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         EPISODE 1: "OVER THE SEAS"            

[ PART ONE - Part Two - Part Three - Part four - Part five ]

            MOVIETONE NEWS

            That was what the silver screen said, a few moments after the lights had gone down in the movie theater, and a blaring trumpet fanfare filled up the little theater and drowned out the noise of the other folks, most of them Johnny's age, who were in the theater that afternoon.

            The logo cut away and more words filled the screen. FIRST PICTURES OF THE BATTLE FOR NORWAY, it said.

            “You pay to come see Dr. Cyclops,” said the guy sitting next to Johnny, to his girlfriend, “And they make you sit through this stuff. I wish they wouldn't.”

            John Hansa ground his teeth together, instead of telling the young man to shut up, and he leaned forward in his seat. It didn't matter what anyone else in the theater said. And once the narrator's voice boomed around the room, Johnny couldn't hear them anyway.

            “The German invading force is speeding to capture Oslo,” the deep voice intoned. “The blow against Norway is launched! Warships, loaded with troops which they are to land. Soldiers wearing life-belts, should the vessel be sunk in battle! The naval squadron drives through the...”

            The voice kept going, and Johnny took it in, just as he took in the images. The black and white shots of great ships hurling through white-tipped waves, the monochrome images of somber-faced young men, all in uniform and lined up along the sides of these ships, wearing life jackets and looking at the camera. And all these miles away, in Oklahoma, Johnny stared at the screen and looked them right back in the face.

            Johnny looked at the images, and there was nothing exotic in any of them for him. They were all just triggers for old memories. And they were causes for new concerns. He folded his hands and frowned at the screen.

            And beside him, the two kids couldn't shut up.

            “Think you could take 'em, Frankie?” said the girlfriend of the man next to Johnny. Her voice was so impossibly shrill, it cut through the announcer's voice and the trumpet fanfare.

            The guy shrugged, looking tough. “Sure I could, just dunk 'em in the water and let 'em float!” The girl giggled, and the guy grinned, and Johnny wondered if they'd throw him out for starting a fist fight. And then the guy added, “Anyway, who cares? It's got nothin' to do with us, Mary.”

            It's got everything to do with us, Johnny thought, but he said nothing.

            “That's not what my father says,” she said, mock-seriously. “He says hem hem it's got everything to do with us ahem growl.”

            “Well, yeah, cuz he's an old man. I say, if the old guy wants to get involved, let him get seasick goin' over there and do something about it.”

            “Franky! You telling me you get seasick?”

            The newsreel rolled on, but Johnny couldn't tune out the two next to him anymore. And then the newsreel ended and the opening logos for Dr. Cyclops were thrown up on the screen. Johnny got to his feet, put his jacket on, and headed out of the theater.

            He walked home with his hands in his pockets, listening to the chugging roar of cars going by, down the street. DeSotos and Dodge trucks, Fords...he picked them out as he picked out most details, without really intending to and without paying any attention to them. It was just something that his mind did to occupy itself.

            The wind caught his hair, which was long and straight and brushed back, brown with gray becoming visible, if you were looking for it. The wind brought dust with it, through the Oklahoma town. It had already been a long and dry summer, and it wasn't half-over. The town meetings were full of farmers, unhappy and complaining, despite the government money coming in. Some of 'em were only recently farmers, some of 'em had been other things in different lives, before the markets tripped-up one morning and made a crashing sound. That had been years back, but there were plenty of people still working the hard and dirty jobs that brought in money. Some had gone back, many hadn't.

            Ford, Ford...Dodge...Ford...lotta Fords out tonight...

            He flexed his knuckles and they popped, in his pockets.

            Cadillac. Government plates...

            He suddenly paid attention. It was a green car, and it pulled to the curb, just a little ahead of where he was walking. He stopped, but he didn't take his hands out of his pockets or walk over. A moment later, the car quit idling and two men climbed out of it. One of them, he recognized.

            “Captain John Hansa?” said the man who'd been driving, who wore a long coat and a fedora, and who radiated FBI even before he took out his badge.

            “It's just John Hansa, these days,” he replied. “And it always was. Never much for the rank.”

