Fatal Incident

by Jim Proebstle

  It wasn’t long before Robert realized that he had already given up any allegiance to the United States. This realization encouraged him to try to make it out on his own, but he would need to verify the importance of the classified documents before he would risk his life for them. He needed to get into the courier bag.

  He tried the major’s pockets and flight bag one more time for keys but came up empty again. The flight bag did have a bottle of Jack Daniels that survived the crash, however. He opened it and took a few swallows to wash down the crackers. The burning sensation warmed him up and eased the soreness of his body. While considering his options, he took another pull from the bottle and wiped his lips with his sleeve. In his rummaging, he remembered seeing a twisted metal rod of sorts. A little barbaric, he thought, but in all probability my best choice. After several minutes of relentlessly hammering away at the major’s wrist and hand with the crude tool, he successfully slid the cuff off. After looking around some more, he found the ship’s toolbox still intact with the necessary tools to disassemble the bag’s lock.

  For hours he absorbed what he could from the documents. Every single item was labeled “Classified,” and he struggled to understand the technical nature of most of the specifics. It was clear that the two major elements covered were the instructions for making an atom bomb, and the plans to test it in either the Yukon Flats area in Alaska or the Alamogordo area in New Mexico, or both. “Holy shit,” he said, acknowledging the significance of his find. “There isn’t a political power in the world that wouldn’t want to get their hands on these.” These documents are a gold mine, he thought.

  Greed took over as Robert began acting on his plan to leave the mountain alone. A certain swagger brought about a more primitive side to his character. He knew he would need money off the mountain, so he rifled through the pockets of the dead soldiers for every dollar he could find. Most of them were on their way home on leave and were flush with cash, looking for a good time. Within a short time he gathered over thirty-five hundred dollars.

  A grandiose sense of power consumed Robert when he was back in his snow igloo for the night. He envisioned a hacienda in South America with servants, a life of leisure, and an unidentified man with whom he could live out his days. He ate his crackers and nuts and took another long swallow of his Jack Daniels and smiled with self-satisfaction. I’ll wait until tomorrow, he thought, or, perhaps the next day, to make an exit.

  CHAPTER 46

  When Helen answered the phone in Akron, Ohio, it was almost midnight on the seventeenth. Martha was crying and barely coherent. “They say they can’t locate Nick’s flight,” she sobbed. “They lost track of the plane on the way to Fairbanks! I don’t want this to happen, Helen. I’m afraid. I don’t want this to happen.”

  “Oh my God, Martha. That can’t be. Tell me what happened.”

  “They don’t know what happened. The flight’s been missing for over five hours!”

  “Bud, wake up. It’s Martha. Bud, wake up!”

  “Let me get Bud on the phone. He’ll know what to do,” said Helen, trying to reassure her best friend.

  “Who is it, honey?” Bud said, thinking that something bad may have happened to one of his parents.

  “It’s Martha … something about Nick’s plane being missing.”

  “What!”

  “Martha, walk me through what they told you.”

  Martha was frantic and barely understandable.

  “Try to calm yourself so I can understand.” Bud twisted the phone cord trying to add an element of control to the situation.

  She began again. “It started with a delay being posted this afternoon. I kept calling because I wanted to pick Nick up myself. More delays came and finally I drove to the airport about eight o’clock to find out for myself. That’s when they told me the flight was cancelled and to go home. They said they would call when they had more information. I just heard from the base that the flight has been lost. Please, Bud, tell me there’s some sort of mistake. They can make mistakes like this, can’t they?”

  “I sure hope so for everyone’s sake. Did they say anything about a crash?”

  “No, just that the flight was lost.”

  “That’s probably good news since it leaves open the option for an emergency landing somewhere. It’s possible that the instruments just failed.” Bud knew that would be highly unusual but held out hope. “Did they say when they would call back?”

  “Yes, when they had more definite information. Oh, Bud, I don’t like this. I just have a bad feeling that Nick’s in trouble.”

  “We’ve got to hold out hope, Martha. Nick would want that. Did they say how many people are on board?”

  “Twenty with the crew.”

  “Wow! A full-blown search is no doubt under way as we speak.”

  “What can we do, Bud?”

  “Have you talked with anyone else, yet?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll call Mom and Dad right away. Do you want us to call your mom, too?”

  “No, I’ll call her.” Martha voice was filled with a desperation that so many women had experienced throughout the war. It was shocking, though, when the words of hopelessness came from your own mouth.

  “Helen and I will be on the first flight to Minneapolis tomorrow morning. Keep your chin up. We’ll figure this out together when we get there … okay?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “We’ll let you know when we’re going to arrive,” Bud said just before hanging up.

  “I hope this isn’t as bad as it sounds,” Helen said, putting her arms around Bud’s slumping shoulders. “These can have a happy ending, can’t they?”

