Retribution

by Michael Byars Lewis

  The B-25, despite its age, was more complex than anything he’d ever flown. He was strictly a Cessna-172 guy. He had flown with an instructor who’d given him some instrument work, but Jason was a single-engine, fixed gear, VFR pilot. Every second on the plane was a new, eye-opening experience.

  “How are you guys doing?” Bill asked over the interphone, shortly after the second engine started.

  “Fine,” Ashford said from the nose bubble.

  “This is awesome,” Jason responded.

  “We’re going to sit here for a few minutes. At six-fifteen, they’ll start to move the aircraft to the runway. We’re just waiting our turn.”

  Jason shifted in the chair, now damp with his perspiration, while the interior of the fuselage shook steadily. He hoped that once they got airborne, the plane would stabilize. Otherwise, it was going to be a long ride back to New Orleans. The vibration of the plane slowly edged a newspaper toward his feet. He recognized it. The folded newspaper was the same one he'd picked up in the lobby but had left in the car. Harry must have brought it on board.

  Jason picked up the paper. He tucked it between his thigh and the side of the fuselage. The plane continued to vibrate as they sat without moving. Jason was bored. Nothing happened with the airplane, and he had no window to look outside. He wasn't about to unbuckle and look out the bubble, nor ask permission to do so. He knew a good thing when he saw it and wasn't going to push any boundaries.

  Retrieving the newspaper, he opened it up to the front page. Below the fold, a lengthy article on the ceremony covered the entire bottom of the paper. Jason began to read about the numerous events taking place. It was the first time he realized the magnitude of what he was involved in. When his mother offered him the opportunity, he jumped at the chance. For all he knew, he was going to fly on an airplane doing a flyover. But they were making history, while they honored history.

  There were a lot of moving parts in this operation. And while pale in comparison to D-Day itself, it remained a huge task. Hell, the president himself would be at the memorial to give a speech about the anniversary. That alone created a new set of problems for the aviators—prohibited airspace in close proximity to the flyby. Jason read about the events at Normandy, Utah Beach, and Pointe du Hoc. It was the coverage of Pointe du Hoc that caught his attention, and he went back to read again. Something tugged at him.

  "Here we go," Bill said as the aircraft began to taxi. The plane vibrated a little more, and it felt like the aircraft was a magnet for every pebble and pothole on the ramp. For the first time, as the aircraft echoed the impact of every crack and bump, Jason noticed how uncomfortable his seat was.

  No worries, he thought, I’ll be standing soon.

  He went back to the article and read it twice. Something still gnawed at him. The U.S. Army Rangers were to pay tribute to their brothers who scaled the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc fifty years ago. There were numerous dignitaries that would be at the event on the reviewing platform. One name, however, stuck out. The French Army commander, Colonel Dandre Gaudet.

  13

  June 6, 1994

  * * *

  Jason heard the surge of the B-25's engines being pushed to takeoff power and it lumbered down the runway, gradually building up speed. His teeth tingled as the vibrations increased. The old bomber lifted off the ground, and after the gear came up, the vibration reduced significantly. The aircraft climbed, and Jason heard the flaps retract.

  “Guys, you can unbuckle now,” Bill said over the headset. “If you flip the VHF switch on your comm panel, you can hear the radio transmissions. We’re kind of busy up here.”

  Jason flipped the switch, unbuckled, and climbed up to look out the bubble on the top of the aircraft. The forward portion of the bubble was speckled with dead bugs and minor scratches. The aft portion, not so much. Blue sky and wispy white clouds were the only things in sight. When Bill banked the aircraft, he glimpsed a bit of the rolling green terrain and English cottages, but not much else.

  “I don’t see any other planes,” Jason said.

  “Everybody is still taking off and climbing into position,” Harry said. “We’ll be over the rendezvous point in about fifteen minutes. You’ll pick them up there. We’ll be on the wing of another B-25 for the fly-by. There will be three of us together.”

