by Jack Castle
“Copy Pedro One. Stand by. We’re going to try and get you some support.”
When the distress call had first come in, George and his crews were right in the middle of conducting routine training exercises. At the time, he’d been preoccupied with a travel itinerary that would deliver him back stateside in a scant three days. He and the rest of his unit were only reservists, guys with normal jobs back home. For the last decade, eleven months out of the year, he was a college history professor. It was hard to believe that last month his biggest dilemma was writing a new syllabus for the next semester.
But then the distress call came in--the boys on the frontline had been shot down in a CH-47 Chinook troop transport and hostile ground forces were closing in. He and his trainees had diverted from their training exercises without hesitation, landed under the worst possible conditions, and made off with over a dozen survivors.
But the enemy wasn’t about to let them slip away so easily.
“Colonel Stapleton, this is eye in the sky,” radioed Captain Marco Phillips, the commander of the AC-130U Specter gun ship currently flying air support approximately twenty thousand feet overhead. “We just picked you up on our radar.”
“Glad to have you with us, Spooky,” George radioed back with forced cool, using the call sign for the specter gun ship.
But the AC-130 pilot cut him off abruptly. “Colonel, be advised, ground forces have locked onto you with a long range missile launcher. Recommend you launch counter measures.”
The cyclic steering column began vibrating even more uncontrollably than before, and he now had to hold on with both hands just to keep his bird on course. That last volley must’ve damaged one of the hydraulic lines. He managed to click his mic anyway.
“All counter measures exhausted.”
As the pilot overhead processed the grim news George knew he could peel off and attempt evasive maneuvers but with Pedro 2 as badly damaged and overloaded as they were it was all the pilot in front of him could do to keep his bird afloat, let alone maneuver. In the end it was simple math. He was only one guy left with a plenty of good years under his belt. In the chopper ahead of him were twenty-one young men with their whole lives ahead of them.
The AC-130’s pilot voice crackled over his headset once more. “Colonel, be advised they have launched missile.”
George knew there was nothing else to do. All counter measures had been deployed. The literal motto of the Para Rescue men was SO THAT OTHERS MAY LIVE.
Darn, and so close to retirement, too. Tessa is going to be so mad.
He clicked his mic one last time. “Understood. I’m holding position.” George knew this would be his final transmission--the last anyone would ever hear from him.
The AC-130 pilot circled overhead, struggling to keep the tears from his voice. “Copy that, Colonel. Missile locked and closing.” He counted down the time until impact. “Missile impact in TEN… NINE… EIGHT…”
To increase Pedro Two’s chances of survival George throttled up the engines to maximum power knowing the additional heat he created would draw the attention of the IR missile’s seeker.
Approximately seven thousand miles away, on a beach in Pensacola, Florida, was a small picturesque house with a wraparound porch, and a white picket fence separating it from the Gulf coast. Inside, his lovely wife, Tessa, was baking a themed birthday cake, waiting for his return, and getting ready for Maddie’s ninth birthday party next weekend. He had planned on being in attendance.
“SEVEN… SIX… FIVE…”
George’s gloved hand removed the picture of his soon-to-be nine-year old daughter taped to the dash. Most other guys displayed photos of their wives or girlfriends, but George had always had a special connection to his daughter, ever since the day she was born.
Lifting his eyes to stare through the cracked forward window, George saw the first light of day appearing on the horizon, marking the dawn. He yanked the night-vision goggles off his head and tossed them to the floor. It was a beautiful sunrise, pink and fiery orange, with a splash of purple.
“FOUR-THREE-TWO…”
George smiled. Not a bad last view. He tore his gaze from the stunning view and stared at Maddie’s picture again. She was a great kid, and a real spitfire. His last thought was how sad she was going to be when she found out Daddy wasn’t coming home.
Tears in his eyes he wept, “Goodbye, baby-girl. I…”
ONE.
Chapter 2
“Hello Lazarus”
“…love you.”
