Almost Fatal

By Phillip N Hancock, Sr

With visibility down to almost zero, Master Sergeant Hancock heads off Beale Air Force base heading down highway 65 for a New Years Eve party some fifty miles away in Sacramento. With his speed down to around twenty miles per hour he is concerned about running into an unseen vehicle ahead or being run into by a faster vehicle from behind. The only roadway guidance he has is the white line on the right side of the road and that line disappears at every intersection leaving this individual with little idea of his actual heading. The fog suddenly disappears and the vehicle he is riding in has changed into a speeding unfamiliar conveyance uncontrolled by the occupant. Barreling down a trough at speeds way beyond his experience, this First Sergeant recalls earlier events that also threatened his existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phillip N Hancock, Sr
• Release date: May 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370539284

Phillip N Hancock, Sr

Air Force Enlisted First Sergeant 25 Years of ServiceHydro System Controller for The Central Valley Project in Sacramento, CA 18 Years ServiceRetired, playing golf, working at our ranch and writing fiction

Book preview

Almost Fatal

by

Phillip N. Hancock, Sr.

The following book is not totally fictitious but any resemblance to actual places, characters or events is a product of the writer's life and imagination

Text copyright @ 02/16/2013 Phillip N. Hancock, Sr.

ISBN: 9781370539284

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Note: All cover artwork is a combination of free photo art combined with the authors use of computer programs and no copyrights were violated.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1-Just Thinking Back

Chapter 2-Fencing

Chapter 3-Bailing Out

Chapter 4-Why did the Chicken

Chapter 5-Another One Bites the Dust

Chapter 6-Point of no Return

Chapter 7-Can Can

Chapter 8-Tree of Wisdom

Chapter 9-Trucks and Bars

Chapter 10-Taking a Dive

Chapter 11-The Tower of Fear

Chapter 12-Blown out of Proportion

Chapter 13-Brace for Impact

Chapter 14-Dark Night No Lights

Chapter 15-Those are the Brakes

Chapter 16-Piping Over

Chapter 17-Going for Depth

Chapter 18-Black Night, Black Ice

Chapter 19-Alabama Lever

Chapter 20-Found in Newfoundland

Chapter 21-Hooking up in Thailand

Chapter 22-Paradise Found

Chapter 23-Pop Goes the Weasel

Chapter 24-Green Light, Red Light

Chapter 25-Dodging the Bullet

Chapter 26-There She Blows

Chapter 27-And the Answer is

Other Books

Before You Go

Chapter One

Just Thinking Back

It’s not unusual for me to talk to myself, in my mind anyway, and here I am doing it again. I am over the age of, well, let’s just say I am no spring chicken. But, on the other hand, I am not on my death bed nor has my life flashed before my eyes. Actually things are pretty good and I, hopefully, have many years ahead of me. There are no wolves hanging around my door and the last debtor that, mistakenly, bothered me is standing in line trying to get a hand-out from the government, I wish them well. Anyway that is not what these thoughts are about.

I, for no particular reason, was just thinking back about the number of times I have come close to buying the farm, kicking the bucket, cashing in the chips or meeting Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates. Not something many people dwell on.

I bet if you thought for a moment and looked back through your life you could find numerous similar incidents. Some where only time in seconds, equipment’s perfect performance or some other unexpected action actually saved you, thereby preventing your early demise. Maybe you don’t want to look back, that’s ok. I didn’t mean to bring up any of the things you already had trouble forgetting. We will just try to deal with mine, if you don’t mind.

Right off the top of my head I can recall twenty six different instances where, except for one or two seconds of time or one small interfering item, I would have been toast. Twenty six without giving it much thought, staggering as it might seem I can just bet that with some thought I could extend those to a much higher number.

Maybe I am just lucky or have a guardian Angel watching over me. Anyone of these twenty six incidents could have been the culprit and except for a few seconds in time, space, equipment or plain luck I am still here. I have decided, that is if you will permit, that I would like to tell you about those twenty six incidents. Maybe my telling you about them will cause you to remember and identify some of the times that you too came close to having a parlay with Davy Jones, a meeting with the Grim Reaper or maybe a quiet conversation with the Ghost Whisperer, if so, I’m sorry about that in advance.

