Eagle's Roost

Home

The 13,000 foot-high mountain peak view of the eastern Colorado sky pinks with the coming spring dawn. A sporadic, bitterly cold wind whistles and swirls around the jagged, crevice-laced cliffs of the high peak, known as Eagle’s Roost. Far off somewhere in the distant valley below a raven calls…cruck-cruck-cruck. A timeless silence filters through as the last star’s light twinkles and fades out…the sky turns to indigo. Soft wisps of powder snow from the cliff ledges occasionally catch on the wind and sprinkle brilliant sparkles that flicker away in the wind as the crimson red morning sunlight begins to paint this majestic pinnacle that dominates the glacier sculptured cirque valley. Far below, on a 7,000 foot-high, silver forest capped ridge top, a bald eagle lands on an old dead snag’s only remaining branch…stepping side to side, digging in his large, sharp claws intently into the roost branch…he looks out across his valley, surveying his domain. The powerful raptor adjusts his wings as if settling in for a morning meditation, his large beak opens slightly as his chest rhythmically expands and contracts to his steady breathing and his eyes stair intently at the coming sunrise. A sudden gust of wind whisks away a small loose feather from his back…now he’s perfect, groomed in place by the creator’s hand.

The Machine

The F15E Eagle fighter-bomber sits in the hangar, its U.S. Air Force desert camouflage paint scheme starting to look strangely foreign now as it is bathed in the mounting sunrise’s crimson red rays of light streaming in the open door at the far end of the hangar. Serviced and waiting, the plane is loaded with ordinance for the day’s practice bombing runs. A couple fans with dryer-hose-like ducting blow heated air into the fighter’s two jet engine air intakes, preheating them to help them start after surviving the freezing cold Arizona desert night. A technician works under the plane’s front nose area, connecting a data uplink line to load the day’s mission parameters, as well as running an automatic full systems check. As the computer cycles through the systems check, one can hear several little servomotors in different locations deep within the bowels of the plane whine as they move valves, shafts, and levers…followed by the navigation lights beginning to pulsate and flash, while flight control surfaces go through their range of motion. The canopy automatically opens and foothold steps slowly glide out pneumatically from the fuselage, awaiting their pilot. The plane…seems alive…

The Pilot

Sitting at the briefing table in the flight line ready room, he drifts back from the Air Force academy at Colorado Springs…a daydream…while staring at his morning coffee, as the French Vanilla swirls in, he recalls catching brook trout from a pristine creek in the high Colorado Rocky wilderness while on weekend leave from the academy. It was in a valley with a towering peak at the head of it…what was the name of that peak? Oh yes, Eagle’s Roost, yes, that was it. Someday he would return there.

Today would be his first live-ammo bombing run practice. “Thomas Redford III,” he thought to himself…has reached his life long goal, now he could live up to that academy nickname of Strike King. The culmination of what he is, what he does for a living…he is part of the finest engineering man has yet devised…a nearly perfect killing machine. He has a machine and power at his finger tips that only a very few ever have, others can only dream of controlling.

Just the week before, his classmate, Ted, that had graduated the year before Tom, wrote from Bosnia and the letter had just now arrived this morning…Tom began to open the letter and read…it told of how Ted had just returned from a mission in Bosnia where he had bombed an assigned military target…or so the U.S. military intelligence had thought it was a legitimate military target. Ted later found out from media reports that he had single handedly blown an orphanage full of war torn children to smithereens with a smart bomb. Ted hollowly chuckled in the letter, “now…just how smart was that bomb…the best bomb money can buy?” Ted went on to describe how he hasn’t been able to sleep at night since the incident, and that his feelings of guilt and horror of what those poor children went through were incessantly eating away at him. Our pilot, Tom, got a sick, hollow feeling in his gut as he stared up at the official Air Force document tacked on the ready room’s bulletin board. It was posted yesterday…and detailed how Ted had been killed two days ago while on a three-plane attack sortie over Bosnia when his plane was hit by a single soldier’s shoulder-mounted stinger missile. A bizarre coincidence, the media had noted this morning that Ted’s damaged plane had augured directly in to the burned out children’s orphanage Ted had destroyed the week before. The other two pilots in the sortie said they had never seen anything like it, that Ted was the lead plane and that the stinger missile misfired and simply passed straight through the cockpit without exploding. With a red mist emitting from the shattered remnants of the canopy as the plane slowly nosed over and began a steep descent, the engines continued to blaze their afterburners at full power. When the plane’s speed reached over mach-three the wings ripped off from the severe over speed and just at that same instant the plane impacted the orphanage. The orphanage was built on an ancient peat bog, and the jet hit with such force that it punched a deep hole into the peat, which instantly oozed back in to completely and deeply bury the crash site, so no recovery of the wreckage or body is possible…like I said…a bizarre coincidence.

