Amelia

by Harvey Mendez

  “Come, come, Miss Earhart, we know your plan.”

  She caught his stare. “What plan? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You landed in our waters.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Very convenient.” His eyes penetrated hers. “Of course, no one ordered you to do that.”

  “Who would?” How could they know about the letter? Vincent said to destroy it after Australia. She knew she did.

  “Your superiors were not very subtle.”

  “No one sent me here.”

  He slapped the top of his desk. “No more lies! You had a military navigator.”

  “Military? Where’s Fred?”

  “That’s not your concern.”

  “Well, it’s my government’s concern.”

  “Miss Earhart, please understand. You were caught spying. You could be shot.”

  She straightened her back against the chair. “Then shoot me. That’s the way you do things, isn’t it?”

  “Enough!” He rose from the desk.

  His glare unsettled her. She looked around the room again. The two guards started toward her. Sunlight glinted off a mirror on the opposite wall. She didn’t remember seeing it before. When she stared into the glass, it had become clear blue water and she had transformed from a thirty-nine-year–old aviatrix into a young, brown-skinned woman....

  Amelia stirred, blinked her eyes. The sun, slanting to the west, still beat hot on her naked body. Seemed odd she’d dreamed about AE. A bird swooped down, made the water ripple. Had she been on an island? Was she back on Saipan? It seemed so long ago. The Japanese had owned her island. Harry was Japanese. He was handsome, persistent. She never let the other kids get too close.

  Somehow, Harry slipped under her guard. He was okay until Steven came along, then she changed and grew with Steven. But he was taken from her so fast. And her dad, she lost him, too.

  Her dad’s stories about Amelia Earhart fascinated her when she was young. Many times she imagined flying off to some exotic land or fighting for the lead in the Powder Puff Derby. She felt the love he had for AE and knew her mother must’ve felt it, too. Did her mother really understand AE’s magnetism? Did Vincent? He certainly was captivated. What was she going to do about Vincent’s fantasies? Fight a ghost? Impossible!

  Afternoon trade winds blew through the hut, offsetting the heat but not helping Vincent’s headache. He sat at his table, tried to concentrate on a box of Earhart papers. Every time he turned a page, the breeze scattered his notes from the pile. Damn, was Amelia part of the wind, too? Maybe he had been a little rough on her.

  He grabbed four bananas from a fruit bowl and placed two on each pile of papers. His head still throbbed. He pushed back his chair, put his feet on the table, and gazed at the crude shelving stuffed with papers, charts, and boxes. He tried to remember some small detail he might have missed a hundred times before. God, all those years, checking new leads, not knowing much more than when he started. Now, he dragged Amelia through the tedious process. It was his obsession, not hers. She lived on Saipan. Why hadn’t he gone there? Was he afraid of what he’d find? Damn, he forgot. The old man’s letter—the day Tad went down in Nam. Where the hell did he stash it? He should have connected with Stan. Now it was too late. Maybe Amelia’s mother could help. But would she?

  Vincent’s chair tilted backward. He caught himself. Those were blurry days. Just when AE’s trail had gotten hot. Books were out. Witnesses claimed to have seen her on Saipan in ’37. He couldn’t believe it. First the letter, then Tad. He knew he brought the envelope back with him.

  Vincent jumped off his chair, pulled books and papers off the shelves. Nothing new showed up. He admired pictures of AE he hadn’t seen for some time. Such a remarkable woman. Ditching the world’s most sophisticated plane couldn’t be the end of her. He’d find her, no matter how long it took.

  He rocked the shelves harder until a beat-up box fell on his head and dropped to the floor. “Great.” He rubbed his head. “Just what I need, a broken compass, .45 shells, a map.” He opened the map of Japan’s Mandated Islands and found a yellowed enveloped addressed to his Brisbane Post Office box. He unfolded the hand-written note.

