Jake saw the pain in the woman's eyes, as he began to tell his story. "Last fall when I was on a hunting expedition I headed into the isolated interior in an area where the forest companies have not begun to cut. So it was virgin territory. The group who I was with, were well versed in back packing and we wanted to head up to a higher elevation before going into the valley where a trapper once had a cabin. We were planning to use it as a base camp.
The weather was warm and the trail of some Dall sheep allowed us to make good time going up. It was from the peak that I noticed something. It was an army water bottle. How it got up there was a mystery and it got me interested in what else might be up there. That's when I found part of a plane's fuselage and right wing with two engine pods still attached. The rest of the plane may have broken up and skipped down the slope or continued on its downward path into the next valley. We never found anything more to it."
She listened and he noted that her hands were clenched into fists as if his words were striking her.
"Did you recognize the type of plane?" she asked in a quiet voice.
"No, not then, but it was big and the engines were pointing backward. So I did some homework. It was the special version of the B-36 Peacemaker!"
The blood vessel along her temple seemed to throb. "I want you to take me back up there!"
There was no doubt at all that she was serious, deadly serious.
"Sarah, I don't really understand what's happening here. The military have already been notified and from what I heard from my trapper friends that mountaintop had a whole squad of people combing the area. What can you possibly hope to find?"
He saw a little bit of doubt come into her eyes. "You see I never knew my father. My life has always been without a father figure. I didn't have brothers or sisters. Life for me was lonely. The military have been hiding the facts about that flight for years. Now we know at least one of its secrets. Have you ever heard of 'Fat Boy'?"
Jake knew what Fat Boy was, as did most of the world when it came to the name of one of two first atomic bombs dropped over Japan.
"Are you saying that your father's plane was carrying atomic weapons?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I am saying. My father was a radiation technician. There was no other reason for him to be on that flight. The military have a code word when it loses one of its bombs it's called a Broken Arrow. That flight was one of the first Broken Arrow flights. Everything, even the interviews of the surviving 12 crew members is classified. It seems that five people were lost --either drowned in the ocean or lost in the wilderness or smashed to pulp when the plane hit that mountainside. The plane, the B-36, was specially designed to carry nuclear weapons and was supposed to be carrying a crew of 15. There were 2 more than normal. No one is giving out any information even 23 years later."
Jake felt uncomfortable. This woman was almost pleading with him to take her back up there. What could she possibly find? Yet he knew the request was not impossible. With the fast approaching freeze up he'd soon have to shut down his Underwater Rafting business. Then for a narrow time frame he might be able to return to where that plane had gone down.
"What sort of time frame are you thinking about?"
"I'm ready to go right now. I've even booked a room at your only motel for as long as it takes. So are you saying yes?"
"Well, I'm not saying no! I have a few things to put to bed first and right now you aren't one of them. Now that's unfortunate. But maybe I can get you to help us do another run on the barge tomorrow. One of the crew has some family problems and when we are under-crewed things can get difficult. It might speed things up and we'll at least get to know each other a little better. This trek is no little thing. Up there it's a hard land and man is never a welcomed visitor."
By the time Jake returned to his small trailer his head was pounding. His dinner with Sarah Redbourne and her strange request only added to his troubles. The demands from his suppliers for payment and the early frost, things were too hectic and his mind rebelled. He knew in fact that it was more from lack of sleep than anything else. Now he had at least something pleasant to think or dream about. Sarah Redbourne was a damned fine looking woman, but with those brains and those looks she'd have at least a dozen men chasing after her. Hell, it would be worse that a pack of male dogs on the trail of a bitch in heat. He stopped himself from his lustful thoughts. She hadn't given any indication she was that sort or if she was available. Yet he noticed that she wore no ring on the ring finger of her left hand. Did that mean anything? All he knew was she had a strength that might be needed if they went up that mountain. The weather could turn on a dime and it would be easy to be marooned and left to die. It wouldn't be the first late in the season hunting trip that turned sour. Even men with more survival skills than he possessed had met their match when old Mother Nature got cantankerous. As he fell asleep Sarah's face was still in his mind. With her pert nose, brass coloured hair and eyes that sparkled emerald green it made a man appreciate the finer things in life.
