Chapter 8

Millions of people saw the broadcast of the first ever Air Meet, but few snarled and cursed while they watched. Brad almost lost control and hurled his canned cappuccino at his new fifty-inch HD plasma TV.

Well, technically, it wasn't new, but it's new to me. That little bastard was afraid to even invite me! Brad ignored the nagging little detail that he'd been meeting the 'Pawnbroker', who he'd been selling his ill-gotten gains to. Remembering that meeting, he scowled at the cloth bag containing his biggest prize.

Pawnbroker? Yeah, right. He was a fence, plain and simple.

That's why it pisses me off he won't buy that painting! He wouldn't take it at 1% of face value! He'd said, 'It's too hot, and too well known for me, but I can put you in touch with some people.'"

Brad tried to pretend he was really mad at the Pawnbroker and Jay, but, deep down, he knew it was the fact that he was absolutely terrified of his upcoming meeting with the 'people' that the Pawnbroker had set up, that had him so on edge.

He looked at the clock for the twentieth time in ten minutes. Still, when the knock came from the door, he almost jumped out of his skin. Licking his suddenly dry lips, he unlatched and opened the door.

Outside, he saw two men in dark, immaculate suits. One was short, with a ring of white hair incongruous with his darkly tanned bald head. The other was enormous. He stood at least six foot six, at three hundred thirty pounds, with no visible fat at all. The man-mountain stood there with a leather briefcase in one hand, still wearing his dark sunglasses, indoors.

The tiny old man made a bird-like gesture of greeting, and asked, in a carefully modulated tone, "May we come in, Brad?"

Brad swallowed, and failing a verbal answer, simply stepped aside. He gestured the two Mafiosi in.

The old man looked around the cheap apartment, noting all the new acquisitions, until his eyes fell upon the cloth bag, which covered something leaning against the wall.

His eyes lit as he asked, "Is that it?"

Brad finally found his voice, as he stammered his answer, "Yeah."

Looking at Brad appraisingly, the little old man said, "My name is Guido. You took this from the apartment on the 62^nd floor of the building at 8^th and Park Avenue. Let's see it."

With that he nodded at his mountainous companion, who drew a Beretta 9mm from his shoulder holster.

The pistol looked small compared to his huge hands, but the barrel, when it pointed at Brad, seemed as big as a water main to him. Brad froze, looking at the gun. At the impatient gesture from Guido, he dove at the painting. He presented it carefully, and slowly to Guido as he pulled off the cloth bag.

"Magnifico!" Guido exclaimed, and spent several moments just holding and gazing at the priceless painting in his hands.

Finally, he shook himself, and Guido asked, "How did you gain access without setting off the alarms?"

"Uh, alarms?" Brad repeated stupidly.

Voice cracking in command, Guido snapped, "Yes, you insufferable twit! That apartment had a security system we haven't been able to crack for three years! Now, you will tell me how you, an incompetent bambino, managed to bypass that system, and steal a Picasso that Mr. Hillman has had since he had it stolen twelve years ago."

Brad shrunk back and managed to stammer quickly, "I flew in the window!"

Guido stroked his chin, and looking at his lumbering companion significantly, continued the interrogation, "Ah ha! So, you claim you flew through the window like de bird?"

As he got angry, more of his Italian born accent crept in.

"Well, yeah! All the security systems were set up before the Grav Belts. So no high-rise apartment that I've hit so far, has had security on the windows," answered Brad urgently. Suddenly, he was sure his life depended on his answers, so he quickly continued, "Do you have anyone that knows how to use these wings, or how to modify your vehicles?"

Puzzled now, Guido asked his companion, "Wings? Vehicles? What wings and vehicles is he talking about, Antonio?"

The lumbering giant scratched his head with the side of his Beretta, and answered, hesitantly, "Uh, I don't know, Guido. Maybe he can tell us?"

Brad suddenly realized that watching TV, even something that had been getting nonstop coverage for weeks wasn't in a Mafioso's job description. Quickly he decided a quick demonstration was in order, because, if they didn't believe him, he was dead.

"I can show you," Brad asked, with his hands spread wide in front of him.

"Slowly, no sudden moves," grumbled Antonio, waving his gun laconically.

