She did not believe him for an instant; she couldn't take a chance on believing him. He would never let them go willingly.
The bus jolted to a stop in a rough field. The children slept but she could not; three hours passed slowly. At six o'clock the bus reverberated with the scurrying sounds of men getting ready to march. Someone knocked on the door and Helmut left without a word. She immediately looked inside the package Elsie had given her. There were four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—and a small-caliber pearl-handled pistol. She checked it carefully, making sure that it was loaded and the safety was off. She told herself, You better let him come close to you before firing. No, just wait by the door, shoot as soon as you can, just keep pulling the trigger until he falls.
Lyra hated that the children would have to see it happen, but there was no alternative. Suddenly it seemed as if it were a dozen years ago, in that miserable train in Germany.
Her tears stopped, and she was ready.
At Adams Field, Fitzpatrick was busy strapping Dixon Price into the luxurious gray leather chair installed for the governor's use in the right rear of the C-45. Price was excited, his face flushed, and he already had a headset clamped to his ears, but he looked up sharply as Josten eased himself into the aisleway. The man was obviously at the breaking point, his eyes darting from side to side, the corners of his mouth dotted white with dried saliva. God, was this the mastermind behind their arrangements?
Josten painfully edged up the aisle to sit directly behind the pilots. He had not been in an aircraft in a dozen years, not since the crash in his precious jet fighter. As luxurious as it was, this crackerbox with wings was nothing compared to a jet, but it had all the radios he needed to communicate with Ruddick on the ground, and, if necessary, for Dixon to talk to the governor.
There would probably be precious little talking to do. The whole operation, scheduled to begin in thirty minutes, would either be over with according to plan, or it would have gotten completely out of control. In either case, nothing Ruddick or the governor could do or say would matter, and his own role in it would be ended, just as his life would be in a few hours.
Yet within twenty minutes after takeoff, the airman within him had to appreciate that Fitzpatrick was a master pilot. In the early morning light, the man had the C-45 steeply banked flying perfect pylon eights on the bus below where Lyra and the children waited, never varying a foot in altitude, the wingtip aligned with the bus as with a transit. Price sat quietly in the back, monitoring the radios, watching intently, and Coleman seemed to be enjoying himself like a child at a circus, talking to Ruddick periodically as the Klan formed up below them.
The Storm Klan, smart in their trooper uniforms, swinging their billy clubs, ceremonial daggers at their sides, were in one column; the regular Klan, dressed in white robes—white on white and embroidered for the more affluent ones and sheets for the poor—were in a second column. They all struggled to keep their pointed hats straight as they brandished their clubs and sticks.
Josten took out his Walther automatic and checked it carefully. He had suffered so long, and the last week had turned the bus into a Dr. Caligari's cabinet for him, with Lyra's inability to mask her revulsion. Lyra had almost fooled him for part of the previous day, when she had said that she would be willing to stay with him. But she had never really relaxed, never given herself to him so that he was able to make love to her. That would have made all the difference, brought her back to him as they used to be. He felt strangely indifferent to the children; Ulrich was a stranger, totally Americanized, not at all as he would have been if Lyra had not run off. He would dispose of them, too; it didn't matter anymore. It would be nice to take Riley with them, but that was impossible. When this mess below was over, no matter how it turned out, he would end their suffering.
Coleman leaned back and motioned to him through the oval entrance to the cockpit. He leaned forward and Stan pointed to an orange flying boat that had entered into a circle over the encampment.
"Colonel, there's a strange airplane flying out there, a Catalina. I'm going to call Little Rock tower and see who they are."
Inside the flying boat, Marshall listened to Coleman's voice, so familiar from Korea, asking the Little Rock tower about the "big orange Catalina." The last time he'd heard him had been on the day he was shot down, the day Coleman had stolen his two victories from him. The bastard.
The Black pilot mashed down on his transmitter button. "Coleman, it's me, Bones Marshall. You remember me, you stole two of my MiGs, you white bastard."
Marshall turned to Bandfield and mouthed the word, "Sorry." Roget, seated in the back in the right blister, said, "Watch your tongue there, young man. We ain't supposed to get in no fight, we're supposed to find that blue bus."