George was fairly certain he hadn’t been dead for more than a few seconds when a harsh, bright-white light assaulted the backs of his eyelids with a jealous vengeance.
Am I in heaven?
He felt a metallic bed beneath his back. Before opening his eyes he wiggled his toes and fingers. All there. A wave of momentary relief washed over him. How is that possible? Am I back home? Was it all a bad dream? That seemed like the only logical conclusion.
He squinted and moaned. “Tessa…”
His voice felt extremely hoarse, as though he had been out for a lot longer than a few seconds--a heck of a lot longer. “C’mon, Tess, turn off the light.”
Tessa did not. He fought down the urge to mutter because he loved his wife, and had ever since they first met twenty-two years ago at that lousy, grimy bus stop in Amsterdam.
With a great deal of effort, he forced open his eyes.
George was not in the master bedroom of their beachfront home in Pensacola, lying in bed next to his beautiful wife. Nor was he wearing the incredibly soft flannel pajamas his eight-year-old daughter had bought him last Christmas with her very own chore money. Nor was he in a burning, flailing helicopter about to be blown up by a closing missile.
Instead, he was as naked as a newborn, laid out like a slab of meat on a cold metallic table, spotlighted in a darkened room.
“Hello?” he croaked. Why is my throat so dry? “Tessa?”
As he climbed toward consciousness George had the strange sensation his life was but a dream he could not quite remember.
George sat up. A cursory examination of his naked body didn’t reveal any bandages or new scars. The unfamiliar surroundings didn’t help much either. The room was little more than a concrete box that smelled like dust and cleaning products at the same time. He reached into the shadowy corners of his memory for some clue as to how he might have gotten from his badly-damaged helicopter to this…place. For a full minute, he came up with nothing--zip, nada. As far as he was concerned, he had little more than blinked and woken up here.
Wherever the hell here is.
Muscles stiff as a corpse he sat up with a hefty groan. When he swung his legs off the metallic table, his head swam and he shivered uncontrollably. Steadying himself with one hand on the frigid steel beneath his bare buttocks, he painfully became more aware of his nakedness. Instinctively covering up his unmentionables with one hand, he hopped down from the table and scanned the room. Overhead was a circular domed light, like the kind surgical rooms use--and lining the far wall were a half-dozen storage units. If a broom closet and a surgical O.R. had decided to make a baby, this room would be the offspring.
Nearby, resting atop a short surgical cabinet, he spotted neatly folded clothes--more specifically, his clothes. A pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and long-sleeve shirt were all stacked in a tidy pile next to a pair of his old work boots.
What happened to my flight suit?
Seeing his clothes stacked up like that freaked him out a bit. For a moment he actually considered staying in the nude and waiting for the hospital staff to return, but he considered this for only a moment. If the doc told him to undress again, he would certainly obey, but not before getting some damn answers first.
As he reached for his clothes, metal dog-tags jangled about his neck. He grabbed one and held it between thumb and forefinger. The metal was worn and dented. It read, LT COL. G. STAPLETON. Serial number # 593241701. They were his, alright. That’s weird; I don’t
usually wear my dogtags when I’m wearing my civies. What is going on here?
With a prickle of growing alarm he hurriedly began to dress. Blue jeans, a black t-shirt, and the heavy, dark blue collared shirt he wore open. Out of habit he rolled up the sleeves to his elbows, and in doing so, he noted the clothes felt clean and pressed. Checking the door every few seconds, he dropped down onto a leather-backed chair (the kind with round coasters for wheels), and began to pull on his thick, tan work boots. It was then he realized these clothes weren’t actually his clothes. The sizes were spot on, almost felt tailored, but there weren’t any labels or name brands of any kind, and even the fabric felt different. It was as though someone had sewn them together from a photograph.
