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Dottie




Saturday morning was calm and sunny, a picture perfect sunrise over the sleepy town of Heath. The early morning air was still cool, and the sky took on a periwinkle color, with not a cloud in sight. Dew glistened in the lush green grass that swayed in a breeze. Spring was in full bloom on a perfect end of May day.

Working the rudder pedals and throttle, Alvin kept a tight grip as he taxied to the runway. Strapped into the armored seat of his immaculate Warhawk, the red-nosed P-40E burbled to the runway. Its Allison V12 emitted a deep raspy tone at low power, driving the three-blade Curtiss propeller that was black and tipped in yellow, forming a golden circle in front. The pre-war marked Warhawk looked like a time capsule from 1941 in its olive drab and neutral gray paint. The engine crackled and popped as Alvin gently manipulated the throttle while making a wide arcing turn for the runway.

With the canopy locked back, Alvin felt the cool breeze blow into the cockpit as he made the turn onto the runway. He came to a stop on the striped threshold for a final check of his gauges on the instrument panel. It was the moment of truth in his quest to learn how to fly; it was the very first solo flight of his, the first officially sanctioned flight in a warbird. This was the big flight. Solo flight number one.

"Okay tower, Zoom two, ready for takeover, over." Alvin radioed to the airport's flight control center.

"Confirm, Zoom two, over, you may proceed with takeoff. Over."

Alvin gripped the throttle and slowly opened it up. As he built up engine revs, he pushed in opposing rudder to counter the torque, and his unnamed Warhawk began its takeoff roll. Lightly loaded, the P-40 quickly stood up on its main gear as it galloped down the runway. The Allison emitted a high pitched roar, and the propellers created wispy moisture trails. Gently nudging the stick back, Alvin felt the wheels leave the pavement, and the Warhawk effortlessly climbed away from the Newark-Heath. He maintained a slow climb and pulled the gear up and adjusted the flaps. After two minutes, he began to nudge the throttle back to cruise power. He watched the manifold pressure drop back to cruise power, the engine's roar dying down to a smooth purr.

Maintaining his slow climb, Alvin watched Heath, then Newark pass out of his view. Flying north, Alvin began his planned flight north towards Cleveland, which would have him loop around and fly back for his first solo flight and final test to get his type rating. He kept the P-40 nice and steady, with a ground speed of 200MPH at three thousand feet. From his vantage point in the clear blue skies, Alvin glanced around at the scenery below, keeping his head on a swivel. Everything looked lush and full of life; the grass was a brilliant green, woodland was beginning to flush out with new growth, and fields of wheat swayed in the breeze like a sea of brilliant emerald.

Looking confident at the stick, Alvin enjoyed the cool breeze blasting into the cockpit. At eighteen, the black and tan Doberman looked the part of the young pilot newly released in his high performance mount. He wore a olive green flight suit, complete with parachute pack strapped to his back. A leather flying helmet covered his curly locks of black hair, and big tinted goggles shielded his eyes. He felt mighty proud that the Warhawk was officially his, his graduation present from his wealthy uncles who raised him since he was nine. He had waited seven years to finally take command of the veteran P-40.

Arriving over Cleveland, Alvin passed over the heart of downtown, then banked around in a wide turn over the lake to pass over Lorraine, before beginning his southbound journey back to Newark. He radioed his position to the ATC center, and got an altimeter adjustment. It was smooth sailing back on home. Glancing out his cockpit for a moment, Alvin banked to his left momentarily to see himself pass over some of the slums of Cleveland. It reminded him of his past life, home, in the Hilltop.

As he sat in his multimillion dollar warbird high above his home state, Alvin thought about what his life would have been had his uncles not come into his life. Alvin was the unfortunate son of a deadbeat, immature dad, and a troubled prostitute mom, who's criminal family was downright evil. Alvin lived the first nine years of his life in the Hilltop, off Sullivant Avenue, deep in the slums of Columbus. He had his Mom and his cousin Shakar, and they all endured the violent abuse of his grandmother, Mary Marquee. When he was nine years old, he was taken away and sent to live with his father, who at the time had no interest in raising him. Thus Alvin was placed in the care of his Uncle Joey Paulo, and his husband, Rob Barion. His future was secured by them.

As he flew alone in the empty skies, Alvin thought of how far he had come, and where he envisioned himself going. Had he stayed back at that home off Sullivant Avenue, he could see himself being just like his cousin, behind bars now for attempted murder after shooting his Dad and severely wounding him. His Mom was dead, his grandmother and cousin imprisoned. Alvin wanted to be just the quiet kid who liked to read and learn, rather than the hard acting, gangbanger like Shakar wanted to be. Here he was now at eighteen, freshly out of high school, with his high performance warbird. Luck favored him apparently; his instructor who taught him how to fly passed away in 2019, and the family gifted him two more warbirds. A two-seater TP-40N Warhawk, and a civilian modified P-51, a Cavalier 2000 Mustang. "It's not what you know, it's who you know" Alvin thought amusingly. And if the legal matter he had against the local Sheriff's office went in his favor? He'd be set for life too. Wild events, Alvin thought, for a while time at the start of the new decade.

Returning back to Newark forty minutes later, Alvin circled around the airport, allowing traffic to clear the runway. Arcing around and dropping everything down, Alvin lined up for the runway to begin his descent. Working the throttle cautiously with his left paw, Alvin maintained a smooth descent while intensely watching his speed. Crossing over Irving-Wick Drive, he cut the throttle at the threshold, and allowed the Warhawk to gracefully sink onto its main gear. There was a slight rattling jolt as the tires made contact with the pavement and squeaked. He rode on the main gear while gently tapping the brakes. As the sped bled off, he could gently touch the locked tail wheel down. He pumped the brakes to avoid nosing over. Coming to a slow crawl, he unlocked the tail wheel, and put the plane into a slow turn for the service ramp. As he taxied, he saw his Uncle Rob taking some pictures with his big fancy Sony. Alvin smiled and waved from the cockpit, and Rob waved in return. His usually dour looking uncle looked mighty happy for him.

Returning to his aviation museum's ramp, Alvin rumbled up and was guided in to a parking space by Tito Horvat, one of the mechanics to the museum. Turning around to park, Alvin ran his Allison lean for a moment, before pulling the mixture to "cut". The V12 sputtered and powered off, and he watched as he unbuckled himself, the propeller windmill to a stop. He could faintly smell the exhaust as he stepped out of the cockpit, to a small applause from his uncles and airport administrators.

Alvin met everyone and happily shook paws with the airport executives and Stanley, the resident EAA inspector for the EAA's chapter at the airport. Stanley signed off on the paperwork, granting Alvin his official type rating for the P-40. Alvin looked ecstatic as he got his picture taken with his Warhawk by Rob.

After giving one final walk around inspection of his mount, Alvin hopped on the tug and hooked the plane up to the tow bar, to go back into the hangar. He gently backed it in and parked it next to his two other warbirds. His TP-40N was natural metal in late war markings. It carried an interesting chevron pattern of orange and black on the nose and tail. The Cavalier 2000 was black on the underside, with a brick red cheatline separating the black from the white upper half. The prop spinner was black and the four-blade propeller was light gray with yellow tips. It sported a taller tail and wingtip tanks, in comparison to military Mustangs. Both the TP-40 and Cavalier were owned by the late Robert "Bob" Woodward, a Swiss wolf, from Luxembourg. He could fly just about anything, and was in the midst of training Alvin how to fly when he suffered a sudden massive stroke aboard the backseat of the TP-40, forcing Alvin to make an emergency landing where he later died at the age of sixty-seven. Alvin owed it to him, and was grateful to his family for gifting him the two immaculate planes.

Closing the hangar doors up, Alvin hopped into his blue Tahoe, and took off for home. As he drove home, he still felt euphoric about his type rating. Another victory.

---

Parking his truck at the courthouse square, Alvin hopped out and adjusted his baseball hat atop his head. Dressed casually in shorts and a tanktop, the lanky Doberman walked to his attorney's office on the north side of the square, clutching a folder of legal documents that Rob asked to be dropped for him. Much like Alvin, his uncle was tied up in a legal battle against the city of Chicago, against the factory bombing that involved members of the city government. Alvin felt that his beef with the city's police department was a lot less intense.

About a year ago, Alvin was stopped by a Licking County Sheriff's deputy, after reports of a stolen vehicle that matched his old silver Tahoe. While attempting to give the deputy his driver's license and registration, he panicked and pulled his gun on him. In the ensuring chaos, the deputy's partner busted out the side windows and pepper sprayed everyone while Alvin was physically yanked out of the vehicle through the window. He was pinned to the ground with a knee on his throat, and struck multiple times across the face by a baton, severely injuring him. Rob was so incensed by the event that he not only filed a 90 million dollar lawsuit against Sheriff's department and its union, he also broke the deputy's jaw in a fit of rage at the emergency room. It was a frightening fiasco that was hopefully in the ending stages after nearly a year of negotiations and litigation through the Licking County court system.

The office of Lisa Scheiddegger was a nestled between a jewelry store and a eatery. It was a nondescript entrance, a door surrounded by dark granite stone that read her law office's name in white lettering on the glass. Stepping inside and checking in, Alvin went upstairs to where Lisa kept her office at. If there was anyone who could match his uncle's ruthlessness, it was Lisa Scheiddegger, a tough, no-frills, no-bullshit German Shepherd who was lethally accurate in her legal acumen. In her early fifties, with neatly permed brown hair, and always sharp in her business suits and slacks, she was a force of her own. Folks in town named her "Mrs. Rob Barion".

Poking his head into her office and gently knocking on the door, he found Lisa hard at work at her paper strewn desk, on the phone, while her husband and fellow legal partner, sat playing on his phone. Lisa sounded fired up as usual as she spoke to another client. She thanked them and quickly hung up. "Mister Paulo! Good morning!"

"Morning!" Alvin smiled. "Rob wanted me to drop this off too."

"Awesome." Lisa agreed. She sat down, opened the folder up, and quickly stamped it all as received. "I asked you to come here real quick, because the LCSO is offering a settlement to end this bullshit, and I think you might be pleased with it."

"Oh yeah?" Alvin responded with a curious tone.

"Nine point eight million, post-taxes, lump sum." Lisa said, putting the offer out there. "Not ninety million, but I doubt you'd ever see that. If I was you I'd take it."

"Huh, nice." Alvin nodded.

"Plus you won't worry about that deputy anymore. His ass got fired. He's goneeee~" Lisa said with a smirk.

"He'll probably get hired somewhere else and it'll be square one."

"Find the town and stay away from it." Laughed Lisa. "RICHARD! You gonna order lunch, or are you just gonna be a lazy fuck in that chair!"

