On the High Road to Oblivion

Chapter 3—Aftermath

The crews aboard the two Cierva C.30 autogyros, high above the street and well away from heart of the blast, had the best view of what happened next. Even so, most of it was faster than the human eye could follow.

The shock of hitting the pavement was enough to detonate the nitroglycerine that had oozed from the old dynamite sticks. The man holding the box was vaporized instantly, erased from existence in the flash. A wave of energy rolled out in every direction, blasting apart the other kidnapper, even as he was still tumbling from the impact with the Speedster. An enormous cloud of smoke and heat rose heavenward like a blossoming flower, and then, perhaps a full second later, a booming noise louder than any thunderclap reached the ears of the pilots overhead. They could not move fast enough to fly away from the ensuing shockwave, and while it was not quite enough to knock them from the sky, they were nevertheless buffeted by what felt like a hurricane-force wind gust. After a few uncertain moments, however, they regained control and got their first look at the aftermath.

From the air, the radial blast pattern was astonishing to behold. An enormous crater, at least forty feet in diameter, had been gouged out of the macadam, exposing sewer tunnels and shattered pipes that gushed water. Around that focal point, everything had been pushed out. Trees growing along the sidewalk had been flattened, their branches and bark stripped away. Decapitated lampposts canted away from the crater on all sides, and a number of parked cars had been shoved onto the sidewalk and in many cases, into the storefronts and residences beyond. The Speedster, no longer quite so bright red, was now almost inextricably intertwined with another vehicle, though through some miracle, the trio within had survived the explosion by ducking down at the last instant. The sports car, however, was not the vehicle that concerned the pilots of the autogyros.

The black panel truck had been closer to the detonation than any other vehicle, but because it was already moving away at more than fifty miles an hour, the energy of the explosion catapulted it forward rather than blasting it apart. By some fluke, the rear door of the truck swung closed as the doomed kidnapper fell out, which afforded the occupants of the vehicle some protection from the heat and kinetic energy, but even so it was not a smooth ride. The vehicle was lifted off the ground, and for a moment it nosed down as if it might flip end over end, before finally slamming once more onto the pavement and rolling straight forward in a shower of sparks.

The autogyros circled the crater, observing the blast zone to ensure that there would be no secondary explosions, and then swooped down like predatory raptors. Unlike airplanes, they did not need long runways to land, but instead dropped in almost vertically to settle onto the debris strewn street only a few hundred feet from the panel truck. The pilots, occupying the rear seats in each craft, remained at their respective controls, keeping the engines of the gyros at idle. The passengers — two men decked out in leather jackets and flying helmets — cautiously climbed out of their cockpits, mindful of the free-turning rotor blades whirling overhead, crouching low as they moved out from under the lethal spinning disk, and then hastened to the battered delivery vehicle.

The frame of the panel truck had been battered out of square by the explosion, and the two men had to work together to wrench the rear door open. Once inside, they quickly assessed the status of the two captives, verifying that the dazed men were not seriously hurt, then hoisted them out. Unlike the original kidnappers, the two men from the autogyros carried their burdens as a team, with one man holding the shoulders and the other the feet. They took Newcombe on the first trip, shuttling him to the cockpit of the nearest aircraft and depositing him within as gently as possible, no mean feat considering that the struts which supported the overhead rotor assembly were directly above the passenger’s seat. Once the scientist was safely ensconced within, they raced back for Lafayette and transferred him to the other aircraft. As soon as they were finished, the two leather-clad men insinuated themselves into the cramped forward cockpits. The whole process took less than five minutes,

During the time spent on the ground, the pilots had engaged the take-off transmission, diverting power from the engines that powered the forward propellers, to keep the overhead rotor turning. With their passengers aboard, they revved those engines until the rotors were spinning fast enough to lift the autogyros off the ground. The rotor functioned much the same way as the wings on a traditional airplane, but because the rotor blades were always moving, they could provide lift even when the aircraft wasn’t moving forward. Once aloft, the transmissions were disengaged, and the rotor wings were kept turning simply by the flow of air. The two craft leaped from the blast site, and raced away above the city rooftops.

