Mystery in Trib 2

by Douglas Anderson

  “The A6M had a pretty long range and could easily have made it from the carrier into the area of Whitehorse. Most likely they were trying to slow the flow of equipment coming through. Put a scare into people, take out a few bridges or something,” He thumped the bottom of a Ketchup bottle heartily. “There were probably several intruders. I can’t see them bothering to send just one lonely plane. Six or eight would be much more likely.”

  “Did you manage to find out where the Zero was found? I mean, was it in the vicinity of where we found this piece of …uh, Hav, ..uh plane?” Hagen was having trouble with the name of the plane.

  “Havoc,” Bob prompted. “Well, the reports said six miles from the border and since they were surveying for the highway it must have been close by the present-day Al-Can route. Somewhere near Beaver Creek I guess. It was on the Alaska side because the U.S. Army Air Force salvaged the plane and conducted the investigation.”

  I thought a moment. “That would make it only fifty miles or so from Trib 2. Even shot up, either one of the planes might have limped along for some distance. I guess it’s possible there is a connection.”

  “Yeah. All we needed was a few bullet holes in that piece of metal you picked up and it would have clinched it for us.” Bob sipped some coffee. “No such luck. By the way, it’s the edge of the door covering the left side wheel well. The Havoc had wheels which tucked away into the bottom of each engine nacelle.” He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a folded paper. “Here’s a photocopy.” He handed the picture to Hagen who spread it out near the corner of the table where we could both see it.

  The copy was a bit dark and lacking in detail but we were looking at a mean, high-wing, twin-engine aircraft of considerable size. The undercarriage doors were clearly visible, “Shoot, that’s a pretty large airplane. You would think someone would have found the wreckage by now,” I commented. “Something that big can’t just disappear.”

  “It’s about the same size as that B26 we have out at the museum. Normally carried a crew of four. There were five on board the missing one. Two Wright radial engines. Grossed out at about 14,000 pounds. Like I said; ten machine guns and it could carry 4,000 pounds of bombs and a variety of stores under the wing. Damn good ground attack plane.”

  Bob was on a roll, his voice was rising and, to our consternation, a lot of people were learning what a Havoc was. “ Don’t think that it can’t disappear either. Bigger planes have gone missing up here and have never been found. There’s a lot of wild country out there.” He dragged again and continued through smoke rings, “ In those days resources were limited, there was a war on two fronts. People and planes were being lost every day for one reason or another.”

  “Yes, but to disappear without trace… “ I spread my hands in a gesture.

  “Not without a trace,” Bob said. “Missing temporarily. We have this evidence, don’t we? Now we have to decide what to do about it. First I reckon we need to find out if this site was already investigated at an earlier date. That shouldn’t be too difficult. I suspect it wasn’t but we need to make sure. Then we will know we have something original and can press the authorities to check into it further. Perhaps we can get them to do a local search from the air.”

  Hagen butted in. “We’ve been all over that place in Doug’s 150. We even flew back in September and we couldn’t see anything. Anyway, why would the military be interested in it after all these years? Surely any classified stuff the plane was carrying would be worthless by now?”

  “Well, first of all, we don’t really know what it was carrying, secondly there’s the matter of the crew,” Bob was finger counting again. “There’s always an obligation to find out what really happened and notify any descendants.” His comment left me with a picture of ghoulish skeletons still sitting at the controls of the plane wreck somewhere in the wilds of the Ladue. Only their dog tags and dental work to identify them. Too many movies. “They even return the remains to the families, if there are any.” Bob continued.

  “What about the second plane. Where was it lost?” I asked.

  “Strangely enough, there’s a mystery to that one too. Bob lathered some marmalade on a piece of toast, “It was actually the first one. Disappeared a month earlier. Believe it or not, it was carrying… “ he glanced around, “a shipment of gold. Twelve hundred pounds of it.”

  “Gold! … Twelve hundred pounds!” I sputtered and choked on my coffee “Gold going to Russia?”

