Kirsch frowned. "You work for Tesla?"
"Yep." Mitch grinned. "Real interesting job."
Two of the boys in the back cast each other wary looks.
Kirsch wasn't going to back off. "We've got a salvage permit from the state," he said. "So we're taking it down."
"I reckon I can't let you do that," Mitch said. Sweat popped out on his back, crawling under his coat. Six on one. That was going to be fun. But if he went to the right he'd give Lewis a clear field of fire….
Kirsch took a step closer. He was shorter, but he had a kind of bulldog tenacity that made you not want to mess with him. "If I were you, I'd get out of the way, pal."
"I can't do that," Mitch said. "I got my job to do."
"If that's how you want to play it." Kirsch reached in his coat and pulled out a .38 Special. "Now step on back and nobody gets hurt."
Beneath his feet, Mitch felt a rumble, the device beginning its power up right on time. "You really don't want me to use it, do you?" he asked. One of the boys took a step back involuntarily. The device was beginning to light, creepers of current rising along the struts. "Cause I will if I need to."
"Mr. Kirsch," one of them began.
Kirsch extended the gun. "Now listen here, pal. You turn that thing off and get out of the way."
"Can't do that," Mitch said. Which was literally true. He didn't have the faintest idea how to turn off Tesla's device.
The throbbing was getting louder, the streamers brighter, shifting from blue to indigo. The bulb at the top was beginning to glow. Mitch could feel the electricity in the air, like standing in the face of a coming storm.
Kirsch glanced up at the machine and Mitch punched him. It was a good, solid roundhouse, knocking him backwards into one of his guys, the gun clenched in his hand. He was going to regret that in about three seconds.
One of the boys yelled, and another started backing away. Lightning jumped along the coils, the noise rising to a roar.
Mitch threw himself flat, grounding himself as much as possible, hoping Lewis had the good sense to put the rifle down and not be touching it. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Lightning crackled, the sound almost simultaneous, a blinding flash that seemed to crawl along his backbone, punctuated by the screams and yells of Kirsch's men. He opened his eyes to see them running for the door, the flash's negative image still dancing in his eyes. Kirsch was holding his right hand to his chest, the pistol left on the floor. The current would have jumped to it, an electrical burn serious enough to knock the man down and out of it.
Sure enough, he was being dragged along by his boys, stumbling between two of them as they ran back out into the sunlight, jumping in the car and truck like the hounds of hell were after them.
Mitch grinned and stood up. Stasi was peeping around the minehead entrance. "Darling, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Mitch called back. He tilted his head up. "Lewis?"
Lewis stuck his head over the edge of the catwalk. "All good up here. Though I don't want to be that close to that thing again when it goes off."
Stasi glanced at her watch. "Twenty till twelve. So one twenty five for the next one."
"Right on the dot." Mitch couldn't stop grinning.
Lewis was climbing down the ladder. "You think they'll be back?"
"No doubt about it," Stasi said. "There's a lot of money in this. As soon as they get their breath back and have a stiff drink, they'll realize none of them were really hurt. And yes, they'll be back. And it won't work a second time."
"Not to mention that we can't actually make it happen when we want it to," Mitch said. He picked up Kirsch's gun. Yep, a .38 police special. He tucked it in his waistband.
"You don't have a problem with that now?" Stasi said.
"I think I'm a little busy right now," Mitch said. "Now let's go see if we can raise Alma on the radio. She ought to be inbound about now."
"I'll find the Frontiersman's frequency," Lewis said A shadow seemed to lift from his face at the idea of reaching Alma. "Let's see where she is."
The South Platte River lay off the starboard wing, a dark and definite line cutting through the patchy snow and scrub. Alma glanced at the compass again, though she knew the heading hadn't changed, looked back at the mountains rising beyond the windshield. They'd just passed Sterling, the town name painted large on the roof of a barn just off the main road; another seventy miles, give or take, and they'd be over Fort Morgan, and she'd have to choose, strike southwest for home, cross-country without a lot of landmarks, relying on dead reckoning and the beacon at their home field, or follow the South Platte on to Greeley, then turn due south to follow ridge and road. The sensible thing would be to follow the river, but the unanswered telegram nagged at her, pushing her to hurry.