"Oh! Oh! Okay!" her husband exclaimed from his dazed off state.

"Burger and fries, vanilla shake too!"

"Got it!"

"Vanilla!" Lisa pointed.

"Got it, honey!" Richard exclaimed as he ran past Alvin.

Lisa chuckled and filed away Rob's documents. "Surrounded by idiots, Alvin."

"That's what my uncle says too." Smiled the Doberman. "Do you mind if I call my uncle?"

"Sure."

Alvin quickly got Rob on speakerphone, and Alvin, Rob, and Lisa momentarily spoke about the settlement offer. Rob's opinion was that it was up to Alvin, as he was the victim. Alvin said he liked the offer, and Rob accepted it if Alvin had no problem with it."

"I'll let the other parties know of the settlement, so we can end it. Thank you Rob!" Lisa shouted with a smile.

Alvin chuckled and ended the call and stuffed the phone back into his pocket. Lisa typed something up on her computer and rolled back in her chair to pick up the document as it was spat out of her huge Xerox copier. "If you may sign, Alvin... JIM!"

The office notary came running in with his stamp. "Yeah, Lisa?"

"Can you notarize this please?" Lisa asked him with a friendly smile.

Alvin grabbed a pen and signed the document, followed by Lisa. The notary smacked his stamp with the seal of Licking County, and signed. Lisa took it and placed it back in the copier to fax it over.

"Done deal, Alvin. Thank you!"

"And hopefully a done deal with Uncle Rob's lawsuit." The Doberman chuckled. He saw Lisa roll her eyes as she filed the document in Alvin's folder.

"Tomorrow is the verdict. I'm done with that fucking city, that shrieky ass mayor of theirs, and that no-talent, assclown, googly-eyed motherfucker budget director of theirs who just got his ass arrested!" Lisa griped. 'I gOt YoU gUyS, tRuSt Me.' Pfft. Got what? Bail?"

Alvin just laughed. She sounded just like his uncle. "Guess I'm a millionaire now!" Alvin laughed.

"Better cough up that dough for the legal fees, or I'll break out the baseball bat!" laughed Lisa teasingly.

"Heh, that will be taken care of." Smiled Alvin. "And you'll be getting a pretty penny from Rob too."

"Not Rob! Chicago." The German Shepherd laughed. "When they lose, they're paying my legal fees. I'm turnin' that city into Detroit when I'm done with them~"

"Oh boy."

"If you're good at something Alvin, you never do it for free." Lisa pointed. "Alrighty! I appreciate your time Alvin, have a good day. Oh! And congratulations on graduating! Good luck!"

"Hey, thanks Lisa." Smiled Alvin. "Take care!"

Alvin left the office and walked back to his SUV parked by the courthouse. As he walked, he looked surprised and introspective at the same time; it dawned on him that he was going to have a lot of money in his bank account soon. Not just a lot of money, but an almost "set for life" monetary settlement. It was such a surprise that he didn't even know how to feel. All the people his age worrying about college debt, the out of control inflation and cost of living, and here was Alvin, who already owned three multi-million dollar planes, getting nearly ten million dollars! "Wow" was all Alvin could think to say as he climbed back into his SUV. "Wow."

---

Three Weeks Later




Taking a moment to rub some sunscreen on his nose, Alvin watched the morning hustle on the flight ramp at Newark-Heath. The calm air was cool, and the sky was still dim as the eastern sun was concealed behind the small foothills east of town. It would be another scorcher of a day, but an even hotter destination awaited Alvin as he stowed his sunscreen into his backpack. Throwing it over his shoulders, the Doberman adjusted his baseball cap and went back in to help in the preflight preparation of "Gulliver", the DC-6 on the ramp.

"Gulliver" was a 1953 DC-6BF, a former Pan American Cloudmaster. It wore a simple paint job; a white upper fuselage that read "UNITED BAREV INDUSTRIES LTD." in black stenciling, a dark blue cheatline that followed the windows, and a polished metal underbelly, wings, and nacelles. Its small radome was painted matte black. The "Six" was powered by a quartet of R-2800 Double Wasp radial engines, driving three bladed, flat-tipped Hamilton 43E60 propellers that were polished up and tipped in red, white, and blue. Somewhere in its long life bouncing around the world, it was christened "Gulliver", and the name stuck, written on the nose in black cursive.

Alvin walked up and gazed at the old propliner; it lacked the beautiful curves of the Lockheed Constellation, or the raw power and range of its successor DC-7, but it more than compensated with its reliability. It was just the perfect plane to learn how to fly on, and today was Alvin's big day in his quest to get a multi-engine license on his certificate. He would be flying in the right hand seat with Felix Barion, the owner and restorer of old "Gulliver".

Sitting on the wing, Felix worked to top the oil up on engine three. He was a twenty-six year old fawn Doberman, with tan and beige fur. Wearing a blue and gray striped tanktop, Felix had both his arms heavily tattooed. Black and gray sleeves ran from his wrists to his shoulders, connecting to a chest tattoo that poked out from around the edges. He had thick black hair that was kept short on his head, between his pointy cropped ears, and a neatly trimmed goatee. Felix was Rob Barion's adopted son, and Alvin looked up to him like an older brother he always wanted. Much like Alvin's troubled past, Felix escaped an unhealthy home life after being disowned for being gay. He flourished in Rob's care.

Felix was gifted in his aviation acumen. He could fly well over twenty different aircraft, and could confidently fly everything from a bi-plane Stearman, all the way to a supersonic Su-27 Flanker. He had found "Gulliver" as a broken down, parted out airframe in the desert, sitting sadly on its nose, and resurrected it into one of his box haulers, looking good as new. Felix had gone as far as almost succeeding with an airline that made money using the old propliners he helped restore, but a tragic accident that killed over a hundred people, an act of sabotage by a bitter rival, knocked Felix down a few pegs. Now he aimed smaller, just as another quiet bureaucrat in Barev world. Felix oversaw Barev's aviation operations, including its "BATS" system, the "Barev's Air Transport Service", interlinking its various facilities across the country.

"Felix!" Alvin called, which got his attention.

"Morning, Alvin!" Felix called. "Just toppin' up the oil!"

"Where's the flight plan at? The checklist?"

"Sitting on the captain's seat!" Felix motioned.

"I'll go through the preflight inspection!" Alvin announced.

"Okay! I'll done here in a moment!"

Alvin climbed up the narrow airstair that gave him access to the crew access door. Stepping into the "Six", Alvin watched ground crew lift another crate that got loaded into the fuselage. Inside sat a couple radial engines, a ground start cart, and a few crates of aircraft parts being strapped down by the airport loadmaster. They were assisted by the other flight crew members, Ivo Horvat, and his now husband, Jordan Hoover. Ivo, a gray wolf who hailed from Croatia, had tattoo sleeves like Felix. Reddish brown hair was hidden beneath a hat, and bright blue eyes peered out. He was casually dressed in a red t-shirt and designer jeans. Jordan Hoover was a German Shepherd, originally from Kansas. He spoke with a slight southern drawl, and wore khaki shorts and a gray t-shirt. He and Ivo were both twenty-eight, and would be the flight engineer and backup pilot for the long journey to Arizona.

Stepping into the cockpit, Alvin took a glance at the light gray instrument panel and flight engineer's station. The cockpit was a mixture of old and new. A new digital autopilot, GPS, and weather displays contrasted to the old analog gauges installed on the faded and chipped instrument panel. The control yokes had faded paint where all the pilots from years past gripped at. There was a lot of history in this old plane, and Alvin felt excited and honor to be able to sit behind the controls.

Grabbing the checklist, Alvin climbed down and began the preflight inspection as fueling finished up. He walked the whole exterior of the plane, examining its duralumin skin carefully for any abnormal leaks or damage. Walking under the wings, he examined the engine cowls, and climbed up on the ladder to inspect the inside of the cowling, and the forward cylinder banks of the big Double Wasps. Once the ground crew were finished and the loadmaster departed, Alvin climbed up and checked the status of the hatches, and the straps holding the load down. Once he checked things off, he let Felix go through to double check, and "Gulliver" was cleared. Alvin and Felix both signed off and turned in the flight plan. They were ready to go. The props were hand-turned to check for hydraulic lock, and everyone climbed aboard to begin the long flight west.

Alvin took his seat in the right hand seat and strapped himself in. Donning his sunglasses, flipped a page on the planner and went through the procedure to power up the DC-6. Flipping a few switches started the APU in the tail, and Alvin watched as the plane came to life. Indicator lights began to glow, and gauges came to life. Ivo, who would serve as flight engineer, went through the engine start checklist. Alvin followed along and watched as engine three was started first. It was the critical engine, as it operated the generator. Alvin counted the blades and called them out as Ivo hit the magneto switch. With a big hacking cough and the whir of the supercharger, the R-2800 coughed to life with a cloud of oily blue smoke. The engine ran rough at low power, its roughness smoothing as the engine came up to temperature. Engine four, followed by two and one were turned over, and Alvin watched as the oil pressure and temperature came up to the green on all four radial engines. They burbled with a deep, throaty chug at idle.

"Felix, I think we have a good ship."

"Yes we do, Alvin. I think we're good to go."

"Let's do it!" Ivo exclaimed.

Alvin released the brakes and put his feet into the rudder pedals with Felix, who gripped the nose wheel steering control. Alvin gripped the quartet of throttles and gave them a nudge. Slowly, the DC-6 began to roll in a slow turn for the runway. Brakes squeaked as they gingerly taxied on the narrow service ramp for the end of the runway.

"It's a big different in a bigger plane!" Alvin exclaimed.

"Yeah, you get used to it." Chuckled Jordan.

"At least with the nose wheel you don't have to zigzag."

"God help us with that... I hate flying that Lancaster for that reason." Ivo shuddered.

"Just like riding a bike~" Felix chuckled as he donned his sunglasses. "You never forget!"

"Let's hope not!"

Making the turn onto the runway, they wasted no time in taking off. Once the wheels straightened out, Alvin applied maximum power to the engines, and they immediately responded. The cockpit was filled by the tremendous roar of four radial engines, and "Gulliver" began to roll down the runway. At the point where Alvin knew the smaller planes would take off, the DC-6 was still firmly on the pavement, gathering speed with each second.

"Coming up on V1... and... mark... V1." Ivo called out.

"Coming up on rotation here..." Felix pointed at the speedometer.

"VR~" Ivo called.

