Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3

by Melissa Scott

  "You don't know?"

  "After I got back from overseas I traveled around for a while," Mitch said. "Don't remember if I was in that area or not."

  "You don't remember if you flew in the whole southeast?" Lewis could remember every field he'd ever landed on, clear as Alma remembered every train schedule in the US or Jerry about six dead languages.

  "No, I don't remember," Mitch said shortly. "Drop it, ok?"

  "Ok," Lewis said. "Sure." Everybody seemed a little cranky and out of sorts this morning. The necklace was a heavy iron weight in Lewis' pocket, and he wondered if that had something to do with it. Could a curse work even if you didn't put it on? At least make you feel bad? Maybe so. It sure gave Lewis the heebie jeebies, and that was a feeling he was learning to trust. But they'd get it back to Henry and then he could lock the thing up where it would be safe. "Hey," Lewis said, "good thing we got rid of that woman, right?"

  "Yeah," Mitch said. "A good thing."

  Stasi turned away from the Western Union window with a feeling of intense satisfaction . The world was a lot brighter and cheerier with a hundred dollars in her pocket rather than ten, or than $6.74 rather. Wiring for money was a godsend, but it took money to do it. Fortunately, Mitchell Sorley was a soft touch.

  Stasi carefully folded the money and put it in her pocket. A change of clothes or two, a small suitcase, and the ticket for the train. Oh, and lunch. There would be time for lunch before the train left at three.

  And he bought good drinks with no strings attached.

  Most men had strings. Most men were made of strings, like big bouncy balls of twine that just kept on unraveling until they were completely gone.

  It was a rather nice metaphor. She should remember that one and use it. The audience for those sorts of sayings were small, but worthwhile. Now, Sorley could be counted on to get it and laugh, every double entendre in it, all the way down to the truth at the bottom. She'd say it archly and he'd laugh, but he'd know exactly what she meant too, take it seriously and take her seriously even when she was being deliberately absurd. Most men either found it ridiculous or charming. The ones who thought she was ridiculous, like Dr. Ballard, tended to conclude that she was a lunatic. The others tended to have strings.

  "I am a lunatic, darling," she'd say to Sorley and he'd give her that big slow smile that showed that he believed her and he didn't mind at the same time. And he'd say… what? Well, she didn't really know. Stasi stopped under the awning of the train station and frowned. That was the thing. She didn't know. Men were utterly predictable, 99% of them, whether alive or dead. But she really couldn't guess what he would say. Not that it mattered in the slightest, as she would probably never see him again.

  And that was also annoying, as he was really quite a lot of fun, for a captor-cum-benefactor. But wait! Of course she would. Business would require it. The game wasn't over, and he'd probably be livid to know how neatly he'd fallen for another of her schemes. Which of course was what had happened. Livid? Or amused? Or fascinated? One could spend some time contemplating which reaction was most likely and preparing the proper crosstalk for all occasions. One couldn't do it all off the top of one's head.

  Stasi pushed the door open and went up to the ticket counter. "One Pullman berth on the Sunset Express," she said.

  The girl behind the counter didn't look up from her schedules. "Leaving at three ten this afternoon," she said. "Destination?"

  "All the way through to New Orleans," Stasi said. Going direct, she'd beat the air race to New Orleans by at least twelve hours. And then she'd get the necklace back and it would be payday.

  Chapter Nine

  The Terrier flew on into the waning afternoon, the sun behind them now, the wind steady at their tail. Mitch worked his shoulders, feeling the fatigue settling into neck and back, and glanced again at the instruments. Fuel consumption was good, exactly what it should be, unlike yesterday, and the compass showed them steady on the air line into San Angelo. Lewis had the maps in his lap, folded to show the terrain they were currently passing over. He glanced out his window now and then, but his expression was relaxed, almost placid: still on course, and making good time.

  “Looks like we’re about seventy miles out,” Lewis said, as if he’d read Mitch’s mind, and Mitch nodded.

