Archangel of Sedona (17 page)

“Fleet has an ATV. We’ll take logging roads along the rim and then rappel down a cliff near the tank,” I explained, deadpan.

“You’re way crazier than you look.”

“Fleet claims that it’ll save us sixteen hours of arduous hiking. He’ll bring food, water, medical supplies, SATCOM, the climbing equipment, and a chaplain.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? A chaplain?” Eddie asked.

“Remember the Irish priest I told you about?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s accompanying us on our little adventure.”

“Who invited him?”

“Hansen.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, but this is too coincidental to be coincidental,” I said.

“I don’t like this at all,” Eddie said.

“Me either. Look, Eddie, you’ve been a real pal the last two days. You don’t have to go on this fool’s errand.”

“Yes, I do. I saw the lights too. I like to fuck with you, Tony, but I need to figure out this contact thing. We’re supposed to do this together. I know it. You’re not going alone. I told you, I’ve got your back. You’ve got mine.”

“Eddie, I’ve seen your shadow box with your medals for valor. I couldn’t ask for a more courageous friend. I’ll be honest—I’m a little worried about this little jaunt.”

“Me, too. But other than the risk to my immortal soul, I’ve seen lots worse.”

“I’ll bet you have.”

“I was at Hamburger Hill.” Eddie said.

“Is that where you got the Silver Star?”

“Yeah, along with a Purple Heart. I still don’t know how I survived.”

“Want to tell me about it?” I asked.

“No. I don’t.”

“Who were you with?”

“Delta Company, Third Battalion, 187
^th
Airborne Infantry.”

“Jesus, Eddie, I had no idea.”

Hamburger Hill was the derisive name that the media gave to the American 11-day effort to assault, capture, and secure Hill 937—also known as Ap Bia Mountain—in the remote A Shau Valley near the Laotian Border in May 1969. Although the order of battle was complex and several units took part, the Third Battalion of the 187
^th
Airborne Infantry served as the spear point in the bloody fight. They took horrendous casualties.

Delta Company lost every one of its commissioned officers and most of its sergeants. Although the battalion experienced over 60 percent casualties, LTC Honeycutt kept them in the battle until the end. Survivors in Eddie’s unit would have been among the first to capture the summit. The courage, tenacity, and fighting spirit of those Screaming Eagles are legendary.

I left Vietnam in April of 1969. While Eddie was fighting for his life on that distant hill in the forsaken A Shau Valley, I was drinking beer at the NCO Club at Camp Zama in Tokyo. I realized that I was in the presence of a real hero. I thought of the famous quote from Shakespeare’s Henry V:

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

“Eddie, I know that you were prior enlisted. Did you have your commission at Hamburger Hill?”

“No, I was a staff sergeant. I got my buck sergeant stripes in Shake and Bake school at Benning in 1968. I got promoted to staff sergeant in March 1969. I went to OCS in 1972, after I got my degree from UW, while I was stationed at Fort Lewis.”

“Eddie, I saw some shit in Vietnam, but I never experienced anything like you have.”

“Not too many have, thank God.” Eddie said.

“You still think of those events?” I asked.

“Every day.”

“Are you OK with it?” I asked.

“Yeah, more or less. I do feel guilty, though. I often ask why I made it through when hundreds of other good men didn’t.”

“Eddie, for many years I’ve believed that I’ve been spared because I’m supposed to do something that advances the Grand Plan. I’ve had too many close calls in and out of the Army for my good fortune to be mere serendipity. I simply don’t know what my role is supposed to be.”

“Funny you say that, Tony.”

“Why?”

“Though I do feel guilty, I also think that everything happens for a reason, like the Hindu concept of karma. After Mary died, I thought a lot about suicide, but I rejected it because I have a sense that I’m supposed to do something more.”

“Though I’m worried, I am excited about our trek tomorrow,” I said.

“Me too.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence that we linked up, Colonel,” I said.

“I agree.”

“Well, my gear is packed and ready. I don’t have much to prepare.”

“You’re carrying, right?” Eddie asked.

“Yeah, I’ve got a Glock 23, a couple of extra magazines, and Gretchen’s .38. I wouldn’t have humped all that hardware on a long slog, but if most of this trip is in an ATV, it’ll be a piece of cake.”

“We’ll need more firepower than a couple of handguns,” Eddie said.

