Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  “What about Miss Rostov? Who is she, and why did you bring her with you?”

  “For her protection,” Alma said promptly. “We couldn’t leave her in New Orleans, not with these people still on the loose.”

  “Yeah, but who is she?”

  Stasi lifted her hand like a schoolgirl. “I’m a friend of Dr. Ballard’s. An old friend.”

  For a second, Alma thought Jerry was going to explode, but he controlled himself, and even managed a tight smile.

  “How good a friend, Doc?” Carmichael called, and Jerry pretended not to hear.

  “Looks like you were in a heck of a fight, Mrs. Segura,” a new voice said. She thought it was the man from the New York Post, but all the faces blurred together at this point. “Are you going to be physically able to continue the race?”

  He was on their side, she realized abruptly. Whatever he thought they’d actually been up to — and maybe he even believed her — he wanted them to continue, and was offering them a chance to make their case.

  “I hope so,” she said, with what she hoped was a game smile. “We’re a bit bruised and battered, as you can see —””

  “But you should see the other guy?” The Post reporter grinned back.

  “I certainly hope we left our mark,” Alma answered. “But — to be honest, gentlemen, we grabbed Mr. Sorley and beat it out of there. With Miss Rostov’s help, to be sure.”

  “Did the gang say why they attacked you?”

  “What do the police say?”

  The two reporters spoke almost at once, and Alma raised her hands again. “Mr. Kershaw is dealing with the police for us,” she said. She'd have to remember to tell Henry that. “Our main concern was making it back to the airfield in time for our takeoff. As for why — as I said, I believe someone was trying to spoil our chances of winning the race.”

  Lewis cleared his throat. “I’ve heard there’s a fair amount of money being wagered on this race,” he offered. That was indisputably true, Alma thought, but she suspected the silence that followed was more shock that Lewis had spoken.

  “And now — gentlemen, we have a lot of work to do if we’re going to get ready for the next part of the race,” she said. “I’ll be happy to give interviews later, but right now, we need to get to it.”

  For a moment, it hung in the balance, but then a couple of referees came forward, pointing them toward their place in the hangar, and the reporters moved grudgingly away.

  “All right,” she said, willing herself to concentrate. “Lewis, you’re flying. Do you want a nap first?”

  He considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m all right. If I sleep now, it’ll just make things worse.”

  Alma nodded, recognizing that state of exhaustion. “Mitch, are you fit to help with the engines?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He looked like death, but she needed him. “Ok. Jerry, keep an eye on Miss Rostov.”

  “We can play gin,” Jerry said. “Right after she hands over the necklace.”

  Alma swore. Of course in all the confusion at the airport they hadn’t managed to get rid of the damned thing. “We’re going to have to do something about it,” she said, and Jerry nodded, holding out his hand to Stasi.

  She made a moue of distaste, but produced the necklace from somewhere within the rags of her dress. Jerry nodded, and gestured for Stasi to precede him up the steps. “Please, Miss, after you.”

  Lewis touched Alma’s arm, and she took a deep breath. “Right. Let’s get to work.”

  Lewis braced his thigh against the top of the ladder, putting his full weight on the wrench to tighten the last bolt on the engine cowling. He and Alma had been over the engines and all the control lines, making sure that everything was in perfect shape after the morning’s flight, and now — he pocketed the wrench and slid back down the ladder, hearing another plane’s engines revving outside the hangar. Now it was just waiting for the start, though from the sound of things it wouldn’t be long.

  He folded the ladder, carrying it out of the way, and as he came back to the Terrier, Alma emerged from the passenger compartment.

  “Ok,” she said. “I found some clothes for Miss Rostov, and she’s volunteered to do the suitcase run in Jerry’s place.”

  “That’s good,” Lewis said. She definitely couldn’t go on in that ripped cocktail dress, not showing that much thigh. He could feel the color rising in his face just at the thought, and hastily turned his mind to the suitcase race. Jerry had never been going to do well in that — pack a suitcase and then carry it over an obstacle course; they’d intended to get a waiver from the race officials to have him do it, on the grounds that Jerry couldn’t very well be expected to run on his wooden leg. Miss Rostov was a better solution, even if it would make Jerry furious.

