A Novella by Phil Rowe

(Copyright 1998)

Jenny arrived at Boise's Mercy hospital just as Jack was being lifted from the gurney back onto a bed in his room. She carried a copy of the local newspaper and greeted her longtime pal and sometime boyfriend saying, "Well, I see you made the paper, Jack. What in the world were you doing out there at Brandon Lake? You're lucky to be alive."

"Hi Jenny. Good to see you too. Don't I get a kiss or a hug?" Jack responded in a weak voice, smiling at the welcome sight of his vivacious friend. "They tell me that it's just a broken leg. I'll survive. I just got back from X-ray. What do you mean I made the paper? Let me see."

She handed him the folded newspaper, her finger pointing to the front-page story which read:

"Well?" Jenny pressed, as the nurses were getting Jack settled in bed. "What in the heck were you doing up at Brandon Lake?" On leaving, a nurse told Jenny not stay too long.

"You aren't going to believe it, Jenny. It's a long story, but I just have to tell someone. This has been tearing out my guts ever since the avalanche. Everything turned out badly. Close the door and promise to keep this strictly between us. Okay?"

Jenny nodded, as she turned to close the door. A puzzled look on her face seemed also to say, "Now what have you gotten yourself into?"

"The avalanche, bad as it was, isn't the worst part of it, Jenny." Jack motioned for her to move closer and pull up the bedside chair. He grasped her hand, looked deeply into her warm and trusting eyes, and began this unlikely tale.

* * *

Three weeks ago, at the Officers Club on the base, I walked into the bar and there sat Greg. He invited me to join him.

"C'mon over, Jack. Have a beer. We've got some planning to do."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm not sure that sitting here drinking brew all night is going to help," Jack replied. "What in the hell are we going to do? The job market is really tight out there, according to the papers. And neither of us has a marketable skill."

"Don't worry about it, my friend. I'm planning something big, something that'll give us a grub stake for the dark cruel world out there," retorted Greg. "I figure we've still got one last chance to get ahead of the curve. Sit down here, old buddy. Next week is our big chance."

Majors Greg (Hot Shot) Houseman and John (Smilin' Jack) Martin were not the Air Force's best and brightest, not a by a long shot. Fellow officers were not surprised to see their names on the just-posted list of pilots to be RIF'd or involuntarily discharged, identified for the "reduction in force" (RFF). The Defense Department directed all units to cut two percent of their officers, owing to budgetary reductions mandated by Congress. These two quickly made that list, so in 30 days both would become civilians, their military careers over and post-Air Force job prospects not especially good.

Both men were members of the 429th Tactical Fighter Squadron (TFS), an F-4 outfit stationed in southern Idaho. The two often flew together on training missions. A year ago they deployed to Saudi Arabia for a six-month stint as part of U.S. forces threatening Saddam Hussein. That was the trip where they missed their aerial tanker and made an unplanned landing in the Azores. A special tanker flight had to be sent to escort them across the Atlantic, much to the chagrin of the Wing Commander. That was just the crowning blow, for over the years Houseman and Martin had been marginal performers.

Houseman could, on his good days, fly with the best of the pilots in the 429th. He was a natural stick and rudder man with excellent basic skills. He just wouldn't follow or totally ignored standard operating procedures. On annual instrument checks he seldom passed on the first try, yet on the gunnery range he consistently scored near the top. The nickname "Hot Shot" was, on the one hand, a badge of honor in a fighter squadron and on the other a mill stone around his neck in the peacetime military. He just didn't fit the mold.

Greg was originally from Cleveland, Ohio. Raised as a city boy, he learned to be street-wise early on. He completed his high schooling in the Dayton area, following his father's move to an oil dealer's job at the Vandalia airport. Greg worked weekends and summers as a line boy, fueling small planes and performing odd jobs. He earned his Private Pilot’s License before going off to college. His artistic talents led him to complete a degree in arts and humanities at Cincinnati University, but he couldn't get airplanes out of his mind.

Upon graduation and completion of ROTC training, he was fortunate enough to garner a slot in flight school. He did well and was chosen to be a flight instructor in Texas, but his unwillingness to follow the school's guidelines and flight training procedures got him in hot water. Demand for fighter pilots during the Gulf War era saw him transition into F-4 Phantom jets and prepared for duty in Kuwait.

Martin, wholly unlike his carefree pal, was a by-the-book pilot. But he never advanced beyond copilot to become an aircraft commander, because he wasn't aggressive enough in the air. Whether it was a fear of the abrupt maneuvering in combat practice or just not being able to get out in front of the F-4's demanding flight characteristics, he just didn't have what it took to be in charge. Other pilots were quite willing to fly with him, for in a support role he did well, a solid copilot but not a pilot in command type. He just lacked the "Gung Ho" leadership traits that would advance his career. And now he was losing that.

Jack's boyhood home was just 75 miles down the road, east of his current duty station. Born and raised in Twin Falls, Idaho, he eventually went off to Boise State University to earn a degree in general studies.

He was orphaned at age 16 and taken in by his uncle, Richard Lewis, who lived near Challis (Population 1200) in Custer county. He spent many weeks at his uncle's Brandon Lake cabin as a youth and enjoyed the solitude of the high country. That beautiful mountain lake is about a mile and a half long, perhaps half a mile wide, and is nestled in a picture-book setting of snow-capped peaks, ponderosa pines and quaking aspens. He liked being up at the cabin and the lake more than any place in the world. He never had a burning desire to be anything in particular, though aviation interested him more than most things.

Ranching just didn't appeal to him, so he joined the Idaho Air National guard and won a chance to go to pilot training, earning him both his commission and wings. When the Gulf War came along he accepted an opportunity to transfer to active duty in the reserves and F-4 training in Arizona, where he first met and flew with Greg. He wound up in the 429th TFS largely because he preferred an Idaho duty station to the other choice in Florida.

Greg and Jack were often paired up for training flights in the 429th, and frequently sent to special gunnery, bombing and air combat tactics courses in Nevada and Arizona. Though he flew with other pilots many times, the majority of his flying was with Greg since they both completed F-4 school about the same time. Greg loved flying the F-4, but Jack was less enthusiastic because of the airplane's unique and even dangerous flight characteristics. That airplane could kill you if you slipped up and got into the wrong situations. But Jack felt confident flying with Greg and envied his natural abilities.

"What in the world are we going to do?" Martin woefully asked of his friend, mentor and leader. "Next month we'll be out there on the street, pounding the pavement in search of a job. Neither of us has much to offer, you with your A.B. degree in art and me with one in general studies. Nobody wants to hire reject fighter jocks."

"Like I said, old buddy. I have a plan," Greg responded, placing his hand on Martin's shoulder. "We'll have a grub stake and can do what we want .. even if that means doing nothing at all. Not to worry. Do you remember our last trip to Nellis Air Force Base outside Las Vegas? Well, that layover and the time spent in the casinos started me to thinking. Do you know how easy it would be to hold up some of the smaller ones? I mean really easy, and they have lots of cash. Sure, not as much as the big casinos, but not chicken feed either."

Jack couldn't believe his ears. "Are you nuts? What do you mean hold up a casino? I hate to tell you this my friend, but you've flipped."

"I know. It sounds kinda nuts, but think about it for a minute. You and I are about to join the ranks of the unemployed. And neither of us has two nickels to rub together. What are we supposed to do? The airlines are laying off pilots, so there's not much opportunity there, especially for discarded fighter jocks without multi-engine time. You've already pointed out that we're not very marketable. I sure as hell couldn't make it as an artist and I don't know what you think you could do with a degree in general studies. Face it. We've got no prospects and before we know it we're out the door and sharing grocery carts with street people. We've got just one chance to grab the brass ring and grub stake our futures."

"Greg, you've had one beer too many. You aren't thinking straight at all."

"Yes I am, my friend. I'm clear as crystal on this and I know how we can make it work."

"We?? ... where did you get this "we" notion? I'm not about to rob a casino .. or any other place. You got that," Jack retorted in anger.

"Shush ... not so loud," Greg cautioned, leaning closer to Jack. Now just think. Have you figured out how little money we're going to have in our pockets next month, when they give us the boot? Well, I'll tell you. We're going to be shoved out the front gate with our just last month's pay and maybe something for the accumulated leave on the books. That's all, and that won't go very far or last very long."

Jack pondered the facts a few minutes, suddenly realizing that he not only wouldn't have much money to see him through the transition to civilian life, he still had to worry about some hefty debts. He owed on that new car something like $18,000. And he still had alimony payments to make, amounting to $1200 a month. His finances were pretty bleak, he had to admit. "I've got 75 days of leave accumulated," Jack declared. "That ought to amount to more than two month's pay. And as I recall you have about the same on the books."

"Not quite, Jackson ... we only get paid for 60 days and not 75. You know the "use it or lose it" policy. So at most we get three months worth of base pay ... and only the last month's with flight pay. You see? We won't be in "fat city" by any means." Greg too had debts to worry about, also including alimony payments. These two losers were both in a financial pickle and things were about to get worse. "Unless you've got an inheritance coming in, my friend, you're as bad off as I am. So now you see why holding up a casino could be the answer to our problems," Greg explained.

"Yeah, but holding up a casino could land us in jail, pronto. It's just plain dumb, and you think our prospects are poor now?" Jack woefully replied, but more than ever mindful of his poor financial position ... and worse prospects.

"Hear me out. I think I've got a plan, a practically foolproof one," Greg implored. "What if I could show you how we could grab $300,000 or maybe even more? And what if I told you how we could get away in minutes, without getting caught? Heck, we'd be hundreds of miles away before the police or the casino security guys knew what happened."

"Okay, I'll listen, but I must be crazy to even let you tell me."

"Look, the last time we were in Vegas I spent some time observing how several casinos handled their cash cage transfers, you know, the way table dealers and croupiers bring their cash boxes to the cashier's cage every now and then. I saw what must have been a half million in the till, before they got it to the vaults. And some places, like the Highlite Casino, only had one guard in the cash cage area. I saw no cameras or electronic security systems either, and I really checked. Those places are sitting ducks, just asking to be ripped off."

Jack was shocked, shocked that his friend would even think such things. "You cased the casinos? How long have you been working on this scheme? And what makes you so sure they don't have security systems you can't see?"

"Trust me, I checked. I even struck up a conversation with a bar girl, commenting casually how lax security was in the place in general. She's the one who told me that the owner, some old guy, didn't believe in newfangled electronic stuff. His armed guard was security enough. Protection by Smith & Wesson was just fine with him.

I sat there at the bar, right across from the cashier's cage, for hours. I saw all I needed to know and became convinced that the place was ripe for picking. If we time it just right, we can be at the cage door when a dealer brings in his cash tray. They do that every couple hours. Just one armed guard and two unarmed employees are all we have to contend with. We could be in and out of there in a flash. What do ya think?" Greg concluded.

"Like I said, I think you're nuts. And even if you pulled it off, how in the hell are you going to get out of town without getting caught?"

"Ah Hah ... that's the easy part. How about making the getaway in our F-4? Now that'd be a first, wouldn't it?" Greg answered with a broad smile on his face as he downed the last of his beer. "Have another?" he added, shaking his empty glass with his hand extended toward the bartender.

"No, no more for me. What do you mean get away by F-4?"

"Look. Next week we're scheduled to fly down to Nellis for training on the bombing range. That will probably be our last cross-country flight before they discharge us. Hell, it'll probably be our last flight period. It's on the schedule for next Tuesday, so we have this one chance. We'll simply go down there, do our routine training and bring home the bacon. It's that easy."

Jack shook his head, in disbelief that he and Greg were seriously contemplating such a criminal act, and just as surprised that he was becoming fascinated by the idea. "You know that that much money would fill a duffel bag at least, maybe two. Where in the world would we carry it? There's barely room for a toothbrush in the cockpits."

"I thought of that too, my skeptical friend. We will just make sure that our airplane carries a cargo type center line tank." Greg was referring to the modified fuel pod suspended beneath the belly of an F-4. There were a half dozen or so of those special tanks on the flight line. "We'll just make sure that one of those is hung beneath our bird. There's plenty of room in the pod for several duffel bags."

"Yeah .. okay. Suppose we do manage to pull off the heist and make it out to Nellis without getting caught," Jack mused out loud. "And let's say that we get airborne before the cops realize that we're the two guys making off with the loot. Do you think it's smart to bring the money here on the flight line? Suppose a crew chief gets curious about what we're carrying. They could be poking around the cargo pod before we're even out of our cockpits. We'd have some explaining to do if anyone found out what was in the duffel bags."

"Good thinking. Now you're getting with the program, Jack. What if we didn't bring the money back here to the base at all? What if we dropped it off someplace on the way home?"

Jack was getting into the swing of the caper now. His mind was racing with possibilities and options for how to solve the problem. "I know. I know just what we could do. How about if we drop the pod and the money up at my Uncle's cabin on Brandon Lake? This time of year nobody goes up there. It's snowed in and the lake is frozen thick. We could simply make a low pass, sorta like a bombing run, and skip bomb that pod right up in front of the cabin. Then we could go up there and retrieve it later. Yeah .. that's how we could do it."

"Hmmmm, ya know that just might work. Except for one thing." Greg worried.

"What? .. except for what?"

"Well, if we're at normal cruise altitude, say 25,000 feet, on our way to home base, how do we explain that we dropped off coverage of the FAA's radar? We're being tracked all the way, you know."

"That's easy," Jack retorted. "Up there over the mountains there are several radar shadow areas, places where FAA radar is blocked by mountain peaks and they can't see you anyway. If we dropped down for a low level pass to Brandon Lake at just the right place, they'd never be the wiser. Losing us briefly on their radar is normal in places like that. We just have to be sure to turn off the IFF radar beacon while we descend and be sure it's back on again before we level off at cruise altitude after the drop. No problem there."

Greg was amazed at how much Jack was getting into the scheme. He knew that his copilot was a detail man, a better planner than he was. "Okay, old buddy ... how are we going to explain to the C.O. that we lost our cargo pod? That'll be something even the crew chief would notice and report through channels. Not only would they be concerned about losing the pod, but more so about where it might have landed. How do we explain that?"

"Does the word 'malfunction' mean anything to you? That's the way we get around the pod loss." Jack glibly retorted. "We'll simply explain that we ran into clear air turbulence and never even knew that we'd lost the pod. An empty pod is light. That way we could not possibly know where it might have landed. Malfunctions do happen, you know. Just last week two guys lost practice bombs before they got onto the range at Nellis and a system malfunction explained that away."

Jack's more meticulous consideration of the technical and flying details didn't include the imagination needed to think through the robbery itself. He just wasn't disposed to that kind of creative thinking. "So tell me, Greg. How are we actually going to manage the robbery .. or heist, as you call it? We can't simply walk up to the cage and demand the money. The guard is armed, you said."

"Oh, that's not a big problem. We'll be disguised and carry guns of our own, not real guns of course, but realistic toy guns that look like Uzis. The guard and the others won't take any chances that the guns aren't real. We'll simply order the guard and the cashier to open the cage. Then we'll fill the duffel bags and be out of there in seconds, taking only the 100's and 50's. We'll have to tie up the two, and perhaps a dealer, but it'll be a clean process. Nobody gets hurt."

"Disguise? What kind of disguise? And how do we walk around the casino without being recognized or identifiable?"

"Simplicity is the greatest form of elegance, my friend," Greg explained. "We'll walk into the casino in our uniforms, carrying the duffel bags. We'll register under false names for the night. Then we'll wander around the casino kinda like tourists and wait for the right moment. We could play a few slots and even twirl our room keys out in plain view. The staff and everybody will think we're simply registered guests, out-of-towners.

Then, at the right moment we'll head for the men's room, put on coveralls over our uniforms and don rubber gloves. We'll also use Halloween masks. The toy guns will be in the bags too. All of this stuff will be in our duffel bags. And before they know what hit them we will have the money, discard the costumes and simply walk out the door as two GI's. They'll never be the wiser."

"Sounds possible, I guess," Jack tentatively agreed. "But how are we going to get out to Nellis from the casino? You don't plan on hailing a cab, do you? There’s never one around when you need it, you know."

"No, no. We'll simply use a GI vehicle from the Nellis motor pool. Our temporary duty orders authorize us to check out a car. What could be better than driving away from the casino in a government vehicle? Nobody would suspect that to carry casino robbers."

Chapter 2

Jenny sat there, listening to Jack tell the story of the two Air Force pilots, her two friends turned into criminals. She couldn't believe her ears. "I thought I knew you better than this, Jack", Jenny implored in amazement. "You mean this actually happened? You and Greg?"

Jack nodded, sheepishly. "Yup. I can't believe it myself as I look back on what's happened. But it gets worse." He wiggled in the bed, wincing slightly at the pain in his leg.

"Worse?" her voice now raised to almost a shout. "It gets worse? Jack Martin. I can't believe that you're telling me such a story. Worse? How?"

Jack continued telling Jenny the whole sordid story. She listened intently and often shook her head in amazement and disbelief. Well, not total disbelief, for she could imagine Greg Houseman getting involved in something like this. She just found it hard to accept that Jack was a part of it too.

Jack went on, "Before we left for the Nellis trip, both of us applied for a week of furlough to be effective on our return. Since we would lose it if we didn't take it, we had no trouble getting the C.O. to approve. As soon as we returned from leave, we would start the out-processing routine to be discharged under the RIF.

In the duffel bags we had our coveralls, rubber masks and gloves, plus two realistic toy guns. Our trip was scheduled for two days. We'd fly down on Tuesday, let the armament folks up load the practice bombs that afternoon, to be ready for a predawn flight the next morning onto the bombing range. We'd be free all Wednesday afternoon."

"So you planned to rob the casino that Wednesday?"

"Yes. Greg said that the middle of the week would be better than on a busy weekend. The casino would have extra guards for the weekend rush and mid-week would be a little slack. There'd not be as much money in the cash cage, but security would be lax.

"The flight down to Nellis was uneventful, except for my nervous stomach. I kept asking myself, ‘Was Greg really serious about doing this casino robbery? Maybe he’s just been pulling my leg, knowing that I can be gullible at times. I was more convinced of his determination when he started chatering on the interphone about each of the steps we had to take to pull it off. This wasn’t a joke.’

"We parked the airplane in the area reserved for transient training crews and arranged for its servicing. And we checked in with the range scheduling folks to be sure we had all the details clear for the next day’s mission. Greg was calm and self-assured about everything and we became wholly engrossed in last minute range procedures, such as radio frequencies, check-in points and clearance to drop or abort instructions. It was pretty routine.

"Well, everything went as planned except for one glitch. When we went out to the airplane Wednesday for the morning training flight onto the range, we discovered that they'd down loaded our cargo pod and replaced it with practice bombs for the range drops. Greg got the line crew to guarantee that our cargo pod would be reinstalled right after we got back from the range. He even slipped the sergeant a fifty to make sure it would be back on by 2:00 P.M., and that our bird would be refueled and ready for a 6:00 P.M. takeoff, though we knew it’d be later than that. I wasn't as confident as Greg that the cargo pod would be reinstalled in time. And if it wasn't, the whole plan could unravel.

"Our flight onto the range was uneventful, except for Greg's determination to give me a hard time. Riding in the back seat, and not actually flying the sirplane, can be rough when a hot dog pilot likes to jerk the bird around and pull high g's. Greg may have been having fun up front, but in my rear cockpit it was all I could do to avoid throwing up. I was nervous about what we were going to do that evening, upset with Greg for purposely flying as roughly as he did, and frankly a bit afraid that Greg might lose control. You know that an F-4 pulling g's can go into an inverted spin in a hurry if you aren't careful. You can lose it if you apply aileron at the wrong time. And I wasn't sure that Greg's mind was completely on his flying either. I was mighty glad to get back onto the ground."

"So, Jack? How did you manage to pull off or accomplish the robbery that night? You couldn't be sure that the casino wouldn't change its security procedures, or that the cashier would not have already put the big money into the vault."

"Amazingly, the actual robbery part went off like clockwork. We walked into the casino lobby, looked around like ordinary tourists, and Greg affirmed his earlier assessment about the security systems, or lack of it, really.

"I noticed that there were others wearing similarly colored coveralls, the janitorial crews, I guess. Some were sweeping up trash on the tiled floors and others vacuuming carpets in the aisles between rows of slot machines. It occurred to me that Greg had chosen the color of our coveralls just so we’d be inconspicuous. Or maybe it was just accidental. So when we headed for the mens room to put our coveralls on, nobody paid any attention.

"Anyway, the guard was totally surprised when Greg walked over, shoved the toy gun into his ribs and demanded that the cashier open the cage. The poor little cashier lady was petrified, but she didn’t put up a fuss. Several cash drawers and bins were open. There was lots of money in there. We must have stuffed at least $300,000 into the duffel bags, tied up the guard and cashier with a roll of duct tape and simply walked out the side door. No fuss, no noise or even any commotion. In seconds we were rid of our costumes, save the rubber gloves, and drove the Air Force station wagon back to Nellis. It really happened that easily.

"We drove right out onto the flight line to our parked and ready F-4 and stashed the duffel bags into the cargo pod. I was mighty glad to see that the ground crew had actually uploaded it after our bombing mission. I didn't expect it to be ready and I don't know what we would have done if it wasn’t.

"We casually went to Base Operations, changed into our flight suits and got our routine weather briefing for the trip home to Idaho. It was all so very routine, but I have to tell you that my adrenaline was still pumping and I had a hard time acting normally. Greg was as calm as a cucumber, but not me.

"I double-checked the hatch on the cargo pod, after once again looking inside to be sure that the duffel bags were there. We completed our checklists for a planned take-off from Nellis by 8:30. We filed our route of flight with the FAA, to include a dog-leg over the mountains near the Brandon Lake. It was cold and windy on the flightline that evening, wind chill approaching ten degree Fahrenheit. Our stowed bags literally held cold cash, but soon it would be colder. At our planned cruise altitude temperatures would approach minus 40 degrees.

"We climbed into our cockpits and routinely went through the Power-Off and Power-On checklists, prior to engine start. But when it came time to crank up the twin J-79 jet engines, a problem arose which would delay our departure. Any delay in getting out of the Las Vegas area could spell trouble.

"The Number Two engine started to spew heavy white smoke and suddenly the exhaust gas temperature gage indicated an over-heat condition. We had fuel puddling on the ground beneath the fuselage, all indications of a false start and potential engine fire. The crew chief, standing out front with a fire extinguisher at the ready, signaled for Greg to shut the engines down - immediately.

"The afterburner section of the #2 engine was soaked in jet fuel. We were just seconds from a serious fire, but we were also destined to await overnight maintenance. Getting the engine fixed was absolutely critical, both to our safety and a get away from the Las Vegas area. The engine shop mechanics came out and looked our engine over, determining that it could be fixed by dawn. But there would be no flight that night.

‘What rotten luck,’ shouted Greg, banging his fists against the side of the airplane.

"I tried to get Greg to calm down, thinking that a low profile was better than creating a scene. I even suggested that we just leave the bags in the cargo pod overnight, so as not to draw undue attention to what was in there. We'd just have to stay over on the base for the night and try to take off in the morning.

"Better call home base and let them know we'll be remaining overnight, no big deal." I suggested, wanting Greg to calm down and play it cool.

"Neither of us got much sleep that night in the Visiting Officers' Quarters (VOQ), for our anxiety about having the money bags accidentally discovered gnawed at us both. How would we explain that?

"At 0630 hours we were back on the flight line. The airplane was ready and we breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was still cold, but the winds were gone. Once more we filed our flight plan at the Base Operations dispatch desk and headed out to start engines. We didn't even bother to open the cargo pod hatch, still worried about drawing attention to its contents. Once we were airborne and headed north, Greg brought up the possibility that a ground crewman might have discovered the money and simply kept it, but we both felt that unlikely. Confident, or nearly so, we pressed on toward the mountains and our let down point for the lake.

"And sure enough, when we dropped down for the low pass over the lake, the FAA simply advised us that we were going out of coverage over the mountains. We turned off the IFF beacon transponder and disappeared.

"The snow made it pretty easy to find the flat expanse of white lake. We made just one pass, east to west down the length of the lake and dropped the cargo pod about a quarter mile from the shore in front of my uncle's cabin. We didn't see it land, but were pretty sure that it simply slid across the ice to the bank and onto the shore. But something caught our eyes, just as we dropped the pod and started to climb back to cruise altitude. A small Piper Cub appeared off to our right. It was headed straight for the lake.

"They were probably hunters scouting for elk herds in the aspen groves, but had they seen our drop? Were they going to land on the snow-covered lake? Would they find the pod and the money? ‘Do you see that, Jack?’ Greg shouted. He banked hard over to keep the light plane in sight, as we spiraled upward. ‘Over there near the lake. That little plane is headed for the cabin. Damn. They probably saw the pod land ... or at least its trail of snow kicked up.’

"I saw it too, but noted that the yellow Cub didn't have skis. "He's got wheels, Greg. He can't land on the lake. The snow’s too deep. But I'd guess he saw us make the low pass and drop the pod. If nothing else, he's probably curious as hell.

"Greg rolled out and resumed our climb, just in the nick of time. ‘Watch it," I shouted. "Mountain peak at two o'clock.’

‘Got it,’ he calmly replied. We missed the rocks by less than 500 feet and continued climbing back up to 25,000 feet. "IFF beacon back on."

"We leveled off, with the IFF beacon back on, checked in with the FAA and even gave them a made-up report of clear air turbulence over the mountains. That would add credence to our story to the C.O. about when we might have lost the cargo pod on the way home, or so we hoped.

"We made a normal overhead pattern for landing, turning a tight 360 degree descending turn to the runway. It was just after 9:30 in the morning when we touched down and parked the airplane in the squadron area. Only a minimal ground crew was on duty when we arrived, so no one particularly noticed that the cargo pod was missing. We still had the two wing tanks and the plane looked normal. That's when Greg suggested that we be the ones to mention the missing cargo pod to the maintenance chief. It was the right thing to do, for it expedited the incident report through the system. Nobody got at all excited about the missing pod and we matter-of-factly filled out the paperwork describing what we knew, carefully including mention of the clear air turbulence, and just played dumb about it all.

‘Those guys in the light plane just might be too curious,’ I suggested. "And though they couldn't land on the lake, they might come back again ... either on snowmobiles or with skis on their bird." Greg agreed and we decided to hustle ourselves up to the lake.

"It surprised us that the C.O. never called us in about the lost pod. He simply read his copy of our report and didn't get excited. And two days later we were on leave as planned."

Jenny sat there next to Jack's bed, shaking her head and looking so disappointedly at him. She couldn't believe that her friend had participated in such a horrendous thing. "You two idiots," she blurted. "What if you'd been caught at the casino? Or worse, what if you'd been shot by that guard?"

Jack looked at her and simply shrugged his shoulders. "I guess I didn't think about those possibilities. And besides, everything went of just as Greg said it would. Or at least as far as the robbery, the drop of the cargo pod and our taking leave to go up to the cabin went. It was after that that things turned to worms."

Jenny sat there, not saying a word. Finally, after a long agonizing quiet, "So you went up to the cabin, eh? That doesn't explain how you wound up here in the hospital as the only survivor of the avalanche. And who were those other guys that they found in the snow? And where's Greg? and the money?"

"I'm getting to that, honey."

"Don't you 'honey' me, Jack Martin. "I don't know if I should call the sheriff in here or not."

"C'mon now. You agreed a few minutes ago to keep this a secret between us. I'll tell you the rest. Just bear with me, please. This isn't easy for me. I feel rotten about it all."

"And so you should. Okay .. okay," Jenny paused and then reluctantly inquired, "What's the rest of this wild story of yours?"

Chapter 3

"We went on leave that next morning and drove Greg's Jeep up to Stanley in the high country beyond Sun Valley, pulling two rental snowmobiles on a trailer. We parked off the highway at the trail head leading up to Brandon Lake. There was about eight inches of new powder atop 40 inches or so of hard-packed snow. It was colder'n a witches' you know what, but the sun was out and the weather was good.

"We got to the lake and the cabin by early afternoon, probably around 12:30. We drove right across the lake and looked for signs of the pod. And there it was, up on the shore right in front of the cabin. It was perched there, nose up at about a forty degree angle, with just the tail down in the snow. We could hardly believe our good fortune that it had not broken through the ice and "deep sixed" on us. That would have been the crowning blow. But we had a worse surprise waiting for us.

"When we got up within a few yards of the pod, we noticed that the side hatch was open. Not a good sign, as Greg commented. "Oh oh. Not a good sign, Jack. Did it break off on the drop? Or has somebody beaten us to it?" Greg jumped off of his snowmobile and raced over to the pod. He scrambled up the bank and grabbed onto the hatch doorway. He peered in and just stood there.

"For several minutes he didn't say a word, and then he began to shake his head side to side. Soon he started banging onto the pod and yelled, ‘No .. damn it. No! No! No!’ And then after a few expletives, which I won't repeat, he slumped down into the snow and began to cry.

