The Call. A Sci-Fi story I wrote. Take a look and give me some feedback!!

Please read the short story below. Let me know any and all comments you may have. Good or bad, just help me improve the story. Propose alternate endings, etc.

Thanks in advance

The Call

     It was another one of those seemingly endless, twelve-hour night shifts. I was sitting alone with nothing to do but smoke cigarettes and drink coffee.

The required scheduled maintenance, meter readings on the transmitters receivers, and multiplexing equipment had been done when I came on shift. I had just verified the satellite signal was where it should be. The extra work given to me, the sweeping of the inside of the TSC-94 satellite van as well as the inside of the maintenance tent was long finished.

So I had settled into my evening Desert Shield ritual of listening for alarms on the satellite communication equipment, hourly check-ins with satellite controllers in Landstuhl, Germany, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and reading free sci-fi books provided by the USO. Most importantly, I was waiting for my daily hot chow to be delivered. The high point of my evening was getting a hot meal. For only being twenty-two years old, I had grown to love the little things in life.

Life in the desert had turned extremely boring. Especially in comparison to the excitement and fear I had felt in early August. When we had first arrived in Dhahran, we all hoped that Saddam would be satisfied with what he had gained by invading Kuwait, and not continue his annexations with a seizure of Dhahran. But as the buildup in the Arabian Gulf continued into the fall, all of us grunts would have liked to see him attempt an invasion. Just so we could kick his ass and go home. This was exceedingly true when it seemed as though George the First had decided that we were going to allow the sanctions to work, which would take forever. So most of us had resolved that our return to the States would not occur for quite a long time.

Around 0200 hours on an early November night, my STU-5, encrypted field phone began to buzz. The ringing, which startled me, was a rarity, so I answered with a small amount of trepidation. The line is reserved for official business only, so as a rule it never rang at night. No one really has anything official to say to a Senior Airman working 1900 hours to 0700 hours, unless they wanted me on a detail on my off hours.

“Satcom, Airman Jones speaking, the line is secure.”

The reply was in that strange, cartoonish sounding voice caused by the secure telephone, “Airman, this is Officer of the Day at Diego Garcia, B-52, tail number..”

I cut him off, I didn’t want to know anything about any aircraft, classified or not. I did not have any need to know, “Sir, I think you have..”

As quickly as I cut him off, he returned in kind, “You will allow me to finish. Do not cut me off again. Then you will report this information to the 505^th Bomb Wing Commander, do you understand?”

“Yes Sir!” Even though I was a little confused by the entire situation.

He then continued, “B-52, tail number 571, originating in Barksdale, Louisiana, was lost returning from a sortie over Basra, Iraq at 1732 hours. The entire crew was lost.” The line then went dead.

Had we in fact begun to bomb Iraq? I was taken aback by the entire call, I had taken notes by force of habit, and so I had the pertinent information. I would have normally known that the air war had started, especially since I was in communications. The communication squadrons usually knew hours ahead of time when there were any developments, or actual orders being distributed. So, it seemed like a rather elaborate and sick hoax perpetrated over the secure phone line.

     Because of the seriousness of any prank calls, operational security, and the unauthorized use of a secure line, I decided to inform the Master Sergeant running the whole communication squadron on the night shift, Sergeant Mossy.

     I dialed up the Command Post, “Sergeant Mossy, can you come down to the SATCOM van?”

     “What do you need Airman Jones?”

     “I think I just received a prank call over the secure phone.” Operational security being as tight as it was, I knew that someone had to know about this.

     Sergeant Mossy showed up about twenty minutes later.
     “What’s the story?”

     I explained that some joker had called, impersonating the Officer of the Day at Diego Garcia. Supposedly a BUF, Big Ugly Fucker, had flown from Barksdale, Louisiana, bombed Basra, Iraq. The B-52 continued to Diego Garcia and crashed while attempting to land. The entire crew was lost. It seemed quite elaborate, but that was the story.

