Flying Conquistadors

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Copyright © 2016 by Michael Scott Bertrand

North Loop Books

2301 Lucien Way #415

Maitland, FL 32751

407.339.4217

www.NorthLoopBooks.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

ISBN-13: 978-1-63505-545-0

LCCN: 2016955495

Distributed by Itasca Books

Printed in the United States of America

For my family

To the Reader:

This is a work of fiction.

Several characters in this work of fiction are based on real people. Some of these real people are well known. Others are not as well known as they should be.

I have put words into the mouths of these characters that the real people did not say. I have made these characters do things the real people did not do. Accordingly, please view them as the fictional creations they are and not the real deal.

MSB

ACT ONE

"For he was needed

and he came, came at a moment which seemed

exactly preordained."

Myron T. Herrick,

United States Ambassador to France

1

Spin! Spin! Faste r! Faster!

I had the prop on the Spirit of Saint Louis spinning so fast I thought it was going to pop off and fly away.

This was a new top speed. I was sure of it. It was the flight goggles that made the difference. Kept the wind out of my eyes.

But I wanted more. More speed, more spin. I hunched down and gritted my teeth. Tried to find that little extra something.

The sun was just coming up and I was going right toward it. It was blinding. It was all I could do just to keep the horizon steady.

Had to hold it tight. Be the machine.

Then I hit a rock, or a hole, or some other damned thing. I launched over the handlebars. For one glorious moment I was actually flying.

I put my hands out in front of me as I came down. Must have been instinct. It was also stupid. If you’ve never skinned yourself on packed coral, well then you don’t know what pain is.

Peckerwood! I yelled at myself as I brushed the pebbles and broken shells off my now-filthy shirt and breeches.

I rolled over and tried to haul myself up. My knee was screaming. Through a rip in my breeches I could see I had given myself a nice raspberry.

I hobbled my busted butt to the water to clean myself up. It was near high tide and I leaned over and dunked my hands in. The salt water stung like hell but I had to clean myself up, had to look presentable.

Back on the road I scooped up my goggles and my cap, then turned to my bike. It was in a sorry heap in the middle of the road.

Walking up to it I could see the front wheel had been dented in something awful. The headlamp was messed up, too; it was bent to one side and the glass looked cracked.

Oliver, you’re such a frickin’ idiot, I muttered to myself.

Only when I got closer did I see my little Spirit had been broken off.

You see, the Shelby Lindy has this little metal plane attached to the front fender. A little Spirit of Saint Louis, no bigger than a playing card. It was shiny and the prop turned and, well, it’s what makes the Lindy a Lindy.

But my little plane had broken clean off the fender.

I had to search a bit before I found it. It was lying in some tall grass. It had taken a beating: one of the wings was missing; the little prop was bent all to hell.

I picked up my broken bicycle and tucked the banged-up little Spirit in the leather pouch strapped to my cargo rack. The front wheel was too dented to roll, so I picked the bike up and put it on my shoulder. I was gonna have to carry it the rest of the way.

I better get this damn job, I thought.

Out there, on the east side of Key West, there’s an old rundown fort from the Civil War. My Dad took me there a couple times when I was a kid. He said the Union Army sent hundreds of men down to build the damn place, then gave up and left before they finished.

Back then, back when I was a kid, it was one of my favorite places to go. There’s a tunnel and arches and a small tower. My pals and I would go there and play pirates for hours and hours, until the sun would begin to set. We used sticks for swords and I had a black eye patch, just like Long John Silver.

I hadn’t been out there for years. It looked the same. Brought back memories.

But not everything was the same. Just north of the old fort I saw two new buildings. The ones that Mister Thompson had told me about.

The larger building was tall and wide with enormous doors that hung from a rail above so they could slide back and forth. The doors weren’t open. I figured that’s where they kept the airplanes.

Next to that was a small white building. Smaller than my mom’s house, if that was possible. There wasn’t any sign or anything, but I assumed it was the office.

