Letters from the Grave
By
Frank Perry, author
Hampton Falls, New Hampshire
[email protected] Synopsis
A tragic murder of a young forest ranger in the swamps of Louisiana brings her sister from Maine south, looking for answers. It isn’t easy. Between the FBI and local law enforcement, nobody seems to be serious about looking for the killer. A local deputy sheriff is intrigued by the northern girl, but he can’t do much to help when the federals tell the locals to stand down. Her safety then becomes his concern. He wants to help, but must be careful to avoid any official conflict. He wants to protect her, and maybe he wants more from her. Together, they follow some clues and then become attracted to each other in the process. It can’t work. They come from different cultures and backgrounds. They both have histories and obligations that make further connection unlikely. They have conflicting responsibilities that may not be possible to overcome. There doesn't seem to be any clear future for them.
Copyright © 2016 by Frank Perry
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email to:
[email protected].
___________________________________________
Acknowledgements
The author would like to acknowledge the contributions made to this book by Sandy Blair, my valued author friend and advisor, Richard Cesario and Beverly Heinle, who provided invaluable proofreading “red marks;” and Ken Starr, LTC, USA (ret.) provided valuable Army insight. My wife Janet Perry tolerantly read the early drafts, preventing too much embarrassment.
___________________________________________
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, world organizations, government agencies, regulations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The author professes no medical training related to the subject matter.
___________________________________________
Other books by Frank:
Recall to Arms
The Cobra Identity
Reign of Terror
Letters From the Grave
Kingfish
Sibley’s Secret
The Dolos Conspiracy
Prologue
Working on offshore oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico is a dangerous job, but traveling to and from the rigs by helicopter is, by far, the most dangerous aspect. Accidents happen almost every day. Most are minor but too often – they’re catastrophic for all aboard.
Oil platforms are often hundreds of miles from the coast, and helicopters transport workers to and from the mainland daily. The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigates numerous offshore helicopter crashes in the Gulf every year. Regrettably, most of the aircraft are lost and everyone is killed, so there is little evidence to pinpoint the causes. The usual conclusion of these investigations is “Pilot Error,” although weather conditions are virtually always cited as a contributing factor. Pilot error is by far the leading cause cited for helicopter crashes in the Gulf oil industry, regardless of the actual cause.
There are more than three thousand oil platforms, operating in the Gulf of Mexico with thousands of workers flying back and forth twice per month. Bad weather and unpredictable wind conditions make flying over the water particularly hazardous. There is almost never a place to land during emergencies. When a helicopter gets into trouble over water, it is usually lost and never recovered. The sea and sharks consume all evidence. The brave pilots that fly every day, often on the fringes of hurricanes or other bad weather, are chancing fate daily. Supplying oil from the Gulf is dangerous business.
The Nightmare
The dream penetrated his resistance as it always did. Jake rolled with the damp sheet sticking to his body before a spasm sent him onto the floor, clearing the nightstand of its table lamp and alarm clock radio. He pushed himself to a semi-sitting position, allowing the demons to escape again into the clouds of fading memories. His head was bleeding from the fall and hurt from the copious amount of bourbon he’d downed, alone, before collapsing in bed. He tried to reassemble his nightstand, climbing back under the covers, hoping to get at least another hour’s sleep before dawn.
This scene had replayed itself off and on for three decades since the jungles of South America. It was a psychological reconstruction of the same tragedy, over and over again. He’d been shot down twice on counter-drug missions in the Mountains of Columbia and Honduras as a young Army Warrant Officer, but the nightmare evolved from a single mission. It wasn’t the most horrific experience of his combat tours, but through his own bravado he’d lost his best friend, the only friend he’d allowed close to him in the Army.
Jake had gone to junior college after high school before enlisting in the Army Warrant Officer program and was two years older than Bobby Lowe. Bobby had enlisted immediately after high school. Both boys wanted to be pilots, and the Army gave them the opportunity to do so without graduating from a four-year college as the other services required. Their visceral search for adventure, plus an effective advertising campaign by the Army, induced them to choose a program that ultimately trained forty thousand young people in the field of helicopter air assault – the modern cavalry. After flight training at Ft. Wolters, Texas, then Ft. Rucker, Alabama, Jake had preceded Bobby to U.S. Army South Command by six weeks, making him the senior pilot.
They were assigned to Joint Task Force Bravo (JTF-B) headquartered at Soto Cano Air Base, Honduras, where they shared quarters in a tent with meshed walls, canvas top and a wood floor. Everything was crude at the camp, and, when they weren’t flying, most of the company worked fortifying the perimeter and digging new latrines. The tropical heat was more severe than anyone had experienced in the states, and there was no air conditioning at the base camp. Humidity levels were so extreme that perspiration flowed continuously. It was impossible to dry off even after showering. The only time they got a break from the oppressive heat was flying at altitude.
Jake didn’t know Bobby before Honduras. The cot Bobby got as the “new guy” had belonged to another pilot who had been killed in action, KIA, supporting operations against drug smugglers. As new guys, they shared a common bond from the beginning. Two weeks after Bobby arrived, Jake became Pilot in Command of his own helicopter when more senior pilots completed their tours. His promotion came after recommendations to the company commander by pilots who flew with Jake as their copilot. Jake turned twenty-two during the first month in country, which was about median age for the men in the camp. Bobby was twenty.
A couple months after becoming a Command Pilot, Jake was flying a Black Hawk MH-60L gunship in the mountains of central Columbia when his ship began taking ground fire. Too low to roll out, he pulled the collective control up hard and twisted the throttle to full power, trying to maneuver away from the enemy. He could hear the gunners, firing the M60 machine guns as he pushed hard left on the cyclic, banking just over the trees when the windshield and instruments exploded in front of him. His copilot was dead with half his face blown away, and a gunner was hit in both legs when machine gun bullets ripped a seam through the belly of the chopper.
He radioed for help from the other gunships, which were already firing on the enemy, but it was too late to
save his crew. The gunner died en route as Jake raced at top speed back to base. He had flown ten combat missions in six weeks, and these were his first casualties. He radioed ahead that he was declaring a medical emergency, but there was nothing that could be done for the dead soldiers.
After minor medical attention and debriefing with the company CO, Jake learned that Bobby would be flying copilot with him before getting his own ship. Depressed and unnerved, Jake leaned on Bobby heavily for rationalization and moral support, something he had never expected to do.
Over the next weeks, sharing numerous engagements, the men became emotionally attached. The strain was too great to carry alone. Both learned to cry and laugh together, forming a sibling kinship that would bond them forever.
Bobby was ready to transition to his own Blackhawk when they went on their last mission together. It was a night operation into a jungle near the Columbian border to extract a military unit that had been ambushed. En route, Bobby handled radio communications while they flew at three thousand feet to avoid ground fire. They saw llamas, migrating in the moonlight, providing unexpected entertainment to an otherwise dangerous mission. Tension was high, heading into a firefight at night in rough terrain, so lessen the strain, they discussed