She crossed the room and opened it.
Nevada stood there, smiling.
"Beg pardon, ma'am," he said with mock formality. "I jes’ checked the entire joint an' you won't believe it, but I was the only Indian around!"
"Oh, Nevada!" she said softly. Then suddenly she was in his arms, her face buried against the hard muscles of his chest, her tears staining the soft white front of his fancy shirt.
JONAS – 1930.
Book Three.
1.
THE LIGHTS OF LOS ANGELES CAME UP UNDER the right wing.
I looked over at Buzz, sitting next to me in the cockpit.
"We're almost home."
His pug-nosed face crinkled in a smile.
He looked at his watch.
"I think we got us a new record, too."
"The hell with the record," I said.
"All I want is that mail contract."
He nodded. "We’ll get it now for sure." He reached over and patted the dashboard. "This baby insured that for us."
I swung wide over the city, heading for Burbank.
If we got the airmail contract, Chicago to Los Angeles, it wouldn't be long before Inter-Continental would span the country.
From Chicago east to New York would be the next step.
"I see in the papers that Ford has a tri-motor job on the boards that will carry thirty-two passengers," Buzz said.
"When will it be ready?"
"Two, maybe three years," he answered. "That's the next step."
"Yeah," I said. "But we can't afford to wait for Ford.
It could take five years before something practical came from them. We gotta be ready in two years." Buzz stared at me.
"Two years?
How are we gonna do it? It's impossible."
I glanced at him. "How many mail planes are we flying now?"
"About thirty-four," he said.
"And if we get the new mail contract?"
"Double, maybe triple that many," he said.
He looked at me shrewdly. "What're you gettin' at?"
"The manufacturers of those planes are making more out of our mail contracts than we are," I said.
"If you're talkin' about buildin' our own planes, you're nuts!" Buzz said. "It would take us two years just to set up a factory."
"Not if we bought one that was already in business," I answered.
He thought for a moment.
"Lockheed, Martin, Curtiss-Wright, they're all too busy. They wouldn't sell.
The only one who might is Winthrop.
They're layin' off since they lost that Army contract."
I smiled at him. "You're thinkin' good, Buzz."
He stared at me in the dim light.
"Oh, no. I worked for old man Winthrop. He swore he'd never- "
We were over Burbank airport now.
I swung wide to the south end of the field where the Winthrop plant stood. I banked the plane so Buzz could see from his side.
"Look down there."
Up through the darkness, illuminated by two searchlights, rose the giant white letters painted on the black tarred roof.
CORD AIRCRAFT, INC.
The reporters clustered around us as soon as we hit the ground.
Their flash bulbs kept hitting my eyes and I blinked.
"You tired, Mr. Cord?" one of them yelled.
I rubbed my unshaven cheeks and grinned.