Track of the Scorpion

by R. R. Irvine

  TRACK OF THE SCORPION

  R.R. IRVINE

  WRITING AS VAL DAVIS

  To Frank Ashley for his memories

  Copyright © 1996 by Val Davis. All Rights Reserved.

  First ebook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN: 978-1-4821-0216-1

  Library ISBN: 978-1-62460-679-3

  Cover photograph © iStock.com.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  PROLOGUE

  January 1945

  An Island in the Pacific

  It had been raining for three days, with a low overcast that made everything outside the four-engine B-17 bomber look as gray as a navy paint job. One hundred yards out from the plane, a small army of MPs had set up a security perimeter. All incoming and outgoing air traffic into the island had been either canceled or diverted, and would continue to be banned until well after the takeoff.

  Navigator Ross McKinnon left his seat and moved forward to join the bombardier, Howard Kelly, who was peering through the nose cone at the wind-driven rain pelting the Plexiglas.

  “Christ,” Kelly said, “nothing ever changes. Hurry up and wait. That’s the army. We could have stayed in bed another hour and a half.”

  McKinnon leaned forward to wipe mist from the Plexi. “What kind of visibility do you think we’ve got?”

  Kelly squinted. “A quarter of a mile at least. No sweat. Our intrepid captain could take off in a blizzard.”

  “It’s more like a hundred yards, if you ask me. I can’t see the MPs anymore.”

  Kelly sighed and wiped his own peephole. “There you go. Two o’clock, big as life. No wonder they washed you out of pilot training. Maybe we ought to have your eyes tested before we take off. I wouldn’t want to get lost now that we’re going home.”

  “I’ll get you there.”

  The pilot, Captain Dennis Atwood, came on the interphone. “Decker, do you see anything?”

  Technical Sergeant Paul Decker, their upper turret gunner, had been issued binoculars for the mission. “Nothing’s happening on the beach, sir. They’re just standing around like they’ve been doing since we got here. The colonel’s pacing back and forth waving his arms at the MPs and looking mad as hell. Situation normal, all fucked up.”

  “I told you,” Kelly said to McKinnon off-mike. “That beach is four hundred yards if it’s a foot. If Decker can see that far, we’ve got plenty of visibility for a takeoff.”

  McKinnon returned to his seat and plugged into the interphone system before retrieving his diary from the map case. Keeping it there was strictly against regulations, but it was the safest place in the cramped navigator’s compartment. Not only was the map case made of steel, but it sealed out most of the moisture and mildew that made life on the islands in the Pacific so miserable.

  He opened the diary, spread it on his navigator’s table, and made his first entry of the day. Sunday, January 7, 1945. Midway Island. Rain for the third day in a row. Temperature, 66.

  He closed his eyes and thought about his wife until Atwood said, “Anyone got to take a leak?”

  Slipping the diary inside his flight suit, McKinnon dropped through the forward entry hatch and moved away from the plane to relieve himself. In the open air, he saw that Kelly had been right. Visibility was a quarter of a mile at least, not that it mattered. There was nothing to run into; the only hill on Midway was six feet high.

  Above him, copilot John Curtis cracked open the cockpit’s side window. “Are we lost yet, Ross?”

  McKinnon pointed east, toward Japan. “That’s the way home, I think.”

  “The captain wants to turn over the props.”

  Technically, McKinnon knew, the propellers didn’t have to be turned over unless they’d been standing for two hours or more.

  “Are you asking for a volunteer?” McKinnon said.

  “You’re already wet.”

  McKinnon zipped up his fly and went to work. Ashton and the other waist gunner, Jim Parish, joined him so that nobody had to get too wet.

  When Curtis gave him a thumbs-up signal, McKinnon climbed back inside the B-17, settled into his seat, and turned to a fresh page in his diary.

  My Dearest Lael,

  I’m writing to you from on board my plane, while we’re waiting to take off on a special mission. They’ve promised us leave when we’re done. If all goes well, I’ll be able to deliver this letter in person, my love. I’ll be able to hold you in my arms again. Sometimes I wake up at night and think I smell your perfume, but when I open my eyes all I smell is mildew and old tent canvas.

  He paused, thinking about the censors and wondering if he should write anything personal, especially since their mission was so secret. Finally, he shook his head and went back to the letter.

  We’ve renamed our ship. Our sexy pinup has been replaced by a scorpion. It wasn’t our idea. It was orders, but I’m not supposed to write about that. Anyway, we’ve now got a mean-looking scorpion painted on the nose. It’s bright yellow with red eyes. If the Japs ever get close enough to us to see it, it ought to scare the you-know-what out of them.

  Atwood came on the interphone. “We’re picking up war news from the tower.”

  The pilot switched the shortwave broadcast to the B-17“s internal radio system. “In Europe, U.S. and British forces have advanced three miles along the Germans’ northern flank in Belgium. Our casualties have been light, while enemies’ losses have been described as extremely heavy.”

  “Sheeit,” Kelly cut in. “Get to the important news, will you? Are we clobbering the Japs or not? I don’t want to have to come all the way back here after we get home.”

