The Lion's Game (58 page)

“Roger, Elton Three-Eight. Out,” said Satherwaite with a big grin. He pressed End and looked at Khalil. “No problem.” He added, “Wait until you offer him two thousand yards of canvas for free. He’ll buy us a drink.”

“Meters.”

“Right.”

A few minutes passed in silence, then Bill Satherwaite said, “Uh ... no rush, but I might go out later, and I could use a little extra cash.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” Khalil reached into his breast pocket, extracted his billfold, and handed it to Satherwaite. “Take five hundred dollars.”

“It might be better if you counted it.”

“I am driving. I trust you.”

Satherwaite shrugged, turned on the courtesy light, and opened the billfold. He took out a wad of bills and counted out five hundred dollars, or five hundred twenty; he couldn’t be sure in the bad light. He said, “Hey, this leaves you about tapped out.”

“I will go to a cash machine later.”

Satherwaite handed Khalil his billfold and said, “You sure?”

“I am sure.” He put the billfold back in his pocket as Satherwaite put the money in his wallet.

They drove west on the Expressway, and Khalil programmed the Satellite Navigator for the Cradle of Aviation Museum.

Within twenty minutes, they exited onto a southbound parkway, then got off the parkway at Exit M4, which said CRADLE OF AVIATION MUSEUM.

They followed the signs to Charles Lindbergh Boulevard, then turned right into a wide, tree-lined entrance drive. Ahead was a blue- and red-lighted fountain, beyond which was a massive glass and steel structure with a dome rising up behind it.

Khalil steered around the fountain and drove toward the main entrance.

A uniformed guard stood outside. Khalil stopped the car, and the guard said, “You can leave it right here.”

Khalil shut off the ignition and exited the Lincoln. He retrieved his black bag from the rear.

Satherwaite, too, exited, but left his overnight bag in the Lincoln.

Khalil locked the car with the remote switch, and the guard said, “Welcome to the Cradle of Aviation Museum.” He looked at Khalil and at Satherwaite. He said, “Mr. McCoy is waiting for you in his office. I’ll take you in.” He said to Khalil, “Do you need that bag, sir?”

“Yes, I have a gift for Mr. McCoy, and a camera.”

“Fine.”

Satherwaite looked around at the huge complex. To the right, attached to the modern building in front of them, were two vintage 1930s hangars, restored and repainted. “Hey, look at that.”

The guard said, “This is the old Mitchel Army Air Force Base, which served as a training and air defense base from the thirties through the middle-sixties. These hangars have been left in place and restored to their original condition, and they hold most of our vintage aircraft. This new building in front of us houses the Visitor Center and the Grumman Imax Dome Theater. To the left is the Museum of Science and Technology and the TekSpace Astronautics Hall. Please follow me.”

Khalil and Satherwaite followed the guard to the entrance doors. Khalil noted that the guard was unarmed.

They entered the building, which held a four-story-high atrium, and the guard said, “This is the Visitor Center, which, as you can see, has exhibit space, a museum shop over there, and the Red Planet Café right ahead.”

Khalil and Satherwaite looked around the soaring atrium as the guard continued, “There’s a Gyrodyne Rotorcycle, an experimental one-man Marine helicopter, vintage nineteen fifty-nine, and there’s a Merlin hang glider, and a Veligdons sailplane built here on Long Island in nineteen eighty-one.”

The guard continued his guided tour as they walked through the vast space. Their footsteps echoed off the granite floor. Khalil noted that most of the lighting was turned on, and he commented, “We are your only guests this evening?”

“Yes, sir. In fact, the museum is not officially opened yet, but we take small groups of potential donors through, plus we have a reception now and then for the fat cats.” He laughed and added, “We’ll be open in about six or eight months.”

Satherwaite said, “So, we’re getting a private tour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Satherwaite glanced at Khalil and winked.

They continued on and passed through a door that said PRIVATE—STAFF ONLY.

Beyond the door was a corridor, off which were office doors. The guard stopped at a door marked DIRECTOR, knocked, and opened the door. He said, “Have a good visit.”

Satherwaite and Khalil stepped into a small reception area. Jim McCoy was sitting at the receptionist’s desk, looking through some papers, which he put down. He stood and came around the desk, smiling, his hand extended. He said, “Bill, how the hell are you?”

“I’m fucking terrific.”

