"About one hundred ten as pilot-in-command."

"We've got a couple of them here," Colonel McNair said. "By a strange coincidence, and by another strange coincidence, although the officers in training are going to ferry an L-23 over there, Colonel Felter is very interested that they get checked out in the Gooney-Bird. Quietly, he said." Jack didn't reply.

"Well, then, without asking you to violate the oath of secrecy to which I presume Colonel Felter has sworn you, could I hazard the guess that what you will help Major Hodges to do is teach these guys how to fly a Gooney-Bird in the Congo?"

"Sir, I don't know."

"I shall relay to Colonel Felter, Private Portet-I am to call him on your arrival-that your lips were commendably sealed.

You are a credit to whatever it is that Felter does."

"Colonel, I really don't know why Colonel Felter had me sent here."

"Well, maybe Pappy Hodges will tell you," Colonel McNair said sarcastically. "Maybe Felter has confided in him. On paper you have been assigned to Major Hodges as an R-4D crew chief. "

"Yes, Sir." Jack was a little confused to heal-the Gooney-Bird referred to as an R4-D. That was the Navy designation for the DC-3.

"Well, Portet, why don't you take a walk over to Hangar 104 and ask for Major Hodges?"

"Yes, Sir," Jack said. Thinking he was dismissed, he came to attention and saluted, then did an about-face and headed for the door.

"Portet!" Jack turned to face him.

"Don't get the wrong idea," McNair said. "Whatever Felter has you doing is important-and I know that. If anything gets in the way of you doing what you're supposed to be doing, you call me. Day or night. You get the picture?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Welcome to the Army Aviation Board, Private Portet," Colonel McNair said. He smiled, then waved Jack out of his office.

Jack found Major Ellwood "Pappy" Hodges standing outside Hangar 104 watching a tug drag a Gooney Bird from the hangar.

He recognized him by a name tag sewn to his ancient flight suit.

He was leather-skinned, balding, bucket-bellied, and well into his forties. Jack saluted and told him who he was.

"I understand you been around these airplanes?" Hodges said, waving in the general direction of the Douglas.

"Yes, Sir."

"They just changed the port engine in this one. The engine is older than you are. I'm going to test-fly it. If you know something about it, preflight it."

"Yes, Sir." Jack recognized in Hodges the old pilot, and he both admired and understood old pilots. Jack went through what, he thought was a pretty good preflight examination of the airplane. It was old but well maintained.

"They have a preflight checklist," Major Hodges said, "but I didn't see you skip anything on the list. Can you taxi one of them?"

"Yes, Sir." Hodges gestured for him to get aboard the aircraft.

Jack fired it up and started to taxi to the threshold of the active runway. To taxi the DC-3, Jack's father had told him, was harder than flying one. His father said that he always judged a Gooney Bird pilot by the way he taxied. And he had taught his son well.

Hodges apparently used the same criterion.

"When was the last time you flew one of these?" Hodges asked.

"About four months ago." Hodges grunted.

"Cairns, Army Seven Nine Zero at the threshold of two eight for takeoff," Hodges called the tower. "Visual, local area."

"Seven Nine Zero, the time is ten past the hour. The altimeter is two niner niner eight. The winds are negligible. You are cleared as number one to take off. Maintain two eight zero degrees. Report passing through three thousand."

"Seven Nine Zero rolling," Hodges said, then gestured to Jack to take it off.

They were three hundred feet in the air when the port engine died.

"Shit!" Jack said. "Call a Mayday! We just lost the fucking engine!" He dumped the flaps and cranked the wheel hard to port to counteract the drag of the dead engine, trying to pick up what altitude he could before trying to turn back to the field. There was finally time to look at the panel.

"No fire light," he said. "I can't see it. We got any smoke?"

"No smoke," Hodges said. "Stand by to restart." At that point he realized what had happened. Hodges had cut the engine.

"You sonofabitch!"

"You been flying some time," Hodges said matter of factly.

"Felter said you had a lot of time. I wanted to find out what kind of time."

"Jesus Christ!"

"I may have to send you out with these two guys going to the Congo," Pappy said. "I had to be sure it would be safe."

"And cutting my engine on takeoff was the test? Jesus Christ, you could have wiped us both out."

"Nab," Hodges said. "I been flying these things since 1943. I know what to do when you lose an engine that way. I wanted to see if you did. Whoever taught you knew what he was doing."

"My father taught me," Jack said, thinking that Hodges had tested him exactly as his father would have tested someone who was supposedly a good pilot. "I got my license when I was fourteen. "

"Well, he knew what he was doing," Hodges said. "The priority is (one) that we-you and me-augment and update the hell out of the Jeppesen charts for the Congo~ and (two) that we teach these two as much about the Congo as we can. If you were doing that, teaching these people, I mean, what would be most important?"

