W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire

by Line Of Fire(Lit)

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you very much."

  "Sergeant, am I permitted to ask your connection with General Pickering?" After a brief hesitation, Hart decided to answer this question, too.

  "Sir, I've been assigned to look after General Pickering."

  "Somehow I don't think that means you're his valet, or orderly, or whatever they call it."

  "No, Sir."

  "If my grandson's not there, call me, Sergeant."

  "Yes, Sir." There was little activity inside Hangar 103, and no one in Marine uniform. But a young man with a bored look was leaning against the hangar wall next to a battery charger. He was wearing oil-stained khaki trousers and an oil-stained T-shirt under a cotton zipper jacket. His tan and his haircut suggested he was no stranger to military service.

  Me and Sherlock Holmes in the airport.

  "Excuse me, Sir," Hart said. "I'm looking for Lieutenant Pickering."

  "You found him," Pick said.

  Hart saluted. "Sergeant Hart, Sir. I work for Lieutenant McCoy, Sir."

  Pick did not return the salute.

  "OK," he said, his voice even but tense. "No beating around the bush. Let's have it."

  "Your father will be all right. They will keep him in the hospital for three to six weeks of rest and treatment. From what I have seen of your father, I'd bet on three weeks."

  "Jesus Christ, that's a relief. When you said McCoy had sent you, I was really worried."

  "My orders, Sir, are to tell you exactly what happened."

  "Go ahead." When he had finished, Pick said, "Thank you, Sergeant." There was a moment's silence, and then Pick asked, "They sent you all the way out here to tell me this?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "What's your connection with my father?"

  "I work for him, Sir."

  "Doing what?"

  "Whatever he tells me to do, Sir."

  "In other words you're not going to tell me. But since you have told me you work for McCoy, it wouldn't be unreasonable for me to assume, would it, that you're also involved-suitably draped in a cape-in all those mysterious things McCoy does but won't talk about?" Hart didn't reply. When it was evident to Pick that he wasn't going to reply, he went on, "I'll rephrase, Sergeant. Would it be unreasonable of me to assume that you are not my father's orderly?"

  "I'm not your father's orderly, Sir."

  "OK, we'll leave it at that. So what are you going to do now?"

  "I have a plane reservation for tomorrow afternoon, Sir."

  "Nothing to do right now? How about a hotel reservation?"

  "No, Sir."

  "Well, we can take care of that, the hotel, I mean."

  "That's not necessary, Sir."

  "I'll make you a deal, Sergeant. You do two things for me, and I will take care of the hotel and throw in dinner and all the booze you can handle."

  "My orders are to do whatever you ask me to do, Sir."

  "Great. The first thing is, stop calling me `Sir." The second thing is, help me get this heavy fucking battery back in the airplane. I almost ruptured myself taking it out." Hart knew very little about airplanes, but when he had walked across the hangar floor to meet Lieutenant Pickering, he noticed a single-engine biplane he recognized as a Stagger Wing Beechcraft. A compartment hatch in the fuselage was open.

  Obviously, the battery Pickering was now disconnecting from the battery charger had come out of it.

  "Why did you take the battery out?"

  Pickering looked at him with amusement in his eyes. "It was dead, Sergeant," he said. "One recharges dead batteries. It resurrects them, so to speak."

  "I meant, why recharge it, Sir."

  "You've agreed not to call me Sir," Pick said. "Which brings us to what do I call you?"

  "My name is George."

  "Well, George, the reason I am recharging the battery is that this is my grandpa's airplane. Most light civilian aircraft like this one have been taken over by the armed forces, for reasons I can't imagine. This one, however, Grandpa got to keep because it was essential to his business. Or at least he got our Senator to tell the Air Corps it was essential to his business. He and our Senator, by happy coincidence, are old pals. By the time they had gone through all this, the pilots had gone into the Army Air Corps. You following all this?"

  "More or less," Hart said, smiling.

  "More or less, Pick, " Pick corrected him. "You will call me Pick. That is an order."

  "Yes, Pick."

  "Which left the airplane here unattended, so to speak. Airplanes which are left uncared for tend to deteriorate. The batteries, for example, go dead, and the tires go flat, et cetera.

  Still with me, George?"

  "Yes, Pick," Hart said.

  "Better. So Grandpa, who is a master, by the way, of getting people to do things for him, remembered that the U.S. Navy, at enormous expense, had turned his grandchild into a Naval Aviator. Naval Aviators, Grandpa reasoned, know something about airplanes."

  "And he said, `Go check on my airplane,' right?"

