Tales of Anyar

by Olan Thorensen

  Destiny’s Crucible

  Book 5

  Tales of Anyar

  by

  Olan Thorensen

  Copyright 2018

  All rights reserved

  The is an original work of fiction. Any resemblance to people and places is coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9972878-5-1

  Maps

  To see color maps of the planet Anyar, go to the web site www.olanthorensen.com .

  Contents

  Author Introduction

  “WHERE ARE THE BODIES?”

  UNEARTHLY STARS

  GHOST

  AN UNFORESEEN DANGER

  AN UNSUNG BATTLEFIELD

  BEST OF ENEMIES

  EYE IN THE SKY

  THE BITTER TASTE OF HOME

  DAY TO REMEMBER

  TRADITIONS AND AUTHORITY

  “THE THINGS I DO”

  LEAF WAX AND SAWDUST

  A uthor Introduction

  Tales of Anyar assumes the reader’s knowledge of Volumes 1–4 of Destiny’s Crucible and is not the place to start the series. If this book sounds interesting, I point you to Volume I, Cast Under an Alien Sun to begin the incredible adventure of Joseph Colsco, a college student of no particular importance who is thrust into an unimaginable fate by an accident that couldn’t happen—but did.

  For readers and listeners who finished the first four books, many questions were left unanswered and stories untold. This collection of short stories and novellas answers or hints at some of the questions, expands on earlier books, and points to possible future directions. There is a rough chronological order, but the stories can be read in any order, except “Where Are the Bodies?” should be read first. The two longest stories are associated with the climactic battle at Orosz City (“An Unsung Battlefield” “Best of Enemies,”), so if battles are not your thing, you might read them out of order. Events in the main characters’ lives are in rough order for the last four stories.

  We begin not on the planet Anyar but on Earth, with the aftermath of the improbable accident that starts Joseph Colsco on his new life.

  “WHERE ARE THE BODIES?”

  “Oh, my God!” cried Jennifer Dowlin, thirteen years old and one of Elizabeth, Colorado’s 13,441 residents. Three other citizens, also of the same age and gender, turned to look at their classmate as they walked between school buildings. On seeing Jennifer’s upturned head and wide eyes, one hand over her open mouth, the other girls reflexively jerked their heads up to blue sky and isolated clouds. All four sets of eyes settled on a distant fireball and glints of sunlight off metallic surfaces.

  Jennifer was one of three people to see the event as it occurred. She initially reveled in the attention, then came to dread being obliged over the next weeks to describe what she’d seen, over and over, to a seemingly endless stream of adults.

  Radar screens flickered as aircraft position updates flowed into the room. The chatter of controllers created an undulating buzz at the Denver Air Route Traffic Control Center, thirty miles north of Denver. The center was responsible for en route air traffic over the entire state of Colorado and portions of seven adjacent states. Aliyah Morrison took her job seriously. Being the only female African-American air traffic controller at the facility, she was obsessively alert to her screens. Her sharp focus made the computer’s warning superfluous because she had fortuitously glanced at the vector and identification of United Airlines Flight 4382 when it flashed and vanished from her screen.

  “What?” she muttered, checking the flight’s latest position and path.

  She keyed transmission. “United four three eight two. What is your status?” She waited twenty seconds without a response.

  “United four three eight two, do you copy?” No response.

  She tried three more times, then triggered a call to the shift supervisor. He rushed to stand behind her right shoulder and look at her main screen.

  “What do-yah got, Aliyah?”

  “United four three eight two, San Francisco to Chicago, cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, dropped off the screen and is not responding.” She didn’t wait for him to respond and called three more times.

  “Where was their last location?” he asked.

  “About eighty miles south of Denver.”

  “Any calls from them about problems or any deviations in flight plan?”

  “Nothing,” Aliyah said and called twice more. No response.

  “Keep calling. I’ll re-assign your coverage. The United flight is your only responsibility until we learn more.”