Brad steadied his nerves and slowly picked up his Grav belt. He put it on and twisted the dial. Brad pushed off the floor gently and drifted slowly to the high ceiling.

Antonio gasped, "What the hell?"

"I don't believe it! I saw that on TV and thought it was another big scam," complained Guido.

Guido gave Brad a cold, tight lipped smile, and said, "Be very sure to thank the Pawnbroker. If he had given you the name of one of Mr. Hillman's associates, you'd already be feeding the fishes in the East River. As it is, I should have Antonio kill you, just to cover our tracks. But maybe, just maybe, you can make yourself useful to me. Come, let's go eat!"

Jimmy rose to the predawn sounds of the lake. The cricket's chorus, the bird's song, the frog's croaks, all seemed to individually break the pregnant silence, yet combined into an intricate symphony. Compared to St. Louis, Lake of the Ozarks had no man-made noise, at least this early.

He quietly grabbed a cup of yogurt and a bagel from the fridge, and gathering the rest of his things in his other hand, juggled the load as he opened the door and stepped out onto the cabin's huge porch that overlooked the lake.

I'm not sure what mom has planned for this morning, but it can't be as good as what I have planned!

He sucked down the yogurt between chomps of the bagel, and watched the lake below, as the darkness was slowly lifted by the beginnings of dawn's light. He stood to strap on his belt and wings, a well developed fifteen-year old boy, five foot ten and whipcord strong from wrestling and football.

Jimmy sucked in a deep breath, embracing the clean morning air.

I've always loved getting away from the city to come here.

The peace and quiet, the safety, and the serenity combined with the rare chance to commune with nature, soothing the pressures of adolescence. He stroked with his wings and rose over the treetops, searching for and finding his target. Half a mile up the lake, he could barely make out a pair of Bald Eagles beginning their morning hunt from their nest on the bluffs rising from the shore.

As he approached the eagles in the air, one circled closer and then flashed by, screaming a warning cry. Jimmy's heart did a flip as the bird swept by, only ten feet away and he saw the gleaming talons and beak as weapons.

With trembling hands, Jimmy raised his digital camera and began taking pictures. After he stopped stroking his wings and became still, the eagles ignored him. So, with his telescopic lens, he was able to get dozens of shots from his unique perspective.

After getting shots of both eagles snatching fish from the lake's surface, Jimmy moved on. He went from eagles to osprey. So intent was he on finding and photographing the birds that the morning hours flashed past.

Jimmy had been flying for hours. His arms were beginning to tire, and he figured he should start back for lunch soon. In an act of rebellion, even against his own better instincts, he decided to fly up another valley. This one was forested. He would see if he could spot any deer, or other game from the air.

Staying below the crest of the hills surrounding the valley, but above the treetops, he didn't see the wall cloud, until a powerful surge of wind sent him spinning towards the trees.

Frightened, he looked up and finally saw it. A huge black wall of clouds loomed over the top of the hills, already almost on him.

Oh my god! How did that get so close without me noticing! Shit, I guess I should have watched the weather report before I left this morning.

He was struggling to stay out of the trees, because, driven before the wind like a leaf, he was moving at over forty miles per hour. Instinctively, he knew he needed altitude, if he was to avoid being dashed against a tree. So, gamely, he strained upward on his already tired arms.

Then the rain caught up with him. Icy cold and coming down in huge drops, it seemed intent on killing him. The only question seemed to be, would it drowned him before it smashed him to the ground?

Shaking with both the effort and the cold, Jimmy barely cleared the ridge on the other side of the valley. The tops of the trees blurred past him, only feet away, and as he crested the ridge, the swirling winds sought to pull him down into the valley below. Grimly, he fought for his life and more altitude. When he finally did gain some altitude, he entered a cold, wet, gray, featureless hell. With no weight, and visibility down to less than fifty feet, buffeted by the wind, he had no idea which way was up or down. Utterly disoriented, totally drained, and numb from the cold rain, Jimmy curled into a ball and let the wind take him where it might.

The updraft in the center of the storm took Jimmy higher, without him ever noticing. He shot up past ten thousand, then fifteen thousand feet, only aware that it seemed colder and harder to breath.

With fumbling fingers, he took out his cell phone, and recorded a goodbye to his family.

He passed out at twenty two thousand feet, and died of asphyxiation at thirty-five thousand feet.

