“How long will that go on?” Canidy asked. “Until it has been decided by me that it is no longer necessary,” Donovan said. Canidy shrugged but said nothing. He takes orders, Donovan thought. That’s good.
“For the long term, Canidy,” Donovan went on, “I’m sure we’ll find things for you to do, taking into consideration both your flying background and your demonstrated ability to do other things. just what, and when, hasn’t been decided. The ever-resourceful Chief Ellis has scrounged an airplane for us, and we want you to pick that up and take it with you to New jersey.”
“What kind of an airplane?”
“A Beech D18,” Donovan said.
“Is that right, Peter?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m a fighter pilot,” Canidy asked, more of a question than a challenge.
“And an aeronautical engineer,” Doug lass said, “who knows how to fly a D18S. Isn’t that correct?”
“I got a few hours in the one the AVG had,” Canidy said. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time in New jersey to become proficient,” Doug lass said.
“And we’ll try to arrange it so that you can get checked out in other aircraft as well. When you can spare the time from takin care of the admiral, of course.” Canidy nodded his acceptance of this. “Any other questions, Canidy?” Donovan asked.
“No, Sir.”
“I think there’s a coffeepot in the sitting room,” Donovan said, Politely dismissing him. “Thank you,” Canidy said again, and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
ONE I Lakehurst Naval Air Station Lakehurst, New Jersey Aril 9, 1942 P A Navy blimp was about to take off as Canidy approached the field in the twin Beech D18S. The tower ordered him to circle east of the field in order to get out of the way. Canidy was pleased. He hadn’t seen that many blimps, and he’d never before seen one take off. It apparently required a great deal of skill on the part of the pilot and the large ground crew. He could see them now, half a dozen teams-six to eight men to a line pulling the blimp’s nose into the wind while simultaneously keeping the machine from being blown crossways.
As large as blimps were-there were three others on the ground they were in turn dwarfed by their hangar. This monster had been built, he remembered, when he was a kid, at a time when important people seriously believed that dirigibles were going to be the warships of the future. A series of disastrous crashes, including that of the Navy’s Indianapolis, off California, and the German passenger zeppelin Hindenburg right here at Lakehurst, had killed that idea.
The blimp he was watching finally sailed gently into the air and headed due east, out to sea. It was going on a war patrol to look for German submarines.
“Lakewood clears Navy Six-one-one for landing on runway two seven,” his earphones announced, waking him up.
“The winds are five, gusting to fifteen, from the west. The barometer is three-zero-zero-zero.” He banked the Beech back toward the field.
It was brand new, a V.I.P transport, neither the navigation trainer nor the bare-to-the-ribs small transport he had expected. It had been intended for a senior admiral who had been given a command at sea before he could take delivery. As was his way, Ellis had heard about this and “somehow” had arranged for it to be diverted to COI. A useful man, Ellis.
“Six-one-one on final,” he said into the microphone as he lowered the wheels and put down the flaps. He had a little trouble putting it on the ground, and he was farther down the runway than he wanted to be when he heard the wheels chirp. He’d like to put blame, he thought, on the flight characteristics of the aircraft, but the truth was that the fault was his. Despite his newly issued Army Air Corps flight records claim that he was rated as pilot in command of C-45, C-46, and C-47 twin-engine aircraft, he had never been at the controls of a C-46 or a C-47, and when he had taken this Beech D18S off the field at the Beech factory in Wichita, it was the first time he had flown what the Air Corps called the C-45 solo. “Lakehurst, Six-one-one,” he reported to the tower.