"I'd never seen Greg cry before, but there he was, bawling like a baby and slumped down onto the snow. By the time that I got to him and the empty pod, I noticed fresh snowmobile tracks. It looked like there had been two or three of them and footprints leading to and from the pod.

‘Greg,’ I shouted and pointed, ‘Look there. Tracks in the snow. There's been somebody up here recently, or at least since last night's fresh snow dropped. See that?’

"Greg slowly got up and turned to see what I was talking about. In seconds his sorrow turned to raging anger. "Bastards," he shouted. "Those bastards in that Cub beat us to the money. C'mon, Jack. Let's go after them. I'm not letting that money slip away now. Not after all we've done. C'mon." Greg ran down to his snowmobile, fired it up and raced up the hillside following in the tracks of the other machines.

"By the time that I got mine started and took after him, he was already a quarter of a mile ahead. He turned back once to see if I was coming and waved me onward. As soon as he saw that I was following, he roared on ahead and never looked back.

"We'd gone perhaps a mile or so when we spotted two snowmobiles up ahead. They were above us a bit and nearing the steep slope of a hill at the edge of the trees. The snow was much deeper there than back down at the lake. Our snowmobiles labored in the deepening white stuff.

"The two up ahead were not yet aware that they were being chased. We saw that they had our duffel bags strapped onto the snowmobiles. You couldn't miss those dark gray nylon bags, though they kicked up a plume of billowing powder snow sorta like speedboats on a lake in summer. The rear snowmobile had one bag under bungee cords in the back, and the second had the other, apparently astride the rider's knees.

"We got to within fifty yards of them when my snowmobile began to sputter and slow down. Greg's machine was rapidly gaining on the two up a head, for he was riding in their tracks of compacted snow. They were blazing new trails through the deep powder. I could tell that Greg was fixing for a fight. I fell behind and couldn't keep up. My machine was barely running. And then I saw it, the dreaded nemesis of the high country.

"Up near the top of the crest I noticed the billowing signs of a massive snow slide. The noise of our four roaring snowmobiles must have triggered the slide. There it was, deceptively silent, a growing white mass spilling down the mountain side, getting bigger and bigger. It must have been a quarter of a mile across. Maybe it was because of the noise from our machines that the avalanche seemed so quiet. In seconds all hell broke loose.

"The two snowmobiles ahead of Greg disappeared into the rapidly moving mass of white descending upon them. Greg was right at the rearmost one. They didn't have a chance. I shouted at the top of my lungs for Greg to turn around. He didn't hear me. And then he too was gone. It was surreal, somehow like watching a slow motion movie. There was nothing I could do. I realized that the edge of that avalanche was going to get me too.

"A wall of white some 20 feet high descended upon me. Somehow, I managed to turn my snowmobile sideways to the tumbling mass of snow and debris. I slid off on the downhill side, putting the vehicle between me and the avalanche. It was the only hope I had. The engine was still running when the mountain hit me. Before I knew it I was covered with snow, powdery white stuff packing all around me and my machine.

"We careened down the hill together, slamming into rocks and debris, though I don't know how far. And then we stopped and everything got quiet, eerily quiet. It was only then that I felt the sharp pain in my leg and realized that the snowmobile was jammed atop me. I knew that my leg was broken. What a mess that was.

"Thoughts of Greg and the money never occurred to me. I was pinned under my now stalled machine and a lot of snow, though I knew not how deeply I was buried. It wasn't all that dark, so it must not have been very deep. There was a small cavity between me and the side of the snowmobile, giving me some room to move my head and an air-filled space to keep me breathing. My arms were pinned in the tightly packed snow. I remember the smell of hot oil coming from the overturned machine and hoped there would be no fire.

"I knew that it wouldn't do any good to yell for help. The fellows ahead of me had no chance at all and there couldn't have been anybody else around. We were a good fifteen miles from any road. It was some time later, hours I'd guess, that I thought I heard voices. I had no sense of direction. And then I felt the snowmobile above me start to move. Suddenly, the pain in my leg made me scream out in anguish. I've never felt such pain. It was that scream that led my rescuers to me, still pinned under the snowmobile. That machine had both saved my life and guided the rescue crew.

"They dug me out with hands and sticks, once they figures out where I was under that machine atop me. Each time the snowmobile moved a little, more pain shot through my broken leg. ‘Boy, am I ever glad to see you guys. Watch it though ... my leg is broken I think, and it hurts like hell with every movement. Easy. please,’ I exclaimed wincing. My delight at their appearance wasn’t dimmed by my agony. I guess it just wasn't my time to go.

"On the way back down the mountain, one of the rescue crew told me that they had observed the avalanche and gone over to see what it had done. They didn't realize that anybody was out there until they saw the handlebar of my snowmobile sticking up through the snow. Then they started digging and found me.

"They probed for me with sticks down into the surrounding snow and later found two others, dead and buried under the debris, finding only one of their snowmobiles. They didn't mention bags and neither did I. They quizzed me about others that might have been in the area and I told them that there were four of us. I didn't mention the chase or anything else.

"They looked some more but never found the fourth victim. That must have been Greg. And though I still don't know why, I never mentioned by name that Greg was out there. He was just an anonymous missing snowmobiler, a statistic of avalanche casualties. They brought me down to a ranch pasture where a helicopter came in and flew me here to the hospital. The rest you know, Jenny. That's about it."

Jenny sat there, still dumbfounded by the incredible account. She rose, put on her jacket and looked Jack in the eye. "Looks like you've got some soul searching to do, Jack. I can't help you, but I'm depending on you to do the right thing." Then she turned and walked out of Jack's room without even looking back. Jack knew that she was gone, gone for good. He hated to see her leave.

Chapter 4

In the last seconds of the chase on the snowmobiles, Greg overtook the rear most one, it carrying one of the dark gray duffel bags. He reached over and grabbed the bag, yanking it out from under the bungee cords, just as the avalanche hit. Then the world suddenly went white and completely topsy-turvy for Greg and the fellow on that other machine. Greg tumbled over and over down the mountainside, still grasping onto that money bag. Somehow his snowmobile snagged onto a big ponderosa pine tree, his handle bar slamming against the tree. He had managed to stay on top of the machine throughout the slide down the mountain.

The jolt of hitting the tree dumped Greg off of the snowmobile and deposited him on the downhill side of the big trunk, as the avalanche tumbled past and over him. In just seconds he was completely covered in snow, clutching onto that dark gray bag. His back was up against the tree trunk and the bag tightly jammed onto his belly.

Greg knew nothing of the drama that had taken place around him in the following hours, when the rescue crew found Jack and probed for others. They were still too far up the hill. He knew not where his snowmobile wound up, though it went a quarter mile farther down the slope in the deepest snow. As a matter of fact, Greg knew nothing at all for nearly 24 hours. He was unconscious, jammed up against that tree, the money bag in front of him.

Greg's first awareness of his situation came the next day. He remembered being quite warm there under the snow. It's an excellent insulator and retained his body heat very well. The next thing he knew was a "Whump" sound and the feeling that he'd been punched in the belly. Something in that bag had either exploded or suddenly moved. Greg had no idea what it was, but then he was more concerned about survival and escape from his snowy tomb.

For a half hour or more he remained there, half sitting and half leaning against the tree behind him. His arms and legs were tightly held by the compacted snow. "At least I'm alive and not upside down," he thought. "I don't feel as though anything is broken."

It took him nearly an hour to wiggle, claw and dig himself to the surface of the snow pack. The effort tired him greatly. Eventually, he dragged himself and that dark gray duffel to the top, perhaps onto eight feet of densely packed snow beside the tree. That big ponderosa had saved him.

It was late afternoon, and nearly dark, when Greg started to walk down the mountain toward the cabin. The going wasn't too difficult on the avalanche-compacted snow, but when he reached the edge of the slide area that changed dramatically. He found himself crotch-deep in fresh powder and the going was tough. Though he had but a mile or more to go, he knew that this rough going could drain his strength and he might not make it.

Still he dragged that dark gray duffel bag along as he struggled. Luck was with him, for he came across the snowmobile tracks that the four of them had made during the chase. As long as he stayed atop that compacted strip of snow, the going improved. He made good progress until within fifty yards of the cabin, there at the edge of the lake. It was dark by then, but in the light of a half moon he found his way. There were no snowmobile tracks to follow for that last few yards and once more he sank in, nearly up to his chest at times.

Onto the porch of the cabin he struggled, tightly gripping the bag of money. The door to the cabin was not locked, as they seldom are up in the high country. Back woods travelers usually depend upon finding shelter from storms in deserted cabins. It was local custom not to lock them.

He tumbled into the cabin and stomped his feet to shed himself of a coating of snow. As long as it remained cold he needn't worry about getting wet, but if he started a fire that snow would soak him as it melted. It was pitch black inside the cabin. All he knew was that he was inside and no longer out in the snow.

He thrust his hands into his pockets, searching for matches, but didn't find any. Eventually his eyes adjusted to the darkness within the cabin and saw a window over a sink and counter across the room.

He groped his way over to the counter, stumbling over the table and chairs hidden in the dark. He felt along the counter surface, searching for a box of matches or a lantern. He found both next to the sink. In seconds, he had a match lit and soon the lantern itself. He looked. The place had just one room, with a sink and counter on one wall, a fireplace in the wall opposite the door, and some bunks along the other wall. A wooden table and four chairs completed the furnishings. "Beggars can't be choosers" he mused to himself.

As he walked across to close the door he noticed a pile of firewood stacked neatly to one side of the fireplace. Some magazines in the room could be used to start a fire, he thought. But then he had second thoughts. He realized that if anyone was in the area, they might smell the smoke of a fire or see it coming from the chimney. They might even see the glow of the lantern, he remembered. Greg didn't want company. "Better turn it down as low as possible."

But first, he just had to take a look inside the duffel bag, to be sure that the money was there and see if he could find the cause of that movement within, back at the tree. He pulled the bag close to the lantern, unzipped the full-length zipper and got the shock of his life.

"Oh shit." The bag oozed both money and red dye. "That damn bitch of a cashier must have slipped in one of those explosive dye pouches while we were stuffing the money." Greg knew what that would mean. He completely forgot about the brightly glowing lantern, and how it might attract attention to the cabin.

He was far more intent on finding out if all of the money was tainted with that tell-tale red dye. He'd never be able to pass the cash with that red coloring on it. Red money would be worthless.

He dumped everything out onto the wooden table and spread it out, hoping to find some that escaped the dye marking. Only a handful or two appeared to be dye-free. The rest of it was well covered in ink. "Damn, damn it all to hell." He threw the bag onto the cabin floor.

He gathered up the untainted bills and counted them. There was just under $5000 of usable money, $5000 out of perhaps $200,000 in the bag altogether. He found a paper sack under the sink and placed the clean money into it.

Then he went outside and grabbed big hands full of snow. He was going to try to wash the dye off some of the red money, if he could. But he soon realized that he couldn't. That dye had already penetrated the paper fibers and was permanent. He cursed loudly again. Then he sat down on one of the chairs beside the table. He was exhausted, sore, and completely dejected.

"That little bitch. She turned this bonanza into a piddling $5000. Why didn't I spot that, when she slipped in the dye pouch? Or why didn't Jack? I could have dumped the damn thing out before it went off." Then he wondered why it didn't explode earlier.

Greg finally thought of the tell-tale glow of the oil lantern, and reached across the table to turn the wick down to the lowest possible flame. Then he placed the lantern on the fireplace hearth, down at floor level. It still gave him enough light to see his way around the cabin. He debated with himself about starting a fire, but thought better of it. "Don't want anybody attracted by the smoke. I'll just find some blankets, or whatever, and curl up for the night." Greg didn't realize that he'd not eaten in more than a day. Hunger was not his most urgent problem just then. Up above the cot, on a crude shelf, Greg found a couple rolled up sleeping bags and some tattered old blankets. It was freezing in that cabin, so he stuffed one bag into the other and wiggled inside. He lay there on the cot, warm enough, but unable to sleep. His mind raced through the events of the past days. He even had difficulty figuring out which day it was, for he didn't know how long he'd been out there buried under the snow slide.

He thought about that red-dyed money and the futility of his situation. All he had to his name was the $5000 over there in the paper sack. No big payoff, no grub stake. He didn't even appreciate that he was lucky to be alive and now safe within the cabin. All was gloom and great bitterness in Greg's mind. He'd been dealt a rotten hand.

Though he did eventually fall off to sleep, he awoke at dawn far from rested. He realized that he was famished and hadn't eaten in who knows how long. "There's gotta be some food in the place," he muttered and then wriggled out of the warm sleeping bags. He awoke in a hurry, when his feet hit the cold cabin floor. "Brrrrr. Must be below zero in here."

To his absolute delight he noticed that it was snowing outside, a real blizzard. "All right, a blinding snowstorm will do it. It’s safe to light the fireplace. Nobody will notice my fire in this storm." Soon he had a roaring, welcome warm fire going.

He melted a pot-full of snow and began to brew some of the tinned coffee found under the sink. He also found some raw oatmeal and crackers. It wasn't the kind of fine dining he'd hoped to be enjoying with that stash of loot in the dark gray bag, but it tasted pretty good all the same. There was even some brown sugar to sprinkle atop the hot cereal, though there was no milk.

Once again he checked the red-dyed money still atop the table, sadly realizing that there was nothing he could to wash away the dye. That money was just a lost cause. He knew he sure as hell could never spend it. Trying to pass one of those red bills would be worse than passing counterfeit. No merchant, bank or commercial outfit would take that without asking all kinds of questions. They would certainly call the police too. Greg decided that he had one choice. That was to burn the red tainted money and the stained bag as well.

Dejectedly, he started tossing hands full of the stuff onto the fire. Then he added the bag, with its big red stains. The paper burned pretty well, but the nylon fabric and the bag's carry strap simply melted. He poked and stirred the fire, trying to get it all burned. Soon there was a big pile of ashes beside the coals of the logs. It was now comfortably warm in the cabin, even with the storm blowing outside. He mused about what an expensive fire that was.

He sat there a while, in front of the fireplace with the fire tongs in one hand and coffee cup in the other. His thoughts turned to the avalanche and the total devastation it must have created. "Jack couldn’t have made it," he convinced himself. "And those other guys in front of me must have caught the brunt of the slide. They may never be found. Serves ‘em right."

Suddenly, he thought about the other bag of money. He doubted if the cashier had managed to slip a dye pack into both of them. He began to hope that out there, under the snow, was perhaps half of the money they'd grabbed in Vegas. He had no idea where to look, for the slide was more than a quarter of a mile wide and who knows how far it went down the mountain side. He realized that he'd have a big area to search.

He pondered the delay in the dye pack's explosion within the bag and decided that it must have been the cold. Those dye packs use chemical reactions, time delayed to go off minutes or even hours after being planted.

"It must have been the cold at our 25,000 foot altitude and then being up here in the mountains," he thought. "My own body heat, back there under the snow, probably let the reaction take place. If only I'd known, I could have tossed the dye pack out into the snow and my money would have been saved. Damn it it all to hell." And then he wondered if he might find Jack, or perhaps one of the snowmobiles.

He didn't dwell on that very long, as his thoughts turned to what to do next. He decided that as long as he kept his head, remained calm and took things one step at a time there might be a way out of his mess. "$5000 ain't much, but it's better'n nothing." He was wracked with questions too.

Should he go to the air base? He might be past his allowed leave and even AWOL. He wasn’t sure what day it was. What would he say when asked about Jack? Where was Jack? Did anybody at the base have a clue about what happened? ... about the robbery and the missing fuel pod? And what was he going to do after his discharge? There were a lot more questions than answers and that began to give him a headache.

Chapter 5

Greg decided that when the storm abated, he would cut a hole in the ice and sink the pod. No sense having folks ask questions. It shouldn't be too hard to drag the pod out onto the lake. Empty it weighed just over 200 pounds. He got up and looked around the cabin for some tools, an ax or something to chop a hole in the ice. He found not only a pair of axes, he found an ice chisel and a shovel. That was just what he needed.

By mid-day the storm slacked off and the sun came out. Light filled the cabin as it streamed through the window. Out on that fresh snow things were really bright, dazzlingly white light everywhere. It made Greg squint as he looked down toward the lake. He donned his clothes, boots and gloves and headed out the door. Carrying the ice chisel, and struggled through the deep snow down toward the lake. He stopped and decided he'd better take the shovel too. The snow atop the ice was four feet deep and he'd have to clear away a working area before chopping the hole.

He tossed the tools into the cargo pod and dragged it down onto the lake. It was surprisingly easy, for it slid nicely. About a hundred yards from shore he began to clear a space about eight feet across, getting right down to the ice. Then he began chopping with the chisel, deciding that a hole a couple feet across and perhaps round would be enough. He could sink the pod down a hole that size.

For over an hour he chopped, paused to rest and chopped some more. That lake was frozen to more than 30 inches. Finally, the chisel punched through the first part of the circular cut and water rushed up to the top of the ice, filling the hole.

He continued chopping until a big circular plug of ice bobbed freely in the black water. He couldn't lift that huge cylinder of ice, so opted instead to push it down and off to the side beneath the ice sheet. It worked. Then he stuck the nose of that 10 foot long cargo pod down into the hole. It wouldn't sink. He was not able to shove it far enough down to let water enter the hatch door.

In frustration he began striking the lower part of the pod's skin with the chisel and then the ax, creating holes which would let the water fill the empty pod. That worked and within minutes the pod slipped beneath the ice, air gurgling out as the icy waters filled the aluminum shell.

It was just a few seconds after the pod disappeared beneath the ice that Greg realized that the pod's hatch door was missing. It was not attached to the pod and hadn't sunk with it. "Where was that door? What good did it do to hide the pod if the door was found later? That would bring as many questions as the pod itself," Greg thought. "Gotta find that door," he muttered, as he headed back to the shore where the pod had rested.

Frantically, Greg pawed at the snow around where the pod had been. He punched down into the snow with the ice chisel, hoping to strike that metal door, no bigger than an opened magazine. It's gotta be here somewhere. For over an hour Greg pawed, dug and probed. But he never found the hatch door. Eventually he gave up and headed up to the cabin.

After fixing himself another meal, this time a heated can of beans and bacon, Greg decided that he had to go out there to find the other duffel bag. He noticed a pair of snowshoes mounted over the fireplace and took them down. They would surely make it much easier to move about in that deep snow, though he spent a half hour trying to figure out how to secure the snowshoes to his boots. Greg was not a woodsman type. In the hours before sunset Greg plodded back and forth over the area of the avalanche.

The only thing he came upon was Jack's snowmobile, dented and overturned near the edge of the slide area. It was damaged beyond repair, and useless, at least without tools to work with. There was no sign of Jack. Then he found a mitten, one he could not identify as Jack's or even of the two men he'd been chasing.

When darkness came, Greg slowly realized the hopelessness of his quest. That bag could be anywhere in a square mile area. But he had learned how to get about on snowshoes.

Two more cold days in the cabin discouraged him. He dared not light the fireplace on clear days, so it was a pretty miserable stay. Eventually he decided it was time to leave and head back to his Jeep parked at the trail head. The weather threatened, dark clouds off to the north signaling an approaching storm, so it was now or never. He had to trek down the trail and get to his Jeep before it was too late.

He left in a hurry and paid no heed to the mess he'd left in the cabin. Getting down to that Jeep was imperative. He traveled light, wearing just his clothes and the snowshoes. Stuffed inside his coat was the paper bag with the $5000, that small token of his grub stake dream.

It was before Jack was out of the hospital that Greg returned to the air base. In fact Greg was never told that Jack had been found. He was so consumed by his own sense of loss, for the money, his career and his prospects that he began to drink heavily. At the Officers Club one night he got very drunk and became violent. He started throwing furniture around and even broke the big mirror behind the bar before several patrons and the bartender were able to subdue him.

That was the last straw, for when the Base Commander found out he ordered Greg's immediate discharge and removal from the base. Greg had somehow and for unknown reasons become a major liability to himself and the Air Force. There had to be more behind it than just his being RIF'd. But what? Only Greg knew.

Chapter 6

Jack was released from the hospital, on crutches, after just a week. He went out to the air base and was warmly greeted by his squadron mates. He felt guilty about those expressions of friendship, for he knew he didn't deserve such kindness.

His buddies asked if he'd heard about Greg. They explained that Greg came back from his leave and seemed pretty down. He was so down, in fact, that he got real drunk at the Club and trashed the lounge area. Nobody knew why he'd gone crazy, was so down on the world. Nobody could tell Jack where Greg had gone. That was just three days before Jack arrived.

Jack kept pretty much to himself in the remaining days of his military service. He was mustered out the first of the next month, receiving a check for 60 days worth of accumulated leave, his last month's regular pay and a supplemental check for travel expenses to his home of record in Idaho, all of $18.75 for mileage to Twin Falls. He had all of $7200 to his name when he went out the main gate for the last time.

Lacking any specific plans or destinations, he decided to go back up to the cabin, not sure whether he would look for the missing money. The cabin at Brandon Lake was the only place he knew that felt like home. It would be a quiet place to think about things, most especially his immediate future. Jenny's words rang through his mind, "I'm depending on you to do the right thing."

He drove back up into the high country and left his car in the same trail head parking lot that he and Greg had used on their trip to the cabin. He'd thrown away his crutches a few days ago and was getting along pretty well. The bone was healing nicely and he could get about almost normally.

At the trail head he put on cross-country skis and loaded a toboggan with stuff he'd need at the cabin. He had over 100 pounds of food, water, clothing. Just in case he decided to look for the money, Greg's snowmobile or whatever, he brought a metal detector along.

The weather was good except for the winds which drifted the snow. He noted that his tracks almost disappeared by the time he'd gone barely 100 yards. Temperatures were down in the teens. He was glad he'd brought a good parka and double mittens. He made surprisingly good progress for the first seven miles, about the halfway point. But then his leg began to ache. He wasn't in as good shape as he thought. He had no options except to press on or turn back, so he chose the former. His pace was markedly slowed on that second half of the trip.

It wasn't until he got to the lake and the flat frozen surface that the going improved. As he approached the cabin it was nearly dark and there would be no moon. The stars overhead were amazingly bright. He could see by starlight almost as well as he would have under a moon. He saw well enough to notice that the cargo pod, which had been tilted up on the bank of the lake, was missing.

"Odd," he mused. "Where could it have gone, and who could have moved it? Maybe it rolled down and was covered by fresh snow." He didn't give the pod much more thought, preferring instead to get into the cabin and get a fire started.

Once inside the cabin, however, he was greeted by a surprise, a wholly unexpected sight. The cabin was a mess, with stuff thrown around everywhere. There was trash on the floor, empty food containers, papers and empty water bottles. He found a shovel, ice chisel, ax and even an oil can on the front porch. Another can was dumped over onto the rug in front of the fireplace and had stained things badly. Jack couldn't imagine what had gone on inside the cabin, but then it he hadn't actually been inside since last summer.

He found wood in the box next to the fireplace, and old magazines which he used to start a fire. He poked around the ashes with the fire tongs, trying to clear place for fresh logs. That's when he saw something unusual. Over in a corner of the fireplace was what looked like a partially burned and melted nylon strap, and next to it a zipper. "That's strange," he thought. "This stuff looks like it could have come from one of those dark gray duffel bags. No. Impossible," he decided.

But then, while poking around in the ashes, he noted some unburned edges of red tinted paper. Several sheets of paper or something were stuck together. He reached in and pulled out a little of it for closer examination near the oil lantern he'd just lit on the table.

"Well, I'll be damned," he exclaimed out loud. This is money, paper money that didn't get burned completely. But why was it red in color? And why in the hell is it in the fireplace? Why would anybody burn money?" This didn't make any sense at all.

What Jack couldn't have known was another series of events which took place in the area that day he was found under the snow and helicoptered to the Boise hospital. He couldn't have known that Greg had been in the cabin.

Jack struggled with his feelings and serious worries about what the future held. He kept hearing over and over in his mind those last words from Jenny. "I know you will do the right thing."

But what did she mean by 'right thing'? Should Jack go to the police? Which police? Why should he tell the Idaho police? They would only extradite him to Nevada, he thought. Did she mean tell the Air Force? What good would that do? Or should he go to Las Vegas and tell the casino people? Jack was totally confused, dejected and at a loss just what he should do.

After a few days in the cabin, resting up his still-sore leg and gradually regaining his strength, Jack decided to leave. He cleaned up the place, most everything except the fireplace. The remnants of the partly burned duffel bag and some bits of red-stained currency remained, protected under the whitened woods ashes of subsequent fires.

Jack scooped some of the identifiable bits of money and remnants of the duffel bag into an empty coffee can. He snapped on the plastic lid and placed the can up on the shelf next to the rolled sleeping bags. Unconsciously he felt that that stuff was important, maybe even evidence. He didn't want his uncle or anyone else throwing it away when they cleaned the fireplace.

It was a beautiful the day that Jack finally left, once again on his cross-country skis and back down the trail. "God, this place is beautiful," he exclaimed aloud as he stood at the foot of the steps. He left the toboggan in the cabin, along with some of the food he'd brought. Considerate mountain people made it a practice to leave survival provisions for whoever might come along and need it. It was Jack's nature to be considerate.

Back at the trail head Jack's car awaited, now covered by a foot of drifted snow. He managed to get the cold-soaked car started, out of the parking area onto the highway.

Jack had no idea what he wanted to do or where to go when he left the trail head. Automatically he headed north, toward the ranch near Challis. He stopped for lunch in Sun Valley. The growth going on in that area staggered him. The one north south road was clogged with traffic. Houses a-building on every hillside and some next to the road were impressive, many clearly over a half million dollars, most custom designed for absentee owners. "Is there no end to the money than can flow into this town?" he mused.

It was late afternoon before he pulled onto the recently plowed dirt road leading up from the ranch, the cattle guard jostling him and everything in the car as he crossed the metal tubes.

From down in the valley, a cloud of powdery snow approached, coming from the ranch house. It was his cousin, Ned, headed for town. The beat up old pickup truck screeched to a stop beside him, as Ned recognized his older relative. He got out and ran over to Jack's car, the driver's side window now opened and a mist of fine snow pouring in.

The cloud of powder settling over Jacks car, Jack yelled, "Hey there, Ned. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"Jack .. it's great to see you," Ned enthusiastically responded, shoving his hand through the open window to give his cousin a vigorous handshake. "Are you here for a visit ... or movin' back home?"

"Just a visit, Ned ... tell you all about it later. Where ya headed? and when will you be back?"

"Oh .. I'm going into town to get some smokes. Need any?"

"No thanks .. gave 'em up. Are Uncle Dick and Aunt Ellie home?

"Yep ... and they'll be tickled pink to see you. I'll be back in a half hour or so. Later, huh?"

Ned's truck tore off once more, careening toward the highway. Jack just shook his head, "That kid hasn't changed one bit. He doesn't know the meaning of the word slow."

Ned was the one surviving child of Dick and Ellie Lewis. An older boy was killed in an accident a while back, kicked in the head by a steer during branding. An infant baby sister didn't survive a bout with measles and that tore the heart out of Aunt Ellie. Since then the two spoiled Ned, their sole remaining offspring, something rotten. The kid was a hard worker and could hold his own with any of the hired hands, but always got away with it when he took off on hunting trips or just to carouse in town with his buddies, whether the work was done or not.

Jack parked next to the fence out in front of the ranch house. It was a typical two-story place, with a porch around the west and south sides, a great spot to sit and watch the sunsets.

Off to one side were some low metal buildings, a corral with lodge-pole fencing, and back behind that some stacked bales of snow covered hay. Uncle Dick's old Labrador, Butch, barely raised his head from his favorite sleeping place on the porch in the late afternoon's fading sun. Strangers didn't faze him at all. No guard dog was he.

The screen door creaked as Jack opened it and stuck his head inside the front room. "Anybody home? Uncle Dick .. Aunt Ellie? It's me, Jack."

Soon his aunt came down the stairs, nearly tripping as she caught sight to Jack and excitedly raced over to hug and kiss him. "Oh, Jack .. it's so good to see you." They stood there together at the bottom of the staircase, both grinning and then hugging once again. "How long are you here for, son? Did you see Ned? He just left for town."

"Yes, Aunt Ellie. We met on the road. He's just the same, isn't he? I'd like to stay a few days, just to get my bearings. The Air Force discharged me and I don't have a job. I'll tell you and Uncle Dick all about it later. Where is he?"

"Dick's down by the cottonwoods, breaking ice on the stock tank. He'll be back in a bit. Why don't you bring your stuff in. You old room is waiting for you. Supper's in an hour, so get yourself settled."

Jack hauled his bags upstairs and put them on the floor at the foot of the old metal-frame bed. An old family quilt draped over the foot rail. The setting sun glowed orange through the lace curtained windows.

