“We’ve reached the height!” yelled Jokubas from the top.
Rickus nodded and gave a signal with his arms crossed in the air. Chechka, the pilot, understood the sign, closed the valves and sharply jerked the control stick.
Unfortunately, The Broom could only dream of the air bubble ballcocks required to smooth out sharp movements when changing height, and now it dived at the first attempt to swerve its nose to one side. But Rickus’ crew were well trained and the assailants positioned at the back of the airship managed to get a good grip on the gondola holding ropes. The Broom was caught by the lower level wind and regained its balance.
“Seven, four, one,” Jokubas yelled out the coordinates, with his head stuck out in the thrashing rain, which did not seem to bother him at all. “Ten minutes past five,” he added.
Clutching the ropes with both hands, Rickus leaned forward as far as he could over the edge to see what was beneath them. The instructions of the mysterious albeit generous client had been followed precisely – The Broom had arrived at the right place at the right time. The moment had come to find out if it was worth the effort.
All they could see down below were some dark slivers of cloud, and the curtain of rain, with occasional slashes in it. The dirigible moaned another warning – it was struggling to stay in this position. Rickus cursed, strained even further over the edge and stared at the ground.
“Seven four two, seven four three,” Jokubas yelled. Three more marks and The Broom would move away from this spot, and it would mean that someone – either the mysterious man himself, or The Broom’s navigator – had made a mistake. “Seven four four, seven four five, seven four...”
At that point the wind, with freshly gained strength, ripped off a sheet of the cloud underneath revealing a…
“It’s here! It’s here, you greasy lice!” Rickus screamed at the top of his voice. “Chechka, go! Men, get ready for the jump!”
The helmsman turned the control stick, tilting the dirigible to the side. Rickus’ right hand-man and the commander of this assault, Gastonas Tiskus, hesitated for a moment – should he or should he not jump down into the storm cloud, relying solely on calculations (it clearly looked like suicide to him)... But then he grabbed the rope of the wind-catcher, which had been draped over his back, swore like a trooper and flung himself toward the edge of the gondola. He then leaned overboard and took a giant leap into the unknown, his last words, “Give us gold, morons!” trailing behind him through the air. Eight other robbers followed suit, clutching the ropes of their wind-catchers.
The terrible weather and heavy rain that defined the afternoon drew The Icarus passengers inside their cabins and into the lounge, where they sipped mulled wine, looking through the portholes. Chain smokers of cigars and cigarettes stayed in the pressurised smoking cabin at the back of the dirigible, while the open sun deck was left completely deserted, apart from a lonely steward who, clad in a waterproof tarpaulin coat and hood, was clearing away the dishes. It was his misfortune to become the first victim of the flying robbers.
One of Rickus’ accomplices crashed on top of the unfortunate steward with a piercing scream of horror, after he had delayed releasing his wind-catcher and had not had sufficient time to reduce the speed of his fall. They both plummeted overboard swathed in the ropes of his wind-catcher. Two other robbers simply missed The Icarus and plummeted to the ground, their screams shaking the air. But the landings of Tiskus and five other men were a success.
Just as they had been instructed, as soon as they got to their feet, all six crammed the wind-catchers into their rucksacks and dropped them on the floor by the edge of the gondola, before getting out their guns.
Puzzled by strange noises, another steward poked his head through the door, but was immediately attacked with a blow to the nose, and collapsed to the floor. Gastonas Tiskus took a good look around to establish if they were safe, before sending the three men to the back of the sun deck. The remaining two raiders, rifles clutched in their hands, stood on either side of the door, ready to strike any foolish bunny peeking in. Standing by the airship’s edge and attempting to screen his eyes from the pouring rain, Tiskus stuck his head out from under the envelope to look up. At that very moment The Broom emerged from the cloud, water cascading down from its bottom. The dirigible manoeuvred to bring some thick hemp ropes, which had been thrown overboard and were now flapping in the storm, as near to the back of The Icarus deck as possible. Helmsman Chechka made The Broom descend even lower, allowing the robbers on The Icarus deck to catch the ropes and fix them securely to the railings. A gust of wind caused The Broom to shake and the ropes to strain, and Stepas Rickus was the first to slide down.
