High Risk 7.2

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[Continuing chapter seven]

“How are your ribs this morning?” Hogan asked. He, Casey, and Mitch stood on the port side of the second of the disposable Tommies. A murmur of voices, punctuated by occasional shouts and the odd screech from Jerry Straebo, told Casey that the actors and crew were already at work.

“You want the truth? Still a bit sore.” Casey nudged the tire nearest him. “I think I can do this, though.” I hope I can.


“All I care about is that you get her off the ground and into a spin the way the script calls for,” Hogan said. “Once I get that on film it won’t matter whether or not you survive the crash.”

“And they say you’re just a hard-hearted, miserable old man,” Mitch said. “I should warn you, boss, that this piece of garbage was kicking up a fuss yesterday. The engine’s pretty much on its last leg.”

“Again, I say that don’t matter to me. It only has to work for about five minutes.” Hogan slapped Casey on the back, seemingly not noticing Casey’s wince and sharp intake of breath as the bruised ribs complained. “Off you go, sport. Give me five to get airborne and circle around. You don’t start up until I give Mitch the high sign. Then you make sure you go at least fifty yards on the ground before lifting off. I want to be as close as possible to you when you go in.”

Casey tried to ignore the ominous sound those words had. Grinning at Hogan in what he hoped was a persuasive fashion, he pulled himself up onto the Tommie’s rear fuselage and slid into the cockpit. His ribs beat a steady tattoo of pain, and he began to wonder how wise he’d been to agree to doing this stunt.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry. The aged Tommy’s engine not only couldn’t give them five minutes, it scarcely managed five seconds. No sooner had it buzzed to life than it shut down with a high-pitched clatter that sounded like a million ball-bearings rolling downhill inside a rusty barrel.
At the first sour note from the engine Casey shut off power and fuel, and pulled himself as quickly as possible out of the cockpit. When he saw the engine he was glad he’d been so hasty: fuel was running from one of the cylinders and puddling on the grass. “What the hell was that?” Mitch asked, running up.

“Broken valve,” Casey said. “That’s what it looks like, at least. There may be more, based on that racket.”

“Geez Louise,” Mitch said. “Hogan’s gonna have my balls. How am I gonna get this—this shit back and running again before tonight? Hell, how am I gonna get it running at all?”

“Good question,” Casey said. “Normally I’d say you could scavenge the parts, but there’s only Hogan’s Tommy left, and I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to want you taking his engine apart.”

“It’s a different engine type anyway,” Mitch said, ending on a wordless moan of sorrow and misery that seemed to channel the unhappiness of every ack-emma Casey had ever known. Then he turned to Casey, his face brightening. “You’ve got an idea there, though.”

“What idea?”

“I’m willing to bet that I can get this crate into the air again by tomorrow—by using either parts or the entire engine from the Tommy you wrecked last Saturday.”

“Didn’t that get burned pretty badly?”

“So what?” Mitch beamed. “I doubt that hurt the valves all that much. There are nine cylinders in a Gnome, Casey—that’s nine valves. I only have to find one good one. Remember, this thing only has to fly for a couple of minutes.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep reminding me of that,” Casey said.

Hogan had evidently seen Casey and Mitch walk away from the Tommy, because the director’s DH-4 landed as Casey finished speaking. When Hogan stomped up to them, Mitch preempted his anger with a quick explanation of the problem and his intended solution.

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Chapter Six    Chapter Seven