He smiled, at how much the old bed sagged and how thin the mattress looked. He'd always slept well there in times past, but for a moment he wondered how. "Ah well, he sighed. It's home."

Ellie fixed supper in the big eat-in kitchen, while Jack sat at the huge table chatting with her. A big frying pan sizzled on the stove. She was cooking chicken, just the way Jack liked it. Suddenly the front screen door slammed and in walked Uncle Dick. He hadn't recognized Jack's new car. "Company, Ellie? Who's car is that?" And just then he caught sight of Jack at the kitchen table. The two men embraced and shook hands. "Well, to what do we owe the honor of this visit, young man? Is it a visit ... or you home to stay? New car?" Dick knew as he spoke that it was only a visit, for he learned years ago that his nephew didn't have ranching in his blood. "Good to see you, Jack. Just great. Ain't it Ellie?"

Soon Ned drove up and the four sat down to a hearty meal. The conversation was nonstop and lasted for hours. "Ellie tells me you're not in the Air Force any more. Is that right?"

"I'm afraid so, Uncle Dick. Washington sent down the word that some of us had to go. Budget crunch or some such. Anyway, I was one of those who got invited out. And Greg, you remember him, he's out too. There were about ten of us who got the boot. So now I'm looking for work. And no, Uncle Jack, not ranching work."

"So what are you going to do?" Ellie inquired. "You aiming to fly for somebody else?"

"Probably not, Aunt Ellie. I was thinking about staying here a few days and then heading down to Boise to see what I could find. Okay? And I gotta got into town and put my mustering-out pay check in the bank. It isn't much, but I don't want to be carrying it around."

"Of course it's okay. Stay as long as you like. Besides, you and Ned need to catch up on things. He might even convince you to stay this time." Ellie knew better too, but she was hopeful.

Jack did not, of course, mention anything about the Las Vegas matter, or even the avalanche near the lake cabin. Apparently his folks hadn't seen the newspaper article about him, and that was a relief.

He'd have a hard time explaining all of that. This was the first he even thought that it could a subject of discussion. Then he hoped that none of the folks in town had seen it either. It gave him pause to wonder if he should go into Challis at all.

The next couple of days were pleasant enough for him, being with family and especially Ned. That young man looked up to his cousin and asked him endless questions about his flying and experiences in the Gulf War. The two talked for hours, even as Jack helped out in the sheds or corral. They were really like brothers.

Jack never did go into town to deposit his check. He made excuse after excuse about just wanting to hang around the ranch, chatting with Ned and eating Ellie's good cooking. And then at lunch on the third day, Jack announced that he was going town to Boise to look for work. It was time to get out there and get a job. He'd have better chances down there than around here.

The next morning, right after breakfast, Jack loaded up the car. Ellie packed him a big sandwich lunch, complete with a slice of pie. The farewell was not easy. Ellie cried and Ned urged him not to go, but Jack reminded them that he had to find work. "I'll be up from time to time. And as soon as I get a place, I'll let you know where to write or call." By 9:00 o'clock he turned south on the highway, headed for Boise and an uncertain future.

A Motel 6 seemed like an affordable and reasonable place to use as interim lodging, so Jack checked in, asking for the room for three nights. He picked up a newspaper and planned to peruse the job listings that evening. Putting his paycheck into a bank was also a priority, so he opened an new checking account and deposited all but $500 of the money. Frugality became his watchword. He never knew when paychecks would flow again.

After supper that evening he began thinking of Jenny and decided to give her a call at her apartment, but he didn't have the number. After Jenny left her job on the air base and moved to a new apartment in the city, he never got word of where she was. All he knew was that she now worked for Old Life Insurance company, somewhere in downtown.

After a late breakfast the next morning, Jack looked up the address of Old Life Insurance and drove over to find Jenny. The receptionist in the lobby had her paged, saying only that there was a visitor for her up front. "Jack? What are you doing here?" she asked with great surprise in her voice.

"I just had to see you, Jenny. I'm out of the Air Force now and in town looking for work. But I just had to talk with you. I hope you don't mind."

"Well, I can't now. I'm working and kinda busy, really. Tell you what. I'll meet you here at noon and we can talk over lunch. I think I can convince my boss to give me an hour. Normally it's just a half hour, but she'll understand. Noon ... here. Okay?"

Jack smiled, broadly and nodded. "Noon ... here. Great. Thanks Jenny."

Back toward the Interstate Jack remembered seeing a coffee shop. He decided to go there and grab a cup while looking at the classifieds for job listings. His spirits were really perked up at the prospects of lunch with Jenny, and conversing with the one person he trusted most.

Jack's relationship with Jenny went back ten years, back to the days when they were both students at Boise State. She studied business courses, while he took a hodge podge of miscellaneous classes that eventually led to his degree in general studies. They met in an English class and soon began dating. It wasn't heavy dating or anything really romantic. They were more like best friends, two kindred souls who could talk for hours, take long walks together and knew each other's inner feelings. It was a kind of love, but not a romantic love relationship.

There was a brief period back then, when Jack's feelings were stronger for her than hers toward him. Given just a hint that there could be more than close friendship, Jack could easily have gotten romantic about their relationship. It was Jenny who kept him at arms length, while all the time getting to know him more like a close brother. Jenny even nagged him, at times, about not getting serious about his degree studies. It was Jenny who cautioned him first on the low value of a general studies curriculum. But it was also Jenny who encouraged him when he decided to pursue military aviation and joining the Air Guard. Jenny was a true, close and trusted friend.

At noon sharp, Jack parked right at the front door of the Old Life Insurance building. Jenny came out and climbed into the car. "You really surprised me this morning, Jack. When I left you in the hospital room, I thought that would be for the last time. What you told me there really hurt. I was so disappointed in you, and I guess I still am."

"Jenny, I just had to talk with you again. You know that there's nobody else in the world whose advice I value more. I need to talk with you about, as you said, doing the right thing. Can you help me? ... help me make the right choice and do the right thing?"

Jenny suggested a salad bar restaurant a few blocks away. "We can go there and eat. They have quiet, private booths where we can talk. Take a right at the next light."

After going through the buffet food line, they headed for a booth in the back, where they could talk privately. "Thanks for coming, Jenny. I really need to talk with you. I'm out of the Air Force now. They discharged me last week and Greg went a week before me. I went up to the ranch for a few days and then decided to come down here, to see you and look for work."

"Look for work, Jack? Are you serious? That's not even close to doing the right thing," she scolded. "Didn't anything I said sink in?"

"Well, I just didn't know what to do. This isn't easy for me, you know." Jack poked his fork around the salad, but really hadn't eaten any yet.

"It isn't supposed to be, Jack. Until you've done the right thing, I can never have any respect for you. And I don't know that I can anyway. What you and Greg did was horrible."

"Okay ... okay. I know it was. And I am sorry about it ... truly sorry. But what am I supposed to do? What, Jenny?"

Jenny kept looking down into her plate, not eyeing Jack at all. Then she put down her fork and lifted her face, eyeballing him directly. She spoke calmly, softly and firmly, "You have to turn yourself in and tell the police the whole sordid story. That's what you have to do. And you have to take your punishment, whatever it turns out to be."

Jack looked into her face, seeing right into her soul. Not in all the years that they'd known each other had he ever felt so close. Never before had he needed her wisdom or advice more. There was no other person in the world he could talk to like this. Nor was there anyone else whose advice he wanted more. For a moment there he wanted to hold her close and kiss the face of that girl he adored.

"You're right, absolutely right, Jenny. But I think I have to do it down there .. in Las Vegas. Just telling the police up here isn't the same. Hell, these guys don't care. All they'll do is send me down to Las Vegas later anyway. No. I need to turn myself in down there. Can you understand that?"

Jenny looked at her old friend and saw in his face and eyes that he was sincere. He was willing to do the right thing, as he saw it. It didn't matter to her whether he turned himself in here in Boise or back down in Las Vegas. The important thing was that he would now do the right thing.

"I'll be here for you, Jack. Our friendship is strong enough to endure this. And yes, if you think Las Vegas is the right place, I'm with you. "

Jack's face lit up, a smile weakly formed as he reached for her hands and asked, "Do you mean that, Jenny. Are you really with me on this? 'Cause if you are I've got a big favor to ask, a really big one."

That remark startled Jenny a bit. She had no idea what Jack meant ... or how she could grant him a favor that would be at all helpful in this context. "What kind of favor?"

"Would you come down to Las Vegas with me? Just for a few days to give me courage? As soon as I surrender to the police down there, you're free to come back here. But it would mean so much to me if you would come along, just for the first part. Okay?"

Jenny said nothing for several seconds. She looked at Jack, into his pleading eyes and felt the warm grip of his hands holding hers. His fingers gently stroked the back of her hand, tenderly communicating to her just how deeply he felt ... for her and about all of this.

"Well. I suppose so," she relented. "I'll have to ask my boss for a week off, but I'm sure she'll go along. I haven't take vacation in a year. Yes .. yes, I'll go along with you. But it's gotta be separate rooms, my friend ... no hanky panky."

"You got it, Jenny. No hanky panky. And thank you, my friend .. my best friend."

The plan called for Jack to pick Jenny up at her apartment the next morning, around 10:00. They would drive down to Las Vegas in Jack's car and find a place to stay, a motel with separate rooms. Jenny would stay there until Jack was arrested or taken into custody, or whatever the process was.

It was just after sunset when the drove down the gaudily lit streets of 'sin city'. They checked into a cheap motel on a side street away from the "Strip". It was all Jack felt he could afford, his now being unemployed and all. He didn't want to spend too much of that mustering out pay. After dumping their suitcases in their separate rooms, they headed for a nearby cafe for something to eat. Jack stopped at a newspaper vending machine outside the door, dropped in two quarters and got a copy of the Las Vegas Bulletin to read while eating.

Then he spotted a feature article, one about a famous Las Vegas lawyer winning a criminal case. "The lawyer might be famous locally," Jack thought, but I never heard of him." Suddenly an inspiration came to him.

He pointed to the article and handed the paper to Jenny.

"So?" she asked, without a clue about what Jack was thinking.

"Okay," he said, after Jenny looked over the story. "Let's say that I do turn myself in to the police. I'm for sure going to need a lawyer. How about this fellow? ... the lawyer in the paper? Clearly he's got a track record, according to Will Andrews, whose by-line appears at the top of the story." The lawyer had won the case of a man accused of shooting a city official over a business deal gone sour.

Jack decided to read the article more thoroughly, just to see what he might learn about this lawyer, Marcus Whitcomb. The more he read the more he felt that somebody like Whitcomb would be necessary. He sure as heck didn't want his fate in the hands of a public defender. But he knew too that he could barely afford anything more. "There must be a way. But how?"

Chapter 7

While Jack worked on his second cup of coffee after the meal, an idea came to him. He thought of the reporter, that Andrews fellow. "What if I offered to give the paper an exclusive story? .... perhaps even a unique story about two Air Force officers who fly away with the proceeds of a casino robbery? That might get the reporter's attention and perhaps his help in bringing lawyer Whitcomb on board."

"Sure," he blurted to a startled Jenny. "Newspapers are always interested in unique stories with angles. And lawyers are never shy about wanting to get high visibility cases. Maybe I can work these two things together and solve my legal assistance dilemma." He gulped down the last bit of now-cold coffee, picked up the meal check and headed for the cashier. He paid for their supper and left a couple dollars on the table for the waitress. They decided to walk around a bit before going back to his motel and headed toward the bright lights of the Strip, just a couple blocks away. Jack's mind was racing with ideas, options and questions. How should he do this? Should he simply walk into the police station? .... not represented by counsel? No way.

"What do you think, Jenny? It couldn't hurt to get a lawyer first. I'd be dumb to waltz into police headquarters without having a lawyer. Now wouldn't I?"

Jenny wasn't sure. "Yes, Jack ... you'll probably need a lawyer. But why would that big shot even consider helping you?"

Without realizing it they was soon across the street from the Highlite Casino. Jack stopped his musings long enough to recognize just where he was, and was startled at the sight of the neon sign and flashing lights shouting "Highlite Casino - Big Payoffs".

"Jenny .. that's the place. How in the heck did we get here? ... and why?" Feeling confident that there was little likelihood people in the casino would recognize him, or in any way suspect his involvement in the robbery, they crossed the street at entered the place. This was strange, really strange. He was almost overwhelmed at seeing the inside again.

Across the lobby he saw the cashier's cage, but this time there were two armed guards nearby. He also saw a number of small video cameras mounted high up on the walls all around the room. Two of them clearly had the cashier's cage in view. Look at that, Jenny," he said pointing up at the cameras. "I guess the old guy went high-tech after all."

Jack didn't stay long. The place made him feel uncomfortable. "Okay .. okay," he declared. "I know what to do." He didn't wait until the next day. He called the Las Vegas Bulletin newspaper shortly after getting back to his motel room. It was just 7:30 P.M.. He asked the receptionist for Will Andrews and was surprised how easily and quickly he was put through.

"Andrews here. What can I do for you?" came the first words over the telephone.

"Er... Ah .. Would your paper be interested in information about the Highlite Casino robbery?" Jack stammered. He knew that he might be starting an irreversible process.

"Perhaps," came the non-committal response. "What have you got?"

"I know the men who did the robbery. But before I give you more I want to talk in confidence. And I don't want any money or anything like that. Interested?"

"What did you say your name was?" Andrews pressed.

"I didn't," Jack responded. "Are you interested in this story or not?"

"Let me talk to my editor and get back to you. What's your number?"

"No ... I'll get back to you. How about if I call you tomorrow?

Andrews' curiosity was definitely aroused. He wasn't sure that he wanted this caller to hang up. And he was equally unsure that there was anything credible about the guy he was talking to. "Tell you what, whoever you are. You call me tomorrow morning at this number .. say, around 9:30. Okay?"

Jack agreed, but thought that he'd better not call from the motel again. If this didn't turn out to be the right way to proceed, he didn't want the call traced to his room. "Okay. Tomorrow morning. 9:30. Agreed."

Andrews hung up the phone, paused to think a bit about what had been said, and then walked over to his editor's desk. "Hey Mike ... I don't know if there's anything to it, but some guy just called me to say that he had information about the Highlite Casino robbery. Are we interested?"

"Sure. It's still news. The cops haven't made any progress that I know of. Is the guy still on the line?"

"No ... he seemed in a hurry to hang up. I've got a feeling that he may be legit. He's supposed to call me in the morning. How do you want to handle it?"

"That's your call, Will. Play it any way you want. Just keep me posted."

Jack spent a fitful night, worrying about what he was about to do. Confessing to a felony isn't something the average Joe does every day, he had to admit. "Was doing it through the press the right way? And what will he do if that lawyer, Whitcomb, won't help?"

He arose with the sun that next morning. He might just as well have, as sleep wasn't possible. He dressed and took a walk. Jenny was still asleep in her room. Soon he found himself again on the Strip and headed for an all-night diner for coffee and a light breakfast. There was a telephone booth at the end of the counter. He decided that it would be a safe place to call Andrews at the paper. But his watch told him that it was barely 7:00 A.M., much too early for the agreed upon time to call. So he had another cup of coffee and headed back to his motel room to talk this over with Jenny.

At 9:30 on the dot, back at the diner's phone booth he dialed the newspaper. Once again he was quickly put through to Will Andrews desk.

"Andrews here. Are you the one who called last evening about the Highlite robbery?"

"Yes. It's me again. Can we meet in confidence at a public place? I think it'll be worth your while."

"Yeah, sure. You name the place. Here in the city?"

"Uh huh ... how about the Crystal Diner on the Strip. Do you know the place?"

"Sure do. It's not far from the Highlite. What time? ... and how will I know you?"

Jack thought a minute and replied, "How about noon? Noon in a window booth. I'll be reading yesterday's paper, with the picture of that race horse. I'll have the paper opened up to that page. My girlfriend will be with me.

Okay? Oh, and yes .. please come alone."

"All right, mister. I'll be there at noon. See you then. And yes, I'll be alone."

Jack hung up the receiver and paused. It's started, he muttered to himself. I can't 'chicken out' now. "You hear that, Jenny? I'm trying to do the right thing. Perhaps not the way you envisioned, but I'm gonna do it, my way."

They still had more than two hours to kill before the meeting. Nervously he left the phone booth and the two walked out of the diner. For the next two hours they walked, walked and walked up and down the Strip. Jack was wholly oblivious to the things going on around him. He never heard the fire engines racing down the street, sirens blaring and red lights flashing. He didn't even hear Jenny's casual chatter. It's a wonder he didn't get hit by cars at street crossings, though he did notice one when the driver of a convertible honked his horn and shouted expletives at him. "Whatsa matter, you idiot? Trying to get yourself killed?"

That idea struck a chord and Jack thought about it, but not for long. He was determined to work this through and get that Andrews fellow to help. If that didn't work, Jack rationalized, the he still had the option of driving out of town. Nobody knew who he was. But Jenny would make sure that he did the right thing.

A few minutes before 12:00 noon, Jack re-entered the diner, Jenny by his side. There was only one free booth along the window side, and he slipped onto the bench seat, nervously. He opened up the newspaper and turned to the page with the race horse's picture in one corner. Then he pretended to be reading it as the waitress came by and asked what they were having. "Ah .. just coffee for me now. Jenny? I'm waiting for someone to join me." Jenny didn't want anything.

The front door opened and a young looking, clean cut fellow in blue jeans and a sport coat stepped inside. He looked around, up and down along the row of booths next to the window. As it happened there was only one with an occupant holding a newspaper. He walked directly to Jack's booth, pausing along the way to yell at the waitress, "Hey Nell. How about a black coffee back in the last booth? Okay gal?" The waitress acted as if she'd known the man for some time.

"I see you're still reading yesterday's Bulletin, mister. I'm Will Andrews. Did you see my story on the second page? Pretty good, huh?"

Jack started to get up and extended his hand toward the young fellow standing there. Andrews grabbed Jack's hand and gave it a firm handshake. "Don't get up. Please. I'll just sit here across from you. Nell's bringing me coffee. You want some more? Hello Miss .. ," Will politely smiled.

"No thanks, Mr. Andrews. I'm fine. Oh. This is Jenny, my friend, my best friend, as a matter of fact."

"Will, just Will. Nobody in the town calls me Mr. Andrews. Delighted, Jenny. Welcome to Las Vegas."

Just then Nell appeared with Will's coffee. "Anything else,folks?' she inquired.

All three shook their heads, and Will added, attempting to set a casual tone, "And very few folks call me a gentleman in the town either." Jack just smiled.

Will began, "I understand you have some information you think might interest me? Er .. I didn't get the name."

"Sorry. The name is Jack, and yes I think you'll find what I have to say of some interest. Can I trust your confidentiality, Will?"

"Sure can," Will responded with a big smile. "Confidentiality is the reporter's best friend. Without it we'd seldom get the straight skinny, especially in this town. Yes, Jack, confidential it is, until you tell me otherwise. Okay?"

Hesitantly, Jack explained who he was. He told Will that he was recently mustered out of the Air Force and had often flown into the Nellis air base. Will patiently listened, but was beginning to wonder where such generalities would lead. Then he interrupted, saying, "I don't mean to be pushy, but you did say on the phone that you had information about the Highlite Casino matter. Right?"

"Okay. You're right. Let's get right to it. I was one of the two involved in the Highlite robbery."

Just getting those words out somehow made Jack feel a little better. He felt too that Jenny would approve of even this small tentative step.

"Uh huh," Will responded. "You were involved in that holdup, the one a month ago? Is that right?"

Jack was a little puzzled. Did this newspaper man mean that there had been another Highlite Casino robbery, at some other time? "Was there another robbery?" Jack asked.

"No .. not at all. I was just trying to establish the time frame. The one a month ago is the only one I know about at the Highlite. There were others ... at different places, but only one at the Highlite that we know of. Please, tell me more."

With a huge sigh ... and a pause long enough for a sip of coffee, Jack began his story. He went through it just as he had with Jenny, the whole sordid thing. She held his hand

and that was much appreciated during these difficult moments.

Will sat there, totally entranced with the details that Jack revealed, so precisely, clinically and impersonally. Though Jack never mentioned Greg's name, he did tell all about him and their mutual problems. Will finally took out his notebook and started to furiously write. He looked up at Jack and asked, belatedly, if it was okay for him to make notes of what Jack had described. Jack nodded approvingly.

"Well, Jack. That's quite a story. It sure will make good copy. My editor will be delighted."

Jack was taken aback by Will's statement. "You said you would respect my confidence. You said you could be trusted. There wasn't anything said about your editor or newspaper copy." Jack's tone was growing angry.

"Calm down, Jack ..," Jenny urged.

Will hastened to calm Jack too, saying "Nothing to worry about, Jack. Everything you have told me is still strictly confidential. I just meant that when you give the word for me to tell my editor, I know he will be pleased. This is a darn good story. But it's your call. Nothing goes beyond this table until you say so. I will respect your confidentiality completely, but you have to understand a reporter's motivations. I definitely want to write this story, very much so ... but only when you tell me it's okay."

Jack's tensions subsided, slowly. He seemed reassured and somehow believed Will's affirmation about respecting confidentiality. "Okay. Okay, I guess I can trust you. I sure hope I can."

"You can, Jack. Fully. I think I can appreciate the tension and pressure you must be feeling. This has got to be the most difficult thing you've done in a long time." And then, smiling, he added, "Probably about as tense as the first time you flew in that F-4. Right?"

"You don't know the half of it, about my being uncomfortable in F-4's, but that's a different story. And yes, this whole thing about revealing what I did is difficult. I know I will go to jail and clearly I should.

But Jenny, here, has convinced me that fessing up is the right thing to do."

"So why didn't you simply go to the police and tell them? Why me?"

"Well, Mr. Andrews ... er Will, I was hoping that in exchange for some kind of an exclusive story, about all of this, you might help me get with that lawyer you wrote about. That's what I need and want. I don't want you to pay me anything for this story. Nothing like that at all."

"Jack, you seem like a nice guy despite what you've gotten yourself into here. And I don't think you're trying to con me, though I have been conned before without knowing it. Why don't you just go over to Whitcomb's office and make an appointment?"

"I don't have the money to pay a big shot lawyer like him. I was kinda hoping that you or your paper could ask him to take my case for free, 'pro bono' is what I'm told they call it. From your story, you apparently have an "in" with Whitcomb and he'd give you the time of day when he wouldn't an unknown like me."

"I see," muttered Andrews. "Well, I can't fault you for trying, but I can't guarantee anything except an introduction to Whitcomb. What he agrees to do or not do is strictly up to him."

"I know that. He's a busy man and deals only with important clients, but I was hoping that somehow you could convince him that there was some publicity in all of this that would make it attractive enough for him to take my case. With you writing the exclusive story, and I can give you even more details, it might be of mutual benefit ... benefit to all three of us. You get a story. The lawyer gets a high profile case, with your story mentioning him, and I get some legal aid I could not afford otherwise. Does that make sense?"

Andrews was a little surprised that this somewhat hapless one-time criminal, no matter how unique his situation, would attempt to be so manipulative. "The guy's got more chutzpah that I gave him credit for," he thought.

"Okay, Jack. Tell you what I'll do. This could be a great story and I think my editor will be very much interested. An exclusive deal is key to our participation, you must understand. My editor would insist on that. I'll talk with him today, if you say it's okay, Jack. Mike, that's my editor, will honor whatever confidentiality agreements we have made here. Don't worry about that. What do you say? Do you want me to bring Mike into this?"

"Yeh, sure. I guess that's the next step, but what about getting the paper's help with Whitcomb?"

"Whitcomb is the kind of guy you thought he was. He'll fairly salivate over the publicity this case could bring to him. I think he'll come aboard."

"What do you think the chances are that he'll 'come aboard' for free? I've heard what lawyers charge and that's well beyond my pay grade. Can the paper use its influence to get him to take me for free?"

"Personally? I think he'd go for it. But we'll never know until we ask. Let me chat with my editor and I'll call you. Okay?", Andrews suggested. "Where can I reach you?"

"Why don't I call you, say around noon tomorrow? Until we actually meet that Whitcomb fellow, I'm still at risk of getting caught without a lawyer. Noon tomorrow?"

Andrews nodded in agreement and got up to leave the diner. "Noon tomorrow," he affirmed. "Goodbye, Jenny."

Back at the Last Vegas Bulletin, Andrews walked over to his editor's desk to report on the session with Jack. "Got a minute, Mike?" Andrews inquired, leaning into the office door.

"Yeh, sure. Did you meet with your source on the Highlite robbery? It it legit? Is there a story there?"

"Sounds like it, Mike. I think there's a really good story there ... and we've got a chance at an exclusive for no money. The guy is not trying to stick it to us at all, though he asked for confidentiality and I agreed. In fact, I kinda liked the guy and think he's a straight shooter, but he was actually involved in the robbery. He's not just a witness."

Mike nodded, not at all dismayed about the confidentiality agreement. "What's this fellow's angle, if he isn't after money?"

"He wants our help in getting Whitcomb to represent him ... on a pro bono basis. I told him that all we could do is ask, but this source is smart enough to know that if we run with his story, and it's a darn good one, Whitcomb gets terrific publicity by taking the case. Do you want to meet this fellow? I told him that you'd respect the confidentiality agreement. This story'll boost readership, I'm sure of it."

"Okay ... set up a meet. How about tomorrow morning, right here? Would he go for that?"

"Probably, but he won't be back to me until noon. He still won't tell me where he's staying or how to get in touch with him. The guy is scared."

"Well then, let's say here in my office tomorrow afternoon. Tell him we'll keep it confidential until he's met with Whitcomb. Then if Whitcomb takes his case, we'll see how it goes from there. How much detail have you got so far? ... your first story?"

"I've got a bunch ... for a first story and more. This will be a winner."

That afternoon and evening, Jack spent hours in turmoil. He felt better, on the one hand, that he told Andrews his story. But he had strong doubts about actually getting Whitcomb's support, even with the newspaper's urging. Andrews was not that encouraging, despite his apparent willingness to get Jack and Whitcomb together. Jack spent hours wondering if he'd asked enough, rather than too little. Jenny sensed that Will was a man to be trusted and tried to reassure Jack. They were getting bored with hanging around the room, watching the "boob tube" and taking walks around the area. "I feel like I'm already in prison," he muttered to Jenny.

What Jack did not know was that Andrews had already contacted Whitcomb about a hypothetical client situation, just to get a feel for Whitcomb's availability and possible interest in a high profile case. Andrews gave no hint of the actual case details, but certainly tweaked the lawyer's interest. No further discussions would take place until after the meeting with the editor of the paper.

At noon the next day, Jack telephoned Andrews once more. He got right to the point, asking, "Is your editor ready to meet? And will he have the newspaper approach Whitcomb for me?"

"Yes, Jack ... yes on both counts. How about 2:00 this afternoon, here at the paper? I'll meet you at the Crystal Diner at 1:30 and bring you two over. Okay?"

Jack was taken aback by what he'd heard. "Did you say that you've already told Whitcomb my story? I thought we had a confidentiality agreement . I never said you could tell anybody else except your editor." Jack's voice sounded angry. "And .. Jenny's not coming today. She has errands to run."

"No ... no, Jack. I haven't told Whitcomb anything ... or anybody except Mike Davis, my editor. You have my word that your confidentiality is sacred to me. I will not ... absolutely will not break my word," Andrews hastened to explain. "Look ... let's meet for lunch at the diner. We can talk about this. I'll tell you word for word what I discussed with Whitcomb. And if it's any consolation to you, I think Whitcomb will definitely take your case. I'll meet you in a half hour, Okay?"

Jack settled down a bit and wondered if he had over-reacted. "Yeh .. the diner in a half hour. Fine .. fine. I'll be there." This time Jack was calling from a pay phone at a news stand down the street from the diner, just in case.

Jack was once again sitting in a booth when Andrews arrived. He was alone and hadn't yet ordered any coffee or lunch before being joined by his companion. Andrews slipped onto the bench opposite Jack's and began, "Jack ... let me explain to you exactly what Whitcomb and I talked about." Then Andrews described the hypothetical scenario and situation he'd used to ferret out possible interest and availability of Whitcomb.

"Okay, Will .... I guess I over-reacted. I trust you. You really do mean it when you promise confidentiality, don't you?"

"Sure do, Jack. Like I said before, it's the most important tool a reporter has in getting to the truth. So? ... are ready for some lunch? I'm starved."

Jack nodded and reached for the menu stuck between the napkin holder and the wall. "What's going to happen with your editor, Mike?"

Andrews explained that the meeting with Mike Lewis would be no different from the one where Jack first told him the story. "Just tell it straight, the way you told me. Mike may have some questions ... different from mine. He'll be asking more from the perspective of your story's appeal to our readers. And for sure he'll be sizing you up. We get some con men and some flakes who try to take advantage of things. You understand, right?"

