In the shadow of rugged Mount Verdugo near the dry channel of the Los Angeles River rested Grand Central Air Terminal, 175 acres of lofty possibility. The main airport of entry into Los Angeles, it was home to aviation pioneers Lindbergh, Earhart, and Northrop. These and other inhabitants of GCAT shared a passion for the limitless heavens that stretched off into eternity from that single airstrip, each vying for man’s place in the empyrean. The azure sky above was always abuzz whether it was the latest Hollywood film in production or stunt pilots careening through the air taunting death. With such sights and drama, GCAT drew the rich and famous and led the aviation boom in Southern California fueling America’s love and wonder for the skies.

The terminal itself boasted a heterogeneous style consisting of Art Deco and Spanish Colonial Revival with a red clay tile roof, stucco siding, and large archways complimented by chevron and sunburst detailing. Fringed by palm trees, it overlooked the Griffith Park aerodrome.

Following GCAT’s airstrip, one came to the taxiway off which rested a row of hangars belonging to, among others, TWA, Avion Aviation, Major Corliss C. Moseley’s courageous Flight Academy, and Thomas Benton Slate, builder of the infamous dirigible City of Glendale.

A large crowd had gathered in front of Charles Babb’s hangar horseshoeing around the entrance where two men stood side by side with an aircrew assembled behind them guarding the hangar’s doors. The press had come out in droves for what had been dubbed “a major aeronautical event.” The Hughes Aircraft Co. had declared the maiden flight of their new technological wonder was to occur today. The ever controversial head of Hughes Aircraft, the gallant, yet eccentric, Howard Robard Hughes, Jr., was adept at drawing the media’s attention with his talent for spectacle and bombast. Today proved no different for the handsome Texan. Howard, clad in flight gear, and Glen Odekirk, his chief engineer, prepared to address the press.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Howard began in his high pitched, southern twang, “I have gathered you here today for a momentous occasion. I plan to break the world landplane airspeed record and prove American aviation superiority with a craft designed by myself and the man to my left, Glen Odekirk.” Glen gave a feeble wave to the crowd, preferring to hide in Hughes’ shadow. “The Hughes H-1 Racer is the greatest craft of its age,” Howard continued, “and I defy anyone today to design an airplane substantially more efficient than this one for its purpose.”

“And what is that purpose, Mr. Hughes?” a reporter asked.

“Speed, my boy,” Howard said with a smirk. “Pure speed. We were working in a complete vacuum as to information based upon prior performance and prior design and so today we put theory to the test of reality. I myself will pilot the Hughes H-1 Racer. If I have made a mistake in the design, then I’m the one who should pay for it. I certainly would not ask somebody else to fly a plane if I were afraid to do it myself. Now if you will, prepare yourselves to be dazzled and watch history being made.”

On cue, the aircrew pulled the giant doors of the hangar open with a grinding screech to reveal Howard’s blessed creation. Inside was parked the Hughes H-1 Racer, a revolution in aircraft design that looked like a bullet with short, fervid red wings. Its innovations included a close-fitting bell-shaped engine cowling to reduce airframe drag and improve engine cooling; gently curving wing fillets between the wing and the fuselage to help stabilize the airflow and prevent potentially dangerous eddying and tail buffeting; and retractable landing gear to reduce drag and increase speed and range. The landing gear was fitted so precisely that the gear fairings and doors were almost invisible. All rivets and joints were flush with the aircraft’s metal hide and flathead screws were counter-sunk on the wings. The cockpit itself was smoothly faired and totally enclosed with an adjustable canopy windscreen for easy entry and exit from the aircraft. Catching the sunlight streaming in through the open doors, the plane’s highly polished aluminum skin shined like silver.

“I souped up the engine,” Glenn informed Howard as the pair entered the hangar, the reporters scurrying after with flashbulbs popping. “But I gotta warn you the cockpit is small and leaves little wiggle room.”

Howard didn’t hear his friend as he traced his fingers along the smooth belly of the cylindrical craft, transfixed by the beauty of her form. “How fast do you think she’ll go?” Hughes finally managed.

“At least three-forty. There is only ninety-minutes worth of fuel in her at best so keep an eye on the time. At most I’d recommend three passes. Howard, are you listening?”

Howard finally tore his eyes off the plane. “Ode, let me borrow your watch.”

Glen looked down at the expensive Bulova his wife had given him last Christmas. He was reluctant to lend it out even to the world’s richest man.

