Dark Gold

DARK GOLD

by

SEAN E. THOMAS

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2003 by Sean E. Thomas

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-662-1

Cover Artist: Gemini Judson

Editor: Dave Field

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

For my wonderful wife, Doris; son, Robert; nephew, Ray Michlig; my professor Kim Rich; good friends Dorothy (Kaa-Saan-Da-Ooo); Jan (Nahx-oo-steh) and her father Walter (Taaw-Chun) who inspired and helped me in this and past endeavors.

Prologue

December 21, 1944

Trevor Sampson pulled the hood of his parka tightly around his face. An occasional snowflake slipped past the fur ruff, melting on his skin, reminding him he was stationed at Fort Jackson, Alaska. Blowing in from the gulf, the west wind seeped through his parka’s zipper and he shivered. It wasn’t from the cold. He could handle that. His breath formed small clouds of gray mist which were swept away by the wind as he walked around the Curtiss C-46 Commando. The aircraft seemed to come alive as it shimmered in the morning’s light like a silver gladiator, undaunted as if squaring off for the arena. Around the plane at various strategic locations, armed guards stood, each carrying an M1 Carbine. Trevor felt his hands shake as he examined himself in the almost mirror surface of the plane’s skin. He saw a haggard face and streaks of gray marring his black hair. He looked older than his thirty years.

Wuss. Phil Martin, his copilot, slipped up behind Trevor. Can’t you stand the cold even after all these months? I came from Juneau and it’s only thirty-two degrees there.

What the hell are you doing here? Trevor hunched his six-foot frame uncomfortably over the plane’s starboard tire and checked its pressure.

How in the hell are you going to handle the cold at Elmendorf Field? It was thirty below last night—with a wind chill factor of sixty below. Hell, how are you going to handle the cold in Russia?

Warm plane—warm buildings, Trevor said. Again, why are you here so early?

To help with the last-minute checks. Phil ran his hand through his short brown hair.

I don’t need your help. Trevor surveyed him suspiciously, then stood and squared his shoulders, towering over Phil by several inches. Now back off.

Are you drunk? Phil looked over Trevor’s shoulder.

No. As Trevor pulled his aviator’s cap from his back pocket, and slipped it on and adjusted it, he felt a muscle pull in his neck, the pain shooting down into his arm. He massaged his neck, then rotated it, trying to loosen up. He should have calmed down by now from the fight he’d had with his wife, Ann, earlier in the morning but he hadn’t. Soon after their disagreement, he’d stopped at The Establishment, a local bar outside the post, to fortify himself. Now back off.

What the hell’s wrong with you? Did you get out on the wrong side of the bed?

You know what’s bugging me. Trevor flapped his arms against his chest to warm himself.

How in the hell should I know. Tell me.

You figure it out. Trevor despised Phil. After all these years he thought he should know the man, but Phil recently had been hanging around Ann, always being friendly, especially when Trevor was out on a mission. Also, over the last few months, after Phil’s brother had died in the Philippines, his demeanor had darkened. There was something under the surface—a man who was cold, calculating, and out for number one.

Shit, if you aren’t going to be civil, I’ll go inside and do the preflight checks.

We’re not allowed inside the plane so take a break until the crew arrives. As Trevor circled the Commando, Phil doggedly followed him like a nagging toothache he couldn’t numb. With each guard he passed, Trevor imagined the man breathing down his neck. When he passed the cargo door, he heard a soldier drive a round into the chamber. He swallowed hard.

Whatever the hell’s bugging you, let’s bury it until the flight’s over, agreed?

Trevor grunted.

If it’s about your wife, I’m not interested in her. I already have a girlfriend and a baby on the way.

Hell, you’ll poke anything in a skirt. Trevor’s voice became guttural as he forced his hate below the surface. "Stay away from my wife.

It’s an easy thing to do.

What in the hell do you mean?

Nothing. Now put your jealousy aside for the rest of the damn flight.

Trevor took a deep breath and tried to soften his voice. All right.

You don’t need to do these checks. The chief and his mechanics have been over this baby several times. Besides we’ve been refitted with the new 3350 Whitneys.

It never hurts to be safe. Trevor glared at him then slipped under the wing to its trailing edge. If you’re going to hang around, give me a boost, will ya?

