Prologue

Nuclear B-52 Crashes over Spain

On January 17, 1966 at 10:22 a.m., 100 miles from North Africa, a B-52 bomber collided in mid-air with a KC-135 tanker while refueling over the village of Palomares, Spain on the Mediterranean coast. The tanker burst into flames, broke up, and tumbled to earth. The B-52 carried four thermonuclear B28 bombs. The bomber began the mission at Seymour Johnson Air Force Base, North Carolina and attempted its third refueling with the tanker after returning from a flight over the southern route of the Strategic Air Command air alert mission, code-named "Chrome Dome." The KC-135 came from Moron Air Base, Spain. The nozzle of its boom struck the bomber, ripping the B-52 open along its spine. The bomber snapped into pieces, igniting 40,000 gallons of jet fuel and killing all four crewmembers. Subsequent to initial conflicting reports, it was determined that four of the seven crewmembers of the B-52 parachuted to safety. President Lyndon Johnson, the Department of Defense, the Atomic Energy Commission, and the Spanish Government received news of the nuclear accident and the declaration of a "Broken Arrow." Nuclear safety teams, consisting of over 1,600 American and Spanish soldiers dispatched for the three-month clean-up operation. Within hours, the 16th Air Force located three B28 bombs that had landed on the shore. However, the fourth bomb remained missing for eighty days. High explosives in two of the bombs detonated on impact and plutonium dust spread over several hundred acres. This accident resulted in the largest search and recovery operation in history. Pursuant to the Hall-Otero Agreement of February 25, 1966, the U.S. Department of Energy and its predecessor agencies provided the 150 residents of Palomares with annual medical examinations. In addition, the U.S. built a $200,000 desalinization plant, settled $600,000 of farming claims with 536 residents, and offered environmental monitoring of plutonium and uranium, to include removal of 1,400 tons of topsoil to a nuclear cemetery in North Carolina

- United Press

Palomares, Spain -1966

JIM shivered on the cold dank ground. His body ached and his head pounded without mercy or pause. He struggled to open his eyes. An urgent terror filled him as he grasped for the meaning of the words flashing menacingly within his foggy mind: Broken Arrow, Chrome Dome, Broken Arrow, Chrome Dome. The words slowly became clear. Nuclear accidents were Broken Arrows. He was the pilot of a nuclear airlift mission-Chrome Dome-but what did he have to do with a Broken Arrow? Struggling toward consciousness, he reached out a hand to steady himself as he tried to sit up. Slick, smooth, silky. His hand slid along the ground beside his body and pain sliced up his arm; he was lying on his parachute. Exhaling a ragged groan, he snatched the ethereal threads of unreality, forcibly opened his eyes, and heaved himself into a sitting position. He clung to the stabbing pain, allowing it to help him focus his thoughts as panic surged through him. Nausea assaulted him, blurring his concentration so he gulped deep lungsful of the musty dank air to clear his mind. He squinted at the weak shaft of sunlight spilling through a wide, rough, rocky opening. He glanced around and groped toward the shadows touching rock. He was in a cavern. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he tried to focus on his dim surroundings.

Beyond the entrance, withered brown leaves and dense gnarled branches of some kind of bush or plant partially obscured the opening. Beyond the barrier, bright daylight winked through the tangled leaves. He had to get out of there, find someone, tell them . . . warn them about the bombs . . . help them. He struggled to lift himself. His green Nomex flightsuit stuck to his legs and arms and chest as he moved. Patches of cold and wet shifted and clung. His fingers searched and found blood. He gritted his teeth as pain battered him in sharp pulses.

"Por favor, descanso." Soft hands pressed him back to the ground, the voice soothing. "Bueno! Descanso ahora."

Jim fell back, the nauseating pain sucking him pulling him toward the black void. He mustered his remaining strength and opened his eyes, straining to see . . . a woman. No, she was a girl, probably not more than fourteen. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin olive. Who was she? Where was he?

Refueling. The last thing he remembered was refueling over Spain. She must be Spanish. He looked up at her.

She wore a low-cut, thin sleeveless pink cotton gown rumpled and creased as though she had just got out of bed. Long unkempt and tangled black hair spilled across her lap as she intently ministered to his wounds, pressing him back to the ground whenever he tried to rise. She shifted, kneeling beside him to bunch up the parachute silk before tucking it under his head. The movement brought her face and bare arms into the wavering shafts of sunlight filtering into the cave. Jim's eyes widened as he studied the girl moving in and out of shadows.

