LITMIR.BIZ

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She made the catch and disappeared down the ramp to the broad wing.

      “Here’s your share, Doc,” J.B. said, placing a pile of food packs, soap, razor blades and other assorted small items next to the man sitting on the ramp. Amid the salvage was the last of the H&K pistols.

      “Thank you,” Doc said solemnly, reluctantly lifting the blaster for examination. The LeMat was on its last reload. Nine shots and he was defenseless.

      Awkwardly, Doc worked the slide of the blaster, chambering a round, and experimented dropping the clip, then inserting it again.

      “Think he’ll take it?” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of cherry-nut cake, the other envelopes scattered on the floor around his boots. He had been starving, but then he was constantly starving these days.

      Weighing the weapon in a palm, Doc made his decision and clicked on the safety of the sleek blaster to tuck it away in his frock coat.

      Just then, Mildred rushed into view. “Great news,” she said, clambering into the airship.

      “Jak can walk now?” Ryan said as a question. “Good.”

      “Better than that,” she said excitedly. “Remember those cargo manifests I was looking at? Couldn’t read them at all, until Jak smeared the paper with gun oil. Damned if that didn’t bring the words out nice and clear.”

      “What were they carrying?” Krysty asked, glancing at the six huge canvas lumps on their stout pallets. “Hovercrafts?”

      “Weather-sensing equipment,” she said in a rush. “Balloons to carry computerized pods high into the sky to check on the pollution levels from the old nukes. See if the air was any better.”

      “Stop using the nukes,” Dean said bluntly, wiping his face with a moist towelette. “Then the air would get better.”

      “Amen,” Doc agreed roughly.

      “Weather balloons,” Ryan repeated slowly, then stood and walked over to the first pallet. It was the triple-craziest idea he had ever heard. “Big ones?”

      “Thirty feet across.”

      “How many?”

      “Hundreds,” Mildred said eagerly. “A year’s supply for the testing station. Don’t know the lift-to-drag ratio. So we just make it as large as possible. Always best to err on the side of power.”

      “We’d need something for a basket,” Ryan said, nudging the shipping pallet with his boot. The honeycomb plastic was a good foot thick, and more than ten feet wide on each side. Designed to airdrop supplies to troops in the field, the pallets would make perfect bottoms. “These should work fine. They’re light and very strong. Just no sides.”

      “We can tie extra ropes around support ropes,” Krysty said quickly. She finally realized what they were discussing. “Weave a basket around the pallet. And we can use the ropes lashing down the canvas to hold it all together. The cargo netting is plastic and should certainly be strong enough.”

      “You folks firing blanks?” J.B. asked skeptically, thumbing the last round into a clip, then easing the magazine into the Uzi. He worked the bolt, chambering a round, and slung the weapon over his shoulder. “We’re going to fly to Forbidden Island?”

      Standing, Doc wet a finger and held it outside. “The wind is blowing in the correct direction,” he announced. “Well done, madam. An exemplary idea! There is no way Mitchum could follow us aloft.”

      “Fly the Hercules?” Dean asked, frowning. “Hot pipe, this thing will never eat clouds again. It’s completely aced.”

      “We’re not going to use the plane,” Mildred told him, crossing the deck to the first canvas mound. She ran a hand over the rough expanse of material. “We’ll fly the cargo.”

      “Worked once before. Why not again?” Ryan mused.

      “How can we steer?” Dean asked bluntly.

      “We’ll wet blankets and hold them over the side,” Krysty explained. “That’ll give us some drag, and as we slow down to the left, to drift to the left.”

      “Crude and dangerous,” Doc rumbled. “Yet, alas, we don’t really have another choice.”

      “Anybody want to row across fifty miles of open sea with those steam-powered PT boats hunting for us all the way?” Ryan asked brusquely.

      There was a long moment of silence.

      “Didn’t think so,” Ryan said, cracking the knuckles of his hand. “Okay, we start with the ropes.”

      Chapter Three

      Dean was surprised how easily the craft was constructed.

      The sun was hovering just above the horizon by the time the balloon was ready to launch. The cargo netting barely proved adequate to contain the weather balloons as they were filled with helium from the pressurized tanks. With each balloon, another rope had been tied to the plastic pallet to keep the craft from soaring away, and the companions ceased adding balloons only when the overhead net was completely filled, the anchor ropes creaking from the strain of containing the lighter-than-air vehicle.

      “These will help,” Krysty said, tying a lumpy bag to the pallet. Trousers from the dead paratroopers were tied off to make crude sacks, and then filled with broken pieces of electronic equipment from the cockpit. The counterweight would give them a hair more control over the flying craft. Not much, but every little bit helped. But the balloons didn’t descend in the slightest until six more of the heavy bags were lashed into place.

      “She’s got more than enough lift,” Mildred said, beaming in pleasure at the buoyant craft. The bobbing net filled with the taut balloons nearly blocked out the stars it was so large. “We’ll ride like kings on the wind.”

      “Till crash-land,” Jak added grimly, standing guard over the pile of their backpacks. They had all removed their packs to work faster, but wisely didn’t toss them into the rope basket of the flying machine until ready to launch. If a rope broke and the packs soared away with all the food and ammo, they would be good as chilled.

      “She needs a name,” Dean said, studying the huge thing, then glanced at the airplane. “Did Hercules have a kid?”

      Checking the anchor ropes, Doc paused to scratch his head. “Indeed, he did. Three sons, but I cannot recall any of their names.”

      “Don’t need a name, long as it works,” Ryan said, zipping up his pants as he stepped from the plane. “Remember to use the washroom before we go. And throw away anything not needed. Weight is at a premium.” The craft had plenty of lift now, but not with seven people in its basket.

      “Never thought we’d leave the island this way,” J.B. observed, placing a cigar in his mouth. The pilot had been carrying a pocket humidor of the best quality, and two of the cigars inside were in smokable condition. The Armorer was trying hard to quit, but sometimes the urge simply couldn’t be denied.

      Reaching in a pocket, he pulled out a butane lighter and Doc rushed forward to snatch the device from his grasp.

      “Are you mad, John Barrymore?” Doc whispered urgently, brandishing the lighter. “Hydrogen is extremely flammable! One spark and we’ll be blown to pieces.”

      “Not filled with hydrogen,” J.B. replied curtly. “Helium.”

      Doc paused in confusion. “Helium,” he repeated slowly. “The word sounds familiar, but I fear its meaning eludes me.”

      Refilling the canteens from a lotus flower that bled water, Mildred gave a start and stared at the man askance, then slowly recalled that the element was discovered around 1870 by Sir somebody or other. Damn, she couldn’t recall the name. Maybe helium wasn’t in wide usage by the time Doc was trawled.

      “Trust

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