I wasn’t sure if I should put my goggles back on or not. Do pilots wear their goggles when they are trying to get a job?

Yes, I said to myself. Yes, they do.

I left my poor crumpled bicycle in a heap on the side of the little house, wiped my scraped hands on my torn breeches, and checked the buttons on my shirt. Then I spit in my palm, slicked my cowlick down, perched my goggles on my forehead, went up the steps, and knocked.

"Vaht!" came a yell from inside.

There were curtains on the door and the windows so I couldn’t see in. But I had heard the voice. I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and went inside.

The room was almost bare but for a small wood desk pressed against the back wall. A small man sat working, hunched over, his back to me.

Good morning, I’m . . . , I began to say.

Without turning around the man raised a hand up to silence me.

"Vait," he said.

I vaited by the door and shuffled my feet. For one minute. Then two.

Finally, the man turned his chair around and faced me. He was short, with a small face, small moustache, small glasses. He was wearing a crisp shirt and a bow tie.

Mom had told me to wear a tie. I didn’t think I needed one. Now I wished I had one.

The little man just looked at me for a moment, grinning.

"Und . . . who are you?" he asked.

I’m . . . Oliver, I said. Oliver Wheelock. I’m a pilot.

At that, the little man laughed out loud.

"Ha! Vell, I can see dat, he said. Even der goggles, dat ees nice touch. I hope you haf brought your own airplane, too?"

He had a thick accent. Dutch? It took me a moment to figure out what he was saying.

My own . . . plane? No, I didn’t, I said. I’m not sure I . . .

The man was shaking his head at me.

A joke, a joke, he said. My, vaht haf you done to dat leg?

I looked down. That raspberry on my knee was bloodier than I had first thought. There was a big red spot creeping through my breeches.

It’s alright, I said. I fell off my bike. It’s just a scratch.

Just a scratch, ya, the little man said. So . . . a pilot, ya?

I reached up and pulled off my goggles.

Well, not yet, I said. But that’s the plan.

He smiled at me.

Ya, und I am der king of England. Dat ees der plan, anyway, he said to me.

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or not.

The little man stood up from his chair. He was no more than five feet tall. He leaned in and took a closer look at me.

I haf seen you before, no? he said.

Maybe. I . . . I work at Thompson’s, I replied.

Thompson’s. Der hardware store? the man said. Ya, dat ees right. You usually have der apron on.

Usually, yes, I said. My uniform.

Vaht ees a pilot doing vorking at der hardware store? he asked me.

I don’t . . . again, I’m not yet a . . .

Another joke, he said, holding up his hand.

It was Mister Thompson’s idea for me to come out here. He said you might need some help, I said.

He has fired you?

What? No, no, not that at all, I said. He . . . he just thought it might be time for me to try something different.

The little man folded his little arms in front of him.

Zomething different, he said in his thick accent. Like vaht?

Anything different than the hardware store, I said.

Hmph, the little man said. Vell. Ve might haf zomething. Tell me . . . vaht your duties at der Thompson’s?

At Thompson’s? Well, a little bit of everything I suppose, I said. I cut rope for the sponge divers and the fisherman, keep the bins stocked, run the register . . . whatever needs doing, really.

That had always been my Dad’s advice: Do whatever needs doing and pretty soon they can’t live without you.

A little bit of everything, the little man repeated. Dat ees good. Und how old?

Just turned twenty-one.

You do not look dat old.

I get that all the time.

You go to school?

I did, yes sir.

You good student?

I was alright.

He studied me for a long moment.

Und . . . how are you vit der shovel? he asked.

The shovel?

Ya, der shovel, he said. Dat’s vaht ve need. You say you do vahtever needs doing? Vell, right now, vaht ve need ees another man on der shovel. Ya?

That’s not . . . that’s not the job I was hoping for, I said.