Conversation during the remainder of the lunch was general, not specific to Jack's situation at all. Some discussion of Jack's relationship with Jenny came up, especially the part about her coming along for moral support. Then Andrews briefly explained how he'd progressed from a junior reporter to getting his own by-line column, specializing on corruption and crime in the Las Vegas area. He mentioned how Mike had helped the paper increase circulation by bringing aboard new people, not only probing reporters but decent writers as well. He described how the newspaper had installed a whole new system of computers that made the whole staff more productive. Andrews made it a point to put Jack at ease and to increase the trust and body developing between them.

Jack interrupted Will's chatter to ask a question about Whitcomb. "Is Whitcomb the kind of lawyer I need? You know what a fix I'm in. Is Whitcomb really good? Or should I be thinking of some other lawyer?"

Will understood Jack's concerns. "Whitcomb is probably the best choice you could have made in the whole town. Hell, he's the best in the whole state at criminal law. If there's anybody who can do the job for you, it's gotta be Whitcomb. Yeh .. he's a headline grabber and thrives on publicity, but he's a cracker jack lawyer and has an outstanding track record. Even if you hadn't mentioned his name at the beginning of our talks, I'd have recommended Whitcomb to you. And now I can say the our paper will help you get together with him. Okay?"

At five after 2:00 Jack and Will arrived at Mike's office. Mike was on the phone, but waved for both to come in and sit down. Will closed the door. Jack was nervous and uncomfortable. The "steam roller" can't be stopped now, he though. The process has begun and it's irreversible. Yet the unknown was ahead of him and he felt out of control. It was very unsettling.

Mike hung up the phone, turned to Jack and extended his hand in greeting. "Is this the fellow you were telling me about, Will? Is this the one with the million dollar story? Ah .. better let me re-phrase that, mister ... there's no million dollar talk here. Right?"

"That's right, Mr. Lewis. I'm the one. The name is Jack Martin and I am not asking for any money at all, from you, Will or anybody. I need your help ... and in exchange for that I've agreed to give Will whatever exclusive he needs for my story. He tells me that you are interested. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Jack ... we think you have a most interesting story to tell, and we think that telling our readers will be in your best interests. I've already got the big picture. Will gave me a run down on what you did .. and why. But I do have some specific questions. Okay? And call me 'Mike', please. We're pretty informal around here."

"Questions? Sure, but what kind of questions?" Jack haltingly inquired.

"Well, we want to know if you have any physical evidence to offer. That's pretty much what the police will be asking you ... when they get into the act. And so will your lawyer. You do have a lawyer, don't you?" Mike asked that last question just to prompt Jack to re-affirm his demands and determine if Will has mentioned anything about contacting Whitcomb.

Jack mentioned the ashes in the mountain cabin, and the bits of unburned duffel bag. He explained that he didn't know where the modified fuel pod was. Then he added, " No. I don't have a lawyer, yet. But Will and I have talked about Marcus Whitcomb and said your paper could help me get together with him."

Mike paused and pensively rubbed his chin. Then he looked directly at Jack and said, "Okay. Okay. We can do that. In fact I'll have Will take you over to Whitcomb's office this afternoon. I'll call and make an appointment right now. Will that do? And please excuse us for a couple minutes. I have some details to talk over with will. You can wait at that empty desk out there," Mike ended, pointing to a vacant desk just in the "bull pen" area.

Jack got up, shook Mike's hand and left, realizing that the two newspapermen had to talk. He seemed reassured by Mike's demeanor .. and delighted that the paper was willing to help out in getting Whitcomb involved.

The door to Mike's office closed, quietly, as Jack left. Will asked, "Well, Mike? What's the paper's position in this? Are we going to go with the guy? Do you agree that it's a helluva human interest piece as well as a crime story? And are really going to call Whitcomb?"

Mike was already dialing Whitcomb's office before he answered Will's questions. He didn't look at Will for several minutes while he handled the call. "Marcus? How are you? This is Mike Lewis at the Bulletin. How are you doing? Look. I've got a story here that includes a high profile case for you. No .. no it's not the one that Will told you about. It's even better. Can you spare a few minutes this afternoon to meet someone special? I'll have Will bring him over. And, Marcus .. this is so hot that we've got an exclusive on the whole story. Heck, we could even put your name on it in bold print, if you take it on. Sure .. sure. Okay. Five o'clock at your office. I'd come too, except I've got deadlines. Will and his friend will see you then. Great. Thanks."

Will didn't need any explanations from Mike. He heard enough from this end of the conversation to know that the ball was rolling and the deal with Jack was being honored. "One thing we need to be clear on, Mike, is that we are not harboring a fugitive, are we? I mean there is no specific warrant out on Jack yet. We are in the clear, don't you think?"

"Good point," Mike retorted. "I don't think the D.A. could fault us on this at all. As you say, there is no arrest warrant yet. Let's let Whitcomb handle it. He claims to be an officer of the court, among other things ... he'll assume whatever responsibility there is here. We'll urge Marcus to take this case. I think I'll get Bill Watson (the paper's publisher and an influential Las Vegas financier) to encourage cooperation on this. Since Jack Martin hasn't tried to gouge us, Watson would be inclined to help. And Bill can get Marcus to take it 'pro bono', if anyone can."

Will suggested that he tag along with Jack and Whitcomb every step of the way, at least as much as Whitcomb would let him. If this exclusive is to mean anything, the Bulletin has to be privy to all of the details. "I'm going to start some writing on this tonight, Mike, but I'm not putting the initial story onto the open office network. Whatever I have for now will strictly be on computer diskette, safe from accidental disclosure or discovery. Agreed?"

"Okay .. okay for now, but just as soon as Whitcomb surrenders Martin, we've got to go to press, before the competition does. You exclusive means that we've got to develop and print details that none of the others can. As soon as the D.A. and the cops pounce on this the others will be there like vultures, and they might offer Martin money. All we've offered is trust."

Will stepped out of Mike's office and sat down beside Jack. "Well, are you ready to meet your lawyer? How are you holding up?"

"Doin' okay, I guess," Jack responded. He seemed to be getting overwhelmed by the enormity of the things that lay ahead. Then Will's words sunk in and he exclaimed," You mean that Whitcomb is going to take my case? Really?"

"Whitcomb has agreed to talk. That's all we know now. We've got a 5:00 o'clock at his office. Ready?" Jack nodded in agreement and the two men walked out of the newspaper office, Will with his hand on Jack's shoulder in reassurance. "I'd like Jenny to come too," Jack added.

Jack and Jenny were impressed with the opulence of Marcus Whitcomb's building and offices. It was fancier than even the general's suite at 12th Air Force headquarters, and Jack was awed by that. But this place reeked of money, big money. And he found it difficult to take his eyes off the stunning receptionist who greeted them in the foyer.

"Hi, Julie," Will began, on entering the suite. "Boy, you look great today. How's tricks? Ooops, wrong choice of words. Is he in?"

Julie laughed, tossed her head back and smiled coyly at Will. She was accustomed to bantering with her favorite reporter. "Yes, Will ... go right on in. He's expecting you."

"Gentlemen. ... and pretty lady. Come on in. I'm Marcus Whitcomb," declared the immaculately attired lawyer, as he reached for Jack's hand, and almost kissed Jenny's. Then he added "How are you Will. Good to see you." There was a perfunctory tone in the way he said it, perhaps his way of getting the pleasantries over before they got down to business. "Mike called to say you have a story to tell .. mister?? Didn't get the name."

Jack introduced himself and Jenny by name, as Whitcomb motioned for the three visitors to sit at a round conference table off to one side of the large, luxurious office. There was no avoiding the elegance of the setting. "This guy has done very well," Jack though to himself as he sat in one of the leather covered chairs.

Will explained that his friend, Jack, had a problem and needed help. He said that Jack's story was unusual and that he had been given an exclusive on it conditional upon Whitcomb's willingness to help legally. He added that the Bulletin was confident that this was the kind of legal challenge that Whitcomb would appreciate.

"Uh huh ... well, enough of the bullshit ... excuse me ma'am ... and your stroking, Will. What's going on here?"

Will waved his hand at Jack and said, "Perhaps we should have my friend here tell you what the problem is, in his own words. Does lawyer-client privilege start now?"

"Good idea, let's have Jack tell us what this is all about. And yes, anything you say here is strictly confidential, if I take your case .. or not." Whitcomb looked at Jack and then leaned back in his chair, obviously awaiting the story.

Jack took the next fifteen minutes to reveal the whole sordid story. He didn't leave out a single detail, this time however he added Greg's name, the first time that Will had heard it too. Whitcomb's facial expression changed several times during the recounting, but revealed no particular emotions. He interjected an occasional "Uh huh" or "I see", but otherwise didn't interrupt. When Jack finished, Whitcomb leaned forward and scratched a few notes on a yellow tablet.

"Well, Jack ... I'll have to admit it, but I've never heard anything like this. Never has a casino robbery been executed using a military jet fighter as a get-away car. Not to my knowledge. Who else knows about this?"

"No one. There's only four people that I've told any of this to, namely you, Will, Mike Lewis and my friend Jenny, here. And then there's Greg, of course. That's all," Jack responded.

"Have you been to the police yet? ... here or anywhere on this matter?" and Jack shook his head.

Whitcomb turned, asking, "Will, have you heard of any arrest warrants out on Jack yet?"

"No .. not a word around that I've heard. Not at city hall, the DA's office or on the Strip. I don't think the police have a clue about the identity of these fellows. The case is still active, but they don't have anything," Will explained.

"That's good," Whitcomb suggested. "It means that we have the initiative and some bargaining power, at least with the locals. But I am concerned that once the Feds get wind of this they will want their pound of flesh. I know General Beckley, the commander at Nellis AFB, and he'll be livid when he finds out that his air patch was part of this. The use of government equipment and military personnel could make this a Federal case and bring in the FBI. You know, of course, Jack, that you could still be subject to military justice and a courts martial ... in addition to the U.S. attorney's actions. It's not just a Nevada or Las Vegas matter,"

Jack's face turned white. He hadn't even thought of those implications. The urge to run rose in him, but his legs didn't move. This was bigger than he ever imagined. "Bad trouble, right?" was all he said. Jenny sat there stunned as well.

"Bad? Yes ... but I've seen worse," Whitcomb retorted. He looked at Jack ... in a fatherly kind of way, and continued, "I'll be straight with you, Jack. You are in trouble. We cannot deny that. But you do have a few things going for you, aside from me, that is."

Jack suddenly felt better. Up to this point he'd not heard Whitcomb talk in the context of his getting directly involved at all. This was better than he'd hoped for and he was now convinced that getting in touch with Will Andrews was probably the only smart thing he'd done in weeks, aside from following Jenny's advice.

"Did I hear you right, Mr. Whitcomb? Are you going to help me?" Jack glanced at Will, and as their eyes met Will nodded ever so slightly.

What neither Will nor Jack knew was that Watson, publisher of the Bulletin, already called Whitcomb and expressed his concern about Jack's plight. He said it would be a personal favor to him if Whitcomb would help Jack. The paper is going to play this story up for all it's worth and Watson was blunt in saying that Whitcomb could benefit by getting involved, and Whitcomb knew what the of owing personal favors could mean. Whitcomb had political aspirations and having the Bulletin in his corner at election time couldn't hurt.

"Yes, Jack. I'll take your case ... and pro bono. I was in uniform myself some years back and guess I still have a fondness for military types." Whitcomb was referring to his three years in the Navy back during the Viet Nam war, when he served as a radioman on a small river patrol boat south of Saigon. He'd even been hit by Viet Cong small arms fire and that earned him a Purple Heart. "Never flew jets, Jack ... but I support our men in uniform."

"Thank you .. thank you, Mr. Whitcomb. You can't know how much better this makes me feel. I know that I made a horrible mistake and I expect to pay for it, but this is the best news I've had since all of this started. Thank you."

"Do you mind if I stay close on this, Mr. Whitcomb" Will interjected. "Mike Lewis wants us to make the most of the exclusive on this story."

"Yeh .. yeh. I know. Tag along as you like, but when you get in the way I'll let you know. And one ground rule applies here. Let me make this absolutely clear, Will. You don't print a line without checking it with me first. First, understand?" Will nodded in agreement and understanding. "This all has to be handled just right," Whitcomb added.

"Jack, an officer of the court in the state of Nevada I am obligated to advise you to turn yourself in to the police. It is illegal for me to harbor a fugitive, just as it is for Will. As your attorney, I am suggesting that you let me contact the local District Attorney (DA) and advise him that you will be surrendering yourself to him personally, and that you have done so to me already. Is that your wish?"

"I guess so," Jack responded. "I'm guilty and ready to take my medicine. You're the legal expert and I accept your advice."

"Whoa there, my friend. Don't tell anybody that you are guilty, not the police and not the district attorney. You've got me to represent you through all of this and you don't say anything, repeat anything, without my being there advising you. You may indeed be and feel guilty, but in the eyes of the law you are innocent until the other side proves your guilt. Got that?"

"Yes sir, got it," Jack responded. "What happens next?"

"Well, it's after 5:00 o'clock and folks are gone for the day at the D.A.'s office, I suggest that you and Will and Jenny join me for supper someplace quiet. I'd like to spend some time getting to know more about Jack Martin, the man and the military officer. Then we'll get you back to wherever you are staying ... you do have a hotel or someplace to stay, don't you?"

Jack nodded and said they were at the Lucky Nugget Motel, just off the Strip. Whitcomb shuddered in disgust and suggested that the Bulletin could provide better accommodations than that for their "exclusive" story source. Will was taken aback, but agreed to talk with Mike about that.

"Hell, I'll call him myself. If Jack is going to turn himself in tomorrow then by god the paper ought to spring for a decent place tonight. The Bulletin is going to make a bundle on this story. What are they? ... tightwads?? The Lucky Nugget?? ...really Jack?? That place is a dump."

Jack interrupted, "I told Will and the paper that I wasn't asking for money. All I really wanted was your legal help, sir." Jack looked at Will, but he just shook his head. Will knew that Whitcomb was playing games with Mike ... and he knew that Mike would eventually spring for the nicer motel room. This was just Whitcomb's style.

"Mike? Marcus Whitcomb here," he began after getting through to the editor's desk. "I'm moving Jack Martin and his lady friend to the Tropicana for tonight. He's been holed up in a fleabag motel and deserves better. He's your gold mine source on this exclusive story ... and if he's going to be my client, then your paper is going to treat him right. I'll have the Tropicana send you the bill, and that includes dinner tonight. If I'm taking the fellow on as a pro bono case, the least you can do make him comfortable until the D.A. gets hold of him. Have a nice night, Mike." Whitcomb hung up the phone, with a wry smile and muttering "gotcha".

"C'mon people. Dinner's on the Bulletin tonight."

Chapter 8

Almost 2000 miles away and totally unaware of what was happening with Jack, Greg managed to find employment doing the only thing he knew. He found a job as corporate pilot for an Alabama steel fabricating company, flying their twin engine Lear jet. The company's chief pilot was former military and knew that anybody who'd flown F-4's could handle the relatively tame twin jet transport. He was also glad to have an unmarried pilot available, one who didn't have a wife or kids to place demands on his time. It seemed as though Greg had landed on his feet after all.

The pay was pretty good, even more than he was drawing as an Air Force major on flying status. About the only thing Greg didn't like was having to cater to the needs of young corporate executives, those "snot nosed kids" with MBA's who didn't know squat about aviation and didn't want to. It was Greg's job to get them from city to city, at all hours of the day or night, and make sure they were kept comfortable, amused and safe. He felt like a combination taxi driver and wet nurse.

Greg's flying schedule kept him on the go seven days a week. From Alabama he often flew to Boston, New York, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Memphis and New Orleans. It wasn't a regular schedule though, and that meant hours of hurry up and wait. The passengers were usually financial managers, but on occasion the company's CEO and other VIP's wanted transportation. He even made one trip out to Las Vegas, but that was a brief stop to let off a vice-president attending a celebrity golf tournament. The plane continued on to San Diego for the weekend.

This type of on-the-fly scheduling meant that Greg had no personal life at all. He lived out of a suitcase and never had a chance to make friends, much less drop into bars for a drink. He was required to stay sober at all times, ready to make a trips on short notice. Though his personal finances were looking better, he knew that he didn't want to do this for the remainder of his working life.

He never really considered anything other than a flying or related jobs. If he hadn't found the corporate pilot's position, he would have taken a crop dusting job down in south Texas. Only hauling fish down from Alaska and British Columbia went beyond the pale of aviation jobs he'd take, though the romance of becoming a bush up north pilot did appeal to his sense of adventure.

On one flight, from Alabama to New Orleans, Greg got to know the company cashier, who was taking a payroll to workers building oil rigs. He didn't get real chummy with the man, whom he knew only as George, but they were carrying two leather cases with $250,000 in cash. George, a careful man, asked Greg to accompany him to the job site, to provide a measure of security, Greg was even asked to carry a gun.

Before they climbed aboard the Lear jet, George asked, "Is it all right to carry chemical explosives aboard too?"

"I suppose so, George. It's your airplane after all. Why do you ask?"

"Well, in case somebody tries to steal these money cases, I've got a couple explosive die packs which I can drop in at the last minute. When they go off there's a small explosion and everything in the case gets covered with indelible red ink. Ever see one of these die packs?" George held on up, a pouch no bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

Greg played dumb, acting as though he'd never heard of such devices. "You mean that makes the money unusable? .... like the robber can't spend the money?"

"Well, not in the United States he can't. But in Mexico and some of the Caribbean islands folks aren't quite that fussy. If it's U.S. currency of any color, they'll take it."

Greg broke off the conversation, saying he had to complete his preflight. He settled his single passenger in the main cabin and climbed up into the cockpit. "Damn," he mutter to himself. "If I'd know that I never would have burned the money in the duffel bag up at the cabin. Son of a bitch."

The flight to New Orleans went smoothly. It was just an hour in duration. His passenger came up to the right seat, the co-pilot's seat and sat down. "Great view from up here," George remarked, trying to start some conversation.

Greg asked his companion, "Tell me George. How do those dye packs work? How do you know when they're going to explode?"

"I don't know for sure, Greg. There are several kinds. Some are strictly chemical reaction types that go off anywhere from five minutes to five hours, depending on the temperature. In very cold conditions they don't work at all."

"Well, can you set one off accidentally?" Greg continued.

"Suppose so. But on most models you have to activate them. Some have a pull-tab that sets 'em off and others are simply squeezed to break an ampul to get two chemicals together. It depends on which kind you buy, I guess."

"You said, George, that the money is made useless in the states when the die coats it. Why wouldn't that make the money worthless anywhere?"

"Banks and commercial outfits in the states are aware of what the red dye means. They not only won't take the money, they call in the police or FBI when somebody tries to pass the red currency. But outside the USA, good old American dollars are accepted no matter what color they are, just as long as they are from Uncle Sam."

"Amazing. Just amazing," Greg replied. George didn't notice that Greg was gripping the control wheel so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Greg was so angry he could barely control himself.

Chapter 9

Jack, Jenny and Will met Whitcomb in the lobby. The doorman greeted, "Good evening, Mr. Whitcomb. Welcome to the Flamingo," as the nattily attired barrister entered. It seemed to Will that everybody in town knew Whitcomb and treated him like royalty.

"Well, hello Mr. Whitcomb. What can we do for you?" asked the desk clerk. "Will you be staying with us tonight, sir?"

"No, Frank. I want two of your nicest adjoining rooms for Mr. Jack Martin and the young lady, here. He's my special client and I want you to treat him right. You'll be reading about him in the Bulletin soon. And oh yes, bill the Bulletin for his stay. Got that? Just tell 'em that Marcus Whitcomb and Mr. Watson cleared it."

'Come on folks. I'm hungry. Let's go up to the Skylight Dining Room and see how their prime rib is tonight."

They dutifully followed the ebullient Marcus Whitcomb. He seemed to make waves with every energetic step down the hallways, across lobbies and the like. The maitre 'd saw him coming as they approached the dining room's swinging glass doors.

"Your usual table, Mr. Whitcomb?"

"Here we are. Have a seat. I'll be right back. Order drinks if you like, and make mine ..... never mind. They know what I drink here."

Will ordered a glass of red wine, as did Jenny. "Just coffee for me," Jack added.

"You'd better have a cocktail tonight, Jack. There's no bar service in the county jail," Will joked.

Will responded, "I want to thank you again for connecting me with Mr. Whitcomb. He's for sure the right lawyer." Jenny agreed and remarked about how successful Whitcomb was.

"You got that, Jack. But don't let his swashbuckling manner fool you. He is good, damn good."

"Do you think he'll turn me in tomorrow?"

"No ... that's your nickel, but he'll make all the arrangements and get you the best deal possible. I expect that his first order of business in the morning is to contact the D.A. and negotiate the terms of your surrender. But don't worry. He'll be with you every step of the way," Will whispered.

"Did you folks order drinks yet?" Whitcomb inquired as he approached the table. Jack and Will sat across from Whitcomb on the semicircular leather bench. Whitcomb sidled up to Jenny, admiringly. Just then the waiter appeared with Whitcomb's martini, two wines and Jack's coffee. "Very dry, sir... Menus?"

"How's your prime rib tonight, Tony? Good as usual?"

"The best, Mr. Whitcomb. The chef has a particularly good cut this evening."

"That's what I'm having. I recommend that for you as well. There's no better in town."

All agreed and it was four of the same all around. "Jack? Aren't you having anything to drink?" Whitcomb inquired, noting just the coffee cup. "Better have one. Things won't be this good tomorrow, I suspect."

"No sir. This'll be just fine. I'm too nervous to enjoyed it anyway."

"Suit yourself. The paper's buying, you know. And Will, you can tell Mike that your boy here isn't braking the paper's entertainment budget. But that doesn't mean that I won't. Bottoms up."

For the next three hours the foursome sat talking. Well actually, Jack did most of the talking, as Whitcomb queried him on about every aspect of his life, family, Air Force career and relationship with Greg. Will made occasional notes as background for the stories to come. Whitcomb showed great interest in Jenny, even inquiring if she was interested in working in Las Vegas. She demurred. Not a word was said about the Highlite matter.

"An Idaho boy, eh? Great country," Whitcomb commented, following Jack's description of growing up and going to school in the Potato State. Whitcomb was most curious about Jack's being orphaned as a kid and being raised by his uncle. That could be useful information, adding credence to why he was so compliant to Greg's suggestions and dominance.

"Sounds like you are a genuine war hero too," the lawyer remarked, knowing that such information would influence a jury. "Did they give you any medals for your missions over Iraq?"

When Jack acknowledged that he'd earned two Air Medals, though they gave Greg a Distinguished Flying Cross, Whitcomb retorted, "Just the same you earned a war hero's medal and that's important. It shows you're that kind of fellow."

Whitcomb was especially interested in learning that Jack wasn't flying the airplane, merely along as copilot, when the getaway took place. He assumed that when Jack mentioned whenever he was aloft with Greg was he permitted do some of the flying. Greg always flew the airplane. Jack only took care of routine tasks, like radio position reporting with the FAA, keeping track of fuel and doing navigation. That told Whitcomb that Jack was not in charge and wasn't nearly as guilty as Greg. Jack was, at worse, a misguided accomplice.

But what most impressed Whitcomb was Jack's willingness to step forward and accept responsibility for his actions. That showed that he was contrite, remorseful and accepting of his part in the whole matter. Even the most jaded D.A. would be impressed by that.

Then Whitcomb shifted matters. "Jack. Here's what's going to happen tomorrow morning. I'm going to call my friend David Wilson, the district attorney, around 9:00 o'clock. I'll fill him in on your situation and let him know that we'll be in his office by 10:30. He'll be surprised, I'm sure. That means you're to be in my office no later than 9:30. Understand?"

"Yes sir. 0930 hours. I'll be there" Jack affirmed, his stomach tightening as he realized that jail was getting closer by the minute.

"I'll pick you up here and drive you over to Mr. Whitcomb's office," Will added. "Is it all right if I tag along, sir?"

"Yeh, sure. Just don't get in the way though."

Jenny explained that she would be leaving early in the morning to drive back to Boise. "Gotta get back to work, you know," she added with a weak smile. This had been a troublesome day and tomorrow would be worse, especially for Jack.

Whitcomb looked at his Rolex and sighed. "Gotta run folks. Nature calls, and I've got some things to do before bedtime. See you at 9:30." And turning to Will he added, "Check these people out of that fleabag and get them settled here before you call it a night."

It was nearly midnight before Jack was alone in his room. Jenny actually gave him a warm goodnight kiss, as he thanked her profusely for being here through all of this. Further, he gave her the car keys and asked her to drive it back to Idaho. Then he explained that the finance company would probably come looking for it, since in prison he couldn't meet the payment. "Don't worry. It's just wheels."

He had to admit that this place beat the heck out of the Lucky Nugget. Yet, despite his improved surroundings, Jack couldn't enjoy his temporary good fortune. He slept only a little, rising at dawn on the most fateful day of his life.

"Ready Jack? It's almost 8:30." Will stepped in as the door to room #814 opened. He stood there for a few seconds, looking all around. "Boy, nice digs. We'd better not let Mike know about this place. He'll blow a fuse. Oh, has Jenny left already?"

"Yes, she has, and .. I guess so, I'm ready," Jack stammered. His stomach was churning and tight. "Been awake since before sun up. Mostly it's the unknown that bothers me. I have no idea what to expect this morning." Jack's one suitcase was packed and standing near the door.

"I won't kid you, Jack. Today is going to be rough. The easy part will be going over to the courthouse with Marcus. You can expect to be questioned repeatedly, almost as though every policeman and member of the D.A's staff hadn't heard a word before. Just keep your cool and tell the truth. But remember Marcus' words. Say nothing to anybody unless he approves. They are going to try to get you to incriminate yourself, to trip you up and shake your composure. It's part of the process."

"Will there may be other press people there? ... TV cameras or such? I've seen how some of those guys harass people on the 6:00 o'clock news."

"Probably not until tonight or tomorrow. Remember that right now nobody else knows who you are or why you're headed to the court house. The media will be more interested in Marcus and what he's up to ... at least in the beginning. Just this one bag?"

"Yeh .. that's it. Just the one bag. Didn't figure I'd need more." Jack turned to take a last look at his luxurious room, realizing that it may be some time, years perhaps, before he sees another like it.

"Did you get any breakfast? There's no telling when you'll be able to eat today, if at all," Will inquired while they waited for the elevator. "As for me, I could use a cup of coffee and a roll, or something. We've got time."

In the lobby, Jack stopped by the cashier's counter and turned in his room key card. Rifling through some manila cards in a rack, the cashier grabbed one, exclaiming, "It's all been take care of, Mr. Martin. We hope you enjoyed your stay." Jack smiled, weakly and nodded in the affirmative.

"Let's grab something over at the breakfast buffet. It'll be quicker," Will suggested, guiding his nervous friend toward a booth and then the stack of dinner plates at the end of the counter. Jack placed his suitcase under a table and followed Will to the buffet.

"I guess I am kinda hungry. Just hope I can keep it down."

Will was already out in front of Jack and looking over some cinnamon rolls. "Hey Jack, these look good."

"No thanks, I'll just have some scrambled eggs and toast. Well, perhaps some of these sausages too. This spread does look inviting." Jack soon had a full meal piled onto his plate, before he headed back to the table, where a waitress was already pouring coffees. "Fresh orange juice, gentlemen?" she inquired. Both men declined and sat down.

In barely ten minutes, Jack finished his meal and began to work on a second cup of coffee. "Guess my nervous energy made me hungrier than I though, despite last night's big meal."

At 9:30 sharp the two men appeared before Julie's desk in the Whitcomb Building. She suggested that they have a seat, as Mr. Whitcomb was on the telephone. "I'll just tell him that you are here."

Both Jack and Will followed her with their eyes, as she slipped into Whitcomb's office and quickly returned to her desk. She smiled and then turned to work on some papers.

In about five minutes Whitcomb appeared at his office door. "C'mon in fellas. Well, Jack? Did you get any sleep last night? Where's that pretty gal of yours? And how about breakfast. Did you get some? Going to be a busy day and you'll need your energy."

"Yes, sir," Jack responded. "I ate at the buffet in the lobby area, just a little while ago. But no, I didn't sleep much at all. Jenny left early to drive back to Boise."

"Well, that's understandable. This is going to be a unique experience for you, I imagine. Few folks escape being nervous and tense. But don't worry. I'll be with you all morning at least."

"What happens first? Jack inquired."

"First I make a couple more phone calls. Then you and I will drive down to the court house and surrender you to the D.A.. He knows you're coming and the first part will be pretty much pro forma. You will be arrested, booked, finger printed and taken to one of several interrogation rooms. There folks from the D.A.'s office will question you at length. But remember what I said. You say nothing unless I am with you. Nothing. Understood?"

