Author's Note:

This story features the same familiar characters from The Saga of Ryan Smithers. For those not familiar, Ryan is the son of Waylon Smithers, and his late wife Lydia. He owes his creation to the wonderfully talented creator and artist Gav-Imp of DeviantArt, who has allowed me to bring him into my world, and add a bit of my own unique spin on his tale. For that, I am eternally grateful.

If you haven't read The Saga of Ryan Smithers, which comprises three stories, at the very least you might consider reading (or *gasp*) skimming through "The Inception of Ryan Smithers" to learn a bit more about the young man, and his origins.

If, however, you are already familiar with him, then by all means jump in to this piece.

As always, I offer my most heartfelt thanks for your presence. For, after all, without my dear Readers, would there even be a story to tell?

Most Faithfully Yours,

~ Muse

"You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you'll discover will be wonderful. What you'll discover is yourself."

Alan Alda

"I had learnt the satisfaction which comes from hardship and the pleasure which derives from abstinence; the contentment of a full belly; the richness of meat; the taste of clean water; the ecstasy of surrender when the craving of sleep becomes a torment; the warmth of a fire in the chill of dawn."

Wilfred Thesiger

Ryan Smithers beamed proudly and clutched the rolled tube tightly in his left hand. He looked out over the sea of faces to where his fathers sat, clapping vigorously. He tried not to smile, but couldn't help himself as he shook the Dean's hand for a last time, and made his way across the stage.

His graduation black gown swirled about his ankles, catching slightly on the cloth of the wool pants he wore beneath. It was incredibly hot under his cap and gown, despite the cool May weather. His leather shoes, polished to a mirror gloss caught the sunlight, and reflected it back into his eyes.

Despite the deafening applause from friends and the audience around him, the world felt strangely silent. Ryan moved as if in a dream, thoughts whirling through his head as he stepped down from the stage. A kid from Philadelphia who hadn't even thought about college, much less considered that he'd be eventually graduating with two degrees in Mathematics. It had been a hard four years, pulling a double major, and at times he'd struggled just to keep his head afloat.

At the end though, it didn't matter. None of that mattered. He had his degrees, following in his father's footsteps of graduating from Yale University.

His step-father, technically, he knew. But as he took his seat with the rest of the graduates, he felt that little distinction hardly mattered. He only wished his mother were there to see him in person. Ryan liked to believe she was there in spirit at least, cheering along with the rest of the crowd.

I did it, mom, he thought as he removed his cap for a moment and fanned his sweat-covered brow with a handy commencement brochure. I made it.

The remainder of the ceremony seemed far too long, wearing on the nerves of both Ryan and his fathers alike. It wasn't that he minded watching his classmates walk the stage, but then there came the mandatory speeches which had little bearing on his personal life experiences. Somebody famous he'd never really heard of, an east coast politician talked about how hard it was to be young men and women in today's era, and got an honorary doctorate at the end of the speech.

Ryan rolled his eyes, and reread the list of donors on the back of the commencement booklet. His fathers were there, of course, the level of their financial contribution mercifully undisclosed. It only listed them as part of the Nathan Hale Leaders Circle.

For that, Ryan was privately grateful.

It must've been his father Waylon's influence that kept the details and dollar amount off the list. If Monty were to have had his way, it probably would've been listed in bold font, and quite possibly gold ink. Ryan gave a brief thanks to whatever deity had helped maintain as much anonymity as possible.

Life at Yale had been easy enough the first two years. As a freshman, and through most of his sophomore year the name "Ryan H. Smithers" was unimpressive, and largely unnoticed by faculty and fellow students alike. He was treated no differently than anyone else.

Somewhere in his junior year, word had leaked out that he was one of those legacy students, with a family history of attending Yale. He wasn't sure who outed him, or why, but suddenly it became known that he was a Burns, not just a Smithers, then everything changed.

Professors suddenly took a greater interest in his academic performance. A few kids he thought where his friends started treating him like he thought he was better than them; on the flip side some of the snooty legacy heirs tried making him part of their clique. Ryan did his best to ignore both. In his heart, he was a Philly kid, from the city where dreams were asphalt gutters and dry jokes.