“Come on, Ode,” Howard prodded. “I need to time myself.”

“All those millions and you never have a watch,” Glenn groused.

“I beat time. I don’t succumb to it. All watches do is nag nag nag with their relentless ticking.”

Glenn could try to say no, but Howard wasn’t the type to hear your protestations. With a sigh, he loosened the strap. “Promise not to crash.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about you. I’m worried about my watch.” Glenn tossed the Bulova to his friend. “You crash, you get a quick death. My wife will torture me the rest of my life for losing it.”

Howard grinned that dashing smile that had seduced many a starlet and climbed into the H-1 to pose for the cameras. When they were through, the aircrew ushered the reporters out and Howard went through the standard preflight. He revved the plane’s engine, the propeller spinning to life with a chug chug chug that built to a whine. Releasing the brake, the H-1 Racer exited the hangar to taxi onto the airstrip. With a final wave to Glen, Howard closed the canopy.

Glen hadn’t lied. The cockpit was so small it was like wearing a second skin. Howard’s arms were pressed tight to his sides with his shoulders uncomfortably hunched forward. The instrument panel was situated only two feet in front of him, close enough to bang his knees into. Howard likened sitting in the H-1 to riding an engine with a saddle on it, the throbbing of the Pratt & Whitney making his loins tingle.

Despite his cramped quarters, Howard became giddy as he punched the throttle and sped down the runway. He felt his weight compress into his stomach as he accelerated, gravity’s grip tightening around his waist. As the end of the strip rapidly neared, Howard pulled back on the stick and the nose of the plane rose. Without hesitation he took to the sky, gravity’s shackles falling away as he streaked into the ether and the landing gear retracted into the wings. Howard chortled rebelliously.

Hughes banked southeast toward Santa Ana soaring over the sprawling San Fernando Valley. Through the sparse cloud cover, Howard marveled at the miniscule cityscape nestled in the valley’s bosom. A million anonymous souls lived out their lives beneath him lost in the Earth’s rippling folds like ants. How many of their eyes turned skyward and caught a glimpse of him, this modern-day Apollo in his chariot? Howard blinked. Up here the complex city of Los Angeles appeared so simple and small. No labyrinthine streets, no buildings blotting out the horizon, just a miniscule blemish on the face of the world. Humanity was nothing in the realm of forever. Everything about man’s existence seemed insignificant, even his problems.

The H-1 darted through the expanse soon reaching the test site at Santa Ana where Howard thrilled in putting the plane through its initial paces. He was enthralled by its limber performance, the H-1 executing an exquisite aerial ballet worthy of Nijinsky. The craft’s excellent handling allowed Howard to slice through the blue sky at will like a knife cutting through heaven’s tapestry. He was free of the world, dodging through the air with a daredevil’s abandon.

Caught up in the excitement, he lost track of time. It was only after his fourth pass that Howard flashed a quick gander at Glenn’s watch and was surprised to discover that over an hour had elapsed. With regret, he banked northwest and began the trip back to Glendale, mourning the end of his aerial trials.

“Grounded by time,” Howard lamented. “What I wouldn’t give for one more exciting run.” As if fate had heard his wish, Hughes’ calm flight soon went awry.

An oil leak unnoticed by the preflight check caused the propeller to reverse in pitch. Howard felt the plane jerk right before he lost control. The altimeter spun dizzily as the H-1 rapidly lost altitude plunging towards the swelling LA skyline in a sheer drop that thrust Hughes’ gut into his throat.

Numerous citizens’ heads jerked up in shock as the plane wailed overhead skirting close enough to touch leading many to hit the ground except one who stood firm, his eyes following the craft on its suicidal plunge. The H-1’s altitude dropped to barely 360 feet before Howard was able to level out. He struggled to dodge the edifices, the craft bobbing over and between rooftops while traveling roughly northeastward along panic-stricken Flower Street with the traffic below gawking through their windshields at the plane whooshing by above them. The structures on either side of this urban canyon shook with Hughes’ passing, some windows imploding as the plane nearly grazed their summits. Howard strained all the harder to pull up when he realized he was swerving toward Richfield Tower. The black and gold behemoth grew larger with each passing second. A crash was inevitable.

