Chapter 17: Saturday at Bushie's Off-Road

We got to Bushman's shortly before nine thirty but pandemonium had clearly preceded us. For one thing, there was a craft fair operating in the park across the street. Nobody had checked the park schedule, and nobody had made provisions. Neither, of course, had the craft show vendors. As a result, the artists, artisans, food vendors, and local merchants were all arguing furiously about curb space. Progress was slow but step by step, inch by inch, everyone was slowly getting settled.

The next emergency came from Magic, who'd discovered another break-in at Bushie's. Taking no chances after Thursday night's break-in, Magic had checked over the Dunemaster and found that someone had altered the hydrogen regulator valve. After ten or fifteen minutes of operation, the hydrogen tank would have overheated and blown up. The police were already there. Magic explained it must have been a professional job. She was still checking the other vehicles.

10:00 AM

Just as I was getting over that, Ben and Nadia found me. "We finally cracked into Dee Muntz's file," Ben reported.

"It turns out her dad was transferred to another city during first semester last year," Nadia continued. "The rest of the family moved during semester break. Unfortunately, Dee was killed in an auto accident a few weeks later. A drunk driver ran a red light."

"The person who checked into Blackcomb-Weller's Featherton clinic and got the extreme makeover was a guy named Lenny Lobach," Ben explained.

"Viv, are you OK? Is this worse than it looks?" Nadia was suddenly asking.

"No, it's just the same old shit, that's all. Everything fits. I should have figured it out. Wishful thinking, I guess."

"What? Is this Lenny Lobach someone you know?" Nadia pressed.

"Oh yes, I know that name very well. He was listed as an assistant racing mechanic for Trans-Cal but most people believed he was actually a paid saboteur. He's a complete idiot except for two things: bobby-trapping vehicles and hiding evidence from the cops. He's never been arrested, let alone convicted. The cops and DAs know how many lawyers Trans-Cal can afford."

"Maybe he'll split now that we've found him out," Ben speculated.

"Why would he? He doesn't know we know, right? And even if he did, it's not legal evidence. You both cheated, right?"

Neither Ben nor Nadia could deny that.

"And if we did have legal evidence, of what? Getting a makeover? Changing his name? Those are both legal, or can be with all the right papers. We can't firmly connect him, or her, or it to either break-in."

"So what do we do?" Ben asked.

"Keep your eyes open, tell everyone else to keep their eyes open, and watch him if he shows up. Maybe this time we can catch him and put him away before he hurts anyone. Ben, I need you to help Olivia get her traffic control stuff working. Nadia, spread the word about Louie, or Dee, or whatever it calls itself these days. Don't mess with him; just watch and report."

At ten thirty Olivia waved from the roof to signal she was ready. A trickle of curiosity-seekers was dribbling in. The craft fair was outselling the food vendors, and the food vendors were praying for a good lunch rush. Crystal and Tess started making public address announcements and the echoes were deafening.

"Vivian, you have a customer," came a call from Erin and Katie at the test track entrance. At least something had gone right; they'd gotten themselves all set up without assistance.

"Hi, my name is Lola Liliuo," said the mark -- I mean the customer -- as if I cared. "I just dropped my son and daughter off at soccer practice in the park and thought I'd see what this is all about. Are you the driver? You don't look like a dirt track driver."

How does she expect me to look, I wondered. Dirty?

"Does this help?" I asked, pulling on a helmet. "You'll need to wear a helmet too, ma'am. Try those on the shelf until you find one that fits."

"I'd rather not. It'll crush my hairdo," soccer mom Lola complained.

"Sorry, you have to wear a helmet," I insisted. "Our lawyer insists on it. Something about liability insurance."

"Can I have my money back?" she tried.

"No," I improvised.

"Oh, very well," she said, then she peeled her fake Mohawk off of her bald pate and gave it to Erin for safe keeping. "You know, I spent half an hour this morning getting that thing glued on straight," she remarked bitterly.

Without the Mohawk crown to contend with, finding the soccer mom a helmet was easy. Then she got touchy about me strapping her in and I had to get pushy about that, too. I sure didn't want loose customers flying out of the jeep and into the air or worse.

"Is this going to be fast?" she asked impatiently.

"No," I replied, then I pumped the clutch, popped it into first, punched the accelerator and pasted her soccer-ball head to the seat back. The jeep lurched but remained on all fours.

