Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (60 page)

Alma linked her arm through his, not liking the change of mood. “Pity we won’t have time to hit some of the clubs,” she said. “I remember you sent us a telegram from New Orleans once, before you came out west. Gil laughed at all the words you spent on the music.”

“Did I?” Mitch’s frown deepened. “I don’t really remember.”

Oh, dear, Alma thought. The last thing she wanted was to make things worse. “But maybe they’ll have some good bands at that party we have to go to.”

She felt Mitch’s arm relax under her hand. “There are plenty to choose from.”

They filed aboard the bus, the Harvards leaving the front seats for Jerry and the rest of Gilchrist without making a fuss about it. Alma settled herself next to him, turning to look at Lewis and Mitch behind her. Lewis looked almost placid, and Mitch’s taut expression had eased again: a good thing, Alma thought. She was flying the first leg, and had planned to have Mitch as co-pilot before he took over from the refueling stop in Albuquerque. Maybe Lewis should fly shotgun the whole way? She put the thought aside. Mitch was looking like himself again, and he was the one who could get the best out of the plane at the finish. They’d stick with the plan.

There was a small crowd gathered by the terminal, and the starlets waved gracefully to them, drawing cheers. The pilots copied them, sheepishly, and there were more cheers and clapping as the bus drew up at the entrance to the main hangar. A couple of newsreel photographers were set up, grinding away as the teams made their way off the bus. Alma clutched at her hat in the rising breeze, glad she’d worn slacks, and the starlets laughed and made a production of showing their legs while pretending to try not to. Lewis grinned appreciatively, but Mitch looked away, rolling his eyes.

“That wind’s going to be a nuisance.”

“If it stays,” Alma said, and glanced over her shoulder at the windsock on the terminal’s tower. It rose and fell, rippling gently, stretching toward the northeast. “It’s a tail wind, though.”

“That’s something,” Mitch said.

“I’ll get the weather report,” Lewis said, with a quick glance at Alma, and hurried away. Jerry had fallen behind as well, folding his paper into a neater package, and Alma gave Mitch a stern look.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Mitch said, but he didn’t meet her eyes.

“Mitch.”

He sighed then, and managed a rueful smile. “I’m ok, really. Just nerves. And it was a hard day yesterday.”

Alma nodded. It had been, and Mitch had been brilliant, coaxing every bit of performance out of two engines. “Lewis could take the first leg,” she offered, “and I could land her.”

“No,” Mitch said. “No, I’m fine. I promise, Al.”

She studied his face, his stance, and nodded again. “All right.”

“Let’s get started,” he said, and sounded entirely himself again.

They ran through the preflight with practiced ease, call and response down the clipboard. Across the hangar, Alma could see American’s team still working on their main engine, shook her head without comment. As far behind as they were, it had to be tempting to just drop out, spare the plane — but then, it was a company plane, and the publicity was probably worth the effort.

Across the hangar, an engine coughed to life: TWA, first in, and first out. United followed suit, and then Bestways, and then the race referee was waving at them. Alma hit the priming gun, then waved for Lewis to turn over the propellers, drawing fuel into the lines. Mitch moved the throttle back and forth, and after a moment Lewis gave a thumbs-up from outside.

“Go,” Mitch said, and Alma hit the starter on the port engine. It coughed, steadied, and she started the starboard engine and then the center as Mitch adjusted the throttles. They sounded good, a solid, healthy roar, and she grinned, unable to suppress the sheer joy she felt every time she got ready for another flight. It was still hard to believe she’d been this lucky.

“All secure,” Lewis reported, leaning in past the open door of the cockpit, and Mitch looked over his shoulder with a wry smile.

“Did you check the baggage compartment?”

“Twice,” Lewis answered, and backed away.

The referee waved again, motioning for them to taxi out. Alma advanced the throttle and released the brakes, letting the big plane follow in Bestways’ wake. As they made their way along the edge of the runway, TWA took off, rising into the sun. A few minutes later, it was United’s turn, and then Bestways made the turn onto the runway. It seemed to take the Fokker forever to lift, and she frowned.

“They look heavy.”

