Down Jersey Driveshaft (Book One of the Diesel Series 1)

by William J. Jackson

  What would be the object of Benny's disdain? A hand-painted image along the S-47E's fuselage, of course. This is not a rare thing, for pilots often place encouraging artwork on their babies. You know, gals riding bombs, notches counting off kills and all that? But the pilot typically picks the symbol. Here, one had been chosen for him, and he didn't like it. Right before his eyes, a man (Winking! Smiling?) in a milkman's white uniform skipped about, holding a steel basket loaded for bear with six gray bombs. Below the man's black shoes, a jocular statement:

  '...and I always deliver!'

  "A milkman? A milkman on my plane?" Young technicians working on Crank's car and other secret projects roll their eyes upon hearing the 'old guy' groaning.

  "So? What's wrong with it?" asks an irritated Crank. Her accent starts to pick up steam, a Bugatti engine pouring on added cylinders.

  "That's not threatening at all! I thought she'd be good for a screaming Indian, or a spade. You know? Death coming your way and all that? But this - - this is almost quaint."

  The jazz ain't loud enough to drown out Benny's whining. Frederica leaves her beloved La Donna again to tend to her other baby. “Hey! Vecchio! This is not the Great War, okay? They don't do the obvious death from above pictures nowadays! It's, ah, more like...how would you say it?"

  "Sarcastic," yells Bobby Meyer, a slickster under the hood of the Stylemaster.

  "Yes! Things are more sarcastic now, more of a mind game."

  "So?" says Benny in a huff, towering over his tiny partner. "Do robots, or whatever Slicks really are, fall prey to mind games?"

  Crank's white face shifts gears from Angry Mama to Pouty Princess. "It's my design. Besides, how can we put another image on it when it's called Milkman? What better image is there for something called Milkman than a milkman with bombs?" She stomps her left boot hard, hands dipping up and down in the air during the explanation.

  She runs to the other end of the hangar, passing every young boy while keeping up a brave face. There, in a corner behind some fuel barrels, she allows herself time to cry.

  Benny feels the urge to renew his head shaking. "Really? I didn't mean to - -! Aw, c'mon Crank! Hey! You there!"

  Bobby launches up from under the hood, almost losing his smoke. He slicks back his greased hair in an effort to hide the fear. "Yeah, Dad?"

  "Is Milkman operational?"

  "Sure, Dad, sure."

  "I'm taking her out! Got to accomplish something today! Open the hangar doors, and stop calling me Dad!"

  Benny climbs into the cockpit, and prays for a swift, life ending heart attack. Life goes on, so he begrudgingly fits the wired helmet to his head, and begins ignition.

  Chapter Four: Flight or Fancy

  Frederica Musa sits twirling a monstrous wrench, wishing she could put it inside of her brain to tighten down the screw plate to her leaky emotional engine. Realizing it's a waste of time, she tosses the tool into a nearby tool chest with an explosive bang. So what if she startles the young men in the hangar! After all, men are the problem.

  Men think she can't hang in the garage, even after she's proven she knows more about vehicles than them. Men have said she'd never do well in a man's war, but ta-da! And the biggest mook of all men, her pilot 'partner' Benjamin Haskins, shifts the emotional gear stick more than her. Times like this, when her insecurity and anger perform an Astaire and Rogers high kick dance across her heart, she is reminded of the silliness of her brother, Lucca.

  "What a revoltin' development this is!"

  The statement would be accompanied by Lucca's ridiculous faces. They were the kind of eye-popping, tongue hanging, eyebrow raising contortions that had cracked up the young Italian lady since her childhood. Even now, the mere image of it in her head brings about turning the frown upside down. Okay! Forget about dumb men's pouting! Remember the good man who kept you laughing, who kept you happy. Remember Lucca's shining face.

  Never forget the Slicks took him; turned him into a monster. A foul monster, one she needs to...

