by Michael Rigg
She pointed to the three rows of numbers after the names. "These are the proper numbers, registry code, license number, frequency. You'll be wantin' the frequency number, the last column. I'll need the first column to find 'im."
I nodded as I traced my finger down the Rs to the Rinks. The bad news was there were about 100 or so Rinks listed. The worse news was there were no first names, only initials. I blew out a puff of air and cringed. "I'd hate to have to go through all these to find her."
"Oh," Maggie giggled. "You'll not be findin' a lady listed in there, love. Does she have an 'usband? A da', a poppa?"
"Oh, father. Yes! Wilco!" I looked down at the book. "Damn. There's about twenty double-u names here." I pointed to small marks next to some of the names. "What do these mean?"
Maggie leaned over and looked at what I was indicating. "Oh, the stars? Those indicate gentleman registered in military service. Do y' see these extra numbers 'ere?"
Only five of the W. Rinks had stars next to them. I figured there would be more Wa's and We's than Wi's, so I pointed to the last name on the list. "Let's try this number first, then work our way up."
Maggie smiled and nodded, then winked at me as she adjusted the headset microphone in front of her lips. She looked up at the stenciled plate on the radio and pressed the transmit button. "Echo Victor Mike Lima one-one-four Juliet callin' Whiskey Romeo Sierra eight-one-eight Tango, come in?" She listened for a moment, wincing at what I presumed as static in reply, then repeated.
I listened to her try twice more before interrupting. "Maybe no one's home."
Maggie shrugged. "Could be. Could also be he's out of range." She twisted a dial that I presumed would boost the signal and tried again.
I pointed to the next name. "Try this one."
Maggie cleared her throat. "Echo Victor Mike Lima one-one-four Juliet callin' Whiskey Romeo Charlie two-seven-four Kilo, come in."
My shoulders slumped helplessly as she tried the name two more times.
She started to shake her head and opened her mouth to say something when she jumped in the chair and ripped off the headphones. I could hear it myself, a gruff voice shouting through the static. Maggie turned down the volume and put the phones back on. "Whiskey Romeo Charlie two-seven-f—" She stopped and listened. She nodded, pressing the earphones to her head and looked at me with a question.
"Ask if his name is Wilco."
"Sir, would your name be Wilco? Wilco Rink?" After a pause, she looked at me and nodded silently. Then she frowned.
"Here," I held out my hand for the headset. "Let me talk to him."
"He's cussin' up a starm at me, love," Maggie frowned as she took off the headset. "Are you sure you're wantin' to hear this?"
I took the headset and winced as I pulled it over my bandaged head. I pressed it to my ears. "Wilco? Wilco, it's me... Alice. I-I'm in trouble."
CHAPTER 28, “The First Shots Fired”
Every corporation in the Imperial United States keeps an elite cadre of security so massive it could serve as an army if so called. The new army of Thorne & Hearse was no different, except that it was the only army commanded by a human and a ghoul, and as the largest corporate army in the I.U.S. it was capable of starting a full scale war on its own.
Far below the wooded, yet heavily guarded, surface somewhere in upstate New Yorke stretched miles of tunnels, sub-surface hangars, warehouses, bunkers and training centers for the thousands of soldiers, technicians and corporate espionage experts employed by T.W. (now T.H.). Most of them enjoyed the peace of guard duty, convoy protection or site deployment. Most of them have never fired a shot outside one of the shooting ranges, and only a couple hundred could ever claim to have been involved in warfare with the Confederates.
In a control room near the surface of the Thorne & Hearse support bunker, General Alan J. Gehrels paced behind a row of operators seated at a wide black bank of tubes and hoses. The men worked like ants, their hands and arms plugging and un-plugging connections between offices, snapping toggle switches to activate network connections and jumping to respond to blinking lights that alerted them to one minor emergency or another. Like the General, each man wore a black uniform patched with the flag of the Imperial United States on one sleeve and the insignia for Thorne & Wolfe on the other (it would be several days before every patch, decal, sign and uniform were changed over to the new name).