Now you need my help. Phil grunted as pushed Trevor up on the wing.

So. Trevor scanned the dark clouds massing on the horizon, and shivered.

It must be the Christmas blues then.

We won’t be home for Christmas.

We’ll be home with time to spare. You married guys always get antsy before a mission. Amy’ll get us home. Phil gazed up at the painting of a sleek, scantily clad, buxom blonde on the nose of the plane. One of her hands lashed out with a pitchfork and above the opposite shoulder, she carried a crate.

Hell, I haven’t spent a Christmas at home in the last four years.

Hey, it was your idea to join the Army Air Corps right out of college. Phil paused and ran his hand over a line of rivets as he visually followed Trevor in the preflight check.

Trevor popped off the starboard engine cover, pulled on a couple of fuel lines, made a few minor observations, then replaced the cover. Everything’s shipshape here.

Say, what do you think we’re carrying?

Keep your voice down. Trevor eyed the guards. The semiautomatic carbine each held looked lethal. He lowered his voice. We’re paid not to...

Stripping out Amy’s guts...adding extra fuel tanks? Phil paused and motioned with his head to the guards. The secrecy’s driving me loco. I’ll have to check it out.

Don’t.

Just a peek?

No. General Wallace said it’s a shipment of food, rifles, ammunition, and the like. So don’t let your imagination...

Food and rifles don’t weigh that much. And what about the locked boxes? Phil’s voice dropped to a whisper. Ah, let’s take a quick look. You know how I am with locks. And no one will...

Forget it. We’ve got only a half-hour before we take off. Collect the crew. I’m going to pick up my gear and hit the latrine. Trevor turned, walked away from the Curtiss and looked back. For all his misgivings, the silver craft’s lines stood out cleanly, sharply against the rising early morning sun—it was ready for its new challenge.

* * * *

When they returned and began loading, Phil walked over to him. Are the Black Widows ready?

Two Northrop fighters—locked, cocked, and ready to roll, Trevor said.

I’d feel safer if they could follow us into Russia. Phil reached the door first, bowed, and motioned to the steps.

Big Diomede’s as far as they can go, then the commies take over. Why are you worried?

The goddamn Japs coming up from the Aleutians.

We’re well covered. Each Widow has four .50-caliber machine guns and four 20-millimeters guns in the belly. What more could you ask?

A couple more.

As Trevor slipped into his seat, he ran his hands over the controls. He sniffed the air, then keyed the mike of his headset. God, he loved the smell of oil and avgas first thing in the morning. Once they were in the air, he’d be all right. Everyone on board?

Crew chief, Roger, the CC said. One full-bird colonel and four little chickens.

I didn’t think we’d be taking the guards. Phil let out a deep sigh. Now we have some damn colonel in the back who thinks he owns the flight.

Navigator, Roger.

Engineer, Roger.

Bill, got our course plotted? He went through the safety checklist.

Laid in. Bill Marshall tapped his pencil on the bulkhead. Have we ever been lost? Heck, we’re only going to Elmendorf on the first leg—it’s a straight shot. Now our second leg, Russia, that’s another matter. He grinned mischievously.

There’s always a first time. Trevor settled back in the captain’s chair, then hit the ignition switch. He heard each engine cough, sputter, cough, and start. The rumble of the engines set up a low vibration throughout the fuselage. Damn Pratt Whitney 3350s. I liked the old engines.

Roger, Bill said.

Wun Alpha Fower Niner Seven, Roger, Trevor said as he received permission from the tower and pushed the throttles forward. He felt the plane shudder under its load, and a sinking feeling hit his stomach as he turned the craft onto the runway.

I wish they hadn’t screwed with the engines, Phil yelled over the whine.

Now you change your story on the engines.

I said the crew chief checked them out, not that I liked them.

We’re off. Trevor gently increased the throttles and his hands became sweaty as he saw the runway rapidly disappear. He pulled back harder on the yoke and added more throttle, but the ground seemed a magnet for the metallic giant.

What did the load master say our gross was?

It’s too late to worry now, but they didn’t write it down. Orders, you know.

