Part 12 (1/2)
A familiar face in a leather cap and goggles poked his head over the side of the open c.o.c.kpit of the autogyro.
Howard Hughes.
”You must be joking,” Deitel said.
Rucker covered Deitel and Terah, laying down grazing fire until the last second. Rucker was grabbing at the last rung when the roof access door swung open, a dozen guards pouring out. They paused, slack-jawed, for one crucial moment. Hughes increased the throttle and flew up and away from Hamilton House with his human cargo dangling below.
The gunfire from behind was futile.
Rucker turned and gave Hamilton House the finger.
Five hundred feet above the ground, dangling from the ladder, Deitel clung for dear life repeating his comfort words.
”I hate Texas. I hate Texas. I hate Texas.”
Barely fifteen minutes later they were at a dirt airstrip on the New Jersey side of the East River, taxiing down the runway in Hughes's H-3 racer. Rucker was in the copilot's seat, scanning all around.
”Yep, we've got company.”
Four Union States Navy monoplanes, two-seater swept-wing fighters with wing-mounted guns and fixed landing gear, were closing on the strip. The autogyro, while an amazing piece of engineering allowing vertical takeoff, landing, and hovering, was a slow bird and easy to track from the ground, so they'd ditched it.
The lead navy fighter strafed the runway, kicking up dirt but missing on the initial run. Deitel tried not to squeal. Terah was stone-faced. Rucker and Hughes didn't blink.
”Lousy control these boys have,” Rucker said, as casually as if he were appraising different coffees.
”Not enough hours of stick time,” Hughes said. ”No confidence, worried they'll get target fixation and plow into the ground. Shame, really.”
”Those are High Dynamics P-27s. Max speed is something like 197 mph.”
Another two Union fighters made strafing runs at the H-3, but it was airborne now and gaining speed and alt.i.tude fast.
”Watch this,” Hughes said. He hit the supercharger and the plane rocketed forward. In seconds the U.S. Navy fighters were distant specks.
Hughes grabbed the wireless mike. ”Tin man to Mama Bear. Tin to Mama Bear . . . We're five by five. En route now to waypoint Echo Three.”
The radio crackled. ”Tin man, we read you. Good work. Tell Goldilocks his rocking chair is en route to the tree house.”
”Roger that, Mama Bear.”
Hughes turned to the rear of the c.o.c.kpit.
”Lady,” he nodded, ”and gentlemen . . . after a quick layover in Richmond, our next stop is Airstrip One, where Captain Rucker's Raposa awaits. You are now free to move about your lives as the Union States authority can go stuff itself.”
Deitel checked his watch.
It said 12:26 P.M.
One day.
Just over one day and three hours he'd known Rucker.
He turned to remark on this to Rucker, and realized Rucker and Terah had slipped away to the rear of the plane, beyond the closed bulkhead.
”What are they up to, Herr Hughes?”
Hughes smiled and ran a hand through his curly mop of hair.
”Either they're tearing at each other's throats or tearing at each other's clothes. One or the other, I highly advise not getting in the middle of it. It's a long flight to the Caribbean airstrip, and there's only one first aid kit.”
Deitel reflected on this. He sat.
”So, how did we enjoy our first trip to the Big Apple?” Hughes asked.
”I was only there for two hours.”
”And?” Hughes asked. Did these Texans ever stop smiling?
”It was more than enough. Is there a . . . what is the word . . . galley?”
”I brought sack lunches,” Hughes said. ”I was worried that one or the other of those two might have their teeth knocked out, so I brought soup.”
Deitel sulked.
”And soft tacos,” Hughes added with a smile.
Deitel perked up.
Then Hughes's expression turned stern.
”Do not spill anything. Seriously.”
”What are you doing here?” Terah demanded when Rucker followed her through the hatch to the back pa.s.senger area.
”It's here or the c.o.c.kpit. Not a big plane, you know,” Rucker said.
”No, here. Dealing with this. Bothering me.”
”Look, Terah, I told you. Lysander sent me to get you out before you blew your cover with that bone-headed killing and because there's something brewing that's a lot more dangerous than whatever the Union States' latest scheme is.
”Besides,” he volleyed back, ”what are you doing there? Kind of a waste of all that historical knowledge you have rattling around in that big head of yours.”
Terah calmed a little. But not much. Her defenses were still up even if she hid it with a devil-may-care laugh.
”You know me, and you know how it is. There's only so long I can publish papers and manage a museum before I go stir crazy. I need the thrill. And more importantly, someone has to keep an eye on our enemies while others of us”-there was no mistaking her gesture right at him-”spend all their time working for no one's good but their own. Or on their backhand. Truth now-how did you get involved with this?”
”I told you. I was already on this job when your name came up. Lysander put me on the fast bird up here to save you from your own crazy.”