He threw himself into his work that year, burying his head in his studies, and hoping things would be settled when he emerged.

By his senior year, they seemed to be. A few friends stuck with him, the teachers had stopped trying to contort themselves giving him passing grades… it was back to normal, or at least as normal as an heir to the empire that was Burns Worldwide Consolidated could be.

...

Ryan walked between his fathers, unable to suppress the grin that spread across his face. He'd traded his wool suit for a letterman jacket and jeans, much more comfortable in the later afternoon weather. As they walked, he rambled on about hid final semester, exchanging stories with Monty Burns. Burns was not his biological father, but he couldn't bring himself to think of the man as his step-father. That seemed too distant, and fraught with stigma. It was easier just to say "fathers," and leave it at that.

Anyone watching the family of three would've ben easily able to identify Ryan's blood father: the two men looked quite similar, with the same rounded faces, soft cheekbones, and deep eyes. True, Ryan's were hazel, and his air was black in contrast to his father's brown eyes and ash-grey, but the resemblance was strong enough to show a clear patrimony.

Waylon had been preoccupied during the late afternoon, spending more time on his cell phone than he would've liked, handling business several time zones away on in Springfield, North Tacoma.

"It looks like we're going to have to cut this trip short, sir," Waylon remarked, shoving his phone back into the pocket of his jeans. "Good help is so hard to find these days. If we head back tonight, we might be able to keep things from getting out of control."

Ryan paused, running his fingers over the collar of his jacket. "I… uh, I haven't exactly finished packing," he confessed.

Waylon raised his eyebrows. "You said you were ready."

"I said I was mostly ready," Ryan corrected. "We don't have to be out of the dorms till Tuesday, so I figured I'd pack tomorrow."

"How 'mostly ready' are you?" Waylon asked, knowing he'd immediately regret the question.

Ryan folded his arms petulantly. "I have still have to put my books in their shipping boxes, clear out my dresser, desk and closet. But aside from that-"

Waylon rubbed the bridge of his nose, just above his glasses. "So, what exactly have you packed?"

Ryan shuffled his feet. "Well, I've got a list and the boxes ready."

"Angels and ministers of grace preserve me. You haven't started packing at all."

Ryan appeared on the verge of reply when Burns stepped in between them. "Smithers," he began in his most soothing voice. "Young Ryan can hardly be to blame if our plans have changed. I'd expected to spend at least a few days out here, enjoying the wonderful New Haven air. That salty tang of the Atlantic takes me back to my youth. I, for one, am reluctant to abridge this nostalgic sojourn."

"We can't afford to both be gone too long, Monty."

Burns gave his husband a condescending smirk. "Then take the jet back yourself, if you're inclined to be such a wet blanket. Ryan here is in no shape to depart yet, and I am disinclined myself. I'm more than capable of facilitating my own arrangements without your anxious hovering."

"I can pack quickly," Ryan started to interject, but Burns cut him off with a wave.

"Hush. I won't hear any more on the matter. The old girl needs a grip on the wheel as it is, and alas it seems your father is the one who must lay his hands upon her. Though, I must confess it concerns me to think what might come." Burns' expression took on an only somber cast. He gave Waylon a knowing look, laced with implication. "Neither of us are getting any younger in the matter."

"Fine, fine," Waylon relented. "I'll take the jet. But call me, text me if you run into any trouble. I can contract a jet out here in a pinch."

Burns smiled innocently, tenting his fingers. "My dear Waylon, I believe you'll find that quite unnecessary. Ryan and I shall see you back in Springfield then."

Waylon rolled his eyes, but Ryan caught the affectionate twinkle as his father shook his head at the old man. "As long as that's okay with Ryan, it's okay with me."

Ryan gave a thumbs up. "It is dad. I've got this. You worry too much about me," he added as Waylon pulled him into a full embrace.

"Your father is a worrywart by nature, Ryan," Burns said from the background, "but even I've grown fond of his overbearing ministrations. To be most frank, they've grown endearing over the years." He stepped in as Waylon released Ryan, and wrapped his arms around Waylon's hips. "Take care, old friend. We will be seeing you shortly. Why, in less than three days' time I expect to be in your arms once again. Be sure to keep things from falling into utter pandemonium while I'm gone, will you?"

