Final Turn: A story of adventure, intrigue and suspense.

FINAL TURN

by maurice engler

Text copyright © 2016    maurice engler

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

It came during the night from the west; invisible and silent, gathering its strength unnoticed, yet expected. It raced low through the mountain passes without even the moon to light its way. There it was battered and churned, leaving a maelstrom of whirlpools and vortices in its wake. It raced high over the purple mountainscape; eastward, hard against the granite wall of the Livingston Range. From there, it was thrown aloft into the cool recesses of the night sky. It rose until it tired, for a moment it waited. As it fell, it surrendered the moisture that it had taken from the warm Pacific Ocean hundreds of miles to the west. With the moisture it painted the sky with a bold north-south stroke, a broad arch as seen from the plains to the east; a dark cloud that floated high above the mountains, its western edge thick and sharply cut, its body dissolving into vaporous tentacles to the east.

From the high, thin reaches of the stratosphere the warm Pacific air then plummeted onto the prairies east of the mountains. It began to sweep clean from the land all that was not well rooted. It did this sometimes with a low, pervasive murmur, sometimes with a shrill whistle. Always it was rushing, flowing over the landscape with God's power behind it. Then it rose again as if it had bounced from the hard earth. It rose nearly to where it had been before, until again it lost its enthusiasm and waited, this time high over the plains several miles east of the mountains. From there again it fell to the earth. As long as it had the will for this it kept it up, rising and falling. It laid an invisible ripple in the sky, much as a stream does when it flows over a submerged boulder, each wave smaller than the last until they finally merge smoothly with the flow downstream.

The wind had shaken the sleeping campers at a lonely prairie airport eight miles east of the foot of the Livingston Range. They didn't mind the intrusion, for they had come there because of the wind. Some of them stood in down filled jackets scanning the western sky between the top of the mountains and the sculptured edge of the Chinook Arch. The early sun had brightened the horizon and cast the cloud in a pearly pink luminescence. They strained expectant eyes to find a fleck of white or a silver flash that would confirm that one of them had been taken aloft.

Far below him the naked, jagged edges of the mountains no longer presented a threat. The towering spires stood as a wall to the endless prairies. Against the wall the grassy plains lay in brown folds like the skin of a Sharpie puppy. Below him small clouds, like ragged cotton balls, merged with snowy patches which hid behind the rocks from the summer sun. Behind lay the front edge of the mother of pearl cloud; smooth, white and stretching for long miles north and south. On the way up he had been shaken and tortured, frightened to the point of submission. Nearly. He had hung on with knuckles white and shoulders aching, one hand on the release lever, the other fighting the control stick. He had stayed with it and broken through the turbulence to be taken into lofty serenity by the invisible hand of the great mountain wave. Here the airflow was silky, the upsurge powerful. The Livingston Range below lay like a huge broken cement block, one edge buried in the earth to the west and the jagged, broken edge tilted skyward to the east. The wind deflected from there upward with awesome power. The graceful sailplane stretched its slender wings with eagled splendor to catch the rising air and carry its rider aloft into the indigo sky.

Roger was glad he had taken the first tow of the morning. It was not often that he had this chance. Often on these weekend excursions to fly in the mountain wave, he would be flying the tow plane. Not that he minded, but it was rough work and didn't offer the awesome view which he now had from his lofty perch at twenty nine thousand feet above sea level. He was nearly twenty thousand feet above the tops of the mountains below. It was cold, but spectacular. The only sounds were the clicking of his oxygen mask with each breath and the caress of the rarefied air over the canopy.

This morning Jack was flying the tow plane. When Roger heard him declare his takeoff on the radio, he dipped his wing and flew in a lazy arc so he could see the airfield far below. It lay just below the lip of the lenticular cloud. He scanned the ground to find the brown lines of the grass runways where they cut across the prairie just where the scars of the Old Man River and the Crowsnest River came together. He was nearly too far and too high to see the single engine tow plane on the runway. It was using the runway that ran to the west, into the wind. Behind it on a 150 foot rope would be the next sailplane. Its pilot was strapped in; more stuffed in, with a winter flying suit in preparedness for the freezing temperatures aloft. It would not be a long run to takeoff into that almighty wind.

