Captain Hobson

December 18^th 1923 - 8.45am

Captain William Hobson sheltered from the wind whipping off the boiling ocean. The, San Francisco Airport, was little more than a glorified shed in a field. Hobson watched his DeHaviland biplane twitch in the gusts, where it was moored on the runway. He lifted a cigarette to his lips, cupping the glowing tip in his palm, and drew the smoke deep into his lungs. The door of the office opened and the clerk appeared, clutching the east bound mail sack in his arms.  

As sack was passed over, the clerk looked at the boiling clouds above their heads.

“Are you sure you should be making this run, Willy?” he asked.

Hobson shouldered the bag, his flying cap flapping in the wind, “As long as I get going now. A buck says I beat it to Cheyenne.” He tipped his fingers to his goggles and jogged toward his waiting aircraft.

Hobson stowed the mail in the co-pilot’s bay, before hopping into the pilot’s seat. A ground engineer stood by at the propeller. When the fuel-line was primed, Hobson gave the signal and the engine coughed into life. Black smoke belched from the engine, but soon cleaned up. Hobson gave the signal to pull the chocks, but instead of doing that, the engineer climbed up to him.

“Captain, can I ask you something?” he yelled over the roar of the engine.

“Sure, but make it quick,” said Hobson, pointing at the huge bank of black clouds appearing on the horizon.

“Can you slip this into the sack,” the engineer asked, pulling a small parcel from inside his jacket. “It’s for my boy, back home. For Christmas,” said the man, guiltily. Hobson looked at the package, he could lose his job for doing what the man asked. He also knew that the cost of Air Mail was far beyond most, even him. Hobson took the packet and tucked it into his flight suit, and said, “Safer in here than in any sack.”

  

The engine revved and the chocks were finally pulled. The flimsy craft took to the sky with a wobble, before turning away from the thunderheads.

***

Seven hours into the journey, Hobson was completely numb with cold. He was constantly forced to change altitude, to break up the ice forming on the flaps. The cloud hung low, making every direction look the same. He had to put all his trust in his instruments. He tried to keep track of his progress, but it was a hit and miss operation.

Whenever a break in the cloud appeared, he tried to confirm his position with landmarks on the ground. Rail tracks were a God send; they were the road signs of the sky. Still, many planes had vanished without a trace, it was like the pony express all over again. Flyers were never sure if they’d see home again when they aimed their propellers at the sky.

When the engine gave a cough, Hobson craned his neck to see the exhausts. Black smoke…again. The smoke cleaned up and the engine purred smoothly. Twice more during the flight the engine spluttered.

By the time the plane rumbled to a stop on Cheyenne airfield, day was turning to night. He Killed the engine as the engineers secured the wheels.

“She misfired a few times, I think it might be dirty fuel,” he told the mechanic.

The man shook his head, and said, “Tight Bastards,” to nobody in particular. Hobson knew the company tried to save a few cents by buying cheap fuel. Why not? Airplanes were insured, and pilots were easily replaced. That would all change if it were fat management asses strapped into these things, rather than him.

He trudged toward the office with the mail sack over his shoulder. As he kicked the door closed behind him, Jack appeared, holding a steaming tin mug of jet-black coffee.

“You beat the storm,” he said, handing over the mug.

“It’s a nasty one, won’t be going back until it passes.”

“Yea, got to talk to you about that,” said Jack, taking a sip of his own coffee.

“There is no way I’m flying back to San Fran through that,” said Hobson, knowing damn well that was just what Jack was about to ask.

“I don’t want you to go back, I need you to go on,” said Jack.

“I’ve a package in the back that has to get to Chicago, before tomorrow.”

“What’s so important that it can’t wait a few hours until the Chicago guys get here?”

“No idea. All I know is that the order came straight from the Whitehouse, and she won’t tell me another thing about it,” Jack said.

“She?”

“Yea, she,” said Jack, pointing to the back office with a frown. Standing in the door was a woman with flaming red hair and a black case manacled to her wrist.

“Evening Ma’am,” said Hobson, half rising from his chair.

She gave him a stony look and said, “Are we ready to leave, Captain? Time is of the essence.”

