by Terry James
None of the men spoke to them during the 35-minute trip into Denver, other than a forced smile of politeness and short answer, when Lori asked the man who had flashed the credentials, “Are we being arrested?”
“Just want to ascertain facts, ma’am.”
Lori and those old enough to remember looked at each other. Jack Webb –Joe Friday –Dragnet was the consensus of thought.
But it wasn’t funny, Mark knew. The missing pilot and co-pilot was no joking matter.
Each had the same agonizing thought gripping their brains. What had happened? If they couldn’t explain it to themselves, how could they make the authorities understand?
Mark’s worries went deeper, although his rationale went further, too. It was true that the Criterion began the flight from LAX with Jeb Strubble and Hamilton Lamb, and they weren’t there when they landed at DIA. But, there was absolutely no way anyone was going to be able to open a cabin door at altitude, in a pressurized cabin. They would all likely be dead if that had happened.
On the other hand, what if they concluded that the passengers, somehow, for some fried reason, had thrown the men out before take-off?
But, if that had happened, the pilot and co-pilot would have reported it –or their bodies would be found. The authorities couldn’t produce bodies –not at LAX, at any rate…
His own father, Lori’s dad –had vanished. That was the explanation. Part of the…things… that were on-going…
“You folks just relax,” the man with the credentials said, turning as far as he could to look at his passengers. “We just want to try to get to the bottom of all of this.”
Momentarily, the van turned into an alley way and descended a long driveway, the driver stopping the vehicle in front of a huge, garage-type door. The door slid electronically upward, and the van moved into a vast underground parking area.
David pulled Cassie to his side by wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “This won’t take long,” he said, bending to joke, whispering in her ear. “I’m a lawyer, you know.”
Jeddy walked ahead of the man, impatient to keep moving toward whatever destination the flashlight’s powerful beam pointed. He occasionally stopped and glanced back at Nigel Saxton, having gone beyond a point he wanted to be separated from his human friend.
The slope was gradual leading from the rocky crags down the mountain’s foothill toward Alamosa. At least Ezekiel had told him the town they saw after leaving the mountain would be Alamosa. The gradual slope, however, hid the rugged, boulder-strewn difficulty of negotiating the terrain.
Better than having to climb in the bone-chilling heights from which he had been forced by the “allies” of Great Britain and the EU.
It was the darkest time, the minutes while the sun’s earliest rays were still sequestered behind the planet’s curvature. The beam seemed to illuminate beyond any he had known. It was the combination of the powerful, many batteries of the long instrument, and the deep blackness that surrounded him and the rottweiler.
Occasionally, when he switched the light off to preserve batteries, the light-points of life in the village that was still far below, were beckoning, welcoming jewels of beauty. They were stars shining up at him, instead of down from the black void of space.
It was impossible to estimate the distance to Alamosa. His thoughts were interrupted by the dog’s whining bark--several yelps. Not barking of anger, or even excitement, but of important discovery the man must come see. The canine wanted him to see what he had found.
“What you got there, boy?”
Nigel aimed the light just off the course of travel they had chosen. The beam fell upon what looked to be a crumpled heap of cloth--a rolled-up ball of discarded something or the other.
“What do we have here?”
Saxton knelt beside the find, turning it and opening its folds with gloved fingers.
It was a sheep-lined jacket of some sort. He held it up and examined it. It was a large jacket, a man’s, one that had not been in these elements very long.
“Somebody out here without this is in trouble,” he said, causing Jeddy to cock his head, then sniff the coat. The dog whined, then barked at the coat. His excitement grew while he half circled the coat, barking at it.
Could be the sheepskin –the fleece-- the Brit thought, wondering what had sparked the dog’s reaction.
“Have a good whiff,” Nigel instructed Jeddy. “If this fellow is out here, we had better find him.”
Chapter 17
The man was in a khaki shirt and cardigan. He still had that sleepy-eyed look. It was obvious that this man –most likely the top man, or near the top man in the Denver FBI hierarchy—had been called from his bed.
The agent sipped coffee from the Styrofoam cup one of the other agents had just handed him.
“Mr. Lansing,” the youngish, middle-aged man said, seating himself across the small conference table from Mark. “They tell me that was a fine piece of flying you did, bringing that Criterion X to a safe landing. That’s among the most sophisticated civilian jets in the world. And, you--” He picked up a manila file folder and thumbed through the pages it contained, after setting the coffee aside.
“You, I see here, haven’t flown any jet aircraft since…” He put a finger down a page, and stopped, while he read the line. “Since 1998. Is that correct?”
“September 1998, that’s correct,” Mark said, his irritation slowly burning in his fatigued senses.
“Now, come on, Mr. Lansing. You are telling us that there was a bright flash of some kind, and those two guys in charge of the flying--these fellows, Strubble, and…” he looked to the note appended to the file folder, “...Hamilton Lamb, they just vanished? Just weren’t there, when you and the others opened the cockpit door?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” Mark said.
“That’s impossible! Surely you know that.”
“Why would I say something so obviously…impossible? Don’t you think I would try to come up with something more plausible, if I had done something like…murder those two guys, or whatever?”
