Hangar 13. Lindsay McKenna

sir, and the last two have caused injuries.”

      “Damn.” Mac sat down in his chair and searched his master sergeant’s grizzled features. “Okay, I’m open to suggestion. Its obvious you have something in mind. You’ve been holding it back ever since this stuff started happening. What is it?”

      Gus stood up awkwardly, rubbing his hands on the sides of his fatigues in his characteristic gesture of nervousness. “Well, sir…I really hate to say it…”

      With a wave of his hand, Mac muttered, “Nothing else you’ve offered explains these wrenches flying through the air. Try me.”

      “I really don’t think you’re ready for the explanation I have in mind, Major.”

      “Oh?”

      “Sir, with all due respect, you’re a cut-and-dried kind of officer, a no-nonsense sort of individual.”

      “All of that’s true,” Mac said, “but what does that have to do with your explanation?”

      “Everything.” Gus shook his head. “All right, sir, I’ll tell you, but I don’t want it held against me. Okay?”

      Mac had always encouraged his people to speak their mind. He’d been maintenance officer for the squadron for three years, and the people who worked under his command were the best in the business, in Mac’s opinion. One of his talents was to get the most out of them, and it had shown for three years in a row at IG time. Mac considered himself a good leader, and it was unusual for one of his people to consider him unapproachable. He said in a less-stern tone, “Whatever it is, Gus, I’ll handle it. Just sit down and tell me.”

      The tone worked miracles on Gus, who instantly brightened. Rubbing his hands against his thighs, he sat down and said, “About two months ago my wife, Shelly, went to a metaphysical workshop put on by this woman named Ellie O’Gentry.” He shrugged a little apologetically to Mac. “Shelly has always been interested in psychic stuff. Anyway, she came home bubbling all over the place about this Eastern Cherokee shamaness and how she’d helped change Shelly’s outlook on life. I didn’t give it a thought—then. But—” Gus cleared his throat “—I do now.”

      “What’s this got to do with our problem?” Mac demanded.

      “Well, sir, after the second wrench was thrown at someone over in Hangar 13, I told Shelly about it. She said that this woman, Ellie, had talked about a phenomena called discarnate souls, spirits who were ‘stuck’ in a certain place. She said these spirits sometimes did things to get a human being’s attention.” Gus gulped and looked at Mac, waiting for some kind of reaction. When there was none, he went on hastily. “This shamaness was taught soul recovery and extraction by her mother, a medicine woman who still lives on the reservation back in Cherokee, North Carolina.” With a wave of his hand, Gus said, “Now, I don’t believe in all that stuff. I’m a prove-it-to-me man, sir. But I’ve seen such positive changes in my wife since she went for a healing, I’ve got to believe she believes something happened. Anyway, one of the things Ellie O’Gentry does is communicate with spirits.” Gus looked over his shoulder toward the door. “I don’t know, Major. Maybe we’ve got an unhappy spirit of some sort out there in Hangar 13.”

      Mac sat there absorbing Gus’s explanation. His master sergeant, obviously embarrassed to bring up the subject, had colored a bright red. A huge part of Mac wanted to laugh, but he swallowed the urge in light of Gus’s sincerity. With a sigh, he said, “That’s a bit farfetched, isn’t it, Gus?”

      “Yes, sir, I know it is. But—” he rolled his eyes “—I honestly don’t have a better explanation why wrenches are suddenly flying through the air.”

      “Dammit.” Mac got up and began to pace the length of his small, cramped office. Books on F-15 jet maintenance covered two walls of his office; a desk, chair and filing cabinet were squeezed into the narrow space. Mac walked over to the coffeemaker and filled two cups with the strong brew. He handed one to his master sergeant.

      “Thank you, sir.”

      Mac eased his frame against the desk as he sipped his steaming black coffee. “I think we need to deal with facts, and facts only, Gus.”

      “No disagreement from me on that, sir.” Gus took a gulp of coffee and then rested it against his thigh. “These are the facts—four wrenches have been thrown at our people. In three out of the four cases, the people were working alone, in Hangar 13, late at night. The fourth incident took place with other people around, but they swear they didn’t throw the wrench.”

      “Could any of these be hoaxes?”

      Gus shrugged. “These are our top people, Major. They’re happy doing what they’re doing, none of them have any personal problems and they’re all up for either reenlistment or another rating.”

      Mac knew his people were happy with him, and with the job they were doing in the air force. Scratching his head, he muttered, “It just doesn’t fit. I can’t see any of our personnel over in 13 causing that kind of trouble. They’re the cream of the crop.”

      “I know,” Gus said. “Not only that, none of them willingly came forward to tell me about it. In each case, someone from the crew learned about it secondhand and came and told me.”

      Sipping his coffee, Mac thought long and hard for a moment. He slanted a glance at Gus. “This spirit theory is the worst.”

      Gus grinned a little. “Yes, sir, I know it is.”

      “Hangar 13 was built two months ago, and a week after we moved in, this wrench-throwing started.”

      “Yes, sir… I dunno, maybe it’s the number 13. You know how unlucky it is.”

      Mac snorted. “I don’t believe in that malarkey one bit, Gus.”

      “Yes, sir. It was just a thought….”

      Frustrated, Mac turned and walked around the desk. He set the coffee mug down a little sharply. “My career would be washed up if I told my commanding officer I was checking out this shamaness because our people were getting nailed with flying wrenches.”

      “I know,” Gus muttered unhappily. “That’s why I really hesitated telling you about her.”

      “Is this woman a nut case?”

      “Sir?”

      “You know,” Mac growled, “one of those New Age types?”

      “Uhh, I don’t know, sir. Shelly knows more about her. I never met the woman. I’ve only heard about what she does.

      “I guess the only other thing we could do is call in the Air Police to start an investigation,” Gus offered unenthusiastically after a moment.

      “No way.” The last thing Mac needed in his command was an ongoing investigation. He knew it would upset the rhythm he’d established on base if the Air Police started nosing around. And right now, with the IG two months away, he wanted to keep his people happy and on an even keel.

      “Well,” Gus hedged carefully, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt any to talk to this lady, would it? Maybe she could shed some light on what’s going on.”

      Fuming, Mac sat down. “Gus, this conversation doesn’t leave this office. Understand?”

      Gus straightened in the chair to almost an at-attention stance. “Yes, sir! Not a word of it, Major.”

      “Fine,” Mac muttered. “Call your wife and get the address and phone number of this woman.” He stared hard across the desk at his master sergeant. “I don’t like this, Gus.”

      “I understand, sir.” Gus rose quickly. “But we’re at a point where we’re running low on options. I’ll get the info and have it on your desk within the hour, sir.”

      “Fine. Dismissed.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Mac