The Beginning (Whispering Pines Book 1): Whispering Pines, #1

By Charles Wells

Chuck Veal has not heard from his brother in Georgia in over a week and nobody answers the home phone or cell. An employee at the timber mill his brother owns gives him run around answers and the local Sheriff refuses to post a missing person report.
With his gut instincts screaming "trouble," Chuck spills his fears to a female co-worker who unexpectedly offers to help. She wants to go with him to Georgia and lend a hand searching for his brother. Little does Chuck realize, she is ESP sensitive and already knows more than she can tell.
With few clues to go by, Chuck starts following his brother's clues, starting at the old family cemetery and things go downhill from there. His presence creates a head on collision with small town influencers and power brokers that have left a deadly trail of murder, deceit, and mayhem. Everything from the Atlanta drug cartel to the murderess of his Grandfather sixty years earlier, comes into play.
"The Beginning" anchors a full boatload of Whispering Pines books ahead about the Veal family trials and tribulations. It is a fast paced, edge of your seat thriller for all ages. Rated PG.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Wells
• Release date: Oct 22, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465987310

Charles Wells

I was asked why I'm a writer and responded with the following. I didn't choose writing, it chose me. I've spent the better part of my life (and I'm 60 years old) writing, but I still hesitate to call myself an Author. I've written and published seven books, six are fiction, and still I don't feel like a writer because I don't fit my mental image of one. I don't feel compelled to be the next Mark Twain or Tom Clancy. I don't want to get filthy rich from my writing and I don't care for the glory of being recognized while walking down the street. All I want to do is entertain people and hold that wisp of power and control knowing I can make you laugh, or make you cry. I can take you to heaven or send you straight to hell, all with a few words placed appropriately. I can do in one paragraph what God needs seven days to accomplish. Best of all, I can make you think great thoughts or I can help you dream in a reality that I create. A reality you can enjoin or not with the flip of a book cover or press of a digital reader button. All of this isn't writing, it's insanity and escape for the sake of entertainment. http://www.charleswells.us Before turning to fiction writing, Wells spent most of his career as a newspaper reporter and journalist in middle Georgia. He covered everything from high school sports to front page news stories. During the last fourteen years of his career he worked as Managing Editor for "The Robins Review" a military town's 25,000 weekly edition publication. The city's mixed population of civilian and military called for a unique brand of writing skills that Wells found comfortable supplying. The highlight of his career was in 1988 when a sharply written article was picked up by the national wire services and republished around the world. The topic was the advance of technology in the Air Force's electronic warfare division and aptly titled "Stone Age to Star Wars." Copies of the article made it to the desk of then President Ronald Regan who had initially emblazoned the term into the minds of the world. The article also caught the attention of an NBC News Producer as well as ABC's nightline's Associate Producer, Terry Irving. The sad news through it all was that just as Wells' writing career was taking off, his personal world was "going south and silent." Plagued since childhood by an ongoing progressive hearing loss, Charles Wells lost all usable hearing and went completely deaf. When the handicap peaked, Wel...

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The Beginning (Whispering Pines Book 1)

Copyright @ Charles E. Wells

Published by Smashwords

Dublin, Georgia 31021

www.wellstonpublishing.com

Revised December 2013

In honor of the two beautiful women who helped make this book happen. Jeanie Russ and Gail Wells