"Can I meet you at the court house, Mr. Whitcomb?" Will asked, not wanting to be left out of anything if he could avoid it.

"It's okay with me, Will. But that's pretty much up to the D.A. and the police. It's their turf, you know. And by the way. Have you seen Mike this morning. Everything okay with the Flamingo expenses?"

"Yes sir, but I'm not at liberty to repeat the expletives he tossed about when your name came up."

Marcus laughed, "Yeh. I'll bet he had some dandies. He'll get even, I'm sure."

Jack didn't say much at all during the ride down to South Street and to the court house. Neither did Whitcomb, except to caution Jack once more about not saying anything, anything at all without his consent. The big white Lincoln parked in a spot marked "Official". Jack was curious how Whitcomb could do that, but said nothing.

Up the marble court house steps they climbed, Whitcomb managing to stay out in front. Jack was impressed that this fellow who obviously lives well handled the stairs without even breathing hard.

A uniformed guard greeted Whitcomb by name and asked that the men sign a registry book at the counter, before quickly allowing them to pass and head for the elevator.

"Good morning, Marcus," greeted the immaculately dressed man extending his hand to Whitcomb. This was Davis Wilson, District Attorney for the county and a very capable prosecutor. He was tough, but he was fair. He and Marcus had gone toe-to-toe many times on tough cases. The press was always delighted when these two tangled in court.

Will was not permitted to join Whitcomb and Jack as they disappeared into the D.A.'s inner office.

He had to be content cooling his heels in the waiting room, where several other reporters were also hanging around. He looked up as a reporter from a rival paper asked, "Well, what brings the Bulletin here this morning? You're not on the police beat, Will?"

It was Graham Jacoby, a long-time reporter who covered the court house and county jail beat. "Hi ya, Graham. Chased any patrol cars this morning?" For several minutes the two rivals and friends exchanged small talk, neither saying much about what they were covering.

"Who was the guy there with Whitcomb a few minutes ago? Anybody I should know about?" Graham pressed.

"Naw .. nobody important. I heard that he's Marcus' new assistant, or something like that," Jack mentioned off-handedly to mislead his rival. "Probably just a protocol thing, you know."

Inside Wilson's office, Whitcomb played it very low key, simply explaining that he was escorting Jack whilst he voluntarily surrendered in the Highlite casino matter. He also stated that he was Jack's attorney and was advising his client to say nothing. He did say that Jack intended to plead not guilty, which statement surprised Jack. No mention of a plea was even suggested, but then later Whitcomb whispered it was merely pro forma at this stage.

Shortly, two uniformed policemen arrived and disappeared into Wilson's office. Will knew that soon Jack would be brought to the booking desk. He quickly and quietly left to be at the police station when Jack was brought in. Will said nothing to Graham.

Whitcomb accompanied Jack to the police station, both to look out for Jack's interests and to let the police know that here was a client they shouldn't mess with, or attempt to bully. The police were well aware of the influence that Whitcomb had, and of the consequences of crossing him. It was not long ago that one detective was canned for going too far with one of Whitcomb's clients.

Actually, the police were not rough on Jack at all. He didn't get the rubber hose treatment, or the bright light in the face. Detectives didn't attempt to "good guy - bad guy" shake him, nor did they act in any way one might consider inappropriate. They were efficient, business-like and by the book. But then Whitcomb was there nearly all morning.

Word spread like wildfire around town that the police had a suspect in custody for the Highlite robbery. There was nothing secure about the police station. Soon police beat reporters were buzzing about it, and telephones were jammed with calls to editors. Jack hadn't been in custody an hour before the word was out, though few members of the press had any idea who Jack was. They'd have to read about it in the Bulletin.

At twelve noon Will returned to the Bulletin newsroom, greeted brusquely by Mike who reminded, "You've got one hour, Will," reminding him that deadline for the afternoon press run is one o'clock. "What have you got for me?"

"No sweat, Mike. I've already written the first installment on the story. The other papers will be livid when they see the afternoon edition. I'll have it on the system in a few minutes." Will didn't mention that he had promised Whitcomb approval rights over what was said about his client. Will dialed Whitcomb's number and Julie answered. "Hi, Julie ... Will Andrews for Mr. Whitcomb. It's urgent."

"Yes Will. What's so urgent?" came the quick reply from Whitcomb.

"Sir I promised you would see my copy before we went to press. So I am fax'ing you the story that's coming out in the afternoon edition. Deadline is 1:00 PM and Mike is on my case. So unless you call back before then, we're going to press. Sorry about the time crunch, but we gotta make the deadline or we'll read about all of this in the competition's papers."

"Okay .. fax it to me right away. I trust your instincts and know you wouldn't hurt my client ... or your exclusive source. If you don't hear back from me, go with it. Gotta run."

Within two minutes Will sent Whitcomb the fax copy of what he had already written as the top story for the day. Simultaneously, he put it on the paper's internal network system, and further sent Mike an email message that it was available on his office terminal. He cautioned Mike not to jump the gun, telling him that Whitcomb was also reviewing the copy. "Don't run with this until one o'clock, PLEASE !!! I promised Marcus."

At 3:30 that afternoon, trucks began pulling away from the Bulletin's loading docks. Bundles of afternoon edition papers headed for news stands and regional distribution points. Paperboys were soon be tossing the Bulletin onto driveways and lawns throughout the county. Many bundles headed for the airport and out-of-town sellers from coast to coast.

With the general public, reaction to Will's story about the arrest of the Highlite Casino robber was not viewed as anything special. Some readers simply raised an eyebrow on reading that the getaway involved a military jet fighter, but most people were only mildly curious. Reactions were more profound at other newspapers, local television news centers and out at Nellis Air Force Base. Comments to Will's story would be time-delayed, but it soon stirred up a media frenzy. Will had set off a maelstrom, scooping the competition and propelling the Bulletin into the national spotlight.

Mike was delighted. "Atta boy, Will. You done good."

But the commanding general at Nellis AFB was not so pleased. He barked for his Judge Advocate to come over, on-the-double. Suddenly, into the general's office stormed a reporter and camerman from Channel 12. "You can't go in there," the general's secretary protested. Too late.

Seeing that the camera lights were on and the video recorder was already running, the general smiled, like any good politician, and inquired, "What can I do for you, gentlemen?" When the reporter shoved a microphone in the general's face and asked for comment about an Air Force jet fighter being used in a casino robbery, the general's face turned red.

"Well ... er, ah ... naturally it's unacceptable. That's right. It's totally unacceptable and the Air Force in no way condones such actions. We'll be investigating the matter thoroughly, you can be assured of that." The general motioned for his aide to get that TV crew out of his office. Just as the room was being cleared, in walked Colonel Bynam, the Judge Advocate. "Wally, get in here and shut that door," the general snapped.

"Yes, general? You wanted to see me??

"I sure as hell do, Wally. Did you see the papers this afternoon? It's the first I've heard of those two idiots from Idaho ripping of that casino and flying out of here with the money. Right from my own base, those bastards. Wally ... I want you to check into this and get somebody right on it. I want an O.S.I. (Office of Special Investigation - a military investigatory group) or F.B.I. (Federal Bureau of Investigation) team on this now. Now! Do you hear?"

"Right away, general. Anything else?" Colonel Bynam noted the general's negative head shake and wave off. He promptly departed.

"Rose. Who let that TV bunch in here anyway?" the general bellowed through the open door.

Rose, his dependable middle-aged secretary, a well-groomed, efficient, school teacher-like lady, seemed totally flustered. She replied that she never saw the press team coming, and before she could stop them they barged right on into the general's office. "I'm sorry, general."

"Well, draft a strong letter to the station manager, expressing my displeasure ... and tell him that his TV crews are barred from the base ... effective immediately. If I catch one of them anywhere near this place they'll be tossed in the guard house. Make it really strong, Rose."

Soon Rose regained her composure and began drafting the letter. She still couldn't figure out how that TV crew slipped in so quickly.

Channel 12, a local Las Vegas station, was first on the air with the story, though they had little more to go on than Will's piece in the Bulletin, plus that footage of the general. They added a few words of their own, mostly editorializing on the mis-use of an Air Force jet and the fact that local police would still be beating the bushes for a clue on the robbery, if one of the perpetrators hadn't voluntarily come forward. They seemed to be gloating over the embarrassment to both the Nellis and police officials. They also mentioned, just in passing, that Marcus Whitcomb, a prominent local attorney, was representing one of the accused.

Other evening papers said not a word about the story. But one local radio talk show host was having a field day. That muckraking popular broadcaster seemed to be having the time of his life, encouraging callers to disparage the police and the military. Callers too were jumping on the bandwagon, suggesting that the pilots were a discredit to the Air Force and should be drummed out. Of course they hadn't yet read in the Bulletin that both were recently discharged. They'd have to wait for tomorrow's edition.

Chapter 10

Colonel Bynam, chief legal officer for Nellis AFB and a member of the Nevada Bar, called his friend District Attorney Wilson. Wilson suggested they meet for lunch where he could more comfortably relate what he could about the Highlite case. Wilson didn't trust insecure public telephone lines.

A small up-scale restaurant was the scene of a discussion that would greatly affect the future of both Jack and Greg. Wilson explained the whole story, as he knew it, of the two pilots and the robbery. He repeated Jack's story about the cargo pod drop, the avalanche and later discovery of bits of burned money and remnants of a bag, claimed by Jack to be stashed in a coffee can up in the mountain cabin.

"Any information on the converted fuel pod?" the colonel pressed. He knew that the general would be interested in elements of the story that might involve federal crimes. The D.A. shook his head, adding only that "the pod is missing, though Martin claims to have seen it before the snowmobile chase and the avalanche. My guess is that the pod is in the lake."

Then Wilson inquired,. "Do you suppose that we could get help on this from the FBI, based on the misuse of government property and theft of the fuel pod? We'd really like to get our hands on that Greg fellow, for he is the apparent leader."

Bynam said he'd do what he could, but really thought it would take a request from the U.S. Attorney's office. "We in the Air Force can't order the FBI to do anything, but the U.S. Attorney can. I'll give his office a call and get back to you."

The U.S. attorney clearly wanted to help. He said that he'd contact some FBI folks and get them on Greg's trail. "It's pretty thin, he admitted to the FBI agent. Yeh, the general wants to make a federal case out of this, but just the loss of a $10,000 fuel pod doesn't seem to warrant our prosecution, and the two pilots did have a legitimate reason for using the airplane. Do what you can on this, primarily as a gesture of cooperation with the Clark County prosecutor. He really wants the other pilot." The FBI agreed to do what they could, without going so far as to assemble a task force.

That afternoon Mike pressed Will for the next installment on the Highlite story. "This is great," Mike gleefully declared. "The other papers are merely repackaging our stuff. They haven't come up with anything new on their own. You sure scooped 'em, Will." The Bulletin's second piece would amplify details on the avalanche and Jack's rescue on the mountain. This was information that only a lengthy interview with Jack could reveal, and Jack wasn't talking to the media. He was honoring his end of the deal, so far as Will and the Bulletin went.

Marcus met that day with both the D.A. and the Judge Advocate. Hints about prosecuting Jack on both state and federal charges were rumored. If Jack was to be indicted in both jurisdictions, Marcus could foresee considerable time, effort and expense for him on this 'pro bono' case, and he earnestly felt that wasn't warranted. While he liked Jack personally and felt that Greg was the real culprit, he wasn't too keen on investing a great deal of time and money in the case, though he didn't object to the press attention he was getting.

In conversations with Colonel Bynam, Marcus insisted that Jack was not the one who dropped the pod, Greg was. "It's Greg you want, my friend, if you really want to make a federal case. Why not leave Jack to Clark County and state. He's not much more than a hapless pawn in all of this. And Jack was the one who turned himself in, after all." Bynam nodded in agreement, and then disclosed his conversations with the U.S. Attorney, adding, "the FBI is probably looking for Houseman as we speak."

Well, not exactly. The wheels of government, including the FBI, sometimes move at a snail's pace without the oil of political pressures and influence. And the general's influence wasn't particularly impressive. Those on the federal side knew only too well that generals were really concerned about their butts and images with the Pentagon, Congress and others who could affect their careers and chances for more stars. They felt that this was a classic case of image protection.

The second day, following the Bulletin's first article, the television networks decided to pick up on the matter. Late in a 5:00 o'clock broadcast one of the network news anchors re-hashed Will's story, adding a couple film clips of an F-4. One portrayed an F-4 taking off, afterburners flaming a pattern of hot engine exhaust down the runway. A second clip showed a typical centerline fuel pod, suspended beneath an F-4 on the flightline. The news anchor explained to his audience that some fuel pods were modified to carry cargo, since pilots flying on cross-country trips had no place to carry luggage.

Greg happened to be sitting in the pilots' lounge at his employer's hangar, when the television story came on the tube. "Damn," he muttered. "Why in the hell didn't Jack keep his stupid mouth shut?" Fortunately, Greg was alone in the lounge at the time. No one heard his outburst. He felt, correctly, that it might just be a matter of time before police across the country would be on the lookout for him. But Greg felt a sense of comfort, knowing that it was way out west in Nevada that he was wanted. Since no bank was involved, he needn't worry about the FBI. How wrong he was.

With his heavy and perpetual five-o'clock shadow, Greg knew that he could grow an appearance-changing beard in short order, perhaps a week or ten days. Yet the company insisted on a clean-cut appearance with no beards allowed, though mustaches were permitted. He needed to change his appearance somehow, lest he be recognized by some cop or even a post office clerk. What in the hell could he do, without jeopardizing his job and income?

Just as he flicked off the television set, in walked the chief pilot. "Roger?," Greg inquired. "What would the company rules say about my growing a well-groomed beard? I'm having trouble with a face rash and would really like to let my beard grow. How about a nicely trimmed Van Dyke?"

Roger thought a minute and said, "Well, I personally don't give a damn, as long as you look professional and management doesn't object. But you'll look like hell until the beard grows out. It's your problem."

"I haven't had a day off since you hired me, Rog. How about I take a week off and next time you see me I'll have a groomed, neat beard? What do you say?"

"Yeh, sure. The airplane is scheduled for its annual inspection. We could do that next week, I guess. I'll tell the front office that the bird won't be available. No Problem. See you in a week."

Greg was delighted and greatly relieved. This would give him the chance to grow a beard and change his appearance. That would lessen the chances of being recognized on the street anyway.

And he needed time to think through what Jack's capture might mean for him. He hung around the lounge until after dark before heading for his apartment. In fact, he planned on sticking close to home for a while, keeping a very low profile, venturing out only as necessary.

Back in Las Vegas, Jack and lawyer Whitcomb were beginning to disagree on whether or not Jack should plead guilty and be done with it. The D.A was about to start the grand jury process leading to a formal indictment. Whitcomb leaned toward having Jack plead 'not guilty' and anticipated a fairly simple trial, at worst leading to a possible conviction as a first offender on the felony charge. At best he hoped that Jack would receive a suspended sentence and a period of supervised probation. The casino owner was pressing the D.A. to prosecute Jack to the fullest, feeling that he was a bird in the hand and that Greg might never be caught. He just wanted somebody to pay for his being robbed. He sought vengance.

Jack discussed options with Whitcomb. "If I simply plead guilty, which I clearly am, perhaps skipping a jury trial would be welcomed by the judge. It would save the county lots of money and trouble. That might weigh in my favor, wouldn't it?" Whitcomb wasn't so sure that pleading guilty would lead to a lower sentence, assuming that prison was the only outcome.

"Jack, you're not considering the possibility that we can convince a jury that you are not the real offending party. We could build a pretty good case that Greg led you 'down the garden path' and exercised his authority over you to be an unwilling accomplice. It was Greg, after all, who flew the airplane, dropped the pod and instigated the whole enterprize. You have a previously unblemished record, not even a parking ticket that I know of. Are you sure you really want to go to prison?"

Yet, to himself, Whitcomb could see the benefits to him of letting his client, his 'pro bono' client obviate the need for a jury trial. The time and expense of that trial would be wholly born by Whitcomb. It's not likely that the Bulletin would kick in any money. And besides, Whitcomb had other cases to handle. This 'pro bono' thing was taking him away from paying clients. Whitcomb didn't consider, even for a second, the possibility of claiming the $25,000 casino reward for arrest and conviction of the robbers, even if that money could be applied to his expenses for defending Jack. If anybody qualified for that reward it was probably Andrews of the Bulletin.

Chapter 11

Neither the Bulletin nor Whitcomb offered up any bail money when Jack was arraigned. Whitcomb did argue that Jack was not a risk for flight, he was a first time offender who had voluntarily turned himself in and should be released on his own recognizance. The D.A.'s representative argued that Jack was not a Las Vegas resident, had no job in the area and might indeed be at risk to flee. The judge set bail at $50,000, which Jack could not meet. So until a trial date, following a grand jury indictment, Jack would stay in the county jail.

Jack shared a cell with a man charged with embezzlement, alleged to have stolen $200,000 from his employer. The guy protested his innocence,long and loudly, with Jack getting pretty tired of his cellmate's tirades.

The alleged embezzler repeatedly tried to engage Jack in conversation about the casino robbery, but mindful of Whitcomb's cautioning, he refused to discuss it. When they got into conversation at all it was about flying military jets. The cellmate was fascinated by things Air Force, especially high performance fighters. Though he had never flown in anything but an airliner, the fellow was well-read on the subject. Airplanes was a safe topic, though Jack was careful not to disclose any information even remotely connected to his case, not even discussing how one drops a fuel pod.

Mostly, though, Jack just wished that his cellmate would simply shut up and leave him alone.

The third installment of Will's series in the Bulletin came out, this one mentioning Jack and Greg's involuntary discharges from the Air Force, explaining how the two were RIF'd as a result of Defense Department cutbacks. It was a human interest piece, emphasizing the dilemma each man faced, of suddenly becoming unemployed, of huge debts hanging over their heads and even a sense of growing panic which possibly led to their acting as they did. It was clearly a story segment that Whitcomb influenced. His client needed all the public support that the newspaper could generate. Mike Lewis was reluctant to print such a slanted story, but went along when leaned on by Whitcomb.

The casino owner was livid when he read the story. He called the Bulletin and climbed all over Mike, demanding to speak with Will. "Whatsa matter with you newspaper guys? Why in the hell are you defending those crumb bums? Can't a businessman in this town get any justice? I even put up a $25,000 reward to get these guys convicted ... and now you're helping the defense attorney?"

Mike listened politely, patiently and with some sense of sympathy. He knew that Whitcomb's ploy would not sit well with some folks, especially the casino owner. But he remained as an intercedant between the irate caller and his reporter, not putting the call through to Will's desk.

The next morning Whitcomb came by the jail to talk with his client. "Did you see the Bulletin yesterday afternoon, Jack? That ought to help any jury be more sympathetic, eh?"

"It won't make any difference, Mr. Whitcomb. I have decided that I simply want to plead guilty and take whatever the judge hands out. In fact, I think we ought to head off the grand jury too."

Whitcomb just shook his head, "but Jack, you've got a good chance of getting out of this with just probation. It's Greg that the D.A. wants ... and you might even get your case downgraded to a misdemeanor. Think about it. Prison is no fun, my friend."

"I have thought about it ... and lots of things. I have to do what is right, not just what we can get away with." Jack had been thinking of Jenny's words again. He was ready to admit his guilt and accept whatever the judge felt was deserved punishment.

Whitcomb understood Jack's remorse, but reminded, "It's up to the D.A. to prove his case against you, and I don't think he has all that much. Greg's situation is different, but even your confessions to Will can be challenged and perhaps thrown out. You were desperate and not thinking right. It could be seen as coercion. And besides, if you really had this 'death wish' why did you want my help anyway?" Whitcomb sounded irritated at Jack's change of heart.

"I'll admit to mixed feelings, sir. But I have thought and thought about this, every waking moment since coming back to Las Vegas. I want to do the right thing. I ask you, as my attorney to contact the judge who arraigned me and request a short hearing. I want to speak to him. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I can do that. As your attorney I advise against it, but if you're all that determined to go to prison, at least let me make a statement to the judge on your behalf. You could be facing ten years, worst case. I think I can convince him to lessen that to maybe one-to-five, with probation after that of a year or so. It's possible that you could be out, with good behavior, in 18 months."

Jack thought about Whitcomb's words only briefly and replied, "Do it. Please see if the judge will listen to me. I can live with 18 months ... or even five years, if I have to."

"Okay. I'll contact the judge this afternoon."

That afternoon Whitcomb met with the judge in his office. He explained his client's remorsefulness and determination to pay for his mistake. He was, in essence, throwing himself on the mercy of the judge, believing the time and costs of a jury trial were unnecessary. The judge reminded Whitcomb that his client was entitled to due process, including a jury trial. But he would grant Jack a private audience, as soon as the next day, say around 2:00 P.M.. Whitcomb thanked the judge and ended by requesting if he, as Jack's counsel, would be permitted to make a statement at the meeting. The judge agreed, but said that the D.A.'s office had to be there too.

Will called Whitcomb's office to say that he had another installment of the story ready for review. The piece would appear in the next afternoon's paper, if Whitcomb approved. "Well, Will ... you may have to rewrite that piece. Jack's decided to plead guilty and avoid a trial. He's determined to take his punishment and get this all behind him. I tried to convince him otherwise, but tomorrow afternoon we're meeting Judge Terrill in chambers. It could all be over by the end of the week."

"God how I wish I could be there, Mr. Whitcomb. That's not possible, is it?" Whitcomb replied that there was no chance of that happening. "I know, I was just hoping," Will sighed.

"Tell you what I can do, my friend," Whitcomb offered. "I'll call you ... or meet you, as you wish, right after the meeting. It's at 2:00 o'clock. You'll be the first of the media to know what transpired."

"Damn .. that's well past deadline. Okay. So what do you think will take place?" Will pressed.

"I think Jack will ask to plead guilty right up front. And I suspect that the judge will accept and schedule a sentencing a few days later. His calendar is pretty full, and he'll not want to protract things any longer than necessary. With my being there, as Jack's attorney, and the D.A.'s office represented too, there's no reason the judge would deny the request. I've already gotten Judge Terrill's agreement to make a statement on Jack's behalf. We might get his sentence down to as low as one-to-five. Keep this under your hat though. Some of this is privileged information."

"Mum's the word. I understand. I won't even mention this to Mike. Looks like I have to write a second piece for the paper tomorrow though, depending on what actually takes place." Then it registered again that all of this would be after tomorrow's deadline. "I may have to substitute a simpler background story segment, saving the big story for the following day."

"Well, I still expect you to clear whatever you write with me first. Even if Jack wants to short-circuit the process, I still am his attorney. Just keep in mind that .... aw, never mind. I know you'll do right by Jack. Talk to you tomorrow."

Whitcomb hung up the phone and just sat there, still amazed at his client's determination to take his medicine without a fight. In fact, it was just that amazement that planted the seeds of what and how he would present in his plea to Judge Terrill for leniency. "Amazing. Absolutely amazing. Never had a client like Jack," he muttered, shaking his head.

In Judge Terrill's chambers appeared quite a group of people. There was Marcus Whitcomb and his client, Jack. So too was D.A. Wilson and one of his aides. A court stenographer sat off to one side of the room, prepared to document whatever was said there for the record.

The judge began by stating that Mr.John Martin, the accused in the case of the Highlite Casino robbery requested this meeting. For the record the judge also recited the names and official capacities of those also present in the room. And then he turned to Jack and declared, "All right, Mr. Martin. You may make your statement. You are reminded, however, that this is for the record. And further, you are entitled to confer with your attorney at any point in this session, as you choose."

Jack began, first by thanking the judge for granting him this special meeting. "Your honor, I have, against the advice of my attorney, decided to enter a plea of guilty. I freely admit my stupid and senseless role in the Highlite Casino robbery and am prepared to accept punishment for my actions. I deeply regret what I did and suggest that for the sake of saving the court further time, expense and trouble in conducting a jury trial, you need not proceed with a grand jury or formal trial. I will accept whatever sentence you deem appropriate."

Judge Terrill responded by saying that what Jack proposed was highly unusual. Then he turned to D.A. Wilson, saying "Does the District Attorney have any objections to accepting the guilty plea of the accused, or of proceeding directly to sentencing?"

"No, your honor. We have no objections to this plea, though we do have a recommendation as to an appropriate sentence in a felony of this seriousness."

"And that might be, Mr. Wilson???" the judge solicited.

"It is our recommendation, your honor, that the accused receive a sentence of not less than ten years confinement in a medium security prison. The severity of the offense, a class one felony involving the theft of over $300,000, demands no less."

"Your honor," Whitcomb interrupted, "despite my client's statement contravening my explicit counsel, I request the opportunity to make a statement on his behalf."

"Somehow, Mr. Whitcomb," the judge responded, "I knew you would. Does the District Attorney have any objections?" Wilson said no.

"Your honor, I am sympathetic with my client's remorsefulness, his willingness to accept without full and due process a simple and abbreviated determination in his case. But it is incumbent upon me, in the name of justice, to point out certain facts." Then Whitcomb cited point after point his client's actions since the robbery. Jack did voluntarily return to Las Vegas and surrender himself to authorities. He has cooperated with the police, the D.A.'s office and this court. He as accepted responsibility for his actions and regrets what he did. Further, he is a first-time offender with a previous record of honest, dedicated and even patriotic citizenship. He is a decorated war hero, a man who was orphaned as a child, raised by an uncle and university educated. He is non-violent, no threat to society and willing to accept the court directed punishment. He does not plan to make appeals or protract the process further.

In short, your honor, my client is a man who found himself in difficult straights, was financially strapped, with no job prospects, his military career over due to no fault of his own, and desperate for a way out of his dilemma. He was not the instigator of the robbery. He was, in fact, under the direct control and supervision of his pilot, Major Gregory Houseman. It is not my client, but Houseman who should bear the greater responsibility. My client was a only a minor participant in the feloneous act. In view of this, your honor, I urge you to sentence Mr. Martin to a period of strict probation, perhaps two years, and 500 hours of community service."

D.A. Wilson sat there, shaking his head in disbelief that Whitcomb could even suggest zero prison time. He thought the suggested sentence was ludicrous. And then he said so.

Chapter 12

Heavy Alabama rain splattered onto the windshield, as Greg ran to his car carrying a bottle of cheap bourbon in a brown paper sack. His other arm clutched a grocery bag containing just a frozen pizza and a quart of ice cream, from a liquor and convenience store along the way to his apartment. Darkened slick streets swallowed the headlights, making it difficult to read signs. He barely caught sight of the one at his turnoff, swerving into the wrong lane at the last second as another car approached.

"Whoa there," he muttered, correcting quickly. "Better not have an accident. Don't need any cops investigating or asking who I am." The last two blocks he took it especially easy before parking in the spot reserved for apartment number nine. Greg had been pretty scrupulous about not advertising his identity, going so far as destroying all of his credit cards, not getting a telephone and seeking out an apartment that included utilities in the rent. He worried that his Idaho license plates might draw attention, so he purposefully splattered mud on them, partially hiding the numbers.

He flipped on the wall light switch, as the apartment door swung open. Then he nudged it closed with his heel and placed the bags on the small dinette table. He shook his dripping jacket over the linoleum floor, then draped the soaked garment over the back of the nearest chair. "425 degrees for 20 minutes," said the back of the frozen pizza box withdrawn from the larger sack.. He reached across the stove and set the oven control dials, before tossing the ice cream into the freezer compartment of an old refrigerator next to the sink. "Time for a drink before my gourmet supper. Bourbon and branch ought to do it," he added, while plopping ice cubes into a plastic tumbler. "Don't have to fly tomorrow. So a libation won't hurt"

He kicked off his shoes and walked over to the television set. Greg's cheaply furnished tiny apartment was a far cry from what he'd envisioned as digs. If he'd not lost that stained money he would be living in the lap of luxury, certainly not in rainy, cold and dreary Birmingham. "Ah well, that's the way it goes," he sighed, taking a sip of his drink. "At least I've got work."

The tired old television set seemed to never lose its lousy colored tint, no matter which knobs Greg turned or how he twisted the rabbit ears. Just then a slightly fuzzy and dark grayish anchor man on the local station began reading the news. About 15 minutes into the program came another report about the capture of a Las Vegas casino robber, as the image switched to the same film clips of an F-4 taking off and then a ramp view of one carrying a fuel pod. Emphasis was not so much on the robbery, but on the airplane getaway. The Highlite Casino was mentioned by name, as was that of Marcus Whitcomb, famous Las Vegas attorney for the unnamed accused.

"How in the hell did Jack manage to land a celebrity lawyer?" Greg muttered. "Did he find the other bag of money? Son of a bitch." The more Greg drank, and thought about the possibility that Jack was spending the money for a lawyer, the madder he got. He slouched down into the one easy chair in the apartment, just as the buzzer on the stove blared to indicate that supper was ready. Greg just let it buzz for a few minutes, before realizing that his pizza might burn if he didn't answer the call.