  Curtis Janofsky leafed through his notes. He was about to teach a class for trainees at the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) facility in Ashburn, Virginia. Then his official cell phone rang.

  “Janofsky here,” he barked, still staring at his notes.

  “Curtis, it’s Charlotte Gonzalez. Looks like we’ve got a major event. A bad one. A United flight SFO to O’Hare dropped off the radar and isn’t answering. There are reports of a high-altitude fireball and debris falling somewhere south-southeast of Denver. The regional office people in Denver are en route. We’ll know more in the next hour, but I’m going to activate the GO-team. You’re not next up to be investigator in charge, but you’ve got more experience, and I’m afraid it looks like the plane broke up. At that altitude, there won’t be any survivors. It was a full flight—two hundred and thirty-seven passengers and eight crewmembers.

  “I’m the board member in line for a major event, so both of us will head to Denver as soon as we get our asses to Dulles. An FAA Gulfstream will be waiting, and I want it wheels up in ninety minutes.”

  As soon as Janofsky heard her say “major event,” his mind moved on to necessary actions. If it turned out to be a false alarm, only time and fuel would have been wasted, but the NTSB’s mandate was to get on-site as fast as humanly possible to take charge of any investigation.

  “If it’s what it sounds like, we’ll need a full team,” said Janofsky. “I’ll pull in people here to start us off.”

  “If there’s a debris field where I think it is, from my memory of that area, it’s not close to major facilities,” said Gonzalez. “I’d like to have a mobile mortuary, but I think the nearest is too far to get there in time.”

  “I agree,” said Janofsky, “but keep it in mind until we get more information. I’ll leave it to you to handle the public relations staff and check that the main office notifies the usual agencies.”

  He had referenced the FBI, the airline, and the manufacturer of the plane. The FAA would already know of the event since air traffic control fell under its agency.

  “What about staff for the ‘witness group?’” asked Janofsky. “Can you handle that?”

  “I’ll get some help here,” Charlotte said. “You focus on getting yourself and the other group leaders to Dulles.”

  The first thing Janofsky did after hanging up was call his wife. She knew the routine and might not see him for many weeks, if it turned out to be a major airline disaster. He didn’t need to go home to pack. A black bag with two week’s clothing and toiletries sat in his office closet. A second bag contained a laptop, cell phone, video camera, and flashlight—all with extra batteries. These items, along with forms and other clerical supplies, were needed for the supervisor of an investigative team that could number in the hundreds and would include personnel at a debris site, local NTSB offices, and relevant staff back at headquarters in Ashburn.

  Janofsky, as the assigned investigator-in-charge (IIC), spent the next twenty-seven minutes making contacts. He called Health and Human Services to alert the D-Mort team in Region VIII, which was coordinated from Denver. The members of the D-Mort team consisted of civilian forensic pathologists, odontologists, fingerprint expert
s, and other technical personnel who would leave their current positions for temporary assignment in victim identification and postmortems. They would assist the local medical examiners, and, if necessary, additional personnel would be brought in—civilians and military.

  A full passenger complement for the Gulfstream lifted wheels at Dulles eighty-three minutes after Gonzalez’s call.

  Janofsky maintained frequent phone contact with Ralph Dutton from the Denver NTSB office—first from Dulles, while the GO-Team gathered, and then on the flight west.

  “It’s confirmed, Curtis,” said Dutton. “Didn’t take more than two or three minutes once we got to a debris field and identified one engine, part of a fuselage, and several remains. Local police and sheriff departments, plus the Colorado State Patrol, are securing the area. Fortunately, it’s a relatively uninhabited part of Elbert County, south-southeast of Denver.”

  “How’s it look for setting up a command post?” asked Janofsky.

  “Not good. There’s nothing appropriate within sixty to seventy miles. Even then, the facilities are marginal. Since the Denver suburbs are only another thirty or forty miles farther, I suggest that the command post be there. I have people checking out facilities, if you want to go that route. But then we’d have to set up a temporary, on-site command post here at the debris site.”

