Storm Rolling or the devil's on the Loose

The Atlantic rolled about and up and down – its usual state of affairs. This ocean was not one for calms seas McEntire thought as he gripped the sidewall of the boat. Of course his entire experience was 3 voyages but he still felt inclined to to expound on the ocean’s lack of virtues. As if to spite him, the waters continued to undulate around making McEntire regret the fish stew he had for breakfast.

            He stared out at the cause of the unsteady seas and cursed his luck. The cause was the storm clouds gathering somewhere over back towards his homeland. He held up his fist to shake it at the skies.

            Matt Turner looked at the grizzled man shaking his fists at the sky. He himself had never understood why the old man felt so threatened by the open seas. He had fled the close confines of the cities and the wars that had closed in on him there. Well it was either fishing or flying he thought as he pulled in on the nets helping the hauler to drag the fish onboard. Flying was out, planes were way to small and prone to falling out of the sky a lot. He felt something stir inside him. He briefly wondered about the fish stew and then dismissed it. Nothing could have lived through that mess.

            “Storms rolling in.”

            The voice belonged to McGhee, the boat’s skipper, the boss and a man prone to repeatedly saying the obvious.. The Irish man was 6 foot and a bear of a man with flaming red hair crammed into a woolen cap. He climbed out of the hauler to help Matt pull up the last of them nets.

            “Dammit! McEntire get over here and works some.” McGhee growled “Or so help me I will get rope and keel haul you tonight!”

            McEntire swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing like a bouy but he ran over and made a show of dragging on the net which was by that point on the boat.

            Matt suddenly felt very cold as something screamed awake in his head. An old noise, one he hadn’t heard in years burst out of his memory and filled his senses.  His face must have shown his inner turmoil because McGhee dropped the net and looked at him.

            “Matt? What is it?”

            “I don’t know.” He felt like screaming and then like puking but the sound felt nearer. He swung about to look east. “Something’s coming.”

            “The storm is coming.” McEntire interrupted “But it’s back that way- any blind man can see-“

            His voice drowned out by the throbbing noise that sounded, to him anyways like a locomotive thundering down the tracks. He looked back east.

            Matt looked into the horizon then dropped to the ocean’s surface. There was definitely something there. A ship? Then as if some invisible fog lifted a speck appeared. Matt blinked and then squinted. He suddenly knew it was on the water but not in the water.

            “Glasses! I need your glasses.” He thrust out his hand to find the cold steel of the field glasses slapped into them.

            The thing in Matt’s mind took form in an unexpected wave of familiarity and then the opening twangs of an old song started there. He looked at the incoming airship feeling the years peel back with an alacrity he had not felt since he had last held his M-16 in his hands in those dirty streets in the war.

            Matt could hear the guitar’s start up in the back of his brain, as CCR pluck away at the opening riffs. The thing that was coming across the water became three Huey UH-1’s cruising over the water. He could see the M60s on their mounts out the sides and the legs dangling out the open bay doors.

            “It’s all so true.” He breathed, “They told me- don’t go walking slow.”

            “What?” McGhee said giving him a side long look.

            “The devil’s on the loose. Better run through the jungle.”

Matt was lost in the CCR song and then he was skimming over the rice paddies as the twangs picked up intensity and the years melted away. Something in his mind told him it was a lie, it had to be a lie.

            “Better run through the jungle.”

            “Matt! What is it? What is coming?” McGhee shouted as the roar of engines over took the sound of the waves.

            “Better run through the jungle.” Matt knew he was screaming the lyrics even as the Hueys dissolved into the bomber. “Incoming!’

            For a moment he thought he was looking into the pilot’s eyes then the reality slammed home and Matt abandoned the field glasses and dove into the nets and fish as the B-17 Flying Fortress gained enough altitude to soar over the small boat showering it with water from the wake of its passing.

            “Mother of God!” McGhee yelled as he watched it cross his bow and head on into the depths of the Ocean like a great whale. A Grey Green Moby Dick as he stood like a much confuse Ishmael because the white whale flew instead of swimming over his whaler.