The Steam Mole (22 page)

She smiled at her audience. “I thought if
they
could fly someone to this Dajarra place, why couldn't we? It seems there, or Alice, or Sheba, are the places we need to check now. Not here. So, gentlemen, I've hired us a flying wing. It took some intervention from Mr. Darlington
to get permission to do so. They're all owned by the Westralian government and they don't want them to fall into the hands of the British Empire. Most of them are kept for military use and for patrols, although they do have some transport vessels, which the state does hire out in an effort to keep their costs down. They're faster and more maneuverable than airships and have a far longer range. We have to, of course, take their pilots and engineers, but there is space for some twenty men. I'll need volunteers. It may be grim work, and it will be out in the desert. It's hot out there.”

Hands shot up. “I volunteer!” was an almost universal chorus.

“Either no one wants to stay in Ceduna, or young Tim is…or was more popular than I realized,” Dr. Calland said.

“He's one of us. Our lucky charm, the lad is. And Clara, too. She did her ticket. Junior submariner,” said one of the younger men.

“Besides,” said Lieutenant Willis with a twinkle in his eye, “I've never been on an airship, let alone one of these posh Westralian flying wings. I'd do it even if they weren't important to us, ma'am. But they are.”

“And I can't tell you how important that is to me. I'm going to have to ask the captain to choose a crew. I would take everybody, but we need to consider skills and total weight.”

“I'm going on a diet,” said Big Eddie, one of the divers, and possibly the biggest man on the
Cuttlefish
—submarine jobs favored small, compact, tough men. “And you never know when you're going to need a diver in the desert.”

Three-quarters of an hour later the chosen ones were out at Boomerang Fields, ferried there in a hired motor-truck. The flying wing Mary Calland had arranged was already being winched out of its camouflage shed and over to the takeoff ramp. “Gentlemen,” said the flier, dressed in pale blue padded knickerbockers, a high throated leather vest, and woolen boots—an odd ensemble for the heat of Ceduna, although it was still quite cool. “We need you ranked in order of size for the weighing. There are boots and over trousers on
the racks to your left, and hooded flying jackets to the right, and scarves and gloves and earmuffs on the shelf over there. We'll need you to be weighed with your kit. Dr. Calland, we have some ladies' outfits through that door over there.”

“We're still waiting for the two gentlemen from the Westralian Mounted Police that Colonel Clifford said he'd send with us. They're supposed to meet us here.”

The flier looked at the new slouch hats and uniform coats of the deputized men—somewhat more than half of the group.

“They're…um…temporary deputies,” explained Mary, “drafted in for the job.” She didn't explain that after their arrest of one of the captains of Westralian industry, the colonel had decided some senior-ranking minders would be in order. “I think we can make it stick, Captain Malkis,” the colonel had said. “Your…unconventional methods did succeed in collecting quite a lot of evidence. And since the arrest, completely unrelated complaints and charges to that have been laid by people who were plainly afraid to act against Rainor before. Enough to keep him facing charges, even if his lawyers are falling over themselves to get him out. But it would be easier if you had a couple of men to walk you through due process next time.”

“Easier for whom?” asked Captain Malkis with a smile.

“Me!” said the colonel. “I'll either get promoted or fired for this. But news from my men on the streets is that it's done them no end of good with the ordinary people. The men I'm sending, Inspector Johns and Sergeant Morgan, are known for getting things done. Top officers both, and you'll find them understanding…but able to do it by the rules.”

The flier looked at the submariners. “Ah. Darlington did say it would involve the wimps. I thought you lot looked a bit on the small side for them. They like big fellers. And they're usually late.”

“Wimps?” said Lieutenant Ambrose. “Aha. WMP. I never thought of that. No wonder they're big and struggle to get recruits. I should have worked that out before I agreed to this.”

The flier laughed. “You might as well kit up and be weighed in the meanwhile. Now, the one thing I have to emphasize: A wing is
not
an airship. We use hydrogen bags in the wing. You are inside the wing. So there is
no
smoking—no ignition of any kind. From the stability point of view the captain would prefer you not to move from your pads. Are any of you claustrophobic?”

That brought a laugh from the
Cuttlefish
crew. “We're submariners,” One of them piped in.

“I suppose that saves me giving a second lecture about smoking,” said the flier. “Ah. A motoring-car. That may be our policemen.”

It was. The two policemen joined them, shook hands, were kitted up, and they filed into the flying wing.

