Part 9 (1/2)

Hughes, a tall man with a rich East Texas accent, was just twenty-three, but Deitel had read about the man often. Deitel was a motion picture buff, like many people in Germany before Hitler cracked down on foreign films, and knew Hughes's growing film credits.

Hughes had already directed two successful motion pictures, Everybody's Acting and Two Arabian Nights, and the man was working on his third-an epic motion picture about aviation in the Great War with a budget of almost $3 million, the most expensive Cabo Madera production in history.

Deitel couldn't wait for the chance to visit Cabo Madera and its movie studios. And then the Brown Sombrero, Mann's Chinese Theater, and the other wonders of the motion picture world down in the Freehold's southwesternmost city. Exile to Texas had at least one benefit, he thought.

Hughes was a meticulous and exacting man, Deitel noticed almost immediately. Many pilots are, he'd seen, and each had his own superst.i.tious rituals. But Hughes took it far beyond anything the doctor imagined possible.

When they arrived at Hughes's private airfield, Hughes was doing a third engine check. After boarding, he checked the door latches and pressurization seals four times. Although Deitel had a normal and reasonable fear of flying, this constant checking and rechecking every aspect of the H-3 was oddly rea.s.suring.

Hughes had refused to shake hands, which Rucker told Deitel not to take as an insult. It was on of the man's idiosyncrasies. The pilot's control wheel, for instance, was covered in plastic wrap. Also, Hughes refused to take off until the ground crew removed a small stain-a bug impact-from the c.o.c.kpit window. While he wasn't looking, Rucker switched the two extra pillows on the two vacant seats on the starboard side and motioned for Deitel to pay attention.

Before going back into the c.o.c.kpit, Hughes looked around the cabin and seemed uncomfortable. His eyes ran over every inch of the cabin. He saw what was different then, switched the cus.h.i.+ons back, smiled and gave the middle finger to Rucker, who couldn't contain his laughter anymore. Later, Rucker cautioned Deitel not to help himself to any of the bottled milk in the little cabin refrigerator.

Exhaustion and the surprisingly quiet drone of the aircraft's powerful engines caught up with Deitel somewhere before the Kentucky border. When he awoke they were on approach to Manhattan and the sun was still a ways from rising. Rucker offered him something called a Coca-Cola.

”From Atlanta. Pep you up,” Rucker said.

The bottle said, DELICIOUS AND REFREs.h.i.+NG, IT INVIGORATES-STOP AT THE RED SIGN, and, WITH QUALITY COCAINE IMPORTED FROM BOLIVIA. It was an acquired taste, but it delivered what it promised. Deitel was wide-awake within minutes.

Hughes had powered down the airplane's considerable engines and dropped to 5,000 feet so as not to attract undue attention from spotters on the ground. He wanted to look like any other commercial flight. Above the city the air was dirty with coal and factory smoke, which stained the gray concrete of the mostly featureless buildings. A few pa.s.senger airs.h.i.+ps were making speed to the airs.h.i.+p port where others were moored, and smaller police airs.h.i.+ps floated over the city keeping a watchful eye on the streets.

Some of the wonderful old gothic architecture from the nineteenth century was evident even from a mile up, but what dominated were the drab, boxy, utilitarian towers that made up the bulk of post-turn-of-the-century New York City.

So much potential, Rucker thought. It could have been more than this.

There was the beautiful greenery of Central Park. At least they got that right. In the center of the ma.s.sive urban forest was the palatial Hamilton House, home to U.S. presidents ever since Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., was abandoned in 1863 and razed by Confederate forces in retaliation for General Sherman's burning of Knoxville. Over on the west side they could see the U.S. Capitol Building, seat of the Union Congress and the Political Bureau.

Hughes banked the craft.

”You two better get ready,” he said. ”Five minutes to the drop zone and we're losing the dark.”

Drop zone?

”We are to be parachuting, Herr Rucker?”

”Not really. Get back here.”

”Ah, good. I don't like heights.”

A hatchway to the belly of the H-3 opened to a small, oddly curved wooden and bra.s.s container about twice the width of a coffin and just a little deeper. It was padded with velvet-lined cus.h.i.+ons, and there were two backpacks already inside.

”Howard didn't just build this twin-engine big bird for speed records. You'll always get a faster bird with a smaller one-seater. No, this crate is made for getting in someplace fast, dropping something off, and getting out. As in, without anyone the wiser or able to catch you,” Rucker said as he secured a safety harness to the two of them and closed the top hatch.

They could feel the bay doors opening below.

From the c.o.c.kpit over the internal radio speaker Hughes explained his brainchild, which he called a covert egress ejection pod.

”The concept is to execute insertion without spotters seeing anything like a parachute. It's dropped at about thirty feet over the water at near stall-out speed, and air brakes help the pod shed velocity even further. Internal gyroscopes keep it level so it enters the water at the proper angle, thus the impact doesn't break every bone in your body.”

Ach. Mein. Gott.

”Is this safe?”

Hughes didn't hesitate.

”I won't lie to you, Doctor. No, not at all.”

”Vas?”

”Drop zone in ten, nine, eight . . .”

”Herr Hughes, how many times have you employed this device?”

”Including today?”

”Ja!”

”Today's drop would bring it to . . . I think, one. Yes. One. Releasing pod.”

Rucker whooped a cowboy yahoo.

Deitel cried out, too. ”I hate Texas!”

And kept on repeating it.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Manhattan Island New York City Capital of the Union States of America Rucker and Deitel were walking the streets of New York City and it wasn't even 9:00 A.M. Almost exactly twenty-four hours before, Deitel had been standing on the tarmac in Colombia under the sweltering heat and the rising sun. Now he was chilled to the bone from the cold, damp air here in New York City.

”Everyone in Texas is clinically insane,” Deitel was saying. ”I speak as a medical professional.”

”Hey, your people are making monsters. Actual, bona fide monsters. Don't judge,” Rucker said.

”I need a shower,” Deitel said.

”You had a bath. The East River, it's called.”

Deitel sniffed the back of his hand.

”That's why I need a shower.”

”Helps you fit in,” Rucker said.

Deitel scratched furiously at the clothes he'd put on after the two dragged themselves and their inflatable boat out of the waterway under the Queensboro Bridge. Rucker had them change into very plain suits with industrial tailoring and cut from thick, itchy wool. The jackets were extremely high-waisted and the lapels very thin. The trousers were narrow and worn so that their socks showed, apparently the fas.h.i.+on here. They wore tweed scally caps that looked more ridiculous than Rucker's straw cowboy hat.

Rucker said they had to fit in with the locals, which also explained why for the first time Deitel saw Rucker without his big Colt pistol strapped to his thigh. He'd gone for a more subdued approach-twin .45 Webley compact revolvers in a shoulder harness rig.