Trouble on His Wings (4 page)

Chapter
Three

R
OARING
westward, Johnny Brice
had ample time both to look at and wonder about this strange girl who had so
suddenly become a part of his existence. When they stopped at Chicago, she was
under great tension, eyes constantly roving the field and striving to appear
unconcerned at the same time. That she labored under a heavy nerve strain was
very apparent when they took off once more and she sank back into her seat,
exhausted.

After that Johnny
watched her intently from his seat across the cabin, letting Irish do most of
the flying on the excuse that he, Johnny, was going to attempt some night shots
of the vast forest fire which stretched along half a mountain range and
imperiled—so the radio said—some five thousand lives if the wind changed. But
that would all take care of itself in due time, and it would be soon enough for
him to start worrying about saving their necks and getting the pictures at the
same time.

He watched the girl,
pretending to sleep, so that she would not again mask her real self. He was
taken, now that he studied her, with the delicacy of her features and the
smallness of her hands. Her honey-gold hair was delightfully real—and Johnny
knew henna when he saw it and appreciated not seeing it. In turn, oblivious of
his regard, she watched the country unroll below them, small ripples of
pleasure going through her at the variety of colors of the checkerboard earth,
of the dollhouse towns, always with their guardian church spires; it was
apparently all new to her. She watched their shadow striving mightily to keep
up with them, hastily leaping hedges and ditches, highways and hills. Still
believing herself unobserved, she pulled the table around on its hinged
brackets and took up the pencil there, writing slowly on a scratch pad, pausing
now and then to look at the faraway earth, pencil poised against her lips and then
writing again. It went on for some time, and finally Johnny's curiosity got the
better of him. He stood up quietly, but an air bump made him clutch his chair.
She caught the motion and, in a flurry of embarrassment, wadded the paper into
a ball.

“Let's see it,” said
Johnny.

She shook her head,
tightening the wad. He reached out his hand, but before he had reached her, she
had already lowered the window an inch and the white ball fled back and away.

“What were you
writing?” said Johnny.

“Nothing.”

“You might at least
confide in me. I have some rights.”

“It wasn't anything,”
she said, cheeks turning a deeper hue.

“It must have been,”
said Johnny.

“It . . . it was some
poetry,” she faltered.

He looked her askance
and sat down, changing his attention to the
Black Hills
which slowly rose out
of the horizon ahead. She pushed her hands down into the pockets of Irish's
flying jacket and studied Johnny.

“You don't believe
me,” she decided at last. “Maybe you thought I was framing a message or
something. But, honest, it was poetry. This is the first time I have ever flown
over the United States.”

“Why don't you give me
a break?” said Johnny. “I'm on your side.”

“You weren't this
morning,” she reminded him.

“Aw, can't a guy blow
off the steam of a hangover if he wants? And besides, it was funny that I'd
pick you up and have my first bad luck in the movie business all at one and the
same time. Give me a break. What's your name and who's after you, and why? I
got influence, sometimes.”

“You . . . you
couldn't ever help me out of this . . . but then, I've said too much already.”

“Is it some smuggling
outfit?”

“No.”

“Maybe it's
espionage.”

“N-No.”

“Maybe it's the
police.”

She didn't answer, and
he showed immediate interest. “Are the cops after you?”

“There's no use trying
to find out. It would be worth your life to know.”

“I've got some
rights,” persisted Johnny, with a slow smile. “After all, when you pick up a
ship at sea, you got rights. And I picked you out of the drink. Salvage, that's
what. I've got salvage rights on you. And you won't even tell me your name.”

“Don't make me tell,”
she pleaded. “It . . . it would be the end of you.”

Johnny considered her
calmly. “Something on the order of
Medusa
, eh?”

She was startled.

“Oh, cameramen can
read, too,” smiled Johnny.

“I may be a Medusa,
but perhaps you aren't
Perseus
.”

“I don't want your
head,” said Johnny, “and I doubt that you'd turn me to stone. I only want to
know what's in it.”

“Does the right of
salvage include that, too?”

“It does,” said
Johnny, “but definitely.”

“Then, someday, if I
live, perhaps I'll tell you.” And that was all she would say.

Chapter
Four

A
GAINST
the evening sky they
could see the rosy glow of flame and before they had traveled much further,
even at this height the smoke began to sting their eyes. And then, as they
climbed, the whole earth below, it seemed, was one vast blanket of flame. To
the north, like lightning, the
crown fire
was running. To the south the dead
earth smoldered.