It did stick to the cookie sheet a little. Luckily his pizza wasn't badly burned. Greg slid it onto a dinner plate, rummaged in a drawer for a fork and knife and started to cut his supper. Soon he picked up the edge of one piece and lifted it to his mouth. The hot dripping cheese burned his lips. "Ouch." Melted cheese and tomato sauce ran down his shirt front. "Damn." Quickly, he slurped some of his cold drink, and attempted to wipe the mess off his shirt. More rubbing only made it worse. He remembered to shut off the oven and then carried the meal over to the coffee table, between his chair and the television. "Better let it cool down a bit." Weather and sports coverage ended the program, though Greg cared not a bit what local schools were doing. Rain was forecast again.

For the next three days Greg lived a reclusive existence, reluctant to go out in public, yet getting more and more bored with this hiding. His bathroom mirror revealed only a bad case of extreme five o'clock shadow, a long way to go to a trimable beard. He looked like a bum. "This'll never be long enough when my week is up," he realized. "Wonder if there's a costume shop around here." The idea of buying a false beard crossed his mind, but he didn't want to run around shopping for one. "This life sucks," he muttered in disgust.

Next morning, Greg pulled out his wallet and realized that he only had seven dollars and change. He thought about going to a teller machine, for he had opened a local bank account shortly after getting the job. "No ... better not do that. Everything is computerized these days and the transaction could be traced." He decided instead to walk down to a branch office of his bank and cash a check, reasoning it better to buy things strictly with cash, not leaving a trail of credit card transactions or other traceable records. "Low profile. That's the way to do it." He had to buy more groceries and put gas in his Jeep.

The bank was not crowded when Greg walked in. He wrote a check for $200, made out to cash, and headed for a teller's window. "I"ll need your account number, sir," reminded the young man on the other side of the grating. "We don't cash checks unless it's on a customer account."

"Yeh, sure ... no problem." Greg reached into his wallet and pulled out the new account card. He wrote the number down on the back of the check and slipped it again toward the teller. The teller thanked him and the carefully counted out ten 20-dollar bills. Greg was surprised that he was so courteously treated, even with such an awful unshaven look. He sure didn't look like a clean cut Air Force officer.

At the end of the week, the day before he was due back on the job, Greg's beard was still not long enough. A trip to a barber shop for a haircut and trim did help. In fact, Greg felt that it was getting closer. He didn't look all that bad, and sure didn't look like Greg, or so he hoped.

The next morning at 8:00 sharp, Greg walked into the pilot's lounge, greeted by John, his Chief Pilot. "Boy, that fuzz on your face sure make you look different. But, I don't think the boss will go for it."

Sure enough, in just a few minutes, in walked the vice-president, the same one that Greg had taken out to Las Vegas a while ago. He glowered at Greg disapprovingly, and spoke to John about company policy that pilots must look sharp and clean shaven. Greg couldn't help but hear and was not surprised when John declared, "It's the beard or the job, Greg. You decide."

Greg agreed to shave it off. "I'll take care of it this afternoon, John. Right after I give the Lear a post-inspection test hop." With the airplane just coming off a major inspection, a test flight was just good policy, to make sure all the pieces were back together again before carrying passengers.

They rolled the airplane out of the hangar and Greg gave it a thorough once-over. Then he made a one-hour flight to make sure everything was in working order.

"She's ship shape, John," Greg announced after parking the airplane on the ramp. "Ya want her back in the hangar?"

"Nope. Just as soon as you get your face cleaned off and pack a bag, you and the VP are off on a cross-country." Greg was surprised, disappointed at having to lose his new beard, and curious about where he was headed. And this VP was not his favorite company passenger. "Where am I going?" John responded that he would have a flight plan prepared as soon as Greg returned.

A rush trip back to the apartment for a shave and to gather his travel gear took under an hour. Greg lingered in front of the bathroom mirror just a few minutes before lathering up and shaving off his nearly-grown beard. "Management," he blurted in disgust, even sticking out his tongue at the image before him. It's the same in civilian life as it was in the Air Force. Everybody wants to run your life. "Rules, rules rules ..."

He parked his Jeep off to one side of the hangar, grabbed his travel bag and headed for the pilot's lounge once again. John and the VP were waiting for him. "Greg, Mr. Clooney's bag and golf clubs are there by the door. Get 'em loaded and when you get back I'll have your paperwork done.

"Bell hop, doormat, wet nurse," a disgruntled Greg muttered to himself, as he turned to comply. "It's a damn good thing the pay's right."

Greg returned to the lounge and walked over to John, standing at the counter. "Here's your flight plan and papers you'll need, Greg. And here is a company credit card, for fuel and other expenses. You're off to Las Vegas again. Mr. Clooney is playing golf with the big boys in another celebrity tournament out there. It'll be a three-day trip. Are ya ready?" Greg nodded and took the packet from John.

For a second or two he thought about declining the trip, possibly telling John that he didn't feel well, or something else that would get him out of going to Vegas. Any place other than Vegas would have been acceptable. Then he thought better of it, deciding it would be smarter to be cooperative and low-key. No point in calling attention to himself. "Ready? Mr. Clooney?"

Greg led his lone passenger out to the airplane. Thoughts about how to act, what to do and how to avoid the police in Las Vegas ran through his mind. He got Clooney settled in the passenger compartment and then climbed into the cockpit. In a few minutes the checklist was down to the Start Engines point. The side entry door slammed closed was soon locked and secure. A line boy stood out in front beside a big red fire extinguisher, waiting for Greg's hand signal that engines would soon crank up. Smoothly and efficiently the sleek Lear Jet sprang to life. A radio call to ground control gained taxi clearance and within seconds Greg flicked the taxi lights on and then off to indicate he was ready to roll. The line boy disappeared briefly, as he pulled the wheel chocks, and then popped up out front, hands raised overhead to clear Greg to move out. They exchanged salutes and Greg's trip to Las Vegas was under way.

The airplane eased forward as Greg pushed up the throttles. A light tap on the brakes revealed that all was well, and then a short left and right turn verified nose wheel steering worked. The flight clearance came through as requested. In a little over three hours N6754C would be touching down at McCarran Field.

Shortly after Greg took off on his flight with Clooney, the FBI Special Agent in Charge in the Birmingham area received an email message from Washington. It revealed that a check of FAA records by the Bureau's home team discovered that Greg had recently received a "type certification" or endorsement on his pilot's license for the Lear Jet model 45. It was part of the routine process of his becoming a civilian commercial pilot qualified to carry passengers in that model airplane. No mentioin was made of Greg's current whereabouts, but it did refer to Greg's chief pilot as the flight examiner certifiying the qualification.

A simple telephone call to Greg's employer, and a conversation with John, confirmed the message. John responded to a series of questions, none of which asked for Greg's whereabouts. He did confirm that Greg was on the payroll, was checked out in the Lear and had been with them for several weeks.

But the FBI doesn't always follow simple procedures. Within 20 minutes of their phone call to John, four government vehicles, carrying nine FBI agents screeched to a halt outside the hangar. Two agents ran over to Greg's Jeep Cherokee, noting that the Idaho plates were readable, for all that recent rain washed off the mud. Guns drawn, they carefully walked around the vehicle, discovering that it was empty and the engine was cold.

Three other agents spread out through the hangar, while the rest headed for the office and the pilot's lounge. John sat there, leafing through some paperwork, as the agents approached. He looked up, only mildly surprised. One, obviously the senior agent, flashed an identification badge and inquired about Greg's current location. "You guys are something else," John declared. "I was just on the phone with your office. If you had simply asked where Houseman was, I would have told you that he is enroute to Las Vegas. He'll be landing there just about now."

Clooney buried his nose in several magazines on the smooth flight west. He never said a word to Greg, which was just as well. Greg wasn't in the mood for small talk. He had too much on his mind. It was good that he had a company credit card, for that meant he could charge his lodging and meals in an untraceable way. "Better stay in my room or get lost in the crowds," he thought.

The western sky was a blazing orange as the Lear turned base leg to runway 25. Greg would be landing right into the setting sun. Touchdown was smooth as silk and the Lear continued down the 12,000 foot runway toward the transient parking ramp. Twilight was still good enough to make finding the parking spot easy. Two line boys and a gas truck were standing by. Chocks slammed against the main landing gear and the engines whined down slowly to a stop. Then it got quiet. Someone unlatched and opened the side hatch, as Greg eased out of his seat, checklist completed.

Clooney was already outside, standing on the ramp. He arched backwards and stretched from the cramped trip in that small cabin. Soon Greg handed down the golf bag and luggage to the eager hands of the line boys. The driver of the gas truck walked over to ask how much jet fuel was needed. Greg chatted briefly and signed a voucher.

"Yes, sir. Your airplane will be serviced and ready to go in 20 minutes." Then Greg explained that after the bird was topped off it would be parked for two nights.

"No problem, captain ... you can leave her right where she is. We'll tie her down. Check with the office at your convenience to settle up."

A waiting limousine quickly spirited Clooney away, not a word being said about whether Greg needed a ride to his hotel. It didn't matter all that much to Greg, as he was just glad to be rid of his haughty passenger.

One of the line boys eyed Greg intently giving him a good once-over. Though Greg didn't notice, perhaps he should have. He didn't pay any attention as the line boy ran over to the fuel truck and excitedly talked to the driver.

"It's him ... I know it. That's the guy the cops are looking for," blurted the younger man. "Get on the radio and call airport security. That's the guy whose picture was on the television this afternoon, the casino robber."

The driver, a bit older than his excited helper, demanded "What in the hell are you talking about? The pilot? Who?"

"Yes, it's the pilot .... he's the guy the cops are looking for in that casino heist ... and F-4 getaway. Quick, call security. I know it's him."

"Aw right ... keep your shirt on. "The driver grabbed his microphone and called, "Dispatch, this is Max. I'm out here refueling that Lear that just landed. My assistant, Dickie here, insists that the Lear pilot is that guy the cops want for the casino robbery. He says he saw the pilot's picture on television. You want to call Security to check it out. I can stall him some way." Dispatch responded with a simple, "Roger, Got that."

"Say, Captain ...you need a ride in to the office? I'll be through here in a minute and can give you a lift, if ya want? You can call for a cab from the dispatch desk." Greg nodded and smiled approvingly.

Things happened fast at airport security. Not only were they quickly heading for the fixed base operator's (FBO) dispatch office, they called the Sheriff's office. Within minutes several patrol cars converged on the building, red lights flashing and uniformed officers everywhere.

"What in the hell is going on?" Greg asked. "You guys have a holdup in there or something? It didn't occur to him that this was for his benefit. The fuel truck pulled up between two police cars and the driver jumped out. Greg saw him pointing back at the truck and knew only then what was really going on.

Suddenly fear overcame Jack. He slid over behind the wheel of the truck and slammed it into gear. He careened past the startled security officers and headed down the taxiway.

Over the radio, connected to ground control, he heard the tower operator warning all airplanes on the field that there was a fuel truck heading down the field.

"Southwest 22, watch out," screamed the startled ground controller. "There's a speeding fuel truck crossing in front of you."

The Southwest airlines pilot caught a glimpse of the big truck just before it crossed directing in front of him, headed for the parallel taxiway. The pilot slammed on the brakes, and instinctively pulled the throttles into reverse, much as he might on a landing. The Boeing twin-engine 737 screeched to a stop, smoke rising from the rubber scrubbing on the pavement.

"That idiot," the pilot exclaimed, not realizing that he was talking on tower frequency.

Greg drove down the taxiway parallel to the main east-west runway. He overtook and passed an MD-80 moving down toward it's turn to the active runway. The MD-80 pilot was startled, to say the least, to see a fuel truck racing past his left wing tip.

A dozen airport security and sheriff's patrol cars, each with flashing red lights were in hot pursuit. They too passed to the left of the startled MD-80 pilot.

"Tower? What in the hell is going on? This is United 826, on the parallel. Do you want me to stop?"

"Roger that, United 826. There's a fuel truck being chased by security cars in your area."

"Damn it, tower. I know that. They just whizzed past me. I'm stopping here until you clear me to continue taxiing. United 826 .. you copy, tower?"

The tower operator and ground controller were not sure quite what to do. They advised all aircraft taxiing to stop and hold their positions until security confirmed that the errant fuel truck was cleared off the taxiways.

Greg realized that he was running out of airport. The fence at the west end reflected in the truck's headlights. In the rear view mirror he saw the array of security vehicles in pursuit. There was no way that the lumbering fuel truck could outrun them.

Just short of the fence, and out onto the desert sands which stood between the taxiway and the airport perimeter, Greg finally stopped.

In seconds the truck was surrounded by at least eight patrol cars. The drivers of those cars were leaning across their vehicles, guns drawn. One policeman barked commands to Greg, "Shut off the engine. Throw out the keys. Put your hands in the air and climb down. Now."

Greg complied. He stood there surrounded by guns aimed directly at him, and was partially blinded by at least three bright spotlights shining into his eyes.

"Down on the ground ... face down. Put your hands in the small of your back. Do not move."

Before he realized it, two policemen were on top of him and twisting his arms, The snap, snap of handcuffs securely bound his hands. Greg was in custody, and the crowd around him was angry. He was not handled with kid gloves.

He was thrown into the back seat of one car, bumping his head on the door frame as he slammed onto the seat. It didn't really injure him, but it hurt like hell.

Then he was driven back to the area where the chase all began. Quite a crowd of police and onlookers had gathered.

The young line boy who'd recognized Greg shouted at the senior officer in charge, "Don't forget, I was the one that found him. The reward is mine .. that $25,000 is mine." Nobody paid the slightest attention to the line boy's demands.

Somebody yelled, "Did you read him his rights? Don't screw this up." And a policeman stepped over to the car, opened the front passenger door and turned to Greg, reading him his rights from a card pulled from his uniform shirt pocket. Greg didn't say another word.

Chapter 13

Immediately following Greg's apprehension at the airport, D.A. Wilson got a telephone report from the U.S. Attorney. He had just heard from the FBI that Greg was in Alabama, working as a corporate pilot. "Well, thanks for your help," Wilson responded, "but it seems you're a day late and a dollar short? Houseman was arrested at McCarran Field this afternoon. He's in the Clark County jail as we speak." And no sooner had Wilson hung up than he got a similar message from Colonel Bynam, Nellis Air Force Base's Judge Advocate. "What is it with those Feds?" Wilson mused.

Wilson's office faced yet another trial over the Highlite Casino robbery. But this time things wouldn't be as quick and easy. He assigned the case to an assistant, realizing that it was after all just a routine robbery case. Greg Houseman's booking went about the same as Jack's, except for the absence of the high-powered lawyer. Marcus Whitcomb made no dramatic appearances, nor any at all for that matter. His busy schedule and roster of paying clients, plus absence of pressure by the Bulletin, kept him uninvolved. He was, however, aware of what took place. Greg's request for a lawyer during police interrogation yielded an energetic young public defender, a Stanley Davis, Esq., with minimal experience on felony cases.

Andrews was working at his desk when across the room came a yell, "Hey, Will ... did ya hear? They got Houseman at the airport a little while ago. The Sheriff carted him off to the jail and he's being booked as we speak." Will was amazed. A dozen questions ran through his mind, but there were no answers.

The Bulletin was caught flat footed. The 10:00 o'clock news, especially Channel 12, had the whole story of the capture. They even showed the line boy who fingered Greg, and included his loudly voiced claim for the $25,000 reward. A film clip of the Lear jet parked on the ramp preceded a re-run of the one showing an F-4 taking off. The news anchor gleefully claimed that Channel 12 was first with the story, though they had yet to actually interview Greg. No one had.

"Well Mike," Will asked from just outside his editor's office door. "What are we going to do on chapter two of the Highlite saga?"

"I'm assigning the regular police beat guys to this one, Will. You're off the hook. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"Yes .. and no, Mike. I have an angle on how the Bulletin can treat this that's likely to be different from what all the others will do. Are ya interested?"

"Elucidate, young man. What's your angle?"

"I thought that since all the others, including our own police beat reporters, would be covering the normal sequence and events of the arraignment, grand jury and trial, that I might tackle the story from the perspective of the casino owner. How about a side-bar series that reflects the injured party's view of how things go down in the process?" What Will proposed was different, and it wouldn't conflict with what the Bulletin's other reporters were doing.

"Interesting," Mike quietly mused. "Sure .. go ahead and see what you can come up with. How many installments are you planning?"

"Don't know yet ... at least three, I'd guess," Will speculated. "It all depends upon how close I can get to the owner. Sam? .. what's-his-name?"

"That's Levine .. Sam Levine. But be careful, 'cause that guy likely has his own agenda and wouldn't hesitate to use you .. or us .. to his own ends." Mike knew Levine, a long-time fixture on the strip and one tough cookie. He had to be to survive with all the competition that grew up around him over the years. "You might get him to open up if you reminded him of the publicity he'll get ... free publicity, you can remind him. You might weave his 'bio' into your series too. I'll bet our readers will be just as fascinated with that as they are in the Houseman trial. Yep .. run with it."

Mike recalled his own early cub reporter days in Las Vegas, back in the 50's when the town was much smaller and casinos were mainly limited to the "Strip" and downtown. In those days there were no mega-hotels and attractions which drew whole families for extended vacations. Gambling was the name of the game and big name entertainers came only to try their luck, rather than put their names up in lights. While there were high rollers who came for poker tournaments and special gatherings, the bread and butter of the casinos was working stiffs who came for the thrill of gaming and not flashy shows.

Back in those days Sam Levine was an anachronism, a small casino operator without connections to the mobs, celebrities or even politicians. He ran a quiet, honest and very basic casino. It's only non-gaming draw was an all-you-can-eat restaurant and buffet. Truck drivers, ranchers, GI's and just plain folks knew that Sam's Highlite Casino was a place to eat on the cheap and try your luck.

The bigger boys in town didn't object to Sam's casino. They didn't fear that his small enterprise would cost them much. The high rollers weren't attracted to such a modest place, and besides, the big casinos weren't all that interested in little guys who dropped just $20 to $50 a night. Sam's was the last casino in town to replace the old mechanical slots, nickel and penny ones at that, with modern electronic machines that flashed lights and rang bells. The Highlite operated quietly and without much fuss. But it was a cash cow and Sam prospered.

Sam probably would have felt better about getting justice this time around, for Greg's first lengthy session with his public defender didn't go well. Greg had little confidence in the "wet behind the ears" young lawyer. He wanted someone like Whitcomb, but hadn't a clue how to pay for those services. "How in the hell had Jack managed to get somebody like that?"

Yet he had to admit that Davis seemed genuinely interested, eager to take the case and energetic enough to work hard. The bigger problem was that Davis had eight other cases to work. How much time could he really spend looking out for Greg's interests?

The Assistant D.A. assigned to the case was Linda Ahrens, a firebrand if there ever was one. She knew her law and she was tough. And she knew how to use her good looks and womanly wiles to both charm and manipulate the people she depended upon to build solid cases. For a young member of Wilson's group, she had an amazing conviction rate. Public Defender Davis was clearly out-matched facing her.

Though Linda had only one detective assigned to help her full time on the investigation to gather information needed for an indictment, she made up for it with her own inquiries. She contacted the Custer County Sheriff's office and arranged for the coffee can with burned money fragments and bits of the duffel bag to be sent down. It was still only April, so the high country lake would be ice bound. Dragging the lake in search of the pod was not possible yet. So instead, Linda headed out to Nellis to learn about cargo pods and perhaps even find someone who had seen the flight crew stuff bags into one. She struck pay dirt when she encountered Staff Sergeant McKeon, the fellow that took a fifty dollar bill from Greg. Though McKeon never actually saw Greg, or anyone, put bags into the pod, he said it was unusual for any pilot pay him for just doing his job. He confirmed that the pod was on Greg's F-4 when the two pilots left Nellis.

Her encounter with Colonel Bynam yielded little, except free access to base people and the flight line. Apparently the general, on hearing that an assistant D.A. was investigating told Bynam to facilitate in any way he could. Linda never actually met the general, nor did she particularly need or want to. She sought evidence and witnesses, not a politician's hearsay and opinions.

Greg's unintended arrival in Las Vegas, and his unexpected arrest, posed a problem for Clooney too. There sat his company's Lear jet on the McCarran flight line, but no pilot. And there was no one on the FBO's staff qualified in the Lear 45, so a phone call to Alabama brought John, the chief pilot, out on a commercial flight to ferry the Lear and his boss back home. They never did retrieve the credit cards given to Greg for the trip. They resided in a plastic bag with Greg's personal effects at the jail house.

Linda's visit to the Highlite Casino to interview Sam Levine just happened to coincide with Will's. Will was surprised and delighted that she didn't object to his presence during the questioning. It was, after all Will's exclusive stories on Jack's involvement which produced many of the details she used to come up to speed on the case. She thought he could continue to be useful, though she cautioned him not to get in the way. "What is it about lawyers?" Will thought. "They're always telling me not to get in the way."

Sam Levine sat at his casino's now empty bar, thumbing through some supplier invoices. Only a few early morning customers wandered around the slots and buffet table. He invited his visitors to sit at a lounge table, turning his head to one of the waitresses, saying, "Millie ... three coffees, over here please."

Linda began, "Were you in the casino when the robbery took place, Mr. Levine?" Will had his notepad at the ready in anticipation of new information.

"No, young lady. I was not. I was home having dinner with Mrs. Levine. Pot roast, as I remember. Darn good too. She makes outstanding pot roast."

"When did you first hear of the casino being held up?"

"The security guard, Walter O'Brien, called me. Some security he was. And then I talked to my cashier. She said that nobody was hurt and no shots had been fired. And then she told me that just over $300,000 was taken, though she did mention slipping one of those dye packs into the robber's duffel bag." Sam was very matter of fact about all of this. He didn't get emotional or excited.

Linda looked around the room, and then over toward the cashier's cage, and remarked, "I see you have video cameras. Did you get any pictures of the robbers?"

"Nope. Those were installed after the robbery. Never thought I'd need 'em, until now."

"Well, I guess that's about it then, Mr. Levine. Thank you for your time. I'll be back later, when your cashier is on duty." Linda also thanked him for the coffee, and stood up to leave.

"Wait a minute. There is something else I want to say," Levine added, reaching out to hold Linda's arm. "I heard that you got the other guy. Is he going to get away with it too?"

"No, Mr. Levine. He's definitely not. My job is to indict and then convict the accused. This time we've got the leader of the robbery. He'll go to prison for much longer, I'm sure." And then Linda thought to ask, "Were your losses insured? And have you been compensated?"

Levine nodded in the affirmative and smiled thinly as Linda departed. Will remained and tried to engage Sam in some general conversation. He mentioned that his boss, Mike Lewis, once knew Sam in the old days. Sam couldn't be sure who Mike was, but he was happy to talk about the old days. "More coffee, young man? What paper did you say you were from?"

"The Bulletin, Mr. Levine."

"Don't read that one," Sam allowed. For over an hour Sam and Will sat there, Sam expounding at length on what it was like when he and Mrs. Levine came out into the desert to make a living. Sam had been in the restaurant business in Los Angeles before starting his small casino. "The hard part was getting a license. The other casino owners pretty much had things locked up. I never would have gotten one if Angelo DiPetro hadn't helped. Angelo was one of the big casino owners back then. He's gone now, but there was no one finer man to deal with. He even told his suppliers to treat me right, and they did too."

"You told the Assistant D.A., Linda, just a while ago, that your cashier dropped one of those explosive dye packs into the bag the robbers used. Right?"

"That's what I said. She couldn't stop the bastards, but she was quick enough to remember that we had those packs. I never did hear if any went off, though. Do you know?"

Will then explained that Jack Martin, the first robber convicted, told him of finding red stained money, mostly burned, in an Idaho mountain cabin. The whole story, as Will knew it, fascinated Levine.

"Idaho, did you say?" Sam asked in a surprised tone. "Way up there. Well I'll be. Any idea how much of it was burned?"

"No. I don't think anybody knows," Mr. Levine. "Say, Would it be all right with you if I came by later to talk with Mr. O'Brien and your cashier? What's her name?"

"Mary Collins, she's my night shift cashier. Been with me for ten years or more. Yeah, you're welcome to talk with her, but make it any time except when she's in the cage. I don't want her distracted. And you can talk with Walter too, if you like. But watch out, 'cause he'll talk your ear off."

"Thanks, Mr. Levine. I appreciate that. And I won't bother them while they're on duty. How long has Walter O'Brien been employed here?"

"Walter's been with us for 15 years or more, I'd guess. He's a good man, but I'm afraid that his age is catching up with him. Walter's 60 now and his eyesight isn't what it used to be."

Later that very afternoon, Will dropped by the Highlite to meet Walter and Mary. He introduced himself as a reporter with the Bulletin and explained that he'd talked with Mr. Levine first.

"Newspaper reporter, you say?" retorted Walter O'Brien after the initial introductions. "Interested in the robbery, are you? Well, it's about time somebody got around to me. So far you're the first reporter to even bother to ask me, or even Mary, for that matter. Sure. I can tell you what happened. What do ya want to know?"

"Well, Walter .... it's okay to call you Walter, isn't it?" Walter nodded in agreement. "Why don't you just tell me what happened that night, in your own words as you saw it. If I need more detail I'll just ask you as you go."

"Those two robbers came upon me before I knew it. One shoved a gun into my ribs ... right here on my left side," Walter explained, while pointing to his lower rib cage. "He said he'd blast me if I made any noise or resisted. Well, I tell you, I wasn't about to get shot just for some casino money. No sir. It ain't worth it."

"Did you actually see the gun, Walter? And where was the other robber at the time?"

"No .. I didn't see the gun, but I know the feel of cold steel when it's bruising my ribs. It was a big gun, for sure. And, well, the other robber was standing over by the cashier's cage door. Both of 'em wore the same blue coveralls too. And the other guy had a rubber face mask of a Halloween monster, a gray and red ugly face. The mask covered his whole head, with just cutouts for his eyes. It wasn't until later that I saw a similar mask on the guy that stuck me with the gun."

"How did they get into the cashier's cage?"

"I let 'em in ... with this key." Walter showed Will a key ring with a chain attached to his belt. There must have been eight or ten keys on it. "Mary, the cashier, didn't realize that the door was open until the two guys rushed in."

"Did she have an alarm button she could push?"

"No ... there was no button, though there shoulda been. We both asked Mr. Levine to improve security for years, but he just didn't want to spend the money. And you know what? This is the first time we've been held up in all the 15 years I've worked here. So now he spends the money, putting in those cameras and such. He shoulda listened to us, I tell you."

"So, Walter? What did they do once they got inside the cage?"

"The first thing they did was put Mary and me down on the floor ... and told us to shut up. Then the second robber taped our hands and legs with some gray duct tape. My hands were behind my back, but Mary's were in front of her. They even taped Mary's mouth, 'cause one of 'em said she might scream. They didn't hurt us, but they weren't gentle either. They scared the hell out of Mary."

"And then What? ... "

"And then they just started stuffing money into a gray duffel bag. ... Or was it two bags. I don't remember. Anyway, one of 'em said just take the 50's and 100's. but with those masks on they sounded muffled. I couldn't recognize those voices even if I heard 'em again".

"Did you see Mary while all this was going on? Did she put a dye pack into the bag?"

"I didn't see her, if she did? But she was on the floor next to her cashier's stool. She could have, I suppose."

"How long do you think they were actually inside the cashier's cage? And did you see which way they went when they left?"

"Oh ... it couldn't have been more than two or three minutes. They were fast ... and seemed to know just what they were doing. And from where I was on the floor, I didn't see which way they went, but they left the cage door open. They just breezed in and then left quickly. It all happened so fast."

"Thank you, Walter. I appreciate your cooperation. Is there anything you want to add to what you've told me?"

"No ... that's about it. I'm just thankful they didn't hurt anybody. It was just money, after all. First time in all my 15 years here that we ever got robbed. What's the world coming to?"

Mary Collins agreed to talk with Will at her 8:30 P.M. break, so that meant Will would have to hang around four hours or more, or come back later. He wondered just how much more information she could add to what Levine and O'Brien already gave. It puzzled him that no other reporters had bothered to interview them.

At 8:25 Will returned to the Highlite to interview Mary. He introduced himself and told Mary that he'd already talked to Walter and Mr. Levine. Mary was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall and probably not 100 pounds dripping wet. She was well-groomed, with clothes befitting her age, which Will guessed was around 50.

"Did Mr. Levine say it was all right for me to talk to the newspapers?" Mary inquired.

"Yes, Mary ... Mr. Levine says it's okay. I understand that no other reporters have interviewed you and Walter before. Is that right?"

"Not a one. You are the first. And I know who you are Mr. Andrews. I read the Bulletin regularly. You're a good writer."

