Time & Time Again: Revised Edition

By Richard Beal

Time and Time Again is a story of time travel, deceit, and murder. From Desert Storm to primitive New Mexico, Jon Allen Stanton lives a double life, one of a twentieth-century man and one of a man caught up in a time warp and living in prehistoric times. His life and purpose for living in those ancient times is a compelling adventure set in two different worlds. Revelation after revelation makes this story take many different twists and turns and lead main character Jon Stanton from now back to then.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jul 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466986459

Richard Beal

Richard Beal was born in Phoenix, Arizona, in 1941. After forty-five years of working in the aerospace industry and the commercial art field as an art director and illustrator, he retired and decided to try his hand at writing. Time and Time Again is his first published novel, even though there are several unfinished manuscripts on his computer waiting for something magical to happen. Beal is quoted as saying, “Writing is very much like illustrating. I could draw any situation I visualized and now I can try to describe those same ideas in words. It’s different but still quite the same.”

Book preview

Time and Time Again

Revised Edition

Richard Beal

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© Copyright 2009, 2013 Richard Beal.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8644-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-8645-9 (e)

Trafford rev. 06/18/2013

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Contents

Acknowledgement

Introduction

Prologue

Hole in The Curtain

The Hunters

The First Meeting

The Search

The Meeting

Time’s Up

New Friends

Remembering

The Taffa

Differences

Amia

Revenge

The Decision to Return

The Mistake

Taos Time

Thoughts

Two Make Trouble

Jula Disappears

Caught

Telling Stanton

The Stone Knife

Jula Gets Revenge

The Escape Plan

Getting Supplies

Going Back

Home Forever

The Twins, Jon and San

The Happy Years

Showing the Boys

Ron Coulter and Jeff Bond, Special Agents

Questions But No Answers

Explaining the Cross

Coulter’s Dilemma

Loose Ends

Questions

Evidence

Testing

Aud is Dead

Camping Out

Bad Judgment

The Cave

The Deadly Encounter

The Storm

Jula Dies

The New Cave

The Call

The Bureau Takes Charge

Dr. Catherine Jane Evans

Cover Up

DNA Proof

More Graves

Mistrust

Hard to Believe

Quitting

Suspicion

Bibber’s Bar

No Dummy

Reports

No Proof

Dr. Ted Wilson

Eaves Dropping

One Less Person

Awful News

No Help

Frustration Again

No Clue

Thinking About It

The Plan

Trip to New Mexico

The Theft

The Proof

The Beginning

Chances Are

The Delay

What Lay Ahead

Jon Stanton

The New Pilot

Hooked Up

The Impossible

Explaining

Ancient Visitors

Telling Friends

Dr. Eddie Blackwater

The Surprise

Another Discovery

Going Back

Questions

Strange Happenings

Imagination

New Discovery

The Revelation

Life Three Hundred Centuries Ago

Checking

What If?

Time Goes By

Looking Different

The Loss of Ron Coulter

The Explanation

Cora

Nothing More

Epilog

Acknowledgement

Where it all began… and who to thank…

I sometimes wonder how I finally got to the point of finishing this novel.

The original idea formed years ago when I live in Phoenix, Arizona. There was a particular small peak, a short distance from my home, which for some reason had a particular fascination for me. I don’t know just why but my first idea for this story was that of a modern day surveyor, in a helicopter somehow gets caught up in a gap in the curtain of time flying around this mountain. He is transported back to prehistoric times and he lives in a time of ancient men and animals.

Until I actually began to write this story, I had no real concrete idea just where it was going, but as I progressed further, I began to develop a story line that evolved into this finished book.

I researched the areas where my story takes place, taking some artistic license here and there, after all, it is a fiction story, but I based some events on actual happenings. The Roswell Incident, whether true or not, and the First Gulf War. I fictionalized other things, characters and events and some places.

