Amerika (18 page)

‘Mortar practice,’ Patton said, and walked faster, leaving Ava behind.

She whispered, ‘Uncle Georgie means business.’

‘He’s your uncle?’

‘Dutch uncle. Mother’s known him ever since he was a captain.’ Patton’s swagger stick swept to the right, ‘This way. Watch your head.’ Single file we entered a vine-covered path lined with white engineering tape. Its faint glow helped guide me along what otherwise would have been a walk inside a coal mine. Animals rustling here and there, frightened night feeders fleeing from our heavy footsteps. Something darted off to my left. I looked away and seconds later collided with Ava’s nicely rounded backside. Flustered, I apologized, while at the same time felt a flash of guilty pleasure.

Patton’s swagger stick aimed at an amorphous black blob in the distance that grew more distinct with every step.

‘We’re here.’

The first thing I recognized were the Clipper’s impossibly long wings stretched out into the bayou darkness, then her four Wright Twin Cyclone radial engines towering overhead, then her eleven foot-high propellers with workmen clustered around them, the soft clink of tools drifting down like summer rain on a tin roof.

The hundred foot long, slab-sided Boeing 314 floated gently in the swamp water. Her aluminum-clad fuselage gleamed like a surfaced whale, her gracefully curved sides converged to a perfectly rounded, narrow nose. Darkness hid her graceful, triple-tail rudder, but countless photographs and endless newsreels about this beautiful airplane made it clear in my mind. Like all the other Pan Am pilots I had been desperate to fly her. But right now, seeing her for real was enough.

‘What in the hell is a clipper doing here?’

‘Waiting for you,’ Ava said. ‘Now be a good captain, go with Uncle

Georgie. See you later.’

She turned and walked away.

Patton was already crossing the boarding ramp connected to the stubby

‘sea  wing’  or  sponson,  attached  to  the  fuselage  directly  beneath  the shoulder-mounted wing. The Clippers used them instead of wing floats, like most other seaplanes. Their broad surface and gentle slope doubled as boarding ramps.

As I followed Patton, the bright blue flash of an arc welder lit up one of the aft fuselage windows. I paused for a moment, just as the Plexiglas window slid open. The twelve-by-seventeen-inch square window had been retrofitted into a larger, aluminum panel of some sort that, when fully opened exposed a three by four-foot hole. 

Seconds later a machine gun barrel swung outward, tracked right, left, up, down, and then pivoted back inside again. The modified window panel slid closed, leaving not a trace behind of its malevolent purpose.

I caught up with the general who, seeing what I had just witnessed, beamed like a kid about to eat an ice cream cone. ‘This fat bird’s got fifty-caliber teeth.’

He ducked through the sponson’s boarding door and stepped down into the parlor compartment. Before I followed, I walked out to the edge of the sponson to see the name of the Clipper. But the angle was wrong so I turned back, only to see above the boarding hatch, where once the graceful lettering, Pan American Airways System’ had proudly been, the blunt, block letters of LUFTHANSA.

‘Trippe,’ I whispered.

Patton’s muffled voice sounded. ‘You may have all day, captain, but I sure as hell do not. Get in here and meet somebody who’s been waiting to see you.’

The parlor’s plush-carpeted, Art Deco lights were dimmed to bare minimum, making it hard to negotiate the narrow space between the two sets of upholstered chairs that flanked the entrance hatch. Patton stood to my right, slapping his swagger stick against his leg. Framed in the doorway forward stood a man who waved his unlit cigar at me.

‘Hiya,’ kid. Took your sweet time getting here, din’cha’?’

It took me a moment to recognize him.  His bushy black moustache was gone and his hair a washed-out blonde instead of dark brown. I had done my share of grieving for the man who had taught me how to be an airline pilot. I’d put him to rest, along with my wife and son, and had been trying to move on. But here stood a very different-looking but familiar- sounding Captain Fatt, smiling like I was the Prodigal Son.

‘You went down with the
Dixie Clipper
,’ I managed to say.

‘I did indeed, with all hands. But it depends on what you mean by ‘down. She’s here and so am I.’’

I touched my upper lip. ‘Your moustache, and... your hair, it’s….’

‘Different, ain’t I?’ Fatt ruffled it into a tangle and smoothed it out.