The girl stared down,
appalled, feeling small and weak before this panorama of seared mountains. The
drone of their engine seemed small and when the heat currents began to buffet
their wings, knocking them about the sky, her heart stood in her throat, lest
they be thrown down to cook in this hell. It was hot enough at three thousand
feet.

Steadily Irish flew
onward.

“How's the gas?” said
Johnny.

“Enough for a
half-hour,” said Irish.

Johnny looked down.
“There's plenty of this. Think you can find a town and field in all this
smoke?”

“Maybe, if it doesn't
get much darker.”

“Locate the field, if
you can, but give me a break. I'm going to turn a crank on this.”

She watched him coolly
set up and check the load of a
DeVry
. Irish was going up higher so they could
get a better shot. She began to be nervous about the gas, about the possibility
of finding a place to land in that angry expanse which stretched illimitably
below their frail wings. The bumps lessened as they went higher.

“Might not have
another chance,” said Johnny practically. “Might rain or something, and spoil
the news.” He was turning his crank, eye fixed to a sight, tripod hugged
against him to keep off some of the engine vibration. “Boy, this is a shot.
Wish it was color. See those blue flames? That red sky . . . ? Boy!” His
enthusiasm increased as he cranked. “Higher, Irish!” His eyes gleamed as he
looked around for angles which would show the most flame. “Boy, we're lucky.
They might have put this out.”

Five thousand people
and a hundred thousand timbered acres, she thought to herself.

“Wouldn't it make some
picture if we could get one of those towns burning?” said Irish.

“None of them are,”
said the girl.

“But they might,” said
Johnny hopefully.

“But where would we
land?”

“We'll worry about
that when we get some of these pictures. Take her down, Irish. Got to get that
crown fire. Might see some of the fighters from the air. Got two of them that
were trapped, once,” he told the girl. “But no such luck this time.”

She shuddered,
clutching the sides of her chair as they dived sickeningly down at the
geysering flame below.

Johnny lined up the
crown fire as it sped from treetop to treetop, one giant, terrifying path as
far as they could see to the west.

“Got it?” cried Irish.

“Got it. Locate the
town!”

Irish pulled back on
the stick and they shot upward, out of choking smoke. But they did not go far.
With a jarring cough, the engine missed a beat. And then it repeated in a swift
succession of volleying backfires which sent a plume of red-blue flame out of
their exhaust stack under the wing.

Irish put the nose
down. The engine stopped entirely and all the sound there was came from below.
It was a roar like surf, and the girl knew, with terror clutching at her heart,
that that sound was the crown fire racing above the forest.

“Ahead or behind?”
said Irish.

“Ahead. Find a brook.
Find anything.” Johnny's hands were swiftly taking the load out of his camera,
rolling it up and wrapping it up. He seemed to have no attention for anything
else.

“There's an open
space!” yelled Irish. “Belt yourself down. This is going to be rough!”

“Throw your belt
across you,” ordered Johnny, sinking into a chair and buckling his own.

She found that her
hands were frozen. Somehow she managed to fasten the clasp. It was too loose
for her and she glanced at Johnny. He was still wrapping up the film, using his
own coat.

“Might get singed,”
said Johnny, tapping the drum in his hand.

She had barely heard
him when they struck. She didn't know what happened. She lost a few seconds out
of her life and knew nothing about them except that they had gone. She was
sitting in her chair, but her weight was all against her side. In the angry red
light which permeated the forest, she could see the trees, all horizontal about
her. Hands grabbed her and jerked her out of the ship.

“Where's a creek?”
yelled Johnny.

“I saw something shiny
over to the left!” yelped Irish.

She could hear a
snarling, angry sound to the south and knew that it was the crown fire. Her
legs failed her and Johnny scooped her up, running and stumbling through the
grass, guided by Irish's white jumper.

Deer, with death in
their eyes, bounded through the clearing, failing to notice either humans or a
terrified cougar that sped in their midst. Small animals, badgers, squirrels,
chipmunks and a lumbering bear fled blindly from the greatest devourer of
all—FIRE.

