Crimson Skies - Eric S. Nylund

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IN THE CROSSHAIRS
If Paladin tried to climb they'd be all over him. So

whatever was going to happen it was going to be low.
Belly-grinding low.
"Come and get me, you bastards."
The Avengers couldn't line up for a shot unless
they were diving straight toward him. He pushed the
yoke forward, hugged the sandy hills, and raced
—
past rocks and trees not giving them a static target.
If they wanted a shot at him they'd have to come
down and play in the dirt, where the agile flying wing
might have an advantage over the more cumbersome
Avengers.
Paladin glanced backward. Four planes were
falling fast after him. Two more were staying high,
presumably acting as spotters and radioing his
position back to their friends.
A stream of magnesium bullets blazed over his head
and a smoky rocket appeared, detonating
trail of a
against a rocky outcropping just a few feet from
his nose.
They wanted him all right. Bad enough to risk
their necks getting as close to the ground as he was.
Good. He looked back. A pair of the Avengers slowly
dropped behind him; they almost had him lined up
in their sights. . . .
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(HIIIS0IIS1IIQ
ERIC NYLUND,
MICHAEL B. LEE,
NANCY BERMAN,
ANB ERIC S. TRAUTMANN
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

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Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2002 by Microsoft Corporation
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copy-
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Cover painting by Stephen Daniele
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition: October 2002
OPM 10 987654321
Acknowledgments
Past
Crimson Skies owes a tremendous debt to the pulp writers

—
of yesterday most notably: Lester Dent, Walter Gibson,
R.T.M. Scott, and Robert J. Hogan.
Present
The of the Crimson Skies setting: Dave

original creators
McCoy and Jordan Weisman; Vic Bonilla, Derek Carroll,
Loren Coleman, Chris Hartford, John Howard, Tom Peters, and
Michael A. Stackpole; and the current torchbearers: Bran-
non W. Boren, Geoff Skellams, Clay Griffith, Noah Dudley,
and Brian Lowe; and Microsoft's Franchise Development
Group (Nancy Figatner and Doug Zartman).
Fhh
due to the Crimson Skies: High Road
Finally, special thanks are
To Revenge™ development team at Microsoft/Ironworks.
Singled out for conspicuous gallantry are: Scot Bayless, Ste-
phen Daniele, Jim Deal, Irvin Gee, John Hermanowski, Rob
Olson, and Jack Turk.
Contents
Introduction: Where Were You? 1
Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype 5
Intermission: Dark Clouds 1 1
The Manchurian Gambit 1 03
Intermission: Rogues and Thieves 206
Bayou Blues 209
Appendix 299
—
Introduction: Where Were Youl
was standing on the fiftieth floor of the Chrysler Building

I drinking champagne I could barely afford and dancing with
a beautiful blonde —when the United States fell apart.
was a quarter past midnight, and 1929 had just given way
It
to 1930. The Chrysler Building's night watchman, Gus, was a

pal, and he let my "companion" and me into the construction
site. We rode the elevator to the fiftieth floor. (The other floors
were still built, and wouldn't be completed until later
being
that year.)"See you later," Gus said with a wink, then rode the
elevator back down to the lobby.
The night was perfect. The nation was filled with hope for
the future. As a nation, we were digging ourselves out of
the blues that the Great War (and subsequent influenza epi-
demics) had caused. Sure, we had our differences, but this
was "one nation, indivisible." Ringing in the New Year, from
within a crowning symbol of what American ingenuity could
create, just felt . . . right.
At 12:22 a.m., the elevator reached the fiftieth floor and
Gus stepped out, his face pale. I was about to protest he'd —
told me the girl and I could hang around for a couple of hours,
and things were just starting to get interesting. "Come on,
Gus," I said. "What's the big idea?"
"Texas just seceded," Gus croaked. "I heard it on the
. . .
radio. They just up an' quit."

I bolted for the elevator, leaving the champagne, Gus, and
the girl behind.
I had been working as a stringer for a number of news-

papers all around New York City. I was still small potatoes in
Z Introduction
the journalism game, but I'd had a couple of big scoops now
and then. The editor over at Sentinel Publications liked me;
I'd done a nice piece on a corrupt city councilman for him.
I had to get to a typewriter, to a telephone, to anything so
I could find out what happened. The Sentinel Publications
building was six blocks away.

When I room was filled with veteran re-
got there, the
porters. Normally,when a big story broke, the room would be
choked with cigar smoke and bustling with the din of type-
writers and raised voices.
Tonight, the room was silent, save for the voice of a
shocked radio announcer: ". as of 12:01 a.m., January the
. .
first, nineteen hundred and thirty, the state of Texas has se-
ceded from the United States of America."

There had been noises for weeks from Texas, threats of
secession from the good ol' U.S. of A. The men in the room
who had covered the story just dismissed the ultimatums as
typical Texas bluster. No one really believed that an entire
state —
especially one the size of Texas —
would actually de-
clare independence from the United States. It was ridiculous.
Ludicrous.
had just happened.
It
had to name the biggest cause of the breakup, I'd have

If I
to say Freedom to Drink. The Federal initiative to ban alcohol
had failed a few years back (thanks to a fresh outbreak of
influenza, one that many blamed on our adventures in Europe
during the Great War). Voters stayed away from the polls dur-
ing the prior election, and a strong wave of states' rights plat-
forms won out. Now, each state determined for itself if it was
—
"wet" or "dry" if liquor was legal or illegal.
One of the first stories I covered didn't get a lot of press up
north, but was a big deal in the southern states: the Bluefield
Incident.
It was 1924, and the "bootlegger brushfires" were just
heating up. Kentucky and West Virginia actually ended up in

a brief shooting war with Virginia and North Carolina. At
stake was control of the Appalachians, the source of a large
percentage of illegal alcohol that was smuggled north.
The Virginia National Guard captured a large Kentucky
CRIMSONSKIES 3
convoy outside the town of Bluefield, only to discover that

their prize was a Kentucky guard unit running alcohol out of
the Appalachians toward the West Virginia border.
Though the courts maintained that the whole mess was in
Kentucky's jurisdiction, the men involved were tried and jailed
in Virginia on a number of charges —
some legitimate, but
most just trumped-up nonsense. Virginia refused Kentucky's
request to transfer the men back to their home state, and later
rejected a similar "suggestion" from Washington, D.C.
Only under the threat of U.S. Army intervention did Vir-
ginia finally release the prisoners to federal authorities, al-
most two years after their capture.
I I believe that the Feds moving
can't say for certain, but
inand dealing with the problem made secession inevitable.
Texas was just the first to fall, and when it left the Union,
others quickly followed suit. Soon, the Federal govern-
ment lost ground; now, only the tiny nation of Columbia
Washington, D.C, with a small amount of Virginia and
—
Maryland territory thrown in is all that remains of the once-
proud United States.
The new North American nations are an eclectic mix, from
Pacifica and the Nation of Hollywood in the west, to the Em-
pire State, the Maritime Provinces, and the Confederation
of Dixie in the east. The Christian Communist nation, the
People's Collective, dominates the central United States, along
with its capitalist arch-rival along the Great Lakes, the Indus-
trial States of America.
—
North America's love of airplanes rooted in the exotic,
—
adventurous mystique surrounding them became a matter
of necessity as trade between the new North American inde-
pendent nations ground to a halt. The intercontinental railway
system was no longer viable since the rails now crossed hos-
tile national borders. The automobile gave way to gyrotaxis,
aerobuses, and large cargo zeppelins that commanded the sky

lines and made trade possible between friendly nations.
Shortly after zeppelin trade routes were established, the
first "air pirates" captured the public eye. Generally small,
disorganized bands of thrill-seekers and publicity hounds,
4 Introduction
these pirates began crime sprees that would inspire others to

follow in their footsteps years later.
Which brings me to own gang

Nathan Zachary and his
of air pirates, the Fortune Hunters. Zacharyone of many is
air bandits, a man with a reputation for bravery, daring, and

intelligence —
a flamboyant Robin Hood for the modern
aero-age.
He's a thief and a grifter, tobe sure. He's a wanted man
in many nations, both in North America and abroad. Still,
Zachary's exploits have captured the public eye. He never
steals from those who can't afford it, and he refuses to harm
the innocent during his crimes.
They say a man is judged by the quality of his opponents. If
this is true,then Nathan Zachary is at the top of his game; his
opponents are formidable, indeed. Spicy Air Tales is pleased
to present the following trio of tales, which showcases Na-
than Zachary and his foes.
Perhaps one of the most dangerous enemies a pirate faces
in the skies of North America is Paladin Blake a dedicated —
pirate fighter, bent on ridding the skies of crime. Today, Blake
is a wealthy captain of industry, respected across North
America. But before he tangled with Nathan Zachary, before

he became the continent's premier air security ace, he was
a down-on-his-luck pilot, struggling to keep his business
afloat.
Strap in, throttle up, and enjoy "Paladin Blake and the
Case of the Phantom Prototype."
—Nero MacLeon
Editor in Chief, Spicy Air Tales
Manhattan, 1938
Paladin Blake and
the Case of the
Phantom Prototype
From the Files of Blake Aviation Security
by Eric Nylund
I: Bourbon and Red Ink
Paladin Blake took a bottle of bourbon from his desk

drawer. He grabbed two glasses from the watercooler, set
them on his blotter, and opened the bottle. This was the ritual
he performed after every assignment.
No ritual, though, would save Blake Aviation Security
from bankruptcy.
Sunlight and fresh air streamed through his office window.
Paladin watched the sun set behind the Santa Monica pier.
The view cost him a bundle in overhead. He lowered the
blinds.
With a steady hand, he poured the twelve-year-old bourbon
into the glasses. He set one by the photograph of his father.
"Here you go, you old bootlegger."
In the picture, his father sat on the wing of his plane, a
pistol in one hand. In the other hand, the elder Blake held a
bottle identical to the one on Paladin's desk.
"And here's to coming home alive."
This last assignment had been a peach. Only one of his
planes had been shot down. Pretty good, considering Blake
Aviation Security had put five pirates into the drink deliv-
ering silver bullion to the Kingdom of Hawai'i. The payoff
had been considerable.
For every success, however, there were two assignments
that lost money because of hospital bills, repairs, mainte-
nance for his fleet of a dozen aircraft. and checks sent to
. .
his pilots' widows. Paladin was pouring money into his com-
pany by the bucketful.
He pulled out the company ledger and sighed. Red ink tat-
tooed its pages.
—
8 Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
Paladin cradled his glass of bourbon, warming it until he

could smell the smoky aroma. He clinked the glass to his fa-
ther's. "Don't worry, Dad. No matter what it takes, I'll get
every last one of them for you. Even if it means doing it
alone."
He poured the two glasses back into the bottle, then put it
away. The ritual was over.

Running Blake Aviation Security hadn't always been like
this. Every day, though, the job grew harder. There were more
pirates in the air, and, as improbable as it seemed, they were

becoming bolder. From Maine to Hollywood to Alaska — the
skies were heating to a boil.
Paladin stared at the bleeding ledger. There had to be a way
to squeeze a profit from these numbers.
The intercom buzzed. "Mr. Blake?" his secretary asked.
"There's a Mr. Justin here to see you."
"Tell him to make an appointment."
"Mr. Justin?" she repeated. ". . . representing the Lock-
heed Corporation?"
Paladin lost his place in the columns and rows. "You said
'Lockheed'?"
"Yes."
A corporation like Lockheed could mean, for once, a fat
profit margin. The boost in prestige couldn't hurt Blake Avia-
tion Security, either. It could lead to other corporate clients
real money. Maybe enough to finally get his company off the
ground.
But he was getting ahead of himself. He didn't know what
Lockheed wanted. "Send him in."
Paladin quickly slipped on his suspenders, tucked in his
shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. He stood and
slammed the ledger shut.

The office door opened. A man paused in the doorway.
He was seven feet tall if he was an inch, and he had to
turn his wide shoulders to clear the door frame. Paladin had
never seen a size sixty-four Italian-cut suit before enough —
navy blue wool to make a tent. The color of his gray silk
tie matched his pointed beard. Bushy brows arched over his
blue eyes.
CRIMSON SKIES 9
"Paladin Blake?" There was a richness to his voice, a

slight Slavic accent. "I am Peter Justin." He extended a hand
that engulfed Paladin's as they shook.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Justin?" Paladin gestured to a
padded chair.
Justin gracefully sat. "Lockheed has business for you, Mr.
Blake. Security business."
"Good," Paladin said. "Great." He slowly sank into his
added, "But Lockheed has its own security. Why
chair, then
use us?"
"I am well aware of Lockheed's security resources, Mr.
Blake. I am
in charge of them." Justin reached into his coat
and removed a sterling cigarette case, opened it, and offered
one to Paladin.
"No, thanks," Paladin said.
Justin took a cigarette for himself. "Lockheed requires an
outsider for this particular assignment, an outsider with an
impeccable record and a reputation for discretion. In short,
we need j>ow."
"I see," Paladin said, not really seeing anything, but man-
aging to sound nonchalant. "Tell me about it."
"A simple matter," Justin replied and rolled his unlit ciga-
rette between his fingers. "Two months ago, parts for a new
aircraft disappeared from our Pasadena facility. Last week,
the blueprints disappeared from our vault —then reappeared.
We are concerned that a prototype we recently constructed
will vanish next. So we want you to fly this prototype."
Paladin held up his hand. "I'm no test pilot. I'm a good
combat pilot, but you need
—
"There is no testing involved. The plane is quite airworthy,
I assure you. All we require from you is to deliver the plane to
our secure base in the Mojave Desert." He fished into his coat
pocket again, this time retrieving a slender notebook and gold
fountain pen.
"You see," Justin said, leaning forward, "we cannot afford
to trust anyone at Pasadena. The mechanics, engineers, even
our test pilots could have been responsible for the previous
thefts. This completed prototype will be a tempting target."
10 Pa lad in Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
"I didn't know Lockheed had an airfield in the Mojave

Desert."
"Few do," Justin replied. "Which is another reason to
employ someone with your reputation for discretion." He
opened his notebook and scrawled on it. He tore off a sheet
and pushed it across the desk. "The first half of our payment
to Blake Aviation Security."
Paladin scrutinized the note. It was a Lockheed corporate
check drawing on assets from the First Bank of Hollywood.
There was a line of zeros neatly arranged after the first
number in the amount box.
After a moment, Justin cleared his throat. "Mr. Blake? I
trust the amount is adequate?"
Paladin's mouth was suddenly dry. "Yes. Adequate." He
swallowed and got his bearings. "For this kind of money,
though, I assume you expect trouble?"
"No, Mr. Blake. I expect this kind of money will buy
Lockheed a decided lack of trouble."
Paladin looked again at the number on the check. It was
too good to be true —
especially for a quick run over the San
Bernardino Mountains. Or maybe there was no catch. Maybe
this is exactly what he needed: a juicy contract.
Even if there was a catch, Justin was playing his cards
close to his vest. If Blake Aviation Security didn't take the
job, Justin could find a dozen other outfits to take his money.
"I assure you, Mr. Justin, Blake Aviation Security can
handle any trouble."
"Excellent." Justin stood and smoothed his suit. "I knew we
could do business. Meet me at five o'clock at the Pasadena
airfield."
"My team and I will be there."
Justin crinkled hisbushy eyebrows. "You misunderstood
me, Mr. Blake." He set his still-unlit cigarette in the ashtray.
— —
"You and you alone are required. At the last minute, you
will replace our test pilot on tomorrow's scheduled flight. Ad-
ditional planes will only draw unwanted attention."
Cloak-and-dagger operations weren't exactly Paladin's
style. He preferred force to stealth —
preferably the force of a
heavily armed squadron of his best fighter pilots.
CRIMSON SKIES II
But what choice did he really have?

"Okay," Paladin said. "It's your show. I'll be there like you
want. Alone."
"I shall make the arrangements." Justin shook Paladin's
hand again, then turned and closed the door behind him so
softly that Paladin didn't hear it click shut.
Paladin's eye fell upon the unlit cigarette Justin had left in
the ashtray. It was one of those black European deals, expen-

siveand hard to get since the collapse of the United States.
Big money or not, something didn't sit right. Lockheed
wouldn't dole out this kind of cash unless they thought they'd
get a good return on their investment. And why, if Justin
couldn't trust his people, was he trusting Blake Aviation Se-
knew his outfit was small potatoes.
curity? Paladin
He picked up the phone and dialed. It rang six times before
someone answered.
"Dash? Get out of bed. I know you just got off a deadline.
Look, I need a favor, some information. Find Jimmy the Rap
and meet me at the Club Gorgeio, say ten o'clock? Good."
Paladin hung up, then buzzed his secretary. "Dust off my
tuxedo. I've got business tonight."
Out of the corner of his eye, Paladin spied the picture of his
looked like the old bootlegger was laughing at him.
father. It
The Club Gorgeio was packed with wall-to-wall tuxedos,

slinky sequined evening gowns, and buxom waitresses laden
with trays of cocktails. A haze of smoke gave the air a velvet
texture.The band played "Hop Off."
Paladin, Dashiell, and Jimmy the Rap sat at a secluded
corner table. Paladin told them about his visit this afternoon.
"I dropped by the First Bank of Hollywood," Paladin said.
"Got a friend to run the check's serial numbers. They verified
Justin's signature. It's legit."
Dashiell tapped out a cigarette and lit up. "I don't like it,
Paladin." He puffed once. "It doesn't add up."

Dashiell wore a La Blanca tuxedo, the same label as Pala-
din, only he managed to make it look like a million bucks. It
hadn't a crease or a speck of dust on it. His hair was slicked
back, and his pencil-thin mustache was perfectly trimmed.
IZ Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
At the opposite end of the fashion spectrum was Jimmy the

Rap. Jimmy fidgeted, uncomfortable and out of place in his
two-bit tweed suit and crumpled tie. He finished his second
drink in a single gulp.
"Doesn't add up how?" Paladin asked.
Two years ago, Dashiell had been a stringer for Air Action
Weekly —a starving writer working under a pseudonym, in
desperate need of money until his "serious" projects paid off.
Paladin put him to work checking the backgrounds of his

clientsand the competition, since Dashiell had a flair for re-
search and a nose for treachery. Later, when he hit it big
. . .
with book deals and movie screenplays, suddenly everyone

was his friend, from mobsters to studio executives to starlets.
His good fortune, though, was Paladin's, too. Just as Dashiell
had used Paladin's real-life escapades for his fiction, Paladin
now used Dashiell's connections and smarts as a writer to
solve real mysteries.
"It doesn'tadd up," Dashiell said, "because Mr. Peter
Justin, aka Piotr 'Neyasvy Pushkarev, is an ace pilot."
'
"I never heard of him," Paladin replied.

"You wouldn't have." Dashiell tapped the ashes off his
cigarette. "He was a hero of the Russian revolution. That is, a
hero, if you were a White Russian. His family escaped to
Alaska, but not before the Reds got some of them. He made a
name for himself up there before Lockheed hired him ... or
so I've heard." Dashiell waved his cigarette in a flamboyant
Maybe you can tell
gesture. "You're a pilot, Paladin. me why
someone like that would give up his prize aircraft?"
"He wouldn't," Paladin muttered.
Dashiell turned to Jimmy. "What about these stolen parts?
What's the word on the street?"
Jimmy slid out of his chair and took a step toward the exit.
Paladin set a hand on Jimmy the Rap's shoulder, pushing
him back into his seat.
The "Rap" part of Jimmy's name came from his pair of
both cases, he could have spilled his guts
stints in prison. In
and walked a.vay clean. The fact that he refused to rat out his
former associates had earned him the reputation of being a
—
man who kept his mouth shut he was willing to take the rap.
CRIMSON SKIES 13
It made him a valuable middleman to the shadier busi-
nessmen of Hollywood.
Jimmy walked a tightrope, though. One word from Dashiell
to Jimmy's parole officer and he'd be off the streets until his
hair was gray. One slipup with his employers, and he'd be off
the streets permanently.
Paladin pressed a twenty into Jimmy's sweaty palm. "The
parts?"
Jimmy's gaze darted around the room, then settled on Pala-
din."These ain't no spark plugs that got taken. We're talking
"
engine blocks, a spare fuselage, and some sorta aerobrake
"So who bought them?" Dashiell asked.
Paladin slid his untouched scotch to Jimmy.
Jimmy downed it. "That's the strange thing," he said. "The
guys with the brains to fence something that big Icepick —
—
Marvin, the Weston Brothers they've all taken vacations . .
real sudden-like."
"That doesn't make sense," Paladin said.
"Unfortunately, it does," Dashiell replied. "Someone big
engineered these thefts from Lockheed. It stands to reason
someone just as big wants to purchase the items. Someone
big enough to make Jimmy's nastier associates think twice
about getting involved."
"So what do you suggest?" Paladin asked.
"I'm going up to Santa Barbara for the weekend. You, my
dear Paladin, are in way over your head. I suggest you tag
along and take a vacation, too."
"I know I'm in over my head," Paladin whispered. "Way
over. But if Blake Aviation Security is ever going to be more
than a small-time operation, I've got to get in that deep." He
stood.
"Thanks for the information and the advice, Dashiell.
You'll have to excuse me, though. I've got a plane to fly in the
morning."
2: A Wing and a Prayer
The sun wasn't upyet. Paladin fumbled in the dark until
his hands found his bag and parachute in the aerotaxi's

trunk.
The driver craned his head out the window. "You need a
hand, buddy?"
"Got it," Paladin said. He slung his chute over his shoulder
and paid the driver.
"Lots of flyboys showing up here lately," the driver said.
"They all bring their chutes. Don't Lockheed have the bucks
to spring for you guys?"
"Sure they do," Paladin said. "But when there's nothing
between you and the ground except a mile of air, would you
trust someone else to pack your silk?"
"Point taken," the driver said. He started to roll up his
window
"Wait." Paladin passed the driver a dollar tip. "When did a
lot of pilots show up here?"
"A week ago." The taxi driver pocketed the dollar. "Maybe
a dozen. All flyboys . . . either that or parachute salesmen."
"Thanks," Paladin replied. He marched to the security
shack at the eastern gate.
Pilots with their own chutes meant independent operators.
Why was Justin hiring more outsiders? Was he rotating his
because he didn't trust anyone? Paladin
test pilots regularly
under "miscellaneous curiosities." He'd ask later.

filed that
The guard inside the shack tracked Paladin's approach

with an unwavering glare.
"John Smith to see Mr. Justin," Blake said, using the phony
CRIMSON SKIES 15
name Justin had insisted on. He felt like a heel, just saying the
name. John Smith — real original.
"You're expected." The guard made a check on his clip-
board. He lifted the barricade and waved Paladin through.
The guard then handed him a brass key. "Pilots' lockers are
there." He pointed to the nearest hangar.
Paladin stole a glance at the clipboard. The only thing
written on the page was his phony name.
"Got it," Paladin said, and started toward the hangar.
Through the slowly dissipating fog, Paladin saw a dozen
other hangars, and in the distance, the gray outlines of two
zeppelin aerodromes. A hundred planes were precisely parked
on the tarmac: every make of bomber and fighter, even a fleet
of autogyros. There were no people, though. Sure, it was five
o'clock in the morning, but there should be mechanics or
guards . someone. The place was a ghost town.
. .
Paladin entered the hangar. On the other side of a row of

gleaming P2 Warhawks was a building, presumably the pi-
lots' locker room.
"Hello?"
Only an echo answered.
It wasn't too late to accept Dashiell's offer: a weekend of
starlets and sailing in Santa Barbara. But that wouldn't bring

in the cash he needed to save Blake Aviation Security.
No. This setup may be getting weirder by the second, but
Paladin couldn't afford to lose the job. He chalked up his
growing unease to preflight jitters.
Paladin walked into the changing room. There were show-
ers and rows of large lockers with benches. He examined the
brass key the guard had given him. Stamped on it was A303.
He found locker A303 and opened it. Inside hung a flight
suit and a fur-lined jacket; there were gloves, leather helmet,
goggles, a steel lunch box, and a new parachute. The flight
suit had a Lockheed logo embroidered on the back, and the
name johnny stitched on the right front pocket.
Paladin slipped into the suit, jacket, and gloves. They were
a perfect fit.
"Mr. Blake?"
Peter Justin stood in the doorway — or rather, his body
16 Paladin Make and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
filled the doorway. He wore a gray suit, green tie, and he

looked crisp and fresh. "If you could don the helmet, as
well —
in case anyone spots us?"
Paladin put on the helmet and goggles.
"Our time is limited," Justin said, "so please follow me."
He turned and strode away.
Paladin picked up his bag, the lunch pail, and his own
parachute, kicked the locker shut, then trotted after the big
Russian.
He caught up to Justin on the tarmac. "I admire your thor-
oughness," Paladin said. "No one here but the one guard at
the gate. The prearranged equipment. Like clockwork. If I
didn't know better,

I'd say you had the fix in on the fog, too,
just to keep everything under wraps."
"I also took the liberty of packing you a lunch," Justin said,
without pause in his gigantic stride. "A thermos of coffee and
two sandwiches, one jelly and peanut butter, and one liver-
wurst. I was unsure which you preferred." He pointed into the
fog. "There she is."
Paladin squinted, and saw a plane's silhouette ... at least
the wing of a plane.
No. It was all wing. It reminded Paladin of the Ravenscroft
—
Coyote the mainstay of the Navajo and Lakota air militias.
Unlike the Coyote, which sported a single "pusher" prop, this
bird had engines mounted on the leading edge. The cockpit
was a bubble in the center of the craft, and twin .30-caliber
guns were mounted underneath. There were control flaps
along the wing, but it lacked anything that resembled a
rudder.
"You can't be serious," Paladin said. "It'll spin out of
control."
"No, Mr. Blake, it will not. The controls are sensitive, but
they function quite well. Rolls-Royce developed the concept,
but they never pursued the design. We recently purchased
their patent."
Paladin walked around the plane. Something else was
wrong. He stepped back and figured it out. The proportions
were out of kilter. The plane had huge engines, a tiny fuse-
CRIMSON SKIES 17
and limited control surfaces. It was all power. Maneu-

lage,
it would be impossible.
vering wouldn't be difficult;
"Has this thing even been/foww before?"
Justin laughed. "Many times. It is safe." He crinkled his
bushy brows together. "Assuming the pilot is sufficiently
skilled. You are not having second thoughts, are you?"
Paladin had been having third, fourth, and fifth thoughts
about this job since he met Peter Justin. "No," he said. "No
second thoughts."
"My ground crew inspected her last night. I have person-
ally double-checked their assessment."
Paladin climbed onto the wing and slid back the canopy.
Inside, wires spilled out of empty sockets where some of the
gauges had been ripped out. Sections of the floor were ex-
posed, revealing the guns and the landing gear struts.
"Someone hasn't finished putting this thing together."
"It is a working prototype, Mr. Blake, not a finished
product. Certain amenities have been overlooked. The plane,
however, is eminently airworthy. Now — " He removed a map
—
from his pocket. " if you could give me your attention."
Paladin stowed his gear in the cockpit and climbed down.
Justin unfolded a map of southern Hollywood. "I have
traced your route. You will cross the mountains here." He
smoothed his thumb over a red line on the paper. "If you ex-
perience problems, you are to immediately land at the Palm-
dale airstrip, or at Palm Springs, should you end up farther
east. As a last resort there is the dry lake bed." He circled a
large region outlined in yellow. "Ifyou experience any dif-
ficulties, call for help on the channel marked B. We will
abandon the secrecy of this mission and send a squadron to
retrieve you."
Paladin followed the route. It ended in the middle of no-
where. "And Lockheed's secure facility is here?"
"Yes. You will receive the balance of your fee upon
landing. Is this acceptable?"
"Sure." Paladin frowned. "No, not quite acceptable. Can I
ask you a personal question, Mr. Justin?"

Justin glanced at his watch. "A quick one."
"I've always made it a point to know my clients. I mean,
— .
know who they really are. Your real name isn't Peter Justin
it's Piotr Pushkarev. You fought in the Russian Revolution on
the side of the Whites and earned the nickname Neyasvy,

which, I'm told, means 'invincible.' When the battle spilled
into Alaska, you fought there, too. You're an ace pilot. A
hero."
Justin locked eyes with Paladin. He didn't smile to hide his
unease, nor was there even a raised eyebrow betraying shock.
"And your question?"
"Why the fake identity? You have every reason not to trust
anyone with your prototype. But why am I flying it? Why
aren't you?"
"Your information-gathering skills are indeed impressive,
Mr. Blake, but you are incorrect on one point. My name is
Peter Justin. I have had it legally changed. As for not trusting
—
anyone else you are correct. I do not.
"I am forced by circumstances to trust you. You my
skills
—" His gaze dropped to the ground. "It is
see,
not easy,
when one reaches a certain age. My reflexes, my eyesight . .
they are not what they once were. I am still a patriot, and I still
serve in my own way, but I cannot risk that which I have been
hired to protect to prove that I am something I am not."
It took a big man to admit that. Would Paladin be as smart
when he started to lose his edge? He hoped so. There were no

old fighter pilots.
"I'm sorry," Paladin said. "I had to ask."
"If you knew my reputation and walked into this blindly, it
would mean you are a fool. I am glad to see you are not."
Justin glanced again at his watch. "Now, if there are no fur-
ther questions, we must get you into the air."
Paladin climbed into the cockpit. The seat was rock hard,
and his long legs didn't fit. He managed to adjust it until he
was merely uncomfortable.
He fired up the engines. They coughed and sputtered and
caught. Despite Justin's assurances about the plane's condi-
tion, they sounded out of tune.
Justin circled behind the plane, climbed the wing, and
leaned into the cockpit. "You have already been cleared with
CRIMSON SKIES 19
the tower. The runway is yours, Mr. Blake. Good flying." He

gave Paladin a thumbs-up, then slid the canopy over his head.
It closed with a solid click.
Paladin returned the thumbs-up and waited for Justin to
climb off before easing the plane out onto the tarmac. Blue
lights winked down the runway. The fog was still thick, re-
two hundred feet
stricting visibility to not the best take-
. . .
off conditions.
Paladin clicked on the transceiver and called in a radio
check. The tower confirmed and told him he had the runway
to himself.
He eased the throttle forward. The flying wing accelerated
quickly. Paladin let her build speed for a moment, then pulled
back. The plane soared into the air — teetered and almost
flipped into a roll.
when he said the controls were sensi-
Justin wasn't kidding
tive. He'd have to be more careful.
Paladin held his angle and climbed. The altimeter said four
hundred feet. He glanced down at the grid of Pasadena
streets, the orange groves, and the foothills ahead. He judged
his altitude to be over two thousand. The oil pressure gauge

pulsed up and down. His rpm indicator read zero.
" 'Certain amenities have been overlooked,' huh?" Paladin
muttered. He tapped the fuel gauge. It read full, but he wasn't
sure if he believed it.
No instruments he could trust

This wasn't going to work.
and a plane only half-assembled? How was he going to spend
Lockheed's money if he crashed? He should turn back now
while he had the chance.
Paladin pushed the left rudder petal. The plane banked so
sharply that the hull groaned and his harness cut into his
shoulders.
This plane moved like nothing he had ever flown. He
wasn't sure how it was maneuvering, but it was as agile as a
dragonfly. He continued the turn, then rolled the flying wing,
the maneuver crushing him into his seat.
That was almost fun. Maybe he could fly this thing, after all.
Paladin pushed the throttle to three-quarters power. The

ZO Pa lad n Blake and the Case of the
i Phantom Prototype
wing jumped forward. He nosed her over the San Bernardino

Mountains, admired the snow on Mount Baldy, then dropped
altitude, and skimmed over the treetops.
This little flying wing was growing on him. The controls
were twitchy, though; every nudge jinked the plane.
He crossed the summit, and the Mojave Desert stretched
out beneath him, flat and gray, painted with yellow dust-storm
streaks far in the distance. He aimed for the Saddleback
Buttes. From there, according to Justin's flight plan, he'd
head due east into the middle of nowhere.
So far, smooth sailing.
Paladin reached back for the lunch pail and spotted —
planes on his six. A pack of Grumman Avengers.
He'd been an idiot. He'd been busy enjoying the ride, and
had forgotten that this wasn V a ride. It was a job. A job he
might have just botched.
He squinted. Five of them. No registration numbers. That
meant pirates. But there were also no symbols, crests, or
markings of any kind. He'd never seen a pirate not decorate
his plane. So who were they?
He waggled the flying wing to indicate he was friendly.
They fired. Bullet holes stitched his port wing.
"So much for trying to be neighborly," Blake growled,
nosing his plane into a dive.
Paladin skimmed along the slope of the mountain, then
pulled up hard. He pushed the throttle to maximum, looped
the plane, —
and then pushed her into a dive emerging behind
his attackers.
Before they could scatter, he lined up a shot and fired the
prototype's guns.
Fire belchedfrom his .30-caliber cannons. He peppered
the of one of the Avengers, destroying the rudder.
tail
Paladin whooped, pleased with his marksmanship.

