Flying Blind

He held up two hands, as if in surrender. “We told Miss Earhart—and it was absolutely true—that her mission was to take reconnaissance photos over Italian-held Eritrea’s military and commercial airfields…at Massawa, Assam, and Asmara.”

“Where the fuck is that?”

Forrestal reared back slightly, as if offended by my harsh language. Fuck him.

“Africa,” Miller said. “I met her personally at Darwin, Australia, and took home the film she’d shot up to that point.”

“Yeah, and handed Noonan his new secret orders behind Amelia’s back. Hell, if I was her, I’d be drawing blueprints of the White House for those Japs.”

And I let the gray curtain up next to us, to show them what I thought of their secrecy. The palm trees of Beverly Hills were gliding by, a tropical dream in the moonlight.

Miller only smiled the meaningless smile. “No you wouldn’t…. Are you going to help us?”

I snorted a laugh. “If Amelia’s stuck in some military prison on…where?”

“Saipan.”

“Saipan…then what the hell good does it do me to go along with Captain Johnson on his wild-goose chase through the What’s It Islands?”

“That’s only your cover, or at least part of it. You need to understand the high opinion we have developed of you, where your special…qualities are concerned.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re good with your fists, you’re good with a handgun, you’re smart, resourceful, and you know the ins and outs of this delicate situation as no other civilian does.”

“If you’re looking to head up my fan club, Miller, there’s an opening.”

“In addition, you have a personal stake here, by way of your…relationship with Miss Earhart. You need also to understand that, while a private citizen, Captain Johnson is also a Naval reserve officer.”

“So you’ve recruited him, too.”

“In a word—yes. He’ll help you prepare your reports for Dimity’s Foundation, as if you’d been with the Johnson cruise all the while.”

That got my attention. “What do you mean, as if?”

Miller’s baritone was calm, soothing; he’d missed his calling—he should have been a hypnotist. “You’ll only go partway with Johnson, Nate,” he was saying. “You’ll really be working for us, for the Office of Naval Intelligence, not ‘Dilly-Dally’ Dimity, as we call him…though you can keep the money he pays you, which we intend to match with our funds. This adventure should prove as lucrative as it is interesting.”

“Why do I think I’m going to be signing another contract?”

“Because you are,” Miller said, leaning forward to pat me on the knee. “You see, we’ve arranged a separate expedition for you…to Saipan.”

16

I sat on a netting-shaded cement verandah, sipping a rum and Coke, outside a Quonset-hut “hotel” rented by the Navy to Pan American Airlines. The naval base on this scruffy, hot, humid island—Guam, the sole U.S. territory in the midst of the Japanese-controlled Mariana Islands—was on Commar Hill, where the evening had turned out surprisingly cool. The floor show consisted of small, cat-eyed, long-tailed lizards chasing flies in the pools of light that spilled here and there from our corrugated-tin Hilton.

“Geckos,” William Miller said.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what those little lizards are called.” Miller, in a white short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers, was stretched out on the deck-style chair next to mine. He was smoking a cigarette and the cool salty breeze was turning the blue smoke into a native girl’s hula.

“I’ve seen bigger lizards,” I said. I was dressed almost identically, except my trousers were a light khaki.

He allowed me a faint smile. “The rest of the Clipper passengers will be taking off at four A.M. You get to sleep in till five.”

“Are you going on with them to Manila?”

He shook his head, no. “I’ll stay here at the base and wait for your return.”

“I like your optimism.”

“You’ll make it.”

“And if I don’t, the government saves a grand or so.”

He dropped his cigarette to the cement floor, reached out his foot and ground it out. “Is there someone you’d like to see get that money?”

I had given him sarcasm; he’d given me a straight, if sobering, answer.

“No,” I said. And wasn’t that a sad goddamn thing? Didn’t that say something about the state of my affairs? The only person I could think of to bequeath my riches to was somebody who might or might not exist, a child that Amy may or may not have had on an island where she possibly was, or possibly wasn’t.

He glanced at his watch. “Johnson should be here for our little chat, shortly. He and his crew are eating over at the Navy mess.”

We had eaten, and well, on the Clipper. The famed flying boat had lived up to its storied reputation. We were served our steam-cooked meals by the steward on tables with white linen cloths,