Straying From the Path

“Colonel Avery. Doctor Cook. Army Intelligence.” The colonel tipped his head at the man in the flight suit, who shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and shrugged. “Do you girls feel up to ferrying a B-26 to Wright Field tonight?”

Evie’s eyes sparkled; she was already nodding. Never turn down a chance to fly, you didn’t know when they’d ask again.

“Fuel will be tight,” I said. “But sure, we can fly it.”

“You are experienced with this craft?” Doctor Cook asked. He didn’t look much like a doctor, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so, skinny as a whip, uncomfortable in the flight gear. He wore glasses.

I crossed my arms and drew myself straighter. “I graduated with the first WFTD class at Ellington Field. I had a thousand flight hours before that. You know the B-26 that came in this afternoon? Evie and I flew it. We can fly your plane.” Some pilots called the B-26 the Widowmaker. A tough plane to fly, it was fast and hot and took a sensitive hand.

My act cowed most fly boys. Cook shook his head, oblivious. “But this isn’t a standard B-26. It’s had—modifications.” Colonel Avery gave him a sharp look.

My eyes narrowed. “We don’t normally receive our orders from Army Intelligence.”

“Miss Bateson, let me be frank. Cook is right, this plane isn’t standard. What’s been done to it is highly classified. Highly classified. Don’t misunderstand me, you can still fly it. In fact, you two are the only pilots available who are checked out on the B-26. And this plane needs to get to Wright Field as soon as possible.”

Evie was still nodding. If it had wings and an engine, she’d fly it.

“All right,” I said. “Show us the plane.”

The four of us walked out of the building to the hangars on the far side of the strip.

Avery said, “This is an unusual situation. The security clearance is of the highest order. If you speak of this to anyone, I’ll have you court-martialed so fast—”

“No you won’t, sir,” I said.

“What?”

“WASP are a civilian auxiliary. You can’t court-martial us.”

That only broke his rhythm for a second. “Then I’ll have you up on treason charges so fast your head will spin. I don’t expect you to understand what you’re about to see. Just get the damn thing to Wright Field. Understand? Cook will ride along, he’s one of the head scientists on this project.”

My mind turned over the possibilities. Had the bomber been mounted with a new kind of weapon? A new kind of engine? I’d heard they were working on new instruments that could see in the dark or through fog.

“What are you a doctor of?” I asked Cook. It was a subtle enough question to fish for a clue.

“Psychology.”

I couldn’t imagine what they had done to this plane.

We entered the last hangar through the side door.

The B-26 Marauder was a sleek plane, bullet-like, powerful. It seemed to crouch, waiting to spring into flight. It had two wing-mounted engines with propellers as tall as I was. The cockpit canopy perched up top; a gunner would sit in a plexiglass bubble at the nose.

I saw the bomber, alone on the concrete pad, before Avery hit the switch to illuminate the bank of lights. It glowed, a beacon in the dark. Colors played on it, reds flashing into purple, fading to blue, like some kind of Technicolor test on a movie screen. Rainbow bands traveled around the fuselage, bending with the curves of the plane, swirling, dancing, emitting light that pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat. The hangar lights didn’t diminish the patterns at all.

“What is it?” Evie said with a sigh. “Some kind of phosphorescence?”

Cook shuffled a little, shrugging his shoulders nearly to his ears. “Well, we—ah, don’t precisely know. That’s part of the problem.”

Evie moved toward the plane, stepping cautiously at first, then quickening her pace when the men didn’t stop her. By the fuselage, she reached up and touched the metal. Rose colored circles rippled from her hand along the belly of the plane. She laughed a little. “It’s incredible.”

“It’s not camouflage,” I said. “Are you trying to make sure the Germans can’t miss?”

“You’re not flying it to Germany,” Avery said. “Don’t ask so many questions.” Avery was one of those young hot shots, thirty-five or so, being groomed for four-star and a Chief-of-Something post. He gestured, walked, and spoke at double-time.

“You say it flies just fine?” I circled the plane, keeping my distance, unwilling to get too close. Did I hear it humming?

“Yes,” Avery said. “Practically flies itself.”