At The Outpost of Fate: Dodge Dalton Adventures, #2

AT THE OUTPOST OF FATE- A Dodge Dalton Adventure

By Sean Ellis

At the Outpost of Fate- A Dodge Dalton Adventure

Copyright 2011, 2015By Sean Ellis

Published by Gryphonwood Press

Ebook Edition License Notes

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Praise for Sean Ellis and the Dodge Dalton Adventures

Dodge Dalton is a worthy heir to Indiana Jones, Dirk Pitt and the classic action adventure heroes of yore. A page-turner, from beginning to end! – Barry Reese, author of THE ROOK CHRONICLES.

An adrenaline-fueled joyride through adventure! This one will leave you hungry for more – and in no hurry to ‘get out of Dodge’. – David Sakmyster, author of THE PHAROS OBJECTIVE and CRESCENT LAKE.

Everything you'd ever want in a top-notch adventure yarn! If you're a fan of James Rollins and Clive Cussler, you really need to be reading Sean Ellis. – James Reasoner, author of REDEMPTION, KANSAS.

Sean Ellis is a thriller reader’s dream come true. – Jeremy Robinson, author of PULSE, INSTINCT, and THRESHOLD.

It's yarns like his that got me into the adventuring game, and I'm delighted to see them still being penned. – Gabriel Hunt, author of HUNT AT THE WELL OF ETERNITY.ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to my friends Bill Craig, Mark Orr and especially George Elder for their creative input in crafting the characters that populate this adventure. You guys were inspirational.

I would also like to thank Kent Holloway, Tommy Hancock, and Christian Guldager for their contributions to creating the book you are now reading.

~Sean Ellis (April 2011)

...IN THE GOLDEN AGE OF ADVENTURE...

PROLOGUE – AN UNEXPECTED DELAY

It was hard to believe, judging from the perfect blue of the sky and the gentle ripple that stirred the waters of the Great Sound, that one of the deadliest storms in a decade was gathering energy just a few hundred miles to the south. Forecasters had been watching the storm for five days now and the latest reports showed it turning north, skirting the islands of the Caribbean. Puerto Rico would get a drenching, but the remote islands in the Atlantic would escape the full fury of the hurricane force winds. The mainland of the United States was not expected to be so lucky.

The hurricane posed no danger whatsoever to the residents of the British Territory of Bermuda; the tiny island group situated nearly seven hundred miles off the coast of North America was well out of the projected path of destruction. Nevertheless, Captain Elliot Berlitz, pilot of the Pan American Airways Sikorsky S-42, nicknamed The Tradewinds Clipper, remained wary.

His ship had taken a beating as it skimmed the backside of the storm two days previously on the run up from Sao Paolo, which had led to an extended layover here, at the Darrell's Island Seaplane Port. Now that the mechanics had judged the Clipper fit to fly, he was eager to get her aloft and onto her homeport of New York City ahead of the hurricane, which it now seemed was going to head up the Eastern Seaboard and right across his flight path.

There had been some grumbles from the passengers on learning of the layover, though most were secretly pleased to enjoy the hospitality afforded to guests on the sun-drenched island. But a delay was a delay, even if it was in paradise and everyone was eager to get to their destination. Berlitz and the rest of the flight crew assured each passenger as they made their way into the plane that they would all be in New York very soon; the unexpected delay was over.

Not to worry, ladies and gentlemen. We'll have you home before sunset.

Home? And spoil my lovely American holiday? That simply won't do.

Berlitz froze in place; an embarrassed flush tinting his cheeks like a schoolboy. Oh, yes. That one.

That one was Jocasta Palmer and she was a knockout. A leggy blond with curves in all the right places, the British bombshell had not yet missed an opportunity to play coy in response to his flirtatious advances. Usually, his snappy blue uniform with gold captain's piping was enough to break down a lady's defenses and when that didn't work he would bring out the big gun: the mostly true tale of the day he almost shot down von Richthofen over the Somme. Thus far, Miss Palmer was proving a tough nut to crack, yet her unpredictably playful banter convinced him that he was making headway. He was pretty sure that, once they reached New York, the lovely socialite would accept his invitation for a night on the town.

My apologies, Miss Palmer. I must remember that sometimes His Majesty's subjects also find refuge under my wing, so to speak.

