Plane Passion (Mile-High Madmen #3)

Chapter 1

The fuel gauge read empty as Newark came into view, so Ernie nudged the plane higher. If he was going to have to land without engines, he wanted all the altitude he could get.

Stinging sweat dripped into his eyes beneath his goggles as he scoured the familiar landscape, looking past the wooden wings for the dirt airstrip. Triumph was within reach. He’d break the Chicago to New York record if he could just manage to land.

A brisk, autumn breeze was blowing, and he was grateful for the protection of the full-body, leather suit he wore. He’d heard a company in Europe was working on an airplane model with an enclosed cockpit. That sounded like heaven. Not that the Postal Service would ever spring for such luxury.

There was Heller Airport at last, sandwiched between a fireworks factory and a Tiffany jewelry factory.

It was one of the worst airfields he’d ever had to land in.

The runway was too short, and the surrounding buildings limited visibility.

And yet he had never seen a more beautiful, welcoming sight.

His engine began to sputter.

Not now. Please not now.

The smell of hot metal and oil sharpened as his tired engine struggled.

“A few more minutes, sweetheart, and we’ll be home free,” he said in a soothing voice, patting the dash panel. With his other hand, he gripped the wood control stick, his knuckles white.

His heart pounded in his ears as he tilted the nose downward and began his descent. The change in angle sloshed some last remaining drops of fuel into the engine, which roared back to life, thank God!

“That’s it. Nice and easy,” he cooed as if the plane needed reassurance. Or maybe he was reassuring himself. This was cutting it far too close.

He coasted down, adjusting his heading, taking the most direct course he could. There would be no circling this time. He needed wheels on the ground as fast as he could manage. The smoke of the factories tickled his nose as he prayed he’d make it down in one piece.

An updraft jolted him. And then another. He steered his course, steady as possible.

The ground approached. His engine stuttered again. He cursed under his breath.

A sharp turn. A quick drop. Almost there…

Wheels touched dirt, and he let out a shuddering breath as he pulled hard on the elevators to slow down. It would have been downright embarrassing to end his flight in the dirt pile at the end of the runway—an all-too-common occurrence at this godawful airport.

Ernie leaned forward as the plane decelerated far too slowly for his liking. The dirt pile loomed as he ground to a halt at the last moment. Not his finest landing. But at least he was down in one piece.

And he’d done it. By God he’d battled through and broken the record from Chicago.

He sank back in his seat, and a rush of triumph cut through his exhaustion. People would have to sit up and take notice of Ernie Pritchard after this.

A crowd of jumpsuit clad pilots and mechanics rushed out of the hangar to surround the plane as he stood on stiff legs and climbed out of the cockpit.

“You did it, Pritchard! Congrats!”

“Seven hours and forty-three minutes! Amazing!”

“President Wilson should give you a medal!”

They crowded around to sing his praises, and he reveled in it. This was the biggest thing he’d ever achieved, and, tired as he was, he meant to enjoy his moment in the sun. They doffed their grease-stained caps and threw them in the air with a “Hip, hip, hooray!”

A reporter in a rumpled brown suit and straw hat snapped a photo as he descended from the plane. “How does it feel to break the 1918 Chicago to New York record?”

Hot dog! He was going to be in the papers!

“All in a day’s work.” Ernie flashed his most debonair smile. “I’m just doing my job delivering the mail.”

If Ernie was strutting a bit as they walked together to the hangar, he couldn’t help it. His crowd of well-wishers hung on every word, and it wasn’t every day a nobody from Brooklyn broke a world record.

“I see you’re flying a Curtiss R-4. Did you make any special modifications to it for this flight?”

Damned right he did. He’d always had a knack for fixing things, and he was particularly proud of the innovation that led to this flight. “I figured out how to increase the fuel capacity of the plane without adding to the overall weight so that it could make the full trip.”

“Say, that’s clever! Tell me how you did it.”

As he was about to launch into a detailed explanation, his boss had to ruin it all by stalking over with a deep frown on his face. So much for Ernie’s good mood.

This was supposed to be Ernie’s big day. Mr. Dickson was supposed to be proud of him for once. So why did the old man look like he’d bit into a lemon?

“And what does the Postal Service gain from today’s flight?” the reporter asked, oblivious.

Mr. Dickson cleared his throat and tugged the sleeves of his perfectly starched uniform.

“I’ll answer that. If we can eliminate the stops between here and Chicago, we can get the mail delivered that much faster.

