#national air force museum

[nusafm]

The war plane museum http://nusafm.org/Default.aspx is exclusive that it is also appropriate to receive surplus equipment from the State of Texas and the Federal government. The Museum will make each effort to make full use of this incredible asset in obtainment of the Museums goals.

[planesplanesplanes]

Today I got to see my favorite plane: the SR-71, otherwise known as the Blackbird.

She is lovely and so cool and leaks fuel like a fucking sieve.

The SR-71 has what is called ‘wet wings.’ This is a spy plane, it sits in the upper atmosphere (83,000 ft, commercial aircraft go up to 37,000 at the most) and it needs a lot of fuel to 1) stay up for long times and 2) fuel the really cool jet engines so they can go to super-sonic speeds. (She’s designed for Air-to-Air refueling, where you refuel the plane while still in the air. It’s metal as hell.)

So, the wings are completely full of fuel, there are no tanks, the outer skin of the wings is the tanks!

The reason she leaks is the panels of the plane itself. They are fitted a couple centimeters smaller than tight, since she flys at super-sonic speed the panels get hot and the metal panels expands while you are flying at those speeds, so they make them smaller to give them room to expand. As a result, she fucking leaks while on the ground.

When she first comes out of production she doesn’t leak, mind you. She is sealed properly in-between panels with a sealant, but as she flys the sealant breaks down. She needs resealed every how many hours and there is an actual chart put out about the Acceptable Fuel Leakage Amount per Hour. It is fucking hilarious to me. You’ve got this high tec super cool plane that’s badass as hell and its designed to leak like a fucking sieve. Like the cones in the engines? They move in and out depending on the speed of the aircraft to maximize engine output and it’s super cool, but this plane is a hot mess and it’s one of the best spy planes. Like these things are still used.

I love my Blackbirds I love them so much. My heart goes to fucked up planes. I love planes. Planes are super fucked up and I love them.

This is at the National Air Force Museum in Dayton, Ohio. If you ever drive through Ohio, for whatever reason, I’d recommend setting aside a couple hours to go visit.

Edit: couple things.

1) these are not still used, they cost too much to fly, which means they cost a lot cause it’s the US military and if they think it’s too much, then it’s a whole fuckin lot.

2) these things use a special fuel that has a higher flash point as to not combust in the wings while in flight due to the extreme heat. As a result, it’s real difficult to get it to catch fire by itself. So they got shots of a fuel with a lower flash point on board that they use to get the special fuel combusting.

That special fuel is why it cost so much to fly these things and what increases the price so drastically. That, on top of the whole ‘other countries can detect these planes and really don’t appreciate the US spying on them so overtly’ thing is why we don’t use em anymore.

[nocternalrandomness]

F-16A in the Cold War Gallery at the National Museum of the United States Air Force - Dayton, Ohio

[carbone14]

Curtiss P-40E Warhawk – National Museum of the United States Air Force – Riverside – Ohio – Etats-Unis

©United States Air Force - 050215-F-1234P-065

[commodorez]

Apollo 15 Command Module "Endeavour" - July 26 - August 7, 1971

Dave Scott, Al Worden, & James Irwin

4th mission to successfully land on the moon

National Museum of the United States Air Force, Dayton, OH

[devotedlygrandwinner]

Apollo 15 command module, National Museum of the United States Air Force, Dayton, Ohio.

[legowerewolf]

The summer before our trio's senior year, there's a national competition for high-schoolers. The prize? An all-expenses-paid trip to Washington, D.C., including exclusive tours of the Smithsonian and a face-to-face meeting with the President.

This is the chance they need to escape the prison that the GIW has turned Amity Park into and get them shut down, permanently.

Tucker rigs it.

Danny is out to the class by now. Lancer is keeping his mouth shut. He's a mandatory reporter, sure, but he won't speak up and put his student in more danger.

Danny is very, very happy about the visit to the Air and Space museum.

Then it's time for business.

First, the confession: they weren't the rightful winners.

Then, the introduction: they're not just a class trip.

They're the diplomatic envoy of Phantom, the High King of the Infinite Realms of the Dead. And by diplomacy or by force, the American government will stop torturing and experimenting on his subjects.

