by Anne Stuart
The air-freight-transport situation had improved slightly. While Charlie Olker still maintained a stranglehold on the majority of the business outside Chicago, a few brave souls were switching. Word of Clancy's tenure had spread, and with it had come business, just as Clancy said it would. The knowledge that Hogan Air Transport also employed a reclusive, brilliant mechanic also helped matters.
Angela would have liked to have turned down some of the jobs. Particularly ones like Woodward Chemicals. Josiah Woodward had been grudging, insulting and cheap, haggling her down to the lowest possible rate, demanding on guaranteed flights or no payment for any of the previous deliveries and insisting that only Clancy or Sparks pilot his precious cargo. Women might conceivably have their place in an office, though he had his doubts. They certainly had no place in an airplane, particularly one carrying his chemicals.
She'd wanted to throw him out of her office. But she couldn't afford to. The total tab for eight flights from Evanston to Detroit would be enough to cover all the outstanding bills and even put something aside for her Newfoundland-to-Havana run. She couldn't let pride get in her way.
Sparks had made two of the runs, Clancy three. Each time they took off, she held her breath, crossed her fingers and prayed. Woodward Chemicals didn't go in for anything innocuous. Her planes were delivering cylinders of highly toxic gas, one she couldn't even name. She only knew that in an accident, even a rough, forced landing, they would be deadly.
Not that Woodward could be talked into coughing up money for hazard pay. She expected that was why he'd shown up at her place—Olker had demanded too much money for the dangerous duty. And if she had held out for it, he would have simply gone back to Olker and paid the extra to a man.
Leaning forward, she ran a weary hand along the back of her neck. The last delivery was this afternoon, and they could count on a hefty sum from skinflint Woodward. And maybe, if her flight was successful, she could tell people like Woodward to go take a flying leap.
"The Percival's all set." Parsons's rough voice distracted her. She looked up, squinting in the shadowy afternoon light. It seemed strangely dark for the middle of the afternoon on a day in May, a fact she hadn't noticed.
"Thanks," she said. "How's the Lockheed doing?"
"I replaced the fuel line. You ought to think about trying out some of the new deicing systems. They're expensive, they're experimental, but they're better than nothing."
"You're probably right," she said wearily. "Money's so tight right now. Maybe if we can just get a little ahead. Chances are we won't need it until fall, not if we fly low enough. If things go the way I hope they will..." She let it trail off.
Parsons walked into the office, shut the door behind him and sat down in the chair opposite her. "You want to tell me about it?"
She stared at him blankly. "Tell you about what?"
"What you're planning. I know pilots too well. You've got something in the works, some flight, and you haven't wanted to tell your pilots. That's jake with me, but you'd damned well better confide in your mechanic."
Angela hesitated. She had a superstitious fear of talking about the flight. Hal had talked to everyone, for months and months, about every little detail, and it had all ended in disaster over the cold Atlantic. She had the crazy notion that if she just made her plans in secret, kept them to herself, then her chances of success were increased tenfold.
But Parsons was absolutely right. It was one thing not to broadcast your plans to the world, it was another to keep them secret from the one person a pilot needed most. She didn't even bother to ask Parsons whether he could keep a secret. In the two weeks he'd been in town, he'd kept a very low profile, keeping his distance from Tony's Bar and Grille, even keeping his distance from Sparks and Clancy. But he was an absolutely inspired mechanic, seeming to know by instinct or crystal ball what was wrong with an engine, what was about to go wrong with an engine, what was hopelessly outdated in an engine. She couldn't ask for a better confederate.
"I'm going to fly from Newfoundland to Havana, Cuba. I'm planning to do it in two hops, and I'm going to beat the current record by a wide margin. It's stood for more than five years—planes are faster nowadays, and I'm a hell of a pilot."
