Amelia

by Harvey Mendez

  AMELIA

  by

  Harvey Mendez

  and

  Christie Shary

  ISBN: 978-0-7443-0345-2

  Cover Art by Barbara Quanbeck

  Copyright 2002 by Harvey Mendez

  All Rights Reserved

  Published by SynergEbooks

  www.SynergEbooks.com

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to the Lagunita Writers Group of

  Laguna Beach, California: Martha, Julie, Roger, Maria, Steve,

  Catherine, Brian, and especially Susan, Yvonne,

  Lori for all their extra help in the early going.

  FOREWORD

  Ever since her disappearance in 1937, Amelia Earhart has held an almost obsessive appeal for historians, researchers, aviation buffs, and little girls everywhere. No one really knows the whole story of that last flight or what really happened to AE, as she was known to her friends.

  Theories abound. Some believe she ran out of fuel and either landed or crashed the plane. Others believe she intentionally ditched the plane on orders from the government. Still others believe she was a spy for the United States on a mission to get photographic evidence of Japanese activity.

  Was Amelia the original Tokyo Rose? Was she simply the victim of bad weather and bad judgment? We may never know.

  Enjoy this book, a piece of speculative fiction that takes a look at what could have happened. We have tried to preserve as much established fact as possible but allowed room for speculation that would support the theories here.

  PROLOGUE

  Lae, New Guinea

  July 2, 1937

  Ten o’clock Friday morning, Amelia Earhart and her navigator, Fred Noonan, lifted off in her Lockheed Electra fifty yards short of the runway’s end. Weighted with 1150 gallons of gasoline, the aircraft plunged below the cliffs. A few feet above the waves, AE pulled out. They headed east toward the International Dateline into yesterday, searching for Howland Island, a microscopic touch of land on the equator, 2556 miles from Lae.

  The U.S. Coast Guard cutter, Itasca, awaited her arrival at approximately 6:30 a.m. Saturday morning. Nothing had been heard from Amelia Earhart for seventeen hours. The Itasca tried to contact her throughout Friday night. Muffled by heavy static, Amelia’s voice came over their radio transmitter.

  2:45 a.m. – “KHAQQ…Cloudy and overcast.”

  6:15 a.m. – “About two hundred miles out.”

  The Itasca could not respond to her transmissions. Both used different radio frequencies.

  7:42 a.m. – “We must be on you, but cannot see you – gas is running low—unable to reach you by radio—flying at a thousand feet—only half hour’s gas left.”

  8:45 a.m. – “We are in the line of position 157-337—will repeat this message on 6210—we are running north and south.”

  The Itasca radioman heard anxiety in Amelia’s voice, waited for more details. Nothing came. Amelia Earhart’s transmitter had crackled for the last time.

  Somewhere in the North Pacific

  July 2, 1937

  The altimeter read 750 feet. Amelia gripped the controls hard, spoke into the long tube connecting her with the cabin. “Fred! We’re losing altitude. Gas about gone. Better get the raft. I’ll have to dead stick it.”

  The panel read six-fifty... Whitecaps rose fast toward the plane.

  “Four-fifty, three-fifty...” She lowered the flaps, pulled back on the controls until her arms cramped, fought to keep the nose up. The engines stalled. “One hundred… Fred, get ready, brace!”

  Spray from the waves splashed against the windshield, blinded her. She closed her eyes, jerked back on the controls again. The tail hit first, thrust the plane’s nose in the air before settling into the water.

  Amelia pitched forward and covered her face before she struck the instrument panel. Her hands bled but she shook it off, stood on the seat, forced open the top escape hatch. “Fred, Fred! Are you all right?”

  The small cabin door opened. Fred, his head bleeding, slipped through.

  “Let me help you.” She pulled him onto the co-pilot’s seat. “Did you get the raft?”

  He shook his head.

