by Stuart Woods
“Would I! Absolutely!”
“We’re meeting tomorrow morning at nine at Clover Field at a big hangar called Barron Flying Service. It’s my dad’s place.”
“I’ll find it.”
“Bring outdoor clothes and something warm for the evenings. Nothing fancy for the ladies.”
“We’ll be there.”
“See you then.” Rick hung up and buzzed his secretary. “Track down Manny White up in Jackson Hole and tell him six of us…No, wait a minute. Get me Vance Calder first. He’s probably on the back lot.”
Fifteen minutes later, Vance was on the phone. “Hello, Rick.”
“Vance we’ve found a location up in Wyoming, and we’re going up there tomorrow morning for the weekend. I’d like you to come.”
“Love to.”
“Bring a girl, if you like.”
“There’s nobody to bring, at the moment.”
“Meet us at Clover Field tomorrow morning at nine at Barron Flying Service. It’s a big hangar. Bring outdoor gear, and tell your girl to bring a jacket for the evenings, and don’t forget dinner tonight.”
“I’ll be there.”
Rick buzzed his secretary again. “Okay, now find Manny White and tell him eight of us are coming up there tomorrow morning for the weekend. Tell him to find us the best accommodations he can for three nights and to scout around for someplace to eat. Oh, and tell him to find us some horses, too.”
“There’s a bar up there he’s been using for an office; I’ll try him there.”
“Tell him to hire us some decent transportation, too.”
“Will do.”
Rick hung up and called his father. “Okay, Dad, we’re on for nine A.M. tomorrow.”
“She’ll be ready. You’ll need full fuel?”
“Right. We’ll probably need some internal fuel, too; as I remember, there’s a bar in the cabin.”
“I’ll stop at the liquor store on the way home tonight.”
“Thanks, Dad. What sort of heating does the airplane have?”
“It’s got two good heaters, so you should be comfortable, but if you want me to, I’ll buy some blankets, just in case.”
“Good. Get expensive ones; these passengers are used to that. I’ll reimburse you, of course. And please be sure the oxygen bottles are charged.”
“Wilco.”
He hung up and called the studio commissary. “Hi, this is Rick Barron. I’m going to need a picnic lunch for eight people—the works—plus paper plates and utensils, delivered to Barron Flying Service at eight A.M. tomorrow morning. Can you handle that?”
“Yes, sir. Hot food or cold?”
“Cold is just fine. Put in some beer, wine and Cokes, too.”
“It’ll be there, Mr. Barron.”
Rick got out his charts of the west and plotted a course that would take them over Death Valley, then Nevada and cut the northwest corner of Utah and the southeast corner of Idaho. The field at Jackson was just over the Idaho-Wyoming border.
He calculated the distance at 680 miles, which was good, since he’d have a maximum range of about 1,300 miles, no refueling, coming or going. There were mountains all along the route, many of them nearly 10,000 feet; he’d go at 13,000 so his passengers wouldn’t need oxygen, though he would, to be safe.
His secretary buzzed him. “Manny White’s on the phone.”
Rick picked it up. “Hey, Manny.”
“Hi, there. I hear you’re coming to see me.”
“That’s right, and I’m bringing Eddie Harris, Sidney Brooks and Vance Calder and their women.”
“I spoke to the people who own the ranch, Mac and Ellie Cooper, and they’re happy to have you all stay at the main house. It’s big and comfortable, and they have a full-time cook, so all your needs will be taken care of. I’ve rented their big ’41 Ford station wagon, and I’ve already got two Jeeps here, too. And they’ve got a barn full of horses, so you can ride all you like. There’s good fly fishing in the Snake River, if you want that.”
“What, no tennis and golf? No beach club?”
“We’ll save that for when we’re on location in Palm Beach.”
“All right, look for us around two P.M. at the Jackson airfield. We’ll have lunch on the airplane.”
“We’ll be ready for you. And Rick, bring me some cash, will you?”
“Okay.”
