Lash had spotted a gap in the ring of 12.5-inch guns that circled the middle of the fortress. The scientific detective had speculated that the Countess had been melting down the weapons for… well, he wasn’t too clear on that point. Casey knew that Lash’s hyper-intelligence led him to make deductions faster than others, though he didn’t always share his thoughts.
When working with Lynn Lash, Casey always seemed to find himself playing catch up -- as he was now, crawling behind Lash and Clara down the narrow opening.
He slid out into a dark, windowless room. Casey reached into his pocket to retrieve his lighter hoping to shed some light upon the situation, but Lash grabbed him by the wrist.
“Not a good idea,” he whispered harshly. “This is the munitions depot.”
Casey nodded, uncertain if Lash could see him.
“Where’s she keeping the scientists, Mr. Lash? Where ‘s Dr. Phillips?”
Clara had spoken up for the first time. Casey was startled, but Lash took it in stride. “Here’s the plan. You and Casey will find Phillips, Washington and Lemm and get them out of here. I suspect they’re on this level, at the opposite end of the ring. It was used as an armory, but it has access to the chimney and ventilation system. That would be the likeliest place to build a lab.”
“We’ll head there and secure the prisoners,” Casey said. “Meanwhile, what’ll you do?”
He could hear Lash cocking his gun in the darkness. “I’m going to find the Countess and end this.”
Chapter Seven
The Countess
After taking leave from Lash, Casey gripped his weapon tightly and hugged the wall as he moved along the corridor. He had half expected to face a legion of guards patrolling the hallways with leather boots and rifles, but the hallway was deceptively calm and quiet.
Clara, to her credit, followed his every step.
Thanks to Lash’s directions, Casey was fairly certain he could find the scientists’ location. And, as he rounded the hallway, he realized he had.
After all, why else would a door have two large, burly men in crisp white suits armed with high-powered rifles standing guard?
Casey fired two quick shots, dropping one guard with a headshot and wounding the other in the left shoulder, before ducking back behind the curve of the wall.
“Get down!” He shouted at Clara. To her credit, she did -- and just in time, as the remaining guard opened fire.
Bullets dinged off the wall, and Casey cursed himself for failing to take out the second man with one shot. The strangeness of the situation was starting to affect him.
If he survived this, he’d take a long, well deserved vacation.
Casey dropped low and skidded across the floor, sliding out into full view of the startled guard, who held his gun in his right hand while reaching for a wall phone with his wounded left arm. The burly thug looked at Casey with a mix of rage and shock, as if he had not expected the attack.
The guard was even more shocked when Casey put a bullet between his eyes.
The thug’s body slumped and slid down the wall, leaving a bloody streak. He dropped the handset as a vacant stare replaced his look of confusion.
“Help me find the keys,” Casey commanded. Clara, shaking slightly, rose from her crouch and moved next to the bodies. After a few seconds, she retrieved a janitor-sized ring of keys from the first man’s jacket and handed them to Casey.
He nodded and, seconds later, opened the hatch.
Casey readied his weapon, entered the room…
… and a massive weight slammed into the back of his head. He could feel his body crumpling to the ground, the world receding from sight.
Then he felt nothing but darkness.
*****
Lynn Lash felt no need for stealth, only speed. This case had interrupted his latest experiment, endangered the lives of him and his friends, and dragged him across the globe, in the process dredging up memories long forgotten. Once, he never thought he’d see Dr. Linda Lemm again, but now he desired nothing else.
Lash did not fear the Countess. After departing from his colleagues he headed directly for the central staircase. It would take him to the main level, where he was certain the Countess dwelled. He would take the fight to her.
As Lash exited the stairwell, he was immediately accosted by a pair of armed guards, large, shapeless men with rifles and neatly pressed suits. They shouted and gesticulated, and Lash held his arms aloft, his gun in a loose, upside-down grip of surrender.
“Take me to your leader,” Lash said through gritted teeth.
