GOLDEN REICH

by Mark Donahue

  Tom ran back to the van, realizing that all he had to do now to find the general area where they hid the bar was go about twelve miles up the road which would be where the men completed their oiling, and near where he and Jon had walked into the desert. It was also near his now legendary piss.

  Tom slowed the van near the twelve-mile mark and saw a curve in the road. Could this have been the curve that he and Jon had run toward in their attempt to get back to the meeting spot before Jim arrived? If it was, he had now narrowed down the possible location to no more than half a mile.

  On foot again, with shovel in hand, he tried to visualize how and where he and Jon had scurried up the embankment after burying the bar. He knew they could not be seen from the meeting place where the embezzlers waited. He also remembered that Jim had come running around a corner looking for them. The pieces of an eighteen-month-old memory were forming a mosaic in his brain.

  Looking out over the valley below, Tom saw another familiar site—the meandering creek bed where they had found the gold. They had walked in that creek bed almost to the road because it was easier to walk in compared to the rough desert terrain surrounding it. Another piece of tile.

  Tom stepped down into the creek bed fifty yards from the road and twelve feet below it. He turned back toward the road. He looked for the rocks he and Jon had climbed to reach the road right before they buried the ingot.

  He saw what he thought were the stepping-stones, although there were several areas that were similar. He chose the one easiest to negotiate because he figured that would have been the one he and Jon would have likely selected to exit the desert floor.

  When he climbed up the embankment, his right foot slipped, and he slid three feet backward down the slope. As he did, he tripped over an unseen a piece of metal six inches under the loose dirt.

  “Damn it,” Tom said under his breath as he picked himself off the ground, rubbed his bruised knee, and began another try at the embankment using the shovel for balance. After two steps up the grade, he found himself looking at the old, rusted, and now partially exposed mile marker 19, lying in the loose dirt and pointing downhill.

  “Hellooo,” Tom said, in his best Gene Wilder impression, as he lifted the twisted piece of metal. Tom realized this was it—the place they had hidden the ingot. He was afraid to dig. Afraid of what might not be there.

  For nearly a minute he stared at the spot in the gravel as sweat slid down his face in a sheet. Finally, and with a hopeful, powerful thrust, Tom plowed the shovel into the sand exactly where he envisioned the ingot to be. The clang of metal on metal made Tom smile. He wished Jon had been there to share the moment.

  Putting the shovel aside, Tom sank to his knees and dug into the loose dirt with his bare hands not feeling pain from the blistering-hot stones. He then felt it with his left hand. It was dense and heavy. As he moved the dirt away, he saw metal emerge from sand. His eyes adjusted. It was a goddamn rusted brake drum from a 1948 Buick.

  “Fuck me,” Tom muttered, finding yet another useful meaning for the versatile phrase while at the same time heaving the piece of rusted disappointment into the desert behind him. He was glad Jon wasn’t there to share that moment.

  Tom needed several moments to regain his composure, and he chugged down a sixteen ounce bottle of water during the process. He returned to the spot where he had found the brake drum and began to move away the loose gravel, hoping with each shovel thrust that he would hit something solid and this time valuable. After a few minutes of careful digging, Tom began digging furiously unable to contain his excitement.

  Working an area three feet in each direction in length running parallel with the road and four feet down the side of the embankment, he moved huge amounts of dirt in several minutes. He found nothing.

  Winded and sweating profusely, Tom sat on the side of the red-hot road, took another long drink of water, and tried to visualize what had happened when they paved the road. It was obvious that the mile marker sign had simply been run over by whatever paving equipment the men had used and if so, it was likely it would have been pushed up the hill a bit when the paver hit it.

  Walking fifty feet uphill, Tom realized that the pavers had indeed paved at least another mile of road beyond the twelve miles that been oiled by Tom, Jon, and the embezzlers. But he also knew that should not have mattered. The bar, if it was still under the road, should be near where he and Jon had come out of the creek bed and onto the road. And it should be just slightly up the hill and…then it hit him. The pavers would not have worked uphill like Jim the Asshole had forced them to do. They would have worked downhill, easier on the men and the equipment. Therefore, the ingot would have been pushed down the hill, not up.

  Tom returned to his original dig site and began a third series of excavations, this time moving downhill in increments of eighteen inches. He spent the next hour moving what seemed to him like several tons of soft Arizona sand and dirt as he moved down the roadside.

  On his first thrust of the shovel into what seemed to be his hundredth hole, Tom hit a second solid object. The clang of metal on metal made him smile. He again wished Jon were there to share in this moment. He also knew in his heart that God would not be so cruel as to fool him again with yet another rusted Buick part. He was right.

  After he returned to the Phoenician, Tom called the pay phone number in the prison cafeteria more than a dozen times, only to find it busy each time. He was tempted to send a telegram or fax to reach Jon. But after thinking about it, he really wanted to hear Jon’s voice when he told him. Finally, at 9:15 that evening Jon was called to the phone, and as planned, asked the first question: “Well, how was working in the yard after all this time?”

  “It was good. No problems, except for this big fucking piece of metal I found.”

