Helen's Challenge

By John Britt

On Thanksgiving Eve, November 24, 1971, a man hijacked a Boeing 727 enroute from Portland to Seattle. After receiving $200,000 and parachutes, he gave specific instructions to the flight crew and parachuted from the airliner. Eventually, a few twenty-dollar bills were discovered near Portland.
No other evidence has been recovered...

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 7, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469759692

Book preview

HELEN’S CHALLENGE

John Britt

Writer’s Showcase

San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

Helen’s Challenge

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by John Britt

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

Writer’s Showcase an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

ISBN: 0-595-22569-1

ISBN: 978-1-469-75969-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PROLOGUE

C H A P T E R 1

C H A P T E R 2

C H A P T E R 3

C H A P T E R 4

C H A P T E R 5

C H A P T E R 6

C H A P T E R 7

C H A P T E R 8

C H A P T E R 9

C H A P T E R 10

C H A P T E R 11

C H A P T E R 12

C H A P T E R 13

C H A P T E R 14

C H A P T E R 15

C H A P T E R 16

C H A P T E R 17

C H A P T E R 18

C H A P T E R 19

C H A P T E R 20

C H A P T E R 21

C H A P T E R 22

C H A P T E R 23

C H A P T E R 24

C H A P T E R 25

C H A P T E R 26

C H A P T E R 27

C H A P T E R 28

C H A P T E R 29

C H A P T E R 30

C H A P T E R 31

C H A P T E R 32

C H A P T E R 33

C H A P T E R 34

C H A P T E R 35

C H A P T E R 36

C H A P T E R 37

C H A P T E R 38

C H A P T E R 39

C H A P T E R 40

C H A P T E R 41

C H A P T E R 42

C H A P T E R 43

C H A P T E R 44

C H A P T E R 45

C H A P T E R 46

C H A P T E R 47

C H A P T E R 48

C H A P T E R 49

C H A P T E R 50

C H A P T E R 51

C H A P T E R 52

C H A P T E R 53

C H A P T E R 54

C H A P T E R 55

C H A P T E R 56

C H A P T E R 57

C H A P T E R 58

C H A P T E R 59

C H A P T E R 60

C H A P T E R 61

C H A P T E R 62

C H A P T E R 63

C H A P T E R 64

C H A P T E R 65

C H A P T E R 66

PROLOGUE

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October 28, 1994 9:00AM

Clarence J. Ollson had experienced a journalist’s dream—he witnessed a great story. He should have solved the crime in a week, but Emma said things never work out the way they’re supposed to, and Emma would know about such things.

Now he watched the great river below his apartment and thought about Jumping Jack. They had never met, but the two men were entangled by a common event. The crime occurred decades earlier, and Jack was the perpetrator. Today Ollson would finally confront the thief.

Dry air crackled through his weakened lungs triggering a cough. Perhaps he had pneumonia, Emma warned him. But he could not die today, though mortality beckoned. Now his aged body was layered with fat. A wrinkled brow. A grim face of angles and planes had witnessed joy and much unpleasantness, drooped with age, reflecting shadows of ebullience. Once a thick blond mane had crested the leonine head.

A final cup of strong coffee. Caffeine energy was all that remained of Ollson’s vitality. A formidable combination of physical prowess and raw intellect had given him everything he wanted, except two unrealized ambitions. Today one of those might be achieved, but he needed considerable luck, and the Goddess of Fortune was a wanton deceiver.

A gray morning fog covered the lower hills obscuring the distant Cascade Range. Ollson tried to imagine the sensations of freefalling through wind-whipped clouds above that rough ground with only a parachute for salvation. Jack’s extraordinary feat required a form of courage alien to Ollson. He knew what had been done, even knew how most of it had been achieved, and now he knew who. It was the why that befuddled him. The breath-taking event puzzled Ollson; his renewed investigation of the old crime failed to satisfy. Was it just the money? He wanted to know every detail, every human factor. And it must be today.

It was time to go. The hospital had telephoned this morning—the surgery was reserved and they were waiting for him. First, he must confront Jack and ask a question. Ollson gathered three articles from his desk: an ancient photograph, a jewelry box and a floppy disk from his computer. Sharp eyes swept impatiently over the living room. Darting here and there seeking final justification, but finding none. He paused to study several framed photographs and letters from influential people on the entry wall, then stuffed one small photo into his wallet. Ollson shuffled to the door and looked back at the shoddy apartment—looked back at his life. A lump of sorrow formed in his throat. No time for that, he thought. Not today. Not ever again. The only things that mattered were those three items from his desk and the photograph in his wallet. Now he would see Jack, and that would be the end of it.