  May 20, 1965

  Dear Mr. Carlson,

  I read your notice in the local paper about Amelia Earhart, but don’t understand your connection to her. I worked for the Japanese in 1937 and overheard her name many times that summer. Stan Adams and I have some photos you might want to look at. Please contact me when you come to Saipan.

  Sincerely,

  Emanuel Garcia

  Vincent stared at the words. Why the hell didn’t Stan write it? He must’ve seen the ad. His shoulder twitched. He felt her gaze.

  Amelia stood in the doorway. “Hi.”

  “You feeling better?”

  “Much, the water cooled me off.”

  “I could use some myself.”

  “Maybe you just need time.”

  “Time? I’ve been down years of roads that led nowhere.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Vincent stood up. “Time will have to wait.” He held out the note.

  “What’s this?”

  “A letter I got two years ago.” He paused. “Do you know Emanuel Garcia? Lives on Saipan.”

  “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “He knew Stan.” He handed her the letter.

  She read it. “What did you ask for in the ad?”

  “Any information about Amelia Earhart. Did Stan ever mention Garcia?”

  “Not to me, but Mother may know him.”

  “What about photos? AE with the Japanese?”

  “I never saw any.” She held the note in one hand. “Wait a minute. This is dated May 1965. Why is it so important now?”

  He picked up some of the books, put them back on the shelves. “I lost the letter.”

  “Come on, Vincent, you’re too obsessed to have lost it.”

  He continued straightening the bookcase.

  “How could you ignore such a lead?” She tapped his shoulder.

  He half-turned. “It was a bad time. Tad was shot down in Nam. I couldn’t hack it. The booze took over.”

  “I understand some of that, but something else must have happened.”

  “Hadn’t seen him for a couple years. We didn’t part best buddies.”

  “Sounds like your fault. Could you have saved him in Vietnam?”

  “Maybe, if I’d been there. But, I quit.”

  “Quit what?”

  “Where I worked.”

  Amelia moved closer to the table. “You’re not telling me anything.”

  “Think about it. 1963—what changed the U.S., the world?”

  “You mean Kennedy? That’s what split you and Tad?” She put her hands on her hips. “You were both CIA weren’t you?”

  Vincent nodded. “I knew what was going on. Tad wouldn’t turn in our guys.”

  “Wouldn’t that be called loyalty?”

  “He was wrong.”

  “You couldn’t have been wrong? Why would the CIA kill President Kennedy?”

  “A lot of people hated him, but it didn’t matter. Vietnam had already started. We were stuck in it.”

  “So, you both went? Got back together?”

  “Tad got in it, I didn’t.”

  Amelia waited for him to continue. She sat on the table’s edge, folded her arms.” Are you going to tell me why you stayed out?”

  Vincent turned a book over. The title was BEFORE PEARL HARBOR. He stared at it. “Someday.”

  “So we haven’t been close enough? Or don’t you trust me still?”

  “Neither—it’s just personal, between Tad and me.”

  She nodded. “You and Tad were in some other covert operation.”

  “I never thought Tad could get killed, after all we’d been through.”

  “When it happens to someone you love, what do you do? I hate this war.”

  “If only it was a real
war.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Any killing is war.” She would always remember.

  “You, too, eh.”

  She wiped the wet streaks off her cheeks. “His name was Steven, he didn’t come back.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Amelia walked to the window, gazed past the lagoon to the open sea.

  Good-bye—they had said a tearful good-bye. His jaw stiffened. He shipped out. The telegram came. Tomorrow’s dream evaporated… Sunlight hit Amelia’s eyes. She squinted.

  The afternoon trades softened, increasing the humidity. She turned to Vincent. “Who told you Tad was shot down? I thought you were on this island.”

  He saw her eyes were still misty and softened his voice. “I’d gone to Brisbane for supplies and to check my P.O. box. Garcia’s letter was there. Stuck it in my duffel bag and made arrangements to fly to Saipan. Stopped by the bar and got the note about Tad.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Called Washington, got the runaround. I was mad. It was like they never heard of him. Here we had interned his family during the war yet he volunteered for combat in Korea and Nam.”