The theory of time travel has been around for generations and the theme has been the subject of stories by authors, known and not so well known as well as motion pictures. Time travel is the concept of travel between two different points of time. Scientists and theorists have debated pros and cons about it for years. Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is a proven fact, time passes more slowly as it accelerates toward the speed of light, that unbreakable cosmic speed limit of 186,000 miles per second, than it does if standing still. Thus, according to this hypothesis, a space traveler, traveling at 99.999 percent of light speed, might be gone a year in his ship and return back to earth some 223 year later. All this involves forward movement, what about going back in time? Hypothetically time travel could involve moving back in time to a point earlier than the original starting point.

Is this fact or fiction? In this case of Time and Time Again, it’s fiction and deals with time travel back to the distant past.

A time of prehistoric men and animals, a hole in the curtain of time that allows my characters the greatest adventure of a lifetime.

If this book is a success, it’s due in no small part to the folks who helped me. Jon, Sue, Mike, Craig, Jacque, Shirley, and Mary for their input. John McArthur who designed the cover and Nancy Nevitt who edited the final draft. Thank you all

A very special thanks to my wife Suzanne, for her patience’s waiting for me to finish this book and if it were successful, hoping for a new and different life.

John Allen Stanton stood beside the Huey, his eyes scanning the distant stand of thick forest where the herd of giant elk had disappeared into the heavy mist.

His mind told him that these animals have should have been extinct for at least ten thousand years, caught up in the evolution of their species and replaced with modern day Cervus Canadensis, but here they were, now, today… whenever that was!

He’d sensed that the whole forest was different. It seemed primitive and ancient somehow, not at all like what he and wildlife biologist Wade Miller had just flown over a few hours before.

He felt a chill, not only form the biting cold but also from something else, something that made him shiver. It seemed to tell him that he was far removed from the modern everyday existence of a New Mexico Game Ranger. He felt they were in a different time… when that was, he could not even guess. The events earlier in the day only re-enforced his belief that he and Miller had somehow slipped back to a period of time when prehistoric animals and men were living in the New Mexico Mountains.

Now, here they were in a primitive of world of ancient New Mexico, discovering the people who inhabited it, the good and the bad. The survivors and those that are caught up in the evolution of the their species and finally disappear. Events that followed would become routine for Stanton and he adapts to the very different environment and eventually becomes part of the past.

He’s a modern twentieth century man living with the Taffa, the ancient group of nomadic people who live here and the bad ones the Norasa, the Neanderthal like creatures that are competing for existence with the Taffa.

The circumstances surrounding Stanton and Miller’s disappearance and then Stanton’s return without his partner two years later with a beautiful woman only shroud the event with intrigue and murder.

A modern day investigation by the Bureau only results in more unanswered questions and speculation. Then a startling discovery in an ancient cave only adds to the unexplained mystery of Stanton’s reappearance.

The question of how anyone could have existed in two worlds that are thousands of years apart is a baffling mystery and the search for answers brings a world-renowned paleoanthropolgist and the Bureau into direct conflict.

Time and Time Again is a story of time travel, deceit and murder. From Desert Storm to primitive New Mexico, Jon Allen Stanton lives a double life, one of a twentieth century man and one of a man caught up in a time warp and living in prehistoric times. His life and purpose for living in those ancient times is a compelling adventure set in two different worlds. Revelation after revelation makes this story take many different twist and turns and lead or main character, Jon Stanton from now… back to then.

Introduction

The Beginning

Iraqi forces invaded Kuwait in August of 1990 and on the night of 17 January 1991, the United States and coalition forces began the liberation of that Gulf state. That night will always be remembered as the start of the first Gulf War, or Desert Storm. But to Jon Allen Stanton it would be much more than that. It would always remain in his memory and one day, years later, he would realize why events of that first night shaped the rest of his life.

Prologue

The First Night

The helicopter lifted off the tarmac in Northern Saudi Arabia, hovered for a second then pulled up sharply, and banking to the right, sped off toward the darkness of the distant horizon. CWI Jon Stanton and Sgt. Eddie Hanks headed for the war. Desert Storm was underway and their mission was part of the first strikes on Iraqi scud missiles radar sites. Stanton was the pilot and Hanks the co-pilot and gunner and he controlled the M197 three barrel 20 mm Gatling gun mounted just under the nose of the desert camouflaged AH-64 Apache gunship. Stanton controlled the 4 Tow and 8 Hellfire Missiles and the 2 Aim 9L Sidewinder’s that hung under the stubby wings.