  “We need it. I know there’s an island around here someplace. Stay put, I’ll be right back.” She edged into the cabin. Water half-filled the fuselage but the empty fuel tanks buoyed the Electra on the dark swells. The small yellow uninflated raft floated toward her. She stuffed it into the cockpit.

  They climbed out the hatch, inflated the rubber boat with a carbon dioxide canister. Amelia helped Fred onto the wing. Thick clouds hovered overhead. Choppy waves rocked the aircraft. They stepped into the raft. She grabbed an oar. He rested against the bow. Amelia pushed off, rowed into the waves.

  On the horizon, a ship flying the Rising Sun closed fast. Amelia slowed her stroke. No need to hurry, destiny was now.

  Nauru Island

  Halfway between Lae and Howland Island

  Young Vincent Carlson stretched from his chair after many hours at the radio-tracking station when the message burst over the wire. Amelia Earhart had vanished. He grabbed the microphone, radioed the Itasca, but was unable to reach them.

  Moments later, word flashed around the globe. Amelia Earhart had gone down at sea.

  Vincent slumped in the chair, buried his face in his hands. Damn! Why did he let her go? He should’ve stayed with her after he gave AE the bad news in March . . .

  Burbank, California

  March 1937

  Amelia Earhart charged into the Lockheed hangar, her short brown tresses wisping over the silk paisley scarf wrapped around her neck. She brushed hair off her forehead and glanced at the twin engine Electra, still damaged from the crash at Luke Field in Honolulu. “Vincent! Vincent! You in here?” She pulled at her scarf.

  “Up here, in the cockpit.” Vincent Carlson’s blue eyes widened. She was dressed in tan slacks and brown leather flying jacket. He grinned. “AE, hi.”

  “Thought I’d find you here.”

  Vincent popped his upper body through the top escape hatch. “Yeah, this plane’s a mess. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  “I am lucky. Always have been. You know, right place, right time, all that. Until now…” She touched the plane’s identification numbers, NR16020.

  “What do you mean ‘until now’? Don’t worry, they’ll get the Electra fixed up in no time.”

  “They’ll? Then the rumors are true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “You’re leaving. First I lose my navigator, then you.”

  “It’s tough Manning gave it up, but you will have Noonan. He’s one helluva navigator.”

  Amelia climbed into the cockpit. Vincent sat beside her. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Lockheed’s the boss.” He ran a hand through his dark hair. “When they say go, I go.”

  “Go where?”

  “They’re loaning me to Boeing. Gonna do some design work on the B-17 bomber. If war comes, air power will win it.”

  “War?” she said. “You mean Europe? America’s neutral about Hitler.”

  “No, I mean the Far East—Japan.”

  “But I need you, too. I’ll never get this plane ready by May.” She looked at the right wing lying on the hangar’s floor.

  “Sure you will.”

  “But you designed this Electra.”

  “Stan Adams can finish up. He’s Lockheed’s top mechanic.”

  Amelia shook her head. “I depended on you so much.” Her blue-gray eyes moistened.

  “Come on, AE, don’t you go and cry on me. I wouldn’t leave you with nothing. I’ve got a better plane.”

  “What kind of plane?”

  “You’ll love it.”

&
nbsp; “Does Stan know?”

  “Yeah, we couldn’t tell you till all the specs were done. Word just came down.” Vincent crossed his long legs. “Your crash in Honolulu was no accident.”

  “I jockeyed the throttles too much, made the Electra arc.”

  “That’s not the only reason. Army Intelligence is onto something . . .”

  “I wondered about that. We had everything penciled to a fine point.”

  “The new plane has higher altitude capabilities, more sophisticated equipment.”

  “But there’s no need for that kind of stuff.” Amelia forced a smile.

  “Remember,” he said, “climate conditions have changed. Now you have to fly west to east.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ve a mission to accomplish and I’ll do it.”

  Vincent shook his head. “AE, you’re too stubborn.”