She peered from beneath the brim of her broad, floppy sun hat, rolling her eyes up and down his handsome physique, but her only reply before stepping onto the ramp was a terse Quite.

Jocasta was not the only passenger aboard that hailed from the United Kingdom, but Berlitz would have been hard pressed to pick the others out. There were twenty-four passengers altogether and while he was always courteous to a fault, most of them simply didn't linger in his memory. He had more important things to worry about.

As the last name was checked off the manifest, Berlitz moved to the cockpit and launched into the pre-flight inspection. After battening the hatches, the flight engineer's white-visored cap became visible as he leaned out of the bow hatch and made ready to cast off the mooring line. Satisfied, Berlitz started the number one engine—left outboard—and let her run up, watching the magnetos and oil pressure to make sure that everything was running smooth. He followed this procedure with each engine in turn and only when all four Pratt & Whitney R-1690 Hornet engines were roaring happily, did he give the signal to drop the bow line.

With the four 660 horsepower engines pulling it through the water, the Clipper was never more like her namesake, the China Clippers of old. More a speedboat than an airplane, the Sikorsky plowed through a mile and a quarter of sea water before lining up head-on into the breeze. Even with a boost from Mother Nature pushing across her wings, it could take as much as a mile of full-throttle acceleration to bring the hull up high enough to expose the step—a jog in the hull designed to break the suction caused by surface tension. Only then could it truly reach take-off speed and loft skyward.

It was difficult for the passengers to tell the difference, but the Tradewinds Clipper crew knew every inch of their ship and could detect the subtle change in the vibrations rumbling through the fuselage as the boat became an airplane. Berlitz eased back on the stick and the bird climbed gradually to her cruising altitude of 8,000 feet.

Despite a well-deserved reputation as a bit of a rake, Berlitz never messed around in the cockpit. He was rigidly professional and his idea of a good flight was one that was so mind-numbingly boring that the greatest challenge was staying awake, so when the steward made an unscheduled visit to the cockpit, two hours into the trip, he was understandably dismayed.

Sir, one of the passengers is requesting to speak with you. Steward Tom Baskins was visibly chagrined at being the bearer of the message.

For goodness sake, Tom. Tell him I'm not... He broke off suddenly. One of the passengers...? Miss Palmer perhaps?

Sir, the man says he's a police inspector. He showed me his badge.

He? Damn. What on earth could a policeman want, that can't wait until we set down?

He says it's most urgent.

Berlitz frowned. Show him up.

He recognized the man that was escorted forward as one of the passengers that had been added to the manifest in Bermuda, but couldn't attach a name to the face. The fellow quickly addressed that matter.

How do you do, sir? Inspector Ian Winston at your service.

Berlitz reluctantly took the proffered hand. Scotland Yard?

Winston gave a nervous smile. Hah. It seems you are also a detective, sir. But I'm actually attached to Interpol…er, the International Criminal Police Commission. We're sort of an international police—

I'm familiar with it, Inspector. What's this about?

Right to the point. Good. Winston glanced around as if expecting to find an eavesdropper. Captain, I don't know how to tell you this, but I fear that we may all be in grave danger.

Berlitz felt a chill shoot down his spine, but he maintained a stern expression. Danger? You'll have to do better than that.

I wish I could. The nature of the threat is very... unspecific. All I know is that one of your passengers is a fiend bent on the most evil sort of adventure.

Which passenger? You must know who it is, surely.

I do not. The villain is a master of disguise.

Berlitz wiped a hand across his forehead. So what do you want me to do? Turn back to Bermuda?

I'm not certain. I don't know if his aim is sabotage or some other criminal enterprise. I came to tell you so that you and your crew—rather, the crewmen you know to be above reproach—can be on guard against any sort of... mishap.

The implication that one of his flight crew might be a saboteur stung, but there were indeed two Pan Am employees aboard that he had never worked with—the radio man Robert Charest and the Brazilian second steward Emilio Guzman.

On guard, he murmured, mulling over just how to follow through on that admonition.

Christ Almighty; where did that come from?

Berlitz started involuntarily at the exclamation from the cockpit. The voice belonged to his co-pilot, Lieutenant Stephen Everett, but the tone of incredulity was something the captain had never heard from his long-time second in command. For a split-second, he wondered if the unknown saboteur had struck a blow, but then a violent tremor rocked the entire fuselage and he knew the explanation was far less mysterious.

