Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dr. Ayers had a good poker face. Pancho had to give him that. But then he sent her a scathing look that gave her hope she and her fellow racers might have got their way.
“I can’t read him,” Marvel whispered. “Do you really think he might have convinced Horace Aldridge to make us go to Calexico in spite of the safety concern?”
“I’ll go over both their heads if Aldridge went along with Ayers. It’ll be our names in the headlines if blood is spilled tomorrow,” Pancho muttered back.
Ayers held his hands up, signaling for the reporters to quiet down. “I’ve spoken with Horace Aldridge. The pilots will fly to Calexico tomorrow.”
The women protested all at once.
“But it’s unsafe!”
“Someone will die!”
“We won’t do it!”
The pack of reporters joined in yelling questions until it was quite a ruckus.
“What of the concern for safety?”
“Who is going to take responsibility for any injuries?”
“Is there a plan to manage the crowds better than we saw today?”
The pack of reporters pressed in aggressively on Ayers until he was forced to take a step back.
“Hey, now!” Mayor Mack moved up alongside Ayers to help him hold his position. “Quiet down and let the man finish.”
“I think your idea just might be working, Pancho,” Marvel whispered. “Ayers looks plenty spooked.”
“He won’t be weaseling out of responsibility for this,” Pancho declared with satisfaction.
“He won’t be the one trying to land on that Calexico airstrip either,” Amelia pointed out dryly.
Ayers cleared his throat. “Ahem. Yes. Tomorrow, our fine aviators will fly over Calexico on their way to Yuma. They will not land at Calexico.”
Marvel hugged Pancho enthusiastically. “You did it!”
Pancho was mostly relieved. She hadn’t let the other women down. And nobody was going to die. The rest of the women converged to congratulate her. She told them, “I couldn’t have done it without all of you gals backing me up. We were strong because we were united.”
Amelia hugged her tightly. “You’re everything I hoped you would be, Pancho. Absolutely everything and more!”
Ayers raised his voice to be heard over the women congratulating one another.
“It’s time for us all to get some rest.” He turned his back on the reporters and sent the women a venomous look while his face was hidden from the members of the press.
“Good night.” His voice couldn’t be more clipped if he were King George’s own fancy English lawn, Pancho thought.
Agent Pullman made it to San Bernardino at nearly two a.m. After a long, bumpy drive, he was starting to wonder if maybe he was biting off too much to chew alone.
With fatigue nipping at his heels, the idea of a hot meal and a clean bed sounded wonderful.
His back had had quite enough of the bouncing Tin Lizzie as it made its way across ruts and potholes.
The windshield had a thick coating of dust on it, so thick he’d resorted to using the windshield wipers to scrape it off.
He stopped at a crossroads to peer at his road map.
Looking up, he searched for a street marker.
There it was, half covered by the leaves of an orange tree.
This was the turn he wanted. Putting the car in gear, he turned toward the San Bernardino Airport’s back entrance.
The narrow dirt road winding through an orange grove looked as if it led nowhere.
All at once, the orange grove ended, and he popped out into the wide-open space of the airfield.
Just as he’d hoped, he’d come out very close to where the women’s airplanes were parked.
Lined up wingtip to wingtip, they were an impressive sight before him.
As far as he could see, there were flying machines washed in moonlight.
Made by the hands of man and able to challenge gravity itself.
A true triumph for humankind. His respect grew for those willing to challenge the risks and take to the sky.
There was something to aviation, he had to admit.
These planes had made the eighty-mile trip from Santa Monica to here in a half hour, but it had taken him upward of three hours by car.
It made him proud to be an American, from a country where smart people were pushing the boundaries of what men could accomplish.
Women, too, he supposed. Pancho and her fellow aviators might be unruly and brash, but they were trailblazers.
He admired their courage and resilience as they broke new ground.
He owed it to them to make sure they were safe during their race .
. . or at least protected from nefarious sabotage.
He wasn’t sure they were safe at all anytime they went up in one of those machines of theirs.
He got out of his car and took a closer look at the airplanes.
They looked mighty flimsy to him, as if they were made of matchsticks, cloth, and glue.
He was lifting his arms above his head to stretch out the kinks of his long drive when he heard something crash.
He ducked behind the big engine of the plane nearest to him and peered cautiously around it.
Down the row of aircraft, he saw two men jump down from a ladder beside one of them.
The second one stooped to pick up a can of some kind before they headed off into the darkness.
They had no lights. No legitimate mechanic would be working out here this late without a lantern or a flashlight.
Pullman stepped out from behind the plane and called, “Halt! BOI!” He started to reach for his credentials, but the men took off running.
That told him everything he needed to know.
