The stolen electric detonators, the flashlight, and the electric cable were the clues that told Bell exactly what Marco Celere intended to do. He had stolen the ingredients to make an aerial bomb with an electric detonator. Fulminate of mercury detonators that exploded on contact would be deadly on a flying machine that bounced as it took off from the ground and was battered sharply by air currents in the sky. Any sudden motion would make them detonate the dynamite and the flying machine with it.
But an electric detonator could be controlled by a simple switch between the flashlight batteries and the detonators. As long as the switch was off, the dynamite was safe. Switch it on, and the dynamite would explode.
Celere would have fashioned it to be moved into the on position after it was dropped—then only when it fell on its target. He would have installed two switches, one to make the bomb ready at the moment he was ready to drop, the second that would cause the explosion on impact.
Bell could not imagine why Celere had taken ice tongs.
But the rest was clear. Whiteway had refused to let him demonstrate that his machine could win the race, even without Josephine, leaving Celere with no way to prove to the Italian Army that his aeroplane could be a war machine.
Dropping two hundred pounds of dynamite would prove its military value with a bang heard around the world. As to what he would drop his bomb on, the answer was obvious. A con man like Celere was essentially the same as a boomer like Preston Whiteway. Both had an instinct for how to get the most publicity. Few buildings in San Francisco were as tall, and none more famous, than the San Francisco Inquirer Building. A flying machine destroying it would be a shot heard by every army general in the world.
And if Whiteway were to die in his penthouse office atop the San Francisco Inquirer Building, so much the better: the wealthy Widow Josephine would be available, Celere would think. Bell knew she would never fall for him again, but Celere didn’t. By the Italian’s reckoning, he would kill two birds with one bomb, Bell thought grimly: demonstrate the power of his warplane and marry a wealthy widow.
It was good flying weather. The wind had dropped. The sky was clear, the air cool enough to cool the motor and rich enough to make it run at top power. The Gnome rotary would give him the speed to overtake Celere. But when he finally saw the break in the hills that the rail line followed toward Oakland and then the blue bays of Oakland and San Francisco, he still had not caught up. Celere might have smashed along the way, in water or woods, where Bell hadn’t seen him. It was possible. The machines were tired.
Then, abruptly and with a sinking heart, Isaac Bell saw the yellow speck that told him Celere was crossing the bay and closing in on the city. He was flying lower than Bell, perhaps dragged down by the weight of the explosives or perhaps descending to make it easier to hit his target. But it gave Bell a slim advantage, and he took it, pushing his control post forward and diving to increase speed.
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.
&nbs
p; 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.
The only place with room to alight was the sloping parade ground in front of Infantry Row, the red brick barracks on Montgomery Street, which was guarded by a company of soldiers holding back the crowd.
Bell steered into a salty Pacific wind, blipped his Gnome to slow it down, and landed his machine on the narrow stretch of ground that the Army had secured. The roar of the crowd drowned out his motor. He scanned their faces and felt his heart lift. There was Archie Abbott, standing on his own two feet, pale but smiling, with Lillian bracing one arm. It took Bell a moment to recognize the tall, stylishly dressed brunette with them as Danielle Di Vecchio, who was smiling proudly at her father’s machine. Next to her, considerably less stylish looking but grinning as proudly, was Andy Moser, and Bell surmised that the railroad had cleared the tracks for the Van Dorn Agency’s Eagle Special to speed to San Francisco.
As Bell jumped down from the Eagle, Weiner of Accounting bustled up, trailed by the many assistants he had acquired in the course of the race.
“Congratulations, Mr. Bell.”
“For what?”
“You won.”
“Won what?”
“The Atlantic-to-Pacific Cross-Country Air Race. The Whiteway Cup is yours.”
“What the devil are you talking about, Mr. Weiner?”
The accountant explained that in the course of protecting Josephine, Isaac Bell had flown his American Eagle monoplane all the way across America and landed first, with the best overall time.
“I wasn’t in the race. How could I win?”
“I am a certified accountant, sir. I and my staff kept track of every minute flown by every contestant. You won. Fair and square.”
“But I didn’t register. I never even got my flying license.”
Weiner, Bell soon discovered, had put his race time to good use by mastering the art of booming in addition to accounting.
“I am sure,” he answered with a knowing wink, “that Mr. Whiteway will overlook certain minor technicalities when he considers how many newspapers we will sell touting a winner who is not only a dashing detective but is engaged to a beautiful blond moving-picture director. Your public awaits.”
Weiner indicated the mob of photographers and correspondents poised to pounce on the winner. “Don’t worry about the details, Mr. Bell, we’ll make you the most famous man in America.”
Off to the side, out of the hoopla, Bell saw a bandaged “Texas” Walt Hatfield quietly celebrating with James Dashwood. They were passing a flask and puffing on cigars. Dash coughed on the smoke. The Texan slapped him on the back. Dash responded by flicking his new derringer from his wrist, and, when both men laughed, it struck Isaac Bell that if he accepted the Whiteway Cup, the most famous man in America would be far too well known to ever again operate as a Van Dorn detective.
Marion Morgan raced up in a taxi, urging her camera operators to plant their tripods. She threw a glorious smile to Bell and pointed him out to her operators, with the usual stern warning to keep him out of the picture.
Preston Whiteway arrived right behind her, careening onto the field in a newspaper-delivery van driven by his demolished Rolls-Royce’s chauffeur.
“Who won?” he bellowed.
Weiner of Accounting turned expectantly to Isaac Bell.
“You’re looking at him,” said the tall, golden-haired detective.
“Who?”
Isaac Bell took one long last look at the cheering crowds. Then he turned slowly on his heel and pointed at the sky. Joe Mudd’s Revolution Red Liberator wobbled over the hill, lined up into the ocean wind, and floated to the grass.
“Labor?” gasped Whiteway.
“Bricklayers, masons, plasterers, and locomotive firemen.”
“Unionists won my race?”
“Tell your readers they worked for it.”
MARION AND ARCHIE AND LILLIAN crowded around while Andy and Danielle helped Isaac Bell refuel his flying machine. Andy assured him it was still sound despite a few bullet holes, repeating, “Danielle’s oldman builta heck of a strongmachine, didn’the, Danny?”
“Elastico!” said Danielle, bathing Andy and Bell with her dazzling smile. “You did him proud, both of you.”
“Your father made it easy for us,” answered Isaac Bell.
Then he turned to Marion Morgan and took her hand.
“I promised you a ride.”
Marion squeezed into the nacelle behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Andy spun the propeller, and Bell raced up from the grass. The Eagle climbed quickly in the heavy sea air.
High above the blue waters of San Francisco Bay, Isaac Bell blipped off the motor.
When the only sound was the wind sighing in the stays, he turned around and kissed her.
“My darling, we are not going back down until we set a wedding date.”
Marion kissed him back. Her eyes roamed the blue bays, the green peninsulas, and the sun descending from scarlet clouds into the immensity of the Pacific Ocean. She kissed him again and leaned forward to lay her head on his shoulder.
“This is so beautiful,” she said. “Let’s stay up forever.”
Clive Cussler, The Race
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