  Jason noticed the stench of fuel and oil had dissipated, and he continued to scan the empty sky. His thoughts wandered back to the newspaper article and Philip Ashford. He dropped out of the bubble and glanced to the front of the plane. Ashford was visible, sitting in the nose of the bomber.

  Ashford had expressed his anger at the French Army and Colonel Dandre Gaudet. Could Gaudet’s attendance at the ceremony be a coincidence? Hell, he didn’t like the military in general. Then why donate to the D-Day museum? And why finance this flight over here?

  Jason listened as the two pilots coordinated with the other aircraft as they approached the rendezvous point. The situation with Ashford did not set well with him. He remembered Bill’s complaint about Ashford’s bags. Clearing customs at Gatwick was an experience Jason thought he’d never forget. He became more curious about what Philip Ashford had stowed on the airplane before it hopped its way to England.

  He knelt and moved to the tunnel that led to the back of the plane. He could see three suitcases were strapped to the walls. He checked the nose bubble again, and Ashford seemed preoccupied. Jason removed his headset and climbed over his seat and into the tunnel leading to the tail. Other bags blocked the tail bubble, impeding light from the fuselage. Jason started to move them, to see what Ashford had brought in the three suitcases.

  His internal radar went off like crazy as he reached for the first bag.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Ashford hollered through the tunnel, his hand covering the microphone.

  “I-uh-I was just trying to reach the tail bubble.”

  “Get away from my bags,” Ashford’s words cut through Jason like he was a child stealing a cookie.

  He shifted his body and climbed back through the tunnel. He slipped his headset back on, Ashford’s eyes bored holes through him as Jason sat back in his seat. What the hell was that all about? Something is up with those bags.

  Ashford climbed over Jason into the tunnel where Jason had been. No doubt to check on his bags. They rode in silence for about five minutes before things started to pick up on the VHF radio.

  “Jason,” Bill said, unaware of the confrontation with Ashford. “Climb in the top bubble. We’re holding now, and you need to monitor the other aircraft.”

  “Okay.” Jason scooted back to his position in the bubble. He immediately picked up numerous airplanes, some turning, some straight and level; all moved with a specific purpose.

  “It’s getting kind of crowded up here,” Jason said over the interphone.

  “Yes, it is,” Bill said. “We’re established in holding over the rendezvous point. In a few minutes, we’ll join with lead and depart for our fly-by. Another B-25 is coming to rejoin with us on the left side. Check our seven o’clock.”

  Jason picked up the movement first, and his eyes focused on the B-25 closing on them fast. The aerial rejoin was fascinating to observe. The aircraft rapidly approached and literally stopped in mid-air, abeam them. The B-25 hovered there as if suspended by strings, like a prop in a puppeteer's play. It was strange and exciting at the same time. The co-pilot raised his cup of coffee in salute. Jason waved back.

  “Those guys are close,” he said.

  “Nah, they’re about fifteen feet away,” Bill said. “When you get to pilot training, you’ll learn to fly with only three feet of wingtip separation.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  The co-pilot next to them pulled out a Playboy magazine and stuck it against the windscreen.

  “Ha-ha, check it out,” Jason said.

  “Whoa,” Bill said, the excitement in his voice evident. “Nice stuff. That’s this month’s issue. Jennie McCarthy, Playmate of the Year. Well deserve
d.” He paused. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”

  Everyone laughed over the interphone. Except Ashford.

  “I was kind of fond of the Garth Brooks interview,” Harry said.

  “So, are you one of those guys that only reads the articles?” Jason said.

  “Oh, no. I’m like Bill. I’m all about the pictures. I just like Garth Brooks.”

  More laughter ensued as the B-25 next to them slid back to a position aft and to the side, further away from their plane. The levity and comradery the two pilots displayed, while maintaining a seriousness about their task, was something that resonated with Jason. This is how it’s supposed to be, he thought.

  Jason checked his watch. They were scheduled for an 8:05 fly-by. Bill had said in the briefing, that flight from the rendezvous point to Utah Beach would be about twenty-five minutes. Planes were timed for fly-bys throughout the morning. The objective was to have airplanes flying constantly; like they did fifty years ago.

