The Eye of Moloch (43 page)
Traffic continued to be stop-and-go until it finally eased to the point that they could begin to make some real headway. They’d hardly traveled thirty miles, though, when everything ground to a halt again. The cause of the snarl was just barely visible far ahead. At first Noah thought it was an accident, but no; there appeared to be a highway patrol roadblock extending across all lanes in both directions.
“Could you take this exit right here?” he asked, keeping his tone as casual and unconcerned as he could.
“Here? Nobody’s going to be flying tonight—”
“I know, it’s okay, this is where you can leave us. You’ve been very kind but we don’t want to wear out our welcome.”
The driver flipped on his signal and eased his way across two jammed lanes of unhappy motorists to take the off-ramp for Centennial Airport.
As they rode Noah leaned down to Molly’s ear and described what he was seeing. Centennial was a major hub in its own right, high security and all, so walking into the main terminal was out. They drove on down the access road with Noah reading her the signs as he looked for any promising place where they could just hole up for a while and take a breath so they could plan.
“That’s the one,” Molly said. “Let’s go there.”
From near the bottom of a list of far-flung airport facilities on the very last sign, he’d just read her the name of Blue Sky Air Charters. It seemed as good a choice as any and Noah let the driver know.
Down the side road the whole area appeared to be under construction or major renovation. When they’d been let out, the three of them took shelter under the awning of an unmanned security booth outside the long, wide Blue Sky hangar. The lit interior of this giant enclosure seemed like a semi-organized flea market of aircraft parts with a single, partially disassembled vintage plane being worked on at its center.
Soon they noticed that an elderly man in coveralls was gesturing for them to come in out of the rain. There was no other nearby option; as they approached the man he wiped his oil-smudged hands with a rag and then held out his right for Noah to shake, which he did.
“I’m Bill McCord,” the man said. “Goodness, you three look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet. Are you lost?”
“A little bit,” Noah said, smoothly bypassing his own introduction. “We need ground transportation. If we could make a call from here it would be an enormous help.”
Mr. McCord nodded thoughtfully, and then he gave all three of them the once-over, first Noah, and then Ellen Davenport, and then Molly.
“I think I know that pretty face,” he said.
M
r. William McCord was not really the aged grease monkey that his first impression had suggested. He was a war veteran of distinguished service, in fact, though he spoke of this humbly. He was also a man so full of stories that he seemed to have a very hard time containing them all.
The plane under restoration was being prepared for the air-show circuit and he’d been brought in to oversee the final detail work. It was an old Lockheed Lodestar C-60, a relatively rare item, and once finished it would duplicate the very craft that Mr. McCord had flown as a command transport pilot through the end of World War II. The first official flight was coming up soon; it was to be a ceremonial trip to ferry a few of the most decorated surviving American aces to the war memorial in Washington, D.C.
Though long retired, he was one of a fast-dying breed and the last of his kind who’d actually served aboard this particular plane while it was active in the U.S. fleet. He was at Blue Sky only as a consultant, he’d said—some worsening health problems had ended his barnstorming
career—but the owners of the C-60 were kindly allowing him to putter around the old girl on his own time as the real work proceeded by day.
It was a beauty all right, though one had to look past the missing engine housings, the half-finished paint job, and the many leaning ladders and gaping access panels to really get a feel for what the final result might be.
They’d been scheduled to run up the rebuilt engines that afternoon but the bad weather had put a stop to that. When everyone else had gone home and called it a day, Mr. McCord had stayed behind, leaving the hangar open in front so he could watch the advance of the oncoming storm.
This chatty old gentleman had managed to cover all these and other subjects on the short walk as he brought them inside. When they’d nearly reached the twin tail of the parked aircraft, Molly stopped and held out her hand for him.
“Mr. McCord?” she said.
“Yes, dear.”
“You’d said you know who I am, is that right?”
“I do, Ms. Ross.”
“Then I think it’s important that we sit down for a few minutes and have a serious talk.”
“Why, that would be my great pleasure. And hey, later on let me show you all around my baby here.” He patted the side of the plane. “We finished the inside first; out here it still doesn’t look like much to write home about, but she’s gonna be a peach. You know, I flew MacArthur all over Japan in a bird just like this one. That was 1946, when I was just barely old enough to buy myself a beer.”
“Before we get the tour,” Noah said, “is there a telephone we can use? A landline?”
Bill McCord pointed toward a small cluttered room in the far corner. “Be my guest, the phone’s right in the office on the corner table. There might be a box of sweatshirts in there, too, so you all can shed some of those wet clothes.” He took Molly’s arm then so he could help her up the
couple of stairs into the passenger cabin of the C-60. “Now, young lady, you come along right this way.”
Ellen went straight for the phone as soon as they reached the little cubicle in back. She hadn’t spoken in a while, and all things considered, Noah couldn’t blame her for what she must be feeling.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said.
“That makes two of us.”
“Ellen, look—”
“Look?” she snapped. “Look at what? I just ran a damned triathlon across Denver International Airport, I’m apparently a fugitive from justice, and I’ve got men chasing after me with
guns,
Gardner. I’ve treated more bullet wounds in the last two days than I’ll see in the rest of my career; it’s like a traveling emergency room with you people. I really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, and I’d do anything for you, you know that. But this isn’t my fight.”
“That’s what I used to think, that it wasn’t my fight,” Noah said. “And if you want to know exactly how we all got to where we are today, that pretty much sums it up.”
