Saucer: The Conquest

7

Egg and Rip spent the morning putting the finish-ing touches on the antigravity ring installation in the Extra 300L. The problem was not the rings or converter, which were simple to install, but the aircraft's engine. When it was being used to power the generators — there were two — the prop had to be disconnected somehow so all the power of the engine would be available to make electricity.

'You need a transmission that allows you to disconnect the propeller from the crankshaft," Egg said. "That is going to require some serious machining at a properly equipped shop."

"For now, let's just take the prop off the plane," Rip said.

Egg continued thoughtfully, "The saucer has enough electrical power to keep the rings activated until the rockets propel it to flying speed. Even with a transmission, you'll lose electrical power when you engage the propeller. You'll be in a fully stalled condition and will drop like a stone."

"I've been thinking about that," Rip said. "This airplane will never fly like the saucer."

"Then why the experiment?"

Rip tossed his wrench in the dirt. "What else am I going to do?" He hugged himself and glanced at the moon, which was still visible. "I'm spinning my wheels, I know. But I don't know what to do. Charley and I needed a challenge and we didn't have one."

"Making a living is a challenge for most folks. If you don't have that, you need to find another to make life worthwhile."

"Umm," Rip said, and patted the fuselage of the Extra. "Well, let's get the prop off. A scientific experiment, just for the heck of it."

Two hours later they were ready. Sitting in the cockpit, Rip started the airplane's engine while Egg stood by the hangar watching. He watched the voltage meter he had installed on top of the instrument panel as he revved the engine, let it drop to idle, then revved it again.

When the oil and cylinder head temps were in the green, he smoothly took the engine up to redline. With the engine roaring sweetly, the airplane rose smartly into the air.

He stabilized at fifty feet, using the control stick, which varied the voltage to various portions of the ring system, to keep the plane level. By easing the stick forward he could induce forward motion. Pulling it backward stopped the plane in midair, and continued rearward deflection made it move backward.

He was experimenting, getting the feel of the controls, when two cars pulled up to the hangar and four men got out. Rip saw them from the corner of his eye. When he turned to look, he realized one of the men was holding a pistol on Egg.

What—?

Two of them grabbed Egg by the elbows and hustled him toward one of the cars. Rip turned the Extra and nudged it toward them. One of the men stopped, aimed a pistol at the airplane and began shooting. The muzzle flashes of the pistol were plainly visible.

Rip jammed the stick forward. He felt bullets thumping into the plane as the gunman disappeared under the nose. He knew what would happen — the gunman would be lifted up and trapped in the zone between the plane and the ground.

He kept the plane moving forward.

The car with Egg in it peeled out, leaving muddy streaks in the grass in front of the hangar.

Should he fly over the car, see if the antigravity system in the plane could lift it from the ground? If he did, Egg might be injured. Or killed.

Reluctantly he veered off at the last second and went after the other car, whose driver was attempting to follow the first. Glancing back, Rip saw the gunman fall to the ground. He lay motionless with his stainless steel pistol on the ground beside him.

Rip flew in a circle, his eyes on the two cars, which had circled the hangar and headed for the road that led to Egg's gate. Coming out of the turn he shoved the stick as far forward as it would go and began closing on the second car.

As it disappeared under the nose he pulled back on the stick, stopping the plane over the car. After a few seconds, he eased the stick sideways. The first car, with Egg in it, was speeding toward the gate.

Well off to one side, he looked back. The second vehicle was lying on its side with its rear wheels spinning.

Perhaps he should follow the fleeing car. One glance at his cylinder temp gauge nixed that idea — without the flow of hundred-plus mile-per-hour air over the cooling fins of the engine cylinders, the engine was overheating. Oil temp near the red line, too. He set the Extra on the ground a hundred feet from the hangar, let the engine idle for thirty seconds to cool it, then turned it off.

The gunman crumpled near the hangar never moved.

Blood oozed from his mouth, nose and eyes, which stared fixedly at nothing. From the way he lay, it was obvious that his neck was broken.

Rip left the body and walked to the car lying on its side. The engine was still roaring, the rear wheels spinning. The man at the wheel had not fastened his seat belt, so he had been thrown partially out of the car. His head was under the driver's door. The windshield was shattered, glass fragments strewn everywhere.

Rip reached inside and turned the ignition off. He pulled the key far enough out of the switch to silence the beeping and left it there.

He thought of Egg's good pickup, sitting near the house. Egg always left the key in it. He could jump in it and follow the car that held Egg.

Yet he didn't move.

If he caught it, what then?

The kidnappers were armed. If they knew they were being followed, they might kill Egg.

