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The Mosquito's Plexiglas nose distorted the view to the outside world. Lying prone, stuffed into the stubby nose was fifteen year old Alvin Paulo. The young Doberman admired the scenery from his perch, watching southern Canada pass by on his way back home to Ohio. The vast Lake Erie approached, its waters glistening in the mid-morning sunshine. At ten thousand feet, he could escape from the suffocating heat of early July. Dressed in blue coveralls, a yellow "Mae West", and a parachute on his back, he was helping his uncle ferry another aircraft back to Ohio. At their two o'clock flew a brilliantly marked Lancaster bomber, a modern day rarity. A Mk. X Lancaster, it was painted in post-war Canadian colors; polished natural metal, with Arctic red outer wing panels, tail, and prop spinners. "No. 207" flew on with its four Packard Merlins. It had once been a derelict gate guardian before being brought in from the cold. Five years, and four million dollars later, it was now on its way home to the Newark Museum of Aviation. Just barely out of view was Rob Barion's WV-1 Constellation, carrying spare parts in its cargo hold within the curvaceous fuselage. It too was brightly marked in its former colors as an FAA inspection aircraft. It assisted in escorting the Lancaster back home to Newark. Alvin took a couple photographs, trying to avoid the distortion the plastic was giving before shimmying his way back to the cockpit behind him. It was a tight squeeze with all his gear on.

Emerging through the hatch, Alvin squeezed through and took a seat in the navigator's spot. The Mosquito's cockpit was somewhat cramped, through the extensive canopy glazing helped make it feel roomier. It was filled with the continuous roar of the twin Merlins keeping them aloft; the handed Merlin 76/77's. They drove the wide-chord Hamilton propellers that were tipped in yellow. The Mosquito was Rob's "wooden wonder", painted in the colors of an American photo reconnaissance Mk. XVI. It was a hazy blue paint scheme with prominent red tail, and outer wings. Rob Barion himself flew it.

Alvin glanced over at Rob, who manned the controls with his usual serious expression. The brown and tan furred wolf-malamute was similarly dressed like him, in a British aviator's uniform from the Second World War. It seemed fitting for such a machine. He enjoyed spending time with his uncle, especially flying. Alvin envisioned himself flying just like Rob one day, and was undergoing some basic flight training by Rob and his aviator friends. He wanted to be high in the clouds, flying the old warbirds with his two uncles and adopted older brother, Felix Barion. It helped drown out the darker memories that haunted him. Only a month before, he was rescued by Rob from a kidnapping by a terrorist group.

"How are you doing, Alvin?" Rob asked, speaking over the monotonous drone of their twin Merlins.

"I'm okay~" Alvin mustered a smile. "Just trying to think positive."

"Yeah, I know that feeling." Rob nodded. Alvin watched him pursed his lips and glance around, including his instrument panel. His Uncle's face bore a dark scar that ran down the left side of his face. He looked aged and tired for an almost thirty-seven year old.

"I can't believe everything, uhh, happened the way it did." Alvin responded with an awkward smile.

"That's life you know Alvin...I guess you can call it that." Rob added with a shrug. "Life is unpredictable- the exigencies make us react in odd ways. I'm just truly sorry I subjected you to that."

Alvin nodded in agreement. In an act of desperation in his rescue, the young Doberman shot and killed the man responsible for kidnapping him, a wannabe Chetnik, Ethan Mladic. A disgruntled, bitter Serb, he kidnapped Alvin and his uncle, Joey Paulo, to lure Rob into a trap to kill him to avenge the death of his brother Rob shot and killed. In the final fight to the death struggle between Rob and Ethan, Alvin shot and killed the black wolf with a single shot through the back, striking him in the heart and dropping him dead instantly with Rob's gun. In the fallout from such events, it put both of them in a bit of a depression; Alvin, for taking a life, and Rob, for putting his nephew in such a predicament.

"Nobody could have known. Uncle Joey always says there's nothing stranger than people."

"Heh, yeah. I agree." Rob chuckled sardonically. "But fifteen year olds shouldn't be having to make life or death decisions like that. Fifteen year olds should be in school and having fun."

"Yeah~"

"But I'm proud of you Alvin, for showing that kind of strength, that resolve. You're very stoic under fire. You'll need that when you fly." Rob explained. "That's something that I instilled in Felix when he was taught- you never panic when you fly. If you panic, you lose control of the situation."

"Mhmm." Alvin nodded in agreement.

"If you have a problem or an emergency in a plane- you can bounce off the walls for ten minutes and start right back with the same problem, or you stay calm and work it. Mitigate it. Cool under fire. Never let an emergency get in the way of the core thing- flying."

"Gotcha." The young Dobie smiled in agreement. "But sometimes there's just no saving the ship?"

"Well yeah. You have emergencies, like a power plant failure, and then you have 'oh crap everything's on fire' kind of emergencies. Like my accident with that Tigercat I bought. It caught on fire and nothing I did could put it out, so I had to hit the 'chute."

"Leap into the hands of fate~"

"Exactly."

The radio crackled to life, the audio distorted somewhat in their headsets. Radioing in from the Lancaster was Rob's friend, Bob Woodward. He spoke with a notable Swiss-German dialect. Pilot-in-Command of the old Avro, the sixty-seven year old Bob was the only one Rob knew who was type rated for the rare British bomber. He radioed in a problem with his number one outboard engine, calling in an overheating issue.

"Everything looks nominal, but I'm running pretty hot on one! I have to keep throttling back." He explained.

"Could it be the radiator dump flap?" Rob responded back. He got the voice of his mechanic Vlado in the next response.

"It could be. Those actuators can be kinda finicky. Especially on a newly restored aircraft. The little bugs that creep up."

"Yeah tell me about it." Chuckled Rob. He released the microphone toggle on his control yoke.

"Tender loving care~" Bob responded with a light laugh. "These old birds need all the TLC they can get."

"Well, I guess what do I expect for something that was once mounted on a damn pole." Rob muttered jokingly. "Let me take a closer look~"

Alvin watched as Rob gained a little speed and approached the underbelly of the silver Lancaster. He flew in close under the left wing to observe the nacelle for engine one.

"Alvin, could you get some close up pictures of the engine for me, please?" Rob asked.

"Sure!" Alvin responded cheerfully. He fetched his camera, a full framed Nikon that was equipped with a telephoto lens. He zoomed in and took a few pictures of the engine, focused on the radiator's flaps that regulated airflow. Rob radioed commands for Vlado to manipulate the actuator controls for the engine's radiator flaps.

Backing away, Alvin handed Rob the camera, which he quickly scanned through. "Yeah, I don't see any adjustment when you manipulate it. I think they jammed up- typical. How's the other three engines?"

"All engines nominal, Rob."

"Shut 'er down. You got three good Merlins to cruise home on."

"Gotcha."

Alvin watched as engine one was powered off, its propeller feathering. The three blade unit windmilled and stopped.

"And that Alvin, is how you work a problem."

"Case in point, Uncle Rob~"

---

Five hours later, the city of Newark passed below the formation as it returned back to base at Newark-Heath Airport. The Mosquito, Lancaster, and Connie flew low in formation, over town, the Lancaster having all four engines now running once again. They had flown across Lake Erie, and made a detour to northern Michigan, where they repaired the radiator flaps for engine number one.

Circling around in the landing pattern, Alvin watched through the cockpit windows. Newark-Heath was a tiny regional airport, owned by Rob and his friend, Geert Apps. It was dominated by Rob and his aircraft collection, the landscape and labyrinth of access roads leading to and from not only his museum, but his multitude of hangars that housed his propliners. There was continuous construction that went on as another hangar went up in what was once a cornfield beside the airport.

Bob made a textbook touchdown of the Lancaster. It's main wheels smoked on impact with the pavement; the bomber bumped momentarily into the air and smoothly came back down for a perfect rollout, with the tail wheel gently touching. It was taxied to Rob's museum tarmac, where a small crowd gathered to observe its arrival. Next on decent was the WV-1, piloted by Joey Paulo and his crew, which made a textbook landing right on the centerline. Now the runway was clear for Rob and Alvin in their wooden Mosquito. Rob banked around in a descending turn, being assisted as Alvin carefully deployed the flaps down. The gear locked into place, and the De Havilland bomber slowed up for a gentle descent. Rob flared and touched down, the plane bucking as the wheels touched down. They rolled out and taxied to the museum.

The propellers windmilled to a stop as soon as Rob cut the mixtures to the two engines. Alvin reached down and opened the hatch. It was a tricky business to disembark from the Mosquito. He jumped down through the hatch, landing on his feet and stumbling a bit. Rob had to wait until a small ladder was brought to the plane; his torn up body just couldn't handle the drop.

Alvin did a walk around of the slender Mosquito. He checked the nacelles for any abnormal leaks, scanned the fuselage for any fractures or defects of its balsa and birch ply structure, and the tail surfaces. The Mosquito was intact. Rob did a follow up inspection, and both concluded together that the airframe was sound. The Doberman went over to meet with Bob and Vlado, who were finishing their own walk around inspection of the Lancaster with an EAA officer.

"How was the flight, Bob?" Alvin greeted.

"It was about the best flight you can get!" the old gray wolf responded.

"Aside from the radiator flap not wanting to cooperate." Vlado chuckled. "A little elbow grease and WD-40 does wonders."

"Just a stuck push rod, that's all." Bob quipped. "All these old birds need is a little loving."

"I can't wait to fly on this bird~" Alvin laughed happily.

"Patience! My friend!" the old wolf exclaimed. "She needs to just be run over one more time by the EAA, then she's certified for flight in the US."

"...in the meantime, I think you and me got some scheduled air time to fly~"

"Oh boy!"

"We'll continue practicing on the Mustang, and how about we try out the two seater Warhawk?" Bob suggested. He watched Alvin's eyes light up.

"Oh that finally came back from the restoration shop?" Alvin asked with a grin that curled up on his face.

"Mhmm. Collingwood did a heck of a job yet again." Bob smiled.

"Sure! I want to fly that! Since I got a Warhawk that I can fly when I turn eighteen!" Alvin cheered.

"How about this Saturday...we fly a couple warbirds then?"

"Sure!"

---

Saturday morning was hazy and muggy. The amber sun rose above the hills to the east, the morning dew glistening in the fields around the airport. The cool air felt dense from the humidity. On the tarmac at the airport, Alvin stood adjusting his brown leather helmet, which held his radio set and oxygen mask. The slender Dober was dressed in his khaki flight attire, complete with a parachute and yellow "Mae West" secured around him. He stood in the shadow of his uncle's TF-51D, a two-seater Mustang. It was marked up as an Ohio Air National Guard machine, its duralumin skin polished and glistening. It was a very minimalistic scheme; black stenciled "Ohio NG", the red, white, and blue "star and bar", and a black anti-glare stripe on top of the nose. It's spinner was unpainted and polished, and the four-blade propeller was matte black, cuffed, Hamilton Standard, with the rounded tips painted yellow. It was not christened with any cutesy name or noseart. It was simply "Number Nineteen" to Rob, from the last two digits of its serial number on the tail.

Alvin turned around to spot some of the usual commotion going on at the tarmac. In the background, preparations were being made for four Thunderbolts, two Corsairs, and Rob's A6M3 Zero. They were scheduled to fly in at an event up in Ypsilanti. They were the resident warbirds of Rob's museum, owned by his aviator friends. Across the runway, at Rob's "big bird" hangar, the young Dober watched some commotion go around his uncle's larger aircraft. Through the open hangar doors, he spotted the mangled "Coneflower", the heavily damaged Super Constellation undergoing repairs after being attacked on takeoff by the Double Eagles. It shared hangar space with "Quimper", a L-1049G that Rob was restoring to flight. On the large tarmac in front sat two L-749's, in the process of being equipped for executive use for Barev. "Vanguard" would replace "Coneflower" for some time, while the other was named "Apollo". It was just more progress along at the airport.

Overhead, Alvin started to hear the distinctive rumble of propellers. He turned around and looked up, his hazel eyes squinting as he watched a P-40 emerge from the glare of the sun. The Dober looked in awe as Bob Woodward arrived in his newly restored Warhawk. The natural metal warbird whistled overhead from its Allison powerplant. He slipped from view as the plane banked around in the landing pattern. Alvin smiled and looked back to see his uncle and mechanic Vlado, push out another P-40 from the museum's large hangar. It was his own future mount; a 1941 built P-40E-1 that he purchased in 2015. Rob was going to take it up for a test flight as it was very rarely ever flown. It was a rather drab looking machine; olive drab over neutral gray, with a white propeller spinner. It was marked in pre-war markings, of a Michigan based pursuit squadron. "93" was stenciled in yellow on the nose, which had a characteristic "slab side" look from the large radiator intake. Alvin looked forward to turning eighteen, then it would be his to own forever more.

