The man sported a scowl that could have curdled milk and immediately raised a tightened fist as if to strike, Jedidiah instinctively brought his arms up to shield himself and something flashed brilliantly in the sunlight, catching everyone’s attention. For a moment, the men were stunned at the sight but a second later all hell broke loose as they began pawing away at the old man’s hands trying in vain to somehow detach them.
“One of the desperados managed to find the hacksaw that Jedidiah had used earlier and a short time later Jedidiah had been relieved of both his hands. He stared mournfully at the two gold tinged stumps at the end of his arms. The riders got what they came for and left in a whirl of dust and mocking laughter. The old man suddenly burned with rage. He looked around for some way to vent his anger and finally kicked a bucket with all his might into the side of the hill. The impact disturbed the soil and what was exposed caught the old man’s eye. He walked over and knelt down for a closer look. What he had labored for so long was finally staring him in the face. The rock underneath was streaked with a multitude of gleaming yellow nuggets!
“He let out a shout. ‘Yahoo! I’m rich! By cracky, I finally hit the mother lode!’
“He stomped his feet and did a jig but a moment later a cruel realization settled him into quietness. He stared down at his newly discovered gold then looked over at the pick axe that lay nearby then his eyes moved sadly back to his dangling useless stumps. A moment later a small laugh escaped his lips then grew in intensity. What scarce remnants of sanity he possessed after all these years quickly left him as he bellowed forth in a never ending strain of insensible laughter which echoed throughout the canyon and remained on the desert winds for all to hear, so they say, forever and ever.”
Buster looked over at Mike and rolled his eyes. Mike just chuckled. “That was one hell of a crazy story, partner, but all the same, I just think the heat got to me today, that’s all. I’ll tell you one thing though, me and Jedidiah have something in common … he was and I am starving!” Buster scooped up a plateful of beans and handed it to Mike then loaded his own plate.
“You know what would go great with these beans right now Buster?” Mike said wiping bean juice from his chin. “A nice frosty mug of beer! Mmm… I’d give just about anything for a cold beer about now. How a’bout you, pard?”
“Amen to that!” replied Mike, but all of a sudden out of the warm night air came a distinct clinking of glasses which was followed by a deep unsettling voice that asked… “Anything, fellas?”
It’s Under the Ice
When the helicopter carrying the American Repatriation Team crested the costal ridge of Greenland, a dazzling sheet of white burst forth before them like the unfolding of a painter’s canvas. Last month’s jaunt saw the team excavating the remains of a B-29 bomber and its five man crew from deep in the heart of the Burmese jungle. On July, 5, 1945, that particular plane had been on return journey after dropping its payload over a manufacturing plant in Japan and at some point it disappeared off the radar screen. Since then, the mystery behind its location remained unsolved-- that is-- until recently. Following up on a number of leads, the team finally located the wreckage buried under mounds of hardened soil and a tangle of thick green foliage. The team was able to recover what was left of the aircraft and crew for repatriation back to the United States.
This was the type of work they did, year in and year out. It was honorable, over the top, and extremely fulfilling for the four-man team, but today they would be charting new territory and testing their skills in one of the most inhospitable environments on Earth. This particular excavation involved a small Air force search and rescue plane named, Albatross. In 1942 it was caught in a sudden ice storm over Greenland that lasted four days. Although the plane was never recovered, the pilot did manage to transmit their coordinates before they were completely buried and lost to the ages.
The repatriation team was led by Colonel Stu Sutcliff, a grizzled 62-year-old ex–Navy fighter pilot with a shock of grey hair and steely glacier-blue eyes, the kind of eyes that carried with them the wizened look of experience. After numerous adventures together, the other three members came to trust Stu’s instincts and decision-making skills and from the very beginning they affectionately referred to him as the Skipper.
