The Company of the Dead

by David Kowalski

  V

  Lightholler had given up trying to process the day’s events.

  When he’d first encountered Kennedy at the Waldorf, the man had exuded an aura of quiet confidence and control. What had happened between then and the Lone Star?

  And when Hardas had drawn his pistol in the back room of the café, it seemed more like an afterthought than any planned action. If they had wanted to abduct him, they’d had ample opportunity at their first meeting. More to the point, his participation in Kennedy’s scheme seemed to have been planned for at least a year. That was when he’d been informed that he would captain the new Titanic.

  So no matter how bizarre their goal was, they hadn’t intended to recruit him by violent means. Something must have forced their hand.

  There was no point trying anything now, he decided. They were improvising—he was certain of it—and that meant they would eventually slip up. Perhaps in the park, perhaps later. Then he would steal away and contact London. Contact Admiral Lloyd and find out what the hell was going on.

  Their sedan encountered little traffic as it barrelled up Second Avenue. They crossed over to Lexington at 57th. A jeep was pulled up on the kerb. Through the fogged window Lightholler made out four soldiers. Two of them were Imperial Watch; the one still seated in the vehicle was shouting, his hands striking the steering wheel repeatedly. The other two men were Union reserves. They stood before the jeep’s hood while thick streaks of smoke curled up from the engine block. All four turned to face the passing sedan, their expressions lost between misted windowpane and the escaping fumes.

  They entered Central Park via 79th Street. The trees sparkled with fairy lights, their illumination spilling into the dark places beyond the reach of streetlamps. It gave the place an ethereal quality so that Lightholler felt as if by entering the park they were leaving more than the city.

  Kennedy leaned forwards to tap Shine on the shoulder.

  Shine put the car in neutral and they coasted to a gentle stop near a clump of low bushes. Lightholler asked Hardas for a cigarette as they spilled out of the back seat. Hardas eased the gun into his shoulder holster and handed his packet over.

  “When was the last time you were here, Captain?” Kennedy asked.

  “At least ten years ago,” he replied, lighting up.

  “I think you’re in for a little surprise.”

  “More surprises? Be still my heart.”

  Shine opened the trunk and they removed their belongings.

  “Why are we leaving the car here?” Morgan asked, frowning.

  “We’re going in by the back door. I’d rather we see anyone before they see us,” Kennedy said, hefting a bag over one shoulder.

  He led them away from the paved road towards a shallow hill. Lightholler could see a bright glow through the trees ahead. Two spotlights were aimed skywards; their beams swung scouring the night, trying to pierce the heavy clouds the evening winds had gathered. As they crested the rise, Lightholler saw her and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “She’s the Shenandoah.” Kennedy halted at his side. “What do you think?”

  The massive airship lay nestled in a long wooden cradle in the small valley before them. It hadn’t been visible from the transverse.

  “When did they build the terminus?” Lightholler asked.

  “Last year,” Morgan replied.

  They walked down the grassy knoll, the cigar-shaped dirigible growing before their eyes.

  “How big is she?” Lightholler asked.

  “Seven-hundred-and-ninety feet long,” Kennedy said. “That’s just a little shy of the Titanic. It’s difficult to make out from here, but she carries two gondolas beneath her.”

  Lightholler thought he could see the living compartments suspended below the airship’s massive frame. “I see them, fore and aft,” he said finally. “But what’s that between them?”

  “She carries a hangar between and below the living quarters,” Kennedy said. “It’s a special feature of the Cavalier-class dirigibles. She’s capable of accommodating up to five aircraft, with cargo. They can be released or taken aboard while in flight.”

  “But why?” Lightholler asked, astonished.

  “I think they use them for supplying the stratolites,” Morgan said.

  “Impressive,” Lightholler murmured. He could now see the details of the terminus that lay spread below the airship. It was surrounded by a high wire fence that enclosed the entire perimeter. The vehicles that raced around the building were playthings next to the Shenandoah’s conspicuous bulk.

