Thomas H. Cook - Taken

THE SKIES OVER GERMANY, 1945

Captain Russell Keys peered out into the expansive blue, his hands on the wheel of the B-17 that shook and rattled around him, bearing its heavy load of ordnance. To his left and right, he could see other planes, a squadron of Flying Fortresses in box formation, his own plane distinguished from the others only by the red devil painted on its nose, along with the words Where Angels Fear to Tread.

Navigator, Russell said crisply, how's our time?

We've regained the two minutes, sir, the navigator answered.

Good work. Russell glanced at his copilot, Lieutenant Lou Johnson. Welcome to Germany, Johnson, he said.

Johnson patted the Rita Hayworth pinup he'd taped to the metal frame of the otherwise unadorned cockpit. You hear that, honey? he said with a broad smile. We re in Germany.

Russell looked at the altimeter, then lowered the nose and began his descent to ten thousand feet. There it is, he said after a moment, his gaze now fixed on a large factory thousands of feet below. Pilot to bombardier, the plane is yours.

The bomb-bay doors opened and the bombardier began his count.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The plane grew eerily light as the heavy bombs filled the empty air beneath it, falling to the ground, where Russell could see them exploding in silent flashes far below.

Johnson let out a loud whoop, but Russell paid no attention. His focus was on the war-torn earth, swept with flame and smoke.

Load delivered, he said quietly when the last of the bombs had fallen. Let's go home.

He nosed the plane upward into what seemed a perfect, tranquil sky, so different from the ravaged earth, the wars of man. Up here it was calm and quiet and serene, and if you closed your eyes you could almost make yourself believe that the earth's ancient conflicts and rivalries might one day come to an end.

Lights!

Russell recognized the voice of his top gunner.

What's that, Toland? he asked.

Lights, sir. Blue ones.

Russell looked at Johnson quizzically.

They re following the plane, Toland said. They just flew up and started tailing us.

Russell saw Johnson's face tighten. Navigator, he said. You see any lights?

No, sir, the navigator responded immediately.

Johnson released a quick sigh.

Wait, the navigator burst in suddenly. Now I see them. Three. Four. Right in front of us. Not in range yet, butc

Russell felt a curious urge seize him. Let's get a look at these lights.

He banked the plane slowly and the lights swam into view outside the cockpit window, blue globes about six feet in diameter that hovered without motion. They appeared both dense and airy, heavy and at the same time weightless, and in this physical contradiction, Russell sensed that nothing he'd ever known or read about could explain them.

Johnson's eyes widened in wonder. What the hell are they?

I don't know, Russell answered. His voice filled with awe. But they re beautiful.

For a brief moment, the crew peered at the hanging lights, unable to speak, or to turn their gaze away. A strange hypnotic glow filled the interior of the plane, and Russell felt his mind turn from war and peril as an inexplicable serenity settled over him.

Suddenly the radio operator's voice slashed through the prevailing silence.

We got MEs at twelve o'clock. A whole mess of them, sir.

Russell's mind snapped into focus. Roger, that, he said. Gunners, give them short bursts when they re in range. He quickly checked his instruments, steadied himself, drew up the courage needed to steady his men as well. Beyond the cockpit, he glimpsed the glowing blue lights a final time, soft and oddly mesmerizing, but finally driven away, or so it seemed, by the frantic movement of the crew, the noise of the plane, the whole monstrous din of war.

A burst of machine-gun fire raked the side of the plane. The air filled with black puffs of flak. Russell's body tensed, all his attention given over to the battle ahead, the fight to survive and to make sure his men survived.

An explosion rocked the plane, filling its cramped interior with fire and smoke.

We just took a direct hit, sir, the top gunner cried.

The nose of the plane sank, and Russell knew that it had finally happened, the moment he'd dreaded for so long. He and his crew were all going to die. Even so, he worked frantically to keep control of the plane while the cries of his men grew more desperate and the plane shook madly and the dull green eye of the earth came hurtling upward like a huge ball. In brief glimpses, he saw the MEs in their lethal dance, a swarm of angry bees that dove and climbed and circled, angry bursts of fire spitting from their guns.

Instantly a volley tore through the cockpit window, shattering it entirely and ripping into Russell's abdomen.

Oh, Christ, Russ, Johnson cried.

Russell felt the steamy warmth of his blood as it poured out from the ripped flesh of his gut. Copilot, take the plane, he said.

Johnson grabbed the controls. Hang on, Russ.

Russell leaned back and drew in a quick desperate breath, his eyes now fixed on the empty sky beyond the shattered cockpit window, where, in the distance, the blue lights hung again, calm, soothing, a promise of peace. Beautiful, he said. He knew that the dogfight still raged around him, MEs firing and being fired upon. He could see them diving helplessly toward the ground and hear the noise of the battle and the screams of his men, but it was as if all of this were happening in some distant, tortured world from which the blue lights had summoned him and now held him in their silent grasp.

We've got to bail out now, Johnson cried.

Russell heard, but did not respond. He was not in the plane anymore. He was not crashing to earth. There was no fire and smoke, no fear or desperation. There were only the blue lights and they were coming toward him, their glow ever more intense as they drew in upon each other and finally melded into a single radiant light.

Beautiful, Russell said again. The blue light expanded, filling the sky and engulfing him, embracing him. He smiled. Trust me, Johnson. We won't die.

The light was now so intense Russell could see nothing else, feel nothing else. Time stopped. Movement ceased. Russell felt nothing but the warm, soothing light until, second by second, the light faded, and he felt the earth beneath him, heard the sound of wind rippling through a field of wheat.

He opened his eyes, and realized that he was lying in that very field. In the distance, four American soldiers warily approached him. He glanced about, trying to regain his ground. The wheat lay flattened all around him, and he could see the members of his crew slowly rising from the ground, staring at themselves and each other, astonished by the nakedness that greeted them. Russell glanced down and saw that he was naked too, and that the soft flesh of his abdomen was utterly unharmed.

BEMENT, ILLINOIS, JUNE 25, 1945

Nothing has changed much, Russell thought as the cab cruised down the streets of his hometown. The stores were the same, as well as the people, kids running along the sidewalks, old people in the park, the postman making his rounds. So why, he wondered, did he not feel at home here in Bement anymore? Why did he not feel a part of this small American town, one of its simple, ordinary citizens?