"You want to complete the run Ramsey was attempting when he got killed?" Parsons said shrewdly. "Is that a wise idea? You don't want to get too emotional about your flights. Why don't you pick something different, like Chicago to Denver? I could get your Lockheed hotted up—"
"I'm doing Hal's flight," she said flatly, not even questioning how Parsons knew about her fiancé’s death. He seemed to know just about everything worth knowing, "Are you going to help me or are you going to come up with unwanted suggestions?"
He sat there looking at her through his thick lenses. "I'm going to help you," he said finally.
"Aren't you going to ask me why I haven't told the others?"
"It's none of my business."
"Aren't you going to ask me why I'm doing it?"
"I know why you're doing it," he said in his raspy voice. "I was a flier once myself. I still think you should talk to Clancy about it."
"He's the last person I'd discuss it with," she snapped. "When do you think I should do it?"
"Depends on the plane and weather. Since I can't do anything about the latter, I'll keep going on the plane. You're going to have to figure out how you're going to explain what I'm working on. Clancy's no fool, Miss Hogan, and neither is Sparks. If they don't figure something's going on, then they're not the men I think they are."
"I know that. I just want to keep them in the dark as long as possible. Sparks will fuss over me like a mother hen."
"I can't see Clancy doing that."
"No," she said. "Clancy will try to stop me." She shook her head. "That's a silly thing to say, isn't it? He understands flying, and he certainly doesn't have any special feeling for me. He's been hanging around with a blond waitress from Tony's. But I can't get rid of the feeling that he'll try to throw a monkey wrench into my plans if he can."
"You think he's that petty?"
"No. I can't explain it. I have hunches, instincts, Will. Don't you know what I mean? A feeling I get when there's no logical reason for it."
"I know what you mean." Parsons's rough voice softened for a minute. "Listen to those voices, Angela. They can tell you a lot."
"People would probably think I'm crazy," she said with a nervous laugh.
"Let them. Those little voices have saved my life more than once. Saved yours, too, when it's come to problems with your airplanes. I'll help you, Miss Hogan. I'll get your plane in tiptop condition to fly from Newfoundland to Havana, at speeds which'll darn well frighten the birds. The rest is up to you."
"The rest I can handle," she said confidently. "If I can just come up with the money."
The door to her office slammed open and Sparks stormed in, his hair standing up in tufts, his heavy eyebrows creased in a worried line. "Angie, I think you better come out here and talk to Clancy. He thinks he's taking those chemicals to Detroit."
"Of course he's taking those chemicals to Detroit. Will says the plane's all set, and you're scheduled for a lesson this afternoon. What's the problem?"
"The problem is the damned weather!" Sparks practically shouted. "Have you looked outside in the last half hour?"
"I don't have a window in my office, Sparks," she said mildly enough, rising from the desk. "What's up? A little rain?"
"A GD hurricane! He can't go up in this stuff, I don't care how good he is." Sparks was following behind Angela at a fast trot. "No contract is worth dying for, Angie, you know that. Tell him he can't do it."
Sparks hadn't exaggerated. By the time she reached the huge sliding doors of the hangar, she could feel the wind whipping through the metal building. They'd already pushed the Percival out onto the tarmac, and the quiet thrum of the engines was almost inaudible through the galelike winds.
The sky was black overhead, a roiling mass of inky clouds. Clanc
y was nowhere in sight, and for a moment Angela wondered whether he'd had second thoughts.
A moment later he appeared, wrapped in leather flight gear, a tightly folded parachute swinging nonchalantly from his arm. "Hi, Red. Come to see me off?"
"See what I mean?" Sparks shouted over the churning winds. "You can't do it, Clancy."
"Shut up, Sparks," Angela said. She stepped up to Clancy, the wind whipping her hair into her face. "The weather looks pretty bad, Clancy."
"It is. Unfortunately it's not going to get any better, not for a couple of days. Might as well go now before all hell breaks loose."
Angela glanced up at the sky. "I think it already has."
"Hell, no," Clancy said with an easy laugh. "They're talking about hailstones the size of golf balls. Now that should be exciting."
"Don't go."