"Aaaagh! You're running into that hill! You're gonna hit it! Watch out!" screamed the bald but helmeted soccer mom. "We're gonna fall backwards! You can't see where we're going! Eeee-yah! We're crashing into the ground! Stop the car! Lemme out! Stop the car! Oof! Not so fast! Not so fast! You can't make this turn! Slow down! We're skidding! Watch out for that tree! Omigosh! Oof! Where's the road? I can't see it! Oof! Slow down for these little hills! Slow do-OH-oh-OH-oh-OH-oh-OH-own! Why are you speeding up? You can't make this turn! You can't make it! Slow down! You're going over the top! You're falling! Speed up! No, slow down! Stop! I wanna get off! Stop, I tell you! Oh shit! Stop! I, oh shit! Oh-OOOH-oh! Stop! Oof! Stop this jeep! Oof! You're an idiot, you know that? Oof! Watch this turn! Let me off! You're gonna crash! How do you work this seat belt? Ohmigosh! Oof! Slow down! Slow down! Where's the road? Oof! I can't stand any more of this! Oh here comes the end! Stop! Stop! You're going too fast! You're skidding! You're gonna crash! We're spinning! Agh! Are we stopped?"

"Yeah, you want another lap?" I asked sincerely.

"No, ooh, just hold these, ooh" replied the soccer mom, handing me her panties. "Ooh! Aah! Ooooooh! That was terrible! Oooooh! You're a maniac, you know that? Mmmmm! Oh! Oh! Ooooh! Oof! Aaaah! Oh yes! Yes! Oh yes! Oooooh! Oooooh! Aaaaah! Pfew! Oh, I gotta have one of these! Where can I buy a vehicle like this?"

By then she'd fingered, I mean figured out the seat belt so I just pointed her toward the new vehicle showroom and off she went, wearing only her bustier. Ronnie Delonnie's perverted little brother snagged the panties. Erin tossed the fake Mohawk piece into the lost and found.

Business, at least, was picking up. Adam and Ursula were on the track with customers, and Ginger was loading up. A line had started to form. Apparently, the noise from the jeeps and dune buggies was starting to draw customers. Either that or the pompom girls had started waving and flashing their, uh, placards at all the nearby intersections. Or both. Lines were starting to form at the food vendors, too.

11:00 AM

Shortly after eleven I told my PDA to scan for special announcements on the local television stations.

"This is Eldon Leadbetter aboard NewsChopper 2 for Hot Local News," began the first spot. "We've over the east side of town where witnesses have reported seeing some unusual aircraft... There! Zoom in, please... Wow, is that... Yes! It is! It's a biplane! A biplane! No, wait! There's two of them. No, wait! Zoom back... back... there by the clouds... Ladies and gentlemen we have six biplanes entering city airspace on the east side of town and heading west. Stay tuned for further developments. Now we return you to our regular programming."

Regular programming, as it turned out, involved a naked model giving knitting lessons. Having no use for either, I asked for the next station.

"Good morning folks, this is Rosalinda Bibby reporting for The Sundry Channel, your ceaseless source of news and not," said a red-haired chick with big tits. "We're here on NewsBlimp Nothing with our pilot, Norwood Norris. Tell us what's been going on, Norris."

"We've hovering over the west side of town, Rosalinda, watching a squadron of red tri-planes circle over one neighborhood after another. There seem to be five, no six of them. Quite a few people are out in their yards looking up and watching. Some of them may have been sunbathing. Traffic at a few intersections is stalled because of people getting out of their cars to look. Bit by bit, the planes are moving east. It almost seems they're trying to attract attention."

"Thanks, Norris. Stay right here, viewers; we'll have more information as it develops," promised Rosalinda, her tits jiggling just enough to notice.

"Good morning, this is Wendy Ahern of NewsChannel 17 reporting live," began the next clip. Ahern was the reporter who'd discovered Adam and me screwing at Dhrystone Lake and put it on the air. I figured she owed me one.

"Two squadrons of vintage planes have appeared over the city," Ahern explained breathlessly. "At this moment, a group of six Sopwith Camels is advancing to the west. Six Fokker Triplanes are heading east. Based on our projections, they're going to meet at twelve o'clock over the eleven hundred block of Ruff Road."

