Joey & The Flying Machine Pt. II (2017) by Yoteicon92

Joey & The Flying Machine Pt. II (2017)

Yoteicon92, Airlines, Alaska, C-119, DC-3, DC-7, Doberman, Douglas DC-6, Fairchild, Florida, Flying, Flying Boxcar, Friendship, Husky, L-1049, Malamute, Wolf Dog, aviation, business, challenge, constellation, cuba, lockheed, ohio

The warming of relations with Cuba opens new opportunities for Joey's cargo airline Paulo-Freightmaster, but it also opens new logistical problems. To solve them, Joey embarks on an adventure to faraway lands, in search for nearly extinct aircraft to bring back into the air once again.

Part of my Series: http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/2143509/

Joey & The Flying Machine Pt. 2

Prologue:

August 2016.

The Atlantic sparkled with sunlight, the choppy cyan waters extending to the hazy horizon. The vast ocean provided the backdrop inside the cockpit of the old Connie, plotting along among the puffy white clouds that silently drifted through the blue sky. "Clipper Alvin Paulo", the fifty-nine year old L-1049H sliced through the air, the curvaceous propliner on her way to Cuba, for the very first time. Painted in her new colors of Paulo-Freightmaster; a silver belly and wings, a royal blue cheatline outlined in gold, and a white top, she bore a new piece of noseart, depicting a US and Cuban flag with the motto "Flight Into History" written beneath it. Carrying her owner Joey Paulo at the controls, the cargo Connie flew towards the once embargoed island, opening the new official route for Joey's cargo freightline.

The narrow cockpit was crammed in with her four man crew. Joey Paulo, a black and tan Doberman from Brazil flew at the helm with his elderly grandfather Jose, a former airline pilot who, at eighty-nine returned to flying once again to help his grandson out. Their flight engineer was Vlado Horvat, a burly gray furred Croatian wolf in his mid-forties with his arms sleeved with tattoos. He sat monitoring the engine and fuel gauges behind Jose as he sat opposite to Alvin Paulo, the little nephew of Joey, who sat in the radioman's seat behind his uncle. Their relief crew lounged in the small forward compartment aft of the cockpit, reclining in the few airline seats that made up the small space. The sound of the four Wright Cyclones filled the cockpit, a dull mesmerizing drone of the large Curtiss propellers that clawed the air with their silver blades.

"It's been a long time since I've been to Havana." Jose said to his grandson. "I rememberwhen Cuba used to be under Batista. Havana was the Las Vegas of the Caribbean! Lots of corruption, lots of mobsters."

"That was a long time ago. Now Cuba is all broken and worn out." Joey mused as he checked his altimeter.

"The socialist utopia didn't quite work out." Chuckled Jose. "Oh the days when I used to fly my L-1049, or DC-6B. I didn't think I'd return to Cuba nearly pushing ninety in a L-1049!"

"Hey, anything can happen Grandpa." Smiled Joey. "This is really a first for me."

"It's a first for nearly any American after years of basically isolation between the US and Cuba. A hissy fit and a temper tantrum on both sides if you ask me." Jose quipped as he adjusted his glasses.

"Eh. I guess I'd be pissed off too if I spent a lot of time training someone, only for them to basically go 'ha-ha got you!' and side with my geopolitical foe. It's all dumb now since the Cold War is 'supposedly' over~ We trade with the biggest communists in the world, China, but we ignored Cuba until 2015? It's crazy." Joey shrugged.

"Politics. None of it makes sense." Jose smiled.

"Exactly." Joey agreed.

The shoreline of Cuba slowly emerged from the haze as Clipper Alvin Paulo approached Havana. Descending in slowly, Joey adjusted his radio frequency and got ahold of Havana's air traffic control tower to begin his navigation into Havana's large airport.

Continuing to descend, the outline of Havana began to grow clearer, as the Connie continued its approach to the city. From the cockpit windows, Joey saw a metropolis emerge of white stucco buildings with reddish brown roofs. Roads crisscrossed perpendicular to each other, a tic-tac-toe pattern of roads lined with green palm trees.

Joey entered the landing pattern as he carefully banked his curvaceous Constellation in the holding pattern. The Jose Marti International Airport sported a single runway that was thirteen thousand feet long, serving both military and passenger operations. The L-1049H orbited around for two laps before getting the clearance to land.

Banking in with a slow left turn, the spidery landing gear was dropped into the slipstream, the flaps deploying for landing as the plane slowed up for its nose down descent.

"I think since this was my very first cargo plane, which made this business possible...it should be used for the first flight into Havana!" Joey boasted on the cabin phone to his business partner Kurt, who rode in the lounge with his father Lloyd.

"That and you wanted to avoid the whole angry protest thing flying your Navy Warning Star 'Challenger'" chuckled Kurt.

"Yeah, nothing to fucking piss off the nationalist hardliners like an imperialistic Navy blue WV-2 with the belly radome." Lloyd exclaimed over the radio.

"That too~" Joey pointed out sarcastically. "Landing in less than a minute!"

Jose called out the altitude as Joey held his Connie steady, the runway growing larger in view as he began flaring for touchdown. The threshold slipped beneath his plane's radar nose as Jose reduced power on the engines. With a jolt through the plane, Clipper Alvin Paulo touched down on the runway perfectly. Blue smoke shot off the tires as they scraped on impact, Joey slowly lowering the nose wheel onto the runway as he allowed the plane to coast. He didn't need reverse thrust as he bled off speed using the brakes, the aircraft slowing to a crawl as their exit approached.

Turning off the runway, Joey turned his head to watch as Vlado powered down the outboard radials. The large Curtiss propellers, flat tipped with black deicer boots, windmilled as they came to a stop. Rumbling in on the inboard engines, Joey taxied to the tarmac, where a Cubana Antonov sat disembarking passengers.

Coming to a stop, the inboard engines were run lean before they too were finally powered down, allowing ground crew to approach with an airstair. They braced it up against the forward hatch as Joey slid the door open, feeling the late summer's heat blast against him. He hooked his arm around his grandfather as they slowly disembarked down the wobbly steps, followed behind by their crew as they stepped foot on Cuban soil for the first time.

Joey looked around at the old building in front of him, looking reminiscent of the 1950's. Chipping white, and blue paint that was faded by the sun colored old bricks as a few mechanics worked on their aircraft parts under the shade of the roof. The airport was an interesting blend of new and old, a new tower and terminal building contrasting to the dilapidated old hangars that looked crumbled around him.

"Grandpa had waited the rest of his life to see this happen. Too bad he's not here to witness the reopening of Cuba." Kurt told his father.

"He was pissed that Cuba became communist and closed all his favorite casinos." Chuckled Lloyd. "I'm sure Dad is the reason the term 'Ugly American' came about."

"No doubt." Chuckled Kurt.

Out of the corner of his eye, Joey noticed a gray wolf round the corner, dressed in a gray suit. With his black hair slicked back against his head, he approached Joey, a smile curling up on his face.

"Hello there, are you the pilot to this airplane here?" the gray wolf asked Joey.

"Why yes~" Joey replied. "Joey Paulo. Co-head of Paulo-Freightmaster's Air Transport System!"

"Oh perfect! I'm Luis Amador, import-exporter." The wolf announced.

"Oh we've spoken on the telephone earlier. Nice to meet you." Smiled Joey as he shook his paw.

"Paulo~ You Spanish? Latin? Your Spanish is a bit rusty!" laughed Luis.

"Brazilian. If you spoke Portuguese, we'd have an excellent conversation." Laughed Joey.

"Well welcome to Havana!" smiled Luis as he shook Joey's paw. "I hope to have a great relationship working with you and your cargo freightline."

Exchanging business cards, Joey ventured back to his Constellation, which brought curious onlookers to observe the old timer parked under the bright Havana sun. Just like the island itself, the propliner was a time capsule, an anachronistic relic of the modern world.

Joey & The Flying Machine Pt. 2

With the canopy locked back and the slipstream howling through, Joey sat strapped into the armored seat of "The Ohioan", his immaculate Corsair. Glossy sea blue, white stenciling, and a bold red and white checkered nose and rudder, the gull winged FG-1Dcarried him down the Florida peninsula, enroute to Opa Locka. The Doberman looked over to glance at his DC-7B flying in formation with him, "Clipper Gordon Barion" on schedule from New York with her belly full of cargo. He had already surpassed his parts hauler, the boxy camouflaged Caribou that carried overhauled spare parts from Rickenbacker.

Following his cargo plane down the peninsula, Joey arrived at Opa Locka after a four hour flight from Newark. Crossing over the city, Joey turned to line up in the holding pattern at the Executive Airport, awaiting his turn to land. Circling around once, Joey descended in with everything down, making his way to the long runway.

Watching through the propeller arc, the threshold slipped from view as Joey reduced power to land. With a jolt and a squeak of the tires against the pavement, "The Ohioan" smoothly rolled down the runway, bleeding off speed as he gently sat the tail down. Turning off the runway, Joey turned his Corsair onto the long service road, which lead to Kurt's tarmac, diagonal to the runway.

Zig-zagging to maintain his forward view over the long nose, the Doberman sat back listening to his Double Wasp burble ahead of him. Briefly glancing to his left, Joey looked to his right before snapping his head back to the left, noticing his C-118A parked on the tarmac. There was a flurry of commotion going on near his cargo plane which had caught his eye. An obstructed view of ground crew standing around with the hydraulic platform and a few automobiles.

"The Ohioan" rolled onto the tarmac, its wings folding up to Joey's command as he crawled to a stop. The Double Wasp was run lean before Joey pulled the mixture to "cut". He climbed out of the cockpit before his propeller fully stopped, the long black blades tipped in yellow falling silent. Pulling the amber goggles off his face and removing his leather helmet, Joey slipped a pair of dark aviators over his hazel eyes as he walked across the long tarmac to his Liftmaster, "Clipper Robert Gold Tokarev".

Workmen pushed a hatchback onto the platform, working quickly to secure its tires with straps before hoisting it up to the open rear cargo door. A bunch of commotion ensured as the gray Aveo was slowly maneuvered through the cramped door and into the fuselage of the Liftmaster.

"What's going on here?" Joey asked.

"Joey!" came Kurt's voice as his business partner jogged from the open hangar doors. Kurt, the forty-two year old black and rust Doberman jogged over to greet him. "Welcome, welcome!"

