“UUUUH . . . ” Everon grimaced.
Alongside the air museum was the huge beat-up old helicopter, red and white stripes under the dust, an HH-3F, a Coast Guard Pelican.
How long’s it been here? He frowned at the thick, barren elm that punched up into the cold night sky between two of its five old rotor blades.
It wasn’t all bad. Visibility would be good all the way around the nose of the craft — windows on both sides went all the way to the floor. On either side of the Pelican’s bulbous nose were mounted two white wheel pontoons to keep the craft balanced during emergency water landings. Rubber tires protruded below. Mounted above its sliding side cargo door was a powerful hoist.
He slid back the door and dodged a pair of squirrels that shot right at him.
The interior looked even rougher than the outside. Flakes of crud. Gray seats falling apart. Half-eaten acorns. Sue was right. Doesn’t look like it has much chance of flying.
“Whatchudoin?” a voice called. A saggy-eyed, baggily-dressed old guy wearing a pair of blue coveralls appeared at the door of the museum.
“Do you know anything about this machine?” Everon asked.
“Ah should. Ah’m the owner of this here museum and everything in it including this here helicopter.”
“You must be Mr. Gunn.”
“Sam.” They shook hands.
Everon studied the big machine. “Will it run?”
“Not sure. Been half a year ah guess. Old bird ain’t nearly old as me though. Helicopter company only built a hundred an’ fifty ah these S-3s an’ a movie studio six months ago had ’er outta here, rented ’er offa me for a coupla weeks. Put a lot into ’er, gettin’ ’er to fly again. Them General Electric Tuboshaft engines is good ones though. Useta use ’em in the President’s chopper, Marine One’s jus’ like this one ya know.”
Right now Everon didn’t want to know. But the old guy rambled on: Sam and his wife had just arrived at the airport — he’d woken up at nine o’clock this evening when he’d thought the bomb’s shock wave was his wife rousting him out of bed. “Refused ta let me sleep, worrying about everything under the sun ’til ah couldn’t take it no more.”
The power was out. Their radio didn’t work. But their old car still did. They drove down to the airport to see what was going on. He’d been surprised none of her guesses had been right. She’d never thought of an atom bomb. Neither had he.
“These flyin’ boats — used to r’cover A-pollo capsules out of the drink with ’em — Coast Guard ran ’er ’fore ah got ’er.”
“Can you rent it — er, her to me?” Everon asked, rushing a word in.
“What you gonna do with ’er?”
“We’re making an emergency run into the city.”
“Hmmm. Well . . . you take ’er, if you think it’ll do anybody any good. Wish I could go with you. My feet don’t work so well anymore. Ah was in that little police action we did, you know — Vietnam.”
The old craft’s batteries were shot. The Pelican’s fuel had been sitting so long it turned to sludge. From the tower generator locker, John Coates let Everon borrow a portable drill and a few wrenches. But he soon found nobody at the airport would sell him anything.
There were four things Everon couldn’t take: Doing a job over again — do it right the first time! Being so close to something he could almost touch it but prevented from his desire by some kind of barrier — barriers are meant to be broken down! Being right in the middle of a project and having it canceled — someone reneging on a contract.
And being told “No.”
Trying to fly from Teterboro into the city to look for Cyn was turning out to have all four. It was pissing him off.
No’s were meant to be turned into yes’s.
In the middle of the airport’s perimeter highway, he found a stranded diesel tank trucker whose semi wouldn’t run and talked him into selling his two spare batteries.
Then he needed fuel.
He thought about trying to carry it in on foot, ten gallons at a time, using two of Sam’s old five-gallon jerry cans. The pilot’s manual he found under the pilot’s seat said the Pelican held six hundred gallons. He wanted to fly with full tanks. Sixty trips past the military? Not likely.
Sam loaned him the museum’s ancient fuel truck.
“Where are you going?” the guards at the gate asked.
“I’ve got a line on some fuel if you think the Red Cross or the military can use it,” he lied.
They let him through.
He talked the trucker he’d gotten the batteries from into selling him seven hundred gallons of fresh diesel. Another trucker he talked into filling the two jerry cans with gasoline. He headed back in.
“Did you find any fuel?” the guards asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Everon shook his head.
He was allowed to bring the old tanker back inside.
Everon drained the Pelican’s tanks, and with gasoline in the two jerry cans, he cleaned out the Pelican’s fuel lines.
In a rear cabinet he found an old maintenance manual. He lubricated every point listed. Checked the fuse panel, replaced several bad fuses, and reconnected two broken wires. He could feel the clock ticking as he worked. He was burning time. Cyn’s time!
The transmission looked okay. He’d know better if he got the old bird turning. But before he could even try starting the twin turbines a major problem was still with him — that tall elm, standing between her rotor blades.
They must have rolled the thing in here with the blades collapsed, he figured. Disassembling the main rotor, moving the whole machine out piece-by-piece to some suitable launch spot would take hours he didn’t have. How do I hide that from the military? And that damn Vandersommen’s probably around somewhere too.
He went to Sam.
“Is there any chance I could cut down that elm?”
“That old tree don’t look so healthy. Prob’ly elm disease. Guess you’d be doing me a favor. It ain’t gonna be easy to get ’er out-a there though.”
Everon found a guy in a maintenance hangar with a chainsaw. The guy cranked it up and cut a big V halfway through, then started on the other side of the trunk.
Despite Everon hanging desperately on lower branches along the tree’s east side, the elm refused to cooperate. It tilted north until it picked up speed and went over with a sweeping crash, right onto the roof of the museum.
Everon grimaced. Better than falling onto the chopper. But he worried. Would that be it? Would Sam call a halt to the entire insane idea he was chasing?
Sam surveyed the crack in the museum’s eave, shrugged and said, “No harm done. Get in and give ’er a kick.”
Everon climbed inside.
If it ran — no matter what, this time he was going in.