Vell, eef you had been real pilot maybe I vould haf offered you a different job. Ya? he said. But tell you vaht. You do good job vit der shovel, der sky ees der limit.

The sky is the limit, I said.

Ya.

Starting with the shovel.

Ya. Exactly, he said.

What’s it pay?

Twenty cents, he said without missing a beat. Eef you start today.

Twenty cents? Thompson pays me thirty-five! I said. I can start today, but certainly not for twenty cents an hour. Absolutely not.

The little man studied me again.

You drive der hard bargain, he said. Twenty-two cents. Take eet or . . . how you say? Leave it.

I took it.

The little man led me out the door and over to the giant building with big doors. I made a quick detour to stash my stupid goggles in my bicycle pouch.

You’re the owner, then? I asked as we walked. These are your planes?

Ha! I vish, the man replied.

But you are . . . the boss, I said.

Ya, he said. Ees my duty to command der troops here. Ees a bit, how you say . . . frustrating?

Frustrating. I didn’t understand what he meant by that. But any questions in my head vanished as we approached the doors. I could feel the excitement building in me. I had been here all of fifteen minutes, I had gotten a job, and now I was about to see the airplanes. Maybe my luck today wasn’t so bad after all.

Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even know the name of my new boss.

Well, I hope I don’t add to your frustration, Mister . . .

Priester, the little man said.

Mister Priester, I said. I really can’t thank you enough. What a day this has been, really. I’m just so happy to be working here at . . .

Pan American, the little man answered before I could even ask.

He grabbed a handle on one of the tall hangar doors and leaned back and began to pull it open.

Pan American, I repeated, imagining where the words could take me. Wow. I can’t believe this is happening.

The door rolled open.

It was empty. There were no airplanes. There were just two guys sitting on boxes in the middle of the floor, with another box between them. When the door opened they scrambled to pick up all their cards. A bunch of coins rained down on the ground as one of them jumped up.

Vell, vaht a surprise! Idiots! Mister Priester growled as he marched toward their makeshift table. Haf you no respect for der job?

I recognized one of those fellas from the island. He had been a couple of years ahead of me in school. I didn’t recognize the other guy.

Oh, come on, boss! the taller of the two said. Just some cards, that’s all. We’re not breaking any rules.

Mister Priester scowled at them. Then he raised an arm and pointed his little finger at a corkboard hanging above a workbench in the corner.

On the corkboard were several small signs, each on its own piece of paper. No Spitting read one. Above that was one that said No Cussing. Above that, in red letters, was one that said Absolutely NO SMOKING. Below them was a smaller sign on blue: No Cards or Dice.

Oh, yeah, the tall guy said. That one. We forgot about that one,

"Next time, cr-iii-ccc-kkk!" Mister Priester said, making a slicing gesture across his neck.

Then he motioned to me and I stepped forward.

Dis man ees Oliver, Mister Priester said. I haf just met him, but already I know he ees ten times smarter than both of you numbskulls together. Oliver, dees are . . . der Marx Brothers.

We shook hands. The taller guy was Danny. The other guy, the one I knew from the island, was Ray.

The back doors were just as big and wide as the front doors. They were open and I could see that there had been a lot of work going on in the field beyond.

Where there used to be just scrub and brush, a big, long strip had been cleared. Or was in the process of being cleared, to be more precise. The strip was about thirty feet wide and started at the ocean’s edge, then ran inland, toward the center of the island.

The area right in front of the doors had been raked. And tamped, too, from the looks of it.

Get der shovels, Mister Priester barked as he walked out the doors and into the sunlight. Und der rakes, und a bucket. Chop, chop!

He clapped his hands. Ray and Danny looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

Jeez, boss, Danny said. We’ve been out here all morning. Tamp, rake, tamp, rake . . . just like you said. It can’t get any better than this.

Mister Priester wheeled around on him.

Can’t get any better? he said, his eyes wide. "Can’t get any better? Eet must get better. Ya? Oliver, go fill bucket, please."

