The Third Rescue Read online

  The Third Rescue

  Jay Mackey

  River Sky Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Jay Mackey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  2. Near Las Vegas, July 1964

  3. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  4. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  5. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  6. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  7. Near Las Vegas, July 1964

  8. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  9. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  10. Las Vegas, April 2018

  11. Near Las Vegas, July 1964

  12. Las Vegas, April 2018

  13. Las Vegas, April 2018

  14. Near Las Vegas, July 1964

  15. Las Vegas, April 2018

  16. Las Vegas, April 2018

  17. Las Vegas, April 2018

  18. Near Las Vegas, July 1964

  19. Las Vegas, April 2018

  20. Las Vegas, April 2018

  21. Las Vegas, July 1964

  22. Las Vegas, April 2018

  23. Las Vegas, April 2018

  24. Las Vegas, July 1964

  25. Las Vegas, April 2018

  26. Las Vegas, April 2018

  27. Las Vegas, April 2018

  28. Las Vegas, April 2018

  29. Las Vegas, May 1982

  30. Las Vegas, April 2018

  31. Las Vegas, May 1982

  32. Las Vegas, April 2018

  33. Las Vegas, April 2018

  34. Las Vegas, April 2018

  35. Las Vegas, April 2018

  36. Muroc Army Airfield, June 1947

  37. Muroc Army Airfield, June 1947

  38. Nevada, April 2018

  39. Groom Lake, July 1964

  40. Groom Lake, July 1964

  41. Groom Lake, July 1964

  42. Nevada, April 2018

  43. August 2001

  44. Nevada, April 2018

  45. Nevada, April 2018

  46. Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  47. Newport, Kentucky, August 2001

  48. Nevada, April 2018

  49. Nevada, April 2018

  50. Groom Lake, Nevada 1948

  51. Nevada, April 2018

  52. Nevada, April 2018

  53. Nevada, April 2018

  54. Nevada, April 2018

  55. Nevada, April 2018

  56. Nevada, April 2018

  57. Nevada, April 2018

  58. Nevada, April 2018

  59. Nevada, April 2018

  60. Nevada, April 2018

  61. Nevada, April 2018

  62. Nevada, April 2018

  63. Nevada, April 2018

  64. Nevada, April 2018

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  CJ stared at the DNA test results that Mr. Jared had just passed out, his heart pounding. He was anxious to look at the data, to see where he really came from. Well, to see where his ancestors came from. That was the key: his ancestors, and specifically, his grandmother.

  The DNA test was for Mr. Jared’s class, “Origins,” an elective for juniors and seniors. CJ had heard that this class was easy, and he needed one additional semester in a social science before high school graduation next year. So Origins it was.

  The class had one major assignment, with three elements: the assignment was to research your family background. The elements were to: one, develop a family tree, going back as far as possible, using the tools provided online at FamilyHeritage.com. Two, select a family member and write a paper on how that person’s heritage—his or her “origins”—had affected his or her life. And three, spit in a tube, get your DNA tested, and get your real ethnic background.

  The class started off easy, and it was fun. How could anything not be fun when you got to spit in a tube and mail it off to somebody?

  But then reality set in.

  First, finding a relative to write his paper on had become a problem for CJ. Through a process of elimination, he’d decided to write it on Nini, his grandmother. She had been an orphan, which would not seem to be a good choice for a paper on ancestry, but that fact pulled him toward her—CJ’s own parents had been killed in an auto accident when he was just an infant, so he was an orphan, too, really.

  But he hadn’t anticipated her reaction when he tried to get her to give him something to base his paper on.

  “Isn’t there anything you remember about your parents, or any other relatives?” he’d asked.

  She’d given him a nasty look and said she didn’t know anything about any relatives.

  Ignoring the negative vibes she was sending, he’d asked, “What about adoption papers or other records? Maybe I could use the tools on FamilyHeritage.com to go back and find out who your parents were. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “No,” she’d replied, telling him that it wouldn’t be cool at all. She’d never been adopted and never had foster parents. She grew up in an orphanage, didn’t want to know anything about her heritage, and didn’t want to talk about it.

  “That was a bad time for me, CJ. I didn’t have the best childhood. So drop it.”

  “But I have no one to write about.”

  Her scowl hadn’t revealed even a hint of sympathy.

  This conversation took place in the kitchen, as Nini prepared dinner for the two of them. Noga (CJ had called his grandfather Noga since he’d been a toddler, combining “Nonno,” Italian for grandfather, with his name, Gus) had been working at the restaurant that night—he and Nini alternated nights during the week so one of them could be home with CJ. Nini had been making meatballs, and took her time forming up the last of the spiced ground meat into a perfect sphere before she’d replied.

