"The Baby in the Bag" Chapter 28 - The Bomb!

Chapter 28

 

The next morning we take the red trolley from our hotel to the downtown convention center where we hop off and stare at the monstrosity of a building with its canopy-type design making the entire convention center look like a cross between Disney Land’s Matterhorn ride and a giant pup tent.

We head inside the Little Peoples Association of America convention and immediately walk over to the VIP pass table where we stand before a young lady, a dwarf, as she rifles through her box of preprinted passes.

“Oh, so you’re Parc Attola. Well, I’ve been dying to see just how big a jerk you really are,” she says to me, with a smile, as she hands Rob his white pass first and then hands me mine.

“Hey, why’s it red and the rest are white?” I ask.

“Oh that? That’s nothing. The printer must’ve run out of white paper,” she answers.

Oh really, I think, as I clip this “Red Badge of Courage” to my shirt and head on in.

We wander around for a bit, checking out all the products geared to the small of stature crowd, foot stools, gas pedal extensions, easy reach devices and so forth. As I’m curiosity shopping, I suddenly hear my name.

“Parc, hey Parc!”

So I turn around and remember to look down and there, staring back at me is the same cute girl who accosted me for sex after the “Rush Limbaugh Show.” “Oh jeez,” I sigh, when I finally do recognize her.

“I’m Michelle. Remember me? Well, how could you forget? So Parc, you ready to take me up on my offer?”

“No! Didn’t I already tell you that I’m a happily married man?”

“So what! I won’t tell.”

“Yeah, and I won’t tell either,” Rob adds, smiling like a cat playfully ignoring a mouse right before it pounces.

“That’s not the problem. I’d have to live with it and I’ve already got enough guilt to stress over.”

“God, you’re such a pussy,” she bursts out, and quickly turns and walks away.

“Hey, what about me?” Rob yells after her. ”I’m single.”

But we watch her as she goes, talking to all her friends and pointing me out, occasionally flipping me the finger, as she soon fades into the mass of little people, Rob hot on her trail. Man, I feel like I’m on stage, and I want to get off!

“Parc,” I suddenly hear again.

“What now!” I scream, thinking that she’s returned, like the proverbial bad penny. But as I turn around I hear the now famous words I’ve heard so many times before.

“God Damn-it, I’m not a movie star. I’m an ac-tour.”

It’s Pacito and am I ever happy to see him. I guess I think he’ll provide me with some protection. That’s my hope anyway.

“How you doing old buddy?” Pacito begins all smile and teeth.

“Not bad.”

“How was your flight?”

“Same as always, not enough leg room…”

“That’s great!” Pacito exclaims, never hearing a word I say. ”Listen, we better head over to conference room seven, we’re on in fifteen minutes,” Pacito continues.

“What’s the topic?” I ask.

“Ah, something about racism in the media. Don’t worry, it’ll be great,” Pacito tries to reassure me, as we enter the large conference room and make our way to the head table.

After some brief introductions, I’m led to my seat. As I sit down I again notice the bright red name tag indicating my spot while all the others are plain white with black lettering.

Then the moderator walks to the center podium and begins the session.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen of the LPAA. We’re delighted to conduct this panel discussion today on the topic of racism in the media. At this point I’d like to introduce our guests. Starting from right to left we have Dr. Little, the Disney channel star Mini Smalls, the Reverend Tony Sprite…”

I look down at my sweaty hands as the moderator continues.

“Next to him we have the famous movie star, Pacito Jones…”

“Psst, that’s ac-tour you numb nuts,” Pacito whispers back to the moderator.

“Ah, sorry, that’s movie ac-tour Pacito Jones and finally the novelist of ill repute, Parc Attola.”

“Great, what an introduction,” I whisper to Pacito, as a chorus of boos rains down upon me.

“Now, now, settle down people,” Pacito begins. ”I’m here in defense of Mr. Attola who I believe’s gotten a bum rap.”

More boos bombard us.

“Hey Parc, why don’t you go home!” someone shouts.

“Yeah, go home you racist,” another continues.

“Why’d we even invite the Nazi writer?” I hear. I turn to Pacito and meet his confident eyes as he smiles and nods his head in reassurance. But I see the crowd begin to move toward the stage, anger in their eyes.

“Hey, let’s string him up!”

“Yeah, a little vigilante justice, just like in the old west!”

“Someone get a ladder so we can reach his pencil neck!”

Sorry, but I caught myself smiling at that one.

“Look! He thinks it’s funny! Let’s get him!”

Suddenly the crowd rushes the stage, stopping at the edge, trying to hop up. But all I see are little clenched fists being pumped into the air.

“People! People!” Pacito sreams. ”Can we have some peace? People! People!”

Then I feel something hit me square in the chest and see red drops all over my white shirt, which I bought special for this occasion too.

“Pacito! I’m hit. I’m hit!” I hear myself screaming. ”Oh God, I think I’m going into shock!”

“It’s a tomato,” Pacito says over his shoulder to me. ”God, what a pussy! People, settle down!”

Another tomato comes whizzing at me. But I take cover beneath the table as more rotten fruit are hurled my way.

“In coming!” Pacito yells, and drops beneath the table with me.

We stare into each others wide eyes.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” Pacito finally says to me before he crawls from beneath our refuge and climbs up onto it as more projectiles, this time rotten vegetables, comes flying at him.

“People! God Damn-it!”

Splat!

I peer from beneath the table and see Pacito wiping his face from where it’d just been hit with a rotten cabbage.

Then, just as quickly as this melee began, it ends, as stunned silence and embarrassment fills the room.

Finally, Pacito sighs deeply into his microphone and shakes his head, showing his disgust with the audience.

“Now listen fellow dwarfs,” Pacito continues, “this is still America. Why where’d we be if artists weren’t allowed to freely, and I mean freely, express them selves. I’ll tell you where we’d be. We’d be in Nazi Germany where books were banned and artists hanged. So, if we string up Parc we must be in Nazi Germany. But that’d be illogical. We all know that we’re in America, and since we are able to openly express our opinions this must be logical. It’s all simple logic my little friends.”

Leave it to Pacito to take the long way around the barn, I think, as I roll my eyes hearing his logic. But the audience, still stunned that they beaned one of their own, finally begins to settle down.

“Now please, everyone just sit down,” Pacito continues.

Finally, after everyone’s returned to their seat, Pacito begins to address the audience again.

“Now listen people, I’ve come to know Mr. Attola and you’ve got it all wrong. Your selective indignation’s misplaced,” Pacito begins, looking over his shoulder and smiling at me, proud of his use of the term “selective indignation.”

“But he disrespected us on the ‘Tonight Show’.”

“Yeah!”

“People, how come you didn’t get angry with Rock Studstones?”

“Because he’s a movie star!”

“Yes he is,” Pacito says, not bothering to convey the title ‘ac-tour’ upon his brother action hero. ”Now don’t you think that’s unfair?”

“No! Well maybe,” Michelle, my would-be sex buddy says, smiling at me again; coming out of no where with Rob right behind her.

“Maybe! I’d say definitely,” Pacito continues, as the audience finally becomes quiet and respectful.

“Look at it this way my friends. Mr. Attola’s brought renewed attention to our plight. Why we couldn’t have paid for better publicity. I think we owe him a big thanks for all that he’s done.”

I peer over the table and see nodding heads. Pacito’s actually making progress.

“Remember, all of us are created in God’s image and let’s not forget what Dr. King taught us; to judge a person by their color and not their…”

“Psst, Pacito, you’ve got it backwards,” I whisper.

