Amerika

by Paul Lally

  Impeccably dressed as always - even on this hot, dark Louisiana night - in a grey suit, white shirt with enormous French cuffs so starched and bright they hurt your eyes, and a light purple silk tie, Tripp could have been a well-heeled banker on a business call. Since he had been my employer, I automatically felt like standing at attention, but at the same time wanted to slam my fist into his complacent, half-smiling face for doing business with the same enemy that had murdered my family.

  I chose the safest path I could think of.

  ‘Mr. Trippe.’

  ‘Captain Carter.’

  ‘Mr. Carter, now, if you don’t mind.’

  He nodded but said nothing, just stared at me, and by God, I refused to look away. Over the years, Trippe had destroyed more business enemies than I had friends with that relentless stare of his. Not only could he see into your soul, he was fully capable of reaching in and squeezing the life out of you unless you went along with his proposed deal. All of it done with a half-smile, of course, and a dry handshake when he won. And he always won.

  Not this time, I promised myself. This time I was looking into his soul instead. After what felt like a lifetime of silence, I said, ‘You son-of-a-bitch. I gave my life to Pan Am and you sold it like a whore to Berlin.’

  He tilted his head to one side and smiled slightly: a master of the deal. Well, damn it, so was I, at least in flying boats. I swept my hand around the flight deck. ‘And whatever you’ve got going on here can’t be worth a damn because you’re behind it. Am I right? You’re the mastermind?’

  He spread his hands slightly. ‘I’m a tiny cog in a very large machine, Mr. Carter.’

  ‘Bullshit, Mr. Trippe. I knew you when, and you’ve never, ever been a small cog.’

  ‘May I explain?’

  ‘No, because once you start talking you’ll never stop until the other guy surrenders.’

  He laughed, which was about as rare as snow in the desert. ‘May I say one thing only? I promise to stop after that.’

  A mistake, but I nodded for him to go ahead.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Sam. And believe me, I’m sorry about what happened to you and your family.’

  Without thinking, I hit him as hard as I could and he went down like a sack of rocks.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Fatt said.

  ‘Get up you bastard,’ I shouted.

  Trippe rolled over onto an elbow and rubbed his jaw. ‘If it’s all the same, I’ll stay put.’ He spit some blood, turned to Fatt. ‘You offer him his wings back?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He shook his head. ‘I thought that might help.’ He ran his tongue across his teeth as if to count them. ‘Apparently not.’

  I was halfway down the stairway before Trippe shouted, ‘Sam Carter,

  God damn it, at least hear me out!’

  Never in all the years I’d known Juan Trippe had his RPM ever risen above a low idle. Nothing could get his emotions on the table, and yet, here he was cursing at me and I started laughing.

  ‘What’s so damn funny?’ he said.

  ‘You.’

  There stood the president of Pan American Airways mouth bloody, looking down at me from the flight deck, his eyes bugged out like a Goo- Goo doll.

  ‘Mr. Trippe, I didn’t think you believed in God, let alone have him take the trouble to damn me.’

  We ended up sitting at the Master’s station, Trippe in the captain’s chair - of course - me in the other, while Fatt leaned against the Navigator’s table, silent as a library lion. To Trippe’s credit he let me lay it on the line without saying a word, about how I’d let my work get between me and my family, about how I should have called in sick that day and saved Estelle and Eddie, and how Pan Am was a ruthless company run by ruthless men who were in cahoots with even more ruthless Nazis, and how I was good God- damned if I was EVER going to get mixed up with him or his company again.

  When I finished Trippe sat there, for once not staring into my soul.

  Instead he regarded his calmly folded hands as if they held the answer. Finally he said, ‘You’ve been through some damned hard times, Sam, and I’m sorry you feel that Pan Am was the cause of it.’

  ‘I don’t think so, I know so.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, of course you do. Decisiveness is the key to a captain’s character. You’ve always displayed that, even when you were completely wrong. Like now.’

  I could feel my face getting red and my hands curled into fists. Trippe instinctively put his hand on my forearm. ‘Before you sock me again, hear me out.’

