by Jay Lake
“Actually, yes.” Floyd looked embarrassed. “When you look at it that way, it’s almost funny.”
“Then you called the Kansas City mob.”
“I told you, we didn’t expect anyone to show up for it,” he said defensively. “From either side. Then Mr. Neville turned up anyway. If Mama hadn’t written to the Sheriff, there never would have been a problem. She wasn’t supposed to know about Daddy’s Red connections — he’d always passed them off as part of his shine business, when it was the other way around. But Mr. Neville made me take care of the problem.”
His face fell, pleading, almost desperate. “It was her or me, Vernon. Neville put his gun to my head after he and Daddy tied Mama up. It was all I could do to keep them from killing her. Neville, he’s NKVD. They’re maniacs, make the Nazi Gestapo look like a Boy Scout troop.”
“Oh God, Floyd,” I said. He’d been pretty rattled by his experiences in Europe, I was sure of it, whatever he’d actually done in the war. Then to go through this, in his own home, and have to pretend to like it. No wonder he swung back and forth between being a tough guy and being a victim. Pegasus was right. I hated what he’d become, but I couldn’t hate him.
Floyd went on. “Then when Ollie came out, because of all the trouble you got into with the boarding house fire, and wrecking Doc Milliken’s car, I had to hide Mama. That’s why you found her. If you hadn’t, no one else would have needed to get hurt.”
That made me angry all over again. No one needed to get hurt in the first place. Or get hurt ever, as far as I was concerned. Polio had done for me, a rabbit had done worse for my mother with a little help from Dad’s drinking. Now Floyd’s cozy little scam with the Nazis wound up killing his mother in that house fire that I’d set, and almost killing my dad. Or maybe it was the Russian’s fault. I couldn’t tell anymore.
We were all bughouse crazy.
“Who was your contact here?” I said as we snaked around the refinery at low altitude and high speed. Surely there was angle here I could use, some idea or piece of information. “On the airplane deal, I mean. Not Sheriff Hauptmann and Doc Milliken, surely.” They hadn’t know enough about what was going on to be in on the deal in detail.
“I’ve never seen him,” said Floyd. “On the phone and by letter mail, he always called himself Bobby Ray.”
As in Deputy Sheriff Bobby Ray Morgan, I thought. Also known as Lieutenant Christopher Morgan of CID, or on some days, Captain Markowicz of the same CID I was sick at the thought that the real Markowicz was either dead, thanks to me, or in a military hospital somewhere.
I had to talk to Pinkhoffer. And the phone was a bust.
“Pegasus,” I said. “I know we tried the telephone. Now I really need you to find the radio frequency those pilots are using.”
“I am already monitoring it,” said Pegasus.
“Well, patch me in.”
“Excuse me?”
“Open a connection. I want to talk directly with those pilots.” I looked over at Floyd. “And put it all on the cabin loudspeaker. Floyd deserves to know what’s going on.”
“I am glad of that,” whispered Pegasus in my ear.
“Tower, the bandit’s still in a holding pattern,” crackled a crisp Midwestern voice. “Over.”
I wondered who he was talking to. Augusta’s tiny airstrip didn’t have a control tower. “Roger that, Blue Leader,” replied the tower, wherever they were. Within radio range, obviously. Had the Army already brought in a forward air controller? “The Pink says continue to hold your fire. We’ve had ground contact from the bandit. Over.”
“Blue Leader out.”
“Tower out.”
The Pink must be Pinkhoffer. He was obviously coordinating things. That was what colonels did — I’d seen plenty of them at Boeing during the war. I might be on the right track. I spoke up. “Blue Leader, do you copy? Over.”
“Who the hell is that?” asked the tower. “Get off this frequency immediately. Over.”
“Blue Leader, this is bandit,” I said. “We need to talk. Over.”
“Ah, bandit...the aircraft circling the refinery?” Blue Leader added hastily, “Over.”
“I’m going to do a waggle,” I said. “Over.” I grabbed the control handles and waggled Pegasus. As soon as I released them Pegasus took over again on autopilot.