He started his old Buick and drove away. The rear-view mirror provided one last glimpse of home. Ollson did not expect to return.

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On the sun-promised morning of that peculiar day, more than twenty years after Roberts became a thief, his wife asked a rude question in a moment of vexation.

Precisely when, Dan Roberts, Helen sputtered, did you decide to become so ordinary?

Ordinary… He paused to think of an adequate response, but he could no more answer that inquiry than another of Helen’s pointed questions asked decades earlier—the question that started it all. Roberts was tongue-tied, a handicap responsible for frequent discord.

The answer should have been obvious to Helen Roberts; she suggested ordinariness in the first place.

Well, I don’t… Roberts’ answer trailed off into the atmosphere. His mind raced. He knew the answer to the question instinctively, but a disconnect separated his pragmatic brain and vocal cords, a common occurrence.

Roberts might have reminded Helen that she had suggested a modest demeanor after he committed the crime, but he didn’t. Reticence was natural for him and in this instance, as well as the larger matter, proved to be the best defense. After a certain age, man can rationalize almost anything—maturity being the legitimate refuge of compromise—and for men like Roberts, the only hope.

Helen Roberts was untroubled by the question’s inconsistency. Their crime, her involvement, and his ordinariness were unrelated trivialities. Complex events prompted the crime, she thought. Roberts’ impulsive spirit. Vietnam. The deaths of friends and enemies. The betrayals of associates, a nation, and an employer. As specks of snow sliding down a hillside spawn an avalanche, those incidents generated a felony.

It began with a dream.

P A R T

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C H A P T E R 1

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September 1971

Black puffs erupted close behind the Skyraider’s right wing. The North Vietnamese gunners were skillful—they had practiced against Navy bombers—and the last airburst was too close, but Roberts could not think about that now.

I’ll stay with Bill, Thomas radioed. You take a look at that island. Lieutenant Commander Bobby Thomas circled above Bill Jensen’s drifting parachute.

Dan Roberts gave his wingman a thumbs-up and turned toward the island in Ha Long Bay. The mission began after the wounded A-4 pilot had ejected over the coast of North Vietnam.

A bright tracer stream laced over the bay, and black flowers bloomed in the simmering haze. Roberts watched the fiery bursts over Thomas’ Skyraider.

We’re being hammered, Dan, Thomas radioed.

Came from that island…Roberts murmured quietly.

A cliff above a sandy beach, an anti-aircraft emplacement, and cannon mounted on a flatbed truck.

We’re easy targets here, Dan, Thomas’ cryptic radio message drifted into recollection.

Roberts arm jerked; he rolled the Skyraider into a sixty-degree dive angle. Frightened men pointed toward his Skyraider. Speedbrakes deployed for stability, throttle back, propeller to full-increase RPM.

Master Arm switch ON. Gun/bomb switch to Bombs, arming two fragmentation bombs.

Gunnery school instructions flashed into memory. Don’t over-control. A smooth roll-in. Quick target acquisition. Lots of left rudder to compensate for P-factor, wings level, needle-ball centered. Ease right aileron for line-up. Elevator trimmed for nose-down. Images scurried into the gunsight. Black AAA bursts. Ribbons of tracer. Angry red furies.

Be smooth, don’t hurry, don’t miss. However, there was a price to pay for smoothness, for accuracy. He was vulnerable to enemy gunners seeking to destroy him—before he destroyed them. A bead of sweat glistened on Roberts’ forehead. An arm flailed.

It will be close, he muttered.

Bright tracer rounds spinning out behind him. Hold on the target. Steady hands. Track the gunsight. A flash under the right wing. Don’t waver, ignore the fear.

Tracer streaked above the canopy. Now they had his range. Toggle the bomb switch. Feel the bombs release. Dive brakes retracted. A sharp climb. G-forces crushed him into the seat. Kick right rudder, slam the throttle to the forward stop. Engine screaming in protest.

His Skyraider shuddered—a solid hit. Then he felt it…

A billowing explosion and a gush of airflow. Shock waves enveloped the aircraft—his hands flexed spasmodically—and the Skyraider wobbled on the threshold of a stall. Dazzling red flashes and black smoke. Brilliant secondary explosions. Debris clattered down onto the beach. Wreckage burned furiously. A black cloud drifted over Ha Long Bay.

Jesus, Dan. What a mess, Bobby Thomas radioed. Anything left alive on the beach?

