//------------------------------// // Chapter 1: The Perfect Storm // Story: Flight 19 // by ImChangingmynameforreaso //------------------------------// Chapter 1: The Perfect Storm         George Stivers opened his eyes, an act he had not really expected to ever perform again.  He immediately shut them as they were barraged with light, the piercing sun thundering in and making his head pound. Oh God, what did I do to spite you? He chuckled humorlessly as he forced his eyes open again, turning his head carefully to take a look around himself.  The nose of his aircraft was mostly buried in the dirt, but the glass of his cockpit was still intact. He looked to his left and saw the mountain he had narrowly avoided colliding with looming over a field of what should have been a great expanse of ocean, but was instead grass. To his right was the start of a coniferous forest.  The fact that none of these should exist in what was supposed to have been the Gulf of Mexico nagged at the back of his brain for a moment, before he pushed it aside. He gritted his teeth and turned his head, wincing at the explosion of pain between his temples.  He stopped in place, counted to ten, and opened his eyes again.  Behind him in the cockpit were his troublemakers at large, Gallivan and Gruebel.  Both appeared to be unconscious, but were breathing normally, from what he could tell.  Turning back to face forward once more, he reached up and unlocked the canopy, then grabbed both handles on either side and slid it back.  Clear, fresh air, slightly cool, wafted in.  He could smell pine sap, grass, and what might have been the hint of a recent rain.  He glanced toward the mountain again, his eyes attracted by a smudge that was moving near the ground.  Stivers reached up, slowly rubbed his eyes to clear them, and peered closer. It was smoke.  Near the edge of the mountain, a great billowing mass wafted up from a tangle of torn and twisted wreckage that jutted from the ground. It was the plane he had followed in, the one piloted by Captain Powers. No way anyone survived that wreck. What happened? Stivers forced his complaining muscles into motion, placing a hand on either side of the cockpit and lifting himself until he stood upright.  He glanced behind him and noticed the tail of his Avenger had come off and was now lying some twenty feet behind them. That might not buff out... at least we made it, though. The sound of someone coughing shook Stivers from his thoughts.  He glanced involuntarily in the direction of the noise and his head sent another bolt of pain that seemed to jump from ear to ear.  Dammit.  He blinked rapidly and looked more carefully back behind his aircraft. Another Avenger bomber lay about thirty yards away from his own.  An angular shape rapidly separated from it and revealed itself to be Lieutenant Taylor, emerging from his plane, and looking relatively unscathed.  The pilot carried one of the tiny onboard fire extinguishers in one hand, which he began spraying frantically at the after section of his crew compartment.  The entire section aft of the pilots seat had grown a lively head of yellow orange hair; flames crackled and snapped viciously at the lieutenant as he fought to put out the conflagration. “Shit, I’m coming Taylor!” Stivers yelled, panicking at the sight. He grabbed his own fire extinguisher from under his seat and vaulted over the rim of the cockpit, landing hard on the grass and going down on one knee with a grunt.  Forcing himself upright, he ran over to join the other pilot and began spraying the extinguisher at the after section of the crew compartment where the rear gun turret was located.  Live ammo, live ammo, please don’t cook off...  The off-white powder settled and coated everything inside the aircraft, the flames dying back as Stivers aimed the stream at the base of the fire as they’d been taught.  Starve the flame at the source, don’t let it eat. As Taylor’s extinguisher ran out, he reached into the compartment and grabbed both Devlin and Parpart, hauling them out of the craft. From Stivers' position on the opposite side of the aircraft, he couldn’t see their condition, so he kept on the fire, continuing to spray the extinguisher even after the flames were out, coating the burned surfaces over and over until the bottle ran dry. Taylor sat on the ground on the other side of the plane, staring mutely at the motionless forms beside him.  Both of the men from his plane were dead. Third degree burns covered most of their bodies, and their clothes were covered in the flame-retardant chemicals that had arrived too late to help them. “Shit. What happened?” Taylor gave a resigned sigh and stood up, brushing the powder from his hands.   “I think we got hit by lightning or something.  Electrical fire.  My instrument panel was shot to shit in a heartbeat.  The guys... well.” “Lightning? I didn’t see any lightning. What the hell happened here?” “I don’t know, Stivers. I saw some explosions, and somehow, you ended up in front of me.  