"Right," Benny answers, still trying to wrap his head around this crazed concept. "Where is it? All I see are Jugs." He is right. Jugs, P-47's with their huge cylindrical front and large propellers fill the hangar.
Almost giddy again, Crank skips to the hangar's rear, urging the soldier to follow. She reaches the tarpaulin covered vehicle, pulls off the cover with a robust, "Ta-da!"
Benny Haskins studies this hunk of metal with his arms tightly folded over his chest. His face sours. Crank studies Benny's response, and notices his face and hands hold the red sun-kissed tan of white men who worked outside too long, while the lower part of his neck remains bright white. Benny walks around and under the contraption, touches it, kicks it.
"Ta-da!" Crank offers once more, but with less enthusiasm.
"How in the world am I supposed to fly this-this - children's toy? It's not even streamlined. And why does it have legs and arms?"
It's Frederica's turn to go sour. She waves around a wrench like a wooden pointer for a lecture. "Look Vecchio, this is built on the plans for a Jug, a P-47. But wanting to get ahead on urban warfare, the big boys decide they needed a plane with more maneuverability and quicker landings. That talk led to a lot of ideas, and failures, but only this one worked."
He looks at it again: a monster airplane in the front with the nose plugged by machinegun barrels, but with the Pratt and Whitney engine turned around the other way, and the propeller, a huge one, six feet behind the cockpit and in a metal ring, tail flaps longer and just ahead of the blades. Otherwise the frame and girth have the same solid shape as a Jug, but beneath the hull are two long legs with feet like giant arrowheads and flat, wing-like arms with ailerons and ending in three blunt digits of differing lengths. It seems ungainly. It looks like a bad dream.
S-47E stands out in bright white beneath the arm/wings, the plane's legitimate designation.
Crank gets to work on Milkman. She hums tunes from some jazz melody, while Haskins continues gawking at the beast. What the - -? remains his constant thought. At some point, he rolls a wheeled ladder to the plane/robot and climbs up, sighing all along the way. He gazes into the cockpit. The dials are all the same, save for an added gear labeled 'FLIGHT MODE' and a set of funky leather gloves with diodes and straps attached to a helmet like a locust's head. Bizarre! All of it has quickly become oh so very bizarre. He carefully slides back the greenhouse canopy, and slips into the cozy comfort of the seat.
"Well, it's got the luxury seating of a Jug," he mumbles. "Guess that's a plus." He fingers the knobs, the new lever and tries on the gloves. Tight fit, but a fit nonetheless.
A shadow startles him. Crank lays on the front of the plane, blinking rapidly with her greasy hands folded under her chin.
"I am in love with her!" she shrieks. "Aren't you?"
"I still say it won't fly. But, yeah, it's growing on me." Benny rubs the panel like the head of an obedient child and ignites the engine. Milkman roars to life like an army of berserkers.
"Bene! I can show you the small changes and additions. The rest you already know about. At sunrise, we break out. We need to get out of here, but the airfield is compromised. Listen to the drum of that engine! Like a baby hurricane suckling from Mother Ocean! Oh, I just know we're going to make a killer team!"
Benny sighs. "What you're saying is we have to get rid of the Slicks that are here before we go anywhere else. Right?"
Crank winks and clicks her tongue at the roof of her mouth. "Roger, Roger!"
Benny lifts himself up out of the cockpit. He strains to look out of a window. There are odd green lights dancing about in the pitch darkness. It makes him nervous to face the unknown. It makes him angry to know a hostile force has invaded his home. Is this really a crazy Hitler scheme, or something far more intricate? What if this Motherville won? No poultry farming, no friends and family, and there are already too few of the latter at his age. Heck, maybe there'd no longer be a Down Jersey, at least, not in the way he knows and loves.
"Show me what I need to know, and let's make it quick."
6:45 A.M
Fuel Storage Shed
Five Slicks guzzle a third of a barrel of fuel apiece. They stand back up, lean black metal configurations with thin rods for limbs ending in thirty-five inch scissors over three simple digits. One large camera eye zooms in and out over a smaller one with a red lens, as a roving series of steel whiskers sense the air for trace particles. Beeps sound from their heads. After the fifth beep, large steel blades on their backs unfold into four-bladed propellers. The Slicks rev up for flight as the beeps grow into a coded language, one only they and their mistress understand:
...BOMB THE HANGAR...BOMB THE HANGAR...BOMB THE HANGAR...