  "Right. And so I pumped up the tires and took the water that had condensed in the fuel tanks out of the fuel tanks, and pulled the engine around to remove the oil that had accumulated in the cylinders. It was my intention to run up the engine, you see. Running up the engine is something one does when one's airplane has been sitting around."

  "And the battery was dead," Hart said.

  "And the battery was dead. George, you are a clever fellow, indeed."

  "Yes, Pick."

  Pick laughed.

  "Give me a hand with this, will you?" The battery wasn't all that heavy, but putting it in its battery compartment was awkward. Hart wondered how Pickering had managed to take it out. Finally it was in place, and connected.

  "Now we will open the hangar doors and push the airplane outside," Pick announced.

  The huge doors of the hangar moved with an ease that surprised Hart. Pushing the Stagger Wing Beechcraft was easier than he would have thought, too, but obviously one man couldn't do it.

  "What were you going to do if I hadn't turned up? You couldn't push it by yourself."

  "Run it up in the hangar, of course," Pick said.

  "Wouldn't the-wind from the propeller-"

  "We Naval Aviators call that `prop blast,' " Pick furnished helpfully.

  -prop blast have blown things around the hangar?"

  "I don't know," Pick said. "I never ran an engine up in a hangar. "

  This guy is a cheerful idiot, Hart decided. And then modified that: a nice cheerful idiot.

  When the airplane was outside and turned at right angles to the hangar, Pickering opened another compartment in the fuselage and took out a fire extinguisher.

  "You know how to work one of these?" he asked. Hart nodded. "Maybe we will be lucky," Pick went on, "but if there is a cloud of smoke and flames, you will extinguish them using this clever device. Think you can remember that?"

  "Right, Pick."

  "Do not stand where the propeller turns," Pick ordered solemnly.

  "Getting whacked with a propeller stings."

  "Right, Pick." Pickering pulled the engine through several times and then climbed into the cockpit. Hart saw him moving around inside, but he had no idea what he was doing.

  The window beside Pickering opened.

  "Clear!" he shouted, and now he sounded very professional.

  Hart picked up the fire extinguisher, wondering if he would have to use it.

  There was a whining sound, and then the propeller began to turn, very slowly. The engine coughed and stopped. A small cloud of dark smoke came out of the exhaust ports.

  The whining of the starter began again, and then the propeller moved through several rotations as the engine coughed, burped smoke and died again.

  It is not going to start, Hart decided, as he watched Pickering's head disappear as he moved around the cockpit.

  The whining started again, the propeller turned, the engine coughed, coughed again, discharged an enormous cloud of smoke, an
d then caught with a mighty roar and began to run.

  Hart could see a delighted smile on Pickering's face.

  After a few moments the roughness disappeared.

  I wonder how long it takes to-what did he say?-run up an engine?

  He set the fire extinguisher on the ground and looked up at the cockpit.

  Pickering was shaking his head and making gestures. After a moment Hart understood them: he was not to put the fire extinguisher down, but to get into the airplane with it.

  Hart made a wide sweep around the wing and went to the fuselage door. It was closed.

  The wind-the prop blast-blew it closed.

  With some effort, he forced it open against the prop blast, laid the fire extinguisher on the floor, and then climbed aboard.

  The prop blast slammed the door closed. He looked at the door, saw a handle that locked the door, and turned it.

  Then he walked to the cockpit. He was surprised at how much room the airplane had-there were four passenger seats-and how Plush it was. The seats were upholstered in light-brown leather, and the walls and ceiling were covered with it.

  Pickering motioned for him to sit in the second seat in the cockpit. It was George Hart's first visit to a cockpit and he found the array of dials and levers and controls both fascinating and intimidating.

  Pickering showed him how to fasten the lap and shoulder mess, and then handed him a set of earphones.

  "The intercom button, I just found out," Pickering's metallic voice came over the earphones, "is that little button on the side of the microphone. Can you hear me?" Hart looked at Pickering and saw he had a microphone in his hand. And then Pickering pointed to a second microphone beside Hart. Hart had finally found something recognizable.

  The microphone was essentially identical to the ones in Saint Louis police cars.

  "What do you mean, you just found out?"

  "I never sat up here before," Pickering said.

  Bullshit!

  There was a popping sound, and then Pickering's voice.

  "Frisco Ground Control, Beech Two Oh Oh on the Lewis ramp."

  "Beech Two Oh Oh, go ahead."

  "Request taxi instructions to box my compass." What the hell does that mean?

  "Beech Two Oh Oh is cleared via taxiway one three right to the threshold area of runway one three."

  "Roger, thank you," Pickering's voice came over the earphones.

  "Understand threshold area of one three. One three moving and clear."

