Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  "Rightee-oh, then. Something between F-10 and, say, K-13." This was a verbal elbow in Lovett's ribs to remind him that Cris Reventlo, having flown commercial jets in the South Pacific, knew those charts like he knew the wrinkles in his skivvies. "Or it could be one of the little Jeppesen charts," Reventlo mused.

  "Oh hell, we round up the lot then." They began in Benteen's office, finding numerous charts but all North American Regionals folded pocket-sized, most of them outdated.

  Benteen's desk was a hollow-core door slab screwed down to a pair of metal two-drawer file cabinets spaced well apart. Tugging on a drawer, Lovett found it locked. "Cris, find us a pry bar."

  The Brit raised his brows, shrugged, and turned to comply when a knock echoed. "That'll be the lad," he said.

  "Let's hope so. I'll go," Lovett said, and left Reventio deep in thought. He let Chip in and left the door unlocked, took a cardboard tray full of lidded containers and doughnuts. "Relax. We didn't have to break in," he said. Chip's face shone with zeal. "What'd you find?"

  'Cuban cigars. A bottle of Wild Turkey behind some books. Nothing we were looking for," said Lovett. "We haven't jinunied Elmo's cabinets yet."

  But when they entered the office, the file cabinets were open, Revent4o pawing through one. "I knew Benteen wouldn't keep his keys safe," said the Brit without glancing up. "Manila envelope taped here in the foot well. Keys to cabinets, aircraft, God knows what."

  "Hot diggity," Lovett crowed.

  I diggity," Reventio mur "Waiter, bring this man a coo mured. "We'll take the other cabinet," Lovett said. Chip simply desk for pulled the top drawer out and placed it atop the Lovett, then knelt at the lower one.

  Reventlo stopped to open his coffee and glanced at the others. "The lad knows a nav chart on sight?"

  "Gimme a break," Chip muttered.

  "Thought I'd ask," said the Brit, sipping. "Some fold to a size larger than sectionals."

  "He's been my nagivator often enough," Lovett said.

  "Nagivator," said Reventlo. "Precisely the word for them. Where were you when I needed you, Lovett?"

  "At Elmo's bedside, and that's exactly where you needed me," Lovett rejoined, bickering good-naturedly.

  "Unless this was his last great practical. joke," the Brit said, pausing in his search. Benteen's sense of the absurd was well known. "There is that," Lovett admitted. "Nobody's twisting your arm here, Cris."

  The Brit laughed and resumed searching. They enjoyed brief spurts of elation, always followed by dismay to find charts labeled, KETCHIKAN, BILLINGS, GREEN BAY. At length they finished, frustrated, replacing paper in the cabinets, then relocking them. Over coffee and doughnuts, they talked it over. Surely, Reventlo said, some of those keys would open lockers near the workbenches across the hangar.

  Dawn showed through high windows before they finished rifling through those lockers. Because a refrigerator makes an excellent low-temperature locker for volatiles, Benteen had one with a hefty padlock and chain.

  "Let me take the fridge," Chip said. "They're my favorite stashes. And don't ask, Pop," he said as Lovett turned to respond.

  Chip finally admitted defeat after emptying ice cubes from trays and prying into plastic fascia panels. "Rivets in the ice trays, epoxy in the crisper, solvents and stuff," he reported as the others refilled lockers. "Nothing like a map. You're sure he said a map," he urged for confirmation.

  Lovett, squatting, dry-washed his face. "Yeah, that was the word, he just-"

  "Why not 'chart,' " Reventlo asked abruptly. I 'He should've said

  'chart.' Shouldn't he?"

  "You'd think so," Lovett mused, and stifled a mighty yawn, standing erect, stretching. "Shit. When isn't a map a chart?"

  "For one thing, when it isn't to scale," Reventlo said. "We're missing something, lads."

  "Yeah, a map of umpteen million bucks," Chip said glumly.

  They strolled back to Benteen's office now, scanning the distant comers, the girdered heights, the shadows beneath workbenches. "I'll check the w.c.," Reventlo said, and fanned through the pile of magazines in the bathroom. Chip wondered aloud if a map could be among those papers they'd flipped past in the file cabinets, and Lovett agreed that could be the case.

  At last Reventlo emerged from the little room with a headshake. "The lad's probably right. I propose we remove the contents of those cabinets, get some sleep, and peruse it all when we're fresh."

