The Day the Earth Still Stood (Part I)

[Tim_Capps 474]

BASED ON A TRUE STORY

PART ONE

“War in Korea and here we are chasing little green men.”

That was the last thing Major Clark Ruffler heard from his wingman as they jogged toward a pair of fighter jets. He had said something expected and serious to set the right tone, but he felt the same way.

“You got her ready for the dance, Airman Wells?” he asked the man waiting at the airplane. The July night was muggy and the dark face shone with sweat. It was easy to imagine Wells as Joe Lewis six rounds into a fight and looking just as mean.

“Yes sir. She’s ready for anything.” Not sure about you the eyes might have said.            

Ruffler chuckled under his breath. “Guess we’ll find out.”

He made a quick walk-around inspection, but he knew Wells would not hand him any problems. He reminded himself that his new fighter ran through fuel and ammo faster than his last wife ran through gin and cash. Much faster than his P-47 in a war from another age. He missed the old girl. The Jug, as the airplane was affectionately called, not his ex.

The F-94 shining beneath the hanger lights was not beautiful. The gorgeous swept wing F-86 Saber came to mind when people thought of the air war over Korea. His Jug had not won any beauty contests either. He seemed fated to be married to ugly word not allowed-kicking brutes.

The F-94 was more advanced than the Saber, though. She was a lean, boat-nosed two-seat interceptor with straight wings tipped with fuel tanks. The first American all-weather fighter, boasting her own on-board radar. Ruffler had little to do with that. But he could dump jet fuel into the tailpipe and rocket forward with an impressive 6000 pounds of thrust.

A new trick Mr. Lockheed called an “afterburner.”

The F-94 was designed to intercept Soviet bombers flying in over the pole. Ruffler knew her legs were too short and she lacked a heavyweight punch for that mission, but this was the jet age. Soon American designers and industry would provide something better. The F-94s would become Air National Guard hand-me-downs, then go the way of the Jug. Even so, the new airplane had earned the trust of Ruffler and he was looking forward to testing his ship—and himself—against this new enemy.

Clark Ruffler knew he was not much to look at, either. He had a compact build made to fit into a cockpit. The frame beneath his dark green flight suit looked like it had been cobbled together from spare parts. He had a barrel chest, long arms, and short legs. His eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose.

The call sign was inevitable.

“Caveman” was painted under his name below the canopy.

Behind, where his radar operator did his voodoo, Lt. Harold Brown had “Brownie” under his name. His habit of taking home movies with a wind-up Kodak made that inevitable, too.

“You didn’t short Ma Deuce any ammo, did you, Airman Wells?”

“No, sir. Four Browning M3s, 300 rounds each with tracers.”

The coveted Browning M2 .50 caliber machine gun had been upgraded to an aviation M3 model since the war. Ruffler had scored four kills over Europe, though, so any .50 was “Ma Deuce” to him. His Jug had carried twice the number of guns and he was skeptical that trading half his guns for a higher rate of fire was a good deal. But times were changing. If rumors about radar guided missiles were true, the future belonged to Brownie and his gadgets.

Tonight, however, belonged to Caveman.

“Marylin Monroe came by and kissed every bullet for luck,” said Airman Wells.

“Is that right?” Ruffler said, more to himself than Wells, as he thumped the fuselage like a doctor thumping the belly of a patient. “She might have stuck around. But I don’t think we’re going to need it tonight. Just a spook hunt.”

“Ah,” Wells answered.

Ruffler climbed the ladder and settled into the cockpit and Wells helped strap him in. He began making his nest by finding a place in the cramped space for things he might need in a hurry. Behind him, Brownie was doing the same. He put on his helmet and watched Wells remove the ladder. The canopy closed and Ruffler grinned behind his mask. His last combat mission had been in 1945. A lot had changed in seven years. Jets, radar—an enemy from outer space.

As he and his wingman taxied to the runway, the brain behind the joined eyebrows was busy piecing together the events of the evening.

The two jets of Shirley flight had been scrambled at 2300 hours—11 p.m. civilian time—the 26^th, but if something was going to happen, it would probably be after the clock had ticked past midnight to the 27^th.

