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  “You bet he did,” Falcon said in a low voice. “So, let’s cut the crap. I’m dying here in this hot sun without my oxygen. What are you looking for?”

  Eric reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the picture of his father and Starke sitting on the wing of an airplane. He turned it toward Falcon. “This is a DC-3—”

  “You think I don’t know what a DC-3 C-47 looks like? Man, before you were even a twinkle in your old man’s eye I was pissing off the wing of one of those. Yeah, we got a few of ‘em here.”

  Aston unbuttoned her Levi’s jacket as she walked over to Falcon. “The one we’re looking for is special,” she said and pulled her jacket back to reveal the Jolly Roger on her T-shirt. “It has nose art that looks like this,” she said, and pushed her chest out a bit.

  “Well, when you put it that way young lady,” he said, staring at her chest, “follow me.”

  Back in the car Eric looked over at the smiling Aston. “Ya know, Aston, you could give the old fart a heart attack doing things like that.”

  “I figured the guy needed a new war story or two to tell the next people he takes on a tour—all the way back to 1942.”

  Falcon maneuvered like a hungry mouse in his small, weathered-green car, under wings and around rows of huge aircraft. They exited from the warren of aircraft through a slim opening between two Boeing 747s onto a partially paved road. The car abruptly stopped and Falcon stepped out. Eric and Aston followed. The trio stood before a hodgepodge of dark-green colored and camouflage-attired airplanes and helicopters, most spattered with mud. Heat shimmered all around the planes. Aston thought she was viewing the scene through a water glass. They were surrounded by a mishmash of wings, airplane body parts and towering crates of engines. Painted on the road at their feet, a line of red Xs stretched in both directions. Aston felt sand carried by the wind sting her face.

  Falcon squinted against the sun as he surveyed the stacks of airplane parts. He released a breath. “So, this is what we call the boneyard. I ain’t going in. I’m ‘fraid of ghosts. It’s always been a puzzlement to me how they could get all these things back in here, so unorganized.”

  “Wow, not as well-kept as all those rows of shiny civilian planes back there,” Aston said, shading her eyes with her hand.

  “Nope, not as neat or well taken care of. Most of these are Viet Nam vets, which should tell you something.”

  “You a vet?” Eric asked.

  Falcon looked at Eric, then Aston. “Yer boyfriend here ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed, is he?”

  Aston laughed. “Nope. That’s what I love about him.” She raised her binoculars and searched through the jumble of planes.

  “Yep, this is as far as I go. Too dark in there for me. There’s some DC-3s still on their feet, off to the right. A few more dead on their bellies back in there,” he said, pointing to where a large rusted water tower leaned to the left.

  Eric walked over to a CH-21 helicopter lying on its side and looked through an opening where a door gunner once sat, feet on the landing skids, looking for—what? Aston watched Falcon give Eric a full body scan, then turn to continue his survey of the mass of equipment. Her eyes alternated been Falcon and Eric, comparing their profiles, eye color, and shape of their ears. Falcon’s eyes blinked and started to water. She stood close, lowered her voice and asked, “Dust bother you?”

  “Yeah, that must be it,” he said and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes. “Me and some of these planes, like that flying banana he’s looking at, were young together.”

  “So, you sort of give tours here, now?” Eric said as he returned.

  “Sort of. Started out years back when NASA paid me to kind of watch over this boneyard,” Falcon said and made a sweeping gesture with an unlit cigarette. “Bunch of old wrecks being looked after by another old wreck. Then, one day, they told me I was done. ‘Redundant’ as the Brits say. All that crap about retirement is a joke. It’s, ‘Here’s a gold watch. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.’ One day you’re the expert and the next day you’re bird shit on the windshield.”

  Aston laid her hand on Falcon’s forearm. “World’s all fucked up. And, in case you didn’t read it in the papers, that war in ‘Nam is over. Ended long ago.”

  Falcon looked down at her then over her head. “You don’t know the half of it young lady.” Falcon stared at the remains of a Bell UH-1 Huey helicopter squatting in the sand nearby. “War might be over, but the fight never ends.” He cleared his throat. “Nice meeting the both of you, though,” he said and wiped his eyes, again. “If you find the DC-3 you’re looking for, be careful climbing around inside them things. When you’re done, it’s easy to get out from here. Just go back to the left ’til it dead end’s, then take another left. Goes right to the gate.”

  “How can we thank you, Falcon?” Eric said, offering his hand.

  Falcon kept his hands in his pockets. “No thanks needed. It’s truly been my pleasure to meet you,” he said and climbed into his car without looking back.

  “Wait,” Eric said to Falcon’s back. “I want to ask you about some of the pilots that might have flown those old—“

  Falcon didn’t wait. He slammed the car door and started down the exit road. Suddenly, he reversed and came back to where Eric and Aston stood. He stopped next to Aston. “And next time you see Phyllis, tell her Falcon said hello.” Then he was gone.

  “What? Wait! Did you hear that? He knows Phyllis.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said, watching the small green car move out of sight. “I wonder what else he knows? Let’s go look for an airplane.”

  Eric eased his car among relics of wars gone by. He paused to look at several planes and examine the straight rows of bullet holes in their fuselages. He wondered if his father had flown any of these aircraft.

  “Eric, look,” Aston said and started to exit the car before it came to a full stop. Eric stepped from the car and they stood in the shadow of a DC-3, its window glass shattered, the left horizontal stabilizer missing.

  “Holy shit,” Aston said, examining the plane towering above them.

  “Indeed,” Eric said and smiled back at the fading image of a grinning Jolly Roger painted on the nose of the plane. “What’s a pirate ship doing in the boneyard?”

  Aston moved to her left and interlaced her fingers with his. Without looking at him she said, “Okay, what’s our next move, Boss? What happens if we find the palladium? I—”

  He released her hand, walked to the Porsche and retrieved a paper bag tucked beneath the driver’s seat. From the bag he removed two black T-shirts emblazoned with large gold-colored dragons. Lettering beneath the images read, ‘Here There Be Dragons.’

  Aston looked at the shirt he handed her and smiled. She squinted against the sun reflecting off the windshield of the plane and said, “Boss, I think we better go check inside this crate. We might need to redraw that puzzle map when we get home.”

  Eric rested his hand on her shoulder. “Bonnie, why don’t you call me Clyde?”

  * * *

  About The Author

  Clyde Witt worked as a journalist and photographer for more than 40 years before retiring. Fiction writing was not part of his retirement plan in 2008 when he started a genealogy project that led to his first novel. The original retirement plan called for more fly fishing and birding with his wife, Susan Jones. And while they’ve managed to pursue those pastimes, including trips to Cuba, Ecuador, New Zealand, England and around North America, fiction writing has consumed many hours in between. He is a regular attendee of the University of Iowa’s Summer Writing Festival program where he has had the honor of working with numerous talented authors.

 

 

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