"Dead-reckoning navigation," Jack said after a moment. "Navaids over there are unreliable."

"And would you say they could do that better in a Twin Bonanza or a Gooney-Bird?"

"The Beech," Jack said after a moment's thought. "That's what they'll be flying."

"You must be smart, Portet," Pappy Hodges said. "You think like me. That's the way we'll do it. Now see if you can find our way home." As Jack taxied the Gooney-Bird to a parking ramp, Hodges said, "I'm curious why they don't just pin a bar and wings on you and send you to the Congo, but I been around the Army-and Sandy Felter-long enough to know not to ask too many questions."

"Colonel Felter had that in mind, I think," Jack said. "But I told him why I couldn't go over there wearing a uniform."

"Why not? Or is that one of those questions I'm not supposed to ask?"

"You've sort of got me on a spot, Major."

"Felter told me your father's got a small air-freight operation in the ex-Belgian Congo," Hodges said. "C-46s and C-47s. And that you told the Bishop you were afraid they'd chop your family up with a machete if you showed up over there in a uniform."

"The Bishop?"

"Finton," Hodges explained. "He's a bishop, no fooling-in the Mormons."

"That's about it," Jack said.

By then he had parked the airplane on the ramp and shut down the engines.

"Let me tell you something about Felter, son," Pappy Hodges said. "I been doing odd jobs for him on and off for years. You do what you're told to do, and keep your mouth shut about it, and he takes care of you. In my case, I was riffed three times. . ."

"I don't know what that means."

"RIP. Reduction in Force. Thank you for your faithful service, and don't let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out. I been riffed three times. Every time I told Colonel Felter-and every time they unriffed me."

"You're not close to retirement?"

"The first job I had in the Army was shoveling manure in the horse artillery," Pappy said. "Sure I got my time in. What the hell would I do if I retired? I'm too old for the airlines. Hell, I'm too old for Air America. Only way I could fly if I retired would be on charity."

"I understand."

"So what I'm telling you is that you're now working for Felter. Keep your mouth shut, layoff the booze, do what you're told, and he'll take care of you. Fuck up, and by that I mostly mean diarrhea of the mouth, and you'll wind up in Greenland or someplace counting ice cubes."

"I appreciate the advice," Jack said. "Thank you."

"Or, in your case," Pappy Hodges said, "in the Congo. Felter is one of those people you just don't fuck around with."

(One) Ozark, Alabama 4 April 1964 Private Jacques Emile Portet of the Flight Operations Section, United States Army Aviation Board, wearing his only civilian clothes, a somewhat battered tweed jacket, a pair of trousers, and a shirt and tie, went into Ozark to buy a car.

He was reasonably sure that he would be at Fort Rucker for some time, probably as long as he had to stay in the Army. He thought that Colonel Felter had probably come to the conclusion that forcing him to go to the Congo would cause more trouble than it was worth. There really wasn't much he could do in the Congo that he couldn't do here. The rules had been explained to him by Major Pappy Hodges. If he made himself as useful as possible and kept his mouth shut, Felter would take care of him... .

He intended to do both. And already the taking care of had started. The First Sergeant had called him in that morning and told him that from that moment on he was on twenty-four call.

That had at first sounded a little alarming, but the First Sergeant had gone on to explain that what that meant was that he was to be available to Major Hodges twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And since that was true, he was excused from the normal "company duties" expected of a private. There would be no formations to stand, no extra duties like charge of quarters, or anything else. And the First Sergeant had told him that, as of the day before, he was on "flight orders," which meant that he would draw flight pay.

VIII.

(One) Ozark, Alabama 4 April 1964 Private Jacques Emile Portet of the Flight Operations Section, United States Army Aviation Board, wearing his only civilian clothes, a somewhat battered tweed jacket, a pair of trousers, and a shirt and tie, went into Ozark to buy a car.

He was reasonably sure that he would be at Fort Rucker for some time, probably as long as he had to stay in the Army. He thought that Colonel Felter had probably come to the conclusion that forcing him to go to the Congo would cause more trouble than it was worth. There really wasn't much he could do in the Congo that he couldn't do here. The rules had been explained to him by Major Pappy Hodges. If he made himself as useful as possible and kept his mouth shut, Felter would take care of him... .

He intended to do both. And already the taking care of had started. The First Sergeant had called him in that morning and told him that from that moment on he was on twenty-four call.

That had at first sounded a little alarming, but the First Sergeant had gone on to explain that what that meant was that he was to be available to Major Hodges twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And since that was true, he was excused from the normal "company duties" expected of a private. There would be no formations to stand, no extra duties like charge of quarters, or anything else. And the First Sergeant had told him that, as of the day before, he was on "flight orders," which meant that he would draw flight pay.

When he'd left the orderly room, he'd called Major Hodges at his quarters.

