Lady Mustang

By Phil Nussbaum

Frank O'Brian's whole life has been prep for this Mustang's restoration. Not only does he know the systems like a factory rep, he has had the benefit of being around the experts back in Korea and he still knows where to find them within Boeing's ranks. His biggest challenge will be getting them to work for a young woman who does not yet realize what this restoration will eventually take. Susan Hunter is a woman on a journey towards respect, acknowledgement and humility. All of which is dealt to her from a band of friends and those who love her. Any journey, including this one, is full of fits and starts until slowly things begin to meld together as the group replaces sarcasm with trust, doubt with aid, despair with faith. One day Susan will strap on one of the most powerful and famous airplanes ever built. If you are a pilot or ever wanted to be, this book will feed your soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312308886

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Lady Mustang

Lady Mustang

By Phil Nussbaum

Copyright © 2014 by Phil Nussbaum.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

ISBN: 978-1-312-30888-6

Acknowledgements

The following people helped to make this book possible. Without their expertise this would have been an impossible project. My gratefulness is beyond measure.

Rebecca Reeb, Jean Garrow, Rickie Gilman

Chapter 1   The Rain

Eight long days of rain had finally washed away everyone’s smile. The Emerald city of Seattle was completely soaked. During his nap up in his third floor room, Frank O’Brian’s snooze suddenly ended. Not because of the downpour happening just outside his big bay window, but with explosive

Consciousness. The nightmare was back. Toweling the sweat off of his face, he knew the anguish had returned.

By late afternoon, the Sunday football ritual would be over. Some of the gang would be congregating at Little John’s down near Boeing Field. Thankfully he wouldn’t be expected to be there until supper. Materially, there wasn’t much to show for the twenty years at the factory. However, his dimly lit snug room always gave him a beautiful soothing view of the surrounding city. Pulling the weathered antique rocker over to the bay window, he took in his own private view of Seattle.

With most of the afternoon ahead of him, he pulled the quilted blanket off of his bed and pulled the old rocker over to the big bay window. For the next hour, he took in his own private view of the sparkling city below. The large over hang would allow him to get a closer to the bay window’s edge without getting hit by the downpour. There in the approaching darkness the rain always made Frank O’Brian felt renewed and insignificant at the same time.

Two hours later it was time to go meet the gang and have supper. He draped the rain-spattered blanket over the bedpost hoping it would be dry when he returned. It was the only blanket he owned and it did double duty as a poncho whenever O’Brian indulged his desire to rest at the windowsill.

Before donning his faded leather jacket, he slid a yellowed scrapbook back under his bed where it took its place next to three others. Supper at Little John’s and the meeting afterward would keep him out very late. He would leave a small light on to break the darkness when he got back.

At the bottom of the three flights of stairs, the middle-aged loner strode past the umbrella stand and through the big front doors of the big Victorian styled house and out onto the huge pillared front porch. Today, he thought he needed to feel the rain on his face.  He wrapped his scarf and zipped up his jacket. He squinted his eyes to preserve what visibility there was and headed out in the late afternoon deluge. Maggie watched as Frank disappeared from view.

O’Brian regretted leaving his umbrella, almost immediately. He had underestimated the rain’s intensity. The stroll turned into a series of storefront dashes to capture the dryness under the awnings.

He skidded in under one such awning and almost collided with another couple also taking shelter. The downpour had fueled their passion, making their proximity awkward. The embraced couple barely acknowledged his apology. The brunette’s eyes wandered over to O’Brian and stopped, despite her present activity she took in the handsome Irishman. O’Brian headed out back out into the rain without any thought of the consequences, he just wanted out of there.

Rounding the last corner, Little John’s came into view. Heavy winds followed him through the door and into the dark foyer of the cozy eatery. The gang had been very anxious about the impending union contract and they would be looking to him for answers. He made his way to his regular booth amid jokes about the weather and lightly veiled questions about the game instead of questions about what they really wanted to know. Guys I need to eat please and then I will give you what I know.  Everyone backed off to let him have his supper. He finished his beef stew, which was his routine on Sundays. He knew the men were waiting and he had good but cautious news.

