I watched the small, yellow-winged Sparrowhawk roll up under the great whale I was inside, quickly match speed with the silvery leviathan, wiggle its stubby wings and set its probe rod into the steel trapeze and then stall out, nose up and tail down. It was a superior job of brave and steady flying in an aircraft that belonged in a museum. The rig retracted, an aluminum ladder came down and the leather-clad pilot climbed quickly up to the catwalk within the air ship Annapolis. Once I was sure it was Anna, by a glimpse of her long legs and lovely ass, my cock quickened.
She came into the gondola brightly, jacket open and shirt gapping, and approached the captain with a casual salute. "Squall line, sir, about twenty miles off, north-northwest, cloud tops are up to thirty thousand at least." Anna wasn't exactly in the U.S. Navy, but she was the best pilot we had as well as the only female aboard - the butt of many coarse jokes and longing looks.
Captain Marcus scratched at his chin whiskers, smiled at the young woman and said, "How far does it reach, how far north?"
"Not sure. I was running low on fuel. They're tanking her up now."
"Let Rogers take it. Go talk to him. We need to know. Damn shame your radio's on the fritz." He shook his head and picked up his heavy binoculars. "Where's the other scout?"
I caught up with her as she was about to mount the short set of steps. "Got time for me?" I asked in a whisper.
"Get in line," she said with a laugh and hurried out.
Anna McIntyre was only twenty, fresh out of some girls' school in the West and undoubtedly the best pilot that we had of the four tiny scout planes the Annapolis carried, leftover from an earlier time. They were old but powerful Curtis biplanes, the F9C-2 officially, and without their landing gear they were reasonably fast and very maneuverable, but of course they were quickly becoming obsolete. Anna was on a hefty contract on this our shakedown cruise of the new airship, built to replace the ill-fated Los Angles.
In fact the planes were a lot like Anna, who was also fast and supple, hard to master but a thrill to fly, or in her case, fuck and a long way from been old. I was not at all sure which the girl liked to do better, but she was a hellcat in the sack and a cold-blooded daredevil with a joystick or a stiff cock in her hands. I am sure I never enjoyed her the same way twice, and we had coupled at least a dozen times in the last three months.
When she finished with the first mate and his maps she came into the ready room, looked around, smiled at me and crooked a finger. The other two pilots growled as I rose and followed her down the companionway to her tiny bunk space, my groin bulging and blood pounding. She came into my arms and we kissed hungrily. "I've missed you," she said as I peeled off her shirt, and worked on my belt. "There's not a man down in Pensacola that's worth fucking."
I had her bra almost off, one breast in my hand and the other in my mouth, when the tannoy squawked and some snot-nosed JG said I was wanted in the captain's cabin at once. I bit Anna's nipple gently, promised I'd be right back and straightened out my clothes. She snorted and told me she was not going to wait.
"You ever landed in the Azores?" the captain asked after I saluted. "Just got a message, some sort of trouble in Dakar; they want us to land and wait for developments. Frenchies are nervous I guess, all that Hitler business. Hate to have to just circle, and we need some water and supplies."
I nodded, trying to recall the islands.
"Germans built a Zeppelin facility there ten years ago, ought to be acceptable. Go check. Don't waste time, and we'll let down and head in that direction." The captain waved me away and turned back to the bridge. The big ship could almost skim the waves at times.
I found some charts, hurried out and got my crew topping off my tanks. My plane was the best we had, army or navy, a brand new, Allison powered, P-37 from Curtis. The long-nosed, low-wing, all-metal craft was hard to handle on the ground mainly because the cockpit was so far back that the rudder rubbed your spine. There was a basic visibility problem. It was a handful with gear up and hook extended, and it was not easy to dock under a dirigible. But it was turbo-supercharged, had a top speed of almost 350 mph and was built like a steel safe. As far as I knew only Supermarine's new fighter and the German's Bf-109 were faster.
I raised the white tower of the landing field in just over an hour, got them on the radio, silently praised the decision to make English the standard language of flying, and slipped in for a clean landing without embarrassing myself. The long nose and wide wing made it absolutely impossible to see the ground under the craft when you flared out or were on the ground.
It took another hour to find the right man and only a few minutes for permission to be granted for the Annapolis to moor there. Horta had a decent airport with a long reputation. The NC4 and the Lindeberghs had used it and a transatlantic seaplane service was in the works.
When I went back out to my plane I found two men in gray fatigues looking her over, one actually in the cockpit and the other with a hood panel open examining the supercharger area. I yelled at them and got cursed in German so I reached up, grabbed a well-polished boot and pulled the man on the wing down to the ground. He landed on his back and his head bounced. He rolled over and came to his knees with a large pistol in his hand and a curse in his mouth.
I was armed with a big .45 automatic on my hip, but I just stood and smiled at him. "Get out of my plane," I yelled at the guy in the cockpit.
"Cur, dog, hund," growled the man with the Walther pointing at me as the other fellow climbed down and waved at him. I introduced myself and he said a name; neither of us offered a hand.
"Vas ist?" he asked, jerking his thumb at my long-nosed ship.
"Curtis," I said.
He nodded and the two of them left, in step. By lunchtime I had figured out that there were a lot of Germans mixed in with the Portuguese at the airport, and I was not sure who was really in charge. Then my big airship appeared on the horizon, the old mooring mast was rolled out, a ground crew assembled, and she glided in almost silently, her six engines barely turning, the middle two now inverted and pushing her down. The ropes snaked out and her nose cone butted the mast and then locked. The motors stopped, a ladder came down and several sailors ran to peg down the ropes as the huge dirigible balanced on its big wheels, a pair protruding from the gondola and the other one under the tail fin. The old captain was absolutely the best at landing the wobbly monster.
I was standing there admiring the huge thing when I became aware of a woman standing nearby. She smiled when I looked at her and licked my lips for she was admirable, long and lithe with a head full of curls and a red mouth made for sucking. I approached her, offered my hand and found out her name was Summer.
"Can you get me out of here?" she asked, frowning. "I'm in trouble."
"Doubt it," I said. "Navy doesn't book passengers."
"Where are you going? I was hired to dance here, but the tourists are not coming, so." She shrugged, bouncing her obviously bra-free boobs and rubbing her hip against mine. "I'm broke."
"Dakar, African coast, and then Egypt, Alexandria I think." I pictured her stripped and writhing.
She nodded. "Can you introduce me to the captain or the first mate? I'm an American and the embassy's office has closed. I guess because of the dictator in Lisbon. I'll do anything to get out of here." She licked her lips and smiled, an open invitation.
"Sure," I said, taking her elbow and leading her toward the glistening dirigible. She mounted the ladder in front of me, and I admired her long, silk-clad legs. The captain was most gracious, and I suspect the old goat was hoping she was a good lay, but he agreed to give her a ride to Senegal where she might find a ship to take her home.
.... There is more of this story ...