Air Ace Vs Heidegger's Horror (part 1) free porn video

AIR ACE VERSUS HEIDEGGER'S HORROR by Vanessa Lawrence Part 1 Chapter 1 "It's a very special honor for me to accept your American Hero award tonight, but I want you to know that I consider each and every one of you Legionaires to be the real American heros. Every day I'm reminded that we're all very lucky to be able to be here tonight." He paused for a moment, perpetually tousled flame red hair blazing in the spotlights, a slight wry grin playing at the corners of his generous mouth. "We could've gotten our asses shot off!" The convention hall burst into laughter at the crudity, just as Chuck had hoped. He waited, smiling tightly into the darkness until the vast unseen crowd settled down once again. As he waited, unbidden visions of departed friends flashed before his mind's eye. They were smiling too. The memories forced a more serious look to settle on his youthful features. He swallowed, looked down at his notes for a moment, and drove home the sober thought that he had slyly set up with that touch of humor. "None of us should ever forget those other American heroes who were not so lucky, the tens of thousands of our buddys, our neighbors, our brothers; yes, and our daughters, and sisters, too, who caught the ones with their names on it so that the world could live in peace and freedom tonight. More than you, and certainly more than me; they are the most deserving of the name, American heroes!" The hall was quiet for a moment. Not a sound, not even breathing. There were tears streaming down Chucks face as he again saw flashes of friends, pilots, and most especially, the vivid memory of his own father, all killed in action during the recent war. Then the applause began; slowly at first, but building, until the huge old hall literally shook from the force of it. Chuck waved once to the throng, but was too overcome to continue his prepared speech. Finally, defeated by emotion, he muttered a "Thank You", bowed his head and just walked off the podium into the wings without another glance at the cheering crowd of Legionaires. Backstage he waded, still mostly numb, through the milling mob of glad-handers and hangers-on. Distracted by his own memories, dimly aware of the presence of the other people, absently acknowledging their congratulations, he clutched the gold eagle statuette he had just received with nerveless fingers until he finally found his way to an exit and was once again alone in a cab headed back to his hotel. Sometimes it was like that for Chuck Dennison, even then, in the fall of 1947. Perhaps because he had been serving his country since before Pearl Harbor, or because he had shot down over two hundred enemy planes in aerial combat in every theater of operations of the war and had already been awarded every medal for valor that the countries of the United Nations could bestow, or because he had personally contributed to the defeat of a score of the most fiendish enemy plots against America, or because he was the owner of the most successful aircraft manufacturing firm in the country, that people tended to forget that he had just passed his nineteenth birthday six weeks earlier. He was still just a kid, really; although he had shot down his first enemy plane when he was only thirteen. You tended to grow up fast in a war... if you're going to grow up at all. Douglas Dennison, Chuck's dad, had been the founder and first president of the Dennison Aircraft Corporation back in 1916. He and the talented men who worked with him had justly earned reputations as daring innovators in the field of aeronautical design and engineering. In June of 1941, just one day after Nazi hordes had invaded the Soviet Union, Dennison Aircraft, acting on Douglas' initiative, began design and development a revolutionary new fighter plane for the U.S. Army Air Corps, a design that was to become the incredible Dennison Discombobulator, the P-44. Unsuspecting, naive, perhaps too honest for his own good, Douglas Dennison had been far too lax with the security measures at the company's main manufacturing facility just west of Mineola New York. Nazi agents, who had long before infiltrated the workforce at Dennison Aircraft, dutifully reported to Berlin that the company's new plane would be likely to re-invent air combat. Hitler, who had no respect for America or Americans, very much doubted that any American aircraft could seriously inconvenience his vaunted Luftwaffe. But his air force chief, Hermann Goering, was very concerned about it. He set about to bring all the pressure he could on his Fuehrer, finally convincing him, after the RAF placed an order for five hundred of the planes even though the prototype had yet to fly, that the threat of the new American fighter plane was enough to warrant direct action. Hitler, almost as annoyed by Goering's nattering as he was at the tales of the American superplane, ordered the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence, to eliminate Douglas Dennison in the belief that his death would seriously delay the development of the new fighter plane. On the evening of December 4 1941, as the elder Dennison was showing his young son the just completed prototype of the new plane, a three man assassination team waited in ambush just outside the hanger where the experimental craft had just completed being readied for it's first test flight scheduled for the following morning. It was just after 7:00 PM when the two Dennisons emerged from the hanger and began to walk toward the car waiting to bring them home. Poor George Bonifaccio, the Dennison's long-serving chauffeur, had been the first to die as he lounged by the car while his employer was inside the big hanger showing Chuck the cockpit of the new plane and carefully explaining the controls to him. The boy had always been crazy about planes, and had proven to be a natural pilot. He had received his pilot's licence only six months earlier, the youngest licenced pilot in the country. A man in George's uniform stood by the car door, but it wasn't George. George's body had been stuffed unceremoniously behind a nearby pallet of turbine blades, which also hid the second assassin from view. Neither Dennison suspected anything was amiss until the well aimed fusilade struck Douglas Dennison with terrible effect. Chuck watched with horror as the force of the bullets tore his father's hand from his and hurled him away like a rag doll. A man dressed in black appeared out of nowhere and hurried to the limp form huddled on the cold concrete. He leaned down and very clinically put his hand to the carotid artery of the fallen aeronautical engineer. Another man came running from behind the oil drums and looked down at his handiwork. "Die mann ist todt?" The kneeling man looked up and nodded. "Naturlische!", he said simply. "Vas machs mit die jugend?" "Keine orderen fur die kinder!", replied the other. He even smiled sadly down at Chuck, who stood rooted with shock."Vat possible harm could such a young vun do the Fatherland?", he said in English. The two men hurried past the stunned youngster and jumped into the waiting car. As the shooter passed Chuck he stopped and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. "It iss nothing personal, junge", he said in an unmistakeable German accent. "Ve ver only followink orders!" There was a squeal of tires as the big Packard sped away into the dark. Chuck broke free of his shock and raced to his father's side, but could only cry in fear and helplessness. Douglas Dennison was dead. Just then a plane screamed out of the blackness overhead, turned on it's landing lights at the last moment, and made a perfect landing on the company's runway. Chuck looked up at the running lights through tear streaked eyes as the plane touched down and rolled toward the far end of the field. Beyond it, nearing the