Authors: Dana Stabenow
In those topographical entrails could be read the history of the planet.
"It's like watching the earth being born," Kate said softly. "I've never seen anything like it."
Jack looked as satisfied as if he'd arranged for the Aleutians to be where they were, the day to be as clear as it was and for the Avilda to break down just when it did, all to get Kate in the air at this place, at this time, in his company. For the next two hours they forgot they were on their way to the scene of the mysterious disappearance of two ship's crewmen, and played at sight-seeing and rubber-necking in the best tradition of the American tourist. They flew low over a brief stretch of sand littered with the green glass balls Japanese fishermen use for net floats. They annoyed a herd of walrus sunbathing on another beach, until a bull in the crowd, a magnificent old beast with tusks two feet long, reared up and roared at them, daring them to come on down. Off the shore of still another island they found a stand of sea stacks, weird towers of rock sculpted by sand and wind and engulfed in flocks of gulls and cormorants, and as they banked for another look, Kate saw three bald eagles take wing. Hot springs steamed up from cupped valleys, the tall Aleutian rye grass clustering thick and still green around them.
Kate had a nagging feeling something was wrong, and took a moment to identify it. "No trees!"
"What?"
"There aren't any trees !
Jack looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. "Even I know there aren't any trees in the Aleutians, Kate. And even I know why. The wind blows too hard."
"I know, I know, I just-I'd forgotten."
"There are trees in Unalaska, though." He nodded at her look of incredulity. "But they were brought there.
I was talking to a guy yesterday. There's a stand of firs, planted by the Russians almost two hundred years ago. And it appears they are just now beginning to reproduce."
He looked at her, waiting, and she said approvingly,
"Very good, Jack. Where'd you stumble across all this local color?"
"Wasn't a hell of a lot to do in Dutch Harbor, waiting for your boat to come in. I'd been sleeping in the back"he jerked a thumb toward the back of the plane-"and she was parked off to one side of the strip, and you know how people who work around planes are. I shot the breeze with whoever felt like talking. Interesting place. Dutch, not the airstrip."
"I haven't had a chance to sightsee myself, yet. Maybe next time in, if we have any time on shore."
"With any luck, we'll find out what happened to those two yo-yos and you won't have to go out again." He peered through the windshield, squinting against the sun, and consulted a map unfolded on his lap. "That should be Anua, dead ahead."
Kate craned her neck for her first look at the little island. It had two mountains, one three thousand feet high and smoking, the other half its height and serene beneath a layer of snow. Between the two lay a valley, its surface barely above sea level, narrow and as flat as an ironing board. "I can see why they put a base here during the war," Kate observed.
"It's a natural site," Jack agreed, "and the island is right on the air route between Dutch and Adak. Good place for an emergency landing. Look, over there, south side of the island, west side of the beach. Yeah. That's where Gault says the two guys went ashore." He put the plane into a steep dive and they flew up and then down the long, curving beach.
"There's the strip," Kate said, pointing inland.
"So it is, and it looks in fair shape, too." All the same, Jack flew down the runway three times, gear five feet off the deck, checking for rocks and bumps and holes. When he was satisfied he circled again, lowered the flaps and sideslipped down to a perfect three-point landing.
Kate hid a smile and said mildly, "Show-off." If possible, Jack's expression became even more smug, and she added, "Too bad you can't do that at Merrill Field in Anchorage."
He laughed. "Too many people there. I can only do it right when nobody's watching." He cut the engine and in the sudden silence added, "This strip's in good shape.
Not much snow, but what there is, is packed down. No big ruts, either. Curious. For an abandoned strip."
"Maybe hunters use it."
He shook his head. "Fishermen, maybe. Island's too small to support anything worth packing out."
The Cessna had rolled out to a stop twenty feet from a tumbledown assortment of shacks, most of them minus their roof and some missing a wall or two. Kicking through the debris, they found nothing of interest beyond a tattered, water-soaked cover of Life magazine featuring Betty Grable's legs, and a half-buried metal tank with a pump handle mounted on the outside. Jack tried the pump and to their surprise it worked smoothly. A few cranks and fluid gushed out of the spout, to melt and puddle in the snow on the ground. The smell of gasoline struck sharply at their nostrils.
