MAGNOLIA GODS
A novel by
Thomas Hollyday
Copyright
Copyright Thomas Hollyday 2007
All rights reserved.
Published by
Happy Bird Corporation Publishing
P.O. Box 86, Weston, MA 02493
Ebook version of paperback ISBN number 0-9741287-2-4
First Happy Bird Corporation Publishing digital edition: January 2008
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Publisher’s note: this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
“What does it say of us that we continue
to entrust warriors with the conduct of peace?”
from A Fool’s Miscellany, London, 1691
Author's Notes
I am grateful to my friends in the law for reading drafts of the book and making suggestions so that the legal and police procedures described are not too fanciful. I thank my engineer associates for their comments on the technology described in the book. I owe my appreciation to many aviation friends for adding to my knowledge of the intricacies of flying various aircraft and want to thank my ham radio pals for checking out my code and radio know how. Thanks also to the always energetic staff of the Boston Athenaeum for their hard work in finding books and otherwise aiding in the research, and to the staff at the MIT science library for invaluable help. Finally, thanks to my fiction workshop friends and its generous director, C. Michael Curtis, and to my editor, for reading the work and suggesting changes as chapters were drafted. Last but not least, to my wife and children, I love you all.
Chapter One
4 PM, June 28
Wilmington, Delaware
Eight 50 caliber machine guns, barrels still intact inside corroded tubular cooling jackets, sat silent under salt water in large specially designed tanks. These old guns, once part of a powerful fighter bomber’s armament, still shimmered, even in their disrepair, with memories of terrifying power.
Near the guns, on the stained and cracked concrete floor of the converted hanger, were other tanks filled with parts of the P47 Thunderbolt that the team from the Museum of Historic Aviation had recovered from the bottom of the Atlantic in what was considered by their fellow historians as a triumph in marine archeology and World War Two historical research. The tanks were arranged in the pattern of an aircraft and viewed from above, resembled a careful explosion, with each containing appropriately located parts of wings, rudder and fuselage. Then, the piece de resistance, the most important underwater recovery, was the great radial engine assembly, its four bent propeller blades still attached, in a tank in front.
On the wall was proudly hung the banner of Aviatrice Corporation, the venture capital firm which had provided special funding for the tanks and the instruments to restore the old plane. Other foundations and their posters were also in evidence, but the Aviatrice banner was the most prized, won by the young museum manager, Mike Howard, in his ceaseless search for funding.
Working around the sides of another tank, this one narrower and in the center of the workspace, were the technicians who had carried out the state of the art technical preservation and restoration. Jeremy, chief technician, with his earrings that showed him obviously of a younger generation than the others, who had been with the project from the start and had endured the sea salvage, operated the levers of a shop hoist which was raising a section of corroded metal from the tank. His boss, Mike Howard, thirty-five, the director of the museum, whose dream and perseverance had brought the project through the search, the salvage and the restoration, was stretched over the side of the tank, holding the metal from scraping the container side. The two men could not have been more different in appearance, Jeremy dressing like he seldom left his computer screen with his beard and blue jeans, Mike, hair carefully combed, wearing the blue blazer and khaki trouser uniform of a Delaware museum official. The three others, all experienced mechanics, one of them whistling the tune “Little Brown Jug,” were equally devoted and proficient.
“This salt water stinks,” said Jeremy. He had long red hair that touched his neck. Jeremy, Mike could see from the happy expression on his face, was in his own kind of heaven, whether a putrid smell existed or not. Jeremy was a technician and dedicated, and this was his day, working with a thousand broken and corrupted pieces of metal, each one enticing him in a different technical way. Mike had suggested to Jeremy many times that his ideal girlfriend would be another techie so the two of them could work on rust the rest of their lives.
Mike freed one hand to rub his nose, broken and skewed years ago in championship college boxing. Standing there, Mike could be seen as a successful entrepreneur with brains, guts, good looks except for the nose and dressed as well as his salary would allow.
The hoist engine purred as Jeremy eased the aircraft fragment upward. On the metal was a faded white star with two of its five prongs shattered by the force of a long ago explosion.
“It’s like our divers reported. That’s where the submarine deck gun hit her,” said Mike, letting go of the metal which swung freely and clear of the sides. He still had the slight drawl of a Delaware native even after all the years of education farther north.
“The military had its head up its ass when they reported this pilot was negligent,” said one of the mechanics, chewing his tobacco a little harder. He and his two aircraft associates had been on projects like this before and were in for the duration, reassembling the wreckage into an exhibit that would raise greatly needed revenue for the Museum.
The workman was right, Mike thought. The Navy had at one time classified the pilot of this aircraft as foolhardy, as inexperienced and as careless. Finding the plane had proved all this wrong. Instead, the cannon hole in the plane proved the pilot not only courageous, but clever and patriotic in taking on the enemy when he did and at the loss of his own life. In Mike’s office were letters and newspaper accounts of the Navy’s recent public apologies to the pilot’s still living wife and children and the posthumous awarding of a greatly deserved medal.