* * *
In the flak-filled skies over Germany you couldn't think beyond the windscreen. You couldn't plan for tomorrow or the time you'd be going home for good. No, you just had to concentrate 100% on surviving that moment. You prayed that one of those Messerschmitt Jets with their huge cannons wouldn't shoot up from nowhere and blast you out of the sky. That plane was so fast that there was no defence. If it got your number then you were a goner. Hell, he had seen too many planes flying level suddenly turn turtle as if someone had cut out the plane's heart and then turn like a cork screw in a macabre death spiral down to the hard killing ground.
But once you saw the plane above or beside you receive its fatal blow you gritted your teeth and maybe breathed for the first time since the gun crews screamed their warning of incoming angels. You hardly ever saw the last stages of those planes' death; no, you just crossed your heart and plowed on at a monotonous speed toward the target for the night. Hopefully you'd get a chance to release your bombs. The plane almost seemed happy to be rid of its pendulous weight like a woman after giving birth. Then if the ground was not obscured by smoke the bombardier might have done his magic and actually hit something that could stop the war before you raced for home.
Death was a frequent visitor. You tried to laugh it off, but each plane that was lost was a loss of a friend. It was better not to make friends. Then you didn't feel the hurt as much. But when you touched terra firma you knew you had beaten the odds one more time. Yet, even though you plied yourself with the cheap booze and tried to be as crazy at the next man, you knew that the odds always had a way of dealing you your last hand when you least expected it. The story of Wild Bill Hiccock and his death hand had always made him feel cold and fearful. When your death hand comes up you have no choice but to play it. Take the chance where everything was against you and hope you could beat the odds.
That's what happened in his second last flight. He had already lost his second aircraft but no one was killed. He had waited until everyone had hit the silk before bailing out. The navy rescued them. He hadn't felt the fear of death that time.
He was being posted to instructor's school back in Canada --to their huge flight school operation. In fact it was in Canada that most of the flight crews were trained. He read somewhere that over 150,000 men had gone through it so far. The meat grinder of war demanded more and more replacements. He had even begun to think he would survive.
There is a fatal time after completing your bomb run and heading for home as fast as you could coax the engines. That was when you started to daydream. That's when a lone fighter creeps from the blackness of the land below and plucks your string. He still remembered the shock of feeling cannon shells rip through the cockpit killing his co-pilot. He still remembered hearing the screams from back in the fuselage as the fire intensified. The cries from the tail-gunner still could be heard in his bubble too frightened to escape, as the fighter returned to finish off the smoking bomber.
He had surv
ived, but three of his crew had not. He had somehow landed on the water and slid up onto a deserted beach on the friendly side of the English Channel. He had foiled the death stalker again.
After his stint of six months in the Canadian air training school he was reassigned to a top-secret program. He and several other pilots were involved in a secret mission. His was the fourth plane. The first two were operational, a third was on standby and his crew and plane were held in reserve. Oh, he flew the training flights. He practiced dropping just one bomb. He knew how vital it was to bank away from the implosive zone. He just wasn't prepared for the films of total destruction of two mid-sized Japanese cities. He was aghast at the thought that one bomb could snuff out up to 100,000 individuals in a blink of an eye and the only tell tale sign was the gigantic mushroom cloud. He never had to inflict another of those Fat Boys' on another city. The war ended with the total capitulation of the Japanese.
Now their enemy was the Soviet Union. The very nation they had saved from destruction by the Nazis was now threatening the Western World. He didn't quite understand it. But some of the top brass believed that war was inevitable. He didn't know. All he knew was it was their job was to practice bombing real cities. There was no way they could slip into Russia and pretend so their own cities were used as silent victims. At least once a week a huge bomber with its lethal load of an improved atomic bomb was aimed at the various cities at heart of his nation. The flights would be dry runs for the real thing. Every time he made it he learned to follow the designed flight path and hone his skills to a precise point so that when the war with the Red Bear took place all of Russia's principle cities could be destroyed.