Brownie had a new baby at home. It would be asleep or maybe crying for its mama. Babies did a lot of bellyaching, according to the new papa. Ruffler used to have an ill-tempered dachshund named “Kraut,” but he had run off a couple of weeks ago. Calls to the dog pound and flyers for blocks all around had not brought him home. He kept telling himself maybe, but he knew he had lost another buddy forever.

Visual sightings of the word not allowed had begun a little after eight p.m. by the crew of a National Airlines flight. The captain and a stewardess in the four-prop DC-7 had told air traffic controllers at Washington National Airport “something like the light of a lit cigarette” was flying near them. Estimated speed: 100 miles per hour.

Twenty minutes later controllers at National alerted nearby Andrews Air Force Base. However, construction had halted operations there. The nearest interceptors were all here, in Delaware.

A half hour later an aerial display over Washington D.C. showed up on radar at both National and Andrews. The returns were confusing, but controllers had to vector an airliner around a large unknown aircraft in its path.

At 8:52 a dozen solid targets were confirmed over the nation’s capital, moving fast.

At 9:03 Andrews Approach Control placed an informal call to New Castle Air Force Base in Delaware. With Andrews sidelined, it was the first line of air defense for the capital.

A bored enlisted man with the weekend duty took the call. There being nothing else going on, he made some calls of his own, then shared his findings with the duty officer. Strange lights in the sky were not unusual these days, but if the word not allowed turned out to be something more than pretty lights, he would not want to explain why he had sat on the Andrews call.

The alert crew had been brought into the briefing room and unofficially informed of the events unfolding over Washington.

“Sky spook, huh?” Ruffler had asked. “I say pull chocks and go splash us some flying saucers. Maybe they’re allies with the Chicoms now.” Of course, that was not going to happen without the official call from the Pentagon.

Not that there were going to be any flying saucers to splash. This was old news. Just last weekend it had been the same. Jets had found nothing. There would be no fighters scrambled tonight, Ruffler had predicted with a yawn. Just some lights in the sky. Sure, they reflected radar, but the brass probably knew what was going on.

As the unofficial briefing was ending, two radar experts—an Air Force Major and a Navy Lieutenant—were arriving at National. They were met by reporters from Time and Life magazines who were already watching the show on the radar screens over the shoulders of air traffic controllers.

It was sometime after ten p.m. before the Pentagon Command Center or Eastern Air Defense Force were aware of anything. By then, the invasion had been going on for two hours. Good thing they aren’t Russian bombers, Ruffler thought as he passed the half-way point of his taxi.

An hour ago, while generals dithered, Ruffler had been stretched out over three chairs looking at a dog-eared Modern Man magazine, wishing he had somebody to go home to. Somebody like the blond in the bathing suit, he thought as the image intruded. “That’s what we’re fighting for, Brownie,” he said over the intercom as they neared the end of their taxi.

“Whatever you say,” Brownie replied.

“You got a full load of ammo for that little gun of yours?” asked Ruffler.

“What gun would that be?”

“Don’t tell me Brownie forgot his movie camera on a spook hunt.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Major.”

At 10:53 the blips and lights had disappeared after a three-hour show over the White House and Capitol observed from the air and ground, and two different radar stations, one civilian, one military.

Seven minutes after the show was over, at 11:00 p.m.—not too many minutes ago—the call had finally come from the Pentagon to scramble the alert jets. The briefing officer had quickly plugged the small holes in the unofficial information and a pair of two-man crews had jogged to their fighters.

Their orders were to observe and report.

Under no circumstances were the pilots to engage the unidentified objects without authorization. That had been repeated and Ruffler was certain the emphasis was for his benefit.

“Shirley Red 1, cleared runway niner,” he responded to the order from the tower. He made the 90 degree left turn at the end of the taxiway, then another without a pause and lined up for takeoff. He never stopped rolling as he advanced the throttle and accelerated down the runway. The two-ship formation would make a turning climb to the east then head south for the 100 mile trip from New Castle to Washington.

With luck, maybe the visitors would come back.

Just 15 minutes later, Caveman and Trigger checked in with Washington National control, code named Eggnog. National had the best radar returns so they were running the show. Civilian air traffic controllers would vector Shirley flight to the lights. All they had to do was point them in the right direction then Brownie and his all-seeing radar would take it from there.

