Air Force Eagles (58 page)

His warm eyes were penetrating, comforting. "I've noticed you in the audience, both days, taking notes." His hand touched her arm and she felt a current flow. "You won't be depriving yourself, now, will you? That's a great deal of money. And what will your husband say? John, isn't it? John the Pilot."

*

Little Rock, Arkansas/August 17, 1957

Stan Coleman had not had much to laugh about in the preceding months; he stood at the doorway of the decrepit Twin Beech, chortling with pleasure.

"Fitz, you're a sight for sore eyes. Where the hell have you been, what have you been doing? And where the hell did you get this dog?"

Fitzpatrick, balding and haggard-looking, his flight suit stained with too much sweat and too many sandwiches en route, eased his way out of the oval entrance. "After our unscheduled departure from Frederick, I went into the freight business with a couple of guys. We bought two C-47s and two C-45s. Trouble was there were five hundred other guys out there trying to do the same thing. When we ran out of rent money, we divvied up the airplanes. I flew down to see if you had anything I could do here."

"Hell yes, man, the governor's special liaison officer to the Arkansas National Guard and Air National Guard deserves his own plane and pilot—you're the man."

"Think they'll let me back in the service? They weren't too happy when I left."

"Don't sweat it—the governor's word is law, and he'll be proud to bring you on. You can fly him around, too."

Fitz pulled two B-4 bags out of the doorway. "Stan, this airplane and these two bags are all I got in the world. You're going to have to advance me some dough and find a place I can hangar this dude."

Fitz arched his back, stretching his arms. "Sounds good, Stan, but no more double-entry bookkeeping, huh? I got a bellyful of that at Frederick."

"Fitz, old man, that was nothing; wait till you see what we got cooking here. You're going to love it."

Ten days later both Fitz and the C-45 had undergone a transformation. He was outfitted in a lieutenant colonel's uniform, complete with the aiguillette of a general's personal aide, and quartered in renovated farm building less than a mile from the hangar where his Beechcraft had been completely overhauled and painted.

"Stan, you guys are miracle workers. New fabric, new instrument panel, more radios than RCA—you've really made something out of this dude. But is it legal to have it painted like it was a real Guard airplane?"

"It
is
a real Guard airplane, until you decide to leave, anyway. But I'm not going to let you do that. We've got a crisis coming, and I'll want to use this bird as an aerial command post. That's why I've got so many radios—need to talk to the Guard, the Air Guard, the police, the Klan, everybody."

"You think the colored people are going to cause trouble?" "They better, we're counting on it. Let me rephrase that. Yes, the niggers are going to cause trouble, and we're going to stop them."

***

Chapter 14

Salinas, California/September 7, 1957

The three men shared the newspaper with its headlines about the evolving school crisis in Little Rock—the governor turning the schoolchildren away with the National Guard; the mobs chanting hatred at the students, pretty little kids, all nine of them.

Hadley glowered at Bandfield and said, "Well, how cockamamie is this? Is this a good time for us to go on our Southern tour with John here being a Negro? Don't you think it will be dangerous for him? And bad for business besides?"

Bandfield looked at his old friend, appalled. Hadley had embarrassed him in a hundred places over the years, with customers and bosses, women and children, friend and foe; he'd never made him feel as bad as he did at that moment.

He turned to Marshall. "Bones, I'm sorry. Hadley gets carried away. He doesn't mean anything."

Marshall shook his head. "Hell, I know that. Hadley hasn't got a mean bone in his body, nor a tactful one. He's just trying to figure out what's best for all of us, and maybe he's right. What's our route?"

Bandfield pulled out a folded paper, scanned it, and read, "Phoenix, then Albuquerque, Dallas, Shreveport, Montgomery, Atlanta, Nashville, and Memphis. If we can make any other appointments along the way, we will."

"Well, we'll be okay probably till we get to Shreveport. I've been into Love Field at Dallas lots of times; they know me there, it won't be a problem. But from Shreveport on, they're not likely to take kindly to me with what's going on in Little Rock. Why don't you go on without me?"

Roget, abashed, said, "Hell, you're our chief water-bombardier. Maybe we just ought to cancel."

Bandfield waved his arms. "The hell we will. We've got half a million dollars tied up in inventory; if we don't sell a few airplanes this trip, we'll have to drop the whole water-bomber deal, and then where would Bones be?"

Marshall thought for a moment about his old comrade in arms, Jellybutt Walker, and how he used to get him out of scrapes at Tuskegee. Aware that Roget now felt bad, he nodded. "Listen, I've been down in Dixie before, at flight school, and lately, flying the big-wig Blacks around. I know how to shuffle and drink out of the right fountains, don't worry about me."

Hadley grinned, relieved at the way things had turned out. "Well, we got the barrels of dye all loaded, the airplanes are ready. What the hell are we waiting for?"

"Okay, we'll launch tomorrow."

*

Frederick Air Force Base, California/
September 17, 1957

The clouds were slung like a hammock between the mountain ranges, dark but unthreatening, perfect for what he had to do. Josten had drawn the shades on the front windows and now turned to look at her. Even with her hair short she was as beautiful as always. Lyra was graying slightly; that appealed to him, made her more vulnerable. She stood with her long tapering hands on Ulrich's shoulders. His son's shoulders. Their son.

Lyra forced herself to look him in the eyes, trying not to show fear or disgust at his livid scars, more prominent where his uninjured flesh had tanned. Yet his manner was terrifying, as anxious and snappish as a birthing wolf.

"Please don't do this, Helmut, don't ruin everything for me, for the children, for yourself. What we had was wonderful, but it's over. There are the children to think about. Taking us is insane."