Table of Contents

Prelude ……………………………………………………………4

Chapter 1 ………………………………………………………….9

Chapter 2 ………………………………………………………… 13

Chapter 3 ………………………………………………………… 15

Chapter 4 ………………………………………………………… 26

Chapter 5 ………………………………………………………… 34

Chapter 6 ………………………………………………………… 46

Chapter 7 ………………………………………………………… 50

Chapter 8 ………………………………………………………… 55

Chapter 9 ………………………………………………………… 60

Chapter 10 ……………………………………………………….. 70

Chapter 11 ……………………………………………………….. 73

Chapter 12 ……………………………………………………….. 76

Chapter 13 ……………………………………………………….. 79

Chapter 14 ……………………………………………………….. 82

Chapter 15 ……………………………………………………….. 93

Chapter 16 ……………………………………………………….. 106

Chapter 17 ……………………………………………………….. 110

Chapter 18 ……………………………………………………….. 119

Chapter 19 ……………………………………………………….. 128

Chapter 20 ……………………………………………………….. 135

Chapter 21 ……………………………………………………….. 145

Chapter 22 ……………………………………………………….. 153

Chapter 23 ……………………………………………………….. 161

Chapter 24 ……………………………………………………….. 169

About the Author ………………………………………………… 177

Prelude

How much further is it to the cemetery? Mike Shavers asked the dark figure in front of him.

Bobby Ackerman, the dark figure, stopped quickly, too quickly, and Shavers ran into him. The collision sent both feet sliding in opposite directions so he had to grab at the back of Bobby's shoulders for support. That unexpected reflex almost sent them both tumbling.

Ackerman managed to keep them upright until Shavers regained his footings, then he spun around and barked, Mike, what are you doing? If I drop this flashlight we are stuck out here for the rest of the night.

Sorry Bobby. Your brake lights aren't working and I can barely walk on this slippery crud.

The two men were trying to navigate a wild game trail through the woods, a trail covered in loose pine needles with interwoven stiff roots and vines. Bobby snapped at his partner, If you grab hold of me again I'm going to shoot you. Didn't I tell you to wear boots?

Yea but I don't own any boots. What you should have told me was to bring a flashlight. I can't see a thing back here. What if I step on a snake?

Why do you think I told you to wear boots? But that's ok; if a snake bites you I'll rush it to the emergency room.

Ha, yea right, well, you should have warned me about both and we wouldn't be having this discussion right now.

Bobby pointed the light at Mike's shoes. Those things are not going to protect you from snakes whether you have a light or not, and it's not the ground that's slippery, it's the pine needles. The leather soles on your shoes can't grip, makes them slick as ice. Maybe you need to forget about the snakes and worry about not breaking your neck!

Well I like these shoes and you said we were going to a cemetery, not the Okefenokee Swamp.

Well as you can see, this isn't a swamp, its woods, and we have some serious digging to do and I'm not doing it alone. I could care less if you get those shoes dirty or not.

I'll do my share so stop worrying about it. Now how much further is it? The bugs are eating me alive.

At least you can truthfully say that I didn't tell you to bring bug repellent.

Bobby swung the light back around to the path. There's an old rusty cow fence just ahead. Once we cross that it's only a hundred yards or so.

How do you know it's a cow fence and not for horses or something?

Shut up Mike, and why are you in such a rush? Are you that anxious to see the ghosts at the graveyard? Oh wait; I forgot to warn you about the ghost, didn't I?

I never seen a ghost in my life, but, uh, are you expecting to see one?

Bobby turned the light beam back into Mike's face and chuckled wryly, As white as you are right now, I think you already saw one. Now don't walk so close and let's get going before the sun comes up.

Mike stopped, raised his watch hand and pressed the light button. Hey, it's only 2:30 in the morning. We got plenty of...

The words faded when he looked up and realized his partner with the light had already moved ahead. Bobby? Hey, wait up man. I can't see where I'm going.

----------

Matt Veal lifted the pickaxe over his head, aimed at an area near his feet and then let gravity do the rest of the work. The blade landed somewhere in the darkness near his feet at the bottom of the hole. He could not see where but it felt a tad too close for comfort to his left foot. I got to get more light down there before I poke a hole in my foot, he mumbled aloud.

He leaned the pickaxe against the sidewall of the hole, rose to his full six foot three height and wiped at the beads of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. The only light around him came from a pale quarter moon overhead and a battery-powered lantern on the ground. The hole he dug in a grave shape, very appropriate since he was digging into just that, an old grave, his Grandfather's burial plot.

