Chapter 1: Radar Shadow
August 18th, 1968.
Lieutenant Dan McMullen sat at his desk in the control tower of Strategic Air Command Base Aurora, twisting the knobs on his radar unit. A mug of hot coffee steamed in front of him, willing him to drink it. He rubbed his eyes and adjusted the collar of his shirt. But it was hot in the control room, and sweltering out on the tarmac, and thus he could only drink it in short bursts. He swore and turned the knobs again, trying to adjust the acuity. What the hell is with this thing?
A bout of laughter shook his concentration, and he looked up from his screen.
Two men in flight gear were resting against the forward radar bench talking to Major Brewer ahead of their test flight. They were older than Tom, but still young, maybe in their mid-20s, but he knew the stories. The older of the two, Captain Ridgeway, a tall man with frizzy black hair and flight shades, had already been deployed twice and wounded once, and both of them had the air of authority about them when they spoke. Crew Chief McNamara noticed him watching them and smiled at him. He was stocky, with a round face and a warm disposition. A natural friend.
“Hey Dan, you alright over there?” He said, snapping the gum in his teeth.
“Y-yeah,” Dan said, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. “Yeah I’m just trying to fix this monitor.”
Major Brewer came over and studied the monitor. A portion of the screen was whited out, an oblong blob in the upper portion of the radar’s scope. Brewer furrowed his brow and tapped the screen.
“I’ll be damned,” Brewer said with a frown. “That’s strange. Hey Hank, how does the weather look out there?”
Captain Ridgeway went to the window, scrutinizing the horizon.
“Which direction?”
“Which direction, Radar Officer McMullen?” Brewer said, addressing him by his title.
Dan flinched and quickly studied the screen.
“North-north-east, towards Mt. Cabot.”
In that moment, the hum of the fans and the snapping of McNamara’s gum were the only sounds in the control room.
“Nothing,” the captain said, leaning against the glass. “Blue sky. Perfect flying weather.”
“Must be a faulty unit,” Brewer said, patting Dan on the shoulder. “Move over to unit 4 for the test flight.”
Brewer turned to Ridgeway, who was watching the six Huey helicopters of his Air Wing being flight-checked and refueled down on the tarmac. Aurora was still in its infancy, having only opened for vehicles back in ’67, and most of the hangars along the runway were empty, cavernous in the noon sun. Only Hangar One was occupied with 6 hueys from the Air Reserve and three spotter planes from the New Hampshire State Fire Service. They were repeatedly told to expect landings from the 73rd refueling air wing, the reason the base was even built in the first place, but they never came. Like so many things in the Armed Forces, they settled on the next best option and treated Aurora like any other flight school. 120 reserve airmen with no place to be and nothing to do but watch educational videos and hunt moose. Dan grabbed his mug and relocated to unit 4, next to where McNamara was leaning. The crew chief made room for him graciously, offering him a stick of gum. He took it and placed it in his shirt pocket for later. McNamara went back to snapping away.
“Have you got your flight plan laid out?” Brewer said.
“Yeah, I figure I’ll take them out over the mountains, then down through the valley to give them some hover training. Maybe we’ll put on a show for the eggheads out at the observatory.”
McNamara laughed quietly, and Dan grinned as he sipped his coffee.
“Good to see you’re on top of it,” Brewer said, digging through his pockets for a pack of smokes.
“We’ll back for supper, Top. Then we can go over more of those flight manuals that just came in,” Ridgeway said. “When we’re done, they’ll know the Iroquois better than the schmucks who designed it.”
Dan powered up the unit and grunted with displeasure. McNamara leaned over to look at the screen and clucked his tongue.
“Would you look at that,” he said.
The cloud of interference was still there, in the exact same spot.
Dan fiddled with the knobs, trying to attune the display again.
“Major, do you know if Captain Stanton is on base?” Dan said. “This interference isn’t going away, and He knows how to make these things work best.”
Brewer frowned and turned back to him.
“Stanton is down in Portsmouth for the weekend, Lieutenant. You’re just going to have to deal with it as best you can.”
“Yes sir,” Dan said, reclining in his chair. Why did he have such bad luck with these things? First the victrola, then the television in his father’s home back in Louisville, now this. He returned the knobs to a suitable position and began going through his checklist, the large splotch over mount Cabot staring back at him, taunting him with its existence.
Ridgeway looked at his watch, nodded, and made for the exit.
“Come on, Craig, let’s get the boys squared away.”
McNamara nodded with a quiet “ye’sir, bossman,” and left. He clapped Dan on the shoulder before he left, beaming.
“Try to keep up, Lieutenant.”
And like that, they were gone.
