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My 80s Days

http://www.realisticpoetry.com/poetry-blog/jimmy-boom-semtex-poetry

This poem is about Jimmy's youth and what he experienced. As you can see, it's quite varied, like Jimmy is. He spends a lot of time remembering the past, to write clearly about it. He urges new writers to try poetry and develop their skills.

My 80s Days

When Jimmy was a kid in the early 80s, he used to take the piss out of glue sniffers. Hey you, you bastard! They used to chase him and his mate. Running in zig zags, never catching us.
Back further, the old stone house opposite Locking Gate Rise at Waterhead. We smashed the stones out of the walls. On the day it collapsed, I wasn't there. Wasn't me! I was watching Grizzly Adams. We heard the roar as it fell. My mum saw the dust cloud go past our window.
Soon after, new houses were built. I used chalk to write on the wall: Glen is gay! This lad wanted to beat me up but never caught me. He threw a big white pebble at me. It missed.
Years later, I remember the alternative girls. One had a house with Siouxsie posters on the walls. She looked the same. Stunning. Another gal ran barefoot. With blond hair, she played New Model Army over the CB. What did she do with the rest of her life?
The 80s. I remember.

Copyright Jimmy Boom Semtex 2016

Bio

Jimmy Boom Semtex is into many things. Writing is one. His varied work includes poetry, prose and stories on a variety of topics. Erotica like his Fire Extinguisher Man series, poetry on current world events, horror stories and more besides. Jimmy loves getting tattooed, listening to alternative music, drinking beer and living a simple but fulfilling life. Check his Facebook page out. He's working on new erotic stories and a poetry collection. His writing career is diverse and so are the authors/poets/writers he’s collaborated with like Filipina poetess Shy Lhen Esposo and Indian Saurabh Pant. Jimmy Boom Semtex is a pen name of Nick Armbrister.

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Through Open Hangar Doors Jimmy Boom Semtex and Shy Lhen Esposo

Through Open Hangar DoorsJimmy Boom Semtex and Shy Lhen Esposo

Wow Times
Falling between the lines.
For what reason?
Sunshine and existence.

Star power is energising us.
All the way across the galaxy.
We're star children whether we like it or not.
Created by Mother Nature.
Possessing intelligence and energy.

Now no longer physical but luminous.
Our light is out there amongst the darkness.
Light energy contrasting with dark energy.
A black hole stole our bodies and our craft.
It may keep them for we have evolved.

----

Plaintiff...
Sounding melodic when I'm sad,
tremendous aura of jealous, odd,
akin to the path for the unwanted one.
A world where all promises are done.

Thoughtful wonders and wanders,
mending all the broken feathers,
sowing its own chaos faults,
dragging a self out of fools.

No strings attached no relationship,
no nothing but we're friends
with benefits but no feelings.
Boundless commitment, imposing.

Syrup Evermore Nick Armbrister

Andrew stopped the tank facing one group allowing Joyce to cut them down with 7.62mm gunfire in short well aimed bursts that bowled them over like nine pins. The other group of guards fired directly from behind the tank when their colleagues were cut down, Gerald slowly turned the heavy turret 180 degrees. He aimed at the group of ten men with the co-axial machine gun and fired one long burst of a hundred rounds, cutting them down and silencing their puny fire, permanently. Andrew slowly drove to the doorway leading into the prison as the turret rotated to face forward – one single high explosive shell made short work of the two inch toughened steel door. The smoke and debris cleared, Joyce and Andrew dismounted their positions and left the tank taking large .45 calibre pistols with them and plenty of ammo clips. Gerald stayed in the turret on the guns, controlling the area so the army wouldn’t interfere with the operation.

Together with pistols in hand, eyes darting through the thinning smoke and broken door, they entered running like deranged madmen. Three English army guards tried to stop them, one tried to physically bar their way and the other two attempted to raise machine pistols – Andrew and Joyce shot all of them in the face using full clips of ammo, reloading and advancing. A long corridor lead ahead into the maze of passageways and cells, they knew the way where Gant was from a geo locator he had implanted in his left molar tooth. It was decided to cause major chaos and release the rest of the inmates, if possible. For this both carried small magnetic detonators to blow the locks of the cells. Coming up to the first cells they put the plan into practise – Andrew placed a single mag det on each door lock with a 30 second delay to allow time to get clear. Cells were on either side of the corridor so Andrew zigzagged up the corridor with Joyce covering him. When the end of the corridor came up and branched off to the right and left, they too branched left, swapping roles as the dets went off in short sharp cracks smashing the locks.