  Lightholler’s suitcase was becoming heavy in his arms. They were now about two hundred feet from the wire fence. He said, “There’s a lot of traffic down there.”

  At least seven vehicles were arrayed beside the aft gondola. The soft thrum of the Shenandoah’s engines was apparent now, it seemed to come from everywhere. He thought he could feel the vibration in the soles of his tired feet. He heard distant thunder punctuated by the occasional sound of a brittle crack.

  “What’s that smell?” Morgan asked.

  Lightholler sniffed at the air. He watched as a vehicle broke away from the small motorcade and tore through the gates towards them. A small beam wavered in their direction as they stood in the penumbra of the terminal’s floodlights. “So much for the back door,” he muttered.

  Hardas growled, “Get back.” He dropped his bag, slipped a hand beneath his jacket flap and planted his feet.

  Kennedy assumed a similar stance.

  Lightholler glanced at both men, then back at the oncoming vehicle, obscured in the glare from the terminal beyond.

  “Oh, shit,” Morgan said.

  Shine, down on one knee, was reaching into one of the suitcases.

  The vehicle skidded to a halt, showering them with tufts of grass and soil. It was black with irregular grey shading on all of its steel-plated surface. Its turret swung lazily towards them, the muzzle of its cannon coming to bear on them. A black iron cross emblazoned the vehicle’s side.

  A goggled face emerged from the top of the half-track. “Hände hoch!”

  All five men dropped what they were carrying. A machine-gun clattered at Shine’s feet. Morgan looked at his companions, in shock. The others raised their hands slowly.

  “Morgan, for God’s sake put your hands in the air,” Lightholler said under his breath.

  “Sind Sie Amerikaner?” The soldier removed his goggles in a swift motion and clambered from the vehicle, dropping to the up-turned soil with a heavy thud.

  Kennedy took a slight step forwards, peering at the insignia on the man’s uniform. He said, “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant. Wir sind Amerikaner. Aus dem Suden.”

  What the hell was German armour doing in Central Park?

  “Konföderierte?” the German officer asked. “Confederates?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant, wir sind Konföderierte.”

  More soldiers were approaching from the terminal at a fast trot. The scene fell into focus. Distant thunder became the continuous low rumble of explosions, those brittle cracks, gunfire that had all but faded away.

  The German stepped up to Kennedy. “Haben Sie papieren?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,” Kennedy replied.

  “Would someone mind telling me what the hell is going on?” Morgan whispered. Beads of sweat streamed down his face.

  “Shut up,” Hardas whispered back. “It’ll be alright.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  Black-garbed soldiers formed a semicircle around them. They held their weapons at waist level, machine-guns and rifles trained on the smaller group.

  “Herr Leutnant,” Kennedy said. “Götterdämmerung.”

  The officer narrowed his eyes.

  Kennedy repeated the word: Götterdämmerung, Wagner’s Twilight of the Gods.

  Shaking his head slowly, the officer began to laugh. A slow, harsh, guttural sound. He turned then and spoke rapidly to the other soldiers before returning his gaze. “You are Joseph Kennedy, of course.”


  “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,” Kennedy replied. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  The officer nodded.

  “May we put our arms down?” Kennedy asked.

  “Certainly, Herr Major.”

  The German officer saluted Kennedy and then extended a gloved hand. “Tobias Freilich, Third Brandenburg Regiment.”

  Kennedy shook his hand.

  “You were anticipated, Herr Major, however not so soon and not here.”

  “What’s happening?” Morgan said.

  “Many things,” the German replied brusquely. He turned to include the others in his gaze. Ignoring Shine, he gave small nods of acknowledgment to Hardas and Morgan in turn. On reaching Lightholler he gave a slight bow. “Captain Lightholler. Thank you for ensuring our safe, if uncomfortable, passage.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lightholler responded.

  “Granted,” the German replied.

  “I don’t understand.” Lightholler became aware that his heart was beating, as the adrenaline rush subsided. His shirt clung to his arms and chest, damp beneath his creased suit jacket. He gave the officer a furtive once-over. He noted the windproof jacket, the respirator pouch, the crest at his collar: a wolf’s head surmounting a jagged bolt of lightning.

