Black Wind

“Jack, you still sawing logs?” Dirk's voice laughed over the line.

“Yeah, thanks for the wake-up call,” he replied groggily.

“I thought bankers didn't like to stay up late.”

“This one does. And likes to drink vodka, too. I think a dinosaur crapped in my mouth during the night,” Dahlgren said with a belch.

“Sorry to hear. Say, I'm thinking of taking a drive to Portland to stretch out my sea legs and take in a car show. Care to ride shotgun?”

“No thanks. I'm supposed to take the teller kayaking today. That is, if I can still stand up.”

“Okay. I'll send over a Bombay martini to get you started.”

“Roger that,” Dahlgren replied with a grimace.

Dirk headed south from Seattle on Interstate 5 in the NUMA jeep, enjoying the sights of the lush forested region of western Washington. He found cross-country drives relaxing, as they allowed his mind to roam freely with the open countryside. Finding himself making good time, he decided to detour west along the coast, taking a side road to Willapa Bay before continuing south along the Pacific waters of the large bay. Soon he reached the wide blue mouth of the Columbia River, and cruised the same shores upon which Lewis and Clark had triumphantly set foot back in 1805.

Crossing the mighty river over the four-mile-long Astoria-Megler Bridge, Dirk exited at the historic fishing port of Astoria. As he stopped at a red light on the bridge off ramp, a road sign caught his eye. In white letters on a green field, warrenton 8 mi. was preceded by an arrow pointing west. Prodded by curiosity, he followed the sign right, away from Portland, and quickly traversed the few miles to Warrenton.

The small town at Oregon's northwest tip, originally built on a tidal marsh as a fishing and sport boat passage to the Pacific, supported some four thousand residents. It took Dirk only a few minutes of driving about the town before he found what he was looking for on Main Street. Parking his jeep next to a white Clatsop County official vehicle, he strolled up a concrete walkway to the front door of the Warrenton Community Library.

It was a small library but looked like it had been in existence for six or seven decades. A musty smell of old books and older dust wafted lightly in the air. Dirk walked straight to a large metal desk, from which a fiftyish woman with contemporary eyeglasses and short blond hair looked up suspiciously. A plastic green badge pi

“Good morning, Margaret. My name is Dirk,” he said with a smile. “I wonder if you might have copies of the local newspaper from the nineteen forties?”

The librarian warmed slightly. “The Warrenton News, which went out of print in 1964. We do have original copies from the nineteen thirties through the sixties. Right this way,” she said.

Margaret walked to a cramped corner of the library, where she pulled out several drawers of a filing cabinet before discovering the location of the 1940s editions.

“What exactly is it that you are looking for?” she asked, more out of nosiness than of a desire to help.

“I'm interested in the story of a local family that died suddenly from poisoning back in 1942.”

“Oh, that would be Leigh Hunt,” Margaret exclaimed with a knowing smugness. “He was a friend of my father. Apparently, that was quite a shock around here. Let's see, I think that happened during the summer,” she said while flipping through the cabinet. “Did you know the family?” she asked Dirk without looking up.

“No, just a history buff interested in the mystery of their deaths.”

“Here we go,” the librarian said, pulling out an edition of the daily newspaper dated Sunday, June 21, 1942. It was a small journal, mostly containing weather, tide, and salmon-fishing statistics combined with a few local stories and advertisements. Margaret flattened out the paper on top of the filing cabinet so Dirk could read the headline story.

Four Dead on De Laura Beach Local resident Leigh Hunt, his two sons Tad (age 13) and Tom (age 11), and a nephew known only as Skip, were found dead Saturday, June 20th, on De Laura Beach. The four went out clamming in the afternoon, according to Hunt's wife Marie, and failed to return home for di

“Is there a follow-up news report on the coroner's findings?” he asked.

Margaret rifled through another dozen editions of the News before finding a small article related to the deaths. Reading out loud, she cited that the coroner's office confirmed accidental cyanide inhalation as the suspected cause of death.

“My father never did believe it was an accident,” Margaret added, to Dirk's surprise.

“It doesn't make sense that they would have died later at the beach after inhaling the fumes in Hunt's work shed,” Dirk mused.

“Papa said the same thing,” Margaret replied, letting down her guard slightly. “And he said the authorities never did consider the birds.”

“Birds?”

“Yes. About a hundred seagulls were found dead on the beach around the area that Hunt and the boys were found. Fort Stevens, the Army base, was right near that beach. Papa always suspected it was some sort of Army experiment that accidentally killed them. Guess nobody will ever know for sure.”

“Wartime secrets can be difficult to unlock sometimes,” Dirk replied. “Thank you for your help, Margaret.”

Dirk returned to the jeep and drove through the town to the coastal highway and turned south. A short stretch of pavement later, he approached a small side road marked de laura beach road. The road led through an open pair of gates marked fort stevens state park before narrowing through thick underbrush. Dirk jammed the jeep into low gear and surged over a jagged ridge before descending to a large abandoned gun emplacement overlooking the ocean. Battery Russell had been one of several coastal defense sites guarding the entrance to the Columbia River which sprang up during the Civil War, then were later updated with huge long-range guns during World War II. From the emplacement, Dirk had a clear view of the shimmering blue waters at the mouth of the Columbia River, as well as the De Laura Beach below, which was dotted with afternoon pic nickers. Dirk soaked in a few deep breaths of the fresh sea air, then drove back out the small road, pulling off nearly into the brush at one point to let an oncoming black Cadillac pass by. Driving a quarter mile farther, he stopped the car at a large historical marker along the roadside that caught his eye. Carved on a massive gray slab of granite was a highly detailed engraving of a submarine, beneath which was inscribed:

On June 21, 1942, a 5.5" shell exploded here. One of 17 fired at Columbia River Harbor Defense Installations by the Japanese Submarine I-25. The only hostile shelling of a military base on the U.S. mainland during World War II and the first since the War of 1812.

As he read the inscription, he instinctively moved away from the road as the Cadillac returned and passed by slowly, to avoid kicking up dust. Dirk studied the submarine carving for a long moment and started to walk away. But something caught his eye and he looked again. It was the date. June 21, just a day after Hunt and the boys were found dead on the beach.

Dirk reached into the jeep's glove compartment and pulled out a cellular phone, leaning against the car's hood as he dialed the number. After four rings, a deep and jolly voice boomed through the handset.