"Jesus Christ, you're crazy!"
"I always wanted to fly this thing," Pickering said. "The temptation was too much. I have a very weak character."
"We're at war, for Christ's sake. They're going to shoot you down. Us down."
"I thought about that," Pickering replied. "By the time they get their act together and decide to report this to the military, at least fifteen minutes will have passed. By the time the Army or the Navy gets its act in gear and decides which one will get the honor of shooting down an unarmed civilian airplane, another twenty minutes or so will have passed. And then it will take them five minutes to get in the air and another ten minutes to find us. We've got damned near an hour."
"You are really out of your gourd!"
"And then it would take a real prick of a pilot to shoot down something as pretty as this airplane. I certainly wouldn't do it."
"Holy Christ!"
"That long thin thing down there over the mouth of the bay is the Golden Gate Bridge," Pickering said, pointing. Hart looked where he was pointing. "What I think we will do is fly very low over that away, then fly under the bridge-something I have always wanted to do-and then we will find home, sweet home."
"You have to be kidding."
"I am a Marine officer and a Naval Aviator. We never kid about important things."
"When you land this thing, they are going to put you in jail."
"First they have to catch me."
"I'm dead goddamn serious."
"So'm I," Pick said with a smile. "Relax and enjoy the ride." In addition of course to flying under the Golden Gate Bridge in the first place, what surprised Sergeant Hart about their flight was that he wasn't nearly as terrified as he expected to be.
There was plenty of room under the bridge. And Pick didn't seem nervous.
In fact, looking up out of the cockpit at the massive structure as it flashed overhead was both interesting and stimulating.
He was far more afraid five minutes later when it became apparent that Pickering was about to land the airplane on what was obviously not an airfield. It was a field, or an enormous lawn, but it was definitely not an airfield.
But there, goddammit, is one of those dunce caps on a pole.
What do they call them? Wind socks. Airports have wind socks.
This must be an airport.
A moment later the Beech touched down.
"Where the hell are we?"
"Home sweet home, my son," Pickering said solemnly. "As you may have noticed, we have cheated death again."
"Where the hell are we?"
"This is my parents' place."
"You have your own goddamned airport?"
"Plus a barn that can be used as a hangar," Pick said. "And into which, I devoutly hope, we can get this thing before the military spots us from the air."
"You better hope we can."
"I am always a pessimist," Pickering said. "But I think we got away with it this time, George."
"They're going to catch you eventually," Hart said.
"By then I'll be on Guadalcanal," Pickering said softly.
"And even if they do catch me, I will swear that I was alone.
So relax, George." Three minutes later they were closing the doors of a large barn.
[Four]
THE MEN'S BAR
THE ANDREW FOSTER HOTEL
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
1930 HOURS I I SEPTEMBER 1942
Wearing a superbly tailored double-breasted blue pinstripe suit with a rosebud pinned to his lapel, Andrew Foster walked into the bar and found what he was looking for, two young men in tweed sports coats, gray flannel slacks, white buttondown-collar shirts, and loafers. He walked to them.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. "I wondered if you had an opportunity to see the newspaper." He laid The San Francisco Chronicle on the bar.
"Good evening, Grandfather," Malcolm S. Pickering said.
"I know you've talked to George on the telephone, but I don't think you've actually met, have you? George, this is my grandfather."
"How do you do, Sir?" George Hart said with a weak smile.
He'd just seen the headline-MYSTERY AIRPLANE FLIES UNDER GG BRIDGE. It was accompanied by a somewhat-out-of-focus photograph of a Stagger Wing Beech flying up the Golden Gate no more than a hundred feet off the water.
"How do you do, Sergeant?" Andrew Foster said-causing the heads of half a dozen Navy and Marine officers, three them wearing Naval Aviator's wings, to turn in curiosity. The men's bar of the Andrew Foster was not often frequented by enlisted men.
The bartender quickly appeared.
"What can I get you, Mr. Foster?" The name intensified the curiosity of the officers. They had heard that the old man sometimes showed up in the men's bar and bought the next round for anyone in uniform.
And here he was.
"A little Famous Grouse, Tony, please," the old man said, and then changed his mind. "Bring the bottle."