Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (83 page)

“What’s the difference?” Mitch had to raise his voice over the sound of the engines, sweet and strong at full throttle. He cut them back reluctantly and turned the Terrier toward the runway.

“I make it about forty miles,” Lewis said. “That’s why I asked.”

Mitch nodded. Forty miles wasn’t much of a saving, a little less than half an hour’s flying time. He could see all the reasons it might make more sense to take the safe route, follow the roads along the edge of the swamp so that there was no chance they’d miss the landmarks that would bring them in to Coconut Grove. But if they were going to win, they needed every minute they could scrape up, and he trusted Lewis’s navigation.

“Straight through,” he said, and turned the Terrier into the wind, opening the throttle for takeoff.

She rose easily under his hands, catching the wind as they turned south and east. Lewis gave him the heading, and Mitch opened the throttle further still. Two hundred miles, and full tanks: they could afford to waste a little fuel now, to gain speed. To gain time. He only hoped it would be enough.

Chapter Twenty One

H
enry paced the tarmac, stopping to light another cigarette and glancing at his watch. Ten or fifteen minutes, tops, until the first plane was sighted. His fellow in Lake City had phoned as each plane landed and left, refueled and ready for the flight down the length of Florida. United had fifteen minutes on the nearest competitor, with Comanche in second. Consolidated was half an hour behind, with TWA limping in at the back on two engines. They'd finish the race, but for a plane that had started the day in second it was a big comedown. Henry shook his head. Mechanical trouble, his man said. One engine down.

And no sign of either the Corsair or his plane. Henry paced back in the other direction, shaking ash into the breeze. Easy come, easy go. It was always something with that lot. Probably they'd limp into some field anytime now. Surely. They wouldn't have gone down. Not them.

There was a shout and a cluster of reporters pointing, all hands raised to the north, cameramen vying for the first decent shot. RKO's newsreel photographers turned their big camera on its tripod. "Who is it?" Henry asked the nearest man with binoculars. "United?"

"I don't see the red wings," he said. He squinted into the binoculars. "White and blue. Consolidated? How'd they get up this far?"

Henry yanked the binoculars away from him, not even saying
excuse me
to his "Hey, mac!" White and blue. He focused on the distant speck, ignoring the roar of the crowd as they saw the first plane and behind it at the horizon another, no more than two or three miles behind, a photo finish, right down to the wire just the way the newsies liked it. The cant of the wings, the shape of the fuselage against the sky, larger than a Ford trimotor… It was all Henry could do not to shout. It was all he could do not to leap in the air.

"That's my plane," he said, and his voice didn't even shake. "That's a Kershaw Terrier." Eight miles out, and United just behind, a third plane behind that, the small, light shape of the Corsair.

"Man, what a finish!" the RKO guy said, his eyes to his lens, the movie camera cranking.

"Think they'll make it, Mr. Kershaw?" the first reporter asked. "United's going to finish strong."

"Sure thing," Henry said, and clenched his fists in his pockets.

T
hey made good time across the swamps, the headwind shifting as the day went on, becoming more south than east. Mitch did his best to compensate, keeping the Terrier steady on the direct line to Miami, but he wasn’t entirely surprised to see Lewis scanning the ground ahead with increasing concern.

“Trouble?”

“We ought to be seeing Miami by now,” Lewis answered. “At least the area around Hialeah.”

“We’re probably west of our line,” Mitch said.

“Yeah, but how far?” Lewis consulted the map again, then looked out the windows. “Wait. There.”

The line of a road cut through the swamp, concrete showing pale between the overhanging trees. It ran east-west, and Mitch looked back at Lewis.

“That’s the Tamiami Trail,” Lewis said. “Ok. Yeah, we’re west of where we should be, but if we follow that to the first town, that’s Tamiami ”

“We can cut southeast again from there,” Mitch finished. “Got it.”

He put the Terrier into a turn as he spoke, lining her up on the flash of the road. This was easy flying, high and fast, the ground reeling past under them. Four and a half hours in the air from Pensacola, plus the forty minutes on the ground: the race route notes said they should expect the Pensacola to Coconut Grove leg to take about six and a half hours including stops, though he and Alma had guessed they could do it in a bit over six. Another half hour or so to the field, if Lewis was right and they hadn’t come too far west, which still put them in just ahead of the best time they thought anyone could make. It might all just work. In spite of him.

