by D. F. Jones
Freedman and his assistant, Jaimie Scott, kept a vigilant eye on their Special List and found that, far from exhibiting unusual signs of decay, they were remarkably healthy. Using a variety of excuses, Freedman was able to examine many of them thoroughly. In pre-Event days most of the elderly folk had had some defect: Rheumatism, arthritis, varicose veins, and heart conditions were common. Freedman found no worsening of their troubles; in fact, in some cases the conditions had marginally improved.
The first really interesting evidence came from a younger member of Papa Kilo’s party. Shane de Byl, a pleasant-faced and well-shaped blonde approaching her twenty-first birthday, had now completely recovered from the disastrous love affair which had prompted her to take the tour. She had her two-thousand-dollar government check, and with the expectation of more to come, she believed her big break had arrived.
The daughter of an old Abderan farming family, she had worked locally as a receptionist before the trip. Quite understandably, that post had been filled during her prolonged absence. But with her check safely banked she turned her mind to far more pleasant thoughts. She would have a winter vacation — learn to ski — meet some of those cute young city guys. Better than being chained to a hotel desk all day.
Her venture began well enough. She splurged on her outfit, and, heedless of her aunt’s dire warnings, headed for the nearest ski school. Unfortunately, after she’d done deceptively well in the beginners’ class, over confidence led her to try an advanced slope. She ended up with a broken leg.
Jaimie Scott set the simple fracture. Generally speaking, doctors regard their female patients’ bodies with a detached eye. Often, a body that looks wildly exciting displayed on a dimly lit bed appears very different on an examination couch under cold light. But there can be exceptions.
Doctors are trained to observe: Jaimie Scott, twenty-eight and unattached, could not help noticing her sensational figure, or the fact that she was a genuine blonde. At no time did he get out of line, but he did tend to make more house calls than were strictly necessary. Freedman, who realized what was going on, smiled slyly below his beaky nose: Jaimie was a good boy, and the de Byl girl — he’d helped her into the world — was a reasonable match. Okay, she’d never win a Nobel Prize, but she was a normal, healthy, good-natured young woman — just what Jaimie needed. He watched with amusement as the lad checked back with him on every detail of her treatment. Then the humor suddenly vanished.
They had regular evening sessions discussing current cases. Two weeks after the girl’s accident, Scott came into Freedman’s office clutching an X ray, a puzzled expression on his face.
“Mark,” he said diffidently. “I’d appreciate your opinion.”
Scott slipped the negative under the clips and switched on the screen light. It was a photograph of a perfectly ordinary human tibia.
Freedman had no difficulty in guessing whose it was. Really, the boy had a bad case.
But Mark was a doctor, and however trivial a case might be, he gave it all he had. He frowned, concentrating.
“What do you think, Mark?”
“I’d say you’ve got the wrong … ” his voice trailed off into silence. He pushed his glasses up on his head, examining the X ray minutely, his nose only inches from the photograph.
“When was it taken?”
“This morning.”
“Get some more, all angles.” Freedman couldn’t take his eyes off the screen; he zoomed in again.
“Already fixed for tomorrow morning.”
“Good, good … ” Freedman nodded vigorously. “Let me see the original shot.”
Scott clipped up a second negative. “Taken after I’d set the fracture.” He watched anxiously as his senior scrutinized it. “What do you think, Mark?”
The doctor took his time. “I think we should wait for the next batch of pictures. Could be the angle. How old is she?”
“Nearly twenty-one, and very healthy.”
“Even so, if that X ray is reliable … remarkable! Let me see the negs as soon as you get them. Now — ” He moved on to another case.
The next set of pictures only confirmed their opinions. If they had not known what they were looking for — and exactly where to look — they could easily have missed the fracture altogether.
In fourteen days Shane de Byl’s leg was as good as new.
*
That afternoon Freedman called Washington. Malin made no comment, but thanked Freedman and asked to be kept informed. The doctor felt Malin had little interest in the report; the FBI man seemed preoccupied.
