Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (103 page)

"Coming up." She retreated, pad in hand, sensible shoes scuffing on the linoleum under a fairly fine pair of legs.

"So how's Colorado?" Danny asked.

"Pretty good," Mitch said. "We've had a crash last week. Nobody killed, thank God, but it was a bad one."

"That was Comanche, right?"

"Yeah. Paul Rayburn. He's a good guy."

"Yeah," Danny said. He shook his head. "Glad nobody was killed."

"Me too," Mitch said. There was a folded newspaper lying by Danny's knife and fork and his eyes kept coming back to it. "What're you reading?"

"Oh." Danny handed it over. "I figured I was having lunch by myself so I was gonna read the paper."

Mitch unfolded it. Not the LA paper, nor the Deseret from Salt Lake either, but some sort of monthly or weekly with a big banner with stars on either side -- Liberation and in smaller print beneath it, William Dudley Pelley, editor -- Vigilance is the Best Security. "I never saw this one before," Mitch said casually, though his heart jumped in his chest.

"Really?" Danny looked up as the waitress came back with his food. "Thank you, miss. He's got some good, sensible things to say. You know, we vets get the short end of the stick, and it don't seem right. Fat cats in New York, bankers and so on, they keep on getting richer. Now I ask you, if the banks are failing, how can the bankers be getting richer? That don't make sense. Any other guy, his business fails and he's out of luck. These guys just keep pulling it in. I think this guy's got a point -- there's something going on that we don't know about. Somebody's in cahoots."

"Maybe so," Mitch said. He scanned over the articles on the first page. Are Illegal Immigrants Taking Our Jobs? Why Roosevelt Owes the Jews. Homeless Vets Lack Medical Care.

"Like that one," Danny said, pointing to the last article. "A man loses an arm or a leg in the service, and once he's discharged Uncle Sam doesn't care! Lots of guys have complications further on, or they need help or a home or something, and they're just screwed. Don't you have a friend like that? Ballard was his name maybe?"

"Jerry Ballard," Mitch said, opening the pages up. "He had a real bad wound in the leg. They had to take it off a year after the war, so he'd been discharged and it wasn't the Army's problem. Wound up in a pauper's ward in Chicago. A good friend and his wife took him home and nursed him. Jerry's a good guy."

"Doing ok now?" Danny asked.

"Yeah, doing ok," Mitch said. "He's got work, and that's a good thing."

"But not everybody's got friends who'll do that," Danny said. "The government ought to do something. And there'd be plenty of money for it if they soaked these fat cat Jewish bankers. Real Americans got to stick together."

"Yeah," Mitch said absently. Page two articles. How Nostradamus Predicted the Great Depression. Why Silver? And then a word in that article caught his eye.

'…some many among the number of veterans have asked, why silver? Why is this color a sacred symbol for us? From ancient times the color silver has denoted the most honorable veterans. Under Alexander the Great those men whose years of service had surpassed twenty years and whose impeccable records spoke of their everlasting honor and fame were designated the Silver Shields. These veterans, oath bound beyond life and death, formed the core of his army -- that peerless army that conquered the world! Their oaths, to death and beyond, were sacred, hallowed by their blood shed in service to their king. Therefore we revere the color silver above all as symbol of our fraternity.'

"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…."

T
hey 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."

T
he 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.