by Leo Champion
At effective point-blank, even the relatively untrained missileers on 4-106, handling heavy nine-inch launchers that were all but completely unfamiliar to most of them, couldn’t miss. The twelve rockets slammed into the Vorpal before anyone aboard could begin to react, twenty-five pound warheads detonating along the cabin and the lower edge of the gondola.
One of them scored a direct hit on the airship’s engine hall, which was armored but not well enough to withstand nine-inch missiles. Bright yellow secondary explosions erupted as one, then another, of the boilers blew out.
Another rocket smashed into the Vorpal’s aft battery, a revolving cannon mount. The battery was obliterated and its stock of ammunition began to cook off, another wave of secondary explosions.
One detonated amidst empty crew cabins, sending a rain of flaming junk down toward the plain.
The other nine rockets hit along the edge of the gondola, detonating along its thin kevlar armor. Burning shrapnel cut through the airship’s hydrogen-filled bags, setting them ablaze. In seconds, two thirds of the Vorpal was an inferno, riggers and crew beginning to bail.
The flaming wreck began to drop – slowly at first, but faster as her hydrogen burned or escaped, the fires spreading – toward the grassy plains of Hugoton.
“Engage his friend, and now!” Perry snarled, as the shattered Vorpal went down in flames.
“Miss,” Kennedy reported from the Weapons station. “Hit, and that’s a good one – got her fins!”
“Who?”
“Aft station,” said Nolan before Kennedy could. “That pressure-gun of yours” – Halvorsen’s, Perry thought, and Hastings’ – “did a job on them.”
“Bring them down before they can repair it,” Perry ordered.
“Enemy civil war?” Specialist Singh asked as the bright-red airship went down burning.
As a missile volley at point-blank would do to you, yeah, thought Swarovski. Those missiles hadn’t just lanced the mercenary’s gondola; at that range they’d been more than able to aim precisely and the Vorpal’s engine room had taken at least one, possibly two, direct hits. He’d seen it go up.
He tuned out Lieutenant-Commander Martindale’s shouted orders for men to round up the survivors and get them into custody. 4-106 had just fired – ventral and tail guns – on the lime-green mercenary.
Looked like at least one critical, too.
“Don’t know,” Swarovski replied to the Specialist. He didn’t lower his binoculars as 4-106 closed in for the kill on the Dread Wyvern, who appeared to have lost steering control. “But it looks like good news.”
“Missile Ten reloaded and ready,” Kennedy reported finally.
“Slackers,” Rafferty remarked. “An Imperial crew’d have taken thirty-five seconds. Not eighty-five.”
“At this point,” Perry said, “I don’t care. Full volley, Weapons. Blow them out of the sky.”
Guns – fore, ventral and rear, since 4-106 had turned broadside to the crippled Dread Wyvern – had already been pounding at the airship, making sure her disabled steering fins stayed that way.
Now 4-106’s twelve missile batteries opened up. The dozen-strong nine-inch missile broadside smashed into the Dread Wyvern’s aft.
The steering had been hurt a moment ago by a lucky hit from 4-106’s surprise attack. More pressure-gun and cannon fire had all but destroyed the tailfins and started a small fire. Now, twenty-five pound high explosive loads tore apart the Dread Wyvern’s aft third, and set alight most of its remainder.
The second of Cordova’s Armadillos followed its sibling down in flames.
Perry smiled. This was his job; this was him doing his job aboard the finest airship he’d ever commanded.
John Kennedy coughed.
Fair enough.
“Nolan, flash base,” Perry said. “Tell them we’re coming in.”
The returning airship – formerly Vice-Commodore Marcus Perry’s 4-106, Ian Fleming had recognized from his own data – had come in. Flashed the enemy ships saying he was a friendly. Claiming to be Theron Marko, although Fleming had doubted that.
The captain of, at least, the bright-red Vorpal – Paula Handley, if he remembered correctly – hadn’t had the same information Fleming did. She’d allowed 4-106 to come within loudhailer distance.