Everyone in Amity Park is forsworn by the US government as long as the Anti-Ecto acts are in force; they're all contaminated enough that the GIW has the right to snatch them up and cut them open.

They're all voluntarily Danny's subjects instead. He, at least, has no need for taxes.

[usafphantom2]

14 March 2018. Boeing B-17F-10-BO Flying Fortress 41-24485, “Memphis Belle,” at the National Museum of the United States Air Force, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Ohio.

@ron_eisele via X

[taraross-1787]

This Day in History: Memphis Belle

On this day in 1943, a B-17 Flying Fortress completes its 25th combat mission without losing a member of its crew. Memphis Belle would return to the United States, embark on a war bond tour, and become one of the most famous bombers to emerge from World War II.

She was nearly sold for scrap metal after the war, but Memphis mayor Walter Chandler saved her for $350. Today, she’s been refurbished and sits at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force in Dayton, Ohio.

Memphis Belle’s survival was no small feat.

The story continues here: https://www.taraross.com/post/tdih-memphis-belle

[lonestarflight]

Douglas XB-42 Mixmaster (43-50224) parked on the tarmac, likely at the Muroc Army Airfield, California. This was the first of two prototypes ordered by the USAAF.

Date: May 10, 1944

SDASM Archives: 01_00095105_2, 01_00095103_2, 01_00095104_2

National Museum of the United States Air Force: 061020-F-1234S-001

[manonsmanicmind]

A lil’ compilation of people drawing comparisons between Nate Mann and Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal and discussing how brilliant Nate’s portrayal of Rosie was. The most touching part of this is definitely Rosie’s very own son and grandson talking about Nate in such a loving way🥺 Nate clearly did the Rosenthal family proud, which is so heart-warming🥰 Summary and sources below👇

Dan Rosenthal, son of Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal: Dan and his son visited the set of MotA. They had a chance to meet Nate. “[Nate] really captures the essence of who my dad was, and we got a chance to talk to him and hear what he is bringing to the table. It was just wonderful. We recognised immediately what a caring, wonderful, decent human being [he is] - very similar to what my father was, and so he carried that essence into this project and throughout it” (Brooklyn Law School).

Sam Rosenthal, grandson of Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal: Nate was “so excited” to meet Sam and his dad. “He initially auditioned for Cleven, and he landed so much more in the charming way that Rosie led... Getting to see him be so excited about it made us more excited, and then I saw him perform, and that kid’s a talent. He embodies my grandfather. While I didn’t know him at that age, I see it” (Reel History).

Kirk Saduski, executive and producer at Playtone: “Rosie is portrayed by Nate Mann, who is terrific... When you hear about [Rosie], when you talk to his family, when you read about him, when you talk to the men who served with him, you realise what an extraordinary man he was… We were able to introduce [Sam and Dan Rosenthal] to Nate, and you could immediately see that Dan recognised something in Nate that was innate in his father” (The National WWII Museum).

Donald L. Miller, author of Masters of the Air: About Rosie: “I’ve never met a more impressive human being in my life… his poise, his coolness, his composure.” He thinks Nate “played [Rosie] to a T.” He continued, "I was particularly impressed with [Rosie’s] composure… When you’re flying as a pilot in a bomber… you got nine other guys, sometimes ten other guys that you’re responsible for, so when the Air Force looks for pilots, they’re looking for guys who can command, who have leadership qualities. Rosie was [the] kind of guy who walks into a room and commands the room.” To Nate: “I thought you did that brilliantly, in an understated way. It would have been so easy to overstate that… and just make him a Steve McQueen kind of character, and instead, we get something a little more muted, a little more controlled. It was brilliant” (The National Museum of the Mighty Eighth Air Force).

Ryan Fleck, co-director of episodes 5 and 6 of MotA: “Nate Mann is just a tremendous actor, and the camera loves him. We just love working with him. He has that calming presence; I mean, he has that thing Rosie has, which is just natural leadership. He’s not a hothead like Callum’s character. He’s really calm and collected, and he makes everyone around him calm and collected as well” (The National WWII Museum).

[nusafm]

History museum Houston

National United States Armed Forces history museum provide information about half-track use. http://nusafm.org/  A central use of the Half-Track was a platform from which armored columns could grow 'eyes and ears' while also leading a reconnaissance in force in advance of the maneuver unit.