I was getting my first order. And I didn’t know what to do.

Fill the bucket. With what? I asked.

Mister Priester turned to me, squinting his eyes. Vit vahter, he said in a cold voice.

Water. Right. And where should I get the water? I asked.

He didn’t say anything this time, just kept squinting at me. After a minute it dawned on me that the ocean had plenty of water, and I ran as fast as I could. I dunked the bucket in the water. Then I hauled it back to the boss, trying not to spill too much.

I put the bucket down next to Mister Priester.

Now, vaht do you see? the boss said, pointing at the ground.

Danny didn’t hesitate. I see a nice, flat, level piece of ground that two fellas worked very hard to make nice, flat, and level, he said.

The ground did look nice, flat, and level. There were even lines from the tines of the rake.

Mister Priester picked up the bucket and dumped the water into a small pool on the ground.

Vatch, he said.

Small air bubbles came up. Then some bigger ones. Then the water began to sink in. Where there had been nice flat ground there was now a hole.

Mister Priester handed the bucket to Danny.

Shovel, tamp, vahter, the boss said. Shovel, tamp, vahter.

Heck, boss, how many times are we gonna have to do this? Danny protested.

But Mister Priester was already walking away, back through the hangar.

Shovel, tamp, vahter, he kept repeating, almost starting to sing it. Shovel, tamp, vahter. Shovel, tamp, vahter.

It was not the introduction to the world of aviation that I had been expecting. Then I had to open my big mouth.

Um, Mister Priester, sir? I called out to him. I have a question. Where are all the airplanes?

The little man stopped in his tracks. Ray and Danny stopped what they were doing.

Ah, crap, I heard Ray whisper.

Mister Priester turned and glared at me. His little face was beet red. He marched over to me double-time and for a second I thought he might slug me. He came up and pointed one of his puny fingers in my face.

Eef you ask dat again, eet vill be your first day at Pan American und also your last, he said.

Then the little man turned and stormed away.

Don’t take it personal, bub, Danny said as we were walking back toward the dirt strip. We call him the Angry Dutchman for a reason.

I didn’t mean to piss him off, I said.

Ah, he’s like one of those Mexican jumping beans. Sometimes he just goes off on his own and there’s not a thing you can do about it, Danny said. You’ll get used to it. Just obey the rules and you’ll be fine.

The rules? I asked.

Ray was walking behind us. He still hadn’t recognized me, though I recognized him.

The Dutchman’s a sucker for rules, Ray said. There’s a rule for everything and everything has a rule. Ain’t nothing too big or too small that it can’t be put on some kinda checklist or some kinda sign.

Don’t let him catch you smoking, Danny said. Or napping on the job.

And don’t let him catch you with a messy toolbox, Ray said.

Or drinking. Or talking back—he definitely hates that, Danny said. He glanced over at me. Guess you learned that one already.

And a pocket knife, Ray added. Everyone’s got to have a pocket knife on them. At all times.

A pocket knife? I asked. Why?

They both stopped. They looked at each other and then back at me.

"Der Rules vill not be questioned!" they said together.

I had only been out on the strip for a half hour, at most. Already I was sweating like a pig.

Danny would shovel some dirt in front of me. I would tamp it down. Ray would come over with the water and give it a shower. Repeat.

Say, why the hell was he so pissed off anyways? I asked as I was tamping away. I only asked where the planes were, I said.

The Fokkers, Danny replied.

The what? I said, unsure whether I should be offended.

You wanna know where those Fokkers are, huh? Well, join the club, kid, Danny said.

Fokkers? I asked.

Two Fokkers, my friend, Danny went on. Two big, beautiful Fokkers. Nicest Fokkers you’ll ever see.

Come again? I said.

Ray, when are those Fokkers gonna be here? Danny said. Every day we ask that, right? When are those Fokkers gonna be here?

