There was no ball of fire.
Sara’s plane turned.
It was now heading towards the Hollywood Hills, speeding towards the summit. If it passed over it, it would head towards Burbank, and Roee would have traded one mass destruction for another, but it suddenly lost enough altitude and crashed, finally, with a spectacular display of hot fire and bright light, right into the HOLLYWOOD sign.
“Well, that’s a rather large contribution we’re going to have to make to the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce.”
“Pay attention, guys, Max is on you!”
Max bounced on me from above, bullets and shells ripped through my plane then he flew off towards the crash site and did a victory role over it.
“Good-bye my love,” came his soft, sweet, and tender tribute to one of the most vile and ugly women I had ever met.
“Fixx, are you okay?” It was a concerned Roee.
It was the question utmost in my mind, which had been taking a rather rapid inventory of my craft and myself.
“Well, I’m conscious and despite a number of holes in the plane, and a rapidly decreasing fuel level, I’m flying, so I suspect so—for the moment.”
“Good for you,” Roee said.
“Bad for you!” was Max’s opinion.
Max had come around and was on an approach directly towards me. I was in a true “run but could not hide situation.” Obviously with gas spilling out of bullet holes, I was at a dangerous disadvantage. My thought was to get out over the ocean. If there were going to be another dropping of flaming hot metal from out of the sky, it would be best to be away from track homes and malls.
“Maxwellton James, this is Captain Skip Jones of the California Air National Guard. I order you to cease hostilities and land your unauthorized craft.”
The sky was suddenly crowded. A Harrier jet hovered nearby and three HueyCobra helicopter gun-ships kept crisscrossing in front of and behind me.
Max broke off his attack and screamed into a climb.
“I miss the bugles,” Roee said.
“What?”
“Of the Cavalry.”
“Sorry gentleman,” came Captain Jones’ voice. “But we have plenty of armament, if that makes you feel any better.”
“Just not the same.” Roee complained.
“Oh, all right!” Then Captain Jones, not always accurate as to his notes, hummed out a vigorous rendition of “Charge” as the Harrier followed Max, somewhat leisurely, up into the storm clouds.
“Max, time to give up,” I radioed to him.
The line was open, but there was nothing but silence from Max.
“The Enclave cannot protect you, but we can protect you from the Enclave.”
More silence.
“Sorry about Sara, but why should you—”
“I AM WITH THE STORM THE STORM IS MY BROTHER I AM THE STORM AND I SHALL BECLOUD THE WORLD THE STORM SHALL PROTECT ME I AM THE STORM AND THE STORM IS—”
It was a horrible sound. The crack. The sizzle.
“He’s falling in pieces,” Petey reported.
“Where?”
“About a half-mile out over the pacific.”
“Hope he doesn’t hit any whales.”
“Time to land, I think, Fixxer.”
“As the E is looming on my gage, I can’t find fault with the idea.”
“I got a problem though.”
“What’s that?”
“When I took off Sara’s canopy, I lost my right wheel.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Captain? Are you on Petey’s line?”
“I’m here Fixxer.”
“It looks like we’re not going to have to fake the emergency landing. Is everything ready with our strip.”
“Traffic is being cleared now.”
“You understand the situation?”
“Yeah, but what are you—”
“Just have about six of your fastest, strongest men available near the end. Can’t explain the plan now, but you’ll get it when you see what we’re doing.”
“We’ll be ready for you.”
“All right. Roee, match me for elevation and speed and we’ll skip hand-in-hand along the boulevard.”
Roee positioned his Spit as close to my port side as possible then we flew in a coordinated pattern to position ourselves to approach our landing area, coming in over Hancock Park and Beverly Hills, all the while watching our relative positions to each other as much as our air speed or any other indication on the instrument panel.
“This has got to be surgical,” I said to Roee.
“You’re the doctor,” he replied.
As the ground grew in its immediate importance, we could see humanity and its structures whiz past below, start to pick out individual structures we knew well and individual humans all, it seemed, pointing up at us. Then there were the flashing lights of the roadblock and the mass of black & white police cars. As we flew over their tops, I suddenly had a thought.
“Captain? The overhanging traffic lights?”
“They’ve been cut down. Certain officials none too happy.”
“Christmas bonuses?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“Okay Roee, this is it.”
We touched down on Wilshire Boulevard side by side, the tip of my left wing placed just inches under the tip of Roee’s right wing. When our wheels hit the pavement, gravity caused Roee’s wing to desire the ground and press hard on my wing, tilting my Spit down to the left, lifting its right side. For a moment we each were landing on one wheel. Our flaps were up, though, breaking our speed, and soon we were traveling relatively slow. Six brave officers of the law came running out towards us, got behind us, and ran to the intersection of the wings. At the appropriate moment, I veered off right, Roee’s wing fell, and was caught by the ten, running to keep pace, holding the wing up.
Soon we both came to a stop directly in front of the high rise building in Westwood in which we live.
We breathed easier. At least Roee and I did. I can’t vouch for the six.