  “Thanks.” Mitch did the math automatically. A bit more than half an hour, give or take, factoring the tail wind’s help and their lightening fuel load. He squinted at the horizon, but there was no sign of Comanche’s Ford. He was still angry that Comanche had gotten ahead of them, even if he agreed with Alma that there was no point in taking risks this early in the game. Certainly not before they pulled their rabbit out of the hat in San Angelo.

  It was all laid on, or at least it should be. Henry should have shipped the tank ahead of them, should have it waiting in the hangar. Installation was two, three hours’ work — and they’d done it before, they knew exactly how to fit the pieces together — and then they’d be ready to make the jump from San Angelo to Little Rock without refueling. Alma figured that would gain them at least forty minutes on everybody else, maybe as much as an hour, and that would put them solidly into the lead. Assuming everything was waiting as promised, but Henry was reliable for things like that. Mostly.

  He switched his attention from the horizon to the view out his window, where a dry riverbed meandered through pale and broken land. There would be a road soon, Lewis had said, and then the unmistakable brilliance of alkali flats — and there was the road, just as promised.

  In the same moment, Lewis said, “There’s the highway.”

  “Got it.” Mitch banked slightly, lining the Terrier up on the thread of beaten dirt.

  “It takes us straight to the field,” Lewis said.

  “Good,” Mitch answered. They’d passed Bestways about an hour out of Albuquerque, a bright speck against the blue. That had been a bit of a surprise, but a welcome one — maybe Alma had been right about them trying to carry extra fuel. Or maybe they were having engine problems. The Fokkers were notoriously cranky that way. The whys didn’t matter, so long as they stayed ahead. “See anything off your side?”

  Lewis shook his head. “The fueling stop spread us out pretty good.”

  Which was as close as Lewis was likely to get to telling him to stop asking, and Mitch swallowed his next sentence. Lewis would keep looking, right up until the minute they landed, and Mitch didn’t need to tell him his job.

  There were the alkali flats, and then, as promised, the road curved south, revealing the airfield and the triangle of runways. No grass here, not in this dry country, but the dirt was beaten hard and groomed for the race. Mitch circled the field once, checking the windsock and the landing strip itself, and saw the flagman waving him down. He adjusted the flaps and brought the Terrier neatly down onto the rough ground. A second flagman waved him toward one of the two hangars, and Lewis said, “We’re third. Behind TWA and Comanche.”

  “Damn it,” Mitch said, and taxied the Terrier into the hangar.

  Alma undogged the hatch and lowered the stairs, the warm, machine-smelling air of the hangar swirling in. She took a deep breath, enjoying the familiar scent, and looked around for Henry or his people. TWA was in ahead of them, tucked in its corner; the guys from Comanche were still working on their plane, which meant they hadn’t gotten in much before the Terrier. She turned, looking for a leader board, but the big chalkboard beside the office was still blank. She was willing to bet they’d gained some time, though.

  “Alma!”

  That was Henry, brushing his way past a couple of reporters and a race official.

  “Nice flying,” he went on. “You’re only twelve minutes behind Comanche.”

  “We shouldn’t be behind them at all,” Mitch muttered, coming up behind them.

  “This is their turf,” Lewis said. It had the sound of an on-going argument, and Alma frowned. It wasn’t like Mitch to be so down on them. “Past Little Rock, we’ll be even.”

  Alma
bit her tongue. There was no point risking a crash this early in the race, she wanted to say, especially not when they were in position to take the lead on the next leg. She looked at Henry. “Thanks. Is everything here?”

  “Ready and waiting.” Henry grinned, and waved toward the back of the hangar. The supplemental tank and its fittings were stacked on a wheeled pallet, ready for them to go to work, and Alma couldn’t help a smile of her own.

  “Thanks, Henry.”

  “I’ll fetch it,” Lewis said, and started off at a trot.

  “Twelve minutes behind Comanche,” Mitch said, and shook his head.

  “And what behind TWA?” Alma asked.

  Henry reached into his pocket, consulted a notebook. “They’re thirty-five minutes ahead of Comanche, so — forty-seven minutes.”

  Alma nodded in satisfaction. “Right where we wanted to be.”

