“UUUUH . . . ” Everon grimaced.
Alongside the air museum was the huge beat-up old helicopter, red and white stripes under the dust, an HH-3F, a Coast Guard Pelican.
How long’s it been here? He frowned at the thick, barren elm that punched up into the cold night sky between two of its five old rotor blades.
It wasn’t all bad. Visibility would be good all the way around the nose of the craft—windows on both sides went all the way to the floor. On either side of the Pelican’s bulbous nose were mounted two white wheel pontoons to keep the craft balanced during emergency water landings. Rubber tires protruded below. Mounted above its sliding side cargo door was a powerful hoist.
He slid back the door and dodged a pair of squirrels that shot right at him.
The interior looked even rougher than the outside. Flakes of crud. Gray seats falling apart. Half-eaten acorns. Sue was right. Doesn’t look like it has much chance of flying.
“Whatchudoin?” a voice called. A saggy-eyed, baggily-dressed old guy wearing a pair of blue coveralls appeared at the door of the museum.
“Do you know anything about this machine?” Everon asked.
“Ah should. Ah’m the owner of this here museum and everything in it including this here helicopter.”
“You must be Mr. Gunn.”
“Sam.” They shook hands.
Everon studied the big machine. “Will it run?”
“Not sure. Been half a year ah guess. Old bird ain’t nearly old as me though. Helicopter company only built a hundred an’ fifty ah these S-3s an’ a movie studio six months ago had ’er outta here, rented ’er offa me for a coupla weeks. Put a lot into ’er, gettin’ ’er to fly again. Them General Electric Tuboshaft engines is good ones though. Useta use ’em in the President’s chopper, Marine One’s jus’ like this one ya know.”
Right now Everon didn’t want to know. But the old guy rambled on: Sam and his wife had just arrived at the airport—he’d woken up at nine o’clock this evening when he’d thought the bomb’s shock wave was his wife rousting him out of bed. “Refused ta let me sleep, worrying about everything under the sun ’til ah couldn’t take it no more.”
The power was out. Their radio didn’t work. But their old car still did. They drove down to the airport to see what was going on. He’d been surprised none of her guesses had been right. She’d never thought of an atom bomb. Neither had he.
“These flyin’ boats—used to r’cover A-pollo capsules out of the drink with ’em—Coast Guard ran ’er ’fore ah got ’er.”
“Can you rent it—er, her to me?” Everon asked, rushing a word in.
“What you gonna do with ’er?”
“We’re making an emergency run into the city.”
“Hmmm. Well . . . you take ’er, if you think it’ll do anybody any good. Wish I could go with you. My feet don’t work so well anymore. Ah was in that little police action we did, you know—Vietnam.”
The old craft’s batteries were shot. The Pelican’s fuel had been sitting so long it turned to sludge. From the tower generator locker, John Coates let Everon borrow a portable drill and a few wrenches. But he soon found nobody at the airport would sell him anything.
There were four things Everon couldn’t take: Doing a job over again—do it right the first time! Being so close to something he could almost touch it but prevented from his desire by some kind of barrier—barriers are meant to be broken down! Being right in the middle of a project and having it canceled—someone reneging on a contract.
And being told “No.”
Trying to fly from Teterboro into the city to look for Cyn was turning out to have all four. It was pissing him off.
No’s were meant to be turned into yes’s.
In the middle of the airport’s perimeter highway, he found a stranded diesel tank trucker whose semi wouldn’t run and talked him into selling his two spare batteries.
Then he needed fuel.
He thought about trying to carry it in on foot, ten gallons at a time, using two of Sam’s old five-gallon jerry cans. The pilot’s manual he found under the pilot’s seat said the Pelican held six hundred gallons. He wanted to fly with full tanks. Sixty trips past the military? Not likely.
Sam loaned him the museum’s ancient fuel truck.
“Where are you going?” the guards at the gate asked.
“I’ve got a line on some fuel if you think the Red Cross or the military can use it,” he lied.
