Max sneered with disgust.
“It’s another reason I’m seeing Beacock. I want to reshoot the target towing scene. He didn’t get any actual footage after all, and it’s the kind of va-voom we want in the picture. Most of all, I’m hoping that if I serve it up to Novara done right, he’ll agree to forego including the accident.”
Max had been biting her lip. “Don’t do it.”
“What?”
She lowered her voice. “Don’t tow target for the camera.” She read my puzzled expression. “Come see me after your meeting with Beacock.”
***
Before arriving at Beacock’s office, I’d mulled over what it would take to win approval to fly the P-51 for the shoot. The biggest objection, I’d concluded, would be giving our enemies a free look at our newest fighter. To better argue my case, I forced myself to consider the opposite view: why might it be beneficial for the enemy to get a peek. At last, sitting across the desk from the skeptical Beacock, his bald head shining as if it were spit-polished, it hit me. Now that we, as a country, had at last reached our goal of “overwhelming air superiority,” why not flaunt it?
After lagging behind in aircraft design and production, we’d caught up by retooling our automobile factories and transferring assembly line know-how from making cars to churning out aircraft and aircraft parts. Thanks to our ingenuity and sacrifice, our current inventory was superior to that of our enemies.
“Sure it’ll take chutzpah to put our most advanced fighter on celluloid for everyone to see, but we’re giving a message of our confidence to the enemy. Telling them, we don’t care if you see what we have. In fact, we want you to know what you’re up against. We have the capacity to keep churning out new and better planes engineered to outfly and outfight the best you have. You don’t stand a chance of winning the war.”
Talk about chutzpah! The rush of words that was my logic for flying the P-51 burst from my lips like hot lava spewing from a volcano. It wasn’t until I’d finished that I began worrying whether I’d been too assertive.
Beacock, to my relief, listened with his bald head nodding and didn’t seem offended by my style or the bold proposal. He brought up the Flight Characteristics of the P-51 film that had recently been completed. Sam had mentioned it yesterday. Brody had directed, Sam had been the writer, Arthur Kennedy had a role in it. In a film like this, a camera plane stays with the image as it climbs, the narrator giving the speed, rate of climb and so on. In the air, with the plane going through a stringent set of maneuvers that duplicate air combat tactics, the narrator defines and analyzes every action, emphasizing the plane’s capabilities.
Such training films are for training, not for public consumption, but what I proposed to Beacock involved only a fly by—a look see—without the particulars. Beacock gave a final nod. “I’ll run it past the brass,” he promised.
I left the headquarters building feeling satisfied with what I’d accomplished.
***
The cool of Hangar Three’s interior felt refreshing until a spark fired in me upon seeing the three fighter planes in for repairs and parked in a scattered row along the hangar’s center.
Two of the models were familiar. The twin-engine, twin-boomed plane with a 20-mm cannon and four machine guns on its nose was the plane I regularly flew, a P-38 Lightning. This fighter, though, had a larger-than-life tinted headshot of a woman stenciled on its nose. The photo, about two feet by two feet, was likely the wife or girlfriend of the plane’s pilot. It was in good taste; a lot better than the naked women some planes boasted.
The snub-nosed fighter next to the P-38 was a single engine P-47 Thunderbolt like the one I’d ferried into Long Beach two days ago. Difference was that this P-47, like its P-38 neighbor, had been personalized to suit its pilot. Fighter pilots were notorious for their cocky aggressiveness, and this plane’s pilot had much to boast about. He’d taken out twenty-eight of the Luftwaffe’s fighter plane inventory, memorialized by the four rows, seven across, of red, black and white swastika decals on his plane’s fuselage. Each decal included markings of either ME 109, ME 110, or F.W. 190—model numbers for Messerschmitts and the Focke-Wulf.
The third plane was a lean, low-wing monoplane with six wing-mounted machine guns. There was no nose art on this fighter, no marks whatsoever, in fact. Brand spanking new, it was the finest-looking fighter I’d ever seen. The P-51 Mustang.
