Susanne Marie Knight - The Coming(1).pdf - Susanne Marie Knight - SilverWitch

THE COMING

By Susanne Marie Knight

Published by Awe-Struck E-Books

ISBN: 1-58749-438-8

Electronic rights reserved by Awe-Struck E-Books, all other rights reserved by author. The reproduction

or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an

infringement of the copyright law.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Prologue

August, 1943

Over the din of the B-17 bomber's ascent into the air, the radio decided to squawk, emitting a familiar

voice. "This is 'Flying Mamba.' Position confirmed. Hey, Johnny boy, whichever dumb bastard said 'War

is hell' obviously never pulled duty in the Bahamas! Heaven on earth! Am I right, or what? Over."

Captain Jack Harrington grinned at his former co-pilot's comment on their now-completed "dream"

assignment, and signaled his radio operator, Keith Watkins, for C channel to reply. Glancing out the

window at the almost identical bomber flying in close formation, Jack gave a quick salute to his friend.

"'Flying Mamba', this is 'Sweet Revenge'. Bad news, Nat. You have the wrong war. General Sherman,

late of the Civil War and perpetrator of that quotable quote, had more on his mind with his march to the

sea than we did on this babysitting gig. Over."

Naturally, Lieutenant Ian Baker of the Royal Australian Air Force, stuck his two cents in--or whatever

the hell it was they used for money down at the bottom of the world. "Now, sir, I do believe it's my duty

as co-pilot to correct you. Our RAF students, British or otherwise, aren't young children--or

ankle-biters--as we Aussies like to say. And after all, the flight training school on Nassau is the finest in

the Caribbean."

Flight training school. Christ, what a waste of valuable time for an old-timer like Jack! The foul taste of

bile rose up in his throat, and truth be told, he was hard pressed not to spit it out. Out the window lay the

golden sands and crystal waters of the Bahamian islands chain. Beautiful, yes, but how in good

conscience could a man fritter away the days on this semitropical paradise when there was so much work

to be done? When the horrors of war breathed hot and heavy day in and day out? When death was as

close a companion as his sweaty regulation undershirt?

He grimaced. Bottom line here: the fate of the free world was so uncertain, he literally burned with the

need to get back in the thick of things, whether in Europe or the Pacific arena. Thankfully, the layover at

his next destination, Bermuda, would be brief. By this time next week, he'd be flying daylight bombing

raids with his unit over in Ridgewell, England.

"Sir? Is everything all right?" Baker's blonde mustache bristled concern, and he tapped Jack on the

shoulder to recall him to the here and now.

Annoyed, Jack checked his instruments. Damn altimeter gauge was stuck again. "Cut the 'sir' crap,

Baker. I'm doing my bit for your king and country. So tell me again why I have to drag your sorry ass to

Bermuda?"

Two other members of the crew, Salvatore Scarpelli the navigator and Danny Flannery the

bombardier--twins in spirit not birth--wagged their bushy eyebrows and nudged each other in the ribs.

Their captain's anger was legendary. Everyone knew that, including Jack.

He ignored the byplay to settle his wrath against the prune-dried Aussie. Had to take it out on someone,

so it might as well be the person responsible for separating him from his co-pilot and best damn friend a

man could have: Nat Terrell. In fact, if Jack were a superstitious man--which he wasn't--he would have

claimed Nat as his own personal good luck charm. With Nat by his side, Jack had twenty-three

successful missions to his name, or rather to his plane's name, "Sweet Revenge." When dealing with the

enemy, any revenge was sweet.

"Not my country, precisely, er, Captain." Baker calmly tapped the altimeter gauge until it righted itself.

"Needn't get cranky, mate. This wasn't a hardship tour, now was it? Plenty of time to sunbake to a crispy

brown."

Which he had, to his skin's leathery detriment.

Nat's voice fought static to be heard on the radio. "Boys! Boys! Play nice now, why don't you? On the

same side, no denying that. Ian, you'll have to forgive my pal, Johnny boy. He's still put out 'cuz that cute

Bahamian honey preferred my butt to his! Over."

Scarpelli and Flannery couldn't hide their guffaws. And big men like them certainly knew how to laugh it

up. Jack stared them into submission, causing them to shuffle apologetically and bury themselves in busy

work.

Baker, on the other hand, lifted a sun-bleached eyebrow and stroked down his prickly mustache, all the

while studiously regarding Jack.