The explosion made the blast in the conference room seem like a bump from a careless pedestrian by comparison. The metal body of the Speedster helped deflect some of the concussive force, but for several minutes Dodge could do little more than lay where he was, slumped in the seat of the misshapen vehicle. He felt like he’d just gone fifteen rounds with Joe Louis, and wanted nothing more than to just lay on the mat for the full count and let someone else carry him out of the ring. But because he was still alive, and because his friend was still in danger, he reached down to his core and found the strength to lift himself up one more time.

The explosion had utterly transformed the street. Where there had been orderly rows of parked cars and neat storefronts, there was only ruin. It took him a few seconds to get oriented, but his eye was quickly drawn to the idling autogyros on the far side of the enormous blast crater. Any lingering question about whether the presence of the aircraft over the escaping panel truck might be just a coincidence was now unequivocally answered.

Wincing, Dodge clambered over the side of the Speedster, then remembered that he was not alone. “Hurricane!”

The big man opened one eye, then managed a nod. “I’ve survived worse. Not much worse, though. Miss Holloway, are you still with us?”

Nora groaned something that sounded like an affirmative.

“Those gyros, they’ve landed by the panel truck.” Dodge glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t know what they’re up to, but…”

“Better find out. I’ll be along as I’m able.”

Dodge nodded and then lurched into motion. He felt unsteady on his feet, punch-drunk, but once he got moving, his forward momentum kept him upright. Unfortunately, between him and his goal lay the massive crater, stretching across the entire street. The only way past it was to go around, and even that was easier said than done.

The sidewalk on the right was still more or less intact, save for a five-foot section that had collapsed into the pit. There, the concrete had cracked apart, with some jagged portions protruding like broken teeth from the underlying earth, but directly next to that, the twisted remains of an overturned automobile presented an impassable barrier. Getting over that gap would require either a jump worthy of an Olympic decathlete, or the skills of a world-class mountain climber. Dodge was neither, but decided that in his current state, climbing was the safer option. Using the broken sidewalk pieces like stepping stones and the undercarriage of the wrecked car like rungs on a ladder, he started across the void.

He had just reached the far side when he heard the engines on the autogyros rev up. A moment later, they were both airborne, and before he could get both feet on solid ground, the two aircraft had already disappeared beyond the skyline. In the stark silence that followed, he could hear the distant sound of sirens — police cars and fire engines, he surmised. A sick, sinking feeling that had nothing to do with pummeling he had received from collisions and more explosions then he could remember, settled over him.

He felt a little steadier on his feet as he dashed across the intervening distance and plunged without hesitation into the back of the delivery truck. Its emptiness left him stunned, and for a moment he feared that the hostages had been thrown from the vehicle. He drew back, looking for them, dreading the moment when he might find their shattered bodies, but there was no sign at all of his friend.

“They took them,” he whispered. The autogyros had landed for the sole purpose of absconding with the two captives. Why? That didn’t matter nearly as much to Dodge as the next logical conclusion. “They’re alive!”

A noise, like someone groaning, issued from the cab of the truck and he hastened over, ready to confront the surviving kidnappers. The door had sprung open, revealing the driver and sole occupant of the truck.

“You!” Dodge recognized the driver immediately; it was the statuesque blond he had noticed in the Clarion newsroom. Curiously, she reacted to him with equal surprise, and then grimaced against the pain caused by the steering wheel that been crushed into her legs. Dodge understood now that she had been the lookout, scouting ahead to identify which room to attack; wherever Dodge went, Newcombe would be waiting. He wondered if the two masked bombers had intended to grab him, and gotten Lafayette by mistake. He leaned close to the woman. “Where did they take him?”

She winced. “Who?”

“Those autogyros that were following you. They landed and took them both.”

The woman craned her head around, as if to visually confirm what Dodge was saying, but pinned as she was, the effort yielded nothing. Finally she sighed, sinking back into her chair resignedly. When she spoke, Dodge noticed a thick, eastern European accent. “I know where they will take your friend. I can take you to him, but you must help me.”

“Help you?” As he said it, Dodge realized that the sirens were getting closer, and that bewildered survivors were venturing from the ruins of their stores and homes to investigate.

“We did not want to hurt your friend. We did not want to hurt anyone. We were trying to protect him from…from them.”

“From the men with the autogyros?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“Why do they want him?” Dodge persisted.

The woman shook her head, just once. “Please. If you do not help me, I will not be able to help you.”

