“Are you fit for the last leg?” Alma asked.
“Yeah.” Mitch took a breath, letting the tension drain out of his muscles. He could feel it, all right, but the reserves were there, the old familiar strength, steady and waiting. In spite of everything, that, at least, was still there. “I can handle it.”
Alma smiled and touched his arm again, then hauled herself out of her seat. “Good.”
Alma climbed out of the Terrier, working her shoulders to relieve some of the tension of the long flight. They’d made it, that was the main thing, and now it was just a matter of refueling as quickly as possible and getting in the air for Coconut Grove. Just under two hundred miles to the finish line, a couple of hours’ flying at their fastest cruising speed —
She broke off as a man in khaki pants and a blue shirt with “Sky Harbor” embroidered above the breast pocket came to meet her, taking his hands out of his pockets.
“Boy, we were worried there for a minute,” he said. “Engine trouble?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Alma could see Lewis negotiating for the use of a ladder, ready to check out the center engine. Mitch was standing ready under the nose, squinting up at the magnetos.
“I hope not,” she said. “Mostly we were out of fuel.”
“That we can fix,” the man said. “We’ve got fuel. No mechanic service, though.” He held out his hand. “Joe Christie.”
“Alma Segura.” Alma returned the handshake. She was so tired, she’d almost said Gilchrist, and she stretched her shoulders again. “I think we’re all right. It’s just the fuel. We’ll need a full load, though.”
That was the other piece of the gamble, that this small field would be able to supply them. Eastern flew out of here regularly, she knew, but there was no knowing how much other traffic there was.
“We can do that,” Christie said again. “How much do you need?”
“Four hundred gallons, give or take.” Alma crossed her fingers, and was relieved to see him nod.
“Ok. That’ll run you twenty-eight dollars. Cash.”
Alma blinked. She’d gotten so used to having the gas supplied by the race organizers that she hadn’t exactly considered how she was going to pay for this. She had three dollars and forty cents in her purse; after all the taxis in New Orleans, she doubted Lewis had much more. Mitch — well, you didn’t get that drunk cheaply. Jerry might have money, but she hated to have to borrow from him. But of course she had the business checkbook with her. “Will you take a check?”
Christie shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Hold on just a minute,” Alma said, and turned toward the men working on the engine. “Lewis ”
He looked down at her from the top of the ladder. “Good news. Everything’s fine here.”
“Good,” Alma said. “How much cash do you have left?”
“Um.” Lewis blinked, then braced himself against the top of the ladder to reach into his pocket. “Four bucks and change.”
“Damn.” Alma looked at Mitch. “How about you?”
Mitch flushed. “Two bits, if we’re lucky. Sorry, Al.”
Not quite eight dollars. “Never mind,” she said, and climbed back into the plane. Stasi was still sitting in the rear seat, swinging one foot in her pretty shoe, and Jerry looked up from his newspaper.
“Everything ok?”
“No,” Alma said. “How much cash do you have on you, Jerry?”
He reached into his pocket without question, hauled out his wallet. “Nine dollars. Plus some change. What’s wrong?”
“We have to pay for the fuel here,” Alma said. “We’re off the race route, nobody’s made any arrangements.”
“Hell.” Jerry handed over the bills, and reached into his other pocket for the change. “That's a buck twenty.”
Alma took that as well. “Thanks.” She looked at Stasi. “I don’t suppose —?”
“Darling, I’m nearly flat broke,” the countess answered. “Two dollars until I can wire for money.”
Nineteen dollars. More than half. Maybe she could talk Christie into taking a check for the rest. “Thanks,” she said again, and climbed back out of the plane.
Christie was still waiting at the edge of the airstrip, talking now to Mitch, his arms folded across his chest. A woman was with him now, a heavy-set woman in a blue print dress, her corset losing its battle with her figure.
“Great Passenger Derby?” Christie said, and Alma could hear the disbelief in his voice. “You’re a bit off-course.”