Both his guns jammed.
—
"What the ?" He squeezed the trigger again. Nothing.
The loss of his plane's guns made the firelight far too
one-sided for Paladin's liking. He grabbed the radio: "May-
day, Mayday. Lockheed special flight encountering pirates.
Mayday, Mayday."
CRIMSON SKIES 21
There was no response. Not even static.
All right, he thought. / can 't fight or get help. Maybe I can
outrun them.
Paladin peeled off and headed straight into the sun.
"Come on," he whispered to the plane. "Faster!"
The Avengers turned to match his new heading, but he was
putting some distance between his bird and the attackers.
Good. He had a chance.
Bullets riddled the back of the flying wing. A rocket whistled
past him; a second impacted near the port engine. There was
a shower of sparks and shrapnel. The motor sputtered and
stalled.
Paladin knew when he was beat. He checked his parachute
to make sure it was strapped on tight.
"I'm sorry, Justin," he murmured, "but it looks like I've
just lost your plane."
Another volley of bullets tattooed the flying wing.
Paladin pulled on the canopy's release. With luck, he
wouldn't be shot on the way down.
The canopy didn't budge. He pulled harder, with all his
strength. No dice.
He was stuck inside.
3: In the Crosshairs
Paladin was a dead man if he didn't get out of this flying

His plane spiraled out of control sky and clouds
coffin. —
and yellow earth whirled around the cockpit.
He yanked again on the canopy's latch, but it was wrenched
tight. He needed a crowbar, a screwdriver ... or a gun. He did
have a gun, a Colt .45 automatic he had packed in his bag.
He twisted in the seat, quickly rummaging through the
tangles of cables, wires, and fuel lines where he had set
his bag. It wasn't there. He searched the floor and spotted the
bag. It had fallen through the exposed sections of the unfin-
ished cockpit. The bag's strap was snared on the strut of his
—
U Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
landing gear, three feet beneath him. If he were a contortionist,

he might be able to reach through and get it; otherwise, that
three feet might as well be three miles.
There was no choice. He was trapped inside. He had to get
the plane running.
He flipped the kill switch for the port engine, reset it, and
pushed the starter. The engine coughed smoke and wept oil
across the wing. He pushed the starter a second time, a third.
Flames shot out of the casing as the motor roared to life.
Paladin laughed —half elated, half panicked.

He pushed the throttle to full and pulled back on the yoke.
He had to gain some altitude.
The flyingwing groaned and shuddered. Paladin closed
his eyes and willed his craft to hold together, willed the plane
to climb. He opened his eyes and saw his spiral descent had
straightened.
Paladin sighed. That was a lucky break. The port engine,
though, wouldn't run for long. He had to find a
Bullets riveted across his starboard wing. Magnesium
rounds sizzled into the metal ... too close to the fuel tank for
comfort.
His attackers were still on his tail.
Paladin quickly weighed his options. Itwas five against
one. If his attackers didn't shoot his flying wing into confetti,
then his engine would seize up. In either case, with the
canopy jammed, he had a one-way express ticket straight
down. There had to be a way out of this mess, a way to open
the canopy.
There was. Maybe. Paladin stared at the smoldering bullet
holes.He'd had some wild ideas before; this one qualified as
downright nuts.
He eased up on the throttle and allowed the lead Avenger to
catch up to him. He had to give them a better shot.
Bullets peppered the fuselage. Paladin jerked left. The line
of bullet holes curved right — off the flying wing, completely
missing him.
The yoke bucked under his hands, fighting his control. It
was nearly impossible to hold the plane steady as shot up as it
CRIMSON SKIES 23
was, but Paladin had to if he was going to pull this off. He

loosened his grip and forced himself to relax, preparing to
react to the plane's erratic pitching and yawing.
He heard another burst from the Avenger's guns, felt stac-
cato impacts as bullets stitched across the starboard wing. He

jinked the plane to the right. Slugs ripped into the fuselage
just where he had hoped —across the canopy.
Shrapnel blasted into the cockpit. Paladin screamed as red-
hot metal tore through his shoulder and blood spattered
across the clear canopy dome.
He huddled over in pain and slammed the yoke forward.
The flying wing dived. The ground was only a thousand
feet away.
Paladin —
made a feeble attempt to pull back then stopped,
startledby what sounded like a locomotive slamming into
the plane. The port engine seized. Pistons and rods ripped
through the casing, and bolts zinged off the nose. Exploding
scrap metal shredded half the wing.
The only flying possible with this plane now was the kind
you did with a halo.
He glanced at the canopy latch. Between the Avenger's
.30-caliber bullets and the engine detonating, it had made
Swiss cheese out of the lever and track. Out of the corner of
his eye he saw the ground rushing up, maybe six hundred feet
left. He unbuckled his seat belt and pulled on the latch.
It moved, but not enough to open.
He swiveled in his seat, ripping through the tangle of wires

and hydraulic lines around his feet. He kicked at the latch
once, twice. The canopy ripped open with a rush of wind.
Paladin tumbled out of the cockpit.
There was a blur of blue skies, smears of cirrostratus, a
flash of the desert floor rapidly approaching ... so close he
saw spiny Joshua trees and a jackrabbit bounding for cover.
Paladin wrapped his fingers around the rip cord and
—
pulled rope and silk unraveled and caught the air. His body
snapped like a whip, and he howled in pain as his harness
He hit the ground. His legs
bit into his injured shoulder.
crumpled; he rolled, tangling himself in rope and fabric,
sticks and sand.
—
He lay there, dazed and wrapped in blood-flecked white

silk. He wondered if he were still alive. There was grit and
blood in his mouth. His shoulder felt like it was on fire
and twisted out of joint. Every muscle in his legs and back
ached, too.
He had to be alive. You couldn't feel this lousy if you
were dead.
Paladin unbuckled his parachute and wriggled out from
under the silk. The sun was a handbreadth above the horizon,
but the desert was already hot. His head was ringing. Or was
that just the crickets buzzing their high-pitched song? A dry
wind kicked up and pelted his flight suit with sand.
He smelled smoke, turned, and saw the source: a serpen-
tine column of flame and soot emanating from the flying
wing's crash site.
"Sorry, Justin. I blew it."

It wasn't only Justin he had failed. He'd lose Blake Avia-
tion Security over this fiasco. He should have radioed for help
the second he saw those Avengers. He shouldn't have tried
to outmaneuver them, shouldn't have allowed his plane
correction: Lockheed's plane —
to get shot out from under
him. It was his fault.
Overhead, he heard the unmistakable drone of the Avengers'
Feldman sixteen- valve engines. One of the Avengers trailed
smoke. Paladin must have gotten more than a piece of his tail
rudder.
They circled like buzzards. One peeled off —his wingman
followed. Then another pair dived in graceful arcs . . . arcs
that lined them up perfectly for strafing runs.
Paladin half ran, half limped for the nearest twiggy creo-
He crouched in the improbable cover of its shadow
sote bush.
and watched as the Avengers leveled off at fifty feet and fired.
Bullets carved lines in the sand.
He flinched, fully expecting the rows of magnesium
rounds to rip him
But they weren't shooting at him. In-
apart.
wreckage of the flying wing.
stead, they hit the
The four Avengers circled, made another run, this time
dropping bombs. The bombs detonated, sending a shower of
silver sparks into the air. They made another low-altitude
CRIMSON SKIES ZS
pass, then climbed, apparently satisfied with their destructive

handiwork.
Paladin stood and shook the sand out of his helmet. It
didn't make sense.

He understood the ambush. Justin's "airtight" security ob-
viously wasn't.Someone at Lockheed had gotten wind of his
plan and knew exactly where and when to nab the prototype.
But they hadn't even tried to take it intact.
Paladin walked toward the wreckage. His knees wobbled
but held.
—
The flying wing the twisted bits of black steel that were
left —
no longer resembled an airplane. It looked like someone
had taken a can opener to it. The stench of melting rubber and
burning aviation fuel forced him back. There would be no
salvaging the radio or his bag of gear. The cockpit was a
charred crater. If he hadn't jumped when he did, there would
have only been pieces of him left for the scorpions.
He examined his shoulder, gingerly peeling back the
tattered flight suit. The wound was deep but cleanly cauter-
ized about the edges. Nothing life threatening . . . but it hurt
like hell.
Paladin clenched his fists, then uncoiled them and exhaled.
He'd get even with those Avengers. But who were they?
They could be the same thieves stealing from Lockheed.
They'd gone to a lot of trouble to get a few parts and the pro-
totype's blueprints; yet, they had wasted a chance to get their
hands on the real thing. Did destroying the prototype make
their parts more valuable?
If they weren't the Lockheed thieves — if they were,
for instance, Lockheed's corporate competition —then that
would explain the lack of pirate on the Avengers. It
insignia
wouldn't explain, though, why they hadn't been eager to get a
look at the flying wing. Destroying it set Lockheed back only
a few months while they built a new one.
There were too many missing pieces to this puzzle.
Paladin scanned the skies and spotted the Avengers. They
were flyspecks in the distance now, seemingly hovering on
the northern horizon, dwindling into the distance.
With them dwindled his chances for filling in those

missing pieces.
Paladin turned and walked south. There should be a road
along the base of the San Bernardino Mountains. If not, he'd
have to head for the pass. That was at least a day's walk.
He looked back, shielded his eyes. The Avengers were
flecks of dust, one trailing a thread of smoke. They were still
on a northern bearing.
North? What was north? Lockheed's secret facility was
northeast. Palmdale was to the west. Palm Springs was east.
Those Avengers should be heading back to civilization, not
away from it. They had a range of six hundred miles, so they
could be headed anywhere. Not the one Paladin had shot,
though. It had a bad rudder and engine problems. He shouldn't
be flying into the middle of the desert.
Paladin looked back at the mountains. That way was Pasa-
dena, where he would have to explain to Justin how he had
turned his ultrasecret prototype flying wing into a heap of
scrap metal. Lockheed would take over the investigation into
the ambush. It would be the end of Blake Aviation Security.
He turned north.
That way led to wherever those Avengers were headed. It
was a walk into the middle of nowhere. It would be a heck of

a lot more trouble than it was worth. He might die of thirst,
blood loss, or a rattlesnake bite. But it could lead to some
answers.
Paladin took a deep breath and then started marching
deeper into the desert.
"I should have listened to Dashiell and gone to Santa
Barbara."
It was almost dawn. A band of navy blue wavered on the

horizon. Another half hour, and the sun would turn this ice
locker back into an oven.
It had been a day since Paladin had walked onto Lock-
heed's Pasadena airfield and flew Justin's little plane. Twenty-
four hours, most of them spent staggering under a sweltering
CRIMSON SKIES Z7
sun, thinking every step of the way about what a long shot he
was chasing.
He must have hit his head harder than he realized when he
bailed out. No one in their right mind would have gone after
those Avengers on foot.
Paladin stopped. He resisted the urge to lick his cracked
lips.One day without water was bad enough. He had at least
another day going back the way he came.
How far could that shot-up Avenger have gotten? Appar-
ently farther than he could on foot. He scanned the sky like he
had a thousand times before. He'd seen plenty of ravens and
bats but not a single plane. This time was no different.
He turned and started back. He took only three steps be-
fore he halted dead in his tracks.
There was a faint drone. It revved up and down; it was an
unmistakable noise. It was the sixteen-valve Feldman engine
of a Grumman E-l Avenger.
Paladin spun, trying to zero in on the source of the noise.
There. Just over the rocky hills to the north, the silhouette
of a plane dived, soared, circled, and then disappeared.
He ran toward the closest slope. The predawn light warmed
the ledges and outcroppings, turning them red and amber. As
the sun peeked over the horizon, Paladin scrambled to the top
and overlooked a canyon full of shadows.
Pale yellow lights traced a runway down the center of this
canyon. There were a dozen tents, a fleet of twenty Avengers,
and an old water tower that had been converted into a ra-
dio shack. On the opposite side of the ravine sat a moored
zeppelin.
Paladin stared for a full Someone had done a lot of
minute.
planning and spent a of cash to set this base up. He
fistful
squinted and saw mechanics and pilots on the runway,

moving briskly and pausing only to salute one another.
A military base? Paladin was willing to bet Blake Avia-
tion's last dollar it didn't belong to Hollywood's militia. He
remembered Jimmy the Rap's story about how all the fences
in Hollywood were muscled out of town. Who else but an-
other nation could do that?
Sunlight illuminated the side of the zeppelin. It was

smooth, metallic gray, and it bore no insignia. It had gun tur-
rets on each engine nacelle, a rack on the undercarriage for
bombs and rockets, and two bays for launching aircraft. This
thing was a war machine.
A crane next to the zeppelin moved; its neck extended and
cables whined as pulled something off the ground. A dozen
it
men clustered about the object. Whatever it was, they were

aligning it to fit into the port bay.
They were getting ready for action. A firefight? Or were
they moving out?
Paladin waited and watched as the shadows evaporated
from the canyon. His heart skipped a beat, then pounded in
his throat. They weren't loading just any plane. It was the
flying wing.
The same plane Paladin had crash-landed and seen
incinerated.
4: Ghosts in the Sand
*'
1*1 hat the hell is going on here?" Paladin muttered.
if He watched the crane lift the aircraft. The little
flying wing had the same oversize engines, the same bubble
canopy, and the same smooth rudderless design. To his eye it
was identical to the plane he flew from the Lockheed facility
in Pasadena ... the same plane that had been shot out from
under him in a sneak attack.
Maybe the Lockheed thieves had built their own plane
from stolen parts. No, that didn't figure. Jimmy the Rap said
they had taken some big-ticket items —
but nothing near
enough to construct an entire aircraft.
The sun broke free of the horizon. Paladin's shadow was a
hundred feet long and spilled over the edge of the canyon.
He was being a dope. If he could see the mechanics and pi-
lots on the airstrip, then they'd be able to see his silhouette up
on the ridge.
CRIMSON SKIES Z9
He dropped, crawled to the edge, and peered over. No one

seemed to have noticed. In fact, they looked too busy down
there to notice anyone up here. Men dug up runway lights.
Mechanics in coveralls worked on the engines of the Avengers.
A dozen people loaded crates into the zeppelin.
They were breaking camp.
It was a stroke of luck for Paladin —
rotten luck. He silently
cursed himself for not thinking ahead. Sure, he'd found the
thugs that had shot him down . only he hadn't figured out
. .
what to do when he caught up with them. If he left now to get

help, there wouldn't even be footprints left in the sand when
he returned.
Whatever he was going to do, he had to do it soon. He had
to do it alone.
He needed an inconspicuous way to get a closer look. The
canyon walls, however, were vertical. Quickly surveying the
scene, he spotted a branching ravine with slopes that a deter-
mined person could slide down. Better yet, this side passage
twisted out of sight from the main camp.
There was just one problem, though: The ravine wasn't
empty. One man marched into the gully, while another wan-
dered out and waved a greeting to his buddy.
If Paladin's luck changed, he might time it just right so no
one saw him crashing the party. He moved along the ridge of
the canyon, half crouching, until he came to the edge of
the branching channel. He then understood what the attrac-
tion was in the ravine: in the shadow of a rocky ledge sat an
outhouse.
Through the crescent-moon slit Paladin spied someone
moving. He'd have to move fast.
Paladin stepped off the edge and slid down the gravel
slope. A cloud of dust trailed behind him. He ran to the
outhouse.
The man inside must have heard him. "Cool yer heels,
buddy," he yelled through the door. "Wait yer turn!"
Paladin thought of himself as a fair person. If he knocked
someone down, he waited for them to get to their feet before
taking another swing. Not this time. He'd left all pretenses of
chivalry a day's walk away —when five planes had shot him
out of the sky.
He flung open the door and caught the mechanic with his
pants down. Paladin threw a left hook and a right uppercut,
The mechanic grunted in pain and collapsed against the
wall, unconscious.
Paladin cast a glance up the ravine. No one there. He
dragged the unconscious mechanic from the outhouse, far
enough out of sight in case anyone came looking.
He took the man's coveralls and cap, hog-tied him with his
belt, then gagged him with his own dirty socks. The restraints
wouldn't hold forever; Paladin hoped that they would hold
long enough for him to find out what was going on here.
The mechanic's greasy blue coveralls were two sizes too
big. Paladin stuffed it with his flight jacket and then tucked
his hair under the cap. If anyone got too close to this lousy
disguise, they'd see through it in a heartbeat.
He took a deep breath, steeled his nerve, and walked out of
the ravine.
Men scurried about the airstrip — all of them moving faster
than Paladin had seen ten minutes ago. They struck tents and
lowered radio gear from the water tower. Two mechanics
worked on each of the Avengers. Ground crews loaded belts
of ammunition and slung rockets on hardpoints under the
fighters' wings.
The Avenger pilots were clustered by the edge of the
runway, chewing on cigars and shuffling nervously. They
kept glancing at the sky like someone was about to drop a
bomb on them.
Paladin tried to look like he had someplace important to
get to, then marched across the field, passing as close as he
dared to the pilots. He recognized the Neanderthal eyebrows
of "Dogface" Dougan, the vivid flame tattoos that covered
the arms of Lady Kali, and the thick glasses of "Crosseye"
—
Malone notorious mercenaries who would shoot down any-
thing or anyone as long as there was enough money in it
for them.
He averted his gaze before they saw him. These weren't the
kind of people you stared at unless you wanted to start a fight.
CRIMSON SKKS 31
These also weren't the kind of people especially noted for

their brains.
So who was pulling the strings around here?
Paladin continued past the pilots, then paused and knelt,
pretending to tie his shoelace. He needed time to think.
Maybe time to figure out a way to steal one of those Avengers.

If he could get to Lockheed's base before these goons disap-
peared, he might be able to return with
A shadow fell across his face.
"You!"
Paladin got to his feet and slowly turned . . . ready to go
down swinging if he'd been found out.
A middle-aged man in a linen suit and panama hat re-
garded Paladin with mild disgust. His skin was as pallid as
his white jacket. He wore kid gloves and sported a monocle
that magnified his right eye so it looked like it bulged out of
its socket. There wasn't a grain of sand on him.
Standing next to the pale man was a woman. She wore a

smart black-and-white striped skirt, black vest, and matching
pillbox hat. She shaded herself with a lace parasol. Paladin
had to force himself not to stare at her fall of black silken hair
or into her deep blue eyes. She was movie-star material.
—
"Take this " The pale man gestured to a steamer trunk
sitting next to a flattened tent.
"
— to my stateroom. Immedi-
ately. And take care not to jostle it."
Paladin followed the man's gaze to the zeppelin. "Sure."
The pale man narrowed his eyes to slits. "What did you
say?"
If thiswas a military operation, then Paladin had just given
the wrong reply. He quickly corrected himself. "I mean, yes,
sir." He saluted. "Right away, sir!"
The pale man turned and strode toward the pilots. The
woman examined Paladin a moment; then she, too, left.
If he were going to remain inconspicuous, he'd have to
follow that order. At least he had a clue what the guy in charge
looked like.
The steamer trunk was made of soft leather, with brass-
reinforced corners and three silver stars embossed on the lid.
Paladin picked it up and balanced it on his good shoulder. He

glanced back. The pale man seemed to be giving instructions

to the pilots. They nodded and laughed.
Paladin trudged toward the war zeppelin. He fought the
urge to duck as he neared the gun turrets mounted on the
engine nacelles. Facing that much firepower was bad enough
inside a cockpit racing by at two hundred miles per hour . . .
but to stare it down face-to-face gave him the creeps.

He climbed the stairs to the gondola and got a glance at the
bridge — gauges, and a table overflowing with naviga-
dials,
tion charts he would have loved to look at. The bridge was
also full of armed guards.
He continued down a hallway into what might once have
been the dining section. Fifty-caliber machine guns were
mounted where the best window tables would have been on a
passenger liner. Crates of ammunition were neatly stacked
alongside the guns. Paladin kept his head low and walked
past crews cleaning and oiling the weapons. He entered an-
other passage at the end of the galley.
There were bunk rooms and a storage room full of boxes
and sacks. One door had a placard with three silver stars
hung on the handle. Paladin knocked, waited, and then eased
it open.
He slipped inside. No one was here. He dropped the trunk,
then closed and locked the door behind him.
The room had a picture window with bulletproof steel
shutters. There was a rolltop desk bolted to the floor, and two
chaises longues upholstered with silver silk. Gilt-framed
landscapes and portraits adorned the walls; they seemed
vaguely familiar, like Paladin had seen them before in a mu-
seum. There was a case full of books: Nietzsche, nineteenth-
century history texts, and the latest scientific journals.
Paladin had almost overlooked the most important feature
of this parlor, a fully stocked wet bar. He rummaged through
the bottles and found a seltzer dispenser. He filled three
glasses and quaffed the fizzling liquid. He ate an entire can of
Spanish peanuts, then ajar of maraschino cherries, drank the
rest of the seltzer, and caught his breath.
He almost felt human again. He tried to stretch his wounded
CRIMSON SKIES 33
shoulder, but it was too swollen and stiff. He touched it and

winced. Not a good sign.
He'd been running on adrenaline ever since his crash. Now
that he finally had a chance to slow down, he was struck with
a sense ofjust how much danger he was in. If they found him,
there 'd be a little impromptu firing squad organized for his
benefit. He had to get off his zeppelin and as far away from
here as he could.
On the other hand, if he wanted to find out who was behind
the Lockheed thefts, this might be his only opportunity.
Five minutes. He'd give himself that long to find some-
thing; then he'd scram and take his chances in the desert.
Paladin jimmied the lock on the steamer trunk. The scent
of expensive perfume wafted from inside. There were skirts
and blouses with French labels and a dozen pairs of high
heels. Paladin was no fashion expert, but the stuff looked like
it had cost a bundle. He dug deeper and found a hatbox. In-
side was a nickel-plated .38 pistol and a grenade.

. . .
He couldn't picture either the pale man or his lady friend

packing this kind of heat. They both looked so genteel. Still,
nothing about this case had been as simple as it appeared on

the surface. Why should they be any different?
Paladin slipped the pistol and grenade in his pocket.
Next, he forced open the desk's rolltop cover. There was
the usual stuff: stationery, envelopes, a gold fountain pen,
and a pack of unopened cigarettes. There was also a key.
—
He took the key it might come in handy if he found a
locked door on his way out. He grabbed the smokes, too.
He started to roll down the desktop when a flash caught his
box was a signet ring with a jade
attention. Sitting in a velvet
stone. Carved in relief was an eagle with talons extended
around a star. He pocketed the ring, too.
Sure, it was stealing. Blake Aviation had always gone out
of its way to conduct business on the up-and-up, but this was
different. There was more at stake than his reputation or
playing it fair even more at stake, he realized, than Lock-
. . .
heed's prototype. Another nation was conducting secret mili-

tary operations in Hollywood. That was an act of war.
Paladin suddenly didn't want to be here, clues or not. He

moved toward the door, but his knees buckled and his
stomach sank. He caught himself, sitting on one of the
chaises.
Outside he heard thunder . . . only this thunder didn't fade.
Itwas the roar of the zeppelin's engines. And it wasn't his legs
that had given out; the zeppelin had suddenly lurched.
They were taking off.
5: No Graceful Exit
Paladin felt the acceleration in his gut like he was moving —

up on an express elevator. He got to his feet and lurched to
the window. The zeppelin had cleared the canyon walls; its
shadow rippled along the desert crags below.
He gripped the steel shutters and rattled them. No luck.
They were locked. Even if he found something with which to
pry them off, he was already a hundred feet off the ground
and climbing.
Unless he sprouted wings, he was stuck on this airbag.
And with his luck, the guard he had knocked out before
sneaking aboard would be found soon. There 'd be a quick
radio call to the zeppelin, a search, and when they found Pala-
din, they'd shove him out the nearest exit. He'd take the
longest step of his life.
He couldn't sit around and wait to be discovered. He had to

find a place to hide.
Paladin left and locked the door behind him. Re-
the parlor
tracing his steps, he went back to the shooting gallery. The
drone of the engines reverberated through the open windows.
The dozen .50-caliber guns were loaded and ready for ac-
tion. The men standing next to them looked just as ready,
scanning the skies for trouble. No one noticed him.
Paladin swayed and steadied himself against an aluminum
brace. Squares of light and shadow stretched and angled
across the long room as the zeppelin turned north.
CRIMSON SKIES 35
There was a door or two in the corridor between here and

the bridge. Paladin tried to look casual as he strode to the op-
posite side of the galley. There had to be a place where he
could
Halfway across the room, he stopped dead.
The pale, authoritative man and his stunning escort
stepped onto the galley. The gunners stood and saluted.
The pale man brushed the lapel of his linen suit and casu-
ally looked over the room. He wandered to the nearest
window, ran his white-gloved fingers over the frame, and in-
spected their cleanliness. Satisfied, he removed his monocle
and admired the expansive view of desert and cloudless
horizons.
His female companion leaned over a machine gun, brushed
her dark hair from her face, and examined its ammunition
belt. She straightened her pillbox hat and then spoke to the
soldier manning the weapon. He nodded and quickly left. She
turned and scrutinized each gun along the left-hand side of
the room, idly twirling her closed lace parasol until she
. . .
noticed Paladin. Her eyes locked with his, and she froze.
There was something familiar about the slight upturn of
her nose, and eyes that could have been chiseled from ice-
bergs. Sure, Paladin had just seen her on the runway, but he
now realized that they had crossed paths somewhere else. He
couldn't quite put his finger on when.
Her eyes widened and her mouth formed a tiny o.
While Paladin hadn't figured out where he knew her from,
she had apparently remembered where she had seen him be-
fore. He dropped his eyes to the deck, did an about-face, and
headed back the way he'd come, trying to appear as noncha-
lant as possible.
It took all his nerve not to look back or break into a run.
Paladin was sure every guard on the zeppelin was after him.
He'd never hear them coming over the roar of the engines.
He stopped at the door to the parlor and risked a quick
glance over his shoulder. The pale man and woman were still
there, but neither one was looking his way. Paladin exhaled
and regained his composure.
One thing was for sure: he couldn't go back. The woman
had either recognized him and not said anything or she had
written off his familiar resemblance as a coincidence. Paladin
wished he remembered how he knew her, and if she might
helphim out of this jam. That was a long shot, though. She
seemed awfully chummy with the pale man in charge.
He continued down the hall past a bunk room full of men
engrossed in a game of poker, past a kitchen with glistening
copper pots and the aroma of roasting turkey, past a storage
closet crammed with crates —
but nothing that looked like a
good hiding place.
Paladin looked back down the hallway and spotted the pale
man and woman walking toward their room. When they saw
their opened steamer truck and ransacked rolltop desk, they'd
quickly realize who was responsible.
He figured he had thirty seconds.
The hall ended in a double set of swing doors. Paladin
pushed through.
He found himself in the launch bay, a cavernous room with
the skeleton of the zeppelin's beam-and-girder superstructure
exposed. Paladin saw a control room perched thirty feet
overhead.
There was a fleet of Grumman Avengers, hanging like
Christmas ornaments on tracks. At first glance, it looked like
a standard launch bay in a military zep. When the zeppelin
was high enough those planes could roll off their tracks,
through the open bay doors in the floor, and the zeppelin
would have an instant squadron to defend against pirates or,
in this case, Hollywood's militia.
This launch system, though, was different from any Pala-
din had seen.The planes rotated on a universal joint. They
pointed toward bays where mechanics checked engines and
hydraulics, loaded rockets and belts of ammunition all —
made easier because they could be worked on from any
angle. It was a brainy setup.
Paladin stopped admiring the engineering and did a double
take. The Lockheed prototype dangled directly over his head.
He stepped around it to get a better look. This close, he saw
it was very different from the plane he had crashed yesterday.
This one had a mirror polish on its steel skin; the engines
CRIMSON SKIES 37
were larger and smoothly melded into the frame; the bubble
canopy was a recessed cyclopean eye. The plane looked slick
and seamless, a far cry from the half-finished, temperamental
craft he had flown out of Pasadena.
"So where the hell did this one come from?" he muttered
to himself. Paladin had no time to figure it out. He was at-
tracting curious looks from the guards and mechanics here.
He glanced to the prototype, to the three guards starting
—
toward him, then took a gamble maybe his only way to
make a not-so-graceful exit.
Paladin steeled his nerve and took a deep breath. "Hey!"
he yelled across the hangar to the guards. "We got a
problem."
For once, his bad luck was a blessing. Alarm bells jangled
throughout the hangar. The guards broke into a run, reach-
ing for their pistols. The mechanics followed, brandishing
wrenches, crowbars, and other makeshift weapons.
"Quick," Paladin said. "They need help on the bridge.
Hurry!"
The men pushed their way through the double doors. No
one looked twice at Paladin.
He spied a wrench on the floor, grabbed it, and jammed it
through the door handles. That bought him maybe another
fifteen seconds. He rolled a wheeled ladder under the fly-
ing wing.
A man in the control room banged on the window. He
waved his arms to get Paladin's attention. When Paladin ig-
nored him, the man got on the radio.
No turning back now, Paladin thought. Everybody on this
zep is gonna know I'm here.
Paladin scrambled up the ladder and climbed into the pro-
totype's cockpit. This definitely wasn't the same plane he'd
flown. The seat was soft padded leather, almost obscenely
comfortable in comparison to the Spartan interior of "his"
prototype. The instrument panel was burnished brass and
teak with a Rolls-Royce precision floating horizon, a Swiss
Gersbeck altimeter, and a Rothschild Blackhawk rpm gauge
and speedometer. There were also a few dials and switches
that Paladin didn't recognize.
He found the manual docking release and pulled. There

was a click, and the plane slowly began to roll forward on its
track, toward the hole in the zeppelin's belly.
The prototype jerked to a halt. Paladin cracked his head on
the instrument panel. The flying wing swung back and forth.
The guy in the control room had his hand on a lever and a
smug look on his face.
Paladin could have killed the creep —
if he had had the
spare time. He squinted and found the cause of his problems:
a spring-loaded clamp three feet from the rail's —
end an
emergency brake. There was no way the flying wing could
roll off. No way for him to escape.
Heheard banging and raised voices. Paladin turned and
saw the double doors jostle and the jammed wrench begin to
shake loose.
He drew the nickel-plated .38 pistol he had swiped from
the steamer trunk then realized he had more firepower. He
. . .
pulled out the grenade he had found with the gun.