“Well done,” Rickus praised his men the moment his feet touched The Icarus floor. He gestured to his band to follow him and ran towards the lounge himself, waving two pistols that had materialised from his belt only a moment ago. One kick of his foot opened the door, and he stepped inside. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he spoke in a cheery voice, before adding with both guns directed at his audience, “I hope we are not disturbing you?”
People started screaming bloody murder, stamping their feet and breaking carafes and glasses. Some passengers sought refuge under the tables, others made off through the other door. But Rickus could not be any more oblivious to any of their actions. His only concern at the time was a young girl with raven-black hair and her chaperone, an Alliance lLegionnaire in a blue uniform. Whatever the wishes of the mysterious client were, Rickus was prepared to go to great lengths in order to avoid deaths. It was silly, of course, to expect the Alliance to pat him on the back for the assault on a passenger dirigible, but if, God forbid, a Legionnaire was killed, they would hunt for the wrongdoer high and low, as if he were their worst enemy, leaving no stone unturned. Even as far away as Brazil he would not feel safe.
Had Rickus’ pirates been more experienced, they would have given priority to clearing the place of wireless radio operators, as someone sending out an SOS signal was the last thing they needed. But the enigmatic client forgot to instruct him on that, and what Rickus was concerned about most was staying alive during the boarding assault on The Icarus. And so it happened that The Icarus’ distress signal took to the air in no time at all, “Attention, attention, attention, this is Icarus speaking, we have been assaulted by pirates, send help now.”
When Finley had finally heard the message on his wireless device, he allowed himself a sigh of relief and rushed to the captain’s bridge, outdoing the operator. The latter, a paper with the coordinates in his hand, stumbled in a second later.
“What is it now?” Captain Mabrey swore and checked the paper. “We are really close,” he concluded and, clutching the speaking tube in his hand, ordered, “Attention everyone! The passenger dirigible of the Alliance The Icarus has sent us a cry for help. We are changing course and preparing for an armed confrontation.” He dictated the new coordinates to the navigator standing at the helm of the airship.
The sound of thumping feet resonated along the corridors of the dirigible. The Soldiers of the Sky and artillerymen hurried to take their positions. The Star slowly turned back and changed its course.
Finley rewarded himself with a contented smile. He had discreetly adjusted the course prior to take-off, which is why The Star had arrived at this location exactly on the dot.
The armed accomplices tumbled into The Icarus lounge behind their leader. Like a bolt of lightning Gastonas Tiskus charged at the Legionnaire in blue uniform and twisted his arms behind his back. Generally speaking, Legionnaires were excellent soldiers but they were mercenaries nevertheless and were too worried about saving their own skins to resist in such a situation. Besides, the audaciousness of the attack had stunned the passengers and thrown them off balance.
“We will not keep you long, ladies and gentlemen,” Gastonas announced in a solemn voice. “Give us your wallets, jewellery and precious stones, and we promise to part with you amicably as soon as we have fini
shed examining your cabins.”
The robbers’ hands were obediently filled with the airship passengers’ valuables, but Stepas Rickus had no time to collect any contributions. His eyes feverishly darted around trying to locate his real prey. If the girl were not there, they would have to check the cabins. But how does one make gold-greedy robbers drop everything and rush to search for some unknown girl? One little madam did attract Rickus’ attention, but when the mugger’s piercing stare caused her to faint gracefully, dropping to the floor, her face became covered with a stack of blonde dyed hair. No, this was not the right girl.
Suddenly Rickus felt a sharp throb of pain go through his shin. It felt like he had been stabbed.
“Greasy louse!” he howled and looked down.
Right beside his leg stood a toy soldier, busy pulling his tiny metal sword out of Rickus’ shin. The furious robber aimed his pistol at the daring little automaton.
“No! No, Scaramuccia!” someone shouted and a girl with black hair came running towards Rickus.
