"Yes, Pick."
Pick laughed.
"Give me a hand with this, will you?" The battery wasn't all that heavy, but putting it in its battery compartment was awkward. Hart wondered how Pickering had managed to take it out. Finally it was in place, and connected.
"Now we will open the hangar doors and push the airplane outside," Pick announced.
The huge doors of the hangar moved with an ease that surprised Hart. Pushing the Stagger Wing Beechcraft was easier than he would have thought, too, but obviously one man couldn't do it.
"What were you going to do if I hadn't turned up? You couldn't push it by yourself."
"Run it up in the hangar, of course," Pick said.
"Wouldn't the-wind from the propeller-"
"We Naval Aviators call that `prop blast,' " Pick furnished helpfully.
-prop blast have blown things around the hangar?"
"I don't know," Pick said. "I never ran an engine up in a hangar. "
This guy is a cheerful idiot, Hart decided. And then modified that: a nice cheerful idiot.
When the airplane was outside and turned at right angles to the hangar, Pickering opened another compartment in the fuselage and took out a fire extinguisher.
"You know how to work one of these?" he asked. Hart nodded. "Maybe we will be lucky," Pick went on, "but if there is a cloud of smoke and flames, you will extinguish them using this clever device. Think you can remember that?"
"Right, Pick."
"Do not stand where the propeller turns," Pick ordered solemnly.
"Getting whacked with a propeller stings."
"Right, Pick." Pickering pulled the engine through several times and then climbed into the cockpit. Hart saw him moving around inside, but he had no idea what he was doing.
The window beside Pickering opened.
"Clear!" he shouted, and now he sounded very professional.
Hart picked up the fire extinguisher, wondering if he would have to use it.
There was a whining sound, and then the propeller began to turn, very slowly. The engine coughed and stopped. A small cloud of dark smoke came out of the exhaust ports.
The whining of the starter began again, and then the propeller moved through several rotations as the engine coughed, burped smoke and died again.
It is not going to start, Hart decided, as he watched Pickering's head disappear as he moved around the cockpit.
The whining started again, the propeller turned, the engine coughed, coughed again, discharged an enormous cloud of smoke, and then caught with a mighty roar and began to run.
Hart could see a delighted smile on Pickering's face.
After a few moments the roughness disappeared.
I wonder how long it takes to-what did he say?-run up an engine?
He set the fire extinguisher on the ground and looked up at the cockpit.
Pickering was shaking his head and making gestures. After a moment Hart understood them: he was not to put the fire extinguisher down, but to get into the airplane with it.
Hart made a wide sweep around the wing and went to the fuselage door. It was closed.
The wind-the prop blast-blew it closed.
With some effort, he forced it open against the prop blast, laid the fire extinguisher on the floor, and then climbed aboard.
The prop blast slammed the door closed. He looked at the door, saw a handle that locked the door, and turned it.
Then he walked to the cockpit. He was surprised at how much room the airplane had-there were four passenger seats-and how Plush it was. The seats were upholstered in light-brown leather, and the walls and ceiling were covered with it.
Pickering motioned for him to sit in the second seat in the cockpit. It was George Hart's first visit to a cockpit and he found the array of dials and levers and controls both fascinating and intimidating.
Pickering showed him how to fasten the lap and shoulder mess, and then handed him a set of earphones.
"The intercom button, I just found out," Pickering's metallic voice came over the earphones, "is that little button on the side of the microphone. Can you hear me?" Hart looked at Pickering and saw he had a microphone in his hand. And then Pickering pointed to a second microphone beside Hart. Hart had finally found something recognizable.
The microphone was essentially identical to the ones in Saint Louis police cars.
"What do you mean, you just found out?"
"I never sat up here before," Pickering said.
Bullshit!
There was a popping sound, and then Pickering's voice.
"Frisco Ground Control, Beech Two Oh Oh on the Lewis ramp."
"Beech Two Oh Oh, go ahead."
"Request taxi instructions to box my compass." What the hell does that mean?
"Beech Two Oh Oh is cleared via taxiway one three right to the threshold area of runway one three."
"Roger, thank you," Pickering's voice came over the earphones.
"Understand threshold area of one three. One three moving and clear."
Hart watched with fascination as Pickering released the brakes, advanced the throttle, and the airplane began to move.
He pressed his mike button.
"Where are we going?" There was another pop in the earphones.
"Aircraft calling Ground Control, say again."
"George," Pickering said, "don't talk into the intercom until I tell you you can. You are worrying Ground Control." Hart nodded. He had just revealed his enormous ignorance, and it humiliated him.
They taxied a long way to the end of the field. As they neared it, a United Airlines DC-3 came in for a landing. Hart found that fascinating.
He also found Pickering's next act fascinating. He moved the airplane to the center of a large concrete area and carefully jockeyed it into position. He then fiddled somehow with the compass. Then he moved the airplane again, and fiddled with the compass again, and then repeated the process.
"As you can see, I have now boxed the compass," he said.
Hart didn't reply.
"You may express your admiration, we're on intercom," Pickering said.
"I'm impressed. Now what?"
"I am debating whether or not I can fly this thing," Pickering said.
