Hollywood is an All Volunteer Army (48 page)

“We've heard every word of them, Fixx.”

“You see, Max, while Mike was in room 113 of the Silver Surf Motel receiving and recording the transmissions from our briefcases, the Captain, an official of law enforcement, I should add, was in the room directly above, room 225, doing exactly the same thing. This was our backup in case our equipment was destroyed as the Captain and a few of his men engaged your people in battle, protecting, of course, the life of Mike. Captain, did Russell and gang put up much of a fight?”

“Nah, they're such pussies, they'll probably die of ovarian cancer. Won't you Russell?”

There was no answer from Russell. Then there was the sound of a gunshot.

“Yes, yes, I'm a pussy!”
came the terrified, diminutive voice of Russell.

“Obviously Russell's positive report to you was a false one induced by the Captain's persuasive manner.”

“Oh, my God! They've got all those tapes!” Sara screamed.

“Get off the air, Sara!”

There was just the hint of agitation in Max's voice.

“It's over, Max. Your usefulness to the Enclave, if there really is such an organization, is over, and if there isn't, your little malignant fantasy of behind-the-scenes power is over. So why don't we all just drop out of these clouds and land. I believe we are quite close now to the Santa Monica Airport.”

Petey, of course, had been in my ear this whole time, keeping me informed as to all our relative positions.

“Do you really think the Enclave will be stopped, simply because I may be? The Enclave is larger than any one man.”

“I'm sure of it, Max. Now, will it be Santa Monica or do we have to go all the way to Long Beach?”

“Fixxer!”
It was Roee over the nipplephone.
“
The clouds
....”

But I could see for myself as I emerged into a canyon of clear sky surrounded by massive black thunderclouds. Roee was ahead of me and was Sara, just above and behind Roee.

“Attack, Sara, while you can, now, now!”

Sara dived. Roee maneuvered an erratic pattern trying to stay out of her gun sights. She was firing nonstop, knowing that she would eventually hit him as she got right on his tail. Then, just as he was slightly higher than Sara's Messerschmitt, Roee dropped his landing gear. The immediate drag threw his Spit back at the 109 and its right wheel connected with and smashed off Sara's canopy.

We could hear her scream through the radio as her plane spun and dropped down into the black clouds below.

“Sara!”
Max screamed and dived after her. Roee and I followed through the clouds, popping out into the clear air and rain over Hawthorne.

“Bail out, Sara! Bail!” Max was screaming. His fear and concern was monumental and surprising.

Sara did not bail. She was most likely unconscious or dead and her craft was in an angle of descent that would eventually see her crash into the middle of downtown Los Angeles.

“Roee, not that the community redevelopment might not be welcomed, but, even on a stormy Sunday, there might be a few people down there.”

“The anniversary road show edition of
Phantom of the Opera
is playing a matinee at the Music Center,” Roee informed.

“Ah, well, then there
would
be a rather satisfying draining of some less than tasteful gene pools....”

“Nonetheless...?”

“Nonetheless.”

Roee hit his throttle and shot off to the right and then made a wide turn to his left to approach Sara's plane from her starboard side. From my position it looked as if he was heading straight towards her, and would intersect full on, smashing her, and himself, to pieces, but I knew that wasn't the plan. The risk was immeasurable, though. Not only his speed, but his angle, his timing, everything had to be perfect. He just wanted to graze her. At the rudder. If he could get the tip of his wing to just nick the end of her rudder, he could force it left, thus causing the plane to yaw left. That would head the plane towards the Hollywood Hills. There were homes up there, but also some open, clear areas. There would not, then, necessarily be loss of life.

They intersected.

There was no ball of fire.

Sara's plane turned.

It was now heading towards the Hollywood Hills, speeding towards the summit. If it passed over it, it would head towards Burbank, and Roee would have traded one mass destruction for another, but it suddenly lost enough altitude and crashed, finally, with a spectacular display of hot fire and bright light, right into the HOLLYWOOD sign.

“Well, that's a rather large contribution we're going to have to make to the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce.”

“Pay attention, guys, Max is on you!”

Max bounced on me from above, bullets and shells ripped through my plane then he flew off towards the crash site and did a victory role over it.

“Good-bye my love,” came his soft, sweet, and tender tribute to one of the most vile and ugly women I had ever met.

“Fixx, are you okay?” It was a concerned Roee.

It was the question utmost in my mind, which had been taking a rather rapid inventory of my craft and myself.

“Well, I'm conscious and despite a number of holes in the plane, and a rapidly decreasing fuel level, I'm flying, so I suspect so—for the moment.”

“Good for you,” Roee said.

“Bad for you!” was Max's opinion.

Max had come around and was on an approach directly towards me. I was in a true “run but could not hide situation.” Obviously with gas spilling out of bullet holes, I was at a dangerous disadvantage. My thought was to get out over the ocean. If there were going to be another dropping of flaming hot metal from out of the sky, it would be best to be away from track homes and malls.

“Maxwellton James, this is Captain Skip Jones of the California Air National Guard. I order you to cease hostilities and land your unauthorized craft.”

The sky was suddenly crowded. A Harrier jet hovered nearby and three HueyCobra helicopter gun-ships kept crisscrossing in front of and behind me.

Max broke off his attack and screamed into a climb.

“I miss the bugles,” Roee said.

“What?”

“Of the Cavalry.”

“Sorry gentleman,” came Captain Jones' voice. “But we have plenty of armament, if that makes you feel any better.”

