by R. R. Irvine
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it had to be someone with clout, that’s for sure.”
He rubbed his forehead without raising his eyes. “God, I think I’ve known something was wrong all along. I never said anything to the others in the flight. What was the sense? It was over and done with. But on one of my passes, I got close enough to see their faces in the cockpit. I thought they looked like Americans, but I figured I was imagining things. Hell, we’d been told they captured American uniforms along with the plane. Now you tell me I was right all along. That we killed our own and they couldn’t even fight back.”
Tears streamed from his eyes when he raised his head to look at McKinnon. “Your father, too. My God, I’m sorry.”
“You were following orders,” McKinnon said.
Twombly shook his head. “You know what makes it worse? They gave us medals for shooting down that plane. A formal ceremony, with all of us lined up on the runway in front of our planes. Then the next day, we were ordered to the Pacific. Out there, we deserved medals. If what you tell me is true, and I believe it is, I can’t help thinking they were trying to get rid of us. That’s why we got all the shit details. Hell, we weren’t much better off than kamikazes. I guess we were an embarrassment to the bastards, because they’d made a mistake about that B-17 being captured.”
“And if it wasn’t a mistake?” Nick said.
“It had to be. Why else would they order one of our own planes shot down?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Bastards, that’s what they are. An old man like me ought to be able to die with a clear conscience.”
Nick leaned forward and spoke softly. “Did you know what was going on at Los Alamos back in 1945?”
“We knew that part of the state was a no-fly zone, but we didn’t know why. We figured something secret was going on, but nobody suspected the bomb.”
His hands unclasped to grab his knees. “I’d like to have my P-38 with me right now. I’d strafe a few of the bastards, that’s for sure.”
“I know how you feel,” McKinnon said. “But we don’t know who to shoot.”
“Maybe I should start writing letters to the newspapers or some damned thing.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Nick said. “One newspaper has already retracted its story about my discovery of the Scorpion.”
“You mean I’m supposed to just sit here and do nothing after what you’ve told me?”
She hesitated to say more, but if she didn’t, he might blunder around and get himself killed. “I’ll make you a promise, Mr. Twombly.”
“Joe.”
“All right, Joe. Here’s the deal. When we get to the bottom of this, I’ll pass the information on to you.”
“No offense,” he said, “but people, especially young ones like yourself, get busy with their own lives and forget about old geezers like me. So give me your phone number and I’ll keep in touch. That way, I’ll know who to strafe if I can find myself a P- 38.”
Nick glanced at McKinnon, who shrugged.
“I’m not going to be home for a while,” she said, “so I’ll give you my father’s number at the University of New Mexico. He’s not there at the moment, but your call will be forwarded automatically. All you have to do is leave a message and I’ll get it.”
“Fair enough.”
“One more thing. Do you remember the general’s name who gave your squadron the orders?”
“You’d think I would, wouldn’t you? Hellsakes, maybe they never told us, I don’t know. In those days, when you saw someone with three stars, you came to attention, saluted, and stared straight ahead.”
“I’d like to show you a photograph. Actually, it’s a copy of a photograph and pretty damned grainy at that.” She dug into her suitcase for the photocopy she’d obtained from Professor Varney, the one taken at Los Alamos showing Leland Hatch arm in arm with a general.
“That’s him, all right,” Twombly said without hesitation. “I remember the other guy, too, the one standing next to the general.” Twombly pointed at Leland Hatch. “That’s the civilian the general brought with him.”
“You didn’t say anything before about a civilian,” McKinnon said.
“I didn’t remember him until I saw the photograph.”
“Do you know his name?” McKinnon asked.
“Nobody ever said, I don’t think.”
“Did the civilian say anything?” Nick said.
Twombly shook his head. “Whatever he had to say, he whispered it in the general’s ear.”