  “Thought that would get your attention. Being gold-miners,” he chortled. “No, the gold was destined for China. Payment, huh—more like a backhander—to Chiang Kai Shek for the use of bases over there. At least that’s what I found in the reports. Just over twelve hundred pounds to be exact. Now wouldn’t that be a find? There is a difference, though. After leaving Whitehorse, this plane sent out radio messages that it was having engine trouble and was diverting to Northway. There’s no indication it was attacked in any way.”

  Hagen joined in. “There’s been a rumor around for years about an aircraft carrying gold crashing into a glacier on Mt. Sanford. Doug and I talked about it several times. Usually comes to mind as we fly by the mountain on the way to Tok. There supposedly have been reports of bits of a plane sticking out of the ice.”

  Bob laughed raucously. “Yeah. I heard that one too. There’s also a rumor that it didn’t crash at all and that some people are living high on the hog somewhere in South America. The other one you probably heard about was a DC-4 that crashed on the west side of Sanford. It’s a well-documented case. Carrying military personnel from China. Thirty on board were all killed. There’s always been a rumor of gold on board that one too.”

  Hagen commented, “To find a 1,200 pounds of gold would be fantastic but there could be something valuable on the other plane too. Shoot, even if it’s from the historical standpoint and to solve a mystery it would be worth finding it.”

  I chuckled and retorted, “We’ve been out there scratching for a few ounces of gold in Trib 1 and thinking there was no chance of gold in Trib 2. Now you tell us there could be 1,200 pounds of it all in one place. I don’t suppose we could keep the gold but I wonder what kind of reward there would be if we did find it.”

  “Well, we know there are two missing planes so I guess there’s a fifty-fifty chance of this being the one with the gold,” Hagen said.

  Bob pushed his plate aside and drew closer his coffee and ashtray, “I have some good friends over there on the base. Still belong to the ‘good buddy’ club and all that.” He looked smug. “There’ll come a time when we need to put our cards on the table. If we can present a good enough case I think I might be able to pull a few strings and draw either the Air Force or National Guard in a further investigation.”

  He paused to light what must have been his fifth cigarette and then continued through the cloud, emphasized now by the first weak rays of winter sunshine angling through the window.

  “Sometimes they look upon these things as a realistic field training exercise for the guys. That’s why they help with the salvage of bits and pieces for the museum or rescue climbers from places where they have no business being. If they’re going to spend our taxes honing their skills, they might as well do it on something worthwhile.”

  Hagen looked at me. “Doug. How come you aren’t writing this in your little red book?” He knew I always kept a journal of our exploits.

  I laughed. “You know Hagen, I should be. It sure is a lot more interesting than some of those miserable, wet, hiking days I made notes about.”

  Bob exclaimed, “What! Are you writing a book? I must admit this is intriguing and it’s certainly got me going. But, you know what they say: don’t give up that daytime job yet. A lot of starving authors out there.” His laugh was even more raucous than his speech and everyone nearby scowled at the rowdy bunch by the fireplace.

  “Seriously.” I attempted to quell Bob’s noise lest we get thrown out on our ears. “Seriously, we really do appreciate your help, Bob. You c
ertainly seem to have the right contacts. Is there anything we can do? You know we have at least four months before it’s worthwhile going out there to search any more. The whole area’s locked up in ice and snow until the middle of May or even later.”

  “I don’t think there is anything at the moment.” Bob returned to seriousness. “I’ll keep working on this and let you know if anything significant comes up. I’ll need an accurate description of where you found those pieces. Also where those three craters are. By the way, you may be correct, they could have been the result of bombing practice. But more recently than World War II. More like early fifties, after Elmendorf and Eielson were built. That’s something I’ll try to confirm too.”

  “Hey! Hagen started, “could that Zero have been carrying three bombs?”

  “I suppose it could have but the report, for whatever reason, did say two. Perhaps it was the way the bomb attachments were configured. I don’t know too much about that.”

  “Well, we can fix up a detailed map for you. No problem,” I said. “ Will you be at the museum this next week?”

  “Sure, I’m there Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday almost every week. Anyway, you can leave it with whoever is there.”

