by Todd Downing
“Doctor Starr tells me you knew each other in the war,” said Edison as he walked around behind his desk. He seemed to be looking for something.
“That’s right,” Jack said. “I flew for the 32nd Squadron RAF before America joined in. Met Ms. Starr in a French field hospital. She patched me up once or twice.”
Doc smiled delicately at the memory. “Once or twice,” she repeated.
Edison continued shuffling through papers and notebooks on his desk, uninterested in the energy exchange between Jack and Doc. “And do you have experience with lighter-than-air vehicles as well as fixed-wing craft?”
Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ve definitely flown more kites than balloons, Mr. Edison, but I did log a lot of time in British airships scouting for U-boats. If it flies, I can probably pilot it.”
Doc interjected, “And can we assume you’ve been logging flight time on a regular basis since the war?”
“Yes indeedy,” Jack nodded. “Mail runs and test flights for some of the regional aviation companies, mostly.” He thought for a moment, then squinted at Edison. “Say, does this have anything to do with that giant zeppelin I saw today?”
“Giant zeppelin?” Doc stammered.
Edison found what he was looking for—a small key with a handwritten tag tied to it. He looked at Jack and soured.
“Oh dear,” he said. “It’s worse than I thought.”
Jack squirmed. “Mr. Edison, maybe you’d better tell me what this is about.”
Edison and Doc exchanged a look. Doc nodded. Edison turned to face the tall pilot.
“Jack, what do you know about black magic?”
Jack caught himself. “Black magic? You mean like spells and hexes?”
Doc pursed her lips. “Among other things, yes.”
Edison put the key in his pocket and circled the desk, coming to lean against the front. “As you may know, spiritualism has been an interest of mine for some time. In my studies, I discovered that a corrupt wizard named Aleister Crowley had created a privately-funded hermetical order dedicated to mysticism, the Astrum Argentum, or Silver Star.”
Jack’s lips became a thin line. Had the old man actually said the words “corrupt wizard”? As in, “wizards are real, and this guy is a bad one”?
Doc went to the window and looked out over the property, bathed in the fading orange glow of the setting sun. “On the surface, they appear to be just another secret society. But there’s more to them,” she warned. “A lot more.”
Jack leaned against the arch, unwilling to fully enter the space. “I’m all ears, Doc,” he said.
Doc turned and began to pace the room. The topic was clearly troubling to her in a very personal way. “Crowley has been deported from at least three European countries. His rites are associated with necromancy and blood sacrifice... What Mr. Edison didn’t know was that Crowley’s true motive with the founding of this order was to seek out and acquire as many mystical artifacts and items of power from around the world as possible, to fuel his maniacal ambitions.”
“But… to what end?” Jack mused.
Edison nodded toward the door leading out to the west part of the grounds. Jack and Doc followed him outside.
“Only Crowley knows the true answer to that question, Jack,” said Edison. “But I think we can assume his motives are not entirely benign.”
Doc sighed. “Mr. Edison understates what we know to be true. We’ve been watching this organization grow since the end of the war. They’ve killed innocent people, and attempted to open dimensional portals to summon eldritch demons for personal gain. I actually have a theory that Crowley was behind some of the event leading up to the Great War itself.”
“Which has yet to be proved, my dear Doctor,” Edison added, underscoring what Jack interpreted as a fundamental disagreement between the two.
Doc frowned, but didn’t press that part of her case. “He has disaffected people from all over the world flocking to join his organization, which grows stronger every day.”
Edison led them across a manicured gravel path which cut through the west lawn. Electric lanterns on park posts illuminated the grounds every twenty feet or so. “We have reports of Silver Star devotees infiltrating government departments in Britain, Germany, and right here at home.”
“Does the government know?” asked Jack. “Why doesn’t someone do something?”
They arrived at a research laboratory—a nondescript brick building with frosted glass windows.
Edison smiled as he pushed open the door and Jack held it. “Oh someone is doing something, my boy.”
