Secrets: Tales of Deadly Deception

Secrets

Tales of Deadly Deception

by G. Ernest Smith

Table of Contents

Preface

Dead Man

Whip Saw

Who's Gonna Know?

Truth Seeker

Willa

Sal

Run Megan Run

Otis

The Bozo Factor

Acknowledgements

Notes from the Author

About the Author

Other Books by G. Ernest Smith

Preface

These are stories that involve deception and death. Well, a couple are more to do with deception than death, but the possible deadly consequences of the deception are obvious.

The characters are all original except for the story Sal in which I have borrowed heavily from the Black Sheena series.

Non of these stories has ever been published before except for Dead Man which was published as a standalone single in October of 2015.

I hope you enjoy them.

Dead Man

Newark, New Jersey - May 8, 1950

My name is Corman. Hank Corman and I work for a brand new group called the Central Intelligence Agency. Harry Truman thinks it a good idea to have a central clearing agency where information that affects national security can be covertly gathered and analyzed. I was excited at first. I thought I was going to be a spy, but all I've done so far is go to meetings and do a lot of reading, trying to categorize all the information we get. I got this job because I know one of the directors. I was in Paris for two years, now I'm stateside, which made my wife and son happy. They were glad to be back home in Virginia with grandma and grandpa.

The country is putting itself back together after the big war. People are getting back to business, farming, hauling, building. Many are freshly out of the service like myself and looking to get some education. Now that I'm stateside, I'm going to start on my engineering degree. That may not help me in government service, but it would be good to have something to fall back on just in case this CIA thing doesn't take off. There's some kind of agitation right now in Korea, but I don't think that's going to amount to much. I'd like to buy a house for my little family, but a nice one costs about 6000 dollars. Whew! Prices seem to be going through the roof! Something happened to me just recently though that I still have a hard time believing.

I was sitting along a side street in a quiet little working class community off Newark's main business district in my battered '41 Ford Coupe with the window down, catching the late spring straw-colored sunlight on my face and breathing the warm afternoon air. My nostrils were filled with the fragrance of fried steak, and I was reminded that I was hungry. It was probably coming from the diner I was staking out, Stella's, across the street. I was in a position where I could see everyone coming or leaving. I was there to see whether a man shows who is suspected of passing atomic bomb secrets. A scientist. This was not my normal job. I was only here because they didn't have anyone else they could send. But I think it's a false lead. I had a picture of him and a description of his car, a dark blue '47 Nash with New York plates. The street had light traffic and there were a few laughing kids on bicycles coming down the sidewalk because there was a school near by.

I studied the little diner. There was nothing remarkable about it. It was one of those stainless steel jobs that looked like a railroad car with a big neon sign over it proclaiming Stella's in red block letters And there were scripted letters written on the window, Steak dinner $1.99. Chee-ri-ist! 1.99! On the corner was a Gulf gas station, one of those squat white painted brick jobs, with a big orange and blue Gulf sign and two pumps and a gas jockey clad in blue coveralls busily washing a customer's windshield. At my back was a used car lot festooned with colorful flapping pennants. I could hear them fluttering in the breeze.

I wasn't sure how long to wait on this guy. My source told me that he was supposed to show at three and it was four fourteen now. It smelled like a wild goose chase. I turned on the ignition to the old Ford, took it out of gear, pumped the gas pedal and got ready to step on the starter and something caught my eye. A red Chevy Fleetline pulled up. One of those with the fancy visor that stuck out above the windshield. It was a beauty. And not a speck of dirt on it. But it wasn't the car that pulled my attention. It was the guy getting out of it. He had a familiar look. He reminded me of someone from my past. I frowned and grabbed my little pair of opera glasses and put them to my face. Damn! It looked just like Arnie Shepherd. And he had Shepherd's walk too. But it couldn't be. I saw Shepherd die over Germany six years ago.