“We cut the corner,” Alma said briskly. “We’re Gilchrist Aviation. We have a lot of time to make up, so we took the direct route.”
“Across the Gulf?” Christie’s eyebrows rose.
“That’s right,” Alma said. “Look, I’ve got nineteen in cash. Will you take a company check for the rest?”
Christie shook his head again. “We’re a cash business —””
“Yes, we will,” the woman said.
Christie looked at her. “But, Mother ”
“Don’t you listen to the radio?” She looked at Alma with a smile that showed a missing tooth at the side of her mouth. “TexAv will pay us, anyway, you know that. If you give us a check, Mrs. Segura, we’ll hold it for security.”
Alma let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Of course — Mrs. Christie, is it?”
“That’s right, dear.”
“I’ll write that out right now,” Alma said.
“And I’ll get Billy to bring the truck around,” Christie said.
“Thank you,” Alma said, and ducked back into the Terrier.
Mitch watched the fuel truck pull away and heaved a sigh of relief. The tanks were full, and it had only taken thirty minutes, less time than it would have taken to refuel in Lake City with everyone else ahead of them. He had no idea how Alma had pulled it off, but that was the sort of thing she always did. It was why she was Magister after Gil. And somehow Jerry had found sandwiches. They weren't fancy, or even particularly good, just cheap white bread and mayonnaise and lettuce with a few slivers of ham tucked into them, but they were something. He stuffed the last bite into his mouth and washed it down with the rest of the rather better coffee.
He shook the last drops of coffee out of the cup and set it on the bench where the passengers waited, then turned to look at the Terrier.
Lewis ducked under the nose of the plane, just forward of the wheel struts, and checked, seeing him. "Oh," he said. "Al wanted me to tell you that the main engine checks out fine."
"That's good." Another man might have resented his wife coming behind him, looking over his work, but not Lewis. He knew his skills and his limits, and Alma was the best mechanic of any of them. And Alma would never question his flying or the things he was learning to see.
"Yeah," Lewis said. He paused. "Who do you want for co-pilot?"
Mitch hesitated in turn. It was probably Al's right, but she had to be beat from the flight across the Gulf, and Lewis was the better navigator. "Why don't you take it?" he said, and heard Alma's light step behind him.
"Lewis should co-pilot," she said, and stopped, seeing Lewis's expression.
"Already settled," Mitch said. "Are we ready?"
Alma nodded. "She took my check for the whole thing."
“Well, that’s a break,” Lewis said. “We still got the countess?”
“Jerry hasn’t let her out of his sight since we landed,” Alma answered. “Let’s go.”
Mitch settled himself into the pilot’s seat, adjusting the controls as Lewis arranged himself beside him. The engines started on the first try, even the center, roaring to life as though there’d never been a problem, and Mitch shook his head, smiling. “Atta girl.”
Lewis grinned, and reached for the map. “You’ve got a choice. Do we go straight across the swamps, or follow the roads?”
“What’s the difference?” Mitch had to raise his voice over the sound of the engines, sweet and strong at full throttle. He cut them back reluc
tantly and turned the Terrier toward the runway.
“I make it about forty miles,” Lewis said. “That’s why I asked.”
Mitch nodded. Forty miles wasn’t much of a saving, a little less than half an hour’s flying time. He could see all the reasons it might make more sense to take the safe route, follow the roads along the edge of the swamp so that there was no chance they’d miss the landmarks that would bring them in to Coconut Grove. But if they were going to win, they needed every minute they could scrape up, and he trusted Lewis’s navigation.
“Straight through,” he said, and turned the Terrier into the wind, opening the throttle for takeoff.
She rose easily under his hands, catching the wind as they turned south and east. Lewis gave him the heading, and Mitch opened the throttle further still. Two hundred miles, and full tanks: they could afford to waste a little fuel now, to gain speed. To gain time. He only hoped it would be enough.