end of the runway, he could make out the taillights of the Packard. The boy realized immediately that the killers were going to escape in that plane. His fear and shock were instantly replaced with raw, undiluted fury. The Germans had just murdered his father, and he wasn't going to just sit pathetically beside the still warm corpse and let them get away. He got to his feet and turned toward the hanger. Just inside the personnel door was the switch panel that controlled the main doors. Chuck, in his haste, stumbled over the tall door jamb, righted himself, and searched in the dark for the panel cover. Savagely he threw two switches and grinned wolfishly as powerful electric motors began to whine and the doors slid slowly aside. The service lights came on too, bathing the deadly shape of the XP-44 in a harsh glow that made it look even more lethal. Chuck hurried across the smooth concrete floor making sure that the plane's wheels weren't chocked, and that no service carts, toolboxes, or other test gear was in a position to foul the props or interfere with taxiing out. As he clambered up the side of the craft he could see that the other plane had turned and was facing back towards him with it's engines throttled down. He could also see the shadowy forms of the three assassins run from the car and clamber into the rear door of the unmarked twin engined craft Desperately, Chuck turned his attention to the cockpit and began to run through the engine start-up routine that his father had described to him only minutes before. He knew he had to get the plane fired up. The killers would get away clean if he couldn't stop them. With what seemed to be agonizing slowness the revolutionary new English turbine engine began to turn, it's low growl rising in a glissando as the onboard batteries brought it up to a speed where he could introduce the fuel into the combustion chambers. Engine light-off occurred just as the murderer's plane raced past the open hanger doors and leapt into the sky. Chuck felt the jolt as the awesome power kicked in. Within seconds he had the engine roaring at operating speed. He strapped himself into the seat and let out the clutch on the two counter-rotating propellers which, against all current practice, were situated at the rear of the lethal looking fighter. He slid the canopy closed, put on the headset, and fastened the throat mike around his neck. Moments later he was racing down the runway in a downwind take-off hoping that the incredible power of the howling powerplant behind him would be enough to get him airborne before the pavement ran out. In the tower at the company field the night shift air traffic controller, Ted Whitmore, was one confused and angry young man. The first unscheduled plane had refused to respond to any of his radio messages, and now the Dennison's latest creation was screaming down the runway in a very dangerous downwind take-off. This time, however, his frantic message was answered immediately, by no less than young Chucky Dennison, the boss's son, who appeared to be at the controls of the XP-44. Chuck's news was devastating, but Ted could tell from the steady sound of his voice that the kid was in control of himself in spite on the horror he'd just witnessed. Ted had watched the departing plane. In fact he could still see it's lights low in the east. He punched the alarm button that brought up all the lights in the vast manufacturing facility, and flashed a warning in the office of the plant security police even as he vectored the now airborne XP-44 after the fleeing assassins. "OK Mister Whitmore! I see it!", Chuck announced through clenched teeth. Cold, steadying anger had taken over now. He wasn't afraid, or nervous, or even sad. "Will you please call the Mineola Police, the Army Air Corps at Idlewild Field, and the FBI. And tell Chief Carmichael to be extra careful. There may well be more of those Nazis on the property. I don't want anyone else to get hurt! OK?" "Whatever you say, Chucky! It looks like you're the boss now!" Off to the east the twin engined plane turned to the south, and killed it's running lights. Ted radioed a warning to Chuck before making the calls to the authorities. "Thanks Mister Whitmore! I saw them turn! They won't get away now!" "You be careful, Chucky! Those birds are killers. You're just a kid! Don't play games with them!" "Don't worry Mister Whitmore! I'm going to give them the same chance they gave my dad! Did you know that one of those bums spoke to me; said that it was nothing personal; that they were only following orders! Well, for me it's personal" Ted watched as the boy brought the XP-44 around in an impossibly tight turn and rocketed off in the dirction of the escaping plane. 'He's a gutsy kid!', he observed. 'I only hope that plane's up to a rough maiden flight!' Chuck's eyes were becoming adapted to the night, now. He saw his quarry heading out into the Atlantic, flying low over the steel grey swells of the winter ocean. Although the other plane was making very good speed it was apparent that the XP-44 was overhauling them quickly. He found the switch that armed the four automatic cannons in the bullet-like nose of his fighter and fired off test burst as soon as he cleared the beach. Throughout his distinguished career as an aircraft designer Chuck's dad had always insisted on testing his warplanes with a full military load in order to spot potential trouble at the earliest possible moment. It was a policy that was going to avenge him now. Chuck frowned as he drew nearer the murderers. Where the heck were they going? The closest land on their current heading would be Bermuda, some 500 miles to the south. They must be going to meet a ship! He began to search ahead trying to spot a vessel that might be placed to pick the Nazis up. Several well lit vessels were visible in the busy sea lanes between New York and war-ravaged Europe. They appeared to be normal cargo vessels on legitimate business. "Uh, Mister Whitmore? Will you check with the Port of New York about shipping traffic for me, please? I think these bums are heading for a rendezvous with a ship. Look for German, or Italian, or French, or Japanese vessels, and let me know what you find, OK? I don't think they've spotted me, so I'm going to follow for a while and see what develops!" "OK, Chucky! I'll get right on it! But don't take any dumb chances. The cops are here, and the FBI will be here shortly. Chief Carmichael has every entrance and exit covered, and the off-duty guards have all been notified to report immediately. It's a madhouse around here!" Chuck throttled back and hung back about a mile behind the other plane. For about fifteen minutes they continued south well past the normal shipping lanes. They were indeed making very respectable speed. Chuck's gauges indicated an airspeed of over 270mph. At that moment nothing in the way of a ship was discernable clear to the horizon. Several minutes later it happened. The twin engined plane banked to the left and began to lose altitude. Chuck throttled back even further and began to scan the ocean for a vessel. For a minute or so there was nothing, then an arrow shaped patch of phosphorescence appeared on the water and a dark shape grew in it's center. In a flash Chuck knew that it was a submarine, and alerted Ted to the sub's presence. The rotten Nazi cowards were going to escape in a U-Boat. Not if he could help it they wouldn't. He jammed the heel of his hand hard against the throttle, felt the plane leap forward in response, checked his guns and moved in on the German who was now quite low and flaring out to drop into the frigid water as gently, and as close to the submarine as possible. Chuck watched the image of the plane grow in his gunsights. Just as the wingtips touched the outer ring he squeezed off a burst and watched in dismay as the rounds went astern of