Final Turn: A story of adventure, intrigue and suspense. (11 page)

Sam was becoming used to seeing Phyllis. She was becoming somewhat of a friend and she certainly was a boom to Sam's work. It was easy to get things done when there was someone interested and capable of helping. Sam had nearly completed her work for the Grawitz widow. The report was in the final stages and Phyllis kept coming back with additional information. It had been more than just good fortune that so much of the family history was to be found in the military records. There was no doubt that Mrs. Grawitz would be pleased with the results and would become an excellent reference in the future. Sam hoped she wouldn’t suspect how easy it had been. Older people were the right ones to know in the Genealogy business.

Phyllis occupied her usual place on the couch in Sam's gazebo. Shadow occupied his usual place under a chair, somehow believing no one knew he was there. Phyllis looked smart, albeit large, in a blue suit and a white blouse that might have been considered dainty in a smaller size. Sam positioned a bottle of wine between them. Phyllis opened an envelope thick with papers and emptied the contents onto the table. There were two bundles, each secured with an elastic band. One had a sheet in the front labeled 'Grawitz', the other was labeled 'Lindquist'. Sam eyed the 'Lindquist' bundle as a dog watches a child with an ice cream cone. Phyllis went through the other bundle first. There was certainly enough information to meet the requirements of Sam's deal with the Grawitz family. It became apparent that Phyllis had continued to use her contacts to uncover information otherwise nearly inaccessible. She must have been pushing someone, for she had additional information about the Grawitz court martial.

That peaked Sam's desire to get into the Lindquist bundle. Her recent visit with Trudy had been on her mind a lot lately. There had been very strong feelings and concerns coming from Trudy as she spoke about her father and his airplane accident. Sam was again reminded that Trudy might have no notion that Lindquist and Jack had known each other before Jack had joined EDS. Trudy had not mentioned anything about Lindquist having been involved in Jack's aborted court martial. It was hard to imagine how that could be. Jack must have deliberately kept that from Trudy. Sam had the feeling that she was close to discovering something about both Lindquist and Jack Fischer that could explain a few things. Already she began to wonder what she was going to tell Trudy or even Roger. She was giving only listless attention to what Phyllis was saying about Grawitz. An appropriate pause came in Phyllis' dissertation; Sam lunged to change the subject.

"I see you have also researched something on General Lindquist." Sam said indicating the Lindquist bundle.

"I have. Yes. And you're right, that is a more interesting story." Phyllis was not in the least upset at having to switch subjects. She settled back into her seat as if posturing herself for something unusual. "Perhaps you should tell me what your interest in General Lindquist is. I’ve uncovered some curious information. I'm not sure if it falls in line with your interest."

"Roger and a number of his friends work for Robert Lindquist. We are having a company celebration for him soon. It's going to be a kind of 'roast the boss'. I got the impression that there might be some touchy issues from his past that we would best avoid." Sam thought she would use the same reasons that she had given to the museum curator.

"There surely are." Phyllis rejoined. "I would think you want to be quite careful." She indicated the papers with a sweep of her arm. "Those papers contain some notes from court proceedings. They contain clippings of newspaper articles. There is even a copy of a subpoena issued to Lindquist to appear before a hearing about an aircraft accident. There are also some notes from the hearings. I learned quite a lot from talking to people involved in the process. In fact, some of my enquiries led me back here, to the military museum. I met the man who was a court stenographer at one time and is now the curator of the museum. You can go through all that and dig it out. It will take a while. Maybe I should just tell you the gist of it."

Sam readily agreed to that and reached to pour each of them a glass of wine. She could hardly contain her elation at being on the brink of learning something that must have been deliberately cloaked, probably by Jack, perhaps by Lindquist as well. She handed Phyllis a glass, settled back into her chair and gave Phyllis a look that could only be read as 'get on with it already'.

Phyllis began. "It seems that some years ago General Lindquist had been called in as an expert witness in the court martial of a young air force pilot. The pilot had been accused of selling information about nuclear weapons control codes. Lindquist had been brought in to provide special testimony relating to how the accused might have been able to access the information and make it available to others. That is where the standard records of the court martial ended. The rest was done behind close doors with no stenographers of other court attendants." Sam listened intently. So far it all checked out with what Jack's father had told her at the museum. She waited with bated breath for more. Phyllis was relaxed and drank from her glass before continuing.

"After contacting the curator, I was able to get the names of several other court officials involved in the trial and the subsequent disposition of the case. There had been a special court reporter involved and several civilian reporters who followed the case as best they could. The reporters had more luck with some of the events that followed the trial. When you piece it all together this is what you get." Phyllis paused again. Sam fought bravely to suppress her impatience.

