In the Shadow of Falcon's Wings

CHAPTER 4 OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

The wind-up alarm clock wired to the explosive bundles spread across the barge, ticked inexorably toward a very final deadline. Whether for simplicity’s sake or simple perverse humor, the bomb maker had set the alarm to ring at twelve o’clock — Dodge immediately thought midnight, though it could have been noon — and both hands were nearly on that mark.

Dodge knew that disarming the bomb might be as simple as yanking the wires from the clock to prevent the circuit from closing, or merely resetting the alarm hand in order to postpone the terminal event, but he also knew that attempting to do so could easily cause to happen the very thing he sought to prevent. He might accidentally cross the wires in the act of removing them, or turn the alarm key the wrong direction and prematurely ring the bell. Better to let the device do what it was intended to do, and view the results from a nice, safe distance.

Escaping the blast zone was likewise easier said than done. Dodge was a strong swimmer, but drowning in the river was not the greatest threat along that path. Water was the perfect medium for transmitting the energy of an explosion, a fact well demonstrated during the Great War when Her Majesty’s destroyers had effectively neutralized the Kaiser’s U-boat menace with depth charges. A blast that, on terra firma might merely stun a bystander, would pound a swimmer’s internal organs to jelly.

There was but one avenue of escape yet Dodge was loathe to employ the flying pack. He was soaked through from his plunge into the Potomac and there was no telling what sort of reaction would occur if he activated the exoskeleton’s electric field. Nevertheless, the uncertain possibilities inherent in using the enemy’s device to save himself was preferable to any alternative, and as the clock ticked into its final seconds, he moved to clasp the belt.

His next memory was one of fire — fire burning all around, and scorching needles of pain erupting, like tiny conflagrations, throughout his body. Underlying the agony however, there was a sense of exhilaration as his cognitive abilities caught up with the tempest. The overall effect was such that, had he been able to breathe a word through his clenched jaws, he might have uttered an expletive to make a longshoreman blush.

In the instant that the exoskeleton belt clasp clicked shut, the electrical field from the device did indeed conduct through his body as he had feared it might. The shock was relatively small; as voltages are measured, it was nowhere near a lethal current. That was little comfort to Dodge though; the spasms that seized every muscle and nerve in his body were worse even than his splashdown a few minutes earlier. Seized by the involuntary muscle contractions of an electrocution, there was little he could do to avoid what happened next.

The clock made its final tick and the catch holding back the spring-loaded clapper was released. As soon as it made contact with the bell, a circuit formed by an attached dry cell battery and the dynamite distributed throughout the barge was closed. In an immeasurable fraction of a second, an electrical charge detonated the blasting caps, which in turn caused the stabilized nitroglycerin in the dynamite sticks to explode.

The four simultaneous blasts pulverized the flat cargo boat, leaving only unrecognizable fragments scattered across the water, and sent a shockwave rolling across the surface of the river that shattered windows miles away. Standing at the heart of the blast, Dodge ought to have been crushed by the converging walls of force, or shredded by the shards of wood and metal turned into ballistic projectiles by the explosion, or incinerated in the ensuing conflagration, but none of these calamitous eventualities claimed him.

The shock wave created by the detonation was really nothing more than a wall of air pushed out at such an incredible rate of speed that it achieves the hardness of steel. When those particles of super-accelerated atmosphere converged on Dodge’s force field, it had the effect of pushing him out of the way, and there was only one direction he could go. The colliding waves squirted him skyward like a bean escaping its husk.

The force of the explosion propelled him high above the broken barge, but once he reached the zenith of his arc, gravity immediately snatched at him. Although blue sparks continued to dance painfully between his still damp form and the invisible cocoon that enveloped him, he retained the wherewithal to perform the sequence of leg movements that activated the exoskeleton’s flight mode. With his fall arrested, he pulled up into a hover and took stock of his situation.

The amphibious plane was a dark spot on an otherwise blue sky, too far distant for him to even consider pursuit. The President was beyond his reach; the bad guys had won. “This never happens to Captain Falcon,” he said with a defeated sigh.

His only consolation was that two of the villains wouldn’t be returning to their hidden base of operation. Moreover, he had captured one of their flying rigs. Perhaps an analysis of the device would put the authorities on the scent of the perpetrators. The electric shocks gradually abated as he made his way back up the watercourse, allowing him to think more clearly. Only now did the enormity of what he had done finally settle into his gut. As the adrenaline drained from his veins, he felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

I almost died. Is this what it feels like to be a hero? To be Captain Falcon?