Hell, Danny . . . I’d be happy just getting one little Fokker, Ray replied.

We’ve been waiting on those Fokkers for weeks now, Danny said, turning back to me. It’s got the Dutchman all worked up, mind you. And the clock is ticking.

Like I said, one of those Fokkers better get here quick, Ray said.

I . . . I’m still not following, I said.

It’s simple, bub, Danny said. "We’ve got to get a Fokker in here by Wednesday, ’cause if we ain’t got no Fokkers we can’t get the mail to fokking Havana. And if that doesn’t happen this little outfit is fokking toast."

Oh, I said. A Fokker is a plane.

Danny looked at Ray.

We got ourselves a smart one here, Raymond, he said.

So you’re telling me the mail needs to be delivered to Havana by Wednesday . . . and there’s no planes yet?

You’re pickin’ up quick, kid, Danny replied.

But . . . that’s only three days away, I said.

Well, now you see why the Angry Dutchman is so worked up, Danny said. Those Fokkers, they got under his skin.

I spent the rest of that whole first day doing the same thing: shovel, tamp, water. Find the soft spots. Do it again.

It was hard work, definitely harder than the hardware store.

Danny kept singing as he worked. Wouldn’t have been half bad, but he kept singing the same damn verse of the same damn song, over and over again.

Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo roam, and the deeeer and the antelope plaaaay, he sang. Then he started to sing it again.

Ray saw me shaking my head.

He does that all the time, he said. You’ll get used to it.

Does he know any other tunes? I asked.

He knows a couple of others, but this is the only one he can remember the words to, Ray said.

He was dumping water over a new section. I began tamping.

You’re from here, right? he finally asked.

Yeah, mostly, I answered.

I thought you looked familiar. Key West High? Ray said.

Class of ’26, I said.

Bit after my time. What’d you say your name was again? Orville, right?

Oliver, I said. Oliver Wheelock.

He had stopped pouring. I was tamping and looking down but I could feel him looking at me. Here it comes.

Wheelock, he said. You ain’t related to that guy that worked for the railroad, are ya? That guy they lost in the storm?

Yeah, I said, tamping and not looking up. That’s my dad.

He was silent for a moment. In the distance I could hear a train whistle. Flagler’s Iron Horse was on its afternoon return north.

Jeezum Crow, buddy. That’s awful. I remember when that happened, Ray said. Washed out to sea like that . . . gave me nightmares.

I stopped raking and looked up at him.

Not my favorite thing to talk about, I said.

He got the hint.

Damn, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to remind you of that.

Another train whistle rang out.

It’s alright, I said. Trust me, that damn whistle never lets me forget.

2

That first night after my first day with Pan American I made my usual toast and beans. Then I poured myself a good hard drink from the stash of bottles I kept in my closet.

I went out to the tiny porch in front of our tiny home and sat down on the steps. Our lot was small and the steps ended almost at the sidewalk. It wasn’t much but it was a good spot to drink and watch the folks going back and forth up to Duval.

There was a time when we lived in a bigger house, back up on Olivia. It had a big front porch and wide steps and two weeping trees filled with birds. Dad had a big rocking chair on the porch and he would sit there and smoke his pipe and watch the birds.

That house was only four blocks up and one block over. But it had been a long time since we lived there and it felt much farther away.

Mom’s house was just a rental, and not a very nice one at that. It had two bedrooms and a kitchen that was pretty much in the sitting area. But my mom liked it and she could afford it. At least I think she could.

I was still sitting out there on the front porch when she finally came home about ten. By that time I was usually down at Bert’s or in bed, so she was startled to see me.

Mercy! Oliver! she said, putting a hand to her chest. You nearly gave me a heart attack, sitting out here in the dark like this.

Just watching the world go by, I said.

"Watching the world go by. Mm-hm, Mom said. Watching the girls go by is more the truth, I suspect."

