Chapter 1 #2
The crew and spectators went ominously silent.
Their worry was palpable. But the crowd was growing, proving just how strong the appeal of impending death was.
Barnstormers never seemed to have a lack of customers.
They buzzed the roofs of towns on their way in, and folks would chase after them to pay for a ride in their planes.
Never mind how often newspaper headlines shouted about aviators meeting their end in fiery crashes.
He supposed it was a sign of the times. Booming stock market.
The whole country roaring into the next decade.
Women were voting, driving, and now—flying.
The Great War was well and truly behind America.
As for Prohibition, well, that had given birth to a whole new underground of nightclubs, speakeasies, and gin joints where criminals organized it all and raked in massive profits.
The motto of the decade seemed to be, “Let the good times roll.”
He’d been right to invest in this movie. It was just the sort of entertainment folks would lay down money to see.
“Are you getting this?” he asked the cameraman tersely.
The guy was concentrating too hard on the rubber viewfinder to even give him a thumbs-up.
He heard the clickety-clack of film passing through the camera and returned his gaze to the sputtering airplane.
If anyone could get the plane safely to the ground, it was Pancho Barnes.
But when it came to flying airplanes, it was only a matter of time before too many pilots’ luck ran out.
Those who turned a blind eye to the mathematical odds of how short an aviator’s life was really needed to be on good terms with the Almighty.
Several more loud pops came from the plane’s engine, accompanied by puffs of gray smoke that didn’t come from the oil burner designed by his effects coordinator.
The plane made a shallow turn that lined up the nose of the aircraft with the dirt field they’d been flying stunts over, and it was coming down steeply. And fast.
Way faster than Tay had ever seen a plane come in to land.
A movement off to his right caught his attention.
The other stunt pilots were surging forward, shoving through the rest of the crew to get a clear view of the plane.
He swore under his breath at this confirmation that there was a serious problem.
Not that any of them could do anything to help.
Pancho was alone in a risky, possibly deadly situation.
“Dead stick!” one of the stunt pilots yelled out. “The plane’s engine has quit!”
Not good.
The spectators moaned, and he heard a few voices muttering prayers.
He was tempted to yell for the cameraman to stop rolling.
If the plane crashed and the pilot died, he wouldn’t be able to use the film anyway, and it seemed disrespectful to film someone’s death.
But maybe some official would want to see what had happened.
Figure out what had gone wrong. He gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his hands ached, looking on helplessly as the plane plunged toward the ground.
As the plane drew closer, the propeller was spinning slowly enough that Tay could see the blades.
Normally, it spun so fast they became invisible.
He muttered a quick prayer of his own, but there wasn’t time for more than that.
Gravity was inexorably pulling the plane back toward the earth, and there was nothing the pilot could do about it.
At the very last second, the nose pitched up hard. The plane slowed rapidly, skimming along, perhaps six feet off the ground, as its airspeed bled off. Abruptly, the plane dropped the last few feet and landed hard on both main gears and the nose gear at the same time.
Tay heard the groan from the shock absorbers and the creak of protest from the airframe as the plane impacted the ground. He braced himself for the sickening sound of screeching metal or an explosion.
Nothing. Just the sound of tires crunching over the occasional stone now that the engine was silent. Tay stared at the plane as it rolled down the field, remarkably still in one piece.
Ho. Lee. Cow.
He sagged in his canvas chair, abjectly relieved he and the pilot had avoided catastrophe. Frankly, he didn’t understand how anyone had the nerve to flirt with death like that.
But he had to admit it had been exciting to watch. His heart was thumping, and his forehead was soaked with perspiration. Right or wrong, that was the honest truth.
The crowd and crew erupted into cheers, and he heard movie tickets selling like hot cakes after a long Sunday sermon. He yelled at the dolly crew, “Keep that camera pointed at the plane, boys! I want footage of the pilot climbing out of the plane unharmed.”
Heck. If he couldn’t use this footage in his film, it would make for some incredible newsreel in theaters. He couldn’t buy advertising this good.
The plane bumped to a stop. The onlookers held their breath as the stunt pilots ran toward it.
“Stop! Stay back from the plane!” he shouted frantically at them. “You’ll wreck the shot!”