The whole area was deserted of traffic, but there were observers, most well back on the street, or looking out of windows from the various high rises. More officers of the law, including the Captain surrounded us, as we climbed down from our planes and disappeared among the confusion of men.
In a very few minutes two soon-to-be-well-rewarded members of the LAPD were wearing our flight suits, and Roee and I were wearing their uniforms. The Captain assigned us—now officers Saunders and Hough—to go into the building directly in front of us and take statements.
Roee and I gladly entered the building, but statements we did not take. Instead we took the elevator to the fifteenth floor that is our home, and entered into its sanctuary of silence.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Do You Believe in Angels?”
Immediate first aid had been rendered to us within the crowd of police as we were changing clothes. Second through—at the very least—thirty-second aid was rendered by Dr. Stone who, with two nurses and much portable medical equipment, was waiting for us on the 15th floor.
He was not happy with our raw meat conditions. I could tell by the shaking of his head and the little noises he made with his tongue. Dr. Stone is a man of few words, but of many noises.
Roee had a number of contusions and bruises plus a chunk of flesh torn out of his right leg. His right cheek bone was fractured, and he probably had a small concussion due to the AK-47 butt.
I had many of the same injuries, but most prominent was a very weird looking right eyelid.
Dr. Stone grunted a need for explanation.
“A very nasty man stuck his thumbnail through it,” I answered.
“Nurse, penicillin.”
I also had an unusual circular first-degree burn in the center of my back. Dr. Stone treated it, not seeming to even want to know how it occurred.
Both Roee and I were exhausted. After the patching, Dr. Stone o
rdered us to bed, giving us a little something to help. We retired to our bedrooms, each assigned a nurse, who would stay outside our doors with magazines and paperbacks to fill in the time.
It had all moved so quickly, exactly as I had planned it, that many questions I may have had didn’t even occur to me to ask until dark and quiet and fading consciousness was the welcomed comfort that surrounded.
I fell asleep with “Lydia” on my lips.
*
It was that wonderful time coming out of sleep where you feel completely relaxed and all the metaphors you can grab for have to do with floating or flying or any state of affairs where you feel no pressure at all, including, and most importantly, the pressure of physical objects against your skin. It was a quality of time you want to completely experience and hold, therefore you neither want to fall back into sleep, for then experience is deadened, nor to fully wake up, where experience is far too alive, especially to pressures, internal and external.
You must go deep, or surface, though, lovely limbo is just not meant to be.
I opened my eyes.
Lydia.
She smiled.
“Do you believe in angels?” she asked.
“I do now,” I said.
*
We had slept, thanks to Dr. Stone, for more than twenty-four hours, our wounds constantly being tended to by the nurses. In that time, all loose ends were wrapped up.
Once we were fully awake and fed and feeling as fine as circumstances permitted, we were taken by our nurses into the library in wheelchairs. It was, they said, at Dr. Stone’s insistence, but I didn’t believe them. I think it was just glorious maternal instinct.
As we were rolled into the library, our cast of characters greeted us with a round of applause.
There was the Captain, of course, and Mike. Petey was there as was Hamo Thronycroft, who had flown over from England with Sheila Barnes’ boy and girl, who now sat close to their mother, who was keeping a tight hold on them.
And there was Lydia, looking gorgeous in a Bill Blass suit.
The nurses transferred us from wheelchairs to easy chairs, then excused themselves.
“First off,” I started, “Sheila Barnes, my sincere apology for putting you through a hell no parent should have to go through, but I think you will agree that it was necessary and, I assume, your children have reported that they were never mistreated.”
“Mistreated? They want me to adopt Mr. Thronycroft!”
There was laughter.
“Well, I can understand that. We have all wanted to adopt Hamo at one time or another, but I’m afraid the upkeep would be beyond your means.”
“Especially seeing how I’m out of a job, now.”
“Well, let’s talk about that. I believe, though, the children would be better entertained in another room where I’ve had set up for them a video system for games and movies. They will also be fed.”
Hamo led the children out then quickly returned.
“Captain, please explain our arrangements for Sheila.”
“Sure.” In his blunt manner, the Captain laid it out. “You will need to testify against the other Rangers, all of whom we’ve captured. Not to mention the five—what should I call them…?”
“‘Industry types,’ I think will suffice,” I said.
“Yeah, those five, and then there are the ‘Industry types’ who were present when Bea Cherbourg was killed. You will have to testify against them.”
“Do I get immunity for this?”
“Immunity, a new identification, relocation for you and your children, the whole works,” the Captain said.
“Can I trust the government on this?”
“You don’t have to,” I said. “I am arranging it and I will guarantee it.”
She looked to me. All questioning left her face. She accepted the situation.
“A job will be found for you,” I continued, “that fits your particular skills. On occasion, I may have freelance work for you. Private schools for your children, I think, to keep up the kind of education you’ve established for them. Also, if you wish, we can arrange someone for you to talk to about your somewhat out-of-control sexual needs. Mind you, I’m not opposed to the quantity of sex you may desire, but, rather, the quality of men which that desire, uncontrolled, leads to. If you don’t agree with me that that is a problem, you are free to not accept the offer. However, if I ever discover that your children are suffering because of it—I will then take any measure I see fit to correct the situation. Is that understood?”
