In Plane Sight (2 page)

“Friendly,” Joe observed, “but harried.”

“You want to check in at the campground?” Frank asked.

“Let's look around a little first,” Jamal replied, looking over the rows of planes lining the field. “Hey, check out that baby!”

He walked toward a bright yellow stunt plane with red-and-orange flames painted on the side. It had over and under wings like a World War I biplane, the closed cockpit of a fighter jet, and a single prop in front.

“Now this is what I call
sweet
!” Jamal said.

“Are you talking about me or the plane?” asked a slender young woman stepping from the other side of the aircraft. She was dressed in a yellow-and-red aviator's jumpsuit, and had a pair of mirrored sunglasses pushed back on her head. Her straight
black hair hung just above her shoulders, and her dark eyes twinkled. Her skin tone, hair, and eyes bespoke her Asian heritage.

“Both,” Jamal said, recovering from minor shock. “I'm Jamal Hawkins, of Hawkins Air. These are my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.” He extended his hand, and she shook it.

“Nice to meet you,” the woman said. “I'm Amy Chow.” She patted the yellow airplane. “So you like the
Screamin' Demon
, eh?”

“It's a fine-looking plane,” said Joe.

“Are you
the
Amy Chow?” Frank asked. “The big dot-com innovator?”

“
Former
dot-com innovator,” Amy corrected him, smiling. “Now I'm Amy Chow, the cashed-out airplane-collecting multimillionaire. It's a tough job, but someone's got to do it.”

“If you need someone to take over for you . . .” Jamal said.

She laughed. “The line forms to the rear.”

“So, are you here collecting or showing off?” Joe asked.

“A bit of both,” she replied, “same as everyone here. Yourselves?”

“Looking around,” Frank answered, “and picking up a plane for Jamal's dad; he owns Hawkins Air Service.”

“We're adding a Sullivan Brothers Air Customizing job to our line,” Jamal added.

Amy whistled appreciatively. “Sweet fly. I've got one already, so I'm not in the market right now. I hear there'll be plenty of Sullivan customs at the show, though.”

“One will be plenty for us,” Joe replied slyly.

“One's never enough!” Amy said. “Well, gotta run. I see Clevon Brooks ambling this way, and he looks like he's in a bad mood. Catch you boys later. Oh, hey, don't get fingerprints on my plane.” She smiled and started to head across the tarmac toward the administration building.

As she left, a tall, thin African-American man in a T-shirt, jeans, and a leather aviator's jacket covered with endorsement patches jogged up. “Have you seen Amy Chow around here?” he asked. “I need to talk to her.”

“She just left,” Frank said.

“Mr. Brooks,” Jamal said, extending his hand, “I'm Jamal Hawkins from Hawkins Air. I admire your work very much.”

Brooks shook his hand tentatively but kept looking around for Amy. “Thanks.”

“That rear-prop swept-wing experimental plane you built was something!” Jamal enthused.

“Hey, thanks,” Brooks said. “Look, I'd love to chat, but I really need to catch Ms. Chow.” He jogged off toward the administration building.

“Is he often rude?” Joe asked when he'd gone.

“He's just eccentric,” Jamal said, “but brilliant.”

“I caught his work on an episode of
Nova
once,” Frank said.

“I remember that,” Joe replied. “He's big in the experimental aviation field.”

“I wonder what kind of plane he's brought with him to the show,” Jamal said. Then, spotting something, he added, “Hey, there's one of the Sullivan jobs over there.”

The brothers looked toward a largish low-bellied single-prop plane with a top-mounted wing. Blue-and-gold piping decorated its sleek body.

“C'mon,” Jamal said, “let's see if it's the one we're picking up.”

“You don't know what color your plane is?” Joe asked.

Jamal shook his head. “Dad didn't mention it. I guess he was busy getting ready for his trip to China. The color doesn't matter, really. We're gonna paint it anyway. C'mon!”

He jogged off toward the blue-and-gold plane with the brothers following close behind.

Just then a brightly colored car screeched across the tarmac. It was heading straight for them.

