“Then we talk about it based on what we find.” Brad had already made up his mind that the risk was too great. He felt confident that once the party reached the bottom they would agree with his recommendation.
“Okay, let’s say we find bodies, but agree that the risk is too great.”
“The only people who will see these bodies are the members of the team. They’re not stupid. They know what’s at stake. Let me put it this way, Grant. If the risk is too great we simply report that no bodies were found, which is likely to be the case since none were observed from the photographs.”
Grant finished his hot chocolate and lit a cigarette. “Smoke?” he said, offering one to Brad.
“Never picked up the habit.” Brad knew that Grant’s change of topic meant he wasn’t ready to weigh in with a final decision. It was like a game Brad used to play with his sister when they were kids, Piggy Move Up. The object wasn’t to land the bean bag on the target in one throw. It was simply important to get it closer with each toss. That’s the way he felt with Grant; just get him closer to the decision to leave any bodies where they lay. What he couldn’t reconcile was why Grant was being pushed so hard by the chain of command.
The next day brought several inches of snow, adding to the risk of avalanches during their descent from the ridge. Grant decided that the team of nine would build a new camp about four hundred feet below the ridge in order to be in position for their descent when the weather cleared, which wouldn’t be for another day.
On Thursday, April 13, Washburn, Harry Lerdahl, and Pete Wilkinson, a local trapper with respected mountain-climbing experience, reached the main fuselage after considerable effort laboriously fixing a rope for others to use while descending the thousand-foot-long face. By nightfall, Grant and the other five members of the advance party joined the three men at the crash site. Exhausted, they made a fire, cooked dinner with the provisions that had been dropped, and stayed warm in their down, mummy sleeping bags for another Alaskan winter night. The strange feeling that bodies may be present within a few yards of camp and just below the snow where the camp was set up unsettled the men.
“I’ll be glad for the morning,” Pete said restlessly. “It just creeps me out.”
“I never knew you believed in ghosts,” Harry chimed in with a hint of a chuckle. “My grandmother used to tell us when we were kids that every climber that died in an avalanche left their spirit roaming the mountain looking for their body. The spirits would blend in with the white cloud mists, which made them very hard to see.”
“Why would your grandmother tell you a story like that when you were a kid?”
“I think she tried to put the fear of God in us by teaching us that if we died in the mountains we’d be there for all eternity.”
“That may be what we find,” Brad added. “For now, let’s gets some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
On April 14, a full five weeks after the crash, the advance team began the difficult job of excavating snow around the wreckage to look for bodies. The common grave was found right away.
“To my way of thinking, this confirms that at least one man survived,” Harry said to Pete while both were taking a break.
“Sure looks that way. But why don’t we have any evidence indicating a survivor? It’s just weird to me.”
“Maybe he tried to get off the mountain by himself knowing that a rescue wasn’t feasible,” Harry concluded.
Regardless, each of the team was puzzled at the arrangement of the eleven men. All were organized with their heads in the same direction and bodies facing up. A crucial question penetrated each man’s mind: Who did it? They continued digging around the entire wreck site. It was exhausting work and by noon they were ready for another break. No additional bodies had been found.
“Mr. Pearson,” Harry finally said, “it just doesn’t look as if any of these bodies could have been the lone survivor. It’s not like he could bury himself. And, I sure don’t see any evidence of a survivor here recently either.” All eleven bodies were frozen stiff and in some cases frozen together, indicating that they probably were placed in the pile before rigor mortis had set in.
“The other thing you don’t see is any sign of carnivorous activity,” the same man continued.
“There are no carnivores at this altitude,” Grant said. “Let’s break for lunch and get our energy back. We’ll set up a grid and probe with the willow wands for additional remains.” The willow wands were long narrow poles and standard issue for exploring avalanche and deep snow conditions for bodies.
“You haven’t said much, Brad. What do you think?” Grant was genuinely interested in Brad’s experienced observations. As much as they battled each other over pre-mission strategy, this was when Brad was at his best—analyzing the possibilities.
“It’s hard to understand. From what I see so far, my guess is that the negro soldier survived and worked hard to remove the bodies from the fuselage—maybe out of respect or maybe because they just freaked him out. You can see where he tried to close off the cabin area with the nylon parachute for protection, but it’s also obvious that he wasn’t prepared to handle the cold weather. The bare upper body is a classic symptom of hypothermia. On the other hand, the first supply drop is a few hundred yards away, and yet, there’s no evidence here that he used anything from it. I’d like to check the supply drop out after lunch.”
“Why don’t you take Harry with you when you go. We’ll start the grid,” Grant replied.
“Did you get what you came for in the courier bag?” Brad’s directness in the question surprised Grant. He wasn’t privy to the contents, only that it was very important.
“It was empty, so I suspect there will be some disappointed generals when I return. How did you know it was part of the mission, Brad?”
