Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,93

like some video game where you can hit Play Over. Comes down to who’s the better flyer.”

Diemer’s eyes sparked, but he tried to sound matter-of-fact. “The technical skills, yes. At air shows—fly into a cloud—in fact, I’ve done this. Silly, but it’s something one tries. A Messerschmitt—my god, start the engine, how you say . . . Seu coração treme—your heart trembles! The meaning, though, is more masculine in my language.”

Dan was smiling, enjoying himself, but didn’t want to take this bonding bullshit too far. “Um-huh . . . but back to what I was saying—”

Which gave me a chance to hand him the photo and ask, “Is there one that shows the tail section of Mr. Sampedro’s plane? Or maybe you already know if he trained at Lauderdale.”

“That’s the interesting part, if I can find the right one.” Dan resumed going through photos, careful to touch only the borders, a show of respect. “I’ll know more after I talk with him tomorrow—that’s if my Key Largo charter cuts me loose in time. If not, I’ll visit him on Saturday, which means I’ll get to Lostman’s River whenever I get there, but Sunday for sure.”

I asked, “Why not just call the granddaughter, set it up for late Sunday? He’s at a place in Naples you said?”

“A full-care facility.”

I looked at Diemer. “We spend all day Saturday, part of Sunday documenting wreckage, maybe we’d have something interesting to show the man. I’d like to hear what he has to say.”

Dan said, “I’ll call Candice to make sure it’s okay.” Then handed me a print with scalloped borders, asking, “Isn’t that great?”

Just Angel J. Sampedro in the photo now, looking tiny because he was framed by two Avengers, only one of them showing big white numerals on the tail, 113, and white letters, FT, behind the starboard wing, which stood for “Lauderdale Torpedo.” Maybe it was great, but I was confused. “You’re not saying Sampedro crashed a plane when he was in training? I don’t get the connection.”

“Maybe there isn’t one,” Dan said. “I don’t know which plane in the picture is his and neither does his granddaughter. That’s the problem. But he spent time in Miami Naval Hospital a month before they shipped his group overseas. The Bronze Star and Purple Heart, the other Avenger pilots told me he was a combat vet, but Candice knew he was injured during training from her grandmother’s old love letters.”

The pilot reached into the briefcase again and brought out an oversized book, then paused, finally getting to what he’d wanted to tell me all along. “The Avenger in that picture crashed. On a night training mission. I was going through the book, made the connection about an hour before I landed here. Two planes went down that night somewhere between Cape Sable and Bonita Springs. Torpedo Bombers 113 and 54, neither ever found. And the timing’s right—here, look for yourself.”

Dan stood to give us room. “It took me two months to track down a copy of that book. It didn’t arrive until two days ago, and there aren’t many copies left, guys, so don’t spill anything on it. Geezus.”

Twelve hundred pages thick, cheaply bound:

Army Air Corps Statistics Division

Airplane Accidents, Continental U.S. 1941-1946

“They don’t even list the crew!” Diemer said after a minute. “Not even a mention of the training mission—other crash records, the mission, are cited—I wonder why?” He sounded surprised—odd after what he’d said earlier. “How can an agency, anyone, maintain such sloppy records?”

“February seventh, nineteen forty-four,” Dan said. “See? Even if Mr. Sampedro wasn’t aboard, one of those planes could still be our Avenger. Which of course means we didn’t find Flight 19 wreckage, but . . . what the hell. That’s what we’ll find out. Okay?”

I looked to see how the Brazilian accepted that. Not devastated, but maybe a wince of disappointment—hard to say, his face didn’t show much. Then he dismissed it by opening up discussion, telling us, “Still an interesting project. If it’s on federal land, as you say, we couldn’t file claims on it anyway . . .”

—

WE SPENT ANOTHER half an hour going through photos and charts, letting it all hang out now in front of Vargas Diemer, who I was finally getting used to calling Alberto. He paid attention, took copious notes that he entered into a pocket notebook. Charts and satellite photos—I printed copies of both, then he pressed Dan and me for details. Was there a protected anchorage nearby? A place to camp since