The neckline of her gown was ragged and filthy, one side falling limply off her shoulder allowing Jim a glimpse of brutalized flesh. Shock initially paralyzed him. She was pretty, her face smooth and flawless, crowning a putrid spectrum of red, purpling and yellowish open wounds and black scabs scattered over what he could see of her chest, arm, and hands. He was too late. The bombs had detonated.

His face tightened and he cringed when she touched him. Stifling an almost insane desire to escape, as if she were a leper, he tentatively reached out and touched a fresh wound on her upper arm. Thick burgundy-colored blood dripped clotted designs from a half-inch open puncture. They both gasped when he touched her. The girl instinctively moved away and covered the wound with one thin hand as she warily studied him.

Disgust warred with pity. "I'm sorry," he whispered as his eyes lingered on her exposed injuries a few seconds longer. I'm too late. His soul twisted with guilt and remorse as he surrendered to unconsciousness. "I'm sorry."

ROSITA soothed the black man as he slept again. "Descanso. Bueno." She scooted tentatively to his side and tenderly caressed the blood and sweat from his forehead until his breathing evened. "Mi Dios." She prayed that God would heal and protect him. She touched the flag on his sleeve. Americano. She'd seen pictures and stories in magazines and newspapers of the war raging in Vietnam and men wearing this flag on the shoulder of their green military coveralls.

She studied the white and orange nylon parachute on which he lay. It had been the ideal method for dragging him into the cave. He was a big, heavy man twice her size and she could not have carried him to the cave. He had been unconscious and unable to help.

She glanced up at the sun. Almost an hour ago she had found his crumbled and bleeding body partially wrapped in his parachute like a rag doll torn by dogs and tossed away like so much trash. The winds howled outside the cave bringing an extra chill so that she trembled from the cold despite her heavy exertions. Sweating as she struggled to hide the dark man from sight, she sucked in her breath and strained to tug the nylon a few more inches. It was just past noon when she finally dragged his dead weight within the shaded protection and relative warmth of her sanctuary. A sharp icy blast whipped through the entrance so unusual for this time of year. She quickly covered the resting man with the parachute, tucking it around him for warmth.

Bile rose in her throat. She stood up and hurried toward a trickle of stream below the cave. The hills of Almeria rose in jagged peaks. In the valley below her, the faint smell of smoke aggravated her sour stomach. The villagers ran about, shouting and pointing as they gathered around two oblong objects. She scooped a double handful of water and drank deeply, the water trickling through her fingers and down her arms. It felt good and cool against the throbbing heat of her wounds. She tentatively probed green and yellow bruises. The pain was less; she was healing.

Scooping up more water, she caught a glimpse of her face and the trail of bruises across her shoulder and down her chest reflected in the rippling stream. "He'd never touch my face or leave any evidence of what he's done to me." A tear trickled down one soft, plump cheek. Arms wrapped around her middle, she bent double, dry heaves wracking her empty stomach. A silver strand of saliva spun down from her lips into the water. Dios, ayude me. She silently pleaded for God's help as her tormentor's image forced her to remember. His sadistic smile filled her mind and she trembled. The wind howled and she flinched, looking around her. He'd found her. No, it was only the wind full of dark glee like the sound of the voice-his voice-that always preceded the pain and terror inflicted upon her more and more often. The maniacal gleam of his eyes haunted her.

"Querida, thank you for the privilege of killing your first two Marrano babies; shall we make it three?" His rough hands clamped around her arms as he pulled her closer, ripping at her clothes, fists pummeling her pregnant belly. She struggled with images so vivid and real, clawing at her mouth and face in an attempt to stifle her screams of protest. She raised her hands and face to the sky, praying to God to save her from the perpetual hell of her life.

The faint columns of smoke filled the air, lending a macabre realism to the hellish images of fire and brimstone plaguing her mind. Faint with fatigue and nausea, she reeled, the ground rushing up at her. Putting out a hand, she stopped her fall, her mind scrambling to cling to something hard and real, anything to remain awake. She must not faint. He would find her and she would not go back there; she could not. She must stay awake if she was to get away, to protect her child. Perhaps this time she would be safe.

