The Spirit of Steamboat

by Craig Johnson

  Dumbfounded, she swung her head around to look at him.

  Lucian roared. “Help me hold ’em, damn it, full brakes!” Julie did as she’d been ordered, and then he turned and looked back at me. “And why aren’t you pumping that handle? My hydraulic pressure is dropping!”

  I began pumping like a madman. “Lucian, what are you planning on doing?”

  The black brows crowded over those mahogany eyes and studied the darkness ahead and found it wanting, his voice low. “You don’t have to yell, I can hear you through the microphone—it’s voice-activated.”

  “What are you doing?” This time I whispered.

  Static. “Raider LC, there’s no way that heap will clear the terminal building.”

  I watched as he reached up and pulled the headset cord from the panel, letting it fall into his lap, Rick’s voice still pleading in my earphones. Static. “Lucian, you’re going to kill them all. There’s no way in these conditions that you’re going to get the altitude you need to make it over this building. Hell, you’re going to kill us, too!”

  The hand with a grip I’d seen crack walnuts reached down and slowly ran up the throttles on both engines, the force of them shifting the weight of the entire aircraft forward. The pitch seemed ready to throw the pistons through the supercharged cylinder heads when Lucian leaned in center and yelled in Julie’s face, “When I release these throttles with my right hand, you grab them and hold them all the way forward while I grab the yoke and take us up. We’re going to need every bridled horse this old nag’s got—you read me?”

  She nodded and then turned to look at my widened eyes with hers.

  Lucian gestured toward his missing left leg. “Run the pedals and hold some right rudder pressure to counter the left torque of the propellers; I’ll do the flying, you just keep it pointed down the runway!” He nodded, as if remembering something else. “If we lose an engine, shut the other one down—at least that way we crash straight.” He laughed. “It’s been known to happen with this cayuse!”

  I tried reason one more time, reaching up and tapping his leather-clad arm. “Lucian?”

  He ignored me and, pulling his hat down tighter, cracked his gum and gestured toward the control. “Release brakes!”

  Julie turned, looked at him for a split moment, and did as she was told; Steamboat jumped forward kicking slightly sideways as if the chute gate at a rodeo had just been opened. Lucian compensated by leading with the left throttle to equalize any unbalanced propeller thrust before turning them over to Julie as we rushed forward. His hand gently pulled left on the yoke as the gusts grew stronger, and I watched as his shoulders gathered with the exertion.

  I rose up a little in my seat and could see the lights of the terminal growing rapidly closer, Rick’s voice still coming through my headset. Static. “Raider Lima Charlie, you need to shut the engines down on that thing right now!”

  The brim of his cowboy hat diverted to Julie for only a second, and he winked as he released the throttles and moved his hand away as his copilot strained with both of hers to push the levers forward. Gripping the wheel of the medium bomber, Lucian compensated even further, turning left.

  I couldn’t help but drop the mic from my mouth and yell, “Is it the wind?”

  His right cheek bunched in a smile as he growled, “What wind?”

  I shook my head, but my attention was drawn to the windshield and the looming vision of the concrete-block building that was bearing down on us—it looked to me as if we were going to barrel right into it. I glanced at Julie, figuring her experience in these types of things was far superior to mine, but her reaction did not inspire confidence.

  Our copilot was still pressing the throttles forward, but her body was involuntarily leaning back in an attempt to avoid the oncoming crash.

  Rick’s voice continued to plead in my ears. Static. “Lucian!”

  I looked up again, and I could see the old Doolittle Raider’s lips moving as he counted off the snow-covered yards. He had been a pain in my ass at almost every turn since he’d hired me as a deputy, but things had escalated when he’d half-heartedly run against me, doing almost anything he could to sabotage his own campaign—looking distracted and disinterested during the debates, going out of his way to insult the different social organizations, and even publicly supporting me in an interview in the Durant Courant.

  Static. “Raider LC, you need to abort!”

  I’d won in a landslide, and when Lucian decided to leave his ancestral ranch house and more than ten thousand acres to take up residency at the Durant Home for Assisted Living, I had felt sorry for him. With his influence dead and his poker friends dying, I proposed the idea that I play chess with him on Tuesday nights at the home, but with the responsibilities of the new job, a marriage, and a child, I hadn’t played a single game with him yet.

