At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 6 — THE FALLEN ANGEL

There was a single golden instant where he might have been able to break through their ranks. The athlete in him assessed the advancing line of dull-eyed but quick footed attackers and instantly spied the weak spot; it might hurt, but with sufficient resolve and momentum, he would have made it through. But Fuller’s indecisiveness was contagious and in the brief moment it would have taken him to explain, the opportunity was lost.

Dodge took a backward step, his back to Fuller’s. "So what was your brilliant escape plan?"

"Sorry," was the only answer. Fuller’s light flashed back and forth, illuminating faces that were all the more menacing for their blank expressions. Each pair of eyes winced a little as the bright beam momentarily blinded them, but the charging horde did not relent.

"That’s it! The light — shine it in their eyes!" Dodge did not wait to see if Fuller would comprehend his strategy, instead taking the initiative to grip the agent’s hand and sweep the light around the hall. Although it did nothing to slow the attack, Dodge’s guttering flame of hope began to burn with new intensity. "This just might work. Switch it off and drop."

Fuller at last understood and the room was plunged into absolute darkness. Dodge couldn’t see a thing, but he was on equal footing with his attackers, whose night vision had temporarily been blinded by the brief exposure to the high-intensity flashlight. "Get to the exit," Fuller shouted. "I’ll meet you at the car."

Dodge didn’t waste breath on a reply, but threw himself to the floor and began scrambling toward the perimeter of the exhibition. He crashed into the disoriented mob, knocking legs out from underneath bodies before any of the blinded assailants could think to take action against him. His wounded leg throbbed painfully, but the adrenaline surge evoked by the desperate flight was a powerful analgesic.

He abruptly bumped into something less yielding than the flesh and bones of the former passengers of Flight 19; it was a museum fixture, probably a display case. He had only a vague idea of the room’s layout, but followed the simple logic of the labyrinth: keep moving forward with one hand always touching a wall. He took the risk of rising from his crawl, presenting a bigger target for any of the attackers lucky enough to encounter him, but reckoned it was a worthwhile risk. He could cover a lot more ground on his feet.

He increased his pace as his vision improved knowing too well that his foes would also be able to see better, but avoided any further contact. The sounds surrounding him were indecipherable; he heard no outcry or noise of a struggle, which he took to be a good sign. Fuller was evidently having similar luck avoiding any encounters with the mob. Dodge soon found a main wall and from there made his way out of the Hall of Ocean Life.

"Mr. Dalton!" A light flashed twice off to his left. "This way."

Dodge grimaced. Fuller should have known better; his signal was going to erase whatever advantage they had gained, but without a better option, he simply adjusted course and ran pell-mell toward the now extinguished beacon. Miraculously, his luck held and a few seconds later, Fuller flagged him again, this time from further down the corridor. "I’m here!" Dodge shouted, returning the second call. "Keep going!"

The next few minutes was a period of interminable darkness periodically broken by the sporadic flashes of Fuller’s light. Dodge did not wonder at how the G-man had so quickly gained the exit, he was merely grateful for the fact. At length, he saw Fuller’s light illuminating the revolving door at the main entrance directly ahead and put on a burst of speed. The lawman saw him in the same moment.

"Hurry, Dalton. They’re on your heels." To punctuate the urgency of his warning, he raised his revolver and fired a shot into the darkness behind Dodge. The noise echoed thunderously in the cavernous environment of the museum. Dodge’s pace slowed only enough to negotiate the door, then he was running again, this time through the windswept night with Fuller right behind.

"Get to my car!"

Dodge risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a stream of bodies exiting the castle-like structure, perhaps twenty steps behind Fuller and put on a fresh burst of speed which did not end until he nearly bounced off of the parked sedan. Diving into the driver’s seat he hastily worked the starter and revved the throttle until the engine was roaring throatily. Fuller dove into the back seat behind him. "Go!"

Dodge threw the car into gear and stomped the accelerator pedal to the floor. The tires squealed on the slick pavement, but the Studebaker lurched forward plowing headlong into the unrelenting crowd of pursuers. Hands and faces slapped against the windshield, accompanied by the thump of bodies rolling from the fenders and then they were free, racing north on Central Park West.

