The pilot looked out the porthole at the dark blue sky above and the fluffy clouds below. It was getting pretty cold inside his aircraft. On the surface, it was winter--and up here it was superwinter. He keyed the microphone and spoke a last transmission to his home base.

"Good-bye, everyone. Thanks for your support. Your signal's getting weak, now. I'll see you all again... someday."

Tears welled up in his eyes.
 
 

A/2c Lloyd Orff's eyes were fixed on his scope, but his attention was on his memory of the girl he'd met last weekend on a double date in a suburb of Omaha.

A slow-moving blip had materialized on his radarscope, but it was some time before Airman Orff reacted. The Cold War was over, and everybody in his Aircraft Control & Warning station took a more-relaxed view of their scopes.

"Whazzat?" It was large-aircraft-sized, but it moved slower than most large aircraft. It had appeared in an area where there was no large airport and which was not on a flight path for airliners. He switched to vertical scan. "He's at 17,000 feet," mumbled the scopedope.

Using his lightpen, he sent the target to the large central display in the front of the darkened room, and continued to monitor the aircraft's progress eastward. It was moving at about 70 mph, very slow--too slow--for a large aircraft at that altitude.

From his elevated station in the rear of the room, the Duty Officer watched the display for awhile, then came down to Orff's station. "What's this slow-moving target-of-interest you're plotting?"

"I don't know, sir. Might be some kind of STOL surveillance aircraft. DEA, maybe..." He had a thought. "Or a balloon."

"It's high for a hot-air balloon," mused the Lieutenant.

"It's been speeding up slowly, sir. That's consistent with a balloon rising into the faster winds, aloft."

The officer made a decision. The blip was not on a course for any Air Force base, but... "I'll check with the FAA. Maybe somebody has permission for a cross-country balloon-run. Damn. They're supposed to notify us about those," he grumbled.

It was then that the world learned about Jonny Crossen's epic flight.

At the Regional Flight Control Center near Kansas City, an operator and his supervisor watched the eastward-moving blip. They couldn't contact it or get it to squawk an ID. The supervisor listened to his headset, then said, "Okay. Thanks."

"Its not registered. Somebody's making an unauthorized flight. You'd better keep an eye on it and warn any aircraft that get too close. Its altitude makes it a hazard, now."

"Right. I'm on him." replied the operator.

"I'll notify Central Tracking about this and see if they've got it on the national scan," said the supervisor. He knew they would, but he wanted to make sure he got the credit for a first sighting.

Identified

Jonny breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the green-humped Appalachian Mountains pass well beneath his craft. Some of them had rocky tops, but he hadn't had to drop any ballast to rise above them. He could save his ballast for the higher mountains, far ahead.

As the slow-moving blip crossed the radarscopes of the East Coast operators, the FAA's flight control system was in a snit. The blip was a balloon; it had been visually sighted by both airline pilots and ground observers. Pilots passing nearby had been ordered to radio the craft, after flight control operators had failed.

The pilots weren't successful, but they'd tried, as their curious passengers gawked at the passing balloon.

Finally, a private pilot who saw a wire hanging below the balloon's gondola had a hunch. He notified the Regional Flight Control Center that the balloon might have a Citizen's Band radio. The pilot flew as close to the lighter-than-air craft as he dared and saw some small words brush-painted in white on its drab envelope:

The balloon looked as if it had been constructed in somebody's back yard. It wasn't anything like the silver-sleek Rozier-type craft currently being launched by several wealthy men to circle the globe. The pilot notified the Center about this, too, then began cracking jokes about it with his copilot and the head flight attendant.

After some hurried confrencing and some frequency-adjustment, the Flight Control Center called the balloon on CB channel 9 and demanded to know what it was doing sailing the skies over controlled airspace, without authorization. The reply to their call made the operators gasp like old women at a rock concert.

"Hello, FAA. This is the _Spirit of the Plains_, from Kansas. I'm on my way around the world. Thanks for your call. I'll be seeing the good old U.S.A. again in a couple of weeks if all goes well." Then, he said no more.

The voice was that of a child.
 

