On the High Road to Oblivion

Chapter 13—Reunion

Suddenly, a different sound filled the air, the sound of cheering, and it was coming from the huddled crewmen. Dodge followed their hopeful gazes skyward, and saw the reason for their elation.

Majestic was descending.

The autogyro was still aloft, circling the airship like a horsefly, but Dodge saw that there was another aircraft in the sky now, a small bi-plane. The dual-winged aircraft performed an acrobatic loop, and then swooped down toward the ruins. Even before it passed overhead, Dodge saw the smoke and fire of its machine guns, spitting lead at the advancing attackers.

“Finally, something breaks our way,” Hurricane chortled.

Dodge risked a look out at the battlefield. The turbaned men were scattering under the withering aerial assault. He sagged against the wall, breathing a sigh of relief.

The bi-plane made two subsequent passes, but no more shots were fired. The surviving attackers had not simply fallen back; they had fled the Rock completely.

The airship continued to descend, its engine nacelles tilted so that the propellers were pushing against the buoyancy of the helium that held it aloft. Dodge saw that the tail end of the ship was open, split apart like a banana peel. It was low enough that he could see inside.

After completing the final pass, the biplane lined up and flew into Majestic’s cavernous interior. The pilot cut the engine as the wheels touched the landing platform, and the plane came to a dead stop, like a fastball hitting a catcher’s mitt. A few seconds later, a man whom Dodge assumed to be the pilot — he wore a black aviator’s helmet that matched his leather jacket — appeared at the end of the platform. As Majestic came in a little closer, the pilot began shouting orders to the crewmen on the ground.

With practiced efficiency, the uniformed men rallied on the nearest dangling mooring line and began tugging the airship closer. When the open end was only a few feet off the ground, the black-clad pilot jumped down strode over to where Dodge and Hurricane had been preparing to make their last stand.

“I’ll bet you fellows are glad to see me.” Beneath his immaculate coal-black mustache, the man was smiling, but his demeanor and the ragged scar that wasn’t quite concealed by the helmet’s chinstrap made it seem more sinister than welcoming.

Dodge returned the smile and accepted the handclasp, though strangely he wasn’t as enthusiastic about the rescue as, by all rights, he should have been. It wasn’t just the pilot’s confident, almost arrogant manner; Dodge had seen nothing to indicate that Barron wasn’t every bit as dangerous as the men who had just attacked them, and even though they were still alive, they were no more in control of their destiny than they had been a few minutes before. He glanced at Hurricane and could see that his friend shared his apprehension.

“I’m Tyr Sorensen,” the man continued. “There’ll be time for proper introductions later. Right now, I suggest you get yourselves aboard the Majestic.”

“You’re the boss,” Hurricane drawled.

Sorensen nodded, then promptly turned on his heel and headed for the remaining autogyro.

Hurricane nudged Dodge with his elbow. “I can tell you’re just as excited about this as I am, but unless you’ve got a better idea…”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.” Dodge looked back to the ruins. “Anya’s run off again, hasn’t she?”

Hurricane’s eyes grew wide with embarrassment. “I kinda lost track of her in all the confusion.”

“Don’t fret about it. I think she was just looking for another chance to slip the leash, especially with the way she feels about Barron.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve enjoyed her company, but we can’t just leave her here.”

“I think that’s exactly what we have to do.” Dodge nodded toward the opening in the tail of the airship, which now looked more like an aircraft hangar built on the ground than a means of traveling through the sky. “Come on, let’s go meet the mysterious Walter Barron.”

“Into the belly of the beast,” Hurricane remarked.

Dodge hoped he wasn’t being prophetic.

Dodge and Hurley waited on the landing platform as Majestic’s crew hauled the death ray—the resonance wave generator, Dodge reminded himself — on board. A few minutes later, Fiona brought her autogyro back down and expertly flew it inside for a gentle landing. As the passengers extricated themselves from the cramped interior of the little aircraft, Dodge felt Majestic start to move; the dirigible was returning to the sky.

As soon as she spied them, Nora raced over and impulsively hugged Hurricane. Then she threw her arms around Dodge. “I was so worried.”