Waylon hugged him back. "Of course, Monty. I've got everything under control."

Burns gave Waylon an affectionate prod in the chest. "There's that capable man I've come to rely on." He threw an arm about Ryan's shoulder. "Your young lad and I shall have a smashing good time, the kind of comradery only two old Yalies might know, eh boy? What say we get your lodgings packed post haste, so we might be on our own voyage?"

Ryan gave his father Waylon one last reassuring look. "Don't worry, Dad! I'll be home soon; promise!"

...

Monty Burns sat on the bed of Ryan's shared dormitory room as the young man hastily shoved his belongings into shipping boxes. He didn't offer to help, nor did Ryan ask him to. Ryan was glad to have a moment of peace. His roommate, Chapler, hadn't wasted any time in leaving right after graduation.

Ryan had the room to himself, and Burns, as he worked.

It didn't take the young man long. Despite not having officially started his packing till that evening, Ryan had already sorted most his clothes and textbooks. He'd made arrangements for a moving company to pick everything up the following day and bring it back to Springfield, where he'd sort things at a more leisurely pace.

He brushed a strand of his soft black hair out of his face and stared at a handful of papers from one of his courses. A smattering of letter grades stared back. Ryan briefly debated keeping them, before concluding he'd never need his old tests again, and tossed them into the garbage bag in the middle of the floor.

Throughout Ryan's progress, Burns said nothing. He sat, staring out the window, lost in his own thoughts. Ryan appreciated the quiet.

Ryan threw a few more papers into the garbage bag, made one last check of his desk drawers, then straightened up. "I think that's it," he said, gesturing to the boxes along the wall. "I packed my travel bag yesterday, so I'll have a few things to wear until the rest of this gets back." He gave a box a tap with his foot.

The sky was darkening rapidly, but not quite night.

Burns shook himself, as if waking from a dream. "Come again, Ryan?"

The young man repeated himself, and Burns gave a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Your father made arrangements for our lodging and board tonight, but I've changed the pickup location for your Durango."

Ryan cocked his head. "Wait, why?"

"I thought we might enjoy a trip back at our leisure, two fine Yalies. I look forward to regaling you with of tales from my youth on these hallowed grounds. Then tomorrow, I have an agenda for you."

Ryan tilted his head. "Me? Why me?"

"We're going to drive down to the coast, not particularly far. Why, scarcely a stone's throw from Stratford. From there, we'll make our flight."

Ryan tilted his head. "I didn't know there was an airport down there."

Burns pursed his lips and steepled his fingers. "Hmmm, a small one. But it will suffice for our needs. Come Ryan, we'll take our belongings to the quarters your father most graciously procured, then, I hope you'll indulge me this trip down memory lane. It's been too long since I strolled along HIllhouse Avenue under the night sky."

Ryan grabbed his camping backpack, and slung it over one shoulder. It was larger than his bookbag, offering more space for clothes and his shaving kit. He'd packed light, a few pairs of socks, underwear, a sweater, basic essentials. He knew he still had a good amount of clothes back at his home in Springfield, but it never hurt to be prepared for a change of weather, he reasoned. On more than one occasion he'd left balmy Springfield to find himself touching down at the tail-end of an early east-coast freeze, or vice versa.

He zipped his jacket up against the cool air, and followed Monty Burns.

The man hadn't forgotten the layout of the college, a town itself in many ways. He led Ryan along the narrow one-way street of Hillhouse Ave, following up a gentle rise. Despite his age, he moved with a remarkably brisk pace, and Ryan found himself stretching his legs to keep up.

Though the road was narrow, the avenue itself was a broad thoroughfare, with wide grassy curbs and old trees that arched over them. Classical mansions, small by comparison to massive edifice of Burns Manor lined the way, giving rise to the name "Hill house." Their immaculately maintained yards were safely bordered by wrong iron fences.

Ryan had walked this way before, when heading from his residence hall to the so-known Science Hill. At Sachem Street, the avenue ended. Burns gave a cursory look for cars before crossing and sitting down on the stone wall of a terraced quad beyond. Ryan sat beside him. He'd indulged Burns' nostalgia, and listened to stories he'd heard many times before. His head was still spinning from the day's events, and he was only half listening until Burns added something he'd never mentioned before.