“Oh, we have seen and heard some pretty wild stuff, Mr. Lansing. And some of those weird things have claimed that people just…poof…disappeared.”
Mark said nothing, but sat back in the chair, eyeing the FBI man.
“Problem is, in every case, they were proven to be lying. That’s because people just vanishing, without the help of somebody, just cannot happen.”
“Wish I could help, Agent Warford. But, all I know –that any of us know—is that when we opened the cockpit door –which, incidentally, is a plug--those guys were gone. Their lap belts were still clasped as if they hadn’t even released them.”
“A ‘plug door’?”
“A plug door is one that seals from the cabin while the crew is flying the plane, in case the cabin suddenly depressurizes.”
“How did you get in?”
“The flight attendant had the card key,” Mark said. “And that’s another thing. The girl wouldn’t lie for us, would she?”
“I’ve seen people lie for perfect strangers for numbers of reasons, Mark. You’d be surprised.”
“The cockpit was plugged, that is, it was pressurized fully, as the flight data recorders on that…sophisticated… bird will attest. If the seals had been compromised in the cockpit –or anywhere else in the plane-- the sensors would have made that clear. The cabin would have to have been depressurized to open doors and throw bodies out. The recorders would have indicated that. You see the fallacy of thinking that we somehow threw those men out?”
Warford squinted in concentration, looking again into the file folder.
“Sir, Mr. Lansing’s attorney wants to talk to you,” another agent said, opening the door to the conference room where only Clark and the agent had been sitting.
“Send him in,” the seated agent said.
David Prouse came in past the agent holding the door open.
“Sir, I need to know your p
lans, please,” David said in a business-like tone. “Will you hold Mr. Lansing and the rest of us? Or let us go on our way to attend to the business we have in the area? If you hold us, I will go to the federal office and secure a writ of habeas corpus.”
John Warford didn’t like bully tactics, to which he was so often subjected by lawyers –a fraternity to which he, himself, belonged. But, he chose his battles carefully with them. He would fight this one obliquely.
“I’m not holding Mr. Lansing or any of you. We’re just trying to determine the facts. When Homeland Security has checked out all of this, you may go about your business. But, we will need you to inform us of your movements around the area until these things are resolved.”
A door behind Warford opened and a man standing in the opening said, “Agent Warford, it’s a DC One.”
“Excuse me, please,” Warford said, rising from the chair and going into the room beyond the open door, which closed behind him.
David Prouse sat in the chair beside Mark.
“They can hold us for a number of hours –even days—under new Homeland Security laws. But that doesn’t seem to be what they want…at this point, at least.”
“What about habeas corpus?” Mark said.
“That’s suspended… or takes second priority, in suspected aircraft involved terrorism.”
“Then, what do you think? Will we be allowed to go on our way?”
“Two missing pilots are unaccounted for. On the other hand, we don’t present your typical terrorist profile. Obviously, he wants us close by…”
The door opened again, and the agent hurried back to the table. His face appeared different, both Mark and David noticed. It was a gray, ashen look of a man in shock.
Warford was quiet for a few seconds, looking at the men, then at the file he thumbed through, as if doing so without purpose.
“Here’s what we have. Two pilots that have gone missing under inexplicable circumstances. This nation is under an elevated alert protocol--an aircraft is involved in this weird set of circumstances.”
He again paused to look at the file before turning his eyes to look into those of David Prouse, then Mark Lansing.
“The others can go to…” he looked to the paper attached by a paper clip to the file folder, “...Alamosa. That’s where it shows you plan to spend some time vacationing. Is that correct?”
Mark nodded yes.
“Mr. Lansing, Mr. Prouse. I have the legal right to keep all of you here for a considerable time, as you fully know, Mr. Prouse,” the agent said, looking to David.
“Now, rather than do that, we need for you and Mrs. Lansing to stay with us for a time. Hopefully no more than 24 hours. We will then release you to join the rest of your party. We will provide hotel room, food, and so forth. We’ll even helicopter you to Alamosa, if you wish –at our expense.”
Both men studied the proposal, which wasn’t really a proposal, David Prouse realized. Mark looked to David for answers.
“And, the alternative?” Prouse said.
“Otherwise, we will have to insist that you all stay here –indefinitely—at your own expense.”
Jeddy moved quickly through the sharp-edged rocks that filled the downward slope toward the lights that grew larger with each step taken by the dog and the man. The rottweiler had an obvious purpose, Nigel thought, seeing the black, tail-docked rump rise and fall, then turn from side to side, all the while sniffing the terrain.
“You got the scent, huh, chap?” the Brit asked in an excited tone that seemed to urge Jeddy forward.
Saxton held the fleece-lined coat while he followed the path broken by the canine, hearing the occasional whine. Any noise from the rottweiler was unusual, he knew now from experience, so it was wise to pay attention.
“That’s a boy! Let’s get the guy who owns this!”
The rottweiler neared scrub brush that thickened into a gnarled grove of trees. He stopped, the dark fur expanding into a bristling mass of black that covered the bulging muscles of the neck, chest and shoulders. Growling rumbled in short, furious bursts from deep within the canine’s throat while he stood, his massive head bowed, and dark eyes trained on the interior of the thicket.