We’re screwed. They’d covered more than half the distance and the plane, shaking, still strained under the load. The tires bounced and jolted, sending a shimmy through the craft as it barely skimmed the runway.

Phil sang a lusty chorus of Anchors Aweigh.

Wrong service, Trevor yelled. God, he wished he hadn’t yelled at his wife the last time they’d been together. Slowly, the huge bird lifted and began to take flight. He held his breath as the vibrations continued with the agonizingly slow climb. Trees lined the end of the runway and beyond, the cold, rugged mountains rose almost vertically into a bleak, gray sky. The trees seemed to reach out, trying to snag the wheels. Trevor stared at the mountains. Tightness formed in his throat and he couldn’t swallow. In years past, several pilots had buried their planes in the snowy, glacier-filled crags. Once under the snow, they were never found. The Commando rose steadily, but the mountain rushed to meet and snare it. Trevor banked the craft away from the mountains and islands, toward the gulf.

You did it, Phil said, begrudgingly. You’re lucky with our load.

It’s called experience. Trevor breathed a silent, controlled sigh of relief. Damn, I hate flying out of here.

Well, it’s all downhill from here.

Uphill. Trevor keyed the mike and confirmed administrative trivia with the Black Widow pilots as he examined the planes hovering off the tip of his fifty-foot wingspan. Their comfortable presence bolstered his confidence. Each pilot gave the high sign and moved away from the Curtiss.

The craft lurched and dropped several feet. Shit, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about—a damn head wind and air pockets. We’ll need to watch the fuel.

Wow, two cuss words in the same sentence.

We need to head north of the storm. Trevor tried to hide the quiver in his voice as he banked the plane to the northwest.

Let me know when you need a breather—I’m going to check on our passengers. Phil pulled off his head set, stretched, and slipped out of his seat.

* * * *

Six hours later, the plane had driven deeper into the storm, bucking, fighting for each mile gained. Over the course of the flight, Phil had subtlety needled Trevor on every subject from flying to his family. To make matters worse, Colonel Rider, the shipment’s commander, harassed him every few minutes checking the flight’s progress. Trevor would call his wife from Elmendorf and apologize. He cursed the Army’s secrecy measures; he hadn’t been able to even tell Ann where he was going.

The strain of the storm was overtaxing the new engines. Trevor worriedly scanned the instruments and fuel gauges. Even with the heavy load and the storm, it should be a cakewalk. His stomach did flip-flops with each shake of the plane. Golf ball-size hailstones pelted the windshield. Lightning flashed and rolled across the metal surface. Widow Wun, Widow Too, This is Commando, status?

Widow Wun, can’t see a damn thing.

Same. Trevor forced his voice to remain calm while, in the background, the other plane echoed the same problems. Lightning ran across the nose of the plane. Trevor glanced down at the gauges. The needles flickered as he increased throttle and pulled back the yoke. Let’s take it up, he said to the Widow pilots.

Trevor looked down to see the compass spinning. What the...

Jesus. This has never happened before, Phil said. Now none of the damn gauges work. This is spooky. Isn’t this like the place near Bermuda?

Prince William Sound has several different northerly variations of the compass headings. Trevor tapped the gauges—some flickered, others spun out of control. Could someone have sabotaged the plane? No, that would be impossible because it had been under guard for the last forty-eight hours. He felt a catch rising in his throat but tried to keep his voice calm and level.

Nothing like this, Phil called over his shoulder. Bill, give me the last course heading and a dead-reckon plot.

Trevor glared at Phil and bit his lip.

Thirty northeast of Montague Island, heading two hundred ninety degrees. The navigator hunched over the map.

The starboard engine coughed and sputtered as the Curtiss started dropping altitude while crabbing to the right. Shit.

The starboard engine whined, hesitated, and slowly wound down to a stop.

Hell, you’re going to kill us. Phil reached for the throttle and yoke.

Trevor batted Phil’s hands away from the throttle. Back off. I’m flying. Trevor increased the power to the remaining engine. There, that should do it.

You need to restart the engine, Phil said. And we need to head to Valdez. It’s only ninety nautical.

Commando, this is Wun, where are you?

Wait Out, we’re having engine problems. We can’t make the climb. Trevor hit the ignition switch. The engine whirred and squealed with each crank.