The Trip Home

Tom walks around his plane as part of his preflight checklist. He knows every inch of this beast…every nut, bolt, and rivet. Its precision and engineering exhilarate him. Then he sees them, the bombs, hung on his beautiful plane…what a shame. He climbs the steps and unceremoniously climbs into the cockpit. To say that it fits him like a glove would be a gross under exaggeration. The leather padding at strategic points in the cockpit rubs against him as if it’s a greeting from the plane. The combination of all 413 switches and gauges staring at him and calling to him with a, “good morning Tom…ready for a scoot?” The smell of the leather padding and seat cover remind him of his horse…this plane has been just as good a steed he thought to himself. Check list in hand, he readies himself as he vaguely feels the clunk of the lowboy utility tractor operator hooking the tow bar to the nose gear tow ring, followed by almost imperceptible movement of the plane as he continues his check list routine without looking up. Suddenly his earphones in his helmet crackle to life when the tow driver plugs into the nose of the plane with his collar intercom cable and informs Tom that he’s ready for taxi. Tom looks to his left and right and finds himself parked in the main doorway of the hangar with the nose of the plane hanging just outside. He busily starts throwing switches in quick succession. Sounds begin to emit from behind him: gyros, heaters, pumps, and hydraulic fluid surges through the lines all around him. The engines begin to spin up with an ominous whine. The gauges all come to life, needles rising as they should to their appropriate locations on their respective dials. The three main computer screens in front of him glow with an emerald light…data streaming across them. He radios the control tower for permission to taxi and for a runway assignment. The flight line safety crew takes over now after verifying runway assignment and gives Tom some brief, precise hand signals to taxi. Tom looks to his right and left and notices the brilliant red sunlight streaming into the east facing hangar door opening…it’s lighting up the whole interior of the hangar and all of the planes in the hangar look like they are freshly painted crimson red. “What team am I on?” he laughed to himself. Tom slowly steers the nose gear to the right and throttles up the engines to 65%, which is just enough to roll her out. As the plane lumbers out the red, green, and white strobes about the plane flash rhythmically like a heartbeat. The engines sound strong and smooth. After a few excruciatingly long taxiing minutes, Tom arrives at the beginning of the runway, radios for take off clearance and receives it. Taking off to the east, Tom has the sun directly in his eyes. He dons his oxygen mask and pulls his helmet’s gold reflective finished sun visor down and mumbles, “elevator up boys…here we go,” with one last glance: flaps down, landing gear safety lock on…Tom pushes the engine throttles to 110% and activates the afterburners creating a seemingly primal force that pushes Tom’s body back hard against the seat. The bumpy cement runway initially has the plane bouncing somewhat in rhythm, but quickly turns to a low vibration until the wheels lift off and the plane smoothly powers into the sky: flaps up, landing gear up. Tom circles back to the west as he climbs up to 30,000 feet and levels off to cruise on autopilot as per flight plan to the first way point, and then makes a turn to the second way point for a rendezvous with the KC130 fuel tanker for mid-air refueling.

Tom can’t stop thinking about Ted…Ted was the one that had it all together, everything always came his way, grades, women, money, fame…and now, in one week’s time…he’s a child murderer, dies tragically, and is entombed for eternity along with the bodies of the children he killed.

Tom just recently had come to grips with the death of his wife…a drunk driver had hit her as she walked the River Road Trail and left her for dead. He loved her so much; the resulting depression he experienced after her death was like nothing he knew could even exist. Now he was destined to kill soldiers, and probably civilians as well, in wars on distant lands. He just wanted to fly this machine…not kill people. The mere thought of killing people was becoming so repulsive to Tom that he put the thought out of his mind…but not until after he knew he had decided what he had to do, and keep the promise to himself he had just made…never to use this marvelous machine…his trusty steed, to harm anyone. Tom thought about trying to justify to his Dad, his Dad the Vietnam fighter pilot war hero, how his son had become a conscientious objector and would resign his commission in protest against crimes committed by governments against mankind. Nothing made sense to him anymore, nothing had meaning or value…it was all gone. Tom thought about his great grand parents that had homesteaded in the valley below Eagle’s Roost Peak, and how they had been buried there after living a full and rewarding, yet simple life there. Yes, that was a good place to rest for eternity he thought.

