Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (57 page)

"If we get to Flagstaff," Lewis said.

“We can’t make it,” Alma said, opening the cockpit door again. “The extra weight — if we’d known it was there from the start, maybe… But we can’t make it.”

“I can run leaner,” Lewis said, reaching for the mix control. He dialed it back a little further, and the port engine coughed and sputtered before it caught again. He shoved it back to the previous position. “Ok, maybe not.”

“There’s a limit,” Mitch said. He looked over his shoulder. “What if we cut out one engine?”

“What?” Lewis blinked. The Terrier would fly perfectly well on two of its three engines, except for landings.

“Will that save enough fuel?” Mitch asked.

Alma looked at her clipboard. “Maybe? Let me run the numbers.”

The cockpit door closed again, and Lewis looked at Mitch. “What if it doesn’t?”

Mitch made a face. “We find someplace flat and set her down. Hopefully not too far from something like civilization.” Right now they were over a sheet of sand, like he’d always imagined the Sahara, crossed by the line of a dry riverbed. Ahead the sand turned into crumpled hills, with only the slightest haze of color on the horizon to suggest there might be trees.

“Maybe if we turn north?” Lewis asked. “Aren’t there some towns north of here?”

Mitch rummaged around beside his seat. “I’m not really seeing anything. And if we try, we’ll have to set down and refuel. No, our best bet is probably still Flagstaff.”

“If we can get there,” Lewis muttered. “What the hell was she thinking?”

“She didn’t know,” Mitch said. “And she kind of got trapped. Apparently she stuck Henry’s necklace in the tail back at the party, and tried to get it out when Al and I went to grab some coffee. Only we came back too quickly, and I locked the compartment.”

Lewis glanced sideways.

“I suppose it was kind of my fault,” Mitch said.

A
lma opened the cockpit door again in just a couple of minutes. “Ok,” she said, “on two engines, we can just make it. Two engines running as lean as we can.”

“They won’t run as lean if they’re doing the extra work,” Mitch said.

“I know,” Alma said. “Just — do what you can.”

“Right,” Lewis said. He’d flown the Terrier on two engines as part of his training, and it handled better than you’d expect, but… You needed three engines to land, and the longer they had the center engine off, the harder it would be to restart.

“You ready?” Mitch asked, and reached for the controls.

“Go ahead,” Lewis answered, and tried not to tighten his hand on the wheel.

Mitch closed the throttle, letting the engine burn through the last of the gas in the line, then shut it down completely. Lewis could feel the shift in the handling, an absence of power that made him wince even as he reached to adjust the fuel mix again.

“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” Mitch said. He shook his head. “Damn it, even if this works, we’re going to lose time.”

“Hope that’s all we lose,” Alma said, and closed the door again.

Then there was nothing to do but wait, keep the Terrier on course and hope that Alma had done the math correctly. Lewis watched the sand unreel beneath them, and then broken hills spotted with scrub, and finally more sand dotted with trees. The fuel levels were dropping steadily, even at this most economical speed. Lewis looked away, reviewing the ground, searching for landmarks, but he couldn’t keep from checking the gauge again and again.

“There,” Mitch said, and pointed.

A road cut through the scrub, dirt and apparently unused, but definitely a road. Paper rustled as Mitch consulted the map.

“Ok,” he said. “We’re in business. That should be the fire road, we can follow that right in to the airport.”

Lewis nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and lined the Terrier up on the streak of brown. Twenty minutes passed, then half an hour, and Lewis bit his tongue to keep from asking how far out Mitch thought they were. It didn’t matter what he thought, didn’t matter what any of them thought. All that mattered was following the road, keeping to their safe slow speed, and waiting for the airport to appear.

Finally there it was, the long stretch of runway, and the tower, and the long streamer of the windsock welcoming them in.

“I’ll take her now,” Mitch said, and Lewis gladly handed over the controls. This was Mitch’s plane, and if anybody could make this work, it was him. Lewis looked at the fuel gauges again, the bars resting on the red warning mark, and shook his head.

“Can you land her on two?”

Mitch shook his head. “I’m landing her on three.”

“Is there enough gas?”

“There’s going to have to be,” Mitch answered. “Get ready to start her up.”

