Free Calico Pennants by David A. Ross Page B

from the Electra’s newly installed, though sometimes unreliable, drift indicator. Furnished with up-to-the-minute information, he referred once more to his charts.
    With each updraft, Amelia’s mind drifted from the present to the past, from the cold reality of the moment into nostalgic reminiscence. In spite of Freddy’s unquestioned expertise as a navigator (the success of Pan Am’s early survey flights across the Pacific Ocean was due to a large extent on Noonan’s development of aerial navigational techniques), his growing reputation as a drinker—not wholly undeserved—had slammed certain doors in the world of commercial aviation squarely in his face. Not to mention arousing caution on more personal fronts. Amelia knew that Freddy felt as though he’d been blackballed unfairly, and by no means had he kept his disdain to himself. He had always said he didn’t give a damn about what most of his colleagues thought of him. Except for her. She sensed that. She knew also that, like herself, he loved to fly for the unbridled joy of it. For the sheer fun of it! Just to fly, and fly, and fly...
    She had first experienced the ecstasy of flight at the age of eighteen and was immediately captivated. The road to esteem had been both long and difficult, but over time she’d won respect as an aviator, and as an iconoclast. It now seemed like eons ago that she’d been recruited as the first woman to cross the Atlantic non-stop. She knew that she was probably the best overall pilot on board the Friendship, still she was never permitted to fly the plane once they’d left Nova Scotia. She’d spent the entire crossing lying on her belly in the rear cabin—at least until the exhausted pilot over-shot their projected landing site in Ireland by nearly a hundred miles. Finally, it was she who had executed a nearly perfect water landing in the fog at Burry Port, Wales, though the truth of the matter had been hushed.
    First in Wales, then at the beautiful Southampton estate of Lady Astor, the Brits had given the now celebrated crew of the Friendship the royal treatment. “My dear girl,” said Lady Astor, “your sense of daring leaves us all rather breathless. Nevertheless, I believe I would prefer to cross the Atlantic by ship!” she declared.
    Still, that intensely scrutinized flight, as well as the subsequent reception and many forthcoming accolades, had hardly been the apex of her career in aeronautics. Flying from Long Island to LA over the checkerboard fields of mid- America, she had often landed her single engine Vega right on the main street of one dusty farm town or another. Seeing her plane touch down, farmers, shopkeepers, and their wives and children, had come running from their fields, or out of their stores and houses, to welcome her and offer her food and lodging.
    And whether she was traversing mid-America or flying non-stop from Honolulu to Oakland, G.P. was inevitably waiting for her at journey’s end. Decidedly in his element, her husband entertained groups of overly eager publicity people, or pandered to a group of financial backers.
    She had not turned to aviation for financial gain. The truth was that she would have worn rags just to stay in the air. But with G.P. handling the details of business such sacrifices were never necessary, for her husband had natural genius when it came to public relations. The mundane tasks he asked her to perform to help with fundraising—interviews, autograph signings, and personal appearances—were tedious, but in the end it was a small effort to make for solvency. Worthy airplanes, after all, were incredibly expensive.
    She now recalled the staged conversation that had taken place between herself and G.P. just prior to her departure, and she grimaced not only at the duplicity of the event, but also at its scripted idiocy.
    GP: Tell me dear, why are you going on this trip?
    AE: G.P., you know it’s because I want to.
    GP: Well, how about taking me along?
    AE: Of course I