They let him through.
He talked the trucker he’d gotten the batteries from into selling him seven hundred gallons of fresh diesel. Another trucker he talked into filling the two jerry cans with gasoline. He headed back in.
“Did you find any fuel?” the guards asked.
“Unfortunately not,” Everon shook his head.
He was allowed to bring the old tanker back inside.
Everon drained the Pelican’s tanks, and with gasoline in the two jerry cans, he cleaned out the Pelican’s fuel lines.
In a rear cabinet he found an old maintenance manual. He lubricated every point listed. Checked the fuse panel, replaced several bad fuses, and reconnected two broken wires. He could feel the clock ticking as he worked. He was burning time. Cyn’s time!
The transmission looked okay. He’d know better if he got the old bird turning. But before he could even try starting the twin turbines a major problem was still with him—that tall elm, standing between her rotor blades.
They must have rolled the thing in here with the blades collapsed, he figured. Disassembling the main rotor, moving the whole machine out piece-by-piece to some suitable launch spot would take hours he didn’t have. How do I hide that from the military? And that damn Vandersommen’s probably around somewhere too.
He went to Sam.
“Is there any chance I could cut down that elm?”
“That old tree don’t look so healthy. Prob’ly elm disease. Guess you’d be doing me a favor. It ain’t gonna be easy to get ’er out-a there though.”
Everon found a guy in a maintenance hangar with a chainsaw. The guy cranked it up and cut a big V halfway through, then started on the other side of the trunk.
Despite Everon hanging desperately on lower branches along the tree’s east side, the elm refused to cooperate. It tilted north until it picked up speed and went over with a sweeping crash, right onto the roof of the museum.
Everon grimaced. Better than falling onto the chopper. But he worried. Would that be it? Would Sam call a halt to the entire insane idea he was chasing?
Sam surveyed the crack in the museum’s eave, shrugged and said, “No harm done. Get in and give ’er a kick.”
Everon climbed inside.
If it ran—no matter what, this time he was going in.
Magic Words
Franklin raced back down the hill, concerned he’d gone too far. I’ve never done anything like— Not even for people at the church . . .
He slowed to cross the big intersection at Route 46, then picked up his pace again, head shaking: never without their permission—someone expressing a personal desire for change—
Even then it had caused him grief.
Using psychology and hypnosis to help church members solve personal problems had only gotten him a dressing down by Reverend Maples. He could hear the senior minister now:
“Prayer, Franklin. It’s the only way!”
And worse still, Franklin thought, that Red Cross guy’ll never come through anyway!
At the pedestrian gate where he’d left the airport, coiled razor wire now topped the chain-link fence, soldiers in gray urban camouflage now blocked his way. Checking IDs and credentials.
“No entry without proper military authorization,” said the soldier to his right, a man with short fuzzy hair and mottled skin like charred coal.
“I came through this same gate only an hour ago,” Franklin explained.
“Airport access is severely restricted now.
What business do you have at Teterboro?” The man was trying to act tough, but Franklin sensed a friendly warmth underneath.
“I flew in on that jet over there,” Franklin pointed to the small white WILLIAMS Lear lined up in the middle of half a dozen other aircraft. Neither Everon nor Andréa was in sight. “I’m a minister. I was up at the hospital trying to organize a Red Cross mission.”
A second soldier, a pink-faced serious young man in black plastic glasses, eyeballed Franklin’s dark tied-back hair. The jeans, the black leather jacket. “Do you have some kind of church ID that says you’re a minister—or something that identifies you with that aircraft?”
Franklin’s hand went to his back pants pocket. Empty! In all the rush—Everon’s call at Ash Cave, getting to the jet, the aborted Robinson flight—he’d left his wallet in his fanny pack with his climbing gear.
“Uh—I left my wallet in the plane.”
Another soldier, tough-looking, massive, wearing a slanted dark beret and sergeant stripes, stepped over. His full cheeks and bulging lips looked ready to explode. The name on the uniform said PAGE.