All this flying and practicing had another unexpected affect. Some enterprising newspaper journalist had written a scathing article on the air force and its night raids.
The title of the article in itself was controversial, but that's what sold newspapers. He and his fellow pilots and crews had been insulted and angered by it. The lead "Bomb Them in Peace Time" and the details of the nightly practice bombing runs against most of the major American cities was unknown to the public until now. The article had resulted in hundreds of phone calls from irate citizens indignant that their lives were being placed in danger because of the military mind and the warmongers in the government.
Military news conferences did not reduced public anger. When a reporter suggested that the bombers were carrying atomic weapons in their nightly runs on American cities, it almost created a revolt in Congress and the Senate.
The end result hadn't changed the practice, but it had increased the security. No longer was the press considered an ally. No longer were tours given of their flagships and no one was allowed to talk without direct orders. He could understand the reaction by top brass. The old system of closing ranks was a typical reaction and that's how they handled this newest criticism.
He also understood the need for the nightly practice runs. Without the crews maintaining the highest level of training, mistakes would be made and more American lives would be lost when the real war occurred.
So every other night he and his fellow bombers did their duty. They just did it with more determination and more secrecy.
Chapter Two - The Begining
Sarah had difficulty in getting to sleep. She was tired and even exhausted by the suddenly change in her circumstances. At least at her dig sites she had control. There she was respected. Her team of archaeologists and the dozens of labourers were slowly uncovering the hidden past. She knew it the moment she uncovered the little carving. The face and the style and the very physical essence were classical Roman. As she held it she felt she had found something akin to the Hope Diamond. Here was the proof that long before the Vikings, Columbus, or even Cabot came to North America, European visitors had already landed on our the shores.
Now she had to fight all the skeptics. She had carried out her dig in such a manner that it was not difficult to chronicle that the time lines of civilization of the Aztecs and pre-Aztecs by various layers of earth. Finding a Roman carving at a 12-foot level with all the rest of the human artifacts was enough in itself to reduce the charges of an elaborate hoax. No one knew she was going to pick this field in this abandoned and desolate area of the Yucatan Peninsula to begin an archaeological investigation. She had not begun her dig to prove that the Romans had reached North America. That had never crossed her mind. She was here to discover more about the pre-Aztec civilizations. She wanted to know how the Aztecs had taken over or supplanted the earlier tribes. What was it like when the Spanish came into Mexico? Was the population relegated to slaves or butchered like the Spanish style of conquest? That's what she wanted to discover. But that goal was quickly eclipsed with the discovery of the Roman carving.
Now she was thinking about Jake Dorchet. Both at the barge and then at dinner she had the impression he was laughing at her. He was an odd character. From what she knew of him and that was not very much, he seemed to be out of place here. She had discovered that he had been one of the shining lights on the New York Stock Exchange. So why had he abandoned it to work as a glorified labourer on a questionable barge that hardly looked seaworthy? To retrieve submerged timbers seemed rather tame and uninteresting compared to life in the fast lane. That had troubled her. Why had he changed his lifestyle so dramatically? But he seemed to be perfectly at peace with himself. He was no slouch. She had been surprised when he had recognized her, and obviously having read about her discovery. He wasn't easy to pigeonhole. He was obviously too complex for that. Was that the reason he was laughing at her?
She could easily ignore most men. Oh, some were rather handsome while others were not worth the effort. She had not needed a male companion. No, she was more interested in digging up the past of man than starting a future with one. But why then was this Jake so disturbing?
