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"For the long term, Canidy," Donovan went on, "I'm sure we'll find things for you to do, taking into consideration both your flying background and your demonstrated ability to do other things. just what, and when, hasn't been decided. The ever-resourceful Chief Ellis has scrounged an airplane for us, and we want you to pick that up and take it with you to New jersey."
"What kind of an airplane?"
"A Beech D18," Donovan said.
"Is that right, Peter?"
"Yes, Sir."
"I'm a fighter pilot," Canidy asked, more of a question than a challenge.
"And an aeronautical engineer," Doug lass said, "who knows
how to fly a D18S. Isn't that correct?"
"I got a few hours in the one the AVG had," Canidy said. "Well, you'll have plenty of time in New jersey to become proficient," Doug lass said.
"And we'll try to arrange it so that you can get checked out in other aircraft as well. When you can spare the time from takin care of the admiral, of course." Canidy nodded his acceptance of this. "Any other questions, Canidy?" Donovan asked.
"No, Sir."
"I think there's a coffeepot in the sitting room," Donovan said, Politely dismissing him. "Thank you," Canidy said again, and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
ONE I Lakehurst Naval Air Station Lakehurst, New Jersey Aril 9, 1942 P A Navy blimp was about to take off as Canidy approached the field in the twin Beech D18S. The tower ordered him to circle east of the field in order to get out of the way. Canidy was pleased. He hadn't seen that many blimps, and he'd never before seen one take off. It apparently required a great deal of skill on the part of the pilot and the large ground crew. He could see them now, half a dozen teams-six to eight men to a line pulling the blimp's nose into the wind while simultaneously keeping the machine from being blown crossways.
As large as blimps were-there were three others on the ground they were in turn dwarfed by their hangar. This monster had been built, he remembered, when he was a kid, at a time when important people seriously believed that dirigibles were going to be the warships of the future. A series of disastrous crashes, including that of the Navy's Indianapolis, off California, and the German passenger zeppelin Hindenburg right here at Lakehurst, had killed that idea.
The blimp he was watching finally sailed gently into the air and headed due east, out to sea. It was going on a war patrol to look for German submarines.
"Lakewood clears Navy Six-one-one for landing on runway two seven," his earphones announced, waking him up.
"The winds are five, gusting to fifteen, from the west. The barometer is three-zero-zero-zero." He banked the Beech back toward the field.
It was brand new, a V.I.P transport, neither the navigation trainer nor the bare-to-the-ribs small transport he had expected. It had been intended for a senior admiral who had been given a command at sea before he could take delivery. As was his way, Ellis had heard about this and "somehow" had arranged for it to be diverted to COI. A useful man, Ellis.
"Six-one-one on final," he said into the microphone as he lowered the wheels and put down the flaps. He had a little trouble putting it on the ground, and he was farther down the runway than he wanted to be when he heard the wheels chirp. He'd like to put blame, he thought, on the flight characteristics of the aircraft, but the truth was that the fault was his. Despite his newly issued Army Air Corps flight records claim that he was rated as pilot in command of C-45, C-46, and C-47 twin-engine aircraft, he had never been at the controls of a C-46 or a C-47, and when he had taken this Beech D18S off the field at the Beech factory in Wichita, it was the first time he had flown what the Air Corps called the C-45 solo. "Lakehurst, Six-one-one," he reported to the tower.
"I'm on the ground at ten past the hour."
"Six-one-one, take the taxiway to your left, and taxi to the east door of the dirigible hangar." The hangar looked even bigger on the ground than from the air-simply incredibly vast. As he approached, with the building looming over him, a Navy officer walked from the hangar, stood in his path, and made 4(come to me" ground handler signals. Canidy thought it was odd that an officer should be parking aircraft, but his signals were even stranger. The officer with the commander's shoulder boards was giving him a left-turn signal, into the hangar itself.
Canidy made the turn, but stopped. One does not taxi airplanes inside hangars. Prop blast does interesting things inside confined spaces such as hangars-like turn other airplanes over on their backs. But inside the hangar was a proper plane handler, a white hat with wands in his hands. And he, too, was giving "come to me" signals. Canidy released the brakes, opened the throttles a crack, and obeyed. There was, he thought, an exception to every rule, and this hangar was obviously the exception to the one about not operating engines in a hangar. There were six other aircraft inside. A Catalina with both of its en genes running taxied toward the far door. It looked at least a mile away. The ground handler, walking quickly backward, led him a hundred ards into the hangar and then signaled for him to turn left, turn around, y and shut it down. When Canidy climbed out of the D18, the officer who had met him outside the hangar was standing there, waiting for him. Canidy saluted, and the commander returned it, then offered his hand. "Major Canidy?" the commander asked. When Canidy nodded, he introduced himself as Commander Reynolds, the air station commander. "I like your hangar," Canidy said. Reynolds laughed.
"It's supposed to be the largest covered area without roof supports in the world," he said. "I can believe that."
"The sun gets hot here," Reynolds said.
"When we have the room, we like to park airplanes inside, keep them from baking." He's a nice guy, Canidy decided, but that isn't the only reason he's being so charming. He is aprofessional, keeping the apple polished.
NASLAKE burst had orders coming directly from the Office of the Chief of Naval Operations to provide whatever guard force was deemed necessary for Summer Place, and to place that guard force under the absolute authority of a United States deputy marshal who would make his identity known to them. And that morning the "deputy U.S. marshal," who was in fact one of the FBI agents on loan to COT, had told the commander, NAS Lakehurst, that he was being relieved by an Air Corps major named Canidy, who would be arriving in a Navy airplane. "Mr. Delaney said that he'd like to turn over to you at Summer Place," Commander Reynolds said.
"And I thought, if you had no objection, I'd tag along. I don't know what your requirements are going to be, and it might save time if I was there from the beginning."
"I'm glad you can spare the time," Canidy said. "I understand the importance of your mission," Reynolds said. Translated, Canidy thought, that means you don't want me to make any waves.
... Commander Reynolds drove Canidy to Summer Place in his Navy gray Ford staff car. The last time he had been in a Navy car with a white-hat driver had been at Pensacola. The admiral had dispatched his car and driver to fetch Lieutenant (j.g.) Canidy from the beer hall to the admiral's quarters, where he had been introduced to a leathery-faced old Army fighter pilot named Claire Chennault.
Chennault promptly announced that he was asking for volunteer pilots to fly Curtiss P-40B Tomahawks for the Chinese, and that Canidy had been selected.