  He had been drinking more and still played poker occasionally—there was even talk of a tryst with a woman on Thursday afternoons at the Euskadi Hotel, where I had abducted him from the bar what already seemed like a hundred years ago.

  Static. “Lucian!”

  Even before his retirement, he had obtained the reputation of something past its time—something dangerous, like a gunfighter that Absaroka County and Durant had needed but, now that all the bad guys were gone, didn’t anymore. Displaced and discarded.

  But there he sat with all the muscle his three limbs could muster, flying an ancient airplane into the storm of the century for the sake of a small wounded girl.

  “We’re not going to make it.” Julie’s voice was high and strained through the earphones, but I could hear it as if it were my own thoughts.

  Through the windshield, the blurred image of the terminal building’s two stories topped with a tiny observation tower and its surrounding chain-link fence flew toward us in what seemed to be a bizarre game of chicken with the big Mitchell.

  ”We only had four hundred and sixty-seven feet on the Hornet when we flew the raid!” Lucian was yelling over the noise now, but his voice was strong and steady.

  I noticed that Julie had pulled back off the throttles as her sense of self-preservation caused her to lean even farther back from the impending crash, so I reached up, placed my hand over hers, and forced the levers to full as the Cyclone engine superchargers screamed. I felt a slight bump as the nose of the B-25 lifted and watched as Lucian released some of the pressure on the yoke but then abruptly yanked to the left with a sudden gust and then slowly pulled back, like Atlas, lifting the world.

  “Hell, I took one off in less than three hundred feet in training!”

  I could feel the friction of the tires leaving the snow and the sudden rush of flight, but the second story of the terminal and, more important, the tiny observation shack that sat on top still towered over us.

  Lucian pulled the yoke back even more and with the next blast from the arctic front veered Steamboat into a turn that must’ve clipped something on the right wingtip. The Mitchell shuddered for only a second and then flew over the parking lot, where under the illuminated globes of the dusk-to-dawn lights I could see everyone standing on the tarmac; I guess they all had evacuated the terminal.

  I didn’t blame them one damn bit.

  The crazy bastard even laughed. “Room to spare!” The big bird righted as Lucian instructed Julie to apply pressure to the left rudder control to compensate for his missing leg as another gust hammered the back of the bomber in an attempt to send us over the edge of the plateau into the city dump.

  “Gotta get this dirty bird cleaned up.” Lucian strained as he commanded Julie to raise the landing gear and looked back at me. “Are you pumping that handle?”

  I yanked my hand off the throttle as Julie raised the gear and replaced me. I began jacking the lever for all it was worth as the old sheriff steered us in a tight turn, away from the glow of the small valley where the streetlights shone a ribbon of diffused gold against the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains. I could feel the first flip of my stomach as
the B-25 shuddered with the winds coming over those mountains like long, icy tendrils grabbing for our controls.

  We dropped a bit as we came off the plateau above town, and Julie raised the flaps. We blew over the well-lit haze of Main Street only feet above the three-story buildings, and dragged a vortex of powdery snow down the main drag like a tidal wave, rattling the windows of the Euskadi Bar.

  I rose up as high as my harness would allow and looked through the side window as Steamboat banked and climbed over the plateau above Durant, the thundering, radial engines hammering the cold air like drumming hooves. The ghostly horse bucked, weaved, and then righted itself over the junkyard, its cars, abandoned refrigerators, and washers and dryers cluttering the snowy hillside to the east of town.

  As we accelerated and climbed into the clouds, I could vaguely make out Rick’s send-off in my headphones—evidently he was the only one who hadn’t joined the others in the parking lot and given up the ship. Static. “Godspeed, Raider Lima Charlie.”

  Glancing up at the gold bucking horse, with his beads and bell still hanging from the yellow frame of the escape hatch, I watched as they clattered together knowing they were making a sound but so small it would never be heard above the racket of the engines. Reaching up, I steadied the swinging charm and thought about the dump where the great horse had been finally and ignobly laid to rest—and was just glad we hadn’t followed him.