  "Which is theft, any way you look at it," Chip said.

  "Not if we put it back before anyone notices," said Reventlo.

  Lovett, grinning wanly: "If you're not caught, theft ain't theft?"

  Reventlo, spreading his hands: "According to my solicitor."

  "Pass," Lovett said. "So far we haven't done anything to put my grandson's t" in a crack-well, not too deep a crack. I won't risk a felony. Of course, what you do after we leave,..." He stopped as his gaze flicked across the walls with all those framed photos, some large, a few too small to inspect from any distance.

  Then, without the slightest hesitation, Wade Lovett stood up and marched with jaunty step to the smallest framed picture in the lot. Smiling, he lifted it from the Wall. It was a wallet-sized black-and-white shot of two men standing beside a menacing, twin-engined Martin bomber of World War Two vintage, the photo's creases showing through its protective glass.

  "Elmo and Frank Merrill, back when Merrill was tariling that killer B-26

  Martin built during the war," Lovett said, caressing the frame, smiling.

  "He didn't say Bub Merrill was mean. He was saying, The and old Bub Merrill.' "

  His smile faded as he turned the picture over, finding blank cardboard.

  "Merill tested your B-26 early in the war. I think Elmo had some input," Reventlo offered.

  "Something to be proud of," Chip said. "I bet Mr. Benteen carried it with him."

  "Of course he did," Lovett mused, now prying at the cardboard backing, clumsy in his haste. And there on the back of that photo, scratched in pencil, was an outline like a misshapen sock, perhaps two inches in its largest dimension. A word, "strip," slanted down the heel. Below it were single more scratches, and Lovett read them aloud." 136 degrees, 40 minutes East; 12 degrees, 20 minutes North," he said softly. "And maybe an airstrip."

  Reventlo let out a long breath, then shut his eyes. "Ah... Philippine Sea, somewhere north of the Carolines," he breathed, smiling to himself.

  "A half-dozen cherry antiques," added Chip, awed by the notion.

  "One-million-a copy," said Lovett, "if it's true." He peered again at the back of that photo, then tucked it into his shirt pocket. "First we get some decent charts of the area, and then call another National Emergency."

  "Charts of what area?" The stem contralto voice from the doorway made all three males whirl in unison.

  Reventlo, brazening it out: "Who left that door, unlocked? Private conversation, young lady. I'm awfully sony, but Benteen Associates isn't open for-"

  "Let me tell you what's open, buster." She was foirtyish, medium height and on the sturdy side, with cropped straight ebony air and a twin peaks bustline and the apricot-tinted complexion of a Balinese. Her nose was a trifle too broad for conventional beauty, but common among islanders.

  Her stride into the office was brisk, her dark eyes bright as they flickered around the place. She wore slacks and sandals, and the hand that rested on her shoulder bag was scarred and callused. "A lot of private files are open. This is my hangar, so you bozos are trespassing.

  At least," she added, the almond shape of her eyes closing to slits, with a glitter as hard as obsidian, unless you're the debris from that goddamn wingding my old man threw last night. And judging by the kid,"

  she pointed toward Chip, "I don't think SO." She let her left hand glide into her shoulder bag. "Names."

  Now Lovett stood up. "Could you produce some ID, ma'am? We seem to be off on the wrong foot this morning."

  "Didn't think I'd need it," she sighed, pulling a smallish automatic pistol from
her bag, letting it sweep the office casually. "I want names, and your asses out of here, in that order."

  "Chip Mason, Jesus, lady," the youth said quickly, putting his hands up.

  "Chip Mason Jesus," she said. "Never heard of you. Catchy, though."

  "He's Crispin Reventio," said Lovett, pointing toward the Brit and easing sideways to place himself, in front of Chip. "And I'm Wade Lovett. And would you mind not pointing that-"

  But she was already replacing the sidearm, sighing, her gaze softening with the slump of her shoulders. "Oh shit," she said softly. "The limey accent fits. And you're Lovett, huh? I suppose you could be the bunch who saw my old man off, so to speak. But unless he's found the fountain of youth, this is the youngest Boring Old Fart I've run across," she went on, still suspicious of Chip.

  "I've got to use the john," said Chip, sidling away.

  "Why now, just when things get interesting," she asked.

  "Why not? When you pulled that cannon on us," Lovett rejoined, "'I had the urge myself. This is my grandson."

