Bill agreed. “So, how does this thing work?”
“Actually, pretty simple. To go, you press on the gas. To stop, let up on the gas and you’ll coast to a stop. The brake serves to apply rearward pressure on the electro-magnetic, so if you need to stop sudden-like, you press on that. Steering wheel works to turn it left and right, and this here lever,” Hill pointed to the dashboard, “takes you up or down.”
“What’s the ceiling?”
Hearing the aeronautical terminology caused Hill to glance over at Bill with a suspicious look.
“You a pilot or something?”
Bill recalled there weren’t too many aircraft on this planet. Think fast, Bill.
“Nope, not me. Just, our company looks at a lot of new technology. Guess I’ve picked up some of the terminology.”
The Confederate’s suspicions slightly allayed, he nodded and continued on toward the airfield. “We don’t quite know how high we can take these, but we figure into space.”
“Space?” Bill sounded incredulous, and this time he wasn’t acting.
“Yep. Don’t need oxygen or any other atmospheric gases, so we figure if’n we could find some way to breathe, we could go to the moon.”
“Damn. That’s pretty amazing.”
“Yep, we think so.”
The two men flew in silence while Hill took the Dixie Flyer down the length of the runway, increasing height along the way until they were several hundred feet in the air.
“Brace yourself, sudden stop coming up.”
No seatbelt and no “oh shit” bar to grab onto. Looks like the dashboard’s my bracing point. Bill put his hands on the dashboard, ensuring his elbows were flexed.
The sudden stop wasn’t as bad as Bill expected. No broken bones or face smashing into the dash.
Hill turned the car one hundred eighty degrees and began a descent along the runway until he was barely ten feet above the tarmac. With a quick turn of the steering wheel, Hill brought the Dixie Flyer into a graceful two-g turn and took it back to the factory, landing with a slight bump.
“There ya go. If’n you’re still interested in investing, head on back into the building. Soon as we’ve given everyone a ride, we’ll be back in to sign up backers.”
“Oh, I’m interested. This is amazing, to put it lightly.”
“Yeah, ain’t that a fact.” With a grin, Chuck waved him out of the car as one of the not-quite-British-sounding guys climbed in, taking Bill’s place.
As Bill walked across the lot toward the door, he was joined by Matt. “Lane’s up right now. He’ll be joining us shortly. Want to go in or watch?”
“Let’s watch for now, but out of the sun.” Bill pointed to a small picnic table under a tree, and they headed for it.
Taking a seat, Bill plucked one of the long pieces of grass growing around the edge of the table and stuck it in his mouth, the fresh smell of mashed greenery from the plant briefly overriding the industrial smell that seemed to pervade the area. “Whaddaya think?”
Matt took a couple of seconds before replying. “I’m impressed. If this is real, then I’m beyond impressed.”
“Did you know they don’t even know the ceiling?”
Matt turned toward Bill with a surprised look. “You’re kidding?”
Bill shook his head. “Nope. They don’t even have the technology to take it up too far. Hill says they could take it into space if they could figure out a way to breathe.”
“That’s not all they’d have to figure out.”
Soon after that, they were joined by Lane who was just as impressed as they were.
The three men watched the two Southerners give rides to all those who wanted them. Occasionally they would take a break, switching off cars to prove that they could easily fly both.
The Germans were the last to ride. The first two hopped out of the cars after their ride, nodding briefly to the two taking their places. The cars took off again.
Bill glanced at his watch and saw it was almost noon. The rides had taken most of the morning. “Looks like the last ride.”
One of the two Germans left the landing area and walked rapidly into the building. A minute later he returned, walking more stiffly than when he had entered.
Bill nudged Matt. “Wonder what he’s up to?”
“Looks like he’s trying to hide something in his coat.”
“Some sorta cardboard mailing tube,” Lane said.
Bill could see the bottom of the tube sticking out the bottom of the man’s coat.
Just as the man joined the waiting German, the two Dixie Flyers returned and landed. Bill thought the two passengers would hop out of the car as everyone else had done, but instead, they both pulled handguns out of their jackets and pointed them at the heads of the two drivers.