The cold began to soak into Roger's feet in spite of his winter flying boots. The variometer on the instrument panel told him he was nearing the top of the wave; he was still climbing, albeit slowly. He decided that once it fell below one hundred feet per minute he would turn east and fly out of the rising crest of the wave and into the down-flow of the trough. It lay a mile or so behind him to the east. This would hasten his return to a lower altitude and warmer air.

Roger announced his intentions over the radio and turned hard to the right to fly towards the east with the wind at his back. Following a rapid descent, from a point two miles east of the runway the sleek white sailplane made its final turn to line up with the runway and begin a bumpy approach to land. Ten sailplanes, nearly identical from this distance, were parked along the right edge of the wide grass landing strip. Each waited its turn for a tow as their pilots fussed with themselves and their equipment. Roger had enough speed to allow his sailplane to roll off to one side to clear the runway. He sat for a moment waiting for warmth to seep back into his body. The wind buffeted the sailplane and occasionally slapped the canopy with a tuft of windborne grass. The sun quickly warmed the inside of the small cockpit and Roger began to feel human again as he pulled the release level for the canopy and it popped open. He stood beside the sailplane on wobbly legs and realized that his backside was still nearly frozen. He pulled his parachute from his back and dropped it onto the seat. Some of the waiting pilots came to help him clear the craft from the runway. Lindquist was there, Roger's boss, pulling on one wing tip, while someone else offered help on the other end. Roger bent to push from the back and steer the craft between two others through a space large enough to take its fifty-foot wingspan. The gleaming white fiberglass surface of the sailplane was still icy and collecting what little moisture there was in the air. His hands nearly slipped on the wetness. They pushed it towards Roger's trailer and left the glistening form stand with the windward wing resting on the ground to keep the wind from grabbing hold and flipping the sailplane. Roger stood with his back to the sun to take in the heat. He felt like a marmot. Lindquist stood in front of him demanding his attention.

"Did Loretta get up there?" He asked with an eye to the sky but without any reasonable hope of seeing her at that altitude. Roger assumed that it was Loretta whom he had watched being pulled up by Jack earlier.

"She did. She was just below me when I got frozen out. I decided not to wait." Roger said peeling his sheepskin helmet and jacket from his body. "She seemed to be climbing well and might be on her way down by now." He watched Lindquist anxiously look at his own sailplane that was second from the front in the waiting line. He would want to get ready soon. Lindquist was agitated. He had not flown much in the mountain wave and never to any great altitude. Both he and Jack had joined the gliding club at Roger's urging. In fact, so had Loretta. Roger thought the sport must be contagious, or maybe it was just himself.

"You better get yourself ready and get shoe horned into that thing." Roger told Lindquist and stepped away to rid himself of his flying paraphernalia.

Jack was sitting in the shelter of Roger's glider trailer. He had given over the towing duties to someone and was busy with a sandwich and hot drink. With a stab of his chin he offered Roger a drink from his thermos. Roger accepted and settled into one of the camping chairs. Jack had scrunched his stout form into a chair and sat huddled against the wind as the gusts periodically arched over the smooth back of the trailer and fell on him. Each time Roger knew Jack swore imperceptibly.

"Loretta get up O.K.?" Jack asked through his sandwich.

"She did. And I think the boss is on his way out soon. It’ll be interesting to see how he does. Deathly cold up there."

Jack looked away to the line-up of sailplanes. Lindquist could be seen bundled into a flying suit and getting into his machine. He would be next on tow. It was a good time to go, the wave was still working strongly and not about to wane. Roger saw a recalcitrant look occupy Jack's face. He had seen that before and it worried Roger. Jack's opinions came from long, deliberate consideration. Roger could not imagine Jack was wishing Lindquist a good flight. He sought out a lighter subject.