Following the GPS coordinates on his screen, the helicopter pilot pointed to the ground and gave a thumb’s up to the Skipper who was riding shotgun beside him. The Skipper winked his acknowledgement and the helicopter slowly descended among a blizzard of stirred-up ice particles. The side door slid open and boxes of provisions and equipment were tossed onto the milky carpeting below followed by the four man crew. A dervish of ice and snow rocketed in all directions as the helicopter lifted once again, heading back to the coastal base where more equipment was to be loaded. The team immediately got to work setting up a large, bright orange tent that would be their home for the short time they expected to be there.
The tent was erected quickly and all the supply boxes were neatly stowed away by the time the helicopter returned to the site with the larger pieces of equipment that they would need for the excavation. Among the items dangling precariously from harness straps below the chopper were a bulky hot water pressure washer and a gas powered water pump, both secured to aluminum sleds for transporting in the snow. There were also long coils of rubberized hose hanging below that looked like a tangle of spaghetti swaying in the wind. After the last of the cargo had been unloaded from the chopper, the men adjourned to the tent where the Skipper handed each of them a steaming cup of coffee as they entered.
“The weather looks to be holding out so far, Skipper,” remarked Bill Olsen, a burly hulk of a man who was second in command. He gingerly balanced his cup as he sat down on his cot. The others did likewise.
“What’s with the dour look Skip?” asked one of the other men.
“Ah… it’s nothing.” The Skipper answered, shaking his head. “Guess I’m just overthinking this one. Spose it’s the fact that this is virgin territory for us. We’ve never had to recover anything under the ice before. I know the equipment’s been tested but… what we’re going after… that plane and its crew… could be twenty feet or more below the surface. Any way you look at it, it’s not going to be easy.” The Skipper took a long draught from his cup. “I guess I don’t have to remind you guys that this place has the most unpredictable weather on the planet. If it holds out, I think we’ll be fine and we just might pull this thing off; if not, the whole mission might be scrubbed until…well…God knows when.”
There was a moment of silence, then, a laugh. “Same ol’ Skip,” said Bill. “Just before every outing he’s as gloomy as a dog that just lost his favorite bone!” Everyone laughed.
“Yeah, I spose your right,” chuckled the Skipper, but still not able to hide his look of concern. He held up his cup. “Here’s to those two poor souls that have been interred in that damn frozen meat locker for the past sixty years. We’re comin’ to get you boys… come hell or high water!”
The men clinked their glasses together and rumbled their agreement.
“More like,” added Bill, “come hell or high snow drifts, wouldn’t you say?”
After spending a restless night sleep listening to the frigid winds relentlessly beating the canvas, the men finally emerged from the tent, bleary eyed but in good spirits, eager to get the mission underway. They stepped out into a bracing cold wind. The sun was just peaking over the distant snowy ridges, its rays of light reflected back a billion tiny diamond-like sparkles upon the frozen surface. A clear blue sky hung thick and expansive over the pristine landscape. The men went right to work and donned their custom made Geiger counters. Each unit consisted of an oversized and elongated pan, which allowed a more generous coverage area than conventional units. Walking four abreast, they crunched their way through the icy snow, making measured and methodical sweeps, listening intently, hoping to detect any signatures of metal that might be below the surface.
After more
than three hours of non-stop trudging, the men’s faces were starting to feel a bit frost bitten and the Skipper thought they looked rather fatigued. He was about to suggest they return to the tent for some hot coffee when suddenly, one of them yelled out. “Skipper! It sounds like something big here!” They all came running. The Skipper arrived first and immediately glided his Geiger counter over the spot. The machine responded with a high pitched wail. “Jackpot!” he screamed. “By God, whatever it is it’s certainly bigger than a bread box!’ There were smiles all around as the Skipper pulled a walkie-talkie from his coat pocket and informed base camp of their discovery. Within the hour the helicopter was back on the scene. The skipper guided it down with an orange flag held in each hand and the pilot gently sat a five hundred gallon container of glycol onto the ice. By this time, the other men were already back at camp preparing the equipment for transport to the site which was, blessedly, only about two hundred yards away. Even more fortunate was the fact that the sleds carrying the equipment glided over the crystallized surface just as easy as a skater would upon a frozen pond.
