Where is Ray's Brain?!?!

It was a few days prior to Jump Out, the historic first jump of mankind’s first ever colony ship. I was in the primary control room running through a formal checklist with my First Assistant Chief. Jumps aren’t normally a big deal nowadays, since spaceships have been using jump technology for the better part of 20 years. However, there has always been talk of a theoretical upper limit as far as the amount of mass one can push through a single jump.

Destiny, our colony ship’s name, was nowhere near that upper limit but it was still five times the size of the largest jump capable ship in the fleet. So I was a little nervous and wanted to make sure everything was “nom and calm”. Or checking that systems were within nominal parameters and no alarms or warning lights were on.

It was during a power up test of the main engines that something started beeping. “What’s that Grey?” I asked my FAC. She gestured with her right hand over the 3-D display and pulled up a diagnostic holo. “Coolant temperature is getting a little hot, Chief.”

“That’s weird,” I said as I looked over her shoulder. “We haven’t even spooled up the engines. There’s nothing for the coolant to cool.” Then the impossible happened. The coolant temperature continued to rise and what started as a mildly annoying “look at me” beeping turned into a symphony of more insistent “this is getting serious” alarms.

“Okay, lets abort the test. Start procedures for powering down the main energizers.” I went to a separate console as Grey set to work getting the systems powered down. It wasn’t helping. Nothing we did seemed to have any effect. Well, that’s not exactly true. Nothing we did seemed to have any positive effect. It was like all the procedures we followed just made things worse. More alarms blaring and system warnings popping up like daisies all over the holo displays. Until…

“Until?” Sheila queried again, annoyed at my long pause. I took a long look at her, standing in her impatient kindergarten pose, secure in the logic and rationality of her worldview. I was like that once, just last week. So I didn’t say anything and just brought out my hardcopy print of one of the displays and showed it to her. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Of course this picture was summed up by her in just three.”What the hell?”

It is a little embarrassing that my old work computer had to die before I came back to writing at least once a day, but that’s what it took. I’m now writing today’s entry on a shiny new iMac via WriteRoom – the Mac equivalent of what I was using on the PC. In full screen mode its just a black screen with whatever text I decide to put down on it. Unlike the PC version though, I have to pay for this elegant piece of software after 30 days or else I can’t use it again. It seems good enough that I’ll probably buy it. Check back in 30 days and see if I do.

If it seems like the following story is very very short, that’s because its a work in progress. I actually do have a real job which is not writing. Well, not fiction anyway. It should be updated during most of the day and if not then throughout the week.

——————————————–
“Logan, you can’t be serious,” she said. A frown crossed her face as she said it, as she usually does when she’s talking to me.

“I am, and I did,” I replied. “No use arguing about it now.”

Sheila, her name by the way, crossed her hands and leaned back. I called it the kindergarten pose because it usually preceded a long speech in which she would reprimand me like a 5-year old.

“Let me get this straight,” she began. “On the this very colony ship, mankind’s first ever, on the eve of our first system jump, on which at least 100 different subsystems are still having issues, you went and consulted with a shaman to rid the ship of evil spirits? Have you lost your mind?”

“I hope not. I’m the chief engineering officer. If I lost my mind we’re all doomed.” My attempt at defusing the situation with a joke was not successful, as evidenced by her throwing her hands up in the air. “Where did you find this guy anyway?” she asked. “Actually, he sort of found me.”

Sometimes all I get is a germ of an idea. It comes from a snippet of conversation I overhear or an incident that I happen to observe. I try to build a scene around it, try to make it into a story. This particular scene evolved from a conversation in a Starbucks about tea vs. coffee. I was initially going to make it into a quiet romantic scene with some witty banter between two people. But as you can see, it turned into something else entirely.
—-
“Care for some tea?” she asked, putting a kettle on the burner. He sat down, wondering how to best put his feelings on the subject. “No thanks. I don’t believe in tea. It doesn’t have the jolt that coffee gives me. Especially in the morning. I don’t know how you stand the stuff.” He waited for her reaction.