"Viewers, quite a few others things are happening in that same neighborhood. There's a craft fair, some great-looking food vendors, and test rides on an off-road track. I see a band setting up, too. This looks like the hot spot of the day, ladies and gentlemen. We'll have further reports on the half hour but you really should come down and join the fun. Wendy Ahern, NewsChannel 17, reporting live."

Not bad. I'm sure it was my imagination but the flow of people seemed to be increasing.

Noon

By twelve the flow of people had become a flood. Some had followed the planes; some had come for the craft show; some must have seen the TV spots; some had followed the signs or whatever that the pompom girls were waving in the breeze.

Tess and Crystal had done a spot with Wendy Ahern about the food vendors and it couldn't have hurt. If Ruby's Camarones con Cebollitas Rojas y Ajo (Shrimp with Shallots & Garlic) didn't drag 'em in, Socrate's moussaka surely would. Wendy got a nice shot of Pietre mixing the ground lamb, eggplant, olive oil, onions, ripe tomatoes, white wine and grated Kefalotiri cheese, then covering the whole dish in bread crumbs and béchamel sauce before popping it in the stone oven.

Sure enough, Digger Topp ended up across the street from the Agoras's. The competition was something to behold. Hundreds of people were blocking the street, unable to decide between Digger's shrimp, steak, and game fish straight off the barbie and Socrate's moussaka, souvlaki, spanakopita and saganaki.

Guido Rabottini showed off a few of his Tuscan, Roman, and Sicilian creations. Bubba practically gave a tour of China with his Mandarin, Cantonese, Szechuan, Shanghai, and Hunan specialties.

Shorty Widdle's Griddle of Nowhere trailer was the smallest stand but his Henry IV burger with melted baby Swiss cheese, ham, tomato, bacon strips and 1000 island dressing was among the biggest hits. The "Marilyn" burger with fresh avocado, jack cheese, bib lettuce, roma tomato, dill pickle, sautéed Bermuda onion and Tabasco mayonnaise wasn't far behind. The pocket rib-eye, stuffed with sautéed mushrooms and onions and served on a stick, was an idea whose time had come.

Nate, across the street, was holding his own with a turkey and cranberry wrap he made with mayonnaise, German mustard, light cream cheese, and chunky cranberry sauce mixed and spread on a whole wheat tortilla with thin slices of roasted turkey, Havarti cheese and butter lettuce. The real butt-kicker, however, was an Italian sub that featured a partially hollowed Ciabatta bun filled with basil pesto, prosciutto, salami, provolone cheese, marinated eggplant, grilled bell peppers, hot peppers, dried tomatoes in olive oil, zucchini, and chopped green and black olives, all heated in foil for 15 minutes and then chilled in ice to blend the flavors. Even Guido was giving him dirty looks. And yes, he also had Vongole Gratinate al Forno, sand-baked clams on the half shell.

Kojo Kaunadodo was there too. Who wouldn't jump at the chance for one last Kaunadodo pizza?

The Sopwiths and Fokkers, meanwhile, had started dogfighting right over the area. It was incredible how many people were standing or even walking with their faces looking straight up. People would bump into each other, excuse themselves, and resume walking, never taking their eyes off the sky.

The first local band was playing by then: three guys and two girls who called themselves Quentin Collapse and the Tokyo Movable Ducks. Crystal had them using the receiving dock as a stage but the music floated everywhere. It wasn't half bad if you like that Mongolian Rap Reggae fusion stuff. Laughing Gas showed up late and had to play in the park gazebo across the street. They weren't laughing but oh well.

By then we were running four jeeps and three buggies, each with three passengers per lap. Even so, the line backed up for about a quarter mile. A lot more people were watching than riding, but even the watchers drifted over to new vehicle sales after a while.

Adam and I had just a moment to talk between laps. "This is a lot bigger event than I expected," he remarked.

"How so?" I asked.

"Mr. Bushman would've been happy with us just standing by the jeep, not even driving it, just waving to people," Adam reminded me.

"But this is bigger and better, right?" I inquired hopefully.

"Well, it's bigger; I'll give it that," he replied. "It's just, you know, not how I planned to spend my entire day."

For a moment I couldn't believe Adam had said that. Then I remembered that dune buggies and dirt riding were my scene, not his. Maybe I should have remembered that, oh, about Monday or Tuesday. Then again, it was Adam who'd contacted Bushman in the first place, Adam who'd set up the first commercials, and Adam who'd organized VAN Enterprises.

