“I make it about fifty miles from Weedon Island,” Alma said. She nodded to the windscreen. “Closer to the coast.”
Sure enough, there it was, a line on the horizon, sand rising out of the sea. The question was where they were, exactly, whether they were north or south of the field. A light flashed then, a single point a few degrees north of their heading; a moment later, a double flash appeared in the same spot.
“That’s the Anclote Key light,” Lewis said. He passed the map over his shoulder, and Mitch took it. “About thirty-five miles north of Weedon Island.”
“Ok,” Mitch said again. He turned the map in his hands, matching the light’s flash to the markings. Alma was keeping the Terrier on a heading that ought to cross the coast just about Clearwater, and from there it was a straight run across the little peninsula to Weedon Island. “Do you want me to take the landing?”
“Yes.” Alma’s eyes were on the instruments, her hands steady on the control yoke. “You can swap with Lewis whenever you’re ready.”
Fifty miles, at their most economical cruising speed… Before he could say anything, Lewis said, “Why don’t you take it now?”
“Thanks,” Mitch said. If it was him, he’d hate to give up the co-pilot’s seat — but Lewis was a good guy, entirely sensible. Too sensible to take it as a slight on his flying, or as anything but acknowledgement that he, Mitch, had the most hours in the Terrier. Lewis struggled free of his harness, slipped past Mitch into the cabin, and Mitch took his place in the second seat. Alma gave him a quick nod, but all her attention was focused on the Terrier, nursing it toward the coast.
They crossed the coast over Clearwater at a thousand feet, crossed the peninsula’s narrow waist, and turned further south to follow the coast of old Tampa Bay, Alma beginning the shallow efficient descent as they crept southeast toward the field. Mitch glanced at the fuel gauges. They were low, but not yet on the reserve: good enough, close as they were to the Weedon Island field. Yes, there was the bridge that was their first landmark, the coast swelling to the east, swamp running dark green to the water. And there at last was the flash of flag streaming from the Sky Harbor tower, rising fifty feet above the tin-roofed hangar. The field was empty except for a pair of stub-winged biplanes tied down on the verge.
“Time to fire her back up,” Mitch said, and Alma nodded.
“Go ahead.”
Mitch reached for the controls, began the starting sequence. He pumped the primer, then checked to be sure the throttle was closed. The starter was on, the starter dog engaged; he switched on the ignition and the booster magneto. The engine coughed, caught, and died again.
“Damn.” Mitch reset the controls, ran through the sequence again. The engine coughed again, but refused to turn over. “Come on…”
“We’re on the reserve,” Alma said, quietly.
“Come on,” Mitch said again. More primer, more fuel, the mix boosted to “Full Rich”; the starter and the booster fired. The engine coughed, caught, and failed again with a shudder that shook the entire airplane.
“Mitch,” Alma said.
They couldn’t run rich like that, not if they wanted to have enough fuel to land. His hands were already moving on the controls, adjusting the mixture. Alma brought the Terrier around again, lining them up for another pass. Mitch could see people on the ground outside the hangar, staring up at the strange plane.
“One more time,” Mitch said.
“Go,” Alma answered, and he reached for the controls, began the sequence once again.
The engine shook and sputtered without result. Maybe a clogged line somewhere, Mitch thought; but then, it was always tricky restarting in midflight, the slipstream playing merry hell with the spark and the gasoline. Alma looked sideways at him, and for the first time, Mitch thought he saw fear in her eyes.
“Can we land on two?”
No. That was the simple answer: the manual strongly recommended only doing landings and takeoffs with all three engines, and disclaimed any responsibility for the crash that it implied was inevitable if you were stupid enough to try it. There was enough power, even on two engines there was enough to bring the Terrier safely down. It was just that there was no margin for error, no chance of changing your mind once you’d picked your line, and God forbid there be a gust of wind, a glitch in the other engines, or any other minor problem. “We’re going to have to,” he said, and knew he sounded grim.
“You’ll have to take it,” Alma said. Her voice was tight. “Get ready to switch over.”
Mitch was already busy with the controls. “Ready.”
“She’s yours,” Alma said.
