John knew better than to go over and stick his head into it. His own military experience had taught him a way for a colonel to get a royal chewing out from a sergeant was to interrupt a pilot and ground crew during a preflight check.
Billy’s wife was obviously not happy in the slightest with the entire routine, running up to hug him fiercely before he finally broke loose and climbed into the narrow cockpit. She looked back at John, the gaze conveying that if something went wrong, she would hold him personally responsible.
Danny went forward, calling to Billy to check that the magnetos were off, and then he turned the prop a dozen rotations to work oil into the pistons and called for three shots of primer.
Danny now ran down the brief checklist yet again, Billy checking that ailerons, rudder, and elevators were clear and the primer closed. “Mags hot! Contact! Clear prop!”
Danny threw the propeller downward with his right hand, stepping back to one side and away as he did so, and the engine started to fire up on the very first try. There was backfiring, and black smoke blew out with the exhaust, and it nearly stalled. Billy eased in the throttle. There was more backfiring, and then it settled down to a steady low roar. A cheer erupted from all, John thrilling to the sound of it. Yet another connector back to the world before the Day, coming back into their lives.
Danny was around to the side of the door on the starboard side of the plane. He pulled it half open and talked with Billy, the engine running up, checking oil pressure and temperature, and switching mags on and off amid the occasional backfire. Dan finally stepped back, latching the door shut. He leaned down low and pulled out the wheel chocks.
Billy looked over at the crowd with a boyish grin of delight. He had taken to sporting a handlebar mustache and goatee, looking like an aviator of the First World War. He raised his hand and saluted. Dan, John, and Maury, all vets, formally returned the salute.
Billy revved the engine up, and there was more backfiring and dark smoke exhaust, the aircraft trembling as if eager to be away. Billy looked over at Dan and held up two fingers and then one.
“Twenty-one hundred RPM,” Maury announced. “Would like a hundred more, but what the hell. He’s got miles of runway ahead of him.”
Billy released the brakes, and the plane seemed to leap forward as if alive and eager to get back to where she truly belonged, as if the follies of foolish humanity had kept too many planes grounded for far too long.
Dan was absolutely rigid. “He’s at twenty… twenty-five…” There were a couple more backfires, Dan wincing with each, now cursing steadily.
The tail of the plane was up, and the plane swerved a few feet off the centerline of the highway.
“Dance on those pedals, damn it,” Danny snarled.
And then, ever so gracefully, she was up, leveling off a half a dozen feet above the highway, gaining speed now that she was free of the ground. The crowd cheered and swarmed around Danny and Maury, slapping them on the back, Danny yelling for everyone to get back, still intent on following Billy, who was easing the stick back, beginning to climb, still flying straight and level until nearly out of sight.
Danny suddenly gasped as Billy pulled the stick back even more and pushed the plane into a turning bank of at least thirty degrees or more.
“Damn him!” Danny shouted. “Take it easy!”
Billy continued the turn, banking around, disappearing behind the trees for a moment where the highway curved to the north on the far side of town. There was a moment of silence and then another rousing cheer as he reappeared a hundred or more feet up, flying level and straight back toward them. He came straight on, and then a couple hundred yards out, he nosed over as if going into a dive, leveled off ten feet above the crowd gathered on the highway, and roared over them, everyone now cheering wildly.
“Stupid son of a bitch. There was a time when he’d lose his license for that dumb trick!” Dan cried, but no one was paying attention; even John was caught up in the moment. Billy continued to climb, and then, in a moment that drew nervous comments from some, he pulled the nose up higher and higher, engine still running full out.
“Stall check, damn it, not this time, Billy,” Dan whispered. The plane appeared to hang motionless for several seconds, nose pitched high at over forty-five degrees, and then it suddenly dropped, one wing dipping a bit. It leveled out, the throttle cut back to idle.
“Keep this damn road cleared!” Danny shouted. “He’s coming in to land. Clear the road!”
Danny muttered suggestions that only he could hear as the plane drifted down, gliding past where John, Maury, and Danny stood, still up by half a dozen feet.
“A bit too high, too high,” Danny groaned. “Let her settle, let it settle—don’t flare yet.”
Still several feet off the ground, the plane appeared to just fall, bouncing hard, tires squealing in protest. The plane bounced back up several feet.
“Don’t fight it!” Danny shouted. “Just let her settle!”
The plane leveled off, the nose a bit high again, easing down a hundred yards farther on. With two small puffs of white smoke from the tires and a slight swerve to port side, it straightened out and then rolled to a stop.
Billy hit hard rudder, turning the plane around, taxiing back the several hundred yards to where the crowd waited expectantly and then shut the engine down. He had the door open and was grinning like a kid, the way so many pilots grinned after a flight and a safe landing.
“Damn you!” Maury and Dan shouted at the same time, launching into separate tirades about taking off in the first place, pulling such a sharp bank, going for a power-on stall, and the bounced landing. Billy just stood there smiling, taking it in.
“She flies, and she’s a beauty,” was all he said before finally lapsing into a review. He suggested that the replacement wing was most likely causing the plane to yaw to the left, the fabric under the starboard wing was fluttering, and he couldn’t get the engine up above 2,200 RPM even when flying straight and level, but he did apologize for the sloppy landing—it had been well over two years since he had last flown.
“We have an air force,” John said with a smile, looking over at Reverend Black. “Guess I should get back home and get ready to find out what the hell is really going on in Asheville.”
“The meal was excellent, thank you,” Makala said politely, sliding her chair back slightly and putting her napkin on the table.
John had been filled with barely contained excitement for most of the day because of the successful test flight, trying not to think too much about the meeting with Fredericks. He had taken a cold bath, plunging into the creek to clean up. Jen, still the matriarch of the house, had laid out his one good set of slacks and blue dress shirt, but he refused to wear a blazer. It might work for Fredericks but not for him. Makala had carefully shaved him, noting with disapproval that his cheek appeared to be swelling from the bad tooth. She reminded him that with the effects of the concussion clearing up, it was time for a visit to the dentist.
For John, this ritual of dressing up almost felt like they were going out on a date rather than a meeting that would most likely decide their futures. Following their routine of her driving while he kept careful watch—this time with a twelve gauge laid across his lap—they made their way to Asheville. He insisted the two of them take this trip alone; having his guards waiting outside just struck him as wrong.
Dale nodded his thanks for her compliment regarding dinner. “Amazing this long-term survival food that was being sold before the Day,” Dale said. “I thank heavens FEMA thought to buy up a billion rations before things went bad—beef stroganoff that tastes almost as good as I remember it once being and strawberries that you just add water to and chill.”