“Why?” I asked.

Eddie gave me look that made me feel like the dumbest recruit in basic training. He smiled and shook his head.

“I suppose your momma knows that you’re away from home?”

“Don’t start that momma shit, Colonel Grimes!”

“Tony, there’s lots of reasons to be careful out in the Arizona countryside. In addition to evil beings from other dimensions and their vicious followers, there are rattlesnakes, pumas, bears, javelinas, wolves, coyotes—animal and human—human smugglers, drug smugglers, and the unexpected. It’s been a few years, but for a time Phoenix was the kidnapping capital of the USA. Remember, the last time anyone tried to find the answer to this riddle, that guy disappeared. This is Arizona. We have open carry. Strangers will be armed. Do you want to do this with handguns?”

“No, but TSA wouldn’t let US Airways transport my howitzer.”

“Come with me and we’ll work on the firepower issue,” Eddie directed.

I followed Eddie into his bedroom. He disappeared into a walk-in closet. While I waited, I noticed a picture on his dresser, depicting a gorgeous woman. I understood where Yvette had gotten her good looks. This was the first picture of Eddie’s wife that I’d seen in the house. I could understand his suicidal depression. His loss was so enormous.

While I admired the photo, I could hear the tell-tell sounds of a tumbler spinning and a big iron door opening. Two minutes later, Eddie came back into the room with an armful of long weapons. He set them down on the bed for me to examine. Eddie was a collector. He had a pre-ban Russian AK-47, an M4, a rifle that looked like a sporterized M-14, and a semi-automatic 12-gauge shotgun.

“What’s your poison?” Eddie asked.

“What’s the threat?” I asked.

“Let’s see. None of this will be worth a shit if demonic angels with superior intellect and technology attack. I’m thinking that we need to defend against the humans who venerate the evil beings. These would be the people who want to sabotage our little inquiry.”

“I think a platoon from the 503
^rd
Infantry might be adequate,” I joked.

“Maybe, but there’s just us on this trek. I’ll take the M-14. It’s a Paratrooper model. It’s got excellent ballistics, thirty-round mags, a folding stock, a short match-grade barrel, and a red dot sight. It’s fully automatic. It would be good in a short or medium distance fight. If I had to, I could reach out and touch someone at two-fifty to three-hundred yards.”

“You got an ATF license for that automatic weapon, Colonel?” I asked, the Federal prosecutor speaking.

“Of course. I paid the tax. It’s legal for me to carry. All of these are fully automatic,” Eddie said, gesturing to the rifles. “What do you want to carry?”

“Is that an FNH SLP twelve-gauge?” I asked. I had serious gun envy. The Fabrique Nationale Herstal Self-Loading Police shotgun was rumored to be the best in the world.

“Yes, it is. You ever fire one?”

“Yeah, at our range in Hillsborough County. Our deputies use Bennellis. But the FN representative lent our range some pistols and shotguns. The FNH SLP is the most effective semi-automatic shotgun that I’ve ever fired. Six plus one, right?”

“I modified it. I elongated the tube and use a special two-and-three-quarter-inch shell. So it’s seven plus one, if you chamber the triple-ought buck shells that I loaded myself.”

Triple-ought buckshot shells contain six to eight pellets in .36 caliber. Firing one shell is like shooting all the rounds in a .38 revolver at the same instant, but more deadly.

“You loaded these yourself?”

“Yes, I did,” Eddie said.

“Lead or steel buckshot?”

“Neither.”

“C’mon Eddie.”

“Each shell has eight thirty-six caliber tungsten pellets.”

“No fucking way.”

“Way.”

“Why’d you get the tungsten molded into buckshot?”

“Cause nobody would sell me depleted uranium.”

“You’re a mad man,” I said.

“Why don’t you take the M4? It’s like an M16. It’s something you’re familiar with,” Eddie said, taunting me.

“No, you fucker. Normally, I’d pick the AK, but I want the FN.”

“Maybe I could find you a twenty-two? If a twenty-two caliber is too much weapon, I have a pellet gun for varmints,” Eddie said, as he started to laugh.

“No, I want the FN. Eddie, I haven’t gone armed into Harm’s Way since I went on a raid in Tampa with our Swat Team in 2007.”

“Desert Storm for me,” Eddie admitted.

“I’m nervous, but I’m looking forward to this,” I confessed, surprising myself.

