Magnolia Gods (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 2)

by Thomas Hollyday

  “You’re right. A man doesn’t load up on bombs if he’s going to deliver secrets to his so-called friends,” said Mike. “On the other hand, the notation could be a mistake. Was the Navy sure that Lawson acted alone?”

  “Guard checked him in,” said Jeremy. “No one else could have gone to the lab that night or to the seaplane. That place was tight on security.”

  “What else did you find?”

  Jeremy continued, “I found records of the Navy effort to spot Lawson after he took off. The radar system had been breaking down. The Navy had been making requisitions for new equipment, funding. The radar was being adapted to civilian use but they had a lot of problems with the tubes wearing out on the sets.

  “Another interesting thing, Mike. The whole lab was being moved from the Navy base to Aviatrice’s New York factory. Some of the instruments had already been shipped. Notes were in the files about trucking equipment north as soon as possible as well as dates when the engineers from Aviatrice would be coming to pack up all the experimental stuff on the plane.”

  “In those days a lot of military work was being returned to private industry,” Mike said. “Probably the same here. Did you find anything about the ocean search?”

  He nodded. “We were lucky there too. The Navy had records of the pattern search. The Navy sent out Catalinas, as well as some of their fighters to check out the area around Philadelphia. They covered land as well as sea. The records indicate they thought Lawson might have landed on shore, so a search was done of possible landing areas. He was an experienced pilot and they also thought he might have landed it on a river.”

  “How far out did they search on land and sea?” Mike asked.

  “The range was set by the radar,” said Jeremy.

  “What do you mean?” said Mike.

  Jeremy explained, “The radar was not working when he took off. When they got it up and running, they searched the sky for the plane and couldn’t find it. So they figured that he was down. They calculated how far he might have gone in any direction from the takeoff time until the radar was back on.”

  “How did they know when he took off?” asked Mike.

  “That’s easy,” said Jeremy. “A witness saw the takeoff and then the explosion of the lab.”

  “How far did they think he went?” asked Mike.

  Jeremy looked at his notes. “They searched out about a hundred and fifty miles in a big circle around Philadelphia.”

  “So the radar was not off very long,” said Mike.

  “No. He did not fly very far,” said Jeremy.

  “What about the raft?” asked Mike.

  Jeremy brightened, “The raft changed the investigation. When the raft was discovered, that proved he went down at sea,” he said. “The Navy got a call on the morning of the third day. A man on the Eastern Shore near Ocean City, Maryland, had been collecting driftwood on the beach. He found the raft washed up and called the local police. The sheriff called the Navy. According to the records, within about an hour the place was filled with police and Navy personnel looking for clues.

  Jeremy chuckled at his notes. “I found a report about their interviewing one woman. They asked her if she had seen a flying boat. She said she didn’t believe in them. Said her preacher told her it was all made up by the Communists. They are the only ones, she said, who talk about people from space.”

  Mike laughed too and unrolled the chart he had shown Jesse.

  “The raft was found south of Philadelphia at Ocean City,” he said. “That’s over here.” He put a dot on the paper. “How’d they figure the direction of the drift of the raft?”

  Jeremy looked at his notes again. “The Navy projected various flight paths adjusting for currents and winds and came up with an average direction, a best case.”

  “Best case,” said Mike. “That’s a weakness right there.”

  Jeremy nodded. “I discovered the projections for the drift of the raft. The best case for that drift was plotted to the flight path and that gave the estimated crash point.”

  “So this is the spot that all the experts finally agreed on, the spot that I told Jesse,” said Mike.

  “It’s also the place where they searched and didn’t find anything,” Jeremy said.

  He went on. “In the files were various reports about the raft, the uniform, the documents. The uniform jacket was spattered with blood with secret documents in the pockets.”

  “What kind of documents?” asked Mike.

  Jeremy answered, “The lab had been cleared out. Designs, everything. The documents that were found in the raft were some of the missing ones. Taking the documents, I guess, convinced investigators that he was a spy or traitor.”