"What the hell is going on here?" Joey asked with an amused smile as he pointed.

"Gray market cars! For Cuba~" Kurt pointed out as another car was hoisted up to the cargo door.

"I see." Was Joey's response as he observed the DC-7B taxi onto the tarmac behind the C-118. His eyes glanced skyward to his left to notice one of the company C-54's descend in slowly for a landing.

"There's the Havana flight coming in." Kurt pointed.

"New York flight is right on time too." Joey nodded. "So gray market cars huh? This is new."

"The Cuban government authorized us to start transporting automobiles from the US to Havana for import." Explained Kurt. "Luis Amador wants to start importing via air since its faster and more efficient."

"Interesting." Joey mused. "Hey, maybe that means we can start importing those classic American cars back to the US!"

"Uhh...I don't know about that." Laughed Kurt.

"What do you mean? Those old things are built like a tank! You get a classic fifty-nine Chevy and bam! Auto collector's heaven~"

"More like cobbled together pieces of shit." Kurt grinned as he morbidly laughed. "Those cars are probably worth only their weight in scrap metal."

"Anything can be restored. Look at these old planes!" Joey pointed out with an optimistic tone.

The two Dobermans stood watching the armada of forklifts and order pickers rumble onto the tarmac to offload cargo from the two newly arrived aircraft. There was some commotion going on at the Skymaster that got Kurt and Joey's attention as they ventured over to the old Douglas.

"Clipper Tradewinds", a 1942 C-54A sat under the bright Florida sun as workers began the process of unloading the plane.

"Hey let's get the car out first! Bring the platform over!" yelled one of the freight handlers inside the plane.

"Car?" Joey asked Kurt.

"Oh goodie! A Cuban car." Kurt grinned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

The platform was driven across the hot tarmac, its warning beeper annoying blaring away as it slowly crawled over to the Skymaster. Hoisting itself up, workmen struggled in maneuvering the old automobile around as Joey saw the tail end of an old Cadillac, which slowly was maneuvered out of the tight space of the cargo hold and onto the platform. A powder blue 1956 Cadillac was secured and slowly lowered down to the pavement.

"Wow~" Joey smiled as he approached. "That thing looks awesome!"

Rolled onto the tarmac, Joey approached the old Cadillac. It's front bumper was dinged up and rusted in a few spots, the paint looking dull and scruffy from the years of hard use. Joey envisioned it being cleaned up and restored to its original roots. Running a paw across the hood, Joey smiled as he daydreamed. He opened the door only to be brought back to reality at the sight of Russian gauges on the dashboard. His smile faded to a look of disbelief at the Cyrillic marked gauges covered in a layer of dust. Looking around, the interior was cobbled together- literally held together with glue, tape, and screws.

"What the fuck!?" Joey muttered as he closed the door and walked to the hood. He popped the hood expecting to find a carbureted V8, but instead stared at a French diesel motor. The Doberman tilted his head in disbelief as Kurt laughed at his expression.

"What, did you think I was kidding?" laughed Kurt. "These cars are what I call Galapagos Isle cars~ They're so cobbled together from years of isolation, they've evolved into their own thing. They're literally junk. Take my word Joey! I am a third Cuban."

Joey slammed the hood shut to hear the sound of crunching metal. "Wonderful~"

"I think we need to find a more efficient means to haul gray market cars. I'm telling you Joey. It's a lucrative untapped field in Cuba!" exclaimed Kurt.

"Yeah...wedging them into our DC-6's and Connies aren't going to really do us much good in the long run. It's not efficient and it eats up space that could be used for cargo, plus it takes them away from the main trunk routes." Joey nodded as he and Kurt brainstormed. "You know what? I need to go speak to Luis."

"Well you got your ticket right there." Kurt chuckled as he pointed at the Liftmaster.

"I'll be back in a few hours!" Joey called as he ran back over to his C-118, just as the forward cargo door began to close.

Clipper Robert Gold Tokarev arrived at Havana in just under an hour. Under a bright blue sky, the polished Liftmaster rumbled to its spot on the bustling tarmac. Riding along in the cockpit, Joey sat behind his flight crew, watching the hangar approach as the C-118 bucked to a stop. The inboard engines were run lean for shutdown as the mixtures were cut, the sound of the superchargers spooling down as the flat-tipped propellers slowed to a stop.

Climbing down the metal airstair, Joey took a moment to examine the old Douglas for any leaks or damage during the flight. Securing the tail brace pole to the tail, Joey gave the approval to begin unloading the plane, just as Luis Amador appeared.

The gray wolf with slicked back hair approached the C-118 dressed in a white summer suit as he spat out a cigarette. "Greetings Joey!" he announced as he approached the Doberman.

"Hello!" Joey smiled as they shook each other's paw.

"What do we have onboard today? Hopefully some cars!" laughed Luis as he shared a chuckle with Joey.

"There's two cars onboard." Nodded the Doberman. "Two Aveos, and the rest general cargo. Medical supplies, and some machine parts."

"Oh good. So good." Nodded the gray wolf.

"I actually came to talk to you about the importation of automobiles." Joey spoke up.

"Oh! You picked the right time! It's lunch time! Come Joey! I'll host." Offered Luis.

Taking up his offer, Joey hopped into Luis's car, a gray, boxy Lada. Leaving the airport, they drove to a small café, located at a street corner to eat lunch together and talk about business matters. Over sandwiches and tea Luis and Joey talked about automobiles.

"I feel that the automobile is the key to the success of the future economy of Cuba, especially since things are being relaxed now." Explained Luis. "Transportation is the lifeblood of any country to get product and people from coast to coast, a transportation of enterprise, capital, and people that drive said enterprise."

"Exactly." Agreed Joey as he sipped on his iced tea. "My aircraft play a crucial role in getting my stuff from point A to point B."

"So how did you get into aviation back in the States?" Luis asked casually as he lit a cigarette.

"Well my partner Rob is a big aviation guy. For the entire time I've known Rob, he's always been involved in flying aircraft as a hobby."

"An expensive hobby." Chuckled Luis as he took another swig of his smoldering cig.

"Hah! Yeah~" smiled Joey. "I'm new to aviation. About three years ago I was flying with Rob and our adopted son Felix in his first Constellation when our deadheading passenger attacked us with a god damn hammer!"

"That's not good." Luis muttered in a surprised tone.

"Motherfucker whacked me over the head with a hammer and knocked me out. Next thing I know I woke up in an ice cold plane somewhere over the North Atlantic with no Rob or Felix because they had been thrown out of the plane in the ensuring fight. That son of a bitch gave me a god damn concussion!" Joey explained.

"What a way to start flying huh?" laughed Luis as he shared a cynical chuckle with the Doberman.

"Yeah. What a way huh? I put that Warning Star down though in Ireland. Right on the last drop of fuel, I did it." Joey stated proudly. "After that, I kinda liked it~"

"Minus the whole hammer hitting you part."

"Yeah~" Joey sarcastically agreed with the wolf. "Now the business part, I started with a single Super Connie two years ago. Me and my father run a firearms company, Paulo Firearms. We have a factory in Missouri that builds ammunition and now a rifle plant in Virginia. Well...after fifty thousand rounds of ammo torch off in a freak multi-car pileup... we were banned from hauling that much ammunition on a semi-truck. So being creative...I found that an airplane does the job pretty darn well! Next thing I know, I'm flying other people's stuff and getting paid for it!"

"It just snowballed from there." Chuckled the wolf.

"That's right! Then I met Kurt last year and we became Paulo-Freightmaster." Joey concluded. "We're the propliner stalwarts. Defying the modern times with our geriatric fleet!"

"Just like our classic cars!" Luis laughed as he pointed out an old Chevy Bel-Air rattling past them on the road.

"Only difference is that our planes aren't held together with tape and bubble gum." Joey grinned.

"I hope to god they're not!" exclaimed Luis as he laughed. "Do you feel, with confidence that automobiles can be brought to Cuba on your aircraft? I like the idea of flying them in verses on a boat because it's a lot quicker, and air transport can respond to the ebb and flow of marketdemand better than say a boat."

"Eh, I mean, I can give it a shot." Joey casually shrugged. "Larger vehicles...I'm going to have to figure out what aircraft can be used for that however."

"I would like to bring in some utility vehicles, larger stuff to replace this worn out Soviet crap and Chinese bullshit we're bringing in." Luis rolled his brown eyes.

"Like I said. I'll see what I can do. We'll keep in touch." Joey promised as he finished the last bites of his sandwich.

Under the subtle lights of the Park Place, Joey sat with his bandaged up husband Rob, at a booth overlooking the construction downtown by the square. Enjoying a dinner-date together, the Doberman spent time with his ailing husband, who was recovering from a severe car wreck just a month before. Having been ejected through the windshield of his truck when his brakes failed, Rob was encased in a leg and arm cast, his hip healing from a hip replacement. But despite his sullen looks, the mood between them was warm as they enjoyed each other's company.

"Your parents are fucking annoying." Rob casually stated with his usual bluntness. "They come bursting through the door wanting to make lunch for me, and they get in this huge argument in the kitchen over whether my wok could be considered a pan or a pot!"

"...it's a wok." Joey shook his head.

Rob changed his voice to impersonate Andrew and Marie. "'It's more than three inches it's a pot Marie! What are you stupid or something?' 'Well you can't fry stuff in a pot, so it can't be a pot you dumbass!' I didn't think two people could find anything and everything to argue about."

"Welcome to my world!" Joey laughed. "I have dealt with this my whole life. Epic battles over nothing."

"...And blatant favoritism of you over your brother." Rob joked with a chuckle as he scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes.

"Well hey...once you create perfect...it's hard to surpass that." Grinned Joey with a sarcastic laugh, which made Rob laugh with him.

"Oh boy." Was Rob's response.

"But of course my parents like me better. I'm successful, mature, have a family, and I don't fuck thirteen year olds."

"Or look like a wannabe gangbanger driving a shitty Honda around with shitty tattoos littering your body." Rob rolled his eyes.

"That too~ Though he did give me a wonderful nephew. I'll give Robby that." Joey pointed out.

"True." Nodded Rob.

Joey took a sip of his glass of ice water to parch his thirst. "So, it looks like I might be flying cars into Cuba from Florida."

"Oh yeah?" was Rob's response.

