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"Benny doesn't fly," Morris said. "He gets terrible airsick."
Hicks took a shallow, spasmodic breath. "All right," he said.
"It's not far at all. A few minutes there and back."
"I don't like it. Don't do this just for Stella," Mrs. Morgan said. "I'm still
trying other ways. Don't get foolish and ..."
"No heroics, no daring rescues," Morris assured her. "Let's go. Mr. Hicks...?"
"Yes," Hicks said, following them out the glass door. Mrs. Morgan laid her
hands on the counter top and watched them grimly as they climbed into the
truck, Benny giving up his shotgun seat to Hicks and sitting in the back.
He had never done anything so stupid in his life. The Piper Comanche's wheels
pulled free of the runway and the twin-engine aircraft leaped into the air,
leaving the weathered asphalt landing strip and corrugated metal hangar far
behind and below.
Mitch Morris turned to regard Hicks and Ron Flagg in the back seat. Frank
Forrest, in his mid-sixties and as burly as Morris, banked the plane sharply
and brought them around to an easterly direction, then banked again before
they had time to catch their breath. Morris hung on to Forrest's seat with a
huge, callused hand. "You all right?" he asked Hicks, with barely a glance at
Ron.
"Fine," Hicks said, swallowing an anonymous something in his gullet.
"You, Ron?"
"Ain't flown much," Flagg said, his skin pale and damp.
"Frank's an expert. Flew Sabres during the war. Korean War. His daddy flew
Buffaloes at Midway. That's where he died, wasn't it, Frank?"
"Goddamn planes were flying coffins," Forrest said.
Hicks felt the Comanche shudder in an updraft from the low hills below. They
were flying under five hundred feet. A cinder-covered hill near Shoshone
passed below them with breathtaking closeness.
"I hope you don't think we're impetuous," Morris said.
"Perish the idea," Hicks returned, concentrating on his stomach.
"We owe a lot to Mrs. Morgan. We like Stella just fine, and Ron's Lisa is a
great girl. We want to make sure they're okay, wherever they are. Not like
they've been spirited off to the Nevada test site to be used as guinea pigs or
something, y'know?"
Whether Morris was suggesting this or dismissing it as a possibility, Hicks
couldn't decide.
"So what do you think they've got in Furnace Creek?" Forrest asked. "Mike the
garage boy says they've got a dead Russian pilot. That why you're here to
scoop everybody on a dead Russian pilot?"
"I don't think that's what they have," Hicks said.
"So what is it, then? What would bring ol Crockerman out here?"
Hicks thought for a moment about the possible unpleasant effects of discussing
visitors from space with these men. He could almost sympathize with any
government efforts to keep such things secret. Yet Australia was loaded with
men like these: tough, resourceful, valiant, but not particularly imaginative
or brilliant. Why would Australia trust public reaction, and not the United
States?
"I'm not sure," he said. "I've come out here on a hunch, pure and simple."
"Hunches are never pure and simple," Forrest shot back. "You're a smart man.
You've come out here for a reason."
"Mrs. Morgan seems to think you're important," Morris said.
"Well..."
"You a doctor?" Flagg asked, looking as if he might need some medical
assistance.
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"I'm a writer. I have a Ph.D. in biological science, but I'm not an M.D."
"We get all sorts of Ph.D.'s in Shoshone," Morris said. "Geologists,
archaeologists, ethnologists study Indians, you know. Sometimes they come into
the Crow Bar and sit down and we get into some real interesting conversations.
We're not just a bunch of desert rats."
"Didn't think you were," Hicks responded. _Oh?_
"All right. Frank?"
"Coming up on Furnace Creek shortly."
Hicks looked through the side window and saw tan and white sand and patches of
scrub, HO-scale dirt roads and tracks. Then he saw the highway. Forrest banked
the Comanche again. Hicks's stomach kept its discipline, but Flagg moaned.
"You got a bag?" he asked. "Please."
"You can keep it down," Morris assured him. "Hold up on the aerobatics,
Frank."
"There it is," Forrest said. He inclined the plane so Hicks was staring
practically straight down at a cluster of buildings spread among rust-brown
rocks, copses of green trees and low hills. He could make out a golf course
spreading lush green against the waste, a tiny airstrip and an asphalt parking
lot filled with dark cars and trucks, and rising from the parking lot, a green
two-seat Army Cobra helicopter.
"Shit," Forrest said, pulling back sharply on the wheel. The plane's engines
screamed and the Comanche swung around like a leaf in a strong wind.
The helicopter intercepted them and kept pace with the Comanche no matter what
twists and turns Forrest executed. Flagg threw up and his vomit struck the
side windows and Hicks and seemed to have a life of its own, hobbling about
between surfaces and air. Hicks wiped it away frantically with his hands.
Morris yelled and cursed.
The Cobra quickly outmaneuvered them. A uniformed and helmeted copilot in the
rear seat gestured for them to land.
"Where's your radio?" Hicks demanded. "Turn it on. Let them talk with us."
"Hell no," Forrest said. "I'd have to acknowledge "
"Goddammit, Frank, they'll shoot us down if you don't go where he says,"
Morris said, beard curling up and then back with the aircraft's motion.
The helicopter's copilot meticulously pointed down to the road below. Green
cars and camouflaged trucks raced along the highway.
"We'd better land," Forrest agreed. He peeled away from the helicopter,
descended with astonishing speed, pitched his Comanche nose-high, and brought
the aircraft down with at least four hard jounces on the gray asphalt
airstrip.
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