by Dave Freer
“Either no one wants to stay in Ceduna, or young Tim is…or was more popular than I realized,” Dr. Calland said.
“He’s one of us. Our lucky charm, the lad is. And Clara, too. She did her ticket. Junior submariner,” said one of the younger men.
“Besides,” said Lieutenant Willis with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ve never been on an airship, let alone one of these posh Westralian flying wings. I’d do it even if they weren’t important to us, ma’am. But they are.”
“And I can’t tell you how important that is to me. I’m going to have to ask the captain to choose a crew. I would take everybody, but we need to consider skills and total weight.”
“I’m going on a diet,” said Big Eddie, one of the divers, and possibly the biggest man on the Cuttlefish—submarine jobs favored small, compact, tough men. “And you never know when you’re going to need a diver in the desert.”
Three-quarters of an hour later the chosen ones were out at Boomerang Fields, ferried there in a hired motor-truck. The flying wing Mary Calland had arranged was already being winched out of its camouflage shed and over to the takeoff ramp. “Gentlemen,” said the flier, dressed in pale blue padded knickerbockers, a high throated leather vest, and woolen boots—an odd ensemble for the heat of Ceduna, although it was still quite cool. “We need you ranked in order of size for the weighing. There are boots and over trousers on the racks to your left, and hooded flying jackets to the right, and scarves and gloves and earmuffs on the shelf over there. We’ll need you to be weighed with your kit. Dr. Calland, we have some ladies’ outfits through that door over there.”
“We’re still waiting for the two gentlemen from the Westralian Mounted Police that Colonel Clifford said he’d send with us. They’re supposed to meet us here.”
The flier looked at the new slouch hats and uniform coats of the deputized men—somewhat more than half of the group.
“They’re…um…temporary deputies,” explained Mary, “drafted in for the job.” She didn’t explain that after their arrest of one of the captains of Westralian industry, the colonel had decided some senior-ranking minders would be in order. “I think we can make it stick, Captain Malkis,” the colonel had said. “Your…unconventional methods did succeed in collecting quite a lot of evidence. And since the arrest, completely unrelated complaints and charges to that have been laid by people who were plainly afraid to act against Rainor before. Enough to keep him facing charges, even if his lawyers are falling over themselves to get him out. But it would be easier if you had a couple of men to walk you through due process next time.”
“Easier for whom?” asked Captain Malkis with a smile.
“Me!” said the colonel. “I’ll either get promoted or fired for this. But news from my men on the streets is that it’s done them no end of good with the ordinary people. The men I’m sending, Inspector Johns and Sergeant Morgan, are known for getting things done. Top officers both, and you’ll find them understanding…but able to do it by the rules.”
The flier looked at the submariners. “Ah. Darlington did say it would involve the wimps. I thought you lot looked a bit on the small side for them. They like big fellers. And they’re usually late.”
“Wimps?” said Lieutenant Ambrose. “Aha. WMP. I never thought of that. No wonder they’re big and struggle to get recruits. I should have worked that out before I agreed to this.”
The flier laughed. “You might as well kit up and be weighed in the meanwhile. Now, the one thing I have to emphasize: A wing is not an airship. We use hydrogen bags in the wing. You are inside the wing. So there is no smoking—no ignition of any kind. From the stability point of view the captain would prefer you not to move from your pads. Are any of you claustrophobic?”
That brought a laugh from the Cuttlefish crew. “We’re submariners,” One of them piped in.
“I suppose that saves me giving a second lecture about smoking,” said the flier. “Ah. A motoring-car. That may be our policemen.”
It was. The two policemen joined them, shook hands, were kitted up, and they filed into the flying wing.