  The radio announcer continued. “In the Pacific, our carrier-based planes attacked in Formosa, sinking twenty-five Japanese ships and destroying one hundred eleven enemy aircraft.”

  “That’s more like it,” Kelly whooped.

  Sergeant Decker’s voice broke in. “Captain, submarine surfacing now.”

  “I see it.”

  Atwood began his start-up procedures, switching off the turbo controls, opening the fuel shutoff valves, and cracking the throttles while his copilot, John Curtis, checked hydraulic pressure, cowl flaps, intercooler, and fire extinguisher controls. Finally, one by one, the twelve-hundred-horsepower Curtiss-Wright engines roared to life.

  “They’re coming ashore in a rubber boat,” Decker said on the interphone.

  Atwood scanned the gauges again, and looked at his copilot, who nodded that everything was okay.

  “They’re on the beach, Captain. One of them looks like a goddamn general
.”

  “That’s probably our passenger,” the pilot said. “Remember security. Nothing specific, not even on the interphone.”

  “Nobody said anything about generals.”

  “I have him in sight now,” the pilot said. “You can stow your binoculars, Decker, and stand by for takeoff. Ashton, you and Parish see to our passenger when he comes aboard.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the waist gunner.

  “Sir,” Decker said, “now that he’s closer, I think he’s an admiral.”

  “What would you expect from a submarine?”

  The moment the fuselage door closed, the B-17 began rolling down the tarmac. It’s bright, freshly painted nose art, an attacking scorpion, gleamed in the prop wash.

  Thirteen hundred miles later, the Scorpion put down at Hickam Field in Honolulu, taxiing to the end of an auxiliary runway that had been sealed off in advance by military policemen. A ground crew was waiting with a fuel truck and immediately began topping off the B-17“s fuel tanks.

  Atwood spoke to the tower. “My passenger would like to stretch his legs.”

  “Negative, Scorpion. No one is to leave the plane.”

  “What about a ground inspection?”

  “Our ground crew will take care of it.”

  “Bullshit,” Curtis said on the interphone. “That’s a pilot’s prerogative. Are you going to let them get away with it?”

  “We volunteered, didn’t we?” Atwood tapped his copilot on the shoulder to point out that the MPs surrounding the plane were carrying Thompson sub-machine guns.

  “You are clear to take off,” the tower said. “Radio silence is now in effect until you reach your next destination.”

  “I don’t like it,” Curtis said.

  “Tell me that when we’re home.”

  The flight to Hamilton Field north of San Francisco, the staging area for B-17 traffic across the Pacific, took a little less than fourteen hours. Once again the tower directed the Scorpion to taxi to a remote parking area, where a fuel truck, a ground crew, and MPs were already waiting.

  Even after the engines were cut, Atwood continued to feel the vibrations. His copilot looked as exhausted as he felt, and they still had another twenty-five hundred miles to go.

  Atwood grabbed his mike and spoke to the tower. “We’re out of sandwiches, the toilet’s full, and we need some rest.”

  “A mess truck and portable toilet are on the way.”

  “What about a few hours’ sleep?”

  “You know your destination. Important people are waiting for you there.”

  Their orders had been specific. The destination, Washington, D.C., was never to be mentioned on the radio.

  While they were eating, a meteorologist came on board to brief them on the weather conditions over the continental United States. A storm front was centered over the Rocky Mountains, running all the way from Canada south into Colorado. To avoid it, they would be routed south, across Arizona, New Mexico, the Texas panhandle, and Oklahoma before gradually veering north. Snow flurries were predicted along the East Coast, but nothing serious enough to warrant aborting the mission. Weather updates would be transmitted to them when available.

  As soon as the meteorologist left, an ordnance truck arrived, driven by a technical sergeant who had orders to remove all .50-caliber ammunition now that the Scorpion was out of the war zone. The bomb racks had been empty since takeoff.

  “I feel naked,” Decker said immediately from his top turret.

  “I don’t think we’re going to run into any Zeros,” Atwood answered. “Now, check in.”

  When all crew members were accounted for, including their passenger, Atwood took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.

  “Scorpion,” the tower said, “you are cleared for start-up.”

  Atwood glanced at his copilot. “Let’s go by the book, John. I don’t want to make any mistakes now that we’re home.”

  When they’d completed the checklist, Atwood called his navigator on the interphone. “How’s our passenger, McKinnon?”

  “Safe and sound and talking about baseball.”

  “Okay, fasten his seat belt. We’re on our way.”

  McKinnon tracked their progress closely on his maps, calling out state lines and points of interest along the way. California’s Death Valley and Arizona’s Grand Canyon were behind them when he said, “As of right now, we’re crossing into New Mexico.”

  “If we’re not lost,” Curtis said.

  “Have I ever got us lost?”

  “Only when we’re on the ground.”

  “Keep talking,” the pilot said. “Otherwise I’m going to fall asleep.”

  As the miles passed, the landscape beneath them grew more and more barren, until all signs of vegetation disappeared.

  “Remind me to stay out of New Mexico,” Atwood said.

  “You should see it through my bombsight,” Kelly answered. “I’d be doing the state a favor if I bombed the place.”

