Discovery

  LOST AND FORGOTTEN

  Book One—Discovery

  Maurice Barkley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, without permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales is entirely a coincidence.

  This book contains an excerpt of the upcoming book LOST AND FORGOTTEN (Book Two – The Secret Path). The excerpt is for this edition only, and may not reflect the final content of the coming edition.

  Copyright © 2016 Maurice Barkley

  All rights reserved.

  To My Wife

  Marie Kleinhenz Barkley

  Special thanks for priceless advice and counseling.

  Robin Pudetti

  Rose and Rick Taubold

  Sue Jerrems

  Edited by thEditors

  Rocky Mountain Press

  Publishers of Pinnacle Fiction

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  May 1945 – Off the coast of Brazil

  Only the moon was witness to the huge bulge of black water, rising then fragmenting into swirling pockets as it retreated. A full minute passed and the disturbance ended. A second minute passed, and then, just as the ocean resumed its aloof and mighty business, the flailing arms of Unteroffizier Gunter Weis broke the surface.

  In an oxygen-starved panic, the sergeant sucked in great mouthfuls of air and salt water. He choked and sank below the waves. His arms brought him up again, but only to cough and swallow more water. Again he sank, but he was too weak to struggle and his battered senses left him in utter confusion and despair.

  Out of nowhere, a solid object impacted his feet and lifted his head above the surface. Still coughing and gagging, the sergeant vomited much of what he had swallowed. The unknown object kept rising and soon he was lying on the surface of a wooden crate that displaced just enough water to stay afloat. With each breath his panic subsided, allowing his eyes to focus. A new terror tightened his chest when he realized he was in the open ocean and very much alone.

  Thoughts of what might be lurking just under the surface induced a mental paralysis, but eventually he gained some control. It took no effort to stay afloat, but to what end? He knew only that he was in a warm ocean with no chance of rescue.

  At the top of one swell he glimpsed the black silhouette of palm trees, low on the horizon. Still using the crate to stay afloat, he began to paddle, surfboard style, toward the shore. The activity gave him time to wonder about what had happened. Had it been a magnetic mine or perhaps a depth charge? Were they in a war zone? If so, where was the enemy? Rumors abounded about surrender and the end of the war, but he had heard nothing official.

  Why was he the only survivor? The U-boat that had carried him, not normally used to transport people, held a number of high military officials and other mysterious cargo. He had not known where they were going or when they would arrive. His time aboard the vessel was spent either serving the officials or sleeping in a tiny compartment behind the engines. He had no beer. He could not smoke his pipe.

  Those in command only gave orders and would tolerate no questions from the sergeant. Gunter learned to quietly go about his duties with downcast eyes. This worked well and soon the sergeant had become invisible to those in command. Although his eyes were concealed behind the visor of his cap, his ears were free and active. He listened carefully and heard things he did not understand.

  One passenger had seemed to be in charge. To the sergeant, the man looked like Martin Bormann, Hitler’s deputy, but that couldn’t be so. Surely he would never have left the Fuhrer’s side. Gunter only knew that each time he saw the Nazi, the man was at the after battery dining table, holding court over the remnants of the Reich. The vessel’s crew was forced to eat elsewhere. The high officials were not a happy lot. Almost always they were boastfully drunk.

  One time, Gunter thought it was nighttime above, the man who could be Bormann was excessively drunk and excessively loud. “I had been destined to take the Secret Path, but then you incompetents ruined everything and here we are, cowering like dogs under the sea. There is still great danger, but there is also great promise if we find those we seek.”

  Another bleary eyed man raised his glass. “Die zukünftige Rasse,” he said, slurring his words.

  The dining area became deathly silent. Even Gunter froze in place, though he didn’t know why the man saying, “The coming race” had any significance.

  Bormann’s face became an even deeper shade of red and his eyes seemed to bulge out. “You abominable fool,” he screamed—spittle flying from his mouth. “No one is ever to say those words out loud—no one—ever.” He leaned over the table, spilling his drink. “Get out of my sight. If I see you again, I’ll have you ejected out of a torpedo tube.”

  The man had quickly left and was seen no more. Gunter did the same as soon as he could. He had been very much afraid of these people.

  But that was before the horror, before the explosion, before the dark waters had thundered into their vessel and sent it to the bottom of the ocean. Alone in the terrifying night, Unteroffizier Gunter Weis struggled desperately to reach the unknown shore. He did not know if he would survive. Most important, he did not know he was the single remaining link to a world-changing secret.

  CHAPTER 1

  Present day

  From my old Philco stereo turned down low, Ray Charles sang to me about a rainy night in Georgia. The daylong downpour, drenching most of Upstate New York, had ended suddenly, leaving a great void, waiting for something to happen. An old fashioned streetlight pushed its feeble light through the rain-streaked glass of the picture window and into the dark room. Across the street, sleeping houses hung suspended and ghostly, their foundations hidden in the mist. Everything was muffled and soft. There was nothing but the music.