The cemetery, neglected and then abandoned, was dotted with white, weather aged grave markers. The inscriptions on the stones were barely readable in the daytime and impossible at night. The acre square resting place for several dozen souls was covered with waist high weeds and wild shrub bushes with the nearby tree lines getting closer as each season passed. The only way to reach where Matt now stood was by following a wild game trail through the thick woods, an arduous task not for the faint of heart by day, and a decidedly dangerous one by night. The area was miles from a roadway. Few people around West Creek County remembered the place and the ones who did, seldom spoke of it. No one had conscience or desire to take care of the grounds and so, by neglect, the Veal Cemetery remained alone to fight against Mother Nature as she edged closer reclaiming the land.

Once Matt's breathing returned to normal, he moved the light closer to the rim of the hole. That was the moment the feeling that somebody was watching hit him. A man who trusted his instincts, made a show of wiping his forehead again while letting his eyes wander the shadows. The reach of the light's beam was limited, probably less than thirty feet.

The crickets, he realized with a twitch. They're quiet, too quiet.

Night creatures were a noisy bunch in Georgia but at that moment all Matt could hear, other than a distant owl and the wind rustling through the trees, was silence.

He stretched his achy back muscles and then, for no reason he could understand, the crickets came alive again as a though a switch had been flipped.

The warning signals faded and then were gone. The creature sounds had returned. Maybe it was just a passing bobcat or something, he mumbled under his breath.

He took up the pickaxe again and made three hard swings, then paused again to listen. The silence was back. Maybe it's the digging that has them spooked he lied to himself.

Then he noticed something visually unusual and held the axe tip up to the light. The red clay was moist, sticking to the metal of the tool. If you dug a hole in dry Georgia dirt then the clay layers would be like concrete, not sticky and moist. The dirt coming out of the hole was wet, no doubt recently uncovered or turned.

The realization gave him goose bumps and a sinking feeling inside. Had someone already been there? That or maybe there was an underground spring feeding the soil and keeping it moist? Stomping his boot against the bottom of the hole, the dirt indeed felt soft and moist, packed but not aged in place. There was not enough moisture to call it an underground supply either.

Then he recalled something from his childhood, a movie scene from the Wizard of Oz. The cowardly lion was terrified in the haunted forest and crying, I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks. I do... I do... I do believe in spooks. 

The hairs on the nape of Matt's neck stood out and his blood felt icy cold. He strained to probe the darkness outside the small ring of light. Finally, when the sensation was over powering, he reached for the lantern and clicked it off, letting the darkness swallow him.

I do believe in spooks... I do... I do... 

The eerie silence grew suffocating and loud. Slowly his eyes adjusted until he could see the distant city lights above the tree line. Then it happened; a twig or limb snapped and the ensuing report reached Matt's disbelieving mind squarely. Only a human would be so careless.

Matt placed his hand on the edge of the hole intending to swing up and out, but the darkness exploded in a beam of blinding light in his face. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. The raging glare made him throw one hand in the air to shade his eyes.

I wasn't expecting any company out here.

There's a gun pointed at you, Mister Veal, so don’t make any stupid moves.

The light began shaking as the hand holding it moved closer. There was also a noisy second set of footfalls following behind. Moving eyes only, Matt gauged his chances of breaking for the trees in a mad run but the odds were not good. He needed a weapon of some sort and the only thing available was the pickaxe.

He said calmly, Let me turn this lantern back on so I can see.

With one hand shading, he let the other slowly reach down and turn the light back on. Before he could stand back up straight though, a second voice snapped, Veal. What are you doing here? Stealing our stuff?

I don't know what you're talking about. I am here digging up graves, you know, grave robbing. A few of them are civil war veterans, buried in uniform. Those old belt buckles they wore are worth several thousand dollars apiece these days and I intend to get them.

Huh? What did he say, Bobby?

Shut up Mike. Just be quiet. The boss is going to love this. That's the boy scout of West Creek County and we just caught him grave robbing.