Images of his deceased mother and father filled Howard’s thoughts. Was this the end? “God,” Howard spat through grit teeth, a cold sweat running into and burning his eyes blearing his vision, “I never had much use for you, but death has a way of converting even the staunchest bastard. If you’re up there, could you send some help?” When divine intervention proved unlikely, Hughes cursed. “Please, Jesus-” Howard felt something hit the wing to his left. Turning his head, he screamed, “Christ!” when he saw a pale man out the canopy, the craft jerking clumsily due to Hughes’ sudden movement.

Chris Donner held tight to the wing, his red flannel coat flapping crazily behind him. Glancing up at the approaching threat, he released the wing and flew under the plane putting his back to the fuselage. With seconds to spare, Chris shouldered the H-1 to the right and up skimming the Art Deco structure so close he could see faces gaping through the glass. As Donner pressed the H-1 skyward away from the city, the plane abruptly yawed slipping his grip and hooking 180 degrees into a dive. Chris lunged after it while Howard fought with the stick to avoid slamming into the city blocks, swinging sideways to thread a dipping turn southwest from 6th to Broadway, his wing nearly clipping a car that swerved out of the plane’s way.

The H-1 rushed south down Broadway toward the turquoise Eastern Columbia Building. Chris threw his arms back and willed himself shrieking after the craft. He strained forward, coming under the plane and twisting his body so that he faced the aluminum underbelly. With his hands, he pushed the craft up forcing Howard into a steep vertical climb across the viridian face of the Eastern Columbia that rattled its terra cotta walls leaving cracks in its exterior and showering debris on the fleeing pedestrians below. The climb soon turned into an inadvertent loop due to the plane’s unpredictable yaw and the H-1 Racer’s path curved until it was flying upside down bearing north on Broadway. Both Howard and Chris yawped at approaching Los Angeles City Hall, the structure looming before them like a great ivory obelisk barring their path.

“If you’re going to do something do it fast!” Howard yelled at the floor hoping the pale stranger could hear him.

His belly to the fuselage, Chris flipped the craft right side up by inducing a barrel roll before releasing his grip and corkscrewing his body to put his back to the craft once more, then shoving up and lifting the plane into another climb that skirted City Hall and soon left Los Angeles far behind, the pair now heading northeast.

When Chris was sure the craft was stable, he let go and flew up alongside to look in the cockpit. Howard saw him there soaring parallel to his wing mouthing the question, “Ok?” Howard nodded only for the H-1 to start shuddering. The propeller sputtered, slowed, and stopped. In horror, he glanced down at the fuel gauge which read empty. “That’s not good,” Hughes murmured as the plane went into a shallow descent. Instinctively Chris seized the wing and was pulled down with the plane, his feet dangling in the air.

With no other option, Howard prepared to attempt a landing but Glendale’s airfield was too far off as was Burbank’s. Where the hell was he going to land?

Scanning for open ground, Howard hit the switch to lower the landing gear. Though the right complied, the left wheel refused to budge more than several grating inches. Flipping the switch several more times, the wheel still did not fully descend. “Good old fashioned American engineering,” he glibly remarked. Howard banged on the glass of the canopy to draw Chris’ attention. He pointed to the wings and then thumbed down hoping Chris understood. Donner nodded and swung under the H-1 to find the wheel partly lodged in its holding place. Gripping the gear, he began to jerk laboring to yank it into the down position. With one mighty heave he ripped the gear clean off and was lost in the wake of the plane. Holding the gear in his hands, Chris could only mutter, “Oh boy,” the words snatched away by the whistling wind. He surged ahead after the H-1 and came up alongside the cockpit to show the dilemma to Howard.

“Guess it’s a crash landing then,” Howard dryly replied flipping the switch to retract the right wheel.

The descent of the H-1 steepened into a sheer drop and its velocity increased rapidly. Pasadena stretched out vulnerably in front of them. If Howard were to crash within the city limits…

Chris ducked beneath the plane and put his back to the fuselage once more. Focusing his strength, he attempted to lift the H-1 on his shoulders in order to guide it in. The amount of pressure he put on the stressed craft’s fragile frame caused its underside to crumple and buckle. There was no way he was going to carry it in without ripping right through it. Donner frantically sought a course of action. With the city coming ever closer, Chris let go and whirled around sweeping to the right of the craft and coming down on its bell-shaped nose. Riding it like a horse, he dug his fingers into its aluminum hide for grip. His face and hands then flared fiercely, the glow of his aura expanding to encompass the plane. Frost collected on the canopy and metal body as he drew in every bit of energy he could get.

Howard shivered in the cockpit gushing white plumes with every breath while frenetically wiping at the glass that he might see to guide the plane in until the sheer luminosity shining off Donner’s body blinded him and he had to turn away.