Alvin nudged the yoke back and began to feel the nose wheel lift off the runway. A second later, the main gear left the pavement, just as Ivo called out "V2". "Committed~" Alvin said to everyone as they climbed away. Alvin watched Hebron Road pass beneath them as they climbed out of Newark-Heath, passing over the Kroger store and the local Lowe's as Felix raised the gear. A minute later, he retracted the flaps completely, and Alvin began throttling back to climb power. He maintained control while Felix programmed the autopilot. Banking around slowly, Alvin continued the slow climb as he leveled off, the nose pointed west-southwest. Felix set the altitude to 11,000 feet, programmed the heading and hit the engage button. Alvin let go of the yoke and the plane held steady in its slow climb. They now had almost eight hours of flight time to get to Chandler. A long day awaited in the cockpit.

---

Farmland stretched for miles and miles, high above the great plains. Somewhere high above Texas, "Gulliver" droned west, against the wind. Gleaming in the sun, the "Six" made its way alone amongst the drifting clouds.

Almost one o'clock central time, it was lunch time in the cockpit. As the autopilot plotted course, Felix and Alvin sat and ate lunch with Jordan and Ivo. Lunch was provided by Jordan, who brought sandwiches and drinks for everybody. They sat and joked and told stories to pass the time.

"So I heard you're a multi-millionaire now?" Ivo asked Alvin as he sipped on  can of lemonade.

"They transferred the money on Tuesday." Alvin nodded. "It's crazy you know? Overnight your whole financial situation changes."

"Shit, I should get beat by a cop!" the wolf joked. "Cha-ching!"

"Give 'em a chance, they will~" Felix snorted as he shook his head.

"I'm sure some people will be pissed at me getting this money." Alvin quipped hesitantly.

"Fuck 'em." Ivo shrugged. "They did you dirty."

"That's an understatement!" Alvin exclaimed with a laugh. "I can't believe that happened, and I can't believe they agreed to pay me this much money."

"Hush money." Jordan chuckled.

"Yeah, exactly." Alvin snickered. "But I rather it be hushed than just a media circus like George Floyd or something. Even if I support the protests about it."

"I get it." Felix nodded.

"I wouldn't mind people burning down whole cities in my name... you know... see what it's like!" Ivo teased with a snort.

Alvin just laughed and shook his head. "Oh boy."

"But I totally get your viewpoint."

"I just want to be the quiet guy who gets stuff done and doesn't want chaos."

"Nothing wrong with that~" Jordan figured. The German Shepherd smiled a bit and chuckled to himself. "Good thing your name ain't Rob!"

Everyone chuckled in the cockpit.

Arriving in the late afternoon, Chandler appeared through the haze. Descending in and taking control manually, Alvin helped Felix guide the "Six" into the landing pattern. Alvin controlled the plane while Felix worked the throttles. The young Dober calmly guided the Douglas around in the holding pattern while waiting for traffic ahead of them.

"Cactus fifty-forty, runway twenty-two is available. Over."

"Tower, cactus fifty-forty, acknowledged. Over." Alvin responded back.

"Here we go~" Felix muttered.

Banking around the final turn, Alvin saw the runway lined up. Dropping the gear and flaps into place, the plane descended in with a slight nose down altitude. Alvin held steady as he watched the runway threshold get closer and closer. The small municipal airport was surrounded by a mixture of green fields and arid scrubland, a landscape far removed from the usually Ohio greenery. Alvin began to flare as the end of the runway passed beneath them. Felix pulled back on the throttles, and "Gulliver" gracefully touched down on the centerline. Rolling out, Felix engaged reverse thrust, and all four radials revved up to full power as the props reversed. They quickly bled off speed as Alvin put his feet into the pedals to brake. He was mighty proud of sticking that landing.

With the outboard radials powered off, "Gulliver" taxied slowly for the ramp. Making a slow, wide turn, the propliner arrived in front of the hangar of "Collingwood Aviation". A father and son team, Brent and Trey Collingwood were big names in the warbird movement, and one of the few outside people trusted with Rob's aviation assets. Ground crew stood in the shade watching the DC-6 come to a stop and its inboard engines powered off. They approached and chocked the plane. Soon the airstair was wheeled over and secured at the crew access door. Alvin stepped out of the cockpit and opened the cargo doors, which whirred open with the aid of their electric motors.

Descending down the metal airstair, Alvin found Chandler was very hot, but it was a very dry heat. Heat waves radiated off the sun bleached pavement. Carrying his flight planner, Alvin walked around and inspected the DC-6 for any damage. Signing off with Felix, Alvin went to the terminal to turn it in. He returned to see the hangar doors open and a forklift rolling out to go begin the process of unloading the cargo for Collingwood. Standing with Felix, Ivo, and Jordan were the Collingwoods, Brent and his son Trey. They were both burly Rottweilers, square headed with black and rust fur. Brent was in his late fifties, and Trey in his late twenties.

"Ah, you must be Mister Paulo!" Brent greeted. He walked over to held out a paw for Alvin, who shook it with a friendly smile on his face. "I've been hearing a lot about you!"

"Depends on who you hear it from." He laughed.

"Oh hell, your uncles, your big brother here, the news!"

"The news?" Alvin exclaimed.

"Yeah! You got the shit beat out of ya by a Deputy named Bill Parsons, your uncle sued, and they settled for almost ten mil."

Alvin looked at Felix with a smirk and a look of disbelief. "If it bleeds it sells I suppose..."

"You betcha. Come on inside you guys, get out of the sun, the heat!" Trey motioned as he began walking back to the hangar.

While "Gulliver" sat being slowly unloaded under the guidance of Ivo and Jordan, Alvin followed Felix to conduct some business with the Collingwoods. The hangar was a packed place of bustling activity. A variety of rare warbirds sat around on jacks and mounts, being slowly pieced back together by the Collingwood crew. Alvin saw a P-51C get a propeller change out, and an old Boeing Stearman was in the middle of an engine repair. There was also an interesting F6F Hellcat, painted in a bright red Navy drone scheme of the early 1950's. It's wings were neatly folded up in the corner of the hangar. Alvin's head tracked the colorful plane as he followed Felix, Trey, and Brent.

"Okay, here's the latest on your birds!" Alvin could hear Trey say, which got the Dober's attention. In the back of the huge hangar sat Rob and Joey's collection that was under restoration. There were two P-38's, a razorback P-47D, and Rob's prized Corsair, his late grandfather's F4U-5. Alvin looked at the Corsair first; the last time he had seen it was four years prior, when it was lying broken in a field in northern Ohio, the victim of a midair collision. The aircraft had crashed hard and broken apart into four sections. Now "The Barion II" sat almost completed, sans engine. Its newly made cowling, complete with the distinctive cheek scoops, sat on a table, and a newly overhauled Hamilton propeller, dressed and ready to go, was hung up on the wall.

As Felix talked, Alvin quietly walked and examined his uncle's aircraft that were in the finishing stages of work. The razorback "Jug" was for Joey; a D-22 model, it was natural metal with a black and white checkerboard cowling, and D-Day stripes on the wings and fuselage. It would complement his bubbletop D-40, depicting the paint scheme of the plane his grandfather flew in the Second World War. There were two P-38's, a J model for Rob, and an L for Joey. Rob's was olive drab and neutral gray, with bright green propeller spinners. Joey's was natural metal with yellow spinners. Alvin examined all the planes and pondered what it was like to be able to just casually buy them. They were like expensive toys for the wealthy. Expensive, historical hotrods in the sky. Alvin returned over to where Felix and Trey were examining paperwork, and he listened in on their conversation.

"Wasn't there a Wildcat here the last time I visited?" Felix asked.

"Oh yeah! That one's flying now. My cousin has Dottie up in the air right now on a long test flight." Trey explained.

"Oh neat. That's a neat Martlet."

"Martlet?" Alvin asked.

"Yeah we acquired a kind of rare Martlet earlier this year from a group in Houston. Royal Navy Martlet Mark One, recovered from a Norwegian fjord about seventeen years ago I think? Restored partially in England, and then brought here to be restored to flight by that group, but they found a better Wildcat that was more fitting to what they wanted so they sold it to us to finish the job and sell it."

"Ah." Alvin nodded. "Just curious, who's Hellcat is that?"

"Oh, that's Christine~" Trey chuckled.

"Christine..." Alvin raised a brow. "Like after the demonic car in the book?"

"Ha, yeah. If you want to see it up close..." Trey offered.

Alvin walked over to examine "Christine" the Hellcat. He stood in front of it, gazing at the toothy grin the F6F's cowling gave. Walking around at an angle, Alvin, sure enough, found the name "Christine" written in yellow cursive on the forward fuselage. Trey explained that the Hellcat belonged to them, after its former owner donated it to the company, but it was no longer flyable. He described the plane as having an infamous reputation of surviving freak accidents.

"She was a nuclear sniffer during the Bikini Atoll tests. That blast should have destroyed the plane... it emerged from the mushroom cloud all charred up, but she made it with the radionuclide sample apparently! After she was rendered safe, old man LaRose bought it. He survived a midair collision with 'er in eighty-three- a Cessna cut him too close and Christine's propeller severed the tail. All onboard were killed. And then some vandals broke in and battered this poor old thing, and somehow they all wound up chopped to pieces! Must have started the engine up or something because they all got hacked to bits!" laughed Trey. Alvin took a couple steps away from "Christine".

"I would have picked a different name..." Alvin grimaced. "Like Norma."

"Great story to tell..." The Rottweiler laughed. "Oh look! There's Dottie!"

Alvin looked over to see a tubby little Wildcat arrive. Rumbling up to the hangar door was a camouflaged little Grumman, in Royal Navy markings. It was painted gray and green, with a propeller that was silver and tipped in red, white, and blue. It was powered by a single row radial engine, which had a coarser rumble to it. Thick straight wings jutted from the tubby fuselage. The Doberman looked impressed by it as the engine was shut off, and the narrow track gear chocked. From the cockpit came Trey's cousin, Matt Collingwood.

"How was the flight?" Trey asked.

"Like a million bucks~" Matt exclaimed with a grin. "She's a beaut!"

"Awesome."

Alvin curiously walked over to examine the Martlet. His uncles both had Wildcats for the museum back home, Rob with his FM-2, and Joey with his slightly older FM-1. The Martlet had a slightly different appearance than his uncle's Wildcats. Instead of a Curtiss Electric Propeller with root cuffs, the Martlet had a stubby Hamilton propeller with medium chord blades that were rounded at the tips. The rounded prop boss was painted black with a red stripe on it. It's cowling was smaller, encasing a Wright Cyclone-9. It was painted in early war markings, with a sky colored band on the rear fuselage, and a sky colored "R" stenciled behind the yellow, blue, white, and red roundel. The name "Dottie" was written in white just beneath the windshield of the canopy, in a sort of rounded bubble letter style. It was perfectly restored.