She didn’t skip a beat, focused as she was on scooping out some loose tea leaves into two mesh filters. They sat on top of ceramic tea mugs. Green, of course. “Well,” she said, tapping the dried leaves off the scooper, “you know tea does have caffeine. Its just released a lot more slowly than with coffee.” She put the tea bag away. “You get the energy over time,” she said, glancing at him, “instead of as one big slap to the head.”

He chuckled at that. “Okay, I’ll take a cup of slowly released caffeine. Just don’t slap me, please.” He looked at her, back turned towards him, reaching for the sugar. Still couldn’t believe she was an Agent. The loose fitting jeans and tie-dyed shirt made her look like she was still in college. Combine that with her close cut bangs, hair parted to the right, and she reminded him of someone he used to date back when he was a freshman.

She walked back to the table, placed the cups and sugar packets between them. “So tell me again about the victim.” He took a sugar packet and shook it as he recounted the incident. “He was a priest at St. Anthony’s church. Been there three years. Found inside the confession booth stabbed to death with a wooden stake. It was plunged in his chest all the way up to the hilt.” He got a raised eyebrow out of her with that.
“Any history of prior crimes? Any threats involved?”

He put the packet down, leaned back in his chair. “No. A clean record as far as we can tell. He was well liked by the community. Everyone seemed to have liked him. The other priests and church volunteers don’t recall any threatening phone calls either.”

“Did it look like his eyes were rolled up in his head?” His eyes narrowed. “How the hell? Who told you that?”

“I was just asking. You know I don’t come here for the mundane crimes.” She leaned forward, head resting on her hands, trying to look meek. It didn’t work. He was on the defensive now, wondering if he should just leave. “Listen.” she said, reading the worry on his face,”I just want you to tell me the facts. I’ll do the rest myself. Promise.” She smiled. “You won’t even know I’m there.”

The kettle started whistling, signaling that the water was just about to boil. “But first, why don’t we have some tea?”

Looking back on previous posts I realize that I need more of a hook to some of the scenes. I also need to rethink the backgrounds of some of the characters because of what they need to do or will be doing later. Then there’s the matter of adding problems to the story, so that I can have a climax and a resolution.

I have some in mind but can’t figure out how to get from here to there. So, I need to regroup, get some ideas, figure some things out and get input to my subconscious so that it can chew on things. Hopefully then it can spit stuff out to my fingers. Hence, no story today.

I also managed to download and install the client for Star Trek Online, which has entered into open beta testing. And, because I have faith in it being a good Star Trek game, I pre-ordered it in order to get a spot in the open beta. Admittedly I was worried that the game was going to suck based on word of mouth from people in the closed beta testing phase.

Apparently though, people in the open beta are enthused about being captains of their own starships, exploring strange new worlds, and beating up on the Klingons. Oh yes, the Klingons are bad guys again. Treaties have broken down, the Klingons assimilated the Gorns, and are now at open war with the Federation.

And it just happens that tomorrow begins a 3-day weekend. I can’t wait.

I’ve got an outline, a couple of protagonists, an inkling of the antagonist and a general direction. Lets see where this leads…
—–
“This had got to be the most boring day ever,” sighed Lynn. She had already taken inventory of the shop twice and found nothing missing. All the same, her father insisted that he was missing a jar of ground Bardine clamshells from the shelves. “There has got to be another way to earn money for spell school.”

“The majick act might have taken off if you had more than a fifty percent success rate” piped Todd from the far corner. He was busy rearranging the herbs and inert ingredients section.

“Hush.” countered Lynn. “I was nervous. Nervousness impedes the caster. At least thats what they tell us in class.” She sniffed. “Besides, it was poor marketing, not the magic act, that did us in.”

“Poor marketing? I put flyers up on all the taverns and shops! I did all the work of putting up the stage. I!” Lynn interrupted him mid-rant. “Speaking of which, did you put up the other flyers I asked you to?”

He looked back at her. “Lynn Laxon, you are the most annoying”
She smiled.
“infuriating”
Adjusted her glasses.
“demanding”
Curtsied.
Finally he stopped and sighed. “Yes. I put up all the flyers. As you can see, the customers are beating a path to your door as we speak.”