“No ID, no entry!” Page snapped. “Nobody’s allowed to fly outta here.” Page’s was a sickly, psychotic voice.
“Sarge, maybe we ought to let him in,” said the first soldier.
“Shut it!” Page leaned in, got right in Franklin’s face. “Go back up ta the hospital! Plentya sick and dyin’ up there for ministers ta take care of!”
The soldiers under Page’s command seemed perfectly used to his lack of consideration. And Franklin felt no embarrassment. Only determination.
I have to get through!
He was already studying Page, senses collecting data: heart rate, skin tension. How many friends, how many relatives has this man probably lost in the city? He’s just following somebody’s orders. It’s only the sound of a sick soul trying to push away its pain. But the man wasn’t going to listen to reason. What can I use—to get past him?
But then strangely, Franklin suddenly shut down.
What’s wrong with me? Doubts creeping in: I didn’t really get anywhere with that hospital guy, did I? He couldn’t think. He couldn’t process. Couldn’t understand. He glanced at the distant glow on the sky. I have to get in there! Analyze! Is—is Page falling back on—on his military training? The same way I would—?
“Move on or be put under arrest!” Page shouted in his face.
Franklin knew how it was. His own Army training had been fun—once his drill sergeant reported his climbing ability. Right out of boot camp the Army began using him to teach rappelling to Special Forces troops at Cliffside, Colorado . . .
“Okay,” Page said. “That’s it. Lock him up!”
“But what if he is a minister, Sarge?”
“What if I’m the tooth fairy? You heard me!”
Franklin’s hands shot to the chain-link fence.
Page’s men tried to pull him away. Half-heartedly, Franklin thought. They’ll have to do better than that!
Resist!
His hands gripped like steel. Orders given, orders obeyed! Independent thought replaced by obedience! Just like South America. The story he’d told Chuck was true, with one fatal exception. They hadn’t just flown away. He never did understand why out of all the possible cartel operations to go after, they’d been ordered to target that particular village. And nobody would ever tell him.
The same way Sergeant Page has no clear reason for what he’s doing now!
The two men under Page’s command struggled harder, trying to rip him from the fence. One lifted his feet. Page’s beret went flying as he jumped in too, twisting him one way then back, until his legs were straight out from the gate post. The hip on Page’s camo pants caught on a wire in the chain-link fence—RrriiiiP! The gray fabric tore.
“What’s going on here!” a clipped, sophisticated voice called out. A colonel quickly stepped up alongside Page. His gray camo field uniform bore no medals or ribbons but its shiny metal plate read: MARSH.
The men dropped Franklin’s legs. Sturdy, square-bodied, sandy hair going gray, Marsh seemed a by-the-rules officer. But something about the man said: FAIR.
Franklin got his feet beneath him, stood—but this time just inside the fence—while Page explained.
“This man has no ID—claims he came in on a plane over there!” he scoffed angrily. “Trying to scam his way into the airport with some line about a phony Red Cross mission!”
“We can’t have that!” Marsh agreed.
Franklin had really pissed the sergeant off. If there was one thing an Army sergeant knew, it was how to handle his senior officers—something Franklin understood even if he hadn’t liked. When finally it came time to re-enlist, from an Army base in Texas he’d called the only living person he truly trusted. Cynthia. His sister’s advice, simple: “Don’t let your life’s right thing pass you by.” Nine years later, Franklin was ordained.
Watching Colonel Marsh now, Sergeant Page, the two men under them, Franklin had a disturbing thought. Orders given, orders obeyed. Like the demands made by the church’s senior minister, Ralph Maples. The religious mind—the military mind. Both dependent on top-down orders—is there some connection? Can this help me get in somehow? He didn’t quite—
“Colonel Marsh! What are you doing?” a new voice roared with the sound of command. The approaching big, bald, bullet-headed officer was a two-star general! The polished metal name tag over the left pocket of his dress dark greens said ANDERS.
