Flying to Pieces

by Dean Ing

  Without explanation, they passed the remainder of their stowed goods out to Pilau's men to be stored in a maintenance shed, then closed the plane up again. Pilau's last stop was the shed where everything, including the APU and its much abused cart, was removed. Handshakes and smiles all around, and then the two crews went their separate ways.

  Though the others gorged on the lobby buffet, Crispin Reventlo drank only coconut milk and jotted notes as they talked softly. "I'm more wakeful on an empty stomach, and tonight I'll be a crew of one," he told them.

  "You could wait and launch at first light," Lovett suggested." Not my style," said the Brit, with a romantic old-bold lopsided grin for the attentive Melanie Benteen. "I intend to be refueling on Yap or Koror before double-ought-dark-diirty. Wherever I am, I'll no longer be worrying about whether a certain largish Fundaboran gentleman wants to interfere. Then it's on to Darwin by noon. I know there's secure storage there.

  "Don't forget batteries; aircraft quality," Coop said.

  "Duly noted," Reventlo assured him. "And a trunk load of those sleazy videos," from Benteen, and a few cases of cheap booze, for His Nibs down the hall." A nod.

  "And the medicine Keikano wanted," Chip said. "The blood-pressure stuff, too."

  "Look here," Reventlo said. "I haven't forgotten a jot or a little, any of it. Perhaps you nice people can help me think of things like fuel octane additives, battery acid, an inverter to recharge Chip's computer, a drum of aircraft cable, hand torch batteries, a water purifier-things of that sort."

  They settled down then, able to think of little that Revendo did not already have on his list. Finally, when their mental batteries had flagged, Myles said slowly, "Maybe a cheap little Polaroid flash setup, Cris."

  "What's buggered with yours then," Reventlo asked.

  "Nothing. I'm thinking of something disposable I can stash where it can't be found, that might show us for certain who's our little hiend at the cave."

  "If it's a tripwire, he can follow it to the camera," Chip said.

  "Not if it's done right. Just do it, Cris."

  "Good on you. That's the kind of thinking I like," said the Brit, scribbling again.

  "And a fax machine," said Chip, "and Fritos."

  Coop brightened. "Fritos! The old-fashioned kind, and beer. Jesus God, how I miss-"

  "I believe we've come to birthday lists now," Reventlo interrupted, his hand up to stem the tide. "I'll try, but please remember that I'll be busy enough merely locating some kind of hull that might, with prayer and fasting, make it to Fundabora. Oh, and when you see anything on the horizon, in air or afloat, try your comm gear. It may be me."

  Lovett and Coop accompanied the Brit to the plane in darkness, leaving the others to present a business-as-usual appearance. After a shamefully inadequate preflight inspection and a more careful check of the cargo lashings, the men scrambled about removing wheel chocks with only a flashlight. Soon they were treated to the familiar homey sounds of one C-47 engine cranking over, then a second. It made a hell of a racket but no Fundaboran conu-nittee came rushing out, and five minutes later Reventlo advanced his throttles, landing lights throwing the sandy beach approaches into sharp relief. The tide was out, giving Reventlo a broad, gently sloped runway. Lovett did not realize his fingers had been

  'crossed until he uncrossed them, watching a huge shape ascend eastward before banking in a graceful arc toward the south to disappear into blackness.

  "Now I can die happy," Coop said in a choked voice, when' all they could hear was the surf.

  Lovett agreed for form's sake, but he felt a curious sense of detachment as they walked back toward rectangles of lwnplight in the distance. Now, if Crispin Reventlo didn't fall asleep, or ditch in a million square miles of Pacific, whatever else might happen they had earned themselves a footnote in aero lore, recovering a valuable piece of equipment buried in a cave for half a century. There was a term for that: they had demonstrated proof of principle.

  Yet somehow, his sense of accomplishment fell short of elation. This was only Round One; there remained the problems of getting the planes out intact, loading them onto some seaworthy craft, and bringing them to a modern hangar.. And all of this while someone was trying to sabotage everything they'd worked for. 22:

  There is no way you can sneak a C-47 into the air. As Lovett and Coop Gunther walked into the lobby they found Jean-Claude Pelele, barefoot in what could only be described as a skirt of circus-tent dimensions, asking the other crew members about the hellacious racket outside. He scanned the newcomers' faces and fell silent. After a moment, when it became obvious that Reventlo was the missing man, the big fellow spoke.

