Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (88 page)

"Just the hook isn't solid enough to catch in the target slot," Lewis said. "But when we tried it with a half-weight bag, the rope snapped."

"What went wrong?" That was the catapult's inventor, a shaggy man named Marlborough, bustling up to join them. "Surely there's plenty of daylight to make a few more runs."

"The rope snapped," Lewis said.

"There's a spare hook," Marlborough said. "Really, you should have been more careful."

"It's not working," Mitch said, to Henry. "I think Lewis is right, we need more weight to hold the rope steady for the target, but then we either need heavier rope or a better toss from the catapult, I don't know which. And we were getting low on fuel anyway."

"Nonsense," Marlborough said.

Henry put a hand on his shoulder. "Sorley's right, we should call it a day. Jim, why don't you and I take a look at the mechanism, see if we can spot anything? Boys, you might as well head on back to the hotel. But don't forget, I promised you dinner at the Legion tonight."

"We wouldn't forget that," Mitch said, with an easy smile. "Not today. Come on, Lewis."

Lewis nodded, unzipping his heavy jacket. Behind him, he heard Marlborough grumbling, and Henry saying something soothing, and then Marlborough's voice rose again.

"Maybe get somebody beside that Mexican to work the winch, that might fix it —"

Lewis stiffened, unable to stop himself from glancing back, and saw Henry lift his head.

"You're forgetting who he is, Jim. Lewis is one-third of the reason Gilchrist won the Great Passenger Derby, and I trust his judgment implicitly —"

"Lewis?" Mitch looked over his shoulder, far enough away that he clearly hadn't heard, and Lewis shook himself. It wasn't his business, wasn't his problem; they were here on contract, and they'd get paid — well-paid — for their week's work no matter what Marlborough thought.

"Coming." He followed Mitch out to their borrowed Ford. It was strange to remember that this was Armistice Day, here in California, in the autumn dust and the smells of his childhood. In 1918, he'd been at a secondary field, his unit just rotated off the front, resting in case the bargain fell apart at the last minute. He could still remember how unnatural the silence had seemed when the last guns had finally stopped. He'd been commissioned less than six months, and knew that somehow he was going to remain a pilot.

Someone was shouting in Spanish from behind the smaller hangar, the one where the mechanics had their shop, and he looked up sharply, but couldn't make out more than
election
and
Roosevelt
. That could mean anything, everybody seemed on edge since Roosevelt had won, but sure enough someone yelled back something about crazy Socialists before an Anglo voice ordered them to break it up.

Mitch was looking at him, head cocked to one side. "Problems?"

Lewis shook his head and folded himself into the car. "Nope. Nothing at all."

"W
hat is that?" Lewis muttered disbelievingly under his breath. It was a three-story building built like a ziggurat, with each square story smaller than the one beneath it, the top one finished in a peaked roof. Each tier used the roof of the one below as balcony space, giving it the air of a castle meant to be defended against siege, and the doors were twelve feet tall and bronze. Around them were massive blocks and crenellations done in blue and white tile with gold rosettes showing an eight pointed star, while above it a row of bronze shields were surmounted by the five pointed star within a circle of the American Legion. "Don't you think it's a bit much?"

"It looks like the Ishtar Gate," Mitch said. Lewis looked at him sideways and he shrugged. "Babylon. Jerry went on and on about it for a while. Same blue and white tiles, same rosettes."

Henry finished paying the cabbie and joined them, a jovial smile on his face. "Well, boys? How do you like our Legion post? We built it three years ago, and we're still doing some work inside. Not that the grill isn't up and running! And I've got to say our cook is a pretty talented guy."

"It's real nice," Mitch said. Lewis nodded.

Henry clapped Lewis on the shoulder. "Can't tell Alma I'm not treating you right! Got to show you all the amenities of our little burg."

"You've been very kind," Lewis said awkwardly.

It was true, Mitch thought, that Henry had certainly been pulling out all the stops this week. And he was paying through the nose to boot. It made sense to a certain extent -- Henry was paying Gilchrist Aviation nicely to have Mitch and Lewis spend a week in LA test piloting the improvements to the next generation of Terriers. It made sense to spend the money not only for the guys who had won the Great Passenger Derby, but also Mitch had to admit that there probably weren't many pilots in the country who'd spent as much time in the cockpit of a Terrier as he had, or who knew her quirks and whims half as well. He'd put them up in a top hotel, wined them and dined them and made sure they didn't lack for a thing. It was starting to make Mitch suspicious. Henry never gave something for nothing, and while he knew he was worth every penny paid for his time in the air, this was going over the top.