The gaggle of pilots reluctantly skidded to a halt. All eyes were glued on the plane.
A leather-encased arm emerged from the cockpit and draped over its edge. A leather helmet and goggles popped up into sight. The pilot stood up on the seat and threw a leg over the edge of the cockpit.
He watched nervously as she climbed onto the lower wing, paused briefly, then jumped down to the ground, moving as if none the worse for wear after an engine failure and rough landing.
Motion-picture perfect.
“Gosh darn it all, Pancho pulled it off!” one of the stunt pilots exclaimed.
“Pancho’s the best flier of all of us,” another commented.
“Cut!” Tay finally called. He sank in his chair and fished a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop the sweat off his forehead.
He took a moment to compose himself after the emotional roller coaster of the last few minutes.
His legs still a bit weak, he jogged across the dirt field to where Pancho stood beside the plane.
A mechanic preceded him, carrying a ladder to set up beside the engine compartment.
“Check the fuel line,” Pancho was telling the guy as Tay drew within earshot.
“I thought I heard the pistons choking.” The leather helmet and goggles came off, revealing short, dark hair and the cheerful smile and round face of the best female stunt pilot in the world.
She turned to face him as he approached.
“Sorry about this hiccup. At least I finished your stunt work before the engine quit.”
A hiccup? That was what she thought of a near-death experience? “It was magnificent,” he declared.
Pancho shrugged. “Just another day at the office.”
Tay silently marveled at the lack of concern in her voice. He peered intently at her eyes, but there wasn’t a hint of fear there either. Guess that was the only way to fly like she did.
“You aviators have a real blind spot for your own mortality.”
“We’re pioneers.” She rolled her eyes and flashed a grin at her fellow pilots.
She moved a hundred feet or so away from the plane, and he tagged along, grinning. He knew what she was up to by getting clear of the gas fumes and flammable materials of her plane. Sure enough, she pulled a thin, black cigar out of the pocket of her leather jacket.
The other stunt pilots caught up with them, and one asked in concern, “Rough landing. Are you okay?”
Pancho didn’t answer immediately and instead pulled out a matchbook.
She took her time tearing off a match, striking it, and lighting up the cigar.
She puffed on it a few times before taking it out of her mouth and pointing it at her fellow aviators.
“Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing, boys. Even better when my plane is still flyable.”
The other pilot replied, “Me and the guys, we’ll look over the plane for you. Check it out. See if it’s airworthy—”
“I check out my own planes, just the same as any male aviator, thank you very much,” she replied tartly. She took a deep breath as if winding up to deliver one of her famous insult-laced tirades.
Tay had heard that when she got good and riled up, Pancho could insult a person for an hour straight without ever repeating herself. She’d never gotten mad on one of his sets, though. He was eager to see if her legendary mouth lived up to its reputation.
“Excuse me,” a new voice interrupted, stopping Pancho before she could get started.
Tay, Pancho, and the others turned to stare at a middle-aged man in a suit standing stiffly before them, holding a fancy ivory envelope in his hands, the kind that invitations to ritzy weddings came in.
The newcomer said formally, “I have a delivery for Mrs. Florence Barnes.” His gaze roved across the group of pilots and passed right over Pancho in her leather coat, men’s jodhpurs, and cigar.
Florence? Is that her real name? Tay had never heard anyone call her anything but Pancho.
“You’re looking at her,” Pancho said jovially, making a production of sticking the cigar between her teeth before holding her hand out for the letter.
The messenger froze, staring at her in disbelief, apparently forgetting about the letter in his hand.
Pancho laughed heartily. “I purely love striking folks speechless. Especially men.” She plucked the envelope from the fellow’s hand while the other aviators joked about how many flies he could catch in that open mouth of his.
The delivery man mumbled, “I need you to sign for it . . . ma-ma’am.”
Tay frowned. Pancho was one of the wealthiest women on the West Coast. He couldn’t afford to lose her to some high-society event before he filmed the rest of the movie’s flying stunts.
He said quickly, “I sure hope you aren’t planning on going anywhere.
I need you to finish The Flying Fool with me. ”
Pancho tore open the envelope and pulled out a letter printed on expensive embossed stationery. She read through it twice as Tay’s apprehension mounted.