The President's National Security Advisor, a man whose political savvy was trusted by his boss, entered the Oval Office and crossed the expensive custom carpet with the seal of the Executive Office neatly woven into it. He stopped before the mahogany desk.

The President was looking out the windows behind him at the newly- fallen snow. He thought Washington winters were so blah---not like those he remembered as a boy---just bad enough to be troublesome.

"Mr. President, something unusual has just been brought to our attention. We may have to have a position on it. But it could be an opportunity for some favorable PR if it's handled right."

The gray-haired man rotated his high-topped leather chair around to face the visitor. "What've you got, Marv?"

"It seems some young kid in Kansas built himself a balloon, and he's trying to fly it around the world---without official permission."

The President grinned and raised his eyebrows. "You're kidding."

"No, sir. The FAA and FBI have been running around like a bunch of chickens that've just seen a weasel. They finally tracked the balloon back to a farm in Kansas. It seems the kid is dying of cancer, and his family and relatives built the balloon for him as a kind of going-away present. The airspace authorities are up in arms, and leaks to the press have begun. I think we should prepare a good response to this incident. We're certain to be asked about it."

The President thought about it for some seconds while he tapped his golden mechanical pencil on the desk. It had been a gift from a close friend when he was a state governor. There were times when he wished he were still a governor... but today wasn't one of them.

"You're right, Marv. It is a PR opportunity."

The President needed some good public relations, just then. He was having some unprecedented legal trouble, and he needed to bolster his public image.

"What's the kid's name?"

"Jonny Crossen---Jonny, without an `h.'"

The President arose from his chair and straightened his tie.

"Thank you, Jonny-without-an-h." he declared.

The Crossen farm in western Kansas was being beseiged by government bureaucrats from Topeka, Washington, and Regional Offices. These functionaries were turning the place upside-down, frantically looking for evidence of wrongdoing---any wrongdoing---even as they argued among themselves about who had primary jurisdiction in the matter of the unauthorized, runaway balloon.

The only life they found there was the family's old mongrel dog, Pal. He gave a few feeble barks, then surrendered to the visitors and walked among them, smelling their legs. He could easily tell they weren't country people.

Rushing toward the farm was the second eschelon of intruders, the news media. Soon, they would join the government people in a search for some answers to this illegal (but profitable) incident.... Unfortunately, firsthand answers were hard to come by. Rumors were a-dime-a-dozen, though, and were offered as fact by some locals.

The Crossen family members were at church, praying for their son.

Jonny felt better than he'd been for some time. The pain that was always there in his gut was worse, but since he'd stopped taking the chemotherapy treatments, he no longer felt nauseated and hopeless. This project had given him such enthusiasm that he found the hurt less disabling. His family physician, who knew about the project, had given him some painkilling pills, and he swallowed just enough of them to make the pain bearable.

Soon, he would use the remaining pills to end his suffering.... But not before his triumphant return home, he hoped.

He listened to his broadcast radio with great satisfaction. His was the lead story in most of the news reports, although the newspeople had few inside details of his epic journey to offer. He smiled as he imagined them scrambling to get the goods on him. He hoped his parents and relatives could stand up to their loud, accusing voices.

Outside his gondola, he could hear and see airplanes flying close to him. On his CB radio, calls to him on channel 9 boiled over into other channels. He had listened for awhile, but had turned the CB off when it was apparent that few callers were really trying to help him.

He was bundled-up in all his cold-weather gear. He tried to sleep, but it was too cold, and he was still too keyed-up with the thrill of his adventure. He was breathing through the oxygen mask his uncle Clifford had rigged for him. It was dark, now. The _Spirit of the Plains_ was beginning to losing some altitude.

He continued reading one of the books he'd brought along with him. It was Frank Herbert's classic SF novel, _Dune_. He read about the young Paul Atreides, with whom he identified even though he was younger than Paul had been when the Caladanian's high adventure on Arrakis had begun.

If his craft stayed aloft, he should be able to finish the whole _Dune_ series, which his mother had bought for him in paperback when he had begun his futile cancer treatments. In the clinic, he hadn't felt much like reading.

The Story

"Okay, here's what I have, so far."