  "Little old thirty-two caliber, a cannon? Relax. I didn't know who you were," she said. "I'm still upset over my dad."

  Reventio found his voice again: "And that would be?"

  "Elmo Benteen," she said, her eyes starting to brim over. I've just come from the hospital. I guess they found my number in his wallet."

  Lovett's jaw dropped. "Your father? You're not Mel Benteen!

  "And all this time I thought I was. Melanie, if that'll help," she said, ignoring the single tear that traced a handsome cheek. Her gaze seemed fixed on some great distance, as though reliance on anger might keep her less vulnerable. "The old fool. I told him and told him-but that's my problem, guys. And I, ah, I do need some privacy here. Stuff I need to find," she added vaguely.

  Reventlo spread his hands as if offering an invisible basket to Lovett.

  "A fiver says I know what she's after, Wade. And even if she isn't, she's entitled to it."

  The woman: "Entitled to what?" Lovett fished the little photo from his pocket, handed it over without a word. She looked at both sides, and shut her eyes for a long moment, and then tried a smile. As if to herself, she murmured, "When it wasn't in his wallet, I damn near peed my knickers. He once told me to look there."

  "It was here on the wall," Lovett supplied, pointing. "He staged his last blowout so he could turn it over to us."

  A quick glance at each of them. "You know, then."

  "The lost squadron? Elmo said if it panned out for the Boffs@ a share should go to you," ]Lovett explained. "Of course, we'll honor it."

  "You damn well bet you will," said Mel with asperity. "Goddamn him, if he had just told me where those hulks are, I'd have been there years ago. Probably rusted to junk by now.

  Reventlo and Lovett shared a wary look. "You intend to take part in an island recovery operation?"

  "Just try and stop me. I was born on Bora Bora, guys; don't you know an islander when you see one? After stateside boarding schools-several of

  'em," she grinned, not needing to explain, "he taught me to run heavy equipment hauling phosphates on Palau," she said evenly. "If I thought I could go it alone... but Papa spilled the beans, didn't he?"

  Reventlo: "It crossed our minds that Elmo could be having his fun with us all, Ms. Benteen."

  "Mel. Yeah, he might have done that to you. Not to me. I still don't see why he would've told an over-the-hill gang."

  "You said it yourself: you couldn't do it alone, and Elmo must've known that. And there was nobody else he could trust to see that you got a share," Lovett replied.

  "Some of us are still kings of the hill," Reventio put in, standing more erect, straightening his tie.

  Mel flicked her glance to Chip as he exited the bathroom. "And at least one of you is still a little prince."

  "He won't be part of the operation," Lovett said quickly. "Still, I'll vouch for him."

  "You'd better. All we need is to show up there," she said, handing the photo back, "and find the Confederate Air Force hauling our goodies off.

  Hell, we don't even know the legalities of it!

  "She's tight, you know," said Reventio. "We have some scutwork to do."

  Lovett kept his answer civil with an effort. "I know that, Cris. Good Christ, we don't even know what questions to ask yet. But we're going to," he said.

  "Without arousing any suspicions," Mel chimed in.

  "So we're really going to do this," said the Brit in wonderment "Now really, are we, old man? Let me stress those last two words. Men half our age would be challenged. 1, for one, need to get in shape if we're to be Tarzanning about on jungle vines, ducking natives who want our heads on poles."

  Mel Benteen's nostrils flared. "You sure somebody hasn't already shrunk yours? That's insulting, you elitist asshole."

  "She's a saucy bird," Reventlo murmured, blinking. "She's an islander, for God's sake," Lovett told him, who evidently learned the language at Elmo's knee." When he needed to concentrate, Lovett tended to look like a man with 'a migraine, placing one' or both hands over his forehead. He put them there now. "Hold on, folks. Okay. Okay. I know it's crazy to rush into this, so let's ease into it. We can cancel the operation later, if it seems un doable. Maybe we will. But think what a windfall it could be!" His hands came down now. "It may be the chance of a lifetime.

  Meanwhile, we need each other on friendly terms."

  "Don't count on it, pal," Mel said. "Just think of me as an equal who will pop you in the snoot if you deserve it."

  "Snoot," said the Brit to nobody in particular. "Dear Goddy, the woman is Elmo in the flesh."

  "You better believe it," she rejoined. "My papa may have been ashamed of me, but he didn't raise me to take a lot of shit."