The hair on the back of Niles’ neck seemed to stand on end, too. Chill bumps pimpled this back, neck and arms. Something that posed a threat hid somewhere in the barely visible forest of brush and smallish trees.
Niles knelt, pulling the infantry knife from a pocket of the backpack he had jettisoned. He reached beyond where the knife had been to bring out the .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol.
He gripped it on either side of the receiver and pulled back, the action, upon releasing the grip with his left hand, chambering a round.
He held the pistol’s barrel skyward, his elbow cocked, ready to in an instant thrust the weapon’s business end toward the menace the dog perceived.
He grabbed a small flashlight from the pack when he couldn’t locate Zeke’s flashlight quickly enough. He flicked the beam in the direction Jeddy pointed. The light exposed a large patch of reddish brown hair.
The fur moved, and when he ran the beam upward, to a height of, he estimated, 8 feet or more, the thing screamed, its hideous, expansive face opening into a monstrous gaping hole. Fangs dripped with drool, eyes that glistened –seemed to spark—with hellish, blood redness!
“Back off!” Nigel shouted at Jeddy, never letting his own eyes move from the demonic face, whose mouth and dagger-like teeth gnashed at them.
Saxton leveled the pistol at the thing, cutting loose with a burst of five rounds into the center of its huge, heaving chest. There seemed to be no effect, so he poured three more rounds into the head.
The beast turned, screaming, then leaped into the forest, knocking saplings aside.
Saxton followed it, and it seemed to just not be there.
The Brit stood dumbfounded. The thing had to have weighed 500 pounds. No, probably more. It had knocked trees down. But it just…vanished from the beam!
The stench was overpowering; he hadn’t noticed that in the excitement. It smelled like nothing he had smelled… something beyond death’s sickly-sweet odor…
“Mate…You okay?”
The dog was again friendly, no longer in the attack mode. Nigel rubbed Jeddy’s head.
“Good boy. You are a brave soldier, my friend. You didn’t have the weapon, I did. Of course, it didn’t seem to do any good, as they say.”
The beast…the animal, or whatever it was, he knew now existed. The Yeti –the Big Foot. But, it had vanished!
He searched the direction the thing had gone, seeing the broken, bent evergreens. It seems to have disappeared at this point, he thought, shining the light around the area where the trees were no longer skinned and torn apart.
Jeddy was whining again, and Nigel broke off his light search of the forest where the monster had just disappeared.
The rottweiler stood over something. He nuzzled the crumpled heap with his muzzle, his whining at a higher and higher pitch while the Brit approached.
“What did you find?”
He again scanned the forest behind him before turning to look at the dog’s find.
A body! It was a man, a man who groaned—he was alive!
“It’s okay, friend. We are here. You are with friends…”
He gently turned the man’s face toward the light.
“You are the American. The journalist! “
He had to urge the dog to move aside. Jeddy licked at the face, continuing the high-pitched whine of concern.
“My friend looks like you found your Bigfoot,” the Brit said.
“The Lord will take care of them, Chris. This is all happening for a reason, for God’s purpose,” Susie Banyon said. “These things are not in our control; never have been.”
Christopher sat on the edge of the hotel bed, his thoughts spilling verbally from his growing worry. “What have I gotten them into, Susie? Gotten us into?”
Susie came to her hus
band from hanging clothing on the bar of the closet. She bent to hug and kiss him on the right temple. “Don’t you see, hon, this is all beyond us. When things are out of your control, it’s time to just sit back and watch the Lord at work.”
“Yeah. Well, I’m having trouble letting go. All I can think of is that it was my idea to charter that plane and come to Colorado.”
“What about the…visions… the Lord has given you? That He’s given both of us? And has given the others? The mark of God is so obviously on all of this, Chris. Don’t you see that?”
He said nothing, rather sat staring out the big window into the Alamosa morning that looked as if it would grow into a bright day--at least physically. Christopher’s own dark mood could use some of the sunshine that radiated from his sweet Susie…
A knock at the door disrupted his introspection.
“Just heard from Mark and Lori,” Randall Prouse said, walking to the bed and slapping Christopher on the shoulder.
“Mark said someone from Homeland Security had gotten them released…”
Christopher’s face brightened. “Terrific!” He stood and grabbed Prouse by his arm. “That’s great…”
“Wait a second, though,” Randall said, patting his friend’s arm to quiet his exuberance.
“They’ve invited him and Lori to the government complex…”
“Who’s invited them?” Christopher said.
“Really not sure. Mark said he wasn’t sure, either. But the offer was made in front of the FBI guy and the Homeland Security person, Mark said. Said this other guy came in. From the Department of Defense--a special branch involved in projects for DOD in concert with civilian technological suppliers, or something like that. We didn’t have long to talk.”
“So, Mark and Lori are going with this government person…where?” Susie asked, her concern beginning to rise.
“Don’t know that either,” Randall said. “Like I said, we just didn’t have much time to talk. The decision had to be made right then. The guy with DOD, or the special projects, or whatever, said he would do what he could to locate Clark and Morgan if they were involved in the projects at the mountain complex.”
