High Risk 1.3

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[continuing chapter one]

Mitch was good at his job, and the Le Rhone started on the first pull of the prop. Casey was pleased to see that he'd forgotten none of the tasks needed to get a rotary-powered plane airborne; Mitch and Hogan only had to hold the Tommy back for a couple of seconds before Casey had the fuel-air mixture set to keep the engine purring like a giant cat. He pressed the blip-switch a couple of times to make sure that it cut the ignition properly, then waved Mitch and Hogan away and let the engine go to full power. A check of the flag to show wind direction, and he was off, rolling down the grass field.

Casey kept the tail down until the airspeed indicator reached fifty. That made for a bumpier takeoff run, but it also made controlling the Tommy easier. Rotary engines generated a terrific gyroscopic effect, and if you weren't careful it could twist you into a ground-loop.

Tail up, and the Tommy lifted from the ground as though bouncing on springs. Automatically, Casey adjusted the fuel-air mix, then checked ahead. Lots of distance to the trees, and he'd clear them with altitude to spare. He grinned.



Nosing up just a bit, he slammed the stick against his right thigh. The Tommy, with the hint of reluctance that marked its breed, rolled. Casey held the roll until he'd gone through three hundred-sixty degrees. Then he put the nose down to build up speed.

A small voice in the back of his mind warned him that if this didn't work he was going to spread himself—not to mention the plane—all over the woods at the end of the field. He didn't care. Hogan had challenged his skill, and Casey had never been able to resist that kind of a challenge. Remember what that did to you before, the voice began, and then Casey shut it up by pulling the stick back into his stomach.

He would never have dared try this in a Tommy with an eighty horsepower engine. Even with the extra horsepower he was taking a risk. But that was what life was supposed to be about; that was what he'd missed most about flying, those long months after his meeting with Howard Hughes. Risk reminded you that you were alive.

The Tommy climbed laboriously, and by the time she'd reached the top of the loop she was already shuddering. Casey found himself holding his breath; his throat closed up and a chill rippled up from his legs through his vitals.

Then he relaxed: instinct and the way the shuddering airframe felt told him he had enough speed to spare. The engine cut momentarily at the top of the loop, when the fuel pump proved inadequate against the force of gravity. For a brief, blessed moment there was silence, a silence that seemed to pound his ears in the absence of the constant snarl of the rotary.

Then the horizon reappeared—upside down—and the engine started again. The wing-struts groaned, and the Tommy rushed down the other side of the loop. Casey whooped, a long, wordless shout of pure pleasure.

Engine roaring, airframe and struts shaking, the Tommy rushed earthward. She wasn't designed to be dived at this speed for long, so Casey began to apply gentle back-pressure on the stick, straightening her out. Slowly, reluctantly, the Tommy began to come out of the dive.

She was still heading away from the field, though. Once he had full control again, Casey pulled all the way back on the stick and the Tommy zoomed into the beginning of another loop. This time, though, Casey didn't let her roll over the top. As his airspeed slowed, he hammered on full left aileron and rudder, and the Tommy snapped into a chandelle. Now she was diving again, but pointed back toward Glendale airport.

He was traveling much too fast to land safely, so he put the Tommy into a series of sideslips to bleed off speed. As he looked down to confirm that the field was clear of obstacles, he saw the movie people standing, apparently transfixed, along a line between the production office and the hangar where he'd first met them. Casey grinned; let 'em watch, and learn.

For a moment Casey considered volplaning his landing. This approach never failed to impress; properly done, a volplane was almost a perfectly vertical landing. It was also pretty risky, even in a machine as docile as an Avro. The Tommy was anything but docile, so with reluctance Casey set her down normally, making a long, slow approach and switching off just before the wheels touched down. The Tommy scarcely bounced at all, and Casey was still grinning when the machine rolled to a stop about twenty yards from the hangar.

"You do pretty good work yourself, pal," Mitch said when he arrived to help Casey out of the cockpit. "Been a long time since I've seen Mr. Hogan so quiet watching a pilot work."

"I hope that means I got the job," Casey said. "I sort of need the money."

"I know what you mean," Mitch said. "We ain't all of us Wall Street tycoons." When Casey bent to lift up the Tommy's tail, Mitch said, "Don't bother, Casey. I'll probably need her out here anyway. Go talk to Mr. Hogan."

Casey grinned his thanks, and walked as casually as he dared toward Hogan.

Before he could reach Hogan and the movie people, his attention was distracted by the sight of Straebo's weird Jenny emerging from the hangar. Its engine was fully cowled again; Telford must have got it fixed up well enough to run, at least.