"Did you clear all this with Otto?" Adam asked.

"Why would I"? I tried.

"This is all your doing, right?"

"Uh, no, not completely. What makes you think that?"

"Remember Tuesday, on the big whoop? When you overdid something in order to be in control? Oh, look; my passengers are waiting. Talk to you later," Adam promised, then he popped into the Dunemaster, checked everyone's seat belts, and punched it down the track. Somehow I avoided breathing a cloud of dust. I didn't think it was intentional. The dust, that is.

1:00 PM

By one o'clock the Sopwiths and Fokkers were running low on fuel and had to retreat. In their place, some American Stearman PT17s and British DH82A de Havilland Tiger Moths began an aerobatic display. The news choppers were lined up along the side, taking it all in.

Somehow the pompom squad cleared a large enough area to perform their routines. They crowd teemed around them as they danced, shouted, and shook their, uh, poms.

A couple of the planes broke formation for wing walking.

Sidewalk performers started to appear out of nowhere. One of the first was Willie Fundeman, telling jokes and doing magic tricks. Even though he was still in The Program, he pulled a dove out of his left armpit and a mouse out of his right. You don't want to know about the porcupine.

Tess Palmer summoned an improv group that did comedy sketches and audience participation. Nearby were assorted jugglers, acrobats, musicians, puppeteers, and least of all mimes.

Dee Muntz, or Lenny Lobach, or whatever its name was just walked around at random and let people look at him or her or what. Amazingly, he or she stayed away from any of the buildings or equipment.

Then, suddenly, one of the wing walkers fell. The entire crowd gasped, then shouted out, they cheered as his chute opened. Then another wing walker jumped, and another until the sky was filled with parachutists gliding back and forth and catching thermals.

2:00 PM

"Uh, Viv, you got a minute?" said Erin as I waited for my passengers to load. "It's the cops. They want to talk with you."

Great. Just great. Just what I needed. "Are you Vivian Vivicelli?" asked the oldest cop, who was wearing a white toga with police emblems sewn in all the usual places. That seemed to mark him as the leader. The other cops were dressed (and I use that term loosely) in blue. Of course, they all had pistol belts or bandoliers at least.

"Guilty." I replied. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to talk with someone in charge," the top cop told my tit.

"Well, I'm on the organizing committee. It might take a while to find the others. Are we in trouble?"

"I'm Chief Getcherman, Chief of Police," the top cop said to my face. What a refreshing improvement. "It's a violation to stage an event this size without a permit. Look around. You obviously need crowd and traffic control. With this many people, you're bound to have a few thieves and other lawbreakers. Traffic and parking are a mess up to several miles away. You're really creating a major problem here."

"I'm sorry about that," I replied sincerely. "We had no idea the event was going to be this popular." OK, maybe that part wasn't so sincere. Oh well. "Is there something we can do to correct this?" Something other than shutting us down, I thought.

"That's what I came to talk about," the chief explained. "We've already closed off all the streets within a half mile. We've also opened every available city parking lot within three miles. The other officers here will provide crowd control for now. More are on the way. The sanitation department is bringing in more toilets and trash receptacles. I think that'll do it for now, but we'll continue to monitor the situation. And next time, get a permit."

"We will," I promised.

"Now, where can we get some of this fantastic food everyone seems to have?" the chief wanted to know.

"The vendors are lined up over there by the park," I explained.

"You mean in that No Parking zone?" the chief asked.

"Uh, somewhere around there, yes," I had to admit. "Here, let me give you a voucher. Katie, do you have some paper?"

She did, so I gave each cop a note that said, "Good for one special, any vendor," and signed it.

"You don't have to wait in line," I told them. "Just take these around back." That, it seemed, was funny. I guess cops working large events don't wait in line very much.

"Where's the best place to hear the band?" asked another cop.

"Over there, just beyond that break in the fence," I told him.

"But there's nothing there," he objected. "It's the only empty place on the property."

"Exactly," I reassured him.

Once the cops moved away, I recognized someone else who'd been standing behind them, It was the dad from the family of six at Nate's.

"Vivian? Is that your name?" he began straight to my face. "We met this morning, but we were never properly introduced. I'm Mayor Nays. This is quite an event you've organized here. My family and I are having the time of our lives. Plus, it's a special pleasure to see all these out-of-town folks bringing their business to our fair city. Good job."