     Sergeant Mossy took a moment to digest my story. “So that is what was told to you?” Sarge did not appear to believe me, but he continued. “I will check it out, but you would think that if we were bombing that pack of morons up North, well, CNN would be televising something.”

     I really could not argue with his logic. “Thanks, let me know what you decide. If you need me to give a written statement or talk to anyone.” With that Sarge left the tent heading back to the squadron command post.

     I looked around the equipment tent trying to decide what to do with my nervous energy. Unfortunately, there aren’t too many choices sitting at a remote airbase in the middle of Saudi. I chose to return to closely monitoring the satellite signal, and talking with the satellite controller in Landstuhl. I made sure that I made no mention of the call or of a possible downed aircraft. Which was relatively easy, the satellite controllers generally weren’t too talkative. They knew they had a nice cushy job in Germany, and didn’t want to be reminded that they were one set of orders away from sitting in tent in the desert. I just puttered around the tent for rest of the night, wondering why anyone would pull such a very unfunny prank.

     The next evening, as we were changing shifts, Sergeant Mossy confirmed what we had thought. “Jones, there was no bombing raid on Basra last night, and all the Barksdale B-52’s are still at home. I filed a report about your call, just saying that we received a prank call on the secure line. That should be the end of the matter.”

     “Thanks, Sargent. I’ll let you know if I get anymore prank calls.”

     I walked back through the early desert evening, to the six-foot by six-foot satellite van slash desert prison, and took my change of shift signal readings. I made sure that everything was functioning as it should, and then settled into my usual routine of sweeping the tent, and cleaning the air filters prior to settling down for that evening’s free science fiction novel.

     By this time, I had gotten over the fear of being killed. The actual fear of death slowly disappeared after my unit was “repositioned” out of Daharan, and into the real desert. Though I missed the creature comforts, showers, toilets, dining halls, getting away from the main port of entry for every swinging dick in the United States Army, Air Force, Coast Guard and Marines, made me feel much more secure.

I mean if you are a terrorist where are you going to strike? You aren’t going to strike some communication unit in the middle of nowhere. You are going to strike where everyone is at, including all the brass and more importantly, where all the media is.

    

My routine of working twelve hours and being off twelve hours was an excellent thing considering my surroundings. The shift work ate up my boring time, and at the end of every shift I could imagine I was getting one-day closer to returning to the States.

This easy-going routine was broken by the approaching holidays. Thinking about Thanksgiving really drove the point home that I was away from all my friends and family. But I received a lot of support in the form of letters and cards from home.

I was slightly depressed on Thanksgiving Day. I continued my normal routine, but I just couldn’t find any joy while doing my 30-day PMI’s, or preventative maintenance inspections. All PMI’s are basically a checklist to follow to insure that all pieces of equipment in the van were functioning, from the LNA’s or low noise amplifiers on the dish to the individual circuits leaving the van. Well after completing the 30-day PMI, and finding no joy in life, the extremely pesky STU-5 started buzzing.

I picked it up, “SATCOM, Airman Jones, the line is secure.”

Immediately I knew this was no normal call, I cold hear what seemed to be bombs exploding and the crack of what sounded like rounds passing whoever was speaking into the handset. The other thing that was extremely different was the fact that the sound was crystal clear, no encrypted distortion, and no echo. Just clear unadulterated fear inflicting noise.

Then a thin strained voice came onto the line, “Our FAC is hit as well as our commander, tell the A-10’s to stop hitting our personnel carriers.” I knew that a FAC was a Forward Air Controller, but how had he been hit? The voice continued, “I repeat, our FAC is down, please stop the A-10’s attack, we are not an Iraqi unit.”

I immediately replied, thinking to ask the questions that may or may not save this unit. “This is Airman Jones, what is your unit and where are you currently located?” I figured this would be the bare minimum amount of information I would require to stop a US attack on US soldiers.