"What do you think?" Trey asked Alvin.

"I think this looks amazing." Alvin smiled. "So you're selling this?"

"Yeah. Recoup our expenses." Trey nodded. "Looking at one point three mil perhaps? A lil' wiggle room."

"Wow. I really love how this looks." Alvin nodded. "Boy... I'd love to buy this since I got the money now..."

"You're more than welcome to~"

"Really?"

"Well yeah, dingleberry! Lawsuit goes ka-ching!" laughed the Rottweiler with a hearty laugh and grin.

"Sometimes I forget about just how big that payout was."

"Rich man's club that's for sure." Trey chuckled as he turned around to venture back into the hangar.

Alvin stood gazing at "Dottie" for a few minutes. He turned around to get out of the sweltering sun, and saw Felix signing paperwork at a table.

"Hey, Felix?"

"Yeah?" the fawn Dober responded, looking up from what he was doing.

"Did you see that Martlet over there?"

"No, I haven't." Felix shook his head. He looked over Alvin's shoulder at the Martlet that was now parked by the entrance. "Huh, that's neat."

"Hey let me ask you something, Felix, uhh, what if I bought it?" Alvin asked him.

Felix just smiled a bit. "Sounds like that money is burning a hole in your pocket there Alvin!"

"Ha, yeah, you got a point there." Alvin laughed. "I said I would buy one big ticket item and the rest be invested and other stuff."

"That's quite a big ticket item Mister High Roller!" teased Felix with a playful grin and shove. "Well hmm."

Felix walked over with Alvin to examine "Dottie" himself. "Mighty impressive restoration if you ask me. They did a fantastic job on the paint job."

"I know, right?"

"How much?"

"One point three mil." Alvin stated.

"Sounds about right." Felix nodded. "I don't know it's up to you. That's your money."

Alvin stood for a moment with a look of thought on his face. He grabbed his phone and called back home to his Uncle Rob.

"Hey Alvin." Came Rob's voice on the phone.

"Uncle Rob? I got a question and need some advice from you?"

"Yeah?"

"We're at Collingwood, and there's a Martlet here for sale, and it's a great looking plane! I was... kind of tempted to buy it for the museum."

"An actual Martlet? Or a Wildcat in Martlet colors?"

"It's an actual Martlet, a Mark one."

"Ohh that's neat. Those are fixed wing, and the Mark one's are modified from the original French order."

"Oh cool." Alvin nodded.

"How much Alvin?"

"They want one point three million."

"On point. Well... I won't tell you how to spend your money other than be responsible."

"This would be the only big ticket item I'd like."

"Up to you Alvin."

"Thanks Uncle Rob."

Alvin put his phone away and glanced again at "Dottie". He quickly went to go find Brent and Trey.

---

As "Gulliver" sat in the background being refueled for the long flight home, Alvin watched as "Dottie" was prepared for a test flight. In the cockpit sat Trey, and he went through the checklist in preparation for engine start. Engaging the starter, the silver propeller began to turn, urged along by its straining starter. Alvin counted the props before the engine caught with a hacking cough of smoke that was quickly blown away by the propwash. As the engine quickly came up to temperature, its rough idle smoothed out, and Trey gave a slight burst of power to begin taxiing for the runway. The Dober looked ecstatic as "Dottie" rolled out for the runway. A few minutes later, Alvin watched as the Martlet emerged from the corner of the hangar, galloping down the runway on the main gear. The tubby little Grumman lifted off into the dry heat, climbing away slowly.

Watching it bank around and circle the airport, the Doberman looked in awe as Trey flew it down the runway fast. The Martlet darted past with the roar of its propeller. He pulled up into a steep climb and did a perfect roll with "Dottie". Alvin was mighty impressed. Having talked to Brent and Trey about buying the old warbird, Alvin learned all about the tubby little Grumman, its military career, and its former pilot during the war.

"Dottie" was built in late 1939 as a G-36A, the export version of the F4F-3. Ordered by the Anglo-French Purchasing Commission, the G-36A was one of ninety-one ordered for the French Navy. At sea when France fell, the G-36 was diverted to Britain, where it was brought up to Royal Navy standard. Entering service in late 1940, it was assigned to the 804 Naval Air Squadron, and flown by Lieutenant Keith Brownfield, who christened it "Dottie" after his wife's nickname.

"Dottie's" baptism of fire came in January 1941 when Brownfield downed a Ju-88 over the North Sea. The aircraft flew forty-four missions with Brownfield until March 1941, when he was shot down during a mission over Norway. Supporting a commando raid on a coastal target, Brownfield had apparently strafed a German position when anti-aircraft fire struck "Dottie", and the engine cut out. He managed to ditch in the fjord, where he was rescued by the retreating commandos. "Dottie" sank to the bottom of the sea. Brownfield himself survived the war with eight kills. He later flew another Martlet, before transitioning to the more powerful Grumman Hellcat. After the war, Brownfield became a school teacher and later dean, and died at the age of eighty-five in November 2001.

Sixty-four years after sinking, "Dottie" was recovered from her watery grave by a restoration group that salvaged the wreckage. One of the members in the recovery was Brownfield's grandson, John Brownfield. "Dottie" was returned to England, where she spent a decade being slowly rebuilt. However due to funding issues, the Martlet was sold to the Houston Aviation Museum, who got the G-36 over ninety percent complete before deciding to sell it when the museum obtained a Midway veteran F4F-3 that was recovered from Lake Michigan. "Dottie" was shipped to Arizona, where Collingwood finally got the Martlet back into the air.

After making some passes and showing how she flew, Trey returned back for an uneventful landing. He taxied up, turned and parked. The engine coughed a bit as it was powered off. Trey climbed out and hopped down off the wing.

"So what do you think?" Trey asked.

"I think that's one heck of a ship, Trey. Why don't we get some paperwork started?"

"Sure!"

---

The pale blue moon shone brightly in the clear star filled sky. It was nighttime, somewhere over the plains as the DC-6BF flew eastbound, aided by a beneficial tailwind. Rerouting around some bad storms hitting the Texas panhandle, big thunderheads towered into the night sky, flashing brilliantly with lightning that illuminated whole clouds.

The cockpit was illuminated a dim red from some overhead lighting. The instrument panel glowed softly as Alvin sat in the right hand seat, his turn to fly, after taking an hour nap. Jordan sat in the captain's seat, relieving Felix, who laid down for his turn at a short nap. Ivo sat in the flight engineer's position, dozed off, his tattooed arms crossed. Alvin sat and listened to the occasional bursts of radio traffic through his headset, and the constant, mesmerizing drone of the Double Wasp radials. The autopilot did the rest.

Reaching back behind him for his bag, Alvin pulled out the folder, which held the official sale document to "Dottie". A flimsy sheet of copy paper, spat out of a laser printer, marked the official sale of the Martlet to Alvin. It bore his signature, and the Collingwoods, signaling the sale and transfer of ownership of the rare Martlet. Alvin paid one million even, via a wire transfer from the bank. The Collingwoods were nice enough to give him a slight discount. It was crazy to think of how much money that was, and yet it felt no different than when he bought his Tahoe. Alvin felt euphoric of now owning such a rare and historical machine. It would be another prized piece of history at his uncle's museum.

Glancing out the window, Alvin watched the big engines work. The propellers and their conical spinners faintly shimmered in the faint light, and the big radials had their exhausts faintly glow with blue flames that flickered with bits of yellow. He peered out to the horizon and watched the thunderheads glow with lightning, the big clouds rising high above into the night and spreading out like a massive anvil shape. There was continuous lightning, illuminating the tumultuous clouds  and occasionally spiking out with intense white and yellow bolts that jumped between gaps in the clouds.

Alvin sat back in his seat and reflected on things to pass the time.

---

Taking a week to prepare, Alvin learned the ins and outs about the Wildcat. He read the flight manual over and over, and learned and memorized the cockpit using his uncle's FM-2. Most importantly, he memorized how to work the manual crank for the landing gear.

It was another warm Saturday morning. The amber sun emerged from a morning rain storm, and the tarmac glistened with its standing puddles streaked in a rainbow sheen from the oil. The museum's hangar doors slid open, and the airport ground crew worked to push the two Wildcat's out onto the ramp. Out first was Rob's FM-2, a glossy sea blue Wildcat in late war markings. With its wings folded up alongside the fuselage, Rob and his crew maneuvered it onto the ramp and chocked the wheels. Out next was Joey's FM-1, in early war markings and non-specular blue-gray paint. Joey handled it with the other crewmembers.

Alvin assisted in pushing out the last warbird, Rob's rarely flown F8F Bearcat. Another tubby Grumman design, the Bearcat came from the late Aaldenburg collection, which Rob acquired after Xavier and his son Trevor were killed in a tragic plane crash in 2014. The Bearcat was glossy sea blue, with yellow stenciling in the immediate post-war colors of the USN.

Alvin helped to unfold the FM-2's wings. The Sto-wing was manually unfolded and locked into place, and Vlado showed Alvin how to lock the folding mechanism up. It was redundant for "Dottie", as the early Martlet models had fixed wings from the factory. Checking the oil levels and topping them off slightly, Alvin hand turned the Curtiss Electric propeller on the FM-2. The Wildcat's prop was a stubby Curtiss Electric unit, with medium chord blades that lacked root cuffs like Joey's FM-1, and the bullet nose prop boss that was painted glossy sea blue as well. He gave the propeller a half-dozen turns, checking the engine for any hydraulic lock. Checking that off, he walked the airframe and did the preflight inspection. Tucking the clipboard under his arm, he climbed into the cockpit to get himself strapped in.

Going through the list, Alvin switched the battery on and watched gauges begin to glow. Checking the radio, he adjusted the frequency and requested an altimeter adjustment, which he adjusted by turning a small knob on the altimeter. Turning on the fuel pump, Alvin gave a thumbs up from the cockpit as he hit the starter. With a hesitating whine, the starter engaged and began turning the prop slowly. Alvin counted the blades and switched over both magnetos. The Cyclone hacked to life with a burst of white smoke that smelled of cosmoline. At low power, the Cyclone had a rough chug, and the cockpit rattled a bit as the rough vibrations tampered down with the increasing cylinder temperature. Alvin watched the oil pressure and temperature slowly climb up.

Joey fired up the Pratt and Whitney to his FM-1, and Rob got the Double Wasp to his Bearcat started. The tarmac came to life as all three planes warmed up for their flight.

"Everything looks good here." Alvin radioed to Rob. "Engine temperature is in the green and so is the oil pressure."

"Sounds good to me."

