by Peter David
Fitch brushed shards of glass off the front of his jacket as Wooly said dryly, “Careful what you wish for.” Fitch shot him an annoyed glance, then aimed his revolver out the window and started blasting. Wooly, eyes on the road, wondered why the hell the bad guys always had automatic weapons that could wipe out a platoon and the good guys got stuck with revolvers. Hardly seemed fair.
In the roadster, meantime, Wilmer was the first to feel the effects of Fitch with an unobstructed view. A slug tore off Wilmer’s tweed cap. He touched his scalp with one hand while gripping the wheel. No blood. Then he checked the rearview mirror for a graze, and yelped in alarm when another slug shattered the mirror and his reflection.
He saw a back road and turned the car hard. The roadster angled off as Lenny reared up, tommy gun blazing. He stitched a pattern of bullets across the Plymouth’s grille, blasting it into fragments. Steam belched up from the ruptured radiator. In the Plymouth, Wooly slammed an impatient fist against the dashboard and squinted, trying his best to see through the huge gust of vapor that was now billowing into his face. But he had to slow down to compensate for it. Fitch yelled obscenities and Wooly did the best that he could, but he began to worry that the roadster was really going to get away. And if they did, the first thing he was going to do was requisition a tommy gun.
In the roadster, Wilmer glanced triumphantly over his shoulder as he accelerated up a hill. He chuckled low in his throat as he watched the Plymouth fall back, then turned his gaze back to the road and screamed in alarm.
Chugging right toward them from the other direction was a Model-T truck. The damned thing was so wide, it was taking up the entire road. At the wheel was a farmer who was frantically waving them off. Clearly he hadn’t expected to encounter anyone on this road. Who would come down this stretch of nowhere anyway?
Wilmer cursed his luck. Even when he caught a break he couldn’t catch a break. This bleak thought went through his head as he angled hard to the right, leaving the road altogether. The abrupt change of direction and bumps sent Lenny tumbling to the floor of the car, and he yelped loudly when the roadster bounced over a ditch and sailed into a bean field.
Behind them, the Plymouth carrying the two FBI men bore down on the truck. But Fitch had seen where the Ford had gone and he pointed furiously to the right. Wooly whipped the steering wheel around and the Plymouth sideswiped the truck as it pursued the roadster into the field.
The steam was subsiding now, which was good news and bad news. The bad news was that it meant they were in serious danger of overheating. The good news was that now Wooly could see. Even this, though, was promptly aggravated when the roadster churned up a cloud of dust behind them. Wooly and Fitch coughed violently and Fitch almost lost his grip on his gun.
Lenny, in the meantime, was laughing loudly as he slammed a drum of fresh ammo into his gun. This was all going great. It had been so simple. Sheila drives by with Lenny and Wilmer hiding in the back, waves to the feds, makes nice, and then a minute or two later becomes the damsel in distress. They had to fall for it. And they did. Shame about Sheila, but that’s the way the cookie crumbled.
Then he heard something from overhead and whipped the tommy gun skyward.
There was a plane coming up over the hill, heading in their direction. It was black and yellow and shaped like nothing Lenny had ever seen, but it was moving like a son of a gun.
It might be nothing, Lenny reasoned, but on the other hand, it might very well be something. Just like the feds to have a backup plan. Well, backup plans were just fine and dandy. Lenny didn’t subscribe to that notion though. He went through life with one plan—if it moved, shoot it. And if this was just some innocent plane jockey out for a spin, well, that was just his tough luck now, wasn’t it?
Lenny opened fire on the oncoming GeeBee.
Cliff didn’t know what was happening at first. He heard something like a series of explosions, and then the plane was shuddering as if someone had lit a bunch of firecrackers on the underside of the fuselage. For one wild moment he prayed that that was all it was: someone’s stupid, brainless idea of a joke. He didn’t see the bullet holes ripping through the underside and through the engine, but he became suddenly aware that there was more than just a lot of noise and jostling when a ricochet cracked his windscreen.
