A HEAVY JOLT woke Dean from his sleep. He watched concrete runway and extremely green farmland pass the bomber’s window at high speed.
Dean climbed through the access tunnel to the cockpit.
“Why are we landing?”
“Because Soaring Dove needs to eat,” said Tony.
“What does that even mean?”
Tony tapped a dial on the instrument panel. “We need to refuel, that’s what it means.”
The Native American pilot navigated the large bomber through the taxiway and stopped away from the scattered airport buildings near a large cylinder marked “Rob’s Airport Services.” The propellers of the twin engines sputtered and slowed to a stop.
Dean helped Emerson climb from the bottom hatch of the plane and stretched his arms and legs. Tony had left the plane like a scalded cat, and now had his arm inside a service panel of the starboard engine.
“Where are we?” asked Emerson.
“Kearney, Nebraska,” said Tony. “Just filling up the tanks. We should make it to Ohio around dark.”
Dean looked up at the wing and frowned. “Flying at night is okay?”
“Perfectly fine. I prefer to fly IFR.”
“The what?”
“Indian Flight Rules,” said Tony, and pulled his grease-stained arm out of the engine. “There’s no reason to stand around like a couple of deer on the highway. Why don’t you walk to the canteen and get me a sandwich?”
“Where is it?”
“It’s the olive green Quonset hut. You know what a Quonset hut is, don’t you?” Tony pointed down the tarmac. “The green building that looks like half an oil drum in the ground. Right there. No, not there––use the eyes Wisaka gave you, man!”
“I see it.”
“Good. Just don’t take too long. I think we’re being followed.”
“What? People get followed in dark alleys and Walmart parking lots, not in the sky. You can just look back and there’s the other plane.”
Tony shook his head. “The sky is a living thing, full of other living things. You are only one-sixteenth Cherokee, Dean Cook, and certainly not a pilot. You cannot sense the balance of energy. Clouds tell me what weather is ahead and flocks of birds show where the airstream is strong. By the smell of the air I know what mixture to set my fuel, and the sun shows me the way to travel.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” said Tony. “Also, I heard them on the radio.”