But one grenade wouldn't stop the army on the other side
—
of those doors, unless Paladin turned and examined the
rail — he found a better use for the thing.
He set down his gun and pocketed the grenade. He clam-
bered out of the cockpit and balanced on the teetering wing.
Paladin grasped the rail overhead. His wounded shoulder
blossomed with fire, and he felt something inside tear. He
gritted his teeth and pulled himself to the locking clamp,
hand over hand. Hanging by his right arm, he retrieved the
grenade, pulled the pin with his teeth, and then jammed it into
the clamp.
He swung himself once, twice, dropped back onto the
wing, and rolled into the cockpit covering his head and—
bracing for the blast.
It sounded like a cannon going off in his ears. Metal frag-
ments zinged off the canopy and the steel skin of the flying
wing. He shook his head to clear his ringing ears and risked a
glance at the damage. The spring-loaded clamp and rail had
blown clean off.
Paladin's streak of bad luck still held, however. The clamp
was gone, but the track had twisted into a slight upturn. The
— —
CRIMSON SKIES 39
plane wouldn't roll off not unless someone got out and
. . .
gave one heck of a push.

it
The double doors burst open. The three guards he had sent
on a wild goose chase rushed in with their sidearms drawn.
—
They weren't alone, either the poker players in the bunk
room were on their heels, as were a half-dozen gunners from
the galley. Even the pale man was there, monocle gleaming
and a Thompson submachine gun in hand.
And they were all looking for him.
Paladin crouched lower in the cockpit. His dogfighting in-
stincts made him want to reach for the yoke and pull it back
dodge, try an Immelmann, and somehow shake these jokers
off his six. But this was no dogfight.
Paladin glanced at the pistol in his hand and briefly consid-
ered a frontal assault. Maybe the element of surprise would
buy him enough time to get clear, get out of the hangar;
maybe find a parachute
That would be crazy.
His eyes fell to the rubberized grip and trigger on the yoke.
No. Crazy would be trying to hold off an army with a
peashooter, especially when he was sitting behind twin
.30-caliber cannons. He could use the plane's guns. But he'd
have to turn the thing around first.
He pressed the port and starboard starters. The engines
turned over and roared to life, growling like metallic tigers.
Paladin inched the port throttle forward. The differential in
power to the engines started to spin the flying wing on the
universal joint, rotating it to face the guards.
They raised their weapons; Paladin saw the blur of whirling
props reflected in their wide eyes.
One of them fired. A bullet pinged off a propeller blade.
Paladin squeezed the trigger. The plane's nose was pointed
too high forhim to hit anyone, but that didn't stop him from
unloading a few hundred rounds over their heads.
The men scattered like rats, hit the deck and crawled for
cover.
It wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done. As the plane
turned, Paladin spotted barrels of aviation fuel and racks of
high-explosive rockets. If he kept shooting, they'd all go out

in a blaze of glory.
The pale man set down his Tommy gun and stood. He held
up his white-gloved hands and shouted at Paladin.
A truce? Paladin couldn't hear what he was trying to say
over the drone of his engines. He eased the port throttle back
a bit to kill his spin. The flying wing rolled to a low spot on
the track as the engines slowed.
In his peripheral vision he saw some of the guards flank-
ing him.
"Want to play hardball, huh?" he said. "Well, I can play
that game, too."
He gripped the trigger and readied himself. The slight
rocking of the flying wing was going to make this a tricky shot.
Paladin froze. The plane was rocking like someone had
given good push
it a and wasn't that exactly what he had
. . .
said he needed? A good push to get out of this jam?

He revved the starboard engine, turning the plane back to
its original facing.
He narrowedhis eyes and pulled the trigger. The twin
.30-caliber machine guns stitched the deck, sent a flurry of
sparks flying, and riddled aviation fuel barrels with holes.
Amber liquid gushed and ignited into a river of fire.
The pale man dived back into the hallway.
Paladin let the flying wing turn until its nose pointed
toward the open bay doors in the zeppelin's undercarriage.
He pushed both throttles full open. The plane accelerated,
gained momentum up the track, then launched off the twisted,
upturned end with a wrenching squeal.
An explosion surrounded the cockpit with flame and
—
smoke and thunder and the flying wing plunged through
the launch bay door, hurtling toward the earth.
6: The Big Fall
wind tore through the open cockpit as the flying wing

Icy
dropped from the belly of the zeppelin. Veils of smoke and
steam parted before the windshield.
Paladin had misjudged how high the zep was. There were
only a few hundred feet between him and the desert floor.
He instinctively pulled back on the yoke then quickly—
stopped himself. That was wrong. Instead, he pushed the
yoke forward and nosed the flying wing into a dive.
The problem was speed ... or rather, a lack of it.
This was a mistake almost everyone made on their first
free-fall launch. A pilot's training taught him to pull up in
—
order to gain altitude but no plane could fly without the
speed to produce sufficient lift.
Sure, his engines were at full throttle, the rpm gauge was
pegged, but technically the plane was still starting from a
dead stop.
Paladin gripped the yoke with his sweaty hands. His gaze
flicked to the altimeter as it rapidly ticked off the distance to
the ground. Needles of wind blurred his vision as he spared a
quick glance at the air speed gauge. Almost.
Below him were sandy waves, washed against outcrop-
pings of red rock. Paladin could see dots of sage and creosote,
and spiny yucca drawing so close that he could make out
theircolumns of white flowers blooming. He was running out
ofroom.
The plane's airspeed was a hair under what he needed. It
had to be enough.
He pulled back on the control stick with all his strength,
. —
ignoring his instincts which screamed that no plane, no

matter how advanced, could pull out of a dive at this speed.
The airframe creaked and pinged from the increasing
stress. Paladin was crushed into the padded seat, and blood
drained from his head and hands. His peripheral vision
swirled and dimmed as his body fought to compensate for the
tremendous punishment inflicted upon it.
He pulled back harder, bracing with shuddering legs. There
was only a pinpoint in the center of his vision now; the only
thing visible was the ground rushing to meet him. The thunder
of the engines Dopplered into a faint drone. The pulse in his
neck strained and struggled to pump blood. He felt like he was
drowning.
Paladin waited for the end. It would, at least, be quick
slamming face-first at a hundred miles per hour into the

earth . .
. . . only the end was taking its sweet time getting to him.
Paladin's pinpoint of vision swelled open: half of it was
sand and sage; half of it was turquoise sky.
He shook his head, trying to recover from the near
blackout. His hands had gone limp and rested gently on the
controls.
There was a scrape and clatter along the undercarriage and
a grinding buzz through the blades of the props.
With a start, he realized that the altimeter read a hair above
zero. Paladin peered outside. The plane skimmed five feet
—
above the ground cruising at two hundred miles per hour.
Prop wash kicked up a cloud of dust and sand as the proto-
type rocketed by, clear-cutting sagebrush and yucca as he
flew past.
He eased the yoke back with a light, precise touch, then
quickly nudged the controls to evade a rock that otherwise
would have bisected the flying wing.
Paladin pulled back and climbed fifty feet. He exhaled,
realizing that he'd been holding his breath.
"Thanks," he said, smoothing his hand along the brushed
brass and teak instrument panel. "I owe you one."
Paladin wasn't quite ready to throw a victory party. He
CRIMSON SKIES «
looked over his shoulder. The zeppelin billowed black smoke,
and fire puffed from her launch bay. She was still in one
piece, more or less. Too bad — she must have been filled with
expensive helium, not hydrogen. Otherwise she would have
gone up like gasoline-doused tissue paper.
Aircraft buzzed around the wounded zep like flies. For an
instant, Paladin wasn't so sure that he'd damaged the zep's
launch bay.
"Nuts," he muttered.
He'd forgotten about the squadron of Grumman Avengers
that had been parked on the airstrip —
the same Avengers that
had shot him down once already.
They, however, had not forgotten him. They dived.
The usual tactics didn't apply here. Normally whoever
had the higher altitude in a dogfight had the advantage. But
these Avengers had to dive low just to catch up to the flying
wing. If Paladin tried to climb, they'd be all over him. So
whatever was going to happen, it was going to be low. Belly-
grinding low.
"Come and get me, you bastards."
The Avengers couldn't line up for a shot unless they were
diving straight toward him. He pushed the yoke forward,
hugged the sandy hills and raced past rocks and trees not —
giving them a static target. If they wanted a shot at him, they'd
have to come down and play in the dirt, where the agile flying
wing might have an advantage over the more cumbersome
Avengers.
Paladin glanced backward. Four planes were falling fast
after him. Two more stayed high, presumably acting as spot-
tersand radioing his position back to their friends.
A stream of magnesium bullets blazed over his head and
the smoky trail of a rocket appeared, detonating against a
rocky outcropping just a few feet from his nose.
They wanted him, all right. Bad enough to risk their necks
getting as close to the ground as he was. Good.
He looked back. A pair of the Avengers slowly dropped be-
hind him; they almost had him lined up in their sights.
"A little closer," he whispered. "Come on . just a little
. .
more."
.
44 Pa lad in Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
Paladin firewalled the throttle and pulled back on the yoke,

accelerating and rising ten feet before the Avenger on his six
could blast him to confetti.
He rolled the plane upside down and killed his throttle.
The Avengers roared under him, a blur of props and metal;
he caught a glimpse of Lady Kali and the flaming tattoos
—
on her arms so close he could almost reach out and
touch them.
Paladin continued the roll and righted the flying wing,
dropping neatly behind his would-be pursuers.
His finger tightened on the trigger, spraying gunfire at the
nearest Avenger.
The Avenger on his port side tried to bank. Its wingtip
grazed the sand, sending the plane into a deadly cartwheel.
The Avenger disintegrated into flame and smoke.
Paladin blasted through the debris and kept firing. Bullets
peppered the tail of the remaining Avenger.
Lady Kali pulled up, climbed a hundred feet, and kept
going. She and the other Avengers banked and headed back
toward the zep.
Paladin pulled back on the yoke. He'd finish what they
started.
No. There were too many Avengers waiting up there . .
and he'd already pushed his luck past the breaking point.
He eased the flying wing to the relatively safe altitude of
thirty feet and headed northwest.
"You're going home, little friend," Paladin told the plane.
Lockheed's secret airfield was no more than fifty miles along
his current heading.
He glanced once more over his shoulder. The zep still
trailedsmoke, though the oily black clouds had softened into

pale gray wisps. She was gaining altitude, heading north.
Maybe he hadn't crippled her, after all. He'd bet those ma-
chine guns he'd seen on the observation deck were still
working, too. Paladin was glad he was putting distance be-
tween him and that monster.
This isn over, Paladin thought. Not by a long shot. He'd
't
find some way to even the score.

.
CRIMSON SKitS «
He banked the flying wing around a rocky hill, reveling in
the craft's responsiveness and agility. Maneuvering the plane
was like sliding across silk. Paladin heard the starboard en-
gine throttle back and the port engine rev faster as he turned.
When he leveled out, the engines returned to their normal
synchronized purr. He marveled at the engineering.
Paladin poured on the speed, blasting over desert dunes
and gravel rivers that fanned into alluvial patterns on a dried
lake. This was the perfect location for a flight research fa-
cility. Just one big flat surface — all runway.
Upon the horizon, wavering in the rising heat, he spotted
the rippling outline of a control tower.
This had to be the place, but Paladin didn't know which
radio frequency to use.
He deployed the landing gear and circled once. There were
a dozen aircraft lined up in neat rows, and three hangars . .
ringed by .50-caliber machine gun nests. Looks like they take

their privacy seriously around here, Paladin thought. Maybe
"surprising " them isn 't such a good thing.
He glided down the runway, touched down, and taxied to a
stop near the first hangar.
A dozen men ran out from the control tower: mechanics,
gentlemen in dark suits, and even the Hollywood police in
their pressed blue uniforms.
Paladin climbed out of the cockpit and slid off the wing.
"Hello, boys." He waved at them. "No need to roll out the red
carpet. Just doing my job."
The men exchanged confused looks; then one of the cops
reached for Paladin's hand.
Paladin mirrored the gesture, thinking they'd shake.
Handcuffs snapped around his wrist.
"Mr. Blake," the officer said. "You're under arrest."
"We checked out your story, Mr. Blake."

The young Lockheed official sat on the edge of the table
and leaned closer to Paladin. He was near enough for Paladin
to get an eyeful of the large dimple in his prominent chin. The
reek of the man's expensive cologne was overpowering.
"And your story doesn't check out."
46 Pa lad n Blake
i and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
Paladin sat with his hands still cuffed and resting on the
tabletop. He would have punched this joker's lights out if
he thought he could get away with it. But he couldn't.
They had locked him in a room with Mr. Expensive
—
Cologne and an older gentleman neither identifying them-
selves, but both radiating authority. For the last two hours,
Mr. Cologne had asked the same questions about what had
happened, and Paladin had told him the same story.
The older man wore a tweed suit with leather elbow
patches. He nodded as Paladin explained about the pale man
and the second prototype, but otherwise kept quiet and
watched the show.
This room was on the second floor of the control tower.
There was one window, covered by thick curtains. The cinder-
block walls dampened the sound so much that Paladin
thought his ears would bleed from the silence between their
questions and his answers.
As far as he knew, they could be the only people still at this
facility. He hadn't heard or seen anyone since the Hollywood
police escorted him inside.

"What do you mean my story doesn't check out?" Paladin
demanded. "There was an air base. And there had to be some-
thing left of that Avenger that crashed between here and
there."
"No." Mr. Cologne got up, grabbed a pitcher of v/ater, and
poured himself a tall glass. He drank it without offering Pala-
din a drop. "You want to know what I think, though?"
How could a search team have missed that Avenger? Sure
the desert was a big place, but from the air, the smolder-
ing wreckage should be obvious. Even to a clown like Mr.
Cologne.
what you think," Paladin shot back.
"I don't care
"I think," Mr.Cologne continued as if he hadn't heard
Paladin, "that you flew our plane to Hughes' Burbank air-
field. They took photographs and had their people go over our
new engines; then you concocted this fantastic cover story

and flew the plane here. How much did they pay you, Mr.
Blake?"
(RIMSOM SKIES «
"You paid me," Paladin yelled. "Check your own account
books, clown. Justin paid me before I even got in the plane."
"We have indeed confirmed that your bank account has

grown rather substantially," the older man cut in. "There have
been no large payments made to you from a Lockheed ac-
count, however. Only the standard test pilot fee: one hundred
dollars."
"What?" Paladin was stunned. "What about the rest of my
story? You think I faked this hole in my shoulder?" Paladin's
face was flushed. He rose from his chair. "Or the sand in the
cockpit? You think I faked the shrapnel scars across the
plane's wings?"
"Yes, Mr. Blake, I think you would endure almost anything
for the right amount of money." Mr. Cologne raised his eye-
brows in obvious disgust. "We have a complete file on you."
Paladin wondered how much they really knew. If they had
all the dirt on him, why did Justin hire him?
"What about the second prototype? Peter Justin sent me

out in one plane, and I came back in another. How do you ex-
plain that?"
"Mr. Justin is presently on his way here to verify that the
plane you brought is indeed not the one you were given,"
the older man said. "We will pick up that line of inquiry when
he arrives."
Paladin eased back into his seat. At least Justin could back
up part of his story.
He was about to tell them how much better the pale man's
prototype flew, but decided to keep his mouth shut. So far,
had gotten him nowhere fast.
telling the entire truth
And where was this question-and-answer party
exactly
going? Lockheed was a big corporation. They apparently had
the Hollywood police in their pocket, too —
at least the cops
that weren't in the pocket of Hughes Aviation since they —
were here and looking the other way while Mr. Cologne con-
ducted his interrogation.
There had been no mention of criminal charges, and due
process appeared to be out the window. If things didn't go
right, Paladin might just disappear. If the desert was big
.
enough to hide a busted-up Avenger— or for that matter, an

entire military base —how hard would be it to hide one incon-
venient pilot?
The older man cleared his throat. "Please," he said to his
companion, "give Mr. Blake a glass of water."
Mr. Cologne sighed, shook his head, but nonetheless
poured a glass and set it down on the table.
Paladin grabbed it with both hands and drank it down.
"Do you smoke?" the older gentleman inquired.
Paladin's eyes fell to the items they had removed from his
pockets and scattered on the table. There were the items he
had "liberated" from the zeppelin: a brass key, a signet ring
with a jade stone, and a pack of cigarettes he swiped from the
pale man's parlor. Paladin licked his lips. It had been years
since he'd had a smoke, but this might be as good a time as
any to start again.
"Yeah," he whispered. "A smoke would be great."
Mr. Cologne tore the wrapper off the cigarettes. He tapped
one out, handed it to Paladin, then flipped his lighter open.
The cigarette was wrapped in black paper one of those —
expensive European brands that were nearly impossible to
get in North America these days.
Paladin brought the cigarette close to the flame. He stared
at it as it smoldered, and his mind raced as he struggled to
come to grips with recent events.
Something sparked, a brief flicker of intuition. He rapidly
pieced together the clues: the battle zeppelin, the unmarked
Avengers, the pale man, and these cigarettes . .
There were a few blank spots to fill in, but the entire two-
day ordeal now made sense in a twisted sort of way.
Paladin looked up. "Give me twenty-four hours and two
phone calls," he said, "and I guarantee I can answer all your
questions."
7: Pointing the Finger
"All Mr. Blake," growled the young Lockheed rep,

right,
H"you've got your two phone calls .and twenty-four
. .
hours to explain your part in this mess. I'd make sure one of
the calls is to your lawyer."
"That's all I need," Paladin replied. "By this time to-
morrow, I'll have it all sorted out." At least, he thought, I'd
better.
If he didn't get to the bottom of this dizzy affair, Blake
would end up taking the rap for the theft of the prototype.
He dialed. The line rang eight times before Dashiell
picked up.
"Hello?" a sleepy voice asked.
"Dashiell? It's Paladin. I need a favor. Round up your
buddy on the Hollywood PD. What's his name? Slaughouser?
Then bail Jimmy the Rap out of whatever drunk tank he's in.
Get them all out to Lockheed's Pasadena airfield by noon."
"That's three favors," Dashiell said, and yawned. "I sup-
pose this is an emergency? A matter of life and death?"
"Yeah ...my life and death."
There was silence on the other end, then, "Very well, then.
I'll see what I can do."
"One more thing," Paladin said. "Get to my Santa Monica

office. Bring that fancy detective kit with the fingerprint
equipment. If we're lucky as hell, you'll find the break I need."
Paladin quickly outlined what he wanted it for.
"It's a hundred-to-one shot," Dashiell replied.
"Try anyway," Paladin told him. He hung up, then rang
Tennyson.
Tennyson was his business partner. Paladin had met the
.
SO Pa lad n Blake
Englishman during the Great War, then hooked up with him

again after Blake's brief stint with the Pinkertons. Tenny-
son had taught him how to fight and fly and kill and be a
gentleman all at the same time.
"Has the cleaning woman come, Tennyson?" Paladin
asked. "Yes? Well chase her out of my office. I need it intact
and messy, just the way I left it."
Paladin heard the receiver drop, an exchange on the other
end in heated Spanish, and then Tennyson picked up and re-
ported: "She's gone."
"Good. Let Dashiell in when he gets there. He'll fill you in.
Then get to Lockheed's Pasadena airfield with your tools . .
and be ready for anything."

"Consider it done," Tennyson replied.
Paladin set the phone back in the cradle and looked up.
Mr. Cologne and the older Lockheed official exchanged an
incredulous glance; then the older man asked Paladin, "Will
you require anything else?"
"I'll need you to fly my people also need the per-
here. I
sonnel files of your security people Pasadena airfield."

at the
The older man told his associate, "Ship the files Mr. Blake
requires on the next flight out."
"I could also use a little lunch. Maybe a shower, too," Pala-
din said, scratching the stubble on his chin. "And a decent
razor, so I can clean up."
Or, Paladin thought, so I can cut my throat if this daffy
scheme doesn work. 't
The transport plane landed at half past one that afternoon.

There were no windows in the passenger section of the fuse-
lage. Lockheed wasn't taking any chances of revealing the lo-
cation of its secret testing facility.
Tennyson sauntered off the plane first, lightly stepping
down the stairway as if he were the Duke of Kent in tails and
black tie at the Queen's Reception. He was, in fact, wearing a
set of freshly pressed white coveralls, a Hollywood Stars
baseball cap, and mirrored aviator glasses. He carried a bulky
tool chest in each hand.
When Tennyson saw Paladin, he set his tools down,
CRIMSON SKIB 51
clasped Paladin's hand, and patted him on the back. "So good
to see you, my friend." A smile split his white beard, then dis-
appeared. "We had been told there was an accident, and that
you were injured."
"That's the least of my problems," Paladin muttered, and
absentmindedly massaged his bandaged shoulder.
Jimmy the Rap got off the plane next. His crumpled suit
looked like it had been slept in, and he winced when he got a
dose of desert sun.
Following Jimmy was a pudgy man in a navy blue suit and
worn fedora that had cop written all over it. That had to be
Detective Slaughouser.
Last to deplane was a giant of a man, the Russian fighter
ace who had gotten Paladin into this mess: Peter Justin.
"Where's Dashiell?" Paladin asked.
"He did not come," Tennyson replied. "He said the only
desert he would be going to would be Palm Springs. All the
others were too dry, he told me. And I do not believe he was
referring to the climate."
Paladin gritted his teeth. "That's it? He didn't say anything
else?"
"He told me you
this." Tennyson reached into the
to give
vest pocket of his coveralls,removed an envelope, and handed
it to Paladin. "He said, 'Your long shot paid off,' and that you
owe him a bottle of champagne."

Paladin cracked it open and frowned at its contents.
"Hmph. It isn't as clear as I'd hoped," he whispered. "Still,
we're luckywe got anything at all. It'll have to do."
"What will have to do?" Tennyson asked.
"A miracle ... if I can pull it off," Paladin said. He stuffed
the envelope into his pocket.
"Mr. Blake?" asked a voice embellished with a Slavic
accent.
Paladin turned. Peter Justin — seven and three hun-
all feet
dred pounds of him —had somehow up behind him.
crept
Justin's pointed beard had been immaculately trimmed since
Paladin had seen him last. He wore a light gray silk suit and a
panama hat to shade his face. "It is most distressing news
about the prototype," he said. "I very much would like to see
the wreckage." He shot a suspicious glance at Tennyson and
then looked back down at Paladin. "If there is anything I can
do to help, please tell me."
Paladin took a step back. "Did you bring those Lockheed
employment records?"
"Of course." Justin hefted an alligator-skin briefcase.
"Good." Paladin nodded toward the hangar. He raised his
voice so everyone on the field heard him: "Then let's take a
look at the plane."
He marched to the hangar. Across the dry lake bed, shim-
mering heat rose in waves so it looked like an oasis in the dis-
tance. A mirage ... a reminder that maybe it wasn't the truth
he was chasing, just smoke and mirrors.
No. His hunch had to be right.
Paladin stepped through the door adjacent to the gigantic
hangar bay entrance. The temperature inside was twenty de-
grees cooler, and Paladin's sweat immediately chilled his skin
to gooseflesh.
A of armed guards scrutinized him and reached for
trio
their sidearms. They relaxed, though, when they saw the
older Lockheed official and Mr. Cologne.
The prototype was the only plane in the cavernous building.
She was parked in the center, and a spotlight painted her steel
with reflections and glare. Paladin could still see the scrapes
and scorch marks from their close calls and felt sorry that
he'd banged up the beautiful craft.
"First thing," Paladin said, trying to sound like he knew
what he was doing, "I'll need my chief mechanic to look over
the plane."
"Absolutely not," Mr. Cologne said, stepping between
Paladin and the plane and raising his neatly manicured hands.
"You've done enough damage. For all we know you're trying
to steal more technical data and sell it to our competitors."
"If you think I already stole the prototype," Paladin re-
plied, lowering his tone and meeting Mr. Cologne's stare,
"and if I already had it to examine for an entire day, what
could it possibly hurt for me to take one more look?"
Mr. Cologne considered, cupping his dimpled chin; then
CRIMSON SKItS 53
he said, "Very well, but I insist one of our mechanics watch

you."
"Good," Tennyson remarked. He started to lug his tools to
the plane."We could always use a little help."
Detective Slaughouser cleared his throat. "Is this some-
thing the Hollywood police needs to look at? I was told a
plane here was stolen."
"Stolen and recovered," Mr. Cologne said. "We already
have the thief. All that we require of you is to take him into
custody."
Paladin crossed his arms so he'd be less likely to take a
poke at who was really starting to get under his
Mr. Cologne,
skin. "There'll be a charge of espionage to add maybe . . .
even a count or two of treason."

Detective Slaughouser raised his eyebrows and tipped up
his fedora. "That so?"
"The suit here has it wrong, though," Paladin continued.
"I'm not the thief." He turned to Mr. Cologne. "And what he
thinks was stolen . . . wasn't."
Jimmy the Rap looked nervously about, as if he were sud-
denly claustrophobic in the immense empty hangar. "Don't
no one go pointing a finger at me." He backed away from
Paladin. "I was in lockup for the last two days. I didn't take
nothing."
"Shut yer trap," Detective Slaughouser barked. He scratched
his head, then asked, "So what's going on, Blake? I know
you're on the up-and-up. Spell it out for me. But in English,
huh?"
"I will. I'll even gift-wrap the thief for you, complete with
the details on how they did it, and their motive. But I'll
need to ask everyone a few questions first." Paladin glanced
from Justin, to the older Lockheed official, to Detective
Slaughouser, to Jimmy the Rap. "Then I'll reveal which one
of us is the crook."
"This is outrageous," Mr. Cologne said.
"Imust agree," Justin murmured.

"I ain't done nothing," Jimmy said, and edged toward
the door.
5A Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
Detective Slaughouser grabbed Jimmy by his wrinkled

collar and marched him back.
"But one of us did steal the prototype," Paladin told them,
"in a way.
"Mr. Justin," Paladin said, "take a careful look at this
plane. Is it you sent me out in two days ago?"
the one
Justin removed a set of spectacles from his coat pocket. He
circled the sleek craft. "It is a close approximation of our pro-
totype, but
— His forehead
" crinkled as he searched for the
right word. —more
" refined, as if a movie studio reproduced
it from a picture perhaps."
"Not quite," Paladin said.
"The real prototype?" Justin inquired. "I have been told it
was crashed."
"I was shot down. It's completely destroyed."
"A pity all that is left is this forgery," Justin said.
"Is it?" Paladin asked. "Jimmy, two nights ago, you told
me about some parts that left the Lockheed facility in Pasa-
dena? Parts belonging to a prototype?"
"How would I know about that stuff?" Jimmy squeaked.
Detective Slaughouser slapped Jimmy on the back of his
head. "Because you're a fence for every jewel thief, burglar,
and high roller in Los Angeles. Answer the man's question."
"Okay, some stuff walked out of Lockheed, sure. You hear
things on the street. That ain't against the law. These were
big-ticket items, too. A pair of engines, a fuselage, and some
newfangled air brake."
"Impossible," Justin said. "Those items would have been
missed."
Paladin asked Detective Slaughouser, "Do you think it's
possible?"
"Naw, couldn't be done," Slaughouser replied. "Not the
way Lockheed's got the airfield locked up. And not with
the Hollywood police on the job. Besides, why risk moving
the parts if it was a spy job? Why not just scram with the
blueprints?"
Paladin turned to Mr. Cologne. "Can you think of a reason,
other than espionage, that your prototype might be stolen?"
CRIMSON SKIES 55
"Sabotage, for starters. That plane represents a year and a

half of development and investments. It will cost a fortune to
replace, if we can replace it at all."
Tennyson slammed the engine compartment shut and then
returned, wiping the grease from his hands with a rag. "The
plane is a jigsaw of sorts, Paladin, The fuselage, engines,
and other components are missing any manufacturer's serial
number. The remainder of the plane appears to be off-the-
shelf materials: a Hydrodyne water pump, Delco wiring,
Top-Flite tires."
"Good," Paladin "Very good."
said.
"One more thing,"Tennyson said in a low whisper so only
Paladin could hear. "I don't know what the old girl has been
through, but I wouldn't take her up in the air. She's got stress
fractures up and down her frame. An engine block is cracked.
It's a wonder you made it back to the ground in one piece, old
boy."
"Excuse me," Mr. Cologne demanded. "What does this
prove?"
Paladin ignored him. "One last question: Can I see those
files you brought, Mr. Justin?"
Justin opened his briefcase and handed over a stack of

manila file folders.
Paladin flipped through the paperwork until he found the
one he wanted. He checked the fingerprint on record.
"Ah, there we are," he said with a smile. "You wanted an-
swers? Well I've got some.
"Let's start with this prototype
—
" Paladin pointed to the
—
plane in the center of the hangar. " the real Lockheed proto-
type. The one that was stolen, piece by piece, from Pasadena,
and then reassembled. Its fuselage, the engines, and air brake
system all match the list of stolen goods our friend Jimmy
provided. The parts that weren't swiped from Lockheed were
replaced by the best fitting parts available."
"But that doesn'tadd up, Blake," Detective Slaughouser
could have gotten big items like the fuse-
said. "If this thief
lage, they should have been able to grab 'em all."
"No," Paladin answered. "Our thief needed an alibi. They
used the remaining parts to build a mock prototype. One that
would have never passed the close scrutiny it would have re-
ceived had she ever reached this test facility but it was . . .
good enough to shoot down. And good enough to send me up

in to play the patsy."
Justin reached into his coat.
"Not so fast," Detective Slaughouser said, and drew his
pistol.
Justin slowly removed a silver case, opened it, and took out
a cigarette.
Detective Slaughouser relaxed and lowered his revolver.
"It saddens me from you, Mr. Blake," Justin
to hear this
nonchalantly replied as he his cigarette. "I would have
lit
thought that you would take responsibility for your mistakes,

rather than try to shift the blame with some implausible story."
"I have proof." Paladin removed the envelope from his
pocket. He withdrew the card inside and showed everyone the
half-smeared fingerprint. "I think you'll find this print, which
we lifted off the plane, matches the print on Mr. Justin's per-
sonnel record."
He handed the card and Justin's file to the older Lockheed
official. "I took the liberty of borrowing a friend's fingerprint
kit and had Tennyson dust the plane."
Paladin held his breath, hoping that his bluff sounded only
half as phony as he thought.
Justin shrugged. "If this plane has stolen Lockheed parts,
then my fingerprints should be on it. I supervised every phase
of the production of the prototype parts."
"True enough. However, your prints are on the other parts,
too," Paladin said. "On parts that you should have never
touched."
examined the glowing tip of his cigarette. He
Justin
was a click and a slim, silver .38
straightened his arm. There
popped from the sleeve of his silk suit and into his mas-
sive hand.
Moving with deceptive agility for such a large man, Peter
Justin stepped behind Mr. Cologne, locked him in a strangle-
hold, and pointed his gun at the Lockheed executive's neck.
"Drop your weapons," Justin growled. "Back away, or this
man dies."
8: One Way Out
Paladin took a step toward Peter Justin. "Don't do it, Justin."