Checking the door again he spied one of those cheap full length mirrors hanging on the wall. The reflection returning his puzzled gaze was familiar to him. No longer a young man, he liked to think he still had a moderately handsome face; dark brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow peppering a firm jaw. And despite the equally distributed amount of black and gray hairs on his head he managed to maintain an athletic frame; although he’d be the first to admit this was more difficult to sustain in recent years. So he wasn’t suffering from total memory loss, just short term, specifically how he had gotten here. As far as he was concerned, that was the real question--how did he get here?
Was I in some sort of accident?
“Hello?” he called tentatively.
Maybe I should wait.
If Tessa were here she’d be the first one to remind him that patience was never one of his virtues. Had she been kidnapped, too? Had Maddie? Thoughts of his wife and daughter being abducted began to flood his mind. I swear, if someone hurt either of them I will turn this place into a glass parking lot.
Fighting down anger and frustration he tried the door, and to his surprise, found it unlocked. Shrugging, he eased it open.
Outside the Operating Room/Broom Closet was a narrow hallway. Dimly lit bulbs were strewn overhead, and thick metal pipes ran along a dirty concrete wall. He got the distinct impression he was underground, like in a bunker.
Was I captured?
But by who? The Taliban? They operate out of caves and hovels. I’ve never even heard of anything this sophisticated. And why would they want me? I’m a Reserve Search-n-Rescue pilot, not intelligence.
One end of the narrow hallway was an obvious dead end. In the other direction he saw bright lights at the end of a long dark corridor. He trotted along on the balls of his feet and kept one hand outstretched sliding along the smooth walls to guide him.
He was about to enter a massive, wide-open tunnel so large he could’ve driven a battleship through it. Before rounding the corner completely his training kicked in. He hesitated and listened.
And it was a good thing, too.
Distant at first, growing louder by the second, was the sound of at least a dozen marching boots coming down the tunnel. Fortunately there was a multitude of packing crates lined against the wall that afforded ample cover.
Better safe than sorry.
Ducking behind the crates he peeked through a narrow gap at his would-be captors. For he was still keeping in mind that maybe the good guys had fished him out of the wreckage and transported him to this secret, and very expansive, underground base.
Hiding behind the crates he couldn’t see much without being spotted. At first all he could see was their uniforms and military precision; which was more than enough for him to know that these guys were not someone he wanted to trifle with.
They’re moving too fast, too fast.
Staying low, he moved covertly down the line of boxes until he found a bigger crack between two stacked crates.
His eyes grew wide.
The steel helmets, the bolt-action Mauser rifles riding on their shoulders, the signature potato-masher grenades tucked in their leather belts, spit-shine polished jackboots reaching up to the knee, the Swastika on their red sleeves, all unmistakable—Nazis. “W.W. II Nazis?” He suppressed a laugh somewhere between a chuckle and cry of mental anguish.
Am I on a movie set?
What little he did see, they didn’t look like models or movie extras. They were too fierce in their march. These were battle-hardened soldiers.
One of the soldiers must have heard him chuckle because he turned toward him.
George instinctively threw his wrist up in front of his mouth to stifle a scream.
‘The Nazi’ didn’t have a face.
Chapter 3
“Madhouse”
George replayed the memory of the passing Nazi parade in his mind.
Did they really have no faces? He rubbed his hands over his face as though he were washing it. Am I going mad? Maybe I’m suffering from some sort of delusion. Heck, I bet they weren’t even really there. I probably imagined the whole thing. I’m probably standing in an empty tunnel.
Whoever, or whatever, they were, he remembered they were escorting someone on a mobile hospital bed. He was certain of it. It was a woman, lying upon the gurney with blond-hair, and wearing thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and… and she had an IV sticking out of her arm.
Am I in some sort of hospital?
There was something else too; something weird about the gurney that didn’t make sense. It took him a second but George soon realized he hadn’t heard any wheels. Gurney coasters sounded alike all over the world, and yet he had heard nothing but the marching boots. Again, he had only gotten a quick peek but the hospital bed seemed to have been floating on the air and moving along by itself.