[blurredcolour]

The Night Moves | Part One

The Night Moves Masterlist

Alternate Universe

supernatural!Bradley Bradshaw x Female Reader; supernatural!Jacob Seresin x Female Reader

Summary: An internship with the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History should have been the highlight of your academic career. The perfect addition to your resume while you worked on your doctoral thesis. An interdepartmental assignment, however, sees your reality ripped apart by incomprehensible forces. Five tumultuous days will leave you forever changed and inextricably linked to two men born centuries apart.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Violence, Blood, Gore, Supernatural Themes, Historical Inaccuracies, Institutional Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ Only

Author's Note: Typically I provide sanitized versions of my more violent scenes however they are rather crucial to this entire series so please heed my warnings and do not engage with this series if you are not interested in reading blood and gore. Thank you for your understanding!

Word Count: 4053

-------------------------

-Tuesday-

The sound of fallen leaves skittering across the pavement behind you would have brought a smile to your face if the card reader at the staff entrance of the National Museum of Natural History would only function properly. You had tried sliding your personnel card marked ‘intern’ through it quickly, slowly, repeatedly, and every attempt ended in two buzzes and a red-light signaling failure.

You were expected in the lab in five minutes and at this rate you were going to be late – not the impression you were hoping to make on your first inter-facility project. You took a step back and inhaled deeply, turning your head to your right to appreciate the brilliant orange leaves tipped in red barely clinging to the trees on the boulevard. The days had been unseasonably warm lately, though the arrival of a crisp north wind was heralding a change. Grounded and refreshed you approached the card reader once more and pulled your keycard forward, the lanyard around your neck taut, trying a slow, smooth slide through the slot. The resulting chirp and green light had you sighing in relief.

“Finally…” You uttered and wrenched the door open, hurrying down the stairs and through the corridor to the room number that had been provided via email. Stopping just outside, you took a moment to fill your lungs with air and smooth your lab coat before stepping inside calmly.

While you had reviewed the parameters of the assignment numerous times, nothing could have prepared you for what was waiting in that room. A catastrophic fire in a Virginia church two weeks ago had unearthed a lead-lined sarcophagus, which initial investigations had determined dated from the War of Independence. It had been delivered to the department of forensic anthropology for examination on Thursday of last week and as the initial scans of the vessel revealed there were artifacts contained within, the project had expanded to involve the National Museum of American History as well.

While your position as an intern had not garnered you an invitation to the opening of the sarcophagus, you had been fortunate enough to be assigned with the initial cataloguing of the items found within. Nonetheless you were still taken aback by the sight of a mummified corpse laid out on a wheeled exam table with the rest of the artifacts set out on other tables beside. The most striking thing of all, however, was the utter lack of damage to the artifacts one would expect from them being locked in a box with a decaying body for two-and-a-half centuries. From your vantage point they appeared aged and worn, to be sure, but otherwise very much intact.

A chill rolled through your body as you stepped further into the sterile room, and you heard a poorly smothered laugh. Turning quickly toward the sound, you spotted two forensic anthropology interns, Brett and Raj, whom you recognized from the Smithsonian-wide orientation meetings in the spring.

“It’s freezing in here to keep the smell down.” Brett, a strawberry-blond with a smattering of freckles across his nose, explained with a hint of apology in his voice. “We don’t often get remains like this…”

“With so much meat on them, he means.” Raj, with his black hair falling carelessly into his eyes, clarified.

“Ah.” You replied simply, not entirely certain how to reply to a statement like that.

“There is clothing on the remains to be catalogued but we have a few more scans to run, would you mind starting with the other items while we finish up?” Brett continued, despite the callous nature of his colleague’s words.

“Not at all, the majority of it seems to be on the tables anyway.” You nodded, gesturing to the objects that had been unpacked by people high above your pay grade.

You stepped aside as they rolled the table past you and through the doorway, murmuring their thanks as they pulled a sheet over the body respectfully. Brett’s sneakers squeaked slightly on the tile floor, the sound fading as they grew further away.