Suddenly an image of the dark American infusing her with extra strength arrested her downward spiral of agony. She did not understand his words, but she felt the pity, sorrow, and kindness in his voice, "I'm sorry."

Palomares, Spain - 2030

TRISTAN surveyed the torture chamber in horror. The eerie underground catacombs were dank and eerie with a near physical aura of death, depravity, and terror. This was in stark contrast to the grounds above where acres and acres of colorful flower gardens perfumed the landscape fountains, statues and opulent displays of wealth. The three stories of the castle-like mansion dominated the village of Palomares with affluence and nobility. It revealed not a hint of the slimy walls weeping with depravity and the pungent smell of decayed humanity that oozed in the foundation enclosing perpetual night. His investigation had led him here where numerous and centuries-old contraptions used to destroy the human body, mind, and spirit in every way imaginable were housed.

A metal device shaped like a glove sat waiting for another hand to sever into four pieces with the long multiple blades positioned below it. Tristan's mouth was dry and his stomach lurched as he turned away from the blood-stained device. Dominating the main chamber was a shrine to Tomas de Torquemada, the head of the Spanish Inquisition in 1483. A gilded frame encircled the portrait of the Spanish Dominican priest who was Queen Isabella's confessor, covering almost the entire length of one wall. The dark, brooding painting portrayed a small, vicious looking man standing behind a table littered with crucifixes, rosaries, scrolls, and books inscribed with references to saints. He held an open locket displaying a portrait of the first Catholic Queen, Isabella, which was no surprise.

Weary of Moorish dominance in the south, Queen Isabella obtained Pope Sixtus IV's sanction to rid her country of all non-Catholics. She appointed Torquemada to lead the cleaning crew because of his single-minded religious fervor.

Tristan shuddered at the thought of the atrocities perpetrated in this manmade hell inspired by a merciless ambition that infected an entire nation until no one was safe. Brutality, theft, torture, and murder sanctioned by their sovereign queen, sanctified by the Pope, and justified in the name of God. The insanity inflamed the people of Spain until the heavens rang with the cry for limpienza di sangre-pure Catholic blood, pure Spanish blood.

Jews and Muslims, Marranos, or pigs, ran for their lives and the lives of their families. Tristan could hear the pitiful cries for mercy from throngs of murdered Jewish and Muslim men, women, and children in the harsh clang of chains against the cold stone walls. The church bells tolled as musicians led a procession chanting masses for the souls doomed to death. They carried crosses, banners and candles in escorting penitents wearing red-cross sanbenito tunics. After sentencing, the church released the victims to state officials for execution; Church creed did not allow for the taking of life. He felt the heat from braziers stuck with branding irons and his lungs tightened from images of hangings and drownings and mutilations. In his mind families and friends pleaded during the Autos-da-F‚-acts of faith-afraid their compassion would mark them for the fires, confessions wrung from their mangled bodies before they faced judgment at the next bloody trial. The walls reeked of burning flesh and of the lives, hopes, and dreams of those whose only crime was faith and belief not sanctioned by the Catholic Church.

Tristan shook his head at the senselessness and futility. If the accused recanted of their faith and converted to Catholicism, Torquemada mercifully strangled them before the burning. "Hypocrite!" Tristan spat his curse at Torquemada's vile image. Obviously, it slipped the priest's mind that his own grandmother was a converted Jew. He was so drunk with duty to his god and Queen he probably would have stoked the fires if he'd had the opportunity to interrogate the matriarch of his family.

Tristan walked slowly along the walls studying the incredible proof of the ongoing fervor of subsequent generations clamoring for catholic purity by any means. The voices of babies, children, pregnant women, the aged, and infirm still wailed: pleading, confessing, and recanting, their eyes like brilliant lights dimming as they died. On what side of the battle had his Spanish ancestors fought? Hot fiery anger boiled up in his soul. It didn't matter which side, the atrocities continued long after the expulsion of the Jews and Muslims in 1492, long after the death of Torquemada in 1498. He looked around the chamber, his heart torn, his soul aching. The hot, bright copper scent of blood and death filled his nose. Here was the proof, the shameful truth, Torquemada's work continued to bear bloody fruit.