"Don't be ridiculous. That shipment of chemicals has to go out today, and I know it as well as you do. Old Woodward isn't going to pay the freight if it doesn't, and we've put too much work into it to just kiss that money goodbye. I need my share to pay the shipping costs for my plane. I'm not going to roll over and play dead."
"How did you know that?"
"I listen at keyholes. Out of the way, kid. I've got a flight to make." His dark eyes were alight with excitement, the kind of excitement she knew too well, had felt herself.
"I'm forbidding you to go," she said. "It's too dangerous."
"It's up to me whether I want to risk my life or not. Hell, you should know that every time we go up it's a risk. Besides, I've got my lucky cross with me. Can't crash with a lucky piece on you."
"It has to be a reasonable risk. And it's up to me whether you risk my airplane or not. I'm telling you you can't do it. We'll just have to accept the loss of Woodward's money. There are other jobs around."
"Not if you get the reputation for folding under adverse conditions. On the other hand, if people know they can count on you no matter what the conditions, you'll start pulling in a lot more business." The wind was taking his voice and hurling it away from them, and his dark hair was rough and tumbled in the stormy air.
"No, Clancy." Her voice was flat, firm. "And that's final. Sparks, go and turn the engine off and help Clancy get the plane back in the hangar. I'll call Mr. Woodward and tell him what's happened. Maybe he'll be reasonable."
"And maybe hell will freeze over. All right, Red. This is your show," Clancy said with an easy smile. "Come on, Sparks. Let's get this baby back under cover."
She should have known. Deep inside, she did know. She'd turned away, heading back for her office and the telephone, when over the rush of wind she heard the unmistakable sound of an engine revving. By the time she raced back to the open doorway, Clancy was already taxiing down the runway.
Sparks was sitting up by the time she reached him, rubbing his jaw and cursing a blue streak. "That was a sucker punch, Clancy," he shouted at the airplane as it lifted up into the dark, dangerous sky. "I'll get you for that."
"I hope you do," Angela said numbly. "I hope you get the chance."
Sparks hauled himself to his feet. "Hey, Angie, don't worry about him. Clancy could fly anything in any kind of weather. He's a fool to go out in stuff like this, but I'm not really worried about him. He'll make the drop safely enough. I'm going to get on the radio and give him holy hell."
"Give him holy hell for me, too," she said weakly. "And tell him to stay put once he gets to Detroit. No one's going out on this end until the weather clears."
"I'll tell him, Angie."
The radio was set up in a corner of the hanger, close enough to hang the antenna out a window. Sparks hunkered down, glued to the radio, while the sky darkened further, and fat, angry raindrops hurled themselves downward.
Angela could hear Clancy's jaunty voice as she headed back for her office. "Tell Red she can tear a strip off me when I get back. Things aren't too bad yet, but I think I'm going to take her up a bit and see if I can get above the storm."
"I hope to hell he knows what he's doing," Angela muttered under her breath.
Sparks looked over his shoulder. "He knows. The wings aren't going to ice up in May."
"Not unless he goes too high. You know as well as I do wings can ice up on the hottest day in August if you go high enough." Her voice was cold and unemotional. It had been a hot day in August when Hal Ramsey had gone down.
"He's not going to join the circus. He's just going to have a hell of a ride, and I hope it scares the socks off him," Sparks said angrily. He turned back to the radio set. "You hear that, Clancy? I hope this takes ten years off your life!"
"Won't happen, Sparks." Clancy's voice came back through the static, and Angela thought she could hear a strange rattling noise. "I thrive on danger. This'll only make me feel ten years younger."
"Not after I get through with you," Sparks grumbled.
"What's that noise, Sparks?" Angela demanded with sudden urgency. "Is it the engine? That rattling noise...?"
Clancy was talking again. "Gotta concentrate on my flying, boys and girls. This idle chitchat has been swell but I gotta go. I'll check in in about half an hour." And the radio went dead.
"Damn him!" Angela fumed. "That noise, Sparks…”
"It wasn't my engine," Will said, coming up behind her. "It was hail."
"Oh, God," she moaned.