CHAPTER 32
By the time Nick and McKinnon were ready to leave the Twombly house, the distant thunderheads she had seen earlier were directly overhead. The temperature had plummeted, from somewhere in the eighties down far enough to raise a shiver along her arms. Of course, Twombly’s photographic identification of Leland Hatch had aided and abetted her cold chill.
Twombly, who’d followed Nick and McKinnon outside, took one look at the thunderheads and insisted on calling them a cab. While they waited, he said, “Usually I walk to the airport, but today . . .” With a shake of his head, he stared up at the threatening sky.
“It’s a bad day to fly that small plane of yours,” McKinnon said.
“Mostly I just watch these days. Takeoffs and landings, and maybe kibitz with some of the other old-timers. I still fly, though, when the mood hits me. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I’m young again and flying a P-38.”
He grinned. “And you know what? My hands still squeeze the gun handles, and my thumb still reaches for the cannon button. Four fifty-calibers and a twenty-millimeter. That’s one hell of a lot of firepower. A B-17 could take a lot, though, not like the kills I had in the Pacific before they shot me down. Still, it was a miracle that B-17 didn’t explode in midair.”
When the cab arrived, Nick said, “We can give you a lift to the airport, if you’d like.”
Nodding, Twombly climbed into the front of the taxi just as the first rain began falling. “It’s best to leave the backseat for the paying clients,” he told the driver.
At the airport, Twombly followed them into the waiting area, sitting with them while they waited to board the next flight to the Bay Area.
“You’ve brought back a lot of memories,” he said, “and not all of them bad. We were a tight-knit group, the twelve of us in my squadron. We were young enough to think we were immortal, even though the odds were that all of us wouldn’t be coming back. I figured, like everybody else, that it wouldn’t happen to me. But one survivor out of twelve is worse than bad luck.”
“I’m sorry to have caused you pain,” Nick said. “But I had to know what happened out there in the desert.”
“The three best friends I ever had in my life were in that squadron. Henry Eames, Dick Gilchrist, and Gil Holcomb. If they were here right now, they’d be raising hell, knowing we were lied to, that we shot down our own men. They’d want me to do something. Dick and Gil burned, you know. That’s the way fighter pilots go usually.”
Nick touched his hand. “They’d want you to stay alive,” she said. “And keep their memories alive, too.”
Twombly shook his head. “Somebody’s got to pay.”
“That’s why we came to see you,” McKinnon said. “Working for the IRS makes me an expert on collecting what’s owed.”
When the boarding call came, Twombly took Nick’s hand. “I don’t blame you for the truth. Hellsakes, I’m glad you came. You’ve given me something to look forward to. Justice for those boys on that B-17. Otherwise, it was nothing but murder.”
Once the 727 broke through the thunderheads into clear air, Nick used the cellular phone in the seat back ahead of her to call her answering machine. The thought crossed her mind that her phone might be bugged, but in that case it was already too late. There was one message, from Marcia Sheppard. “I just got back from showing the dog tag to Professor Yoshida. He’s very excited about it and wants to see you. He’ll be in my office at nine tomorr
ow morning. If you can’t make it, let me know.”
Nick passed the message on to McKinnon, then consulted her address book before phoning the Zuni Cafe in Cibola, where it was dinnertime.
“It’s a good thing you’re not here,” Elliot said as soon as he came on the line. “Mom Bennett’s fixed turkey and dressing again.”
Maybe she was tired; maybe talking to Joe Twombly had been too stressful. Whatever the case, just the mention of turkey and dressing made her queasy.
“Are you all right?” McKinnon asked over the engine noise.
She nodded in mid-swallow, wondering how long bad memories last. A lifetime. Twombly was proof of that.
“Where are you?” Elliot asked.
“Somewhere over Idaho, on our way back to San Francisco.”
“Who’s with you?”
“His name’s Ross McKinnon. His father was on the Scorpion.” “Jesus.”
