Flight of the Serpent

by R. R. Irvine writing as Val Davis

  The man behind the bar squinted at Christensen, did a theatrical double take, and said, “Jesus, Theron, you look like the walking wounded. How long’s it been, for Christ’s sake?”

  “The air show—two years ago at Hill Field.”

  “That’s right. Too bad about Matt Gault. I read about him in the paper. Let’s drink to his memory.”

  Christensen turned to Nick. “This here’s Nick Scott, the archaeologist who found his plane.”

  “Jack Kitar,” the man said, reaching across the bar to shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure, ma’am.”

  Nick smiled and shook his hand.

  Without being asked, Kitar set up two beers. There was no one else at the bar, and only one of the half-dozen tables was occupied.

  “You give John my condolences,” Kitar said. “If I can do anything, all he has to do is say the word.”

  “Now that you mention it, there is something,” Nick said.

  Kitar winked at Nick. “I remember you now. You’re that lady archaeologist who wouldn’t sell me parts of that plane you found in the jungle.”

  “That was a long time ago,” she said.

  He tapped the side of his head. “I’ve got a memory like an elephant.”

  “The plane didn’t belong to me.”

  “That figures. Goddamn government red tape. I’ll bet she’s still out there in the jungle, rotting, and doing nobody any good.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “What the hell. I forgive you. Besides, any friend of Theron’s is okay by me. In case you didn’t know, he’s the best damn airplane mechanic in Utah, but he’s got an obsession about Liberators.”

  “Me, too,” she said.

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Christensen said, “We’re getting the Lady-A ready to fly again.”

  “Now there’s something I’d like to see.”

  “We can offer you a ringside seat.”

  Kitar snorted. “You hear that, ma’am? I learned a long time ago that you’ve got to keep your eyes on these mechanics. Ticket, indeed. Why is it I have the feeling that my piece of B-24 is the price for that ticket?”

  He came out from behind the bar to eyeball the tail rudder hanging on brackets over the men’s room.

  “Do you know how long I’ve had this piece of history?” Kitar said, winking at Nick.

  Christensen raised an eyebrow but kept quiet.

  “Since the day I opened this place,” Kitar said. “It’s part of me and my museum. Heart and soul.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Gault has his mind set on flying the Lady-A as a last tribute to Matt’s memory. And I’ve got myself a case of metal fatigue.”

  “My tail isn’t any younger than yours.”

  Christensen pulled a chair from one of the empty tables and stood on it to take a closer look at the tail section. “It’s in better shape than mine, I’ll say that for it. The Lady-A saw combat, you know. My guess is yours didn’t. I’ll tell you what. I’ll swap you the Lady-A’s rudder for yours.”

  “Has she still got her combat markings?” Kitar said.

  “Absolutely.”

  “I’d have to see it first.”

  Nick laughed. “He’s got you there, Mr. Kitar. It’s outside in the truck.”

  Kitar fetched himself a chair and joined Christensen. Then, almost reverently, he ran his hand along his rudder’s edge. “Combat or no combat, I’ve had her a long time and would hate to part with her.”

  “The Lady-A flew twenty-five missions,” Christensen pointed out. “She was her squadron’s only survivor. You can put up a plaque to that effect.”

  “Enough, already.”

  “I just wanted you to know what you were getting.”

  “I’ll want a signed affidavit from Gault testifying to those missions.”

  “You’ll have it before we take off.”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Kitar said. “But I’m surprised Gault didn’t come himself.”

  “He wasn’t fit. The fact is, he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since the Cessna crashed.”

  And he probably wasn’t getting any sleep now, Nick thought, remembering the look on his face as he’d climbed aboard the Lady-A.

  “Now what about a crank for the bomb bay doors?” Christensen asked. “1 saw one the last time I was here.”

  “Why would you need one?”

  “Like I said, this is a memorial flight.” He lowered his voice as if there was someone to hear. “We’re going to drop Matt’s ashes over the lake.”

