Free Calico Pennants by David A. Ross

above the incessant roar of the engines, though she could barely hear the sound of her own voice. “Damn it, Freddy Noonan! Take your sextant reading now. I can’t hold it here forever!”
    She leaned into the stick for the descent. Back into the rain, the plane lurched to port. She corrected. Again it swayed. Calmly, she reacted. Then came the navigator’s note: ‘No hope for pictures at Truk Island. Must abort. New heading for Marshalls to follow. Majuro Island by sun-up.’
    Amelia hooted out loud. She sighed in relief and wiped perspiration from her face. They’d been successful; Freddy had fixed their position. They were probably low on fuel, but at least they weren’t lost...

CHAPTER 7
Circling Down

    WE ARE ON THE LINE OF POSITION 157 DASH 337. WILL REPEAT THIS MESSAGE. WILL REPEAT THIS MESSAGE ON 6210 kcs. WAIT/LISTENING ON 6210. WE ARE RUNNING NORTH AND SOUTH.”
    Leaning forward into the stick, the pilot pointed the nose of her Lockheed Electra dural, NR 16020, downward and guided the plane through a dense layer of cumulus clouds. Within a thick mass of gray vapor she flew blindly for several minutes, the peace of a surreal aerial world broken only by the steady roar of the plane’s twin Pratt & Whitney engines.
    Emerging from an opaque mist at seven hundred feet, she drew a concerned breath and turned to her navigator. “We should be in visual range by now, Freddy. But I don’t see it.”
    Having crawled from the cramped quarters of the fuselage into the flight cabin, Freddy also searched the expanse of steely water below.
    Since they’d turned eastward somewhere near Truk Island, he had tried to take a star fix, but to no avail. After several unsuccessful attempts to penetrate the cloud cover at thirteen thousand feet, he’d been reduced to dead reckoning in darkness to establish a heading. At first light they’d broken through the clouds for a few minutes and he’d been able to determine a sun line with the sextant. Yet now the tiny Pacific island where they were supposed to land was not to be found.
    “Keep to the present course,” he instructed without alarm. “We’re close now.”
    “I’ve been on the short wave trying to locate the non-directional beacon,” the pilot related. “I was hoping we’d have a sighting when we came through this break in the clouds. The visibility is lousy. No telling how far the clouds and fog extend.”
    The pilot mentally recounted the US Fleet Air Base weather news received just before take-off from the airport at Lea, New Guinea: FORECAST THURSDAY, LEA TO ONTARIO. PARTLY CLOUDY, HEAVY RAIN SQUALLS TWO HUNDRED FIFTY MILES EAST OF LEA. WIND EAST SOUTHEAST, TWELVE TO FIFTEEN. ONTARIO TO LONGITUDE ONE SEVEN FIVE, PARTLY CLOUDY, CUMULUS CLOUDS ABOUT TEN THOUSAND FEET, MOSTLY UNLIMITED. WIND EAST NORTHEAST EIGHTEEN. THENCE TO HOWLAND, PARTLY CLOUDY, SCATTERED HEAVY SHOWERS, WINDS EAST NORTHEAST FIFTEEN. AVOID TOWERING CUMULUS AND SQUALLS BY DETOURS AS CENTERS FREQUENTLY DANGEROUS.
    “How’s our fuel holding out?” Freddy asked.
    “We’ve used more than I expected,” she told him. “Right from the start wind speeds have been much stronger than forecasted. I’m guessing twenty-five to thirty. Avoiding storm centers spent fuel, and even though I made regular fuel transfers from the storage tanks to the wing-mounted gravity tanks...” She bit her lower lip. “The autogiro should have kept us on course while I was priming the pump. My forearm is aching. Maybe the manual isn’t working properly.”
    “I’ve never trusted Sperry’s autogiro,” Freddy complained sourly. “Sure, it’s good for keeping close to the intended course, but it can’t compensate for even minimal wind drift. One slight change in velocity or direction, and we’re out here trying to find a pimple on the backside of an elephant. But don’t worry,” he reassured, “I’m certain that ribbon of runway that FDR built for you is down there somewhere.”
    “If you have any