by Paul Lally
‘Lane three approved, Lufthansa zero-five.’
‘Some performance envelope,’ I said.
He snorted, ‘Bastards spying on us, as usual.’
The altimeter kept unwinding. No chance for flaps, too much drag and too little power. Had to be a straight-in approach. More matches, more sulfur and I had a coughing fit.
‘C’mon, kid, you’re almost home. Think of our passengers shitting bricks, praying you’ll save their sorry hides.’
Two hundred feet, our diving turn ending, wings coming level, and the bobbing buoys of sea lane three swung into view. It took both Fatt and me shoving on the rudder pedals as hard as we could to keep her nose straight and still she yawed sideways. Who could blame her? A plane designed for four engines, dragging along on one made everything topsy-turvy.
‘Hooray, the fire’s out,’ Fatt said.
‘Roger, fire out.’
‘No ‘thank you’ for my heroism beating back the flames?’
‘Do you mind shutting up long enough for me to get us down?’
‘Roger, wilco. One hundred feet...seventy-five...’
‘Ready full left rudder...’
I yanked number four engine’s throttle to idle.
The howling engine roar disappeared, replaced by the hiss of air passing over the wings of our powerless, behemoth glider sinking faster and faster.
‘NOW!’
Free from the asymmetrical pull of a single engine, we shoved her nose back to center.
‘Fifty feet...forty...’
‘She’s going to drop like a stone, damn it.’
‘No she ain’t. You’re doing fine, kid. Nose up, nose up, you’re still too hot. Stalls at seventy not eighty.’
I twisted and turned my control wheel in larger and larger arcs of motion as the ailerons and elevator grew mushy in the slower moving air. Baltimore harbor rose to meet us. Buildings, houses and factories appearing on both side in a blurring smear of brown, red and black. The airspeed indicator needle sank beneath seventy knots, and I waited for the dreaded sensation of falling out of the sky and slamming onto the water and bouncing up into the air again.
But instead, my rear end suddenly felt the distant ‘thrum’ of her hull kissing the waves once, twice, and then a steady rumble resonating throughout the entire aircraft as her fuselage settled deeper and deeper into the welcoming water.
I kept tracking in a straight line until she came to a stop, but not easy.
Once you’re on a runway it’s relatively easy to steer straight ahead. But the moment you land on water you become a sailing master, because the prevailing winds can shove the immense, slab-sided aircraft all over the place.
‘Three engines still out?’ I said.
‘Behold, Reverend Diaz’s prayers have been answered!’
Fatt unfeathered number one engine, flipped the magneto switch to ‘Both On’ and seconds later the propeller blades bit into the slipstream and the cylinders coughed into throaty life. With two fully operating engines on opposite wings, my sailing efforts eased because I was able to use the throttles to swing her around and head back to the boarding area. I kept my hands firmly on the wheel, because if I didn’t, everyone would see how much they were shaking.
A bad peace is worse than war.
-Tacitus
‘When are you and Uncle O coming home?’ Abby said on the phone.
‘What?’
She repeated her question, her voice hollow and far away. It had taken the operator forever to make the long distance connection to Key West and I could barely understand what she was saying.
‘About a week. Maybe a little longer.’
‘A man flew in on a Lockheed Electra. All polished up and pretty.’
‘What man?’
‘The man who talked to Grams about your charter job. He gave her some money.’
‘Dark hair, short? A little pudgy?’
‘Yes.’
Had to be Trippe. Holding up his end of the bargain. Time I did the same.
‘What’d he do then?’
‘He flew away. Where are you?’
‘Baltimore.’
‘Where after that?’
‘A secret.’
‘C’mon, where?’
‘You know what Uncle O always says, if you tell, then it’s not a secret.’
‘I promise not to.’
‘Maybe later – by the way, I found a nice stay-at-home present for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘A secret.’
‘Daddy!’
‘Gotta’ go. Taking off soon. Uncle O sends you hugs and kisses. Me too, twice as many.’