his target and kicked up a patch of froth in the ocean. He had failed to lead his target, a rookies mistake. Angry at himself, he kicked the rudder a bit and loosed another burst. This time the rounds went home, stitching a path diagonally across the wing spar right where it crossed the fuselage. The twin engined plane seemed to stagger for a moment, then dipped and creamed into the waves almost in slow motion. Fire erupted from the planes fuel tanks as it mushed to a stop just a hundred feet from the sinister hull of the U-Boat. As Chuck passed over the scene he saw people diving out of the burning plane, and had a flash of movement as the anti-aircraft gun on the aft section of the sub's conning tower swung up towards him. Seconds later a stream of tracer bullets streaked past his wing tip and arched off into the night sky. He banked sharply to the right and took a moment to follow Ted's advice in his earphones and check his height. At night, over the ocean, in an unfamiliar plane, bad things could happen to an inattentive pilot. Satisfied that he was at a safe height he turned back toward the sub and began giving Ted a running commentary on the situation. Now he was coming out of the dark, with the sub silouetted against the burning plane and the distant lights of Long Island. A long burst riddled the conning tower, tossing the gun crew like rag dolls into the sea or to the deck below. The gunfire from the sub ceased immediately,and as he zoomed past he could see what was left of the bridge crew attempting to get below. There were also people in the water, the killers from the plane trying to get aboard their transportation home. For the next ten minutes Chuck made repeated passes over the enemy vessel. His cannon shells foamed the water, ripping through the plane, the swimmers, and the sub until he was out of ammunition. Finally a crewman scrambled out of the bridge hatch and hurriedly attached a white flag to the periscope. Chuck's fury abated somewhat at the sight. He reported the surrender to Ted back at the field, and listened in while Ted raised the battered submarine on the radio and ordered it to procede to New York. Chuck orbited the U-Boat until the USS Elmore P Crawford, one of Uncle Sam's new Gleaves Class destroyers, arrived on the scene from the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Then he flew the now battle tested XP-44 back to the company field to face life without his father, and deal with a new, undying hatred for the Nazis. * * * * * * * * * * * * Chuck broke out of his reverie as the cabbie announced their arrival back at the Palm Garden Hotel. He paid the man, and tipped him generously. The guy had had the sense to leave him alone with his thoughts. He had wasted no time taking a tourist around by the long way, either. The hotel doorman was johnny-on-the-spot, right there as soon as the cab stopped rolling to open the door. "Good evening, Mister Dennison!", he said in a friendly tone. "I hope you had a good time at the convention!" Chuck smiled grimly as he got out of the cab. "It had it's moments, Wyatt!", Chuck replied, slipping a double sawbuck into the man's hand. "But it still hurts to think about all the good Joes who didn't make it back. And I always think of them when I'm in a group of vets. I did meet some old buddies, though. It was good to see them." Wyatt Stannis made a little face, and stared off away in that way that so many combat veterans do when it comes back to them. "I know what you mean, Mister Dennison. And I can't take your money!" He tried to give back the folded bill, but Chuck wouldn't take it. "I told you this morning to lay off that Mister Dennison stuff. Call me Chuck, please. I may have done a few things to earn the award the Legion gave me tonight, but I'm only nineteen years old, and I've got more money than I can ever spend. I didn't do a thing to earn that. My dad was the real business genius in my family." Wyatt nodded, and tucked the twenty into his pocket. "OK,Chuck.", he replied with a wry shrug. Then he brought out a copy of that evening's Miami Herald, the one that had a big picture of Chuck and his famous plane, the Sky Shark, on the front page under the headline. "Could ya sign this for me. I wanna be able t'tell my kid I met ya." Chuck took the paper, and dug his Parker out of his shirt. He was reluctantly getting used to being asked for autographs. "I'd be glad to, Wyatt. What's your kid's name" "Oh, I ain't got one yet, Chuck. My wife, Annie, is seven months along. But, son or daughter, you can bet I'm going to tell him about you." Chuck chuckled at Wyatt's unconscious use of the word "him", and wrote carefully across the bottom of the photo. "To Wyatt! We made it, buddy! Your friend, Chuck Dennison." Wyatt took the paper back, looked at the inscription and grinned proudly. "Thanks a lot, Mr D.... ah, Chuck. I'm glad I was able to catch you tonight. I hear you're leaving in the morning." "Yup, I am. But I'm not going far. I'm taking the Sky Shark up to Fort Lauderdale to pay a visit to an old buddy, Larry Demille. We saw a lot of combat together. He's got his own little air cargo business, now." Wyatt stuck out a powerful mitt and shook hands with his young friend. "I'll be off-duty tomorrow, Chuck. I just want to wish the best of luck, and say how glad I am that I met you. If you're ever back this way look me up. You can meet the missus and our kid." "I'd like that, Wyatt. I just might take you up on it." Chuck suddenly had to stifle a yawn. He looked up sharply at the doorman, afraid he had offended. "It's not you, buddy. I've had a long day, and big crowds really wear on me. I really need to hit the sack." * * * * * * * * "I've been half out of my mind, Chuck! There's been no trace of him, and no word for over a month!" Clara DeMille was sobbing hysterically, her face buried in Chuck's chest. As soon as she'd opened her door and saw him he knew that something was very wrong. Mrs DeMille was a sweet faced, matronly woman in her fifties who had borne more than her share of hardships over the years. She had lost her husband, an Air Mail pilot, fifteen years earlier when he crashed in a bad storm during a run from Chicago to Kansas City. She raised her son, Larry, working nights in the operations office at Midway Airport. The boy grew up to be a natural pilot like his father, but he had a wild, undisciplined streak a mile wide which saw him in and out of trouble several times until the outbreak of war in 1939. Larry loved a good scrap, but it looked then as though the U.S. was going to sit this one out. He hitched a ride to Canada to sign up with the Royal Air Force as soon as he heard that volunteers were being accepted. He had idolized his dad, who had been an ace in the Great War. When Chuck arrived in England in the summer of 1942 Larry was already a Flight Lieutenant, an ace, and a decorated hero, one of the surviving "Few". They became close friends and together they participated in some of the hardest fighting, and had some of the most thrilling adventures in that theater of the war. Now, instead of a pleasant visit with a old buddy, Chuck was faced with a broken-hearted mother, and the fact that Larry had disappeared without a trace over a month before. He did his best to calm the dear lady down. He promised her that he would cancel his upcoming schedule and personally investigate Larry's disappearance, but he needed to hear the whole story from the beginning before he could start. Clara was clearly feeling better as soon as he made his offer. She brought him into the kitchen and made him comfortable at the table while she made him some tea and sandwiches. As she did she told him as much as she knew about her son's disappearance, and the events leading up to it. Larry had come home from the war with the same idea as many discharged flyers; find some way to keep