The bell above the entranceway chimed as the door opened. Lynn observed as a young woman walked in and glanced about her surroundings. She noticed the woman holding one of the flyers in her hand and gave a silent shout of glee. The woman wrinkled her nose at the smells which wafted from the more pungent ingredients and mixed together with the ones from pleasant spices and strange elixers, foundations, and accelerants. Probably not one for visiting magick shoppes.

The woman spotted Todd and walked towards him. Her measured pace suggested an upper class upbringing. An unhurried existence brought about by having enough money to pay others to scurry around. Her form fitting top coat and black silken pants were a nod to the modern fashion trends. She spoke in the even tones associated with those from the more gentrified section of the city. “I’m looking for a Lynn Laxon. I have need of her extraordinary services.”

I’ve given up on trying to maintain a strict schedule for writing. I don’t think I need it and besides my New Year’s Resolution was only to maintain an average of 500 words a day, not write 500 words per day. A slight difference but one that also lets me write profusely and strike while the iron is hot. Like now for instance.
—-

Light flickered and shadows danced across the tunnel from around the bend. The two stopped short of the corner as the young woman cupped the end of the torch, extinguishing the mystic flame. They crept slowly then cautiously peeked out their heads. Down the hallway they saw a lantern on the floor, its flickering flame causing a strobing effect of light and dark. There in the light was a hulking brute of a demon . It stood and bellowed into the air, its enormous head opening wide, wider than humanly possible, exposing row after row of jagged teeth. The demon’s quarry lay between its legs, mewling and cowering in fear.

The pair ducked back out of sight. The woman reached into one of her pockets and extracted a glass vial. “You sure this is going to work?” Todd whispered. Lynn turned and peered back at him over her glasses. “No, but that’s never stopped me before.” She gripped the glass vial tight in her hands and slowly crept around the corner. Todd followed as they sneaked closer to their target.

The demon had his back to them, its attention focused on the gangly figure covering in fear on the floor. “Please don’t eat me! I’ve got bad blood you know. I’m anemic. Iron deficiency. Not good for the heart. Assuming you have one.”

Closer. Got to get closer, Lynn thought. It won’t work if I miss. After a few more steps Lynn judged that they were close enough. She hurled the vial towards the monster. It arced through the air and hit him right at the base of its neck. It broke, releasing an oily substance which ran slowly down its back. The demon turned and focused its four eyes on her. “Lictus Romatus!” Lynn cried. “That is the Holy Water and Oils of Saint Mihel burning the flesh off your back.” The demon’s eyes widened and it ran off down the hallway, trying to reach behind itself at the same time.

Lynn sprinted to one side of the figure on the floor. “Todd, help me get him up, we haven’t got much time.” Todd bent down on the other side and they quickly helped him up. “Oh thank you, bless you and thank you! I owe you my life. I’m Richard by the way. Richard Longbottom. Good work vanquishing the demon.”

Todd took a quick glance at Lynn. “Yes, about that. I rather think we should run.” Richard looked back at both of them. “What? But the vial. The words of power! He’s vanquished!” A sudden piercing howl from down the hallway answered him.

“I’ll explain later. Run! Now!” cried Lynn and ran back in the direction they had come. Todd turned to Richard. “Well come on then!” and ran after her. Richard took two steps, reversed course and picked up his lantern. The demon howled again, spurring him to catch up to his rescuers.

“Lumiere!” cried the girl as she cupped the end of the torch. Nothing happened. “Oh come on! I hate it when this happens!” Todd came up, panting. “Remember what Master Edward said. You have to be calm when casting magic.” She shot a dagger like glance at him. “Not. Helping.”
A bobbing light came running towards them. It was Richard. “Oh thank Gods. I thought I’d lost you. I..” Lynn snatched his lantern and continued running. “Hold on! That’s MY lantern!”

“Keep running if you want to live!” she yelled behind her. And so they did. They turned several corners and entered into a large antechamber. “Help me!” cried Lynn as she tried to push the large iron door closed behind them. “Is she always like this?” asked Richard. Todd responded “You have no idea.” She grunted. “Less talking, more pushing.” Todd and Richard added their strength but the massive iron door still moved slowly. Too slowly. “I don’t understand” said Richard as he pushed. “You turned the demon.”

