11

THE EARLY EVENING SUN ARCED OVER THE CANOPY, CASTING SPLINTERED gleams as its light caught imperfections in the thick old Plexiglas. Then shadow filled the cockpit as Connor nosed the White Knight over into a power dive, making sure to keep the sun directly behind him to blind antiaircraft gunners on the ground.

The deep roar of the single Packard V-1650 engine thrummed through the entire plane. The airspeed gauge climbed fast, racing past 200, 300, 400. The airframe shook with speed and the altimeter plummeted. A familiar adrenaline rush hit Connor and a wide grin spread across his face.

The Japanese airstrip rushed up at him. Zeroes and Oscars lined up in neat rows on either side of a dirt runway. Camouflage-painted buildings and fuel tanks hid among palm trees. Uniformed men scrambled for cover or ran for their planes. Machine guns blazed away from behind sandbag rings that looked like brown snow forts, sending streams of phantom bullets toward Connor and his plane.

Connor returned the sentiment, firing a sustained burst from the six .50 caliber guns in the White Knight ’s wings. The force of the guns rattled his teeth and slowed the plane sharply, pushing Connor forward into his harness.

He dragged back on the stick, killing more airspeed and pulling the plane out of its dive. G-forces crushed him back into his seat and his heart struggled to pump blood to his brain against the unnatural gravity. He flew over the base at tree-top level, so close that he could see the bright red star of the Imperial Japanese Army on the gunners’ helmets. He kept his finger on the trigger the whole time, aiming roughly at a group of Zeroes, which duly exploded.

Suddenly the camp was behind him and he was flying over a sea of warehouses and parking lots. He wheeled around and headed back toward the jungle camp. He leaned toward his mic. “Okay, here I come again. I’ll be flying in low from the north, and I’ll be shooting at the oil tank.”

“Roger that,” said a voice in his ear.

The line of palms flashed below him and a large oil tank came into view. He pressed the trigger, but no bullets came. He swore and tried again. Still nothing. The oil tank blew up on cue anyway, but Connor was not happy. He pulled the stick back and to the right, veering smoothly around the fireball. “Sorry about that,” he said into the mic. “A wire must’ve pulled loose or something. I’ve never had that happen before.”

A few seconds passed in silence. Then the director’s voice came on. “Don’t worry about it, Connor. You did great. We just looked at the roughs, and we got some terrific footage. It’ll be easy to have the FX guys add muzzle flashes. Besides, we don’t have another oil tank ready to blow up.”

“Okay, Steve. Well, if you change your mind later, let me know. I’ll be happy to bring the White Knight down free of charge for a reshoot. I want to make sure you get your money’s worth.”

“Oh, we did. Cindy will be in touch with you in a couple of weeks about scheduling the dogfight scene.”

An hour later, Connor was at the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, crouching on the wing of the White Knight and peering down into the machine gun feed mechanism in her left wing. The guns hadn’t jammed. He smiled even though that meant more work later. He was proud of those guns, and it pleased him that they were still working smoothly over two generations after they came off the assembly line.

The problem lay somewhere between the trigger on the control stick and the guns’ firing mechanism. Since all six guns had failed, he suspected a wiring problem in the cockpit. He’d have to tear it apart once he had the plane back at its home airport in Livermore.

“Is that a P-51D?” asked a young voice behind him. Connor turned and saw a boy of about twelve, staring at the White Knight with bright blue eyes.

Connor stood and smiled. “It is indeed. How did you know it was a D?”

The boy pointed to the bubble canopy. “It doesn’t have that big thing behind the pilot that the A, B, and C models had.” He gestured at the wings. “And it’s got six guns, not four.”

“Very good. I’m impressed.”

“Do the guns still work?”

“They do. In fact, I was just firing them today. A movie studio is making a war movie called Blood on the Sun, and they paid me to fly down and shoot up a Japanese air strip—or pretend to shoot it up anyway. I loaded the guns with blanks today. The real bullets are locked up back at my hangar.”

“Cool, I’ll have to see that movie when it comes out.”

Connor tapped the metal skin of the wing. “You know, my grandfather actually built the guns in this plane during World War II.”

“Whoa, he built P-51s?”

“Well, not quite. He owned a company called Lamont Industries that made all sorts of machinery. One of the things they made was machine guns for the P-51. When the war was over, he bought one of the planes that had his guns in it.”

“I wish my grandfather had a P-51.”

“Stein!” called a pretty blonde woman who had just emerged from an office building. “Time to go!”

“Hold on just a sec.” Connor felt around inside the wing and found a small loose cylinder. He pulled it out and handed it to the boy. “Want an empty cartridge from today’s movie shoot?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Thanks!” Then he turned and ran to his mother, showing her his prize as soon as he reached her.

Connor chuckled as he watched them go. Twenty years ago, he had been exactly the same. He pestered Grandpa Lamont for a ride in the White Knight at least once a week, and when they were in the air, he always begged to shoot the guns. Grandpa had soon learned to keep them unloaded whenever he took his trigger-happy grandson for a ride.

Grandpa had been convinced that Connor would be a fighter pilot and had given him the P-51 when he got his pilot’s license. Grandpa hadn’t exactly said he was disappointed when Connor chose Stanford over the Air Force Academy, but he had made Connor promise that he wouldn’t let the White Knight get rusty.

That hadn’t been a hard promise to keep. Connor loved the old plane and kept it in mint condition. He flew it at least once a month when he was in California and had trained himself to be a competent P-51 mechanic.

As for Grandpa Lamont’s desire that Connor spend his life shooting down America’s enemies, Connor liked to think that he was doing just that—even if he generally didn’t get to use machine guns on them.