He pondered this for a few minutes, floating between hysteria and elation. Indeed, he had almost died, but in extremis had found the means to save himself. It was a singular experience, something that could not be taught in a school or captured in the pages of a book. His misadventure was like the fire of a forge, refining and tempering his steel, making him stronger.

Is this how it feels to be a hero like Captain Falcon? he thought. If so, then I kind of like it.

With such weighty musings to accompany him, the return voyage flashed by beneath his feet. Soon, the monuments of America’s seat of power hove into view and he corralled his stray thoughts in order to concentrate on the matter at hand. It occurred to him that he had not yet successfully landed the exoskeleton, and he was pondering the best strategy for doing so when the Hawk made its first run.

He had only a few seconds warning; scant moments in which his already overtaxed brain tried to make sense of the high pitched whine that seemed to be coming from above. After realizing that it was an airplane engine, he craned his head around to locate the source, and found himself staring at the nose of the fighter.

He reacted instinctively, curling his body into a dive at the same instant the pilot of the P-36 pulled up. The monoplane was unquestionably a military aircraft, and Dodge correctly reasoned that, in the panic following the abduction of the President, he had accidentally been identified as one of the enemy. With no way to communicate his intentions to the aircraft, he continued toward his rendezvous at the White House, where he knew that Hurley at least would be able to vouch for him.

With a wary eye on the warplane, Dodge speared onward. He could tell the fighter was going to dive bomb him again, for what purpose he couldn’t imagine, and knew his only salvation lay in reaching his goal. The White House — symbol of a nation unknowingly bereft of its leader — loomed directly ahead. He divided his attention between the green expanse below and the roaring phantom above. It was going to be close.

The Hawk bore down on Dodge and there was only one place for him to go: down. He was no more than a hundred feet above the Rose Garden when the swooping cross shape abruptly veered back into the sky. Breathless with relief, Dodge turned his gaze toward the figures assembled on the lawn below.

Suddenly a frothing white geyser filled his gaze and he understood the game the fighter plane had been playing. The pilot had skillfully maneuvered him into a trap. Dodge had survived his enemies, only to be checkmated by his allies. There was no time to react, not even a second in which to unclasp the belt and risk another fall. He could only watch the gush of water from the fire hose as it cut across his path.

Abruptly the torrent receded before him; the vertical sea parted miraculously to let him pass. Stunned at the last instant reprieve, Dodge glanced down at the four men in overcoats and galoshes who still held their high-pressure weapon aimed skyward, but were like him gazing in consternation as the flow from its nozzle slowed to a trickle. Their stares followed down the length of sheathed rubber and found the cause of the interruption. Dodge shared their sense of utter disbelief, not so much at who had saved him, as at how that feat had been accomplished.

Hurricane had recognized that Dodge was operating the flying device, but his shouted exhortations had gone unheard. A man of action, he knew that every second lost trying to explain himself was a second his friend spent imperiled, so he eschewed discussion in favor of a more direct approach. Single-handedly snatching hold of the hose, he did what would have been impossible for almost any other man on the planet: he put a kink in the hose.

The hydrodynamic pressure of the fire hose was such that it required no less than three men to hold and operate; a single man trying to control the nozzle would find himself whipped about like the prey in the mouth of an angered python. The volume of water in the hose was not only incredibly heavy, but under such pressure that the hose seemed as inflexible as a piece of structural steel. Nevertheless, Hurricane Hurley had lifted it in his massive hands and bent it double, stemming the deluge that poured skyward in the nick of time.

The strain was evident on his face. His jaws bulged as he gritted his teeth with exertion. The arms of his specially tailored formal dinner jacket had burst at the seams as his biceps expanded beyond the wildest dreams of any garment designer. For a moment, everyone stared in disbelief, both at Hurley’s amazing strength and at the madness that had prompted him to thwart a plan of his own devising in order to spare the enemy.

Dodge too was gripped with such incredulity that he had no conscious memory of easing to the ground, landing as gently as if he was simply stepping down from a train. He was immediately surrounded by Secret Service agents brandishing Thompson sub-machine guns, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, though he maintained the force field just in case one of the G-men developed a case of itchy trigger finger.

The standoff endured until someone turned off the hose, permitting Hurricane to push through the throng and come to Dodge’s defense. The agents fell back, but did not lower their weapons until another personage — this one wearing the full dress uniform of a United States Army General — advanced through their ranks. The latter addressed Dodge: “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Dalton back from the dead. I imagine you’ve quite a story to tell.”