Woodward soon came taxiing up in his TP-40N. A two-seater, it was all over polished natural metal, with its nose colored black and red-orange. The paint made a sharp arrow design that trailed back past the ejector stubs. Bob turned the plane around and parked, the engine cutting out and the propeller stopping. He climbed out, similarly dressed like Alvin in a period flight suit.

"Morning!" Bob greeted.

"Morning!" Alvin waved. "Always arriving in style~"

"Always give that my best shot." Chuckled Bob as he shook Alvin's paw. "So you're ready for some flying?"

"Oh yes I am!"

"We're all fueled up for flight." Rob announced as he walked over.

"Mhmm~ Full tank of a hundred double L!"

"That's correct, Alvin~"

With Bob's encouraging, Alvin climbed aboard his uncle's Mustang. He secured himself into the armored front seat. Bob climbed aboard and buckled up behind in the rear cockpit. Alvin grabbed his checklist and went over it. It was a step by step process that went through all systems and gauges. It was drilled into his head by Rob to follow the aircraft checklist "religiously". Any skipped step could mean potential disaster, with deadly consequences. Alvin flipped through the pages and inspected all fuel and engine systems. He switched on the battery and checked his voltage, then checked his control surfaces by moving the stick. He got confirmation that his rudder, elevators, and ailerons were responding to his input. He examined his gauges and checked the Merlin's twin magnetos. A flick of the magneto switch confirmed by the indicator lights glowing. Checking behind to his left, was the fuel gauge, attached near his seat. It read a full tank of 100LL. As he concluded his checklist, the deep, throaty backfire of engines roared behind him, as the first of the four Thunderbolts turned over, spewing oily blue smoke.

"Ready for engine start." Alvin called out.

"Go~" Bob responded.

Scanning his surroundings, he poked his head up to check to make sure everyone was clear of the propeller. He switched on the magnetos, the switch being flung to "both". Engaging the starter, he got the electric whir of it as the propeller started to turn with a starting clunk. The prop turned for a couple of blades before the Merlin caught, its exhaust stack spewing white glycol smoke. The V12 roared to life, its initial burst of power dying down to a rough sounding idle as cold cylinders chugged. The prop etched a golden circle as it spun.

"Looking good so far!" Alvin reported. He kept an eye on his engine gauges, watching the oil temperature and pressure start to rise. It took a minute or two for the rough idle to begin smoothing itself out. The engine warmed up, and the oil pressure reached normal levels, the temperature holding.

Checking out his surroundings once again, Alvin looked back to see all four Thunderbolts, the two Corsairs, and the single Zero, all idling, their radial engines resonating off the hangars and pavement. Opposite of him, Rob ignited his Allison V-1710, which drove the Warhawk's twelve foot Curtiss Electric propeller. It coughed white smoke from the flattened exhaust stubs. The air was abuzz with the sound of propellers and pistons as everyone waited for their engines to come up to temperature.

The first to taxi were the Thunderbolts. Alvin sat back and watched as they taxied by him. Leading the pack was Mark Prince, flying his bubbletop P-47D, "The Scott Prince Special". It was a post-war marked F-47, with its cowling adorned of a portrait of his late older brother. Following Mark was his husband Tanner Rodriguez, in his razorback, P-47D, "Monsieur Cuir II". The Thunderbolt was painted in gray and green camouflage, sporting French markings. It's cowling was brick red, adorned with a portrait of his husband Mark, adorned in his black leather gear. Third in line was Vlado Horvat, piloting the newest Thunderbolt to the hangar, "No. 56", a Yugoslavian marked P-47D-40RA. It was named "Vukovar" after his hometown in Croatia. His twenty-three year old son Tito brought up the rear with his similarly marked "Jug", christened "Zagreb". They taxied by with the smooth chug of their R-2800's. It brought a smile to Alvin's face as he watched the two Corsairs taxi by; Ivo Horvat in his glossy sea blue F4U-1A, "Ivo's Comet". It was glossy sea blue with yellow stenciling and prop boss. His boyfriend, Jordan Hoover piloted "Attica Boy", a post-war reserve FG-1D. Lastly, came Mark Prince's father, John Prince, the seventy year old black wolf commanding Rob's immaculate A6M3. Painted light green with dark green "tiger stripes", it chugged along, powered by an American R-1830 radial engine and a modified prop from a DC-3.

"Whenever you're ready~" Bob radioed to Alvin.

"Sure."

Alvin reached over, released the brakes and adjusted his feet into the rudder pedals. He nudged the throttle and revved the engine up a bit, to get the plane to begin taxiing. It was a slow process as Alvin zigzagged to maintain his forward view. It was a trick that Rob had taught him to taxi "tail draggers". As he taxied onto the service road and made the turn, the young Dober spotted Rob taxiing a distance away, moving "No. 93" along slowly. Alvin longed to be in the cockpit of his future Warhawk.

By the time Alvin taxied to the runway, the gaggle were beginning their takeoff rolls one at a time. Engines and propellers roared, carrying the heaving Thunderbolts down the runway and into the air. They climbed away, the morning sun illuminating their exhaust trails. Alvin and Bob watched, making commentary about the sights to each other.

"Now John, don't you pull a muscle pulling that stick back old man!" teased Bob with a laugh over the radio.

"Look who's talking! You're not far behind!" John laughed in return. The radio commentary made Alvin smile and laugh.

"You're telling me, John!"

Alvin waved off to John, who put the Zero to maximum power to takeoff. The lightly loaded Mitsubishi quickly got airborne and climbed away to follow the others. Alvin taxied and turned the plane onto the runway, stopping for one final check of the controls. He adjusted the flaps for takeoff and made a final sweep of his controls.

"You ready, Alvin?" came Rob's voice.

"Ready to go!"

"Show me what you got, Alvin~" Bob encouraged.

"Here we go!" Alvin announced. He gripped his paw on the throttle and opened it slowly, his feet kicking in opposing rudder. The Merlin responded and revved up to full power. He immediately felt the torque swing and gave more opposing rudder to even it out. Gripping the throttle and the stick, Alvin felt firmly in control as he began his takeoff run. The tail quickly grew buoyant and he rode on the main gear down a quarter of the runway. Alvin watched the speed gauge, alternating every second between his gauge and his view forward. He nudged the stick back at 100 miles per hour, the wheels quickly leaving the pavement behind. Alvin climbed away, following the others for his morning flight with Bob.

"Gear up." Alvin called out, he raised the gear and flaps and throttled back to avoid overstraining his engine. Slowly climbing, the Doberman kept his eye out for the others as he slowly approached the formation of aircraft that were flying in a loose group. The Mustang approached from the right, and formed up. Alvin trimmed the aircraft up, and adjusted the throttle to cruise power. He checked manifold pressure and engine RPM's to deduce his throttle setting. Holding the plane at 200 miles per hour, he kept up in the formation that bounced and swayed in the wind. Rob slowly formed up to Alvin's starboard to keep pace with the formation.

"The winds are kinda rough today!" Tanner exclaimed over the radio.

"Just another day in Ohio." Chuckled Ivo.

"All part of the challenge I say!" Alvin chimed in.

"Heh, nice to have you aboard kiddo~" came Mark's deep voice. "How are you liking it?"

"Loving it, Mark!"

"Good~"

Bobbing along in formation, Alvin flew with Bob on their journey across the state. The Mustang climbed with the others to fifteen hundred feet, being amongst the puffy white clouds that drifted by. The morning sun rose from the east, coloring the clouds a brilliant amber color as they skimmed along cloud tops, the propeller wake etching paths through the puffy, wispy tops. There was radio chatter between all the planes as they droned along. Alvin held his place and kept his head on a swivel; he continuously checked his instrumentation, his position within the formation, and the scenery around him. It was awe inspiring to the teen.

---

Passing by Toledo and crossing into southern Michigan, Alvin and Rob broke away from the formation. The Four Thunderbolts, two Corsairs, and Zero were left to continue on their way to Ypsilanti. Turning around, the Mustang and Warhawk flew south, gaining altitude. Rob wanted to teach his nephew some basic combat maneuvers.

"Okay, Alvin, how about we teach you some basic combat goods." Rob explained on the radio.

"Sure!"

"Heh, okay." Chuckled Rob. "I mean, it's not really necessary anymore... but it's always fun to know, right? So, what I want to teach you today is some basic skills in air combat maneuvering."

"So...things like rolls, loops, split-s kind of stuff?"

"Mhmm." Rob agreed. "Immelmann turn, Thatch Weave. Important stuff like that."

"Heh, this Mustang will easily beat the Warhawk." Boasted Alvin with a chuckle. "It's got laminar wings! More horsepower!"

"You'd be surprised Alvin~ Just because it's got better specs on paper, doesn't mean the pilot can harness that. I'll show you."

Following Rob, Alvin slowly climbed, passing over Toledo southbound. They climbed to nine thousand feet, having a clear airway to practice on. Getting situated, Alvin listened and watched intensely as Rob went through the instructions. Bob assisted from the rear cockpit. First on the list was a split-s. Watching Rob, his uncle rolled his P-40 inverted and dove. Alvin banked to his left and watched as Rob dove and leveled out to fly away. He climbed and rolled to form back up. Alvin made sure he had plenty of clearance and yanked the stick to his right. The Mustang rolled with firm response. Alvin held on and watched as the horizon grew inverted. The sky was above and the ground below as the Dober flew inverted. He pulled the stick into his lap and dove. The Mustang obliged and flew towards the ground, rapidly building up speed. Tugging at the stick, he leveled the Mustang out, having dropped five hundred feet. The silver nose of the Mustang punched through a puffy cloud.

"Very good!" Bob encouraged. "That my friend was textbook!"

"Quite the rush!" Alvin responded. He corkscrewed back up for altitude, catching back up with Rob. They repeated the maneuver again, this time with Alvin pursing Rob. The Warhawk rolled inverted and dove, with Alvin following, he kept the Warhawk in view as they almost simultaneously pulled out of the dive and leveled off. Alvin came out a bit more wobbly than Rob.

Following Rob's advice, Alvin practiced with his uncle, the other combat maneuvers. The Immelmann turn was another maneuver that Alvin practiced. It involved maximum power from the engine, entering a steep climb to the point of going inverted, and a snap roll to level the wings. Alvin then found himself heading north. He built speed back up and repeated the maneuver to head south to catch up with Rob. Watching the horizon spin around never ceased to amaze the Doberman. Finally, Rob and Alvin practiced the class Thatch Weave. It was a simple, but very effective combat maneuver, involving two aircraft crisscrossing each other, allowing the pair to shoot down an enemy aircraft that latched onto one of them. Rob and Alvin practiced, the Warhawk and Mustang zipping past each other in a weaving motion. Alvin could picture himself doing the maneuver, in the blue skies of the war torn Pacific.

Growing low on fuel, Rob and Alvin flew back home, the young dog feeling ecstatic about his combat maneuvers. Bob expressed his satisfaction and amazement, giving the Dobie an encouraging quip about "picking up skills fast".

"It's so special to be up in the air. I don't know how else to describe it." Alvin explained.

"It's a great place to me. Not chained down to the ground by gravity~"

"Heh, well...till your engine quits."

"Heh, yeah."

Returning back to Newark, Alvin came into land first. He orbited twice around the airport, allowing a corporate jet to take off. He came out of his descending left turn lined up for the runway. Dropping the flaps and gear, the Mustang was trimmed up for its descent to the runway. Alvin held steady, controlling the yaw with his feet in the rudder pedals, and adjusting the throttle slowly. He came in for landing at a even 120 miles per hour. Cutting the throttle, the main gear touched first, the Mustang rattling on touchdown. Alvin tapped the brakes and let the plane coast down the runway, bleeding off speed slowly, and allowing its tail wheel to gently touch. He rolled to the end of the runway and turned around, to taxi back to the museum's hangar.

The Mustang arrived and rolled to its parking space. Alvin was aided by ground crew, who navigated him in the turns. He turned the Mustang around, ran the Merlin lean, and cut the throttle. The engine gave a cough, its supercharger winding down. The propeller windmilled until the engine's resistance stopped it. Ground crew chocked the wheels, securing the Mustang in place. Alvin took his leather flying cap off and looked around. Another successful test flight in the books.

---

Urged by its starter motor, Alvin held onto the starter switch, in the front cockpit of the TP-40N. The Curtiss Electric propeller turned, Alvin counting the blades until a cough of smoke and glycol obstructed his vision. He turned over the Allison engine, the V-1710 revving to life. It had a similar sound to the Merlin, a raspy idle that slowly smoothed out as the engine warmed. The big V-12 was in the same class as the Merlin, but was handicapped by a single stage supercharger. It thus had poor high altitude performance, compared to the Mustang's Merlin 66, which sported a two stage, turbosupercharger. The Merlin gave the Mustang 1,450 horsepower, the Allison gave the TP-40, 1,200 horses.

