The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  The Christmas Bogey

  PAT FRANK

  WHEN THE AIR FORCE PRIVATELY evaluated the affair later, delay in reporting the original sighting received much of the blame. This delay was the fault of Airman 2/c Warren Pitts, but the cause of Pitts’s lapse never was committed to paper, for it would sound so emotional and unmilitary. The truth is that Warren Pitts was only eighteen, and he was homesick, and weeping at his post.

  Pitts was the youngest of five technicians assigned, that morning, to 48-hour duty in the Early Warning Radar shack atop a wind-scoured hill overlooking the sprawling Thule base in northern Greenland.

  It was Tail End Charley duty. Down on the base everybody was celebrating. There was a USO troupe, including dancers from Hollywood, at the theater. Pitts had not seen a woman in three months. There was a Christmas tree, flown from Maine in a B-36 bomb bay, in the gymnasium. It was the only tree in a thousand miles. There were parties in the clubs and day rooms, and turkey dinners in the mess halls, and a mountain of still undistributed mail and packages. Pitts hadn’t received the Christmas box his folks had promised.

  Even in the radar shack there was a celebration of a sort. In the other room the older men had concocted an eggnog from evaporated milk, powdered eggs, vanilla extract, and medicinal alcohol. Since Pitts didn’t drink, he had drawn the six to midnight watch.

  The other room was bright, and warm, and they were listening to Christmas music on the radio, and Sergeant Hake was telling almost believable stories about girls he had known Stateside.

  There was no light in the viewing room, so that vision would be sharper. Pitts sat lonely in darkness and watched a thin white sliver revolve in hypnotic circles on the screen.

  He wasn’t thinking of himself as the guardian of a continent. He was thinking of Tucson’s hot sun. He hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, and wouldn’t see it for weeks more. He said, aloud, “Oh, God, I want to go home.”

  When at last he looked up there was a fat, green blip winking evilly at him from the upper right-hand quadrant of the screen. How long it had been there he could not guess. It could have come across the Pole, or it might have entered from the east. The radar had a range of perhaps 300 miles. When he first saw the blip, it was closing on the 150-mile circle.

  Had Pitts instantly reported this sighting, successful interception would have been possible at Thule, but he didn’t. He told the blip to go away. He begged it to go away. On occasion, Russian weather planes crossed the Pole, but always they turned around and went back and he wished this blip would do the same, so he would not have to explain to Sergeant Hake. The blip kept on coming, skirting the edge of the 150-mile circle, as if making a careful detour.

  Pitts rose from his canvas chair and shouted, “I’ve got a bogey!”

  Except for Sinatra singing “White Christmas,” there was silence in the other room, and then suddenly they were all in with him. Hake watched the blip for three revolutions, and said: “How long you been asleep, kid?”

  “I haven’t been asleep. Honest I haven’t.”

  The sergeant noted the boy’s reddened eyes and the tear channels down his pinched white face. He turned back to the scope.

  “What do you think it is?” Pitts asked, fearfully.

  “It could be a large flying saucer,” said Hake, “or it could be Santa Claus and eight tiny reindeer, or it could be an enemy jet bomber.” He reached for the telephone and called Central Radar Control.

  That night Lieutenant Preble, a serious young man, had the duty. Ranged along the wall inside Control were many types of radar, including a repeater set from the early warning installation on the hill. Lieutenant Preble switched on this set. As it heated, the blip appeared. He estimated the bogey at 140 miles from Thule, bearing 80 degrees, speed 400 knots, and headed due south.

  It could be a Scandinavian airliner bound for Canada and Chicago. And, it could be a jet tanker, on a training flight from Prestwick, Scotland, which had failed to report its position in the last hour.

  Or it could be an enemy jet bomber sneaking around Thule.

  Whatever it was, Radar Control had a standing order to scramble fighters and alert the batteries if a bogey could not be identified within 60 seconds. That would certainly have been done, except for several human factors.

  Lieutenant Preble often played chess with a Captain Canova, an F-94 fighter pilot, and at this moment Captain Canova and his radar observer were in the ready room. In an alert, they would be scrambled—the first ones to face that icy air.

