He had a dream he found Jessy somewhere in a rain storm playing a guitar
and woke. His eyes hurt a little as he opened them and they saw the red embers
of  the fire, and his mind jumped to the Chief on the horse and he sat up, feeling
the ache in his back and the chill, and saw 4 AM on the clock and remembered
that was the hour of his birth. He tried retrieving the dream but, once again, to no
avail, frustrating him. He switched on the light, slowly got up and went to put
water on for coffee. Still feeling the cold and lack of sleep in his bones, he put on
his flight jacket and stretched on his way to the bathroom, drained the liz, then
packed his leather bag with clothes and stuff in the bedroom and put the
checkbook, $5,ooo cash and the 9 millimeter Beretta in his flightcase.
        Back to the kitchen, he poured a cup, wrapped a banana in a piece of
Health Nut bread after spreading chunky peanut butter on that (Elvis special, he
called it) and ate it as he sipped down the coffee and checked the overnight
news show on the battery TV. Still all the conflicts and disasters, catastrophes
and famines, he wearied a touch; though things really had become more peaceful
- or maybe just more "comfortably numb" - by the mid '90's, at least as war goes,
compared to previous decades or centuries, maybe even millenia. Not even the
Cold War to kick around any more. Still all the wasted people and trillions, though,
his concluding thought on all that. Back to the bedroom, he pulled a letter out of a
bank deposit zip pouch in a top desk drawer and read it, which put a nice smile on
him, then folded it back up and put it in a jacket pocket. He got another $1,ooo
from that same desk drawer, put it in an envelope, wrote a short note on that and
put it in another pocket. He packed up Puteronimous, put him over his shoulder,
got his flightcase, his bag and the little suitcase with the document packets, looked
around the room to recheck he had everything, turned off the lights and TV on the
way out, went to the barn, lit the lantern and put everything inside Juliet.
        She glistened in the light. White with green and silver trim, she defined beauty
(well, to any aviator). He walked around her, taking out the shirt pieces he had
stuffed in the intakes and vents, took off the pitot cover and the tape he had put
over the static holes, rubbing the glue off with a rag he wet with Methyl Ethyl
Ketone; then left the envelope by the lantern under the wrench on the bench, closed
the lantern's valve, flicked on his small flashlight, got the wheel brace out of the
baggage compartment and pulled his girl out of the barn.
        In moments more, he was inside Jule and arranging everything around the
cockpit after turning the master and cabin light on. (Whomever came up with
"cockpit" must have been pretty straight forward, he recalls thinking.) Buckled on
with the door closed, it was one stroke of the primer, mix in about three quarters
for the altitude, fuel pump, throttle three pumps for the cold, mags, starter and, in
two Mississippi seconds, the horses kicked in and Kit ran them as slow as they
could neigh to give the oil a chance to wake up plus to keep the dust down.
        The oil pressure needle jumped right up, other instruments were doing their
right stuff and he could feel the excitement flowing in him again. Always something
happening in the pleasure center when a pilot hears that engine start up.
        He waited for it to warm some before adding a few RPM and got the gogs
out and on, put the flaps down about 12 degrees and checked everything from
fuel selector to suction gauge, the temp still climbing. He checked the controls,
turbogate and speedbrakes closed, set the trim, ran RPM up a little more and
checked the mags and cycled the prop a few times and that Lycoming engine
was just about warm enough.
         Julian came out his front door, down the steps and around the wing tip while
Kit adjusted the cabin heat, then throttled back to idle and opened the door,
putting the gogs up on his forehead as Jul crouched on the wing and leaned inside
a little.
        "You wanta come along, bro?" Kit smiled to his best friend.
        "Yeah...wish I could..." Jul smiled back, "...uh, I just came out to see y'off..."
        "Gracias on that, pardner...um, I should be back in a couple days but, if not,
I'll call. But I'll call anyway...you know."
        "Right on, Waldo," and they chuckled together. "But I figure you're long gone,
with this low rider to cruise around in."
