At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 7 — THE ANSWER MAN

The blue Ford Tourer sedan coasted to a halt at the checkpoint gate and was greeted by a smartly dressed MP who instantly recognized the driver. "How are you doing today, Mr. Dalton?"

Behind the wheel of the hired car, Dodge flashed a smile. "Nothing but blue skies today, Corporal."

The weather was indeed balmy — the morning sun burned in a cloudless sky, promising a humid afternoon — but Dodge’s comment had nothing at all to do with a meteorological assessment. "Blue skies" was a code word, indicating to the guard that he was not under any sort of duress. Nevertheless, the guard did not neglect his duty with respect to the other person in the car.

"Who’s that with you today?"

"Agent Tom Fuller, with the FBI." Fuller passed over his credentials for inspection.

The military policeman scanned the paper carefully before handing it back. "You can pull ahead to the parking area, Mr. Dalton. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait with the vehicle, Agent Fuller."

Both men nodded. Dodge had explained the security procedures to the G-man during the drive from the train depot. Fuller’s position in the FBI was enough to get him through the main gate into Fort George G. Meade, but access to the special scientific research lab required nothing less than a letter of authorization from the President himself.

"I’ll see if I can arrange for Dr. Newcombe to join us outside," Dodge said as they pulled down the gravel drive and into a large fenced off area where several other automobiles were parked. He slotted the Tourer in with the rest, then got out and made his way to another security checkpoint.

It had been a long night for Dodge. Although his berth in a Pullman car on the express from New York to Baltimore was a dry and comfortable change from the soaking he had endured earlier, sleep proved elusive. His waking dreams were plagued with images of his friends suffering diabolical tortures, subjected to mind-control experiments like the poor souls on Flight 19 or worse, already dead. Yet that was merely the beginning of his nightmare. The Staff was in the hands of the enemy; the potential for catastrophe was limitless.

He knew what he had to do, already determining that the only logical course of action was to reach the Outpost ahead of their foes and perhaps there find the means to defeat this new, unknown enemy. But in order to do that, he was going to need help from the one man who understood the strange — some might say alien — technology that had been found in that remote base. That man was the President’s special scientific advisor, Dr. Findlay Newcombe.

Newcombe — Hurricane always called the frizzy-haired scientist "Newton" — was, practically speaking, also a member of the inner circle. Almost from the moment that a gang of high-flying sky pirates had swooped down on the White House Rose Garden and abducted the President, Newcombe had been working to unravel the secrets of the Outpost. Although he had not ventured to the Antarctic ice cave with Dodge and the others, his knowledge of Outpost technology was far superior to theirs for the simple reason that he labored to understand the physics that made it all possible. Dodge and his friends may have grasped intuitively how to operate the strange equipment, but Findlay Newcombe was well on his way to reproducing it… or so he hoped.

A driver was waiting for Dodge on the other side of the second checkpoint and drove him to the converted aircraft hangar where Dr. Newcombe had set up shop. Dodge had previously visited the facility on three different occasions and each time he was amazed at how the project had metamorphosed from something that resembled a juvenile science fair project to a full-blown and fully funded effort to solve the mysteries of the Outpost.

As much as he liked the tall scientist with the crazy hair and Coke bottle spectacles, Dodge was dreading this meeting. He and Newcombe had quarreled, albeit in a manner befitting civilized men, over the merits of Dodge’s determination to keep the Staff in New York and away from the Army. General Vaughn had likewise appealed to both Dodge and the President to have the relic kept at the Fort Meade facility where security was tighter and Dr. Newcombe would have full access to it, but Dodge had steadfastly refused. That decision, made for the best of reasons, now seemed like the worst sort of mistake and Dodge wasn’t looking forward to admitting to Newcombe that the Staff had been stolen.

He found the scientist in the central laboratory, a vast open area in the center of the oversized Quonset hut structure. The lab was a maze of pipes and conduits, branching into spidery nodes that ended in large metal spheres. One entire wall of the lab was dedicated to chalkboards, laid together like enormous tiles to form a continuous writing surface, which was presently nearly three-quarters filled with formulae and diagrams, even as high as twenty feet off the ground. A librarian’s ladder was affixed to a rail that ran the length of the wall in order to facilitate the use of the huge slate, but Dodge noticed, much to his amusement, that the frizzy-haired genius needed no ladder. He hovered more than ten feet overhead, scribbling furiously with a piece of chalk and muttering to himself.

