Magestic 2, p.12
Magestic 2, page 12
‘Jump down, please.’ He faced the group. ‘What does the wing of gull do in a storm? Does it bend, or does it snap?’
‘It bends,’ they agreed.
‘It’s always better to bend, than to snap. If the wing is under high stress, bending is less of a problem than snapping. Something bent … can bend back. Examine where it broke, and think about flexing. I want another one just as soon as humanly possible.’
He led Ted Baker to Bill’s office, pulling out a drawing and flattening it out.
Ted closed in. ‘Oh … she’s a beauty; mono-wing, swept design for speed.’
‘But that one wing will need the loading.’
Ted nodded. ‘Twenty feet?’
‘A larger wing, but thinner; you get the rate of turn, plus speed.’
‘How fast do you think it could go?’ Ted keenly asked.
‘Well over two hundred miles per hour I’m hoping.’
‘Wow. I can’t wait to get behind the controls of something like this.’ He eased back. ‘You’re … wasting a hell of a lot of money on this.’
‘Investing, Ted, investing. If it flies … well, it could be sold to the Americans, maybe in Europe. I have some engines coming in next week, pop down and have a look. They’re the most powerful engines I could find.’
‘All OK with the government?’ Ted asked.
‘Fine. We now have licenses for munitions manufacture and export, export of planes. Anyway, I have something I want you to make for me, for Africa.’ Jimmy pulled out another drawing.
‘What the blazes is that?’
‘A truck with no roof, and with tracks at the back for going across mud and swamp in the jungle. We’ll call it … a half-track.’
‘Looks a bit like a bulldozer.’
‘It needs to be strong, to haul stuff as well. Can you put a team on it?’
‘Sure, but they’re stretched.’
‘Ease off on the tractors a bit, we got the first batch away OK.’
Whilst at the aircraft factory, Jimmy went and found Mac and Handy in their new spacious building. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Reckon we got the AK47 reliable,’ Mac said, Handy nodding. ‘I stuck a thousand rounds through one before I screwed up its barrel.’
‘Good. Start on hand grenades.’
‘Grenades?’
‘Standard grenades, and create a grenade range. When you have a three second grenade, start with longer fuses, anything up to eight hours.’
‘Good Morning grenades,’ they said with a smile.
‘And then, a grenade with a long pin and concussion fuse, to stick down the end of the AK47 and fire.’
‘What range?’ Handy asked.
‘Whatever is practical, but if it’s not over a hundred yards then you’re a bunch of slackers. And Mac, the white coat is fine, but do you have to wear black and white stripped shoes?’
‘They’re common, it’s the fashion,’ Mac protested.
‘For the local dance maybe, not to work,’ Jimmy pointed out.
He left them laughing at each other, shaking his head. Bumping into Bill, he found his partner in the business coughing, and looking most unwell. ‘OK, Bill?’
‘Doctor says I need more tests, maybe in Seattle.’
‘Come by tonight, we’ll have a catch-up and a drink.’
Later that night, with Bill drunk and unconscious, Jimmy injected him in the leg with Sandra’s blood, a lower potency than his. They put Bill to bed and called his wife, who was not a happy bunny, returning an apologetic husband in the morning. Good job it was a Saturday.
As Bill’s health slowly improved, Mac and Handy made grenades, the scientists assisting with fuse design. When ready, each grenade was dropped into a water tank, the lid closed, its effects monitored, i.e. the pressure pushing up a dial. After each blast the pieces were fetched out by a young assistant and counted, large lumps handed to Mac for study. The iron casing was adjusted several times so that fragmentation was truly fragmentary. They then worked on the pressure; the blast power.
That Sunday, shouting caused many to see what was up at the lodge’s reception.
‘Mac, you go fishing with grenades again and I’ll stick one up your arse!’ Jimmy barked.
‘I saw it on the telly, Crocodile Dundee whatsit. Keep your panties on!’
Jimmy slammed the door on his way out.
With the basic grenade working well, machines were made ready, a nightshift employed, and a batch of two thousand grenades were duly made ready, shipped to Ngomo with the fuses out. The white officers of the Kenyan Rifles soon learnt to throw a grenade and duck, the men familiar with them from the First World War, where crude variants were used. Ngomo also received two hundred AK47s of the latest design - the weapons now reliable, as well as a great deal of ammunition.