The General yawned and stretched his neck within his high starched collar as he stepped behind one of the operators and watched the man patch through calls. He nodded toward the door without looking in that direction. "Cooper, get me a cup of coffee, will ya."
An armed guard standing near the door at the end of the operator bank, nodded. "Yessir," and departed.
Gehrels tapped the operator seated before him on the shoulder and pointed to a steady red light under one of the call cords. "Status on the Third Wing?"
The operator, busily plugging and un-plugging calls, only nodded between spurts of "One moment please," and "I'll connect you with command, sir." Then he raised his head slightly and said, "They're below ceiling, General. No contacts yet."
Gehrels smirked and continued pacing down the line. When Cooper returned with a cup of coffee, the General took the mug and sent the guard back to his post. He sipped from the mug as he turned to the Alert Board behind him, a floor-to-ceiling pane of glass etched with a map of the continent, the lower half—the Confederacy—tinted red. An operator with a bulky headset moved colored markers from one position on the map to the next, the different colors of the markers indicating security forces, ground forces and air forces, spies. Different Imperial corporations were different colors. Thorne & Wolfe's color was black. Gehrels' bushy eyebrows came together as he stared at a three-pronged black marker near Richmond, Virginia. Then he glanced to a recent post stuck to the border of the map pane. It was an image of a bright yellow biplane with the number C-274K on its fuselage. Written on the form beneath the plane was the note, "William "Wilco" Rink—Confed Airman.
Gehrels nodded again as the officer standing on the other side of the glass moved two of the markers. The General could see that the corporation's air force was sticking to the search grid, but he frowned into his mug at the lack of results thus far. How hard is it to find a bright yellow airplane? Gehrels raised his voice. "Number Four."
One of the operators behind him spoke up. "Sir."
"Contact Command at Davenport. Scramble them. I want this bastard tagged before supper."
"Yes, sir."
It wasn't General Gehrel's place to question his orders, and when word came down late last night that a new corporate boss was setting things into motion—things that promised action, combat, and perhaps a whole new war to excite his men—he was eager fulfill his role. Mr. Hearse had intel on the pilot of C-274K and believed the man to be a spy with captured information on the Atlantis Operation. It was Gehrel's job to put a tail on the plane and report back to command.
He only hoped that once the call was made, he'd get the order to engage. Alan Gehrels hated spies.
~~~~~~~
The bright yellow biplane wheeled through the clouds as it banked to intercept the Mystic Lady.
Wilco shouted above the prop wash of the plane as he spoke to Bryce. "I located yer missing mystery woman, Cap'n Landry."
Bryce's voice crackled back weakly through the speakers in Wilco's headphones. "You have? Where is she? Is she safe?"
"Hold on now, I'm on my way to intercept 'er. I just thought it might be a good idea to call and inform you she's well... or as well as she could be, considering."
Bryce's voice came back tight. "Considering what?"
"Considering that she, and the hapless couple who'd picked her up, were captured by sky pirates."
"Sky pirates! Where d—?"
"It's all right, Cap," Wilco shouted back through the prop wash. "I told ya she was all right. It seems her an' her two friends overpowered the pirates and took their airship. I have a trace on 'em and I'm
on my way to hook up."
"And you know for sure it's our Alice... and she's all right?"
“I spoke with her m'self, Cap.” Wilco paused, looked around at the blue sky and clouds below him pregnant with rain. When he spoke again his voice was low, almost too low to be heard in the rushing sky. "She's fine, like I said... But she don't want to see you."
Now it was Bryce's turn to pause on the other end. When he finally responded, his voice was lower and Wilco had to press the phones to his ears to hear. "...did she say?"
"What did she say? She said Lady McFerran threatened her, that she said she would go to the authorities to pin your brother's murder on 'er. But your brother's not dead, is he, Cap? You said that—"
"Of course not!" Bryce shouted back. "I told you this was all some political game McFerran had been playing all this time!"
Wilco nodded before shouting back, "Not a fair game to play with someone's life. From what I understand, Alice has been through hell since late last night. She's far too important to let go, Cap. She's the key to this whole mess with the North. You realize that, don't you?"
