Fatal Incident

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Fatal Incident Page 22

by Jim Proebstle


  “It seems like I owe you one hell of an apology, as well,” Nick said, completing his turn and lighting a cigarette.

  “Yeah, well, as my daddy used to say, ‘a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’ Truth is, you can’t read my mind. If I was so set on makin’ Anne a special friend, I needed to do something about it and not just hide my feelins like a schoolboy.”

  “Sounds like we’re both moving on,” Nick said, exhaling.

  “Probably so. But that doesn’t mean I won’t look her up if I happen to be in our nation’s capital.”

  “For me, I’m back on track with Martha and the baby.”

  “That’s good to hear, pard. It really is.”

  There wasn’t much on the ground in Norman Wells other than a dozen or so pipeline houses hunkered down for the winter and a small bar where one could take an edge off, or get into a fight, depending on one’s mood. Nick and Red weren’t due out until the following afternoon, so they invested a few bucks drinking to the remarkable effects a woman can have on a man. Red knew that Anne was yesterday’s news. Nick was still sorting through the press clippings and making two scrapbooks. Martha’s was thicker—Anne’s was still hot off the press.

  CHAPTER 36

  Cricket was organizing his thoughts regarding the plan he was preparing for Agent Sirak when the flight ops phone rang. It was Robert. “I’m waiting at Dave’s Pizza like you said. Are you coming?” Dave’s was a favorite watering hole for soldiers from the base.

  “God, I can’t believe it’s 1930 already. Sorry, Robert. I’ll explain when I get there … fifteen minutes max.” Cricket had told Robert 1900, but time had eluded him. This plan had become all-consuming. It wasn’t just the logistics, it was also the people, the collateral damage, and, above all, the escape route. Right then he was trying to flesh out what could go wrong and the contingency plans necessary. But he had promised Robert over a week ago, and, quite frankly, he was looking forward to the break from work.

  “Sorry to stand you up,” Cricket said, resting his hand on Robert’s shoulder in a familiar manner as the two men greeted each other. They had not been together since Robert’s trip back from Manzanar and the fiasco in San Francisco. Despite their special relationship, frequency was the enemy of secrecy. It was difficult for both to continually play the traditional role of male friendship in public. They had to accept the reality that discretion and secrecy were the only way to preserve what they had. Their conversation was light while they shared a pepperoni, sausage, onion, and cheese pizza and a few beers.

  “Room 324 at the Westward Hotel,” Robert said, sliding a key into Cricket’s hand while the two men feigned departure on the wooden walkway outside of Dave’s.

  “Good to see you again,” Cricket said for effect. He walked away leaving Robert standing alone. For weeks Cricket was privately tortured by the decision to involve Robert in his plans to obtain the documents or not. He knew of Robert’s growing involvement with Vladimir through a GRU-ciphered message, the same message in which Vladimir told Cricket to include Robert in his surveillance activities. How his GRU handlers knew of his connection with Robert was beyond his comprehension, just as how they knew the details of his family in Jersey surprised him.

  Cricket knew that he was in over his head and had to cooperate. He had to instruct Ronald to plant the First Lightning message in Robert’s duffle. He had to involve Robert, who took the bait and delivered the message to Vladimir. Robert would become more than just a special friend. Lack of stability would always remain an issue with him, however.

  Within thirty minutes, Cricket quietly slipped the key into the lock of room 324. Being a corner room in the hotel, it had a discreet entrance. He had taken an unusually complicated route around town involving a cab and a bus in order to be certain that he wasn’t being followed to the hotel. Their night together was long overdue, and he had no idea when the next opportunity would present itself. Cricket’s normal dominance in their lovemaking was stepped up a notch.

  “You were very aggressive tonight,” Robert said exhaustedly while slightly coughing as the trail of cigarette smoke emptied from his lungs. “It’s as if you are angry with me or you were purposefully trying to hurt me.”

  “It’s just been too long, that’s all. Just another frustration piled on to the load at work.”