The recruits of the Kenyan Rifles switched from bolt action rifles to AK47s, something of a step up. They also received an early batch of Thompson machineguns with both straight and round magazines. But now that the men had delivery of the AKs, tactics changed for training, live fire exercises starting to push both the men – and the officers.
The new Governor of Kenya was disturbed by the Kenyan Rifles, since insurrection was a problem, memories still fresh about the Italians being pushed out of Somalia. But, with presence of the white English officers - most of them well-connected - his fears were played down. His predecessor was also the Honouree Colonel in Chief; Jimmy had planned ahead.
Meanwhile, at the lodge, the British guards received AK47s, and now hid their laser pistols. Hunting took on a whole new meaning, unwary local low-flying ducks now subject to bursts from AKs, the local fish subject to grenades from Mac.
The first winter in Canada saw a great deal of snow, life either revolving around work at the factories - or the Friday and Saturday nights out, the security staff left with little to do. Jimmy assigned many of them to Mac to test weapons, some given flying lessons in the seaplanes when the weather permitted.
But, with a great deal of complaining, and a great deal of snow, Jimmy relented and organised a boat to take them all down to Los Angeles for a few months. A small boat picked them up at the inlet, transporting them down to Vancouver docks and to a steamer, the scientists electing to stay behind.
South of San Francisco the weather improved, and Los Angeles was reached in fine weather, a plush hotel booked into. The guys were soon on a terrace, girls in one-piece frilly bathers to be seen, and stared at.
‘Fucking ‘ell,’ Mac said. ‘I’d have to be drunk, prohibition or not!’
‘Girls in our time period are … different, and better in many ways.’
‘Any decent clubs?’ Mac asked.
‘Many, but – you know – the music is -’
‘Naff,’ Mac finished off.
‘And I doubt you’d find an Indian restaurant, although Chinese restaurants are plentiful.’
‘Laurel and Hardy here?’
‘Yep.’
‘Abbot and Costello?’
‘Yep.’
‘Marylyn Monroe?’
‘She’ll be born in around … twenty years.’
‘So who’s the tasty chick on the wall poster in the lobby?’
‘Greta Garbo.’
‘Was she banging the dude with the long dick?’
‘Errol Flynn? No, he’s in school right now.’
‘So how come Paul didn’t come with us?’ Mac asked.
‘He may join us later, after a bit of a rest. See the lady sat on the side of the pool? That’s Joan Crawford.’
‘She famous?’ Mac asked, slurping his drink.
‘It’s like taking the blind to an art gallery,’ Jimmy sighed. ‘Just don’t say anything … to anyone.’
‘We could go to Vegas,’ Handy suggested.
‘You could do, but why?’ Jimmy posed.
‘Hotels, casinos,’ Mac suggested.
‘Which will be built in around ... oh, twenty five years.’
‘Nothing there?’
‘Nothing at all, save a road and a gas station’.
‘Bugger,’ Mac let out.
The gang tried a Chinese restaurant, not recognising many of the dishes. Still, the food was OK. And the next morning they walked along a beach that someday would have bodybuilders, roller-skaters, and nutcases aplenty. Now it had people in odd bathing costumes, families, fathers in suits. There were no high-rise buildings yet, and no traffic jams to the valley.
Noticing a poster on a wall, Mac stopped, calling over the gang, who stood reading the detail of an all-comers prize fight, a $1,000 purse for whoever could stay in the ring against a giant knuckle-head of a man.
‘How much is a $1,000?’ Big Paul asked.
Jimmy gave him a look.
‘No, I mean in ... real terms. Is that a lot?’
‘It’s a lot for this time period, about a year’s wages for most people around here,’ Jimmy commented.
‘I can take that guy,’ Big Paul stated, straightening.
‘Come on,’ Mac urged Jimmy. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘It’ll be fun … if Mark takes him down,’ Jimmy stated.
Everyone turned to face Mark, the shortest of the bodyguards. He edged closer to the poster, studying the image of the boxer presented. ‘What if he spoils my good looks?’ Mark dryly commented. ‘Am I insured for that?’