  “My dad told me about the internment camps.”

  “If I’d been Japanese, I don’t know if I could’ve forgiven America.”

  “But Tad did,” she said.

  “I admired him for that.”

  “Until your falling out.”

  “I’ll always admire him.”

  “So, you found him?”

  “Not until you and Harry showed up.”

  She perked up. “What are you saying?”

  “Jungle Wings... someone tried to kill me.”

  “Wait a minute, I thought we had that cleared up.”

  “Sometimes I wonder if anything is ever all cleared up.”

  Amelia moved away from the window. “What does that mean?”

  Vincent sat in his chair. He watched her dark eyes search his face, waiting for an answer. An answer he couldn’t give her, now.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Vincent awoke the next morning with the first cracks of light. He took a large cup of guava juice to Amelia. Half asleep, she rose on her pillow, pushed her hair back.

  “We’d better start training for Saipan,” he said.

  She opened both eyes. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

  “Oh, good morning.” He offered her the juice.

  Before taking it, she stretched her arms in the air. “Thank you.” She sipped the juice.

  “We need scuba work. If the Electra’s buried near Saipan, we’ll both have to dive.”

  “Warships and aircraft are still sunken around the island.”

  “I think they transported AE’s plane from Truk to Saipan.”

  “Sharks love the wrecks,” she said, “plenty of food down there.”

  “Then you know what to do when you meet a shark?”

  “Stop what I’m doing with you, like at Mac’s Islet, and head for the boat.” She smiled. “I’m a good swimmer.”

  Vincent remained stoic. “We were lucky.” He sat on the bed. “Don’t swim away, a shark’ll think you’re a fish and attack. Freeze, stare it in the eyes and punch it in the snout.”

  “Sure, I’ve got such a big fist.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Takes courage, but it works.”

  Amelia saw his seriousness. “I’ll remember, but that shark sure stopped something nice.”

  “Yes it did, now finish your juice.” He hid his grin. “I’ll get the gear.”

  “What, no breakfast?” She set the empty glass on the floor.

  “Later.” He walked away.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” She ducked under the sheet.

  He turned. “What was that?” A big smile crossed his face and he pounced on her.

  She held the sheet tight, would not let him uncover her.

  He found a toe, tickled her foot. She kicked him away.

  “Okay, you little worm, we’re gonna settle this right now.” He pulled the sheet off her head, pressed his lips against her cheek.

  She wiggled free. “No you don’t Buster, this is strictly a work day.”

  “All right, I’m gone.” He rose off the bed with a disappointed look on his face.

  She stood. “Just one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “This.” She stretched on her toes and kissed him.

  Vincent met Amelia at the water’s edge. “I tested the tanks.” He slapped one. “Air’s fine.”

  She examined her regulator and mask.

  “Water’s a little choppy,” he said. “Visibility below might be poor.”

  “I’ll stay close. I know a little about this.”

  “Good, but be careful.” He handed her a pair of fins.

  “It should be fun. Dad and I dove sometimes on Saipan.”

  Vincent strapped an air tank on Amelia’s back then slipped into his gear. They put on their fins in the water.

  “Practice here,” he said, “then we’ll head out.”

  She gained confidence at his side then broke away, maneuvered toward the reef near deeper water. He motioned a warning but she swam on.

  When Amelia cut under a jagged ledge, an underwater surge slammed the air tank against the bright pink skeletal formation. Thrown off balance, she lashed out her hands and feet just missing the sharp coral. Another watery wind swooped through the depths, twirled her around, and ripped off the mask. A rush of cold water smacked her face but the mouthpiece stayed in place. She gasped for air, inhaled water through her nose.

  Without the face mask, Amelia lost her bearings, felt her lungs tighten. She kicked, rammed her knees into bottomless water, and shot toward the surface.