Linda was awakened by the metallic shriek of the hangar doors opening. Blinking in the dim light, she hastily looked around. She’d slept on a pad in the pilot’s nacelle, a few yards from the wheels and controls. This would surely be where they came first. There was a small hatch behind her—only about a foot high. Opening it, she crawled through into sheltering darkness again. The crawlway opened up into a long, low-ceilinged chamber—as best she could work out by feeling around in the dark—as the sounds of voices and noise of machinery began outside. She fell over something soft…more sheepskins and some blankets, by the feel of it. The only other thing in there was a piece of machinery she could only guess at. So she found the blankets and hid herself behind them as the flying wing started to move.
Were they about to fly?
Mary was in the privileged position of being in the central nacelle, with the pilot and the copilot/navigator. The rest of the crew found themselves crawling along the inside of the wing to their flight couches—sheepskin covered pads, each near a small, downward-looking porthole.
The navigator showed Mary to her seat. “It doesn’t matter quite as much if you move around, ma’am. This area and the cargo hold are fairly stable. The old Wedgetail is a bit more finicky than the new planes, but they’re only hiring out the old unarmed transporters. ‘Cost recovery,’ they call it. I call it too mean to spend on anything but…er…new offices for the bludgers. Anyway, the pilot doesn’t appreciate weight shifts by passengers otherwise, but you can get up and move. Sit back, they’re just doing a final trim on the engines. The engineers will be in their pods and we can winch away in a minute or two."
Outside the window, the double pusher-puller propellers were flung into motion, and the engines roared to life. The copilot signaled to the winch crews as the pilot checked the various brass and aluminum wheels and levers.
The winch hauled the wing faster and faster and then they left the earth below and began slowly rising toward the sun, the reds and browns of the interior ahead.
Linda heard familiar voices and the sway of the huge craft as they were positioned at the end of the runway. And then finally, the rush as the wing became airborne.
Well. They could try and subpoena her now. And if that treacherous, horrible Nicholas—how she hated him! It made her temples throb just thinking of him, now. How could he!—went through with his threat…well, she wasn’t going to be there to explain. And she was so glad of those blankets. No one had told her it would be so cold up here! Or how noisy it was. She covered her head in a sheepskin and endured.
And then added another blanket.
And then, for the next eight hours, they flew.
It was quite cold this high up. It also gave Mary some idea of the sheer vastness of the country as they flew across vast, dazzling, shimmering dry salt lakes, endless lines of dunes, miles and miles of braided-dry waterways, more salt-rimmed dead lakes, wind-flayed low hills…and then more of the same. Wild camels fled in dust-trail mobs from the shadow of the wing or the unfamiliar throb of her engines.
“Should be at Dajarra in about twenty minutes,” wrote the navigator on his pad. They’d begun to lose altitude, and from above she could see the termite run of the Westralian railroad system, a red ridge across the bleak landscape, disappearing occasionally, reappearing on the same straight lines later. She could see the power stations too, two of them from here, sharp and narrow, dribbling smoke and steam into the blue. Beyond them the mound of the termite run speared into the rough country beyond. They flew over that, and then to where the mound coming from the north came out of Dajarra station. Low now, Mary could see the tall roof, with its complicated system of vents, and the high chimney.
The pilot pulled the power cables and the engines were silenced as the wing slowed, gliding down to the long landing strip. There were some men working on a corrugated iron structure on the edge of the power station roof.
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Mary could see the faces staring up…
And then, with a bump, they were rolling and bouncing and jerking about as the anchors dragged and caught, and the wing came to a final halt.
Then it was a case of dropping the ladder and off-loading the passengers. The men who had been working on the corrugated iron shed had come running while the passengers were still stretching out their limbs after the long flight. Mary was glad to shed her flying gear at her seat, as the heat, even this late in the day, was oppressive.
The men from the power station approached them with broad smiles and waves.
“They seem pleased to see us, anyway.”
“My word. They’re pleased to see coppers,” said Sergeant Morgan. “That means either they’re hiding something and faking it, or they’re in deep trouble and expect us to get them out of it.”
It seemed it was the latter.
