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  “I wish I had my rifle. One of those calves would feed my barbeque for a summer,” added Master Sergeant Wolf, the flight engineer and the senior enlisted man on board. Instead, he picked up a high-powered camera and began snapping photos out of the starboard door in the cabin of the large helicopter.

  “Now, now, Sergeant,” Murray chided over the intercom from the cockpit, “the tree-huggers wouldn’t like that so much, would they?”

  “No but my wife would!” Wolf responded. “Heck, I might even get laid if I brought home that much meat to freeze for the winter.”

  Murray chuckled to himself.

  “We can fit a calf in the back, can’t we, Captain? I promise no one at the base will find out! I’ll clean up the mess. And I’ll invite you over for a steak this weekend!”

  “No can do, Sergeant,” replied the young captain in mock frustration. “Against squadron policy and every rule in the book, you know that!”

  “But we can call it a relief stop, Captain! And I do really have to go! You can put her down somewhere on the meadow I see out the starboard side.”

  “Can’t do, Wolf. I’d lose my wings. I just made aircraft commander for God’s sake. I’m sure the relief tube in the back will do the trick just fine.”

  “I can’t seem to find it, Captain! All I can find is your helmet bag!”

  “Ha. And I was just looking for someone to sit rescue alert this weekend!”

  “Okay okay, you got me! I guess I’ll just have to suffer with no game meat next winter. Geez, I’ve been through this pass a thousand times and I’ve never seen so much caribou. Bagging one would be like taking candy from a baby!”

  Murray’s thoughts returned to flying as he skillfully piloted the giant helicopter through the twists and turns of Rainy Pass. Ahead, the famous S turn in the canyon loomed. This was Murray’s favorite part, and he slowed the aircraft about seventy knots to give himself more maneuver room through the tight passage.

  “The ice is melting early this year,” stated Airman Thomas. “You can see much more of the canyon walls. Man, there’s a ton of Dall sheep out this year too. Look at them all over the rocky slopes.”

  “What the hell...what is that? Tally-ho!” Wolf suddenly shouted excitedly into the microphone in his helmet. “Target three o’clock low!”

  “Whatcha got, Wolf?” Murray responded.

  “There’s a wreck down there I’ve never spotted before, and as I said, I’ve been through this pass a thousand times. Can you go back, Captain? Seventy-five percent was sticking out of the ice. One of the wings was broken off.”

  “I’ll try, Wolf, but this better be good!” Murray pulled back hard on the stick, reduced the power to minimum, and the giant helicopter shot nose up into the sky. There was no cloud cover so Murray had plenty of room. Once the airspeed had bled off, Murray kicked the right pedal and pulled the cyclic towards the window, and the nose of the Jolly Green Giant pulled to the right and back down into the canyon, executing a perfect yet violent one-hundred-eighty-degree wingover turn.

  “Jesus, Captain, remind me never to give you a hard right turn unless I mean it!” said Wolf as he held on to the cabin wall for dear life.

  “There she is!” shouted Thomas. “Holy shit, that’s a P-40 Warhawk. Man is this our lucky day!”

  “And she’s just decided to show herself after all of these years,” added Wolf.

  “You’re sure she’s a new wreck?” asked Murray from the cockpit.

  “Yes, sir. I am very sure. I know this pass like the back of my hand. I’ve never seen her before,” Wolf responded.

  “Okay, then I’m going to report it to RCC. Heading up! Jeff, why don’t you take her while I get the HF dialed in. You have the controls.”

  “Sure, Connor. I have the controls,” stated the copilot.

  “I’m marking her on the map,” added Murray.

  Jeff Raines, the copilot, took hold of the collective and pulled back on the cyclic and added power. The powerful machine bolted upwards into the thin air, as she was light on fuel. Ten minutes later, the Jolly Green Giant cleared the top of the mountain range at twelve thousand feet. In peacetime there was a ten-thousand-foot limit an aircrew could not pass without an emergency. A new wreck sighting, especially one from WWII, caused Murray to waive that regulation as the aircraft commander.