"Why does humanity repeat this senseless stupidity again and again?" he whispered, his voice laden with confusion and building fury. How many times had the scenes played out through the centuries? From Hitler's Nazi machine, Idi Amin's Uganda massacre, Cambodia's killing fields, and Saddam's bloody reign to Bosnia's ethnic cleansing, the Muslim extremists' Jihads, European Crusades, and the slaughter of Native Americans in the push for America's Manifest Destiny continued through history. Would it ever end?

Tristan's steps echoed in the cavernous chambers as his fingers traced dates, names, and histories carved into the walls like a tapestry of generational pride, an offering on the altar at the foot of Torquemada's portrait. He stopped and studied the writing on the nearest wall, almost obscured by streaked layers of grime and mud, dated 1495. Here, Enrique, an ancestor of the estate protecting the catacombs, wrote enthusiastically about his conquest. "The Jewess didn't die immediately after the decapitation. Amazing how she still blinked and pleaded minutes after I cleanly separated her head from her body with the sword of my father." Tristan face twisted with disgust as he moved to study the drawings of a guillotine designed to sever the heads of several victims at once. Beside it, the scribbling of Enrique's grandson, Tiomas, in 1523 read, "My grandfather's methods were crude. By rigging ropes and pulley assemblies I have separated all the heads from a Muslim family at one time; there was no activity from the Marrano heads after they all fell into the basket."

Tristan turned away. He was sick from reading the boasts of soulless, crippled men breeding twisted generations after generations. Their deeds flourished even now in the person of the present Christy spawn, specifically Don Cristob l, the prime suspect in his investigation. He turned slowly in a circle as he silently wept and raged for the multitudes of victims and the advances in killing technologies woven throughout the grisly mural. Paintings and photographs captured the empty faces of the murdered alongside vials of deadly drugs and weaponry: biological, electronic, and lasers. With great weariness, Tristan moved past the sickening collage of man's depthless inhumanity as he made his way from the chamber. His mind swelled with the enormity of the thousands gazing at him from pictures of contraptions, names scratched in the unyielding stone, listed on bronze plaques, and their remains swimming in jars of formaldehyde. The roar of their pleas for justice rang in his mind and he could do nothing but stop and bow his head in shame, humility, resolve, and compassion, vowing to end this centuries-long reign of terror.

"I'm so sorry."

Chapter 1.

Westcliffe, Colorado - 2030

Meadow lay still as the September morning air, crisp and clean with a slightly cold bite, breezed through the spectacular Colorado mountain sky. The light and dark yellow of the sun caressed the deep green of trees, leaves, and grass waving gently against the black-brown bark. Shadows crept across the gray and pink marbled stones and the dampened tan of the earth. Massive piles of cottony and linen-white clouds played across the wide-open translucent blue sky in hues and shades that are nature's own.

The girl stood still as blue jays chased one another in a fluttering symphony of movement against the soft lavender and red-orange pastels of sunrise. A doe and her gangly-legged spotted fawn foraged nearby, oblivious to a red fox scampering across their path. The fox's thick coat glinted in prismatic shades of fiery orange and red beneath the rising sun.

"Meadow, breakfast is ready." The nearly black-skinned toddler arose from her playground and waved goodbye to her floral and animal companions before running toward her grandmother's voice, her single black thick braid flying behind her on the wind. She barely reached the porch steps of the two-story cabin when an older Hispanic-looking woman caught her and whisked her into the air. The woman was fit and athletic with muscularly contoured arms and legs, a testament to her daily regime of running and swimming. Her complexion was brown with hints of a mixed Spanish and African-American heritage. Even at sixty-four, her face was smooth and unlined. Her hair, satiny black and shoulder-length, sparsely streaked with silver.

"The deer's baby is bigger today!" Meadow hugged her grandmother's neck.

The older woman's face burst into a smile that seemed to glow from her soul. "As you are, querida, my dearest. Como estas?"

"Bien, gracias," Meadow responded.

Skye smiled with approval. "Bueno, querida!"

Carrying her precious load into the cabin, Skye thought about Meadow's parents-her oldest son and his wife. Of her three children, twins Jonathan Reese and Sierra and her youngest son Tristan Alaric, only Jon had seen fit to provide his parents with a grandchild. Meadow looked more like her mother, Celene, but she was the undeniable image of her great aunt Clara, Skye's longtime friend and housekeeper. These family ties made Meadow even more precious. The child's name was irritating. But what could one expect from 'artsy' types, Skye considered ruefully.

