by Todd Downing
“...and Henry Ford personally built the primary outboard engines to DiMarco’s specifications. Her skeleton is a lightweight duralumin frame, and the skin is a new vulcanized canvas-aluminum fiber weave, laminated with aluminum powder resin.”
“She’s quite a bird, Doc,” Jack replied, intrigued more than ever as to how, and why, they’d been set in each other’s path for a second time. “Say, if you don’t mind me prying, where’s Mister Starr? I take it that’s behind the name change.”
Doc looked down and sighed. This conversation had been in the works for six years. It could no longer be avoided. “Colonel Dirk Starr, the surgeon I was seeing in France…”
“Right! The surgeon… that’s who you ended up tying the knot with?” What Jack had wanted to say was, “…that’s who you broke my heart for?” but that would have been unfair. Jack was a young fighter pilot at the time, brash and full of life. It made him extremely attractive to a battlefield nurse needing the warm embrace of a comrade in the midst of the hell of war, and they’d enjoyed a spectacular weekend furlough in Paris in 1918. But those in his line of work didn’t have a long life expectancy. Jack McGraw wasn’t a good bet as a husband. At least, not back then. She’d tearfully ended their fling to go back to her post at the field hospital with her surgeon. They’d lost contact shortly thereafter.
“Yes,” Doc answered. “We have a daughter. He died three years ago.”
Jack was struck mute. They drove along in silence until he managed a contrite, “I’m so sorry…”
“Thanks,” she said quietly. “He’s actually the reason I’m working on the Daedalus project for AEGIS.”
Jack searched for a delicate way to ask the multitude of questions circling his head. Finally, he settled on the biggest one. “I don’t want to reopen old wounds, but can I ask what happened?”
# # #
Venezuela, September, 1922
Dirk Starr stepped off the train in Caracas amid a scurrying sea of people. He wore a buff colored cotton suit and Panama hat, and would have blended in perfectly if not for his tall stature and dark blond mustache—a direct contrast to ninety percent of the Venezuelan populace. Vincenzo DiMarco’s schematics for the frictionless dynamo generator and the Daedalus airship were tucked safely in a leather valise under his arm.
He scanned the crowd for his contact, Ricardo “Buzz” Santos, a Brazilian seaplane pilot who operated out of the Caribbean region. The man who would get him back to the States.
As he negotiated his way through the crowds of businessmen and tourists toward the sunbaked outdoors, a shadowy figure leaned around from behind one of the many tile pillars on the platform, raising the slim, two-foot tube of a blowgun. There was a quiet ‘huff’, and Dirk Starr felt the sting of a dart pierce the back of his neck.
His hand flew instinctively to the pain and pulled the dart away. He opened his hand and looked at it. Amazonian native construction, possibly Chocó. He was tempted to look around and confront his assailant, but he knew it had been a Silver Star agent, and confrontation would not do any good if some kind of paralytic had been administered. He wouldn’t have long before the effects would be felt. He just wanted to find Buzz Santos and get the hell out of there.
The dart in his hand became blurry. He shoved it into his pocket to take back to Dorothy. With the dart, she’d be able to determine the source and type of poison, and derive some kind of antidote. Starr had every confidence in his wife’s expertise—he just needed to get home.
Blurred vision became blindness as Dirk Starr staggered out of the train station into the oppressive tropical sunlight. He felt a wave of nausea and he stumbled, feeling strong hands on his shoulders as he regained his footing.
“Señor Starr!”
Starr blinked in the stark white light, unable to focus. “Buzz?”
“Si, Señor. What has happened?”
The man was a murky gray blob in an ocean of light. Starr couldn’t focus. He felt his knees wobble and his left leg give way again. Buzz held him up.
“P-p-poisoned,” mumbled Starr, now barely able to stay upright.
He could feel Buzz sling his left arm over the shorter man’s shoulder, bracing him against further falling. Then there was a car door opening, and he felt himself falling into the back seat. He passed out as urgent phrases were traded in Spanish.