"The pilot's name was Jack Fischer. Due to the special testimony given by General Lindquist, Fischer was acquitted. Soon after the court martial, Fischer left the military and apparently returned to a university. I have not traced where he went from there. The interesting story about Lindquist begins once the trial was over. Shortly after the trial, the defense lawyer, Mr. Stubbier, a civilian, was killed in an airplane accident. There was considerable speculation that Stubbier knew a lot more about the circumstances of the trial than were ever published. Apparently, he had speculated that Lindquist himself was involved in the sale of nuclear control codes to foreign agents. Stubbier may have been close to establishing this fact when Lindquist was brought in as a special witness and gave testimony that abruptly ended the trial of Fischer. That curtailed any further investigation into the case. Fischer may never have known that Lindquist was the man to whom he had planned to sell the information. However, Lindquist knew who Fischer was, and he knew that further investigation of Fischer's case would eventually lead to himself. He then arranged somehow to give testimony, which was never recorded, to seek an amiable end to the accusations against Fischer."

Phyllis went on. "That ended the threat of Lindquist being exposed through the proceedings of the court martial, but now he had Stubbier to deal with. It must have been apparent to Lindquist that Stubbier was on to him. Stubbier was killed within a month of the trial in an unusual event and nobody seemed willing to accept it as an accident, apparently some stupid mistake about running out of fuel over the mountains at night. If it was a murder, it was a good one. As I said, Lindquist was subpoenaed to the enquiry but nothing came of it. Lindquist was a very powerful man in the military."

Sam sat in awe. She wasn't sure if she was more struck by the information or by Phyllis' ability to uncover it. Phyllis was a powerful investigator. Sam enjoyed a moment of jubilation that she was cooperating with Phyllis and not competing with her. All of this meant that Lindquist had lied to the court to free Jack knowing that Jack was in fact guilty. To this day Jack would not know that, unless Lindquist had made him aware of it. It would be a powerful hold to have over a man. Murder. Espionage. The more Sam thought about it, the more it provided answers to nagging questions.

"There is one other thing which you should know." Phyllis said as she was ending. "The curator at the museum seemed more than a little curious at my line of questioning. He let out, I believe inadvertently, that there had been someone else enquiring about Lindquist recently. Apparently, the curator has maintained contact with Lindquist after the trial and they still communicate with each other. There seems to be some kind of loyalty as I sense it." Sam understood where that loyalty came from.

"What did you tell him?"

Phyllis looked somewhat smug. "It was one of those unusual occasions where I thought I was lying, but I wasn't. I told him almost what you had just told me. I told him that people in Lindquist's company were seeking information on his past to use during a celebration. Can you believe that? We must be on the same wavelength somehow."

Sam settled back into her chair. The wind threaded itself through the latticework of the gazebo with a muffled hum. It felt fresh on her face. With her eyes closed she tried to think of what to do next. She tried to remember why she was doing this. She decided she would talk to Roger about it. Between them, they could decide what to do about talking to Trudy. She felt like she was undertaking a kind of crusade. What possible difference did any of this make to her? Roger had also taken up a crusade by digging into that business with his client's moving van and Jack's farm with a vengeance. Why? She was glad he had taken the weekend to go flying. Flying rejuvenated Roger. She was always glad to see him when he came back, relaxed and ready for her. Sam hoped Roger was enjoying himself.

Roger was finally aware that he was not breathing and that he would have to start soon. His chest was locked into a position and he couldn't move it to breath. He tried a very shallow breath through his nose. Cool air entered his nostrils but went no further. He tried to open his mouth but it wouldn't respond. His chest ached. He wasn't sure if his eyes were closed or if he just couldn't see. With a determined grunt, he pushed air out through his nose. Again he tried to draw air inward. This time he could feel a trickle of air enter his lungs, accompanied by strange smell. It was blood. With excruciating effort and pain he opened his mouth a half-inch and as the air entered it awakened the taste of dirt and blood in his mouth. Air trickled through his mouth and into his throat. He sucked it into his lungs. It felt cool and it stopped the sinking sensation in his brain. After holding it for a few seconds, he pushed the air out. He rested. Then he drew deeper. He inhaled in two stages, pausing to recover from the stabbing fire in his chest as it expanded. The pain numbed his brain. He held the air again, drawing out all its life giving oxygen.

Roger had no sense of how long he had been there learning to breathe again. Each time he could take in a bit more air and push back the feeling of suffocation. The frightful panic of feeling his life drain from him began to ebb. With each breath his mind returned another step from a hazy, swirling world of distant forms and shouting echoes. It began to pick up a thread of familiarity, a weak light of focused consciousness. With each breath he also became aware of still another pain in his body. His arms screamed, his shoulders burnt where the straps had dug in deeply. The tops of his legs were trapped beneath something. Movement of his chest seemed to be constrained by more than the pain. He could only expand it so far and then it was blocked. His legs were crammed against him and he was pushed tightly into the back of the seat. Roger tried to raise his arms but they too were held down. He sensed there was something immediately in front of him, something large on his lap holding down his legs and pushing against his chest. His arms were pinned underneath it.