  "Ol' Cris he fightim aero canoe cross salwater no takim youfella.

  Wichway?"

  Lovett knew by now that "wichway" meant "why." The huge Fundaboran showed no irritation, but that might mean nothing. He was probably capable of wringing a man's neck, smiling all the while. "Cris went for more supplies, Jean Claude. He told us to keep working until he returns with hat we need to repair the machines." As Benteen began to help translate bits of this, Lovett donated a big smile and added,

  "Medicines, too, and a lot of boy-girl movies; everything you wanted him to bring."

  From Jean-Claude's quick change of expression, it seemed that he understood more standard English than he spoke. He also understood, probably from Pilau's report, that Reventlo had taken off carrying some machine from the jungle. Wich way?

  Because, said Lovett, they had found it and brought it from underground, in accord with their agreement. That, he said, was wichway ol' Cris was flying off-to repay Fundabora as agreed. Pressed for details, Lovett finally conveyed the main ideas: they had found old machines underground. Some they hoped to sell elsewhere; some could best be used right here by Jean-Claude's own people, and instead of flying off with them Reventlo had donated them. Pilau had already brought some of those machines to the nearby sheds. Would Jeanclaude like to see them sometime?

  Indeed he would; his phrase, a startling addition to traditional pidgin, was vintage militarese: "fuckin' A, John." Lovett's intuition said that this was in the nature of a veiled challenge. And Jean-Claude would like to see them right now. Did he mean right now, tonight? In his reply, Jean-Claude again referred to naughty John.

  The visit to the shed was so informal that Jean-Claude disdained his bearers, walking with Lovett, Coop, and Benteen who all carried flashlights. The big shed was cool now, the Cushmans ranked together except for the one that stood propped, awaiting repairs. Coop immediately excused himself and began to rifle through the supplies they'd off-loaded. "Looking for that silver dope," he said. Fabric and its necessary paint "dope" had been among Lovett's supplies, in case the C-47's fabric-covered control surfaces became damaged.

  Jean-Claude Pelele became a lot less suspicious when Lovett showed off the APU and the cart. "This engine generates electricity so we can start the Letoumeau. Explain that, Benteen."

  She did, saying small machine drink bum water made lightning, by and by made bigbig machine work. If Jean-Claude harbored any doubts that the generator had come from underground, he kept them to himself. Probably, Lovett decided, the big man did not think in those ten-ns.

  Presently the sweet tang of aircraft dope made Jean-Claude sniff in appreciation. Was it, he asked hopefuly, something to eat? Or better still, to drink?

  Lovett turned his flash beam on Coop, who was carefully painting circles on the old Cushman merely to have something to do while entertaining this mountain of a man. The smell, he told Benteen to say, was merely paint. Nogoodim drink; allsame good to paint evil machine. Wichway, asked Jean-Claude, was the limper putting little full moons on the pootpoot machine?

  When Lovett told him of Merizo's order, the shed echoed with the headman's guffaw. That was really stupid, Benteen translated, when everybody knew all of the pootpoots hated Merizo. He had a history of trying to ride them; trying, and ending up beneath them, or hurled off.

  But if he wanted
moons on this one, he should have them. As for Jean-Claude: give him the bigbig machineary day.

  It would certainly belong to Fundabora, Benteen translated, when they left, No, the big man explained, he wanted to learn to drive the thing!

  At this, Benteen's eyes widened and Lovett knew what she was seeing in her mind's eye: Jean-Claude thundering around the island at top speed in this multiton velocipede, a brontosaurus on wheels. The mind simply boggled at the idea; it would take three of the council house merely to contain the walking wounded.

  Coop explained that the Letoumeau would have to be modified for an operator of Jean-Claude's heroic size, but he would think on it. Perhaps something could be arranged but first the great machine must be made to work properly. And if it did not like its operator, he said, it might grow angry.

  Jean-Claude announced that he was not afraid of any machine alive, meanwhile thoughtfully sidling away from the Letoumeau. Then he changed the subject, and Lovett was compelled to list the items Reventlo had promised to seek for the island. Finally satisfied, Jean-Claude decided he had spent enough time in the shed and marched them back to the council house. Benteen declined an invitation to visit his quarters, climbing the lobby stairs with her menfolk.