I stood spellbound until a waving motion from inside the plane’s closed bubble top canopy drew my attention. It was Max.
She opened the hatch and climbed down. “Some piece of machinery, huh?”
At my emphatic nod, Max grinned. “Its range is phenomenal. Our first fighter/bomber that’ll fly all the way from England to Berlin and back. Best part is, even with all the weight, she can do better than 425 miles per hour, easy. And she’s responsive. Still a few bugs to work out; but, no doubt, this is one hell of a plane.” She beamed. “It’s that high-altitude long-distance fighter we’ve been waiting for.”
“Be great to take her up.”
Max’s eyebrows shot up. “Beacock’s gonna stick his neck out for you, then?”
“We’ll see,” I shrugged. “He’s put my request in the hopper.”
Max threw a light punch to my upper arm. “Attagirl! But not all that surprising. He’s seen your record. Knows you’re an H.P.”
I couldn’t help smiling at the “hot pilot” allusion. “He also brought up the flight characteristics picture that was filmed here. Did you meet Brody, the director?”
“Yeah. Film crew spent a lot of time with this baby.” She smiled affectionately at the P-51. “I spent a lot of time with the crew. And Arthur Kennedy, Lee J. Cobb, too. Technical advisor.” Max sighed. “Too bad about Brody. Didn’t know him, but more grim news.”
I nodded.
Sam had dropped Arthur Kennedy’s name in connection with the hush-hush training film he’d been working on. He hadn’t identified it to be the P-51 film, though. “Do you know Sam Lorenz, then?”
“Sure I’ve met Sam. Kind of an odd fish…” Max chuckled. “I’m an odd fish myself then. Yeah, he’s all right. And Frankie seemed friendly with him.”
“They’re pals. He said he was out here, spoke with her just before she went up…” I paused. “You said I shouldn’t tow target for the camera. What did you mean?”
Max glanced around, then steered me to a tool station on the perimeter of the hangar’s interior. There were other mechanics at work nearby, but out of earshot.
Max, a grave expression on her face, slipped her hands deep into the side pockets of her coverall. She looked me in the eye. “Give me your word you’ll never reveal where you heard what I’m about to tell you.”
My heartbeat picked up its pace. I made the sign of the cross over it.
Max lifted her cap off to rub the coppery bristles. “There was sugar in the gas tank of Frankie’s A-24.”
“What?”
“There was sugar in her fuel,” Max repeated softly.
I blinked. The sabotage Miss C had hinted at. Was Frankie, then, Miss C’s source? “How do you know?” I asked, my voice now a whisper.
“I made the discovery.”
I was in an awkward spot. Had Miss C also promised never to divulge the information and her source? Had she told Max about her sub rosa plan for sending me to Hollywood? I felt certain she hadn’t.
Miss C and I had not covered this scenario. Well, Max had had enough confidence in me to confide the truth about what was going on so I made a snap decision and confessed my behind-the-scenes mission. Luckily, Max seemed relieved at having a coconspirator.
“But how could anyone deliberately do such a thing?” A new sense of rage coursed through me as the monstrous nature of the deed set in. “Who would do it? Why?” My voice rose in pitch and volume with each question.
Max twisted the cap in her hands. “Shhh,” she whispered. “I don’t know. All I know is that the A-24 was service
d Friday, the day before Frankie’s accident. The plane was beat-up physically, but it checked out okay. I saw the paperwork. I know the mechanic who signed off on it.”
Her voice dropped another notch. “My guess is someone got to the A-24 after the servicing, but before Frankie took it up. Someone who wanted to teach her a lesson. A fatal lesson.”
“Lesson? You mean that women shouldn’t be flying military planes?”
Max nodded ever so slightly.
I fought for rational thinking. “But what makes you so certain Frankie was the target?”
“Not Frankie, necessarily. But a WASP. What’s behind the theory?” Max placed her cap back over her stubbly hair, jiggling the bill until it was comfortably in place again. “For one, that plane was earmarked for training exercises; the saboteur knew a WASP was likely to take it up. For another, the A-24 was low on fuel the day it was serviced. The log shows the fuel was added from the same holding tank that fueled two other planes that day. Those planes had no problems.”