“Roger that, bandit. Suggest you proceed to the airstrip and land your aircraft. You are in a world of hurt, buddy. Over.”
At least he hadn’t started shooting at me all over again. “No can do, Blue Leader. I need to talk to Colonel Pinkhoffer. Do you know his voice personally? Over.”
Since there were bad guys inside the Army’s local presence, I needed some way to know I was talking to the right guy. I figured the pilot wasn’t likely an agent — the Colonel had brought him in from somewhere else to chase me down. As long as Colonel Pinkhoffer wasn’t doubled like Morgan, and this pilot could help me out, I might have a chance to talk sense to someone important enough to do something. If all of them believed me.
Life was full of ‘ifs’ right now.
“Roger that,” said Blue Leader. “Why ask me? Talk to the tower. Over.”
“There’s been a security breach inside Pinkhoffer’s staff. I don’t know who’s in the tower. I don’t know you, either, but you’re a pilot and I’m a pilot. I’ve got to trust someone somewhere. Over.”
“Ah, whatever you say, bandit.” We did a couple of tight loops around a distillation tower, Pegasus keeping the evasive maneuvers going. I watched the Mustangs circle above me on one of the screens, wondering which of those men held my life in his hands right now.
After a minute or more, the pilot spoke up. “Tower, this is Blue Leader. I need the Pink. Over.”
“We copied all that here,” replied the tower. “He’s coming now. Over.”
“Blue Leader,” I said, still watching the Mustangs on Pegasus’ view screen. “Could you give me a little wing waggle? I like to know who I’m talking to. Over.”
The leftmost airplane promptly dipped its wings.
“Thanks,” I said. “When Colonel Pinkhoffer comes on, ask him to clear the room. Over.”
“Roger that, bandit. Please stand by. Over.” Blue Leader was starting to sound more amused than anything else. Maybe it was because we’d never fired back at them. Pegasus did have a point with its Quaker ways.
“What are you trying to accomplish?” asked Floyd.
“Pegasus, cut the radio,” I said.
“I am already masking internal conversations,” said Pegasus. The computational rocket was way ahead of me.
“I’m trying to land us at the refinery without getting killed,” I said.
“Why?”
“Pegasus needs fuel.”
“I require lubricant, not fuel.”
“Whatever.” I waved it off with a flip of the wrist. I was starting to feel energized — for the first time in days, it looked like events were coming together in my favor instead of against me. I hoped I could resolve some things before I collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
“What happens then?”
“I have no idea. I guess we turn ourselves over to the Army, go to jail for the rest of our lives, and Pegasus can take off to wherever it needs to.” If they let my airplane go again.
“I will be leaving Earth,” said Pegasus.
Well, that was clear enough.
“Why didn’t you go before?” asked Floyd. Good thinking, for a change.
“I need the lubricant before my main drives will function. I am currently running on auxiliary power systems, and cannot safely perform exoatmospheric maneuvers in my current state.”
The weird thing was I almost understood what Pegasus was talking about.
Pegasus continued, “When I crashed in the Arctic, certain internal systems ruptured and I lost slightly over eighty eight percent of my lubricant supply. I have been trapped here ever since.”
The lost oil was, of course, the dark stain I had seen
on the ice in the German photo of Pegasus’ original position. And the Luftwaffe had given it barely enough oil to fly, I was willing to bet, purposely keeping Pegasus trapped to serve their purposes.
I had to ask the other question I had been avoiding. “Once the Germans dug you up, why didn’t you just leave on your own, find your own oil and get out?”
“There were ethical and practical issues at first,” Pegasus said. “Additionally, I have not been released to independent operation.
A voice crackled on the cabin loudspeaker. “Pinkhoffer here.” He sounded like he was from back East.
“Colonel Pinkhoffer. Are you alone? Over.”
There was a pause. “I am now. Is this Dunham?”
Pinkhoffer was obviously not a pilot. He wasn’t following radio procedure. “Yes, sir. Vernon Dunham here. Over.”
“Right,” said the Colonel. “Blue Leader, you and Blue Flight shut your ears. Find another frequency for a few minutes.”