  “Jerry’s not happy,” Alma said, as if she’d read his mind, “but he sees the necessity.”

  Lewis nodded. They moved together toward the hangar door as another plane revved its engines, got there in time to see the Corsair flash past, barely a hundred feet above the runway. The course was set up using the shorter of the landing strips; the pylons rose at each end of the shorter east-west strip, lightweight fifty-foot towers topped with short, bright flags that rippled in the steady breeze. The Corsair tipped sideways, turning tight and steep, easily a sixty-degree bank as it swung through the turn, and straightened, engines howling, to flash back down the course to the west.

  “Tight,” Alma said, and sounded for a moment dismayed.

  Lewis nodded. You wouldn’t have to take it that close, of course; make the turns a little wider, and you’d only have a thirty-degree bank, and much less chance that one failed engine would drop you out of the sky. But tight was also fast, and Jezek was taking full advantage of their plane’s smaller size. The Fords could never make that turn, not with their wingspan, and the Fokker would be cutting it dangerously close. The Terrier… He squinted into the sun, watching the Corsair’s wings flash as it tilted into another tight turn. Maybe. Mitch could do it, probably, on his best day, but — Lewis shoved the thought aside. He was flying, not Mitch, and that was all there was to it.

  The Corsair flashed past a final time, the announcer proclaiming the end of the final lap, heading out to sea to make a more reasonable turn back toward the main runway.

  “The best time of the day!” The announcer’s voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Jezek Air is now in first place for this leg of the competition. And don’t forget, folks, every second won in this race turns into two minutes in the main race!”

  Lewis tuned him out, watching the Corsair drop daintily onto the runway, while the Harvards’ Fokker gunned its engines at the edge of the field.

  “Twenty seconds.” Alma caught her breath sharply. “Forty minutes. If we could do that —”

  If. Lewis shaded his eyes, gauging his approach to the pylons. The Terrier was bigger than the Corsair, less maneuverable, but it was still more maneuverable than the Fords. The Fords would definitely have to take the turns at a shallower angle, a wider radius, which meant they’d definitely be slower. The Fokker — that was harder to tell.

  The Harvards turned into the wind, lifting easily off the tarmac. From the look of it, the way they caught the air, they were flying light, cutting back on fuel to make them as maneuverable as possible. And they’d left their passenger on the ground: May Saltonstall stood near the hangar entrance, her arms folded tight across her chest. Lewis looked back at the Fokker, circling lazily back toward the field, lining up for the entrance to the course.

  “And the flag is up!”

  Lewis’s muscles tensed as though he was flying himself as the Fokker dropped lower, two hundred feet, a hundred, seventy-five, flashing over the start line painted on the ground and into the first turn. They were on the Corsair’s line, or very close to it, left wing pointed almost at the ground as they made the turn. McIsaac must be on the ragged edge of control, Lewis thought. They’d have to make the mail drop, of course, but
it looked as though they were going to hold that for an ending lap.

  The Fokker swung around the far pylon, wing down as though they were pivoting on the tip of the pylon itself.

  “That’s cutting it awfully close,” Alma said, over the noise of the engines.

  “Yeah.” Lewis nodded, shading his eyes again as the Fokker headed back toward the ocean. It banked again, wing tilting toward the pylon, and the plane staggered. Clipped the top of the pylon, he knew instantly, as the flag fell like a streamer and the Fokker tipped further, pitching sideways. He heard Alma gasp, and someone screamed. Miss Saltonstall had both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. Somehow McIsaac wrestled it back, not to level, that was too much to expect, but into the opposite bank, pointing it down the long runway away from the crowd. The tip of the left wing was damaged, and the Fokker was going down, wobbling toward the end of the runway. Too fast, Lewis thought, and it hit, the wheels collapsing under its weight. It skidded down the runway on its belly, the left engine smoking now, rudder hard right to spin it, slow it against the ground.