“Eggnog, Shirley Red 1,” he called. “Waiting for vectors.”

“Shirley Red 1, Eggnog. Radar shows unidentified objects in restricted airspace over Washington. It’s hard to say… We get one, then we get a dozen or more. Then they’re gone. Speeds ah…”

Ruffler waited until he could not stand it.

“Eggnog, Shirley Red 1 didn’t copy speeds.” These civilian controllers were used to keeping airplanes away from each other, not putting them on a collision course.

“Shirley Red 1, speeds look like eight-zero knots.”

“Shirley Red 1 copy that. Eighty knots” So the problem would be how to get slow enough for a good look. Not much of a flying saucer after all.

“Shirley Red 1, speeds variable 80 to six-zero-zero-zero knots,” the controller pronounced with even more precision than usual.

“That’s a lot a zeros! Copy six-thousand knots?”

“That’s affirmative. Come to heading one-niner-five. Unidentified objects currently at an altitude of one-thousand-five-hundred feet. That will put you roughly in the middle of the pack. Sorry. That’s the best we can do.”

“Shirley Red 1, roger that. Heading one-niner-five, looking low.” He calculated he would be approaching the bogies in approximately ten minutes, or 2325 hours.

“Shirley Red 1, Eggnog,” the controller said. “You are cleared to enter restricted airspace and maneuver as necessary.”

“Thanks, Eggnog. Copy room to work. Red 2, Red 1. Acknowledge clearances.”

“Red 2, affirmative. Clear restricted, clear deck.”

“Trigger, you take the high road and I’ll take the low road. Keep it extra loose. These gophers can pop up anywhere.”

“Red 1, roger. You got plenty of room.”

“You’re awful quiet back there, Brownie,” he told his radar operator. “Nothing yet?”

“Too much ground clutter. This thing was designed for high-fliers. The lower you take us the better.”

“How tall is the Washington Monument?”

“Washington Monument.” There was a pause. “You should worry about National Cathedral. Chart puts it at 676 feet. Must be on a hill.”

“Hey, we still got a good 900 feet clearance,” Ruffler replied. “Eggnog, Shirley Red 1. Altimeter check.”

“Shirley Red 1, Eggnog. Three-zero-one-one inches.”

“Shirley Red 1, three-zero-one-one. Thanks.” He turned a knob on his altimeter two ticks so the window showed a barometric pressure of 30.11. The long needle that marked hundreds of feet corrected slightly as the mechanism behind the glowing face of the altimeter used the new entry to calculate the accurate number of feet above sea level.

“We’re at 2000 feet now. Talk to me, Brownie.”

“Nothing showing. I think I can get a lock on Truman from down here, though. Can you give me another 500 feet?”

“Heading down to 1500 feet,” he told Brownie. “Eggnog, Shirley Red 1. We could use some vectors up here.”

“Shirley Red 1 try heading one-two-five at 100 miles. Disregard, fifty miles.”

“Got him,” said Brownie. “Heading one-two-five. He’s real slow at 5000 feet and 20 miles. He must be huge to show up at this distance.”

Ruffler pushed the throttle forward with his left hand and unconsciously tapped the guard over the trigger on his joystick. After a few minutes, he broadcast: “Eggnog, Shirley Red 1. We have visual on bright white and red object at 5000 feet. Are you seeing this down there?”

“Shirley Red 1, affirmative,” answered the controller. “Unidentified contact appears to be stationary.”

“Object stationary, roger,” Ruffler confirmed. But a moment later to Brownie: “Lost visual.”

“Vanished,” Brownie confirmed.

“Eggnog, Red 1. Where’d he go? Gimme vectors.”

“Red 1, Red 2.” It was Trigger. “We just got a bogey back here, eight thousand feet. He’s about fifty yards off my starboard wingtip.  Jeez. This thing is big. You couldn’t park it in a baseball stadium.”

“Roger, coming upstairs.”

Ruffler advanced the throttle all the way to engage the afterburner and pulled the nose up in a climbing left turn until the G-forces were punishing. His Allison engine had been sucking fuel at an alarming rate during the low altitude chase. Now he was dumping even more fuel into his tailpipe. He glanced at the gauge. He was already nearing bingo fuel: the amount it would take to make it back to New Castle.

