Clive Cussler: The Race

Ahead, the Oakland Mole jutted far into San Francisco Bay. It was the pier that carried trains to the ocean freighters and city ferries, and, as he flew the length, he saw parked on it the famous dark green Southern Pacific special owned by the president of the line, Osgood Hennessy. Archie and Lillian had arrived with Danielle Di Vecchio.

He was catching up.

He was well over the water while Celere hadn’t yet crossed to the shore.

Bell pulled his rifle up from the nacelle and clipped it into the swivel. High-power Remington slugs crackling past Celere’s head ought to concentrate his mind more on escaping than dropping a bomb, which would be a cumbersome exercise with lead howling by.

But when Bell located the monoplane in his powerful field glasses, he got a shock.

Now he knew why Celere had stolen the ice tongs. He had forgotten that whatever his failings, Celere was a darned clever machinist. There would be nothing cumbersome about dropping the dynamite, no clumsy hoisting it over the side of the machine.

All four boxes of dynamite were dangling below the monoplane, directly under Celere, where the two hundred pounds would be well balanced, and they were hanging from the ice tongs. Bell saw a rope running from the ice-tong handle up the side of the aeroplane into the steering nacelle where Celere sat.

To drop the dynamite, all he had to do was arm the electric detonator switch and tug the rope.

Bell dropped his glasses and took aim with the Remington auto rifle. The range was still too great. But now Celere was crossing the forest of sailing masts that marked the waterfront. He was mere minutes from Whiteway’s Market Street headquarters. Bell steepened his dive and picked up a little more speed. It made the difference: now he, too, was crossing the waterfront, and Celere was in rifle range. But he was flying above Bell now because the dive had taken him so low, he was nearly scraping building tops.

Ahead was the Inquirer Building, taller than all around it, with the yellow race banner on top. Bell tweaked his elevator, rose slightly, and found Celere’s machine in his rifle sight. Just as Bell was about to pull the trigger, he saw something glitter on the outdoor terrace of Whiteway’s penthouse office. Bell whipped his field glasses to his eyes.

Immediately ahead of Celere’s dynamite-laden monoplane, smack in his line of fire, operators where cranking moving-picture cameras. Directing them was a tall blond woman in a white shirtwaist with her hair swept up so she could inspect what they saw through their lenses. Marion had chosen to shoot the finish from the dramatic setting of the roof where the aviators would circle before landing at the Presidio.

Bell banked hard right to change his field of fire. Celere was flying straight at the building. He was less than one hundred feet higher, and closing fast, when Bell saw him reach for the rope.

Bell had no clear shot at Celere without endangering Marion.

But if he didn’t shoot, Celere would drop his bomb.

Bell whipped his machine hard left. The wings rattled, and the stays groaned. The motor screamed as the propeller hacked the shifting air. He soared away from Celere’s course to shift the angle so he could fire. The range increased radically. He had one second to fire. The gun kicked. Marco Celere ducked his head and looked around wildly, eyes locking in astonishment on Bell’s Eagle racing back at him.

He grabbed the bomb-release rope. But he was too late. His flying machine had flown past the Inquirer Building. He banked to swing back and make another run.

“Not on my watch,” said Isaac Bell.

With the people on the penthouse terrace safely behind them, Bell pegged another shot at Celere. This one came closer, he guessed by the violent motion of Celere’s head, followed by a steep climbing turn away from Bell. Bell followed. The trick, he realized, was to stay behind and stay inside Celere’s turn so that he could keep firing to drive Celere farther and farther from his target.

Celere went up, Bell followed. Celere went down, Bell followed again, drawing so close that he could see Celere’s face as if they were about to commence a boxing match. Celere ducked down, reaching for something inside the nacelle, and brought up a stubby weapon that Bell recognized as his sawed-off lupa shotgun. Buckshot screeched and pinged through his wing stays.

“You have teeth? So do I.”

Bell fired his swivel gun.

Celere’s hand flew from his control post as if it were red-hot. Bell fired again.

Celere jerked alettoni and rudder, and the machine soared toward San Francisco Bay. Bell followed, thinking to force him down over the water. But Celere turned around and raced back at the Inquirer Building. Bell turned more sharply. The Eagle went exactly where he pointed it, and he was suddenly aware that after four thousand miles across the continent he was getting the hang of flying.

He pulled alongside, leveled his swivel gun at Celere, and let go the wheel to motion that Celere should descend and land before he shot him. Celere whipped up the lupa and blasted back point-blank. Buckshot shrieked again, most of it missing, except for a single slug that struck the breech of the Remington, jamming it.

Isaac Bell drew his Browning and raked Celere’s machine with pistol fire.

The answering bellow of the lupa told him that Celere was not impressed. And now the Italian pressed his advantage of heavier firepower, skillfully reloading and firing repeatedly. Only the short range of the shotgun saved Bell from being hit as Celere lined up again to drop the bomb.

Bell saw him reach for the arming wire that would close the first electric switch.

He wrenched the Eagle onto a collision course. He saw sudden panic on Celere’s face. About to ram into the side of the yellow monoplane, Bell turned at the last second to cross directly in front. Celere whirled the double-barreled lupa , tracking Bell until Bell was so close he could see deep inside its gaping muzzles.

When he could not miss, Marco Celere triggered both barrels.

Isaac Bell saw flame jet from them.

A torrent of buckshot roared at him, and the tall detective knew that his tactic had worked. He had won the battle. Celere’s whirling propeller blocked the buckshot. The speeding lead shattered the eight-foot wooden airscrew into splinters. The yellow monoplane staggered in the air. Celere tried to volplane by gaining speed with a diving turn. The weight of the dynamite was too much for the suddenly powerless flying machine. Instead of turning, it began to spin. One wing brushed the parapet of the Inquirer Building and snapped off.

Momentum lost, the wrecked monoplane tumbled toward Market Street.

Isaac Bell held his breath. He could only pray that he had distracted Celere sufficiently to keep him from arming the dynamite. If he hadn’t – if Celere did close the electrical circuit – the falling aeroplane would explode on impact. In two seconds, which stretched like eternity, it hit but did not explode, harming only its murderous inventor and Preston Whiteway’s yellow Rolls-Royce on which it landed.

ISAAC BELL CIRCLED the Inquirer Building and exchanged joyous waves with Marion Morgan.

Then he skirted Nob Hill and steered across the city toward the Golden Gate.

Far behind him, he saw a red speck in the sky. Joe Mudd’s Liberator was approaching Oakland. Bell grinned with genuine pleasure. Mudd and his sturdy little tractor biplane had only ten miles to go to win the Whiteway Cup. The expression on Whiteway’s face would be priceless.

Ahead, a splash of green on the tip of the peninsula that sheltered San Francisco Bay from the Pacific Ocean marked the Presidio. The grounds of the Army post appeared to be in motion, rippling like a wind-stirred field of grain. It was an illusion, Bell realized as he drew nearer, created by a horde of spectators who filled parade grounds, streets, and barracks roofs in the tens of thousands. Closer still, he even saw them clinging to the tops of trees.