Linda was awakened by the metallic shriek of the hangar doors opening. Blinking in the dim light, she hastily looked around. She'd slept on a pad in the pilot's nacelle, a few yards from the wheels and controls. This would surely be where they came first. There was a small hatch behind her—only about a foot high. Opening it, she crawled through into sheltering darkness again. The crawlway opened up into a long, low-ceilinged chamber—as best she could work out by feeling around in the dark—as the sounds of voices and noise of machinery began outside. She fell over something soft…more sheepskins and some blankets, by the feel of it. The only other thing in there was a piece of machinery she could only guess at. So she found the blankets and hid herself behind them as the flying wing started to move.

Were they about to fly?

Mary was in the privileged position of being in the central nacelle, with the pilot and the copilot/navigator. The rest of the crew found
themselves crawling along the inside of the wing to their flight couches—sheepskin covered pads, each near a small, downward-looking porthole.

The navigator showed Mary to her seat. “It doesn't matter quite as much if you move around, ma'am. This area and the cargo hold are fairly stable. The old
Wedgetail
is a bit more finicky than the new planes, but they're only hiring out the old unarmed transporters. ‘Cost recovery,' they call it. I call it too mean to spend on anything but…er…new offices for the bludgers. Anyway, the pilot doesn't appreciate weight shifts by passengers otherwise, but you can get up and move. Sit back, they're just doing a final trim on the engines. The engineers will be in their pods and we can winch away in a minute or two."

Outside the window, the double pusher-puller propellers were flung into motion, and the engines roared to life. The copilot signaled to the winch crews as the pilot checked the various brass and aluminum wheels and levers.

The winch hauled the wing faster and faster and then they left the earth below and began slowly rising toward the sun, the reds and browns of the interior ahead.

Linda heard familiar voices and the sway of the huge craft as they were positioned at the end of the runway. And then finally, the rush as the wing became airborne.

Well. They could try and subpoena her now. And if that treacherous, horrible Nicholas—how she hated him! It made her temples throb just thinking of him, now. How
could
he!—went through with his threat…well, she wasn't going to be there to explain. And she was so glad of those blankets. No one had told her it would be so cold up here! Or how noisy it was. She covered her head in a sheepskin and endured.

And then added another blanket.

And then, for the next eight hours, they flew.

It was quite cold this high up. It also gave Mary some idea of the sheer vastness of the country as they flew across vast, dazzling, shimmering dry salt lakes, endless lines of dunes, miles and miles of braided-dry waterways, more salt-rimmed dead lakes, wind-flayed low hills…and then more of the same. Wild camels fled in dust-trail mobs from the shadow of the wing or the unfamiliar throb of her engines.

“Should be at Dajarra in about twenty minutes,” wrote the navigator on his pad. They'd begun to lose altitude, and from above she could see the termite run of the Westralian railroad system, a red ridge across the bleak landscape, disappearing occasionally, reappearing on the same straight lines later. She could see the power stations too, two of them from here, sharp and narrow, dribbling smoke and steam into the blue. Beyond them the mound of the termite run speared into the rough country beyond. They flew over that, and then to where the mound coming from the north came out of Dajarra station. Low now, Mary could see the tall roof, with its complicated system of vents, and the high chimney.

The pilot pulled the power cables and the engines were silenced as the wing slowed, gliding down to the long landing strip. There were some men working on a corrugated iron structure on the edge of the power station roof.

Mary could see the faces staring up…

And then, with a bump, they were rolling and bouncing and jerking about as the anchors dragged and caught, and the wing came to a final halt.

Then it was a case of dropping the ladder and off-loading the passengers. The men who had been working on the corrugated iron shed had come running while the passengers were still stretching
out their limbs after the long flight. Mary was glad to shed her flying gear at her seat, as the heat, even this late in the day, was oppressive.

The men from the power station approached them with broad smiles and waves.

“They seem pleased to see us, anyway.”

“My word. They're pleased to see coppers,” said Sergeant Morgan. “That means either they're hiding something and faking it, or they're in deep trouble and expect us to get them out of it.”

It seemed it was the latter.

“Bleeding 'eck! Are we glad to see you blokes after all,” said the leader of the workmen. “That joker Rainor sent here with his half-dozen goons don't know what the law means and don't care. He's as thick as thieves with that bastard Vister and his mates, threatenin' us with blue murder and all sorts of trouble if it leaks. Well, I'm ready to spill the whole pot of beans so long as you put the bastards in stir.”