The Rocketeer (2 page)

“Oh, and you got the big picture.”

“Yeah, I got the big picture,” said Fitch. “Not all the Brits think they can handle him. The Limey prime minister, that Chamberlain duck, he thinks Hitler’s someone he can talk to. Trusts him to deal in good faith. But Anthony Eden resigned a little while back. Eden’s the foreign minister and he’s got more brains in his little finger than Chamberlain does in his whole head.”

“Wow. Just think,” Wooly said, smiling. “If they could take Eden’s whole hand and stick it on top of Chamberlain’s neck, they’d be okay.”

“Aw, you’re a riot, Wooly.”

“You wanna see something that can cause a riot? Take a gander behind us.”

Fitch did so. There was a tan Ford roadster behind them, and driving was a striking young woman with blond hair hanging over one shoulder. She saw Fitch glancing in her direction and waved to him, and then she honked once to indicate she wasn’t thrilled about the slow speeds. She had a playfully petulant look on her face, and Fitch shrugged in a wide, what-am-I-supposed-to-do-about-it manner.

Ahead of them, for a few hundred feet, the road straightened out, and the tan roadster suddenly roared forward, sweeping past the Plymouth, the armored car, and the police car. The woman at the wheel was laughing, and she waved gaily, not caring that she was in the oncoming lane. She whipped in front of the police car and shot away.

“Now, that’s a tomato with more guts than brains,” said Fitch. “Pulling stunts like that right in front of a police car.”

“She weren’t no dope,” said Wooly. “She figured the cop car was with us, and wasn’t gonna go buzzin’ off after her.”

“Yeah, well, if they got her plate number, she might get a little surprise,” said Fitch.

Wooly laughed deep in his throat. “I wouldn’t mind givin’ her a little surprise.”

“Knowing you, it would be pretty darned little.”

Wooly roared loudly in amusement. “Aw, thanks, buddy.”

“Think nothing of it. That’s what you’re best at. Thinking nothing,” said Fitch in annoyance. “Don’t you see we gotta get this Hitler guy before he gets us?”

“It’s none of our beeswax what he does,” said Wooly. “The Limeys, the Frogs, they got their problems and we got ours. I mean, England and France don’t like the guy, let England and France hash it out. It’s not like this country’s in any great shape, brother. Or don’t the word
Depression
ring any bells?”

“Things are a lot better than they were. FDR’s doing just fine. But he keeps talking about world peace and scaling back on the arms race. That ain’t going to happen. Not while Hitler’s running around. I’m telling you—”

“ ‘Hitler’s bad news.’ ” Wooly sighed as he quoted Fitch. “Fitch, I got broken records that are more entertaining than you. He ain’t done nothin’ to us, and we should be just minding our own business, and whatever you say ain’t gonna change—”

“Hold it!”
shouted Fitch.
“Look out!”

But Wooly had already been alerted by the sudden screeching of tires up ahead. The police car had slammed to a halt and the doors of the cruiser were already flying open. The armored car almost rear-ended the police car, and Wooly cut his wheel hard to the left, slamming on the brake. The Plymouth slowed and Fitch had leapt out of the car, gun drawn, before Wooly had it completely stopped. Then Wooly was out, too, the driver’s side door open, and he was crouching behind it for protection. Fitch was poised on the far side of the hood.

Just ahead of them was the tan Ford that had passed them a short time before. It was crossways on the lane in front of them, effectively blocking progress.

The woman was out of the car, and clearly not willingly. Standing behind her, his back against the car and his arm around her neck in a fierce choke hold, was a thick-necked man with gnarled features and brilliantined hair. He was holding a tommy gun to the head of the young woman, and his face was twisted in a savage snarl.

Positioned on the far side of the car, holding a revolver aimed at the cops, was another man, not quite as fierce looking but nonetheless clearly meaning business. He had a face that looked kind of like a ferret, and a tweed cap perched on his head.

The woman was sobbing hysterically, and instantly Fitch worked it out. The men had been standing in the road, their weapons at the ready, when the woman had come around the curve. A guy with a tommy gun aimed at you would make you slam on the brakes pretty fast, especially if you were a dame and weren’t thinking that you could just run him down. Dames didn’t think like that. You could threaten them and they’d just fold up like a card table.