“You’ll like him,” Nick said, deciding now was not the time to explain that McKinnon wasn’t actually related to the father he was named after. In a way she envied McKinnon his cloudy lineage. In her case, she knew what genes she carried along with the worry that one day she too would fall prey to a dark depression.
“Why Idaho?” Elliot asked.
Briefly, Nick summarized her interview with Joe Twombly.
“That’s hard to believe,” Elliot said when she finished. “He actually told you they’d been ordered to shoot down the Scorpion?”
“Yes.”
“And he identified this man Hatch?”
“That’s right and there’s more. Ken Drysdale is dead.” Haltingly, she filled in the details as reported by the Alabama State Police.
When she finished her father said, “For your own safety, Nick, I think you ought to be back here with me. Bring this man, McKinnon, with you if you’d like.”
“I can’t drop this, not yet.”
“I’m coming after you, daughter. Somebody’s got to keep an eye on you.”
She relayed the comment to McKinnon, who said, “I’ve already volunteered for that job.”
“Did you hear that?” she asked her father.
“How old is this man?”
“Younger than you’d think.”
“Please,” Elliot said. “I need you here.”
“I have an appointment tomorrow morning.”
“Let me speak to this McKinnon.”
Nick handed over the phone, watching as McKinnon listened, nodding occasionally. Finally he said, “I think you’re right, Mr. Scott. We’d all be safer there.”
Nick grabbed McKinnon’s arm. “We don’t want to get ourselves trapped in the middle of that desert without any witnesses around.”
McKinnon leaned against Nick so she could listen in. “Did you hear what your daughter said?”
“Yes,” Elliot answered.
“She has a point, but I think I’ve got the solution. I work for the IRS, Mr. Scott. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re paranoid about security. Our offices have bulletproof glass and unlisted addresses in some cases. We also have an internal security system for those times when we have to go into the field looking for tax evaders. Once we get to Cibola, I’ll call in my location. After that, if I don’t check in every twelve hours, my people will send in the FBI to rescue us.”
“Excellent,” Elliot said. “When can I expect you here?”
McKinnon gave Nick a questioning look.
“Late tomorrow,” she said into the phone.
“If you’re not here by dark, I’ll be coming after you,” Elliot said.
“Would you really abandon the Anasazi for me?” Nick teased.
Her father chuckled. “I found another kiva and want you as a witness and an independent check on my work.”
“Cannibalized bones?”
“That and water. Both ritual, both controlled by their shaman, would be my guess, though I don’t intend to do any guessing in writing quite yet.”
“Where’s the new kiva?” Nick asked, picturing the cave in her mind. A second kiva there would have had to be above-ground and should have turned up long before now.
“Nearly a quarter of a mile from the cave, over the old riverbed if my calculations are correct. That’s why I think water may have played a greater role in ritual life than we originally thought.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Now let me speak to your friend alone,” Elliot said. “Man to man.”
A few moments later, McKinnon hung up the cellular phone and grinned at Nick. “Your father’s very protective.”
“What did he say?”
McKinnon wiggled an eyebrow. “He mentioned something about shotguns.”
She aimed a gentle elbow at his ribs.
He leaned across the seat to kiss her on the forehead. Loosening her seat belt, she adjusted his aim until their lips touched. A definite improvement, she thought. A little more electricity and he’d be right up there with B-17s and proof that the Anasazis had one another for dinner.
CHAPTER 33
Marcia was waiting outside her office at nine the next morning. As usual, she looked ready for a fashion show in her black-and-gold striped trouser suit and V-neck red vest.
“Professor Yoshida is waiting inside,” she said. “Your dog tag is on the desk.”
“Aren’t you joining us?” Nick asked.
Marcia shook her head. “With a man like Akihiro Yoshida, you wait to be invited. I wasn’t.”
“I’m going in,” McKinnon said.