Off To Mars

Off To Mars

All creative people are to live on Mars.

Imagine how cool it would be.

The aero/space program would be fucking awesome.

Designing spaceships to get there,

rockets like the nuclear powered engine,

space planes for going to the surface,

habitats to live in,

terraforming to make a breathable atmosphere and more.

When it's all sorted, then we write, sing, paint, sculpt.

Totally fucking awesome.

I'd also fly on Mars.

Gliders in the low grav sky...

Dominions of Corrosion

Jimmy Boom Semtex

Hot Day

Hot Day

It was a hot day in the Nevada desert.

Slowly in the distance, a dot trailing smoke came closer.

Minutes passed.

Above a faint jet engine sounded, no more than a whisper.

The sun was at its highest, burning mercilessly down.

An omen of coming events?

The dot was now a vehicle, an old yellow school bus.

Bars covered the windows.

Hands poked out of the gaps, as if asking for solace.

Rumbling along at twenty miles per hour, the bus eventually stopped.

Level ground arced out miles around it, leaving the vehicle naked.

Rusty hinges creaked and the front and rear doors slowly opened.

Nothing happened for a few seconds.

Then three dozen hardened criminals sensed freedom and left in a riot of arms and legs.

Some ran almost falling, others staggered unable to grasp that they were ‘free.’

Up above the jet engine was louder now, diving down upon its target.

With sudden ferocity the F-20 Tigershark opened fire with twin 20MM cannons.

TAT - ATAT - TATA - TAT! roared the guns.

Shells kicked up sand, bounced off rocks and exploded across the bus.

In a hiss one tyre burst, the bus leaned drunkenly over.

A small fire started inside.

Several men were sprawled on the ground, red blood soaking in.

Other prisoners now knew what was happening:

liquidation.

They ran for their lives as the jet curved round to re-attack.

It dropped a cluster bomb at a group of fifteen prisoners.

POP - POP - POP - POP! went the small bomblets when the case opened.

Most were killed outright, sliced and diced by anti personnel bombs.

One or two had arms and legs blown off, they moaned for their mothers.

A small hill gave cover for four men.

Rolling down range, the fighter came in.

The pilot selected rockets.

WHOOSH - WHOOSH - WHOOSH  WHOOSH! screamed the 80MM explosive rockets.

Like the cluster bomb, they were area weapons and the complete hill was blanketed.

Nothing survived the wicked explosions except drifting smoke.

Another gun run hit three men running over the open desert, cutting them down.

Two more men stood their ground and told the F-20 pilot to fuck off.

The pilot saw their raised fingers.

His remaining cluster bomb soon sorted them out.

Now it was time for his ‘dumb’ bombs.

Three tumbled free, aimed by computer, and hit the yellow bus.

BOOM - BOOM - BOOM! spoke the 750lb bombs.

A cacophony of sound and violence tore the smouldering machine apart.

Six men who had doubled back and hid inside or under it were blown to Hell.

With only a few cannon shells left of air to ground ordnance, the pilot spotted a lone figure.

A dive, a burst, a kill and it was over. Too easy!

Climbing back to altitude, the Tighershark went in search of his only airborne target -

a Boeing 747 full of 500 murderers.

Like the old school bus, it was remotely controlled with no crew.

Two Sidewinder missiles would take care of this beast and his underwing drop tanks were still half full.

Happily the merc pilot grinned. This line of work was fun and paid well.

And it got rid of scum.

Ian and Abby Adult Erotic Short Stories By Nick Armbrister

Ian Gets a Treat

Ian dated the youngest of four Catholic sisters in a small English town where nothing much happened since the hold up of the chip shop two boring years before. He'd dated Abby for two years and fucked her even longer. They got on well enough and were in love, saving up to marry one day just like some of Abs older siblings. How nice it would be day, dreamed the young girl, to be married and happy.