flying and, hopefully, make a living at it. He knew he wouldn't like the rigid schedules and tight corporate structures of the regular airlines, so he decided to follow the example of his favorite comic strip aviator, Terry Lee, of "Terry and the Pirates". Using his seperation pay he bought a surplus C-46, Curtiss Commando transport plane and set himself up carrying air freight out of Fort Lauderdale airport. Larry wasn't the hardest worker in the world, but he liked to spend money. After selling the family home in Chicago and moving his mother into a new home near the airport in Dania, money was in short supply. If he'd gone out and busted his hump the way several other guys at the airport did he might have actually made a decent living flying air cargo around the country. Of course he didn't, and things did not go well for him. Larry started hanging around with some unsavory people. He got a reputation as a guy who would fly anything anywhere, and ask no questions. This brought him the money he'd been looking for, and kept him flying but; eventually it also brought him to the attention of the Fort Lauderdale Police Department and the United States Customs Service. Clara knew that her boy was in trouble. Police had visited the house from time to time. Larry had been brought in for questioning occasionally, but no charges were ever filed. She was naturally worried about him, and warned him many times about the dangers of criminal association. Larry just laughed it off and assured her that he knew exactly what he was doing, was in control, and was not engaged in anything illegal. She wanted to believe him, of course; so, for a time she did. Then she happened to meet some of her old friends from Midway Airport who were vacationing in the area. They asked her about the rumors they'd heard all the way back in Chi Town about Larry working the wrong side of the street. They, at her insistence, put her in touch with Oswald P.Taylor, the Field Operations Manager at Fort Lauderdale airport, who reluctantly confirmed her fear that Larry was indeed suspected of involvment in a lot of shady flight activity. About six months earlier Larry began doing a lot of international work, to the Caribbean and Central America. It paid well, but he was very evasive whenever she asked him to tell her anything about the people who had hired him. Clara did some discrete inquiries at the field, but could find out little about her son's new employers. Then, on September the first, Larry left on a flight to Chicago, and disappeared. When he failed to return Clara did some checking, and found that Larry had filed a flight plan in Chicago that indicated Mexico City as his planned destination. He never showed up in Mexico City. Clara notified the police and the FAA. Two weeks later they reported that, after an exhaustive search, no trace of Larry or the wreckage of his airplane had been found. Privately, she worried that no real effort had been made to find out what had happened to her boy. He had been a pain in the rear to law enforcement, and she was afraid that they had just given the case the once over and then decided that it was "good riddance to bad rubbish." She would be eternally grateful if Chuck would try to find out what had really happened. Chuck was unable to refuse. How could he? Larry was a friend, and Chuck was a certified American Hero. He called the office, told his secretary, Betty, to cancel his appointments for the next week, and to ask Phil Harlow, his father's best friend, and Chuck's very capable Vice President, to forgive him once again, and take over the day to day operations of the company till he got back. Interviews around the area confirmed that Larry was one of the prime suspects in several smuggling investigations. He had been associating with quite a few very bad people, and was most probably sleeping quietly with the fishes, as often happened to loose ends or potential witnesses. Nobody in law enforcement, or the Customs Service, was particularly disturbed at the thought that he might have been bumped off. They also had no interest in finding out which of the many nere-do-wells among Larry's associates had done the deed. They seemed to regard it as a rare incidence of a mobster actually performing a public service. Chuck knew Larry a lot better than any of the cops he contacted, and couldn't share their opinion of his character. He did think that their conclusion regarding his fate was probably correct, however. Of course he couldn't tell Mrs. DeMille any of that, and he had promised her that he would try to find out what had happened. Difficult to set up interviews with several of the smugglers for whom Larry had worked, began to cast a few doubts in Chuck's mind, though. Larry hadn't worked for any of them in some time. He had been too busy doing all his flying for somebody else, somebody none of them knew, somebody they didn't even have a name for. It began to look as though this mysterious person X was the cause of Larry's vanishing. Problem was, the lone stranger had also vanished,shortly after Larry's last flight. Chuck gave Clara DeMille a carefully worded progress report on the things he'd found out in the local area. He told her that he had to go to Chicago to check out some leads there. She happily gave him a letter of introduction to the Midway Flight Operations Manager, and had to be talked out of insisting that she accompany Chuck to her old stomping grounds. He did have a list in her precise handwriting of over four dozen people, old friends from her days as a co-worker, that might be able to help him tucked into the pocket of his leather flight jacket when the Sky Shark's wheels cleared the runway at Fort Lauderdale on it's northward journey. All of those people were more than eager to help find out what had happened to Clara's son. To a man they liked Clara, and her boy. They offered personal observations, and asked around the field for any other witnesses to Larry's last stopover flight. It was an effort that the FAA or the local cops could have made, but as Clara had guessed, they hadn't. Larry had arrived at 8:17 PM on the night of September 1. He'd taxied the big C-46 to the cargo area where several good sized wooden crates had been off-loaded into an unmarked, dark blue truck that no one at the airport had ever seen before, by four unknown men who were waiting when the plane landed. The plane was then refuelled and serviced, after which three of the men got on board and the plane took off a little after 10:00 PM. Larry had filed a flight plan giving Mexico City as his final destination, with a refuelling stop in Brownsville Texas. Chuck again called Clara to report his findings, and to tell her that he would be off for Texas the next morning. She sounded almost pathetically grateful that Chuck, or actually anyone, was now actively trying to help her. He re-assured her that he would find out what happened, but he couldn't bring himself to kid her that there was much hope that Larry might still be alive. She was no dummy, either. She knew the score. At that point just finding out for sure would be enough to help her deal with the loss. In Brownsville in was hotter than Burma, and almost as humid. Chuck had lunch with Rex Temple, the Field Manager, and learned that Larry's plane had arrived at 4:06 AM on September 2. Larry and his three passengers slept in the plane until 9:00AM when it was refuelled. Larry did all the talking. He seemed cheerful enough, but the other guys kept very much to themselves. They paid cash for the fuel, and took off at 10:00AM, headed south, and were never seen again. Chuck spent a while checking out the Sky Shark, cleaning the intakes, adding a bit of hydraulic fluid to the main gear reservoir, adjusting the tire pressures, and adjusting a cable guide to the rudder that had seemed a little sticky on the flight