  On a base like Thule you will find many poker, bridge, and gin rummy players, but few devoted to chess. So Lieutenant Preble and Captain Canova were firm friends, and Preble knew that this was probably Canova’s last duty at Thule.

  In the morning, Canova would pack up and board the air tanker coming in from Scotland. Canova’s wife was ill and Canova had been given compassionate leave. The tanker’s base was Westover Field, Massachusetts, and Canova lived in Boston. He should be with his wife Christmas night—barring accident.

  Outside, the temperature was 42 below, and the wind an erratic Phase Three—above 50 knots. If the bogey continued its course and speed, it would be an extreme long-range interception, outside the protective cloak of his radar. So there could very well be an accident.

  Preble turned to his communicator and said, “Let’s try to raise this bogey. Call the tanker again.”

  The tanker didn’t respond. Preble wasn’t worried about the tanker. There had been no distress calls, and near the magnetic pole on top of the world radio frequently went haywire.

  They tried the commercial channels. No answer.

  Preble took a good hold on the edge of his desk. The blip had closed to 120 miles, but it was now due east of Thule, and moving fast to the south. Each second, now, was taking it away. Unless he scrambled Canova immediately, there would be no chance for an intercept.

  He looked at the clock. The big second hand was sweeping down like a guillotine.

  Even if Canova shot down the bogey, it might turn out to be a transport loaded with people racing home for Christmas.

  But whatever the bogey was, an alarm would stop the USO show in the theatre, and empty the clubs, and send some thousands of troops and gunners and airmen to their posts in the frightful cold, and wreck Christmas. If Canova shot down a friendly plane, there would be no more room for Lieutenant Preble at Thule, or perhaps anywhere.

  Preble slammed his hand on the red alarm button, and spoke into the microphone: “Scramble, Lightning Blue! Ready, Lightning Red!”

  He looked at the clock, and marked the hour, minute, and second. Canova would be airborne in under three minutes, requesting instructions. But the chase would be long, and would carry beyond the fringe area and guidance of his radar. In his heart, he knew he was too late. Outside, he heard the sirens screaming.

  At 6:24 p.m., EST, Christmas Eve, the priority message from Thule reached the enormous plotting room of the Eastern Defense Command, Newburgh, New York. A bogey had slipped past Thule. Interception had been unsuccessful, and the pilot had returned to base. The bogey was headed for Labrador or Newfoundland at better than 400 miles an hour, estimated altitude 30,000 feet.

  Upon the shoulders of Major Hayden, an ace in two wars but the youngest and least experienced officer on the senior staff, rested the awful responsibility for the safety and security of the vital third of the United States, from Chicago east to the Atlantic. This was normal, on Christmas Eve, for alone among the Master Controllers Major Hayden was a bachelor.

  Major Hayden was not alarmed at this first report. The day’s intelligence forecasts showed that the world, this season, was comparatively peaceful. Also, it was only one plane, and Major Hayden did not believe an attack would be launched by one plane, or even so small a number as one hundred.

  Besides, the bogey could be reasonably explained. One of his plotting boards showed every aircraft, military and commercial, aloft on the approaches to the Eastern states. The bogey could be a British C
omet which had announced it was going far north to seek the jet stream. It could be a Scandinavian airliner looking for Goose Bay. It could be most anything.

  Major Hayden ordered a miniature plane set upon the plotting board at the spot this bogey ought to be, according to its projected course and speed. A red flag, showing it was unidentified, topped this plane. He would keep his eyes on it.

  He didn’t want to bother the General, although the General had visited the plotting room, at six, to look things over. The General always seemed anxious. This may have been because on December 7, 1941, when Major Hayden was a sophomore in college, the General was a major commanding a bomber squadron at Hickam Field, Hawaii, and all his planes had been bombed and shot up on the ground. The last thing the General had said was, “I’m going over to my daughter’s, at the Point, for dinner. You know the number. If anything happens call me.”