  She could hear engines outside the hangar, another plane down and in, and craned her neck to see the flagman bringing United through the open doors. Henry checked his watch.

  “About twenty-five minutes there.”

  Lewis had collected the pallet, and he and a couple of guys in Republic coveralls were pushing it toward the Terrier, drawing sharp looks from the two other teams. Comanche’s chief pilot straightened up, and a moment later he and his co-pilot had collected one of the referees. A moment later, TWA’s pilots joined them, gesturing broadly, and the whole group started toward the Terrier.

  “Trouble,” Mitch said.

  Alma shrugged, bracing herself. She hadn’t really expected to get away with this without a protest, but she was sure she’d covered her bases. The pallet trundled closer, and she raised her voice to be heard over the rumble of its metal wheels. “Problems, gentlemen?”

  “Possibly, Mrs. Segura,” the referee said. “I’m Hiram Nichols, by the way.”

  Alma extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Nichols.”

  “And you,” Nichols mumbled, looking faintly embarrassed. “Mrs. Segura, Mr. Rayburn and Mr. Russo have both pointed out that the rules state that all participating craft must be standard — stock planes as sold by the manufacturer.”

  “And this is a stock part,” Alma said. She could see a couple of the reporters coming closer, attracted by the unusual discussion. “The Kershaw Terrier comes with a supplemental fuel tank as well as optional cabin fittings. We’re simply installing a standard part.”

  “Oh, come on,” Rayburn said. “Nobody sells that as part of the package.”

  “I do,” Henry said, looking smug.

  “If you’ll check the specs that I filed with our entrance forms,” Alma said, to Nichols, “you’ll find that the tank is listed as part of the standard equipment.”

  “I’ll have to check on that, yes,” Nichols said, and waved for another referee. “Bill, run back to the office, fetch our copy of Gilchrist’s paperwork.”

  It took another hour to settle the matter, in which time Consolidated and Bestways landed, but the paperwork she had filed was clear. The supplemental tank was ruled as much a part of the Terrier’s stock equipment as the passenger seats in the cabin, and its installation was approved.

  “Hang on,” TWA’s pilot said. “Just hang on one minute, here. Ok, the rules say this is kosher, fine.”

  “It’s pushing it,” Rayburn said, and Consolidated’s co-pilot, who had joined the group as soon as they’d seen what was going on, nodded in morose agreement.

  Alma pasted a polite smile back on her face, spread her hands.

  “It’s also in the rules that all non-emergency maintenance is supposed to be done by the flight crew,” Russo said. “So they can’t be getting help from those guys.” He pointed to the mechanics still waiting by the pallet.

  “Mr. Russo is correct,” Nichols said. “Mrs. Segura —”

  “Of course,” Alma said firmly. She’d expected that, though it had been worth the attempt — and it let the other teams feel as though they’d gotten something back. “We’ll take care of it ourselves. That’s not really a problem with this design.”

  There was a clamor from the reporters who had gathered to listen, and she shook her head.

  “Sorry, boys, we’ve got to get to work. Mr. Kershaw can answer any questions about the plane.”

  “Thanks,” Henry said, under his breath, but he was grinning. “Glad to help, gentlemen, if I can.”

  Alma put them out of her mind, turning her attention to the pallet. They’d practiced this, she and Mitch and Lewis; they could do it in about three hours, and be settled into their hotel for a good night’s sleep. “All right,” she said. “Lewis, grab a hoist, and let’s get started.”

  Mitch lay on his side in the stripped cabin, a flashlight beside him as he peered down into the opening where the floor had been. The gas lines were permanent, of course, which made the job a lot easier, but the fittings had to be connected perfectly, and the valves had to be tested and re-tested. That was Alma’s job — she was the best mechanic of the lot — and at the moment she and Lewis seemed to be arguing about something toward the nose of the plane, their voices muffled by the aluminum of the fuselage. Mitch let himself relax, easing himself up so that he was sitting with his back against the door of what had been the baggage compartment. The spare tank fitted neatly into that space, was bolted down and properly secured, all the access panels checked and triple-checked. And one good thing, he thought, with a sudden grin. There wasn’t room for stowaways any more.