"What time you heading back?"

Jack took a moment to recover from his thoughts and looked to Roger as if he needed the question again.

"What time are you heading back?"

"Soon. I'm tired. I can give you a hand de-rigging your glider and get it packed away. Then I'll go." Jack stood to indicate that he was ready to get on with it. He did look tired. The bashing he had endured in the small, noisy tow plane for several hours had taken its toll. Roger swallowed his drink and they walked off to his sailplane to remove the wings and secure it all inside the trailer.

Roger Blackstone walked into his office, set his briefcase on the desk and stood in front of the south window. The morning sun ricocheted between the office towers throwing crisp shadows against the golden glare of the glass walls. Buildings reflected buildings reflecting other buildings. Fifteen floors below, the streets were empty, still shining with the street cleaner's mark. Across the street the behemoth, mirrored walls of the Standard Life complex threw back the image of his building and of his solitary figure encased in a glassed cubicle. Roger really needed these few hours in the mornings; both to get some work done and to re-charge his batteries. Once the briefcase brigade came marching down those streets and filtered upward to occupy those cubicles, the treadmill would begin and he would be on it. Far to the south, beyond the rudeness of the office towers, he could see the splendor of the Chinook Arch. He felt an intimacy with its regal posture over the terrain and knew he was one of the privileged who had caressed its satin cloak and felt its awesome power.

The office was spacious, the decor Spartan. This was Roger's office; he gave it no chance to become his home. He kept no personal effects there. There were no photographs of children or of a wife. He had neither. The place looked like an accountant had decorated it. Roger hung his jacket on the coat tree, walked behind his desk to the west wall of the corner office. The reflection in the window showed his shirt gathered in an ungainly ring around the top of his trousers. He undid his belt; his fly and stuffed his shirt in to form a crisp line around his middle. Not too bad at forty he mused and surveyed his improved reflection. He was still reasonably trim at one hundred and eighty pounds for his six foot two inch height. Just a fleck of grey at the temples lent a touch of distinction; he thought. As Roger reviewed his lean tanned face in the window, his eye caught a movement superimposed on his reflection. He re-focused. There it was, in the window of the building across the street. Two early-bird secretaries were waving their arms and throwing kisses. They had watched Roger unzip himself and stuff in his shirt. Roger waved, threw a kiss and stepped back, hopefully out of sight. He saw the girls continue to scan the wall of the building, perhaps hoping to find another window with the same act; perhaps one with a more co-operative occupant.

Roger settled into his chair and went through his calendar methodically. The work had piled up over the last few weeks. He had not had the strength to come in during the precious summer weekends and catch up. There was a marketing meeting set for ten. He would get prepared for that early and then spend time visiting with his staff. By noon he could leave. He had time coming. It was only Monday, but it was summer. The hot summer sun would be out there welcoming, even expecting him. He would spend the afternoon with Sam. There were just not that many summer days to enjoy, miss a few and he would wait until next year.

Absorbed at his desk, Roger only faintly heard footsteps approaching from the elevator. They struck the ground like their owner meant to be heard; Jack Fischer. Jack occupied the adjacent office. Jack's feet, hands, head and shoulders were all designed for a man of over six feet. He was only five eight. Dark complexion, dark hair with a round beard, he had a look weakly reminiscent of a barbarian and at times his disposition did not betray the image. Roger liked him.

Lindquist had brought Jack into the firm. Old air force buddies stuck together. They had not exactly been friends but both had served in the air force. Jack had flown for many years before he had taken a sudden liking to civilian life and left, well before he was due a pension. He had gone back to school and studied computer technology. Lindquist made him the Director of Operations and never regretted that he had. As Director of Sales and Marketing, Roger worked very closely with Jack. At times, he did wonder why Jack would have left a secure career in the military to get involved in the often flaky high technology business.

