Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "Mitch?"

  "Sorry." Mitch blinked. "What did you say, Danny? I can't read and think at the same time."

  "I said the waitress is trying to put down your sandwich," Danny said.

  "Oh." Mitch closed the paper. The woman was hovering with his plate, an annoyed expression on her face. "Beg pardon, miss." He folded it up beside the ketchup bottle. "Would you mind if I kept this paper? It looks real interesting."

  "Sure," Danny said easily. "It's got some good stuff. I dunno if I'd go as far as some of the guys in the Legion, but this Pelley guy has some points."

  Mitch frowned. The prickle at the back of his neck was back again. He picked up the ketchup bottle and soaked his meatloaf. "Pelley's in the Legion?"

  "Oh yeah. He's got a bunch of guys in some kind of auxiliary to the American Legion, some kind of offshoot club. They're kind of hardcore. I don't have time for all that stuff, not with three kids."

  "Through the Legion?"

  "Where else do you find vets?" Danny shrugged. "It's real political. Me, I'm all for the stuff about making the government pay for healthcare for vets and there ought to be a Bonus, but I can't get on board with wanting to expel the Legion posts that have Latins. You know, I'm from California. Most of our posts have guys who speak Spanish and English both. They ought to be in the Legion if they want to be."

  "Yeah, I think that too," Mitch said. But he'd bet ten bucks that Henry's post in Hollywood didn't have Latins, just a bunch of guys with money to spend on things like this. He frowned at the next column, reading the opening aloud. "Nostradamus predicted that the next great crisis in world affairs will begin in 1939. Are you ready?" He looked at Danny. "Is this guy for real?"

  Danny shrugged. "Some people believe in that occult stuff."

  "No accounting," Mitch said. He picked up his sandwich. "How many guys do you think he has?"

  "No more than a couple of thousand."

  Mitch nearly choked. "A couple of thousand?" he said when he'd chewed enough to speak.

  "Spread through all the posts and his newspaper? Yeah. Though I get the impression most are in the Midwest. That's where the Marshals are."

  "The what?"

  Danny shrugged again. "He calls them the Marshals. The highest ranking officers in the group, the inner circle." Danny took a bite of his sandwich. "The ones who take the occult stuff seriously."

  It was all Mitch could do to keep his voice casual. "That's pretty strange."

  "Yeah, you know." Danny grinned. "But doesn't every little kid dream of aspiring to the Siege Perilous? A seat at the Round Table? It's like a lot of clubs. Fancy titles, costumes, Knight of This, That, or the Other. Hell, Los Angeles is full of them!"

  "Yeah." Mitch made himself grin. "Fellowship of the Silly Hats!"

  Danny took another bite. "Only he calls his guys the Silver Shirts. Makes you think they're wrapped up in tinfoil. My son Howie, he had a shirt made out of tinfoil for this play he was in at school. He was supposed to be the Knight of Good Hygiene. He had a giant toothbrush for a lance."

  "A giant toothbrush?"

  "It was a real treat, let me tell you! And both my girls want to be tap dancing movie stars! You would not believe the bad tap programs I sit through applauding like a maniac!" He shook his head fondly. "You ought to have kids, Mitch. There's nothing like it."

  "I expect not," Mitch said.

  "So tell me about this Comanche crash. Was it weather? I don't know Rayburn but he's got a good reputation."

  "Nah, it wasn't Rayburn's fault," Mitch said. "Freak instrument failure. He was flying into Denver from Flagstaff…."

  They were at the field when the call came through, the operator diverting the call from the house to the telephone in the office. Alma heard it ring from across the hangar, where she was inspecting the Jenny, heard the ringing stop as Lewis picked up the receiver. She drifted over to join him, unconcerned until she saw the set of his shoulders, and his hand busy scribbling notes on the back of a fuel bill.

  "Yes," he said. "Ok, yes, we've — no, Sorley's on a flight, I'm expecting him back within the hour."

  It sounded like the Reserves again, but surely there couldn't have been another crash…. Her certainty died, looking at Lewis's face.