        "Heck no now. You guys don't get to do all the fence and mine," holding
another chuckle in. "I just assumed everything's all right...I left the money on the
bench..." motioning with his head toward the barn, "...and you know the deal if I
buy the farm...oh, thanks for the note and the jobs. You guys are the greatest-est."
        "Everything's bueno, Kit...'gras'...but don't you be buying any farms now," he
smiled.
        Kit smiled back with a wink, adding, "and the Quartz...a good sign, no?"
        "Very good sign for Oro, 'migo...muy bueno."
        "Man!...We may be real lucky guys, huh?...Woo!"
        "Si, carnal...el suerte-est," Jul answered with a big grin.
        Kit sensed Julian wanted to know more, so added, "I'm going East, Hul...
hopefully to see my son...also hopefully to find a certain young woman..." Jul
gave him an 'uh-huh' with his face, then a look of 'carumba' as they both realized
together how that second part would crush Essy. "...Then on to D.C.," Kit
continued, "I want to tell you, Hul...you're the best 'meeg 'n hombre could have..."
        Their eyes welled a little and Julian answered, "I know." After their laugh,
he added, "same here, compadre...well, I don't wanta hold ya up, but wanted to
give ya this...for good luck...and to bring ya back," handing Kit the biggest Gold
nugget they had so far, one Kit had not seen.
        "Wo!...man, Hoo," and reached out to shake. "Thanks, bro...give everyone
mi amor." Then Kit's face changed to puzzled and he asked, "Hul...have you, uh,
ever seen a...Native...here...on a horse?..."
        "What do you mean, bro?"
        "O...we can talk about it later...well, luego."
        "Vaya con Dios, Sky." They returned thumbs up, closed the door together
and Jul stepped down off the wing, walked over by the wingtip and put his arm
around Essy, who had just gotten there, in her robe, sleepily sadly waving to Kit
with her fingers.
        He waved the same back, put the gogs back down over his eyes and
waved again funnily with a big smile to give her a laugh. Then he checked engine
temp and Juliet was ready. He blew Es a kiss and she returned one as Juli and
Ria appeared out on the porch, then he released the brakes, waved to everyone,
pushed in the throttle and he was the wind, Juliet roaring away from the barn and
down the snowy road. He lifted off not much past 8oo feet, pulled up the gear,
eased the power back as he leveled off relative to the downsloping mountainside
to stay within 5o feet, more or less, of treetops and boulders, bled off the flaps,
turned East and went down the mountain.
        "A la vay!" Jul said to everyone, "he doesn't even need all the runway!" (in
Spanish), thinking about all his hard work.
        "No, Papa...he doesn't," Es answered dejectedly.
        Jul hugged his daughter, "it's OK, preciosa, you'll find your happiness. Just
give it tiempo, mi bella."
        "Gracias, Padre...si," and she gave him a kiss on his cheek and they
walked back to the cabin arm in arm as Ri and Juli went back inside.
        Well, Kit was tooling down the mountain with no lights again. An outlaw. A
scofflaw. A desperado. It was overcast so, again, only heat signature. If they could
get it. If they were looking. There wasn't anyone in the neighborhood to hear, but
he was fast on his way out of that neighborhood. He flew away from any lights
again, and kept the engine throttled back to stay quieter. He saw the moonglow
in the clouds, so the overcast wasn't too thick, probably clear sky out on the
plains, he figured. He felt so dang good to be flying again, and in such a fine ship.
Closest thing to ecstasy after guess, he says.
        He reached the valley floor and flew across, then up and down the Turkeys,
crossed the Mora River, flew over the ruins of Fort Union in the rolling hills, then
timed his crossing of the interstate so that he would be as far from traffic as
possible, which turned out far enough. Time of day and luck of the draw. Luck -
of draw and birth, the laws of physics and everyone's actions is life, he always
says. But he leaves room for the Lord too.
        Well, he was lucky so far. He had remembered to open the turbo gate on
the way down the Sangre, but had forgotten to turn off the fuel pump. No biggee,
but he reminded himself to stay ahead of the airplane. He was below 5o feet,
gogs or not.
