Trophy for Eagles by Walter J. Boyne Page B

where a farmer's stand was waiting for the first of the spring's produce. He pulled the front seat out and extracted the leather kit Hafner had provided him, just as he provided the supplies for it.
    The fever was coming fast. While he did not yet have to have a fix, he didn't want to delay. He was worried about timing. If Hafner came back tomorrow, he'd expect him to be ready to fly. There was a note in his own handwriting in the kit, placed there during some earlier futile fit of conscience. It said: "A shot in the head is worth two in the arm." He grimaced. Maybe it would come to that someday, but now the shot in the arm was sufficient.
    He spent the afternoon in pleasant aimless puttering. Balchen invited him to town for dinner, but he declined; he wouldn't need Balchen or anyone for a while. He ate a beefsteak covered with greasy onions and edged with watery mashed potatoes at the local cafe, drinking a bottle of Moxie with it. He went back to the hangar to wait. Around nine, he stretched out on the cot. He had barely closed his eyes when Murray shook him.
    "Whatsa matter?"
    "It's three-thirty, and they just brought Lindbergh's plane over from Curtiss Field. I thought you'd want to know."
    Rhoades was instantly awake, thanked him. "Any word from the hospital?"
    "No. I talked to the nurse and she wouldn't let me talk to Captain Hafner without the doctor's permission."
    Dusty ran to the operations shack, raised a sleepy operator on the phone, and called Hafner's house. No answer. Rhoades slammed the receiver down, then called the hospital. The nurse gave him the same answer she had given Murray, but he wheedled the number of Hafner's doctor from her.
    The phone rang for a long time before a woman's voice answered sleepily.
    "Is Dr. Poole there? This is an emergency."
    "Dr. Poole is on a train to a medical convention in Chicago. Have you called the hospital?"
    Rhoades groaned, then called the nurse again. This time she put him through to the doctor who was on duty. "This is an emergency, Doctor. Captain Hafner is needed at the airport. We're about to make our flight to Paris."
    He could tell that the doctor was young—the answer confirmed the impression of his voice.
    "Look, Mr. Rhoades, I understand what you are saying. But this is Dr. Poole's patient, and the chart indicates that Captain Hafner had a sedative about nine o'clock. I'm not going to release him, especially not to go flying. You can talk to the hospital administrator in the morning."
    Rhoades gave in. It was always possible that Lindbergh would turn back. He might have a fuel problem, or the weather might be worse. He decided he'd be prepared in case Hafner suddenly showed up.
    He sprinted back to the hangar and yelled, "Murray, let's roll that fucking airplane out and get it ready!"
    Murray bristled at the orders Rhoades was flinging about, but grudgingly admitted to himself that it was probably what Hafner would want.
    After doing everything that could be done, Rhoades slumped on the wheel of the Miss Charlotte, looping his arm around the broad flat strut for support. That goddam Bruno. That goddam Bandfield. And that goddam Lindbergh. Dusty felt envious for a moment, then switched gears. Slim was just smarter, with better backers. He thought about going over and wishing him good luck, but decided against it. Lindbergh would be totally preoccupied with getting ready, and there would be enough people hanging on, shrieking for attention.
    He was dozing, sitting on the ground, when the noise of the engine of the Spirit of St. Louis running up broke the morning calm. Dusty stood up and wet his finger, instinctively checking the breeze. It was downwind, maybe three to five miles per hour. He wondered about the adjustment Slim had made in his prop setting. He'd altered it to permit a better cruise speed at the expense of a longer takeoff run. Now, with an adverse wind, that was a mistake.
    The minutes dragged by, double-laden with Lindbergh's prepara tions and the