The Carpetbaggers (90 page)

"I heard about that, too," I said sarcastically. I wasn't in the mood for any lectures from the old bastard, no matter how much he'd reformed. "They tell me that generally happens when you can't get it up any more."

A trace of the old Amos came into his face. He was angry, I could see it. "I got a mind to tell you a couple of things."

"Like what, Amos?"

"Ready to remount the engine, Mr. Winthrop," a man called from the doorway.

"I'll be there in a minute." Amos turned back to me. "You remind me of this after we get back from the test flight."

I grinned, watching him walk out the door. At least, he hadn't gone so holy-holy that I couldn't get his goat. I sat up and started looking under the couch for my shoes.

When I got outside, the engine was turning over, sweet and smooth. "She seems O.K. to me now," Amos said, turning to me.

I looked at my watch. It was four thirty. "Then, let's go. What're we waiting for?"

He put a hand on my arm. "Sure I can't make you change your mind?"

I shook my head. Seventeen million dollars was a lot of argument. He raised his hands to his mouth, making a megaphone of them. "Everybody off the ship except the flight crew."

Almost immediately, there was a silence in the yard as the engine shut off. A few minutes later, the last of them came down the boarding flap. A man stuck his head out of the small window in the pilot's cabin. "Everybody off except the crew, Mr. Winthrop."

Amos and I walked up the flap into the plane, then up the small ladder from the cargo deck to the passenger cabin and on forward into the flight cabin. Three young men were there. They looked at me curiously. They were still wearing the hard hats from the shipyard.

"This is your crew, Mr. Cord," Amos said formally. "On the right, Joe Gates, radioman. In the middle, Steve Jablonski, flight engineer starboard engines, one, three and five. On the left, Barry Gold, flight engineer port engines, two, four and six. You don't have to worry about them. They're all Navy veterans and know their work."

We shook hands all around and I turned back to Amos. "Where's the copilot and navigator?"

"Right here," Amos said.

"Where?"

"Me."

"What the hell— "

He grinned at me. "You got anybody knows this baby better? Besides, I been sleeping every night with her for more than half a year. Who's got a better right to get a piece of her first ride?"

I stared at him for a moment. Then I gave in. I knew exactly how he felt. I felt the same way myself yesterday, when they wouldn't let me fly the jet.

I climbed up into the pilot's seat. "Take your stations, men."

"Aye, aye, sir."

I grinned to myself. They were Navy men, all right. I picked up the check list on the clip board. "Boarding ramp up," I said, reading.

A motor began to whine beneath me. A moment later, a red light flashed on the panel in front of me and the motor cut off. "Boarding ramp up, sir."

"Start engines one and two," I said, reaching forward and flicking down the switches that would let the flight engineers turn them over. The big engines coughed and belched black smoke. The propellers began to turn sluggishly, then the engines caught and the propellers settled into a smooth whine.

"Starboard engine one turning over, sir."

"Port engine two turning over, sir."

The next one on the check list was a new one for me. I smiled to myself. This wasn't an airplane, it was really a Navy ship with wings. "Cast off," I said.

From the seat to my right, Amos reached up and tripped the lever that released the tow lines. Another red light flashed on the panel before me and I could feel
The Centurion
slide back into the water. There was a slight backward dip as she settled in with a slight rocking motion. The faint sound of water slapping against her hull came up from beneath us. I leaned forward and turned the wheel. Slowly the big plane came about and started to move out toward the open bay. I looked over at Amos. He grinned at me.

I grinned back. So far, so good. At least we were seaborne.

A wave broke across the prow of the plane, throwing salt spray up on the window in front of me, as I came to the last item on the check list. There had been almost a hundred of them and it seemed like hours since we'd started. I looked down at my watch. It was only sixteen minutes since we'd left the dock. I looked out the windows. The six big engines were turning over smoothly, the propellers flashing with sun and spray. I felt a touch on my shoulder and looked back.

The radioman stood behind me, an inflatable Mae West in one hand and a parachute pack hanging from the other. "Emergency dress, sir."

I looked at him. He was already wearing his; so were the other two men. "Put it behind my seat."