  "I can go before that if we have to. Alma would spot for me," Lewis said, and listened again. "Ok. Ok, I've got it. We'll radio when we're ready to take off."

  He hung up the telephone, and Alma said, "More trouble."

  Lewis nodded. "The afternoon mail flight to Denver hasn't turned up. It left Santa Fe on time, last radio contact said they were in sight of the Pueblo beacon."

  "The radio's been iffy all afternoon," Alma said. Her mouth was dry. "It's already getting dark. Do you want to wait for Mitch? We could take the Dude up together."

  "I offered, and Colonel Sampson said to wait." Lewis made a face. "I probably shouldn't have said anything, then it wouldn't be disobeying an order…."

  "It's all right," Alma said. It wasn't all right, it might cost the mail pilots their lives — but Mitch would be in by the time they could get the Dude ready to take off. "You start fueling, I'll get Linc to see if he can raise Mitch, give him a heads up before he gets here."

  Lewis nodded, and she grabbed her coat from the hook behind the door, shrugging it on against the deepening cold. Outside, the sun was on the rim of the mountains, throwing long shadows, only the top of the beacon tower still in sunlight. She huddled her coat closer around her shoulders and hurried across the narrow walk to the tower.

  It was warm in the narrow room, the fire crackling in the stove, and Lincoln looked up from his desk beside the radio table. "Oh, hey, Mrs. Gilchrist. The radio's finally cleared up a little. I just got a call from Mr. Sorley, and it sounded pretty clear. He says he'll be here in about forty minutes."

  "That's good news," Alma said. "Listen, do you think you can get him back? We just got a call over at the hangar. The air mail from Phoenix is overdue at Denver, and they've called out the Reserves."

  "Not again," Lincoln said. "My God."

  Alma nodded. "Let's hope it ends as well. I'm fueling up the Dude — put it on my tab for now, but I expect Sampson will pay."

  "I'll give you the government rate," Lincoln agreed, and swung his chair to face the radio table. "I'll let you know if I get through."

  "Thanks," Alma said, and headed back to the hangar.

  Lewis had gotten the tarps off and the heaters going. Alma backed the fuel truck into position and waited while the pumps forced the gasoline into the tanks. Lewis was filling them all, she saw, including the tiny secondary reserve — and it was worth it, if they were going to be flying a search grid in the fading light. The Reserves would pay for at least part of it.

  Lincoln ducked through the hangar's side door as she was backing the truck into its regular space, and came to lean in her window. "The interference is back, but I managed to raise Sorley. He says he'll be ready to go as soon as he gets in. I'll make up a thermos of coffee, too."

  "Could you call over to the house and ask Miss Rostov to make up some sandwiches? The men are going to want them."

  "Sure thing, Mrs. Gilchrist," Lincoln said, and hurried away.

  They were halfway through the checklist when she heard the sound of a car engine outside and a moment later the door opened to admit Arnie Poulson, who ran the town taxi. He was carrying a big paper bag, and touched his cap as she jumped off the ladder.

  "Hi, Mrs. Segura. Miss Rostov said you needed dinner up here."

  "Yes, thanks." Of course she'd had to call a taxi; the truck was here with them, and nobody but Mitch drove the Torpedo.

  Poulson looked up at the plane. "She said there was another crash?"

  "There's a mail plane overdue," Alma said. "They've ordered a search."

  "Damn — excuse my language." Poulson shook his head. "Two crashes in two weeks — that's just not good."

  "We don't know for sure it's a crash," Alma said, and Lewis ducked under the Dude's nose to join
them.

  "Let's hope he's just had radio trouble and set down somewhere without a phone."

  It wasn't very likely, and Alma shook her head.

  "Be careful, then," Poulson said, and Lewis's head lifted abruptly. An instant later, Alma heard it too: the distinctive sound of the Terrier coming in from the west. Lewis looked at her. "If you'll finish the preflight, I'll help Mitch unload."

  Alma nodded. "And leave the Terrier to me."

