“Will I be able to talk from the cockpit?” asked Mike.
“Do you know Morse code?”
“Not that well,” answered Mike.
“All we can transmit and receive is code. I can read and send well enough. Don’t worry, we’ll pick up someone.”
Then Mike glanced up at the engineer’s compartment where Regal was busy monitoring several steam control dials.
“Just remember, Regal, this isn’t one of your tractors back at the farm.”
Regal smiled. “It’s not as pretty.”
Mike reached the open blister window. He pushed the large mounted machine gun to the side as he tried to get the canopy down. He knew the problem in these seaplanes was to get the canopy into the waterproof seal; otherwise water from the acceleration could get in. Outside the flames of the burning helicopter made bright reflections on the water.
He searched the sky through the canopy opening. Mike felt the turbines rev slightly as Robin tried to steady the plane against the river current. Mike tried again to seal the window in the darkness. His head and shoulder was against a girder of the airframe as he pulled on the window. Robin tried the power. The plane trembled again with the revolutions of the turbines.
At that moment rifle fire from the shore raked the seaplane. Mike saw several muzzle flashes. Bullard had obviously scattered his men along the shore. More small bursts of gunfire and quick light broke the blackness and trailed, quickly fading, over the water.
A bright flame zoomed by the open entry canopy. It exploded on the far shore and a small fire began to lick at the dry river grass.
Robin launched. The plane began to pick up speed.
“Rockets, Mike,” she called.
“Another one that close and we’re done for,” he replied.
“I’ll help you with the blister,” called Jesse from the darkness.
“Keep down. Your bad arm won’t help me. You work on that radio.”
A stray rifle shot hit the canopy, putting a jagged hole in the old plastic. Shards of plastic were scattered on the metal floor of the plane as Mike struggled to close what was left of the blister window.
The seaplane was moving faster. Water splashed against the sides of the craft and came through the hole in the window. The propellers increased their noise as the turbines whined higher. More bullets chopped at the side of the hull. Robin rocked the hull to break suction with the water. The seaplane got up on its step, like a hydroplane racer. It left the water, bow first, the rise only a few inches, then more, and then the plane began to climb slowly like a beautiful heron, taking time but gradually gaining the air.
Mike could smell the oil burning in the hot boilers above him on the wing.
Shots ripped through the compartment, putting holes neatly spaced in the metal along the far wall.
“Everyone alright back there?” yelled Robin.
“Lot more holes in the hull from that burst. Might be wet when we come in again,” yelled Jeremy from the bow.
Mike turned one more time to try to close the gun blister. Then he lost his balance and fell back as Robin rocked the ship. Mike looked up from the floor just in time to see a human shape in the canopy opening, the figure outlined against the light from the burning helicopter.
Mike knew what had happened. One of the Aviatrice men had managed to swim to the seaplane and had climbed onto the hull as it taxied. The intruder got halfway through the still ajar blister window. The man began to straddle the window frame, half in the plane and half outside, as he struggled to get in. The plane rose higher in the air as the intruder perilously held on, the altitude growing to over a hundred feet above the creek surface.
The man had not seen Mike. Mike moved up from the floor. A cartridge had stuck in the intruder’s assault rifle that he held in his right hand, and he was slapping the chamber against the side of the seaplane, in a rage, trying to unjam it.
The plane lurched and the man fell back, partly out of the window. Mike almost fell out the window too, saving himself by grabbing the mounting bracket under the large machine gun that was fixed at the window. Mike’s head spun for a moment as the side of his face slammed against the steel of the gun breech. The plane lurched again as, up in the pilot’s compartment, Robin pulled sharply back to raise the nose.
As the seaplane lurched again, the intruder spotted Mike. As he fought to pull himself out of the air current rushing along the side of the plane and to get to safety inside, his left hand found and locked on the barrel of the machine gun. With the other hand he flailed his jammed rifle at Mike’s head. Mike ducked back from the weapon as he continued to hang on the steel support of the gun.