Mark Freedman was right. Twelve hours earlier, alarming news from the State Department had electrified the committee, and sent Arcasso streaking half way round the world.
*
Frank Arcasso felt numb with fatigue despite uncounted cups of metallic-tasting coffee. He’d never been a bomber man, and this ship, a converted Rockwell B-l with extra fuel-tank space, seemed to him to have been up forever. It was no airliner. They’d re-fueled three hours into flight, near Honolulu, and five thousand miles out from base, repeating the pattern over Manila. Now, slumped in the copilot’s seat, he heard the singsong intonation of the ground controller, Colombo International, Sri Lanka. This special State Department B-l with its civil registration — the “fire truck” — was used to move diplomats at the highest speed possible. It certainly did that: halfway ‘round the world in less than seven hours.
But Arcasso was burdened with a great deal besides fatigue. Repeatedly during the flight, he’d taken out the message that had started this mad dash across the globe. It conveyed no more to him now than it had at first reading. He felt irritable, apprehensive, exhausted.
The brief tropical evening had almost gone when he climbed stiffly out of the plane to be met by a young Defense attaché. He sat silently, oblivious to all the sounds and smells of one of the most exotic islands in the world, as his car raced to the embassy.
Inside the embassy he dropped thankfully into a chair, produced the message, and tossed it across the desk. “This yours?” he growled.
“Yes, Colonel,” replied the attaché, an Army captain. “I realize it’s vague, but we have a standing order to report anything unusual — ”
“I know,” cut in Arcasso roughly, “I wrote it. Just gimme the story.”
“Well, since I sent the message, I’ve learned that three nights back — ”
“Three goddam nights!” Arcasso exploded. “What — ”
The young captain’s face flushed with anger. “If you’ll let me finish, sir … Three nights ago a plane was heard passing low over a small town to the north. The people noticed it — they don’t hear many planes up there. They said it crossed from west to east, making a hell of a racket. As I said, that bit came later. Then a call from the police department — they’d gotten a report of a plane wreck in the jungle, believed to be an old U.S. aircraft.”
“Yeah,” said Arcasso, “that’s the thing. What do they mean — old? Old U.S. or old ex-U.S.? There must be stacks of our crates all over. Have you seen it?”
“No, there’s been no time. I asked the same questions, but the Colombo police were only repeating what they’d been told.”
“So it could be a clapped-out C-47!” To the attaché’s surprise, Arcasso smiled. “I may be on a mighty expensive wild goose chase!” The captain could not begin to realize the sense of relief Arcasso felt. “So you haven’t seen it yourself?”
“No, sir. It’s quite a drive from here, and as soon as I heard you were on the way I decided it best to stay here and get things organized.” He hesitated, not anxious to spoil his visitor’s sudden good humor. “I don’t go crazy for the C-47 idea, sir. There’s only one body.”
Fear flooded back. Arcasso mentally cursed himself for being so eager to clutch at any straw. He sat back, eyes closed.
“May I fix you a drink, Colonel?”
Arcasso nodded. “Yeah, thanks — anything so long as it’s strong.” He fumbled for a cigar, for
cing himself to think. He had to stop telling himself black was white, if only for the sake of his frayed nerves. Take it easy …
“Where’s this body?”
“It reached the city morgue an hour back. You want to see it?” He handed his visitor a large whiskey.
“Thanks. No, let’s take the plane first. Where’s that?”
The attaché turned to a wall map. “We’re here. The town I mentioned is up here. Anuradhapura. Here, just to the east, is Mihintale. The wreck is located a couple of kilometers north of Mihintale.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
“Three hours, I guess, to Mihintale.” He shrugged. “That last two kilometers could take ten minutes or two hours.” He read Arcasso’s expression. “Your first time on the island, Colonel?”
“Yeah.”
“Believe me, it’s a fantastic place. You name it, they’ve got it. Jungle covers two-thirds of the island. Ten paces off the main road and you’re hopelessly lost.” He shrugged again. “There are whole cities lost in jungle growth; one up there” — he gestured at the map — “nearly two thousand years old, covered two hundred and fifty square miles. Not that jungle needs that long to cover anything. Six months is enough.”
