Titus Andronicus Scott

Virtual Dust Cover

When Lieutenant Carson Greer was assigned as an aide to his boyhood hero, aviation pioneer Titus Andronicus Scott, it seemed like a dream come true. He couldn’t know then that the assignment would last twelve years and make him witness to the fabulous career of his hero as an aircraft engineer, movie maker, airline executive and finally space traveler. Join Carson as he and Colonel Scott discover that what they thought was a Nazi treasure cave near an obscure ancient town in North Africa, actually harbors a secret that will change their lives and eventually the world, forever.

Latest in the Alien Artifact series of books and stories, this novel takes the reader on a non-stop ride from the darkest days of World War Two through the dawn of the Space Age. Climb aboard and fasten your safety belt!

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Titus Andronicus Scott

A Novella by Doug Turnbull

Illustrated by Dheeraj Verma

Copyright 2012 by Doug Turnbull

All rights reserved.

www.dougturnbull.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

Published by Doug Turnbull at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Formatted by Jo Harrison.

Ozymandias

I met a traveler from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Percy Bysshe Shelly-1819

Table of Contents

Part 1 -1946

Part 2 -1947

Part 3 -1948

Part 4 -1948

Part 5 -1949

Part 6 -1949

Part 7 -1950

Part 8 -1952

Part 9 -1953

Part 10 -1954

Part 11 -1956

Part 12 -1958

Part 13 -1975

About the Author

Part 1-1946

Carson Greer stepped off the portable stairway onto the concrete of the taxiway where the Trans Pacific Airways Aero-Cruiser was parked. He was the only passenger on the four-engine aircraft, designed to carry 60, which had flown nonstop from the Naval Air Station at Norfolk, Virginia, to the private airstrip at Scott Aviation’s Palmdale, California, research center. Looking around, he could see several large aircraft hangars, a couple of what appeared to be multi-storied office buildings, and a tall control tower. A car drove up to within a few feet of where he stood. Carson recognized the tall, middle-aged, smiling man who emerged from the backseat of the car as Jonah Marcum, Colonel Scott’s right-hand man, at least according to the news stories he read. Marcum introduced himself with an outstretched hand.

I’m Jonah Marcum and welcome to Scott Aviation. Mr. Scott couldn’t be here, as he is conducting a test flight today in an experimental aircraft we are developing — as we speak, in fact.

Carson Greer, sir, Carson said, taking the hand of the older man and looking into his clear, sky blue eyes.

There he goes now! Breaking their handshake, Marcum pointed toward the eastern sky just as a silver dart shot across it followed by a rumble that, to Carson, seemed to shake the ground.

That’s a jet, isn’t it? I saw one when we were in Germany. Theirs had two engines slung under the wings and looked kind of gawky, although it could outperform anything we had at the time. This one looks more like an arrow.

It does, doesn’t it? Marcum responded, then pointed north: Get ready, here he comes!

Carson looked where Marcum indicated just in time to see the silver dart turn and shrink to a dot. In an instant, the dot grew, resolved into the shape of an oncoming plane, passed directly over them, and rotated upward into a near vertical climb, eventually disappearing into the high, bright desert sky. The tremendous roar of the plane’s engine struck a physical blow that Carson felt as much as heard after it passed.

He must have been moving near the speed of sound! I couldn’t hear a thing till he was right overhead! Carson shouted over the remnants of the noise, just then noticing that Marcum had covered his ears with his hands.

The plan didn’t call for him to push it out that far, but you know our man, don’t you? Marcum asked rhetorically with a smile once quiet returned. Despite the genuine friendliness Marcum exhibited, Carson briefly felt that something predatory lurked behind the ice blue eyes, chiseled features, and toothy smile. He dismissed this momentary sensation before he answered.

Colonel Scott was never conventional when we were in the OSS. But isn’t this pretty risky stuff for him to be doing himself? I mean, there are loads of unemployed pilots around who would give anything for a chance to work at Scott Aviation.

We have pilots, but T.A. likes to do this himself. The first time, I mean. In this case, the first time the plane is flown near its limits. Marcum started to turn away and gestured for Carson to follow. Well, hop into my car and we’ll go over to the test ship’s hangar. He’ll be landing soon and will want to see you.

Carson followed Marcum’s spare, business-suited figure to the black Cadillac parked a few steps away, where a black-jacketed chauffer opened the rear-hinged back door for them. They rode the half mile to the experimental aircraft hangar, arriving just as Scott’s plane began its final landing approach. To Carson, it seemed he was traveling too fast to be in a landing pattern.

As if he had read Carson’s mind, Marcum said: T.A. has an idea for an adjustable wing that will allow it to land slower than this, but for now, with those stubby swept-back jobs, it’s approaching at about 200 knots. We are also looking into using a drag parachute to help slow it down so it doesn’t take a 10,000-foot roll to stop. T.A. thinks that with the next generation of engine, which is in development now at General Electric, he can reach twice the speed of sound.

But no one has ever even exceeded the speed of sound.

Just a matter of time, Marcum said as he exited the car, and less than you might think.

Scott’s plane used the entire length of the runway to slow to taxi speed and then headed for the hangar. As it came to rest, Carson noticed that just behind the needle nose but ahead of the canopy was the plane’s insignia: Scott Aviation EX-11. Under that was a name: Annabelle.