down. At 4:17PM he taxied out to the runway, got his clearance, and headed south for Ciudad Mexico. Settling in at about 8000 feet, he throttled the powerful turbine back to it's lowest comfortable cruising speed and began his own aerial survey of the flight path Larry must have taken, trying to find some sign of the plane on the rugged ground below. As he neared Mexico City after a fruitless three hour flight he called the tower for landing clearance and, after getting it, asked for the frequency of the military tower at the south end of the airport. General Jose Cuervo, the commander of the Mexican Air Force, was another of the many friends Chuck had made during his wartime service. Then a Colonel, Jose had flown the P-47 Thunderbolts of the Mexican 1st Fighter Squadron against the German and Fascist Italian forces in Italy, scoring seventeen victorys in the allied cause. If he had plans for the evening, General Cuervo was only too happy to cancel them. He met Chuck on the mat at the Transient Aircraft Office and whisked him off to the Zona Rosa for an elegant dinner at Bellinghausen, one of the best restaurants in the city. Jose had arranged for female companionship although, unlike his wilder days in Italy, the girls were his recent bride, Carmelita, and her delightfully attractive unmarried sister, Esmerelda. The following morning, fighting against a very painful squash, Chuck met with the civilian aviation officials. There he was able to confirm that no trace of the airplane, no wreckage, no radio transmissions, nothing, had ever been detected anywhere in Mexico. That was the real mystery. It wasn't possible, in that day and age, for something as big as a C-46 to simply vanish. Up to then things had gone fairly routinely. Chuck now had a lot of details, but they simply had backed up the story that Clara had been told. The total disappearance thing smelled, however. He wasn't sure what the odor was just yet, but it sure wasn't roses. Back at the Air Force Headquarters Jose was only too happy to see if he could help, and to re-interate what a lovely and charming girl Esmerelda was; didn't he think so? In minutes a teletype was on it's way to every Air Force installation in the country with instructions for every unit commander to question all their pilots to see if any of them had seen any trace of Larry's plane, in the air or on the ground back on September 2nd or 3rd. It was a long shot, but worth a try. As they waited Jose again sought out his opinion of his beautiful sister-in-law, Esmerelda. Six hours later the commander of Maritime Patrol Squadron 1 at Vera Cruz telexed that one of his pilots had seen what he thought was a C-46, flying low, heading south southeast, two hundred miles out into the Gulf of Mexico. Chuck and Jose flew down to question the man immediately. Captain Ignacio Gutierrez was a very experienced pilot. During the war he had spotted three German U-Boats in the Gulf, and had personally helped to sink one of them. His PBY Catalina still bore the single black swastika beside two grey ones on the panel beneath the cockpit window on his side of the aircraft's nose. It had been shortly after one in the afternoon on the second of September. He had been airborne for over four hours and was nearing the limit of his fuel before heading back to Vera Cruz. It was his co-pilot, Lieutenant Mendoza, who had spotted the plane low on the water to the east. It had been far away, the visibility had less than optimal, and it might have been a C-47, but both men thought not. Thinking that they might be in difficulty flying so low, Captain Gutierrez had tried to contact the plane on his radio, but received no reply. Since his own fuel was low the Captain had to turn back to the west. He had quickly forgotten about the sighting, and had never heard a word about a missing plane. Both Chuck and Jose assured the man that he wasn't in any trouble. In fact they were grateful for any information. By way of thanks Chuck bought several rounds of drinks for the Catalina's crew at the base exchange before flying back to Mexico City late that afternoon. On the way they discussed what possibilities Chuck had from there. With no other information to go on, and a gut feeling that Captain Gutierrez had indeed seen Larry's plane a long way from where it was supposed to be, Chuck determined that his only recourse was to fly out to the spot of the sighting, turn onto the heading of the mysterious plane, and see where it all took him. He'd need auxiliary fuel tanks, which Jose was only too happy to provide, and a lot of luck. That evening saw another fine dinner at another fine restaurant. Carmelita and Esmerelda were charming and decorous as dinner companions, but Chuck, with a long flight ahead of him in the morning, drank Coca Cola, and behaved like a perfect gentleman. Esme, as she liked to be called, was no dummy, either. She spoke excellent English and, like her sister, had been unusually well educated for a Mexican girl. Chuck was attracted to her. Had he had more time to get to know her there was a good possibility that something might have developed. But, as was the case too goddam often in Chuck's life, duty called. Shortly after noon the next day the Shark crossed land just west of Campeche on the Yucatan Peninsula headed south southeast on the reported course of the mystery plane. Chuck felt a vague regret at not being able to follow up with Esme, but his sense of duty, and the feeling that he was on the right track, had motivated him to leave the comfort of Mexico City, and to keep a sharp eye on the terrain below. An hour later he was over the dense jungles of northern Guatemala. He shivered several times at the thought that his buddy might have crashed into that lush green nightmare. Death would have been certain down there. The good news was that there was no sign of a downed plane, and a crash in that verdant forest would have left obvious scars in the foliage for anyone in another plane to see. The possibility of a wild goose chase began to look more likely as he slowly zig zagged over the trees. After a couple of hours of that the first signs of modern civilization began to appear. Cleared land, small dwellings, crops, roads, and the occasional motor transport began to dot the landscape. On the horizon a large stand of trees planted in orderly rows signalled more extensive cultivation. He turned that way to get a better look. As he did he noticed a plume of smoke in the trees that seemed to be moving. It was a small steam locomotive pulling a train of open hopper cars, each piled high with what looked like bananas. The tracks led off to the south and, looking that way, he saw a cluster of low, white painted, red roofed buildings a couple of miles away. Beside the buildings, quite near now, was a well maintained concrete runway, with a couple of hangers and a control tower at the far end. As he flew nearer he could see that the whole place, and there were now planted groves of trees clear to the horizon in three directions, had a super neat, almost military prescision to it. He remembered that an American company, Amalgamated Fruit Company, controlled much of the agricultural activity in Guatemala. Perhaps this was one of their operations. The sign on the roof of one of the hangers read "Excelsior Banana Corp.", so it looked as though this might be another outfit. The roof of the tower sported the numbers "223.7" in large block print, so he dialled up that frequency and put in a call requesting permission to land. The tower operator replied right away in the affirmative, gave him the wind direction and speed, and the current altimeter correction figures, and a hearty welcome. The man's voice spoke fluent English, the international language of aviation, but there was a slight accent that sounded European, not Latin. Chuck smiled at the thought of