The Methuselah Project (2 page)

Roger spotted four more Me 109s ahead, almost cutting across his path, but slightly lower and not quite as fast, in a swept-back, line-abreast formation. Without looking down, he reached for the throttle, turbo, and prop levers in succession, yanking them all the way back to slow down. No good: he was still closing fast—way too fast.

He cut a sharp right turn, then swung around to come in behind the last Messerschmitt, the one in “tail-end Charlie” position.

He swore. Still closing too fast.

Maneuvering by instinct, Roger threw in several skids to avoid overshooting, then barrel-rolled and popped into position right on his target’s tail. He narrowed the range to about 250 yards and centered the needle and ball of the bank indicator. The moment the pip of his sights aligned on the enemy, he squeezed off a long burst.

Chunks of Messerschmitt flew from the plane. The starboard wing separated, and the corpse of the aircraft crumpled earthward. The victim’s three companions pulled for the sky, a maneuver Roger’s heavy Thunderbolt couldn’t duplicate.

He had just spared a foe’s life. By sighting on the wing root instead of dead center on the cockpit, he’d given his opponent a chance to bail out. Had he been a fool? Would that pilot return to pepper him with lead someday?

“Hoosier, Hoosier!” Walt Crippen broke over the radio. “You just hit the hornets’ nest. I got one on my tail. Two more on yours. Get out of here!”

Tracers flashed over Roger’s left shoulder. Any enemy fighter could outbank a Thunderbolt from behind. He needed violent evasive action—now.

Roger slammed the stick into one corner and put the rudder in the other. The result proved so instantaneous, Roger’s brain couldn’t picture exactly what his plane had done, but for a few seconds at least, the tracers vanished.

Inexplicably Walt’s
Beautiful Betsy
roared through his path. How had he and his wingman ended up in these positions? Roger seized one thought: An enemy plane must be on Walt’s tail. Forget evasive action.

Roger responded before he saw his friend’s attacker. A barrage from his .50-caliber guns pierced the air. Then … there it was! The Me 109 hurtled straight through his stream of gunfire. The cockpit shattered. The plane tilted over and dropped from the sky.

“Gotcha!”

It was his luckiest shot ever. But now, two truths slammed home. The first was that his guns fell silent before he released the trigger switch. He was out of ammunition. Second, his own attackers were hot on his tail. Already he heard the staccato of jackhammers pummeling the Thunderbolt.

Roger jammed the stick forward, plunging earthward to outrace the two enemies. The altimeter registered only five thousand feet: not enough altitude for a speedy getaway. Worse, the P-47 responded sluggishly. Sure, he was born to fly, but even a top ace could be slaughtered if his aircraft didn’t perform. Rescuing Walt had come with a price tag.

“They’ve shot up my rudder. This can’t get any worse.”

As if to prove him wrong, the fighter’s engine began to cough. Steely claws of dread gripped Roger’s intestines and dug in. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. In past missions, he’d always been able to outthink and outmaneuver the enemy, but with the Thunderbolt’s damaged condition, he didn’t stand a chance of outflying any experienced pilot.

His frustration erupted in a couple of choice words.

Roger pulled back on the stick. If he must die, it wasn’t going to be from burrowing into the Third Reich. Slowly, far more lackadaisically than it should, the fighter managed to level out from the dive, but not before Roger’s prop was chopping though the tips of pine trees. The engine continued coughing. More tracers flashed past. Roger heard deadly rounds stabbing into his plane. As he feared, the dive had been too short to shake his pursuers.

Sweating, Roger slipped his plane up, down, left, right, hoping against hope that the two aggressors would run out of ammo before they could deliver the death blow. If only that would happen, maybe they would forfeit the chase and head home.

The hardy Thunderbolt absorbed more abuse. Roger couldn’t believe he remained airborne. But the clock was ticking. He might have only seconds of life. Just one German bullet through his skull …

“Cripes!” he shouted over the radio. “I’m out of ammo. Rudder shot to pieces. These guys are clobbering the snot out of me. I’m not coming back. Tell ’em I shot down at least two before they got me!”

