Her Majesty's Western Service

by Leo Champion

  “Captain Ahle, Vice-Commodore Perry, the Vice-Commodore’s bodyguard? Joe Sr. and Jr. will see you now,” she said.

  By this point, Perry had almost expected a throne room. Pirate kings, after all, he’d heard them described as often-enough. Including by Flight Admiral Richardson, a couple of times, and informally in at least one of MI-7’s – Fleming’s, damn that bastard! – briefings. He’d anticipated literal thrones, like Her Majesty’s, inside a large audience hall with a rug leading up to it on which supplicants could comfortably bend their knees in rightful abasement.

  “The scourge of the West and a damned pestilence elsewhere,” Richardson had once called the bald, clearly-aging eighty-ish man and his late-forties son, a handsome man with dark, slicked-back hair.

  Josephs Sr. and Jr. sat on comfortable chairs behind a large desk, which Perry had no doubt included built-in cogitator screens and keyboards. The room was comfortable and well-carpeted, perhaps three times the size of Fleming’s or Richardson’s offices; clearly designed for accommodating large audiences, whole groups of people.

  And yes, there were a few trophies on the walls of the well-carpeted room. The eagle standard of a US Army regiment sat next to a pair of propellors, with plaques below – unreadable given Perry’s ten-foot distance and momentary time – probably telling the stories of their actions. A certificate of some kind sat next to the propellors. Similar decorations on the other side of the room.

  “Captain Ahle,” said the younger man, Joseph Junior, getting to his feet. His father didn’t, and Perry realized that that man wasn’t in a chair but a wheelchair. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you, Joe,” said Ahle.

  Her voice, Perry noted, didn’t convey an inch of the apprehension that he himself felt. This seemed like routine business to her.

  “Vice-Commodore Perry. Thank you for your visit.”

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Kennedy.” It felt like the only appropriate response.

  “And Airshipman Rafferty. I applaud your nerve coming in this far.”

  “It’s good to be here,” said Rafferty. He advanced on the desk drawing something –

  A notepad.

  “Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Kennedy, my mates aren’t gonna believe this unless you sign here,” he said before Perry could intervene. “Your autographs, please.”

  “Excuse my—”

  Rafferty advanced across the carpet of the spacious office and shoved the pad in front of Joe Senior.

  “Excuse my subordinate’s insolence,” Perry snarled.

  “Well excused,” said Joseph Senior. He drew a pen. “Rafferty, is it? Let me guess, Jim Rafferty?”

  “George, sir.”

  “Well, Airshipman—”

  “Specialist, sir.”

  “Specialist George Rafferty, here’s something for you to show your mates in the enlisted mess.” Joseph Senior scribbled something onto Rafferty’s pad, finishing it with a flourishing signature.

  “And here you go,” said Joe Junior, writing his own note.

  “I can only apologize,” Perry snarled, before being cut off.

  “No need,” Joseph Senior waved him off. “But this is a large room for the five of us; meant for groups, not small meetings like this. Suppose we with business to do withdraw to the working office.”

  “With business to do,” Perry said, glaring at his Specialist Third.

  “With business to do,” agreed the pirate king. He leaned over to what must have been a mike. “Bill, you around? Entertain our other guest, will you? Bring a bottle or two.”

  Joseph Junior got up, moved to – yes, it was a wheelchair – wheel his father through the unobtrusive back door of the main office.

  “Mr. Rafferty, if you’d stay here,” Joseph Junior requested before he turned. “Officer-level business to discuss, I’m sorry. Our assistant chief of intel, Mr. Bill Colby, will entertain you while you wait.”

  “Don’t he report to John Francis himself, Mr. Kennedy?” asked Rafferty.

  “He does. But wait here, please.”

  “Damn straight! Sir!”

  The inner office, which Joseph Junior gestured Perry and Ahle into, was much smaller and more comfortable. Undecorated except for a couple of mechanitype printouts on one wall, it contained a single broad desk.

  An elegant blond woman rose to her feet as the two entered.

  “Miss Lynch,” said Ahle, recovering from her surprise a moment earlier than Perry.