Dodge lowered his hands and deactivated the device. “You have no idea.”

They took him into the White House, and while his treatment was deferential, Dodge had a sneaking suspicion that he was being regarded as a prisoner, not a guest. Given the circumstances, he accepted the handling without protest. Hurricane remained at his side, but no requests for information were forthcoming until he was secured in a windowless conference room. He surrendered the flying rig to a group of Secret Service men, and then collapsed wearily into a chair and began recounting his tale.

Except for an occasional request for clarification, he was not interrupted until his narrative touched on the matter of the amphibious aircraft. “That doesn’t sound like any plane I’ve ever heard of,” interjected General Vaughn.

Dodge spread his hands. “It’s what I saw. I can sketch it for you.”

A pencil and notepad was provided, upon which Dodge drew his best approximation of the flying boat that had whisked the President away. Vaughn gazed at the finely drawn image then turned to the knot of official looking men in suits. “Do you fellows know what this is?” His inquiry was received with a unanimous negative response. “This gentleman is the X-314. It’s been in development at Boeing for several years now; this is the prototype. It’s a long-range amphibious plane designed for intercontinental commercial air travel.”

“Intercontinental?”

Vaughn frowned. “Intercontinental as ‘in between continents;’ non-stop across the ocean. It has a range of 3,500 miles, nearly twice as far as the Sikorsky Clippers. The X-314 has this unique triple-tail design and these half-wings, called sponsons, which replace the typical catamaran-type pontoon floats that most other planes have on the wings. In addition to providing lifting surface and stability on the water, the sponsons hold reserve fuel tanks, increasing her range that much more.”

Dodge immediately caught on to his line of reasoning. “You’re saying they could take the President almost anywhere.”

The general frowned as if reluctant to share this information with a mere civilian, but nodded. “Our pursuit planes will have to turn back long before this fellow has burned up even a quarter of his fuel.”

“How did these rogues get their hands on this prototype?” asked one of the men. “And how do they know how to fly it?”

“Respectfully, Mr. Secretary, they seem to be able to accomplish anything they set their minds to.” The officer drummed his fingers on the table. “Mr. Dalton, is there anything else you can add that might help us unmask these conspirators?”

Dodge furrowed his brow. “The man I fought with said something — an oath I imagine — in a foreign language. It sounded like German —”

“Aha!” exclaimed the man Vaughn had spoken to. “What did I tell you?”

“— only I don’t think it was German,” Dodge finished. “It didn’t quite sound right. The only other thing I saw was the hooded man waiting on the barge.”

This statement had the effect of silencing the murmur that had arisen from the previous revelation, though for reasons Dodge could not fathom. Hurley was the first to speak, but said only: “The leader.”

Something about his big friend’s tone told Dodge that the assembled group was holding back a vital piece of information, but he continued his story, describing how the disc-shaped airship had shrunk to the size of pocket coin. “It was more like… magic, than any kind of scientific technology I’ve ever seen.”

This provoked another round of subdued discussion and hand-wringing, which was eventually curtailed by the general. “We’ve got one of the top scientists in the nation looking at that contraption you brought us. We’ll know soon enough what kind of technology our enemy has at his disposal. With any luck, we’ll learn where they’re taking the President and at the same time discover their Achilles Heel.”

He said it with such conviction that Dodge felt content to leave the whole mess in more capable hands. In the quiet that followed, he sensed the tacit agreement of the rest of the audience, but then a familiar voice broke the mood. “What about Captain Falcon?”

Every eye in the room focused on Hurricane’s earnest countenance.

“Falcon?” Dodge inquired. “What’s Falcon got to do with any of this?”

Vaughn waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t concern you, Mr. Dalton. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse us now —”

“He should see it,” intoned Hurley, his voice almost a threatening growl. “He’s earned the right. God only knows he’s done more than any of us.”

The general was unmoved. “I won’t have this incident showing up in the funny papers.”

“It won’t,” Hurley promised.

“I’ve allowed you to stay because of your honored service to this country, but that is merely a courtesy. You’re a civilian now, Hurricane. So is he. Worse, he’s a journalist.”

Dodge was tired of the general’s game. With more confidence than he felt, he snarled: “What the devil is this all about?”

“The hooded man you saw left a film with his demands,” answered Hurley before the general could protest.