  “It’s not like you to be late. What’s going on? I’ve never seen you so focused,” said Robert.

  “I’m involved in a top-clearance project that may keep me away for some time to come … maybe for several years,” Cricket said, looking away from Robert. He didn’t want Robert to detect any duplicity in his eyes and hoped to measure his commitment with care. He wasn’t sure how to play it, but that night seemed like the right time to explore Robert’s role in the project.

  “I can always put in for a transfer to a base near yours. The United States isn’t that big,” Robert replied, openly displaying his eagerness.

  “I may be transferred to a foreign base.”

  “They can’t do this to us!”

  “Don’t you get it, Robert? There is no ‘us’ in this man’s army.”

  Robert was always cognizant that the day might come when they would be separated, but long ago he had made up his mind to find a way of staying with Cricket. He had often thought about places where people like he and Cricket would be more accepted. They had discussed going to South America. “The war will be over one day, Cricket, what then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is where do I fit in … in the long term?” Robert fidgeted with an almost empty glass of scotch while hanging on to his cigarette for security. He was nervous at his own directness and wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer.

  “I don’t know that I have the answer right now.”

  “What about South America? Have you forgotten about that?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m just not sure about where this project is going to lead me. Maybe, if …”

  “Go on. Finish what you were about to say,” Robert said, finishing the last of the scotch and all but slamming the glass onto the nightstand.

  “It’s not for me to say, but if I could involve you in this project it may help our chances.”

  “I’d do anything, Cricket. You know I would.” As if to emphasize his point, he slid his hand beneath the sheets. Cricket’s penis responded in eager anticipation. Robert knew that there was nothing he could do that night other than try to make Cricket happy.

  For the following week, Cricket continued to struggle with the finalization of his plan. Agent Sirak had become impatient with Cricket’s delay. In Cricket’s mind, Tecumseh was definitely in because of his ideology and an ego that would feed off the recognition from a worldwide scientific community. Vladimir was an obvious player because of his many skills, and, more importantly, his future would not be assured without his cooperation. Cricket marveled at how Agent Sirak had wrapped up the tidy trio with deadly tentacles reaching beyond any of the three men’s possible escape. Cricket’s dilemma was how to involve Robert effectively. The fourth person would definitely be an asset in controlling any miscues, but his Japanese sympathies could easily derail their overall plan. Yet, on the other hand, it was the very logic of these sympathies that could be counted on for Robert to support the necessity of a Russian world power to balance the tyranny of a capitalistic United States. Certainly he knew that Japan and Germany would be the two countries that would fall out of power in this war. He would have to make Robert believe that the United States would develop the super bomb first, and that their first target would be Japan. Coupled with the probability that the Germans would lose a war of attrition fighting two fronts, the U.S. would be left unchecked. The Japanese people would be dealt a crushing blow.

  The final arrangement Cricket needed to make was for one million dollars to be deposited in various United States and Swiss accounts in order to preserve the financial security of his family. Activating the plan was his only trump card
—he simply would not begin until the promised money was in place.

  With everyone’s motivation clear and their roles defined in his mind, Cricket felt confident in his ability to sell the plan to Sirak.

  CHAPTER 37

  “What is it with these guys,” Red said while blowing the steam off his coffee. “For all their complaints on how we do things you’d think they’d find another bus to ride. Geez!” The twisted expression on Red’s face would actually make one believe that this problem was serious.

  Nick loved Red’s demonstrations of overwrought frustration. It was always entertaining. He seemed to have the ability to strap everybody’s feelings onto his back and conjure up just the right facial expression to make the drama believable. “I don’t know why you let these things get to you. Didn’t you ever have a teacher or boss that was a constant burr under your saddle?”

  “Yeah, but these guys should know better. I understand the confidential part—it’s the arrogant, ‘I’m a genius, and you’re a nobody,’ attitude that I have problems with.”

  “Well, if it makes you feel better, Cricket assured me that this would be their last trip. Besides, they’re only part of the general passenger list from Anchorage to Fairbanks. From there, it’s just one day—maybe two if the weather doesn’t cooperate—of flyovers in the Yukon Flats area. Piece of cake.”