Maybe they had their own car stashed away nearby. Maybe they were planning to steal the roadster. Whatever it was, the terrified woman’s inarticulate pleadings had definitely increased the danger of the situation.

“All right!” the tommy gunman was shouting. “All right! Everybody out of the armored car! Open up the back! Do it now, or so help me, the girl’s death is gonna be on your hands and her brains are gonna be on your nice suits!”

“Oh, God, no, oh, no oh no . . .” the woman was screaming.

“You know ’em?” Wooly whispered to his partner.

Fitch shook his head. “Must be local talent. Small change with big ideas.” Then he raised his voice and called out, in his most authoritative tone, “All right, you clowns! We’re FBI! I’m Agent Francis Fitch, and this is Agent Jake Wolinski! You want to muck with us, you want to go up the river for the rest of your life, you just go right on with what you’re doing!”

“And you want to see her die,
Fran
cis!” called back the tommy gunman. He shoved the muzzle even harder against the side of her head. It looked like he might push it right through her skull. “That’s gonna look real good on your report,
Fran
cis. Mr. Hoover’ll be just tickled pink, won’t he.”

“He’s not bluffing!” shouted the other thug. “He’s nuts! Ask anybody he’s killed.”

“The driver and guard get out of the armored truck, and you open up the back now!” His finger was starting to tighten on the trigger.

“Don’t let him hurt me!” screamed the woman, trembling violently.

“You got to the count of five,
Fran
cis! One! Two! Four! Fi—”

“Hold it!” It wasn’t Fitch who had called out. It was the driver of the armored car, a young man with red hair. The uniform he wore looked almost too big on him. “We’ll do what you want! Just don’t hurt her!” The other guard was getting out the other side.

“Get back in the truck!” shouted Fitch.

The guard turned angrily and said, “Hey! I’m not gonna sit there and watch some girl die just for some piece of government hardware! It ain’t worth it! Nothin’s worth it!”

Wooly tended to agree, but nevertheless he had to agree with Fitch. “You know the drill!”

“She’s the one gonna get drilled, brother,” said the guard, “and not if I can do anything about it.”

He went around to the back of the armored vehicle and moments later had the rear doors opened up. Fitch looked at Wooly helplessly. What were they supposed to do now? Fire on the guard? Run and grab him? But if they did, they’d be exposing themselves as targets to the gunmen. No matter which way it played, they were in a fix.

Seconds later the guard was slowly walking toward the tommy gunman, and he was carrying a large case. It was an odd suitcase, custom designed to hold some special instrument. The case was made from hand-tooled leather, the spines and fittings of brass. He set it down in front of the two thugs and then stood.

“Open it,” said the one who was holding the young woman. She whimpered softly in protest against the fierceness of his grip, but otherwise was too frightened to say anything.

The guard reached down and did what he was told. He flipped some latches and lifted back the lid.

The contents gleamed silver in the light of the morning sun. The sky overhead was brilliant blue, and the clouds almost seemed to beckon to what was in the case.

“That’s it all right. Close it up.” As the guard did so, the tommy gunman said, “Wilmer, grab it.”

The one addressed as Wilmer now came from around the car. He reached down and lifted the case. “Heavier than I would have thought,” he muttered. “I can carry it though.”

“Great. Glad you like it,” said the tommy gunman. “Now get in the car and—”

All of a sudden the red-haired guard’s gun was in his hand.

Fitch gasped in surprise. It was the fastest draw he’d ever seen. The guard’s gun had cleared its holster before the tommy gunman had even blinked, and it was leveled right at Wilmer. Wooly nodded, impressed. Obviously the kid wasn’t a total washout at that.

“Let the woman go,” said the young guard with icy calm. “Let her go or I shoot your partner.”

“My leg,” the woman was moaning. “He hurt my leg . . .”

“I’ll kill her!” the tommy gunman shouted. “I swear I will!”

“And I’ll kill him,” said the guard. “Either way, you’re not going anywhere.”

And now Wilmer, frozen and afraid to try to aim his own gun at the guard for fear that he would fall victim to the guard’s remarkable swiftness, said nervously, “Lenny, better do as he says.”

