"We simply don't have anything here that could be important to them."
"There's always the strategic importance. A good jumping-off spot for Australia and the United States. Maybe Christchurch interests them."
"Christchurch," she repeated thoughtfully. "That's where your government has the Deep Freeze Base for Antarctica."
"It's a possibility," Carter said. "Any new action down there?"
"Not that I know of. But I'll find out."
The land was dark beneath them. Moonlight reflected from rivers in long silvery braids. Occasional car lights moved along slender gray roads that wove between towns where streetlamps shone dimly up to the Cessna's cockpit. The land undulated smoothly. Grasslands, fields, and vineyards. The time passed quickly. Not far ahead would be the big Lake Wairarapa. About twenty-five miles beyond would be the Wellington aerodrome, perched on a bay facing Cook Strait.
Mike looked down, her head angled, eager for the signs that indicated she was closing in on home.
"There's Masterton," she said, pointing. "A good town. Another fifty or so kilometers and we'll see Featherston and Lake Wairarapa."
The jolt was small, and the plane recovered quickly under Mike's sensitive control.
"Engine?" Carter said.
She nodded, bit her lip, and watched the gauges.
"We're losing power," she said quietly.
He watched her work, the fine head with the mass of chestnut hair held upright as she adjusted switches, turned knobs. Nothing helped.
"Better take her down," Carter advised.
They'd left Masterton behind and were speeding on toward Lake Wairarapa in the distance, and Wellington beyond.
"No! We're so close!"
"Not that close. Too much flying time needed. Take her down. Now!"
Smoke erupted from the nose. Small flames licked up. The plane dove.
Carter grabbed the throttle and pulled, fighting the craft's desire to spiral straight down into the earth.
He struggled with the throttle. Sweat bathed his face. Slowly the nose rose. He steadied the throttle. It shook. His hands shook.
He couldn't rum the plane. They had to go straight ahead. Turning would make it lose all control, and spiral.
He watched the earth and aimed the plane for one of the gray strips of road below. Luckily the early morning hour was not a popular time for driving. The traffic was practically nonexistent.
Mike's knuckles whitened as she gripped the arms of her seat.
The flames whipped up over the nose.
Carter watched for traffic and for tall trees that could catch the light plane and tear it to shreds.
The ground rose to meet them at a dizzying speed.
Carter felt the blood drain from his face. His hands numbed on the throttle.
They had to get down fast, before the flames swallowed the engine. And the gas tank.
The plane bucked, fought.
The controls turned to mush.
But below, the dark gray road spread ahead like a welcome mat.
He pushed the sloppy throttle forward to land. Wheels squealed and bounced on the asphalt. No control. He pulled and yanked on the throttle.
The craft veered. With little air resistance, the flames erupted into the night sky. Heat shot up in the cabin.
The Cessna bounced into the tall roadside trees, flames crackling. The starboard wing ripped off. The plane dove into a thick stand of beeches. The impact threw Carter and Mike against the controls, the windshield, the seat, the ceiling.
The plane shuddered, then stopped. Flames roared. Heat stole the air from the cabin.
Carter shook his head, gasping. He ached all over. The heat was suffocating. The gas tank would go any minute.
"Mike!"
Her head lolled to the side, eyes closed. Unconscious.
He dragged her out, a dead weight.
He picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and ran.
The thick forest of tall beeches stood silent and still, sentinels to the sudden explosion that rocked the land beneath Carter's running feet.
He fell with Mike to the ground, throwing himself over her to protect her.
The blast shot twisted metal and burning wood through the air. They were lethal missiles that could maim and kill.
Just as suddenly the air was quiet, unmoving. Heat spread thickly out to them from the fireball that had been a plane.
He rolled Mike over and felt for a pulse. It was regular and strong.
He carried her to the side of the highway, and sat for a moment beside her on the grass.
In the distance of the quiet farmland, cattle lowed nervously. Dogs barked. Sheep bleated. The land was rolling and grassy, with small stands of forest in the low places where water collected. He could see no houses.
Carter stood at the edge of the highway, waiting for a car. Behind him, the plane burned brilliant red and blue.
The first car slowed at the sight of the fire, then sped past Carter's waving arms, unwilling to be involved. When he heard the second car, Carter ran to the center of the lane, where he stood and waved. The car would have to run him down or go into the other lane and risk being hit by an oncoming vehicle.
It was a small Mazda, a sports model, bright yellow. Its tires screeched, and it angled sharply across the road to stop on the wrong side, opposite Mike and the direction it was heading.
"Nick!"
Mike was sitting up, groaning, holding her side. She fell back and screamed in pain.
He ran back to her.
"Oh, God, Nick!" she cried. "What happened! An accident?" She curled up on her other side.
"No accident," he said grimly, brushing the hair from her face. "Some kind of time explosive planted in your Cessna."
A first aid kit dropped at his feet, and a small CB radio. He looked up, but the gift-giver was already dashing back to the yellow Mazda.
"Hey!" he called. "Stop!"
But the figure slammed the Mazda door, and the car raced off into the night.
Carter opened the kit, found a flashlight, and turned it on. Mike was sooty, her face bruised. Gently he felt along her side. She bit her lip.
"Ribs, probably," he murmured.
"They hurt like hell," she said, tight with tension as she tried not to show the pain.
"They usually do. Not much I can do for you here. We'd better get you to a hospital," he said, turning on the radio.
Five
In Wellington, wind surfers sped across the harbor as the daybreak sun brushed streaks of yellow onto the gray sky. Crowds of barrel-chested men in shorts jogged determinedly into a pitched gale, getting fit for rugby, the national sport.
Tall palms snapped back and forth, hardy survivors in one of the windiest cities in the world. Wellington gets over a hundred days a year of winds greater than forty miles an hour. Citizens joke that they have to stake down even the cabbages and pumpkins that they grow in their backyard gardens.
Nick Carter thought about this as he rode along Highway 1, past the bay of Port Nicholson, toward the hospital in downtown Wellington that Mike Strange had specified. She lay uncomplaining in the back seat of the old Cadillac, her head in Carter's lap, her eyes closed. The inhabitants of Wellington — of all New Zealand — were known for their hardiness, and for their stoicism when faced with disaster.
The highway ended at the town hall, and the driver continued around the bay toward the center of the city.
"Sorry about the little lady," he said for the sixth time with his broad Midwest U.S.A. accent. He'd answered the SOS call first, an insomniac owner of a meat market — Harold's Butchery — whose nighttime avocation of radio listening either entertained him when he couldn't sleep, or — he laughingly admitted — kept him awake long after he was relaxed enough to doze off.
"Shell be all right," Carter reassured Harold, and Mike, and himself.