“Good. Remember the surrounding landmarks. Now mark a point at two o’clock, a few miles distant, descend to four thousand feet and return to a base leg about a half mile from target and start your diving turn—base to final. Don’t get in a hurry. After target remember to stay low. I’ll tell you when to climb. I’m following on the controls, but it’s your plane and I’ll be talking plenty. Think—plan as if you’re by yourself.”
She wheeled the Mustang on heading and altitude and used several TV towers for the turn back to target.
“Cricket, concentrate, but don’t get your head in the ‘up and locked position’ and not see anything on either side. Make sure to keep firing until you’re over the tanker. Lose most of your altitude on base leg. Adjust your descent accordingly. Start high and fast and steep, and then shallow out for the strafing run. Past target—stay fast and low. They’ll be shooting.” He paused. “Can you do this?”
“You’re doubting me?”
Good Lord, Fritz, do I really need a fifteen-page defense to continue?
“No, I’m preparing you. I don’t care if you’re pissed. Can you do this? I didn’t plan on you having to take out a fuel tanker today. You’re a good pilot, but you’re going to have to be the coolest you’ve ever been when you shoot.”
“I’ve got the controls,” was all she said, and there was silence from the back seat.
“Great, that’s all I needed to hear.”
Over the towers Cricket banked one hundred eighty degrees and returned to target. On base she started a steep dive and Fritz told her when to turn to target. Her speed nudged three hundred fifty miles per hour. Cricket had gone from a pissed-off, love-struck girl to a woman in love wanting both of them to survive.
Fritz followed through on the controls, and she felt no resistance to her moment-by-moment inputs of stick and rudder. Sweat had bathed her twice, and she thanked God for the cool air blowing through the cockpit.
She estimated one mile from target. Plunging through seven hundred feet, base to target, she saw the glint of what—a building, a truck? She spotted the tanker and fired. The tracers showed slightly high. She nudged the nose lower, cross on target, and kept firing. When the truck exploded, Fritz yelled, “Excellent!” followed by his call to stay low over the treetops.
A short time later he instructed: “Climb to five thousand, north-heading, and return to target.”
Of all her years flying, she felt in this particular climb the aircraft’s open defiance of gravity. The Mustang, a creature of flight, would never tire, never have to rest, let alone land and refuel. It was meant to battle through eternity.
And she felt the same freedom in her bones. She was wide awake, alive, moving, thinking from the center of her body. All the commands that Fritz gave her, she and the Mustang executed perfectly.
This time it wasn’t hard to spot the target in her diving turn, and no landmarks were necessary to witness the orange flames and black smoke marring the terrain. Firm but light on the controls, she aimed for a group of pickups in position to fire back. She came in screaming, close to four hundred miles per hour. Cricket began firing early and forgot about them firing back. “Fat, dumb, and happy,” she sprayed left to right, and smoke and flames shot up from more than one vehicle.
“That’s it!” Fritz called out. “Straight ahead. Wait ’til I tell you to climb.”
Once safely at altitude, they scouted the Cleveland route for any other traffic and found it empty. The rats had gone into hiding; no vehicles or bikers coming from the city or suburbs.
On final that marriage of plane and pilot, horse and rider, continued right through the moment Cricket applied forward pressure on the stick and stuck the beautiful Mustang on the grass in a graceful wheel landing, keeping the tail up until the decreasing airspeed and decreasing lift allowed gravity to lower it. She kept the stick all the way back and increased her footwork on the rudders to keep the plane tracking straight ahead.
During the short taxi every bass overtone, every low note of the Rolls-Royce V-12 rollicked right to the end as the engine rumbled to a stop. Their headsets off, in the moment of silence that followed, Fritz channeled Jimmy Stewart: “She died kind of nice, Miss Cricket.”
What a strange, sweet comment. He was right about the shutdown. In the final seconds, she had never heard an engine finish its last breath with such strength. A bassy close. Musical to the last.