  Hearing nothing at the other end of the phone except what sounded like a soft gasp, Tom went on, “Yeah, I thought this thing must have weighed fifteen pounds, but guess what? It weighed exactly twenty pounds. Twenty fucking pounds! Damn near killed me hauling it out of there.”

  “So, what else is new?” Jon asked, and both men convulsed in laughter.

  Chapter 23

  Jasper Mine—1943

  “Welcome to the Jasper Mine, Colonel Rolle,” the six foot five, 235-pound guard said when he opened the rear door of the Lincoln.

  “Thank you,” Rolle looked past the guard and tried to locate Becker.

  “General Becker asked me to escort you to him. Would you please follow me, sir?”

  As DuBois drove the Lincoln away, Rolle followed the guard into the cavern. His eyes blinked several times trying to adjust to the semidarkness. He was surprised by the abrupt change in temperature, which was at least twenty degrees cooler than the ninety plus degrees outside. The floor of the cavern slanted one to two degrees as it angled toward the various mine shafts barely visible in the shadows. Narrow gauge iron rails crisscrossed the dirt floor designed to bring the rock and silver from the depths and into the rail spur that ran adjacent to the south side of the cavern.

  Rolle could see that overhead lights had been installed, but they were weak and cast long yellow shadows over only five thousand square feet of space just inside the huge cavern’s arched opening.

  In the southwest corner of the cavern along the left wall, near the entrance, was an old wood-and-glass office of three thousand square feet that at one time had been used by men who oversaw the loading of silver for shipping.

  Finally, his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, and he looked up and saw the enormous domelike natural ceiling within the cavern. Well over two hundred feet in height he judged, the dim yellow lights that Becker had installed, plus the natural light entering from the cavern’s opening cast a muted glow that faded after only a few hundred feet and melded into blackness toward the back of the cavern.

  Rolle also felt a slight breeze as he went deeper into the mine and wi
th it an unfamiliar smell of creosote bushes that wafted from the desert floor.

  Approaching the office with the guard a few steps in front of him, Rolle could see six men standing in the glow of an exposed light bulb dangling from the ceiling inside the office area. He entered the musty-smelling space but stopped in his tracks when he saw a large pool of blood in the center of the floor, coagulating under an old table with several brown metal folding chairs around it.

  In the far left corner of the room he saw three bodies piled one on top of the other. The faces were bloody pulps, and it was clear each had been savagely beaten before being shot in the head. Rolle could tell immediately by their clothing and what was left recognizable of their faces that he was looking at three of the four men he had recruited in Phoenix.

  Standing over the bodies were Becker and five unfamiliar men. When he saw Rolle enter the office, Becker came toward him, smiled, his hand outstretched, and said, “Colonel Rolle, please forgive this mess. I wish we could have met again under more pleasant circumstances to celebrate your successful operation. But my men found this scum approaching the cavern this afternoon. After interrogating them, we were convinced they were simply nameless hobos and not to be feared. Yet, we felt it best to eliminate all doubt.”

  Still staring at the pulverized men, Rolle looked at Becker and said, “Yes, it is best at this point not to take unneeded risks. I agree with your actions.”

  “A guard said he thought he had seen a fourth, but I dare say the sounds of our gunfire discouraged any more vagrants from lingering.” Not introducing Rolle to the other guards in the room, Becker instead took him by the arm and led him out the door. As he held the door open, he turned to the five men left in the room and said, “Dispose of this debris.”

  Back in the cavern, Becker seemed almost euphoric as he brought Rolle up to date on the change in plans, the rescheduled gold deliveries, how the trespassers were caught, and repeated several times how grateful he was for Rolle’s contribution to Operation Rebirth. Walking with Becker, Rolle said little, but kept seeing in his mind the battered and misshapen faces of the three Americans. He also wondered what they had said before they were killed and what options remained for him since the men he needed to execute his plan had been eliminated. He assumed the fourth man in the group had somehow escaped and was by now running back to Phoenix as fast as he could.

  Moving from the coolness of the cavern to the outside and a still warm early evening, Becker and Rolle continued their stroll, “You look tired, Colonel. I can tell it has been a grueling trip over the last three weeks. Were there any major problems?”

  “As we were about to leave France...”

  “Yes, I heard of Elman. He was an ass. Do not concern yourself with that event; it has been taken care of. Any other problems?”

  “No, things went as planned.”

  As they continued walking in the ebbing sunlight, Rolle knew that he was being debriefed by Becker for a reason other than curiosity. Becker wanted to find out if there were any more “loose ends” created by Rolle that needed to be corrected before he, too, was eliminated. Rolle didn’t know exactly how much time he had left, but he assumed his life expectancy was less than twelve hours.

  The men came to the edge of the huge rock face that made up part of the Jasper and looked west out over the valley to the horizon that now hid a setting sun. After several seconds, Becker said, “We have come a long way, Colonel, and are very near our goal. The Führer is aware of our efforts and asked me to convey to you his appreciation and high regard for your loyalty and dedication.”

  “The Führer’s goals are worth any sacrifice, General. I only hope the hard work and planning that has brought us to this point is carried on by those who will receive the gold. They are the last link in the chain.”