“Me too,” Eddie said. “We’ll do something dangerous, exhilarating, and—by the way—we might solve a great mystery. Not bad for a couple of old farts.”

“Why, Colonel Grimes, you’re a classic romantic.”

“That’s what Jesuit training will do for you,” Eddie said.

“You? Where?” I asked knowing from the diploma in his study that he’d graduated from the University of Washington in Seattle.

“Gonzaga Prep in Spokane.”

“You went to G Prep?”

“Yeah, AMDG, brother.

“
Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam
,” I responded.

Like I said, there is no serendipity.

Wednesday morning, Fleet arrived five minutes early. Eddie and I waited in the driveway. I hadn’t slept much; neither had Eddie. I felt stimulated and anxious.

Fleet got out to shake our hands and to help stow the gear in the back of the SUV. Fleet was at least six foot one and weighed around 190. He had short black hair. His bearing, attitude, and everything about him screamed ex-police officer.

Eddie got in the front. I sat in the back. Ever since my days as the Chief of the Organized Crime Section, I hate to ride on the passenger side of the front seat. That’s a favorite spot for capping your gangster buddy in the back of the head.

Less than five minutes after we left Eddie’s, we pulled into the parking lot of St. John Vianney’s. Father Pat was waiting. He’d dressed in hiking shorts and a long-sleeved top. He looked every inch the European tourist.

“Father Pat, what brings you out at this hour?” I asked after we got settled and I’d made the introductions.

“I want to see the petroglyphs for myself. This business about the Christus disturbs me.”

“What’s a Crispus?” Fleet asked.

“Christus …” Father Pat corrected.

Before Fleet could ask more questions, Eddie gave him the abridged version of this story. When Eddie stopped, we were half way up Oak Creek Canyon.

“This whole trip is about gathering evidence to support the presence of inter-dimensional beings?” Fleet asked.

“Yes, in a way,” Father Pat said.

“Look, gentlemen. Sedona attracts a lot of sketchy people. No offense to present company. I know there’s a ton of unexplained phenomena up here, but inter-dimensional beings? C’mon,” Fleet said.

“What about the missing Christus?” Eddie argued.

“Now that I know what you’re talking about, it’s not much of a mystery. The old broad who built the chapel tore the figure down. Several years ago, I worked on a missing person’s case where a guy got all wound up about that.”

“You were a detective on the Dan Ostergaard case?” I asked.

“Why, yes. That’s the one. How do you know that?”

“Tony went to high school and college with Ostergaard,” Father Pat said.

Fleet reacted by slowing the truck down and pulling into an overlook along Oak Creek Canyon. He stopped, set the brake, and turned around to look back at me.

“You knew Ostergaard?”

“Sure did.”

“My investigation revealed that he believed that he had an encounter with aliens at the chapel in the sixties. He and a friend were there together. No one could or would tell me who that friend might be,” Fleet said, as he looked me up and down. “The wife wasn’t too cooperative. We never learned who the other guy was or what happened to Ostergaard. I have my suspicions.”

“It was September 2
^nd
, 1966. I was there with him when we saw the lights. What do you think happened to Dan?” I asked, avoiding any reference to my conversation with Claire Ostergaard or her warning.

“I don’t think that aliens abducted him, Colonel. He was a well-known accountant who did the auditing for a couple of questionable financial investment schemes in Phoenix. Those fuckers had connections to organized crime. When their Ponzi folded, they cost their investors more than a billion. Hundreds of millions are still missing. I shouldn’t be telling you guys this ’cause the case is still open, but I’m convinced that Ostergaard staged his disappearance to avoid the repercussions. His wife knows more than she’s telling.”

“Ostergaard would leave his wife and disappear?” Father Pat asked.

“Fuckin’ A!” Fleet said before he could stop himself. “Sorry, Father. But yeah. We had a joint investigation with Arapaio’s detectives down in Phoenix and the FBI. Ostergaard was up to his neck in the fraud. He was a smart cookie. He got out ahead of the collapse. I think that he squirreled away at least twenty-five million. That kind of money can buy you a new identity, anonymity, and a much more compliant wife.”

“If that were true, why would she cover for him?” I asked.

“She lives well in a ritzy part of Scottsdale. He paid her off.”

“Police work made you cynical, didn’t it?” Father Pat said.