  “In that case I’ll drop off a map later this week. It’s only a few minutes from my work.”

  “Hey, Hagen!” Bob suddenly said, “How are your plans for Hawaii shaping up?. Still going?”

  “Yeah, I’m already getting some things squared away and they’re evaluating my credits, If all goes to plan, house sale and the like, I’ll go in July, or early August. I’ll need to get set up with some accommodations well before classes start.”

  “Huh, rather you than me,” Bob said. “I spent some shore leave there twenty-odd years ago and I’ve never been back. I’m certain it’s changed a lot but I’m not too sure I could take all that constant hot weather. I like some change of seasons.”

  “I know what you mean,” replied Hagen. “I like a change of seasons too. But it’s only for three years or so. I think it will make a nice change in some ways. I fully intend to come back here afterward, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Bob offered. “Alaska takes some beating, taking it all around. But a handsome fellow like you will probably find a dusky maiden in a hula skirt and all those best-laid plans will go out the window.” He laughed loudly and ended up coughing and hacking violently.

  With that we took care of our bill, dropped a very generous tip—as compensation—and left the restaurant. I sensed that not just a few people were glad to see us leave. I also caught Hagen talking quietly to the waitress and nodding toward Bob’s back. I guess he was apologizing for the kind of company we kept.

  We stood and watched Bob pull out of the parking lot in his aged Oldsmobile 88. “Never saw anyone who could blow so much smoke,” I commented as I removed my down-filled jacket and shook it.

  Hagen did the same with his short leather jacket. “Good idea. Whew. It stinks like an ashtray. Better hang them outside when we get to your place. Promise, If you arrange to meet him again, it’ll be somewhere outdoors and private.

  I laughed. “Like a picnic bench by Lake Hood. I feel as if everyone in Anchorage knows what we are up to. If he wasn’t such a help…” I let the sentence hang and made a chopping motion with my hand. Hagen knew exactly what I meant.

  “Oh,” said Hagen suddenly, “I forgot to get a newspaper.” He walked over to the box by the restaurant entrance, pumped coins into the slot and, with some difficulty, opened the door. “Damn boxes never seem to want to open the way they are supposed to.”

  I didn’t comment but I was thinking. Hagen loved to argue politics and I just knew there would be something in the paper to set him off. He was already scanning the headlines. It wouldn’t take much to get him going. I also knew I could fire him up even more if I didn’t agree, voiced an opposing opinion or simply pretended nonchalance—the latter was considered to be the worst offence. Perhaps the next few hours would not be so quiet after all.

  We boarded our respective vehicles and, windows open, set off toward my house six miles south of town. We would spend a few hours at my place before we hit on The Pines for dinner and an evening of country-western dancing. Country-western was just one of the things we both enjoyed and The Pines, on Tudor Road, was as good place as any for a couple of eligible single guys to do a little socializing. Besides, we had lots of friends who would be there so it was guaranteed to be a lively evening.

  Chapter Ten

  The Final Visit

  Most of the time the remote valleys of Trib 1, 2 and 3 are wonderfully peaceful with only the rhythmic sounds of nature to break the silence.

  In the long sunlit days of summertime the temperature approaches 80 degrees. It is so tranquil in the valleys, if you listen carefully you can hear the seed cones popping on the spruce trees, bees buzzing from flower to flower, a distant squirrel chattering as it defends its territory, and a stream babbling gently over a stony bed. The wings of colorful Dragonflies make chittering sounds as they skim the surface of tranquil swamps and beaver ponds. Occasional light breezes stir the treetops and rustle the tall swamp grass.

  As summer yields to autumn, the purple blooms of the fireweed creep ever higher up the tall stems and millions of white-tufted seeds float gently in the air. Squirrels instinctively set about hoarding caches of food. The high ridges take on a purple cast as the ground-hugging bearberry and blueberry leaves change to autumn garb. Thousands of geese wing southward in long V formations high overhead.

  Imperceptibly at first, the daylight shortens, increasing to a loss of almost ten minutes each day, then slowing. Frosty days forewarn and ice forms on standing water. Then, sometimes even before the last of the autumn leaves fall, winter arrives with a vengeance.

