The Methuselah Project (3 page)

“Katherine, there is a young man I would like you to meet.”

Red flags unfurled in Katherine’s brain.
Here we go again.
She shut her eyes and slouched in the leather seat. “Not another nephrologist, I hope? Geoffrey bored me stiff with his up-close descriptions of polycystic kidney disease, renal failure, vascular disorders, and kidney excretions.”

“Geoffrey is a brilliant physician. He cannot resist talking about his specialty.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him. “In the park? On a picnic? The man has absolutely no sense of normal social behavior, let alone romance.”

Uncle Kurt braked at the asphalt road, made sure traffic was clear, then steered to the right, heading back toward Turner-McDonald Parkway. “They tell me his IQ score places him at nearly genius level. Why, if you two were to marry and have children, just imagine how extraordinary—”

“No way! I love you, but no. Not Geoffrey. Not in a million years will that walking kidney encyclopedia get close to my ring finger. Just because he’s a member of the Heritage Organization doesn’t mean I have to fall in love with him.”

“Most unfortunate. In that case, he will probably want to return the .34-carat marquise diamond I sold him for the ring. Truly an exquisite stone.”

Katherine bolted upright. “What?” Geoffrey Pullman had bought her an engagement ring after one so-called date? And her uncle had catered to this nonsense? “Tell me you’re joking!”

Uncle Kurt pulled his eyes from the road long enough to grace her with a wry smile. “As you might say—
Gotcha!
” He burst into laughter. “If only I had a video of you just now. You should have seen your face.”

She delivered a playful punch to his shoulder. “You and your sense of humor. I’ll get you back, you know.”

“Yes, I realize. In the meantime, though, would you be willing to meet a different young gentleman?”

She groaned. Could she say anything at all to get him off her case? “Uncle, I’m not a little girl anymore. Honest. Can’t you just let me meet men the normal way and choose my own husband?”

The mirth disappeared from his face. “You know, your mother and father’s marriage was arranged by your grandfather, and they learned to love each other deeply. This has always been the way in our branch of the Mueller family. Your contrary spirit would grieve them.”

Her parents. He’d slipped the knife through the one chink in her armor. Sigh. “He’s not a kidney doctor?”

“No. He’s a banker.”

She let out a second groan. Not that she had anything against money. But any banker who impressed Uncle Kurt as potential husband material probably came equipped with a calculator instead of a soul. The guy would be as romantic as an amortization table. “I assume he’s a member of the HO?”

“Of course.”

“Doesn’t the organization include any swashbuckling journalists or editors or ghostwriters you can introduce me to? With someone in the publishing business, at least we’d have something mutually interesting to chat about.”

“The only males I know in publishing are in their fifties or sixties, and are already married, if not already divorced.”

At least Uncle Matchmaker wasn’t trying to hitch her to a retiree. “All right. I’ll meet your banker. But, no promises!”

“No promises needed. Still, I believe Thaddeus will impress you.”

“Thaddeus?” She studied her uncle as he drove. “That’s his name? No joke?”

“No joke.”

Katherine’s stomach grew queasy, as if she’d eaten a greasy hamburger. If only Uncle’s ideas of the perfect man for her could be more normal. This conversation needed a new direction. “I’ve been thinking. Do you suppose it’s too soon for me to try for the next level? I mean, if I’m going to be in the HO at all, I don’t want to spend my whole life as a piddly little
Kadett.
I’d rather move up.”

“I am pleased to hear that. I hesitated to push you. I wished it to be your decision. Yes, if you continue to shoot as well as today, that portion of the testing will be simple to pass. Of course you will need to prepare the academic and philosophical disciplines, plus hand-to-hand combat and field exercises, but those should prove no problem for a gifted and physically fit young woman. I can help train you, if you are committed.”

Katherine stared straight ahead. The sunshine created a strobe-light effect as the BMW flashed through a living tunnel formed by the arching limbs of live oaks, magnolias, black walnuts, and dogwoods. She nodded. “I’m ready.”

Katherine didn’t voice her more private thoughts.
I’m ready for a lot of things. For life. For love. For some meaning to my existence.

I wish he’d let me find my own husband, but who knows? Maybe the man of my dreams really is a member of the Heritage Organization, and I just haven’t met him yet.

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
17, 1943

S
OMEWHERE IN
G
ERMANY

T
rembling, dazed, and damp with sweat, Roger opened his eyes. He expected to see tongues of flame licking at the cockpit. To his surprise, all he could see outside the canopy were stout tree trunks and snow-sprinkled branches. He’d plummeted from roaring aerial combat into an eerily silent world.

Roger exhaled a calming breath and willed the tightness in his stomach to relax. He’d heard of accident victims who didn’t realize they were dying. He ran his hands over himself but found no broken bones. Sure, he felt a few tender spots that would turn black and blue, but nothing life-threatening.

He yanked off the slant-zipper, British-style flyer’s gauntlets he’d worn since his Eagle Squadron days, removed his leather flying helmet, and ran a hand over his face. His forehead throbbed. Blood trickled from his nose. Had his head rammed the instrument panel? His flight had ended so abruptly he couldn’t be sure. He rifled through each jacket pocket in search of a handkerchief. Instead, his fingers encountered the ten-dollar bill with Walt Crippen’s hand-printed message.

“The joke’s on you, Walt,” he said aloud. “You won the bet, but you can’t collect.”