In the Beechcraft, Fitzpatrick turned and put his finger to his lips, even as Coleman indignantly called into his hand-held microphone, "Stop your foul language on the air, Marshall, and clear the area. I'm speaking as the on-site commander."
Price screamed through the intercom, "For Christ's sake, Stan, shut up. It's bad enough they know we're here, don't admit to being the commander."
Josten shook his head in disgust; at least Dixon had some brains even if Coleman did not. Not that it made any difference anymore; it was almost seven, and the troops would soon be moving out.
Pointing to the Catalina, Coleman leaned over to Fitzpatrick. "Look at that, they're leaving. Can you imagine Marshall turning up here?"
"Why not? You heard Ruddick saying Marshall's wife was in town with the protestors; he's probably come in to protect her."
Below Ruddick winced at the transmission as the two columns moved out, joining into a single unit. If Marshall was here, Bandfield was, too; they were thicker than thieves. Probably here to get Marshall's wife. They might be too late. He hoped so.
Six miles away, the PBY, groaning under its eight-hundred-gallon load of water and dye, dove at 140 mph, the controls taut and heavy, the wind drumming against the big canopy.
Marshall turned to his copilot. "Looks like the Klan is getting ready to march through the Black part of town, where Saundra's staying. Let's make a run in on these guys."
"Sure you want to do it, John? We could hurt somebody with this stuff."
Marshall's eyes flashed as he glanced over. "I sure as hell hope so, Bandfield—do you want them lynching the poor Blacks down there?"
Bandfield hesitated until he saw the first line of Klansmen leaving the park where they had assembled to march off toward the first homes. Then he yelled, "Okay, I've got the equipment set up—just tell me when and I'll pickle it off!"
"Just dump half the load—we might want to make two passes. I'll come in at a hundred and fifty feet, try to get as many of these white-sheeted motherfuckers as I can."
Bandfield looked at Marshall, surprised at the obscenity from a man who rarely cursed, thinking how strange it was to be at war again, here in the United States, flying this old clunker.
The orange wings of the PBY were cocked at forty-five degrees as Bones reefed it around, leveled off, and headed straight toward the marchers, now only half a block away from the shabby street where the Black section of the city began. Marshall thought quickly how much it was like Italy again, or Korea—the keening dive to deliver bombs against an enemy. And these were truly his enemy, his people's enemy. This time he didn't have to use two rivets to aim with; Roget had installed a little open sight on the nose of the big flying boat.
Waiting until the sight coincided with the head of the column, he counted "One, two," and called "Water away!" He reefed the suddenly lighter Catalina around in a climbing turn, toward the circling C-45 as the yellow blob of water hurtled onward, blossoming out to hit the street immediately in front of the marching Storm Klanners, cascading up in a spreading spray, then rolling like a chrome-yellow blimp across them, covering them like a sticky clinging sheet. The first few hundred Klansmen were blinded and gasping for breath, their uniforms drenched with yellow; as a
man they turned to run through the troops behind them, most of them smeared with the yellow dye, but not soaked like the front rows. One Storm Klanner screamed, "The niggers are using mustard gas!" and in that moment the march through "darkytown" was over.
Roget crowed, "Direct hit, Bones, you nailed their asses with that one."
Josten had watched, unbelieving, as the huge globular mass had detached itself from the flying boat to saturate his troops. He felt the blood pounding in his head as he saw the work of months turn into a rout, his troops fleeing in a tide of yellow that surged through the white-clad forces behind them. Berserk, he jabbed his finger at the Catalina.
"Ram them, damn you, ram them!"
Fitz shook his head. "Are you crazy? I ain't ramming nobody."
Josten looked at him momentarily, aimed his pistol at Dixon, and said, "Ram them, or I'll shoot your friend here."
Coleman said, "Wait a minute, Helmut, don't be—"
Josten raised his pistol and fired, the bullet shattering Price's forehead and blowing the back of his skull away. Josten jammed the hot barrel of the smoking revolver in Coleman's neck, saying, "Now ram them, or I'll do the same to your friend."
