Dragonfly Vs Monarch

26. Ariion XXIX

27. The Last Mission of the Seventh Cavalry Book 2

28. Hannibal’s Elephant Girl, Book Three

See the end of the book for details about the others

Chapter One

In the air over Rio

Current day

Autumn Willow watched the ground below as the old B-17 bomber banked smoothly into the Rio de Janeiro landing pattern. She sat in the right seat of the cockpit and scanned the horizon as they leveled out.

“There’s Pantanal 413.” She pointed half-left toward the Brazilian Boeing 737 airliner, eight miles to the northwest and five thousand feet above them.

Her grandfather nodded and turned his attention back to the Aerovias cargo jet ahead of them in the landing pattern. He reached to the trim control knob while keeping his eyes on the cargo jet, adjusting the trim by two notches.

“Rio tower,” Autumn said into the microphone of her headset. “B-17 388. We’ve turned downwind behind Aerovias 856.”

“B-17 388. Rio tower. We are having you in our sight. Pantanal 413 and American Airlines 221 will circulate once on ten thousand over our heads to serve you time.”

“Rio Tower. B-17 388. Relay our thanks to 413 and 221. Sorry we can’t match their speed.”

“Rio Tower. They think they do not mind idling for one time longer, more or less.”

Autumn pressed her radio button twice.

“Pantanal 413 to B-17 388. We just sit on here to enjoy the sight of you aeroplane.”

“American Airlines 221 to B-17. You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in the air.”

“Thanks, 221 and 413,” Autumn said, then glanced up toward American Airlines 221, ten thousand feet above. “Hope to meet up with you guys on the ground.”

“413. We be on there pretty quick afterward you do.”

“221. Bet on it. Are you the one flying that graceful old war bird?”

Autumn looked at her grandfather and saw him give her a wink. The old man then took his hands from the wheel and gave her a Your turn gesture.

She shoved the microphone up away from her lips. “You kiddin’ me?” She grabbed the wheel and lifted her feet to the pedals. “Are you kidding me?”

“I never kid anyone, Clicker. I’m just going to enjoy the ride on this landing.”

The twenty-two-year-old grad student swallowed and reached for the four throttles with her left hand. “You work the flaps and carburetor heat for me.”

“Tell me when, and how much.”

Autumn positioned the microphone back to her lips and pressed her microphone button on the wheel. “Roger that, 221.”

“B-17, looks like you got quite a crowd down on the tarmac. Show ‘em what real flying’s all about.”

Autumn pressed her microphone button twice, then called the controller at the airport. “Rio tower. B-17,” she said. “Wind check.”

She’d seen the airport’s tetrahedron pointing into the wind and knew she would have to touch down at a slight angle to the runway, but her grandfather’s words came back to her.

Never believe anything you hear, and only half of what you see. Flying is as much art and instinct as it is a science.

“B-17,” the tower answered. “Crosswind quartering, left by right. Fifteen knots, approx.”

“Roger, tower.”

Autumn scanned her instruments and added a little power. The deep throb of the four propellers increased as the engines revved up a tick. She then banked the B-17 into a sweeping right turn.

When you’re in the air, there is no wind, because your aircraft becomes part of it. Her grandfather’s words from her first flying lesson. But on landing, you have to deal with the wind aggressively. Otherwise, it’ll wreak havoc on the most powerful of aircraft.

Aerovias 856 cargo was well ahead of the B-17 and already turning cross wind.

Rio de Janeiro’s Galeao International Airport, on Governor’s Island, has one of the most difficult pilot approaches in the world. With notorious crosswinds and the waters of Guanabara Bay off each end of the runway, there’s no margin for error.

Autumn pressed her intercom button. “Buckle up, guys. Guess who’s taking the Shenandoah into Rio?”

“Oh, shiiiiiit,” someone’s voice came over the intercom from the back of the plane.

“You got your ‘chute on, Andy?” said another voice.

“I do now.”

“Matthew, whar y’all put my dang jug of Jim Beam?”

“Cute,” she said and clicked off the intercom as she scanned the horizon for other traffic and banked the old bomber into the downwind leg of the landing pattern.

Aerovias 856 was now on his final approach and would soon touch down on runway two-eight.

Autumn saw the cargo jet crabbing to his left. She felt a bead of sweat collect on her right temple and run down her cheek. She checked the airspeed indicator and altimeter, then pulled all four throttles back a fraction. She eased the wheel forward.

“Ten percent flaps.”

“Ten percent flaps.” Her grandfather adjusted the flaps.

“Carburetor heat half.”

He pushed the four carburetor heat knobs forward. “Carburetor heat half.”

She wanted desperately to see his expression but knew she’d read nothing there, even if he was terrified. Outside the cockpit, he always joked, treating her like one of the boys, and he never missed a chance to brag about his granddaughter being a graduate student, studying micromechanics at MIT. But inside the cockpit, he was a serious, no-nonsense pilot all the time.

Grandfather Baylor Willow, two years older than the Shenandoah, was born in 1941. By the end of World War II, the old aircraft had flown forty-six missions over Germany, while he still played with his alphabet blocks. He saved her from the scrap heap in 1964, and now she was one of only eleven left in the world. Of the twelve thousand built during the war, all the others had either been destroyed in battle or scrapped later.