Part 2 (1/2)
There it was, floating steadily like G.o.d's own hand had carved out a place in the firmament of the sky.
A city. Almost two miles up.
A flying city.
The Caribbean sun danced off the metallic structure that defied nature's laws.
”. . . welcome to Airstrip One . . .” Rucker said as the Raposa touched down atop the floating edifice.
Deitel saw flying above the control tower the tricolor, canon, and single star banner of the Texas Freehold.
”. . . the weather outside is breezy and fifty-three degrees . . .”
Deitel fainted.
”. . . watch for falling coconuts.”
CHAPTER TWO.
Airstrip One Two miles above the Caribbean Sea Northeast of the Yucatan peninsula Deitel awoke to find he was lying in the jump seat with Rucker absently flapping a wet rag in his general direction. The captain's attention was focused on the commotion at the pa.s.senger door, where Deitel could hear Chuy unceremoniously removing Chamberlain from the plane.
”Now see here, see, where's my luggage?”
”I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to speak to our lost luggage department.”
”Dammit, I told you to put my bags on the plane!”
The voices were lost to the noise in the terminal outside, which brought Deitel back to the fact that he was on a plane that was on the ”ground,” only the ground was 9,000 feet in the air. He grabbed the rag Rucker was slapping his face with.
”Herr Kapitan, enough.”
”Oh, hey, Doc.”
Rucker got Deitel on his feet.
”Where-Where are we?”
”Airstrip One.”
”A city in the clouds?”
”Not a city. Just a little airport. With a small hotel. A couple of restaurants. Some shops. Oh, and a small hospital. Come on, I'll show you.”
The Raposa was inside a terminal, a level below the landing platform. There were more than a dozen pa.s.senger and cargo planes spread through an area the size of several soccer fields. Ma.s.sive elevator pads raised and lowered planes to the flight deck. To one side lay a pa.s.senger terminal complete with little shops, and off to the other side, maintenance and refueling equipment. The bulkheads on all sides were lined with windows.
”This is Airstrip One. She rides on the backs of thirty-eight superzeppelins, which are driven by some fourteen propellers that are bigger than yachts. I think she can handle up to twenty medium-size planes at a time. Busy days like today, she's the point of transfer or the waypoint for about forty flights. No tennis courts, though, dammit. I love tennis.”
Deitel stumbled, his mind not quite accepting all that he was seeing.
Chuy escorted Chamberlain over to the pa.s.senger terminal, where two men in black suits and hats confronted Chamberlain. The men flashed identification and were now escorting him off to one of the small office suites.
”She has accommodations for a hundred crew and fifty guests. Decent Cuban restaurant on the fiesta deck, but the French bistro on the bow is the best place to grab a bite.”
”It's . . . it's . . . impossible,” Deitel said finally.
”Le monde progresse grace aux choses impossibles qui ont ete realisees,” Rucker said with a shrug.
That snapped Deitel out of his daze. What was this bush pilot saying?
”What?”
”The world progresses thanks to the impossible things which were carried out,” Rucker said.
”Your government created all this?”
”Government? Oh no. Pegasus Petroleum and a consortium of three of the larger airlines own this place. Keep it flying in a regular two hundred mile radius. Cuts flight times like you wouldn't believe. Not that they don't charge an arm and a leg for petrol . . .”
”How have they kept this secret?”
”Secret? Doc, they spend lots of money advertising this thing. They fly it over the stadiums at the World Cup.”
”Why have I never heard of this, then?” Deitel asked, though he knew. The national socialist government could never acknowledge an accomplishment like this. Very little information ever slipped out of increasingly isolated Germany, and very little got in, either.
Deitel didn't notice Chuy come up behind them.
”That should keep him distracted for a few minutes,” the large Brazilian said.
”Should I be presenting myself to your customs agents?” Deitel asked.
Chuy and Rucker c.o.c.ked their heads and then looked where Deitel was pointing-the office suite to which Chamberlain had been escorted. They both laughed.
”What? Oh. No, who you are in the Freehold is no one's business but your own, good doctor,” Chuy said in his baritone, with a melodious Carioca accent. ”Customs control in the Freehold? Never had it, never will.”
”But, those men . . .”
”Friends of ours, Doc” Rucker said.
”Vos . . . What?”
”A confidence trick we learned from a British friend back when we were guests in one of your country's stalags. You'd be surprised-or not, I conjure-how often Yankees fall for that one on account of how conditioned they are to say 'sir' to anyone with a badge.”
Deitel took a step back from the two, his guard up.
”What is going on? What do you want with me?”
”Right now we want you to get back on the plane. We're due in Austin in three hours, and we had to ditch that fat man,” Rucker said. ”The man you're on your way to meet with radioed us to get rid of him.”