"The First Sergeant told me I was on call to you twenty-four hours a day. I thought I'd better ask you what that meant."

"Have a good weekend, Jack. If you can't keep your peecker in your pocket, try to stay out of jail," Hodges had said. "I'll see you in the hangar at eight o'clock Monday morning." Since there was virtually no public transportation on the post, just a couple of buses a day to Dotlian, Ozark, and Enterprise, Jack had two options: He could either spend his free time in wholesome GI recreation, bowling, working out in the field house, and treating himself to a banquet in the PX snack bar, or he could go buy a car and see what he could, do about getting his ashes hauled.

And even putting his near-terminal case of Lackanookie aside, he would need a car to drive from the Board barracks to the airfield, to get his laundry done, just to get around.

Fortunately, money wasn't going to, be a problem. He had sold his Volkswagen to Enrico de la Santiago before leaving Leopoldville, nothing down and whatever Rico figured he could spare from his Air Simba pay.

Hanni had written him faithfully once a week, telling him that Rico had been making regular payments. She had also told him that his grandfather's estate had finally been settled and that there had been a check, deposit slip enclosed, and that she did not agree with his father that he would probably blow the whole thing in the next three weeks on strong liquor and wild women.

The copy of the deposit slip had been a shock. The check had been for $96,545, about ten times what Jack had expected. As soon as he'd recovered, he had called his father from a pay station at Knox (the way the operator had behaved, he suspected it was her very first call collect to Leopoldville 6757 in the Republic of the Congo) and offered the money to his father. Air Simba was about 90 percent in hock, to Barclays Bank, Ltd.

His father hadn't wanted to take the money ("We can go broke, you know,"), but in the end he'd agreed to borrow, for the company, $75,000. That still left Jack with more cash than he had ever had in his life, and it was nice to think that if he wanted to, he could walk into the Ford showroom and buy, for example -and for cash-a red convertible off the showroom floor.

Not that he would, of course. Jack prided himself on his automobile wisdom, which was that only fools drive more car than they have to. The function of an automobile was to carry the human body from point A to point B in reasonable comfort and with reasonable reliability. So far as Jack was concerned, the Volkswagen people, more than anybody else, had best solved that human need.

That. proof was the Volkswagen that he had sold to Rico.

Cheap, solid, reliable. And he had sold it for as much as he had paid for it. What he would do now, he decided somewhat smugly, was buy another used Volkswagen.

This high resolve, this proof that he was mature and above the foolish vanities of his peers, lasted about ninety seconds from the moment he walked onto the Ford dealer's used-car lot in Ozark.

He was drawn like a moth to a candle to something which represented the absolute antithesis of his wise and conservative automobile philosophy. It was also the most maddeningly beautiful thing he had seen since he watched the derriere of the grayeyed girl on the plane undulate ~as she walked into the terminal and out of his life.

It was a Jaguar XKE drophead coupe, flaming red, with red leather upholstery and wire wheels. It was desecrated by only one thing, a violation of its beauty as obscene as carving initials in Mona Lisa's forehead. Someone had taken a shoe whitener--and written "Sharp! $3,000 down!" on the exquisitely slanted chrome- framed windshield.

Jack did the only thing someone of his maturity and common sense could do under the circumstances. He fled the used car lot.

A few minutes later he found himself before the First National Bank of Ozark's plate-glass windows.

If he was going to buy a nice little used Volkswagen, he suddenly realized, he was going to have to pay for it. And he didn't think he would be able to successfully offer a check drawn on the 1010 Avenue Baudouin, Leopoldville, Democratic Republic of the Congo, branch of Barclays Bank, Ltd.

It was a minor problem and he had gone through it before.

There was a Barclays branch in New York and he probably still had their phone number in his wallet, he thought, pleased-who, when telephoned by one of their customers in America, would vouch for his check. When he'd opened his first checking account with Barclays his father had warned him that Barclays had one simple rule: write a bad check and you were out on your ass.

But until that first bad check, they were very obliging about handing you money or vouching for your checks.

He would open an account here, put in enough money to buy a good used Volkswagen, and go buy one.

He went inside and searched through his wallet. Not only did he have Barclays' number in New York, but the name of a guy who had vouched for his checks before. Ten thousand years ago, when he and his father had been in San Antonio, Texas, and come across three surplus Wright R-1830-92 Twin Wasp engines in a forgotten comer of an Aero Services warehouse, Aero Services had been unwilling to take a check on Barclays until the Barclays man in New York had said the magic words to a Texas banker.

And if I'm going to do this, I might as well do it just once. I will need more money than for just the good used Volkswagen.

He made out a check for $15,000, leaving the payee blank, and took it to the nearest teller's window.

"Yes, Sir?"

There was no reply from Private Jacques Emile Portet. He was struck dumb.