And been thoroughly blasted out of the sky by a full broadside at effective point-blank. Gunnery – lucky shots? – had crippled its lime-green friend’s – the Dread Wyvern’s – steering. A minute later, a second concerted missile volley had destroyed the Wyvern, too.
“What the hell is going on there?” Governor Lloyd demanded.
“Lord Governor” – the aide, Buff, had a pair of binoculars affixed to his eyes, following 4-106’s flasher as the line-class warship descended – “it sounds – Lord Governor? As though…”
“Go on,” the Governor snapped.
“Vice-Commodore Marcus Perry says he’s back.”
Fleming and Connery looked at one another.
“With his ship,” Buff went on. “And he wants an audience with the Deputy Director. Right now.”
“You heard my aide,” the Governor snapped. “Get down there.”
The two spies were already moving.
“That’s Perry!” Swarovski repeated to Specialist First Singh.
“Says he is, sir,” replied the communications woman.
“It makes sense, Lieutenant” said Martindale. “Who else would have shot down those puffed-up merc bastards?”
“He brought the ship back,” Swarovski muttered. “Holy fucking shit. I told you he was on covert assignment, Jules!”
“Who gives a damn, Swav?” Martindale shot back. “Let’s go say hello to him, shall we?”
“You’re the boss, sir,” said Swarovski. The two, followed by Singh, Vidkowski and a crowd from 4-106’s crew, ran to intercept the descending 4-106.
“Perry’s back,” Commander Ojibwa reported to Richardson, lowering her binoculars.
“I can read a flasher,” said the Flight Admiral tonelessly. “Tell him he did a good job, will you?”
“You’re not going to greet him yourself, ma’am?”
“I don’t need to bother him. It looks like he wants to talk to somebody else.”
From across the pads, Richardson could see Deputy Director Fleming making haste toward the growing crowd of airshipmen waiting to greet the Vice-Commodore. Flanked by his pair of aides, Fleming was moving fast.
“He flashed for him,” the Flight Admiral repeated. “Not me.”
But beneath the hag lady’s always-expressionless demeanor, Ojibwa thought she saw the ghost of a smile.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The cornerstones of the Restored Empire were laid on January 1st 1901, the first year of the new Empire, when the Second Decree was passed unanimously by the Houses of Commons and of Lords.
Alongside the absolute rights to individual cross-border movement and group/regional self-determination granted by the Curzon Doctrine, the Decree made other elements foundational to Imperial law and identity going forwards, primarily a legal indifference to matters of ‘personal morality’ such as homosexuality and full House of Commons voting franchise to all literate adults of majority age within the Empire’s dominions.
“The greatest day in Imperial history,” Baron Oscar Wilde said on the floor of the House of Lords. “You will forgive me for not cracking the usual joke.”
From A Young Person’s History of the World, Volume X.
“Looks like they want a speech,” remarked Ahle from the helm, as 4-106 landed. Meeting them at the bridge were a crowd of cheering airshipmen.
“There’s seven Armadillos,” said Rafferty. “Vice, you only killed two of `em. Five more around somewhere.”
“And the others won’t go down as easily,” Ahle added. “We had surprise this time. And luck.”
“But first,” said John Kennedy from the Weapons station, “you swore as an Imperial officer to make an introduction.”
&nb
sp; Perry nodded at the pirate.
“I did, at that. And I will. Looks like he’s coming to us. But give me a moment.”
Perry keyed the loudhailer mike.
“Crew of DN 4-106,” he said into it.
The words echoed, amplified, across the bare concrete landing pads and through the mostly-abandoned Hugoton base.
“Thank you for waiting for me,” Perry went on. Why had these guys stuck around – some exigiency of evacuation logistics? Although it was obvious that a shipless crew would be last on the list to get out – “I look forward to taking you under my command once again.”
Another cheer rose at that statement.
“For now, we have urgent work to do. Prepare yourselves for action.”