The newspaper reporter was reporting to his Editor. As the premier local representative of the press, Eugene Krumhorn was expected to trump the invading national media. He had frantically interviewed everybody in Pike County who might know anything about the secret Crossen family project to build a round-the-world balloon for their dying son, Jonny.

Gene had called in all the favors he was owed to get a scoop. He and his Editor knew they would soon be set upon by the national press for details about the family and their quixotic project.

"The kid's only twelve years old. He's dying of cancer. His family abruptly stopped his chemo treatments at a Wichita clinic and took him home. They'd been building his balloon right along, and it was time for him to fly it away.

"His father and three uncles did most of the work. Their women put the pieces of the rubberized envelope together like they were making a quilt for some bride. They built the balloon's gondola from scrap aluminum and other junk. They put a minimum of equipment in it to keep its weight down. But here's the kicker..." He paused for effect.

"What?" demanded his impatient Editor. "I'm holding the presses for this, you know."

"The government has a monopoly on the sale of helium and they track sales of it. So the Crossens filled their balloon with hydrogen!" He watched his Editor for a reaction.

"Jesus!" exclaimed his boss. "The kid'll blow up like that damn Kraut airship ...what was its name... the Hildaburg?"

"Close enough," replied his subordinate. He continued his report.

"Jonny's uncle Harold has an auto junkyard. He took ground-up steel scrap and poured acid over it to generate the hydrogen they needed to fill the balloon.

"For awhile after the launch, they used CB radio to communicate with him. He doesn't have a regular aircraft radio. I guess they think if the authorities can't talk to him and there's no ground control organization, he can just drift around the world over countries which don't want anybody doing that."

The Editor saw the point and relished it. "Sure. Who's gonna shoot down a twelve-year-old kid. What can anybody do about him? That damn kid might just do what those big boys couldn't---go clean around the world.... Christ. What a story!" He shook his head in wonderment.

"I don't know, though. He doesn't have any propane heaters to warm the hydrogen during the night when it cools and gets more dense. The balloon loses altitude then, and the kid could end up flattened against a mountain peak.... He's got ballast to drop and a release valve for the gas, but that just isn't the right way to get around the whole damn world."

"Where are his parents, now?"

"They've taken sanctuary in a local church. Their pastor is doing all the talking to the media, now. It's a riot scene outside this little old chapel out in the middle of nowhere. It looks like the L.A. scene outside the O.J. courthouse.

"Their farm is just about finished. They're head-over-heels in debt. It looks like they sold everything they could to build the balloon and just walked away from the farm for awhile. They left their dog to guard the place, and a neighbor is supposed to be feeding him."

"Well, write up what you have. We've got to get something on the front page. Quote as many people as you can. Put a local slant on it."

The Editor heard his secretary's telephone ring. "Here are the outside guys, already. Let me do the talking. They aren't going to get our stuff that easily."

His middleaged secretary stuck her head inside the door.

"It's for you, chief. Some journalist named Matt Drudge."

Jonny watched the gray-green waters of the Atlantic fade from sight as the sun set for the second time. He had a spotlight to illuminate the surface if he got close enough to drop ballast. But he had the creepy feeling of flying blind above the cold, tumultuous waves.

Only military aircraft followed him, now. They kept trying to contact him on the citizen's band.

He returned to his novel.... Paul and his mother had escaped from the Harkonnens, and were now entering Fremen territory in the deep desert of Dune.

The Spin

"I have a few remarks about the flight of the _Spirit of the Plains_."

The President began his press conference in the White House. The conference was well-attended. The more-vocal members of the fourth estate were preparing to yell their significant questions and get themselves on television, or mentioned in the newspapers.

"We aren't in communication with young Jonny Crossen in his balloon. He made one call before leaving the U.S. mainland, then he apparently turned off his radio. It looks like he intends flying around the world without having made any arrangements with other countries. We've already received some protests about `a spy flight.' There's little we can do but request that the _Spirit of the Plains_ be left unmolested in its historic---and unofficial---flight.

I ask all the people of the world to pray for Jonny Crossen, who is seriously ill with terminal cancer. We're doing everything we can to expedite his flight, and he's being followed closely by our and friendly military forces so they can quickly rescue him if his balloon is grounded."

The President paused for the inevitable questions.