The dead gunman had a wallet in his hip pocket. Rip flipped through the contents. A French driver's license— Maurice Neri, an address in Nice. French credit cards. He put the wallet back in the man's trousers, felt his other pockets and found something stiff… a passport. French. He returned that to the pocket where he found it.

The Extra was leaking fuel. He inspected the belly of the plane. Fuel was dripping from two bullet holes in the bottom of the right wing.

Then he remembered the guard at the gate, a retired local farmer named Ike Pingley. Rip began to run. It was five hundred yards through scrub forest to the gate; he saw Pingley sitting beside the guard shack while he was fifty yards away. As he got closer he could see that Pingley was bound with gray duct tape. He even had a strip across his mouth.

Rip jerked it off.

Pingley groaned. "Are my lips still on?"

"You okay, Ike?"

"Sorry, Rip. They pulled pistols and got the drop on me. There was nothing I could do. Taped me up. Didn't say doodley."

"They kidnapped Egg."

"I saw them go by. Get this tape off me, will ya?"

As Rip jerked tape, Pingley said, "I heard gunshots. And the plane. What was that all about?"

"Guy opened up on me with a pistol. Shot a couple holes in the plane. He and one of his pals are dead."

'You want me to call the law?"

'Yeah."

Rip walked back toward the house as Pingley made the call from the guard shack. They must want the saucer's computer, he thought. Or money. At least there were two of them who would never see another dime.

He was halfway to the house when the cell phone in his pocket vibrated.

"Hello."

"Rip, it's Charley."

Rip was stunned. "The French said you went off your nut. It's been on every television news show on earth. Where are you?"

"I'm a hundred miles above you in orbit. Won't be able to talk long."

"Four French dudes with guns kidnapped Egg. Two of them are dead, but the other two snatched him and drove away about five minutes ago. They probably wanted me too, but I was flying the Extra."

Charley said a cuss word. "I need your help, Rip. Let me tell you what's going down." And she did. After three minutes of nonstop talking, she said, "I'm going to lose you any second. Call you back on the next orbit, in about eighty minutes."

The phone went dead.

He stumbled along, trying to think. Thirty minutes ago he was strapping into the airplane, with Egg watching. Now there were two dead men lying near the hangar, and Egg was gone.

Pierre Artois!

Charley Pine had forty minutes to stew in the cock-pit of Jeanne d 'Arc before the moon came over earth's horizon. Joe Bob Hooker was sitting in the right seat, where he had listened as she used Pierre's cell phone.

"Want to tell me about it?" he asked finally.

"Pierre sent some thugs to kidnap my boyfriend's uncle. Probably my boyfriend too. Two of the thugs are dead, but they managed to grab Uncle Egg. Pierre is sending me a message. Don't make waves, or else."

"How do you know it was Pierre?"

"The gunmen were French. They came to Egg's farm in Missouri. They snatched him. You figure it out."

"Oooh boy!"

"Yeah."

"So where you gonna land this thing?"

"I dunno."

"DFW would be nice. I'll take a cab home." DFW was Dallas-Fort Worth International.

"Hold that thought." The moon was coming over the curvature of the Earth, so she reached for the radio, flipped it on and dialed in the primary lunar base frequency. This was also the freq that Mission Control used to talk to the base.

"Hey, Pierre, this is Charley."

She waited.

"Jeanne d'Arc, Mission Control." It was a male voice, one she didn't recognize. He paused for a moment to give her time to respond. When she didn't, he began spouting questions in French anyway.

When Mission Control paused for air, Charley repeated her transmission in English. "Pierre, this is Charley, over."

This time she heard his voice. "I'm listening, Charley."

"Some French thugs just kidnapped my boyfriend's uncle in Missouri. You want to tell me about it?"

'You stole a spaceplane, and you ask me about a crime in Missouri?"

"So what's the deal here, Pierre? I assume you want to threaten me. Mission Control and probably half the news networks on the planet are listening, so go ahead."

"Mademoiselle Pine. I know nothing about Missouri. I do know that you stole our spaceplane. I suggest you land it at the spaceport in France as soon as possible."

"Or?"

"We'll get you the medical help you need. That I can promise."

Charley took a deep breath, then said, "I already have medical insurance, although I appreciate the offer. Since you are so kind, I'll tell you how it went up there before I boogied. Courbet showed me the beam generator and told me your plans."

A long silence ensued while Artois decided how to respond. Obviously he wasn't yet ready to turn on his beam generator and make demands.

She keyed her mike. "How much longer are you going to wait, Pierre, before you give them the bad news?"

"Mademoiselle, I don't know what you are talking about."