  “When are they arriving?”

  “Late this afternoon some time. Wheels up at 1100 tomorrow.”

  “You can best believe me when I say that I’ll be on good behavior. But don’t ask me to do anything entertaining, like rope tricks or cowboy songs. That’s why you’re the captain.”

  Nick laughed out loud. “I think we’ll be okay, but just in case bring your harmonica.”

  Red sipped his coffee in great disgust, not acknowledging Nick’s attempt at humor. “My cattle are better suited to my music than these sodbusters,” he murmured.

  Nick, Red, and Robert arrived at flight operations about the same time the next day. Nick needed to file the flight plans, Red needed to conduct a preliminary pre-flight check of all mechanical updates, and Robert readied the interior. The team from Los Alamos arrived at 1030 and included Major Gordon, Ronald Reisdorf, Dr. Oppenheimer, and Lt. Max O’Reilly. Twelve servicemen on their way to Minneapolis via Fairbanks for their furlough leave were already sitting in the waiting area. At the last minute, Vladimir and Cricket were added on the shuttle to Fairbanks in order to follow up on the indoctrination training of a batch of Russian P-38 pilots that had just arrived. There were eighteen passengers and three crew in all.

  Nick greeted the men from New Mexico and noticed Dr. Oppenheimer was sweating and laboring for breath as he carried a courier bag that was handcuffed to his wrist. “You don’t look so good, Doc,” he said.

  “It just started a few minutes ago,” Ronald replied.

  “What did he have to eat?”

  “Breakfast a while ago and a cup of coffee once he got here,” Ronald said. It’s only since we’ve been here that the chest pains, sweating, and heavy breathing started.”

  Nick shifted his attention to the major. “Major, I’m going to have a doctor look at him before we get in the air. Can we get that bag uncuffed from his wrist, at least for now? It looks uncomfortable.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that, Captain, without clearance from Los Alamos. Security issue.”

  Nick racked his brain for few minutes, trying to figure out what might be in the bag, but since it wasn’t really his problem, he dropped the thought. This flight was ready to go except for Dr. Oppenheimer, and he was getting worse. They tried to make him comfortable by laying him down on the office couch, which allowed for the bag to rest on the floor. His face was pale and clammy, and his breathing was very shallow. The doctor arrived quickly and within minutes said, “This man’s having a heart attack. Get an ambulance here immediately!”

  After he attended to Dr. Oppenheimer’s needs, Nick cornered the major for a private counsel. “Major, I’m not sure how you want to handle this, but it’s apparent that he won’t make this trip. I can hold this flight for about thirty, maybe forty-five minutes while you decide.”

  The major nodded, turned his attention to the Teletype area, and commandeered one of the operators. “I want your undivided attention, but first give me a minute to write out my message.” It was addressed directly to Brigadier General Leslie Groves at the 509th and was marked urgent. The major explained his situation in the message with unusual efficiency and requested permission to proceed without the involvement with Dr. Oppenheimer.

  “Move it, soldier,” he commanded, handing his note to the Teletype operator. The scene in flight operations had now become tense. In the meantime, the ambulance had left for the hospital together with Dr. Oppenheimer on board and Lt. O’Reilly overseeing the security of the bag.

  The major looked at Ronald and said, “It won’t be long.”

  Within ten minutes the clatter of the Teletype began. The message was short, and the operator quickly tore it from the paper roll.

  MAJOR GORDON,

  PERMISSION GRANTED TO PROCEED AS DESCRIBED.

  BRIGADIER GENERAL LESLIE GROVES

  “Take me to the hospital,” the major said to Nick. “We’ll be ready to board your plane in fifteen minutes.”