  Snow begins to fall and eventually accumulates to a depth of four or five feet. Tree limbs are laden down under the weight. Some trees succumb to the load and arch completely over until their crowns touch the ground. Spruce trees, which stand straight in summer, now take on the ghostly appearance of hooded sentinels stooping under a white shawl. Features of the landscape soften into unrecognizable, smoothly rounded, white mounds.

  The snow reflects the meager, low-angle winter sunshine and in November a crackling cold sets in. It is common for the temperature to be 25 degrees below zero for several months. Colder snaps occasionally take the temperature to 60 below. Ice fog blankets low-lying areas for weeks and a beautiful, glistening hoar frost forms thickly on every tree limb, shrub and exposed blade of grass. Under this protective icy shield the flow of the streams is stilled and the land sleeps.

  Spring comes late to this land. But, with slowly increasing daylight hours, the warmth of the sun begins to prevail and snow melts from the trees and unshaded ground. In late April and early May small tertiary streams become foaming torrents and eventually the main river ice breaks up.

  Some years the Ladue will choke with slabs of ice causing flooding of large areas of the level valley. Often, before the ice dams yield, the water seeks the line of least resistance and carves a new course. A serpentine loop of former riverbed is isolated, becoming a stagnant, water filled, slough until the swampy ground slowly takes over again. Thus the serpentine course of the river is ever changing.

  As the sun arches ever higher in the sky the residual snow continues to melt. Flights of geese are heading north again. By the end of May the snow is gone from all but the most deeply shaded hollow. The foliage of deciduous trees comes to bud and full leaf in just a few days and, as the ground warms, fireweed and a plethora of wildflowers burst forth to paint the landscape. Bees, dragonflies and the tenacious mosquitoes take wing. Eventually the daytime temperature again climbs.

  The valleys and mountainous ridges of the Ladue have experienced yet another cycle. Freezing, thawing, flooding and erosion each change the contours a little here and a little there each year.

  For a short time during each of the last five summers Hagen and I had tampered with this
natural cycle as we worked our gold claim on Trib 1. The engine driving the water pump for the sluice box ran tenaciously for eight to ten hours almost every day. Its raucous, intruding chatter, reverberating off the tree-clad hillsides, sounds of metal tools striking rocks, tons of material being moved, the rattling of rocks flushing through the metal sluice, the rattle of cooking utensils, even our voices. All were sounds foreign to the remote valley.

  After two or three weeks, our work done, we departed. The sound of our ATV engine faded along the main trail. Nature undoubtedly gave a great sigh of relief and went back to its normal routine. Our interference had been only temporary and we had been as kind to the land as was possible.

  Hagen’s decision to go to Hawaii had brought an abrupt halt to our work on the Trib 1 claim. As planned, we ceased mining and spent the last couple of days tidying up and restoring the area, as much as possible, to normal.

  We set a large bonfire and burned the wooden parts of the sluice box, the spars of the shelter, the ragged tent, flooring, old tarps, old rope and a miscellany of other items. Conscious as ever about the environment we salvaged all the metal, nails and the like from the embers. By the time we finished, Herman was fully loaded. Now there remained only the excavation, the settling pond and a few worn trails to bear witness to our five seasons of mining.

  We made sure the four corners of the claim were clearly marked so that Tony and Carl would have no need to resurvey if they took it over. We also clearly staked the area we had already mined so they would not waste time going over the same ground. Then, with considerable nostalgia, we said our good-byes and left the claim for the last time.

  We had scouted the area in September from the Cessna to see if there was any sign of the crashed airplane and looked at the claim one last time from the air but that was all.

  Surprisingly, ten months later we again returned to the Trib area. Not by way of the trail or the Cessna but first class all the way from Anchorage to the spine of the ridge separating Trib 2 from Trib 3. The Air Force had taken our information about the crashed A20 quite seriously and, after much discussion, had handed us over to the Army National Guard. Now, with us as guests, they were following up with the investigation. It was exercise, of sorts, for the troops.