The three Explorers looked on with dismay, not initially reacting until motion out of the corner of his eye caused Bill to turn his head. The two not-quite-Brits were rounding the corner of the building with canvas cases that looked suspiciously like gun cases for large pistols or small rifles. Bill wasn’t wrong, as he saw the two men unzip the bags, dropping them on the run, and pull out what looked like submachine guns, long stick magazines extending from the bottom, aiming them at the men at the cars.
“Find cover!” Bill practically yelled.
He didn’t need to say more. The Explorers were used to taking quick action on little warning. It’s how they became old Explorers. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anywhere to take cover close by, with the exception of the tree, which all three headed for at a run, while simultaneously drawing their pistols.
When Bill hit the ground behind the tree, he heard gunfire, first rapid-fire shooting followed by a second type of firearm shooting. One sounded deeper than the other, which had a sharper sound.
Glancing up, he saw one of the not-quite-Brits on the ground, his submachine gun lying next to him. He was still moving, reaching for his firearm, so Bill surmised he wasn’t dead yet.
Two of the Germans were down, one who was in the powder blue Dixie Flyer and the one who had been standing by while the other retrieved the cardboard tube from within the building. Hill was down, too. The Germans looked dead, pistols on the ground inches from their open hands, but Hill wasn’t, despite the blood flowing down the side of his face. Bill glanced at the second Dixie Flyer and saw that Ford had been pushed out the side and the two remaining Germans were occupying it. One of the Germans was the one who had recently left the building with the mailing tube. He was holding the cardboard tube in his hand, which he promptly threw on the floor of the passenger side, drew his pistol, and began firing at the not-quite-Brits while the second German took control of the car and started flying it.
The one not-quite-Brit who was still standing took aim and shot at the departing Dixie Flyer. Bill could see sparks fly off the bottom of the vehicle, but it continued to rapidly pull away.
Just as Bill was about to take a shot at the standing not-quite-Brit, Matt put his hand on his arm. “Not our circus.”
Bill let out his breath, then finished the line, “Not our monkeys. Yeah, you’re right.”
The not-quite-Brit ran out of ammunition, the staccato sound of gunfire ended, and he stood, watching the disappearing stolen cherry red Dixie Flyer.
Bill stood, cautiously. “Let’s see what we can do to help.”
Matt and Lane rose and the three ran to the downed men. The not-quite-Brit was still holding the submachine gun, but now it was pointed down, smoke wisping from the barrel. He looked at the three approaching men and said, “Watch out. The Heinies might still be dangerous.” He then went to check on his comrade.
Bill and Matt approached the two Air Confederacy men to check on them first, holstering their pistols on the way, while Lane checked on the Germans.
Bill saw the unwounded not-quite-Brit retrieve his and his partner’s gun cases and, bringing them back to his partner, sliding the now-cooled weapons into their respective cases, zipping them shut and setting t
hem down. The not-quite-Brit began to administer first aid to his wounded companion.
Ford was already attending to Hill, who was bleeding from a head wound. It looked more like a gash than a penetration. Bill handed Ford a handkerchief. “Here, put that on the wound and apply pressure. It’ll stop the bleeding.”
As he did, Ford muttered his thanks, looking back up to the sky and watching the dwindling Dixie Flyer vanish toward the east.
“Sonsabitches done stole our plans.”
“Is that bad?”
Ford gave him an incredulous look. “Bad, it’s ruinous. Only plans we had for the electromagnet.”
“The only ones? Didn’t you guys make copies?”
“Yeah, but our old office burned down last week. Never had time to get new copies made. Shit!”
“Can’t be all that bad,” Matt said. “One of y’all must have invented it, right?”
“Weren’t us. German fellow came to us with the concept and plans. We just built it. Well, Chuck here did most of the building. I’m just the business guy.”
“Where’s the German?”
“Einstein? He disappeared last week.”
The name caused some eyebrow-raising among the three Explorers.