There was no point in changing course before Fort Morgan, though, and she made herself relax, shaking out first one hand and then the other.
"Everything ok?" Jerry asked, and she forced a smile.
"Fine. I just wish we'd heard from Lewis."
Jerry nodded. "Yeah."
There were clouds building over the highest mountains, still miles away and high enough that she didn't think there was much weather behind them. Cut south from Fort Morgan, and she'd be home long before they were a problem, anyway.
The radio crackled in her ear, a faint voice patiently repeating. "Gilchrist Frontiersman, this is Gilchrist base. Come in, please. Gilchrist Frontiersman, this is Gilchrist base."
Alma snatched at the microphone, forgetting radio discipline. "Lewis? Is that you?"
"Al!" Lewis's voice was freakishly clear, then lost in a burst of static.
"Say again, Gilchrist base?"
"Sorry, Frontiersman." Lewis had himself under control again, too. "I read you loud and clear."
"You, too," Alma answered. "We're a bit past Sterling, that's about an hour and a half from the field. Did you get my telegram?"
"Telegram?"
Alma could almost see his frown.
"The one I sent from Cedar Rapids this morning?"
"We're not at the office," Lewis answered. "We're up at the mine."
The mine. Alma swallowed the words, and was proud of how steady her voice was when she spoke again. "Lewis, there's a good chance that Pelley's men are heading out there —"
"They've already been. Don't worry, we're fine. Mitch ran them off with Dr. Tesla's device."
"You figured out how to turn it off?"
"Not exactly."
"Lewis —"
"It's still running," Lewis said. "It's on a steady cycle, builds up a charge and then discharges about every hour and forty-five minutes."
Alma glanced at the clock in the Dude's dash. "When did it last go?"
"It'll go again at three-ten," Lewis answered, and Alma gave a sigh of relief. They wouldn't be anywhere near the mine until three-thirty.
"Ok," she said. "What's the snow like up there?"
"Nothing new since day before yesterday. Pretty good cover everywhere."
Alma stared into the clouds, visualizing the land around the mine. "What about the clearing where the Ford crashed? How bad is that chewed up?"
"You can't land there —" Lewis stopped abruptly.
"Can't, or you don't want me to?" Alma asked. "Lewis, I've got Dr. Tesla with me. You need him."
"Yeah, I know." To her surprise, Lewis didn't sound unhappy, just thoughtful. "Hang on a minute."
Alma waited, the static singing in her headphones, and then Lewis's voice returned.
"The Ford went down pretty easy, just dropped in straight, and Mitch says he doesn't think the Reserves messed it up much getting the trucks in. You might be able to put the Dude down in the Ford's track. I've got the truck, and I can come get you."
"I'll radio when I get close," Alma said. "And I'll pass over the mine just to be sure."
"Roger that," Lewis said, with a belated return to procedure. "Just — be careful. We've chased these guys off once, but Stasi thinks they'
ll be back, and I agree."
"I will be," Alma answered. "I'll radio again when we're in sight of the mine. Frontiersman out."
"Roger," Lewis said again. "Gilchrist out."
Alma replaced the microphone, aware of Jerry's wary stare. "We're going to land at the mine," she said. "Pelley's men are already there."
"Can we?" Jerry asked.
"We're certainly going to try."
There was no point in questioning Alma when she got that look about her. The Dude droned on to the west, and after a bit Alma checked her instruments and sent them into a shallow bank. She straightened onto a southwest heading, and Jerry knew they were committed. Not that Al would try to land if it was impossible, but — she'd do everything short of that. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the cabin, and looked over his shoulder to see Tesla fumbling with his seatbelt. "Do you need a hand with something, Dr. Tesla?"
Tesla smiled. "Oh. Yes, that would be kind, Dr. Ballard."
Jerry glanced at Alma, who nodded. "Go ahead. We're still fifty minutes out."