"Mr. President!" shouted the venerable dean of the press corps, who sat in the front row closest to the lectern.

"Yes, Jane?"

"I understand the balloon is headed for Libya. Will Colonel Khadaffi shoot Jonny Crossen down---and how will we react if he does?"

The President winced.... His PR effort did not include going to war over a doomed kid's intrusion into Libya or any other place.

Jonny turned on his shortwave radio frequently, now, to find out where he was. English-language news broadcasts told him, in general terms. It seemed like a crazy way to "navigate," but the folks back home in Kansas didn't have the resources to track him. Their plan was to launch Jonny, then let the world assist him.

He knew he was headed toward Libya, but he didn't care. He was willing to take his chances. He had something worse to face.

The Accused

The FBI agents had forced their way into Our Lady of the Prairie chapel in Indian Wells, Kansas, and were vigorously questioning the parents of Jonny Crossen. Their pastor, Father McGuire, was serving in place of the lawyer they couldn't afford.

The church was located at a country crossroads, together with a feed supply store, a mom-and-pop grocery, and a few houses owned by old retired farmers and their wives who couldn't bring themselves to leave their beloved homeland for the crime-ridden Sunbelt.

"You people are in a lot of trouble," reminded the FBI Special Agent in Charge. "You've broken more laws than I can think of, now." Nobody smiled at this bit of unintentional humor. "The Kansas child welfare people are waiting to charge you with felony child abuse."

Sherman Crossen was a weatherbeaten man who still had a tan even in the middle of winter. He glared at the G-Men, defiantly. He wasn't afraid of them. His wife, though, was on the point of tears---not so much over the accusations hurled being at her and her husband, but with concern for her dying son, now flying above dangerous places.

It had been a mild winter, and this had encouraged the Crossen family to go ahead with the balloon project. They felt that, since the farm was washed-up anyway, they had little to lose by giving Jonny the gift of flight in his last days.

"Child abuse, you say?... Filling the world with chemical poisons so a twelve-year-old kid gets cancer and dies before he even gets out of grade school... that's child abuse."

Jonny's father didn't really know who to blame for his son's cancer, but he stoically bore much of the guilt for it. He feared that the pesticides he used on his crops might be responsible. He found himself between the greater feeling that he'd killed his only son, and the lesser one that he'd had little choice but to use those chemicals.

Even so, his farm had failed. He and his wife would have to move to a city and work hard to provide for their future before they got too old to work anymore. Relatives had offered to take them in, but that just wasn't the way of the rugged, independent people, hereabouts.

"If your son gets shot down by some foreign dictator, you'll have that on your head, you know," proclaimed the SAC, gratuitously.

"Nobody's going to shoot Jonny down, mister." Jonny's mother spoke with certainty. "Not everybody's like you and those others outside."

Safe Passage

In the chill of the desert winter, the VIPs arrived at the oasis. They moved into prepared quarters, set up their telescopes, and waited.

"He's coming, sir," the aide announced.

The curly-haired, uniformed man arose from his prayer carpet and went outside into the cold morning air.

He squinted through the telescope which had been set up for him. Through the eyepiece, he could make out the approaching balloon. He could see that it was a homemade thing. He knew who was inside its gondola. He had all the intelligence he needed for a decision. He looked up from the telescope.

"Your orders, sir?" inquired the aide. A military telecomm technician waited to relay the orders to a nearby aircraft base.

"God protect him," said the leader.

"Sir?..."

The leader ignored his aide and returned his eye to the telescope.

The man who had given an order to bomb an airliner full of people found he couldn't order the destruction of one insignificant boy. He had a young son of his own.

In a darkened room, the flight of the _Spirit of the Plains_ was being closely tracked. A group of civilians clustered around a map table.

"This is a clever scheme for aerial espionage," one declared.

"Maybe," said his senior. "It's difficult to say, for certain. You know how undisciplined Americans are. It could be a genuine flight."

"It's smells to me," said another. "I don't like it."

"Nobody likes it. But what can we do about it?" asked a third.

The senior man shrugged. "Get photographs. Close-up pictures. I want to be able to see the color of this boy's eyes."