*****
The so-called Countess was indeed ensconced in this aquatic fortress cum Palace of Versailles. Her throne room – and, after seeing the layout of the chamber, Lash could describe it with no other word – was blindingly lavish. Clearly her ultimate goal was to recreate her pseudo-royal reign in the heart of the United Kingdom, but for now, she had made the most of her fortress control room.
It was an enormous oval, with a high, arching, crystalline geodesic dome of a ceiling, with dozens of triangular glass panels, welded together with strips of gleaming steel. The night shone down through the skylight, twinkling across the lush floor. Lash could see it was covered with dozens of individual carpets, as if the woman had emptied the bazaar at Casablanca and covered the room in priceless tapestries.
Along the sides of the chamber were dozens of pieces of art: full marble sculptures of men and women in lewd positions and abstract pieces in basalt and obsidian. There were paintings as well, lurid, colorful splashes of raw emotion bursting off of canvases crammed into elaborate dark wood frames.
The centerpiece of the room was the woman herself. The Countess Clementine Cromwell perched, sneering, on a genuine honest-to-goodness throne.
It was large and industrial, all chrome and polished steel, looking more like a mirror than a golden chair of yore. It was replete with silken, plush cushions, blood red and elaborately embroidered.
The woman herself, though, was gaudiest of all.
Lash had met her once, briefly, long ago, and she had changed little. Her pale blue eyes were her most striking feature, piercing out from pinched lids festooned with long, curled lashes. Her face was red and rosy, replete with an abundance of freckles, tracing out constellations across her cheeks. Her hair was long and coppery, curling along her sides and down the back of the throne, nearly reaching the floor.
Perched atop her head was, of all things, a thin silver tiara.
Then there was her dress. Lash knew little of European fashion, but knew it was over-the-top. The lavender dress was elaborate, with lace and pearls, whirls and tufts of gold and silver fabric hither and yon, with lace ruffles that spread out around her like dozens of fragile wings.
“Lynn Lash. Welcome.”
Her voice was velvety, with the practiced inflection of a moneyed, cultured woman. Her finishing school background was evident in her elocution and diction.
“Nice to see you. I’ve been following your exploits lo these years, Countess.” Lash chose to call her by her self-appointed title. Why ruffle her feathers now? “Where is it?” he asked, bluntly.
“It?” She inquired, her tone rising in condescending disbelief. “Did you mean to say ‘her’? She is here, you know. I could bring her to you. After all, she is the real reason you came, is she not?”
As they spoke, a bald goon, dressed in the same pinstriped suit as the man who had eluded Lash in New York moved into view and lumbered up to Lash. Lash idly wondered if it was the same fellow. These henchmen tended to look alike, after all. The grunt rifled through Lash’s jacket and removed the scientific detective’s possessions -- his gun, his dazzler disk, his wallet and handkerchief, and his small, polished flask -- showing them to the Countess.
“Careful with that,” Lash commanded. “That flask contains the fruits of my latest experiment, an obsession of mine for years now.”
The Countess’ eyebrows arched with curiosity. “I shall take a closer look at
it later, then.” She waved her hand and the goon pocketed the items in his pinstriped jacket.
“Enough delay then, Lash. Let me bring you the one you seek.” With a melodramatic clap, the Countess called to an unseen minion. A moment later, one of the abstract paintings slid to one side and from the darkness behind it emerged yet another large, suited man, dragging behind him a small slip of a woman.
It was, of course, Dr. Linda Lemm.
Lash’s breath caught in his throat as he laid eyes on her for the first time in years. Though she was wan and pale -- thinner than he recalled and clearly harrowed -- she was more beautiful than ever. He locked eyes with her and she gave a tiny smile.
She was unharmed. Secure with that knowledge, Lash turned his full attention to the matter at hand.
“You have the Mannite, I assume?” The Countess grinned and gave a theatrical nod. “And I know your device is operational. I’ve read of the fruits of your test in the newspapers.” This elicited a less-amused nod from The Countess. “Tell me -- when do you plan to launch?”