When he came to, his vision had stabilized a bit, and he saw a seaplane floating at the end of a pier. Now Buzz was on his right side, and a man he didn’t know was on the left—possibly the cabbie. The end of the pier grew closer and Starr realized he was being dragged to the plane. His right hand grasped for the valise, and Buzz noticed Starr’s agitation.
“Do not worry, Señor. I have the case. We are going to get you home.”
“Home,” Starr repeated, and blacked out again.
Dirk Starr regained consciousness one more time. Buzz had delivered him to field agent Joe Salyer in Miami, who got him and the leather valise on a fast plane back to New Jersey. When he opened his eyes, he was in a hospital bed and Dorothy was leaning over him. She seemed to be in conversation with an older gentleman in the corner of the room. Mr. Edison? He tried to speak—if only to tell Dorothy one last time how much he loved her. How much he loved their daughter.
But his vision went black again and the voices died away, and all that was left was the pain as his organs and tissues slowly necrotized. Colonel Dirk Starr was a decorated Army surgeon who had saved the lives of hundreds of Allied soldiers. He was a talented field agent with the AEGIS organization who had snatched the plans for revolutionary technology from the claws of a diabolical enemy. It took him eight weeks to die, in an agony he could not express. And there was nothing Dorothy Starr could do to save him.
# # #
“When he died,” Doc explained, “I vowed there would be a reckoning with Crowley and his order. I’ve been studying the Astrum Argentum for the past three years. Their organization, their tactics, their magic… it’s a terrifying thought, what their intentions are. And the blood already on Crowley’s hands.”
Jack drove as the headlights illuminated the road ahead of them. He couldn’t blame Doc for the choice she’d made back in 1918, nor for the course it had put her on. And at least she was back in his life. He could be happy with that.
“Starr was an officer and a gentleman,” Jack said. “I was always a little jealous that he’d won your affections, but he was a good man. If I can help you find justice, I will.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Doc smiled wistfully. “I knew you were the right guy to lead this endeavor.”
“Well the more I learn about Crowley, the more I wanna deck him,” Jack muttered through clenched teeth. Then he changed his tone toward the positive. “You mentioned a daughter?”
Doc nodded. “Ellen. She’s six.”
“Where’s she?”
“My aunts are scholars. Musicians. Renaissance women. They live in San Diego. They take care of her and see to her education while I’m away. I’ll go down there to visit when we’re done with this mission.”
“I like San Diego,” Jack reminisced. “Spent a lot of time down there when I was a kid.”
Doc looked as if she was about to speak. She shifted uncomfortably and gazed out the passenger window.
“What was that you were saying earlier, about Crowley being responsible for the war?” Jack asked.
Doc pursed her lips. “I never said he was solely responsible, Jack. But I can place him within a hundred miles of several pivotal events and meetings leading up to the war. It’s purely circumstantial evidence, and the AEGIS board won’t entertain such folly…” She turned to meet Jack’s eyes. “But I know I’m right.”
He believed her. Jack McGraw didn’t know about magic and dimensions and demon portals, but he’d seen enough blood sacrifice and inhuman evil to last several lifetimes.
Jack turned into the gravel lot adjacent to the airfield office. He decided to steer the conversation away from personal matters and back to
business. “Say, how big a crew can the Daedalus carry?”
Doc blinked, snapping out of her reverie. “Six, with full provisions and gear. Why?”
“Because there’s someone else we need.”
Jack pulled to a stop outside the main entrance and cut the engine. He stepped out of the car, and Doc followed.
“My gear’s in a locker, just inside,” he said.
Doc’s curiosity was piqued. “Who did you mean?”
“Huh?”
“You said we needed someone else. Who did you mean?”
Jack dug in his trouser pocket for his keys. A small ring of four keys and a pewter Curtiss logo chain fob came out with his hand. “Remember Charlie?”
As he unlocked the entry door, Doc searched her memories of the war. There was much she’d just as soon forget, but the Cherokee sharpshooter from North Carolina with the dry wit and preternatural accuracy wasn’t someone she could easily forget.