"I departed for Oxford shortly after I graduated from this fine institution, and I wasn't ever intending to return. I must confess it is my dearest wish you don't do the same."

Ryan picked up an old acorn and rolled it between his fingers; a survivor from last fall that somehow managed to go unburied over the winter. He tossed it into a bed of tulips.

"What, you don't want me following in your footsteps?" Ryan teased.

Burns gave a knowing smile. "Oh, to a degree I'm anticipating it, but not to the full depth and breadth of my experiences. It is my hope that you return to Springfield permanently, and make the town your home."

Ryan made a face. "I hadn't really given much thought about what I wanted to do next. I was considering going for my Master's, but I'm not even sure what major I'd pursue."

They watched as the light changed, and several cars of students with their parents rolled past. Ryan caught a glimpse of a woman that reminded him a bit too much of his mother. A trick of the streetlights, he thought. Nothing more. His heart knew he was correct.

Ryan realized he was exhausted. Not just physically, but mentally. The emotional high that he'd been riding all afternoon since the final graduation speech had fled without a parting goodbye, leaving him weary and almost numb.

He put his elbows on his legs and hunched over, chin resting in his hands. He watched the light turn again. Several students trotted across the street in ones and twos, occasionally threes. The cars waited patiently.

Exhaling slowly, Ryan turned to face Burns. "I'm not ready to think about that right now. Honestly, Monty, I think I just want to get back to the hotel and go to bed."

"The evening is young," Burns remarked, down at the illuminated mansions. "But then again so are you, my boy. For this, I can agree. We shall retrieve your car from the lot tomorrow. Is there any comestible that might satisfy your needs before we retire?"

Ryan stared at him blankly.

"Food, boy! Do you wish to eat?"

Ryan shook his head. "No, I'm too tired to eat," he confessed as he made to stand. Burns was already on his feet, offering a gaunt hand to Ryan. It was as much symbolic as helpful, Ryan had little doubt that Burns could've hardly helped pull him to his feet. Nevertheless, Ryan took it gratefully as he pushed himself up. "Thanks, Monty."

"One Yalie to another," Burns remarked with odd cheerfulness. He wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and tucked his hands into the pockets of his long coat.

"Do you need something to eat?" Ryan asked as they walked at a more leisurely pace back towards the heart of the city. Ryan was glad to be walking downhill. However slight the grade, it was better than up. His legs felt heavy, weak. He was grateful for Burns' reassurance that he'd manage his own meals. Ryan wasn't sure he would've been able to stay awake for dinner.

They crossed the lobby of their modern hotel, took an elevator up to their respective rooms, and parted ways.

Ryan barely remembered getting ready for bed.

He definitely did not remember falling asleep.

...

Ryan Smithers woke to a gentle tapping at his door, and Burns' voice from outside. "Ryan, are you up yet?"

Ryan glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly noon! He'd slept for over twelve hours.

No wonder I feel rested, he thought as he put on his glasses. "I'm up, Monty," he called.

"Good, good," the old man replied from the hall. "I thought you'd slipped into some ineludible torpor; or worse, departed without me. Please make haste in getting ready. I shall await your company downstairs post-haste."

"Fine, fine," Ryan huffed.

There was no response, not that he was entirely expecting one.

Ryan took a quick shower, shaved, and combed his hair. He threw on the same jeans and long-sleeved tee-shirt that he'd been wearing the day before. They looked clean, smelled clean, passed his informal inspection.

Downstairs, Burns was waiting for him, reclining in a deep leather couch. Burns gestured to a seat nearby, beckoning Ryan to sit. Ryan grabbed a donut and a cup of coffee from the breakfast bar, then sat down across from the old man. "I'm surprised you let me sleep this long."

Burns made a dismissive gesture. "I had some matters to attended to that didn't require your presence. It seemed pointless to interrupt your repose. However, now we need to pick up the pace. Our flight is prepped, and I've but a narrow window of time we can be cleared for takeoff."