 Accustomed to working with their belongings rather than the long-dead directly, you immediately found it easier to breathe as soon as you found yourself alone. You grabbed an unoccupied chair from the corner of the room, reaching down to pull the lever beneath to seat and raise it to its highest setting. Retrieving your laptop from your bag, which you left hanging on one of the racks of hooks in the corner, you set it on your makeshift workstation. You walked along the row of tables filled with items awaiting cataloguing to the furthest from the door planning on working your way back to the gap the remains would eventually return to.

Sliding on a pair of gloves from a box on the counter that ran the rear perimeter of the room, you carefully picked up a pocketknife from the exam table, turning it in your fingers slowly to search for any unique characteristics. The initials ‘J.S.’ were carved into the wooden inlay on the underside, which you quickly added under the item’s notes on your laptop.

Retrieving the digital camera from the deep pocket of your lab coat, you took several photos of the knife before repeating the process with a pile of British notes and coins, a clay pipe, a pouch of tobacco, and a small black ledger with pages of accounts that would need further study, before coming to stand in front of a British regular’s uniform jacket. A private’s rank from what you could tell at first glance. Looking back toward the door, you furrowed your brows in confusion having sworn that the corpse was wearing a South Carolinian infantryman’s jacket.

“Odd…” You murmured in puzzlement, turning back to the task at hand.

You were nearly through with the loose items on the tables when the rattling of caster wheels from the hall announced the return of Raj and Brett with their charge. They replaced the exam table to its original spot in the room, locking the wheels with a series of clacks before folding the sheet back to lay at the corpse’s feet.

“You’ve got it from here?” Raj asked halfway out the door, not waiting for an answer before he was gone.

Brett scoffed, shaking his head as he signed off for the both of them on a clipboard, setting it down on the counter beside the body before looking to you. “Don’t forget to fill out your portion of the paperwork. We’ll lock up when you’re finished.”

“Will do, thank you.” You nodded before taking a fortifying breath, reluctantly moving over to the exam table.

Your eyes immediately fell upon the blue coat with red lapels, confirming your initial glimpse. Dressed in the uniform of the South Carolina Continental Army, with the ivory breeches and tall black boots to match, the presence of the red coat in his rucksack was all the more mystifying. But the shape occupying the artifacts, though desiccated, was still undeniably human – a fact that was deeply unsettlingly.

Embarrassingly, your hands took on a slight tremble above your keyboard and despite all wisdom to the contrary you found your eyes drifting towards the deceased soldier’s face. Logic told you the twisted expression resembling pain was from the contraction of muscles as they lost their moisture, but it nonetheless evoked a sense of deep suffering. Yet despite the years spent in that metal box, silken strands of golden hair still framed his face, the longer pieces pulled back into a tight plait at the nape of his neck, barely visible from your current angle.

The only sound in the room came from the faint hum of the fluorescent lights and light-headedness washed over you as you realized you were holding your breath. Wrenching your eyes from that tortured look, your gaze ricocheted about the room for something safer to focus on before landing on the dull, mud-splattered leather of his boots. You took a breath and slowly typed the color ‘black’ before exhaling slowly and describing the worn condition of their soles. Another inhale and exhale bracketed your estimation of the shoe size.

Employing similar tactics, you worked your way up the articles of clothing, one by one. Inhaling, exhaling, typing, photographing. Given that you were not authorized to touch the remains, you had to rely on the visible angles of the clothing, crouching and stretching, craning your neck and circling the table to take in as much detail as possible. It was yet to be determined if further investigation of the remains, including cleaning of the bones, was warranted and it was entirely possible these clothes would remain on the body for reburial, so you were diligent in your work.

Well, as diligent as the oppressive feeling of ill-ease that was cloying at your senses would allow. So grateful to be finished your work, were you, that you ripped off your gloves and were almost halfway out the door when you remembered Brett’s instruction to sign off on your portion of the paperwork. Swearing under your breath you clenched your fists and forced your feet to turn back toward the body and retrieve the clipboard from the counter beside it. You hastily flipped through the pages, willfully ignoring the seemingly anguished face to your left.

The careless speed which you employed in desperation to remove yourself from that room was not without consequence; the fine edge of the top sheet of paper catching the plush edge of the pad of your index finger. You hissed at the sting as blood welled up immediately, snapping your wrist in a self-chastising movement, unaware of the scatter of droplets you sent through the air before pulling the wound between your lips to stop the bleeding. Setting the clipboard down on the countertop with a clatter, you rapidly initialled through all the sections pertaining to you before noting the time of ‘7:05 pm’ and signed out.