  “Seems that way,” agreed Mike. “The rest probably went down with the seaplane,” Mike said as he looked at the chart. “Shallow water is all around that location. Anything that sank out there should have been found by now.”

  He looked up at Jeremy. “One thing that has to be considered is suicide.” he said. “Maybe that’s why Lawson tore the plane up so bad it couldn’t be found. Maybe that’s why he had the bombs on board.”

  “I thought about that, Mike. From what I read, though, this wasn’t the kind of man who kills himself. He started his career testing floatplanes, landing them in rough seas. Those planes were deathtraps. Lawson also flew the early and experimental racing seaplanes, the ones that overheated and boiled the pilots to death when the engines exploded and covered them with hot engine coolant. He helped the Navy in the international races, even flew with Jimmy Dolittle in 1925 in the Schneider Trophy Race against the British Supermarines and Italian Macchis planes, right near here on the Chesapeake Bay.”

  “So he was a hero for part of his life,” said Mike.

  “Yeah. Not really a candidate for suicide with all that ability to survive death. I also went over to the Library of Congress,” said Jeremy.

  “A friend help you?” asked Mike, with a smile.

  Jeremy smiled. “Yes. A pretty one.”

  “What did you find over there?” Mike said.

  “Nothing that we could use,” Jeremy said. “One author wrote that the wreck was in the Pacific Ocean. I read a lot of general articles, newspapers, magazines that came up in the library computer search. The authors agreed that Lawson was a Communist but without any proof. His wife was considered a Communist too.”

  “No proof?” asked Mike.

  “The writers tended to repeat over and over that because he blew up the lab, stole secret papers and because he stole the experimental aircraft, he committed treason. To these reporters, committing treason in the post World War Two era proved he was a Communist.

  He added, “One person was quoted over and over. He was a major accuser. He’s still around today and we all know him.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Mike.

  “Bernard Wall,” said Jeremy.

  Mike said, “Figures. Aviatrice was involved in the development of the plane that was stolen. As the head of Aviatrice, he lost a lot of money.”

  Jeremy continued, “You’re right. Aviatrice was just a small company at the time. Wall was quoted as an entrepreneur who Captain Lawson’s treachery had directly impacted.

  He went on, “As far as the treason claim, one file had information and pictures of the Soviet battleship that was Lawson’s supposed destination. This was an old ship the Russians had from British lend lease. Not much of a ship. They were bringing her to the opening of the United Nations.”

  Mike observed, “I expect Washington wanted to get this incident over with as quick as possible. The United Nations was pretty shaky in those days.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression from reading the material. The Communist governments also got into the act. Their newspapers praised Lawson for being a hero of the people, for stealing the warmonger’s airplane, that kind of thing.”

  “I imagine the more the Soviets let the Americans worry that they knew something about this new technology, the better it was f
or them,” said Mike.

  Jeremy nodded. “Statecraft. I did find out that the British were finally allowed a chance to go aboard the battleship in New York. They were checking out the theory that plane was flown to the Soviet ship where it was disassembled and hidden. They found nothing.”

  “What about recent Russian information, some of the newly released KGB files?” said Mike. “Does Lawson show up?”

  “Nothing. It turns out from the old Soviet intelligence records that the Russians were as surprised as the Americans about Lawson. The Soviets at the time made a decision to alert their overseas spy network, to research the secret plane, to determine if it was a threat. From the wording, it appears that high government circles were concerned. However, nothing in the released records indicated that they ever found out anything.”

  Mike looked pensive. “I was just thinking of something you haven’t touched on,” he said.

  “What’s that?” asked Jeremy.

  “What was the weather when Lawson stole the seaplane?”

  “Easy, almost calm,” Jeremy answered. “What are you getting at, Mike?”

  Mike slapped the chart, making the paper crackle. “How does an experienced pilot, in calm weather, in a flying boat, crack up so bad that an escape raft with no one aboard is all that remains?”

