By contrast to the sleeker B-17, the B-24 Liberator had a thick, stubby fuselage. Some called her the crate the B-17 came in. Others nicknamed her “the Flying Boxcar,” and said she flew like one, too. German fighter pilots had called her and her kind flying coffins. But she’d brought Gault through twenty-five missions, the only plane in his squadron to survive the mandatory count. She’d survived, he believed, because she’d been named after his wife.
His vision blurred as he moved to her Plexiglas nose turret. Leaning his forehead against the glass, he half-expected to see his bombardier, Vic Campbell, hunched over the Norden bombsight. But there was only Gault’s own haggard reflection; it forced him away from the nose and along the port side, where he stopped to admire the bomber’s nose art. A bright green serpent had its coils wrapped around a swastika, while its wide-open mouth held an orange bomb. Its faded red eyes still glinted evilly.
Right after the emblem had been painted, Gault had sent his wife, Annie, a snapshot. By return post, she’d answered, “That’s a female serpent if I’ve ever seen one. I’ve got my coils wrapped around you the same way.” From that moment on, the B-24’s nickname had been the Lady-A.
“Annie,” he said softly, “we’ve lost our grandson.”
They’d raised Matt together after their son, Michael, and his wife had been killed in a car crash.
Gault pressed his palm against the plane’s aluminum skin. “I should have listened to you, Annie. You begged me not to teach him to fly.”
After his wife’s death, Gault had tried talking to her at the cemetery. But when he sat beside her tombstone on the adjoining plot that he’d reserved for himself, the words wouldn’t come. Only here with her namesake, did he feel truly connected.
He moved beneath her wing, absently testing the play in the supercharger’s turbine wheel. He’d done the same thing before every mission, walking through the preflight with his crew chief.
He still did the check once a week, part of his promise to preserve the Lady-A. Only last year he’d replaced her control cables and linkage. He’d even rewired some of her key electrical systems, a sentimental gesture but one that had satisfied him greatly.
“If flying had killed me, Annie, that would have been fair. My share of luck was spent a long time ago. Twenty thousand hours of flight time. All that luck used up. So why did it have to be Matt?”
He sank to his knees next to the port side landing gear. The tires, changed whenever their rubber cracked too badly, were almost new.
“I kept my promise, old girl,” he said, now addressing the plane. “When I saw you mothballed out in the middle of that damned desert, I knew it was fate. You’d saved me, so it was my turn to return the favor.”
She’d looked like a derelict then, covered with dust and full of spiders and scorpions. During the war, B-24s were flown until they were either shot down or scrapped. But the Lady-A, like her crew, had been rotated home to participate in war bond rallies.
Buying her for five thousand dollars, one-seventieth of her production cost, had set Gault Aviation back a year. Once purchased, the Lady-A had to be partially disassembled before being transported to her hangar. Over the years, he’d slowly, lovingly reassembled her himself. More than anything he wanted to fly her one more time, but that was still just a dream. The cost of bringing her engines up to specs would have bankrupted him. Matt had shared his dream, of one more flight aboard the Lady-A. Gault closed his eyes, imagining the two of them sitting side by side in the cockpit, pilot and copilot. He should have spent the money. He should have made the dream come true.
Cartilage popped in Gault’s knees as he moved beneath the fuselage and swung himself up into the plane through the open bomb-bay doors. He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent, a mixture of oil and dusty disuse, before working his way forward to the pilot’s compartment.
Once in the left-hand seat, he found himself looking for Matt. But it was Brad Roberts, his old copilot, he saw, the same age as always, forever twenty-one. Even the dead were on board, Tim Lambert in his belly turret, Mark Tanner, the radio operator, and Perry Goddard, a waist gunner with two kills to his credit.
Gault looked down at his hands. On their own, they’d come to rest on the control yoke. In his mind he heard the Lady-A’s four Pratt and Whitney radial engines start up, all forty-eight hundred horsepower.
“Matt only had one engine,” he told the Lady-A. “I wanted him to take the twin Cessna, but he knew we had a customer for her. He knew it would cost us money. And all because of some damned newspaper story. He was using his own vacation time because he was on the trail of a hot one. ’When I quit the paper to join the family business,’ he’d said, ’I want to go out in a blaze of glory.’ ”
Clenching his teeth, Gault pushed the pain aside and left the plane, heading for the office. It was time to file a flight plan. After that, he’d call that archaeologist in Arizona.
Chapter 4
Nick awoke to find two deputies standing outside her tent like guards, one on either side of the flap. She was asked to accompany them to the Emporium, where she was to be interviewed by the NTSB.
After delivering the message, they averted their eyes while she pulled on her jeans, shirt, and work boots. Then they marched her to the Emporium. The door was open, coffee was made, but there was no NTSB investigator inside, only Zeke Moyle.
“You’re to wait,” one of the deputies told her over folded arms, watching her every move. His partner left.
“Why get me here this early if there’s no one to interview me?” she asked.
The deputy shrugged. “I do what they tell me.”
Moyle offered Nick a cup of coffee and tried to start a conversation. She accepted the coffee but not the conversation. She pointedly kept her back toward him and stared at the deputy, who finally moved outside onto the porch, where he stood with his back to the screen door.