As soon as he looked through the forward windscreen, Berlitz saw the source of his co-pilot's consternation. The horizon ahead was dark—a shade of gray that devoured the noonday sun...

Wait a minute. He craned his head to look out the side porthole and located the sun, low in the Eastern sky. What the devil? Are we off course? And where did this storm come from? We were supposed to be a day ahead of it.

The radio operator, Charest, was already busy transmitting a wireless message for general broadcast. The radio operator's job was arguably the most important on the plane; his constant contact with ground stations and subsequent mathematic computations were essential to navigating the plane to its destination.

Bermuda Station, this is Pan American Flight 19, we are encountering storm conditions. Please advise.

Berlitz took the column, banking the plane northeast to avoid running headlong into the front. Where did this come from? We had clear skies a minute ago.

Bermuda, say again your last. Charest's voice was now quavering with disbelief. He listened to the voice in his headphones, then gazed at Berlitz. Sir, I think you'd better hear this.

According to radio operator's flight logs and the record kept by the ground station in Bermuda, Flight 19 made a scheduled radio contact at 11:30 a.m. Bermuda local time. The transmission was also picked up by a non-directional control station in Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. When the Pan American Clipper failed to make its next call-in and all subsequent attempts to raise her ended in failure, ground station feared the worst. Search aircraft were dispatched within the hour and proceeded directly to the plane’s last known location, but no trace of wreckage was found. The close proximity of the approaching hurricane curtailed further efforts and prevented surface ships from joining the hunt. In their Key West headquarters, Pan American executives were faced with the grim task of contacting the passengers' next of kin, but communication with Bermuda and New York was spotty at best due to the hurricane parked on their doorstep. The decision was made to hold off on releasing any news until a more comprehensive search could be organized.

Then, to the utter amazement of ground control, Flight 19 called in.

"Where have you guys been?" was the first question asked by the radio operator in Bermuda, momentarily forgetting procedures. The crew of the Clipper didn't understand the question; they were only concerned with the fact that they seemed to be miles off course with hurricane breathing down their necks.

In fact, the Sikorsky S-42 was exactly where she ought to have been; her position was confirmed by measuring the length of the radio navigation signals from Bermuda and the mainland. Yet more than nineteen hours had passed.

No one on the plane was aware of the interval. The ship's chronometer agreed with every wristwatch on the flight, give or take five minutes. The fuel in the Clipper's tanks was consistent with a plane that had only been aloft for two hours and the food stores in the galley were not significantly depleted. The male passengers were clean-shaven, as if they had only just awakened at their hotel and boarded the aircraft a few hours earlier. Nevertheless, between the flight's 11:30 check-in and Charest's request for course verification, nineteen hours and forty-seven minutes had elapsed.

It was as if the Tradewinds Clipper had slipped sideways into the future.

The plane continued on to New York where the passengers and crew were quarantined for two days and interrogated for hours on end, while investigators went over every inch of the aircraft looking for physical clues to explain the discrepancy. No official finding was made, but it was widely believed that the whole affair had been an elaborate hoax. The inquisition might have continued indefinitely, but for the hurricane that had dogged Flight 19 every step of her journey. It arrived in New York City two days after the Clipper and unleashed its full fury on Long Island. The authorities had more important things to worry about, so they cut the detainees loose and wrote the matter off altogether.

However, for the thirty souls that made that bizarre passage from Bermuda to New York, being released from police custody did not signal the end of the ordeal. Their nightmare was just beginning.

From the files of the Trevayne Society

Child of Skulls

In the course of my many investigations with Jerusalem Nightjar, I had occasion to encounter many gypsies, mediums, fortunetellers and magicians, all of whom proved unable to demonstrate that their unique abilities amounted to anything more than charlatanism. So you might well imagine my skepticism when I received the summons to meet Nightjar at 358 Harrow Street in Wapping on the night of June 21, 1883. Bracing myself for another night of parlor tricks and chicanery, I hailed a hansom cab and hastened to the assignation.

