The Rocketeer (27 page)

She looked up at him with utter trust, and he realized, with dark humor, that she was finally getting her wish that he tell her first when something important cropped up. “This thing’s full of hydrogen,” he shouted over the wind’s roar. “When the fire hits the envelope . . .”

She heard and nodded and didn’t even flinch, but instead said simply, “I love you, Cliff.”

She threw her arms around him and kissed him, hoping that they would be kissing when the end came because perhaps that meant they would spend eternity that way. It was romantic and corny and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Below them, flames completely consumed the gondola and proceeded to work on the envelope of the zeppelin. They had seconds left.

And then Cliff’s practiced ears heard engine sounds that he knew were separate from those of the zeppelin. And the flap of rotors . . .

He twisted his head around and his jaw dropped in amazement. Jostling the confused Jenny, he pointed.

“What is it!” she shouted.

“An autogyro!” Cliff couldn’t believe it. He’d heard about them but never seen one before.

But there it was, an odd-looking aircraft with both a conventional prop and a blade like a helicopter. In the craft’s pilot seat was none other than Howard Hughes. In front of him, guiding Hughes into position, was Peevy leaning over the edge. Hughes fought to keep the craft steady as Peevy tossed down a rope ladder.

Clutching at Jenny with sheer joy, not believing their miraculous salvation, Cliff started toward the rope ladder with his arm firmly around his overwhelmed girlfriend.

And that was precisely when the hulking form of Lothar blocked their way.

Cliff and Jenny stepped back, stunned. He had simply materialized in their path, like a spontaneous brick wall. Cliff saw the tether trailing downward and realized, to his amazement, what had happened. The behemoth had not only survived the impact of the fall earlier, but now the near-indestructible creature had pulled himself up, hand over hand, using the tether as rope and anchor and means of ascension. Now he loomed between Cliff and Jenny and their means of escape, and he started toward them, snarling and furious.

Without a clue as to what he was going to do about it, Cliff moved Jenny behind himself, interposing himself between the oncoming Lothar and . . .

And . . .

And Lothar’s eyes widened in shock as he looked straight past the terrified couple. At first Cliff thought it was a trick, but Lothar had no need for subterfuge. He probably couldn’t even spell it. Cliff’s and Jenny’s heads snapped around, and they saw, at the far end of the zeppelin, a churning ball of flame.

The zeppelin shuddered as the pockets of volatile hydrogen began to ignite. Lothar, knowing just how far he could push his invulnerability, turned and ran like hell toward the tail of the zeppelin, where the rope ladder still dangled invitingly. Right on his heels, but being outdistanced by the second, were Cliff and Jenny.

Like a chain reaction the explosions rippled along the airship’s body. A huge fireball was surging toward the tail, hungry to swallow the fleeing trio.

Their breath was ragged, their legs aching, and once Jenny almost stumbled and fell. Cliff grabbed her, not especially gently, and pounded after the giant, who was rapidly outdistancing them.

It looked hopeless. Either the giant would reach the rope ladder, climb up, and kill Peevy and Hughes, thereafter sailing off into the sunset, or he’d keep Hughes around to pilot it and then kill him, break him in half. Or else Peevy and Hughes would have to seek altitude, depriving the giant of escape—and Cliff and Jenny as well. Peevy would have to sit helplessly and watch them disappear in a burst of flame. Trying to figure a way out, Cliff was at the end of his rope.

And then, miraculously, so was Lothar.

The tether was still anchored to the zeppelin and so, barely a few feet short of the rope ladder, Lothar was suddenly brought up short. He strained against it but it held firm, as it was designed to do. His thick fingers began frantically to work at the release clip on his belt, and then Jenny and Cliff surged past him toward the hanging ladder. Behind the trio their doom was literally hot on their heels.

Lothar turned in time to see a tidal wave of flame descending upon him. His hair and skin began to crispen and burn, and he screamed, not in pain, but in a burst of anger that superseded everything.