"Heya, Doc!"

Newcombe looked around perplexed, but upon spying Dodge, broke into a broad grin. As naturally as one born with wings, he floated down to Dodge’s level, but still a few inches above the floor. Poking out from under the hem of his lab coat, Dodge saw a familiar contraption of metal rods that formed a sort of outer skeleton. It was one of the devices that the gang of raiders had used to assault the Rose Garden several months previously. It was technology taken from the Outpost and it not only imbued its wearer with the power of flight, but also afforded a virtually impervious force field and the ability to throw lightning-like bursts of energy as a weapon.

"Mr. Dalton! Always a pleasure. Just checking up on me, eh? Well, I think we’re getting close to licking this one."

Before Dodge could say a word, Newcombe zoomed over to a control box in the center of the lab. "Watch this."

"Dr. Newcombe, I’m not here to—"

The scientist threw a switch and electricity began to crackle in the air. Dodge felt invisible tendrils of energy emanating from the nearest nodule and retreated a step. After a few seconds, the lights overhead began to flicker and dim and then there was a popping noise and the entire facility was plunged into quiet and darkness.

"Don’t worry," Newcombe chirped. "Sam will have the fuse… ah, there we go."

The lights came on to reveal the scientist’s grinning visage. "Not bad, eh?"

"Ah, what exactly did you just do?"

Newcombe drifted up to a schematic on the chalkboard. "We’ve figured out the energy field. It’s just electricity. The key is these emitters." He tapped a picture that looked suspiciously like the metal globes which had moments before crackled with electrical current. "They’re like Leyden jars, static electricity generators."

"So…what exactly did you just do?"

Newcombe frowned as though Dodge had missed the point. "I created an energy field."

"So you can actually build a device just like the exoskeleton?"

"Oh… well, yes and no. We can’t generate anywhere near the same magnitude of power with our current technology, so the field isn’t very strong. Even if we could generate enough electricity, the materials we use are much too bulky and heavy to achieve flight." He dropped down once more to Dodge’s level, his enthusiasm undiminished. "But we’re cracking the code. If we can figure out how to reproduce this alloy and find a way to generate and store massive amounts of energy in a very small package and of course find a way to miniaturize the electrical circuitry…"

"That’s not actually why I’m here."

"Copper wire is much too cumbersome…Produces too much waste heat…"

"Doc!"

Newcombe’s gaze snapped up to meet Dodge’s stare. His eyes seemed enormous in the thick lenses.

"Doc, something really bad has happened and I need your help."

When he finished telling the story — every brutal detail — all the scientist could say was, "Oh."

It had also been a long night for Jocasta Palmer, constantly awake and on the move, tailing the fellows Schadel had put on the scent of Dalton, whoever he was and the police detective that was protecting him. During the long train ride however, Jocasta, now wearing the appearance of a dark-haired, frumpy spinster on holiday, managed to leapfrog Shady’s goons — though she could not help but notice their amateurish cloak and dagger games — and now followed that pair as well. She even managed to sit at the table in back of them in the dining car and followed their conversation with great interest.

It wasn’t hard for her to figure out which man was which. The older fellow with the stern manner — identified alternately as Agent Fuller and Tom — was plainly the policeman, which meant that the handsome lad….

Tsk, she thought. Where have the years gone that I now think of this strapping fellow as a youngster?

…could only be the redoubtable Mr. Dalton, also known as "Dodge;" the very same man that seemed to have supplanted Zane Falcon in the ranks of Hurley and Hobbs’ band of do-gooders. He looked nothing like Falcon of course; Dodge’s features, though somewhat tanned from outdoor pursuits, were pale and unmarked compared to the weathered visage of the Army captain that had once almost won her heart. Still, there was a determination in Dalton’s youthful eyes; she suspected that his heart was very much like that of her former paramour.

She left off reminiscing about the days she had shared with Falcon and snapped her attention back to their conversation.

Were there any lingering doubt that she had picked the right pair of gents, they were swept away as she followed their discussion. There was mention of the artifact she now carried in her luggage, they called it simply "the Staff," along with a great deal of discussion about something called "the Outpost."