“Bleeding ’eck! Are we glad to see you blokes after all,” said the leader of the workmen. “That joker Rainor sent here with his half-dozen goons don’t know what the law means and don’t care. He’s as thick as thieves with that bastard Vister and his mates, threatenin’ us with blue murder and all sorts of trouble if it leaks. Well, I’m ready to spill the whole pot of beans so long as you put the bastards in stir.”
“Too right,” nodded a gangly workman in a singlet and a holey pair of khaki shorts. “Count me in. This Ness bloke c’n tell me I won’t work again, and that the boss has the whole industry so sewn up we’ll be blacklisted and that he’s got so much clout that no charge will ever stick. But I had enough.”
“Robert Rainor is in Ceduna central right now. He’s been refused bail. The magistrate was unimpressed by his lawyer, or his threats. Said he’d have let him out if he hadn’t got those. And we’d like to make sure the charges do stick. Now, we’re here investigating the reported death of one Timothy Barnabas.”
“They could have found the kid. I reckon that was a mistake McGurk made, putting it off with the sandstorm, but by the time we went out looking the tracks were gone. We couldn’t even find the scout mole the girl took.”
Mary Calland seized on that. “The girl?”
The fellow in the khaki shorts blinked, taking in the presence of a woman among the police slouch hats, and hastily doffing his own. “Yeah, too right, ma’am. Little slip of thing came up here beggin’ us to go look for the kid. And then when we go below, she takes off with the scout mole into the desert.”
“I think we’ve finally found where Clara has got to,” said Captain Malkis.
“Clara. Yeah, they said that was her name. Gutsy little thing. Rainor tried to stop us looking for her, too, but that was too much. The fellers said they’d be shot and be damned first, and he let us do a search for the mole. Trouble is, she’d gone too far for us to see her. Someone caught sight of smoke to the west, though. It could be the mole, could be blackfellers. Ness promised he’d get some blackfeller trackers onto it. Said she was an orphan, and though he wanted her found, well, she had no kin and that was why she’d come up here and got involved with some boong. Kind of shocked all of us that. Said she had a history of trouble.”
“She’s my daughter,” grated Mary. “And trouble is nothing to what’s coming Mr. Ness’s way. We’re here to look for her, and for young Tim Barnabas. Can you tell us where to start?”
The railway-man shrugged. “Nowhere close ma’am. It’s…its pretty tough out there. If she stayed with the mole she’s got water and some shade. She’s got a chance. But the boy’s a boong. They can survive out there.”
“Tim, despite appearances, is not one of the aboriginals, or even of aboriginal descent.” Mary Calland was getting to the point where she found this aspect of Westralia intolerable. It was like the British attitude to the Irish.
“Oh, you mean he’s like one of them Iteys or something? Not an aboriginal? I guess no one knew, him being dark-skinned and all. Well, ma’am, no use pulling punches. He’s dead, I’m afraid. A day out there without water will do that, two and there is next to no chance, and he’s been gone more than three.”
Mary bit her lip and shook her head. “He’s a clever lad, but, well, I feel really sorry for whoever was responsible if he’s not found alive. We can just hope Clara found him! We will have to mount a proper search. Fortunately, we have the flying wing here.”
“Can’t do much until morning,” said the pilot. “Landing isn’t safe at night and I can’t keep her flying until daylight.”
“Well,” said Captain Malkis, “it does sound as if we have a mess to clear up here before we move on.”
“Indeed!” said Lieutenant Willis. “Let’s get down there.”
“Hold your horses, Lieutenant,” said the WMP inspector. “Let’s try to do this more or less by the book.”
Captain Malkis nodded. “Let’s first find out what information we can and then do this quietly and so we get the most out of it.” He turned to the railway-men. “Do you gentlemen mind telling us exactly what you know, and then we can try and plan this?”
So they heard about Tim being put off the steam mole and how Clara had taken the scout mole after pleading with them to go and look for Tim. They heard about how the shift captain had taken control of the winder room and negotiated an end to the situation, which had left him free and working. “This Ness feller. He just don’t care whether it is right or wrong, as long as the drilling goes fast. He wants the first clankers of ore going south in less than month, no matter what.”