  “Thought those bastards had killed you,” Perry said. Not that he was glad to see the information-fencing bitch, but – he supposed – it was nice to know she’d lived.

  Enemy of my enemy, and all.

  And she did give me the location.

  But how–?

  “Oh, it was simple,” Lynch said, smiling. “By the way, please sit down.”

  Both Perry and Ahle glanced at the Kennedys before doing so. Joe Junior nodded.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” said Junior. “The other room is for the big audiences.”

  The seats were padded and well-appointed, with leather armrests. Yes, thought Perry, this was a room for serious business.

  “Very simple story,” Lynch stated.

  “Hold on,” said Joseph Kennedy Jr. “Now you’re in our private sanctum sanctorum, if you will – are you hungry?”

  “I’m fine,” said Perry. “We were just finishing breakfast when your Lakota henchman called.”

  “Not quite our henchmen, but close enough that the point’s irrelevant,” smiled Joe Junior.

  “Care for a drink, then?”

  “Not at this hour,” said Perry. “But thank you.”

  “Rum,” said Ahle. “Lynch knows my favorite.”

  “We do,” came a disembodied voice from the ceiling.

  “So how the hell did you survive?” Perry demanded of Lynch. “We saw that airship explode.”

  Lynch shrugged.

  “A pretty sight, wasn’t it? I paid enough for the spectacle.”

  “You weren’t in it?”

  “I was in a sealed basement two blocks away. That ship was unmanned, and the launch crew had orders to bolt immediately. The shooters had their own assumptions. Twelve hours later, Unitas and I boarded a different ship. Is that all you wanted to know, Vice-Commodore?”

  “No,” snarled Perry. “You could have warned us that 4-106 was well-guarded.”

  Lynch shrugged.

  “You didn’t ask.”

  Joseph Senior interjected, with a cough, as a khaki-clad female assistant brought in a glass of rum for Ahle: “I think I know why you’re here, Vice-Commodore Perry.”

  “To get my ship back,” Perry said. “Ahle says you have the resources. I’ll pay for them, on Fleming’s account – I won’t pretend you don’t know who he is.”

  Senior smiled, as Ahle sipped her rum.

  Perry sighed.

  “You can afford a fortress like this and security like you have. But don’t tell me money’s of no account to you.”

  Senior and Junior looked at one another. Was it Perry’s imagination, or did he see eyes rolling?

  “We’ll do it for free, Vice-Commodore. At your convenience within twelve hours, an assault company of my men will descend upon 4-106 for you and return your airship.”

  “All we ask,” Junior added, “is a favor in return.”

  Perry, guarded: “And what’s that?”

  “An introduction,” said Joseph Senior.

  Ahle was silent, but Perry could see she was smiling thinly. Had she anticipated this? Was this all part of some plan of hers?

  “To Ian Fleming,” Senior went on. “And through him, to the Governor of the Hugoton Lease. We understand he carries plenipotentiary authority.”

  He gave enough of a pause that Perry saw fit to fill it in:

  “He does.”

  “Very well,” said Joseph Kennedy Junior. “He must, by now, see the same picture we do. Our friend Markell over there” – a gestur
e at the woman to his side – “has enlightened us on a few things. He’ll be interested.”

  “I have sources inside Texas,” said Lynch quietly. “Including a few extreme deep-cover. All of that information came with me to the Black Hills.”

  “Suppose you enlighten me,” growled Perry, “as to what the hell is going on?”

  When Lynch and Kennedy Junior were done, Perry found himself slowly shaking his head. A Russian play for all of the West? Impossible! Merely to destroy Hugoton? Still implausible! This was a stolen airship and no more!

  But here were credible people in a room that had required paranoid-level security to get to, saying…

  And all the pieces fit together. He’d wondered more than once why the Special Squadrons would want tactical maps of Hugoton. He’d blundered into something much bigger than he’d expected.

  “I’ll have another rum, please,” said Ahle to the room. “And bring the bottle.” Under her breath, to Perry: “This is serious shit.”

  “While you’re about it,” Perry raised his voice to whoever was monitoring the room, “I’ll have a triple Scotch. Glenfiddich, if you have it.”

