Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (91 page)

"That's beautiful," Lewis said.

From the living room there was the sudden ringing of the telephone cutting across everything.

"Who would be calling at this time of night?" Alma wondered.

"I don't know," Lewis said, glancing at his watch. "It's nearly nine."

There was the sound of Mitch's voice answering, a rumble he couldn't quite make out over the radio. A long conversation, it sounded like. Apprehension uncurled, winding its way down Lewis' back. He got to his feet, putting the deck down on the table in front of Stasi. He went down the hall and hovered in the doorway.

Mitch was frowning into the phone. "Yes, of course," he said. "We can be there by midnight. We'll follow 501 South on the Beaver Creek side to Pueblo. And then 50 out to Florence."

"Who's going to Pueblo?" Al asked.

Mitch was scribbling notes with a pencil on the back of the newspaper. "And then back up on the other side of Beaver Creek to Cheyenne Mountain. Got it."

A grid, Lewis thought. An air grid for search and rescue. Adrenaline shot through his body, and the next words confirmed it.

"We've got it, Colonel Sampson," Mitch said. "Yes, sir." He hung up.

"What happened?" Alma asked.

Mitch straightened up. "That was Colonel Sampson with the Reserves in Denver," he said. "There's a plane missing. It was on its way from Flagstaff to Denver and it's six hours overdue. Nobody's called, nobody's seen it. So we have to assume it's down." He looked at Lewis. "We're called as reservists. I've got our section of the grid going south from Colorado Springs and working our way west."

"Will you be able to see in the dark?" Stasi asked. "How are you going to see in the dark?"

"The moon's two days past full," Mitch said. "And there's snowcover in the mountains. We'll be able to see." He looked at Lewis. "You game?"

"Of course," Lewis said. "Let me run upstairs and put on heavier clothes."

"Me too," Mitch said. "It's going to be a little chilly."

"It's twenty degrees out there!" Stasi said. "And the middle of the night!"

"That's why we need to find them," Mitch said. He looked at Lewis, worry written all over him. "We know them. It's a Comanche Air plane. Paul Rayburn's the pilot."

"Oh crap," Lewis said. Rayburn was a good pilot, he'd proved that in the Great Passenger Derby, and if he was six hours late something had gone pear shaped. "Let's go get them," he said. He didn't add, and hope they're still in one piece to get.

L
ewis left the front of his padded flying suit unzipped as they drove out to the field, crowded shoulder to shoulder in the front of Alma's truck. His breath frosted the inside of the windshield, and he leaned forward to scrub it clear with the edge of his sleeve. Alma slowed for the turnoff to the field, just ruts in the snow, the hangar's walls clear for an instant in the swing of the headlights. The truck lurched over the ruts, Alma gearing down to gain the best traction. They hadn't plowed the road or the runway since the last snow — only a couple of inches, Lewis thought, but enough to complicate things. The light on the tower swung in its endless circle, the white light slicing across the cloudless sky, drowning everything but the moon.

The door at the base of the tower opened, light spilling onto the dirty snow, and Cory Lincoln, who owned the field itself, stepped out.

"Mrs. Gilchrist! I figured they'd call you."

"They've called out the Reserves," Alma answered, her voice just a fraction tight, and Lewis worked himself out of the truck, wincing as the wind hit him. Mitch hunched his shoulders and pulled his scarf up over his chin, and Lewis zipped his flying suit closed, fingers clumsy in his heavy gloves.

"I heard," Lincoln answered. "The power's on in the hangar, and I just stoked up the furnace. I'll get the lights on as soon as the generator warms up."

"Thanks," Alma said, and they ducked through the small door into the hangar's cavernous space.

As promised, the worklights came on a moment later, though the air was still cold enough to see their breath. Alma's Jenny was bundled under tarps, motor drained and winterized: nobody wanted to be flying an open cockpit plane in the Colorado winter. It sat toward the back of the hangar, dwarfed by the Terrier, the three-engine passenger plane that was the mainstay of their business. The rest of the space was taken by equipment, and by their third plane, the one they'd bought from Henry Kershaw with part of the prize money from the race. It was a Deluxe Frontiersman, Republic's brand-new runabout, the lights glittering from the oversized cabin windows. Like all Kershaw's planes, it was designed to do a variety of jobs, and, unlike many compromise aircraft, the Frontiersman did most of them well.