In the rear cockpit sat Bob Woodward, patiently waiting for the engine to come up to spec. He glanced through the checklist as Alvin did his from the front cockpit. They radioed to each other over their findings, confirming that both cockpits had their instrumentation properly calibrated. A check over the radio to the terminal for the altimeter calibration, confirmed that everything was exactly where it should be on the gauges.

Alvin gripped the stick and glanced around the cockpit. This was finally a dream come true to the teen. He was finally going to experience flying a P-40, for the very first time. It was going to be a short flight, just a hop back to Mount Vernon, where Bob now resided at. But every minute, he would savor.

"Alrighty Alvin, whenever you're ready."

"Here we go!"

Alvin released the brakes and inched the throttle. Being cautious, he slowly got the Warhawk to begin taxiing. In a very slow turn, Alvin got turned around and followed the service road. He zigzagged to maintain his forward view over the nose. On the ground, the Warhawk handled like any other plane, but Alvin was curious to see just how the Curtiss fighter would perform. It was an older design, not as sleek and nimble as the Mustang, but a tough, "bring you home" kind of airplane. Alvin got the plane onto the runway and waited, for a final scan of his instrumentation.

Getting the "all clear" from Bob. Alvin gripped the throttle and commanded maximum takeoff power. He pushed in opposing rudder, and felt the torque begin to fight him. The Warhawk took off, gaining speed, the tail growing buoyant. The tail wheel lifted off the runway, and the P-40 raced on its two main wheels. Alvin held the stick firmly, waiting for his V1 speed to approach, which was marked on his speedometer. The Warhawk took off at a slower speed than the Mustang. At eighty-seven miles per hour, Alvin nudged the stick and began to climb away, the thicker wings of the Curtiss carrying him aloft. The silver Warhawk climbed away from the runway, crossing over Hebron Road and the Lowe's store lot. The gear was retracted, and the flaps stowed, and Alvin began to throttle back to cruise power, for the short flight north to Mt. Vernon.

Flying low, Alvin took his time to feel for the controls. The Warhawk was a stable plane, devoid of any fancy things like boosted controls or leading edge slats. It was the epitome of early war design, modified extensively during its life for the exigencies of war. Alvin found the controls to a bit heavier, and at slower speeds, its roll rate was a bit sluggish.

"Well, it's not Mustang~" teased Alvin over the intercom.

"It might lack the bells and whistles of the later Mustang, but what you're flying Alvin is probably one of the viceless warbirds. The Warhawk is a very stable plane, especially in a dive. It can outturn most anything at high speed, and it's a tough plane. It can take a beating and keep going." Bob explained. "It doesn't have the Spitfire or the Messerschmitt's fragile narrow landing gear, it's not delicate like a Zero, and it certainly is tougher than a Mustang. But it's a great plane in its own merit."

"Mhmm." Agreed Alvin.

Leaving Newark behind, Alvin watched as the small town of St. Louisville passed below. He followed Route 13, towards Utica, a rough guide back to Mt. Vernon.

"If you look up towards the left, you can see where I used to live at." Bob explained, pointing from his open cockpit window. Alvin scrutinized the distance and saw a bunch of construction that was ongoing. Banking slightly to the left, they approached, revealing a new housing developing that was going in. A large scar on the land was evident to Alvin as he turned his head to the left, to watch it pass into view. It looked like the remains of a runway, with a bunch of busted up asphalt all around.

"That used to be my private runway." Bob explained. "Boy, they tore my place down real quick..."

"What happened?" Alvin asked.

"Oh, they wanted to put a new housing division where my house was, and...this was after my wife passed away a few years ago...I didn't fight it. A lot of unpleasant memories there."

"I see."

"Bob, where do you get all your money from?" Alvin asked curiously.

"Heh, I thought you'd ask one day." Chuckled Bob. "It's royalties, Alvin! I get dividends and royalties from my family's involvement in European oil and gas industries. My great-grandfather was a big shot in the field, that, and my involvement in aviation services- cargo industries."

"Cool~"

"So that's how me and my brother Dennis fund our aircraft stuff. It's an expensive hobby." Bob joked with a smile.

"That's what Uncle Rob tells me too~"

"That it is indeed." Bob concluded. "Tell you what Alvin...do you want to do some acrobatics in the Warhawk?"

Alvin's heart practically leapt from his chest. "Oh boy do I!"

Making a slight diversion, Alvin passed by over Mt. Vernon, continuing to head north in a slow climb. He corkscrewed up to around eight thousand feet, an optimal altitude with space to recover. The P-40 did not climb as fast as the Mustang, and his anxiousness and excitement made the climb feel even longer. Leveling off, Alvin glanced at his altimeter; he was at 8,239 feet. "Ample room for recovery."

Announcing that he was going to practice a split-s, Alvin opened the throttle up and built up his speed. He snapped rolled, feeling the Warhawk be much more responsive. Going inverted, he pulled the stick into his lap and entered a dive, his view forward dominated by the countryside. The Warhawk was steady in a dive, the airspeed building as the warbird raced through the air. Alvin pulled out of the dive, feeling the "G's" crush him into his seat. The P-40's elevators were a bit heavier than the Mustang's, but it smoothly pulled out without any buffet, validating what Bob had told him. It was a smooth dive.

Corkscrewing back up to altitude, Alvin built his speed back up and did an Immelmann; he climbed vertically, went inverted at the apex, and rolled to level out. The teen did another split-s to dive and build up speed, then did an Immelmann. The momentum, the G's added to Alvin's excitement and adrenaline. Bob clapped from the rear cockpit and cheered. The old wolf was very impressed. Flying over 350 miles per hour, the Warhawk was sharp as a knife in maneuvering. Alvin flew like he was in a mock dogfight; sharp rolls, sharp climbs and dives with loops and turns, the P-40 was a responsive bird, though Alvin was rather wobbly in some of his turns.

"You're a sharp tack, Alvin. In time, you'll master this bird, as you will with other planes along the way."

"I want to fly like my uncles." Alvin explained. "Prove that I can~"

"You're well on your way."

---

Following a slightly bumpy landing, Alvin and Bob rolled out at the Knox County Regional Airport. It was the new "home" for Woodward's remaining aircraft collection. Following Bob's navigation, Alvin taxied back to Bob's own hangar, which connected to the airport by a long access road, which was flanked by new fencing, topped with barbed wire. The access road led to a large gray hangar, which was inconspicuously marked. Alvin turned and parked the plane. He engaged the brakes and ran the Allison lean, before pulling the mixture control to "cut". The engine powered down and Alvin watched as the propeller wound down.

Bob slowly climbed out, followed by Alvin, who jumped down make an assessment of the plane, post-flight. There were no abnormal leaks, chars, or defects in the highly polished skin. Bob joked that "it's brand new, I hope it's not busted".

The hangar doors were slid open, revealing a neatly organized interior. Five aircraft were parked inside, staggered on both sides. The hangar doubled as his workshop. Alvin stepped in with a look of surprise on his face, his eyes meeting a brightly painted F-4A Phantom. The dayglo orange Phantom II stood out from the other assortment of jet and prop warbirds. Under the roof sat two Mustangs, a MiG-21F-13 in Finnish markings, and a camouflaged, multi-seat AD-5 Skyraider. Alvin had remembered that Bob had once had a much larger collection, but since the demolition of that hangar, he had loaned many of his warbirds out to other museums across the country for display.

"Not as big as it used to be huh?" Alvin quipped jokingly.

"Yeah, concessions, concessions." Chuckled Bob in return. "But the other birds are being appreciated, all across the country."

"So these birds- what made the cut to keep them here?"

"Memories!" Bob exclaimed with a smile. "These warbirds are special to me."

Walking with Alvin to each aircraft, Bob explained to Alvin the history behind each airframe and how he obtained them. Bob's stories were rich and full of history and excitement. He started with his Phantom, and how he spent nearly a decade trying to obtain it, starting back in 1980 when he first moved to the United States. The old wolf talked about he and an old friend were trying to start their "own flying circus", and wanted a Phantom as the center piece, and tried to obtain the former drone aircraft that had been sitting derelict out in China Lake. It was a bureaucratic nightmare that took an act of congress to obtain the aircraft. The rare F-4A, of only forty or so built, was finally made flyable, and took off in August 1989. Bob recalled that as he was flying out over Arizona, "the brightly orange Phantom was mistaken for a live drone in the area, and a friendly F-15 fired an AIM-7 at me, which flew right up the tailpipe and exploded."

"I did three flat spins, all the while trailing a huge plume of flame...I about ejected, had I done one more spin." Bob recalled. "But she stabilized and I dove for the ground to put the fire out. Left engine flamed out and I limped it back to the airport, where right as I flared for touchdown? The hydraulics failed. I smashed that nose into the runway. Took me twenty years to obtain the parts to repair the bird."

"Oooh."

"So that's why she's orange, as a friendly homage to her former career, thirty years ago." Smiled Bob as he patted the radome.

Bob and Alvin walked down the line; his Fishbed-C was an actual Finnish flown machine, built in 1962 and delivered to the Finns in early 1963, where it was flown until retired in 1986. He bought it "dirt cheap" and shipped it to the States. The wolf pointed out that the markings were still the original paint from its time in the Ilmavoimat. The Skyraider was an actual Vietnam veteran, having flown combat against the Vietcong in the mid 1960's. He obtained the aircraft in 1987, and was a restoration project helped by his brother Dennis, and his late son, John Woodward. Next was a civilian marked Mustang, a rebuilt executive example by Cavalier Aircraft. It was a two-seater, like Rob's TF-51D, but it sported a slightly taller rudder, and had wingtip tanks. The plane was painted black on the underside, with a narrow brick red cheatline that separated the white upper half. The propeller spinner was painted black, and the uncuffed Hamilton prop was primered gray with yellow tips. It was his very first warbird, having bought it shortly after moving to the United States in late 1979.

Finally, Bob and Alvin walked over to stand in front of a rather drab looking P-51B. It was a razorback early Mustang, sporting a raised Malcom hood. The plane was painted in a rather drab RAF paint scheme of gray and green. Its prop spinner was a sky blue color. It looked as though the plane had never been flown. It's paint looked fresh and pristine, with the name "John Woodward" written on the bottom paneling of the canopy. It was painted in a fancy, white cursive. On the left wing stood a picture frame, showing a smiling photo of his son John, who died in 1993. He was a young gray wolf, dressed in his graduation outfit, beaming with excitement. He looked like his father, with a light gray muzzle, and icy blue eyes. Bob stood and looked pensive as he gazed at his late son's aircraft.

"And this Alvin, would have been John's very first warbird." Bob said. His tone had become quite melancholy.

"...It's funny, I still remember John picking out this paint scheme. He wanted a British scheme, because distantly, the Woodwards are English descent."

"Aren't you from Switzerland?"

"It's always a fun story to tell." Bob recalled with a light chuckle at the end. "I was born in Luxembourgh to a Swiss family doing business there, who's great-grandfather had come from Liverpool in 1900 to live in Berm. So it's quite the twist and turn."

"I see!"

"So John decided to honor Gordon Woodward with a British paint scheme. Me and him spent a week stenciling and spraying the paint. There was so much laughter, we had so much fun, me and my only son. Then three days before he was going to take his first flight in it...he died."

"What happened, Bob?"

"My son had just turned eighteen and had just graduated from high school, and him and his buddies were all going to go and celebrate at their friend's place. At the time I was living up in Cleveland. I still remember the red Chevy van- there was eight people in there, laughing and having a good time. Well, they were driving on a country road and a twenty-seven year old and his friends who had been out drinking, were speeding and went left of center and struck the van going over a hundred miles per hour. The impact was so violent that everyone died on impact- there were fourteen fatalities. I still remember seeing the van and truck- the impact was so violent that it took them four hours to pull it apart to get the bodies out. They were virtually fused together."

Alvin nodded solemnly.

Bob exhaled a sigh. "I never flew the plane since. I've kept it airworthy...but I won't fly it- too many painful memories, despite the years. John was such a bright boy! He had his whole life ahead of him! And it was cut down by a drunk driver."

"Fragility of life sadly." Alvin agreed.

"And after Jeanette passed away from cancer, it gets lonely." Bob admitted. "That's why I have a lot of fun flying with you- it reminds me of being a Dad again. Showing the ropes to a young and green novice."

A smile crept up on the Dober's face. "I appreciate it~"

"But I'll tell you something important, Alvin, as I've dealt with it in my life. People are born, and people die- dying is a part of living. We all have to one day die. Hopefully at a ripe old age. Make the most of life- take it to the limit!"