  “Cranks are hard to come by,” Kitar said, mugging at Nick to show he was joking, though the gleam in his eyes said profit was at stake.

  “Before we talk business, 1 want to see it,” Christensen said.

  The crank, brought up from the basement after much searching, looked a lot like the tire jack that had come with Nick’s last car. In her case, the jack had been useless, as she’d learned the hard way trying to change a flat in the middle of a rainstorm.

  But Christensen seemed satisfied. “All right, Kitar, how much?”

  “I don’t want money. It’s got to be trade, something I can put up on the wall.”

  “Do you have anything in mind?”

  “What else do you have in that truck of yours?” Kitar asked.

  Christensen looked at Nick and spread his hands. “Did you see me put anything in the truck besides the tail?”

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t give me that crap, Theron. I know you.”

  The mechanic grinned, reached into his pocket, and brought out a small case.

  “What kind of medal is it?” Kitar asked immediately.

  “It’s John Gault’s Distinguished Flying Cross.”

  Chapter 42

  Wiley and Voss had switched positions for the drive back from Idaho. Voss monitored the transmissions from the bug they’d installed inside the pickup’s radio while Wiley, behind the wheel, stayed well back from the truck. At the moment, the only thing audible was engine noise and snoring.

  “They ought to be ashamed of themselves, calling this an Interstate,” Wiley complained. “Look at the potholes, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Maybe you should try to miss them once in a while,” Voss suggested.

  “I didn’t see you doing any better on the drive out. And it was light then. Now it’s dark and—”

  Voss cut him off with a slashing motion.

  “Theron, are you awake?” the woman was saying.

  “I am now.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out what Matt was after. Did you see him before he took off?”

  “Of course. We went through the preflight together. That plane was sound. I know it.”

  “John knows that, Theron.”

  There was silence for a moment, then the woman asked, “Did Matt say anything to you about his flight or his destination?”

  “What we talked about mostly was his coming into the business. He was looking forward to it. Matt was a good pilot, you know. Not as good as John, but someone I’d fly with.”

  “Did he ever mention anything about his story?” she asked.

  “Never.”

  “What about names, then?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How about Maitland, Dr. Karl Maitland?”

  “I think he said something about seeing a doctor. No, that’s not right. We were standing in front of the Lady-A’s hangar when Matt looked up at her and said, “She’s just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. After that, he climbed into the Cessna and took off.”

  “I’m sorry I bothered you. Go back to sleep,” the woman said.

  When the snoring resumed a few minutes later, Voss spoke up. “She’s like a dog with a bone, isn’t she?”

  Wiley nodded as he activated the scrambler system on their cell phone. Almost instantaneously their call came through one of the ISA satellites.

  The Dire
ctor answered.

  “She’s still asking questions about you,” Wiley advised him.

  “By name?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have any reason to believe that she knows anything about our project?”

  “No,” Wiley said, “not yet.”

  “We shouldn’t take the chance,” Voss interjected.

  “I don’t want either of you overreacting,” the Director answered forcefully. “Since she and her father managed to escape that unfortunate earthslide at Ophir, we must be prudent. Another attempt may be too soon. Besides, how could she possibly know what we’re doing? Everything’s classified.”

  “Maybe the old man in the desert told her?” Voss suggested, nudging Wiley to show he was trying to get them some action.

  “Impossible. We wrung Sanchez dry before it was over. He and everybody else in that camp. The only thing they knew for sure was that they were scared to death of us.”

  “What about the reporter?” Voss insisted. “He found out, didn’t he?”

  There was a sharp expletive at the other end of the line.

  Voss and Wiley exchanged grins. The Director seldom swore. When he did, he usually let them go to work.

  “Where are you two now?”

  “Following the woman on the Interstate, north of Salt Lake,” Wiley answered.

  “All right,” the Director said. “Let’s put a stop to her. But remember she’s a prominent archaeologist, so it has to look like an accident. I don’t want any more complications.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wiley said, terminating the satellite connection.