  Stasi — Anastasia seemed unlikely, though less so than Rostov. His grin widened. He really shouldn’t find her so charming. She was an admitted thief and a liar and she’d come close to getting them all killed, though she hadn’t exactly meant to do that. But she had style, give her that, even if she did try to crib entirely too much from War and Peace. His hand still remembered the feel of her body through the fabric of her slacks.

  He really didn’t need to be thinking about her. Alma would kill him if she thought he was distracted, and Jerry would like nothing better than a reason to murder poor Stasi. He snickered in spite of himself, knowing he wasn’t being fair. She wasn’t Jerry’s type, not in any conceivable way. Jerry liked things serious or unspoken, not embroidered. And if you were going to steal from the classics, get it right.

  It was Stasi’s bad luck that he’d read War and Peace. Not that he would have believed her in the slightest, not when her accent was Hungarian and not particularly high class at that, but — well, it was his good luck he had read it, because it was fun to let her know he knew and watch her carry on. She had a brain, that one. It was work to keep up with her.

  He’d only read War and Peace because it was there, the only book in English in the huts at Aviano for the first four months they were stationed there. Jeff had flatly refused to read it at first — "I’m not reading anything with War in the title", he’d said — but by the second month, when the only choices were War and Peace and the battered New Testament that Coleman had left behind when he was killed, Jeff had broken down.

  “Here,” Mitch said, helpfully, handing him a bunch of pages. The spine had been broken to start with, and the whole thing was starting to come apart. The covers were tied in place with a twist of string. “You can read just the ‘peace” parts.”

  “I’ll do that,” Jeff said.

  He’d stuck to that for about a week, then started asking Mitch to fill him in on what he’d missed. Mitch obliged, though he made up more and more of it until finally Jeff sat bolt upright on his cot.

  “Wait just a goddamn minute.”

  “What?” Mitch had gotten hold of a three-week old French newspaper, and was laboriously working his way through the shipping news for lack of anything better. He was starting to dream about the libraries back home, frustrating dreams where he wandered the stacks but couldn’t find the book he wanted, or, when he did finally find it, couldn’t read the smudged and alien printing.

  “You said — you told me —” Jeff sputtered to a stop. “Son of a bitch.
Was anything you told me true?”

  “Denisov’s in the cavalry,” Mitch said promptly, and Jeff threw his pillow at him.

  Mitch fended it off, laughing. “You’re going to have to read it, Jeff. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Jeff said again, a comprehensive epithet, but he managed to collect the rest of the book, and settled down to it.

  Mitch smiled to himself, and picked up the wrench again, reaching into the gap in the floorboards to give the connector a final twist to be sure it was firmly seated. Jeff had been his closest friend in the squadron, closer even than Gil, but he’d been transferred out while Mitch was in the hospital. It was a pity he hadn’t managed to go see Jeff after the war, that year that he was traveling. Even with everything he’d managed to forget from that time, he’d have remembered spending time with Jeff. Surely.

  “Mitch!” That was Alma, sticking her head into the cabin, her hair held back by an untidy scarf. “Open the valves, will you? We’re ready to test it.”

  “Right,” Mitch said, glad of the distraction, and hurried to obey.

  Lewis reached into the pocket of his jacket, checking again to be sure that the handkerchief-wrapped bundle was still there. It had fallen out in the elevator on the way down to the lobby, drawing curious looks from the operator and a pretty young woman in an art-silk dress, and he wasn’t going to take any more chances. He found the house phone, tucked into a quiet corner of the lobby, and asked the operator for Mr. Kershaw’s room.

  “The Cactus Suite,” the girl said. “One moment, please.”

  There was a long silence, and finally an unfamiliar voice said, “Mr. Kershaw’s office.”

  “Uh.” Lewis paused, regrouping. “May I speak to Mr. Kershaw, please? It’s Lewis Segura.”

  “Oh.” The stranger — one of Henry’s many assistants, Lewis assumed — seemed just as taken aback. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Segura, Mr. Kershaw’s stepped out. I’m afraid I don’t know when to expect him back.”