        He flew through the Cornudo Hills, under long-distance power lines,
crossed the Canadian River, went South of the Kiowa Grasslands, dodged some
more towns, then was out on the high plains. He soon crossed the Ute, then was
going across the Texas panhandle and got the GPS out, carefully keying in the
numbers and letters a second at a time as he kept his eyes outside on the terrain
every other. When he got the local map, he decided on getting up off the deck
from the little strip outside Dumas. Dumb ass, he thought, that'll work.
        He headed a little North, crossed the Punta de Agua, then the Rita Blanca
- a lot of Spanish names in the US, A? - and soon saw the airport. It was still
dark, though there were the first glimmers of the dawn's early on the horizon,
and the clouds were spreading out up ahead.
        Gear down, the "thunk" heard and the green lights on, cowl flaps, fuel
pump, flaps, prop, mix, trim, speedbrakes, 75 knots, then 7o and power off;
he eased the yoke smoothly back and heard the mains screech, then the front,
slowed and turned onto the taxiway and stopped on the ramp. No one there
at that time of the morn, so he decided to take a little breather.
        He had taken off the goggles as he had taxied in and stashed them back
in his case, and his eyes were adjusting. He turned on the rotating beacon,
went through everything in the cockpit, taking his time, then set up his GPS,
getting a little ahead for the next leg. The adrenalin eased off; nothing like the
deck, especially at night. He turned on the nav and landing lights, then started
taxiing back to the runway.
        'The end is near,' he remembered JP's admonition from their conversation
the night before at work after they had talked about the tens of millions starving
to death and the condition of the third world and all. For some reason his brain
recalled that. Well, he thought as he taxied, maybe it is near. Nostradamus put
it at July '99, others whenever. The Mayans said 2012 or sometime. Maybe
because it was 5oo years from Cortez - the Phoenix. Billy Graham, et al.,
always say be ready for it, Jesus can come anytime He wants. And Kit thought
all that is probably why people got crazier and crazier over the years, if not from
the nuclear thirty minute dance we all play to; and he felt for the young ones
who have not even started their adult lives yet. If it was going to be over soon.
        Well, near or not, he thought, he was wanting to do something about the
condition of Civilization. Things could be run better. Children do not have to
starve. Money does not have to be wasted on arms and armies. And,
apparently, if he had read the signs right, there was a Spirit, or something -
at least a Native and a horse - on his side. Then he remembered that part of
the Pope's message not long ago - in Pope years - that blamed adherents of
other religions for a lot of the problems, though Kit nor anyone else had known
yet that John Paul would also apologize for the Catholics' part in creating the
mess.
        Yeah, Civilization sure is a jungle all right. And the odds of any success to
come from Kit's plan were next to nil. Pute had done the calculus, based on
everything going perfectly, but P was still recalculating since Kit had told him
about the Chief. And Kit was willing to risk his life ("don't forget", he would
type to Pute), just to get his idea out there. But Putey already had that figured
in.
        His own end may be near was Code's last thought on all that. But they
had not caught him yet, the one after. Of course, he finished, he had not done
anything yet either. He checked for traffic before turning onto the runway,
even in Dumbass at dawn, just in case. Throttle up, he sped up the runway,
turned the strobe and transponder on, lifted off, geared up, made the left turn,
then the right to depart and killed the beams and fuel pump. He climbed up to
7,5oo feet, remaining enough below the clouds to satisfy those regulations,
on FAA radar, then, with the altitude. Out of Dumbass. Maybe he was one,
he thought, but he always seemed to come out of it, which was good, since
he felt like he was about to enter a war armed only with a plan, a plane and
a pistol.
        He leveled off, powered back to 22's, cowl flapped, left the turbo off
to take it easier on the engine, trimmed, leaned the mix and retrimmed and
saw right around 173 knots. "Real sweet," he murmured to himself and
turned on the autopilot for the first time. "Otto" worked fine.