“It was the first item you retrieved when you saw the bodies. An unbelievable scene of destruction, eleven dead bodies, personal effects scattered all over, and the first thing you go for is a nondescript courier bag. It looks like it was handcuffed to the major’s wrist.”
“Well, it once was.”
“What do you mean?”
“It looks like the hand was smashed in order to slide the cuff off. There’s no blood so it was done after death. I can’t quite figure it out. I mean why would the person put the handcuffed bag back … empty?”
“Maybe Harry’s grandmother was right about the spirits,” Brad said, shaking his head equally as puzzled about the clues that were substantiating the existence of a survivor. He quietly finished his hot beef soup and thought hard about what kind of person could get off this mountain. The captain and co-captain were the only obvious possibilities with their experience and judgment, coupled with the fact that the cockpit hadn’t been found and they were still missing. But with no equipment and supplies, they wouldn’t stand a chance, he thought.
Despite the tedious but necessary work of systematically covering the area with the willow wands, Grant and his team produced nothing tangible from the grid, although in reality they covered just a small fraction of the mountain area.
Brad got his answer shortly after lunch when he and Harry discovered that the airdrop had been opened and supplies and equipment had been removed. Now the means and opportunity were clear, but the motive to escape the mountain remained a mystery.
“With access to all this survival gear and supplies, why would anyone leave the mountain and risk death when he could just wait it out to be rescued?” He looked at Grant more puzzled than ever before. “Did it look to you as if any of the soldiers had been killed from something other than the crash?”
“I didn’t look for anything like that. Better do it now while we still have light.”
The vacant expression on the face of each body made the grisly task of close inspection for foul play a macabre undertaking. For the most part, these were young men between twenty and twenty-five with nothing more on their minds than the welcome anticipation of being back with their families. It was he
artbreaking. In actuality, Brad and Grant were relieved that nothing more than the major’s hand was found to indicate foul play.
“For all the survivor knew, he may have felt that the bag contained money or at least something of value that would help him once off the mountain,” Brad said as he and Grant sat after finishing their dinner.
“Maybe a pattern is emerging,” Grant said. “Think about who is missing. First in my mind is the crew.”
Grant’s silence gave Brad a moment to reflect on his personal experience with the crew. He could not conjure a scenario that denigrated these men. But, Grant’s comment implied a connection. “Come on, Grant. Did the captain actually crash the plane on purpose, so he and his crew could steal the contents of the bag? That would be a pretty bizarre plan, and I didn’t take Captain Morgan for being bizarre. Regardless, we’ll probably find all three of them when we find the cockpit.”
“The other people missing are Warrant Officer Martin Mason, the Russian, and four more soldiers. That would account for the original twenty on board.”
“Right, but I still can’t figure it out … unless,” he said, pausing to develop a new thought, “the contents to the bag were actually known to the survivor and valuable enough to warrant a high risk escape off the mountain.” Brad’s eye contact with Grant confirmed that this line of reasoning was probably as close to the motive as they would get.
“I’ll take Pete with me back to the ridge camp first thing tomorrow morning. The general will definitely want this info ASAP. In the meantime, give some thought as to what route you’d take to get off this mountain if you were solo and didn’t want to be observed.”
“Yes, General. I already have Bradford Washburn sketching out a plausible exit route for a survivor,” Grant said via radio transmission. “Right now I would have to say that any choice would be extremely difficult and hazardous.” From the first-hand Herculean effort required by Pete and himself to climb the face that morning, Grant knew there wasn’t a chance in hell for a single person to make it out that way on their own. There were just too many situations requiring teamwork on the ropes to get out. It also resolved the other dispute of recovering bodies—Washburn was right!
“Yes, General, I’ll radio a description as best we can—probably tomorrow when we all make our way back on the ridge with the radio equipment again.”
“I want you to do one more thing, Grant. Listen closely,” the general said. “For reasons that I can’t fully disclose to you, I want your team to not tell anyone about the discovery of any bodies.” General Gaffney was very uneasy giving this order but had received it directly from Brigadier General Groves. And according to General Groves, he was only passing on the order. Because the loss of the classified documents represented a leak regarding the United States’ imminent capability to deliver an atomic bomb and its impact on war strategy against Japan, the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) was now in charge. They were the two-year-old military intelligence agency formed during the war. The agency had been criticized widely for a dismal security reputation and had become paranoid, as they were rumored to be riddled with subversives and spies, especially Russian sympathizers. The decision to disavow any discovery of bodies would preserve the anonymity of all evidence. If the United States citizens knew of a Russian military espionage plot to steal plans for such a bomb, general panic and distrust would permeate national confidence. The plan, therefore, was to go silent until they could flush out the survivor.
“Since we can’t get the bodies out, Grant, it’s better that they don’t exist at all. Do you understand me?” The general’s tone left no room for disagreement.
“Yes, sir. The men are very loyal, sir, but the cover up will go down hard. They know the families are anxious for news.”
“Can you get your men to agree?” The general pressed for an answer.