  The Terrier came in smoothly, white wings against a purpling sky. Clear and still, Lewis thought, checking the windsock outside the tower, which meant bitter cold on the ground overnight, if you were wrecked in the high mountains. And once again not the sort of weather that you'd expect people to crash in, especially not a reasonably experienced pilot. Granted, Sampson had said that the mail team was new to this route, but they had plenty of experience otherwise.

  Mitch brought the Terrier to a gentle stop beside the tower, and Lewis and Lincoln busied themselves unloading the cargo. Joey Patterson was missing again, Lewis realized belatedly, but there wasn't really time to worry about it. Besides, from the look on his face, Lincoln was going to have a few words with the man.

  Mitch finished seeing off the last of the passengers, came around to help with the last of the light, bulky boxes.

  "What's the word?"

  "Nothing new," Lewis said. "Sampson's sending us west and a bit north — a mountain leg, this time."

  "I don't know what's going on these days," Lincoln said, and piled the last of the boxes onto the trolley. "Two crashes in two weeks — it's just not natural."

  "Do we know they crashed?" Mitch asked, wiping his hands on his pants.

  Lewis shook his head. "Sampson just said they're overdue. But they haven't radioed or phoned."

  "I suppose they might have put down somewhere without a phone," Mitch said. "If their radio was out or something."

  "Not many places around here anymore that aren't on the telephone," Lincoln said. He gave the trolley a shove toward the shed beside the tower, where the cargo stayed until its owners came to collect it. "Good luck, boys."

  "Thanks," Lewis said, and tried not to think they'd need it.

  Alma had the Frontiersman up and running, the engine idling gently. She'd loaded the emergency kit, with its flares and weighted streamers, all the tools for dropping messages, and set the sandwiches and two big thermoses of coffee behind the pilots' seats. Lewis embraced her. "We'll be on the radio," he said, and she nodded.

  "I'll probably stay here a while longer. We should get a set at the house, too."

  When there was money to spare. Lewis held her a little tighter. "We'll be careful."

  "You'd better," she said, and gave him what should have been a jaunty smile.

  They took off into the very last of the light, stars showing in the east, the waning moon not quite risen. Lewis swung the Frontiersman onto the heading he'd been given, laying out the first leg of the grid, while Mitch rummaged among the gear behind him.

  "Sandwich?"

  Lewis shook his head. "I'm not hungry yet. You go ahead."

  "I will," Mitch said, his mouth already full.

  They wouldn't see anything yet, Lewis thought, his eyes roving from the fading horizon to the dimly lit instruments to the snow-capped trees below the Frontiersman's wings. If a plane had gone down here, someone would have seen it; they were still close enough to town that it wouldn't have been missed, and there were a few homesteads clinging to the higher slopes where even if they didn't have a telephone somebody could have ridden into town by now. No, if the mail was down, it would be further up in the mountains, on the direct line to Denver. This was one of those times when his talent would have come in handy, but it was stubbornly silent, not a hint of uncanny influence. Below, the trees were heavy with snow, pale and untouched in the dark.

  By the time they reached the end of their first leg, the moon was well up behind them. It was just past the last quarter, but there was enough light to cast shadows on the snow, enough to see that the ground below was undisturbed. They were well up in the mountains now, where the only roads were miners' tracks, but it was on the air line from Phoenix to Denver. He brought the Frontiersman around in a long turn, scanning the snow, and Mitch grabbed his shoulder.

  "There!" He pointed past Lewis's shoulder, to his left and further up the steep slope.

  "Shit." A thread of smoke curled up between the trees, pale against the night. There wasn't much to burn up here, not with the snow cover; wood and fabric would burn, but the trees wouldn't catch. Mitch was already fumbling with his seatbelts, climbed awkwardly into the rear of the cabin with the rescue gear. Lewis put the Frontiersman into a shallow dive, dropping to a hundred feet above the treetops, and swore again as he saw the jagged break in the canopy. Something had broken through the trees, something was on the ground, and maybe something was moving, but they were passed before he could be sure of what he'd seen.

  "Flares," he said, over his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Mitch nod.