Men! All talking stopped. It is early yet and not all the votes are in. It looks like most everyone wants to go back to work. Cheers erupted from all the corners of the cozy dinner house. O’Brian took in the quick luxury of seeing smiles that had been absent for months. Here is the salt gentlemen. Frank went about listing the concessions, but it all went well considering that some of the givebacks were painful. They were not painful against the specter of not working at all. The men kept faith with Frank and they were at long last going back to work.

O’Brian lingered at his booth long into the night. There was nothing to go home for. The young folks would have monopolized the TV down in the parlor, plus an early return would bring the inevitable invitation by his landlady, Margaret. Single, beautiful, and just 50 years old, she worked as a nurse and also inherited her family’s large Victorian home after her parents died in a car wreck.

Frank O’Brian, new to Seattle at that time became her first border some 18 years ago. He and Margaret had met 20 years ago in an emergency ward at the local hospital when Frank came in for sutures following the usual argument defaming the Air Force that had got out of hand. Two years after that fateful meeting he answered an ad and they met again when he took the small room in the top of the house. He had been there many years and a cautious friendship had developed.

He had hoped he could return to his room without her door opening, but she had the drop on him most of the time because if he came in through big front door she could see him coming. Alone in his booth, he wondered why in all these years she never had anyone special in her life. Tonight he would run Margaret’s kindly gauntlet, once again.

As he was about to leave his booth, he heard a piece of it. Two voices carried back and forth through the din. In an instant his thoughts were interrupted. The two men in the next booth were discussing a project that had arrived at Boeing Field. Sitting by himself he was free to eavesdrop in disbelief of what he was hearing. Thoughts of contract ratification and Margaret had vanished. He wondered to himself whether or not he would he could ever become part of the project if it was indeed true.

Frank walked home without the benefit of the occasional awning or surprising someone already there. O’Brian decided he would run Margaret’s kindly gauntlet. Frank said goodnight to Little John. Thirty minutes later, Frank came through the big front door secretly hoping to be intercepted. He reached the second floor landing hoping to hear Margaret’s music become louder as she opened the door. But he heard no music and he continued up to his room.

Since leaving the service, his position as a supervisor and union rep had become his professional zenith. He was comfortable with that and he turned down further promotions in order to stay with his men on the floor. For their part they enjoyed Frank’s succinct way of putting things, and they trusted that his primary interest was always his men. Frank’s negotiating skills were excellent as well, which is why he had been a steward for ten years. Regarding his position in the union, they even gave up holding elections. He was welcome to the job as long as he wanted it and he would never let the guys down and they knew it.

Safely in his room, O’Brian laid out his clothes to dry the best they could. The steam radiator hissed softly and he knew that at least for tonight he would be warm.  Sitting comfortably under the small lamp, he thumbed through his old air force records for evidence he felt he might need, especially if he might eventually be asked to lend his support and expertise to the mysterious project that was spoke about earlier this evening at the restaurant. This project might even lift his spirits a little. Although in a position to enjoy his life, O’Brian was content with much less than others aspired to at this point in their lives. Other than taking care of his men and a few others, his life was pretty mundane. Rain continued and he opened the bay window slightly to let the patter inside. Moving the pillow around he slept at the foot of the bed near the open window. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow.  The rain took over and even the nightmare stayed away. 

Monday morning at the factory found everyone punching their time cards for the first time in several months.  Impromptu reunions were being held as everyone hustled to their work areas.  Everyone made familiar and welcome noise while storing clothes and lunch buckets.  Computers began to spit out their numerical self-test results, people lined up at various tool cribs and parts counters, obviously excited about the first day back.

O’Brian took his crew’s attendance casually, while introducing a few new people around.  New aircraft orders indicated that prototype work would be possible for at least two years or longer.

Even though airplane manufacturing had been big business for a very long time, it was filled with people who still marveled at the technological miracle of flight.  All of them knew flying boiled down to mathematical formulas.  But the dynamics involved always left everyone, even old timers, a little awed.  Over the years O’Brian had watched factory workers and technicians that had been feuding for months forget their trivial pursuits and befriend each other just as a new model was ready to fly.  Thousands of people always witnessed the test flight of a new airplane.  For a few minutes after any new model’s first takeoff, everyone carried on like New Year’s Eve.  O’Brian had always wondered to himself which was better, a new plane, or the feeling of accomplishment everyone held while it was flying for the first time.