Rick scribbled out a chit and called his secretary in. “Get me this in cash, today, please; I won’t be in tomorrow.”
“How do you want it?”
“Six thousand in hundreds, the rest in fifties and twenties.”
When she came back with the money, Rick stuffed the fat envelope into his briefcase and rechecked his planning, excited about the flight.
10
Rick and Glenna arrived a little late for dinner at the Harris home to find everyone else already there. The Sam Goldwyns, old friends of Eddie’s and Susan’s, were there, along with Rick’s friend, David Niven, who was with a girl they didn’t know. Niven’s wife had died the year before, when she had fallen down the cellar stairs at the home of Tyrone Power while playing a party game, and Rick was glad to see David out and around again.
Vance Calder, who looked perfectly at home in his borrowed tuxedo, was paired with Adele Mannheim, the widowed sister of the late Sol Weinman, Centurion’s founder, who had been Rick’s dinner partner on his first visit to this house. She was a charming woman, now in her sixties, and Vance, Rick was pleased to see, was paying a lot of attention to her.
Everyone waited for Rick and Glenna to finish a drink, and then Suzanne had them called to dinner.
After dinner, the ladies left the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars, both of which, Rick noticed, Vance declined, as did he.
“Sam,” Eddie said to Goldwyn, “what do you think of all this business with the House Un-American Activities Committee?”
Goldwyn shrugged. “I think if they look hard enough they’ll find a few Communists under a few rocks, maybe even some people we know. I don’t know what will come of it, but I don’t think it’s a good thing.”
“Neither do I,” Eddie said.
“You know,” Goldwyn said, “when I read the Constitution it makes me think that these people shouldn’t be asking the questions they’re asking. It’s nobody’s business what a fellow’s politics are in this country. Or am I right?”
“You’re right, Sam,” Eddie said.
“Young man,” Goldwyn said to Vance, “are you an American citizen yet?”
“No, Mr. Goldwyn,” Vance replied. “I haven’t been here long enough to qualify; I hope to become a citizen as soon as I’m elegible.”
“Well, if that’s what you want, let me give you some advice: don’t talk politics with anybody, and don’t sign anything.”
“Sam,” Eddie said, “Vance has just signed a contract with us. I’m glad we got to him before he heard your advice.”
“Yes, well, that’s your misfortune, young man; you should have signed with me.”
Niven spoke up. “You did very well, Vance.”
Everybody laughed.
“There’s a lot of self-appointed policemen of other people’s politics in this town,” Goldwyn said, “and some of them think that people who come from where I do aren’t real Americans. Some of them don’t like my religion, either. I won’t be working with these people no more.”
“That’s sad,” Eddie said.
“I’m not sad!” Goldwyn said. “I’m the happiest fellow, and I’m not going to let these people tell me how to run my business.”
“Good for you, Sam,” Eddie said. “Let’s go join the ladies.” They got up and moved back into the living room.
Rick and Vance were seated next to each other.
“How did you like Adele?” Rick asked.
“She’s lovely. I enjoyed her company.”
“Good. I didn’t want to mention it before, but she’s a large stockholder in Centurion. You know, the first time I came to thi
s house I wore a tuxedo borrowed from wardrobe, and I was seated next to Adele. The other guests were the Goldwyns and the Clark Gables.”
“How did you happen to join Centurion, Rick?” Vance asked.
“It’s too long a story for tonight. Maybe I’ll get a chance to tell you this weekend.”
“I’m looking forward to the weekend.”
“Good. Bring some riding clothes, and I don’t mean tweeds.”
“Wardrobe has already fixed me up,” Vance said.
Rick turned to Niven. “David, we’re flying up to a beautiful place in Wyoming tomorrow. There’s some trout fishing up there. Would you like to come with us? There’s room on the airplane.”
“That sounds wonderful, Rick,” Niven replied, “but I have two invitations this weekend that I can’t get out of. Word has got ’round that I’m socializing again, I guess. I’d love to another time.”