  “This isn’t good at all.” Bud dropped his head into his hands as he leaned against the refrigerator to steady himself. “For a plane to be missing for this long means it has run into problems. It doesn’t have enough fuel to stay up that long. Flight operations just doesn’t lose planes, and the vagueness of information they gave her only means they don’t know what happened. Or worse yet, they don’t want to tell her what happened and are exercising damage control.”

  Bud and Helen clutched each other and wept at the prospect of what had happened. After a few minutes Bud collected himself and called his dad and mom.

  Bud’s dad was at the airport when their flight arrived in Minneapolis-St. Paul around noon the next day. They sat in a quiet corner of the terminal while Henry updated his son and daughter-in-law with the grim report he had received from the base. “The ship, its crew, and all the passengers were lost. They don’t know what happened. A massive air search and rescue was delayed until today because of poor visibility, but it is now under way. All flights had been cancelled to allow for eight C-47s to comb the landscape for signs of survivors. Nothing yet.” The sterile lights in the terminal added a harshness to their family tragedy.

  Their words and feelings were in sharp contrast to the squeals of delight of two children near them. They watched a soldier home from the war greeting his wife and children in a warm embrace. “I want so badly for Martha to be able to share that same joy soon,” Helen said, gripping Bud’s hand. Their agonizing silence, however, expressed their hopelessness.

  “All we can do is wait and pray right now,” Henry said. He was a hardened railroad man and farmer. His German determination was visible in his set jaw. The most he could do was to put his hand on Bud’s shoulder and choke back his emotions.

  Back at the Morgan home Martha, Ida, Henry and Rose, and Bud and Helen were together when they received the news that Search and Rescue had come up with nothing that day. The only hope offered was that the weather would permit them to continue their efforts the next day.

  Martha felt the baby kick as she sat at the kitchen table and hoped she wouldn’t have to endure one of those cruel trade-offs life sometimes demanded. She was all cried out; they all were for that matter, but the worry lines on her face were the deepest.

  “Get some sleep, Martha,” Bud said. “We’ll
take shifts at the phone and let you know right away if something happens.” He realized that “something happens” weren’t very encouraging words, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Helen said, standing up and putting an arm around Martha to encourage her to head to bed. “Why don’t you and I spend some time together upstairs talking about our babies before turning in?”

  Helen’s offer of support was more helpful to Martha than even that from her mother. The bond between the sisters-in-law had been sealed forever years ago.

  CHAPTER 47

  When Brigadier General Leslie R. Groves was informed of the missing flight, he was immediately on the phone to General Gaffney in Edmonton. It was late Saturday afternoon. A cloud of cigar smoke hung in the office of the 509th Composite Group after a full day of meetings in preparation for the gathering on the twenty-first.

  “General, I want you to know that it’s imperative that we find that plane. I’m not at liberty to share details, but there are classified documents on board that represent a risk to national security.”

  “I understand, sir. I’ve been informed that Major Gordon had a courier bag handcuffed to his wrist as he boarded. It was switched from Dr. Oppenheimer after his heart attack.”

  “Yes, I know that, General, I authorized the switch.” His tone was blunt, giving General Gaffney the definite impression that the bag and its contents were more important than the lives of the soldiers.

  “Major Raegle is still out on search. We are in constant communication regarding progress, and I will emphasize the additional importance of recovering the bag when the ship is finally located. Several people witnessed the switch before Dr. Oppenheimer was taken to the hospital, so the bag itself is common knowledge.”

  “Very good, General. Keep me informed the minute you have anything new.” General Groves took a long draw on the cigar as he considered the consequences of the Manhattan Project secrets getting out. If the plane crashed, the documents were likely spread across a remote mountain area and not in any condition to pose a threat. In an emergency landing situation, however, a survivor may have taken it upon himself to retrieve the bag, realizing its importance. He paused and retrieved the passenger list provided by his aide. After staring at the list for a minute, he boldly underlined Vladimir Dubisskiy’s name. “What the hell was this guy doing on this flight,” he said quietly to himself.

  “Lieutenant,” the general called out to his aide. “Get me everything you can on this man,” he said, pointing to the Russian’s name. “I mean everything.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll need a few days to make the right contacts.”

  “I understand. Use my office to get through any roadblocks.”

  Major Raegle in Fairbanks had just received the update from General Gaffney at Command Headquarters in Edmonton to emphasize their search on the courier bag handcuffed to Major Gordon’s wrist. General Gaffney was imperative in his order, which referenced a very involved Brigadier General in the chain of command. Regardless, finding the plane or crash site, however, was still Major Raegle’s first priority.

  “I want every plane ready for wheels up at 0745,” he said after assembling the men in the debriefing room. “If there are survivors out there, we need to find them tomorrow. It’s going to be another very cold night. Keep the pallets of supplies ready with parachutes to drop the moment the plane is sighted. Don’t wait to confirm survivors. Any questions?”