“Ah, right, to judge a person by the content of their character and not by their color or stature.”

Slight applause begins.

“So people, I say embrace what Mr. Attola’s done.”

More applause.

“Cause he’s brought all of us closer together…”

The applause gets even louder.

“and made us stronger…”

I see people stand and begin to yell.

“so that we can challenge the status quo and earn what is rightfully ours! Remember, a house divided cannot endure!”

At that the audience goes berserk. Pacito’s done it. He’s cleared the air for me. Smiling at Pacito’s ability to quote, sort of, Dr. King and Abraham Lincoln, I finally stand up from behind the table and am greeted with thunderous applause. I can’t believe it.

Afterward I stand around and sign a few autographs.

“How’d you like me to sign this?” I ask one smiling fan.

“From the biggest jerk in all the universe.”

Well, at least they’re not throwing tomatoes at me any more.

After the conference Pacito and I are the toast of the convention. We walk around greeting all our, uh, Pacito’s fans, sign a few more autographs and generally have a good time.

As we’re celebrating our new found understanding, I feel someone tugging on my shirt sleeve. It’s Michelle again, now wearing a loose fitting halter top with Rob still shadowing her.

“You again?” I say, staring down her blouse.

“That’s right, and I just wanted to let you know that I’m pregnant. And it’s your baby!”

“No it’s not. That’s impossible.”

“What? You’re having her baby?” Rob interrupts.

“No I’m not.”

“I can’t believe you’d impwegnate my future wife!”

“Your future wife! What’re you talking about,” I scream.

“It’s not impossible you jerk. Haven’t you ever heard of the immaculate conception?” she continues.

“Yeah,” Pacito interrupts. ”I was there.”

“No you weren’t,” I counter.

“Yes I was! I saw it all, Bradshaw’s pass and Franco Harris, scooping the football up right before it was going to land on the astro-turf.”

“That’s the immaculate reception,” I correct him.

“Whatever. But I saw it numb nuts.”

“Fine,” I say, not wanting to disrupt the air of love surrounding us.

“Psst, Mr. Attola,” I hear and turn the other way, trying to ignore my groupie, and meet the eyes of an undersized security guard.

“Yes?”

“We need to evacuate you. Right now!”

“But why?”

“Because we’ve had a report that someone’s planted a suitcase nuke.”

“What? Why?”

“To blow you up!”

“Hey, that’s my job,” my groupie interrupts.

“It’s not that kind of blow,” I correct her.

“You’d better watch it,” Rob stares at me. ”I’d better not catch you with my beautiful wife.”

“She’s not your wife!”

“Maybe not. But some day.”

“What about blowing?” Pacito, ears ever open, adds.

“We have a bomb scare Mr. Jones. We need to evacuate the entire building, immediately!”

“Oh shit!” is all Pacito can say.

“What’re we going to do now?” I ask.

“We’re bringing in the dogs. But you need to leave,” the security guard tells me, as I notice that his holster’s dragging along the floor, bulldozing up a little pile of dust bunnies.

So we’re quickly escorted through the throng of little people until we reach the back exit and Pacito’s limo.

“What about the rest of the people?” I ask.

“Oh no need to worry, we’re going to make an announcement in a few moments. Believe me we’ve been through this before, what with 911 and all. Don’t worry. We’ll get everyone out in an orderly fashion.”

Then I hear the announcement and afterward, just like the security guard had predicted, there’s silence as all the attendees look at each other, eyes wide open.

“See? Nothing to worry about here,” the security guard confidently says.

Then like a stampede of wild longhorns pushing and smashing into each other as they thunder down the old dusty main street, the crowd of people hurtle their bodies toward the nearest exit.

“So much for an orderly evacuation,” I whisper to the security guard.

“God, you really are a jerk, aren’t you,” he replies, as Pacito emphatically nods his head.

Suddenly I see two German shepherds head for Pacito’s limo. They walk around, sniff a bit, walk and sniff some more. Then one of them begins to bark and bark and bark some more. They’ve found something.

Quickly we run over to Pacito’s limo, following the security guards who rifle through the immaculate limo. There, behind the driver’s seat’s a metal brief case, and it has a steady red blinking light peering though the top, next to the right latch.

“Oh shit! Where’d that come from?” Pacito yells.

“It’s not yours?” I ask.

“Of course not. Think I’d ever be caught with an aluminum brief case. Uh uh, only leather for me.”

“That’s the bomb!” one of the security guards yells, seeing the dogs continue to sniff and act agitated.

“I need everyone to back away. The bomb squad’ll be here shortly,” the guard continues.

“Screw them! I know what to do. I’ll diffuse it,” Pacito informs us.

“You can’t do that!” I protest.

“Sure I can. I did this once in a movie.”

“Hey, I wemember seeing it,” Rob adds.” You were playing a CIA opewative who specializes in micwo electwonics!”

“That was a movie!” I scream.

“So what! It was a true life action adventure,” Pacito argues.

“It was still a movie!”

“What, now you’re saying that the writing was unbelievable? That the technical advisor didn’t know what he was talking about?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“God Parc, so much for the freedom of ideas.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about your lack of knowledge when it comes to diffusing a real bomb!”

“You worry too much. Now get me clean towels and as much hot water as you can.”

“That’s for delivering a baby!”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Just kidding,” Pacito says to me, smiling his overly confident smile. ”Then get me a screw driver, pliers and wire cutters.”

“How about a priest also.”

“Screw you Parc. Can’t you see that this is my big chance to be a hero?”

I should have known as another guard hands Pacito the requested tools.

I watch Pacito climb into the back and toss the metal brief case onto the black leather seat.

“What the hell are you doing?” I scream.

“Hey, don’t worry, numb nuts. I’m sure this bomb doesn’t have a motion trigger.”

“How do you know?”

“Cause it would’ve already blown up, dip wad.”

“Oh,” I say, realizing that Pacito may be right.

“Okay, give me the screw driver,” Pacito orders, and then proceeds to stab, scratch and bang at the latches as I debate weather I should flee to safety and then realize there is no safe place, it’s a nuclear bomb!

Finally Pacito jimmies open the brief case.

“What’d you see?” I quickly ask.

“Made in China! Jeez those Chinese are into everything these days!”

“Okay, what else?”

“Oops, I’m sorry, the circuit boards were made in Korea. Man, isn’t it great how the world’s getting smaller and smaller, manufacturing speaking.”

“Jesus Christ, who cares about global trade? Just diffuse the damn thing.”

“Parc, cool it. You know, this is just like when I was in that movie I told you about. It was called ‘The Big Bang’. Catchy name, don’t you think?”

“Hey Pacito, can I help?” Rob, now standing behind me, asks.

“Sure, you’ll be my assistant. Just hand me the tools when I ask for them.”

“Okay, it’ll be just like we’re in an opewating woom,” Rob smiles.

“Oh brother!” I add, rolling my eyes.

“Okay, I’ve found the wires,” Pacito continues. ”Wipe.”

“What do you mean, wipe?” Rob asks.

“Wipe my forehead you numb nuts. Can’t you see how stressed yet cool I am?”

“You haven’t even broken a sweat?” I complain.

“Pawc, can’t you see Pacito’s method acting; twying to get back into chawacter? Now leave him alone and hand me a towel.” Rob protests.

“I don’t have one.”

“Will a towelette work?” Michelle asks.