‘You don’t have any looks,’ Jimmy pointed out.
Mark shrugged. ‘I’ll give it a go.’
Later that evening they found the venue, eventually, finding thick crowds lined-up outside. They went around the corner and to a side door, a bribe paid for entrance, as well as for good seats. Inside, the crowds were thick, the air thick with the smell of sweat and testosterone.
Mark paid his $10 entrance fee, and convinced the organisers that he could box. They placed him down the list because he was short, way down the list, so he handed over another $20 to be third on the list, being shown where to change, Big Paul soon rubbing Mark’s naked shoulders.
‘Duck, weave, bob, then kill the fucker,’ coach Big Paul offered, getting a look back.
Sat in a row at the back, the gang asked about betting.
‘It’s illegal,’ Jimmy reminded them. ‘So go talk to the big ugly fucker down there at the back door.’
Several of the gang placed illegal bets, soon back with hotdogs and sodas; the organisers of this fight risked gambling, but not bootleg beer. The title defender, a real monster of a man, clambered into the ring to much cheering.
‘He’s big, but not fit,’ Mac noted.
The first contender was shown in, soon knocked out cold with a heavy punch, but not a fast or skilful punch. The second contender did not fare any better. Mark eased into the ring, the difference in his physique to the first two poor victims immediately obvious, the big lump opposite stood sizing up Mark – and Mark’s odd tattoos.
With the bell clanked twice, the referee stood back and gestured both sides together. Tapping his gloves together, Mark moved forwards, close enough to be hit. The giant threw a punch as expected, Mark ducking under it and around, a good punch to the side delivered, a second blow to the side of the head before he jumped back, the crowd cheering at this odd turn of events.
The monster turned about, taking a moment to consider his strategy against his smaller - but obviously faster, opponent. He closed in. Mark waited for the punch, sidestepped it, and then launched himself up and onto his toes, almost leaving the canvass, a good left hook to the monster’s jaw. The big guy wobbled back, the crowd cheering and jeering in equal measure. Now the monster looked less sure of himself.
He also appeared angered, and now lunged forwards. Mark slipped to the side, but cut upwards as he did, a good tap to the chin snapping the monster’s head back. With the big lump stunned, Mark again launched up onto his toes, and landed a good blow to the side of the monster’s face, forcing the big guy to stumble towards the ropes and bounce off them. Bouncing back, Mark was ready, a good right hook launched on tip-toes, straight to the jaw front on. It was all over, half the crowd pleased, many not pleased. The event’s organisers were in the camp of “not pleased”.
The referee reluctantly lifted Mark’s arm into the air as the giant lay unconscious, Mac and the guys moving down to collect their winnings. And there started a problem. The big guy who had taken the bet was refusing to pay out, suggesting a sting of some sort, or that Mark was a professional boxer. Mac pointed at the large sign on the wall: all comers welcome, professional or amateur. The bookie was having none of it, a protesting Mac soon surrounded by three heavies.
Frustrated, Mac hit the first heavy in the throat, sending him to his knees, Mac getting hit across the side of the face as Handy knocked cold the second heavy. Big Paul and Jimmy had been sat down, and now jumped up, launching themselves over the side of the seating stand. Mark was out of the ring, now with three of our men, and walking back to the changing rooms when he saw Jimmy move. He burst through the crowds.
Mac was dazed by the blow, well past his prime by about eighty years or so, Handy just as old. Big Paul launched a flying kick at the bookmaker, sending him backwards, Jimmy hitting both heavies nearby, soon a dozen more heavies closing in and intent on either stopping the fight, or beating the crap out of Mac and Jimmy.
Big Paul punched quickly, left and right handed, Jimmy doing likewise, a wall of bodies on the floor slowing up the progress of the venue’s bouncers. Mark still had his boxing gloves on, but now struck out at anyone who looked like they worked at the venue, the others doing likewise, soon a large brawl breaking out, and soon a large number of unconscious men on the floor being stepped over. Several of the guards carried pistols, but they were not drawn.
With a break in the fighting, and some thirty men in varying states of consciousness, Jimmy grabbed Mac and shoved him towards the door. ‘On me!’ he shouted at the others.