Johnny half-slipped,
half-leaped down a clay bank. A beaver dam had crossed this creek in former
years but, though its builders were dead, water still remained there, several
feet deep. Into it plunged Irish, up to his waist, and then she saw that he
gripped the big moving-picture camera in his arms. The whole world had slowed
down for her. Animals in a steady stream cleared this creek and raced out of
sight into the darkness beyond. A wise chipmunk plunged in. Against the scarlet
sky she could see legions of birds striving to outstrip the smoke. There was
something grandly beautiful in this drama of death and only the shock of the
water broke her momentarily detached state.

Johnny had thrown her
down. “Swim up under one of those mounds!” he cried. “There's air in them.
Gimme that camera, Irish.”

Into it plunged Irish, up to his waist, and then she saw
that he gripped the big moving-picture camera in his arms.

“Gee whiz, this ought
to wow 'em!” cried Irish, ducking into the pool.

“Lay 'em in the
aisles!” cried Johnny, opening wide his lens. For a moment he was conscious of
the smallness of his voice against that crackling roar which sped upon them and
then he was again all business, wading into the pool until the water was up to
his neck, holding the camera at face level. The tripod helped buoy it up. He
reached over and snatched the helmet from the girl's head, putting it on and
drawing the goggles down.

They heard the plane
catch fire. A moment later it exploded and then, after that, all the sky was
alight. The crown fire, traveling with a plane's speed, whooshed over them. But
as an undertone, the girl could hear the steady whir of the camera, focused now
upon the trapped animals, now up the scourged trees. Burning brands rained upon
them, hissing as they struck the pool, setting fire to the brush on the banks.
Johnny swore abruptly, but the whirring camera sound went on.

She was conscious that
she held the film he had taken from the plane and knew she had been holding it
up carefully for minutes. It surprised and pleased her to find that she had
been calm all that time, despite the heat which penetrated the beaver mound.

Suddenly she heard
Irish scream, “LOOK OUT!”

There came a long,
groaning sigh, a swish of branches and then a numbing crash which sent the
water over the mound in a great wave. Something struck the girl's head and she
fought to keep up above the surface but, gradually, she sank down.

She had no
consciousness of being moved, but when she again opened her eyes, it was to
behold Johnny's blackened face. He had two white rings around his eyes where
the goggles had been, and a long wet streak of red which worked slowly down his
cheek. It was scorching hot and the world glowed redly, flickering from small
flames which still licked the trunks of the dead forest giants. The pool was a
dirty mess of floating charcoal and dead, small animals. A powdery ash was
snowing around them, gently and quietly, throwing everything out of proportion
for her.

“She's alive!” said
the singed Irish.

“Yeah,” said Johnny,
hiding his own relief. It seemed funny to her that he should want to smoke with
all this eddying about him, but he was lighting a cigarette. He sat down in the
shallow water over the dam, remorsefully puffing as he stared at the
devastation. She lifted herself up a little and saw that a great tree divided
the pond. Others had fallen up stream and down, their roots already unstable in
the soft earth and needing only the furious blast of the crown fire to knock
them over. It had been this, then, which had struck her.

“Did you get the
pictures?” she said, sitting up.

“The air shots are
down there some place,” said Johnny, jerking the cigarette to indicate the
bottom of the pool. “You dropped them when you went out. The camera is likewise
in the drink, the whole top knocked out of it.”

“The tree didn't hit
you?”

“Missed me—a whole
foot,” said Johnny.

“They're all gone,”
wept Irish, unashamed. “They're all gone. And they was such swell pictures.
Animals and the crown fire, and everything.”

“Can't you salvage
them?”

Johnny didn't even
bother to answer.

“But maybe just plain
water—”

Irish moaned,
“Please.”

Johnny touched his
cheek and looked at his bloody fingers in some surprise, deciding he had better
wash his face. He knelt down, dabbling in the water.

“It's going to be a
hot walk,” he said, “and maybe a damned long one.”

Irish recovered
himself. He took out a pocket knife and approached a dead deer sprawled on the
bank. The girl looked away, already too conscious of the smell of singed hair
and burnt meat which hung over the world about them. However, a little later,
when Irish finished roasting the steaks on a stump, she took her portion.

Johnny was looking at
her critically as he ate.

“What's the matter?”
she said, acutely aware of her smudged face, torn clothes and wet hair.

“Lady,” he said
slowly, “I hereby christen you ‘Jinx'.”

Jinx