She cranked open the bubble canopy, and Major Louis was climbing up the wing: “Heard the explosion—what, five miles west?”
“Guns are still warm!” Dennis yelled, standing in front of the left wing.
“You’re both onto something.” Fritz couldn’t stop a big smile from growing bigger. “Cricket did great!” He followed her off the wing and rushed to hug her.
Frank and Dennis cheered the news.
“Sorry, Dennis, you don’t get that kind of treatment even if you take out the entire Hells Angels,” Frank said, enjoying the moment. “Let’s check her over and make sure we didn’t get shot up too badly. Usually, you never hear small-arms fire. You just find yourself falling out of the sky. If you’re lucky, though, you make it back and scare the hell out of yourself finding the holes.”
They found four, possibly .22-caliber, and neither mechanic found any damage to any control cables, hydraulic lines, or fuel tank.
Fritz went over their plans for the next morning.
Listening, Cricket thought of the lives she had taken and felt justified to the core. Such a feeling popped her mind and heart into a better understanding of good and evil, raising her spiritual IQ. She was basking in her newfound wisdom when goosebumps told another story: she was capable of evil, as well, a cunning entity that often called itself by attractive names.
Fritz surveyed their landing strip and waved at a couple of mechanics working on Dennis’ plane. “Let’s have whatever armed citizenry and cops are still available in the Falls monitor the bikers and the Brazilian. She may be indifferent and unwilling to actually help us. But that’s another matter. We need to go after the troublemakers. Like today. That tanker belonged to the Guard. And no fuel shipments were coming from the west. When our fuel truck comes up from the south, it’ll have a National Guard escort. My orders were to intercept and destroy fuel tankers moving east of the city and those defending their thievery. Until my runners or my radioman tells me of troop movements coming from Cleveland, anything suspicious, like today—dead meat. We took out the folks who practice nothing but bad manners.”
Cricket felt Fritz’s common sense, his passion for doing what was right without a vengeful heart. For now, the rage that had iced her veins, that had allowed her to leave a man for the coyotes and cut up another, was gone, forgiven.
“When does our fuel arrive?” Frank asked.
“Two days, maybe sooner. Each plane has full tanks, except us. The Mustang has about three hours of flying, and then we’re grounded.”
Fritz and Cricket were but a mile from the airfield when Fritz pulled the Barracuda off the road alongside an ancient maple that could have qualified as Ohio’s oldest living tree: barn-door wide with trunk-size branches supporting the sky. Neither of them commented on the splendid old maple and just looked at each other, holding hands, smiling, catching their breath. But they’d have to finally catch their breath later. They had more to accomplish, more to learn, as Fritz pulled Cricket into his arms.
Near 5 p.m. Fritz and Cricket pulled into the driveway and were met by Ron and Tony in the backyard.
“The bastards killed two active-duty cops,” Tony said. “Ambushed.”
“How long ago?” Fritz asked.
“Within the last hour. Folks downtown heard the gunfire. An alley next to the supermarket, maybe a block from the river.”
“Any names? My God, we only had eight active-duty guys left. There’re a few auxiliary guys, if they’re still willing to put on a uniform.”
Mrs. Holaday came outside, arms folded. She had been crying.
; “Fritz, what are we going to do? They’re destroying us.”
He headed up the back steps and held his mom.
Cricket asked, “Sister … Grace, where are they?”
“They went for a short walk with Diesel.”
Cricket moved to the front yard and checked the street. Ron followed.
“We’re next,” she said.
“Us?” Ron said, confused.
“Any of us in town. She’s got her claws in a number of young people.”
Ron made his case: “I still believe they’re separate problems, the criminals and the Brazilian; not equal in danger.”
Cricket noticed his red plaid shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and baggy jeans that made him look the farmer, a good neighbor, someone you could trust with your life. But the professor persona was narrowing his vision. Maybe the Brazilian’s magic—high intelligence and a magnificent body—had pushed aside the fact that she might intentionally be taking a sledgehammer to all those foundational principles of American society the history professor revered.