We rolled down Wapping High Street shortly after Big Ben struck the midnight hour. The streets were wreathed in fog—a vile mist rolling up from the marsh—that I knew too well might conceal dacoits and highwaymen, as well as other horrors such as ought not to be mentioned. I took comfort in the heft of my old service revolver, tucked in the right pocket of my greatcoat. The cabby seemed unusually anxious as he pulled up in front of 358 Harrow Street and helped me exit. I unwisely passed over a shilling for payment before thinking to request that he remain until I concluded my business, but he gave me no further opportunity to make that arrangement. The hansom vanished into the fog as quickly as the bob had gone into his pocket. Gripping my coat tight and the butt of my revolver tighter, I moved up the walk.

The house at 358 Harrow Street was more elegant than its neighbors; run down, but nevertheless as out of place in the squalid slum as a nun in a brothel. The contrast was enough to raise my hackles; I had learned the hard way that such an incongruity often concealed unimaginable evils. So focused was I that I completely missed the figure lurking in the shadows until I was practically on top of it.

Took your sweet time, Posh Boy.

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the first syllable, though the rest of the message, despite its confrontational tone, prevented me from wildly firing my revolver. Good heavens, Hawkins. I paused, waiting for my hammering heart to become subdued. Where is Nightjar?

Emma Hawkins, the slight young girl whom I had once mistaken for a Chinaman, not because of her build and stature, but rather her extraordinary hand fighting skills, was Jerusalem Nightjar's driver and domestic servant. She regarded me with what I hoped was insincere contempt. Go inside, Posh Boy. He's waiting for you.

Are you...? Will you be all right out here? By yourself? I should have known better than to ask. The lithe young girl concealed more blades within the folds of her loose fitting garments than a cutlery shop. Excusing myself without further inquiry, I made my way up to the front door.

There was no one to greet me, but I surmised a tacit invitation to enter had been given. I pushed the door open and called out. Nightjar!

Winterbourne! We're in the parlour! Be quick, man.

I followed the sound of his voice and the flicker of a lamp to the sitting room where Jerusalem Nightjar waited in the company of a sleeping woman. Ah, there you are—

Nightjar raised a powerful finger to his lips, warning me to lower my voice.

I nodded and gazed down at the elderly woman reclining on the divan. I take it this is the redoubtable Madame Adair?

Indeed. I've placed her in a mesmeric trance.

Though I did not tell him, I believed this to be a good thing. Madame Adair was notorious both for her dubious claim of access to the spirit realm and her loquacious manner. Silencing her with hypnosis seemed a workable remedy for her shenanigans. What do you require of me?

He held me with his dark, earnest eyes—the left one marred by the scar that ran down his cheek. You must be my lifeline, dear Edward. The vision that haunts her cannot be exorcised from without. I must join her in this trance and you must draw me out again when the battle has been won.

I would have been heartened by his prediction of victory were I inclined to blithely accept his stated intention. Join her in a trance? Good heavens, Nightjar. I've seen a great many things in our adventures, but what you propose...

He dismissed my disbelief with a wave of his hand. Your incredulity, thankfully, will not influence the process. You need only keep watch and wake me when the time is right. He positioned a chair directly before the supine woman.

And how, pray tell, will I know when the time is right?

He did not answer, but merely took a seat facing Madame Adair and placed his palms on his thighs. Just that quickly, I was left alone, though bodily in the presence of two other people. I fetched a chair for myself and set to watching the strange communion.

My expectations of a tedious night keeping watch over the sleepers were quickly dispelled. No sooner had I taken a seat when Madame Adair began to stir. At first it was mere restlessness, as though she could not find a comfortable position in which to sleep, but her movements quickly intensified to violent thrashing.

The sky is red, intoned Nightjar. This is the night that was promised; the Nativity.

I started at the sound of his preternaturally calm voice. This was not at all what I had anticipated. Where are you, Jerusalem?

His brow creased in a frown. I am unsure. The village is nearby...There are mountains in the distance...

He abruptly gripped his legs. In the same instant, a wail like the howl of a banshee issued from the woman's lips. The hour is upon us! The child is born!

The child is born this very night, Nightjar stated. The prophecy...

The woman suddenly stood erect and for a moment I believed she had awakened herself from the trance. I was mistaken.

My friend continued speaking. I see a world, filled with death. Skulls of the dead, everywhere... Death...such a time of dying as the world has never known...

