by Leo Champion
“Get these to Tactical,” he ordered. “We have limited time to plan the attack.”
The moment Cornwell had been dreading finally arrived: a man with a crowbar opening the box he was hiding in.
Blinding light, relative to the near-complete darkness inside the packing crate. He looked up into the face of an overalled man in his early thirties. Thin face, and it looked like he was trying to grow a handlebar moustache. Pale blue eyes widened in shock.
I only have one chance at this, Cornwell thought, and pulled from inside his jacket.
“Who – what – what the fuck, there’s a guy here!” the customs inspector was saying.
Cornwell shoved the money in his face.
“You get paid what, two thousand, two and a half a year? Here’s four grand. You didn’t see me. Count it.”
Texan hundred-dollar bills. The customs inspector took the bundle of money. Inspected one closely.
“These are real,” he muttered.
“Give me an address,” said Cornwell. Going on reflexes and rote; he was scared out of his mind. “That’s the down payment. You get the rest of the ten grand when I’ve cleared the border.”
“Who are you?” the inspector demanded.
“Someone who can give you one and a half times that again if I clear the border.”
The inspector slowly, painstakingly, going back a couple of times, counted the money.
“Holy shit. Four fucking grand. You’re giving me four grand?”
Cornwell, in the crate, shook his head.
“What the fuck do you mean you’re not? You just gave it to me!”
“I’m giving you ten grand,” Cornwell said. “If you didn’t see anything. If you missed this crate. Give me an address.”
“You’re not going to fuck me over. Ten Gs?” the clerk asked.
“Promise. Not going to fuck your country over, too. I’m gone, never to return. Promise you that.”
The inspector reached into his own blue jacket, pulled a pencil and paper, scribbled something. An address, somewhere in Wichita Falls, Northeast Province, Texas.
Cornwell’s heart leapt. He’s buying it!
“Send it there, OK? You said six more grand?”
“Six more grand,” said Cornwell. I’m going to make it! “Promise.”
“Fuck it, even if you don’t” – the inspector held up the money. “You gave me almost two years’ pay right here. Holy shit. You say you are leaving, not gonna cause my country any more trouble at whatever you did?”
“Not a damn bit.”
“Then I never saw you,” said the inspector. He dropped the crate’s lid back down.
Cornwell – he hadn’t realized that he barely had, for the last couple of minutes – breathed.
I may have made it, he thought.
“Vice,” Duckworth said nervously. “Do you have a moment? Sir?”
“Senior Airshipman,” Perry said, looking up from the high, sparse plains they were flying over. “Of course.”
“In private, sir, if you don’t mind?”
Perry nodded. They got up and left the bridge, went to the small cabin Perry had been given. Plain and functional, like the rest of the airship, with a pair of folding bunks whose lower one was unfolded, and an unfolded seat next to a folded-in writing desk. Perry closed the door.
“What’s up, Senior Airshipman?”
“Sir, I can’t go to the Black Hills. Neither can Rafferty. He got us into this – you got us into this, sir, with the highest of respect – thinking it’d be a quick run back and forth. Now we’re going to consort with pirates.”
Perry gave a nod. He was uncomfortable with the thought himself, very uncomfortable. Working with Ahle had been one thing, but directly enlisting the help of active pirates?
He, at least, was on a legitimate special assignment. Duckworth and Rafferty had been effectively dragooned into this, Duckworth apparently as much by Rafferty’s stronger personality as any decision of his own. OK, so he’d been dragooned much the same way by Fleming, but he wasn’t going to inflict the same crap on his men…
“And sir, I’m on a sixty-hour pass. It’s already Saturday and I have to report Monday morning at the base or it’s brig time. So does Raff. We need to get off this ship, sir. And…”
“And?”
Duckworth looked away, forced a sheepish smile.
“Sir, passage back to Dodge is going to cost money. Sir. And I make enlisted pay, sir. It might not be a big deal to you as a squadron commander, but – Vice Perry, sir, I can’t afford to get back there!”