Another pause from Bryce's end. Then: "Where is she now?"
Wilco shouted back, "On their way to Richmond. But Cap'n Landry—?"
"Yes?"
"I made a promise to her that I'd keep her whereabouts a secret. She's rather rattled and ain't sure she could trust—"
"Did you tell her I was looking for her?"
Again, Wilco surveyed the sky before answering. "No, sir. What happened back at Seven Orchards is between y'all and the God almighty. I only promised her she'd be okay and that I'd come and get 'er. She did ask about Pandy."
Another long gap from Bryce. "What did you tell her?"
"As that was my business, I told her the truth, Cap. I told her Pandora had been kidnapped by a ghoul I now suspect runs things over at T.W."
Bryce drew a long breath. "We'll be heading to Fort Campbell at Clarkesville. You'll keep me posted, Wil?"
"Don't I always, Cap?"
"She's very important, Wilco. Not just to us, to everyone."
Wilco nodded and adjusted his goggles. In his mind Bryce was talking about Pandora as well as Alice. He had to fight to keep the lump in his throat down. "I know, sir. Alice got the mark. All of this is about her."
"Thank you, Wil," Bryce said. "Call back when you have something more. I'll call you when Lucien and I change transport."
"Aye, sir."
Bryce terminated the transmission.
Wilco banked the Canary across the tall billows of white clouds and adjusted his bearings by his compass. Judging by the altitude, wind, the rain below the cloudy ceiling beneath him, and the Mystic Lady's last known location, he figured he had just short of an hour or two to find Alice on the other side of this weather front. He hoped he could get to her before anyone else could. If she was this important, and if that ghoul found out what Pandy knew about her, he'd be after her as well.
~~~~~~~
Four high-speed kites cut through the clouds. They were black winged vipers with sharp edges, heavy with weapons, their wings scarred with the diagonal red stripes that classified them as an elite corporate squadron belonging to the former Thorne & Wolfe. The lead kite wagged its wings slightly before ascending through the clouds to break into the bright blue sky above. The other three kites followed suit, streams of steam and black engine smoke charring streaks through the sky behind them.
The lead kite differed from the other four by the obvious signs of repair. Metal plates covered part of its black wings like an off-balance checkerboard, large gray patches covered the flat raft-like balloon above the cockpit, and the shinier exhaust manifold on the kite's right side glinted in the sunlight. The name stenciled into the side of the vessel's fuselage was Selly.
Selly's pilot had also seen better days. He wrestled with the control stick of the craft with his one good arm as the other, held in a sling, bumped against the side of the cockpit. Max had seen better days. He hadn't been sleeping well since Pandora got the drop on him and broke his arm two nights ago at Haley's Pub. His broken arm ached and his pride bled. Naturally, he couldn't tell the other pilots in his wing about what happened. They'd never believe that Captain Big Max Cooper had been bested by a teenage pilot wannabe.
But things were starting to turn around for Max. He had just received word from Thorne & Hearse Command that a spy had been spotted at headquarters in New Yorke. The plane of the escaping pilot, a Yellow Winduster with the number C-274K, had been spotted heading west.
Max knew the plane and the number. He'd never forget it.
It was an hour ago that the ticker tape built into the console of Max's kite buzzed and chittered as it spat out a ribbon for his co-pilot. Lieutenant Munson read the Morse punches and depressions and translated, "...Do not engage. Repeat. Do not engage."
It was a tagging mission. They just needed one plane to mark the Canary so that Thorne & Hearse could send a carrier along to take the spy into custody. But Max Cooper had other, better, reasons to not let that happen. He knew that once captured, Pandora Rink would spill what happened in Haley's and he'd be the laughing stock of the Imperial Corporate Air Corps.
"Did you hear me, sir?" Munson called over the roar of the engines and wind. "We are not to engage."