"Uh, thanks," I replied blinking, shaking his hand, and wondering when the hit was going to come.

"Even so, I hope you're not planning to stage any more events this size, especially in this location, and without a permit."

"Every week," I had to admit. "We'll certainly apply for a permit, though. I mean, this week, we just didn't know."

"Vivian, with this many people in this small an area, the neighborhood is simply overloaded. There aren't enough streets, parking, and sanitation, for example. I don't want to shut you down but you do need to find a larger facility."

"Actually, we're working on that," I explained. "We signed the initial papers yesterday. But I'm sure we still need to get a lot of paperwork through city hall."

"That's where I can help," promised the mayor. "Here, let me beam you my private number. Give me a call when your paperwork is ready and I'll make sure there are no snags. Now you'll have to excuse me. I need to find my wife before she runs off with some Bulgarian acrobat."

Once the mayor had left, I realized Nadia had been standing right behind me. Without saying a word she threw me an omigosh expression and signaled "perfect" with her thumb and finger.

2:30 PM

By two thirty the craft fair had completely turned over. A vendor would run out of merchandise, then sell his tarps and booths to a new vendor, and then the new vendor would sell out.

Now, though, instead of knickknacks and t-shirts, the fair was selling outdoor equipment, outdoor clothing (particularly sunglasses, hats, gloves, knee pads, and boots), body jewelry, makeup infusions, haircuts, depilitations, piercing, tattoos, lotions, leather items, sex toys, and tissues.

Needles and Pins had purchased a sold-out a booth and was piercing people like hotcakes. I was watching the booth and the crazy pierced people when Cynthia passed by and noticed me.

"Oh, Vivian! Come with me. I need your help," she demanded in a nice voice.

"What's up?" I asked as she dragged me along.

"I've been feeling really plain lately," she explained. "Earrings, a necklace, and shoes. That's my outfit. Nothing in between. I feel like having a little more decoration. What do you think?"

"What were you considering?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. Some nipple rings, I guess. I just never had the guts. But here we are now. Will you help me? I guess I need moral support."

The manager, as it turned out, knew Nadia fairly well and the piercer was a friend of Sandra Samuels. That and their knowing I was some kind of organizer got us to the head of the line. Cynthia picked out a pair of 12-gague 75 millimeter d-rings and held them in front of her nipples. "What do you think?"

"I think they're fine if that's what you want," I encouraged her. "Have you told Walt?"

"No, it's going to be a surprise for him. In fact, I haven't seen him all day. Do you know where he is?"

"He'll be over in a little while," I explained.

"Well, let's go ahead, then. We'll take four of these," Cynthia told the piercer.

"I think it's better to start with two," I warned her.

"Aren't you going to join me?" Cynthia gushed. "It'll be such fun if we're both pierced the same, don't you think? I'll pay, if you're worried about that."

Now, at that time, I had no particular aversion to nipple rings but no real attraction either. It did, however, seem that having them would be more a nuisance than not. Still, Cynthia had been nice to me all week and if it made her happy...

"Oh, all right," I agreed.

"How about some belly button or pussy rings?" Cynthia continued. "Shall we go whole hog?"

Somehow I talked her out of that but even so, a few minutes later we were both staring at the large metal hoops now passing through and hanging beneath our nipples. Then the manager talked us into changing our stud earrings for hoops as well and Cynthia got herself a nose ring to match the one Adam had bought me two weeks before. Everything was titanium, of course. I was just glad they were using the new piercing equipment that identified and avoided nerve endings, and that deposited a temporary liner inside the hole.

As we left the booth we passed Pietre waiting in line. Somehow he couldn't stop staring at the new nipple rings and I suddenly felt terribly conspicuous. Funny, after a year of going naked you'd think a person would get past that. Cynthia kept looking down at herself too.

Eisenblush Salon, where Sandra Samuels worked, had moved into a booth nearby and was giving haircuts, Mohawks, and other depilatations at a furious pace. Rita and Serena had reached the head of the line and were discussing Mohawks with one of the operators.

"Well, if it's cum you're worried about, a Mohawk won't be much help," explained the bald heavily-tattooed operator wearing a transparent smock and no nipple rings. "It still gets caught in the hair you have left and if you go with one of the spiky styles, it's even harder to rinse out and maintain. Believe me, I know. I tried it."