“David and I once went trout fishing in Oregon with Clark Gable and Clete Barrow,” Rick said to Vance.
“And England declared war that weekend,” Niven remembered. “Clete and I were on our way to England in a matter of days.” He leaned a little closer. “And I don’t think Sam has ever forgiven me for walking out on my contract.”
By ten, the party was over, and the guests went their separate ways.
Driving home, with Glenna at the wheel of her new convertible, she said, “I thought Vance did awfully well, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. He paid the proper amount of attention to Adele.”
“What did you gentlemen talk about over dinner?” she asked.
“Politics.”
“Ugh,” she said.
11
The Centurion Douglas DC–3 was sitting out in front of the Barron Flying Service hangar, her newly polished aluminum skin gleaming, when Rick and Glenna arrived.
“She’s beautiful,” Glenna said. “Eddie is going to be pleased.”
Rick opened the trunk of the car so a lineman could get their luggage out of the car and aboard the airplane. “Wait until you see the interior,” he said, leading her around to the door.
They stepped aboard. There were a pair of facing sofas up front and a beautifully crafted refreshment area; to the rear were a dozen large and comfortable seats, only one on each side of the aisle. “This is very nice.”
“The airplane will seat as many as thirty-two,” Rick said, “but it’s configured for a maximum of eighteen, with three on each sofa, and today, we’re only eight, so we’ll get excellent range and good speed.”
Other cars began to arrive, and Vance had come alone, so they were only seven. Soon everybody was aboard, waiting for Rick and his dad to finish the preflight inspection.
“She’s gorgeous,” Eddie Harris said, surveying his newly renovated airplane.
“She’s as perfect as I know how to make her,” Jack Barron said.
“She’s better than new,” Rick said. “Thanks, Dad, and now we’d better get going.” He passed out earplugs, made sure everyone was comfortably seated and belted in, then he went forward to the cockpit.
Vance tugged at his sleeve as he passed. “Rick, do you mind if I sit up front?”
“No, come ahead,” Rick said. “There’s a headset hanging on your yoke, there,” he said, pointing. “Fasten your seat belt, and we’re off.” Rick began working through his checklist, then started each engine. The big 1,200-horsepower radials rumbled smoothly, and Rick nudged the throttles forward and began taxiing to the runway. He stopped at the end and went through the run-up checklist.
“Clover tower,” Rick said on the radio. “Douglas 123 Tango Foxtrot ready for takeoff on two one.”
“Tango Foxtrot cleared for takeoff,” the tower operator replied.
Rick taxied onto the runway, turned the airplane and moved the throttles forward. Shortly, the tailwheel was off the ground, and a moment after that they were airborne and crossing Santa Monica Beach, then out over the Pacific. Rick began climbing and turning parallel to the beach, then he called Los Angleles Control, reported his position and was cleared en route. He tuned in the Palmdale radio beacon and turned northeast toward it. By Palmdale he was at his cruising altitude of 13,000 feet in smooth air, with a nice tailwind. He calculated his groundspeed at just over 200 knots, or about 230 statute miles per hour.
He punched the button for the intercom and switched on the cabin speaker. “All right, everybody,” he said, “we’re at our cruising altitude of thirteen thousand feet, making good time. Our flight should be about four and a half hours, so that should put us in at the Jackson Airport in a little over four hours from now. If we encounter turbulence and have to climb higher, you may need to put on your oxygen mask, which is near your seat, but please don’t do that until I ask you to.
“Our route is across Nevada, then over the northwest corner of Utah, then over the southeast corner of Idaho, then Jackson. There should be some spectacular mountain scenery below us along the way, and don’t worry; we won’t bump into anything. Glenna and Suzanne will serve lunch around noon.”
Rick leaned the engines for maximum cruise speed and switched on the autopilot. “There,” he said to Vance over the intercom, “we’re on our way.”
“I didn’t realize you were going to be our pilot,” Vance said. “Have you been flying long?”
“All my life. First, in my Dad’s lap. I was flying left seat with him when I was twelve, and I got my license at sixteen. Have you ever flown before?”