"Now, Angie, a little hail isn't going to stop a man like Clancy," Sparks said, his blue eyes dark with worry.
"It didn't sound like a little hail."
"Maybe he'll climb above it."
"And his wings'll get iced up."
"Maybe it'll clear once he's a little farther away."
"Maybe he'll die," Angela said.
"Maybe he will," Sparks said. "There's nothing we can do about it from down here, now is there?"
For a moment a cold wash of fear swept over her and she could feel her body tremble. And then she snapped out of it, straightening her back, stiffening her resolve. "Not a damned thing," she agreed. "I'm going back to work. Call me if you hear anything."
"You bet."
It was a two-hour flight to Detroit in the best of conditions. What with hail, rotten visibility and having to fly high, Clancy probably wouldn't make it in less than three. If he was lucky.
She was counting on that luck. Or at least his own belief in it, which was half the battle. She was also counting on his ability. She hadn't been up with him yet—something had kept her from checking out his fabled skills firsthand. But if anyone could make it through the storms crackling overhead, Clancy could. She just wasn't certain anybody could.
She finally gave up trying to work as the hours passed. Her office darkened, but she didn't turn on the light. Instead she sat there, her booted feet up on the desk, and smoked cigarette after cigarette until her throat was harsh and dry. If she'd thought there was a chance that Clancy had left his flask behind, she would have helped herself to some of his powerhouse rum.
But Clancy was a man to ignore regulations, and this time she couldn't blame him. If she were flying into what he was flying into, she would have taken a flask along with her, too.
The hangar was still and silent. She'd long ago turned off the radio, and as seven o'clock came and went she even ignored the siren call of Amos and Andy. Nothing would be able to distract her, not until she knew that Clancy had landed safely. Or crashed.
But the radio in the front room was as silent as the cathedral-style in her office. If Clancy was still aloft, he wasn't talking.
After three and a half hours, she couldn't stand it any more. She headed out to the front, running her cold damp hands along her trousers, to the two men sitting crouched by the silent radio.
"His radio's out," Sparks said, his usually cheery voice hopeless.
"I thought so. What do you think happened?"
"The radio was working fine when he left," Will announced without a trace of defensiveness in his voice. "Any number of things could have happened. He could have been hit by lightni
ng. If he flew too high and everything iced up, the antenna might have snapped. The engine might have overheated..."
"He might have crashed," Angela supplied.
"There's that, too," Will agreed calmly. "I think we'll just have to wait and see."
"How long has he been out?" Angela asked.
"Three hours and fourteen minutes," Sparks said. He spoke into the microphone again with the air of a man expecting not much. "Hogan Air Transport calling Clancy, flight 3. Come in, Clancy."
Nothing but static. Sparks had been calling, over and over again, for more than an hour, and his voice was hoarse with strain and despair.
Suddenly a strange voice filtered through the static. "This is Stan Jansen, Transamerica Freight. That you, Sparks?"
"It's me, Stan. We're looking for Clancy. He was headed for Detroit in this mess and we've lost contact."
"I should have known it would be Clancy." Even through the static Angela could hear the resigned admiration in Stan's voice. "I just heard over the radio—he landed in Detroit not five minutes ago. Came down as gentle as a lamb in the midst of a hailstorm. Detroit was teed off."
Angela put a steadying hand on the back of Sparks’ chair. "Thank God," she muttered, feeling suddenly dizzy.
In a second Will was settling her gently in his own chair. "You all right, Angela?" he asked, his rough voice solicitous.
By that time Sparks had gotten off the radio. "Geez, Angie, I've never seen you go all pale like that. You doing okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, taking a deep breath, willing the color back into her cheeks. "I just didn't want to lose that airplane."
The two men looked at her in silence for a moment, and she couldn't meet their knowing expressions. Two men, both with failing eyesight, and they could see her far better than she would have wished.
"Sure, Angie. You didn't want to lose the Percival," Sparks agreed. "I'm going to call Detroit. See if we can roust the maniac before he takes off to celebrate."