"One more time?" Alvin chimed in, which made Bob laugh. He knew right away the reference to the Eagles song.

"You're a bright, clever fella."

"I try." Chuckled Alvin.

Alvin helped Bob stow the Warhawk away in his hangar. It was cleaned up and chocked, nestled beside the giant F-4A. As they finished stowing things away in the workshop, Alvin looked up to see Rob arrive with his lumbering Helldiver, "The Barion". His uncle had been taking the big Curtiss for a checkout flight following a cylinder change out. The R-2600 burbled under the large cowling, driving the four blade Curtiss prop that etched a golden circle. It would be Alvin's flight home to Newark.

Saying goodbye to Bob, Alvin climbed aboard the rear gunner's compartment of the SB2C-5. He strapped himself in and waved as Rob turned around to head back for the runway. Bob stood from his open hangar and watched as the Helldiver slipped from view.

Roaring off the runway, the lumbering divebomber slowly climbed away from the runway and made a slow bank south to head to Newark. From the gunner's seat, Alvin turned and watched as Bob's hangar slowly slipped from view.

---

Morning's fog hugged the ground at Newark-Heath. The sun shone over the hills to the east of Heath, building the muggy heat that was expected for the day. Shadows were cast long on the tarmac as the day's work commenced. Hangar doors were opened, and aircraft were pulled out to be serviced.

At the end of the tarmac stood Alvin and his best friend, Spencer Eikemo. The two teens manned their old video equipment; Alvin stood with his old analog broadcast camera on his shoulder, his friend, a beige and tan Swedish husky, manning the three-quarter inch tape deck that dangled from his shoulder by a padded leather strap. The old HL-79D captured through its pickup tubes, Rob's L-749 being towed out from inside the hangar. "Vanguard" was hooked up to a yellow tug, driven by Vlado, Rob's personal mechanic, and the head of maintenance at Newark-Heath. The viewfinder gave Alvin a crisp monochrome image of the plane slowly rolling. Sunlight glistened off the polished skin of the Connie, reflecting through the lens as sharply spiked six point stars. Alvin slowly zoomed in, watching the tug's headlights and glare off the plane comet tail in his camera's Plumbicons. It would be a very rich crimson color on playback. It left a shadowy burn-in trail of the highlight's path through his picture.

"Got it." Alvin called. He hit paused and walked with Spencer. They walked across the tarmac to meet up with Vlado, for an interview for another episode of a weekly YouTube series Alvin produced with the help of Felix Barion.

Handing the camera off to Spencer, the husky manned the old Ikegami, framing Alvin and Vlado in his shot, with "Vanguard" forming up the backdrop. The large, yellow padded microphone clipped to the camera, captured Alvin's conversation.

"So what is the plan for today with Vanguard, Vlado?"

"Today we're going to service the propeller to engine number four. There was an issue with the constant speed unit that we discovered on a test run yesterday" explained the burly, tattooed Croat. "We're going to work on that, and continue getting the interior furnished for its tenure as Barev's executive transport, temporarily replacing 'Coneflower'."

Following Vlado, Alvin and Spencer went into the hangar to get an update on Rob's damaged Super Constellation. They stood in front of the mangled Constellation, which was now surrounded by scaffolding, as workmen dismantled the damaged duralumin skin for replacement. The camera captured some of the work, under the brilliant white lights of the hangar roof. The mangled propellers were removed, and engines were being stripped off for replacement. The entire underbelly was being replaced, as was the landing gear. The plane was propped up by large jacks under the wings and fuselage. Alvin filled up his videotape with his interview with Vlado, and additional "b-roll" of the sights and sounds of the hangar activity on "Coneflower" and "Quimper", Rob's hapless L-1049G he recovered out of southern France.

Leaving the hangar, Alvin walked slowly as he labeled his blocky U-Matic cassette. He stowed the milk colored plastic cassette into its case and stowed it in his bag. A fresh tape was placed in the VTR and the lid closed for it to spool up. Walking across the tarmac, Alvin and Spencer looked up to hear the sound of an aircraft approaching. It had a deeper sound than the smaller general aviation types. Emerging from the glare of the sun was a Mustang. It's black underside gave it away to Alvin that it was Bob and his Cavalier Mustang. He flew overhead in the landing pattern, momentarily slipped from view, and emerged, descending in for landing. Trading gear, Alvin took control of his camera and zoomed in, watching as Woodward touched down for landing. The camera continued to roll as Alvin watched him arrive and taxi onto the ramp. The Doberman and Husky got a front row seat as Bob turned the plane and parked. Alvin walked over, his camera still recording.

"That's how you arrive in style!" Bob greeted with a friendly laugh and wave. He climbed out and grabbed a tool box from the rear cockpit. He arrived to help do further work on Rob's Lancaster bomber.

Following Bob to the museum's primary hangar, the two teens videotaped Bob helping Rob's other mechanic, Pablo, in doing maintenance to the number one engine's radiator actuators. They filled up another tape with the maintenance going on with the old Lancaster. Swapping another tape out and a battery, Alvin got Bob to take a moment to be interviewed for his video episode. They traveled to the terminal building of the airport, a small square building that housed a lobby and offices for Geert Apps, the head director of the airport he and Rob owned together.

Woodward took a seat at the couch, which was beside the large windows that spanned the floor to the ceiling. It offered ample light for the camera's rather insensitive tubes. Spencer sat on a chair to brace the camera on his shoulder, the VTR sitting at his feet. Alvin sat off to the side, to ask Bob questions. His first question was a short biography.

"My name is Robert Julian Woodward. I was born on the third of March, way back in 1952, in the town of Bettembourg, Luxembourg. I grew up in Luxembourg, but I am of Swiss descent and nationality- with an English last name courtesy of my great-grandfather, who immigrated to Switzerland in 1900. Thus, I am an international fellow~" Bob started off. He ended his introduction with a smile and a laugh. Alvin asked questions about how he got into aviation, how he funded his projects, and what he saw for the future.

Bob talked about his family's involvement in the steel and petroleum industry in southern Luxembourg, how his father used to fly all over Europe in a company owned DC-3. It would always fascinate him, and it sparked his fascination in aviation. While his father served in the Swiss Army during the war years in Europe, he and his brother Dennis were the only ones to enlist in the Swiss Air Force, having moved back to Bern in the 1970's. Bob flew Mirage III interceptors from 1975 until he retired from the Swiss Air Force in January 1979. His family moved to the United States in mid 1979, and spent a few years in California, where he and his brother Dennis, who moved to the States in the late 1980's, started a cargo airline business. Bob moved to Ohio in 1988, and continued his business from Cleveland, where he stayed until moving down towards Central Ohio in 1995, two years after the death of his son. His story filled up another twenty minute U-Matic cassette. Alvin switched it out for another tape and continued documenting.

"Well I thank you so much for your time." Alvin said with an appreciative tone. He walked with Bob, his camera swaying in his grip as he carried it from the carrying handle on top.

"Best be going back to work to do some TLC to the old Lanc." Bob chuckled. "So are you still wanting to fly to that airshow event in Allentown this Saturday?"

"Oh yes! I look forward to it." Alvin nodded. "So what's the plan? Are you picking me up here?"

"I think can make that happen~" Bob agreed. "Then you can fly her into Allentown for the display."

"Cool!" the dog agreed excitedly.

"Flying high and mighty." Smiled Spencer.

"Oh indeed!"

Thanking Bob, Alvin and Spencer ran off to continue shooting video at the hangar, leaving Bob to go back to work on the Lancaster with Pablo.

---

Saturday morning was gray, an overcast day. The slate sky was part of a front that was coming down from the north. It had rained in the early morning hour, soaking the tarmac which held puddles. It was a cool day, a relief from the relentless, muggy heat.

Dressed in his vintage flight attire, Alvin stood watching the morning activity on the tarmac. His Uncle Joey was prepping his F-86D Sabre Dog for flight; he was heading to Opa Locka to do his routine meeting with his business partner, Kurt Tanager. On the opposite end was Uncle Rob, preparing his FG-1D Corsair for a flight to Lainsville, New York. He was traveling there to inspect maintenance at the Centoh hub there. His glossy sea blue Corsair was recently repainted, sporting a new Naval Reserve scheme, complete with international orange fuselage band around the "star and bar". It was similarly marked to Jordan Hoover's FG-1, but it was marked as a machine that was once based at Columbus's Naval Air Station. It was still christened "Ensign Eliminator".

Checking his watch, Alvin looked up at the ominous, gray sky, watching for Bob. The dark clouds seemingly churned, mottled in various shades of gray as the distant sun filtered through. Alvin hoped the front would just cut through Ohio, sparing Allentown, which was on the other side of Pennsylvania. Bob told him he'd be flying in around eight- his clock read 7:58AM.

Right on schedule, Alvin heard the distinct rumble of propellers echo off the pavement. He looked up, scanning the sky, only for the hangars and other buildings to obstruct his view. But a minute or so later, Alvin watched the silver TP-40 roll down the runway, slipping momentarily from view, before it came taxiing in. Alvin felt his excitement surge. The Warhawk turned and parked beside Rob's Corsair, its engine powered off, and Bob slowly climbing out. Alvin walked over to greet him.

Approaching Bob, Alvin noticed that the old wolf didn't seem to have his usual pep. He looked like he was in a bit of discomfort, as he rubbed his forehead, as if he had a headache.

"Bob? How's it going?" Alvin asked.

"Oh I got a blasted headache." Bob complained. "I'll be okay though. I took two Tylenol before I left."

"You sure?"

His smile returned. "I'm sure, Alvin. Are you ready?"

"Oh I am!"

"Well that's great~ We'll top up the tanks, and be on our way."

Moving the aircraft over to the fuel pumps, Alvin assisted Bob in refueling the plane. He was shown how to fill up the wing and fuselage tank by Bob, who supervised as Alvin filled the tanks up with a fresh batch of 100LL. A hundred and eighty dollars later, the Warhawk had its tanks topped up for the long flight to Allentown. Alvin climbed into the front cockpit, Bob strapping himself into the rear, as he went through the checklist to make sure the aircraft was set for flight. The big Allison was turned over, and the Warhawk registered life once again.

Rob and Joey stood and wave as they watched their nephew taxi out. The Warhawk slipped from view, and a few minutes later, was racing down the runway, climbing away to begin the flight to Allentown for the day.

Climbing out over Heath, Alvin watched the clouds loom above him. As he climbed, the winds got choppy, the plane rocking and bucking to the unpredictable flow. Alvin held onto the stick, watching as his view forward was obstructed by nothing but gray. Looking down at his instruments, Alvin continued his slow climb. He monitored his artificial horizon, maintaining the five degrees nose up and closely watching his speed. His heart picked up pace, his tension was higher.

"It's a bit rough, that turbulence. You're doing great!" Bob encouraged.

"I'm not used to instrumentation flying!" Alvin admitted.

"That's next on our list. Flying with your instruments!" Bob mentioned. "Keep it up!"

Alvin felt more comfortable as he glanced around his canopy. Rain streaked against the glass panels of his windscreen and canopy. Then the sun suddenly exploded into view. Punching through the cloud deck, Alvin saw bright blue sky and the clouds slip away below. "Wow." The dog muttered. Alvin climbed the Warhawk to five thousand feet and held it there. Cruising at a steady 250 miles per hour, he set course for Allentown, heading eastbound for a beeline across Ohio and Pennsylvania.

Approaching forty minutes in their flight, the city of Cambridge approached. Alvin confirmed his navigation by the GPS map displayed on his instrumentation. It was one of the two pieces of modern aviation instrumentation on an instrument panel that was otherwise original. The Warhawk was passing by Cambridge to the north.

"This damned headache doesn't seem to want to lift~" Bob radioed over the intercom.

"Are you feeling okay? Do we need to divert?" Alvin asked. He cocked his head around, the Warhawk was still over solid cloud cover.

"Nah. I'll be okay. We'll make it to Allentown and I'll take some more Tylenol." Bob responded.

"If you don't feel good we can divert." Alvin suggested.

"I'm a pretty tough old guy." Chuckled Bob.

Alvin smiled and chuckled at Bob's quip. He depressed the microphone toggle to speak through his oxygen mask. "That's always good to hear."

"One must weather the bad, to appreciate the good. But this headache is- aaaaahhhhh~"

Alvin heard a thump, followed by a burst of feedback howl. The intercom went silent.

"Bob?" Alvin responded. "Hey Bob, you okay?" He turned his head around, but was unable to look back behind his seat. Looking up, Alvin squinted to look through the small rearview mirror. He saw just the top of Bob's white helmet; he was slumped over.