With the air transit shutdown in full effect it took more than a few calls and a price that was several times the market value, but at last Ellen had managed to line up a pair of cars from a local service. Once that was done she’d apologized to Noah in her way, and of course he’d understood. Right and wrong aside, in matters of life and death we’d all at least prefer to make our own decisions.
Noah found a box of company sweatshirts and after the two of them had changed he took an extra and they headed back toward the front of the hangar to wait.
When they stopped at the plane they found Molly and her new friend sitting across from one another in the passenger cabin. McCord had wrapped her in a plush blanket and brought her a cup of hot coffee from the small galley near the back. The two were deep in a conversation about the Founders’ Keepers and the state of the world in general.
It turned out that their host was more than a little familiar with Molly’s group and their goals and had been so for many years. By his enthusiasm he seemed to be completely unfazed by the more recent smears against her character and reputation. As she spoke he was looking at Molly as though he were in the presence of a visiting dignitary.
The interior of the aircraft had been lovingly restored with all the style and luxury of a far more romantic era in civil aviation. Wood, fine leather and polished metals adorned every crafted surface where plastics and polyesters were the norm in the assembly-line products of today. Along with all the classy touches it had also been fully appointed with more modern features—including onboard medical equipment stored close at hand—to ensure the comfort and safety of the aging heroes who were to be ferried to Washington on the refurbished plane’s first flight of the present century.
Ellen took a seat as Noah walked up the inclined center aisle. From a spot near the cockpit he saw the first of the cars his friend had ordered. The long black sedan pulled up and then came to a stop outside.
“That was quick,” he said.
He picked up Molly’s duffel bag, told the others to relax where they were for the moment, and then exited the plane and began to walk toward the parked car to let the driver know they’d be along soon.
When he was halfway there a second car appeared, moving more slowly, and soon it made the turn onto the inbound straightaway.
The rear passenger door swung open on the unmarked vehicle parked in front of him, and Noah froze where he stood.
Everything looked right, but something was wrong.
After another moment he thumped his forehead as though he’d forgotten something, made a polite gesture toward the car that said
wait just another minute, please,
and then turned and walked back into the hangar. When he was nearly to the plane he stole a glance over his shoulder and saw the driver and another man standing by the side of their sedan; just standing there in the rain, watching. A third man had
emerged from the other vehicle, which had by then pulled up to park near the first. That guy was also watching, and though it was hard to tell for sure at this distance, he appeared to be speaking into his lapel.
Noah stepped up into the cabin with the others. “We’ve got trouble,” he said.
He went up the aisle so he could get a hidden view out the windshield and Bill McCord followed him forward.
“Those guys in the cars, you think they’re the ones who’re after you?”
“Looks that way.” Noah could feel the seconds passing too quickly to stop and think. Other vehicles were arriving, headlights off, and were easing around either side of the hangar as if on their way to cover any exits to the rear.
The two men hurried back to the set of seats where Molly and Ellen were waiting and Noah told them what he’d seen.
“How can that be?” Ellen asked. “We used somebody else’s phone and I made the calls. They’re not even looking for me.”
“They’re looking for Molly,” Noah said, “and she knows me, and I know you. That’s all it takes; it’s not that hard to make the watch list anymore. They don’t need a warrant and it’s all done by machine. They can monitor every single call that’s made and listen for keywords, listen for voiceprints—I guess I just didn’t realize they’d reached the point where they could do it in real time.”
“So what now?” Ellen asked.
“I don’t know.”
“We’re not giving up,” Molly said. “We can’t.”
“Molly,” Noah said as he knelt down next to her, “we’re surrounded in here. If we don’t come out now they’re just going to come in after us. I don’t think we’ve got a choice.”
“And I don’t think they’re here to take us alive, Noah.”
They all let that prospect sink in as more precious seconds ticked by.
“Well, if they’re not going to let you walk out,” Bill McCord said, “what do you say we fly?”
Half a minute later the two women were securely buckled in and Noah was sitting in the right-hand seat up front.
He wasn’t to do anything he wasn’t told to do by the man in the captain’s chair, not that he would have known where to even begin. With the exception of the add-on GPS, what looked like a radar screen, and a small computer display, there was nothing remotely recognizable in the wall of dials, levers, and lights arrayed in front of him.
“If you’ve got any doubts, say so now,” McCord said.
“No doubts here,” Noah replied, though his heart felt like it was trying to pound its way out of his chest.
“Okay, then. Hang on to your hat.”
McCord put on his headset and motioned for Noah to do the same. Then he flipped a toggle and with a shrill mechanical groan the tri-blade propeller to the left began to turn over. Almost immediately a sharp thud put a hole through the Plexiglas windshield on the pilot’s side as the sound of a gunshot echoed through the hangar. McCord ducked and hit the switch labeled
PRIME
and then he cracked one of the throttles barely ahead. The left radial engine coughed and spewed a billowing cloud of dirty white smoke but after a few more pops and revolutions it thundered to life.
“Keep your heads down!” Noah yelled to the rear, and new shooting erupted from two positions up ahead.
Ladders and racks of tools clattered to the floor outside as the plane jerked forward and began to roll. The right-side engine was balking and McCord fought the rudder and the brakes to straighten out his taxi and compensate for the one-sided thrust. As the men out front were advancing and firing at will, another hail of gunfire broke out from behind. The plane shook and veered as the wing impacted and overturned a bank of work lights. Just then the other engine belched fire and started up with a roar.