Three

By Amanda Peters

Three includes three short science fiction stories: "Sandman" and the Twisted Trip, about jet planes battling tornadoes and a journey to find a missing scientist, The Viewer and the Missing Child, about a search for a little girl using techniques perfected by the Soviets and the CIA during the Cold War, and The Doorway to Nowhere, featuring a retired Physics professor and his calico cat, whose travels via a "wormhole" lead to an encounter with an otherworldly "Messenger".

..."Amanda Peters combines the familiar with the unfamiliar to create three science fiction stories that are unlike any before them -- and they are entertaining and thought-provoking tales that are well worth the read." (NC starred review***)

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781456608675

Amanda Peters

AMANDA PETERS is a writer of Mi'kmaq and settler ancestry. Her debut novel, The Berry Pickers, was a critically acclaimed bestseller in Canada. Her work has appeared in the Antigonish Review, Grain, the Alaska Quarterly Review, the Dalhousie Review and Filling Station. She is the winner of the 2021 Indigenous Voices Award for unpublished prose and a participant in the 2021 Writers’ Trust Rising Stars Program. Peters has a certificate in creative writing from the University of Toronto, and she is a graduate of the master of fine arts program at the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Amanda Peters lives and writes in the Annapolis Valley, Nova Scotia, with her fur babies, Holly and Pook. 

Book preview

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I: SANDMAN AND THE TWISTED TRIP

He rides the wind,

Above the clouds,

Where no one

Can see…

Except God.

Anon.

Introduction

As a small fry growing up in the Midwest, I had a fascination and a fear about two things in particular – not counting the boogey man, of course. I was fascinated by tornadoes and UFO’s, and I was fearful that one or the other might suddenly swoop down out of the clouds and carry me away without warning.

Now that I’ve grown up, I am still fascinated, but I’m less fearful – at least about tornadoes and UFO’s (I’ve discovered other things to be afraid of as an adult). I’ve moved away from those areas where tornadoes routinely appear, and while I believe there may be such things as UFO’s, I haven’t seen one, and I doubt that I ever will.

But the fascination…

I can’t help wondering why we haven’t found a way to battle those hellish twisters. There must be something we can do, isn’t there? But what might that be?

And the UFO’s…We keep hearing accounts about people who see UFO’s, but nobody seems to know where they come from. Where might that be?

The story you are about to read – assuming you’re still with me – suggests one answer for each of those two questions.

Amanda

************

1.

SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE! THIS IS AN F5 SCRAMBLE FOR SECTOR 22! I SAY AGAIN: THIS IS AN F5 SCRAMBLE FOR SECTOR 22! SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE!

The scramble alert was still blaring as Major James Sandman Douglas burst out of the Rantoul Ready Room and ran towards the F-16 Falcons – the jet aircraft – lining the nearest runway. He looked quickly at the mountainous thunderheads threatening Sector 22 – the towns of Bloomington, Decatur, and Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. It was definitely an ugly-looking storm. Black and purple clouds towered over the trees and the maintenance hangars west of the runways. Thick, jagged bolts of lightning were flashing everywhere. The first storm in May, and it was a category F5 – extremely violent. To make matters worse, the storm threatened the airbase itself: the Rantoul Aviation Center.

Jim and the other F-16 pilots hurriedly strapped themselves into their cockpits. Their Weapons Systems Officers quickly checked and armed the Concussion Missiles carried by each of the Falcons.

A light rain started to fall, and Rantoul’s warning sirens began wailing.

The storm was coming in fast.

One by one, the jets taxied into their positions on the runway. Jim rolled up behind the right wing of Colonel Donald Big D Jessup – the Squadron Leader. Captain Robert Turbo Nelson taxied up behind Jessup’s left wing, next to Jim. All of the other pilots took positions behind Jim and Turbo, forming a large triangle, with Jessup at the tip.

Jessup wasted no time. He immediately radioed the Rantoul Control Tower, and requested clearance for the Squadron’s takeoff.