Negative…finished. He murmured quietly into the darkness.

I’ll circle Jensen until the chopper arrives, Thomas radioed. What about that village?

Roberts turned to the west and saw a fishing junk pulling away from the village pier, black puffs of diesel exhaust.

The boat’s leaving the village. I’m…

Do you need assistance? Thomas’ impatient voice.

Stay with Bill. I’ll…Roberts stuttered. He watched the boat. He had killed several men on the sandy beach.

Roger, I can see the rescue chopper, but we gotta have some time, Dan.

The fishing junk cleared the harbor’s entrance and turned to the east, toward Jensen’s white parachute. He armed the 20MM cannons. The junk filled the gunsight. Tracer rounds arced down from his aircraft, and geysers skipped across the bay. Then the boat disintegrated in a fiery explosion. Wooden masts tumbled into the air. The sky blackened. Roberts banked the Skyraider sharply to the left. Something slammed into the windscreen. He rolled through the black cloud; hurtling fragments smacked the Skyraider. Debris splattered over the burning junk.

Dan, you alright? Thomas radioed.

Affirmative, but there’s another junk at the dock…

Chopper’s here but we gotta have some time. Better disable that other boat.

Roberts turned to fly over the burning flotsam. A stream snaked from the green hills through a village before emptying into the bay. A brown path led down to the dock and people were scurrying to the village.

Twinkling flashes from small arms fire. He concentrated on the gunsight, tracked it onto the boat. The Skyraider shuddered from cannon recoil. A fiery explosion.

Something wrong…Roberts uttered.

Roberts looked again and saw someone running. His arm shook violently.

Jensen’s recovered, let’s go, Dan. Thomas urgent message crackled in the blackness.

Roberts was riveted by a phantom image. A girl dressed in black pajamas on the dock, dark hair streamed behind. She snapped her head back, saw him, and stumbled.

Then fire consumed the dock, and she disappeared into the maelstrom. He rolled into a tight circle to find her. Something clattered against his fuselage. He kicked right rudder and slammed the stick against his right knee.

Where is she…

What had he done? His left arm shook uncontrollably and Roberts could not push the throttle, could not escape the nightmare.

He thrashed at the controls…someone tugged at his arm…he heard an outcry.

Wake up, Dan.

C H A P T E R 2

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Stop it, Dan. Helen shook his arm.

Roberts awakened slowly, eyes upon an obscure horizon. A vacant stare. He sleeved sweat from his forehead.

What… he stammered.

You’re dreaming again.

Now he remembered the rescue. Bill Jensen had survived, badly mutilated. Bobby Thomas had been killed while trying to rescue another downed pilot. He did not want to remember the Vietnamese girl.

It’s…nothing.

"It’s not nothing. She shook him. I’m tired of hearing it every night."

Helen…sorry.

Stop stammering. She held up her hand. I got problems. You got problems. Everyone has problems. What makes you think you’re so special?

Can’t this wait…

You mentioned some girl this time.

I don’t…

Tell me about it now.

I don’t remember.

OK, fine, she said. I think that isn’t the main problem anyway.

"Main… Roberts stretched. I don’t know what you mean," he said.

We’re gonna discuss that problem right now. It’s the betrayals more than anything, isn’t it?

Let’s just go to sleep.

You can’t stand it…those guys in Chicago.

Can’t this wait?

I’m not finished, Helen said. I’ve been patient, but now you’re getting on my nerves. Shall I tell you what’s bugging you?

Is there any way to stop you?

Just listen, dammit.

She told him this: Roberts had been employed as an airline pilot in Seattle after discharge from the Navy. He liked the job. But TransAmerican Airline’s recent efforts to destroy labor unions through a collective agreement with other airlines had reduced the work force. Now Roberts was unemployed.

The way I see it, Dan, Helen continued. You’re mad as hell.

Helen, I’m tired…

Me too, she growled. Jobs are scarce, but someday you’ll get back to work, she continued. Because they’ll need pilots eventually.

I suppose…

But, you’re also a veteran.

So what?

And here’s another ruthless enemy, she said. You don’t know what to do, and that’s driving both of us crazy. That’s the problem. What are you going to do about it?

I’m sorry, Helen. I’ll get more work on the waterfront. We’ll survive.

"Sorry doesn’t cut it with me, anymore. You gotta do something."

What do you expect… he stammered.

You could look for another career, she continued.

Another career?

Christ, Dan. You make me feel like a guidance counselor.