"Thank you, Mary. I try. Would you be kind enough to tell me what happened the night of the robbery? Just tell me what you remember, please."

"It was horrible and scary. I've never been through anything like that in my life. And I never want to again, as long as I live."

"I'm sure it was a terrible experience for you, but let's start at the beginning. I understand they came in to your cashier's cage around 7:30. Is that right?"

"Well, I don't know for sure, but it was before my regular break, so it was definitely before 8:30. The first thing I knew was that two men in masks and blue coveralls

forced Walter to open the cage door. Walter and Mr. Levine are the only ones, besides myself, who have keys to the cage door, except for the day cashier, that is. Then they shoved us both down onto the floor and taped our hands and feet. One of those terrible men even taped my mouth with that foul tasting duct tape. It was horrible, just horrible."

"Did you see them take the money, Mary?"

"Oh yes, indeed I did. I am responsible for that money, you know. Yes, I saw them. They took mostly the 50's and 100's, but I saw them grab 20's too. And when one of them looked away for a few seconds, I slipped a dye pack into their bag. They never even noticed."

"Just one dye pack? ... and only one bag?"

"There may have been another bag, but I just saw the one and dropped the dye pack into it. Only I can't remember if I triggered it or not. It all happened so fast."

"Well, Mary .... whether or not you managed to trigger the dye pack, I can tell you that it did go off. Some of the money has been recovered, and it was well stained with the red dye."

"Oh good," Mary responded with a sigh of relief. "I always try to be conscientious about my work. Mr. Levine is a wonderful boss ... and a gentleman too. He was very concerned about my safety that night. You know that he gave me the next two days off, with pay, because of what I'd been through."

"I'm sure he appreciates you good work, Mary. So what happened next? Do you remember?"

"It all happened so fast. Let me see. Well, I do remember that they ran out of the cage and left the door open. We never leave the door open, you know."

"Did you see which way they went?"

"No. I couldn't see much from down there on the floor.

I have no idea which way they went. But I do remember one thing. I saw that both of them had shiny black shoes, really shiny leather. Not tennis shoes or the jogging kinds like most of our customers wear. And they had a red, white and blue patch on their chest pockets."

"Anything else, Mary?"

"No. That's about all I remember. It was a horrible experience ... just horrible."

"Thank you, Mary. I appreciate you taking the time to share you story with me ... and the Bulletin."

C

hapter 14

Deputy Vigil of the Custer County's Sheriff's Department parked his official GM Suburban at the trail head to Brandon Lake. After unloading his snowmobile from the small trailer, he started it up and roared off up the trail. In response to the Nevada request for a coffee can full of charred, red-stained money and bits of a duffel bag, the deputy dutifully set out on a threatening late Spring day. A forecast storm made it imperative that he get up to the lakeside cabin and back before a blizzard blocked his way.

At the cabin, Vigil pulled right up onto the porch before shutting his machine down. He found the door, as usual, unlocked. Right where he was told it would be, up on the shelf above the cots, he found the two-pound coffee can filled with charred fragments of money. "No telling how much money this actually was," he muttered aloud. From what he could see there were dozens of pieces of $100 bills. "What a waste," he thought.

He slipped the coffee can into a backpack brought along just for the purpose. A peek out the window over the sink told him that the storm was indeed bearing down. The clouds to the northwest were ominous. He closed the cabin door and climbed once again onto his motorized steed. Several tugs on the starter cord failed to get the engine going.

Checking over his machine, Vigil quickly discovered the problem. "Damn," he cursed. "The Sheriff told me the gas tank was full." But a closer look revealed the tank was empty. Back into the cabin he went, hoping to find a can of gasoline. No luck. He was stuck out there and would have to walk out.

Fortunately, Vigil had carried a pair of snowshoes. Snowmobiles can and do break down, so folks in this part of the world prepare for the worst. He wished that he'd carried a spare can of gas too. But he hadn't this day.

Leaving the snowmobile on the porch, Vigil trudged off on snowshoes back down the trail. He found the going easier following in his own tracks. About halfway back to the trail head the storm caught him, and it was a mess. Blowing heavily the snow quickly obliterated the trail. Luckily, Deputy Vigil was far down the mountain side and didn't have avalanches to worry about. His main problem was staying on the trail and getting back to his vehicle.

It was well after dark when he reached the parking lot and unlocked the suburban. That big four wheel drive vehicle paid for itself on this day. It plowed its way out onto the road and managed to get him back to Challis without mishap.

He put the backpack, containing the coffee can, onto the Sheriff's desk, saying to the other deputy on duty, "Here it is. I sure hope those folks down in Las Vegas appreciate what it took to get it here." The next day the can, now packaged in a carton was priority mailed to the D.A.'s office in Las Vegas.

It would be several days before Vigil and the other deputy would ride double back out to the cabin, carrying a five gallon can of gasoline. On that trip they spent a few hours snowshoeing around in search of the cargo pod, but had no luck at all. It would be mid-June before anybody could hope to find it, in the lake or on surrounding shores.

Assistant D.A. Linda Ahrens received the package a few days later and promptly turned it over the lab boys for analysis and inventory. It turned out to contain almost $40,000 in identifiable currency fragments, mostly charred $100 bills. The melted and partially burned strap and a piece of a zipper were enough to lead to accurate identification of a nylon duffel bag, one typically carried in K-Mart stores around the country. There was no way of determining where it was actually purchased, or by whom. And there were no fingerprints found.

About all the bag could affirm was somebody's money had been stained in it by a dye pack. They had Jack's testimony about where he'd put it, and that there had been a gray nylon bag. It couldn't be proven that the money chards were from the Highlite Casino, as they kept had no listings of serial numbers or other means of identification. It was good circumstantial evidence, however.

Considerable discussion took place in the D.A.'s office about having Jack brought down from Carson City to testify against Greg. But they could not come up with any inducement for Jack to do so. They talked of asking Judge Terrill to go along with a tradeoff, an even more reduced sentence for Jack if he cooperated in convicting Greg. But that idea died when Wilson indicated that Terrill had been as lenient possible already. Wilson knew that Terrill just wouldn't go for it, no matter how important the testimony might prove to be in convicting Greg.

What they really had was Jack's complete confession, some circumstantial evidence and an unshakable feeling that they had the right man. Amazingly, no one so far found the coveralls or rubber masks that were used in the robbery, or the toy guns. Was it too late to search the county dump?

Linda called in her detective and explained the dilemma of having too little physical evidence. "We have to find the coveralls, the masks and the plastic guns used in the robbery. Check with the janitor at the Highlite to see if the cleaning crew saw anything like that. Then establish a trail, if you can, of where the trash cans were dumped, which garbage company and trucks emptied them, and where they were dumped .. and when. If that stuff is still in the landfill, we'll have to dig it out. It's possible that stuff never got to the dumpsters, or if they did a street person found them and is wearing those coveralls. See what you can find."

The detective wasn't at all happy at the prospect of having to go to the county landfill and paw through the acres of trash. He hoped finding the evidence would be simpler, but that wasn't to be.

The janitor said that the night crew, on the day of the robbery, just tossed the plastic bags from various trash cans into a huge dumpster behind the casino. ACME Hauling Company trucks came by three times a week and took the trash to the county landfill.

ACME dispatcher wasn't much help, because they didn't keep records of whose trash went to what part of the landfill, though he did ask the driver whose regular route included the Highlight Casino. He indicated that the driver preferred to use the drop off at the north end of the landfill, because the road was smoother. But the driver didn't remember any details about loads dumped weeks ago. Every working day he made four trips out there and couldn't be expected to keep track of what went where.

Public Defender Davis had little reason to give Greg much encouragement. In their several meetings he could not discover mitigating circumstances or any rationale which might counter the case building in the D.A.'s office. The case was mostly circumstantial and that was helpful, but he had little to offer in a defensive presentation. "I have to say, Greg, that a jury will probably convict you. You might claim diminished capacity, because you were distraught about being RIF'd, not thinking clearly because of the alimony debt and no job prospects. Except that fails because you did land a good job as a corporate pilot. Can you give me anything to go on ... anything to use in your defense?" Greg just shook his head, having no clue of what to offer.

For two afternoons and one morning, six off-the-street hires recruited by the Sheriff's office combed through the landfill debris, using rakes and shovels. They concentrated on the north end of that 300 acre fly and rat infested garbage dump. There wasn't one bag or pile of material that could be traced to the Highlite, much less anything as specific as coveralls, masks or toy guns that looked like Uzis. The detective reported to Linda that it was hopeless. That evidence was either not there or long ago covered with dirt by the bull dozers that worked the landfill.

"I'm hitting the streets again this afternoon and will talk with the bums, bag ladies and street people in the area to see if anyone is wearing or has seen the coveralls. It's our only hope at this point. I'll probably have to spend a few dollars to buy information, but it's not likely to produce much." Linda authorized $100 for the detective's use in buying meals, even liquor, to loosen tongues. "If this doesn't work I'll have to go with what we've got, and that's not much," she reluctantly admitted.

Just a block from the Highlite, in an alley, the detective noticed an old man wearing blue coveralls. They looked almost new. "Hey, you there, old timer ... wait up a minute." The old man slowly pushed a supermarket grocery cart loaded with plastic bags, rags and empty aluminum cans. "I need to talk to you. Wait up."

The detective showed his police badge and the man stopped, slowly turned around and muttered, "Yeah .. what do yuh want. Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Just a couple questions, old timer. There could be a hot meal in it for you, if you cooperate," came the response which got the old man's attention. "I need to know where you got those coveralls .. and whether there was another pair where you found them."

"It'll cost ya .. ten bucks for me to tell you." The old man watched intently as the detective reached into his pocket and pulled out two fives. The man reached for the money, but the detective withdrew it, waiting for some information. "Found just one pair .. in the bins back of the movie house, brand new too. I didn't steal 'em neither. They wuz already throw'd out."

"Show me where, exactly and this ten bucks is yours." And the old man headed down the alley to some trash bins behind a movie theater, right across the alley from the Highlite. "When did you get them? Can you remember when it was?" The old man shook his head, scratched it a bit and looked forlornly at the detective and the hand holding the two fives. "Okay, the ten is yours, but I'll make you an even better offer if you'll sell those coveralls to me."

"Can't sell 'em ... got no underwear underneath." That bit of news brought a frown of concern and disgust to the detective. "Buy me some new duds and they're yours."

"C'mon with me, old timer. I'm taking you to the Salvation Army store and we'll get you some clothes ... and some underwear. Plus, you get to keep the ten. Okay?" A broad toothless smile grew from under the scruffy gray beard. This was the old man's pay day for sure.

They loaded the shopping cart into the trunk of the police sedan, climbed in and headed for the Salvation Army store. There was no way that the old man was going to leave his worldly possessions unattended, so the cart had to go along. When they got there the clerk sold the detective some trousers, a flannel shirt, a sweater and two sets of underwear for $25.00. The old man disappeared into a changing booth and soon emerged, handing the coveralls to the detective.

"This was evidence?"

When he got back to the office, the detective told Linda of his experience, but added, "I took those coveralls back to the Highlite and showed 'em to the guard and cashier who were on duty the night of the robbery. The guard said the coveralls looked somewhat like the ones worn by the robbers. He couldn't swear to it. But the cashier was more precise. She remembered the shirt pocket logo, the red and blue shield, saying that these were exactly like the ones worn by the man holding the duffel bag, the bag into which she dropped the dye pack."

"Good enough, Detective. Nice work. Sorry about the landfill chore," Linda exclaimed. The detective placed the coveralls into a plastic bag and handed them to Linda.

Chapter 15

Andrews mailed some issues of the Bulletin to Jack at the prison in Carson City, with a note saying:

Assistant D.A. Linda Ahrens moved quickly. She succeeded in getting an indictment, based on the physical evidence and the detailed accounts from Jack's earlier confession. Greg still couldn't make bail so remained in custody. His trial could occur in less than a month, and still his attorney hadn't much to build on to defend Greg. There wasn't even a basis for a negotiated plea. The case seemed to be a lockup.

Jack read the Bulletin's articles and seemed relieved. He hadn't been asked to testify, for or against Greg, and thus worked to put all that behind him. The chance to take some computer courses, as part of an inmate rehabilitation program suited him to a tee. He made good progress, surprised at how well he took to material so foreign to his background.

"You're taking to this stuff like a duck to water, Jack," proclaimed the instructor. "In fact, I'd like to ask you for some help. Some of your classmates need more personal attention on this stuff than I have time for. Would you be willing to tutor them on a part-time basis? I can't pay you though."

"Sure. No problem. I could even bring them here into the computer lab in the evenings, if that's okay. It would give me a chance to give them a boost, as well as let me write some small programs I've been toying with. I'm especially interested in databases and have a few ideas for tweaking one in particular."

Jack was already planning his future. He knew that the training program would lead to a certification diploma, not a college degree or anything like that. But a certificate demonstrating his new skills could help in getting a job after he got out. His degree in general studies surely wasn't much use. And working with computers sure beat punching cattle on his uncle's ranch. He knew well, however, that getting a job anywhere as a convicted felon wouldn't be easy.

Public Defender Davis was getting desperate. Greg's trial date got closer and closer, and still he hadn't a clue about how to offer even a modest defense. Just on the chance that it might help, and really couldn't hurt, he called Marcus Whitcomb to request a meeting. To his great surprised and pleasure, Whitcomb agreed to talk with him. The "legend" would be happy to advise a fledgling defense attorney, especially since he was intimately familiar with the details of the Highlite Casino particulars. Once again Marcus agreed to act in a 'pro bono' capacity, albeit just an hour's worth.

Davis was completely overwhelmed by the plush office and surroundings when he made it over to Whitcomb's place. It sure made his hand-me-down furnishings at the Public Defender's division look pathetic. "And why couldn't I have a receptionist like that Julie?" he enviously dreamed. "Wow!"

Whitcomb greeted his fellow barrister warmly. "Yes sir, I have to hand it to you guys down there in the trenches. You work your tails off for peanuts and do a real public service. I smugly pat myself on the back when I take an occasional "pro bono" case, but you guys are the real heroes. C'mon in and have a seat. Coffee .. or something stronger?"

"No thank you, sir. I really appreciate your taking a few minutes of your valuable time to give me some advice on Greg Houseman's case. I know of your work on behalf of his buddy, Jack Martin. Can you give me any clues about how to structure a defense for Greg, any defense at all? I am stymied, and frankly with six other cases I cannot give him more attention or support."

"You know, I suppose, Mr. Davis, that I took Jack's case because of some arm-twisting by my friends at the Bulletin. In this town there's a bit of give and take, sort of a you scratch my back and someday I'll scratch yours. You know that, Im sure."

Davis was beginning to wonder whether he was being drawn into some kind of a "quid pro quo" arrangement, just for asking Whitcomb to advise him. What might he be asked to do for Whitcomb, down the road one day? Nevertheless, he felt he had to use whatever resources he could find to help his client, Greg. He was that desperate.

"Sure you don't want any coffee? Julie makes a great cup." Davis shook his head, not realizing that Whitcomb was merely stalling for time to think. He didn't have any ideas either, of tactics to use as Greg's defense. "Yup. It's a tough one, not at all like Jack's case. Jack kinda took the wind out of the D.A.'s sails, when he decided to fess up and take his punishment. Do you think Greg has any notions along those lines?"

"Not a chance, sir. Houseman is a different animal altogether. He's defiant, sullen and thinks he's the wronged party here. He's so resentful of what the Air Force did, by kicking him out, that he won't accept the reality of his situation or recognize his guilt. That's what makes it so tough to defend him. I don't dare put him on the stand."

"I agree with that. Unless Greg shows contrition or remorse, putting him on the stand will only hurt. About all you can do is demonstrate that he's a war hero from the Iraq conflict, has no previous criminal record, and has useful skills of benefit to society. He is a pretty good pilot, I'm told."

"That's about all I could think of too," Davis admitted. "What would you do if he was your client?"

"I'd probably have a chat with the D.A., reiterating Greg's background and heretofore clean record, suggesting perhaps a minimal sentence. The financial pressures which he thought were overwhelming could bear on a plea of diminished capacity. But unless Greg is willing to show remorse, it's not likely a judge will be too lenient or the D.A. willing to negotiate. And there's that other matter too, the fiasco at the airport when Houseman was caught."

"How so?" Davis inquired.

"Well, I hear that the airport administration folks, the county office as well as the FBO, are determined to press separate charges against Houseman for the disruption he made with the fuel truck out there. It could add more fuel for the D.A.'s case ... or not. Might be treated as a simple misdemeanor, joy-riding or some such. You might think about that too."

Davis thanked Whitcomb for his time and counsel. On standing to leave, he asked Whitcomb if calling Jack as a defense witness would make any sense. Whitcomb shook his head, adding, "Probably not. Jack's a little bitter about Greg getting him into all of this. I doubt if he would be particularly helpful." Davis nodded in agreement and shook his head.

Up at Carson City, Jack got a bit of good news. He received a legal notice from a court clerk in Idaho stating that alimony payments to his ex-wife were no longer required. She recently remarried and under the terms of the divorce decree alimony now stopped, since the couple had no children. That news really perked Jack's spirits up. Now if he could just hang in there and finish the prison sentence, he'd be on the road to recovery. He also got a letter from Jenny saying that the finance company repossessed his car.

Greg's world was not as sunny. Davis told him that he had consulted with Whitcomb seeking advice on the best defense approach for the upcoming trial. Free advice from the State's most renowned criminal attorney couldn't hurt, but it apparently wasn't much help either. Nothing Davis could say would make Greg even try to appear remorseful. That man was just bitter and too resentful.

"Are you sure that you're just not angry at yourself, Greg?" Davis was doing all he could to bring Greg around, but nothing worked. "Well, then ... you're likely to go to prison, but for much longer than Jack. He's working on one-to-five, you know. You're probably facing five-to-ten. And oh yes, Whitcomb tells me that the D.A.'s office is also considering separate charges for the chaos you created at the airport with that fuel truck. It could result in a separate trial later down the road. You're not all that popular with the county folks."

At the trial, D.A. assistant Ahrens asked for the maximim sentence, mentioning expressly Greg's lack of remorse for his actions. Davis countered by citing that Greg was a first-time offender, greatly discouraged by his loss of career in the Air Force, and reminding the jury that no one was hurt. Real guns were not even used, so the firearm enhancement rule leading to a maximum sentence didn't apply.

It took the jury just four hours to return a guilty verdict. And the judge didn't need that much time to proscribe sentence of five to ten years at the state's medium security prison. Davis asked to approach the bench and requested that Greg not serve in the same institution as Jack Martin, to preclude possible conflicts. The judge refused.

Working on the last of three feature stories about all of this, Will Andrews met with Sam Levine once more. "Well, Mr. Levine? Are you satisfied with the outcome of the trial? Do you think justice was served finally?"

Sam Levine looked Will in the eye and said, "No. Hell no. There were lots of other men who served in the Gulf War too. You guys made Houseman out to be a hero. Bull! He got off with a lighter sentence than I'd have given him. He's a disgrace to his service too."

"Have you no forgiveness, Mr. Levine?" Will countered.

"Not for a guy who had so much going for him and was so stupid as to pull a dumb trick like that. The papers played him up as a loser, a guy with no future after getting ousted from the Air Force. Hell, the guy wound up as a corporate pilot. Didn't he? Well, he could have gotten that flying job without pulling off the robbery, you know. Foregiveness? Not on your tin type."

Will understood, understood Levine's reasoning at least. But what in the heck did he mean by "not on your tin type?"

Back at the Bulletin Will asked Mike Lewis what the term meant. Mike just laughed and said, "It's a generation thing, Will. You're too young to remember tin type photography. It means that something isn't there ... like images which never came out on on old tin type plates." Mike just chuckled, adding "So .. are you finished with the articles on Levine's perspectives?"

"Today's will be the last of it. Case closed .. and on to the next earth shattering topic, I guess. But you know something? All of this leaves an aftertaste ... like the whole story isn't really over yet. I can't put my finger on it, but I have a feeling there's more to tell." Will went back to his desk and wrote the final piece on the Highlite robbery and Levine's reactions to it.

Chapter 16

Not long afterward, Greg landed in the correctional facility in Carson City, where he chanced to run into Jack. It was not a pleasant encounter for either man.

"Jack Martin, you sleazy bastard," shouted Greg as he saw his former copilot crossing a path between buildings. Jack was on his way to the computer lab. "I want to talk with you, Jack. Right now!"

"Okay, Greg .. but don't get all excited. I heard you were coming up here. What's on your mind?"

"The other money bag is what's on my mind. Did you find it? And did you use the money for that fancy lawyer? I want to know, now!"

"No, Greg. I didn't find the bag, but I did find the one you tried to burn in the fireplace. Why in the hell did you do that?"

"I did it because the money was stained red and useless, or I thought so at the time. That's why?"

"But Jack, how did the money get stained, anyway? It wasn't when we stuffed it into the bags at the casino. And I never saw the stuff again after we put the bags into the pod before takeoff. Stained? How?"

"That casino cashier bitch slipped one of those explosive dye packs into the bag. That's how. It didn't go off though until after I grabbed the bag from those guys on the snowmobiles. I got caught in the avalanche and was holding onto the bag. When the snow buried me, the dye pack musta warmed up from my body heat and then it popped. Later, when I dragged myself into the cabin, I found dye all over the money. So I decided to burn it."

"Oh. Well, that's why I found that stuff in the fireplace."

"Yeah, that's why. But you know the worst part? That $200,000 didn't have to be burned, I later found out. I coulda taken it to Mexico and it woulda been usable. How's that for a kick in the butt?"

"Too bad, Greg. I had no idea about dye packs or why somebody, you, burned the stuff. But, so help me, I never found the other bag. So what happened to the cargo pod? It wasn't there when I went back to the cabin after I got discharged."

"I cut a hole in the ice and deep sixed the damn thing. That's why you didn't find it. Are you sure you didn't find the other bag? And if you didn't, then where in the hell is it?"

Just then the computer instructor came down the walk, headed toward the lab. Jack yelled, "Wait up, Mr. Adams. I've got some questions for you." Jack was anxious to get away from Greg and this was a perfect way. But Greg was determined this was not the end of the matter. He'd catch up with Jack later.

The next afternoon, in the inmates' dining hall, Greg found Jack again. He sat down opposite Jack, and put his tray down on the table. "I'm not through with you, you traitor."

Jack looked up and could see trouble. Trouble was the last thing Jack needed. He made every attempt to avoid any at all in prison, so as not to ruin his chances of getting out at the earliest possible time. He had his heart set on that magic 18-month release date. But Greg could mess things up, especially if they got into an altercation.

Greg continued. "You traitor. You bastard. I wouldn't be here at all if you'd just kept your damn mouth shut. There was no way in hell that anybody could have connected us to the Highlite robbery. You know that, don't you? I oughta kick your teeth in."

"Well, I guess you just can't get good help these days, Greg ... for casino robberies."

"Don't get smart with me. My being here is all your fault. And you getting off light, just one-to-five, burns me even more. You know I'm here for five-to-ten. And that's your fault too."

"Whatever you say, Greg." Jack was earnestly trying to avoid a fight. Arguing with his old pilot wouldn't help matters. Jack started to get up, but Greg wasn't finished.

"If you hadn't gotten soft and turned yourself in, I wouldn't be here. You got that. It was your confession that opened up this whole can of worms. Why didn't you just keep your mouth shut? Sit down. I'm not finished with you."

Greg reached across the table and grabbed Jack by the collar of his coveralls. Jack's tray went clattering across the dining room floor. As Jack tried to pull away, Greg threw a punch at him and the two men wound up on the floor. Two other inmates pulled them apart, just as a guard came towards the conflict.

"Houseman," the guard yelled. "Break it up you two." Turning to Greg he continued, "I saw the whole thing. You started it and that's what my report to the warden will say. Now get out of here, or I'll toss you back into your cell. Move it. Now.!"

The guard did indeed report the dining hall incident. The warden called both men to his office, one at a time. "Houseman. I didn't know you liked this place so much. Fighting here is just the way to extend your visit, if that's what you had in mind. You're here on a five-to-ten year sentence. You could get out in five or six, if you behave yourself. But I'll damn sure make it's ten if you don't. You got me?" Greg didn't say a word.

"I said," continued the warden. "You got me, Houseman. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir. Perfectly clear," Greg grousingly responded. And a guard took Greg back to his cell.

Next it was Jack's turn. The warden asked, "Jack Martin. What in the hell was that all about. Lucky for you the guard told me you didn't start it. But what's going on here?"

"Greg blames me for his being here. If I hadn't turned myself in and confessed to the casino robbery, he thinks he'd never have been caught. That's all."

"Are you sure there's not more to it than that?" the warden pressed.

"That's it, warden. He's just ticked off at me for his being here. That's all."

"Well, you stay away from him. You've been on good behavior so far, and I want you to keep it that way. You two tangle again and it won't help your chances for early release. Got that?"

The warden arranged for Greg to be put on a prison industries job, making furniture, way across the complex from the computer lab. And he alerted his guards to keep the two men apart, as much as possible. He knew that Greg was a hot head and trouble could start up again any time.

Jack stayed on his guard for months, watching over his shoulder to make sure Greg didn't get close. Trying to stay out of trouble and keeping his nose clean was a full time job. He spent as much time as possible in the quiet and security of the computer lab, taking his own courses and coaching fellow inmates, as the instructor's unofficial assistant.

The Clark County D.A.'s office had no choice but to bring charges against Greg for his actions at McCarran Field the night he was caught. Airport officials and the FBO both insisted on punishment for the chaos caused, as well as stealing the fuel truck and endangering lives.

It was not an easy call, because even the D.A.'s own staff couldn't agree whether or not the offenses were felonies or just misdemeanors. Some argued that Greg didn't actually steal the fuel truck, whereby he would benefit from taking possession. They felt that it was, at worse, a case of joy-riding and that wasn't a felony. Others just as adamantly felt that reckless endangerment was the major offense, and that was a minimal felony charge.

Politics prevailed and the D.A. reluctantly agreed to prosecute Greg on those charges which could be somehow considered felonies, and not bothering with misdemeanor offenses. That didn't wholly satisfy the FBO or even the airport administrator, but they realized it was all they could expect.

"Houseman," a guard barked. "Get your stuff together. You're headed for Las Vegas and the Clark County jail this afternoon. The warden tells me you're going to be tried for charges placed against you by the McCarran airport officials and the fixed base operator down there. Who knows, you may just be back here for an even longer stay."

Shortly after noon Greg was brought down to the warden's office. Two armed deputies were there, ready to escort him down to Las Vegas. Handcuffs were clamped onto his wrists and leg-irons attached to his ankles. The orange coveralls completed his readily identifiable status as a prisoner.

"Well, Houseman. It looks as if the Clark County D.A. isn't through with you. You're being transferred down there to stand trial again. It could be days or weeks before you're back here. You'll be transported by the sheriff's deputies in a van. Try not to screw up again."

Greg didn't say anything, Had no idea what would come out of a second trial. Without fuss he followed his escort guards to the yellow Clark County van waiting in the yard.

They put him in the middle seat, just behind a wire cage separating him from the driver and second deputy. Though still cuffed, he was not chained to the bench seat.

The van left the Carson City area, headed south on Highway 395. Greg noticed that just behind them, coming up fast, was a big rig. Just as it started to pass, Greg shouted to his guards,"Watch out, you guys. That truck behind us is too damn close. Watch it."

Too late. They were suddenly side-swiped by the passing tractor trailer truck and careened down an embankment into a dry river bed. The truck never stopped, as the van disappeared into the brush down below, landing on it's left side and badly smashed.

Greg was not hurt, but both guards were. Neither moved at all for minutes. The fencing between the front compartment and Greg's middle bench seat broke loose, allowing Greg to reach one of the deputies. "Hey, you guys all right?" he shouted. "Let's get out of here before there's a fire. C'mon. Cut me loose. Willya?"

Neither guard responded or moved. The driver was slumped against the left side door, a bloody gash clearly visible on his forehead. The other man was piled on top of him, held back partly by his seat belt.

Greg wriggled forward and reached into the pockets of the second deputy, hoping to find the keys to his handcuffs and leg restraints. "Ah .. there they are," he exclaimed on finding the guard's key ring. Thank god."

He freed himself of the restraints on his hands and legs. Then he opened the right front passenger side door and

stood atop the overturned van. He had no thoughts of running away at that moment. In fact, his only concern was getting the two injured deputies out of the vehicle before it caught fire.

He dropped back down into the front seat and managed to kick out the windshield, knowing that it would be much easier to pull the unconscious men out that way, rather than lifting them up and out the side door. It took some doing, but he managed to get both of them out of and away from the now-smoking van.

He couldn't arouse either man, but they were still breathing. "They must have been knocked out," he thought.

"No matter. I'd better do what I can for 'em." Greg had no beef with these two, for they were just working stiffs doing what they had to.