Mitch felt the controls come alive in his hands, the Terrier swinging east over the swamp. The reserve tank was ticking down, but he took his time getting the feel of the air, the way the Terrier handled on two engines. One chance, that was all he was going to get.
He brought the Terrier around in a gentle turn, heading back toward the field. No steep angles, no sudden moves, nothing to shake her out of true. The runway was dirt, empty of traffic, but there were even more people outside the terminal and the main hangar, all staring up at the Terrier. A flagman waved from beside the tower, and Mitch wagged his wings in answer, acknowledging the signal, but kept on past the terminal, making another long, gentle turn to bring them into the wind. Into the wind and in line with the runway, bare dirt with sod to either side. He cut his speed, not quite to stalling, letting the Terrier drop from three hundred feet to two to one hundred. He could feel the air under the wings, right on the edge of a stall, the two working engines straining to keep power. Fifty feet, and the dirt rushing to meet them, a glimpse of the flag on the tower, above him now as he brought the Terrier down. Twenty feet, ten, and he dumped the last of the lift, the Terrier dropping the last few feet. She landed hard, bounced, wings wobbling, then settled, rumbling across the uneven ground. Mitch allowed himself a sigh of sheer relief, and Alma reached across to grab his shoulder.
“Beautiful flying,” she said.
It had to be, he thought. He owed them for screwing up so badly in New Orleans. Necklace or no necklace, he knew better — “We shouldn't have had to do this,” Mitch began, and she shook her head.
“Stop it. This is not the time.”
She was right, and he nodded. He brought the Terrier around in a sharp turn, no longer worried about losing an engine, heading back toward the terminal and the people who’d gathered there to see the unexpected arrival.
“Are you fit for the last leg?” Alma asked.
“Yeah.” Mitch took a breath, letting the tension drain out of his muscles. He could feel it, all right, but the reserves were there, the old familiar strength, steady and waiting. In spite of everything, that, at least, was still there. “I can handle it.”
Alma smiled and touched his arm again, then hauled herself out of her seat. “Good.”
A
lma climbed out of the Terrier, working her shoulders to relieve some of the tension of the long flight. They’d made it, that was the main thing, and now it was just a matter of refueling as quickly as possible and getting in the air for Coconut Grove. Just under two hundred miles to the finish line, a couple of hours’ flying at their fastest cruising speed —
She broke off as a man in khaki pants and a blue shirt with “Sky Harbor” embroidered above the breast pocket came to meet her, taking his hands out of his pockets.
“Boy, we were worried there for a minute,” he said. “Engine trouble?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Alma could see Lewis negotiating for the use of a ladder, ready to check out the center engine. Mitch was standing ready under the nose, squinting up at the magnetos.
“I hope not,” she said. “Mostly we were out of fuel.”
“That we can fix,” the man said. “We’ve got fuel. No mechanic service, though.” He held out his hand. “Joe Christie.”
“Alma Segura.” Alma returned the handshake. She was so tired, she’d almost said Gilchrist, and she stretched her shoulders again. “I think we’re all right. It’s just the fuel. We’ll need a full load, though.”
That was the other piece of the gamble, that this small field would be able to supply them. Eastern flew out of here regularly, she knew, but there was no knowing how much other traffic there was.
“We can do that,” Christie said again. “How much do you need?”
“Four hundred gallons, give or take.” Alma crossed her fingers, and was relieved to see him nod.
“Ok. That’ll run you twenty-eight dollars. Cash.”
Alma blinked. She’d gotten so used to having the gas supplied by the race organizers that she hadn’t exactly considered how she was going to pay for this. She had three dollars and forty cents in her purse; after all the taxis in New Orleans, she doubted Lewis had much more. Mitch — well, you didn’t get that drunk cheaply. Jerry might have money, but she hated to have to borrow from him. But of course she had the business checkbook with her. “Will you take a check?”
Christie shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Hold on just a minute,” Alma said, and turned toward the men working on the engine. “Lewis ”
He looked down at her from the top of the ladder. “Good news. Everything’s fine here.”
“Good,” Alma said. “How much cash do you have left?”
“Um.” Lewis blinked, then braced himself against the top of the ladder to reach into his pocket. “Four bucks and change.”
“Damn.” Alma looked at Mitch. “How about you?”