Chapter Twenty One
Henry paced the tarmac, stopping to light another cigarette and glancing at his watch. Ten or fifteen minutes, tops, until the first plane was sighted. His fellow in Lake City had phoned as each plane landed and left, refueled and ready for the flight down the length of Florida. United had fifteen minutes on the nearest competitor, with Comanche in second. Consolidated was half an hour behind, with TWA limping in at the back on two engines. They'd finish the race, but for a plane that had started the day in second it was a big comedown. Henry shook his head. Mechanical trouble, his man said. One engine down.
And no sign of either the Corsair or his plane. Henry paced back in the other direction, shaking ash into the breeze. Easy come, easy go. It was always something with that lot. Probably they'd limp into some field anytime now. Surely. They wouldn't have gone down. Not them.
There was a shout and a cluster of reporters pointing, all hands raised to the north, cameramen vying for the first decent shot. RKO's newsreel photographers turned their big camera on its tripod. "Who is it?" Henry asked the nearest man with binoculars. "United?"
"I don't see the red wings," he said. He squinted into the binoculars. "White and blue. Consolidated? How'd they get up this far?"
Henry yanked the binoculars away from him, not even saying excuse me to his "Hey, mac!" White and blue. He focused on the distant speck, ignoring the roar of the crowd as they saw the first plane and behind it at the horizon another, no more than two or three miles behind, a photo finish, right down to the wire just the way the newsies liked it. The cant of the wings, the shape of the fuselage against the sky, larger than a Ford trimotor… It was all Henry could do not to shout. It was all he could do not to leap in the air.
"That's my plane," he said, and his voice didn't even shake. "That's a Kershaw Terrier." Eight miles out, and United just behind, a third plane behind that, the small, light shape of the Corsair.
"Man, what a finish!" the RKO guy said, his eyes to his lens, the movie camera cranking.
"Think they'll make it, Mr. Kershaw?" the first reporter asked. "United's going to finish strong."
"Sure thing," Henry said, and clenched his fists in his pockets.
They made good time across the swamps, the headwind shifting as the day went on, becoming more south than east. Mitch did his best to compensate, keeping the Terrier steady on the direct line to Miami, but he wasn’t entirely surprised to see Lewis scanning the ground ahead with increasing concern.
“Trouble?”
“We ought to be seeing Miami by now,” Lewis answered. “At least the area around Hialeah.”
“We’re probably west of our line,” Mitch said.
“Yeah, but how far?” Lewis consulted the map again, then looked out the windows. “Wait. There.”
The line of a road cut through the swamp, concrete showing pale between the overhanging trees. It ran east-west, and Mitch looked back at Lewis.
“That’s the Tamiami Trail,” Lewis said. “Ok. Yeah, we’re west of where we should be, but if we follow that to the first town, that’s Tamiami ”
“We can cut southeast again from there,” Mitch finished. “Got it.”
He put the Terrier into a turn as he spoke, lining her up on the flash of the road. This was easy flying, high and fast, the ground reeling past under them. Four and a half hours in the air from Pensacola, plus the forty minutes on the ground: the race route notes said they should expect the Pensacola to Coconut Grove leg to take about six and a half hours including stops, though he and Alma had guessed they could do it in a bit over six. Another half hour or so to the field, if Lewis was right and they hadn’t come too far west, which still put them in just ahead of the best time they thought anyone could make. It might all just work. In spite of him.
He concentrated on the feel of the controls, air on the wings and flaps translating to pressure against his hands, the engines strong and steady. All that mattered now was crossing the finish line. Get to Coconut Grove and cross the finish line, the literal white line painted across the end of the runway. And then they’d see.
“Tamiami,” Lewis said, pointing, and sure enough the ground was changing, swamp giving way to solid ground. He consulted the map again, gave a new heading. “That should bring us into the field from the west.”
“Ok,” Mitch said, and banked the Terrier, watching the compass swing. He opened the throttle, feeling the revs increase.