Dodge began to shiver uncontrollably as the urgency of their flight diminished, a condition that did not escape Fuller’s notice as he climbed over the seatback and settled in beside him. "You’d better pull over. Your leg is bleeding pretty badly."

The G-man got no argument from Dodge, only a weak nod as the sedan coasted to a stop and the latter wearily shifted into the passenger seat as Fuller circled around to enter through the door. When they were underway again, Fuller spoke.

"Mr. Dalton, I don’t know where to begin asking questions about all that’s happened tonight, but something tells me this is only the beginning."

"You have no idea." The enormity of the agent’s statement was only beginning to settle in. The relic stolen, his friends’ fate unknown….

"You’re right and that’s a problem. I’ve helped you — probably saved your life — and yet you’ve barely told me anything. I’m here to help, Mr. Dalton, but I can’t do that if you don’t trust me."

Dodge felt weary, defeated. "I don’t know if there’s anything you can do. They’ve won; whoever they are, they beat us."

"You don’t strike me as the sort who gives up easily. What about this Outpost? If that’s what they’re really after, maybe we could head them off — set an ambush and hit them when they show up."

"Maybe." He rubbed his temples, willing away the headache that was beginning to blossom behind his eyeballs. "Whoever did this…? I don’t see how they could know where the Outpost is. Only the four of us know the actual location."

"Maybe that was the reason for the trap at the museum. We have to assume that our enemies have captured your friends and will compel them to talk."

"They would never tell." Dodge’s tone was unequivocal, but he knew in his heart that his certitude counted for little. Their foe had somehow gained control of an entire planeload of people; it wasn’t a stretch to believe that even the stalwart Hurley and Father Hobbs might be swayed, especially by a threat to Molly. However, what he did not tell Fuller was that knowing the exact location of the Outpost was superfluous. The technology they had recovered from the Antarctic base employed a sort of autopilot that drew anyone using it in like a homing pigeon to its roost. If the enemy learned this and grasped how to use the Staff, then all was lost. He sat up straighter. "But you’re right. We have to act. I need to get to Washington."

Fuller drew a sharp breath. "Are you sure that’s wise? We don’t know who to trust."

"I know who to trust. Believe me, we won’t be going anywhere if we don’t stop in Washington first."

Fuller nodded reluctantly. "You’re the boss."

The Fallen Angel hovered in darkness, listening…waiting.

"She has the Staff!"

Ah, yes. The bauble at the center of this charade. It still rested in the deep pocket on her thigh. She resisted the impulse to slide a hand down to explore the odd metallic artifact. Hurricane's hearing was just sharp enough that he might hear the rustle of fabric.

Her efforts to free herself had begun even before Hobbs had finished tying the knots in the rope that bound her to the chair. Feigning sleep, she had managed to expand the muscles of her arms as the bonds were pulled tight. She had in fact been awake much longer than they realized, almost from the time Hobbs arrived at the museum, biding her time for an opportunity to escape. Yet, it had not been until Hobbs cut the puppet strings holding her in thrall that she had begun rebuilding her memories — memories that were far more extensive than she had led her captors to believe. And as her grasp of what had been lost improved, she realized that escaping her captors might not be the most prudent course of action. When her interrogator left the room, affording her the long-awaited chance to flee, she had elected to hide. The opened window had been merely a bit of theatre to fool the others.

A long silence followed Hobbs’ declaration; a moment, Jocasta imagined, of stunned incomprehension. She waited, arms and legs braced against the inside of the bed frame, so that a casual inspection under the bed would not reveal her presence. From the moment Hobbs left the room, she had been free — free to escape through the window thrown open to the tempestuous night — but flight had never been her primary intention.

Her recollections from the missing time period were fractured. Like something from a dream, the memories and impressions of those events were slippery and her conscious mind wrestled to bring the pieces into place. The first step in unraveling the mystery was to gather as much information as she could and that meant lingering in the lion’s den a little longer.