He kicked the speed up to maximum 195 mph and said to his gunner,

Okay boys, better hunker down and kiss your ass goodbye cause hell’s a com’in.

Hanks smiled, glancing down at the dark desert below as it flashed by,

You ain’t wrong skipper, we’re gonna get us some wacky Iraqis tonight.

Stanton and Hanks were part of an Airborne Attack Helicopter Squadron and they weren’t alone. There were eight Apache gun ships on the same mission to search and destroy enemy radar sites.

Stanton checked his watch. The illuminated dial said it was just after midnight. They had been in the air for nearly thirty minutes. Hanks called to his pilot,

Skipper, we’re coming up on the border. Let’s look and see what we can see.

Stanton keyed the radio,

Roger that.

The two men flipped down their night vision goggles and Stanton turned on the Pilot Night Vision Sensor or PNVS that was mounted in the nose of the Apache. The night vision goggles used ambient light to see in the dark. The Target Acquisition/Designation Weapons System or TADS, would locate a target and the night vision sensors would allow the crew men to locate their targets. The infrared was at a low intensity and kept the enemy from seeing any light in the Apache and the night vision goggles would let Stanton and Hanks easily read their radarscopes. The low glow green line swept around the scope and Hanks suddenly called out,

I have a target, one hundred eighteen south southwest at about twenty clicks.

Stanton checked his directional compass and set the new course,

Roger that, coming to one eighteen south southwest, twenty clicks, let’s get ‘em.

The Apache banked toward the south just as Eddie Hanks suddenly said,

We have company, enemy radar and he’s painting us. He’s off to the left.

Stanton swore and checked his direction indicator,

Son of a bitch, between us and the target… he paused then said, Okay, let’s play a little hide and seek.

Stanton flipped on the terrain following radar system. This was a ground tracking radar-guided system that would let them fly at a desired altitude, the guidance beam would automatically correct for elevation differences between the helicopter and the ground. Stanton dropped the Apache down to just fifty feet above the sand and let the system fly the bird. The enemy radar couldn’t track the chopper and five minutes later Hanks called,

Lost them. They’re gone, probably lost us and shut down or we’re just too damn low to see them.

Stanton smiled, if only they knew not to stay up any longer than was necessary. They would be sitting ducks for the F-117 Stealth Fighters, the Nighthawks, that would take them out and they’d never know what hit them. As they neared their target, Hanks said,

New target, I have something on the screen, twenty left at three clicks.

Stanton said,

Christ, the damn desert is full of creeps. Bastards are all over the place, okay, coming twenty left. What is it?

Suddenly the Apache shuddered as a series of thuds were heard. Hanks yelled,

Holy shit, we’re taking ground fire!

He turned, looking into the darkness and lifting his night vision goggles saying,

Can’t see anything.

Stanton gripped the control stick and yanked on the cyclic. The Apache moaned and rose sharply to the right. Hanks looking out the left side window yelled again,

There, off to the left, I see muzzle flashes.

More bullets slammed into the Apache and Stanton broke radio silence. He had to warn the other helicopters,

This is Red Four Seven, we’re taking ground fire twenty south in the yellow, fifty clicks in.

He then remembered the enemy radar,

Heads up, we got painted by triple A or a SAM site a click or so back, check your six.

Stanton pulled the Apache into a steep banking turn,

You see the pricks?

Hanks had pulled the night vision goggles back down and answered peering into the scope,

Just a blip, not sure just what it is, but it’s in the right direction.

Stanton didn’t like multiple targets, too many bad things could happen. He called to Hanks,

Sight them in and let’s waste the bastards.

Hanks nodded and murmured,

And hope they’re not friendly.

Stanton shook his head,

Not a chance, we’re the first in, no friendly’s yet.

Hanks agreed with the statement and said,

Okay, three due south, keep it low and I’ll see what comes up.

