Twenty miles later the convoy roared through Warminster. As with Salisbury, there were no issues passing through the still-sleeping town. Clarkson checked his watch in the gathering dawn. They were making excellent time. The major turned up his collar to block the chill wind as the jeep shot back into the countryside, heading for their last stop, Weston-super-Mare.
“Sir,” Davis said, “I can put the top up if you’d like.”
“I’m fine, Davis,” said Clarkson. “More important to have that .50 caliber ready just in case.”
The American convoy soon found its way blocked by a pair of tired old horses harnessed to a large hay wagon. One of the wheels had broken off the rear axle, the huge load it carried proving too much for the wagon’s ancient frame. Hay dumped out of the back. An old man was unsuccessfully coaxing his horses to drag the wagon off the road. To make matters worse, the breakdown occurred in the middle of a small stone bridge crossing a brook. The combination of stubborn horses, disabled wagon, and spilled load blocked the convoy’s way over the narrow bridge. The banks of the brook were too steep for the trucks to traverse.
As they neared the mess the convoy slowed. Clarkson grabbed a local map from the floor of the vehicle. “Can we cross someplace else?”
Davis looked out on the open field, quickly visualizing a new route. “Yes, sir, I believe we can.”
“Don’t you want to check the map first?”
“Checked for alternate routes before we left, sir.” Davis cranked the steering wheel hard to the left and stomped on the gas.
Clarkson glanced back to make sure the trucks were still following behind. He caught a glimpse of the soldier manning the machine gun in the rear of the jeep, holding onto the weapon with a death grip, trying not to get thrown from the careening vehicle.
Davis found a spot to safely ford the brook about two miles away. The water was shallow, barely moving, the surface almost level with the banks. All three vehicles crossed, then accelerated across the adjacent field. Within minutes, the convoy was back on track.
Clarkson checked his watch. Somehow they hadn’t lost any time. “Davis,” he asked, “where in the name of God did you ever learn to drive like that?”
“Well, sir,” Davis began, his southern drawl evident, “My daddy ran moonshine in Virginia in the old days. Taught me everything he knew about driving!”
The jeep screeched to a halt at the entrance to Birnbeck Pier in Weston-super-Mare. Clarkson shielded his eyes from the rising sun as he glanced toward the end of the pier. The fishing trawler was still there. He ordered Davis and the soldier at the machine gun to make sure no one entered the pier until the ship left.
Clarkson ran to the second truck and yanked the canvas flap aside. “Newmont!” he yelled. “Assemble your men! Escort the other deuce and a half down the pier to the ship!” Clarkson jumped on the truck’s running board and bellowed at the driver, “Corporal! Get this truck down to that ship! Move, move, move!”
When the truck stopped, Newmont, Santora, and the two guards helped Dr. Gautier, Maurice Durand, and the three beast-things onto the pier. The creatures still seemed like tame pets in their harnesses, with the sacks still over their heads, as they were led down the gangplank.
Wilkins and Giordano pulled the battered suitcases from the tailgate and moved toward the gangplank. The Frenchmen and their beast-things were hustled below deck.
“All set?” Clarkson asked the vessel’s captain.
“Yes, sir. Our cargo has been secured and we’re ready to cast off.” Deckhands were already untying the heavy mooring lines.
Clarkson checked his watch. “And not a second to spare,” he said. “Let’s go, Captain! Gather your men! We’re done here!”
The trawler pulled away from the dock, distancing itself from the pier. It grew smaller on the sun burnished sea, as the beast-things left behind the war and madness that had brought them into this world.
During World War II, obtaining technology from one’s enemy and using it against them was a widely practiced strategy. Such was the case with Operation Biting, an operation involving a force of British commandos who raided a German radar installation in Bruneval, France.
Scientists in England had requested this raid, reasoning it would reap a wealth of technical data on the workings of German radar. Additionally, they believed if key components of an actual radar unit could be brought back, it would give them a better understanding of how German radar operated.
The British force conducted the raid on Feb. 27, 1942. Not only did they bring back components of a German Würzburg radar system, they also brought back a German radar technician. The technical knowledge the British scientists received from this raid was invaluable, allowing them to test and deploy a recently developed radar countermeasure code named Window, which was eventually successful in blinding German radar systems.
Even after hostilities ceased, the snatching up of technology from defeated countries continued with cleverly named operations such as Operation Big, Operation Lusty, and Operation Paperclip.
Unbeknownst to Newmont and his men, their mission to steal the technology behind the creation of the beast-things also carried an official name: Operation Herdsmen. Like Operation Biting, the American commandos retrieved personnel and material involved in the Nazi breakthrough, but unlike Operation Biting, the rewards of their raid never saw the light of day.
After speaking with Dr. Gautier and Maurice Durand, and examining the subjects brought back from France, the United States government overruled the military authority, deciding the American people would be terrified to learn the Nazis had created a new species of life designed to wipe them out.
It was quickly decided the Frenchmen and their creatures would be flown on a military transport from Washington, D.C. to a secluded military post in the Midwest until a decision could be made on what to do with them.
