The airplane was a 1962 Beechcraft Bonanza P35, capable of a cruising speed of 150 knots per hour—which, Niner explained, was just over 170 miles per hour. It was cherry-red and, gleaming in the sunlight, it looked new. The interior was all polished hardwood and leather.
Webb liked it. A lot. And he liked the sense of movement. They were headed south and west, to the Gulf Coast.
Lee and Niner shared the cockpit, talking over the headsets, and that left Webb some solitude in the back. He pulled the Baby Taylor out of his bag and started strumming and picking. Six strings, and he could pick any one or any combination with his right hand. Left hand on the neck, forming more combinations, holding the strings down against a fret, then sliding down to a new combination on a lower fret. He did it automatically, with barely any more thought than it took to lift a foot to take a step. That’s what you needed to do—play for hours and hours and countless hours, until your brain didn’t need to direct your hands and only needed to decide what note was to be played. Walking was no different. The brain didn’t tell the feet how to walk; it only decided where it wanted the feet to take the body.
For years, Webb had done exactly what he was doing now: letting his fingers roam the guitar neck and strings. He’d done it watching television, repeating a single riff endlessly while he learned the rhythms, feeling the song. Webb didn’t talk much about what was inside him, but it poured out when he held a guitar.
They were flying at an altitude where vehicles were mere dots on the highways, and the forests looked like carpet. Lakes like mud puddles of various colors glinted in the sun as they headed southwest.
Niner had said it would take about five hours, that they’d be bucking a headwind typical for late December. They’d have to stop for fuel once, a couple of hours short of New Orleans.
Webb liked having this time alone in the back of the airplane, looking out the window as he experimented with some new riffs. Thing was, he couldn’t get that song out of his head.
There won’t be any trumpets blowing / come the judgment day / On the bloody morning after / one tin soldier rides away.
Webb began to experiment with a minor key, adding some darkness to the melody, changing up the rhythm a bit. He liked it, got lost in it. He was startled when the engine of the plane changed pitch, and he glanced out the window to see the tops of houses as they skimmed toward a landing.
Niner put the Beechcraft down like he was settling a kitten onto a pillow, turned the plane at the end of the runway and taxied back to the fuel pumps.
All of them got out and stretched. It was already 10:00 AM. The day had begun in Charleston, taken them almost to Myrtle Beach and now they were—Webb pulled up a travel app on his iPhone—in the heart of Alabama again, a city called Dothan. He tilted his face to a warm breeze. Felt Lee’s hand on his shoulder.
“Niner says he wants you at the controls once we get up. You okay with that? Flying this?”
“Very,” Webb said.
“Good,” Lee said. “As soon as we’re ready, you take the copilot seat. I’m going to have a good snooze in the back.”
Ten minutes later, Webb was in the headset, communicating with Niner by microphone.
Niner taxied again, taking the plane to the end of the runway, then turning it.
“Take off and land into the wind,” Niner said. “Gives extra lift. We want a wind speed of about one hundred and five to get airborne. Breeze is into us at fifteen miles an hour. Means we only need ninety miles an hour of ground speed.”
Webb nodded. There were pedals at his feet, a yoke in front of him.
Niner gave the engine a surge, and the Beechcraft accelerated, making the edges of the runway seem to converge.
Then the Beechcraft tilted upward, and Webb was staring at clouds. An amazing sensation of freedom.
Niner spent twenty minutes explaining the controls to Webb. When he was satisfied that Webb understood the principles behind flying and the principles behind the controls, he gave Webb a thumbs-up.
“Take us in some gentle banks and turns,” Niner said. “See if you can do it without waking Lee. It’s kind of like driving. Best way to do it is to imagine an egg in a little bowl on the dash. You never want to turn or stop or take off so fast that the egg rolls out.”
The sense of power Webb felt maneuvering the Beechcraft thrilled him. It was better than driving the Camaro.
“Excellent,” Niner said. “Now take it down a little.”
Webb pointed the nose downward. Land filled most of the windshield. He loved it.
“Up.”
Slight acceleration and sky replaced the view of land. The Beechcraft seemed like an extension of Webb’s body. Too cool.
Niner glanced back at Lee. “He’s strapped in,” Niner said. “And you put your bag under the seat like I asked. I want to take over the controls, because now it’s time for a little payback.”
“Payback?”
“Remember how you videoed me on your iPhone when I was screaming at the Camaro because I didn’t know who was inside? Do me a favor and get ready to take more video. But you’re going to have to hang on tight to your phone.”
“Tight?” Webb put the iPhone into video mode.
“Don’t drop it.”
“Tight,” Webb confirmed.
“Start now, and make sure you keep the camera on him.”
Webb turned and picked up Lee on the screen. Lee was already asleep, leaning back, strapped in tight in case of turbulence.
Niner tilted the airplane nose up so that it was riding vertical to the ground instead of horizontal.
Even with the headset covering his ears, Webb could hear Lee’s scream of terror. Webb felt a little puckered in the butt himself, but he kept the video going, capturing Lee’s wide-open eyes.
Lee’s scream rose in pitch as Niner put the airplane completely upside down and flew horizontal to the ground again.
Webb was doing his best not to scream. He glanced over at Niner, whose short hair was hanging straight down. Niner had a huge grin on his face.
Niner put the plane right-side up again, and Webb was able to breathe. Niner jerked a thumb in Lee’s direction.
“Look at him cussing me out,” Niner said. “Make sure you get that on video too.”