  “Seems I’ve heard that before.” She studied the instrument panel.

  “It’s a precarious time in the Pacific. The Japanese are fortifying their Mandated Islands. They won’t let anyone close, much less fly over them.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  He ignored her question. “Hell, the Marshalls—the Marianas, loaded to the hilt.”

  “I’m not passing that close.” Why didn’t he answer her?

  He avoided her gaze.

  “I’m not, am I?”

  Again he ignored her. “The new plane’s faster, equipped with cameras.”

  “I don’t need cameras.” She set her jaw.

  Vincent eased up, formed a slow grin. “Never can tell.”

  Perplexed, she toyed with the controls. “All the equipment in the world won’t take your place.”

  “Believe me, Stan can handle it.” He touched her shoulder.

  Amelia’s eyes softened. “I thought you’d track this flight.”

  “Sorry, Lockheed committed me.” He looked away.

  “I can stop it.” She tugged his sleeve. “I’m best friends with Eleanor and the President. He’s the highest authority.”

  Vincent hoisted his lanky body out the hatch, slid off the wing.

  He helped Amelia to the ground. “I can’t stay, not this time.”

  “I see.” She straightened her clothes.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stared at her silhouette in the fading afternoon sun. How could he do this to her? He felt rotten. Somehow, he’d make it up to her.

  “So, that’s final, eh?” She patted the silver Electra’s nose. “I just have a feeling there’s more to it.”

  Vincent watched her walk away. Must be the sun. He wiped his eyes, sighed. Someday, Amelia, someday...

  Caripito, Venezuela

  Early June, 1937

  The silver Electra swooped between heavily wooded mountains, along the muddy river toward the red-roofed town of Caripito. Clearing the surrounding jungle, the plane’s front wheels hit the runway’s paved surface with a short bounce, squealed when the pilot applied the brakes. The aircraft taxied to the hangar, run by Standard Oil and Pan American Airways.

  Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan stepped out the cabin door.

  “AE!” a strong voice said. “Over here.”

  She shielded her eyes from the sun, scanned the small crowd of mechanics and officials gathered around the plane. He stood off to one side of the tail. “Vincent, what a surprise. What are you doing here?”

  “Just came to deliver these.” He pulled a bouquet of orchids from behind his back. “They grow wild here.”

  “How beautiful. You know, I’ve never flown over a real jungle before.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  He held the embrace a moment longer before he released her. “Hi Fred.” He shook hands with the navigator.

  “Vince, good to see you.”

  Amelia cradled the orchids to her breast. “Now, what’s the real reason you’re here, Vincent Carlson?”

  “Guess you caught me there. I do have another little surprise, but first you’d better say hello to your welcoming committee.” He motioned to the local dignitaries.

  She greeted them until Vincent escorted her to the hangar. The ground crew slid back the doors.

  “What is this?” she asked. “Another Electra?”

  “With a few modifications.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You had trouble in Tucson.”

  “You mean the fire in the engine?”

  “Yes, we don’t know what caused it.”

  “We?” She saw only mechanics working on the plane. “It was just a fluke.”

  “There’s been at least two attempts to sabotage your plane.”

  “No one ever told me. I landed in Tucson and shut her down. They signaled me from the filling pit, so I re-cranked the engines. The left motor backfired, burst into flames. The engine extinguisher killed it. Cost me a day, that’s all.”

  “That’s all, eh? It was the same day you left Oakland.”

  “You know the desert sizzles in June.” She ran her hands along the left wing’s underside. “No real harm done. We arrived in New Orleans the next night, then Miami. Nobody knew we took off until G.P. notified the press. Now we’re here, all safe and sound.”

  “Vincent may have a valid point,” Noonan said. “It’s only been three months since the wreck in Honolulu.”

  She moved in front of the plane. “Vincent and Lockheed are determined to take care of me, right?”

  Vincent put his hands around her shoulders. Fred opened the cabin door, hopped inside. Amelia inspected both Wasp engines.