As she made love to Ian he had other ideas - how to fuck Abby's other sisters, each and every one. He would love corrupting these nice quiet Catholic gals!  Ian made love to Abs in the back of his old works van that he used a runabout. Bare chested his upper body glistening with sweat. Red fingernail marks ran down and across his skin where Abs had scratched him while he pumped her missionary style as fast and quickly as his body allowed. She squealed and moaned like a gal possessed.

Abby lied down on an old dustsheet in the van, her nice shapely legs where open paving the way to paradise for the young couple. Her top was up, allowing Ian to suck her titties in-between love biting her on the neck and French kissing her with passion and sensuality. His big ten-inch cock slid smoothly like a well oil piston into Abs’ lush wet pussy, a show of wanderlust in every way. 

Juniper’s Daughter: The Final War, A novel by Nick Armbrister

Strapped to the dentist chair Sarah was helpless but this was no sexual assault, a mental invasion to rape her mind of her military secrets of which there were many: the lock up garage full of weapons, info on the Rochdale vets including strength, how they operate, weapon inventories of many more groups, the trade of the armoured car, what it was exchanged for, her own fighting experience in the civil war when Scotland and Wales gained independence, several major ops against the newly formed English army including the last one against the armoured car.

   Her mind collapsed or was rather re-shaped, barriers were lowered, synapses opened up and pathways to her secrets that the army wanted revealed. She tried to stop this, not physically but in her own mind in a small battle, imagining her own freedom fighters rushing to kill the threat but an English army boot stamped on this and squashed them dead, so all her secrets flowed forth like water, unstoppable. In a drunken rambling voice Sarah told all while the serum raped her mind. Her secrets flowed forth being recorded by multi media devices – an old video camera, an equally ancient tape recorder, six digital recorders, still photos and data entered onto a computer by a man who spoke into a microphone, intermittently typing.

   Captain Cook oversaw the interrogation, asking questions when needed, working with several specialists on certain key subjects (like planning ops against the English army, what about any future ones?). So many questions, over forever in this surreal stretched out waking dream time, on and on and on and on…

   After her interrogation Sarah was returned to her cell to recover, for the serum to wear off. She was comatose, oblivious to current events. How much was her mind protecting itself, with a natural wall? Would it be there forever? For ten hours she slept without pause or dreaming, on waking she saw a meal had been provided with a drink, she didn’t touch it at first but hunger drove her to consume the grey tasteless goo and water.

   Later the door opened and Sarah was taken blindfolded down winding corridors. It was removed, daylight blinded her, her vision blurred, returned, focused on ten figures tied to upright posts. She saw they were fellow freedom fighters from the town, snatched after the battle; it was obvious what was going to happen.

   Captain Cocksucker stepped out of the doorway and spoke, “This’ll happen to you…”

He walked over to the squad and issued orders. Glancing over to Sarah he shouted, “Watch this Sarah”. More orders ended in, “FIRE!”

   Ten people died a bloody death. Cocksucker walked up to each corpse, kicked it to see if it moved and fired into the top of the head with a pistol if it did. Sarah retched up her gooey meal, violently being sick before collapsing into her own puke…

The Complete Nick Armbrister Poetry Collection Volume 3 1996 - 2013 By Nick Armbrister

http://www.lulu.com/shop/nick-armbrister/the-complete-nick-armbrister-poetry-collection-volume-3-1996-2013/paperback/product-21875366.html

THE COMPLETE NICK ARMBRISTER POETRY COLLECTION Volume 3 covers it all, Nick Armbrister's work from early 1996 right through to late 2013. An epic career of poems on many topics and views. Much of his work has been published in the 'small press' poetry scene over the years and in his previous books. Also included here is new unpublished work. This book will appeal to anyone who wants to read Nick Armbrister's multi emotional work and to new readers who want to read something different and unique.

Triple Jimmy and a Glowing World By Jimmy Boom Semtex, Saurabh Pant

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jimmy-boom-semtex-and-saurabh-pant/triple-jimmy-and-a-glowing-world/ebook/product-22824435.html

This new collection is a joint collaboration between Jimmy Boom Semtex, Saurabh Pant and other writers. It features exciting new work on many topics and styles. There are Haiku, free verse, rhyming poems and more. Topic wise ranges from Jimmy's explosive and interesting work on people, current affairs and his views to Saurabh's passionate work on Kashmir and on natural disasters in his native India. Lots of different work make this a unique and readable collection. Watch out for follow up projects on equally diverse subjects.