“Just not the same.”
Roee complained.

“Oh, all right!” Then Captain Jones, not always accurate as to his notes, hummed out a vigorous rendition of “Charge” as the Harrier followed Max, somewhat leisurely, up into the storm clouds.

“Max, time to give up,” I radioed to him.

The line was open, but there was nothing but silence from Max.

“The Enclave cannot protect you, but we can protect you from the Enclave.”

More silence.

“Sorry about Sara, but why should you—”

“I AM WITH THE STORM THE STORM IS MY BROTHER I AM THE STORM AND I SHALL BECLOUD THE WORLD THE STORM SHALL PROTECT ME I AM THE STORM AND THE STORM IS—”

It was a horrible sound. The crack. The sizzle.

“He's falling in pieces,”
Petey reported.

“Where?”

“About a half-mile out over the pacific.”

“Hope he doesn't hit any whales.”

“Time to land, I think, Fixxer.”

“As the E is looming on my gage, I can't find fault with the idea.”

“I got a problem though.”

“What's that?”

“When I took off Sara's canopy, I lost my right wheel.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Captain? Are you on Petey's line?”

“I'm here Fixxer.”

“It looks like we're not going to have to fake the emergency landing. Is everything ready with our strip.”

“Traffic is being cleared now.”

“You understand the situation?”

“Yeah, but what are you—”

“Just have about six of your fastest, strongest men available near the end. Can't explain the plan now, but you'll get it when you see what we're doing.”

“We'll be ready for you.”

“All right. Roee, match me for elevation and speed and we'll skip hand-in-hand along the boulevard.”

Roee positioned his Spit as close to my port side as possible then we flew in a coordinated pattern to position ourselves to approach our landing area, coming in over Hancock Park and Beverly Hills, all the while watching our relative positions to each other as much as our air speed or any other indication on the instrument panel.

“This has got to be surgical,” I said to Roee.

“You're the doctor,”
he replied.

As the ground grew in its immediate importance, we could see humanity and its structures whiz past below, start to pick out individual structures we knew well and individual humans all, it seemed, pointing up at us. Then there were the flashing lights of the roadblock and the mass of black & white police cars. As we flew over their tops, I suddenly had a thought.

“Captain? The overhanging traffic lights?”

“They've been cut down. Certain officials none too happy.”

“Christmas bonuses?”

“That's what I was thinking.”

“Okay Roee, this is it.”

We touched down on Wilshire Boulevard side by side, the tip of my left wing placed just inches under the tip of Roee's right wing. When our wheels hit the pavement, gravity caused Roee's wing to desire the ground and press hard on my wing, tilting my Spit down to the left, lifting its right side. For a moment we each were landing on one wheel. Our flaps were up, though, breaking our speed, and soon we were traveling relatively slow. Six brave officers of the law came running out towards us, got behind us, and ran to the intersection of the wings. At the appropriate moment, I veered off right, Roee's wing fell, and was caught by the ten, running to keep pace, holding the wing up.

Soon we both came to a stop directly in front of the high rise building in Westwood in which we live.

We breathed easier. At least Roee and I did. I can't vouch for the six.

The whole area was deserted of traffic, but there were observers, most well back on the street, or looking out of windows from the various high rises. More officers of the law, including the Captain surrounded us, as we climbed down from our planes and disappeared among the confusion of men.

In a very few minutes two soon-to-be-well-rewarded members of the LAPD were wearing our flight suits, and Roee and I were wearing their uniforms. The Captain assigned us—now officers Saunders and Hough—to go into the building directly in front of us and take statements.

Roee and I gladly entered the building, but statements we did not take. Instead we took the elevator to the fifteenth floor that is our home, and entered into its sanctuary of silence.

Immediate first aid had been rendered to us within the crowd of police as we were changing clothes. Second through—at the very least—thirty-second aid was rendered by Dr. Stone who, with two nurses and much portable medical equipment, was waiting for us on the 15th floor.

He was not happy with our raw meat conditions. I could tell by the shaking of his head and the little noises he made with his tongue. Dr. Stone is a man of few words, but of many noises.

Roee had a number of contusions and bruises plus a chunk of flesh torn out of his right leg. His right cheek bone was fractured, and he probably had a small concussion due to the AK-47 butt.

I had many of the same injuries, but most prominent was a very weird looking right eyelid.

Dr. Stone grunted a need for explanation.

“A very nasty man stuck his thumbnail through it,” I answered.

“Nurse, penicillin.”

I also had an unusual circular first-degree burn in the center of my back. Dr. Stone treated it, not seeming to even want to know how it occurred.

Both Roee and I were exhausted. After the patching, Dr. Stone ordered us to bed, giving us a little something to help. We retired to our bedrooms, each assigned a nurse, who would stay outside our doors with magazines and paperbacks to fill in the time.

It had all moved so quickly, exactly as I had planned it, that many questions I may have had didn't even occur to me to ask until dark and quiet and fading consciousness was the welcomed comfort that surrounded.

I fell asleep with “Lydia” on my lips.

~ * ~

It was that wonderful time coming out of sleep where you feel completely relaxed and all the metaphors you can grab for have to do with floating or flying or any state of affairs where you feel no pressure at all, including, and most importantly, the pressure of physical objects against your skin. It was a quality of time you want to completely experience and hold, therefore you neither want to fall back into sleep, for then experience is deadened, nor to fully wake up, where experience is far too alive, especially to pressures, internal and external.