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This is the fault of Ben Carson

After they took off, the clouds came down to envelop them. Wilhelmina grips the controls and peers through the Curtiss Condor’s windshield.

Adamson, her navigator, is behind her in the cabin, stiffened and dead from snakebite. On the seat next to her there is a glint of gold; something peeks out from a worn leather satchel. Too late for poor Adamson but the idol vindicates their claims, drowning out the scoffery of those salon-bound fools.

Wilhelmina glances at the fuel gauge struggling above reserve before firmly setting her eyes upon the roiling haze in front of her. Zero she flies.