  You brought those fuckers halfway around the world and you didn’t even know it.

  “We have been advised to offer you and your men transportation, Herr Major,” Freilich continued. “Retrieve your weapons, please. You must leave now though, if that is your wish.”

  “Now is fine,” Morgan said. “Fine with me.”

  A soldier approached Freilich and spoke in his ear. Freilich turned to Kennedy. “The Japaner will be returning in force,” he said. “There is not much time.”

  Hardas and Shine grabbed their bags. Morgan was stumbling around, bewildered. Hardas picked up the guns, glinting shards of starlight in the tall grass.

  Kennedy faced Morgan and Lightholler. “Now. Come on. We have to go.”

  “You want to be here when the japs get back?” Hardas added as he pushed past Morgan.

  Morgan swore to himself and picked up a suitcase.

  Lightholler stumbled after the others. Freilich led them down to the captured terminus. The other soldiers fell in on either side.

  Morgan’s eyes were focused on the path before him. He said, “You have a lot of explaining to do, Major.”

  “You were expecting this?” Lightholler asked.

  “Not entirely,” Kennedy replied.

  “But you knew the Germans were here.”

  “I knew they were in New York.”

  “You knew they were on my bloody ship,” Lightholler snarled.

  Kennedy increased his pace to match the officer. Lightholler sped up to join them. He wasn’t finished with Kennedy yet. When they reached the wire perimeter fence, Freilich halted them, briefly, to let the armoured vehicle through the gates.

  “You said you expected us, Herr Leutnant?” Kennedy asked, taking advantage of the moment.

  “I was briefed that a party of covert operatives, under your command, was present in New York. We were ordered to offer you aid; transportation if possible.” His smile was strained. “It just so happens that we have some transportation available.” He gestured grandly at the Shenandoah, then ushered them along the vehicle’s trail.

  “Why now?” Kennedy asked. “Why tonight?”

  Freilich stopped in his tracks. He snorted and shook his head. “Four hours ago an atomic device was detonated over Berlin.”

  “What?” Lightholler said. “How?” The questions were a shout in his mind; he wasn’t aware that he’d spoken aloud. His ears were filled with voices.

  “The Divine Wind,” Morgan murmured. “The Japanese Imperial airship.”

  “That is our belief.” Freilich arched an eyebrow appreciatively. “The High Command identified the airship’s last known position as the epicentre of the blast. Of course, the Japaner deny all knowledge. Who would admit to such an act?” His voice was ground glass.

  “Our first strike was directed against the barracks at Battery Park. We caught them in mid-celebration. They had been given the order to invoke martial law. In fact, they had been given a number of orders.” His face twisted bitterly. “Now we give them a taste of martial law.”

  To one side, Lightholler saw fifteen, perhaps twenty men, Japanese soldiers, lined up near the wire fence. Five Germans stood before them, machine-guns raised. A cache of weapons lay in a small pile about twenty feet away. In the shadows near the terminal’s entrance he could see three or four bodies splayed on the ground, their limbs at awkward angles.

  “The Emperor’s son was aboard that ship,” Lightholler said. “He was to be the next Western Shogun.”

  “It would be considered a worthy sacrifice,” Kennedy replied. “The Emperor has other sons.”

  They had reached the entrance to the forwards gondola.

  “I still want to know what half the German army is doing in the middle of Central Park.” Morgan glared at Kennedy and Hardas.

  “Starting what we have to finish,” Kennedy replied. “Any more questions?”

  Morgan looked away.

  Lightholler let his bag drop to his feet. A wave of exhaustion swept over him.

  The airship’s engines rose to a shrill whine. He was buffeted by occasional blasts of warm air as the turbines were rotated on their axles in preparation for departure.

  Freilich addressed them all, his lips compressed in a disconcerting smile.

