by E. J. Blaine
“When Maria Blutig’s done with you, you’ll wish you’d stayed here and assisted in my research,” said Mencken, laughing.
“What about Doc?”
“She will remain here,” said Ardinger.
“She will be a martyr to science,” said Mencken. “There’s so much we can learn from her.”
“Not really,” Jack offered. “Because I’m still going to kill you.” It sounded brave at least, but inside, Jack could feel cold terror taking root. False bravado was all he had right now. Unless he came up with something, and fast, Maria Blutig would torture him to death in vengeance for the lover Jack had shot down over France. And Doc…Jack couldn’t think about what would happen to her. He would die before letting that happen. Even if it was a futile gesture, he realized, he wouldn’t let them fly him away from her. He’d make them kill him fighting to save her.
“Well, I’d suggest you be quick about it,” said Mencken. “You don’t have much time left. Am I needed any longer, Captain? My work awaits.”
“Go,” said Ardinger. “By all means, Doctor, go.”
Mencken gave Ardinger a final slight sneer, then turned on his heel and left.
When Mencken was gone, Ardinger turned to one of his aides. “Inform Lieutenant von Birken,” he said. “He will fly this prisoner to rendezvous with the Luftpanzer, and transfer him to their custody.”
“Yes, sir,” said the aide, and hurried off.
“We have a few moments before the aircraft is ready,” said Ardinger. “Do sit down, Captain.” He gestured to a folding camp chair beside his desk. Jack glanced over at it, then at the armed men along the far wall. He sat down.
Ardinger removed a bottle of whiskey from his desk. “Not easy to get this in, believe me. Even for the base commander. Everything on every plane is accounted for, down to the number of screws to put something together.”
He produced a pair of shot glasses and poured two fingers into each. “You are an honorable foe, Captain McGraw. You are vanquished and bound for a fate from which I cannot save you. But I salute your courage nonetheless.”
Ardinger picked up a glass, raised it to Jack, and drank. Jack reached out with cuffed hands to pick up the other, and took a swallow.
“I can’t save you from the rage of Maria Blutig,” Ardinger said. “But I may be able to make your fate easier to bear. As one soldier to another.”
“And how is that?” Jack asked.
“Mencken is a butcher and a madman,” said Captain Ardinger. “Your friend’s fate at his hands will be no better than yours at Maria Blutig’s. Worse, perhaps. You are a soldier; you face your end with courage. But hers, this is a different matter, I think. I can spare her. I can remove at least some of your pain.”
And here it was. “You want something from me,” he said, “and your offer is to kill Doc if I give it to you. Do I have you correctly?”
Ardinger poured them each another shot. “Here, at the end, each of us must make the best bargain with death that he can,” he said. “I want the airship. The Daedalus. It is legendary among the Silver Star. The man who captures it will make his career. Your fight is over. Tell me how to take the ship, without bloodshed if it can be done—I wouldn’t have you betray your comrades’ lives. Do this, and you have my word of honor, her passing will be quick and painless.”
Jack enjoyed the last swallow of whiskey, felt it burn its way down his throat. “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. “You see, Doc would never forgive me. And despite your lofty words of honor, and your excellent whiskey, you’re still Silver Star. And that makes you a murderous son of a bitch I wouldn’t turn my back on if we were surrounded by hungry crocodiles.”
He raised the empty glass to Ardinger with both hands, then set it down on the desk with a sharp click.
“As you wish, Captain McGraw. As you wish.” Ardinger capped the bottle and put it away in his desk. “I have tried. My conscience at least is clear. I suggest you look to your own.”
He rose and nodded to the guards. Two of them strode over and lifted Jack out of the chair by his arms.
“Have a safe trip to the Luftpanzer, Captain,” said Ardinger as they marched him out the door. “I do not think we will meet again.”
Outside, they formed up in a line, a guard on either side of Jack, and marched him across the open field toward the airstrip. One of the planes had been warmed up and moved out of its parking slot. It sat at the end of the airstrip, the figure of its pilot waiting beside it.
