The Rocketeer
Authors: Peter David
THE WORLD IN TURMOIL
1938. In Germany, Nazism reaches a fever pitch. Rumors of war spread across the continent of Europe. In the calm before the storm, Hitler searches for a shortcut in his plans for world domination—and looks to Hollywood. He sends his agents across the Atlantic to the celluloid capital of sin and glamour, on the trail of an all-powerful secret weapon.
THE GOLDEN AGE OF HOLLYWOOD
Los Angeles. Cliff Secord is a barnstorming air-race pilot. He makes his living by living dangerously, is happiest when he's shattering air-speed records and riding the contrail edge of disaster. After thugs destroy his prized GeeBee race plane during an FBI gun battle, Secord finds himself out of work, out of luck . . . and hung out to dry. For someone has saddled him with the most dangerous weapon of the war—the Cirrus X-3 rocketpack, a flying device faster and more dangerous than any Secord has ever encountered. Now he and his starlet girlfriend are on the run, one step ahead of gangster mercenaries, federal agents, and Nazi assassins, who prowl the City of Angels looking for America's most reluctant hero.
Men have died for this weapon.
Cliff Secord is next in line.
THE ROCKETEER
A Bantam Falcon Book / July 1991
FALCON and the portrayal of a boxed “f” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1991 by The Walt Disney Company.
Cover art copyright
©
1991 by The Walt Disney Company.
Illustrations by Dave Stevens.
Designed and project supervised by M’NO Production Services, Inc.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
ISBN 0-553-29322-2
Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10103.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
RAD 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
TO DAVE STEVENS,
who can fly rings around the rest of us
1
T
he sun was just coming up, the rays creeping over the large white letters that read
HOLLYWOODLAND
far in the distance as the small but sturdy caravan worked its way slowly up the steep canyon road. There was a very slight chill to the air, and the only sound around was the noise of the powerful engines of the three vehicles. They roared in protest, as if annoyed that they were being subjected to such effort so early in the morning.
In the lead was a Los Angeles County police car, two cops carefully watching the road ahead of them. Bringing up the rear was a green Plymouth sedan, also occupied by two men.
The one at the wheel of the sedan was thick-necked and square-jawed. He looked like the kind of guy who could crack walnuts with his chin, a little stunt that he had in fact performed at the occasional holiday party. The lanky man seated next to him was scanning the horizon with an intensity that suggested at any moment that they might be subjected to air attack. Then he turned and surveyed the road in front of them as if expecting, at any moment, that someone might burrow out in front of them. In short, he was clearly expecting something to happen, and almost seemed disappointed when all appeared quiet.
In the middle of the odd caravan was a heavily armored truck. It was the slowest vehicle in the assemblage, of course, and the other two were matching its speed perfectly. The black and white Los Angeles police car led by half a car length and the Plymouth followed by a like distance. On the side of the armored car was the seal of the government of the United States.
Satisfied that for the moment all was quiet, the man in the passenger side of the Plymouth picked up the newspaper that the square-jawed driver had stuck into the seat next to him. He scanned the headlines and shook his head slowly. “Guy gives me the creeps,” he said after a moment.
The driver didn’t turn his gaze from the road as he said, “What guy?”
“Uncle Adolf.”
The driver made an impatient clucking noise. “Aw, Fitch, I tell ya and tell ya not to read that stuff. Gives ya gas.”
“Gives me more than that. Gives me a swift pain is what it does, which is what I’d like to give this bird right here.” He tapped a photo on the front page. “Does just looking at him get you angry, Wooly?”
“How angry am I supposed to get, Fitch?” said the one called Wooly skeptically. “I mean, look at ’im! The monkey looks like Charlie Chaplin! Now, am I supposed to get worried about Charlie Chaplin?”
“If Chaplin had just come marching into Austria with a bunch of Nazi saps backing him up, I’d be plenty worried. Hitler’s bad news all around, I’m telling you. I know his type. I seen it before, lotsa times. Hitler isn’t going to be satisfied until he steamrolls all over Europe.”
“Ah, you’re squirrely.” Wooly waved him off. “They can settle with him. He keeps sayin’ he wants peace. The Brits keep sayin’ they can handle him.”
“Wrong,” Fitch shot back, stabbing a finger at his partner. “You see, that’s where your never bothering to read anything besides the funnies is causing you not to realize the big picture.”