  “All right, Ralph. I can’t decide until I get there, but we may have to do as you suggest. Go ahead with preparations. We won’t arrive until after dark, and given that it must be a good hour or more drive to the site, the organizational meeting will have to wait until first thing tomorrow. The GO-team will stay near the airport, and I expect everyone at the site at eight a.m. tomorrow morning.

  “I’ll bring some staff with me, but you should tap into your Denver people. Get anyone you think relevant on-site either tonight or for the meeting tomorrow morning. Are there at least places to eat and sleep nearby?”

  “We’re checking this out, but that doesn’t look good either. We’ll arrange food and drinks for tonight at the site, but the nearest accommodations are at least thirty-five miles away. We’ll settle all that tomorrow.”

  “Ralph, if it’s as you describe, there’s no way I can coordinate the investigation, participate in all the required meetings, and spend much time at the site. In that case, I’ll appoint you as the on-site IIC.”

  “That’s what I figured, Curtis. Anyway, it should only last one to two weeks. The terrain is flat and without any obstructions or water, so recovery should move along quickly.”

  The Gulfstream touched down at Denver International at 8:43 p.m., and its passengers checked into a nearby hotel, after being warned of a 6 a.m. wake-up call. They’d have a grab-and-run breakfast in the hotel before leaving by vans at 6:30 a.m.

  At precisely 8 a.m., Curtis called to order the organizational meeting for the investigation. Overnight, the Denver office had arranged for a large tent, plus folding chairs and tables to be set up fifty yards from a piece of fuselage. Ninety-four people sat and stood inside the on-site command center. Besides the GO-Team, there were additional NTSB staffers from the Denver office, the regional D-Mort team, representatives from local law enforcement, the Colorado State Patrol, the FAA, the FBI, the Red Cross, United Airlines, Boeing, and several airline unions. After the formal declaration that the NTSB was in charge and investigative groups were organized, they began to work. Curtis returned to Denver to formally establish the main command post at a conference center twelve miles south of downtown.

  At noon, Curtis and Charlotte Gonzalez led a press conference on what was known, which was very little at this early stage. In the next few days, Curtis would spend most of his time going from one conference call or meeting to another, giving updates to NTSB headquarters, the GO-team, families, local authorities, individual groups, and the press. He knew the routine. When not at meetings, he was negotiating or refereeing among the sundry parties directly involved in the investigation or those with vested interests. In his few spare moments, he read daily progress updates from each of the investigative working groups.

  On the tenth day of the investigation, Curtis Janofsky made what he thought would be his final trip to the debris site. Based on progress reports from the relevant groups, he foresaw closing the Colorado operation and returning to Ashburn, where all remaining work would continue, the groups’ draft reports would be completed, and a final NTSB report would eventually be issued—a process that could take anywhere from a few months to several years.

  It was the sixth time he’d visited the site. As evidence of the wrap-up, only a few investigation staff members remained. Ralph Dutton, the site IIC, met him when he drove up. Together, they would make the final decision. Curtis was surprised to see Glenn Mahmud, the D-Mort team leader. The Denver pathologist was tied into the regional medical examiners—a connection that prevented problems Curtis had experienced in previous investigations.

  “Glenn, surprised to see you here. I didn’t think they let you out of your labs,” jibed Curtis.

  “Oh, even pathologists are allowed occasional exposure to the sun. However, I wanted to take one last look at the area. When I called Ralph to alert him I’d be stopping by, he told me you were coming today. As you know from progress reports, we haven’t found any new remains in the last five days. Not since we discovered an arm caught up in a tree about a mile from here.”

  Mahmud licked his lips and shifted his feet. “It’s not showing up yet in progress reports, but I need to pass on an anomaly in remains recovery.”

  Curtis frowned. “An anomaly? As in a problem with the investigation or a puzzle?”

