was searing. He could feel every single cuticle and hole on his head sear with unimaginable pain. Everything was blurring, his vision hazed. He wished battery acid could be rammed down his throat if it could take his mind off of the terrific pain, off the flaming sensation.

off of the flames…..







The fog shrouded the Luftwaffe planes as they surrounded to lost dog fighter. The rattataataaataa sound echoed through the foggy night and froze Scott's heart.

"WE'VE BEEN HIT!!!"

The plane rocked violently as the bullets seared through the engine. The explosions below him brightened up the cockpit, and the flames seared under his legs as he shouted into the radio.

"COMMAND! COMMAND! WE-"

*BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM*



He hadn't seen the German's frightened faces, but the explosion ripped the nose right off of his plane. More flames appeared, as well as the screams of the German pilots as they flew to the ground, falling past him in full view.

God, God, God….

His panic was then interrupted by another popping sound, followed by a scream behind him. He turned around frantically, screaming over the roar of the gas fire.

"MILES!"
"The radio's dead, Scott!"
"Eject!"
"The heat's melted the mechanism!"

The young boy, a year younger than Scott, gasped for air as the intense heat filled his end of the plane. He ripped his helmet off, his strawberry blonde hair being licked by the flames.

"We're going to crash, Scott! We're going to die!"
"NO!!!!!"

Scott gripped the steering stick of the plane as tight as he could. The control was gone, he knew; he grunted, then screamed, when his vain pulls had no effect of bringing the nose up.

"Dammit! Come on!!!!" He screamed in fear. "DON'T DO THIS TO ME!!!!"

I don't want to die…….

The flames overwhelmed him once more. The roar became louder, the smoke choked him. And the plane was going into a tailspin. His head burned from the flames, from the fluids, from the hell he was in…..

God no, don't let me die I don't want to die I want to go home

The mind raced. Time was running out, and the smell came…..the terrible smell of burning flesh….……the strong smell of burning wood……..

wood…….







Scott's eyes bolted wide open. The smell was no dream.

He gave a scream of pain as he whipped his head towards the window; the transmission fluid oozed through his head still, even after seven hours. The illusions in his head, the memories, they had taken so long, yet for Scott, the events seemed to have happened all too quickly when they had occurred.

But this time, the flames were not just a dream. The smell was no longer just a memory. This time, it was real.

"GET THE WATER!!!"

He heard the scream; it was Redson's voice. He looked out the window, unable to comprehend for a moment what was happening. Then he realized. The hanger where Glennis had been only several hours before was engulfed in flames.

He wasted no time. He jumped out of bed, ignoring the pain he had, ignoring his impulse to simply submit to the pain, allowing the adrenaline to take over his instincts. He threw his clothing on; he didn't bother buttoning up his shirt to hide the marks on his chest. He could care less if he had even zipped his pants up; there was no time to even think. Within a minute he was running as fast as he could to the hangar.

"DAMMIT!" Suddenly, someone threw a bucket at his face. "Get more water! More water!!!!"

Scott turned around, ran back into the barracks he was in, ran out of the back door and leaped into the outhouse. He blasted each of the water taps in the sink to the outmost they could go; within seconds the bucket was full. He ran back through the barracks, and ran as fast as he could to the hangar, which was a mile away. His muscles screamed, his legs groaned, his eyes wanted to close. But he pushed, and with an angry shout he flung the water into the wooden inferno. The water did little to calm it down, and instead the wind whipped ash into his face.

"AAH!!"
"Need water…"
"Help him! He's trapped in there!"
"I got him!!"

Gasping for his breath, Scott turned to see two men - mechanics - carrying out a body from the smoldering ruins. He could only look on in surprised shock as the shaking, burnt body of Capt. Robert Hoover came into closer view to him. It seemed to play out in slow motion within Scott's mind; Hoover breathed slowly as he passed Scott, burns covering his body.

"G-good god…" He could only say to himself with a stammer. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off.
"Holy shit!" The angered voice of Boyd came into his earshot again. "What the hell?! What the hell is going on?!?"
"@#%$…" Yeager's voice also came into his ears. "Thank God that none of the jets were in the hangar."
"What happened?!" Boyd quickly wiped his brow of the thick ash. "What the hell happened to the hangar?!"
"Someone must have set it on fire, sir!" Ridley glared at the smoldering ruins. "The only person who had access was Hoover, sir."
"What?"
"I hate to say it, sir, but Hoover was the only person who had been near the hangar. He did say he was going to check it out from this afternoon's problem with Glamorous Glennis."
"….Why the hell would Hoover start a fire and then be such a total fool not to get out of the way of it, Captain?"

Scott turned back towards the men carrying Hoover's body. He began to swoon. The pain was coming back. His head swam violently, and the fact that the heat was licking his back did not help matters at all.

"Then why the hell was Hoover there in the hangar?"
"If it was Hoover, he's going to a court martial even if he ends up in a coffin from his damn injuries!" Scott's eyes rolled up to the back of his head as Boyd spoke. "If it wasn't Hoover, then we-"

He lost it then. His pain came back, and he lost his ability to retain consciousness. He fell to his knees, then fell to the side. The shouts of the men as they ran towards him faded out as the heat and flames in his eyes slowly turned from brilliant infernal colors to an indefinite, dismal black.