"I flew into Havana from Opa Locka with three small cars strapped in the Liftmaster. It was an awkward fit, but it worked. Luis Amador, the import-exporter wants to start flying used gray market automobiles into Cuba since its quicker and can respond to demand faster if it picks up and slows down."

Rob smacked his lips following a sip from his glass of water. "That's interesting."

"My problem is that it's not very efficient to wedge them into the C-54, DC-6, or Connie, and if Luis wants the larger two ton trucks to be flown in, then I'm screwed. The Caribou can barely carry a car and its underpowered, the C-97 has its loading ramp high off the ground and it's a trapeze act to squeeze a vehicle up the ramps, and I really don't want to invest in a C-130 Rob!" laughed Joey at his dilemma.

"Why don't you just buy a C-119 or something?" Rob suggested. "The Dollar Nineteen is a rugged box hauler, twin tailed, twin-engine with an adorable little jet pod on the roof, with a good cargo space to fit a couple cars, or a fuel truck, plus it uses the same turbocompound R-3350's as your Connies and Seven Seas."

"Huh, that's nifty. It just might fit the bill too~ Where would I find a C-119 for sale?"

"Google it! How do you think I find all my aircraft?" Rob smiled with his usual sarcastic wit.

Joey pulled out his phone as he shook his head with a smile. "I can't imagine what this search result is going to bring me~"

"Planes. Junk ads. Porn." Rob shrugged.

"Lots of porn." Joey chuckled as he typed in "C-119 For Sale" into Google. Immediately he got multiple hits as he saw photos and links appear on his screen. A quick search got him to a link that perked his interest. Titled "2 C-119C FOR SALE, PALMER, ALASKA", Joey tapped on the link to watch the site pop up, revealing a photograph of a scruffy, dull metal plane sitting in the Alaskan scrub. With twin booms, a boxy, rectangular fuselage, and twin engines sporting four blade propellers, the name Flying Boxcar made sense to Joey. With an asking price for $500,000 a piece, Joey spun the phone around to show his husband.

"What do you think of this?" Joey asked.

"Oh goodie~!" Rob quipped as he read off the screen. "Both were built in 1953, served in the Air Force, retired and entered civil use and continued to operate in Alaska without any incidents until retired by the company in the winter of 2015. Includes spare parts.That's a steal."

"You think two would fill the need to haul cars and other big items into Cuba?" Joey pondered.

"It's actually perfect for the job that you need. That's what makes the Boxcar so unique- you can put all this big shit in it and get in and out of unprepared airfields in less than three thousand feet. It's rugged and tough, built to bring you home." Rob said as he handed Joey's phone back to him.

"I think I'm going to go with these two then!" Joey agreed.

"Well there you go, problem solved!" Rob joked as he took another drink of water.

"First world problems." Laughed Joey as he and Rob smiled at each other.

Returning back home after dinner, Joey helped his husband in as he limped slowly to his spot in the TV room. Joey ventured down the stairwell into the basement, where Rob's office resided at.

"Hey Uncle Joey! How was dinner?" asked his nephew Alvin as he stepped out of his bedroom. Joey stopped and laughed at the sight of his nephew, who had his tree frog resting on his head between his pointy cropped ears.

"Alvin, you got a frog on your head." Joey smiled with a chuckle.

"George likes being close to me." Alvin giggled as he watched his frog leap off his head and land on Joey's muzzle.

"No, not now George!" Joey said as he gently picked the red eyed free frog up off the bridge of his snout and handed him back to Alvin. "I got a plane to buy!"

"Oh?" smiled Alvin as he held his frog.

"Two C-119's."

"Cool! They're funny looking planes!" Alvin exclaimed.

"Indeed. But they're gonna be used to fly cars into Havana." Joey explained as he stepped into Rob's office to turn the light on. Closing the door behind him, Joey hopped on Rob's workstation to find the site, checking it over once more before signing into Skype. Spotting a Randy Tharp online, Joey clicked his icon to call him as he put his headset on. He was a portly malamute that lived in Alaska, helping with his father's freightline Tharp Aviation out of Anchorage. The Tharps were crucial in helping Joey get enough pilots to swell his ranks to fly the old piston powered airliners.

"Randy speaking!"

"Hey Randy, it's Joey. How are things?" Joey said more calmly.

"Things are well! Especially after eating mac n' cheese and beating off to porn!" laughed Randy on the other end.

"Thanks for sharing~" Joey sarcastically quipped as he rolled his eyes. "Now I got that burned into my mind."

"You're welcome! What can I do for ya Joey?"

"Uhh yeah, I found two C-119C's for sale in Palmer that I'm interested in buying for my freightline to fly cars into Cuba. If I fly into Anchorage, could you or your father fly me into Palmer? The airfield where these planes are at looks really rough for my propliners."

"Sure! You can fly on my Otter! We can hang out and that'd be cool!" Randy agreed.

"Perfect." Joey nodded.

"When are you coming out? I gotta get my fishing poles ready! We should go fishing!"

"Let's just keep this business related." Chuckled Joey. "How about this weekend."

"Sounds like a plan!"

The rugged snowcapped Rockies of British Columbia drifted through Joey's view outside his porthole. At seventeen thousand feet, the long tapering wings of "Altair" carried them aloft, the silver, white, and blue Starliner slicing through the thin, frigid air with her droning propellers. The second to last flying Starliner, the curvaceous L-1649 was Rob's newest company transport, commandeered by Joey for its long range to make it to Anchorage. Painted in an Air France inspired paint scheme, "Altair" was proudly marked "BARION-TOKAREV" on the white upper fuselage for the world to see.

From his padded reclining seat, Joey sat in the forward fuselage, listening to the muffled roar of the massive Curtiss propellers keeping them afloat. Fifteen feet long, the polished metal blades glistened in the late afternoon sunlight, their flat tips painted chrome yellow. Long, pointed propeller spinners streamlined the cowling to the big Cyclone radials, which belched out a steady stream of flame from their exhaust turbines. Joey leaned forward with his phone to take a picture of the mountains, a smile forming on his face from his picture of the snowcapped peaks.

Putting his phone down on the table, Joey looked around at the narrow interior. Rob had designed "Altair" with a beige interior, a warm color pallet of earthy colors, that made the narrow fuselage seem bigger. The walls and carpet were beige, with faux wood paneling on the bulkheads separating the fuselage into different compartments.

Getting up and stretching his back, the Doberman made his way through the bulkhead, through the chrome plated galley and into the second compartment to check on his nephew. Styled like a traditional airliner with multiple rows of seats, Joey found his nephew Alvin napping by the window, the young thirteen year old asleep with his head resting against the shaded window. They had been in the air for close to eight hours already, with another few more hours to go.

Returning through the forward lounge, Joey stepped into the intermediate space before the cockpit. His relief crew rested, made up of his company pilots George Najjar, a gray furred wolf of Lebanese background, Jim Hansen, a black and white husky with icy blue eyes, and flight engineer Don Mattingly, a brown Labrador. Greeting all of them, Joey stepped into "Altair's" narrow cockpit, seeing the familiar faces of his motley crew at the helm of the Starliner. At the controls sat Felix Barion with his friend Ivo Horvat, Ivo's father Vlado being their flight engineer. The three sat dressed casually, their short sleeve t-shirts showing off their tattoo sleeved arms that rested.

"Are we there yet?" chuckled Joey as he braced himself, the plane rocking gently from turbulence.

"Three hours to go." Felix said as he turned around to glance at Joey.

"And everything is okay?" Joey asked.

Vlado checked his instruments at his station. "Engines are good. Fuel levels are good on all tanks. We will have two hours reserve when we get to Anchorage."

"Perfect." Joey nodded. "So Vlado, from what I showed you, how quick do you think those Boxcars will be made flyable?"

The burly Croatian wolf shrugged. "Just depends once I poke around~ But I'm glad they don't have those god forsaken Wasp Majors! I hate that engine so much!"

Everyone in the cockpit laughed as his son Ivo turned around to look at him. "Hey Dad, you don't like bloody knuckles changing out the sparkplugs?"

"No..." grunted Vlado. "I'm going to get "Hate" and "4360" tattooed on my knuckles one of these days, so the engine knows how much I hate it when I bust my knuckles again changing those damn sparkplugs!"

"Well you do a great job helping with the other mechanics in keeping the engines running smoothly." Joey complimented.

"Thanks~" Vlado nodded.

Returning back to his seat, Joey leaned forward to watch the Canadian landscape drift by below, where he sat for the remaining three hours as the Starliner cruised towards Anchorage.

As the evening sun began to retreat towards the horizon, Altair made it to Anchorage, with time to spare. Descending in with her nose at a slight droop, the Connie rumbled in, catching everyone's eyes by surprise as the old propliner rumbled in for an uneventful landing, nearly twelve hours after departing from Newark-Heath.

Among the congested tarmac at the Ted Stevens International Airport, Altair was parked along the flight line of Boeings and Airbuses. As her last propeller windmilled to a clambering stop, an airstair was wheeled over to her forward fuselage, to allow everyone to disembark.

Joey climbed down the stairs with his nephew ahead of him, following Felix and Ivo as they made their way to the pavement below. Anchorage was a lot cooler as Joey brushed the wrinkles out of his windbreaker, a brisk fifty-seven degrees contrasting to the mid-eighties back in Ohio. The low sun cast long shadows all over the tarmac, forming an interesting pattern of light and shadow as all around Joey business bustled along.

The distinctive whistle of turboprops got his attention as Joey and his nephew watched an old L-188 taxi by, the silver, white, and green Electra belonging to Tharp Aviation. It was obviously returning from its last flight in the day, to its homebase at Anchorage, where the Tharp family resided at.

Joey returned his attention to help Vlado inspect Altair's airframe for damage, as the faint smell of oil wavered from the large piston engines that sat in silence, save an occasional pop or ding as parts cooled. Joey finished his inspection as he examined the unique triple tail, his eyes looking forward to see the Tharps approaching.

Chubby Randy Jr. walked ahead of his parents, Randy Sr. and his wife Linda Tharp. The Tharps were gray and white malamutes, Randy Jr. in his early thirties and his parents sixty-two and sixty.

"Joey! My man!" grinned Randy as he ran forward to meet the Doberman. Joey watched as he proceeded to trip over his own foot, landing hard on the asphalt with a loud smack.

