The Prince of the Skies by Antonio Iturbe

Author:Antonio Iturbe [Iturbe, Antonio]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Macmillan

CHAPTER 47

Seaplane Base, Berre Lagoon (Southern France), 1930

JEAN MERMOZ

MERMOZ ARRIVES AT THE SEAPLANE base driving a fiery red convertible he bought as soon as he set foot in France. Three double hangars are lined up facing the calm waters, and a soldier shows him the building where the main offices are located. He also points out where he can park his car, but Mermoz doesn’t hear that. He goes through the barricade and drives up to the entrance to the offices. He gets out of the car, now surrounded by soldiers dressed in work clothes and civilians in grease-stained overalls, and he’s certainly noticed in his cashmere coat and dark blue suit. A lieutenant is expecting him.

“Monsieur Mermoz?”

“Present, and ready to fly.”

“You know that you need a commercial seaplane licence to fly a seaplane.”

“They had mentioned this formality to me.”

The lieutenant is a young man, only a couple of years older than Mermoz, but he looks severe.

“It’s not a formality, Monsieur Mermoz. A seaplane is very different from a conventional plane. You’ll have to do the requisite course and pass the exam.

Mermoz frowns.

“Can I do the exam right now?”

“It’s obligatory to do the course first. Those are the rules.”

“How long does the course go for? I have to fly out with the March full moon!”

“That depends on the student. Some people take three months.” “Three months?”

Mermoz abruptly removes his coat and throws it on a chair, as if he were spoiling for a fight. He does want a fight. He has to win a battle with history.

“Can we start right now?”

That same morning, he climbs into a seaplane with an instructor who explains how it handles. An hour later, the seaplane lands, piloted by Mermoz himself. The instructors are astonished at the capacity of their new student to adapt within minutes to the differences in the handling of the machine.

A week later, he has his commercial seaplane pilot’s licence. But a few days before the March full moon, a storm blows in, making aerial navigation dangerous. Mermoz isn’t frightened by the weather; he’s used to delivering mail, which has no understanding of weather. But he knows that many eyes are watching his attempt. If he fails, the authorisation could be cancelled and cause serious harm to his airline company’s image. To wait is one of the verbs he hates most. But he has no option except to think about the April full moon.

Word reaches him of a deadly accident involving a mail plane on the Barcelona-Alicante leg. Only a week earlier, another plane had crashed crossing the Pyrenees.

In Montaudran, Didier Daurat chews on his cigarette and looks through his window toward infinity. His most experienced pilots have been posted to the African and South American routes, but it’s the leg between Toulouse and Málaga, supposedly the easiest one, that is turning into a graveyard. He has a couple of pilots to replace the two who died, but they’re still pretty green. He wants them to spend a few more weeks in Montaudran practising takeoffs and landings.

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