Dodge was a little surprised at the intensity of her embrace; despite their shared travels, he hadn’t really gotten to know her very well. He was a little surprised to find himself returning the hug. “One more chapter in the exciting adventures of Dodge Dalton,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted.

She drew back just enough to look him in the eye. “So this is just another day at the office for you? Well, this is a lot more exciting than just writing them.” Her dazzling smile slipped a little. “About them. In my journal, I mean. And reading the stories.”

Dodge tried to laugh away the awkward turn. “I’m just kidding. I was a little worried too. But we’re safe now.”

“Speaking of stories,” Hurricane said, “I wonder what’s become of Lightning Bug?”

To Dodge’s chagrin, at the mention of Lafayette, Nora dropped her arms and took a step back. “Goodness, I’d completely forgotten about Rodney.”

Dodge shot Hurricane a withering glare. The big man fought to hide a mischievous grin.

“He’s here,” Newcombe announced as he joined them, with Fiona at his side. “Mr. Barron has commissioned him to write his memoirs.”

“You don’t say.” There was an odd twinkle in Nora’s eye. “That’s marvelous news. I’m sure he’ll be eager to tell me all about it.”

Newcombe abruptly looked past the reunion, his expression twisted with anxiety. “There’s someone else aboard that you should know about.”

Before Dodge could inquire, someone behind them called out: “Hurricane Hurley, you old warhorse.”

Dodge recognized the voice immediately, and the realization hit him like a physical blow. A bottle of anger, forgotten but fermenting, burst open inside him as he turned to face the newcomer. “General Vaughn. Out of uniform, I see.”

Vaughn stiffened and it was all too clear that he shared Dodge’s displeasure at the reunion. “I’m retired now, thanks to you.”

“Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard, I decided not to freeze to death in Antarctica. No thanks to you.” Dodge was surprised at his own vehemence; he hadn’t recalled being so angry with the general.

Fiona pushed into the middle of the rising tension. “Gentleman, there are much better places on the Majestic to catch up on old times. And I’d say you lot have quite a bit of catching up to do. It’s been a busy day. Why don’t we all go below and freshen up a bit?”

Vaughn made a guttural noise as he did an abrupt about-face and headed for the stairs leading off the platform.

Dodge realized that he was breathing rapidly, as if still primed for a life and death fight, and with an effort, brought his breathing — and his agitation — under control. Hurley’s pained expression gave him further pause. The big man had fought under Vaughn’s command during the Great War and afterward, when Captain Falcon’s company had been carrying out secret missions around the globe for Uncle Sam. When Dodge had first told his friend of Vaughn’s actions at the Outpost in Antarctica — how the officer had left Dodge and Newcombe behind, escaping on a plane scant minutes ahead of the explosion that had wiped the place off the face of the earth — Hurricane’s response had been subdued. Did one foolish decision cancel out a long history of fidelity and shared sacrifice? More to the point, did Dodge have the right to demand that his friend choose between loyalties?

As grateful as he was to still be alive, Dodge somehow felt things might have been better if they hadn’t been rescued.

Although he spoke perfect English, Hiro Nakamura barely understood a word of the conversation he had just overheard. Language wasn’t the issue, of course. It was a matter of context. The people involved clearly shared some past experience well outside his comprehension that gave meaning to their words.

No matter, he thought. I’ve already seen much more than I could have hoped for.

It had been an easy thing for him to slip aboard the dirigible. His training had equipped him with the skills to be almost invisible, and his gray shinobi shozoku garments only made it easier for him to blend into the shadows. He probably could have strolled onto the airship’s landing platform dressed as a kabuki performer and gone unnoticed; combat situations tended to create a state of tunnel vision, where people saw only what was directly in front of their eyes. Now that the life-and-death situation had passed, the survivors would be more aware of things that were out of the ordinary, but he was confident in his stealth abilities.

Yet, he did not follow the group that slowly filed down the stairs. He was experiencing his own sort of tunnel vision; his mind’s eye was fixed on what he had witnessed in the final moments of the attack by the revolutionaries. He had seen the death ray in action, and it was everything his superiors had hoped it would be: a weapon that could melt a man’s bones inside his skin.