Mitch flushed. “Two bits, if we’re lucky. Sorry, Al.”
Not quite eight dollars. “Never mind,” she said, and climbed back into the plane. Stasi was still sitting in the rear seat, swinging one foot in her pretty shoe, and Jerry looked up from his newspaper.
“Everything ok?”
“No,” Alma said. “How much cash do you have on you, Jerry?”
He reached into his pocket without question, hauled out his wallet. “Nine dollars. Plus some change. What’s wrong?”
“We have to pay for the fuel here,” Alma said. “We’re off the race route, nobody’s made any arrangements.”
“Hell.” Jerry handed over the bills, and reached into his other pocket for the change. “That's a buck twenty.”
Alma took that as well. “Thanks.” She looked at Stasi. “I don’t suppose —?”
“Darling, I’m nearly flat broke,” the countess answered. “Two dollars until I can wire for money.”
Nineteen dollars. More than half. Maybe she could talk Christie into taking a check for the rest. “Thanks,” she said again, and climbed back out of the plane.
Christie was still waiting at the edge of the airstrip, talking now to Mitch, his arms folded across his chest. A woman was with him now, a heavy-set woman in a blue print dress, her corset losing its battle with her figure.
“Great Passenger Derby?” Christie said, and Alma could hear the disbelief in his voice. “You’re a bit off-course.”
“We cut the corner,” Alma said briskly. “We’re Gilchrist Aviation. We have a lot of time to make up, so we took the direct route.”
“Across the Gulf?” Christie’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s right,” Alma said. “Look, I’ve got nineteen in cash. Will you take a company check for the rest?”
Christie shook his head again. “We’re a cash business —””
“Yes, we will,” the woman said.
Christie looked at her. “But, Mother ”
“Don’t you listen to the radio?” She looked at Alma with a smile that showed a missing tooth at the side of her mouth. “TexAv will pay us, anyway, you know that. If you give us a check, Mrs. Segura, we’ll hold it for security.”
Alma let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Of course — Mrs. Christie, is it?”
“That’s right, dear.”
“I’ll write that out right now,” Alma said.
“And I’ll get Billy to bring the truck around,” Christie said.
“Thank you,” Alma said, and ducked back into the Terrier.
M
itch watched the fuel truck pull away and heaved a sigh of relief. The tanks were full, and it had only taken thirty minutes, less time than it would have taken to refuel in Lake City with everyone else ahead of them. He had no idea how Alma had pulled it off, but that was the sort of thing she always did. It was why she was Magister after Gil. And somehow Jerry had found sandwiches. They weren't fancy, or even particularly good, just cheap white bread and mayonnaise and lettuce with a few slivers of ham tucked into them, but they were something. He stuffed the last bite into his mouth and washed it down with the rest of the rather better coffee.
He shook the last drops of coffee out of the cup and set it on the bench where the passengers waited, then turned to look at the Terrier.
Lewis ducked under the nose of the plane, just forward of the wheel struts, and checked, seeing him. "Oh," he said. "Al wanted me to tell you that the main engine checks out fine."
"That's good." Another man might have resented his wife coming behind him, looking over his work, but not Lewis. He knew his skills and his limits, and Alma was the best mechanic of any of them. And Alma would never question his flying or the things he was learning to see.
"Yeah," Lewis said. He paused. "Who do you want for co-pilot?"
Mitch hesitated in turn. It was probably Al's right, but she had to be beat from the flight across the Gulf, and Lewis was the better navigator. "Why don't you take it?" he said, and heard Alma's light step behind him.
"Lewis should co-pilot," she said, and stopped, seeing Lewis's expression.
"Already settled," Mitch said. "Are we ready?"
Alma nodded. "She took my check for the whole thing."
“Well, that’s a break,” Lewis said. “We still got the countess?”
“Jerry hasn’t let her out of his sight since we landed,” Alma answered. “Let’s go.”
Mitch settled himself into the pilot’s seat, adjusting the controls as Lewis arranged himself beside him. The engines started on the first try, even the center, roaring to life as though there’d never been a problem, and Mitch shook his head, smiling. “Atta girl.”
Lewis grinned, and reached for the map. “You’ve got a choice. Do we go straight across the swamps, or follow the roads?”