by Eric Nylund
Paladin Blake
And the Secret City
-From the files of Blake Aviation Security—
By Eric Nylund
Chapter One: Thicker than Water…
Paladin Blake had never had it so good-and had never felt so lousy about it, either.
Gray light diffused through his office window; outside was the Santa Monica pier and the roiling Pacific. In another hour the sun would be up, and the citizens of Hollywood would start their day, take the trolleys to work, build planes, and pretend the world had a happy ending like every motion picture churned out by the studios.
He flipped on the intercom. “Tennyson, you there?”
” Yes,” replied a voice with a British accent, ” working up a bit of a surprise on one of our Devastators. “
“Surprise? Is there a problem?”
” Everything is under control, my boy. Business as usual, smooth sailing and all that. “
“Good.” Paladin snapped off the intercom.
Smooth sailing and success were dreams easily bought into. Blake Aviation Security had been out of the red ink for a solid year. Barely. There had been a string of headline-smashing cases-The Phantom Prototype, the Klondike Caper, and the Destruction Island Incident-but good business was the problem.
He picked up a handful of telegrams from his in-box. There were urgent requests from Empire State bureaucrats and Dixie dignitaries, mission requests from Boeing and Hughes, and three checks wired as payment for his services.
Paladin glanced at the map of North America covering the west wall of his office. Pushpins and lines of string traced the air lanes protected by Blake Aviation; they crossed and crisscrossed from Seattle to Baja, Cuba to the Maritime Provinces. His business was making sure passengers and airfreight got delivered safely along those lines…and making sure that every pirate got what was coming to them.
Each line on the map was there because the state militias looked the other way when pirates attacked their competitors, and because there were behind-the-scenes cold wars raging between the tiny empires.
Blake Aviation Security prospered because of it. Paladin would have felt a lot better if there was no need for his protection-indeed, if there was no need for Blake Aviation, at all. The world was falling apart and he was profiting from it. That made him sick to his stomach.
Paladin flipped to the next telegram-and froze as he spotted the sender’s address: Matthew Blake, Sky Haven, Free Colorado.
Paladin dropped the telegram like it was on fire.
Matthew Blake. Paladin thought of his brother as a dead man, and had for the last eight years. Paladin knew Matthew was really alive; it was just easier to pretend he wasn’t.
Paladin opened his lower desk drawer and retrieved his bottle of fourteen-year old bourbon.
He also pulled out the yellowed photograph of his father sitting on the wing of his plane, pistol in one hand, and in the other, a bottle identical to the one on Paladin’s desk.
The picture was snapped on Thanksgiving 1927, when there had still been a Blake family: his father; his brother, Matthew, his sister, Flora; and, of course, Paladin.
The next day pirates shot his father down as the wily old bootlegger flew moonshine across the Colorado-Texas state line-pirates that Paladin had sworn he’d pay back. Every last one of them.
Matthew had his revenge on pirates, too. He took their money and planes, and whenever he could, their lives. He had become a pirate preying upon pirates, until eventually, he took anything from anyone that crossed his path. Now, Matthew was the thing he most hated.
Paladin uncorked the bottle of bourbon and poured a shot. He cradled the glass, warming the liquor until he smelled its smoky aroma.
His mouth watered. It brought back those days when he and Dad and Matthew had flown and fought and drank together. Like it was yesterday. Like it was a million years ago…and when Paladin had been a very different man.
Paladin poured the bourbon back into the bottle, replaced the cork, and then stowed it back in its drawer. Drying out was one of the hardest things Paladin had ever done. He should have poured the last of this booze into the ocean once and for all.
Ironically, his family crest appeared not only on the Blake Aviation Security masthead, but also on the labels of the most infamous brand of bourbon in speakeasies from Hawai’i to Iceland-Matthew still carried on the family tradition of moonshining and bootlegging. Anger burned in Paladin’s gut every time he saw the rampant black knight.
“Okay, Matthew,” he whispered. “Let’s see what you want.”