Burns didn't wait for a response. He took the small overnight bag he'd brought, handed it to Ryan, and pointed to Ryan's own backpack. "Gather those up, and let us go."

"What's the hurry?" Ryan grumbled. "Can't we just take a later flight?"

Burns gave him an exasperated look. "Dear boy, we are taking my plane. Not some commercial airline, and not the personal jet to which you may have become overly accustomed to."

Perplexed, but still not fully awake, he and Burns crossed to the student parking district. Ryan popped the hatch of the Durango, tossing his bag in, and setting Burns' smaller one beside it. "Care to tell me where we're going?" he asked as he slid into the driver's seat.

"I shall direct you. I think you're going to be pleasantly surprised by all this."

Ryan Smithers followed the directions of one C. Montgomery Burns who seemed to know the back roads and side streets with unerring familiarity. They followed the Connecticut coast west, past river mouths and coastlands, until they came to a small airport in the middle of a salty marshland peninsula.

The land was barely above sea-level, clearly artificially filled in many parts. Burns instructed Ryan to drive around an outer loop, ignoring the main gate. They turned onto an access road that wound around the back of the runways, just outside the security fence. Like the airport itself, the road was built up, a causeway that cut through the briny marshes on a berm of crushed rock and asphalt.

The wet tang of the ocean filled Ryan's nostrils.

A wide canal seemed to have been dredged from the marsh, coming up to the edge of a large, squat, grey-green building just beyond the airport fields. Ryan drove the Durango up to the building at Burns' instruction, and turned off the engine.

Ryan could see his initial assessment of the canal had been inaccurate. The building, resembling a massive hanger, was built up over the water, the canal passing beneath a set of wide doors, and into the building itself.

Ryan climbed out of the Durango and pushed his glasses up on his nose. "What is this place, Monty?"

Burns gave him a look of false innocence. "Why, dear boy, I thought it would be obvious. This is a hanger, and where we will pick up my plane."

The hanger was broad, with a curving roof, set on a slab on concrete with a channel for the canal down the center. The building was easily a hundred and twenty feet wide, the canal itself was probably at least a hundred. It hadn't looked so wide from the car. The hanger was largely windowless, made of corrugated steel; purely utilitarian, and painted to blend in to the surrounding environment, though no amount of camouflage could've concealed the size. The paint merely minimized the visual impact of the structure.

Over the canal was the main door, bifold-style, and designed to close just at water level. The staining along the trim showed where storm tides had reached up, and left their mark. Despite this, there was remarkably little sign of rust or corrosion.

A man in a pair of grey overalls stood by a side door, watching them with a patient expression.

Burns held up his hand, indicating Ryan was to stay, and walked over. A few words were exchanged, the Ryan couldn't hear anything above the soft whistle of wind through the dune grass. After a minute, Burns raised his hand and made a 'come here,' motion. "Get our bags too, and anything else you need from your Durango, my boy. We shan't be returning to it."

"I'm getting it back, right?" Ryan called out as he shouldered his pack.

"Of course! Did I not say I'd have it shipped to Springfield at my expense?"

If Burns had said that, Ryan didn't remember, but it didn't matter. He locked the car, pocket his key, and hurried over to Burns who was already entering the building.

Ryan ducked in through the door, eager to be out of the cold air, and gasped in shock.

Inside the hanger, a massive four-propeller pontoon aircraft hung above the canal, hammocked in wide, nylon Swiss-straps. Several attendants scurried about the hanger, doing Ryan could only imagine what.

The plane itself looked like something straight out of a World War Two documentary. The long fuselage ended in wide twin-tail, wide and broad. The wings were likewise wide, each supporting two massive tri-blade propeller engines.

The purpose of the canal was now obvious to Ryan. Mounted on each wing was a massive pontoon, each nearly nearly half as long as the aircraft itself.

The craft was a silvery, aluminum color, except for the tail fins. Those appeared to have been hastily painted over in black, thought Ryan thought he could just make out a hint of red around the edges.