Matt's mind put the pieces and names together easy enough. So you work for the big guy, huh? I have seen you both around town recently, Matt lied because he honestly could not make out their faces with the flashlight pointed in his face.

I didn't realize your boss needed to bring in outside muscle to get the job done.

That shows how much you know, Veal. Our boss is not a local yokel like you.

Ackerman moved to within a few feet of the hole where Matt stood waist deep and said, Well by all means, Mister Veal, don't let our arrival stop you. Keep digging. It saves us a lot of work and I'm sure Mike appreciates not having to get his shoes all dirty.

Matt slowly pointed at his lantern. I'll need to move this thing closer to the hole so I can see what I'm doing."

Go ahead but don't try anything stupid. The trigger on my gun is a tad sensitive.

As he reached for the lantern, Matt said, I imagine your boss wants me alive, not dead. So I don't think you are going to shoot me without his okay.

I'm sure my boss does not care whether I bring you in alive or dead.

By moving he light, it brought the two faces into better view and he recognized the one called Bobby. The other he had never seen before but noticed he was not holding a gun.

So what is it I'm digging up for you guys? You looking for civil war stuff too?

You'll find out soon enough because from the looks of it you are close to reaching it. Now get to digging.

Matt raised the pickaxe but Bobby's sharp voice stopped him. No, put that thing down. You are too close and it will bust a hole in the box.

What box, the casket? That thing probably rotted away years ago.

Just do what I said, Veal. Use the shovel. If you ain't got one then you can use ours. It's hidden back in the edge of the trees.

Matt propped the pickaxe back to one side and picked up a nearby shovel. He sighed, looked up at the men and started digging.

It took less than ten minutes until the tip of the blade hit something solid and metallic. The sound brought a sneering smile to Bobby's face. He raised the gun level at the Matt's chest but just as he was about to cock the hammer, Veal bent over and disappeared out of the line of fire just below the surface of the hole. The pile of shoveled dirt gave extra cover. He had been intentionally stacking it between him and the two men for just that reason.

When Matt suddenly dropped from view, Bobby pulled the firing hammer back ready to kill him. Down in the hole, the click of the gun's mechanism sounded like an explosion in Matt's ears. He knew his time was short yet still he wondered at the box beneath his feet. What had these two characters hidden there?

Matt knew that Bobby would have to step closer to shoot. In fact, he was counting on it. He grabbed a handful of the loose dirt at his feet, which partially exposed the top of the box, and he recognized the type. It was an air sealed military shipping crate. Uncovered, it should be about three feet long and two wide.

Clenching a fist full of dirt, Matt rose to his feet intentionally facing away from Bobby and his partner. Just tell me this, he said straightening up and trying to buy a few precious seconds. What's in the cargo box?

You don't need to know, Veal. Now turn around real slow and face me.

Why? I figured you for a back shooter. You mean to tell me you like to see a man's face before you kill him?

Turn around or you'll never find out.

Matt turned slowly expecting a bullet to the back any moment. The light hit Ackerman's gun hand perfectly and Matt noticed his one chance to get out of this alive. Ackerman, in all his caution and puff, had not set the trigger safety on the side of the gun to fire position. Until he did so, it gave Matt a few precious seconds to react.

Slowly Matt let his left hand move toward the pickaxe and with a tone of assurance, he said sternly, Son, why don't you put that gun away and go home, take your little buddy there with you. I don't want to kill both of you.

The barrel of the handgun trembled slightly at the words but Ackerman's tone also showed no fear. He had never killed a man before but the excitement of doing so enthralled him. Had he known the truth behind Veal, an old military man with experience and the nightmares that accompany it, he would not have been so brave.

With finality, Bobby stepped closer and said, Good-bye Mr. Veal.

His finger tightened on the trigger but the safety lock held rather than the gun jumping in his hand as expected. When nothing happened, Ackerman's eyes flew open in surprise and shock. He tilted the gun sideways to check the problem, which was Matt's cue to act or die.