Paladin tore the telegram open and shook out a slip of paper. It read:
DON’T KNOW IF YOU CARE IF I LIVE OR DIE STOP. CORRECTION STOP. SURE YOU
PREFER ME DEAD STOP.
SENDING THIS FOR FLORA STOP. OUR SISTER IS NO STRANGER TO TROUBLE STOP.
BUT THIS TIME SHE HAS BITTEN OFF MORE THAN SHE CAN CHEW STOP.
MEET ME ALONE STOP. DUSK SATURDAY DURANGO FIELD FREE COLORADO STOP.
OR NEVER SEE FLORA AGAIN STOP.
MATT
Flora? What did Matthew mean by “she had bitten off more than she could chew?” Or that he’d never see her again? “So help me,” Paladin said through clenched teeth, “if you’re using her to get to me-“
-No. Not even Matthew would use Flora. Everyone loved Flora…that was her biggest problem.
Paladin had last heard from her a year ago. She was in Paris, hob-knobbing with the social elite and indulging in equally elite vices; her lifestyle made Dashiell’s wild partying seem like a church bake sale in comparison. She had asked Paladin for money. He had wired her five hundred dollars along with a suggestion that she clean up. While he had hoped for the best, he knew the odds were long.
He re-examined the telegram. Today was Saturday-which figured. Leave it to Matthew to cut things close.
Paladin drew his .45 from its hiding place under his desktop, holstered it, then strapped it on. He flicked on the intercom. “Tennyson, get me a plane ready. Pronto.”
” Of course,” came the reply. ” Can I inquire…why the rush? “
“I’m coming over to show you what the rush is.”
Paladin hung a “Be Right Back” sign on his office door, and stepped down the zigzag of stairs to the pier. He hurried past the bait stores and the ice cream parlor and the penny arcade to the old cannery warehouse. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The interior looked more like the inside of a combat zeppelin than a cannery. The machinery had been removed and a dozen planes hung on hooks from beams over the open water.
Crates of bullets and rockets were stacked in a corner. Half a dozen engines on blocks were in various stages of assembly and disassembly.
Paladin’s nose wrinkled involuntarily; the place always seemed to reek of tuna.
Blake Aviation Security had leased this building because the rent at the Burbank Airport went up every time Paladin made the headlines. The press and other unsavory types were always watching Paladin and his planes. There had been a few instances of sabotage, too; one such “accident” had nearly ended his career for good.
The cannery had been the perfect solution. Tennyson had seen to the architectural modifications, and designed a floatation chaise for their planes. These pontoons could be released in flight if needed, or left on for a water landing. Their planes were safer here and Blake Aviation could scramble flights at the drop of a hat.
Tennyson set down his wrench and ducked from under the engine compartment of a Devastator. He carefully wiped the grease from his hands on a clean towel. Somehow, Paladin mused as his loyal friend strode to greet him, Tenny never seemed to smudge his coveralls.
“What’
s the emergency this time, my friend?” he asked Paladin.
Paladin handed him the telegram.
Tennyson stroked his white beard as he read and then re-read the message. “It’s a trap, of course,” he murmured. “Matthew knows you are a man of character. A man who would not hesitate to charge to Flora’s rescue.”
“You’re right,” Paladin said. “But…she’s my sister, Tennyson. What would you do? Ignore it?”
“What would I do?” Tennyson pondered this, frowned, and then declared, “Why I would come with you, naturally. Obviously, you’ll require a wingman.”
Paladin set a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Can’t let you do that. Half the people in Colorado wouldn’t mind seeing me dead. The other half wouldn’t mind killing me.”
Tennyson’s hands clenched and then relaxed. “Our friend, Dashiell, has started a rather morbid pool wagering when your final mission will occur. I can see he is not too far from the truth.” He exhaled. “But if you are determined to meet Matthew’s deadline, you must take my Devastator. I have fine-tuned her motor to perfection. She is the fastest plane here-” he arched a bushy white eyebrow “-she has to be, to survive the modifications I have made.”
Paladin eyed the plane curiously. “Show me.”