Jonathan Reese was a musician who played with his own band by night and taught middle school music by day. His wife was the band's lead singer and taught at an elementary school.

"Where's my Anna?" Rhys roared from the kitchen.

Skye shook her head in exasperation as Meadow wriggled from her arms and ran toward her grandfather. That's right, Rhys, if you don't like your granddaughter's name simply give her a new one. Following the little girl into the kitchen moments later, Skye's smile widened as she watched the affectionate breakfast scene between her husband and Meadow.

With his granddaughter on his lap, heads close together as they talked, the older Caucasian man and his young African-American granddaughter presented a stark visual contrast, Meadow was dark as Rhys was fair. He was still ridiculously handsome at sixty-nine, even with an equal measure of salt and pepper streaking his thick hair. His intense blue eyes focused on Meadow as she told him of her morning. His even white teeth gleamed between sensually smiling lips, lines etched deeply in the suntanned skin around his eyes and mouth, accentuated his features. Muscular arms embraced the child lightly as Meadow leaned against him and gazed up into his eyes.

"I'm your sweet tomato today. Tomorrow, I'll be your sweet banana."

Rhys shook his head, his eyes serious. "Well, now, sweetie, tomatoes aren't usually thought of as sweet. However, if you are a banana you are definitely sweet. And you always will be to me."

Skye moved to the stove and filled their plates with grits, bacon, and eggs. She glanced over at the pair. Rhys had already placed the pitcher of orange juice and full glasses on the lace-covered kitchen table.

Rhys shifted the four-year-old to her chair stacked with two thick phone books.

"Grandma, I'm hungry," Meadow announced with both hands full of a fork and knife.

"Here you go then." Skye placed the plate in front of her.

"Thank you, God, for my breakfast and for Grandma, Grandpa, Mommy, and Daddy, Amen!" Meadow blazed through the prayer and filled her mouth with eggs within a minute.

Rhys and Skye exchanged incredulous looks. "Well, it's a blessing we've never had to beg her to eat," Skye observed.

"Never," Rhys agreed with laughter in his eyes

Skye placed a full plate in front of Rhys and kissed him soundly. "Mr. Wielde, I think I'll keep you another day."

Rhys's eyes widened. "After almost thirty years, you'll have to if you want a full return on your investment."

Skye gave him a long withering look, mouth pursed and eyes narrowed while mentally running through a host of disparaging comments before opting for silence. Rhys laughed out loud knowing that for the moment he wouldn't be the target for his wife's blade sharp wit. Meadow watched their exchange while still shoveling food in her mouth. At her grandfather's booming laughter, childish giggles trickled out before scooping up another mouthful.

How little and how much his wife had changed since they met. He forked eggs and sausage into his mouth, stealing a glance at Skye. Her sassy glare reminded him of her days as a Drug Enforcement Administration, or DEA, agent.

"That look might have intimidated young agents back in the day, but I'm not one of your charges."

Skye ate silently, pointedly ignoring Rhys as he silently watched in admiration. No doubt about it, she still had it, but there was something else in her look, something he couldn't quite put a name to. A look, a feeling. He wasn't sure.

In the meantime, Meadow crawled to her knees on the phone books and reached across the table for the handle of the orange juice container. Her small fingers wrapped around it and she tipped it toward her. Still puzzling over Skye's expression, Rhys covered Meadow's hand and helped her fill her glass.

"Stop worrying about him, he's all right. Remember, he's your son, Gabe's prot‚g‚, and in God's care," Rhys gently admonished his wife.

Skye was worrying about Tristan. He was on his first DEA mission in Spain and she knew she should trust his training. All Gabe's agents did well. A wave of sadness rushed over her. Gabe would never train another agent; he was gone. Her friend, her mentor, her boss at the DEA, Gabriel Kinski, was gone. He'd died almost two years ago but the grief and emptiness had not lessened with the passage of time. Despite her concern for Tristan, Gabe's memory, much like he did in life, took center stage. Shielding her family from her sadness, she turned with glistening eyes toward the window gazing out at the sunrise washing over the Sangre De Cristo mountain range.

