The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  Lightholler crossed the lounge.

  “That ship might just be bad luck after all,” Hardas said.

  “Why don’t you shut your mouth,” Lightholler growled.

  “See for yourself.” Hardas drew a cigarette from his pocket and went over to join the three strangers by the cabin’s rear entrance.

  Lightholler peered into the darkness below. The Titanic lay crooked at her mooring, plumes of smoke rising from her scarred deck. Further out to sea, he made out the silhouette of two Japanese battlecruisers. He watched the silent puffs of smoke bloom from the decks of the two ships. Tracer trails illuminated the paths of their shells as they shattered in scarlet licks on the ocean liner’s deck.

  Lightholler grabbed the satin sash of the window’s curtain in a balled-up fist. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “There she goes,” Kennedy said.

  The Titanic seemed to leap out of the water. Her centre, rent from topdeck to waterline, rose up, dragging her sagging bow and stern in an eruption of boiling water.

  “There must have still been some ammunition stowed aboard her.” Lightholler leaned his forehead on the glass.

  Thick billows of black cloud obscured their view as the Shenandoah continued her ascent.

  Lightholler allowed Kennedy to lead him back to their table. Morgan, returned from below, pulled up a chair next to Shine. Hardas had struck up a conversation with the strangers and was seated at their table. Every now and then a burst of laughter emerged from their group, ringing blasphemous in Lightholler’s ears.

  Morgan offered him a cold glass of water.

  “I could do with something stronger,” Lightholler murmured.

  Morgan withdrew a flask from his coat pocket. If he was aware of Kennedy’s stern expression, he chose to ignore it. “Bourbon,” he said, gathering empty glasses and pouring out a measure for each of them.

  Kennedy slid into a chair. “Captain,” he began hesitantly.

  Lightholler ignored him. He turned to Morgan and said, “My ship’s gone. My command’s gone. I’ve been implicated in the filthiest piece of subterfuge since the Greeks left their horse outside the gates of Troy. And I’ve nowhere left to turn. So tell me, is that the way Major Kennedy recruits his staff?” He eyed Morgan squarely. “What did he do to your life? How long were you researching the Titanic before you found out that it was all grist for the mill, something to fuel this fantasy field trip?”

  “I’d finished my study on the Titanic years before anyone approached me,” Morgan replied. “I was on the lecture circuit, rehashing the same material I’d been presenting for as long as I could remember. I was offered a chance to experience that material—that world—first-hand. Unlike you, I jumped at the opportunity, Captain.”

  “Well, you’re a fugitive from your own government now,” Lightholler said. “Is that what you had in mind?”

  “It’s not as simple as you make it out to be.” Morgan’s voice faltered.

  “Preying on people with nothing left to lose doesn’t seem very complicated to me,” Lightholler said. He cast Shine a glance.

  Shine said, “Captain, please don’t even think about trying that shit on me.”

  Lightholler, taken aback by the negro’s response, fell silent.

  “I have a profile on you, Captain,” Kennedy said. “I worked for the Bureau as an assistant director. That means I have a profile on everyone. What you have, what you wanted, what you never got ... it’s all there. If I was looking to recruit people who thought they’d have nothing to lose, I’d have amassed the largest army in human history. That’s no way to change the world. That’s how you destroy it.”

  “And you plan on saving the world?”

  “I plan on stopping the psychopath who condemned it to its current fate.”

  “That’s right, I almost forgot,” Lightholler said. “You have a time machine. Tell me, Major, how does it all end? With a bang, or a whimper?”

  “A whimper.”

  Kennedy’s look held such despair that Lightholler could almost believe him.

  He downed his drink.

  VII

  “I wouldn’t get too comfortable, gentlemen.”

  It was Hardas. He’d returned with one of the strangers in tow. As he approached, he nodded his head in the direction of the starboard-side windows. “We’ve got company.”

  “Fuck.” Instantly Morgan was out of his seat and backing towards the other side of the gondola.

  “That was pretty fast.” Kennedy approached the window for a closer look.

  The others crowded around him.