Tennyson turned on his heels and marched toward the suspended Devastator. He stood under the aircraft with his arms akimbo. “Tell me what is different.”
“I don’t have time for a quiz-” But Paladin saw it immediately: all eight of the Devastator’s hardpoints were loaded. Two pairs of rockets, however, pointed backwards.
“Ah, you’ve spotted them,” Tennyson said. “The outer set are flash rockets. The inner two are high explosives. Both have a customized fuse that detonates a quarter of a second after launch.”
Paladin shook his head with disbelief. “That’ll blow off the tail.”
“Correct,” Tennyson replied. He mounted the ladder next to the Devastator and gestured inside the cockpit. “With one caveat, however.”
Paladin climbed after Tennyson saw he pointed at a hand-painted line on the airspeed gauge.
“If you’re flying faster than this,” Tennyson explained, “there is a very good chance you will outrun the explosion-at least, that’s what my calculations indicate. They should make for a nasty surprise to an opponent on your six, don’t you think?” Before Paladin could reply, Tennyson continued: “I was going to test the modifications tomorrow, with a flash rocket loaded with a charge of paint.”
“Great.” Paladin climbed past Tennyson and maneuvered into the cockpit. As he strapped himself in, he said, “I’ll let you know how these contraptions work.”
“Wait,” Tennyson said. He climbed down and trotted to his locker. He returned with his lunch pail. “You need to eat. There is a thermos of English Breakfast tea as well.”
“Thanks, old man.”
“Just come back in one piece.”
“I always try.” Paladin fired up the engine and waved to Tennyson as he pulled away the ladder. He closed the canopy then flipped the release-a second of freefall-and the Devastator splashed into the ocean.
“I try,” Paladin said to himself, “but it just never works out that way.”
Paladin eased the throttle to one-half, and rode over gentle waves until he was a hundred yards from the pier, then he opened her up all the way. The Devastator nosed up and broke free of the ocean. Paladin pulled a lever and dropped the pontoons.
He shot into the sky, pointing the Devastator toward the rising sun.
Flora wasn’t the only reason Paladin was going to meet Matthew. Paladin had promised his dead father that he’d get every last pirate in the sky…no matter what it took.
Even if that meant shooting down his own brother.
Chapter Two: White Knight / Black Knight
Paladin banked his Devastator between red and gold mesas. Below, a herd of wild mustangs scattered, startled by the roar of the plane’s powerful engine. It was four o’clock and he had just cleared the Navajo border. Headwinds, a brief layover, and trouble with the locals had held him up.
He had initially stopped to top off his tanks. If Matthew had a welcoming committee in the air waiting for him, the last thing he wanted was to be flying on fumes. Paladin also purchased a gallon of beige paint to cover the BAS logos on his Devastator. For the pirates in Free Colorado, those markings were bulls-eyes.
Back in Navajo territory, his pale skin-and the handful of Hollywood five-dollar gold coins he had used to pay for the fuel-had raised a few eyebrows at Sunning Lizard Airfield. They’d taken his money without comment, but four dust-colored Ravenscroft Coyotes had appeared when he’d tried to take off…to “escort” him to the border of the Navajo Nation. An escort that hadn’t been free.
The mesas and meadows melded into stone-covered foothills, pine forests, and the snow-capped peaks of the Rockies. Paladin increased his throttle and climbed over them.
Free Colorado was certainly beautiful to look at from a thousand feet. It was too bad, he thought, that upon closer inspection she was infested with pirates, bootleggers and other human vermin. Like his brother.
Paladin would deal with Matthew, but first he intended to find out what happened to their sister, Flora-assuming Matthew hadn’t lied about her, and this wasn’t an elaborate trap.
Durango Airfield was a dirt strip cut into the forest, a few shacks, and scattered fuel tanks.
He circled the field, then eased this Devastator onto the bumpy runway, taxied to the end, and parked so he could take off quickly.