  Ashford was still in the back, inspecting his bags. This guy is paranoid, Jason thought. His obsession with his suitcases troubled him, too. Jason noticed him remove something, but he couldn’t tell what. After a few minutes, Ashford moved toward the front again and tapped Jason on the leg.

  Jason looked down at Ashford.

  “If you want to go to the back, I’ll clear up here,” Ashford said.

  Jason pondered the statement for a moment. “Bill, is that okay with you?”

  “Sure, the biggest thing was monitoring Fred’s rejoin. Why don’t you jump in the nose bubble first, then move to the back?”

  “That’s an even better idea,” Ashford said. His enthusiasm made Jason suspicious, but he wasn’t sure if his mind played tricks on him or if he should be concerned at all.

  14

  June 6, 1994

  * * *

  The sun’s reflection highlighted the numerous scratches on the outside of the weather-beaten bubble. Jason sat in the nose bubble, peering through the worn, yellowed plexiglass. Despite its flaws, it was still the best view aside from the pilot’s seats. He was still disturbed, yet unsure why. The uneasiness wasn’t from the uncomfortable seats, and it wasn’t due to turbulence. The initial bounces they’d experienced went away as they’d entered their holding pattern earlier. The discomfort he felt was from the strange financier. Philip Ashford gave him a funny feeling, and not “funny” in the humorous context.

  He crawled out of the seat in the nose of the plane and through the tunnel underneath the two pilots. They both grinned at him. Harry had a big dip of Skoal in his bottom lip and spit into a bottle. Bill chewed on an unlit cigar, no doubt reminiscing about the “good old days.” It was cramped quarters in the cockpit, but even more so in the back. Jason unplugged his headset, slid past Ashford, and crawled toward the tail bubble. The bags had shifted, and a glint of daylight pierced the heavy plastic into the fuselage.

  Jason moved the bags, one over the other, to reach the back of the bomber. As he picked up a smaller one, a pile of booklets fell to the floor. The zipper was undone, and with closer inspection, he found it broken. He gathered the spilled contents and realized it was the program for today's ceremony. After he replaced the booklets in the bag, he kept one and wedged himself in the tail bubble. He found the comm panel and plugged his headset in.

  This booklet was no small project. It cost some cash to make this. More importantly, it listed every activity taking place today, in England and France, and was written in both languages. Page after page described the different aircraft participating in the ceremony and their relation to D-Day. What intrigued him most, however, was the schedule and list of dignitaries. He skimmed through until he reached the biography of Colonel Dandre Gaudet.

  Jason read the bio, and at the bottom, he found what he thought tied everything together. Colonel Gaudet had recently returned to France following his command of a small group of the French forces participating in the non-combatant evacuation of western citizens from the war-torn streets of Rwanda.

  It made sense now. Gaudet was in command of a unit while Ashford and his family were in Rwanda. Was he the man to blame? Ashford seemed to think so. He hated the man.

  Jason ran everything over in his mind. Ashford objected vehemently when Jason was brought onboard the trip. Why? He was just another body. Certainly, cost wasn’t a factor. Bill said having three of them would get the plane home two days earlier, saving money. No one in the other aircraft or at the ceremonies would know he was in here. So why the problem?

  Crawling back toward his seat, Jason grabbed the newspaper and scrambled back to the tail bubble. He scanned the paper and the bio in the program several more times. Ashford was stressed; that much was obvious. His family had been murdered right in front of him. At least that's what Jason remembered Ashford saying. And he pointed out the fact that the French, and Colonel Gaudet specifically, were somehow responsible.

  Jason thought about Bethany. He wondered how he would act if someone murdered his wife. If he were forced to watch. It would be heart-wrenching and mind-numbing. He wouldn’t be able to think.

  Then he’d want revenge.

  It all made sense. There was no mistaking the position they were in. Philip Ashford was here for revenge. But how?