Rantoul Tower: Air Force Echo Squadron ready for takeoff on Runway One-Niner. Over. Jessup’s voice was crisp, clear, and calm. Jessup was always that way, no matter what was happening.

Roger, Echo Squadron. You’re cleared for takeoff. Wind three-five knots...

The wind was picking up. Visibility was falling. The warning sirens were screaming. The sky overhead was growing darker.

Finally, Echo Squadron was moving. Sheets of rain pummeled them now, and the sky was inky black, with flash after flash of lightning. Dime-sized hailstones bounced off the Falcons as they taxied down the runway. Trees on either side of the runway thrashed in the wind, throwing off branches that slammed into the nearest buildings. As the jets built up speed, everything became a blur – everything except a massive thunderhead just in front of them.

Echo Leader to Squadron. Jessup’s voice crackled in Jim’s ear. Watch this thunderhead in front of us. Bank hard right out of the pocket and rendezvous at 22 Northwest. Everybody copy?

Echo Two copies, Jim replied. The Squadron was in a boiling mass of clouds now, still climbing, but without visibility. As the planes ascended, the wind shears bounced them like river buoys, despite the jets’ powerful engines – first up… then left…then down…then up again...

Then suddenly, bright sunlight, clear blue sky, and no buffeting. They were on top of the storm.

Jim took a deep breath, relaxed, and looked around. …God, I love it up here, he thought to himself. These colors, these textures… they remind me of the magnificent canyons of Arizona... except these canyons are constantly changing, minute to minute, horizon to horizon. It’s really fantastic... It’s a shame I don’t have anybody to share it with…somebody at home... wherever home is...

Echo Leader to Squadron. Jessup was calling again. They’d arrived at the rendezvous point, and Jessup had routinely brought the Squadron full circle, so the pilots could fly their missile runs head-on against the huge, menacing row of thunderheads.

Two bogies forming at ten o’clock, Jessup announced.

Jim glanced quickly to his left – to the ten o’clock position. Just as Jessup was saying: two tornado funnels, just forming – not yet stable, and not yet large.

Discretionary launches on three runs, Jessup instructed. Rendezvous after three. Left patterns. Echo Leader out.

One by one, the Echo pilots rolled their Falcons out of formation and into the first missile run. Within seconds, both of the target tornadoes were being tracked by the sophisticated weapons systems on-board each of the F-16’s.   As the jets streaked towards the two funnels, ever-changing values of Time-to-Target and Missile-Fuse-Settings were computed and displayed in each cockpit. Then, one after the other, the jets spat their Concussion Missiles and banked sharply to the left. As each jet sped away, its missiles ran straight and true to the points where the two tornado funnels were connected to their parent thunderheads. Then flash after flash, the missiles exploded, slapping at the funnels like some giant hand – preventing the funnels from stabilizing… preventing the tornadoes from reaching the earth below.

A quick circle back, and the Echo pilots began a second missile run. Just as before, each of the F-16’s weapons systems locked onto the two target funnels. Again, the jets streaked towards the two tornadoes, spat their Concussion Missiles, and banked sharply to the left...

Then suddenly, something – Jim couldn’t identify what – flew at him from his three o’clock position. There were the sounds of metal-smashing-metal, loud cockpit alarms, and a sputtering jet engine. Jim’s F-16 twisted and lunged like some powerful, wounded animal. Every warning light in his cockpit flashed cherry-red. His plane nosed into a steep dive, and careened away from the rest of the Squadron. Jim struggled to regain control, but his Falcon fought every move he made. He attempted to broadcast an emergency May-Day call, but his radio was dead – completely silent.

Nothing on his aircraft was working. Nothing.

The only thing left for Jim to do was eject, to abandon his wounded F-16, and to hope it didn’t kill anyone when it crashed.

But then…

It was over as quickly as it had started. All of his instruments, all of his alarms, all of his controls – everything – returned to normal. Even his engine returned to normal – no flame-out, no problem of any kind.

Jim pulled the Falcon out of its steep dive as if the whole event were simply a normal combat maneuver. It was as if nothing had happened.