He jumped at every sound, moving constantly, his eyes gleaming like a guard dog's in their death-cave sockets, his tiny pupils tight discs of black. It was strange to see him dressed in the coarse denim overalls of a working man, a checkered handkerchief hanging from one pocket. She remembered him as he'd been, so many years ago, in his handsome Luftwaffe uniform, young, full of promise.

"Lyra, everything was ruined for me—ruined for us—when you deserted me with my son."

He spoke conversationally, as if he did not have his revolver pointed at Ulrich's head. Ulrich was near tears, his eyes wide.

"If you do as I tell you, no one will be harmed in the slightest. You will have a little vacation, that's all. At the end of it, I hope you'll want to stay with me. If you don't, you'll be free to leave; I'll arrange for you to fly back."

He ruffled Ulrich's hair with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson. "You're a fine big boy for thirteen, Ulrich. Your father's proud of you."

Ulrich looked at his mother, rolled his eyes and shrugged.

Lyra said, "We won't go. I can't leave my Gracie."

"Grade is welcome to come with us." He spoke of her as if she were an awkward stranger who'd invited herself to dinner. "But we must go now. If you don't come, at once, I'll kill all of us here—Gracie, too—in the next minute."

Ulrich fought back tears and Lyra's stomach convulsed. She threw up, quickly turning away to avoid soiling Ulrich.

"Clean yourself up, and then we're leaving. Don't try to do anything heroic."

He stood guarding her as she washed. She peered at him in the mirror, realizing that all her fears had materialized, that it was happening just as she feared. Helmut had come for her, as he always said he would, and he was totally insane. His eyes told her that he would kill them all if she refused. She had to go along with him, and wait for something to happen, some way to get word to someone for help. It was the nightmare of war all over again, the bombing, the train, the smell of death.

As always, their neighborhood was quiet; in the entire street, only one house had a light on. Josten herded them into the Pontiac he had rented and drove down Route 99 fifteen miles to where the bus was parked with the Cadillac. He'd selected three Storm Klanners, tough young guards from the local state prison, to come along, swearing them to secrecy, telling them that they were going to foil a Communist plot. They had been swept up by the glamour of it, ex-farmboys from Arkansas on a secret mission with this godlike creature, this Klan-Fuehrer. It was the high point of their lives and they willingly did everything he asked without question, enjoying the trip, relishing the baloney sandwiches they ate as they drove as much as they did the quick meals in the Stuckeys. There was satisfaction in obeying Josten's quick, harsh orders as they saw things they'd never dreamed of seeing in Pine Bluff.

With Lyra and the children secure in the living compartment of the bus, they drove cross-country without stopping, alternating drivers to keep pushing on. Josten hated to be gone during the building turmoil in Little Rock, but Coleman had told him that the showdown would not happen until at least the 23rd. It was the crisis that had made him decide to act; he might not have another chance. Riley being overseas made it mandatory to act.

Forty-eight hours after they'd left Frederick, they were in the refuge of the Klaven outside of Pine Bluff. He had his Lyra back at last.

*

Montgomery, Alabama/September 19, 1957

"I told you we should have brought some mechanics along."

Hadley Roget was grumbling as they buttoned up the cowling on the TBM. It was the third straight day that they'd had to change the front row of plugs, and they were getting sick of it. They had just sprawled in the shade under the wing when the line boy came running up. "You Mr. Bandfield? Your wife's on the line in the ops shack; she says it's urgent!"

Bandfield ran to the edge of the flight line with the customary parental adrenalin rush of images of children hurt in car wrecks. George already had one speeding ticket, and Bandy was pretty sure he was doing some beer drinking, too. Gasping, he grabbed the phone. "What is it, Patty?"

"Something's happened to Lyra and the children. They're gone. It's just like she always said."

The relief that swept through him that his kids weren't in a wreck was immediately replaced by concern for Lyra. "Where's Bear?"

"He's on his way back from England, should be here in a little while. I'm sure it's her first husband; she always said he'd come after her."

"No; the next-door neighbor, Polly, you remember her, she thought Lyra was visiting us. That's how I found out, she called to check."

"Anything I can do?"

"No. Bear will want to talk to you, I know. Where will you be?"

"Depends on when he gets back. They cancelled us out in Atlanta, so we'll go straight to Memphis tomorrow, be there a couple of days. We're not having much luck—the government's practically giving surplus airplanes away, and the contractors are converting them themselves. But you can reach me at Beeler Aviation there, that's where we'll get our service. Be staying at the nearest Holiday Inn. I'll call you as soon as we get there."

"Bandy, do you think he'll hurt her?"

"If he's nutty enough to kidnap her and the children, he's apt to do anything. Riley knew him back during the airlift, said he was mean and crazy then. God help them."

Patty simply repeated, "God help them," and they hung up.

Back at the airplane he recapped what had happened. "When Riley calls me, I'll have to respond, no matter what. Until then, I suggest we go ahead with our demonstrations."

"Might as well, Bandy. This is the last hurrah; if we don't sell any on this trip, I'm going to dump these for whatever I can get."

"You can't beat the government prices if they're giving them away for a few hundred apiece."

"Yeah, but the operators don't know how much it costs to convert them, and to get them reliable. They'll spend more doing it themselves than if they bought from us. But the thing that bugs me is the Catalina. It's different; the scoopers are working good. Why don't nobody like it?"

Marshall tried to ease the tension. "Don't sweat it, Hadley. Its time will come. If not, we can just take the wings off, hang an outboard on the back, and use it as a houseboat."

*