The day had melted through your fingers, and it was now well past the normal time you went home. Your feet carried you back up the stairs, moving just as rapidly as you had hours before, this time driven by a desire to leave that room and its corpse behind. The air outside was anything but fresh, the humidity so close to one hundred percent that moisture hung in the form of mist, thunder rumbling ominously in the distance. Yet you had never been so grateful to be outside. You eased the pace of your aching leg muscles, making your way down the street towards your regular building to hang up your lab coat, collect your things, and head home for the evening.

The tension in your shoulders eased with each step, the heaviness in your chest feeling lighter as the staff door to your usual place of work was in sight. You were nearly there when a hand fell heavily upon your shoulder, making you yelp and whirl back defensively.

“Where the hell is my body?” Raj sneered at you petulantly, the question so preposterous that you blinked up at him not fully comprehending it for several seconds.

“What are you talking about?!” You finally found the wherewithal to answer. “Right there on the exam table where I left –”

“This sort of thing might pass as humor in your building, but it is most certainly not funny, come with me.” He interrupted coldly and thrust an authoritative arm forward in a commanding gesture, leaving you no choice but to turn back toward the basement you had just escaped from. You had been so close.

Retracing your steps, with Raj’s furious form at your back, you were filled with a sense of foreboding as your keycard once again acted up. With an infuriated huff he swiped his card aggressively from behind you. Even the door bowed before his rage and promptly unlocked. He flung it open, and you flinched out of the way reflexively before darting through the opening, not wanting to fan the flames of his ire any hotter. You flogged your brain, begging it to produce a reasonable explanation for the problem he was presenting you with but all it produced was the unhelpful buzzing of fear in response to Raj’s threatening presence behind you and the memory of that tortured soldier’s face in the basement.

Yet he had spoken the truth. When you stepped into the room, the exam table was empty, the sight making your stomach fall straight through the floor. All the other artifacts remained saved the most pivotal. You turned quickly to defend yourself.

“I swear to you, I signed out at 7:05 and got the hell out of here. I couldn’t bear to spend one more minute with that body…” Your palms grew damp as you spoke, trying to focus on any possible, rational, logical explanations. There were few.

His dark eyes narrowed, looking you over, calculating for a moment before he nodded. “Well, your signature is the last on the sheet and now it’s gone. So, you’re going to help me find it. And if it wasn’t your poor taste then it most certainly had to be Brett’s. You take this corridor and I’ll take that one.” He gestured in opposite directions as he spoke, making your throat spasm anxiously.

“Are you sure, I don’t know this building very well –”

“Just get on with it, you’ve already kept me here late.” He snapped and turned, walking off in his chosen direction, leaving you to yours.

Swallowing dryly, you turned with trepidation before forcing one foot in front of the other, trying doors as you went. The majority of them turned out to be locked, your key card of no use in the face of a traditional keyhole, so you continued on further and further away from the stairwell, from Raj, from the exam room. Reaching what you assumed was the end of the building you turned the corner and felt the shock of ice water in your veins. A pair of legs, lying prone on the floor, sneakers on their feet, peered out from around the next corner in the distance.

“Brett…?” You called out hesitantly, voice cracking, as your memory summoned the image of his footwear from earlier in the day. Clearing your throat, you hastened your steps and tried again with more volume. “Brett?!”

Rounding the second corner the air was punched from your lungs as the torn flesh of his neck and the gush of blood from the wound filled your eyes.

“Oh fuck!” Your voice was high pitched and you would have mortified you in normal circumstances – yet these were anything but. You dropped your bag and yanked off your lab coat, viciously fighting with the sleeves as they snagged on your wrists until you finally wrenched the fabric free. Balling it up, you pressed it tightly against his neck in a pathetic attempt to staunch the bleeding and started shrieking for help.

Your voice was hoarse by the time you, at last, heard the sound of quick-paced footsteps and heaving breaths growing closer. The security guard who appeared from around the corner might as well have been a fleet of medics, for all the relief his arrival brought you. He quickly summoned an ambulance using his radio and dove in immediately to assist you in trying to stop the bleeding.

