Wind Raker - Book IV of The Order of the Air (12 page)

“You did. Just not that they were coming with you.”

“We could hardly leave them,” Alma said. She felt on more certain ground with that, since she had a sneaking feeling that she’d forgotten to mention bringing the kids more or less on purpose. “They’d have had to go to the State Home if we didn’t take them — Joey doesn’t have any relatives that the sheriff could find, or Alice either.”

“That’s a shame,” Jerry said. “And I do see you had to take them. I’m just not sure where to put everyone.” He shook his head, looking briefly amused. “Willi and I can share a bedroom, I suppose, and that gives you and Lewis — no, you and Lewis should be downstairs, in the guest bedroom, there’s more room for Dora if she still has nightmares, and then Mitch and Stasi can have the other upstairs bedroom. There’s a box room that’s just big enough for both girls, and the boys can have the sleeping porch.”

It’s like that, is it? Alma thought. She had only met Dr. Radke briefly when he’d driven Jerry to meet them at the dock, but she had to admit he was a very good-looking man, lithe and lean and sun-browned. “I expect that will work. And if it doesn’t, we can always look for another cottage to rent. There must be one available.”

“I’ll introduce you to Mrs. Patton,” Jerry said. “She knows everything, it seems — she found us this place. Oh, and we have a cook, Sue Fong, who also does the cleaning. So that’s taken care of.”

Alma nodded. “As long as you let us chip in. I’m sure she’s going to charge more once she sees all of us.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Jerry said cheerfully.

“And we’re hiring a girl we met on the boat to help watch the children,” Alma went on. “Her name is Ida Lee, and she’s a student at the University of California — in an engineering program, if you’ll believe it. Her father has a machine shop here in Honolulu, and she was looking for work for the summer. She was wonderful with the girls on the boat, so it seemed like a perfect fit.”

“You must have had fun,” Jerry said, “riding herd on four kids all the way across the Pacific.”

“It was tiring at times,” Alma admitted. “But they’re pretty well-behaved, just — adventurous.”

“Well, I’ll be at the dig,” Jerry said, with a grin, “and you’ll be at the harbor with the plane, so — I hope you’re paying Miss Lee what she’s worth.”

Alma smiled, the old affection welling up in her, and caught him in a firm hug. “Oh, it’s good to see you again, Jerry.”

He returned the embrace, awkward only because of his cane. “Good to have you here, Al. All of you.”

They’d need to rent a car, too, Alma thought, as she and Lewis and Mitch bounced in the uncomfortable taxi back down toward the harbor and the address where the Catalina was currently moored. Taxis were going to be expensive, judging by this one, and they needed to be able to come and go conveniently. At least Jerry had a phone in the bungalow; she’d called the company, Finch and Sons, and told them Gilchrist was coming. The man on the other end of the line acknowledged that Matson had informed him that the engines had arrived, but he hadn’t yet made arrangements to have them delivered. Tomorrow, he promised, sounding flustered, and Alma knew she was in for another wearisome conversation proving that she was in fact in charge and competent to be so before she could get Finch on her side.

They came out of the hills and into Honolulu proper, a mix of white-washed buildings with red tile roofs and two-story storefronts with galleries along the second floor and a scattering of pretentious fake-Gothic fortresses. As they got closer to the inner harbor and the Navy base, the buildings were newer and more carefully painted: Navy offices or government contractors, she guessed. Finch and Sons proved to be a sturdy-looking building on the waterfront, with a corrugated metal roof and a freshly painted sign that displayed a bright yellow-green bird perched on the top of the F. She hoped the willingness to pun was a good sign.

The main door was open, letting a little air into the hot dark; the main area was an open hangar, except that in the center of the concrete floor there was a long narrow dock where at least two seaplanes could be moored. At the moment, there was only the Catalina, her odd hybrid shape unmistakable, twin engines mounted on the high wing above the massive fuselage. She’d liked the Catalina she’d flown in San Diego, though she agreed that it was underpowered. The engines they had brought with them from California were Republic Coronadoes, specially modified for a flying boat, and she was eager to try them out.

There were doors along the left-hand wall, probably the office and the smaller workshops, and sure enough one opened and a Hawaiian man in oily coveralls appeared, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked them over, his gaze settling inevitably on Mitch, and said, “Can I help you, mister?”