  Vladimir and the servicemen were already seated on the C-47 when he saw Cricket, the crew, and the three other men board. He was at the rear of the ship as planned. Cricket found a seat near the middle, and the three men sat at the front, just behind the cockpit. Only thirty minutes had passed since Dr. Oppenheimer’s heart attack, and they were ready to take off. The courier bag had been removed from Dr. Oppenheimer and was now handcuffed to the major’s left wrist.

  The overdose of nitroglycerine administered by Ronald in Dr. Oppenheimer’s coffee had worked to perfection, Cricket thought as he glanced toward Vladimir with a confirming nod of the head. There simply would be no evidence. In fact, Dr. Oppenheimer himself would have no idea what happened. Within days he would be fine, and his medical records would show a mild heart attack followed by a positive recovery. “Might be time to cut back on your smoking,” they would suggest.

  Nick finished his pre-takeoff checklist with Red. All they needed was a green light from the Aldis lamp in the control tower. “We’re going to run into a little muck today at about nine thousand feet. Winds are out of the northwest at thirty knots. Maybe some icing conditions—nothing we can’t handle. Tell Robert to have people stay buckled up until we find some smooth air. What’s the estimated time of arrival?”

  “With the delay, about 1345.”

  “Let Robert know to pass it on, so our highness doesn’t get his shorts in a knot.”

  “Roger that.”

  Within a few minutes of takeoff Nick reported his progress to Anchorage: he was over Talkeetna, an emergency landing field southeast of Mt. McKinley on the regular route. Shortly afterwards he radioed Anchorage for permission to increase his altitude to ten thousand feet due to mild icing conditions. Permission was granted, and Nick predicted they would pass over Summit, another emergency field in the river basin between Mt. McKinley and the Talkeetna Mountains, on schedule. Visibility was still marginal, so he stayed on instruments.

  Two hours later, Friday, March 17, 1944, officials at Ladd Field in Fairbanks reported the plane overdue and declared a state of emergency.

  CHAPTER 38

  Without so much as a second look, Vladimir took the 45-caliber service revolver that Robert handed him as he moved to the front of the cabin and passed the galley area behind the cockpit. Simultaneously, Cricket drifted to the rear of the ship amid the casual chatter of the men. Robert knocked on the cockpit door for access. When Red reached back to open the door, Vladimir slipped by Robert and entered unnoticed.

  “Gentlemen,” Vladimir said. “Consider the fact that this flight is now under my command.” The cold barrel of the revolver rested at the base of Nick’s skull. At the same time the Russian’s
eyes were focused on Red with incredible intensity.

  “What the fuck,” Red said loud enough for those at the front of the plane to hear.

  “What’s the problem up there, Private,” the major asked directly to Robert.

  “No problem, sir. But I want you and the lieutenant to stay in your seat while I make an announcement. As he spoke, his heart raced with the adrenaline pumping into his system. Despite the surreal nature of the moment, Robert remained in control, fortified by the mental image of his mother and father the last day he saw them at Manzanar. He produced another weapon that had been stashed behind his jump seat, pointed it at the major, and said, “I want both you and the lieutenant to give me your service revolvers.” None of the other passengers were permitted to wear weapons, nor did they want to for that matter—they were on their way home on leave.

  “For Christ’s sake, what’s going on, Private?”

  Cricket stood up at the back of the plane with his weapon drawn, just as the attention had focused on Robert. “Give me your attention!” Cricket demanded in his loud Jersey accent.

  People turned in their seat to try to find the source of the command.

  In those few moments, Robert kept strict eye contact with the major—the gun pointed at his chest. Vladimir was very specific in their hijack prep runs. The major and lieutenant were trained for terrorist events and would look for even the slightest opportunity to regain control.

  It was Cricket who made the announcement. “Gentlemen, this flight is now under our control. The pilot has a .45 aimed at his head, and we are well-prepared to assume command. No one needs to get hurt, if you follow my orders. Stay in your seat or you will be shot! The pilot will be setting a new course shortly. You will be updated, but don’t plan on starting your furlough just yet.”

  “I demand to know what’s going on,” the major boomed from the front. “This is a United States military aircraft. Your acts constitute treason!”

 

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