  Major Hayden didn’t believe that anything, really, had happened yet. Besides, he knew that every Christmas Eve the General trimmed the tree for his grandchildren. He didn’t want to break that up.

  Major Hayden did call the Royal Canadian Air Force liaison officer, and he did alert the outlying bases, and the border radar sites. Then he waited.

  An hour later, reports began to come in. The jet tanker from Prestwick turned up at Thule, its radio out. The Comet landed at Gander after a record crossing. It had not been near Thule. The Scandinavian, it developed, was grounded in Iceland.

  Major Hayden fretted. Every fifteen minutes, one of his girls inched the red-flagged bogey closer to his air space. The bogey became the only thing he could see on the board. He alerted all fighter bases north of Washington, and the anti-aircraft people, and the Ground Observer Corps. The GOC was apologetic. It doubted that many of its posts were manned. The GOC would do what it could, but he would have to remember that they were volunteers, and this was Christmas Eve.

  When the second sighting came, there could be no doubt of the menace. The Limestone, Maine, radar picked up an unidentified blip moving at 600 knots and at 40,000 feet. It came out of an unguarded Canadian sector. Instead of moving down the coast toward the heavily populated areas, it had headed out to sea, dived steeply, and vanished. It had appeared so swiftly, and left the radar screen so suddenly, that interception had not been possible. Limestone’s best night-fighter pilots were older men, and away on Christmas leave.

  Major Hayden knew what had happened, and what to expect. The intruder had shrewdly avoided the picket ships, and airfields, near the shore. Then it had crossed the danger zone at tremendous speed.

  Once at sea, it had dropped below 4,000 feet—safe from the eyes of radar. Now it would come in at its target, very low, and achieve tactical surprise. Major Hayden called the General.

  When the phone rang in the Smith home at West Point, the General, a spare man with iron-gray hair, was balanced atop a ladder, putting the angel on top of the tree, while his grandchildren shrilled their advice and admonitions. Tracy Smith, his daughter, answered the phone, and said, “It’s for you, Dad.”

  The General said, “Tell ’em I’m busy. Tell ’em to wait a minute.”

  It took the General three minutes to place the angel exactly as he wanted, and exactly straight and upright. “Well,” he said, climbing down, “there’s the angel that stands guard over this house.” At that moment, three minutes may have been the critical factor.

  The General picked up the phone. He listened without speaking, and then said, “All right, red alert. Order SCAT. SCAT’s all that will save us now. I’m coming.”

  When he put down the phone the General looked ten years older. His daughter said, “What’s up?”

  “An unidentified plane,” he said, putting on his coat, “off the coast. I believe an enemy.”

  “Just one?” said Tracy Smith.

  “One plane, one bomb, one city,” said the General. “Maybe New York.”

  And he was gone.

  Major Hayden flashed the SCAT order to every airfield in his zone. SCAT meant Security Control of Air Traffic. Under SCAT, every plane, military and commercial—except fighters on tactical missions—was to land at the nearest field immediately. In thirty minutes the air must be cleared of everything except the enemy, and our fighters, to give the anti-aircraft batteries and the Nike rocket battalions a chance to work in congested areas.

  Very shortly, Major Hayden discovered that on this particular night—of all nights—SCAT couldn’t operate properly. In all the big cities, holiday travel was setting records. Planes were stacked in layers up to 20,000 feet over Idlewild, La Guardia, and Newark. Boston, Philadelphia-Camden, and Washington National were the same. And the airways between cities were jammed. He didn’t know how long it would be before the Nike rockets could be used. A Nike is a smart rocket, but it cannot tell a transport loaded with 80 people from a jet bomber.

  The General came into the plotting room just as the report came in from a lonely spotter at East Moriches, Long Island. A huge jet had come in from the sea at a speed he refused to estimate. It had swept wings, and its four engines were housed in these wings, close to the fuselage. It was bigger than a B-47. It had come in at 2,000 feet, and he swore it was marked with a red star.

  The General knew, then, that it was too late, unless he ordered everything shot out of the air. This he could not do—not at Christmas.