What I was seeing was impossible. A walking, breathing dead man. I should have just dismissed it and pulled away, but I didn't. I turned off the ignition, put the car back in gear and got out. I stood for a moment and watched the man enter the diner. Uncertainty gripped me. I sighed resignedly and slowly I put one foot before the other and crossed the street, pulled by some kind of irresistible force, as if I could not survive the not knowing. I entered the diner, and a bell over the door chimed. I spotted the man who looked like Shepherd in a green vinyl booth in the corner. He hadn't seen me. He was looking at a newspaper. I stood there a while then finally slid onto a bar stool at the white Formica counter. I picked up a menu and held it in front of my face. I wasn't sure how to play this. What if this wasn't Arnie Shepherd, but his twin brother? Everyone on this earth has a twin, they say.

What'll ya have? asked a middle aged waitress with brown hair in a bun.

What kind of soup you got?

Today we got beef vegetable and corn chowder.

I'll have the vegetable and a grilled cheese.

You got it.

Before she turned to go, I said, Hey, let me ask you somethin' She turned back and looked at me through tired eyes. See that guy in the corner? Does he come in a lot?

Yeh, that's Tom.

Does Tom have a last name?

I'm sure he does. You a cop?

No. He just looks like someone I used to know.

She gave me a worldly look, then strided off.

Tom? Maybe it's not Arnie Shepherd. I should just forget it, but I just couldn't let it go. It pulled at me like an itch I couldn't quite reach.

Fuck it. I gestured to the waitress. I pointed at the corner and she nodded. When the guy looked up and saw me walking toward him, I thought I saw a spark of recognition, but he quickly recovered and folded his newspaper and smiled up at me expectantly.

Mind if I join you? I asked.

Sure, he said suspiciously. Can I help you?

Oh, I don't know. You just remind me of someone I used to know. My name's Hank Corman.

The man stuck out his hand. Tom Garrison.

I shook it. Tom Garrison? I studied his face. He didn't have Arnie's pencil thin mustache. Arnie had thought it made him look like Errol Flynn. But he had the same square jaw, blue eyes and light chestnut hair.

That's right.

Not Shepherd?

No reaction.

Arnie Shepherd?

Who's that?

Do you have a brother or a cousin who favors you?

People tell me I favor my Uncle Ted, but I don't see it. What's this about?

He talks like Arnie Shepherd. His voice has a flat sound but with a hint of the Midwest, and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkle when he talks just like Arnie's used to.

I never had a brother, I said. The closest I ever got to it, was a guy I served with in the Army. Arnie Shepherd. We were roommates at bomber school in Florida at McCoy and later were posted together at Ridgewell, England, part of a B-17 crew, the 381st bomb group. We flew nineteen missions together. I watched him carefully for a reaction, but I got nothing. Did you serve?

No. I have a medical condition that kept me out.

Really.

Bad feet.

Uh huh. I just stared at him. I would swear this was Arnie if I hadn't seen him die. He had a scar that started on the left side of his jaw and ran across his throat. Arnie never had that. How'd you get the scar?

I was working at an aircraft assembly plant during the war and a boiler blew.

Uh huh. The waitress came with my soup and sandwich. She brought Tom a piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee.

As I chewed, I explained, I have several responsibilities with this new job of mine. I'm working for a new government agency that's been charged with protecting national security.

Sounds important.

I suppose. It's boring sometimes though. One of our side jobs as time permits is to find deserters.

Deserters?

Yes. You know. Low lifes who deserted during the war. They swore the oath, accepted the pay and the benefits, but when the going got tough, they took off. No sense of responsibility whatsoever. I have no use for that kind.

What happens to a deserter. Is he shot?

I'd shoot 'em in a minute. A man who deserts his unit during war deserves it. Don'tcha think? His buddies are depending on him... to do his job. People could die if he doesn't.

Tom said nothing. I think this topic made him uncomfortable. There was an uneasiness in his eyes.

But... to answer your question, no. These days, they get court-martialed and sentenced to a year in prison, then a dishonorable discharge.

We both said nothing for a time, eating our food in silence, listening to a radio playing in the kitchen. It sounded like a news broadcast. Something about Korea. When I finished, I threw my napkin into my plate and said, Sometimes I really miss Arnie.