2 Air Apparent

“Look out!” Frank shouted as the red-and-white Chevy barreled toward them.

Sunlight glinted off the car's shining chrome details. The Chevy's whitewall tires squealed on the airport's patchy tarmac.

The Hardys and Jamal dived aside as the car screeched to a halt, barely a few feet from where they'd been standing.

A stocky man with graying hair, wearing a white cowboy suit and hat and a blue shirt, got out of the driver's side of the car and laughed. “What's the matter?” he asked. “Did I frighten y'all?”

“Jack Meeker!” Jamal said angrily. “You are one first-class jerk!” He and the Hardys got up off the pavement and dusted themselves off.

“Nice seeing you too, young Hawkins,” Jack Meeker replied. “Hey, I heard your pappy ducked out on this swap meet. Afraid of a little competition?”

“Not from
you
,” Jamal shot back. “Dad's taking care of some business that you can't even
dream
about.”

“That Asian charter tie-in?” Meeker said. “That hound don't hunt, son! I turned it down last week. Your pappy will be lucky if they don't sell him back the snake oil that they stole from him in the first place.”

Jamal clenched his fists but said nothing.

“Ben Hawkins is an honest businessman,” Frank said firmly.

“Maybe you should just mind your own business, whoever you are,” Joe added.

Meeker looked mildly shocked. “Ain't you boys heard of me? You been livin' in a
barn
? I'm the king of local air taxis. Hawkins Air has been eatin' my dust for years.”

“In your dreams, Meeker,” Jamal said.

“Why do you think your pappy's buying that new airplane and gallivanting all around the world?” Meeker said. “He's trying to keep up with me, of course. Not doin' too good a job of it, though.”

“You don't have to put up with this, Jamal,” Joe said, balling up his fists.

Both Jamal and Joe seemed about to go after Meeker, but Frank stepped between them. “Take it
easy, guys,” he said. Then he said to Meeker, “Maybe you should leave.”

Meeker smiled broadly. “Now don't get all riled up, boys,” he said. “I don't mean no harm. I just came by to wish you a fine show. Good luck with that bucket of bolts I hear you're picking up for your pappy.”

“Thanks,” Jamal said, clearly not meaning it.

“Why don't you climb back into your own bucket of bolts and haul yourself out of here?” Joe added, indicating Meeker's classic car.

“I don't mind if I do,” Meeker said. “I'm feeling a bit parched, if you git my drift. I'd invite you boys to join me, but I know you're underage.” He hopped back into his car and roared away, blaring his horn as he went.

“I didn't know they made a car horn that played ‘The Yellow Jerk of Texas,'” Frank said.

Jamal clenched his teeth. “That guy really burns me up.”

“Anytime Meeker's clock needs cleaning,” Joe said, “you just call me.”

“So,” Frank said, changing the subject, “is this the airplane your dad bought?”

Jamal gave the big blue-and-gold plane a good look, then shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “The serial numbers are wrong. Wrong set of doors too. This one looks like someone's been modifying it from the original Sullivan customizing.”

“Customizing a custom airplane,” Joe said. “What'll they think of next?”

“Well,
I'm
thinking that we should check in at the campground,” Frank said. “We can poke around the airfield and find the plane later. It might not even be here yet.”

Jamal nodded. “Getting to the campground soon is probably a good idea.”

“We wouldn't want them giving our tiny patch of bare ground to someone else,” Joe said.

“It's getting pretty late in the afternoon too,” Jamal said. “We need to get ready for the big welcome dinner. You guys bring your tuxes?” He flashed a smile.

All three of them laughed.

“Come on,” Frank said. “Let's get checked in.” They headed for the old motel.

It took a surprisingly long time to get checked in. The teenager working behind the desk wasn't very organized, and he'd misplaced their reservation information. The computer was down, and he had to check the records by hand.

By the time the three friends got their tent set up and their gear stowed away, it was nearly dark. They used their cell phones to call their parents and confirm their arrival at the show, then hiked back across the pitted tarmac toward the buildings at the far end of the airfield.

“They're holding the banquet in one of the
hangars near the control tower,” Jamal said.