            “Johnny Hansa,” said the other man, before the FBI agent could get out another word. He had short blond hair and looked Hansa's age. He wore a brown leather jacket, with pilot wings on the lapel. And he grinned and put out his hand. “My God, man, you've got gray hairs coming in.”

            John couldn't help it. He grinned, took the man's hand, laughed, and they hugged. It had been years since he'd seen the other.

            James Ellison stepped back, still grinning, and Johnny indicated his shoulder. “Looks like you've been keeping busy. Captain Ellison, now, is it? I gotta call you that?”

            James grinned. And the FBI agent cleared his throat. They looked at him.

            “We stopped by your home,” the FBI man said, “But your next door neighbor, a missus Wabash, said --”

            “Kate? You talked to Kate?”

            “We needed to find you,” Ellison said.

            The FBI man, rather doggedly, went on, “--said that you were at the local theater. And the teller there said he'd just seen you walk out.”

            “Well, it was excellent detective work,” John nodded. And then, feeling guilty at the look on the FBI man's face, he said, “I'm sorry. I always go to the show, Thursday nights. What did you two need me for?” John looked at Ellison who was, suddenly, somber, and any trace of good humor drained away. “What is it, James? What's happened?”

            The FBI man and James Ellison glanced at each other, and then Ellison said, “I think we should go back to your place and talk it over.”

            Catherine Wabash, whom Johnny called Kate, was perched nervously on the edge of one of Johnny's kitchen chairs, and she was up in a rush when he came into the room and dropped his keys and his wallet on the countertop. Her fingers were picking at each other, nervously.

            “John!” She said, “Some men came by for you, and I think they was gov'nment, so I thought I...oh...” She trailed off when, following John, the FBI man and Ellison came into the kitchen too.

            “Hi, Kate. Thanks,” Johnny said, with a smile. She was a nice lady, about his age, who lived alone in the house next door. She was a widow, her husband lost to a military accident as stupid as it was tragic. They had had no kids. And so she lived quietly on an army pension, and she kept a pair of long-haired white cats, and she read voraciously and grew more and more timid as time went by.

            She stopped by to see John more nights than not. There were always rumors going around about them stepping out together, but they weren't. It's just that they were both quiet people who did very little, and it was sometimes nice to be quiet and do very little together. She wore flower-patterned dresses without fail, and she kept her black hair short and bobbed.

            James Ellison smiled too and said, “Thank you, Missus Wabash. You were a great deal of help.”

            The FBI man – whose name, he had said on the ride back here, was Donald Smith – was sitting down at the table and taking papers out of an envelope he was carrying.

            “Can I get anyone coffee?” John offered.

            Ellison made a face. “Still drinking that Nestcafe, that instant stuff?”

            “I like it.”

            “Awful thing to do to an innocent cup of coffee,” Ellison sat down. “Glass of water would be nice, though. It's really dusty out here.”

            “Here! I'll do it,” Kate Wabash said, and she bustled immediately, before John could say anything. She moved quickly, and with nervous energy, pouring Ellison a glass of water, and putting on the hot water for instant coffee. It had only been around for a few years – well, actually it had been around for a long time, it had just previously tasted like dirt in boiling water until recently – but it was a godsend, far as John was concerned. Instant caffeine? Who could get by without that?

            “No, thank you, miss,” The FBI man replied when Mrs. Wabash came over. Then he looked at Johnny and said, “We have very important matters to discuss. In private.”

            “Oh, sorry,” Kate Wabash put the cups down on the table, “Of course, I didn't mean to get in the way.”

            “Never in the way,” Johnny said, with a smile. “Thanks for coming by, and telling them where to find me, Kate. I'll stop by and say hello tomorrow morning.”

            She left, a wake of nervous energy trailing her. The house was silent, save for the rustling papers that Donald Smith was laying out. John wrapped his hands around his cup, and said, “So. What's the government, and the air force want with me?”

            Donald Smith handed him a paper, which was a letter with a Presidential seal on the bottom and a signature. Johnny glanced at it briefly, as he was handed other papers, and he would have set it down...but a couple of words stood out.