"Av gas," Jack said.
"How do you know?"
"It's green," he said, pointing to the puddle beneath the spout. "Aviation gas is green. Plain old gas gas, like you put in your car, is clear."
"Oh. Right." Kate stared at the widening puddle, her eyebrows drawing together.
"Besides," Jack was saying, "what else kind of gas would you expect to find right next to an airstrip? I wonder how long it's been sitting here? Twenty, thirty years, you think? Might have been here since the war." Catching sight of her puzzled expression, he said, "What?"
"I don't know," she said slowly, still staring at the puddle of green gas. "There's something about av gas I remember from when I was a kid, but. . ." She shook her head and smiled at him. "At two o'clock this morning I'll probably sit bolt upright in bed and shout it out."
"Not if you're in the sack with me, you won't," he told her.
"Whatever you say." She grinned at him. "Come on.
Let's walk down to the beach."
It was Jack who found it, or rather fell through the roof of it. He'd been wandering behind her, through the tall rye grass poking up through the thin layer of crusted snow, enjoying the sun and the salt breeze and the sound of the surf, when the previously solid ground beneath his feet gave way and suddenly he was sliding through the turf and into an empty space beneath.
"Hey," he said. The turf engulfed his legs and started up his butt to nibble at his waist and he raised his voice.
"Hey? Hey! Hey, Kate! Kate! Help! Help!"
He kicked out with his legs, trying to find purchase, something to brace himself against, and immediately slid in up to his chest. His hands scrabbled around and grasped at the grass, anything to keep him from sliding even farther into what his naturally strong sense of optimism assured him was probably a bubbling pit of volcanic lava. If it came to that, he suffered from a lifelong case of acrophobia, and would have preferred a pit of lava to an empty, endless abyss.
Kate's head appeared, ending this morbid speculation, and peered down at him through the rye grass with interest.
"What seems to be the problem?"
"What the hell does it took like, I'm falling into the center of the earth here! Get me out!"
She looked at him, pursing her lips, displaying less concern than he considered the situation warranted. "I wonder-" Abruptly, her head vanished again from sight.
He panicked, just a little, no more than he considered absolutely necessary. "Wait! Where the hell you going?
Kate!"
"Relax," he heard her say. He waited, unrelaxed, sweating beneath his jacket and clutching at some very insubstantial stalks of grass. An overactive imagination conjured up a chasm beneath his dangling legs, a bottomless chasm into which he would fall and keep falling something grabbed hold of his right foot and gave a vigorous tug. "Hey!" he yelled.
"Relax," Kate said again, laughter in her voice, which seemed now to be coming from beneath him. "It's only me. The floor's about two feet beneath you. Let go and slide on down."
He hesitated. "Are you sure?"
"Would I lie to you?"
Her voice sounded entirely too innocent to suit him, but he trusted her enough to let go of the grass, one stalk at a time. Nothing happened. He raised his arms and wriggled a little. His shoulders caught in the hole for a moment, before the edges of the hole disintegrated and he slipped through in a rain of soil and grass.
Almost at once his feet hit solid ground. Staggering, he caught his balance and found himself in a small room, square, twelve feet on a side. The walls had been dug into the surface of the island and, looking up, through the dim light coming through the hole he'd made he could see that the builders had roofed the room over in turf and let the grass do the rest.
"People have been here," Kate said positively, standing next to him.
"Well, of course people have been here, Kate, even I can tell that this is a man-made structure."
"No, I mean recently," she told him. He followed her pointing finger and saw a half-dozen cases of Van Camp's Pork and Beans stacked next to a virtual tower of Costco's twenty-four-roll packages of Scot tissue Premium two-ply Bathroom Tissue.
He walked over to take a closer look. "All the essentials of life." He raised his head and stared around. "The Coasties never said anything about this place. I don't remember reading about it in any of the reports on the search missions. They must have missed it completely."