  "Right," Lovett said, with a glance toward Chip who seemed to be enjoying the woman's truculence. "So we take this one step at a time, exchange phone and fax numbers, and recall the faithful when we have the location, and Lord help us, who hosts the next National Emergency?"

  After his return to Wichita, Lovett's fax machine stayed hot throughout the next week. Several of those messages were Chip's: lowest air fares to Guam, and Manila, inoculations suggested by government honchos, prices of inflatable boats and outboard engines, shipping weights. It warmed Lovett to think how seriously Chip, sworn to secrecy, was taking on these responsibilities when he had no hope of tagging along.

  After a dozen amendments, Lovett's B.O.F. announcement said the usual cornball stuff about a National Emergency, this time to be held in his own hangar. But in a rare nod toward sanity, it included a page that was both proposition and warning in what he hoped were roughly equal parts.

  It began with Elmo's obituary clipping, a good half-dozen column inches, enlarged so that the more elderly Boffs could read it. Below the clipping was Lovett's postscript.

  If you were there, you know' Elmo intended to give us a chance at one hell of a stash in the vicinity of his '68 mishap. Think big. Maybe it's there; maybe not, and there is only one way to find out without it getting on CNN. Elmo debriefed me on his way West. Show up for this only if you can take part in recovery ops. If you talk the talk, you must walk the walk. Funding may be a blem and you may be a partial solution.

  Think of this pro one as a boozeless business meeting with pizza, iced tea and only one female but I guarantee her as a surprise. If she doesn't dance on your Stetsons the surprise will be mine.

  Lovett tapped a pencil against his teeth, uncertain at what he'd written. They had agreed that no mention of the site would be made, even among themselves, until the Boffs convened.

  He dropped the rough draft as his phone rang. "Yo, Chipper," he said, brightening, and waited while his grandson spoke. Then, "I've slated my emergency for weekend after next. Don't expect a big turnout.-Whoa. You know I'd love that, but not unless your mom concurs. And I don't..

  His brows shot up at Chip's reply. Evidently, Roxanne had loosened her leash on the boy. Grinning now: "Come as soon as you li
ke and stay as long as you can. -Just tell me which flight to meet. Uh, one thing, though. I can't fund you, I'm scraping the bottom of my financial barrel.-Yep, selling my stocks, aircraft, maybe the Varieze if I get a halfway decent offer.

  Now he waited longer, a wry smile fading as he doodled some numbers.

  "You know, I'm having trouble figuring out who's the grandparent here,"

  he interrupted finally. "Okay, so it's loony. I'm entitled. If there's one thing worse than an old whippersnapper, it's a young fogey.-It's my decision, Chip. If you and Roxy weren't well fixed, I wouldn't be high rolling like this; but you are, and if it pays off I can send care packages to Fort Knox.-Hey, it's not as if I couldn't earn more.-You sound like Roxy. If I hear you say 'at your age' one more time, I'm gonna cut off your Coors. Quit wqrrying. It's my money and my risk, and I'm gonna take 'em both. Jeez," he finished, exasperated.

  Chip made amends and promised another fax before he arrived. Lovett replaced the phone, put both elbows on his desk, and buried his face in his hands. Maybe the kid's right, he thought. What had Reventio said?

  Men half their ages would be challenged. Most people would conclude that anyone in his sixties, converting most of his assets to cash for a treasure hunt into the Pacific, was crazy as a druggie's lab rat. All undeniably true. And yet... And yet it was all coming together; seemed to be coming together, anyhow. Reventlo's UPS parcel full of charts had filled in a few blanks, including a little squiggle representing dirt with a name and a location that almost exactly matched Elmo's coordinates.

  Melanie Benteen hadn't been idle either. Her Laguna Niguel address was near Laguna Reach, not exactly a low-rent district, so if she managed to lease her place on good terms as she hoped, maybe she could help with expenses. Meanwhile Mel was faxing information on Location X as fast as she could scribble notes from transoceanic phone calls.

  Lovett wondered if anyone could have guessed that location from her notes, now in his possession. The tropical or subtropical Pacific was easy to guess, which narrowed it down to only ten million square miles or so. Narrow it further to accommodate Mel's data on Japanese occupation during the '40s, and you still had a million square miles to scan. Those charts from Reventlo, plus faxes from Chip, would have given too much away, which is why Wade Lovett kept the whole sheaf in a battered attache case, within sight at all times.