The Rocketeer (24 page)

To Cliff and Peevy, who had been watching newsreels and hearing reports for months now, with Hitler spouting words of peace and even FDR talking of disarmament . . . these were the most chilling, terrifying images that anyone could have presented. Naked aggression, bald-faced lying exposed to reveal a plan of worldwide domination.

As the film ended and the screen rose, it was almost too much for Cliff to take. He stared somberly at the toes of his boots as Hughes said quietly, “Where’s my rocket pack, Secord?”

The immensity was so overwhelming, Cliff couldn’t find the words. And his hesitation was misinterpreted by Fitch, still smarting from looking like a fool for his efforts, as more stonewalling. Angrily Fitch snarled, “I’m tired of square-dancing with you! I can slap you with grand theft, espionage, treason—and that’s just my short list. Wooly, cuff this punk!”

The threat of incarceration immediately spurred Cliff into action as he remembered why he couldn’t be imprisoned. Someone’s life depended on it. “They’ve got my girl!” he said.

“Holy Moses!” exploded Peevy.

“They’ve set up a rendezvous, to swap Jenny for the rocket.”

“Cliff,” said Hughes with almost paternal familiarity, “I understand your concern. But you’ve got to let us handle this.”

“They’ll kill her if I don’t go alone! And if anything happens to Jenny, I don’t much care about the rest of the world. I swear I’ll return the pack . . . tomorrow.”

Even the more patient Wooly was starting to get exasperated. “This ain’t a negotiation! Those guys are playing for keeps—”

“I can deal with Valentine and his boys,” said Cliff confidently.

“The Eddie Valentine gang is only hired muscle.” Hughes waved off the notion. “They work for a Nazi agent.” He shot a look at Fitch and Wooly. “Someone our intrepid G-men have been unable to identify.”

“It’s Neville Sinclair!” Cliff exclaimed.

“What?” Fitch looked at him in disbelief.

“Sure! It makes sense.” Cliff was speaking faster and faster. “He was ordering Valentine’s guys around at the South Seas Club . . . and that’s why he was so interested in Jenny!”

“Nice try, kid,” said Wooly in amusement. He turned to Hughes. “We’re taking them downtown and locking ’em up.”

Cliff looked desperately to Hughes for some sort of support, but Hughes was shrugging. “Sorry, Cliff. If you won’t cooperate, it’s out of my hands.” He raised his hands as if surrendering.

Cliff’s gaze followed the hands, and his eyes lit on the huge airplane model. The model looked pretty damned sturdy.

Moving with speed that was fueled by pure panic, Cliff leapt up onto the desk. Wooly lunged for him and Cliff’s legs snapped up as his arms snared the understructure supporting the large wings of the model.

The support wires snapped and the model rolled forward on the overhead track, heading straight for the window. Fitch and the other agents ducked as the
Spruce Goose
smashed through the windows, dragged off the track by Cliff’s added weight.

The model sailed out over the canyon with Cliff Secord hanging on for dear life. The agents were already drawing their guns, but Hughes, astounded and fascinated by what he was seeing, shouted, “No
guns!
”

Cliff dropped down, down and away out of sight, the air current supporting him and his own skill and nerve enabling him to dangle from beneath like a hang glider. The ground blurred beneath him, but compared to rocketing along at two hundred miles per hour, this was slow motion.

The others watched him go, getting smaller and smaller, and then they turned slowly, with great trepidation, toward Hughes. They were sure they would be on the receiving end of more anger, more sarcasm.

Instead, Hughes was grinning ear to ear. “The son of a bitch
will
fly!” he said in amazement. They thought he was talking about Secord and didn’t understand. He was, in fact, talking about “Hughes’s Folly.” The
Spruce Goose.
The rapidly dwindling model bespoke great achievements to come, and even more potential miracles.

In the meantime, the wind blew the folded-up restaurant check onto Peevy’s shoe. He glanced down and noticed the writing on the back:
Griff Obs—4AM—.”

Darkened Chaplin Airfield had had all manner of aircraft land on its weather-beaten tarmac in its time, but never had a sight such as this one graced the skies overhead.