"Ok." Jerry worked himself out of the co-pilot's seat, balancing awkwardly on his wooden leg, and let himself fall into the seat opposite Tesla. "What can I do for you, Dr. Tesla?"
"My carryall." Tesla waved at the satchel strapped to the rear bulkhead. "At least — do I understand that we should expect trouble at the mine?"
"Yeah," Jerry said. "It sounds like Pelley's men are trying to take your device."
"William Pelley," Tesla said. "So he's behind all this?"
"We think so," Jerry said. "You know him?"
"Only by reputation," Tesla answered. "But what I have heard, I don't like at all. If you'd just bring my carryall forward?"
"Of course," Jerry said. He braced himself against the bulkhead to undo the straps, then pulled the bag forward so that it sat between their seats.
"Thank you," Tesla said, and unlatched the top. "Might I ask, Dr. Ballard, what your specialty was in the war?"
"I was in the artillery." Jerry craned his neck, but could make out only two pairs of pliers sitting atop dark metal shapes that were unpleasantly like grenades.
"Excellent. That should prove useful." Tesla rummaged in the bag, and pulled out an egg-shaped metal canister with a narrow neck and what looked like a screw cap. He used one set of pliers to open the top, then reached into the bag for a metal cylinder the size of a pencil. "These aren't really very damaging — it's just photographic flash powder — but it certainly should surprise anyone on the ground. These are contact fuses, of my own design. They're very stable, it really does take falling out of an airplane to set them off. Which was the problem."
Jerry nodded, speechless, as the old man added the fuse to the first casing, and set it carefully aside. He pulled out another egg-shaped container, armed it, and a third, then produced a longer cylinder, this one conventionally bomb-shaped, with a pointed nose and fins at the other end. Tesla turned it fins-down, holding it between his knees, and used the second pair of pliers to unscrew the heavy nose.
"Now this is a bit more interesting." He tilted the bomb so that Jerry could see into the interior. Jerry leaned to look, but could make out only what looked like a coil of wire beneath a miniature pinwheel. "I haven't really had occasion to try these out, but in theory this should build up a significant electrical charge as it falls through the atmosphere, which will then discharge on impact. I expect you'll just get a shower of sparks, alarming to look at but not particularly damaging, but if one were to strike metal or an already charged object, you could achieve a significant discharge."
A flash powder grenade and an electric bomb, Jerry thought. Well, it was better than nothing — a lot better than he'd thought they had. Maybe they could do something to help. "How many of those do you have?" he asked.
"Nine of each." Tesla finished adjusting something in the cylinder, and replaced the nose. "Eighteen in total."
"Jerry?" Alma called, and Jerry levered himself out of the rear seat, took his place his in the co-pilot's seat again. "Jerry, are those bombs?"
"Oh, no," Jerry said. "Not conventionally, anyway."
Alma gave him a sharp look. "And I'm guessing the other ones aren't grenades, then, either?"
"Nope." Jerry looked over his shoulder again, and Tesla smiled happily as he screwed the nose onto yet another of the electric bombs. "The things that look like grenades are full of flash powder, like for cameras, and the bombs are supposed to give off some kind of electric shock. Or maybe just sparks."
He saw Alma blink, then shake her head slowly. "Well. If nothing else, it'll get their attention."
Chapter Fourteen
The Silver Bullet Mine
December 20, 1932
Stasi paced by the front windows looking at her watch. It had been twenty minutes since Tesla's device went off again, and Mitch and Lewis were moving boards and the empty trestle tables around to block off most of the broken first floor windows.
"How's that?" Mitch asked, arranging a board so that it covered all but the bottom left hand side of the window. It was three thirty, and the sun would soon move behind the mountains.
"Perfect." Lewis squatted down to look out. "I've got a good clear range all the way down to the road. Well, except for that shed, but they're going to have to come around it one way or the other."
Mitch nodded, checking the space at the next window a yard away. The tables covered it to a height of five feet, with room to stand behind it with the pistol's barrel sighted just over the top. It was a perfect set up for him.
Stasi frowned. "I don't like this," she said.