Hobson settled back in his chair, and sipped his coffee. If it was really that important, they wouldn’t have sent a woman in the first place. “You can just take it easy there, Missy. We won’t be going anywhere tonight. Not in the weather that’s coming.”

“You don’t understand, Captain. My instructions come from the very highest authority, from President Coolidge himself,” she said raising the case slightly, making the chain clink as it moved.

“Well, I don’t work for Coolidge. In fact, I didn’t even vote for the man,” he said, sitting up straight in his chair and glaring at the pretty lady.

She glared for a long moment before saying, “Can I talk to you outside for a moment, Captain? Alone.”

“Sure,” he said, following her swishing skirts. Once the door closed, she turned toward him, her face was ghostly in the dim light of the office window.

“What I’m about to tell you, Captain, is a matter of national security. In this case are the details of an assignation attempt, on the life of Price Hirohito of Japan. This will have dire consequences for our country so we must notify the Japanese authorities. There is a transmitter in Pittsburgh and that’s where I have to go. If I fail, a war may be triggered. Do you want to be responsible for that?”  

“No of course not,” he said, shocked.

“Excellent! Ready the plane, we leave in fifteen minutes, “ she said, striding into the office, closing the door behind her, leaving him standing in the cold.

***

Fifteen minutes later, the biplane was ticking over on the runway when a slight figure appeared in the gloom. She was wearing a flying suit far too big for her and clutched the case to her chest. Once she was settled in, Hobson gave the thumbs up to the ground crew, and the blocks were whipped away. For the second time in twenty-four hours, he raced the engine and pushed the tiny plane into a forbidding sky, and this one was completely dark.

It wasn’t long before the storm caught up with them. The gusts slammed them from all sides. They were thrown around the sky like a scrap of paper. Lightning bloomed while he fought to keep them on course, but they were soon lost. All he knew for sure was they were headed east.

When the engine spluttered and died for a moment, he knew they were in big trouble. He pumped the fuel and the engine roared again. He knew they had to get down and get down quickly. The woman in front turned around, her eyes were huge and terrified.

“What’s happening?” she shouted over the roar of the wind.

“We’ve got to land, the engine is going to die,” he shouted, noticing for the first time that she wasn’t wearing a parachute.  

“Where is your chute?” he asked.

“Jake didn’t have one,” she cried, clutching the black case to her chest and sinking lower into the seat.

“Bloody Hell! You better hold on so,” he said, trying to control the plane, as the engine stalled once more. When they fell through the bottom of the clouds, Hobson spotted a huge flat area of white, about ten miles directly ahead. It had to be a lake, and with any luck a frozen one.

“There is a God,” he mumbled, as he aimed for it. Lower and lower they sank, until the trees were skimming the undercarriage. They were only just feet above the surface of the lake when he saw what looked like thousands of tiny mountains, dotted across the top of the ice. He pulled back hard on the stick and pushed the throttle all the way open. The woman in front of him screamed and gripped the side of the plane with vice like fingers.

As they rose high into the sky, she shouted, “Why didn’t you land?”

“That ice has broken, and refrozen in shards, it would have sliced us to ribbons. You’ll have to jump,” he said, unclasping his parachute and tossing it into the woman’s lap.

“I can’t,” she cried.

“You can and you will. Get a grip of yourself woman,” he shouted, leaning forward to prise her fingers from the side of the cockpit. He told her how to get into the straps, and how to pull the rip cord, as she fumbled around in the seat in front of him. All the time he urged the plane higher and higher into the sky, making sure the chute would have enough time to open. The woman had just secured the last clasp when the engine coughed fatally. He reached inside his flight suit, drawing out the engineer’s son’s parcel and stuffed it down the woman’s collar.

“What was that,” she screamed as he struggled get the dying engine to fire.

“A last delivery,” he said, and with a flick of the joystick, he rolled the plane upside down, dumping the woman out of her seat. All he could do now was pray she pulled the ripcord.

He franticly searched for a place to land but knew already it was useless. Once more he aimed for the frozen lake, this time he couldn’t escape the razor-sharp teeth of ice. He prayed it wouldn’t hurt too much when they ripped through flesh, bone and steel with ease.

The end.