  Static. “And Godspeed, Steamboat.”

  We were still climbing, and I watched my breath fog my words. “Is there really heat in this thing?”

  “Some.” Lucian, having reattached his headphones, laughed. “There must be some of those bird’s nests still in the intake of the cabin heater. Good thing the carburetor heat is working, though, ’cause we might be running into some ice south of here. So far it’s too cold to stick.”

  I’d been able to button my coat over my coveralls with my free hand, but my arm was aching from pumping the damned red handle. “How long is it going to take to get to Stapleton?”

  The old Raider stared at the instruments and reached up to tap the gauge. He paused for a moment and then fumbled his bifocals from the pocket of the coveralls that he wore underneath the leather jacket he must’ve acquired from his locker. He slipped on the prescription glasses and tapped the small, black gauge again, as if getting its attention.

  Lucian gradually started to level off Steamboat. “We’re almost to thirteen thousand feet; I’d be truly amazed if this Dodo bird got up to two hundred fifty miles an hour true airspeed, even with the tailwind we got runnin’ up our ass. I’m bettin’ we’re gonna get maybe two hundred thirty-six knots out of her.”

  I looked at the gauge and rubbed my sore arm. “So, it’s not doing two fifty?” The distance on the wall planning chart next to Rick’s office showed 285 miles to Denver; at 250 it would only take us barely over an hour.

  Lucian cast a black, glimmering eye back at me and then, tossing a thumb my way, grinned at Julie. “Marine.”

  Pulling a whiz wheel out of her backpack and running the numbers, Julie smiled, pitying the poor ground troop. “Two hundred eighty-five nautical miles, Walt; the distance is actually three hundred twenty-eight statute miles to Denver. The conversion is one point fifteen mph to a knot, and according to Lucian’s estimate we’re doing two hundred thirty-six nautical miles an hour.” She glanced at the old, bold pilot, then at her whiz wheel. “Um . . . two hundred and seventy mph?”

  He nodded. “Two hundred and seventy-two, Toots.”

  I interrupted the love fest. “So, how long to Denver?”

  Turning back to the instrument panel, he surveyed his domain. “Why, your arm getting tired?”

  “Yep.”

  “You can stop.”

  I continued pumping. “I don’t want to crash.”

  “Well, you can stop; we’re good on hydraulic pressure with the gear and flaps up till we have to land. You’re going to feel like you flew down there flappin’ one arm if you have to do that the whole way.” I felt the rattletrap settle and the nose drop as he eased off the throttle and trimmed the aircraft in a heading due south. “I’m leveling us off at thirteen thousand and setting the engines into an economic cruising speed . . .”

  I held up my other hand. “Wait. Did you just say thirteen thousand feet?”

  “I did.” He smiled. “It’s the only way we can fly direct and clear Laramie Peak. Why, you got a problem with that?”

  The radio headset crackled to life in all our heads.

  Static. “NOVEMBER 4030 Lima Charlie—Salt Lake City Center—say your position and confirm your destination.”

  Lucian keyed his mic. “Roger Salt Lake—Raider NOVEMBER 4030 Lima Charlie—we are a LIFEGUARD flight southbound from Durant, Wyoming, at thirteen thousand, on the CRAZY WOMAN three-one-nine radial, five north en-route Stapleton.”

  Static. “Raider 4030 Lima Charlie—Salt Lake—no radar contact, recycle transponder.”

  The old sheriff laughed a knowing look at his copilot. “Salt Lake—LIFEGUARD Raider Lima Charlie—unless you’ve got radar that can pick me up without a transponder, you aren’t going to pick me up at all.”

  There was a long pause.

  Static. “Raider Lima Charlie, are you saying that you are not transponder equipped?”

  “Roger that, Salt Lake.”

  “Raider Lima Charlie—Salt Lake—say your estimate for Stapleton airport.”

