by Peter David
Darkened Chaplin Airfield had had all manner of aircraft land on its weather-beaten tarmac in its time, but never had a sight such as this one graced the skies overhead.
The Spruce Goose swooped downward, its nerve-racked pilot trying to gauge perfectly the speed and distance he had left. Cliff’s arms were throbbing, his muscles quivering from the strain, and he knew that he was going to have only one chance to pull this landing off.
He started running in midair, to get his legs moving, and the runway came at him fast, so damned fast. In no time at all he was there, and he tried to keep his feet moving as fast as his airspeed was taking him. But he mistimed it, and the weight of the model overbalanced him, sending him tumbling end over end across the tarmac. The model splintered and shattered into a thousand wood fragments, and Cliff Secord rolled, banging up his elbows and knees still more as he tucked his head under his arms and tried to bring his headlong roll to a halt.
Finally, finally, he skidded to a halt, and he lay on the runway, his breath slamming against his lungs and his heart pounding so hard he thought it would break a rib. Hell, maybe he’d already broken a couple.
He stood on uncertain legs and then stumbled in the direction of where he’d hidden the rocket pack.
Moments later he was in the office of the late Otis Bigelow. It had seemed the perfect hiding place. The police had already gone over it with a fine-tooth comb, and so it seemed unlikely that they would go back over where they had been—especially in the middle of the night. Nor would other pilots be especially eager to enter the office; a man had been murdered there, and no one wanted that kind of jinx hanging on them.
It was a gamble that, apparently, had paid off big, for there was the rocket, in the duffel bag and secure as ever under Bigelow’s desk. Cliff pulled it and the helmet out and checked a clock. He started to check his pockets for the piece of paper, but then remembered that the feds had taken it.
It didn’t matter. He remembered where and when. He checked the clock and realized he had just under an hour to get from Chaplin Field to Griffith Observatory.
Not a major problem for the Rocketeer.
20
It was close to four in the morning, and the sky was clear over a sleeping Los Angeles. Diffused moonlight splashed over the white walls, curved parapets, and copper domes of Griffith Observatory. Behind the domes, the cliffs dropped off sheer and straight, and city lights glimmered like a jeweled carpet.
The forecourt was a dark lawn crossed by wide concrete paths. In the center of the lawn, a tall stone obelisk was surrounded by statues of famous astronomers who stood solemn watch.
Three Valentine gang sedans were parked at the base of the steps. Eddie, Rusty, Spanish Johnny, and several others of his gang waited impatiently on the lawn, tommy guns in hand.
Sinclair’s car rolled up, and Eddie flashed a dark look of “about time” at his boys. The first one to emerge, naturally, was Lothar, who then pulled open the passenger door and dragged Jenny from her seat.
Sinclair then stepped out, stopping to take a tuxedo jacket from the backseat. He handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Put this on.”
“I’d rather freeze,” shot back Jenny.
He looked her over and smiled at the way the steady wind was blowing the tight dress even tighter, and her exposed skin was becoming even whiter in the chill air. “Quite right,” he said appraisingly. “I prefer you that way.”
Jenny immediately snatched the jacket and put it on. Sinclair smiled as he turned and walked toward the obelisk. Lothar followed, pulling Jenny behind, and Eddie approached them, scowling.
“Cheer up, Eddie,” said Sinclair with that joviality that Jenny had once thought was so charming. “You’re about to make a fortune.”
“Good,” said Valentine tightly, “because I’ve got a club to repair and an ulcer to plug.”
“Hey, boss!” shouted Johnny. “Here he comes!”
Everyone looked up toward the heavens and, at first, it looked like a comet streaking across the night sky. It grew larger and brighter, and soon they could hear a roar becoming louder and louder. Eddie signaled his men, who quickly formed a loose circle around the lawn, tommy gun barrels swinging up.
Jenny felt a stark surge of terror. It looked like a firing squad. The only thing that gave her any comfort at all was that they wouldn’t open fire on Cliff because they wanted the rocket pack, and presumably not full of holes. But once they had it . . . then Cliff had had it too, and probably her as well.