  “Glenfiddich twenty-one coming right up,” came a voice back.

  “So,” Joseph Junior asked, “are you willing to accept our assistance, in return for getting our emissary a direct introduction to Deputy Director Fleming?”

  Perry nodded. Fleming would be able to spare ten minutes to talk to a pirate; it probably wouldn’t be the first time for that shady bastard, either. Maybe he’d even enjoy it.

  But in this light…

  “What do you want to talk to him – to the Governor – about?”

  “That would be for them to discuss,” Joseph Junior said. “Do you give us your word of honor as an officer of the Imperial Air Service that, once we have secured your airship and returned it to you, you will endeavor to the best of your abilities to fulfill your side of this bargain?”

  That was an easy question. The harder part was giving his word of honor to a damn pirate!

  No. Not so hard. Ahle was honorable enough, and the Kennedys – he’d heard a lot of bad things about them, but rape and needless killing – much killing at all, really – had never been among the rumors.

  “You have my word of honor as an officer,” Perry told the man and his father. “But what you were just saying – you mean that? I’ve heard that that bastard Trotsky thinks big, but that big?”

  “I mean every word of it,” said Lynch. “Deal with it, if it’s within your scope. Maybe there’s even something you can do about it. Deal with the facts, Vice-Commodore.”

  “Deal with the facts,” Ahle agreed. “The lives of my crew depend on it. I’d appreciate this. Please.”

  A khaki-uniformed flunky came in with a tray carrying more, and a filled-to-the-brim tumbler of Scotch for Perry.

  Russian invasion of the West? Hugoton falling to the Tsar? Best-case if the Governor’s smart and reacts in time by throwing out the entire garrison – including Thirty-First Squadron! – to extreme risk? The Hugoton Lease merely destroyed?

  He threw back the triple Scotch in one elongated gulp and gestured to the flunky, who wasn’t yet out of the room, for more.

  “Joseph Senior. Joseph Junior,” he said. “Miss Lynch. I’m not authorized to deal on my own, of course. But” – a gulp, as the flunky returned with more Scotch; he reached for the tumbler like a lifeline – “I should be able to put you in touch with my superiors. Get me my airship back and I will.”

  “I thought we had a deal,” Joseph Junior smiled.

  Chapter Nineteen

  …in conclusion, this novel is utter trash even by the dismal standards of ‘alternate universe’ technofiction. John F. Kennedy - the pirate family’s little-known second son, what happened to Joe Junior? - as President of the United States? Impossible heavier-than-air flying craft? Fidel Castro not playing baseball, but President of Cuba? Gigantic rockets on their way to being based out of that island, which we are supposed to believe have the range to hit Florida? With magic ‘nuclear’ warheads, somehow derived from Curium and the Marseilles Catastrophe?

  ‘The Cuban Missile Crisis’ is solid one-star garbage, although we can expect David Oglivy’s legions of barely-literate fans to lap it up regardless. Some of them, no doubt, are so ignorant that they will consider its events real.

  Pauline Kael, New York Post Review of Books, December 1962.

  The Hugoton base was in total, unprecedented motion. Airships loaded with men were taking off; special trains had been ordered, more infantry piling aboard them. Tanks slowly rumbled east, followed by vehicles containing mechanics and support crews. Other support personnel loaded trucks, boxcars and airships with everything that could be stripped and moved.

  “Never thought I’d see the day,” Swarovski muttered to Martindale as a human chain of enlisted men passed boxes up into Johnstown’s hold. “We’re getting ready to lose Hugoton? This is crazy.”

  “Ought to strike them first,” said Commander Ricks. “Mercenaries. I hear the SS are good, but we could put a dent into them.”

  “You heard what the hag lady said, sir,” said Swarovski. “Just wish we could go off with you boys.”

  Another airship took off, cumbersomely because it was loaded to capacity with Air Marines. As it lifted, it began to slowly rotate – heading west for some point along the Texas border.

  “Yeah,” said Ricks. “Swarovski, Martindale, I don’t envy your crew. I understand someone has to stay behind until the end. Hope they have a plan to get you out at the very end.”