  Crank moves to her car, her beloved La Donna. Running her hand through her hair, she tries to push out the rising image of her brother under Motherville's control, accentuate the positive. She gently pushes aside Robert to get under the hood. The night she lost her brother and almost her father, Crank gained the power source that went into this perfect Stylemaster. She knows how to operate it somewhat, repair it, and is reasonably sure she can reproduce it. The only real unknown quantity? It isn't German or Japanese. Sure it was from Motherville, but why didn't she make it go back home, wherever that is? If Mother isn't a weapon used by the Axis, then what is she? She shudders, and realizes her brain again would not allow her to keep pleasant thoughts.

  Frederica lifts her eyes to the end of the hangar as the doors open and Milkman trots out like an armored ostrich. Benny would soon be in the air, his favorite place. That seemed right. Heck, it fit perfectly. Haskins in the plane, she under the hood of a machine, winning the war, growing heavy with medals, getting married and having fat babies...

  Whoa! Slam the brakes! A gut feeling directs her to Robert. The guy stands lean, hands in his coverall pockets. A cigarette dangles from his droopy lips, droopy like his black hair wet with pomade.

  "What?!" Crank yells.

  "Nothing," the kid mechanic says. "I just like looking at dames."

  "Ahh!" cries Frederica as she punches Robert in the gut, a solid right hook that sends home the message.

  “Get back to work!”

  The sky's the limit suits Benjamin Haskins just fine. As the S-47E 'Milkman' hops off the long, narrow gravel runway, he watches as the hangar gives way to air and swirling water. He trades a confined view of a gritty shop for the wondrous expanse of the beautiful brown Salem River, its powerful undercurrent forming many whirlpools at high tide. Nude reeds in the millions blow along the waterway in the harsh wind as the river winds up the land past brick factories and hibernating trees. Despite the stripped down appearance of nature in winter, Benny finds the world has much more appeal up here in this the last free space.

  He can't get over the roar of the Pratt and Whitney engine. The droning of a billion fanatic rotations at his back! So far, everything checks out. Crank, and arguably Robert, are exactly the kind of souped-up master mechanics they claimed to be. He leaves behind the mystery of Special Technologies, Crank's moody disposition and the whole crazy war.

  Milkman crosses the broad width of the Delaware River. Wilmington lies ahead. A ferry ship departs from the Jersey side, Pennsville, to take passengers to the First State. Gulls pass by the roaring plane. Benny lets Milkman glide into a triple spin before letting the robotic plane soar, and then dive. He exhausts precious diesel, but finds it necessary to make sure the machine keeps the same moxie it had in Millville.

  It is near Wilmington when he notices the squadron in the distance. Thin long black objects, barely visible; he has no idea airplanes are being designed so slender. But the hairs standing up on the back of Benny's neck send an entirely different signal, one with an ominous overtone.

  Slicks! Got to be fifteen of them!

  He pushes the engine to maximum power, letting its bestial vibrations run up his body and into his clenching teeth. No one would invade America on his watch! However, the fuel gauge, dipping as low as it is, has other ideas. He punches his leg. Benny shifts gears, anger melting into regret, regret receding into disenchantment.

  He counts the number of enemy combatants, notes their location, and makes a sharp turn back to Barber's Basin.

  "You wanna do what now?" Andrew Carr yells. He has gotten half his body under the third chair of the ninth row in the Fenwick Theatre, one of two movie venues in town. Searching for a quarter he dropped the night before keeps the owner distracted from the question asked by his two guests.

  "We'd like to show an independent film here tomorrow night," notes Professor Lark. Lark walks back and forth at the entrance to the theater, a stiff pace kept in tandem with his partner, one Johnny Parker.
"A war film, you know, to boost morale of the local population."

  Carr snatches up his quarter, takes comfort in his miserliness, and returns his focus on the two gentlemen. "Well now, I don't suppose that'd be a problem, unless you expect me to provide the film! You have to bring your own film, now! And I take a sixty-five percent cut!"

  Parker and Lark look at one another at the exact same time. Even distracted Andrew can see these two move like the mechanical kids on a cuckoo clock. It unnerves him, but more to the point he wants the duo gone so he can return to penny pinching and his article in Scientific American.

  "Good sir, due to our reverence for patriotism, we ask to keep not one red cent for this showing. Rather, one hundred percent of all intake is yours. We wish to see the people of Salem consume the film's message in its entirety. Then they would be inspired to follow the lesson it teaches. That would pay us back ten thousand fold." Lark formulates a smile that creases his face in an odd way, more like an emotion concocted in a lab than a natural expression.