"Bob, are you okay?! Bob!?" Alvin shouted in his headset. He rocked the wings to the Warhawk, but Bob did not respond. His head simply rocked to the movement of the aircraft. Alvin leveled the plane off and took a second to think. He maintained his composure and took a second to think; he recalled what his uncle had told him about emergencies, how to never panic when a crisis strikes. Alvin took a deep breath and immediately reached for the radio controls. It was the only other modern piece of equipment in an otherwise accurately restored cockpit. He turned the knob and hit the emergency band.

"Cleveland Center this is Centaur five-thirty-two, declaring emergency, over. Cleveland Center this is Centaur five-thirty-two, declaring emergency, over. My pilot is not responding, I have assumed command of this aircraft, over."

Alvin released the radio toggle. Five seconds passed, they felt like eternity.

"Centaur five-thirty-two, this is Cleveland Center, acknowledge your emergency, over."

"Cleveland, I request heading for immediate landing. I have a medical emergency onboard."

"Copy, your medical emergency. You are about ten minutes from Cambridge Municipal, we will radio to have runway traffic cleared, over."

"Acknowledged, Cleveland."

Alvin scrutinized his map and glanced out his cockpit canopy. The gray cloud deck looked even more ominous as reality set in. Alvin was now virtually alone, a novice in a high performance warbird, with a medical emergency onboard. Now he had to descend through a thick cloud deck, and land as fast as possible. His hazel eyes looked up to see Bob's limp head slumped forward in his rear view mirror. Alvin took a slow deep breath and knew what he had to do, for Bob's sake.

Rolling the plane inverted, the Doberman yanked the stick back and dove, punching into the clouds. His view was obstructed for just seven seconds, the precipitation streaking against his windshield. The city of Cambridge emerged through the clouds, the wind noise growing louder against the canopy. Doing a rapid split-s, Alvin leveled off and kept his speed up as he flew around the city, to get into the landing pattern for the airport.

"Bob, if you can hear me, I got you. We're gonna land. Help is coming." Alvin radioed, unsure if Bob could hear him.

Flying fast, Alvin flew around the southern half of Cambridge, arcing around at 300 miles per hour. He saw the airport in the distance, his heart pounding with anticipation. Alvin glanced at Bob through the rear mirror, and at his instrumentation; time was of the essence.

---

An ambulance rolled onto the tarmac, its strobe lights and light bar flashing. Followed behind with a Sheriff's vehicle and fire truck, the airport was on alert for the arrival of Alvin and the P-40. Runway traffic was cleared and the P-40 was authorized to make a direct descent in. The silver plane was nothing more than a mere dot as rescuers watched it come into view. Its landing light glowed, the warbird arcing in with everything down. Alvin came in steady, controlling his speed and not "jumping the gun", despite his emergency onboard. A smooth touchdown followed, the Warhawk rolling down the runway and slowing to a crawl. Alvin turned off the runway and made a fast taxi to the tarmac, where the ambulance began rolling towards him. Alvin parked the plane the first moment he could and cut the mixture controls. Before the propeller had time to wind down, Alvin was jumping out of the cockpit, onto the wing, to make an assessment of Bob.

"Bob! Bob!" shouted Alvin as he threw his canopy open. He reached to grab Bob, finding him limp. He was cold to the touch. Lifting his head up, his blue eyes were glossed over and constricted. He was not breathing. The wolf looked dead. Paramedics jumped onto the wing to immediately begin checking him over. Alvin jumped down and watched as the whole aircraft was swarmed by rescuers. He was eyewitness to a very bad situation.

"Does he have a pulse, Dave?"

"He's not breathing, Bill."

"I got a weak pulse."

"We need oxygen here. Get the bag, we're tubing him."

"I think he's having a stroke, look at his eye condition."

"Call the trauma unit."

"Here we go."

Alvin stood in disbelief as he watched Bob be placed on a stretcher and quickly rushed to the waiting ambulance, which peeled out for the gate. The young Doberman was taken by a Sheriff's Deputy to his cruiser, to follow to the hospital.

---

"My Statement, 7/19/19" Alvin started on a piece of copy paper. With a cheap blue ballpoint in his right grip, Alvin wrote a statement for the incident report, per request by the Sheriff's department. He was stranded in Cambridge, in a waiting room of the Emergency Department of the Cambridge Regional Medical Center, unsure if his distress calls were passed to his two Uncles who were flying outside of Cleveland's ATC zone. The hospital had called Felix Barion, and Alvin had spoken to him, to let him know that he was okay. The teen looked up at the analog clock on the wall; it read 10:40AM.

"I was scheduled to fly this morning with Bob Woodward

to an airshow event in Allentown, PA. I was flying in front

cockpit, and Bob was in the rear to oversee in the TP-40N

Warhawk. Our call sign was "Centaur-532".

This morning, Bob was complaining of a headache, but he

did not seem concerned about it. We took off a little after

nine in the morning. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary

as he flew, but maybe forty minutes later, Bob made a

passing remark about his headache. Then we muttered an

"ahhh", and the radio went silent. I radioed back to him and

got nothing. I rocked the wings- nothing. So I hit the emergency

band and communicated with Cleveland ATC to report an

emergency, and they directed me to make an emergency

landing at Cambridge.

When I jumped out, I found Bob slumped over in his seat. His eyes

were open, and they were glassy looking. I was quickly pushed aside

by paramedics, who pulled him out and put him into the ambulance.

-Alvin Paulo"

The Doberman capped his pen and looked over at his statement. It was neatly written in cursive. He folded it up and placed it beside him. He glanced back up at the clock; he had been at the hospital for an hour. It felt like eternity. Alvin looked around at his surroundings; he was in a plain, square room. It had a couch and a couple chairs that lined the walls, with a coffee table in the middle. There was a wooden door, and a large window with the blinds nearly closed all the way. Everything was painted in shades of beige and white. It was sterile and it smelled sterile, with the scent of disinfectant and iodine.

The sound of the door opening practically made Alvin's heart jump. Stepping into the waiting room was one of the emergency room doctors, a black wolf, dressed in blue scrubs. A white lab coat was placed over his scrubs, and a stethoscope dangled from around his neck. A blank, tired look, graced his face. "Alvin." He called in a tired voice.

"How is Bob doing? What's going on?" the Doberman asked quickly. He hadn't heard anything since arriving to the ER.

The doctor put a paw on Alvin's shoulder, motioning him to have a seat. "Alvin, I want you to please sit down."

The teen gulped and slowly found a spot. He sat down, knowing that something was up.

"Alvin I have the unfortunate news to bring that your friend, Robert Woodward had a incapacitating stroke. He was extremely critical when he came in, and despite our best efforts, we were unable to save him."

"Bob...died?" Alvin muttered in complete shock. The dog jumped up from his seat; he looked at the doctor in shock, horror, and disbelief.

"He was pronounced dead at 10:28AM after all attempts to resuscitate him failed. His family has been notified. My condolences, Alvin."

Looking dejected, Alvin slowly sat down. Tears welled up in his eyes at the reality that Bob was dead. Thoughts raced through his head; "If only I had gotten to the airport faster", "what if I had not wasted that second or two?" Alvin mentally beat himself up. "Bob was talking to me and then he's dead!" The teen covered his face and sobbed, under the sympathetic gaze of the burned out doctor.

---

Emerging from the airport's terminal, Alvin walked with Felix Barion. Puffy, bloodshot eyes gave away the immense sorrow the teen felt. What was supposed to be a happy, fun day at a fly-in at Allenstown, was now a dismaying tragedy. Alvin walked with slouched shoulders, his head looking down with such melancholy displayed. The twenty-three year old Doberman looked sympathetic; a tattoo sleeved arm was draped over Alvin's shoulder in a show of brotherly love between the two. They stepped onto the water logged tarmac, where they got immediately soaked by the rain coming down. The sky looked even darker and sadder to Alvin.

On the tarmac sat his uncle's DC-3A, "The International". The silver propliner was adorned in the company markings of Barev, its nose sporting the golden yellow "WHIN Arrow" logo. Rain dribbled and dripped from its polished duralumin skin. Alvin took notice of the old Douglas, including some activity going on outside as Felix's boyfriend Tony ran around to jump in through the rear hatch. Felix had mentioned that his boyfriend and best friend Ivo would be flying the plane back to Newark.

Glancing to his right, Alvin took notice of the de Havilland Beaver, and off in the distance, Bob's TP-40N. The orange and white Beaver was owned by Jim Woodward, the eldest son of Dennis Woodward. They had flown in from Columbus upon getting the call that Bob had died. Dennis and Jim were still at the hospital, tending to the legal bureaucracy that followed the death of a loved one. Alvin noticed that a few maintenance men were working to move the Warhawk to one of the open hangars. It made Alvin realize something.

The Dober took off without saying anything, with Felix chasing after him. Alvin ran through the rain, his shoes splashing against puddles. He ran past the maintenance people, and despite their protests, jumped onto the wing to reach the rear cockpit. Felix stopped and tried to cool hot tempered heads, as Alvin pulled Bob's white flight helmet from the rear cockpit. He had recalled that paramedics placed it back in the cockpit when they extracted him. Alvin didn't want to leave without it.

"Come on Alvin, let's go." Felix calmly stated. He grabbed the helmet from him and helped him jump down.

"I'll tell you what, I never saw such a perfect landing as what I saw earlier." One of the workmen exclaimed. "That plane arced right in, and made as perfect as perfect gets landing from that boy."

"Gee, thanks~" Alvin mustered a smile. "Just something you learn~"

"You got potential, kid~"

Alvin nodded in appreciation and left with Felix, who put his arm around him and hurried him through the rain. They boarded the DC-3 and found their seats in the executive interior. The aircraft was powered up and turned around to head back home to Newark. "The International" slowly climbed away off the runway, urged along by its Twin Wasp radials. The turbulence was rough as they flew through the rough weather, but it smoothed out as the Douglas punched through the cloud deck to fly in the sunshine again.

The aircraft was divided into two sections; a forward study area, and a rear private quarter. The interior was painted in warm, earth colors. Alvin found a space in the study, at a seat near one of the panoramic "viewmaster" windows. His face rested against the Plexiglas, feeling the vibrations of the propellers beating on the fuselage. A glum, exhausted look was on his face. He cradled Bob's helmet in his lap. Felix looked on with a sympathetic expression; he knew the feeling that Alvin was going through. When he was learning how to fly himself, his instructor was killed in 2013 in a freak accident. It made Felix grow depressed and unsure of himself and his interest in flying.

"There wasn't anything you could have done to have altered the outcome." Felix softly said.

"I...can't believe he's gone, Felix."

"I understand Alvin."

"He was talking to me one second, then he just stopped. I can't believe it. Gone just like that."

"That's what strokes can do sadly." Felix nodded. "He probably didn't even know what hit him, and that was probably a blessing."

"Felix, I feel so terrible. There was no way I was going to be able to-"

"You didn't do anything wrong." Felix cut in. "You did everything right in how you handled the emergency situation. You did it calmly and professionally- you gave an exemplary showing of how to handle a crisis in the air. Bob very well could have had that stroke on the ground- heck, in an emergency room full of people ready to save him, and the outcome could have been just the same. That's the elusive nature of strokes. I think Bob would be very proud to know that you showed true airmanship."

Alvin nodded in agreement.

"Death is one of those things that lurk among us, the living. You can't get out of this life alive." Felix explained. "So please don't beat yourself up over his passing. It wasn't your fault." The fawn Dober reached for a tissue and handed it to Alvin, who dabbed his tired, puffy eyes. The teen returned to watching the scenery from his window in silence.

---

Three Days Later

Crossing the state at six thousand feet flew the "Star of Mary", an immaculate TWA marked Super Constellation. The curvaceous propliner droned towards Cleveland, flying in lead formation with four Thunderbolts and Corsairs. It served as part of the funeral procession for the late Bob Woodward, whose coffin was flown in the cabin of the L-1049G, along with his family and friends. As stipulated in his will, he was destined to be buried with his wife and son, who were buried at a cemetery in Lorain. A simple graveside memorial service was all he wanted, with a eight plane fly-over concluding with a missing man formation.

Sitting in the radioman's seat, Alvin sat behind Mark Prince, the owner of the immaculate Connie. He flew as the captain with his husband Tanner, who rode as the co-pilot. His father John Prince, served as flight engineer. Alvin sat and listened to the radio chatter through his headset, which helped dull the monotonous "radial song" the big Cyclone-18's emitted. It was a steady drone, a deep rumble of synchronized propellers. Alvin sat dressed in a pair of black slacks, a pressed white shirt, and a gray necktie. Everyone was dressed for the somber occasion.

Arriving into Burke Lakefront, the Constellation taxied and parked before the terminal building. The distinctive lines of the old plane brought many curious stares as everyone was quickly disembarked. A local funeral home provided transportation for the Woodward family, many of whom had flown in from Switzerland. They were taken for the hour drive through Cleveland, to Lorain's Calvary Cemetery.