Perry nodded again.
“Very well. That’s something I can help with.” It crossed his mind for a moment to confide in Duckworth about his relief in actually having a solveable problem. Only for a very short moment: whether or not he was in uniform, he was still a Vice-Commodore of the Air Service who did not confide in enlisted men.
He took out his wallet and peeled off a fifty. Then, after a moment, another one.
“I’ll have Nolan take us by Denver – we’re still south of the place, I think. Fifty bucks is going to cover your passage to Dodge. You and Rafferty can go back.”
“Thank you, sir. Much appreciated, sir.”
“No,” said Rafferty. “Like hell I’m getting off.”
“That’s desertion, Raff,” said Duckworth. The airship had touched down outside Denver, hovering over a field near a main road with enough traffic that the two airshipmen should easily be able to thumb a ride downtown. Or to Stapleton.
“Ain’t desertion for another hundred sixty-eight hours after the pass expires,” said Rafferty. “Until then it’s just AWOL.”
Yeah, thought Perry. Rafferty was the type who’d know exactly how far you could push the rules. But an order was an order.
“I’m not permitting you to go AWOL either,” said Perry.
“Boss, we got more crew than we need at Hugoton, until 4-106 comes back. Now, Ducks can go back, that’s a good thing, he can update the spooks on what you been doing. But I’m stayin’ with you. Said I’d help you retrieve the big ship, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Boss.”
“Perhaps I misphrased,” said Perry. “Specialist Third, that was not a request. It is a direct order.”
Rafferty grinned.
“Under what authority, boss? You’re officially a fugitive. Respectable Spec Third can’t take orders from a busted fugitive, huh?”
There was a chuckle from someone on the bridge.
“He’s got you there, Vice,” said former-Marine-lieutenant Galvanny.
Perry sighed.
“OK, Specialist Third. Perhaps you can explain why you want to take brig time in order to come along. Or a court-martial, since there may not be guarantee we’ll be back in a week?”
Rafferty grinned again, and cocked his head.
“Boss, it’s an adventure. Joined the Service for adventure, din’t I? Go into the heart of the Black Hills? Now, that’s a story they’ll be buying me drinks for ten years down the line! And Vice, think of it your way – you know I’m a loyal Serviceman, and you know I can handle myself in a fight. Don’t you think you’d be a little better off with someone around to watch your back in the Black Hills?”
That was a point, although Perry didn’t like it. He was supposed to send this man right back to his job! He really shouldn’t have allowed him onto the airship to begin with, but there hadn’t been any option, had there?
Allowing self-interest to overcome duty… but he didn’t have the authority to kick Rafferty off the ship anyway.
But the captain did.
He looked at Nolan.
“Captain, I’d like you to boot this man from your ship. So that he must go back to Hugoton.”
Nolan thought for a moment.
“Vice, I don’t think that’s a good idea. He’s got a point– lot of men in the Black Hills would love the chance to crack an Imperial Vice-Commodore, ex or not. Story’s gotten around, you know. Won’t be anonymous. I think you
could use a bodyguard.”
“I have Ahle,” said Perry.
“You could use another one. My money says Ahle is going to have to go places you won’t be allowed. Vice, sir, with respect, I think he should come along and I’m not going to order him off my ship for that reason.”
Bastard.
But if Nolan, too, thought he needed a bodyguard… perhaps it was something he could accept. He’d made every good-faith attempt to get rid of Rafferty, after all.
“Very well,” said Perry. “You can stay. I am specifically not liable for your actions and I want it made very clear that I attempted to give you a direct order to follow Service rules. Understood, Rafferty?”
“Broken rules before an’ been busted for `em,” said Rafferty cheerfully. He touched the Specialist Third’s insignia on his shoulders. “Always get me props back one way or the other.”
“Raff, you’re an idiot,” said Duckworth.
“Probably,” said Rafferty to his friend. “But I’m gonna be an idiot with a tale to tell.”
