guns blazed away from behind sandbag rings that looked like brown snow forts, sending streams of phantom bullets toward Connor and his plane.
Connor returned the sentiment, firing a sustained burst from the six .50 caliber guns in the White Knight ’s wings. The force of the guns rattled his teeth and slowed the plane sharply, pushing Connor forward into his harness.
He dragged back on the stick, killing more airspeed and pulling the plane out of its dive. G-forces crushed him back into his seat and his heart struggled to pump blood to his brain against the unnatural gravity. He flew over the base at tree-top level, so close that he could see the bright red star of the Imperial Japanese Army on the gunners’ helmets. He kept his finger on the trigger the whole time, aiming roughly at a group of Zeroes, which duly exploded.
Suddenly the camp was behind him and he was flying over a sea of warehouses and parking lots. He wheeled around and headed back toward the jungle camp. He leaned toward his mic. “Okay, here I come again. I’ll be flying in low from the north, and I’ll be shooting at the oil tank.”
“Roger that,” said a voice in his ear.
The line of palms flashed below him and a large oil tank came into view. He pressed the trigger, but no bullets came. He swore and tried again. Still nothing. The oil tank blew up on cue anyway, but Connor was not happy. He pulled the stick back and to the right, veering smoothly around the fireball. “Sorry about that,” he said into the mic. “A wire must’ve pulled loose or something. I’ve never had that happen before.”
A few seconds passed in silence. Then the director’s voice came on. “Don’t worry about it, Connor. You did great. We just looked at the roughs, and we got some terrific footage. It’ll be easy to have the FX guys add muzzle flashes. Besides, we don’t have another oil tank ready to blow up.”
“Okay, Steve. Well, if you change your mind later, let me know. I’ll be happy to bring the White Knight down free of charge for a reshoot. I want to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
“Oh, we did. Cindy will be in touch with you in a couple of weeks about scheduling the dogfight scene.”
An hour later, Connor was at the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, crouching on the wing of the White Knight and peering down into the machine gun feed mechanism in her left wing. The guns hadn’t jammed. He smiled even though that meant more work later. He was proud of those guns, and it pleased him that they were still working smoothly over two generations after they came off the assembly line.
The problem lay somewhere between the trigger on the control stick and the guns’ firing mechanism. Since all six guns had failed, he suspected a wiring problem in the cockpit. He’d have to tear it apart once he had the plane back at its home airport in Livermore.
“Is that a P-51D?” asked a young voice behind him. Connor turned and saw a boy of about twelve, staring at the White Knight with bright blue eyes.
Connor stood and smiled. “It is indeed. How did you know it was a D?”
The boy pointed to the bubble canopy. “It doesn’t have that big thing behind the pilot that the A, B, and C models had.” He gestured at the wings. “And it’s got six guns, not four.”
“Very good. I’m impressed.”
“Do the guns still work?”
“They do. In fact, I was just firing them today. A movie studio is making a war movie called Blood on the Sun , and they paid me to fly down and shoot up a Japanese air strip—or pretend to shoot it up anyway. I loaded the guns with blanks today. The real bullets are locked up back at my hangar.”
“Cool, I’ll have to see that movie when it comes out.”
Connor tapped the metal skin of the wing. “You know, my grandfather actually built the guns in this plane during World War II.”
“Whoa, he built P-51s?”
“Well, not quite. He owned a company called Lamont Industries that made all sorts of machinery. One of the things
Connor returned the sentiment, firing a sustained burst from the six .50 caliber guns in the White Knight ’s wings. The force of the guns rattled his teeth and slowed the plane sharply, pushing Connor forward into his harness.
He dragged back on the stick, killing more airspeed and pulling the plane out of its dive. G-forces crushed him back into his seat and his heart struggled to pump blood to his brain against the unnatural gravity. He flew over the base at tree-top level, so close that he could see the bright red star of the Imperial Japanese Army on the gunners’ helmets. He kept his finger on the trigger the whole time, aiming roughly at a group of Zeroes, which duly exploded.
Suddenly the camp was behind him and he was flying over a sea of warehouses and parking lots. He wheeled around and headed back toward the jungle camp. He leaned toward his mic. “Okay, here I come again. I’ll be flying in low from the north, and I’ll be shooting at the oil tank.”
“Roger that,” said a voice in his ear.
The line of palms flashed below him and a large oil tank came into view. He pressed the trigger, but no bullets came. He swore and tried again. Still nothing. The oil tank blew up on cue anyway, but Connor was not happy. He pulled the stick back and to the right, veering smoothly around the fireball. “Sorry about that,” he said into the mic. “A wire must’ve pulled loose or something. I’ve never had that happen before.”
A few seconds passed in silence. Then the director’s voice came on. “Don’t worry about it, Connor. You did great. We just looked at the roughs, and we got some terrific footage. It’ll be easy to have the FX guys add muzzle flashes. Besides, we don’t have another oil tank ready to blow up.”
“Okay, Steve. Well, if you change your mind later, let me know. I’ll be happy to bring the White Knight down free of charge for a reshoot. I want to make sure you get your money’s worth.”
“Oh, we did. Cindy will be in touch with you in a couple of weeks about scheduling the dogfight scene.”
An hour later, Connor was at the Bob Hope Airport in Burbank, crouching on the wing of the White Knight and peering down into the machine gun feed mechanism in her left wing. The guns hadn’t jammed. He smiled even though that meant more work later. He was proud of those guns, and it pleased him that they were still working smoothly over two generations after they came off the assembly line.
The problem lay somewhere between the trigger on the control stick and the guns’ firing mechanism. Since all six guns had failed, he suspected a wiring problem in the cockpit. He’d have to tear it apart once he had the plane back at its home airport in Livermore.
“Is that a P-51D?” asked a young voice behind him. Connor turned and saw a boy of about twelve, staring at the White Knight with bright blue eyes.
Connor stood and smiled. “It is indeed. How did you know it was a D?”
The boy pointed to the bubble canopy. “It doesn’t have that big thing behind the pilot that the A, B, and C models had.” He gestured at the wings. “And it’s got six guns, not four.”
“Very good. I’m impressed.”
“Do the guns still work?”
“They do. In fact, I was just firing them today. A movie studio is making a war movie called Blood on the Sun , and they paid me to fly down and shoot up a Japanese air strip—or pretend to shoot it up anyway. I loaded the guns with blanks today. The real bullets are locked up back at my hangar.”
“Cool, I’ll have to see that movie when it comes out.”
Connor tapped the metal skin of the wing. “You know, my grandfather actually built the guns in this plane during World War II.”
“Whoa, he built P-51s?”
“Well, not quite. He owned a company called Lamont Industries that made all sorts of machinery. One of the things
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