Flat metal feet like spades lift from the floor as the machines resisted gravity. From out of the bulky chest cavity, .50 caliber machinegun barrels rise. The enemy is on the move.
Under a clear sky made blue, indigo and orange by the rising sun, five monsters zoom, a remote-controlled Luftwaffe. Their buzzing wakes up the neighborhood, troubled souls panicking at the thought of a Third Reich incursion. Before anyone can telephone the police, the audible tang of gunfire rips into the hangar. Millville, you are now a war zone.
The door to the hangar opens with nerve wracking slowness, while overhead, Slicks drop little bombs on its curved roof. Down goes the roof in a vile display, along with the hope of an aerial defense by the state of New Jersey at its southern end. P-47's, equipment and munitions all give in to tons of crumbling debris. The command to the Slicks proves successful.
But out of that slowly moving door, one machine squeezes itself out and into the free world.
"Wooo-hah!" screams Benny from behind the control stick. Milkman is free, only cosmetic scratches to its checkered paint job upon exit. She soars up into the morning sky, a weird plane with a rear propeller and its legs folded up flat beneath the body, pointing forward like spearheads. The arms are out at the sides, stiffened and unfolded flat in the front, curved at the back. But the feel of it! The passion of flying again for an 'old man' mixes with the sublime feeling of near death escape!
"I changed my mind!" he yells into the radio mike inside the strange olive green insect helmet. "I love this baby too! It's better than a double shot of whiskey any day!"
"Calm down," Crank advises firmly. She sits back in La Donna, practically hugging the steering wheel as she talks to her partner on the radio. "Slicks are decent ground fighters, but they're made for aerial combat. Destroy them fast, and let's get out of here! I'll meet you at the supply hangar where they store the truck."
I'm made for air combat, too, Benny assures himself. Passing thoughts of Rickenbacker leave his mind as two Slicks fly past Milkman from underneath. They definitely are fast, reliable in their movements like an AT-6. Why aren't they shooting him down on the pass?
"They have to wait for the order update, I think," is the answer from his female partner over the frizzled radio. "That gives us the upper hand."
A seasoned pilot, Benjamin Haskins focuses, ignores the shaking of his diode-gloved hand, and pours on the pressure with power from chugging .50 calibers. Booms and clangs rolled out in order as huge shells fell to the earth. One Slick loses a leg, and its ability to remain level. The second one Benny gets dead to rights in its fuel tank, sending the enemy to an explosive downward tailspin. Milkman flies on to turn back for the hangar. As the sun rises higher, so does Benny's mood.
On the turn, his mood darkens. Huge bullets dig deep into the fuselage, rocking the robotic fighter-bomber. Haskins' resolve worsens. Slicks Three, Four and Five roar over and near the cockpit like mechanized hornets. Even through the bug helmet, Benny can smell the burning of diesel fuel. But Milkman, true to its thick P-47 roots, is a toughie. Six shots sink deep, but the old bird flies on with no noticeable loss of performance. It's like flying an iron bathtub, beautiful and durable.
Which is good, and the realization makes Benny mad as a bull seeing a matador. They hit his new plan
e! Maneuverability is supposedly the best in this short invention, huh? he thought. Let's see...
Milkman does a one-eighty on a dime, banking up and swiftly going from target to alpha male in an eye blink. Benny smiles. Whoever made this baby, Benny wanted his autograph on all of his clothes. Back to business. He lifts the red lever on top of the lever, and taps the button underneath once. From under Milkman, the familiar hiss of a High Velocity Aircraft Rocket, HVAR, departs into the atmosphere. Striking one Slick, its eruption causes the enemy to careen into one of its own allies. Boom! Two birds with one stone!
Wow, it really does look like a milk bottle, thought Haskins. Get it together! One more and its arcing down... at La Donna!
Down an empty stretch of road at the airfield, the Stylemaster looks like a deep green scarab beetle. Benny can only hope Frederica has already entered the supply hub. Slick's firing hit the ground all around the car, but only bust the windshield and passenger side mirror on the pass.