His words echoed though the cavernous hangar. "There's
nowhere to go."
Tennyson took a step closer, trying to flank the massive
Russian. Paladin gave him a short shake of his head, and Ten-
nyson froze in his tracks.
Justin twisted the neck of his captive and pushed the
muzzle of his gun deep into his target's throat. "I disagree,"
Justin hissed. He backed away —
using Mr. Cologne as a
shield between himself and the trio of armed guards and De-
tective Slaughouser —
moving closer to the prototype. "I will
be flying away from this place."
"No way," Slaughouser said. The cop steadied his grip on
his .38, trying to aim past the squirming hostage, hoping for a
clear shot at Justin.
The older Lockheed official set his hand on Slaughouser's
arm. "No, Detective. Let him go." Slaughouser muttered
something Paladin didn't quite catch. He lowered his gun.
How much influence did Lockheed have with the Holly-
wood police? Paladin thought that Hughes was the big player
in Hollywood. But a man like Slaughouser didn't back down
in the middle of a standoff —not unless someone with a lot of
clout was pulling his strings.
Paladin dismissed that thought and focused his attention
on Justin.
"Why'd you do it?" Paladin asked. "Was it the money?
How much did the pale man pay you?"
That stopped Justin more effectively than the threat of
"
Slaughouser's gun. He stood straighter, crinkled his bushy

eyebrows, and looked like Paladin had just slapped him in the
face. "I thought a man like you would understand, Blake.
This was never about the money."
Justin's eyes were steel hard and stared through Paladin.
Blake had seen the look before on the soldiers and fliers from
the Great War —half shell-shocked and full of the reflections
of dead friends.
Paladin hazarded a guess: "So that's it: you're a patriot.
White Russian to the core, huh? Maybe you don't fly against
the Reds anymore, but you're still fighting for Tsar and
country."
Justin relaxed his grip on the young Lockheed official,
who managed to finally gasp and inhale a full breath.
"Then you do understand," Justin whispered.
"Well / sure as hell don't," Slaughouser muttered.
"Alaska," Tennyson offered, and tugged thoughtfully at his
white beard. "Our Mr. Justin is from Alaska and before . . .
that from Russia, a soldier of their revolution."

"When the White Russians were ousted by the Reds,"
Paladin continued, "a bunch of them lit out for Alaska."
"Da," Justin growled. He tightened his grip on his captive
and took a step back.
"The Reds and Whites are still going at it up there," Pala-
din said. "The Reds want the last of the aristocrats dead. If
half the reports are true, the fighting up north is twice as
bloody as the 'glorious revolution.' Innocent civilians are get-
ting planted ... all in the name of Mother Russia."
"The 'pale man,' as you called him," Justin replied, "prom-
ised me planes, guns, supplies, even a combat zeppelin in ex-
—
change for the prototype " He glanced quickly over his
shoulder to the flying wing, then back. "My people need
these things or all will be dead within a month."
"There are other ways," the older Lockheed official said.
"We can negotiate —
"We will negotiate nothing'' Justin spat. He dragged his
captive backward to the prototype. "Capitalists and police,"
he sneered. "I trust you less than I trust the Communists." He
nodded to Paladin, and added, "I must thank you, Mr. Blake,
— "
CRIMSON SKIES 59
for returning the prototype. I shall bring it to the 'pale man.'

Perhaps it will not be too late for my people."
"Don't do it," Paladin cautioned. "That plane's had it."
Justin smiled. "A few bullet holes will not stop me from
flying this plane."
"It's not only the exterior damage," Tennyson told him.
"Look for yourself. She's got stress fractures up and down
her frame. The block is cracked. And the intakes are —
Justin ignored Tennyson and sat on the wing's leading
edge. He saddled back, pulling the young Lockheed official
up on the wing with him as if he weighed no more than a rag
doll. Mr. Cologne let out a strangled squeal. With more dex-
terity than a man Justin's size should have possessed, he
eased into the cockpit, dragging Mr. Cologne with him.
"Stay calm, people. Let them go," the older Lockheed offi-
cial said, glacially cool. He slicked back his neat white hair,
then gestured at the guards to back off.
The three Lockheed guards lowered their weapons.
"No!" Paladin protested.
"There are alternatives to fisticuffs and gunplay, Mr.
Blake," the older man admonished, "as our Mr. Justin is
about to learn."
Justin closed the canopy. The prototype's engines roared to
lifeand the aircraft eased forward.
Paladin backed away from the plane's twin ,30-caliber ma-
chine guns.
The older Lockheed official signaled the guards to open
the hangar doors.
For the first time in his life, Paladin almost wished one man
could escape the law. Justin was a warrior, a patriot. Maybe
he had done the only thing possible in his desperate situation.
Maybe he'd done what Blake himself would do, if the situa-
tion had been reversed.
The flying wing rumbled onto the runway.
Paladin and the others ran outside. The sun was high, and
heat shimmered off the dry lake bed.
The prototype accelerated down the runway, then arced
into the air. It banked left, pulled up higher, climbed toward
the glaring sun
—and wing and confetti

disintegrated into bits of spinning
metal, a spray of fuel and and smoke.
fire
Paladin's insides ran cold. That could have been him.

Maybe it should have been him, and Justin, one of the last
White Russian resistance fighters, should have walked away
from this mess alive.
He turned to the older Lockheed official, whose gray eyes
were squinting at the smoky scar in the sky. "You said there
were other alternatives," Paladin growled. "Like what?"
"Like," the older man shrugged, "we can always build an-
other plane."
Paladin clenched his fists and stepped toward the Lock-
heed rep.
Detective Slaughouser reached into his overcoat pocket
and shook his head.
Paladin stopped in his tracks.
The older gentleman ignored Paladin's clenched teeth and
hate-filled stare. He calmly asked, "Dinner, Mr. Blake?"
The Lockheed secret airfield, the wreckage of the proto-

type, and the sweltering desert sun were a hundred miles
away and twelve hours in the past. Still, Paladin hadn't quite
washed the sandy grit or the bad taste of the incident from his
mouth.
Paladin straightened his tuxedo and sipped ice water. He
avoided looking at the prime rib and the martini that had been
ordered for him, nor did he look at the swing band or the
dancing feather girls on the stage of Oscar's a ritzy hole in —
the wall for Hollywood's movie moguls and power brokers.
From the steely-eyed bouncers to the well-bribed maitre d',
the message was plain: No party crashers allowed.
The older Lockheed official sat across the table from him.
He wore a light gray tuxedo that matched his eyes and hair.
His name was Dunford. James Dunford.
Since they returned, Paladin and James were on a first-
name basis. He was very grateful to Paladin for wrapping up
his problems —
the missing prototype and the elusive Peter
Justin. He was even more grateful that Blake Aviation Secu-
CRIMSON SKIES 61
rity had a policy about keeping its mouth permanently shut

about clients' cases.
"Unless there's some illegal activity the police should
know of," Paladin added.
"I assure you, Paladin," Dunford said with a smile, "Lock-
heed engages only in legal activities and commerce."
Legal activities and commerce might, however, cover a lot
of territory if the Hollywood police were looking the other
way. Come to think of it, Detective Slaughouser hadn't said a
word after the plane crash. Would a report get filed? Or would
the incident —
and the death of two Lockheed employees be —
swept under the rug?
Paladin leaned closer to Dunford, wrinkling the white
linen tablecloth. "You knew about the plane? Knew it would
fall apart?"
"Of course," Dunford said calmly and cut into his porter-
house. "The frame was a special aluminum alloy designed
for light weight but with reduced tensile properties. I am
amazed it held together for your aerial combats, Mr. Blake."
He chewed. "Remarkable."
Paladin had an urge to reach across the table and, if not
strangle Dunford, at least blacken his eye. Maybe both, Blake
thought. He 'sjust too damn smugfor his own good.
Paladin reined in his impulse, though. The theft of the
prototype, the Russian connection, and Lockheed's apparent
control of the police were all part of a much larger and —
more sinister — wanted to find out what was really
picture. If he
going on, Paladin had to keep his cool and play along. It
wasn't easy.
"I assume," Dunford said, "that you found our retainer
sufficient?"
"Very," Paladin replied.
Sufficient didn't begin to cover it; Lockheed had paid him a
considerable sum to retain Blake Aviation Security on a semi-
permanent basis for what Dunford called "special opera-
tions." The kind of money they dished out would keep his
offices from here to the Empire State in black ink for the next
two years.
—
6Z Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype
Dunford set his fork and knife down and riveted Paladin
with his eyes. "How did you know Mr. Justin was our thief?"
Paladin found himself unable to hold Dunford 's stare. He
looked instead at his martini; it was cool and clear and shim-
mering silver. It would be easy to sip to drink the thing —
down. He inhaled the faint scent of gin then reluctantly. . .
slid the glass toward the middle of the table.

"It was the cigarettes," Paladin finally said.
Dunford eased back, raised an eyebrow, and then retrieved
his own package of cigarettes. He shook one out for himself,
then offered one to Paladin.
"No thanks," Paladin said to the offered smokes. "I found a
pack of European cigarettes on the pale man's zep. You know,
the kind wrapped with the black papers? They're hard to get
in North America these days. Especially in Hollywood."
"True." Dunford examined his plain white Lucky Strikes
and then lit up. "So I can assume our Mr. Justin smoked
the same European brand, yes? That could have been mere
coincidence."
"Yes, it could have," Paladin conceded. "Hell, it may have
even been a coincidence, but who else was in a position
to steal themajor components for the prototype from the
Pasadena plant? Who was the only person to see me off in
that mock prototype? Who arranged the flight schedule to en-
sure that my takeoff didn't lead to any inconvenient wit-
nesses? All the pieces fit."
"That bit about the fingerprints," Dunford chuckled. "It

was a dazzling display of deduction, Mr. Blake."
"Thanks," Paladin muttered.
In fact there had been no deduction. Tennyson hadn't
found a single fingerprint on the prototype. He had, however,
lifted one of Justin's prints from Paladin's desk in his Santa
Monica office. That was the print Paladin had handed Justin
the print Blake had compared to his Lockheed employment
record. It had been nothing more than flimflam.
As far as Paladin was concerned, though, no one at Lock-
heed ever had to know that little detail of the case.
Dunford wiped his mouth with a napkin and covered his
(RIMSONSKIES 63
plate with "Very good. But now, on to new business, Mr.

it.
Blake ... or of our old business. Our

rather, a continuation
retainer is conditional on Blake Aviation Security following
through on this case."
"What case?" Paladin asked. "This whole mess is wrapped
up. You've got your plane back most of it, anyway."
. . .
"There is no need to feign naivete, Mr. Blake," Dunford

said, and grinned. "There will be a bonus upon completion of
your investigation, of course, but I must insist that you con-
tinue. This 'pale man' must be found. You must find him."
Dunford paused to sip his martini. "When you locate
—
him and I do not doubt that you will there shall be no —
need to immediately involve the authorities. The pale man's
day of reckoning will come in a court of law, but Lockheed
would like to have a word with him first."
"I see."
Dunford wasn't only buying Blake Aviation Security's
service — he was also buying his silence. Why? What did
Lockheed want with the pale man? Revenge?
The pale man had promised Justin planes and guns, men,
and even a military zep. Where the hell was he getting that
equipment? And why was he so willing to give it away? He
was risking the wrath of Lockheed and bringing the entire na-
tion of Hollywood to a boil, not to mention the lives that
would be spent in bitter conflict in Alaska. That was a lot of
heat for one plane, fancy prototype or not.
"Sure," Paladin said, finally. "I'll find him."
Paladin would find the pale man, all right, but for his own
reasons. And one thing is for damn
he thought. Before
sure,
Lockheed or the Hollywoodpolice ever get to talk to this mys-
terious "pale man" I'm going to have my own question-and-
answer sessionfirst.
When Paladin learned the truth, no one not Lockheed, —
not the police, not the entire nation of Hollywood would —
stand in his way of seeing justice done.
9: Chasing Shadows
Blake stepped under the police tape that sealed the threshold
of Peter Justin's apartment. The place was in shambles.
The Hollywood cops had given it a thorough going-over: a
sofa was overturned, its stuffing ripped out and strewn about
the small living room; yellowed photographs of Russian
farmers and the spires of Saint Peter's Cathedral had been
pulled off the walls; potted cacti that had once rested on the
windowsill had been uprooted, their sandy soil scattered.
Fortunately, the police were done with the place. Not
that they had found a clue. Paladin had reluctantly been
—
given permission after a few well-placed phone calls from
—
Lockheed to look the apartment over.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the panes of the
window, casting four clean squares of illumination that
seemed far too orderly when projected onto the chaos.
"Amateurs," Paladin muttered, and gingerly placed the
prone cacti into their pots.
Peter Justin had run a clandestine operation past his
own security at Lockheed for weeks, maybe even months.
Did Detective Slaughouser and his crew think the wily
Russian would be stupid enough to hide anything of value
here? The cops were looking for obvious signs of criminal ac-
tivity: stolen goods, wads of cash, incriminating photos, and
the like.
The cops were way off target, though. Justin was too
subtle —and too smart — to simply leave damning evidence
lying around his apartment.
Peering out the second-story window, Paladin saw La
Cienega Boulevard below, and the trolley station across the
CRIMSON SKIES 65
street. The place must get noisy in the morning with all the
cars rolling in and out on the track. Justin made a bundle of
cash as a Lockheed executive. So why live in this crummy
neighborhood?
Paladin stepped into the bedroom, cringing at the pants,
shirts, and sheets that looked like they had been through a tor-
nado. There were slashes in the mattress, and handfuls of
wadding had been scattered haphazardly around the room.
Part of the wrought-iron headboard had been unscrewed.
He spied the gleam of gold in the corner and moved closer.
A picture of the Virgin Mary, framed in gold-leafed scroll-
work, had been overturned.
Nearby, a dozen jelly jars holding candles were toppled
over, too, but were remarkably intact. Their wicks had been
recently trimmed and soot marks on the glass had been wiped
clean. One of the jars, however, had heavy dribbles of red wax
on its side as though it had been tipped over while still lit.
It was nothing; still ... it struck Paladin as oddly out of
place.
Peter Justin, with his fastidious habits and immaculately
tailored suits, would have kept this place as neat as a pin.
So what was one candle doing with this dribbling of wax?
Maybe because he had done something so fast that he had
forgotten, or hadn't had time, to clean up?
Most likely, it was just meaningless wax.
Paladin started back toward the living room, stopped, and
on a whim ran his hand over the back panel of the picture.
Smooth wood grain. He brushed across the front. It was
—
smooth, too no, not quite. A tiny scar of slick candle wax
marred the otherwise glassy surface, obscured from casual
observation by the glitter of gold leaf and lacquer.
He tilted the picture in the light and saw a faint wax im-
print: a circle with a stem. The circle had reversed numbers
printed on it, L9879. The stem had a jagged side ... the outline
of a key.
Paladin reached into his pocket. This was a long shot, but
he had lifted a signet ring and a key from the pale man's zep-
pelin.The key he had pilfered from the pirates, while similar
in shape, had no numbers.
"If you want to live," a female voice behind Paladin an-

nounced, "just keep your hand in your pocket."
Paladin froze when he heard the cold, metallic ratcheting
of a pistol's hammer locking in place.
He slowly stood, and turned —keeping his hand in his
pocket.
A woman stood in the bedroom doorway. She wore a Free
Colorado Zephyrs baseball cap, a flight jacket zipped to her
breastbone, and loose pants that were tucked into a pair of
shiny, knee-high boots. Waves of red hair had been tucked
into her cap. Her black-gloved hands steadily held a massive
.45 revolver.
The skin above her open collar bore the swirls and traces
of flames . . . tattooed flames. Paladin knew her face in-
stantly, a face that had been on several wanted posters in
—
Hollywood, Texas, and Utah Lady Kali, recently employed
by the pale man.
"You have one hand free," she said. "Use it to open the left
side of your coat. No sudden moves, please " She smiled.
—
"
— since it would be a shame to shoot such a handsome
specimen." Her smile slowly hardened into a line of clenched
teeth, and Paladin saw that a few of those teeth had been filed
to points.
Paladin opened his coat, revealing his holster, the butt of
his .38 revolver, and his handcuffs.
"Use two fingers," she ordered him, "and place the gun and
cuffs on the floor —
then kick them here." Her eyes were dark,
and they didn't waver from his for a second.
Paladin complied.
"Your wallet next. Toss it to me."
Did she recognize him? Then again, why should she? She
may have gotten only a glance of his filthy face at the pale
man's military outpost. And he had been wearing a dirty cover-
all then, not his gray Brooks Brothers suit. He fished out his
wallet and tossed it to her.
Lady Kali didn't try to catch it. She let it fall at her boots.
"Turn around," she said.
Paladin wasn't about to rush a confirmed killer with a gun
CRIMSON SKIES 67
pointed at his heart but he wondered if he'd get it in the

. . .
back and die facing Justin's little shrine to the Madonna.

"Blake?" she said. "Never heard of you. Let me see your
face again."
Paladin exhaled and turned around. Every day he wished
Blake Aviation Security was big enough to scare pirates out
of the skies from here to the Empire State. This once, though,
the tiny stature of his company was a blessing.
"You're no cop," she said, looking him up and down ap-
praisingly. "No badge. No cheap suit. So what's with the
bracelets? And what are you doing here?"
Paladin carefully removed his hand from his pocket.
"Mind if I sit?" He nodded to the torn mattress.
"Go ahead," she replied, and she lowered her aim a notch
from his heart to his stomach.
What was she doing in here? Could Lady Kali and Justin
have been friends? That didn't figure; Justin wouldn't en-
danger his patriotic operation by fraternizing with the hired
help. Nor would the pale man trust a mercenary with sensi-
tive reconnaissance work. That left only one reason for the
deadly aviatrix's presence: cash.
"I'm a private investigator," Paladin told her. "Did a little
pavement pounding for Justin."
That wasn't too far from the truth. Lady Kali must have
sensed that because she lowered her gun, then sighed, and
stuck it in her belt. "Did he stiff you, too?" she asked.
"It was nice and professional for a while, wasn't it?" Pala-
din said. "But things apparently went to hell in the desert and
everyone disappeared or suddenly developed amnesia ... at
least as far as my money is concerned. All I ended up with is a
measly retainer and more bills than I can cover."
She chewed on her lower lip, thinking, then said, "Maybe
we can help one another." She dug a packet of cigarettes from
her leather jacket and offered one to Paladin. He took it, and
she lit it for him. "You're the detective; where do you figure
the pale man is?"
The question threw Paladin for a heartbeat. She didn't know?
"And what do I get paid for my services?" he inquired.
"Why, Blake," she said, and batted her eyes, "you get to
live." Her pointed smile returned. "And maybe if you tell me

something I can sweeten that deal."
like, I
Paladin eased back with all the nonchalance he could

muster. "It's like this: Justin paid me to follow up on rumors
that Lockheed was missing some expensive experimental
equipment. After a while I figure he s the one that grabbed the
stuff and just wants me to cover his tracks. I have no problem
—
with that. All part of the business if you get my meaning."
Lady Kali nodded and sat on the mattress, not too close,
but not too far away from him either. Apparently she was
more at ease with one of her own kind.
Paladin was momentarily distracted by her scent: lilacs
mixed with aviation fuel. He shook his head to regain his
composure, though he was sure that Lady Kali had seen his
momentary lapse and was amused by it.
. . .
"The last thing I heard from Justin was that there was a
problem with the prototype. He flew off to Lockheed's base
near Palm Springs." Paladin shrugged. "Later, I got word that
he bought the farm in some air crash. The police came up

here for a visit; the housekeeping is their handiwork, not
mine, by the way. After they left, I let myself in to see what
they missed. Next thing I know," he added, "a beautiful woman
with a gun shows up."
Lady Kali drew on her cigarette and blew a perfect ring.
"And?"
"And nothing. I've laid my cards on the table. Now it's your
turn. Tell me what you know and I might be able to track
down the pale man. If he was paying Justin, then maybe we
can both collect."
Lady Kali shifted and stared at Paladin. Her jaw clenched;
then she relaxed and draped an arm over the wrought-iron
headboard. "Okay, Blake. I'll take a chance on a pretty face."
Her eyes narrowed to smoldering slits. "Cross me, though,
and it'll be your last mistake."
"I figured as much." Paladin looked away from her and
pretended to examine the burning tip of his untouched
cigarette.
"The pale man," she finally whispered, "he had something
big planned. Not the Lockheed prototype — that was just one
— .
CRIMSON SKIES 69
of his small-time operations leading up to something big . .
really big. This guy has three zeppelins, eight squadrons of

planes, mechanics, and enough ammunition to start a small
war. Only, he's cagey, walking on eggshells every step of the
way. Doesn't make too much sense, does it?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. So what happened to these big
plans?"
"What happened?" Her eyebrows shot up. "Someone took
off with the prototype, and the pale man started grousing
about a rat in his ranks. He ditched us when we touched
down in Free Colorado. I barely had enough cash to get back
here. It's a good thing Justin's dead or I would have killed him
myself."
"I see," Paladin said. He could sense a pattern forming in
thiswhole caper, but it didn't quite make sense yet.
"Here." Lady Kali flipped open the cylinder of Paladin's
revolver and dumped the bullets into her palm. "If we're
going to be partners, you might as well have this back." She
handed the gun to Paladin.
"Thanks," Paladin said, and stuck it in his holster. "The
cuffs, too, please?"
She twirled them once around her index finger. "What are
you going to use them for?" Her smile part seductive, part—
predatory —gave Paladin the chills.
"You'll see." He mirrored her leer and leaned closer —near
enough to feel the heat from her face upon his.
"Mm. I can see you're taking this partnership seriously,"
she murmured, her hands moving toward his face, her eyes
closing, her lips parting
— until Paladin snatched the handcuffs from her.
With a catlike move, he snapped one shackle on her
wrist. He slapped the other around the iron post of the bed
frame. His free hand grabbed the gun from her belt.
Lady Kali out a strangled scream and lunged for him.
let
She was with the reflexes of a seasoned combat pilot;

fast,
Paladin barely avoided the brunt of her attack but not be- —
fore she landed a sharp blow on his shoulder.
Paladin aimed her gun at her chest. "I appreciate that a
mercenary like you wants to get paid, but I want the pale man
— .
for my own reason, Lady Kali. A reason that pirate scum like
you will never understand."
"What reason?" she spat, still struggling with her restraints.
Paladin backed into the corner near the Madonna icon. He
carefully confirmed the backward number in the wax impres-
sion, L9879, and then scratched it off.
He kept the gun trained on Lady Kali as he edged out of the
bedroom. "Justice," he said. "You better warm up to the con-
cept. You're going to get a taste of Hollywood justice after I
call the cops."

Paladin left the apartment building, ignoring Lady Kali's
screamed obscenities as he crossed La Cienega Boulevard
and entered the trolley terminal.
He took out the key he had lifted from the pale man's zep-
pelin. It looked like it matched the imprint in Justin's picture,
though the serial number had since been filed off.
There was, Blake mused, a good reason for Justin to live in
this crummy neighborhood after all. It was a perfect transfer
point, a place where information could be anonymously ex-
changed at a moment's notice. No one down here paid any
attention to the activities of others. People who noticed too
much or were seen talking to the cops tended to meet sudden
—
and nasty ends.
Justin could also watch all the comings and goings in the
neighborhood, just in case someone tried to engineer a
double cross.
Paladin strolled into the terminal lobby, his shoes clicking
across the well-worn terra-cotta tiles. He took a left, passed
the cafeteria, and found a wall of lockers. A nickel rented you
It was a nice hiding spot, if, for ex-
a breadbox-size container.
ample, you had something you didn't want the cops to find . .
or you needed to move secrets between two parties.

He stopped at locker L9879.
Paladin took his pilfered key and smoothly slid it into the
lock. It clicked open.
10: Pirate Try Outs
' Vo what does it mean?" Paladin asked Dashiell. He leaned

Jforward on the edge of the chaise longue, trying to not
ruffle the silk fabric.
When Paladin had seen the contents of Justin's locker, he
brought it up to Dashiell 's Hollywood Hills bungalow. It
all
was private up here. Neither Lockheed, the police, nor anyone

else would be getting through the gated community unan-
nounced. Until Paladin knew more about what he had found,
he wasn't taking any chances with anyone not even the —
people who were supposed to be on the side of the angels.
"It means trouble," Dashiell said with an unlit cigarette
dangling from his mouth. He was rapt with concentration,
poring over the architectural diagrams that had been laid
across his Persian rug.
The blueprints had been in the locker, along with a manila
envelope containing three thousand dollars and a note
scrolled with neat cursive that stated,
Need a dozen pilots. Must have their own aircraft. Must

not be afraid to fight. Money, as usual, not an issue.
Dalewick Airfield. Dusk. July 7.
Today was July 7.

"What kind of trouble?" Paladin asked, and crossed
his arms.
Dashiell stood, straightened his navy blue satin lounging
robe, finallylit his cigarette, and took a long draw. "For a man
who has been to so many exotic places, Paladin " He ex-

—
—
haled silver smoke. " I'm shocked you do not recognize it.
The long rectangular wings and the enormous central round

gallery?The marble cornices and colonnades?"
Paladin stared at the building's cross section but saw only
white lines and blue smudges.
"It's the old Capitol building," Dashiell told him. "In
Washington, Nation of Columbia."
"Sure," he muttered. "I see it now."
It was more than just the white marbled rotunda Paladin
was seeing. He saw the vague outlines of what Lady Kali had
called the pale man's "big" plans. He wasn't sure what those
plans were exactly, only that he was liking them less and less.
"The note," Dashiell said, "appears to be written by a
woman of distinction and breeding. And from what you have
told me, I can only surmise these 'pilots' she refers to are re-
"
placements for Lady Kali and her cohorts
Paladin got up and paced. "Okay. That takes care of the
contents of the late Peter Justin's locker, and the key and the
black cigarettes I found on the pale man's zeppelin. But
there's one last piece of the puzzle to fit. This." Paladin
handed Dashiell the gold signet ring with a cabochon of jade
he had "borrowed" from the pale man's desk. Carved in relief
on the stone was an eagle with talons extended around a star.
Dashiell raised an eyebrow.
"You recognize it?"
"Yes," Dashiell remarked as he tried the ring on for size. It
was too big. "I'd say getting caught with this number would
buy you a rubber hose massage from the Hollywood police
and three years' hard labor. You're quite lucky Slaughouser
didn't see it." He returned the ring to Paladin. "We used a
similar prop in a recent film. Had to cut that scene, though.
The censors didn't—"
"The note said dusk," Paladin reminded him. "I've got
three hours, maybe, to make it to that airfield and stop what's
going on. Just tell me what the ring is."
Dashiell sighed. "Unionists, my dear Paladin. The rampant
eagle clutching a star was the symbol of one of the splinter
factions.The Brotherhood of America, I believe they called
themselves. As far as I know, its members had all either been
caught or killed. Perhaps those reports were in error."
CRIMSON SKIES B
Unionists. Since the breakup of the United States, a
handful of anarchic splinter groups had appeared, all crying
under the old American banner. Paladin
for the reunification
—
sympathized with their goals until a handful of the more
fanatical groups started lobbing bombs to achieve their
ends. Today, the word Unionist was synonymous with "mad
bomber" and "crank."
Paladin whispered, "I've never heard of Unionists with
battle zeppelins, squadrons of planes, or buckets of cash
to throw around. And why a blueprint of the old Capitol
building? You'd think they'd revere it as the center of their
America." He stared into thin air, trying to see the connection.
Dashiell got up, frowned, and ground his cigarette in a
crystal ashtray. "I know that look. It's your nothing-is-going-
to-stop-me-until-I-solve-this-even-if-it-kills-me look. So let's
pretend this time that I've tried to talk you out of it, and you
ignored me. That way, you can get to the airfield before the
sun sets. Just do me a favor
— " Dashiell dug into the maga-
zine rack next to the chaise longue and withdrew a holstered
.44.
"
—and take this. Since you lost your you'll need a .45,
replacement .something other than that sissy .38 you insist
. .
on carrying. A gun like that could get you killed."
Despite his recent mishaps in the air, Paladin felt the

weight of this case lift from his chest the moment the wheels
of his plane parted from the runway.
"Lightning Girl," a modified Curtiss-Wright P2 Warhawk,
was Tennyson had tinkered with
Paladin's current favorite.
the three stock Wright, R-1350 engines and coaxed out a
quarter more horsepower than they had been rated for. She
burned quarts of oil and guzzled fiiel like a bonfire, but she
was faster than anyone suspected a Warhawk could be ... a
surprise that had saved his skin on more than one occasion.
But speed wasn't why Paladin had named her "Lightning
Girl."
Her standard guns had been replaced with four .60-caliber
Smith & Wesson "Scorpion" cannons. Tennyson had en-
gineered a double set of triggers on the stick, one over the
other, for each pair of guns. Using two fingers, squeezing

both triggers at the same time, all four guns could be fired
simultaneously.
The blazing lead, streaks of tracers, and sheer mayhem that
Lightning Girl could deliver was an awesome sight. So far, no
one had seen her spit fire and lived to tell her secret.
Paladin nosed his plane up, banked east, and headed
toward Riverside, and Dalewick Airfield.
A layer of nimbus clouds had settled around four thousand
feet, a white-and-gray inverted landscape that glowed gold
and orange as the sun set. Below, large boulders dotted the
landscape; white and yellow washes of soil made meandering
patterns broken by an occasional emerald patch of avocado
grove. To the south were rolling hills, and farther, the San
Bernardino Mountains, the highest peaks still capped with
snow. Nice country.
Dalewick Airfield serviced the region's handful of sea-
sonal crop dusters. Paladin had stopped over before. It was a
smooth patch of dirt runway and a radio shack, as close to
civilization as the middle of nowhere could be.
A speck hovered in the distance, then another, then three
more. Hard to tell —but there must have been twenty aircraft
circling like buzzards over Dalewick. And they weren't crop
dusters. As Paladin got closer he saw these planes were
painted in gaudy colors and sported a variety of emblems:
and falcon silhouettes.
fiery horses, crossed rifles,
There were six Grumman Avengers, a Ravenscroft Coy-
ote, a pair of new M210 Ravens, and a few battered PR-1
Defenders.
Paladin flipped on his radio and tuned in the airfield's
frequency.
"Dalewick come in. This is 3-Delta-475 requesting per-
mission to land."
There was a hiss of static, then, "Denied 3-Delta-475. This
is an invitation-only party. Better scram while you can,
buster."
That definitely was no Hollywood-certified radio operator.
"Dalewick, this is 3-Delta-475. I was invited. Justin sent
.
CRIMSON SKIES 75
me . before his last flight. I've already been paid to show

. .
up. You want me to leave? I'll just pocket the money. It's all
the same to me."
The radio crackled with silence for three heartbeats.
"Okay, 3-Delta-475, join in. We were odd anyway."
Odd? Now what does that mean? he wondered. Paladin
didn't want to blow his cover, so he just kept his mouth shut.
"3-Delta-475, your partner is Foxtrot 41-niner. That's the
red J2 Fury."
"Roger that, Dalewick."
Paladin would play along. Partner probably meant he had
been assigned a wingman. Maybe for a test of skill?
Planes buzzed around, under, and over Lightning Girl as
they all continued to circle the airfield. He spotted the red J2
Fury, which also bore a silver snake emblem coiled on each
wing. Nice and subtle.
The Fury was circling directly across from Lightning Girl.
Paladin eased back on the throttle so they could catch up.
The little red plane slowed, too, however, matching his
speed and keeping a fixed position across from him.
"Helluva lousy wingman," Paladin muttered.
The radio crackled, "Okay, ladies and gentlemen. The
show's on. Let's see what you're made of."
Gunfire erupted, and every plane veered from the circling
formation. The red J2 banked and dived toward the underside
of Paladin's bird.
A Defender on his wingtip shattered as a rocket exploded
over the cockpit —
Paladin reflexively banked hard to starboard.
So this recruitment of Justin's was apparently open to only
a select few. That's what the ground controller meant by
"partner " Not wingman. The J2 Fury was Paladin's target . .
and Lightning Girl was the Fury's.