  “Write it on your grandfather. He’d appreciate a little attention from you.”

  He knew the obvious choice was Noga, but . . . well, he was Italian and the restaurant he and Nini owned had once been a strip club, supposedly. CJ didn’t want to go there. He got enough crap about that already from kids at school.

  “No, he wouldn’t. He hates it when people talk about how he came from Las Vegas and he’s Italian, and you know what that means . . .”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t take any of that sh . . . stuff from anybody. I don’t. He doesn’t.” She’d grabbed one of the meatballs from the bowl on the counter and reworked it, turning it over and over in her fists.

  “I know, but still.” She doesn’t understand. Or care. “Other kids have it easy,” he’d mumbled.

  “I’m sorry your parents aren’t around,” Nini had said quietly. “But Gus and I have tried our best.” The meatballs had sizzled in the preheated skillet, smelling of onions and garlic.

  “No, Nini. That’s not what I meant. I couldn’t have had better . . . you know. I’m sorry.” He’d thought about going around the counter and hugging her, but she hadn’t seemed open to that right then. “But you must know—there’s always something missing somehow, when you don’t have a mom and dad. Right? Even though you and Noga have done everything parents could do. And I turned out all right, didn’t I?”

  Nini had softened her look but hadn’t stopped working the meatballs in the skillet. “The jury’s still out on that one.” Moving her attention over to the sauce simmering in a separate pot, she’d stirred and tasted carefully. “Why don’t you write about your Grandfath
er Robbins?”

  “I barely know him. That would be hard.” CJ had met his father’s parents a couple of times when he’d been very young. They lived in California, a long way from Newport, Kentucky, where CJ lived with his grandparents. He didn’t really remember them, but Nini had pictures she’d pull out every now and then which showed them all together. He’d received birthday and Christmas gifts from them up until he’d turned ten, but then Grandmother Robbins had died, and he’d not had much contact since then. So it had surprised CJ when Grandfather Robbins had responded to the letter he’d sent asking for family background for the Origins class, giving him some family names, with birth and death dates and places. Then, with the use of the FamilyHeritage.com tools, he was able to trace parts of that side of his family back to Scotland and to Ireland in the 1800s. It was a good start to the family tree, but Grandfather Robbins was still not a good subject for the paper he had to write.

  “Well, you’ll have to figure it out, CJ.” Nini had wiped her hands on a towel. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, but my childhood isn’t something I want to talk about, or even think about. Find someone else to write your paper on.”

  Even after that conversation, CJ didn’t give up on writing about Nini. Maybe, he thought, he could find out who her parents were. After all, they did it on TV all the time.

  And now he had the envelope with his DNA test. It would be a good place to start. At least, it might help him figure out her ethnic background. He pulled out the colorful booklet, with the FamilyHeritage logo on the front, along with his code number, because all these DNA results were confidential. Apparently, some people didn’t like having their DNA identified and put into some database.

  CJ quickly turned to the pages inside. He found maps and charts, showing the percentages of his DNA that came from different parts of the world. FamilyHeritage could separate the DNA into thirty different regions.

  He quickly saw that the biggest slice of his DNA—29%—came from the Southern European area that included Greece and Italy. That wasn’t surprising, because of Noga.

  Another 22% was from Great Britain and 16% from Ireland. CJ figured these were from his father. Grandfather Robbins had told him they were mostly from Scottish and Irish backgrounds.

  Eleven percent was from Scandinavia.

  Probably Vikings, invading Britain and raping the locals. So, likely from the Robbins side.

  There were other trace amounts—5% from the Finland and Russia area, 4% from Western Europe and 2% from Eastern Europe.

  But what freaked him out was the chart at the bottom of the page. There was a long black bar, and the caption said, “11% Unknown.”

  Unknown? What is that?

  CJ checked with his classmates. The smart girl sitting to his right. She didn’t have any “Unknown.”

  The big guy behind him, the one who was always giving him a hard time about something. Ditto.

  He continued checking. Nobody he talked to had “Unknown.”

  So now what? Maybe there was something wrong with the spit I put in the tube. Didn’t I have a big drink from the water fountain in the hall right before class that day? Maybe I filled my tube with water instead of spit. Maybe when I hacked up snot, trying to gross out the girls, I got only snot in the tube. Would that make a difference? What is Mr. Jared going to say?

  He sat wondering, as Mr. Jared talked about DNA and told them how to read the reports. A couple kids went up to the front and talked about their results.

  Jason Popovich: mostly Eastern European and Russian, with a smattering of other European countries. No “Unknown.”

  Julie Holloway: Irish and Spanish, with a lot of Chinese. Who knew? But no “Unknown.”