“Please have them stop, we are the ??? of the 7^th Cavalry. Our current location is somewhere near??? at approximately ???n ???w?”

“I will do...”, and the line went dead.

     I called Sergeant Mossy immediately.

     “41^ST Combat Comm Squadron, Sergeant Mossy.”

     “Sergeant this is Airman Jones, I just had a call from ??? of the 7^th Cav, they reported that they were being attacked by our own A-10’s, and their forward air controller was down.”

     “Why would they call you?” He sighed heavily. “Not to mention the fact that their radio and your secure phone just simply cannot communicate with each other.”

     “Sarge, I have no idea, but the call sure seemed real to me.”

     “Jones, what were the particulars, and I will call Riyadh to see if we are really attacking Iraq on Thanksgiving Day.”

     I ran through all the specific details with the Sergeant, unit, and location. Not to mention what seemed to be the situation, as conveyed to me by the guy on the other end of the line.

     Well I hung up the phone, feeling more than a little stunned. The call had been an incredibly emotional drain on me. I had never experience anything remotely as intense as that fifteen-second conversation. I just prayed that Sergeant Mossy would be able to get some quick answer from our Group Commander in Riyadh, and then save those poor sons of bitches.

     I could very easily relate to those guys who were getting hit. I remembered watching, in August and September, the Army unloading at Dhahran. The grunts came straight off the 747’s and onto double decker buses. The only break they got was the time it took them to load their rucksacks into the back of a cattle truck. That was the only chance they had to catch their collective breath, absorb their new surroundings, and then they were shipped North towards Iraq.

     The regular field phone started ringing about that time. Sergeant Mossy had decided to not keep me in suspense for too long. I answered, “SATCOM, Airman Jones.”

“Jones, I hope this isn’t your idea of a joke! The ??? of the 7^th is within ten miles of the location you provided, but there is no coalition A-10’s, or anything near them this evening. Everything, I repeat, everything is quiet for Thanksgiving Day.”

     His response seemed unreal. I had heard what appeared to be a very ferocious attack. The unbridled fear in the man at the other end of that conversation was most definitely real. “I was most certainly not joking. Sir, the call seemed incredibly authentic, I heard the ordinance exploding in the background, and I heard the fear in the man’s voice. Sergeant, someone was getting attacked. If I had thought any different I would have told you I thought it was another prank call.”

     He sighed, “Well, I filed my report with the Group, so don’t be surprised if the OSI, want to talk with you.” That was great news the OSI, Office of Special Investigations, is the Air Force’s equivalent to the FBI.

“Especially since you knew where the ??? of the 7^th Cav was. This is a breach of Operational Security. Someone gave you classified information that you had no need to know, in process of perpetrating a hoax. Just cooperate, especially since you have a Top-Secret Clearance, not mention you were simply the recipient of the call.” With that lovely note, the Sarge finished up. “Happy Thanksgiving Brown.”

     I sat there, in a very warm tent, and tried to collect my thoughts about what had just happened to me. For some unexplainable reason, I was being involved in some extremely elaborate prank calls over a secure line. I sat there, all alone, in the very late hours of Thanksgiving day 1990, I began to suspect that somewhere in Saudi Arabia, or the Magic Kingdom as we so liked to call it, some other night shift monkeys had decided to do a little more than the normal night shift activities of smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and reading free Heinlein novels. They had decided that they needed to liven up the evening by practicing their acting skills on my sorry behind. The whole situation was not helping me out, not in the slightest.

     I could see that soon I would be answering all types of questions that I did not have answers for. That was not something to look forward to.

     Although, I would have to say that their portrayal of the ??? of the 7^th Cav being attacked was extremely accurate and realistic. Therefore, I put the incident in my personal log. Decided I had a clear conscious, especially since the BBC on the short-wave radio was saying that all was quiet on the Iraqi front. I did not feel the need to pursue the telephone call any further than I had already. I did not feel as though I was letting anyone down. With an extremely clear conscience, I return the evenings mundane chores, maintaining communications between a deployed unit and the states.