“Little lady, is that brave heart in blue uniform your chaperone?” Rickus’ head worked fast.
The girl’s eyes instinctively moved over to the Legionnaire, whose hands were being tied by Tiskus and Rickus, oblivious to Rickus’ conversation. The girl frowned.
Rickus smiled like a Cheshire cat.
“You see? That’s some lucky break, you feathery serpent!” – he wasn’t thinking about the toy soldier anymore. The pistol barrel went up and stopped at the level of Mila’s chest. “It may come as a surprise to you, little girl, but you are the real reason why we are here.”
“Really?” the news did not seem to scare Mila at all. Completely ignoring the pistol pointing at her, she stepped forward and bent down to pick up Scaramuccia. Then she looked back at Rickus. “So you have found me. And what are you going to do next, you smarty-boots in puffy trousers?”
Rickus was confused. Neither the women in the little Lowlandian town of Uzventis nor the ladies in carriages raided by the robbers had never been so daring with him. He involuntarily looked down at his trousers. Mila laughed and he felt shame. His red cheeks betrayed the anger that started boiling inside. Holding the pistol by the barrel, he began to advance towards the girl, ready to hit her with the butt of the gun to teach her a lesson in polite conversation with men. However, he was too late.
A severe voice, intensified even more by a mechanical amplifier, bellowed, “This is Captain Milton Mabrey of Her Majesty’s corvette The Star of St George. The intruders on The Icarus have 10 seconds to lay down their arms and come out onto the sun deck with their hands up in the air. There will be no second warning.”
Dragging Mila by her elbow, Rickus dashed to the porthole and looked outside, where, having appeared from nowhere, a British military dirigible seemed to have played the trump card in this game. The Broom’s paltry rifles had already been cowed by Vickers heavy machine guns. The riflemen had barely had a moment to fall over on the deck before getting back to their feet again, and were now swaying like reeds with their hands high up in the air, squinting from the dazzling flashes of magnesium fired by The Star.
Having dealt with The Broom, the British military airship hovered above The Icarus, waiting for the Sky Soldiers to slide down the ropes and strike the deck with their feet. The artillerymen stood stock still by the machineguns and the howitzer, a sight which could not but scare the life out of the enemy.
“What are we doing, Steputis?” asked Gastonas Tiskus.
“Lay your guns on the floor and put your hands up. They are not joking,” Rickus shrugged his shoulders.
“What about you?”
“I will find you when you come out,” muttered Rickus and immediately washed his former allies out of his head. He was not going to prison for a third time.
Jabbing the pistol into Mila’s neck, the robber extended his other arm back into his rucksack. Fortunately, he had flung it on together with the wind-catcher on his back just before descending from The Broom by rope. Just in case. He began to back out towards the side door with Mila, yanking her with him, as she curiously followed his actions, putting up no resistance whatsoever.
Rickus’ sullen accomplices dropped their guns to the floor and obediently shuffled to The Icarus deck, accompanied by the passengers’ sneers. Rickus took full advantage of the commotion and slipped out through the side door. He understood that it would only be a few blinks of an eye before the passengers reported the girl’s kidnapping by an air pirate to the rescuers.
“Well, I hope you haven’t overdone it with your porridge, damsel,” Rickus remarked to Mila. “Otherwise we’ll reach the ground sooner than we should.”
Finally, Mila had comprehended his intentions and made an attempt to free herself from his grip, but his extraordinary strength surprised her. The clasp of his hand on her collar was so oppressive that she could hardly breathe. Helplessly dangling from her other hand, Scaramuccia was another factor hindering her chances of self-defence.
Once outside, Rickus marched straight over to the side of the gondola. Pressing the struggling Mila like a doll hard against his own torso, he swiftly strapped her into a chest harness with a buckle, then turned sideways and climbed on to the handrail. Swaying with every gust of wind, he tried to grab the end of the cord hanging out of the rucksack, doing his best not to look down at the black ground.