  Can I fail this just because my spit didn’t work? Maybe no one will notice. They’re supposed to be confidential results, right? Oh man, what does this mean for Nini? Maybe she’s the one from Scandinavia. That, plus the little bits and pieces from other parts of Europe. This is totally screwed up.

  And then, right before the bell, Mr. Jared said, “Would the person who has test number NCHS-1879 please stop and see me after class?”

  CJ looked at the front of his envelope. There it was—1879.

  Oh, no!

  2

  Near Las Vegas, July 1964

  Gus rode uneasily in the back seat of the old Ford, the well-worn springs in the stained seat launching him into the air with every bump and rut in the dirt road, bringing his head perilously close to the roof. Sitting next to him, Tony Faccio was faring even worse with his tall frame.

  “Damn, Li’l Bull,” Faccio said after whacking his head on the roof particularly hard. “Where’d you learn to drive?”

  “Shaddup, Faccio,” growled Gus’s older brother, Little Bull Mazza. Their father was Bull, and Marcio, the oldest son, was called Little Bull even though the son was now a good three inches taller and twenty-five pounds heavier than the father.

  Faccio had a way of saying, or sneering, “Li’l” so it sounded like a snub, like Little Bull wasn’t anything big or important.

  “If you’re lucky, one of these times you’ll get knocked out cold. Won’t have to face what’s coming,” Little Bull added.

  “Yeah?” Faccio snarled back. “You think I’m scared? You should see your little brother. He’s about to piss his pants.” He looked over at Gus, curling his lip.

  “Oh, you’re tough,” said Gus.

  “We’ll see who’s tough, you put that thing down,” said Faccio, nodding at the gun that Gus held tightly, pointed at him—or at least as much at him as Gus could manage, given the jouncing around they were doing in the back seat.

  “Come on, Li’l Bull. Your little brother is going to shoot me with that thing if you don’t slow down.”

  “Gus, you better not shoot him in the car,” said Little Bull, giving Gus a dirty look in the rearview mirror. “You do, you’ll clean up the mess.”

  “I got it covered.” In truth, Gus wasn’t sure he had anything covered. Sweat was rolling down his chest, even in the cool air of the desert at night. Bouncing around in the car, it was all he could do to hold on to the gun with his sweaty hands. Maybe he should have been worried about Tony jumping him, but Tony had his hands tied behind his back, making that pretty tough. Plus, Gus had backup—the Oaf in the front seat. Literally. The big guy with the wild hair in the front seat was called Oaf.

  Oaf’s real name was James, but Oaf fit him. Little Bull had pinned the nickname on him, and anyone who knew him understood why.

  For one thing, he was huge—well over six feet. For another . . . well, when he jumped into the front passenger seat of the car, holding his short-barrel shotgun, he called out, “Shotgun,” which gave him such delight he laughed about it for the first hour of their drive.

  James had objected to his nickname at one time, but it didn’t matter. Little Bull was an Alpha male, the clear leader of this pack, and if he decided to call someone “Oaf,” then that was their new name.

  “Haven’t we gone far enough, Little Bull?” asked Gus. “This car isn’t going to survive this road much longer.” Though it wasn’t the car he was worried about.

  “You know the rules,” replied Bull. “No funny stuff in Vegas, right?”

  “Yeah, but we’ve been driving for over an hour. This ought to be far enough.”

  “I just want to get up into the mountains a little bit. Hold your bones.”

  Gus peered out the window to the desert. It was dark. Especially dark, it seemed to him. There was no moon that night, and even the multitude of stars that usually teemed over the desert sky seemed to be muted. He wondered if his father knew what he was going to be doing. Wondered if he’d be proud if he knew. Or if he’d be pissed.

  Yeah, well up yours, old man.

  His dad was always saying things like, “When I was your age, I’d already put a kid in the hospital for talking back to me,” or “When I was your age, I already had my own crew,” or some other crap.

  Well, how old were
you when you did this? Probably about twelve, is what you’d say. As if I believe anything you say.

  Let’s get this over with!

  3

  Newport, Kentucky, April 2018

  CJ sat, watching the other kids file out of class. This assignment, this whole class, now seemed like a colossal failure.

  Finally, after the last student had left the room, Mr. Jared motioned for him to come up to his desk. CJ gathered his books and papers—stuffing his DNA booklet back into the manila envelope and hoping this attempt at hiding the results would somehow make the problem go away—and shuffled up to the desk, where Mr. Jared was staring down at some papers.

  Mr. Jared was usually cool. He was one of CJ’s younger teachers, although that wasn’t saying much, because most of the teachers in the school would be classified as “ancient” by CJ, meaning they were probably over forty. But Mr. Jared seemed to be up on things like current music, video games and social media. He was tall and thin, and the hair on the top of his head was shaved about as close as his beard.