Yeh?

Yeh. He was quite a character. Full of jokes and tall tales. He did a perfect impression of our commanding officer and played guitar and had a pretty good voice, and he was convinced German opera was invented just to torture people. He claimed that all the Allied prisoners were forced to listen to it when they were captured.

Tom smiled at that. This guy had the same lopsided smile as Arnie too.

The British retaliated though by forcing German prisoners to listen to bagpipe music. That's what Arnie claimed anyway. He wasn't sure which was the worst torture.

"He does sound like a character." Tom held my eyes for a long time.

He was, I finally said. He died January eleventh, 1944.

A shame, said Tom. He finished his pie, and said, Well, I got to go. It was nice meetin' you, Corman. He got up and put on his jacket and fedora.

I shook his hand and watched him go. He paid his check at the counter and exited. He got into the spotless red Chevy and just sat there. He looked at me one last time through the window and he had the look of a man conflicted, lips compressed, creased forehead and he had a white knuckle grip on the wheel. Eventually he started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

I paid my check and went back to my little motel where the agency had put me. It was nothing fancy. A small utilitarian place outside the Newark city limits called the Sandman, red brick, one story, about fifty rooms. These places seemed to be popping up like weeds all along the highways after the war. America was a mobile society and we all seemed to travel a lot. The rooms were small and unimaginative with striped wallpaper and peaceful landscapes on the walls. I collapsed into the one chair in the room, then called my boss and told him I thought the tip was a bust. I didn't see our boy at the diner. He told me to come back in. I called my wife in Roanoke and I told her I'd be back home in two days. I got to talk to my son, Doug, who had just lost a tooth. I could picture his sweet sunny gap-toothed smile. It warmed me. The one bad thing about this job was it took me away from my family too much. I told my wife to say hi to mom and dad then I hung up.

I poured myself a glass of Kentucky bourbon I carried with me and took a sip. I wanted to just relax and blank my mind but...

It pulled at me. The only thing I could think about was Arnie Shepherd. And the last time I'd seen him. It was all so real to me like it had been only yesterday:

January 11, 1944 — I was the co-pilot and Arnie Shepherd was the bombardier on a B-17 based in England. Two of a ten man crew. The B-17 was a heavy bomber, nicknamed the Flying Fortress because it had 13 defensive guns and carried 48,000 pounds of bombs. We were on a bird called the Wages of War. On her nose was painted a skeleton with bombs in one fist and dollars in the other. It was supposed to be some kind of joke according to our pilot, Captain Darryl Peterson, but most of us didn't get it. Was the skeleton making money somehow by bombing Nazis? Most of us would have rather had a naked lady like most of the other birds, but we didn't get a say in it.

We were at 31,000 feet and had begun our bomb run on the Oschersleben Fock-Wulfe plant. We'd lost a few planes when we were swarmed by German fighters, but we'd fought our way through them and then the German eighty eights had opened up on us from below. The flak was heavy, but we were still on mission to hit our assigned target. Twice a shell exploded very close to us jarring the plane. I could even smell the scorched smokey shell bursts over the other smells of aviation fuel and oil always present in a B-17. We all looked like Eskimos with our heavy coats and fur collars, scarves, goggles and oxygen masks. The outside probe indicated thirty below zero. Any exposed skin would instantly freeze in seconds. Under our coats we wore flak vests, designed to stop shrapnel from the shell bursts. All the cumbersome gear made it very difficult to move. We were supposed to be wearing parachutes at all times too, but there was no room in some of the tight confines, like the belly gun turret or the navigator and bombardier stations crammed into the nose.

The four big Wright radial engines droned monotonously and once in a while the big ship would buck and levers would rattle when a shell exploded close by. Shrapnel punched holes in the fuselage and the left wing which started a fuel leak, but we got it shut off. Peterson handed off control of the plane to the bombardier, Arnie, and he controlled the plane right up to the drop point. I could hear his voice over my headphones.

Two minutes... Then a short time later. One minute...