Her voice faded as she said something else I couldn’t understand and then disappeared. I hung up and left the phone booth, one of ten that lined the rotunda wall of Pan Am’s Marine Air Terminal. Trippe’s famous ten-foot high globe of the earth slowly revolved above the green marble service counter in the center of the rotunda. To show the airline’s impressive international reach, glowing red lines inside the globe arced out in a spider’s web of air routes connecting the various continents.
Pan American had come a long way from flying drunks to Havana.
Me too.
Orlando materialized out of the crowd; elegant grey fedora hat in hand, tan leather briefcase, highly polished shoes gleaming in the sunshine flooding down from the skylight. His dark grey business suit, white shirt and burgundy tie fit him like a second skin.
‘You look like a banker,’ I said. ‘Where’d you get the rig?’
He brushed his lapels. ‘What the well-dressed Chief of Engines, Atlantic Division wears on his inspection rounds.’ He stifled a yawn. ‘Delivered to my room at four this morning. What about your rig?’
He reached out and brushed the shoulder of my uniform jacket. ‘Dandruff doesn’t like dark blue.’ He leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Mothball smell’s almost gone.’
To my astonishment, my original captain’s uniform had been hanging in my hotel closet when I returned from the systems test flight. Coat, pants, hat, shirt, the works. At first I thought it was just a standard, off-the-rack outfit, but when I saw where Estelle had darned a worn spot on the right elbow years ago, I broke down and cried. To keep that from happening in front of Orlando, I said, ‘Preister’s people must have kept it in storage. What a cheapskate.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ He hefted his briefcase. ‘Time to meet my fellow passengers.’
‘Where’s your seat?’
‘Compartment A, directly beneath the flight deck. Hopefully next to some nice, fat Nazi. Be fun watching him squirm, sitting next to a Schwarzie like me.’
‘Where’d you pick that up?’
He grinned. ‘One of the Lufthansa agents whispered it when I walked into the terminal.’
‘Nazis got nerve, I’ll give them that.’
‘More than that, brother,’ He gestured to the revolving globe. ‘Almost got it all.’
‘See you on the flight deck later. You’ve got to learn this big fat bird, same as me.’
‘Plan on it.’ He frowned and mock-growled. ‘Chief of Engines, Atlantic Orlando Diaz is on the warpath about how Lufthansa’s been mistreating his engines and he’s going to get answers or get even, whichever comes first.’
‘Nice cover story. Keep it up.’
Orlando strode confidently across the polished granite floor toward the passenger waiting lounge. Purser Nawrocki, passenger list in hand, stood guard by its hallowed double doors.
He took one look at the well-dressed, approaching mass of Orlando and swung open the door, smiled and saluted. Good thing Pan Am crews were still handling the pre-boarding details. Lufthansa would have had Orlando spread-eagled, searching for a spear and a bone in his nose.
The lounge door had barely closed before the polished brass terminal doors whooshed open and a cluster of men scurried in like swarm of ants. They took a few hurried steps, and swung around their, cameras held high, voices calling out,
�
�Over here, Miss James. Look here!’
Flashbulbs popped like mad as Ava appeared in a burst of scarlet and white, her red dress hugging every possible curve, her tiny white hat with huge feathers flowing from it like she was the lead swan in a formation flight. Ziggy scuttled along beside her, filled with importance as he rattled off answers to a reporter who matched him stride for stride. Two more reporters, a man and woman, notepads in hand, swooped down on Ava’s left, their questions cancelling out each other.
Taking up the rear, two Pan Am porters wheeled a cart stacked with enough luggage for a round-the-world trip on an ocean liner. Ava, along with her entourage of five photographers, three newspaper reporters, Ziggy, her luggage, and the eyes of everybody in the terminal, headed straight for the ticket counter.
The Lufthansa agent braced himself for the assault, which was not long in coming.
‘I’m ready to fly, darling,’ Ava said to him. ‘Which way’s the plane?’
The agent nodded politely, ‘And you are?’
The world’s longest pause filled the terminal. Everyone could have shouted Ava’s name, so familiar was her face to American audiences. But this poor German sap didn’t have a clue. She nodded imperiously to Ziggy, who loudly proclaimed, ‘Miss Ava James and Mr. Nathan Siegel for the Lisbon clipper.’