"Do you have a better idea?" Mitch asked.
"Someone is going to get hurt this way."
"Yeah," Lewis said. "They are." He looked like he actually wanted to mix it up.
"Is this really worth getting shot for?" Stasi asked. She was frowning, an expression like she really didn't like this at all, and he wondered what their barricades reminded her of. Something bad.
He put the gun down. "It's ok," he said. "We're not going to get shot. They're not suicidal. They're not going to rush a setup like this, especially when they see that we've got more than one armed man."
"And if you get shot, what then?" Stasi demanded. "Am I supposed to hold them off over your and Lewis's dead bodies? Crawl over your corpses to get to the window? For what? For some idea? If this is your idea of some heroic last stand, some perfect way to go, let me tell you that it isn't. It's just hell."
He took both her hands, willing her to see him instead of whatever she saw before her eyes. "Stasi, that's not what's going to happen." There weren't any good words, but there were some true ones. "I'm not that guy."
"Lewis…."
"Lewis isn't that guy either." He squeezed her fingers. "This is a calculated risk with the odds running our way. I don't play it any other way. Remember? The ace who's still alive?"
She searched his face, and then looked away, faint color coming to her pale cheeks, an expression that was more like Stasi. "Well, it's all one to me, darling."
"You just handle the radio and keep up with Al. We can deal with these guys."
"Mitch." Lewis was still looking out the window. "They're back."
"It's ok," Mitch said, and let go of her hands. "Really. I promise." He thought of something she'd believe, or at least believe he believed it. "I don't make promises I don't think I can keep."
The truck was pulling up down the hill away from the building, the car behind it screened by the bulk of the truck. Somebody had a brain. Mitch turned back toward the window. And there was Kirsch, wearing gloves this time, his right hand bandaged. That burn must hurt.
"I thought you boys packed up," Mitch called out.
"I figure we can come to an arrangement," Kirsch replied. He tipped his hat back on his head. "How about two hundred dollars to make yourself scarce?"
Mitch paused like he was considering, Stasi hurrying across the dusty floor toward the office and the radio. "I don
't reckon so," he called back. "I figure we can handle this."
One of Kirsch's boys looked at him doubtfully, having caught the 'we'.
"Dr. Tesla must be paying you a lot of money," Kirsch said.
"You do know we've got a radio," Mitch said. "National Guard's on its way up here."
One of the other men shifted from one foot to another, but Kirsch smiled thinly. "I don't think that's very likely," he said. "If it were, why would you stick your neck out rather than just let them handle it? Do you really want to do this the dirty way?"
There was the sharp report of a rifle and the dust kicked up inches in front of Kirsch's foot, Lewis showing off his marksmanship. Crap, Mitch thought. He'd figured he could stall them a few more minutes.
"I reckon we do," he said. No warning shots for him. He only had the six cartridges in the cylinder. He'd have to make them count, but he'd rather it didn't come to that. Killing a man from an airplane was bad enough without making it face to face.
Kirsch and his boys scrambled all right, back behind the truck and the nearer shed. Lewis held his fire. Mitch waited. They seemed to be having some kind of heated discussion back there, probably about who the sucker was who was going to make a run across Lewis's field of fire. Tesla might not be paying him squat, but Kirsch had better be ready to pay these guys plenty to walk into that.
"What's going on?" Stasi called from the office.
"A little contract renegotiation," Mitch replied.
"I have Alma on the radio," she said.
"Super," Lewis said. He was lying prone, his shoulders perfectly relaxed, sighting along the rifle barrel through his constructed blind.
Whatever Stasi said next was drowned out in a hail of gunfire outside, two or three pistols opening up from the shelter of the truck. Mitch ducked down, acutely aware of the thinness of the boards that protected him. They couldn't see where he was, but it might not matter. He squinted out. Yep, that was the point of it, just as he'd expected. The fire covered the movement of Kirsch's men, two of them scrambling in each direction, toward the shed and the other end of the building. Lewis opened fire, two warning shots down the building, stopping one in his tracks to run back behind the truck while the other threw himself to the ground.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 100