“Yes, thanks,” Alma said, with a smile. “I’m Alma Segura, from Gilchrist Aviation. I believe that’s our Catalina you’ve got there.”

The Hawaiian looked startled for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “I’ll get Mr. Finch.”

“Thank you,” Alma said, to his departing back, and heard Lewis sigh.

After a moment, another door opened, and a stocky balding man in grease-marked slacks and a short-sleeved shirt printed with a pattern of enormous leaves and pineapples started toward them. A woman trailed behind him, her dark brown hair pulled back with a brightly printed scarf. She wore slacks and a short-sleeved shirt, too, but they were spotless, and positively dowdy compared with the tropical brilliance of the man’s outfit.

“Keith Finch,” the man said, and held out his hand to Alma.

“Alma Segura,” she said, pleasantly surprised, and returned the no-nonsense grip. “These are my partner and pilot, Mitchell Sorley and Lewis Segura. We spoke earlier, I believe?”

Finch exchanged handshakes with the others. “Yep, that was me. I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mrs. Segura. I just got a call from the dock, and apparently there was some sort of screw-up unloading. One of the engine crates is damaged. They’ll pay, of course, but —“

Alma swallowed a most unladylike curse. “What about the engine itself?”

“I won’t know until it gets here. Hopefully not, but —“ Finch spread his hands. “I figured you’d better get the bad news up front.”

“Can you fix it if it has been damaged?” Alma asked, and the brunette cleared her throat.

“He certainly can. That’s one of the reasons Floyd hired him.” She held out her hand. “I’m Lily Lauder — the flight engineer.”

Alma took it automatically, several things slotting into place. If L. Lauder the flight engineer was Lily Lauder, that might explain some of the reservations in the reports she’d read on the boat over. She’d been all too aware that there were things unsaid, some problem that had never been stated; if it was just that the pilots hadn’t liked working with a woman — well, that was a lot better than she had feared. And that would be just like Odlum, to hire another woman so that he’d know for sure which problems were the plane and which were the crew. Another man would simply have fired Lily, but that wasn’t fair, and Odlum knew it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lauder.”

She introduced the others, and Mitch gave his most charming smile. “You look familiar, Miss Lauder. Didn’t you use to be Lily Taylor?”

Alma blinked at that, and thought Lily flinched. Lily Taylor had been a notable aviatrix back in the ‘20s, a popular barnstormer who’d had some parts in movies. She’d had a couple of bad crashes, though — a co-pilot killed, and somebody on the ground, too — and dropped out of sight.

“That was before I married,” Lily said, with a smile that looked a little forced.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lauder,” Mitch began, and she shook her head.

“Please don’t be, Mr. Sorley. I’m divorced now. I go by ‘miss.’”

Not very lucky at all, Alma thought, and stepped in to cover any awkwardness. “It’s good to have you as part of the team. Floyd spoke highly of you. And of you, Mr. Finch.”

“We’re doing our best,” Finch said. He shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s not much we can do until we get the engines down here and take a look at them. I can show you the test parameters that we mapped out the first time, but I expect you’ve seen those already.”

“What I’d really like is to look over the plane,” Alma said. “That and rent a car. Those were the two things we wanted to get done today.”

“I can help you with the car,” Finch said. “The first team was using one of my cousin’s old runabouts. He’d be glad to rent it to you, dollar fifty a week and you pay for the gas.”

“Everything on the island is more expense,” Lily said, with a sideways smile.

It was more than she’d expect to pay in California, but that expense would go on Odlum’s tab, and it would keep Finch happy. “That would be lovely,” she said. “When can we pick it up?”

“You can leave in it,” Finch answered. “Jim left it here while he went over to Molokai to help his wife’s people with the fishing.”

“Excellent,” Alma said, and turned toward the plane.