The mechanic with white hair stopped whistling and said. “He were doing his duty, was all.”
“You’ve lifted it high enough,” said Mike. Jeremy halted the crane.
The white haired mechanic continued, “Them Thunderbolts were nose heavy. Pilot had to work to bring her into the ocean as smooth as he did, especially all shot up. Most of them jug pilots knew their stuff.” He began whistling again.
“Republic built them tough in the first place and she stayed together when she hit the water. We never would have found her otherwise,” said Mike.
“Lucky for the Museum,” said Jeremy.
“Too bad for his family his remains are long gone into the ocean. I was pretty sure we wouldn’t find any of him,” said Mike.
“Anyway, this should be a real draw for the Museum,” said Jeremy. “Say, don’t you know another song, Charlie?”
The older man stopped, “You’re gonna get used to it, Jeremy. You want World War Two exhibits; you got to learn the songs too.”
Mike went up to the fragment of metal and wiped at the warm clingi
ng brine while holding a measuring tape over the edge of the blast hole.
“What do you think, Jeremy?” he asked, looking at his assistant.
Jeremy studied the hole. “It’s about the right diameter for a round from a German deck gun. He didn’t get many shots. According to German submarine records, this pilot did a lot of damage to the sub too, before they got him.”
“These old P47 fighters, “jugs” the Army Air Force used to call them, well, they could do some damage if you got in front of them wing guns,” said the tobacco chewing mechanic.
“Why’d they call them “jugs?” asked Jeremy.
“Short for juggernaut because of the huge size of the plane with that big radial out front,” answered the mechanic with a spit.
“Yeah, but that German gunner knew his stuff too,” said the third mechanic, a thin man who did not talk much, but who tended to make remarks that ended discussions.
“Well, you’ll get a chance to tell him that at the unveiling,” said Mike. “We found him. He’s a retired businessman in Germany. He’s willing to fly to Delaware and take a look. Believe it or not he’s the only survivor from the submarine crew. His boat escaped the P47 but got sunk in the English Channel a few weeks later.”
“The unveiling is going to be a great day,” said Jeremy. “Things are finally going to change around here.”
“We’ve all worked hard. We have a lot to be happy about,” grinned Mike.
Mike hid his worry well. No onlooker could see his constant concern about the huge museum debt. Visitors could not spot his fear that if something did not work out with the strategy of restoring this ship, he might lose the museum and let down his father, who had started the facility.
The museum had been sponsored during the Sixties by Aviatrice and several other aviation foundations which had started a nationwide drive to help museums preserve aviation history. Mike’s father, a decorated war veteran, was lucky enough to hook on to this brotherhood of foundations and to get some of the money through contacts with his old flying comrades.
Mike had inherited the museum lock, stock, and aircraft from his father. The museum unfortunately had never made money and was deeply in debt. He took over, however, and with careful planning, building up the staff with hires like Jeremy, and conceiving of the salvage and exhibiting of the P47 as an attraction, was gradually heading towards black numbers. With luck, the exhibit would bring in enough money over the next few months. At the same time, the quality of the research on the aircraft restoration would put the museum on fine footing both with the consumer and with the professional community. More visitors and more quality work meant more success, read that new grants for research, in the museum world.
He was proud of what he had done. He’d assembled the money and the staff to make his and his father’s dream come true. A tantalizing goal this year was accreditation in the prestigious Association of Aviation Museums which only came with a high number of paying consumer visitors, a strong balance sheet, and with professionalism in the staff and management. He wanted to increase the members of the board too. The board held people his father had invited, including the museum’s banker and the old family friend, Tim O’Brien, who helped the museum get funds from Aviatrice. Mike sat on the board of course and Jeremy would sit in on technical issues. More board members, including women and minorities, especially wealthy ones from the community who would donate funding, would come with success. Mike knew the direction the museum had to climb and he was determined to get there.
The thin mechanic, who was adjusting the hoist supports, dropped his large steel wrench and the noise clanged against the cavernous walls of the hanger.
Mike’s secretary, Gladys, called from the side door, “Telephone, Mike.”
“Who is it?” Mike asked her.
“Billy Dulany,” she said, with a frown, knowing her boss didn’t like talking to Dulany.
“All right,” Mike started toward his office. He didn’t have a lot of respect for his banker but Dulany had been his father’s choice for board chairman and Mike had to live with him. Dulany’s own dad had moved on from Wilmington and was making big money in Baltimore. Billy was still here at a smaller bank trying to start a career that was hopelessly dead from the start. Dulany’s middle name might be “risk free.”