Tomorrow she had agreed to help him on his barge, as a replacement for a crew member who was needed elsewhere. What did she know of recovering waterlogged timbers? She'd be more in the way than a help. But she knew too that if she wanted this mountain man to help her get to the crash site, which might hold clues to what actually happened to her father, then she had to do her part. Heck, she might even learn something. She might even knock him with that frustrating and superior attitude into the water. That would shock him. She wasn't too sure whether she liked the way his eyes had taken her in. God men were beasts at times. She had seen the slight embarrassment in his eyes when he discovered that she knew he was mentally undressing her. But then she had to admit he seemed to like what he had imagined, although men rarely imagined a less than perfect form. Why should she worry? She was what she was. She didn't try and attract men. If she was considered attractive then that was a gift. But she wasn't too sure why he was laughing at her. It was a disturbing thought. What did he know and why did she care?
* * *
Marcus looked at the centurion who lay in the dust, drunk on duty, the wineskin still oozing its elixir. It was not the first soldier he had seen that day who was in this condition. More and more seemed to be seeking the mind altering state of drunken oblivion. His vision of the elite Roman legion was lost forever. These were poorly paid young men who had no hope and no future.
Seeing this last soldier lying face up at the guard station confirmed in his mind that his actions were right and the only ones available to him.
His friends might call him a coward, but they too were doing the only thing they could. Already the hordes of frightened peasants and merchants, women and children were streaming south. They were seeking refuge from a horde of avenging horsemen who were plundering the very heart of the Roman provinces. The tales of butchery and excesses were now daily news. No longer did living near the centre of Rome offer any protection. The legions had melted away under the unstoppable forward march of the Mongols. Just the name of Attila the Hun was enough to start a panic. Nothing seemed to be able to stop them. Men were killed in a frenzied zeal while the women became tools to be lusted o
ver until the sexual urges of these savages were satisfied in the rutting and debauchery. After they were used they too faced the spear thrusts. Only the exception beauty was kept to service the commanders and minor chiefs. Their end would be worse than those who were fortunate enough to quickly die. Even the houses of pleasure with women from all over the Empire were given protection and some form of living. There were rules and in a civilized society just because you earned your centimes from lying on your back was no excuse for being raped to death.
No, he had no choice. It had taken him months of planning, but his family and several relations had been gathering supplies in secret. Gold had passed through several hands and soon the two vessels would be ready to take them away. The journey might take them weeks, but in order to get away before the Huns storming into their area, it was necessary. He didn't mind dying fighting for his family, but to know his children would be slaughtered and his wife, sister and sisters-in-law would be used because they were all attractive women in the prime of their womanhood was more than he could stomach. More than one man had lusted over them so they would be kept until they would wish for death. He was not abandoning his home or his country. He was seeking asylum in one of Rome's distant possessions. In Britain, the land first conquered by Julius Caesar, he at least had a chance to live without the threat of the Huns coming to liquidate everything that was Roman. From his history lessons, he had learned about the times from Julius Caesar to the two hundred years that Britain had flourished as a satellite of Rome. He turned and looked at the poor soldier. He would have no place to go. Death on the spearhead of a Hun was a horrible way to end life. Life here would no longer be the same once Attila crossed the Rubicund. He turned and urged his horse forward. He had little time and many things to do.
The power of Rome had been failing over the last one hundred years. No longer was there a leader who had a broad understanding of the Roman Empire. Once her legions had ruled the world, from the Byzantine Empire in the east to Britain on the edge of civilization. Africa and all areas around the Mediterranean were all subservient to Rome. But now her leaders were mired in the petty politics of family compacts, buying favours and watching their backs to avoid the blades of assassins. Rome was just a ghost of what she had been and still could be. It was the way the possibilities were disappearing, one by one that made his heart so sorrowful. He had served in the legions and fought the Visigoths, the Gauls and the dozens of tribes who resented having the power of Rome in their backyard. He had heard and experienced the war chants and the clash of sword against shield. He had faced the sweat and sinews of Rome's enemies. It was a good life, filled with camaraderie and fellowship. But a spear thrust in his right thigh had stopped all that. The wound had never healed properly and it was still very painful to walk or stand for any length of time. Five years has passed but he still felt the slicing of the spearhead as it buried itself deep into his flesh.
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