“Let's hope they cleaned the place first,” Joe said, gazing at the ancient Quonset-style metal buildings. “This whole airport looks like it needs a year's worth of industrial-strength service from Mighty Maid.”

“The cleaning service that ‘Sweeps away your troubles and leaves you smiling,'” Frank said, quoting an old TV ad campaign.

The three friends passed by a number of interesting planes on their way to the opening banquet. None of them was the plane that Jamal was looking for, though. As they neared the banquet hall hangar, he spotted another plane at the far end of the field.

“Hey, maybe that's it,” he said, pointing.

“The maroon-and-magenta job?” Joe replied. “I can't say I think much of the color scheme.”

“We can check it out later,” Frank said. “Unless you want to be fashionably late to this dinner.”

“And miss the first course?” Jamal said. “Never!”

They entered the hangar through a double door near the front. The big open space inside had in fact been nicely cleaned up. The metal walls still looked a bit dingy, but the concrete floor practically shone. Star-spangled bunting and big banners with pictures of historic aircraft hung from the rafters. The brothers quickly spotted the Wright brothers' plane, Lindburgh's
Spirit of St. Louis,
and Chuck Yeager's rocket plane, which was the first to break the sound barrier.

The hangar floor held several rows of long tables. They all faced a small speaker's platform at one end of the building. Behind the podium rested a fully restored World War II Spitfire. The vintage plane looming in the background lent a nice atmosphere to the proceedings.

More than three hundred people were already in the room. They didn't fill the immense space but clustered around the tables in the center. The aviators gathered in small, tightly packed clumps, exchanging tips. Dinner had not yet begun, but the places had been set.

Amy Chow and Clevon Brooks were talking on one side of the room, near the big hangar door. Jack Meeker had Elise Flaubert cornered by the podium. The airport administrator smiled politely as they spoke, but her eyes seemed to be looking for an exit.

The Hardys and Jamal checked their table assignment and discovered, somewhat to their relief, that they were near the back of the assembly.

“If things get slow,” Jamal whispered to his friends, “we can duck out early.”

“Good plan,” Joe said, nodding.

As they edged their way through the crowd toward their places, someone bumped into Frank, nearly knocking the elder Hardy over.

“Hey! Watch it!” barked a burly man in a battered flying jacket with a fleece collar.

“Why don't
you
watch where
you're
going?” Joe countered.

“No harm done,” Frank said, stepping between the man and Joe.

“Hey, aren't you Dale ‘Rock' Grissom?” Jamal said to the surly flier.

“Yeah. So?” the gruff man replied.

“I saw you do some stunt flying at a show when I was a kid,” Jamal said. “You had some great reflexes.”

“Still do, kid,” Grissom replied. “Still do. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta see a man about some work.” He continued pushing through the crowd.

“Not much for fans, is he?” Joe said, scowling.

Jamal shrugged. “Another hero with feet of clay, I guess. He was
something
when I first saw him, fresh out of the air force's secret test programs. Lightning response time.”

The teens moved past a few intervening groups and found their place settings. As they arrived, a balding man sporting a goatee and wearing a blue jumpsuit intercepted them.

“Are you Jamal Hawkins?” he asked.

“That's me.”

“Thought so,” the man said, shaking hands with Jamal. “You look a lot like your dad. I'm Steve Davidson. I'm supposed to deliver a plane to you.”

“Yeah,” Jamal said, his face lighting up. “Where is it?”

“Outside,” Davidson said. “It's that maroon-and-magenta baby near the end of the line.”

“We spotted it coming in,” Joe said.

Davidson pulled out a stack of papers and laid them on the table. “I need you to sign for the plane,” he said, picking up one of the sheets and placing it in front of Jamal. He handed Jamal a pen. “Sorry for the rush. I've been trying to track you down for a couple of hours.”

“We couldn't have been that hard to find,” Frank said.

“To tell you the truth, kid,” Davidson said, lowering his voice, “this show isn't very organized. If I hadn't found you now, I was gonna come back tomorrow. The office of my service is just down in Jewel Ridge.”

“The plane's not yours?” Joe asked.