An unseen smolder could still ignite the fuel tank, so he needed to move. Roger slid back the canopy and climbed onto the mangled remains of the left wing. After easing to the snowy ground on unsteady legs, he surveyed the damage.

While the cockpit was nestled undamaged between two behemoth trees, the rest of the plane had not fared as well. The right wing had been shorn off completely, leaving little more than a jagged aluminum stump. Half of the left one hung, still attached, barely, but crumpled against the fuselage.

“That’s one kite that will never fly again. Another eighty thousand dollars of taxpayer money down the drain.”

The lower two of his four propeller blades were bent backward from gouging into the Fatherland. The underside of the P-47 was less damaged than he would have expected, though. The snow-covered field had provided little friction against the aircraft’s belly, allowing it to slide like a giant toboggan.

“Well, McKenzie,” he said to the absent chief mechanic, “you always claimed you’d be satisfied with any landing I could walk away from.”

He gazed back between the trees, along the course the Thunderbolt had traveled to her final rest. No sign of life.

“Well, now what happens?” He pictured again the road he had shot over. At least two vehicles had been on it. Someone would show up soon enough.

The thought of Walt prompted him to survey the heavens. Empty. Neither sight nor sound of aircraft in any direction. Had Walt survived? Or had he …

For an instant Roger imagined
Beautiful Betsy
trailing smoke and plunging into the earth, exploding in an orange-black ball of fire. He winced. He saw no column of smoke, but that fact offered no guarantee Walt had survived the melee.

No. Walt’s alive. He called over the radio. I owe him ten bucks, and he’s too mulish to die before I pay up.

Chilled by the December wind, Roger tugged his flying gauntlets back on. Once he was confident the Thunderbolt no longer posed any threat of exploding, he climbed back up and retrieved his escape kit and first-aid box.

He’d received his escape kit with mixed emotions. On one hand, he was glad somebody was thinking ahead and providing them with emergency items, including a compass and a map. On the other hand, crashing or parachuting into Fortress Europe was no dream holiday. He’d never planned on using this piece of gear.

He unwound a strip of gauze and pressed it to his bleeding nose.

What to do? It didn’t make much sense to go dashing through snowy woods in December, well inside the borders of the Third Reich. During those isolated moments when he’d entertained thoughts of getting stranded on enemy territory, Roger had imagined warmer seasons, when a man might scavenge farmlands for carrots and cabbages or forage apples from orchards and then sleep inside a haystack.

He turned his attention to the ground. The snow lay only a couple of inches deep, but the prints of his fleece-lined flying boots showed easily. No matter which direction he ran, Wehrmacht soldiers would have the clearest possible trail to follow. Under these conditions, he’d just be wasting valuable energy with zero hope of reaching safety.

“Well, this is lousy. Not only do I get shot down, but all the odds are stacked against me. I’ve got no food and no place to hide.” He formulated the only possible plan to stay alive.

Roger sat on a log and watched a squad of rifle-toting Wehrmacht soldiers approaching across the field. He enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing that, whatever they expected to find, it wasn’t the sight that would meet their eyes. The Germans approached cautiously, gripping their rifles as if hunting wild lions. Then they straightened and gazed at him with puzzlement.

In front of him, a campfire merrily crackled and popped. He spread his bare palms toward the flames and soaked up their warmth even as he relished the soldiers’ dumbfounded expressions. He imagined that, except for his flight jacket, in their eyes he must look as relaxed as a railroad hobo simmering a can of pork and beans.

“I see you boys finally showed up. I was starting to worry I might have to come looking for you.” He beckoned them closer and patted the spot on the log next to him. “Come on over. Have a seat.”

The enemy troops merely stared.

“Oh, wait. I get it. You guys forgot the hotdogs, didn’t you?” Roger exaggerated a sigh. “That lousy Hermann Göring. I specifically told him to have somebody buy hot dogs in case I dropped in. And here I had the fire going and everything. That ticks me off.”

The nearest German pointed his rifle at Roger, then gave a flick of his chin.
“Komm.”

“Come? You’re inviting me to your place? That’s a swell idea. It’s chilly for barbecuing, anyway. Let’s pick up some bratwurst along the way.” He stood, yawned, stretched, and then stepped forward.

Immediately the soldiers tightened their grips on the rifles, as if the lone American might launch a sneak attack.

“By the way, Fritz,” Roger said to the soldier who was apparently the sergeant in charge, “you might want to collect that thing over there. It’ll make a dandy souvenir to show the grandchildren—if you live that long.” Roger jerked a thumb toward his Colt .45, which had been lying beside him on the log.

The German barked an order, and one of his men hustled to retrieve the weapon.

Roger continued to chat amiably. “Don’t expect to find any bullets. I flung ’em into the woods just to keep you guys from getting ’em.”

Another grunted order from the sergeant sent a soldier forward to pat down the prisoner. The man discovered the escape kit tucked inside Roger’s jacket and removed it.

Roger was certain by now that none of his captors spoke English. He smiled and nodded enthusiastically. “Sorry, no car keys, if that’s what you’re looking for. I left those in Indiana.”

With rifles jabbing the air to indicate the desired path, the Wehrmacht band marched their prize across the field toward the road Roger had spotted during his hasty descent. He paused at the spot where his fighter had impacted the earth and studied the dark skid carved across the snow-clad field.