"So what do we do now?" This was from the red-head—Molly, Jocasta thought. Some relation of the good Padre. Interesting; they never would have let a girl tag along in the old days.

"We have to go after her," asserted Hurley. "Put out a police dragnet and shut the city down."

Another silence, broken at last by Hobbs, now more subdued after his outburst. "You know she’s too smart for that."

Why thank you, Nathan.

"No," he continued. "We may have to accept that the Staff is lost for now. We need to focus our efforts on exposing the villain behind all of this."

"Schadel. The Child of Skulls."

"In my worst nightmares, Hurricane. We won’t be able to follow Jocasta, but if we can figure out where this Schadel is, maybe we can kill two birds with one stone."

Kill? Tsk. You have changed, dear Padre.

"What about Dodge?" asked Molly. "They’ll be after him."

Jocasta cocked her head. Dodge?

"He can take care of himself." Hurricane’s tone lacked conviction.

"You think he’s already dead."

"Molly." Hobbs’ voice was likewise brimming with defeatism. "We’ve no way to contact him and time is of the essence."

Jocasta pondered the significance of the exchange. Evidently, a new player had joined Falcon’s little team. And yet, where was their fearless leader? As she brushed the dust from the memory, she discovered a strange void in her heart. Dear me, am I still burning a candle for Zane Falcon?

The canopy of the stretched fabric mattress above her sagged as someone sat down on the bed, startling her from her reverie and nearly dislodging her from her hiding place. "He would never give up on you," pouted the girl, the nearness of her voice indicating that it was she who had collapsed down on the bed.

When Hurley spoke again, it was as if the issue of Dodge’s fate was settled. "What’s your plan, Padre?"

"The most extensive records concerning that Child of Skulls prophecy rest with the Trevayne Society in London."

"London!" gasped Molly. "The Staff is here. Dodge is here."

"Molly." Hobbs spoke the girl’s name with the finality of a death sentence. "We can be there in two days’ time with the plane. The hangar is one of the first places Dodge will think to look for us. If he’s not there by the time we depart, we can leave a message."

"We can’t leave until the storm passes," Hurricane offered. "And if our enemies know about the plane, they might be lying in wait for us."

"We can’t stay here. Jocasta could lead them back to us. We have to gamble on our foes not expecting us to leave the country."

Another silence followed, but this time the pause was brief and relatively free of tension. "Well that’s that," declared Hurley. "Let’s go."

Jocasta tensed, waiting for something unexpected to derail this bit of luck, but the only thing she heard was the creak of fabric on the frame as the seated girl got to her feet. There was a further murmur of voices exchanging little details, but a few moments later, the light was doused and the door pulled firmly shut, sealing Jocasta in the darkness. She waited a few moments longer, fearing a ruse, then dropped lightly to the floor and rolled from her place of concealment. Her eyes were already adjusted to the lightless environment and she had no difficulty navigating to the narrow window that she had earlier used to stage her mock escape. She paused and took out the object at the center of the conspiracy.

She had stolen many rare treasures in her career—career, she laughed. More of a hobby, really—objects of intrinsic value, beautiful works of art, precious metals and jewels. That this odd length of metal should be so valuable defied comprehension. She searched her memory, trying to remember if some clue had slipped out during the conversation. Something about an outpost…that bears looking into.

She shook her head. Schadel would have the answers she sought and this time she would be prepared for his treachery. And when she had determined the real worth of the strange dingus, she would make Schadel pay. The thought brought an odd smile to her lips.

There were no taxis running on the storm swept streets, forcing her to make a long trek on foot toward the Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where she had booked a suite earlier that same day. Upon arriving however, she did not proceed into the lobby, but rather skirted the structure and made her way surreptitiously through the rear door into the kitchen and from there continued up the fire stairs to the roof. Immediately upon reaching this destination, she procured a thin rope from her gear pack, tied it off to a vent pipe and free rappelled over the edge of the building. Only then did haste give way to cautious observation.