"Guess we'd better take the Dude," Mitch said, and Alma nodded.

"Good thing you've already got the skis on her."

Lewis winced at the nickname — there was nothing dude-like about the Frontiersman; all the equipment was strictly utilitarian, even if it was top of the line — and began his walk-around, checking the cables that held the skis in position. They were a new design, with a cut-out notch in the ski itself so that the wheels could actually touch the ground. The idea was that the plane could land on a plowed runway or on ice, but Lewis hadn't had as much time as he would like to get used to the new system. With any luck, it would just be a matter of dropping a few flares, maybe the supply pack that Mitch was now manhandling into the back of the plane, and then back to base. And it if wasn't — well, he'd cross that bridge when he got there.

It took forty-five minutes to get the Frontiersman's tanks packed with fuel and to finish the preflight, but Lewis had the engines warmed and ready by the time Mitch climbed into the cabin behind him, dogging the hatch behind him. Lewis glanced over his shoulder, ready to give up the seat, but Mitch shook his head.

"You take her." He held up a set of binoculars. "I'll spot."

"Ok."

Alma hauled back the big hangar doors, letting in a swirl of snow. She'd lined up the truck so that the headlights pointed down the field, supplementing the field's lights. They'd never been intended for more than an emergency, and every little bit extra was a help. Lewis advanced the throttle, taxiing the Frontiersman out onto the plowed tarmac. Behind him, Mitch rolled down a cabin window, and Lewis flinched at the blast of cold air.

"Anything more?" Mitch shouted, and Lewis saw the pompom on Alma's hat bob wildly as she shook her head.

"Nothing. Good luck!"

Lewis lifted his hand in answer, and turned the Frontiersman into the wind. The engine noise changed as Mitch rolled up the window, and Mitch settled himself into the copilot's seat.

"I've got our part of the grid once we're up," he said, and Lewis nodded, opening the throttle.

He let the Frontiersman take its time getting airborne, the skis chattering just above the tarmac, then circled once over the field, getting his bearings. Mitch leaned forward to give him the heading and the radio frequency. Lewis brought the Frontiersman around, banking easily onto the new course, then reached for his headphones. He still wasn't used to flying with radio, but the Frontiersman was equipped with all the latest devices. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mitch fiddling with his own headset, pushing one earpiece back so that he could hear the plane, and carefully copied him.

Midnight, Mitch had said, and that was just about right. Lewis spotted the fine line of the state highway, barely a break in the trees, at five minutes of, and throttled back to the Frontiersman's slowest cruising speed. The air was relatively calm, a thin layer of cloud at 10,000 feet, fraying to wisps in a wind that didn't reach the lower altitudes. The moonlight gleamed off the snowpack beneath the wings, bright on the tops of the trees and the higher slopes above the treeline, but there was no sign of a crash. Static hissed in his ears, broken occasionally by snatches of voices as the other pilots conferred with Colonel Sampson back in Denver, but there was still no word of Rayburn's plane.

He pushed the Frontiersman's nose down, leveled out again at a thousand feet, the snow unreeling pristine beneath him. Rayburn was a good pilot. Must have been a mechanical problem, Lewis thought. There was nothing about the weather that would bring Rayburn down.

Mitch leaned close to shout over the noise of the engine. "We're in the flats now."

"Ought to be easier to see if they're down," Lewis shouted back, and checked his heading again.

There was nothing, though, just the line of the road and, once, the headlights of a truck, looking almost dirty against the reflected moonlight. Probably a bootlegger, Lewis thought, or a rustler, but that wasn't their problem. His hands were icy in spite of his fur-lined gloves; the cabin heater was on full blast, but it didn't seem to be doing much good.

There were lights ahead at last, the outskirts of Pueblo, and Mitch reached across for the microphone, reporting that they'd finished their first leg and were turning back. Lewis banked west, following State 501 toward Florence, and Mitch shifted so that he could see out the opposite window.

"I wish we had some coffee," Lewis called, after a while, and Mitch nodded.

"Yeah."

This was not the time of year to have something break, to have to put down even on the relatively flat land between Pueblo and Florence. At least it wasn't snowing, wasn't windy, but the skies were clear enough that the cold would be bitter. Still, if it was a mechanical, there was a decent chance Rayburn could have put it down in one piece, and then they'd have shelter, and the chance to build a fire. Rayburn would definitely do that, both to keep warm and to give the search teams a beacon to follow. He knew they'd be looking for him.