Desperate, Roger coaxed his wounded aircraft into foolhardy maneuvers. He ducked it under a bridge. He brought it up to treetop level. He barely avoided clipping the roof of a farmhouse … Still, the mongrels nipped at his tail with their bullets. At this low level, he couldn’t even bail out. At least they weren’t using their 30 mm cannons. Must’ve used ’em up.

Walt’s voice sounded over the radio. “Hoosier, where are you? I’ve lost you.”

“Don’t know. Just passed under a bridge. Railroad tracks. They’re …”

The fighter’s engine stopped wheezing and seized up. Whether the enemies had severed an oil line or what, he had no time to guess. Willpower couldn’t keep this kite aloft. A Thunderbolt’s glide pattern was as efficient as a footlocker’s.

Roger flashed past a road, hurtled over a snow-covered field, and dropped like a cannonball. No time for landing gear. Hydraulics were probably shot up anyway.

“Nose up! Come on, baby, nose up! Up!”

No doubt gloating in their success, the two Me 109s thundered overhead. Roger concentrated on the ground. The field was small, much shorter than a runway.

“God, help!”

The fighter smacked the earth with teeth-rattling force. It bounced off its belly, thudded down again, then skidded across the field horrifyingly fast—straight toward the tree line.

“Come on, come on …” Wrestling with stick and rudder, Roger fought for control. If only he could point the nose between two tree trunks instead of straight into one … The plane would no longer obey. Colliding with the ground must have finished whatever damage the Messerschmitts had wreaked.

Like the final scene from a nightmare, the line of trees hurtled straight toward him. Into his mind’s eye sprang the image of his bloody carcass being pulled from crumpled metal.

Still wrenching the stick against the inevitable, Roger shut his eyes.

W
EDNESDAY
, J
ULY
9, 2014

S
ANDY
S
PRINGS
, G
EORGIA

K
atherine Mueller took a deep breath and sighted along her Glock 19 a final time. She tried to ignore the sweatiness of her palm on the grip. Squinting just enough to reduce the sun’s afternoon glare, she squeezed the trigger, releasing her final round.

“Yes!” All fifteen bullets had thudded home in a tight pattern on the silhouette’s heart. Jubilation welled inside her chest.

“Check that out.” Katherine holstered the weapon, pulled off the protective earmuffs, and turned to her uncle. A wide grin on his face rewarded her own. “It’s the best I’ve ever done. Not bad for twenty-five yards, if I do say so myself.”

“Yes, Katarina, I see. I am proud of you,” Uncle Kurt said, using the German version of her name as he usually did. His gold-capped incisor glistened in the sunlight. “Superb shooting. You are becoming a true markswoman.”

His approval warmed her heart. “It’s taken me long enough.”

“But you never gave up. You persisted. That shows tenacity, a trait sadly lacking in many young people.”

“Thanks.” Admiring the bullet-ridden silhouette once more, she said, “I think I’ll keep that target as a souvenir. It’ll be a combination of trophy and personal challenge to beat next time.”

“Splendid idea. Your father would be proud, Katarina. And not only of your shooting.”

The reference to her father mellowed Katherine’s triumphant mood. She gazed into her uncle’s steel-gray eyes. “Do you really think so? Or are you just saying that to make me happy? You know I want to live in a way that would honor them, but …”

Uncle Kurt laid his arm across her shoulders as they trudged across the private shooting range. “I mean every word of it. Frank had high hopes for his only daughter. He wished to see you embrace the Heritage Organization and flourish in it. It would have meant so much to him to see your progress.”

“What about Mother?” Katherine pried loose the thumbtacks holding the silhouette to the weathered plywood. “Mother was a member, too, wasn’t she?”

“Of course.” Uncle Kurt’s eyes flitted away, as if he’d noticed something among the live oaks behind the range. “Ruth worked as Frank’s assistant, but she was as brilliant as he was. And not just a scientist. She excelled in psychology and other studies too. If Ruth talked less about our secret society, it was simply due to her wide range of interests.” He smiled. “Your mother joked that each day was too short, that she could not learn all she wished unless she could conquer the habit of sleeping every night. Do you recall that?”