  Without responding to Rolle, Becker continued to gaze out over the desert and said almost wistfully, “This part of America, away from the filth of the Negro-infested cities, is really quite lovely.”

  Chapter 24

  Arizona Minimum Security Prison—2014

  The final six months of his term were the most difficult of the nearly eight years that Jon had spent in prison. In addition to the normal mind-numbing boredom of daily prison life, Jon was anxious to finally get on with his life. The shock of the phone call from Tom had lifted his spirits temporarily, but the frustration of not being able to be part of the discovery ate at Jon. He was also lonely. Tom’s release, while good for Tom, left Jon with no one to talk, or relate to. Instead of trying to make conversation with men he would never see again, he buried himself in the library and at night wondered whose hand had been attached to the gold bar.

  In mid-August Jon received his ten-day release notice. The next day he called Tom, and it was agreed that in nine days he would pick Jon up at 10:00 a.m. outside the prison gate. For reasons not entirely understood by Jon, he was becoming increasingly depressed as freedom neared. After counting down years, months, weeks and then days until he was free, he realized the strange security that prison provided would soon be gone. While he hated being incarcerated and everything associated with it, it shielded him and all inmates from what they would face on the outside.

  After spending five months in Philadelphia, Tom bought a van and headed back to Arizona, feeling healed emotionally and physically. He also had a sense of purpose he had never felt before. Given that feeling of “rebirth,” Tom again began to question whether a reunion with Jon would be good for either of them. As a result, he considered how he could get Jon’s share of the gold bar to him without having to actually meet with him upon his release.

  Jon had no idea how he would make a living after he left prison. With his Cayman money and half of what the gold bar was worth, he would have a nest egg to start with, but restarting his career would be a major challenge. But at least he knew Tom would be there when he got out, and perhaps together they could figure out their next steps.

  The prison gate closed behind Jon at exactly 10:05 a.m. With suitcase in hand, he looked around and half expected to see Tom waiting for him in a stretch limo with two blondes and a keg of Coors, like they had talked about years before. But there was no limo, no blondes, and no beer. And no Tom. After twenty minutes of pacing in front of the prison gate, Jon wondered if they might let him back in to have lunch since it was Sloppy Joe Tuesday.

  After ten more minutes of waiting, Jon saw a pay phone and walked toward it but realized he had no change, credit card, or anyone to call if he did. No one. That realization made him literally stop in his tracks. He looked back at the prison with a longing that he immediately knew was perverse and wrong on so many levels.

  With no other immediate plans in mind, he sat down on the curb under a tree, and next to his suitcase. He didn’t know what else to do.

  A few minutes later the thumping sound of a helicopter came from behind the tree that Jon was sitting under. Jon ignored the sound and stared straight ahead until the chopper came directly over his head then landed across the street in a vacant lot fifty yards from where he sat.

  After the chopper cut its engine, Jon saw a tall white guy casually exit and walk slowly toward him. Without saying anything, Tom crossed the road and sat down next to Jon. For a full two minutes neither man spoke. Then Jon yawned and said, “That was kind of obnoxious.”

  “The limo, beers, and blondes were going to cost as much, and they couldn’t do what we needed done. By the way, sorry I’m late, had to get permission from the farm to land so close.”

  “So, what needs to be done…besides me?” Jon asked.

  “We have some work to do so get off your ass and let’s get going.”

  “Did I ever tell you I hate to fly?”

  “You may have mentioned it.”

  Jon shrugged his shoulders, got up, and followed Tom back toward the chopper. On the way Jon thought to himself that he had never been happier to see any
one in his life as he was his tall power-forward friend.

  Inside the chopper, Jon put on his earphones, shook the pilot’s hand, said hello, then asked, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes sir, got my license yesterday.”

  As the pilot jabbed the stick, the chopper lifted six feet off the ground in a nose down attitude that made Jon’s eyes open wide and his hands tightly grab the armrests. Within seconds the pilot pulled back on the stick, and the men were soon cruising at one hundred twenty miles an hour sixty feet off the desert floor.

  “We going to Disneyland?” Jon asked Tom.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Club Med?” There was hope in Jon’s voice.

  “Remember that thing we found, and lost last year?”

  “Yeah, I remember that thing.”

  “Well, I think there may be more.”

  “Really? Why do you think so?”

  “Because of the research I’ve been doing at the library.”

  “You on heavy medication?”

  “Nope. Hey Bill, take us north and pass over those mines we saw last week.”

  “Roger.”

  Still close to the ground, the chopper turned left and headed north. For the next thirty minutes the men got a close-up view of both the Jasper and Vega mines and miles of surrounding desert.

  They saw the dirt road they had oiled, and the meandering creek that snaked down from at least twenty miles north of the Vega, just south of the Jasper until it disappeared on its way to Mexico.

  As they turned south, Jon and Tom could see the rustic shopping area in the distance that Jim had frequented and “Elsa’s” painted on the v-shaped roof of the only restaurant for miles.

  After they landed twenty yards from Elsa’s parking lot and near Tom’s rented van, the men stood under a tree and watched the chopper head back toward Phoenix. Tom asked, “Well, what’d you think?”