"Randy you're a god damn dumbass." His father grunted as he shook his head.

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Randy exclaimed as he got up. "Joey! Nice to see you again!"

"You didn't pee on me this time! That's great!" Joey grinned sarcastically. "Nice to see you as well."

"Welcome to Anchorage!"

"It's kinda cold here!" Joey exclaimed with a laugh.

"It's just fine here! What are you? One of those types who like the heat?"

"Since I'm from Brazil, yes, that is true~" Joey nodded jokingly. "I'm a sun Dobie, not a snow dog."

"I like snow. They make cheap snow cones~" Randy naively said as his father rolled his eyes.

"Don't eat the yellow snow." Joey chuckled.

"Oh I learned my lesson on that." Randy said proudly as Joey looked at him with a snarky look of disbelief.

"Did you eat paint chips when you were young?" Joey asked as Randy laughed at his joke. Randy's laughter faded as a serious look formed on his face.

"...why do you ask?"

Joey shook his head with a smile. "You know what? Let's just see those Boxcars in Palmer...since we got some light to spare."

"Sure!"

Snowcapped mountains painted orange by the sun formed the backdrop of Palmer as Joey flew over the small town in the backseat of the Tharp's Otter. Painted red with a white cowl and cheat, the DHC-3 droned over the sleepy down with its burbling R-1340 puttering along. Joey rode in the backseat with his nephew and Vlado, the three watching Randy and his father fly them to the gravel strip where the retired C-119's resided at.

"I grew up in these parts." Explained Randy Sr. "The Tharp family came to Alaska during the gold rush in the 1800's, and Fredrick Tharp made it rich finding gold. Since then the Tharp family has resided in the Anchorage. My father Archie Tharp came back from the war fighting in the Aleutians and started the family freightline in 1955 with a Beech 18 he bought. We went from that single Beech, to a fleet of DC-3 and DC-4's, to DC-7's for a while, then went with the Electra when Reeves Aleutian retired their fleet. Plus the L-382's I got out of Davis-Monthan, they serve our company well flying stuff all over the remote stretches of Alaska."

"I see." Nodded Joey from the backseat. "Sounds like the story my business partner Kurt has with his Freightmaster company."

"Family owned for sixty-two years!" Randy Sr. boasted.

"Oh Dad! Tell Joey about the Connies we found up north!"

"Oh yeah! Before that nightmare is erased out of my memory Joey~ So me and my idiot son here are flying our Electra today up to an oil station at the North Slope to deliver some machinery parts, when Junior here lands at the wrong airport. An abandoned airport. We ate up practically that whole runway in full reverse thrust to stop." Randy Sr. explained to Joey.

Joey blinked a few times while looking at him. "But if you're the captain, why didn't you stop him?"

"Hah! Got you!" grinned Randy Jr.

Randy shook his head. "Anyways~ This airfield was long since abandoned, left over from where the pipeline got finished. So after berating Randy about being an idiot, I noticed these three Super Constellations just parked outside this rusted out hangar! I couldn't believe it."

"Oh that's neat. How bad of shape?" Joey asked.

"They're surprisingly intact. One is missing its triple tail, and they're all devoid of engines. But I mean, there's no damage to the fuselage, no corrosion. They look good."

"Like me!" Randy Jr. joked.

"Don't quit your day job kiddo~"

"Okay~"

Turning into land, Joey watched as a single gravel strip came into view in the descending turn. It was a rough little field, carved out of the Alaskan scrub that looked more like a junkyard than an airfield.

"This is where airplanes go to die." Randy Sr. chuckled as he maintained his descent.

"Sounds like where I'm from. Except it's just your hopes and dreams that go to die in Newark." Joey smirked as he and Alvin shared a chuckle with Vlado.

The red Otter touched down on the gray gravel, kicking up a cloud of dust as it rolled to a slow crawl. From his window, Joey saw the two C-119's emerge into view, the dull metal planes sitting silently among the weeds. Randy Sr. parked the plane close to the Flying Boxcars as he ran the engine lean before powering it down, the three blade prop stopping after a few seconds.

Popping the hatch open, Joey climbed out first, turning around to help his nephew disembark as he held Rob's fancy Nikon. The shadows grew longer as Joey saw up close, the two C-119's, looking forlorn among the brown scrubby landscape. The old paint scheme was just about gone, with only a few flecks of color remaining in a few spots. The plane's duralumin skin was dull and weathered, with a few dents here and there. Joey walked along the side to examine the engine, the cowling tightly encasing its impressive R-3350 Cyclone. A four blade propeller, of moderate chord and painted light gray still bore a faded Hamilton Standard sticker. The Doberman looked beyond to examine the unique twin booms that made up the tail, reminding him of an oversized P-38. The fuselage nacelle was wide and boxy, the name "Boxcar" fitting for such a plane. The tapered tail was made up of clam doors, allowing easy roll on and off of cargo, particularly vehicles.

"I have to say. I think this will fit the bill quite nicely." Joey said as Vlado approached.

"Tomorrow. I will have to take a better look at it. Especially the interior, fuel tanks, and engines." Vlado suggested.

"Sounds like a plan." Joey nodded. "I think I'm going to commit to this purchase."

"Wanna go see the Super Connies up at the North Slope tomorrow?" Randy Jr. asked.

"How about you go check those out, and I'll do my Vlado magic on these planes here." The gray wolf offered.

"Deal~" Joey agreed.

"Uncle Joey! Lemme get a photo of you and Vlado!" Alvin exclaimed as he held up Rob's camera.

Vlado put his arm around Joey as they grinned in front of the C-119, bathed in the amber light of the setting sun as Alvin snapped a photo of them together.

Listening to the four Allison 501's drone along in the slipstream, Joey watched through his window as the Alaskan tundra drifted through his view. Deadheading with the Tharps, he flew through central Alaska, enroute for the desolate North Slope, inside the Arctic Circle. The L-188's crew quarters was basic, but sound as Joey and his nephew rode in the jump seats.

"This is cool." Smiled Alvin as he took a photo through the window. "The Arctic!"

"Ugh, the cold." Chuckled Joey. "This ain't Havana."

"No it's not Uncle Joey!" exclaimed Alvin. "This is Alaska!"

"That it is Alvin~ That it is." Nodded Joey as he watched the propellers spin away outside.

"And to think I got a sample of tundra soil! It's so cool, even my science teacher thought it was cool!" Alvin exclaimed. "That we got in Canada in 2015!"

"That's when we bought the DC-7C." Joey smiled as he remembered that day. "God it was cold up there."

"It was fun! The perfect adventure with Uncle Joey!" giggled his nephew, who held up his camera to take a photo of a smiling Joey sitting by the window.

It took only two hours for the Electra to cross Alaska, as the landscape grew more barren and flat into the Arctic Circle. The tundra was waterlogged, with many small lakes dotting its mottled brown and green surface. It was a rugged and cold, an isolated landscape devoid of civilization.

Stepping into the cockpit, Joey watched the two Tharps fly with their flight engineer. Randy Sr. in the left hand seat and his son in the right hand seat.

"You know I greatly appreciate this." Joey spoke over the roar of the propellers. "You guys have done so much to help my company back in Ohio."

"Anything to help a friend out!" Randy Jr. exclaimed.

"It's unique and daring, what you're doing down in the mainland." Randy Sr. explained. "When I first heard this cargoline started using old propeller driven aircraft down in the mainland, I couldn't believe it! You got a lot of balls Joey for going up against the big freightlines using piston powered aircraft that are over sixty years old!"

"Eh, I carved out of a niche. I still work at my Dad's gun store, and we own an ammunition plant in Missouri and a rifle plant in Virginia. Well...we had a problem when a semi-truck full of ammunition blew up on the interstate due to a car wreck...and we were told we could no longer haul that much ammunition. So I turned to using an aircraft to fly our goods. Necessity is the mother of invention as they say~ And it just kinda took off as people took notice of us."

"Always works out that way huh? You've definitely made a name for yourself in aviation circles." Randy Sr. complimented. He raised his right paw to point out the cockpit windows. "We've arrived."

Flying low over the desolate taiga of towering spruce, Joey spotted a clearing far in the distance, a gray splotch amongst a sea of dull green. Gradually a rough landing strip was made out, along with a few rusted Quonset huts and other bits and pieces. Joey's eyes locked on to the distinctive shape jutting up behind one of the rusted buildings, the pointed, curvaceous nose of the Connie. Concealed by the rusting structure, it sat on its tail, sending its bleached nose skyward.

The Electra touched down on the gravel, which still bore the tire marks from their unintended landing the day before. It was a rough rollout as the L-188 rattled and shook, the pinging of gravel against the fuselage adding to the melee of sound. The reversed propellers roared as they slowed to a stop after a short roll, the Tharps reducing power as the Electra turned around and came to a stop.

The Allison's spooled down, their propellers continuing to turn as power was bleed off from the turbine. Waiting for the propellers to finally stop, Randy Sr. threw open the forward port hatch and unfurled his metal ladder, which he stabbed into the gravel below for them to disembark.

Joey climbed down, grumbling at the cold wind that blew against him. The air was cold, being only in the mid-forties as Joey adjusted his jacket that kept him warm.

"Here Uncle Joey!" Alvin exclaimed as he handed Joey his green winter cap, which he quickly placed over his wedge shaped head with his pointy cropped ears.

"Ugh, it's cold!" Joey laughed as he examined his surroundings.

"Welcome to the Arctic." Chuckled Randy. "I like the cold!"

"I don't!" Joey exclaimed sarcastically.

"All you Dobers don't like the cold." Chuckled Randy Sr. "I have yet to meet a Dober that isn't bitchin' about a little cold~"

"I'm sorry I don't have a thick ass pelt like you." Chuckled Joey. "I rather be in Cuba sipping Coke and Rums wearing a speedo!"

"I bet I'd look good in a speedo!" grinned the chubby malamute.

"Don't quit your day job Randy!" was Joey's snarky response.

Joey examined his surroundings with a look of curiosity gracing his face. What astonished him was the sheer silence. The landing strip had been long since abandoned, surrounded by gnarled, dull green spruce. The old Quonsets were beat up and rusted, with one completely collapsed in, and another partially collapsed. An old tractor and a dump truck sat frozen in the ground, with paint faded and chipped and rust covering the cabs. He walked over to an old rotting wood sign, which faintly bore the name "McNamara Field". It had once been used during the construction of the oil pipeline, flying fuel, parts, men, and machinery for the immense project before being abandoned in place.