They entered into the cavernous lab, populated by several studious looking men in white smocks who were pouring over notes and specification sheets. Edison led Jack and Doc toward his private office.
“Some like-minded friends of mine have joined me in a particular endeavor. The American Enterprise Group for International Security.”
Jack visualized the initials in his mind. “AEGIS, eh? Isn’t that a type of mythological armor?” He was suddenly glad he’d paid attention in his classical lit class at Stanford.
Doc regarded Jack, impressed. “Very good.”
Edison continued, unlocking his desk drawer with the key from his pocket, and gathering up a couple of blueprints from beneath the rolltop. “Since the Silver Star has moles at the highest levels of government and conducts their war in secret, we figured we needed to fight fire with fire. AEGIS is a private, philanthropic network, with growing resources. We operate in secret, around the world, and independently of any single government.”
Jack watched him close the rolltop and lock the drawer, slipping the key back into his pocket.
“Gee, Mr. Edison, that sounds great. But what does it have to do with the Luftpanzer?”
Edison herded them back out the door to the exit at the far end of the lab. Work tables were cluttered with amazing inventions in various stages of functionality, overseen by the bespectacled scientists in white coats.
Doc explained as they walked. “If the Silver Star is in possession of an airship like the one you saw, it means they can get to the most remote corners of the globe, extract whatever artifact they’re after or complete whatever ritual, and be gone before any national military can intercept them.”
Then they were back outside, Edison leading them further down the illuminated gravel path as the crickets began to chirp their evening songs. “To put it plainly,” he said, with some extra pep in his stride, “people like Crowley thrive on chaos. They have no other thought but personal power, and they will crush anyone who dares get in their way. But nations in chaos don’t buy American steel, or timber, or food, or airplanes. Chaos isn’t good for anyone’s business, or health, or standard of living. Stability, order, and a healthy population is good for everyone. So we created this ‘aegis’—this armor of sorts—to be a shield against the darkness and unspeakable horror Crowley represents.”
As they walked, Jack saw the shape of what looked to be a massive barn rise in the distance. The moon had come out and hovered full in the sky above it. “Naturally,” he nodded.
Edison continued. “And to be the embodiment of this shield against the darkness, is a conveyance that will allow a hand-picked team of dedicated individuals to preempt Crowley at his every turn. To dog his every step. And let no trespass go unpunished.”
The barn was now directly ahead, blocking most of the night sky in Jack’s field of view. A lone work lamp set high on the outer wall illuminated a simple entry door next to a pair of giant sliding panels which looked to be on a motorized track. Jack could hear the familiar sounds of workers in a shop.
Doc took Jack’s arm as Edison led them up to the entry door.
“Distances that once took months will be traveled in days,” she explained.
“I don’t understand,” said Jack.
Edison smiled. “You will, my boy.”
The door opened and Edison led them into what was actually an aerodrome. It w
as open and cavernous, with various heavy tools, machinery and work stations around the perimeter. Sparks erupted from welding torches, and the heat from arc lights above made Jack begin to bead up with sweat.
“What… is… this?”
In the center of the building sat an airship. It wasn’t long—perhaps only 250 feet, if that. The slightly flattened lozenge shape of the outer envelope made it look torpedo-like, and clearly aluminum fibers had been woven into the canvas, because it shone and reflected in the dim work light. An enormous turbofan engine nacelle sat at the end of a twenty-foot arm jutting out from either side of the lower gondola, and it appeared to Jack that the cockpit or bridge was set higher up, thrust out just under the nose. A painter attached to a safety cable worked to complete the red stripe on the outer edge of the tail fins, and a winged sword and shield emblem graced the upper vertical stabilizer. Black registration numbers were painted on her stern: AX2-1. And along her side, level with the bridge, a name: DAEDALUS II.
“Behold, Captain,” Edison gestured at the vehicle. “Here is your shield.”
Jack stared, slack-jawed at the thing. He’d never seen anything like it—never thought a dirigible could look that graceful, for that matter.