Paladin inverted Lightning Girl, rolling upside down to get
a better look. The nimble J2 Fury was attempting to come up
under him, to align its deadly .70-caliber cannon, and make
short work of him.
"Nice try," Paladin growled.
The Fury was lighter and faster than his Warhawk, even
—
with Tennyson's modifications. But the Fury was nose-heavy

and could stall even at a moderate angle of attack unless the
pilot knew exactly what he was doing.
Still inverted, Paladin poured on the speed and climbed
into a loop. The Fury followed him —almost straight up.
He leveled out at three thousand feet; he had to. Ribbons of
smoke poured from his port engine. Lightning Girl couldn't
take much more.
Beneath him, however, the Fury sputtered black smoke,
and her nose dipped. The pilot quickly recovered from the
stall and leveled out. That was all the invitation Paladin
needed.
The Fury's pilot must have realized his mistake. He dived.
Now it was Paladin's turn to pursue. He opened up the
throttle, and the full weight of his Warhawk gave him a cru-
cial speed advantage. Lightning Girl fell toward her prey like
a meteor.
The Fury rolled to port, a mistake at stall speed. If he had
continued a full-power dive, he might have gotten close to
the ground and pulled out at the last moment. A Warhawk
wouldn't be able to match such a maneuver.
Paladin didn't hesitate to exploit his enemy's error. The in-
stant the Fury lined up in his sights, he opened fire with the
outer pair of .60-caliber guns. Bullets streaked past the Fury's
wingtip.
He let all four guns blaze. The noise was deafening
louder than the trio of engines at full speed. The Warhawk's
frame shuddered, but Paladin held her steady in the dive, rud-
dered over, and let the torrent of bullets spray across the
Fury. A moment later, amid a fountain of red paint chips,
the Fury fell —
her snake decorations obliterated by the
dark, smoking pockmarks of bullet impacts, both wings
chewed off.
Paladin rolled and pulled back on the stick, easing out of
the dive. He cast a glance over his shoulder and glimpsed
what was left of the Fury's fuselage spiraling toward the
airfield.
He looked away. He wasn't squeamish by any means, but

there were dogfights in every direction, whirling pieces
CRIMSON SKIES 77
of metal, clouds of smoke, and tracers whistling past his

—
cockpit he had to get out of here.
Paladin spied a clear piece of sky and nosed Lightning Girl
in that direction. He sailed over Dalewick Airfield, not
more than a hundred feet off the ground. The radio shack was
on fire.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the radio announced. "Cease fire.
That was an excellent demonstration of skill and daring. We
regret that we have only a limited number of berths for your
fighters, and that we had to resort to such a drastic selection
method. But as they say: to the victors go the spoils."
Overhead, a shadow darkened the clouds, which parted as
a massive zeppelin began its descent. Mounted within the ob-
servation deck were a dozen machine-gun nests and the
gleaming noses of a hundred rockets.
"3-Delta-475, please climb to one thousand feet and pro-
ceed to dock. Welcome aboard George Washington"
II: Under a Banner of War
Paladin was exhausted. He couldn't let his guard down,

though. If he nodded off, he'd wake up with his throat slit.
He sat in the dark, along with dozens of soldiers, pirates,
and mercenaries, any one of whom would have gladly tossed
him overboard if they discovered who he really was.
The thrum of the engines reverberated through the
—
chamber a section of the zeppelin 's interior superstructure.
Instead of a gasbag, there were crates, spare airplane parts,
and three bleachers arranged before a small projection
screen.
A beam of light pierced the darkness. The pale man stood
in front of his audience, hands held in a steeple. He wore a
linen suit, had slicked back his thinning hair, and sported a
monocle. His white suit and pallor blended into the screen
—
behind him so he appeared to Paladin's sleep-deprived
eyes, at least — to step out of the flat surface.
"Ladies and gentlemen/' he said, "thank you for accepting

our invitation. Now that we are close to our destination, I can
brief you on the mission."
Paladin counted his lucky stars to have made it this far. It
had been a full day since he had docked Lightning Girl with
the George Washington.
When he got out of the cockpit, he kept his leather helmet
and goggles on. Unlike Lady Kali, someone in this group
might recognize him. If not one of the hired pirates, then one
of George Washington's crew. They wouldn't soon forget the
man who had stolen their pilfered prototype from the heart of
their secret base.
So far. no one had grabbed him or put a gun to his
head. Yet.
Each pirate lined up. signed a contract (with the usual
clauses stipulating nonpayment in the event of mutiny or
cowardice), and got paid three hundred dollars in the national
scrip of their choice. .Another five hundred dollars plus bo-
nuses were also promised, upon completion of the mission.
One clause in the contract caught Paladin's eye. however. It
gave the pale man and his crew permission to reinforce his
plane s hardpoints. Lightning Girl could already carry rocket
racks and extra fuel tanks, so what gave?He didn't ask. The
last thing he wanted was
draw attention to himself.
to
ik
Along with the new pirates who had survived the inter-
view" process, there were another two dozen mercenaries
on the zeppelin and a comparable number of soldiers in
drab gray-green uniforms with shorn heads and black circle
insignia.
He and the rest of the hired help had been fed pheasant,
mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie before being assigned to
cramped berths. The others in the informal "barracks" played
poker or told wild tales of their exploits to pass the time.
Paladin had curled up in his bunk and pretended to sleep.
He tried to rest, but his heart wouldn't stop racing.
It probably wouldn't be too suspicious to keep to himself.
Pirates and mercenaries weren't noted for their friendli-
ness. That wasn't too much of a problem. But where were they?
CRIMSON SKIC
The zep's engines had been running at full throttle for twenty
hours. If they had caught a trade wind, they could be two
or three thousand miles from Hollywood — an\v\ here from
Panama to Hawai'i to Alaska.
"Our mission is clear," the pale man said, snapping Paladin
back from the edge of his groggy recollections. "Our mission
is destruction."
This brought murmurs of approval from the audience.
The pale man nodded. There was the ratcheting of a
mechanism from the shadows and an aerial map of a city
flashed upon the screen behind him. Two river tributaries ran
down either side. On the left there was a grid of buildings, but
the right side had only a few structures, acres of green lawn,
and rows of trees.
"We have prevailing cloud cover today at four thousand
feet. Two of the three zeppelins in our battle group will
maintain position just above this altitude with their escort

squadrons."
Another slide and three zeppelin silhouettes appeared in
the corner.
Paladin spied a figure sitting in shadows next to the stage.
She sat just close enough to the illuminated screen that he
could make out her features: a fall of dark hair, full lips, a tiny
dimple in her chin, and wide expressive eyes. Paladin in-
stantly recognized her — the pale man's companion, the one

he had seen during his raid on the pirate base.
''George Washington/' the pale man continued l
*wiH
launch our two dozen fighters, half of which will proceed
toward
— " He nodded again, and a large arrow flashed upon
the map from the zeppelins to the center of the city. M this —
green belt. There, they will briefly engage the defending
units, perhaps four to five squadrons, which will have been
scrambled to counter our attack."
A voice shouted from the dark: "Two dozen planes against
five squadrons? That's nuts."
"Hardly," he said, and peered into the shadows. The light
reflecting from his monocle made the one eye seem huge. "I
—
said 'briefly engage.' " He turned back to the map. "Napoleon

called it the passive lure."
Another arrow appeared from the center of the map back
to the zeppelins.
"Youwill let these defenders chase you to George Wash-
ington. Climb to four thousand two hundred feet. Thomas
Jefferson and Samuel Adams will then enter the fray." He in-
haled deeply and let out a sigh of contentment. "Between the
machine-gun fire and our initial salvo of rockets, there will be
little resistance left for our fighter escorts."
The pale man snapped his white-gloved fingers. "Phase
two."
He pointed with his cane to a white rectangular building on
themap. "Our heavier planes in reserve will then proceed un-
opposed to the primary target."
This structure looked familiar to Paladin.
"These planes have been fitted with two quarter-ton incen-
diary and two high-explosive bombs. When the primary
target has been destroyed"
— —
the pale man pointed to another
building "this will be your secondary target. And this" he —
indicated a tiny square that cast an unusually long shadow
"is our tertiary target. Destroy them all, ladies and gentlemen,
and your pay shall be doubled."
The motley crew in the auditorium broke out in applause.
Paladin, however, had a sinking sensation in his stomach.
Not only for the defenders of this city who were certain to —
get blasted into confetti by the three battle zeppelins but be- —
cause he finally recognized the targets.
was that long shadow that gave it away. The tiny white
It
square came to a point at the top. Paladin stretched out the

shape to match the length of the shadow compared to the
relative sizes of the other buildings' shadows. The structure
had to be a hundred feet tall, maybe more. There was only
one building like that in North America: the Washington
Monument.
And the secondary target across the beltway park? That
was the White House.
The primary target, east of the others, that was the Capitol
CRIMSON SKIES 81
Building —just like he had seen it in the blueprints from Peter

Justin's locker.
"Ready yourselves, pilots," the pale man said. "We will be
arriving shortly."
The audience members started talking excitedly to one an-
other as they pushed their way out of the auditorium. Paladin
sat for a moment and stared numbly at the map until they
were all gone.
"You see a flaw in this plan, perhaps?" a female voice from
the dark asked.
The woman who had been near the stage, the one who had
always been by the pale man's side, was seated a few feet
away from Paladin on the bleachers.
His heart skipped a beat and then pounded in his throat.
She, if anyone here, would recognize him. She had gotten
close to Paladin before. Maybe she couldn't quite see him in
the darkness.
"No. No flaw," he replied.
What stumped Paladin were the pale man's motives. No
Unionist in his right mind would attack the Capitol Building
of the old United States. Paladin couldn't ask him directly,
but maybe his might spill the beans.
friend here
"I don't see the analogy between this plan and Napoleon's
passive lure," Paladin said in the calmest voice he could
muster. "The French used cannon, cavalry, and infantry. We
have none of that."
"An educated pirate?" she cooed. "On aura tout vu. I'm
impressed, Mr. —?"
"Call me Dashiell," Paladin told her.
She moved closer. From the reflected light off the screen
Paladin saw she wore a tight skirt that flared around her
shapely calves, a tight blazer, and a ruffled white shirt. He
also spied the sparkle of diamonds on her fingers.
"Well, Dashiell," she said, "the analogy does hold. Our
zeppelins each carry over a hundred rockets. The exhaust
backwash is ducted out the opposite side so we can launch
dozens simultaneously. That is our artillery. The machine-
gun nests next to them are the infantry. And you, and your
fellow fliers, are the cavalry."
82 Pa lad n Blake
Paladin imagined the battle: rockets could do a boatload of

damage from a considerable distance to a tight formation of
machine guns would finish them
planes. 7/they g ot closer, the
off; add a dozen fighters and two more zeppelins bombarding
the incoming wave of advancing planes and there 'd be
. . .
nothing left of them but smoke.

"It'll work," Paladin admitted, "but why bother? I mean,
bombing a few buildings hardly seems profitable. Unless

profit isn't your motive?"
"Are you sure you're a pirate?" she asked. "Most pirates
concern themselves only with money."
Paladin started to say he was a pirate but he checked —
himself. He always tried to tell the truth, because frankly, he
was lousy at lying. Most people picked up on it.
"I'm not a pirate," he whispered. "I'm a patriot. My family
fought in the American Revolution and my grandfather lost
both legs in the Civil War. My father died when the States fell
apart. I guess my family always ends up fighting and dying
when their country is in need."
That was not far from the truth. Paladin's father had died
—
during the breakup of the States but on a bootlegging run
gone sour, not on some patriotic crusade.
Was telling her this the right approach? Were the pale man
and his crew Unionists? Paladin had found a Unionist signet
ring in the pale man's room, but that didn't mean he was a
member of the Brotherhood of America. It could have been a
trophy taken from an enemy, or for that matter, he could have
picked it up in a pawnshop. Yet, would a man like Peter Justin
have allied himself with anyone but a patriot? Paladin de-
cided to take a gamble.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is that a real American has
to operate outside the law when he lives in a country that it-
self is illegal."
"Eloquently put." She set her hand consolingly on his.
"Would it help if I told you that you are in the right place at
the right time to serve your country?"

Her touch gave him the chills. Paladin didn't move away,
even though every instinct screamed that this woman was
poison.
CRIMSON SKIES 83
"How, exactly?" he asked.

She was silent a moment as she considered his question;
then she said, "As we speak, representatives from every na-
tion in North America are in the old capital making deals to
strengthen their political ties and lower trade barriers."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"Good?" She withdrew her hand. "I suppose it is good for
the tiny nation-states. Good that they will become compla-
cent with their diminished status. And good that their divi-
sions will be all the more permanent, cemented by new
treaties and agreements and guarantees of peaceful coexis-
tence. But there is another way not necessarily easier, but
. . .
better for all in the long term."

"I think I see where this is going," Paladin murmured.
He had heard similar words years ago in Europe, and he

had witnessed the brutal consequences.
"Then you understand," she said. "We disrupt the talks and
encourage the nations to believe another state was respon-
sible. One such operation was successful in Pacifica. Boeing
and the Pacifica government have been led to believe that
Hollywood spies stole a new plane. We had some . . . set-
backs during a similar operation in Hollywood, but suspi-
cions between nations will now grow.
"We drive them toward conflict," she continued, her eyes
glittering. "The most aggressive we back with money and
weapons and guidance. Only a strong nation, willing to risk
— —
everything to do anything will have the willpower to re-
unite our country and make it great again."
"Under a banner of war," Paladin said.
She gave his arm a squeeze. "Yes."
Paladin had a couple of other names for this deal: Nation-
alism. Fascism. Rotten through and through.
But as much as the morals of the pale man's scheme
repelled him, the logic driving the plan was sound, and its
eventual outcome was horrifyingly possible.
A klaxon blared, echoing throughout the chamber.
"We are preparing to launch phase one," the dark woman
said. "You must go."
"Yeah, I better," Paladin said, and stood.
—
It looked like he was going to be a patriot after all. He had

to stop the pale —
man even if he had to die doing it.
1Z: One-Man Invasion
Blake held his breath, carefully maintaining his plane's posi-

tion in the double-arrowhead formation of warplanes.
Paladin's every instinct screamed at him to blast his way out
of this mess but that would be suicide.
. . .
Instead, he gritted his teeth and pointed Lightning Girl at

the heart of Washington, capital of the nation of Columbia.
The pale man's officers had positioned their black Grumman
Avengers on the tips of this double- V formation, herding the
characteristically sloppy pirate pilots into a precise pattern of
aircraft with no more than ten feet between any one of them.
It was a sight that the defenders of Columbia couldn't pos-
sibly miss —
which was the point.
Paladin had been assigned a dual role on this mission of
destruction. He was to fly Lightning Girl out and lure the de-
fenders of the peace conference back to the Unionist zep-
pelins. After the zeps made confetti out of them, he had
orders to turn back and bomb the Capitol Building.
Lightning Girl had been singled out for both parts of the
mission because the pale man's mechanics had been wowed
with her horsepower and devastating firepower. They also
knew she'd be one big, flashy target that would be irresistible
to the defending militia pilots. And she could take far more
punishment than the majority of the lighter craft on his
Warhawk's wingtips. The Unionists had offered Paladin a
hazard bonus for the extra duty, and he had accepted
itching to do something anything to stop this.
. . .
But how was he going to stop them? He was just one plane
against dozens, each flown by an experienced killer.
He glanced over his shoulder. George Washington floated
under a ceiling of iron-gray clouds at four thousand feet. The
other two zeppelins, Samuel Adams and Thomas Jefferson,
.
CRIMSON SK1CS 85
were concealed just above her, nestled within the cottony

banks of clouds.
Paladin dialed through the radio frequencies, hoping to
pick up some chatter, trying to remember what channel Co-
lumbia's militia used, but heard only static. He reset his radio.
"'Lightning Girl,'" a voice growled though his speaker.
"Get your nose up!"
"Roger," Paladin replied, startled.
He had allowed his plane to drift a few feet above the for-
mation.He quickly pushed the yoke forward, easing his crate
back into place.
He scowled, wishing Lightning Girl weren't so sluggish.
She had been loaded with two high explosive and two incen-
diary bombs, not to mention her full fuel tanks, yards of
ammo belts, and rockets.
It was a good thing the pale man's officer had caught his
slip. A minor collision would mean disaster for everyone . .
which, perhaps, was exactly what Paladin needed.

Not that he was ready to sacrifice his life. There had to be
another way.
Paladin pulled back on the stick and keyed his micro-
phone: "Black Ace One, this is 'Lightning Girl.' I have a
sticky wing flap. I need to give myself a little maneuvering
room to see if I can free it up."
"Break and return to base, 'Lightning Girl.' Wait for phase
two; then proceed as ordered."
Paladin eased his plane up and poured on the juice, pulling
in front of the formation.
This wasn't the first time he'd flown in a dicey situation. In
the Great War he had to hit moving targets —
trains and tanks,
and columns of soldiers —but never a target like this. There
would be no near-miss.
He glanced down at the double-V formation. Planes shifted
gently, closing to fill the hole made by his absence. Good.
Paladin nudged Lightning Girl ahead, his eyes flickering
between his instruments and the formation below.
There. That would be his best shot.
His radio crackled and whined. " 'Lightning Girl,' I said re-
turn to base!" the pale man's watchdog snapped.
"I will," he replied. "But I have to leave you creeps a little

going-away gift."
Paladin released his bombs.
He pulled up hard and firewalled the throttle. Lightning
Girl climbed and inverted. Paladin watched as his bombs
tumbled into the tightly stacked formation.
The first bomb shattered the canopy of a Kestrel, as an-
other simultaneously slammed into —
and through the wing —
of a J2 Fury. There was an incendiary spark, which coalesced
in a split second into a brilliant blue- white flash of light as the
spark reached the glittering cloud of aviation fuel spewing
from the Fury's severed wing tanks.
Like Fourth of July firecrackers, there was one flashbulb
detonation after another, as Paladin's bombs found their
marks. The planes slammed into each other, transforming the
tight, precision formation into an insane tangle of smoke,
whirling propeller blades, glittering shards of metal, and ig-
niting fuel that mushroomed and roiled with screeching
thunder.
Wings and tails and glass hailstones emerged from the
cloud, fuselages spiraled out of control, and other twisted
hunks of steel plummeted toward the earth. Paladin caught a
glimpse of an opening parachute and a tangle of fluttering
silk wrapped around a body.
Paladin didn't waste his time feeling sorry for any of them.
—
They had wanted to start a war now they'd damn well get
a war.
He banked back toward the zeppelins.
It wasn't the acceleration that made his stomach sink;
Lightning Girl had dumped her bombs to remove the advance
squadron. Now how was he going to stop three fully loaded
military zeps and their escorts?
Paladin eased the throttle back. He needed time to think.
The radio crackled: "Come in, Black Ace One: repeat your
status and position."
It was now or never. The pale man's
forces were confused
and blind. Paladin quickly planned his approach and opened
up the throttle. Whatever he was going to do, however he was
CRIMSON SKIES 87
going to stop them —he had to do it fast. Their confusion, and

Paladin's window of opportunity, wouldn't last for long.
As he drew closer, he spotted the shiny bulk of George
Washington . . . then saw the shadows of Samuel Adams and
Thomas Jefferson as they descended from the clouds. They
took positions in front of Washington —a triangular forma-
tion thatwould maximize their firepower if anyone was fool-
ish enough to engage them.
Circling above the zeps were their escort squadrons the —
fighters that would catch any strays the zep didn't get and
the bombers that would turn Washington into rubble.
They were expecting Columbia's militia to be hot on the
Warhawk's tail. They were expecting a fight. So he'd give
them one.
Paladin pulled back on the yoke, executed a quarter roll,
and accelerated toward Jefferson. He lined his plane up,
aiming to pass slightly above the line of fire of the zeppelins'
machine-gun nests and gleaming rocket tips.
—
He held his breath waited until he was close enough to
see people inside pointing and panicking and running from
their positions, as the plane they thought was on their side
—
barreled toward them then opened fire with cannons and
rockets.
Smoke trails snaked from Lightning Girl to the belly of the
zeppelin. Fire blossomed inside the converted passenger's
galley, followed by a staccato string of detonations, as the
munitions inside exploded in a chain reaction. A hundred
rockets launched to port and starboard, billowing thunder-
heads of smoke and flame and sprouting greasy blossoms of
flak and fire.
Paladin snapped Lightning Girl upright and pulled back
fast —arcing up and over
the zeppelin, so close he felt the ran-
domly machine-gun rounds zinging off his plane's
firing
fuselage, so close he thought he could feel the heat of the
passing rockets.
He leaned over and strained to get a look at Jefferson.
Her underside was ablaze, and flames and plumes of sooty
—
smoke curled up the sides of the airship —flames that quickly

dwindled and died.
"Damn," Paladin muttered. So much for the element of
surprise. It figured, though. This wasn't some low-rent bunch
of pirates; this splinter group of Unionists had the money and

the resources to fill the zeppelin with helium. Had she been
filledwith cheaper hydrogen, she would have gone up like
dynamite.
The pale man's moment of confusion, and Paladin's luck,
had just run out. He glanced back. The sky was thick with
—
swarming planes all of them gunning for him. Bullet holes
stitched across his starboard wing, and a trio of slugs rico-
cheted and pinged off the canopy, cracking it.
Jefferson was still aloft, and her engines were running at
full speed. The zep, however, looked like a bite had been
taken out of her. Where the galley had been, there was now a
twisted, blackened mess of skeletal superstructure. The cen-
tral gasbags were rapidly deflating, and jets of fire spouted
from broken fuel lines.

Paladin had to make a break for it. If he gained altitude fast
enough, he might be able to get away in the cloud cover.
But what about the peace conference? The pale man still
had two zeps and enough planes to pull off his mission
maybe not so easily as intended, but it could still be done.
Paladin sighed and patted the instrument panel of Light-
ning Girl. "This may be the dumbest stunt we've pulled
yet, friend." He pulled back on the yoke, rolled, and
righted Lightning Girl —heading straight into the face of
his enemies.
Two dozen fighters opened fire. They dived toward him.
The sky was filled with a rain of tracers. Enough bullets im-
pacted with Lightning Girl to make the plane's engine stutter.
The Warhawk's starboard engine smoked and coughed but

kept going. Paladin squeezed both triggers and peppered a
pack of Devastators directly in front of him cracking the —
canopy of the lead plane. The planes veered aside at the last
second, as the lead Devastator began to tumble. Scratch one
pilot.
CRIMSON SKIES 89
It was suddenly silent, save for the thrum of his plane's

engines.
Paladin had broken though the pack of pirate escorts; how-
ever, would take them only a second to turn and get on his
it
tail. He
refused to think about what would happen then; he
had to stay focused on Jefferson.
He turned toward the line of engine nacelles on the
wounded zeppelin's port side.
Blake knew he would never get another sweetheart shot
like he had taken on Jefferson. Adams and Washington would
cut him to shreds before he could blink. No there was only
. . .
—
one way to take out those zeps now with another zeppelin.
Jefferson wasn't dead in the air; she kept pace with Adams.
By destroying the bridge,Paladin had cut off only her head.
—
Her engines were running at full speed dumb and blind, but
still running.
He was a quarter mile away from Jefferson's port engine
nacelles when he opened fire.
It was a million-to-one shot at
this range, but he'd need all the firepower he could squeeze
off tomake this work.
The Warhawk's guns sprayed destruction as she closed the
distance to the zep. One motor sparked as Lightning Girl
lined —
up on the proper trajectory and hit then it exploded
into sparks and bits of spinning metal. Paladin quickly aimed
at the next engine and blasted away, then a third, before
Lightning Girl zoomed past the dying airship.
A rocket blast shook Lightning Girl. Paladin looked over
his shoulder and spied a pack of incoming Grumman Aveng-
ers. He rolled back and forth, then dived to gain speed.
They followed him like bloodhounds on the scent, a
shower of lead shredding his tail.
"Come on, girl," Paladin urged his plane. "Hang on just a
little longer."
Paladin pulled up, ignoring the shudder that ran through
his airframe. If his luck could hold out for a few more sec-
onds, then the party would really begin.
He spotted Jefferson. With three of the five engines on her
port side shot to pieces, she slowly listed to one side, right
toward Samuel Adams —
—and collided with the battle zep.

1
The starboard side of Jefferson impacted on Adams' stern.

Their spinning props ripped into one another, tearing fabric
and gasbags, wrenching blades and frames, pulling them into
a tighter embrace. The zeps tangled and locked together.
Adams' nose crumpled and sagged. Many of Jefferson's
gasbags had been torn open. They tilted and started to sink,
locked in a deadly embrace.
Paladin lined up Lightning Girl, right over George Wash-
ington, and matched speed and direction. He double-checked
his parachute harness, praying the chute he had packed
wouldn't tangle.
He popped the canopy. Wind stung him with icy needles.
He bid Lightning Girl a silent good-bye, then cut her engines.
The Warhawk sputtered and stalled, and Paladin jumped.
Thethirty-foot fall wasn't bad —
he broke a handful of his
ribson impact, rather than breaking his neck. Paladin bounced
— —
once twice toward the edge, then caught the slippery
fabric before he went over.
He climbed back to the top. Beneath him, the zeppelin
shifted and turned west.
He drew a knife from his boot and cut into the fabric, then
grabbed onto the steel frame and pulled himself inside. "No
you don't," he growled. "This time, there's no way in hell
you're getting away."
13: The Lady and the Tiger
Paladin had one leg in the hole of the zep's fabric when he
noticed Lightning Girl in his peripheral vision. His prized
Warhawk, now without a pilot, arced wildly upward, wob-
bling, pitching, and yawing . . .
. . . before inverting, her engine stalling out. Seconds later,
Blake's favorite airplane fell toward the nose of George

Washington.
The Warhawk slammed into the zeppelin and ripped
— .
CRIMSON SKIES 91
through the hull as the plane's fuel tanks ignited in a stunning

fireball.
The zeppelin shuddered, knocking Paladin off his pre-

on a structural beam. He teetered, struggled
carious footing
to regain his balance
—and fell, barely managing to grab hold of the beam with
his left hand. His busted ribs exploded with pain.
He looked down. Below him was a seventy-foot fall, criss-
crossed with a supporting skeletal framework that held
George Washington's bloated gasbags. If he lost his grip, he'd
end up with a cracked skull. If he took his time climbing
down, one of the gasbags could rupture. The flood of helium
would probably suffocate him. Either that, or the force of
the gasbag bursting would dash him against the deck or a
steel crossbeam, knocking him unconscious or killing him
outright.
He had to move — fast.
Paladin gritted his teeth against the pain in his chest and
caught the beam with his other hand. He braced himself with
his feet, then half climbed, half slid down, into the heart of
the zeppelin's envelope.
From outside, he could hear the roar of cannon fire, the
staccato echoes rattling through the zep. Bullet holes dotted
the fabric skin, allowing thin, pale streams of sunlight into
the dim interior. A flicker of shadow rippled past, blocking
out the light passing through the punctures —a fighter plane,
making a close pass to the zeppelin.
looked like Columbia's defenders had finally wised up
It
to the danger in their skies.Too bad their timing was lousy.

Paladin was caught in the crossfire.
He stepped gingerly down onto the zep's gondola roof and
made his way to the nearby hatch. The steel plates under his
feet shook with the din of rocket and cannon fire, and the oc-
casional metal fragment whizzed by, stray debris from the
battle raging all around him. He took a deep breath wincing —
as his tortured ribs protested the abuse and opened the —
hatch, quickly climbing down . .
. . . straight into Hell itself.

—
The fore end of the galley was engulfed in flame. Oily,

choking smoke obscured Paladin's view, but he could see that
the damage was extensive. Where there had once been a
.50-caliber machine-gun nest, there was now a gaping, ugly
hole, its razor-sharp edges blackened with soot. Smoldering
metal twisted and blossomed inward, and burn scars and
blood streaked the walls and floor.
—
Ammunition belts spilled from a nearby ammo crate
—
during the breach were strewn across the deck, where the
fire hungrily fed on them. Machine-gun rounds popped like
firecrackers, sending slugs whistling past Paladin's head.