“Help is coming, Brett, hold on…” You tried to soothe the wide-eyed man, who’s mouth was gulping for air not unlike a fish out of water.

Futile gurgling sounds were coming from his throat, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips and you felt hot tears pricking at your lash line as you got a solid look at how dire his situation was.

“They’re almost here, just stay still…” You choked out, regretfully registering the splatter of blood droplets that had infiltrated the cheerful freckles across his face. “We’ve got you.” The acrid tang of panic flooded your mouth as his noises grew faint, the light in his eyes grew dim, his body grew still. “Nononono…Brett…” Your voice fractured as the tears you had been thus far keeping at bay flooded your eyes.

“He’s stopped breathing, there’s no pulse in his wrist.” You vaguely registered the voice of the guard behind you. “I’m starting CPR.”

As he began compressions there was a sickly crunch as Brett’s ribs snapped, a wave of nausea roiling through you before his body convulsed with each successive blow. All the manual beating of Brett’s heart achieved was to drive more blood from his neck wound, rapidly soaking through the wad of your lab coat and onto the institutional tiles of the floor.

Silent sobs wracked your body as you struggled to maintain pressure against the wound, the fabric in your hands quickly drenched as a flood of humanity poured down the hall. A firefighter was hauling you and your bloodstained hands out of the way, sitting you against the opposite wall beside the sweat-drenched and dazed security guard. It was not much longer before pair of paramedics arrived, all manner of life-saving tools employed on the horrifyingly motionless figure on the floor until the flurry suddenly stopped. They started pulling away.

You watched, numb, as two of the firefighters draped a sheet over Brett until one of the medics – a woman with kind eyes and an angular face with the name patch ‘Zambrano’ on her chest – was right in front of you, asking your name. You murmured it robotically before swallowing tightly.

“Is…is he…?”

“I’m so sorry. Can I give you a look over? Are you hurt at all?” She eyed the blood on your hands, and you shook your head quickly.

“It’s… it’s all… his.” You stuttered and wiped your eyes on your sleeves. “Oh god…” You whispered, looking up as several police officers crowded into the already cramped hallway.

The next few hours passed in a blur punctuated by brief moments of clarity – the medic helping you wash your hands, one of the firefighters wrapping a blanket around your shoulders when you could not stop shaking, Brett’s body being wheeled down the hallway, a series of questions from the police. It was past midnight by the time you found yourself leaving your building, forcing a half-disintegrated granola bar from the bottom of your work bag down your throat – not from hunger but because the rational side of your brain dictated you needed nourishment.

You barely registered the splash of water as you stepped off the curb onto northwest Madison Drive before frigid water seeped into your shoe. You looked down and sighed deeply as the moisture quickly dampened the fabric of your sock, lurching forward to avoid the puddle with your other foot. The Mall was eerily quiet, the only evidence of the tourists that normally occupied the space was the scattered trash in the process of being collected by a handful of sanitation workers.

The Washington Monument was illuminated a ghostly white in the distance as you came to the top of the escalators leading down to the Smithsonian Metro Station when your faculties at last returned to you; finally processing the fact that there were no trains after midnight.

“Fuck me…” You breathed and turned to trudge back to the street, shoving a hand into your jacket pocket to retrieve your phone, crying out as you crashed into the muscled bulk of a man clad in a brown suede jacket. You jerked back, feeling your centre of gravity tilt off balance as your body erupted once again into the shakes you had eventually subdued an hour ago.

“Whoa, sorry!” Came his gravelly exclamation as his hands gripped your shoulders, pulling you closer lest you fall backward down the escalators. “You alright there, sweetheart?” He asked as he guided you over to the safety of the grass, tilting his head to get a better look at you, revealing his face in the process.

You swallowed roughly taking in his kind, coffee-colored eyes, the curl of his chestnut hair, and the way his mustache caressed his upper lip. There was something soothing about his very presence – the warmth radiating from his hands on your shoulders, the hint of sandalwood in his cologne. The effect was calming, fortifying. You exhaled deeply in response to his question, the quivering in your muscles subsiding.