She lowered herself to a position just to the left of an illuminated top floor window — the window to her own suite. The simple fact of a light burning in a room that by all rights ought to have been empty, justified her unusual methods, but she continued to watch. Edging closer, she peeked into the room.

Two men lounged within, their attention evidently fixed on the cigarettes they smoked and the music issuing from the large console radio. From her vantage, Jocasta’s face creased in a grim smile and then she drew back, swinging over to the darkened window of a neighboring room. Detecting no activity, she used her skills and tools to force the portal open and climbed inside.

Her goal was not shelter from the storm, but rather a single object that was not quite portable enough for her needs: the telephone. She expertly cut and stripped the phone wires, then spliced in a long section of wire from her pack. Satisfied with her handiwork, she returned to the window, hooked onto her fixed rope and swung over the window of her own room where she at last lifted the telephone receiver. The switchboard operator answered immediately in a cheer, Bronx twang. "What number please?"

Jocasta told her and after a second, a metered clicking noise sounded in her ear, simultaneous with the muted jangle of the telephone inside the suite. The two men seated within exchanged a nervous glance, then one of them picked up.

"Hello?"

"I wish to speak with Mr. Schadel."

There was a long silence at the other end of the phone line. The man that had answered had covered the receiver with one hand and was talking animatedly with his companion. Finally, he spoke again and this time his German accent was unmistakable. "There is a mistake. You must have rung the wrong room."

"I think not. Tell Mr. Schadel that the Fallen Angel wishes to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement."

"I do not—"

Jocasta hung up and continued to watch the men. Any lingering doubts as to their role in the conspiracy were swept away as the pair launched into a panicked tirade of shouting. After a few moments, they quitted the room and hastily exited the hotel, unaware that Jocasta Palmer was now closely following their every move.

There is a second city, a secret city, beneath the streets of New York. Endless miles of subway tunnels and sewer lines stretch the length and breadth of the five boroughs forming a veritable labyrinth where daylight does not penetrate. It has been said that even the city engineers tasked with maintaining the network know barely a fraction of the subterranean world in their care.

On the midnight following landfall of the storm that newspapers would call the Long Island Express, this New York underworld resembled nothing less than the canals of Venice. The overwhelmed streets poured their watery burden into the stairs descending into the various stations, creating manmade waterfalls that flooded the subway lines, rendering the trains temporarily inoperable.

It was into this watery crypt that Jocasta’s minders ventured bearing their grim tidings. There were no witnesses to their descent, save their unseen shadow, but even if the streets had been bustling with pedestrians, no one would have thought anything but that they were merely going to catch a train. Braving the torrent that swirled around their ankles, they plunged into the lightless depths of the Fifth Avenue station. Once removed from the fury of the constant rain, the men struck the flint wheels of their cigarette lighters, casting a dim glow into the otherwise total darkness. The flickering flames sufficed to guide them; they knew the course to their destination from earlier visits.

The two men reached the first platform and slogged through knee-deep water, past the derelict token kiosk, to a rather plain looking metal door bearing a placard reading "DANGER — DO NOT ENTER." One of the men produced a key and unlocked the door, forcing it open against the weight of water pressing it against the frame. The torrent immediately spilled inside, flooding the passageway, which had heretofore seen only moderate seepage over the threshold.

The door existed for the sole purpose of sealing off a condemned subway station leading to a similarly abandoned rail spur. So far as the city planners were concerned, the station no longer existed, but one official had accepted a rather hefty bribe from a mysterious European fellow in exchange for the key more than six months previously. The bureaucrat did not ask for an explanation; New York’s underworld had often been a much-desired playground for wealthy dilettantes. During the years of Prohibition, more than a dozen decommissioned stations had become "lodges" — a clever euphemism for drinking hall — for various secret fraternal societies. This particular station however served a much darker purpose; for half a year now, it had been the headquarters of a German espionage cell.

Another stairwell, this one already on the verge of collapse prior to the arrival of the hurricane, descended further still into the bowels of the city. The two men carried on a bitter dialogue in their native Teutonic tongue, the gist of which was to curse their anonymous leader, the man known only as Schadel — the Skull — for demanding this midnight rendezvous in the flooded subterranean hideout.