"Wow." Joey thought to himself. Everything was so pristine, untouched, almost essentially frozen in time. It was so quiet, he could listen to the breeze whistle through the taiga, the sound of shoes crunching against the slate gray gravel ground.

Alvin walked up to take a photo of the old wooden sign, firing the shutter away on Rob's Nikon.

"It's so quiet here." Joey said to his nephew.

"You can hear a fly fart!" grinned Alvin with a laugh.

Joey laughed at his nephew's joke as they made their way towards the hangars. Examining the crushed in Quonsets, Joey and Alvin walked around the side of the aluminum building, to find themselves staring at their prize, three Super Constellations.

Three L-1049's sat together, in various states of dilapidation. One sat on its tail, its center of gravity shifted from losing her four piston engines. Her nose pointed skyward, despite a set of rusting drums futilely strapped to her nose gear. The second Connie sat on her landing gear, but the distinctive triple tail was removed, which sat on the ground not far away. That Connie had three engines intact, but only a single propeller still hanging and two cowlings removed, revealing the Duplex-Cyclone's cylinder banks and power recovery turbine hoods. The third Connie was mostly intact, with all four engines and props, but its Pinocchioradar nose was smashed in from an impact, destroying the ancient APS-10 radar. The rudders and elevators were missing off the tail of the third plane. All three were painted the same, a scruffy scheme of a white upper fuselage separating the natural metal belly with a slate blue cheatline. The years of summer sun and winter's snow bleached and chipped the paint badly.

Looking in surprise and awe, the Doberman approached the second Constellation with his nephew, who snapped away with his camera. He stood below engine three, which was the only engine that still had a propeller attached. To his surprise and delight, he saw that the propeller was a Curtiss Electric unit; its blades were unpolished metal, of similar chord like his Curtiss props, but instead of sharp flat tips, the tips were rounded flat tips.

Walking under the wing, Joey ventured to the rear of the fuselage to find a faded "N1653F" on the rear fuselage. All three aircraft that intact registration numbers, which made Joey ponder who the last owner was.

"Wow. These are great." Joey said as Randy Sr. approached.

"I bet these were abandoned in place when the oil pipeline was finished in the seventies. It wasn't worth the cost bringing them back." The malamute figured. "They don't look too badly beat up. I bet you can hang new engines and propellers on them, fix the controls and ferry them back to Anchorage!"

"That doesn't sound dangerous at all." Chuckled Joey. "I wanna know who owns them because I'd like to buy all three."

"Take down the registration numbers and call the FAA. It's probably been so long that the registrations have been cancelled. Hell, if the planes were surrendered and the registrations cancelled, the courts just might award you ownership or something."

"Interesting." Joey nodded.

Randy Sr. walked back to his plane to fetch the ladder, which he carried back with the help of his son. They propped it up against the third Constellation, the most intact one as Joey climbed up slowly to open the hatch.

Balancing himself on the ladder, while reaching up to grasp the door handle, the Doberman attempted to turn the handle to unlock the door, only to find the handle not budging. Bracing himself, he jerked the handle hard a couple times to free it up, having been seized up from years of disuse. After a couple of heavy heaves, the handle gave way, nearly knocking Joey off the ladder as he managed to slide the forward hatch open.

Climbing aboard, Joey was met with a cluttered interior, filled with junk. Old crates, and faded boxes littered the interior, which smelled musty; like an old attic mixed with cosmoline. The walls were faded and worn looking, the paint flaking off. Poking around, Joey found old mementos scattered about; an upturned milk crate held an old blue enamel coffee pot and mugs, and some loose papers lay close by, yellowed and faded with age. Bending down to pick up one of the papers, Joey unfolded the crinkled paper, which was an old legal document that was signed by a Michael G. Wells in blue ink, dated to 1975.

Setting the paper back down, Joey walked towards the cockpit, stopping in the navigator's compartment immediately aft of the cockpit to read the company data plate.

"Lockheed Aircraft Corporation. Model L-1049E-55-118. Date of Manufacture: July 1954." Read the black text on the tarnished gold plate.

Stepping into the cockpit, Joey was surprised to find that the cockpit was intact. Gauges sat dormant under a thin coating of dust. Cobwebs resided on the control yokes and throttles, the yokes still sporting the shiny Lockheed logo in the middle. The flight engineer panel was intact as well, complete with a faded Dixie Cup resting on the desk. It was like stepping into a time capsule as Joey took photos with his phone to show Rob.

After spending some time poking around, Joey climbed back down, looking jubilant at his find. "I have to find the owner. These airplanes are too good to pass up."

"That they are. Heh, don't worry. Nobody up around in these parts to mess with them." Chuckled the older malamute as they secured the airplanes to return back to their awaiting Electra.

In the late afternoon, the Electra flew Joey and his nephew back to Palmer directly, landing on its gravel runway with a cloud of dust behind it. Slowing to a crawl, the L-188CF taxied to where the C-119's were located, Joey noticing from the cockpit, work ongoing around the Flying Boxcars.

Stepping out once the engines had fallen silent, Joey walked over to see Vlado standing around with the owner of the Boxcar's, laughing and joking together in casual conversation.

"Hey Joey! Glad you're here." Vlado greeted as he motioned for the Doberman.

"Yeah?" Joey asked with a content look on his face.

"Check this out." The Croatian wolf said as he yelled for his son Ivo. "All systems look good on the planes here."

Watching Ivo and Felix climb into the cockpit of the closest Flying Boxcar, Joey listened as the APU hummed, powering the aircraft as engine one was prepared to start. Taking a few steps back, Joey listened to the starter engage the prop, which began turning slowly, urged along by the starter. The R-3350 groaned before slowly beginning to cough to life. Puffing oily smoke out of the three exhaust stubs of the turbines, a glut of flame erupted as the engine powered up, brilliant flames erupting out of the turbines before being smothered by a cloud of white smoke. The propwash blew away the smoke as Joey stood, nodding in approval as the owner approached.

"So Joey? You're the guy looking to buy these?" asked the black and gray furred wolf.

"Yep~ I think I am impressed with what I see." The Doberman nodded in approval.

"So what do you say?"

"I say yes, I commit to buying these two aircraft." Joey accepted as he shook paws with the owner.

Two Weeks Later

"Easy does it! Back it up slowly!"

Back in the warm climes of Opa Locka, Joey watched as a large fuel truck was gingerly backed into the cargo hold of "Clipper Neptune's Jalopy". The C-119 was cleaned up and repainted, sporting the "Royal Paulo Blue" scheme of a white upper fuselage and natural metal wings and belly, separated by a deep blue cheatline outlined in gold. The nose was graced with the Paulo-Freightmaster logo, the modified Air Transport Command insignia that read "THE AIR TRANSPORT SERVICE" instead. The propellers were polished to a glistening shine, the duralumin skin sparkling in the Florida sunshine.

"That's it! Stop!" yelled Kurt as he navigated the loading of the boxy fuel truck, destined for Cuba. The driver got out to help secure the vehicle as it was strapped down to the heavy magnesium floor of the Flying Boxcar.

"She fits perfectly." Chuckled Joey as he walked over to see the Freightliner strapped inside the cargo hold. It was a snug fit, without much room to spare on either side of the hold. The airport ground crew stepped back and pushed the clamshell doors shut and secured them for the flight to Havana.

Joey and Kurt stepped away from the plane, watching as its three man crew boarded the plane to begin preparations for takeoff. Not far away, Joey turned around to watch as the other Flying Boxcar taxied, "Clipper Erie Canal" rumbling across the tarmac to begin its flight to Havana, carrying three cars in her belly.

"Try fitting that fuel truck in a C-54." Kurt joked with Joey as they walked, venturing over to the flight line where Joey's Corsair sat. "The Ohioan" shared the ramp space with "The Barion II", Rob Barion's F4U-5, and Kurt's newest warbird- a Hellcat.

Painted glossy sea blue, "The Tanager Mk. V" was an immaculate F6F-5, purchased by Kurt to replace his scrapped Wigla. Having won the lawsuit against the maintenance company SaberPro, the payment enabled the purchase of the classic Grumman.

"How in the hell did you get that name." Joey pointed out with a smirk as he stood examining the cowling that bore the name in white paint.

"Well you see my Grandpa..."

"Oh boy. I can't wait to hear this." Joey cut in as Kurt laughed.

"...yeah, it's another crazy Harold Tanager story. My Grandpa got drunk meeting with one of the FAA guys looking to examine one of his DC-3's...which he cobbled together apparently from various airframes...when they were giving him scrutiny...he blurted out 'What the flying fuck!? This is the Tanager Mark Five you son of a bitch!' The five being...his fifth plane he put back together himself. Terrifying isn't it?"

Joey shook his head and laughed. "And I thought my family was crazy~"

Returning from the hangar walked Joey's husband Rob, the wolf-hybrid looking in much better shape after his car accident in April. Walking without a limp at last, he was dressed in his khaki flight attire complete with yellow "Mae West", like Joey and Kurt. He was finally cleared to fly again.

"All the planes are fueled up. Engines topped up with oil, we are good to go." Rob announced as he adjusted the straps to his dangling oxygen mask.

"Let's do it!" Joey announced.

Joey, Kurt, and Rob stood and watched as "Clipper Erie Canal" began its galloping takeoff run. It's jetpack belched a darkened exhaust as it whistled above the wide fuselage. The turbocompound radials belched flames out as the Flying Boxcar gathered speed down the runway. With the aid of the J34, the Boxcar lifted off the ground, climbing away trailing a dark exhaust plume from the Westinghouse jet engine.

"And they're off~" Joey nodded as he listened to engine two of "Clipper Neptune's Jalopy" cough to life.

Joey, Rob, and Kurt climbed aboard their mounts to begin the trip to Havana, ninety minutes away. One by one, the rumble of pistons came to life as the two Corsairs and Hellcat coughed oily smoke on ignition. Following behind Clipper Neptune's Jalopy, the three Navy planes taxied along, stopping at the end of the service road to let the C-119 do its final engine checks. The Boxcar revved its engines up, a combination of roaring propellers and a screaming jet engine as it began its gallop down the runway, its wheels clearing the pavement after a thousand foot run to begin its climb away.

