On that flight, he, and the voices developed a plan. His retribution may not be swift, but it would be painful. And deadly. He struggled with the voices, the debate on collateral damage waging within him. But he lost. The voices won. In time, he agreed with the voices. The loss of innocent lives was the cost of doing business. And his business was revenge.
Tomorrow, his mission would be complete. His collateral damage count would be its highest. They would be mostly military personnel. French, British, American—perhaps a smattering of others. There would be wives, children, innocents . . . this is what had him at odds with the voices. Only he was too weak to fight them.
The soldiers knew what they signed up for when they joined the military, the voices had told him. Yes, but they didn't sign up their families for the fight, he would respond. The voices would flash images of his wife and children being slaughtered, and he would succumb. His wife was innocent. His children were innocent. Yet, there were those who simply looked at them as collateral damage.
The tears flowed as he gasped in deep breaths. He was exhausted. Tomorrow, he would murder potentially hundreds of people. He was doing it all by himself. And it didn’t matter, as long as that French bastard dies. They were the cost of doing business.
Jason awoke on his own about two in the morning because he had to go to the bathroom. He had slept for about five and a half hours. A little more sober now, he watched the video again. He wanted to know as much about the airplane as possible before the flight. He sat in the darkness of his room, absorbing every facet of the aircraft he could. The film was kind of fun after a while, a “retro” look at aviation life.
After he viewed it a second time that morning, Jason took a shower, slid on a pair of faded jeans, and put on a tan button-down. He grabbed his gym bag and wandered down the stairs ten minutes early. The lobby was already filled with other crews, who soon would be headed to the airfield. Coffee and pastries had been set out, and some of the older pilots were well into their second cup and third pastry. Jason grabbed a cup of coffee and a croissant. He smeared it with some strawberry preserves and moved off to the side. Halfway through his croissant, Harry came down the stairs and joined him for coffee.
Jason found a copy of yesterday's Gloucester Citizen, the local paper. On the front page, below the fold, was a story about the Americans who scaled the cliffs at Pointe du Hoc on D-Day. Part of the celebration today would be a reenactment of the assault, done by U.S. Army Rangers, at eight this morning. The French Army would be represented by Colonel Dandre Gaudet. He was going to scale the cliff with the rangers, but due to an injury he’d received in Rwanda, he’d be on the reviewing platform instead.
Rwanda. That is where his mom said Philip Ashford’s family died. He remembered hearing something about the place, but his graduation from LSU and commissioning into the Air Force consumed his attention at the time, and it didn’t seem that important.
Jason studied the colonel’s picture. Shifty eyes and the marbled chin made him question who this man was. The receding hairline resulting in a poor combover made the colonel appear less intimidating.
Two minutes before four, Bill rushed down the stairs, his hair disheveled, wearing the same olive shirt and khaki pants as the day before. He dropped his bag next to the coffee table and grabbed an empty cup.
“Morning,” he said, pouring a cup of coffee. “Are we ready?”
Harry shook his head. “Still waiting for Ashford.”
Bill glanced at his watch. “Damn. It’s four. We’ve got to go.”
“I know. Let me give his room a ring.”
Harry walked to the clerk at the front desk and had her dial Philip Ashford’s room. Jason saw him say something into the phone, then quickly pull it away from his ear. Harry hung up the phone and strolled back to Jason and Bill.
“He’s ready,” Harry said. “Says he dozed off again. Should be down in a minute.”
Bill shook his head and stared at his watch again. Jason figured he calculated how much spare time they had. Bill paced back and forth while he waited for Ashford to come down. Jason moved next to Harry.
“Are we going to be okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “We’ll have plenty of time.”
“He looks kind of nervous.”
“He’s not. He’s worried the breakfast buffet will be empty by the time we arrive.”
Jason looked at Bill blankly. “Oh.”
11
June 6, 1994
* * *
Jason was refilling his coffee, when at five after, Ashford raced downstairs without any bag or suitcase. Bill marched out the front door to the car, with Harry, Jason, and Ashford in trail. Nothing was said on the fifteen-minute ride to the base. At the gate, Bill handed everyone’s line badges and driver’s licenses to the guard, who checked them against his list, then verified the pictures matched the men in the car.
Bill drove to the hangar Jason had walked through the day before and the four went inside. The other side of the hangar had a series of long tables laid out, covered with white tablecloths, and silver trays. Bill bee-lined for the food.
“Damn,” Bill said. Most of the them were empty. He glared at Ashford and started to say something when Harry stopped him.
“Wait for it. . .” Harry said.
A minute later, three servers stepped through the door with fresh trays and replaced the empty ones. The tray consisted of what was known as a traditional British breakfast. Eggs—fried, poached, and scrambled, back bacon, sausage, fried mushrooms, baked beans, grilled tomatoes, buttered toast, and English scones. They had tea for the Brits and lots of coffee for the American crews.
"Thank God," Bill said. "We almost had to cancel the mission." He gave Jason a wink, picked up a plate, and filled it with food. Harry and Ashford followed suit and Jason brought up the rear. Jason noticed that everything was essentially the same color, except for the eggs. It didn't matter, it smelled delicious, and despite the croissant he had at the inn, he was starving. Other crews filtered out of the woodwork to grab a second helping, their internal radar on overdrive.