Stanton slipped the gunship into the proper altitude, cut down the forward speed and waited for his co-pilot to tell him what to do. The big helicopter bobbed up and down, keeping exactly fifty feet above the desert floor. Hanks checked his C-NITE scope and called out,

I have a target at five hundred meters left, looks like a vehicle of some kind, a half track or some kind of armored personnel carrier.

Stanton took a deep breath and put the Apache into hover,

Kill’ em.

Hanks locked up the 20 MM Gatling gun and squeezed the trigger. The helicopter shuddered from the recoils of the gun and he watched tracers flying into the night. Suddenly an explosion erupted directly in front of them that lit the night sky. Hanks squawked gleefully,

See you later, Ali Baba.

Then a secondary explosion illuminated the sky and Hanks yelled, laughing,

And there goes the forty thieves, hey, ain’t I a great shot?

Stanton snorted,

Yeah, you’re a great shot. Now let’s get our asses out of here.

Had Hanks been watching his scope he’d have seen a secondary blip to the west then a bright trail of fire in the night sky as a SAM missile locked on to their Apache. The high-pitched screech of the threat-warning siren brought the radar man back to his scope just in time to see something coming from the right. The missile slammed into the ship and Hanks screamed but Stanton didn’t hear because of the explosion. He was fighting to control his injured ship and the bright flash of the explosion caused him to be momentarily blinded because his night vision goggles were down. In a foggy haze he tried to get the plummeting helicopter to stabilize but it was useless. Although just barely fifty feet from the soft sand, the Apache hit with a tremendous thud and tilted to the right, the rotor blades biting into the ground. The tail rotors spun into the sand snapping the vertical stabilizer and part of the tail boom off just in back of the twin motors. Dust and flame seemed to envelope the craft and the resulting jolt from the crash rendered Stanton momentarily unconscious.

Slowly, like in a dream, he regained his bearing, suddenly wide-awake. He’d been shot down. He pulled his harness loose and jammed the canopy’s open handle forward, nothing happened. Flames were licking along side the Apache and he could feel the heat. He knew he had to get himself and Hanks as far from the burning craft as possible because it was fully loaded with ordnance. Turning as far sideways as the cramped cockpit would allow, he jammed his foot against the canopies bulletproof windows. Suddenly the panel budged and he forced it open. Almost falling into the flames, he pulled himself from the stricken ship. He began fighting at the handle of Hanks canopy, finally pulling it open and pulled his unconscious co-pilot from the front seat. He’d never understand where the super human strength came from but he got the man out and carried him nearly fifty yards from the now fully engulfed ship. Finally his strength failed him and he fell exhausted. With his face pressed into the cool sand and gasping for breath, the helicopter erupted in violent explosions as the ordinance detonated. The explosion was deafening and sent huge pieces of the Apache spiraling into the night sky followed by long fiery tails. He covered his friend’s body with his own hoping that the burning debris wouldn’t hit either of them. Seconds passed, then minutes and he finally looked over his shoulder as the dust cleared at the burning skeleton of the helicopter. He blinked his eyes, getting his vision back, then he felt something wet running down his face, sweat he hoped. He wiped his face with his hand and looked. In the half light from the flames it was dark, blood. He didn’t feel any pain, from shock he guessed. Then he forgot about his own wounds and quickly got to his knees and turned his co-pilot over to examine him. Even in the glow of the burning helicopter, one look told him that Hanks was dead. Half his helmet was missing along with that part of his head. Stanton swallowed hard, trying not to vomit. He stared at the man in a disbelieving stupor, the bile rising in his throat. His voice no more than a whisper as he swore,

Oh you lousy bastards, you dirty no good lousy bastards.

Just seconds ago he’d been talking to Hanks. Now the man was dead. Stanton shook his head and snapped back to the present when he felt a burning sensation along his face. With his fingertip he found a long gash high along his right cheek. The pain was surface, not deep, maybe it wasn’t that bad. Wounded or not, he knew he had to get away from the crash site, the enemy might come looking for survivors. He wondered if in fact the enemy had survived their initial attack but then it occurred to him that the larger hit had come from the right, not the left where Hanks had shot up whatever was out there. If it had been a surface-to-air missile someone knew they were there, probably saw the hit on the Apache and would be looking for them.

