Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,92
the other that he knew airplanes and the esoteric language of aviation. Diemer, the ruling-class Castilian, and Dan, an heir to Florida history, hadn’t exactly warmed to each other, but at least they weren’t throwing punches.
Dan handed a photo to me and another to the Brazilian, saying, “So the guy’s granddaughter calls—her name’s Candice—and Candice tells me her grandfather is Angel J. Sampedro, then asks if it’s true we found the tail off an Avenger. I recognize the name right away, so I know what’s happened. See, that’s what I was telling you, these old Avenger jocks, they have their own network. Tell one of them something it’s, like, ‘Screw the shuffleboard, get me a telephone!’ and the information goes right down the line.”
Futch, getting into it, and pleased with himself, turned to me. “So I called two Avenger pilots I know and told them what we’d found. Not exactly where, of course, but the general area just to see what would happen. Two days later”—he motioned toward the photo I was looking at—“Angel Sampedro suddenly says he wants to talk. A man who’d already turned me down twice, and his granddaughter says never even talks to the family about what he did in the war. Candice lives in Delray Beach, so I made a quick stop, and she loaned me these.”
Photo in hand, I asked, “What’s in the scrapbook?”
“She made me take it, but keep your grubby paws off. Christmas parties and dried flowers that I want to return in one piece. You’re looking at the important stuff.”
I asked Dan, “Which one is Sampedro?” then asked Diemer. “You have the same picture?”
No, but similar. Three aviators, skinny as teenagers and dwarfed by a single-engine Avenger, looked snappy in their flight suits and flotation vests, goggles silver in the Florida sun, which added a Wings of Eagles touch. Dad, Feb. 1944, in a woman’s hand at the bottom. Sampedro was a head shorter than the others, although they all had a gaunt Tex-Mex look. He was one of those ropy, flyweight dudes you didn’t mess with and you knew it from his cocky, combat-ready smile.
A second lieutenant, Dan told us, Navy, then added, “But all flyers were Army Air Corps back then. Mr. Sampedro finished his training just in time to see action in the South Pacific. Only three months before we dropped the bomb, but he still managed to win a Bronze Star, a Purple Heart, and his first lieutenant bars. That’s why Candice is excited about her granddad talking to me. The man’s ninety-one years old. He’s running out of bypasses and time, and the family would like to know how he got those decorations.”
“Fascinating,” Diemer murmured, his glasses reflecting the faces of three young men who had learned to fly planes and fought a war that only seventy years later was already light-years in the past. “This,” Diemer said, “was the time of aviators, not trained monkeys with computers. And autopilots and avoidance sensors and—what is the term?—redundancy systems! Hah! To live in the days of the Luftwaffe and Mustangs and those beautiful P-38s, I would”—the man removed his glasses to bring himself back—“well . . . it’s why I find the subject of particular interest.”
Futch and I exchanged looks. The Germanic Brazilian had actually shown emotion—a lapse he now tried to explain as he cleaned his glasses, then strapped them around his ears. “My grandfather was in . . . he was an elite soldier in the European Theater. I envy him. Even though he was killed in that war, I envy him”—Diemer focused on the photo—“all these men. They must have experienced an unusual . . . clarity?” He looked at me and shrugged. “English is a deficient language. Êxtase y clareza—that’s what I’m describing is . . . it is a state of being that elevates the brain.” Then sniffed to suggest You wouldn’t understand.
But Futch did and pushed his NA beer away, nothing more important than getting this straight. “Sure—I know exactly what you’re saying. Just you, alone, an actual damn aviator with cables for arms and feet—part of the plane. Right? Throw the cowling back, you’re there—a hundred fifty knots of wind in your face. Or do it in a cloud—you’re soaked, but it’s real. And the other guy, whoever you’re fighting, it’s real for him, too. A .50 cal machine gun in both ships—so you’ve got to find the line faster than him, make the right moves, do it all yourself—not