“That’s correct.”
“I’ll get a couple of the guys, and we’ll start filling out flight plans. Jim went off to get the weather info.”
“Good. I want the Hercules to go first, followed by a flight of the 4Ds and the C model. The rest of us will fly out last.”
“And get in first, no doubt,” Barr said.
Barr, Gettman, and Hackley went to the end of the counter and began to fill out forms.
Dinning opened his folder and, one by one, began laying multipart forms in front of Wyatt. He saw that ownership had been vested in Noble Enterprises, Phoenix, Arizona, as requested. With his ballpoint pen, Wyatt dated and signed each form as Roger A. Cowan, President, Noble Enterprises. He was given copies of receipts, temporary registrations, temporary FAA certifications, and, on the F-4E fighters, temporary registrations for the M61A1 twenty-millimetre multi-barrelled cannons.
“The understanding is that you’re to contact the Treasury Department’s firearms division and arrange for a hearing on those,” Dinning said.
“You bet,” Wyatt said, but did not think he could fit it into his schedule.
“That’s what caused the most trouble,” Dinning told him. “Even the base commander got involved.”
And lost, Dinning guessed.
“And finally agreed, if the M61s were disabled.”
“How was that accomplished?”
“The fire control black boxes have been removed,” the captain told him.
“Where are they?”
“On board the C-130.”
“Okay. That’s safe enough.”
“One other thing,” the captain said. “With those radios. You’re supposed to stay off military frequencies.”
“I don’t like to listen to Eagle pilots, anyway,” Wyatt assured him. He signed a sheet promising just that.
“Then, we have this.”
Wyatt took the statement from Maintenance and Operations and went over the entries. Two tires had been replaced. Four sets of brakes were new. The avionics and basic instruments had been superficially examined and temporarily okayed. There were labor charges for installing a rear canopy on 925. Every engine had been started and run for fifteen minutes, but there were no guarantees. Fuel tanks, including external tanks, had been topped off. He had been charged for nearly eighty gallons of lubricants and hydraulic fluids.
The billing came to $34,292.67.
His guess had been close to right. Wyatt produced another certified check for thirty thousand, and wrote out a company check for the balance. Both checks were written against Noble Enterprise’s Phoenix account. It was an account that would cease to exist as soon as this last check cleared.
“Does that make us even, Captain?”
“I believe it does, Mr. Cowan. Happy racing.”
The captain did not believe the racing angle for a minute, Wyatt thought. “Thanks. And thanks for your help.”
“Anytime, sir.” Dinning turned and left.
Barr came over to him. “We’re all filed. You need to sign your flight plan.”
After he signed off on a flight plan that hinted at a destination in Montana, Wyatt led his team down to a dressing room, and they changed into flight gear. Their flight suits were identical, dove grey in colour, with their first names stitched in red over the right breast pockets. Across the back of each garment, red letters advertised, “NOBLE ENTERPRISES-AVIATION DIVISION.” Demion and Kriswell left their matching helmets and their parachute harnesses in their duffel bags, but the rest of them hoisted chutes over their shoulders and carried their helmets, G suits, personal oxygen masks, duffel bags, and over-nighters. In a group, they left operations and crossed the hot concrete of the apron toward the parked aircraft. The short walk resulted in sweat-darkened armpits. Wyatt could feel the perspiration dripping down his back.
“Don’t you feel like Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, heading down the main drag in Tombstone?” Barr asked.
“As a matter of fact, no,” Wyatt told him.
“We’ve got to work on your imagination, Andy.” The excess luggage was stowed in the crew compartment behind the cockpit of the Hercules.
Everyone found his airplane and spent the next hour going over it with the crew chief who had worked on it. When each of the pilots had expressed to Wyatt his relative satisfaction, Wyatt said, “Looks like a go, then. Jim, you and Tom can fire up.”
Demion and Kriswell climbed through the crew door on the forward, port side of the C-130 and locked it after them. One by one, the four turboprops came to life, then the big transport moved out of line toward the taxiway. Half an hour later, the plane was a black smudge on the wavery horizon.
Hackley, Zimmerman, and Gettman took off next, Gettman’s Phantom dragging what Wyatt thought was an overly thick kerosene vapour trail, though the Phantom was known for its identifiable exhaust signature.
Ten minutes after that, Wyatt slipped into his pressure suit, buckled on his parachute, climbed the ladder, checked the safety pins on the ejection seat, slid into the cockpit, and settled into the seat of the Phantom numbered 3387. It felt good to be back, he thought, as he locked in the seat and shoulder harness. The crew chief came up the ladder to help him connect oxygen and pressure suit fittings. He settled the helmet on his head, snapped the oxygen mask in place — letting it hang to one side, then hooked into the radio system.
“All set, sir?”
“Ready to go, Sergeant. Thanks for your help.”
“I’m just happy to see ’em flying again, sir.” Even if by a civilian, he thought.
“Let’s light her up.”
The crew chief scampered down the ladder and took it away.
Wyatt ran through his never-forgotten check list, powering up the panel and radios. The inertial navigation system gyros had been activated earlier, using the Auxiliary Power Unit, since they took a while to spin up. He punched in the Davis-Monthan coordinates. He went through the start sequence, setting ignition toggles, and then gave a thumbs-up to the man tending the start cart. The airman signalled back, and Wyatt started turning the turbine. When the RPMs reached thirty-five percent, he lifted the flap and hit the port ignition. The turbojet whined as the turbine built up speed, then whooshed as it took hold on its own. The starboard engine fired a few seconds later. All of the pertinent instruments read in the green.
Lifting a thumb-and-forefinger okay to the crewmen on the ground, Wyatt released the brakes and rolled forward. When he reached the taxiway, he braked for a right turn, lined up on the yellow guiding line, then braked to a stop.
Barr and Jordan fell into line behind him.
Wyatt adjusted the barometric pressure on the altimeter for the setting Demion had gotten during his weather check, dialled in the local ground frequency on the NavComs, then thumbed the transmit button. “Davis Ground Control, Phantom three-three-eight-seven.”
“Go ahead, eight-seven.”
“Davis, eight-seven has a flight of three near Hangar B. Requesting permission to taxi.”
“Phantom eight-seven, you’re cleared for taxi to Runway two-seven right. Switch to Air Control.”
“Phantom eight-seven, wilco.”
The three aircraft rolled along at thirty miles an hour as they headed for the assigned runway. In his rear-view mirror, Wyatt checked the planes behind him. The forward canopies were still raised, capturing the hot breeze. It made him think of the take-off lines he had waited in at Ton Son Nhut Air Base.
Redialling the radios to the air control frequency, Wyatt got immediate take-off clearance, and the three Phantoms turned onto the runway, Barr and Jordan lining up in echelon off his right wing. Wyatt snapped his oxygen mask into place.
On the inter-aircraft frequency they had agreed on, Wyatt asked, “You two ready?”