There was a deep thrum and several synchronized engines whirred to life. Ryan watched as the Swiss strap system slowly lowered the aircraft into the water. Technicians scurried, detaching them from the far side. The straps were drawn back, retracting into rolled housing. Ryan could see two men already in the craft, checking systems, energizing the electrical circuits. They must've climbed in from the catwalks above while it had still been suspended aloft. There was a loud clang as fuel lines connected, the chug of pumps as the tanks were filled.

"Blohm und Voss," Burns explained, answering Ryan's unspoken question. "Ha 139 variant." He walked over to the edge of the canal, and reached out towards the wing. The tips of his fingers just barely brushed the smooth skin. He smiled fondly. "I haven't seen her in far too long. It'll be good to get her in the air again."

Ryan sidled up next to him, adjusting his backpack. "Wait, we're flying back home… in that?!"

Burns turned towards him, expression mildly annoyed. "Did you think we would just flap our arms, or perhaps click our heels together three times?"

"No! But… that thing looks like it hasn't been flown since the war!"

Burns growled softly. "Your assessment is largely accurate, but not completely. Technically, she was last flown at the end of the war. It was inside this magnificent bird that I was able to return to this fine country, my most loyal attendant at my side. Stripping her of all armaments, we made it across the Atlantic on a wing and a prayer. We were running on fumes when I set her down along the Potomac outside of Washington, D.C." His eyes traced the plane, remembering.

"Of course when all was said and done, the Smithsonian offered to take her off my hands for their collection, but I couldn't part with this faithful companion. I declined their offer, and against their wishes, I refueled. I relocated her here for safe keeping until such a time as I might need her again. I think this is as good a time as any, don't you?"

"She can still fly?"

Burns glared at Ryan, clearly annoyed. "Did I not just answer that?"

Ryan kicked the ground, watching the plane bob in the canal. "Yes, but… that was a long time ago."

"Time can be meaningless," Burns replied. "You'll understand, some day."

...

The cockpit was small, cramped, but Ryan found the seat surprisingly comfortable. His backpack, and Burns' small travel kit were strapped in the small crew compartment behind them. Compared to the cockpit of the private jet Burns owned, this seemed remarkably simple and minimalistic. There was a control yolk, obviously. Pedals in the foot-well for, a few levers in a central console that Ryan assumed were throttle controls, and only a few dials and indicators.

Burns sat in the pilot's seat across from him, wearing a leather flight jacket, gloves, and scarf. He'd offered Ryan the same. Something the young man declined.

I could practically fly this thing! Ryan thought, looking at the simple design.

"I might let you try your hand at the yolk," Burns replied, as if Ryan had spoken aloud. He put on a headset, and passed one over to Ryan.

Ryan slipped it on, tightening it. The lambskin-lined ear muffs blocked out a good deal of sound. Ryan watched, intrigued and with a vague apprehension as Burns communicated to the flight crew with a series of hand-signals. At a thumbs-up from them, he hit the ignition.

One by one, the massive Jumo 205 diesel engines fired up with a roar and a belch of sooty smoke. After a second or two, the tempo evened out, the smoke dissipating as the plane slowly idled out of the hanger. The door was just barely wide enough for the plane to pass through, but Burns directed it with an artist's hand. They bobbed on the canal for a moment, while Burns barked a series of numbers and phrases over a radio. The crackling voice from the control tower came back.

After a minute, they were cleared for take-off.

"Ryan," Burns ordered. "Push the throttle to full, and pull back on the yolk with me when I tell you too. She's a stiff bird, and requires two hands for takeoff."

Ryan nodded, gripping the yolk with one hand, reaching for his side of the throttle with the other.

"On my mark." Burns navigated to the center of the canal. Ryan realized now whay it seemed so long and straight. An aquatic runway, sheltered from the Atlantic waves by the jutting sand and marshlands. The water glistened in the sun, almost flat, save for the wake from the wind of the propellers.

"Bravo whiskey charlie one-eight-eight-one, you are cleared for take-off. Have a good safe flight."

"Now!" Burns shoved the throttles forward, Ryan lending his own strength, and leaned back on the yolk with all his strength. Ryan pulled the 'U' of his yolk back, watching Burns out of the corner of his eye.