"Soon, I think," she said, and flipped the radio off before Pierre or Mission Control could reply.

"Was that wise?" Joe Bob Hooker asked, his voice deadly calm.

"So you think I'm crazy too."

"Charley, I don't know what to think. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that the man running a huge French expedition to the moon — the biggest space program in history — is off his rocker. All I have is your word for it."

She riveted her eyes on him. "Can you fly this thing?"

"Uh, no."

"Then I suggest you fix us some goo for dinner and stay out of my way. If I'm crazy, there's no telling what I might do."

Joe Bob opened and closed his mouth several times but decided that he didn't want to say anything. He removed his headset and unfastened his seat belt. He floated up and out of his chair and used the back of the copilot's seat as a launching pad.

In Mission Control, the French space minister Listened to a replay of Charley's conversation with Pierre Artois. He didn't understand what they were discussing, and it was obvious they did not intend that he should. It was a private conversation with the whole world listening.

"//ow much longer are you going to wait, Pierre, before you give them the bad newsY* What did that mean? What bad news? Certainly not the fact that Pine took the spaceplane — she knew that everyone knew about that. And what the devil was a beam generator?

The minister picked up the secure telephone and called the premier.

And was two minutes too late. The premier had heard the entire conversation on CNN.

"What is a beam generator?" the premier asked the minister.

"I do not know, sir."

"You are the man who is supposed to know. Find out and call me back."

The president of the United States was having a quiet afternoon in front of his television, sipping Diet Coke and munching barbecue potato chips. The White House pooch was asleep on the floor. The president had asked his staff to jiggle the schedule around so he could concentrate on the French crisis — he had told the press secretary to use precisely that phrase when talking to the working press: "the French crisis." You must admit, the phrase had a wonderful ring.

The president had his shoes and tie off when the television network began playing its tape of Charley and Artois' conversation.

When it was over he sat staring at the idiot box. He picked up the telephone. One of the secretaries answered it. "Get O'Reilly, the secretary of state, the director of the CIA, and the national security adviser. As soon as possible in my office."

'Yes, sir."

P.J. O'Reilly, the chief of staff, was the first man through the door. The dog growled, then went over to a corner to rearrange itself well out of O'Reilly's way. Brilliant, arrogant, utterly devoid of humor — and humanity, some said— O'Reilly was the most intensely political creature the president had ever had the misfortune to meet. No one liked him, not even the current Mrs. O'Reilly. One of his many enemies had said he had the soul of a lizard. With a resume like that, the president thought, he was perfect for the job of chief of staff.

"I had the television on as background noise," O'Reilly told the president. "I heard it."

"Be nice if our spies knew what was going on in France."

"They don't," O'Reilly said bluntly. "And I don't think the French government has a clue either."

"Boy, I certainly would enjoy being a spy in France. It would beat the heck out of this job. Nice climate, great food, wonderful wine, beautiful women…" The president sighed wistfully. "Oh, well. What is a beam generator, anyway?"

"A searchlight would be my guess."

"Mine too. Or maybe a laser."

The president wriggled his toes and popped a potato chip into his mouth. After he swallowed it, he said, "Glad I'm not the premier of France." And he chuckled.

When the telephone in his pocket rang again, Rip was on the porch with one of the state police lieutenants. "Excuse me a moment," he said. "I must take this call." He walked to the end of the porch and opened the cover of the phone.

"Hello."

"It's me."

"The police are here. We're certain the two dead kidnappers are French. One of them even had a French passport in his pocket."

"Pierre Artois sent them."

"How in hell did you get mixed up with that bastard?"

"I made a mistake. All right? Rip, I need your help."

"So does Egg."

"Have the police check bizjet flights to France. I can't see two Frenchmen holed up with Egg in a hideout in the Ozarks."

"Okay," he said briskly.

"Are you willing to help me?"

"This isn't Rent-a-Hero."

"I need you, Rip."

"Okay."

"And I need to hear you say it about me."

Rip Cantrell took a ragged breath. Well, there it was. Yes or no. Do we go forward or rehash the past? "I don't need someone who wanders off every time she gets bored or someone makes a better offer."

"I deserve that, I suppose."

"On the other hand, if I'd worked harder at being someone you wanted to be with, maybe you wouldn't have been bored."

'Yes."

"What say we get Egg back? When we get out of jail, we'll go on from there."

"Deal! But let's try to stay out of jail, for a little while, anyway. This is what I want to do." And she told him.

