Free Fox Island by Stephen Bly Page B

those .44-.40
shells as he was ridin’ to Fort Laramie with the entire Cheyenne
nation on his tail was almost as tense as being there. Keep up the
good work.”
    “So, you like the River Breaks series?”
    “It’s your best yet. In fact, nobody
describes the guns and gunfights of the Old West like Tony
Shadowbrook. That’s a fact. Anyone who’s got an ounce of brains
knows it. Can I get you a Coke? I’d offer you a beer, but I don’t
drink alcohol.”
    “Coke is fine.”
    While Peterson stepped to the kitchen,
Tony glanced at rows and rows of bookshelves and browsed the
titles. The Butane Lighter Hand Grenade.
Home-Built Claymore Mines. Survival Poaching.
    “You find any good books?” Harvey returned
with two cans of Coke.
    “Pretty rough stuff here.”
    “That’s my research. Mostly published by big
companies who are interested only in making money. Most of it is
useless. We might as well sit down.” He motioned Tony toward a
leather chair. “Sure do appreciate you comin’. Hope the little
woman didn’t get offended when I told her I didn’t do interviews
with females.”
    “She was delighted to send me.”
    “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with women
interviewers. They don’t know the right questions to ask. I had a
gal sit right there from the Times and ask me, ‘Why do you always look angry?’ Can you imagine
that? Why do I look angry? Who gives a squat how I look? Then she
wrote an article about how I was advocating the overthrow of the
U.S. government. I advocate the recapture of the U.S. government by
democratic means. It belonged to the people and it’s been stolen by
politicians and bureaucrats. But that’s not why you came. Go ahead,
ask your questions.”
    “I’m interested in your theory about a
Japanese invasion of Fox Island during World War II.”
    “Theory? The Japs were here. That’s no
theory. I saw them with my own eyes. I was eight at the time.”
    “What exactly did you see?”
    “I was up island about a mile from here
trying to hunt coons.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Huntin’ raccoons. Me and Pee Wee Mack used
to hunt about every night. I had a 06 Winchester .22, and Pee Wee
had a miner’s lamp he borrowed from his grandpa. We set off to be
the big hunters. Only had one bullet that night, so we were
determined not to waste it. Well, down there where they claim a
F-94 crashed in ’53, we spotted some men snoopin’ around in the
woods. Pee Wee blew out the lamp and we crawled on our bellies
until we got real close. They were Japs, all right. We counted two
dozen of them.”
    “What were they doing?”
    “Either they were lost and thought they were
on a different island, or they were practicin’ night maneuvers. We
lay there in the weeds and watched them. We were near enough to see
the Japanese army insignia on their uniforms when the moon
reflected right.”
    “They did this all night?”
    “Nope. After about an hour, they hiked to
Big Rock and got in a rubber raft. Then they rowed out to Carr
Inlet. That’s when we saw a submarine surface. A Jap sub. Even at
night I could tell. And that’s the last I saw of them.
    “Me and Pee Wee stood guard at Big Rock with
our one bullet the rest of the night. Nothin’ happened, except we
got whipped the next momin’ by our folks. Never read one word of it
in the paper. Not one word.”
    “And you never heard anything more about a
Japanese invasion of the Northwest?”
    “Nope, even though me and Pee Wee searched
the ground and discovered several Japanese items. In fact, for
years I figured me and Pee Wee were the only two who knew about it.
But when I got back from Korea, there was all this talk about an
accidental jet crash. Wasn’t no accident.”
    “Explain.”
    “They crashed that sucker on purpose in
order to bring in a hundred people and comb the ground to erase any
trace of the Japanese.”
    “Seems to me, Harvey, a couple dozen
Japanese troops on Fox Island for a few hours one night wouldn’t
leave enough