  Jeremy slowly shook his head, “I see what you mean,” he said. “That reminds me.” Jeremy pulled out of his file a picture of the raft.

  Mike looked at it and said, “Still got her cord. A Mark Seven Type D raft. The Navy built these things right. I expect it covered a lot of ocean after that crash.”

  Jeremy remarked, “If that plane had blown up or burned badly enough to destroy it, this raft would show it. This raft might not have survived.”

  Mike thought for a moment. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s learn a little more about Aviatrice’s development program, so we know what kind of secret plane was lost. Maybe you could have your friend at Aviatrice check around?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just make sure she doesn’t get herself in any trouble,” said Mike.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Jeremy.

  “I’d like to see what else we can find out before we go on to a full scale search. I kind of believe Jesse’s story. A man who has been through what he has is not likely the kind of man who lies. He knows the value of the truth. He gave me the name of the lawyer who handled the wife’s hearing. I want to talk to him, see if he’ll tell me something about the testimony.”

  The phone rang.

  “Mike?” a gruff voice on the line said.

  “Yes,” Mike answered.

  “This is Bill Jones, President of the Association of Aviation Museums.”

  “Great to hear from you,” said Mike. “You must have received our application for membership.” He winked at Jeremy who had perked up, understanding who was on the phone.

  Jones said, “I wanted to congratulate you on your research. I read about your find of that P47. Good work. I’m looking forward to your report on it. I know Jeremy’s work. He’s very good.”

  “Thank you,” said Mike.

  “Tell me,” intoned Jones, “Is it true you might do some work for Jesse Lawson on his grandfather’s seaplane?”

  “How did you find out about that?” asked Mike, suddenly cautious.

  Jones didn’t answer Mike’s question as he went on, “I might suggest that you consider something else to spend your time on.”

  “Some of the members might not like it?” Mike asked.

  Jones raised his voice and said, “Lawson was scum, Mike. He wasn’t in a class with people like your father. I knew your father. We flew together. He would not have mentioned Lawson’s name in his house, much less that little museum of yours. You ought to know that plane can’t be salvaged. It blew up. You’re wasting your time.” He laughed, and to Mike he sounded like a big brother, “No use stirring up a lot of bad feeling.”

  Mike asked, “Are you suggesting that any research we undertake on that seaplane might affect our membership application?” Jeremy, standing across from Mike, rolled his eyes.

  Jones answered, “I’m saying, Mike, that our aviation people seem to have a sore spot about the whole matter. Once in a while I hear about some new research museum who thinks it might be interesting to research that plane. No one ever does because they find out it’s a waste of time. Usually, if the outfit waits a while, he ends up getting a far better deal with a nice research contract from one of our members. It somehow pays to forget the case, if you know what I mean.”

  Mike said slowly, “Sounds pretty much to me that I’m being told by you to leave this work alone.”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t say that,” answered Jones. His voice was gruff again. “You do what you want, Mike.”

  As he hung up, Mike realized he had never received a call like that before. He felt that someone had overheard him, had been listening to his every word, every thought, to know that much about his museum plans. He suspected Dulany’s big mouth. However, he also glanced around his office wondering if someone would actually take the time and interest to bug his little office. He thought about the investigators that Jesse had described coming to that farm so long ago. He shrugged his shoulders.

  The graphic of the raft was still in his hand. Mike stared at it for a moment, then said to Jeremy. “Something’s going on here, something I can’t quite figure out.”

  “Are we going to continue checking out the Lawson seaplane?” Jeremy asked, hesitation in his voice.

  Mike nodded his head. “For a little while longer. I guess it’s an attribute I inherited from my father.”

  “What?” said Jeremy.

  Mike clenched his right fist and hit his left palm. He said, “Jeremy, when a boxer is being pushed into the ropes, he gets an instinct to push back. That call was like being pushed into the ropes and I didn’t like the feeling.”

