The Experiment

Somehow, no one knew how, Hank had gotten a hold of a can of Gorilla Glue.

“Check this out,” Hank said. “Specs says it can lift 10 tons.”

“Bullshit,” said Ken.

“No, it really says that.”

“Yeah I believe it says that, but I say it’s bullshit.”

“Well how the hell are we gonna know? What do we even know of that weighs ten tons?”

They looked at each other, the way they did that made Waldorff excited, and a little uneasy.

“Salad,” bawled Hank. “Go get RJ. We need him.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see, just go get him.”

“But what should I tell him?” Waldorff was dubious. RJ didn’t come over for just any old thing.

“Tell him I said it’s important,” intoned Hank. Then he gave the hard eye, the one Waldorff had learned about in Rota last year, and Waldorff got while the gettin’ was good.

#

Fifteen minutes later they were out on the tarmac. Wasn’t a soul around this time of day on a Sunday, just some civvy patrol wandering blindly on the other side of the hangars, too far away from anything they actually should have been watching to do much good.

“What if someone sees?” Waldorff shifted his weight and looked at Hank.

“So what if someone sees? RJ’s flight cleared.”

“All you gotta do is say he’s testing the hydraulics. They won’t know any different,” said Ken.

RJ grinned over his shoulder, red hair slicked and peaked in the back, a lick of fire. “Fifty bucks says it works.”

“You’re on,” laughed Ken. “Load of bullshit.”

“You like saying that,” said Hank.

Waldorff, for his part, stood nervously while his shop super receded into the long, later afternoon shadow cast by the hangar, leaving Waldorff and his compatriot in the open.

RJ started up the bird and thrust forward on the collective. Slowly, slowly, the SeaKing rose into the air, until it was hovering about forty feet off the tarmac.

“Easy now!” called Hank, as if RJ could even hear him over the rotors. “Hey Salad, watch for the beat.” He snaked forward like a weasel bending through a tight space, Gorilla Glue clutched tightly in one hand, paintbrush in the other, and hit the deck on his knees.

Waldorff clutched his earmuffs to the sides of his head and scanned the corners of the hangar, the inbound road, the far off fence that lead over route 309 to the strip joints. Not even one car. This was not the kind of town that smiled on strip joints on a Sunday.

While Waldorff watched, wondering what he could possibly say to pass this off to a civvy patrol if they came 'round this side of the hangars to inquire, Hank deftly painted a few strips of thick, cloying, yellow goo along the ground like ectoplasmic skid marks.

He backed up quick and gave RJ the signal. The absurd looking craft, bulbous thing that it was, gently and gracefully alighted, wheels on the glue. RJ shut her down and hopped out.

“How long’s it gotta set?”

“Overnight,” said Hank, squinting at the fine print on the back of the can.

“Go wash that shit off before you glue yourself together,” said RJ. Then he laughed. “I’m gonna spend Ken’s fifty bucks on a new golf club.”

#

Flight training was every Monday morning, and this was no exception. RJ sat on a dead compressor, pretending to be cleaning parts while Hank filled out a requisition form, and Ken made no attempt to look busy at all. Waldorff was trying not to watch. When he watched, he stared, and then Hank slapped him hard in the arm and hissed at him not to look suspicious.

Waldorff was soaking the parts RJ needed in alcohol, taking each and putting them in his plastic bucket one painstakingly after the other as the crew headed out to the SeaKing for pre-flight. They checked everything, top to bottom, Navy protocol. No one noticed the glue.

The pilot hopped up into the chair. He started the bird up and eased the collective forward. It tried, alright, and the light whine of straining metal wafted over to the hangar on the breeze. The pilot’s expression, well, he was too far away for Waldorff to make it out, but he assumed it was consternated. He pushed the collective further forward. The helicopter groaned. Another push forward, and another, feeding pitch, the pilot looked like he was swearing in frustration, when suddenly…

kaPOW!

Everybody ducked. Someone yelped and the SeaKing shot up twenty feet into the air in a single go. Hank looked up and squealed “Look at that!”

There was the SeaKing, hovering, with four blown out tires - no, not blown out, exploded and shredded to all hell, the tread stuck fast to the tarmac.

“Well fuck me,” said Ken. “I guess it works.”

RJ smirked. “I’m getting’ a new five iron.”

“Yeah, bet you are,” Ken frowned. But he didn’t dare pass over what he owed just then.

The deck crew were screaming at them. Get the hell out here! And they all came running, except for RJ, who somehow in the mere seconds between speaking of his golf-clubs-to-be and the need for work to be done, had disappeared to an undisclosed location inside Hangar 5.

“What the hell,” said a man from the flight crew. “Who did this?”

“Wow, no idea!” said Hank. “Army guys from next door playing a joke?”

“Does this look like a goddamn joke?!” spat the crewman.

“A poor one,” Hank said, nodding sagely at the tread, frozen fast in amber goo, forever preserved like a fossil.

“God damnit… Jake, keep her in hover! And you! Yeah, you, skinny!”

Waldorff stood at attention.

“Well don’t just stand there, go get new tires! We need to land this bird!”

Waldorff hopped to and scrambled back towards the hangars to find some replacements. As he dashed off he heard the crewman yelling at Hank, “Army pricks! Some joke!”