Stuart Woods - Heat

Jesse did as he was told, then leveled off at four thousand feet.

“Okay, reduce power to, let’s see, about twenty-three inches of manifold pressure and twenty-three hundred rpm. Good, now I’ll lean the engine, and we’re in business. Turn left to two-seven-zero, and hold your altitude.”

Jesse made the turn without losing any altitude.

“Want to see St. Clair from above?”

“Sure.”

“See the church steeple there? Head for that.”

Jesse picked out the steeple rising above the trees, then saw the mountaintop just behind it. He headed for the church, then continued straight on toward the mountain.

“Look, there’s Jack Gene’s place,” Casey said. “Head over there.”

Jesse turned the airplane slightly, and soon the snowy swath of Coldwater’s garden hove into view.

“There’s Jack Gene in the garden,” Casey said, smiling. “Let’s do a low pass over his house. Drop down a couple hundred feet, and when you get over the house, make a thirty-degree turn to three-six-zero.”

Jesse pushed forward slightly on the yoke and the airplane began a descent and picked up airspeed. He could see the figure in the garden now; he was sitting on a bench and seemed to be holding a book.

“Here we go, start your turn,” Casey said.

Jesse looked at the attitude indicator and picked out the thirty-degree mark, then rolled the airplane to the right.

“You’re losing altitude,” Casey warned.

Jesse hauled back on the yoke and the airplane began to climb again.

“Now roll out level for a minute and then turn left to two-seven-zero.”

Jesse leveled the wings momentarily, then turned left. As he rolled out again on the westerly heading, he looked to his left and saw that he was level with the mountaintop and only about three hundred yards away from it. Then he saw something else: around fifty feet down from the mountaintop there was an opening in the brush, and, set into the mountainside, a large round opening with a grate over it.

“Let’s circumnavigate the mountain, now,” Casey said. “Just fly right around it, and we’ll head back to the airport.”

Jesse continued around the mountain, and he saw two more of the grates. Somebody came running out of one of the small buildings on top and trained binoculars on the airplane.

Casey took the copilot’s yoke and wagged the wings. “They know my airplane,” he said. “Anybody else would get a stinger up his ass, flying this close to the mountain.”

Jesse continued around the mountain and, on the town side, which was sheer cliffs, he saw two more grates.

“Now fly a heading of zero-niner-zero until you see the field, That’ll put you on a downwind for runway two-seven.”

The field appeared after a couple of minutes, and Jesse, following Casey’s instructions, entered a right downwind for the runway, descending slowly, while Casey announced their intentions over the radio. Jesse turned base, then turned onto the final approach.

“You’re a little high,” Casey said. “Reduce power a good bit. That’s right, now she’ll fly you right down to the threshold.”

Jesse pulled back on the throttle, and the airplane settled toward the end of the runway.

“Start your flare, now, and reduce power even more. You want an airspeed of seventy knots over the numbers. Here we go, flare some more, now.”

Jesse hauled back on the yoke, the stall horn went off, and the airplane struck the runway solidly. “Sorry about that, Pat.”

“That was just a nice firm landing,” Casey said, laughing. “You just fell about the last five feet.”

Jesse taxied back to the hangar, and Casey showed him the shutdown procedure.

“Pat, that was a real treat; thank you.”

“You did real good, Jesse; you must have had a pretty good instructor.”

“Fellow by the name of Floyd; a real old-timer with about ten thousand hours.”

“Those guys are the best. I’ve got my instructor’s ticket; you want to start working on your license again? Cost you eighty bucks an hour for the aircraft and fuel; I’m free.”

“That’s a terrific offer, Pat; I’d really like that.”

“Next Sunday, same time?”

“You bet.”

“I’ll get you the instruction book and a new logbook.”

“Can I borrow your pilot’s operating handbook until next week? I’d like to read up on the operating speeds and all that.”

“Good idea.” Casey reached into the cockpit and handed him a thick notebook.

“Thanks, see you next Sunday,” Jesse said.

“Hey, Jimmy!” Casey called to a man near the fuel truck. “Top her off, will you? Just the right tank.”

Jesse got back into his truck and drove off. He checked the speedometer for distance, then drove home. He’d learned a lot more than he’d expected to on a Sunday afternoon.

That night, Jesse had the dream again. He was walking down Fifth Avenue in New York, and he saw the little girl he had taken for his own Carrie. He had decided it wasn’t Carrie, and this was where the dream had stopped. Only this time it continued. It was if they were all in slow motion. The woman bent over and pointed to something in the shop, as Jesse watched through the window, and she seemed terribly familiar. Then she straightened up, and Jesse could see for the first time that, even under the overcoat, the woman was pregnant. He jerked awake, this time with the scene fixed in his mind. Then he remembered something Kip had said, about how he would take care of his family if he lost his job.

Jesse sat very still, hardly daring to breathe, lest the dream should leave him. Machinery in his mind turned, like the tumblers in a safe, and the combination clicked.

Doors swung open. He fell back on the pillow, exhausted from his insight.

The fax arrived on Tuesday morning. Jesse saw it spat from the machine, and he resisted walking over there. The secretary took the document from the machine, glanced at it and took it into Herman Muller’s office.

Muller read the letter, then read it again, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. He spoke for some minutes, nodding a lot, then hung up and walked into Jesse’s office.

“Jesse, I’ve had a fax from a company in Maryland that’s looking for a new supplier. I called the fellow — Withers, his name is — and it looks like he’s hot to trot. You think you could fly east the next day or two and make the same presentation to him you made to the folks in New York?”

“I’d be glad to, Herman.”

Muller handed him the fax. “Here’s the letter; you work it out with Withers about when you’ll meet.” He went back to his office.

Jesse went out to the receptionist. “Agnes, could you check on a flight schedule for me tomorrow from Spokane to Washington D.C. National Airport?”

“Sure, Jesse. You’re becoming the real jet-setter, aren’t you?”

“That’s right; I’m meeting Elizabeth Taylor there.”

When Jesse had the schedule on his desk he picked up the phone, called Nashua Building Supply and asked for John Withers.

“Mr. Withers, this is Jesse Barron at St. Clair Wood Products. My boss, Herman Muller, said you’d like to get together and talk about plywood and chipboard.”

“That’s right, Mr. Barron,” Withers said, “and we’re kind of in a hurry. When do you think you could get to College Park?”

“You’re right near Washington, aren’t you?”

“Yep. Just north of there. I could meet you at National Airport.”

“Tell you what; I’m looking at a schedule that would get me into Washington early tomorrow evening. How about we meet at your office the following morning.”

“Ten o’clock sharp?”

“That’s fine with me. Your address is on your letterhead.”