Chapter 38

When we go ... we always stop at the F7F and Alice gives her a pat ... a caress ... a lovers stroke. I can read her lips. “Soon, my beauty, soon.”

My ‘7’ has never been a radar night fighter ... just one seat.

“Ya know, Sweet Sister ... the F8 comes first.”

She will have to solo a Bearcat before she flies the Tiger. Alice does not like the F8.

After the obligatory F7F visit we continued to the grass strip and my current ‘surplus to requirements’ Chilean Navy SNJ, 523.

Alice did most of the work. I read, she poked, prodded, kicked, waggled and fingered.

I said, “Well?”

“Numbers match. Everything works. Just like always.”

“And?”

“Rock, paper, scissors.”

We did. I lost. I sat in front and handled the radio chores.

“S.N.J 523, S.Y.D. S.N.J 523 S.Y.D.” I used the letters as individuals ... the 523 was spoken as ‘five twenty-three.’

“S.Y.D, SNJ 523.”

“523 departing B.H.S to S.Y.D.”

On those dates and times when traffic is expected at Bathurst, the terminal is occupied. If the yellow station Nissan is parked in its spot ... someone is there. The Nissan was absent. We aviated.

My SNJ’s are fully military. Grey Green with the Naval Anchor tail markings and the Chilean red and blue rectangle with the white star superimposed. The 523 is in huge red numerals on the fuselage and wings.

Had I gotten the 40 I paid for I would have had sequential numbers. Instead, my aircraft have random numerals in the 500-540 set. Alternating would have been too easy. I got clumps.

Annoying.

Petty.

Insignificant to the uninvolved ... it pisses me off.

Excuse me... ‘upsets my tranquility.’

Daddy says ‘if that’s the worst thing that ever happens to you... ‘ and lets it die in the end.

I always sigh ... and huff.

Alice has never come right out and laughed ... but I have seen her struggling to keep from it.

“My aircraft,” I said gruffly.

Alice immediately relinquished control. “Your Aircraft.”

I wrung that bitch inside out. When we were level and headed eastish, I said, “Your aircraft.”

“My aircraft,” Alice said, “The admiral got you again.”

“Yes ... the fat bastard.”

“Feel better?”

“No ... but I’m OK.”

Sydney International has a flight of some kind ... in or out in the 45 an hour range. Not Atlanta or Chicago frequency but not Bathurst either. Our loiter time almost sent us to Bankstown ... but we squeaked in between a JAL in and Virgin out. I taxied to the closest closed ‘jetway’ to Victoria’s I could find ... second out from the Terminal.

I would love to say we got to Vickies immediately. I would love to say we got our shopping done and left without incident. Yes ... I would.

We didn’t.

Security, tower and THEN Vickies.

Ooo ... pissed. Them and us.

“I called before we left and the tower didn’t say no.”

“I didn’t say yes either,” said the fella I spoke to on the phone.

“Since you didn’t I assumed.”

And while this was in progress ... every free pilot and WW2 veteran in Christendom and damn near any other religion you can name flocked my SNJ.

The SNJ/AT6 is not a rare bird ... there are lots. It even has its own class at the air races ... and heat races to whittle the field. Bone stock, they are a skill bird. Mine were intended to be anti-insurrection and other incursion defenders...

The saying, oft repeated, is ‘Spanish speaking countries should band together.’ There is ALWAYS some dictator who says ‘Make it so.’

Chile has had its moments in the sun ... Armed Aircraft. I have a bank vault plumb full of breech-blocks that are missing their machine-guns. The guns are there ... demilled. Some few have rear seat firing positions. If someone threw a war ... I could attend.

Hell ... I have more military aircraft than many third world countries.

“Muahhahahahah.”

I’m glad I locked up.

I paid the landing fee and filled up ... good to go. Mr Tower guy wasn’t happy ... but he was satisfied.

We shopped.

Home again, home again ... we brought the pig.