“Yes, but why are you helping me at all? I’m as guilty as the others.”
“Without you I could not have saved Lydia’s life. I put a value on that.”
“I only did what I was instructed to do, and I did it under duress.”
“Yet you did it, and a life I very consciously put in jeopardy was saved. I will explain no more.”
“Except maybe—could you explain how you did it?”
“Petey?”
“Well, it was very simple, actually,” Petey began, “we knew the electrocution happened by contact with the lips. That was obvious from the autopsy report on Bea Cherbourg, and from the Fixxer’s observation of Don Gulden showing off his burnt lips at Larry Lapham’s party. So I simply prepared a lipstick compound for Lydia that had within it thousands of near microscopic glass beads. Glass, of course, will not conduct electricity. So, as long as she allowed only her lips to make contact with the hot item—in this case, one hot ass—”
“Petey,” I admonished.
“Sorry. In this case, a gold-colored, electrified Mylar pair of panties covering the buttocks of one Sara Hutton—then she was perfectly safe. As an added protection, though, just in case the altar had been electrified, I provided Lydia with a pair of stockings made out of a sheer, super-thin rubber.”
“They were extremely uncomfortable,” Lydia said. “I would have been willing to die just to get out of them.”
“Yes, well, rubber, you see, doesn’t breathe,” Petey explained.
“You’re telling me. I was sweating like a Turk!”
“Lydia!” I admonished.
“What? Oh. Sweating like a turkey, then. On the night before Thanksgiving. Passive, American PC enough for you?”
“For all except the poultry lobby.”
“Well,” Sheila Barnes said, not quite appreciating our banter, “she sure acted like she’d been electrocuted.”
“‘Acted’ is the key word,” I said. “She plays Medea next week.”
Sheila didn’t really understand this, but Lydia smiled.
“Thank you. I had a good director.”
“But—but her hair…?”
“Oh, just a little electromagnetic device,” Petey explained, “in the form of a hair pin. Hit the remote control switch and it really frizzes out the hair. Roee had the switch in his pocket. Get the timing right, and who’s to know?”
“Well, it was really convincing.”
“But it wouldn’t have been upon close scrutiny of—of the remains,” I said. “That’s where we needed you, and you did an admirable job.”
“As I said, I just did what I was told to do. I got to her first, before the other Rangers and just dragged her off, behind the screen. Max and Sara were more concerned with calming everybody down and with you guys. Then I just told them I had everything under control as far as getting the body ready for shipment to Alaska. They didn’t particularly want to pay their last respects.”
“She’s being modest,” Lydia said. Once she got me behind the screen, she checked to make sure I was alive, made sure I was comfortable, and kept a very diligent eye out for others. Then she hid me in a safe place in one of the guesthouses. You will always have my deep gratitude, Sheila.”
“What did you replace Lydia with?” asked Roee. “You had to deliver something to the Alaska-bound plane.”
“A calf from one of the local ranches. Dislocate its limbs in the right way, and, in a bag, it’s just another body.�
�
“You stole it, I take it?” I asked.
“Well….”
“Roee, get the name of the ranch. We’ll make a reimbursement. Sheila, I think you can now join your children for lunch. Later on the Captain will come and fetch you and take care of everything from there.”
Sheila nodded, and left the room.
I turned to Lydia. “I can’t tell you how relieved I was when you gave me the code words.”
“I was thinking of not doing it. Just to see if you would cry.”
“Oh, I would have cried.”
“What code words!?” Petey demanded to know.
“Lydia and I arranged for her to have a, ‘Dying statement.’ If it included the words, ‘Self-help book,’ then I would know she was all right.”
“Wait a minute!” Petey exclaimed. “What did you need that for!? Didn’t you think my stuff would work!?”
“Petey, I always have full confidence in you, it was just—well, call it an emotional need for reassurance. Truly a character fault of my own, and I apologize for it.”
“Oh, that’s okay! Actually, I wasn’t sure it was going to work!”
“What!?” Lydia turned to Petey.
“Well, theoretically, but how often do you have to protect someone from kissing an electrified golden ass!?”
“Which brings up the question, Fixxer,” the Captain said. “How did you know they would try to kill Lydia? Especially in this way?”
“I knew that although our cover had not been penetrated, our sincerity had. Maxwellton James knew we were enemies of some sort, he didn’t know what sort. He was the kind of personality who would have to know. That’s why I also allowed him to overhear our plans with the briefcases. They were too intriguing for him not to want to get his hands on them. I was sure he was also sufficiently egoistic to want to have the candid, historical record of his actions they would record. So I knew he would let them operate to the very last moment.”
“Like Nixon keeping the tapes?”
“I suppose. Well, the only way to satisfy all his needs was to invite us in. Once in, he couldn’t let us out. So murder was always in his plans. As to knowing they would use the Golden Arse as the murder weapon for Lydia? It’s perverse. So were Max and Sara. It fit.”
It was time to move on.
Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army Page 35