  Lightholler could make out at least three seaplanes. Mitsubishi Fukuryus, Crouching Dragons. The Japanese had first employed them in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. Squadrons of them would squat in the islets that dotted the archipelagos of the Pacific, awaiting convoys. Their ungainly fuselage and poor manoeuvrability made them easy prey for the Union fighters, earning them the nickname “Fuck Yous”. Lightholler had never seen one in flight.

  “I make four of ’em,” Hardas said.

  “I thought the japs put those crates out to pasture a long time ago,” his companion drawled.

  Lightholler gave the stranger a quick once-over. He was a mess. Unshaven, unkempt. A shock of brown hair. Faded dust jacket, torn jeans. Your average red-neck poster boy. He returned his gaze to the night skies. “Same here,” he said. “I didn’t think they were using prop planes any more.”

  “Must’ve been all they could muster at short notice,” Kennedy said.

  The aircraft skimmed below the dirigible, ducking out of sight.

  “Where are they going?” Morgan asked over their shoulders.

  On cue, two of them reappeared. There was a brilliant flash from one of the plane’s gun turrets. Morgan gripped Kennedy’s shoulder tightly.

  Kennedy shrugged him off. “It’s just a warning, Darren. They want us to turn back.”

  “But this is a civilian vessel,” Morgan began to protest.

  “A Confederate civilian vessel, and one that just took off from a captured aerodrome,” Hardas responded.

  “Jesus,” Morgan said. “We have to turn around.”

  “We’re miles out.” Kennedy turned to face him. “You want to go back?”

  Morgan glared at him, shifted his glance to the stranger and then back. “There are still people we can deal with in New York.”

  “Not after tonight,” Kennedy said firmly. “But we have another option.”

  The Shenandoah was slowing down. The bright lights of Manhattan Island swung back into view, glowing through a cerement of blackened smudge.

  “Give me a minute,” he said, starting towards the front of the gondola.

  “Where are you going?” Lightholler asked.

  “I’m hoping the Shenandoah’s captain was planning on doing a supply run en route.” Kennedy disappeared through a door in the front of the cabin.

  “I don’t get it,” Morgan said.

  “If the Shenandoah’s making a supply run, there ought to be some transport planes in the hangar.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  No one answered. They turned back to the window and continued to observe the spectral sight of New York’s flames in uneasy silence.

  Kennedy returned shortly. “I’ve requisitioned the Shenandoah’s scout planes. The captain says he can spare us one of his crew to act as a pilot. You’ve flown a scout, haven’t you, David?”

  Hardas curled up the corner of his mouth. “It’s been a while.”

  “How many hours have you logged?”

  “Enough.”

  Morgan, ashen, spoke up. “Please tell me you’re kidding, Major.”

  The five of them were now assembled near the cockpit’s entrance. Hardas’s new acquaintance had rejoined his companions and they were standing near the cabin’s rear hatchway in earnest conversation.

  On both sides of the gondola, their escort was apparent. Three seaplanes to either side, flying in loose formation.


  “I want you two to go with the pilot,” Kennedy said, addressing Shine and Morgan. “Captain Lightholler and I will go with you, David.”

  “Wait a minute here,” Morgan said. “This is crazy. You want us to take our chances in a couple of scouts against six Jap fighters?”

  “I’m willing to cut you loose, Darren.” Kennedy’s voice was soft and coaxing all of a sudden.

  Morgan eyed Shine warily.

  “Nothing more than that,” Kennedy added briskly. “But this is the only way we’re going to get out of New York, and you know what happens next, don’t you?”

  The edge of Morgan’s lips pulled back, baring the tips of even white teeth; his anger was palpable, yet directionless. A moment passed and his shoulders sagged.

  And you know what happens next. What did Kennedy have on Morgan, on all of them, Lightholler wondered?

  “There are four scout planes in the hangar and five of us. Six including the Shenandoah’s pilot,” Kennedy continued.

  “Eight,” a voice said. It was the man who had been talking to Hardas. Lightholler hadn’t noticed his return. “There are eight of us. My pals and I don’t care to return to New York just to spend the rest of this war in some internment camp.”