  Bells clanged in the hangar, and a fire truck was already moving, rolling out even before the Fokker ground to a stop, half a dozen men clinging to the side of the tank. The left engine was still trailing smoke, but the smoke was fading, maybe not going to burst into flames. Alma grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his biceps, her face like chalk. Come on, Lewis thought, willing them to be alive.

  “Come on, get out of there —”

  He hadn’t realized he was speaking aloud until he heard Alma’s breath catch again. And then at last the hatch opened, a black gap in the fuselage, and a figure climbed awkwardly down, turned back to help another. Two, that was two of them — and there was the third, holding one arm close to his body, the others supporting him away from the plane.

  The truck was there, water playing on the engine, on the Fokker’s wooden body, and Lewis heaved a sigh of relief. No one dead, not even too badly hurt, just the plane cracked up, when he’d expected, they’d all expected, to see the Fokker cartwheel across the runway shedding fire like a lit Catherine-wheel. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Jezek and the girl from Consolidated hovering over Miss Saltonstall, who was weeping in Mrs. Jezek’s embrace.

  Lewis took a deep breath and then another, letting the adrenaline drain out of him. They were all more or less ok, and that was the main thing. And, God forgive him, he could see just where they’d gone wrong. He could do this — all right, he couldn’t make up all the time they’d lost, but he could get them twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, maybe a hair more, if the wind stayed just where it was, and steady. And then it would be up to Al.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It took the better part of an hour to get the field cleared, and even then the wreck of the Fokker was merely dragged to the side of the airstrip. It didn’t look as though the Harvards were going to be able to get it back into the race — the undercarriage was shattered, and the tip of the left wing looked as thought something had been chewing on it — but at least they were all alive. McIsaac had broken his wrist, and been carted off to the nearby Navy hospital to have it splinted, but that was nothing. Not compared to what could have happened.

  Lewis allowed himself a last drink of water, warm and flat and odd-tasting, and turned back to the Terrier. It was almost time, and he couldn’t afford to worry about the Harvards right now. The main thing — the only thing — was the pylon race. The mail drop first, he thought. They weren’t allowed to do it on the first lap, but if they made the drop on the second, they could build speed the rest of the way. They still probably couldn’t beat the Corsair, it was just a better plane for the job, but they should be able to make up time on everybody else. And the Corsair was going to struggle on the last leg anyway.

  He ducked under the Terrier’s tail, came up the fuselage to find Alma standing at the top of the steps, looking down at Mitch. Mitch looked better than he had, some of the color returned to his face, but for once the stubble stood out sharply against his skin.

  “I can do it, Al,” he was saying.

  Alma shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, but —””

  “You don’t trust me.”

  “You’re in no shape right now,” Alma said. “And even if you were — I’m going to need you tomorrow.”

  Mitch’s breath caught, a sound something like laughter. “Al, we’re out of it. And, yeah, it’s my fault. Let me at least go for the prize this leg.”

  Lewis hesitated. He’d never heard Mitch like that before, and if Mitch thought the race was over — well, maybe it was. He knew the Terrier better than anyone, and if he didn’t think they could make it…

  “Mitch.” Alma’s voice was compassionate but firm. “You’re not flying this leg because I need you to take the second leg tomorrow. That’s final.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Al —””

  “I need you more tomorrow,” Alma said. “Lewis is going to get as much time back as possible and then — then I’ve got ideas.”

  Oh, Al, Lewis thought. He knew her well enough by now to know when she was stretching the truth, and that was definitely a stretch. She saw him then, and met his gaze without apology. Mitch’s shoulders moved as he took a heavy breath.

  “Ok,” he said, “but —””

  Lewis took a step forward. “I’d like Mitch in the co-pilot’s seat,” he said, looking from Alma to Mitch. “If you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll do it,” Mitch said.

  Alma opened her mouth as though to protest, then nodded. “Ok. I’ll handle the mail drop.”

  “On the second lap,” Lewis said. “And then —”

  Alma gave a tired grin. “Strap in and hang on.”