Outside, Jimmy punched down two staff trying to get in, those people stood nearby now moving away as the gang emerged. Jimmy turned, ‘Is everyone out?’
The gang glanced around at each other quickly.
‘Mark, your clothes,’ someone shouted.
‘No time,’ Jimmy countered. ‘Mark, anything to identify you in them?’
Mark shook his head, now trying to undo the boxing gloves with his teeth, stood in just his shorts and boxing boots.
‘Let’s go,’ Jimmy shouted, leading the men around a corner and towards the quietest side street he could see. Around the second corner, Jimmy stopped the gang, checking everyone was still with him, Mark now shaking off one glove. Facing Mark, Jimmy said, ‘We won’t get far with you looking like that, numb nuts.’
He crossed the road, and stopped three men. ‘My friend here needs some clothes, and quickly. A hundred dollars for yours.’ Jimmy produced the money.
‘A hundred? Jeez.’ A man started stripping, Mark soon in trousers over his boxing boots, a jacket on his top, a cloth cap placed on his head.
Jimmy led the sports fans around the corner at a pace, spotting a restaurant. They ducked in, Jimmy shoving fifty dollars towards the head waiter. ‘Cops are after us. There a back way out?’
The man took the money, counting it. ‘Through the kitchen, into the alley, left and down, go into the back of Malleys, ask for Richie.’
The gang trailed through in a long line, being stared at by early patrons of the establishment. In Malleys, a secret drinking joint, Jimmy handed Richie a hundred dollars, and asked for a few drinks. As well as a shirt for Mark. The gang were shown to a private room upstairs, food offered and accepted as the gang settled, many now laughing, a few nursing cut faces and cut hands.
Mac lifted a wad of dollars. ‘I grabbed these from the fucker who wouldn’t pay me. Fucking beers are on me, lads.’
The bodyguards cheered and laughed, Jimmy shaking his head as he tended bloodied knuckles with a napkin. ‘That was a stupid thing to do,’ he commented.
‘Come on, it was a great fun,’ Big Paul countered. ‘Need to let our hair down once in a while.’
‘A few years in a prison cell ... will do nothing for the cause we’re on,’ Jimmy pointed out.
At 1am they left in four taxis, soon back at the hotel.
Bored after a week, and bored of trying to keep a low profile, the gang elected to try Hawaii, Jimmy explaining that there wasn’t much there yet. Still, they boarded a liner and headed off, arriving a week later. They booked into the best hotel, but then split up, exploring the islands in small groups. Surf boards were bought from locals - the only surfers at this time, and members of the gang received lessons, riding waves on beaches that would not see any bronzed “surfer dudes” for a very long time.
The roads were quiet, the food cheap, but beer was illegal under prohibition. It could be found, brought in from Asia by ship, and the lads had deep pockets for the bottled Chinese beer. Jimmy explored the islands, enjoying the peace and serenity it offered, many sailing trips taken in small yachts.
No one was in a hurry to return to the frozen north, a ship boarded for Mexico two weeks later, Acapulco visited before it became famous. No one bothered to dive off the rocks, but the beer was cheap and plentiful. With a few of the gang wanting to see the Panama Canal, passage was booked through the canal, the gang heading for the Bahamas next, but finding it very basic on arrival.
Electing for Florida, they sailed west and stopped at the Keys, the fishing enjoyed. Miami Beach was yet to attract tall hotels and tourists, the gang heading north to Washington. There they found old men who had actually fought in the Civil War as young men, the gang asking about the battles. The various historical buildings were peered at, as well as the monuments, but local people were perplexed at the notion that the city had been laid out like a pentagram, and that it was all run by freemasons. And who the hell was this Dan Brown fella anyway?
Bored with Washington, the men headed up to New York, where the skyline looked very odd. There was no Empire State Building yet, the Twin Towers were not even a concept, and skyscrapers had not reached much above twenty floors. They caught a few shows, recognising the names, and bribed their hotel’s doorman to get them into a few genuine alcohol clubs, run by gangsters. Central Park looked familiar, the zoo little more than a collection of birdcages, and the subway was presently passing through tunnels that would be abandoned and replaced soon.