“A film?” Dodge’s mind raced to connect the puzzle pieces, but there remained one that just wouldn’t fit. “You still haven’t told me what any of this has to do with Falcon.”

“Show him the film,” growled Hurley.

To his credit, Vaughn kept a brave face — more than most men could have done transfixed in the menacing stare of Hurricane Hurley. The general knew, perhaps better than any man at the table, just how far the big man would go to get what he wanted. But before the battle of wills could escalate to physical conflict, the Secretary of the Treasury declared a truce. “Show him the film. It’s the least we can do.”

Dodge’s elation at being included in the inner circle quickly faded as he realized that he was being brought deeper into the crisis. He had imagined his role in the drama would be ended once his deposition was complete. Still, he was curious, especially since Captain Falcon seemed inexplicably linked with the President’s abduction.

Before they could adjourn however, a disturbance at the door froze Dodge in place. A slightly built man with frizzy hair was arguing with the Secret Service agents guarding the proceedings, but Dodge did a double-take when he saw that the man was wearing one of the exoskeletons. He started involuntarily, and quickly glanced about for some means to defend himself, but the anticipated pandemonium of a new attack by the raiders never materialized. Instead, General Vaughn approached the man and addressed him in a patient tone.

“What is it, Dr. Newcombe?”

“Ah, General, there you are.” The frizzy-haired man gazed out through the thickest spectacles Dodge had ever seen. He pushed past the guards and strode into the room. “This device is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Did you know that it can fly? You must tell me everything you know about it.”

“I’m afraid that information is top secret.”

The man identified as Dr. Newcombe appeared crestfallen. Dodge however seized on the opportunity. “I brought it here. It was used by a group of criminals to carry out a daring daylight abduction.”

“Mr. Dalton,” admonished Vaughn, sternly. “You are not at liberty to —”

“Stuff it, General. This insistence on keeping secrets is only slowing down our response. I take it this is your science adviser? He should have been here for my debriefing. Now I’m going to have to tell the story all over.”

Vaughn’s expression showed his displeasure at the rebuke, but he conceded with a brisk nod. “I would appreciate your discretion Mr. Dalton, and yours doctor, regarding anything you hear in this room.”

The scientist looked mystified by the atmosphere of concealment and tension in the room, but nodded. Dodge quickly related his story again, omitting any direct reference to the identity of the hostage, and focused primarily on his observations concerning the flying exoskeletons and especially the strange shrinking airship. Dr. Newcombe gasped when he described its transformation from enormous flying machine to something the size of a coin.

“Outrageous. Sir, I tell you that is flatly impossible. A conjuror’s trick.”

Dodge spread his hands patiently. “I only know what I saw.”

Newcombe continued shaking his head. “Impossible, I say. The Laws of Physics cannot be contravened. The shape of a thing may change, but you can’t change its mass. The only way it would work…” His voice trailed off and his gaze followed, but Dodge saw an elated gleam in his eyes as his mental machine began processing a solution. Despite the urgency of the predicament, Dodge felt the corners of his mouth curling into a grin as he watched the erratic fellow’s antics.

Hurricane was less patient. “Care to share, Newton?”

The scientist either did not hear, or chose to ignore the intentional mispronunciation. “I can’t begin to guess how this fellow accomplished it, but it would be possible to alter the shape of metal in such a way, without violating the Law of Conservation of Matter. If the airship you described was in reality made of a very thin layer of the metal, it could then conceivably be compressed down into a very small lump. The mass wouldn’t change, only the shape.”

Hurley was dubious. “That big thing squashed down no bigger ‘n four bits?”

“An ounce of gold can be beaten into a layer of foil 300 square feet. Of course, it’s incredibly thin, but augmented by the force field it could be made strong enough to sustain the weight of passengers.”

“What about the force field?” inquired Vaughn.

“Ah, I’m glad you asked. From my initial experiments, I would say that the device enhances the natural electrical field that is universally present in all things.”

“Come again?”

Newcombe put his hands together, palms opposed. “Do you know why I can’t pass my hands through each other?”

“Because they’re solid.”

“Actually, matter is mostly empty space. You see, everything is made of atoms, which in turn are made of infinitesimally small particles called protons, neutrons and electrons.”

Hurley rolled his eyes as the scientist began his lecture, but Dodge hung on every word. He had a basic grasp of chemistry, but didn’t mind the refresher course.

