back to the safety of boot camp on Parris Island.”
“Hart was with your dad all through the war, wasn’t he?” Ernie asked.
“All the way, right to the end. He was even on the plane when the Old Man went into Japan before the surrender,” Pick said. “Good man, George.”
“And you got away with it?” Ernie asked. “You flew under the bridge, and got away with it?”
“I was a newly rated Marine aviator,” Pick said. “With probably two hundred hours’ total time, and therefore convinced I could fly anything anywhere . . .”
“By the skin of his teeth,” McCoy said, “and with the considerable assistance of Senator Fowler.”
“I don’t like the look in your eyes, Pick,” Ernie said. “Nothing smart-ass with the airplane today, Okay?”
"Nothing could possibly be further from my mind,” Pick said, smiling wickedly.
"She means it, Pick,” McCoy said. “Nothing cute with the airplane.”
Pick looked at McCoy, surprised at his seriousness.
“Ernie’s pregnant,” McCoy said. “This is the fourth time; the first three didn’t—”
“Jesus H. Christ!” Pick said. “Jesus, Ernie, you didn’t say anything. . . .”
“The first time, I told everybody, and everybody was really sympathetic when I miscarried,” Ernie said. “Like it says, ‘once is enough.’ ”
“You’re the only one who knows,” McCoy said. “Don’t make us sorry we told you.”
Pick looked between the two of them for a moment.
“Would congratulations be in order?”
“Nice thought,” Ernie said. “But a little premature. Wait six months, and have another shot at it.”
[THREE]
NORTH ISLAND NAVAL AIR STATION SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA 1400 8 JUNE 1950
“North Island,” Pick Pickering said into his microphone. “Beech Two Oh Two.”
Pick was wearing a flamboyantly flowered Hawaiian shirt, yellow slacks, and loafers without socks.
Ernie McCoy was sitting beside him, wearing a dress. Pick had refused, considering her delicate condition, to let her defer to the rule that men sat in the front of a vehicle— wheeled or winged—and women in the back. McCoy, wearing his uniform, was in the back with the luggage that wouldn’t fit in the baggage compartment.
“Civilian aircraft calling North Island. Go ahead.”
Ernie could hear the conversation over her headset.
“North Island, this is Beech Two Oh Two, VFR at 4,500 over the beautiful blue drink, about ten miles north of your station, request approach and landing, please.”
“Beach Two Oh Two, North Island is a Navy field, closed to civilian traffic. Suggest you contact Lindbergh Field on 214.6.”
“North, Two Oh Two, suggest you contact whoever has the exception to the rules book, and then give me approach and landing.”
“Hold One, Two Oh Two.”
There was a sixty-second pause.
“Two Oh Two, North.”
“Go ahead.”
“North clears Beech Two Oh Two to descend to 2,500 feet for an approach to Runway One Eight. Report when you have the field in sight.”
“Roger. Understand 2,500, Runway One Eight. Beginning descent at this time.”
“Aircraft in the North pattern, be advised that a civilian single Beech biplane will be in the landing pattern.”
“North, Two Oh Two, at 2,500, course one eight zero, I have the runway in sight.”
“Two Oh Two, North. You are cleared as number one for a straight-in approach and landing on Runway One Eight. Be advised that high-performance piston-and-jet aircraft are operating in the area.”
“North, Two Oh Two, understand Number One to One Eight. I am over the outer marker.”
“Two Oh Two, North. Be advised that Lieutenant Colonel Dunn will meet your aircraft at Base Ops.”
“Thank you, North.”
There was no headset in the back of the Staggerwing, and McCoy had not heard the conversation between the North Island control tower and Pick Pickering. And because he was in the rear of the fuselage, when the airplane stopped and he heard the engine dying, he reached over, unlatched the door, and backed out of the airplane. When his feet touched the ground, he turned around and was more than a little startled to see a light colonel standing there wearing the gold wings of a Naval aviator, a chest full of fruit salad, and a displeased look on his face that, combined with the fact he had his hands on his hips, suggested he was displeased with something.
Probably Pick. This is a Naval air station, and you’re not supposed to land civilian airplanes on Naval air stations.
Captain McCoy did the only thing he could think to do under the circumstances. He saluted crisply and said, “Good afternoon, sir.”
At that point, recognition, belatedly, dawned. It had been a long time.
Lieutenant Colonel William C. Dunn, USMC, who carried 138 pounds on his slim, five-foot-six frame, returned the salute crisply.