At this, the Countess frowned. It was clear that Lash had hit a nerve. She was accustomed to being the smartest person in any room, always one step ahead of everyone else. Having Lash flaunt his genius and detective skills in her face was rubbing her the wrong way. She seemed about to comment, to spew venom at Lash when one of her guards approached, whispering in her ear.
“Well, Mr. Lash. I believe, perhaps, it is best if we show rather than tell you.” Her eyes flashed and, before Lash could respond, the Countess continued. “But, of course, it would not be fitting for you to witness the glory by yourself. Perhaps your friend can accompany us as well?”
She gave a shrill whistle and two black-suited thugs entered the room through the empty picture frame, dragging a purple bruise-covered Detective Sam Casey with them. “Lash! Clara sold us out! That kid had a deal all along. She traded us and a hunk of rock for her mentor. She, Phillips and Washington must be halfway to the Isle of Wight by now!”
Lash frowned. Phillips and Washington were out of harm’s way so that, at least, was good news, but there was only one commodity Clara could have traded for the scientists.
“You must have all the Mannite you need now,” Lash said flatly.
As if in response to his query, the larger of the two suited thugs handed the Countess a small cylinder. She unscrewed the cap and gazed inside, her eyes sparkling with just a hint of madness. “You verified it, of course.” It was a statement, not a question, and the goon nodded enthusiastically in response.
The Countess turned to Lash, his full attention was now on Casey, who was battered and embarrassed, but also angry and energized. “Well, Lash. It looks like you will have a chance to witness history. The first launch of a man – or woman, I should say – made satellite into orbit around the earth. Then, perhaps you will bear witness to the fall of the British Empire, which should crumble by teatime tomorrow.”
To this, Lynn Lash, scientific detective, said nothing, though his mind was already racing to formulate a plan. He just hoped he’d have time to enact it and save the day before it was too late.
Chapter Eight
The Craft
The setup was just as Lash had expected, and as Jules Verne had predicted decades earlier. Verne had not, of course, imagined that the world’s first spacecraft would be launched from an immense platform on the top level of a giant fortress in the middle of the English Channel. But, Lash thought idly, it was an ideal spot for “Operation Breakaway,” which was the clue that had led him here in the first place.
The uppermost level of the fortress was a sight to behold. In the center, of course, was the crystalline skylight that served as the ceiling of the Countess’ throne room. On the north side of the platform was a landing area for gyrocopters, and several of the crafts sat there now with women in navy jumpsuits attending to their maintenance.
On the east side of the platform was a fully functional, full-sized lighthouse. Lash idly wished that the beacon had been lit when he had approached earlier, but he supposed it would have spoiled the element of surprise, for all the good that had done them.
Certainly the most prominent sight on the upper level of the No Man’s Land fortress was the immense, bullet-like craft that dominated the southwestern segment of the structure. A metal framework, replete with crisscrossed scaffolding fringed with ladders and ropes, braced the craft. At the nose of the bullet, a large crane perched on a narrow metal platform was loading a small, spiked metal ball into a hollow cone.
Seeing the puzzled look on Casey’s face, Lash explained. “That, if I am not mistaken, is the Doomsday Satellite, or whatever likely alliterative term the Countess is using, being loaded onto a spacecraft.”
She nodded. “Indeed it is, and we are nearly ready for launch. All we need is to insert this sliver of Mannite into the appropriate slot in the satellite and then it will only be a matter of counting down. I set the timer for one minute, though I hope to shrink that to 10 seconds for future launches.
“Now, if we only had someone who was knowledgeable enough to take care of this final step for me – just in case there was a miscalculation in the figures. After all, when I push the red button, I am not entirely certain what will happen to anyone near that nosecone. I, of course, will be present, safely behind the viewing partition I built. I’ll have the finest seat to witness the greatest moment in human history.” She gave another shrill whistle and, from inside of the lighthouse, two suited goons dragged the small, shuddering form of Dr. Linda Lemm. Before Lash could speak, the Countess approached the scientist and thrust the mineral into Lemm’s hand. As Lemm silently pled with Lash with her green eyes, the Countess and two goons took her by the arms and dragged her onto the wire elevator car.