Ricochets buzzed through the companionway like angry hor-
nets. Five crews manned the remaining machine guns, grimly
concentrating on defending the zep from the swarm of planes
outside.
No one spared him a glance.
Paladin covered his head —
more to keep from choking on
the stench of smoke and cordite than to disguise himself
and ran aft. He moved quickly through the corridor, pushing
past men clambering to assist the gun crews. Once clear, he
made his way toward the passenger section and the pale . . .
man's cabin.
The door to the cabin was locked. He drew his pistol and
put his shoulder against the door. He shoved and cracked the
frame. Paladin quickly entered, his gun sweeping the room,
ready to shoot at the first sign of trouble.
Nothing.
The room was a mess: bookcases were overturned, every
drawer in the rolltop desk had been opened and dumped, and
a painting had been torn off the wall. The safe the painting
had once concealed now stood open and empty. . . .
"So the rat's getting off this sinking ship," Paladin mut-
tered. He started toward the door —
and stopped when he
heard a low moan from under the upended bookcases.
He carefully aimed his gun at the source of the sound,
thumbed back the hammer, and kicked over the case.
—
A woman the pale man's companion lay there. She sat —
up unsteadily and rubbed her head, tousling her thick, lus-
trous black hair.
CRIMSON SKIES 93
Paladin lowered his gun and knelt next to her. "You all
right?"
"I was next to the bookcase ," she said, still dazed. "There
was an explosion." She pursed her lips, and her eyes came
back into focus. "I always thought that 'seeing stars' was a
figure of speech."
Paladin helped her stand.
"It's not."
She teetered a moment, straightened her skirt, and smoothed

out her wool blazer. Her gaze darted over his face, and she
arched an eyebrow. "Ah, the intellectual pirate." She smiled
and winced, gently touching the lump on her head. "I re-
member you."
He would have given anything to question her. She
probably knew plenty about the pale man, but there was no
time for that.
Paladin's father —
had been many things a moonshiner, a
bootlegger, and a con artist —
but he had also been a country
gentleman, and he had taught his sons how to treat ladies,
even ladies who were accomplices to a crime. He'd have to
get her off this floating deathtrap; he could hand her over to
the cops later.
"I don't know how you're involved in this mess," he said,

"but I've got a feeling you're just in the wrong place at the
wrong time. At least, that's what I'm hoping. Don't prove me
wrong."
He unbuckled his parachute harness and wriggled free.
"This zep is going down. Your boss's plan has backfired. I
want you to take this and get out of here."
She met Paladin's gaze. He didn't like what he saw in her
—
eyes hard reflections, like faceted ice, cold and calculating
and unyielding.
"You know how to use one of these?" he asked, trying to
ignore the disquiet her penetrating stare provoked.
"Yes." She took the chute, slipped into the harness, and se-
cured the buckle. "But what about you?"
"I've got another way off this gasbag," he said.
Paladin shot the lock that kept the parlor's steel shutters
closed. He rolled them up, and opened the large window.
"Here."
"
He held out his hand and helped her sit on the edge of the
He reached down and pulled off her high heels. "You'll
sill.
never make a landing on those," he told her. "Pull the cord

only after you've cleared the zeppelin. Count to seven. Don't
hold your breath."
The woman looked down and then back at Paladin, crin-
kling her brow with worry. "I don't
—
"No time for discussion, sister. Go!" He shoved her.
She gave a startled yelp and tumbled out.
Paladin watched as she plummeted, nervous and anxious
until he saw the white bloom of hand-stitched silk pop
into view.
"My good deed for the day," he muttered.
Paladin holstered his gun and left the parlor. He made his
way down the corridor, past a dozen pilots and mercenaries
bustling by. Steeling himself, he pushed open the double
doors of the zeppelin 's launch bay.
The cavernous room was nearly empty. A single Grumman
Avenger remained in the bay, perched over the opening in the
floor —ready for launch.
The pale man stood next to the plane, surrounded by three
men in green uniforms. He wore his usual linen suit, but now,
instead of its typical immaculate cleanliness, it was soot-
streaked and sweat-stained. He held a briefcase in his right
hand; Paladin noticed it was handcuffed to his wrist. He also
wore a leather cap, goggles,and a parachute.
It looked like the pale man was taking the last plane off the
George Washington. Blake smiled time to hitch a ride.—

Paladin started toward them.
"You!" the pale man shouted. "Help the others put out the
fire on the gunnery deck. Move it!"
Paladin shrugged and waved, pretending he couldn't hear

the pale man's orders. He moved closer.
When he was four steps away, the pale man opened his
mouth as if he were going to say something. He paused, and
looked back up at the Grumman Avenger, then back at Pala-
din. "You .
." he growled.
.
Damn.
"Shoot him!" the pale man screamed, pointing at Paladin.
— —
CRIMSON SKIES 95
The guards reached for their guns.

Paladin had hoped for a ride in that Avenger, but it looked
like there was only one way he was getting off the dying zep-
pelin in one piece. He lunged for the pale man, tackled him
— together, they tumbled through the open launch bay
doors.
The wind tore at Paladin, and made his eyes water. The
pale man squirmed in his grasp, cursing and struggling to
break Paladin's grip. Blake held on to him for all he was
worth: one hand clutched the lapel of his suit; the other
clamped on to his enemy's right wrist.
Spinning together, the pale man kicked at Paladin. The
hastily aimed blows rained across Paladin's midsection: his
leg, his hip, his stomach. Then a well-polished wingtip con-
nected with Paladin's busted ribs.
He gasped, unable to inhale, as bands of red-hot pain
clamped across his chest like a devilish vice.
Paladin lost his grip and flailed helplessly in a free fall.
He caught a glimpse of the ground, the sinuous, glim-

mering Potomac River, and the ivory sliver of the Washington
Monument in the distance.
He spun dizzily, trying to slow his fall, the first hot spike of
panic knifing through him like a bayonet. A scream welled up
in his throat
— until his fingertips brushed the handle of the pale man's
briefcase.
Fighting back his mounting fear, he grabbed on tight, the
body snapping like the end of a whip.
length of his
The pale man yelled in pain as the briefcase — still hand-
cuffed to his wrist — brutally jerked his arm, nearly dislo-
cating it.
Paladin pinwheeled around his nemesis, the sky and

ground spinning in his peripheral vision.
Paladin's panic began to subside, replaced by cold rage.
With a growl, he reached for the pale man with his free hand.
The pale man retaliated, hammering Blake with kicks and
punches, trying to dislodge his attacker.
They were getting too close to the ground. Paladin spotted
waves in the Potomac and saw tiny cars inching along the
roads.Images of slamming into the unforgiving earth, of his

body shattered on the unyielding stone and dirt below, filled
Paladin's mind.
No. He had to focus on the pale man, forget the ground and
his pain.
The pale man reached inside his jacket.
Paladin fumbled for his own holstered gun.
The ground rushed closer.
The pale man's gun cleared its holster first, the silvery
muzzle swinging toward Paladin's head. There was a burst of
smoke and fire as the pale man pulled the trigger, though the
report was eerily muffled, swallowed by the rush of air.
The bullet whistled past Blake's head, missing him by a
fraction of an inch.
For a moment, Blake was sure he was dead, that the pale
man couldn't miss at such close range.
Lucky. He was damn lucky.
Blake's own gun was out. He fired, and the pale man
jerked, blood exploding from a thigh wound.
Paladin shot the pale man again, this bullet taking him in
the shoulder. The pale man went limp, the gun tumbling from
his grasp.
Paladin climbed hand over hand, toward his unconscious
foe. He looped his hand through the parachute harness.
He pulled the rip cord.
Silk ruffled and unfurled above him, crackling in the wind.
Paladin saw the lines above him threaten to tangle.
isn going to open.
Too low, Paladin thought. The chute 't
head snapped back as the lines yanked taut and

Paladin's
the chute above him opened.
Seconds later, they bounced off the ground, locked to-
gether. Paladin let go, twisting to let the pale man take the
brunt of the impact. The pale man's limp, unconscious form
crashed to the earth with a bone-jarring impact.
Blake tumbled through blackberry brambles and over
muddy banks of the
rocks before he skidded to a halt on the
Potomac.
Overhead, George Washington was in flames. Planes buzzed
—
CRIMSON SKIES 97
around the dying airship. Rockets left smoky lace trails in the
air,and tracer fire etched ghostly lines of light across the sky.
The zeppelin drifted over the mall, yawed slightly and . . .
collided with the Washington Monument. The zep's steel

frame sagged and crumpled to the ground with a terrible
screech.
Paladin dragged himself to his feet, clutching his wounded
ribs. He limped to the pale man, who was shrouded in white
silk dotted with his own blood. Paladin felt for a pulse
and was almost disappointed when he felt a strong, regular
rhythm.
"Gotcha," he whispered before collapsing to the ground,
unconscious.
Light and fresh air streamed through Paladin's office

window. The sunrise reflected off the distant water and sent
waves of light dancing across his ceiling. He lowered the
blinds.
"A job well done, Mr. Blake," Dunford remarked.
The Lockheed official straightened his white silk tie and
adjusted the shoulders of his gray suit. He placed several
manila folders on Paladin's desk, raising tiny clouds of
dust —
left over from Dashiell's fingerprinting of the room.
"Here we have a signed confession from Mr. Von Gilder, or

as you called him, the 'pale man,' " Dunford continued. He
set down another envelope. "Copies of his battle plans for
Washington, Manhattan, and Dallas ... for your personal
files."
Dunford reached back into his alligator skin briefcase.

"And, we recovered these stolen schematics for airplanes,
machine guns, autogyros, and engines." He returned the
documents to the briefcase, latching the lock with a sharp,
metallic click.
"Yes, our Mr. Von Gilder was a very busy man. Once the
extradition proceedings are concluded, I suspect there will be
a speedy trial and execution in Chico." Dunford smiled.
"Maybe Aero-Tone News will cover it on a newsreel,"
Paladin said sarcastically.

Dunford met Blake's gaze. "We owe you a great deal, Mr.
Blake."
"Oh?" Paladin limped back to his desk and sat down.
He was only half listening to Dunford. Yes, he had brought
the pale man to justice. He had the broken ribs to prove it, too.
But something still felt wrong. Justin had strolled into this
office afew days ago with what seemed like a simple delivery
job, which had turned into a prelude to war on a terrify-
ing scale. Nothing was ever what it first appeared to be in
this case.
Maybe even the end wasn't what it seemed.
The dark-haired woman hadn't been found, lost in the
chaos of police, and militia forces that descended
firefighters,
on the area. Something about her, something he couldn't put
his finger on, still bothered him. There had been a moment of
recognition when Paladin infiltrated the zeppelin to steal
back the Lockheed prototype. But he couldn't place her. For-
tunately, she didn't seem to remember him either.
It didn't matter. There was time enough to track her down
later.
"As I said, we owe you great deal." Dunford handed him a

slip of paper. "Consider this payment in full for your services,
and a small down payment for our future dealings."
It was a cashier's check with more zeros than Paladin had
ever seen before.

"You should rest now," Dunford said, and started toward
the door. "But not too long, I trust. We have another business
matter to discuss. Can we meet next Wednesday? Say, seven
o'clock at Chasen's?"
Paladin nodded, still counting the numbers on the check.
He finally tore his gaze away. "Of course. Let me see you
out."
"No, no. Sit. Rest. I can see myself out." Dunford smiled
kindly before quietly closing the door behind him.
This was it. Blake Aviation Security had enough cash not
only to survive, but to expand and flourish. Paladin's ragtag
operation had finally hit the big time.
There was just one last bit of unfinished business.
Paladin took the bottle of bourbon from his bottom desk
— —
CRIMSON SKIES 99
drawer. He grabbed two glasses, set them on his blotter, and

then opened the bottle.
He poured the twelve-year-old bourbon into the glasses,
then turned the photograph of his father to face him. "Here
you go, you old bootlegger."
His father sat on the wing of his plane, pistol in one hand, a
bottle —identical to the one on Paladin's desk —
in the other.
Again, it looked like the old bastard was laughing at Paladin,
rather than toasting his good fortune.
Paladin set down his glass, perplexed.
Instead of his ritual toast with his father, he examined the
pale man's battle plans, still laid across his desk.
They were identical to the briefing on the zeppelin. There
were diagrams and blueprints of the various target build-
ings and tiny hand-scrawled notes in English, German, and
French. It was a schematic for war, a chilling blueprint for
death on a massive scale.
Next, he examined the pale man's confession.
Something nagged at him, but he couldn't quite put his
on it.
finger
Itwas all too easy, too neat. Nothing was ever this tightly
wrapped up.
Paladin shook his head. He set the handwritten confession
down. Maybe sometimes you got lucky and things did neatly
wrap up
Then he saw it. The two handwriting samples the nota- —
tions on the battle plans and the handwritten confession
caught his eye when he placed one next to the other.
The notes on the plans had neat loops. The ts were crossed
and the is were dotted with a perfectly straight and steady
hand. The handwriting on the confession was slanted the op-
posite way and sloppy ... as if the battle plans had been
drawn by another man.
Or another woman?
Paladin remembered when he had stolen aboard the battle
zeppelin in the desert — how the mysterious dark-haired
woman had given orders to the gunners like she was in
charge. He remembered how she had been seated in the
shadows during the briefing before the attack on Columbia,
and how the pale man looked to her from time to time ... for
what? Guidance? Approval? Orders?
And how maybe he had given his parachute to the one
person he should have brought to justice.
No. It couldn't be.
Paladin cradled his glass of bourbon, warming it until he
could smell the smoky aroma.
Paladin's dad was still laughing at him.
"Maybe she was the one behind it all," he told his father,
"but we came home this time in one piece. And there will be a
next time — don't worry."
He clinked his glass against his father's. "If it takes a hun-
dred years, no matter what I have to do, I'll get every last of
one of them for you."
He poured the two glasses back into the bottle, then put
them away.
Paladin glanced at the check again.
Suddenly the money didn't matter; it was just a means
to an end. Like the pale man, and maybe the dark-haired
woman, he had his own personal war to start a war against —
pirates and injustice.
It was a war he intended to win.
Intermission: Dark Clouds
Paladin Blake represents law and order in the violent skies

If
over North America, then Jonathan "Genghis" Kahn stands
only for chaos and corruption.
Unlike many of his contemporaries, Kahn's family pur-
chased him a medical deferment that kept him out of the
Army during the Great War. Despite his "infirmity" he was
enamored of flying and actually possessed natural skill.
After the war ended, Kahn made money peddling fake in-
fluenza cures. He later graduated to the "Drake scam " which
provided him with a steady income. He told people that the
heirs of Sir Francis Drake were going to sue the British
Crown for all the gold Sir Francis had captured, and they
would be paid ten dollars for every dollar they donated to the
lawsuit. Kahn first flew from city to city himself, and later
hired henchmen to harvest weekly contributions from fami-
lies, threatening to cut them out of the deal if they didn't keep
"donating funds to the legal effort."

Kahn invested his ill-gotten gains in the stock market,
spreading his wealth around to industrialists and associates
who subsequently fell for his other schemes. He bought ex-
tensively on margin, made fast trades, and even manipulated

the press by leaking stories that spiked prices so that he could
sell out at a fat profit. His stock market successes did not last,
however; the stock market crash ruined him.

Destitute, Kahn cut a deal with the Purple Gang; he sold
them all future profits from his Drake scam in return for a
quick investment in a fleet of planes. The Purple Gang went
for the idea, and the dreaded Red Skull Legion was born.
Shortly after forming the Legion, Kahn and his men flew
.
IOZ Intermission: Dark Clouds
to Utah as an escort for a zeppelin that was supposedly full of

Mormon refugees from the Industrial States of America. The
cover story worked, and the pirates managed to slip past the
diligent Utah defense forces.
The zeppelin was actually a Trojan horse, filled with
hordes of armed pirates. Upon landing, the pirates seized the
airport while the Red Skull Legion made repeated strafing
attacks against the local militia. The landing party moved
quickly, damaging local defense stations and stealing the air-
ship Moroni —
later renamed Machiavelli. Next, Kahn had
the Red Skull planes repainted, giving them the colors of
Utah's militia. They quickly moved into the People's Collec-
tive and launched a series of brutal raids.
Again, Kahn's trickery was successful the Collective —
pinned the blame for the raids squarely on Utah. After a prof-
itable period of raiding, Kahn returned to the I.S.A., while
Utah and the People's Collective faced a shooting war.
Since the Utah-Collective conflict, Kahn operates across
North America, relying on stealth, cunning, and trickery . .
backed up by force.
Join us now for a tale of treachery and deceit, as Genghis
Kahn and the Red Skull Legion risk everything on "The . . .
Manchurian Gambit."
—Nero MacLeon
Manhattan, 1938
The Manchurian Gambit
A Tale of the Red Skull Legion
by Michael B. Lee
I: Raiders from the Sky
When it came down to it, the whole plan hinged on Harry

Nesbitt being a fool. It was a calculated risk, Jonathan
Kahn admitted to himself, but given Harry's reputation, it
seemed like a chance worth taking.

Kahn eased back on the throttle as the Devastator leveled
out at eight thousand feet, mellowing the snarl of the plane's
Allison engine into a throaty growl. Sleek, black shapes
closed in around him Red Skull Legion
as the planes of the
settled into a tight formation, heading north-northwest over
the Black Hills of South Dakota. There was heavy winter
overcast a thousand feet over their heads, an iron-gray ceiling
stretching from horizon to horizon. The burly pirate frowned
at the sky. It would be dark over Deadwood about a half hour
sooner than he'd planned, but he refused to let it worry him.
All it meant was a shorter wait. Nesbitt would have to strike
soon or not at all.
One of the pirate fighters nudged closer to him than the
rest. A twin to his own Devastator, the freshly painted grain-
sheaf insignia of the People's Collective stood out boldly on

the plane's gull wings and long fuselage. Henrietta Corbett
had been his wingman for so long that she could cover him
like his own shadow, always a single step behind him no
matter how fierce the dogfights got. She tucked her plane in
tight, just off his right wing; Kahn threw her a thumbs-up.
Hetty stared back at him across the gulf of cold, thin air and
shook her head apprehensively. Static hissed and popped over
Kahn's headset, but her throaty voice came through clearly.
"I don't like this, boss. We shouldn't be depending on
Nesbitt."
106 The Manchurian Gambit
Kahn bit down on his stubby, unlit cigar. Hetty was tough
as nails, as cold-hearted a fighter as they came, but he had to
remind himself sometimes that she was still just a kid. "We
aren't depending on him, we're playing him," he growled.
"He knows that the Lakota are delivering their grain payment
to Deadwood today, and he also knows that half the town's
militia is grounded because they're short on engine parts. So
—
once the Lakota escorts head back home which would have
—
happened about ten minutes ago the only thing standing
between Nesbitt and a cool fifty grand is a half-dozen militia
planes and some flak guns."
"More like fifteen or twenty flak guns, with good crews,"
Hetty grumbled. "Nobody does business on the edge of the
Lakota Badlands without being armed to the teeth."
"Details, details," Kahn said with a cold smile. "I suppose
I omitted a few facts here and there when I arranged for Nes-
bitt to get his 'hot tip.' He won't know the full truth until
the moment his planes start their attack."

"And you expect him to throw everything he's got at the
flak guns."
"What I expect him to do is panic, but the end result is the
same," Kahn replied. "He'll have assigned several planes to
attack the town's radio tower and telegraph lines, but he'll di-
vert them guns once he sees just how many there
to the flak
are. That gives Deadwood at least five or ten minutes to get
off a call for help, and that, Hetty, is the opening we need."
"And if Nesbitt doesn't panic?"
Kahn shrugged. "Then he and his gang will be shot to
pieces over Deadwood and the flak gunners will use up most
of their ammo on someone other than us." He checked his
watch. "It's an hour and a half until dark. If he's running on
schedule, Nesbitt will have to attack within the next fifteen or
twenty minutes. Settle down and keep an eye on the boys; I'm
switching frequencies to listen for the signal."
Hetty's protest was cut off in midsy liable as Kahn turned
the radio's dial, tuning in the frequency of the pirates' airship,
the Machiavelli.
He'd known what Hetty was about to say. This heist had to
CRIMSON SKIES 107
work. Without the money, the Red Skulls were finished. They
had just enough fuel on the airship to get them back to the
I.S.A. and half a load of ammo per plane. No spare parts, no
—
spare armor not much more than sardines and bread in the
ship's galley, for that matter.
The Old Man had gotten him good this time.
Kahn shifted uneasily in the fighter's cold, metal seat. He'd
known that sooner or later the con he'd pulled on the Purple
Gang would come back to haunt him. He'd cost them eighty
grand on the Drake deal when all was said and done, but by
the time they'd wised up he had the Red Skull Legion, and
they didn't have the guts to touch him. Everything went ac-
cording to plan, or so it seemed.
What he hadn planned on was
't the DeCarlo family sud-
denly stepping in and covering the Purple Gang's losses.
Owing money to the Purple Gang was not the same thing
as owing Don Giovanni DeCarlo. He'd bought himself a little
time by turning over nearly all the Legion's cash reserves,
but the don's patience was notoriously short. If he didn't
—
come up with eighty grand plus interest, naturally in very —
short order, the Red Skulls might as well not go back to
Chicago. Ever.
He shook his head in bitter admiration. The Old Man must
have pulled in a lot of markers with the don. But then, Samuel
Kahn didn't believe in half-measures, especially where family
was concerned.
Suddenly a loud voice called out over Kahn's headset:
"Red Leader, this is Rover," it said, using the code name for
the Machiavelli. "We're getting an urgent SOS from Dead-
wood airfield. The town is under attack by close to thirty ban-
dits, and they're requesting assistance from any Collective
airships in the area."

Nesbitt had taken the bait. Kahn
grinned. "Message re-
ceived, Rover. Continue as planned. Over and out." The radio
hissed and screeched as he quickly switched back to the
squadron frequency.
"Red Flight, this is Red Leader: the town's under attack.
Let's go to work."
* * *
Fire etched the sky over Deadwood. Flak shells burst in

ragged puffs of red and black, leaving angry smudges in the
air. Streams of red and yellow tracers stitched through pillars
of smoke rising from the burning town. Nesbitt's raiders had

hit thetown hard, but the Deadwood militia was giving as
good it got. Kahn watched a twin-engine Kestrel dive on
as
a sandbagged gun emplacement and fire a volley of high-
explosive rockets. The gun's ammo went up in an orange fire-
ball, incinerating the crew, but as the bomber pulled out of its
dive it came under from a concealed machine-gun nest.
fire
Tracers ate into the plane's left wing, and the Kestrel van-
ished in a sudden blot of flame as magnesium bullets tore into
the bomber's fuel tank.
The Red Skulls were in a shallow dive, picking up speed as
they hugged the low hills approaching the town from the east.
Kahn looked for the black-and-gold planes of the Deadwood
Air Militia and saw only three, surrounded by a swarm of
motley-colored pirate fighters.
No one noticed them in the confusion. Kahn grinned like
a wolf. "Red Flight, listen up. I want radio silence from here
—
on out I do the talking, and nobody else. Take out as many
of Nesbitt's goons as you can in the first pass; then wait for
my signal." Not waiting for an acknowledgment from the
squadron, Kahn tuned his radio to the militia's regular fre-
quency. Shouted curses and desperate warnings filled his
ears as the Deadwood Air Militia members fought for their
lives, and the Red Skulls, disguised as a People's Collective
squadron, tore into the swirling dogfight.

Surprise was total. Kahn picked out the distinctive, twin-
hulled profile of a Peacemaker 370 asit dived onto the tail
of a Deadwood plane. The Deadwood fighter a light, sleek —

—
M210 Raven literally disintegrated under the savage fusil-
lade of the Peacemaker's four .60-caliber guns. The pirate
fighter leveled out, looking for another target, and Kahn
closed to point-blank range before arming four of his rockets
and letting them fly. Two high-explosive and two armor-
piercing rockets thrust at the Peacemaker on lances of fire,
"
CRIMSON SKIES 109
three of them ripping into the plane's right wing and blowing
it The pirate fighter spun out of control, flames streaming
apart.
from the shattered wing root, and crashed into one of the
town's two-story buildings.
Kahn pulled the Devastator into a climbing left turn and
surveyed the aerial battle. At least nine of the raiders had
been shot down, and the shock of the Red Skulls' furious at-
tack had panicked the rest. Nesbitt's fighters were breaking
off, hugging the hills to the southwest as they ran for their air-
ship. The barrage of antiaircraft fire had abated while the

gunners on the ground tried to sort out their sudden change of
fortune.
There wasn't any time to waste. Kahn keyed his radio.
"Any militia pilots on this frequency, this is Comrade Major
Smith of the Collective airship Elijah. We came as soon as we
heard your distress call. Do you read, over?"
A woman's voice responded immediately. "This is Com-
rade Captain Angela Dane of the Deadwood Air Militia.
You're just in time, Major Another few minutes and we'd
. . .
have been done for." The Collective pilot had a cool, steely
voice, but she sounded relieved all the same.
The militia planes had formed up on one another, and
Kahn came up alongside the lead fighter, a badly shot-up De-
fender. By the looks of things, Captain Dane had been in the
thick of the battle from the start. "Glad to be here, Comrade,"
Kahn replied, waving at the militia pilot, "but we aren't out of
the woods yet. We chased those bandits off for now, but I ex-
pect they'll be back. You and I both know what they're after,
and they aren't going to quit until they get it."
From the cockpit of the ravaged Defender, Captain Dane
glanced over at Kahn's fighter, her face unreadable. "Yes, sir,
I have to agree," she replied grimly.
Kahn nodded, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "You

and your squadron have put up a hell of a fight here, Captain,
but Deadwood can't afford another raid. Half the town's been
wrecked already
—
"Those pirate scum can burn the whole place to the
ground." Dane swore with sudden vehemence. "We'll make
them pay and when they're gone,

for every single building,
we'll just build again. But they aren't getting that grain pay-
ment, Major. I can promise you that."
Kahn gritted his teeth. "Comrade, your courage is an ex-
ample to all of us," he said, trying to sound reasonable. "But
we have to think of the civilians down there. How many have
already suffered because of this raid? I don't know about you,
but I certainly don't want that on my conscience."

When Dane didn't reply immediately he knew he'd struck
a chord. Finally, she replied. "I'm open to suggestions, sir."
"You're a credit to the People's Collective, Comrade. First,
I need to speak to your mayor. Can you escort us in to Dead-

wood Airfield?"
"Certainly, sir. Follow my lead." The beat-up plane started
a slow right turn, and Kahn fell in behind Dane's struggling
wingman.
The pirate leader switched frequencies. "Red Flight," he
called, glancing at the formation circling just south of town.
"They bought it. We're being escorted in."
Kahn switched back to the militia frequency and chewed
thoughtfully on his cigar. Another thirty minutes, give or
take, and their problems would be over. Providing that all
went according to plan. If anything went wrong, he and his
pilots were going to be caught on the ground in a town that
shot pirates on sight.
The Devastator passed over the southern edge of the Dead-
wood Airfield. The tower was wrecked, but he could see that
plenty of their antiaircraft batteries were ready for action.
Kahn lowered his landing gear and tried not to consider how
long it had been since anything he'd attempted had gone ac-
cording to plan.
Comrade Captain Angela Dane had a stare that could drive

nails. She wasn't more than five feet tall and built like a balle-
rina, but her blue eyes were hard and cold. Her short auburn
hair and delicate features could do nothing to soften that
bleak, forbidding gaze. Kahn hoped the captain wasn't going
to be a problem.
—
CRIMSON SKIES III
Dane drove them into town in her Packard, weaving

nimbly around piles of rubble and still-smoking bomb craters.
Kahn sat beside her in the front seat. Three of his pilots,
Amos Jones, John Scales, and Pete O'Neil were crowded in
the back, trying not to look nervous. The rest of the squad-
ron, led by Hetty, had been left at the airfield to refuel the
planes —with orders to take over the field if things went di-
sastrously wrong.
"Any other day and we'd have kicked their tails," Dane
growled, slapping the steering wheel in frustration. "Four
years Deadwood's been the transfer point for the Lakota grain
payment, and no pirate's ever dared to hit us. But the one time
—
we've got half our planes grounded it's like they knew
somehow."
Kahn studied the Captain's profile. "Maybe they did, Com-
rade," he said carefully. "A smart pirate would pay well for
such information." He pulled a small flask from the inside of
his flight suit, uncapped it, and took a small swig. Kahn of-
fered it to Dane with a conspiratorial wink, and she accepted
almost without thinking, knocking back a healthy gulp.
She handed back the flask, shaking her head. "Those were
Harry Nesbitt's thugs," she said. "Vicious, yes, but not very
smart."
Pete O'Neil let out a laugh. He was a short and wiry guy
dwarfed by the hulking figures of Amos and John with —
slicked-back hair and rodent features. "Nesbitt's Nincom-
poops they ought to call them," he said in his sharp, New
Jersey twang. "What morons
—
" O'Neil's eyes went wide as
two large elbows dug into his ribs.
If Dane heard, she paid little attention. "I guess it's just
lucky for us you got our distress call," she said, glancing
atKahn. "I didn't think there were any Collective airships
within fifty miles of us."
"We just arrived in the area two days ago," Kahn said
smoothly. "On an unannounced patrol. We heard you'd been
having trouble with Lakota bandits lately, and hoped to catch
'em napping."
Dane nodded thoughtfully. "Lucky for us."
HZ The Hanchurian Gambit
A minute later they pulled up outside the Deadwood Gen-

eral Store. Its windows had been blown out during the raid,
but the building itself looked undamaged. A burly man wear-
ing a shopkeeper's apron stood near the counter, talking to a
handful of townspeople and trying to look after his store at
the same time. He looked over as the pilots crunched across
the broken glass. "That was as close a call as I ever want to
see, Comrade," he called out to Dane. "Who's that with you
there?"
"This is Comrade Major Smith and some of his men from
the airship Elijah" Dane replied. "They heard our distress
call and got here in the nick of time." She turned to Kahn.
"Major Smith, this is our mayor, Ed Stovall."
Stovall smiled and reached for Kahn's hand. "Much
obliged to you, Major," he said with undisguised relief. "I
thought we were done for. What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I'm more interested in what I can do fox you,
Mayor," Kahn replied. "We're not out of the woods yet. Those
pirates are after the grain payment, and they won't quit until
they get it. Right now I expect they're loading up more bombs
and rockets and getting ready for round two. Your town is
going to get hit again unless we do something."
There were cries of dismay from the townspeople. Stovall
raised both hands, asking for silence. "What do you suggest,
Major?"
"I suggest taking the grain payment and loading it onto
my airship, then running like hell for Tulsa," Kahn said.
"Frankly, I don't know if we can outrun the bandits or not, but
we can at least draw them away from the town."
"No way!" Dane interjected. "Sorry, Major, but that's a
bad idea. We've still got more than a dozen working flak
guns, plus your planes, and it's only half an hour before dark."
She folded her arms defiantly. "We can hold out here."
Kahn turned to the Collective pilot. "I'm not saying we
can't, Captain, but think of the damage the pirates will do to
the town in the meantime." Frightened cries echoed off the
store walls as the townspeople shouted their agreement.
"All right, all right!" Stovall cried, trying to restore order.
CRIMSON SKIES IB
"Angie, he's got a point. Lord only knows how many people
we've already have to agree with Major Smith."
lost today. I
Stovall dug in his pocket for a set of keys. "The bags are in
the post office, Major. Take them and Godspeed. Angie, show
the Major and his men how to get there."
Dane took the keys. Kahn put his hand on Stovall's
shoulder. "You've made the right choice, Comrade," he said
gravely, then looked to hismen and nodded toward the door.
The Deadwood post office was less than a block away.
Dane left the car engine running and led the fliers inside, her
expression troubled. Kahn waited at the doorway, studying
the sky. It was more quickly than he'd thought.
getting dark
If they didn't get off the ground very soon, they would be
stuck there until dawn. It was going to be close, but it looked
like they were going to pull it off.
One corner of the small building was taken up with a large

steel cage, much like a jail cell. Inside were mailbags and the
heavy, burlap sacks containing the grain payment. Dane un-
locked the cage and pulled the door open, one hand resting
idly on the pistol at her hip. "You're taking a hell of a risk,
Major," she said as Kahn's men headed for the bags. "If
everything you say is true."
"I know people like Nesbitt very well, Captain. Trust me,
it's the only way."
Dane nodded thoughtfully, watching the fliers wrestle with
the heavy bags. "Well, can you do me a favor when you get
back to your ship?"
Kahn glanced at her curiously. "Of course."
The Captain's hard, blue eyes bored into his. "I've got a
cousin serving on the Elijah. Teddy Dane. Can you send him
my love?"
Kahn's mind raced, trying to conceal his surprise. Dane's
cold gaze narrowed. Suddenly she slammed the cell door
shut.Her pistol was in her hand.
"Put up your hands, pirate," she snarled.
Z: In Enemy Hands
John Scales threw himself at the cell door with a shout, but
the lock had clicked home and the iron bars wouldn't
budge. The People's Collective fighter pilot, Dane, slid a
few steps to the right so her back wasn't facing the cage. Her
Colt .45 never wavered from Kahn's heart.
"Settle down," she snarled, her face red with rage. "Toss
your guns out onto the floor ... or your boss has had it."
Kahn was careful not to move. He caught the eye of Pete
O'Neil, the Red Skulls' resident lock-pick and sneak thief;
the wiry pirate had drawn his gun, out of sight behind the
—
hulking forms of Scales and Amos Jones a former circus
strongman turned pirate. O'Neil gave Kahn a wink, signaling
his readiness — —
and willingness to start shooting.
"Do what she says, boys," Kahn ordered.
O 'Neil's eyes widened in surprise, but after a moment he
tossed his pistol through the bars. Scales and Jones followed
suit, glancing worriedly from Dane to Kahn and back again.
Kahn drew his own gun and set it with the rest.
He nodded to the Deadwood pilot. "That was a nice bluff,
Captain. Simple but effective."
"I just needed to see the doubt in your eyes," she said qui-
etly. The color was fading from her cheeks, but her eyes were
cruel and cold. "The whole thing seemed a little too conve-
nient: we just happen to get raided when only half our planes
will fly, and then there just happens to be a Collective airship
close enough to rush in and save the day. When you insisted
on leaving with the payroll I knew something was wrong."
Kahn smiled. "I'll keep that in mind for next time."
"There won't be a next time." Dane took a step forward.
CRIMSON SKIES 115
Her gun hand trembled with restrained fury. "This isn't like
the I.S.A. or Hollywood, where the city folk worship you
thugs. You're in the Badlands, now, and I'll have you and your
crew swinging from a rope by dawn."
"My squadron is waiting for me, Captain," Kahn warned,
"and they won't like the idea of my being hanged."
Dane shook her head. "Your pilots are parked at my air-
field, and there's ten AA guns covering the strip. If they try to
take off, we'll shoot 'em to pieces. It's the end of the line for
you and your gang." She tossed Kahn the keys to the cage.
"Now get in."
Kahn studied Dane carefully. There were bright spots of
color at her cheeks and beads of perspiration glistening be-
neath her short-cropped hair. "Captain, I think you'd better sit
down and catch your breath. You don't look so good."