Ten minutes, then fifteen, houses and yards and streets reeling past beneath their wings. Lewis made a small course correction, and for an instant Mitch thought he caught the flash of a tower light on the horizon. It came again, more definite this time, and he gave a whoop of joy.
“There. That’s got to be Coconut Grove.”
“Yeah,” Lewis said, looking from map to horizon. “That’s it.” He looked as though he didn’t quite believe it.
“How far?”
“About five miles.”
We can do it, Mitch thought. They’d be first in at the field, and that might just be enough to make up the difference. The houses flashed past beneath them, the streets broader, busier now that they were over Miami itself. Even if it didn’t put them into first place, it should be enough for second, and that was still good money. They’d said from the start that second would still be good enough.
“Mitch.” Alma leaned in the cockpit door, her voice tight and controlled. “There’s another plane in sight to the north. I think it’s United.”
“Goddamnit.” Mitch craned his neck to see. There were clouds to the north, the tail end of the line of thunderheads that was still building. For a moment, all he saw was cloud, but then he saw it, a fleck of brighter white against the sky, drifting for an instant into the edge of his side window, and out again. “Damn it to hell.”
His hands were already moving on the controls, shoving the throttle to full, canting the Terrier into a shallow dive that would bring them in fast and low. No need to worry about the fuel now, no need to think about economy, all that mattered was raw power, power and speed and the rush toward the field. He could see the tower now, windsock lifted by a decent breeze, and he banked a final time, lining up to cross the finish line squarely, broadside to the cameras.
Alma had disappeared again, but a moment later Stasi took her place, clinging to the frame with both hands. “Mrs. Segura says there’s a second plane.”
“What?” Mitch didn’t try to look. They were behind him, almost on his tail, old instincts screaming to peel off, get the drop on them. But this was a race, not a dogfight; he kept the Terrier coming, dropping further still. “How far back?”
Stasi relayed the question, and shook her head. “She says maybe a mile. They’re neck and neck.”
Let them fight each other, Mitch thought. Let us get away. “Are they overtaking?”
“She says — no, she can’t tell.”
“Damn it,” Mitch said again. There was no more power left to give, all the engines opened full, the Terrier shuddering faintly under the pressure. United was behind him, and the second plan
e, but he couldn’t even look to see what they were doing. All he could do was keep the Terrier straight and level, arrowing toward the finish. He could see it now, the white line splashed a yard wide across the concrete. Come on, darling, he thought, hunching forward as though she were a horse, as though he could urge her to just that little bit more effort. Come on. —
“There!” Lewis yelled, and Mitch saw the line flash beneath the nose. He kept the power full on, pulled up and left, coming around in a broad turn, craning to see what was behind him. A smaller plane was just crossing the line, diving like a kestrel — Jezek, he realized, the Corsair, dropping toward the landing strip as though they were low on fuel. United was only a few thousand feet behind them, pulled up and away with a waggle of wings, acknowledging defeat.
“We did it!” Alma leaned in the cockpit again, her grin incandescent. “My God, we did it!”
“A little too close,” Lewis said, but he was grinning too.
“We won it fair and square,” Alma said, and squeezed Mitch’s shoulder. “And damn good piloting.”
Mitch couldn’t help but respond to that smile, grinning himself as he circled back to the end of the runway. The flagman was out, signaling a clear field, and Mitch brought the Terrier gently down, wheels kissing the tarmac. Safely down, and in first place: it almost seemed too much to believe.
Mitch stood at the bottom of the Terrier’s steps, one hand resting lightly on the plane’s aluminum body as though that would help ground him. The referees were still working the numbers, Henry and the delegation from United and Connie Jezek all crowding around the office door waiting for the results, but even as he watched Henry pried himself away and came striding back across the tie-down area, scattering reporters as he came.
“We’ve won,” he said, to Alma, and she flung her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly. He clasped Lewis’s hand, and Jerry’s, and touched the brim of his hat in Mitch’s direction before looking back at Alma. “They’re just trying to figure out where Jezek will finish. It’s going to be very close for second.”
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 65