“And charges to face when you’re back,” said Duckworth.
“Time enough to worry about `em when I’m back, Ducks.”
“Duckworth, I’d like you to deliver this to proper authorities when you return,” said Perry, handing the enlisted man an envelope. “The contents are to be considered extremely confidential. Is that understood?”
“Yessir. Who’s proper authorities, sir, in this case?”
“Good point. Do not give it to your chain of command; this goes to the Flight Admiral directly. You will deliver it into the hands of either Flight Admiral Richardson or her personal adjutant. Nobody else, under any circumstances. It goes into your jacket now and does not come out until you are in the physical presence of one of those two people. Clear?”
“Got it, sir,” said Duckworth. He went to the door of the bridge, prepared to jump down; they were still a good six feet or so off the ground, moving every so-often as gusts of wind blew the ship sideways.
“Sir? If I can say so – good luck with what you’re doing, sir. I saw that stolen ship down there with my own eyes.”
“And you don’t tell a soul that,” said Perry. “Everything about your little jaunt is confidential. Certain people are going to be watching for if you do talk. And it’s more than brig time in that case – those people have powers that go well beyond Service regulations, am I clear?”
Duckworth nodded and his right arm twitched; he was restraining himself from a salute.
“Aye, sir. Well, good luck, sir.” Duckworth looked down, then jumped from the ship.
“Next stop Red Cloud,” said Nolan cheerfully. “Lift!”
Jebediah Judd’s sleek bright-red airship – the Red Ruby Robber – had been tied directly to the roof of the seven-storey SS building in downtown Columbia, a privileged position. Around the edges of the roof, in fact, was manned heavy firepower – rockets and cannon – clearly intended to keep that position privileged.
For the last day and change, Marko, Ferrer, Rienzi and McIlhan had been waiting antsily in their cabins for the orders that were supposed to arrive. Now, the tiny, hyperactive captain in red pounded on the door of the cabin Ferrer shared with Rienzi. With him was Otto Skorzeny.
Marko and McIlhan were already out in the passageway.
“We finally got movement orders?” Marko was asking.
“You finally get the fuck out of here,” Skorzeny replied.
From what Ferrer had seen, there was absolutely no love lost between the anarchist and the SS colonel. That was one reason the four were sleeping aboard the airship instead of taking the luxury-grade quarters Himmler had offered them. “Don’t trust that uptight excuse for a commando fuckup not to be listening,” Marko had explained curtly.
“About time,” Marko shot back. Turned to Judd. “Where?”
“You have the orders, big man,” Judd said. The little pirate seemed utterly unafraid of Skorzeny, maybe even considered him a kindred spirit in craziness. In the last day or so, through small-talk with Judd’s engineering crew, Ferrer had heard a thing or two about Otto Skorzeny. Some of the shit he’d pulled over the years… even allowing for exaggeration, it was impressive.
A more honest form of action than what Marko had drawn him into. What he, Ferrer, had thought he’d be getting into at the start of all this.
“Gimme,” Marko ordered Skorzeny.
“What, no please?” Judd asked.
“No thank-you, either,” Skorzeny observed when Marko had the folder.
“Wire from Houston via New Orleans. Just came out of decryption,” the SS colonel added. “Looks urgent.”
“You know it’s urgent,” said Marko. Reading the orders. Nodding.
“Colonel, get the fuck out of here. Judd, lift immediately. We’ve got another loose end to tie off.”
“I’ll buy you a drink in Hugoton,” Skorzeny promised Judd. “And” – with nods at Ferrer, McIlhan and Rienzi – “you guys too. Gypsy thief can buy his own.”
“You can buy another ramrod to go up your ass,” Marko muttered. “Shithead.”
“Behave, gentlemen,” Judd said. “Colonel, we’ll be lifting immediately.”
“For where?” Rienzi asked.
“Red Cloud, in the Black Hills. Pirateville!”