The Rocketeer swooped down, then up, as if he were toying with them, before landing on the grass. He removed his helmet to defiantly face the surrounding thicket of gun barrels.
Eddie didn’t like it at all. The kid sure wasn’t acting like he was outmanned and outgunned. He was coming across like he had the drop on them. Did possessing the power of flight really give you that kind of confidence? He glanced around at his own men, as if to verify for himself that they in fact had the upper hand, and then he nodded to himself briskly. That kind of confidence could get you killed.
Cliff locked eyes with Jenny. “Jenny, are you all right?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” Sinclair replied.
With barely contained disdain, Cliff shot back, “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Sinclair ignored the tone. “Take off the rocket. Carefully.”
“Let Jenny go. When she’s driven down the hill, I’ll—”
In a voice that could have cut diamond, Sinclair snapped, “I’m not here to bargain, Secord!”
Cliff was the picture of calm by contrast. “Then you don’t get the rocket.”
Sinclair pulled Jenny away from Lothar, drew a Luger from his coat, and pressed it to her temple. Jenny, for her part, was starting to feel more frustrated and helpless than ever. A piece of meat to be used for bargaining, shielding, and as a symbol of acquisition.
“You wouldn’t kill her,” said Cliff.
Eddie sounded almost indifferent. “Oh, yes, he would, kid. Take it from me.”
“The rocket, Mr. Secord,” said Sinclair in an even tone.
Eddie felt for the kid. He’d learned to dislike Sinclair enough to know how he would feel if the Limey had the upper hand in a bargain. “Come on, kid! Hand it over so we can all go home!”
And Cliff looked at Sinclair with utter contempt. Without addressing anyone but, at the same time, addressing all of them, he called out, “What’s it like working for a Nazi? Does he pay you in dollars or deutsche marks?”
There was dead silence. Sinclair was stunned. He had warned Jenny that if she said one word about the radio room, he would kill Cliff and herself no matter what the outcome of the exchange. But Secord knew too—? Where was it going to be next? The Times?
“What’s he yappin’ about?” demanded Eddie.
“I heard it straight from the feds, Eddie,” called out Cliff. “A Nazi spy ring, flying commandos . . . the works.”
Sinclair, the consummate actor, had already recovered neatly, and said dismissively, “He’s been flying where the air’s too thin.”
But now, emboldened, sensing a shift in direction of the “meeting,” Jenny declared, “Ask him about the secret room, and the Germans on the radio!”
Sinclair glanced at Eddie’s men, who had been listening intently. Several of the tommy gun muzzles began to drift in Sinclair’s direction.
Lothar started to reach into his coat, only to find Rusty’s tommy gun in his face. “Relax, Frankenstein,” said Rusty dangerously. “You ain’t bulletproof.”
“Talk fast, Sinclair,” said Eddie, stepping in front of him.
“Come on, Eddie,” said Sinclair, trying to sound casual. “We all must serve someone.”
“Adolf and his goose-stepping rats!” bellowed Eddie, bristling.
“You tell him, Eddie,” said Cliff.
“Shut up!” Eddie fired back, not sure of what the hell was going on.
Deciding he had to take a firm hand in this, Sinclair said, sounding q
uite tough, “Now, listen—”
“No, you listen!” said Eddie, sounding tougher still. “I may not earn a straight buck, but I’m one hundred percent American, dammit!”
“Then you’re one hundred percent doomed,” laughed Sinclair. “You’re just a slave to an outdated government that’s going to be swept away by a rain of fire.” His voice rose in volume and intensity. “With an army equipped with these”—he gestured toward the rocket pack—“we could rule the world!”
“Eddie Valentine,” said Eddie in a voice as dark as the grave, “is nobody’s slave. Let the lady go.”
He nodded to his men, and suddenly Neville Sinclair was staring down the gun barrels of the gangsters. There was no director around to yell “cut,” no prop man to gather the guns up and store them in the prop bin.
Which was why it was all the more surprising when Sinclair said, with simple conviction, “I’m still taking the rocket.”
At that, Eddie laughed. “You and what army?”
And suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, Sinclair hollered into the surrounding canyons. His voice echoed in words that were not English: “Sturmabteilung! Angreifen!”