  Hart watched with fascination as Pickering released the brakes, advanced the throttle, and the airplane began to move.

  He pressed his mike button.

  "Where are we going?" There was another pop in the earphones.

  "Aircraft calling Ground Control, say again."

  "George," Pickering said, "don't talk into the intercom until I tell you you can. You are worrying Ground Control." Hart nodded. He had just revealed his enormous ignorance, and it humiliated him.

  They taxied a long way to the end of the field. As they neared it, a United Airlines DC-3 came in for a landing. Hart found that fascinating.

  He also found Pickering's next act fascinating. He moved the airplane to the center of a large concrete area and carefully jockeyed it into position. He then fiddled somehow with the compass. Then he moved the airplane again, and fiddled with the compass again, and then repeated the process.

  "As you can see, I have now boxed the compass," he said.

  Hart didn't reply.

  "You may express your admiration, we're on intercom," Pickering said.

  "I'm impressed. Now what?"

  "I am debating whether or not I can fly this thing," Pickering said.

  "How would you like a little ride, George?"

  "What do you mean, whether or not you can fly this thing?"

  "I told you. This is my first time sitting up here." Bullshit. He's pulling my leg.

  "I have faith in a fellow Marine," Hart replied.

  "How can I resist a challenge like that? Now shut up, George. We are going to talk to the tower." There was another pop in the earphones.

  "Frisco tower, Beech Two Oh Oh on the threshold of one three for takeoff." Jesus, he is going to take me for a ride!

  "Beech Two Oh Oh, what is your destination?"

  "Couple of times around the pattern. Test flight."

  "Beech Two Oh Oh, you are advised you are required to have a departure authorization."

  "It's supposed to be there. You don't have it?" There was a long break.

  "Beech Two Oh Oh. You are cleared as number one to take off on one three. The altimeter is two niner niner niner. Winds are negligible."

  "Roger, Two Oh Oh rolling," Pickering said and moved the throttle forward.

  He lined the airplane up with the center of the runway and pushed the throttle all the way forward.

  The Beech quickly picked up speed, and a moment later the rumbling of the landing gear disappeared.

  "Beech Two Oh Oh. We don't have your departure clearance."

  "Frisco, say again, you are garbled."

  "Beech Two Oh Oh, we do not, I say again, we do not have a departure clearance. You are directed to land immediately.

  You are cleared as number one to land on runway one three."

  "Frisco, say again, you are garbled." There was another pop in the earphones.

  "George, you may now express your admiration for that splendid virginal takeoff."

  "What the hell was the tower saying to you?"

  "Essentially, it means I don't think we ought to go back there," Pickering said. "I think they take their departure clearances, whatever the hell that means, very seriously."

  "Meaning you don't have one?"

  "What are they going to do to me?" Pickering said. "Send me to Guadalcanal?"

  "Jesus Christ, you're crazy!"

  "I always wanted to fly this thing," Pickering said. "The temptation was too much. I have a very weak character."

  "We're at war, for Christ's sake. They're going to shoot you down. Us down."

  "I thought about that," Pickering replied. "By the time they get their act together and decide to report this to the military, at least fifteen minutes will have passed. By the time the Army or the Navy gets its act in gear and decides which one will get the honor of shooting down an unarmed civilian airplane, another twenty minutes or so will have passed. And then it will take them five minutes to get in the air and another ten minutes to find us. We've got damned near an hour."

  "You are really out of your gourd!"

  "And then it would take a real prick of a pilot to shoot down something as pretty as this airplane. I certainly wouldn't do it."

  "Holy Christ!"

  "That long thin thing down there over the mouth of the bay is the Golden Gate Bridge," Pickering said, pointing. Hart looked where he was pointing. "What I think we will do is fly very low over that away, then fly under the bridge-something I have always wanted to do-and then we will find home, sweet home."

  "You have to be kidding."

  "I am a Marine officer and a Naval Aviator. We never kid about important things."

  "When you land this thing, they are going to put you in jail."

  "First they have to catch me."

  "I'm dead goddamn serious."

  "So'm I," Pick said with a smile. "Relax and enjoy the ride." In addition of course to flying under the Golden Gate Bridge in the first place, what surprised Sergeant Hart about their flight was that he wasn't nearly as terrified as he expected to be.

  There was plenty of room under the bridge. And Pick didn't seem nervous.

  In fact, looking up out of the cockpit at the massive structure as it flashed overhead was both interesting and stimulating.

  He was far more afraid five minutes later when it became apparent that Pickering was about to land the airplane on what was obviously not an airfield. It was a field, or an enormous lawn, but it was definitely not an airfield.

  But there, goddammit, is
one of those dunce caps on a pole.