Cornwell’s train had undergone a much less serious customs inspection on the US side of the Texan border; Cornwell’s own box had not been opened and, from the speed of things, not many were. Before long they pulled into a town he recognized from pictures as Ft. Lawton, a major border outpost.
Finally some good news, he thought, getting out of the box. His legs hurt from the long concealment. There was an airship park in Ft. Lawton, and that park was a regular waypoint for the Imperial ships patrolling the border railway line that ultimately ran to Hugoton. He could get a train in any case, but he also had the option – if he was lucky – of riding an Air Service vessel.
I’m about due for some damn luck, he thought, as he carefully stepped through the wide-open boxcar door and began to head out of the airship park. And with a bit more luck, I might even make Hugoton tomorrow.
The yard workers weren’t paid to pay attention to hoboes – not by their employers, at any rate, or at least the directives from management made other things a priority.
One man, however, had met a fellow in a bar a couple of weeks ago. On learning he was a yard worker, the man had bought his drinks for the rest of the night and said some interesting things about hoboes. A Federal agent, the yard worker had thought, or maybe organized crime. Either way, he’d said that some people he worked with would be especially interested to know about any hoboes coming from Texas.
That was silly, the yard worker said. Lately for some reason the Texans had taken to extra special care about outgoing customs inspections, and while they weren’t looking for hoboes, a customs inspector would certainly kick off any he saw.
The Federal agent or mob man – from the yard worker’s perspective there wasn’t a whole lot of difference, but the guy was buying him drinks – had said that yeah, and thus we’ll be especially interested in any who do get past the customs inspectors. Competition we don’t like. Give us a call and there’s a month’s pay in it for you if we get him.
The yard worker had blown it off at the time, but he’d kept the card, stuffed in his wallet. And now – what was this? A hobo getting off a boxcar from a train he knew perfectly well had come from Texas.
More to the point, if that guy hadn’t been shitting him – a month’s pay!
He waved his flags to the man down the line: Hold – Back – Five – Minutes.
And, fishing in his wallet for the card, he ran for the office, where there was a telephone.
It had taken Cornwell a few minutes to find his way out of the yard and get his bearings. He’d never actually been to Ft. Lawton before, just seen maps and pictures of the place, and it took a short conversation with another bum – a real hobo, not a fugitive as far as
he could tell – to get the location of the airship park. A few miles away.
Well, after days cooped up inside that damn crate, he could use the exercise.
Don’t think for a moment, he told himself, that you’re home free. You’re home free when you’re physically on an Air Service ship or inside the Hugoton lines.
To make sure, his hand reached inside his worn black-leather jacket, for the automatic .40. As he’d done a thousand times on that terrifying, informative ride north from Houston, his fingers slid along the body-heat-warmed steel of the gun.
This time he did something he hadn’t bothered to do in the crate. He turned the safety off and chambered a round.
Nothing under his control was going to stop him from reaching the safety of Hugoton. If the worst erupted, the gun would keep things under control.
“That’s him,” said the offsider in the steam-car. He wasn’t Third Department, just a locally-hired grunt whose other employers had included a couple of loan-sharks and the occasional smuggler. But the foreigner had offered him good money.
“We goin’ waste him?” his buddy the driver asked.
“Put him six feet under,” the offsider ordered, pulling a sawn-off shotgun.
Something in the amplified chuff of the passing steam-truck warned Cornwell; someone gunning an engine. He turned, drawing the gun.
A man was leveling a sawn-off shotgun at him.
Cornwell fired first. He was better-trained, a field agent, and he was also more accurate. It was his bad luck that the gunman’s finger clenched around the trigger in a reflex as the .40 slug tore through his skull.
Heavy shot blasted out into Cornwell.
The agent staggered, but fired again. If he was going down – this close to success, damn it! – he was taking one or two of these Okhrana bastards with him. He fired again and again, but the original gunman was dead, slumped across the window, and the driver was taking no chances with his own life; he’d floored the steam, his truck racing off.