So I followed you in. There was too much cloud cover to see anything else.” “Where’s eight-one and three? You think they made it through?” Taylor’s expression was answer enough for Stivers. “Whatever it was that forced us down probably took them, too. How’s your crew?” “Alive, I think.  Taking a nap... we all got pretty shook up on impact.  I don’t know how long I was out, myself. Speaking of which, we should check on Powers’ bird. See if...” His voice trailed off as he looked at the smoking heap off in the distance.  Stivers knew no one was walking away from that crash.  Nose first into anything going at highway speeds was bad enough, let alone three times that. “Oh, Christ,” Taylor said simply.  He ran back to his own aircraft, fumbling around in the navigator’s compartment for a moment.  He straightened up, holding the other fire extinguisher from the aft section, hissing as the hot metal scorched his hands.  “SHIT!”  He dropped the bottle, kicking at it angrily in reflex, then picked it up again, juggling it from hand to hand. “Slow down, Charlie.”  Stivers reached into the pilot’s compartment and grabbed a handful of maps from the right side pocket next to the seat.  Wrapping them around the extinguisher bottle, he picked it up gingerly.  “Okay, come on, let’s go check on E. J.” The two pilots broke into a jog, heading towards the still burning aircraft.  “Dammit, I told him to stick close to me,” Taylor snapped.  “How the hell did he end up way out there?” “Charlie, don’t even start.  You didn’t make him crash.  The lightning did.  Or storm.  Or whatever the hell we ran into up there.” “Still my responsibility.  My flight,”  Taylor said, a mulish look on his face. “So you’re in charge of acts of God, now?  That load’s gonna get heavy quick, Taylor.  Let it go.” Stivers said.  The two drew closer to the wrecked aircraft and slowed to a halt, staring in shock at the damage that the impact had wrought to FT-36. The crashed plane’s canopy was entirely shattered and the front half of the plane was nearly smashed flat.  Both of the wings had snapped at the fuselage, and were nowhere in sight.  A litter of glass, aluminium and torn steel carpeted the grass around the plane, and the ground itself was scorched and torn, a long, twisted furrow in the earth bearing mute testament to the horrific impact the bomber had sustained. They drew closer to the still burning wreck, Stivers starting to hit the fire where he could with the fire extinguisher.  Much of the rear of the aircraft was already out, a twisted and scorched frame that looked as if a giant had punted the airplane for a field goal.  Stivers concentrated on the cockpit area, trying to get the flame to at least die back enough to get a look, but everywhere he looked, he only saw scorched and blackened metal. Taylor’s voice brought him to a sudden halt.  “Holy shit Stivers, Thompson is alive!” Stivers would have thought it would be impossible to live through a crash like the one he saw before him.  He walked around the tail of the aircraft to where Taylor was crouched over the motionless figure of Thompson, and wondered again if he was right the first time.  The Marine gunner lay sprawled on the ground, his face, chest, and arms ravaged with burns, the flesh scorched and blackened in horrible patterns.  His left arm was twisted awkwardly underneath him, and pieces of the canopy framework looked to be embedded in his chest and side, and only the faint movement of his breathing betrayed the fact that the form in front of Stivers was still a living being. Stivers turned without a word and began sprinting back toward his own aircraft, hoping madly that something in the emergency medical kit on board would be able to do... something.  His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he ran, his head thumping sickly in tune with it.  As he approached his plane, he heard coughing coming from within. He slid to a stop, catching himself on the side of the aircraft, and looked toward the rear of the crew compartment.  He leaned inward, hands scrabbling frantically at the clasps that kept the small metal kit secured to the side of the cockpit. Rob Gruebel’s coughing had slowed by the time Stivers released the kit from its moorings. “Captain Stivers, is that you?” He asked in a bleary voice.  “What the fuck happened?” Stivers forced himself to stop and take a deep breath.  “We crashed, Taylor’s alive, Devlin and Parpart are dead, and now I need to go save Thompson’s life.  If you’re not dead, pull yourself out of there and come help us.”  Gripping the med kit in his hands, he turned and ran back toward the smouldering wreck of FT-36, leaving Gruebel behind to stare blankly after him. Stivers ran as quickly as he could, the medical kit slapping against his side, where a stitch was forming.  Christ, you’re out of shape, old man.  Breathing hard, he slid to a stop and almost tripped over a section of torn aluminum near the remains of the airplane.  Taylor looked up at him, and Stivers could see the relief in his face as he caught sight of the medical kit. “Thank God that didn’t burn up.  You... you have any idea how to treat any of this?”  Taylor looked down at Thompson.  “This shit is way beyond an alcohol rub.” “Shut up and let me think.”  Stivers knelt down over the form of the gunner, looking over his burns and the shrapnel wounds.  “I’ll take care of this.  You wanna check on the others?” Taylor started.  “Yeah, no problem.”  He stood up, and glanced at the still burning wreck.  “If it was going to blow up any more by now, it would have.  I’m guessing the ammo cooked off while it was still on board or something—” Stivers opened the medical kit and began fumbling through the contents.  “Lieutenant, accident investigation later, okay?  Just... check and see if anyone else is still in that mess.”  He swallowed heavily.  “Just so we’ll know.” Taylor opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it and simply turned away, picking his way gingerly around the remains of the aircraft while trying to find a way to get closer.  Stivers watched him for a moment, and then looked back down at Thompson. “Christ, what a mess,” he muttered to himself, and pulled out a pair of shears from the kit.  He heard footsteps behind him, and looked around to see Gruebel walking up, swaying slightly, but on his feet.  “How you doin?” “Gallivan is still alive. Thanks for checking on us, by the way.” “No problem.” Stivers turned back to focus on the wounded man in front of him, cutting Thompson’s flight jacket into pieces and removing it bit by bit.  A large portion of the embedded metal came out as the flight jacket was removed, causing some of the wounds to tear. “Help me out Gruebel, will yah?” “Sure thing, boss.”  Gruebel knelt down beside him.  “What do you need?” “You’re the one who used to be a field medic.  See if you can pick what’s left of that crap out of him without tearing him up any further.  I’m going to try to get his arm back where it’s supposed to be.” Gruebel removed a small set of forceps from the medical kit as Stivers gripped Thompson’s arm, feeling the edges of the broken bone beneath.  Squeezing it carefully, he pushed the bone back into something resembling its original shape.  While he was working, Gruebel started removing the smaller pieces of shrapnel, carefully easing each one out and eyeing the wounds for any sudden bleeding his movements might cause. “Christ, Cap, this guy needs a doctor, not a has-been corpsman.” Stivers looked up at Gruebel, his forehead beaded with sweat.  “If you have one in your pocket, drag him out.  Otherwise, you’re all he’s got right now.  Just do the best you can, private.” “Aye-aye, sir.”  Gruebel gritted his teeth and continued picking shards of metal out of Thompson’s side.  “I just wish I had eight hands to put pressure on all of these.” “You’re doin’ fine.”  Stivers didn’t know if the makeshift medic was doing fine or not, but encouragement was all he could offer at the moment.  He stood up and looked around, then jogged a short distance away and picked up a small branch that was lying in the grass.  Breaking off the twigs from the rest of it, he carried it over and laid it lengthwise against Thompson’s arm and began binding it tightly with the strips of the crewman’s ruined jacket.  Once he finished, he grabbed the small bottle of alcohol out of the kit and a small gauze pad and began brushing gingerly at the horrible burns, trying to clean them as best he could. “Don’t swipe at those too hard.”  Gruebel put down the bloody forceps and picked up a tightly bound package of fine twine.  “He’s got third degree burns, Cap.  You’ll pull his skin off.” Stivers swallowed uneasily.  “Okay, what do I do?” “Just soak the pad and pat ‘em down, then wrap them.  Not much else we can do right now.”  Gruebel produced a needle from the kit, threaded one end of the twine to it and tied it off.  “Rinse the wounds out, too.  I gotta get this shit closed up before he leaks himself to death, here.” Together they washed Thompson’s wounds as much as possible and began binding them up.  Stivers concentrated on wrapping the wounded man’s face and arms, and tried to ignore the sight of Gruebel busily sewing the torn flesh together.  If Thompson manages to pull through, he’s gonna have one hell of a set of scars to show off, the captain thought. As they were finishing up, Taylor appeared, moving slowly, his face grim and blackened with soot and sweat. “Anyone else left?” Stivers asked. “No one. How’s Thompson?” The pain in Taylor’s voice was evident. “He’s stable, or as close as he’s gonna get right now. I can’t do anything else for him.”  Gruebel stood up, wiping his bloody hands on his pants.  “Cap, we oughta get him away from this wreck, someplace with a little more shelter or something.”  He eyed the sky mistrustfully.  “We oughta make camp too, before it gets dark.  If it decides to rain on him, we’re completely fucked.  I can’t cure pneumonia with a band-aid and a pack of gauze.” “You really think we should move him?” Gruebel held his hands out in a helpless shrug.  What choice have we got? was clearly written on his face. “I know, I know.”  Stivers reached out and gripped one of Gruebel’s arms for a moment, then let his hand drop.  “Okay.  Go check on Gallivan and see if the lazy bastard’s woken up yet.  