  Nothing but tired faces and hungry men stared back at him in silence. He knew the crews needed rest. “I’ll take that as a no,” the major said. “Lastly, I want a volunteer crew to fly with me tomorrow over the first ridge line to the McKinley Range. It’ll be risky. We’ll go at first light to maximize visibility. It’s hard to imagine, but something may have forced them to try to cut over the mountains. I pray to God we don’t find them in there, but we have to look. Let me know before chow, so we can get the remainder of the crews reconfigured.”

  They all knew that it could be them they were looking for. Discussions were kept on the business at hand during dinner. Pilots weren’t in the habit of second-guessing each other, as they knew that everything depended on the circumstances. Winds, downdrafts, icing, electrical malfunctions, navigation errors, mechanical failures, and crew and pilot judgment were all variables in a dynamic mix that was impossible to anticipate completely. On top of all that, each ship had its own personality, which was why pilots liked certain ships over others. Despite this code of respect for other pilots, there always seemed to be at least one idiot who, despite not knowing the circumstances, was willing to make a judgment about what another pilot should have done. In this case a lieutenant shot off his mouth about the incompetence of any pilot venturing off the charted course without first communicating a clear fix in their location to flight operations. He just wouldn’t stop, and within minutes he was at a table by himself eating alone. “You’ll see,” he said while gesturing with a wave of his hand to the group before shutting up.

  The others knew it was a waste to argue or reason with him. He was one of the least experienced co-pilots and had every book answer ready to defend his opinion. The only useful answer would come with time, and the seasoned pilots knew that. Each pilot hoped that the major wouldn’t assign this jerk to their crew.

  The major was pleased with his volunteers the next morning—all top-notch men. It was no surprise to the others that the lieutenant wasn’t among them. They went through the engine, pre-taxi, and pre-takeoff checklists and brought both engines to twenty-seven hundred rpms. Once in the air, and after the heater light turned green, the major set the fuel mixture to auto-lean and adjusted the prop rpm and power for cruise. The men were quiet, knowing they would be venturing into uncharted airspace in about an hour. Exciting, but risky, as the major warned in the briefing.

  “Are you okay, Matt?” The major questioned his co-pilot, not so much to second-guess his mood but to just loosen him up with casual dialogue.

  “Yeah, I’m fine, Major. Just thinking what those boys must have endured the last two nights.”

  “Tough duty, alright,” the major said as he looked intently for a “front door” to get past the initial range of peaks.

  “We’re going to take things pretty easy going into these mountains, but first we need to find an opening—one that would have seemed attractive to a pilot in bad weather, and maybe a little disoriented. Let’s continue the heading we’re on. My guess is that if they did try to fly over, they would have done so north of Mt. McKinley as the peaks become smaller. Let’s see what we can find.”

  “I checked the wind heading on the seventeenth—45 mph out of the northwest over the range. If they chose this route they were in for some hellacious downdrafts and crosswinds. Today is as good as we could hope for—five to ten mph with the same heading.”

  From the major’s perspective there did seem to be a sort of chute or alleyway north of McKinley headed toward an uncharted mountain that looked to be about twelve thousand feet. “Let’s try this approach, Matt.” The major had flown with all the men and had a great respect for Matt’s skills, yet he didn’t want to get into discussions with them about options. He knew each man volunteered for this flight because they had absolute confidence in his abilities. His decisions would have to be law.

  They entered the range at eleven thousand feet and immediately lost five hundred feet from a downdraft. The major saw that the mountain was structured in such as way that the winds came over a triple set of peaks and were trapped in a bowl, making it very difficult to judge. Even the mild weather that day caused an unusually strong downward force. The crew could see the immenseness of the mountain and the vast wasteland below filled with crevasses, sheer cliffs, and granite rocks. They had definitely entered another dimension.

  “It’s hard to imagine anything surviving a crash in here,” Matt said.

  “Keep your eyes sharp,” the major replied.

  And then, there it was, just a flicker of a silv
er reflection from the port side. “It’s there. I can feel it,” the major said. The morning sun could have tricked them, but it definitely seemed manmade. The challenge was that the bowl they were in would not allow them to turn around and the angle of the sun did not create another reflection.

  “Take our elevation to twelve thousand feet to clear these ridges in front of us. We’ll circle out and re-enter the range.”

  In fifteen minutes they were ready for a second attempt. “Make sure the supplies pallet is ready to drop on my command, if this is the spot.” They would keep the door closed until the last minute to avoid the sub-zero temperatures. All eyes were trained to the west to see even the slightest irregularity. The entry for the second pass was far more difficult as they came in at ten thousand feet and lost the same five hundred feet from the downdraft as before. They had about a two-mile stretch of viable surface where the lost ship could possibly be—if it was there at all. The area of focus was about seven hundred yards wide and sat beneath a peak almost two thousand feet up. On either side of the area were drop-offs of such magnitude that estimating their depth was folly. If a ship went in there, it was highly unlikely that any survivors would find a way out of the ridiculously difficult terrain.