“I’m sorry it’s…it’s just been a day.” You shook you head at the inadequacy of your statement, watching his lips quirk up slightly in response.

“It hasn’t been day for quite some time.” He teased gently, releasing your shoulders now that you were steadier on your feet.

“Ha,” You laughed once and nodded in agreement. “You’re telling me.” Resuming your quest to pull your phone from your pocket, you finally succeeded, pulling up your rideshare app. “Missed the last train, and now…well my luck is consistent. The next available car is fifteen minutes away.” You submitted your ride request and let your hand drop to your side in defeat.

“Let me wait with you, it’s a lot quieter out here than I expected.” You eyed with warily a moment until he offered his hand to shake. “Bradley Bradshaw, pleased to meet you.”

You glanced between his face and his broad, extended palm before placing your hand in his, replying with your name as he wrapped his fingers around yours. His handshake was the right mixture of strength and confidence; not too aggressive but firm enough to raise the temperature of your skin.

“Let’s go sit on that bench at the bus stop so your driver can find you easily.” He gestured before guiding you in that direction with his hand at the small of your back.

“So, you expected it to be full of tourists out here even at midnight?” You asked, mimicking normal human conversation despite the weariness you felt all the way to your bones.

He chuckled and shrugged. “Not sure what I expected honestly, just moved here and came out to get the lay of the land.”

You sank down heavily onto the bench the instant the pair of you reached your destination and looked up at him with a tired grin. “Well, if you want to see the museums you’ll have to come when we’re open” You laughed, a thrill fluttering through your stomach as he grinned in response.

“Might just have to take you up on that.” He sat on the bench beside you, legs spread wide enough that his knee brushed against yours. “The way you said ‘we,’ I take it you work in one of them?”

“American History.” You nodded, clearing your throat as your voice still bore the aftereffects of prolonged shrieking.

He looked up at the row of buildings across the road before glancing at the same behind you, across the Mall, before mistakenly pointing at the Museum of Natural History.

“So close…” You smiled and gently guided his forearm to point at the correct building, swallowing tightly at the firmness of his arm, palpable even through the layers of his clothing.

“Aha, right next door to that one then. I was close. What do you do there?”

Unwelcome images of dead bodies and dying colleagues and lab coats soaked with blood flooded your mind and you shook your head, trying to clear it.

“It, it varies but I mostly deal with historical artifacts and do research for the permanent staff as needed.”

He nodded thoughtfully, looking up as a set of headlights illuminated the pair of you. “Your ride?”

You compared the license plate number on the car with that in the app before nodding and forcing yourself to your feet. “Hey thanks…thanks for waiting with me, you’re ok to get home?”

“Oh yeah, it’s a short walk.” He nodded reassuringly, leaning forward to open the car door for you.

Smiling weakly, you slid in, confirming your name with the driver as Bradley shut the door behind you. The car pulled away before you realized you had neglected to exchange numbers with the handsome man who had not only kept you from falling to your death, or at least grievous injury, but also waited in the dark with you until your ride showed up.

“Dammit! I just cannot win today…” You hissed, knocking your head back into the headrest in frustration.

-------------------------

Read Part Two

The Night Moves Masterlist

[nocternalrandomness]

"Valor Park"

Valor Park is located within Memorial Park at the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force, Dayton, Ohio and honors U.S. Air Force Medal of Honor recipients.,

[blueiskewl]

Have Researchers Found Amelia Earhart’s Long-Lost Plane?

A new sonar image shows an airplane-shaped object resting on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, not far from where Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, went missing in 1937.

On July 2, 1937, pioneering pilot Amelia Earhart vanished somewhere over the Pacific Ocean near the end of her historic around-the-world flight. For decades, her mysterious disappearance has perplexed explorers, who have spent millions of dollars trying to find her missing Lockheed 10-E Electra plane.

Now, a possible new clue has emerged in the case: A sonar image captured during an expedition last fall shows an airplane-shaped object sitting on the ocean floor, not far from where experts believe Earhart likely crashed, reports the Wall Street Journal’s Nidhi Subbaraman.

The blurred object is far from definitive proof, but Dorothy Cochrane, an aeronautics curator at the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum, tells Smithsonian magazine it’s “an intriguing image” that warrants a second look.