A wave of relief passed over the agent’s face.
‘Yes, of course. I have your tickets right here.’ He fanned out impressive-looking, multi-colored engraved pieces of paper. Trippe believed in making Pan Am’s tickets look ritzy to match the high prices they demanded. Round trips cost almost seven hundred bucks. Pretty steep considering most folks were damn lucky if they took home fifty a week.
The agent said, ‘And your luggage, if any?’
Ava, looking bored, casually waved at the mountain of suitcases on the cart and the agent paled visibly. ‘But I’m afraid that’s entirely too much, Miss James. Passengers are limited to fifty-five pounds each.’
Another eternal silence. The agent nervously licked his lips and started to speak again, but Ava cut him off and turned to Ziggy. ‘Tell your Lisbon friends the deal’s off.’
She started walking away. Ziggy’s eyes widened in shock.
‘But the contract’s been signed!’
‘With your name, not mine.’
Ziggy caught up with her and skittered along like water in a hot skillet.
‘But it’s your career, darling. Principal photography starts in ten days.’
She stopped by the reporters. ‘Now you’ve got a real story.’ She framed her hands like an imaginary newspaper headline. ‘Ava James a no-show in Lisbon because of a big baggage blow-up.’ And you can quote me.’
Ziggy sidled back to the counter. ‘What’s the penalty?’
The agent eyed the pile. ‘One percent of the fare for every two-point- two pounds over the limit. I’ll have to weigh the items to get an accurate total.’
Ziggy sighed as he pulled out a blank check, signed it and handed it over. ‘Fill out whatever it costs.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper, ‘And here’s a little something for your trouble.’ He slipped the man a folded bill and turned away before the surprised agent could hand it back. So he pocketed it instead.
‘Done and done, darling,’ Ziggy shouted. Then to the gathered retinue:
‘Friends, last chance to photograph Miss James before we head to Portugal.’ Like a trained ballerina, Ava glided over to an open space at the counter, swung around, lowered a shoulder, tossed her head back and let fly a dazzling smile that lit up the room. Flashbulbs popped, the crowd murmured its approval and I felt a tug at my sleeve.
Mason, the red-haired flight engineer said in awe, ‘She’s really something.’
‘I’ll say.’
‘Way prettier in person than the movies.’
‘Yep.’
‘Taller too.’
‘You two are about the same height. You’d make a perfect match.’
Mason blushed furiously. ‘Cap wants you in ops. We’re almost ready to board.’
I caught a last glimpse of Ava as she sailed past Purser Nawrocki and into the lounge. The brass-trimmed doors hissed shut upon the secrets of the very rich and the very well connected, now safely inside, protected from the rabble.
Nawrocki saw me approaching and grinned. ‘All the chickens but one are in the hen house.’
‘Let’s see the manifest.’
A quick glance showed almost two-thirds of the passengers had German surnames. No surprise there. The higher-up compliance officers used the clippers the way New Yorkers used to use the subway to get from point A to point B. Which still ran, by the way, but only on lines running north of Ground Zero.
‘Even got a priest on board,’ Nawrocki said. ‘So much for the vow of poverty, I guess.’
‘Maybe the Pope’s picking up the tab.’
‘Don’t make fun of my faith, cap.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it - Sprechen sie Deutsch?’
‘Natürlich, mein Kapitan.’
‘Good thing, because your tongue will be twisting plenty on this trip.’
He shrugged. ‘These guys speak English pretty good.’
‘They should, the bastards.’
A soft voice. ‘Pardon me. May I go in please?’
The short, pudgy man wearing a long grey leather coat. He held his black leather briefcase against his chest as though it contained diamonds.
‘I’m on the Lisbon flight.’
‘Yes sir,’ Nawrocki briefly consulted the manifest. ‘You must be Sturmbahnfüher Bauer?’
The man smiled slightly.
‘An impressive sounding title, but then, that’s Germany for you; always trying to impress the world.’