Kahlia Akasha

He was a man who never conformed to the norm. He was not average, ordinary or normal. If anything, he was weird, strange and – different. He didn’t look his 33 years and though he had been through so much, felt so much pain, lost his innocence so long ago, he was still youthful. He had a dark soul, balanced by his light side. In the nuclear war that had killed some twelve million souls, hadn’t he celebrated and then broken down and wept like a baby – without really knowing why? His yin and yang was perfectly balanced, picture perfect. Lord Satan, help anyone who crossed his dark side, though…

He had always looked skywards, for he loved the sky, the huge majestic sky scapes, always changing, never the same twice, just like himself.  Did he model himself on the same version of that very sky? The one where his beloved air aces and heroines flew fought and died? Douglas Bader – legend had it that this guy could pull more g-forces in a tight turn. The reason? He had no legs. Lilya Litvyak, his Soviet heroine, was killed in air combat over sixty years ago in air combat at 22 years old. She was his real heroine of the tortured sky, torn apart by cannon shells and burning airplanes. Yes, he did love her even though time, space and death separated them forever. He wondered many times, did she really carry white lilies in her cockpit? Had she looked at them as she fell at Dmitriyevka, Russia? And he must not forget Amelia. Amelia Earhart who flew off into the blue and just vanished, to become aviation’s biggest ever mystery. How many times had he almost celebrated when bits of old alloy metal had been found at Nikomouro Atoll? It could only have come from an airplane, her airplane, he dreamed. Maybe it was better that way, to let her loss remain a mystery. It was more romantic, but on some days he pleaded with his pagan gods and goddesses to solve this damn mystery, once and for all. Anyway, he had his own airplane, a very special one. He called his plane “her” and had even given her a name, a very beautiful Russian name – Kahlia Akasha. He flew her regularly, when he could afford fuel to get her into the sky, from the old single-track runway at Oldham Edge. Now this strip was his own. No one else wanted it due to the unsuitability of it in a crosswind, but he could do it; she – Kahlia Akasha – could, too, for her powerful turboprop had more than enough power. She had up till now, anyhow. He would have screwed her if he could, a Russian girl called Kahlia Akasha, only 20 years old; any man would have died for the chance. Yeah, right, dream on…

She was a girl of the sky, a warplane made in the old Soviet Union at Factory Number 1962, situated deep inside Siberia far from any town or village – just Factory Number 1962. Now she was his; he paid less than ten thousand for her and what a bargain he had got. She didn’t need repairing and had just been through a full overhaul which included a zero hour engine and airframe, really a new airplane. After basic checks she was ready for flight. The Russians fuelled her, topped up the lubricants like engine oil and hydraulic oil and anything else that needed doing. They showed him three times how to do this so he would be able to do it on his own when he was back in England with his plane. He paid for Kahlia Akasha with his own money, acquired from the black market in Norway. On a ferry flight back home, they set off from her old home, Factory Number 1962, across Siberia to Scandinavia to a refuelling stop in Sweden and then on to home. To Oldham, a once thriving textile town in the north England heartlands, a real working class town if there ever was one. Many a tough young man lived there and many died in drunken knife fights or shoot ’em ups, a tough bunch just like the German dock workers he had seen in Hamburg or the Norwegian Black Metallers he had seen while on his travels. Oldham had been through so much too: Nazi V-1 missile attacks in the Second World War, race riots that burned the town from end to end, a French air attack with Mirage and Rafale fighter bombers pounding the local Aerospace plant and communication centres in the recent fishing dispute over fishing quotas of 1999, which led to a small war. What stupid idiots, he had thought, many times – how easily mankind went to war. We would never learn, would we? He idly wondered if his Russian girl could stop a Mirage 2000 or Rafale in air combat? Both French fighters carried forty-mile air-to-air missiles; all Kahlia Akasha had was some five-mile plus range off bore sight heat seekers when in Russian service. Her fighter version with a Mig29 engine remained just a design, unbuilt. Yet he knew she could out loop and out manoeuvre them in close combat and get on their tail, then nail them. Again the thought of if only she was here five years earlier, he could have been an air ace from his base on the Edge and followed in the footsteps of his old mentors, Bader or Litvyak. He could have gained immortality in the rain soaked skies. He smiled at the thought; that would have suited him just fine, a blast of red flame and a funeral pyre of black smoke, the ultimate airborne funeral. Like Lilya, no known grave, at least for forty years in her case.