  Andrew Carr considers the proposal for an exhaustive one-tenth of a second. "Deal! I can get you in tomorrow for the ten o'clock spot. I wasn't going to show anything worthwhile anyway, just stupid Laura. And for the third time due to demand, mind you!"

  "We rather like Laura," states Parker.

  The announcement, cold as it is, takes Andrew by surprise. He can't imagine these guys would like anything. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

  "It keeps you guessing. You never know who is doing the deed until the end. Goodnight Mister Carr."

  The duo exits the Fenwick, leaving Andrew Carr to scratch his head at the weird folks coming into town these days.

  Hop, skip, hop, skip! Milkman performs its dodo bird landing in style on the narrow runway. As the propeller comes to a dead halt, the cockpit opens and Benny hops out. He moves with such fury that he almost forgets to remove the flight helmet and its wiring from his head. Tangled and flustered, he rips off the bug helmet, flinging it down in the seat. He jumps off the wing arm, ignoring the raw numbness in his right foot from landing too hard. Robert continues working unabated. Crank walks over from her car, arms folded over one another in an insecure posture. Benny runs right toward her. He inhales heavily on his approach, as if he would breathe her in.

  "Did you know there are Slicks over Wilmington?" Benny yells into her face. He never notices how Frederica's face alters from juvenile melancholy to wide-eyed shock.

  "What do you mean? They were on a trajectory for here?" She pushes down volcanic anger at this middle-aged gorilla, who yelled in her face as if she were his secretary for not typing fast enough. But the mention of Slicks transitions the anger from dumb-dumb Benny to the secret war. “The Slicks are on a program, as far as ST could determine. They follow a straight course. The line in Down Jersey began in Cape May, then up to Atlantic City before turning west. After Millville would be Bridgeton, and then Salem. They should have time to prepare, aim forces east. But now...how did they jump past us and into another state?" Now she's yelling up into Benny's face. "Why did they do that?"

  "I know! It makes no sense, based on what I learned from you. Are you sure Special Technologies really knows what we're up against?" As he asks, she shifts again, moving away from Benny to elsewhere.

  Frederica's pose loses its insecure shell, bursting out into a chest lifting, waist switching walk. Her hand slides to her hips as she glides out to the hangar's end, to the freezing wind. Benny has been around this lady for a short time, but long enough to know 'The Walk' means her mighty brain is in first gear. Although his mind went into a panic seeing Slicks, 'The Walk' gives it a whole new set of thoughts. He calms down, and for once stops seeing a little girl half dressed as a guy. Crank is definitely a woman, a fiery one with a mind like lava from the Earth's core.

  Crank turns back around, stopping just before she head-butts Haskins' chest. Sticking her right leg to the side, left hip jutting out, she calculates, a hushed mumble in Italian. The tongue roll pushes into the left cheek of her open mouth, showing off her white teeth, while her big dark eyes roll up and to the right. Windswept hair forms a partial veil over the right side of her face. The more Crank thinks, the more appealing she becomes.

  "Motherville is superior in her intelligence, right? At least, from the reports and her maneuvers, she is a thinking machine. So, she must have seen us counter her move in Millville, and altered tactics. Yes, she can't be so good to evade us all along unless she has the ability to change course." Frederica nods in approval of her estimation before wiping the hair out of her face, and readjusts her cap. "Now, why are you staring at me like that?"

  Benny wastes a minute before the question resonates. "What?"

  "I said why are you looking at me like that?" Her tongue makes a clicking sound.

  "Like what? Who's looking?"

  "Who? Who? You! You, looking at me like I'm on fire or something! Do you like what you see?" She raises her arms, thumbs out and both index fingers pointing to her body. Benny quickly looks at the cement floor.

  Haskins grumbles. His shoulders crunch up. "Looking at you? Why would I ever look at you like you were...whatever it is you're implying?"

  "Because I know that look! Boys give it to me all the time, especially when I'm thinking. What, a lady can't use her brain?"