You are probably wondering why I, all of a sudden, started thinking about those past incidents. In my present predicament I can think of no better way to past the time. I told you earlier that things were going pretty good, well, that was an understatement, things are going and going very fast.

A few minutes ago I was driving from Beale AFB, California to Sacramento, a short forty mile trip, for a New Years Eve party. My wife had gone on ahead and was waiting for me at a friend’s house. Base activities had kept me late at work.

A young airman from my squadron had robbed a local gas station. No one was hurt as the employees at the gas station had remained calm and complied with the robbers demands. They recognized his condition as most likely drug induced as the things he was demanding were all consumables, he hadn’t requested money. The clerk, making no sudden moves, placed several bags of chips, numerous candy bars and two large bottles of sodas in a plastic grocery bag and carefully handed it over. Actually smiling and thanking the clerk the young airman walked out and down the street eating as he went.

Cracking the case was in no way some elaborate investigation that led to a suspect, it was way simpler than that. After holding up the gas station with a pellet pistol the young airman ate his way back to his apartment dropping candy wrappers and litter along his path as if he were Hansel and Gretel on their way into the woods. Following that trail of litter didn’t take any native tracker either just a single patrolman. The officer followed the trail right to where the young airman had eaten his fill and then fallen asleep. The officer retrieved the pellet pistol first then rolled the sleeping airman over and handcuffed him. He then called for backup and transportation for his prisoner. I had to now go down to the local lockup and see if there was anything I could do for the young soldier.

By the time I finished it was already getting dark in the early evening, around seven PM. Gathering up a bag for overnight I finally got to my car and slowly drove south down highway 65. The fog had dropped down on the road and visibility was almost zero. I was watching the white line on the right side of the road, this I did so I could tell where I was in relationship to the highway. At every intersection the white line is gone leaving me as if I were in an open field. It was hard to tell if I was going straight or had inadvertently turned and would now be exiting the intersection going the wrong way on the other side of the road. Picking up that white line again would flood me with short lived relief. It was extremely stressful and I had tightened my grip on the wheel and my energy was slowly being drained due that stress. My speed was no more than twenty mph and I was concerned about what I might run into and what might run into me from behind.

The road changes in the fog and nothing seemed familiar even though I had driven this road many times. The railroad tracks that crossed highway 65 just before Lincoln were on me before I realized it and thankfully no train was present at this time.

I was alone and about half way to my destination. I considered turning around but realized that the road back was known and it was a nightmare, where going forward I might exit the fog at anytime. This was not unlike those hitch hiking trips when I was young. We didn’t have a car so we hitch hiked to town whenever we had a little change and some free time. Sometimes we would catch a ride that dropped us off half way to town where we would have to try to catch another ride. There were a few instances we would just be stuck there for hours, half way with no ride and no hope. We would then have to flip a coin, go on to town at this late hour or hitch back home. The only difference now is there’s always traffic, even in this fog, where back then almost no traffic so we went with whatever traffic there was, no matter which way it was going and the coin flip was usually moot.

I had been driving for more than an hour and had made it through Lincoln on the way to Roseville. A bright flash of light and suddenly the road was clear the fog was suddenly gone. This was great, however, it wasn’t the clear road I expected. As a matter of fact numerous things had changed. The car I had been driving, previously a 1982 Accord hatchback, was very different as this one had a dashboard I did not recognize. This new vehicle was a very small aerodynamically designed two-seater.

I was accustomed to a speedometer that had a nice little needle that moved around in a circle pointing to a number that indicated your miles per hour. This, whatever it was, had no needle. I know you’re going to think I’m nuts but this one had, well it was like, a TV screen in front of me behind what I assumed was some kind of steering wheel. It wasn’t a wheel and it wasn’t a half wheel, like in an airplane. It was more like an H pattern with grips on each side not quite shoulder width. There were multiple buttons and toggle switches on both of these grips. There was just no way I was gripping those handles or touching any of those buttons or switches.