Matt tossed the handful of dirt while taking up the axe with the other. Using both hands, he pivoted his body around on the tip of his left foot using the weight of the tool to add momentum in the turn. He spun around in a 360-degree circuit taking the axe blade speed up to deadly velocity. Before Bobby could get the gun ready to fire, the pointed end of the axe struck him inches above the belt line and sank deep into his body.

The force of the blow staggered him sideways and he almost fell. His grip on the gun loosened allowing it to spin freely on the trigger finger and then drop to the ground at his feet. Matt grabbed the weapon, unlocked the safety, and checked for the second man who was nowhere in sight.

Bobby, body frozen, eyes wide in disbelief, managed to cry, I have to kill you, Mr. Veal. I have to…

Blood spurted out of his side pooling at his feet on the ground. Matt, assured that the second man had broke and run, asked, Who sent you to do this and why? What’s in the cargo crate that’s worth killing over?

When there was no response, Matt reached up, yanked the axe out of the body and dropped it. He released the trigger safety on the gun and aimed at Bobby's stomach. The man was still standing but obviously unable to move or react. What's in the box, son? Who's behind it?

Bobby Ackerman's body folded at the knees then crumpled downward into a heap on the ground. With his free hand, Matt swung himself out of the hole and kneeled. "Why Ackerman, why were you going to kill me?

Bobby started talking, at first rather strong for a man with a hole in his side the size of a baseball, but as he talked, his voice grew weaker, fading lower and lower until in one last spurt of words he whispered the final answer Matt sought, and then he died, face down in the cemetery dirt.

Matt rose to his feet and looked around, trying to hear more than see through the darkness to determine if Ackerman's partner had truly fallen back or was making a run for it. The question answered itself when he heard a distant creaking from the old wire fence just inside the trees. The second man was obviously bumbling his way back through the woods in the dark.

Matt clicked the gun’s safety back on and stuck the weapon in his belt. Glancing around once more just to be sure, he looked down at Ackerman and said, I hope it was worth it, son.

He would have to explain all this to the law eventually but calling the law also meant having to explain why he was digging in Cemetery in the first place.

That’s a lot of explaining, he said to the dead body at his feet. And I'm not ready to do that just yet.

There was already negative blood between him and the Pary Family who owned just about anything that moved in West Creek County including Sheriff Walt Brooks and his crew of deputized crooks. They would never believe he had taken down a man holding a gun on him, using nothing but a pickaxe. They would turn this killing into a murder to put him away for good, for obvious reasons.

I’ll call Frank and get some help, he thought. But not until I confirm what Ackerman just said. The problem is, that second man that got away will tell them what happened, but not that I'm coming after them.

Jumping back into the hole, Matt opened the cargo box and stared for a long time at the content, confirming what Ackerman had whispered to him. Shaking his head in disgust, he closed and resealed it, then crawled back out and stood staring at the body. His mind was constantly processing the sounds around him in alert mode but all was in balance again with the night creatures. Finally, using the tip of a boot, he rolled the body of Bobby Ackerman into the hole and said, I’ll come back and get you and that box later so don't run off anywhere.

With a deep breath of the night air, Matt picked up the shovel and starting pushing dirt into the grave. I probably should leave you out here for the wild animals to chew on but you and that cargo box are my evidence.

It took him half an hour to cover the hole and another ten minutes to work his way back through the woods to his parked car. He knew time was important because Ackerman's partner was, by now, back in town setting off the alarm about everything that happened at the cemetery. They, of course, would have no idea that the dying man had given him a few names and one location.

It was discomforting as to why Ackerman so readily spilled the beans to him. Maybe he was trying to absolve some sin before meeting his maker. Who knows but he gave Matt enough to work with on his next stop, a meeting at a makeshift airstrip. A planeload of illegal drugs was coming in at sunup but Ackerman had died before telling him where the strip was located.

Matt knew the geography of West Creek County better than anyone did and he could think of only one place large and flat enough to build an airstrip that would go unnoticed. I'll start there, he mumbled and cranked the car engine.