Peevy glanced at Hughes. They were at the point of no return—in a second the zep was going to go up, and if the autogyro didn’t have the altitude, it was going to go with it. Yet Hughes, in the face of imminent demise, was not only calm but even had an amused smile on his face, as if he welcomed death to take its best shot, because he was ready for it. Which meant that Hughes was either incredibly cool or incredibly nuts.

Either way, it got Peevy to shout at the top of his lungs,
“Jump for it!”

The rope ladder swung tantalizingly in front of them. Behind them the air was sizzling and exploding, and Jenny threw her arms around Cliff and breathed a prayer. Cliff timed the leap and then jumped for the rope ladder with outstretched hands, nothing keeping him airborne now except desperation and a fervent determination to survive so that he could kiss Jenny again.

He snagged the rope ladder as, just below them, Lothar burst into flames.

“Hang on!” bellowed Peevy, as much a signal to Hughes that they were clear as anything else. Hughes pushed the stick and the autogyro banked swiftly away, Cliff and Jenny in tow. And it was barely a safe distance before the fireball completed its consummation of the zeppelin’s silver skin, ripping it to fragments.

As the airship disintegrated over the San Fernando Valley, the autogyro descended toward the Hollywood Hills. On the rope ladder, Jenny clung tightly to Cliff as the dying glow played about them. He got to kiss her one more time, and had the funny feeling that it was far from the last time.

“A
uthorities speculate that the explosion was caused by a freak bolt of lightning, which resulted in the loss of the entire German crew.”

In the Bulldog Café that morning, Cliff, Jenny, and Peevy sat at a table, the remains of breakfast before them. As the morning sun whitewashed the café, Peevy continued to read from the story headlined AIRSHIP DISASTER OVER HOLLYWOOD HILLS. Beneath it was an article about Doug Corrigan’s flight and probably being let off by the authorities for all kinds of reasons except what Peevy knew to be the real one. He smiled inwardly and continued reading. “Film fans were saddened by news that actor Neville Sinclair also died in the tragedy when flaming debris fell on his touring car.” He stopped and dunked a doughnut, shaking his head. “What a shame.” When he saw Cliff’s reaction, he simply shrugged and said, “Nice car.”

Jenny looked across at Cliff, who stared out the window, lost in thought. “You’re looking pretty sad for a guy who pretty much saved the world.” At that remark, Peevy chuckled ruefully.

“I’ve got the cracked ribs to prove it,” said Cliff, gingerly touching the taping beneath his jacket. And then he added softly, “And not much else.”

Jenny edged over to him and rested her chin on his shoulder. “You’ve got me,” she reminded him.

Suddenly a familiar droning filled the sky. Dishes rattled on the counter. Cliff jumped to his feet and rushed outside as the sound diminished in the distance, like a hunting dog leaping to the summons of a whistle. Jenny came up close beside him.

“What is it, Cliff?”

He was still searching out the sky. “Sounds like a racer. I missed her though . . . guess she’s coming in over at the field.”

She watched his face as he strained to hear the distant engine, and her heart broke for him. No GeeBee. No rocket pack. It was like watching the piteous flappings of a bird with two broken wings. She had no balm for it except time and patience and love. She took his hand, and together they started back toward the café.

Suddenly a shiny blue limo rounded the corner and slid to a stop before the Bulldog. Two men leapt out and cleared the street, signaling autos and pedestrians to make way.

And the roar of a GeeBee radial engine grew louder, not softer. Then, to Cliff’s utter amazement, a brand-new GeeBee racer, black and white finish gleaming, taxied around the corner and eased to a stop before the diner. Leaves and branches were blown around, and Cliff, Jenny, and Peevy, who had just emerged, shielded their eyes in the prop wash.

Then the engine shut down, the canopy lifted, and Howard Hughes emerged, a canvas Windbreaker over his brown suit.

Now the rest of the Bulldog Café regulars emerged from the restaurant. His hand in Jenny’s, Cliff approached the plane in wonderment as Hughes climbed from the cockpit.