  “More in the puzzle camp. And it’s actually two anomalies. One is the distribution of remains. Take a look at this.” Mahmud handed Curtis a map of the area overlaid with thousands of dots.

  “Blue dots are aircraft fragments; red dots are human remains.”

  Curtis took one look at the diagram and frowned. “This can’t be right.” He continued staring at the pattern of blue dots intermixed with the human remains’ red pattern. “The patterns should be approximately the same shape, with variation due to winds and other factors. But the red dots show a major cluster of remains almost a mile from the nearest aircraft fragment.”

  Mahmud shook his head. “That’s how it is. Now, this is more in your agency’s purview, but why would there be two patterns of remains, one similar to aircraft debris and a second one tightly positioned well away from everything else? And it gets more puzzling. The outlying cluster is mainly largely intact bodies or major portions of bodies, with only a few small fragments.”

  “Ralph, what do you make of this?” Curtis asked.

  “Glenn only showed me the diagram an hour ago. Sorry, but nothing makes sense. If anything, mainly intact bodies would tend to fall within the same area as the heavier plane pieces. Small fragments might get carried by wind, but less so for whole bodies. Almost as if the history of intact bodies is different from body fragments and plane debris.”

  Curtis rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll have to think about this. I’m sure it will be a discussion topic once we’re back at headquarters. Glenn, you mentioned two anomalies. As if the first one wasn’t enough.”

  “If anything, the second one might be more troubling,” said Mahmud. “We’re missing legs.”

  Curtis said nothing at first, as he mulled over Mahmud’s words. “I can’t imagine the assignment of body parts has progressed enough that you literally mean there are identified people whose legs haven’t shown up. The DNA results will take months.”

  Mahmud nodded. “Right. Legs are sturdy, with muscle and bone. They might get ripped off in explosions or torn off by impact and shear, but they tend to stay intact otherwise. Small body fragments are harder to assign to individuals without DNA tests. As the number of human remains we find declines, the number of legs should start to match twice the number of victims. That hasn’t happened. If what we’ve been tallying doesn’t change, I think we’ll b
e missing the remains of about twenty-seven people.”

  “Twenty—” Curtis stared are Mahmud. “That’s over ten percent of the total! That doesn’t seem possible. Not under these circumstances, with mainly flat grassland, no water, no animals to scavenge. It’s almost ideal conditions for recovery. Remember the Germanwings flight that crashed in the French Alps? They identified all one hundred and fifty passengers and crew. Hell, even with ocean events we can identify a high percentage of the victims, like with TWA 800 that went down in the waters off Long Island. We identified all two hundred and thirty victims. If that could be done in mountainous terrain and in the ocean, I expected we’d do the same here or, at worst, have one or two victims missing. But twenty-seven? No way.”

  Curtis wasn’t looking forward to the daily meeting with Charlotte Gonzalez. Although she was technically his superior, the role of the IIC and the emphasis on thoroughness meant the IIC had authority in the investigation.

  “Charlotte, I doubt you want to hear this, but we need to do a whole-plane reconstruction.”

  “Jesus, Curtis. I know there are puzzling things about this case, but that raises the stakes to a whole new level. Hell, maybe more than one level. The FBI will claim we suspect criminality or terrorism. They’ll badger the attorney general to turn the investigation over to them, and the press will go bananas, with every conspiracy nut hitting the airways. Then there’re the families—they’ll apply political pressure to learn what’s going on.”

  “Yes, but I don’t see any way around it. There’re just too many oddities about this case. No evidence consistent with a high-explosive event. People’s remains in odd dispersion patterns, and it looks like we’ll have a lot of missing bodies. No indication yet of structural, power plant, or systems failure to account for what happened. The momentary appearance of something larger than the plane, as seen by three eyewitnesses, the distance video from a smartphone, and the traffic control eyeball and data suggesting the plane apparently getting larger before disappearing off radar.