Ackerman's gun lay on the seat next to him, unfired with a full clip of ammunition. If his hunch were correct then the runway would be located in the woods west of town in an area owned by the Pary family. They were developing it into a lake area community including a hydroelectric power center from a dam under construction on Beaver Creek.

Matt had not seen the place in several years but kept track of the progress from talk around town. Had someone cut a landing zone out of the trees there? If so, the heavy equipment needed could have come from the construction project close by and nobody would have been the wiser. That's the most logical place to build it, Matt said aloud, They are looking for me by now and I bet that is the last place they would expect to find me.

Chapter 1

Matt parked along an old logging road, took the gun from the car seat and a flashlight from inside the console compartment and got out. He looked around carefully while tucking the weapon into his belt and then stepped into the trees moving northward.

He traveled slowly, quietly like the hunter he was, using only short bursts from the flashlight as needed to find routes around noisy ground cover. For half an hour, he searched for signs of a large opening in the trees but found none. He estimated his location to be near the end of the level area he had in mind when guessing for a suitable runway.

Okay, guess I'm wrong, he decided and was about to turn around and try elsewhere when the sound of a not too distant vehicle's door closing echoed through the woods. Next, he heard voices talking but he could not make out the words. He let five minutes pass until all was silent again. He could not gauge the direction from which the sounds had come but then the odor of burning wood reached his nose.

Was it a campfire? What idiot would build a campfire in the middle of a pine thicket? He literally followed his nose forward, probably faster than he should have but he did not want to lose the scent leading him. He covered a good distance until his eyes caught the glint of a fire ahead, maybe fifty yards.

Through the brush and foliage, he saw half a dozen men sitting on the ground near a small fire. A seventh stood off at a distance holding what appeared to be a rifle. No doubt, they were being cautious after hearing from Ackerman's partner.

Matt found a spot where he could see easily into the camp through the trees. The pines stood in orderly lines similar to a cornfield. This was no wild forest cast haphazardly about by the whims of Mother Nature. It was a tree farm with crops planted in rows and standing a hundred feet tall waiting for harvest.

He strained his eyes trying to see faces, looking for the man that had been with Ackerman at the cemetery but the distance was too far. Bottom line, there were seven men and one was showing a weapon. How would he deal with stacked odds of seven to one? He definitely needed his friend's help but it would take hours for him to arrive. By then this would all be over and everyone would be back in town looking for him.

Matt took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He needed to get closer and find out whom they were. He could not go rushing in like a fool thinking there was only one-man armed. It would be suicide.

He stepped from behind the tree he had used to hide behind, not that a tree with a ten-inch diameter base offered much stealth for a man his size. He eased forward toward the fire until his boot landed atop an unseen deadfall limb and a loud, angry snap shot through the night air. You stupid... his mind screamed.

He froze hoping their eyes were fire blind so they could not see this far back from the flames. He did not want to break and run because that would give away his position to even the greenest city slicker among them. All he could do was stand and watch, expecting a gunshot in his direction any second, but nothing happened. The men remained seated around the fire doing much of what they had been doing when he got there, waiting. Then he noticed the man who had been standing further back holding a rifle, was now gone from sight.

Matt was now the hunted. He began taking slow easy steps backwards, keeping his eyes mainly on the men around the fire but risking short glancing sweeps elsewhere, looking for the missing rifleman. When he was far enough back, he turned around and backtracked. He made it a dozen yards before a voice very close by said, The boss was right. He knew you might show up here. I have been waiting for almost two hours, Veal.

With no further words, something slammed Matt in the face. All he saw was a blinding bolt of whitish light and then he felt searing hot pain. He dropped hard and fast to the soft pine needle ground. His last thought was wondering how could he be been so careless, so stupid.

*****

A gruff looking man leaned in toward the flames of the small fire, holding his hands palm outward as though to warm them. They really did not need it. It was more fireside habit than chill even though the early morning summers in Georgia could make a body feel cold sometimes. It was a trick of the dew and humidity in the air, a wet feeling against the skin and not the temperature.