Calvary was a large open field, split by Ridge Road with Elmwood Cemetery just across the street. It was surrounded by a tree line that helped hem it in. The flat land was dotted by an endless array of headstones, with a few cluster of trees around the field. It was like all the other cemetery's Alvin had been to- quiet. The Woodward plot was given away by a pop up tent that the cemetery had set up for the family. A number of chairs were placed around the open grave, in the plot where his wife and son were laid to rest.

The memorial service lasted forty minutes. Starting with Bob's minister from a Methodist church he attended, everyone took turns telling stories about their friendship and time with Woodward. His coffin sat on display, the mahogany coffin draped with the flag of Switzerland on it. Alvin sat in the front row and listened. As he listened to family members talk, Alvin gazed at his flag draped coffin. From his own first hand observations and memories from his loved ones, Bob was a kindhearted, wonderful man. He was full of love for adventure, and genuinely cared for people. For all his niceness, Alvin felt it was so bitter, if unfair, that Bob had to endure such tragedies of his son and wife's passing, well before their times.

Rob spoke about his friendship with Bob, which lasted eighteen years. The wolf-hybrid, looking serious and stoic as always, spoke about him warmly, even calling Bob a "wonderful mentor". He spoke of how Bob taught him how to fly, and how he helped restore his Corsair after its midair collision in 2010. Rob expressed genuine sadness to his passing. His mechanic Vlado concluded with some humorous mechanical headaches they worked together to fix. Vlado concluded with "I lost a wonderful friend, and I am so thankful for what he taught me in the few years we knew each other." Finally, Dennis Woodward spoke. Dennis was Bob's younger brother; they looked similar, but Dennis was taller and slimmer. He spoke with a voice that had a lighter Swiss German drawl to it. The fifty-nine year old, holding back tears, thanked everyone for the loving words, and gave his eulogy to his late brother. He spoke about their relationship, their shared love for their family and aviation, and how they took their talents and made a name for themselves in the aviation community. Tears flowed as he took about their triumphs, and tragedies.

"My brother died, doing what he loved the most." Dennis concluded. "I cannot feel sad about that, because my brother died, exactly the way I think he wanted to go- up in the air, not touching the Earth. I am blessed that his death was quick and not prolonged or suffering. I would like to give thanks where thanks is given to Alvin Paulo here. Alvin, handled my brother's crisis with professionalism and calmness, that one sees in a true aviator. And Robert would be very proud of that. I know he would be very proud to know that Alvin did what he could to try and help him in a time of need. And I am very thankful for that. My brother had once remarked that helping to teach Alvin how to fly was a wonderful thing- reminding him of the days he could be a father and do the same thing with his son, who's sadly departed this Earth. Thank you everyone for attending. Thank you."

As Dennis walked off the podium, the deep rumble of radial engines slowly grew in volume as the fly-over began. Four Thunderbolts and four Corsairs rumbled over the cemetery, in two v shaped formations. They did two passes, followed by the two groups forming up, for the missing man formation. Joey Paulo and his red and white checker nose FG-1, "The Ohioan", rose up and climbed away, leaving the formation to continue flying on. It was a heartfelt conclusion to Woodward's memorial service.

---

Three Weeks Later

Life went on as normal.

Emerging through the August haze was the distinctive, boxy shape of a de Havilland Caribou. The dark green CV-2 belonged to Joey Paulo and his cargo company, Freightmaster Systems. Christened the unflattering name of "Salvaged Wonder II", the Army marked Caribou descended in with a nose down droop to Mt. Vernon. It was flown by Rob and Joey, with Alvin, Geert, Ivo, and Felix Barion riding along in the cabin on web seating. The Caribou flared and touched down, its propellers reversing and revving to full power to quickly come to a crawl on the runway. It turned and taxied down the service road leading to Bob Woodward's hangar. Rob was arriving to pick up his newly inherited warbirds for his museum.

Alvin peered out from his round cabin window. He primarily got a view of the oil stained cowling, spidery landing gear, and spinning primer gray propeller. He watched the endless line of barbed wire covered fencing pass by as they taxied for his hangar. It brought a bittersweet feeling. The Caribou turned, giving Alvin a view of Bob's hangar and home that sat in the distance. He gazed looking somber at the view.

He had come to learn that Bob had died of a massive stroke of his brainstem. It had basically killed him instantly, and that was no plausible way he would have survived without being a permanent vegetable. That brought some closure to Alvin, who felt guilty at not being able to land immediately. He still felt a nagging sense of guilt at the whole situation, and it had dampened his mood considerably. In the weeks since his funeral, flying had lost its enjoyment, it's fun. Every time he climbed into the cockpit, there was a sad reminder of what had happened. It made him lose concentration, lose the excitement that he once felt. The young Dober was afraid his hobby was slowly fading from interest. He took more interest in his broadcasting hobby, feeling "that doesn't get anyone killed".

Bob had left Dennis as his executor of his will. He had made stipulations that his extensive aircraft collection, which was now scattered throughout the United States, would fall under the jurisdiction of Dennis, and that he could either donate them to the museums they resided at, or sell them to close friends. Dennis, having his own collection that took up his time and money, opted to donate them to the museums Bob flew them to. The five at his personal hangar, were now heading to Rob's museum back in Newark. Dennis gave ownership of the F-4A, MiG-21, and AD-5 Skyraider to Rob. They would find their new home at the Newark Museum of Aviation. Alvin was not sure what would happen to the two Mustangs and Warhawk. Dennis didn't say anything about that as far as he could recall. Despite the tragic end of a friend, life went on as usual.

Under the mid-day sun, the F-4A and MiG-21 were prepped for flight. Rob and Felix, dressed in their G-suits and helmets, were ready to ferry them for the short flight back to Newark-Heath. They were topped up with jet fuel and powered up by aid of a power cart. Alvin stood from a distance covering his ears as jet engines spooled up with their horrid screech. Felix taxied out first with the Finnish Fishbed-C, its polished skin glistening under the sun. It taxied by, while Joey took a photo with his phone. Rob followed next in the pumpkin orange Phantom, its exhaust noticeably smoky as the twin J79's screamed. Alvin could feel the sound energy hit his chest. Lastly, Ivo fired up the massive R-3350 of the Skyraider and taxied out, ready to carry "John" back home to Newark. Alvin watched with melancholy eyes. Joey and Geert worked to clear out and load some of Bob's spare parts. Crated engines, and boxes of spare gauges and other bits and pieces were loaded aboard the Caribou through its rear loading ramp. Alvin ventured off to see what else was going on.

At the home, there was a busy yard sale going on. All of Bob's worldly possessions were out on folding tables, being searched over by a hodgepodge of people looking for a bargain. It was a sad sight to Alvin as he stepped inside Bob's home.

For a man made of money, he lived a simple, homely existence. He didn't have fancy furniture, or unique gadgets. Everything was in shades of brown for the furniture, which were slowly being moved by Dennis's kids- Jim, Bridget, and Kyle. Dennis himself was slowly processing and packaging up family photos, to go home with him. Alvin glanced at the walls, which brought a smile to his face.

Bob's walls were covered in photos. Photos of his family, of beautiful landscapes of Luxembourg and Switzerland, his aircraft past and present, and most importantly, his wife and son. There were loads of photos of his son John; smiling, cheerful photos of his short life. Dennis would grab one, take it to the table, wrap it in parchment paper, and stow it in a box that was marked "Photos". One by one, smiling pictures of John and his late wife were taken off the walls and stored away.

"Hey Dennis, how are you doing?" Alvin asked.

"Oh, I'm doing alright~" the old wolf said as he glanced up from his work. He even mustered a smile for the teen.

"Hey, I got a curious question for you."

"Oh yeah? What's up Alvin?"

"The two Mustangs and Warhawk...uhh...what's to happen to them?" Alvin asked curiously.

"The P-51B is coming home with me. That one's gonna stay with the family."

"Understandable."

"I'm glad you brought up about the other two. Come with me Alvin~"

Dennis got up and put an arm around the Doberman, leading him back to the hangar. Alvin went along with it and didn't say anything as they walked back to the hangar. Stepping through the back door, Alvin and Dennis walked and looked at the remaining three aircraft. Dennis gently caressed the cold steel prop of John Woodward's P-51B. Even he looked melancholy at it.

"You think it could never happen to someone until it actually happens. And that's one of those things- strokes. Our mother passed away from a stroke, and they do lurk in the family. But you never think it could happen to you or your brother until you get that phone call, Alvin." Dennis spoke.

"...I got a call from the hospital saying that my brother had passed away, and it shocked me. It took a lot out of me- I knew he was flying that day, and I knew you were aboard the plane. So I had the grief to know that my brother died, and the terror to think this happened while his pupil was aboard the aircraft too. But they told me you made a textbook landing. You arced right on in and made a perfect touchdown."

"Well...I had to do what I had to do, Dennis." Smiled Alvin. "I was faced with a problem, and I did what I could. I just wish...I could have saved him."

"I'm very appreciative, Alvin. But from what doctors said, there wasn't any outcome that would have been different than the end result. But I am very proud that you demonstrated such airmanship, such aptitude, especially in a high performance aircraft in an emergency."

Dennis walked over towards the Warhawk and gazed at it. "You mustn't give up your love of flying because of this, and you mustn't beat yourself up- you did a very good job and I am proud of you for it. So I feel you deserve this, Alvin. I am going to gift you the Warhawk and the Cavalier Mustang."

Alvin's jaw almost dropped. Did he just hear what he thought he just heard? "Dennis, you mean?"

"As executor of my brother's will, he stipulated that I find homes for his aircraft- either donation to the museums they resided at, or selling them to close friends. I think Robert wouldn't have a problem with me giving a promising pupil a head start in getting his feet into the aviation world!"

"You mean, I have the Warhawk and Mustang?"

"Mhmm." Dennis nodded. "Well...they'd be in your uncle's legal possession until you turn eighteen, but they'd be for you."

Alvin didn't know what to say. He was shocked, amazed, dumbfounded.

Dennis put an arm around his shoulder. "I'm thankful you were there for my brother in his last moments, even if the outcome ended the way it did. I know that my brother had someone who cared for him, and I want these airplanes to be loved...and I know you and your uncle can provide the love that they need, Alvin."

"Dennis, I promise you, I'll take care of them~"

"I know you will." The older wolf smiled. "That's why they're yours."

"Hey Uncle Joey! You won't believe this!" Alvin yelled as he ran back towards his uncle who was climbing out of his plane. Dennis watched and chuckled at Alvin's excitement.

---

Holding formation, Alvin flew in the front cockpit of his Cavalier Mustang. With Felix Barion in the rear cockpit, Alvin flew in a three ship formation; Rob's Lancaster bomber, and his WV-1 Constellation. The Lancaster flew as the lead ship, piloted by Rob and Dennis Woodward, who was now training Rob in getting his type rating for the Avro. They were flying to a aviation gathering in Youngstown, at the Youngstown-Warren Airport.

Alvin glanced around "his" new mount. Though legally Rob's until Alvin turned eighteen, it was "his" plane in the sense that it was gifted to him. The Cavalier Mustang had a cockpit that differed little from its military relative, the TF-51D, though the instrument panel was painted white. The only difference Alvin felt between the TF-51 and "Cavalier 2500" was that the wingtip tanks degraded the roll rate. It felt a little strange to be flying the aircraft that was once his late friend's, and he felt obligated to take the best possible care of it, to remember him by.

Flying over Youngstown, in the landing loop, Alvin took a moment to admire the city. He passed over the rougher parts of downtown. It was another Ohio town in the rust belt, a once industrious city that had fallen on hard times after deindustrialization. He banked around, and flew over suburban neighborhoods, watching as the airport lined up in the distance.

"Who's going to land first?" Alvin radioed.

"If you want, you can go." Came Rob's voice in response.

"Uncle Joey?"

"Sure. Be my guest. Go in first."

"Okay~ I'll land first."

Getting established with the tower, Alvin broke from the formation and began descending in for landing. He could see the pitched up event tents and line of aircraft sitting on display on the tarmac. Alvin dropped the flaps and gear, and maintained his descent speed of 120 miles per hour as he came in for landing. Felix kept his hands off the controls and allowed Alvin to make the landing himself. The Mustang came in with its wings slightly rocking from a crosswind. Alvin put in rudder and skewed the plane in for landing. It was a bumpy landing; the left main gear touched first, followed by a hesitating bump into the air, a bump onto the right gear, another momentarily hesitation into the air, before the airspeed bled off enough for both main gear to firmly plant the ground. Alvin rolled out and turned off the runway to find his spot on the ramp. He was guided by ground crew to the holding area. The engine was shut off and the aircraft was manually pushed to its display spot.

