Lasker spoke to the plane. “I think I got carried away,” he said.
Which is how Max got into the antique plane business. He cut a deal and spent the next few weeks restoring the Avenger. He subcontracted to replace the engine and tighten up the hydraulics. He installed state-of-the-art electronics, applied fresh gray paint to the aircraft, and gave it a new set of insignia. Battle stars gleamed on its fuselage and wings, and he drew a crowd when he flew it into Fort Moxie to turn it over to its owner.
That had been a reluctant transfer. Lasker was pleased with the results and handed Max a generous bonus. His wife, Ginny, came with him, and she was ecstatic when she saw what he had done. That earned Ginny a permanent place in Max’s affections. She posed in front of the plane and insisted on going for a ride. Lasker had taken her up and circled the town for a half-hour, buzzing the water tower, while Max waited in the office. When they came back, they all went out to the farm, and Ginny laid out a roast-beef dinner. They drank and talked long into the night, and Max slept in the guest room, as he would do many more times.
Max had been restoring antique warbirds ever since.
The colonel and Molly Glory had both approved.
Max cruised down through cloud decks in the early evening toward Chellis Field outside Fargo. The P—38 felt good, felt damn out of this world. But he had lost the high bid, and the company would have to begin the process of a sale all over again. It was unlikely he would do as well next time.
Still, Max thought of himself as more of an artist than a businessman. His art was incorporated with power and flight as well as with cockpit design and battle emblems. Sundown’s warbirds were not intended to rust on someone’s lawn. (He didn’t even like museums very much, but at least there people could admire the old aircraft for what they had been.)
Well, what the hell. Maybe he would take a beating, but for tonight he was back at the controls of the Lightning.
He’d installed modern navigational systems, of course, and he rode his directional beam in and lined up with the runway. At the three-mile mark the aircraft was at five hundred feet. He reduced throttle and dropped flaps. Indicator lamps blinked on to signal that his wheels were down. The field lights rose toward him. Gently he pushed the yoke forward. Off to his left, ground traffic was moving along Plains Avenue. Just over the tarmac he cut throttle and pulled the nose up. The plane drifted in, and his wheels touched.
Sundown Aviation had its own hangar, which also housed its business offices. He brought the P—38 around, opened the doors with his remote, and rolled inside. There were a couple of other aircraft here that the company was currently working on: a North American P—51 Mustang, which was headed for the Smithsonian, and a Republic P—47 Thunderbolt. The Thunderbolt was owned by an Arizona TV executive.
He shut the Lightning down and climbed out, grinning, picturing how his mechanic would react in the morning when he walked in and saw that the Lightning was back. Moments later he was in his office. Stell had left the coffee machine on. He poured a cup and eased himself down behind his desk.
There were a couple of calls on the machine. One was from a parts supplier; the other was from Ginny Lasker.
“Max,” her recorded voice said, “please call when you can.”
Her voice had a tightness to it. He could almost think she sounded frightened. He picked up the phone but put it down when he heard the outer door open.
Ceil Braddock smiled at him from the doorway. “Hi, Max.” She looked at him curiously. “What happened? Deal fall through?”
Ceil was the owner and sole pilot of Thor Air Cargo, which was also based at Chellis. She had riveting blue eyes, lush brown hair, a wistful smile, and a TWA navigator in St. Paul. Max had tried his luck, but she’d kept him at arm’s length. They were able to joke about it occasionally. “You don’t love me,” she told him, “you love Betsy.” Betsy was a C-47 that Sundown had sold her three years earlier. It had become Thor’s flagship, hauling freight around the United States and Canada. There were two other planes in the fleet now, and she was negotiating for a fourth.
Ceil flew Betsy occasionally at air shows, and she and Max had even used it to do a joint good deed. On this past New Year’s Day a blizzard had buried the Fargo area. There had been more emergencies than there were medevac teams, and a boy who’d taken part of his hand off with an electric saw was in desperate shape on a remote farm. They had attached the skis and flown the C—47 to Pelican Rapids. They’d landed east of the town on a frozen lake, picked up the boy, and brought him back to Fargo, where doctors reattached the hand.
Max smiled. “She was too good for him,” he said.
She looked pleased. Max knew that his tendency to be protective of the planes was one of the features she most liked in him. “What happened?”
“I didn’t like him much.”
She picked up a cup and filled it. “We’re talking a lot of money here. There must have been more to it than that.”
“That’s it,” he said. “Listen, there are plenty of people out there who would kill to own that plane. I don’t have to take the first offer.”
“I doubt many of them will have Kerr’s money to throw around.”
There were times when Max almost thought he had a chance with her. He’d stopped beating himself up over her a year ago. “Maybe not.” He shrugged. “Probably not.”
She sat down across from him, tasted the coffee, and made a face. “You need some fresh brew.”
He looked at her. “You’re working late.”
“Headed for Jacksonville tomorrow.”
That would be the annual open house at Cecil Field air show. He understood she’d been inspecting the C—47. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Five by.” She got up, put the cup down. “Gotta go.”
He nodded. “See you whenever.”
She looked at him for a long moment and then withdrew. He listened to the outer door open, heard it close.
Damn.
He punched the speed-dial button for the Laskers and listened to the phone ring on the other end. Ginny picked it up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ginny. What’s wrong? You okay?”
“Yes. Thanks for calling, Max.” The hint of unease was still there. “I’m alright.” She hesitated. “But there’s something strange happening.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t have bothered you, but Tom’s gone to Titusville and I haven’t been able to contact him.”
“Why do you need him? What’s going on?”
“Do you know about the boat we found here?”
“Boat? No. Found where?”
“Here. On the farm.”
Max visualized the big wheat farm, acres and acres of flat land. “I’m sorry, Ginny. I’m not sure I understand.”
“We found a boat, Max. Dug it up. It was buried. Hidden.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Max, I’m not talking about a rowboat here. This thing’s a yacht. It’s been on TV.”
“I guess I haven’t been paying much attention.”
“Reason I called, I looked out the window earlier this evening and saw lights in the barn. It’s the boat.”
“The boat is lit up?”
“Yes. The boat is lit up.”
“So somebody went in and turned the lights on? Is that what you’re saying?”
“The barn’s locked. I don’t think the boat’s been touched. I think the lights came on by themselves. They’re running lights, long green lamps set in the bow.”
Max still wasn’t sure he understood. “Who buried the boat?”
“We don’t know, Max. As far as we can tell, nobody. At least, nobody recently.” Her voice shook.
“You want me to come out?” She hesitated, and that was enough. “I’m on my way,” he said.