Buried Treasure by Vincent Madison

Chapter 7

Two Keys

Nevada Desert - September 1944

  The lone truck rumbled down a dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust behind it. While it appeared to be an army truck, it had no U.S. Army identification on it. The truck was large, with an open bed, covered with a canvas cover strapped over a metal frame. Behind the wheel was a short fat man with a handlebar moustache, chewing on the stub of a cigar. Beside him, was a tall lanky man with a long face and a pointed nose.

  The truck slowed and turned left into a small airfield. A small wooden sign was all that marked the entrance: 'Scottys CAA Site 22' was all it said. The truck pulled up past the airfield building and stopped at a small shed about halfway up the airfield. There were no planes on the field, and no cars or signs of anyone on the site, although the airfield was certainly not abandoned. Perhaps the early morning hour was the reason.

  The brakes protested as the truck ground to a halt, and the two men got out. They looked around, and the fat man spat the remains of his cigar on the dusty ground.

  "Let's do it." he barked at the skinny man.

  The fat man pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the big padlock that was on the shed door. He opened the door and they went in. Inside the shed was no more than six feet square, just a utility shed. The skinny man reached down and opened a trapdoor that was barely visible in the planked floor. Under the trapdoor, stairs led down. They both proceeded down the stairs, the fat man shining a flashlight he had pulled out of the pocket of his military-style pants. Near the bottom of the stairs, the fat man snapped on a light switch and a small overhead light came on, showing a grey steel door with a logo on it that was an octagon shaped i-ching logo with an infinity or mobius symbol in the center, with the word DHARMA printed under the symbol. Under the i-ching logo was a small round light that was not lit, and a red sign that said: DO NOT ENTER DURING FALLOUT. Under that was another sign - bright yellow which said: OPEN WITH CAUTION. DOOR UNDER PRESSURE. To the right of the door was a large keypad with letters and numbers on it. The fat man punched in a code and opened the door. "OK, Let's go." he said. "No time to waste."  The skinny man followed the fat man in and they came out with a large wooden crate. This crate was about six feet long by two and a half feet wide by two and a half feet high and had no markings on it other than the word 'EXPLOSIVES' stenciled on the side and above that was a rubber stamped marking that looked like a capital H tilted 45 degrees to the right, the bottom right leg of the H separated from the H and an extra square block extending to the right from the center of the H. It looked kind of like a stylized plane or person if you looked at it the right way, but seemed more like an H.

  The crate was heavy, and it took a huge effort for the two men to get it up the stairs. It had handles on the ends but obviously whatever was in it weighed a lot. Finally they got the crate out of the shed and loaded it in the back of the truck. By know, they were soaked with sweat, in spite of the early hour. The skinny man closed the tailgate and the fat man motioned him to hurry up as he locked the shed. "Let's go." he said. "Long drive to the ship." They got in the truck, started it up, and headed out of the airfield, turning right onto the dirt road, and heading across the California border towards Death Valley, on the long drive to San Francisco.

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  At the Navy Yard, at Mare Island, California, the U.S.S. Mauna Loa was docked. A navy officer on the deck checked his watch and then proceeded down the gangway and off the ship. On the shoulder of his uniform, along with his rank flashes, was an insignia of two keys, crossing each other.  He walked down the dock and just beyond the shipyard to a waterfront bar called O'Malley's. He sat down at a booth in the back of the bar and lit up a cigarette. A burly waiter threw a couple of draft beers on the table, not bothering to ask what the officer wanted. At O'Malley's that was the way it worked. It was two draft beers at a time, or you were not welcome - other than at the bar where you could drink the hard stuff. The officer checked his watch again, then settled down to wait.

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  After driving for close to 12 hours through the desert and mountains, the truck pulled up outside the shipyard at Mare Island in San Francisco. The fat man turned to the skinny man.

   "Stay with the truck. I'll be back after I make the arrangements." The skinny man nodded and moved over to the driver's seat when the fat man climbed down from the cab.

It was dark and raining when the fat man entered O'Malley's. He looked down the bar, checking the uniforms, looking for two keys. He walked to the back of the bar, and caught sight of the officer sitting in the booth. He slid into the booth.

  "Peter Black?" the fat man asked.

  "Mr. Black is indisposed." the officer replied.

  "The air bites shrewdly." the fat man said. "It is very cold."

  "Tis now the very witching time of night." the officer replied, in obvious response to the code statement.

  "We have Mr. Black's shipment." the fat man stated.

  "Excellent. Mr. Black appreciates your efforts. His dedication to supplying the resistance is great."

The fat man chuckled. "His 'dedication' is to the money he gets for the arms he 'liquidates' from your supply.

  "The cause is worthwhile." the officer responded.

  "Yeah, what's worthwhile to you is the cash you get for turning a blind eye and fixing the inventory logs."

  "We all do what we have to to survive." the officer spoke sternly. "Would you rather he sell to the enemy?"

  "For all we know he sells to them too." the fat man spat out his words.

  "Deliver the crate to Dock 23." the officer changed the subject. "Mr. Black will be personally delivering it." He handed over a large brown envelope.

The fat man opened it slightly and rifled through the large wad of bills. "It's a pleasure doing business with you." he said sarcastically.

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  The rain was still drizzling when the truck pulled up at Dock 23. The men unloaded the crate onto the dock. There was a deckhand standing there. The fat man pulled a sheet of paper out of the envelope that the officer had given him in the bar. He handed it to the deckhand. It was an official Navy Bill of Lading authorizing the transportation of the crate. The deckhand scrutinized the paper carefully, and then walked around the crate, inspecting it to make sure it was not damaged.

  "Contents: Dynamite." the deckhand read off the bill of lading. "Destination: Seeadler Harbor / Operation Ulithi: Classified." He stamped the bill, scribbled his signature and gave the carbon copy behind to the fat man, crumpling the carbon paper into a ball, then pulling out a match, lit it on fire and let it fall to the dock. The fat man stuffed his copy into his pocket, puffed on his cigar which was barely lit due to the rain, then nodded to the skinny man and they walked back to the truck. The deckhand whistled up to the ship, and a crane swung around and the hook descended to the dock to pick up the crate. On the deck of the ship, a distinguished young blond haired man stood watching the crate being loaded.