Lindquist himself had retired from the service. He had spent a long and illustrious career flying and afterwards had served in intelligence divisions. Spy satellites, secret reconnaissance missions and computer encryption of information had been his field. Much of it had been secret. Roger got the impression from Lindquist that he regretted how little he could talk about what he knew and what he had done. Some of the secrecy and confidentiality agreements he had signed would follow him to his grave. Yet, he had found a way to capitalize on his military experience. He had started a second career in computer security systems and founded EDS, Encrypted Data Systems. At first there were the military contracts drawn from his old contacts. Recently paranoia had gripped the senior executives of many major corporations and they were convinced computer hackers were robbing them blind. Most companies brought in computer security consultants who did nothing at all to set the executives' minds at ease, but they did know how to generate business for themselves. This presented Lindquist with the opportunity to branch into the private sector. He had the skills, the credentials and the products. The firm was doing well. Roger had been there ten years and Jack two. Lindquist had worked hard to get the best people in a very competitive business. He needed people who were trustworthy and competent. He had them.

"How long you been here?" Jack called from next door while putting his things away.

"Too long for me already. I can't believe I've used up the whole weekend. It was awfully late last night before I got everything squared away. At least I've got everything ready for our marketing meeting. Now I can cruise. I can't wait until we get down to the narrow end of the week again."  Roger had recently signed up a new client, eStorage. They needed a comprehensive computer security and transaction recording system for their storage compounds. It was more a case of using computers to provide security for their assets than protecting information on the computers themselves. The system had been designed and developed by EDS and was ready for implementation. "How did you make out with our new client on Friday?" Roger called out. He knew that Jack had organized a pre-installation meeting with the client.

"O.K. I suppose." Jack let on as he walked into Roger's office. "This system is spot-on for what they want. All we have to do now is get things running. eStorage has over a hundred vehicles in that compound. Moving trucks, cars, trailers, landscaping equipment and God knows what else. They really are trying to take advantage of the latest technology. Fools!" He said mockingly.

"Oh yeah?" Roger rolled his chair back to flip his feet onto his desk.

"They showed me how the gates out at the compound are connected directly into the mainframe computer. We'll be collecting records on the movements of all those vehicles. Even the ignitions of the vehicles are operated by a magnetic key card system. They will be able to track everything they need to do their scheduling, planning and costing. We've been working on this for what seems like forever but it's still nice to actually see some hardware out there."

"That's what they were looking for. At least, that's what I sold them. I'm confident that Bill and his team of programmers did the job. This is one of the biggest accounts we've snared lately. It should make us some money."

Roger saw Jack's eyes roll a familiar message. Jack knew how to get things working but he didn't care too much about the financial situation. Jack knew what he had to do and he knew how to do it. Roger could feel Jack's familiar air of resigned compliance to the system. If someone were to pull his job out from under his feet he'd be more startled than starved. Roger, on the other hand, was plugged into the profit sharing system so he had a genuine interest in how the company did financially.

"Let me know if you run into any problems. Now that Bill has finished his work, I'm sure that Lindquist will be hounding us to meet the implementation schedule. Bill's work has passed all the design reviews and the client is happy with it." Roger stopped short of reminding Jack that the largest payment from the firm would be withheld until the system passed an acceptance test.

"We will get it working Roger, on time and on budget." Roger felt himself being surveyed by an experienced look, one that could penetrate directly to the salience.

"You always have Jack. I know you will this time." Roger didn't have to mince the sincerity of his comments with his friend.

He watched Jack wave a cheerful adieu and haul his squared frame back to his own office. Roger knew there would be some trying times ahead for Jack; he would be under pressure. They both knew well enough that the implementation of complex new computer systems did not always go smoothly. Roger' own commission would not come until the client had accepted the system. Roger didn't understand all the technicalities, but he had confidence in Jack and Bill. It was a bold show of confidence in technology by a firm that did not have its own resident expertise in the field. An impressive contract for EDS and if things went well, Roger would be a bright star for having brought it in the door.