Dalton then proposed visiting an Army fort in Maryland, near the nation’s capital. Army fort, Jocasta thought. That will take some doing.

She pushed her dinner plate away and noisily exited the dining car, testing her disguise by intentionally drawing attention to herself. The scene did not go unnoticed, neither by the men she surveyed nor the pair of spies that also watched them; sometimes it was better to attract notice and thereby hide in plain sight. But as soon as she was back in the Pullman car, she moved as swiftly and stealthily as a stalking panther, back to her private car. She had a lot of work to do and not much time.

Her labors paid a handsome dividend, however. A small incentive of cash expedited her, still attired in her old maid get up, to the front of the line when disembarking and her taxi cab raced away toward their declared destination while the other groups were busy trying to hire a car. By the time she reached the gates of Fort George Meade, her forged identification papers were ready and she was admitted without hesitation. Her head start gave her time to reconnoiter the base and determine the location where she would find the scientist Dodge intended to meet. The facility was remote and the security considerable, but she had faced much worse and remained undaunted. She stole into the laboratory and found a niche in which to hide.

The net result of her efforts was that Jocasta Palmer heard every word uttered between Dodge Dalton and Dr. Findlay Newcombe. What she saw and heard would have left her speechless were she not already mum to avoid detection, yet somehow it all made a sort of mad sense. She dimly recalled flying over the streets of New York, yet until she saw Newcombe floating about the room, it had not occurred to her that something…supernatural…had been at work.

"Oh," Newcombe repeated, scratching his frizzy head. "This is a setback. I had hoped to get a chance to examine the Staff more closely."

"Doc, I don’t think you understand." Dodge was growing exasperated. "In the wrong hands, the Staff could cause unimaginable harm to America, to the whole world!"

Jocasta thought about the odd length of dull gray metal, still hidden in a secret pocket under her skirt. How could something so plain, so banal, wreak havoc on the civilized world with all its aeroplanes and motorcars, science and technology? For a fleeting instant, she considered revealing herself to the compelling young man and declaring that all was not lost, but she suppressed the impulse. There would be plenty of opportunities to make such a stunning and beneficent revelation.

"Oh, yes. I suppose it could." Newcombe fidgeted for a moment. "So, ah, what are you going to do about it?"

"We," Dodge stressed the collective, "are going to get it back."

"Excellent…er, oh. We? And where exactly do we start looking for it?"

"Do you remember that I told you how the exoskeletons were attracted to the Outpost, almost like a magnet? I think that whoever has the Staff is going to try to use it the same way: to find the Outpost and capture all its technology and treasure; things that we haven’t even uncovered yet. We have to get there first and set a trap."

Newcombe nodded enthusiastically for a moment, then abruptly stiffened. "Ah, Mr. Dalton, forgive me for bringing this up, but the Outpost is somewhere in the Southern polar region, isn’t it? It’s very cold there; no, let me correct that, it’s very, very, very cold. Our summer is their winter in the Southern Hemisphere. In the polar region that means about an hour of faint daylight every day; the rest of the time it’s dark and bitterly cold and there’s something called the katabatic wind — harshest wind on the planet — that constantly blows down from the pole. Even if we had a plane specially modified to withstand those conditions to get us there, we’d freeze to death the moment we stepped outside."

The scientist had become unusually animated as he ticked off the deadly details and Dodge found it impossible to resist a grin. "That’s why I came to you, Doc. If anyone can figure out a way to get us down there, it’s you."

"I…but…" Newcombe sputtered like a small engine about to stall, then closed his mouth and settled into deep thought. "Well, there is one way."

High above the North Atlantic, a unique airplane rushed headlong into twilight. The craft was not so much unique because of any particular design feature nor because it was one of a kind. In actuality, the Consolidated Aircraft Company Catalina was a rather popular new model with the US Navy and it was the fact of its being owned by a private interest rather than the military that made it an oddity in the world of aviation. Somewhat less remarkably, it had been equipped with experimental retractable landing gear for amphibious operation.