The expedition was led by Tony Romeo, who is a former intelligence officer with the U.S. Air Force, a pilot and a commercial real estate investor from South Carolina. In 2021, he sold his real estate properties and spent $11 million to fund the trip, including buying high-tech equipment to aid in the search.

“This has been a story that’s always intrigued me, and all the things in my life kind of collided at the right moment,” Romeo tells Business Insider’s Katherine Tangalakis-Lippert and Rebecca Rommen. “I was getting out of real estate and looking for a new project, so even though I really started about 18 months ago, this was something I’ve been thinking and researching for a long time.”

Last September, a team from the exploration company Deep Sea Vision, which Romeo founded, departed from Tarawa, Kiribati, in the South Pacific aboard a research vessel. Working in 36-hour shifts, the 16-person crew used an underwater autonomous vehicle equipped with sonar to scour the sea floor, scanning roughly 5,200 total square miles.

About 90 days into the trip, the team was reviewing sonar images and noticed something unusual in the data from some 60 days prior. The mysterious object looked to be about the same shape and size as an aircraft, and it was identified roughly 100 miles from Howland Island, which is within the region where experts think Earhart’s plane went down. The object is around 16,400 feet below the water’s surface.

By then, however, the crew had determined it was too late to return to the site for a closer look. The camera on the underwater vehicle was also broken, which meant they wouldn’t be able to see anything if they did circle back, reports the Post and Courier’s Tony Bartelme.

But Romeo is undeterred and hopes to revisit the area in the future.

“This is maybe the most exciting thing I’ll ever do in my life,” he tells the Wall Street Journal. “I feel like a 10-year-old going on a treasure hunt.”

In the meantime, the sonar image is not detailed enough for experts to draw any definitive conclusions.

“It definitely appears to be an aircraft of some sort,” David Jourdan, who has searched three times for Earhart’s missing plane and is the co-founder and president of the ocean exploration company Nauticos, tells the Post and Courier. “It has aircraft-like features. But sound is funny. It can mislead you. We can’t say it’s her plane until you put a camera on it.”

To truly identify the object, future missions would ideally capture detailed images that contain the registration number of the plane, says Cochrane. Or, at the very least, they might more clearly show the submerged object’s dimensions and shape to see if it matches the model of Earhart’s vehicle.

“It really requires further research,” says Cochrane. “Finding something that’s really worth investigating further is step one. Verifying it’s the actual craft is step two. And step three becomes: Is it possible to recover this or not, or should it just be left where it is?”

At the time of her disappearance, Earhart was a global celebrity—speaking with the Wall Street Journal, Romeo likens her to Taylor Swift today. In June 1928, Earhart became the first woman to fly across the Atlantic Ocean (as a passenger of pilots Wilmer Stultz and Lou Gordon), a feat that propelled her to international stardom.

Nearly four years later, in May 1932, she made history again by becoming the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. Later that year, she became the first woman to fly solo across North America and back. And in 1935, she became the first person, regardless of gender, to fly solo from Honolulu, Hawaii, to Oakland, California.

In the summer of 1936, the renowned pilot began to plan her most ambitious trip yet: a circumnavigation of the globe. On May 20, 1937, Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, departed from Oakland for the first leg of the trip. They flew nearly 22,000 miles, making stops in Miami, South America, Africa and India along their eastward route.

By late June, they had made it to Lae, Papua New Guinea. After a few days’ rest, they departed for Howland Island, a small, uninhabited outcrop in the Pacific where a refueling station had been built for their journey. The U.S. Coast Guard had a vessel, the Itasca, stationed nearby to help with the landing.

Operators aboard the Itasca heard Earhart’s radio messages as she got closer and closer to the island. But eventually, they lost contact. Earhart and Noonan were never seen or heard from again.

The U.S. Navy and Coast Guard spent 16 days searching for the missing duo without success. About one and a half years later, on January 5, 1939, Earhart was declared dead.

Theories abound about her mysterious disappearance—some onlookers have speculated that she was a spy or that she was captured by a foreign military. But Cochrane believes the simplest explanation is the most plausible: that Earhart and Noonan ran out of fuel near Howland Island.

“She’s got to be around there somewhere,” she adds.

By Sarah Kuta.

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