  “It’s a good thing you’re driving,” Voss said immediately. “I’m a better shot.”

  “Who said anything about guns?”

  “Think about it. Now’s the perfect time. She’s doing damn near seventy. We shoot out one of her tires and that’s it. Highway splatter.”

  Wiley thought that over. A blowout, even one caused by a bullet, ought to be safe enough. There’d be nothing left of the slug, no evidence.

  “Get me close enough,” Voss said, “and I’ll make the shot.”

  “You heard the Director. No more complications.”

  “We may never get another chance like this. The road’s practically deserted.”

  “All right, but you’d better use my .22,” Wiley said as soon as Voss drew his revolver. “A .357 slug is too big to risk.”

  “That thing of yours is a fuckin’ peashooter,” Voss objected, but he took the silenced .22 just the same.

  Gradually, Wiley closed the distance. When they were in range, Voss lowered his window and waited for a break in oncoming traffic.

  “When I say the word,” Voss said, “hit the high beams so I can see what I’m doing.”

  One car to go, Wiley thought, after that the road ahead was empty. He glanced in the rearview mirror. There was nothing behind them but darkness.

  “Now,” Voss said a moment later.

  Wiley switched on the high beams. The bright light caused the pickup to veer slightly.

  “Steady,” Voss commanded.

  Wiley saw the pothole at the last instant. Before he could warn his partner, Voss shouted, “Shit! I missed. I hit the fucking tailgate.”

  Wiley stomped on the accelerator, passing the truck at ninety miles an hour. They’d fucked up. They’d left a bullet hole behind.

  “We’re going to have to get rid of the evidence before we do anything else,” Wiley said through clenched teeth. “You heard the Director. No more complications.”

  “You saw the truck,” Voss said. “They didn’t even know they’d been shot at. Chances are they’ll never see that hole.”

  “You’re sitting in the passenger seat. Do you want to call the Director and tell him that?”

  Chapter 43

  The Lady-A attracted a crowd as she rolled out of the hangar on her tricycle landing gear. One moment, Nick was standing there, alone with Paula, looking at the B-24. In the next, more than a dozen mechanics and pilots came running, most from the National Guard facility across the taxiway. They surrounded her and Paula as if sensing theirs was the best vantage point.

  A week had passed since she and Christensen had driven to Idaho together. The new rudder was safely attached and had passed every test the mechanic could devise.

  Gault and Roberts were already in the bomber’s cockpit. Christensen was driving the tow tractor, while Yarbrough and Campbell acted as lookouts, checking for wing clearance and shooing bystanders out of the way when they got too close.

  Despite the B-24’s wingspan of 110 feet, its 66-foot fuselage, its four 1200-horsepower engines, and its twin vertical stabilizers, it looked small compared to the nearby jets.

  When sunlight hit the nose, the serpent glowed, and Nick realized it had been repainted during the night. Now its eyes blazed malevolently; its fangs dripped red venom.

  A shiver ran down her spine. For the first time she thought, I do not like this plane, but couldn’t explain why. Perhaps because it was simply out of its time. It belonged in a museum or in pieces scattered across some godforsaken landscape. It didn’t belong here, ready to fly again fifty years too late.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” Paula asked.

  “I’d pay if I had to,” Nick replied and meant it.

  Christensen got off the tractor to disengage the coupling.

  “Gault looked tired this morning,” Paula said. “Tired pilots make mistakes.”

  “If you ask me, he looked like a kid with a new toy.”

  “That, too.” Paula snapped a salute toward the cockpit.

  After stowing the tractor out of harm’s way, Christensen set the wheel chocks. Then, one by one, he pulled the props through as a precaution against leftover fuel in the cylinders.

  Nick offered to help, but the mechanic insisted on doing the pull-through himself. “The Lady-A knows my touch,” he’d said. “And I know hers. If something’s wrong, I’ll feel it.”