After a half-hour wait and too much coffee, she was on the verge of revolt. Five more minutes, she told herself, and she’d walk out the door and assemble her students. But before she got the chance, the phone rang.
Zeke Moyle answered, listened for a moment, then pointed at Nick. “It’s for you, from Salt Lake City.”
She took the receiver and said warily, “Yes, hello.”
“Excuse me,” a man said. “I asked to speak to Nick Scott.”
“You are.”
“The archaeologist?”
She sighed. The man’s reaction was common. “It’s short for Nicolette. And this is ... ?”
“John Gault. That was my plane you found. My grandson, Matthew Gault, was flying it.”
“I’m sorry,” Nick said, aware of the inadequacy of her response, yet unable to come up with anything more appropriate.
“I understand you found the plane?” he said.
“That’s right.”
“Could you tell me what happened? Was the plane out of control? Was its engine out? What?”
“The NTSB investigator should be here any minute. Maybe you should speak with him.”
“Please,” he said. “The last thing I need is a second-hand report. Or worse yet, red tape.”
Nick sighed sympathetically. “All right, Mr. Gault. I’ll tell you what I can. I didn’t actually see the Cessna come down. But I heard it.”
“How close were you?”
It practically landed on my head, she thought, but didn’t say so. “I can’t say exactly. I was in one of those canyons full of switchbacks, the kind where you can’t see too far ahead. But once I heard the plane come down, it couldn’t have taken me more than two or three minutes to get to the site.”
“Was it already burning?” he asked.
“No, but there was gas everywhere.”
“And my grandson?”
“I’m sorry. The plane exploded before I could get him out.”
“Was he conscious?”
Nick took a deep breath. “He was dead.”
“Thank God.”
She k
new exactly how he felt. Being alive inside the kind of fireball she’d witnessed didn’t bear thinking about.
“What did the engine sound like before the crash?”
Nick hesitated. She didn’t want to sound like a lunatic. On the other hand, she knew what she’d heard. “It sounded like a helicopter.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“The sheriff’s man said the same thing.”
Gault didn’t respond immediately, but she could hear his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone line. Finally he said, “What kind of archaeologist are you?”
Nick snorted. “I know what you’re really asking, Mr. Gault. Do I know what I’m talking about? Airplanes are one of my passions.”
“I see. What was the weather like?”
“Clear.”
“And the terrain?”
“It’s a flat plateau to the west. The narrow, red-rock canyon where your plane went down is in the Mescalero Mountains. We’re in a larger canyon about a mile west of the crash site.”
“I’m looking at a map,” Gault said, “and I don’t see any place called Ophir.”
“It’s a ghost town, or almost anyway.”
“Look. I’ll be flying into Mescalero. How far is that from where you are?”
“About fifty miles,” she told him. “But it’s a good two-hour drive because of the bad roads.”
“I need to see the site for myself and to talk to you face-to-face. I’ll be taking off as soon as my twin-engine is serviced. Could you meet me in Mescalero?”
“I’m working on a dig here in Ophir, Mr. Gault.”
“My airport guide shows no rental cars in Mescalero.”
Nick closed her eyes.
“My grandson had been flying a long time. I have to know what happened.”
Nick shook her head, remembering the state of the body even before the fire.
“Please,” he implored.
She didn’t like the idea of being away from her students that long. Still, she could put them to work on a new trench, and pray to God they didn’t destroy an artifact because she wasn’t there to preserve it.
“How soon will you be in Mescalero?” she asked.
“It’s nearly nine. Let’s say six hours from now. Three o’clock.”
That meant she’d have to leave by one to get there on time. Half a day lost on her dig, with only one more day to go. She’d have to make up her absence with an evening lecture. On the other hand, her students might welcome an afternoon without her slave-driving.
“All right,” Nick said. “I’ll see you at the airport.”
She hung up and glared at the deputy. “I have students waiting. The only way you’re going to keep me here is to arrest me.”
She walked out the door. He didn’t try to stop her.
******
Nick was laying out the new dig site near the ruins of the old Ophir church when an NTSB investigator caught up with her. After introducing himself as Walt Kohler from the Phoenix office, he asked to speak to her privately. She got her students started on an exploratory trench, then joined him on the sagging porch of a miner’s shack across from the Emporium.
“According to the sheriff’s initial report,” Kohler began, “you heard the airplane before it crashed.”
“What I told them was, I heard a helicopter. I saw its shadow.”
“The plane’s?”
“The helicopter’s.”
He eyed her skeptically. “Are you sure it wasn’t a UFO?”
“The last time 1 heard, Area fifty-one was in Nevada, not Arizona,” she said. “But then, being with the government, you’d know more about that.”
“Touche, Ms. Scott. But the fact remains, we found a Cessna, or what’s left of it, not a chopper. What you saw could have been a trick of light.”
“Maybe, but I had the impression that the helicopter was carrying something.”
“You said you didn’t see it.”
“Like I said, I saw a shadow.”
Kohler threw up his hands in disgust.