"Will it ever grow back?" Serena asked.

"Yes, but you can prevent that by getting a booster every couple of months. Oh look; the chair's open. We can do it right now if you're ready."

They were, on a mutual dare. I made a mental note to watch for them later on. On the far side of the booth the entire Delonnie family was getting Mohawks, including Ronnie's perverted little brother. They were all naked except for Lonnie, the dad, who was wearing a fluffy yellow kilt.

2:45 PM

Right on time, shortly before three, a C-130 Hercules cargo plane flew an inspection pass over the area. That really got the crown going. I guess they thought the plane was dive bombing them, or maybe crashing. Then, on the second pass, the plane opened its rear cargo door and dropped an enormous portable stage section. A second later chutes opened on each corner, with rangers manning the chute lines. Then came a second C-130, and a third. The rangers glided all three sections beyond that break in the fence, into the empty field, and perfectly into place.

A second later doors opened in each stage section and a swarm of roadies began unloading, unpacking, and setting up lights, amplifiers, speakers, microphones, and instruments. Four Chinook helicopters brought in light bars, support bars, and generators. Ben and Dan were out there too, showing the roadies where to find audio and power connections. Then, after the roadies had lowered the backdrop, I felt two hands shaking my shoulders from behind.

"What have you done! Vivian, you asshole! What have you done!" screamed Crystal, who seemed about ready to pass out from agitation. Tess Palmer was right behind her.

"I told you the three o'clock band would be dropping in," I explained calmly.

"Yeah but, but, but, but,..." Crystal repeated, her body twitching as she alternately stared at me all bug-eyed and scanned the horizon. "But how?" she finally managed to utter.

"We'll talk about that later," I replied, beginning to feed off her excitement. "Now, do you know how to make the announcements? Because if you don't, I can beam you the script."

3:00 PM

"Asshole," Crystal called me once again, then she and Tess both patched their PDAs into the public address system. That seemed to calm them down, or at least focus their attention on the performance.

"This is it, right?" Crystal asked as the C-130 came back into view.

"Yeah, you might say that," I confirmed. "Go for it."

"OK, this better not be a trick," said Crystal, then she cleared her throat and keyed the Talk button.

"Ladieeees... aaaand... Gentlemennnn..." she began, then she released the button, cleared her throat, and quickly wiped her eyes. "Look up! Look up! In the northeast quadrant of the sky! It's a bird! It's a plane! It's the Condors! The Condors! Are in! The aaaair! The Crimson Condors, ladies and gentlemen, are in the air! Are you ready? Look up! Look up!"

At that moment, of course, a body came flying off the C-130's tail ramp. Thanks to Ben and Olivia patching the PA into the flight radio, the timing was perfect.

"Shit, I can't believe I'm doing this," said Crystal, then she caught her breath, punched Talk once again, and continued, "Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment, on drums: Mad... Mike... Munson!!!"

Yeah, it was Mad Mike all right. He floated longer than he probably should have, arms and legs outstretched and body facing the ground. Then he opened his chute and steered over the surging throng a few times, waving his arms, cupping his ears, and dropping t-shirts just to whip up the audience. The chute itself was one of those large rectangular ones, and of course it was deep crimson in color. He really did look like a bird up there.

Sooner than not, of course, he alit on the stage, stepped out of his harness, and strutted to his babies: his drums. The crowd went nuts when he picked up his sticks, then nuttier still when he held them over his head. It was pandemonium when he began to play but not for long. Instead, every man, woman, and child wanted to listen.

You can't truly appreciate a Mad Mike drum solo unless you've heard one in person. It's intoxicating. It's primal. It's mesmerizing. It draws you in so you can't think of anything else. You think you're hearing an orchestra, not a set off drums, each limited to a single note. You find yourself breathing, blinking, tapping, bouncing, just plain living in rhythm with that incredible music. I was off in another world, another life, then my PDA beeped.

"Southwest," I cued the others. Crystal was so mesmerized that she let Tess take it. Mad Mike finished his solo and fell into a soft but still enchanting rhythm. Then, from beyond the southwest, a Lockheed Model 10E Electra appeared over the trees. Yeah, you got it: the same type of plane Amelia Earhart was flying when she went down over the Pacific.