Tom had just finished refueling with the tanker and set the autopilot…he was getting ready to fly to the bomb drop, when he spent more than just a few moments looking at the distant desert floor below…sage brush, sand, and jack rabbits…then away to the north to the distant mountain top peaks. It all seemed so right, and yet so wrong; the red, green, and white strobes about the plane flashing rhythmically like a heartbeat, the engines sounding strong and smooth, the three main computer screens in front of him glowing with an emerald light…data streaming across them. All of this meant to facilitate killing people. He deliberately punches up the GPS screen on the NAV monitor…locks in coordinates for the Eagle’s Roost Valley as his final waypoint, and switches on the low-level-flight terrain-following radar. He stops…his finger resting on the NEXT WAY POINT toggle switch…caressing it really, as he looks to the north, with the Rockies on the horizon. He pushes the toggle forward and the plane makes a hard descending right turn to the northeast. Tom calmly switches off the radios…all of them. He rolls the low-level autopilot altitude dial down to 200 feet, with a look up setting of only 100 feet. The plane rapidly descends to 200 feet above the desert floor. The jet rips over the head of an old-timer prospector and his mule, with the sound of the engines echoing out of dry washes, and scorpions scampering for cover. Tom busily calculates his fuel consumption and optimizes the engine power setting for maximum distance, and finds that he’ll barely make it. The mid day sun reflects in a star off of his sun visor, putting bright spots geometrically about the cockpit that move in synch with Tom’s head movements. He can feel beads of sweat begin to roll down the side of his face, his hands are becoming clammy, and his thought process clouded. Suddenly a master alarm sounds…Tom’s frenzied eyes run up and down the gauge displays. What’s wrong? He resets the alarm and recycles the display…no alarm…great, a false alarm he chuckles to himself. “PULL UP,” suddenly rings out in his headset, but faster than he can react, the autopilot adjusts. The jet starts its way up the first wooded mountain valley, and hits dense cold air and shudders. Tom keeps his eyes running over the displays, sweating profusely now. The jet banks hard to the right, hard to the left, then pulls up over the head of the valley and swoops back down into the next…again and again. An occasional, “PULL UP,” rings out. Tom realizes there is no way he can react as fast as the autopilot’s servos can, and if he is to stay under Denver’s radar, he’ll have to trust the system. Like a carnival ride, the jet ungulates as the terrain following autopilot constantly powers the engines up and down…the jet twisting and turning to maintain a constant 200 foot altitude. In awe of his magnificent machine, Tom feels the leather cockpit wrapped around him…his plane carrying him on to destiny. All at once several master alarms go off just after a loud noise comes from engine number one, engine number one has failed…a bird strike! Tom quickly closes out engine one and extinguishes the flames. The low fuel light strobes ominously at the upper left of the instrument panel. He’s so close. A group on horseback is stunned when the smoking jet rips over the ridge top they’re riding on. Tom nervously contemplates taking the low-level autopilot off; he’s barely clearing these mountain tops. Tom starts to notice familiar landmarks…his old stomping grounds at last. Ahead Tom sees a familiar eyesore blighting the valley, an old abandoned copper mine. He targets the mine and releases all four 500-pound bombs and returns that bit of real estate to its natural rock fall state. The plane leaps forward and up after getting rid of the bombs’ weighty burden. Unexpectedly, another master alarm sounds…the ground terrain radar has failed! Tom has a knot in his stomach as “PULL UP, PULL UP” begins to ring out, and then he sees it…Eagle’s Roost looming up at the head of the valley. A second alarm sounds “Whoop-Whoop” and a female voice begins sounding, “FLAMEOUT, EJECT NOW! - FLAMEOUT, EJECT NOW!”

Peace

Tom sees the eagle…the eagle returns the stare; their eyes momentarily lock and track one another. Tom feels a warm rush of peace pour over him. Home at last.

The plane hits the valley head wall 100 feet below the top of 13,000 foot-high Eagle’s Roost Peak with such force that it punches a deep hole into the mountain side that is nearly instantly buried by a resulting rock fall that completely, and deeply buries the crash site, so no recovery of the wreckage or body is possible. The tremendous thunder of the impact echoes away down the valley and after just a few moments the dust settles, the last pebble comes to rest…to leave virtually no sign of the event. The sun warmly bathes the rock fall as the smell of huckleberries drifts in the wind.

The bald eagle lands on the old snag’s only remaining branch…stepping side to side, digging in his large, sharp claws intently into the roost branch…he looks out across his valley, surveying his domain. The powerful raptor adjusts his wings as if settling in for an afternoon meditation, his large beak opens slightly as his chest rhythmically expands and contracts to his steady breathing…and now…his eyes stare into your soul.

Epilogue

The natural world deeply calls to us, and has a place in our hearts that touches our soul in a way that we don’t understand and can’t comprehend; yet we yearn to be near it…to grasp it. Contrastingly, our fragile, hi-tech existence and lust to dominate and control our own kind can’t compete with the natural world’s time scale, strength, and self-healing capabilities.

A Bizarre Coincidence

I originally wrote a more basic version of this story in 1970, in my seventh grade English class when I was struggling with peer pressure after moving to a new school in the Northwest. I believe the original is packed away somewhere… My instructor, Mr. Taylor, was a short man with long wavy red hair, pointy nose and his loud attire easily gave away that he had worked previously as a radio disc jockey. He was always chewing gum; usually with an open mouth…sometimes you could see the gum. He thought it was funny that a hot-rod gear-head like myself would write a story about the natural world consuming the perfect machine…to rest there with its pilot in the bowels of the mountain for eternity.

The reason I’ve brought this tidbit of history to your attention is that in 1997 a Captain Craig Button performed a scenario very similar to the one described in Eagle’s Roost (see the CNN article at: http://www.cnn.com/US/9710/24/a10.crash/ for details), albeit in an A10 rather than a F15. I would like to point out that this happened 27 years after I wrote Eagle’s Roost. Since I have posted this story on the web I would like to state that this story is a fiction work and does not represent or imply anything regarding a real person.

In conclusion, I’d like to dedicate this story to all the orphaned children around world, and hope that the Supreme Being, God, will guide them to a happy and meaningful life.

Back Home