The other curiosity about this plane was the gender of its pilot; Amelia Earhart’s ill-fated exploits notwithstanding, the world of aviation in the late 1930’s remained dominated by men. But Molly Rose Shannon had always loved flying and so when the President had made a spectacular gift of this plane to the fearless foursome that had rescued him, she had naturally assumed the role of chief pilot.

Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the determination had been made to quit New York and look for answers in London of all places and Molly’s opinion of that decision — reached without her consent no less — had not changed. Yet, she had trusted her father’s judgment for as long as she could remember and had he ever led her astray?

When Hobbs came forward to the cockpit to check on her, she decided to extend a little trust. "Tell me about this Society we’re going to visit?"

The Padre settled into the navigator’s chair. "The Trevayne Society; do you want the full history going back to the wars of Napoleon or shall I keep it current?"

"That depends; is it a good story?"

Hobbs gave a rare smile. "That, like beauty, can only be judged by the beholder. Suffice it to say, the Trevayne Society is rather like the Secret Service, dedicated to the protection of the Crown."

"What would a bunch of bodyguards know about this Skull prophecy?"

"Ah, now that’s the part of the story that someone like myself would find interesting. You see, not all threats to the Crown are the product of revolutions and conspiracies, and usurpers.

“There is a dark and secret history of the world that the Church has rightly kept hidden from the eyes of ordinary folk because if it were known how close we once stood to descending into Hell, all social order would collapse. Of course, for nearly two thousand years, the Church has not only kept knowledge of the full extent of that evil concealed, but has also stood on the frontlines in the war against the powers of darkness."

Molly bit her lip. As much as she loved her father and loved God for that matter, she did not hold with the Church’s insistence on divine infallibility nor could she blithely excuse its bloody history of oppression, violent crusades or rabid witch hunts. Hobbs did not notice her pensive silence and continued with his story.

"As Christendom spread to the New World, new doors into Hell were opened and the subsequent Enlightenment encouraged some men to abandon the True God and look to other deities.

"Because the Royal House is the keeper of the Church of England, it fell to the royal protectors of the Trevayne Society to root out these cults of demon worshippers and to hunt down and destroy icons of evil power."

"I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like this," Molly said at length.

Hobbs raised an eyebrow. "Well, I suppose the subject never really came up back on the Congo. However, one cannot believe in God and not accept that there are also devils. The Bible speaks plainly of these evil entities, so as a man of faith, why should I doubt?"

There was a long silence in which Molly sensed that her father wanted to say more, but she didn’t know how to prompt him. Finally, he spoke without her coaxing. "However, I also have some personal experience with the matter. I didn’t actually learn about the Trevayne Society through the Church. After the war, when Hurricane and the Cap and I were… doing things, we ran afoul of some… well, I guess there’s no other word for it; we fought some demons along with their human servants. As luck would have it, there were some of the Trevaynes hunting them as well and we struck a partnership of convenience. Naturally, I was curious about whom these fellows were and, as I was able, I pieced together the story of the Society and its dealings with otherworldly matters."

Molly looked through the windscreen out into the approaching band of blue. "Otherworldly," she murmured. "Are we really going to be fighting demons?"

"Hmmm. Perhaps. In my experience though, the men who desire to control supernatural power are much more to be feared."

Newcombe led Dodge through the laboratory to a section that appeared to have been left alone when the conversion from hangar to research facility took place. The floor was bare concrete and the sheet metal outer skin was visible through the skeleton of wood beams; no finishing carpentry had been done. The area appeared to be a general storage area and the stacked crates, pallets and other detritus formed a labyrinth through which the two men wandered until at last Newcombe pointed to what looked like an old truck with the wheels removed.

"Well, what do you think?"

Dodge looked again, but wasn’t sure what he was supposed to see. The scientist grinned conspiratorially, then climbed onto the strange chassis and stepped out of the exoskeleton he had been wearing. With the framework of rods removed, it resembled nothing so much as a tailor’s dummy or perhaps a childish imagining of a mechanical robot. Newcombe collapsed the device by folding its articulated joints, then placed the compact bundle into a chest mounted in the center of the strange vehicle. The last thing he did was to buckle the clasp of the exoskeleton, reactivating it. Dodge immediately felt the pressure of the force field spread out around the chassis and when Newcombe worked a lever beside the chest, the whole assemblage rose off the ground.