  “We’ve got ourselves an escort,” Decker said from his top turret. “Little friends at ten o’clock.”

  Atwood, who’d been rubbing his eyes, saw nothing but spots in that part of the sky. “Not Zeroes,” he joked.

  “Ours,” Decker reported. “P-38s. They’re coming down, now.”

  “A beautiful sight,” Curtis said.

  Atwood was still nodding agreement when his mouth dropped open. “What the hell?”

  CHAPTER 1

  August 1996

  New Mexico

  Nick Scott moved to the lip of the cave and shaded her eyes against the blinding sky. Once again the radio had lied. The promised clouds were nowhere to be seen. The sun beat down on the desert as if intent on incinerating the already scarce vegetation. Badlands, the map called this part of New Mexico. An understatement as far as she was concerned. Carry water at all times, the map legend warned. That was fine and dandy when you had a four-wheel drive, but what about the Indians who’d built a civilization here, the Anasazi, the reason for her suffering presence. What had they done for water on brutal days like this?

  Next time stay home, she told herself. Don’t volunteer. The Anasazi were her father’s passion, not hers.

  Fat chance, she thought, laughing at herself. She’d volunteer for a dig anywhere, especially if there was a chance of an important discovery. Hell, any kind of discovery. The thrill of the hunt was what counted. Anasazi Indians, Inca gold, or old airplanes. They were all buried treasure to her, a siren song that couldn’t be resisted.

  With a sigh, Nick spun her Cubs’ baseball cap around until the brim was at the back of her head, then pulled a bandanna from her grubby jeans and mopped her face. Sweat was a good sign, she reminded herself; it meant she was keeping up the proper intake of water-She backed away from the cave entrance, but the sun had reached its zenith, erasing all shade from the cliff dwelling and turning the sandstone cavern into a kiln. Readjusting her cap brim to soften the glare, she checked the thermometer, one of the few items she’d managed to screen from direct sunlight. One hundred and ten degrees. Whoever said only mad dogs and Englishmen went out in the noonday sun had failed to take archaeologists into account.

  Three stories above her, in the Anasazi cliff dwelling named Site ES No. 1 in honor of her father, Elliot Scott, a voice shouted, “Send up more lemonade and beer.”

  She craned her neck and glared at Pete Dees, one of her father’s students, who was lowering a basket on the end of a rope. He was one of ten students who were earning class credits by providing slave labor for her father’s university-sponsored dig.

  “If you don’t mind, please, Dr. Scott, we need more water,” Dees amended.

  She loaded the plastic bottles, a brand she’d never heard of outside of this part of New Mexico, and called, “Make sure my father drinks his full ration.”

  Dees raised the basket without comment. No student, even one verging on a Ph.D., as he was, would dare offer advice to the grand old man of Southwestern archaeology. Not so old, Nick r
eminded herself. Now that she was thirty, her father’s fifty-six didn’t seem that ancient.

  Nick heard a rustling overhead and immediately scanned the rock face above the cliff dwelling. Some twenty feet above the top story, there was a fissure in the rock, a natural chimney for venting smoke from the ancient Anasazi fires. It had become home to a small colony of bats. Nick had climbed among them once, looking for stashed artifacts. What she found was bat dropping and a passage large enough to wiggle through, but only if you were desperate enough. At the moment nothing was moving up there, so maybe the fluttering had been her imagination.

  She opened a liter bottle, her fourth of the day, and drank deeply. Warm, it tasted even worse than what came out of the tap at their motel in town. The town was called Cibola and their motel, the Seven Cities, had probably been named in an attempt to capture the luster of the fabled seven golden cities of Cibola that had lured the Spanish explorer Coronado to New Mexico. Not only did the motel lack luster, it was short on amenities.

  She pulled another bottle from its cardboard carton and checked the seal, wondering if the mayor, who owned the general store, wasn’t substituting local water to boost his profit margin. But the seal looked unbroken.

  She sighed and retreated to the rear of the cave in a vain hope of finding shade. Sweat stung her eyes as she stacked empty water cartons high enough to create a sun screen. Then she sat on the cave’s rocky floor next to the aboveground kiva, wiped her face again, and began bagging and cataloguing the last basketful of artifacts that her father had personally lowered. She wasn’t a recognized expert on the Anasazi—her specialty being historical archaeology, the near past—but she saw nothing to prove her father’s latest theory, that the Anasazi were cannibals. His theory made some kind of sense, considering the landscape. What else was there to eat in such a godforsaken desert? And even the term Anasazi translated as “enemy ancestors,” apt enough if they were eating their relatives, no matter how far distant.

  Gingerly, she leaned against the kiva wall. Usually kivas were pits sunk into the ground, but in bedrock caves such as this one, they had to be constructed at ground level and then surrounded by rocks to create an underground atmosphere. Kivas were the spiritual centers of Anasazi life and were thought of as the sacred entrances into the earth from which the Anasazi’s ancestors had once emerged. Her father had found water jugs in this one, causing him to speculate that in such a desolate location water might have been as much a part of the Anasazi’s religious ritual as human sacrifice.