  He brought the Frontiersman over in a tight bank, setting up to give Mitch the best shot he could. He heard a flare fizzle to life, looked away to try to preserve his night vision. A blast of cold air filled the cabin as Mitch rolled down the cabin window and dropped first one flare and then another. Then he was cranking the window back into place, rubbing his hands together in their gloves.

  "Bring her around again."

  "Roger." Lewis swung the Frontiersman again, wider and slower this time. The flares were falling steadily, hot points of light under their little parachutes, and he circled carefully, trying to give Mitch a good view. "Anything?"

  "Not yet — I'm not sure." Mitch's voice broke. "Oh, damn."

  Lewis risked a look himself, and winced. The flares had fallen below the level of the trees, and in their harsh light, there was no mistaking the crumpled shape on the rocky ground. The mail plane had gone in nose-first, as though it had narrowed straight in, and it was obvious it had burned. The fire was out now, except for a few pieces that still smoldered, but the plane had been reduced to little more than its frame. He crossed himself, whispering a prayer, and saw Mitch shake his head.

  "I'm calling it in."

  "Go ahead," Lewis answered. He kept circling as Mitch worked the radio, listening with half an ear as the other man reported what they'd found and gave their coordinates. Denver's answer, when it came, was split by static, unexpected on a clear night.

  "Roger… Gilchrist… sure… no survivors?"

  "Looks like they burned on impact." Mitch's voice was tight. "No sign of life."

  "Roger," Denver said again. "See… spot road… out."

  "What?" Lewis asked.

  "I think they want us to look for the nearest road," Mitch said. He spoke into the radio again. "Will do, Denver. Gilchrist out."

  "Right." Lewis brought the Frontiersman around in a final circle. "I didn't see anything —"

  "We crossed a mine road a few miles back on the earlier heading," Mitch answered. "If you start back on the reciprocal heading, we should cross it again."

  "Ok." Lewis checked his compass, turned the Frontiersman for home, not sorry to leave the wreck behind them. If there had been the slightest chance anyone was alive down there, it would be different, but that — no one lived through a crash like that.

  "Yeah, there it is," Mitch said, shifting to peer through the big windows on the other side of the cabin. He fumbled with the map, flicked on his flashlight to try and match the lines to the ground below. "Yeah, ok, I think — I think it's the road that goes up to the old Silver Bullet mine."

  "The Silver Bullet." Lewis resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. "What the hell?"

  Mitch struggled with the map again, folding and refolding it. "I don't know. But it looks like — we're not real far from where Rayburn crashed."

  "Twice in two weeks," Lewis said. "In almost the same place."

  "And it surely isn't the weather," Mitc
h said. The sky was utterly clear, strewn with stars, the quarter moon not enough to drown their light.

  "Something's not right," Lewis said, and felt a familiar certainty prickle along his spine.

  Chapter Five

  December 2, 1932

  A few stray flakes of snow whirled round and round on the cold wind as Alma pulled her Ford up at the edge of the airfield, sucking on a peppermint. It was nearly ten o'clock. Her stomach had been a mess all morning, so she'd sent Lewis on ahead to work with Mitch and Stasi, telling him she must have eaten something that disagreed with her.

  Of course it wasn't that. It had been eleven weeks since she last bled. Before long she was going to have to say something. If only it didn't feel so much like jinxing it. But it did feel like jinxing it. If she told Lewis and he got his hopes up…. And then it would all go wrong. It probably would, at her age. It had ten years ago. It was best not to think about it too much, not to get too attached or excited. Best to think about it as one of those things. Any day now it would be over, a heavy period and a day in bed, and that's all. Best to not start thinking of it as a baby, to start imagining a person who would probably never be real, to start imagining next summer and a baby in her arms. They had a lot of winter to get through yet.

  Alma got out of the truck and closed the door. The Terrier was pulled out on the tarmac in front of the hangar, a board truck next to it, and she frowned. The only flight today was supposed to be Lewis going to Amarillo in the Dude. What was the Terrier doing out?