Twenty German commandos in gray jump suits rushed from the bushes, or appeared atop the observatory’s staircases and domes, surrounding Eddie and his men. They aimed their Schmeisser machine guns at the stunned gangsters.
Cliff could have kicked himself. If only he’d done an aerial survey of the area first. But the moment he’d seen Jenny he’d been drawn to her, moth to flame. And now they were both going to get burned.
Sinclair flashed a serpent grin at the gangster and said, “I believe it’s your move, Eddie.”
Realizing that he was outgunned and outmanned, Eddie signaled his men to drop their weapons. Slowly and reluctantly, they did so.
Curiously, Cliff saw that Sinclair was checking his watch. Now, who could he have had an appointment with—?
Then he heard something, something that had been faint but was now getting louder and louder. The sound of whirring engines, immense, bigger than anything Cliff had ever heard in his entire career of flying.
Everyone turned their gaze to the sky.
The sky turned silver.
21
It completely filled the night sky, blotting out the moon, blotting out hope of escape, blotting out everything. It seemed to have sailed out of a Movietone newsreel directly into the living nightmare that the lives of Cliff Secord and Jenny Blake had become.
The zeppelin lowered itself toward the observatory, gondola softly aglow with its running lights. Emblazoned on the airship’s side was the name Luxembourg, and, as if it needed any further announcement of its loyalties or origins, a huge swastika decorated the rudder. It almost seemed as if the behemoth balloon weren’t even there, but merely some deadly, spectral apparition.
The reality of the newly arrived zeppelin was testified to by Sinclair’s sharp, barked commands to the German soldiers that surrounded them. “Ergreifen die Rakete! Schnell!”
Cliff didn’t understand the entire command, although “schnell” he knew to be “Move it, buddy.” But “Rakete” sounded close enough to “rocket” to make it pretty damned clear what their intention was, as if it weren’t painfully obvious already. One of the commandos ran to Cliff and started to unbuckle the rocket pack. Cliff’s mouth tightened as he restrained himself from swinging his fists, as much as he wanted to. He knew right where he would hit this Nazi clown too—smack on the upper lip, where he looked like he was starting to grow a mustache. In emulation of Uncle Adolf, no doubt.
“Haltet sie in Schach!” snapped out Sinclair, and if there was any question as to what that meant, it was clarified immediately when the commandos swung their Schmeissers at their captives. Switching back to his charming facade with the skill of a consummate actor, Sinclair said jovially, “So long, Eddie. Thanks for the memories . . .”
And suddenly Sinclair was blinded.
Everyone was. Car-mounted spotlights stabbed out to illuminate the observatory. Tires screeched and smoked as police cars and FBI sedans pulled up. Wooly and Fitch, grabbing at the opportunity to vindicate themselves in high style, were in the lead, in position with tommy guns ready.
Fitch felt a degree of annoyance. Here he’d wished that for once they had automatic weapons so they’d be on par with the bad guys. So now they had tommy guns and what did the bad guys have? Schmeissers and a goddamn blimp. Still, at least he wasn’t crouching there, facing armed German commandos while waving what amounted to a pop gun. Through a bullhorn he bellowed in a voice that echoed throughout the area, “This is the FBI! Throw down your guns!”
Cliff tossed a quick glance at the Nazi commando who had been in the process of unbuckling the “Rakete.” He had been totally distracted by the goings-on, and even better, was acting as if Cliff were utterly helpless and to be forgotten. What he didn’t realize was that as long as Cliff had the control brackets attached to his wrists and thumbs to hit the ignition, he’d never be helpless.
He hit them now.
Jenny saw him do it, and her alarmed scream was drowned out by the rocket’s sudden flare-up. The force of the blast hurled the terrified Cliff—who was certain he was going to crack his skull wide open like a cantaloupe because he wasn’t wearing his helmet—across the lawn, dragging the hapless commando behind. They disappeared over a ledge, falling roughly into the tangle brush.
The momentary distraction was all that was needed. Cliff’s scream had not yet faded when Lothar yanked his twin .45s free of their holsters and, with a howl that seemed to hearken back to the Stone Age, started firing with reckless abandon. Cops and feds hit the deck as slugs punched through fenders and shredded tires.