He noticed that the driver's head wound was the worst, still profusely bleeding. Back into the van Greg went, looking for a first aid kit. He found one under the passenger side seat and quickly brought it over to the bleeding man. He found some bandages and adhesive tape. In seconds he got the bleeding stopped and a bandage secured. Both guards were still unconscious.

"Hey .. you folks okay down there?" came a shout from up on the roadway above. It was the voice of a highway patrolman, who had seen the skid marks on the pavement and a whisp of smoke coming up from the embankment.

Suddenly, the patrolman realized that the men down below were two uniformed officers and a prisoner in coveralls. He saw the prison bending down over one of the officers. "Don't move, mister," shouted the patrolman, his gun now drawn and pointed at Greg. "Clasp your hands behind your neck and get down on your knees," he ordered.

"Don't get excited, officer," Greg responded. "I'm not going anywhere. You'd damn well better call an ambulance for these two. Both are alive, but unconsious ... and one has a bad head wound. Put that damn gun away ... and get on your radio. Now!" Greg shouted back firmly.

The patrolman decided that Greg was no threat to flee and especially when he saw the bandage on the one deputy's head, realizing that the prisoner was actually helping. "Okay .. you stay there and I'll call for help. Stay put. Do you hear?"

Greg just mumbled, "Yeah .. yeah. I'm not going anywhere." The patrolman didn't hear him.

In a few minutes the patrolman came down from the roadway, carrying another first aid kit. Greg explained the condition of the two officers, and mentioned, "Just in case you're interested, I'm okay. So what happens now?"

The patrolman wasn't sure of what he should do. So he simply asked, "What happened here?" Greg explained that the van had been side-swiped by a tractor trailer rig and pushed off the road. They were on their way to Las Vegas from the Carson City prison.

"I'm supposed to be on my way to the Clark County court house for trial," Greg explained.

"Oh. Well, I guess that means I'd better take you into custody," the patrolman finally decided. There wasn't much either man could do for the injured guards until the ambulance came. Greg was ordered to climb up to the roadway and get into the back of the patrol car. He just got seated when an ambulance and a second patrol car came up.

Within minutes the two deputies were taken away on stretchers in the ambulance, and Greg still sat there in the back of the patrol car. The two patrolmen on the scene conferred about what to do with Greg. One explained that Greg made no attempt to escape, and had indeed helped his guards by taking some first aid measures.

The senior of the two patrolmen radioed headquarters and was told to take Greg down to Las Vegas and turn him over to Clark County officials. When the patrolman protested, saying that Las Vegas was out of his district, he got a curtly worded direct order to do as he was told and deliver the prisoner. That didn't make the patrolman's day.

So, being the ranking patrolman on the scene, he simply ordered the first patrolman, his junior, the one who first discovered Greg and the accident, to deliver the prisoner as ordered.

Within minutes Greg was once again headed south, this time in the back seat of a state patrol car. But this time he was neither handcuffed nor manacled, just simply caged in the back seat.

When they got to Las Vegas and the county jail, the patrolman simply took Greg by the arm and walked him to the desk sergeant on duty. "Here's your prisoner," the patrolman matter of factly declared. "I don't know what you want this guy for, but he's some kind of hero. Just thought you guys ought to know that he probably saved the life of two of your deputies, after a highway accident up north. He could have simply run away, but he stayed on the scene to offer first aid. Put that in your report. Will you?"

A Clark County sheriff's deputy took Greg into custody, as the state highway patrolman turned him over. "Good luck, fella," the patrolman said to Greg, as he disappeared down the hall.

The D.A.'s office had a problem. Partially mitigating the total "bad guy" image of Greg, the airport nemesis and purveyor of mayhem, was the patrolman's statement about Greg the hero. It took just two days for the D.A. to finally decide that the felony charges were, at best tenuous, and at worst likely to be thrown out by the judge. So, to avoid any embarrassment to his office, the D.A. decided not to press charges and simply sent Greg back to Carson City, dropping the whole matter.

Chapter 16

A pair of local ranch hands from the Challis, Idaho area were fishing on Brandon Lake that first summer after Greg sank the cargo pod. They were out in the middle of the lake in a rubber raft, which they'd carried up on an off-road vehicle. The trout were plentiful that July day, rising to surface feed on bugs and flies. Fishing was good.

But the wind kept blowing the two fishermen away from their preferred spot, so they dropped a small anchor to hold the boat still. Right down into the opened hatch of the cargo pod at the bottom of the lake did that anchor slide. The boat didn't move any more.

"Hey, we're stuck," shouted one of the fishermen, when they later tried to leave. "I can't pull the anchor up. Musta caught in some rocks down there."

"Here, let me give you a hand," offered his buddy. And the two men pulled as hard as they could on the anchor rope, nearly tipping the boat over. "It's coming. Boy is that heavy. We probably caught a log. It's coming."

In a few minutes they realized that it was no log. It was a silvery torpedo-shaped thing, something made out of metal. "We caught a bomb," yelled the first fisherman. "That's a bomb from an airplane, or something. Look at that."

The other man realized that it wasn't a bomb. "Bombs don't have side doors. Look at that. Our anchor went right into the side door of that thing. You paddle us to shore and I'll hold onto this thing. Let's see what we got."

They beached the rubber boat and then tugged on the anchor rope, eventually dragging the cargo pod to shore. "Boy, that's heavy."

"Sure it is, you dummy. It's full of water. Let's turn it over and dump it out. Then we can lift it up over here," exclaimed the other. And after the water emptied out the pod weighed only about 200 pounds.

"What are we going to do with this thing? ... whatever it is?"

"Its a pod of some sort, from an airplane. It ain't no bomb, that's for sure, maybe a fuel tank. It's empty. Those Air Force guys down south of Boise musta lost it. I'm gonna call the sheriff when we get back. See here," he said, pointing to some numbers painted on the side of the pod. "This number, means it's Air Force property. Wonder if there's a reward?"

The two cowboys stopped by the sheriff's office in Challis on the way home. They told the deputy at the desk, Deputy Vigil, as it happened. He remembered being sent up there last winter to get that coffee can in the cabin at Brandon Lake, and being asked to look for an airplane pod.

"Thanks, boys. That is for sure an Air Force pod. We tried to find it last winter, but the lake was frozen and there was too much snow. Where did you say you left it?"

"It's right on the shore, just 100 yards down from the cabin, where we beached it. It's empty though. There wasn't anything in it at all. And the side door was missin' too."

The other fellows added, "Is there a reward for that thing, deputy. We found it, you know."

"I don't know. But you leave me your names and phone number and I'll let you know after I check with the Air Force. Fair enough?" The two men nodded their heads in unison, and then wrote down their names on a pad of paper at the counter. "This here number is mine, " said the one, "my buddy here don't have a telephone." And then they left, headed back to the ranch, talking about what they would buy if there was a reward.

Deputy Vigil placed a call to the Air Force base, asking to speak with someone in the military police section. Soon he was connected with a Sergeant Johnson. Vigil identified himself and explained that two local ranch hands found some kind of airplane pod up a Brandon Lake. It wasn't a bomb, they said and Vigil described it. The Sergeant took the deputy's name and telephone number and said he'd get back to him later.

When Sergeant Johnson called the base munitions office to inquire if anyone was missing a pod, there was much surprise in the voice at the end of the line.

"Yes, we sure are. It's an F-4 fuel pod, one converted to carry baggage instead of fuel. Where is it?"

Johnson explained what little he knew from Deputy Vigil's call. "You can find out more at this number," and Johnson repeated the sheriff's office number," and ask for Deputy Vigil. He's up in Challis."

Within minutes the base munitions officer, Captain Walters, called two places. He called the base Judge Advocate's office to let them know that an Air Force fuel pod was found in a northern lake, just in case there might be legal issues involved. He mentioned that it was probably off an F-4 from the base. And then he called Deputy Vigil.

Vigil explained exactly where the pod was found and where it was left by the two ranch hands. He gave the Captain the telephone number of the one cowboy. "Is there anything you want us to to, Captain? Oh, and one more thing, the two men who found the pod wanted to know if there was any reward for it. "

"Okay deputy. Thanks. I'll call the fellow whose number you gave me. There might be a small reward, I'll check. And I'll get back to you on how we plan to retrieve the pod. What are the roads like up there?"

Vigil explained that there weren't any roads to Brandon Lake, just a trail that bikers and off-road buggies used.

The commander of the F-4 maintenance squadron decided to send a helicopter up to Brandon Lake to retrieve the pod. Though the pod was probably no longer useful, he was obliged, since it was government property, to bring it back and close the books on it. But he had no choppers of his own to call upon.

It was decided to ask the Idaho Army National Guard in Boise to send a Huey chopper up to the lake to get the pod and then drop it off at the air base. The Guard boys were quite willing to have an official excuse to fly up into the mountains. They brought along some wide nylon tiedown straps, with ratchet-type buckles, to secure the pod to the skids of the chopper. The Air Force agreed that such an approach probably would work.

A day or two later a camouflage-painted helicopter settled onto the shore of Brandon Lake. Two GI's, brought along to do the heavy work, rolled the easy-to-spot aluminum pod over to the side of the chopper. They secured the pod against the skid rails and cinched it down tightly. It took all of ten minutes, plus round trip flight time of two hours, for the pod recovery mission to be completed.

The munitions officer was right, feeling that the pod could not reasonably be repaired for use again aboard one of the F-4's. Somebody had chopped holes into the skin. That would be expensive to fix and make it airworthy. The pod was officially scrapped and sent to the base salvage yard to be sold as scrap, where a local rancher later bought it to use as a stock trough. He cut the hatch door out and made a longer opening. So that pod didn't go to waste after all.

A government check in the amount of $150 was sent to the two ranch hands as reward for finding the lost pod.

Chapter 17

Life settled down to a routine for Jack and Greg in the Nevada state prison. Greg continued making furniture and Jack worked to sharpen his computer skills. The days seemed to drag on, one much the same as the other.

Jenny's life went on too, but her thoughts of Jack faded, or almost. Her job demanded a lot more time than she liked, and though she dated on occasion, there was nobody special that she felt romantically about. Well, there was Frank. Frank Campbell was the one fellow she did date more than any of the others. It wasn't anything serious. He was a fellow worker in the Old Life Insurance Company office, the head of sales for central Idaho.

One night, after a delightful dinner and a show, Jenny wound up at Frank's place. One thing led to another and she spent the night with him. But that's when she made a dumb mistake which turned into pure hell for her.

Inadvertantly, she accidentally said, following some passionate love-making, while they lay together side-by-side, "Oh Jack, that was a mistake. We shouldn't have".

"Jack? Hey Jenny, why did you call me Jack? .. and who in the hell is Jack?" Frank demanded.

"I'm sorry, Frank. I didn't mean to say Jack. He's just a guy I once dated and now he's in prison because of me."

"Okay, Jenny, no big deal ... I guess I can take your calling me by this Jack guy's name, but what I can't understand is how his being in prison is your fault. You'd better explain that part."

The two laid in the big bed, now facing each other as Frank insisted that Jenny explain. Jenny was really embarrassed, first for making such an inadvertant slip of the tongue and then for having to explain how she felt guilty about Jack going to prison.

"It's a long story, Frank ... and for me a sad one, because my friend Jack is down in a Nevada prison in great part because I made him turn himself in. I've known Jack since we were classmates at Boise State. He just wasn't the criminal type."

"Okay, just what did this Jack do? And how could you make him turn himself in?"

Jenny explained the whole story, about the robbery, the pod drop at Brandon Lake, the snowmobile chase, the avalanche and even how the second bag of money was never found. Then she continued, tears welling up in her eyes, how she may have played on Jack's obvious affection for her to make him do the right thing.

"I think that Jack felt he would win my affections if he did as I suggested. He would have married me in a minute, I know. But I didn't want to lead him on, because I didn't love him the way he did me. It just couldn't have worked."

Frank thought several minutes about what Jenny had just told him. "You say they never found the second bag of that casino money? Are you sure?"

"Well, no I'm not sure, but I never heard of anybody actually finding it. Don't you think it would have made the news if they did?" Jenny was beginning to worry now, worry about what was going on in Frank's mind.

"Get up, gal. C'mon, let's go up there and see if we can find the second money bag. I know the Brandon Lake area. I've hunted elk in that part of the country. And if anybody can find it, I know I can. C'mon, I said. Get up. We're going hunting ... for money, that is."

It was barely 5:30 in the morning, a Friday morning. Jenny just laid there watching as Frank jumped out of bed and started to dress. Now she was really sorry that she'd said anything, especially the part about the money not being found.

Frank grabbed ahold of the blankets and sheets and yanked them off the bed, pulling Jenny down onto the floor in the process. "C'mon .. get dressed, woman. We're going up to the lake. Now."

"I'm not going anywhere ... especially at this hour. And besides, we've got to go to work this morning." Jenny was both irritated and a little apprehensive at seeing this new, unexpected side of Frank's personality.

"We'll call in sick ... somewhere up the road, after the office opens. We'll just say we got the flu or something," Frank continued while zipping his trousers and tucking in his shirt. "No problem."

Frank was wearing blue jeans, a heavy wool shirt and hiking boots. "C'mon, Jenny. Don't you want to be rich?"

"Not especially. It's not my money ... and it isn't yours either, even if you do find it. And besides, I haven't got the clothes I'd need to tromp around in the woods. We are at your place, you know ... not mine. And why do you need me? You're the one who wants to find that money. I really don't care about it. Just drop me off at my place and go, if you must."

Frank looked at her, his menacing expression seemed to threaten Jenny. She grew nervous and really just wanted to get out of there and away from him. "No, I said we're going up there ... that means you and me. Now finish getting your clothes on and let's go. We'll stop by your place just long enough for you to get some jeans and boots. Now move it, I said."

"What's gotten into you, Frank? This isn't like you at all. And let go of my arm. You're hurting me," Jenny protested as Frank bruskly escorted her out the door and down to the car.

"Get in. You're going with me and that's that," he demanded, slamming the passenger side door shut after shoving her onto the seat.

Jenny was getting scared, scared of the change in Frank's demeanor, scared of going up into the woods with him, and perhaps even more scared of how violent he might become if he didn't find the money. She wanted to get away from him. He was acting nuts.

Frank drove like a madman, across town to Jenny's place and screeched to a halt in the parking lot. In just the few seconds it took him to shut off the engine and start to open his driver's side door, Jenny decided to make a break for it. She had to get away from him.

She opened her door and raced down the sidewalk for her apartment. She fumbled in her coat pocket for the door key, finding it just as she reached the porch.

Frank was in hot pursuit, shouting at her words she heard but didn't understand, for she was so intent upon getting to the safety of her apartment.

Miraculously she thrust the key into the lock on the first jab, twisted it and ran inside, slamming the heavy metal door behind her. She twisted the deadbolt lock just as Frank grabbed the knob and tried to follow.

"Jenny ... open this door," Frank shouted. "You're going with me."

"Get away, Frank ... or I'm calling the police. Do you hear?" Jenny leaned against the inside of that heavy front door, relieved that it was sturdy and afforded her the safety she needed. "Get away. I'm calling the police, if you don't leave me alone."

Jenny's mind was whirling ... she was terrified by Frank's behavior, a side of him she never suspected. "What is it about some men and the prospects of finding big money that turns them into madmen? They become totally irrational, and in Frank's case, violent. He'd never shown signs of that before. Why now?" she fretfully asked herself.

Fortunately, for Jenny, Frank calmed down enough to come to the conclusion that he didn't really want Jenny to go along after all. He sure as hell had no intention of sharing the money with her, if he found it. With one last gesture of frustration, he banged his fist against the door, turned and headed down the walk, muttering to himself, "Who needs her anyway?"

It took 30 minutes and two cups of hot tea to calm Jenny's nerves down. She sat there at her kitchen table, gradually breathing normally and feeling her heartbeat slow down once more. "Why is it that I always wind up dating losers? What's the matter with me?"

Then she realized that her problem with Frank probably wasn't over. What would she do when he came back to work next week? Would he turn violent again? How could she avoid him? "Oh god," she sighed. "I don't want to quit this job just to get away from him. What am I going to do?"

It was 8:30 by the time that Jenny arrived at her desk, finally calmed down from her hectic early morning experience. She tried to get her mind off Frank and the whole mess by immersing herself in work that needed doing. Fridays were demanding enough anyway, but the added complications of this Friday made it tough.

She couldn't have known it, but Frank did make it up to the Brandon Lake area. He rented a motorized trail bike in nearby Challis and rode it up into the high country. For two days he scoured the mountain sides, looked under piles of rocks and brush, methodically following every trace of several past avalanches. He never found a thing, but it wasn't for lack of trying. And it wasn't because he was a stranger to the region, for he knew it well from his past hunting trips up there. "Where in the hell is it?" he repeatedly asked. "Did somebody else find it? Or did it ever exist at all?"

Finally, exhausted and frustrated, Frank returned the motor bike and headed back to Boise. "Well, now you've done it, stupid," he mumbled to himself. "You've failed to find the money, blown a whole weekend and made a mess of things with Jenny. What else are you going to do?" His frustration made him drive much to fast.

Frank's questions soon became moot, and his problems solved in one tragic second. His inattention to the winding mountain roads and driving much too fast ended it all. He passed cars on curves, where he shouldn’t have, shouting expletives at drivers who wouldn’t got fast enough to suit him. In fact, his last words on earth were, "Oh Shit!!" as he saw something he couldn’t avoid coming straight at him. Frank was killed in a horrible screeching crash, a head-on collision with a huge logging truck.

Jenny heard about the accident the next Monday at work. And she broke down crying, feeling that it was partly her fault. "If I hadn't told Frank about the money bag, he would probably be alive now," she sobbed to herself. It didn't occur to her at first that Frank would no longer be a problem for her any more. He was gone and out of her life. But then Jenny didn't think that way. "That damned money, it’s caused nothing but grief," she mumbled.

Chapter 18

Nearing completion of his 18-months confinement, Jack felt relief that it would soon be over. The Warden told him he'd earned his early release, in the minimum time that the judge allowed. In less than a month he'd be back on the streets, a free man once again. One would have thought Jack would be clicking his heels. Not so.

Jack took inventory of where he was. "I'm now 35 years old. My military career, such as it was, is gone and behind me. Soon I'll be where I was two years ago. I'll be on the streets, unemployed and with few prospects. Actually, I'll be worse off in a way, because now I'm a convicted felon. Who'll hire me with a record?" Life looked grim, even for a guy about to get out of prison.

On the other hand, he thought, "I do have skills that I didn't have 18 months ago, marketable skills. I have my certificate of completion for the computer course. That's worth more than my degree. I know how to program in the "C" computer language and I can write database programs that work. I'm better off physically too. This place got me into exercising, running and back in shape. I still have about $5,000 in the bank, though that won't last long." And then he remembered that the finance company reclaimed his new car, even before he went to Carson City. "Well, at least I'm not making car payments ... or alimony ones either."

One evening Jack called his uncle, Richard Lewis, at the ranch up in Challis, Idaho. "Hi, Uncle Dick. It's me, Jack. How's everybody?"

"Jack, my goodness. Great to hear from you. We're all fine, same as ever. When you coming home?"

"I'll be out of here in a couple more weeks, about October 4th I expect."

"Wonderful. We will be so glad to see you again. What are you going to do? Got any job prospects?" Uncle Richard seemed genuinely glad to hear from his nephew. "We sure could use an extra pair of hands around the ranch, Jack. Mine are getting pretty old, you know."

"Aw, you'll go on forever, Uncle Dick. And besides, I don't know a darn thing about ranching. It never was my cup of tea. That's why I went into the Air Force. Remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. But you're young enough to learn."

"Well, maybe, but that's not what I called about, Uncle Dick. I'm looking for some work in computers. I got some good training down here and would like to put these new skills to work. I was wondering if you knew anybody up there that could use a computer programmer or systems manager?"

Uncle Dick thought a few seconds and responded, "Don't know much about computers, Jack. And I haven't any idea what a systems manager is. But I'll make a few calls and see what I can come up with. Sure you don't want to help on the ranch?"

"No, Uncle Dick ... ranching just isn't for me. Sorry about that. But I sure would appreciate it if you could ask around for me on this computer business. I really need your help."

"You got it, son ... you're family, after all. And we can't wait to see you up here. I'll be in touch .. soon."

"Thanks a million, Uncle Dick. And say hello to Aunt Ellie for me ... and Ned too. Bye now."

Jack hung up the receiver and sat there in the phone booth a few seconds. He knew that his uncle would make come inquiries. After all, Uncle Dick knew everybody in the county. He'd know who to call.

Sure enough, Uncle Dick really did know who to call. He started with Mae Miller, the County Clerk and an old friend. It was exactly the right place to start his inquiries.

"Jack's coming home? Wonderful, Dick. Yes, it has been a long time. It'll be good to see him. I'll bet you and Ellie are thrilled." Mae always was enthusiastic and Dick liked that in her.

"Look Mae. Jack's going to need a job when he gets up here. I was wondering if you knew anybody who could use someone with computer skills. Jack tells me he got some kind of computer training down there in Nevada (Dick couldn't bring himself to say the word prison).

He says he's a computer programmer now and something he calls a systems manager. Any ideas?"

"You couldn't have called at a better time, Dick. The commissioners just decided it was time to computerize county records. We sure could use an expert. And somebody local who knows the county would be even better. You tell Jack to send me a letter explaining what he can do, and I'll get it to the commissioners. We sure could use somebody around here who speaks 'computers'."

Jack prepared a resume, emphasizing his newly acquired skills in computers and programming. His cover letter to the Custer County commissioners emphasized his knowledge of data bases and his interest in helping his home government computerize record keeping, from the clerk's office to the sheriff's and even the road department. He include a sales pitch about how such an information system could improve government efficiency and reduce costs to the taxpayers.

Mae Miller sent Jack a brief note saying that the commissioners were impressed, and he might indeed have a job when he got back up there. It wouldn't be for another two weeks before he heard anything officially, just a day or two before his scheduled release. It was a letter stating a definite job offer. He was told to report to the County Clerk, Mae Miller, just as soon as he could.

During his exit session, the usual formality for paroled inmates, Jack showed the letter to the warden. "Well, Martin. I'd say you've got a good chance of making it on the outside. You've been a model prisoner and, I'm told, a great help to the instructor in our computer lab. I wish you well."

"Thank you, warden. You know, I'm sure, that your computer lab can be of great value to others like me. Learning these skills and having something useful to offer employers after parole can keep many from finding themselves back here. I appreciate the opportunity I received."

Jack rode the bus from Carson City to Boise. He uncle met him there one Thursday afternoon. They embraced warmly and soon were driving back to Challis. Conversation in the car was casual and easy, though Uncle Dick never once used the word 'prison'. He just could not bring himself to say that word in any context related to his nephew or any family member.

"What every happened to that girl friend of yours? Jenny, wasn't it? You two stay in touch?"

"A little, Uncle Dick. She wrote to me for a while, but then her letters stopped coming. I expect she felt it was time to get on with her life. And I can't say that I blame her. You know, or perhaps you don't, that we were not really romantically involved. Just good pals."

"You coulda fooled me," Dick added, smiling.

Jack was appreciative of his uncle's help in landing a job with the county, and said so several times during the drive. And he even suggested that computers could be useful in managing the ranch, offering to set up a business and financial system for his uncle's operation. Uncle Dick wasn't sure about that.

They passed by the Brandon Lake trail head parking area just before reaching Challis. "I was wondering, Uncle Dick, if it would be all right for me to move into the cabin for a little while. I plan on telling Mae that I need a week or so to get my bearings before going to work full time. Okay?"

"Sure, Jack. Help yourself. And you can borrow the old International Scout 4-wheel, if you need it. It'll get you up to the Lake, at least until the snows fly. You don't have a car now, do you?"

"Nope ... the finance company repossessed it. Guess I'll have to buy me some wheels after I get on the payroll. You wanta sell the old Scout?" Uncle Dick just chuckled, and Jack knew that meant no. That Scout was a fixture on the ranch and Dick would never part with it.

It was used for everything, from stretching fence lines to hauling hay bales up to the high country cattle pens. It pulled horse trailers and carried firewood. That was a versatile piece of ranch equipment.

Jack was home and that felt good, real good.

Chapter 19

After a couple days with Uncle Dick, Ellie and the others at the ranch, Jack decided it was time to head up to the cabin at Brandon Lake. First, though, he stopped by the County Clerk's office in Challis, to say hello and explain that he needed a week or so to square things away before reporting to work.

Mae Miller was not one to push Jack into starting immediately, but she did suggest that he take some reading material with him. "The commissioners prepared a kind of charter for the project, Jack. They wrote down what it is they want you to do, and how much we can spend to get the computerizing process rolling. Look over these papers and we'll discuss them in a week or so, when you're ready to go to work. Okay?"

"You bet, Mae. And I thank you and the commissioners for this job, and the opportunity to get my life back on track. It means a lot, and I won't let you down." Mae came around from behind her desk and gave Jack a big hug, like he was family. "Thanks Mae. See you in a week or so."

Jack stopped in at the market and bought various supplies and groceries. He vaguely remembered what there was in the cabin, the kitchen equipment and such. He remembered to get kerosene, matches, flashlight batteries and a few hardware items. Then he stopped by the small new men’s store and bought some clothes. The one outfit they gave him before leaving Carson City wouldn't do very well up here in the high country. Soon he had the back of the Scout filled with bags and boxes. He filled the gas tank before heading up to the lake.

The trail, not really what you could call a road, from the highway up to the cabin was rough. An ordinary car or even a pickup truck couldn't make it. But that dependable old Scout came through, again. By late afternoon he was there, and the place looked wonderful to him.

For the first two days Jack took care of cleaning up the place and doing routine chores. Firewood needed chopping, splitting and stacking. The outhouse door needed repairs, and squirrels nesting in the chimney had to be evicted. Even a small cabin takes a lot of work to keep it livable. One morning he took a couple hours from chores to try some trout fishing. An old bamboo pole with a line and hook, found up in the rafters, wasn't a fancy rig but it worked. He had fresh trout for lunch that day. And boy, did they ever taste great. They didn't serve that down in Carson City.

One morning, a day or so later, Jack hiked over to the place where the avalanche happened. He couldn't find much evidence that definitely showed it was his avalanche, for over the years there had been dozens in the area. A swath through the trees, where rocks and debris knocked down smaller trees and brush was obvious. And some larger trees were broken off at about the eight foot level above the now now bare ground. But the area didn't look at all totally devastated.

Many big ponderosas had scratches on the bark, where over the years slides roared by headlong down the hillside. Jack couldn't identify the place where he'd been trapped under the snowmobile. It all looked different then. There were no snowmobiles or even parts laying around. The hillside and forest looked clean.

After hiking for about two miles, with the sun getting high in the sky and blazing down on him, Jack decided to sit under the shade of a big ponderosa. He leaned against its trunk, in the cool shade. He pulled out a water bottle from his jacket pocket and took a refreshing drink.

As Jack raised the bottle, tilting it high while drinking, something in the tree overhead caught his eye. There was a dark object up on a branch, close to the trunk, about ten feet from the ground.

Was it a bear? A young cub, with it's mother somewhere in the area? Jack quickly became concerned and looked around to be sure he wasn't in that situation, between a cub and its mother. Nothing seemed amiss or threatening, so Jack turned his attention to that curious thing up there in the tree. What could it be?

"Well, I'll be damned," he suddenly blurted. "That's the other duffel bag, stuck up there in the branches. It musta been thrown up there in the tumbling chaos of that avalanche. And it's still there. Amazing. Absolutely amazing."

Jack climbed up into the tree and grabbed onto the bag. It was hung by the carry strap onto a broken branch, and rested up against the tree trunk. The only way you could see it was from directly below. The dark dark gray of the bag was similar in color to the shadows under the ponderosa's branches, and it could easily be missed.

"Well, I'll be .. ," he exclaimed again. Jack dropped the bag to the base of the tree and quickly scrambled down to investigate.

He unzipped the bag and then he found it. There, safe and dry inside the water resistant nylon bag, was the money. Hands full on money. Suddenly Jack started laughing, uncontrollably laughing at this amazing discovery and the irony of the situation.

He zipped the bag closed again and headed for the cabin. His gait was like that of a skipping youngster. In no time at all he reached the cabin porch and rushed inside. He plopped the bag down on the table and opened it once more. Then he joyously grabbed hands full of money and placed it on the table. He noted that none was stained, dyed or otherwise tainted. This was good, clean money.

Stacks of $100's, $50's and a few $20's soon covered the table top. Jack counted it three times, and each total came out the same. There was $126,000 there. "Wow. Wow!" was all Jack could say. "Wow!"

Then he neatly placed the money back into the bag and put it under the cot. And sitting there at the old wooden table his mind raced. "Now what? Now what do I do?" he asked himself.