He now was realizing that his main problem was that he didn’t like being down in enemy territory alone and with only his side arm. There had been security with the metal of the Apache surrounding him. He’d felt safe and secure, but now it was different. He turned on his emergency beacon deciding it wouldn’t take but a few seconds for the signal to be picked up back at his base giving them his coordinates and pinpointing his position. Then thinking,

‘If everything went like it was supposed to…’

He shook his head thinking again,

‘Shit, things already hadn’t gone like they were supposed to. I’ve been shot down already and my buddy killed.’

He found his hand held radio and pressed the send button,

Poppa’s House, this is Red Four Seven, I’m down, repeat, I am down… he paused with his eyes closed then whispered, My co-pilot is dead.

He pressed the receive button and a voice answered,

Copy Red Four Seven, down in Indian country, Co-pilot is KIA. Is your emergency beacon on? Repeat, is your emergency beacon on? Over.

For several seconds he stared at the radio thinking about what he’d said. Then before he could respond to the voice at the other end, he suddenly heard a noise in front of him, then voices, voices coming toward him and voices not speaking English. He knew he was a sitting duck silhouetted against the burning Apache. He had to move, now! He gritted his teeth looking at his dead co-pilot. He hated to leave Hanks but the man was dead and he was alive, at least for the moment. He crawled as fast as he dared into the darkness away from the burning Huey and the voices. Bellying over a small sand dune, he lay quietly. Five minutes passed, then ten. His heart was pounding so loud he thought for sure the enemy soldiers could hear it. He pressed hard against the sand, one hand clutching the 9 mm automatic, the other the radio. Another few minutes, no noise, he almost felt safe and relieved. Then he heard sounds again, closer this time and directly in front of him. A light suddenly flashed, searching across the sand and then it was shining on him. Voices, foreign voices yelling and suddenly he could see a human shape running toward him. As the figure ran, the light jumped around. He rolled out of the beam onto his side and opened fire with his pistol. A muffled grunt and the figure fell and the light fell in the sand. Then two more figures appeared, their lights searching for him. He fired at them just as they opened fire in his direction. Bullets kicked up sand around him as AK-47 rounds whizzed by his head. His automatic kicked and he hit his targets and the two shapes fell and then all was deathly quiet. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, breathing hard, hands shaking. Nothing moved and then there were no new sounds. He made the call again on the hand-held,

Poppa’s House, Red Four Seven here, enemy is present. I repeat, bad guy’s are in the area and negative on the beacon. I’ll redirect when all is clear. Over.

Back at the base in Saudi, Stanton’s beacon signal had been received, long enough to get a fix on his location. His voice message had been passed on to Col. Bill Hollingsworth, commanding officer of Stanton’s helicopter squadron. Hollingsworth liked Stanton and was determined not to let him be the second victim of this war. He plotted the approximate location and picking up a hand held radio, said,

Street Sweeper, this is Big Daddy. We have a chopper down, Red Four Seven, forty two south, thirty north twenty-two clicks inside the yellow. Repeat, forty-two south, thirty north and twenty-two clicks in the yellow. You’ll have to wait, bad guys on the scene, Four Seven will advise when clear. Over.

A young voice came back,

Roger that Big Daddy, forty-two south, thirty north and twenty-two in the yellow. Bad guys in the area… There was a pause as the voice jotted the coordinates then said, Let us know when it’s okay and we’re on our way. Over.

All Hollingsworth could do was wait and that was the shit part, the waiting. Had he had his druthers, he’d be in the rescue bird going to get his men.

He sat thinking of Hanks. He’d been a good co-pilot, good soldier and he knew he’d been a good friend of Stanton’s.

He shook his head. He knew he had a man alive, down behind enemy lines and that was the most important thing now, getting his gun hand back safe.