  I think it was Ray's voice that made it one of Jean's favorites, but she was not here to listen. Jean, was the restless one, who, like me, was career military and hated retirement. But unlike me, she went looking for—for something I or this place could no longer provide. If only I knew.

  A single slow moving car drifted past, a jarring intruder in the darkness. My reflection looked back from three or four feet beyond the glass, trying to make me feel guilty for holding it out there in the wet. I had a sudden urge to step through the picture window, like Alice Through the Looking Glass and join my other self in the mysterious night.

  Ray sang on, with an ache in his voice that made it feel like it was raining all over the world. I nodded in agreement and my reflection nodded back. I needed to get out. Being alone in the house meant I could simply step through the door and vanish into the night, an appealing thought. Logic lingered for a while, and I almost clicked on the television, but just in time I remembered I had exhausted my supply of sugar-free cough drops. The little disks
serve to banish any trace of the occasional cigar, one of my few remaining vices. The thought was just a small straw, drifting by on the currents of my gloomy mood, but I grabbed it.

  I buckled the belt of my old trench coat and turned up the collar. My black, Sinatra-style fedora, placed at a jaunty angle transformed me from Jim Cagney, retired Army Ranger, into James Cagney the film legend. In my new persona I was ready to go forth and answer the mysterious call.

  In the driveway my little fantasy transformed my deep-blue 2010 Toyota into a deep-blue 1939 Packard sedan. I slid in and pulled the heavy door shut. The straight-eight engine rumbled to life and the big sedan rolled down the street.

  It wasn't all that late, but there was little evidence of life on Main Street. The darkened storefronts sliding past my side windows became dreamlike and hypnotic. Engine sounds retreated as I sunk deeper into the spell. The multicolored beer signs in the windows of Batts, my favorite bar, glowed with their siren call. I had to pass because this was not Friday, featuring the fabulous Italian food served only once a week.

  Two bright spots at the other end of Main Street snapped me out of my trance. On my left was the excessively illuminated convenience store and gas station, where the truly desperate or the impressively uninformed could fork over the price of a supermarket six-pack for a single bottle of sugar water. Across the street the lights of my local drug store could not compete.

  The rain had started again, so I pulled in and parked, maybe improperly, near the drug store entrance and ran to the door. Once inside I paused long enough to shake off some of the water clinging to my outer garment. Also clinging to me was the little James Cagney fantasy. The well-assembled girl behind the counter might have sparked James Cagney's interest, but I found her vacant eyes and flagrant gum chewing unappealing. Every fifth chomp gave me a panoramic view of the interior of her mouth.

  The rack that should have held my cough drops was empty. “Miss, do you have any more of these?” Her eyes remained vacant. I repeated my question.

  She looked at the empty rack. “Dunno. Lemme check.” The young lady came out from behind the counter and bounced her way toward the stockroom. Returning moments later, she snapped her gum. “We're completely out of those.”

  “Thanks for checking,” I said.

  Again she didn't answer and the vacant look was still her dominant feature. I then noticed the fine wire falling from her ear to an MP3 player. As I left the store, I realized that more than age separated her world from mine, but at least I noticed her. I was sure my presence didn't register at all.

  I could have gone home, but neither James nor Jim Cagney could face the empty house. Another small town was six miles down the road and that became my goal. The big sedan came to life, rolled down the street and then cruised ghost-like through the misty countryside. The only real sounds were the soft rumble of the engine and the slap-slap of the windshield wipers, but in my mind I could hear Ray Charles crying his lament to an empty night. I didn’t know that I had just begun a very long journey.

  The next town had its own drug store. It had what I needed so I bought two tins. On leaving the building, my eye was drawn to a diner next door. I had seen it before, but was never a customer. The builder designed it to resemble an antique silver trolley car. Spotlights lighting the name “Silver Diner” on the big sign in front simply served to restate the obvious. The yellow light, spilling from its many windows, looked warm and inviting. One great luxury of retirement is the flexibility to alter one's plans at will, so I left the Packard where it was and splashed my way over to the diner.

  I had to pause at the bottom of the steps to allow two young but overweight businessmen to descend, pop open their umbrellas, and waddle away like two of the animated mushrooms from Fantasia. My desire for a cheeseburger and fries evaporated as I pushed my way through the double aluminum doors.

  I hung my trench coat and hat on a rack near the door, then looked around. It was nineteen fifty again. The interior color scheme was a bright, pleasing, red, white and chrome. I half expected to see Dick Tracy in one of the booths, eating a bowl of chili with Tess and Kid. A long white counter ran the full length down the middle. At each end it took a sharp, right angle turn and bumped into the back wall, leaving a secure, if narrow, working space. There was a mix of six or seven gals and guys in red-trimmed, white uniforms hustling about and my nose told me they had a good cook.