The Collective pilot frowned. Her free hand went to her
forehead and came away slicked with sweat. Suddenly she
swayed on her feet. Her eyes went wide. "What what did —
—
you do ?" Her thumb fumbled at the hammer of her pistol,
trying to cock the weapon. Kahn rushed forward, grabbing
thegun out of her hand moments before she collapsed. Her
head hit the wooden floor with a muted thump and she lay
motionless, barely breathing.
John and Amos stared gape-jawed at the unconscious pilot.
Kahn tossed O'Neil the keys. "Get that door open and start
moving those bags," Kahn said calmly, returning to the door-
way to peer warily along the street.
Kahn's strongmen each had one of the heavy bags in hand

by the time O'Neil got the door open. The thief scooped his
pistol off the floor and joined Kahn, shaking his head bemus-
edly. "Talk about lucky breaks, huh, boss?"
"A wise prince makes his own luck, to paraphrase a certain
Italian thinker," Kahn replied. "That whiskey I offered her
earlier was laced with laudanum."
O'Neil's thin eyebrows rose. "But . . . you took a drink,
too."
"No, I only pretended to, and Dane was too preoccupied to
notice," Kahn corrected. "I wanted a little insurance in case
—
she tried to cause trouble." He stared thoughtfully at Dane's

prostrate form. "Unfortunately I was only partially success-
ful. Once she wakes up she'll have the whole town up in
arms."
The thief looked long and hard at the unconscious pilot
and nodded. "I see what you mean." He holstered his pistol
and pulled a small, thin-bladed knife from his sleeve. "You
want I should take care of her?"
"Kill her, you mean?" Kahn said, faintly surprised. "Don't
be ridiculous. You don't kill an unconscious foe, Pete, espe-
cially a woman." He hefted Dane's pistol and took careful
aim. "That's my job."
Just then Amos stuck his bald head back through the door-
way. "Townspeople down the street, boss," he said. "They got
guns and dogs."
Kahn let out an exasperated sigh and reluctantly stuck the
pistol in his waistband. Squeezing past the strongman, he
stuck his head outside and could see twenty or so men
—
armed with shotguns and rifles leading a pack of leashed
hounds down the street a couple blocks away. As he watched,
they pushed open the door of a building to their right
and rushed inside, weapons ready.
"Looking for downed pirates, I imagine," Kahn wondered
aloud. "If it isn't one thing, it's another."
He turned to O'Neil. "We're going to have to take the good
captain with us. If nothing else, she might make a useful
hostage. Find something to tie her up with and stuff her in a
mail sack. The boys can carry her out with the rest of the
bags."
"Sure thing, boss," the thief said, and went to work.
Kahn left the doorway and went to lean against the
Packard's rear fender, tossing his cigar stub into the street and
pulling a fresh one from his leather jacket. It took two min-
utes for John and Amos to get another set of bags into the car.
He lit the cigar and puffed at it methodically. Two bags every
two minutes. How many bags had there been in the cage? He
couldn't remember. Kahn shook his head disapprovingly. He
was getting sloppy.
The search party emerged from the building and moved to
CRIMSON SKIES 117
a smaller building on the opposite side of the street. They

weren't inside the smaller building more than a minute. Then
they went to the next set and repeated the procedure. Only a
block away, now. Kahn noted that the group moved with a
certain amount of precision. They'd obviously practiced their
routine many, many times. He wondered if they'd ever caught
anyone before, and whether they 'd just pass on a trial and pro-
ceed straight to the executions.
O'Neil stepped outside. "All taken care of, boss."
Kahn nodded. "Think you can drive this car, Pete?"
The thief grinned. "My mama has one just like it. I stole it
for her last Christmas."

"Then get behind the wheel. We may be leaving in a
hurry."
The search party worked its way down the street. John and
Amos still weren't done. The townspeople were close enough
now that the hounds could smell Kahn and his men; they
lunged and barked, straining at their leashes until the search-
ers hauled them back to the job at hand.
"How many more?" Kahn asked Amos as the strongman
loaded another bag into the car.
"Just a couple," the pirate answered, a little out of breath.
"You know, we could've gone faster if we'd brought more
guys."
"Remind me the next time we rob a payroll."
Amos grinned. "Right, boss."
The search party was dangerously close now. John and
Amos got the last bags out in record time and hurried back
for Dane. Kahn was just about to climb in the car when he
saw the leader of the townspeople wave the party away from
the next building on the street and start walking over to the
Packard, shotgun at the ready.
Kahn took a few steps forward, away from the car. He
smiled broadly around his cigar as the townspeople ap-
proached the post office. "Seen any pirates, Comrades?" he
asked cheerfully.
The man in charge of the party evidently didn't have a
sense of humor. He looked Kahn over sternly. "We saw two
chutes during the fight," he said, spitting a stream of tobacco
juice onto the ground. "They're holed up here somewhere,

but the dogs '11 get 'em right enough." The man cradled his
shotgun in both arms and squinted warily at him. "Heard
you're taking the grain payment back to Tulsa."
Kahn kept smiling, watching for his men out of the corner
of his eye. "That's right," he said. "No sense getting Dead-
wood bombed again if we it." can help
The man frowned. "But how are the pirates supposed to
know the money's gone? Seems to me they'll still think it's
here, and hit us again anyway."
John and Amos emerged from the post office, carrying a
large mail sack between them. Instantly the dogs lunged at it,
barking furiously, and the men broke into shouts, leveling
their guns.
The pirates froze. The man with the shotgun shouted down
the rest and glared balefully at Kahn. "What you got in that
bag, mister?"
Kahn summoned up his nerve. "Letters and packages,
Comrade," he said carefully. "We figured as long as we were
"
headed to Tulsa we might as well carry the post, too
One of the townspeople, a short, round-bellied farmer,
lowered his rifle and shook his head in disgust. "Dang it, I
told Alice not to send her sister those jerky strips! We just
about blew our mail to kingdom come."
The rest of the men laughed, pulling back the dogs. Kahn
remembered to smile and waved at his men to finish loading
the car. "Sorry about the scare, fellas," he said with a laugh.
"I think that's the last of the bags, so if it's all the same to you
we'll be getting out of your way." He went to the Packard's
passenger door as John and Amos piled into the back. "Good
luck with those pirates," he said, giving the men a salute.
"You, too!" one of the townspeople yelled back as the
Packard sped away.
They got lost twice working through Deadwood's rubble-

strewn streets. By the time Kahn and his men reached the air-
field thesun was coloring the hilltops to the west. The AA
guns were still fully manned, he noticed, as they sped down
the access road leading to the hangars. They weren't out of
CRIMSON SKIES 119
the woods yet. All he needed was for Dane to wake up and
an alarm and they were as good as dead.
raise
The Machiavelli was waiting for them at the airfield's
mooring tower, the People's Collective insignia prominent on
her prow. Their airship had been lowered to the ground and
was ready to take on cargo. Hetty stood nearby with a cluster
of Red Skull crew, waiting nervously for Kahn's return. Not
far away a group of Deadwood ground crewmen were un-
loading crates from the back of a flatbed truck.
Kahn told O'Neil to park practically in the zeppelin's
shadow. Hetty ran over with the Red Skulls as Kahn emerged
from the car.Her long face lit with a sly grin. "Our good com-
rades are loading us up with steak and potatoes in gratitude
for saving the town," she said.
"Good, good," Kahn said absently, motioning hurriedly for
the men to start hauling the bags onto the zeppelin.
Hetty's eyes narrowed. "Everything okay?"
"There've been a couple of complications," Kahn
. . .
growled through clenched teeth.

The female pilot's grin froze. " 'Complications,' " she
echoed. "I knew it." She peered into the car. "Where's that
captain you left with?"
Just then one of the Deadwood crewmen trotted over to the
car, carrying a clipboard. He looked around, his brow wrin-
kling. "Urn, sir?" he asked Kahn, "I'm looking for Captain
Dane. This is her car, isn't it?"
Kahn fought back a sigh. He turned to the man and sum-
moned up a jovial smile. "She asked to be dropped off at the
operations building," he said smoothly. "Needed to check on
the condition of the squadron."
The man brightened. "Oh, no problem, then. I just need her
to sign for these steaks. It won't take a minute." Before
anyone could reply he turned on his heel and started jogging
across the field toward the Ops shed.
Kahn watched the man go, shaking his head in quiet exas-
peration. "Hetty," he said quietly, "the next time we pull a
heist we're just going to come roaring in and blow up every-
thing in sight. Machine-gun everything that moves and bomb
IZO The Manchurian Gambit
them again for good measure. Subtlety is for the birds." He

turned to her. "Are the planes ready to fly?"
"Everybody but Emerson's," she said worriedly. "He took
a round in the oil pan when we were running off Nesbitt's
boys."
The pirate leader shook his head. "We'll have to leave it,
then. Get him on the zep and get the planes in the air. Now"
"We can't just leave his bird behind!" Hetty sputtered.
Kahn grabbed her arm and pulled her close. "We've got
fiftythousand in cash, Hetty," he hissed. "I'll give Don De-
Carlo half to buy some more time and then I'll get Emerson a
new plane, all right? Just get moving. It won't take that yard
ape long to figure out Dane's not at the Ops shed."
"Then where is she?" Hetty asked, trying to keep up.
"I'll tell you later," he said, giving her a not-too-gentle
push toward the grounded planes. Kahn turned back to the

car to find O'Neil, Jones, and Scales holding a mailbag be-
tween them. The burlap was starting to shift sluggishly about,
"On the ship!" he said, motioning urgently at the cargo
bay.He watched the pirates carry their load onto the zeppelin
and made a silent promise to himself that if he survived the
next few hours he would take great pleasure in tossing that
mailbag from a very great height. Then he ran after Hetty
toward the line of parked fighters waiting across the grassy
airstrip.
The rest of the were starting their engines when

pilots
Kahn reached A
few Deadwood mechanics were
his plane.
standing around, several looking a little bemused and won-
dering what the big hurry was. He motioned to one to pull
away the Devastator's wheel chocks and climbed into the
cockpit. As soon as the man was clear he jabbed the starter
buttons and the twin Allison X-900 engines roared into life.
Checking his gauges, Kahn pulled on his flight cap and
rigged his throat mike. "Rover, this is Red Leader," he called.
"As soon as you've loaded the mail, take off. Forget every-
thing else. Things are about to get hot down here."
The airship acknowledged. One by one, the pirate fighters
were rolling onto the strip, their engines revving for takeoff.
CRIMSON SKIES 121
If no one sounded the alarm within the next few minutes, they
had a chance.
Over the thunder of the revving engines came the high,
keening wail of the alert siren.
3: Old Debts
The banshee cry of the alert siren made Kahn's blood run
cold. The heist had very nearly paid off; another few min-
utes and the Red Skulls would have been home free. Now the
Deadwood ground crew scattered, scrambling for cover, and
all along the battered airstrip Kahn saw militia gun crews
working furiously to bring their cannons to bear.

The pirate fighters had started their engines and were al-
ready rolling, taxiing to start their takeoff, but there was
no way they'd survive the deadly gauntlet they'd be forced
to run in order to make it into the air. At the far end of the field
a rapid-fire gun cut loose, sending a crescent of red tracers
fanning the air over the Red Skulls' cockpits. Kahn's hand
—
tightened on the stick as he waited with steadily mounting
—
dread for the shells to hammer into his plane, the "Whitney's
Neglect."
A shadow passed overhead, an airplane low enough to
send a blast of wind raging through Kahn's open cockpit. The
ground shook, and the concussion of a huge explosion ham-
mered at Kahn's chest. Craning his head around the seat's
headrest, he saw one of the airfield's hangars ripped apart by a
huge fireball. Motley-colored planes roared over the field at
treetop height; as he watched, one fighter volleyed a salvo of
rockets at the control tower.
Harry Nesbitt and his boys were back for round two,
banking everything on a last-ditch strike just before sunset.
— —
You re smarter or more desperate than I thought, Harry,
Kahn thought to himself. Nesbitt had evidently counted on
catching the town's fighters on the ground and the gamble
. . .
had paid off. Cannon and machine-gun fire tore into two of
the Deadwood planes, blasting away pieces of armor and air-

frame until their fuel tanks exploded, hurling blazing debris
high into the air.
Cody Emerson's Brigand was next. The pirate fighter,
grounded by a punctured oil pan, suffered a near miss from a
pair of bombs that flipped the aircraft over like a child's toy.
Nesbitt's boys had gone after the sitting ducks first. Kahn
watched them scatter like crows, coming around for another
pass, and knew who they'd be after next.
"Grab some sky, Red Skulls!" Kahn called over the radio.
"If they catch us on the ground, we're dead!"
The first planes were already tearing down the grassy strip,
fighting to get aloft. As one plane started rolling, the next
turned into position and raced after it, with barely a yard be-
tween one plane's propeller and the other plane's tail.

Kahn cast a worried glance at the Machiavelli. The airship
was still anchored to the mooring tower like a steer tied up for
slaughter. He could see the ground crew staggering to their
feet and running for the ship but no one was carrying any-
. . .
thing. Looking around quickly, he saw that Scales, Jones, and

O'Neil were aboard their planes.
Kahn keyed his throat mike, fighting a surge of panic. "Tell
me you got the money aboard the Machiavelli, Pete."
For a few seconds there was nothing but silence. "Hetty
said you wanted us in the air, boss," the thief answered hesi-
tantly, "so I told the grease monkeys to take care of it."
Kahn bit back a curse. With an angry scowl, he cut off
O 'Neil's frequency and switched over to the zeppelin's
channel.
"Machiavelli, this is Kahn. Cast off immediately ... but
get a crew over to the car and unload the money."
Everything was happening too fast. He needed to move
quickly, or the game was over.
He switched to the all-hands channel, and barked orders to
the Legion pilots in the air, struggling to control the radio and
manage his take-off.
"Everybody cover the airship!" he snarled into the radio as
the Devastator's wheels left the ground. With barely enough
airspeed to stay aloft, Kahn brought his fighter around in a
—
CRIMSON SKIES 123
pushing the heavy plane to its limits to lay his

tight left turn,
gun sights on Nesbitt's raiders.
The sky above Deadwood airfield was a churning cauldron
of fire and smoke. Fighters spun and dived in twisting dog-
fights, slipping through curtains of tracer fire from the gun
emplacements below. Across the field, a plane exploded in
midair and tumbled to earth in a tangle of blazing metal
whether it was his or Nesbitt's, Kahn couldn't be sure.
Suddenly a drumbeat of light-caliber hits battered at his
starboard wing and a red-painted Bell Valiant roared past,
its port wingtip a scant two feet from his canopy. The raider
had overestimated the Devastator's airspeed and overshot

his mark.
Kahn brought his nose up and cut loose with everything
he had. The Whitney's Neglect trembled as the plane's four
.60-caliber cannons erupted in a long, roaring volley, riddling
the Valiant from rudder to cockpit. Savaged by the armor-
piercing shells, the light fighter flipped over and plummeted
to the ground.
Kahn allowed himself a moment of satisfaction and smiled
when the enemy plane smashed into the hard earth and ex-
ploded. He opened up the throttle and pulled into a high right
turn, using a careful mix of rudder and aileron to keep the
Devastator —yawing from the damage to the wing
slightly
under control. He surveyed the aerial battlefield.
The freewheeling dogfight spread out in all directions as
pilots fought to gain advantage over their opponents while
avoiding the murderous AA fire around the airfield. Move-
ment to the west caught his eye — two heavy fighters, a
Kestrel and a three-engine P2 Warhawk in close formation,
heading straight for the Machiavelli. Both planes were in a
shallow dive, picking up speed by the moment, but they kept
their course straight and wings level, plunging like arrows
toward the airship. Kahn didn't need to see the long, shark-
like shapes under their wings to know that they were setting
up an aerial torpedo run.
The pirate leader cursed under his breath. He couldn't tell
from overhead whether the airship had slipped her moorings
—
IZt The Manchurian Gambit
or not, but she still sat motionless, a stationary target bigger

than a barn. Even Nesbitt's amateurs couldn't miss. Kahn cal-
culated the angles and figured he had less than ten seconds
before it was too late.
Kahn dipped his right wing and dived, picking up speed as

he raced head-on toward the two raiders. The enemy pilots
both saw him at the same time, and staccato flashes licked out
from gun mounts, throwing a wild flurry of tracers
their
slammed into his nose and port wing,
across his path. Shells
but he pressed on and placed his gun sight at a point well
ahead of the enemy Warhawk. He squeezed the trigger, firing
a series of short bursts. Hits burst in firecracker-like flashes
across the Warhawk's nose and starboard wing, and suddenly
the huge Wright R-1350 engine at the end of the wing
erupted in flame. With one engine gone, the Fury's unbal-
anced thrust dragged the plane into a left turn, forcing it to
break off its attack.
That just left the Kestrel. The enemy bomber roared past
Kahn on his port side, and shells thudded into his fuselage.
The Kestrel had a light machine gun mounted on a ring be-
hind the pilot's position, and the tail gunner hammered at the
Devastator with deadly accuracy. Kahn pulled his plane into a
tight loop and rolled out onto the bomber's tail, unleashing a
storm of gunfire that slashed into the heavy plane's wing
and tail
—
to no avail. The raider pressed on, its armored hide
weathering the Devastator's fire. Another machine-gun burst
raked across the heavy fighter's nose; one round hit a metal
strut on the fighter's canopy, sending splinters of Plexiglas
into Kahn's face. He shook his head savagely, wiping a smear
of blood on his sleeve, and fired another burst. The Machia-
velliwas looming ever larger in his field of vision the raider —
could fire at any moment.
Kahn checked to see if he had any rockets left. There were
only two, a high-explosive rocket and a flash rocket. He se-
lected the HE
and fired. The rocket roared off its rail and
streaked toward its target, only to slide beneath the Kestrel's
wing and explode harmlessly in front of the plane. The
bomber drove on through the blast, but the flash of the explo-
—
CRIMSON SKItS IZ5
sion gave him an idea. He armed the flare, aimed just ahead of
theenemy plane, and let it fly.
The Kestrel's pilot, intent on his target, never saw the flare
until it burst right in front of him. Surprised and blinded by
the actinic flash, he yanked the bomber into a steep climb
but not before releasing his load of torpedoes. A pair of the
devastating weapons dropped from the Kestrel's wings and
plunged toward the motionless airship. Kahn watched help-
lessly as the torpedoes fell in a long, almost leisurely arc
and hit the earth only scant yards from the airship. A curtain
of fire and earth erupted from the half-dozen blasts, fling-
—
ing wreckage high into the air including pieces of Captain
Dane's Packard.
When the fountain of dirt and debris settled, there was only
a smoking crater to mark where the car —and the money
had been.
A cold wind raged through the open windows of the Ma-

chiavelli s observation gallery. Heavy winter clouds formed a
sea of steel gray beneath the airship, lit by the glow of a sil-
very moon.
Jonathan Kahn rested his hands on the icy metal of the
window frame and leaned out into nothingness. The stubby
cigar in his teeth flared in the fierce wind and went out; he
plucked it from his lips and considered it for a long moment,
then tossed it to the waiting arms of the earth, five thousand
feet below.
The door to the darkened gallery swung open and Henri-
etta Corbett slipped inside. She narrowed her brown eyes
at the freezing wind and shivered despite the fleece-lined
leather flying jacket she wore. "I should have known I'd find
you down here," she said sourly, pulling her jacket's fleece
collar up to cover her ears. "Things are bad enough without
you trying to give yourself pneumonia."
Kahn folded his arms and leaned against the window
frame looking out at the clouds below. "I thought a little sub-
zero cold would get me a little privacy," he growled. "Life
seems full of disappointments these days."
IZ6 The Manchurian Gambit
Hetty fished a cigarette out of her jacket pocket and a bat-

tered Austrian mountaineers' lighter. The tiny flare of light
threw her angular, rawboned features into sharp relief. She
blew out a long plume of smoke and studied him with eyes
that belied her eighteen years of age. "Deadeye Dugan says
we're headed back to the I.S. A."
Kahn shrugged. "What about it?"
"The minute you set foot in the country, Don DeCarlo is
going to know about it. What are you going to do when his
goons show up looking for the money?"
The pirate leader glowered at her. "Maybe if you gave me a
little peace, I could figure out some kind of plan."
"Apian?" Hetty said incredulously. "To do what, exactly?

We lost three guys over Deadwood, and with Emerson's bird
gone, that leaves us just eight planes, and they ain't got gas
enough to taxi, much less fly anywhere. Plus the zep's shot to
hell. There's so many holes in the hull the ship plays 'The
Star-Spangled Banner' when the wind's just right. Man- A
hattan cabbie in a busted autogyro could knock us right out of
the sky."
Kahn straightened to his full height and glared down at
his young wingman. "There's always options, kid," he said
coldly.
Hetty stood her ground. She took a long drag on her ciga-
rette and gave him a rueful smile. "Yeah. That's what I'm
afraid of." The smile faded. "Are you thinking about cutting
your losses, boss?"
"What are you talking about?" Kahn said warily.
"I'm talking about you hopping into a car the minute we
get to Chicago and heading for greener pastures, leaving us
holding the bag. That's what you did after the Crash, when
you wound up owing all those investors. You did it when the
Drake scam hit the skids." She folded her arms and looked
him in the eye. "The question is, are you going to do it now?"
Kahn met her stare for a long moment, saying nothing,
then turned back to the open window. "How's our prisoner
doing?" he asked.
Hetty frowned. "What the hell does that have to do with
anything?"
—
CRIMSON SKIES 127
"She's a People's Collective air ace, the commander of the

Deadwood Air Militia,"he said coolly. "When we get to
Chicago we'll ransom her back for a hundred g's."
"That's nuts. There's no way those Commie farmers will
pay that much for one pilot."
"Let me worry about that," Kahn said, staring out at the
night. "How long till we get to the farm?"
For a second Hetty just stared at him, then finally let out a
tired sigh. "Eight hours. Maybe less, if the wind shifts."
"Okay. I'm going to get some shut-eye, then. Wake me
when we're there." He brushed past her and headed for the
door. At the doorway he glanced back. "One other thing,
Hetty."
Hetty half turned. Moonlight framed her long face, haloed
with silvery strands of cigarette smoke. "Yeah, boss?"
"When we land, have Pete get the car ready."
The Red Skull Legion's base wasn't much to look at

which was precisely the point. A failed dairy farm that dried
up just after the Crash, there was nothing left but a boarded-
up farmhouse, a dilapidated barn, and a partially collapsed
granary, set on twenty-five acres in the middle of an isolated
valley.
But the fields were level enough to land aircraft on, and the
granary was stronger than it looked, modified to act as a
mooring tower. It held fuel tanks and a pump at its base.
When the pirates took to the skies they didn't waste time
and energy keeping the site under guard; they just threw
tarps over the machine tools in the barn, padlocked the
doors, and left. A chance passerby would see just one more
failed farm —another casualty of the I.S. A.'s move to massive,
corporate-controlled industrial agriculture —
rotting away in
the Illinois countryside.
The Machiavelli arrived at just after three in the morn-
ing,running silently down the sleeping valley on minimum
power. The ground crew slid to the earth on ropes, and within
minutes the ship was tied up at the granary tower. By the time
the zeppelin was lowered to the ground, Kahn was ready
to go.
"
"I still don't see the point in taking her with you," Hetty
said, glaring at Angela Dane. The Collective pilot was awake,
but her eyes were glassy as she still struggled to fight off the
effects of the laudanum.
"I want her someplace where I can keep an eye on her, in-
stead of letting her get into mischief in the cargo hold," Kahn
said. He took Dane by the arm and led her down the gangway.
"Is Pete getting the car?"
"He's supposed to be," Hetty answered darkly. Kahn was
headed across the pasture in the direction of the old farm-
house. She followed doggedly in his footsteps. "Where do
you plan on going at this hour of the morning?"
"Chicago. Where else? The longer I wait, the more chance
DeCarlo has to find out I'm back." Kahn reached the house
and pushed the front door open. Beyond the doorway it was
dark as a tomb. "If you're going to trail after me like a
puppy, why don't you make yourself useful and light a lamp
or something?"
Hetty pushed past Kahn and stomped inside, biting back
her anger. There was a kerosene lamp sitting on a table inside
the front room, beside a book of matches. She lifted the glass
bowl and deftly litThe room filled with pale orange
the wick.
light as Kahn and Dane stepped inside. She picked up the
lamp and turned to face him, her expression defiant. "I think
you've got some explaining to do
—
She froze, her eyes widening as she saw the man standing
behind Kahn and Dane, hidden behind the farmhouse door.
"I couldn't agree more," the man said in a silky southern
drawl. He pushed the door closed and pressed a large Colt re-
volver to the back of Kahn 's head.
4: Under the Gun
The gunman stepped forward into the glow of the lamplight,

pressing the barrel of his pistol against the back of Kahn 's
shaven head. He wore a leather flying jacket that had seen
CRIMSON SKICS 129
years of hard use and a pair of travel-stained brown jodhpurs

tucked into battered His tanned face showed a
pilot's boots.
wrinkle or two around the eyes and mouth, and there were
streaks of gray in his hair, but his rugged, square-jawed face
was strikingly handsome. A pencil-thin mustache and a pearl
earring in his right ear lent him an air of roguish charm, but
when he smiled at Kahn therewas a hard glint in his pale
green eyes.
"When did you let yourself get so soft, Johnny-boy?" the
man said in a deceptively lazy drawl. "If I'd been one of De-
Carlo's thugs, you'd be dead right now."
Kahn reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigar, then
leaned forward and lit it off of the lamp's flame. "If you'd
been one of DeCarlo's boys, you would've wanted the money
first," he countered, "and while we were talking, Hetty would
have bounced this lamp off your forehead."