The
Spruce Goose
swooped downward, its nerve-racked pilot trying to gauge perfectly the speed and distance he had left. Cliff’s arms were throbbing, his muscles quivering from the strain, and he knew that he was going to have only one chance to pull this landing off.

He started running in midair, to get his legs moving, and the runway came at him fast, so damned fast. In no time at all he was there, and he tried to keep his feet moving as fast as his airspeed was taking him. But he mistimed it, and the weight of the model overbalanced him, sending him tumbling end over end across the tarmac. The model splintered and shattered into a thousand wood fragments, and Cliff Secord rolled, banging up his elbows and knees still more as he tucked his head under his arms and tried to bring his headlong roll to a halt.

Finally, finally, he skidded to a halt, and he lay on the runway, his breath slamming against his lungs and his heart pounding so hard he thought it would break a rib. Hell, maybe he’d already broken a couple.

He stood on uncertain legs and then stumbled in the direction of where he’d hidden the rocket pack.

Moments later he was in the office of the late Otis Bigelow. It had seemed the perfect hiding place. The police had already gone over it with a fine-tooth comb, and so it seemed unlikely that they would go back over where they had been—especially in the middle of the night. Nor would other pilots be especially eager to enter the office; a man had been murdered there, and no one wanted that kind of jinx hanging on them.

It was a gamble that, apparently, had paid off big, for there was the rocket, in the duffel bag and secure as ever under Bigelow’s desk. Cliff pulled it and the helmet out and checked a clock. He started to check his pockets for the piece of paper, but then remembered that the feds had taken it.

It didn’t matter. He remembered where and when. He checked the clock and realized he had just under an hour to get from Chaplin Field to Griffith Observatory.

Not a major problem for the Rocketeer.

I
t was close to four in the morning, and the sky was clear over a sleeping Los Angeles. Diffused moonlight splashed over the white walls, curved parapets, and copper domes of Griffith Observatory. Behind the domes, the cliffs dropped off sheer and straight, and city lights glimmered like a jeweled carpet.

The forecourt was a dark lawn crossed by wide concrete paths. In the center of the lawn, a tall stone obelisk was surrounded by statues of famous astronomers who stood solemn watch.

Three Valentine gang sedans were parked at the base of the steps. Eddie, Rusty, Spanish Johnny, and several others of his gang waited impatiently on the lawn, tommy guns in hand.

Sinclair’s car rolled up, and Eddie flashed a dark look of “about time” at his boys. The first one to emerge, naturally, was Lothar, who then pulled open the passenger door and dragged Jenny from her seat.

Sinclair then stepped out, stopping to take a tuxedo jacket from the backseat. He handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Put this on.”

“I’d rather freeze,” shot back Jenny.

He looked her over and smiled at the way the steady wind was blowing the tight dress even tighter, and her exposed skin was becoming even whiter in the chill air. “Quite right,” he said appraisingly. “I prefer you that way.”

Jenny immediately snatched the jacket and put it on. Sinclair smiled as he turned and walked toward the obelisk. Lothar followed, pulling Jenny behind, and Eddie approached them, scowling.

“Cheer up, Eddie,” said Sinclair with that joviality that Jenny had once thought was so charming. “You’re about to make a fortune.”

“Good,” said Valentine tightly, “because I’ve got a club to repair and an ulcer to plug.”

“Hey, boss!” shouted Johnny. “Here he comes!”

Everyone looked up toward the heavens and, at first, it looked like a comet streaking across the night sky. It grew larger and brighter, and soon they could hear a roar becoming louder and louder. Eddie signaled his men, who quickly formed a loose circle around the lawn, tommy gun barrels swinging up.

Jenny felt a stark surge of terror. It looked like a firing squad. The only thing that gave her any comfort at all was that they wouldn’t open fire on Cliff because they wanted the rocket pack, and presumably not full of holes. But once they had it . . . then Cliff had had it too, and probably her as well.

The Rocketeer swooped down, then up, as if he were toying with them, before landing on the grass. He removed his helmet to defiantly face the surrounding thicket of gun barrels.