Light flashed from the fire below and came across their faces. In that instant they recognized each other, Bullard with the black grease across his cheeks, Mike with the intensity of a man driven to survive. Mike could see Bullard’s look of hatred, his sarcastic smile. He knew the man would not quit, would not stop trying to get inside, trying to kill him. Bullard struggled again and again, trying with an endless energy to get aboard and to kill while at the same time trying to save himself from falling to his death.
Jesse moved from the radio to come to Mike’s aid. He found a bar of metal with which to strike at Bullard. Unfortunately the space was cramped and he could not reach Bullard’s head from where he stood. Mike gathered his own strength and reached for a better grip, finally clasping his right hand around the handle of the machine gun. Another lurch occurred and Mike fell back against the fuselage, the gun ripping out of his grasp.
“We’re going to kill you just like we did Lawson’s daddy,” Bullard grunted, still holding the machine gun barrel.
Mike, hearing those words, his body burning with hatred, went at his opponent from instinct, his left arm thrusting again and again, his knuckles tearing into the man’s face. Bullard crunched back, his face spurting blood into the windstream, his body jerking. His other arm flailed, trying to bring his rifle forward against the violent airstream, his legs useless behind him, kicking into the air for support that wasn’t there.
The seaplane shook again, throwing them both off balance. Mike’s fist again hit the man’s bloody face, this time with even more force, and Bullard’s nose threw blood into the wind and coated half the man’s face with red.
Then Mike’s hand reached the handles and trigger of the aircraft machine gun. He worked his fingers quickly around the lever and pressed. The gun spat fire. The sudden vibration of the explosions caused trembling in the fuselage. The rounds went out in to the night, passing by Bullard, barely grazing his shoulder and head, but causing him to move to the side. The muzzle pressure of the firing was too much for the old barrel which suddenly snapped with a loud noise and a large crack appeared along the corroded barrel. Bullard frantically grasped for another section of the barrel but he was too late. The barrel took a few more seconds to pull completely loose from its rusted chamber mechanism, and then came off with another ripping sound. Bullard, sudden terror mixed with confusion showing in his eyes that were white against the black grease and red blood on his face, instantly fell backward from the fuselage, flailing uselessly at Mike with his rifle, his other hand holding a broken tubular machine gun barrel, blood streaming into the wind, his mouth frozen in hate. Then his whole body whipped into the wind behind the engine. He screamed as he disappeared rapidly behind the seaplane, letting go of the big gun barrel which tumbled after him. In seconds, Bullard became a dot of black, his arms and legs spread far apart in a hopeless attempt to grasp the air through which he fell, the shriek of his voice ebbing to silence.
Jesse stood beside Mike. He said, “I heard what he said about my father.”
Mike looked at him.
“Wherever my father is, Mike, he knows he’s avenged. That’s all that matters,” said Jesse as he helped Mike back from the window.
Chapter Twenty-Two
10:30 PM, July 4
Magnolia Creek, Maryland
The Magnolia Whispers was
above the creek. The cooler air poured into the fuselage through the broken plastic of the gun blister opening. High flying bugs skipped off what was left of the curved plastic window. Forward, in the pilot’s seat, Robin eased the controls to steady the ascent. Mounted above Mike and the others on the big overhead wing, the turbines made a gentle hum accented by the wash of the big propellers against the night air.
Jesse had clambered back to the radio, the tiny glimmer of dials illuminating him bent over the instruments.
Mike got back to his feet and moved forward to where Jesse sat.
“Are you receiving anything?” Mike asked.
Jesse shook his head. “Give me time,” said Jesse, excitement in his voice.
“Mike, come on up here and help me fly this thing,” shouted Robin, her voice strong and proud, as it echoed from the front of the plane.
Jesse said, “You go help Robin. I’ll keep trying here.”
