Air Force Eagles (61 page)

"Yeah, he should be touching down in about an hour; has a Code Six on board."

The Code 6 would be Riley. Bandfield called Marshall and Roget over. "Look, I don't know how long we're going to be here, or what we're going to have to do, but we might as well use this stop if we can. There's a lot of forests around here, they must burn like every place else. Maybe we can arrange a demonstration flight tomorrow. Go ahead and get the tanks filled with water and dye. We don't need any fuel. Okay?"

Marshall put up his hand like a kid asking to leave the room. "Bandy, I'm glad to do that. But this old bastard has convinced me. In the morning, I'm going to go into town. I've got the address where she's staying, and I'm just going to walk right up to her and make her come back with me."

Roget punched him in the arm. "That's the way to talk, John."

Bandfield shrugged. "Fine. But let's see what Riley wants us to do first, then you go ahead with Saundra. Do you think she'd mind flying in the TBM or the Catalina?"

Marshall shook his head. "As Rhett would say, 'Frankly, I don't give a damn.' She's coming, and that's it."

*

Pine Bluff, Arkansas/September 23, 1957

Weissman was very unhappy that Riley had brought Bandfield along.

"They'll have a lot of guards tonight—too many people will make too much noise."

Riley had been able to get some sleep on the tanker flight in, and he was feeling hopeful. "Look, Bandfield's an old woodsman, a regular Indian. He won't make any noise, and we might need help."

Weissman had parked in the barn, and he made them wait until three a.m. before starting in. "We'll walk in and wait. When he comes out, we'll all shoot, then rush the bus and get the woman."

"Are the children inside?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen them. There's a trailer about a mile away, they might be there."

Riley shook his head. "Christ Almighty, this is no good. Even if we kill Josten and rescue Lyra, we still have to get the kids."

Weissman felt resentful—he'd brought this man here to rescue his wife, and he was being critical.

Bandfield spoke up for the first time. "Let's don't shoot Josten, then, just jump him when he comes out. He's crippled, he can't resist us. We'll make him take us to the kids."

Weissman was emphatic. "Absolutely not. I can't take a chance that he'll survive."

Riley turned to him with an expression that commanded belief. "Erich, I guarantee he won't survive. When we get my wife and kids, I'll kill him myself, I promise you."

The Israeli reluctantly agreed. At three they roused themselves to walk as quietly as they could in the cool September morning, their eyes accustomed to the dark but still stumbling over branches and logs. Bandfield thought of the old James Fenimore Cooper novels, where the Indians and the good guys could walk through the forest without making a twig crackle. As hard as they tried, as slow as they went, they sounded like a herd of spastic moose.

As they neared the encampment, Riley pressed his mouth against Weissman's ear. "Something's wrong. Everything is too quiet."

Bandfield said, "Back to the car. They must have gone into Little Rock. It'll be light in a few hours; let's get airborne in the Catalina and spot the bus. When we do, we'll call the cops in on them."

Weissman, still hurt, moaned, "The cops? The cops are cooperating. This is a state-wide, city-wide effort. The cops are on Josten's side."

*

Little Rock, Arkansas/September 23, 1957

Lyra sat with her arms around her children, their tears a mixture of joy at being reunited and terror at their strange situation.

Helmut shuffled awkwardly through the door to introduce the two women formally, though they'd met briefly before. "Lyra, may I present Elsie McNaughton? She was kind enough to have taken care of the children for us."

It was bizarre; the woman was obviously as nervous as she was.

"They're lovely children, Lyra—we enjoyed having them."

Lyra looked into her eyes and saw only confusion. Elsie, dressed in a pretty silk robe, wearing huge furry slippers, stretched her arms out as if to embrace her. Glancing at Josten, who shrugged and looked away, she put out her arms to Elsie.

They hugged and Elsie whispered "Don't open this now." Backing away she said, "I fixed some sandwiches for you—I know what Ulrich likes. Be careful."