On the way out of the hangar, Jason saw a table with stacks of programs that listed the day’s events. He scooped up a stack and held them under his plate.
The four walked to their designated briefing room and ate their breakfast. He was right, the food was as good as it smelled. No wonder Bill made it a priority. By the time they were finished and paid a visit to the loo, it was five-fifteen.
Bill spent fifteen minutes covering the weather, the timeline, the formation, and emergency airfields. Jason was impressed with the thoroughness of the briefing. The informality didn't lack any detail, and Jason was able to follow everything. Ashford, he noticed, paid attention to nothing after the timeline.
At five-thirty, they gathered their paperwork and food provided by the organizers, then headed to the ramp. Jason carried the bag with the food, eager to help. Bill called them “box lunches,” even though they came in a bag.
Jason glimpsed eastward. The dazzling circle of fire pushed upward from the horizon. The blanket of dark blue slipped higher, replaced by lighter shades. In time, it would be replaced by brilliant light, until the powder-blue sky followed the sun heavenwards.
Curious about his conversation with his mother, Jason scurried next to Bill as they walked across the flightline.
“Bill, I don’t mean to pry, but this must cost a lot of money, right?”
Bill nodded without looking. “Yes, it does. That’s why we’re quite grateful for Mister Ashford over there. Owning and operating the airplane costs me enough as it is. He’s financed the cost of the trip. Here and back.”
Jason thought he’d take a risk. “What if his check bounces?”
Bill laughed and finally looked at Jason. “Don’t worry. This was paid for before we left the states. I’ve been burned before.”
“I see.” His mom would be glad about that, at least. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. I spoke to my mother t
his morning. She wants you to call her when you have time.”
Bill scrunched his eyebrows. “Problem?”
Jason shook his head. “Nah, something about the museum committee.”
“Okay. Hey, when we get to the airplane, there’s a water cooler inside. Can you fill it with ice water?” Bill said.
“Sure thing.”
Jason’s eyes darted from plane to plane, as the crews of each worked diligently around the old warbirds, waking them from their slumber. They came in all kinds of varieties, from freshly painted to peeling paint and duct tape. They reached Bill’s B-25, Kimmie-Loo Choo Choo, and set everything on the ground. Harry climbed inside and did some initial checks for the preflight. When he came back down, he handed Jason the five-gallon jug.
Jason jogged back to the hangar and filled the jug with ice and water. It was heavy and grew heavier by the minute, as he struggled the two-hundred yards back to the plane. Fortunately, a chatty Brit offered him a ride in a jeep. When he returned, Ashford stood alone on the ramp, glancing around the airfield. Bill accomplished his walk-around while Harry was inside the airplane.
When Jason walked up to the airplane, Harry stuck his head down the entrance.
“Jason, you can hand the water to me. I’ll secure it up here.”
“Okay.” Jason hefted the water jug and shimmied it up the ladder rungs.
“I’ve got it.” Harry grabbed the handles on the sides and pulled the jug up and out of sight. Jason noted the teamwork these two displayed. Ashford did nothing. I guess that’s his right, he thought. He paid for the trip.
Three ground crew arrived and cranked up the external power cart near the aircraft. The machine coughed and sputtered, before spitting out batches of oily smoke that hung in the air before eventually dissipating. The cart burped an offbeat staccato rhythm, before running up to speed, emanating a loud but steady hum. They plugged the power cord in the side of the airplane and checked the voltage on the cart. One of them turned to Harry in the seat and gave him a “thumbs up”.
Bill walked over. “I’m glad they got here. I didn’t know how much longer the battery was going to last.”
Jason nodded. His limited knowledge of flying rapidly became overwhelmed, but his enthusiasm pushed his anxiety aside.
“Harry and I will run the interior checklist. Won’t take long. You and Ashford can hang out here until it’s time to go.”
“I’d kind of like to watch you guys work.”
“I know, but frankly, I need you to keep an eye on dipshit here,” Bill said, thumbing at Ashford. “I don’t trust him standing out here by himself. Besides, you’ll get plenty of practice when we fly this thing back to the states.”
The sun crept above the horizon, its presence changing the variety of colors where the ground met the sky. Jason wanted to sit and look over their shoulders, but he understood. Bill climbed into the airplane, and Jason looked at Ashford. Despite the breeze this morning, Ashford sweated profusely. His pale complexion had Jason worried.
12
June 6, 1994
* * *
Beads of sweat rolled down his face as Jason glanced at his watch. At six a.m., all players were to be in their aircraft, ready to go. Ashford stood off to the side and twisted at the waist, hands in his pockets. His shirt and pants hung loosely on him, his eyes were glassy and sunken. Jason figured he’d never have an opportunity to speak to him again, so he walked over.
“Mister Ashford,” Jason said, nodding hello.
“What?” His twisting stopped.
“Kind of exciting, isn’t it?”
Ashford gave him a condescending glance before looking away. “Sure.”