Arcasso hardly heard. “There’s no guarantee the low flyer is the one that crashed,” he speculated, following his own train of thought.
“No. But like I said, if it fell out of the sky six months back, you could be standing on top of it and not notice. Also, I’ve checked with the local aviation authorities; they have no knowledge of any plane in that area at the material time.”
Frank liked it less and less.
“Okay; no point in theorizing. Sooner we get moving the better.”
“With all due respect, Colonel, we’d never find the place in the dark. I suggest we haul out of here at three-thirty, aiming for Mihintale at first light. You could use a little sleep, I imagine, and I’ll have time to fix a guide with the local gendarmes.”
It made sense. “Okay, but you drive, and let’s make it your car.”
“You want the low profile?”
“Affirmative, Captain,” said Arcasso. “Jesus, yes!”
*
They drove north out of Colombo along the deserted coast road. Arcasso was still half asleep and suffering from monumental jet lag, hardly noticing anything for the first hour. But slowly he revived, grateful for the cool night wind off the sea. At Puttalam they turned northeast, driving through what seemed like a large tunnel. Strange glittering bugs flashed in the headlights’ glare and were gone; once he saw the startled emerald eyes of a leopard. Occasionally something darted across the road. The attaché drove slowly and carefully, pointing out the deep ditches on either side of the narrow, unfenced road. This was the jungle, no place for an accident.
The attaché’s timing was perfect. Anuradhapura was only a collection of half-seen shapes when they drove in. By the time the police station had been located and the guide collected, the brief tropical sunrise was over.
Eleven kilometers later they reached Mihintale; their guide directed them onto a narrow, unpaved track, heading north. For ten minutes they bumped and swayed, then stopped. From here on they would walk.
Arcasso found the attaché had known what he was talking about the night before. He had not expected the jungle to be so dark; overhead the treetops formed a continuous roof, excluding all direct sunlight. On the sloping ground — he guessed they were moving round the side of a hill — the thick knee-high scrub was a lot tougher than it looked. Giant creepers, thick as a man’s forearm, hung down, their gentle swaying the only perceivable movement; and the harsh, screeching alarm call of unseen parakeets was the only sound in the damp, cool air.
The going was not too bad, for a path had been trampled by the men who had removed the body, but Arcasso sweated as he toiled after the guide. He was learning the hard way that Sri Lanka had plenty of insects, not all of them discouraged by repellent cream.
The guide called out, pointing. Arcasso forgot his discomfort; ahead lay a patch of sky, visible through a hole torn in the jungle roof. Below it lay the cause.
At first Arcasso thought the plane had come down in a small clearing, but he quickly realized the plane had made the space itself. The aircraft lay on its back, the remnants of the undercarriage pointing upwards. He guessed it had hit the treetops with its wheels down; they’d caught, the aircraft somersaulted, spun, and plunged to the jungle floor.
Both wings had been torn off; one hung impaled on a branch, the other was missing. The engine, ripped loose on impact, had carved a path to its resting place twenty meters away; the tail plane was half wrapped around the base of a tree. It was a very bad crash.
Looking at the stripped fuselage, torn and pierced by shattered tree stumps, he thought it resembled a giant slug, shrunken in death. On its crumpled side was a white five-pointed star in a blue roundel.
Arcasso wandered around, picking up pieces of mangled metal, dropping them, hardly aware he did so. The guide stood back respectfully while the attaché took photographs, privately anxious to get the job done before the heat of the day clamped down.
There had been a good many shocks in Frank Arcasso’s life, even before ICARUS. Only the thought that he’d met them and somehow gotten by gave him any help now; no matter what, he had to do the routine things.
He inspected the engine, confirming what he already knew. He’d seen one before, in a museum: a Packard-built Rolls-Royce Merlin. He noted the number, his fingers trembling.