“Informing this civilian of the prohibition on unofficial rescues—”
“Snap it up then, Colonel! Officially sanctioned military flights only! I’m due at Newark in twenty minutes. Is there going to be a problem handling this airport, Colonel? Because if there is—”
“Not a problem, sir,” Marsh said. “Alright, men!”
They began to peel Franklin’s fingers off the fence tubes. He was moments from Page’s men hauling him off—without reprieve this time. These men and their inane orders! Won’t let me inside! It’s Cynthia’s life! His mind ran furiously, trying to think of any way he could talk himself around them, when a familiar voice in his ear said,
“What’s going on?”
It was the big man himself, lugging a large green suitcase, a big red plus-sign on its side. Chuck Farndike smiled at Franklin. “Got everything we need right here.”
We? Franklin looked at him silently. He was supposed to set up Everon’s clearance—that’s all!
But Linguistic Reprogramming was about more choices, not less. Probably some of the suggestions had worn off. Not the things Chuck really wanted, though.
“They won’t let me back into the airport,” Franklin explained.
Franklin got it. Being a blood coordinator was no doubt a valuable service but not up to Chuck’s capabilities or true desires, the way he saw himself. To stay there collecting blood, a part of Chuck would have died.
Chuck looked at General Anders, and taking a deep breath, chest swelling, pulled an ID from his right pocket. Head point to Franklin. “This minister is assisting on a registered Red Cross mission to the city,” voice suddenly stronger. Official sounding.
Franklin almost smiled. He could breathe again.
“What aircraft?” Sergeant Page asked.
“Six-Six-Six-Kilo-India.”
“Is it on the list?” Marsh asked. The sergeant ran a finger down his clipboard.
With narrowed eyes, Anders looked Chuck up and down, the heavy muttonchops, the shabby pale-green hospital scrubs, doubt filling the general’s face.
Page’s finger stopped halfway down. Frowning. “Here it is. On the new list. Why didn’t you say—”
Anders nodded reluctantly. “Okay. Let them in, but let’s get a move on, Colonel.”
“Sir, I’m concerned we may have located these emergency medical facilities too close.”
“I haven’t got time to consider that right now.”
“But if the wind changes—”
“You have your orders!”
“Yes sir!”
“And get that uniform fixed, Sergeant.”
“Uh—yes sir!”
Anders moved off rapidly toward a squared-off old green sedan out of the 60s, a large white star on the door. Marsh looked at the sergeant. “You heard the general. Carry on!”
Page saluted. The colonel rushed off toward the tower.
With a sneer on his face, holding the side of his pants together, Page stepped back from the other soldiers, allowing barely enough room for a man to squeeze through.
Chuck sucked in his gut. He and Franklin pushed between them and hustled for the plane.
Victoria’s Rising Water
“Where am I?”
A glittering silver pole rose from the floor near her head. There was a dull ache in her left leg, bent strangely at the knee around a second pole—wasn’t I sitting on the other side of it?
The air felt damp and dusty. Above her head, a long row of lights glowed dimly, highlighted the orange of the seat where she’d been sitting—what seemed like only moments before. She could make out enough to remind herself of the last thing she could remember—I was riding in a subway car!
What time is it? A couple more minutes we’d have been into 59th and Lex! She brushed something from her eyes to read her watch. Its digital readout was blank. She tried to move. “Ye-aaahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Her vision cleared instantly as overwhelming pain shot up her leg, snapping her to full consciousness. Victoria Hill clamped down on the scream and through gritted teeth, sucked in breaths of damp air—is my knee broken? She held a breath and ran fingertips lightly around her kneecap, afraid to try to straighten it again. It was dry. No blood. Skin’s not cut—not yet. Be careful of it!
The long car was sitting at an angle. People were jumbled around, groaning, someone crying faintly. Victoria touched her right forefinger to a cold area near her right temple and let her breath escape. Wet, slippery—blood, she thought.
The blood shocked more than scared her.
LOSS OF REASON Page 6