Taylor, help me carry Thompson back to the other planes, away from this mess.  We’ll break out the survival gear and set up the tents.” As Gruebel moved off, Taylor walked over to help gather up Thompson.  “George, we...”  The lieutenant trailed off and looked around them at the grassy field, the forest surrounding it on all sides, and the mountain looming nearby.  “We should have landed in the water.  Where the hell are we?” “Charlie, I don’t know.”  Stivers knelt and gripped Thompson carefully under his arms.  “One problem at a time.  Get his feet, would you?” Gallivan had a nasty cut over one eye, but claimed he was fine.  “I’ve had worse in bar fights, I’m fit for duty.” “Like hell you are.”  Gruebel looked at him closely.  “You probably had a concussion when we hit.  You shouldn’t even be standing up right now.” “Heard that in a lot of bars, too.” “Yeah, and I was usually the one telling you that, Sarge.” Gallivan stopped and stared at the private.  “What are you, my mother?” “Nah.”  Gruebel stopped and stretched.  “I can’t make kids that ugly.” “Knock it off, you two,” Stivers growled.  “Come on, let’s get this done.” The little survival tents were difficult to manage, but the four men managed together to finally get them set up.  They placed Thompson in the one nearest Taylor’s downed aircraft; it provided a decent windbreak, and if any rain did occur, it would help shelter the wounded man, at least slightly. “Okay, Taylor and I are going to go grab some firewood.”  Stivers stretched, feeling his spine pop agreeably.  “Gallivan, sit down like the good doctor said, and you,” he said, pointing at Gruebel, “join him.  You need a break.” “Cap, I’m fine.”  Gruebel stood for a moment, swaying slightly.  “I just have some other stuff to do.” “Like what?  You doing a book report?”  Stivers shook his head.  “Go take five, for Christ’s sake.” “Cap, I... I want to get the other guys.”  Gruebel swallowed. Taylor spoke up, his voice not quite steady.  “You can’t help them, private.  I checked on everyone else.” “Yes sir, I know, but we can’t just... leave them out there?”  Gruebel waved a hand aimlessly at the forest nearby.  “I mean, the animals... ya know?” Gallivan immediately walked over beside him.  “I’ll help.  You can’t do it alone.” Stivers stood for a moment, then nodded.  “Okay,” he said quietly.  “Take it slow, and... put them where you think’s best.” He raised a hand to Taylor, who had opened his mouth to speak.  “Not you, Charlie.  I need your help with the firewood.  The dead are dead, we gotta look after ourselves, too.” “Thanks, sir.”  The two Marines moved off, and Stivers walked over to Taylor, who stood still, his jaw clenched. “What’s the matter?  Think I can’t take touching a dead person?” “Yeah, I think you can, Charlie.  But right now, you don’t need to, okay?”  Stivers headed off toward the nearby trees, picking up a branch or two as he went, forcing Taylor to follow him.  “We’ve seen this kind of stuff before.  Too many times.  And right now you’re still busy kicking yourself for something you couldn’t prevent.”  He put a hand on the other pilot’s shoulder.  “The only reason we’re still standing here with you is because of the training you gave us.  You didn’t let us down, Charlie, and you’re not God.” Taylor shrugged the hand off, the mulish look reappearing on his face.  “My flight.  My responsibility.” “Yeah, that’s what the book says, but it doesn’t tell you how to make sense out of it, does it?”  Without another word, Stivers walked away and began gathering fallen limbs, breaking the larger ones into smaller pieces and stacking them in the crook of his left arm.  He glanced around and saw Taylor move slowly over to join him. Together, the two gathered as many small limbs as they could carry and brought them back to the makeshift camp near their aircraft.  Taking a moment to check on Thompson, they headed back to get a second load.  The sun had lowered to the point in the sky where twilight was fast approaching, the stars just becoming visible in the west.  The woods looked thick and deep, and neither pilot wanted to wander too close to them after dark, looking for firewood. As Stivers was picking up some detritus from a fallen tree, Taylor froze in place, his eyes wide. “Stivers, did you see that?” “See what, Taylor?” Stivers’ annoyance was palpable. “I... I don’t know. I just think I saw something in the woods. You think there are any bears nearby?” Stivers straightened up and peered at the other officer.  Taylor seemed genuinely worried.  “Well Taylor, if there is a bear, I guess I’ll just have to wrestle it into submission.” The lieutenant shot him a dirty look.  “Ha-ha, real funny.  I’m being serious. What if there is something dangerous out there?” “You aren’t much of an outdoors man are you? Still got your sidearm?” Taylor gave a confirmatory nod. “Good. Just shoot it then.” Stivers picked up the last of his armful of wood and started back to camp with Taylor. “Come on Taylor, let’s—” “Stivers, where the heck are we?”  The look of frustration was livid on the pilot’s face.  “I’ve got thousands of hours in those aircraft.  