Telford was pushing the plane by himself. That struck Casey as unfair; the man might be a hopeless drunk but that didn't mean he wasn't deserving of basic civility. Besides, Casey still felt airborne and this sort of feeling needed to be shared. He detoured away from Hogan, grabbed one of the Jenny's wings along its trailing edge and pushed until the machine was safely outside the hangar.

"Thanks, pal," Telford said. His brows furrowed under the leather flying helmet. "I know you, don't I?"

"Yeah, but don't worry about it," Casey said. "Want me to prop you?"

"Appreciate it," Telford said. He clambered into the cockpit. Once seated he seemed to Casey to sharpen into alertness, like an image suddenly coming into focus. By the time he and Casey had the Gnome running Telford was all business. As the Jenny waddled down the field, Telford adjusting the Gnome's fuel and air supplies on the go, Casey would almost be willing to swear to Telford's sobriety.

He didn't wait to see the Jenny lift off before returning his attention to Hogan and the movie people. "How'd I do?" he asked when he reached them.

"Pretty cocky, aren't you?" Hogan answered.

"I guess it's my nature," Casey said. "Look, Mr. Hogan, I've been flying since I was sixteen. I survived six months on the Western Front, and I've barnstormed from here to Toronto. I think it's safe to say that I can do what you need for this job. What do you say?"

"If he doesn't hire you, I will."

Casey turned to see Desiree Farrell standing beside him. Jerry Straebo was walking toward him, a greedy expression on his face. "That's kind of you, Miss Farrell," Casey said, "but I don't really see what I could do for you."

"What a tragically limited imagination you have," she murmured. Casey turned away, hoping that no one had seen the expression that crossed his face. Miss Adams is more my type, he thought. I wonder what she thought of my work.

"Your reputation is safe, Casey," Hogan said before Desiree could elaborate. "You've got the job. Much as I hate to admit it, you may be better than either of the other guys I've hired. Done any crashes before?"

"Not for the movies," Casey said. "In the service I crashed plenty."

"So you're familiar with the concept," Hogan said dryly.

"Mr. uh, Casey, is it?" Straebo had joined them.

"That's right," Casey said. Something about Straebo's posture and expression made Casey nervous; he found himself clenching his fists.

"I understand you had a—well, an encounter with Mr. Howard Hughes last year."

Casey sighed. Am I ever going to be free of this?

"I met Mr. Hughes briefly while he was filming some of the flying sequences for Hell's Angels," Casey said. "Hughes fired me. Anything else you want to know?"

"Oh, plenty," Straebo said. "Is it safe to say that you're not especially fond of Howard Hughes?"

Casey thought about six months working as an auto mechanic, unable to raise the money for even a single flip in a Jenny. "I guess it's safe to say that," he said.

"Oh, splendid," Straebo replied. Casey stared at him. "If you don't mind," the director added, "I'm going to send my writer around to talk with you. Later today or tomorrow, depending on how hard it is for me to locate the man."

"What the hell?" Casey muttered as Straebo walked off, his step lively and his head bobbing slightly as he hummed an unrecognizable collision of unfriendly notes.

"If there's a man in Hollywood who hates Howard Hughes more than does Jerry W. Straebo," Desiree said, "I don't want to meet him."

"Why does everybody care so much about Howard Hughes?" Casey asked. "The guy's a rich idiot with more money than brains. From what I hear he's spending more money making that stupid picture of his than most studios earn from a year's worth of pictures."

"I can explain it to you, I think," Desiree said. "Why not join me for a drink?"

"At seven in the morning?"

"I didn't say what we were going to be drinking. You, sir, have a disreputable mind." She smiled again, and in spite of himself Casey admired the way the curve of her generous mouth seemed to mirror the way the turban-like hat framed her forehead.

"I've known a few people who started their day with a brandy and soda," Casey said. "And you movie people don't exactly have reputations of purest white. I'd say I made a reasonable assumption."

"And you'd be right," Desiree said. "But in deference to your sensibilities we can either make it coffee now—though I warn you that any coffee you'll get here will make the katzenjammers seem like a desirable alternative—or something stronger at lunch."

"You can have coffee at lunch," Hogan said. "If I decide to let you have lunch. You may be on a relaxed schedule today, Miss Farrell, but we have work to do. Or, rather, Casey has work to do and I have to watch him."

"How can I object to such a request," Desiree said, "when it's presented in such a charming manner?"

Casey shook his head as he watched her go. "Maybe I'm still asleep," he said, "and this is all some crazy dream. Or nightmare."

"Nightmare's what you'll be in if you pay any attention to her," Hogan said. "I know the type; there's one on every shoot where the Hollywoods mix with us. We're a game to them, Casey. Playing with people is what they do to keep from being bored. Take it seriously and you'll regret it."


He laughed. "Not that I'm going to give you a chance to take it seriously. You know engines, right? You can help Mitch tune up that Bristol; we're going to need her tomorrow."

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