I had my drink sitting next to me. Mom looked down at it. She made a face at me then looked down the sidewalk, both ways.

You need to be more careful, young man, she said to me, wagging her finger. The last thing you need is to get caught with that . . . that hooch.

It’s not ‘hooch,’ Ma, I said. It’s rum. Pretty good batch, too. Here, try.

She glanced each way again to make sure nobody was coming. She bent down, took the glass, sniffed it, and took the tiniest of sips. Her entire face puckered up.

Blech, she said, grimacing and sticking out her tongue. Goodness gracious, Oliver. It tastes like kerosene.

Oh stop. I think it’s rather tasty.

Tasty as sucking on a lamp, she said. I’m afraid to ask how you came about that awful stuff.

Harry. He gets good stuff, I said.

She pursed her lips and arched one eyebrow.

You know better than to associate with a troublemaker like Mister Morgan, she said. We do have a family name to uphold, you know.

Harry’s not a bad man, Mom. I’m not sure why you hate him so.

"I don’t hate him. I don’t hate anyone, for that matter. I’m just an excellent judge of character, that’s all. And Mister Morgan doesn’t have much of it," she said.

I pulled myself to my feet. I had a good warm buzz going on.

Well . . . I didn’t wait out here all this time to talk about him, I said. I stayed up so we could celebrate . . . ’cause I got the job.

An expression of complete shock and surprise came over her face. Her eyes and mouth were wide open.

As . . . as a pilot?

What? No, no, not as a pilot.

She put her hand to her chest again.

Oh, thank heavens . . . , she said as she fanned herself with her hand. "I mean, not that I don’t think you would make a perfectly fine aviator and all. But wooh did you have me there for a moment! Come inside, sweetie, . . . let me take these blasted shoes off, and you can tell me all about it."

As she came up onto the porch she looked around.

Well, Oliver, wherever is your bicycle? she asked.

It’s . . . being fixed, I said. Little accident today.

An accident! she said. On your way to the interview? Oh my, were you hurt?

I opened the door and held it for her.

Patience, patience, have a seat, I’ll tell you everything, I said.

Mom had been working at the hotel for over a year. In the restaurant, lunch and dinner, six days a week. Her feet were always killing her by the end of the day. Saturdays were especially bad.

She took off her shoes and I put some water on the burner to warm so she could soak her feet and have a cup of tea. When she was settled I sat in the big leather chair next to her. My father’s old chair.

Okay, let’s hear all about this new job, she said. Do the Thompsons know yet?

They know. They told me to go out there, I said. And the job is, well . . . different.

Different, she said. How so?

They’re just getting started. So there’s only a few of us working, I said. They say that once we get up and running more people will come down from Miami. But we have to get ready first.

What has to get ready? she asked. She was always interested in what I was doing, no matter how boring it was.

The strip. Where the airplanes come down, and where we’ll load them up, I explained. It’s that boggy area out by the old fort on the east side. We’re trying to fill it in.

Fill it in? You mean with shovels? she asked.

Yes. With shovels.

Heavens, that’s a lot of work, she said. Aren’t there any other jobs you could do . . . you know, jobs where you don’t have a shovel in your hand?

Maybe soon. But not yet.

Making yourself indispensable, huh? she said. Just like your father. Now, this is out by the old fort? On the east side? That area gets real soggy when it rains, doesn’t it? They’re going to land airplanes there? Why not up at Boca Chica?

I’m not in charge, Mom, I said.

Maybe you should be. Did you get to see the airplanes? How many are there?

The planes aren’t here yet.

Not here yet? she said. Well, when will they be here?

At least one of those Fokkers should be here by Tuesday, I said.

She stared at me, her jaw hanging open in shock.

Oliver! she said.

I’m talking about a plane, Mom, I said. A Fokker. You know, a plane.

She laughed hard and even snorted, which made me laugh right along with her. Then I told her all about Mister Priester and Danny and Ray and the fall on my Lindy. Then I asked her about her day, and she had so much to tell me she didn’t know where to start.

