In Plane Sight (4 page)

It took the three friends about an hour to run through with the police all that had happened. The banquet was finally wrapping up by then, but Elise Flaubert managed to keep the break-in from becoming the talk of the show. By the time Jamal and the brothers finally made it to the new Hawkins Air plane, most of the air-show goers had left Scott Field for the night.

“The paint looks almost
black
now,” Jamal noted as they approached the plane.

“A distinct improvement,” Joe commented.

“Many shades of red look black in dim light,” Frank said. “Human color perception is distorted in the darkness.”

“Joe's right,” Jamal said. “It's an improvement. When we get home, the first thing I'm doing is arranging to have it painted.”

The maroon-and-magenta Sullivan aircraft may have been ugly on the outside, but inside, it was a dream. The teens entered through the passenger door in the rear and worked their way toward the front. The eight passenger seats in the former Cessna Caravan were fine Spanish leather. The side paneling was highly polished wood, with exquisite inlaid geometric details. A wet bar and minifridge had been built into one wall. The area between the cabin and the cockpit featured a state-of-the-art entertainment center.

Joe whistled appreciatively. “Your dad must have paid a pretty penny for this,” he said to Jamal.

“I ask him no questions, and he doesn't raid my college account,” Jamal said, smiling.

Wooden detailing dominated the control panels, and the pilot and copilot seats were just as lush and comfortable as the passenger seats.

“This is the only way to fly,” Frank said.

“If you play your cards right,” Jamal said, “I might take you for a spin.”

“Forget
taking
us,” Joe said. “I want to fly this baby myself.”

“That, I'm afraid, is something my dad would
kill
me for doing,” Jamal said.

“A guy can dream, can't he?” Joe sighed.

They admired the plane for the better part of an hour, enjoying the plush appointments and checking out the controls. Then, after satisfying themselves that Davidson had been as good as his word, they made their way back to the tiny campground at the north edge of the airfield.

Only a few other tents stood pitched in the small yard beside the Flyboy Motel, and several motor homes were parked just off the motel's gravel driveway. Most of the other show attendees, it seemed, preferred warmer accommodations.

“Man, I should just sleep in the Sullivan tonight,” Jamal said, his teeth chattering.

“If you want to, go for it,” Joe replied.

Jamal shook his head. “No way I'm going to have you guys saying I wussed out because of a little cold weather. Warm the tent up a bit with the heater, and I'll be fine.”

Frank and Joe did as Jamal asked. In a few minutes the tent was toasty warm. They turned off the heater, huddled into their sleeping bags, and the three of them quickly fell asleep.

Around two in the morning they were awakened by a loud thrumming, buzzing noise.

“What's that?” Joe asked.

“Sounds like a plane on the runway,” Jamal said. “Who'd be taking off at this time of the night?”

“That's not just
any
plane on the runway,” Frank said, who had poked his head through the tent flaps and was peering outside. “It's
your
plane!”

4 One of Our Planes Is Missing

Joe and Jamal pulled back the tent flaps and gazed out to see what Frank was looking at.

Sure enough, a big Sullivan custom plane was taxiing down the tarmac toward the runway. Only the faint lights leaking from surrounding buildings lit the runway. The ugly maroon-and-magenta paint still looked black in the dim light, but there was no mistaking the plane.

“Come on!” Frank said, bolting out into the night. Joe and Jamal followed right behind him, quickly accelerating into a sprint. The three teenagers were trained athletes with impressive speed, and the gap between them and the plane closed quickly.

Fortunately the boys had worn their clothes to
bed to fend off the autumn chill. Unfortunately they hadn't worn shoes, and the cold pavement felt like ice beneath their socks.

The stolen plane reached one end of the runway just as the boys reached the other. The Hardys and Jamal dashed down the worn concrete toward the oncoming plane. The plane accelerated, its engine roared, and its central prop spun into a nearly invisible blur.

While Jamal stood in shock, Frank and Joe waved their arms and shouted to get the pilot to stop the plane. It merely picked up speed. The darkness made it impossible to see who was behind the controls.

“They're not slowing down!” Joe said.

“Look out!” Frank cried.

The three boys leaped out of the way just in time. The Sullivan custom barreled past them toward the far end of the runway.

The friends picked themselves up off the tarmac and ran after the plane, but it was no use. The stolen aircraft lifted smoothly into the chilly fall air. The three teens stood on the pavement, unable to do anything but watch.

“I was wrong earlier,” Jamal said forlornly. “My dad's going to kill me for
this
.”

“You're not dead yet,” Frank replied. “We might still catch them, using your old plane.”

“I'll grab the keys,” Jamal said. “You guys prep it
for takeoff.” While he dashed back toward the tent, the Hardys ran for the Cessna 182 that they'd arrived in.

Frank and Joe pulled the chock blocks out from under the wheels and did a quick preflight inspection of the exterior.

“Hey, you!” a gruff voice called. “Get away from that plane!”

The brothers spun and saw Mitchum, the security guard, loping toward them out of the darkness. His face was red from exertion and slightly puffy, as though he'd just woken up.

“But this is our friend's plane,” Joe said.