“Shut up, Wilmer!”

“Do it, Lenny! Let her go!” snapped Wilmer.

“My leg,” moaned the woman, and she started to sag.

“All right!” said Lenny furiously. “All right!” And he pushed the woman toward the guard.

The guard hadn’t taken his eyes off of the man called Lenny. So he didn’t notice when the woman, clutching at her thigh, reached under her dress and pulled out a small derringer.

She brought it up and fired at almost point-blank range. The guard staggered back, a red stain appearing just above his heart.

“Let’s go!”
shouted the woman. She scooped up the torpedo-shaped case and leapt toward the car before the guard had even fallen to the road.

“We’ve been had!” howled Fitch in fury. “Fire!”

“Watch the case!” bellowed Wooly. “Don’t hit the case!”

The woman clutched the case to her as she ran toward the car, and Lenny opened fire with the tommy gun even as he leapt to follow. Wooly and Fitch ducked for cover. Fortunately, the armored car was blocking the direct line of fire, and bullets struck and ricocheted off the huge vehicle.

One of the ricochets struck the woman.

She screamed and staggered forward, dropping the case. Lenny deftly caught it before it struck the ground, and hurled himself into the car, firing blindly. Wilmer was already at the wheel, but when he saw the woman on the ground he called out, “Sheila! Lenny, Sheila’s been hit!”

Lenny cast one quick glance and saw the blood pooling under her. “Forget her! Let’s go!”

The woman lay sprawled across the road, unmoving, as the roadster peeled out with Lenny leaving a covering fire behind him. Wooly, Fitch, and the two cops opened fire, but before they could draw a bead on it, the car was gone around the hili.

Fitch ran forward as Wooly jumped into the driver’s seat of the Plymouth and backed up. Running up to the woman, Fitch saw immediately that she was dead. The other armored-car guard, meantime, was trying to staunch the blood that was flowing from the hit the young guard had taken. Fitch hoped the guard made it. He had guts. It would be a shame if those guts wound up all over some canyon road.

Then Wooly had pulled up beside him. The cop car was already in motion, and Fitch, presuming that the cops were radioing for an ambulance, ran around and leapt into the passenger seat.

The cop car roared forward, siren blazing, and the car carrying the G-men fell in right behind it.

Fitch shook his head. “The blonde was in on it. Can you believe it?”

“Maybe you’re right about what you were saying before,” said Wooly. “I mean, if you can’t trust gorgeous blondes, how can anyone trust Hitler?”

Wilmer held the wheel tightly, watching the road while at the same time glancing fast and furious into the rearview mirror.

“Just keep your eyes front!” snapped Lenny. “Let me worry about the cops and feds, okay?”

“Sheila, Lenny . . . poor Sheila. I’m so sorry,” said Wilmer. “I mean, your girlfriend, Lenny. She was your girlfriend . . .”

Lenny shrugged and slammed a fresh drum of ammo into his weapon. “I got lots of girlfriends. She was a better shot than most, but otherwise she’s a kiss-off. Now, eyes front, I said! I don’t want anything, and I mean anything, screwing this up!”

T
here was an ominous rumble that echoed through the otherwise silent Chaplin airfield. It was the sound of a hangar door opening, and light flooded through into the darkened building. It was an eerie feeling. One almost expected bats to come pouring out.

The two men who had pushed open the hangar door did not chatter or waste time with idle movements. They were grimfaced, energized, excited, and trying not to show it. Part of it was professionalism, part superstition. They were mutually concerned that if they displayed too much enthusiasm, there might be some sort of arcane evil eye watching the proceedings that would feel constrained to cause that morning’s activities to end in tragedy.

The two men scurried back into the comforting darkness of the hangar and then, moments later, were helping two other men wheel out what appeared to be an airplane. “Appeared to be” was a particularly effective term, for actually it was little more than a flying death trap. Many pilots had stormed their last barn attempting to master the intricacies of this particular model. This rather depressing statistic was not going to deter yet another pilot, this beautiful morning, from trying his hand at braving the skies in a plane nicknamed the Blind Bulldog.