“Eggnog, Red 1," Ruffler grunted. "Good for now, but not making it home if this goes on much longer. Please think about alternate.”

“Red 1, Eggnog, roger on alternate. Please keep us advised.”

“Eggnog, just pick a long piece of concrete,” Ruffler shot back. “Kind of busy up here. We’re gonna to have to hand this thing off or take an alternate.”

“Shirley Red 2 with description," Trigger interrupted. "Lens-shaped, looks like unpainted aluminum skin. Diffuse white and red lights. No features visible. Closing for a better look. Now I see panel joints and rivets. No different from anything out of Boeing or Lockheed. Dropping down for a look underneath. Now that’s different! Big ring on the belly, with possible… could be a turbine nested inside. Guessing both are turning. Outside ring is shooting some sparks. Closing, ten yards!”

“Keep your distance, Trigger,” warned Ruffler.

“No, I mean it’s—” The transmission ended with an expletive. “Close call,” came the welcome transmission from Trigger a few seconds later. “Had to evade the SOB. Coming back around for another look at the belly. He seems a little ticklish.”

“Eggnog, Red 1. Vectors!”

“Shirley Red 1, nothing on this end. Standby. Multiple contacts. You should have visual. They’re everywhere.”

“I got the same thing,” Brownie said. “Now we’re out of ‘em. Come back around, boss.”

“Shirley Red 1, Eggnog,” radioed the controller. “They’ve all disappeared again.” Ruffler could tell the nerves behind the calm voice of the controller were fraying. He looped up and over on his back to reverse course, then snapped a roll to put the fighter right side up.

“You’re not makin’ me puke tonight,” Brownie said and Ruffler grinned behind his mask.

“Red 2 with visual again,” reported Trigger. “Same object just popped in off the port wingtip. Twenty yards. Object is matching my speed. I’m pulling ahead and waggling my wings. Executing a shallow climb. Let’s see if he follows.”

“Got him,” said Brownie with satisfaction. “Come two-zero-zero, 6000 feet. Ten miles.”

“Red 1 has visual now,” Ruffler radioed a couple of minutes later. “Just like Red 2 described," he continued as he got closer. "Closing from behind and below. Eggnog, Red 1 at bingo fuel. Repeat, bingo fuel.”

“Red 1, Eggnog. Roger bingo fuel. Orders are remain with object.”

“Red 1, Red 2. He’s matching my climb, maintaining distance. Somebody’s at the wheel of this thing. I’m going to make an easy right turn now. Let’s see if he follows.”

Ruffler pulled the throttle back and slowed as he approached the enormous object from below and behind his wingman. “Trigger, coming in behind and below you. Matching speed 200 knots. Observe object turning with you. Double rings on the belly, outside thinner, shedding sparks, inside wider. Now he’s gone again. How can he blink all over the place like that?”

“Red 1, Eggnog,” radioed the controller. “Unidentified object at your zero-three-five, fifteen miles, one thousand feet.”

Ruffler took a deep breath as he turned to the new heading. “Pretty spooky. Red 1 intercepting. Descending to 800 feet. Trigger, put some distance between you and the bogey then come back at me.”

“Roger. Extending and back on you.”

“Shirley Red 1, Eggnog,” radioed the controller. Ruffler detected something new in his voice. “Be advised object is stationary. We show it over the, ah, over the White House.”

[Tim_Capps 474]

Tough room 😶 Well, this does remain one strange story even after all these years. The characters and details of the chase and unknown object are invented, and the dialogue, but the rest is put together from many newspapers of the day. Shirley Flight, Eggnog (National ATC), reporters present, Andrews being closed, air and radar spotting, all reported as described. 

[Pmdgflyer615 1]

Great story 

[HighBypass 2,339]

Forgive my lateness to the party, Tim! I couldn't get into the tough room until now 😄 (I've been away playing with virtual trains and not noticed, sorry) Excellent read thank you.

[Penzoil3 480]

I agree, good story.

[n4gix 4,947]

Terrific story! Now where's Part 2???