Can’t be Albert Einstein. He’d be about 150 years old, Bill thought.
“Einstein?” Matt asked.
“Yeah, Hans Einstein. Supposedly comes from a long line of German theoretical scientists and engineers. His dad was a hydraulic engineer or somethin’ like that. Said he got tired of the regimentation of European science and wanted to develop some of his untested hypotheses, so he came here to try. I think the Germans must’ve seen some of his work and decided to take him back to Germany, especially after we had the first prototype up and runnin’.”
As Ford was talking, the investors, who had been waiting patiently and then with some trepidation and not a bit of fear, made their way out to the small group around the lone Dixie Flyer.
“So, y’all are saying you ain’t got the plans, knowledge, or even capacity to manufacture any more flyers?” an older man with a true cookie-duster mustache asked.
“Afraid not.”
The hubbub that arose left no doubt in anyone’s minds what the crowd thought of this turn of events. It got even louder when Lane announced that it appeared both the remaining Germans were dead.
Bill heard one voice mutter, “Hell, if the Germans are involved, ain’t no way I want a part of this action.” There seemed to be common agreement amongst the crowd regarding this.
Not too long after Ford’s announcement, the sound of sirens could be heard rapidly approaching. It reminded Bill of old movies from the 1930s and 1940s, a rising and falling wailing sound with tinny undertones, unlike the bwah-wah or high-low chirping of modern sirens. It definitely didn’t sound like the high-low nee-ner nee-ner sound of European sirens.
Bill decided to help the unhurt not-quite-Brit, and hopefully learn a bit more of what just happened. As he approached, the foreigner looked up to him, verifying Bill didn’t present a threat. Bill’s pistol was already holstered, so he approached with open hands. “How is he?”
“Klopper? He’ll be fine if we can get him some medical attention immediately. Mostly flesh wounds, but I fear he’s got a sucking chest wound.”
Bill could see that the not-quite-Brit called Klopper’s clothing had been cut to expose several of the wounds. Handkerchiefs were placed in various parts of his body, all of them soaked through with Klopper’s blood.
“Anything I can do?”
“For sure. Can you keep an eye on him while I get a first-aid kit and blanket from our car? Don’t want him bleeding out any more and going into more shock than he needs to.”
Warily, Bill agreed, but felt better about it when the not-quite-Brit left the cased submachine guns at his companion’s side while he went to get the blanket. Looking down at the wounded man, Bill decided it might be best if he kept pressure applied to at least two of the torso wounds, so he got down on his knees and did so, pressing on the chest wound with one hand and a wound on the side of the torso with the other. It was bleeding more than the wound on the collar.
While the man was gone, Matt and Lane walked up.
“How is he?
“He ain’t dead, but he will be if we don’t stop all this bleeding.”
Matt nodded while squatting down. “At least that’s something. Looks like Hill’s gonna be okay.” He touched a bloodstain on the trousers of the wounded man’s leg. “Looks like a wound here.” Pulling out his folding knife, Matt cut the man’s pants, exposing a blood-soaked upper leg wound oozing blood. “At least it ain’t an artery,” he said, setting the now blood-soaked knife on the ground and retrieving his own handkerchief. He pressed the folded-up piece of cloth over the wound and saw the white material slowly turn red.
In less than a minute, the unhurt not-quite-Brit joined them and introduced himself as Ian Rhodes. He set the first-aid kit, a not-so-typical looking one in Matt’s eyes, onto the ground, flipped the lid open, and extracted one large and two small packages wrapped in brown waxed cardboard. “Field dressings. Ever put one on?”
A slight smile came over Bill’s face. “A time or two.”
Rhodes handed him one of the smaller packages, then passed the other to Matt. Without further ado, Rhodes ripped the package open, exposing another package inside it, this one made of a metallic foil. Ripping the foil at one edge, he extracted a fairly large field dressing wrapped in cellophane. Stripping off the cellophane, he pulled the field dressing out, but before setting the dressing over a wound, he pressed the cellophane over a chest wound that had pink bubbles rising from it. “Sucking chest wound. Gotta stop the air from escaping and blood getting in,” he explained as he set the dressing over the cellophane. He then pulled one of the ends around him, sticking his arm under the wounded man to get the end around so it could be tied with the other end.