Chris struggled to psychically hoist the heavy craft. In directing everything he had into the plane, he diverted energy that had been shielding his body leaving himself vulnerable to friction. At the speed they were going, his bare flesh swiftly fell victim to the wind’s drag. It was like razors slicing across his features, the agony threatening to break his tenuous concentration.

At the corner of Orange Grove and Colorado below, busy shoppers glanced up when they heard the muted buzzing to see the plane hurtling towards them. People ran in terror clearing the streets, some ducking into buildings for cover while cars pulled off the road or sped away to give the craft room.

Tendons showing through his neck, Chris yelled as he fought to lift the craft’s nose up and prevent a crash. Yanking back, the aluminum cut deeply into his hands. The plane groaned and buckled in parts, the H-1’s skin crinkling and the scarlet wings bending until they snapped clean off. The weight of the aircraft was too much. Donner had never manipulated something so huge. His entire body shook with effort as his lacerated grip slackened and the wind nearly snatched him away. Despite his intense focus on the H-1, the sense of frenzy below bled into his consciousness. He heard their fearful screams and that galvanized his efforts. With the ground rushing up fast, he gathered his last reserves and pulled up with one final, mighty cry. The H-1 Racer’s underbelly scraped across the concrete with a grinding squeal, sparks shooting from beneath the plane as it slid down Colorado knocking vehicles aside until finally slowing to a stop at the corner of Broadway bumping lightly into the back of a sedan. The owner of the car timidly peeked up from the backseat where he had braced for impact.

Exhausted from his effort, Chris released the craft and slumped forward, gasping.

Howard popped the canopy and stood up. Concerned for Donner, he asked, “Are you ok?”

Chris turned and nodded, his face crimson and raw; a trickle of blood ran from his nose.

People streamed out of the shops and restaurants to wonder at their hero and the smoking wreckage of the H-1. The silence was unsettling. Surrounded by the awe-struck masses and unnerved by their hushed adoration and reaching hands, Donner quickly leapt into the sky and disappeared into the heavens from whence he came.

***

Jerry Ess sat across a table from Otis and a young tramp in a booth at a local diner in Oklahoma City. Both Jerry and Otis drank coffee while the kid scavenged from several plates in front of him stacked with pancakes, omelets, sausage, hash browns, and ham shoveling the food into his syrup smeared mouth ravenously and drawing disgusted looks from the other patrons with his lip smacking.

“Slow down, lamb. You’re gonna choke,” Otis warned the boy. “Food’s already dead. Don’t think you need to worry about it escapin’.”

Jerry smirked watching the endearing scene. The two made quite the pair, grizzled guardian and fresh faced scamp. He’d happened onto the two by chance. While asking around town concerning a local article on the Okie angel, he had heard about Otis from a moocher who directed him to an encampment just outside town. When he tracked down Otis, the elderly hobo agreed to tell his story in exchange for a meal for him and his charge. It seemed a fair enough deal but with the way that kid was chowing, his pockets would be Hoover flags in no time.

Jerry produced a pen and notepad. “Alright, Otis-”

“Blinky,” Otis corrected over his mug of black coffee.

“Blinky,” Jerry repeated. “Tell me your story.”

Otis leaned forward. “I don’t want you to think I’m making bunk or was elevated. I ain’t no rum dum. I’m a genuine blowed-in-the-glass stiff. I know what I saw no matter what the other ‘bos say.”

“What did you see?”

“Well, I was takin’ a Pullman west from Missouri, just watching the world pass by. It was probably around Arkansas or Texas that I saw him. Bastard was sprinting faster than a cannonball. He had this shine to him like fire, streaking through the brush like some speed demon. When he noticed my dim peepers on him he turned, looked at me, and gave a wave before jumping into the air.” Otis paused in recollection, taking a slug of coffee, his eyes downcast. “He healed me.”

Jerry stopped scribbling and leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

Otis looked up. “The guy healed me. You see, I got my moniker because of my bad eyes. I’ve been near blind most of my life. When that man waved his hand my eyes…well…my eyes changed. There was this tingling in my head. Then everything went clear and bright.”

“So then you can tell me what he looked like.”

“Sure. He had the look of an Okie. Red flannel jacket. Worn, dirty jeans. A battered, brown fedora that somehow stayed on his head no matter how fast he hoofed it. But,” Otis took another sip of his coffee, “he didn’t look like any man I’d ever seen before. The fella had the features of somethin’ otherworldly. Pearly skin. Ebony eyes.