Fortitude

Jonny Crossen was growing weaker.... Several days into his flight, the frigid air and his illness were getting the better of him. He had not even finished the first _Dune_ novel. He munched on crackers and drank some canned milk.

Foreign planes buzzed him, taking pictures and trying to contact him. He was tempted to reply and try to assure them he was harmless, but his family had decided it would be best for him to remain oblivious to these urgent voices.

He spent a lot of time looking out his porthole at the scenic terrain below. After crossing the Atlantic, he'd enjoyed a panorama of Europe, Africa, and now Asia. His parents rarely travelled far from their Pike County farm, and Jonny had yearned for the exotic sights in his own country and in foreign lands.

He was an intelligent lad. He'd learned and taught himself so much his parents had sacrificed to buy him a computer and a subscription to an online service with Internet access, even though they had to pay long-distance telephone charges to use the service. They knew, even before his illness, that Jonny was not destined to be a farmer ---though they hoped he might use his gift to be more successful in farming than they'd been.

After Jonny was diagnosed with cancer, they grieved terribly at the coming loss of their only child. The _Spirit of the Plains_ was their consolation for him and them in his final weeks. His uncles, aunts, and cousins had pitched in to get the balloon built and launched before February, when the jetstreams would weaken.

As Jonny relaxed and drifted into merciful sleep, he reflected that here at 22,000 feet he was closer to heaven in more ways than one.

He prayed he wouldn't be carried by the fickle wind to the Himalayas, where his last vista might be the white one of a great mountain peak.

Richard Benson contemplated the remains of his expensive balloon with more sadness than anger. All his money, the help of skilled technicians, and much agonizing diplomacy had only brought him another failure.

He had fetched-up here in the Sahara after a succession of equiment failures that made him wonder if sailing a balloon around the world were really feasible. He'd gotten out of his gondola before the surface wind took the whole works onto some rocks and ripped the fragile envelope into tatters.

As he waited for his chase plane to summon a helicopter, he thought about the young boy who was trying this stunt in a homemade hydrogen- filled balloon.... Then, he had a great idea.

He would follow the kid in his executive jet, and assist him to complete that unlikely flight.

"Right!" he proclaimed to the cold desert wind.

Reporting and Deciding

The network anchorman appeared grave as he delivered the latest news about the _Spirit of the Plains_. He had slipped to third place in the latest ratings, and he didn't want his viewers to think he took the story with anything less than total seriousness. Discarding his usual smugness, he reported the unimbellished facts.

"Jonny Crossen, the young balloonist from Indian Wells, Kansas, is now drifting in his homemade hydrogen balloon, _Spirit of the Plains_, across the vast Pacific Ocean in the last days of his epic journey around the world, a journey against all informed opinion, and against the odds. Here's the latest from correspondent Roberto Cagayan in Manila."

The Phillipine journalist appeared on camera in a colorful, short- sleeved shirt---a reminder to North American viewers that it was not winter everywhere on Earth. The hot sunlight cast little shadows across his face.

"Jonny Crossen has begun his long crossing of the Pacific Ocean." He realized he'd made a near-pun, but continued smoothly. "Flying along with him and assisting at his own expense, is Richard Benson, the wealthy British executive whose own elaborate balloon failed over the Sahara desert a few days ago. Experts say that the _Spirit of the Plains_ might just succeed because it is so technologically unsophisticated. It has no propane helium-heating system to fail, as has been the case with the other round-the-world balloonists.

"Unable to control the height of his craft, though, Jonny has been extraordinarily successful in avoiding high mountains at night when his balloon sinks to lower levels. He's also been fortunate that the flammable hydrogen gas which fills his balloon has not burned or exploded. He's overflown several countries without permission, but no action was taken against him by the frustrated authorities.

"As the _Spirit of the Plains_ passed near the Phillipines, President Enrico Garcia and his wife attended a special mass in the capital, where prayers were offered for the young boy's success. Outside the cathedral, children waved signs wishing Jonny Crossen `God speed.' This is Roberto Cagayan, reporting from Manila."

The anchorman resumed his serious delivery. "What kind of reception the U.S. government will give the _Spirit of the Plains_ is uncertain. When he lands, he'll almost certainly find himself surrounded by officials who want to talk to him about his unauthorized flight. More on that, now, from our White House correspondent."

