Sky Streak of Terror, a novel about hero

Sky Streak of Terror

Chapter One

 

 

BENJAMIN JONES took a deep breath of fresh Alaskan air before climbing onto the 1959 John-Deere, model 630, tractor, with its fading green-and-yellow colored paint, preparing to drive around his father's farmland in order to check on the oat and barley crops. He exhaled, long and slow, then sat down on the tractor's seat and began to stare at the beautiful, distant mountains with their snow-covered peaks for a moment of daydreaming and reflection.

It's sure great to see the mountains again and not smell any smoke, he thought, as the air and visibility had finally cleared from the thick smoke that blew through the area for several weeks, caused by many simmering, early summer fires that erupted in numerous acres of dry spruce, aspen, and willow trees, for as far as fifty miles away. The fires had since been extinguished by smoke jumpers and firefighting crews from around the state, who also received welcomed relief from the weather, with a few days of heavy rain.

It was now 10:00 a.m. on the first Saturday of early August, and Ben couldn't have wished for a better morning. He was feeling spry after having recently jogged for five miles near the farm, on this sunny and sixty-five-degree day, with a slight breeze to help keep the pesky mosquitoes away.

I'll do my push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups later, he thought to himself, before shifting the tractor's transmission into first gear, pushing the hand clutch ahead and driving away from the farm. Putt...putt...putt...putt...putt... the old John-Deere's twin cylinder engine sounded like music to his ears, as he increased the throttle after shifting to a higher gear and headed toward the crop fields.

Ben was a single, twenty-eight-year-old farmer who, two years earlier, had quit his previous job of five years as a heavy-equipment operator for a gold mining operation, north of Fairbanks, in order to return to his hometown of Spruce Hills to help his aging parents manage their 300-acre farm. Spruce Hills is a rural agriculture community in interior Alaska, having a population of 1,000 citizens, with twenty percent being Ukrainian immigrants, and is located 100 miles south of Fairbanks: Alaska's second largest city. It is a robust community that has schools, a health clinic, one supermarket, a church, two restaurants, two gas stations, and even a nearby renowned army post known as Fort Grenade.

Ben always believed in the importance of keeping himself physically fit through exercise, proper dieting, and hard work, even preferring the hard, manual labor involved in farming over that of a sedentary career and lifestyle.

At 6'1" and 225 pounds of flexible, solid, lean muscles since his eighteenth birthday, he was recruited by several big-time college coaches for their football programs after his graduation to play linebacker or safety. Considered by many scouts to be one of the top athletes in Alaska, who could bench press over 350 pounds on a good day, and run a four-point-fifty-second, forty-yard dash, he was an outstanding high school football player, as well as holding a first degree black belt in jujitsu.

But Ben would never accept their scholarship offers, for he wasn't very enthusiastic about the idea of leaving behind the peaceful, laid back atmosphere of interior Alaska, for the high-pressure atmosphere of a big city and collegiate football lifestyle, which also included enduring the constant verbal abuse that he knew he'd hear from team coaches during practices.

He liked playing football in high school, but wasn't committed enough to dedicate himself full time to the sport, and subject his body to the physical pounding and toll he would endure on a weekly basis, much to the disappointment of his friends, who had hoped to see him in the NFL one day.

If I suffer ligament damage to my knees or, worse yet, sustain severe concussions, which could negatively affect me for the rest of my life, how will I be able to care for my parents and their farm if need be? Ben often pondered.

He pulled the tractor's hand clutch back and eased the John-Deere to a stop before turning the ignition off and climbing down. He had arrived to the edge of the ninety-acre oat field, one of three crop fields that his father, Jesse, owned, and just a ten-minute tractor ride from the farm. His father grew mostly oats, barley, and hay, in which the baled straw from those crops were mainly marketed to the state's dog mushers as bedding for their sled dogs. They also grew potatoes, which they marketed to the state as well, but kept many for themselves for winter consumption.

Spruce Hills is considered by many to be a beautiful town and agricultural community, being situated in a large valley and surrounded by the snow-covered Alaska Range, with their breathtaking, purple Granite Mountains in the forefront.

Ben double-checked the forty-four magnum handgun in the holster on his right hip to make sure it was loaded and ready for a quick retrieval in an emergency. He always carried it for self-defense in the fields, for a possible rare encounter with an aggressive grizzly bear or wolves, which had recently been spotted nearby, along with the numerous tracks they had left behind in the mud, identifying their presence in the area.

Ben was a great marksman and could drill tacks at fifty yards with his favorite large-caliber handgun, and although he hoped he'd never have to defend himself against a bear attack, he had supreme confidence in his shooting abilities, if the need were to arrive.

He then retrieved a can of mosquito repellent from the tractor's toolbox, pointed the aerosol can toward himself, and began to spray religiously, wherever he could reach. He knew that swarms of bloodthirsty mosquitoes would viciously attack any area of the body left unprotected and exposed. He first began spraying over his blue jeans, which covered his flexibly muscular legs, and then slowly moved the can upward and sprayed over his tight, red-colored tee-shirt covering his rippling six-pack abs, muscular chest, and broad shoulders, before skimming over the tight forearms and bulging biceps of his brown-tanned arms. Lastly, he gave his thick neck a quick touch up before tightly closing his mouth and eyelids over his dark-blue pupils as he removed his cap and sprayed over his short, light-brown, slightly curved hair, and across his unblemished, smooth-complexioned face, until he was satisfied.

In a negative reaction from the bitter taste inside his mouth, he found himself spitting on the ground several times in response to a small portion of residue from the repellent, which somehow managed to sneak past his tightly sealed lips.

Ben began to wade through the knee-high oats in the green field for his weekly inspection, while glancing down at the crops. "Looking good!" he excitedly spoke aloud to himself. "Shouldn't be long now, and they'll be ready for harvesting."

He took another lazy step forward with his right foot as his mind drifted off into a daydream, but then immediately flinched and came to a sudden halt, after something had startled him enough that it caused him to desperately reach for the handgun on his hip! His heart began pounding from the adrenaline rush, and he wondered if it would leap from his chest, before the guilty culprit was quickly identified seconds later, which caused him to feel embarrassed from allowing his imagination to get the better of him.

It wasn't a bear at all, but instead, a large, ring-neck pheasant that had been camouflaged in the grassy oats just in front of him while feeding, and one he nearly stepped on by accident, before flushing it out.

The beautifully colored male bird, with its long, sweeping tail and brilliant feathers, took to flight, cackling loudly, along with its wings exploding thunderously in the air as it tried to flee to a higher elevation.

It's shameful that I'd get this jumpy from a harmless pheasant, he thought before busting out into a silent chuckle, especially after noticing the goose bumps on his arms. If that were a grizzly bear instead of a game bird, I'd really be in a world of hurt, he also surmised. "Let cooler heads prevail in bear country" is what the experts say... I think.

Ben paused for a moment and his nerves finally settled down, when he quickly turned his attention toward the distant sound of numerous sandhill cranes and geese, singing and honking as they flew together in perfect harmony on the distant horizon. He listened with keen attention, while also glancing upward at the sky, in search of the melodious bird choir, and hoping they were flying toward his direction, when something unusual caught his attention instead. Interesting... What is that?

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