Deuces Down

“Tominbang’s in a lot of trouble,” Al Dearborn told me a few moments later. Tominbang had failed to appear for a lunch meeting. Instead he had telephoned, and wound up telling Dearborn his sad story: he had not been using his own money for the Quicksilver-to-the-Moon program. Instead, he had dipped into funds belonging to others, apparently in the hopes that profits from the first Moon flight would allow him to pay back his unwitting “investors” before they realized they’d been robbed.

But one of the parties found out. “Some guy named Warren Skalko. Ever heard of him?”

“Yes,” I said. In order to keep Dearborn from pressing further (since I doubted I could lie to him), I added, “he’s the local godfather. Bad news.”

The bad news explained the flurry of activity in the hangar. Jokers and deuces were shredding papers; a burn barrel out back was a-flame. Every few moments, a car would launch itself out of the parking lot in a spray of gravel. “You’d think we were about to be bombed,” I said to Dearborn.

“From what Tominbang said, that’s a distinct possibility.”

“How can we launch tonight if he’s not here?”

“He’s not making the trip.”

“Given the situation, I’m not sure I’m making the trip.” In fact, I was, at that moment, quite and sure I wasn’t. I was two minutes away from making a hasty departure from Tehachapi-Kern.

“Well, Cash, as you know: without you, there is no flight to the Moon.” He smiled to take the edge off what was clearly a threat: “I’d hate to have to kidnap you.”

“In that case,” I said, “when do we leave?”

Dearborn clapped me on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit!”

Seeing one last opportunity to put an end to this madness, I said, “Can we operate Quicksilver with a crew of two?”

“Operate, yes. But the mass properties have been very finely calibrated to your talents, Co-pilot. We’ve got to have a certain amount of mass in that right-hand seat. And, given that we can probably use the extra hands on the Moon, I’d rather not just fill it with a sack of cement.”

Just then, Bacchus walked in, brought by Eva-Ly

“Yeah, how much do you weigh?”

“In the mornings I mass 185 pounds,” Bacchus said, his voice like a hiccup. “By evening that decreases to around 182, depending on my fluid intake-”

Dearborn held up his hand. I could have told him that with Bacchus, there was no such thing as a short answer to a direct question. “Sorry. That puts us over our weight limit-”

Before I could even think it, much less say it, Eva-Ly

“What’s that?” Dearborn said.

“How much I weigh.”

Bacchus snorted. Dearborn and I looked at each other.

“Do you know what we’re talking about?” I said.

“Going to the Moon, Cash.” As if she were talking about a drive to Barstow, or possibly as far as Las Vegas.

“Can we take a girl to the Moon?” I asked.

“I don’t know about you, Co-pilot, but I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have along.” He gri

It was the evening of Friday, December 20. I realized that Christmas was only a few days away, and I had bought nothing for anyone-not even Eva-Ly

Dearborn and I struggled into our pressure suits. Eva-Ly

Thinking of women’s undergarments triggered another worry: “Uh, what are you doing to do about… sanitary matters?”

Eva-Ly

Dearborn was already in the forward seat as I strapped into the left rear position. Then Eva-Ly

Sobel was about to close the airlock hatch when he leaned in, agitated. “Bikers are storming the gates!” he said. “What should I do?”

“Lock the damned door and take cover,” Dearborn growled. He had already started the engine.

Sobel froze with indecision for a long moment. Then, apparently deciding that Dearborn ’s order made sense, gave me his hand. “Good luck! Bring back some green cheese!”

He wiggled out of sight and closed the hatch behind him. We heard several clicks as the latches fired, and we were sealed in.

“One minute,” Dearborn said. “Hold on, people. You’re going to take the ride of your lives!”

Eva-Ly

Spang! Something struck Quicksilver! “What was that?” Eva-Ly

“I think the SOBs are shooting at us,” Dearborn said. “Hang on, we’re go.” And go we were-

For perhaps a hundred yards down the runway. Even with my limited visibility, I could see the flashes of bullets striking the pavement in front of us. Then one of them struck home, making the cockpit ring. Then I heard hissing.

Red warning lights erupted on Dearborn ’s console. A bell sounded. “Goddammit,” he snapped. With inhuman-or joker-calm, he tried to stop our rollout. The whole vehicle shook as we skidded off the runway. Only then did I realize just how fast we’d been going.

Quicksilver slewed to the left and slammed into something immobile. Eva-Ly

Not so Dearborn. Perhaps his harness had been loose. In any case, he had hit the instrument panel. He was breathing hard, waving weakly at the two of his with a free hand, “Get out!”

I obeyed, hitting the emergency egress switch on the canopy. It flew off with a muffled thump! The next few moments were chaotic as I unstrapped, helped Eva-Ly

Lights blinded us. Shadowy figures boiled out of the darkness, swarming over Quicksilver and Dearborn like insects.

Eva-Ly

I saw Sobel lying face-down on the ground just outside the hangar, a trail of blood marking the path of his death crawl.

We were shoved into the same equipment room where poor Sobel had helped us into our suits not an hour earlier. We barely had time to catch our breath when Mr. Skalko entered, accompanied by several of his thugs. “You,” he said, pointing to me. “Out.”

I was hauled to my feet and essentially stripped of my suit. Then, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and shorts, I was marched out of the hangar. Dearborn and Eva-Ly

“You cut it a little close,” Mr. Skalko said.

“Tominbang moved up the launch.” I’m sure I sounded angry, because I was. I had assumed that Skalko would take action once he knew the Quicksilver launch was imminent. I hadn’t expected that action to be a mob shootout.