Benny's shots, however, are much better aimed. He sinks hot lead fangs right into Slick's hide, and then bites down again for another taste. Slick plummets down, crashing into a parked P-40 Warhawk. Both explode, just as the sirens of police and fire trucks are heard coming onto the field.
Benny Haskins completes his pass over the hub before circling once. He laughs at the stupefied faces of cops, firemen and nosy folks at the soaring doohickey. Benny continues laughing as he shifts the leg down to a bird-like hunch, and lands the plane in two hops and a fifteen-foot slide across the frosty runway. Milkman skids to a sloshing halt, kicking up a short wave of frozen earth at the gawking assembly. Policemen run at him with guns drawn, but the pilot climbs out of the plane red-faced with joy.
"Boy, if you guys could only see the looks on your faces!" Benny says, slapping his knees.
One cop carefully approaches, waving his hand for his compatriots to lower their arms. "American, huh? You - - care to explain why you're shooting up whatever in our sky, and what in the world is that thing you crawled out of?!"
So, Benny Haskins explains it as best he can. Unknown enemy, remote-controlled planes, brainwashed scientists, etc. The cops rack it up to Hitler Youth and Nazi experiments, end of story. But they argue Benny down about needing Milkman to take to Salem, or his connections to some military unit called Special Technologies.
Then, Crank jogs their way. The police stop interrogating, and started gawking at Benny's petite partner.
"Crank, can you tell these guys what happened here?" Haskins pleads. He's growing weary of the third degree.
She does, even displaying a badge and card from beneath her bright, spring colored sweater that Frederica had never even showed Benny. Urging the cops to call a number and verify her rank, one does while the rest continue the eye exam. Minutes pass where Benny wants to break policemen's jaws, while Crank holds, arms folded high on her chest and giving Benny the evil eye.
"Why did you let the Slick mess up my baby?" she asks with pouted lips and hardened eyes. Is she sad, or furious? He can't call it.
"I blew them all away, while trying to learn a whole new type of plane, might I add," he tells her while crossing his own arms. "Or did that go unnoticed by you? This is what you want to say to me after all that just happened?"
They make the angry faces at one another, while the cops finally begin paying attention to what actually happened. An officer returns from his telephone inquiry with a serious mood.
"She is who she says she is," the officer whispers. "And the plane - - thing - is needed for the war effort." He shakes Benny's hand, wonders foolishly why it makes Frederica gasp and stomp her foot, and motions his guy to depart.
"So," Benny begins, "you were right. I need to fly again, and you need to help ST get Milkman mass produced to fight this new war, or whatever it turns into."
She continues the hate look.
"What?"
Crank rolls her dark eyes, storms off with her arms straight and swinging as if their motion will make her little frame move faster.
"You're still blaming me for the car?" he yells as Crank jumps into the truck's driver seat. "It could have been worse! I saved it from destruction! Right?"
"Load. The. Plane. And. La. Donna. Do. Not. Scratch. Her!"
Benny looks at the debris on the airfield, thinks of Buck Rogers and gets to loading, wondering just how many times a person should shake one's head at another's behavior.
On The Road
Fifteen minutes later
An Army supply truck, its back end draped in a well tied down olive tarp, pushes down Forty Nine headed west. Horrendously loud jazz music breaks its way through flimsy speakers, while little Crank tries hard to dig the melody, and wipe out the image of her disabled beauty in the truck's rear.
Benjamin Haskins, not the beauty in question, sits in the back of that Army supply truck watching his hands shiver as if from the chills. He had had that once as a boy, but this time it wasn't caused by the cold. He tries to distract his mind from his past by looking at the bullet-scarred fuselage of the wonderful Milkman, and what Crank had informed of its creation. Roscoe Turner built Milkman? The Roscoe Turner? Bendix Air Race winner, ran around with a big-as-day lion, photogenic Roscoe? Yeah right!
Then again, the guy had built his own airplane, so he knew his stuff. But Milkman? That was the best idea Turner could develop for a war? And the name! Benny tries to come up with another name for it but...
...Milkman always delivers.