  “We’ll just stay up here long enough to make the call, since we don’t have oxygen,” stated Murray to the crew. The craggy summits of the mountains spread out below him. Murray marveled at the beauty. A wonderland of mountains, ice and snow carpeted the earth as far as the eye could see. He dialed in the correct frequency to the HF, or high-frequency, long-range radio, clicked the switch on the stick, and spoke into the microphone protruding from his helmet and touching his mouth. “RCC, this is Jolly 26. Do you read, over?” Nothing. He tried again. “RCC, Jolly 26.” The Jolly Green call sign was a holdover from the Vietnam War, where the large, green aircraft made history retrieving pilots shot down over North Vietnam.

  A few seconds later, there was a warbled response. The HF radio used only high frequencies as opposed to UHF (ultra high) or VHF (very high), and the quality of the transmission was usually poor; however, the range was much longer.

  The RCC, or Rescue Coordination Center, was a unit located at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage, which coordinated rescue assets throughout the Alaskan theater. Located in the basement of one of the command buildings, the unit was responsible for also cataloguing all wrecks in the Alaskan territory so as to efficiently use government resources if a crash was reported. There was no need to send out a rescue crew to a site the RCC knew was a previously reported wreck. There were thousands of wrecks all over the UHAE, or Unique Harsh Arctic Environment, “yoo-hay” as the locals called it.

  Major Jordan was leaning back in his chair, sleeping, when the HF call came in from Jolly 26. He was overweight, lazy, and really bored with his job. When things were slow, he typically took catnaps in his chair behind the radio console. The assistants on the row in front of him couldn’t see him. At least that’s what he told himself. But he knew they made fun of him. Probably the reason I’ve been passed over for lieutenant colonel, he thought to himself. I just have two more years to make it to twenty and a cush retirement. It took him a moment to focus on the situation. Duty in the RCC tended to be long periods of boredom sometimes broken by quick periods of excitement, like if a crash was reported and a rescue launched. Jordan’s dreams of his young, female airman assistant were rudely doused as the radio blared.

  “Jolly 26, this is RCC, go ahead, over,” she responded.

  “RCC, we have uncovered a new wreck. It seems to be of World War II vintage and appears to be a P-40 Warhawk carcass. It’s slowly melting free from the ice. Coordinates are as follows.” Murray reported the latitude and longitude of the crash site as the airman feverishly copied. Major Jordan sat up in his chair, now alert.

  “Ask them to investigate,” he told her.

  “Jolly 26, request you investigate, over.”

  “Roger, RCC, WILCO. Jolly 26 out.”

  Captain Murray took in the situation and made a decision. The HH-3E was originally a naval helicopter; in fact, the fuselage was shaped like a ship’s hull for floating on the water if needed. The U.S. Air Force had adapted this machine for combat rescue missions in Vietnam a couple decades before, adding a ramp and air refueling capability. The problem was the engines on the Jolly Green Giant were not situated for high-altitude operations. They simply were not designed for hovering in the heat or where the air was thin. The good thing was that they were low on fuel, since they were almost at home base, having already drained the tip tanks on the long trek back from the Alaskan coast.

  “Wolf, compute some power data for me. I want to see if we can hover over the site. The area looks relatively flat, so we should be in ground effect. I think the altitude is around two thousand feet. We are light, so I bet we’re okay to go take a look.”

  “On it, sir!” Wo
lf responded. The flight engineer pulled out a metal-encased notebook and quickly made some calculations on a preprinted table and came to a positive conclusion. “You’re right, Captain. We can hover. We’ll even have some excess power. The bad thing is we’ll only have about five minutes on station before bingo fuel back to base.”

  “Thanks, Wolf. Okay, crew, we’re going down to take a look. You know the drill. If anyone sees anything dangerous, call a go-around. The escape path will be down and to the right into the canyon if we get into trouble, like losing an engine or something.”

  Hovering a helicopter was a delicate maneuver. Hovering an underpowered, twenty-thousand-pound helicopter at two thousand feet on a hot day was downright dangerous, a procedure not to be taken lightly. Murray set up the approach into the wind and left himself plenty of room to slide down into the canyon on the right if he had a power or control problem. Slowly, the huge machine reduced speed and lost altitude in a controlled manner. Three minutes later, they sat in a stable, fifty-foot hover to the right of the crashed aircraft. Murray concentrated on controlling the Jolly Green as the cabin crew scanned the crash site.