Dodge felt the urgency of her request. When the police arrived, he would be obligated to explain her role in the bombing at the Clarion Building and ultimately the destruction of a city block, albeit accidentally, and all of that in connection with the kidnapping of two men who had been kidnapped again by an unknown third party. Perhaps she would tell the police the secret that she now offered Dodge, perhaps not, but it was abundantly clear that she did know who was behind the second abduction.

He reached out and curled his hands around the steering wheel. “What’s your name?”

“Anya.”

“Well, Anya. This is probably going to hurt. A lot.”

Without further comment, he braced one foot against the door frame and hauled back on the steering wheel with all his might. It didn’t budge.

“Need a hand, pardner?”

Dodge looked back and saw Hurricane and Nora approaching, the former favoring his right leg and the latter, improbably, wedged under his arm as if trying to assist him.

“What’s wrong with your leg?”

“It’s my fault,” Nora volunteered, her face creased with guilt. “I was holding onto him when we crashed, and I guess I squeezed too hard.”

“I’ll mend.” Hurricane glanced past him at Anya. “What’s the story here?”

Dodge gave him the briefest possible account of what he had been told. “I still don’t know if I trust her, but she’s our only lead.”

The big man nodded, then gently moved Dodge aside. He wrapped one hand around the steering wheel and grabbed the doorpost with the other, and using what looked like hardly any effort at all, he bent the wheel away from Anya’s legs. The blonde gave a little whimper of pain, but then seemed to almost melt in relief as pressure abated.

“Can you walk?” Dodge asked.

“I’ll manage.” She swung her legs out of the cab, but as soon as she tried to put any weight on them, the grimace returned.

“I’m not so sure about that.” Dodge reached down and got an arm around her, lifting her up and holding her in much the same way that Nora was attempting to assist Hurley.

“Go, Dodge,” Hurricane told him. “Get her out of here.”

“You’re not coming?”

“I’ll stay here and keep the cops off your tail. I’m afraid I’m the kind of guy people notice, and if I go with you, they’ll find us lickety-split.”

Nora glanced between the two men. “What about me?”

“Better stay with me,” Hurley announced. “Dodge Dalton in the company of two lovely young ladies would be positively scandalous.”

Under any other circumstances, his comment would have earned polite chuckles at the very least, but just now it seemed nothing but pragmatic. “He’s right.”

Nora made no attempt to hide her disappointment, but crossed her arms and made a pouting noise.

“Come now, Miss Holloway,” Hurricane chided. “I’m not such bad company.”

“I’ll try to get to the office at the Empire State Building. It’s only a few blocks. As soon as you get free, you can drive over and…” Dodge trailed off as he remembered what had happened to Hurley’s beloved red Speedster. “Oh, Hurricane, your car. I’m so sorry.”

“Spilt milk, Dodge.” Hurley’s voice was steady, but Dodge could tell his stoic facade was being maintained only through a monumental effort of will. “I’ll rebuild her, or buy a new one. It’s just a thing. Now, get going.”

The survivors of the chase were all acutely aware of being observed by the local residents who were now beginning to poke their heads out of the rubble, but they had no idea that they were also being watched intently by a group of men who had emerged from a sedan parked more than a block behind the broken remains of Hurley’s car. Under ordinary circumstances, these four men would have automatically attracted the attention of locals, even in the cosmopolitan environment of Midtown, but given the events that had only just transpired, they might just as well have been invisible.

No one thought it the least bit strange that these men were intently following the movements of Dodge and the others through binoculars and cameras equipped with long telephoto lenses.

As Dodge and Anya moved off, the men exchanged a few quick words in their shared language, after which two of them got back in the car. The driver executed a quick U-turn and drove off back the way they had come. The others kept watching.

No one seemed to be following Dodge and Anya from the scene of the crash, but just to be on the safe side, he avoided the streets and kept to back alleys whenever possible. Behind them, the sound of approaching sirens peaked as the police and fire responders arrived on scene, and then were silenced. Dodge knew the clock was now ticking; soon, the police would learn from witnesses that two people had fled the scene of the accident and would begin combing the area to find them.

Anya made no effort to resist or escape him. When she was finally able to walk unaided, albeit with some difficultly, she stayed close to him, almost brushing against him. Dodge wasn’t fooled. “So who are you really?”