The warm glow of triumph suffused Julie Artois as she stood watching her husband and Claudine Courbet completing the final preparations for the testing of the antigrav-ity beam. Henri Salmon stood beside her. There were three other men in the chamber, all engineers. The men had the dust covers off the telescope and beam generator; the reactor was producing power, and the computers calculating aimpoints and angles. Signals from the computer were gently moving the telescope and beam generator, aiming them. All the personnel were wearing space suits, although they had yet to don their helmets and pressurize the suits, and would not do so until they were ready to depressurize the chamber and roll back the roof cover.

Years of dreaming, scheming and planning were coming to fruition in the next few moments. The antigravity beam had been the final piece in the puzzle. A beam generator on the moon that could strike any spot on planet Earth was the ultimate weapon, against which the nations of the earth had no defense.

Finally, after eons of war, strife, starvation and disease, the rule of might makes right was going to be used for good. Henceforth she and Pierre were going to right the wrongs, cure the sick, feed the starving… lift mankind from the eternal struggle for every morsel to the enlightened benefits of a new civilization, one built on compassion for the needs of all.

Of course it would not be easy. Many would resist. Yet in human affairs the truth was indisputable: The ends do indeed occasionally justify the means. On the bright side, this would be the last great struggle. She and Pierre would lead mankind into a new and brighter tomorrow. Lead them kicking and screaming, but they were going — or they would die.

She was up to the task. This was her destiny.

Pierre, of course, thought it was his. Suffused with testosterone, the males of the species needed to believe in something, and being simple-minded fools, they usually believed in themselves. Every woman with a lick of sense understood that reality and worked with it. Pierre did as Julie wished him to do and believed it was his own idea. Watching Pierre now, Julie Artois smiled.

Her gaze switched to Courbet, and the smile faded. These engineers were true believers, but they lacked judgment. They would obey orders; they would have to, the stakes were too large. If they didn't— She became acutely aware of Salmon standing beside her. The man had an animal presence.

If they didn't obey, she would tell Salmon. He would fix things.

Julie Artois did not believe in heaven or hell or life after death. This existence is all you get, she mused. This one short life is all you get to make your mark, to make life better for those who will come after.

She was about to create an inferno that would forever change the nations of the world. Once the people of the earth saw the benefits of the new world order, it would become the new paradigm. National pride, war and the all-consuming, eternal quest for the all-mighty dollar would become ancient history. World peace would be her monument, and it would outlast the pyramids.

Her reverie came to an end when Pierre announced, "We are ready."

Claudine Courbet nodded her concurrence. She had helped design this entire installation. She seemed absorbed in the technical minutia and had personally supervised the connection of every cable and the testing of every component in the system. The success of the beam generator would be her triumph, Julie believed, against all those people who believed women were good for only one thing.

The people in the chamber donned their helmets, then pressurized their space suits and checked each other's suits. Pierre checked Julie's and he checked hers. Julie saw that he was smiling inside his helmet. He touched his helmet to hers and whispered, "This is the moment."

Men are truly amazing, she thought. He saw himself as Napoleon and her as his Josephine, when in reality she was Joan of Arc.

When everyone was ready, the depressurization of the cavern began. It took about five minutes to pump all the air out. When the pumps had extracted all the air they could, the overhead door was cracked open, allowing the last of the air to escape. Then the doors began their mechanical journey to the fully opened position. As they rolled back, sunlight at a low angle flooded one corner of the cavern. It was so bright that those who had forgotten to lower the sun visors on their helmets were dazzled by the brilliance.

Julie took two long steps to the beam generator and looked up. The earth hung in the black sky above like a round blue jewel, although one side was shaded in darkness.

With the door fully open, Pierre announced, "Let us begin."

One of the engineers manned the console that controlled the telescope. He brought up the picture on the monitor as Julie and Pierre watched. They found they were looking almost straight down at a brown landscape, a desert. The engineer used the computer to zoom in on the center of the picture. A square object was there, slightly off center. Even using star locators, the orientation of the telescope was not perfect, which was due to the inevitable manufacturing tolerances present in the gears and drives that aimed the device. Now the engineer aimed the telescope by hand, centering the square object, a building, in the crosshairs.

"Full charge on the capacitor," Courbet announced from her position at the main control console. Her voice was carried over an intercom system to each helmet by a wire. The transmissions from even a low-voltage radio system could have been picked up on earth, so the intercom system was hardwired.

Courbet slaved the beam generator to the signals from the telescope's servo drive, verified that it was aligned, then ordered everyone in the chamber to take a safety position. All involved moved behind the antimagnetic shield that had been erected between the beam generator and the main control console.

Pierre personally inspected the readouts, then gave the order. "Fire."

Courbet jabbed the red button on the console, discharging the capacitor to the beam generator.