‘Afraid the good Captain Fatt, rest his dearly departed soul, is no longer with us. Neither is the
Dixie Clipper
, leastwise how she used to be. Meet Captain C. Charles Adams in his stead, and welcome aboard our secret weapon.’

Patton stepped away and looked down the corridor toward the tail.

‘Bring him up to speed captain. I’ll join you later.’ He touched the swagger stick to his uniform cap, ‘You have the ship, sir.’

‘Roger that.’ Fatt saluted lazily, utterly unfazed by Patton’s powerful presence.

‘This is all a dream, right?’ I said.

‘It’s real, kid, and it’s a nightmare. America’s in an inverted spin, no rudder or aileron to speak of and the ground’s approaching fast.’

‘You’re one of these Sons of Liberty folks?’

‘Hell no.’ He lit his cigar and puffed contentedly. ‘I’m a Brooklyn boy, born and bred, but I’m also a citizen who wants to lend a hand pulling this country of ours out of its God damned nose dive.’

I regarded the luxurious surroundings of the parlor compartment. ‘You picked a fancy plane to do it in.’

He snorted. ‘Look while you can, kid. This stuff be ripped out soon, just like they’ve already done back there. Stripping her bare for a special flight.’

I stepped through the doorway into what should have been Stateroom E and stopped cold. For years I had stared at photographs in magazines of the Boeing Clipper’s luxurious passenger interiors, imagining what it would be like to see them in person. But where once cushioned seats upholstered in Miami Sand and elegant aisle carpeting in the Tango Rust pattern had greeted her privileged passengers, bare aluminum flooring with stacked metal boxes took their place.

A workman came by, his arms filled with rolled-up dark blue fabric that once had been the curtains the stewards used when they converted the passenger staterooms into Pullman-style sleeping compartments.

‘Where’s she headed?’

‘You ask too many questions.’

‘I’ll damn well keep asking them until I get some answers that make sense.’

Fatt grinned. ‘Always knew you’d be a good hire. Did you know that I personally told that asshole Preister that if they didn’t take you as a pilot, I’d quit?’

‘Yes, and you remind me of that every time we meet.’

‘Well it’s true, kid. You were one of the best, and that’s hard for me to say because as we both know I am the absolute best and always will be.’ He turned and led the way. ‘Let me show you your office.’

‘Wait a second, I don’t know the first thing about 314’s. I’m a Sikorsky captain. Was one, I mean.’

‘Who taught you to fly seaplanes, kid?’

‘You.’

‘Back in thirty-one, who flew that dame with her lover-boy up to five thousand feet because they wanted to fuck above the clouds on their honeymoon?’

‘You did.’

‘Correction.’ He poked me in the chest. ‘We both did. And any man who learns to fly at the knee of James J. Fatt can and will fly any damn plane that comes his way, including this big, fat, sweet whale of a flying boat.’

He turned on his heel, marched through the Parlor Compartment and past the Steward’s Galley and Men’s Dressing Room. At least they hadn’t stripped this part yet. I opened the door to the bathroom, tricked out in stylish maroon and beige, complete with art deco lights, polished aluminum sinks and even – astonishingly -- a urinal.

‘Stripping down the men’s room too?’ I said.

‘No way. A man’s gotta’ pee.’

Fatt swept aside the dark blue curtain that hid a turquoise-painted spiral staircase that led up to the control deck.

‘Age before beauty, kid.’

I followed him as he darted up the narrow steps. For a big man in his mid-fifties, he moved like a jungle cat.

‘Wait until you see what we’ve got for digs topside.’

Pan Am had publicized the Boeing Clipper like no other plane they’d ever flown before: newsreel clips, feature stories, Atlantic and Pacific route maps, profiles of the ‘Masters of Ocean Flying Boats’ - including Captain Fatt - every one of them a heroic aviation pioneer making history with the largest commercial flying boat in the world.

True, I had my Ocean Master’s ticket, and it had taken me thirteen years to climb the seniority ladder to get it. But I had been flying the pokey, strut-filled S-42s when the Boeing 314 was born, and knew from the start I wouldn’t get near her because of my low seniority.

I even considered surrendering command to fly right hand seat instead. But I knew Pan Am wouldn’t let me. We were stretched too thin already in the South American Division, trying to meet our mail, cargo, and passenger commitments. I was strapped into the left seat for good. So I stared at photos and watched newsreels, instead.

Until now.