Youngstown's airshow was packed with people. The flight line held a number of civilian aircraft, and a few warbirds mixed in with the lineup. A number of Cessna's in various colors, a polished up silver Beech 18, and a Navy marked military Beech, the C-45, a couple Vultee BT-13 trainers in various military colors, and a glossy sea blue TBM Avenger. The massive Avenger, parked with its wings folded, flew in from Cincinnati. The Newark Museum of Aviation's contribution- the Lancaster, Constellation, and Mustang, brought huge crowds around it. Onlookers took photos, asked questions and posed with the aircraft, under the relentless sound of firing camera shutters.

After the crowds evened out, the group dispersed and went to mingle about at the airshow. Alvin walked with his uncles, Rob and Joey to examine the other aircraft, take some photos, meet with crewmembers, and then go outside the airport perimeter to watch military reenactors around camp sets. There were people dressed as Allied and Axis soldiers.

"Isn't your M1 rifle an actual veteran of the war?" Alvin asked as he took notice of a solider walking by with a blank firing M1 slung from his shoulder.

"Yep. Served in the battle of the bulge. Built in 1943." Rob recalled. "Quite a nice rifle- it was well taken care of by the man who gave it to me."

"You don't see that too much." Joey added to Alvin. "A gun usually that old shows a lot of sign of wear and tear." The Doberman was starting to add to his explanation, when a sudden shove sent him flying into a tree. Alvin and Rob spun around to see a German Shepherd, dressed in a black wool uniform of the SS, ready to take a swing at Joey. Without thinking, Rob decked him across the face, sending him in a twirl and promptly to the ground. Other men, dressed like elements of the SS, swarmed over, as a brawl immediately broke out. Rob shoved Alvin to safety.

Other reenactors rushed in to break up the brawl as screams were emitted. Rob and Joey held their own and made space as people were yanked back.

"WHAT IS YOUR MALFUNCTION!?" Joey yelled.

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" screamed Rob.

"You killed my men you son of a bitch!" screamed the German Shepherd. He clutched a busted lip that bled from Rob's punch.

"The hell you talkin' about?!" Joey yelled.

"Mladic!" he yelled.

Rob knew immediately what he was talking about. The light bulb went off in the wolf-hybrid's head; he knew right away who the German Shepherd was. It was David Biermann, the self-proclaimed "head" of a patriot group named "God's New Army". They were self-described followers of the Christian Identity and Patriot Groups- hatemonger's, and borderline domestic terrorists. They were simply "Nazis" to him. Rob's "buddy", Agent Dove, of the FBI, informed him of the group after some of their members were killed in Rob's attempt to save his husband from Ethan Abramovich, aka, "Ethan Mladic".

"Ohh, I know you. You're Biermann, the loser who runs a loser hate group." Rob chuckled.

"Your faggot ass buttfucker's family killed my men you son of a bitch~" the Shepherd snarled.

"Heh, just numbers. Statistics. That kinda stuff." Rob responded. "You Krauts should find better things to do with your free time."

"I'm gonna fuck you up, Rob."

"Ooooh, I'm terrified." Rob said defiantly. His stone cold face didn't flinch a bit.

"They only brought it upon themselves." Joey glared. "Birds of a feather flock together."

"Spare me your glib remark, motherfucker." Biermann snapped. "I'll fucking kill your whole family, including that little nigger you got there."

Alvin slinked behind Rob at being called such a hateful word.

"What'd you call my nephew?" Rob glared. He got in Biermann's face. "Listen here you googly eye piece of shit, I should snap your neck right here and-"

Biermann shoved Rob aside and lunged for Alvin. Joey put himself in front of his nephew and took a punch to the chest that knocked the air out of him. Rob hit Biermann as hard as he could, his left fist applied perfectly to his muzzle with a crushing blow. The Shepherd's head whipped back and he fell to the ground, knocked out cold. The fight turned into a brawl as everyone broke each side up, only this time, police responded. Guns were drawn and orders were made to break it up. Rob and Biermann were forcibly yanked away by police. The fight was over in a matter of mere minutes. Completely unprovoked.

"He's a fucking Nazi Kraut, fuck him." Rob snarled as police pulled him away.

Police questioned Rob, Joey, and Alvin, along with other witnesses. After an hour of back and forth, and talking to Rob's attorney, he was released and exonerated of wrongdoing. But because of the incident, the airport demanded that Rob and his group leave immediately.

Alvin walked with a stiff, serious gait with Rob, back to their aircraft to leave. They didn't say anything to each other as they walked quickly. Rob practically shoved people out of his way. His face was an unflinching serious glare, a stone cold expression. Alvin looked equally unhappy at being called something so discriminatory, so hateful.

"You doing okay, Alvin?" Rob asked.

"Not really, no." his nephew responded. "I can't believe he called me the n-word."

"I can." Rob admitted. "He's a fucking Nazi. Twisted and evil by an evil ideology that should have died in 1945."

Rob stopped and pivoted on his feet to look at Alvin. He put both his paws on his nephew's shoulders. "You are not a nigger, Alvin. Don't ever listen to a Kraut like Biermann. Niggers are stupid, lazy, good-for-nothings- stereotypes. You are none of that. You're not like your maternal side... You're a bright, capable, young man of mixed background like myself. You're half Doberman and Rottweiler, just as I am half wolf and malamute. There is nothing wrong with you and never even think that. And I know it hurts- I've been called a chink, a gook, a zipper head. I ain't none of that- I'm an American, and certainly more patriotic than that Nazi piece of shit. The only good Nazis are dead Nazis- do what my great-uncle did- shoot em and kill em all."

Alvin mustered a smile. "Thanks Uncle Rob. But isn't that monologue a bit discriminatory?"

"Not all heroes wear capes." Rob concluded. He patted Alvin's shoulder and continued walking with him, his arm placed around his nephew's shoulder. "I'll fly with you back home in the Mustang."

"Sure!"

---

It was the last weekend before school started for Alvin. Summer vacation was over, and it was time for Alvin to begin another school year, this time a sophomore in the tenth grade. For his last days of "freedom", Alvin gathered with his friends to make one final YouTube video of their airport series.

On the flight line, Alvin stood with his best friends, Spencer, and Jordan Fernando, who helped document the morning activity on the tarmac. Jordan ran Alvin's HL-79DA, the brown wolf recording the preparation work in servicing and fueling a line of Thunderbolts that were destined to head to Cleveland. The four Thunderbolts belonged to Vlado and Tito Horvat, and Mark and Matt Prince. Their polished metal skin glistened in the morning sun. Further down the flight line sat Alvin's P-40E; it wasn't scheduled to fly, but Rob had moved it onto the flight line for his nephew for their video. Alvin was dressed in his flight attire, complete with parachute, to explain the finer points of his future Warhawk mount. They were simply passing the time recording some b-roll.

"Alrighty, let's get your stuff Alvin." Jordan suggested. He walked with the camera on his shoulder, Spencer manning the VTR and microphone as he followed. They walked over to the P-40, to set up the tripod and get the shots that they wanted. As Alvin walked, he heard the rumble of a Beech King Air overhead. He looked up into the cyan sky and watched an anonymous looking white and gray King Air fly overhead in the landing pattern. He thought nothing more of it.

In front of the camera, Alvin explained the origins of his P-40E, and lectured about its powerplant, armament, and performance. They took the camera off the tripod and walked around the plane to capture all angles of it. Alvin took control of the camera and climbed into the cockpit to take video of the instrument panel. He'd dub his monologue over the picture.

As he hit the VTR pause button on his lens grip, Alvin looked up at the whistling hum of turboprops. He took notice of the anonymous looking King Air arrive on their tarmac. It was an unauthorized arrival; the museum's ramp was private and restricted from general aviation use. Alvin fumbled his brow at it and noticed his uncle walking towards it. Rob had an annoyed look to his pace.

Climbing out of the cockpit and jumping down, Alvin repositioned his camera on his shoulder and hit record to start recording again. Through the viewfinder, he got a crisp black and white image of Rob walking, a shaky shot, with the overblown highlights in the background lagging and smearing in the camera's tubes. Rob looked visibly irritated. He motioned with his hands to order the plane to turn around. Zooming out, Alvin spun the lens around to see a couple guys climb out of the King Air. They were dressed in all black coveralls. Alvin fumbled his brow in not understanding what was going on. Something was up.

Without warning, Alvin watched as Rob was suddenly grabbed. He shoved a gray wolf back, only to be punched in the face by a mottled furred Pointer. They threw Rob to the ground and struck him at the back of his head.

"HEY!" came the screaming voice of Vlado. He came charging towards them. Alvin swung his camera at him, only to suddenly hear gunshots. The Doberman and his friends jumped to the ground as the Pointer fired a 9mm at Vlado. Bullets struck against the pavement. The burly Croat threw himself to the ground.

"UNCLE ROB!" screamed Alvin.

"LET'S GO! COME ON!" the gray wolf screamed. "Let's go!"

Alvin watched an unconscious Rob get thrown into the King Air, and the plane began backing up under reverse thrust. Alvin looked on in distress as he watched his uncle get kidnapped.

"Oh no!" Spencer yelled. "Alvin! What do we do?"

"Alvin!" Jordan yelled.

The King Air began a fast taxi on the service road. Alvin looked over at the others running to tend to Vlado, who looked somewhat dazed. It was a frenzy on the ramp. The Doberman watched the King Air slip from view; he cocked his head and saw the helplessness on people's face. Matt Prince was getting on his phone to call for help. Alvin pursed his lips and realized that his uncle was in grave danger. He turned around to look at his friends, who sat in the shadow of his Warhawk. It made Alvin think.

The dog spun around to stare at the blunt radiator nose of his P-40E. Its white spinner pointed towards the sky. The Warhawk had been fueled up after its last flight and had just about a full tank of gas. There was a feeling that he had to do something, even if it was blatantly illegal. He needed to chase after that King Air, to rescue his uncle. He spun around to watch the King Air lift off into the air; it executed a rapid climb out to the roar of its turboprops. He was running out of time.

"Hold this!" Alvin shouted. He practically threw his camera to Jordan, who caught it.

"Alvin! What are you doing?!" shouted Jordan.

"Saving my uncle!" Alvin exclaimed. Kicking out the chocks, he jumped up onto the wing and climbed into the cockpit to immediately buckle himself in. He adjusted his leather flying cap, and plugged his headset into the radio port, and fixed his amber tinted goggles and oxygen mask. He remembered the checklist by memory; Alvin poured over it and hit the starter to his engine. The propeller turned over and after a couple rotations, the Allison caught with a gush of glycol smoke. Jordan and Spencer stepped back and looked on in disbelief. So did the others.

"HEY! KID!" screamed Tito Horvat. Vlado's middle son rushed towards Alvin. The twenty-three year old gray wolf rushed as fast as he could as he saw Alvin begin to taxi his warbird. "ALVIN! STOP! YOU CAN'T FLY THAT BIRD!" Alvin outpaced him and quickly turned onto the service road. When Tito realized he could not catch up with him, he turned around and yelled for his Dad.

Alvin's mind was clouded by his concentration on flying. He quickly turned onto the runway, did one last scan of his instruments and immediately commanded power from his P-40. The engine revved up and he kicked in rudder to oppose the torque from his prop. He gained speed rapidly and the tail lifted up as expected. Alvin held the plane firm and pulled the stick back at the indicated speed. The Warhawk lifted off the runway and climbed away. Alvin looked to his left and watched the ground slip away. The greater landscape of Heath and Newark gradually came into view as he climbed for altitude. Alvin kept an eye out for the King Air. The flaps were raised and the gear was pulled up. The Warhawk began to really gain speed now that the drag was gone. He throttled back to cruise power and headed north; he last remembered seeing the King Air heading north.

"Who and why?" Alvin kept thinking. He had a hunch that the King Air was in relation to the incident at Youngstown. He knew his uncle had enemies; Alvin knew Rob was a polarizing figure you "either loved or hated". There was such a feeling that his uncle was in grave, mortal danger. Alvin thought the worst; his uncle was going to die. And he felt he needed to do something, no matter what the outcome.

---

Climbing past seven thousand feet, Alvin scanned the sky again. He had been in the air for fifteen minutes and was flying north of Mt. Gilead. At his two o'clock, Alvin spotted a speck in the sky. Scrutinizing it, he made out the features; it was a twin-engine turboprop, painted white, with a gray stripe on it. It had round windows and a low tail. That was the plane.

Opening his throttle up, Alvin began to accelerate and close in on the plane. As he got closer, he noticed that the cargo door was open.

"Oh no, they're gonna throw him out!" Alvin thought to himself. He felt powerless to stop things. As he closed the gap, the King Air's crew must have put two and two together, as the plane suddenly banked, hard, to the left. It took Alvin by surprise as the turboprop opened its throttles up and sped away. Alvin banked hard to his left and took off in pursuit. He wasn't going to let it get away.