Fitz, suddenly believing, nodded shocked agreement as Coleman stared back in horror at Price slumped in the seat, blood from the massive wound pouring across the gray leather. His body quivered once, his arms and legs drawing up in a defensive spasm. Then he was still.
Fitz began talking to Josten. "Look, we don't have to ram them. We're faster and more maneuverable than they are. I'll come in on top of them, and slice their rudder off with my prop. That will send them in, and we can land on one engine if we have to."
Josten, suddenly aware that Lyra would now live on without him, yelled, "All right, try it. If it doesn't work, then by God we'll ram them." He wondered if Riley could be on board the Catalina—he was a friend of the Negro, that would be perfect.
Marshall had the flying boat in a turn, surveying the yellow chaos below, when Bandfield called, "Bones, isn't that a blue bus in the middle of the park with the Klan guys?"
Below them, in a panel truck near the bus, Ruddick saw the tide of white and yellow surging toward him. He stepped out, waving his arms. "Stop, you're not hurt. Stop . . ." He grabbed the first man to reach him, pulled him to the truck. As the crowd cascaded around them, the truck an island in the sea of fleeing men, the Storm Klanner looked at him in panic, pulled the ceremonial dagger from its sheath, thrust it in Ruddick's side, and ran on. Pain rippling through him like sheet lightning, unable to understand the panic or the stabbing, Ruddick staggered from the truck and fell. The next wave of stampeding Klanners trampled him into the asphalt, their cleated boots crushing his aquiline nose, grinding his glasses into those forever cold blue eyes, stilling his melodious voice.
A thousand feet above Ruddick's broken body, the Catalina circled, as Roget called, "Hey, that little bug-smasher's making a run on us. We better get out of here."
Marshall yelled, "Bandy, you call Little Rock and tell them where the bus is. Hadley, keep your eye on the C-45. Think he's got any guns on that thing?"
Bandfield twisted in his seat. "Doubt it, but we'll find out in a minute, he's easing in above us. Shit, I can't see him anymore!"
Roget called out, "I got him, he's high on our starboard side, closing in. Looks like he's trying to ram us . . . gimme a steep left turn, John!"
Marshall rolled the heavy PBY to the left and the Beech fell away.
Roget snorted. "Hell, he's trying to chop off our rudder with his prop."
"Where are they?"
"He's edging back in, about four hundred feet out, maybe fifty feet low. Why don't you get down on the deck, keep him from getting underneath us where we can't see him."
Marshall's voice was strained. "Okay, I'll let down. Just keep telling me where he is, distance and direction."
Marshall dove below the trees, cutting along the river's surface, hauling back to clear the boats below as the C-45 edged closer.
"Big mistake, Bandy; I've boxed us in down here, should have stayed high."
The stench in the Beechcraft had become intolerable; in death Price had lost control of his bowels and bladder. Fitz turned to Josten. "I'm getting sick. Can't we just go in and land?"
Josten cocked the pistol and pressed it to Coleman's head. "Ram him or chop his rudder off, one or the other, or I'll kill Coleman, and then you."
Coleman's lips barely moved as he whispered, "Do what he says, Fitz."
The pilot had already pushed the props and mixture forward; now he came in with the throttles, easing in closer, level with the Catalina.
Roget watched him, caught up in the excitement, able to see clearly inside the cockpit.
"There's a guy in there with a pistol big as a house."
Exasperated, Marshall yelled into the intercom, "Quit the fucking play by play and tell me where they are."
"Now they've moved back about ten feet, fifty feet high and two hundred feet back."
Bandfield, neck sore from swiveling around trying to see the Beechcraft, said, "There's a bridge coming up, Bones, just chop the power and land this thing, put it down on the river. If they haven't got any guns, they won't be able to hurt us>"
Marshall's face was contorted in a snarl. "Bullshit, I'm going to nail this guy. Bandy, on the count of three, hit the JATO bottles. Hadley, when we get above them, yell, and we'll dump the water."
The PBY was at maximum power, jets of black smoke streaming from its exhaust as the C-45 moved in closer, its prop edging toward the Catalina's rudder.