     Well, I couldn’t seem to shake these calls, the next day the secure line began to buzz. “Airman Brown, SATCOM, the line is secure.”

     There was a slight pause, and then I heard, “I would like to place an order.”

     For the love of God, I was now getting pizza orders on a secure line. “SATCOM, Airman Brown.”

     “Please buy 2000 shares of INTC, at market price.”

What in the hell? “Sir, you have called a secure line, please cease, and desist.”

The voice came back, “Please buy 2000 shares of Intel at market and place a sell order at $80 for the same shares.” Then the line went dead.

Once again, I had written the information down, but I had no use for it. I also decided that this time I would not involve Sgt. Mossy.

     Then as suddenly as they started, the prank slash hoax calls ended. There was no rhyme or reason to these calls, so the lack of unwanted calls in the middle of the night was a good thing.

    

The day after January 17, 1991 was extremely exciting. We had started bombing Saddam back into the Stone Age. Our commanders were just as excited to be a part of a “real shooting war”. All of us enlisted pukes just hoped that our chemical gear functioned correctly. I personally practiced putting on that damned mask about a million times. There is nothing scarier than have bombs exploding, and not worrying. But worrying more about what the ordinance is dispersing.

The evening of the February 22nd or 23^rd, I was reading the weekly “Stars and Stripes”, when I noticed an article regarding the first B-52 to be lost in anger since sometime in 1973 over North Vietnam.

Continuing to read the article, it became very clear to me that the B-52 that they were referring to was the same aircraft that I had received the initial call about in November. The article was accurate right down to the tail number, base of origin, and the time of the actual crash.

As I was sitting there in a tent, feeling the heat emanating from the canvas, I could not help the goose bumps standing up on the back of my arms. This wasn’t just dejavu this was frightening to know that I had extremely clear fore knowledge of a disaster that was going to happen, then it did happen.
     I then realized that I had given an official statement regarding the original “prank” call. How long would it take someone to put the facts together? Would they be able to cipher this information out of the informational overload going on? Since it was the government, I figured it was only a matter of time, and then I would have the problem of getting myself out of the unfavorable situation of knowing something that I really did not want to know.

I then realized that Sgt. Mossy had not made an official report regarding the B-52 going down. The sergeant had simply thought that this was a practical joke, and filed a report indicating that.  

     The attack on the ??? of the 7^th Cav was different story all together. He had taken that very seriously, mainly because of the operational security aspect of the call. There was an official report regarding this particular “prank” call.

     I had to then decide how I could in fact impact what seemed to me to be a preordained event. I knew from all my science fiction books that you are not supposed to mess with events, especially since the impact of changes could be greatly amplified down the “road” of time.

     Could my stepping forward do something other than get my ass locked in a mental hospital? Could I save anyone? Who should I turn to? Talk about an extremely shitty dilemma. This not the kind of problem a 22 years old usually faced with.

     Fortunately, the decision was made for me on the 24^th of February. We started the long-awaited ground war. All the activities of the prior month intensified 100 times. We now had hundreds of thousands of ground troops in harms way. No one wanted to hear from a lowly Senor Airman about a prank call he had received two months prior.

     Unfortunately, my worst fears were realized on the evening of the 26^th of February 1991. The Pentagon briefing that evening confirmed that the ??? of the 7^th Cav had been decimated by our own A-10’s in a friendly fire incident. Now isn’t that a weird combination of words? “Friendly Fire”. That is by far the worst oxymoron in the English language.

    
     With the war won, I’m going home. I am sure of one thing. I will be putting the last call I received to the test as soon as I get home. The first two proved to be completely true in a macabre sense. I am hoping that the call regarding Intel is as correct, because right now it’s trading at $11 and I plan to get some shares. I’ll see what happens, wish me luck.