He concentrated on the feel of the controls, air on the wings and flaps translating to pressure against his hands, the engines strong and steady. All that mattered now was crossing the finish line. Get to Coconut Grove and cross the finish line, the literal white line painted across the end of the runway. And then they’d see.

“Tamiami,” Lewis said, pointing, and sure enough the ground was changing, swamp giving way to solid ground. He consulted the map again, gave a new heading. “That should bring us into the field from the west.”

“Ok,” Mitch said, and banked the Terrier, watching the compass swing. He opened the throttle, feeling the revs increase.

Ten minutes, then fifteen, houses and yards and streets reeling past beneath their wings. Lewis made a small course correction, and for an instant Mitch thought he caught the flash of a tower light on the horizon. It came again, more definite this time, and he gave a whoop of joy.

“There. That’s got to be Coconut Grove.”

“Yeah,” Lewis said, looking from map to horizon. “That’s it.” He looked as though he didn’t quite believe it.

“How far?”

“About five miles.”

We can do it, Mitch thought. They’d be first in at the field, and that might just be enough to make up the difference. The houses flashed past beneath them, the streets broader, busier now that they were over Miami itself. Even if it didn’t put them into first place, it should be enough for second, and that was still good money. They’d said from the start that second would still be good enough.

“Mitch.” Alma leaned in the cockpit door, her voice tight and controlled. “There’s another plane in sight to the north. I think it’s United.”

“Goddamnit.” Mitch craned his neck to see. There were clouds to the north, the tail end of the line of thunderheads that was still building. For a moment, all he saw was cloud, but then he saw it, a fleck of brighter white against the sky, drifting for an instant into the edge of his side window, and out again. “Damn it to hell.”

His hands were already moving on the controls, shoving the throttle to full, canting the Terrier into a shallow dive that would bring them in fast and low. No need to worry about the fuel now, no need to think about economy, all that mattered was raw power, power and speed and the rush toward the field. He could see the tower now, windsock lifted by a decent breeze, and he banked a final time, lining up to cross the finish line squarely, broadside to the cameras.

Alma had disappeared again, but a moment later Stasi took her place, clinging to the frame with both hands. “Mrs. Segura says there’s a second plane.”

“What?” Mitch didn’t try to look. They were behind him, almost on his tail, old instincts screaming to peel off, get the drop on them. But this was a race, not a dogfight; he kept the Terrier coming, dropping further still. “How far back?”

Stasi relayed the question, and shook her head. “She says maybe a mile. They’re neck and neck.”

Let them fight each other, Mitch thought. Let us get away. “Are they overtaking?”

“She says — no, she can’t tell.”

“Damn it,” Mitch said again. There was no more power left to give, all the engines opened full, the Terrier shuddering faintly under the pressure. United was behind him, and the second plane, but he couldn’t even look to see what they were doing. All he could do was keep the Terrier straight and level, arrowing toward the finish. He could see it now, the white line splashed a yard wide across the concrete.
Come on, darling
, he thought, hunching forward as though she were a horse, as though he could urge her to just that little bit more effort.
Come on. —

“There!” Lewis yelled, and Mitch saw the line flash beneath the nose. He kept the power full on, pulled up and left, coming around in a broad turn, craning to see what was behind him. A smaller plane was just crossing the line, diving like a kestrel — Jezek, he realized, the Corsair, dropping toward the landing strip as though they were low on fuel. United was only a few thousand feet behind them, pulled up and away with a waggle of wings, acknowledging defeat.

“We did it!” Alma leaned in the cockpit again, her grin incandescent. “My God, we did it!”

“A little too close,” Lewis said, but he was grinning too.

“We won it fair and square,” Alma said, and squeezed Mitch’s shoulder. “And damn good piloting.”

Mitch couldn’t help but respond to that smile, grinning himself as he circled back to the end of the runway. The flagman was out, signaling a clear field, and Mitch brought the Terrier gently down, wheels kissing the tarmac. Safely down, and in first place: it almost seemed too much to believe.

