It was a glancing blow. If it’d hit straight on I’m afraid it would have punctured the skull. Suffice it to say you wouldn’t be with us today.”
The intern’s fingers were rough, sending shock waves through Sam’s head, intensifying the throbbing ache deep inside. The graphic description of his wound didn’t make Sam feel any better, nor did the fact that he had narrowly escaped death provide him with any answers as to the identity of his assailant. But he was beginning to understand the motive. Someone else wanted the Davies parchments. But who?
The intern moved away from the bed. “I’ll have a nurse replace this bandage with a clean one, but for the moment keep your hands away from the stitches.”
Sam had no intention of touching the burning wound. The doctor walked to the end of the bed and lifted the medical chart, making notations.
“How long am I going to be here?” asked Sam.
“That depends on what the neurologist has to say. But I would suspect two or three days minimum.” The intern finished his notes and left the room.
Sam stared at the ceiling for several minutes, the throbbing in his head slowly subsiding as he slid off into a restful slumber.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when Jennifer returned to her office. A package in the familiar red, white and blue wrapper of the messenger service had been pushed through the mail slot in the door. 9
She dropped her briefcase by the desk and carefully opened the package. It was heavy, nearly an inch thick. As the wrapper peeled back, the first pieces of paper came into view, a jumble of old magazine and news clippings.
The yellowing newsprint on one of the articles carried a banner headline: “GHOST SHIP CRASHES IN DALY CITY.” The three-column picture below told the whole story. The gondola of a blimp lay teetering on its engine mounts in the middle of a crowded street draped by the deflated air bag.
Jennifer passed her eyes over the lead paragraph of the story.
SAN FRANCISCO—An antisubmarine blimp from the U.S. Naval Command at Treasure Island crashed on the streets of Daly City yesterday afternoon, narrowly missing several houses and power lines. The blimp, which floated out of control over San Francisco for hours, was unmanned when it came to rest on Bellevue Avenue at 3:52 P.M. There is no word on the fate of the crew.
The story covered two columns, and clippings from another page were stapled to the first. Jennifer read the story carefully and paged through the other items in the stack of papers. A magazine article, dated two weeks after the newspaper clipping, provided more details of the crash. Jennifer’s eyes were caught by the caption under the picture with the story:
To date there is no word on the fate of Lieutenant James Spencer and Chief Petty Officer Raymond Slade, the two crew members aboard the ill-fated blimp when it left Treasure Island. Both men were missing from the craft when it came to rest on a city street.
She lifted a pen from the set on her desk and circled the name “Raymond Slade,” her eyes narrowing as she isolated in on the page.
She studied the magazine article and other clippings, reading and rereading each. In an outdated style they spawned endless speculation on the fate of the blimp crew. Unnamed sources conjectured that the crew had been 1
captured by a Japanese submarine and carted off to Japan for interrogation in preparation for a major assault on the U.S. mainland.
Other theories included a freak gust of wind that had rolled the gondola on its side in midair, throwing the men from the craft into the open sea below. Others hinted at possible foul play —a murder-suicide by one of the crew members. No solid evidence existed for any of the theories advanced in the articles.
Jennifer paged through the papers until she came to a large brown envelope with a navy insignia in the upper left-hand corner. She opened it and found a letter on official military stationery. It was signed by a
The intern’s fingers were rough, sending shock waves through Sam’s head, intensifying the throbbing ache deep inside. The graphic description of his wound didn’t make Sam feel any better, nor did the fact that he had narrowly escaped death provide him with any answers as to the identity of his assailant. But he was beginning to understand the motive. Someone else wanted the Davies parchments. But who?
The intern moved away from the bed. “I’ll have a nurse replace this bandage with a clean one, but for the moment keep your hands away from the stitches.”
Sam had no intention of touching the burning wound. The doctor walked to the end of the bed and lifted the medical chart, making notations.
“How long am I going to be here?” asked Sam.
“That depends on what the neurologist has to say. But I would suspect two or three days minimum.” The intern finished his notes and left the room.
Sam stared at the ceiling for several minutes, the throbbing in his head slowly subsiding as he slid off into a restful slumber.
It was nearly three in the afternoon when Jennifer returned to her office. A package in the familiar red, white and blue wrapper of the messenger service had been pushed through the mail slot in the door. 9
She dropped her briefcase by the desk and carefully opened the package. It was heavy, nearly an inch thick. As the wrapper peeled back, the first pieces of paper came into view, a jumble of old magazine and news clippings.
The yellowing newsprint on one of the articles carried a banner headline: “GHOST SHIP CRASHES IN DALY CITY.” The three-column picture below told the whole story. The gondola of a blimp lay teetering on its engine mounts in the middle of a crowded street draped by the deflated air bag.
Jennifer passed her eyes over the lead paragraph of the story.
SAN FRANCISCO—An antisubmarine blimp from the U.S. Naval Command at Treasure Island crashed on the streets of Daly City yesterday afternoon, narrowly missing several houses and power lines. The blimp, which floated out of control over San Francisco for hours, was unmanned when it came to rest on Bellevue Avenue at 3:52 P.M. There is no word on the fate of the crew.
The story covered two columns, and clippings from another page were stapled to the first. Jennifer read the story carefully and paged through the other items in the stack of papers. A magazine article, dated two weeks after the newspaper clipping, provided more details of the crash. Jennifer’s eyes were caught by the caption under the picture with the story:
To date there is no word on the fate of Lieutenant James Spencer and Chief Petty Officer Raymond Slade, the two crew members aboard the ill-fated blimp when it left Treasure Island. Both men were missing from the craft when it came to rest on a city street.
She lifted a pen from the set on her desk and circled the name “Raymond Slade,” her eyes narrowing as she isolated in on the page.
She studied the magazine article and other clippings, reading and rereading each. In an outdated style they spawned endless speculation on the fate of the blimp crew. Unnamed sources conjectured that the crew had been 1
captured by a Japanese submarine and carted off to Japan for interrogation in preparation for a major assault on the U.S. mainland.
Other theories included a freak gust of wind that had rolled the gondola on its side in midair, throwing the men from the craft into the open sea below. Others hinted at possible foul play —a murder-suicide by one of the crew members. No solid evidence existed for any of the theories advanced in the articles.
Jennifer paged through the papers until she came to a large brown envelope with a navy insignia in the upper left-hand corner. She opened it and found a letter on official military stationery. It was signed by a
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