  He slipped what looked like an old pocket watch from the hand warmer of the A2 flight jacket and keyed his mic again. “Son, I really don’t have any choice but to do it the old-fashioned way. This plane I’m flying has me and an old Elgin Type A8 stopwatch; trust me, that’ll get the job done. Estimating Stapleton at time 0630 ZULU and don’t forget, we are LIFEGUARD and request priority handling.”

  There was an even longer pause.

  Static. “Raider Lima Charlie—Salt Lake—we don’t seem to have you registered in any of our books, confirm you are a vintage aircraft?”

  The old sheriff smiled. “Salt Lake—Raider Lima Charlie—we are flying Steamboat, a magnificently restored Mitchell, VB-25J medium bomber, actually the VIP aircraft used by Dwight D. Eisenhower during the Normandy invasion, brilliant, polished aluminum in color.”

  I glanced around at the cracked and glazed windows, candy wrappers, cigarette butts, and general detritus on the floor, along with the gaps in the fuselage that felt as if they were channeling the freezing wind in and through us, and tried not to laugh out loud.

  Lucian cupped a hand over his mic and winked at Julie and me. “What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.”

  The disembodied voice crackled through our headsets again. Static. “And this is a medical emergency flight?”

  The old sheriff took his hand away. “Roger that, Salt Lake.”

  Static. “Well, you’re Denver Center’s problem here in about three minutes, not that they’ll know it if you’re without radar contact or flying in the treetops . . .”

  Lucian keyed the mic and glanced at Julie in apology for the old joke. “Son, haven’t you heard about Wyoming? Why, there’s a good-looking woman behind every tree . . . There just aren’t any trees.”

  Static. “Raider Lima Charlie, we’ve got reports of heavy weather in your vicinity—can you confirm?”

  Turbulence rocked the plane like a washing machine again, and Lucian swore but then calmed his on-air voice with a bit of sarcasm. “Salt Lake—clear as a bell where we are right now.”

  Static. “Raider Lima Charlie—Salt Lake—will advise Denver Center of your status, Contact Denver Center on ONE THREE FIVE DECIMAL SIX.”

  “Roger that, signing off.” Our pilot turned and addressed the crew. “Not much of a sense of humor, huh?”

  “Me, either, at the moment.” I rested my hand but left it on the lever, just in case he changed his mind. “So, how long is it going to take?”

  “’Bout an hour and twenty minutes. Hell, we’re liable to be there before midnight if ou
r luck holds.” He brought up his wristwatch and studied it. “Merry Christmas.”

  I unbuckled my harness and stood up, expecting to see the rolling, snow-covered hills of northern Wyoming. “I can’t see a thing—it’s pitch black out there. You sure you know where we are?”

  “Relatively speaking, right now according to our only VOR navigation radio, we are almost between Powder Junction to the west and the Pumpkin Buttes to the east, but the reception is very weak, and I wouldn’t bet on how long it holds out.”

  “I feel so much better.”

  He gestured toward the lever. “I’ll let you know when you need to get your exercise again.” I eased back into the tiny seat, flexed my bicep, and slipped on my gloves as he continued talking over his shoulder. “Not to make you feel worse, but we’re picking up some ice.” He pulled an old military flashlight from a holder, hit the switch, and then banged it on the instrument panel until it gave out with a yellowish beam. He shone it onto the left engine. “That motor is running rough—the carburetor heat must not be fully working on number one. Because we’re not pressurized, we can’t climb out of it—we have no crew oxygen. Our course puts Laramie Peak below us somewhere right off our nose, so if the icing gets worse we’re going to have to change to the east and descend.” He glanced through the windshield into the rapidly passing night. “That’ll cost us time and fuel.”

  I smoothed my mustache and could feel some ice building up on it. Suddenly I heard a loud bang, followed by several more—something was hitting the side of Steamboat’s fuselage. “What the hell is that?”

  “Ice slinging off the props.” He sat up a little more and looked through the windshield with his flashlight again. “In daylight we could follow I-25 as long as it stayed black, but that’s academic since it’s night, and with them closing the roads it’ll start piling up with snow or the scud would shut us out, and we’d still have to rely on radio navigation, and without the old iron compass and my A8, we’d be FUBAR. You know what that means, right?”