The aircraft responded almost at once. With a roar, the massive engines cycled up to full revolutions, throwing them back against their seats. Burns held the controls steady as the plane churned down the canal, a river of swirling brackish water in their wake. The plane bumped once, then twice as it caught over a few small waves, then evened out as the pontoons lifted into the air.

They climbed quickly, the coastline rapidly shrinking below. Ryan felt his ears pop, and with a start that the cabin was probably not well pressurized, if at all. He yawned his jaw, trying to relieve the pressure in his head. In another ten minutes or so, they leveled out, Burns relaxed the throttle, set a northwestern course. The altimeter read 7,000 feet. Their cruising speed was a leisurely one hundred twenty-five miles per hour.

Ryan shivered, wishing he'd put on the warmer flight suit. He tried to do the math in his head, estimating how long he'd have to endure the dry chill.

"There's a second bomber jacket, scarf, and set of gloves in the back. That wall crate," Burns gestured to the small hold. "Go get them, Ryan. I can handle her from here. If you find yourself still cold, there are several wool blankets as well. You can make a bivouac back there for a spell until you've acclimated."

"I'm fine," Ryan lied, pulling on the leather jacket, relishing the warmth from the lambskin liner. He slipped the gloves on, and pulled the scarf around his neck. "So, the jacket is not just fashion," he noted as he returned to the copilot's seat.

"In all things, one must still look good. One can always combine form and function in the name of style," replied Burns. "So, tell me Ryan, would you like to learn how to fly?"

...

They cut their way north, crossing over the edge of western New York, and into Canadian airspace. Burns explained it was easiest this way. The Blohm und Voss was night a high-altitude aircraft, but it was long range. Flying over Canada would keep them out of the major metropolitan areas, and avoid complications with commercial airspace. "Sometimes, on rare occasion, dear buy, an international flight plan is easiest," Burns noted from the spot where he lounged in the cargo hold.

Ryan grinned, banking slightly. The Blohm und Voss was as easy to fly as he'd thought. Well, at least when it was already in the air and pointed on a planned course. He read the dials, adjusting slightly for the wind. Directions were displayed on a compass, a full 360-degree bevel and Burns had showed him which numbers to keep the nose to. Then he went to lie down on a rude bunk made of crates and the coarse blankets.

Ryan didn't mind Burns' absence. The plane practically flew itself as long as Ryan paid some attention to the direction and indicators.

While Burns rested, Ryan rummaged under the seat and found an old trip log, something Burns must've left from his last flight. Most of the pages had been torn out, but there were a few still remaining, brittle and yellow with age. A few notes were written in what appeared to be German, but when Ryan tried to translate it, he discovered it seemed to be some sort of code. The words made no sense. Perplexed, Ryan set the book on Monty's empty seat, and watched the endless sea of wilderness pass below. It was relaxing, almost hypnotic. He yawned, feeling his eyelids grow sleepy.

Ryan willed his head up, jerking slightly. A moment later, his head dipped towards his chest once again. The seat was comfortable, and through the muffs the thrum of the engines was almost soothing. No, he thought, forcing his mind to focus. He would not fall asleep at the controls.

A firm hand wrapped around his shoulder.

Ryan gave a yelp, startled, his knees knocking against the yolk as he did. Quickly he corrected his error, and looked up to find Burns standing beside him. The old man's blue eyes were surprisingly kind.

"That is why, my dear boy, we always had two pilots on long flights." Burns scooped the log book off his seat and sat down, glancing up at the sun that had moved steadily west. "A crew of four was ideal in these crafts, but Johan and I didn't have the luxury. It took us nearly thirty hours to fly across the Atlantic, and we slept in shifts. I trusted that man with my life. Obviously."

Ryan looked down. "I'm sorry I almost fell asleep."

"Don't be," Burns replied with a shrug. "I had my eye on you the entire time. You were never in any real danger of nodding off. Now, my young lad, why don't you retire to the bunk in the hold. Rest for a spell. I can attend to the duties of flight for the next several hours at least."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Ryan replied, gratefully.

He squeezed his way from the co-pilot's seat into the cramped space beyond, and lay down on the blankets, still warm from Burns' body.

He didn't intent to fall asleep.

He couldn't manage to stay awake.