Warrant Officer Charlie Archer and his co-pilot Sgt. Art Marrow waited patiently for the call to fly. Archer could only imagine what Four Seven was going through out there in the dark of the Iraqi desert with enemy soldiers present. He was sweating and knew that Four Seven was probably sweating too. He wanted to go, get out there and help but he couldn’t. Suddenly the radio bleeped,

Street Sweeper, Four Seven says the threat has been eliminated. Repeat, threat has been eliminated.

There was a brief pause and then the voice said again,

Be careful, Street Sweeper, this thing is just getting started so for shit sakes don’t take any chances, can’t afford to lose four men to save one.

Archer lifted the UH-60 Black Hawk off the ground, the big helicopter banked hard right toward the downed pilot. He carefully followed the directional plot given him by Hollingsworth. As they crossed the Iraqi boarder they became very conscious of the night and enemy territory. Archer checked his map and knew they were in the yellow. He called to Marrow,

Keep your eyes peeled.

As the Black Hawk churned through the darkness, they could see something burning in the distance but Archer knew that was not the direction of the downed Apache. Then off to the left they could see a second fire. Marrow called out,

Sir, I think that’s the bird.

The site was bright and blazing and as they got closer they could see the wreckage of the Apache. Archer strained his eyes, trying to find the pilot. Then he saw the flash of Stanton’s beacon. He smiled thinking,

‘I’m half way there to get you, and then we’ll head for the old homestead.’

He turned on the pilot’s radio frequency and called,

Four Seven, Street Sweeper Two Niner coming to take you home. What’s the situation?

Jon Stanton could hear the approaching helicopter before he could faintly see the strobes of the Black Hawk, but the voice on the radio was like heaven and very reassuring. He keyed his radio,

Street Sweeper, damn glad to see you. Sorry you had to come so soon.

Archer called back,

Not to worry, Four Seven just hang tight. We’ve got you sited, be there in a few seconds.

Stanton muttered, his voice full of regret,

First crack out of the bag and I get my ass shot off.

He looked at the dead Iraqis and then remembered the rescue pilot’s last question,

As far as I know, no more bad guys around. We wasted something about five hundred meters or so back to the south, small arms fire hit us first and then something bigger, triple A, a Sam, don’t know. I got three bad guys about an hour ago. They could have been from the triple A site or a SAM battery that got us. But since then, nothing, over.

There was silence for a second, then Archer said,

Four Seven, we saw the first fire and then got you in sight. Let’s get you and get the hell out of here.

Stanton asked,

Street Sweeper, I need to take my co-pilot home too.

Instantly the voice came back,

No doubt about it.

Stanton nodded to himself thinking, his face hard and grimacing,

‘I already hate this fucking war and it isn’t a day old.’

He stood watching as the big black helicopter approached, thinking that he’d lost a buddy and wondered how many other guys would lose friends this night?

The Black Hawk settled on the soft sand as the rotors blew up a storm. Stanton was nearly blinded from the dust when suddenly strong hands grabbed him and he was pulled toward the helicopter. Startled, he raised his weapon, when an American voice yelled,

Its okay, Sir, we’re here to pick you up. You get in the bird, and I’ll get your second.

Stanton nodded as if in a stupor. Then he stumbled toward the Black Hawk, gesturing toward the wreckage,

He’s… he’s over there.

He moved, trudging through the soft sand like a sleepwalker, found the door and turned to wait for Eddie Hanks. Marrow was pulling the dead body across the sand and he and Stanton loaded him in. Stanton sat, his back against the bulkhead as the Black Hawk co-pilot said,

We’ll be home in a heart beat. I’ll close the door, hang tight.

Stanton nodded but he was really not hearing the man. He sat heavily on the hard deck of the helicopter, holding his friend’s bloody hand. He stared at the body, bewilderment on his face. It all seemed like a very bad dream and he couldn’t wake up, his head was spinning. Then the sounds of the Black Hawks rotors revving up brought him back to reality. It had only been a few seconds. He took a deep breath and he grabbed the radio on the panel, knowing it was connected to the pilot’s headset.

Street Sweeper, I owe you big time.

He looked toward the front of the helicopter and saw the pilot’s hand give a thumb’s up.