  The luggage. Ashford had gone berserk when Jason had been near his bags earlier. They were strapped to the wall in the rear of the aircraft; smuggled into the country. Ashford never retrieved them, and he was scheduled to fly back to New York tomorrow. So, why the bags?

  Glancing forward, he saw Ashford still standing in the bubble, which he considered an odd place for him to be, the view was much better in the nose. Jason crept through the tunnel and unstrapped the smallest of Ashford’s three bags.

  Jason adjusted his position in the tail bubble, so his back blocked his actions from Ashford. The bag was quite heavy for a carry-on. Made of sturdy canvas with plastic zippers, locked with one of those tiny travel locks. Jason figured he had two choices, break the lock or break the zipper. He decided a broken zipper would be easier to rationalize.

  Pulling out his Leatherman, he pried at the zipper until he separated the teeth. He then spread the teeth apart, opening the bag. A white towel covered the contents. He moved the towel and gasped.

  Two large plastic containers with metal lids, filled with liquid. Surrounding the containers, a clay-like substance, imbedded with hundreds of half-inch metal balls.

  It was a bomb.

  Jason shook, the terror immediate. Ashford’s other two suitcases, he assumed, held the same thing. He’d seen plenty of movies, there was always some kind of timer. He searched as best he could but found no indication of a timing device. Maybe he planned to drop them off in England? Unload the bags after they landed and give them to some secret contact? Could he plan to detonate them during the static display in France?

  “There’s the coast,” Harry said, breaking Jason’s concentration. How could he let the guys know what Ashford was up to?

  “Ashford, you’re gonna miss the view if you stay back there much longer,” Bill said over the interphone. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Coming,” Ashford said. “It’s pretty smooth. Are you still flying with the auto-pilot on?”

  “Yeah,” Bill said. “For another five minutes.”

  Jason looked again at the bag in his hands. He had to do something. Setting the bag in the tail bubble, he turned to crawl back to the front. Through the opening, he saw Ashford move toward the two pilots.

  A pistol was in his right hand.

  15

  June 6, 1994

  * * *

  Jason recognized the gun right away. It was a 92F Beretta, the high-capacity 9mm semi-automatic the Air Force made their service pistol a few years back. It replaced the inferior .38 caliber revolver they’d used for years. He had earned his Marksmanship medal as a cadet shooting the Beretta. His heart raced as Ashford edged toward the two pilots. He needed to warn them, but his voice would be drowne
d out by the engines and both pilots wore earplugs under their headsets. His headset lay on his seat just behind Ashford; he had no way to talk to them.

  What the hell was this guy up to? Was his plan to high-jack the plane? Was that why he insisted on more fuel? Where does he think he’s going to land?

  It became clear to Jason why Ashford had been so angry when he found out that he would be coming on the flight. He realized he was a problem as far as Ashford was concerned. Right now, he hoped he was a problem easily ignored.

  Jason inched his way through the tube to the main part of the fuselage, the tunnel feeling smaller as he went.

  Ashford cycled the receiver and placed a round in the chamber. His thumb extended over the hammer, lightly caressing the cocked weapon. He had purchased the pistol at a pawn shop in Georgia and drove to New Orleans, so he could send it and the bombs on Bill’s airplane, hidden in his luggage. His body shook as he moved to take his next action.

  Killing these two would be the last big hurdle in his plan. They were military men, just like Gaudet. Sure, they were Americans, and they were retired. It didn’t matter, they were all the same. They were all part of the senseless killing that took place all over the world. Killing that took the lives of his family. And they would all pay.

  Bill Wesson threw a wrinkle in his plan by inviting that damn kid along. The brat almost found his pistol as he shuffled through the bags earlier. It didn’t matter if he discovered the explosives at this point. Nothing would change, except one more death in avenging his family.

  Ashford had spent what was left of his fortune finding the individuals responsible for his family’s murder. The cheapest expense was locating the Hutu’s who murdered them. Acquiring the names of the two men who worked at the checkpoint that day had been easy, as well as the names of their family members. Killing them and having the two murderers hacked to death had been even easier.