She didn’t want to argue with the professor. He had more to say.
“Earlier, I was thinking of the family killed on the first night we teamed up.”
“They’re in my thoughts a lot, too.”
“For days I thought of the dreams they knew could be realized with hard work, and the fantasies that could take them off course, and the mundane problems they were close to solving, like trying to decide at whose house they would spend Christmas Day.”
He stopped and took a few steps down the sidewalk.
“I’ve never been a very philosophical kind of guy, that’s why I like the workings of history. It’s all there, just needs to be sorted out and studied. But I got to wondering … and this will sound strange. Where does all that passion and all that folly go … what happens to it? On the surface we know it ends with the end of each member of that family. But is it really lost forever?”
“You’re talking about it.”
“I’m merely an observer, assessing lives. I have nothing to offer them. Nothing I can remedy. They’re gone forever.”
“The justice we dealt was a remedy. Unless you’re feeling squeamish about killing the savages that night.”
“No, Cricket, there’s no remorse for that. I felt like a doctor eradicating a tumor. That’s what I was thinking when I walked out here. It was the right thing to do, but it brought me no joy, no completion, only anger that we couldn’t bring back the murdered family. The killers sickened me, and now I’m afraid there will be more killing. And more killing that I’ll have to do.”
“You should talk with Sister Marie.”
“Already have. You know, she’s a profound thinker. A very impressive woman. And she told me something quite incredible. Something much more than the murdered family now stands in God’s presence—although that would be wonderful after what they’ve been through. She said that the family will again be rejoined in that house with that backyard and all the love, all the best of what they had to offer each other and the world, and overhead a new sun would rise that never burns, never destroys.”
Cricket thought of her parents and Uncle Tommy. Sister said that at the end of time, heaven would come down to earth and no one would ever die again. She was sure that the Brazilian’s idea of the sun coming to earth was the arrival of a new hell, and death would be everywhere.
40
Protecting Park Avenue
“Hey, you two, quit flap-jawing—time to eat,” Tony barked from the front porch. “I’ve been slaving for hours over a hot Smokey Joe. We need our strength. We’ve got to protect the neighborhood and the American way of life tonight.”
Both Ron and Cricket looked up from their conversation and smiled, relieved to be heading in for dinner.
Mr. Holaday said grace and Grace commented that it was really cool that God’s dinner prayer was named after her. This response got a loud laugh from Tony and Ron laughed, too, maybe for the first time. It was a Santa laugh originating deep in the belly, pure joy.
Mrs. Holaday smiled painfully. She had found out minutes before dinner that one of the police officers murdered was her bridge partner’s son. A look from her husband and his nod toward Grace told her she needed to make this evening special for the young girl.
“Grace, I think this evening we’ll get out the Monopoly game. You’ve played before?”
“It’s one of my favorites. I plan on owning all the houses on Park Avenue someday.”
“I’m coming to live with you on Park Avenue,” Tony blurted, and Grace giggled at the attention. “There’s going to be people coming and going tonight, so it may just be you three,” he said, eyeing Sister Marie.
“I have an idea,” Mrs. Holaday said. “The extra players will sometimes be on vacation. So, when they’re not here, they get to keep their property and cash and pick up the game when they return.”
Grace clapped excitedly and nearly spilled her water, saying, “And on Park Avenue all the lights will work.”
Cricket could see that the adults were moved by this child’s exuberance. Grace cried every night before falling asleep, asking about her family in heaven, but here at the dinner table she courageously believed in the world of games, lovely buildings and houses, and that someday soon, pretty streets and homes, all lit to the max, would return.
Cleaning after dinner, Cricket finished the dishes and took not-so-secretive glances at Fritz talking with the others or consoling his mom. He found time for a three-way catch in the backyard with Ron and Grace and talked about the next day’s plans standing around the Smokey Joe.