“I told you. I am Anya.”

“I don’t mean your name. Why did you kidnap Doc Newcombe? And dynamite? For Pete’s sake, why blow everything up?”

“That was not my idea. Sergei…” She closed her eyes and gave an involuntary shudder. Her accent seemed even thicker now, choked with emotion. “Sergei, God rest his soul, liked to make a spectacle. He said the dynamite would confuse everyone, and give us a better chance to escape.”

“You could have killed a lot of innocent people.”

“Sergei did not think so. He said he would be careful. Ivan wanted to use guns, but Sergei said no; guns were much more likely to cause deaths, and that was never our intention.”

Dodge withheld comment on the irony of Sergei’s fate. “I take it you are part of some kind of…revolutionary movement?”

“Revolutionary? We are dedicated enemies of fascism and imperialism, goals that I would think all sane people would share. Does that make us revolutionaries? Only in the fashion of your George Washington or Benjamin Franklin.”

“So why are you here in America? As you pointed out, we already had our revolution against imperialism. Shouldn’t you be blowing people up in your own country? Which would be…where exactly?”

“The ambitions of imperialists are universal. They will not be content until they have enslaved the world. Our struggle is, of necessity, a worldwide one. Here in the United States, agents of imperialism seek to exert their influence in the halls of power, using their illegally-gotten wealth to shape international policy so that it harmonizes with their agenda.”

Dodge got the impression she could have gone on like that for hours so he steered her back to his original question. “Why did you try to kidnap my friend?”

“In the past, the imperial powers of the world sought the natural wealth of other nations — their gold, precious stones, copper, trees or the soil on which they grew — and their human wealth — laborers, slaves really, whether in the literal sense or in a more insidious way, by exploiting wage-workers.”

Dodge had seen examples of this personally during his journey to the Congo, and that made him think about Father Hobbs and Molly.

Anya did not see the pained expression that crossed his face, but continued speaking. “This power has ever been maintained by military might, but in the last fifty years, the definition of military power has changed, as have the ambitions of empires. The lords of wealth know that the size of one’s army or navy alone is not sufficient, not when an entire company of infantryman can be killed by a single man with a machine gun, or when a great battleship can be sunk by a single torpedo dropped from an airplane or shot from a U-boat. The wars to control the world’s resources will not be won by the kings with the largest armies, but by those with the most advanced weapons. And do not mistake my meaning when I say ‘kings.’ There is power available to anyone with the resources, with the wealth, to build such weapons. The new empires will be built by captains of industry. The man who now has your friend is one such. His name is Walter Barron, and his business is war.”

Dodge finally understood. “So you think this Barron wants Doc Newcombe to help him build a better bomb?”

“We know it to be true. Not a bomb though. A weapon he calls the ‘death ray.’”

“You’re kidding. The Doc and I just wrote a column on that topic—”

“Yes. Barron’s interest in the scientist is not a coincidence.”

Dodge shook his head in disbelief. “There’s no such thing as a death ray. That was the whole point of the column.”

“Evidently, Barron believes otherwise.”

Dodge mulled over this revelation. The presence of the two autogyros lent a certain credibility to her story; as Nora had suggested, aircraft like that weren’t really the norm for anarchists. Still, her story was predicated on the notion that Walter Barron, whomever he was, had planned to abduct Newcombe, and that the only response of Anya’s revolutionary group was a pre-emptive kidnapping, and that was a lot to swallow in one gulp. “So, Barron has the Doc now? Where will he take him?”

“I said I would take you to him. The knowledge of his location is the key to my freedom.”

“Can you at least narrow it down a little?”

She glanced down the length of the alley at the cross street ahead. “We must go to Pennsylvania Station. We can reach our destination by train.”

“I told Hurricane we’d meet him at—”

Anya turned and looked him in the eye. She was an imposing figure, as tall as Dodge, with an athletic physique that was in no way diminished by her injuries. She reminded Dodge of the Amazon women of Greek mythology, beautiful but unmatched in combat. “Time is of the essence. Now that Barron has your friend, he will not stay in one place for long. You must trust me.”

Dodge nodded and gestured for her to continue onward. I’ll follow you for now, he thought. But I sure as hell am not going to trust you.