And yet, with such a power already in their hands, they had come to this obscure backwater, searching for some piece of ancient knowledge in the forgotten ruins of a conquered castle.

It could only mean that they sought something even more powerful.

His superiors would be very interested in that knowledge and Nakamura looked forward to reporting on his progress as soon as an opportunity presented itself. Yet, he did not need explicit orders to know that it was imperative to discover what the Americans were looking for. He would learn what they were up to, and when he returned to his ancestral homeland, he would bring with him a weapon that would make the Empire of the Rising Sun invincible against all her enemies.

As they washed away the dust of their subterranean misadventures, Newcombe brought Dodge and Hurricane up to date on all that had happened since the disastrous abduction attempt in New York.

His explanation cleared up some of the mystery surrounding Barron and explained Vaughn’s presence aboard Majestic, but did little to ease his deeper concerns. “So the general is still looking for the ultimate weapon.”

The source of his ongoing contention with Vaughn had begun with a debate over the ownership of the technology Dodge and the others had found in Antarctica. Vaughn wanted to find a way to utilize it for the national defense while Dodge believed it far too dangerous to be controlled by any one nation. The issue was moot now. The Outpost had been destroyed and all its devices were now useless, but Dodge’s fundamental convictions remained unchanged. Men like Vaughn and Barron would continue seeking new and more efficient methods of destruction, but that didn’t mean he had to support their endeavors.

“At least we know that the War Department is calling the shots,” Hurricane interjected. “If and when Barron delivers this death ray, we know it won’t fall into the hands of an enemy nation. That makes me feel a little better about all this.”

“Yes, well…” Newcombe took a deep breath. “It may be a little more complicated than that.” He looked around, as if fearful that someone might overhear, and then in a low voice recounted what Barron had told him in secret. “Barron wants to build this weapon as a means to prevent wars, not win them.”

“Gatling thought the same thing when he built his gun,” Hurricane said. “Seems like someone always figures out a way around that little detail.”

Dodge read the conflict in Newcombe’s eyes. “Do you believe him?

“I believe he is sincere. But Hurricane is right. If history is any indication, this weapon will only lead to new, more terrible discoveries.”

An image of the wave generator in action, vaporizing the skeletons of the two attackers in the ruins of Alamut, sprang unbidden into his head. It was hard to imagine something more terrible than that, but he’d already seen evidence of what Barron had planned: the same weapon, but on a larger scale, large enough to destroy a building…

He thought about the perfectly round hole the generator had bored through solid rock, providing them with their escape route from the library. He had seen that circular pattern before, in the secret valley in Pennsylvania and deduced that the failed test of the bigger version of the wave generator had destroyed the blimp on which it had been mounted, but now that he understood the principle behind the device, and seen it in action, it was easier to visualize what had happened.

There’s still something I’m missing.

They followed Newcombe down a long, lavishly decorated hallway to large dining hall, lined with windows looking down on the world. Dodge saw mountains below, the same mountains they had skirted on their approach to Alamut, and in the distance to the north, the sparkling waters of the Caspian Sea.

Lafayette was there in the dining room, looking no worse for wear, and conversing with Nora and Rahman. The Iranian man seemed very agitated, and Dodge quickly became the focus of his attention.

“Where are they taking us? My automobile is in Qasirkhan; I cannot simply abandon it.”

Dodge didn’t know how to respond. As far as he was concerned, the villagers were complicit in the attack; Dariush had certainly been part of the plot against them. Dodge had no intention of ever going anywhere near Alamut again, and he wanted to tell Rahman that he should count himself lucky to still be alive, but ultimately the matter of their destination was out of his hands. “Our plane is still in Bandar-e Pahlavi,” he said. “I’m we sure we can convince our new host to drop us off there. After that, you can see to getting your car back.”

Rahman wasn’t pleased by this, but it was the best Dodge could do, and probably more than he had any right to promise.

Nora spoke up. “Rodney’s been telling me all about Mr. Barron. I’m sure he’ll do whatever he can to help.”