Who’s Annabelle? he asked Marcum as the two men walked toward the parked aircraft.

"You have been away! You haven’t heard of Annabelle Lane, the pinup girl and RCG Studio’s biggest movie star?"

"Oh, I think I remember reading something about him dating her, or going to a movie premier or something like that. It was in Stars and Stripes. I also remember Colonel Scott being partial to movie stars." Both men smiled at this observation.

As they spoke, the canopy opened and the ground crew rolled a ladder alongside the aircraft. One of the crewmen ran up the ladder and helped Scott remove his helmet, revealing the familiar jet-black hair and Clark Gable mustache, and then assisted him in climbing out of the cockpit, which was obviously too small for his lanky frame. Scott followed the crewman down the ladder and headed straight for Carson.

Greer! It’s good to see you. Scott grabbed his hand and pumped it. Finally finished saving the world?

Yes, sir. I’m done with the Army and ready to go back to work for you, sir, he answered as he looked at his old and now new boss. Scott was taller than Carson by half a head and had a slim frame. His facial features were square, with brown, wide-set eyes, a prominent nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and a smile that was open and engaging. What in an earlier time would have been called a dueling scar ran from his right cheekbone down to his jawline. Carson knew from newsreels that Scott had acquired the broken nose and scar in an airplane crash during the mid 1930s. Carson was in high school at the time and followed aviation news avidly.

Great! Has Jonah filled you in on our plans for you yet?

No, sir. I just got off the plane, not fifteen minutes ago.

You’ll be working with our old friend, von Kluge. We’ll discuss that over lunch, or is it breakfast? Scott looked at Marcum and Carson inquiringly.

The question reminded Carson of Scott’s complete indifference to chronological time and of when they were together in Europe.

Yes, I guess it would be breakfast, sir, he said, his thoughts quickly returning to the present. It’s 7:00 AM.

"What do you think of Annabelle?" Scott gestured in the direction of the sleek aircraft.

She’s a beauty, sir. She looks more like a spaceship than an airplane. The abrupt change of subject made Carson smile: Scott’s jackrabbit mind hadn’t changed a bit. Scott’s mind always seemed to work on several things simultaneously, and one had to be pretty nimble to keep up. I’ve never seen anything like it. Those German jobs and even Lockheed’s new jet look pretty frumpy alongside this plane.

"They are frumpy. Scott laughed. This baby is a whole generation ahead of those ships. If the War Department is smart enough to buy this one, it will finance our other operations for quite a while. I will have to invest in a couple of congressmen and a senator or two, but they will be cheap compared to what we will get in return." Scott laughed again.

They walked as they talked, eventually arriving at the enormous hangar that housed several Scott Aviation experimental aircraft. One corner of the structure had been turned into a cafeteria for company employees. There was a line at the entrance to the buffet counter, and the three men joined the end of it. Scott was immediately peppered with greetings from the mostly dungaree-clad workmen.

Good morning, Mr. Scott. The speaker was a florid-faced man about a head shorter than Scott.

Good morning, George. How’s the family? That new baby arrived yet? Scott asked with genuine interest.

Everyone is fine, Mr. Scott. It’s a girl!

Congratulations, George. That’s three girls and a boy now. Scott offered his hand, which the workman gripped and shook.

That’s right, Mr. Scott. The man nodded, clearly surprised that Scott remembered these personal details.

Howdy, Mr. Scott, another man said.

Hi, Ben, how’s your daughter doing? Scott looked intently at the small-framed man as they shook hands.

Jenny’s fine, sir. The doctor you sent us to is a real expert. He thinks that with the right therapy Jenny may eventually be able to walk again. He sent her to Warm Springs, where President Roosevelt used to go, for hydrotherapy. Ben said this last word slowly, carefully pronouncing each syllable, as though describing a magical procedure. The missus and I can’t thank you enough for what you have done.

I’m so glad to hear that, Ben. That she is doing well is thanks enough for me. Polio is a scourge. It took my little brother, Cory, back before they had the iron lung in wide use. He was only fourteen. Maybe someday a cure will be found. Scott continued to grip the man’s hand and hold his forearm through the exchange.

So it went. Carson marveled at how Scott knew the names and something about the families of every employee he met. Equally impressive was the ease with which Scott moved among everyone. That he sincerely felt no social distance between himself and his employees was especially striking to Carson, who had spent the last few years in Europe, where social classes were rigid and men of Scott’s stature simply didn’t know or care about the lives of their employees.

Carson also noticed that there were quite a few women among the workforce, holdovers from the war years. Several Negroes, Indians, and Mexicans were scattered around the room as well. He recalled reading an interview Scott had granted with a famous newspaper writer. When asked by the reporter why he fought against union organizers in his many enterprises, Scott replied: Those damned unions are designed to exclude people. When I hire people, I want the best man for the job, not the best white man, and very often the best man is a woman. I don’t need some union laying down seniority rules or holding votes about who works and who doesn’t.

But don’t your workers have a right to organize?

"They sure do, and if they want to, they will. But they don’t want to. They are being threatened and made false promises by the union that