  “Then there may be a problem,” Kennedy said. “We’re CBI.”

  Hardas loomed ominously at Kennedy’s side. Shine, clearly the major’s real threat, hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Doesn’t mean much to me, apart from the fact that you guys are pretty tight with our Kraut buddies back there. But you’ve got no problem here.” The man nodded to his friends who’d slouched out of their seats to join him. “No problem at all, Mr Kennedy.”

  A smile formed on Kennedy’s face.

  “We’re pilots,” one of the others added. He was short and stocky, more muscle than fat, with strands of wavy blond hair plastered over his balding head. “With the 32nd Squadron. We just got our papers. We’re supposed to join up with the 15th at Baton Rouge.” He stuck out a burly hand, which Kennedy accepted immediately. “I’m Tucker, this here is Rose.” He indicated the man who had remained silent. “You’ve met Newcombe.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Kennedy asked.

  Lightholler observed the exchange. This was the same Kennedy he had encountered in his hotel. He was back in his element. Skin-of-his-teeth, seat-of-his-pants; but with a plan of sorts, Lightholler suspected.

  “My boys and I will fly your men,” Newcombe said. “Name your destination and we can settle the price.”

  “We don’t need your help,” Hardas sneered. “I can fly.”

  “Hell, Commander, suit yourself. There are four planes, we just need one. Sure you can fly, but can you take off from an airship at night and evade our friends out there?”

  “Money isn’t going to be an issue. If we’re going to do this, we’d better get moving,” Kennedy said. “Four planes, eight men.”

  “There’s just one more thing,” Newcombe continued. “When I said eight, I was counting the Shenandoah’s pilot. That’s four planes; four pilots with passengers. The nigger stays.”

  Hardas muttered something under his breath. Morgan took a step backwards.

  “Listen, mister, I didn’t vote for you then, and I sure as hell ain’t risking my ass for some jungle-bunny butler now.”

  “Impressive,” Shine said. “You know how to vote.”

  Newcombe’s jaw dropped. Sudden silence gripped the gondola, so deep that Lightholler had to wonder if Shine had spoken at all.

  Morgan chuckled softly.

  “He’s CBI?” Newcombe asked Kennedy incredulously.

  Kennedy looked to Shine. Lightholler, astonished, realised he was seeking permission to answer on the man’s behalf. Kennedy said, “You don’t want to know what he is.”

  “I’ll take him, Major.” Rose spoke up, an easy smile spreading across his gaunt face. “The airship’s crew can’t spare a pilot if they’re going to drop the hangar for us.”

  He turned to face Newcombe. “I wasn’t old enough to vote, but I reckon a man’s politics is his own business. The 4th Mech-Cavalry saved our hides is all I know, and a bunch of those guys were blacker than a coal miner’s ass. If we’re doing this for cash, you ain’t giving the orders.”

  Newcombe scowled but did not reply.

  Rose slapped him on the back. “Hell, Newcombe, just think about the money.”

  VIII

  There were seven men inside the Shenandoah’s hangar, a long, high-roofed compartment they’d gained via a slender enclosed gangway. Kennedy was elsewhere with the dirigible’s captain, making final arrangements.

  For the moment, the airship hovered within a bank of thick cloud just over the southeastern portion of Manhattan. The Japanese aircraft circled nearby.

  Newcombe and Tucker paced from plane to plane, four of which were arrayed along a depressed aisle that ran down the middle of the deck. They were biplanes. Red and blue roundels, surmounted with white steer’s heads, marked the wing surfaces and tailplanes. The short, stubby fuselages were counterpointed by the broad wings that extended out towards either side of the hangar.

  “What are these?” Morgan was on his knees, pointing at the undercarriage of one of the biplanes. Thick cables extended from beneath the aircraft to the deck, ending in sharp twin-bladed hooks that strained against bolts in the hangar’s floor.

  “Arrester hooks,” Hardas replied, “for landing on flight decks. Usually carriers.” He turned to the Confederate pilots. “What do you think? They pass inspection?”