The C-47 transport they left on never arrived at its Midwest destination. There were many theories for the transport’s disappearance, one of the most popular being that Nazi spies had hijacked the plane and its cargo, but officials finally decided the covert operation may have fallen prey to a freak winter storm, bringing the aircraft down short of the military post. There had been no radio transmissions to point a search team to the location of the crash, and a cursory search of its scheduled route revealed nothing. Operation Herdsmen faded into anonymity, its name becoming a notation on a yellowing piece of paper in the back of an old file cabinet in a basement in the nation’s capital.
Maggie Turner, twenty-four years old, pulled the red bandana from around her neck and patted the light sheen of perspiration on her face. Her boyfriend, Jerry Bolton, collapsed to his knees, shrugged off his heavy rucksack, and dropped onto his back. Unlike Maggie, he was dripping sweat and breathing like an overworked plow horse, his Denver Broncos T-shirt soaked through.
Maggie had decided to introduce Jerry to one of her favorite wilderness locations in the Medicine Bow Mountain region of north-central Colorado. Jerry was beginning to think that perhaps it wasn’t his wisest move in their budding relationship, but with the chance of love in the air, he was willing to gamble.
Maggie slipped off her red daypack and settled on the ground. She pulled out a plastic water bottle. “Better have some water, Jerry. You’re pumping it out pretty quickly.”
“Thanks, Mags,” he said. He took a long pull of cool water. “Sure is beautiful country up here.”
“That’s why I wanted you to see it. I thought you’d understand why I love spending so much time up here.”
Jerry picked up a baseball-sized rock and tossed it back down the hill. The rock dropped into the dense foliage off to the side of the path. They were surprised to hear a loud, hollow, metallic noise, like a crowbar hitting an empty steel drum.
“What the heck was that?” Jerry said.
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah, well, I’m no outdoorsy type but even I know trees don’t make that kind of noise.”
They made their way back down the trail to investigate.
They stood on the spot where Jerry believed his rock had landed. The forest was thick with towering pines and fallen trees. Large rocks peppered the area.
“This is why you never wander off a marked trail,” Maggie said. “A foot or two in and you can get completely lost.”
“Trust me,” Jerry replied, “that’s not a problem for me. I’m more of a pavement guy myself.”
He took a step and felt a flat surface under him. He continued to put weight on what he thought was a large rock slab, when suddenly his feet slid out from under him. He crashed to the ground.
“Jerry! Are you alright?” Maggie knelt down next to him.
“Yeah, fine,” he groaned. “The ground broke my fall. Geez, I think I broke my back.”
“Seriously?”
“No, but it sure as hell feels like it.”
“Can you get up?”
“Yeah, no problem.” He rolled to his side and got up on his hands and knees, then hesitated. “Feel this rock.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t think it’s a rock.”
He shrugged off his rucksack and dug inside for a flashlight. He shined the light’s beam down on the ground while using his other hand to wipe dirt and debris from the surface. Making a fist, he knock-knocked on the brown material. A dull metallic thump answered him.
“I think this is some kind of metal, Mags.”
They brushed away branches, pine needles, dirt, and other debris, then stood still, mesmerized.
It was an airplane wing, maybe twenty feet long, painted a dull olive-drab with a faded white star in an almost completely washed out blue circle. The narrow end of the wing was rounded, the wider end mangled and torn, with cables trailing from it. The aluminum surface was wrinkled, the framework of the ailerons visible, the fabric covering long since rotted away.
There was a moment of silence while the possibilities of their discovery sank in. “There has to be more of the wreckage, right?” said Maggie. “There couldn’t just be a wing way up here all by itself.”
Jerry’s eyes swept over the dark woods, spikes of sunlight battling through the branches and splashing on the ground. “Doesn’t make any sense that it would be the only piece on top of this ridge.”
Maggie kissed him on the cheek. “Let’s look for the rest of it. Isn’t this exciting?” Dropping to one knee, she unzipped her daypack and pulled out a bundle of fluorescent orange plastic strips. “But safety first. We’ll tie one of these to key trees so we can find our way back out of here.”
They spent an hour scouting around the airplane wing, moving in ever-widening circles. About fifty feet away they stumbled across the other wing, also covered in debris. An engine with a twisted propeller was still attached to it. They both guessed the airplane must have come down from the top of the ridge and both wings were torn off when the fuselage shot between some large trees.
Their path took them deeper into the woods as they followed the route they thought the airplane might have taken. They tied an orange strip around another tree and proceeded downhill.
“Here’s a crazy idea,” Jerry said. “What if we start throwing rocks in a circle around us, and if we don’t hear anything we’ll move up a ways and do it again?”
They gathered up an armload of rocks. “Go ahead, Jerry, fire away.”
“After you.” He grinned, bowing at the waist.
Maggie wound up and tossed a rock straight ahead. Nothing but the dull thud of stone hitting wood. “Your turn,” she said.
Jerry fired off a rock at his two o’clock position, also hearing nothing out of the ordinary. Maggie’s next rock went to her ten o’clock position, followed by Jerry aiming for his four o’clock position, and finally, Maggie throwing at her eight o’clock spot. Nothing. They moved ahead twenty-five feet and repeated their pattern. They continued until they had moved up almost 200 feet from the spot where they found the first wing.