“Now the electrons orbit the nucleus — the protons and neutrons — the same way that the planets orbit the sun. In between however, there is empty space. Even in the densest metal, the relative distance between nuclei is immense, yet we cannot pass one solid object through another, because the electrons form a sort of shield. Although you can’t see it, the electrons of my hands are pushing each other apart.

“The force field works the same way. As an object enters the field, its electrons are actively repelled by the electrons in this device.”

“So how can it stop a bullet?” asked Vaughn.

“The device seems to be able to add the energy of any approaching object to the equation. The harder or faster something is moving, the greater the resistance.”

“So that’s why I was able to slip through,” Dodge said.

“Exactly. I expect you felt a little resistance, but a slow moving object would have an easier time penetrating the field.”

“Why doesn’t it work with water?”

“I wasn’t aware until you told me that it didn’t. I can only surmise that water, being a very reactive substance, draws too much electricity from the system. I’ll need to experiment with it some more, but I believe the device may draw electricity from the atmosphere using principles explored by a man named Nikola Tesla.”

Dodge recognized the name. “He was an inventor, wasn’t he?”

“Indeed. He’s fallen on hard times lately, but most of the technological advances we’ve made in the last forty years are owed to his discoveries.”

“Could he be working with a foreign power?” Vaughn asked.

Newcombe was incensed. “Good God, the man is almost eighty years old.”

“There’s no retirement age for crime. Mr. Tesla is known to have grudges with several key figures in American industry. What better way to avenge himself?”

“Unthinkable,” maintained the scientist. “Besides, I merely stated that this device used principles that Tesla experimented with. There’s no way that he invented this.”

“How can you be certain?”

Newcombe was nonplussed. “Because, General, this device is generations ahead of even Tesla’s genius.”

“Generations? Well then, who made it?”

“I was hoping you would be able to tell me. You really have no idea?”

“Perhaps we should allow Dr. Newcombe to view this film as well,” Dodge suggested. “I’m sure he understands the importance of keeping the matter secret.”

Vaughn wore a mask of reluctance, but after a deep breath surprised everyone by agreeing to the request. “Perhaps you’ll recognize this villain as a fellow scientist.”

Newcombe was about to protest the characterization, but Dodge forestalled him by taking the fellow’s elbow and steering him toward the door. “Don’t press your luck,” he advised. “I didn’t think he’d actually go for it, so count your blessings.”

The group moved en masse to the theater where the film reel was rewound. Dodge unconsciously held his breath as the hooded figure took the screen and felt a chill as he made his opening pronouncement with the finality of a guillotine. “People of America…”

He listened with rapt attention as the villain made his boasts, but was still unprepared for the ultimatum. He groaned aloud as the lights came up. “This is my fault.”

“Your fault?” queried Vaughn.

Hurricane echoed the sentiment. “How do you figure?”

“Isn’t it obvious? ‘America’s greatest champion, Captain Falcon?’ Where do you suppose he got that idea?”

Vaughn and Hurley exchanged a glance, but Dodge missed the subtle communication.

“And now this madman expects to meet Falcon in combat? He might as well have asked for Santa Claus and an army of pixies to come riding in on unicorns.”

“You’re right of course,” intoned the general. “A madman with a madman’s demand. In his delusions, he believes your Falcon stories to be factual. Obviously, we’ll have to find a better solution.”

“Sir?”

This time Dodge caught the nuances underlying Hurricane’s monosyllabic inquiry. He looked between the two faces, and immediately saw that, once more, he wasn’t being told the whole truth. He focused his scrutiny on Hurley, knowing that his friend was already yearning to make the revelation, but it was Vaughn that spoke.

“Captain Zane Falcon is indeed a great American hero. He didn’t do all the crazy things you attribute to him, but he did some of them.”

Dodge kept looking at Hurley. He had always more or less known that Falcon was based on a real individual, but something about the demeanor of the two men told him that this estimation was woefully inadequate.

Hurley shook his head sadly. “You did such a good job with my stories that I didn’t see any harm in letting you embellish the facts.”

“Then it’s all real? Baron Von Heissel? Jocasta Palmer? The Skull Brigade? Dr. Ragnarok?”

“Yes. Well, not the Skull Brigade; you made that one up.”

Dodge settled back in his chair then stood up just as abruptly. “Where is he?”

“Falcon?”

“Yes. If this fellow wants to fight America’s greatest hero, maybe we should let him. We’ve already discovered that he’s not as invincible as he believes. With a little help” — He nodded to the speechless Newcombe — “Captain Falcon ought to be able to save the day one more time.”