“What made you want to sponsor Mister Wesson’s airplane?”
Ashford jerked his head back at Jason and glared at him.
“Did I say something wrong?” Jason said. How was he to know that was the button-pushing question?
The financier relaxed some. “No, I’m sorry if I came across harsh. I-I’ve invested a great deal into today. I-I want to make sure things go smoothly. Without any hiccups.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but it must cost a lot of money for an operation like this.”
Ashford nodded. “It does.”
“Well, why this? Do you have an interest in airplanes?”
Jason noticed his demeanor change. Ashford’s response was almost robotic.
“No. Well, yes. I was approached about a donation to the museum proposed for D-Day in New Orleans. The committee recommended I support this event to obtain a better understanding of D-Day and the goal of the museum.”
“And do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Have a better understanding of D-Day and the museum?”
He squinted as he paused. “Yes. I will make a significant donation to the museum upon our return.”
The answer was curt, and it was a lie.
Jason looked at Ashford’s left hand; he still wore his wedding ring. “Is your wife okay with this? Seems like a lot of money to be blowing over here in England and France.”
A scowl grew on Ashford’s face, his teeth clenched. “I wouldn’t spend a damn dime on the country of France.”
“Why? You and your wife have a bad vacation there?” He pushed the outside of the envelope. But there was something about this guy that didn’t add up.
“Listen, boy. My affairs are none of your business,” Ashford said. His voice wavered, and his eyes welled with tears. “My wife died two months ago. Along with my children.”
“I-I’m sorry, sir. I can’t imagine what that must feel like.” Guilt overwhelmed him. Perhaps he had gone too far.
“They-they didn’t die. They were murdered in Rwanda. And the French army stood by and watched. I-I saw them.” Tears flowed now as the philanthropist told his story. Jason listened without saying anything. “We were building a school there. . . when the coup started, we were separated. After two days, they came to Kigali in a truck. I-I went to the checkpoint at the edge of the city to retrieve them. The truck was filled with Tutsi’s and moderate Hutu’s. They k-killed them all,” he said, looking straight at Jason. “They killed my wife and sons.”
“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, sir. I was just trying to make conversation.”
Resolve overcame his grief as Ashford’s disposition changed yet again. “That French bastard, Dandre Gaudet, the military. . . they all will pay.”
“What?” Jason said. “What did the military do?”
“Huh,” Ashford broke out of his trance-like state. “Gaudet is in the military. That’s all.”
“Gaudet killed them?”
“No. But he just as well did. He stood by and let it happen.” Ashford turned to face him. “Mind your own business kid.” Ashford’s teeth clenched, and his body tensed. It was time to drop the subject.
Jason observed Ashford carefully. The red, teary, sunken eyes said it all. One minute, the guy seemed emotionally unstable; the next, like a man who sought vengeance. A lot had been revealed, and it validated his mother's concern. Why did he lie? He was broke, yet still claimed he would make a big donation to the museum when they returned to the states. Bill verified he paid for the trip in full beforehand. It didn't make sense. Why pay for this, if he did not have the funds to donate to the museum?
Across the ramp, several aircraft began to fire up their engines, deflecting his thoughts away from Ashford. The sound sent a chill up Jason’s spine. Standing on one of the airfields that made history fifty years before, with the same types of airplanes that crossed the channel . . . he couldn’t describe it.
He looked back at the Kimmie-Loo and Bill motioned for them to climb aboard. Jason tapped Ashford on the arm, headed for the B-25, and climbed up the ladder. The interior of the small bomber was more cramped with the four of them inside. Jason took his seat in the back of the plane, while Ashford sat in the nose gunner position. The hard-plastic bubble provided the best view on the airplane. Bill
had explained that he normally didn’t let anyone sit in the nose for takeoff, but Ashford was adamant and threatened to pull his funding for both the trip and the museum if he couldn’t.
Bill had explained to Jason the day before that when he restored the Kimmie Loo, he had extra seats installed, so he could fly passengers for short rides to help fray the costs of the antique bomber. Jason sat in one of those seats, aft of the bubble in the top of the fuselage. That was where he would stand when the aircraft joins the rest of their formation.
Perspiration seeped out of his pores. Despite the early morning breeze, the interior of the old warbird was stuffy and hot. The small open windows that housed the decommissioned .50 caliber machine guns provided little comfort.
Jason was exploring the interior of the bomber, when he heard a loud bang, and the rotation of the left engine. The powerful, fourteen cylinder-radial engine came to life and made a hell-of-a-noise. The unpleasant aroma of 100LL fuel and oil wafted through the small open windows on the aircraft and burned his nose. Shifting to the window on the left side, he saw the puff of smoke that pushed out of the cowling following the start, only to dissipate as the wind blast from the propeller pushed it away. The aircraft shook roughly at first, then it subsided as the engine stabilized.
He remembered his Dave Clark headset and slipped it on. He followed everything they said to ingrain the procedures in his mind. Bill and Harry covered the checklist items to start the first engine, then started the second. Jason sat back and monitored the process. The two engines running together sounded like a rowdy gang of Harley Davidson bikers preparing to roll down the street.
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