Joey and Rob taxied onto the runway, parking side by side as Kurt brought up the rear. Doing one final visual sweep of the gauges, Rob and Joey nodded to each other as they opened the throttle, their Double Wasp's revving up for maximum power. Kicking opposite rudder in for the torque, the Corsairs took off, fully fueled with drop tanks hung beneath the fuselage. Rob left the runway first, his four blade propeller gripping the air more assertively, followed by Joey in his colorful FG-1. Kurt was the last to leave the runway, the F6F climbing away to follow them as they began their flight to Cuba.

Watching Florida begin to slip behind, Joey looked back in his rearview mirror as Opa Locka grew distant. Ahead lay a ninety minute flight across the Atlantic, a vast expanse of water between Opa Locka and Havana. The Doberman patted the side of his cockpit, wishing his radial engine luck to get him across the sea. If anything were to go wrong, there would be nowhere to go but the ocean.

Looking to his right, he watched Rob fly his Corsair, his beloved F4U-5 celebrating its seventieth anniversary of being built. Rob had added a stencil on the forward fuselage, a large "70" flanked with "1947-2017".

"You look right at home." Joey smiled as he spoke over the radio.

"It's good to be back." Rob agreed with a cynical chuckle. "Didn't think I'd be back in here so soon."

"They pieced you back together pretty well if you asked me." Teased his husband.

"Gee thanks~ It was oh so fun to have my hip reassembled."

"That's why you don't listen to my Dad for car repair advice." Joey laughed.

"Duly noted."

The two Corsairs and Hellcat met up with the C-119's, which plotted along among the dotted clouds high over the Atlantic. Escorting them from a safe distance, the five plane formation droned along, crossing the strait enroute for a direct approach to Havana. Crossing the Atlantic in ninety minutes, they saw the coastline of Cuba begin to appear out of the haze at the horizon.

"Havana, the forbidden land." Rob joked with Joey and Kurt.

"Grandpa would be so jealous that we get to return to Havana." Kurt said over the radio. "How he'd want to go back and gamble like he used to."

"I can see where the term 'Ugly American' came from." Joey snickered.

"Yeah, that's my Gramps!" Kurt laughed.

Arriving at Havana, the Corsairs and Hellcat broke off, allowing the Flying Boxcars to land first with their cargo. Orbiting in the landing pattern, Joey came in first, descending with "everything down" for the long runway that loomed dead ahead. Reducing power and slightly flaring, "The Ohioan" touched down with her tires squeaking against the runway. Smoothly holding at the centerline, the Corsair bled off speed and slowed to a crawl, Joey turning off the runway to the service road to taxi where the Boxcars were parked at. Rob, then Kurt descended in a slow turn for the runway, touching down in a row as they too rumbled down the runway.

Joey hopped out, jumping to the pavement to venture over to Clipper Erie Canal, which had its crew disembarking. They were an Alaskan crew, recruited by Tharp Aviation to help Joey out in training new pilots to fly the "Dollar Nineteens".

"So how'd she fly?" Joey asked curiously.

"Well I'd say she flew like a million dollars." Spoke the middle aged malamute confidently.

"Good." Joey breathed a sigh of relief. "It looked like a smooth flight."

"About as smooth as smooth gets!" boasted the malamute as he and Joey debriefed on the flight plan.

Walking along the cobblestone street of old Havana, Joey and Rob spent time with each other as they explored the old part of the city. The narrow cobblestone road was flanked by old brick buildings, in dingy, chipped pastel colors. The sounds of laughter and conversation in Spanish reverberated off the grime covered walls as Rob took a photo of his husband posing for a shot.

"It's unique. Such a time capsule." Rob admitted as he examined his photograph.

"I have to agree." Smiled Joey as he leaned against Rob to examine his photo. "Damn I look good."

Rob smiled and playfully nudged his grinning Doberman, who mockingly laughed at himself.

"Okay Roberto." Joked the wolf-hybrid.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Joey exclaimed. "I'm taller and you're not twelve."

Rob morbidly laughed at his husband's quip. "True~"

"Oh and I don't use Wheaties and a needle to bulk up." Joey added as he flexed his muscular arms.

"Or use a booster seat." Rob added as they laughed together.

"Yeah fuck my brother." Joey quipped with a laugh.

Walking to the Plaza Vieja, Joey and Rob talked, musing on thoughts as they explored.

"Two years ago, I never thought getting my pilot's license would get me to where I am now." Admitted Joey. "I didn't think that it would lead me to have a successful freightline!"

"That's always how it works out." Rob smiled. "You have a talent for business."

"I never had really any formal education on business matters...just observing of Dad running his gun store. I learn quick, I guess it's a good attribute to have." Joey replied. "When we lost the contract to get the ammunition shipped, your WV-1 saved the day, and it just took off from there."

"That's how it goes Joey~ Speaking of the Starship...I gotta get her ferried out of Wright Patterson and back to Newark!"

"Don't lose an engine." Joey chuckled.

"Yeah, thanks." Rob sarcastically gazed at his lover. "It was fun watching the fuselage explode when a propeller fucking sliced through it!"

"Adrenaline rush." Grinned Joey with a laugh.

"Yeah, I had enough of that shit." Rob shook his head.

"It's been a fun adventure. I never thought hunting for these old planes would take me all over the country." Joey explained. "I've been to Arizona, Utah, Alaska, Yellowknife Canada, Puerto Rico, and now Alaska and Cuba! ...But I still like the warm places."

"Heh." Smiled Rob. "Always you and the cold."

"Look at this pelt yo!" Joey exclaimed as he lifted his tanktop to show off his abs. "There's not much fur here! And look at my abs!"

"Hah." Rob chuckled. "Try having a pelt like mine. When it gets really hot...it's fun."

"I'm fun when I'm hot." Joey teased as Rob playfully nudged him.

"Of course you are~" Rob sarcastically quipped.

The duo made their way back to the airport by the late afternoon after touring old Havana. Returning to the tarmac, Joey witnessed his two Flying Boxcars being refueled, as ground crew began loading the Boxcars with a set of old American cars, to be flown back to Florida. Also arriving on the tarmac, was one of Kurt's DC-3's, arriving to Havana from San Juan.

"Oh boy, the Cuban jalopies..." chuckled Joey.

"Fun stuff." Smiled Rob as he took a photo of the commotion on the tarmac.

"Joey!" came Luis, who approached him with a happy expression. "Joey! This has been so wonderful. I fly to Miami a few days ago to get those vehicles from an auction, and now I have them! No extensive bureaucracy, no red tape! I love it!"

"Well thank you Luis." Joey smiled in return. "That's what I strive to do~ Efficiency and speed. On the wings of Paulo-Freightmaster!"

Flying in formation, Joey and Rob flew close in their Corsairs, heading up the Florida peninsula. Swapping planes, Rob flew "The Ohioan", while Joey cruised in "The Barion II", the Navy Reserve F4U-5.

"Well I have to say, other than the prop, the floor, and instruments, it doesn't handle any different." Rob said over the radio.

"She's a great plane isn't she?" chuckled Joey.

"Yeah, can't deny that! The Corsair is always a great mount." Rob agreed.

"Well you take good care of her, and I'll see you this evening. I need to check up on my New York hub!" Joey announced before releasing the microphone toggle.

"Heh, you do the same Joey." Rob replied as he wiggled the Corsair's wings in salute and broke away to begin flying north towards Ohio, leaving Joey to fly alone to begin the route to New York. Joey watched his Corsair slip away from view as Rob flew on, the distinctive lines of the FG-1 finally lost in the hazy distance.

Looking ahead, the Doberman watched the four blade paddle prop propel him along northern Florida as he gently banked to begin the approach towards Georgia. Adjusting his amber goggles, Joey settled down for the long flight ahead as The Barion II plotted along, bouncing gently in some turbulence as it skimmed along a cloud. Looking in the rearview mirror on the canopy sill, Joey watched the silky tops be whipped up by the vortices off his propeller, little wisps of white being flicked by the yellow tips.

Cruising alone over Georgia, and crossing into South Carolina, Joey followed various towns to navigate, communicating in and out with air traffic controllers as he navigated his way north. Crossing into North Carolina, the Doberman watched the scenery outside of his cockpit as he cruised, plotting course for Wilmington.

From his two o'clock, Joey noticed a speck in the sky, his eyes focusing to recognize the distinctive shape of one of his Connies, his morning flight out of Opa Locka. It was his L-1049H, "Clipper Marie Paulo", that had taken off an hour and a half before himself. The Super Constellation, named after his mother plotted along, an hour out from a DC-6A that had opened his morning cargo flights to New York and Maine.

Closing the gap, Joey formed up on his L-1049H, which cruised at nine thousand feet. Its silvery propellers clawed the air, propelling it along through the clouds as it made its way to Wilmington to make the turn to follow the coast to JFK airport.

Adjusting his radio frequency, Joey squeezed the microphone toggle to speak through his oxygen mask. "Clipper Marie Paulo, this is Joey Paulo, in The Barion Two. Come in over?"

There was a crackle of static as Joey heard their response. "Joey Paulo! Good to hear from you boss man!" It was his pilot Jim Hansen, the Captain to Clipper Marie Paulo.

"Looking good in flight~" Joey complimented as he held course just off their nine o'clock.

"Well thank ya Joey. Hey wait a second, where's your Ohioan?" Jim asked, noticing Joey in Rob's Corsair.

"Oh me and Rob decided to switch things up. He went home in The Ohioan, and I'm borrowing the Barion Two." Chuckled the Doberman.

"Well you best be careful with that~ That's Rob's baby."

"Oh I know~" Joey smoothly stated.

Approaching Wilmington, which spanned the horizon, Joey settled down for the cruise as they began banking to head north-northeast to begin following up the coast. Getting the idea for a photo, Joey whipped his phone out as he began backing away to get behind his Connie.

"Boy will this be a fun photo." Joey chuckled as he got the L-1049 in his reflector gunsight. "Hold that pose!"

"Heh, will do." Jim chuckled in return.

Joey snapped a photo, showing the Connie dead center in the sight. "That's gonna be a fun Facebook image tonight."

"It's all smooth sailing to- BIRDS!"

