“Hurry up’s what I say, asshole! We got us a war to fight today!”
“Huh?”
Minutes later Pop Keller was standing on the roof of a trailer with the Flying Devils logo fading from its side. Fifty or so men gazed up at him intently as he recited his own colorful version of Locke’s story. Chris scanned them, saw not hesitation and fear but determination and resolve in their faces.
“This here’s the front, boys,” Keller said, nearing his close, “and we’re the last thing that stands between these murderin’ bastards and America. Some of us knocked plenty of Nazis and Japs from the sky and others took out their share of Gooks a few years later. I say it’s time to hit the skies for real again!”
“Yeah!” came the resounding chorus.
“Who’s with me, boys?”
Every hand went up.
“Let’s get to it, then!”
With roars of enthusiastic delight, the men of the Flying Devils headed toward their positions, each knowing his proper place. For them the preparations were probably the same as those for a show, yet Chris could not help but be amazed at the precision of their motions. In less than a minute, the tarps were all ripped from the planes and left to flutter in the wind. Locke looked at the ancient fighters and felt his heart sink. Somehow he had expected fresh, glowing Warhawks and Cobras shining proudly in the sun. What he saw instead was a squadron of battered, broken airplanes that looked as fragile as the balsawood fliers boys toss around their backyards. The Devils had done their best to restore each fighter’s original paint job, but patchup work was so evident that not a single plane could boast a consistent shade.
Locke sat down against a trailer. For a while the sight of broken men readying broken airplanes for battle had an almost comic texture to it. Then suddenly Chris realized there was nothing even remotely comic about what he was watching. The Devils moved confidently, even as they spit tobacco and huffed for breath. Engines were checked, propellers oiled and greased, glass cockpit covers washed squeaky clean. Gun sights were set and huge ammunition belts for the front-mounted machine guns were snapped home. For those planes still capable of holding bombs, dark-green projectiles were loaded beneath the wings. Wooden blocks were yanked from under the fighters’ tires and mechanics rushed crazily from one to the next, tightening a lug or fastening a bolt. When they wiped the sweat from their brow, they left a trail of grease behind. Their white T-shirts grew filthy from the grime.
Chris found himself rising involuntarily to his feet. The fighters were all being spun around now to face the same direction — toward the highway. A few pilots gunned their engines and taxied forward on their own. The ancient fighters seemed brighter now, more alive, as if they understood the role they were being called on to perform and were responding to it.
“We’ll be off the ground in fifteen minutes, Chris,” Pop Keller told him, the pain of his arthritis vanquished along with thoughts of unpaid debts and bankruptcy.
“What are we gonna use for runways?” Locke asked.
Keller’s eyes gazed out at U.S. 83. “The highway, friend. We’ll place trailers across to block off a big enough stretch. Yup, it’ll do just fine.”
Four prairie dust specials were starting to make themselves felt in his stomach, and Pop moved off toward the water jugs to drown the damn booze. Locke looked back at the fighters and watched the pilots donning their flying gear. Other men were still prepping guns and passing out parachutes.
Keller returned, dragging his sleeve across his lips. “We’ll be able to get about twenty of them in the air like I said and about half are equipped with rockets.”
“How many men per plane?”
“Most are outfitted to take two but we’ll stay with one. Cropdusters ain’t the fastest planes on the market but we’ll still need to cut out as much excess weight as possible to be sure of catching them.”
While the plane engines idled, all the men gathered together, and Pop Keller moved toward them. The average age of the Flying Devils looked to be about fifty-five, with variations twenty years in both directions.
“Boys,” Pop Keller began, eyes plainly on his watch, “we ain’t got much time. I ain’t much good at speakin’ so I’m just gonna speak my mind. It’s gonna be dangerous for us on this raid. Our best bet is to strike fast and hard and take these bastards with their pants down. If it looks like none of the dusters have took off yet when we get to the base, both Red and Blue wings will go in blasting. If some dusters have made it up, and that’s my guess, we’ll use a different strategy.” Pop Keller searched the crowd. “Mickey O.,” he called out.
A burly, white-haired man wearing an oil-stained shirt stepped forward. “Right here.”
“You’ll lead Blue Wing on the air-to-ground assault while I take Red Wing air-to-air after any of the bastards that already took off. Let yours and the other Pipers head the attack ’cause you each got six rockets and the best aim by far. We all gotta be careful,” Pop went on, speaking to everyone, “’cause catchin’ them with their pants down don’t necessarily mean they’ll be holdin’ their dicks in their hands. They’ll be protected, boys. Make your ammo count and remember we gotta knock these dusters down before they can drop their stuff.”
The men of the Flying Devils glanced at each other.
“Boys, I’m not much of an expert on this scientific junk but it’s a plain fact that the scum we’re goin’ up against means to do a swift number on the old U.S. of A. Well, I fought the Nazis and the Japs to keep that from happening and I’ll do it again today, tomorrow, or any other day it’s called for.”
The Flying Devils started hooting and hollering. Some of the men whistled through their parched lips.
“Ready, boys?”
A triumphant scream rang out.
“Then let’s getto it!”
And with that, the Flying Devils scattered toward their fighters, or the trucks and trailers that would follow them to Stonewall Jackson on the ground. Members of the ground-based crew helped the leather-clad pilots into their cockpits and waited for the thumbs-up sign as engines were gunned and propeller blades spun to life. A chorus of sputtering followed, quickly drowned out by the sound of gunned engines revving again. The assault squadron was ready for take-off, with nineteen fighters, six of which were Piper L-4s carrying rocket-propelled warheads under their wings.
“Ain’t gonna miss your own show, are ya, friend?” a voice shouted at Locke over the roar of the engines.
Chris turned to Pop Keller. The old pilot adjusted his goggles and then zipped up his brown leather flight jacket.
“I saved you the rear seat in my personal sweetheart,” Pop said.
And together they trotted toward a red P-40 Warhawk with the gaping mouth of a shark painted on its nose.
Chapter 33
Twenty miles away, another part of Keysar Flats was alive with similar activity. Fifty eager cropdusters were approaching takeoff position on two runways at Stonewall Jackson Air Force Base. The canisters had been loaded and all had been ready for ten minutes now but Ahmad Hamshi, the man in charge, had his orders as to the precise schedule and under no circumstances would he deviate from it. Hamshi was Mandala’s leading operations man in the Mideast and one of the few anywhere he trusted. He had brought the Arab to Keysar Flats specifically because he was a man intolerant of slipups. Hamshi would not disappoint him. So far things had gone off without a hitch and he wanted to keep it that way.
Once the cropdusters had begun their climb, Hamshi would dial a number in South America and give the go code, which would be relayed to Mandala in San Sebastian. Direct contact between them was impossible, as was further contact of any kind once the go code was given.