Arriving back at the site, they immediately began unrolling rubber hoses and making connections while the Skipper marked the area to be worked on with small orange flags and one large one indicating the site itself. A long hose was dipped into the glycol while the other end was connected to the pressure washer. The burner was lit but the machine itself was stubborn-it took a few minutes of cussing and fiddling before the men could finally get it to chug into life. The Skipper stood stoic and warlike, silhouetted against a pure white backdrop. He held the long stainless steel wand in his hand as though it were a machine gun, ready to blast their icy and obstinate foe to smithereens. A tiny spurt of green glycol ejected itself from the tip of the wand. This was followed by a ribbon of steam, then suddenly, a full-on blast of hot liquid. The Skipper pointed the spray at the ground and the ice immediately evaporated as easily as a hot knife would through butter. The men gave a cheer and the Skipper beamed his surprise at how quickly the heated glycol was eating through the ice. Within minutes, he had already carved out an enormous hole. The men tossed in a hose that was connected to the pump and it began recycling the spent glycol back into the tank with a vigorous slurping sound.
The Skipper kept at it for more than two hours, deepening the hole to at least eighteen feet, when suddenly, the sound of the glycol stream colliding with ice changed dramatically. A dull, hollow reverberation now lifted from the hole and the Skippers heart seemed to kick into overdrive. He concentrated the spray on that particular area and within seconds, a blue star seemed to materialize right before his very eyes. “IT’S A WING!” he shouted, turning back with a look as if he had just won the lottery. “IT’S A DAMN WING!” The men ran to the edge of the hole and looked down. Sure enough, they had discovered the Albatross on their first attempt. Their shouts of joy echoed across the frigid landscape, scaring a resting flock of black birds nearby back into flight. Hearty congratulations were exchanged all around but there was still plenty of work to be done. The Skipper continued his spraying and after another two hours or so the entirety of the plane was uncovered, like some ancient fossil that Mother Earth finally decided to regurgitate back into the world. The Skipper shut down the pressure washer and the last of the water was pumped from the pit. After securing the equipment, the team gathered at the rim and stared in solemn silence. This was the first time the Albatross had seen the light of day in over six decades and they felt an immense pride, but extricating the Albatross from its frozen tomb and placing it once again on the surface was still going to be a monumental task, one that unfortunately would have to wait until the following day, since the shadows of dusk were already stretching their long, grey fingers across the tundra.
The next morning arrived soon enough and once again the men were restless to get started. A light fall of snow awaited them as they stepped out of the tent. The Skipper radioed base camp the night before and requested that the big Huey meet them at the excavation site at dawn. As they started their short trek to the site, the chopper barreled past them, close to the ground, kicking up a blizzard of white and landing a short distance away. If all went well, it would only be a few hours before they would bring the Albatross to the surface. This next phase of the excavation, however, would be the most dangerous--the Skipper would have to be lowered into the pit to loosen the bottom of the plane from the glacier’s icy grip and to secure the lifting straps. An aluminum ladder was laid across a small section of the pit opening. Attached to the ladder was a battery-operated wench that would lower the Skipper by a thin steel cable. He donned his harness and connected it to the cable. One of the men handed him the spray wand and a few seconds later he was touching down on the aluminum skin of the plane’s fuselage.
The Skipper was about to lower himself over the side when he was struck by a sudden curiosity. He slowly crawled to the front of the plane and leaned over the cock pit window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the inside, but the glass was obscured by frost. He shot a quick burst of spray onto the window, it cracked somewhat but the frost instantly evaporated. He leaned forward once again for another look. Only inches from the window, staring back at him was the pilot. His features held a grisly snapshot in time. His glassy eyes were wide open and his mouth was agape in a twisted and frozen posture of agony that forever captured the last horrible moments of his life. Startled, the Skipper jumped back a few inches. The team above noticed his sudden retreat.
“What’s the matter Skip? What’d you see?” one of them yelled down.