The guards walked with one hand on the butts of their pistols and the other holding one of Jack’s arms. They were wary, expecting him to try something. He wouldn’t have the element of surprise by any means. But none of that mattered now. He calmed his breathing, pictured what he would do. A feigned stumble to break the grip on his arms, then he would swing both fists into the one on his right. He’d try to get that one between him and the guard on his left. Beyond that, if he was still alive, he’d improvise.
The space between the camp and the airstrip seemed to go on forever. They were about halfway across now. Jack was walking steadily, breathing deep. This was what it felt like to walk to your death, he thought. But the walk couldn’t last forever. Ahead was a stone he might credibly stumble over…
Suddenly a rifle cracked in the distance. Jack heard the distinct smack of a bullet striking flesh. Then the guard on his right lurched forward and fell with a surprised grunt. Jack could see the entry wound between his shoulder blades.
For a brief moment both Jack and the other guard stood frozen in shock. Then the guard suddenly scrabbled for his pistol. Jack laced his fingers together and planted his foot. He swung his cuffed fists at the guard’s chin like Babe Ruth swinging for the bleachers. He connected, and the blow lifted the guard off the ground and dropped him like a sack of potatoes. Jack stood alone in the field, still not quite believing what had happened. What was he supposed to do next? He hadn’t expected to make it this far.
He heard a pistol shot, and a bullet whistled past him. He whirled toward the waiting biplane and saw the pilot sprinting toward him, firing a Luger as he ran. Jack dropped to the ground as another shot barely missed him. Then there was another rifle shot from behind him, and the pilot tumbled forward and fell in a heap.
Who the hell was firing? Was it Deadeye? Had the others managed to find another way into the valley? Jack had no idea and didn’t care at the moment. All that mattered was that Doc was in danger. He was in no position to quibble over who his allies were.
That snapped everything into clarity. He had resources now. Until someone managed to kill him, he could fight.
Jack scrambled over to the body of the first guard as it began to smoke and hiss. He thrust his hands into the man’s uniform pockets looking for the keys to his handcuffs. The smell was horrifying. It was chemical, but also something more, something that suggested incense and opium smoke. Jack gagged and coughed, but kept searching for the keys.
Behind him, he heard shouts, another gunshot. Then an alarm siren gradually spun up its mournful wail. His fingers found hard metal, and he pulled out a key on a brass ring. Jack rolled onto his back and looked back at the camp. Men burst out of tents, looked for an enemy, ran around in confusion. They didn’t know what was happening either, Jack realized.
He fumbled the keys, and had to scoop them off the packed ground again. This was harder than it looked. Finally he managed to get the key into the lock, and one wrist snapped free. He popped the cuffs off his other wrist and grabbed the dead man’s pistol from its holster.
Someone was running toward him from the camp, brandishing an MP-18. That would do nicely. He rolled onto his stomach, aimed the Luger carefully, and squeezed off three shots. The man fell. In a moment, Jack was on his feet, sprinting toward the body. He was hearing more gunshots from the camp now. Somewhere in there, someone was firing back at the sniper who had saved him. He had no idea if they knew what they were shooting at or were just firing blind, spooked by noise and the sigh
t of their comrades turning to smoke.
He barely broke stride as he bent down to scoop up the submachine gun. With it and the Luger, he felt ready. Jack veered off and headed toward a row of tents. At the end of that row was the lab where he would find Doc.
Jack cut down a pair of confused Silver Star troops and roared with anger as he charged into battle.
Chapter 22
Doc lay alone on the cold metal table. She’d struggled with the ropes until it was very clear she wasn’t going to get out of them. So instead she used her eyes and her brain. She searched the lab and the equipment, looking for clues. Every object here had been brought here with great difficulty. They must be critically important to Mencken’s work. She was a scientist herself, so she understood how a laboratory worked. What would lead her to choose these exact tools?