The Florence beacon flashed on the horizon, and Lewis adjusted his heading, turning away from the road to follow the more direct route. There were lights on in the house beside the hangars, and he started to reach for the radio, but Mitch tapped his shoulder again.

"No radio there. Buzz the tower, they'll call us in to Denver."

Lewis nodded and circled the field, waggling his wings. A door opened, spilling light, and he saw a small well-bundled figure come down the front steps, waving acknowledgement.

"Denver, this is Gilchrist," Mitch said behind him. "We're at Florence and starting back."

Lewis dipped his wings again, turning onto a northeasterly heading, and for a moment Samson's voice cut through the static.

"Roger that, Gilchrist."

This was the tricky leg of the pattern, heading back up the slopes of the mountains. The ground was heavily forested, a bad place to try to set down — though there were clearings, Lewis reminded himself, clearings and the occasional clear-cut area where one of the mines had set up its ore-processing machinery. The snow would provide a little protection from the stumps and boulders. Rayburn might be all right after all.

He eased the Frontiersman down another hundred feet, peering ahead himself to see if he could spot any breaks in the snow cover. The moon was dropping toward the horizon; once it was down, there wouldn't be much point in looking until daylight. He shivered again, in spite of the heavy flight suit and the layers of shirt and sweater and long johns under it. Not a nice night to be down on a mountain somewhere —

A voice crackled abruptly in his earphones, something like found, and he glanced sideways to see Mitch pressing the phones tight to his head.

"Say again?" That was Denver, and Lewis breathed a silent prayer.

"— Sighted — dropped flares — all ok —"

"Confirmed," Denver said. "All right, everybody, we've got a visual and it sounds like nobody's hurt. Eagle, stay on station as long as you can. Everybody else, you can go home." There was a pause. "Nice work, boys."

Lewis sighed, feeling his muscles unknot. That was better than he'd been expecting, better than he'd had a right to expect. But Rayburn was good. If anyone could muscle a plane down into a clearing, it would be him.

Mitch tapped his should again. "Good news."

Lewis nodded. "Yeah." He tipped the Frontiersman into an easy turn, lining up on the heading that would bring them home. "I wonder what happened?"

"Weird night for a wreck," Mitch agreed. "Well, I imagine we'll hear all about it in the morning."

"Yeah," Lewis said again. They still had plenty of fuel, and he opened the throttle just a little. "Better get us home."

Chapter Two

Colorado Springs,

November 17, 1932

"I
still don't understand why the ballerina just went to the train station like that," Lewis said. This had been supposed to be a treat, a holiday after the excitement of the crash and getting Rayburn and his men down out of the mountains, but somehow it wasn't working out the way he'd planned. His breath was a cloud in the frosty air, and he twisted his scarf around his neck with his free hand. It was cold but not snowing yet, and the sidewalk glittered with black ice in the lights from the movie theater marquee.

"She didn't know he was dead, darling," Stasi said from behind him. "Nobody told her because they didn't want a horrible scene. Of course they'll get one anyway. It's not as though she won't find out when he's not waiting at the train station, but we won't have to watch it."

"Maybe they won't tell her," Mitch said. It was cold enough that he actually had his overcoat fastened, his hat pulled low over his eyes. "They'll just let her think he didn't show up because he was insincere. He never meant to come with her. Jewel thieves are like that."

"Are they?" Stasi asked lightly. "I suppose they are."

"I think it's terribly sad," Alma said, and Lewis was startled to hear a catch in her voice. Her eyes looked suspiciously red, like she'd been crying in the movies. Which wasn't like Alma at all.

"I guess?" Lewis said. These women's movies full of love affairs and big emotions didn't really appeal to him. He'd been thinking about the crash through most of Grand Hotel, even if everyone did say it was going to win an Oscar. He felt bad for Rayburn, whose plane was still stuck on the mountainside because he didn't have the men to spare from his regular routes, and everyone was confused about why it had happened. Clear skies, calm air, and all of a sudden there was a zap and all the instruments went out: it didn't make sense, and Rayburn was being pretty close-mouthed about the job he'd been on. And of course some of the old boys at the Legion were talking about ghosts and haunts, but presumably that could be discounted — surely. Alma was scowling, and he dragged his attention back to the conversation.