Angle of Attack
Page 24
Lined up again, flaps extended, it feels better coming in, but I stall from two feet up and she drops out from under me abruptly. I’d expected more of a cushion from ground effect, but there you have it. The Mustang’s V-12 engine alone weighs twice what a loaded glider does, so I bounce her in. Slowing from about 130 MPH, it slews sideways but I chase it with the rudder and manage to catch it. Speed drops. I get the tail wheel on the ground with no drama. Get her slowed and swing around so I can look through the spinning prop to where the guy with the fuel is waiting.
That’s when I get it. I am down and the Mustang is still flyable.
So the drill is to sit out here while I check in with Wade. I let the RPM drop to a bare idle, set the parking brake. Quarter mile away I see the waiting man, fuel drums, and motorcycle. Nothing else moves out here in the desert. Unbuckle myself and notice I’m really glad for the ski parka. Must be below freezing out here. Locate a phone in one of my many pockets. Wade picks up quick.
“Clay?”
My answer is a wild yah-hoo that I’m sure can be heard in Gallup. We have a hard time making ourselves understood because of the noise from the engine, but this is the gist of it.
“Dude, we are down and we are in one piece.”
“Jeez man I been about to turn blue here. You see our guy? You’re down?”
“That’s a big affirmative. Did your wife give birth?”
Wade’s wild joyous outburst rivals my own. “Dude I am about three miles away, they are headed in the opposite direction, and I have the baby in the carriage.”
“OK papa. See you at the hospital.”
“Adios.”
Now there is nothing to do but taxi in. It’s over. What hits me right now is aching sadness. I’ll never have another chance to fly one of these, at least not in the form of a real adventure. No Mustang owner in his right mind will let me twist a switch in his precious warbird.
As I approach, my reception committee is making arm signals, like he wants me close to the fuel. But of course. Fill her up so he can fly her out.
He has the drums perfectly spaced, and carefully I line up between them, moving slowly as they pass out of sight beneath the wings. He is in front of the wing where I can see him, and raises both fists to his chest, crossed at the wrist. I push both brake pedals hard and cut the ignition. My ears ring in the sudden silence.
I’m looking at the laptop, returning levers knobs and switches on the Mustang’s panel to their proper places. There’s bumping on the starboard wing, and this old dude is scrambling up beside me, pressing the emergency release at the forward edge of the canopy. The canopy slides back. A very cold breeze enters the cockpit.
“You Pete?”
I have to rewind mentally to dig out that name. This guy standing on my wing in the aviator shades is exhaling clouds of tiny icicles. Underneath the puffy blue ski parka, he’s got on an ancient leather flight jacket with a patina of fine white cracks. Blue uniform shirt and khaki trousers cinched by a frayed cloth belt and a scratched brass buckle. Faded jacket patch says 456 or it could be 458. One of those peaked cloth caps on his head, garrison cap they called them. Sweat stained. Now I recall who Pete must be.
“Pete couldn’t make it today,” I tell him.
“So who the hell are you?”
“I’m his den mother.”
Guy laughs, white teeth. My instant name for him is The Colonel. More I look him over, the more I get it. He’s a relic, pushing 90 years. But he can still boost himself up on a Mustang’s wing. Because he’s here to fly this bird away it’s gotta mean he’s one of the few remaining originals. It hits me he has more stories about flying warbirds than I shall ever dream.
I stand on the seat and start tossing my stuff to the ground. The soft stuff anyway. Whatever’s breakable I hand to the Colonel. The cockpit’s cleaned out, he leans in, looks everything over, puts a few switches the way he wants them.
He looks at all the layers I’m wearing. “Cockpit heater not working?”
I shrug. Details. That refinement wasn’t in our scope.
Standing with him on the ground I see the image of my zany getup reflected in his dark glasses. “This was your ship?”
The Colonel shakes his head slowly, eyes tracing the Mustang’s nose, the exhaust ports, the knife-edge wings, remembering way way back.
“No. We believe it was my flight leader’s plane. Some of us got together to bring her home. He would have liked that.”
I nod. “He will like that.”