  The five crew members, feeling like castaways, met in Lovett's room to confer, heads close, in tones near whispering. "I know what you're feeling," Benteen confided early on. "Me, too; it's like our ship came in, and then sailed without us." 'Part of the job," shrugged Coop, a man who was used to being alone.

  Lovett nodded, knowing that they must not continue to focus on this new sense of vulnerability when they were vulnerable on other fronts as well. "Poor pitiful us, marooned with our treasure cave on an island paradise. Well, we can sit around fretting as if we'd just n-tissed the last rowboat out of bell-or we can get on with it like sensible folks."

  As he spoke, he was tearing little streamers from notepaper.

  Myles said, "Right now I'm for a swig of scotch. Be with you tomorrow, bright and early."

  "Or maybe tonight, dim and late," Lovett replied, holding up one fist so they could see the I tips of the paper streamers protruding.

  Myles: "What's that for-oh, hell. I think I know.,, Chip: "I sure don't, Pop."

  "Sentry duty at the cave. Whoever draws the shortest piece stays there tonight, and so on." He saw their dejection and went on, "Look, I don't like it any better than you do but we know it's got to be done unless we want to get snookered again some night. I'll take the piece that's left since I know which is shortest. What could be fairer?"

  Reluctantly, they consented, Myles studying Lovett's face for long moments before he made the first choice, as though it were a poker game.

  Chip took the next piece, then Benteen, and finally Coop, leaving Lovett to display his own. To Lovett's dismay, Chip drew the shortest streamer.

  "He gonna go by Cushman and warn ever'body away, or hoof it and maybe catch the bastard? There's arguments for both ways," said Coop.

  I can walk," said Chip, fetching a bedroll. "If you don't mind, Mr.

  Myles, I'm borrowing your flash camera." No one seemed to care any longer that they weren't keeping their voices down.

  He wants to catch the guy in the act, Lovett thought, just as I do. Then the implications of that flooded in. If Jeanclaude was listening and understanding, the hell with it. "Let's think about what you could be walking into, Chip. Without a weapon-"

  "You mean like this?" Myles drew that horse-choking.45 of his, handed it to Chip. "You were saying, Lovett?"

  "Even with a weapon," Lovett plodded on desperately, we're asking a lot from a kia seventeen-year-old. Maybe I should take the first night."

  "Don't do this, Pop," said the youth, working the automatic's slide, his face dark.

  "You don't know what could happen, Chip," his grandfather pleaded.

  "Nobody does. And if it's who some people think,,it's more my job than anybody's," Chip said stubbornly, doing a great imitation of Vic Myles as he thrust the weapon between his belt and the small of his back.

  But his words instantly gave Myles second thoughts. "Oh, yeah. Well now, come to think of it, maybe that makes you the only one of us that shouldn't go."

  When Chip stood fully erect, as he did now, he was taller than any of them. "But I am going, and right now before I let my big grommy mouth get me in trouble."

  "Chip, it's not just the possible danger," said Lovett in one final rhetorical plunge. "Packing that damned forty-five makes it a huge responsibility."

  "I know it," said the youth, pausing on his way to the door with a secret smile. His little secret did not last long. "How old were you when you first had to make a decision about somebody else's life, Pop?"

  He waited three beats as Lovett hesitated. "Sixteen, you said," Chip went on; "the guy hot-wiring the family car, and yoft threw down on him.

  Remember? How about you, Mr. Gunther?"

  "Uh-fifteen," said Coop. "Crazy-drunk Klinkit backed my mom into the pantry. Well, he asked," Coop added to Lovett.

  "Huh. I'm off to a late start, wouldn't you say?" And with that, Chip shouldered his bedroll, pocketing a transceiver and flashlight as he went. , They heard his footsteps on the stairs. "Kid knows his mind,"

  Coop said gently.

  "Never, never tell your grandkid stories of derring-don't about your own youth," Lovett said with a helpless chuckle. "Was that true about you and the Indian?"

  "Yep. Lots of Klinkits are better men than most. That wasn't one of 'em.

  What I didn't tell Chip was, I sure 'enough shot the sooofabitch." So how'd it feel to kill someone at fifteen?"