The Catalina was enormous, almost sixty-four feet from nose to tail, a good fifteen feet longer than the Terrier that was their workhorse, with a hundred foot-plus wingspan. That was thirty feet more than the Terrier, and from the ground the wing seemed disproportionately large, though Alma knew that was what gave it the massive lift she’d so liked about it. The wing was elevated above the fuselage on a central pylon — the Cabane Strut, the plans called it — and the two big engines were set into the wing just outboard of the fuselage. Floating in the dock, it was hard to see the depth of the hull, or the complicated stepped curves that shortened the take-off, though she could just make out the ledge that let a crewman stand by the bow to handle anchoring. The side hatch was open just forward of the struts that braced the wing, an aluminum gangway running out to it; further aft, the fuselage narrowed, its rear coming up at a slight angle, rising clear of the water to end in the towering tail. The latest drawings, the one she’d studied on the trip over, had indicated that Odlum planned to include a pair of gun turrets at the waist aft of the wing, but this one didn’t have them installed. Of course, neither had the one they’d flown in San Diego. Both planes, though, had the awkwardly placed nose turret, jutting up below the cockpit windows: it was great for defense, but it cut the pilots’ visibility more than she liked.

“Did you get a chance to get checked out before you left the States?” Finch asked, and Alma shook herself back to attention.

“We did. She’s a nice plane.”

“A little underpowered,” Lily said. “But otherwise very nice.”

“I’ll give you the walk-through,” Finch said, and started up the metal gangway that led into the open side hatch.

Alma followed, more cautiously, one hand on each rail as the metal bounced underfoot, and saw that the others waited until she had ducked through the hatch before they started up the gangway. Finch flipped a switch, turning on a string of working lights, and Alma couldn’t help a delighted smile. They were standing in the middle compartment, with the mechanic’s station, built into the Cabane Strut that supported the enormous wing, just above them. Someone had tied a piece of old cushion to the underside of the mechanics’ seats, and Alma suspected Mitch, at least, would be grateful for that protection. Another open hatch led forward into the radio and navigation compartment, while toward the tail gray-painted catwalks formed a narrow floor between the struts and structural members.

“We’re not fitted out with much of anything except the necessary equipment,” Finch said. “You’ve got your life raft and the parachutes —“ He pointed to where they hung on the compartment walls, five gray bundles and a much larger yellow one. “But that’s about it. This here, where I’m standing, that’s supposed to be the galley, and I guess they’ll put bunks in for the Navy. Or bomb racks.”

Alma looked around the unfinished-looking space, noting the auxiliary power plant and storage lockers. There was plenty of room to hang a couple of bunks, and beyond that another hatch opened onto what the plans had called the waist gunners’ compartment. “Looks like there’s plenty of room for cargo.”

“What’s the range?” Mitch asked, looking at Alma, but it was Lily who answered first.

“Projected to be twenty-five hundred miles. Twenty-five twenty, to be precise.”

Lewis whistled softly, and Alma nodded agreement. That was a comfortable range for island-hopping, could make this a very useful civilian plane with a few modifications. She peered through the hatch into the plane’s waist, trying to imagine chairs for passengers set there — or maybe curtained bunks, like on a train. The Catalina could easily spend twenty hours in the air; you’d want a full galley and a couple of stewards to tend the passengers, and space for the crew to rest as well. Probably it would make more sense to make shorter runs — you wouldn’t need as big a crew, or quite as elaborate accommodations for the passengers, but if Odlum could make the cabin fittings interchangeable, the way Henry Kershaw had done for the Terrier…

She was getting ahead of herself, she knew, and pulled her attention back to the matter at hand.

“Just through here is radio and navigation,” Finch said, and gestured for her to precede him through the hatch.

Alma stepped carefully over the high combing, checking out the radio equipment that climbed the bulkhead to either side. Odlum hadn’t skimped here, she was pleased to see. Not that they were likely to need the kind of range those big transmitters possessed, or the navigation table with its inset chronometers and the box of instruments strapped to the bulkhead, not with the short flights they had planned, but she felt better flying in the Pacific with all of it on board.

“Cockpit’s just ahead,” Finch said.

Alma stepped cautiously through the final hatch, avoiding the ramp that led between the pilots’ seats to the bombardier’s position in the nose, settled herself in the pilot’s seat. The nose turret sat just forward of the cockpit and above the bombardier’s station. It was a slightly different shape from the one on the Catalina she’d flown in California, but it still rose high enough to block part of her vision. Lewis swung himself into the other chair, grimacing as he realized the same thing, and Mitch stooped to peer into the bombardier’s compartment.