He turned to me and said, ‘I didn’t recognize you in uniform, Herr Carter -- or should I say Kapitan Carter?’ He clicked his heels slightly and nodded.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Last time we met, Mister Diaz and you were locked in a jail cell in Washington D.C. and not a bit happy about it either, as I recall.’
‘You’re the Gestapo guy at the airport?
‘Police inspector is more precise. But yes, I am he. And what about you?’ His pale grey eyes regarded me calmly. ‘You told me you were operating an aviation charter company in Florida, and yet here you are in uniform.’
I had to think fast or the game would be over before it got started. ‘My plans didn’t pan out. Lufthansa made an offer. I followed the money.’
‘Still, you tried, and that’s everything, isn’t it?’ He glanced toward the waiting room then back to me. ‘You’re involved with our clipper flight?’
‘First officer.’
‘Excellent.’ His leather coat creaked as he shrugged his shoulders and suddenly looked sheepish. ‘I confess I am deathly afraid of flying. But it’s the only way I can get home to my family with any degree of convenience. Ships take forever, and I am prone to seasickness.’
Nawrocki said, ‘We have Schnapps on board, if that’s any help.’
He patted his briefcase. ‘I have my own ammunition as well, but danke schön all the same.’
‘Gut reise,’ I said.
He brightened. ‘You speak German?’
‘Just enough to survive.’
He glanced around the teeming rotunda. ‘The world grows smaller every day. Nicht war?’
‘Bloodier too.’
‘War is inevitable, Herr Kapitan. It is the nature of the beast.’
‘Beasts maybe, but not men.’ I pointed at the slowly revolving globe.
‘There’s room enough for everybody here. Why’s Adolf grabbing what doesn’t belong to him and killing innocent people to do it?’
‘A candid question.’
‘Well?’
‘I am afraid it beyond my scope of knowledge to answer you.’
‘You mean you’re afraid somebody might be listening?’
He grinned suddenly. ‘Yes, and that person might be you.’
‘Y
ou’ve got to be kidding. Me?’
‘How do I know you’re not an SS undercover agent loyal to the Third Reich, on a mission to uproot traitors working the midst of one of our neutral nations?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘You are sailing under your own colors then?’
‘Yes,’ I lied, and then touched the gold wings on my chest. ‘Pan Am circles the bloody earth - with Lufthansa’s help of course.’
‘Yet another topic for vigorous debate. Perhaps we can have it tonight during the flight? I will ask for the second sitting if you promise to join me.’
‘My pleasure,’ I lied again, but had no choice. Nazi or not, the customer is always right.
Pan Am’s crew operations room was the exact opposite of the opulent Art Deco design of the passenger rotunda. Pitiless fluorescent light glared down upon the institutional gray tables, chairs, counters and battered map and weather boards that filled the small room. Here was where prior to the ‘War-that-Wasn’t,’ Pan Am planned its Atlantic flights with precision born of long experience aided by a deep fear of the Dutchman’s wrath if they got it wrong.
Not much had changed since Lufthansa took over. Pan Am meteorologists, flight dispatchers and maintenance workers still staffed the place, with only nominal supervision from the Germans, who acted like nervous new owners of a Kentucky Derby winner. At least that was my impression as I passed one of them on my way to join the crew gathered around Captain Fatt at the map table.
‘Captain Carter,’ Fatt boomed. ‘Always a pleasure to have you join our happy family. We are a happy family, aren’t we boys?’
The six naval officers, now disguised in their Pan Am uniforms, muttered their agreement. Not counting the stewards, a total of eight crewmen would staff the flight, each relieving the other during the endless hours of flying it would take us to make our way to Lisbon to snatch our prize.
‘The good news is that we’re ready to go,’ Fatt continued. ‘The bad news is that the seas are picking up at Horta. We may have to lay over there until the winds die down. If that happens, Captain Carter, here, will be in charge of humoring our dear, beloved VIP’s.’
Nawrocki grinned at my unenviable assignment. Playing nanny to disgruntled passengers was not an easy job. He and Phillips, the steward, would bear the brunt of the social duties as was company custom, but passengers always liked it when an officer attended to them on a regular basis to keep their blood pressure down.