  Wolf spoke first. “The left wing is visible as well as part of the rear fuselage. It’s definitely a P-40, WWII vintage. Strange, none of the usual U.S. markings however. Just painted a dull green color. She’s mostly intact. However, most of the right wing is still under the ice a ways back; must have broken off in the crash. Captain, can you slide back twenty? Maybe I can get a look at the tail number.”

  “Sure, Wolf, coming back slowly. Let me know when to stop.” Murray eased back on the cyclic, added a little more power, and the giant helicopter moved backwards ever so carefully.

  “Three, two, one, hold her there, Captain!” Murray did as instructed, all the while maintaining his reference to the ground through the chin bubble at his feet. “I got the tail number! It’s USSR-6328. Shit, it’s a damn lend-lease aircraft!”

  Lieutenant Raines, the co-pilot, jotted the number down on his kneepad for future reference.

  “We’re bingo fuel, Captain, time to go!” said Wolf as he peeked into the cockpit between the pilots.

  “Roger that, pulling power.” Murray added power and dove off the side of the mountain to gather airspeed and to move from a hover into translational lift. Soon the power requirement was reduced as the airspeed over the rotor system increased, and he turned the aircraft back down towards the opening of the pass on the way to Anchorage. He could see the city’s center buildings in the distance on the other side of the bowl, the Chugach Mountains rising behind them. Twenty minutes later, the HH-3E emerged from the western mountain pass and now was within range for normal VHF communication with Elmendorf.

  “RCC, this is Jolly on Victor, can you read?”

  “Roger, Jolly, what do you have for us?”

  “We’ve got the tail number. I’ll spell. Uniform, sierra, sierra, romeo, dash, niner, tree, two, eight.” Murray spoke using the military phonetic pronunciation to prevent miscommunication over the airwaves, hence the strange pronunciation of three.

  Major Jordan took the piece of paper with the tail number written on it from his female airman assistant, all the while noticing her slim waist and endowed chest. He smiled to himself at his coup of getting her assigned with him at the RCC. Jordan turned in his swivel chair to the computer console behind him. He brought up an internal search page and typed in the tail number and coordinates, expecting to see the crash site logged years before. The airmen jotted down the event into the daily logbook.

  However, Major Jordan’s attention was immediately fixated on the computer screen as the answer came back. He sat up straight as a board in his chair, and a low whistle escaped from his mouth.

  IMMEDIATE OPSEC PRIORITY – NATIONAL SECURITY HIGHLY CLASSIFIED SITUATION. DO NOT COMMUNICATE ABOUT THIS INCIDENT OVER UNCLASSIFIED CHANNELS. IMMEDIATELY NOTIFY THEATER-LEVEL COMMAND UNITS. PREPARE TO SECURE CRASH SITE AS SOON AS POSSIBLE WITH TOP SECRET, SPECIAL COMPARTMENTAL CLEARANCE ONLY.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Jordan muttered as he picked up the secure line to the wing commander.

  Chapter Two

  May 6, 1996

  Anchorage, Alaska

  Captain Connor Murray pushed the large lever above his head forward and applied the rotor brake. Noisily, sounding like a loud train hitting the brakes, the rotors of the giant helicopter slowed to a crawl and then eventually came to a full stop. As the brake brought the rotor system to a rest, the fuselage jerked in the opposite direction; the friction between the three tires and the asphalt prevented the helicopter from spinning on the tarmac, a scenario that happened occasionally in the icy Alaskan winter. Well, now I’ve proven Newton’s law works, he thought. There was an equal and opposite reaction.

  Connor was tired. It had been a very long day. His back ached from sitting in the armored seats of the combat rescue aircraft, designed and built to withstand ground fire while hoisting downed pilots from Asian jungles decades before. After he was confident the rotor and other systems on the aircraft were secure, and auxiliary power was applied, he pulled the throttles back on the two turbine engines sitting above his head. The decibel level dropped significantly. Even with earplugs and a helmet on, he knew he would not be able to hear in his older years. Years of turbine engines running full blast for hours a few feet from your head will do that to you, I’m sure.