He barely had time to adjust to his mishap when the engine sputtered and began to emit grayish smoke. Ahhhhh, why me? It was going so great! thought Cliff in exasperation as he watched his instruments go haywire. That he might die was secondary to the concept that he was going to be embarrassed after all his boasting that he could master the GeeBee with one wing tied behind his back. Well, with his instruments doing the trots, it was the equivalent of both wings and his rudder tied behind his back. He fought the controls, but it was a losing battle.
Lenny looked up with satisfaction, watching the stubby plane spin around in the sky, clearly out of control. Gray smoke was billowing from the front and he patted his tommy gun affectionately. And then he stumbled back, landing hard in the rumble seat as the car fishtailed out of the bean field and back onto a winding road. Then he caught a glimpse of a sign that read CHAPLIN AIRFIELD, 1 MILE.
“Wilmer!” he shouted, and when Wilmer glanced back he continued, pointing frantically. “Head for the airstrip! I can fly a plane!”
The feds’ car had now jumped out onto the road behind them, skidding around before coming under control. It didn’t matter though. Unless that Plymouth could sprout wings, Lenny and Wilmer were going to be in the clear within the next few minutes.
Cliff struggled with the stick, feeling as if he were trying to keep the plane in the air through sheer muscle power and force of will. Through clenched teeth he muttered to the crippled engine, “That’s it . . . don’t die on me now.” He barely managed to keep the GeeBee from plowing into a hillside as he continued hurried words of encouragement, both to the plane and to himself. “Eaaasssssy does it . . . no more surprises, okay?”
Someone up there in the heavens that Cliff was always reaching for decided to show just how seriously they were taking Cliff’s heartfelt plea of “no more surprises.” A rod blew through the cowling, and Cliff’s canopy was instantly coated with a thick stream of brackish motor oil. Whacked controls, a stubborn stick, a failing engine, and now—just to make it interesting—he was flying blind. Great. Just great.
He pounded frantically on the windscreen, trying to punch his way through the bullet-riddled glass. He shouted everything he could think of in frustration and then, to his amazement, the glass gave way. Air blew into Cliff’s face, a bracing, stinging sensation—
—and another plane was coming right at him.
Cliff screamed and jerked back on the stick, uttering a quick prayer. Not that they had been doing any good until then.
This one did, though, as the GeeBee jumped upward, clearing the oncoming obstruction with inches to spare.
Cliff glanced back to see who the hell he’d almost hit, and then his eyes widened in disbelief. It was a highway billboard advertising some movie called Wings of Honor. Smack in the center of the billboard was a painted image of a warplane and an actual propeller mounted on it to give it a realistic three-dimensional effect. It spun wildly in the GeeBee’s wake, and had been just a bit too realistic for Cliff’s personal taste.
Through a eucalyptus grove hurtled the roadster, with the Plymouth right after them. They hadn’t put enough distance between themselves and the feds for Wilmer’s taste, and he was doing everything he could in a last-ditch effort to do so before they reached the airfield.
The feds were getting closer and, damn! They were now running a parallel track with the Ford roadster. Wilmer ducked down as Lenny opened fire once more, exchanging a furious hail of bullets with the Plymouth. Bullets were ricocheting everywhere, perforating the trees and leaves.
Wilmer spotted two eucalyptus trees to his right and angled quickly toward them. They were side by side, but there was enough of a gap in between them—he
thought. He held his breath, certain that they would be able to get through, uttered one more quick prayer that this was the last job, honest to God, and then the Ford shot through the two trees. Paint scraped off either side of the roadster—it was that close a squeeze. But it was enough and the Ford made it through. Up ahead he could make out the outlines of airplane hangers.
Wooly whipped the Plymouth around, right on the track of the Ford. The side-by-side trees loomed ahead, and he saw the Ford disappearing into them. He slammed down on the gas as Fitch, bracing himself against the dashboard, warned, “She ain’t gonna make it . . .”
“Yes, she will!” shouted Wooly. Wooly was determined. Wooly was positive. Wooly was unstoppable.
Wooly was wrong.
The car slammed to a jarring halt, caught between the two trees, tires spinning helplessly.
“Like I said,” continued Fitch calmly.