“Charlie Dalton?” She asked. “Deadeye?”
“One and the same,” said Jack. He pushed the door open with a click and held it open for Doc.
“How long has it been since you talked to him?”
“Since we ran afoul of those fascists in Italy.” Jack closed the door behind them and led Doc past the front desk to a row of pilot lockers along the wall. “My locker’s over here.”
Doc pursed her lips in the dark office. “I meant to compliment you on the Curtiss, by the way. Nice bird.”
“Oh, she’s not mine,” Jack corrected. “Belongs to Mr. James Morton of Morton Aviation.” He fished one of the other three keys on the ring forward and opened the locker. Out came a heavy canvas duffel bag, followed by a pile of flight leathers, cap and goggles, Army surplus web belt, and two leather holsters—full.
Doc raised an eyebrow. “Well that’s some flight gear you have there, Captain,” she quipped. “You often find a need for twin .45 automatics in your work as a test pilot?”
“More often than you might think,” Jack replied, dead serious.
Just then Doc caught something in her peripheral vision. Looking up from the duffel bag, she could see that the door to the adjacent airplane hangar was open, and that a light was on in the office at the other end. Then something passed in front of the light, and Doc had a moment of rising panic.
“Hey, Jack,” she said, nudging him as he packed his gear into the duffel. “Is that Mr. Morton’s office back there?”
“Yes,” Jack answered.
“He must be working late,” said Doc.
Jack looked up at the single light source from the office window. “That’s odd. Not like him to leave the office door open at night.”
Then there was a clunk from the office, and Jack’s suspicion cranked into overdrive. “Stay here,” he told Doc. “I’ll check it out.” He shucked both .45s from their holsters and began to tiptoe away into the hangar, but Doc stopped him.
“Oh no you don’t. I’m coming with you.”
“Suit yourself,” said Jack, handing her one of the pistols. “But take one of these.”
Doc felt the weigh of the nickel-plated Colt in her hand. “Now you’re talking.”
“Just stay behind me,” Jack instructed. “And don’t be afraid to make a dash for the car.”
Together they silently moved into the hangar and found cover behind a stack of wooden shipping crates.
“I can see movement in the office,” Jack said.
“Who do you think it is?”
Suddenly a flashlight beam caught Doc’s face. She ducked away, but it was too late.
“Hey!” a voice called out, followed by two pistol shots in the dark.
Jack grimaced. “Someone who doesn’t want to be found.” He squinted through the dark, remembering where the big oil drums were. If he could sneak around to their flank…
“If you could sneak around to those oil barrels,” Doc suggested.
“Way ahead of you, Doc.” Jack said. “I’ll move around and see if I can flank them. You stay right here and cover me.”
Then he was gone, and Doc pulled back the hammer on the pistol.
“I don’t know if trouble came with me or you,” she said under her breath. “But we’re both in it now.”
Jack scurried behind the stack of oil barrels mid-hangar. He poked his head over one of the bottom ones to see what he could of the office. A lone overhead lamp illuminated an office in disarray, with file drawers pulled out and furniture in pieces. Whoever this was had seriously tossed the office to find what they were looking for. Two silhouettes took cover in the doorway and traded gunfire with Doc. He decided to take advantage of their focus on Doc and silently crab-walked to the tail of his Curtiss.
He rolled under the tail, then ran—head down as though blocking for his college football running back. Before he knew it, he’d closed the gap.
“We’ve been found out!” a gruff voice yelled. “Get back to headquarters!”
Then a tall, athletic figure loomed up in the doorway. “Not so fast, boys!”
Jack was lightning quick, delivering two blows with the butt of his Colt. The pistol-whipped thugs rolled out of the doorway onto the hangar floor. Pocketing the pistol, Jack found the hangar light switches on the outside wall of the office and flipped them on.
Doc hurried toward him. “Jack,” she cried, “are you all right?”
