"No, no, no . . . ," Percey cried, hammering the smooth concrete.
Sachs remained where she was.
"Oh, Ed . . . " She dropped the wrench. "I can't do it alone." Gasping for breath, she rolled into a ball. "Ed . . . oh, Ed . . . I miss you so much!" She lay, curled like a frail leaf, on the shiny floor and wept.
Then, suddenly, the attack was over. Percey rolled upright, took a deep breath, and climbed to her feet, wiped the tears from her face. The aviatrix within her took charge once again and she picked up the bolts and tools and climbed back up onto the scaffolding. She stared at the troublesome ring for a moment. She examined the fittings carefully but couldn't see where the metal pieces were binding.
Sachs retreated to the door, slammed it hard, and then started back into the hangar, walking with loud steps.
Percey swung around, saw her, then turned back to the engine. She gave a few swipes to her face with her sleeve and continued to work.
Sachs walked up to the base of the scaffolding and watched as Percey struggled with the ring.
Neither woman said anything for a long moment.
Finally Sachs said, "Try a jack."
Percey glanced back at her, said nothing.
"It's just that the tolerance is close," Sachs continued. "All you need is more muscle. The old coercion technique. They don't teach it in mechanics school."
Percey looked carefully at the mounting brackets on the pieces of metal. "I don't know."
"I do. You're talking to an expert."
The flier asked, "You've mounted a combustor in a Lear?"
"Nope. Spark plugs in a Chevy Monza. You have to jack up the engine to reach them. Well, only in the V-eight. But who'd buy a four-cylinder car? I mean, what's the point?"
Percey looked back at the engine.
"So?" Sachs persisted. "A jack?"
"It'll bend the outer housing."
"Not if you put it there." Sachs pointed to a structural member connecting the engine to the support that went to the fuselage.
Percey studied the fitting. "I don't have a jack. Not one small enough to fit."
"I do. I'll get it."
Sachs stepped outside to the RRV and returned with the accordion jack. She climbed up on the scaffolding, her knees protesting the effort.
"Try right there." She touched the base of the engine. "That's I-beam steel."
As Percey positioned the jack, Sachs admired the intricacies of the engine. "How much horsepower?"
Percey laughed. "We don't rate in horsepower. We rate in pounds of thrust. These're Garrett TFE Seven Three Ones. They give up about thirty-five hundred pounds each."
"Incredible." Sachs laughed. "Brother." She hooked the handle into the jack, then felt the familiar resistance as she started turning the crank. "I've never been this close to a turbine engine," she said. "Was always a dream of mine to take a jet car out to the salt flats."
"This isn't a pure turbine. There aren't many of those left anymore. Just the Concorde. Military jets, of course. These're turbofans. Like the airliners. Look in the front--see those blades? That's nothing more than a fixed-pitch propeller. Pure jets are inefficient at low altitudes. These're about forty percent more fuel efficient."
Sachs breathed hard as she struggled to turn the jack handle. Percey put her shoulder against the ring again and shoved. The part didn't seem large but it was very heavy.
"You know cars, huh?" Percey asked, also gasping.
"My father. He loved them. We'd spend the afternoon taking 'em apart and putting 'em back together. When he wasn't walking a beat."