He walked up the steep track to where she was, his plane, his girl. No, an airplane, his father had told him – it flies through the air, so it’s an airplane. She needed fuelling and checking before the day’s flight and then the air test, a few manoeuvres and speed runs. He was already in the clouds but he had work to do so he focused his mind and walked to the single story building by the side of the single-track 2,000-foot concrete runway. Arriving, he keyed in a security code, unlocked the two deadlocks and entered the door. A dozen halogen spot lamps came on right away, triggered by a pressure switch operated by body weight just in the floor by the doorway. His eyes adjusted to the bright light, to the stark blackness in the middle of his vision, to her. Yin and yang in perfect balance, like him. She was there before him, his Kahlia Akasha, born, rather than made, in 1984, a child of the cold war generation like himself.

She was a thing of extraordinary beauty. He stood there for five minutes staring at his airplane, his girl. Almost embarrassed, he looked away. Everything was just as he had left it. He walked closer to his own desire, for hadn’t he felt every human emotion in her cockpit while airborne in the gaping maw of the skies? She was a bit bigger than a late mark Spitfire in length and span, a few thousand pounds heaver in weight and more than twice as powerful, with weapons never before dreamed of, to kill and to maim, to do her job of close air support and close air combat. He never fired a single bullet or shell or dropped a single bomb or weapon from his beloved girl, let alone used four Bright Star off bore sight heat seeking missiles on her outer underwing pylons, or four medium range guided attack missiles or the twin barrel 30-millimetre cannon pack under her fuselage. The gun was still attached but he had no ammo and no fairing to put there if he removed it, so he left it in place as a memory of what she really might have been, a girl with teeth. On his ferry flight he had been over two thousand pounds under her maximum gross weight with four underwing fuel tanks, enough fuel with one stop for the 2,300 mile flight from Factory Number 1962 in Siberia to Oldham. He felt she could lift even more when she had taken off fuel laden from the snowy wastes. Half an hour into their flight, he hesitantly did a barrel role, slowly turning 360 degrees in the sky while flying forwards. She handled well even on cruising power. He felt the weight of 2,500 pounds of fuel weighing him and the plane down when they were briefly upside down; more rudder and stick allowed for this and he was delighted. Not many other airplanes could be flown like this, so carefree. Never had he been so happy – well, just once.

He had a girl once, long ago now. She was a really dark one, a real girl of the foreign lands, from Sweden, and for a while she had been his girlfriend. They had made plans to live in a third country but it all fell apart due to distance and age difference. Her name had been Angelica. He had named his warplane after a Goddess of the northern sky, a Norwegian Goddess of the heavens. Was this because he still loved Angelica? Silly, but he knew she was the only girl he would ever be in love with. Half a dozen girls had been and gone in the meantime but they were really just company and someone to be physical with in lovemaking, nothing more and nothing less. He prepared his own company and the skies – they were enough, and now he had a means of sharing the skies, his plane, the real Kahlia Akasha.

On the return flight, he had brought his airplane down in a perfect landing at a Swedish Air Force base to refuel. Gripen fighters were based there. He had idly wondered if he should ask the base commander for a dogfight but he was being silly – he had a long flight back to England to finish and he needed to be sensible. He was still unfamiliar with his plane’s controls so he needed more experience before anything more than basic flying was carried out. He thought of dropping by on Angelica for he still knew her address and the house where they had both lived for a few precious months. He really wanted to see her; an ache filled him deep inside, a feeling he fought hard to control but he had to, just had to. He didn’t want to ruin her life again, to bring back all those memories that he himself struggled with time and time again. No, he would leave it as just a memory. No one on the Gripen base knew his past romantic history so he would refuel and move on. No journey to see her, even though she lived just half an hour away by car. No fly-by to get an airborne view: he would return home as soon as he could, at one third throttle, optimum throttle and good cruising speed all the way. At two hundred knots and thirteen hundred miles it would be awhile, but home would come closer to him and his new girl.