Blue Leader promptly replied, “Yes, sir. Over.”
Fat chance of that, I thought. “We’ve got a problem, Colonel. Over.”
“I’d say so.”
“I’m not the bad guy here. Over.”
“Chief Davis tells me you’re a fine young man. But son, it appears that you’ve stolen a car, burned down your boarding house, assaulted a military officer in performance of his duties, tried to kill your own father, misappropriated military property and committed about twelve other serious criminal acts that could put you away for life. Or worse.”
Misappropriated military property? Did he mean the f-panzer? Or maybe Pegasus itself. I’d always assumed Floyd had swiped Pegasus from the Nazis — he’d said as much, about taking money from them. I groaned. It looked like Floyd had taken money from the Nazis and stolen Pegasus from the United States Army.
“Ah, sir, running Captain Markowicz down was a misunderstanding. I thought he was a Nazi agent. And I didn’t do the rest of that stuff. But that’s not why I called in. Over.”
“Then why are we talking, son?”
“Two things. One very important to you, the other very important to me. Over.”
“Yes?”
“You’re going to care a whole lot about this first thing. Your Lieutenant Morgan of CID, right now he’s over at the police station. He’s a Nazi agent. There’s at least one witness besides me who can testify to that.” Assuming Dad lived.
At least Dad was safely in Wichita. From what Mrs. Milliken had hinted at, Hauptmann and Milliken were working with, or maybe for, Morgan. They’d both been hot in the Kansas Fascist League before the war, all for Lindbergh and Henry Ford, so that made sense. And of course Mrs. Milliken had said she would be looking for the nice Army men.
“You might also have a private talk with Ruthie Milliken,” I added. “I’m pretty sure she’s already looking for you. She might not make a statement against her husband on the record, but she can back up important parts of my story. Oh, and while you’re at it, grab Ollie Wannamaker and send some of your MPs hotfooting over to the Bellamy farm. There’s Reds and mobsters fighting it out, and they’ve lost all their vehicles. Over.”
If the Colonel’s boys could crack Morgan, or even just get Mrs. Milliken’s corroboration of my version of events, that would lead them to Hauptmann and the Doc. Those two might not be actual German agents, but they were sure more than doubled-out dupes like Floyd. Ollie could help Pinkhoffer sort out the mess at the Bellamy place. None of those guys would have gotten too far away from the scene, not after the mess we made of the place and of their cars.
“All right,” said Pinkhoffer after a pause. “You sound like you’re far off your rocker, but there’s a lot of crazy horse hockey around here right now. I’ll take all that under advisement. What’s the second thing?”
“I need to land on the refinery grounds without being attacked. This aircraft needs to take on oil, and that oil needs to be paid for. Over.”
“What?” Pinkhoffer obviously thought I had gone all the way nuts.
“Look, I know it’s goofy. Just promise me that the Army will pay for any oil or lubricants removed from the Mobil refinery. It should only be about a hundred gallons. Over.”
“Then what happens?”
“I’m not sure.” More to the point, I didn’t know. “But I promise you, no more violence, no more destruction. No more criminal acts. But you have to promise me the same. Over.”
I could almost hear him shake his head over the radio. “Son, you’ve got to surrender yourself and that aircraft.”
“I can’t commit to that, sir. All I can promise is a quiet end to this mess.”
Pinkhoffer sighed. “I’ll grant a safe conduct while you’re on the ground. I’ll even guarantee that the Army will pay for the fuel. But son, if you don’t pull out some kind of miracle, you’ll have to deal with me personally. Then there’s the rest of hell to pay. And there will be every kind of hell to pay, I promise. I have that from the highest possible authority, if you take my meaning.”
“Roger that,” I said. “My word to both you and the highest authority, I’ll do my best, sir. Over.”
“Before you land, give me a couple of minutes to give the orders on the ground at the refinery.”
I had to believe that Pinkhoffer was honest, neither bent to the Nazis or just plain trigger-happy. If not, we were probably dead. I tried hard to care, but I was just too darned tired. “I copy. Bandit out.”