  Vincent caught her halfway up. He wrapped his arms around her waist, slowed the ascent. She beat on his head with piston-like fists, twisted from his grip.

  Seconds later, she popped out of the water, tore off her mouthpiece. Vincent surfaced, grabbed for her arms.

  She jerked backward, coughed up water. “You bastard!” Her chest heaved and she fought for air. “I almost drowned!”

  He lifted his mask, spit out his mouthpiece. “You were coming up too fast.”

  “I’m not a little kid.” She whirled around, swam for shore.

  Vincent smacked his hand on top of the water, stared after her. “Damn.”

  Amelia shed her gear on the sand. Without looking back, she dashed toward the hut.

  Vincent swam in, picked up the equipment, and trudged to the shack. He set the scuba gear by the steps and peeked inside. Bedroom door shut—great. That’s her out. Walk away every time something happened. Well, she could have a few minutes, but he’d call her on it. Better get it squared away, now. Partners didn’t act that way.

  Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, still wet. It was hot but she shivered. Why did he think he could bully her all the time? Everything had to be his way. Maybe he was too old. But he really didn’t act that old. He was rugged, handsome. That’s what attracted her to him. In bed, he made her feel like she was the only person he’d ever made love to. She knew she excited him, so why were they always going through this? Must be a curse. Every time things got good for her, something destroyed her tight little world... that Friday, Defense Department telegram... Steven gone forever. Tears flowed down her cheeks.

  After a few minutes, Amelia lifted her head, gazed around the room, and focused on a stack of old magazines piled in the corner. A wrinkled LIFE jutted out from the heap, drooped over the other magazines. On the cover, a giant mushroom cloud rose above Hiroshima. Visions of Steven’s death and her dad crushed under a truck seemed to drift through the lethal vapor of the picture. She wiped her eyes. Couldn’t stand that image any longer. She’d bury that magazine. A bulky, yellowed envelope fell from the pages. “Amelia” was printed in faded ink. Fingering the envelope for a few moments, she loosened the flap and unfolded the handwritten pages.

  July 2, 1939

  Dear AE,

  Well, it�
��s that day again... I hope I don’t ramble on too much, but these thoughts have been buried inside me too long. I know you’re out there, someplace—

  A knock on the door interrupted her. She stuffed the letter into a bag of clothes, shoved it under the bed.

  “Amelia... you can’t do this every time things don’t go right for you.” Vincent turned the handle.

  “Come in, oh mighty one,” she said.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Well, you didn’t have to drown me.”

  “You could’ve had an embolism. The air bubble in an artery can kill you. Had to slow you down.”

  “You sure did that. I couldn’t breathe, just wanted air.”

  “Next time, stay close like I told you.”

  She waited a moment while he approached her. “Yes sir.”

  “We could go on this way all day.” He sat on the bed. “Better iron this out, now, or forget Saipan and AE.”

  “You’re right, but it seems like I have to give in to your every wish. Then everything’s fine.”

  “I don’t mean to be that way.”

  She gave him a slow smile.

  “Really. It’s just that I have expertise in AE, boating, certain undercover aspects.”

  “Undercover, huh?”

  His mouth stretched into a grin. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

  “That keeps us together. Is that all I get credit for?”

  “Of course not. We just need to keep the same focus.”

  She relaxed. “I’m sorry, guess I did sorta panic out there.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” He touched her arm. “Didn’t mean to be so rough. Why don’t we take the rest of the day off?”

  “How about going up to the pool?”

  “Be great.”

  “Sure you won’t drown me?”

  Vincent stood, put his fingers under his chin. “No, I won’t drown you, but I may come up with some other horrible deed.”

  “Wonder what that’ll be?” She played with her still-wet hair.

  He sat down again. “There’s that that again.”

  “I told you so.” She moved close to him.

  He embraced her. “So you did.”