The President was receiving a status report from his advisors. Joining his National Security Advisor, were his National Affairs Advisor, his Press Secretary---and his most important counselor: his wife.

"There's a good chance he'll actually make it all the way back to the Great Plains, sir. He has to get over the Rockies first, but... it's been an incredible journey."

"Are we in touch with him, now?"

"Not directly, sir. Richard Benson caught up with him before he drifted over the Pacific, and got him to talk a little. He's holding up fairly well, but he may only be a few days away from death, now."

"Oh!..." exclaimed the First Lady. "How awful. How could his family subject a little boy to something like this?"

"He wanted to go, dear," replied the President, who added, "Of course, he was pretty sick when they launched him. Maybe they expected he would die up there and just drift until he came down somewhere. What does the FBI have about that, Jerry?"

"The parents and relatives have clammed up, sir. They have a bigshot lawyer, now. In fact, they got several `volunteers' who wanted the publicity. But before the legal-beagle showed up, the family admitted they'd put Jonny into the balloon knowing he might die even before it came down."

"Mr. President," spoke the National Affairs Advisor. "It won't look good if we jump on these people after their son dies in an effort like this. Despite whatever wrongs his family may have committed, the public thinks Jonny Crossen is the biggest national hero since John Glenn."

"The media are absolutely raving about it," added the Press Secretary. "It's an international epidemic of press rabies."

"You're right, Phil," said the President. "Like it or not, we'll have to treat this as if it were a well-sanctioned NASA project, and honor the parents as if they'd given Jonny the gift of life."

"You'd better get the Cabinet's approval---and make it a public meeting with full-press coverage," suggested the First Lady.

"Yes. I guess so.... I hate these `public' Cabinet sessions. They look so phony.... But if we're going that way, I want the Attorney General to publicly absolve the parents of any wrongdoing. Get her on the phone. I want to make sure she's with us on this matter."

"She'd better be," said the First Lady.

Friendly Territory

Now that the _Spirit of the Plains_ was heading for the Rockies, Richard Benson followed it closely in a hired helicopter. Jonny was listening to his advice and encouragement, and was talking more now. Benson could tell that he was in a seriously-weakened condition.

He wondered if Jonny would make it across the snowy mountain peaks. To do so at night, he had to drop all his ballast and hope for the best. He'd lost some of his hydrogen through diffusion and leaks. "If he'd used helium, he'd probably have gone down by now," he remarked to his secretary.

He wondered if the boy would have the strength to pull the hydrogen release-valve with sufficient skill to bring his craft back to earth without serious damage.

Benson was using all his resources to assist the young balloonist with whom he identified strongly, despite the primitive technology used in the _Spirit of the Plains_. He was almost at the point of rebuking himself for not considerng such a simple balloon for his own attempts. He knew how unlikely and dangerous it was, but...

"It's working!... It's working," he exclaimed. His secretary smiled.

He keyed his microphone. "Jonny... Some peaks coming up. How are you? Are you ready for ballast drop?"

"I'M OKAY. I'LL BE ABLE TO DO IT."

"Good... Jolly good... I want you to make it, safe and sound."

"I KNOW, MR. BENSON. THANKS FOR YOUR HELP."

Also following the _Spirit of the Plains_, making wide circles around it, was a special STOL Air Force plane. It could fly slowly, but not so slowly as the balloon. It was stuffed with electronic gear---and with as many brasshats as could wangle themselves aboard.

The techs of the Canadian-built Caribou transport plane monitored the radio conversations between Richard Benson and Jonny Crossen, but they had strict orders not to interfere unless something dire were about to happen.

Below the balloon and its accompanying aircraft, a few ordinary citizens listened to the communications on their CB radios. They were thrilled to be a small part of this "people's flight"---as some had dubbed it.

Driving his family over the icy Colorado roads to the shopping mall Bob Varner tuned his CB to channel 1---now being used by Jonny and his helper. "There he is!" He and his wife and daughter listened, spellbound, to the conversations until they faded away.

"Isn't this great?" asked Varner of his family. "It's cool," replied his daughter. "We're so fortunate to be able to hear him," commented his wife.

