The Flying Cloud, R505 - Season Three

Episode 105: The Round Hill Rally

Iberson and Jenkins with motorbike and sidecar

The Flying Cloud cruised south through the warm Australian night. Above her, the moon, slightly past full, shone down across the hills of eastern Queensland -- a rolling expanse of gum trees and brush, dotted here and there with the lights of isolated homesteads. To starboard, the narrow road from Brisbane to Cairns was a sinuous thread of darkness.

Captain Everett studied the ordnance map, checked the clock, and nodded. "All three engines back to one quarter power," he ordered. "And keep an eye out ahead."

"All three engines back to one quarter," said Iverson, reaching for the telegraphs. Bells chimed and the drone of the engines dropped to a rumble. "What are your plans, sir?"

"We want to slip a party into Agnes Water without attracting notice," said Everett. "But they can't arrive by airship, for obvious reasons, and I'm reluctant to employ the launch. We've used it rather freely in the past, and if our adversaries left agents in town, we have to assume they'll be watching for it. Instead, we'll send the party in by land."

"How will they get to the village?" asked the lieutenant. "We're twenty miles from the coast."

"We have the means to address this problem," said Everett. "We must thank Miss Perkins for providing it."

"Permission to speak, sir," snapped the secretary.

"Granted," said Everett calmly.


"During your investigation of the means Lieutenant Blacker used to get aboard the R-87, you found that he'd stowed away in a crate that was alleged to hold a motorcycle made by a manufacturer in Cairns. I felt we could benefit from your discovery, so I visited this cyclery and purchased one of their products for use as an auxiliary. You'll find the receipt in our file of requisitions along with the appropriate RNR-397 form."

Miss Perkins frowned, as if considering a retort, but before she could speak, Abercrombie's voice crackled over the intercom. "Bow station here. I've spotted lights of a settlement approximately three miles ahead, bearing 170."

"That will be a hamlet called Mount Tom," said Everett. "If the Ordnance Survey has done their job, there should be open terrain a short distance to the east. Mister Iverson, all engines astern one quarter and bring us to a stop. Miss Sarah, prepare to weigh off. Abercrombie, head aft and help Iwamoto load the Transporter."

"Who do you have in mind for the landing party?" asked Iverson apprehensively.

"We will need someone who knows how to operate the motor vehicle and someone to conduct the investigation," mused Everett. "I believe that you and Jenkins are the obvious choices."

The Transporter platform seemed even more precarious than usual, for the motorcycle and sidecar took up most of the room, leaving only a narrow ledge for the passengers to stand. Iverson clung to an upright and tried not to think about falling off. Beside him, Abercrombie hummed a Scottish ballad and tapped the case of his altimeter to keep the needle from sticking. He'd come along as a loadmaster, and the lieutenant was happy to pass this responsibility on to someone else.

Nighttime Transporter operations were significantly more treacherous than ones during the day. Even in bright sunlight, it could be hard for a landing party to judge altitude and drift. At night, with the ground cloaked in darkness, the prospects for an uneventful deployment were slim.

"We should be getting close," said the rigger. "If ye could gie us a bit of light."

Iverson clicked on the platform's portable spotlamp. The beam seemed quite inadequate to illuminate the ground below. Abercrombie studied the dim circle of light and called up over the intercom. "Iwamoto, slow us to half speed. Captain, bring us right ten degrees."

The platform lurched, then swung gently to the left as the ship turned above them. The Scotsman seemed unperturbed.

"Captain, gie us another three knots."

Above them, the sound of the engines changed subtly. Now the platform seemed to be swinging in a circle.

"Och," muttered the rigger. "They could hae used a lighter touch. Iverson, Jenkins, ye might want tae hold on."

Iverson swallowed and clung to his handhold. Below them, what little he could see of the ground seemed covered with bushes and rocks that rushed past at alarming speed.

"Captain, back five knots!" cried Abercrombie. "Iwamoto hit the brake! Gentlemen, brace yerselves for..."

The platform hit the ground with a crash, bounced, and struck again. Then it was dragging through the brush in a great splintering of branches and twigs. Abercrombie kicked away the quick release, then braced his shoulder against the motorbike. "Gie me a hand here! Heave! Now jump!"

The machine rolled off the platform into the darkness. Freed of its weight, the Transporter began to rise. Jenkins adjusted his sleeves, hefted his satchel, and stepped to the ground. Iverson leapt after him, stumbled, and sprawled headlong in the dirt.

"If you'll allow me," said Jenkins. He reached out a hand, helped the lieutenant to his feet, then produced a hand torch and began to examine Iverson's attire. "I'd say the jacket came out fairly well, but it's fortunate we're traveling incognito. That tumble could have done irreparable harm to a set of Number Threes."

There was little they could do until the sun rose, so the two men extracted a groundcloth from the sidecar and then settled down to wait for dawn. Morning found them pushing the bike onto a rutted track that ran through the brush a short distance from their landing site.

"It appears the Captain set us down in the right place," said Iverson. "I believe this is Tableland Road. We'll want to follow it east until it intersects Round Hill Road. That will take us to Agnes Water."

"You're sure you know how to operate this vehicle?" asked Jenkins.

Iverson shrugged. "It should be straightforward. Shall we get started?"

The motorcycle was quite advanced -- comparable to the best racing machines from Europe or America. A massive twin-cylinder engine delivered an astonishing six horsepower to a sturdy two-speed shifter. The wheels and spokes were beefier than normal to handle the extra load. The designer had taken many measures to reduce weight, sacrificing luxuries such as seat springs, front brake, and a clutch in the interests of performance. A moment's fiddling got the motor started. Then, with a clash of gears, they were off.

It was difficult to converse when the machine was in motion. The muffler was a simple metal tube, included for more appearance than anything else, and the vehicle lacked even the most rudimentary suspension. But the two men found they could communicate after a fashion if they shouted at the top of their lungs.

"I believe... OOF... that's our intersection," yelled Jenkins.

"Thank you," replied Iverson. "What... MY MY, I DIDN'T EXPECT IT TO BE QUITE SO MUDDY... do you think Michaelson is up to?"

"It's... OUCH... difficult to say. He acts as if he suspects the Captain of collusion with whoever Lieutenant Blacker has fallen in with, but there are... DO YOU SEE THAT TREE... problems with this hypothesis."


"We believe that Blacker was after... OH DEAR.... our report on Ujelang. But if he was working with the Captain, there'd have been no need for him to stow away aboard the... I SAY, THAT WAS A RATHER REMARKABLE SUCCESSION OF RUTS... R-87, for the Captain could have handed him a copy of the report directly."

"I'd been wondering the same thing myself..."


Preoccupied by their conversation, Iverson had neglected to ride the brake to keep it dry. This was unfortunate, for they'd rounded a bend to find the road blocked by a landslide. He stamped on the pedal, realized this was futile, and yelled a command.


Without waiting to see if the signalman complied, Iverson cranked the handlebar to the right and gunned the throttle. The rear wheel spun, the bike swung ninety degrees, then they were sliding sideways toward the obstacle, sidecar rising into the air as the machine teetered on two wheels. For a moment it seemed they must flip over. Then the right wheel slammed back down with a bone-rattling thump and they skidded to a stop.

"Well," said Jenkins after they'd recovered their composure, "that was invigorating. What should we do now?"

Next week: The Case of the Missing Lieutenant...

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