  I looked at him and then Fatt, who said, ‘Maintain your heading, kid. At least long enough to listen what the man’s got to say.’

  I nodded, not because I wanted to, but because, I confess, I wanted if only for a little while to be in the presence of these two men again. As a young man they had acted like bookends to support my dreams of conquering the sky and in doing so, conquering my fears along the way.

  Trippe held up a neatly manicured finger. ‘One, I didn’t sell out to the

  Nazis. Just made it look like I did.’

  ‘Those swastikas on the clippers’ tails look pretty real to me,’ I said sharply.

  He gave me that blank look of his; no eyebrows raised in surprise, no furrowed brow to show emotion, just peaceful and still.

  ‘Two.’ He held up a second finger. ‘When the Neutrality Act was declared, I knew the only chance America had to survive the coming darkness was to fight back, instead.’

  ‘Against atomic bombs? Good luck.’

  ‘You’re right, it would seem hopeless. Except...’ he hesitated, looked at Fatt and then back at me. ‘Except, what if they’re bluffing?’ He leaned forward and held me with those dark eyes of his. ‘What if they have no bombs left? What if they’re using the shadow of a sword that no longer exists to conquer the world?’

  ‘You’ll find out when they drop the next one.’

  ‘Precisely my point!’

  He slapped his hand on the table. ‘And why haven’t they? Their famous Blitzkrieg has driven the Russians back across the Ural Mountains. Stalin’s in hiding, they’re like ripe apples on a tree ready to drop, but Hitler hesitates.’ He sat back and held up his third finger.

  ‘Hitler hesitates. Why do you think that is?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I do.’ He slapped the table again. ‘That’s why the Dixie Clipper is here. That’s why my other clippers are flying back and forth to Europe with…’ he held up his fourth finger, ‘Pan American crews, including the good Captain Fatt here.’

  ‘But Lufthansa owns them, right?’

  He smiled. ‘In time of war, businessmen circle their wagons like the pioneers did against marauding Indians. Krupp Steel has a long working relationship with United Steel. Farber chemical with DuPont. Lufthansa with Pan Am. We don’t want to jeopardize those relationships when peace returns.’

  ‘The good old boys club, right?’

  ‘If you insist, yes. But in Pan Am’s case, Klaus Heinemann of Lufthansa and I have an agreement; he gets the Boeing clippers, but we crew them. His pilots don’t know the first thing about mastering the ocean in flying boats the way our crews do.’

  ‘So, you have a deal with Lufthansa...’

  ‘And because of it, we now have a way to further our plan of extricating a certain Very Important Person from Lisbon, Portugal.’

  ‘Our first landfall on the southern Atlantic route.’

  ‘Correct, captain, and it’s there that our man will be waiting for us, forty-eight hours from now. And if we get him out successfully, he will help us change the course of history’

  ‘One man?’

  ‘Caesar did. So did Lincoln.’

  ‘They were politicians. What’s he?’

  ‘A nuclear physicist.’

  A long pause. Trippe turned to Fatt and said mildly, ‘I just realized I’ve made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  ‘I’ve revealed top secr
et information to an outsider. What ARE we to do?

  He puffed meditatively on his cigar. ‘We sure as hell can’t let the good captain leave Couba Island now.’

  ‘C’mon, you two…’ I warned.

  ‘Orlando Diaz too,’ Fatt added.

  Trippe said, ‘We’ll need to impound Captain Carter’s plane.’

  ‘Like hell you will!’

  I turned to go, but was stopped by the rumble of boots pounding up the crew ladder. Seconds later, two armed men the size of Orlando burst onto the flight deck, weapons in hand, trained on me. Fatt smiled like the Cheshire cat and waved them a casual salute.

  ‘Boys, please be so kind as to escort Captain Carter to the briefing room.’

  You can argue with a Thompson submachine gun all you want, but you’re never going to win. I spared myself the effort and followed Patton’s goons out of the Dixie Clipper and onto the dock. Nobody paid us the slightest attention as we passed, as if men with weapons at the ready were the most common thing around. And the case of Couba Island, true.

  Fatt caught up with me and we marched together in silence past barracks, a mess hall and then approached a two-story building with soldiers going in and out of it like a stream of ants.