For Frank, the process of airplane building was intensely personal and creative.  The new model was half finished before the strike and he could hardly wait until roll out, several weeks ahead.  Hi Frank, Smokey Carter went by with his toolbox. Smokey, a black man with the size and kindness to match, had finished many fights for the small but athletic O’Brian back when both men were filled with extra testosterone.  One such evening had landed the big man in jail for a weekend.  Not good.  Smokey had a large family and a man with such responsibilities needs to be where he needs to be, not finishing whatever O’Brian started.  Someone was always making fun of Smokey, O’Brian would take instant exception to whoever dared to besmirch his large but easy going friend and things generally escalated quickly forcing Smokey to remove the pugnacious O’Brian out of harms way like a tiger does to its cub....

Smokey’s wife, Rita, loved O’Brian for defending her husband even if she never officially approved of brawling.  Frank reveled in the atmosphere at the Carter household and imagined his own household might have been the same way, but O’Brian’s chances for that kind of life were over years ago.

O’Brian’s background as a pilot in Korea, a position that eventually became his professional and personal undoing, was something he took solemn pride in.  Only one person ever failed to return while flying Frank’s wing, but that was one too many.

The first day back at the plant went quickly.  As everyone punched out, O’Brian collected the time cards from the wall slots and turned them into manpower accounting.  After the turnover briefing with the next shift supervisor, he was on his way out.  Today Margaret would not intercept him, nor would anyone else on his normal post shift route home.  He was now heading somewhere else. Old hangar number six had really been on his mind all day.

Night had fallen when he finally neared the old hangar.  He grew tense and stopped in the shadows about fifty yards away from the hangar still doubting the voracity of the conversation he had overheard at Little John’s the night before.  He could hear people talking because a small door installed within the large hangar door was ajar.  He was, however, unable to make out the gist of things.  He moved in closer, and blended into the shadows once again.

As he was beginning to pick up more of the conversation, he could tell there was some dissension between the three principals of the meeting.  He listened as closely as he could.  It seemed that a young woman was seriously unhappy with the progress on her project.  So it was true!  There really was an old airplane being resurrected in there.

Suddenly all conversation stopped as the woman bolted outside through the small access door.  She was quickly followed by a young man, presumably her boyfriend and another young man who was presumably involved with the project.  Once everyone was outside, she issued ultimatums and then everyone left.  He noticed that they had shut the door but not locked it.  O’Brian reasoned that they might be back shortly to throw the lock.  Now was the time for a look at just what was going on in there.

After opening the small access door, he bent slightly and stepped through.  Suddenly he felt weak.  He could not speak, not even to himself; the slightly tarnished aluminum skin reflected what little light entered the otherwise dark hangar.  The shape was unmistakable; it was the P-51 Mustang spoke about in the booth at Little John’s on the day before.  The rumor was true.

O’Brian knew he should leave immediately, to stay would risk more nightmares.  Standing before him in the darkness and bearing Korean markings, the quintessential reminder of an intense time in his life stood the ultimate aerial instrument of death and triumph and also the generator of his nightmare.  Its’ presence was paralyzing.  You want to go, you need to go the warnings were clear, but O’Brian stayed.  The airplane and the times in his life it represented, were too compelling.  His marriage, his good points and most assuredly his bad points had all come about as a result of missions flown long ago in defense of the oppressed.

The din of the evening’s rain had abated and he became aware of his footsteps.  They felt like an intrusion to the sleeping airplane.  He started back for the door, some fifty feet away, when he heard rustling and whining.  A dog had been left to watch over things in the hangar and now the huge canine had decided to cut O’Brian off at the door.  Things were pressing now as Frank double timed for the small access door, knowing at any second teeth would probably appear from the darkness.  As if on cue, more adrenalin kicked in.  He knew he had to make it through the doorway at all costs.  The distance to safety was closing.  He