“Who cares about a towelette?” I scream then realize I’ve hurt her feelings. So I grab the moist white wipe from Michelle’s out stretched hand and hand it to Rob who immediately hands it to Pacito who then drags it across his forehead, acting as if sweat was pouring off him like so much rain water. What a ham!

“Okay, I’ve got the wires,” Pacito continues, after handing the wipe back to Rob. ”Let’s see, there’s the red one, the black one and a red and black one. Oh damn!”

“What’d you say?” I immediately ask.

“I said oh damn.”

“No, something about a red and black wire?”

“Oh yeah, seems like we’ve got an issue.”

“Pacito,” Rob interrupts.” You’re looking at this the wong way. Why, this isn’t an issue, it’s an oppowtunity for success!”

“That’s right Pacito,” Michelle adds. ”Think positively!”

“Oh my God! It’s a bomb people, not a Tony Robbins convention!” I scream.

“Shut up! Can’t you see I’m trying to work here?” Pacito replies. ”Now give me the wire cutters, stat!”

“Oh Dr. Kildare, Dr. Kildare, your needed in surgery, stat,” I add, trying to be funny, and don’t succeed.

“What wire are you going to cut?” Rob asks, as he slams the wire cutters into Pacito’s outstretched hand.

“The red one, of course. Wipe!”

“Why not the wed and black one?” Rob continues, as he hands Pacito another towelette.

“Man, don’t you know anything? It’s always the red wire,” Pacito answers.

“But in ‘The Big Bang’ you cut the gween wire.”

“There is no green wire!” I scream.

“Well, if there’s no green wire, how can he cut it,” Michelle asks.

“I think you should cut the wed and black wire,” Rob continues.

“I’d like to hear your rationalization,” Pacito says, sitting back on the black leather seat, getting comfortable.

“Well, let’s look at this fwom a pwobability stand point. There thwee wires so that means there’s a one thiwd chance of picking the correct wire. Now, since the thiwd wire is both wed and black and there’s a fifty pewcent chance that the wed or black color is cowect, by cutting the wed and black wire, you incwease your odds of being cowect to, let’s see, what’s one thiwd times fifty times fifty?”

“One hundred and thirty three and an third,” Michelle answers.

“Michelle, I think I love you! That’s wight. See its simple pwobability,” Rob confidently says.

“So by your calculations we have over one hundred percent confidence that the red and black wire is the right one?” I roll my eyes. ”What an idiot!”

“Who you calling idiot, you wetawd!” Rob roars.

“Yeah, leave him alone,” Michelle screams, right before kicking me in my shins.

“Okay, I’m cutting the red and black wire,” Pacito says, as he slips the opened-jaws of the wire cutter around the target of everyone’s angst.

“Wait!” I scream. ”Pacito, are you sure about this?”

“Too late. I’ve already cut it.”

“You what?”

“Hey, the red blinking light isn’t blinking anymore,” Pacito confidently says.

“You did it!” I scream.

“Yes, I did. Hey, now there’s a green light blinking. Wonder what that means?”

“Green light? Green means go you idiot,” I protest.

“That’s ac-tour,” Pacito replies.

“I didn’t call you a movie star.”

“Oh sorry, just habit I guess. So which one should I cut now?”

“The red wire!” all three of us scream in unison.

“Man, that’s so cliché! How about the black one? Wipe!”

“Cut the damn red one!” I scream again.

“Jeez Parc, you really know how to take all the fun out of it,” Pacito says. ”Okay, cutting the red one.”

Snip!

“Hey, now the green light’s not blinking!” Pacito informs us.

“You’ve saved our lives,” Michelle screams. ”I want to have your baby!”

“I thought you were having my baby?”

“I lied.”

“But, I want your baby!” Rob adds, placing his gorilla arm around her.

“Okay. You win, you big brute,” as Michelle turns and they embrace.

“God, can we leave now?” I ask.

“Sure,” the security guard says. “We’ve got to process the briefcase for forensics anyway.”

"A Brother's Loyalty" Chapter 11

 

Professor Alan Templeton rubbed his eyes and sat back in his leather chair. He simply couldn’t believe what he was reading. But there it was right before him in black and white as he continued to read the e-mails from the young man from Casa Grande. Jesús, he said his name was, had found a pocket watch belonging to Professor Templeton’s great-great-grandfather. The young man said he’d found it clutched in the hands of a partial skeleton he came across while exploring a cave.

And that wasn’t all. The young man from Arizona also found a spur that had belonged to the brother of his great-great-grandfather. Professor Templeton deduced this from the scratched initials on the side of the spur, standing for Jeremiah Benton Templeton.

Elated by the out-of-nowhere news, Professor Templeton only knew that he needed to get to Arizona as soon as possible and quickly typed an e-mail message back to the young man in Arizona who’d found these priceless family artifacts, each providing valuable historical significance. Professor Templeton swore to himself that he’d be on the first plane out in the morning.

* * *

Joshua, his hands tied, salty sweat running into his stinging eyes, stumbled behind the Apache’s paint, stamping up small plumes of fine dust. Besides binding his hands, the warriors had also slipped a noose around his neck and took great pleasure in yanking on it hard every so often. They’d all laugh and point at the white man as he gagged with each powerfully-binding yank.

Soon the band of warriors and their prisoner made it to their village up in a high mountain valley. Joshua recognized at once what a well-hidden spot this was, easily defendable. He doubted that anyone besides the heathen Apache would ever be able to find it. He also knew what lay ahead for him hearing tales of those that went before, those that survived. He began to make peace with his maker.

Joshua was dragged like a reluctant dog into the crowded yet desperately poor village as women and children jeered and pointed dirty fingers in his direction. Quickly and roughly he was staked to a post in the middle of the village. The old women of the tribe then took great pleasure in throwing rocks at him, some walking up and beating him with a piece of wood, their toothless smiles displaying their great happiness. Red blood soon ran from his head and purplish bruises began to appear on his body like some kind of sadistic magic show. Eventually, the searing pain became so unbearable that he gratefully passed out.

The next morning, Joshua slowly came back to the world of the conscious. The cold desert air had tormented him all night long, shivering, shaking, and freezing. Now every part of his body ached, a dull throbbing ache that coursed through every part of his once strong body. And he knew that the day was just beginning.

After a morning of more taunts, Joshua watched through swollen eyes as all the women gathered in the center of the village, each carrying pieces of wood, bows and rocks. They soon formed two lines, facing one another, each having done this many times before. Joshua looked down between the lines, gauging the far-off end, knowing he’d probably never reach it. He was about to run the gauntlet.

The same raggedy-looking Apache that first spied Joshua walked over and, after placing a well-aimed good-morning kick in his ribs, yanked him by his noose to the beginning of the line. There he pulled his knife and expertly sliced away Joshua’s ropes, urging him forward, using the tip of his knife, jabbing its rock-sharpened point into his back.

Joshua turned his head and looked at the warrior, hate dripping from his stare, then spat on the ground. He looked again down the line, took a deep breath and ran as hard as he could right down the center until a fire-hardened club landed squarely on the back of his head, knocking him down. He rose to his knees, only to be beaten down again. Fresh blood streamed from his face, blurring his vision. But he mustered all his strength and continued on, toward more brutal beatings as the women laughed, the children cheered and the men smiled.

He didn’t remember what happened next. He thought he must have blacked out for when he woke, he was back, tied up to that pole in the center of the village, and every part of his body hurt worse than anything he’d ever imagined. His head was covered with dried blood. His jaw felt like it was broken. He could barely breathe and his ribs hurt so badly that every necessary breath caused shocks of searing pain. And standing was definitely out of the question, his legs were covered with purple bruises and swollen golf ball-sized welts. But he was alive and would see tomorrow. That’s when he vowed he’d escape or die trying.