Everything on the bench told her a story. There was a titration setup for determining the concentration of a solution. The gray box with the connected hoses was a vacuum pump. Coiled next to it were hoses with complex valves and taps. Those were Schlenk lines, she realized, used for cannulation, transferring gas samples without exposing them to outside air. Was that to protect the samples from contamination, or to protect Mencken from the samples? The crude bamboo frame against the wall had spring clips attached. She counted them and worked out how many different hoses it was meant to support. The neatly arranged row of flasks at the end of the bench confirmed her count.
A picture began to form. She imagined how she would be able to use that equipment, what it would do for her. Plant samples, handled with the rubber gloves over there. Placed under the glass hood at one end of the bench. Heated somehow, probably with a compressed gas torch. She couldn’t see it, but there was a spark lighter for lighting it. The toxin released as a gas, collected, separated into flasks at different concentrations. She could almost paint a complete picture of how it was made. But where were Dr. Mencken’s notes? He had to be keeping detailed records of his work. That was what she had to find.
Then the door opened and Dr. Mencken’s long shadow fell across the lab. Two soldiers followed him in and closed the door behind them. They waited near the door while Mencken gathered up the wreckage of the cot from the fight with Jack and put it in a corner.
“Now then,” he said at last. “So much to do and so little to work with. But you’re a start at least. A start.”
He walked past the table and checked the ropes, making sure she was still secure. Then he moved out of her field of view, and she heard something like a drawer being opened. There. A desk, or a cabinet perhaps. She knew he had to keep his research notes somewhere. He shuffled through the pages, opened another drawer. Then suddenly he reappeared with a small leather case. He zipped it open and showed her three syringes nestled in tight fabric loops inside. Each was labeled and filled with a different color liquid.
“The baselines,” he told her. “Reference samples. If the formulation should drift, these are the blueprint.” He tapped each syringe in turn. “DL-26, the original toxin. You’ve seen its effects, I believe. Remarkable discovery. I’m still working out exactly how it does what it does.”
He tapped the next syringe. “DL-95. The more controlled, slow-acting version. Held in check”—and he tapped the final syringe—“by DL-95-A in variable strengths of solution for varying effects and countdown times until fatal toxicity is reached. DL-26 is a chain saw. These two are more of a scalpel. Never forget that I wield both.”
“Not likely,” Doc said through clenched teeth.
“Good. I’m going to test a number of experimental formulations on you, and I need your cooperation. It will be painful, but not nearly so bad as these. So you must keep your wits about you, and faithfully report your sensations and symptoms. These will always be at my side if you are not of value to me. Do you understand?”
She took a moment to steady her nerves, then she nodded.
“Good.” Mencken put the clip of syringes in his pocket. Then he turned to the guards. “Remove her from the table, please. Keep her hands tied behind her back. She’s not to be trusted, this one, are you?”
The guards worked with strength and efficiency—they were, after all, elite forces of the Silver Star, which valued those two qualities above all else. They untied her ankles and one wrist, then rolled her off the table. One of them twisted her free arm behind her, and she gasped. Then he freed her other wrist and tied them behind her back.
She could see the rest of the lab now. There was the desk she hadn’t been able to see before. A cabinet stood beside it. The door was open and she could see notebooks and sealed glass vials. That was it, she realized—the research notes and samples of failed formulations. That was everything she’d need to develop an antidote. All she had to do now was stay alive and get her hands on it.
Mencken was rummaging through a collection of vials in a drawer of his desk. “Which one,” he muttered. “What would have the least impact? Start there and work up.” He turned to Doc and smiled. It wasn’t an unkindly smile in its way. “We mustn’t kill you until there’s nothing at all more that can be learned from you, must we? Who knows when there will be another of you?”
He held a vial to the light and shook it. “Yes, this, I think. You’ll still be able to speak.”
Then the crack of gunshots came from outside. The two guards tensed and looked at each other.
A moment later there were more shots. Then the alarm siren slowly spun up and wailed.
The guards drew their weapons. “You stay here,” one of them snapped to Mencken. Then they ran out the door. In the moment that it was open, Doc heard shouting and more gunfire.