Max smiled to himself but nodded back to his co-pilot. "Yeah, yeah." Then, to himself in barely more than a whisper lost in the high altitude wind, he said, "Unless I detect a threat." He glanced to the control arm for Selly's guns before locking it into the 'armed' position. Then he set his sights on the blue sky ahead and sneered.
~~~~~~~
Fort Campbell, Clarkesville, Tennessee, was an immense swath of land dedicated to training Confederate soldiers and pilots in the event of an Imperial takeover. While the massive Thinking Machines in Baton Rouge calculated little to no risk of an Imperial invasion, several independent contractors and southern corporate interests banded together to finance the fort and keep it occupied, stocked and manned. Several corporations, including Landry Holdings, counted on military bases like Fort Campbell to maintain readiness and give their citizenry confidence, hope, and security.
Lucien called for clearance twenty minutes out from landing, so they were in no danger as Bryce ordered him to circle the crisscrossing runways and rows of starched military buildings and tarmacs. Lines of troops marched out to parade areas and clusters of overall-clad mechanics worked on planes near the wide, squat hangers.
As they spiraled down for a landing near the main buildings, a man in a gray Confederate uniform glinting with brass strode up to them. He waited patiently, holding the brim of his hat as the steam and engine gust blew down from the aerocar before it bounced on spoked wheels and shut down with a hiss and a sputter. Lucien remained in the cab though he raised his goggles. Bryce hopped out of the passenger's side and came around to the officer. He smiled broadly, but his eyes were set with determination.
"General Strong," Bryce said as he saluted.
"Captain Landry. Dixon Overwatch Guard, isn't it?" Instead of saluting, the General offered a hand. He was a tall man, broad chested, with a thick mustache and even thicker salted blond hair.
"Yes, suh." Bryce took the hand and shook. The General's grasp was firm and well-practiced and Bryce could tell from the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes that, despite the grudging peace with the northern corporate territories, General Strong had been a man of action.
Strong nodded over Bryce's shoulder toward Lucien. "Your man there sent me your clearance codes, Captain. I checked," he sniffed. "Everything is in order. No need to see your Ident."
Bryce nodded. He felt as if they should go inside to a planning room or out to the closest fueled warplane, but General Strong simply stood firm, eying him as if trying to decide if he was the man who fit the record he'd seen. "Good," Bryce said. "I need a plane, sir."
"Indeed," Strong winced slightly, then sniffed again. "A plane."
"Yes, suh. A fast pla
ne. Your fastest."
Another sniff. "Indeed." Strong blinked up at the bright mid-day sun before glancing left and right around the quad on which Lucien landed the aerocar. Bryce followed suit and noticed a handful of armed troops had gathered at either end of the rectangle of cobblestones and pavement where they landed.
Bryce opened his mouth to speak, but the General cut him off.
"Your brother, Colonel Landry, already contacted me and notified me of your arrival."
Again, Bryce's eyes darted to the guards clustered on the far side of the quad. Behind him, in the aerocar, Lucien nervously glanced in the rear view mirrors and fingered the ignition button. Bryce raised his chin slightly. "And what did the Colonel say, General?"
A smile finally appeared below the General's bushy blond mustache. "He asked if I would avail myself of your services, captain. He didn't say much else except to say that it was a matter of corporate importance... extreme importance."
Bryce nodded curtly, suddenly aware of the passage of time. While he was sure Alice would be in good hands with Wilco, he couldn't help feeling helpless, knowing that Alice didn't realize he knew the truth. She was out there, somewhere, lost in a land that was strange to her and feeling as though anyone she had known to this point had turned their back on her. It wasn't true. He had to find her, look into her eyes, and tell her everything.
A pang twisted in his chest.
"Captain?"
Bryce met the General's eyes. "Sir... Agents of the Thorne & Wolfe Corporation have annexed properties belonging to Landry Holdings. They're squatting on the lands by default."
The General's mustache bristled. He reared back slightly and folded his arms, a "So?" expression if ever there was one.
Resolved, Bryce continued, "It's my fault, suh. I let the contracts go—but we have since uncovered some vital information that will undoubtedly put the Empire in a rather hegemonic position."