****

By three o'clock Roger parked his car out on Sam's driveway and was inside in two bounds. Behind the house Roger had built a gazebo for Samantha. With shutters for the windows and a small heater inside, it was usable all year round. This was Sam's favorite hiding place and for both of them it was a great spot to hang around in the cool evenings.

Shadow, Roger’s woolly dog, was lying on the living room rug. Shadow was a cross between a Chow and an Alaskan Husky; medium height, wide and solid. He had the disposition of an absent minded Professor and mostly stayed at Sam’s house. Here he had a back yard and a park nearby for daily excursions.

After receiving his well-expected pet and belly scratch, Shadow followed Roger as he skipped through the kitchen and out into the gazebo. Sam was seated in an oversized wicker chair with neatly stacked piles of papers on a desk in front of her, the nearest pile held down by a glass of wine. To one side another table held more papers and files while the couch opposite was nearly obscured with the same. Sam sat in the center as if she had summoned the files to her for consultation. Sam always sat well postured, her shapely figure just on the lean side of plump, contoured as if by a lustful sculptor. She still had all the style and rhythmic sway given to her by her Caribbean ancestry. An athletic scholarship had brought her to Canada from Jamaica. In university, Sam had been a classical hundred-meter girl, strong and fast. For a few years after graduation she had coached a track team. Sometime later the Caribbean female instincts must have taken over. Her athletic bounce on muscular ebony legs had transformed back to a gentle, rhythmic sway when she walked and a posture that belied a basket of breadfruit balanced on her head. Her gentle country ways and happy outlook were an enchantment to Roger. A finely sculptured face and oversized soft brown eyes forewarned of a quick mind and an agile imagination. She had a heart melting, honest smile delivered by a perfect set of large pearly teeth.

Sam had been Roger's steady partner for nearly three years. Roger thought of his relationship with Sam as the right one, one waiting for something to finalize it. So did she. Yet, they had different ideas of what that meant and neither had an immediate motivation to do anything. Sam was a self-made woman. She took pride in telling people that she had never worked for anyone in her life. Her success was her own and she conveyed the kind of confidence envied by many and sought by all. Behind the charm and beauty lived a shrewd, passionate and competitive woman. She had one of those ways that made men feel like she lived partly in their camp and made women wonder what she did there.

For the last few years Sam had been operating a small company specializing in producing family histories for clients. A Genealogist, she called herself when asked. With plenty of skills based on a healthy interest in people, a gift for foreign languages and an acute acumen for digging into things, she had decided there was a good market. So far she was right. Some clients were the curious; others were the very serious. Sometimes someone looking for their natural parents sought her services or perhaps a dispute over an inheritance brought her business. Sometimes the clients were just people with a genuine interest in their roots.

"What you up to?" Roger asked giving Sam a hug and kiss from behind the chair.

"I think I might be the one bright spot in the local economy. A family has just contracted me to establish their relationship with an Austrian nobleman who died recently. There are big dollars in the estate." Sam welcomed Roger with her radiance. She sat before her profusion of letters and newspaper clipping all held down by her wine glass. The bottle stood at the edge of the desk with an empty glass waiting for Roger to arrive. He helped himself.

"Is this a done deal already?" Roger asked as he settled back into a vacant spot on the old chesterfield with his glass, a profusion of hanging plants, garden tools and netting as a background.

"It's a done deal and I'm already into it. There is even a chance there may be a trip to Austria in this."

"Trip to Austria. These people must really want to know their relatives."

"The man is a retired Colonel in the Army, Colonel Josef Grawitz. His family has been in here for several generations. Many of the men had served in the military in England and Canada." Sam returned her papers into several brown envelopes and curled up in her chair to face Roger. She had selected this kind of work with a thorough understanding of herself and her needs. Then she had made it work. Roger had a lot more admiration for self-made people than those who served their time in a corporate cubicle pushing someone else's paper while getting their own ulcer.