“Everything running to spec,” Regal said, from his place tending the steam system. Regal still looked the part of the farmer, suspenders hitched almost to his chest over a flannel undershirt and beard surrounding an ancient unlit pipe, as though he had just come from plowing a field, even though his alert and intelligent eyes constantly moved from gage to gage, checking readings. He had a slight chuckle in his voice as he spoke, as if in his steamship days, he had been through this kind of danger many times before.
From down in the nose of the hull Jeremy hollered, “We’re tight for the moment, but I can tell you I’ve got a lot more to do. The corrosion on the wing struts is bad and the hinges are working loose. That’s going to pull on the hull plates too. I can’t do anything about that. Besides, the repairs may not take the pressure of the water when we land. I just hope we can get down without the whole thing coming apart.”
“I’ll try to be as easy on the turbines as I can. We can accelerate slowly. That should take off some of the tension,” said Robin.
“What are you watching for on these controls?” Mike asked Regal.
“I just look for something going up fast or down fast.”
“When that happens, I assume we’re in trouble,” called Robin.
“I guess you could say that,” Regal said with a grin.
A few rounds came up at the slowly climbing seaplane. The tracers showed their path in the blackness.
“Too bad we can’t get those bastards,” said Jesse.
“We can bomb them,” said Regal.
“Unfortunately, the bombs were taken out and stacked in the Tabernacle,” Jesse said.
“I’m ahead of you all,” said Regal. “I loaded some of the small one hundred pound bombs before we left the river. Just in case. Look outside and you can see them mounted under the wings. Two on each wing.”
“We all agreed?” asked Robin.
Mike said, “Jonathan is still down there. Bombing the Aviatrice men might keep him safe.”
“All right, hold on. We’re coming around,” she said.
The plane banked slowly. Mike held against the wall. Regal went forward. “Hell, I built most of them village houses. Anybody going to blow them up it ought to be me.”
Mike nodded, moving into the pilot area. “The security men are firing from near the burning chopper. See if you can get the bombs into that area.”
Jeremy climbed up beside Robin so Regal could get down on the bombardier knee pads. Regal reached for the bomb release controls.
“OK, all ready,” said Regal.
“You want some light on the target?” asked Robin.
“I forgot about that,” said Mike. “This old baby had a submarine searchlight.”
“Switch is on for the Leigh light,” said Robin.
Mike found a control for directing the powerful beam, suspended like a giant flashlight from underneath the wing in a large cylinder, and swept the beach below, outlining several men clustering in a group and preparing another rocket launch. Bullets tore at the underside of the wing where the light was suspended.
“You better hurry up or we’re history,” said Robin.
“A little more, a little more, keep it level,” said Regal, his voice steady, as he followed the light across the ground, pinpointing the enemy and calculating the bomb trajectory.
Then he shouted, “Bombs away.”
Mike saw the bombs detach from the wings and tumble toward the beach, reflecting as they moved in the Leigh light beam. Bullets were hitting the cockpit around Robin and him.
Regal climbed back from the bombardier compartment.
“You did good,” said Mike.
“Yeah,” agreed Robin. “You should have been in the Air Force.”
Regal grinned as the flashes of four quick explosions came through the cracks around the blackout curtains, the light tearing across their taut faces.
Fire lit up the creek water below them and Mike saw men swimming out from new fires on the shoreline.
“Hits,” said Mike.
“OK, let’s go. We got a long way to fly tonight.” Robin began the climb to a higher altitude for the trip north. The Leigh light was turned off.
Suddenly Jessica’s helicopter appeared and cut in front of the old plane, its rotor causing a propeller wash that tipped the seaplane. Robin fought the plane back to level flight.
“We got more company,” she said.
From the port window Mike could see Jessica waving to them, signaling Robin to land the seaplane.
“She wants us to come down,” said Mike.
“We’d be dead the minute we put the Magnolia Whispers down on the water, and you all know it. Besides that, we might just get killed anyway, trying to land this thing in that blacked out creek,” said Robin.
After a few moments the helicopter stationed itself to the stern of the seaplane.
“I don’t like this,” said Jeremy. He climbed below into the hull.