“I’d like to hear more about Barron.” Dodge took a seat across the table from the red-haired writer. “What’s his story?”

Lafayette offered a smug smile. “If I told you, you’d have no reason to buy the book I’m currently writing.”

Dodge’s only reply was an even stare, and after a few seconds, Lafayette relented. “Barron is an amazing individual. A modern Renaissance man. He was born in Europe, descended from the Habsburg dynasty — it’s no coincidence his company is named ‘Royal Industries.’ He fought in the Great War — on the wrong side, unfortunately — and when it was over, he devoted his life and fortune to finding a way to prevent wars of that sort from ever happening again.”

“By makin’ better weapons?” Hurricane drawled, rhetorically. “Peace through superior firepower, is that it? And he makes a pretty penny doin’ it all.”

“He doesn’t care about money. He already has more than he could ever spend.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of folks who’d love for him to share.”

Lafayette ignored the dig. “Mr. Barron is a visionary. All his efforts are turned to his singular purpose. If I could only tell you…” Lafayette shook his head. “No, I’ve already said more than he would want me to. But I can assure you, Mr. Barron is thoroughly dedicated to the cause of ending war.”

Dodge turned to Newcombe, curious to see if he had been similarly won over by Barron’s charisma. The scientist nodded, but Dodge noted that his brow was creased ever so slightly — it might have been apprehension, or it might have been the fact that he was squinting behind his glasses, which Dodge could tell obviously weren’t as thick or effective as his usual prescription.

Then, almost as if by magic, the frown vanished and Newcombe’s face lit up. “Fiona!”

Dodge rose to his feet as the archaeologist entered the dining room, waving a rolled up piece of paper like a war trophy. “The Avernus Crater near Naples. That’s where we’ll find the gates of Tartarus.”

She unfurled the paper — not an ancient document, but instead a modern map of Europe, on which she had marked a location with a red grease pencil. “It’s so obvious, really. Polybius used Homer’s account of the passage of time as a way of setting the maximum possible distance between the locations. It’s simply impossible that a sailing vessel could have been blown out into the Atlantic as some theorize; Odysseus never left the Mediterranean.

“When he set out to verify the Homeric account, Polybius recognized that Sicily and the Aeolian Isles were locations Odysseus had visited. He also pinpointed the Strait of Messina—” she tapped the spot on the map where the “toe” of the Italian peninsula almost touched the northeastern corner of Sicily, “as the most likely site for passage of Scylla and Charybdis, which Odysseus went through immediately after visiting the blind prophet Teiresias in the Underworld.” She drew her finger north, along the coast, until it met the spot she had marked.

“In ancient times, volcanoes were often believed to be gateways to the Underworld, so it’s no surprise that the passage to Tartarus would be found in the remains of a volcanic crater.”

“Not just in ancient times,” Newcombe interjected. “Many believe Jules Verne was onto something when he proposed that volcanic caves might lead to the earth’s core. Of course, it’s very unlikely that caves formed by volcanic activity would go quite that deep into the earth’s interior.”

Fiona blinked as if the supporting information was irrelevant. “According to ancient accounts, a deadly fume hung used to hang in the air above the Avernus Crater, killing the birds as they tried to fly overhead. It’s also where Aeneas went into the Underworld, so this location makes perfect sense. What’s significant about the account we found in the Alamut library is that Polybius describes the passage into Tartarus in great detail, including… get this… ‘gates of unworked adamantine.’”

“That’s most excellent news, Miss Dunn.”

All eyes turned to meet the newcomer to the room, a regal looking man wearing an immaculate blue uniform. Lafayette jumped to his feet as if he had been appointed to be the man’s official herald. “Gentlemen, may I present the master of the Majestic, Walter Barron.”

Dodge was about to move forward to greet the mysterious industrialist when he heard Hurricane’s voice, low and dangerous. “Actually, we’ve met.”

The big man stood with his hands on his hips, his eyes ablaze with a level of fury Dodge had never seen before, as he locked stares with Barron. “The hair is a nice touch. And I see you’ve lost some weight… Baron Von Heissel.”