Grant paused, knowing his answer was the lynchpin for whatever was involved. “First off, Brad and I are absolutely okay, sir. We’ve already discussed it. And between us, we know the remaining seven men personally.” Grant chose his words carefully as he talked. “The obvious reason not to bring the bodies out is one of safety. I know the men will wholeheartedly agree with that. As far as not acknowledging the bodies at all, we can make a strong case that with only eleven bodies discovered other family members would hold out hope. More public pressure would be placed on us and others to make an even greater effort, exposing more men to risk. We will communicate the order to cut our losses now by putting a lid on this discovery … besides, where could you ever find a more spectacular final resting place?”
“You’re on the right track, Grant, but don’t bullshit these men. Keep in mind that the most logical scenario is that the bodies were spread over the mountain,” the general replied. “Go ahead and tell them that because of the classified nature of the missing contents you’ve been ordered to put a lid on the story because of national security. Emphasize that until we find the person who made it off the mountain, any knowledge of those men still missing will only jeopardize the investigation and possibly implicate each person not found.” The general’s silence that followed was compelling.
“Brad and I can make this work, sir. We know how important this is. If we’re uneasy for any reason, though, can we get your involvement with the men in a follow-up meeting?”
“Absolutely. I like what you’ve accomplished here, Grant. I’ll add my support to your name when the park superintendent position comes open. You’ve earned it.”
Five weeks after the crash, the search of all roads between Fairbanks and Anchorage and all areas of the Mt. McKinley Park and the Matanuska-Susitna area east of the park began. Washburn’s sketch of the only possible exit route crossed the face of a slope recently ravaged by an avalanche. Hundreds of army and OSS personnel combed hundreds of thousands of acres on foot and by air. Nothing was found, however, and the “recovery” effort was officially closed.
The flight file documenting the crash remained classified for years. Access was denied to the families of the crash victims until that changed with a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request. In November, 2005, the National File and Records Administration, however, reported the file as “lost.” They claimed the original files could not be located when an effort was made in the mid-1980s to copy thousands of files onto microfiche film for preservation. The official statement in response to the FOIA request included one sentence:
MISSING AIR CREW REPORT 8878 NOT LOCATED AT TIME OF FILMING.
July 6, 2010
CHAPTER 55
The noise from the torque of the twin Pratt & Whitney’s sent confusion through George’s mind in his familiar, yet unsuccessful attempt to fight the downdrafts and control the flight. Passengers panicked with the vibration of the aggressive ascent to clear the mountain peak in front of them. The crew was helpless. He was responsible. Vast rock cliffs and cavernous crevasses waited to swallow the out-of-control ship. Instantly, all vision was lost. A mushroom cloud of snow formed from the impact of the plane, which was cartwheeling from nose to wingtip to nose. The vision of his port wing and engine buried in a ice-encrusted sheer wall sucked the wind out of his body. Gasping for breath, choking, reaching for something that would help him breath, he cried out for something to hang on to. And then, blackness, with its eerie sense of death and destruction.
“Agh … agh!” He struggled to release his seatbelt while thrashing about wildly. Panic took over.
“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Morgan!” The flight attendant tried urgently to wake him from his nightmare by shaking his shoulders. The passengers near him were not so much alarmed, but empathetic to the desperation of being trapped in a nightmare.
George took several gasps for air as his body shuddered in its final stages of awakening.
He jumped in anticipation of the crash before realizing that he was in the cabin of a Boeing 777 on his flight to Anchorage. He took a deep breath and shook his head before noticing the passengers around him and the flight attendant st
aring at him in disbelief. He couldn’t help his feeling of embarrassment. The businessman in the seat next to him leaned away from him toward the aisle, as if George were mentally unbalanced and had been talking absently to an imaginary friend on an inter-city bus. Nightmares aren’t supposed to happen in public, he thought.
“It’s an old nemesis,” George explained feebly to everyone, but to no one. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I should be alright now.”
“Can I get you something?” Julia offered. “Some water, maybe a towel? You’re soaked in sweat.”
“Yes, both would be nice,” George replied, as he now recognized the flight attendant in her Northwest uniform as Julia, the middle-aged attendant with short blond hair that originally greeted him on the plane. She seemed relieved that his trauma was over. After she returned with the water and towel, he checked his pulse and confirmed it was back to normal.
“Can’t say that we see this very often,” she offered lightheartedly to relax the moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay. I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
In truth, he would have enjoyed talking, but what do you say about a nightmare that has plagued you for your whole life? His earliest recollection of the nightmare that reenacted his father’s death was when he was in grade school. George’s childhood friends at third-grade recess in the ’50s were entranced with their simulations of WWII flying aces and their daring escapes, and naturally the planes that crashed in their imaginations. Unfortunately, their playtime story was all too true to George. Frequently, he would cry out for his mom after falling asleep at night. Nobody really knew what happened during that final Air Transport Command flight piloted by his father. George hadn’t been born until after his dad died, and he only had the pictures taken by Bradford Washburn to tell the story.
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