About as over the top as the Hollywood American Legion post. At home they had an old converted barn.

Still, this was Friday night, the last night of the second week in November, and tomorrow they'd be flying home.

"Come on in, boys," Henry said, leading them up the steps. There was a fellow at the door, a big burly guy who'd no doubt served himself and did double duty as doorman and bouncer, but he knew Henry.

"Good evening, Mr. Kershaw," he said.

"Evening, Mac," Henry said. "This is Major Sorley and Captain Segura. They're both from a post in Colorado. They're my guests tonight."

"Gentlemen," the doorman said, opening the big bronze portals like something out of the Old Testament.

Inside, things were just as over the top — the antechamber was domed with stained glass windows, an abrupt change from Ishtar Gate to Alhambra in a way that would be guaranteed to make Jerry's head hurt.

"The grill's down in the basement," Henry said. He winked. "Full service."

Which meant it was as much bar as restaurant, which suited Mitch just fine at this point in the week. He reckoned the Legion wasn't much worried about a vice raid. There was enough money in this post to pay some serious kickbacks.

The grill was domed too, but paneled in dark walnut the effect was surreal — combination gentleman's club and Moroccan palace, with white-coated waiters and art deco light fixtures, an adjacent billiards room and a giant falcon-headed statue of Horus that clashed wildly with the full Edwardian dinner service. Lewis blinked, and Mitch leaned over. "Now we know where Henry gets his design ideas," Mitch whispered. The décor on Henry's airship had been Mission meets Mars, with chrome and cowhide.

Lewis tried not to laugh, but he did at least crack a smile and relax a little bit. This was not at all Lewis' scene.

The waiter presented each of them with a menu printed on heavy vellum as they settled into their seats, no prices listed of course, and Mitch twitched an eyebrow. Surely they had some members who'd care what dinner cost? Not many vets could do this sort of thing, especially the way the economy was now, and vets were unemployed at rates far higher than the general population. But maybe they didn't. Maybe somewhere else in LA were the posts for regular guys.

Henry waited until they'd ordered (porterhouse steak with mushroom demi glacé, which looked good to Mitch) and opened a good bottle of burgundy before he got down to brass tacks. "It's been great having you guys here. Really great."

"The new Terrier is pretty sweet," Lewis said. "And a radio on board. That's good."

"State of the art," Henry said. "Radios are going to be required equipment on planes pretty soon, just as standard as the magnetic compass." He looked at Mitch. "And easy to retrofit to an older model. I know you've done the Terrier, but you might want to consider it for anything else you've got."

"Good thing to think about," Mitch said, taking a sip of his wine. Expensive, but Alma could probably work out a deal. "I can see how it would be useful. It's been nice having it on the new plane."

"Very useful," Henry said. "And above and beyond what you've seen, I've got some other ideas coming down the pike that I think you'll find interesting."

"Like what?" Mitch sat up straighter. Any improvement to the Terrier was interesting.

Henry grinned, lifting his glass. "Well, to begin with…" The smile abruptly faded from his face. "Crap," he said, looking over Mitch's shoulder at a man approaching their table.

He wore a black pinstriped suit, neatly tailored to his small and slender form, short and dynamic, with dark hair and matching mustache and Van Dyke beard. There was something arresting about him, some charisma that made eyes turn to him. "Henry!" he said cheerfully. "It's great to see you!"

"Great to see you too," Henry said, getting to his feet and shaking hands. "How's it going, Bill?"

"Good, good." The small man gave everyone at the table a warm smile. "Who are your friends?"

"This is Mitchell Sorley with Gilchrist Aviation. Lewis Segura with the same," Henry said. "They're doing some test flying for me. Boys, this is Bill Pelley. He's a scriptwriter. You probably know him from some Lon Chaney movies -- he does a lot of horror for Lon."

Pelley looked from one of them to the other, focusing that direct gaze on Mitch, and wrung Henry's hand again. "Oh, that's probably not what you know me from," he said. "You've probably heard of my writings on near-death experiences, Seven Minutes in Eternity? It's the story of the seven minutes I spent clinically dead and the profound changes those seven minutes made in my life."