“Cricket and I will take the Barracuda out to the field. Tony and Ron will have the jeep. Position yourself downtown near the center of the park where you have a good view of the sky. If I pass north to south, that means no immediate problem. If I cross overhead east to west, we have movement. Then I’ll make one more pass. That’ll be the direction the trouble is coming from. Have one of the townsfolk there who really knows the roads. Do not confront them directly. Outside Little Falls it’ll be hit and run. Guerrilla warfare. In town I know neighborhoods will be fighting defensively, holding their streets and their homes. I expect at least five hundred National Guardsmen here within two days.”
“Don’t forget to strip the dead bastards,” Tony said, “guns, ammo, and hopefully a ham sandwich.”
At twilight Ron and Cricket took the first neighborhood watch with a dozen men and women. They covered both sidewalks, walking in groups of four. If any motorcycle came prowling their way they were to take cover and, at the first sign of aggression, they were to shoot the bikers. If that was too dangerous, and more were swarming the streets, they had wire from the hardware store that one man carried in a coil on his back. They were to string it across the road and finish them off a bit more quietly. One of the residents had a sack of nails. A few women carried baseball bats.
Cricket knew that most of these folks had never killed before. They would make mistakes and maybe not shoot at all, or fire recklessly, missing on purpose, which was common even in the early stages of police training. Unless you were a sociopath, a person had to be shown with lots of practice to aim at another human being, stay on target, and repeatedly pull the trigger. The human tendency was to aim slightly left or right and stop shooting too early. She and Ron planned on filling in as necessary and allowing the virgins to make their first kills ASAP.
Like the bikers’ appearance was made to order for a special instructional video, the sound of several motorcycles approaching inspired the group to disappear behind trees and bushes and parked cars that hadn’t moved in months.
All Harleys, they grumbled slowly down the middle of the street, four total. Two had women riders on the back. The cycle in the lead with ape hangers signaled what looked like a right turn but there was no street coming up, just someone’s driveway that they pulled into.
None of the team came out of hiding when the first shotgun blast struck the house.
Muffled screams from inside were heard and Ron moved into position near the tree lawn, behind an oak. Cricket crossed the street a few houses down and used the cover of bushes to make her way toward the side of the house. The bikers laughed and pounded another 12-gauge shell into the living room window. Someone was yelling pathetically from inside and the attacker replied:
“Come outside. It’s a beautiful night. We just need to use the phone.”
More laughter from the group and one of the biker chicks started screaming: “We want everything. It all belongs to us!”
“That’s Dorothy,” the leader yelled. “She likes to have a good time, as a matter of fact she’s all over the stalls in Cleveland”—all the men joined in unison: ‘For a Good Time Call Dorothy.’ The leader added, “But I forget the number, but hey, she’s here. Well, mostly,” he chuckled. “Hey, we’ve been here for about thirty seconds and Dorothy’s very impatient. What Dorothy wants—” In unison the group yelled, “Dorothy gets!”
He pounded another shell into the front of the house.
This time it was a crossfire. Ron took up position across the street braced against a tree.
Off Ron’s left, Cricket knelt down and raised her Glock, aimed and shot the leader through the cheek. He roared with some other mechanism of speech now that most of his jaw and mouth had been obliterated. She moved to the guy actually closest to her and he spun toward her, and she took him down with a gut shot. Ron finished the guy and felled the woman called Dorothy.
Cricket fired at whoever stood and was moving. One guy kept firing in a circle and both their shots spun him around one more time, a spectator observing his own death from a three-hundred-sixty-degree perspective. From where she kneeled, she shot a woman starting to sit up and the woman immediately lay back down. She couldn’t get a good enough shot at the leader, who was still alive, grunting and swearing. She signaled to Ron she was moving in.
She stood up, both hands on the gun, aiming at each body, ready to fire if they moved. Ron was crossing the street with his rifle shouldered and his .45 pointed as well.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 20