Joey looked up to suddenly notice a cloud of black approaching them. Unable to react in time, the Connie plowed headfirst into a flock of Starlings. Joey watched as his canopy suddenly exploded in red, a number of thuds pelting the Corsair as it shook. Blood streaked against the canopy, smeared with feathers as Joey was jolted around.

"Uh oh." Joey muttered.

His forward view was blinded by a mess of blood and feathers, the propeller lacerating everything. He checked his instrumentation immediately, his eyes immediately going to the engine gauges to find nothing abnormal. The Double Wasp continued to burble along, unaffected. Glancing to his sides, he found his external view okay, though the plexiglas was streaked with blood. The wings were surprisingly undamaged; there weren't any obvious dings or dents, the black rubber deicer boots on the leading edge still pristine. Joey deduced that the Constellation shredded a path through the flock that spared the Corsair.

Suddenly realizing about his Super Constellation, the Doberman pulled to his left to form back up with the Connie, just as his radio started bursting to life.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday! Wilmington tower this is Clipper fifty-forty-seven declaring an emergency! We've hit birds, our windshield is damaged, repeat! Windshield is damaged! Request emergency landing. Over!"

Joey listened to the distress signal, the sound of wind rushing into the cockpit evident. He could faintly hear the flight engineer report two malfunctioning engines over the roar of the wind. Pulling to the left, Joey formed up on the wounded Connie, using his side view to assess the situation. There was a plume of gray smoke emitted from engine one, which coughed pulsating flames out of the turbine hoods.

"Clipper Marie Paulo, come in again? You have two malfunctioning engines? Over."

"Affirmed! Over"

"Engine one is emitting smoke, engine two looks okay. Over" Joey radioed back.

"Engine two is reporting high cylinder head temperature. Over."

"Feather one and two." Joey demanded. Pulling slightly ahead, he got view of the forward half of the engine cowling and nacelle. Engine one had its propeller spinner knocked off, revealing the bullet shaped prop boss of its Curtiss Electric propeller. The front of the engine, including its streamlined spinner cap over the crankcase showed significant deformation from impact; with numerous welts and contortions. Blood streaked against the silver skin of the cowlings, a chilling testament of a bird strike.

Upon command of the flight engineer, Joey watched engine one and two shut off. Engine one's propeller feathered flawlessly, the unpainted flat tipped blades windmilling and stopping parallel with the slipstream. Engine two followed a few seconds later as its propeller was feathered, leaving the Connie to limp on its two engines on the right wing.

"Turning to Wilmington. Over." Radioed Jim.

Paying close attention to the cowlings, Joey looked forward to suddenly freeze at the sight of the missing radome. The familiar Pinocchionose of Clipper Marie Paulo was missing, reduced to just a ragged nub. The new Honeywell radar was damaged from impact, exposed into the slipstream with bits and pieces missing and broken.

"Well shit..." Joey mumbled to himself.

"Ugh. What a mess..." Jim grumbled. "This shit stinks."

Joey looked ahead at the bloody, coagulated mess obstructing his forward view. "Great..."

"Clipper Marie Paulo" limped to the runway, crabbing slightly from asymmetric thrust. With only two good engines, the wounded Connie descended in fast, her crew flying on instrumentation as they approached the runway. Using only a minimal flare, the Connie touched down on all three gears, which smoked on touchdown. Unable to use reverse thrust, Jim Hansen rolled down the runway, bleeding off speed with the brakes on rollout. The wounded propliner stopped at the other end of the runway, engines three and four shutting down the moment the tires stopped rolling. Fire trucks approached slowly, firemen clad in silver suits approaching the sitting Connie with fire extinguishers in hand.

In the air, Joey watched the scene from the cockpit of Rob's Corsair. With his windshield obstructed by blood and feathers, Joey navigated using instrumentation and his side views outside of the canopy to plot the F4U along. All the while he grumbled about the situation at hand.

"Rob is going to kill me..." Joey thought to himself as he looked at the mess in front of him.

"Joey, good news from the runway is that nobody is injured onboard. Just shaken up. Over." The tower radioed to the Doberman, who squeezed the microphone trigger.

"That's good to hear. Over." Radioed Joey through his oxygen mask.

The Connie was hooked up to a motor tug, which gently turned the plane around to tow back to the tarmac. The runway was opened back up for Joey to make an emergency landing as the tower gave him authorization to come in to land.

Dropping the gear and flaps, Joey turned for the runway, following his gauges and side view as the tower and ground crew aided his navigation. Descending in, Joey bit his lower lip as he struggled to view the runway through the coagulated carnage.

The Barion II crossed the threshold at one hundred feet as Joey reduced power. He breathed a huge sigh of relief when he felt the jolt of landing. Rolling down the runway, he bled off speed and turned off to the service road, following the commands of the tower to head to the tarmac.

Sliding the blood stained canopy back, Joey stuck his head out to navigate. He continued to breathe through his oxygen mask, which helped mask the foul stench from the bird entrails all over the plane.

His ordeal over, Joey turned and parked, in the shadow of the Constellation. The four blade propeller windmilled to a stop as Joey climbed out, nearly slipping on entrails as he jumped down to the pavement. Stumbling from his improper jump, the disgruntled looking Dober walked over to examine his beat up L-1049.

Looking up, Joey examined its smashed in nose. The fragile radome was broken and the new Honeywell radar unit destroyed on impact. There were dents in the fuselage skin around the conical nose, including a panel which had a corner peeled away from the rivets popping out on impact. The windshield glass was a complete write-off; radiating spider web cracks radiating from multiple impact zones.

Walking towards engines one and two, Joey examined engine one, immediately noticing its missing spinner. The rear spinner cover, streamlining the crankcase was bent back, part of it having come loose and impinged against the cylinder heads. Looking at engine two, the narrow gap between the cowling and the rear spinner was clogged by a bloody mess of bird carcasses. It had impeded airflow to the cylinder heads, causing the engine to overheat and force a shutdown.

Looking in disbelief, Joey smacked his paws against his hips in frustration. "You gotta be fucking kidding me..."

At a loss for words, Joey let out an unhappy sigh.

Meeting up with the airport's FAA inspector, Joey discussed the incident with the agent, who took a moment to check the Corsair over for any damage. Gathering notes and taking photos, Joey explained what he saw, and the radio communication he had with his cargo plane during the impact. The incident would now head to the NTSB for a report.

The FAA agent lead Joey to where his crew members were at, located at an open hangar where they were checked over by an ambulance personnel.

"Boy that was a wild ride." Jim admitted. "I look up and see this black cloud coming right at us, and there was no time to avoid impact. A bunch of thumps and the windshield exploded in cracks."

"Heh, you guys sliced right through it and I was in the right position to only get pelted with the debris splattering all over." Joey rolled his eyes with a smile.

"Well now the plane's all fucked up." Jim grumbled. "Wonder how long she'll be out of service."

"I'll get the Whiz Kids on it." Joey chuckled as he grudgingly grabbed his phone to call Rob. "Oh how I can't wait to explain this one to Rob."

"Clipper David Paulo", a DC-6A taxied to the tarmac, arriving from New York in the evening hour. Dispatched by Kurt, the old Douglas arrived at Wilmington to pick up cargo from the damaged Connie, to stay on time to maintain schedule.

Watching from a distance, Joey stood washing the canopy of The Barion II, awaiting Rob's arrival. With the aid of a couple maintenance men, they worked to clean the Corsair off, its propeller, cowling, and wings receiving the attention of the pressure washer. Joey had spoken to Rob on the phone; he wasn't happy that his Corsair struck birds, but was more concerned about his husband, prompting him to gather his mechanic and fly out to inspect the damage. His mind also raced on what to do about his damaged Constellation. It needed repairs done, and he wasn't sure of his plans; he debated in his mind about whether it'd be easier and more efficient to ferry it back to Ohio, or fly the parts down to repair at Wilmington Airport.

Jumping down onto the water soaked tarmac, Joey tossed his soiled towel away to examine the F4U-5. It was finally clean again, free of the foul smelling bird carcasses that plugged air intakes. Looking content, Joey looked up at the sky as a distinct rumble caught his attention. Watching overhead, his eyes spotted Rob arriving, flying in his hulking Helldiver, "The Barion", which flew in formation with a Thunderbolt, the hulking silver machine sporting a yellow and black cowling.

The two plane formation orbited around once and came in for a landing, with Rob landing his SB2C-5 first, followed by the Thunderbolt.

Joey stood and watched as Rob taxied past in the glossy sea blue dive bomber, painted in the colors of his grandfather's mount during the war. A smile crept up on his face as he saw his waving nephew in the rear gunner's compartment, dressed in an authentic WWII flight outfit. He turned his head to watch the Thunderbolt rumble in a turn onto the tarmac, the plane revealed as being "Tony the Second", Felix Barion's mount. But instead of Felix, their mechanic Vlado Horvat sat in the cockpit, draping a tattooed arm out as he navigated the "Jug".

Joey followed behind as he watched Rob climb down from the Helldiver to help their nephew disembark.

"I'm glad you're okay." Rob said as he took Vlado's toolbox from Alvin, who disembarked.

"Like I said, it was a wild ride." Joey reiterated as they walked over to look at the Corsair. Rob walked around and examined every crevice and intake of his plane, to confirm himself that the F4U was undamaged. His serious gaze softened to a look of relief at the realization that his Corsair was unharmed. Turning his attention back to the L-1049, Rob walked back over to the Connie, which had its cargo slowly unloaded with the assistance of a forklift.

Meeting up with Vlado, they went to work making an analysis of the damage. Starting at the nose, the trio decided to attempt to ferry the plane back to Ohio for repairs. The windshield would have to be replaced, as would the radome, sans radar unit. The dents in the metal around the radome were not a concern, as they would be repaired once the plane was back at Rickenbacker. Turning their attention to the engines, Joey had the ground crew power wash the cowlings to clear them of bird carcasses, which were scraped away and safely disposed of.

Vlado opened the cowling panels to engine one, using a ladder to examine the cylinder banks and crankcase for any damage. Other than a few stray feathers, he found the R-3350 to be intact and undamaged. Double checking the oil filters, he pulled them out to find no metal shavings in the oil return line. The propellers were also cleared of damage, which made Joey breathe a sigh of relief at the health of the props and engines.