I don't know how," Kate said, "all you have to do is fall through the roof."
Jack ignored her. "Alcala and Brown must have missed it, too. Too bad. They could have holed up here for days."
One of the boxes was open, and grinning a little, he pulled out a can and held it up. "Dinner might have gotten a little monotonous, but hell." The can slipped and he almost dropped it. Something cool and gooey ran over his fingers. "What the hell?"
Even with the new skylight in the roof there wasn't enough light in the little room to see what he was talking about. "What's wrong?" she said, peering into the dim comer in which he was standing.
A booted foot crunched on sand, and she recoiled when a disembodied hand thrust a can of pork and beans in her face. "Yuk," she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "Somebody leave the rest of his supper behind?"
"I don't think so." Brushing by her, Jack stooped to go through the door. His voice was grim, and Kate followed him outside.
The light confirmed what his fingertips had felt. The can was punctured, a hole the size of a .38 caliber bullet entering under the V in Van and exiting just above the bottom seam.
Jack regarded the hole meditatively. "Think whoever put this stuff here used it for target practice?"
Without answering, Kate ducked back inside the dugout.
Together they hauled out everything inside. As they removed each box, Jack marked it with his omnipresent black Marksalot, and they restacked them outside in the same position they had been in inside. The contents of the perforated cans had spilled out over the cases and dried to a sticky dark brown that looked like old blood.
"Some of it might be old blood," Jack observed. The outward facing surface common to three of the boxes, the three messiest ones, looked crumpled, as if a heavy weight had slammed into them where they were stacked against the dugout's wall.
Jack stood looking at the cardboard boxes, hands in his pockets. "What we got here is two choices," he said at last.
"And they are?"
"Either somebody was really and I mean really tired of pork and beans."
"Or?" Their eyes met. Her mouth compressed into a thin line. "You got a can opener in the plane?"
They opened every case and then every can with a hole in it. They found a dozen such cans and, rattling around in the sixth box they opened, one lone slug. Jack held up the misshapen piece of metal and said, "This could be anything from a .22 to a .357." Nevertheless, he stored it carefully away in a Ziploc bag. Into another Ziploc he scraped some of the dried brown fluid from the front of one of the boxes. He'd brought a flashlight back with the can opener and they examined the floor of the dugout, without result. Jack bagged some samples of the dirt anyway. He made several drawings of the scene, and when he was through they repacked the cans in their cases and loaded them into the back of the Cessna. The toilet paper, which had survived the armed assault relatively unscathed-"Naturally," Jack said, "the slug would have been in a lot better shape if it had impacted the asswipe"-was stacked back where they'd found it.
The little room, dark and dank and smelling of mildew, had begun to close in around Kate and she was glad to leave it. The air outside felt fresh and clean and she pulled it into her lungs in big, cleansing breaths.
The dugout stood on the south slope of a tiny rise that fell away to the beach. Jack stood with his back to the water, looking at the structure, impressed by its air of having grown there. The rye grass grew tall and thick and right up to the walls and over the roof, and even now, in winter, from three, even two steps away, the door was invisible. He could see how the Coasties had missed it. Of course, they hadn't been looking with murder in mind. "Who built this place? And why?"
"You said this island has a natural strategic location,"
Kate reminded him, pulling the door closed, noting as she did that it was made of meticulously assembled planks in which no nail had been placed without careful thought and attention. "You think the Aleuts wouldn't have noticed that, too?"
He was skeptical. "You think there was a village here at one time? You think this place has been here that long?"
"Why not? It's built in the old way. Those dirt walls have been there so long they feel like concrete. Look at this door. Those planks are salvage, and old salvage at that. See? Hand-planed. And these nails? Those weren't mass-produced. Some whaler broke up offshore a hundred years ago and whoever lived here made doors out of the wreck. And that hole you fell through."
"What about it?"
"Before the Russians introduced doors, the Aleuts built these barabaras with the doors in the roof." She looked around. "I bet if we looked, we'd find the ruins of others."
"There are no records of a village on Anua, Kate.