Snapping back to now, to reality, he actually looked before him, at the airplane. He noticed her layout, so very futuristic, like twenty years ahead of what is now, in any year, period. She rested on her three-wheel undercarriage, a nose wheel and one under each wing that retracted for zero drag in flight. She had a large swept wing of perfect design with a large amount of sweep back for high speed flight and agility. Two small vertical fins were situated on each wing tip for stability. A pair of large vertical fins with powerful rudders mounted on structural beams were just opposite the leading edge root extension, a section of wing with shallow sweep on it at the leading edge of the main wing. The rudders, at the back of the wing each, were connected by a single horizontal stabiliser, which had an elevator control that worked together with the large inboard flaps for low speed control. At higher speeds these flaps provided a high degree of authority to maintain controlled flight. Ailerons backed up by canard foreplanes provided the rest of the flight control surfaces to fly this girl of the sky. The canards occupied a position just in front of the main cockpit near the nose but not enough to give bad visibility. An airbrake mounted under each inner wing section slowed the plane down in high speed flight and manoeuvres and sometimes on landing when a short run was needed. His Oldham Edge strip needed their use but normal length runways only needed flaps and canards for a reasonably short landing run.

She was all black, a menacing colour in any light but against the spot lamps, she was like some primeval monster from the depths, an illusion of optics. She almost hid her great agility and speed sitting there silent on the hangar floor, again an illusion. A shark like fuselage housed a multi-mode radar in the very nose, the key sensor for combat and navigation. With air to air modes for close combat, air to ground modes for anti-tank and attack missions, precise navigation modes with a type of terrain following and a basic air to sea mode for ship attack, this radar did a specialist job. An infrared sensor mounted in front of the first cockpit provided infrared search and target identification without the enemy being aware he was being watched. In good weather this sensor provided good navigation out to ten miles or so but cloud, rain and smoke hindered it somewhat. It made night flying a great joy on cloudless nights and he had done a dozen night flights and planned many more yet. A laser range finder was coupled with the infrared sensor to provide distance of the target or distance to, say, a hill when low level flight was being practised.  Twin air data probes three feet long protruded over and above the nose to give flight data to the instruments and computers. They gave the airplane an appearance of a large predatory catfish waiting to strike. Two single seat cockpits under a huge one piece plastic canopy gave superb vision in almost a full circle, essential due to a crowded airspace during an air battle or flying near to the ground. Two pairs of eyes also gave good observation. He had flown her from both cockpits but he preferred the forward cockpit due to the slightly better forward view. In combat the pilot sat in the rear cockpit and the weapons man in the front using the radar, infrared and other sensors to aim weapons or to navigate. A similar set of flight controls was in both cockpits so changing over was no problem. The main radar displays was repeated in both cockpits as was the other sensors; a main difference was weapon options, controlled from the front, so the pilot had to get the weapons man to set up his weapons for him other than the off boresight air-to-air missiles and main cannon in the air combat role. However, he had his plane but no weapons whatsoever and he flew her from which seat he preferred depending on his mood. Behind the tandem cockpits were the main fuel tanks and an avionics bay, above which was a large air intake for the engine, a single large Aeroprogress turboprop of quite compact size yet providing some 4,500-shaft horsepower. This was a jet engine turning a large eight bladed prop, with carbon fibre blades, the power of his Russian girl. When turning, these carbon fibre blades were invisible but deadly knives turning at several revolutions per minute, easily enough to decapitate a person.