“Looks like your MI-7 boss is here,” said Nolan.
“Drop the door,” Perry ordered. “Let him in.”
Ian Fleming looked John F. Kennedy in the face, on 4-106’s bridge, and smiled.
“Mr. Kennedy,” he said. “I won’t ask why you’re aboard our prodigal airship. I will apologize for not being able to offer you a drink.”
“Oh, I can make up for that,” said a Specialist Third in his late thirties, offering a flask. “Drink with Mr. Fleming would add to the adventure.”
“Another time, Specialist,” said Fleming.
“You probably don’t have a lot of time,” said Kennedy. “So I’ll get to the point.”
“You wouldn’t have put your head into my noose without one,” agreed Fleming. “So yes, please.”
“Colby’s information says your Governor is the type to remain around. Is he here?”
Fleming considered prevaricating, but only for a brief moment.
“He’s here.”
“I want to see him. Vice Perry?”
“Deputy Director,” said Perry, “I promised Mr. Kennedy an audience with you and – I know it’s not within my authority – with the Governor if you could swing it.”
“I can probably swing it,” said Fleming. “Suppose you tell me why.”
“I’ll tell him why,” said Kennedy. “Fifty of my family’s men are here as hostages – manning this ship’s weapons and rig stations. I’ve returned your airship when I could have easily kept it for ourselves. I think that’s enough of a good-faith gesture to start the conversation.”
“I can’t begin to guess why the Josephs’ obvious emissary would wish to speak with the Lord Governor,” said Fleming slowly. “So I’m going to emphatically recommend that an audience be granted.”
“Thank you,” said Kennedy. “I’m unarmed, although I expect you to verify that. I’m here to talk.”
“Once we’re inside,” Fleming said. “But Perry? Your ship already has a crew. Replace your pirates with them, will you – and join us.”
Kennedy reached for a mike on his console.
“All secondary crew,” he ordered, “surrender yourselves as planned.”
“Join you?” Perry asked.
“With the Governor,” said Fleming. “You organized the introduction. He’s your problem.”
Heinrich Himmler smiled broadly as his outriding tanks blew another oil well into a geyser of flames.
They were approaching suburban Dodge City.
Three hours, now, from Hugoton.
Perry followed Connery, Fleming and – having been quite thoroughly searched by Fleming and his aide – Kennedy – through the stairwells of a mostly-abandoned Government Tower. Ahle tailed them, clearly itching to speak to Fleming herself.
He could guess why.
They reached the seventh floor. The Governor’s last remaining aide, an immaculately-dressed young aristocrat, stood outside his office.
In twenty months stationed here, Perry had only been inside that office twice; once for his official welcome to the Lease, the second time for a personal commendation. Both had been formal audiences, not personal meetings.
“Holy hell,” said the aide, “that’s John F. Kennedy.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Kennedy, extending a hand.
The aide shook it, clearly shocked.
“Mr. Buff, this man requires an audience with your boss,” said Fleming. “Urgently.”
“He’s still inside, Mr. Fleming,” said Buff. “I guess I can let you through.”
“Your Empire may thank you,” said Kennedy, as they passed in.
The Governor’s office had been stripped of everything that could easily be moved, but to Perry’s eyes that only gave it a stark simplicity fitting the man’s rank.
After all, Flight Admiral Richardson’s office was like this normally, wasn’t it?
“And who is this fine fellow I hear I’ve been urged to meet?” the Governor asked.
“John Kennedy,” said Fleming. “Joseph’s son. And younger brother.”
“The pirate kings? And what would they want? To gloat?” demanded the Governor.
Perry stifled an interruption. He wanted to be back with 4-106, prepping his crew for the desperate battle to come. But he was curious as to what would happen here. John Kennedy had gone well out of his way to put his head deep inside the lion’s mouth for a reason.
“No,” said Kennedy. “I’m here to offer you a deal. We can save your Lease from destruction. If you grant us a few concessions.”