Eddie didn’t like it at all. The kid sure wasn’t acting like he was outmanned and outgunned. He was coming across like he had the drop on them. Did possessing the power of flight really give you that kind of confidence? He glanced around at his own men, as if to verify for himself that they in fact had the upper hand, and then he nodded to himself briskly. That kind of confidence could get you killed.

Cliff locked eyes with Jenny. “Jenny, are you all right?” he asked.

“She’s fine,” Sinclair replied.

With barely contained disdain, Cliff shot back, “I wasn’t talking to
you.”

Sinclair ignored the tone. “Take off the rocket. Carefully.”

“Let Jenny go. When she’s driven down the hill, I’ll—”

In a voice that could have cut diamond, Sinclair snapped, “I’m not here to bargain, Secord!”

Cliff was the picture of calm by contrast. “Then you don’t get the rocket.”

Sinclair pulled Jenny away from Lothar, drew a Luger from his coat, and pressed it to her temple. Jenny, for her part, was starting to feel more frustrated and helpless than ever. A piece of meat to be used for bargaining, shielding, and as a symbol of acquisition.

“You wouldn’t kill her,” said Cliff.

Eddie sounded almost indifferent. “Oh, yes, he would, kid. Take it from me.”

“The rocket, Mr. Secord,” said Sinclair in an even tone.

Eddie felt for the kid. He’d learned to dislike Sinclair enough to know how he would feel if the Limey had the upper hand in a bargain. “Come on, kid! Hand it over so we can all go home!”

And Cliff looked at Sinclair with utter contempt. Without addressing anyone but, at the same time, addressing all of them, he called out, “What’s it like working for a Nazi? Does he pay you in dollars or deutsche marks?”

There was dead silence. Sinclair was stunned. He had warned Jenny that if she said one word about the radio room, he would kill Cliff and herself no matter what the outcome of the exchange. But Secord knew too—? Where was it going to be next? The
Times
?

“What’s he yappin’ about?” demanded Eddie.

“I heard it straight from the feds, Eddie,” called out Cliff. “A Nazi spy ring, flying commandos . . . the works.”

Sinclair, the consummate actor, had already recovered neatly, and said dismissively, “He’s been flying where the air’s too thin.”

But now, emboldened, sensing a shift in direction of the “meeting,” Jenny declared, “Ask him about the secret room, and the Germans on the radio!”

Sinclair glanced at Eddie’s men, who had been listening intently. Several of the tommy gun muzzles began to drift in Sinclair’s direction.

Lothar started to reach into his coat, only to find Rusty’s tommy gun in his face. “Relax, Frankenstein,” said Rusty dangerously. “You ain’t bulletproof.”

“Talk fast, Sinclair,” said Eddie, stepping in front of him.

“Come on, Eddie,” said Sinclair, trying to sound casual. “We all must serve someone.”

“Adolf and his goose-stepping rats!” bellowed Eddie, bristling.

“You tell him, Eddie,” said Cliff.

“Shut up!” Eddie fired back, not sure of what the hell was going on.

Deciding he had to take a firm hand in this, Sinclair said, sounding quite tough, “Now, listen—”

“No,
you
listen!” said Eddie, sounding tougher still. “I may not earn a straight buck, but I’m one hundred percent American, dammit!”

“Then you’re one hundred percent doomed,” laughed Sinclair. “You’re just a slave to an outdated government that’s going to be swept away by a rain of fire.” His voice rose in volume and intensity. “With an army equipped with these”—he gestured toward the rocket pack—“we could rule the world!”

“Eddie Valentine,” said Eddie in a voice as dark as the grave, “is nobody’s slave. Let the lady go.”

He nodded to his men, and suddenly Neville Sinclair was staring down the gun barrels of the gangsters. There was no director around to yell “cut,” no prop man to gather the guns up and store them in the prop bin.

Which was why it was all the more surprising when Sinclair said, with simple conviction, “I’m still taking the rocket.”

At that, Eddie laughed. “You and what army?”

And suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, Sinclair hollered into the surrounding canyons. His voice echoed in words that were not English:
“Sturmabteilung! Angreifen!”