The next day Joshua awoke to the laughing of a few of the younger braves who wanted to have some fun and show their elders that they were warriors too. They laughed and gestured at Joshua who just stood there and took it. Then they stripped him of all his few remaining clothes, rags really, except for his undergarments. They pointed and laughed at the ugly white man.

Suddenly, Joshua began to laugh too, momentarily stunning his tormentors. Then he began to call them names, his eyes wild. He called them women. He mocked them, spat at them, watching as the English-understanding boys began to grow angry, just as Joshua wanted, just as Joshua remembered how Jeremiah reacted when he was mercilessly teased. He continued to call them women; his eyes darting about, like a mad man’s. He began to imitate them crying, sounding like little girls, watching as they grew madder still.

Finally, it worked, just as he knew it would, just as it always worked with Jeremiah. The oldest walked over to him and spat in his face. Joshua just threw his head back and laughed again. Then he slowly lowered his head and met the anger in the young brave’s eyes. Joshua held his stare and said one word – “squaw.”

 Abruptly, the insulted, angry brave untied his hands and pointed off into the empty desert.

Joshua knew what they wanted him to do. Without hesitation, he immediately took off running at full speed, his aching legs wobbly, heading into the rapidly heating desert while the young warriors sharpened their arrow points, talked bravely and waited the proper, sporting amount of time.

He ran as hard as he could, jumping through cactus and over tumbleweeds, his feet constantly being sliced by the desert floor as if a hundred blue-steel razor blades were being slowly dragged across his bare and bloody feet. Soon, he had to stop. He knew that if he kept heading in the same direction, he’d end up in the middle of the desert, dead. No, he needed to change the odds. He needed to use the terrain to his advantage. He turned right and ran back up into the mountains. He knew that his guerrilla training would best serve him if he could operate using the element of surprise as well as the natural terrain, just like old Jeb Stuart taught him.

 He trudged up the side of a boulder-strewn mountain, his legs burning. When he’d almost reached the top, he turned around, bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and looked back. There he saw four braves hot on his trail. Four, he thought – I should be able to handle that.

He reached the top of the low mountain and looked over the steep back side. Perfect, he realized; a perfect killing field. Then he ran part way down the back side and stopped, and backtracked, being careful to place his swollen feet on any available rock, hiding his footprints. When he reached the top again, he squatted behind a mound of loosely stacked boulders. He held a long, sturdy piece of wood he’d quickly grabbed along the way and waited, already knowing what he was going to do.

The braves expertly tracked him like a dying animal. And they took the bait, soon cresting the mountain moving down the other side in single file, the lead brave continuing to track his quarry’s movements.

Joshua waited and watched as the braves move slowly away from him, deeper into the killing field. Then, when he guessed they were in the center, Joshua stood up, placed the lever in between the rocks and pushed down with all his strength. His muscles strained as he saw the pile of boulders begin to shift slightly, then tumble with fierce cracking and crumbling sounds as the rocks careened haphazardly down the steep hillside, bumping and bounding up into the air only to crash down and tumble on.

Immediately the braves saw the avalanche of death and tried to take cover as the boulders bounced down the hill like deadly, solid basketballs, their killing weight busting and exploding other rocks along the way.

One of the boulders suddenly hit a rock and bounced straight up in the air. It came down, directly on top of one of the braves, caving in his head and chest. He died instantly. The boulder continued its wild roll until it finally came to a dusty stop at the bottom of the hill, a bloody stain on its top, staring toward the sky.

Another of the braves had his leg crushed when a boulder tumbled across it, pulverizing his bones beneath lacerated and bleeding skin, his horrible screaming drowning out the sound of the runaway boulder.

Joshua, peering down from the top of the ridge, smiled. His plan was working. Now there were only two left. The odds were shifting in his favor.

After the hailstorm of boulders passed, the two remaining braves ran back up the mountain, more determined than ever to kill the hated white man and then happily mutilate his body, ensuring that his entrance into the great beyond would be as only half a man. They came to a stop at the top of the mountain and looked around. But they saw nothing.

Meanwhile, Joshua had traversed the crest of the mountain and sneaked down along the side of the boulder field. He hid when the two braves ran past, wildly searching in vain. Then he dashed over to the dead Apaches and took their bows, arrows and knives. He was now armed and ready for battle.

The braves hunting him looked at each other and turned to ascend the ridge again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing captive. They were perhaps twenty yards away from the top when suddenly an arrow, silent as lightning before the thunder, struck one of the Apaches squarely in the back, killing him, his wide eyes meeting his friend’s in disbelief.

One left, Joshua told himself, dropping his bow as the other brave ran for cover.

Time was on his side, Joshua knew. So, for the rest of the day, Joshua hid near the top of the mountain, waiting for the remaining brave to try and sneak up on him, waiting for his mistake. But that never happened.

After nightfall, Joshua, tired, thirsty and in agony, headed out back down through the boulder field. He needed to get as much distance as he could between himself and that brave before the sun rose.

Finally, after too many hours of running and walking, his body collapsed. He passed out from exhaustion and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

While he slept, he dreamt about his time in the Civil War. Never had he seen so much death and gore in all his life. He dreamt about the many cavalry charges he’d made under the expert command of Jeb Stuart.

Then he awoke. A cold knife was being held to his throat by the last Apache brave. Joshua knew he’d just lost the life-and-death contest.

The young brave looked at him. Then he stood back, allowing Joshua to stand. The brave wanted to fight him one-on-one out of respect for his adversary.

Joshua figured the brave needed to do this to avenge his friends’ deaths. But Joshua was unarmed.

The brave suddenly broke out in song.

Joshua thought the brave was making peace with his God. He momentarily lost himself in the lonely desperate melody as he looked beyond the brave into the vast, beautiful morning desert.

Then the brave stopped and ran directly at him, his blade at the ready. Joshua easily deflected his knife thrust. But the attacker did manage to slice Joshua’s upper arm with a quick back-handed slash.

Joshua, blinded by rage, not feeling any pain, ran toward the brave and, at the last second, jumped high in the air, planting his kicking foot squarely in the brave’s chest. The young man tumbled to the ground and Joshua was quickly on top of him. He easily grabbed the knife away and plunged it into his enemy’s young chest; blood and air gushed. The brave died quickly and silently, staring up into Joshua’s cold eyes.

But Joshua wasn’t finished yet. His rage had taken control of his mind. He grabbed a handful of the brave’s long black hair, lifting the young man’s head off the ground. Then with a quick scrape of his knife, peeled a strip of his scalp away, the brave’s head falling back to earth making a thud sound while Joshua’s hand full of hair, now freed from the brave’s head, sprang into the air, an involuntary act of violent victory.

Joshua dropped his bloody knife into the sand and held the mess of black hair, skin and blood, up to the sky again. Then he smiled, feeling justified.

Exhausted then hit and hit hard; Joshua fell to the ground and blissfully slept for a few peaceful hours under the rising desert sun.

"A Brother's Loyalty" Chapters 3-5

Chapter 3

 

The riders, following their prearranged plans, moved into the surrounding desolate hills, each carrying a sack of heavy silver hanging from their saddle horns. They soon spread out, each seeking their assigned spots their leader had instructed them about earlier, where they were going to bury their loot.