The glory of the sun off the tops of the thunderheads when his body shot out the top of the cloud at forty-five thousand feet, and at over one hundred twenty miles per hour, was wasted.

While waiting for his brother to arrive, Troy watched the Air Meet. He found himself impressed over and over, by Jay's ingenuity. When Jay unveiled the flippers, he turned to Angie.

"Get our promotional people to give this kid Jay a call. Tell them I want to sponsor a series of his Air Meets, all over the world. Also, tell them we are giving this kid a personal sponsorship, hell he's been on TV more than me! So they better make it a sweetheart deal! Also, cut him a deal for the flippers. I want them in production next month and he gets, oh say 5% on every sale."

Angie made some notes, took a call, and said, "I'll get them right on it, Troy. Oh, and you wanted me to tell you when your brother passed through security at the front gate."

Speeding out of the office, Troy yelled back, "Thanks Angie! Meet us at the Dutchman, in ten minutes!"

Troy hugged his younger brother Mike. Mike was built like Troy, and seemed compact and muscular. Until they were seen side-by-side and then it was obvious that Mike was a foot taller than his older brother. Troy broke the hug, reached up and clapped Mike on the shoulder.

Troy said, merrily, "Good to see you, brother! How many of our Chokas will meet us?"

Mike just grinned and answered, "All of them. None of our uncles would miss seeing Cathy taken down a notch. I just don't know why you wanted to meet here in Kansas City, when we need to be in Black River Falls in two hours. It's almost a 550 mile drive."

"That's because we won't be driving," Troy answered, with a twinkle in his eye.

Now Mike argued, "No? Well, even flying is going to take us at least five hours, between switching planes and driving to and from the airports. The council is going to be pissed. You know how they think they rule the roost and hate to be kept waiting."

Troy ignored his arguments. He simply turned and walked toward the corner of the building. Exasperated, Mike followed. Troy spoke over his shoulder, "We won't be flying a plane, either."

Mike started to protest, "Well, what will we be flying?"

He stopped in amazement, as they rounded the corner of the building. A huge, low lying black shape covered most of the rear parking lot. It's the size of a building! Yet, it's obviously a vehicle! It's got to be two hundred fifty feet long, which isn't really all that surprising, a jet airliner is that long, but a airliner doesn't have a body a hundred feet wide and thirty feet tall!

Troy stood and beamed at him. Mike finally managed to stagger the couple of steps that brought him even with Troy.

Troy waved at the gleaming vehicle before them and said with pride, "This is the Flying Dutchman. She's got twin turbojet engines from an old F-4 Phantom, and can carry either 200 passengers or 2000 tons of cargo. Her endurance is virtually unlimited when just using the gravity effects. When using only her gravity effects, she can cruise at over 200 mph. However, since we are in a hurry today; with the turbines, she can make almost 700 mph. It may be over 550 miles if we had to follow the roads, but the straight line distance is less than 400 miles."

Mike finally blurted, "Jesus, this thing is huge! You mean it can fly? Just what do you mean by gravity effects?"

"When all the gravity nullifiers are turned on, she has no weight, ZERO! Nor does the air, for about ten feet around her. So, like a dirigible, she starts to rise, but with her aerodynamic shape, we can turn that lift into forward motion, and perform a long climb. Then when we reach, oh say fifty miles, we can allow some weight, and reverse the process downward. You really ought to make it to some of the meetings," he teased gaily.

"Come on! I was doing what you told me to do. Keeping a lid on things up near the Reservation, so the tribe didn't let the cat out of the bag. I guess I just didn't realize how big the cat had gotten," he grinned back ruefully.

"Until the Conestoga is ready, this is my baby. My concept, my design, and now, it's all mine. I intend to send her in for full ostentatious luxury accoutrements, while I'm off on the Grand Tour. Right now, she's functional, but a bit of a 'bare bones' vehicle," Troy said.

Mike laid his hand reverently on the sleek black hull.

He asked, "I didn't think you had a prayer of keeping the schedule you'd set for this, or for the Conestoga. How did you pull this off?"

"It's amazing what being shareholders does for motivation. You remember how upset the rank and file were when we insisted that they not unionize? Well, they've changed their tune. None of them would let a union organizer near this place, now.