“Hold on,” shouted Robin. The seaplane banked hard to the left.
Mike watched the stream of fire go roaring past.
“She’s got rockets,” said Robin. “They’re probably more powerful than the ground launched ones. We can’t out fly those things.”
Robin yelled, “You better figure out something, Mike. Remember, she can justify it to the police if she shoots us down. We showed we had bombs and we’re armed. She can say she’s removing a menace to the population.”
“These old wing mounts won’t take much more,” Jeremy hollered, from below.
“Mike, I might just have an answer. I got something to show you,” said Regal.
As Robin continued to bank the plane back and forth in the air to make a tougher target, he led Mike, both of them staggering to keep their balance, to the rear of the plane.
“Here, Mike, help me with this door.” Regal pulled on a bulkhead door that sealed off the rear section of the aircraft.
“I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m not a peaceful God fearing man just like my daddy,” said Regal as he paused with the door half open.
“Don’t worry, I won’t hold any of this against you,” said Mike. “Open the damn door.”
“Hurry up, Mike,” called Robin. “The only thing I’ve got going for us is that Jessica can’t shoot straight.”
Behind the door was a small compartment, dimly lighted by the glow coming back from the front of the seaplane, the lights from the radio where Jesse was working and the glare of Regal’s steam gages. Strapped to the wall of the fuselage Mike could see a well oiled machine gun.
“Nice weapon,” said Mike. “Trouble is, Jessica is behind us. We can’t shoot at her through the side windows.”
“Don’t have to. Hang on. I got another surprise,” grinned Regal. “Come on in here and close off that illumination from the front of the plane. We need everything real dark.”
Mike followed Regal into the small compartment and closed the door behind him.
Regal was beside him in the dark. He snapped the gun down in front of them. Then, following Regal’s instructions,
they worked together in the dark to load cartridges into its magazine.
“Here’s our little surprise. Be careful,” said Regal. He reached down and opened a panel in the floor. Cool air brushed against their faces. He pulled the door upward and fastened it to an open position. Mike looked out and a hundred feet behind the seaplane he could see the lights of the helicopter instruments illuminating the determined faces of Jessica and her pilot.
“Bet this tail gun surprised a few German submarines during the war,” said Mike.
“Japanese too,” said Regal. “Help me raise her into firing position.”
“Jessica still hasn’t seen us.” As he worked, Mike could see the lights of farmhouses below them and further away, the harbor beacon of River Sunday.
“If she had, we’d be dead, don’t you kid yourself,” said Regal. “Dead real quick. It’s her or us, my friend.”
“Thanks for reminding me,” said Mike.
“Well, you volunteered for this duty,” said Regal.
“I did?” answered Mike, as the two of them lifted the gun and locked it into place. The weapon pointed directly at the chasing helicopter.
“You fire it when you’re ready,” said Regal, holding the feed belt of cartridges for the machine gun’s magazine.
Mike looked at him. Regal nodded, “I dropped the bombs. This one’s your turn.”
“I don’t know whether I ought to thank you or not.” Mike said as he sighted down the barrel in the small sights. Calm came over him, brutal calm. He had no fear.
“Shoot, before she fires at us, Mike.”
Just then, Jessica’s eyes raised up. She saw the machine gun pointing at her helicopter. Mike could see her surprise. He saw her lean towards her pilot and begin to yell at him, pointing at the seaplane and the rear gun emplacement. Mike knew he had no more time.
“She’s seen us,” Mike said, as his hands clutched the firing mechanism.
“Shoot the gun,” yelled Regal.
The helicopter began to bank away.
Mike fired. The old machine gun spat fire, spent cartridges clattering on the floor of the seaplane. For a moment the helicopter and the seaplane seemed linked by the stream of white hot tracer rounds going back from the tunnel gun. Jessica’s eyes showed concentration, her attention to orders to her pilot, her hate. Then, a ripple of fear crossed her face, just before her helicopter exploded and disintegrated.
Magnolia Gods (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 2) Page 26