Alvin gave a thumbs up to Vlado, who yanked the chocks away with a tug of a rope. Releasing the brakes, Alvin inched the mercury up and began to slowly roll. Putting his feet into the pedals, Alvin turned the plane, feeling it wobble just a bit on its narrow landing gear. Taxiing to the runway, Alvin did the usual zigzagging maneuver to see over the nose. He rolled slowly, tapping the brakes periodically and turned onto the end of the runway for a final check of his gauges and a slight adjustment of the flaps. Gripping the throttle and locking the tail wheel, Alvin applied full power and kicked his feet in for opposing rudder. Revving up, the Wildcat roared to life and began its takeoff roll.

Maintaining the torque felt pretty easy as Alvin watched the speed build up. The tail grew buoyant and the tail wheel lifted off quickly. He watched for his VR speed as he tugged back on the stick some. Getting rotation, the Wildcat lifted off the runway and began a slow climb for altitude. Keeping the nose up some to stay somewhat slow, Alvin gripped the gear retract handle and began cranking it. His arm strained as he quickly cranked the handle twenty-nine times. The gear slowly retracted away and he could feel the drag lessen as the Wildcat picked up speed. After twenty-nine cranks, it locked into place. He immediately throttled back to cruise power and pulled the flaps completely up.

Rob and Joey joined up on Alvin's three and nine o'clock positions. Going on their usual flight route towards Cleveland, they climbed for altitude, eventually reaching seven thousand feet. Compared to his P-40, and especially the Mustang, the Wildcat was a big sluggish in climbing. Even with a 1,350hp Cyclone, the FM-2 felt at best rather sedate. But it was a very stable plane in flight. The controls weren't excessively heavy, and its thick straight wings commanded authority as it flew. Maintaining level flight for a time, Alvin grew more comfortable handling an unfamiliar aircraft.

Passing over Cleveland and heading out over the lake, it was time to begin practicing some maneuvering. Joey pulled away to give distance and watch, while Rob and Alvin began some air maneuvering.

Alvin started basic. He rolled over and began a shallow dive. Pulling the stick back, he rapidly dove and began feeling the G's as he built up speed and rolled over. As the speed increased, the Wildcat's controls stiffened a bit. Pulling the stick back to climb, Alvin was pressed into his seat while he did a roll. Diving again and opening the throttle, he pulled back and did a neat barrel roll. Alvin dove for energy again and pulled the nose up again, this time to test the stalling characteristic. The FM-2 bled off speed, and as it approached a stall, he could feel the aircraft shake a bit and the stick shake, before a wing gently dropped. He cut the throttle back and dove to pick up speed, before leveling out and resuming cruise.

"Hey that's pretty good~" Joey complimented over the radio.

"Not the fastest warbird, but stable." Alvin chuckled as he watched Rob form up on his three o'clock in the Bearcat.

"Now you see why the Japs had a hard time!" Rob exclaimed.

"You got your lil' hotrod there, Rob!" Alvin pointed from his open canopy.

"I need to fly this thing more." Rob remarked. "Bad memories sometimes..."

"Understandable."

"So Alvin, how do you feel?"

"I like it!"

"Good~ We'll keep practicing to make the feds happy before we ferry Dottie home."

"Long flight ahead."

"Yeah."

Doing a few more maneuvers, and with fuel starting to run low, Alvin returned back to Newark-Heath. It was an uneventful flight home in the clear blue skies above north-central Ohio. Circling around in the landing pattern, Alvin got the clear from Geert to come in for a landing. Banking around and seeing the runway come into view, Alvin dropped the flaps and cranked the gear down until it locked into place. Holding the speed by adjusting the throttle, he descended in slightly nose down altitude, watching the runway get closer and closer. Cutting the throttle at the last second and flaring a bit, Alvin touched smoothly on the main gear and he rolled out, bleeding off speed and gently touching the tail down.

Returning back to the museum's ramp, Alvin was guided in by Tito, who flagged him down. As he came to a stop to park, Alvin took notice of Vlado hard at work doing some maintenance on Rob's all black Bf-109G. Running the radial lean, Alvin pulled the mixture to "cut" and the engine shut off with a cough of smoke at the end. He climbed out with his planner in tow and inspected the plane before signing off. His first flight in the Wildcat was a success. As he walked back to the terminal to turn his paperwork in and meet with Geert, he watched his Uncle Joey come in for a perfect landing in his blue-gray FM-1.

---

Needing just a few more hours to get his type rating, Alvin took off for another solo flight across the state. Leaving Newark behind him, Alvin climbed for altitude, this time in his uncle's FM-1. It handled largely the same as the later FM-2, but felt slightly heavier in the nose from its twin-row R-1830 radial, and was slightly slower climbing from 150 less horses under the cowling. Alvin climbed to nine thousand feet and flew northbound with the canopy locked back. It was an uneventful flight as usual; over greater Cleveland, a wide turn over the lake, and then passing over Loraine. Changing things up a bit this time, Alvin flew over Toledo, and banked around to follow I-75 back towards Findlay.

Glancing around at the scenery, Alvin felt content. He felt pretty confident and good about himself and his prospects of getting his type rating. Then "Dottie" could come home. And he felt really excited about it. As he thought about flying the Wildcat across the US, a smile curled up on his muzzle.

BANG!

Alvin's moment of excitement was suddenly interrupted by a rather loud bang. A noticeable jolt shook the cockpit, and Alvin watched as smoke suddenly erupted from under the cowling's gills. The engine hacked and snorted, and oil began spraying onto the windshield. Alvin blinked a few times and stared blankly at the view forward slowly turning into obscuring shades of brown and black. The smoke had an acrid, burnt oil scent to it.

Looking at the gauges, Alvin watched the manifold pressure drop, and the oil pressure plummet. The needle fell to twenty inches of mercury as the Twin Wasp lost power. He was bleeding off speed and beginning to drop in altitude as the windmilling propeller created drag.

Alvin pressed the microphone toggle as he donned his oxygen mask. "Pan-pan, pan-pan, Cleveland Center, pan-pan, pan-pan, this is Zoom four flight, declaring an engine failure. Over. Repeat, pan-pan, pan-pan, Cleveland Center, zoom four declaring an engine failure. Over."

"Zoom four this is Cleveland center, we acknowledge your emergency, over. We see you on the radar. Accessing vector for runway heading. Stand by. Over."

Alvin glanced around at where he was. There was nothing but farmland, with no airport in sight. He looked at his altimeter and was steadily losing height. He only had a couple minutes at best. Looking at the manifold pressure, it was down to zero. Oil pressure was at zero, and it was clear the engine was completely dead. He cut the mixture and throttle and began to prepare for a landing in a field.

The city of South Baltimore was coming into view at Alvin's eleven o'clock. He banked towards the city area, and saw a puffy cloud drifting his way. Punching into the puffy top, Alvin watched as the precipitation began to wash away the oil off the windscreen. When he emerged, the windshield was largely cleaned off, and Alvin saw a giant patch of green on the other side of the city. It was a giant sod farm, and its lush emerald green grass stood in contrast to the fields of corn and golden fields of wheat ready for harvesting.

Calculating his distance and looking at his speed, Alvin began to prepare himself for an emergency landing. The field was perfectly flat and looked pristine, so he began to crank the gear down. Furiously working the mechanism, he dropped the gear into the slipstream and held off on the flaps while watching his descent rate. He had only one shot at sticking the landing.

"Cleveland Center, this is zoom four, I'm going down. Going down. Landing at a sod field, uhh, south-west of South Baltimore. Repeat, going down in sod field, south-west of South Baltimore. Repeat! Southwest of South Baltimore. Over."

Crossing over I-75 at low altitude, the smoke streaming Wildcat descended in nose down slightly. Watching intensely at his margin, Alvin crossed the end of the field, and he immediately pulled up for the flare. It was now or never. He had a fifty-fifty shot of either sticking the landing perfectly, if the field was dry, or hit and flip over and crash.

The gear made contact with the sod. There was a rough bounce and the Wildcat bucked back into the air, the wings wobbling as Alvin kept it straight as best he could with the ailerons and rudder. He touched it back down, and smacked the tail wheel into the ground for extra drag. It was a bumpy, wild ride as Alvin ground the tail into the earth, but it really worked well to rapidly bleed off speed. Just when he felt it was almost all over, the right wheel hit a soft spot, and it corkscrewed the Wildcat into a ground loop. Stopping abruptly, Alvin was given a hard jolt as the plane twirled around, its right wingtip scraping into the grass before landing hard on the tail wheel. Then there was nothing but silence.

Realizing it was all over, Alvin unbuckled himself, and he quickly jumped out of the FM-1. Adrenaline surged in his veins as he hit the ground hard and fell to his knees. He got up quickly and noticed some people running towards him, some of the workers who tended to the sod farm.

Going to inspect the FM-1, Alvin saw there was no damage to the fuselage or wings. The right wingtip was covered in mud and some grass though. The tail wheel was embedded into the ground, and the undercarriage was covered in bits of grass and dirt. The prop was thankfully undamaged. He couldn't see any damage to the cowling or its gills, but there was streaks of oil everywhere on the plane. Whatever blew was a catastrophic failure to the Pratt and Whitney.

"Buddy are you okay!?" shouted one of the workers. "Holy shit man! Are you okay?"

"Yeah! Yeah!" Alvin called. As the two gray wolves ran up, Alvin felt his knees buckle, and he fell to the ground trembling as he came off from his adrenaline high. The two farmers helped Alvin back up to his trembling feet, and led him over to some shade, where he could sit down and try and mentally relax.

Making the best of a bad situation, Alvin sarcastically hoped that his emergency landing, would go in favor of his type rating.

---

All was calm at eleven thousand feet. High above the haze covered Texas panhandle flew "Gulliver" and its crew, enroute back to Chandler. It was Alvin's moment to shine, as he prepared to fly "Dottie" home, across the US and back to Ohio.

The flight was uneventful and the air calm, with little turbulence over the plains. Sitting in the right hand seat, Alvin sat at the controls of the old "Six", flying with Ivo this time, as Felix took a break. In his lap sat an open folder that Alvin read, with a copy of his type rating for the Wildcat signed and notarized. Alvin had pulled off getting his type rating in roughly three weeks. Even the accident played in his favor, by such a textbook execution of a dead stick landing in the sod field.

Alvin had come to learn that the engine failure he experienced was the supercharger catastrophically failing; a hairline crack that went unnoticed during overhaul had finally ruptured, and it took the rest of the engine with it. The loss of oil pressure and the excessive windmilling ultimately bricked the R-1830 and even damaged the prop boss. Hearing Alvin's distress calls, his uncles and their mechanic Vlado responded by flying out a replacement engine and prop in his G.222. Landing right in the field, they were able to push the Wildcat to the parking lot by the road, and change the engine there. With all hands on deck, a new R-1830-86 was installed with a new Curtiss prop, and Rob took off from the field, ferrying the FM-1 back to Newark by the late evening.