  Chapter Four

  12 Noon, June 30

  New York, New York

  The call had come later that morning. The opportunity to interview someone at Aviatrice had come sooner than he expected. Tim O’Brien wanted to see Mike at the Aviatrice headquarters in New York City and right away.

  Tim had been with Mike’s father in the Pacific, flying off a battle worn escort carrier that was a story in itself. Mike thought about Tim as he walked up Wall Street to the Aviatrice offices. When Mike was a child, Tim would visit the Museum, set Mike on his knee and tell him stories about the gigantic insects and snakes he had seen in the South Pacific, his big Irish cheeks red from the hot sunlight in Wilmington. If Tim had a family someplace, Mike never knew about it. Tim’s present life always seemed secondary to the days with Mike’s father fighting the Japanese, and his happiest moments afterward were retelling the stories of the combat. His father was cut from the same cloth, a Navy man all the way.

  When Mike was a teenager, the two men taught him how to fly. A uniquely happy day for all of them, a day when his father smiled more than he usually did, was the morning that Mike bumped home safely in his Piper Cub, accomplishing his first solo landing. The two men went back to the Wilmington house that afternoon, splitting a bottle of bourbon whiskey and slapping each other on the back celebrating the milestone, recreating each moment of Mike’s brief flight.

  Tim retired but he still kept an office, occasionally coming in to keep track of their patents and to handle foundation affairs which included administering the annual grant to Mike’s museum. Tim was at one time one of Aviatrice’s best avionics engineers.

  Thinking of Tim, his mind drifted to one of his worst memories. He, Mike, had made a great mistake, done something that disgusted his father, made the older man distant from his son, no longer even willing to be a father. Tim had helped Mike “get back with your Daddy,” as Tim put it, had talked late and loud several nights to his father discussing Mike’s big mistake, and had finally convinced his father not to give up on him.

  Tim always made sure that
the annual funding check from Aviatrice came in right on time with no questions asked. It was not like the other foundations and corporations where the paperwork took Mike and Gladys a week to prepare. The Aviatrice accounting office, under Tim’s gentle nudging, paid without comment. Even during the last few years when Mike filed his annual request to Aviatrice showing the increasing financial difficulties of the Museum, Tim glossed it over, passed it through the Aviatrice bureaucracy, helping Mike to feel better about hard times.

  The Aviatrice building in the center of New York City was impressive. It was designed to be. Here was where the deals were made. Designs for experimental aircraft were brought to Aviatrice and great sums of development and venture capital money were handed out. Most airplanes in the world today had Aviatrice money invested in their early designs and made fortunes for its primary stockholder, Wall, as the planes went into production. Aviatrice was a Wall Street favorite, its stock moving higher and higher each time defense and space contracts were announced in Washington.

  The structure glistened with glass and chrome and reached to scrape the sky. Mike entered the great front doors, moving among dozens of busy persons bustling in and out of the many elevators to the offices upstairs. The corporate motto that Mike had seen on television commercials, “Aviatrice Corporation, First in Defense of America, Ready to Go to War for the World,” was etched in the marble floor and in the center of the lobby was a full size jet fighter plane. The fighter was a new attack aircraft, its needle nose aimed at the ceiling. Inside the cockpit, a plastic pilot smiled, hands on triggers of imitation bombs and rockets that were slung in profusion under the razor sharp wings. Looking at the fighter, Mike chilled at the potential danger of these machine guns and cannons and missiles, all tearing into some enemy at the hand of one pilot with his one set of emotions and intelligence.

  As he always did, Mike asked one of the lobby receptionists to call Tim to come and bring him upstairs through the security. In the past, Tim would arrive on the elevator very quickly. This time, however, Mike waited more than a half hour before the familiar figure came out of an elevator. When he spotted Mike, he walked toward him but the usual smile did not appear on Tim’s face. Tim, always red faced, seemed to have more color than usual and was nervous as they shook hands.