After a few seconds the Skipper glanced up. “The pilot.” There was a slight quiver in his voice. “He’s still strapped in his seat… probably either died on impact or shortly after. Can’t see the navigator…doesn’t look to be up front. Guess we’ll know everything once we get this bird out’a here.” With that, the Skipper lowered himself to the bottom of the plane and started blasting the ice. The entire section that supported the plane was melted away except for two small mounds underneath. He then called for the nylon lifting straps to be lowered and after much maneuvering he was able to attach them to the plane. This completed his work in the pit. The success of the excavation now rested solely with the skill of the helicopter pilot.
As soon as the Skipper was topside, the pilot ran over to warm the helicopter. Bill slapped the Skipper on the back. “Great job, Skip!” He could instantly feel that the Skipper was thoroughly drenched. “You damn better get yourself back to the tent and change out of those clothes before you freeze to death.” The Skipper turned and they could all see that his face held an unwholesome blue tinge and his teeth chattered as though his mouth was running a race.
“I’ll go ba…back just as s…s…soon as this old bird is topside. B…by the way, whoever kept whistling that Camp Town Races song better learn a new tune quick, it w...w…was really starting to get on my nerves down th…”
His words were drowned out as the helicopter appeared over the pit. The straps were connected to a hook at the bottom and the chopper slowly made its ascent, pulling the straps taught and stretching them to their very limit. There were a few moments of stalemate--it seemed as though the plane just might win the struggle of the titans, but it suddenly broke free with a ripping sound not unlike some heavy branch splintering from an old tree. The men winced as the Albatross momentarily slammed against the frozen walls, but the pilot was exceptionally skilled and steadily lifted the plane ever so gently out of the pit, sitting it down thirty feet away. The men were overcome with emotion and patted each other on the backs. The Albatross was quickly unhooked and the entire team saluted the pilot who returned the gesture then shot off back to base. The Skipper turned to Bill. “While I’m gone, you g…g…guys give the plane a good shot of glycol and try to get that door open.”
Within the hour, the Skipper came tramping back to the site amidst a bluster of heavy falling snow but looked much better than when he left. As he approached, he could sense that something wasn’t ri
ght. The plane door was open but the men were huddled together outside, anxiously discussing something.
“What’d you guys find?”
Bill turned to him with a look that had concern written all over it. “Well…you’ll just have to take a look for yourself, Skip.” As he said this, his voice trailed off and his eyes were cast downward. The Skipper felt uneasy but stepped up and into the Albatross’ side door. The first thing he saw was a charred pile of material on the floor. There were remnants of canvas haversack bags and strips of parachute silk partially burned, as if someone had desperately tried to create whatever heat they could. Just to the right was the cockpit. From where the Skipper stood, he could see the back side of the pilot sitting there, a frozen statue of a man in a black leather jacket and an officer’s cap. He stepped closer. The pilot held the same terror-filled grimace that he saw from the window but for the first time, he could see the pilot’s painful blue eyes. No doubt, at one time those eyes sparkled keen and intelligent and probably mesmerized more than a few ladies along the way, but now they only looked like dull, frozen blue marbles. The Skipper oddly felt as though he was in the presence of some kind of caricature, a wax figure maybe, not a real person. He was about to search the pilot’s jacket for identification when something gruesome caught his eye. The right pant leg of the pilot was ripped open and a large portion of his thigh, down to the bone, had been removed. “My God!” he mumbled under his breath. “How could something like that happen?” There was no obvious damage to the cockpit that could possibly cause a wound like that. The Skipper was puzzled. He turned back toward the rear of the plane and immediately saw a figure slumped in the tail section, draped in parachuting. “So, the navigator is on board after all,” he thought to himself as he moved closer. The face was that of a man with almost boyish looks. Unlike the pilot, who must have spent his final moments in agony, the navigators face looked to be the epitome’ of serenity, as though he had only fallen asleep. What the Skipper saw next didn’t register in his mind right away, but when it did he had to fight the sudden urge not to expel the contents of his stomach.
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