  "Right and proper, at the time. Guess you had to be there. Didn't kill him, actually; just laid him up. But I was trying, Wade. They gave me credit for that. Hey, relax; Chip will be okdy. Sooner or later you've got to let go. And anyway, us old guys don't always have the best answer, we just try to tell the young ones we do. Well, don't we?" To this unpleasant truth, Lovett had no reply.

  Myles heaved a long sigh and headed to the door. "I'm having that drink, Coop. Coming?"

  The old man stood up, nodded, and stumped out leaving Mel Benteen alone with Lovett.

  "He was his own man before this, Wade," said Benteen, watching him move about the room. "You're doing the right thing-by the way, what are you doing?"

  "Looking for my machete. Got my little Maglite and netting already."

  They were talking in senfiwhispers again.

  "You wouldn't," she said, smiling sadly.

  "Spend a night as Chip's backup? Damn right I would, Mel. He doesn't have to know it."

  She began to laugh, a low throaty chortle, head thrown back to yield a fetching profile in lamplight. "And here I thought we could go to my room, talk, share some Drambuie I haven't told anybody about. You could tell me that story about the car thief when you were sixteen."

  Lovett paused in astonishment, and said something stupid. "Cris Reventlo is my friend. Would he approve?"

  "Absolutely not, but it's not his Drambuie, or his business."

  "You mean you two haven't been, uh-"

  She sat down on his bed and faced him squarely, honestly. "That's not your business, but since you ask, yes. Once. Oh, Crispin Reventio is a charmer but the English, I have to tell you, seem to be more about style than substance. More power to them, I guess. Far more." And she sniiled again. "He's still a good man, an old bold pilot worthy of my dad, a man I'm glad to know."

  "Just not in the biblical sense, hm," Lovett joshed.

  She became serious now. "Is it necessary for me to ask you not to repeat any of this, Wade? Are you that kind of good old boy?"

  Lovett knelt, putting their heads on a level, and took her hands in his.

  "Wild unicorns couldn't drag any of this out of me, Melanie-great name, lovely name, by the way." He searched her gaze. "Suits you. And if my only grandson weren't ten minutes ahead of me in a jungle that hides a goddanmed saboteur, I'd already be sharing your Drambuie." And
he stood up, knees popping like Rice Krispies.

  "I'm definitely slipping," she replied with good humor, and followed him as far as the stairs. In answer, he shook his head and threw her an appreciative wink.

  He followed the C-47's tire tracks down the beach until they disappeared, then stumbled inland to the perimeter road. On Fundabora, no haze interrupted the hard points of starlight that defined the path they'd hacked out and Lovett moved slowly to avoid noise. He half-expected to see errant beams from Chip's flashlight from the openings they'd-made as he chose a recently felled sapling as a seat, very near the lower entry hole. Perhaps, he thought, Chip hadn't reached the cave yet. Then, only minutes after he pulled his netting noiselessly down over his body, he heard a soft thud from inside, and an irritable, "Ow, shit a fuzzy brick." One of Lovett's own expressions.

  Then another sound, between a hiss and a whistle. A moment of silence, followed by one word. It could have been "Chip," with a questioning inflection. Lovett stood quickly and moved to the tunnellike hole.

  An actinic burst of light caromed from inside. "Gotcha, damnit," Chip called. "Is it Kei? Don't you move; you hear me?"

  "My eyes," came the unmistakable voice of Keikano. Lovett felt much the same way, his night-vision temporarily zapped by that little flash unit.

  "Should've kept one of em closed like I did." With that, an ordinary flash beam winked on, flicking across the aircraft. Lovett saw the beam stabilize on one of the Tojos where little Keikano sat leaning back against its fuselage, legs stretched out along the wing. "Don't move,"

  Chip said again, and walked to the Tojo. Lovett could barely make out Chip's movement as the youth dirust his borrowed weapon from sight. In a voice Lovett had rarely heard from his grandson, Chip rumbled, "You've got some explaining to do to us, pal." Lovett could not explain why a wave of relief flooded him then.

  Shading his eyes in the flash beam, Keikano swung sandared feet over the wing's leading edge. Chip dropped the beam a bit. "Let me see your hands, Kei."

  A show of hands, open and empty. "I cannot hurt you, Chip. I would not."