He started the start up procedure: first a walk round check of his black heroine, around the port (left) wing and circling the plane checking all control surfaces for movement, for alignment or damage, inspecting all access panels securely fastened, no loose fasteners or screws, undercarriage in order with no hydraulic leaks or cuts in the tires, to the large dorsal air intake to see if any object blocked the vent and opening. Onto the eight-bladed propeller, each blade straight as a knife and not being bent or broken; an unbalanced prop could shake her to pieces in seconds. Pausing to check the time, he looked again at her, not to find any problems but to take in her aesthetics and beauty, equal to a Spitfire in her delicate feminine beauty, a goddess of the blue summer skies. Snapping out of his reverie, he completed his checks, underwing weapons hardpoints secure and underfuselage empty cannon firmly in place. If this were a real wartime combat flight, uploaded weapons would be checked, warheads armed and weapons computers loaded with target data. Checks complete, he fuelled her up with the liquid that would take Kahlia Akasha into the skies. Her engine would run off normal jet fuel, standard petrol or for a short period, on paraffin which was a last option as the engine would need flushing out of the fuel system afterwards. Walking to the fuel bowser ten yards away by the hangar wall, he took the control arm and turned on the electric motor which turned the big fat rubber tires. These squeaked on the spotless hangar floor. He wheeled the bowser to the correct position slowly.

Opening the hatch on the left wing/fuselage fairing, he earthed both bowser and aircraft with special rubber straps to stop any sparks. Just like filling your car up: fuel hatch open, fuel cap off, fuel nozzle in place onto the connector, turn on the pumps. All automatic, hydraulic controlled and finished in five minutes. When the tanks were full a sensor stopped fuel flow so none was wasted or spilled. A manual back up allowed a slower operation from hand held drums if need be; on a wartime mission this would be routine. Pump shut off, cap on, hatch shut, move the bowser back to position and check the fuel amount – yes, half fuel load of fifteen hundred pounds on board for the short test flight. An hour or so of flying at full throttle, more at a slower speed.

He opened the massive teardrop canopy, climbed aboard into the front cockpit. Main power online, flight computers spooling up in two minutes to be displayed on three medium size multi-function displays. Flight data, engine data, navigation maps and weapons data was shown on each screen, in any order as a matter of personal choice. He liked his nav data and maps on the left screen, flight instrument data on the right and simulated weapon info on the middle screen. Taking ten minutes to flick through the menus on each screen, he checked his airplanes condition. Navigation data indicated a map of his location; he was marked by a simple “x”, the runway and hangar could be clearly seen, as could the surrounding area in clear computer graphics. The airfield was shown at an indicated height of 831 feet above sea level, sensors on the plane checked and adjusted height at any airfield which they landed at. Many an old plane had been lost due to wrong airfield height which a pilot had to input into his altimeter. A single push of a button changed the scale of the map to any of ten different scales; more sensors scanned the heavens for Russian or Western navigation satellites giving accuracy of a metre. If the constellation of satellites failed, a disc containing information could be downloaded into the nav computer in minutes; this could be target data or purely maps.

Now for engine start up: click the main menu, scroll down and pick start up procedure, follow the basic instructions. No red lights, no errors or problems, ready to go in six steps, eight bladed prop turning, the auxiliary power unit having spun up the main engine. Itself a small jet engine, the APU used fuel from the main tanks and shut down when the engine was at speed. With prop a blur, steady at two thousand revs a minute, he moved the single throttle slowly forward and released the brakes.

Moving forward, slowly, slowly, slowly, past the open hangar doors at the click of his remote control into the early afternoon air, under a clear cloudless blue sky. Hangar doors closing, lights out, now turning onto the runway after a twenty-yard taxi run, a two thousand foot runway of concrete ended in grass and bushes.

A feeling of anticipation came over him, with a bit of nerves to keep him alert, sharp. One last check of all systems, a look at the wide angle Heads Up Display (HUD) that was at eye level, flight data and compass was shown. Now, almost time… Almost. If this were a Soviet combat mission he would have a triple layer flight suit, fireproof boots, a g-suit for hard manoeuvres and finally a helmet complete with Helmet Mounted Sight. Great for off boresight missiles, one glance and click the switch and missile away, a revolution in air combat. Of course he had no helmet, no weapons, no flight suit on, just a pair of old army boots along with his black jeans and t-shirt. After all this was just a short test flight and a few basic manoeuvres. He was strapped into his ejection seat but left the safety pins in and only fastened his seat straps. Nothing would go wrong, for he maintained her well – he was an expert. Turning up the air conditioning, he opened the throttle all the way to the stops, brakes off and away we go.