Stanton sat back against the bulkhead, his eyes closed. He wondered if Hanks was the first victim of the war. Did it really matter? He guessed it probably didn’t, anyway not to anyone but him. He still was holding Hanks’ hand, thinking in a dream, when the Black Hawk slowed nose up and then settled onto the tarmac of the base. The pounding of the rotors softened as the engines began to spool down. Then the side door was opened and four men were peering inside. The first guy shined a flash on Stanton’s face, and then down his body and asked,

"You okay Sir?

Stanton nodded,

Yeah, I’m okay, but…

He didn’t finish what he was saying as one of the men said,

We know Sir and we’ll take real good care of him.

Stanton frowned and looked at the man, then back to the body. Tears were running down his dirty cheeks and he choked into sobs, his body shaking with emotion, his head down. The four men stood quietly not wanting to look at the man—not wanting to intrude in his moment of sorrow. Instead they stared into the darkness patiently waiting. They were witness to his grief but they were not embarrassed by the man’s emotions. Instead they felt a sense of honor being there with him. One man finally knelt and gently took Stanton’s hand, trying to pull it from the dead man’s,

Sir, he’s one of us, we’ll take real good care of him.

After several minutes of silence, Stanton nodded his head and let Hanks’ hand drop. He was helped from the helicopter into the cool desert night. His legs seemed weak as he watched Hanks’ body, now covered with a tarp, being put in an ambulance. He was shaking with emotion and fatigue. He hadn’t noticed but someone had put a blanket around his shoulders. He finally turned to acknowledge the person and then turned back to the ambulance but it was gone, disappearing into the lights of the field. He felt very, very alone. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and a voice was saying,

I’m sorry, Jon, Eddie was a good soldier and a good man.

Stanton turned and saw Bill Hollingsworth in the dim lights of the field. Tears filled his eyes again and he turned away so the man would not see him weeping. The big man patted his arm, his voice consoling,

It’s okay, Jon, there’ll be a lot of tears before this thing is over.

The ironic part was that within a very short time, it was over. The Iraqi’s were whipped. Hell, the fourth-largest army in the world and it was done in just one hundred hours. It just didn’t seem right that Hanks should have died in the first few hours. They had flown together for weeks, months and now this. Of course Hanks was more personal, he’d lived with the man, eaten with him and now, somehow he felt that he’d gotten him killed. Stanton felt that no American lives were worth this. He’d wondered why it had been Hanks and not him. He knew it was a fact, some men lived others died, but he would have nightmares about Hanks death for years. He’d wake up calling his name, soaked in sweat and would be awake for hours remembering. Finally he talked to a minister, even though Stanton wasn’t a religious man, he felt he had to tell someone. The clergyman convinced Stanton that it really wasn’t his fault, men in war die and that was the sad part. He’d have to move on, live with the good memories and forget about the bad ones.

Several years later, he was out of the service and working for a Saudi Oil company flying their helicopters. He really hated the Persian Gulf, it reminded him too much of the war. The service had been a good life, the Army wasn’t the worst place to be. He’d learned to fly but now he was restless. He didn’t feel he was really doing what he wanted. The money was good, excellent, but it wasn’t enough to keep him there. The memories were still too vivid, too troubling.

Then sitting one night with some buddies, the conversation got around to the war. Most of these guys hadn’t served in the Gulf during Desert Storm. They were here working for as much money as they could make on the oil wells. Someone asked if Stanton had been in Desert Storm and the man just nodded, staring into the faces of the others. One of the derrick men said,

I heard you got shot down the first night. You’re a lucky son of a bitch Stanton, someone wanted you to live I guess.

Years later Stanton would remember that night and he would realize the reason why he’d lived.

CHAPTER

1

Hole in The Curtain

G ame Ranger Jon Stanton eased the Bell Huey UH-1 into a slow right turn. The Forest Service helicopter was old but very reliable and on a routine flight to gather herding information on this year’s elk population in the Northeastern New Mexico Mountains. Wade Miller, a wild life biologist, was surveying the landscape through binoculars as Stanton leveled out one hundred feet above the tree line. A late November snowstorm had left several feet of powder on the ground and should have made tracking the elk herds easier.