  “You don’t have to worry about those,” Vincent said. “They’re 550 hp turbosupercharger Pratt and Whitney. I tested them hundreds of times. This plane can top 30,000 feet, has over a 4000 mile range.”

  “It’s the plane you told me about in Burbank. With photo equipment, I suppose.”

  “Yes.” He took her hand, backed away from the aircraft. “Only a few know.”

  “Certainly is a beauty.”

  “I pressurized the cabin, added more fuel tanks.”

  “Say thanks to your crew. They did a superb job.”

  Fred stepped out of the plane. “That’s a great navigational set up.” He patted Vincent on the back.

  “Thought you’d like it,” Vincent said. “You can pinpoint a rowboat in the ocean. Now Amelia, you’ve got to learn the new radio codes.”

  She touched a propeller. “What about speed?”

  “I maxed her out over 300 MPH, at 20,000 feet.”

  “All right, then I’d like to leave in the morning.”

  “Fine.” Vincent signaled his crew. “Come on, I’ll buy you two dinner.” He pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket, touched Amelia’s arm. “Here, open this after you leave Australia.”

  “Now what have you done?” She fingered it, put it in her flying jacket.

  Just before first light, the orange tipped wings of the new Lockheed Electra lifted through a light mist into darker rain clouds bound for the next leg of the round-the-world flight.

  A lone man, one arm half-raised, stood on the runway. “Good-bye AE, good hunting.”

  Brisbane, Australia

  Late June, 1937

  Vincent Carlson sat alone in a pub near the waterfront, hovered over a pint of dark ale. The room was crowded, noisy. Overhead fans stirred the heavy, humid air. He stared at pewter relics lined on shelves behind the bar. Would AE make it? Their plan—sketchy at best, needed luck. Would it work? Who really knew?

  In a far corner, a young, muscular Japanese man sat with a group of companions at a small table. They spoke their native tongue, with an occasional English phrase thrown in. Soft laughter followed each toast. The elders arranged their glasses like ships in a convoy.

  The young man finished his sake, bowed to his friends. When he turned toward the door, Vincent looked up. Their eyes met but he did not acknowledge Vincent. He walked into the night.

  Vincent stared after him. Tad Yamaguchi—he wasn’t supposed to
be in Brisbane.

  One by one the other Japanese men left the bar. Vincent plunked money on the counter, departed the smoky room.

  Early the next morning, Vincent dialed the phone in his room. “Colonel, Electra here. Earhart left Port Darwin en route Lae.” He tapped his fingers on the nightstand, listened to the other voice. “Yes, will leave Brisbane for Nauru tomorrow. Howland’s such a tiny dot.” He listened again. “Pacific’s crawling with Japs. She’ll play hell if she misses.” He shifted the receiver to his other ear. “They know what she’s doing. I saw Toshio. Why is he here?” The line went dead. Vincent hung up the phone, heard a loud knock at his door. Who the hell? He stood, fastened a holster under his arm. The knocking continued. He slipped into a herringbone sports jacket, placed his hand over the .45’s butt. His mouth popped open when he answered the door. “Toshio! It was you in the bar last night.”

  “Vince, old buddy.”

  Vincent dropped his hand, embraced his college friend, Tad Yamaguchi. “I don’t believe this.”

  “Seems so damn long since Berkeley.” Tad returned his hug.

  Vincent slapped him on the back. “What the hell are you doing Down Under?”

  “Stopped on my way home from Japan.”

  Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Kind of an odd detour. I thought Japan was a pretty tough place for U.S. citizens these days.”

  “Not when you look like me.” Tad smiled. “Anyway, it was a family emergency.”

  Vincent watched Tad’s eyes. “Hope it wasn’t too serious.”

  “My grandfather died. Had to take care of the burial.”

  “Oh, sorry, but I thought he already—”

  “It was sudden.”