  As soon as he finished, Christensen waved Paula over and handed her an extinguisher so she could stand by as a fire guard. Only then did he attach the external starter.

  When that was done, the mechanic moved to the front of the plane and signaled thumbs-up to Gault. Gault answered in kind, then waved Nick on board. Until that moment, she’d held her breath, wondering if he’d actually live up to his promise that she could join the crew.

  He’d kept reminding her that anything, even engine start-up, was dangerous in an old warbird like the Lady-A. But she’d been just as insistent that this was the chance of a lifetime for a historical archaeologist.

  Paula gave Nick a thumbs-up, then waved her on her way.

  Quickly, Nick trotted to the bomb bay and climbed into the plane, with Paula, Yarbrough and Campbell right behind her.

  “Where do you want me?” Nick asked.

  “Don’t look at me,” Yarbrough said. “I’m a waist gunner. I’m staying where I belong,”

  “You come forward with me,” Campbell answered.

  Yarbrough grabbed one of the newly purchased parachutes and headed toward the back of the plane. Gault Aviation, she’d been told, didn’t normally stock chutes, since commercial flying was supposed to be safer than driving.

  The box holding Matt’s ashes had been secured to a bulkhead next to the chutes.

  Crossing her fingers for luck, Nick moved forward to stand in the narrow opening directly behind Gault and Roberts. Both men acknowledged her arrival, showed her how to plug her headset into the intercom system, then went to work. Campbell had left her to crawl into the bombardier’s compartment in the nose.

  Through the windshield, she could see that the crowd of admirers had grown considerably. One of the mechanics was doing his best to herd them out of the bomber’s path.

  “By the book, Brad,” Gault said.

  Roberts nodded. “Master switch on. Brakes on.”

  “Hydraulic pressure?”

  “Eight hundred.”

  “Car
buretor filters?”

  “On,” Roberts said. “Throttles set for one thousand RPM.”

  “Primer pump on.”

  “Oil pressure at seventy.”

  Nick marveled at their efficiency. They checked everything, autopilot, fuel tanks, wing flap indicators, each dial and gauge. Nick took notes, hoping that one day she might get the chance to write a paper on bomber restoration.

  “Everything’s up to specs,” Roberts said finally. “Theron’s a genius.”

  Gault gave his copilot a thumbs-up. “Warp speed, Number One.”

  The engine coughed. Smoke belched from the exhaust before the engine caught hold with a deafening roar. Immediately, the whole plane shook. Nick felt the vibrations through the soles of her feet; she was filled with a sense of power that grew until it resonated throughout her entire body.

  Once all four engines were turning over, Christensen crowded into the cockpit beside Nick and plugged in his headset.

  “I hope everyone’s got enough room to breathe,” Gault said.

  “If I get any closer to Nick,” Christensen answered, “we’ll be engaged.”

  Gault glanced over his shoulder, smiling at Nick. “Hold on.” He nodded at his copilot and said, “Close bomb bay doors.”

  “Doors closed,” Roberts responded. “Booster pumps on. Magnetos checked.”

  Gault adjusted the control tabs and set the rudder two degrees right to compensate for engine torque.

  “Autopilot off. Fuel mixture to auto-rich,” Roberts said.

  Gault released the parking brakes and opened the throttles slowly. The Lady-A, all sixty thousand pounds of her, rolled onto the taxiway. They were third in line for takeoff, behind a pair of Boeing 727 commuter jets.

  “What’s the holdup?” Yarbrough asked from his waist position.

  “The jet jockeys in front of us are playing tourist,” Roberts answered. “They act like they’ve never seen a Liberator before.”

  Even as he spoke, the lead 727 started its takeoff run.

  “One down, one to go,” Gault reported.

  “I feel naked back here without a .50-caliber,” Yarbrough said.

  Gault tapped Roberts on the arm. The copilot nodded.

  “Stand by for takeoff,” Gault said over the intercom.