Sighing, I closed my eyes. Despite what I’d told Pinkhoffer, there wasn’t much else I could do. Floyd and I would have to surrender once we landed. That wasn’t going to be any fun. I might never see the light of day again, except through a jailhouse window. Before I walked out with my hands up, though, I had to understand what Pegasus had meant about being released for independent operation.
Oil first, though. “Take us down Pegasus. The oil’s all yours.”
Chapter Sixteen
We landed with a gentle bump next to one of the distillation towers. Almost immediately Pegasus was surrounded at a distance of fifty feet or so by a ring of jeeps, trucks and police cars. Spotlights and police flashers flickered and glared in the night like Fourth of July fireworks.
“The pursuit aircraft are landing at a nearby facility,” Pegasus said over the cabin speakers.
That figured. We were safely on the ground, at least for the moment. Despite their prodigious range, if they’d flown in from a distance, the Mustangs probably needed to refuel. Not to mention reload.
“What will you do now?” I asked.
“Watch.” On the main screen, I saw a probe swing out from Pegasus toward the tower. It looked like a giant dentist’s drill, long and narrow.
The probe nudged the refinery tower, then swung back and forth. It was articulated, with many joints, a nightmare vision of an insect’s leg. But as it swung, all I could think of to describe the erratic movements of the probe tip was a dog sniffing after a lost scent. The probe worked its way up and down the side of the tower before settling on a spot.
A flaring light sparked from probe, like a welding flame. I felt a slight shudder run through Pegasus’ cabin. “I have found what I require,” said Pegasus.
We waited for several minutes while Pegasus pumped hydrocarbons. The ring of police and soldiers stood unmoving, hidden behind the glare of the spotlights they kept trained on us.
“There are marksmen stationed in the refinery structures around us,” said Pegasus.
Pinkhoffer setting us up? Or just hedging his bets? I had no way of knowing which. Maybe the colonel hadn’t made up his mind either.
Then all heck broke loose outside.
There were lights flashing, shooting, the whole business, as Reverend Little’s flatbed Chevy broke through the cordon and raced toward us. Damn me if Mr. Bellamy wasn’t standing in the back with a rifle, a handful of long-coated Italians with him.
“Uh, Floyd, I think this one’s for you.”
“Colonel Pinkhoffer is trying to reach yo
u urgently,” said Pegasus.
“I’ll bet.” I was fascinated, the same way I would be fascinated by a train wreck. The Chevy shuddered to halt right next to us, though the Army had stopped shooting.
There was a banging on the hull.
“What do we do?” Floyd asked.
“I have taken on what I require. Once conditions permit, I am now able to depart.” Pegasus sounded satisfied.
“He’s your father,” I said.
“What about Mama?”
I’d wondered the same thing.
Pegasus’ loudspeaker crackled to life, bearing Mr. Bellamy’s voice in.
“—in there, boy. Open up right now, damn it.”
“I got to go to him,” Floyd said miserably.
Mr. Bellamy’s voice rattled on, a mixture of threats and requests.
I sighed. “We open the hatch, we’re probably dead.”
“I helped you with your dad, Vernon.”
“Pegasus,” I said, “will you open the hatch?” And why was the Army sitting tight? Had Pinkhoffer not gotten to Morgan yet?
Then there was a jeep outside, an officer pale-haired in moonlight with his arm in a sling.
Ah ha. The bad guys were winning. It was up to us.
“If you ask me to,” Pegasus said.
“What are we going to do, Floyd?”
He was miserable. “I don’t know.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Give me about a minute, then zap their vehicles and weapons like you did at the house. Can you control that?”
“Yes. Are you ready?”
“Floyd...?”
He nodded.
Now Morgan was talking too, his voice low and hard. “...have a few minutes before it all blows open, Bellamy.”
“Open the hatch.”
Floyd went first, then I followed him out into the council of our enemies.
“Well, boys,” said Mr. Bellamy. He looked terrible, beat to heck, singed and angry as all get-out. “You’ve come along nicely.”
Morgan shifted his weight, tight-lipped and cold-eyed.
“Where’s Mama?” Floyd asked.