Jay Lake - Rocket Science

The unit didn’t matter. Wherever it came from, that Cub was being used by CID Or maybe by the false Captain Markowicz, he of the broken arm. I wasn’t sure which was worse for me, but now that my aircraft had spread her gorgeous wings and spoken to me, I wasn’t letting go without a fight.

But I sure wished the darned airplane would quit singing !

I looked around the barn in a mild but controlled panic. The deadliest thing in here was a pitchfork. With my bad leg I seriously doubted my ability to menace a Nazi agent with one of those. Even if I had been prepared to take on the entire SS last night in the Bellamys’ kitchen armed with just a flashlight, today my wits were better gathered.

Fine , I thought. No available weapons. What was my next option? I peered out the door again. The Cub was taxiing to the downwind side of the pasture. The pilot was positioning for a quick take-off. I would have done the same in his place, especially if I was up to no good. Unfortunately, his taxi pattern would put the Cub mighty close to my barn door.

I considered fleeing out the back of the barn. That required me to either cut across the yard to the house, in full view of whoever was in the aircraft, or head over the back pasture towards the peach orchard. Floyd probably would have managed that, but I couldn’t move sufficiently fast enough over open country to be sure of hiding before they got close enough to notice me.

I looked speculatively at the Cadillac, remembering years of watching gangster movies like Public Enemy down at the Augusta Theatre. If I started the car and revved up the engine, I could drop her in gear, smash down the barn door and make for the road. Even wallowing through the mud, the Cadillac could outpace a running man. I could hunker down behind the dashboard if they started shooting. I knew the yard well enough to make it out safely with barely any view of where I was going.

On the other hand, running down the barn door seemed like a bad idea on principle. The Mack, the f-panzer and my aircraft would be wide open. Even ignoring the Cub, the barn faced southeast, and could be seen from the track heading down toward Haverhill Road. I decided to wait in the Cadillac, my hand on the starter button, and see if my unwelcome visitors opened the door themselves. If they were Nazis, the false Captain Markowicz and his confederates, then I would just run them down.

I amazed myself with my sheer cold-bloodedness. Breathing deep, I remembered Dad, dumped to die in the trunk of my Hudson. I thought about Mrs. Swenson, crying in her yard while her house flamed like an October bonfire. These damned Germans had no business here in Kansas. They’d already destroyed half of Europe, only to have Uncle Sam give them a sound drubbing for their trouble. Defeated, they should have just slunk off the stage of history, instead of bringing their war home to my Kansas.

And of course the Nazi agents were here because of that voice singing “Amazing Grace” in my ear, chasing Floyd and his never-ending scams. I never knew the hymn had so many verses, either.

“Will you shut up,” I hissed into the folded piece of smoldering carpet. I didn’t know it was possible for my aircraft to talk, but it did a great job of irritating me. Just like Floyd.

“What is ‘shut up,’ my brother?”

“It means be quiet . Now, shut up!”

“ Ja .”

I heard footsteps outside the barn, rustling in the scattered straw. They certainly weren’t making any effort to sneak up on me. Of course, after arriving in a military aircraft, there probably wasn’t much sneaking left to be done. They couldn’t have announced themselves better with a doorbell.

“Hello, the barn,” called a voice. I strained to hear if it had a German accent. Really, he sounded more New York. Either way, I wasn’t going to answer.

“This is Captain Abraham Markowicz of United States Army Criminal Investigation Division. Can you hear me?”

Markowicz. This was the German posing as a dead man from Kansas City. I kept my thumb on the starter button of the Cadillac.

“We’d better just open the door, sir,” said a deeper voice.

So he’d brought muscle with him. Well, at least I had the car, which was big and heavy.

“Yeah, I know,” said the false Markowicz. “I’m worried about the paperwork. We’re on civilian rules right now.”

“If there’s something in there, we close the door, and go get a warrant. Or you radio in for advice from jag.”

Jag ? I knew the word… Judge Advocate General. That and search warrants. They were scamming me hard. Easier than coming in shooting, I guessed.

The door creaked as fingers pried around the edge to pull it open. I pressed the starter on the Cadillac, which turned right over like a champ, and gunned the engine. Screaming my best Indian war whoop, I slammed the big car into gear.

As he stepped into the opening of the door, I could see that Markowicz was a thin, red-haired man wearing an Army uniform — the dressy one with the buff-colored coat and tie. His hazel eyes were wide with panic as the front of the Cadillac slammed into him. I swerved toward a small, dark man in fatigues with an M-1 rifle slung on his shoulder who was still tugging on the door. While Markowicz scrabbled on the hood, trying not to get dragged under the car, I managed to graze his bodyguard with the front right fender. Unfortunately, the fender also got caught on the barn door with a terrible groaning noise, before pulling it completely off its hinges in a shower of splinters and straw.

Markowicz screamed as he slid across the hood of the car, both arms flailing when his grip came loose. My acceleration brought his face pressed up against the windshield for a moment before he finally fell off the left side. I swerved again, feeling a bump that hopefully meant I had run over him. Forgetting my plan to crouch down, I turned to look behind me while the car slammed across the rutted pasture below the barn.

The small, dark man was down on one knee, aiming the rifle at me. I ducked as I heard the crack of the bullet. The windshield over my head shattered from the impact.

I twisted around, head hunched down into the steering wheel. I had to navigate by the memory I had been so confident of earlier. Where was I in the yard? I pulled to the left, accelerating again, trying to miss the well pump that stood midway between the barn and the house. There was a buzzing whine as another bullet ricocheted off the dashboard of the Cadillac.

The car hit something, stopping solidly and slamming my forehead hard into the steering wheel.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled.

I peeked up. I had run into Mr. Bellamy’s derelict Ford coupe. I shoved the stick into reverse, and the Cadillac slid backwards up through the mud of the yard, wallowing out of control. Ahead of me, one of the rear quarter windows of the coupe shattered from another bullet.

I popped the clutch, shifted back into first, and gunned the engine, pulling the Cadillac to the right. Yet another bullet smashed into the dash, this time shattering the radio. The bastard was shooting for me, not the car, I realized. Surely he could have blown one of my tires by now.

Sweating and cursing under my breath, I got the car headed down the hill and out of the yard. The bullets stopped coming.

As I rattled down the mud track toward Haverhill Road, I risked lifting my head and looking behind me. The man with the gun had indeed stopped shooting in order to drag the false Markowicz toward the Cub. They must be going for help. I had to get help, too. But who the heck could I ask?

If I drove to El Dorado and talked to Hauptmann, the whole story would come out. He would know I had lied to him, and I figured that would be a very unpleasant moment between us. If I went to the Augusta police, they would just call Hauptmann. Either way, the condition of Doc Milliken’s Cadillac pretty much guaranteed I’d be taken in for questioning. No cop alive could ignore all those bullet holes. If I tried to contact the Army, maybe sending a telegram to Fort Riley or Fort Leavenworth, they would think I was a lunatic, or worse.