The Cannibal Queen by Stephen Coonts

Washington, D.C. In comparison, the planes at the Air Force Museum, in Dayton, Ohio, look like old airplanes that were merely de-fueled and rolled inside, a condition the Air Force refers to as “flight line ready.” The Navy planes glisten and gleam, sparkle and shine.
    I suppose one could argue that airplanes shouldn’t be shined like a pair of drill instructor’s inspection shoes since the lay tourist might get a false impression, but I contend they look better indoors when they are spotless and shiny. Ask the owner of any antique car why he put five layers of paint on his pride and joy, then waxed it to a high gloss. No fool thinks Model A Fords came from the factory that way. Women intuitively understand that looking one’s best adds to the aura of romance, which is what aviation museums are all about. Flight is romance—not in the sense of sexual attraction, but as an experience that enriches life.
    After touring the museum we drove out to Pensacola Beach. We forgot our bathing suits, so we took off our shoes and socks and waded into the surf with our jeans rolled up as high as they would go. They got wet anyway. In minutes David was in to his knees.
    On the way back to town we stopped at a beach gear emporium and acquired goggles and a snorkle for David, then drove the twenty miles to the motel and tried out the new equipment in the motel pool. It worked fine.
    At times David looks like a man to me, but sporting around in a pool he is half boy, half fish. “Come on in,” he pleads, then gets upset that his middle-aged father needs only five minutes of water sport to tire of it. Why don’t fathers stay boys for as long as their sons need them that way?
    A thunderstorm drove us back to our room. As we looked out the window at the rain, he asked what we were going to do this evening. “We could get dressed,” I suggested, “and go pick up a couple women. You get the short one.”
    “That’s fine with me,” he shot back, “but I get first choice.”
    We cogitated upon it and decided to go to dinner instead. It was 10 o’clock when we got back to the motel. I went to sleep while he was writing postcards. When I awoke at midnight to answer nature’s call the lights were out and he was sound asleep.

6
    I WOKE UP M ONDAY MORNING AT 5:50. Y ESTERDAY WE STAYED in Pensacola because thunderstorms rolled in at 9:30 A.M. while David was still asleep. Today we want to fly east to a beach near Jacksonville on Florida’s east coast. The weather will probably be just like yesterday’s, so the sooner we take off and point the Queen east, the better. I roll David out as soon as I’ve had my shower. He wakes easily and jumps out without protest. He wants to go to the beach and he can always sleep in the plane.
    “Where are we going today?” he asks.
    “I dunno. We’ll dodge the storms and find an airport someplace.”
    “Oh, Toto,” he warbles, “this isn’t Kansas.”
    At the airport David installs the wheel hub plates that we removed to get access to the tire inflation valves. We move the plane around to rotate the wheels and allow the screws to be installed easily.
    I keep looking to the south at a huge thunderstorm coming this way. David seems to be going too slow. Better not push him. I break down the tie-downs and preflight the plane between glances at the oncoming storm. The sky to the northwest is relatively clear, just the usual puffy clouds and haze.
    Ready not a minute too soon, we strap ourselves in and I crank the engine. As usual, she starts readily and emits her morning puff of gray, oily smoke. It is 7:02 A.M. The storm has an anvil on it that is blotting out the morning sun. The sky is growing dark. Welcome to Florida!
    We lift off runway 16 heading straight for the approaching solid black wall. Approach gives me a vector of 050 degrees and I turn handily. As we level at 1,500 feet over the bay it is apparent the storm is still several miles away. It wasn’t even a close call.
    We motor up