The Rocketeer Read Online Free PDF Page A

muscle power and force of will. Through clenched teeth he muttered to the crippled engine, “That’s it . . . don’t die on me now.” He barely managed to keep the GeeBee from plowing into a hillside as he continued hurried words of encouragement, both to the plane and to himself. “Eaaasssssy does it . . . no more surprises, okay?”
    Someone up there in the heavens that Cliff was always reaching for decided to show just how seriously they were taking Cliff’s heartfelt plea of “no more surprises.” A rod blew through the cowling, and Cliff’s canopy was instantly coated with a thick stream of brackish motor oil. Whacked controls, a stubborn stick, a failing engine, and now—just to make it interesting—he was flying blind. Great. Just great.
    He pounded frantically on the windscreen, trying to punch his way through the bullet-riddled glass. He shouted everything he could think of in frustration and then, to his amazement, the glass gave way. Air blew into Cliff’s face, a bracing, stinging sensation—
    —and another plane was coming right at him.
    Cliff screamed and jerked back on the stick, uttering a quick prayer. Not that they had been doing any good until then.
    This one did, though, as the GeeBee jumped upward, clearing the oncoming obstruction with inches to spare.
    Cliff glanced back to see who the hell he’d almost hit, and then his eyes widened in disbelief. It was a highway billboard advertising some movie called Wings of Honor. Smack in the center of the billboard was a painted image of a warplane and an actual propeller mounted on it to give it a realistic three-dimensional effect. It spun wildly in the GeeBee’s wake, and had been just a bit too realistic for Cliff’s personal taste.
    Through a eucalyptus grove hurtled the roadster, with the Plymouth right after them. They hadn’t put enough distance between themselves and the feds for Wilmer’s taste, and he was doing everything he could in a last-ditch effort to do so before they reached the airfield.
    The feds were getting closer and, damn! They were now running a parallel track with the Ford roadster. Wilmer ducked down as Lenny opened fire once more, exchanging a furious hail of bullets with the Plymouth. Bullets were ricocheting everywhere, perforating the trees and leaves.
    Wilmer spotted two eucalyptus trees to his right and angled quickly toward them. They were side by side, but there was enough of a gap in between them—he thought. He held his breath, certain that they would be able to get through, uttered one more quick prayer that this was the last job, honest to God, and then the Ford shot through the two trees. Paint scraped off either side of the roadster—it was that close a squeeze. But it was enough and the Ford made it through. Up ahead he could make out the outlines of airplane hangers.
    Wooly whipped the Plymouth around, right on the track of the Ford. The side-by-side trees loomed ahead, and he saw the Ford disappearing into them. He slammed down on the gas as Fitch, bracing himself against the dashboard, warned, “She ain’t gonna make it . . .”
    “Yes, she will!” shouted Wooly. Wooly was determined. Wooly was positive. Wooly was unstoppable.
    Wooly was wrong.
    The car slammed to a jarring halt, caught between the two trees, tires spinning helplessly.
    “Like I said,” continued Fitch calmly.
    Wooly gave his partner an annoyed glance and then threw the car in reverse, grinding gears. The car moaned and so did Wooly as the two front fenders ripped clean off.
    Fitch quickly surveyed the damage. In addition to the absent fenders, smoke and steam were still billowing out, and the sides and front were more holey than a football field of nuns.
    Their heads were going to be on the block as it was. If the crooks got away with the stolen case, Fitch and Wooly might as well just make a hard left and keep on going until they drove into the Pacific.
    “Move it!” shouted Fitch. Wooly did so, going around the trees this