Madame Adair stood before Nightjar, thrusting out with her hands as if attempting to defend herself against an unseen attacker.

They are coming for him!

Coming for whom, Jerusalem?

The child! The child of prophecy. They have been waiting.

No! shrieked Madame Adair, her voice strangely accented. Her thrashing intensified to a fever pitch. You will not have my son!

Demons! Nightjar rasped. He shifted, tensing imperceptibly and I intuited that, in the landscape of his dream, he was preparing to meet the charge. I must not allow this to happen.

The woman suddenly gripped her abdomen and fell back across the divan with blood streaming from her mouth and nose. She continued striking at the air, but for every spectral blow she parried, her spasms told of a dozen that found their mark. Droplets of crimson exploded from her nose, spattering the wall as her unseen assailant battered her mercilessly.

Nightjar, help her! I turned to him, thinking to implore him to come to her defense, but saw in the twitching of his muscles that the battle was already joined.

Madame Adair sat upright once more, her skin fiery red and every extremity rigid in an apoplectic fit and then she collapsed as a marionette after its strings are cut. A smell I knew all too well, the odor of death, filled the room.

Dear God! I ejaculated, gripping Nightjar's shoulder. Wake up man! It's killed her. Jerusalem, wake up!

His hand came up suddenly and batted me away. To my complete surprise, the offhanded blow sent me staggering. I fell back across my chair and crashed painfully to the floor.

I will confess now to being quite terrified at what I was beholding. While my rational mind dismissed the possibility of such a manifestation of supernatural energy, my trust in Nightjar was absolute. Moreover, I could not deny the evidence of my own senses; Madame Adair was dead, expiring before my very eyes after an assault by some unseen entity. Disentangling myself from the chair, I took a position directly in front of Nightjar, gripped his shoulders and shouted into his face. For the love of God! Wake up!

His eyes flew open, darting wildly about and his hands came up in a pugilist’s stance. He checked the corners of the room behind me, as if trying to ascertain his location, then fixed me with the most awful expression I can remember. Winterbourne! Damn you. The battle was not over.

It was killing you, Jerusalem. It killed her.

His rage struck me with the intensity of the earlier blow. You understand nothing. She was weak; of course they killed her. I alone remained to protect the child. You have abandoned him to his fate, Winterbourne!

I was dumbfounded. Nightjar collapsed back into his chair holding his head in his hands, but said nothing more. Humiliated, I turned to Madame Adair and commenced posing her more respectfully on the divan and laid a coverlet over her frail body.

Forgive me, Winterbourne. You could not have known.

Known what, Jerusalem? You told me nothing.

An ancient prophecy, he murmured, almost drowsily. A child was born tonight; a child who will make the world a place of skulls.

CHAPTER 1 – ANY PORT IN A STORM

The story about the miraculous reappearance of the plane ran in the evening edition of the Clarion, but because the airline spokesperson had kept the more salacious facts of the case out of public circulation, the item was relegated to a few column inches half way down page four. The article stated only that the plane, which initially had been feared lost in the storm, had arrived safely after a brief delay.

David Dalton—known to friends, co-workers and thousands of American readers of the syndicated weekly feature The Adventures of Captain Falcon as Dodge—had not yet read that item or any other headlines in the evening edition as he stepped from the Clarion Building and into the storm-swept streets, but he was certainly making good use of the tabloid; he held it open, over his head, to deflect some of the torrential rains that had already soaked through his shoes. He wasn't terribly worried about getting wet; the urge to shelter himself was mostly automatic. If he'd stopped to think about it, he would have realized how foolish it looked and simply endured Mother Nature's assault, but his mind was a million miles—or more accurately, eight thousand miles—away.

The telegram was crumpled in his pocket, but its message had been burned into his memory: URGENT I SEE YOU...AMNH TONIGHT...CONCERNS OUTPOST...A. PENDLETON.

He knew Augustus Pendleton—Professor Augustus Pendleton—by reputation only, but that was enough to pique his interest. Pendleton, an expert on pre-Columbian archaeology, was one of a select group of scientists that had been made privy to the discoveries Dodge and his associates had made at the bottom of the world—a remote ice cavern in the permanent winter wilderness of Antarctica. They had taken to calling the place the Outpost, but that name said little about its true function; in fact, the purpose intended for the cavern by its designers, like the identity of those