Air Force Eagles by Walter J. Boyne Page A

he was still running for Congress, it wouldn't keep him from being reelected—hell, it might help—but it might prevent him from getting confirmation for a presidential appointment.
    "What a fruitcake! How'd you find out about all this stuff, the art, the Klan, all of it?"
    Baker belched, then tossed a handful of peanuts in his mouth. "I was busier than a one-legged guy in an ass-kicking contest. Mostly I found out from the checkbooks, but Little Rock's a one-horse town. The Railway Express guy likes White Owl cigars and beer as much as he likes to talk. Said it was amazing how much artwork gets shipped in to Ruddick, all out of New York. The name of the company he gave tallied with his checks. I'll get more dope on it if you want me to."
    "Yeah, go ahead. What kind of art is it?"
    "He didn't know, never saw it unpacked. Says it goes out to Ruddick's house and that's it."
    McNaughton was uneasy. "You believe this Railway Express
    guy?"
    "Yeah, he's proud of Ruddick, like he's bringing culture to Little Rock. He's a Klansman himself, and he sort of sounded me out, real clever like, asking me what I thought about niggers, before telling me all about it. I had to walk finally; he was telling me more than I needed."
    They were quiet for a while, the silence broken by Baker's munching and slurping. He got up and fixed himself another drink, long on bourbon, short on water. McNaughton sighed, saying, "Help yourself, Dick. What about the children?"
    "You know the daughter is from his wife's first marriage. The boy flew your airplanes during the war; he's running a little airport now. Seemed like a nice guy, kind of quiet. Everybody I talked to had a good word for them both, although they hinted the girl was a hot number. One guy sniggered something about 'backseat Ginny.' "
    McNaughton rifled through the folders, as a silence fragile as gratitude hung in the room. Finally he looked up and said, "Baker, your expense account is pretty high for just giving out White Owls and beer. Don't you have any conscience at all?"
    It occurred to Baker that having a conscience would be inconvenient at this point, inasmuch as he was fucking McNaughton's wife regularly, and he replied, "Christ no, boss, look who I work for. How about my raise?"
    McNaughton shook his head. The information might be worth millions in the long run, but Baker mustn't know that. With a reluctant grunt of resignation, he muttered, "Two grand a year. Don't spend it all in one place."
    *
    Ekron, Israel/May 29, 1948
    "I feel like a popsicle." Sitting with two other pilots, blankets draped around their shoulders, Marshall prayed for the dawn even as the chill stiffened his weary muscles.
    "Chocolate-flavored," came a voice from the background. Marshall took no offense at the joking tone. In the ten-day crash course in Prague to check out in their aircraft, he and the other pilots had quickly grown close because each of them was a pro they could trust in combat.
    Like the others—an American, an Englishman, and four Israelis—Marshall had entered training with a false name and false identity papers. The Czechs were so glad to get hard American currency for the planes and the training that they only glanced at his passport, even though a Negro pilot was an obvious oddity. Marshall regretted not being able to wander around war-damaged Prague, poverty-stricken yet beautiful in its melancholy, but the pace at the school was too swift. Instead, they'd gone directly from the long sessions at the airfield to their shabby rooms at the once-magnificent Flora Hotel, where barely edible food was served in absurdly tiny portions.
    The Czech instructors had been a saving grace. Most were ex-RAF pilots who spoke English well enough, and who were following the new Communist line only because they had to. Many of them had flown Spitfires, and they bitterly derided the brutish Avia S-199 fighters they were teaching them to fly. Lacking the standard Daimler-Benz DB 605 engines, the Czechs had