Her Majesty's Western Service (39 page)

“It looks like we just got the rest of them,” Marko said to McIlhan as the cabin of the formerly-ascending
scout-class exploded.

“You sure that’s her, boss?” asked McIlhan.

“Always the skeptical, logical Imperial bitch, aren’t we?”

“Not afraid of you, crazy man. I want to fuck shit up just like you
, and you know it. So, how you so sure we just killed this L bitch?”

Marko giggled.

“She’s going to want to fly out, once she reaches the limits of her tunnels. Only so many places you can put even a scout-class. So we put the rockets in range – and when someone lifts under the shooting, we
know
it’s got to be her. Everyone else in the warehouses and docks are keeping their noses down, not running, right?”

“So we got her?”

“You wanna stick around and sniff the corpses?” asked Marko. “Who else would be on that late, unlamented dirigible? We got her firm and good. Now, we just rocketed a dirigible out of existence over New Orleans dockside. You want to sniff, or you want to scram?”

Chapter
Fifteen

Trotsky, Leon – Russian statesman

Born – 7 November 1879; Bereslavka, Ukraine (aged 84)

Present Position –
Special Minister of State, Russian Empire

File Summary:

Despite coming from relatively low (kulak; upper-peasant) origins, Trotsky (original name – Lev Davidovich Bronstein) is one of the key figures in the Russian Empire’s upper administration. Instrumental (as an organizer and field commander) in the Russian Restoration of 1917, he has gone on to be a close associate of three Tsars.

Positions held through his long career include heading the Ministry of the Interior, the Okhrana, the Foreign Ministry and the Third Department. He has held his present title since 1940; despite his now-advanced age, he shows no signs of mental deterioration or reduced energy. He is experienced, devious, ruthless, powerful, and is believed to be one of the very few people with the present Tsar’s complete trust.

From MI-7 files; February, 1963.

“Finish loading that cargo already,” Nolan said to the stevodores, who were manhandling wet crates marked ‘Johannson’ from another barge into the
Red Wasp II
’s hold. “Looks like we’ve got to move.”

“Damn right you have to move,” Perry said, glancing over his shoulder. They didn’t
appear
to be under pursuit, but you never knew. Perhaps Lynch’s enemy wouldn’t be content with simply killing her, would want to sweep up her associates, too.

A mobile barge had drawn up
along the stationary one the airship was moored to, and a human chain of shirtless, sweating stevodores were passing the crates up into the hold. It did look like they were almost done.

“You’re not under active pursuit, are you?”

“Not as far as we know,” said Ahle. “As far as we know.”

“There was a fight. Someone shot down an airship that
lifted from one of the warehouses. Is that what you were involved with?”

“No, it was a whole
different
major incident,” said Perry.

Nolan shrugged.

“This can be a violent city. You see the stevodores don’t give a damn.”

“They’re going to give a damn if bullets start flying around them,” said Perry.

“No, they’ll hit the deck, wait for the fight to end, and finish the job. At least if they want to get paid.”

“We’ll be on the bridge,”
Ahle told him. “Lift as soon as you can. He’s right to be nervous.”

On the bridge, Nolan joined them a moment later.

“Sorry, but a man’s got to make a profit,” he said. “Cargo of frozen crawfish. I was lucky to get it. We’ll be stopping briefly at Dodge to refuel, if you want to get a signal off from there. But a straight run to Denver, after that.”

“Not waiting for any convoys, I hope,” said Perry.

“Convoy fees are a bit above my price range,” Nolan said. “We kind of just hope to get lucky with the pirates.”

“Like
that’s
worked,” said the balance woman in the dress.

“It’s worked so far.”

“Only barely.”

“Ah, but it’s worked! Mind, with a new ship like this – prettier, more capacity,
although better in the way of self-defence as well, I
will
grant, thank you Mr. Vice-Commodore – we might look a bit more tempting to `em.”

“We try to avoid the independents,” said
Ahle. “It’s not so profitable. We don’t have much use for crawfish.”

“And we count on that, too,” Nolan agreed. “The Code keeps things going.
Can always buy the ship back, if we have to.” A pause. “Although I’d rather not. Mr. Vice-Commodore, are we expecting any particular trouble?”

“N
one that I know of,” said Perry. “Although the thieves who stole 4-106 will probably be defending it. Did you hire more men here as I asked you to?”

“Oh yes. And I guess there’ll be a recovery fee for this big warship of yours, I hope?”

“We won’t let an honest trader lose money on Imperial service,” said Perry.

“Or a not-so-honest trader, I gather,”
Ahle added, grinning.

“Honesty is an underrated virtue,” said Perry. “Nolan, I gather you’ve had some shady behavior in the past, but that’s the past. You’ll do better for yourself as an honest man. Consider it a favor asked.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” said Nolan. “But it takes resources to be an honest man in these times.”

“I killed a man,” Ferrer was muttering when he met Marko and the others at the
passenger terminal of an airship line. “I killed a man.”

Marko clapped him proudly on the shoulder.

“The first of many, my friend! Isn’t it fun?”

Ferrer restrained a retch. He was sick with himself and disgusted
with the operation, but he had the feeling that saying so would go over badly. What had he gotten himself into?

The state had to go, the state was bad, but
killing
people?

“Not so much,” he muttered. Thinking of the farm
he was going to buy, and his nice little workshop in the basement. When this was over… and no more killing people. That was for damn sure. He’d have done his part.