  I saw no open spaces, but just then a young man at the far right end of the long counter, got up to leave. He surrendered his seat by rising and backing off his chrome rimmed stool cowboy-style, leaving the red cushion barely enough time to decompress before I flattened it again.

  I raised an arm as a busy young waitress removed the dirty dishes and vigorously swabbed the counter top. Before I had fully lowered that limb, she popped back with pad and pencil in hand—waiting expectantly for my order.

  “I’ll have an egg and olive sandwich on whole wheat, a glass of skim milk and a cup of regular coffee—black.”

  Another pop and she vanished, leaving me there with nothing to do. I mused that the diners of my youth flipped burgers to a slower beat of the spatula.

  I began to examine my surroundings, using my ears and my peripheral vision. The man to my left was deep into his food and was of no interest. My seat was the last one on the long counter. Straight ahead however, where the counter angled to the back wall, there were two more stools. I saw two men in their mid-twenties, in conversation over the remnants of their dinner. Both wore charcoal gray, conservative suits and both had dark, close-cropped hair. A passerby might think they were businessmen, salesmen or professionals, but I can spot military men in uniform or out.

  For many years I carried an M1 Garand rifle while I rode around in an M2 Bradley, so I named the one closest to me M1 and the other next to the wall M2. The other, facing me, had pleasant but sharp features. He reminded me of the stereotypical kid from Brooklyn that was a fixture in early films. Jean always said I was a bit of a snoop, so, with no apology, I tuned in on their conversation.

  M1, facing away from me, was saying, “We probably drove right past his house, but what with no moon, the rain and no flashlight, it's easy to see how we missed it. I just don't know if we should get a good flashlight and try again. All the houses on that street were dark as death.”

  M2 took a sip of his coffee. “I wonder if he's home. It may be a slim chance, but as it is we're getting nowhere.”

  “It's driving me absolutely nuts,” M1 said. “We've come at it from every angle and it's still a complete mystery. You'd think those computer geeks could dig up something.”

  As he was talking, his pen hand was close to my glass of water and in range of my eyes. He was scribbling on a clean napkin with a shiny black pen. Over and over he wrote M5282. In some places he scribbled over the letter and numbers so heavily that he tore through the napkin.

  “I know, I know,” M2 shrugged his shoulders. “I walk around all day thinking of that damn stamp—and why a rubber stamp instead of a signature? It's our only clue and it leads us to a blank wall.”

  “All I know for sure,” M1 said, with a sigh, “is that I'm totally out of gas on this one. I'm glad Alice isn't here. I'm half inclined to pack it in and get back to headquarters.”

  While I was looking unobtrusively at the napkin he was gradually shredding, an old memory wiggled up to the surface and suddenly I saw a possible answer. The rubber stamp did it. Now I had to decide what to do. Based on their appearance and their conversation, they took on the aura of the CIA or something similar. They did not seem at all sinister, but who could tell? I could detect no trace of an accent and they sure did look like good-old American boys. James Cagney decided to butt in.

  I leaned forward over the counter and slid my right hand, index finger raised, close to M1's sleeve. “Excuse me.”

  M2's gaze shifted my way while M1 swiveled around. Their look was intense and completely devoid of expression, but I knew I had their full attention.
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  I took a deep breath and said, in a confidential tone, “Excuse the interruption, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. If what you've written on your napkin is what you're trying to decipher, I may have an answer for you.”

  Still without expression, those four eyes nailed me in place.

  “Go on.” M1 said, with no perceptible lip movement.

  I cleared my throat. “It's an old military device used to identify an individual or rather an individual's belongings, but it all amounts to the same thing. My guess is it belongs to an older man. The M is the first letter of his last name. The numbers are the last four of his eight digit military serial number.”

  I saw M1's expression intensify. He swiveled back to look at M2. No words were spoken. M1 tilted his head to his right. M2 nodded assent, slid off his stool and quickly disappeared through the restroom door at the other end of the counter. As he entered the facility I saw him press his cell phone to his ear.

  M1 then turned his attention back to me. “If this works out it could be extremely helpful. How did you recognize this so rapidly?”

  While M1 was talking, the speedy waitress materialized for a microsecond and then vanished, leaving my sandwich and drink. I took one bite and had a sip of milk before I answered.

  “My time in the Army began after the Vietnam business. Back then the Army issued rubber stamps to all soldiers, maybe they still do. We had to mark everything we owned; pants, shirts, ponchos, socks, belts, underwear, hats—everything.”

  I took another bite of my egg and olive. M1, whose brow reminded me of the young Marlon Brando, just sat quietly and appraised this new elderly acquaintance. It was a comfortable silence, made more intimate and cozy by the dark and the rain.

  I had just swallowed the last wedge of E&O when M2 rejoined us. He put a hand on M1's shoulder and slid back onto his perch. Again, his face betrayed no emotion. He looked at M1 for a moment, then said, “Bingo.”