Wind howled across the jagged Himalayan slopes, brittle flakes scraping across exposed skin like tiny knives. The acrid smell of smoke and burning fuel raced through the valley with each gust. A thin column of billowing black rose toward the crystalline sky, all but dispersed by the wind. Everyone knew that flying The Hump was a hard job, but there was one task harder still.
The mighty Himalayas towered above all the world, their barren black slopes encased in an endless shell of ice and snow. The backbone of the world, some said, and the biggest pain in the ass in the Eastern hemisphere.
Chiang Kai-Shek and the Allies fought a bitter battle against the Japanese Empire. In order to keep it up, they needed weapons, ammo, medical aid and every other accouterments consumed by the monster that is war. To get those supplies from India to China, they had to cross The Hump.
It was a dangerous flight. Towering, knife-edged peaks, high winds, and virtually no maps existed of the Himalayan interior. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do, so the good ole’ U. S. of A. took on the challenge. Of course, it was easier said than done.
That’s where Mason Malone came in.
He was a member of “Blackie’s Gang”, the most successful search and rescue operation this side of the globe. When the delivery service failed to arrive, they were called in to round up the sheep and get them back to the barn. They’d never lost a man.
That didn’t mean that Mason liked it. He’d rather not have to rescue anyone at all.
That’s just not in the cards.
The thrumming drone of an engine filtered through the whipping wind as his pilot circled back to make sure he made it down alright. Mason glared into the sun, holding a hand high into the air to signal the L-5 Sentinel that he was still alive.
The small plane flew low, just low enough that Mason could make out the shadowy shape of Ham saluting him as he flew by. The former barnstormer rose sharply and cleared the ridge, disappearing into the maze of canyons and crags.
Mason unhitched the straps on his pack and ditched the parachute still dragging behind him. The landing had been rough but par for the course. The wind had carried him a fair piece, causing him to stumble and skid across the ice capped snow fields.
But, he couldn’t complain too much, by the look of the smoke trails, the crash site wasn’t far off.
Trudging through the snow, Mason bit back a chill that crept through his layers and threatened to freeze his bones. The untamed beauty of the Himalayas never ceased to amaze him. No matter how many times he saw them, whether from land or sky, those precarious spires always filled his mug with wonder and awe.
Topping out on the knife edge of sheer cliff, Mason sneered against the glare of the sun, just able to make out the wreckage of the C-87 Transport whose crew he was sent to find.
Pulling a pair of binoculars from the leather pouch at his waist, nestled closely to a holstered 1911 Colt, Mason scanned the debris field.
Splinters and fragments of twisted metal lie scattered about in a blanket of white, a deep gash gouged through the snow where it had skidded to stop.
No signs of the living.
Mason growled to himself, hoping he was wrong.
After making his way down the barren slope of frozen rock like a mountain cat, Mason found himself in the midst of strewn wreckage. Kneeling, he spotted something that he had not seen from his perch atop the ridge. Four sets of booted prints.
They must have jumped. Came scrounging for supplies. Smart.
Following the meandering tracks through burning hunks of slag, Mason felt as though eyes were upon him. Not those of desperate airmen awaiting rescue, but of something more sinister. Slowly, he slid the Colt from its holster, the hairs on his neck standing on end.
The hulk of the plane itself was in bad shape. The cargo it had once held lay haphazardly across what remained of the smoking fuselage. One of the wings had broken off, now a splintered mass of metal.
While the prints of the men led to this place, who they belonged to were nowhere to be seen. Warily, Mason stepped into the interior and was quickly overwhelmed with the metallic scent of fresh blood.
Mason staggered backward as he found himself staring through a gaping wound in the aircraft. It looked like some giant had split the hull like can of sardines, peeling back panels as though they were made of tin.
Worse still was the thick, wet blood that streaked across the cabin.
Suddenly, a low moan caught Mason’s attention.
“What the…”
Stay tuned for Part 2!