"How would you like a little ride, George?"
"What do you mean, whether or not you can fly this thing?"
"I told you. This is my first time sitting up here." Bullshit. He's pulling my leg.
"I have faith in a fellow Marine," Hart replied.
"How can I resist a challenge like that? Now shut up, George. We are going to talk to the tower." There was another pop in the earphones.
"Frisco tower, Beech Two Oh Oh on the threshold of one three for takeoff." Jesus, he is going to take me for a ride!
"Beech Two Oh Oh, what is your destination?"
"Couple of times around the pattern. Test flight."
"Beech Two Oh Oh, you are advised you are required to have a departure authorization."
"It's supposed to be there. You don't have it?" There was a long break.
"Beech Two Oh Oh. You are cleared as number one to take off on one three. The altimeter is two niner niner niner. Winds are negligible."
"Roger, Two Oh Oh rolling," Pickering said and moved the throttle forward.
He lined the airplane up with the center of the runway and pushed the throttle all the way forward.
The Beech quickly picked up speed, and a moment later the rumbling of the landing gear disappeared.
"Beech Two Oh Oh. We don't have your departure clearance."
"Frisco, say again, you are garbled."
"Beech Two Oh Oh, we do not, I say again, we do not have a departure clearance. You are directed to land immediately.
You are cleared as number one to land on runway one three."
"Frisco, say again, you are garbled." There was another pop in the earphones.
"George, you may now express your admiration for that splendid virginal takeoff."
&n
bsp; "What the hell was the tower saying to you?"
"Essentially, it means I don't think we ought to go back there," Pickering said. "I think they take their departure clearances, whatever the hell that means, very seriously."
"Meaning you don't have one?"
"What are they going to do to me?" Pickering said. "Send me to Guadalcanal?"
"Jesus Christ, you're crazy!"
"I always wanted to fly this thing," Pickering said. "The temptation was too much. I have a very weak character."
"We're at war, for Christ's sake. They're going to shoot you down. Us down."
"I thought about that," Pickering replied. "By the time they get their act together and decide to report this to the military, at least fifteen minutes will have passed. By the time the Army or the Navy gets its act in gear and decides which one will get the honor of shooting down an unarmed civilian airplane, another twenty minutes or so will have passed. And then it will take them five minutes to get in the air and another ten minutes to find us. We've got damned near an hour."
"You are really out of your gourd!"
"And then it would take a real prick of a pilot to shoot down something as pretty as this airplane. I certainly wouldn't do it."
"Holy Christ!"
"That long thin thing down there over the mouth of the bay is the Golden Gate Bridge," Pickering said, pointing. Hart looked where he was pointing. "What I think we will do is fly very low over that away, then fly under the bridge-something I have always wanted to do-and then we will find home, sweet home."
"You have to be kidding."
"I am a Marine officer and a Naval Aviator. We never kid about important things."
"When you land this thing, they are going to put you in jail."
"First they have to catch me."
"I'm dead goddamn serious."
"So'm I," Pick said with a smile. "Relax and enjoy the ride." In addition of course to flying under the Golden Gate Bridge in the first place, what surprised Sergeant Hart about their flight was that he wasn't nearly as terrified as he expected to be.
There was plenty of room under the bridge. And Pick didn't seem nervous.
In fact, looking up out of the cockpit at the massive structure as it flashed overhead was both interesting and stimulating.
He was far more afraid five minutes later when it became apparent that Pickering was about to land the airplane on what was obviously not an airfield. It was a field, or an enormous lawn, but it was definitely not an airfield.
But there, goddammit, is one of those dunce caps on a pole.
What do they call them? Wind socks. Airports have wind socks.
This must be an airport.
A moment later the Beech touched down.
"Where the hell are we?"
"Home sweet home, my son," Pickering said solemnly. "As you may have noticed, we have cheated death again."
"Where the hell are we?"
"This is my parents' place."
"You have your own goddamned airport?"
"Plus a barn that can be used as a hangar," Pick said. "And into which, I devoutly hope, we can get this thing before the military spots us from the air."
"You better hope we can."
"I am always a pessimist," Pickering said. "But I think we got away with it this time, George."
"They're going to catch you eventually," Hart said.
"By then I'll be on Guadalcanal," Pickering said softly.
"And even if they do catch me, I will swear that I was alone.
So relax, George." Three minutes later they were closing the doors of a large barn.
[Four]
THE MEN'S BAR
THE ANDREW FOSTER HOTEL
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
1930 HOURS I I SEPTEMBER 1942
Wearing a superbly tailored double-breasted blue pinstripe suit with a rosebud pinned to his lapel, Andrew Foster walked into the bar and found what he was looking for, two young men in tweed sports coats, gray flannel slacks, white buttondown-collar shirts, and loafers. He walked to them.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "I wondered if you had an opportunity to see the newspaper." He laid The San Francisco Chronicle on the bar.
"Good evening, Grandfather," Malcolm S. Pickering said.
"I know you've talked to George on the telephone, but I don't think you've actually met, have you?
George, this is my grandfather."
"How do you do, Sir?" George Hart said with a weak smile.