Gabe's passing had been peaceful - even celebratory - given Gabe's zest for life. During his second retirement, his first having been his U.S. Air Force retirement, Gabe had caught the sky diving bug from his beautiful wife, Sandy, a true southern belle. After a perfectly executed descent and landing, Gabe failed to emerge from beneath the canopy of his parachute. Skye raced to his side and pulled back the billowing fabric to find him smiling contentedly, eyes closed as though asleep. His heart had given out.

The Catholic Church in Cary, North Carolina where Gabe and Sandy attended religiously was incapable of accommodating the crush of mourners that descended on the little town to pay their respects and celebrate Gabe's legacy. In the end, they filled the decorated cathedral lawn for the service. The congregation consisted of family, friends, neighbors, students, and dignitaries from the military, DEA, Interpol, and representatives from most of the major law enforcement agencies along the East Coast.

Seeming to pick up her thoughts, Rhys broke the silence. "Honey, I still can't get over the amount of people who attended Gabe's funeral. I've never attended a service with that many people. He was loved and greatly admired."

Skye nodded without turning to face her husband. She had long since given up on figuring out how Rhys always knew her thoughts.

Casting back in memory, Skye replayed the especially moving tribute of former Boy Scouts and military college students whom Gabe had influenced as a leader and a role model. The tribute concluded with a flyover formation consisting of his son, sons-in-law, and long retired members of flying wings, groups, and squadrons Gabe had commanded.

Skye could still hear the powerful whine of plane painting their colors against a clear blue sky bathed in a bright yellow shower of sunlight. A sea of mourning faces lifted toward the aerial tribute.

Lost in her own grief at losing a friend she could never replace, tears flowed hot and fast down her face. She pressed her lips tight to stifle the urge to howl and rail at such unfairness. As she lowered her head to dry her face, Tristan's grief-stricken faced swam into view. She took a step toward her son just as she saw Rhys move to stand beside Tristan, placing his hand on his son's back. Father and son were mirror images with the same thick black shoulder length hair, facial features and height. They had always shared a strong bond.

Gabe hadn't intruded on that closeness, but he had touched something inside Tristan that resisted Skye and Rhys's attempts to dissuade their son from following in her and Gabe's footsteps. It started with stories that fired Tristan's imagination and ended with Tristan following where Gabe led and ended when her son became a DEA agent. Skye sighed. And now her son was undercover half a world away where neither she nor Rhys could watch over him.

Skye quickly wiped her eyes and walked over to the sink to wash the breakfast dishes. A steady drizzle of cold worry infiltrated her heart. Not that Rhys could understand that! He just dismisses my concerns as mother-worry. She turned to Rhys as he and Meadow stacked their dishes on the table.

"Let's go to Spain."

"The last thing Tristan needs is someone hovering over him, especially his DEA-celebrity mommy."

"I meant let's go to Spain for a vacation."

"Sure you did."

Skye winked, flashed a winning smile, and replaced the washcloth in the sink before walking to her husband. She wound her arms around his neck, sat in his lap, and nestled close, whispering, "If Anna wasn't here." Rhys laughed and pushed his chair back from the table, pulling her closer.

"Hmmmph. You haven't changed." Rhys scrunched his brow. "Next, comes the bullying, followed by evidence justifying your worry, concluding with what you will do regardless of my 'short-sighted, narrow opinion.'"

Skye grinned. "You are wrong, delicious man. I'm going straight to pity for your gross misunderstanding and groundless assessment."

Rhys pulled her even closer and tightened his arms around her. He smoothed her hair as she leaned against him. Kissing slowly along the soft line of her jaw as he slid his arms beneath her thighs, he rose and set her firmly on the floor. "Good, that will give Anna and me a last opportunity for a walk before we head home this afternoon."

Taking the cue, Meadow cheered at the prospect of exploring the Colorado Mountains with her favorite, and only, grandfather.

"Woweee! Let's go, Granddaddy! I want to show you the baby deer and the yellow and blue bird that flew this close to me." The girl held her hands slightly apart to indicate the distance.

Skye watched them, momentarily shocked at her husband's abrupt dismissal, and then smiled at her granddaughter's infectious enthusiasm. Rhys swung Meadow up into his arms and carried her out the door.

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