        Kit looked all around the sky for traffic - 36o degrees times the 18o
from horizon to horizon is a lot of space, though you are mostly concerned
with those bogeys not moving relative to you except getting bigger - then
worked the GPS and decided to head straight for the Ozarks to refuel. He
got the course to fly and got to it, turning Julie with Otto. The sky was
brightening, sunrise near, the clouds breaking up. Soon ole Sol was in his
eyes, so he donned his clip-on shades, turned off the nav lights and checked
all the instruments and everything was just A-O-K.
        So he thought about how to find Jess and figured a good shot might
be student rolls at universities in her area. He would have to wait until back
on ground to do that, though, under the cellular law. (That would be irony,
huh: to get put in a cell by a cell law?) He got out the other GPS to match its
readouts with the first. Real darn close. Amazing things, he says he said
quietly. Then he put airport software in Pute and chose his primary and
alternate Ozark ports.
        Flying along the Canadian River, he crossed into Oklahoma over the
Antelope Hills, where they play with the deer, he imagined, changed
software and worked the "brain" and P was making the point to check
FAA and other government computers to see if anyone had noticed the
flights or the cell use in flight the week before. They would do that next
chance on the ground, figuring if they could be legal they would be. P-rific
had some more thoughts on the Chief, but still did not know how to refigure
the odds since Kit's "vision thing", but was working with a range between
one billion to 1 and 144 to 1. He asked Kit if he was sure he had not
hallucinated, considering all the drugs over the years, then suggested
maybe it was the guy's property a while back, or even still then.
        The Canadian turned South - what Canadian would not, Kit mumbled
- and Oklahoma City was on the horizon. The FAA homeboys. The morn
was glorious, clouds becoming scattered, clean sky, farmers outstanding
in their fields below. He recalled his hard red winter wheat years in
Colorado. Hard work. Lonely work. The most important work. And
some of the most dangerous work, especially with his crop dusting.
Maybe the DWI had saved his life, but it sure had stopped his farming
and his dusting. Well, his memories went on about Dan, Cheri and the
family and those years, but he still felt really good about helping to create
those 18 million pounds of wheat. Probably the best thing he had done in
his life.
        So, it was North of OKC, South of Tulsa, North of Muskogee,
where Merle and the boys do not smoke that mariwana like them hippies
do, and into Arkansas, where governors can expose their pinkies. Well,
that was her story.
        He flew over a little town named Cincinnati and disconnected Otto
and began descent, heading into Boone County Field outside a town called
Harrison. Hell, he thought, he must be in the Twilight Zone. Boone County
is the Kentucky county with the Cincinnati, Ohio airport and Harrison is a
little town in Ohio outside Cincinnati.
        "This'll be 'intrysting,'" he said and alluded as he did some engine
monitoring - cylinder head temps, oil temp and pressure, exhaust gas temp,
turbo inlet temp, with its "TIT" labeled on the instrument (he loved to check),
fuel flow and stomach grumbling. He pushed in the mix as he passed through
5,5oo feet - do not want to crispy the cylinders or valves or such (he had
learned the hard way back in the '60's); more air, more gas, 'wala' . He
dialed in Unicom on radio one and called to announce his position and
intention, pulling power to 18 inches, making sure not to shock-cool
anything, descended and slowed. Beams on, he leveled off at 7oo feet
above ground for the traffic pattern, opening the cowl, calling again,
cycling the gear and fuel pump. Opposite the end of the runway, it was
power pull, 75 knots, flaps 1o, trim, turn to base with flaps 2o, trim,
radio, turn to final and flaps 3o, trim, prop in, speedbrakes, flaps 4o,
hold 7o knots and, in a few more seconds, touch down.
        Stuff closed, turned off and all, he rolled onto the ramp and shutdown
and put Pute on self mode with the modem, starting him in on searching for
Jess and the rest. He unbelted, opened the door to the cool air, scooted
over the right seat after putting things in back, stepped off the wing and
walked over to the open hangar and inside to the guys working on an old
Beech 18 - the 1930's vintage twin-radial engine, twin-ruddered
tailwheeler.
Next page