Wooly gave his partner an annoyed glance and then threw the car in reverse, grinding gears. The car moaned and so did Wooly as the two front fenders ripped clean off.
Fitch quickly surveyed the damage. In addition to the absent fenders, smoke and steam were still billowing out, and the sides and front were more holey than a football field of nuns.
Their heads were going to be on the block as it was. If the crooks got away with the stolen case, Fitch and Wooly might as well just make a hard left and keep on going until they drove into the Pacific.
“Move it!” shouted Fitch. Wooly did so, going around the trees this time, in steadfast pursuit of the fleeing roadster.
The roadster tore out across open ground behind the hangars. Wilmer was looking around furiously and then saw one with an open door. He drove into it and screeched to a halt, allowing himself a small sigh of relief. They weren’t remotely in the clear, but there was something vaguely comforting about being in an enclosed area. He grabbed the patent leather case and turned toward the rear of the car. “Let’s go, Lenny!” he started. “We can’t get caught with the—”
His eyes opened wide. Lenny would never be caught now, because he’d caught something—a bullet. He was slumped to one side, staring at Wilmer with glazed, dead eyes. Wherever Sheila was, Lenny was now with her.
Wilmer felt a tremble go through him. It just as easily could have been him. He felt the same guilty sort of relief that any soldier feels when the trooper next to him in line has taken the bullet.
“Lousy feds,” he muttered.
In the distance he heard the screech of tires and the sputtering of an engine that could only be one that had sustained the sort of punishment Lenny had inflicted on the Plymouth. Backfiring, chugging, but determined. The feds would be there in minutes, checking through the hangars.
He was going to get caught. After all this, on the edge of a clean getaway and a new life, he was going to get caught. He couldn’t fly a plane. Maybe the roadster could still outrace the feds. Sure. There was a better than even chance. But what if he couldn’t? And he got nailed holding the contents of the case?
His mind was racing as fast as the GeeBee that was wobbling into view in the distance, but he paid it no heed. For his frantic gaze had fallen upon a vacuum cleaner that had been designed in that obnoxious art deco style. Wilmer couldn’t stand that look, but suddenly it was starting to grow on him, especially when he saw the duffel bag next to the vacuum cleaner.
He grinned.
The spectators in the bleachers heard the GeeBee approaching before they saw it because it was dropping down straight from the sun like a meteor. But the sound told as much as the view, for Peevy’s trained ear detected the telltale, labored sputter of a plane engine in trouble. “Something ain’t right . . .” he murmured, and then more loudly, to alert the others, he shouted, “Something ain’t right!”
Then the GeeBee came into view, wobbling toward the runway, a plume of smoke boiling from the cowling. The group looked up in horror and Peevy glanced once more at the bottom of his shoe, which still had traces of sticky gum. Man, if Cliff lived through this, he’d probably kill Peevy.
“Come on!” shouted Peevy. “Move yer butts! Get the fire extinguishers! Get the water trucks! Get going! Move! Move!” The occupants of the bleachers cleared out, dashing toward the hangars to get whatever crash assistance gear they could.
As Cliff hurtled downward, he frantically tried to wipe the spewing oil from his goggles. Smoke billowed up in front of him and he held his breath. The last thing he needed to do was inhale a few lungfuls of smoke and choke to death. No. Then he would miss his chance to die on the runway.
The runway, which was now only seconds away, seemed to reach up toward him and tilt crazily.
But it wasn’t too fast for Cliff. It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. He told himself that over and over again. He wasn’t going to let the GeeBee beat him despite all the things that had gone wrong. Cliff hadn’t gotten to where he was by listening to naysayers who predicted a fiery end for him. Then Cliff realized just exactly where he had gotten to—namely, inside a falling box of metal that was going to crash and burn inside of thirty seconds, and wondered if maybe he should have taken those naysayers a bit more seriously.
No. He banished those thoughts from his head as he concentrated on the job before him. Doesn’t have to be pretty or elegant. Just get down on the ground. Just make it down and walk away from the landing, and that would be enough to make it a good landing. And he was going to be able to make it. The ground wasn’t spiraling as crazily now, and he’d managed to wipe away enough oil to get just enough vision.