Sunning Lizard Airfield had been clean and neat-complete with whitewashed adobe buildings, chili reaños and piping hot coffee in the pilot’s lounge. Durango, in contrast, was a disaster. The area was cluttered with discarded airframes which lined the runway. Old engine blocks and rusty machine parts were strewn across the ground, and the odor of grease, smoke and sour mash wafted from a leaning A-frame. Over the door of this structure was a sign with a painted figure of a woman encircled by a leering cobra, and the words: “Snakes and Ladders.” It was just the kind of dump Matthew would like.
The drone of aircraft echoed off the mountains. Paladin squinted and spotted a line of six incoming Fairchild F4 Corsairs. The snub-nosed planes banked, descended, and then landed, one after another.
Paladin flipped the secret kill switch under his Devastator’s control panel and climbed out of the cockpit. He checked his .45s-making sure each pistol had a round in the chamber-and then strode toward the Corsairs.
Matthew jumped down from the wing of his Corsair. He pulled off his flight cap and shook out a mane of gray hair. He was taller than Paladin by a head. Matthew’s face was similar to Paladin’s-the same strong jaw and blue eyes-but his features were weathered by age, crossed with frown lines, his eyes ringed with fatigue.
Matthew’s wingmen clambered out of their planes and gathered around their leader. They looked like a tough bunch, in black flight jackets and combat boots. Each of them-three men and two women-packed a mix of weapons, mostly bulky revolvers. But they looked a little scared of Paladin.
Good, he thought. Let them be scared.
The truth was that Paladin was a little scared, too…of Matthew. Anything that crossed his brother’s path, anyone that got in his way, Matthew made sure they never caused him trouble again. Pirates. Mercenaries. Lawmen. Civilians. They were all equal in Matthew’s book: all equally dispensable. Did that extend to his kin as well?
Probably.
Paladin broke the silence: “You said to come alone, Matthew. I did…but I see you needed a crowd to face me.”
Matthew took a step toward Paladin. “I don’t need anyone’s help to handle you, little brother.” He glanced at the horizon, then back at Paladin. “I just didn’t know if there’d be a few”-he spat the name out-“Blake Aviation planes buzzing around. Or maybe a combat zep.”
“I came with everything I needed,” Paladin replied, his right hand resting lightly on the butt of his holstered
gun.
“Look, I didn’t come here to exchange shots.” Matthew frowned, and pulled his gloves off.
We’ve got important things to talk about.” He nodded to the leaning A-frame. “Come on.”
Matthew marched toward the “clubhouse.” Paladin followed, and Matthew’s crew trailed behind them.
Paladin wasn’t so sure if turning his back on this pack of wolves was a good idea. Then again, Matthew was many things-but he was never subtle. If this meeting had been a trap, it would have been sprung the instant Matthew had seen he had Paladin outnumbered.
Paladin pushed through the double doors of the A-frame. The smell stopped him cold-burning charcoal and the scent of bourbon so thick it made him choke. There was a player piano, a Ben Franklin stove with a fire crackling inside, and a stained bar top with a brass railing. The thing that caught Paladin’s eye, however, was the back wall-shelves jammed with bottles: tall slivers of icy-looking Vodka, cobalt blue decanters, magnums of champagne, moonshine jugs, and rows of square bottles filled with an amber liquor that he was all too familiar with. For a dive, it was well stocked.
Matthew dropped a ten-pesado silver piece onto the counter-which was snatched up by the barkeep. “Drinks are on me tonight, gang. I’ll be out back with my brother.” He grabbed a bottle and two glasses, and held open the back door.
Paladin left, glad to be out in the fresh air. There was a small table set up on the back porch.
The view of the mountain silhouetted against the purpling sky was magnificent.
“A drink.” Matthew popped the cork. “For old time’s sake.”
Paladin sat and said nothing. He watched his brother pour from the bottle labeled with the same knight-and-shield insignia that Paladin used for Blake Aviation Security…only this knight was black, not white.
“I came to hear about Flora, Matthew, not to get drunk with you.”
Matthew slammed the bottle on the table. “Can’t you ease up for a second? I stick my neck out a mile to meet you, and you don’t even have the decency to say ‘hello,’ or ‘how’ve you been for the last six years?’ Nice to see you, too.”