  ‘What are you people doing around here?’ I said.

  Fatt shook his head. ‘Sorry. Need-to-know rules apply.’

  ‘Well, I damn well need to know if I’m going to help you.’ He chuckled. ‘Joining the cause are you?’

  I pointed to the two soldiers flanking me. ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘What Trippe said about the clippers and Lufthansa... he’s on the level??’

  ‘A carpenter could use him and the line would be true.’

  ‘Everybody thinks he sold out.’

  ‘Water off a duck’s back. Besides, ever known him to get the short end of a business deal?’

  ‘Grabbing a nuclear physicist doesn’t sound like a business deal to me.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not Juan Trippe. Even taking a crap is business to him.’

  I laughed at this, but then remembered how my fist felt as it smacked against his face. ‘I really popped him one.’

  ‘Had your reasons. Just picked the wrong target. Now you’re going to get the right one and send him to the moon.’

  ‘The scientist?’

  ‘Hell no, that’s just part one of our little story.’

  The guards hurried up the wooden steps. Two more soldiers stood at attention, barring our path. Fatt reached inside his uniform jacket and pulled out a laminated card and flashed it at them.

  ‘Evening, boys. He’s with me. Nice night, ain’t it?’

  They let us pass into a long, dimly-lit hallway. Our armed escort vanished into thin air, mission accomplished.

  I said, ‘You must have had your pick of the cream of the crop to fly this mission. Why me? ‘

  ‘Because you’re the best pilot Pan Am’s got, next to me, remember?’

  ‘But I don’t work for you guys anymore, remember?’

  ‘Figure of speech, kid. What’s more important, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder that’s going to keep you going when everybody else bails out, gets cold feet or runs screaming because they can’t stand it anymore. You’ll be there, kid, to even the score for Estelle and Baby Eddie.’

  We climbed the stairs to the second floor and halfway down the hallway to another set of doors, guarded by two grim-looking soldiers. Fatt waved his ID and the doors swung open to a darkened room that had what looked like an illegal poker game going on. About fifteen people stood at a large round table lit by a single overhead light.

  Fatt announced loudly for all to hear, ‘The Prodigal Son returneth. At gunpoint, but hey, who cares, right?’

  The gathered group turned as one to regard us as we entered, including Ava, Ziggy, General Patton and, to my stunned surprise, a determined- looking Orlando. Patton greeted us with a terse nod.

  Fatt said, ‘Captain Carter has kindly agreed to be our first officer, welcome aboard, captain.’

  All heads swiveled to me, and to my surprise I nodded in agreement. Silence was the better part of valor right about now. Besides, I needed all my energy to keep from falling into the chasm I felt opening up beneath my feet, caused by voices shouting at me somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind. One was saying, ‘Caution, danger ahead.’ But the other one bellowed.

  ‘Don’t get mad, get even.’

  I balanced myself between the two and listened to Fatt as he introduced me to the strangers in the group, including a group of men who I thought at first were a Pan Am flight crew, but upon closer inspection of their dark blue uniforms, gold stripes on their sleeves and distinctive gold wings, I realized they were U.S. Navy pilots.

  Fatt must have seen the confusion on my face and said, ‘Like you said, I had the cream of the crop to pick from. I figured navy guys can fly rings around us civilian fellas, can’t you, boys?’

  They smiled good-naturedly, but you could see they believed every word of it.

  ‘Why not use a Pan Am crew?’ I said.

  Patton took over and snapped, ‘Because this is a military mission, that’s why.’

  ‘Wearing navy uniforms?’

  ‘Negative. You’ll be wearing in Pan Am blue. And here’s where you’re heading.’

  The general slapped his swagger stick on a large Mercator map spread out on the table and traced its tip along a red line as it left Baltimore and dropped two thousand miles southeast to a tiny dot representing the Portuguese island in the Azores named Horta, Pan Am’s standard refueling stop. From there the line angled upwards northeast to Lisbon, Portugal. From there it went northwest via land-based planes to Marseilles, France. The three red lines on the map represented what used to be Pan Am’s southern Atlantic route and now was Lufthansa’s. A simple, clear route, but like all maps, not the full truth.

