Crimson Skies

A Wing and a Prayer The sun wasn 't up yet.Paladin fumbled in the dark until his hands found his bag and parachute in the aerotaxi 's trunk . The driver craned his head out the window."You need a hand,buddy?" "Got it," Paladin said..He slung his chute over his shoulder and paid the driver. "Lots of flyboys showing up here lately,"the driver said."They all bring their chutes.Don 't Lockheed have the bucks to spring for you guys?" "Sure they do,"Paladin said."But when there 's nothing between you and the ground except a mile of air,would you trust someone else to pack your silk?" "Point taken," the driver said..He started to roll up his window. "Wait." Paladin passed the driver a dollar tip.."When did a lot of pilots show up here?" "A week ago."The taxi driver pocketed the dollar."Maybe a dozen.All flyboys ...either that or parachute salesmen." "Thanks," Paladin replied..He marched to the security shack at the eastern gate. Pilots with their own chutes meant independent operators.Why was Justin hiring more outsiders? Was he rotating his test pilots regularly because he didn 't trust anyone?Paladin filed that under "miscellaneous curiosities." He 'd ask later. The guard inside the shack tracked Paladin 's approach with an unwavering glare. "John Smith to see Mr.Justin,"Blake said,using the phony name Justin had insisted on.He felt like a heel,just saying the name.John Smith real original. "You 're expected."The guard made a check on his clipboard.He lifted the barricade and waved Paladin through.The guard then handed him a brass key."Pilots 'lockers are there."He pointed to the nearest hangar. Paladin stole a glance at the clipboard.The only thing written on the page was his phony name. "Got it," Paladin said,,and started toward the hangar. Through the slowly dissipating fog,Paladin saw a dozen other hangars,and in the distance,the gray outlines of two zeppelin aerodromes.A hundred planes were precisely parked on the tarmac: every make of bomber and fighter,even a fleet of autogyros.There were no people,though.Sure,it was five o 'clock in the morning,but there should be mechanics or guards ...someone .The place was a ghost town. Paladin entered the hangar.On the other side of a row of gleaming P2 Warhawks was a building, presumably the pilots ' locker room.. "Hello?" Only an echo answered. It wasn 't too late to accept Dashiell 's offer:a weekend of starlets and sailing in Santa Barbara.But that wouldn 't bring in the cash he needed to save Blake Aviation Security. No.This setup may be getting weirder by the second,but Paladin couldn 't afford to lose the job.He chalked up his growing unease to preflight jitters. Paladin walked into the changing room.There were showers and rows of large lockers with benches.He examined the brass key the guard had given him.Stamped on it was A303.He found locker A303 and opened it.Inside hung a flight suit and a fur-lined jacket;there were gloves,leather helmet, goggles,a steel lunch box,and a new parachute.The flight suit had a Lockheed logo embroidered on the back,and the name JOHNNY stitched on the right front pocket. Paladin slipped into the suit,jacket,and gloves.They were a perfect fit. "Mr.Blake?" Peter Justin stood in the doorway or rather,his body filled the doorwayNylund, Eric is the author of 'Crimson Skies' with ISBN 9780345458742 and ISBN 0345458745.