As long as we don’t have to circle, Lewis thought, as long as the runway’s clear and Mitch can just bring her down… He bent his attention to the controls, priming the center engine, setting spark and throttle.

“Now,” Mitch said, and Lewis flipped the ignition. The engine choked and died; he hit it again, and this time it caught, ragged at first but steadying.

“Got you,” Mitch said, softly, big hands easy on the controls, throttling down, lowering the flaps as the ground rushed closer. “There you go.” The starboard engine missed, but caught again, Mitch never wavering from his steady line. And then they were skimming the ground, speed cut to stalling, and Mitch lifted the nose to set them gently down again.

“Oh, you kid,” he said, and Lewis released a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

F
or a long moment everyone just sat there, Lewis with his hands still clenched, Mitch with a silly grin.

"Ok," Alma said. Her voice wasn't shaky at all. "Ok. Let's taxi around if we can and see the board."

"Fourth," Jerry said as their tail swung and he could see. "Fourth. We're right behind that damn Fokker from Bestways."

"Fourth out of nine," Lewis said, a dismal tone in his voice, blaming himself for something that couldn't be helped.

"It could be worse," Mitch said. "We could be dead last."

"We could be dead," Jerry pointed out. He gave the Countess a dirty look. "No thanks to you know who. As soon as we stop, Al, get the tower to call the police."

"Please don't!" There was an actual note of panic in her voice, and Alma looked around. The other woman's hands clenched on the seat back. "Please don't. There's no harm done. You've got the necklace and you're safe in Flagstaff. You didn't crash and you aren't in last place." She looked at Mitch imploringly. "You said I could go when you got to Flagstaff if I didn't make any more trouble."

Alma took a deep breath. "Did you actually promise that, Mitch?"

Mitch looked uncomfortable. "Sort of. Yeah."

Alma shook her head. Sometimes Mitch and Lewis were as gullible as a pair of wood sprites.

The Countess met her eyes frankly. "Come on," she said. "A girl's got to make a living." She lifted her chin just a fraction, but what was in her face was real. Fear. And after all, there was no harm done.

"Call the police," Jerry said.

"No, I don't think so," Alma said slowly, her eyes on the Countess. "The publicity would be bad for Henry and it would probably get us tied up with police statements. We might miss our start tomorrow." She watched the color come back to the woman’s face. "You can clear out. And as you say, no harm done. We'll give Henry his necklace back when we see him."

"Oh come on!" Jerry said.

"I knew you'd be ok," the Countess said with a brilliant smile. "Didn't I tell you I liked her, Mr. Sorley?"

"Um," Mitch said, sure proof she'd said nothing of the sort but he was too polite to contradict a lady.

Lewis shook his head, following the flagman around to the third hangar. He cut the engines neatly in front of it. They sputtered as they died. "Not enough fuel left to light a match," he said.

Alma got up stiffly and went back to pop the door. "Ok," she said. "You can go. And don't let us see you again."

"I can't believe you're letting her go!" Jerry said.

"Let it be," Lewis said. "You know, people who are down on their luck do some crazy things…"

"Like turn into jewel thieves? We're not talking about panhandling here!"

Mitch got down and unfolded the stairs, and the Countess hopped nimbly down. "Well," she said cheerfully, "It's certainly been fun. Toodle-oo!"

"You might want to give back the necklace first," Mitch said.

"I have the necklace," Alma said.

Mitch shook his head. "Nope. She picked your jacket pocket while she was standing behind your seat in the cockpit. Excuse me, ma'am." He reached around her and shoved one hand deep in the front pocket of her black slacks.

"Darling, I didn't know you cared," she said as he rummaged about very improperly with his big hand.

Mitch smiled as he pulled the necklace out like a magician drawing a rabbit from a hat. "Now you can go."

"That little sneak!" Jerry said.

"Out," Alma said sternly. "Before I change my mind and call the cops."

"Call the cops about what?" The first of the reporters had jogged up, following the taxi way from the stands.

"This lady was just leaving," Mitch said. He gave the reporter an urbane smirk. "You know, they follow you around like crazy. Sorry, Toots. Not interested."

Her mouth opened and closed. "My name's not Toots."