“He was mad about the scout mole, but when McGurk wanted wimps…er the coppers called, he wasn’t having any. Said it would hold things up and they needed men of Vister’s experience and skill. Said he’d get trackers. Well, they’re not here yet. I reckon no blackfeller is going to come near this place.”
In the hold, Linda blessed the absence of noise and the fact that it was warmer. She was stiff, sore, and desperately in need of a drink and a bathroom, and not in that order. And she’d had a lot of noisy hours to think about her actions and the consequences of them. The level of trouble was going to be large, just like her need to get out of that flying wing. She found her way to the hatch she’d come in through and started fiddling with it…only to have it suddenly open. The man staring at her looked nearly as surprised to see her as she was to see him. She said, feeling it a tad inadequate, “Er. Good afternoon.”
“Crikey! What are you doing in there?” demanded the airman.
“Er. Hiding.”
He shook his head at her, giving her a hand to get out. “You’re lucky you didn’t freeze to death.” He looked at her askance, his lips twitching. “Don’t tell me you’re the girl that Dr. Calland is looking for.”
“No. She’s going to be pretty mad at me, I think,” admitted Linda. “But I did it for the best…please, I desperately need the bathroom.”
He looked both uncomfortable and understanding. “Here. We don’t usually use it when the plane is not in flight, but I think the ground will survive.”
Linda came out to find the news of her presence had preceded her.
“Your parents will be worried stiff about you, and you could have died of the cold in there!” said Dr. Calland.
“I know. But it seemed like the only thing to do at the time. You see they were going to subpoena me to testify that you had forced that horrible man to sign that confession. If I wasn’t there, they couldn’t do it. And I honestly couldn’t think of anywhere else to hide, or to go to.”
“But, my dear girl, you simply had to tell them the truth. The captain did trick him into it, but he didn’t force him.”
“Nicky said he’d…he’d give my father my letters if I didn’t say he was forced.” Linda bit her lip. “My father can…can get very angry.”
“I see,” said Dr. Calland. “This is your young man? The one who told you not to tell your father about Clara?”
“He’s not my young man anymore.” Linda found some relief in saying that. “He’s a toad. He was…he was the other
clerk at the Discovery North Railroad office.”
“The callow young one with the attempt at a moustache?” asked the captain.
Linda nodded miserably.
“I don’t think you need to trouble yourself any further about him or his threats,” said the captain calmly. “I’ve met your father, and it’s not you he’s going to be angry with. Well, not you so very much. The first thing we need to do is to contact Max Darlington and reassure him that you’re safe. The flying wing has a Marconi-transmitter. We can at least send a shortwave message.”
Linda really did not enjoy writing down the message for the flying wing copilot to code and send to her parents. Because of the noise, they used Morse code for messages, not voice. Dr. Calland and Captain Malkis composed it, and they didn’t pull their punches. The message started by telling them she was safe and had been a stowaway on the flying wing. The rest…She had to tell them Nicky’s full name, and what he’d wanted her to say, and what he’d threatened her with.
The copilot looked at her. “The radio op said I should hold. He was contacting your parents.”
“Excuse me, Miss,” said one of the two proper policemen. “Do you mind giving us a statement about all this? It could be very useful, and er, when you’ve done that, the lieutenant here has been hatching a plan I don’t know if I should know anything about. You’re…more or less the same age as Miss Clara Calland, and the new man who was sent up here won’t know what she looks like. Lieutenant Ambrose wants to know if you’ll help to give him enough rope to hang himself. He assures me you’ll be quite safe.”
“Why shouldn’t you know?” asked Linda, wary.
“It’s entrapment. We’re not supposed to do it.”
The lieutenant smiled. “I thought it was only entrapment if they were forced to say it.”
“It’s something of a grey area,” said the policeman, “and they have clever lawyers. We like to do things by the book with them, to avoid a lot of hard work for nothing. I should caution him first.”