Every person in the cavern felt the electrical charge, which tingled their skin and made the room glow with a blue light for several seconds. Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Claudine Courbet and Pierre Artois dashed to the telescope monitor and stared at the picture. The building in the crosshairs, a quarter million miles away, was not there anymore.

The private jet touched down at the Tonopah, Nevada, airport and taxied to the far end of a huge, crumbling concrete parking mat. Two four-wheel-drive vehicles drove up beside the airplane. Egg didn't recognize the airport, but he was fairly certain they were someplace in Nevada. A few old hangars were visible. From the size of the parking mat, he concluded that this was an old military base.

He had little time to look around before he was hustled straight into one of the vehicles. His hands were bound in front of him with a plastic tie, not too tight; no one had put a blindfold on him. Obviously they weren't worried about what he might tell law enforcement officials at some time in the future, if he had one.

The men who had kidnapped him had made several telephone calls while the jet was in flight, but they hadn't spoken to him. There were two of them, both fit men of about thirty. When they had something to say to each other, they said it in French, a language that Egg didn't speak. If they were grieving over their two colleagues who had died on the farm in Missouri, they hid it well. Occasionally they talked to the flight crew, but mainly they watched the news on a television monitor. They did share some food and offered Egg a glass of wine, which he accepted.

A few minutes after they snatched him, the kidnappers patted him down. They found his cell phone and threw it out a car window. Once they found it, they stopped searching. They apparently didn't expect him to have a concealed weapon — and he didn't. Each of them did, however. Not that Egg had much of a chance against two fit men twenty-five years younger and seventy-five pounds lighter than he was.

One of the men sat in the backseat with Egg and the other took the wheel of the SUV, which was, Egg thought, a Chevrolet Tahoe. In seconds the Tahoe was under way with the second vehicle following. As they drove away from the airport on the access road, Egg saw the jet taking off.

The Tahoe was soon on the hard road, cruising at least seventy-five miles per hour. Egg looked out the window a while at the empty desert landscape and the distant mountains. Finally he slumped over, exhausted, and fell asleep.

The bumping and bouncing of the Tahoe over a dirt road woke him. It was night. Egg announced he had to take a leak, and the SUV stopped immediately. The man in the backseat merely watched his back as Egg urinated beside the car.

He was somewhere in the desert, he thought. There was a decent breeze, and he could smell juniper, perhaps. Something with a dry, gentle scent. He glanced at the headlights of the vehicle sitting behind his, then zipped up and climbed back in the seat.

Thirty or so minutes later the Tahoe came to a gate in a fence. The driver used a handheld radio, and soon a vehicle approached the wire from the other side. The driver of Egg's vehicle got out, went to the gate and talked. He came back as the person on the other side opened the gate. The Tahoe drove on through, then was again lost in the emptiness.

After another hour of this, a building loomed in the headlights. It was huge, with plain walls. An aircraft hangar. An old one, from what he could see of it, with only a little paint remaining on weathered boards.

The men got out of the car and gestured for Egg to do so too. One of them led the way through a personnel door at one end of the hangar that took them into an office of some sort. There was a man there, sitting behind a desk. He was in his forties, perhaps, with short red hair, faded freckles and a splotchy tan. He looked lean and ropy, as if he were too nervous to keep on weight or too busy to eat.

He stared at Egg Cantrell. "So you're the man, eh?"

Egg merely looked around at the wooden hangar walls, which hadn't seen paint since World War II. The desk was gray metal with a scarred top, the chairs metal and equally worn.

"Cut his hands loose," the man said to one of the Frenchmen, who took out a knife and did so. Apparently they spoke English after all.

As Egg massaged his wrists, the man pointed to a chair. "No, thanks. I've been sitting for hours."

'Yes. Well, I'll get right to it. We need your help. Last year you flew the flying saucer with your nephew. You've made quite a name for yourself since as an expert in saucer technology. We've got a saucer, and we want you to fly it for us."

Egg couldn't believe his ears. "You have one?"

"That's right."

"And who are you?"

The man said nothing.

Egg looked around, scrutinized every face, then pulled one of the chairs around and lowered himself onto it. "Maybe I should sit, after all. Where, may I ask, is your saucer?"

The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the hangar."

"Why the kidnapping? I think two men may have been severely injured—" He made a gesture. "If you had just sent me an e-mail I would have come charging out here as fast as the horses would run to take a look."

"There are a few complications," the man said dryly, "which we'll get into later, if you like. Suffice it to say that the need is urgent and there was no time to waste."

"I see."

"If you wish to look—" The man rose from his chair. He was tall, with large hands. He held one out to shake. "My name is Newton Chadwick."