Governor Charles Lloyd couldn’t believe he was hearing this insanity.
Here comes pirate prince John F. Kennedy personally, known from Fleming’s briefings to be the family’s second son and chief of special operations, attempting to negotiate something?
Remember the fact, the Governor told himself. The SS is coming. Her Majesty will thank you for any actions you take to save the Lease in the face of this disaster.
Any.
That gave him room, didn’t it?
It depended.
“You’re pirates,” said Lloyd. “How in damnation do you claim you can save the Lease against what’s coming?”
“Trotsky’s man attempted to assassinate my family heads for a reason,” said Kennedy, as Perry looked on. “There are two effective powers on the Plains; Imperials and the Kennedy family. Successfully killing the Josephs would have perhaps caused enough disruption as to render us powerless against what was to come.”
“The invasion was cancelled the minute we deployed along the border,” said Lloyd. “Now all that’s left is the destruction of this denuded Lease.”
“Which I can prevent,” Kennedy repeated.
“How?” asked Fleming and the Governor simultaneously.
“My family went to full mobilization eighteen hours ago,” said John Kennedy. “Every ship we have an interest in, every debt we’re owed, every pledge we’ve been given. And everything the Lakota can send. We can stop the SS.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Governor Lloyd. “Vice-Commodore, what do you think?”
Perry swallowed hard.
“Lord Governor? I won’t outright contradict Mr. Kennedy on that statement, sir. His family commands resources.”
“Resources here?”
“Mr. Lloyd,” said Kennedy, “I’ll make the deal plainer to you. You keep your part of the deal if, and only if, we save Hugoton.”
“Suppose we make a deal with your pirates,” said Lloyd. “What would you want?”
Kennedy’s mouth became a smile.
“Legitimacy. We want Imperial law to recognize the Code.”
“You want piracy legalized?” said the Governor. “Like hell.”
Kennedy shook his head.
“We would be fine if piracy remained a crime. Just not a capital one, or one with too long a prison sentence. Let’s say, five years minus the usual reductions for good behavior and whatnot. If the perpetrator is a known Code pirate.”
“I’m not going to abandon the law for the sake of saving my Lease. Rape and murder are crimes that deserve hanging, not wrist-slaps!”
“Rape and murder aren’t engaged in by Code pirates. We make sure of that. Crimes committed alongside piracy,
you can punish as you see fit – we’ll even assist you. I’m referring to the act of piracy in and of itself. If the perpetrator is a Code pirate, you do not hang them solely for piracy. You can imprison them for up to five years. That’s it. Rapists and murderers have never, do not, and never will, come under our protection.”
Governor Lloyd was silent for a long, long moment.
Then he nodded.
“Mr. Kennedy, I will make this policy and recommend its ratification as Crown policy, if you deliver on your promise and save Hugoton.”
Kennedy extended a hand. The Governor, after a pause, shook it.
“In the presence of these witnesses,” Kennedy said, “we have a deal.”
“We have a deal,” Governor Henry slowly agreed.
“Now” – Kennedy spoke to Fleming – “get me to a flasher. We don’t have much time.”
From the roof of Hugoton’s Government Tower, Kennedy – assisted by a pair of Army communications personnel that one of the Air Service ground officers had picked up from the garrison stay-behinds – carefully aimed the heliograph, checking against a compass. Fleming, Connery and Buff hovered watching in the background.
“There,” said Kennedy. “No – another quarter-degree. Now. Corporal, are you ready with your binoculars?”
“Yes, mate.”
“Yes sir, Corporal.”
“He a sir – Mr. Lieutenant, sir?”
“For now,” said the Air Service lieutenant, “he’s a ‘sir’ if he wants to be. Get to it.”
“Yes, sir. Sir.”
“Transmitting,” Kennedy said, and began to flash.
A tense few moments.
“Sir,” reported the corporal. “We got a response. Acknowledged, he says. No – acknowledged and conveying, sir.”