"Pretty keen, huh?" Newcombe was beaming. "This was actually one of the first applications we tried. It was a trick to come up with a lightweight metal frame to conduct the energy field, but since there are virtually no moving parts aside from the controls and since the force field actually helps sustain its structural integrity, we could get away with using hollow aluminum. These levers attach to the control mechanisms of the device so that the craft can move in any direction."

"This is ingenious." Dodge’s praise was not exaggerated. He pushed slowly through the invisible barrier and, once inside, climbed up into the vehicle. "What do you call it?"

"We called it the ‘Float Car’ when we were working on it. To tell you the truth, I had almost forgotten about it."

"It looks like you could transport about ten people. Why did you mothball it?"

Newcombe spread his hands. "The goal wasn’t to figure ways to adapt the one exoskeleton, but to figure out how to duplicate it. If we can ever get that right, well then, the age of winged aircraft will be at an end."

"Well, the Float Car is perfect for getting us to the Outpost."

Only now did Newcombe frown. "If you take the exoskeleton, my work here grinds to a halt."

Dodge looked up at the scientist. "Oh no, Doc. You’re coming with me."

Newcombe’s expression underwent a rapid transformation, spinning through a range of expressions from excitement to disbelief to denial and round again.

"You are coming," Dodge repeated. "You understand this technology better than anyone and I’m going to need every edge. Besides, this is your big chance to study it in its natural setting. You might be able to figure out how to turn the whole place back on."

The tall researcher brightened at this thought, but then his face fell. "I don’t think General Vaughn would authorize this."

Dodge grinned ruefully; he had no intention of asking General Vaughn for permission. Not only would the General, nominally in charge of the research project, certainly refuse such a request, but in all likelihood, upon learning of the break-in and theft of the Staff, he would place Dodge in custody "for his own protection" and demand that the military be given full access and immediate access to the Outpost. "Let me handle that," he said. "I’m sure it won’t be a problem."

Newcombe seemed to accept this. "Well, then when do we leave?"

"We’ll need to get outfitted first: warm clothes, food and water… I’ll take care of all that. In the meantime, you just keep working here as if nothing has changed. This has to be done with the utmost secrecy. Think you can handle that?"

Newcombe grinned like an eager child, but then affected a serious expression. "Cloak and dagger stuff, gotcha."

"Right. I’ll be back tonight to fetch you, say around seven o’clock. We’ll leave right from here, so be ready."

Dodge did not linger for a protracted good-bye. There was too much to accomplish and very little time in which to make it all happen. For his part, the scientist immediately returned to the main laboratory and sat down at a desk to start making plans. He had just begun enumerating the items he believed he would need in order to make a thorough onsite survey of the Outpost when someone entered the laboratory behind him. Newcombe hastily covered his notes with other pieces of paper and looked up guiltily. "Who are you?"

The newcomer, a petite but very attractive woman with blonde hair, flashed him a dazzling smile. "My goodness, it’s Dr. Newcombe, isn’t it? Charmed to make your acquaintance."

"You’re not supposed to be in here."

"Oh, but of course I know. Just as I know what you and Mr. Dalton are scheming." She raised a finger to her lips. "Mum’s the word. Worry not, Doctor…my goodness, that sounds so formal. Have you a proper name?"

Newcombe gaped at the woman, unaware that he was already falling under the spell of her delightful accent. "Fi-Findlay."

"Well, Findlay, I am Miss Amelia Dunham, but I insist that you call me ‘Amelia, darling’…" She tittered as if it were a great joke, but then continued in a more subdued voice. "Here’s the rub, Findlay. I am a journalist with the London Daily Telegraph on assignment to learn all about the Outpost — oh, yes, it’s not the grand secret you imagine it to be and after I wire my story to the home office, the whole world will know, too. Unless of course…"

"Y-yes? I mean, unless what?"

"Well, I would dearly love to see this Outpost with my own eyes. What do you say, Findlay, dear? Think there’s room for one more aboard your marvelous Float Car?"

Newcombe gesticulated and fumbled inarticulately. "Dodge… How will I explain it to Dodge? Mr. Dalton, that is."

The woman calling herself Amelia took a step forward, extending a delicate manicured hand to take his. "Come now, Findlay, dear. You are a genius, after all. Let’s think of something together, shall we?"