Jim shook his head in disbelief. …What the living hell… What just happened? What was that thing? What could cause a Falcon to…

Turbo to Sandman, Turbo to Sandman: Come on back. Over. The message blasted from Jim’s radio, startling him at first. Turbo to Sandman, Turbo to Sandman. Please respond.

It was Turbo Nelson. Jessup must have sent him. …That Jessup doesn’t miss a thing. Damned good Squadron Leader. Well, I’d better talk to Turbo before he blows a gasket...

Jim responded as calmly as he could. Sandman back. What’s up, Turbo?

What’s up? What the hell do you mean, what’s up? What happened back there? We saw you take the swan-dive, then we tried to call you, but all we got was dead air space. Over. Turbo sounded genuinely worried – and a little irritated.

"Sorry, Turbo. Not sure what happened. Pretty sure I hit something…or it hit me…then everything went off-line. Even the radio. Couldn’t call a May-Day. Then, everything came back on-line, just as if nothing happened. Over."

"I saw what you hit, Turbo replied. It looked metallic, disc-shaped, and small, maybe ten or fifteen feet across..."

Are you saying I hit a small UFO? Jim interrupted.

Hey, hey... Come on, Jim…I didn’t say that ... Know what I mean? Anyway, when the thing bounced off your nose, it dropped like a rock into that lake below. Over.

Copy that. Jim looked down past several patches of clouds to the lake beneath them. Then he looked at his instruments to fix the lake’s location. Finally, he looked at the sky around them and asked, Where’s everybody else?

Two Sectors northwest, Turbo replied. They’re still throwin’ stones. Wanna join them?

Better head back. This bird needs a checkup. Catch you later, Turbo.

Roger that. Watch your tail, Sandman.

The two of them waved off from each other, and Jim headed back to Rantoul. On the way back, Jim’s thoughts immediately turned again to the object that hit him.

…A small UFO? Around here? Who or what would be flying something like that around here?

By the time Jim landed at Rantoul, he had many more questions about the strange craft, but not a single answer that would satisfy him.

************

2.

It was six o’clock before Jim completed his Mission Report, climbed into Old Blue (his five-year-old Corvette) and drove past Rantoul’s North Gate towards Route 136 West. The storm had long since past, and the sun had already dried out most of the streets and sidewalks around Rantoul (although there were still enough puddles for the birds and the neighborhood kids to splash in). The grass, the shrubs, and the trees around town were all springtime green, with accents of yellow dandelions, and white and pink blossoms. There was a faint breeze stirring, and the air was pleasantly warm and fresh.

But Jim wasn’t taking in the local scenery. He was still thinking about his encounter with the disc –plus the fact that he hadn’t had anything to eat since ten that morning.

…Time to fuel up…OK…What do we have here… MacDonald’s…Why not? MacDonald’s it is... …Maybe a couple of burgers…Yeah, that’ll work…

Jim turned into the Golden Arches drive-thru where he ordered two large vanilla milk shakes, two quarter-pounders, and a large bag of fries. Before he left the parking lot, Jim took the roof panel off his Corvette and stored it in the trunk. A few minutes later, he was back on Route 136, driving with his left hand, eating a quarter-pounder with his right – and thinking about the disc again.

…I wonder if I could find that thing…Let’s see... It dropped into a lake about thirty miles due west of here. There’s still an hour or two of daylight left… Maybe I could locate the wreckage before nightfall... Why not? I don’t have anything else to do, anyway… And it’s a great night for a ride around a lake... Might even be some interesting local action around there... Maybe a supper club, or a sports bar, or something...

Jim nodded, finished his second quarter-pounder and nudged the Corvette up to 65. The lake was only half an hour away.

************

3.

By seven, Jim had acquired a map, located the lake on Route 54 South, and had driven five miles along its perimeter without seeing the disc wreckage, a building, or another human being. According to his map, Jim was driving around Clinton Lake. It was a u-shaped lake, with each leg of the u being about ten