“But the saboteur…True, he might be an airman taking crazy revenge because a WASP took his plum stateside job. Or he might be someone out to show that women pilots aren’t as capable. But he might also be an enemy agent, right? Some fifth columnist out to put the fear of the Führer in us?”
Max’s half-hearted shrug suggested she favored the crazed airman theory.
I released a long breath. “Whatever the motive, somebody’s got to be investigating this. So why keep a lid on the crash results? Any scuttlebutt?”
Max shook her head. “I’m not even sure what the other guys on the investigating team found. We weren’t supposed to confer with one another, only with the officer in charge. When I reported my findings, I got orders not to disclose the information to anyone else.” She added, “All good reasons why you can’t tow target for those film people.”
Max pulled a wrench off the peg board where an assortment of tools had been hung. “There’s one thing that might play against Frankie if the investigation widens.” She tapped the wrench against the palm of her hand. “Frankie took an A-24 up late on Friday for a practice run. Had a passenger along.”
“Really? Who?”
Max shrugged and tapped the wrench again. “Don’t know. She didn’t log in a name.”
“But that’s against…”
Max had been watching me. Her attention shifted as she caught sight of a colleague approaching, airplane part in hand. “Let it be for now. You’ll only raise a flag you might not want to raise, talking about it. It’s likely the passenger was legit, part of the film crew. Frankie simply got distracted, forgot to sign him in. Whatever the case, so far no one’s brought it up.” She turned away. “Pucci, I gotta get back to work, you need to get back to Hollywood. Remember what I said, will ya? No target towing. Stay on the ground.”
***
Leaving Clover Field, I’d decided to stop at the Hollywood Hospital.
“How is she doing?” I whispered to the nurse bent over Frankie. She was applying Vaseline to Frankie’s lips.
“That’s better.” She pulled her fingers away and straightened up. “No change, I’m afraid.” Her voice sounded sad. She snapped the lid back on the Vaseline jar and wiped her fingers. Then with a practiced skill that made it look effortless, she straightened the bed covers around Frankie’s inert form, even managing to fluff the pillow which propped Frankie’s left arm without disturbing the angle of the cast.
When the bedding was pulled so tight you could bounce a dime on it, she stood with me near the end of the bed. We discussed the efforts to reach Frankie’s uncle, which had not yet panned out.
The nurse checked the needle in Frankie’s arm, adjusted the inverted intravenous bottle, then picked up her tray. “I’ll leave you two alone.” Her thick-soled shoes made a soft padding noise as she left.
I went to Frankie’s side. Smoothing the dark matted hair around her hairline, I prayed the swollen eyelids would flutter open or that the freshly lubricated cracked lips would move. It wasn’t long before the stony silence got to me. I began rubbing her arm lightly. “Frankie, I just came from March Field. Mad Max…you remember mad Max, don’t you? She doesn’t want me to do the towing sequence. Remember I told you about a cover up? Max found sugar in the fuel of the A-24 you were flying. She’s been ordered to keep quiet…”
I paused, conscious of the stillness of the room.
“Frankie, I saw the P-51. You must have seen it. Some piece of machinery, huh? Remember how sleek it looked?” I waited. The reaction I hoped for, a sign of awareness like I’d witnessed yesterday, did not come. I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “C’mon Frankie. You gotta get out of here. That P-51 would be keen to fly, don’t you think? They’ll let you have a go at it. Miss Cochran will fix it…”
With my mouth bent to her ear, my face toward the wall, my back to the door, it was impossible for me to hear anyone entering the room.
Suddenly, I sensed a presence behind me. I spun around, counting on seeing Dr. Farr, perhaps a nurse. Not Sam Lorenz, the screenwriter.
My hand flew to my chest. “Sam, my goodness. How long have you been here?”
“Just walked in,” Sam said in an undertone. With a nod to Frankie, he asked, “How is she?”
“She talked yesterday. Well, she tried anyway. I was just trying to get her to do it again.”