Lynn grunted as she continued pushing. “Olive oil and vinegar. I made up the words.” She looked up and smiled as his jaw fell. “Power of suggestion. I figured demons were just as susceptible as peasants are to potion peddlers.” The howling got louder as the demon got closer. “Of course, now that he’s figured it out he’ll be even madder than before.” Mercifully the door closed and Todd rammed the locking bolt home, falling on Lynn, who then fell on Richard.

Lynn crawled out from under them and onto her feet. “Well don’t just lie there! Make sure that door holds while I find a better way to get rid of the demon.” Todd got up, slapping the dust off his cloak. “This door will hold him. Its 6 inches of solid iron and took all three of us to close it.” He leaned against the door. The demon rammed against it on the other side knocking him back on the floor. Lynn gave him a sharp look and turned back to her task. Richard glanced at her as he and Todd searched for things to prop against the door. “Is it me or is she kicking the air?” Todd looked.

Lynn took a few steps and kicked at the air in front of her. Its got to be here, near the corner. Of all the times I have to go and outsmart myself. She took a few more steps then tripped and fell over nothingness. “Ow.” She rubbed her head. Then the nothingness slowly shimmered and dissolved, leaving two large saddlebags in its place. “There they are. Just where I left them.” She got up and started rummaging through the packs for her ingredients. Earthen jar. Sulfer. Niter. Lime. The door shook. She glanced up to see the iron bolt buckling. Concentrate Lynn. Tar. Phosphors. Bitumen. Combine and shake. Heat. I need heat. She ran for the lantern, jar in hand. Then suddenly the howling stopped and so did the pounding on the door.

“Haha! We did it!” cried Richard. He and Todd hugged and sobbed for joy. Then they heard it. A crooning, seductive voice whispered from the other side. “Please let me in. I would be ever so grateful.” Everyone stopped and listened. The voice continued, begging them to let her in and promising delightful rewards if they did. “That voice. She sounds like an angel.” said Todd. Richard started to remove the bolt. “Well come on. Help me get this door open.”

Lynn’s eyes grew wide. The demon was still there. It merely changed its tactics. “No wait!” she cried. Too late. The door flung open as soon as the bolt was gone, hurling the two men across the room and onto the floor. The demon strode in on its big horse legs and cloven feet. Only this time its head was that of young woman with locks of gold. The head smiled. “How very kind of you. Your reward will be a long and painful death.”

“Lictus Romatus!” Lynn cried, flinging the jar towards the demon’s head. It reached out and crushed it, the gooey contents oozing out of its hand and down the arm. “Not again missy. Fool me once, shame on you.” Lynn smiled and threw the lantern at him. Instinctively the demon brought up both its arms to block, thinking to start its attack once the lantern bounced off.

Instead the heat from the lantern flame ignited the goo and turned his arm aflame. The demon hissed and started towards her. Both arms reached out, one in flames. Lynn started backing up to the saddlebags as the demon approached. She picked up a leather flask. “How about some water to put it out?” she asked. She uncorked the flask and tucked it under her arm, put her thumb over the spout and squeezed. The flask shot out a thin stream of water. But instead of quelling the flames it only fanned them, the water turning to liquid fire as it hit the demon. Lynn smiled. Thank you greek fire. Lynn traced the water over the demon’s body, spreading the flame across the torso and onto the head. Inhuman gurgling screams came out of the demon girl’s head as it stumbled backwards through the door and ran out.

A groan came from behind her. It was Todd. “Well, that’s the last time I listen to a woman.” He gingerly rubbed the back of his head. “Hey, that’s my water flask. What am I supposed to drink now?”

She looked at him and adjusted her glasses. “I would tell you but you just said you wouldn’t listen.”

Story first, blabbing later:
—-
At St. Anthony’s church in the middle of Kalihi, Charlie Smalls walked into the confessional booth and waited for a priest to hear her confession. She waited a good while, as the church was not currently offering services. It was only by chance that the resident priest happened to pass by and hear shuffling noises coming from the booth.

He opened it and was about to tell her that confessions were not being heard today, but she started first. “Father, I wish to confess my sins,” she said. “At least, I think they are sins. But then, God asked me to do them.”