Arriving in the late afternoon to Collingwood Aviation, there was enough light left in the day for a test flight. The plan was to ferry back to Ohio, "Dottie" and the two P-38's, which were now named "Greased Lightning", and "Lady Lynda". Alvin would fly "Dottie", while the two P-38's would be flown by Felix and Vlado. "Gulliver" would be flown by Jordan, Geert, and Vlad Tokarev for the return flight. The evening sun cast long shadows, plunging the tarmac around the hangar in much needed shade. The dry air was still brutally hot.

Strapped into the cockpit of "Dottie", Alvin finished up his checklist. He was fuelled up and ready to go. Glancing out of the cockpit, Alvin saw Felix and Vlado finishing up their checklists in the two Lightnings. Alvin was standing by for them. He glanced at his instruments and a small picture of the late Keith Brownfield and his wife, Dorothy "Dottie" Brownfield that was taped in an empty space. A copy of the original, which had bronzed up from age, revealed the late Brownfield as a light furred Doberman, most likely red furred, with curly hair, posing with his wife, who wore a summer blouse and holding their infant son.

"How do you look, Felix, Vlado?" Alvin asked in his mic.

"I'm good here." Vlado responded.

"Good here. Alvin you can start up." Felix announced.

Alvin glanced out and gave the ground crew a thumbs up as he engaged the starter. The stubby silver propeller began to turn slowly as he counted the blades. Engaging the magnetos, the R-1820 coughed to life with the usual puffs of oily smoke. The engine chugged at low power while the oil pressure built up.

Felix started the number one engine to "Greased Lighting". Alvin watched the prop turn over to engine one and the Allison caught, with a brief puff of white glycol smoke from the turbo exhaust in the tail boom. The Allison had a higher pitched whirr as it idled. He soon got engine two started up. Vlado fired his engines up, and they all sat for a moment, waiting for their engines to come up to temperature.

Alvin released the brakes and began to taxi. "Dottie" slowly rolled in a turn for the runway, and he zigzagged slowly along the service road to the runway. Alvin was excited, but he suppressed those feelings to concentrate. It was the moment of truth.

Turning onto the runway, he held for thirty seconds to glance at his instrumentation one final time. Sweat dripped from his brow from the heat and anticipation. Adjusting the flaps a bit, Alvin gripped the throttle and commanded full power. The Cyclone revved up and he began rolling. The heat somewhat reduced the lift, and the Martlet felt less buoyant at the same speed like back home. Approaching the VR speed, Alvin waited a couple seconds to give more margin for error on account of the heat before pulling the stick back. "Dottie" confidently lifted off the pavement and climbed away, and Alvin began the tedious process of retracting the landing gear. Despite sharing a similar single-row Cyclone-9 to his uncle's FM-2, "Dottie" handled more like the FM-1, due to the lower horsepower.

Departing over Chandler, Alvin peered out to the arid scrubland outside of the city. In contrast to the mixture of woodland and farmland back in Ohio, Arizona was a sun baked desert landscape, like a Martian surface of bleached earth. Climbing to four thousand feet, Alvin adjusted the throttle back to cruise power, and sat back in his seat. It took a few minutes for him to relax some.

As he flew, waiting for Felix and Vlado, Alvin looked around at the cockpit and realized that this was his plane. He really had made it big, sitting strapped into a million dollar aircraft with such a rich history. And it was his; it wasn't gifted to him, or given to him, it was a plane he bought himself, and he felt mighty proud about that fact.

Felix and Vlado formed up on his four and eight o'clock positions, and the formation flew out over the desert, getting a feel for their aircraft before embarking on the long cross country flight. They flew a long eight-track route until the sun started to dip below the horizon. The stage had been set.

---

Making sure the drop tank was secure, Alvin helped Vlado in attaching the feed line. The sun was just barely riding above the horizon as preparations were made for the long flight home. The fuel truck was busy pumping fuel into the DC-6, as the loadmaster made sure all the cargo was secure inside. Overhauled components and spare parts for the P-38's and Martlet were aboard "Gulliver".

"Dottie" was almost ready to go. With two fifty-eight gallon drop tanks shacked to the inner wings, it would help Alvin get the range needed to go home if he ran the engine lean. The P-38's each carried one 150 gallon drop tank, shacked to the inner starboard wing pylon.

As the fuel truck showed up to fill "Dottie" to the brim, Alvin hand turned the propeller to check for hydraulic lock. Straining against the polished blades, he gave the prop a half dozen turns, finding it turned smoothly for him. The fuelling finished up shortly afterward, and "Dottie" was filled to the absolute max with a load of 100LL. It was time to depart.

"Alvin I want you to have this for Dottie." Came Brent, who clutched a sealed manila bubble mailer. "Here's the paperwork for you, plus a little extra."

"A little extra?" Alvin asked.

"I have included is the address and contact information of John Brownfield. One of his requests was that whoever bought Dottie, he would like to hear from them, to make sure his grandfather's plane was okay."

"Oh okay. Gotcha." Alvin nodded.

"Alvin, I hope you have a safe flight back. And I hope you visit again!" Brent added as he held out a paw, a gesture that Alvin accepted as he shook his paw.

"Brent, I appreciate it."

"Be safe, Alvin. Take care!"

"Will do!"

Alvin gave the documentation to Jordan, who left to climb aboard the DC-6. Alvin adjusted his leather flying helmet and goggles and climbed aboard "Dottie". He strapped himself in and began turning on power and getting the instrumentation calibrated. Getting the all clear, he started up the Cyclone-9, and began warming it up. As the engine came up to temperature, he sat and reviewed their flight path home. While the DC-6 would be a straight shot back to Ohio, Alvin and the two Lightnings would stop in St. Louis to refuel and grab lunch, and then proceed back to Ohio by the evening. He read through the planner before folding it back up and stowing it in its compartment.

Alvin released the brakes and began to taxi for the runway. A minute later, Felix and Vlado began to taxi. Arriving to the runway, Alvin had to wait for a moment while a business jet took off. He gave a burst of power and swung around in a turn to park on the threshold for a final scan of his instrumentation. He gripped the throttle and wished "Dottie" well. Opening the throttle to full, Alvin kicked in opposing rudder, and began his takeoff roll. With two drop tanks and filled to the brim, the Martlet felt sluggish gaining speed. A few seconds later than normal, the tail lifted up, and Alvin very gently began nudging the Martlet skyward. The wheels slowly left the pavement, and he began to climb away from Chandler. Gripping the gear crank, he pulled the gear up and retracted the flaps, a minute later he throttled back to cruise power.

Forming up, the Lightings flew at Alvin's pace. Climbing up to nine thousand feet, they had the sky to themselves as they flew east. Aided by a fortunate tail wind, it helped increase their speed and save fuel.

For the next five hours, they flew towards St. Louis. Alvin loved every minute of flying "Dottie". A euphoric look graced his face the entire time as he plotted his way home with the help of a GPS installed in the instrument panel. The flight was largely uneventful; they had to reroute around some storms that were flaring up near the Oklahoma and Texas border, and Alvin had a momentary scare when his engine sputtered from exhausting the drop tanks. He quickly switched to the internal fuel and the engine continued on. As the fuel burned, "Dottie" grew less lethargic in maneuvering.

Landing and refueling in St. Louis, they all grabbed a quick lunch, and after a short break, took back off to escape approaching thunderstorms. Alvin took the lead in the formation again, and guided Vlado and Felix towards Ohio. The flatness of the plains began to give away to some gently rolling hills as they approached Ohio from southern Indiana. Alvin looked around and saw the familiar landscape again, as they crossed into Ohio over greater Cincinnati. It was a straight shot, following I-71, back to Newark.

By late evening, with the sun setting behind them, casting long shadows on the landscape below, the three warbirds made it back to their new home base. Alvin entered the landing pattern, and let Felix land first, as his P-38 developed a fuel transfer problem and was low on gas. Alvin watched Vlado bank around ahead of him, and Alvin followed shortly after, as he watched in his slow turn, Felix come in for a smooth landing in Joey's P-38L. Vlado dropped his gear and flaps and banking around, lined up for the runway for a picture perfect landing. Last in the air, and with fuel running low, Alvin breathed a sigh of relief as he banked around to see the runway dead ahead.

Cranking the gear down and locking it into place, Alvin dropped the flaps, and "Dottie" assumed a slight nose down landing angle. He worked the throttle to control his speed and descent. Tired, but jubilant, the young Dober crossed the threshold and flared for touchdown. The Martlet smoothly touched down with a little rattle, and Alvin breathed a huge sigh of relief. He slowed to a crawl and returned to the hangar's tarmac, where the museum's staff and some guests gave him a round of applause as he returned. Alvin parked and shut the engine off. He unstrapped himself, and weary legs propped him up as he stood in the cockpit and waved. "Dottie" was now home.

---

Clouds silently drifted in the skies above north-central Ohio, like giant puffy icebergs. Even at five thousand feet, the air was still warm, on a hot Friday afternoon, near the end of the month. The brutal sun glared in the hazy steel blue sky.

Exploding through a cloud, Alvin maneuvered, in search for his uncle. "Dottie" banked around in a tight turn, as Alvin saw a little black speck in the sky. It rapidly came rushing towards him, revealing the menacing lines of a Focke Wulf, his uncle's Fw-190. He came rushing in head on at full speed, only to split-s away below him. Alvin rolled and took off in futile pursuit. It was a reminder of his novice status.

"Uncle Rob, you got more horsepower than me~" Alvin joked. He watched as Rob did a barrel roll over him and slip into another cloud.

"Mine's more temperamental." Rob joked in return.

Forming up on his nine o'clock was Rob in his "Wurger". The Fw-190A-5 was his cranky Luftwaffe bird, in an eastern front camouflage scheme of light and dark green, brown, with yellow eastern front markings. It's BMW 801 burbled under the tight cowl. They were practicing for an airshow performance that would be in Michigan in a few weeks, showcasing mortal enemies of the Norwegian front, the tubby Wildcat, and the aggressive looking Focke Wulf. "Dottie" could outmaneuver and turn tighter at low speed, but the "Wurger" had him beat in speed and raw performance, if its cantankerous radial engine would cooperate. Rob remarked about its "Kommandogerat" acting up again.

"I swear to god, I'm about ready to rip this engine out and slap another Soviet Shvetsov in, like the A-8..." Rob grunted into his microphone.