We’re underneath, fueling her up, using only the wing tanks as the Colonel prefers, turning hand cranks to transfer fuel into each side. We’re in the middle of this and my ears start twitching. There’s a majestic roar growing closer in the distance. We both look up, and I flat out drop my jaw. It’s another Mustang, don’t know the model, passing low, close and very loud, all painted up in Army Air Force trim like it’s still 1945 and screaming across the desert fast. My sweet Lord.
Colonel looks up and nods. “You dumped your escort,” he says with a grin.
“Ah. That’s who that was.”
We get the fuel in, this guy is not waiting around, wants to be in the air. He shakes my hand, says thanks, tells me the bike’s full of gas, climbs up the port wing and starts getting himself ready in the cockpit. No checklist for him, he probably memorized it 70 years ago.
No fire extinguisher handy, nothing at all for me to do, I just stand to one side gathering my stuff, packing it on the bike.
Watching the Mustang start is riveting. She’s still warm, no priming is necessary. Big prop starts to swing, the manifolds bark and shoot black smoke, then it’s a solid roar and it’s all I can do to scamper aside to avoid the dust plume she kicks up.
Man. Taxiing out, this guy doesn’t pause, no run-up, probably does his own short and sweet version of the checklist items he thinks are important as he’s rolling to what would be the centerline if this was an actual runway. Couple hundred feet away, without slowing, he points her nose upwind, looks my way and snaps off a salute. I give him what I know for a salute, couple fist thumps to my chest, lockup style.
The engine rises in pitch, she starts to accelerate. Only a couple hundred yards and she’s off. I can make out the gear coming up. The Mustang flies straight out as the sound fades, then it’s gone.
I look around.
I am completely alone in an empty desert. Bright sun rising, but it’s still damn cold. I check out the bike. In the saddlebag there’s a bottle of slightly frozen water, some cheese, energy bars, crackers. A map and a note that will get me out of here and over to Gallup. Name of a motorcycle shop there that wouldn’t mind getting the bike back if I don’t really need it. There’s a sealed envelope with ‘Rental Agreement’ written on it. I stuff it in my pack.
I am just securing the last of my things when I hear them, from far across the open desert, two powerful engines in perfect unison. There, from low on the horizon they come, two sliver P-51 Mustangs in tight formation, the Colonel on point. Gear up, these guys are so close to the ground as they pass me that a single mistake and the props would touch. They must be doing 420. I am wishing Wade could see! Half a mile out, they climb in formation and bank into the bright morning. Sunlight glints on silver wings. What washes through me as the planes pull up and away is a sure and steady trophy I’ll carry the rest of my life. I flew here in that!
For an instant the clock turns back decades, to a time when men like the Colonel and planes like these helped bring peace to Europe and the world. And for those few seconds, I get to be there. They vanish into shimmering dawn. The desert is silent again.
Tired, my blood a toxic brew from hours of adrenaline, I complete my chores mechanically, feeling drained. I’d thought about this moment many times and had always focused on the money. But in the reality of this primal sunrise, in what Wade and I have accomplished, money does not figure. We can claim a minor role in something that does.
I’m packed up and about to start the bik
e, comparing the Colonel’s hand-drawn map to my last remaining GPS, when my phone chimes. Sunlight obscures the caller’s name but I pick up anyway. When I lift it to my ear in this desert stillness there is no mistaking that voice, the soaring destiny it calls to me.
“Dad?”
~fin~
Thanks for Reading
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Lee Baldwin
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Angle of Attack
An Adventure in Aviation, Love, and Crime
Lee Baldwin
Copyright © 2012 Lee Baldwin
ISBN-13: 978-0-9854777-2-1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various commercial products popular in contemporary society, and uses them purely to establish realistic fictional settings. The publication or use of these names and trademarks is not associated with or by permission of any trademark owners. Edition 11, April, 2018.
About Lee Baldwin
A novel is like a pinball game.
Once the shiny new character lurches into motion, it encounters the bumpers and flippers of the plot and bounces wildly off, tracing out the unique path of tension and surprise we call a story. It’s a thrill dispenser wired to your neural architecture.
For the author, it’s an even bigger gamble.
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