Doc grinned like a schoolgirl who’d orchestrated the best surprise party ever. “She’s a brand-new airship, Jack. With an experimental drive system.”
The pilot took a step toward the airship and stopped, unable to pry his eyes away. He had a million questions. But all that came out of his mouth was a stammered, “Holy cow! T-That’s one heck of a bird, Mr. Edison!”
Doc bit her lower lip. She’d missed Jack in the six years they’d been apart. Missed his enthusiasm and boyish energy.
“You think you can fly her, Captain?” she asked playfully.
He didn’t look away from the ship. “Boy howdy, I sure wanna try!”
Edison chuckled. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”
Jack made one more visual pass along the aerodynamic envelope and suddenly recalled the ship’s name.
“It says Daedalus II,” he said. “Pardon me for asking, but what happened to Daedalus I?”
Edison wandered to a workbench nearby and unrolled one of the blueprints from under his arm.
“Well,” he began, “that is a tale in itself, Captain.” He squinted over specifications and measurements as he spoke, relaying the story as if he were spinning a tall tale in an Old West saloon. “A friend and associate of mine, Vincenzo DiMarco, an Italian scientist living in Venezuela, made a rather incredible discovery in 1917, having to do with perpetual motion. Using basic principles of magnetism and nearly frictionless gyroscopic movement, he was able to create a small engine capable of generating deceptively high voltage. DiMarco was also a talented aviator and first implemented his engine in a dirigible of his own design, the Daedalus. He was to license his airship design to my company for civilian use during the war, but the Daedalus wasn’t complete until the end of 1919. Unfortunately, agents of the Astrum Argentum caught up with DiMarco in 1922, and shot him down. Because DiMarco had no access to American helium, he’d naturally used hydrogen for lift gas, which made the poor Daedalus more like the boy, Icarus, who burned by flying too close to the sun.”
Jack frowned. Edison went back to poring over the unrolled blueprints on the desk.
“We can only hope Crowley’s men found nothing of value amid the wreckage,” Edison said. “One of our agents managed to retrieve DiMarco’s schematics and smuggle them out of Venezuela before Crowley’s soldiers could find his laboratory.”
Doc’s smile fell at the mention of the lost agent. “Lucky for us,” she added.
Edison pointed at different areas on the blueprints. “We built a brand new airship from his designs. Of course I was able to improve on some systems… the alternator, electrical battery array, and the controls.”
Doc looked across the giant aerodrome at the Daedalus. “And she uses helium for lift. Not hydrogen.”
Jack managed to crack a smile. “Well, at least if we go down, we won’t be on fire.”
Suddenly an abrasive Bronx baritone echoed out of the darkness behind him. “You catch my bird on fire and I’ll pound you!”
Jack turned, astonished. There stood a stocky man of forty with salt and pepper hair and walrus-like mustache. He wore grease-stained coveralls and a mechanic’s cap with the bill turned up.
“Huh? Rivets?! Why, Carl Holloway, you old dog!”
The mechanic reached out an equally grease-stained hand and Jack shook it, forgetting he was wearing his Sunday best.
“Woof woof!” Rivets laughed. “One and the same!”
Jack couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face. He glanced at Doc and could see her beginning to smile too. He finally wrested his now-filthy hand from Rivets’ grasp. “Gosh, it’s good to see ya, Rivets!”
The corners of the big, bushy mustache came up at both ends, and Jack knew he was smiling underneath it. “You too, Cap,” the mechanic said.
Jack was about to launch into the multitude of questions streaming through his head, when he stopped, listening to the sounds in the aerodrome. Someone was singing. It was a song he’d blocked out from his time in the war. A song he hated.
Raise a glass to Captain Stratosphere
His head in the clouds, He who knows no fear
With his goggles on and his chocks away
And his guns a-blazing, He will save the day
Jack blinked, and Rivets gestured behind the group with his thumb. “I brought an old pal along.”