  Benny gulps. "Sooo, you don't notice when you walk around thinking how you, eh, appear? You're not aware of...?"

  "Why would I? I'm thinking! Maybe if you sciocchi did more thinking, I could do less walking!" She snaps her fingers in Benny's face while biting her lower lip. It only makes her more attractive, and now he hates her for it.

  "Well, since I'm just a big lug who can't think, I guess you'll have to keep on walking," Benny rues. He makes with the big fake sigh, looking back at Robert with a grin and raised eyebrows, knowing Crank doesn't see it. Robert is under the hood, paying neither of them any mind. Benny loses his grin.

  "I will!" screams the lady, and she resumes her Walk and moves all about the hangar, plotting out the schemes of evil Motherville.

  Benny Haskins plots out all sorts of things, but most of them relating to how long it has been since his divorce, and why that has come to mind all of a sudden. "I need a cup of Joe, and then five more!" Slamming his leather flight gloves on a workbench, he stomps into the hangar's break room.

  The break room is built like a concrete igloo, a large, unattractive dome bearing one circular window, smack in the hangar's center. Despite fighting a secret war against robotic servitors, someone in Special Technologies apparently had a lot of free time on their hands to dream up this crazy lodge. At least it holds a deep freezer, refrigerator, oven and a 'world-class sink', whatever that means. One round table sits in the center of this thirty-foot circle, with a curved bench along the wall.

  Why is it there's room in here for ten, but I never see more than three guys in the hangar at one time? Benny reaches for the percolator, finds it empty, and groans. Okay! So, he opens it to make a fresh pot, a dark, bitter brew. Now forced to wait out the process, he rests the percolator on the stove, ignites the eye, and snatches a seat.

  In walks Crank, arms still crossed over as if hugging herself was priority number one. Benny rubs his eyes. She sits next to him, while he watches her through one visible, wide eye between fingers. "Hey kid, what's cooking?"

  She pouts. Benny wants to be alone, but the Man Drive grinds the gears into protector mode.

  "The Slicks took control of my brother, shot my father in the back. He's paralyzed now. My aunt takes care of him in Avalon. My brother went crazy and I...had to shoot him. It was, really crazy, you know? He knew he wasn't acting right, but tried to - - to kill us. He grabbed a band saw and..."

  Haskins removes his hand from his face, laying it on the back of Crank's neck. "Wow, Sister, you've been put through the wringer! I had no idea. Well, maybe your brother is better off dead than being a slave to Motherville."

  Frederica cuts her eyes Benny's way, a sharp stare that soon
lessens into a sullen withdrawal. "Maybe."

  "What about your old man? Have you seen him since, since the uh, tragedy?"

  "No, things have been too hectic. I will call him tomorrow. I just need to slow down, figure out my feelings so I can be better at my job."

  Benny rears back. He knows Crank has been running this joint since they pulled in days ago. These young boys have nothing on her. "Why are you worried about that? I've never seen any mechanic like you! Who would ST give this hangar over to? Robert?" He feels obliged to snort on that one.

  "You don't understand!" she half cries. "I'm a woman!" She pauses to let it sink it, sees it doesn't, and continues. "You'd think ST would only want the best. I'm the best! But do you know they call here, trying to find what I did wrong so they can ship some guy, I don't know who, over here to do it better? They took me because they felt they had to, because I encountered Motherville and ripped out one of its pods, figured how to use it. Before that, I was always on a trial basis. If they know what I know, they'd fire me flat out."

  Benny stares in amazement before realizing he should offer the lady a tissue. The percolator begins its whistling. Haskins jumps up, and pours two cups while he stares at the 'ST' logo on Crank's police style cap. "I've got your back, kid. They come in here trying anything funny, and they'll have to get past the Brown Bear! What you need is relaxation. How about we take in a movie tomorrow, my treat?"

  Crank looks up at him while cradling the coffee cup in both hands. Her dark circles become darker when she cries, making Benny feel more protective. Benny notes the coffee cup has a picture of a spade, the mark of Death on it. He suppresses a shudder.

  "You mean it?" Frederica mumbles. Hope and joy abound over her tears.

  "Sure I mean it. After all, I got back in the swing of things thanks to you, right?"