Why don’t we talk about this in the morning? I need some…

Nope. We’ll talk about it right now. I’m sick of this.

I’m a pilot, Helen.

Not another career? Helen said. I’m not surprised. But there’s another alternative.

Roberts blinked. What are you getting at?

Remember what John Kennedy said when we were in college?

What the hell’s Kennedy…

It was your favorite quotation, she interrupted him, a common occurrence. "Remember what he said? Don’t get mad, get even."

Silence. But he was alert.

Get even? he asked. How do you…

I don’t know, Dan. She shrugged. That’s your problem, but I’m tired of dreams. She pointed a finger at him. Now you figure a way, she said.

Actually, I think Kennedy was talking about Republicans.

"Who cares? Don’t you understand? I’m challenging you to think of something you can do, and use that skill as a weapon. Make it as personal as you want, but play to your strengths, and get even. Don’t just lie there and dream your awful dreams, she said. Do something."

I don’t know how.

"Well, think of something. I don’t recommend killing anyone, but do something to really hurt those guys in Chicago…just do it."

Like what, Helen?

How about a little revenge?

Revenge?

Why not?

He blinked a few times.

You just gotta goddamn do it.

Maybe you’re right, but…

No maybes about it, Helen said. I want action, not tears, and real soon, Dan.

I don’t know what…

First, you got betrayed by someone in your Navy squadron during in the war, she interrupted. I can guess some of it. The names Isaacson and Pete keep popping up during your nightmares. Now it’s those cutthroats at TransAmerican and more betrayals. How about a little payback this time?

Get even? he asked. Exactly. Roberts looked at his wife, and thought of his good fortune to have

survived, to have returned when better men had not. Have I really been that bad? A total pain in the neck. Then it’s us against them? It always has been. You just forgot. But what should I do, Helen? Who are these men…that hurt people for money? I don’t know them, he said. "Just do something."

C H A P T E R 3

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November 1971

Now a plan was underway.

Roberts ambled into the edge of the crowd to wait, as he had waited daily in Sea-Tac’s A-Concourse overlooking the TransAmerican hangar. The terminal was crowded with afternoon travelers.

What would Helen think? He must tell her soon. Helen had demanded action in September—just do something—but she would detect any weaknesses. The plan must be flawless.

A noisy group jostled past him. He attempted to retreat to the quiet within himself, to remember the day…

He had dropped by Renton Airport after his morning shift on the waterfront. Lunchmeat waved to him from the hangar door. A pleasant memory, the mechanic’s awkward smile interrupted by a gust of wind that scattered a strand of hair across a wide forehead. Lunchmeat unconsciously brushed it several times, gave up in frustration, tilted his head and blew the errant strand aside.

How’s the waterfront, Danny? Lunchmeat laughed.

I might make it my… Roberts stammered, and was embarrassed by the verbal gaffe.

Career? Lunchmeat offered. Good potential?

Nope, just grunt work.

Hey, we got an airplane and money for gas, to hell with work, he said.

How about some coffee? Roberts smiled.

Lunchmeat’s portly figure bounced eagerly around a maroon airplane. An ancient workbench covered with tools. He glanced over a rounded shoulder to assess Roberts’ enthusiasm, unruly hair drifted over a contented face. He brushed a forelock aside impatiently. Coffee, tools, friends, and airplanes. A formula for happiness in Lunchmeat’s world of airplanes and pilots.

Lunchmeat had been his nickname since military service, and he loved airplanes. Flying airplanes, working on airplanes, talking about airplanes, looking at airplanes. If all else failed, just being near airplanes. His cheerful enthusiasm was infectious. Lunchmeat was a man of nervous vitality, and he had little patience for self-pity or sloth.

Wanna go flying today? Lunchmeat’s usual question.

I’d like to, Lunchmeat. Then Roberts said slowly, But I’ve got some chores. He had practiced the sentence to avoid a stammer. I might do a little flying later on tonight.

I don’t like night flying…too dark. Lunchmeat allowed Roberts to help with maintenance and expenses on his airplane, and an informal partnership had evolved. Dan Roberts might say something interesting if properly baited, he thought.

I seen something on TV about aircraft carriers last night, he said.

Any pilot, like Roberts, capable of flying an airplane from a carrier would surely possess valuable aviation secrets, Lunchmeat thought.

I promised Helen we’d take Kathy for a treat, Roberts said. Lunchmeat frowned—no carrier talk today. Why don’t you come along…looks like you could use a good meal?

Not today, Danny. Bubbling laughter, his ample