The flak got heavier. We were really getting bounced around now. The Gerry's had found our altitude.

Thirty seconds..., called Arnie, and after a time. Bombs away...

I heard the clackety-clack behind me as the bombs were released from their racks.

"Shit!"

What's the matter? asked Peterson.

I've got a fault indicator, said Arnie. Hank, could you take a look?

Sure, I said. I unbuckled and got out of my chair. The door behind me opened onto the bomb bay and my oxygen hose and comm line would allow me enough freedom to take a peek. I opened the door and the thunder of the buffeting wind was deafening. I could see the 200 mile per hour wind trying to tear off the open bomb bay doors beneath me. The bay should be empty at this point, but there was still one full rack of bombs against the right wall of the bay. You've still got a rack of bombs here, Arnie.

"Shit! I'm coming up. Pete, go around. If I can find the problem, we can still make the drop."

Okay, replied Peterson.

Pete got on the radio and told our squadron commander we had a problem and would like to go around and try again when the second wing drops. The commander said go ahead. A jammed bomb rack is a serious thing. Standard procedure before landing is to jettison any undropped bombs over the channel. That's much safer than trying to land with unexploded bombs aboard. But if we weren't able to drop them, we'd just bite the bullet and go make a forced landing somewhere. But Pete was a very capable pilot, so I wasn't worried.

Arnie came up carrying a portable yellow oxygen cannister. He'd removed his headset. He wasn't plugged into the comm anymore. He yelled at me to be heard over the roaring blast. Maybe a release pin is jammed. I'm going to check it!

What do you want me to do? I screamed.

Nothin'! This is gonna have to be all me! And with that he stepped out onto the catwalk that crossed the bomb bay, gripping the rope rails. He sat his oxygen cannister on the metal walk wedging it between two supports, then he leaned against the rail, inspecting the bombs against the right wall. He checked several brackets. First one side then the other. I couldn't see his covered face, but I could tell by the look in his eyes, he was frowning and focused. Arnie was kind of a perfectionist. He liked everything nice and orderly. The rest of us tended to express our inner squalor in our surroundings, throwing shoes and coats into chaotic piles wherever we went, chow, briefings, on the bird, but not Arnie. He folded his coat if he didn't have a hanger and carefully lined up his boots and gloves and goggles in the order he would need them. This kind of thing drove him nuts. There was something wrong with his bomb rack. A defect of some kind. He wouldn't quit until he found the problem. I knew him. He just had to set things right.

He ducked under the rope rail and stretched out his neck to look at a bracket between two bombs, holding onto the rail with one hand. This made me nervous. He was outside the rails now and only seven feet above the open bay doors. The angry turbulence was tugging at his coat and ruffling the fur collar. He shuffled his feet along the walk, hanging onto the rail from the other side until he was even with the far end.

Arnie! I screamed. You should have a safety line on!

No time! He shouted. Besides, safety lines are for sissies! He threw his head back and roared at his joke.

I gasped when he stepped from the catwalk onto a metal flange on the wall behind the bomb rack. He let go of the rail and took hold of a metal cable tray over his head. Arnie! I screamed. Get back on the catwalk! You don't have a safety line or a chute on!

I need to fix this! he shouted. He reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out a crescent wrench with his gloved hand.

No you don't! I yelled.

A shell burst almost directly under us and the bomb bay doors rattled. Arnie almost lost his footing, but he held onto the cable tray and righted himself. He began to work his way down the stack of bombs. He started at the top one, then went to the next one down and then the one beneath that and so on. Then it happened. I'm not sure in what order everything happened. All I'm sure of is the final result. I think things happened in the following order:

A shell burst close enough to punch holes through the right bay door and bend it inward slightly. It rattled us pretty good. I stumbled and fell against the catwalk rope rail and I heard several profanities from crew members in my headset. Arnie's oxygen cannister fell off the catwalk and bounced off a bomb, then off the catwalk. Then the bombs began to release and fall, just like they were supposed to, bottom one first, then the next, and the next. They