  Rose slapped a hand against the side of the foremost biplane. “High aspect ratio, extensive de-icers on the wing surfaces. Twin turbocharged, gyratory, Santos-Dumont aerodiesels. I’m familiar with the military’s version, but this here’s your standard supply-delivery aircraft.”

  “We’ve all flown ’em,” Newcombe called out. He was inspecting the cargo hold on one of the other planes. “This one’s fully loaded.”

  “Same here.” Tucker struck the cargo door on the last of the planes. “They must have been planning on rendezvousing with a stratolite somewhere between here and New Orleans.”

  “What makes you say that?” Lightholler asked. He was standing with Morgan, watching as the pilots made their quick inspection.

  Tucker reached a hand into the cargo hold of his plane and withdrew a roll of toilet paper. “This stuff is gold up there,” he said with a laugh.

  “Aren’t they going to be too heavy, carrying three men apiece and all those supplies?” Morgan asked.

  “Won’t be a problem,” Rose chipped in. “These crates might be relatively slow, but they have to climb to at least fifty-thou to reach the stratolites, and they can stop on a dime. That’ll count for something.”

  But will they be able to get away from our escort, Lightholler wondered. And where the hell was Kennedy? They’d stopped the Shenandoah nearly ten minutes ago. Surely the japs would be getting impatient by now.

  It was about as uncomfortable as Lightholler had ever felt. The soft sway of the deck beneath his feet was eerily reminiscent of the sea. He kept trying to forget that only a thin strip of metal separated him from a drop of thousands of feet to the ocean below.

  Hardas approached one of the planes. “Any weapons?”

  “Nothing I can find,” Rose replied. “Here’s where the rocket-launchers would be.” He’d clambered up the side of one of the planes to check out its cockpit. “Used to have a gun mount back here for the co-pilot. It’s sealed up now, but I’ve got me a couple of ideas in case things get hairy out there.” He gave Tucker and Newcombe a wink. “Tell me what you think of this,” he said, leading them to the front of the hangar.

  A few moments later, all three of them climbed into the cargo holds of the planes. There was the sound of things being torn, crates rattling, and raucous laughter from within.

  “What gives?” Morgan asked Hardas. “Are they nuts?”

  “Damned if I know,” Hardas said. “Who can figure out
what runs through a flyboy’s head?”

  Lightholler’s face broke into a wry smile. “Anyone who prefers being cooped up in one of these things, when they could be on the solid deck of a ship, has a few screws loose to start with.”

  Morgan rolled his eyes. “I don’t call anything solid unless it’s got trees growing out of it.”

  Kennedy emerged through a hatch near the top of the hangar. “The captain’s given us five minutes to get moving. He’s stalling the japs right now.”

  Lightholler caught his eye.

  “He’s told them he’s having engine trouble. He’s pouring junk out of the starboard engine nacelle to sell it. When he cuts the running lights, then we roll.” Kennedy scrambled down a narrow metal stair that dropped onto the hangar’s floor. One of the dirigible’s crewmen followed him down.

  “What about the Fuck Yous?” Hardas asked.

  “Only two of them still out there,” Kennedy said. “The others turned back five minutes ago.”

  “Those odds sound a little better,” Newcombe said.

  “They’re as good as we’re going to get,” Kennedy replied.

  As the Shenandoah’s crew entered the hangar and began making preparations for launch, Kennedy and the three Confederate pilots outlined a strategy. They would use three of the biplanes. Kennedy and Lightholler would go in the first scout, with Tucker as their pilot. Morgan and Hardas would take the second with Newcombe. Rose and Shine would bring up the rear. The Shenandoah’s captain would give the signal once he had both the remaining Mitsubishis on his starboard side inspecting the “damaged” engine. The entire operation would take place while they were suspended in cloud cover.

  The plan called for a rapid launch sequence. No more than forty-five seconds between each scout’s departure. Then, close-formation flying, keeping the dirigible’s massive frame between them and the Japanese escorts, in an attempt to obstruct any radar. At five minutes out, the Shenandoah would release its starboard engine housing. That had been the captain’s idea. After that, they would be able to limp back to New York while still rendering the airship unusable by the Japanese for any length of time.