Helmut walked Elsie to the door. Just before she left, Elsie took Helmut by the arm and spoke earnestly to him. When the door opened, Lyra could hear the rough sounds of someone disconnecting the bus's electrical and service fittings.

They drove them for almost an hour in what sounded like a convoy of trucks. Helmut stayed with them in the living quarters, very contrite, telling her that when the operation was over, she and the children would be free to leave.

She did not believe him for an instant; she couldn't take a chance on believing him. He would never let them go willingly.

The bus jolted to a stop in a rough field. The children slept but she could not; three hours passed slowly. At six o'clock the bus reverberated with the scurrying sounds of men getting ready to march. Someone knocked on the door and Helmut left without a word. She immediately looked inside the package Elsie had given her. There were four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches—and a small-caliber pearl-handled pistol. She checked it carefully, making sure that it was loaded and the safety was off. She told herself, You better let him come close to you before firing. No, just wait by the door, shoot as soon as you can, just keep pulling the trigger until he falls.

Lyra hated that the children would have to see it happen, but there was no alternative. Suddenly it seemed as if it were a dozen years ago, in that miserable train in Germany.

Her tears stopped, and she was ready.

At Adams Field, Fitzpatrick was busy strapping Dixon Price into the luxurious gray leather chair installed for the governor's use in the right rear of the C-45. Price was excited, his face flushed, and he already had a headset clamped to his ears, but he looked up sharply as Josten eased himself into the aisleway. The man was obviously at the breaking point, his eyes darting from side to side, the corners of his mouth dotted white with dried saliva. God, was this the mastermind behind their arrangements?

Josten painfully edged up the aisle to sit directly behind the pilots. He had not been in an aircraft in a dozen years, not since the crash in his precious jet fighter. As luxurious as it was, this crackerbox with wings was nothing compared to a jet, but it had all the radios he needed to communicate with Ruddick on the ground, and, if necessary, for Dixon to talk to the governor.

There would probably be precious little talking to do. The whole operation, scheduled to begin in thirty minutes, would either be over with according to plan, or it would have gotten completely out of control. In either case, nothing Ruddick or the governor could do or say would matter, and his own role in it would be ended, just as his life would be in a few hours.

Yet within twenty minutes after takeoff, the airman within him had to appreciate that Fitzpatrick was a master pilot. In the early morning light, the man had the C-45 steeply banked flying perfect pylon eights on the bus below where Lyra and the children waited, never varying a foot in altitude, the wingtip aligned with the bus as with a transit. Price sat quietly in the back, monitoring the radios, watching intently, and Coleman seemed to be enjoying himself like a child at a circus, talking to Ruddick periodically as the Klan formed up below them.

The Storm Klan, smart in their trooper uniforms, swinging their billy clubs, ceremonial daggers at their sides, were in one column; the regular Klan, dressed in white robes—white on white and embroidered for the more affluent ones and sheets for the poor—were in a second column. They all struggled to keep their pointed hats straight as they brandished their clubs and sticks.

Josten took out his Walther automatic and checked it carefully. He had suffered so long, and the last week had turned the bus into a Dr. Caligari's cabinet for him, with Lyra's inability to mask her revulsion. Lyra had almost fooled him for part of the previous day, when she had said that she would be willing to stay with him. But she had never really relaxed, never given herself to him so that he was able to make love to her. That would have made all the difference, brought her back to him as they used to be. He felt strangely indifferent to the children; Ulrich was a stranger, totally Americanized, not at all as he would have been if Lyra had not run off. He would dispose of them, too; it didn't matter anymore. It would be nice to take Riley with them, but that was impossible. When this mess below was over, no matter how it turned out, he would end their suffering.

Coleman leaned back and motioned to him through the oval entrance to the cockpit. He leaned forward and Stan pointed to an orange flying boat that had entered into a circle over the encampment.

"Colonel, there's a strange airplane flying out there, a Catalina. I'm going to call Little Rock tower and see who they are."

Inside the flying boat, Marshall listened to Coleman's voice, so familiar from Korea, asking the Little Rock tower about the "big orange Catalina." The last time he'd heard him had been on the day he was shot down, the day Coleman had stolen his two victories from him. The bastard.

