OVERLORD MUSEUM IN NORMANDY
I was honored to learn the Overlord Museum in Normandy, France, will be offering THE LOST BIRD for sale when it reopens in February. If you haven’t acquired your copy in print or eBook, the following excerpt might convince you to buy a ticket for this crime thriller ride.
CHAPTER ONE
Palm Springs, California
From his vantage point on the ground, the small brown desert hare went about his business on a beautiful Saturday morning as he sniffed for food. The sun’s warmth took the chill off what lingered from a particularly cool night in early October. While watching for the shadows cast by his natural enemy, birds of prey, the hare suddenly froze as the ground beneath it vibrated. But this wasn’t an earthquake. It was something much different, man-made. Soon, another bird of prey would be upon it. Powered by its four 1200-horsepower engines, as the beautifully restored World War II B-17 bomber roared toward the end of the runway, the hare bolted for the nearest brush just as the plane’s shadow darkened the ground around it. Seconds later, as the animal’s heartbeat slowed, the passengers’ hearts aboard a once-in-a-lifetime plane ride pounded in their chests. From the cockpit, as they quickly climbed to an altitude of 10,000 feet, veteran wartime and commercial pilot Pat Monaghan, a lanky, sunbaked seventy-year-old from Reno, Nevada, greeted the paying customers through the headsets they wore to muffle the roar.
“Welcome aboard one of the most famous warplanes ever made,” Monaghan began. “This B-17 flying fortress and thousands like her defeated Hitler and Nazi Germany in the skies over Europe during the Second World War. Unfortunately, less than a handful of these incredible airplanes – another product of the greatest generation, are still flying today, and it is an honor and a privilege for me to be your pilot today.” Thirty feet behind Monaghan and his co-pilot Charlie Taylor, a fifty-five-old retired C-130 pilot and warbird lover like Monaghan, four passengers had no idea their lives were in danger.
# # #
Benny Armstrong’s son John had surprised his father with a very special present for the man’s seventieth birthday – a seat on this warbird ride. The two men sat on a red canvas bench on the starboard side of the plane just a few feet from a once lethal but now disabled .50 caliber machine gun. John was busy taking photos and videos with his phone as Benny smiled at the young couple, he guess were in their early thirties, from San Diego seated directly across from them. They’d gotten to know one another while standing in line waiting to board; they were headed to Las Vegas afterward, eloping to one of the wedding chapels on the strip. She’d need the long ride there to deal with her hair, and Benny laughed as the woman’s long blonde hair danced in the air coming in from the waist gunner’s open windows. He watched as the man studied the ribbon of ammunition that fed the .50 caliber on his side of the plane. Suddenly, a man wearing aviators and dressed in black shoved his way between the four.
“Well, excuse me,” the senior Armstrong shouted as he watched the man continue toward the front of the plane without looking back. He turned to his son.
“What an asshole,” he shouted. John couldn’t hear his father over the roar of the engines, but he read his father’s lips and nodded in agreement. Not allowing the rude behavior to ruin another moment, the four returned their focus to the spectacular warplane they were aboard. Walt Chapman gestured to his fiancé Christa Wells who raised the left side of her headphones as he leaned in.
“My grandfather flew in one of these during the war,” he yelled proudly. “He sat in this position while the flak and the Luftwaffe shot the shit out of his plane run after run.” But then he grew quiet. Wells nodded and began to refocus on the ride, but Chapman needed to say more.
“My dad told me grandpa gave the enemy hell, though, and turned a lot of German planes into Swiss cheese before he died in one of these on the way back to their base in England.” Wells’ expression turned sorrowful as she let go of the headphones and touched his. Chapman smiled at her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Across from them, the Armstrongs were beaming.
“Think we’ll see the Hoover Dam from up here?” John shouted to his father. Benny shook his head no and then leaned close to his son, shouting, “Can you imagine what it was like when they saw the English Channel for the first time?” John thought for a moment and then answered the question.
“Coming or going?” John yelled. “It’s hard to comprehend how many never made it back alive.” The men sat back in their seats, their faces revealing the enormity of all that had happened in planes just like this one to the airmen, many of whom were just teenagers. Then, an announcement from Pat Monaghan gave the passengers an update.
“We’ve reached our cruising altitude now, so as we said in our pre-flight briefing, you are free to walk about the plane, but remember, try and grab hold of something stationary as you move about just in case we find a few bumps in the air up here and remember, this is sacred ground so be sure to treat her with the utmost care and respect.” Walt and Christa got up from their seats and headed back toward the tail gunner position while John Armstrong got up. Up front, the man who had brushed past them just a minute earlier approached the cockpit.
# # #
He nodded at the two passengers seated near the radioman’s desk. They seemed harmless, in their seventies, one wearing a well-worn Vietnam Veteran’s ball cap and the other a bright red Phillies cap. Then he moved across the narrow catwalk that spanned the bomb bay doors. As he came close to the cockpit, he stopped for a moment. He looked back into the plane and was pleased nobody had followed him. That would have changed everything, at least for them. Then, he pulled a gun from inside his black jacket, slid the glide to chamber a bullet, and made his move.
# # #
Pat Monaghan and Charlie Taylor loved what they were doing. Flying had been a lifelong passion for them both, had become their profession, and their careers and relationships had enabled them to do what so few could – be given the rare responsibility of flying a B17 and then bringing its passengers and crew home safely. As both men looked out their side cockpit windows, they turned their attention to the controls and gauges and then to each other, a smile just breaking Pat’s expression until he saw the barrel of a gun, a black Glock 9mm, being pressed against the back of his co-pilot’s neck.
TO FIND OUT MORE or to order on AMAZON, click here. I want to give a very special thanks to Simon Joy of ClassicRacingSpirit.com for making this happen. JK