“They do,” Mitch said. “Wonder if they’re trying to carry extra fuel?” Or an extra body. If Miss Ivanova or whatever her name was had taken his money and not caught the train to LA. But she wouldn’t try the stowaway trick twice. Surely.

“All the better for us,” Alma said. The flagman waved them forward, and she turned the Terrier onto the runway, lining up into the steady breeze.

“All clear,” Mitch said, and she released the brakes. The Terrier lurched into motion, the tail popping up, and she pulled back on the wheel, lifting the big plane gently into the air.

She let the Terrier climb steadily to the west, gaining altitude before she turned back, searching for the compass line. She gave the field a wide berth, seeing Comanche lift from the runway as they passed, banking into a tight turn before they were more than a few hundred feet in the air. The Ford straightened, still rising, arrowing into the rising sun. They’d gotten a jump on her with that maneuver, taking a risk she wasn’t prepared to take just yet. She scowled, checking airspeed and heading, and Mitch leaned forward in his seat.

“Is that —? Damn.”

Alma opened the throttle just a notch, feeling the tail wind beginning to take hold. It was rougher than she’d expected at this altitude, and she eased the wheel back, searching for calmer air higher up. It was better at nine thousand feet, just under the edges of the cloud cover they’d been warned was waiting for them.

“It’ll be better at ten thousand,” Mitch said.

“How’s your dead reckoning?” Alma asked.

Mitch shook his head. “I’d rather have landmarks.”

“The tail wind will help us,” Alma said, with more confidence than she actually felt. Far ahead, sunlight glinted briefly, a hot pinpoint of light against the thickening haze. Probably Bestways, she knew, and settled herself for the long chase into Albuquerque.

They passed United three hours in, the Ford laboring at a lower altitude, and arrived over Albuquerque with no other planes in sight. She circled the field, lining up for the landing, while Mitch pressed his nose to the side window.

“One plane on the ground. Son of a bitch!”

“What?”

“That’s Comanche. How the hell did they get ahead of us?”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Alma said, and eased the Terrier toward the runway.

T
hey took off from Albuquerque under a cloudless blue sky, eighty-four degrees, wind out of the southwest at 8 mph — ideal flying weather. They'd been on the ground twenty-two minutes, long enough for the refueling truck and a necessary pit stop. United's Ford trimotor had landed eighteen minutes behind them, the pilot pacing around outside with his cigarette while he waited for the truck to finish with them, four extra minutes lost waiting.

Lewis hopped into the shotgun seat beside Mitch, watched him taxi and get up to altitude with a steady hand. As he circled around, turning dead east for the flight to San Angelo, Lewis craned his neck looking out over the right wing. "There's another trimotor coming in," he said. The shape was plain against the distant line of desert, even if he couldn't tell the markings. "Blue on white, maybe? It might be Consolidated's?"

Mitch shook his head, giving the Terrier a little more power.

"They'll be twenty minutes behind United," Lewis said with satisfaction. "They'll have to wait on the truck too."

"I'm not worried about who's behind me," Mitch said. "I'm worried about who's ahead of me. That damn Comanche shouldn't have passed us in the first leg!"

"They're good pilots," Lewis said. "I met that guy, Rayburn, at a Legion meeting one time. I thought he looked familiar. He was a Signal Corps pilot in France. Now he flies for the Reserves in Oklahoma. Real good pilot." Lewis shifted in his seat. "And this is his home turf." Lewis glanced out at the shapes of canyon and desert, a thousand shades of red and ochre. "I bet he knows every thermal."

"They're the team to watch," Mitch agreed. "And TWA. I don't know how they got out in front so far on the first leg."

"A little something extra in the tank," Lewis joked. "Put some moonshine in there with the aviation fuel. Just give it that little something."

"Both Ford trimotors, though," Mitch said. "We'll get them in the next leg. You wait. Tomorrow's going to be our day. We need to get as far forward in the pack as we can on this leg, and tomorrow we'll leave them in the dust. We'll pick up close to an hour not having to refuel. If we can be less than that off the lead…"

"I'm game," Lewis said. The field at Albuquerque was no longer visible. Down there on the ground the United pilot would be gnashing his teeth, wanting to get back in the air. Every minute he spent on the ground was a mile and a half they lengthened the lead. "And once we get past Little Rock, those Oklahoma guys probably won't have flown the route before either." He shaded his eyes against the sun, looking out. "I've never flown it, anyway. Have you?" He couldn't see the Comanche plane ahead, but it was awfully bright. Mitch didn't answer, and Lewis glanced at him. "Have you? Flown that route before?"