It was an invitation to chaos, and nobody elected to miss the party. The feds started firing on the commandos in the forecourt, while Sinclair and Lothar headed for the stairs to the roof. Jenny almost made a break for it, but Lothar grabbed her firmly while continuing to fire with his other hand.
Seizing the opportunity, Eddie Valentine and his men snatched up the tommy guns that the Germans had so ingraciously—considering they were visitors to the country—insisted that Eddie’s gang toss down.
Eddie Valentine decided to make his sentiments widely and immediately known, both for the sake of letting his own men know who to aim at, and because the last thing he needed was to become the next target should the feds decide they wanted some American gangster hot dogs to go with their Krauts. “Lousy Krauts!” he shouted. “Let ’em have it, boys!”
The feds were stunned to see the Eddie Valentine gang abruptly on the same side, emptying their bullets into the commandos, and taking hits alongside the feds and cops. In short, having cast their lot on the side of the angels, they were fighting as valiantly as anyone could have asked.
Fitch was astounded, and then realized that there were other concerns besides Eddie Valentine’s totally unexpected alliance. From behind the shelter of his bullet-pocked sedan, he called out to the men, “Watch the zeppelin! That thing’s filled with hydrogen! One bad shot’ll fry us all!”
He caught a brief glimpse of Sinclair—Damn! It had been Sinclair! Maybe they should recruit that Secord kid or something—Sinclair’s hired gorilla, and a terrified girl who had to be a hostage, all heading up toward the observatory roof. But there was nothing he could do about it except take cold comfort in the fact that the ranks of Nazi commandos were thinning. If they were thinned sufficiently, they might have a shot at going after Sinclair.
He heard a burst of machine gunfire to his right, and he and Wooly glanced over, unsure of the origin of the fusillade. There, crouched behind a police car, was Eddie Valentine, blasting away at the Germans with patriotic zeal. He tossed a tight grin in the direction of two men who would gladly, five minutes earlier, have tossed his butt in jail and sent the key on a one-way trip to France.
“Now I’ve seen everything,” muttered Wooly.
What Wooly was not able to see, at that mom
ent, from his angle, was what was occurring on the roof of the observatory. Specifically, a ladder had been lowered from the zeppelin’s gondola and snagged by the formidable Lothar. He had passed the struggling Jenny over to Sinclair and was now, appropriately apelike, scampering up the rungs toward safety.
“Please, Neville!” begged the desperate girl. “Let me go!”
Sinclair didn’t even bother to reply as Lothar reached down and grabbed her, carrying her kicking and screaming into the gondola.
Her screams were covered by the steady firing of the machine guns from assorted countries; covered and unhearable to everybody but one person . . .
Cliff, struggling to his knees, blood dripping from his forehead, looked up in alarm as he detected Jenny’s piercing screams. His eyes were glazed over, and his mind kept wanting him to just lie down and sleep for a few minutes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d closed his eyes . . .
But everything immediately snapped into focus as he saw the zeppelin lifting from the roof.
Jenny. The bastards had Jenny.
All right. If they were playing for keeps, then so was he.
He yanked a Mauser machine pistol from the holster of the unmoving commando beside him, and tried not to think about the fact that he had never tried to shoot a human being in his life, much less intend to take a life. But a line had been crossed and he was going to follow the people who had crossed that line, no matter where it took him. Gripping the pistol firmly, he struggled up the hillside.
Inside the gondola, a tense German wearing a dark suit and a swastika lapel pin saw what Sinclair was conspicuously not carrying and said harshly, “Sie haben die Rakete nicht?”
“I have her!” said Sinclair, pointing at Jenny. Upon the agent’s confused glance, he continued. “That damned rocket will come to us! Now, get this ship above the clouds!”
Cliff, gaining strength with every step as adrenaline surged through him, reached the observatory lawn and snatched up the helmet that he had put down earlier. The cops were mopping up the last of the commandos, and the surviving hoods were aiding their wounded. No one was looking in his direction, and that was just fine with him as he raced up the winding stone staircase. He glanced up and saw that the gondola was already rising toward the clouds.