Bill, being more used to field dressings that were held in place with tape, struggled a bit with his, but finally got it in place over the other chest wound, the one that wasn’t sucking.
By the time Klopper was bandaged and Rhodes had placed a blanket over him to reduce the effect of shock, Ford and Lane had joined the small medical party.
Rhodes stood and introduced himself to the wiry Southerner. “We had word the Heinies might start something, but weren’t sure. Sorry we couldn’t have stopped them in time.”
Ford reached out his hand. “Thanks for trying. Weren’t for you, we mighta lost both Dixie Flyers. At least we still got one.”
The grounds rapidly cleared, with the exception of the three Explorers and the two not-quite-Brits, Rhodes and Klopper. Ford requested they stay to help out.
“Police are gonna want to know what happened here. And, ain’t no sense getting you in trouble,” this said with a nod toward the two not-Brits. “Considering how all you tried to stop them. We might be even able to at least recover some money from the insurance, if y’all give statements on what happened. It won’t just be our word.”
As he was saying this, the first police car pulled into the back lot, two officers jumping out and drawing revolvers from holsters. Upon seeing mostly unarmed men, they slowed down, lowered their revolvers, then holstered them, taking in the men standing and those not. Ford waved them over.
As the two officers approached, more police cars arrived, crowding the small lot behind the loading dock.
The first officer to approach was an older man in his forties, with a handle-bar mustache turning gray at the edges. His uniform was well worn but clean, and his department shoulder patch was clearly more aged than the shoulder patch on his younger companion, a short, stocky man who looked barely old enough to shave.
Taking in the two dead bodies, the two wounded men, and the spent brass strewn about the loading dock lot, he turned his attention back to the small group of men. “What in the hell happened here?”
Ford introduced himself and began to explain, jus
t as an ambulance pulled up.
It was clear that the Germans were the ones in the wrong, and that whatever action taken by Rhodes and Klopper was not only appropriate but worthy of commendation. It was during the police interview stage that Bill learned the two not-quite-Brits were actually from the British colony of Southern Rhodesia, in southern Africa, and worked as special agents for His Majesty’s Government of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the Commonwealth of Colonies. As such, they were afforded diplomatic immunity, meaning they couldn’t be arrested and charged for shooting up the area.
The police officer shrugged upon hearing this. “Well, it ain’t like you’re the bad guys here, so it wouldn’t matter anyhoo.”
During the investigation, Hill and Klopper were taken away by ambulances. The meat-wagon drivers were nice enough to interrupt the officer’s questioning to tell Ford and Rhodes which hospital their companions would be going to.
“We’re takin’ ‘em both to Grady Memorial. The guy with the head wound looks okay, but he’s probably got a concussion. The other guy’s in a different league altogether, though; bein’ he took a few bullets and’s gonna need some serious surgery.”
Ford and Rhodes thanked the men and said they’d be along shortly.
67
It was several hours before the police wrapped up whatever part of the investigation they could. Shadows had started to lengthen across the nearby airfield, and mosquitoes were beginning to make their presence known, but the heat of the day still lingered. Despite the fact that the police had good descriptions of the two missing Germans, they didn’t have any valid information on their actual identity. The names they signed in with could have been their real names, but it was unlikely. Fortunately, the two dead Germans provided evidence that they were ostensibly working for the German government. The detective who was handling the case told the group that the two dead men had diplomatic passports on their persons, and probably worked at the Imperial German Embassy or one of the consulates.
“Ain’t much we can do with ‘em, other than notify their government to come and get ‘em. Any investigation we do is gonna wind up shut down ‘cause of this here diplomatic immunity thing.”
The Corps of Discovery Trilogy Box Set: Books 1-3: A multiverse series of alternate history Page 74