"I imagine it would," Lewis said.

Pelley didn't look away from Mitch. "A very profound spiritual experience," he said. "Transformative." He glanced around the dining room. "It made me realize that this was nothing but worldly dross. Heaven is where our rewards will be, and riches and success are of little value in the world beyond. What matters is the transformation of our hearts and of the transformation of the world in the image of heaven."

"Very true," Mitch said with a glance at Henry. Surely this was Lodge business, not something to be talked about loudly in the middle of a very public place?

"I realized that it was time to leave Hollywood and its fakery," Pelley said. "I bought a house in Asheville, North Carolina, in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where people are dedicated to a purer, simpler life. As you know of course, Major Sorley, being from North Carolina yourself."

Mitch started. "You seem to know a lot about me, Mr. Pelley." He looked at Henry.

"You're well known," Pelley said. "Winner of the Great Passenger Derby, Great War Ace…. You're a distinguished soldier, Major Sorley."

"I'm a pilot," Mitch said.

The waiter stopped on the other side of Henry's chair, swaying on his feet as if reluctant to break in. "Mr. Kershaw?" he said. "There is a phone call for you, sir. Your wife."

Henry got up. "Excuse me just a moment, boys." He didn't seem at all sorry to go.

Pelley smiled. "You don't have an ounce of pride. That's a sure sign of an advanced soul."

Lewis shifted uncomfortably. "Should we be talking about this here?"

"There's nothing to be ashamed of." Pelley didn't look at Lewis. "Are you ashamed of serving God?"

Lewis' mouth opened and shut.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you, Major Sorley," Pelley said. "I have heard a lot about you. Through the Legion and other places. A true, native born hero."

"If you'll excuse me." Lewis got up. "Restroom." His ears were flaming.

Mitch took a deep breath. "I'm not a hero, Mr. Pelley. And I don't see how I'm of interest to a scriptwriter."

Pelley smiled again. "I'm not interested in a script, though no doubt your biography would make an excellent movie! Heroics in the air! The very next Wings! There's a big market for that. But I've given up scriptwriting in favor of books these days. There are more important things than movies." He looked at Mitch thoughtfully. "The fate of our nation, for example. Major Sorley, you've got to admit that we stand at a fateful crossroad."

"We do. The election this week…." Mitch had mailed his ballot absentee a month ago, no question about his vote. Anybody But Hoover was a popular candidate this year, and Roosevelt was the only one with a chance of winning. He'd done so in a landslide.

Pelley nodded. "Yes, indeed. A terrible choice, and no way for the American people to win. A choice between an idiot failure and a communist is no choice at all."

"We'll see how it all works out," Mitch said noncommittally.

Pelley grinned. "A good soldier -- nonpartisan to the core! We need men like you in the Legion."

"I'm a member at home in Colorado," Mitch said, feeling that the American Legion was somewhat safer ground than God or spiritual transformation. "It's a good post."

"Not the American Legion," Pelley said. "But that great company that it echoes. I know a man I want to fight beside when I see him."

"Fight for what?" Mitch asked.

"For America. For our way of life. There's trouble coming, Major Sorley. Everyone is going to have to decide which side they're on." He glanced toward the dining room doors. "Even that Pachuco friend of yours."

"Lewis Segura is a good guy."

Pelley shrugged. "For a Mexican, maybe so. But when there aren't enough jobs to go around, why should they come in here and take our jobs?"

"Lewis was born in the United States and he fought on the Western Front," Mitch said. "That makes him American as far as I'm concerned."

Pelley fixed him with that disconcerting gaze, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth in his Van Dyke beard. "And here I thought you were a patriot. I thought they taught better in North Carolina."

Mitch leaned back in his chair, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "My ancestors came to this country two hundred years ago because they were religious dissenters thrown out of every decent country in Europe. Well, except for the ones who were transported because they were rebels, traitors and outlaws. I reckon I ain't got a leg to stand on as far as who's worthy to get in, and in my part of the state they valued hospitality and charity to those in need. Those are my American values, Mr. Pelley. I don't know what they taught where you grew up. Somewhere in New England, I'd guess from your accent."