At present, it takes a day and a half to send a letter from New York to Chicago.

Flying direct, we could make deliveries the same day.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Mr. Pritchard. ”

He took Ernie by the elbow and pulled him away from the crowd toward the hangar.

Why was Mr. Dickson dragging him off like a naughty child?

Sure, he and Mr. Dickson didn’t always get along, but this flight was supposed to change that.

After all, record setting was good for the airmail operation.

Wasn’t Mr. Dickson always complaining that they needed some good publicity?

Ernie followed Mr. Dickson all the way to his office, and Mr. Dickson closed the door behind them. This wasn’t good. What had Ernie done wrong this time?

Sitting down across from his boss, Ernie looked around for some clue in the pristine white space decorated with an enormous American flag and an old poster from the Great War that said, Join the Air Service. Learn-Earn.

A newspaper rested on the desk with a headline that said, AVIATRIX AWES AUDIENCE IN ALBANY. Why was Mr. Dickson hanging onto a two-week-old newspaper, and why would Mr. Dickson be interested in the antics of an aviatrix?

“Congratulations on your new record, Pritchard. The Postal Service is proud.” He sure as hell didn’t sound proud.

“Thank you, sir.” He wanted to get out of his flight suit so badly, but he didn’t dare unbutton in current company.

Mr. Dickson’s frown deepened. “How are you feeling after the flight?”

“Fine, sir.” Truth be told, now that his initial burst of elation had worn off, he was exhausted, chilled, and starving after nearly eight hours in an open cockpit.

He would kill for a cup of coffee, a sandwich, and a hot shower.

But first, he had to escape whatever this was.

If only Mr. Dickson would get on with it and tell him what was the matter.

“I called you in here because I have an assignment for you, and it comes from the top.”

That perked Ernie up. What was it? Another test flight where he could set another record? He brushed his blond hair out of his face to no avail. It was definitely time for a haircut.

“Our Postmaster General has decided it is time to have another try at letting a woman fly the mail.” Mr. Dickson leveled a steely gaze at him. “She’s asked to learn from the best, so I’ve assigned her to you.”

Ernie took a deep breath and let it out. Compliments from Mr. Dickson were rare as summer snowflakes, but this assignment was bad news. He sure hoped that reporter didn’t get wind of this, or it would replace his record-breaking flight on the front page.

“Is Katherine Stinson back?” Because that would have been especially awkward. It was her record he just broke.

Mr. Dickson arranged his pens in a neat row in front of him, his jaw clenching. Apparently, Mr. Dickson wasn’t any happier about this than he was.

“No. It’s Millie Aldrich this time,” Mr. Dickson said, pointing to the newspaper on his desk.

Millie Aldrich? The celebrity aviatrix whose face was splashed across his sisters’ favorite gossip rags? There was something about her sultry smile in the photos that stuck with him. He vaguely recalled a headline about her engagement to a film star falling apart.

Wonderful. He was going to be stuck with some jilted prima donna who thought she knew how to fly, and he’d bet his bottom dollar she was out to one-up him.

He’d worked so hard to win this record, experimenting for months with fuel tank modifications, and here this woman was going to waltz in and steal his one modest moment of glory.

His only hope was finding some way to talk her out of it.

“I know she does air shows, but has she ever done any distance flying? Does she have any idea how dangerous it is?”

Mr. Dickson tapped his pen. “I was hoping you could explain it to her. I can’t say no to a direct order from Burleson, but if she decides of her own volition…”

Ah. So it was Ernie’s job to dissuade her. Fine. He wasn’t about to let some puffed-up barnstormer rain on his parade. He just had to convince her it wasn’t worth gambling her life on a publicity stunt. That shouldn’t be too hard, should it?

“She’s in the breakroom,” Mr. Dickson said. “I thought you could introduce yourself and show her to her plane.”

“Here? Now?” Couldn’t this wait until after a shower and a bite to eat? Though maybe he could at least get some coffee.

“Now. She’s waiting.” A vein pulsed in Mr. Dickson’s temple.

Ernie didn’t dare argue. He stood and started for the door.

“Oh, and Pritchard?”

What did Mr. Dickson want now? Ernie paused and turned. “Yes?”

“I expect you and the boys to behave like gentlemen around her. No advances. No lewd comments. If I get the slightest hint of any hanky-panky, both she and whoever she’s fraternizing with will get the sack. Burleson’s orders. Understand?”

As if he needed the warning. “Loud and clear, Mr. Dickson.”