  “We’ll find something,” said Swarovski with more bravado than he felt. “Richardson’s a fanatic, but she’s not dumb. We’ll survive.”

  “You better,” said Ricks. “Mind, if you guys want to come aboard the Johnstown, I can promise you I won’t notice until we’re safely up.”

  “Do admit, I envy that idiot Specialist Rafferty,” said Swarovski.

  Yesterday evening, Senior Airshipman Duckworth had come back from somewhere, his lips tightly sealed. Rafferty was still missing, AWOL at this point. The interesting part was how Duckworth had gone straight to the Flight Admiral’s office and demanded an audience.

  That was something a Senior Airshipman would never do on his own – there was a chain of command that went through his department head, his ship captain, and Ricks as Thirty-First’s acting squadron commander. Jumping that chain was serious business, and Duckworth wouldn’t have done so without very, very good reason.

  Reason such as specific orders from someone even higher on that chain.

  Like Vice Perry.

  Duckworth hadn’t said anything, and his response to direct questions had been “Sir, I was ordered by the Flight Admiral personally not to discuss my last forty-eight hours. She said, sir, to take it up with her if you had a problem. Sir.”

  An absolute non-answer, and Swarovski wasn’t crazy enough to tangle with Admiral Richardson. But a non-answer like that implied specific, serious information that Duckworth had been forbidden to talk about. The fact that Rafferty had been with Duckworth and chosen – or been forced – not to return, was equally telling.

  Swarovski’s own theory, and he’d have bet money on this, was that the two had run into Vice Perry somewhere in Dodge City. He’d left, done something with them, and sent Duckworth back to report. Possibly with the very information that had caused Command to bring the entire Lease to orange alert last night, and then issue the movement orders that were being followed now.

  Warrant Brooks, a tiny woman who was the Johnstown’s senior ship NCO, drew herself up in front of Ricks and saluted. Ricks returned the salute.

  “Loading complete, Warrant?”

  “About to be, sir. And that’s the last of it.”

  “Very well. And everyone’s personal possessions are on board?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Orders are to lift ASAP once loaded. We’re going to Louisiana.”

  Ricks turned t
o Swarovski and Martindale.

  “Good luck, boys. Take care of yourselves.”

  “You too, sir,” said Martindale.

  A few minutes later, the Johnstown – the last airship of Thirty-First Squadron, carrying its acting commander – began to rise.

  “That’s it, Swav,” said Martindale. “Just us left. Is there anything more god-damned pathetic than an airship crew without a ship?”

  “A Lease without a garrison,” Swarovski said. He understood the reasoning, but damn.

  “You’ve got a point,” 4-106’s XO said. “Come with me to the officers’ mess, will you? Let’s get a drink while we still can.”

  Otto Skorzeny drew himself to attention and saluted.

  “Final orders, mein Fuhrer.”

  “At ease and bring them in, Otto,” said Himmler.

  “Just came out of decryption,” Skorzeny explained, handing his commander a folder.

  “And you read them first, no doubt. Hence your uncharacteristic formality.”

  Skorzeny grinned.

  “I thought so. Well, you can summarize them for me. I assume they’re orders to move out.”

  “Yes. With an update. The Imperials have gotten wise to something. They’re redeploying their own troops along the Texas border. Meanwhile, the Americans are moving everything they can south. Too little, too late. But Texas is not going to fuck with the Imperials.”

  Himmler gave a terse nod. That had been anticipated; it was a logical reaction, to set up a tripwire. Texas would overrun the Imperials easily, but public reaction through the Empire – at seeing four Imperial battalions wiped out – would mean open war.

  The Imperial public would not necessarily support a full-scale war to retake the West, not against a Russian-backed power. They’d certainly support a war to avenge the deaths of several thousand men, and Texas wouldn’t last a month against the full force of mobilized Imperial power.

  “So Johnson’s calling it off.”

  “Third Department says he’s in conference, now the reports are coming in. The Imperial Ambassador to Texas has made it very clear that an attack on Imperial troops will mean open war.”