The Black pilot mashed down on his transmitter button. "Coleman, it's me, Bones Marshall. You remember me, you stole two of my MiGs, you white bastard."

Marshall turned to Bandfield and mouthed the word, "Sorry." Roget, seated in the back in the right blister, said, "Watch your tongue there, young man. We ain't supposed to get in no fight, we're supposed to find that blue bus."

In the Beechcraft, Fitzpatrick turned and put his finger to his lips, even as Coleman indignantly called into his hand-held microphone, "Stop your foul language on the air, Marshall, and clear the area. I'm speaking as the on-site commander."

Price screamed through the intercom, "For Christ's sake, Stan, shut up. It's bad enough they know we're here, don't admit to being the commander."

Josten shook his head in disgust; at least Dixon had some brains even if Coleman did not. Not that it made any difference anymore; it was almost seven, and the troops would soon be moving out.

Pointing to the Catalina, Coleman leaned over to Fitzpatrick. "Look at that, they're leaving. Can you imagine Marshall turning up here?"

"Why not? You heard Ruddick saying Marshall's wife was in town with the protestors; he's probably come in to protect her."

Below Ruddick winced at the transmission as the two columns moved out, joining into a single unit. If Marshall was here, Bandfield was, too; they were thicker than thieves. Probably here to get Marshall's wife. They might be too late. He hoped so.

Six miles away, the PBY, groaning under its eight-hundred-gallon load of water and dye, dove at 140 mph, the controls taut and heavy, the wind drumming against the big canopy.

Marshall turned to his copilot. "Looks like the Klan is getting ready to march through the Black part of town, where Saundra's staying. Let's make a run in on these guys."

"Sure you want to do it, John? We could hurt somebody with this stuff."

Marshall's eyes flashed as he glanced over. "I sure as hell hope so, Bandfield—do you want them lynching the poor Blacks down there?"

Bandfield hesitated until he saw the first line of Klansmen leaving the park where they had assembled to march off toward the first homes. Then he yelled, "Okay, I've got the equipment set up—just tell me when and I'll pickle it off!"

"Just dump half the load—we might want to make two passes. I'll come in at a hundred and fifty feet, try to get as many of these white-sheeted motherfuckers as I can."

Bandfield looked at Marshall, surprised at the obscenity from a man who rarely cursed, thinking how strange it was to be at war again, here in the United States, flying this old clunker.

The orange wings of the PBY were cocked at forty-five degrees as Bones reefed it around, leveled off, and headed straight toward the marchers, now only half a block away from the shabby street where the Black section of the city began. Marshall thought quickly how much it was like Italy again, or Korea—the keening dive to deliver bombs against an enemy. And these were truly his enemy, his people's enemy. This time he didn't have to use two rivets to aim with; Roget had installed a little open sight on the nose of the big flying boat.

Waiting until the sight coincided with the head of the column, he counted "One, two," and called "Water away!" He reefed the suddenly lighter Catalina around in a climbing turn, toward the circling C-45 as the yellow blob of water hurtled onward, blossoming out to hit the street immediately in front of the marching Storm Klanners, cascading up in a spreading spray, then rolling like a chrome-yellow blimp across them, covering them like a sticky clinging sheet. The first few hundred Klansmen were blinded and gasping for breath, their uniforms drenched with yellow; as a man they turned to run through the troops behind them, most of them smeared with the yellow dye, but not soaked like the front rows. One Storm Klanner screamed, "The niggers are using mustard gas!" and in that moment the march through "darkytown" was over.

Roget crowed, "Direct hit, Bones, you nailed their asses with that one."

Josten had watched, unbelieving, as the huge globular mass had detached itself from the flying boat to saturate his troops. He felt the blood pounding in his head as he saw the work of months turn into a rout, his troops fleeing in a tide of yellow that surged through the white-clad forces behind them. Berserk, he jabbed his finger at the Catalina.