As the rider of the dapple-gray crested one such hill, he stood tall in his stirrups and marveled at the view across the wide open Sonora Desert. Beautiful, he thought. Certainly nothing like the green Shenandoah Valley he’d grown up in.

Then something caught his eye. Off in the distance, he saw a cloud of dust headed his way as it plumed off the distant riders, pushed along by the dry desert wind. He pulled his telescope from his inside coat pocket, the same telescope he’d used so many times before, spying on Union cavalry, while riding with Jeb Stuart.

The rider’s mind flashed back briefly to those days of war. He’d signed up when he was sixteen, and having been raised on a farm where he rode horses almost every day, was selected to join Stuart’s famous cavalry. He remembered how he waited, like now, scared and nervous, before his first encounter with the Yankees, while he and the rest of Stuart’s men hid in a stand of orange blossoms as the Yankee cavalry thundered toward them in a headlong charge, the ever increasing sound of the Union horses pounding closer and closer, shaking the ground, until it was almost unbearable. He remembered how Stuart, his full black beard covering his mouth, roared the command to charge as he spurred his malnourished horse forward into the fray.

Now, the tired rider silently wished he had Stuart and his men by his side, as he continued to watch the dust cloud grow larger as the posse approached across the brown and endless desert floor. He knew it would be only a matter of minutes before they’d have to decide to fight or flee.

The rider quickly buried his sack of silver at the appointed spot and then remounted. Slowly his horse found its way back down the side of the hill, carefully stepping between the loose rocks, back to the spot by the cave and the peacefully cascading, gurgling stream.

Calmly, the rider told the others what he’d seen.

“We should be going now. That posse’s closing fast,” he said to the leader.

“Were you able to tell how many they are?” the rough-looking leader asked.

“No, but it’s better to flee. We could make a stand but sometimes it’s wiser to choose to fight another day.”

“Bet old Stuart would’ve fought,” another veteran condescendingly said, peering out with his one good eye, the other being covered by a black patch.

“Stuart’s gone and the war’s over,” the rider replied, thinking about all those times when Stuart seemed to defy the odds and charge when all seemed lost. Those were the glory days of the war before Gettysburg, where Stuart had let General Lee down by not reporting in, causing Lee to be blind-sided about his enemy’s whereabouts. Stuart was never the same afterward and the war turned to the North’s advantage.

“We’ll ride,” the leader decided. “We’ll travel over this ridge and then head south, into Mexico.”

Everyone mounted up after watering their horses and refilling their canteens. Then they moved out, single file, up and over the barren ridge where they finally came down on its back side, into the wide cactus-filled and sweltering valley below.

No sooner had they reached the floor of the valley when gunshots split the hot dry air. The posse had correctly guessed what the bandits would do - head for Mexico.

The rider spurred his horse on as the wind cut through his face, feeling flecks of sand hit his checks, stinging just a bit as the wind continued its endless race across the valley floor.

The posse was gaining. Shots came faster, bullets streaked past the rider only to embed into whatever piece of nature was unlucky enough to be in the way, or continued screaming off into the flat desert, to eventually fall to the ground, tumble and lie silent in the sand, forever.

The rider decided to break free from the others. He knew that the posse would probably follow the rest and leave a single rider alone. He cut hard right, leaving the others, who didn’t even notice that he’d left.

As he sliced across the path of the oncoming posse, he pulled his revolver and grabbing the horse’s main, leaned forward, down around the horse’s side. Using his left hand, he pulled back the pistol’s hammer and fired from beneath the horse’s neck, just as he’s seen the Apache do a few months earlier.

The posse continued after the band of outlaws. But two of the posse members did cut away and followed the fast rising cloud of dust of the lone bandit.

The rider cursed then spurred his horse even harder. He needed to find a spot where he could make a stand as his horse was quickly tiring. Soon he came across a dry river bed and decided that this was going to have to be the spot.

He eased his horse down into the river bed where he quickly dismounted, ran to the bank of the bone-dry river and began to load his Hawkins fifty-caliber rifle. He then took a deep breath to steady his nerves and measured the wind. He raised his sights to the angle he thought was correct and took slow aim. He held his breath and waited until he could feel the slow steady rhythm of his heart, waiting for the calm between beats then he gently squeezed the trigger, bracing his shoulder for the kick from the large-caliber weapon. Boom!

The rider waited for the white sulfur-smelling smoke to clear. Then he saw that his shot was long. Windage and elevation, he reminded himself, windage and elevation. He adjusted his sights yet again, clicking them down two notches. Then, again taking slow aim, waiting for the loud silence between heart beats, he squeezed the trigger one more time. Boom!

After the smoke had again cleared, he looked up and saw one rider left. The horse of the other fallen rider cut hard left and ran headlong into a ditch where it tumbled down; the sound of bones snapping mingled with its shrieks of pain.

But the remaining rider kept coming, now guiding his horse left and right in an attempt to dodge the incoming bullets.

The bandit easily gauged the serpentine movements and with a gentle squeeze, dropped the last posse member, seeing the man’s head explode and simply vanish in a cloud of red misty blood as his body slowly tumbled backwards off the now wildly running horse.

The bandit sighed deeply. He’d done this sort of thing before; he remembered how he’d hide in a tree, sniping at Union officers. Wiping the dust from his eyes, he remounted his horse and rode away, knowing that soon he’d return and claim his portion of the silver.

 

Chapter 4

 

Marc lost his footing and fell hard onto the deck of the Polly L. The hurricane still whipped around them at full force. He wasn’t sure they were going to make it.

“You okay?” Captain Whitmore asked, turning briefly away from the continual avalanche of waves rising up before them.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Marc replied, slightly embarrassed by his sudden lack of balance.

“Good. I need you to go and help Bob. I’m getting a red warning light from pump number three.”

“Yes sir,” Marc replied, wanting to rid his embarrassment with action.

“Be sure your life jacket’s secured. I don’t want to lose you, got it?”

Marc checked that his yellow life preserver was tightly strapped together and then pushed open the heavy metal door. He stepped from the bridge onto the narrow metal-wire gangway outside, closing the door behind him.

Immediately he felt the blasts of wind, smashing into him like some powerful invisible hand purposely trying to knock him off his feet. He decided to get on his hands and knees since the wind and pitching boat made standing practically impossible. He felt scared.

He slowly crawled to the next door where he could enter, make his way down below and relay the news to Bob. He reached up to crank the handle, when from out of nowhere a powerful wave plowed into him like a freight train, engulfing him in its blanket of churning water. It immediately carried him over the side and into the black surging sea.

* * *

The U-boat captain stood on the deck of U-213. He loved the ocean at night, especially when the waters were calm like they were now with the brilliant twinkling stars overhead. This was his time of peace during a great war, a war he really didn’t think Germany could win once the United States marshaled her tremendous resources and entered the fray. But that lay in the future. His standing orders for now were to sink as many American freighters as he could in the hopes of starving England into surrender. Time to fight again, he thought as he spied yet another heavy-laden freighter heading away from the port of Fernandina.

He’d been patrolling the waters just beyond the Cumberland Sound, which separates Amelia Island, Florida and Cumberland Island, Georgia. And this area appeared to be very fertile indeed.

Again the captain ordered a firing solution. Again he mentally rechecked the calculations in his head. Again he ordered tubes one and two loaded. Again he ordered the deadly motorized bombs to be fired. And, again he raised his binoculars to his eyes, seeing the tremendous orange explosion, oily water burn, metal crack and split and the cries of the dying as the old freighter broke her back and slid beneath the warm waters, leaving only the few survivors who would be burned by the flaming oil or drown and soon perish and sink to the bottom for all eternity. As he watched the horrific sight, the captain smiled.

