It was slow going up the winding road. With the early winter fog swirling in the headlights, Brian licked his dry lips and watched the needle on the car's speedometer swing past fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, twenty-eight miles an hour. He looked at Chris, then at the fog behind him, and felt a wave of claustrophobia. He wanted to push the speed up a little, but Chris had made it very clear that they weren't to be seen going too fast or talking to the driver on the other car riggers. This was the third time he'd made that mistake, and the third time Chris had pulled him into their bathroom and given him a severe talking to.
Oh, well. He took a deep breath of the sharp, bitter winter air and raised the window, letting the warm air fill the cab. It was a clear, cold night, and he pulled the fox fur collar of his sheepskin jacket up around his neck and threw a strand of hair out the window, over the rim of the half-opened glass.
"Nice night, eh?" Chris said, looking around at Brian.
He grabbed the wheel and pulled it back in line with the steering wheel. "Yeah," Brian said, feeling a little nervous. He'd been so distracted by the cold and the wind that he'd forgotten that he'd parked in the wrong spot. The way he set it up, the riggers who'd been at the aerodrome to receive their cargo waited just past the airstrip - in the clearing where the warehouse was - and they drove right up to it.
"No," Chris said, as the hired truck drove up. "Sorry, man. The riggers are still waiting for you." He looked at his watch. "They've been waiting forever, it seems. Are you sure we're going to be able to make the rendezvous? You're missing the biggest show of the year, dude. And I haven't even told you about the special surprise I have for you."
"You mean I've never heard of it?" Brian said, holding down a laugh. He talked like that sometimes, too, and since they'd met in the army, Brian often talked like that.
Chris laughed, and so did Brian, and then they burst out into peals of laughter. Brian wiped his eyes.
The big truck had stopped, and Brian could see two men inside, waiting for him to stop. It was astonishing how quickly the sky could change when the clouds parted and let the sun stream in - now was no different. It looked like the two men were surrounded in light. He'd been so busy watching the dark that he'd missed it.
Chris said, "See, that's the thing, Brian," laughing, glancing into the rearview one more time.
Brian raised a hand to his eyes, checking the watch on his wrist. He'd missed the time. "Damn it," he said, and looked over at Chris, who still wore the expression of a man enjoying the biggest surprise of his life. "Crap."
"Hey," Chris said, "You said you had a surprise!"
"I know, man," Brian said, sucking in a breath. "I'm sorry. We're going to miss the show."
Chris had a flush of excitement on his face that mirrored Brian's, and Brian wished they were in a warm place, with a hot drink.
"It's all right," Chris said, but his voice sounded uncertain.
"I'm so sorry," Brian said, and turned the truck around and pulled it into the clearing. It wasn't a big show, not like the one in which Brian had tried to earn a medal last year. This one was for some local dignitaries and liquor distributors in the county, and it was mostly held in the hangar where the aerodrome kept its tiny fleet of Stinson airplanes. It was held at the very building that was on the edge of the clearing - the warehouse. Brian could see it from where he was, or had been, parked. He hadn't checked the time, and hadn't thought about traffic.
The warehouse was large, but not that large. The newer part of it was made of steel. The old part had been made of wood, and hadn't been built to keep out a snowstorm. It didn't have a roof of any kind, and sat like a saucer in the middle of the clearing. Brian looked at the gilded peak of the German-made Zeppelin that sat in front of it and thought, for a moment, that it looked like a fat, gold ship. He loved that ship, and had seen it in person, one time. It was impressive, has a bulk, but never as fast as light.
But he wasn't really thinking about airships or the German navy or even the Zeppelin he'd seen in person. He was thinking about the pretty, smiling face of their driver, and the way she'd looked when she'd told him that the two men inside the car waiting for them were policemen. He was remembering the cruel eyes of the man, and the way he'd paused and moved around the truck and gotten in beside Chris, as if he didn't see a husband in his passenger's side. He was remembering the way the man had touched Chris's arm, and how the touch had seemed to linger a little too long. The man said something to Brian, and Brian said something back, and they'd shared a laugh, but the man had looked away as if something in Brian's face hadn't been right. And when the man had gotten out of the truck, well, that had been when Brian had realized why the man was there. He was there to stop them.
Brian had looked up at the riggers, and then, just in case, he'd looked back at Chris, and then, of course, Brian had known that the man in the truck-for-hire was no cop.
He pulled the truck into the clearing, as much as he could without touching the warehouse. He grabbed the cold, heavy pistol, which lay next to him in the passenger's seat, and turned around, so that he was fully facing the riggers. One of the men was yelling. He had a short, black, curly beard, and he was yelling, looking at Brian, and then at Chris. He was yelling something about being in the way. That was when Brian knew.
He fired the pistol at the ground. The gunshot rang out sharply in the still air, and then, cruelly, it fizzled out. Brian had forgotten. He'd forgotten they'd be indoors and out of the cold. He'd forgotten about the bulb in the warehouse that had not burned out in fifty years. He'd forgotten that there was a glass bulb in the warehouse, and that glass had never turned dark.
TheZeppelin twisted, and the gigantic ship began to go down toward the ground. The Zeppelin had made it down, and the ground had not been able to stop it. The ship twisted and crumbled along its side. The men from the car took out their revolvers, but they were too late. They came out of the truck, revving the engine. They took aim, but the single bullet that Brian had in his hand was good for only one shot. He wouldn't have time to fire off another one.
Brian scrambled into the passenger's seat as the men in the black uniforms approached them. The men were yelling at them to get out of the truck. Chris was still in the driver's seat. He was moving slowly, and even in the darkness, Brian saw the strange light of fear in his eyes.
"What do we do?" Brian said.
"We're in the way," Chris said, his voice sounding like a little girl's. "We're in the way, and we have to move."
"Wait, look!" Brian said.
Meaningless words popped into Brian's mind. He wanted to get them away from the warehouse and get them out of the compound, but he didn't know what to say.
"The police!" Chris said. "Help us!"
Brian's eyes caught Chris's message, and he smiled. He knew these men. He recognized them as police. The men had thick, black gloves on their hands, and they had big, heavy revolvers on their belts. They were the men who had come to Ocala, looking for Brian.
"We've got help!" Brian said to Chris.
"Help!" Chris said, in a voice that was no louder than a whisper.
The man on Chris's side of the truck reached in and tried to grab the radio that sat on the dash of the truck. He made a grab for it, and he jerked backwards as a bullet passed through the inside of his coat and hit him in the shoulder. The man flinched, and then he pulled the radio down. He put it to his ear.
