GROUNDED
By William Sambrot
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories Fall 1954.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Lieutenant Colonel Martin sat back in his hard desk chair and lookedout through the tinted window to where the slim, dartlike jets waited,poised on the sun-washed runways. A red and blue jet swooped down outof the brilliant, cloudless sky and shot along the runway, wheeled androlled back toward the parking strip. It was the courier ship fromWashington.
The colonel frowned, his sunburned face breaking into sharp, diagonallines. The courier plane was used only in cases requiring utmostsecrecy. And always, it brought trouble. Today, it brought trouble forMartin.
He waited, tapping a lean finger on the desk, his eyes distant but notseeing the harsh ridge of up-flung barren mountains, looming clear andincredibly near despite the fact they were sixty miles away—sixtymiles of alkali wasteland where only gila monsters moved, scuttlingfrom rock to rock to escape the brazen sun.
Beyond those mountains was Project Breakaway, the Air Force's topsecret attempt to fling a dart up high enough and fast enough tobreak free of earth's clutching gravity. It was Colonel Martin's jobto command one group of jets that guarded the approaches to ProjectBreakaway. It had been a dull job—routine, boring—up until yesterdaymorning.
It was twenty-eight hours ago, to be exact, that Colonel Martin,Captains Morelli, Sayers and Ryan had sighted and chased the fantasticplatelike object that zoomed, wobbled and ducked in circles aboutthem even though, with all coal poured on, they were hitting close toeight-hundred miles an hour.
Morelli, Sayers and Ryan had never come back from that chase. Ateight-hundred miles an hour, with visibility limited only by thefarthermost rim of the horizon, under a glaring desert sun, allthree had plowed simultaneously into a sun-drenched ridge, a merenine thousand feet above sea-level—a ridge, it appeared, they'ddeliberately headed for and smashed into. How? Why had all three madethe same error of judgment? Why had they dropped from thirty-thousandfeet to nine thousand in a steep, zooming dive, flying formation, andnot once mentioned it over their radio?
Why indeed? These were all questions asked Colonel Martin by suspicioussecurity agents, Air Force Intelligence three-star generals, and, bydirect TV hookup, the Air Secretary himself.
But the sixty-four dollar question they asked was: why hadn't ColonelMartin smashed into that ridge too? Good question. Unfortunately, hisanswer was so bad, it called for the services of a trained alienist.They'd flown one in. He'd listened and asked for time. He was gettingit.
Martin swung and watched the occupants of the red and blue jet swingdown and stride quickly across the hot concrete.
He recognized one of the approaching men as Under-Secretary ofAir, Saunders. The other was General Brereton, on the staff of G2.Regardless of whether or not they considered him insane, they felt thatsomething had happened—something important enough to rate two next inrank to the top commanders.
They came in unescorted. He stood at attention until the burly generalwaved a hand rather irritably, putting him at ease, then he sank downagain into his hard seat. Now it would start all over again. Thequestions, the careful scrutinizing of the plates he'd taken, the hardnarrowed eyes, the disbelief—
"In your own