The King Air rocked back and forth, it banked again, in an attempt to lose the Warhawk in the clouds, but Alvin held on. He kept his head on a swivel. He pursued that Beech with absolute determination. Punching through a cloud, Alvin watched as the King Air disappeared. When he cleared the cloud, the plane was gone. It was now in a diving turn towards the countryside. The Warhawk rolled and dove after him in a arcing left turn. He kept the plane in his gun sight.

Holding on his six o'clock, Alvin closed the gap and was pulling up to get a better view. There was a brilliant flash from the port side of the King Air; an explosion blew part of the cargo door out and bits and pieces of the fuselage rained out like shrapnel. Alvin had to abruptly climb to avoid hitting debris; a few small pieces clinked against the propeller and wings. He rolled back and climbed to find the Beech trailing smoke. Something was on fire, and he wasn't sure what. Something was going on inside the cabin; that brought a smile to the Doberman's face. His uncle was most likely fighting back.

Alvin finally managed to pull up alongside. He glanced at the speedometer- he was flying at 330 miles per hour to keep up. There was a brawl inside the cabin. A number of shadowy figures were struggling against each other practically. Pulling back a bit, Alvin saw that the fuselage around the cargo door was burning. Inside, he spotted his uncle, in a headlock by a figure. He kicked a man who fell out of the plane. Alvin watched his body tumble two times and slip from view. He was doomed to his fate. A second man was hit and he tumbled through the open cargo door. He caught a piece of the fuselage and held on for dear life several thousand feet over Ohio. He lost his grip and tumbled, striking his back on the elevator and tumbling away from view. If the impact didn't kill him outright, the impact with the ground would.

The Beech swung at Alvin, and he was forced to climb away. The Beech rolled over and dove for the ground. Alvin went inverted and pulled into a dive. He did a split-s to keep up with the plane that left a smoke trail behind it. He gained speed- the slipstream growled against his canopy. It was going to be a low level chase.

Alvin pulled out of his dive at three hundred feet. At nearly 400 miles per hour, he watched the ground scenery flash by with a blink of the eye. It was a tremendous experience that sent a shiver down his spine. He flew low before, but never this fast, and never alone. This time he was the only person controlling his P-40E.

The Beech flew aggressively at treetop height. Dust was kicked up- that's how dangerously low it flew. Alvin would not give an inch as he pursued. Flying over farm fields, he whipped corn fields up with his prop wash. The struggle kept going as another man was thrown from the Beechcraft. The plane flew low enough that Alvin watched his body smash into the ground, then bounce up and fly over Alvin's right wing. Blood splattered against his windshield. It startled Alvin; his heart began to pound in his chest. The turboprop suddenly climbed abruptly, almost going straight up. Alvin watched and climbed in pursuit. It breathed a sigh of relief that he was no longer scraping along the ground at such high speed. The Beech nearly stalled out and Alvin overshot. He looked back to see its wings wiggle and it hesitantly turn to the west.

Pulling the nose up, Alvin climbed for more altitude and went inverted. He pulled off a perfect Immelmann and rolled out to find the Beech back in his sights. His paws were a fury manipulating the throttle and stick. He passed by the turboprop and turned to form back up on its nine o'clock. Squinting to see through the smoke, he found Rob in the rear cargo hold. He was holding on, armed with something that looked like a flare gun in his grip. He looked out at the P-40- he had to have recognized it immediately. Rob motioned at the plane, as if saying to hold position. His motions were interrupted as he noticed something to his right. Alvin watched him suddenly fire off the flare gun.

The cockpit windows promptly exploded, as Alvin watched more debris rain off the plane. Smoke suddenly gushed from the cockpit windows. There were visible flames licking out, fanned by the immense slipstream. Alvin's heart rushed; his uncle was doomed and he was going to watch his death when the plane exploded.

Seeing some motion from the corner of his eye, Alvin looked to see Rob motioning for him. He had a rope tied around his body like a makeshift harness. He had attached the rope to the cabin and was going to repel from the plane. He was motioning for the plane to back up. Alvin rocked the wings in acknowledgement and began to back up, giving Rob room.

Like a daredevil, Rob released himself to the slipstream. He held onto the rope and was buffeted by the immense slipstream. The two planes were going almost 280 miles per hour. Rob slowly climbed down the rope that was attached to his body. He gave himself distance from the plane, and Alvin backed up further. He pulled back, and then slowly began to close in. Putting opposing rudder in, Alvin slewed the plane to give some yaw so Rob could clear the propeller and grab the wing. He was fifty feet away from the King Air, and forty feet from Alvin, who continued to very slowly close the gap. Rob was violently buffeted by the wind. Despite such adrenaline, his face, which was blood soaked, was unflinchingly calm looking as he continued to give himself space.

Alvin shed his oxygen mask off his face and yelled at Rob and motioned for him. The wolf-hybrid practically froze in place as he stared at his nephew, who sat in the cockpit of a single-engine, high performance warbird. His eyes looked on in disbelief at what he was seeing. Alvin yelled at him and waved frantically for him to climb onto the wing. That brought Rob back to the reality he was facing. He let one paw let go of the rope he clung to and reached out to grab the wing of the Warhawk. Alvin inched closer and Rob grabbed hold of the wing leading edge. He swung onto the wing and held on with both paws. The sheer force of the wind pinned him against the wing, his legs interfering with the aileron. He slowly crawled across to get away from the aileron, and braced himself with the crook of his arm wedged up against the wing's leading edge. He gripped the fake .50's that stuck from the wing and secured himself. Finally, Rob released the rope around him. It flung away, leaving Rob to hold on for dear life.

Not a moment too soon, the King Air erupted into flames and plunged. Alvin watched as it trailed fire like a brilliant comet. The Beech flew into the small lot of a city maintenance building and exploded on impact in a brilliant blast. Alvin rocketed overhead with his uncle holding onto the wing. He began to slow down, dropping flaps and gear to add additional drag. He wanted to fly as slow as possible for his uncle's safety. He slowed the plane down to a sluggish 140 miles per hour. The Warhawk flew with its flaps down and gear deployed. It held at 140 miles per hour on the speedometer, cruising at 1,000 feet above the Ohio countryside.

"Alvin! Alvin! Come in!" he could hear on his radio. Alvin had been so transfixed on the Beech, that he didn't once register the radio chatter over his headset. "Come in damnit!" It was the voice of Vlado. The Dober looked around and spotted Vlado approaching from his seven o'clock, his lumbering Thunderbolt closing in slowly.

"Alvin coming in, over." He replied.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Vlado yelled. "You're not a pilot!"

"I got my uncle! He's holding onto the wing!" Alvin shouted back through his microphone in his mask. "I got him out of the plane before it crashed!"

There was radio silence as the gravity of the situation suddenly changed. As Alvin continued to fly, the four Thunderbolts that were from the flight line formed up to escort Alvin. The Warhawk got an additional guest, an F-86D, piloted by his Uncle Joey. There was utter silence as they all saw Rob holding onto the wing.

Alvin adjusted his radio to the emergency band. "Pan-Pan, requesting heading for nearest airport- need immediate landing over." He had no official flight schedule, no call sign, nothing. He was an unscheduled, unauthorized flight. The other pilots fed information to the ATC, and Alvin was vectored for a landing at a small airport, the Wayne county airport, near Wooster.

Alvin flew as gentle as he could, watching frantically as Rob continued to hold on. His face was turned away, to shield himself from the immense slipstream that continuously blasted against him. He was vectored in and banked around for an immediate landing at Wayne County. Alvin could breathe a sigh of relief that it was about over.

The Warhawk came in "over the hedge" at 100 miles per hour, and touched down at ninety. It was a textbook landing and smooth rollout. Taxiing off the runway and rolling to the tarmac, Alvin saw a police cruiser and an ambulance waiting for him. Alvin rolled to a stop and killed the engine. He immediately jumped out to his right to check on his uncle.

"Uncle Rob! Uncle Rob!" Shouted Alvin. He found his uncle had held on so tightly for so long that he simply refused to let go. Alvin had to pry his paws free off the leading edge. His clothes were torn to bits, covered in blood; his face was swollen and bloody from a good beating he received. Rob breathed rather heavy. The young Doberman helped Rob off the wing, which he promptly collapsed on the pavement. His uncle looked catatonic.

"Wow." He muttered.

"Uncle Rob what happened? What happened?" Alvin asked.

Rob just blinked and slowly exhaled. "Alvin, what the hell were you doing flying that plane? You coulda got yourself killed kid~"

Alvin couldn't help but muster a smile; that was his uncle. The typical Rob response. The Doberman was pulled away by a cop and paramedics rushed to treat him. Alvin turned to watch as the Thunderbolts came in for landing, a minute apart, like a mini airshow attraction. His Uncle Joey orbited overhead in his Sabre Dog, awaiting landing. Everything was finally over. He had done it. He saved his uncle.

---

"And that's what I did over my summer vacation. Thank you!" Alvin concluded to his first speech for speech class. He got a round of applause from his classmates and friends as he returned to his seat.

"Alvin that sounds like quite the exciting and riveting adventure- you know not too many people can they they've witnessed so much~" His teacher complimented as she jotted notes on a grade report.

"There's more I could discuss, but the FBI told me not to." smiled Alvin.

"I'm sure~"

The final bell rang and class was dismissed for the day. Alvin packed his belongings and left with his classmates, to battle the congested hallways to head for home. He walked lugging his backpack around, and stopped at the broadcasting classroom to pick up his camera suitcase, which rolled behind him. It felt nice to be back at school once again to be with all his friends.

"Hey Alvin, how'd your speech go?" Spencer asked as he met up with the husky and Jordan.

"It went as well as to be expected. Everyone liked my story." Alvin explained with a chuckle. "They said it was very adventurous."

"I can imagine so." Spencer nodded.

"Not everyone can say they survived a plane crash, got kidnapped by a paramilitary organization, and then commandeered an airplane and rescued your uncle James Bond style."

Alvin shrugged and smiled. "What can I say?"

Alvin walked and laughed with his friends as they exited Newark High School. It had been a very adventurous end of his summer vacation. Alvin had come to find out that Rob had been kidnapped by elements of the group "God's New Army". They had orchestrated a conspiracy to kidnap Rob and throw him out of the King Air to his death, but in typical Rob fashion, he turned the tables on them. There were no survivors from the members of the King Air. But David Biermann was arrested, and the FBI had an excuse to go after them. Even Alvin got questioned by Agent Dove of the FBI. He was definitely interrogated and reprimanded by the FAA for his stunt. As punishment, Alvin was not allowed to "touch and manipulate" the controls of any aircraft for six months. Despite the discipline, it was noted that his flying skills were "exemplary". It still made Alvin feel vindicated.

Walking home, Alvin stepped through the front door to be greeted by Rob, who healed up from his beating. In his typical nonchalant ways, he simply moved on from it and shrugged it off as "just a skirmish". Alvin certainly wasn't going to be punished by his uncle; Rob's conclusion to the whole thing was a simple "fuck it and move on".

Setting his camera suitcase in the corner and his backpack on his bed, Alvin sat at his desk and turned on his small color TV. It was hooked up to a large U-Matic deck that he used to review tapes he shot on his old camera. He grabbed one of his blocky U-Matic cassettes and fed it into the VTR to play it back. He picked up his pad of paper and continued on jotting down edit times on the time counter that ran with the video. He played back a video of Bob Woodward talking, the casual interview in the terminal of the Newark-Heath airport. Hearing his voice again brought a smile to his face.

"These old airplanes I fly and fix- they were around before I was born, and certainly they'll be around for years after my inevitable death." Bob recalled to Alvin, who was out of the camera's shot. It was such a warm, cheerful picture, colored like soft pastels from the camera's lead-oxide Plumbicons. The background had a subtle bokeh to it, blurred ever so slightly to bring Bob into main focus for the handheld shot.

"That's the beauty of aviation. Some of these planes have seen generations of people sit inside and fly them. They still have a tremendously important place in our time, and I hope people continue to learn how to fly these old warbirds, so future generations, after I'm gone, or whoever after me, can still hear those howling propellers and roaring pistons."

Alvin could hear himself off camera ask the question "is both restoring and flying the aircraft fun to you still?".

Bob leaned back and smiled somewhat. "Oh restoring aircraft is fun, it's also not fun, but it's just the price you have to pay~"

Alvin hit pause on Bob laughing. His smile was radiating, contagious. The young Doberman smiled in return; he missed Bob tremendously, but his legacy would always live on. And Alvin felt proud that he could carry on his legacy with the airplanes gifted to him. "Just a few more years" Alvin thought as he jotted another time stamp down.