  He peeled himself out of the hard seat and struggled to lift his legs over the armored partitions and the controls of the helicopter, scanning the space all the while to retrieve his personal belongings. He left the cockpit and walked through the cabin and out the back ramp to the ground, stretching his legs and muscles as he walked. His body ached of fatigue. The rest of the crew had already exited the aircraft to secure her for the night. He grabbed his survival pack on the way down the ramp, mandatory equipment for the Alaskan theater. He could survive for a week in the bush, possibly longer, with what was inside. Far away to the west, the sun was slowly making its way down to the top of the Alaskan mountain range.

  After he had radioed in the tail number of the downed aircraft, RCC and the base command center became really interested. Too interested, he thought. Strangely so. The high level of tension was apparent even over the radio waves. After returning to base the first time, he was ordered to hot refuel with the engines running then sent back to the site, along with several rather bookish-looking scientist types and a few more people, whom he had no idea what their purpose in life was.

  His orders had been clear. They were to search the crash site and retrieve any remains, plus any other significant information or items they could find. Captain Murray was to accomplish whatever his new passengers asked of him. The trip back out to the mountains was tense, and the second time they arrived at the crash site, he landed near the historic aircraft on the ridge and shut down to only engines running while the search was completed, to conserve fuel. High on a mountain ridge was not the place to risk engines not starting. The search took about an hour. One of the men was a medical examiner, who traveled with an assistant. They removed whatever remains they could find in the cockpit of the P-40 and placed them into a black body bag. It seems the ice had preserved the man’s body to a significant extent. Connor really didn’t want to see or think about it. They should just leave his body here. The man was at peace. But it’s not my decision.

  His commander also came along for the ride and was especially interested in the aircraft search. The lieutenant colonel spent an inordinate amount of time combing through the compartments of the Warhawk. Eventually, he found something in the rear, exterior compartment that was partially exposed from the ice. It appeared to be a leather satchel, the kind WWII officers used to carry around. It was also remarkably intact. Connor watched him smile as he walked back to the helicopter. Strange, he thought to himself. Upon landing back at Elmendorf a second time, his commander had exited the Jolly Green Giant immediately and entered a waiting government sedan. Again, rather strange, thought C
onner. He’s usually not the James Bond type. Anyway, it seems I do not have the need to know, so I won’t ask.

  As he entered the crew quarters in the hangar, Connor attempted to forget about the whole day. It was time for some sleep. He dropped his gear inside the crew alert facility in the hanger, as he was still on alert for a few more days. Still in his flight suit, Connor then hopped on his Kawasaki motorcycle to take him off the air force base and back into Anchorage itself, where he lived.

  Anchorage had grown over the centuries into a medium-sized city, protected from the severe cold of the interior by the Chugach and Alaska Mountains, which formed a bowl around the municipality on three sides. To the south, the Kenai Peninsula reached into the Cook Inlet. The area was famous for the Russian river, named after the original Russian settlers, and combat fishing when the salmon were running. The city had seen many migrations of gold miners, military, and hordes of fishermen, and just plain loners over the years. It was a sophisticated but rough jewel in the middle of the last great frontier. Connor loved it and he felt home here, like a long-lost, favorite place he had rediscovered.

  Elmendorf Air Force Base extended westward away from the city; on the opposite side of Anchorage to the east snuggled the foothills of the mountain range. The old Elmendorf Army Air Corp facility boasted a large airfield, which dated back to World War II, and could handle any size aircraft. The base’s main mission was to protect the Alaskan theater from Russian bombers. Native to the field were several fighter squadrons of F-15s and associated support aircraft. C-130 airlift and HC-130 air refueling tankers were also domiciled at the base. There was also a gunnery range for the helicopters to practice firing their onboard machine guns and other pyrotechnics. In addition, located inside the base perimeter, was a hospital and large support community.