Neither of them knew his true identity, nor had they even, to the best of their knowledge, seen his face. Speculation ran rampant among the intelligence service of the Third Reich that Schadel was a senior party official — perhaps Goebbels or Himmler — whose unorthodox missions required absolute secrecy and deniability. Whoever he was, Schadel always wore a grinning skull mask when operating in the presence of his subordinates. The diatribes ceased as they gained the platform. Given the grim nature of their report, neither man wished to make things worse by grumbling in the presence of the Skull.

Three more men — the rest of Schadel’s agents — waited, sodden and miserable, on the platform, but there was no sign of the masked spymaster. It was plainly evident from their expressions that they too had only bad news to report. It was going to be a long night.

"Report!"

The voice thundered from the stairwell, startling all of them. The two spies assigned to Jocasta went pale; Schadel must have been on their heels during their descent, yet they had not heard so much as a splash in the darkness. They turned, dumbstruck, to behold the skeletal visage of their leader standing on the last tread of the stairwell. The five spies exchanged dire glances and then the junior agent in the group cleared his throat.

"Herr Schadel, the operation at the museum did not go as planned. Three of the subjects overpowered the slaves and escaped in the truck that was to have brought them here. I was unable to follow."

The eyes behind the mask were hidden in shadow, but the young German felt Schadel’s stare burning through him and cast his gaze to the submerged floor. When he spoke however, there was no trace of ire in the Skull’s tone. "Your assignment was merely to observe. If the slaves failed in some way, then the fault lies with me. Perhaps the mental conditioning hampered their ability to follow instructions. No matter, those three are of little consequence. As long as they are removed from the playing field, our mission is not jeopardized."

He turned to the next man. "What of the fourth man? Dalton?"

The spy swallowed hard before answering. "I regret to inform you that the slave you sent to eliminate Dalton likewise failed. Dalton escaped with help from an outside party; I believe the man may have been some kind of police detective."

The Skull seemed nonplussed. "Where is Dalton now?"

"He and the detective went to the Empire State Building and then to the museum, where the slaves again failed to take him. After that, the two men retreated to a hotel where I believe they still are." Then he added, "I had to break surveillance in order to report to you, Herr Schadel."

The skeletal visage tilted in what might have been a nod. "Return to your post as soon as we have finished here. Dalton must by now have assumed that his precious Outpost is in danger. He may attempt to travel there in order to secure it, little realizing that in so doing, he will lead us to its very doorstep."

The two men bearing Jocasta’s message nodded to each other, evincing a degree of relief. Thus far, the dire tidings had failed to provoke Schadel into a rage; perhaps his reaction to the third failure would be similarly even-handed.

"Mein Herr, the woman you sent to retrieve the artifact was successful—"

"Excellent!"

The spy coughed nervously. "However, it appears that she has broken the conditioning."

"What?" Schadel’s voice was suddenly tight, like a piano wire stretched to the breaking point.

"She telephoned with this message. ‘The Fallen Angel wishes to renegotiate.’ We don’t know where she is or how she intends to—"

"You lost her?"

"Mein Herr, we waited in her room as you instructed—"

"Silence!" Later, the spy would swear that the eye sockets of the skull flashed crimson as he spoke. For several long minutes, the only sounds that could be heard were the dripping of water and the labored breathing of the man behind the mask. When he spoke again however, his tone was measured and steady. "This is an unfortunate setback, but the artifact was never the primary goal. We will focus our efforts on Dalton; if he leads us to the Outpost, naught else will matter."

"And what of the police detective that protects him?" asked the spy tasked with following Dodge. "He may interfere."

Schadel chuckled mirthlessly. "Let Dalton believe that he is safe for now. When the time comes, we will deal with that problem. Here is what we will do…"

Jocasta listened carefully from the shadows as Schadel outlined his schemes, but her thoughts were elsewhere. So he thinks he can dismiss me so easily. Well Herr Schadel, you will find that the price for this job just went up again.