As Roger forced open an eyelid he felt a fierce grating pain. He let it fall shut again. The other eye gave the same result. Had he been sprayed with fuel? He could not smell any. With the next try he held his eyelid halfway open. The stabbing, scratching pain was there only when the lid moved. In front of him he could see the blurry outline of a large form. A moment's concentration told him it must be the instrument panel. He needed to see more. He opened the other eye. He waited. Now he knew the pain had come from grit that had been forced underneath his eyelids. If he could stand the pain of blinking he might be able to get his eyes to water and wash some of the material out. Once closed, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly and as he opened them his vision improved. He could see the instrument panel up against his chest. The magnetic compass that was mounted on top of the panel was only inches from his nose. A glance towards the side revealed that the panel was still in its proper place within the aircraft. He saw that he was sitting far forward of where he should have been. The fuselage had been bent into a V with its apex directly underneath him. He was sitting inside the V with the instrument panel against his chest. Roger moved his feet around slowly feeling for some purchase so he could push himself backwards. He located the internal braces running under the instrument panel. With knees slightly bent he placed his feet against the braces and straightened his legs. They screamed to him in pain. It was done. The seat went back with a grating sound.

Breathing, while still painful, was easier. His forearms were chaffed and skinned along the top but not broken. He moved his hands up towards his face. Rubbing his eyes brought out enough moisture to begin to clear them of the grit and dust. The fuselage was buckled and the whole thing sat like a V on the ground. He was able to reach towards his lap and hit the quick release on the shoulder harness. It fell free. To his right the door had been severely buckled and held little promise of opening any further that is already was. Above there was nothing but blue sky partially obscured by branches. He reached above his head and took hold of a brace of steel tubing that ran along the top of the windscreen. He wasn't sure if he would have the strength to pull himself out. His arms ached as he pulled. With a push from his legs he was soon standing on the seat. He felt a lot better knowing he would be able to help himself. From there, it was a simple if not painful matter to get out onto the nose of the aircraft and onto the ground.

After a few minutes on the ground beside the wreckage Roger began to feel stronger. He had determined that he didn't have any broken bones and the blood in his mouth seemed gone. Bruises and bumps were plentiful. That had been incredibly lucky. Suddenly he was very hungry and thirsty. Coming down on the top of a ridge did nothing for his chances of finding a stream from which to drink. The fuselage lay as a crumpled mass at the base of a spruce tree. About a hundred yards back along the plane's path, Roger could see sections of the wings lying amongst the trees.

The first business was to improve his chances of being found. Roger took hold of the side door of the aircraft and pulled it open. He gave it another tug and it came off. He threw it aside. Inside he found what was left of the switch panel and turned on the master electrical switch and the radio master. The frequency selector was still set to the emergency frequency. He found the microphone underneath the instrument panel by the rudder pedals. Listening for a moment to the radio he heard the steady beeping of an emergency location transmitter. It occurred to him that it might be his own transmitter. All aircraft were required to carry these. It was located behind a small access door towards the rear of the fuselage. It was a small radio with its own battery and antenna. Inside was a small mechanism that would turn the radio whenever it was subjected to a violent jolt as it might experience during a crash. It would transmit a distress signal on the international emergency frequency that would be used by search aircraft to locate a downed aircraft. Roger plugged in the microphone into its socket and transmitted a message, first on the emergency frequency and once on the gliding club frequency. Neither would have much of a chance of being heard with aircraft and its transmitting antenna stuck underneath a tree.

He went to the rear of the fuselage, opened the access door and removed the emergency transmitter from its mounting. There was a small first aid kit under the seat. He took that as well. The transmitter was designed to operate remotely with its own antenna. He walked about half way back to where the wings were scattered. Here the trees were more sparse and would give the signal a chance to get out. He placed the transmitter on a rock outcropping. Later if he was able, he could take it up in a tree. He sat on a rock and used the first aid kit to repair some cuts and bruises.

A nagging suspicion had been growing into a fear. The wings lay near the trees that had sheared them from the aircraft. Roger hauled himself in their direction. He ached everywhere. The worst were the bruises on his arms. They were chaffed and sore. He felt like he had been through a blender. Again, a fierce hunger and thirst gripped him. There was no way to satisfy that. He had no food and the only chance for water would be in a gorge below. That could wait. First, he had to know something.