"Don't jump to conclusions, Baker," Jack warned. "It's my pal, Nat, who's harboring illusions." He

gestured to Watkins, the radio operator, for an open channel. "Nat, you ol' sot, you got the story wrong.

That honey fancied my bedside manner, not yours! Over."

The rough edge that had niggled Jack since breakfast in downtown Nassau suddenly smoothed out.

Locking horns with Nat always had that mellowing effect on him. Neither the deafening drone from the

four turbo-supercharged engines nor the biting cold from high altitudes disturbed his complacent mood.

But that Aussie sure was a burr in his side. Hell, if only Nat were here instead. Jack shot a look of sheer

displeasure at the co-pilot. And why not? At thirty degrees below, a man was entitled to growl like a

bear.

Over the intercom, he spoke to his men. "Okay, heads up everyone. Time to put your air on. We're at

10,000 feet and climbing." Oxygen masks were necessary at that altitude since the inside of the B-17

wasn't pressurized.

He stretched in his seat and cracked his knuckles. Unusually tall for a pilot, he often felt cramped behind

the controls. Once again, he checked the skies. Still no clouds in sight. A picture-perfect day for a routine

flight to Bermuda. "Course position?" he requested from the navigator.

Just as promptly, Scarpelli relayed the information.

Damn good men, all of them. Usually the B-17, or Flying Fortress, as it was affectionately known, had a

crew of ten. But because "Sweet Revenge", with sexually suggestive nose art, had been tasked to train

raw recruits from British, Canadian, and Australian forces, Jack was down four men: tail, ball turret, and

two waist gunners...and, of course, his regular co-pilot, Nat. They would all be replaced once he reached

England, of course, but these men, including Watkins, Scarpelli, Flannery, and Chuck Ziegler the flight

engineer, were like family--the family Jack had never had. Not a close one, anyway. Not with a passel of

step-kin with him being odd man out. But his military family, that was a different story. They all pulled

together under the hazard of enemy fire.

A team. They had been a team. So why the hell did the wing commander reassign Nat at the last minute?

Baker adjusted the strap on his oxygen mask. "Fancy yourself to be a ladies man, do you, Captain? Lud,

I love 'em myself. Especially your Southern Belles with the delectable accent."

Jack grunted. The oxygen had a somewhat metallic scent to it. Usually didn't bother him, but today it

seemed to dry his throat. Damn it all, he'd give anything for a smoke.

But that would have to wait until they landed. Instead, he popped a stick of chewing gum in his mouth,

and savored the spearmint flavor. Belatedly, he remembered to offer one to Baker. "No, actually, I don't

care much for women, other than in the bedroom, that is. Can make a man cut his own neck, in a manner

of speaking." He'd seen it happen often enough, not only with his stepsisters' discarding boyfriends hand

over fist, but with his stepmother destroying his dad.

Baker's blonde eyebrow arched up again in an unspoken question.

"Just look at your Edward VIII," Jack explained. "What's he now, the Duke of Windsor? He attended

that damn party Command threw for us the other night, remember? Eddie looked as healthy as a wax

candle, didn't he? One minute he's king of the British Empire, and the next he's assigned as governor of

the stinking Bahamas! And all because of a woman."

"You sound bitter, mate," Baker had the nerve to say.

Jack shrugged. "Never let them get under your skin, that's my motto. Women. Nothing but trouble."

Baker took his time chewing on his piece of gum. "I disagree with you--"

"Captain!" Flannery called from his position. "There's something out there at two o'clock high."

A luminous mist appeared high in the sky, growing larger with each passing second. By all that was holy,

what in Christ's name was it? Silvery grey, this cloud or fog ominously spread in all directions, blocking

out the sun, ocean,...damn, even the horizon itself.

"What the hell?" As Jack glanced at his instruments, his heart almost lurched out of his chest. Never mind

the damn cloud, the magnetic compass on the control panel spun like crazy!

Baker confirmed the malfunctioning compass, then heaped on more bad news. "Gyros and locators not

working. All flight instruments out. Whatever this is, Captain, we're in for a rough ride."

Flashes of purple lightning vividly seared across the sky in front of them. Or what would have been the

sky had everything not blended together in a sea of shimmering grey haze. The very air hung heavy with

the acrid stench of burned ozone and octane gasoline.

