Chapter 66

We had to go back to work ... Monday. But not today ... today was Sunday ... Sunday evening, actually ... tomorrow was Monday.

"Monday, Monday. Can't trust that day," I was singing and strumming my Hauser rosewood classical.

Grace heard it and thought it was a catchy tune, "That's nice, do you know the rest of it?"

"Monday, Monday, so good to me;
Monday morning, it was all I hoped it would be.
Oh, Monday morning, Monday morning couldn't guarantee
That Monday evening you would still be here with me.
Monday, Monday, can't trust that day;
Monday, Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way.
Oh, Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be.
Oh, Monday, Monday, how could you leave and not take me?
Every other day, every other day
Every other day of the week is fine, yeah.
But whenever Monday comes - but whenever Monday comes
You can find me crying all of the time."

"Where did you hear that?" she asked.

"Oh ... I don't know ... here or there. Probably at the Union." That was pretty safe. There was always some kid impressing the girls with his guitar skills.

"Who's it by?" she asked.

"Mama's and the Papa's, you never heard of them ... someplace on the coast," I said.

I never did clarify which coast ... or the year. I put the guitar away.

Arnold came up stairs, he was paint streaked and grinning, Pulled his hand from behind his back and shot us both umpty million times. "I got it! I got it! I got it!"

Grace said, "Got what ... besides us?"

"Automatic weapons fire!!!" Then he looked, "Umh ... sorry about that."

"For someone that's sorry you sure are happy ... let me see that thing."

"Not a chance!" said Arnie. "You must think I'm pretty stupid." He turned to go back down the stairs and Grace tossed a paint balloon at him. "Grenade, Arnie!" It hit him right on the back of the neck.

The look ... WHOA!

"New rule," Grace said, "No paintguns in the house." And headed for the shower.

Monday ... can't trust that day.

The magnetometer was behind the seats, just like the SNJ. A 250 gallon drop tank was slung under each wing inboard hard point, with a third 250 on the belly hard point. Three hundred eighty gallons in the fuselage tank and seven hundred fifty external gave us a range of more than 2300 miles at 177 knots and 14 hours flight time with plenty of loiter. Seven thousand one hundred nineteen pounds of fuel put us at two and a half tons under maximum takeoff weight. In the future that weight limit would be exceeded daily ... I knew that ... but They didn't, and we all know who They are.

It's 220 miles from Ann Arbor to Rogers City, which gave us the first leg of our flight.

The USGS was plain in their instructions: Fly the Coast of Lake Michigan to the Straits and fly the Coast of Lake Huron from the Straits to Port Huron at 100 feet or less following the 35 foot line to the 100 foot line as close as a crop-duster would dust a field; 100 feet apart or as close as possible. Don't hit any ships. We took that to mean don't hit anything. Try to get it done before the storms.

We lost a good three weeks due to no aircraft. That put us on the cusp of October and Great Lakes historical data says that the truly nasty starts in late September. Since weatherman is the only job where the forecast can be dead wrong four out of five days, Grace and I were appreciative of the added ruggedness and extra speed of the AD-2Q minus the Q.

At no time would we be more than 50 miles from shore and Canada is Friendly ... that's a capital F ... my other lives knew things would change but that was a long time down the road. If we were closer to Canada than the US when the shit hit the fan we could flee to Canada.

Since the Canadian border pretty much follows the 135 foot line, it seemed like a good idea to fly to the border and make our turn. The extra 35 feet in depth ... eh. We weren't paying for the gas.

We made a dollar an hour each 24 hours a day, a per diem of $13 lodging and $7 meals and so far the USGS had supplied us with thirteen completely rebuilt 745 hp Wright nine cylinder Cyclone engines that had a wartime price of eleven thousand dollars ... each.