About two feet from where the wing had joined onto the fuselage there was a deep channel cut into the wing where the tree had struck it. That was where the fuel tank was located. It was buckled, crumpled but still intact. Roger had struck the trees exactly right; each wing had the same damage. In the root of the wings, the part that extended onto the cockpit, were the fuel gauges. There was one in each wing. They were simple mechanical gauges, a small float in the fuel tank. It was connected to a small circular gauge by means of a simple linkage and not subject to failure. The two gauges were completely independent. It one were to fail it would not affect the other. Both had consistently indicated that the tanks were about one quarter full even after the engine had stopped.

It took both hands to twist the fuel tank cap from one of rumpled tanks. He expected the smell of fuel, there was none. He took a small stick and poked around inside the tank. It came out completely dry. The gauge on that tank had been crushed and torn from the tank. It was no longer readable. The other tank was also dry. That gauge had done better in the crash. It still sat at one quarter full!

Roger sat on the ground with his back against a tree. The whole thing was bizarre. He had been flying a lot of years. Now he had run out of fuel in the worst place imaginable and had been very lucky to survive the crash. Coming out of it still able to walk and function reasonably well was almost unthinkable. He felt like he needed to talk to someone. He longed to have Samantha there. She would make him feel better and help him put the events into perspective. He wanted to understand more clearly what had really happened. She would be concerned about his injuries. He could almost see her snicker at his bad luck, once she knew that he was all right. She would remind him that this was supposed to be a weekend recreational activity, not something where his life was at stake. Right now, everything hurt and his hunger and thirst were growing.

Roger got up in agony to haul his bruised body back to the broken fuselage. Each step was an effort, his feet literally dragged over the ground. He had to keep walking to prevent himself falling forward, like a drunken stumble. He had been down about two hours now. Soon the sun would lower itself behind the mountains and it would quickly become colder. The wind carried icy messages from the mountains. There was nothing in the plane to keep warm, nothing to keep him from the wind. He just wanted to go to the radio again and check the emergency transmitter. If it had stopped working there wasn't a lot of point in staying; waiting for a rescue which probably wouldn't come. If he had to wait for someone in a search aircraft to spot him from the air, he could be there for days. He didn't think he could last days. The emergency signal was the only quick way to get out, if someone heard it. Any highflying aircraft monitoring the emergency frequency could pick it up. Most airliners did. All search and rescue aircraft would be listening on that frequency.  There were even satellites which could pick up the signal and use it to determine a position of the downed aircraft. With that information, a search and rescue helicopter could get to him within a few hours.

Roger tried to think of how much fuel there should have been. His head ached and his vision was blurred. He tried to remember of how many tows had been done since the plane was last fueled. The tow pilots kept a small logbook in the plane, clipped to the instrument panel. Every time they fueled they wrote in the quantity of fuel and the time from the engine clock in the plane. That would tell him.

He got to the plane and leaned against the doorframe. His head was throbbing and his joints were getting stiffer and ached even when he didn't move. He could feel a slight tremor traveling through his body. It was not a large shudder. What scared him was that he knew he wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it. He began to shiver. It couldn't really be that cold. He had to get some water; that would make him feel better. First, he knew he had come here to do something. It was really just too damned hard to remember everything. His mind skipped randomly. It was a stupid misfortune, a senseless accident. If he were religious he would have believed he was being punished. If he were a fatalist he would have believed he was being prepared for something.

The instrument panel was blurred. There was something on it he needed to see. He desperately tried to remember why he had come to the wreckage. It was the emergency transmitter. He half remembered moving it somewhere. Where? His body ached at the thought of looking for it. Maybe it would be best to sit for a while, to rest. He was suddenly afraid that he would freeze to death if he fell asleep. He couldn't freeze, it was the middle of summer. It didn't seem like summer, maybe it wasn't anymore. Maybe that was a long time ago that it had been summer. He pulled himself into the aircraft seat. That was better. No wind. It would be difficult to get out again. Why had he done that? Someone had tricked him to do it. Too late. It was more comfortable. He sat back and let his mind run where it would. Why had Lindquist carried that damned water ballast? It had been Jack who had told him it was needed……Roger let himself fall away from the cold and the pain.

The pain slipped away before the cold did. He thought it was the seat that was doing it. He no longer had to support his body and that made things easier. He began to rock his upper body gently forwards and backwards because the motion numbed his senses. He could feel the gentle swaying of his thoughts like water swishing in the bottom of a bowl. It took away the pain. The cold came from within and hung on longer than the pain. It started inside his bones and spread outward. Yet, after a while he felt it weaken. That was merciful. Maybe someone was helping him. After a while the cold became less and then it too went away. Maybe someone had put a blanket over him. The last thing he remembered before he slipped away was that he was still thirsty. He didn't remember that going away.