The thought makes his nerves more tranquil. Satisfied, Benny takes a chance at getting up in a truck moving eighty miles per hour, to pop the high hood on his partner's crazy car. A quick pull of the hood release nets him access. Now, Benny has never been a mechanic, but he did take the time over the years to learn the basics. But what he sees inside of La Donna makes the pilot's mind take a powder.
And that is the final thought on the matter. But he knows Frederica will find out about his health. After all, they were going to Barber's Basin in Salem, and Salem was where it all went south, back during the last war. What if he runs into people who knew him then? Surely many of them were still alive and living in the town of his nightmares. What if Crank finds out before Benny can sit her down for a heart-to-heart talk? Well, it was too late to worry about those sorts of things now. His past and his future were driving toward a very personal family reunion. But he wants in on the action, wants to be a part of something bigger than him, and now Benny has it.
He wonders just how long he will be able to keep it.
Chapter Two: The Way Back Up is Down
Benny is at the traffic stop on Market. Sitting in the old Ford truck painted rust, he lights up a Camel while waiting for redundant red to turn go-go green. He fiddles with the long forward flop of his thick brown hair, watching in the oval rear mirror as it goes back and forth on his scalp. That's when it hits him.
Why am I young?
The answer allows him to slip into complacency. A dream. Yep, that's gotta be it. How else can a guy explain going back in time to his youth overnight? Benny thought it should be cool. For once, he was having a dream, and not a nightmare. Sit back in the Ford. Smoke and enjoy the ride.
It's going right as rain. The traffic light finally dings yellow. Not a single automobile is in sight and the sun is at high noon. Things could not be more perfect.
Then two long black rods grow, no, melt, out of the bottom of the traffic light. Benny squints, rubs his eyes, the whole routine, but the light is really altering in shape. Rods appear out of the sides, the three round lights push up until they form what could be deemed a head. He rolls down the window (Why am I doing that? screams the part of him aware of the dream) to get a clearer view. He doesn't like what he sees...
Traffic Light Monster clangs more than a Nieuport 28 on a crash dive. Propellers, yes like on an airplane, explode from the back like giant glass shards, and the thing hovers over the intersection of Anywhere Street. So what does Benny Haskins do? Turn the key in the ignition
to get the heck outta Dodge!
But the engine doesn't kick in. He tries and tries, eyes feverishly going from the ignition to the Monster, while it creeps across the air, inches at a time, toward the Ford.
Heck with this!
Benny rips open the door, and in two hot steps he's out and gunning down the street. He looks back to see Traffic Light gaining speed. Where can he go?
Only one building exists. Out of the blue, every single building is gone except for a tall brick Federal with matching sidewalk. The door is open, but it does him no good. He's been in that place before, and it's worse than what's coming up behind him.
A nurse comes to the open door, sleek in white with a shining white face and perfectly placed maroon lipstick.
"Come in here," she speaks, a voice like Mom soothing all your worries, "better safe than sorry."
Benny high tails it inside, as the nurse shuts the door quietly, locking it with an old iron key. Benny is panting up a storm, sweating like a hog. But the flirtatious smile of the nurse makes for a flawless distraction from his current dilemma.
"You got older, pilot," says the nurse. She motions a hand behind Benny. He turns and sees an oval mirror, silver frame adorned in a wilted burial wreath.
She's right. His hair is back to gray streaks, weight is on his face. The chin sags. Benny is still tall and built like an Aryan bull, but one with high mileage. Ah well, the dream can't seem to keep out reality.
He faces the nurse, but she's aged as well. Old, very old has she become now, and the look on the face is the definition of scorn. He knows the face, and recognition makes his knees wobble.
"Have you been receiving the proper care, Mister Haskins?" she asks. The voice is devoid of sweetness. It's her! He's grown old, but remains in the past and - - oh God.
Not again. I have to go!
He takes hold of the door and pulls at it with all of his bull might. It doesn't move, doesn't even have the decency to wriggle like a real locked door would if you forced it. Might as well be a solid wall. Old Nurse leans on the door, her eyes are a spiteful color, a faded, 'life hates me and I hate it back in kind' of blue.
Down Jersey Driveshaft (Book One of the Diesel Series 1) Page 2