Sam smiled. No, it was more of a grimace. He did not look well. His normally golden skin looked pale, an odd shade of yellow; his eyes seemed glazed, his hair was completely disheveled. A few patches of whiskers—and even a few beads of sweat—were present here and there on his otherwise baby-smooth face.
My heart did a leap. Was he here to check into the hospital?
“Sam, what’s wrong? Why are you here?”
“Wha…Oh, sorry for my appearance.” He smoothed his hair, straightened slightly askew glasses. “I tried to track you down…” Sam glanced nervously at Frankie. “Should we be talking in here?”
I hated to leave Frankie’s side. “It’s okay. The nurse says she needs to hear voices.”
Sam’s eyes hardened. “But I’m not well. Let’s go in the hallway.”
I glanced at him sideways as we left Frankie’s room. What was wrong?
There was little traffic in the corridor. We leaned against the wall outside the doorway, facing one another.
“What happened?”
“I’ve got some kind of bug. Or, could just be exhaustion, not sure. I was working late last night…doing that rewrite for Brody. It came on suddenly. Wiped me out.”
Leery of catching what he had, I inched back a little and gave him a sympathetic look. “You heard about Brody?”
Sam nodded. “Didn’t help my punk feeling.”
Moved by his downcast expression, I reached out to squeeze his arm and was instantly infused with a current of warmth. At first I thought he might be so sick that his fever was radiating through his clothing. Then I realized, with a shock, that I was genuinely worried about him.
“What brought you here?” I asked.
The muscle under my hand flexed as Sam pulled loose from my hold. “I wanted to let you know that, being sick and all, I need to cancel our dinner plans for tonight.”
The round trip to March and all that had gone on during the day had been so consuming, I’d all but forgotten about the date. Still, I was let down. I’d built up a candlelight scenario where we would sip wine, talk, gaze across the table at one another. Romance aside, I’d been looking forward to discussing my new ideas for the WASP film, too. I wanted to get a sense of how a screenwriter would shape them into concepts Novara might go for. I also longed for the easy company of a friend I could trust.
“I understand,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
I started to inquire why he had come all the way to the hospital to tell me—how he even knew I was here—but Frankie’s nurse approached us. She eyeballed Sam, perhaps wonderin
g whether she should go for a gurney.
“I’m leaving,” Sam said for the nurse’s benefit. Then he spoke to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.” He read the surprise on my face. “You don’t know about the meeting?” I shook my head. “Novara’s scheduled one for 10:00 a.m. Wants to hear what you’ve come up with. He probably left word at your office. The Clark Gable project’s heating up, but he’s being pressured to get the WASP piece in the can first.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Should be an action-packed session.”
“You’ll be there won’t you?”
“You bet. Even if they have to wheel me in.”
Chapter Nine
I returned to Fort Roach shortly after five o’clock to find the lot pretty much deserted.
I had in mind putting in another hour of tinkering with the script, seeing where I might insert a scene with the P-51. In the typing pool area, all typewriters had been put to bed, dust covers in place. At my desk, I spied the mug I’d abandoned this morning. A cup of tea, with several spoons of sugar, would be just the sort of boost to get my gears cranking again.
Cup in hand, I headed for the lunch room. At the sink, I dumped out the mug’s contents.
Clink. Something hard had been inside my mug. I stared into the flat-bottomed porcelain sink, watching brown dregs drain away from a small metal object. I picked it up. An earring. A swastika earring!
It must have been put there by one of the typists. A joke? Comeuppance because I hadn’t joined in their loose speculation this morning about Brody’s death? Surely they hadn’t expected me to take their amateur crime-solving theories seriously. There hadn’t even been an official ruling yet that he’d been murdered. And unlike Gus they had no secret source.
But the earring. In not playing along had I hurt someone’s feelings? Was that it? They wanted me to know that I was now the enemy? The kettle whistled at the same moment I decided I needed some exercise to blow off the steam fast-building inside of me. I stuffed the disgusting thing in my pocket and left without my tea.
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