Marshall's voice was brittle as he called, "One, two, three!"
"JATO on!"
As soon as he felt the surge of the JATO rockets, Marshall hauled back on the control column, pulling the Catalina's nose up. In the C-45, Fitz instinctively chopped the power to avoid a collision as the flying boat sailed above them, climbing at a thirty-degree angle.
Roget yelled, "Water away!" and Bandfield toggled the switch.
The second four hundred gallons rolled out of the Catalina's belly in a billowing cloud, inundating the Beechcraft with a gleaming yellow smear that covered the windscreen in a glaucous haze.
Fitzpatrick keyed his mike. "Little Rock tower, this is Beech Five Five; we got an emergency here, I'm going to need a ground-controlled approach. I can't see a damn thing."
As he spoke he saw the manifold pressure flicker and the rpms surge on first the left, then the right, engine as their induction systems choked on the aluminized water. Power dropped away and he lowered the nose to keep his airspeed.
Josten pounded on the back of Fitz's seat. "Faster. Get them."
Fitzpatrick shook his head. "Shut the fuck up, you Kraut bastard."
Josten looked at Fitzpatrick with hatred and raised his pistol to fire just as the Beechcraft hit the center pylon of the bridge in a massive explosion.
In the circling Catalina, Roget called, "My God, he hit the bridge."
Marshall, exultant, pounded the cockpit coaming, yelling, "How did you like that, Coleman? That one was for Dave Menard."
Bandfield called Little Rock tower and told them about Lyra in the van. It took a half-dozen transmissions before the tower operator could believe what Bandy was saying and agree to get someone out of the blue bus.
At the moment of the Beechcraft impact, Weissman and Riley had worked their way to the field where Josten's bus was parked. The remnants of the Klan ignored them as they streamed toward their waiting trucks, anxious only to get out of there, to get rid of their yellowed uniforms and robes.
Weissman was carrying a massive five-foot-long crowbar. He handed it to Riley. "You pop the door open, and I'll go in first; if Josten's there I'll kill him."
They crept to the bus and waited. There was no sound from inside. Riley jammed the crowbar in the door by the lock and heaved; the door popped open and Weissman flung himself inside. Lyra's first bullet caught him in the shoulder, the second went into the walnut paneling abo
ve his head, just as Riley yelled, "Lyra, don't shoot, it's me."
Weissman slumped to the floor in pain, wondering where Josten was. He realized they all were safe when Riley and Lyra embraced, the two children clinging to Riley's legs. As his shoulder throbbed with pain, he thought, Weissman the Wounded—that's too much.
Bandfield had called ahead, and when the Catalina pulled into the line at Little Rock Air Force Base, the base commander and a raft of staff officers and Air Police were waiting.
Colonel May shook his hand and said, "Bandy, we just got a call from Colonel Riley; he said to tell you that he has his wife and children and is on the way to the base."
"Thank Christ—did he say they were okay?"
"He didn't say—but he was gibbering with happiness, so I guess they are. Now tell me about this crazy business with the Air Guard C-45."
Marshall grabbed Bandfield's arm. "Can we do it on the way in? I want to get Saundra."
"You go ahead—I'll wait here for Riley. Okay, Dick?"
May nodded and Marshall edged the driver out of the seat. He waved, then burned rubber as he left the flight line, wondering if Saundra would come with him.
The streets were deserted. Two hours before, they had been streaming with the Ku Klux Klan—now they were empty. Marshall felt strangely comforted that he was in an Air Force car; it might help if he encountered any yellow-stained Little Rock policemen.
As he turned into Maynard Street he saw that his bombing had been right on the money; the dye had spread across the street and the park, but none of the houses on the block had been hit.
Most of the homes were small and unpainted, and few had their house numbers visible, but Saundra had described Lucy Tate's place to him when they talked the week before. He recognized it at once—neatly painted green and white, a picket fence surrounding a flower-laden yard. As he eased in to park, the front door opened and Saundra flew down the steps to the street, throwing herself, trembling, into his arms.
Air Force Eagles Page 47