“I know airplanes,” she said calmly. “On occasion, I’ve dug them up as part of my work as an archaeologist. They’re also my hobby. I’m telling you what I saw. What you do with the information is up to you.”
He humored her with a smile. She’d seen that look before, mostly on the faces of people who’d underestimated her.
“Airplanes are an unusual pastime for a woman,” he said.
It was her turn to smile. Airplanes had been her Land of Oz when she was growing up, her escape from her mother’s black depression. But that was none of Kohler’s business.
“Are you a pilot?” he asked.
“No.”
“What about helicopters? Are you an expert in those too?”
“I prefer vintage aircraft.”
From his clipboard, he removed a pilot’s navigational map that had been folded to reveal only the immediate area. Even so, she recognized the corner of a no-fly zone.
“I don’t see where a helicopter could have come from,” he said.
“What about that no-fly zone?” she asked.
“It was a desert bombing range during World War Two.”
“And now?”
“Are you kidding, out here in the middle of nowhere? It’s abandoned.”
“Why is it still on the map, then?” she pressed.
“It’s still military property, for all I know. Now what else did you hear?”
“Nothing but the sound of the crash.”
“There’s nothing else to do, then, but thank you for your help, Ms. Scott.”
“You didn’t ask me about the body.”
He referred to one of the papers on his clipboard. “You said he was dead when you got there. Or looked dead anyway.”
“He was dead. I checked. But there’s something else.” She hesitated, wondering why she bothered to go on, but she knew she had to. “His skin was a funny color.”
“Just how did he look?” Kohler asked, failing to hide his skepticism.
“Like he had a bad case of sunburn, and his face was slightly bloated.”
“That could have been another trick of light. Those canyon walls are very red. A pale face might very well look reddish.”
Nick shrugged. “You wanted my eyewitness report.”
“I’ll include your comments in my report.”
“There were also plastic containers of gasoline in the back seat.”
“I don’t think so,” Kohler said. “That, you must have been imagining.”
Nick forced herself to remain calm. “I saw them.”
Kohler shook his head. “It wouldn’t be safe to fly that way.”
“You can tell that to John Gault, the pilot’s grandfather. I spoke with him a few minutes ago. He’s a pilot, too, and he’s flying here to see the crash for himself.”
“Did he say how soon he’ll be arriving?”
“Late this afternoon.”
Kohler stood up. “I think it best that you not discuss our conversation with him. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you left Mr. Gault to me.”
“The man has a right to know what I saw,” Nick said.
“What you thought you saw, you mean. Besides, why upset him for nothing? Whether or not you saw shadows doesn’t change the fact that the pilot is dead.”
“I’ve already told Mr. Gault everything,” Nick said, stretching the point. She was losing the battle to control her anger. “I think he’s going to want to know what I’m wondering—are you people going to look for a helicopter or not?”
He smiled indulgently. “If there’d been a midair collision, we’d have the wreckage of a helicopter, wouldn’t we?”
“I’m not the only one who’s seen helicopters around here,” she said angrily.
“So I’ve been told.” His tone lumped her in with the UFO crowd.
She’d heard a chopper, though what it had to do with the crash of the Cessna she didn’t know. As for the shadow, she’d se
en that, too. Whether it had been carrying something was less certain.
Chapter 5
Nick was about to leave for Mescalero when her father called from his office at the university in Albuquerque.
“I hear you’ve got yourself another airplane,” Elliot said, dispensing with hello.
His tone grated. And the words were worse, mimicking one of her mother’s favorite litanies. Nick’s got herself another airplane. That was usually accompanied by a heavy sigh. Most days, Elaine had been incapable of accomplishing even the most simple of tasks. Instead, she stayed in bed, shades drawn, light forbidden, wrapped in one of her dark moods, leaving the chores to Nick, who wasn’t old enough to cope with them.
“I’m fine,” Nick said, “aside from the heat, the bugs, the food, and the body I saw incinerated. And how are you, Elliot?”
“Worried about my daughter, who never heeded my warnings about the life of an archaeologist.”
“Your warnings!”
Don’t ever follow in your father’s footsteps, Elaine had said each time Elliot disappeared on one of his digs. If you do, you’ll be lost to all who love you. Never love dead people. They can’t love you back. You spend all your time hiding in your room with your model planes. Well, they can’t love you back either.
But Nick would always think, yes they can, they help me fly away.
“Okay, Nick,” Elliot said, breaking the reverie. “You win. Let’s call a truce.”
“I didn’t know we were at war.”
“Sometimes I speak without thinking. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. The heat’s got to me, and the condition of that body didn’t help much.”
Her conversation with John Gault hadn’t done much for her mood either, because now she had a two-hour drive ahead of her, across one of the most barren deserts she’d ever seen.
“Which brings us back to my question,” Elliot said. “Tell me about this airplane that practically fell on you.”
“Now I remember why I hated taking classes from you. You’re obsessive.”
He snorted.
“Don’t worry, Elliot. It’s not one of mine.”
“You’ve had a lot of them.”
Shelves full, she remembered, plus bureau tops and table tops, and even a squadron suspended from the ceiling. Over the years, she’d built just about every model warplane from World War Two that had existed.
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