As Maggie’s rock arced straight ahead, they were rewarded with a resounding metallic clang. They both dropped their rocks and shot forward toward the spot. There, like a new-age sculpture, rose the battered tail section of an airplane, roughly eighteen feet long. Covered in the same faded olive-drab paint, it blended with the landscape around it. The rudder and tailplane were so beaten up they hardly resembled parts of an airplane anymore. The fabric covering on the rudder and elevators was rotted away exposing the skeletal remains of the trailing edges. A faded yellow number was stenciled across the rudder. They approached the wreckage carefully, as if it were sacred ground.
They circled, discovering an assortment of wreckage under foot. Jagged shards of metal and pieces of wires and cables littered the ground. Jerry stood at the forward end of the tail section, where it had torn away from the fuselage. The opening looked like a flower whose ripped petals had been pulled back, revealing the cavity within. He lit up the interior with his flashlight. As he stepped onto the inner floor of the tail, it started to shift.
“Jerry! No!” Maggie yelled. He yanked his foot out and the tail settled back in its original spot. “Don’t go in, Jerry! It’s not safe!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, backing away.
She pulled a digital camera from her bag. “Stand next to the tail where that number is. I’ll take a picture to show what we found.” Jerry stood by the tall rudder. “Say cheese.”
He smiled. “How about I say, Let’s get out of here because this place gives me the creeps?”
“Got it,” she said. “Just a few pictures of what’s here, a couple shots of the wings, and we’re back to civilization.”
“Deal.”
Maggie took pictures of the ground with all the detritus around the tail section. Jerry examined the route they thought the airplane took through the woods. He stood at the ripped open end of the tail section and swung around 180 degrees. He shined his flashlight along the projected path, trying to light the shadows.
And there it was. Big, battered, and dull olive-drab, resting one-hundred feet away. He called over his shoulder, his voice a little shaky. “Hey, Mags.”
“Almost done, Jerry, just a few more pictures.”
“I think you should see this.”
“Just give me another minute, okay?”
“Right now, Mags.”
They inched up to the wreckage, not believing what they saw. This section was big, around forty or fifty feet long. The couple moved carefully, not wanting to get too close, believing that after so many years it could roll on top of them.
Maggie kept clicking digital photographs. Six small windows, all yellowed and cracked, ran the length of the fuselage. They reached the front of the airplane and saw what had finally stopped its wild ride through the woods. A huge wall of rock jutted from the ground. After the plane lost its wings, the remaining fuselage must have barreled down the slope like an out-of-control toboggan, sideswiping God knows how many trees before slamming into the pile of boulders and coming to a sudden stop. The force had been so great that the nose of the airplane was pushed into the cockpit.
Jerry looked up at the side of the crushed cockpit. There was a large faded image on the aircraft’s skin. Using a pine branch as a broom, he wiped away decades of surface debris.
“Hey, Mags,” Jerry said, “check this out.” It was a barely discernible caricature of a red wagon full of wooden crates. A cartoon cowboy sat atop the crates, one hand holding on to the wagon’s handle, the other waving a Stetson. Underneath, it read Chuck’s Wagon. “How about I take a picture of you?”
Maggie stood next to the drawing. As soon as Jerry took her picture, she wrapped her arms around herself and moved away from the wreckage.
“You okay?”
“Just feels like tiptoeing through a cemetery at night, you know?”
“Yeah. I feel the same way. What say we take a quick look inside and then get back out in the sunshine again?”
“You think anyone’s inside?”
“Sure. I’ll take a picture through the window.”
He lifted her up, resting her butt on his shoulder. Her head was almost level with the side window. She couldn’t see much in the dark cockpit, just a lot of twisted wreckage. Maggie gripped the empty window frame and hauled herself up higher. She swung the camera up and hit the button to take a picture. The bright flash lit up the cockpit.
“Jesus!” She pushed away from the fuselage with both hands. Jerry shuffled backward trying to keep his balance, but fell landing flat on his back, with Maggie crashing down. She scampered to her feet and backed away from the plane, the digital camera still attached to her wrist by a small lanyard.
“What?” Jerry yelled. “Mags! What happened?”
She pointed up at the cockpit.
Jerry put his arms around her. “It’s okay, Mags, it’s okay.” He stroked her long auburn hair. He eased her away, his hands on her shoulders. “What happened?”
Without a word, she thrust the camera at him.
“Oh…my…God…”
There, amidst the destruction in the brightly lit cockpit, were two skeletons in the tattered remnants of leather flight jackets, the control panel and other unidentifiable pieces of wreckage pinning them into their seats.
Maggie Turner and Jerry Bolton scooped up their gear and ran from the wreckage. They never stopped running until they reached the trailhead, then collapsed on a soft patch of grass, exhausted.
Maggie called the local sheriff while Jerry looked through the pictures on her digital camera. They sat in silence, never realizing they had stumbled upon a modern day Pandora’s Box.
The Devil's Claw Page 5