Then something caught his eye coming out of the darkness, silhouetted against the orange flaming sky. It was a small patrol boat headed directly towards him. It had been running on the other side of the freighter and he and his crew had never detected it.

The captain knew he was in trouble. The very first and last lesson he was ever taught was to never, ever get caught on the surface. He knew that his U-boat relied on stealth. That was his tactical advantage. Without it, he knew the tables were turned. He was now the easy prey.

“Dive, dive, dive!” he screamed, trying not to let his panic invade his voice. He knew he needed to remain strong to lead his crew.

Immediately, he slid down the ladder from the conning tower and ordered the first mate to raise the periscope. The rest of the crew threw themselves headlong through the soon-to-be closed and locked hatches, heading for the bow where they’d tumble into each other, desperately trying to get as much weight as possible into the nose of the sub so that it would slip more quickly beneath the water’s surface and to the relative safety of the deep.

The captain twisted his sweat-stained hat around so that the bill was now behind his head as he lowered the periscope’s handle and looked through the eyepiece. He didn’t like what he saw. The patrol boat was heading straight towards him.

Suddenly the sky lit up as the patrol boat launched two flares high up into the black night. The entire area was soon bathed in an eerie orange glow as the flares drifted slowly back to earth, carried along by their parachutes on the warm ocean breeze.

Then the captain saw cannon flash and heard the reports. He knew the streaking shells were headed his way as he followed their golden trajectories through the night sky. He only hoped that the U-boat could submerge before it was hit and blown apart like a tin can from a firecracker.

Then he heard it. The terrible splash as the first shell landed not ten yards from them, kicking up a twenty-foot geyser of water.

“Schnell, schnell!” he yelled to his crew.

Then the second shell came raining from the night sky, plummeting down like a softball descending from a towering pop fly. It hit and tore into the forward deck as if it had a drill on its nose. It exploded inside the bow, instantly killing and maiming a number of his fellow submariners. The captain began to worry about his brother’s safety. He knew at once that they were doomed.

 

Chapter 5

 

Jesús stood before the rock wall, trying to make some sense of the strange engraving. Then he headed back to his camp by the peaceful stream and, digging through his backpack, retrieved his flashlight. Checking its batteries, he walked back to the mouth of the cave.

He shined the beam of light in the narrow opening and, seeing nothing, stepped inside. Immediately he felt the cool air, thinking that the temperature must be at least ten degrees cooler than the oppressive heat outside. It felt good against his hot skin.

Maybe I should move my camp in here. But I’d better check it for animals first, he thought.

He walked further into the cave, shining his flashlight across the rock walls and sandy floor, its beam cutting the darkness. He walked still deeper inside, making sure he could always see the light from the entrance. The last thing he needed was to venture too far in and not be able to find his way out.

He wheeled his flashlight around again and jumped out of his skin. There resting against the far wall was a partial skeleton, sitting. Most of its clothes had rotted away, leaving only dry, brittle white bones with other bones scattered about.

Jesús cautiously walked over to it and knelt down. He examined the skeleton, trying to make some sense of it. It appeared as if the skeleton had been a cowboy or rancher at one point in time. The remnants of a holster and revolver were still strapped around his waist, the leather belt now almost completely rotted away.

Reaching out, Jesús gently lifted the partially rusted revolver. He held the gun by its butt, not knowing if it was still loaded. He tried to open the chamber to make sure, but the rust had welded it closed. Gingerly, he set it aside.

Then he noticed the skeleton’s closed fist. He banged the bony fist with his flashlight as finger bones shattered and fell away. Jesús reached out and picked up the round silver object. It was heavy. He raised it up and examined it. It was a pocket watch. He pried it open and noticed something on it’s inside cover, an inscription. He pointed the flashlight at the writing and tried to make it out but couldn’t. Finally, after rubbing the years of dirt and tarnish away, he was able to make out the words, “For my precious son. Love, Albert Templeton.”

* * *

Suddenly Marc found himself tumbling in the violently-stormy seas. Struggling against the continual thrashing of the waves, he soon was able to get his head above the turbulent water. He looked around and saw the Polly L grind into yet another wave, her bright golden lights disappearing as she slid down the back side, returning Marc once more into total blackness.

A few moments later he saw her yet again as she prepared to ride over another of the tremendous waves. And he realized that he was drifting away from her. His panic began to grow, like a cancer slowly overwhelming him.

“Bob,” Captain Whitmore spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Has Marc shown up yet?”

“No. I didn’t know he was coming down,” Bob replied, suddenly alarmed.

“Yeah, I sent him down to tell you that I’m getting a red warning light on pump number three and to help you fix it.”

“He isn’t here,” Bob replied, his worry beginning to infect his voice.

“Okay, head back to the bridge and see if you can find him along the way. I don’t like the sound of this,” Captain Whitmore added.

“Yes sir.”

Bob prepared to leave the relative peacefulness of the rolling engine room and head out into the hurricane force winds.

He swung open the oval water-tight door and stepped onto the gangway. Soon he could see the bridge, and no Marc!

“Captain!” Bob yelled, over the constant roar of the smashing waves, entering the bridge. “Captain, I can’t find Marc!”

“Damn-it! He must’ve been washed overboard. I’m calling the Coast Guard and I’m swinging about. Tell Wayne to get up onto the roof of the bridge and start looking for him!”

Bob squeezed the talk button on his walkie-talkie and soon Wayne McDonald, another retired investor and treasure hunter with Amelia Research, answered.

“Yeah Bob, what’s up?”

“Marc’s been washed overboard!” Bob’s voice shook.

“What? He’s been washed overboard?”

“We think so. Get to the roof of the bridge, tie off and see if you can spot him. We’re going to swing around and see if we can find him.”

“Roger,” Wayne responded, knowing that the odds of finding anyone in this horrific mess was a long shot at best; a very long shot indeed.

The next wave carried Marc up its face until he bobbed on its very top crest. He was able to see the Polly L switch on all her outside flood lights and begin to turn back around. But as she did, a wave slammed into her side, rolling the large ungainly craft almost completely over like a giant rocking chair, pushed too far back on its runners. Yet, she teetered back to full upright and soon was heading back in his direction.

Marc screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to be heard over the constant roar of the chaotic crashing ocean, hoping, praying, that someone on board would see him. He frantically waved his arms back and forth trying to get their attention.

Wayne made his way to the roof of the bridge and tied himself off as the powerful gusts of wind nearly knocked him overboard too. He flipped on the spotlight and swung it around, hoping to see Marc. But all he saw was the rising and falling waves looking like some watery special effects that only Hollywood could create.

Soon the spotlight began to flash and skip around Marc. He tried to swim into the constantly moving beam of life. But the chaos was just too much. He began to tire as he fought to keep his head above water. He slid over the top of a wave and tumbled down into its trough, now completely out of sight.

Marc’s water-logged arms were desperately tired, as he looked up from the wave’s trough only to see huge mountains of water all around him, as though he was in a canyon surrounded by high watery cliffs. The life jacket helped but still he had to constantly right himself after being beaten and sucked under by the fearsome waves. He began to black out and fought to retain his consciousness. He needed to stay alive.

“Wayne, have you spotted him?” Bob yelled into his walkie-talkie.

“No, I’m still looking. Has anyone called the Coast Guard?”

