Flight of the war machines

By

Roberto Scarlato

-Recovered from the Library of Howard Hughes hidden in an edition of The Man Who Went Back by Warwick Deeping -

The doctors called it a miraculous recovery. I don’t subscribe to such mythological ideologies. I was raised to believe that there is modern medicine in the things we eat. Take oranges for example. The vitamins are the very lifeblood of society. The doctors gave me tests, needles, tests, needles, more tests, more needles and when the tests and needles were through I could barely move. Orange juice, squeezed in my presence, is what saved me. Not some quack with a piece of paper written by another quack with a piece of paper.

I sat there after it happened. It was the 7th, they told me later. That horrible day. 1946. The XF-11 crash. I thought about that day in recovery. I thought about that day in my dreams. I thought about that day every second of every day and more. The more I thought about that day the more sick I became from that day. But one thing I had not counted on was to survive that day. I knew I was dead the moment I touched down. It was the damn fire that pinched me back into  living. I remember breaking the glass, cutting my hands, wrestling with the fires of piping hot metal. The fire went past my skin. It was popping right through me.

My collar bone was cracked, my chest pushed in and my heart was shifted to the wrong place. I sat aways away from the wreckage, surveying the damaged houses I left in my wake.

The cut on my upper lip was bleeding and I began to spit vigorously, arms on my knees. I was a dead man but alive again. There was only one reason for it. I had more to do. I knew it the second I felt her, the plane, getting bumpy. My vision kept shifting and I knew I was headed for a hard landing. I saw a road. One car driving along it. A mint green car. Not one of mine. Surely another car. When I felt a final bump, my vision shifted. I believe that my left eye shot up while my right eye plummeted down. They must have. It is the only explanation as to what I saw next.

In that turbulent panic, I saw the car and the road separate. The car was in the air and the road had plummeted down. It happened in a moment. But that moment was all I had.

It was all I kept thinking about.

I wanted to make that sight, that premonition, that dream, my dream come true. I was focused on that car hurtling in the sky. Of course the car never hurtled through space and the man behind the wheel, Arthur Kovacs, visited me in the hospital. When I told him to recount the story of how he was on the road he said that he saw my plane falling and pulled over on the side of the road. I asked him if his car was equipped with motors propelling him above the clouds. He looked at me quizzically as if I were crazy and said no, the car’s a loaner from his aunt. As far as he knew, he assured me, the car never left the ground. What if it could? I asked him. He looked at me blankly. I could tell he was uncomfortable.

The idea was seared into me as easily as those flames penetrated my flesh.

What if it could?

After all, it only cost me a plane.

Chapter 1:

CALLING IN THE RECRUITS

Grief had a way of finding every man. It brought generals to their knees and paupers hands to their faces. No other pain was more cutting than grief in a dreamer’s eyes. That’s exactly what Preston had been; a dreamer.

        But he would have none of it.

        Not just after the trial.

        Not in front of his kids.

        That’s why, like any good father, he took all his little ones out for ice cream that very night. He enjoyed the children looking through the glass, eyeing their prospects. The poor soda jerk could hardly keep up. A barrage of finger pointing to each flavor ensued. Preston’s smile dipped just a little. He was reminded of the finger pointing that went on in that courtroom. Still, the smile began to rise again into his famous smirk. Even in a moment of thought his smile just as buoyant as ever.

        They drove back licking their cones happily.

        Everyone was laughing joyously as they rounded the corners.

        Mary lee was not so easily swayed.

        She sat between mother and father.

        Looking up at her dad’s smiling face, she decided to use some will and ask him an honest question.

        “Daddy,” Preston looked down at her. Her eyes were unnaturally weary. “Did we fail?”

        Preston’s smile turned into a broad line as he returned his eyes back to the road. For a few moments he was unreadable. Mary Lee felt anxious all of a sudden.

        “Mary?” Preston asked.

        “Yes?”

        “Give me your ice cream.”

        Startled, she looked down at her cone. But it’s mine, she thought. Let him get his own cone.

        “Mary. I said give me your ice cream please.”

        Reluctantly, as the little ones hushed down in the backseat, they saw the little girl raise her vanilla cone, which was still dripping over her knuckles, straight up to her father’s face. Without looking he grabbed the cone with his right hand and thanked her stoically.

The next few minutes passed slowly.

The car went slower.