The last time I got lost, I was still in flight school myself.  I’ve flown over open ocean and back to a carrier again.  Even the stars are right.  Look, there’s Orion over there.  Right where it’s supposed to be.  We should be swimming somewhere off the coast of Florida.  Florida, where there are people, houses, and power lines and roads and no goddamn mountains.  How the fuck did we end up here?”  He kept coming back to that, and Stivers couldn’t blame him.  “Taylor, let’s concentrate on survival for now.  Don’t count on anything at the moment.  Assume we’re in hostile territory.” “Hostile?  Who’s left to be hostile?  We kicked Germany’s ass, and Japan’s ass, too.” Stivers looked at him patiently, waiting. “Right.  Okay, whatever.”  Taylor sighed.  “So this is how it feels to be a grunt.” “Gyrene.  Get it right, squidhead.”  Stivers grinned and clapped him on the shoulder with his free hand.  “Come on, it’s darking up fast.  Let’s get back.” The evening gloom was coming on quickly, and they could make out the form of Gallivan pacing the area around the aircraft as they approached.  “Evening, sirs.  Gruebel’s watching over Thompson.”  He rubbed his hands together and walked toward them.  “Already getting chilly.  Let’s get that fire started.” Stivers and Taylor exchanged glances.  Taylor’s look was one of surprised amusement, and Stivers held the look of a man who’s walked out of the bathroom with his pants still around his ankles.  “Um... that might be a bad idea, sergeant.”  Stivers looked down at the load of wood in his hands, suddenly feeling like an idiot.  “We... discussed it, and we aren’t having that fire.” “What, why not?” “We really don’t know where we are,” Taylor said helpfully.  “So we’re going to assume it’s hostile country until proven otherwise.” “Dammit.”  Gallivan peered at them.  “Why’d you go get the wood then?” “Just in case it’s proven otherwise,” Stivers growled.  He and Taylor dropped their wood beside Thompson’s tent. “Shit. All right.”  Gallivan’s expression suggested he might have just bitten into something rotten.  “Who’s first on watch?” “Spike, we need to alert the princesses of this.” Twilight Sparkle had been studying the stars since she was a filly, and nothing she had ever seen or read about even remotely resembled what they had witnessed tonight.  None of the astronomy books she possessed could shed light on what had happened, and the Ponyville library was one of the best stocked collections outside of Canterlot itself. “Twilight, it’s two in the morning,” came Spike’s indignant reply. “Can’t it wait?” “No, Spike, this could be a cosmic emergency!” Twilight was shouting now as she paced back and forth in her room. “Fine, I’ll send a letter, but after that, I’m going to bed.” Spike was up far past his bedtime.  As Twilight kept telling him, he was still a baby dragon, and as far as he was concerned, he was off duty.  Owlolicious, Twilight’s nighttime assistant, could deal with this mess. Dear Princess Celestia,         I was practicing my nightly ritual of sky watching this evening and to my utmost disappointment, the clouds had not been cleared away by the pegasi.  It was in these clouds, however, that I saw something strange.  After scanning for several minutes for any break in the clouds, I had discovered several flashing lights that were both green and red in colour.  After tracking these lights for a few moments something else happened.  Right where the lights had been before, several bright orange flashes of light appeared in the night sky.  They almost seemed like explosions, but I cannot be sure.  The lights came from over the Everfree forest, near the mountain ranges.  I am bringing this to your attention with the hopes that you may be able to explain to me what I saw in Luna’s sky.                  Your faithful student,                 Twilight Sparkle “Well, Luna?” Celestia looked up from the letter and over to her sister, who was still perusing the text.   “You are the expert of the night. What say you?” Luna frowned.  The alicorn had been called back to Canterlot by Celestia to look at the recently arrived missive, and she was impatient to get back to her duty of herding the moon across the sky.  “I don’t know, sister... but I say we exercise caution.” “Agreed.”  Celestia assumed a neutral expression and called toward the door of the chamber.  “Sergeant?” The door creaked open and the face of one of her guards poked through the door. “Yes, Milady?” His tone was even and formal. “Inform the Captain that he is to send a detachment to Ponyville. They are to perform reconnaissance on an area in the Everfree Forest. The situation will be explained by my student, Twilight Sparkle, upon their arrival. The Captain is to bring the Elements of Harmony with him only if they are needed. Understood?” The Sergeant took the information in stride as he saluted. “Yes ma’am,” he stated as he turned and left the room. “So, sister, do you think it might be...” Luna’s voice  drifted off, and she glanced at her elder sister. Celestia stood quiet for a moment, the expression on her face unreadable. “Yes Luna. I fear it is.”