The priest, Father Albedo Gonzalo, was taken aback, as he normally dealt with more mundane matters. A lie told or truth untold, covetous glances at a neighbor’s wife or husband. No one had ever come to him claiming that God told them to do something, sin or not. He looked at her more closely. Charlie had a small round face framed by a short bob. It had the effect of drawing more attention to her eyes, which at that moment were filled with a sense of sadness. Her shoulders drooped as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. He took pity on her and decided not to send her away. “My child, God never asks one to sin on purpose. Of what sins do you speak?”

She looked at him and held him in her gaze. He thought it was almost as if she were examining him under a microscope. He started feeling uncomfortable as her stare dragged on and was having second thoughts about not sending her away. Finally she smiled. “I’ve been told to kill those without souls.” And with that she produced a short wooden stake from her purse and plunged it down into Father Albedo’s chest, right over his heart. He cried out, clutching the stake as he fell to the floor. He lay there, writhing in pain, fingers scrabbling in a frantic effort to pull out the stake. It was no use. The stake was plunged too deep and blood was making his hands slippery. “I did no wrong! I wanted no part in it! Liberae sunt nostrae cogitationes!”

Charlie bent down over the priest, retrieved the stake and stabbed him again, three times in the same place. “Just making sure you stay dead. You don’t get to quit the game just because you don’t want to play, father. Legum servi sumus ut liberi esse possimus. We are all slaves of the law so that we may be able to be free.”

Then, she pulled his arms and dragged him into the priest’s half of the confesional booth, propped him on the bench, and closed the door. As she headed for the doors she noticed that some of his blood had spilled on her shirt. She pulled a hankerchief from her purse, wet it using the holy water in the stoup by the entrance, and dabbed at the stain until it became a faint red. She placed the hankerchief back in her purse then dipped her finger in the stoup, faced the altar and made the sign of the cross. “Thy will be done.”
————————————————————————
The above is from another story fragment that I wrote several years back. I really liked the scene but I wanted to find a way to put it in the same setting as my story from Dec 30. My story fragments all have their own protagonists but if I keep this up then the entire book would be filled with all good guys and no bad guys. So I had to make some character changes. As you can see, Charlie is one really bad and bad-ass guy. Excuse me, girl.

I found a story that was in the drafts section of my blog. It was from back in 2005. The story idea was good but I was cringing as I read through it. I figured I would rewrite it and make it a little tighter. I’m not sure if its any better because I’m still working on getting my dialogue down. And still working on getting the right amount of description without making it seem like I’m writing a full bio on every character right when they get introduced. Anyway, here it is.
___

Alexandra hummed to herself as she typed away on the keyboard, busily putting the final touches on the program. She read somewhere that it was a way to engage the higher functions of her brain so that it would solve the problem while her conscious mind handled the humming. She didn’t know if it actually worked but at least it helped the time go faster.

“We gonna test the interface again today, Miss Costa?” Mike asked as he poked his head in the door.

“Mike, you know you can just call me Alex.”

“Yeah but Alex is a boy’s name. If I call you that then I might lose my, whatcha-macall, ability to gender identify.” That brought a smile to Alexandra’s face and she stopped typing to face him directly.

“Mike, I know you get a big kick out of telling your friends your co-worker is someone named Alex and watching their jaws drop when they see me.” Mike grinned. He did enjoy that. “But yes, I plan on testing the interface again in about an hour. You might want to get her ready by then.”

Mike nodded his head, his grin spreading even wider. “Sure thing Miss Costa. We meet you in an hour. Aloha!”

“Aloha Mike.” She turned back to her computer. The program had failed to decipher any readings the last time and a thorough check of the equipment turned up nothing. The problem had to be in the code. Ah, there it is. She stopped humming as she narrowed in on the problem.

An hour later found Alexandra at the dock, with Mike ready at the helm of the Mea A’a, Adventurer in Hawaiian, one of the research boats belonging to the Hawaii Marine Research Center. Lani, her research assistant was loading the last of the equipment on board. She already had a thin sheen of sweat even with just a t-shirt and shorts on. She raised an eyebrow at Alex. “You think it will work this time?” Lani was still a little miffed at the last attempt. The hardware was her responsibility so she was upset when Alex immediately thought the problem was with the equipment instead of the software.