This prompted another round of unspoken communication between the general and Falcon’s former sidekick. “Captain Falcon may not be… ah, enthusiastic about returning to duty.”

“It’s the one story I never wrote,” confessed Hurley. “He got tired of it all. I’ve no idea where he’s gone off to.”

Vaughn shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “No. This battle will not… cannot be fought by one man alone. America is greater than any one man; greater than Falcon, greater even than the President. If he falls, another takes his place. In the meantime, we have all the resources of the government at our disposal to unmask this fiend and bring him to justice.”

Hurricane seemed not to have heard him. “The Padre might know.”

“Father Hobbs?” Somehow Dodge was surprised to learn that this character, with whom he was intimately familiar in his stories, was also real. “Where’s he?”

“Last I heard he was runnin’ a mission in the Congo. If Falcon was going to tell anyone his whereabouts, it’d be the Padre.” Hurley turned to Vaughn. “If you can get us to the Congo, we’ll find Falcon and get him back here.”

“You and him?” Vaughn nodded in Dodge’s direction.

Dodge was about to protest his sudden inclusion in the adventure, but he caught himself when he saw a crafty gleam in the general’s eye. The old warhorse was actually considering Hurricane’s seemingly ludicrous request, and Dodge immediately saw the method behind his mad scheme; if Dodge and Hurley were shuffled off to the dark continent, it would mean the removal of a major thorn in the general’s side.

Vaughn stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve got two Martin B-10 bombers on their way from Wright Field in Dayton. They should be here in about an hour. I was going to send them after that boatplane, but if it’s the plane I think it is, they’ll never be able to run her down. Now, it’s now exactly first-class accommodations, but I’ll wager they can put you on the ground in the Belgian Congo inside of thirty hours.”

Hurley brightened visibly at the idea. For his own part, Dodge wasn’t sure he liked being a pawn in the general’s game, but then he remembered that feeling of exhilaration he had experienced after the escapade on the river.

“Africa,” he murmured. “Well, it might be kind of fun.”

One hundred and thirty miles away, a hooded figure appeared to be studying his reflection in a metal mirror. A closer examination however would have revealed that the image in the mirror was not the likeness of the man holding it, but something altogether more complex.

The apparatus was similar in some respects the electric television invented by Vladimir Zworykin, but like the other devices in the hooded man’s collection, this was, as Dr. Findlay Newcombe might say, generations beyond state of the art. It did not show images on a cathode like the device developed for RCA by the Russian émigré, but rather formed three-dimensional relief images from the metal surface images that moved and, if one listened carefully, spoke. The hooded man was listening very carefully.

He listened very carefully to what the big man, Hurley had to say. He knew this one had been with Falcon in his heyday, one of the champion’s most trusted minions. It was no coincidence that he chosen to capture the American leader on this day, when Hurley was scheduled to appear at the Presidential residence.

The fate of the leader was of no great concern to him. All that mattered was the man called Falcon; the only person that could threaten his ascension to godhood. He expected the Americans to do the very thing he had instructed them not to do: break faith, by attempting to rescue their leader or muster an armed response. That also did not greatly concern him; they would react exactly the way an animal reacts to a threat, instinctively. But Hurley… he would rise to the challenge and find his old comrade, and when he did this new god would be waiting.

“The Padre might know.”

Ah, yes. The Padre. Father Nathan Hobbs, the priest who forsook his vows to fight evil in every form. He had looked for that one as well, but to no avail. These one-time heroes had truly gone to ground following the Great War where their reputations had been forged.

“Last I heard he was runnin’ a mission in the Congo.”

The Congo! The god lowered the device and immediately the flat surface compressed into a small sphere on the end of his scepter. He then moved forward to the cockpit where the pilots were still getting familiar with the control systems of the stolen plane.

“We have a new destination.”

In the theater of the White House, unnoticed by anyone, the silvery halves of the film can began to shrink. In a matter of seconds, they were each no larger than the head of a pin, almost invisible to the naked eye.

It would be several hours before anyone would think to look for the container that had brought the startling demands of the President’s abductor. A Secret Service agent, intent on checking for fingerprints asked the projectionist to turn over the film can and only then was its absence noted. No one was too concerned. It was unlikely that the villains would have left incriminating evidence anyway. They had the film itself, and that was a much better lead.

Besides, what harm could come of a missing film can?