“I don’t know why he appeared to me. I’m not a religious man. Never prayed a day in my life, never asked for deliverance of any kind. I always made my own way, never depending on no one for nothing. I’m not special. I’m just some old ‘bo who’s waiting to catch the Westbound. But ever since seeing him…” Otis’ hands trembled making the coffee cup between them clatter on the tabletop. The young tramp stopped eating to look over at his guardian with concern.

“Rails are a dangerous place,” Otis murmured. “Gotten rougher since the bottom dropped out. Before, I’d use my blindness as an excuse to ignore the things I saw happenin’. Jungle buzzards rolling their own. Jockers raping Angelinas. Starving, inexperienced punks so weak they’d grease the rails while trying to flip a rattler. The world was a dark place and I stopped trying to change things a long time ago. Just let the shadows obscure everything. I told myself they all had it comin’. We had to survive somehow. Not having to see their faces made it easier to believe.” Otis looked over at the kid sitting next to him. “I can’t do that anymore.” The hobo’s wet, shining eyes turned to Jerry. “I can see what’s happening all around me now, and I can’t stomach it. I don’t know why this guy chose to appear to me, but I’m gonna prove worthy of the chance he gave me. Because of him I saw my first sunrise in near two decades. All those reds and purples…It was beautiful. I forgot how beautiful things could be,” Otis choked out.

“You’re going soft, Blinky,” the young scamp chided.

“I liked you better when your mouth was full,” Otis retorted good naturedly.

“Thank you for your time, Blinky.” Jerry pulled a nickel-note from his wallet and slid it across the table to Otis.

“Thanks mister.”

Jerry left the bickering pair behind and exited the diner making his way back to his hotel. The interview ran over and over in his mind. Judging by the description, he was certain the man Otis spoke of was the Okie angel. Jerry had been following the stories from the Southwest leading back to the Midwest attempting to track this figure to his origin. Many of the stories tended to follow either the rails or Route 66 creating a discernible trail that had led him to Oklahoma City. He wasn’t certain what he would discover when he found this man’s beginnings, but any doubt he had in the Okie angel’s existence dissolved when he spoke to those who had encountered him. Their tales were fairly similar, but it was the looks in their eyes that convinced him of the stories’ authenticity. There was a sense of wonder tempered by reverence that played out in their tales; kindness in an unkind world. He’d changed them. Forever.

Jerry walked into the Skirvin Hotel, entering the lobby and passing by the front desk.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ess,” the clerk called out.

Jerry stopped. “Yes?”

“I have a message for you.” The clerk pulled an envelope from one of the boxes behind the desk and passed it to Jerry.

“Thanks.” Jerry read the message. It was from his editor. Vin wanted him to contact the paper immediately. “May I use your phone?”

“Of course, sir.” The clerk snatched the telephone up from behind the desk and placed it down in front of Jerry.

“Thanks.” As the clerk went to help a patron, Jerry contacted the operator and was connected to the Daily Star. Vin picked up on the first ring. “Hey Vin, it’s Jerry-”

“Where have you been?” Vin yelled forcing Jerry to hold the receiver at arm’s length until the swearing subsided. “I’ve been trying to reach you for several hours!”

Jerry brought the receiver back to his ear. “I had an interview. Why?”

“Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Of all the people to be out of the know,” Vin declared with exasperation. “Where are you? Alaska? Your Okie angel was sighted.”

Jerry pressed the receiver tightly to his ear. “Where?”

“Los Angeles.”

“Really?”

“You have to hear the story that came over the wire. This angel of yours prevented a plane crash in downtown Pasadena in front of hundreds of witnesses. And you won’t believe who he saved of all people?”

“Besides the hundreds of witnesses in Pasadena,” Jerry dryly joked.

“Jerry!”

“I’ll bite. Who did he save?”

“Howard Hughes. With a name like that, this story isn’t just legit, it is front page news! This story is big, Jerry. Huge. Whatever you’re doing, drop it. I want you in LA on this.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice Vin.”

“Then hang the hell up and get out there already!” Vin shouted, slamming the phone down.

“LA of all places,” Jerry said to himself, hanging up the phone. “City of Angels.”

“Is everything alright, sir?” the clerk asked.

“What? Yeah, sure. I’m going to need to check out. I’ve got an unexpected train to catch.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 18