            “Reactivated?” Johnny exclaimed, a bit louder than he meant to. The FBI man was saying something, but he didn't notice. He read the letter through with great care. Twice. And then he put it down and said, “I contacted people, when the trouble with Germany started. I asked about this, you know. And I was told that the United States, until further notice, was remaining neutral in the war effort overseas.”

            “And that's true,” Donald Smith replied evenly. His hat was off, revealing a retreating head of hair.

            “Not to sound too up myself, but I'm not exactly just rearranging ground infantry troops for theoretical deployment,” Johnny said slowly. “This order comes from FDR himself, and you know what I am, I'm sure.”

            “The U.S. is neutral,” Ellison said. He spread his hands out on the table, “But let's say...that we're just noticing which way the wind is blowing, if you see what I mean.”

            “Ah. So it's neutral for how much longer, basically.”

            “Right.”

            “We shouldn't be neutral at all,” Johnny said. “Lord knows, this'll be our problem soon enough and we should be over there trying to do something about it before it gets much worse. And I --”

            “The matters of official strategy and policy are outside of my purview,” Donald Smith said, with an eloquent shrug that could have meant anything. He handed over some more papers. “I am merely here to deliver orders to you, and to accompany Captain Ellison.”

            Ellison leaned forward, and he stared down at his fingernails.

            “I'm putting together a squadron,” Captain Ellison said. “It's not been discussed, because it's not official even a little bit. I'm calling it Phoenix Squadron.”

            “Colorful.”

            Ellison gave a small smile. “It's comprised of fourteen pretty damn sharp pilots from various nations. A lot of 'em are U.S., though. The best I can find. And we're heading overseas, to try and do something.”

            Johnny leaned back and ran his hand through his hair. “Must be pretty unofficial,” he said. “Because if that were official, or found out, that'd be a declaration of the U.S. involvement in the war.”

            “Yeah,” Ellison said. “But we've got to do something. Carefully, for now. And this is what I'm doing.” He hesitated, and then gestured toward one of the other papers, which Johnny hadn't picked up yet. “And I want you over there too, John.”

            The silence hung in the kitchen. It was a sparse room, with only a clock on the wall ticking out the seconds and minutes. The FBI man was still studying the pages, and Ellison was staring right at Johnny, who was examining the green tabletop.

            “It's been a whole lot of years since I've flown a plane, James,” he said at last. “And I don't much want to climb back into a cockpit.”

            “You know that's not what I'm asking,” Ellison said. He indicated Agent Smith with one finger and said, “He knows about the rest of your work.”

            “Really,” Johnny said. “We're dealing rather lightly with state secrets these days, then.”

            “Not lightly at all,” Donald Smith said. “The identity of Rocket Johnny is known to very few people, myself included.”

            “I've got fourteen good pilots,” Ellison said. “I've got my squad. I want an edge. And that's you. I don't want you to join the squad, or fly under me or anything. I just want you over there, with us, doing what you do. And so does the military, and so does the President. When I suggested it, they were already talking.”

            Johnny, however, had stopped listening. One piece of paper on the table had caught his eye, and he picked it up and let Ellison continue talking over him. It was a letter, typed up on a typewriter which seemed to be missing its letter T, so they had been drawn in with pen. At the bottom, it had a block signature which Johnny had recognized from across the table.

            He read the letter and then set it down and looked at Ellison. “All right, I'm in.”

            Ellison smiled, but it clearly caught the FBI man a little off guard. For just a moment, his composure broke and he said, “What, just like that?”

            “Just like that.” Johnny tapped the letter. “If Mister Ivan, and James Ellison want me to...well, who am I to refuse? Anyway, I haven't gotten to punch people while on-duty in too long. That's more satisfying than doing it on my own time.”

            “Oh. Good.” Donald Smith looked perplexed, and it made Johnny grin a little.

            Ellison pushed another folder across the table and as Johnny opened it, he said, “It's very good. Because we need you. Something very immediate has come up.”

            Johnny opened the folder, shifted past three witness testimonials, and then stared at the drawing which had been made based on witness descriptions. All the heat drained out of the room, and he just stared. When he finally thought of it, he looked up at Ellison.

            “Yeah,” Captain Ellison said, grimly. “We've found Joe.”

          ROCKET JOHNNY         

OVER THE SEAS
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