Born to Fly (19 page)

“You mean we’re out of ammo?”

“Guess so. We’ll have to think of something else.” He grabbed hold of the stick and guided us down, lower than I’d dared fly on my own, and we buzzed the deputy’s car. The deputy swerved but didn’t slow down. We buzzed his car a few more times, but as we neared Providence, the car disappeared beneath the trees.

We did our best to follow the road as it snaked its way through the Rhode Island landscape.

“Where is he now, Bird?” the lieutenant asked.

“He’s almost to the field,” I said.

Several miles ahead, the tree cover broke. I could see a clearing, and an endless sea of parked cars. From the air, they all looked an awful lot like the deputy’s.

“If he gets in there, we’ll lose him for sure.”

Just then I caught sight of the Erie River bridge. It straddled a dry ravine up ahead, just before the clearing.

“I’ve got an idea,” I said.

I circled the bridge and turned back to make a landing approach, coming from the opposite end toward Deputy Steyer’s car.

“You’re gonna try and land her? On the road? You sure you can do this?” Lieutenant Peppel hollered.

“Nope.” I took a gulp of air. “But my dad was sure I could.”

The road was only about as wide as the P-40’s wings. The Geneseo runway was easily three or four times as wide as that. But that didn’t bother me. It was the trees I was
worried about. Big, green-leafed, deep-rooted oak trees lined the berm down either side, all the way to the bridge. I figured that only gave me maybe ten or fifteen feet of leeway on either side of my wingtips. This would be more like landing in a tunnel than on a runway. If I didn’t land perfectly straight, if I bounced the landing or skidded off course, we’d disintegrate against those trees for sure.

I shoved the stick forward. The P-40 went into a rapid dive, head-on toward the bridge. The force of the dive flattened me against the lieutenant like a fried egg tossed against a wall. I held on, the lieutenant’s hand wrapped around mine on the stick.

Suddenly my P-40’s engine started to cough.

“You’re stalling,” the lieutenant warned.

I felt myself cry out, “Dad?” My hands shook as I struggled to control the stick and recall what Dad had told me to do.

“You’ve gotta dip the nose!” the lieutenant hollered. “And, uh …” He paused, like he was struggling to remember his flight training. “I think you increase the choke.”

I turned the choke—and the plane started to sputter violently.

“No, that’s not it!” I closed my eyes for an instant and tried my best to envision the manual.
In case of stall… increase the mixture—
I goosed it
—and dip the nose
.

I dipped her beautiful shark-mouthed nose and
PURRR!
The engine roared back to life.

“Ha-ha! I did it. I did it!” I shrieked.

“By gosh, you did, Peach-pit. Now lower your gear and give her full flaps.”

I blew a huge sigh of relief, then hand-cranked down my gear and steered toward the narrow entrance to the bridge.

“Gear down. Full flaps,” I echoed back.

Deputy Steyer showed no signs of stopping as he approached from the other end of the bridge. It was only going to be wide enough to fit one of us.

“How’s she lining up?” asked the lieutenant.

Already I could feel that the plane was drifting. “I need left rudder!”

“Use your trim,” he said. “Like you told me, remember.”

I dialed the trim wheel next to my seat and my approach evened out.

“Okay. Here goes.” We bounced once. I squeezed my eyes shut, anticipating the impact, and then miraculously we touched down. When I opened my eyes, tree trunks were flying past either wingtip like blurred fence posts, but I just kept focused on the bridge, straight ahead. The Warhawk’s front gear bumped a few more times on the uneven highway. It felt like some wild ride in a rumble seat, but I held steady. I’d landed her.

“I did it! We’re down.”

“Good girl. Now throttle back, let your tail down,” he said.

“I can’t,” I told him. “If my tail wheel drops I won’t be able to see over the nose to steer.”

“And he’ll know you’re bluffing. All right. Let’s just hope he falls for it,” the lieutenant said.

I kept the throttle up and barreled on toward the bridge fearlessly. I didn’t bother to tell the lieutenant I had no intention of bluffing it. Only one of us—me or Deputy Steyer—was gonna make it across that bridge. Whoever flinched first would die.

The deputy barreled head-on for us, like he was dead certain we’d lose our nerve.

“You just make sure you pull up before we hit that bridge,” Lieutenant Peppel said.

“Too late,” I told him.

My wheels crossed onto the wooden planks of the bridge and the wingtips barely cleared the railing on either side.

“Bird!” the lieutenant cried. “What are you doing!”

“Playing chicken.” If I didn’t keep the plane absolutely straight, I’d shear a wing off and crash for sure.

The plane and the deputy’s car were less than fifty feet apart when the deputy slammed on his brakes, finally realizing what I’d been thinking all along: It didn’t matter that his car was made of steel heavier than my plane; my Warhawk’s razor-sharp, twelve-foot propeller blades would cut through his car like a buzz saw.

I fought with the control stick to stay dead ahead. Lieutenant Peppel stood full-hard on the rudder pedals.

Hold her steady
, I told myself.

I could just about see the smirk on the deputy’s face
disappear when he flinched. He swerved his car at the last second and went crashing through the guardrail, his car flying off the bridge, tumbling and rolling into the dry riverbed a hundred feet below.