Marcia shrugged. “I have a class anyway. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Nick knocked and entered the office, with McKinnon right behind her. Professor Yoshida rose from behind Marcia’s desk to greet them. In his dark suit, white shirt, and conservative tie he looked more like a politician than a teacher. His head was shaved, making his age difficult to read, but he had to be in his sixties at least. Nodding, he came around the desk to shake hands formally, then waited for Nick to be seated before returning to his chair.
“Ms. Sheppard told me about your discovery,” Yoshida said. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Scott, I’d like to hear it for myself.”
Carefully, aware that he was a professor emeritus, she detailed her discovery of the Scorpion. As she spoke, he stared at the dog tag on the desktop.
When she finished, he said, “Describe the scorpion that was painted on the nose.”
“It was bright yellow with red eyes. Its tail and stinger were raised as if poised to strike.”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s how the story goes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“As you know, my area of expertise is the Japanese military during World War Two. I was born in this country but was interned along with my parents. The war was a turning point in my life, and I’ve been studying it and its effects ever since. Your Manabe”—he tapped the dog tag—“was a member of the Japanese General Staff who disappeared mysteriously late in the war. Some say he was killed in an air raid and his body never found. Others say he’s still alive. The point is, a lot of people, myself included, thought he was more myth than man.”
Nick and McKinnon exchanged bewildered looks.
“I know what this must sound like,” Yoshida went on, holding up a hand to forestall argument. “But hear me out. A story arose in Japan after the war. You might call it a fairy tale or an urban myth. Most people give it no more credence than those stories you hear about automobiles that would run on water if they weren’t suppressed by the oil companies. Or the match that lights forever. In Japan, this particular myth is called the Manabe Mission. Had it succeeded, or so the story goes, the atomic bomb wouldn’t have been dropped and hundreds of thousands of lives would have been saved.”
Yoshida shook his head. “Seeing this identity disk and knowing where you found it makes me think the story is true.”
Hair rose on the back of Nick’s neck.
“Scorpion was Manabe’s code name. It was a deliberate misnomer. It was meant to so
und aggressive, to deceive the war lovers on the General Staff, but it actually referred to a peace mission. Hitoshi Manabe was its envoy. Secretly, he was sent by the emperor to meet with the president in Washington. He was to have been flown there on a B-17. But, as the story goes, the plane was shot down and the result was Hiroshima and Nagasaki.”
“A B-17 has a crew of ten,” Nick said. “But there were eleven bodies on the Scorpion.”
He nodded. “There’s more to the story. The president had promised safe conduct, at least that’s the way I’ve heard it told.”
“We talked to one of the pilots who shot it down. They were told the plane had been captured by the Japanese and was on a suicide mission.”
Yoshida closed his fist around the dog tag. “It’s true, then. The war lovers intervened. There’s no other explanation.”
“Does the myth mention any other names?” Nick asked.
“Some versions mention meetings in Switzerland with diplomats and generals alike, but those figures are always vague and shadowy.”
“Does the name Leland Hatch mean anything to you?” Nick said.
“He was at Los Alamos, I know that much. And he’s very rich and very powerful.”
“His name has come up in connection with the Scorpion.”
Yoshida stood up. “I’m an old man. I have little to lose. If I were your age, I would forget I ever heard the name Manabe. Or Leland Hatch for that matter.”
CHAPTER 34
Hatch gave no thanks for the report, but merely hung up the telephone. Good intelligence cost money; thanks weren’t necessary, except to himself for having the foresight to provide backup.
But from now on, that wouldn’t be good enough. Impersonal phone calls, technology, and satellite uplinks could only do so much. From now on, he didn’t want to hear that the Scorpion, and everyone involved, was dead and buried. He wanted to see it done with his own eyes. That way, nothing could ever come back to haunt him again.
He called his son, who arrived less than a minute later.
“Kemp is waiting for me in Albuquerque,” Hatch told him without preamble. “I’ll be leaving for the airport as soon as you and I reach an agreement here. And one thing’s certain. We’re going to have to get our hands dirty.”