Bill Satherwaite took his squadron mate’s hand, and they stood looking at each other, smiling.

Khalil watched as the two men seemed to be attempting great joy. Khalil noticed that McCoy did not look as fit as General Waycliff or Lieutenant Grey, but he looked much better than Satherwaite. McCoy, he noticed, was dressed in a suit, which highlighted the contrast between him and Satherwaite.

The two men spoke briefly, then Satherwaite turned and said, “Jim, this is ... my passenger ... Mr....”

“Fanini,” said Asad Khalil. “Alessandro Fanini.” He extended his hand, which Jim McCoy took. Khalil said, “I am a manufacturer of canvas cloth.” He looked at Jim McCoy, and they made eye contact, but McCoy showed no sign of alarm. Yet, Khalil saw an intelligence in the man’s eyes and realized that this man would not be nearly as stupid and trusting as Satherwaite.

Satherwaite said, “Mr. Fanini’s company sold—”

Khalil interrupted and said, “My company supplies canvas for ancient aircraft. In gratitude for this private tour, I would like to send to you two thousand meters of fine cotton canvas.” He added, “There is no obligation on your part.”

Jim McCoy stayed silent a moment, then replied, “That’s very generous of you ... we accept all donations.”

Khalil smiled and bowed his head.

Satherwaite said to Khalil, “Didn’t you say—?”

Again Khalil interrupted and said, “Perhaps I can see some of the ancient aircraft and examine the quality of the canvas you are using. If it is better than mine, then I apologize for offering you my inferior cloth.”

Satherwaite thought he understood that Mr. Fanini wanted him to shut his mouth for some reason. Jim McCoy thought he saw a sales pitch coming.

Jim McCoy said to Khalil, “Our vintage aircraft are not meant to leave the ground, so we tend to use a heavy-duty canvas.”

“I see. Well, then I will ship to you our heaviest grade.”

Satherwaite thought that this information seemed to be at odds with what Mr. Fanini had told him earlier, but he said nothing.

They made small talk for a few seconds. McCoy seemed a little put off by the fact that Bill Satherwaite had dragged along a stranger to their reunion. But, McCoy thought, this was typical Bill—totally clueless, completely without forethought or social skills. He smiled despite the situation and said, “Let’s go see some flying machines.” He said to Khalil, “You can leave that bag here.”

“If you don’t mind, I have a photographic camera as well as a video camera.”

“Fine.” McCoy led the way out into the corridor, back through the atrium and through a set of big doors that led to the hangars.

On the floor of the adjoining hangars were over fifty aircraft from various periods of history, including both world wars, the Korean Conflict, as well as modern jet fighters. Jim McCoy said, “Most, but not all, of these aircraft were made here on Long Island, including some Grumman Lunar Landing modules in the next hangar. All the restorations that you will see were accomplished with volunteer labor—men and women who worked in the aerospace industry here on Long Island, or in commercial or military aviation, who have put in thousands of hours of time in exchange for coffee, donuts, and their names on the wall in the atrium.”

McCoy went on in a tone that betrayed the fact that this was a short tour. He said, “Hanging up there, as you can see, is a Ryan NYP, which was the original sistership of the Spirit of St. Louis, so we’ve taken the liberty of putting that name on the fuselage.”

They walked as McCoy talked, bypassing many aircraft, which again revealed that this was not the tour that the major benefactors got. McCoy stopped in front of an old, yellow-painted biplane and said, “This is a Curtiss JN-4, called a Jenny, built in nineteen eighteen. This was Lindbergh’s first aircraft.”

Asad Khalil took his camera out of his bag and shot a few perfunctory photos. McCoy looked at Khalil and said, “You can feel the canvas if you wish.”

Khalil touched the stiff, painted canvas and remarked, “Yes, I see what you mean. This is too heavy for flight. I will remember that when I send you my donation.”

“Good. And over here is a Sperry Messenger, an Air Corps scout plane built in nineteen twenty-two, and there, in the far corner, are a bunch of Grumman World War Two fighters—the F4F Wildcat, F6F Hellcat, TBM Avenger—”

Khalil interrupted. “Excuse me, Mr. McCoy. I sense that time is short for all of us, and I am aware that Mr. Satherwaite would like to see his former fighter aircraft.”

McCoy looked at his guest, nodded and said, “Good idea. Follow me.”

They walked through a large opening into the second hangar, which held mostly jet aircraft as well as space exploration craft.