Mike smiled as he went toward his office. Whither goes Billy’s little Wilmington Farm Savings Bank so goes the Museum. Mike had received Billy’s recommendations for new board members. These consisted of comments like, “He’d be a good friend in Washington” or “She’s known up in Philadelphia,” which apparently pertained to Billy’s aspirations for his own future career. At any rate, like Billy, they did not like risk and more important none of them knew anything about airplanes. Thank God the board only met once a year.
Mike sat down at his desk and pushed aside a thick book on Karl Doenitz, the head of the Nazi submarine forces, part of his research for the Thunderbolt exhibit. He picked up the phone.
“Hello, Billy,” he said, trying to sound like he welcomed the call.
“You’ve been busy.” Billy’s voice always seemed like a man who was looking over everyone’s shoulders in a poker game, a man who knew what each player had. To Mike, the tone of his voice suggested more, that Billy thought he was a little bit smarter than anyone else.
“I’ve been watching the Museum cash flows,” said Mike, hoping to pre-empt Dulany’s usual warnings about spending too much money. “I knew the money was all right for a while so I didn’t call you. I just wanted to get this exhibit finished.”
“How’s the exhibit going?” asked Billy.
“We’re ahead of schedule,” replied Mike.
“Good,” said Billy, cheerily. “You can fill us in at the next board meeting. Tell you why I called. Do you know Jesse Lawson?”
“The same Lawson who was accused of spying for the Soviet Union?” said Mike.
“This one is that guy’s grandson,” said Billy.
“How come you’re mixed up with him?” asked Mike.
“You can’t blame a kid for his parents, Mike. He’s the biggest depositor in the bank. Makes a lot of money doing harvesting for the farmers in Maryland.”
“Why should I care about Jesse Lawson?” asked Mike.
“You’re going to know him a lot better,” said Dulany.
Mike replied quickly. “The Museum’s not taking any of his money, if that’s what you’re suggesting. No way. I heard my father say many times that the grandfather was the worst kind of person, selling out his country. I couldn’t let the Museum do any business with that family.”
“You already are,” said Dulany.
“What have you got us into?” said Mike, his voice a little higher in tone.
Billy paused then said, “Remember when you were out in the ocean a few months ago and called me at home, all excited about what you were finding? You insisted that you had to finish the job at all costs.”
“Yeah,” said Mike, “But I didn’t mean dealing with a traitor’s grandson.”
“It was his grandfather who got into trouble, Mike, not Jesse. Your exact words were to get the money wherever I could so long as it was legal. Jesse was in my office the next day and I mentioned it to him. Turns out Jesse offered to put up the whole amount.”
Mike let out his breath, knowing he was trapped.
Billy continued, “I worked out the best deal I could for the Museum. Remember, I am your chairman.”
“I thought the bank put up the money,” Mike said weakly.
“It did, but Jesse cosigned,” said Billy.
Always covering your ass, Billy, Mike thought. Then he said, “So does he want his money back now?”
“Not right away,” Billy replied. “Jesse suggested though that since he’d done this favor for the Museum that maybe you could do him one in return.”
“What’s that?” said Mike, dreading Dulany’s answer.
Billy hesitated, then said, “He asked me that since you’ve fo
und the other salvage, since you have such great expertise, maybe you would consider looking into his grandfather’s crash.”
“The hell,” Mike shouted into the phone. “The Museum is not going to get involved with traitors.”
“Mike, you really have no choice,” said Dulany in his steady banker’s voice.
“What?” Mike was still excited.
Billy talked slowly. “The way we structured the loan, Jesse owns the P47. Let’s not get him angry. He has the right to sell it to another museum to get his money out.”
“Is he threatening us?” asked Mike.
“No, Mike, he’s been very accommodating about the loan.”
“We’ll pay him out,” said Mike.
“With what?” asked Billy.
Billy had him there. Mike knew he wouldn’t have any payback for months.
“I’d like to smack this Lawson,” said Mike.
“If you’re that pissed off, come over to the bank and smack me. It’s my fault.”
“Maybe I’ll do that,” said Mike. Dulany knew he would too.
Mike went on, “Do you realize, Billy, that not only is Lawson a household word for treason but no aviation company or foundation will speak to us if we get involved with him? They hate his grandfather for what he tried to do to the country. You know we get a lot of money from the industry. Take Aviatrice for example. They give us money every year and always have. Lawson was accused of stealing their secret airplane. They’ve never got over it.”
Billy was patient. “Aviatrice donations, like the rest of the corporation gifts, don’t start to cover the loans of the Museum. You’ve been after all those people for several years. They don’t give enough, Mike. “
Mike replied, “If my father were alive, he’d tell you. Aviatrice was really hurt by the man. It was their project, worth millions of dollars that Lawson took to the bottom of the ocean.”
Magnolia Gods (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 2) Page 1