Fatt reached up, opened the kidney-shaped floor hatch and darkness gave way to bright light. He climbed up onto the flight deck and disappeared. I joined him seconds later.

‘Secure the hatch, will you, Mr. Carter?’  His voice had shifted ever so slightly, but I recognized it as the one I heard when I was his first officer.

‘Some setup, huh?’ he said.

I’d  spent  hundreds  of  hours  inside  cramped  cockpits  with  barely enough room to move. But the flight deck of the Boeing was the size of a living room, including - believe it or not - real carpeting with stitched and padded soundproofing on the walls and ceiling.

A spacious, six foot-long navigator’s chart table ran along the port side of the fuselage. Just behind it, and ahead of the rear bulkhead, two seats and a desk were reserved for the Master of the Bridge, and any crew member he wanted to grill like a hamburger for screwing up something during the flight.  The radio operator’s station was on the starboard side, directly behind the co-pilot. Its multiple transmitters, receivers and DF tuner were a far cry from the bulky stuff I’d first used in Key West.

Directly behind the radio operator’s station was the Flight Engineer’s station. Its plethora of dials, buttons and switches, some familiar, some not, controlled and regulated the hundreds of intricate electric, hydraulic and internal combustion systems that kept the enormous plane in the air.

Next to the engineer’s station an oval-shaped hatch that opened into an access tunnel built inside the vast interior of the Boeing’s wing. If needed during flight, the engineer could climb inside and perform limited repairs on her thundering engines.

And  then  the  bridge,  where  the  master  and  first  officer  presided.

Separated by a curtain at night to preserve their night vision, its spacious windows provided excellent visibility, including, at the moment, a workman perched outside on the nose, bent over, and scraping at something.

I automatically scanned the instrument panel the way a man scans an approaching woman to see if she has all the proper equipment. In a pilot’s case, it’s artificial horizon, turn and bank indicator, and airspeed indicator. Many more instruments of course. But these are the basics, just like the legs, breasts and a bottom are on a girl. If they’re in good shape, anything is possible.

‘How’s she handle?’ I finally said, trying to keep the awe out of my voice, but failing.

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’

‘I repeat, how -’

‘-like a big fat dream, ever since they extended her keel a few feet. Before then it was one bounce after another, trying to get her big butt to stay on the water.’

‘Heard stories about that.’

‘Boeing gave us this song and dance about it being a ‘piloting issue’ when all along it was their piss-poor design - like the single tail they had to make triple before she’d answer to the rudder.’

‘Bugs ironed out?’

He puffed his cigar, considering my question. ‘For normal flight conditions, yes. For what we plan on doing, that won’t be answered until we take off.’

‘When’s that?’

He brightened. ‘So, you’re on board?’

‘Don’t fancy flying for Lufthansa.’

‘Oh, that.’ He shrugged.

‘Why’d Trippe sell out to the Nazis? This airline was his baby. I was there when it got born. So were you.’

‘The good old days, right?’

‘They damn well were. Just you and Trippe and Preister, and a punk kid like me running the radio while you hauled drunks and gamblers back and forth to Havana.’

‘A lot has happened in eleven years.’

‘Including a war we never fought.’

‘Listen, kid. You’re sober, right?’

‘Been ever since.’

He put a heavy hand on my shoulder and squinted at me, as if trying to focus. ‘I never got a chance to tell you how sorry I was about Estelle and the baby. You were too drunk that day to even know your own name.’

‘I should never have showed up for work.’

‘Too late for that now.’

‘I did it twice, drunk as a skunk. What was I thinking?’

‘You weren’t thinking, kid, you were on autopilot. Hell, after what happened, everybody was, especially you.’

I vaguely remembered Dutchman Preister’s cold face staring at me. Even more vaguely, Captain Fatt standing there in his hot, cramped office in Miami. By then Fatt was Chief Pilot, South American Division, and had responsibility for the performance of his flight crews, including a drunk who stood there weaving in front of both him and Preister for the second time in a week.

‘You haff disappointed us, Captain Carter.’ Preister said in that damned Dutch accent of his with its tortured grammar. ‘You, above all, the rules and regulations should know, having been with us so many yearssss.’

Preister and Fatt merged into one amorphous blob in my vision. I blinked to separate them, but they remained a single, foreboding presence.

‘Under the circumstances, I haff no utter choice but to-’ I held up my hand. ‘Save your breath, Preister.’