Jack watched as another face from his past emerged from the dark. The angular form of the dapper British officer was clad in dress khakis and a tie, his wavy black hair slicked back and well-groomed, much like the pencil mustache on his upper lip.
“Well, as I live and breathe…” said Jack.
The officer grinned. “Thanks to me, as I recall.” His voice was a pleasing timbre laced with posh King’s English.
The men shook hands and clapped shoulders.
“Edward Willis,” muttered Jack in disbelief. “Duke!”
Willis cocked an eyebrow and took in the group. “Looks like a bloody reunion of Yanks in the RFC, eh wot?”
Jack noticed that Doc and Edison had both been watching to see what his reaction would be to these surprise appearances. “Duke was the best munitions man at the Western Front,” he explained. “And Rivets was the best kite mechanic. I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for these guys.”
“That’s why we recruited them,” Doc informed him. “They’re going with us.”
Jack straightened. “Us?!” he puzzled. “Now hold on, sister…”
Doc bristled, presuming a chauvinist tirade to follow.
“Not to worry, Captain.” Edison insisted. “Dr. Starr is quite necessary to this venture. In addition to her medical expertise, she is also quite the expert on the occult.”
Jack started to protest, but Rivets cut him off. “Cap, she was with us at the front, remember? She patched us all up at one time or another.”
Rolling his eyes, Jack reassured the group. “It’s not the Doc I’m worried about. She can handle the worst the world can throw at her. It’s just that Duke here took some shrapnel to the head at Verdun, and wasn’t able to fly without vertigo.”
Doc closed her eyes and chuckled softly to herself. The more she got reacquainted with Jack McGraw, the more she liked him.
Duke waved away Jack’s concern. “Don’t worry about me, old boy. I’ll be fine as long as you don’t take her on any loops or barrel rolls. Besides, if the Silver Star is really as much a threat as we think, you’ll need each one of us in your corner.”
Edison looked up from the work table, regarding Jack carefully. “That is, if our good captain is decided,” he said.
It was like something out of a Jules Verne novel, Jack thought. He mused aloud: “Let’s see… fly a brand new airship with an experimental drive system all over the world with my war buddies, sa
ving the world from unspeakable horror. Fame, fortune, glory and discovery…” Jack folded his arms over his chest and gazed at the sleek aircraft. “I’m in. When do we take her out, Mr. Edison?”
Edison suddenly realized there was a timetable attached to the project. “Ah, we’re still finalizing some adjustments to the battery array. Why do you ask?”
“Just the matter of the Luftpanzer snooping around over New Jersey,” Jack said. “The more I think about it, the more I think they may have been looking for your little operation here.”
Edison’s gaze retreated into thoughtful contemplation.
Rivets stepped up beside Jack to look at the Daedalus. “You know, Cap… there’s nothing on that bird that I can’t fiddle with while we’re flyin’.”
Duke nodded. “I concur, Mr. Edison. If you think time is of the essence, I’d certify the Daedalus sound as a pound.”
In an instant, Jack McGraw became the leader of the group. “Then we should take off at first light,” he said. “I’ll get my gear at the airfield and be back in a couple hours. Rivets can give me the rundown then.”
A familiar chemistry coursed through the group, a shared excitement over a dynamic shared in harder times. A unity born of shared crisis.
Jack gazed out at the Daedalus, like a teenage boy on a first date. Doc took his arm again.
“Come on, Captain,” she offered. “We can take my car.”
- Chapter 3 -
The drive back to Kenilworth airfield was tranquil and quiet. Doc’s 1923 Model T runabout chattered along the gravel road, its headlamps probing the dark, Jack at the wheel. He’d driven trucks—and even the occasional staff car—while in the service, but since mustering out, he’d been content to hire a taxi for ground transportation. He was in a plane fully half of his waking hours anyway, living in a barracks at the airfield as part of his compensation from Morton Aviation.
He decided he liked the runabout. Sporty little thing.
Doc tried to fill the silence by running down the design specs of the Daedalus.