One look at the small mechanic’s face alerted him. Herb had just hung up the phone, and his face had bad news written all over it. “What’s wrong, Herb?” A cold chill swept over Luke as the mechanic tried to speak. “It’s . . . it’s . . . Streak!” Fear touched Luke’s nerves in a way he’d not felt since fighting in Spain. No one knew better than he did the dangers of flying, and Herbert would not be so tense unless it was really bad news. “What is it?” he demanded almost harshly. “It’s horrible, Luke. His plane has gone down in northern Georgia.” “Is he all right?” Luke managed to ask, his voice hoarse. “How’d you hear about it?” “The hospital just called. He’s alive. I know that much. Here’s the number. You gotta talk to a Dr. Sanderson there. He said to call him right away.” Luke took the wrinkled fragment of paper that the small mechanic handed him and went at once to the phone.
