good look at this delightful desolation, the Vega’s cool shadow racing across the godforsaken landscape, where occasional dabs of green were like parsley sprigs on a big empty plate.
The late-afternoon landing at Burbank was blessedly free of unexpected crosswinds and technical stalls. We were close to the ocean now and desert vistas had given way to a breathtaking view of green hills bordering the fertile San Fernando Valley, mountain ranges beyond, some snow-capped, with Burbank and its United Airport nestled in the flatlands between.
The runways below were the five spreading arms of a flattened octopus whose head was a sprawling terminal identified by white letters painted on the tarmac before it: UNITED AIRPORT. On the runways at left and right of the modernistic, T-shaped terminal, giving it plenty of breathing room, were buildings that from my cabin window looked like flat square matchboxes but were actually massive corrugated-metal hangars, their roofs labeled UNITED and BURBANK respectively. Amy set gently down, with none of the melodrama of yesterday’s landing, and we taxied, pulling up before a huge hangar door, over which white painted letters added up to UNITED AIR SERVICES LIMITED.
We were greeted by a trio of the airfield equivalent of grease monkeys, one of whom provided the ladder for Amy to climb down from the cockpit; she greeted them by name (“Howdy, Jim!,” “Hey, Ernie!,” “Tod, what do you know?”). A fourth man, who brought up the rear in the confident manner of a commanding officer who allows his troops to lead the charge, wore a gray suit and a lighter gray shirt with a gray and black tie and looked as dapper as a movie star, or anyway a movie executive. Small but with a solid, square-shouldered build, he was almost handsome, with bright dark brown eyes, a jutting nose, and a jaunty jutting chin; his slicked-back black hair and slip of a mustache were apparently on loan from Clark Gable.
He and Amy embraced and patted each other on the back like long-lost pals. Both had smiles that threatened to split their faces.
“How’s my girl?” he asked her. “Ready for another foolhardy adventure?”
“Always,” she said, unbuckling her helmet, yanking it off, shaking her mop of curls. “Paul, this is my friend Nathan Heller; he’s been my one-man security team on this lecture tour. Nathan, this is Paul Mantz—he’s the mastermind behind my record flights.”
I had already guessed as much, but extended my hand and said, “Mr. Mantz, I’ve heard big things about you.”
Amy glanced at me, wondering what those big things might be, and I wondered if I’d misspoken: she had never mentioned Mantz to me—everything I knew about the man had come from G. P.
“Call me Paul,” he said, as we shook hands, his grip showing off his strength a little, “and I’ll take the liberty of calling you Nate…and as for what you’ve heard about me, it’s just possible some of it’s true.”
“Well, for one thing, I hear you’re the best stunt pilot in Hollywood.”
He twitched a smile and I sensed some annoyance. “Actually,” he said, “I’m not really a stunt pilot…what I am is a precision pilot. I leave stunts to the fools, kids, and amateurs. By which I mean, the soon to be deceased.”
Amy allowed the three mechanics to take over the Vega, and, with her in the middle, she and Mantz and I walked slowly toward the looming hangar. He had his arm around her, casually; it was hard to tell whether it represented a brotherly familiarity or something else.
“What have you got in mind for me and my baby?” she asked him.
“Angel, the boys in St. Louis have already increased your fuel capacity. I’ve got new magnetic and aperiodic compasses to install and check, we’re upgrading the directional bank and turn indicators, adding improved fuel and temperature gauges, plus a tachometer and a supercharger pressure gauge.”
“Is that all?” she asked mockingly.
“No. I’m gonna have Ernie overhaul the Pratt and Whitney again.”
She frowned at him. “You really think that’s necessary? That engine purred like a kitten, all the way from St. Louis to here. I ran into a wind shear landing at Albuquerque and it performed like a well-tuned race car. You can ask Nathan.”
My opinion, which was that the landing in question had scared holy hell out of me, may not have shed any light on this discussion of technical matters.
But we never got to my opinion; Mantz was already shaking his head, no. “Better safe than sorry. And as for you, young lady, I’ve got a new toy for you to play with…”
We were inside the cavernous hangar now, the golden dying sun filtering in lazily through the many-paned high windows. Half a dozen monoplanes were parked within the tool-littered hangar, including a Vega like Amy’s, only this one was painted red and white with the words HONEYMOON EXPRESS painted on the side, in a heart pierced by cupid arrows. Amy had told me earlier that her Vega had no nickname (unlike her famous
“Here’s your new best friend, angel,” Mantz said, stepping away from her, gesturing like a ringmaster to his center ring attraction. “The Link blind-flying trainer.”
And here was another little red plane, only this really was a little red plane, not much bigger than the ones that kids went ’round and ’round in at Riverview Park. With its tiny white wings and a precious white-scalloped tail and the words UNITED AIR SERVICES stenciled on its side, the squat fat-nosed trainer had a cockpit lid with no windows, and was elevated from the ground like a carousel horse.
“You’re joking,” she said.
But he wasn’t.
“Angel, as long as you insist on letting that goddamn Gippy con you into these long-distance flights…”
“G. P. doesn’t con me into anything,” she said firmly.
“Well, then, if you insist on trying to prove to yourself that you really are that Amelia Earhart person they write about in the papers, you had better learn some goddamn discipline.”
“I’ve had plenty of blind-flying training,” she said dismissively. “Anyway, I don’t like that term.”