As she was talking I got up and put her favorite album on the phonograph. It was a recording of Carmen. It was by some orchestra in Paris and I had gotten it for her last Christmas. That was the same year she got me my bike.

After she went to bed I took a last belt off the bottle and went to my room to read.

My bedroom was small and had only one window. I had the walls covered with so much stuff you couldn’t even see the paint.

There were two posters, big ones that I had gotten from the cinema. One was from a Houdini movie, The Grim Game. That was the one where he was hanging from a rope below a plane, and that plane crashed into another plane.

The other poster was from Wings, which I must have seen a dozen times. Clara Bow, lovely wide-eyed Clara Bow, in the arms of someone much luckier than I. Never cared for the ending of that film, but the dogfights were spectacular.

I also had a collection of pictures and articles tacked to the wall. Most I had cut out of the local newspaper or from the Miami newspaper, which Mom brought back from the hotel sometimes.

There was a big front-page story about Admiral Byrd’s expedition. Next to the story was a photograph of the admiral and some of his men, wearing big coats and big furry boots, in front of Byrd’s airplane.

Guess we’re in the same line of work now, Admiral, I said to the grainy image. Sort of, I mean.

Next to the article on Byrd was another full front page, this one the Miami Daily News from May 22, 1927.

LINDBERGH HERO OF WILD PARIS, the headline screamed. Below that was a fawning picture of the Colonel, a French flag on one lapel and an American flag on the other.

World Fame, Fortune Come to Him at 25, said a caption above his picture.

I always liked that headline, ’cause Lindbergh wasn’t that much older than me.

3

That Sunday we worked from sun up to sun down.

We had a good system: Danny was the biggest, so he would fill the wheelbarrow. Then he would bring his load to Ray, and Ray would spread it with his rake. Then I’d come along, the runt of the litter, as they joked, and I’d tamp it down. Every so often we’d all grab buckets and fill them up at the shore, then dump the water and watch the bubbles come up. Repeat process until perfect.

When we felt we had a section packed down good enough, one of us would go fetch Mister Priester. The little man would come out with his level—a big one, like a carpenter would use. He would place the level on the section we had just packed down. He was never satisfied.

More, more, he would always say. Ees better. But needs to be harder. Ya?

Ya, ya, we muttered, too weak and sweaty to protest.

But we worked hard and we worked long and by the time the sun went down that Sunday things were looking good. Mister Priester told us he was almost, but not quite, happy.

We were cutting it close, too. He told us the boys in Miami had called on the telephone to say that one of the Fokkers was on its way.

Ve vill be right on target, Mister Priester said as we left.

He offered to give me and the other fellas a lift into town. We had only been driving a few minutes when the first small drops hit his windshield.

Then more drops. Bigger drops. And then the skies opened and it all poured out. It rained the rest of the evening and all through the night.

The next morning it was still raining. I bummed a ride out to the field. When I got there all I could do was stand in the hangar with Danny and Ray and watch. There were big ravines where the rain had carried the fill off, some running all the way to the shore. And smack dab in the middle of the strip was a massive muddy puddle that had to be a hundred feet long.

All that hard work, washed away.

On Tuesday morning the rain finally stopped. The sun came out and there was a good breeze from the east. As I walked to work I had high hopes that maybe we could get the strip patched up.

When I got there I found Mister Priester’s Ford parked by the office. I found him and another man standing just beyond the hangar. They were looking out at the field, their shoes and the cuffs of their trousers caked in muck.

Der mud vill rip der wheels off, I heard Mister Priester say to the other man. Of that I am for sure.

The other man, who I didn’t recognize, nodded his head.

I was walking up to them from behind. The other man was leaning in, saying something to Mister Priester. When the boss saw me out of the corner of his eye he held up a hand, instructing me to wait. I waited.