  “The 1st Regiment has secured all of the bridges and tunnels leading out of Manhattan. Elements of the 2nd are now engaging units of the Shogun’s Guard at the Summer Palace. The harbour is alight. We control all access in and out of the island. Reinforcements are on their way.”

  There was the explosive crump of mortar fire. It roared across the valley.

  “God speed, Herr Major.” Freilich turned away from the gondola.

  Kennedy led the way up the ramp, Shine and Morgan in tow. Hardas brought up the rear. Lightholler, his foot on the gangway, was struck by a thought. He turned to Morgan.

  “You called the Japanese airship the Divine Wind.”

  “That’s the English translation of her name. Back in the 1200s, the Mongol hordes dominated Asia. They dominated the known world. They sent an armada to invade Japan but it never arrived. A typhoon laid the entire fleet to waste. The Japanese believed it was a gift from their gods, sent to destroy their enemies. They named it the Divine Wind. The Kamikaze.”

  VI

  April 22, 2012

  CSS Shenandoah, out of New York

  Kennedy and Shine sat at one of the tables in the cabin’s lounge by the gondola’s bow. Morgan had disappeared below, ostensibly to check out their berths. Three other men sat in the open area of the gondola. Lightholler made them for Confederate airmen, possibly commercial crew, off-duty and slumming it back south.

  It was half an hour since the airship had cleared Central Park, since Lightholler had learned about Berlin and what had been unleashed from the cargo holds of his ship. He stood, numbly, waiting for Morgan by the winding stairwell. A few carefully worded questions might clarify any number of things. Hardas, arms folded, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his lips, watched him through narrowed eyes from across the cabin.

  The only passengers permitted aboard the Shenandoah were those with proof of Confederate or German nationality, and only a handful of those had chosen to embark. They sought berths in the aft gondola, beyond the hangar.

  The stigma of their association with the Brandenburg Division suggested that there was more to Kennedy and his companions than met the eye. They were left to themselves. The Brandenburgs had cut their teeth defeating the first British tank formations in 1917. They’d accompanied Kaiser Wilhelm’s victory march into Paris at the end of that year. During the European War they’d swept behind Soviet lines to crush Stalin’s dream of communist expansion.

  Over the last fifty years they
had been brutally employed in the colonial wars of German North Afrika and the Middle East. It was even rumoured that a division had been sent to Vietnam, thus prolonging Japan’s disastrous campaign in that region. They were the most feared military corps on the planet and Lightholler had brought them to New York. In doing so, he may have ensured the city’s destruction.

  Berlin, in her death throes, had unleashed her wrath upon the Japanese Empire. New York was only a stone’s throw away from German-aligned Canada. An assault force could arrive in the beleaguered city before dawn. Moreover, if Kennedy’s sources were correct, there were at least eighteen divisions of German infantry massed beyond the new Mason-Dixon line; there was a German fleet assembled offshore. The Japanese forces, stationed on the West Coast and along the southern border, would have a hard time deploying on all fronts.

  There were three regiments of elite German troops deposited in the heart of the Japanese Occupation. If there was anything Lightholler had learned from his time at Sandhurst it was that the primary purpose of inserting troops behind enemy lines was to give your ground forces incentive to get in there and relieve them. That alone was reason enough for Lightholler to go along with Kennedy. Whatever was happening in New York was merely a hint of what was to come. The tip of the iceberg.

  Morgan was taking his time downstairs. Kennedy stood, and walked over to one of the gondola’s wide curtained windows. Lightholler joined him.

  “Enjoying the show?” he asked.

  Kennedy shrugged. Behind him, through the thick plated glass, New York was a battlefield.

  Lightholler placed a palm against the glass. He thought about Berlin. Below, the remains of the Sinatra Island aerial tramway were already in flames. Only a skeleton, shrouded in thick smoke, remained of the Summer Palace spires that had once gleamed over the city. He paced along the gondola wall from window to window, edging past scattered tables and chairs. Mushrooms of smoke hung over the bridges leading into Manhattan. The barracks at Battery Park were aflame.

  “Over here,” Hardas called out. “This what you’re looking for?”