"I dunno," Mitch said. There was a crease between his brows but his sunglasses hid his eyes completely.

"You don't know?"

"After I got back from overseas I traveled around for a while," Mitch said. "Don't remember if I was in that area or not."

"You don't remember if you flew in the whole southeast?" Lewis could remember every field he'd ever landed on, clear as Alma remembered every train schedule in the US or Jerry about six dead languages.

"No, I don't remember," Mitch said shortly. "Drop it, ok?"

"Ok," Lewis said. "Sure." Everybody seemed a little cranky and out of sorts this morning. The necklace was a heavy iron weight in Lewis' pocket, and he wondered if that had something to do with it. Could a curse work even if you didn't put it on? At least make you feel bad? Maybe so. It sure gave Lewis the heebie jeebies, and that was a feeling he was learning to trust. But they'd get it back to Henry and then he could lock the thing up where it would be safe. "Hey," Lewis said, "good thing we got rid of that woman, right?"

"Yeah," Mitch said. "A good thing."

S
tasi turned away from the Western Union window with a feeling of intense satisfaction . The world was a lot brighter and cheerier with a hundred dollars in her pocket rather than ten, or than $6.74 rather. Wiring for money was a godsend, but it took money to do it. Fortunately, Mitchell Sorley was a soft touch.

Stasi carefully folded the money and put it in her pocket. A change of clothes or two, a small suitcase, and the ticket for the train. Oh, and lunch. There would be time for lunch before the train left at three.

And he bought good drinks with no strings attached.

Most men had strings. Most men were made of strings, like big bouncy balls of twine that just kept on unraveling until they were completely gone.

It was a rather nice metaphor. She should remember that one and use it. The audience for those sorts of sayings were small, but worthwhile. Now, Sorley could be counted on to get it and laugh, every double entendre in it, all the way down to the truth at the bottom. She'd say it archly and he'd laugh, but he'd know exactly what she meant too, take it seriously and take her seriously even when she was being deliberately absurd. Most men either found it ridiculous or charming. The ones who thought she was ridiculous, like Dr. Ballard, tended to conclude that she was a lunatic. The others tended to have strings.

"I am a lunatic, darling," she'd say to Sorley and he'd give her that big slow smile that showed that he believed her and he didn't mind at the same time. And he'd say… what? Well, she didn't really know. Stasi stopped under the awning of the train station and frowned. That was the thing. She didn't know. Men were utterly predictable, 99% of them, whether alive or dead. But she really couldn't guess what he would say. Not that it mattered in the slightest, as she would probably never see him again.

And that was also annoying, as he was really quite a lot of fun, for a captor-cum-benefactor. But wait! Of course she would. Business would require it. The game wasn't over, and he'd probably be livid to know how neatly he'd fallen for another of her schemes. Which of course was what had happened. Livid? Or amused? Or fascinated? One could spend some time contemplating which reaction was most likely and preparing the proper crosstalk for all occasions. One couldn't do it all off the top of one's head.

Stasi pushed the door open and went up to the ticket counter. "One Pullman berth on the Sunset Express," she said.

The girl behind the counter didn't look up from her schedules. "Leaving at three ten this afternoon," she said. "Destination?"

"All the way through to New Orleans," Stasi said. Going direct, she'd beat the air race to New Orleans by at least twelve hours. And then she'd get the necklace back and it would be payday.

Chapter Nine

T
he Terrier flew on into the waning afternoon, the sun behind them now, the wind steady at their tail. Mitch worked his shoulders, feeling the fatigue settling into neck and back, and glanced again at the instruments. Fuel consumption was good, exactly what it should be, unlike yesterday, and the compass showed them steady on the air line into San Angelo. Lewis had the maps in his lap, folded to show the terrain they were currently passing over. He glanced out his window now and then, but his expression was relaxed, almost placid: still on course, and making good time.