"How are you feeling about the race, Mrs. Segura?" the reporter asked, shifting his attention from the all too familiar byplay. "Is a fourth place finish what you'd hoped for?"

"This was a tough leg, no doubt about that," Alma said. "But it's not the finish. This is just the first leg, and I think we've shaken a few kinks out. I'm confident we're in good shape. This is just the beginning of the race."

"What is your name then?" Mitch asked. "Trouble?"

"You know it, darling," she said. "But you can call me Stasi. With an i."

Alma was trying to keep her mind on her game.

"What kind of trouble, Mrs. Segura?"

"Just a few technical issues that need to be resolved," Alma said smoothly. "Nothing major. A desert course is a challenge for any aircraft. That's why this leg is a good test for all the planes in the race."

"Mitch," Jerry said.

"And easy on the eyes," Mitch said.

"Darling, if you're looking for trouble…"

"Trouble usually finds me."

"Is somebody paying you for this dialogue?" Jerry demanded. Lewis made a noise suspiciously like a snicker.

Alma looked around with her best irritated schoolmarm expression. "Gentlemen, maybe you had better see about the post-flight check list? Lewis? Mitch?"

Mitch looked abashed. "We had better."

"How do you feel about your starting position tomorrow, Mrs. Segura?"

"Well, we don't know for certain," Alma said. "After all, things may change a little in the start order with the on-the-ground competitions, but I'm confident we won't be far off the optimal time. I think we're in good shape for tomorrow's leg to San Angelo, Texas." When she looked around again the Countess was gone.

Chapter Seven

I
t took another couple of hours for the next four planes to land, with only American Airways trailing the pack. The teams milled in the hangar, warned to wait for the publicity events and a “surprise” inspection that might happen, and Jerry settled himself on the steps of the Terrier. Not only did it ease the ache that came with standing too long, it meant nobody could get into the plane without walking over him. He still felt like kicking himself for having missed what the self-proclaimed “countess” had been up to at Henry’s party.

Alma and Mitch checked the big rotary engines — it was never good for them to be fuel-starved too long — and Lewis wandered off toward one of the Comanche team who’d landed twenty minutes behind them, chatting with a group of race officials gathered by the hangar doors. He was back in less than half an hour, trying valiantly to suppress a grin.

“American’s had a mechanical,” he said, and Alma slid down off the ladder. “They’re still in, at least for now, but they won’t be here before dark. The race officials have decided to go ahead without them.”

“What went wrong?” Mitch asked.

Lewis shrugged. “It’s not entirely clear. I heard they broke a fuel line, or maybe had a leak? But they had to set down about halfway along the northern route, and then wait for somebody to mend the part, and then they had to fly out on regular gasoline.”

“That puts them out of the race,” Alma said. “They’ve lost — oh, at least four hours already, and they’re not in yet, and running on regular gas is going to play hell with the engines.”

“One less thing to worry about,” Mitch said. He was looking tired, Jerry thought, the beginning of a frown creasing his brow. And no wonder: the last hour and a half of the flight had been no picnic for anyone.

“Attention, competitors!” That was one of the referees, hoisting a megaphone like a dance-band leader. “Attention, competitors! Pilots, please remain with your aircraft for the referees’ inspection. Passengers, please proceed to the terminal for the evening round.”

Jerry hauled himself up, got his leg and his cane under him with a grimace. He only hoped it was something he could do without making a complete fool of himself.

“Good luck,” Lewis called after him.

Jerry waved in answer and limped toward the referee waiting by the hangar door. It took a few minutes to gather everyone — the girls from the studios had obviously taken time to change clothes and freshen their makeup, and Jerry made a note to carry a fresh shirt in the cabin on the next leg so he would look a bit less wilted himself. Comanche’s passenger joined them, giving Jerry a wry grin.

“Good flight, Doc?” He held out his hand. “Jed Pelletier.”

“Jerry Ballard.” Jerry returned the firm handshake, remembering that Comanche’s Ford had landed behind them. “Not bad. How was yours?”

“Got the bugs out, I expect,” Pelletier said.

They were still one woman short, even accounting for American’s absence, and then May Saltonstall came running toward them, her Cuban heels clattering on the concrete.