  ‘We’re flying the Dixie Clipper?’ I said.

  ‘Negative,’ Patton said, ‘She stays put for now. You’ll be flying the Yankee Clipper. He swung his swagger stick to Fatt, who stepped closer to the map and said, ‘Okay, boys and girls listen up. Here’s what’s going to happen.’

  Ava’s face was a study in complete absorption. She must have sensed my stare because she looked up, gave me a sly wink and a tiny smile.

  Fatt borrowed Patton’s swagger stick and used it as a pointer. ‘Thanks to Adolf and company blowing Manhattan to smithereens, Pan Am’s New York terminal is out of the picture. Instead, Lufthansa’s using our Baltimore one for their ops and maintenance. The Yankee Clipper’s there in turnaround at the moment, so we’ve got twenty-four hours...’

  He checked his watch.

  ‘…and twenty-two minutes before we lift off for Lisbon. We’ll head out of Couba at dawn, be in Baltimore in time for the systems test flight, then board passengers and be off the water right on schedule.’

  Patton said, ‘Do you have the manifest yet?’

  ‘Mr. Trippe will have it before we leave.’

  ‘We need their names.’

  ‘You’ll have them, sir.’

  I said, ‘What’s this guy’s name?’

  ‘Herr Professor Doktor Gunter Friedman.’

  Fatt chuckled. ‘Jerries sure love their titles.’

  ‘Traveling alone?’ I said.

  Patton said, ‘Married to his work. Makes it easier for us. Families tend to make things messy.’ He glanced at me, then rolled onward like one of his tanks. ‘Ava, you set with your stuff?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  She saw my look of surprise and said, ‘Ziggy and I are the secret weapon, aren’t we, partner?’

  Her agent managed a weak smile and nodded, clearly wishing to be somewhere else instead of a smoke-filled room with soldiers and airmen hunkered over a map, planning a dangerous mission.

  Ava continued. ‘Thanks to Wally Westmore’s makeup team, Ziggy and I are going to disguise the professor so that not even his mother would
recognize him.’

  She plopped a small case on the table and opened it. Bottles, brushes, pancake makeup, fake eyebrows, moustaches, beards, latex noses, and a host of unrecognizable objects filled every inch. She snapped it shut. ‘That’s our job.’

  I said, ‘What’s your cover story?’

  She swept her hand across her forehead in a theatrical, swooning gesture. ‘I’ve just been offered the lead in Republic Picture’s Lisbon Liaison. Haven’t you heard the news?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s because Ziggy and I made it up.’

  Ziggy raised his hand like a kid in a classroom, ‘I’m there to seal the deal with the producers, providing Miss James agrees to the contract terms, of course.’

  ‘Which I won’t, of course’ she said. ‘And in flurry of anger and outrage,

  I’ll walk out on the deal and leave on the clipper for America.’

  ‘Along with the professor,’ Ziggy said.

  ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Where’s he staying?’

  ‘The Aviz hotel. He and his scientist friends are having a conference there.’

  I turned to Fatt. ‘Pan Am still uses that place for crew overnights?’

  Fatt smiled. ‘Every last one of us, including Diaz here.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Orlando started to answer but Trippe cut him off as he emerged from the shadows. Mr. Diaz will be our Chief of Engine Services, Atlantic Division on a maintenance inspection tour of our bases. Which came as no surprise to Mr. Diaz, considering he was doing essentially the same thing for our South American Division, before leaving us for opportunities...’ he hesitated a beat. ‘...elsewhere.’

  Orlando beamed, ‘Don’t worry, Sam, I’m still with Carter Aviation.

  This is just my cover story, right, Mr. Trippe?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘A nice one, too. Atlantic Division is a sweet place to be.’

  Trippe raised a warning finger. ‘Don’t let Mr. Mulroney find out. He’s the real Chief of Engine Services there.’

  ‘From your mouth to God’s ear, sir.’

  I said to Orlando, ‘You bought into all this?’

  His smile vanished. ‘The world’s turned upside down. I’m doing my part to get it right side up again.’