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Chapter One
Ted Aldrich sat alone on the front porch of his rustic home, built high on a wooded knoll overlooking the rolling fields and forests of southern Ohio. His sprawling white barn, which he liked to call his personal hangar, sat at meadow’s edge below him. Above him, lazy clouds floated in a sky shimmering bluish-white in dry summer heat. Restless, Aldrich descended the winding stone path that led to the barn, pushed open the massive sliding door, and used a pull-rope to roll his cherry red biplane into the hazy sunlight. Ted Aldrich loved his planes; he loved to fly; but he was battling a feeling of tired old motions as he fired up the bird, lowered his goggles, and taxied toward the narrow blacktop strip that extended into the meadow. He accelerated for half the length of the runway and lifted off, looking for a corresponding lift in his spirits. He had tried, in a half-assed way, to be a good son. His father had owned a major dry cleaning chain in Tampa, and Ted Sr. died a sad old man. As they sat together on a nursing home veranda, his father said, "Get in your licks while you're young, Teddy. I let life go by, and now my money and I are sitting in a damned rocking chair." So Ted got in his licks while he was young. He flew fighter jets, drove stock cars, and raced powerboats. He hunted in Africa, climbed in Nepal, and along the way he sampled ladies of every flavor. But he never decided that he wasn't young, and the years sped by and became a deep stack of memories now blurring. Still, he had his toys. He had the game. And one day, he would cash out by going down with all guns blazing. He lifted the plane’s nose to forty-five degrees, aiming toward a listless cloudbank, enjoying the whip of wind on his face. At a deep internal level, Ted Aldrich had committed to going down with all guns blazing. He sure as hell couldn’t be a rocking chair guy, tethered to a nose tube, doled soft food by a blue-haired nurse, reading the Bible like a drowning man looking for a life raft. His father lived like that for two God forsaken years. Ted wouldn’t survive it for two days. Prison might be worse, and the thought of gray walls was Ted’s only real concern when Daniel added death to their game. Ted didn't mind death, someone else's or his own. Any fighter pilot worth his salt has glared into Death’s eye and didn’t blink. Ted thought of enemy soldiers he had riddled. He thought of people fleeing and falling in villages he had strafed. He thought of that long-ago morning, of Merri riding her motorcycle beside his, hair streaming behind her, face alive with the joy that filled her. Then the deer, out of nowhere. Merri’s frantic swerve. The long grinding slide, sparks flying off Route 40’s pavement, until roadside underbrush swallowed his fiancé and her cycle. Finding her. Holding her. Ted Aldrich clenched his teeth, seeing as if yesterday her eyes imploring but knowing, fading slowly to steel gray. If Merri deserved to die, anyone could die. He leveled at three thousand feet, relishing the throaty growl of the engine. He veered right, roaring counterclockwise around the four vertical fingers of a jutting cloud formation. He lifted the nose to vertical, looped, barrel-rolled, and looped again, this time exploding through the fingers of clouds. He thought about their last game. Ah, sweet Lynn. Lynn Thompson. What a peach! Lynn hadn't handled the biplane well, but even a ghost-white Lynn Thompson was a joy to look at, possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever loved. He shook his head while pulling the plane’s nose back to vertical and starting a five hundred foot climb. Hell, they were all beautiful; he loved them all; the next one is more important than the last, and so it will be with the dearly departed Lynn Thompson. He reached the top of his climb and shut down the engine, playing again his version of Russian roulette. No idea where he was on the map. He would dead-stick to a landing somewhere. Hopefully survive. If not, what the hell? The long glide began. A leisurely study of the terrain under him. Nothing but heavy green forest for now. No problem. Challenging. He banked right, searching. Son of a bitch; nothing but forest. Losing altitude rapidly now. He banked left. Giant trees looming. Needing a break. Only one choice, a farm out further to the left. Dropping faster. Barely clearing a tree line. Close. Heading directly toward the roof of a barn. Not good. Either dead or a police report. Veer right. Missed the barn. More trees. Left this time. Cleared a tractor and wagon by maybe a foot. Bouncing onto the ground between a rusty pickup and a wide-eyed woman holding a bucket. Helluva ride! Let's charm the lady for a few minutes; probably good for a piece of pie, maybe more; then head home.
Now in full uniform, Captain Ted Aldrich flew his twin-engine Bonanza toward the Columbus, Ohio airport. He would be returning Columbus-to-Chicago for professional reasons, and deadheading on a TransSystem flight would provide another opportunity to fulfill his role as the game’s recruitment officer. He thought back over the last several frustrating weeks. As always, meeting attractive women had been no problem. Hell, an airport bubbles with attractive women. Stewardesses have friends; alert buddies on the ticket counters can help. But attractive wasn’t enough, and this year’s lady still eluded him.
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Excerpt: The Alphabet Affair |