There was only a little noise from outside, but I could tell that the wind was flying by as if I was going really fast. I looked out the side window and the obstacles, whatever they were, going by were just a blur. I looked out the front windscreen and the path or road I was on was like a trough with a single white line down the middle which this vehicle evidently straddled. The sides of the trough were half way up the side windows so I could see very little of the surrounding area. Looking out front again I could see the road, the sky overhead and it seemed to me like the trough, I was riding in, was some distance above the surrounding landscape.

I looked at the TV screen and tried to figure out what was playing or what the display represented. Actually it looked like a combination of controls and gages on the screen. There was one display that read Cell Charge and it projected 92%. There was a trip display that read 27 out of 3520. There was a display that showed a large W a number, 280, with a degree sign. A compass I guess. The largest numbers were in the middle and they blinked back and forth between 250 and 251 followed by a small mph. MPH! Can that be right?

I smacked my face with my right hand and shouted Wake Up! No change, I must not be sleeping. If I am traveling this fast where is the wind noise, the sound of the high revving engine and the rpm gauge? Where the hell is the gas gauge? I looked down at my feet and couldn’t see a brake or an accelerator and I wondered, where am I going at this break neck speed and where did I come from?

Knowing I was maybe headed for disaster at a pace I didn’t understand is what put me onto life’s previous perilous incidents. They ran across my mind in chronological order for some unexplained reason. If I could I would grab my favorite beverage, a comfortable chair and, by all means, I would put my feet up. Well what I mean is, I’m going to make myself as comfortable as possible and delve into my almost disastrous past.

Chapter Two

Fencing

I was five years old when the first incident happened. It is not as clear to me now as it was then. Of course at that age I did not realize how close to something permanent the incident was.

I am a product of an extremely rural beginning. Our home was located out in the country about five miles from the small town of McCall Creek, Mississippi. My father and mother lived in a very small slab board unpainted house. The walls were not insulated and in some places the boards had warped or shrunk leaving some small visible cracks. One of dads joke later in life was that the walls in our first home were so bad you could swing a cat around by the tail and when you let him go he would probably fly outside through one of the many cracks in the wall.

The floors, if I remember correctly, were not finished but were kept clean with homemade brooms of string tied bundles of straw. I actually think our early floors were packed clay or dirt. Later on dad added the wood floors which made a huge difference in heating. The heating was from a fireplace in the front room only. I don’t believe we had natural gas at that time for our cooking was done on a wood burning stove.

We had horses, cows, pigs and chickens. We raised our own food and had a flourishing garden. Turnips, Crowder Peas, Corn on the Cob, String Beans, Bell Peppers, Onions, Okra, Butter Beans, Tomatoes and any other vegetable you can think of, we grew. We made our on Corn Meal, Butter, Cream and Cooking Lard. I don’t believe we bought anything, food wise, from a market. Oh wait, we did buy white bread, you know the sliced loaf kind. The reason we bought that, a rare delicacy, we did not grow wheat, not down south. All the main growing land was saved for growing the cash crop of Cotton.

Thinking of cotton brings back memories of horse drawn tall wooden slatted wagons filled with loose cotton on the way to the cotton mill where Eli Whitney’s invention, the cotton gin, waited. I rode in the back on that cotton all the way to the mill some three or four miles away.

Once at the mill we waited in line until it was our turn to be weighed and unloaded. The unloading was my main memory as the cotton was actually sucked out of the wagon by a large flexible tube that the men would guide around inside the wagon from corner to corner. There was quite a bit of suction in that pipe and, since I was just a small kid, I was often teased by the operator that I was going to be sucked up into the mill if I didn’t watch out.

That of course was in the fall during harvest. Earlier in the spring I remember following my grandfather down the long rows as he plowed the ground in preparation for planting that cotton. The Gee and Haw he called out loudly to the two horses that pulled the hand guided plow I distinctly remember. Those horses were in sync with him and few commands were given as they seemed to know what was expected. He manhandled that plow keeping the rows as straight and true as the tracts of a railroad. I remember how hard it was for me stepping