Chapter 7

Holland Michigan has two airports ... ok ok ok ... one airport and a former WWII training base. The airfield (training base) is on the north side of the lake and it's typical. One paved runway and a lot of grass. The hangars are 1930's and the aircraft are private.

The airport is on the south side of town and it's a real CAA going concern. They have a flight school with one Cessna 150 trike. There's a Maytag commuter that flies to places that have big airplanes and like that. They Are OFFICIAL.

The field has amenities; a pay phone and an outside coke machine ... and they sell fuel fifty cents a gallon cheaper than the real airport. When there's an airshow ... it's at the field and not at the port. When Oshkosh has a doings ... the field gets the transits both to and from Wisconsin. The operators are amateurs, and everybody who has a private plane parks it there.

David and Grace AUSTIN have thousands of hours. David and Grace Anderson are passengers. The Twins are dead ... The Andersons are alive and own six airplanes they can't fly because they don't have licenses. No matter how many aircraft they own they still have hoops to jump through because the Andersons have never taken flight school, instruction, soloed or hooped. It's already worse than last year but not as bad as it's going to get. Next year the CAA becomes the FAA and Federal assholes take over the flying world. But David doesn't know that ... nobody knows that ... well ... the Fed Alphabet Soup knows but it ain't official ... yet.

Harold called. "Mr. Anderson?"

"Speaking."

"I'm Harold Franklin calling for my dad, Ben, of Franklin's Flying Service and Aircraft Restoration out of Lansing, Michigan."

"You have my aircraft?"

"Came in today ... those are some big containers. The truckers are here and we need permission to crack the seals so we can inspect. Just so you know ... Immigration and Drugs are here too."

"Crack away, Mr. Franklin. Unless someone else is shipping something in my containers that I don't know about, tell the Drug folks they are welcome."

David heard a muffled, "Open 'em up." Then he heard, "Holy Shit!"

"Mr. Anderson, will you come to the shop?"

"Sure."

"Bring your titles, please."

"Not a problem ... as soon as Grace gets here and tells me where they are."

"Grace?"

"My wife." Inside, David was laughing his ass off. Outside he said, "Grace Anderson."

"Where is Grace?" This was a different voice. Another muffled voice said, "I'd know that SNJ anywhere ... I did most of the work."

"Grace is out on the Lake bringing in our just delivered sailboat," said David.

"Mr. Anderson?" This was a third voice.

"Yes?"

"Your name wouldn't happen to be ... David ... would it?"

"Why, yes, it is. David James Anderson."

"And your wife?"

"Grace Anoli Anderson."

There was the sound of a screendoor slamming and Hineahuone and Grace entered, giggling.

"Hey, Doll-baby ... where are the titles to the AD-2Q's? And the SNJ?"

"In the lock box, sweetums."

"Get 'em please."

"Sure. What's up?"

David gestured with the phone, "Harold from Franklins," He paused..."And the DEA and INS and I'm sure the FBI and Mr. Austin will be there when we get there."

A fourth voice said, "What makes you think you need an attorney?"

"The constitution of the United States of America makes me think that."

David hung up and dialed daddy.

"Law offices of Charles Austin."

"Hi, Lucy Lou," David said.

"Who is this?"

"Never mind, tell Charles to take a dollar out of the jar and meet me at Franklins at the airport. Since they are in Clinton County ask him to bring at least two Sheriff's Deputies and a Fingerprint kit."

"Charles! Your dead son is on the phone! Pick up, will you?"