setting down. He was suffering from extreme fanny fatigue, and needed to stretch his legs. There was a chance that these folks might have seen or heard something about Larry, too. As he rolled the Sky Shark slowly onto the concrete pad outside the hangers a car pulled up by the big open doors where a small group of men stood waiting in the shade of the building. A large man in a light tan tropical suit got out of the car and the whole group began walking slowly toward a groundcrewman who was directing Chuck to a yellow spot painted on the concrete. All this, too, had a hint of military style to it. But, hey, the whole world had just finished fighting the biggest war in the history of mankind, so the feeling was not that unusual. What was unusual, however, barely visible in the gloom inside the hanger, was the shape of a large, twin engined fighter plane of a type that very few had ever been built. Chuck put the Shark's nosewheel on the yellow spot and, following the instructions of the ground crewman, killed his engine. As the turbine at his back whined down the scale to a stop the group of men stopped a few yards away from his wing root to await his dismount. They were all smiling, and the big guy in the tan suit seemed particularly pleased to see him. Chuck was used to all the fawning and attention by now, and the Sky Shark was the most famous plane in the world just then, so he assumed that these folks, isolated thought they might be, had recognized it and knew who it's pilot had to be. He sighed, bowing to the inevitable, tossed his helmet over the gunsight, undid his seatbelts, and rose stiffly in the cockpit with as pleasant a smile on his face as he could manage after a long hot day in the air. The men waited patiently as he climbed down to the mat and stretched his back into something resembling erect posture before turning to them. The big man, obviously the leader, stepped forward and took off his wide brimmed panama hat revealing a completely shaved head and a black eye patch over his left eye. He was a handsome man, a bit on the beefy side, but with his size he carried it well. His huge hand came forward to clasp Chuck's, engulfing it completely. "Mister Dennison.", he said in a booming baritone, "What a great honor it iss to meed you! Und zo unexshpected, too! My name iss Pieter Van Pelt! I am der manacher here!" Chuck looked down at the man's enormous hand, then flicked his gaze back to the man who owned it. "Mister Van Pelt; it's a pleasure to meet you, sir! If my initial impression of this platation from the air is any judge you must be a very efficient manager, too. Your company is lucky to have you!" "Ve are a schmall operation at der moment!", he replied with a cryptic smile. "But tings are goingk vell hier! Ve hope to be exshpandink very soon!" The men behind him grinned and nodded in agreement. Yes men, Chuck thought. Van Pelt introduced him to the assembled company. From the names he deduced that the managerial staff were exclusively Dutch, which went a long way to explaining the presence of the twin engined Fokker G-1 fighter plane in authentic pre-war Dutch Army Air Service markings in the hanger behind them. Chuck naturally remarked on the huge twin engined fighter and noted the warm glow of pride on Van Pelt's face as he spoke about his principle hobby. "I had der honor to be a pilot in the Dutch Army Air Service, mineer!", he explained, pointing sadly at the eyepatch. "Unfortunately I vass severely injured in der early fighting und vass not able to continue flying!" "I vas not able to accept a desk chob! Zo I came to dis country und vent to vork for der fruit company! By der time der vor vas over I had managed to acquire zum money! I bought a badly damaged hulk of a G-1 und brought it hier to restore it to it's former glory! Vat you see hier iss der rezultz uff my labors!" Chuck was impressed. The plane looked as though it had just rolled off the assembly line, although something about it didn't look quite right. He recalled the recognition silhouettes he'd studied during the war and decided that it was the engines and nacelles that bothered him. "It looks magnificent, Mr. Van Pelt! Would you mind if I took a closer look?" The man laughed heartily. "I tink I vood haf to inzizt, Mr Dennison! Katrinka iss my pride und joy. It hass taken two years to get her back into flying trim. Und I haff made several improvements to der original design. She iss now der equal uff any plane in der vorld, except maybe dose new jet engined fighters!" "I thought I detected some differences! Those are new engines, aren't they? The cowlings and nacelles look bigger and longer!" The man beamed. "I'm honored dot you noticed! But of course you are vun of the vorld's great aviators! As you might know, der original plane vas a bit underpowered! Dere were no suitable engines available in 1939 and 40!" "Der Germans captured several machines intact und took dem to Germany for testing! I was able to procure copies of der test data ven I bought der airframe, und I haf installed two Junkers Jumo 213A-1 engines from der hulks of wrecked Focke-Wulf 190-D fighter planes! Dere ver hundreds of dem lying around after der vor! I had to add ballast to der tail booms to keep der zenter uff gravity in der zame schpot, but der increased power has brought der G-1 to der point vere it can compete mit any plane, perhaps even your famous mount outside, nicht wahr?" Chuck very much doubted that, but the man was obviously proud of his pet airplane. There was no sense in being impolite. "I'm just glad we don't have to find out, Mr Van Pelt!", he said sincerely. "You've done a beautiful job restoring this plane! On another day I'd really be happy to have you take me up and let me try it out! It must be a joy to fly! Right now, however, I'm on a mission that precludes any delay!" "Another day, for sure!", Van Pelt agreed with a smile and a friendly pat on the back. "But dot reminds me; ve've all been wondering vat it iss dot brinks you to dis out of the vay location?" One thing the war had done to Chuck was to remove most of his childish naivetee. Although he had no reason to distrust any of these people he decided to play it cautiously. "It's a long story, mineer!", he replied with a self-deprecating grin. "As you may know, I'm a very wealthy man these days! The company I head is the largest manufacturer of military aircraft in the world! Unfortunately the dry business details of running Dennison Aircraft are not exactly my forte! I've spent a lot of time since the war finishing my high school studies and getting myself ready to attend college!" "There are very able people, friends of my late father, who oversee the day to day operations of the company!" "The other problem I have is that the war gave me an appetite for more adventurous goings on! I initially started down this way at the behest of a nice old lady in Fort Lauderdale Florida! Her son, who had been a pilot in the Eighth Air Force, disappeared a little while back on a flight from Chicago to Mexico City. They never found a trace of him or his plane!" "Now I'm a sucker for a sad story,", he continued as the group walked slowly out of the hanger. "and an even bigger one for a lady in distress! So, when I heard that the FAA and the Mexican government hadn't even made a half-hearted attempt to find out what happened to her son, I told her that I'd personally look into it!" "I didn't have anything important planned, anyway!" he lied, carefully avoiding any mention of his friendship with the missing pilot."But, as it happens, I searched very diligently and didn't come up with even a sniff. I guess the authorities did their best after all!" "I'm sorry to hear dot!", Van Pelt with an airman's sympathy for any lost comrade "Well, I was sitting there in Mexico City at the end of a cold trail, feeling totally dejected, visiting