M
itch stood at the bottom of the Terrier’s steps, one hand resting lightly on the plane’s aluminum body as though that would help ground him. The referees were still working the numbers, Henry and the delegation from United and Connie Jezek all crowding around the office door waiting for the results, but even as he watched Henry pried himself away and came striding back across the tie-down area, scattering reporters as he came.

“We’ve won,” he said, to Alma, and she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly. He clasped Lewis’s hand, and Jerry’s, and touched the brim of his hat in Mitch’s direction before looking back at Alma. “They’re just trying to figure out where Jezek will finish. It’s going to be very close for second.”

“I hope they get it,” Alma said.

And that was Al for you, Mitch thought. Generous to a fault. He felt weirdly distant, as though he was looking at everything through a pane of glass, as though he could see but not touch. The office door opened, and the referees emerged, their leader holding up his hands to silence the waiting crowd. His words came disjointed through the continued noise from the stands and drone of distant engines.

“Gilchrist Aviation first, Jezek Air second — United third.”

There were cheers in answer, the sound spreading to the crowd still waiting in the stands as the announcer repeated the finish, his words crackling over the loudspeaker. A handful of reporters darted for the nearest telephone; the rest surged across the concrete toward the Terrier.

“Mrs. Segura! How do you feel about your finish? First to last and first again!”

And if I hadn’t screwed up, Mitch thought, we wouldn’t have had to do that. No dangerous flight across the Gulf, no on-the-fly ritual that barely pulled us out, no crazy landing, just a straight flight down the Panhandle and on into Miami. No drama, and no danger, none of them at risk. Lewis was grinning at Alma’s side, the worried frown he’d worn for most of the race finally erased: the newspaper would have better pictures of him at last. Jerry leaned on his cane, relaxed for the first time in days, and the black-haired countess was talking to one of the reporters, her head cocked to one side like a bird. He hoped she wasn’t going to get them tangled in some improbable story — or, worse, tell the reporters exactly how they’d made it across the Gulf — but then, no one would believe her anyway.

“Mitch!”

Alma waved to him, and he came forward to pose for the first round of photos, Al with one arm around his waist and the other around Lewis on the opposite side, her body warm against them both. That probably wouldn’t quell any rumors, Mitch thought, but she’d earned it. “Mrs. Segura!” One of the referees was pushing through the mob of reporters, waving. “Mrs. Segura, you and your team need to come with me. We have a truck ready for your victory lap.”

“Our what?” Lewis asked.

“Please, gentlemen,” the referee went on, offering the reporters a placating smile. “The whole team will be happy to answer your questions, but we’ve promised the crowd a chance to cheer our first three finishers. Ladies, gentlemen, this way, please.”

Mitch followed the others into the hangar, where three open-bed trucks had been drawn up, their sides draped with red-white-and-blue bunting. Signs hung from the rails as well, the teams’ names with their marque painted beside it. Made up at the start of the race, Mitch was willing to bet, to be ready for any eventuality. No one could have expected Jezek to do so well.

Jerry balked at the truck, shaking his head unhappily at the referee. Alma linked her arm in his and smiled, and a few moments later someone hurriedly pushed a set of steps up against the truck’s tail. Alma climbed up, and turned at the top, holding out her hand to steady Stasi. Jerry hauled himself grimly onto the bed, his hands white-knuckled on the rail, Lewis following close enough to catch him if his leg failed. And I should have done that, too, Mitch thought, climbing up after them. Stupid and careless…

The truck lurched forward, gears grinding, and he caught Stasi as she stumbled against him.

“Thank you, darling,” she said, straightening with a brilliant smile, and braced herself more carefully against the rail.

The truck pulled out onto the wide turn-around in front of the hangar. The stands were set up a little further down, between the hangar and the terminal, and a roar went up as the trucks appeared. The sound was deafening, almost palpable, like the noise of the barrage, and Mitch flinched in spite of himself. From the look on his face, Jerry had the same thought, but was bracing himself to endure it. Only Lewis didn’t look spooked, waving with one hand and steadying Alma with the other.