They all knew that their father was intentionally laying off of the gas for some reason. His hand was still poised with the cone held right next to his face. In their eyes they saw a transitional man liable to break. He did look peculiar, holding the cone that way. It reminded John of the statue of liberty. Shirley held her breath. Noble couldn’t think of anything.

As he drove, Preston slowly moved the cone to the front of his face.

Quickly he dabbed his nose in the huge mound of vanilla and brought it back. He shot a goofy look at Mary Lee as a curly-q tip of ice cream wrapped around his nose. “Since when does it fail to love ice cream?” he said.

The children roared with laughter then. They hooped, hollered, clapped and cheered. Then Mary Lee dabbed her nose in the ice cream and giggled. Then, by example, the rest of them did too.

~~~

The children were put to bed and the father patted them and kissed them all goodnight. With tummies full of ice cream it pleased him deeply that his children were well fed and happy. That was more than any father could ever ask for in his eyes. A mother and father do not simply carry their children. It is their duty to raise them. Preston loved raising his children. Raising their hopes, raising their dreams, their expectations; every single facet of raising a person up, he cheered on.

        Yet, as he put his wife to bed, enormously tired from the whole ordeal, he chose to have some quiet time in the kitchen.

        With socks on he slowly navigated the toys spread out of the stairs and reached the ground floor. When he reached the doorframe of the kitchen he leaned his shoulder against it. Boy, did it feel good to lean on something. Something solid. Something that wouldn’t judge.

        He turned his sights to the chair and followed through.

        Gingerly, hands on knees, he leaned into the chair and sighed.

        Preston loosened his tie.

        It had been a long day.

        Twenty-eight hours they had deliberated and found him not guilty. It was by all intents and purposes a victory. So why did he feel so low?

        Without warning, the phone next to the lamp in the corner rang.

        Quick as a flash he bolted up to get it. What kind of person would call him at this hour? His children were asleep and they needed no more reminders of the day.

        He picked up the phone and, for some reason, ran his hand through his hair as if to straighten it. It was a habit. He knew he didn’t need to look good to sound good.

        Preston lifted the receiver to his mouth and looked at his timepiece. It was 11:31 p.m. when he finally spoke.

        “This is Preston.”

        “Mr. Tucker,” a very authoritative voice soothed. “I felt compelled to call you. It was my duty to call you and you alone.”

        “It’s very late. Who is this?”

        “Well, hell, I’m sorry bout the hour but I needed to talk to you.”

        “Sir, who are you?”

        “I’ve had an epiphany, sonny. Don’t you understand? I can’t share this with anyone but you.”

        “I’ve had a long day, sir. I don’t know who you are but I have no need for any investments at this time.”

        “Tucker, this is Howard.”

        Something rattled in Preston’s head. Now he knew who that voice was. But it couldn’t be. The man never called anyone, not even his own mother unless it was important or he had discovered something.

        “Howard?”

        “That’s right. Howard Hughes. Remember? The guy that put your bill on his tab?”

        “Um, I, of course. Of course, Mr. Hughes. What? What can I do for you?”

        “Tucker, you need to join me for dinner. A car will pick you up shortly. The driver’s name is Thomas. I don’t trust his politics but I trust his driving. He’ll bring you here.”

        “What? Mr. Hughes. It’s very late. I just got home from a long day. The kids are up in bed and I was just about to lay down myself.”

        “I see,” there was a crackling over the line. “Tucker. I know when you’re not being honest with me. One of the reason’s why I like you. You can’t lie well. You’re miserable at it. Why I know you as well as the scars on my face. You’re in that suit shirt and slacks with your rumpled striped tie still. You’re certainly not in your jammies. If I were you I would not be answering telephone calls. I’d sooner unplug the phone.”

        Preston was speechless.

        “Are you watching me, Mr. Hughes?”

        “Ha!” he roared. Preston heard Hughes slapping a table. “I was right, was I?”

        “I mean it.”

        “No, Tucker. I don’t have spies like some people like to think so. But I have no doubt that people will have a very keen eye on you in the coming weeks. That is why I need an audience with you right this moment.”

        “Howard, I just do not…”

        “Save the donuts for later.”

        “What?”

        “Listen, Tucker. I helped you along and they smacked you down. I have tried to get ahead and they have been busy trying to smack me down. Personally I am tired of it. How bout you?”

        Preston stood still for a while. Out the window, through the blinds he saw a black car pulling into the driveway.

        “What are you proposing?”

        Hughes sighed. “Tucker, you know better. Tell me. What does God have, the angels need and man wants?”