"Then the warbird purists would be so mad at you~" chuckled Alvin teasingly into his oxygen mask.

"Then they can find and fix up a Wurger and deal with it!" Rob exclaimed. "The Germans are good at over-engineering everything."

Alvin couldn't help but laugh at his uncle's gripes. The Doberman looked excited, strapped into the armored seat of "Dottie" after another practice flight for the airshow. It would be the Martlet's first airshow appearance for the museum, it's new home. Tubby little "Dottie" was a popular attraction at the museum, and there was an uptick in visitors the past few weeks to see the Martlet and the newly obtained Lightnings. Words could not describe his excitement to own and fly "Dottie".

On their flight back to Newark, Alvin took a moment to practice on Rob. As Rob flew his troublesome Wurger home, Alvin took some passes at him to practicing maneuvering. He'd climb up and dive at Rob, keeping the Fw-190 in his gun sight for a few seconds, before doing a split-s to dive away. Rob was unfazed as he watched Alvin come diving in head on, and split-s past his nose, or looping over him.

"Hey that's pretty good." Rob remarked. "Wonder where you learned that from?"

"You~" laughed the Dober as he approached back up to fly alongside Rob.

"When you don't have the raw performance? Dive 'n zoom. Never fails." Rob quipped.

Flying back to Newark-Heath, Alvin let Rob land first. With his radial puffing smoke intermittently from a malfunctioning engine control unit, Rob came in for a smooth landing. Alvin watched from the landing pattern before he too dropped everything and descended in for an uneventful landing.

Arriving back to the tarmac, Alvin chuckled at the sight of the cowling being opened up on the Focke Wulf. A visibly frustrated Rob worked with Vlado and Tito to fix another problem. He got with some of the ground crew to help push "Dottie" back inside. Changing out of his uniform and back into his normal tanktop and shorts, Alvin hopped into his SUV and went back home.

Returning back to his house to escape from the heat, Alvin went downstairs to his bedroom to grab some paperwork off his desk, and went to his "office". A spare bedroom, Alvin commandeered it into his video editing room, and work desk. He turned the table lamp on, sat his paperwork down and logged onto his workstation. Opening the e-mail application, he quickly typed in Brownfield's e-mail and wrote "Dottie's New Owner" in the subject field.

Going through some pictures on his second monitor, Alvin picked a portrait of him posing with "Dottie" on the tarmac. Alvin stood by the cowling, dressed in an accurate FAA flight uniform of the time. He sent another photo of himself posing with Rob, Joey, Felix, Tony, Vlado and his sons, and the airport management, with "Dottie" and the other Naval planes all on display.

"Dear Mr. Brownfield,

My name is Alvin Paulo and I am the new owner of "Dottie",
the Martlet that you helped recover from the fjord many
years before. I was told at the time of purchase that you
requested that the new owner message you, and I
wanted to honor that request.

I was visiting Collingwood Aviation when I saw
Dottie come in from a test flight. It was love
at first sight! I bought the aircraft for my uncle's
aviation museum, and it's been a big hit with guests.
What's not to like? I think she flies as good as she looks.
A tubby, lil' fighting machine!

I hope to stay in touch.

Best,

Alvin Paulo."

Alvin hit send, and watched the e-mail be sent out. Once he got the confirmation at the bottom of the window, Alvin closed out the program, and proceeded to go online to grab a financial document from OSU, as part of his enrollment at the local branch of Ohio State. It felt crazy to be at the cusp of heading to college, after graduating high school. Another chapter in his life.

---

Getting in the air while it was still somewhat cool, Alvin took off alone for Michigan, a change of plan for the airshow event. As he climbed for altitude out of Newark, he saw through the thick haze, the rising sun, a deep orange, glowing in the reddish haze. It was August now, the sticky, miserably dog days of summer. The first days of August always made Alvin think about a line from a book he had read in school, Tuck Everlasting.

"These are strange and breathless days, the dog days, when people are led to do things they are sure to be sorry for after."

The big airshow plans that Alvin had with his family had to be scrubbed; originally the plan was to have Rob and Alvin fly their Focke Wulf and Martlet together for a sort-of dogfight display, but that got scrubbed because of recurring issues with the BMW radial. Then Joey had an emergency down in Florida from an approaching hurricane threatening Opa-Locka. Rob and Felix had to high-tail it down to help Joey repair a plane in time to evacuate to safer climes. So Alvin was left to go alone to Ypsilanti, to represent the air museum. It would be "Dottie's" debut.

He flew at three thousand feet, seemingly skimming above the sticky haze. The air that blew into the cockpit felt nice as Alvin flew. He always liked the sound of the burbling radial engine, the whistle of the slipstream, and the occasional burst of radio chatter on his headset. It was a time to relax and think about things. In a few weeks, he would be starting college at Ohio State Newark, and like his uncle, would be following in his footsteps at the university as he eyeballed a history degree. Unlike many of his peers, Alvin wouldn't have to worry about tuition and being saddled in debt, an unfair advantage in his opinion. He would be accompanied by his friends Spencer and Freddy, and that made him happy.

There was some radio chatter that he tuned out from, but as he flew, he noticed more and more radio chatter, from ATC and other pilots in the area. Alvin started to listen in, hearing reports about a renegade pilot around the Toledo area, and a stolen Beech King Air from the Detroit area. Alvin looked around at the sky near him and didn't see anything. Indianapolis Center informed pilots of being on the outlook. Alvin knew he'd be flying over Toledo in another fifteen minutes.

As Toledo began to appear through the haze, Alvin continued to listen to the reports. Apparently somebody in Detroit stole a Beech Air King from a regional airport and was flying all around the area erratically, threatening to crash it. Alvin saw a low drifting cloud come towards him, and he gently rolled to the right to go around it, when all of a sudden, he watched a twin-engine turboprop come exploding out of it. With seconds to react, Alvin shoved the stick forward and "Dottie" immediately dove away, narrowing avoiding a collision. The negative G's momentarily caused the Cyclone to cut out, and the radial hacked and sputtered some smoke as the fuel was starved for a second. Alvin yanked the stick back and was bounced around as he scanned the sky and saw the turboprop violently maneuvering in a turn. It was a King Air 360, exactly matching what ATC was warning about.

"Hey heads up, I almost got hit by this guy. Over." Alvin radioed. "He's south of Toledo, banking sharp, heading north-northwest."

Alvin opened the throttle and took off after him. Rolling sharply to the left, Alvin pulled on the stick and tightly turned to loop around and take chase. Even with the throttle open, "Dottie" struggled to close the gap; the King Air had just enough "oomph" from its twin turboprops to propel it along. But a fortunate sharp turn by the pilot, allowed Alvin to close the gap.

Leveling off, the King Air flew straight and level, as Alvin pulled up alongside. The King Air had a clean shape to it, with a high set T-tail, a pointy nose, round windows, and two turboprops set far ahead of the straight wings. The plane was white on the top, with a dark blue underbelly and cowls. It was largely unmarked except for the N-code on the rear fuselage. Alvin strained to look into the cockpit, finding just a single figure in the right hand seat. Further scrutiny revealed a young looking white wolf, dressed casually in a tanktop, with tousled brown hair. He never looked over at Alvin, and just stared straight ahead as he flew. Alvin could see him talking into his headset, and he frantically adjusted his radio's frequency to try and contact him. Turning the dial slowly back and forth, he eventually got onto a channel where he heard a bunch of frantic yelling, and the calm voice of air traffic control trying to talk the guy out.

"Hey buddy! Hey! You need to please calm down." Alvin pleaded.

"Who is this? Who the fuck is this!?" shouted the voice, which clipped and was distorted in the channel.

"Look to your right."

The wolf looked out to see Alvin in his Martlet, waving at him.

"The fuck you want!?"

"I want you to take a big deep breath, and tell me what's going on? Why are you doing this?"

"I'm tired of living man, I'm tired of this nightmare called life... I can't take it anymore..." The wolf said, sounding exasperated. "But I'm goin' out with a bang... These fucks at Walmart fired me... but I'm getting the last laugh! A-ha!"

"Do you think that's going to fix the problem?" Alvin asked calmly.

"Probably not, but fuck it."

"Listen to me, please." Alvin asked calmly.

"What's your name?" the wolf asked him. He looked over to see Alvin bobbing along in formation.

"My name is Alvin. Yourself?"

"Braxton."

"Braxton, I want you to know that I care about you... and I don't want to see you hurt yourself or others."

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"Yes it does matter."

"I had things going in my favor, and then everything just comes crashing down! One fucking thing after another man! I can't take it anymore!"

"It's gonna be okay!" Alvin exclaimed. "Now please, let's go back to the airport and talk."

"I'm done talking. Fuck it!"

As Alvin heard a burst of static on his set, from an abrupt channel switch by the wolf, he watched as the King Air suddenly turned towards him. With just seconds to react, Alvin pulled up, barely missing the left wing by a few feet. He rolled inverted and saw the King Air banking in a dangerous maneuver. Alvin followed and saw in the far distance, a Walmart, his target most likely.

"Oh boy..." Alvin thought to himself.

Firewalling his Cyclone-9, Alvin took off in pursuit, building up speed, Alvin rolled and dove in inverted. He watched the King Air approach, timing it just right, Alvin dove in front of the pilot, throwing his aim off. He rolled left and turned around to try his approach again, as Alvin climbed for altitude. The Martlet did a giant barrel roll, Alvin feeling the G's lessen at the apex, before he was pushed into his seat by the dive. He spotted the King Air again, and building up speed, he dove past him again, throwing his aim off yet again. Corkscrewing back into a climb, Alvin bled off speed and kept his eye on the King Air.

Entering another dive, Alvin closed the gap, as the King Air tried to dive upon the Walmart. Watching intensely, Alvin turned right and passed again at close range, coming perpendicular to the turboprop this time. With each pass, the turbulence rocked the King Air, and spooked its renegade pilot, who would pull up and bank around again. Alvin did an upper cut this time as he climbed away, missing the nose of the King Air by just seven feet. Glancing in his rear view mirror, Alvin saw him flying away from the Walmart. Sweat soaked Alvin's face. His adrenaline was rushing. Climbing up and leveling off to see where the King Air was going, Alvin saw the plane heading towards a path of high voltage transmission lines. Doing a split-s, Alvin took off in pursuit of him.