“She’s a beauty, Mr. Hughes!”

“Thanks,” said Hughes, patting the plane fondly. “Built her myself. By next month she’ll be ready for the Nationals.” He smiled graciously at Jenny. “Miss Blake, would you excuse us for just a moment?”

“Of course,” she said with equal graciousness.

Hughes pulled Cliff a few steps to the side and leaned in close, speaking confidentially. “I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . what was it like, strapping that thing to your back, flying like a hawk?”

Cliff thought of everything his short and spectacular career as the Rocketeer had meant to him—the wind rush, the freedom, the spectacular grace and power the rocket pack had given him. The feeling that he could go soaring through the clouds and, perhaps, just for a second, brush fingertips with passing angels.

“Closest thing to heaven,” he said.

And then Cliff looked past Hughes at Jenny, radiant in the morning sun, an angel on earth.

“Well . . . second closest,” he admitted.

Hughes grinned broadly and nodded, as if approving something Cliff had learned. He shook Cliff’s hand and said, “See you around . . . Rocketeer.”

Hughes started back to his limousine and then, apparently remembering something, he turned and tossed something to Cliff. “Oh . . . and don’t fly her without this.”

Cliff caught it and stared at a pack of Beeman’s chewing gum. Hughes continued to his car and Cliff looked around, confused. Fly what?

And then he stared incredulously as one of Hughes’s assistants pulled a piece of masking tape away from the rim of the cockpit. Revealed in hand-lettered script were the words
PILOT, CLIFF SECORD.

He was so stunned that he was only dimly aware of Hughes’s limousine pulling away, and by the time the real world snapped into existence around him, and he felt the reality of Jenny’s arm against him and the other fliers pounding him approvingly on the back, Hughes was gone. “I . . . I didn’t get a chance to thank him,” said Cliff in a daze.

Peevy grinned. “He saw it in your face, kid.”

“Cliff?” said Jenny tentatively. “I have something for you, too. Actually, it belongs to Peevy . . .”

She took a folded piece of paper from her purse and handed it to Peevy. He unfolded it and stared at it in disbelief.

“Oh, no!” he said.

It was Peevy’s schematic of the rocket pack. Cliff and Peevy exchanged looks and Peevy held his head in consternation. Cliff, for his part, laughed, looking heavenward at the beckoning skies, and he swept Jenny up in a joyful embrace and held her aloft. She spread her arms wide, cutting a beautiful figure against the morning sky, the closest thing to heaven . . .

And at that moment . . .

An ominous shadow fell across the plaster thigh of the Bulldog Café. A shadow wearing a fedora and leveling a pistol at Cliff, Jenny, and Peevy, trying to determine which target to shoot first.

Suddenly, wearing a tin pot on her head and a round oatmeal box tied to her back, Patsy swooped down from a tree on a tire swing. “Rocketeer to the rescue!” she bellowed, and tackled the would-be assassin, a little boy wearing his father’s old, oversized hat, and brandishing a water pistol. Patsy and her playmate rolled across the lawn, kicking and laughing.

And in his mind and heart, Cliff Secord was already airborne . . .

P
ETER
D
AVID
, in addition to scripting such comic books as
The Incredible Hulk, The Amazing Spider-Man,
and
Dreadstar
, is the author of almost two dozen novels, among them
Knight Life, Howling Mad
, and
The Return of Swamp Thing.
He is also the author of four Star Trek: The Next Generation novels, including
Doomsday World
and
A Rock and a Hard Place
, both
New York Times
best-sellers. He currently lives in New York with his wife, Myra, and his children, Shana and Guinevere (and is soon expecting a third). He is at work on his next novel.

(Note: For the purpose of atmosphere, in the course of preparing this work we took some small liberties with the real-time occurrences of some events, such as the shooting dates of
Gone With the Wind.
We appreciate the good-natured tolerance of true period aficionados.)