A moment after the car rolled to a stop at the bottom of the ravine, the gas tank caught fire, setting off a thunderous blast that rocked the ground beneath us. Pieces of metal blew skyward, then rained back down into the riverbed.

I taxied the P-40 to a stop and let go of the stick, exhausted.

It was maybe ten minutes later when a black Roadmaster pulled up. The passenger door slowly opened.

“Kenji!” I scrambled from the cockpit and we collided on the bridge in one big, swirling hug.

“You did it, Bird. You really did it,” Kenji said.

“Yeah. We
both
did.”

I
n the days that followed, the frightening truth about Deputy Steyer came out. Though we had all thought he was just a regular citizen, it turned out the deputy was actually a member of something called the Abwehr, a super-secret German spy force. In the years after the First World War, hundreds of German saboteurs posing as regular immigrants were planted all over the United States. Their mission, if another war broke out, was to blow up factories and power plants, making everyone panic on the American home front, in an effort to destroy our spirit. Agent Barson said the authorities had recently caught four Nazis off Long
Island, only hours before they were set to blow up a bridge and poison the whole New York City water supply.

Here in Geneseo Bay, our own fearless Mr. Ramponi and an armada of fishermen had blockaded the inlet with their nets and managed to capture the minisubmarine, along with two more German spies. With all that had gone on, I was pretty much set for life as far as writing topics for school went.

It was a week later that the whole town was assembled around a red-white-and-blue-draped platform on the Geneseo airfield. After some words by the mayor, Agent Barson stepped onstage. He called Kenji and me to his side in front of everyone.

“It’s not often we get to meet real-life heroes,” he said. “But today we have two of them right here.” He turned to Kenji and me. “On behalf of President Roosevelt and our country, it is my privilege to present you both with these special awards of honor.”

A wave of cheering and applause drowned me and Kenji as we accepted our medals.

Then Lieutenant Peppel joined us on the stage. He bent down and pinned a pair of pilot’s wings on my dress, next to my medal. Kenji tipped his new ten-gallon cowboy hat my way in salute. It was weird, but even though the country was still at war, for just a moment it seemed like all was right with the world.

It’s never easy to admit you were wrong, but the folks in
town felt pretty ashamed, and they really did their best to make things right with Kenji and his uncle.

In the crowd I could see Uncle Tomo, head held high, looking proud. Margaret was showing off her new engagement ring to a circle of girlfriends. (I guess I had overdone my Cupid bit with Lieutenant Peppel.) Father Krauss caught my eye and held up a string of three good-sized catfish he’d brought to be cooked and shared. Mom looked like she was about to cry from happiness, and even that sourpuss Farley was clapping his hands.

Then a swing band struck up some Glenn Miller, people started dancing, and the real party began.

I danced a jitterbug with Kenji, ate three hot dogs, and finished off two full bottles of root beer. Then I started to feel tired, so I put my head down on the picnic table I was sitting at. It had been a long week. My eyelids got heavier and heavier.

I could still hear the music and the voices of the people, only it was like I was floating above them in a balloon. My mind was on a journey of its own, retracing all that had happened to me since my last birthday.

The war
.

The spy
.

The trial
.

The new friend I’d found
.

The old one I’d lost
.

It was all like a movie newsreel at the Bijou, playing in my head
.

Then suddenly there was another sound. A motor. Like a car
engine. Getting closer. In the distance, a shiny gold military car appeared, kicking up dust across the field. As it neared, the crowd parted and the shimmering car pulled to a stop. Slowly, a handsome soldier with one arm in a sling and a bandage around his forehead got out. Mom rushed to embrace the soldier
.

It was my dad! I couldn’t believe it. Margaret and Alvin covered him with hugs and kisses and the crowd went crazy
.

The band was playing boogie-woogie and a squadron of P-40 Warhawks roared overhead in synchronized formation
.

I watched my father and mother dance together as time seemed to slow down. Then Dad came over and took my hand
.

He and I walked toward the bay. As we walked, I looked over my shoulder and saw Kenji, tearfully embraced by his mother and father. In the crowd I spotted the Widow Gorman kissing the cheek of a familiar-looking young soldier, her son, Charlie. By the refreshment stand, I caught sight of Farley telling jokes and getting his hair mussed by an older man. When the man turned around, I was shocked to see that it was Mr. Peck
.

But he was dead, I told myself. And so was Charlie Gorman. And so was—

I gazed up at my father
.

“Dad?”

“It’s okay, Bird. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

We slipped away toward the shore of Geneseo Bay. There his gleaming P-40 Warhawk sat waiting. He helped me climb onto the wing, and I joined him in the cockpit. He started the engine and we took off effortlessly
.

It was high summer. The air was warm and clear. You could see
for miles. But as we flew, I didn’t watch the sky or even the ground below. I just stared back at Dad. He looked just like I remembered him. His hair. His smile. His eyes, and the way they could always see right inside me. I looked at him a good long time
.

I knew I could have shaken myself awake from that picnic table where I was sleeping. I could have woken up and joined in the party that was going on all around me. But I wasn’t quite ready to shatter my perfect dream.

So I nuzzled closer, breathed him in, and smiled
.

“Look.” He pointed down, toward the water
.

I followed the imaginary line his finger made, somewhere out toward the inlet. Then I spotted it. The Genny. Her slithery black spine broke the surface one last time, then coiled back down to the bottom and headed out to sea … forever
.