They kept talking for a few minutes. I could tell they weren’t happy. After a little bit they both turned and started walking toward the office. Mister Priester gave me a stern look as he left.

I started to think I was done for. Canned for faulty tamping.

We can get right out there, Mister Priester, and fill in all those holes, I hollered. We’ll pack it down extra good, and if we have to work all day and all night we’ll get it done for you. Scout’s honor, sir.

Mister Priester turned and came over to me. He had his arms folded in front of him.

Ees too risky. Der Fokker ees too heavy for . . . dis, he said, motioning toward the muddy strip.

I was waiting for him to tell me what to do.

But Mister Priester was deep in thought. He stared out at the strip and then I saw him shift his gaze toward the water. His back seemed to straighten up. He turned.

I must go, Mister Priester said. Ya. Ya, I must go. Now.

I was confused.

Go? Where? I said. To the office?

He looked at me like I was an idiot.

To Miami, he said.

To Miami. Right. And . . . what should I do? I asked.

He thought about that for a moment.

Ven your two knucklehead friends arrive, get de lazy asses out dere to do vaht dey can on der strip, he said. You . . . you stay in der office. Answer der telephone.

Answer the telephone, right. And what should I say?

Vaht should you say? You should say . . . dat all ees under control, Mister Priester said.

All is under control, I repeated. I tell everyone that?

Ya. Everyone. Under control, Mister Priester said.

With that he ran into the office. A few minutes later he and the other man came running back out. They got into the Ford and tore out, kicking up mud as they went.

Ray and Danny had just arrived, late.

Jeez, now where the hell are they going in such a hurry? Danny asked.

The black Ford was almost out of sight, a blur on the road, speeding toward town.

I think they’re trying to catch the train, I said.

My fellow grunts weren’t happy to hear that I had been assigned inside duty. But I had my orders and I was sticking to them. I sat at the little desk inside the little house and waited for the telephone to ring.

I spent the morning looking through the papers and maps scattered over Mister Priester’s desk. There were maps of Florida and Cuba and the Caribbean—and even South America. Some of the maps had been marked up with red circles and black dotted lines. The dotted lines went from Key West and Miami to all sorts of places: not just Cuba, but Puerto Rico and even the Bahamas. There was a big map of Mexico.

I was studying one of the maps when the telephone rang.

Um . . . hello, this is . . . this is Pan American Airways, I said when I picked it up.

Andre! the gruff voice on the other end yelled.

Mister Priester isn’t . . . isn’t here at the moment, I said.

Dammit all! Where the hell is he! the voice yelled back.

He just left.

He just left? He just left? the voice said. Then, in a calmer tone, it said, Have they been to the bank already? Are they gonna make the train?

I didn’t know what to say. Then I remembered what Mister Priester had told me.

All is under control, I said to the person on the other end.

There was a long pause. Then the voice came back.

To whom am I speaking? the voice asked, syrupy sweet this time.

Oliver, I said. Oliver Wheelock.

Oliver, the voice repeated. Now tell me, are you an employee of mine?

I didn’t respond at first. I may have swallowed my tongue. Employee?

Um . . . Yes? I said.

Well, then let me tell you NOTHING IS IN UNDER FRICKIN’ CONTROL, YOU GOT THAT?

Yes. Yes, sir, I replied. I understand.

Let me tell you where we’re at, son, the voice said, a touch calmer. "I’ve finally got a big beautiful Fokker here in Miami. But I can’t take it where it needs to go because Andre tells me the airstrip has gone to shit.

I’ve got a postmaster with a stick up his ass trying to reach me, wondering what time he should be dropping the mailbags off, he went on. "Oh, and I’ve got some paper-pushing dipshit in Washington who wants to know whether I’m gonna be in breach of contract by the end of the week.

But that’s not the best part, he said. You want to know what the best part is, Orville?

Oliver, I said.

Whatever, the voice said. "The best part is after all this work,