“Well, if it doesn’t we’ll at least get to work on our tans.” Alex hopped on board and stowed the notebook computer away in the crew compartment. She called out to Mike in the pilots cupola. “Are we ready to go Mike?”

“Ready when you are, Miss Costa.” He gave her a shaka sign, right hand closed with the thumb and pinky extended.

“Okay then, cast off moorings.” Lani untied the ropes holding the boat at the bow and stern and then deftly jumped on the boat as Mike started to pull away from the dock. “Okay Miss Alex, here we go.”

Alex was glad she took Lani’s advice and hired Mike as part of the research team. Everyone knew the general areas off of Maui where the whales would congregate. The whale tours for the tourists were based on the most likely spots. But Mike had a knack of knowing where they would be outside of those areas, which was exactly where Alex needed to conduct her research.

She tried explaining it to him during a round of beers one night at the local bar and grill. “The neurosensory equipment is very sensitive Mike. So sensitive it can even pick up the signatures of any nearby humans. So, we have to deploy it away from the boat using buoys. And naturally, we can’t have any tourist whale watchers coming nearby or the equipment would pick them up too.”

Mike took a long swig of his beer. “So, you need me to find you whales that’s not anywhere close to other people? Okay, I can do that. I know some places. But you sure that’s not going to harm the whales?”

“Positive. The equipment is only receiving signals, not transmitting them. Scientists have been trying to understand whale song for years now in the hope they can figure out the language. This equipment is bypassing all that and going straight to the source. The brain.”

“I got it doc. You want to read their minds. You may not like what they have to say though.” He raised his bottle. Alex clinked it with her own. “Maybe. First we have to find them before we can listen to them.”

I have found that games are one of the easiest subjects of fiction writing. A game has already done much of the hard work of establishing a setting, a cast of characters, and an objective. Even better are when completely unscripted events happen in a game due to the way one interacts with the different characters. It also helps that I love playing them. Take Left 4 Dead 2 for instance, a great game where a group of four people struggle to survive and escape the zombie horde. The story practically writes itself. Take this one, which uses the intro movie to Left 4 Dead 2 as inspiration.
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Running. It seems like all I ever do these days. Which is funny because I started out being on the run and now I find myself running for my life. Take now for instance. I’ve already run up fifteen flights of stairs with fifteen more to go and I am dog tired. The fact that I’m not running alone is the only thing keeping me going.

There are four of us together on the stairs. A young hillbilly with baseball cap and faded blue jeans is out in front. A black woman, excuse me, african american, is not far behind. The two older fellas bringing up the rear are myself and a big black guy wearing a purple and gold polo shirt and khakis. Its the kind you sometimes see high school football coaches wearing during practice. I glance back and notice that it even says ‘FHS’ on the front so my guess was right. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not over the hill geezers. One look at my cream colored suit and pants and you would see that I am not the running type. And Coach, bringing up the rear, carries a few extra pounds of flab all around his midsection.

You might ask why are we running up the stairs of one of the big hotels on the outskirts of Savannah. And I’d say, ‘Are you out of your freekin mind?’ Have you not heard the news? Maybe you have and you choose to believe it. That highly contagious infection that they’ve been blabbing about? Its not the flu. Its something else. It changes people. Turns them from mild mannered sheep into mindless rabid wolves, who’d like nothing better than to kick and bite you till you get infected and turn into one of them too. Or, for those few of us who are immune, they kick, bite, punch, and claw us until we’re dead.

Good old CEDA put out the usual warnings. Barricade your homes. Stay away from infected. Report unusual behavior. Wait for further instructions. Some who remembered CEDA’s crappy performance before and after Hurricane Katrina weren’t going to settle for any of that. Me, I thought it was a good opportunity to head south and escape a couple of irate mobsters that fell for my ‘investment opportunities’. Caveat Emptor I always say. Of course, things just kept getting worse until finally CEDA told us they were setting up evacuation centers and flying out anyone who showed up.