Khalil was amazed at all the artifacts of war gathered here. The Americans, he knew, liked to present themselves to the world as a peace-loving people. But it was clear, in this museum, that the art of war was the highest expression of their culture. Khalil did not fault them or judge them harshly regarding this; in fact, he was envious.

McCoy walked directly to the F-111, a shining silver, twin-engine aircraft with American Air Force insignia. The F-111’s variable wings were in a swept-back position, and on the fuselage, under the pilot’s side, was the name of the aircraft—
The Bouncing Betty
.

Jim McCoy said to Bill Satherwaite, “Well, here it is, buddy. Bring back any memories?”

Satherwaite stared at the sleek jet fighter, as if it were an angel, beckoning him to take her hand and fly.

No one spoke as Bill Satherwaite continued to stare, mesmerized by the vision of his past. Bill Satherwaite’s eyes misted.

Jim McCoy was smiling. He said softly, “I named it after my wife.”

Asad Khalil stared, recalling memories of his own.

Finally, Satherwaite approached the aircraft and touched its fuselage. He walked around the fighter, his fingers caressing the aluminum skin, his eyes taking in every detail of its perfect, sleek body.

He completed his walk-around, looked at McCoy and said, “We flew these, Jim. We actually flew these.”

“Indeed, we did. A million years ago.”

Asad Khalil turned away, giving the impression he was sensitive to this moment between old warriors, but in fact, he was sensitive only to his own moment, as their victim.

He heard the two men talking behind him, heard them laughing, heard words that brought joy to them. He closed his eyes and a memory of the blur coming toward him now took shape in his mind, and he could see this terrible war machine clearly, belching red fire from its tail like a demon from hell. He tried to block the memory of himself urinating in his trousers, but the memory was too strong, and he let it overtake him, knowing that this humiliation was about to be avenged.

He heard Satherwaite calling to him, and he turned around.

There was a rolling aluminum platform with a staircase beside the pilot’s side of the fuselage now, and Satherwaite said to Asad Khalil, “Hey, can you shoot us in the cockpit?”

This was exactly what Khalil had in mind. Khalil said, “My pleasure.”

Jim McCoy went first and climbed the staircase. The cockpit canopy was lifted, and McCoy lowered himself into the weapons officer’s seat on the right. Satherwaite scrambled up the staircase, jumped into the pilot’s seat, and let out a loud whooping sound. “Yoooweeey! Back in the saddle again. Let’s kill some ragheads! Yeah!”

McCoy glanced at him disapprovingly, but said nothing to spoil his friend’s moment.

Asad Khalil climbed the staircase.

Satherwaite said to McCoy, “Okay, wizo, we’re off to Sandland. Hey, I wish you were with me that day instead of Chip. Fucking Chip can talk the balls off a brass bull.” Satherwaite played with the controls, making mock engine noises. “Fire one, fire two.” He smiled broadly. “Hell, I can remember the start-up drills as if we did them yesterday.” He ran his hands across the cockpit controls, nodding in recognition. “I bet I could do the whole pre-take-off checklist from memory.”

“I’ll bet you could,” McCoy said, indulging his friend.

Satherwaite said, “Okay, wizo, I want you to put one in that tent where Moammar is inside fucking a camel.” He let out a loud laugh and made more engine noises.

Jim McCoy looked at Mr. Fanini, who stood on the platform at the top of the stairs. He forced a weak smile at his guest, wishing again that Satherwaite had come alone.

Asad Khalil raised his camera. He aimed it at the two men in the cockpit, and he said, “Are you ready?”

Satherwaite grinned into the camera. The flash went off. McCoy tried to keep a neutral expression as the flash went off again. Satherwaite raised his left hand and extended his middle finger as the flash went off yet again. McCoy said, “Okay—” The flash went off again. Satherwaite gripped McCoy’s head playfully in an armlock and the flash went off once more. McCoy said, “Okay—” The flash went off again, then again. McCoy said, “Hey, that’s enough—”

Asad Khalil dropped the camera into his black bag, and extracted the plastic bottle that he’d taken from the Sheraton. He said, “Just two more shots, gentlemen.”

McCoy blinked to clear the flash from his eyes and looked at his guest. He blinked again and noticed the water bottle, which did not alarm him, but he also noticed a strange expression on Mr. Fanini’s face. In an instant, he realized that something was terribly wrong.