Unless he was crazy, or in a nightmare, this was the wreck of an F-51, a Mustang. Offhand, he could not recall when the plane had been phased out of the USAF — the 1950s? Certainly no later.
The wing stuck on the tree provided the greatest shock of all — three broad white stripes were painted from forward to aft. Arcasso’s history was rusty, but he was pretty sure those three stripes had been first used as standard identification for Allied aircraft taking part in the invasion of Europe in June, 1944.
And those three stripes, bright and clean, might have been painted yesterday.
*
Arcasso remembered little of the return journey to Colombo. As they passed through the jungle, the attaché tried to discuss the crash, but was silenced once Arcasso realized he knew next to nothing about aviation.
The attaché prattled on about the ancient culture of Sri Lanka, pointing out a two hundred meter tall dagoba, a relic of a civilization virtually unknown in the West, and went on about a sacred tree under which the Buddha had sat, a tree more than twenty-two hundred years old, and very likely the oldest in the world.
Frank Arcasso let it all roll over him, nursing his apprehensions, yet a fragment of his mind wondered what the contemplative powers of the Buddha would have made of this awful dream.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Colombo, battling with ox carts and crammed buses, he had gotten his mind working, forcing himself to ignore the stunning implications of what he had seen, concentrating on the immediate problem.
The visit to the morgue was an anticlimax. The sad, hideously torn body of a young man conveyed little. But the clothes, the personal possessions, were something else entirely.
The pilot had worn an old-fashioned overall flying suit, a fur-lined zip-up jacket, and an ancient Mae West life preserver. His identity book was the clincher. His face, recognizably that of the corpse, stared up at Arcasso — bright, hopeful eyes, carelessly knotted silk scarf, crew-cut hair. The official stamp, half on the photograph, half on the paper, bore a date: September 9, 1943. Elsewhere, a date of birth: 1923. Arcasso was strangely moved by the face. If they’d met, the youth would have stiffened to attention before a full colonel, yet in years he would have been damn near old enough to be Arcasso’s father.
It was crazy, impossible, but a stone cold fact.
Frank managed to take possession of the clothing, papers and dog tags. He thanked the inspector for his cooperation, hinting that the plane had
gotten lost on a submarine tracking operation. As a story it had nothing to commend it, but he couldn’t dream up a better one, and the chances were the police inspector knew even less about aircraft than the attaché, and was not likely to ever set eyes on the wreck.
He told the attaché the story was false. In fact the plane had been on a spy mission, and the less the attaché knew, the better. He saw the ambassador, produced his letter of authority signed by the President, and requested the body and wreckage be recovered from the local authorities and flown back to the States as soon as possible; the USAF would provide transportation. The ambassador too was left with the impression that he was stuck with a CIA spy operation which had gone sour.
Arcasso collected the attaches undeveloped film and sent a secret message to “Smith” — which meant the ICARUS secretary, Sarah.
EVENT FOUR POSITIVE STOP COMMENCED 1944 REPEAT 1944 STOP LOCAL SITUATION UNDER CONTROL STOP RETURNING ARCASSO
Exhausted, maddened by insect bites on his neck and ankles, he climbed back into the B-l. He’d said the local situation was under control, and as far as was humanly possible it was. But the security of ICARUS couldn’t last. The central question of who or what was responsible for these inexplicable returns from the dead remained unanswered.
The new factor was the sudden expansion in the time scale. If a plane could come back thirty-nine years late, why not one from an even earlier day? Suppose some stick-and-string crate from the twenties or World War I got down safely?
XIII.
Landing at Washington National, Arcasso went straight to an emergency ICARUS meeting. He had no option — a State Department car met the plane.
In terse sentences he reported his findings and actions. As before, the committee made short work of the immediate practicalities. Arcasso would check out the pilot’s USAF records, his AI4 section would examine the wrecked fighter. CIA Joe had the facilities to conduct a postmortem and dispose of the remains. The chairman would arrange for express transportation via the secretary of defense, who was one of the Ten.