I looked across at Amos. He already had the vest on and was tightening the cross belt of the parachute. He sank back into his seat with an uncomfortable grunt. He looked at me. "You ought to put it on."

"I’ve got a superstition about 'em," I said. "If you don't wear 'em, you'll never need 'em." He didn't answer, shrugging his shoulders as the radioman went back to his seat and fastened his seat belt. I looked around the cabin. "Secure in flight stations?"

They all answered at once. "Aye, aye, sir!"

I reached forward and flipped the switch on the panel and all the lights turned from red to green. From now on, they'd only go back to red if we were in trouble. I turned the plane toward the open sea. "O.K., men. Here we go!"

I opened the throttle slowly. The big plane lurched, its prow digging into the waves then slowly lifting as the six propellers started to chew up the air. Now we started to ride high, like a speedboat in the summer races. I looked at the panel. The air-speed indicator stood at ninety.

Amos' voice came over to me. "Calculated lift velocity, this flight, one ten."

I nodded without looking at him and kept opening the throttle. The needle went to one hundred, then one ten. The waves were beating against the bottom of the hull like a riveting hammer. I brought the needle up to one fifteen, then I started to ease back on the stick.

For a moment, nothing happened and I increased our speed to one twenty. Suddenly,
The Centurion
seemed to tremble, then jump from the water. Free of the restraining drag, she seemed to leap into the air. The needle jumped to one sixty and the controls moved easily in my hands. I looked out the window. The water was two hundred feet beneath us. We were airborne.

"Hot damn!" one of the men behind me muttered.

Amos squirmed around in his seat. "O.K., fellers," he said, sticking out his hand. "Pay me!" He looked over at me and grinned. "Each of these guys bet me a buck we'd never get off the water."

I flashed a grin at him and kept the ship in a slow climb until we reached six thousand feet. Then I turned her west and aimed her right at the setting sun.

* * *

"She handles like a baby carriage." Amos chortled gleefully from his seat.

I looked up at him from behind the radioman, where I had been standing as he explained the new automatic signaling recorder. All you had to do was give your message once, then turn on the automatic and the wire recorder would repeat it over and over again until the power gave out.

The sun had turned Amos' white hair back to the flaming red of his youth. I looked down at my watch. It was six fifteen and we were about two hundred miles out over the Pacific. "Better turn her around and take her back, Amos," I said. "I don't want it to be dark the first time we put her down."

"The term in the Navy, captain, is 'Put her about'." The radioman grinned at me.

"O.K., sailor," I said. I turned to Amos. "Put her about."

"Aye, aye, sir."

We went into a gentle banking turn as I bent over the radioman's shoulder again. Suddenly, the plane lurched and I almost fell over him. I grabbed at his shoulder as the starboard engineer yelled, "Number five's gone bad again."

I pushed myself toward my seat as I looked out the window. The engine was shooting oil like a geyser. "Kill it!" I shouted, strapping myself into my seat.

The cords on Amos' neck stood out like steel wire as he fought the wheel on the suddenly bucking plane. I grabbed at my wheel and together we held her steady. Slowly she eased off in our grip.

"Number five dead, sir," the engineer called.

I glanced out at it. The propeller turned slowly with the wind force but the oil had stopped pouring from the engine. I looked at Amos. His face was white and perspiration was dripping from it, but he managed a smile. "We can make it back on five engines without any trouble."

"Yeah." We could make it back on three engines, according to the figures. But I wouldn't like to try it. I looked at the panel. The red light was on for the number-five engine. While I was watching, a red light began to flicker on and off at number four. "What the hell?"

It began to sputter and cough even as I turned to look at it. "Check number four!" I yelled. I turned back to the panel. The red light was on for the number-four fuel line.

"Number-four fuel line clogged!"

"Blow it out with the vacuum!"

"Aye, aye, sir!" I heard the click as he turned on the vacuum pump. Another red light jumped on in front of me. "Vacuum pump out of commission, sir!"

"Kill number four!" I said. There was no percentage in leaving the line open in the hopes that it would clear itself. Clogged fuel lines have a tendency to turn into fires. And we still had four engines left.