“Just fine, Doc,” Jack replied, rolling one of the thugs over with his foot so that the man’s face was visible. “Laid both of these jokers out for the count, though.”
Both men were of European extraction, one large and stocky and one a bit smaller and bespectacled. Jack had noted the one who’d spoken had a thick New Jersey accent. They were both dressed in black overcoats and their hats—both Homburgs—had fallen away into the office.
Doc pointed out a gleam from the large man’s coat lapel. A small lacquered pin displayed a silver four-pointed star on a black square field. “Look at that lapel pin, Jack,” she said.
Jack nodded, deep in thought. “Just like the Luftpanzer.”
“These two are Silver Star,” Doc asserted.
“But what could they want with Morton?” Jack wondered.
Doc knelt and patted down the smaller fellow’s jacket. She produced a sheaf of file folders and began looking through them while Jack poked around inside the office.
James Morton lay crumpled in a heap under his overturned office chair. His throat had been slit.
“Look at the files they took,” Doc called. “Your employment records with the aviation company.”
Jack reappeared at the doorway, face ashen. Doc knew what that look meant. Morton was dead. She also knew why.
“They must have found out AEGIS was recruiting you,” she offered softly.
Jack’s mind was spinning. They should call the cops, he thought. With these two goons in custody it would be easy enough to bring in the Bureau of Investigation. Take some of the steam out of this international conspiracy. Then he heard a hissing sound, like the fizz from a Bromo-Seltzer, and he smelled something acidic and coppery. He looked down at the men on the floor.
“Say, what gives?!” he marveled.
Doc stood quickly, aghast. “They’re dissolving!”
They watched as the thugs began to bubble and smoke, withering away to nothing more than a pile of bones and some empty clothes. Ghostly, vaporous tendrils of smoke drifted toward the ceiling. The larger man’s skull cracked and caved in, pieces becoming fragments, crumbling away to dust.
Jack was astonished. “Holy… is it acid or something?”
Doc knelt again, her wits returning. “No. Look,” she said. “They’re decomposing from the inside.”
“So you’re saying this isn’t better living through chemistry?” Jack asked.
“No,” Doc said seriously. “This is arcane in nature. This is Crowley’s doing.”
Jack cleared his throat. “Shouldn’t we should call the cops?” He didn’t sound convinced. Finding Jim Morton’s
dead body had thrown him for a loop. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Doc tucked the files under her arm and walked Jack toward the entrance. “Someone in the organization will handle this. Let’s get your gear and head back to Glenmont.”
Jack started to offer a halfhearted protest, but Doc found his gaze.
“Right. Now.”
- Chapter 4 -
Jack didn’t sleep much that night. Between the murder of his employer, the mysterious disintegration of the killers, and the prospect of taking an experimental dirigible on her maiden voyage, his stomach was a jumbled mess. Edison had put them up at Glenmont, but despite the extra security and accommodations much more comfortable than he was used to, all Jack could manage were a couple of cat naps. It wasn’t his first time feeling anxious about a flight, although the anxiety wasn’t usually accompanied by such immediate peril—even during the war.
When Jack came down to the dining room, the sun was already peeking over the morning clouds in the east. Rivets—the sole occupant of the room—was seated at the table, passed out in his chair and snoring, untouched cup of coffee by his grimy hand. Jack was dressed for flight: khaki jodhpurs, black knee boots, and an open-collared cotton shirt. His leather jacket, gloves, and flight cap were in the canvas duffel bag he dropped next to the buffet table. He knew they had to travel light, but he also knew that they were going after some dangerous individuals, so he easily justified an extra box of .45 cartridges at the cost of a second pair of shoes.
As Jack poured a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the buffet, Doc entered the room, yawning.
“Morning,” said Jack, handing her his full cup without missing a beat. “Sleep okay?”
Doc smiled, sipping from the cup as Jack filled another. “Hardly a wink. The airfield last night…”
“Yeah,” Jack nodded. “The sooner we’re up and away, the better.”
Doc pointed at the snoring mechanic. “Poor Rivets was up all night, working on the ship.”