The intercom blared, This is Shorty; Colonel Rider wants to know what’s going on.

Chief, tell him we have engine problems and I’ll get back to him.

We’re still losing altitude, Phil said. The gas lines must have iced up.

Wun, Too, This is Commando.

This is Wun, want us to come down?

You can’t do anything but get lost. Stay above cloud cover, but keep in contact, guide us.

Are you going to try for Elmendorf or Valdez?

Elmendorf. Trevor raised an eyebrow. One’s signal seemed somehow fainter.

Are you crazy? Phil slammed his fist against the bulkhead. Have you lost it? We need to go to Valdez.

This is Wun, we’ll stay with you.

This is Too, are you sure you’ll make it over the mountains?

Trevor held the headphones tighter to his ear. Too’s signal was even fainter, the click of the microphone blending with the static.

Phil snapped his head toward Trevor. We’ll never get over the mountains. They’re at seventy-eight hundred.

Valdez only has a dirt strip and tall mountains. I don’t want to wind up a speck on them. Trevor glanced at the navigator, Bill Marshal, who nodded.

Colonel Rider pulled open the cockpit door and ducked through, his parka-clad shoulders scraping the sides of the doorway. What the fuck’s happening? My shipment...

Trevor raised his hand, cutting off the colonel’s comment. Suggestions?

Come in from the south—Cook Inlet. Bill held a pencil poised above the map.

It means backtracking and it’ll put us over the Gulf, Phil said.

I’ll have you know... Colonel Rider huffed.

Shut up. I’ll answer your questions after this crisis is over.

I... Rider sputtered.

Wun, Too, do you have a good compass reading? Trevor looked down at the still spinning dial.

The headphones crackled static.

Wun, Too?

Static.

Where in the... Trevor felt his hands shake though they were tightly wound around the yoke.

Where the hell are they? In fact, where in the hell are we? Phil looked over his shoulder at Bill.

From my dead reckon... Bill shrugged. If we haven’t veered off course, we’re in the center of the sound.

Then we’re only forty-five nautical from Valdez.

Trevor peered out of the cockpit window at the dark shapes below. Wrong. We’re over land.

We’re lost? Rider’s mouth fell open as he looked out the windshield.

That’s not our biggest problem.

What’s the other?

We’re going to have to drop your shipment to gain altitude.

I agree, Phil said. Then we need to head to...

Over my dead... Rider placed a hand on Trevor’s shoulder.

It’ll happen if we crash. Trevor shrugged off the hand.

All the Army’ll find is our burn spot on the top of some mountain, Phil said.

Yeah. If we’re lucky. Trevor looked down at the altimeter: it read five thousand feet. Even if they dropped the load, they might not get the altitude to make it over the mountains.

But...

What’s so important in the shipment? Phil asked.

It’s classified and on a need-to-know basis. You don’t have the need to know.

Okay. So here’s my plan, Trevor said. You drop the shipment with a marker. The Army can pick it up by tomorrow afternoon.

But what if someone else finds it?

Who’ll find the stuff out in the middle of nowhere?

You have parachutes to protect my boxes?

The crew chief can show you.

All right, let’s do it.

Let me know when you’re ready, I’ll drop us to two thousand.

As Trevor began his first run, he said a silent prayer he’d make it home to his wife and son. He’d left Ann standing in the doorway, with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her normally bouncy, soft, blonde hair lay limp on her shoulders. Her words, in a pitiful, pleading tone cut through his mind. How can you believe such a thing?

With each box the men shoved from the open door, the plane tried to rise and Trevor constantly adjusted the trim and control as he searched the sky and followed every crate’s descent until the parachute popped open—a white beacon in the darkness of despair. Bill, mark the best dead reckon plot north of Esther Island.

Don’t you mean west?

We’ll go south then west, Trevor said.

Cap, we’ve dropped the last one, Phil said over the intercom. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.

Trevor keyed the mike. Everybody strapped in? It’s going to get rough from here on.

A series of rogers cascaded over his headset. He increased throttle and pulled back on the yoke. The remaining Pratt Whitney 3350 coughed, sputtered, and died. Trevor barely noticed as Phil slid into his seat. Prepare for a crash—we’re going in, he said routinely over the