One of the other men sitting around the fire noticed the boss’s seeming discomfort and rose to his knees, grabbed a couple of limbs from a small pile set aside for the occasion, and tossed them into the yellowish flames. Hundreds of reddish sparks exploded into the night air from the disturbance, rising and winking their way upward along with the smoke, into the lower tree branches.

After watching the show of sparks, the boss said, Any one of those could set this tinderbox on fire so keep your eyes open. Don't add anymore wood either. It will be dawn soon so let the fire die out.

He then rose to his feet and brushed at the straw stuck to his knees and backside. I’m going to check to see if any deer have wandered out on the air strip. That plane should be here soon.

Nodding at a pair of the men still seated on the ground he added, "Keep a close eye on our guest over there by the tree. If what Mike Shavers told the boss is true then he's not a man to mess around with.

A wiry little guy among the group asked, You think Veal killed Bobby with an axe even while Bobby had a gun in his face?

That guy, the boss said carefully, Is Matt Veal and our associates in Atlanta have wanted him gone for a long time. They told me he has been poking his nose in all the wrong places lately so we are going to deal with him.

The boss turned to walk away and reiterated, Don't take your eyes off of him for a second. After we unload the plane we will nail his hide to a tree.

The boss walked the few dozen yards out of the woods and into the open area of the strip. In the hazy darkness before him was a bulldozer-hewn runway. He checked his lighted wristwatch and then glanced toward the eastern sky. The horizon was breaking into light shades of white and soft pink. His vision, now more accustomed to the darkness away from the fire, scanned the half-mile open area before him trying to spot any shadows moving that would indicate a deer herd had wandered onto the landing area. Deer were small compared to a large aircraft but a half dozen of the 100 plus pound creatures could cause serious damage to the landing gears and props of a huge cargo carrier.

The boss stood watching, waiting and listening as the eastern sky slowly turned lighter and brighter. The landing area, surrounded by trees on all sides, grew more distinct coming out of the night's last shadows.

Checking his watch again, he turned back towards the woods and shouted, Ed? You and Lenny put Veal into the back of my truck and bring him along. The rest of you put that fire out, then get out there in the field and light up the oil pots.

It took the men a short while to get the oil burning lanterns going along the perimeter of the strip. One by one, they wandered back to the edge of the woods where the boss waited and then stood helping him scan the horizon.

Soon enough an aircraft appeared over the most distant tree line followed by the sounds of low grumbling engines. It was a C-130, an airplane easy to distinguish against the yellowish backdrop of the coming sunrise.

Known in military circles as the Lockheed Hercules or Hercky Bird, it was a 1950's designed workhorse with four turboprop engines and a 60 year (and counting) history of dependability. This particular one was retired service vet purchased on the illegal arms markets of the world and put to use by the Central American drug cartels. It was the perfect vehicle for cargo, legal or otherwise, traveling over the Gulf of Mexico and South Atlantic Ocean. The bird could fly long, nonstop runs that began and ended from short runways in hidden jungles or Georgia pine groves.

One man pointed at the plane and said, There she is, coming in low.

The men watched the machine grow larger and then rumble slowly past overhead. Then it banked away performing an air ballet of sorts. The boss removed a hand held radio from his belt. This is Thunder Chicken. Do you read me Blackbird?

Yea I got you. Are we good to go?

Good to go. Can you see the fire pots okay?

Roger, I got them. I hope you got a bowl of oatmeal down there. We don't do grits.

Got a couple of stale pop tarts you can have. We're clear.

The aircraft climbed then turned sharply to the right and disappeared behind the tree line. When it next appeared, the wheels were down and seemed to be dragging through the treetops they were so low. Once over the edge of the clearing, the aircraft dropped like a rock but just before it seemed to be crashing, it pulled sharply upward and looked like a landing duck flaring its wings. The stall brought it to almost a standstill and then gravity set the machine down on the