And that’s when he saw the car coming directly toward him.
Moments earlier Wilmer had slammed the roadster forward and shot out of the hangar like a cannonball. He blew past the Plymouth, which skidded around the rear corner of the building and screeched to a halt.
The Plymouth engine choked out and died, having given everything it could and more. Desperate, determined, Fitch leapt out of the car, crouched into a marksman’s pose, and fired on the fleeing roadster.
Barreling down the runway, Wilmer’s back suddenly arched in pain as a bullet hit him square in the shoulder. It’s not fair! This was the last time! he cried out in his mind, his eyes slamming shut in pain.
Then he heard a roaring in his head and, through the pain, his eyes opened, and he saw a smoking airplane descending toward him on an inevitable collision course.
Wilmer threw open the car door and leapt out. He thudded hard onto the runway and rolled, the asphalt tearing up his clothes and skin.
In the GeeBee, Cliff saw, through smeared goggles, the driver of the car leap clear, which wasn’t going to do him a hell of a lot of good. He cried out and yanked on the stick in what he knew was an exercise in futility.
The GeeBee’s landing gear bashed into the roadster’s windscreen. The impact tore the wheels loose from the plane with an ear-splitting screech of metal, and then the crippled plane bellylanded in a shower of sparks.
Cliff cursed his misfortune inwardly. Any other pilot would have done a nose dive. Not Cliff. Noooo, not Cliff Secord. He manages to land right side down, but just to make it more challenging, it’s without landing gear. He just couldn’t catch a break.
The roadster, in the meantime, sped forward completely out of control—understandable, since no one was at the wheel to control it. Wilmer rolled to a stop and, every part of his body aching, managed to raise his head in time to see, a couple of hundred yards away, the roadster slam into a fuel truck that was parked at the runway’s edge. With an explosion as if hell itself had just blossomed up from down under, the Ford erupted into a churning ball of flame and smoke.
Goose, Skeets, Malcolm, and Peevy were the first to reach the battered, unmoving hulk of the GeeBee. The former two were carrying fire extinguishers and, in the distance, a water truck and fire engine were roaring down the runway.
Peevy moved quickly, seeing the smoke rising from the smoldering GeeBee. The last thing he was going to allow to happen was for Cliff, having survive
d the landing, to go up in a roar of fire afterward. “Goose!” he shouted as he clambered up on the wing. “Give me a hand!”
Goose passed the extinguisher over to red-faced Malcolm, who was huffing and puffing heavily from the run and was remembering the days when he could dash the length of a runway on foot and not be the least out of breath. As Peevy and Goose worked on wrenching open the jammed cockpit, Skeets urgently waved Malcolm over. “Get the flames out,” he shouted, “before they hit the fuel tank!”
Malcolm nodded, and he and Skeets turned their extinguishers on the smoking fuselage, fighting the cowling fire with everything they had.
Peevy and Goose grunted and pulled one more time, and this time the battered canopy came loose. Cliff, miraculously, was conscious, and so it was only a matter of moments to pull him most of the way out of the cockpit. He stopped for a moment to snatch Jenny’s photo off the instrument panel, and then followed Peevy and Skeets down the side of the GeeBee to safety. They ran a safe distance and then turned and stopped. Cliff looked on helplessly as Skeets and Goose put out the fire on the wounded plane.
“I knew it!” he suddenly shouted, and pointed. “Look! The gum fell off!”
Peevy looked where Cliff was pointing, then took a deep sigh, looked up at his protégé, and shrugged. “Bad break, kid. These things happen.”
Wilmer’s head sagged to the ground and he stared into the blackness of the asphalt. Then he heard the sound of a trigger being cocked a few feet away and heard an authoritative voice announcing, “FBI! Don’t move!”
He laughed and it hurt, which probably meant that something was broken in his chest. His shoulder throbbed with pain. Nevertheless, in his best Edward G. Robinson voice, he growled, “You’ll never take me alive, copper,” and then he passed out.