with an old pal from the war, when I got a call from another old buddy, General Flip Corkin down in Panama! As you may have heard, the U.S. Army Air Force is being split off this year into a seperate service, the U.S. Air Force. Flip heard I was in Mexico City and suggested that, as long as I was half way down there, I should keep on flying south and help him wet the stars on his new Air Force uniform at the change- over ceremony next weekend!" "I'm on my way there now! But, say!", he exclaimed, as if he'd just thought of it, "As long as I'm here I might as well touch bases with you folks about my original mission! I know we're a heck of a long way south of Mexico City, and it's really far fetched of me to even ask but; you folks haven't seen anything of a stray silver C-46 Commando in the last few weeks, have you?" "Hah!", Van Pelt snorted, a bit too forcefully Chuck thought. "You are nothink if not thorough, Mr Dennison! Unfortunately ve haf seen no planes except our own for several months! Now dot I know dere iss a plane missink I vill keep a, how do you Americans say, 'eye peeled' for it ven I am in der air!" "By der vay; it's gettink late! I know dot it's only anodder hour to Cuidad Guatemala, but you must be tired after a long day in der sky. Ve vould be honored if you vould stay to supper und spend der night with us hier! It's not often dot ve haf visitors, particularly someone as famous as yourself. I myself would be fascinated to hear of your adventures during der vor, as would the rest of us. Am I not correct, chentlemen?" There was a universal murmer of assent that seemed a little forced to Chuck, but he figured that they had him pegged for another boring blowhard and were only being polite in the tradition of Yes Men everywhere. Anyone who knew Chuck Dennison was aware that he was very reticent about his famous career, particularly with those who hadn't shared those hardships with him. They would be disappointed if they expected blood and thunder tales. He was damned tired, however. "OK, mineer!", he relented. "I'll be happy to accept your gracious invitation! Let me get my gear out of the Sky Shark! It'll only take a minute!" "I'm delighted to have you stay, Mr Dennison! Ve vill drive up to der Hacienda in my car ven you are ready." He swept a huge hand southward to indicate a large white stucco building with a red Spanish barrel-tiled roof visible through a park-like stand of trees at the top of a gentle hill about a half mile away. Chuck's eyes followed the gesture, then flicked to the cream colored, chauffer driven Cadillac idling beside the hanger doors. 'The guy's got style!', Chuck admitted to himself. 'Runs a tight ship here, too.' As he swept his eyes across the field to the other buildings and facilities it only confirmed the neat and orderly impression he had of the place from the air. There was a tangible military character to the whole operation, probably due to Van Pelt's experience in the Dutch Air Corps. As he retrieved his old army issue Valpac overnight bag from the small storage bay in the back of the nosewheel well he noted the trimmed grass, the crisp white painted markings on the runway, taxiways and mat, and the closed doors of the other hanger just to the north. It wasn't suspicion, just his normal alertness in new places. The ride up to the Hacienda offered scores of other details about Pieter Van Pelt's managerial sytle. While there were a lot of native laborers the majority of the men he saw were European, Northern European. They were relatively young, punctiliously neat, in excellent physical condition, and wore identical, smartly tailored Khaki cotton twill coveralls that looked vaguely familiar. At the end of the runway a paved road wound up a gentle slope through an immacultely groomed park-like expance where carefully spaced trees made a dapple pattern of shade on the grass and artfully grouped areas of flower beds and shrubbery. Ahead, at the top of the hill, he got a better view of the Hacienda, a magnificent looking structure, two storied, with a wide, tile roofed porch stretching across the entire front. "A magnificent home you have here, Mister Van Pelt. I can understand why you might be reluctant to return to the Netherlands!" "Thank you!", the big man replied with obvious pride, "Ve haff vorked hard hier to build a new life. This is now my home!" A small group stood in the shade of the veranda waiting to greet the approaching car. Chuck could see a man and several women. The women looked attractive from a distance, and that impression was only enhanced as the distance shrank. By the time they pulled up in front of the place he was more than intrigued. Van Pelt led him up out of the weight of the sun and made introductions. In the European manner he began by naming a short, slight, nervous looking man in his mid forties with a sharp nose, intense blue eyes, thinning brown hair and round, steel-rimmed spectacles. "Allow me to present Doctor Linus Kooning, the man who runs the medical unit here at Punta Gorda. It's a very important, and busy chob. Ve haff several hundred vorkers on der plantation, und harvesting bananas iss a danjerous business, vat mit der machetes, der snakes, der tarantulas, und der alligators down near der river." The little man stepped forward, came to attention, and thrust out his hand, almost as if the gesture was unfamiliar to him. The impression of nervousness was only enhanced by the man's quick jerky movements. "A great pleasure to meet you, Mister Dennison!", he said in a clipped tenor."Most unexpected as well. I have followed your exploits in the war with much interest!" There was a trace of an English accent there. Much more fluent than Van Pelt, though. An educated man. "I'm glad to meet you, doctor.", he replied, suddenly very tired of his hero reputation. "The war is behind us all, now. I've been trying to think ahead, but the memories persist I'm afraid!" "Yes! It was very tragic. It must have been difficult for you. And you are so young, too!" The tall, haughtily beautiful, dark haired woman was the doctor's wife, Liesl Kooning. She was smooth, confident, immaculately turned out in the tropical heat,and spoke with a Dietrich-esque contralto that did wonderful things to Chuck's hormones. Definitely not the motherly type; smart and, he was willing to bet, accustomed to getting her own way. Chuck imagined that the doctor had his hands full with that one. It was the young girl he met next that really knocked him out. Katrina Van Pelt was about Chuck's age, and nothing short of drop dead gorgeous. She had long dark brown hair, big blue eyes, luscious lips, and a shy demure, almost frightened way about her that seemed to be appealing to him for protection. Katrina was Van Pelt's niece. She took his hand with an appealing timidity, making a little curtsy in the European manner. Her voice was a breathy, nervous soprano that betrayed no accent. Like Mrs. Kooning she was impeccably dressed, in a white blouse that displayed an enticing bit of cleavage, a long, sky blue skirt in the latest style, and white, open toed, high heeled sandals. Chuck was distracted, to say the least. He had a glimpse of her slender hand with it's long, pink enamelled fingernails, and the matching shade on her toenails, an impression of a young, lithe, sensual figure beneath her garments, a waft of delicate perfume, an appreciation of her long thick lashes hiding her demurely lowered eyes. But those things were flavored by a vague notion that she looked strangely familiar to him. It was tantalizing. "I notice that you speak with an American accent, Miss Van Pelt!", he pressed, unwilling to let the mystery go unsovled. "Have you spent a lot of time in the States?" She blinked nervously and finally looked up into his eyes, only reinforcing his notion of having seen her somewhere before. "Oh, y-yes!", she