15
Sandra Carmichael turned off Route 17, taking 644 eastward. Following the signs, she soon came to a private air park. She drove past the sign advertising orientation flights on weekends, May through October.
Terry Keegan was waiting for her. There wasn’t much activity on a Friday morning in April.
Sandy found him where he said he would be: with his head in the accessory section of an odd-looking, cherry red airplane. It had a racy, pugnacious appearance, from its chrome spinner to its round tail. She approached him from behind but he sensed her presence.
“Isn’t it great?” Keegan enthused. “I’m a one-third partner in this beauty. Beech built 781 of them and even though there’s a few hundred still flying, they’re real spendy.”
Carmichael was mildly curious. “Why’s that?”
“Well, this is the Beech Model 17, better known as the Staggerwing because of the negative stagger of the top wing. It’s a classic from the golden age of aviation. It dates from 1932, so it’s an antique. You can fly to any air show in the country and automatically park with the exhibitors so you get to see all the other planes up close. Then you can fly home faster than most current light planes.”
“How fast is it?”
Keegan patted the propeller. “She’ll do an honest two hundred miles per hour straight and level, and she’ll outcruise some Bonanzas. In fact, Staggerwings won a lot of races in the 1930s. But she lands at about forty-five, so there’s not many places you can’t get into.”
Carmichael thought she should feign interest. “How old is this one?”
“It’s one of the last twenty, built in 1947.”
Carmichael looked into the cabin and emitted a low whistle. “Boy, it smells like a new car!”
“Yeah, we had the seats reupholstered last year. Mohair and leather were factory standard, so that’s what we got. Carries five people and all the luggage you can stuff into it.”
“Terry, are we going to fly or what?”
The former submarine hunter could not suppress a smile. “Hey, Colonel, why do you think I asked you to meet me here?”
Having already performed the preflight inspection, Keegan helped Sandy into the right seat, then settled in the left. After priming the Pratt and Whitney R985, he turned on the fuel pump, checked left and right, switched the magnetos to Both, and called out, “Clear prop!” The Wasp Junior settled into a throaty rumble. He waited a few minutes, allowing the engine to reach operating temperature.
The pilot closed his door and, satisfied with the pressure and temperature gauges, eased on some throttle. The Beech rolled toward the downwind end of the grass runway, ess-turning so Keegan could see around the nose.
After a final check, Keegan smoothly advanced the throttle. The tail came up and he tracked straight ahead, nudging right rudder to keep the Beech in the center of the strip. Lift quickly overcame gravity as thrust defeated drag and the Staggerwing galloped off the earth behind 450 horses.
The landing gear retracted into the well with a
Sandy squirmed in her seat and adjusted the earphones. She appreciated Virginia’s verdant vista, but she had other things on her mind. “Terry, you know we’re sending a training team to Chad.”
“Yeah, I heard something about it. I’m glad I’m not going there!”
She turned her head toward him, removed her sunglasses, and looked into his eyes.
He grimaced. “Oooh no…”
“Now wait a minute,” she interjected. “You wouldn’t have to be there all the time. In fact, you wouldn’t have to be there much at all. We just need somebody in the area who could, you know, help out if need be.”
Keegan laughed, then lapsed into his Irish brogue. “Colonel darling, sure and you’re talkin’ about a dustoff on a hot LZ!”
She conceded, “Well, yeah, something like that. It’s not that we actually think anything will happen, Terry. But you know the admiral’s policy. We never leave any SSI people in a position where we can’t get them out, even if we have to do it ourselves.”
Terry nodded, scanning the instruments. “Roger that. Remember me? Last Chance Keegan they call me. As in, Guatemala. As in, Pakistan.”
Sandy thought better of pressing the matter so she changed the subject. “You know, my youngest daughter thinks she wants to fly. But she can’t decide if she would rather go with the Air Force or Navy.”
Keegan recalled the naval aviation axiom.
Carmichael curled her lips. “Oh, Emily wants to fly jets. Then she wants to pilot the space shuttle.”
“Ah-ha.” Keegan let it go at that. Privately, he disdained females who only saw the military as a way into NASA. He had never known a woman aviator who wanted to bomb and strafe more than she wanted to fly the damned shuttle.
Finally he turned and looked at his passenger. “Tell me more about Chad.”
16
“Admiral, Colonel Main to see you.”
Derringer waved from his desk, beckoning the Army officer into the office. Derringer raised from his chair, extending a hand across the desk. “Good to see you, David. I didn’t expect you today.”
Main crumpled his beret — he wanted to strangle the poofter garment— and slid into a chair. “I’m sorry for the unexpected visit, Admiral. But something’s come up that I need to discuss with you in person.”
“Sure thing. Fire when ready.”
“Well, sir, I’ve just had a call from my back-channel contact at Bragg. Master Sergeant Alford is wired into the SF community like nobody else I know, and he thinks we should reconsider one of the guys we interviewed.”
“Why’s that?”
Main cleared his throat — an unusual sign of nervousness. “Apparently Staff Sergeant Gayler is under investigation for misappropriating funds and equipment. Alford thinks that’s why the Army cut him loose so quickly.” Main shook his head, silently berating himself. “I should’ve caught it, Admiral. I mean, the Army just doesn’t release an Arabic speaker that easily.”
Derringer braced his chin on a bridge of clasped hands. He surveyed Main’s face, sensing as much as seeing the embarrassment there. “David, it’s not your fault. In fact, I’m not certain this Sergeant…”
“Gayler. Fred Gayler.”
“We don’t know if he’s guilty of anything. You said he’s under investigation.”
“That’s true, sir. But… well, Alford says that Gayler also has a temper. He barely got away with spousal abuse because his former CO covered for him.”
“And you accept Alford’s word implicitly.”
A decisive nod. “I’ve trusted my life with him. He deals in facts, not gossip.”
“Okay, then. Gayler’s out. You’d better talk to Jack Peters so his recruiting records are updated.”