Rienzi was working on his gun with a small blade, carving three more notches into the handle. Solidifying them.

“It’s cheating if you didn’t kill them with that particular weapon,” said McIlhan. “Just so you know.”

“Dead is dead. I killed them, didn’t I? And this makes seven.”

“You killed `em,” said Marko. “That’s what counts. Lives ended, threads cut sharply off.”

“So what’s next?” asked
Ferrer.

“Back to Texas,” Marko said. “Awaiting orders.”

The
Red Wasp II
flew over bayous and then plains, through the night and then the sunrise. The wind was coming from the southeast and their engines were at full power; they were making good speed.

Perry was apprehensive about pirates, but they were overcrewed; Nolan had hi
red another nine men, acquaintances and referrals who he trusted. He’d also made a point of arming his new ship; the proceeds from Perry’s action had been enough to also afford a pressure-gun and a pair of three-inch rocket launchers, enough – Ahle had agreed – to dissuade a lot of pirates. Nothing materialized anyway, and they touched down in Dodge late in the afternoon.

“You’d better stay in the airship when we refuel,” said Nolan.
“Last I was here, those wanted posters for you were everywhere.”

“They don’t check the ships themselves?” asked Perry. Despite fears for his own safety, a bit dismayed. No wonder so many fugitives and criminals could travel freely!

“Too manpower-heavy,” said Ahle. “You saw how they try in the South, where they have the mercenaries in the jackboots. Feds can’t do it everywhere and there’s not enough Imperials.”

That, Perry knew. His men
had
been known to do spot-checks of ships here and there, usually operating from tips that must, in hindsight, have come through Fleming’s office. He’d always been under the impression that Federals and local authorities did more serious checks, going on board every airship, at least in shady towns.

He said as much to
Ahle, who shook her head.

“Almost never, and you realize how little your Fed counterparts get paid?”

“You could bribe them off?”

“Quite easily.”

From somewhere she’d gotten a bottle of rum, and was sipping from it as she lay back in one of the bridge’s comfortable leather chairs. She offered the bottle to Perry, who shook his head.

“You sure? This is good stuff.”

“I don’t drink on the job.”

“Technically you’re not on the job right now.”

Perry thought for a moment. Quite true.

He extended his hand for
the bottle, took a sip. The pirate had been correct – it was excellent rum. He took a longer sip and handed the bottle back.

For a little while they sat on the bridge, as the sound came of coal being shoveled into the
Red Wasp II’s
bunkers. They exchanged the bottle a few more times before Perry, feeling a warmth in his stomach and a slight blur in his head, passed it up. Ahle kept sipping.

“You’re worried, aren’t you?”

“I’m relieved,” said Ahle. “We just have to get your ship back and my officers are safe. And along the way, can we kill the bastards who murdered my crew?”

“I think Fleming would write you a bonus check for getting that Marko guy.”

“You said Nate Nolan’s in town,” Rafferty asked his man at the Dodge airship park. It was Friday, after all, and he had a sixty-hour pass; he’d already started drinking, was a bit tipsy. The telegram had come to him, via the specialists’ mess, a couple of hours ago.

“Maybe he is,” said the clerk. Ran a thumb across his palm. “You owe me for that telegram, too.”

Rafferty gave him a buck. The clerk was silent. Slightly annoyed, Rafferty peeled off another dollar and, after a pause, a third.

“Port 43-A,” said the clerk.

“Give me a sip of that shit,” Rafferty said to Duckworth.

Duckworth handed over one of the flasks he was carrying. Rafferty took a long drag on the whisky then turned back to the clerk.

“Thanks.”

“Why are we doing this again?”, Duckworth asked as the two began the long trek – looked to be about a mile – to 43-A, which was one of the further-out ports from the entrance.

“Because guys like Nolan hear things. Duh.”

“Why do you give a shit about the Vice anyway? You just blew a day’s pay on that damn clerk so you could
maybe
hear something.”

“Not your money,” said Rafferty. He
drank again from the flask and handed it back to Duckworth. “Besides, what else’m I gonna do with it – gamble it away?”

“Vidkowski would say
to put it into the five-percenters and save for retirement.”

Rafferty laughed.

“They pay us so we can spend it. Come on, let’s go see this guy.”

“Why d’you give a shit about the Vice anyway?” Duckworth repeated as they walked.

“Because he’s got into some action. High drama. Ian Fleming stuff. And I want to know what’s going on. I
bet
you there’s some covert shit going on.”

“Richardson learns we’re here looking for word on him,” Duckworth said, “she’s going to rip us
both
down to `shipman Third.”

Rafferty shrugged.

“I been busted down before. So have you. Don’t like it, go home.”

Presently, they reached the port marked 43-A. It housed a larger and
much
nicer airship than the
Red Wasp
Rafferty had ridden on, and for a moment Rafferty wondered if the clerk had been mistaken. But the legend ‘Red Wasp II’ was clearly marked in foot-high, red letters near the front of the clean grey gondola. A refueling truck on rails was parked further down the ship, port fuellers busily shoveling coal in. Nobody else seemed to be around.

“Check the bridge first,” said Rafferty, because it was closest.

“Oi!” came a voice. “ `Ail the bridge an’ all! Captain Nolan?”

Perry
recognized that voice from somewhere. They were in Dodge. He’d known people in Dodge…