Mencken moved like a snake and grabbed her bound wrists. He pulled her off balance and held her in front of him like a shield. One of his syringes was at her neck.
“Don’t move,” he hissed. “This is DL-26. If you so much as twitch, you’ll die wishing you could scream.”
Doc remained still and silent. They both stood motionless, staring at the door as the siren wailed outside. She didn’t know how long they both stood there. It seemed like hours. Doc felt Mencken’s cheek against hers. She felt the warmth of his skin, the moisture as he started to sweat.
There was a shot outside and Mencken flinched. Doc gasped as she felt the tip of the needle dig into her neck.
The door opened.
A figure was briefly silhouetted against the afternoon sun through the doorway. Then he stepped inside and closed the door.
“Jack!” she cried out.
Jack held a Luger leveled at Mencken. A submachine gun was slung over his shoulder, and his eyes were grim as he stared over the Luger’s sights.
“Hold it!” Mencken snapped. “This is pure DL-26. Highly concentrated. A drop and you’ll watch her die! Very badly!”
“I see you haven’t really thought very far ahead, have you?” said Jack in a cold, steady voice. “What’s your plan for getting out of the valley alive?”
“You’ll fly us out!” Mencken’s voice went high, and Doc felt his hand quiver.
“With you holding that needle to Doc’s neck?” Jack said quietly. “You’re forgetting a couple things. One, your planes won’t carry three. Two at the outside, and that means you’d have to give up your hostage. Want to know the second thing?”
“What?”
“I promised to kill you,” said Jack. The Luger cracked and Doc felt the bullet slash the air beside her face. She felt the needle slide into her flesh. She heard the slap of a bullet against bone and tasted blood.
Then she was falling.
###
Jack strode through the door with the Luger in his outstretched hand. As his eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside, he made out a shape standing in front of him. Two people. Doc, with Mencken behind her, a syringe against her neck. He was shouting something about DL-26. Jack didn’t know what that was, but he got the gist.
He exchanged a few words with the doctor, but Jack wasn’t paying attention. He was l
ining up his shot. Then he said, “I promised to kill you,” and pulled the trigger.
Mencken’s head snapped back, and blood sprayed Doc’s face. She fell to her knees, and Jack’s heart leapt into his throat as he saw the syringe in her neck. He dropped the Luger and ran to her. She nearly fell over but managed to steady herself and remain very still.
“Get it out!” she cried. “Don’t touch the plunger!”
Their eyes met and Jack tried to project cool confidence, but there didn’t seem to be much of that inside him at the moment. He reached out with two fingers for the syringe’s barrel.
“Straight out,” she said. “Raise it up, just a little. There! Now, straight out!”
Jack slid the needle out, and they both let out a breath. Jack was going to smash the syringe, but she stopped him. “Baseline sample! We need that!”
Instead he cut her loose, and they held each other tightly. Jack felt himself shaking. “God, Dorothy, I thought I lost you!”
“I’m fine!” Doc said, her voice taut as she struggled with her fear. “Just help me. Mencken’s notes are here. Samples. Everything we need! Watch the door!”
Jack trained his gun on the door as Doc emptied a canvas field pack and started filling it with notebooks and vials. Jack’s guts were twisted into a knot. He’d fought alongside comrades before, and he’d learned how to deal with it when they died. But this was something different, and Jack didn’t like it. He’d carefully honed his instincts for battle, but this new truth threatened to undercut all his hard-won experience. What if he hesitated at a crucial moment, or made the wrong choice and killed them both out of fear for her?
Then she closed the pack and thrust it at him. “This has to get out, even if I don’t.”
“Damn it, stop talking like that!”
“Language!” Doc said sweetly.
Jack forced down his fear. He would have to deal with it later. Right now, they were still in danger. He unslung the MP-18 and handed it to Doc. Outside the siren had stopped wailing, but they still heard gunshots. “Careful who you shoot out there,” he said. “We’ve got an ally. Somebody saved me, and they’re still fighting.”