How is that possible?
George decided to stay out of sight until he acquired a weapon and gathered a bit more intel. He made a mental note of the direction the woman was being taken, and promised to go back for her. For all he knew she was just as much a prisoner as he was.
He slowly rose up from behind the stacks of wooden cargo crates. Before moving into the main tunnel he hesitated again, only this time, he specifically checked for security cameras. Seeing none, he quietly moved into the massive ovular tunnel and began jogging briskly in the opposite direction of the passing patrol. Hearing his own work boots echo off the walls he slowed down his pace and made more of a mental effort to strike the floor in a heel-toe rolling motion. He hadn’t traveled more than fifty yards when he heard another parade of marching boots in the distance. And this time, from the sound of it, they were an even bigger squad than the first.
Spying his only option George sprinted for an adjoining hallway. Once there, he found three closed doors--two on the right and one on the left. He chose the door on the left. No luck. Locked. The boots were nearly to his hallway. He doubted he had enough time to try even one more door, let alone both of them.
The second door was also locked. He was screwed. The faceless Nazis were going to find him for sure.
The first of the dozen troopers marched past the hallway opening. All the soldiers had to do was turn their head to the right and they would be staring right at him--were that possible, without eyes and all. In a nimble move George rolled his body along the wall and tried the last door behind his back.
Success!
He turned the handle the rest of the way and practically fell backward into the room. Once inside the darkened interior, he caught the swinging door and eased it closed.
Backing away from the door he listened as the sound of the marching boots drew closer. A moment of panic overcame him. They must have seen him duck into the room; they must have. The footsteps grew louder. He forced himself to control his breathing. Spying a steel pipe in a box of scrap metal against the wall, he snatched it up and clenched it at the ready. The boots were almost to the door.
Any second now.
Heart pumping furiously in his chest he raised the pipe ready to swing his impromptu bat at the head of the first person to step through the door. The boots marched closer; he gripped the pipe tighter. Here we go. If these bastards wanted a fight, he wasn’t going to disappoint.
&nb
sp; And then…the sound of their footsteps began to recede…and eventually move off.
George let out a slow calming breath. He backed even farther away from the door, traveling deeper into the room.
He wasn’t aware of the person standing behind him. Not until she spoke.
The voice was angelic and sweet, and with one spoken word a lifetime of memories crashed down upon him in an instant.
“Daddy?”
Chapter 4
“Maddie”
George spun around.
Unlike his own life, which was still nothing more than jumbled pieces of fuzzy memory, he remembered his daughter’s life right down to the last detail--starting with the day of her birth. Even though it had been over nine years ago, he recalled it as though it were that very morning.
There had been complications and Tessa was bleeding out. The situation was so dire the nurse had practically flung their newborn infant into his hands so she could assist the doctor with Tessa.
Maddie was a beautiful baby girl from the get-go. She was born with mounds of dark brown hair just like him, and at that moment was crying profusely. And why wouldn’t she, she had birth goo all over her face and hair. A young nurse, or maybe it was the equivalent of a candy striper (George really didn’t know), magically appeared beside him.
“My wife,” George asked, hearing the concern in his own voice.
“She’s fine,” the candy-striper said, holding up a slender hand stopping him. “Here, take this.” She handed George the tiniest comb he had ever seen. The nurse then turned on the faucet of a nearby sink, checked the temperature of water with her fingertips and gestured for him to bring baby Madison over to it. “You can wash her hair out under the faucet,” she explained. The nurse’s aide couldn’t have been more than nineteen.
George did as he was instructed and rinsed out Maddie’s hair while the young nurse took another damp washcloth and wiped down her tiny body.
And boy howdy, did Maddie scream.
George had never felt so helpless in his life. He envied the days when dads were forced to wait in smoke-filled waiting rooms for the good news. George had led rescue teams into enemy territory to retrieve downed pilots, but this wailing little banshee was beyond his skill set.