"Damn tootin'!" remarked Varner. "Jonny Crossen's one of *us*!"

Home Stretch

Jonny had almost returned.... The wind had taken him over Nebraska, instead of Kansas. He stood, painfully, and looked down at at the yellowgrass plains, dotted with widely-spaced farms. He saw cattle close to their barns and snow lying thinly on wheatstubble fields. It reminded him of his own, lost family farm.

"JONNY, THIS IS RICHARD.... YOU'VE DONE IT! YOU'RE WELL BEYOND THE LONGITUDE YOU STARTED FROM!... I'D SUGGEST YOU COME DOWN IN THOSE CORNFIELDS. THE WINDS HAVE BLOWN AWAY MOST OF THEIR SNOW."

Jonny moved agonizingly back to his seat and keyed the microphone. He was so tired, and his guts hurt so much. He was close to losing consciousness, now. He had only his final dose of pills remaining.

"Roger on that... I'm releasing gas, now."

"OKAY. TAKE IT EASY. YOU DON'T WANT TO FALL TOO FAST."

Jonny looked up through the topside porthole. He could see the rope leading up to the gas release-valve. He pulled it, first tenatively, then with all his remaining strength. He couldn't budge the valve. It had frozen shut.

He used the rope to pull himself from his seat, painfully putting his full weight on it---to no avail. The valve his uncle Leroy had so carefully designed and lubricated was frozen closed. He couldn't release the gas and descend.

He sank back into his seat and picked up the microphone on his CB.

"Goodbye, Nebraska."

"Sir, it seems that Crossen can't open the gas valve on his balloon to descend. It's frozen shut." The four-star Air Force general spoke gravely and nervously. He was on the hotseat about this. The Cabinet would expect him to do something to bring Jonny safely back to earth.

The President frowned as he received this unwelcome news. He was holding a closed subCabinet meeting. Present were the military Secretaries and the uniformed chiefs of the armed services.

"Can the Air Force get him down?... Can't you just shoot some holes in the balloon?"

"We could, sir, but---number one---that might torch the hydrogen. And ---number two---even if it doesn't, the balloon could come down so fast that the boy would be killed in the crash."

"God... We can't just let him drift until he falls into the Atlantic, or crashes into a mountain in some foreign country. We've got to get him down here, now!"

None of the powerful Secretaries of Whatever, or beribboned generals offered suggestions. Each preferred to view himself as "out of the loop" in the matter of Jonny Crossen's survival. They were still offended by the unofficiality of Jonny's flight.

The Air Force Chief of Staff thought, frantically. His many years of combat in war and civilian-military politicking in peace ill-served him now. But all eyes fell upon him.... He was desperate.

"Well sir, we could get some volunteers to drop on ropes from a big helicopter and use knives to carefully slash the balloon.... It might just work." ("And if it doesn't, at least we'll get credit for having tried *something*,") he thought.

The Army Chief of Staff and the Chief of Naval Operations looked at each other as if they believed their colleague had gone off the edge. But the Admiral silently wished Naval Air had been given the job.

The President looked in both directions down the long, polished table. "Any better ideas?" There were none---none anyone cared to offer, that is.

"Then do it quick. Before he falls on Washington."

Rescue Effort

Even the Chief of Staff was surprised at how quickly his rescue effort was organized. The next day, in the cold winter light, a big blue research helicopter approached the _Spirit of the Plains_ near the limit of its secret, rated ceiling.

Two enthusiastic Air Commandos were lowered from the chopper on winched cables, hastily-installed. They reached the balloon, attached themselves to it with adhesive pads, and prepared to slash the gas envelope with their black killing knives.

"Rescue One: execute!" The order crackled in their helmet headphones.

The airman jabbed his knife into the balloon, hoping he wouldn't be engulfed in flaming hydrogen. He needn't have worried. He made no sparks to ignite the gas. Hydrogen knows its limits.

The balloon remained at altitude.

"Rescue Two: execute!" A man on the other side of the balloon took a stab at the problem.

Everybody watched to see how the balloon would behave.

"It's dropping, slowly," radioed a tech in the escorting Caribou.

They waited some more.

