Miss Peaks tilted her head to consider me. “So you can use our planes?”
Something about this conversation was off. I glanced at Eugene, but he had stepped back. “That … that is a separate discussion, I think.”
“And if we turn you down—about using the Mustangs—would you still want black women to fly with you?” Miss Braggs’s tone was gentle, with mild curiosity, but the words held a challenge.
“It depends upon the reasons for turning us down, I suppose.” That answer caused Miss Coleman to sniff. “If it was because you doubted me as a pilot, then that doesn’t seem like it would be a good collaboration. But, otherwise, yes, I should still like you to fly with us. Major Lindholm has spoken very highly of your performance in the shows your airclub has put on, and I need experienced pilots.”
“Good! I’m game, then.” Miss Peaks grinned at me. “Any chance to do some more formation flying is fine by me. You … you are okay with formation, right?”
“Absolutely. I was definitely planning that.” It would take a liquid ton of rehearsal, but precision flying was mission critical if we were going to convince people that women pilots were as good as men.
Miss Coleman shook her head. “There’s no point in it.”
“Sarah—”
“No. Don’t hush me. You know good and well that even though we’re qualified—even if this air show scheme were to work—we wouldn’t be allowed in the astronaut corps.” She glared up at Eugene. “Would we, Major?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, now … they only took seven men, and had to take those from different countries, and—”
“And none of those countries selected anything but a white man.”
“The makeup of the list bothers me as well. That’s why we’re trying to change things with the air show. Once they see how qualified you are—”
Miss Coleman leaned across the table, face intense. “I was accepted into the WASPs during the second war. Until they realized I was black, and then they asked me to withdraw my application. What makes you think that the IAC is going to be any different?”
“I—well … well, because we’re talking about a colony, and … and…” And I remembered what had happened in the days after the Meteor hit, when the people in the black neighborhoods were left for dead until Eugene and Myrtle had used their leaflets. “And we’ll make them. But to do that, we have to show them we can fly first.”
Miss Peaks shrugged. “I already said I’m in. Y’all can keep arguing, but nothing’s going to change if we just sit here.”
Slowly, Miss Braggs nodded. “If nothing else, it’ll be fun.”
Miss Coleman stood. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than help yet another white lady exploit us.”
“Exploit?” I stood too. “Now, see here. I’m inviting you to fly, not to mop floors or serve dinner.”
She smirked. “See? That’s the only way she can picture us. I’m a mathematician and a chemist, working in pharmacy, but all you could think of were servant roles for me. So, no thank you, ma’am. You can just go on and convince yourself that you’re trying to save us. It’ll be without me.”
She strode off, leaving me gaping and with my skin too hot. I’d probably gone bright red with anger and embarrassment. I should have known better. I’d made the same mistake with Myrtle when we first moved in and I assumed she was just a housewife. She’d been a computer for a black business that had manufactured hair-straightening chemicals. I hadn’t even known such things existed.
“I’m a fool … Would you please convey my apologies? She’s absolutely right.” I gathered up my purse and started to pull my gloves back on. “Thank you for your time.”
“Did you say there was formation flying?” Miss Peaks stared after Miss Coleman.
I stopped with one glove half-on. “Yes.” I didn’t say If we can get the planes, but I thought it.
“And when’s the first practice?”
“I—does this mean you’re still willing to fly with us?”
She turned her gaze back to me, and a corner of her mouth curved up. “I already said yes.” Then she winked. “Besides … that went better than I thought it would.”
I laughed, relief making it too loud. “I can’t see how.”
She cocked her head, and her smile didn’t change, but the meaning of it did. “You apologized.”
Have you ever gotten exactly what you wanted, and then realized that it had unintended consequences? That was me and the air show. In addition to Nicole Wargin, we also had commitments from Anne Spencer Lindbergh (yes, that Anne Lindbergh); Sabiha Gökçen, a Turkish fighter pilot in the Second World War; and Princess Shakhovaskaya, who had fought in the First World War before having to flee Russia.
I hoped the fact that she was an actual fighter pilot, and a princess, would draw some attention. Betty had been ecstatic, because the princess was a publicity gold mine.
And Nicole, bless her, had worked her political contacts and come up with a list of guests that staggered the mind. Or, at least, my mind: Vice President Eglin’s wife. Charlie Chaplin. Eleanor Roosevelt.
Which is how I came to be sitting in a borrowed Mustang on an airfield surrounded by bleachers and camera crews. More than one crew. All I have to say is “Thank God for princesses”—even aging ones who no longer had a country. It turns out that given a choice between interviewing a physicist housewife and a princess who flies with a tiara, they opted for the tiara.
I was fine with that.
I was even happier when it was my turn to fly. Nicole, Betty, and I were set to do some formation flying with Miss Peaks and Miss Braggs of the Kansas City Negro Aeronautics Club. They’d supplied us with the Mustangs, and, as Eugene had promised, they were damn good pilots. And … they’d convinced Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to attend.
Have I mentioned that the crowd was immense?
We queued for takeoff, following Miss Peaks with military discipline. The first part of the routine was simply a tight V formation, buzzing the airfield. I say “simple,” but during our second pass over the field, we rolled into a vertical bank of 180 degrees while keeping the V tight and even. After years of puddling around in my Cessna, flying at speed in a Mustang with a group of amazing pilots … a part of me came back to life. A part that might have withered and died even before the Meteor struck.
The seat pressed against my spine with the G-force of our turns, and the little blips of turbulence from the planes around me gave a tangible sense of the other pilots. These women made me feel vibrantly alive.
The people in the stands below? They might as well have been asleep, for all they mattered in that moment. We roared past them, banked to climb into a steep arc, and then split apart.
This next bit was Senator Wargin’s idea. It was cheesy as all hell, and I couldn’t wait. Six planes, seemingly flying out of formation, and yet perfectly in sync. Over the radio, Miss Peaks said, “On my mark, ladies.” It was a formality when she said, “Mark” a moment later, though, because we were all already where we should be. I hit the button to release a stream of colored smoke in time with the others. We each dipped in an individual arc, passing the other planes in an intricate choreography designed to avoid the wake of turbulence from each other’s slipstreams.
Behind us, in red smoke against a silver sky, we wrote the word M ARS.
I finished the final upstroke of the M and glanced over my shoulder. The ground lay at my back, past the red mist. My angle was all wrong to read it, but from here, it was enough to see that our individual strokes all connected. Damn, we were good.
I turned forward again, and hit a bird.
Then three more smacked into me. Feathers and blood flashed past the plane with meaty thuds. I had to tilt my head to the side and scrunch down to see past the carnage on my windscreen, but, by God, I managed to stay in alignment with my teammates.