Daniel Wyatt - The Mary Jane Mission

GUAM AUGUST 1945

Under the searing heat of the afternoon sun, two armed military policemen lingered by a navy jeep exchanging glances. For the last two hours they had been guarding a spot along a gravel roadway inside the fenced-in compound at Agana Naval Air Base. Flanking both sides of the road stretched solid jungle growth that was nearly as tall as a six-foot man. Jutting through the growth, ninety feet directly behind them, stood a silvery B-29 Superfortress bomber, her tail section dominating the tropical landscape like an old windmill on a deserted prairie farm.

The taller guard broke the silence, leaning the back of his legs against the jeeps tires, the machine gun resting by his leg. Man, sure the hell is hot today!

The other guard nodded in agreement, looking to the bomber. Still cant figure it. Why are we guarding that thing, anyway? Whos going to steal it?

Ah, nobody, of course. The captain told us to not let anyone near it. Thats all.

The shorter guard licked his dry lips. I could sure handle a cold beer right now.

Hell, yeah. You and me both.

Hey, snap up, here comes somebody. The guard groped for his machine gun.

Huh?

Over there.

A jeep raced towards them, kicking up a cloud of dust. Two men inside. The machine skidded to a halt opposite the MPs, who were now standing at stiff attention. Out hopped an army air force colonel and a navy captain.

There she be, Colonel Cameron. The chubby captain thumbed at the bomber. You wanna take a closer look at her?

The trim, square-jawed colonel stared purposefully at the navy man. You bet I do. Lets go. Cameron gawked at the two sweaty MPs as he walked past them. He and the captain pushed and tugged through the jungle without uttering a word, only the occasional grunt of exertion. Cameron arrived at the bomber first, just under the giant port wing. He welcomed the shade. He stopped and inspected the B-29. It was from the special bomber group, of which he was the commanding officer. The markings confirmed it the large R inside the circle on the tail, the painting of a redhead woman in a tight, green, one-piece bathing suit and the name MARY JANE in black block letters below the cockpit port window.

How did it get here, is what I want to know? Its one of yours, isnt it?

The colonel was too preoccupied to answer at first. Shes one of mine, all right, he finally answered. He studied the wing for any damage. But as far as how it got here I dont have a damn clue.

Its weird there was no sign of damage to the aircraft, the navy captain observed, frowning. There arent even any flattened trees behind her tail. Looks I guess like a forced landing. What do you think, colonel?

Hell if I know.

The landing gear is intact. How could it have made a wheels-down landing in this mess of crap and brush. And where are the crew?

Colonel Cameron didnt know how to reply. He couldnt. Nothing made sense. Shaking his head, he climbed through the open nose hatch while the captain waited outside. Cameron found the front cabin deathly hot and stifling. First, he checked the navigators station on the port side. No sign of the flight log. Good. He hoped that no one else had found it. He inspected the cockpit next. Hanging down from the fuselage, directly above the port seat, were two clean rags stuffed into two side-by-side bullet holes. The colonel pulled the rags out, examined them, then shoved his fingers through the holes. It seemed to him that the bomber must have been under enemy attack while in flight and that someone must have pushed rags into the bullet holes to keep the cabin pressure intact.

Next, he glanced down at the deck, where he saw dark stains. Blood spots? He squatted lower. Yeah. Blood spots. No mistake. He took a look around. Behind him, leading into the next aft compartment, more stains, only these were long and parallel, as if a person had dragged himself across the deck. The streaks ended abruptly at the opening to the bomb bay hatch, a few feet up from the deck. The colonel slowly opened the circular hatch door. Total darkness inside. He turned to catch the captain pulling himself up through the hole below.

Is that blood? the captain asked, bounding onto the deck.

Yeah. Sure is. You see a flashlight anywhere?

The captain spun around and checked the cockpit. No, sir.

Try the flight engineers station on the right.

Got it. Here you are, colonel.

Thanks. The colonel took the flashlight and flicked it on, and the navy officer peered over his shoulder. Cameron examined the bomb bay from nose to tail. The payload was gone, but more blood stains. Geez.

Looking aft, Cameron stepped onto the ladder and crawled into the tunnel over the bomb bay. He came out in what once was the gunners compartment on earlier B-29s. No guns or sights here on this machine. Only bare metal fuselage. Nothing out of the ordinary. Walking on through the next bulkhead, he saw that the radar room had been left in order. Every piece of equipment in place. He strolled to the tail gun section where he found a box camera on the deck below the gun sight. He picked it up. The body was marked and scratched. The back was open and bent. The film gone. He set the camera down.

Crawling back through the tunnel, he stepped down to the deck and took another intrigued look at the blood streaks. He bent down on one knee and pushed his officers cap back on his head. He was feeling the heat, but not as much as the overweight captain, who was sweating heavily.

This is spooky, captain. Really spooky.

The captain tugged at his collar several times as if it were a fan to cool him off. Ill say. It gives me the willies. Once the sun came up, there she was. You didnt hear anything?

Not a thing. No crash. No engines. Nothing.

Cameron rose and strode again into the cockpit for one last look at the bloodstains. Maybe he had it all wrong. Maybe the stains started in the bomb bay and ended in the cockpit. Then he dropped to the deck until his knees touched metal. He saw two more rags stuffed into the fuselage, this time on the right side near the intercom jack box. And he caught sight of another item, a pair of glasses under the starboard seat. Reaching down and picking them up, he noted they were custom-made. Very thick. The metal rims were bent and one of the lenses cracked.

What do you want done with your bomber, colonel? the captain called out from near the nose hatch. Were waiting on your orders.

Cameron stood. He slowly, casually, slid a hand into his pocket, still holding the glasses with the other hand. Ill get someone down from North Field to pull it out. Well look after it. Then he walked to the front hatch.

By the way, Ive been wondering about that. What is it?

What?

That. The captain looked down, pointing at a set of long, thick wires connected to a metal box about the size of a small bookshelf.

Cameron pondered that for a while, then turned to the navy officer, and replied as cordially as he could. For your own good, pretend you never saw it.

Got yuh.

GUAM JULY 1990

Lieutenant Les Shilling opened his locker and appraised his flight equipment. He was going to work. But this was no normal nine-to-five job.

He began his routine by pulling on his G-suit, which he jokingly called his eighteen-hour girdle. He breathed in and zipped up the side. Then he sucked in his belly, held his breath, and bent down in order to zip up the leggings. Next, he threw on his chest harness and strapped the leg restraints on his calves. After that came the survival vest. He checked for his emergency items.