Katherine shook her head. “I don’t remember many details. Mostly general things, like being cuddled on a lap or holding hands while going for walks. If it weren’t for the photo album, I wouldn’t even remember their faces.”

Uncle Kurt paused and studied her. “You know, not until this moment did I realize how greatly you have come to resemble Ruth. Oh, you have always had the same beautiful caramel-colored hair, the same light sprinkle of freckles, and the same cute dimples when you smile. But now I see the same high cheekbones, the same confidence in your stature. What are you, about five foot five?

“Five foot six.”

“About an inch taller than your mother. Blame me for giving you too many vitamins.”

“I wish I hadn’t been so young when they died.”

She rolled the paper target into a tube.

“I know.” Uncle Kurt sighed as they walked back to his BMW. “So young. Such a pity.”

Katherine took her turn placing an affectionate arm around her uncle’s shoulders. “What I don’t understand is how such a sweet talker like you managed to stay single all his life. Surely plenty of women would’ve been interested in a suave European bachelor?”

He shrugged. “I suppose fate decreed it. Fortunately I have had my business and the organization to give my life meaning. Also, my wonderful niece shines her own unique ray of light into my life. You are like my private little sunbeam, Katarina.”

She gave his shoulder a light shake. “Two compliments in two minutes? You’re slathering it on extra thick. Either you want a favor, or you’re getting sentimental.”

Uncle Kurt laughed and opened her car door. “Neither. Cannot an aging old man express fondness for a niece who has become more precious than a daughter?”

Katherine’s memory clicked. “Wait. We’re forgetting tradition.” She pulled the Glock from its brown leather holster and offered it to her uncle.

He looked at the pistol but didn’t accept it. “You have already taken the target down.”

“The plywood is still nailed to the post. You can put a bullet through that. Come on, at least one shot. It’s tradition!”

“Oh, all right.” He accepted the Glock and sized up the distance.

“Wait, you don’t have to do it from the parking lot. Let’s walk back to the firing line.”

“What, and waste an interesting challenge?” He looked askance at the distant, bullet-riddled rectangle, then back to Katherine. Faster than she could blink, he swiveled, raised the Glock, and fired. Bits of plywood burst from the rectangle.

He slid the weapon back into its holster. “Satisfied?”

She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Satisfied. I pity the poor burglar who ever tries to break into the Mueller home.” She slid onto the BMW’s black leather seat and let him shut the door behind her, just as he always did in his prim, gentlemanly fashion. While Uncle Kurt circled to his side of the car, Katherine glanced down and noticed a gray object protruding from beneath his seat. She reached for it and extracted a pair of heavy binoculars.

As Uncle Kurt slipped into the driver’s seat, she hefted her discovery. “These look mighty powerful. Don’t tell me you’ve been peepin’ at that curvaceous Mrs. Jansen across the street. I know she has a voluptuous figure, but really, Uncle.”

For the slightest instant, her uncle’s face went blank. Surely her joke hadn’t struck on the truth!

“Certainly not. I am planning a vacation. A hunting expedition to Africa, actually, and I will need some good binoculars. I slipped those under there the day I bought them so no one would steal them. It seems I forgot about them.”

“You’re planning a trip to Africa and you didn’t invite me?”

“Would you like to come? You can if you like. But I did not think you would be interested. After all, I will not be staying in a resort. This will be roughing it in the wilds. Mosquitoes. No showers or latrines.” He started the engine and guided the vehicle down the gravel lane.

Katherine laughed. “You’re right. I’d rather not rough it. Paris is more my speed. I wouldn’t mind going back there.”

“We will do Paris another time. Or maybe Rio. I have never taken you there.”

He kept the car in low gear as it crept toward the road. Just another patience-demanding eccentricity Katherine had long ago stopped trying to change. Uncle wouldn’t risk flinging rocks that might nick his beloved BMW’s glossy black finish.