“Yeah, we’re doing that as we speak. They’re sending a helicopter and water rescue team.”

“Good. Better tell them to hurry.” Wayne swung the spot light around again.

Marc didn’t know how much longer he could survive. The waves were just too big. He’d never experienced anything like this. Sure, growing up in San Diego, he’d surfed large waves that the Pacific would occasionally kick up. But that was surfing, trying to have fun. This was something else. This was a fight to simply stay alive. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to do it.

Suddenly Wayne thought he saw something, something yellow. It was Marc, struggling to stay above water as Wayne watched him get carried up and over a wave, completely disappearing then reappearing before being carried up a second wave.

“Got him!” Wayne screamed into his walkie-talkie. “He’s about a hundred yards off the port side.

“Good, the Coast Guard should be here any minute,” Captain Whitmore answered.

Just then Marc thought he heard something over the roar of the ocean. It sounded deep and mechanically rhythmic. It was the rotor blades of the Coast Guard helicopter hovering above him.

Got him sighted yet?” Captain Whitmore spoke into his crackling radio, to the pilot of the chopper.

“Yes, sir, we’ve spotted him about a hundred yards off our port side. We’re dropping a diver now,” the pilot responded, to the relief of everyone on board the Polly L.

“You need to worry about yourselves now. We’ll get him back to shore safely,” the pilot continued.

“Roger, and good luck,” replied Captain Whitmore.

“Good luck to you, sir. We’re out.”

Marc saw the bright lights of the helicopter’s spots shine down on him. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The lights must have been heaven sent, he thought. Then he saw a black object drop from the chopper.

Supplies? Are they dropping supplies? Marc wondered, only to realize that it was a rescue swimmer.

Marc kicked and paddled in the direction of the swimmer. Soon they could see each other, their eyes locking and not turning away as if seeing each other caused some form of unconscious lifeline to develop between them.

In moments, the swimmer reached Marc.

“Hi son, you picked a bad time to go for a swim,” the rescuer said, his voice calm and confident sounding.

Marc immediately smiled and knew that everything was going to be all right as he saw the Polly L swing back into the waves. Now she had to make it back to Fernandina too.

"A Brother's Loyalty" Chapters 1 and 2

 

Chapter 1

 

The rider sat on his dapple-gray horse as if he were born to the saddle. He easily shifted his weight, feeling his hot blood run back into his tingling legs as they pressed tightly against the sweaty, skittish horse’s thighs. The rider adjusted his wide-brimmed hat against the harsh glare of the noon-time sun. He stole a quick glance around, seeing the light brown dust rise slowly into the hot dry air behind yet another buckboard as it clattered its way down the old Silverton main road.

Seeing that nobody had yet noticed him, the rider lifted his Colt 1865 single-action revolver from his holster and rechecked it, making sure all six chambers were still loaded. It was the third or fourth time he’d done this as he nervously waited for the signal from the rest of his gang.

After reholstering his revolver, the rider again looked around and then reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his pocket watch; the same watch his father had given him when he was a boy back in Virginia, before the Civil War. Rechecking the time yet again, the rider silently cursed, wanting time to somehow move faster, knowing it never would.

Finally, as the minute hand of his pocket watch ticked one minute closer to the appointed hour, the rider lifted his dusty bandanna from around his dirty neck and slid it up over his nose. Still he waited as his hot breath repeatedly sucked his bandanna close to his nose, occasionally plugging it entirely.

Finally his watch ticked off the last long minute. Looking up, the rider saw his gray-panted partners walk into the local bank; he heard their spurs jingle against the rough-hewn boardwalk, sounding like a chorus of chaotic tinkling bells trying to find their own melody. He knew the robbery was about to begin.

Suddenly shots rang out, ending the peaceful day as townspeople scattered to find cover in the many shops that lined the street, like so many cockroaches scampering in the dark, frightened by a sudden light.

Quickly the rider pulled his revolver and scanned the empty street. His gaze traced along the tops of the buildings, looking for the silhouette any justice-minded civilian who might want to play hero. But all was clear.

He spurred his dapple-gray with a sharp quick kick. As the mare rose on her hind legs, the rider leaned forward, bringing the frightened horse back down to earth and then galloped into the main street, stopping in front of the small family-owned bank.

The rider tried to look through the barred windows but saw nothing. He rode around the building and into the side alley where he leaned down and easily grabbed the reins of his partners’ horses and began to lead them back onto the dusty street in front of the bank.

Just as he rounded the corner from the alleyway, his partners ran out the front door and quickly mounted their waiting horses, throwing their agile bodies over the backs as if they’d been doing this all their lives. They had.

Suddenly a rifle shot sounded, splitting the air and kicking up the dry sandy dirt of the street. Then another shot followed from the opposite direction. The rider looked up and saw that they were caught in a murderous crossfire by the good townspeople. He raised his revolver, pulled back the hammer and fired. Click, bang!

The shot had found its mark as the sniper tumbled from the roof top, dead, his body landing with a solid thud against the hard-packed dirt as his bright red blood poured from the gaping hole in his chest.

Suddenly the bank manager ran outside as the robbers climbed onto their horses, digging silver spurs into their mounts’ sides, and began to gallop out of town. The manager raised his derringer, took slow aim, pulled the trigger and fired. Click. Pop!

The rider saw his brother fall back off his horse and tumble onto the dusty street. Quickly the rider turned his panicked horse around, spurring her on, and rode back hard to his fallen brother. As he rode closer and closer, he leaned over to one side and held out his hand, reaching down low, close to the earth, almost sweeping up the ground.

His brother reached up and grabbed his sweaty, dirty wrist. Then with a heave, the rider lifted his brother over the back of his galloping horse and together they raced out of town, following the others. The only thing that remained was a cloud of dust obscuring the riders’ escape as the townspeople slowly began to raise their hidden heads and wander out into the now silent street.

The robbers rode hard. The lookout and his wounded brother tried to catch up. But the weight was too much for the quickly tiring mare, as her legs became unsteady and her tongue, surrounded by dry white foam, hung from her bone-dry mouth.

The rider slowed his horse to an easy walk. He then pulled on the left rein and began to ride up along a small boulder-lined path, up into the purple desert mountains beyond.

Soon he met the rest of the gang, who had already dismounted and were watering their horses from the small, cool mountain stream that always seemed to flow no matter the time of year.

The rider dismounted too and turned to help his brother. Reaching high, he grasped his brother’s upper arm. He jerked his hand away, feeling his brother’s warm red blood flow between his fingers, making them tacky, almost like glue.

His brother, still sitting on the dapple-gray’s haunches, was dead.

The rider didn’t say a word. He knew that death might be the price each of them would have to pay for a chance at becoming rich; a chance to put away the brutality of the Civil War and to begin anew. He knew his now dead brother, also a veteran of the war, had felt the same way.

The rider showed no emotion as he lovingly eased his brother down and, carrying the body on his shoulders, walked over to the cave where another of his gang was busily chiseling a symbol on one of the rocks that helped to keep the cave hidden from view.

The rider walked past the hammering man and into the cave until he came to a point where he could barely see. He set his burden gently down against the cold rocky wall. He stared at his brother’s body and noticed that his brother had lost one of his spurs somewhere along the trail, along with his life. He knelt and said a prayer for his brother. Finally, reaching into his vest pocket, he retrieved his pocket watch and laid it in his brother’s cold hand. He closed slightly stiff fingers around it, knowing that his brother would carry their father’s pocket watch for all eternity.