In the Jolly Blue Giant, an order was finally given. "Rescue One and Two: execute!" They plunged and twisted their knives, again.

"That's enough! It's dropping faster, now!" said the Caribou tech.

"Rescue party: bringing you up, now."

The helicopter was now running low on fuel and had to return to its distant base. The techs in the Caribou escort aircraft followed the descent of the balloon and prepared to launch other, paratroop Air Commandos to the surface when the balloon grounded.

The _Spirit of the Plains_ dropped to the Iowa plain through airspace filled with aircraft, official and private. Some had taken off into the frigid air to witness the return of Jonny Crossen, despite an FAA order to the contrary.

The aerial scene was repeated on the ground, as cars and trucks scrambled over snowy country roads to reach the scene. The media people cursed the weather, even as they risked frostbite to be first at the scene. One TV truck ended up in a ditch.

A passing farm couple stopped to help, and the wife later told her friends on the local party line, "I've never heard such cussin' in my whole life."

From his helicopter, Richard Benson called Jonny on channel 1, then on channel 9 repeatedly, but without reply. His role in the flight of Jonny Crossen was over. Despite running low on fuel, he ordered his chopper pilot to follow Jonny's balloon down.

It was cloudy and cold, but the surface wind was only a light breeze. The snow lay several inches deep, here.

The first to reach the grounded _Spirit of the Plains_ was an Iowa Deputy Sheriff who'd been patrolling the nearest county road.

He radioed the location, drove as far as he could into the frozen field, then ran through the snow to the balloon's gondola. After shoving aside some of the deflated gas bag, he opened the door. He didn't wait for the pushy federals to arrive. The Sheriff had told him over his radio to do whatever he could for Jonny Crossen.

Despite his haste, he was too late.

In Jonny's clenched hand, he found an empty pillbox. The deputy put the container into his pocket and kept quiet about what he'd found.

The farmer who owned the land came galloping up on his hastily-saddled riding-horse. "Is he all right?!" he yelled, as he dismounted.

"Yeah. He's beyond harm, now," replied the Deputy.

Consequences

The people and the press were out in force for the funeral.

One network anchorman continued to wear a parka for his delivery. On camera, he doffed the parka's hood and prayed his ears wouldn't be frostbitten before they cut away from him to roll tape.

Behind him. the casket was being borne by the four Crossen men and two brawny cousins into Our Lady of the Prairie for the funeral service. The crowd, mostly of farmers and villagers, was enormous. Children, women, and men alike wept at the sight.

Almost all the state troopers in western Kansas were here to control the crowd. Cars were parked on almost every square foot of land in the little crossroads community. The television crews had appropriated the space on a rise which gave the best view of the proceedings.

"As Jonny Crossen is carried into the little church behind me, the nation mourns its brave, young aviation pioneer who died of cancer soon after he completed his amazing flight around the world.

"Elsewhere, in Iowa where he landed, a monument is planned to mark the place where his heroic flight came to its successful but tragic end. The site has already been designated as `Spirit of the Plains State Park.'

"This has created a dispute here in Kansas, where residents feel such a memorial should be at the site where Jonny's balloon was launched. The Kansas State Legislature has scheduled hearings on the matter.

"Children everywhere have drawn inspiration from the flight of this brave young boy. The Crossen family has been deluged with letters from children and their parents throughout the world.... Government officials, who had previously hinted that criminal charges might be filed against the Crossens, are now silent. But sources have revealed that federal and Kansas authorities have quietly reconsidered such action.... The Crossen family has received so many contributions from the public they've been able to pay off their debt and keep their failing farm.

"Among the mourners is Richard Benson, wealthy British balloonist, whose own flight ended in the Sahara, and who then flew alongside Jonny Crossen and acted as an advisor. Among the VIP officials and celebrities who have arrived here, are..."

The TV crew in their chilly truck switched to videotape to show the arrival of the Vice President and those Cabinet members who were ordered to attend the funeral. Also shown were the Governors of Kansas and Iowa---and a few TV and movie stars, as well. The latter had to contend with autograph seekers as they tried to watch the funeral.

Copyright 1998 Frederick Rustam
 

You can e-mail Frederick frustam@CapAccess.org