He chased after them, unable to see what they were racing toward in the dark, but they clearly had a destination in mind.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” he yelled. He reached into his coat for his sidearm.
An engine started, and a second later a set of headlights shone in his face, blinding him.
He raised his arm to shield his eyes. The engine revved, and he realized the vehicle was headed straight at him.
He threw himself between two planes, falling to the ground.
The truck sped past as he jumped to his feet.
One of the two men was hanging halfway out of the back of the truck, kicking, trying to get all the way into it.
Pullman ran out behind the retreating truck and pointed his revolver at it, but it was too far away.
He stood there in disgust as the sound of the engine faded into the distance.
The hunch that had pestered him back in Santa Monica coalesced into certainty. Innocent men didn’t run, nor did they try to run down BOI agents. Someone was trying to mess with this race.
He made his way to the plane where he’d seen the men. Something sleek and slippery was dripping down the fuselage where the wing joined it. He touched it with his fingertips and sniffed.
Oil.
Why were the men standing on a ladder by the wings then?
He’d seen a mechanic pour oil into the engine of a plane like this one in Santa Monica, but the only thing he’d seen go into any of the wings was fuel.
Apparently, all the planes’ fuel tanks were in their wings.
He didn’t know a thing about airplanes, but he did know oil in a car’s fuel tank would foul up the engine something fierce and cause it to quit running.
Surely airplane engines and car engines weren’t that different.
Had the men he’d chased off been putting oil into this plane’s fuel tank?
It would seem the promised sabotage had, in fact, materialized. But he would need confirmation of that from the pilots before he called Jenkins to report it . . . and ask again for more manpower to help protect these planes and their pilots.
He jogged back to the Tin Lizzie and headed for the main hangar.
He assumed the setup here would be similar to Santa Monica’s, with a row of telephone boxes installed for reporters.
Spying the phones, he jumped out of the car.
Going to the nearest one, he grabbed the handle on its side and gave it a brisk turn before saying into the mouthpiece, “Hello, operator. Put me through to the California Hotel.”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning, sir. This switchboard is only open for use by law enforcement or medical emergencies.”
“I’m a BOI agent. And I’m ordering you to ring the hotel.”
“Why didn’t you say who you were?” the operator groused.
He rolled his eyes but thankfully heard a click as he was put through. A new voice said in his ear, “California Hotel.”
“I need to speak with Pancho . . . Mrs. Florence Barnes . . . immediately.”
“Room number, please.”
“I don’t know what room she’s in. Look it up.”
“I will not ring the room of a married lady at this hour.” The clerk’s tone was more polished than the operator’s but still bore unmistakable indignation.
“This is Agent Pullman of the BOI.”
“You could be anyone. I can’t possibly ring a room at this hour unless I see your badge myself.”
Another set of headlights flashed across the airfield, heading toward the row of racing planes. His grip tightened on the phone receiver. Was this another team of saboteurs, or were the ones he’d chased off back to finish the job?
“Listen up,” he snapped. “I’m at the San Bernardino airfield, and I’m the only person standing between these planes and the criminals trying to sabotage them as we speak.
Ring Pancho’s room immediately and give her a message from me, or I will tell her you insisted I leave my post guarding her plane to give her the message myself. ”
The clerk sounded alarmed as he blurted out, “What’s your message, sir?”
“Tell her to get out here to the airport on the double. Tell her . . . tell her I believe the telegram. She’ll know what it means.”
The vehicle’s lights had turned off beside another airplane.
He was out of time to argue with the clerk.
Praying the young man did as he’d been told, he ended the call.
He checked his service revolver before jumping back behind the wheel of his car.
It looked as if he was going to have plenty of reasons to make that call to Jenkins.
If he lived, that was.
Pancho rolled over and blinked groggily at the clock when the phone rang. What on earth? She picked up the receiver and snapped, “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, Mrs. Barnes, I do. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Pancho sat up. “Who are you? Why are you calling me? If you’re helping Dr. Ayers get even with me, so help me, I’ll find you and take a chunk out of your hide.”
“This is the front desk clerk, ma’am. A Mr. Pullman called. Claimed he was a BOI agent.”
Pancho was fully awake now. “Pullman? What did he want with me at this hour?”
“He said for you to get out to the airfield on the double. Oh, and to tell you he believes the telegram.”
“Crap on a cracker!” she exclaimed. “Thanks.”
She hung up the phone hastily and swung her feet to the floor. Leaning over, she pounded on the wall with her fist and shouted, “Get up, Marvel!” Jumping out of bed, she headed for the opposite wall and pounded on it as well. “Amelia! We’ve got trouble at the airfield!”