“Who the hell…puts an evac station…up thirty flights of goddammn stairs?” That was Coach, who managed to huff and puff a complete sentence while still running. I guess that wasn’t all flab under his shirt. It would have been better to save my breath for the stairs but I couldn’t resist getting a jab in. “Cheer up Coach. Maybe, maybe the helicopters are all made of chocolate.” The look on his face was priceless.

We finally made it to the roof. I could hear the hillbilly calling out as I burst through the door. “Hello? Where is everybody?” I heard helicopters but my blood chilled as I realized the sounds were fading instead of getting louder. I had to shade my eyes as they adjusted to the bright rays of the setting sun, perfetly silhouetting the several choppers that were already headed west.

“I thought they was supposed to be savin our asses,” said Coach. I stooped over to catch my breath. “Looks like there’s been a change of plans.”

The kid waved his arms frantically at the retreating choppers. “Hey! We’re not dead! Come back!”

“Yeah, we ain’t dead,” said the girl. “But we’ve been left for dead too.”

I picked up a book about writing that was recommended, of all places, on a forum about video games. Its called Spider, Spin Me a Web by Lawrence Block and it contains a bunch of essays collected from his column on fiction writing for Writer’s Digest magazine. Its a good and quick read and every chapter is a self contained nugget of writing goodness. One chapter talked about writing in the style of your favorite author.

I got turned on to Tom Clancy during high school and it always fascinated me how he could go on and on about the way technology worked. He made it sound fascinating and not at all like a technical manual. I wouldn’t call him my favorite author, but it made me think about attempting to do the same thing but for a different time period. I have to say, this kind of writing involves a heck of a lot of research and I don’t know if I’m cut out for this kind of techno-realism. Which is great because that was the point of trying to write in someone else’s style: to figure out if that’s the kind of writing I wanted to do.
——-
August 5, 1940. The sky was still pitch black and the German ground crews were already busy. German airbases doting the French countryside came alive with a steadily increasing hum of activity. Fighters were being fueled and made ready for combat while bombers had their precious cargo loaded carefully on board.

The flight crews and pilots were busy with their own preparations. Each squadron had already been briefed on the on their different missions. Coordination of the different bomber raids and fighter escort would be the key to their success. Several bomber crews would be attacking airfields located near the British coast while others were to attack the radar towers which sprouted up along the coastline. The Germans knew little about the radar towers and still less about how they, along with the British coast watch units, were tied into a complex network of switchboards and command posts. They did not know that the British had already created an integrated aerial defense system designed to help determine when and where the German air raiders were going to strike next. And more importantly, how best to intercept them.

On the British side of the Channel, near Dover, Airman Donaldson manned his radar station located in a small underground bunker just south of several large steel radar towers. The radar console had a round glass display in the center. Unlike modern radar displays which showed a radial line sweeping in a circular motion, the display showed a bright fluorescent green line running along the bottom of the screen. The line was currently flat, meaning that the radar waves sent out by the tower were not being reflected back by German bombers.

The radar towers themselves rose more than 50 feet high in order to increase their range of detection. It was the same principle that guided sailors to post lookouts on the topmost parts of the ship. In both cases the aim was to see further to the horizon except in this case it was not light waves but radio waves that were being detected. The massive towers sent out continuous pulses of radio waves across the English Channel and several smaller radar receivers front of them monitored whether any of the radio waves were reflected back.

The Airman said a quick thank you as someone handed him a cup of tea. He held it in both hands and took a long slow sip. In almost that same instant radio waves sent out by the radar transmitters, traveling at near the speed of light, had crossed the Channel and reflected off the lead bombers of the first wave. Before he had even put his cup down, some of the radio waves had bounced off the bombers and came straight back to the radar receivers, the signal amplified, and sent straight to his display.

The flat line on the display turned into a curved mound, grew bigger as more radar waves were reflected back by increasing numbers of German bombers. Airman Donaldson put down his cup and swore an oath as he adjusted knobs on his radar set. The set could immediately determine the range, or distance to the approaching bombers but the Airman had to perform manual adjustments in order to determine the bearing or direction they were coming.

Finally he arrived at what appeared to be the best settings and read the numbers on the knobs. He called for the watch officer. “Sir, incoming German raid, bearing 247, range 150 miles. From the strength of the signal I’d say its a big one. Probably 100 planes.”