Afterward he walked out, past the sculptor who was finishing his work, as the numbers three, ten and twelve along with an arrow began to emerge slowly from the rock wall, like figures gradually becoming visible through a thick fog.

* * *

The German U-boat captain still couldn’t believe his eyes as he commanded his submarine out of New York harbor on that clear cold night. He’d wanted to see the still bright skyline before the blackouts began, which he knew would soon happen as Germany brought the war to the eastern seaboard of the United States.

The captain had orders to sail to the waters off Jacksonville, Florida, then onto the Gulf of Mexico. But first he just had to see the lights of Broadway. Now, as his metal-gray vessel, U-boat 213, began to head south, the captain eagerly anticipated the easy pickings that lay ahead of him.

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel, he thought in the spring of 1942.

A week later, U-213 lay off the waters of Amelia Island, northeast of Jacksonville. So far, the captain’s hunt had been uneventful. But he knew that his luck would soon change.

Two more days passed and on the third, after the Florida sun had set, lighting up the sky in brilliant shades of yellow, orange and red, U-213 stealthily surfaced, slicing the placid water like a razor slicing paper. The captain climbed the small ladder to the crow’s nest on the conning tower. He raised his binoculars to his determined eyes and scanned the surrounding waters. Then he saw it, a fat freighter slowing leaving the Port of Fernandina, fully loaded with much needed supplies headed for England. He smiled, knowing what was about to happen.

He turned to his brother, a specially trained SS commando who had just joined him. His brother, part of the captain’s other secret orders, smiled back. Both knew that they were about to bring the war to the southern waters of America.

“Target off the starboard side,” the captain said to his first mate, through his speaker phone. “Get me the distance and direction.”

The first mate quickly made his way over to the submarine’s fire control system and sonar.

“Captain, range two hundred yards, traveling north east at twelve knots.”

“Good, prepare tubes one and two.”

“Tubes one and two ready to fire on your command,” the captain heard a quick, short while later.

Raising his binoculars to his eyes once again, the captain mentally calculated the amount of distance he would have to lead the freighter. He also calculated the running time of his torpedoes. When he was ready, he simply said, “Fire one.”

“One away, sir,” he heard back, seeing the long black underwater bomb run straight and true, trailing a plume of bubbles from beneath his boat’s bow.

“Fire two,” he ordered.

“Two away, sir.” The second deadly missile left the boat.

Then the captain checked his watch; twenty seconds to impact, if the torpedoes ran straight and true.

This was the time the captain hated most, the agonizing wait. He knew that in a few moments he’d either be celebrating a direct hit with the rest of his crew or deep in panic, trying to get away should the torpedoes miss.

Suddenly the black sky lit up with a massive explosion and brilliant fire as both torpedoes slammed into the freighter’s sides.

“Got him, Captain!” The first mate’s voice was triumphant, as cheers sounded from the rest of the U-boat.

As the captain ordered his boat to submerge, he thought that this was just too easy. He’d been in the Kriegsmarine long enough to know that it wouldn’t last long. No, America was just too mighty. He knew what was eventually coming - a terrible storm of might and power, once the United States got her war machine up and running.

 

Chapter 2

 

Jesús Cervantes, now nineteen, cranked the throttle of his dirt bike. Feeling the two-stroke power between his legs as his bike wheelied, he leaned over the handlebars, pressing his front wheel back down into the desert sand as his bike tore into the ground and raced up the narrow boulder-lined mountain path.

As his powerful, growling dirt bike chewed up and spat out the rough dirt beneath him, Jesús concentrated on staying in the middle of the narrow path. He knew that if he lost concentration, at this speed, he’d smash into one of the many boulders, leaving only a bloody spot and mangled metal. Yet he loved the challenge and the adrenaline rush that only speed and danger could provide.

Soon he made it to his destination, a small clear mountain stream that always seemed to flow. He slowed his bike, eventually stopping, and climbed off. Jesús walked to the fast-moving stream and lay down on its bank. He removed his helmet and plunged his face into the ice-cold water, feeling its initial bite and then soothing relief from the stifling-hot desert air.

Jesús loved this secret spot. As far as he knew, nobody else ever came here and he doubted that anyone other than himself was even aware of its location. He’d been coming here for years. This was his spot, a spot of peace and tranquility.

Sometimes, he’d bring along his camping gear and spend a few blissful days isolated from the rest of the world. He’d bring along his twenty-two caliber rifle and hunt jack rabbits for food. Other times he’d simply pack in his food.

But, on this trip, he wanted to rough it. So he’d brought his rifle and, after setting up camp, he needed to go hunt for dinner.

Jesús swapped his fiberglass helmet for his straw cowboy hat, loaded his rifle and set out. He walked away from his bike and was about to climb one of the surrounding hills when he turned back around to check his location. Then his eye caught something, something on a rock wall on the other side of his camp.

As Jesús approached closer, he noticed that what he was really looking at was the entrance to a small cave. Funny, he thought, that he’d never noticed it before.

He walked closer and soon stood before the rocky wall, which bore a curious impression. He rubbed his hands over it, feeling the rough rock and slight indentations. He thought he could make out the numbers three, ten, twelve, and what felt like an arrow. Weird, he thought.

As he examined the numerals, now worn by time, he marveled at the craftsmanship. The numbers appeared to be neat and steady, looking almost as if someone had stamped them into the solid rock wall. Who could have done this? The numbers sure weren’t made by some kid with a screwdriver and hammer. No, these were very precise. He had thought that nobody else in the world knew about this spot. But apparently he was wrong.

* * *

Marc held on to the metal railing inside the bridge of the Polly L, the treasure hunting vessel owned and operated by Amelia Research, as wave after terrible wave slammed into the boxy-looking vessel and tore across her decks. The hurricane came up quickly and had caught the Polly L out at sea as she lumbered back to Fernandina Beach after having spent a week in the Florida Keys, looking for the Santa Margarita, sister ship to the Atocha.

Marc could feel his stomach rise and fall as the flat-bottomed boat rode higher and higher over the fifteen-foot windblown waves, only to come tobogganing down the other side. He felt as if his eighteen-year-old body was about to heave and vomit out his breakfast as his stomach continued its constant rolling, up, down and over.

Marc looked up and saw Captain Whitmore struggle against the steering wheel as he constantly worked the dual throttles, trying to keep the Polly L heading directly into the onslaught of wave after never-ending wave.

Suddenly Bob Knowles, an older treasure hunter and Marc’s surrogate father, stepped onto the bridge.

“Captain. Captain!” Bob screamed. “We’re taking on water!”

“Start the bilge pumps and make sure they don’t stop! We can’t afford to take on any more water,” Captain Whitmore yelled back.

Bob hurried down below decks where he flipped up the toggle switches, and the electric bilge pumps began to whir reassuringly away.

Marc now stood beside the Captain, amazed at the sight of the huge cresting waves that rose before him. He felt like he was watching a bad natural disaster movie through the big glass windows of the bridge, seeing the black waves cascade down before him as the Polly L rose up and over another mountain ridge of water, again to slide wildly down its back side.

It was going to be a long night indeed, Marc worried, a night in which they might or might not see the morning.

He said a silent prayer and thought about his good friend, Jesús, who’d become just like a brother to Marc. He hoped that he’d make it though this ordeal and then be on his way to Arizona, where he planned to vacation for a couple of weeks with Jesús and maybe do a little treasure hunting, exploring the many ghost towns that surround the Sonora Desert. He’d give anything, he thought, to be on dry land right now.