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“No bourbon?”
“Stupid question, Little Cletus.”
“Mud in your eye, Howard!”
“Fuck you, Little Cletus!”
They tapped glasses.
Five minutes later, three Air Force officers—two captains and a lieutenant, all wearing wings—approached the table.
“Oh, shit . . .” Hughes and Frade muttered almost simultaneously.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the captain said.
“Good evening,” Frade and Hughes replied almost simultaneously.
“Could you spare a moment for the Army Air Force?” the shorter of the two captains said.
“Certainly,” Hughes said.
They’re half in the bag, Frade thought. And belligerent.
How do I handle this?
Show them my Marine major’s identification?
Or my OSS badge?
Either one will raise more questions with these guys than it will answer.
“You came in with that big airplane, am I right?” the short captain went on.
“Yes, we did,” Hughes said.
“I never saw one of those before. What is it?”
“It’s a Lockheed C-69. They call it the Constellation,” Hughes said.
“You were flying it, were you?”
“Yes. He and I were flying it,” Hughes said, indicating Frade with a nod of his head.
“Had a little trouble, did you? That’s why you set down here?”
“We erred on the side of caution,” Frade said.
“You ‘erred on the side of caution’? You mean, you were just being careful?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Frade said.
“Where’d you come from? In other words, where are you based?”
“At the Lockheed plant in Burbank,” Hughes replied.
“And where are you headed? Where were you headed, before you erred on the side of caution and landed here?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified,” Frade said.