stammered. I lived there from 1940 to 1946 when I came down here to join my uncle!" Chuck felt a need to put the girl at ease. "The reason I ask is that; and I know this must sound like a tired old line; you look familiar to me. I wonder if we could have met somewhere back in the States. I must have been to thousands of luncheons, banquets, and functions since the war; and I'm sure I've met a bazillion people over the last two years." Her huge eyes got a bit bigger for an instant. Could it have been fear he saw in that flash? "N-no, sir! We've never met before!", she responded. "Then I guess it must have been a line after all!" Chuck squeezed her hand gently, grinned, and looked over at Pieter Van Pelt to gave him a conspiritorial wink. He got a big smile of proud approval back from Uncle Pieter. "I'd have to be nuts not to have remembered meeting someone as beautiful as you!" he continued, watching her blush prettily at the compliment. Suddenly spending the night at Punta Gorda Plantation seemed like a very good idea. "Come, come!" Pieter Van Pelt exclaimed with a chuckle. "Let us get inside vere it'iss cooler!" He turned to the two lovely little native girls who hovered in the background. "Lizabeta!", he continued in Spanish, "Please take Mr. Dennison's valise up to the green bedroom! Teresa! Fetch some cold drinks and light snacks for us and our guest! We'll take the refreshments in the parlor!" The girls curtseyed with downcast eyes and scurried away to carry out their orders. Chuck watched them go with frank admiration. 'Wow!', he thought as they disappeared through the screen door, 'There are certainly some fine looking women around here! Old Larry would have really liked to have met those girls!' His mind wandered back to an afternoon in Italy with Larry and two very similar young ladies in a vineyard. The interior of the Hacienda was as impressive as the outside. White walls, dark exposed wood beams, a large fireplace and mantel, richly colored native rugs, and massive, color co-ordinated, beautifully upholstered furniture in the Spanish style. It was all tastfully arranged in an uncluttered, yet comfortable setting. There was certainly no hint of the military about the interior design. When Chuck commented on the marvelous furnishings Pieter was quick to credit Liesl Kooning with the masterful taste, and the energy that had brought her ideas to fruition. It had been no small task in that remote location. No sooner were they comfortably seated, when trays of fresh fruit, and pitchers of iced lemonade were brought in by the two servant girls and arranged on the large coffee table before them. They moved with an almost European assurance, and quickly had the food and drinks set up in a style that rivalled a five-star hotel. Chuck was impressed with their sophisitated training. A glance at Liesl Kooning's attentiveness as they worked confirmed his suspicion that it was she who had trained the girls. Whether by plan, or accident, Katrina wound up opposite Chuck. It made for real difficulty keeping track of the conversation. The girl was absolutely fascinating. She continued to act shy and nervous, refusing to meet his eyes, but that only made her more intriguing. When he was able to tear his mind away from Katrina's presence he learned that she was 19 years old, the daughter of Pieter's older brother, Hans. The elder Van Pelt had seen the war coming, and Holland's involvement in it despite it's neutrality during the previous war. Hans had gotten his wife and child out of Holland in late 1939. He, himself, had remained behind, in the same squadron as Pieter. Unfortunately he was killed in the first German attacks in May of 1940. Katrina and her mother lived in Baltimore during the war. Only when her mother died of tuberculosis a year ago had the girl come to Guatamala to live with her uncle, her last surviving relative. Chuck politely offered his condolences to Katrina, mentally tallying up two more victims of Hitler's mad ambition. The girl accepted courteously, although her nervous reserve was still apparent. Also obvious was her attraction towards him. It wasn't conceit on his part, just long experienced fact. But Chuck was used to that. He was a good looking young man, fabulously wealthy, well mannered and polite. Women had been attracted to him since grammar school. He, himself had never regarded it as a problem until just then. There was something unsettling about his interest in the beautiful young Katrina Van Pelt. He just couldn't put his finger on the problem. During a pleasant interlude he recounted for the doctor and the ladies his current quest to satisfy an elderly widow in Florida about the fate of her son. Again, something made him hold back his personal relationship with the missing flier. Instead he repeated his tale of travelling to Panama to see an old comrade inaugurate the U. S. Air force. Despite the apparent congeniality displayed by everyone he felt a subtle sense of tension about things. It was very tenuous, pehaps just a remnant of the caution he'd acquired during the war. After a while he dismissed it as groundless paranoia. Van Pelt was a cordial host. He announced that dinner would be at eight in the dining room, and took Chuck on a tour of the Hacienda just as any proud homeowner would. The rest of the place was as impressive as the entrance foyer and parlor. On the ground floor a huge dining room occupied the space behind the parlor. Large french doors led out onto a roofed veranda in the rear of the building, which in turn faced a formal garden of exquisite blossoms in intricately shaped beds with stone paved walkways dotted with fountains meandering through them in a maze of aesthetic complexity. The large rectangular area was bordered by a line of closely spaced Poplar trees Van Pelt seemed extremely proud of his garden. It was his second hobby after restoring his beautiful Fokker G-1.From the veranda it seemed to Chuck that the plane might just be as potent as the man had claimed, if the garden was any standard to judge his other work. From the front of the Hacienda, down the slope of the hill, one could see the airstrip, the hangers, and several other low buildings on either side of the runway, as well as the neatly ordered fields with rows of banana trees stretching off into the distance to the north and west. The roadbed of the plantation's narrow gauge railway led in both directions from an engine shed on the west side of the runway. At the base of the hill groups of workers were walking along the road from the fields and buildings toward another cluster of buildings just visible off to the east behind a thick stand of uncultivated native jungle. Van Pelt explained that it was quitting time, and that those buildings were the worker's quarters and the mess hall. "If you haf time tomorrow morning I'd be delighted to giff you a tour off der entire facility!", Van Pelt offered. "I know it's not terribly exciting to someone who's not in der agriculture business, but I'm quite proud of it!" Chuck really didn't give a damn about the plantation but he was in no position to say so. Of much greater importance was dinner that evening, and the opportunity it would afford him to break down the shyness of Miss Van Pelt. Despite his vague misgivings he definitely wanted to get to know her better. The elder Van Pelt seemed to have the same idea, evidently he took his duty as an acting parent to a beautiful and imminently marriageable young lady very seriously. At dinner they were seated next to one another. Katrina looked stunning in a clingy, off-the-shoulder, deep red gown. Her dark hair was carefully coiffed in an elaborate updo that emphasized her long elegant neck. Her throat and earlobes were ablaze with diamonds that must have cost a kings ransom. The gentle waft of her perfume sent Chuck's mind into some very ungentlemanly