Finley, adjutant Edward O’Braitis and another duty officer watched the assault on The Broom from the deck of The Star. After the Sky Soldiers armed with Lee Enfield rifles had descended from The Star to The Icarus, everyone had their eyes fixed on the deck, which was quickly filling with the robbers, their hands in the air. Only Finley’s narrowed eyes gazed slightly further to the left, expecting to see two figures in whom he had a keen interest. He was right –moments later he saw gang leader Stepas Rickus and Mila escape through the side door.
Keeping his eyes fixed on the pair, the Englishman took hold of a rope secured to the side of the deck, estimating the distance. The real Finley would have never been brave enough for such madness but this new Finley took a few steps back, grasped the rope firmly, then sprinted and jumped overboard.
“What are you doing, Charles?” yelled Edward, but Finley was already rushing through the air towards Rickus, who was about to leap overboard, taking Mila with him.
A few moments later he landed beside Rickus, having landed a scissor kick on him from the air. His released the rope, and with nimble hands, swiftly undid the buckle and snatched Mila away. Then he turned his attentions to Rickus – he lifted him in the air and propelled him overboard, as easily as a feather. The gang leader yelped and disappeared into the cloud, hands grasping desperately for the wind-catcher’s cord.
“My apologies, Miss,” said Charles Finley, gazing back at the girl. “I couldn’t let you leave the dirigible before making sure you had a wind-catcher.”
The girl was soaked to the skin and frozen, her teeth chattering with fear, but the man’s words summoned forth from her a spontaneous smile, and she gratefully shook her rescuer’s hand.
After the robbers had been transferred to The Broom, tied up with rope, and crammed into the cabins, Finley retreated to a secluded area, pulled out his “powder compact” and, almost touching it with his lips, reported, “The job has been completed. We have contact.”
Chapter XIV
Vilnius, late afternoon
23 04 1905
Legate Sidabras, cheek resting on his hand, gazed out of the carriage window at rain-drenched Vilnius, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together in his head. His attention was drawn to yet another inscription smeared in paint on the wall.
The fact that the rain had made the writing barely legible did not change the way Sidabras felt about it. For some time already the city had been ravaged by a gang of wall daubers, who decorated the main buildings of Vilnius with slogans of a revolutionary nature and calling for violence. The men of Steponas Malachovskis, who was responsible for the cleanlin
ess of the city, were so busy painting over the defaced walls that they barely had time to catch their breath. The carriage stopped. Sidabras gave a deep sigh, got out and walked into the Town Hall, his brow furrowed with worry.
Burgomaster of Vilnius Vytautas Venslauskis-Venskus awaited him eagerly.
“Sidabras, you must to put all other things aside and make solving the unfortunate stranger’s murder your first priority,” the Burgomaster said, coming straight to the point, his pointy little beard wagging as he spoke. “Do you understand the consequences if The Truth continues to rant about people getting their throats slit in broad daylight in a city that will soon play host to the most eminent of people?”
Sidabras refrained from pointing out that murder was not committed in broad daylight at all, and only nodded instead.
“And what about the wall scribblers? What can we do about them?”
Venslauskis-Venskus tapped his hands on his lap, indicating his frustration.
“Forget the defacers. Who cares about a few hooligans? Do you understand that Vilnius will soon welcome crown princes, ministers, lords and generals? And what do we have to show them? Corpses with their slit throats open!”
Sidabras was about to open his mouth to say something but the office door was suddenly flung open, revealing an out-of-breath Legion Junior Sergeant in the doorway.
“What is this...?” Burgomaster couldn’t conceal his indignation. The Junior Sergeant put his shoulders up and back and reported, “Vilnius is being approached by three dirigibles! The passenger Icarus, the British Star of St George, and a third one carrying air pirates who have been captured!”
A few moments later the Burgomaster and the Legate of Vilnius had already darted down the Town Hall stairs, rapidly clambered into their carriages and set off in the direction of Viscigavas Airship Port.
The three dirigibles slowly advanced towards Vilnius. The file was headed by The Icarus, with The Star of St George following behind, and The Broom trailing at the back. Since all of its crew were locked up in cabins, the control stick had been handed over to the second helmsman of The Star.
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