  They were last onto the field, a bit past three in the afternoon, the sun seeming to hang just above the western pylon. That would make things a bit more difficult, Lewis thought, but at least the breeze had died to almost nothing. Weather tomorrow, he was willing to bet, but he shoved that thought out of his mind. The only thing that mattered now was the mail drop and the pylons.

  The engine sang as he lined the Terrier up on the main runway and opened the throttles, the big plane lifting easily with its light load of fuel. There would be ample for the race, but they’d left the tanks half empty to spare the weight. Mitch swore the Terrier would dance Swan Lake with this load, and Lewis hoped it was true.

  He leveled off at two hundred feet, circled back toward the hangars, getting the feel of the air. The sun was awkward, but not as bad as he’d feared, and he swung back over the course, mapping the long oval.

  “Yellow flag’s up!” Alma yelled from the cabin.

  Lewis nodded, easing the Terrier into a gentle descent, heading for one-fifty, and Mitch shouted back, “Ok.”

  They had one practice lap after the yellow flag, and then the green went up and the timer started. Lewis shoved the throttle forward, searching for the line. This was the easy way, a wider loop around the pylon, thirty degrees of bank and then steady down the course, the sun turning the sky white with glare. There was the flag, the second pylon, and this was the turning point, the Terrier hard over. Maybe she wouldn’t dance Swan Lake for him, but she was quick and light under his hands as he straightened for home.

  “Green flag!” Alma shouted.

  “Ok,” Mitch answered.

  Lewis pushed the throttle forward just a little more. There was no point in trying to get up to speed just yet, not with the mail drop to come on the next lap. Instead, he focused on the most efficient path, the exact moment to begin the turn. The Terrier heeled, swung to face the sun, and he leveled out again.

  “Next lap,” he said, and Mitch repeated it.

  This time as he rounded the pylon and flattened out, he dropped lower still. He kept his eyes on the eastern pylon, but he couldn’t help picturing Alma crouched in the cabin’s open door, the mail bag ready at her feet. She wore a harness, of course, but even so it was dangerous… He shoved that thought
aside, throttling back just a little as they approached the drop zone.

  “Bag’s away!” Alma yelled, and Lewis shoved the throttle forward.

  “Hang on,” Mitch shouted.

  Lewis ignored them both, the geometry suddenly clear. No need to gain altitude, they’d waste time and upset the Terrier’s balance. Instead, he picked the point of his turn, closer than before, letting the Terrier tip up to sixty degrees, turning on her downward-pointing wing. And then they were past the pylon, flashing into the sun. He leveled her, engines howling. No more power, she wouldn’t take it, just the steady rhythm of the course, the turn made just here, just that deep, standing her on her wingtip to rotate past the pylon and then out again. The sea in his eyes, and then the sun, and the sea again, and then at last Alma was yelling from the cabin.

  “Yellow flag! We’re done! Yellow flag!”

  Lewis aborted the last turn, let the Terrier bore on out over the water, gaining height and shedding speed for a decorous run back to the field.

  “Nice flying,” Mitch said, and when Lewis glanced warily at him, the smile was genuine. “Hell of a nice job.”

  Alma leaned in the cockpit door, her hands braced on the frame. “My God, Lewis. Beautiful.”

  “Let’s see what our time is,” Lewis said, and would have crossed his fingers if he could.

  He brought the Terrier down neatly onto the main runway, taxied back to the hangars at standard speed in spite of the desire to rush, to see where they’d finished. The reporters were waiting, of course, flashbulbs popping as Alma lowered the steps and they climbed out of the plane. The air was hot and still, the last of the breeze vanished, and Lewis felt the sweat standing out on his skin. Alma kissed his cheek for the reporters, and he managed a game smile, but his eyes were fixed on the board where one of the referees was chalking up the new results.

  Second place. Second place behind the Corsair, and fourteen seconds ahead of the next competitor. Twenty-eight minutes off their time. It was better than nothing. It was a lot better than nothing, twenty-eight minutes off meant that they were only an hour and five minutes behind. But — Mitch might have been right, that might just be too much to make up on the last long leg into Coconut Grove.