"Number four dead, sir!"

I heaved a sigh of relief after ten minutes had gone by and there was nothing new to worry about. "I think we'll be O.K. now," I said.

I should have kept my big fat mouth shut. No sooner had I spoken than the number-one engine started to choke and sputter and the instrument panel in front of me began to light up like a Christmas tree. The number-six engine began to choke.

"Main fuel pump out!"

I threw a glance at the altimeter. We were at five thousand and dropping. "Radio emergency and prepare to abandon ship!" I shouted.

I heard the radioman's voice. "Mayday! Mayday! Cord Aircraft Experimental. Going down Pacific. Position approx one two five miles due west San Diego. I repeat, position approx one two five miles due west San Diego. Mayday! Mayday!"

I heard a loud click and the message began over again. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked around quickly. It was the radioman. There was a faint surprise in the back of my mind until I remembered the recorder was now broadcasting the call for help. "We'll stay if you want us, sir," he said tensely.

"This isn't for God and country, sailor! This is for money. Get goin'!"

I looked over at Amos, who was still in his seat. "You, too, Amos!"

He didn't answer. Just pulled off his safety belt and got out of his seat. I heard the cabin door behind me open as they went through to the emergency door in the passenger compartment.

The altimeter read thirty-eight hundred and I killed the one and six engines. Maybe I could set her down on the water if the two remaining engines could hold out on the fuel that would be diverted from the others. We were at thirty-four hundred when the red light for the emergency door flashed on as it opened. I cast a quick look back out the window. Three parachutes opened, one after the other, in rapid succession. I looked at the board. Twenty-eight hundred.

I heard a noise behind me and looked around. It was Amos, getting back into his seat. "I told you to get out!" I yelled.

He reached for the wheel. "The kids are off and safe. I figure between the two of us, we got a chance to put her down on top of the water."

"Suppose we don't?" I yelled angrily.

"We won't be missing much. We ain't got as much time to lose as they have. Besides, this baby cost a lot of dough!"

"So what?" I yelled. "It's not your money!"

There was a curiously disapproving look on his face. "Money isn't the only thing put into this plane. I built her!"

We were at nine hundred feet when number three began to conk out. We threw our weight against the wheel to compensate for the starboard drag. At two hundred feet, the number-three engine went out and we heeled over to the starboard. "Cut the engines!" Amos yelled. "We're going to crash!"

I flipped the switch just as the starboard wing bit into the water. It snapped off clean as a matchstick and the plane slammed into the water like a pile driver. I felt the seat belt tear into my guts until I almost screamed with the pressure, then suddenly it eased off. My eyes cleared and I looked out. We were drifting on top of the water uneasily, one wing pointing to the sky. Water was already trickling into the cabin under our feet.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Amos yelled, moving toward the cabin door, which had snapped shut. He turned the knob and pushed. Then he threw himself against it. The door didn't move. "It's jammed!" he yelled, turning to me.

I stared at him and then jumped for the pilot's emergency hatch over our heads. I pulled the hatch lock with one hand and pushed at the hatch with the other. Nothing happened. I looked up and saw why. The frame had buckled, locking it in. Nothing short of dynamite would open it.

Amos didn't wait for me to tell him. He pulled a wrench from the emergency tool kit and smashed at the glass until there was only a jagged frame left in the big port. He dropped the wrench, picked up the Mae West and threw it at me. I slipped into it quickly, making sure the automatic valve was set so it would work the minute I hit the water.

"O.K.," he said. "Out you go!"

I grinned at him. "Traditions of the sea, Amos. Captain's last off the ship. After you, Alphonse."

"You crazy, man?" he shouted. "I couldn't get out that port if they cut me in half."

"You ain't that big," I said. "We're going to give it a try."

Suddenly, he smiled. I should have known better than to trust Amos when he smiled like that. That peculiarly wolfish smile came over him only when he was going to do you dirty. "All right, Gaston. You're the captain."

"That's better," I said, bracing myself and making a sling step with my hands to boost him up to the port. "I knew you'd learn someday who's boss."