Machine Dreams

After she latched the door shut, they both sat still.
    The Beech was a two-seater in good condition. The seats were specially covered in dark, cracked leather and the instrument panel was wooden. Billy imagined Cosgrove polishing the glossy surface, rubbing it with a rag. Once, the plane had been used often; though the wood of the panel gleamed, the clocks and dials set into it looked old, their metal rims dull. Billy touched the pilot’s stick. The room within the plane was completely familiar; Billy knew every detail.
    “It’s so small in here,” Danner said, “like being in a tent.”
    Billy pointed. “There’s a box strapped underneath. Look inside.”
    She felt under the instrument panel without bending to see; Billy heard the leather straps unsnap. The box was in her hands then; she held it level in her palm, as though afraid the contents would spill.
    “It’s okay,” Billy said. “Open it.”
    The brown leather of the box was thick; it was neat and square, and the top fit tight like the lid of a cigar box. Danner lifted it. Inside was a narrow, cut-glass flask with a silver base and cap, and a silver goblet on either side; all three objects were held snug by molding covered in dark fabric. Danner lifted the flask carefully. The base was inscribed in small block letters: BEHIND STANDS THE GENERAL NAVIGATOR —COURAGE. 1949.
    “What does it mean?” Danner whispered, staring at the letters.
    “Navigator is the name of the plane,” Billy said, “Beechcraft Navigator.”
    She turned the bottle from one side to the other, touching the ridges of the textured glass. High up in the rafters of the hangar, swallows called. Their calls were high, drawn-out whistles, echoing, ending on high notes like repeated questions. Danner looked up, then closed the box, smoothing the leather cover with her hand. She took care to replace it exactly. “I don’t know if we should be sitting here,” she said.
    The metal hangar doors rumbled then, sliding back on runners. Billy saw Cosgrove and another, younger man at the entrance, leaning with their shoulders to push the old doors. “Get down,” Billy said, and they leaned flat across the seats of the Beech, their bodies overlapping. “It’s just a pilot coming to get a plane.”
    A voice spoke. “Sorry to get you up so early.”
    Cosgrove answered. “Don’t matter. Doing some shooting anyway.”
    “Get any raccoon?”
    “Not in the field here. Not till you cross the creek.”
    Silence as the men walked. They must have come after one of the Piper Cubs near the front; they stopped not far from the entrance. “I’ll help you pivot her,” Cosgrove said.
    Billy heard them turn the plane; then Cosgrove walked back outside. Now the pilot would be attaching a tow bar to the nose gear so he could pull the plane slowly out of the hangar to the runway.
    “Let’s get out of here,” Danner whispered.
    Billy signaled her to stay quiet. She nodded. They listened as the Cub moved, creaking, the sound growing more faint. Billy sat up and looked. “He’s outside. We can hide in the field at the end of runway and see him take off.”
    “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
    “They won’t see us, the grass is high. Slide out on my side.”
    They were out quickly. Billy remembered to latch the door of the Beech. The hangar was lit now with daylight, and they squeezed out through the same opening between the tin panels of the siding. They ran straight across the field, hidden from sight by the hangar itself until they cut over to the far end of the airstrip and threw themselves down on their bellies. They were just in front of the dirt runway, several feet back into the tall field. Billy saw Cosgrove and the pilot talking near the hangar. The Cub was in position to take off and the pilot was paying Cosgrove. He turned and got into the Cub; Cosgrove walked back toward the hangar, holding his rifle low against his leg.
    “The plane will taxi straight toward us,” Billy told Danner. “Don’t move. Promise.”
    The engine coughed and caught, the single propeller turning seven or eight slow turns. The Cub was moving, picking up speed, the whirring propeller a flash of motion radiating outward from the spinner. The plane came on fast. Billy pressed himself flatter against the ground, staring intently to see through the grass. He stopped thinking then as the Cub approached, the grind of the engine heightened in pitch, smoothing out. There was a sensation of noise and