In the cockpit of the King Air, the white wolf looked frantic and desperate. Unfamiliar controls presented challenges as he tried to maneuver the big turboprop away from his pesky little attacker. Looking around frantically at alien controls, with dumb luck keeping him alive, the wolf banked to his right, and then cranked the yoke to the left real hard, inducing a momentary high speed stall which sounded multiple alarms. The aircraft creaked and groaned in a very tight turn. Barely skirting a stall, the wolf took aim at the Walmart again when he saw the Martlet come barreling in at him dead ahead. The wolf pulled the yoke back into his lap at the last second when the Martlet rolled right and dodged him. Inducing a stall, the King Air shuddered and dropped a wing. Unable to correct in time, the wolf saw the high voltage lines come right at him. He threw his arms up in terror and screamed.

Alvin watched the King Air strike the wires with a brilliant explosion of hot blue sparks. The wings of the Beech were sheared off, and both turboprops practically disintegrated with the propellers flying off and slicing through more lines. The fuselage tumbled through the air, and were entangled into other set of transformer lines, which exploded on contact. The crumbled up fuselage was suspended midair, held up by the wires. Cutting the throttle back to his overheating radial, "Dottie" circled above as Alvin got in contact with the ATC for emergency personnel. He orbited around for a time, watching as fire trucks, police, power crew vehicles, and ambulances staged in a field nearby.

Declaring an emergency for low fuel, Alvin was routed to the Toledo Executive Airport, where he came in for landing. "Dottie" rolled out smoothly and taxied to the main ramp, where he saw police awaiting him. Alvin applied the brakes and came to a stop, right as the engine ran out of fuel. With a sputter and a cough, the R-1820 powered down, the prop windmilling to a stop. Breathing a sigh of relief, trembling fingers took his leather mask and goggles off. Alvin threw them to the cockpit floor and looked exhausted as a police officer approached him.

---

Once again Alvin found himself all over the front page news. The media spotlight found him yet again, as the world talked about how he stopped a suicidal pilot in a twisting, turning, dogfight. Through the interviews with the local police, the FBI, the FAA, the barrage of journalists wanting to interview him, Alvin slowly figured out what had all transpired to drive someone to try and fly a plane into a store.

Braxton Mulligan was his name. He was twenty-seven, and apparently down on his luck after a number of setbacks in his life. His girlfriend had left him, and his father had died, and to top it all off, his drinking and despair cost him his job at the Walmart in Toledo. He had returned to live with his mother in the greater Detroit area, when he finally snapped. He stole a King Air that had belonged to a charter company, with the idea of committing suicide by ramming the Walmart and taking as many people as he could. He wasn't even a pilot, with only rudimentary understanding of the basic systems. He apparently learned by a flight simulator and YouTube videos. For all his troubles in his life, federal prison awaited him once he recovered from his serious injuries in the crash. Potentially up to thirty years, for a number of charges. Meanwhile, the world credited Alvin as a hero. He didn't let it get to him; Alvin just shrugged it off as "just part of the job".

In the days since, "Dottie" the Martlet became a very popular attraction at the museum. Quietly sitting on display, hoards of people came to have their pictures taken with the heroic little Martlet. The pugnacious little Grumman was recorded by people on the ground quarreling with the larger King Air. Alvin's nimble maneuvering and daring passes looked impressive on dozens of cell phone videos played all on TV's all over the world.  So while Alvin's airshow plans got cancelled, he got more than what he bargained for.

Returning home after giving a long interview with ABC-6 News in Columbus, Alvin quickly got changed into more comfortable clothes and returned to his "office". Turning the lamp on, he savored the cool air as he logged into his desktop. He immediately saw the notification about a new e-mail. Clicking on it, he found an e-mail from John Brownfield, which surprised him. He forgot all about it. He opened it up to read what John had to say.

"Dear Alvin!

Deep apologizes for not getting back to you so soon!
I was away on vacation in Greece, and didn't get a
chance to look at my e-mails. I want to start off by
saying that you look very smashing in that Royal
Navy uniform, and with such a wonderful plane as
a backdrop, my grandfather would be so proud.

My grandpa always told me that there were three
things  that he'd always love; my grandmother,
his children and grandchildren, and old Dottie, that
Martlet of his in the war. He owed his life to Dottie,
that tubby little American plane. After spending the
pre-war years plotting along in a Sea Gladiator, and
then a big slow Skua, the Martlet was a godsend he'd
always say. It was faster and more maneuverable
than a Sea Hurricane, and much stronger than the
Seafires that served alongside. When the war broke
out, he didn't think he was going to survive it, until
he saw Dottie for the first time. He was very upset
that he had to ditch Dottie when he took damage
over Norway, but he was thankful that she was
tough enough to take hits and protect him.

He later flew a Wildcat Mk. III, Dottie II,
and then a Hellcat Mk. I, Dottie III, ending the
war with eight kills. He loved all his Dotties,
but Dottie, the first, was his one true love of
his wartime machines.

After the war, my grandfather was a high school
Teacher in Chelmsford for many years, and later
a dean when he retired in 1985. When he passed
away, a great carrier of history was gone forever,
passed to the ages. I don't think he ever could
have envisioned Dottie rising from the dead from
the bottom of that fjord!

Enough of my ramblings- I am so happy that you
have found joy in Dottie. It really is beautiful to see
after I saw its twisted remains get pulled up from
the bottom of the sea! I was doubtful she'd ever fly
again after trading hands so many times. But now it
warms the cockles in my heart to see you taking your
first step into the larger warbird world, with Dottie.

Please stay in touch! And I have included some family
photos for you to enjoy. Godspeed!

-John."

Alvin sat back in his seat with a smile as he finished reading the e-mail. Opening the attachments up, he saw a couple pictures of "Dottie" sitting strapped down on the carrier. A faded photograph that was scanned showed Keith Brownfield, in his uniform, posing for a picture with his tubby Grumman. There was a picture of him later on with his second Wildcat, which wore mid-war markings, and finally his Hellcat, which was camouflaged in the same gray and green, but this time with a dark red cowling. "Dottie III" was written in the same style, always under the cockpit sill. The last picture was of his late father, Cyril Brownfield, who flew in the RAF in the 1960's. Cyril flew a very colorful English Electric Lightning, which bore the name "Dottie IV". Alvin felt very appreciative, and soon found himself writing a reply back.

---

The early evening sun glowed in the hazy white skies above the airport. The heat was brutal, radiating off the bleached pavement of the museum's tarmac. There was little wind, and the trees stood in silence in the stagnant heat.

Wiping some sweat off his brow, Alvin helped push "Dottie" out for an evening sortie. The tarmac held Rob's Helldiver, the camera plane, for an evening photo shoot of the little Martlet. Alvin helped turn the plane with the help of the ground crew, and the fuel truck rumbled over to top its tanks up with a load of 100LL. Alvin turned his attention over to his family, who ventured out to see "Dottie".

Joey walked with his Mom and Dad, and his elderly grandfather, ninety-six year old Jose Paulo, who was a Thunderbolt pilot with the Brazilian Expeditionary Force in Italy. Joey helped his frail grandfather walk. Also with them was Alvin's Dad, Roberto, and his girlfriend, Jennifer, who assisted an ailing looking Roberto. He was still recovering from being shot and seriously injured in a rollover crash from the year prior.

"I want you all to meet Dottie!" Alvin exclaimed.

Everyone gathered around to marvel at Alvin's tubby Grumman.

"Wow!" Jose exclaimed in his raspy old voice. "She's quite the beauty, Alvin~"

"Thanks Grandpa Jose!" Alvin grinned excitedly. "I can't wait to show you how she flies."

"With you, probably close to perfect." Jose complimented with a warm smile on his wrinkled old face. "I remember when I was your age, a long time ago!"

"Thankfully not in an actual war." Alvin grimaced.

"You're lucky!" Jose pointed out.

Andrew patted the propeller and examined the engine through the cowl's opening. "Wow Alvin, most kids your age lust for eight cylinders in their cars!"

"I got one extra cylinder." Laughed Alvin. "But I can go a lil' faster!"

"I'd hope!" Andrew exclaimed.

"Alvin has shown his skill in these planes." Joey smiled. "Just ask that guy who tried to crash into a Walmart!"

"Hey, it's just part of the job." Alvin jokingly shrugged. "I also learned from the best!"

Rob brushed off Alvin's compliment with a chuckle. "Bob did most of the dirty work."

"Oh c'mon, Uncle Rob." Alvin snickered.

Walking with Vlado was Xan Radabaugh, Rob's friend, and their photographer. The long haired black wolf gripped his camera and bag as he met up with everyone. He was aiming to get a nice picture of "Dottie" for his yearly aviation themed calendars that he made for his camera store. Rob's museum always guaranteed a great aviation calendar that would get sold out.  

Alvin met with Xan and they discussed the plans and what he wanted for the photos, before everyone went to get ready. Taking some shelter in the shade of a huge tree, the Paulos watched as Alvin got "Dottie" ready. Xan knelt on the pavement and took photos as Alvin fired up the smoky Cyclone-9. As the engine warmed up, Xan got aboard "The Barion", and Rob got his bulky looking SB2C-5 ready. As he fired up his Twin-Cyclone, Alvin took off and got airborne. While waiting for Rob and Xan, Alvin took the time to make a few fast passes down the runway, to the look of awe from his family. Roberto took pictures with his phone as Alvin roared down the runway, "beating up the airport" as Rob taxied for takeoff.

"I guess they really mean it when they say 'spread your wings and fly'." Roberto remarked to his brother.

"Yeah, I guess so." Joey smiled. "Very proud of him."

Circling around in the holding pattern, Alvin glanced down at Rob taking off and slowly climbing for altitude. He looked around at the scenery of Newark and Heath, seeing the shadows begin to be cast long by the setting sun. The sky was starting to get a nice orange shade to it, as the haze began to dissipate. The Doberman glanced around at his cockpit, and stopped to gaze momentarily at the old faded photo taped up on the instrument panel, of the late Keith, and Dottie Brownfield.

Alvin closed his eyes for a few seconds; feeling the vibrations in the stick, the gentle bobbing motion of some subtle turbulence, and the burble of the R-1820. He envisioned what it must have been like for Brownfield, flying this same plane eighty-two years prior, over the cold and unforgiving North Sea. Only in his wildest dreams could he have ever envisioned his beloved "Dottie" flying again, after spending half a century in the dark bottom of a Norwegian fjord. Now eighty-two years later, "Dottie", the G36A intended for France, now flew in peaceful skies. The pugnacious, tubby little Grumman made Alvin so happy; it was something he could say he bought on his own, and now he could fly a piece of history, with a proven combat record. And like its role eight decades before, "Dottie" saved the day again.

The camouflaged Martlet ventured west, as Rob closed in slowly to join formation. Alvin patted the instrument panel and felt mighty proud, as "Dottie" flew away into the glare of the setting sun.