A gentle feeling of speed building up to a push into the seat, a positive feeling of acceleration like a giant hang pressing you down, a rush of excitement and happiness. Yes! We are here, in the crucial moment before flight, speed building up. 60, 70, 80, 90, 100, 110 mph and lift off speed. Keep her on the deck for a bit more, now! 115 mph. Up and away into the blue, we are airborne, me and my Kahlia Akasha, together, climbing up steeply with wings level to the horizon but up and up and up. Bring up the landing gear and flaps into the flight position, less drag, more speed. Two hundred miles an hour, nose up steeply to sixty degrees angle and watch the speed increase up the scale to maximum climb limit, a seal level rate of 8,000 feet per minute. Speed increasing up to 350 mph, slowly to 400 mph, maximum for this weight and full power, a real joy and feeling of total freedom – so this is how the birds feel then… Real freedom…

He must remember that he had no oxygen mask on so he must not go above eighteen thousand or he could lose consciousness; if the pressurised cockpit failed, he would die a slow asphyxiated death. He levelled off at sixteen thousand even though an exited voice in his head said “Climb!”, “Climb!”. He did a speed test, still at max throttle: his rate of speed increased breathtakingly! She was a quick little thing with 4,500 shp pushing her along in the turbulent free sky.

A flight path over Lancashire to the Yorkshire border, a stunning black airplane well worth a second glance. Red stars on her wings, tail and fuselage from another time, yet living history right here, part of her history. Top speed coming up. An indicated air speed of five hundred and ninety miles an hour, Mach 0.85, level flight; just think, with one quick push of the stick and she could go supersonic given enough height. A feeling of freedom, a rush of clear air and a vista of blue and perfect view, hills, fields and towns below.

At Kahlia Akasha’s maximum height of fifty thousand feet she could reach six hundred and thirty miles an hour due to the high thin air. At sea level this became five hundred and forty five miles an hour. For five minutes he kept this speed, then stick full forward with his right hand and a vertical dive. He screamed with pure joy as the g-forces took hold and briefly lifted him out of his seat as level became the vertical. Down, down, down, horizon shifting crazily, ground coming up, details swam into focus, positive g-load taking hold pressing him into the seat, hard. Three g’s as they screamed downwards, seconds left to pull up as details below come into view – a copse of trees, a small lake and farm buildings. Pull up!

Down to three thousand now, a ground height of 1,200 here. Stick way back, a madman’s pull, make the flight computer work. What a rush! Seven g’s coming on, pushing his head down and blurring my vision to red, grey and almost black. Scream, shaking his head, he can beat this, he must beat it or oblivion will take them – we will avoid the ground and fly, fly, fly. And we do, yes we do.

Airspeed down to 250 on the pullout but increasing slowly, from almost supersonic in the dive. Throttle back and level flight now, get my head together. Wow! This is better than sex with Angelica. What a plane, all his, he is so lucky, a dream in reality.

No time for reverie. Where are we? Okay, time for some more manoeuvres, what shall we do now? A few rolls, almost without thinking, the sky pivoting on a central axis around him and his black plane. With a roll rate approaching 360 degrees per second you really felt it when pushing the envelope. A roll to the right, then to the left in less than ten seconds, dizzying and stunning the senses. Now a barrel roll, like the first ever manoeuvre he had ever done in her, now seemingly so long ago, familiar now like a pair of old boots, he thought, in no way violent like a flick roll that was at the other end of her agility. Just like a real woman, he laughed – she will bite you without warning, yet be as gentle as an angel. An angel and a devil all in one!

 

MAJESTIC SKYSCAPE

If you lie on your back and look up at the sky you will see a huge vista of sky before you. Swirling, majestic skyscapes always changing, never the same twice.

So much water vapour is up there in the huge grey clouds, soon all that rain will be released to drench the land.

Now the sun shines down from a burning blue sky drying out the earth.

As night comes the sun sets lower and darkness starts to creep over the sky.

Every day shows the heavens in different moods and colours like so many different people.

Dominions of Corrosion By Jimmy Boom Semtex

Dominions of Corrosion

By Jimmy Boom Semtex

Word Count

What's in a word count?

You tell me.

Five hundred words saying?

Are they good or bad?

Full of longing or despair?

Life or death?

Readable or not?

In English or gibberish?

If it's ours or foreign, it matters.

There is meaning there.

In the words.

We must find the key.

Then we understand the world.

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