Almost as one, the crew broadcasted their terror through the intercom. Navigation no longer was sure of

their position. The flight engineer doubled over with vertigo. Damn it all, everyone even started to take on

a strange greenish glow. Christ, what was going on?

Through the crackling of heavy static, Ned's voice radiated his panic over the airwaves. "'Sweet

Revenge', this is 'Fly...Mamba'. Good God, Johnny, what...happening to you...? Disappearing right

before...eyes! Where the...What's happen...Over!"

Then...there was nothing. Nothing at all. Disorientation and an odd sense of separation from self

enveloped Jack. For all he knew, they'd been cut off from civilization, plucked from the sky, and tossed

out into a vast cosmic dumping ground.

A wave of nausea hit at the same time a tremendous gravitational force yanked the B-17 deeper into the

cloud. Watkins lay unconscious next to his radio. Baker slumped down on the malfunctioning controls,

his blazing blue eyes hidden in the shadow of his thinning blonde hair. No crew member made a sound.

Only the roar from the turbo engines disturbed the eerie quiet of their unnatural grey cocoon.

Jack had one last thought before passing out. "End of the line for us, ol' girl. Too bad we couldn't fly

more missions." He spoke to the bomber as it continued its flight without benefit of pilot. "May God have

mercy on our souls."

Chapter One

Present Day

Gramps was dying. He knew it, and she knew it. Larissa Parish sat next to him on the bed and lifted his

age-mottled hand to her cheek.

"I'm here, Gramps. Just flew in." She tenderly gazed at his sleeping face, painfully aware that soon he

would be gone. Totally and completely gone.

Blinking back tears, she adjusted her tortoise-shell eyeglasses, tucked the homemade comforter under his

chin, then leaned over to kiss the top of his balding head. She was not going to cry. Getting away from

her job had been darn difficult, but she didn't travel over 2,200 miles for Gramps to see swollen eyes and

a reddened nose.

"Are your arms tired?" His voice wavered, but his eyes retained their mischievousness. "Quite a flight

from Baltimore to Great Falls."

"Gramps! That joke's ancient!" Despite her grief, Larissa smiled at the old man who had been such an

important influence on her--as an adult and as a child. Dad had died young, leaving an all female

household. Mom had coped as best as she could, but with three young girls in varying stages of

development, she often left the youngest one, Larissa, in his capable hands.

Now frail and weak, Gramps lay motionless under the covers as if even that scant weight was too heavy

for him to tolerate. A slight odor of camphor filled the air, probably from an applied ointment to ease the

pain from his weary body.

She quickly sobered up. "I brought you some flowers. Carnations."

The floral scent and the carnations' fringed petals did much to bring a bit of cheer to the sick room. She

held the bouquet for Gramps to sniff. "Mom told me...you weren't doing well."

"Thank you, child. I've been better. But I appreciate your coming." His raspy coughing racked more than

his emaciated frame. The bedposts actually shook. "Here, let me look at you. Just the sight of you does a

body good. Heaven on earth!" With effort obvious in every movement, he sat up and slowly sank back

against the pillows. Lifting a long lock of her hair, he tut-tutted. "Pretty as a picture, but you still hide

behind that mane of hair of yours. Larry, you've got to fix yourself up. Go to the beauty parlor. Get a

permanent. Get contact lens instead of those heavy-framed eyeglasses, why don't you?"

Not comfortable with society's rigid ideal of beauty, Larissa never paid attention to the cruel whimsy of

fashion. Growing up in Montana, she didn't have to worry about New York's Madison Avenue dictates

on what was in or out. Besides, where she worked, beauty definitely was not an asset. To get ahead, a

person had to use her brains--no ifs, ands, or buts about that.

Another coughing fit stopped Gramps' list of her deficiencies. "Child, I'm afraid you've dithered too long.

I'm not going to be able to keep my promise to you, like I did with your sisters."

Try as she might, Larissa couldn't keep her throat from thickening. And her eyes stung with unshed tears.

She had to keep her composure. She just had to. Glancing around his airy bedroom, so chockfull of

mementos from bygone days, she settled her gaze on the bureau where a treasured photo of his World

War II bomber squadron was displayed.

"Larry? Are you okay?"

Sniffing, she turned away from him, took a deep breath, then faced him with a smile. He was the one

dying, and he was concerned about her. She swallowed her sadness. "I'm fine, Gramps. What promise

are you talking about?"

"Why, to walk you down the aisle for your wedding! Don't you remember? I promised all you girls that,

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