Can’t see a damned thing, not a track anywhere, Miller muttered.

Stanton pulled back on the collective and the Huey climbed for altitude as a large stand of giant spruce suddenly came into view ahead. He spoke to the other man through the head set, his voice sounding apologetic.

Sorry ’bout that Wade, came up on me kinda sudden like.

The other man smiled,

You were a pilot in the Gulf War weren’t you?

Jon Stanton nodded, thinking,

‘Yeah, some kind of pilot.’

He tried not to remember but the memories were always there,

Yeah, well, then we weren’t looking for four legged animals, just two legged rat bastards.

Miller clamped his lips tightly together,

Not a lot of fun over there I guess, never had to go myself. I was one of the lucky ones.

Stanton sat thinking about the war, then the Saudi oil thing, now this. He guessed he was lucky, hell he was alive wasn’t he? He’d joined the U.S. Forest Service, became a Ranger and his experience naturally directed him to be a pilot and he had been flying their Huey’s ever since. This Huey was just like the one he’d flown in the Gulf for the Saudi’s, the UH-1 was a good workhorse but outdated.

During the war he’d flown the AH-1 Apache Attack gunship, a great bird for sure but that was then. Now the military flew the AH-1W Super Apache and he wished he’d been able to fly one of those but the military was out of the question. No more wars for Jon Stanton. The Feds had their budget and Forest Service guys took what they could get.

Stanton said thinking about Eddie Hanks and half murmured in a low, indistinct voice to Miller,

You were lucky, what a fucking waste.

Miller caught the sound but not the message and asked,

Say again.

Miller didn’t know about Stanton’s war experience. The man had never said anything about it and Miller had never asked. It was like that, some men talked about their war experiences, some didn’t. Stanton didn’t.

Stanton answered shaking his head,

Nothing important, just thinking out loud.

Stanton remembered that first night in ‘91 and just how damn lucky he’d been. It was silent as the Huey cruised along with just the pounding of the rotor. Stanton loved to fly, it afforded him the freedom that most men don’t have. He felt unrestricted, thinking about the poem High Flight. Thinking that is was true, he’d slipped the surly bonds of earth and he guessed he’d touched the face of God. He glanced at the landscape of the Carson National Forest and half smiled to himself thinking just how really lucky he was. The view was breath taking and the air was cold and clear. The towering pines and pinion trees with the different shades of green in the vegetation and the blue gray rocky crags of the canyons and mountains were magnificent. The trees had their first winter snow and it clung to the branches like brilliant white cotton. The purple bluish patches of snow in the shadows were in stark contrast to the sparkling white of the sun lit snow, so bright it was almost impossible to look at without squinting. Stanton adjusted his sunglasses, turning back to his flight. Three minutes later, Miller squawked still looking through his binoculars,

Hell… sons of bitches must have heard us coming and hid under the trees. I don’t see a damn thing.

Stanton was concentrating on flying as he replied,

They’re down there somewhere.

He paused, then said,

Let’s swing around the back side and see what we can find. I have plenty of fuel.

The other man nodded and the big helicopter swung to the left, gaining altitude. Their flight took them into the Sangre de Cristo area of the Carson National Forest and the high mountain range of the Rockies that dropped down into eastern New Mexico. Stanton could see Wheeler Peak off to his left, the highest point in the range at a little over thirteen thousand feet. The peak looked brilliant in the clear cold air, the new fallen snow made it seem to glisten. Although it was a clear day, it wasn’t uncommon for patchy low clouds to lie in the canyons this time of year. Winter weather could develop rapidly and without warning.

Suddenly out of nowhere, a dark cloud appeared and seemed to envelop them. Stanton was flying in a swirling mass of blackness, the sunlight completely obliterated. He pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes straining to see his instruments that glowed in the black-out like conditions. Pilots can become disoriented when they are flying in clouds, believing in what they feel and not what their instruments say. Jon had enough experience to know his indicators were giving him the correct information. He refocused just as Miller shouted, his