“Once: a five-pound, half-hour ride in an old Jenny at Biggin Hill, in Kent. I threw up, and then I was fine.”
“If you have any problems with airsickness, there’s a bag in the pocket by your knee.”
“Nope, that was first-time nervousness,” Vance said.
“I was five minutes into my first combat mission when I threw up into my lap. After that, I was fine.”
“What were you flying, the Thunderbolt?”
“No, those didn’t come along until ’43. We flew the Grumman Wildcat. We were at Guadalcanal in August of ’42, supporting the landings, when a big Japanese transport force turned up to reinforce the island. My squadron led the attack that sank the aircraft carrier Ryujo, but I took some anti-aircraft fire that punched a hole in my airplane and messed up my right knee. After that, it was hospital ships, then San Diego, then back to L.A., where Eddie Harris got me to the best knee man on the West Coast. I got a medical discharge in early ’44.”
“I guess I was lucky; I was too young for conscription,” Vance said. “I tried to enlist when I was fifteen, but my mother heard about it and turned up at the recruiting office with my birth certificate and practically led me out by the ear. I’ve always felt guilty about not serving.”
“Don’t. Your conscience should be clear.”
“I suppose so.”
Vance began asking questions about the airplane, and they passed most of the trip talking about flying. Rick turned off the autopilot and let Vance fly the airplane for a few minutes, but then lunch was served, and he turned it back on.
Rick picked up the radio beacon at Jackson half an hour out and homed in on it. The weather was clear, and the windsock showed him the active runway. He made a smooth landing and taxied up to the terminal.
Manny White was waiting for them with a big Ford station wagon and a pickup truck for the luggage, driven by a Cooper Ranch cowboy. Rick made arrangements for hangaring and refueling, and twenty minutes later they were at the Cooper Ranch.
The Coopers—MacKenzie, known as Mac, and his wife, Eleanor, called Ellie—a weathered-looking pair of sixty or so, were warm and welcoming and showed them to their rooms. When everyone had had a chance to freshen up, Manny loaded them all into the station wagon and gave them a tour of the huge spread, pointing out locations as they went.
“You did good, Manny,” Rick said halfway through. “It’s perfect.”
Eddie Harris, uncharacteristically, seemed speechless, awed by the towering Tetons and the gorgeous landscape.
They dined on home-grown roast beef at the ranch house that night, supplemented by bottles from a case of wine Eddie had brought. He was deep in conversation with the Coopers at his end of the table, while the other end carried on its own conversation.
After dinner, Mac Cooper led them into the rustic living room and showed Eddie and Rick a map of the area with the ranch boundaries marked. Manny had told them that the Coopers had lost two sons in the war, but except to express the visitors’ condolences, nothing more was said about it. Cooper told them that during the war he had had something over 7,000 head of cattle on the place, selling exclusively to the military. He was down to something over 4,000 head now and was selling briskly to the civilian market.
They were at an elevation of around 6,500 feet, and the thin air made everyone tired. They were all in bed by nine o’clock.
Rick settled into a comfortable bed with Glenna.
“Sid Brooks’s wife is worried,” she said sleepily to Rick.
“What’s Alice worried about?”
“The committee business,” she said, then she turned over and fell asleep.
Rick was not far behind her.
12
Rick slept like a stone until after ten o’clock. To his surprise, Glenna was already out of bed. He showered and shaved, went downstairs for coffee and found everyone but Eddie on the front porch with their cups.
“Morning, all,” he said, and everyone returned his greeting. “Is Eddie still in bed?” he asked Suzanne.
“No. He’s deep in conversation with Mac Cooper, in his study,” she replied.
Manny appeared and walked everyone around the immediate environs of the ranch house, showing them the bunkhouse, the mess hall, the barns and corrals and the place that was being prepared for the war-surplus barracks buildings.
“They’re arriving on Tuesday,” Manny said, “and they’ll all be up by the end of next week.”