"I say, take the spinner parts off engine one and two, fair the nose over with a replacement radome, and it'll ferry back to Ohio." Vlado suggested. "Mark's whiz kids can take over from there."

"This is why we have you here Vlado." Chuckled Joey as Vlado nodded with a smile on his face.

"That's right." He boasted with a laugh.

"It's always something isn't it?" Joey shook his head with a cynical laugh as they watched cargo be loaded up into the DC-6.

"Better call my brother to get new parts made." Rob joked as he put his arm around his husband.

"Better call Jake! I smell a new TV show!" grinned Alvin.

"Heh, just like Better call Saul huh?" smiled Joey as he stood with everyone watching.

At the John H. Glenn International Airport stood a white aluminum building, opposite of the terminal building across the long runway. With a giant sign that read "Johnson-Barion", it was the nucleus of Jake Barion's machine shop, the lifeline to keeping Joey's old propliners in the air.

The shop was filled with the constant rumble of machinery as employees worked on various metal projects, some aviation related, some not. The air was heavy with the smell of cosmoline and oil, as raw metal pieces were cut, stamped, and welded into parts of various shapes and sizes.

Getting a front row seat, Joey watched as a new propeller spinner was made for his Connie "Clipper Marie Paulo", which had successfully been ferried from Wilmington, back to Ohio, where she awaited further repair at Rickenbacker. A worker slowly formed the Connie's spinner pressing the metal against a wooden mold, spinning it and shaping it as the aluminum slowly took on the rounded blunt shape of the forward spinner.

"So you like this better than being a nuclear engineer?" Joey asked amusingly to his husband's twin brother.

"Hell yeah! I can do my own schedule and not worry about radiation!" laughed Jake, a lively wolf-malamute with black and white fur. He was the polar opposite of his twin Rob; looking completely different, and sporting tattooed sleeves on both his arms, Jake was lively and enthusiastic, outgoing and friendly in contrast to his twin's dense, cynical, introspective self.

Once a nuclear engineer working for the Conesville nuclear plant with his friend CJ, Jake tried his hand in the aviation field after the nuclear accident that cost him his job. Having attempted to fly cargo himself with an ex-military Connie, Jake exited the aviation business in 2015, giving his fledgling fleet to Joey to kick start Joey's operations. Since then Jake focused on his machine shop, the thriving result of his newfound entrepreneurship. It was the lifeline keeping all of their old planes flying, by churning out newly built parts to replace worn out bits and pieces. From a single bolt, to an engine cylinder, all the way to a wing panel, or spar, Jake ensured that the old planes would continue their trade for years to come.

"Check out this fun stuff." Jake pointed out as lead Joey over to his engine parts area. Sitting on a test stand sat a refurbished R-3350, completely rebuilt from the ground up with newly built parts. The Curtiss-Wright radial, a hulking, densely packed piston engine sported brand new cylinders, a new driveshaft, crankcase, magnetos, and gearing, with the rear sporting its huge supercharger unit, which was compounded by three exhaust gas blow down turbines, the turbine hoods painted olive drab with long exhaust piping. A stubby Hamilton Standard was bolted to the front, a prop from a DC-7 cut down just a three foot stub.

"This whole engine is brand new parts. Nothing overhauled, nothing cleaned up, all brand new." Grinned Jake proudly.

"Is this one going to explode on the test stand like the last one?" Joey grinned sarcastically.

"No!" Jake exclaimed with a grinning laugh. "It won't! This time my guys got it right!"

"Just making sure." Teased Joey. "It looks great!"

"I know right?" Jake chuckled. "So Rob tells me you found three Alaskan Connies just sitting up north?"

"Yeah, I did. A Single E model and two Super-G's. I sent a petition through the courts up there to try and obtain information on its owner and see if I can obtain ownership."

"Cool." Nodded Jake. "I take it you'll need parts to replenish your cache right?"

"You know it." The Doberman chuckled.

"I can make it happen~!" the wolf-hybrid boasted.

Walking with Jake, they stepped outside into the blazing July heat, the single door leading them to the tarmac on the other side of the airport. On the sun bleached concrete sat Joey's Caribou, the "Salvaged Wonder II", his parts supply aircraft that hauled spare parts between his various bases. Painted in three-tone Vietnam colors, the old CV-2A had its rear loading ramp dropped, to allow some of Jake's newly built spare parts to be loaded onboard. New spinner pieces, a new cowling and engine parts were brought on board, aided by Jake's friend CJ Johnson, Rob's ex-boyfriend. The muscular chocolate brown wolf stepped down off the ramp, dressed in a snug red tanktop that showed off his ripped body, complete with tattoo sleeves like Jake.

"You know it's really fucking hot out here." CJ exclaimed as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.

"Well it is late July in Ohio." Chuckled Joey.

"No shit Joey!" laughed CJ.

"So how long do you think it'll take to get your Connie flying back at Rickenbacker?" Jake asked as he stood around under the sun with Joey and CJ.

"Oh maybe a week or two? Install the new radar, fix the dents, and have the FAA sign off. It'll be like it never even happened."

"You're lucky you're surrounded by smart people." CJ chuckled.

"Well yeah. I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing half the time, so I got guys like Kurt, Mark, you two, and Rob to help me. But what do I know? I'm only a gun smith." Joey sarcastically proclaimed.

"Hah!" laughed CJ. "That's what I say too! What do I know? I'm only a nuclear engineer."

The trio shared a hearty laugh together.

Joey stood around with Jake and CJ, watching as his two man flight crew checked over the old CV-2 for its short hop over to Rickenbacker. They got the double Twin Wasps fired up as the boxy, gull winged DeHavilland came to life with clouds of oily smoke.

"Salvaged Wonder II" began taxiing away, the propwash feeling good against the trio as it helped them stay cool.

"And they're off to the races." Jake smirked as the Caribou slipped from view around the corner.

Joey checked his watch, find it was time for him to depart back to Newark. "Well guys, it's been fun, but I gotta get back to Dad."

Jake and CJ walked Joey back to his car, a black and neon blue Shelby Cobra. Hopping in, Joey started it up, listening to his big V8 growl as he rolled the windows down to vent the stagnant hot out air out.

"Hey, you wanna hit up the bar with us tonight?" CJ asked Joey.

"Depends. Is Jake gonna need to be picked up from Akron this time?" Joey grinned at Jake, who rolled his eyes and laughed.

"I don't know what the bar tender put in that drink, but I had a hell of a good time!" Jake exclaimed.

"Yeah, then you woke up under a pile of leaves in Akron in your underwear..." Joey smiled.

"Heh, Jake has no ass in those briefs." Grinned CJ.

"Hey fuck you CJ." Jake grinned in return.

"I'm not going to say anything." Joey laughed as he bit his tongue.

Jake leaned against the window sill of the driver side door. "Hey Joey, if you do get ownership of those Connies up in Alaska, just gimme a call okay? We'll get ya taken care of."

"Thanks guys." Joey smiled.

Jake and CJ stepped away as Joey backed up. Tooting the horn, he waved as his Mustang departed, ready to take him back to Newark, forty minutes to the east of Columbus.

A hop onto Route 161 took Joey back to Newark, the rust bucket town living in the shadow of greater Columbus. For all its faults, it was home to him.

Joey pulled his Shelby into the parking lot of his father's gun store, a former Buick dealership on West Church Street. Stepping inside, the familiar smell of cosmoline filled his nostrils as the Doberman saw his chubby father Andrew standing at the counter, watching the news on the television that hung on the wall.

"Joey! How are things?" his father Andrew exclaimed.

"Things are good Dad! What's going on?" Joey asked as he checked things out on his way to his office.

"Your mom is baking this huge cake for Rob's birthday~!" Andrew announced. "She's going to make this homemade red velvet cake...with real buttercream icing! Joey! It's going to be delicious!"

"You know that cake's for Rob right?" Joey smiled, seeing the euphoric, hungry look on his father's face.

"I know..." Andrew grumbled. "By the way Joey! I think we need to get a contractor in here! Where I'm standing at...the floor is starting to get real soft feeling!"

"It does have to support a lot of weight." The Doberman grinned. His father agreed with him until he saw the snarky grin on his son's face.

"Joey! One of these days you're going to be pushing sixty-three! Those abs will be gone!" Andrew protested.

"Well it's not going to be a pudgy gut that's for sure! That's because I don't eat my weight in brigadeiros!" laughed Joey.

Andrew grumbled and stormed off, squeezing himself between the gap in the counter as Joey laughed some more. "Careful Dad! That's only a three foot gap."

"Shut up Joey! I'm going to lunch!" Andrew exclaimed. "What do you want by the way?"

"Oh just a hamburger~" Joey shrugged.

"I'll be back!"

Joey chuckled and stepped into his office, which served not only the gun store and their ammunition and rifle plant, but the cargo freightline. Joey stood in his open office to gaze at the portraits of his aircraft that hung on the wall. A large portrait hung behind his desk, showing a photo of his first L-1049H, "Clipper Alvin Paulo" in its original "black lightning" scheme designed by his nephew. The adjacent wall held smaller portraits of his DC-6's and DC-7's, some on the ground and some in flight. Interspersed were a few portraits of various firearms he liked, artfully shot portraits of M16's, and his G3 rifle.

Joey basked in his office for a few minutes before returning to the floor, to oversee the shop in a quiet spell during the day. Sitting at the counter, Joey watched the news for a few minutes, before he felt his phone vibrate to a new message. The Doberman grabbed his phone to see that it was a message from Kurt, who had sent him a video. Joey hit play to see in flight footage from one of the Flying Boxcars, cruising above the crystal clear waters of the Atlantic on another run to Havana carrying automobiles. The audio was clipped in Kurt's phone, but he got an amazing view of the cockpit as they flew south towards Cuba.

A smile crept up on Joey's muzzle as the video came to an end. It made him happy that he was a part of a smooth running operation, that not only helped his family business in firearms by flying rifle parts and ammunition across the country, but also to preserve such flying history; aviation from a bygone era.

Reaching down below the counter, Joey picked up a box of rifle parts to set on the heavy glass. Without pause, he began assembling another AR-15 together, his paws working instinctively to put pieces together.

It was a mundane task, but after flying across North America in the search for almost extinct aircraft, visiting a once reclusive island nation, and solving another logistical problem for the company, he wanted to take a break and return to mundanity, the Doberman looking happy as he worked alone.

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