  A few minutes later a strange plane joined the traffic pattern circling Idlewild, easing itself between two Constellations. It was a jet. One of the Constellations came in for a landing, and then the jet turned on its wing lights and landed. It taxied up to the Administration Building, as if it owned the place, and the blue and red flames of its engines were snuffed out, one by one. Three men got out. They wore strange uniforms.

  The Air Force liaison officer at Idlewild called in the news to the General. “Two of them are Poles,” he said, “and the other a Czech.

  “The plane is this new type Russian 428 that they showed last May Day over Moscow, only this one is fitted out as a weather ship. These three guys said they had been planning this for almost a year. One of them used to live in Hamtramck, and another has an uncle in Pittsburgh, and they all speak English.”

  “It’s wonderful!” the General said. “But it’s a miracle they got here. By rights, they should long ago have been shot down.”

  “Well,” said the liaison officer, “they said they had it all figured out. They said nothing means so much to Americans as Christmas.”

  “Yes,” said the General. “They’re three smart men. Real wise.”

  THE KILLER CHRISTIAN

  Andrew Klavan

  ANDREW KLAVAN HAS ENJOYED both popular and critical success as a mystery writer, with numerous Edgar nominations, two of which were winners: Mrs. White (1987), co-authored with his brother Laurence under the pseudonym Margaret Tracy, the basis for White of the Eye, a film released in 1987 starring David Keith and Cathy Moriarty, and The Rain (1988), under the pseudonym Keith Peterson. In 1992, he was nominated for Best Novel for Don’t Say a Word, released as a film in 2001 starring Michael Douglas. His 1995 novel True Crime was released as a film in 1999 with Clint Eastwood as the director and the star. While still producing acclaimed crime fiction, he is also an active writer and blogger with libertarian conservative views. “The Killer Christian” was first published as a chapbook and given to customers of the Mysterious Bookshop as a Christmas gift in 2007.

  The Killer Christian

  ANDREW KLAVAN

  A CERTAIN PORTION OF MY MISspent youth was misspent in the profession of journalism. I’m not proud of it, but a man has to make a living and there it is. And, in fact, I learned a great many things working as a reporter. Most importantly, I learned how to be painstakingly honest and lie at the same time. That’s how the news business works. It’s not that anyone goes around making up facts or anything—not on a regular basis anyway. No, most of the time, newspeople simply learn how to pick and choose which facts to tell, which will heighten your sense that the
ir gormless opinions are reality or at least delay your discovery that everything they believe is provably false. If ever you see a man put his fingers in his ears and whistle Dixie to keep from hearing the truth, you may assume he’s a fool, but if he puts his fingers in your ears and starts whistling, then you know you are dealing with a journalist.

  As an example of what I mean, consider the famous shootout above the Mysterious Bookshop in the downtown section of Manhattan known as Tribeca. Because of the drama of the violence, the personalities involved, and the high level arrests that followed, the newspaper and television coverage of the incident ran for weeks on end. Every crime expert in the country seems to have had his moment on the talk shows. Two separate nonfiction books were written about it, not to mention the one novel. And along with several movies and TV shows featuring gunfights reminiscent of the actual event, there was a docu-drama scripted by a Pulitzer Prize–winning newspaperman who covered the story, though it was never released theatrically and went straight to DVD.

  There was all that—and no one got the story right. Oh, they got some of the facts down well enough, but the truth? So help me, they did not come nigh it. Why? Because they were journalists—and because the truth offended their sensibilities and contradicted their notions of what the world is like.

  So they talked about how La Cosa Nostra had been hobbled by the trials of the ’80s and ’90s and how new gangs were moving in to divide the spoils left behind. They focused on what they called Sarkesian’s “betrayal” of Picarone and speculated about the underworld’s realigning loyalties and racial tensions. They even unearthed some evidence for a sort of professional rivalry between Sarkesian and the man known as “The Death.”

  But the truth is, from the very start, this was really a story about faith and redemption—quite a mysterious story too, by the end of it. And that was too much for them—the journalists. They could not—they would not—see it that way. And because they couldn’t see it, they put forward the facts in such a fashion as to insure that you would fail to see it too.