“So
you
say,” Mitchum replied. “You also claimed to have seen a burglar in the administration office earlier. What's your connection with the plane that just took off?”

“That's our friend's plane too,” Frank said.

“Oh,” Mitchum replied, arching his bushy eyebrows skeptically. “
That's
your friend's plane,
this
is your friend's plane. . . . Is there any plane on this airfield that your ‘friend' doesn't own?”

“We're telling the truth,” Joe said, frustration building in his voice.

“Take it easy, kid,” Mitchum said, his fingers resting on the butt of his gun.

“Look,” Frank said, “both this plane and the stolen one are owned by Hawkins Air Service. Our friend, Jamal Hawkins, had to get his keys so we
can chase the plane that was just stolen. Look, here he comes now.”

Jamal dashed up to the group. He had the keys to the plane in his hand, but he still didn't have any shoes on. “C'mon,” he said, “let's get going!”

“You kids aren't going anywhere,” Mitchum said. “Not until I figure out what's going on here.”

“By then it'll be too late!” Joe said.

Mitchum eyed Jamal from the top of his head to his socks. “You don't look old enough to own
any
planes, kid,” the guard said. “Amy Chow is at least four years older than you, and she's the youngest owner at this fly-in.”

Jamal bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet. “They're my dad's planes. We need to use this one to catch the other one.”

“I think I better call Ms. Flaubert about this,” Mitchum said, pulling out a combination cell phone walkie-talkie with one hand, and keeping the other hand on the butt of his gun.

“There's no time!” Jamal protested.

“Kid,” Mitchum said with a weary smile, “there's
always
time.”

Jamal was right. By the time they got the situation straightened out with Mitchum and Ms. Flaubert, the stolen plane was long gone. Flaubert called the police, and the friends repeated the story of what happened. The cops seemed
almost as skeptical as Mitchum had been.

The police went through the motions, filled out paperwork and contacted the proper authorities, but no one seemed to believe that the stolen plane would be found quickly.

“It was heading north by northwest when it dropped off the radar,” Ms. Flaubert said, “but that was so soon after takeoff that it could be almost anywhere now.”

“If only we could have gotten into the air and chased it,” Joe said, clearly frustrated.

“Sorry, kid,” Mitchum said. “Next time put on your shoes before you go running around like crazy people. That way at least you'll look a bit more credible.”

Frank put his hand on Jamal's shoulder. “Don't worry. We'll find that plane, and whoever took it, before your dad gets back from China.”

“I sure hope so,” Jamal said. “I
knew
I should have slept in that plane tonight.”

“We'll alert the fliers coming in and out of the show to keep their eyes peeled for it,” Flaubert said. “The police will have people out looking as well. If there's anything else we can do, don't hesitate to ask.”

“Would you call my dad for me and explain all this?” Jamal asked jokingly.

Jamal had trouble reaching his dad and decided not to leave a message with his service. “What am I
going to say?” he asked. “‘Sorry, Dad, but your new plane got stolen, and the cops have no leads. Call me back when you get a chance.' I hope he paid the insurance before he left!”

“I'm sure he did,” Frank said.

“Your father's a very reliable guy,” Joe told his friend. “Just like his son.”

“I don't feel so reliable at the moment,” Jamal replied.

“Some sleep will do you a world of good,” Frank said. “We'll tackle finding the stolen plane in the morning.”

They went back to the campground and crawled into their sleeping bags, but none of the boys slept much during the remainder of the night.

They rose with the sun. It was still cold outside; the red rays of dawn didn't chase the chill away from the frigid autumn morning.

Jamal and the brothers dressed warmly, then checked on the Cessna 182. They saw an occasional patrol car circling the field and noticed another security guard patrolling along with a very tired-looking Mitchum.

“Too little too late,” Jamal noted bitterly.

“Don't give up,” Frank said. “Let's take the plane and search. Maybe we can spot something.”

Jamal nodded. “I'll fuel up on the company credit card,” he said.

“I don't think the Scott Field fuel wagon is out
yet,” Joe said. “Do you have enough in the tank?”

“Plenty, so long as we don't fly into another state,” Jamal replied. “We can fill up when we get back.”

The three of them piled into the airplane. A controller cleared them for takeoff, and they launched into the air. Jamal set their course along the same heading as the stolen plane, using the coordinates Ms. Flaubert had estimated the previous evening.

The hills to the north of Scott Field became steeper and progressively more wooded. Patches of snow on the ground became more frequent, and the ponds below them took on a glittering sheen of new ice.

“Hey, Joe,” Jamal called back to the rear of the Cessna, “what's up ahead?” Frank was flying copilot that morning.

Joe, sitting in one of the rear seats, checked their map. “Lots of woods and hills,” he replied. “Kendall State Park . . . and beyond that, the Berkshires.”

“Nice place to visit,” Jamal said.

“Bad place to look for a plane, though,” Frank commented. “A stolen aircraft would be easy to conceal in those woods.”

“The trick would be landing it in one piece,” Jamal said. “Hey, there's an old airstrip by that farm down there.”

The brothers looked out the window and spotted a tiny runway with a rusty fuel tank next to it.
Nearby stood a battered farmhouse and several overgrown fields.