“So, your name’s Casey.” Mad Dog pointed for Casey to put on a pair of earphones and a microphone and adjusted his own set. “Casey what?”
“Templeton,” Casey said.
“Again?” asked Mad Dog.
“Templeton,” Casey spelled it out. “T-E-M-P-L-E-T-O-N.”
“Thought that’s what you said.” Casey felt Mad Dog staring at him and looked over into his eyes.
“Any chance you’re related to Constable Colin Templeton, RCMP?” asked Mad Dog. The engine sound was just a dull roar.
“My dad’s Chief Superintendent Colin Templeton, RCMP, retired,” Casey answered.
“He ever serve up north?” Mad Dog asked.
“Yeah,” Casey said, “when he was first in the force he was stationed at Fort Smith and Fort Resolution.”
“Well, I’ll be darned.” Mad Dog was smiling. “Gotta be the same guy.”
They were flying quite high and Mad Dog said, “Casey, I’m going to try something with the radio, you take the controls.”
“Me?” said Casey. “I don’t know anything about flying.”
“Just grab the controls and keep her steady,” said Mad Dog. “I’ll take over if anything goes wrong.”
Casey couldn’t believe it. He was actually flying a plane. The wind pulled hard at his hair and the sun almost blinded him, but here he was, actually flying a plane. It was so easy.
“Tilt her a little to the left,” Mad Dog called out. “Not so much! Not so much! ” Mad Dog grabbed the controls; as he did, the radio crashed to the floor. “Okay, Casey, take her again.”
I never want to land, Casey was thinking. This is so great.
“Well” — Mad Dog sounded frustrated — “the stupid radio’s shot for sure. I’ll take over now. Our only hope is to get a bead on that car.”
He swooped down and was flying so low Casey was sure he was going to hit telephone lines.
“You know, you look like old Colin,” said Mad Dog, “and that report you made to me in point form? Exactly like how he made reports.”
Mad Dog was silent for a while then continued, “You say he’s retired now? Don’t see how he could ever retire. He was such an eager beaver. What’s he do? Play golf and sit around watching TV?”
“No,” said Casey. They were above a secondary road now; the only car on it was a shiny green RV. “Dad’s mayor of Richford and he’s on a federal commission dealing with hate problems. He doesn’t have time for just sitting, let alone golf — says it takes too long.”
“You ever hear him talk about me?” Mad Dog asked Casey.
“Not by the name Mad Dog,” said Casey.
“How about Harry Thirst?” asked Mad Dog.
“I’ve heard that name, and I’ve seen a picture of Dad and someone that might be you in front of an old plane.”
“I know that picture.” Mad Dog was smiling. “That was my ‘Kaydet’ — that’s what they used to call the Boeing-Stearman PT 17s. Had her converted to a crop-duster a long time ago. Flew that Kaydet ’til I bought this one a couple of years ago — only Tiger Moth Jackaroo in Canada, all the rest are in South America and Australia. It’s multipurpose, this here Jackaroo — got a crop-dusting tank up front and these two seats so I can give flying lessons and take people up for rides.”
He grinned. “I used to get in your dad’s hair with that old Kaydet. But there was one day he and I brought medicine to a dying Dene. Just like Wop May and Vic Horner had done about fifty years before. We were friends that day.”
“So that is you in the picture with him?” Casey asked.
“Yeah. Like I said, we were good friends that day.”
They flew in silence for a while. Casey could see the juncture of the secondary road and the highway. On the highway, Casey spotted what he was sure was the car.
“Mad Dog,” he shouted. “That beige job just ahead. I think that’s it.”
“We’ve gotta be perfectly sure,” Mad Dog shouted. “I’ll go right down beside it and you take a look in the window.”
Casey couldn’t believe a plane could get that low; he could see tiny cracks in the concrete.
“It’s them! It’s them!” he shouted. An arm with a gun at the end of it came out the car window and fired: twice. One bullet tore into the top right wing of the plane, just missing Casey. Mad Dog pulled up the nose of the plane and made a slow circle above the car. He passed the radio up to Casey.
“Casey,” he shouted. “I’m going down again, right over the car. When I don’t see any other cars on the road, I’ll pass over the car real low to shake up the driver, and when I shout, you drop the radio on the road in the path of the car. They’re bound to swerve and maybe even leave the road. Don’t drop it till I shout. When I say ‘Now!’ let ’er rip.”
The car under them was swinging from side to side on the four-lane stretch of highway; Mad Dog was following a little behind. Casey could see another car, a van, approaching the thieves’ car from the opposite direction. Mad Dog’d have to wait till it passed. He chose his moment, lifted the left wing so Casey would have a clear view, swooped over the car, and shouted “NOW!”
Already leaning out, Casey dropped the radio in front of the car. The radio smashed into a million pieces and the car just rolled over it.
“Oops!” Mad Dog shouted as he upped the nose of the plane and let the car get ahead again.
“Got anything else I can try?” Casey shouted.
“Grab that flare down there,” Mad Dog pointed behind his seat. “I’m not sure what’ll happen if it’s dropped, but if it goes off, it’ll sure distract them.”
When Mad Dog signalled, Casey dropped the flare. It didn’t go off; it didn’t break up; it just rolled harmlessly to the side of the road. Mad Dog tilted the plane up again.
“Are we out of options?” Casey looked over at Mad Dog and was surprised to see him smiling.
“Not quite,” he said, reaching for a metal cylinder, “this here’s a fire extinguisher. Unscrew the cap and when I fly low over the car again, spray it on the windshield.”
Casey readied himself, and when Mad Dog was in position pressed the spray nozzle. Thick white foam flew back all over him, missing his face by a hair.
“Aim lower,” Mad Dog shouted, getting into position again.
This time, Casey, with Mad Dog flying sidewise, and just over the car, leaned as far down as he could, and pressed the button again. The thick white foam covered the windshield, and the car swerved into the ditch. Casey looked back. The car was nosed into a large wooden sign.
“All right!” Mad Dog yelled gleefully as he turned the plane south, gunned the motor, and headed toward Drumheller. “That’ll put ’em out of action for now.”
Casey could feel the plane picking up speed.
“I’ll be at my airstrip in a few minutes,” Mad Dog said. “My van’s at the end of the runway and we’ll be back at Mountie headquarters in about ten minutes.”
“Awesome,” muttered Casey as they streaked toward Drumheller. “Awesome.”