“Enjoy the show, Lynn Lash,” the Countess cried in a mocking tone as she pulled a lever, sending the car rising up toward the nosecone.
As the car reached the halfway point, Sam Casey leapt into action.
The police detective took advantage of the distraction. Everyone’s gaze was locked on the rising cage, thinking ahead to the coming moment when the craft would lift off into the heavens, depositing the deadly satellite in orbit and shifting the balance of political power forever. But Sam Casey was not looking up. He was focused on the goon that held him and, specifically, that man’s foot.
Casey smashed his heel down on the thug’s toes and drove his elbow into the man’s gut. He spun and, as the goon convulsed, Casey forcibly relieved him of his gun.
He put a single bullet through the man’s skull, then turned and shot two more of the thugs dead even before they could draw their firearms.
“Go get ’em, Lash!” Casey cried, and the scientific detective knelt down next to the pinstripe-suited fellow that Casey had just killed, the one who had looted Lash’s jacket earlier. Lash took the man’s gun and removed two items from the thug’s pocket. Then he sprinted to the scaffolding, ascending as fast as his legs would take him even as the elevator basket reached the top of the structure.
As Lash pumped his legs, he could hear the whiz of bullets flying past his ears and pinging on the aluminum scaffolding. The goons firing from above were getting closer. Lash had no choice but to use his trump card.
He pulled out the disk he’d retrieved from the pinstriped jacket and activated it, throwing his arm over his eyes to shield himself.
Lash knew the dazzling effect would only last for a short duration, so he accelerated up the scaffold, banging his knees and elbows in a blind rush. He arrived at the top of the structure, 100 feet from the surface of the fortress, more than 200 feet from the roiling waters below.
He gripped his trusty gun and plugged the two dazzled henchmen in their brainpans with a pair of precise shots.
Lash reached toward Dr. Lemm, who had fallen back into the elevator basket, rubbing her eyes, the empty cylinder next to her. She had placed the Mannite in the satellite, and Lash could see that the Countess held a control box with a smal
l red button in one dainty hand. She stood in front of a steel and glass viewing chamber, ready to enter it. If she did, she would be safe from harm, and Lash would be unable to touch her.
But first, the Countess was ready to blow off Linda Lemm’s head.
“Surprised, Lash?” the Countess asked, her gaze clear. “I have a remarkably resilient constitution.”
Lash froze. He could not risk the life of the woman he had once loved. The thought shocked him – he had never admitted that fact to himself, but he knew it to be true. Lash also knew he could not let the Countess get behind the barrier and push the button, for the force of the launch would kill Dr. Lemm and unleash the satellite’s power on the world.
“Lash!”
The voice from below was Casey’s. He had, apparently, bested the Countess’ goons and followed Lash up the scaffolding.
“Hold, Casey!” Lash cried. He could not risk the man bumbling into the situation and upsetting the precarious balance.
“Well, then, Countess,” Lash said slowly. “It seems you have the upper hand here. If I move, you shoot Dr. Lemm. If I don’t move, you get to safety, activate the button and Lemm dies as the satellite launches.”
“You are outsmarted, Lash,” she said smugly. “Not a pleasant feeling is it?”
Lash shook his head. “Indeed it is not. You win.” With that, he tossed his gun into the water below. “Let Dr. Lemm go and you can ignite the engines from the safety of that room.”
“I never thought I would hear the great Lynn Lash admit defeat. It takes courage for a man such as you to show humility. For that, you may have what you desire.” The Countess nodded curtly and Dr. Lemm, recovered from the dazzle ray, stumbled toward Lash. He held her eyes for a moment, and then whispered in her ear. She nodded and climbed down the scaffolding to where Casey stood, one level below.
Once Lemm was clear of the nosecone, the Countess smiled, slipped into the chamber, pulling the button through a small slot in the door. She pushed the red button triumphantly, and the very earth seemed to roar with excitement, as one of its own was about to break free from the shackles of gravity.
The New Adventures of Lynn Lash Page 17