In Loving Memory of My Brother, Major R. David Witchey

The last place Major R. David Witchey wanted to be on Christmas Eve was on the ground dealing with rum eggnog, carolers, and all the mythic crap of Christmas.

Running hot on both burners at 20,000 feet was the kind of rush David had dreamed of since he was a kid opening used presents in the orphanage.

At thirty, he was above it all -- on and gone past Santa Claus, Christmas cheer, and people who mentally and physically never left the ground. His ass warmed the seat of 50 million dollars of steel, firepower, and dual F-15 screaming thrust.

"Shit hot," he said.

His wing man picked it up. "Shit hot, Witch. Happy Foxtrot Holidays."

"Chatter, Able Flight," Ground said.

R. David clicked mike once for affirmative copy and silence. He checked his ops display. Shimmering green-ghost instruments superimposed on his canopy heads-up showed nothing but his wing man, Chuck, within fifty miles.

High-low, visual 270 sweep.

Glorious.

12-high, full moon; 3-low, glittering cloud terrain pocked with occasional black pools sparkling with the glitter grid of suburban Christmas lights.

"Click, click, click," Chuck's signal for private party. He thumbed to frequency.

"Witch?"

"Copy."

"Christmas Eve. We got Santa Bogey duty."

"Negative. Foxtrot that."

"Scrooge."

"Santa, miracles, and UFOs. Same wreckage."

"Kids, Witch. Come on. Magic of Christmas."

"Not on my flight."

"I told my kids I'd look out for the old guy."

"Not mission spec."

"We call in the bogey, NORAD reports the call. National news. Kids are happy."

"Silent night, buddy. Homeland Security. We don't spook anybody. Mission by the book." David flipped his frequency back to mission spec. He checked his heads-up.

A blip.

"Contact," he said. "Bogey. A hundred klicks. Heading 312. Descending. Closing."

"You do have a heart," Chuck said.

"Ground?"

"Confirmed," Ground said.

"For real?" Chuck said. Then, "Got it."

Silence. The blip moved toward the center of the heads-up radius.

"How're you doing that?" Ground asked. "Closing speed registers in excess of 6400 knots."

"Not us," Chuck said.

Ground laughed.

"Visual," David said. A black circle covered in a grid of red and green flashing lights slipped down from the heavens, leveled, then skidded along the tops of the glittering clouds. "Closing hot. Advise."

"Live and nation-wide," Ground said.

"Negative. Advise," David said.

"What is it?" Chuck asked.

Ground chuckled.

"Advise!" David said again. The object closed so fast that inside of two heartbeats, it grew from a dot into a giant strobing sphere.

"Arming!" David said.

"Arming!" Chuck said.

"Do not arm!" Ground said. "Southbound Bogey not hostile! Do not arm."

"Lock and tone," David said.

"Tap it! Tap it, Witch!"

"Do not fire on Santa Claus," Ground said. "He has clearance."

"That's no sleigh and eight," David said. The thing was round as a basketball and the size of three football stadiums. It went under them, past them.

"Pursuing," David said. "Break left." He throttled, slammed stick down-left, and punched left rudder.

"Copy that, Witch," Chuck said.

"Gentlemen, do not fire!"

Turbulence hit. The F-15 bucked, rolled, yawed. David's stall indicator screamed. G-forces pinned him. She went flat spin. Engines popped. Silence.

"I'm Tango Uniform," he said. "Double flame out." He throttled back to kill fuel flow, drove the stick forward, and slammed right rudder hard down.

"Witch!" Chuck screamed. "Eject!"

He held the stick. He held the rudder. The green glow of his heads-up faded to gray. Mentally, he talked himself through: Brain blood loss. Color vision going. Come on, you cast-iron glider. Light up for me. He hit his igniters.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

"Eject! Eject!" Chuck sounded like he was yelling through several blankets.

"Major, we show you in rapid descent."

"Bogey got Witch! He's Tango Uniform."

"Come on, guys. The broadcast is over. Nice play."

"God dammit Ground, he's tits up. Tango Uniform. Going down!"

Grids of red and green lights flashed in his vision. Blinked and flashed. Blinked and flashed.

He felt like he was under water, swimming, holding his breath, floating. Clouds surrounded the canopy, but they were lit with green and red glows, like someone had put spotlights behind movie smoke. The lights spun round and round, but David was sure he was sitting still. He held the stick. He held the rudder. Cloud layers. It was all an illusion. G-stress. Oxygen loss. Spinning. Capillaries exploding. Random cone firing in his eyes.

"Hold it," he said to himself. "Hold it, Witch."

"Eject!" Ground said.

Suddenly, Sister Mary-Rose was singing Silent Night in the cockpit. He'd been too old for adoption, so he helped the other kids with their presents. The hardwood under the tree was bare. The lights crisscrossed the darker pine boughs, blinking red and green. Red and Green.

Kids played. She sang. He blinked back his tears and stood next to her, straight, shoulders back. Oldest. Strongest. Most responsible. He sang too. The other kids ignored them and played with their hand-me-down toys.

She put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and she handed him a box wrapped in blue and silver foil.

Hold it. Keep it together.

He tore at the paper. A 1:25 th die-cast model of a P-51 D. Brand new. His first new toy ever.

Lights flashed.

He broke free of the cloud cover. The grid of red and green lights on the ground was clean and straight and still.

Three thousand and falling.

Not spinning.

He straightened the stick and brought the rudders in line. He pushed forward on the stick and hit the igniters.

Both engines fired. Thrust pushed him back in the seat. The airspeed indicator rose. He gentled the stick back, and the altimeter showed a shallow climb.

He sighed. "I'm hot," he said.

"Witch? What the hell?" Chuck asked.

"Hot, flat, and climbing," he said.

"Copy that," Ground said.

"Click. Click. Click."

He thumbed over to private with Chuck.

"Witch?"

"Copy."

"What the hell?"

"Pulled her out."

"No. While you were black."

"Black?"

"Yeah. While you were out of contact."

"I wasn’t black."

"Witch, you were in the clouds for fifteen minutes. There was one hell of a light show. I thought you were a fireball. We scrambled search and rescue."

Above, misty bulbous lobes of red and green lightning roiled and blinked. Two lobes of cloud parted to reveal a black sphere covered in Christmas lights, millions of Christmas lights, all laid out in a grid -- a mirror reflection of the ground, like somebody intentionally mimicked the lights below.

David laughed.

"Witch?"

"Going mission spec," he said. He thumbed back to ground frequency. "Ground?"

"Copy, Major."

"Contact?"

"Big bogey on your six matching speed."

"Are we secure?"

"Copy, Major. Go ahead."

"U. F. O. We have friendly first contact."

"Say again, Major."

"First contact. I think they want to follow me home. Merry Christmas."

"Copy that, Major. Merry Foxtrot Christmas."

The End

Biography

Eric M. Witchey ifiction has appeared nationally and internationally in magazines and anthologies. He has in multiple genres under several names. His novel, Fighting Mother's Echo, is currently out in Poland. His How-to articles have appeared in Writer's Digest Magazine, Writer's Northwest Magazine, and Northwest Ink. His fiction has won recognition from Writers of The Future, New Century Writers, Writer's Digest, and www.ralan.com. When not teaching or writing, he restores antique HO locomotives or terrorizes trout with small bits of feather and pointy wire.

For information about his upcoming appearances and teaching schedule, refer to www.ericwitchey.com, www.creativedevelopmentnetwork.org, and www.write-in-crete.com.