He'd just seen the headline-MYSTERY AIRPLANE FLIES UNDER GG BRIDGE. It was accompanied by a somewhat-out-of-focus photograph of a Stagger Wing Beech flying up the Golden Gate no more than a hundred feet off the water.
"How do you do, Sergeant?" Andrew Foster said-causing the heads of half a dozen Navy and Marine officers, three them wearing Naval Aviator's wings, to turn in curiosity. The men's bar of the Andrew Foster was not often frequented by enlisted men.
The bartender quickly appeared.
"What can I get you, Mr. Foster?" The name intensified the curiosity of the officers. They had heard that the old man sometimes showed up in the men's bar and bought the next round for anyone in uniform.
And here he was.
"A little Famous Grouse, Tony, please," the old man said, and then changed his mind. "Bring the bottle."
"Yes, Sir."
"I've been wondering what happened to you," Andrew Foster said. "I understand you have had a very interesting afternoon."
"Fascinating," Pick agreed. "Well, we went out to the house, Grandfather."
"You had no trouble getting there?"
"Not a bit, Sir."
"Nothing's broken, or anything like that?"
"No, Sir."
"I just had a talk with Richmond Fowler," Andrew Foster said. "He said to tell you that he would do what he could, because of your father; but he could make no promises."
"I see."
The waiter delivered a quart bottle of Famous Grouse, held it over a glass, and poured. It was nearly full before Andrew Foster said, "Thank you." He took a large swallow, then turned to his grandson.
"Pick, damn it, I've covered for you before, but this! My God, even for you, this is spectacular!"
"Yes," Pick said, wholly unrepentant. "I rather thought it was myself."
"Why?"
"It seemed like a marvelous idea at the time, didn't it, George?"
"No, it didn't," George said.
"Did it pass through your mind what your father's reaction to this is going to be when he finds out about it?"
"No. But on the other hand, Dad's in no position to say anything to me about it."
"Meaning what?" the old man snapped.
"Meaning that Dad swam the Golden Gate. That was considerably more dangerous than flying up it and under the bridge."
"Christ, will you shut up!" Hart said, aware that their conversation was now the subject of a good deal of attention.
Almost immediately, he was sure that there was reason for his concern. A lieutenant, in greens and wearing wings, walked up to them.
"Lieutenant Pickering, I believe?" he said.
"Well, if it isn't Lieutenant Stecker, the pride of Marine Aviation. I didn't expect you until tomorrow."
"I came out a day early," Lieutenant Stecker said. "I'll tell you about it later." Hart sensed the question had made Stecker uncomfortable.
The proof came when Stecker pulled the newspaper to him, visibly glad for a chance to change the subject.
"I saw this in the airport," he said. "What kind of an idiot would do something like that?"
"As George Washington said to his daddy," Pick said happily, "I cannot tell a lie."
"Will you shut the hell up!" Hart snapped.
"Holy Christ! Really?" Stecker said.
"He's kidding, of course," Hart said.
"He kiddeth not. Oh, excuse me. Lieutenant Stecker, may I present my grandfather, Mr. Foster? And Sergeant Hart?"
"How do you do, Lieutenant
?" Andrew Foster said.
"I think we ought to get out of here," Hart said.
"I think the sergeant is right," Andrew Foster said.
"I'm having a fine time right where I am," Pick said.
"Listen to me, you jackass," Stecker flared. "You will either leave here under your own power or I will coldcock you and carry you out." Pick looked at him a moment.
"For some strange reason, I think you're serious."
"I'm serious."
"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hart said.
"Let's go," Stecker said.
Pick met his eyes for a moment and then shrugged. "I'm outnumbered."
They walked out of the bar.
Halfway across the lobby, Andrew Foster said, "I think you had better either get out of the hotel or go to Sergeant Hart's room. In case someone is looking for you."
"They won't know where to even start looking for me until sometime tomorrow."
"Where's your room, Sergeant?" Stecker asked.
Hart pulled the key from his pocket.
"Eleven-fifteen," he said.
"Let's go," Stecker said, and took Pick's arm and propelled him toward the bank of elevators.
"I don't know why you're pissed," Pick said to Stecker in Hart's room-a three-bedroom-plus-sitting-room suite. "You weren't there. Even if they catch me and stand me before a firing squad, you're not involved."
"You had no goddamned right to involve the sergeant in this," Stecker said. "Jesus Christ, it's a court-martial offense to be wearing civilian clothing! Not to mention the insanity of your flight under the goddamned bridge!"
"George, we have just heard from the Long Grey Line," Pick said.
"The what?"
"Lieutenant Stecker is not only a professional officer and gentleman, but a West Pointer. They believe, as a matter of faith, that enlisted men have no brains and have to be cared for like children."
"Oh, fuck you, Pick!" Stecker flared. "I was raised as the dependent of an enlisted man."
"George is not going to get into any trouble," Pick said.
"Says you," Stecker said. "Sergeant, where did you meet this... child in an officer's uniform?"
"Lieutenant," Hart said. When he had his attention, he handed him his credentials. "Even if anybody asks, there's no problem about the civilian clothing. This says I can wear it." Stecker looked carefully at the credentials.
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