He turned and coolly appraised the grinning gunman.
"Hello, Artemus. Still up to your old tricks, I see."
"You know this guy?" Hetty exclaimed.
"I should say he does," the man replied with a conspirato-
rial wink. The pistol flashed and twirled in his fingers, settling
with a flourish into a leather holster. "I taught Johnny-boy

here everything he knows. We go back a long, long ways, he
and I."
"True enough," Kahn grudgingly agreed. "Hetty, allow me
to introduce Artemus Hayes: pilot, gambler, con artist, and
thief. A rogue for all seasons." He eyed Hayes warily. "The
last I heard you'd conned an airship away from Hughes Avia-
tion a few years back and run off to the South China Sea. So
what are you doing sneaking around here in the I.S.A.?"
"Looking for you, of course," Hayes replied. He walked
past Hetty and sat at the table. Hayes propped his feet on the
tabletop and pulled a cigarette out of a silver case. A match-
ing silver lighter flashed and clinked, and he blew a long
streamer of smoke toward the ceiling. "I've been camped out
at this old shack for most of the week waiting for you to show
up. You're getting slow, Johnny-boy."
"How'd you know where to find us?" Hetty said, surprised.
Hayes laughed. "Honey, who do you think he got this place
from? He won the deed at a card game in Cincinnati back in

'28, the one and only time he ever got the better of me at five-
card draw."
There was a low groan from Dane, the captive People's
Kahn glanced from her to Hayes and
Collective fighter pilot.
growled, "Did you come all this way to catch up on old times,
or is there some point to this?"
The easygoing humor faded from Hayes' face. "Of course

there's a point, Johnny-boy," he said quietly. "I'm in dire
straits, old son, and I need to call in a favor. Ireckon that
you're just about the only man who can help me out of the fix
I'm in."
Now it was Hetty's turn to laugh. "A favor! Since when are
we the Sisters of Mercy —?" She stopped short at Kahn's
raised hand.
Kahn stared hard at Hayes. "What sort of favor?"
"Well, there's something of a story behind it." He took a
thoughtful drag on his cigarette. "How much do you know

about what's going on in Manchuria?"
"Where?" Hetty asked.
"Northeast China," Kahn interjected. "The Japanese in-
vaded a few months back, and are pushing deeper into the
mainland. From what I've heard on the radio, they're almost
to Nanking, the Chinese capital."
"It's a horror show," Hayes said flatly. "You can't imagine
what's happening to people over there. I've seen it with my

own eyes, and I still can't believe it." He rubbed a hand over
his face, as if to wipe the memories away. "It's gotten so bad
that the Nationalists and the Communists are actually work-
ing together against the Japanese, but they're still on the
ropes. If they don't get help from somewhere, soon, they're
finished.
"They managed to get an airship past the Japanese blockade
a couple weeks ago and sent a delegation to the League of
Nations with evidence of the atrocities in Manchuria."
Kahn pulled out a chair and sat down, his expression
thoughtful. "But something went wrong, I take it. The Japa-
nese seized the delegates?"
"They seized the senior delegate's daughter'' Hayes re-
"
CRIMSON SKIES 131
plied. "They were stopped over in Manhattan, refueling be-

fore a final hop to Columbia. Snatched her right off the street
after a Broadway show. They say that if her father speaks to
the League, he'll never see her again."
"Makes sense. That's what I'd do," Kahn said, half to him-
self"So where do you fit into all this?"
"The Chinese government hired me to get her out."
"
Kahn's eyes went wide. "You?
"Hey! I've made a name for myself in Asia, thank you very
much," Hayes replied indignantly "Too much of a name, it
turns out. The Japanese caught wind of what was going on
and smuggled a bomb onto my zep in Hong Kong. Blew her
and the whole crew to bits." He sat back and shook his head
ruefully "So I took the last of my cash, bribed my way onto a
British merchant zep bound for Chicago, and here I am."
Kahn stared at him. "You want us to help you get the girl
out."
"Not to put too fine a point on it, Johnny-boy, but yes, that's
the idea."
Hetty slapped her palms on the tabletop and leaned in until
she was nose to nose with Hayes. "You're out of your damn
mind," she snorted. "You think we can just waltz into the Em-
pire State anytime we please?"
He met her gaze evenly "I don't know about you, honey,"
he said, "but I know he can if he puts his mind to it."
. . .
She looked to Kahn. "Thenôw tell him we can't do it

—
Kahn silenced her with a look. "Where is the girl being
kept?"
A sly smile spread across Hayes' face. "The Japanese Em-
bassy, on Park Avenue," he said. "Right in the middle of Man-
hattan. I figured you'd enjoy the challenge."
"When we get her out, then what?" Kahn asked.
Hayes shrugged. "We fly her to the Chinese Embassy in
Hawai'i. From everything sounds like you could
I hear, it
stand to get away from the mainland and Chicago for a — —

while."
Kahn leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed in con-
centration. After a moment, he said, "Hetty, tell Dugan to
take on all the fuel we've got left, and make what repairs he
I3Z The Manchurian Gambit
can to the zep in the meantime. Then tell Pete he's got some
more painting to do. Looks like we're heading to the Empire
State."
Hayes beamed. "I knew I could count on you, Johnny-boy!
When do we leave?"
The pirate leader checked his watch. "In three hours."
Nowit was Hayes' turn to look shocked. "Three hours?
Don't get me wrong, Johnny, but this is Manhattan we're

talking about. Are you sure you aren't being too hasty?"
Kahn shrugged, but there was a manic gleam in his eyes.
"The sooner we get the girl, the sooner you and I are even," he
said. "And I pay my debts. One way or another."
The down out of a snowy sky and made a

aerotaxi dropped
perfect landing on the roof of the Park Avenue Plaza Hotel.
The autogyro's rotors kicked up swirling clouds of ice that
hung in the late-night air, causing the hotel's doorman to duck
and clutch at the collar of his overcoat as he rushed out and
opened the door for the taxi's passengers. Kahn and Hayes
stepped out into the wintry maelstrom, gloved hands pressed
to their fedoras, and headed for the edge of the roof.
Below them Park Avenue buzzed with activity, despite the
late hour. Revelers made their way back from Broadway, or
set out from hotels and stately apartment buildings to dance
the night away in jazz halls or speakeasies. Kahn rested a pol-
ished shoe on the roofs stone parapet and pulled out a cigar.
Wearing a dark oilskin overcoat and wool trousers, he was the
image of a captain of industry, surveying his Manhattan play-
ground. In fact, he had eyes only for the somber gray building
just across from the hotel.
"Built like the old Federal Reserve," he growled as he
studied the Japanese Embassy up close.
The embassy building was built to ward off a small army. It
was four stories tall, its walls made of massive granite slabs.
The windows on the ground floor were small and the close-
set frames made of bronze-colored iron, each pane barely
wide enough to fit a hand through. There were no fire escapes,
he noted.
He saw a service entrance on the right side of the building
CRIMSON SKIES 133
and a grand main entrance that opened on a fountain bor-

dered by a circular asphalt drive. A granite wall ten feet high,
topped with decorative, but dangerous, iron spikes, sur-
rounded the building and its grounds. The wrought-iron main
gate was closed, and he could make out the outline of a
guardhouse just past the gate.
Hayes hunched his shoulders against the cold. Like Kahn,
he, too, had donned a business suit. "You still haven't told me
how we're getting in there," he said nervously. "More impor-
tant, you haven't told me how the hell we're going to get out
again."
Kahn leaned forward slightly and surveyed the sidewalk
below. "You sound like I've got a plan or something, Arte-
mus. I've never even seen this building before."
"See, this is what I was talking about," Hayes said. "Why
don't we get a room here at the Plaza and spend a couple days
casing the joint? We don't want to go into this half-cocked."
The pirate leader eyed Hayes. "Where's all that bravado
you had at the farmhouse? You're the one who came all the
way from Hong Kong to get this girl out, and now you're get-
ting cold feet? Besides, the Machiavelli can't keep circling
La Guardia Airfield claiming engine problems for days on
end. At sunup, the airfield will send a tug to bring her in, and
then the jig's up." He shook his head. "We go tonight, or not
at all." Kahn gave him a wolfish smile. "Relax, Artemus. I'll
"
think of something. I always do.
They made their way to the hotel's rooftop elevator, and
down through the lobby. Once they were outside, they crossed
the icy street and walked slowly down the sidewalk, along-
side the embassy walls. As they passed the gate, Kahn no-
ticed that there were two guards keeping warm inside the
guardhouse, their bayonet-tipped rifles close at hand.
The embassy sat at the corner of Park Avenue and East
Forty-eighth Street. Kahn led them around the corner, then
across Forty-eighth and into a nearby alley. He pointed to a
call box a few yards away. "That's the fire box for this corner.
Go and pull the lever."
Hayes eyed him dubiously, but did as he was told. Kahn
watched calmly as Artemus picked up the metal bar, broke
.
IJ4 The Hanchurian Gambit
the little glass pane, and pulled the alarm lever before scur-
rying back to the alley.
Kahn looked up at the embassy. "How long do you figure

it'll take the fire department to get here?"
"On Park Avenue? Five minutes, tops," Hayes said. "But
Johnny, there's no fire. When the firemen check out the place,
Japanese that something isn't jake."
they'll tip off the
The pirate glanced at Hayes with a slight smile. Kahn
reached into his jacket and drew a bulky black pistol from his
coat pocket. He carefully took aim, cocked the hammer . .
and fired.
The flare hissed across the street and punched through one
of the embassy's second-floor windows. A red glow blazed
behind the curtains as the magnesium ignited, followed by
the familiar flickers of yellow-orange firelight.
"There's your fire," Kahn replied. "Now let's go be good
little Manhattan rubberneckers for a bit."
They crossed the street again and waited at the corner.

Shouts went up from the building's entrance, and soon the
wail of sirens could be heard down Park Avenue. "Where do
you think they're keeping the girl?" Kahn asked.
"It'd have to be someplace out of sight," Hayes answered.
"There's too many people that move in and out of there. I'd
guess she's in the basement."
Fire engines howled out of the darkness and pulled up in
front of the embassy. Already fire and smoke were pouring
from several upper-story windows. The guards pulled open
the gates, waving to the firefighters. "That's our cue," Kahn
said, and headed for the gate.
As they passed one of the fire engines, Kahn snagged a pair
of firemen's helmets and passed one back to Hayes. In the
dark, their oilskin coats looked very similar to the ones the
firemen themselves wore. The Japanese guards waved them
through with the rest, shouting frantically.
Pandemonium reigned inside the building. Kahn was sur-
prised at the number of late-night workers still present, run-
ning and shouting through the grand foyer, clutching boxes or
folders of important files.
Kahn and Hayes shoved through and moved to the ele-
CRIMSON SKIES 135
vators that, mercifully, were empty. Hayes—scanning the

Japanese characters on the lift buttons — quickly
sent the ele-
vator down.
They stepped off the and into a small stone room
elevator
that smelled of diesel and mildew. There was a table in one
oil
corner, adjacent to a big steel door that was better suited to a
jail cellthan an embassy.
There were four men in the room, talking back and forth in
frantic voices. Each wore a Japanese army uniform, Kahn
noted, and the most senior man carried an odd, slightly
curved sword at his hip. They saw Kahn and Hayes, and the
sword-carrying man shouted at them angrily.
Hayes shouted back in a long string of Japanese. The
guards' eyes went wide, and they bolted for the elevator. As
they disappeared from sight, Kahn turned to Hayes. "When
did you learn Japanese?"
"What do you think they speak in Asia? Italian?"
Hayes ran to the desk. There was a kind of logbook sitting
there, its pages crammed with dense lines of Japanese script.
"Okay .here! They brought in a woman and put her in
. .
room 41 8. That's got to be her."

The iron door was locked. Kahn rifled the desk and found
the key ring in the top drawer. The doors in the hall beyond
were all marked in Japanese. Hayes took the lead, calling out
the numbers. "421 ... 420 ... 419 .. here!" .
The heavy wooden door was locked. None of the keys on

the ring fit. "The hell with it," Kahn said, and pulled a .45 auto-
matic from his waistband and shot out the lock.
The room beyond was little better than a linen closet, with
no furniture other than a small chamber pot. A small figure
huddled in the far corner, wearing only a torn silk chemise.
Her arms and legs were covered with bruises, and when she
looked up at the two men her eyes seemed to stare right
—
through them. A bullet hole from Kahn's shot through the
—
lock was evident in the wall, just above the girl's head.
"Nice shooting, ace She's in shock," Hayes said grimly.
. . .
"Can you carry her?"

Kahn bent and hefted her unresisting form over his shoul-
der. "Let's go!" he said.
The two men raced back down the hall. Kahn could see
through the open doorway of the elevator room, only a few
yards away. Suddenly, the call light on the elevator blinked,
He heard the elevator open and a young Japanese officer in a
dark blue uniform stepped out, followed by a group of rifle-
toting guards.
The blue-uniformed man took in the room with a single
glance —
and saw Kahn and Hayes in the corridor beyond. His
lean face twisted in anger, and his hand flew to the curved
sword at his side. He drew the weapon in a fluid blur, light
flashing off the blade. The soldier pointed the sword at Kahn
and roared an order to the guards, who reached for their
weapons.
Kahn didn't understand the officer's words, but the meaning
was perfectly clear.
5: Caught in the Act
The soldiers swept around the Japanese officer like an an-

gry tide, leveling their bayonet-tipped rifles. The metallic
sound of rifle bolts cycling echoed menacingly in the narrow
hallway.
Kahn, still carrying the girl over his left shoulder, roared
like an angry bull and charged right at them, blasting away
with the .45 in his right hand.
Three of the soldiers fell, knocked from their feet by the
heavy slugs, and the rest opened fire, spending shots wildly.
Bullets cracked and whined down the corridor as they rico-
cheted off the concrete walls in the elevator room. Two more
of the soldiers fell, possibly struck by their own bullets; an-
other shot flattened against the steel fireman's helmet Kahn
wore and knocked it from his head.
Kahn fired twice more, and the remaining troops panicked,
bolting for the relative safety of the elevator car and forcing
their officer back along with them.
Kahn staggered into the room, followed closely by Hayes.
CRIMSON SKIES 137
His head felt as if a mule had kicked it. There wasn't any
other way would take only a few mo-
out of the room, and it
ments before the troops got their courage back and tried
again.
"Now what?" Hayes asked shakily. Blood flowed down his
cheek from a cut above his eye.
A glint of metal on a dead guard caught Kahn's eye. He put
away the pistol and crouched, plucking out a small, dark
cylinder.
"Tell those goons to throw out their weapons and come out
with their hands up or I'm throwing in a grenade," he said,
hefting the small bomb in his hand.
Hayes blurted out an order in Japanese. Moments later, the
remaining soldiers slid their rifles out onto the floor and
emerged one at a time, their hands held high.
The Japanese officer came last, stalking into the room like
an angry panther, sword in hand. He glared defiantly at Kahn.
"You won't escape, Mr. Kahn," he said in flawless, unac-
cented English. "There are a dozen more men waiting in the
lobby. Surrender now, and I promise you a quick death."
"I think I'll hold out for a better offer," the pirate re-
plied dryly, motioning Hayes toward the elevator. They circled
around the guards and stepped into the car. Hayes grabbed
the car's operating lever.
As the doors closed, the officer fixed them with a malevo-
lent stare. "We will meet again, 'Genghis' Kahn," he hissed.
Kahn glanced at Hayes. "He doesn't know me very well,
does he?" The pirate pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed
it into the officer's face as the elevator doors slid shut.
Hayes rolled his
eyes. "Johnny, you big oaf, their grenades
don'twork like ours. The pin's just a safety you have to —
knock the end against something to strike the fuse!"
"Now you tell me," Kahn replied sourly. "Don't just stand
there ... get this crate moving!"
"He said there's a dozen men waiting in the lobby," Hayes
protested.
"Who said we're going to the lobby?" Kahn pushed Hayes
aside and grabbed the lever. The car started to move. "We're
heading for the roof."
IJ8 The Manchurian Gambit
"The roof?" Hayes echoed. "The roof is probably on fire

right about now."
"If we're lucky," Kahn agreed. "Keep your fingers crossed."
The air grew steadily hotter as the elevator rose toward the
roof. Smoke seeped through the ventilators. Hayes stared
worriedly Kahn, but the pirate simply shrugged.
at
It seemed like an eternity before the car lurched to a stop.
The doors opened, letting in a furnacelike blast of air, and

Kahn dashed out into a scene straight from Hell.
Flames writhed and roared from the embassy's fourth-
floor windows and sent cyclones of heat and smoke curling
up over the edges of the roof, washing back and forth like
angry tides with every shift of the wind. Hayes snatched a
handkerchief from his jacket and pressed it to his face; Kahn
narrowed his eyes, coughed harshly, and tried to make out the
embassy's taxipad.
"Find some way to jam those doors," he shouted to Hayes,
and then staggered toward the center of the roof.
He couldn't find the taxipad in the smoke and the darkness,
so he got as close to the center of the roof as he could and set
the girl down. Kahn pulled the flare gun from his overcoat
pocket and broke the pistol open to remove the spent shell in-
side. There were two spares in his left pocket; he quickly re-
loaded the gun.
Squinting through the dense smoke, he lifted the gun high
and fired. A flare hissed up and vanished through the swirling
haze; a moment later, there was a muffled report as the flare
ignited.
Kahn pulled off the heavy overcoat. It was getting harder
and harder draw breath. Waves of heat beat at his face and
to
hands. He wondered how long it would take for the Japanese
officer to figure out where they'd gone, and whether he'd even
bother to come after them; in another few minutes, the fire
would probably do his dirty work for him.
The smoke was getting thicker. Hayes ran over and joined
him, shaking his head. "No way to jam the doors," he said, his
voice muffled by the handkerchief. "What do we do now,
jump?"
"No," Kahn answered. "We fly."
"
CRIMSON SKIES 139
As if on cue, a loud drone cut through the roaring of the

flames and an autogyro appeared out of the smoke, flying low
and slow over the building. The autogyro, emblazoned with
the insignia of the New York Fire Department, swept past and
pulled into a sharp turn. A moment later it was bouncing
across the rooftop toward them, its brakes squealing as it
slowed to a stop a few yards away.

The autogyro was stripped down and fitted out for rescue
work. It consisted of little more than a frame, engine, rotor,
and pusher prop, supporting a pilot and a passenger seat, plus
a stretcher running lengthwise along each side of the vehicle.
The fireman waved, and Kahn picked up the delegate's daugh-
ter and rushed her over to one of the stretcher mounts.
"Saw your flare and got here as fast as I could," the pilot
yelled over the sound of the engine.
"You're a real lifesaver," Kahn replied. He finished strap-
ping the girl down and pulled out his pistol. "Now get out of
here."
The fireman's jaw dropped. "Are you nuts?" he exclaimed.
"The fire—
A bullet ricocheted off the autogyro's frame, then another.
The fireman leapt from his seat, and Kahn looked back to see
the officer he'd left in the basement leading more troops
from the elevator onto the roof.
Hayes was less than ten yards away, pistol in hand, firing
slowly and deliberately at the oncoming troops. Kahn leapt
into the pilot's seat and fired a few wild shots of his own.
"Artemus!" he shouted. "Let's go!"
The pilot looked back and caught Kahn's eye, then fired
another careful shot in the direction of the enemy officer. In-
stantly the soldiers fired back in a ragged volley and Hayes
cried out as he fell to his knees, one hand pressed to his gut.
"Hayes!" Kahn cried. He fired another shot at the on-
coming troops, and the pistol's slide locked back, its clip
empty. "Hang on!"
"No!" Hayes shouted, waving him away with a blood-
slicked hand. "Get the hell out of here!" His soot-smeared
face contorted in pain. "Just take the girl to Hawai'i, Kahn.
Do that and you and I are square. Go!"
—
IM) The Manchurian Gambit
Another bullet zipped past Kahn's head, smashing into

the autogyro. Sooner or later, he realized, they'd hit the
engine ... or something more vital.
Hayes crumpled onto his side, gamely raising his pistol

and thumbing back the hammer as the Japanese troops drew
nearer.
Cursing savagely, Kahn released the brake and turned
the rescue bird around, then opened the throttle and didn't
look back.
Kahn could just make out the zeppelins against the over-
cast sky, their silvery undersides lit from below by the lights
of La Guardia Airfield. He picked out the Machiavelli easily
a prominent red cross had been hastily painted on her flank.
As far as the Empire State knew, the airship was on a mis-
sion of mercy, en route to deliver a load of medical supplies
up north, into what was once Canada. Her gun mounts were
covered with canvas tarps, disguising her true nature from
distant observers, but the illusion wouldn't hold up to a day-
light inspection.
Kahn adjusted a knob on the autogyro's radio and managed
to raise the airship, warning them to get the "flycatcher"
ready.
Kahn
circled the huge airship twice before he saw the
lights on the dorsal taxipad flicker to life. He brought the
autogyro around, approaching the zeppelin from the bow and
cutting the throttle until his airspeed was eighteen miles per
—
hour just above stall speed.
He coasted down two-thirds the length of the zeppelin
more than seven hundred feet —gradually losing altitude
until his wheels nearly scraped the airship's skin.
The taxipad was a ten-feet-square wooden platform, the aft
end of which was strung with a thickly woven cargo net. The
trick to landing was to bring the wheels down right at the
edge of the pad and lean hard on the brakes to kill as much
momentum as possible before the autogyro hit the flycatcher.
The light crafttouched the wooden platform, bounced
slightly, and plunged into the net's embrace with a bone-
CRIMSON SKIES Ul
The pirate cut the rear engine at once, and before

rattling jar.
he had unbuckled his restraints, the MachiavellVs rigging
crew was already swarming over the pad, lashing the auto-
gyro down and preparing to lower the little bird down into the
ship's small craft hangar. Kahn quickly gave instructions to
carry the girl to the ship's infirmary, then left the riggers and
made his way to the airship's bridge.
The Machiavelli had once been the flagship of the Utah
Aerial Navy, and her layout and design had more in common
with oceangoing warships than her cargo-hauling kin. Unlike
civilian airships, her bridge was plated in steel armor and lo-
cated inside the ship's hull, with Plexiglas view ports looking
forward from the zeppelin's bow.
The bridge was bathed in the red glow of battle lanterns to
preserve the crew's night vision. The men at the helm and
trim controls were already wearing flak vests and helmets
when Kahn stepped through the bridge's after hatchway.
"Pour on the coal, Dugan!" he called out. "Turn us west and
head for the nearest cloudbank. I want to be in the I.S.A. be-
fore dawn."
"Deadeye" Dugan, the ship's captain, nodded curtly and
barked orders to the bridge crew. Tall and gray-haired, the
former I.S.A. airship commander had been cashiered when
he was badly disfigured in a refueling mishap. The left side of
his face was a mass of scar tissue, surrounding a glass eye
that glittered like a piece of jade. "All engines ahead full," he
called. "Helm, come to course two-seven-zero."
A map table dominated the center of the bridge, where a
detailed map of New York was currently displayed. Holders
lining three of the table's four sides were jammed with dozens
of additional maps; Kahn rifled through them as Hetty ap-
peared on the bridge.
"Thanks for letting me know you'd gotten back," she said,
eyeing him carefully. "You look like you've been rolling
around in a campfire. How did it go?"
"Well enough," Kahn muttered. "The girl's in the infirmary."
"Hayes is with her?"
"No," he replied. "He caught a bullet just as we were about
to pull out."
went wide. "No kidding? Well, thank God for

Hetty's eyes
small blessings," she said. "This little 'favor' would have
been the end of us. What do you want to do with the girl?"
"We're taking her to Hawai'i, same as before," Kahn said
"Nothing's changed."
flatly.
Hetty was dumbfounded. "Have you lost your marbles?

Hayes is dead''
"But the debt remains," Khan replied, looking her in the
eye."And now this is the only way I can even the score."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Hetty cried. "You
owe money to half the people on this continent! You owed the
Purple Gang, and now you owe big money to Giovanni De-
Carlo, but you've never lost any sleep over that!
"And what about what you owe W5," she continued, ges-
turing angrily, "your crew, the ones who are going to go down
in flames because of some damn fool favor you owe to a dead
man?"
Anger clouded Kahn's face. He came around the map table
slowly, his eyes locked on Hetty, who planted her hands on
her hips and stood her ground, ready for a fight.
Before anything could happen, the voice of the watch of-
ficer cried out, "Aft lookouts report engine sounds to the
maybe six fighters, closing fast!"
northeast! Four,
Dugan crossed the bridge in three quick strides and got be-
tween Kahn and his wingman. "What do you want us to do,
boss?" he asked pointedly.
The pirate leader paused, and took a deep breath. "Battle
stations," he said quietly. "Uncover the guns. I'm going top-
side." Brushing past Hetty, he stormed out the after hatch and
headed quickly down the main accessway as the alert klaxon
sounded.
In addition to the MachiavelWs four main cannon, the
zeppelin mounted ten heavy machine guns for close-in
defense —
six .50-caliber guns in dorsal and ventral gondolas,
and four .60-caliber guns in port and starboard blisters lo-
cated amidships. The dorsal gondola was reached via an en-
closed fifty-foot ladder covered by a submarine-style hatch.
By the time Kahn threw open the hatch and climbed out into
the wintry air the gunners were already at their weapons,
"
CRIMSON SKICS 143
loading in belts of armor-piercing ammo. The pirate leader

leaned against the gondola's armored bulwark and peered
into the gloom.
The heavy overcast above caught the lights of the city and
reflected them back in a kind of diffuse twilight. Kahn could
see clearly for maybe half a mile to port and starboard,
and the waters of the Lower Bay gleamed black and silver
three thousand feet below. After a moment, he could hear the
sounds the lookouts described: fighter engines, loud, snarling
maybe a mile behind them.
radials out in the darkness
There was a set of earphones and a microphone on a hook
by the hatch. Kahn fitted the set over his head, wincing at the
feel of the icy Bakelite. "All hands, this is Kahn," he called
over the ship's intercom. "Everyone hold their fire. This is
most likely just a routine patrol, and they won't approach too
closely. If we play it quiet, we can still slip away
—
He heard the engine sounds swell, and one of the gunners
gave a shout. Kahn looked back to see four shapes materi-
alize out of the gloom, flying in close formation. They swept
down the starboard side of the airship, seemingly close enough
to touch the zep's hull. The thunder of their high-performance
engines beat against his face and chest.
They looked similar to PR-1 Defenders, but with a short-
ened fuselage and small, wing-mounted rudders. Their engine
cowlings were painted black, and the rest of the airframes
were white. Large, red circles on their wingtips stood out like
bright drops of blood. Just as quickly as they appeared, they
were gone, leaving the airship behind as though it were stand-
ing still.
"Damn!" exclaimed the gunner nearest Kahn. "What the

hell were those things?"
"Japanese fighters," Kahn answered, unable to fiilly be-
lieve it Empire State. Crawford and his
himself. "Here. In the
Broadway Bomber lapdogs must be slipping."
Somewhere ahead, the fighters split up and doubled back;
the snarling sound of their engines reverberated in the dark-
ness all around the airship. Suddenly a voice cried out over
the intercom: "Bandits, nine o'clock high!"
I4A The Manchurian Gambit
Kahn whirledin time to see two of the fighters diving on

them Yellow flashes winked from their cowlings and
to port.
wings, and tracer fire clawed at the airship's side. He could
hear the bullets punching through the layered fabric of the
hull like hail on a paper roof. "Open fire!" Kahn yelled into
the mike, and the Machiavelli erupted in noise and light,
sending arcs of tracers after the enemy planes.
"Two more bandits at six o'clock!" one of the spotters
called out. The pair of fighters bored in like arrows, closing
to point-blank range. The gunner nearest Kahn swung his
weapon aft and opened up, sending a short burst of fire
lancing at the left-most plane. Hot brass casings, smoking in
the coldair, rattled and rolled along the decking at their feet.
Flame streaked from the fighters' wings. The aft end of the
zeppelin was outlined in strobe flashes of angry orange as
the flak rockets exploded in a string of dull thunderclaps.
"Number six engine out!" a tense voice exclaimed over the
headset. "We've got holes in the ventral rudder and damage
to the hangar bay. Looks like two of the rockets penetrated
somewhere aft but didn't go off."
Lucky us, Kahn thought as the fighters dived beneath the
airship and disappeared from sight. He pounded his fist against
the bulwark in frustration; they didn't dare launch their own
fighters to protect the ship. While the enemy planes could re-
turn to a well-lit landing strip, recovering planes aboard an
airship in the dark was an invitation to disaster.
He looked toward the bow to see how close they were to the
relative safety —
of a cloudbank and saw danger instead. He
yelled into the microphone: "Bandits, bandits, twelve o'clock
high!"
The two planes struck from the darkness like thunderbolts,
machine guns blazing. He watched the tracers march along
the upper hull toward him. The gunners behind him opened
fire as he dived to the deck, shells whizzing back and forth
over his head like angry hornets. The fighters roared over-
head and were gone before his knees touched steel. When he
looked up again the gunner closest to him lay motionless on
the deck, wreathed in a spreading pool of blood.
"Searchlights to starboard!" one of the remaining gunners
CRIMSON SKIES 145
cried, pointing with a gloved hand. Kahn raised his head over
the bulwark. White beams slashed through the darkness at
their altitude, nearly two miles away.
He could just make out the sleek shapes of not one, but two
Empire State patrol zeppelins, heading their way. As he
watched, there was a bloom of yellow-white fire from the
lead ship's port quarter. Seconds later came a sound like rip-
ping canvas as a five-inch shell raced across their bow.
Wisps of mist trailed through the air, obscuring the Empire
State warships. Suddenly the air turned clammy, and then the
zeppelin plunged into a tunnel of fog as the Machiavelli
found sanctuary within the depths of a cloudbank. The gun-
ners let out loud sighs of relief. Kahn pulled off the headset
and opened the hatch, disappearing below.
His thoughts raced as he ran to the bridge. Japanese fighter
planes were bad enough, but Empire State zeppelins meant
serious trouble. He'd never expected the Japanese to yell for
help from the Empire State, much less have the whole Navy
sent out after him. While there was no love lost between the
—
Empire State and the I.S.A. especially pirates from the
I.S.A. —
the military response was far too strong for a simple
kidnapping. Something didn't fit.
Kahn made his way to the bridge. Shards of Plexiglas lit-
tered the deck from where a round had punched through one
of the forward view ports. The door to the radio room, just
right of the hatchway, was open. The radioman had tuned
onto one of the New York radio stations, and the muffled,
scratchy sound of a news program traveled out into the room.
"Good evening people of the Empire State and all the ships
at sea," the news announcer said. "A fierce battle is raging
over our heads tonight as our fair city has come under attack
by none other than the infamous 'Genghis' Kahn and his
ruthless band of cutthroats, the Red Skull Legion.
"According to reports from city hall, the treacherous pirate
has struck the Japanese Embassy on Park Avenue and left
the venerable old building in flames. Dozens are feared
dead tonight, but worst of all, it has been revealed that the ob-
ject of this dastardly raid was none other than Miss Chiang
Liu-mei, daughter of President Chiang Kai-shek —the em-

battled leader of the Republic of China.
"The motive for the kidnapping is unknown, but President
La Guardia has put the Navy on full alert, sending every
available airship in the sky to track down and apprehend the
pirates. A reward of no thousand dollars has
less than ten
been offered leading to the capture of Kahn and his gang. Our
prayers go out to Chiang Liu-mei, and to the brave men and
women determined to bring these villains to justice."
Kahn felt a finger of ice crawl up his spine. He saw Hetty
step from the radio room, her face pale. Her hands were trem-
bling. She met his gaze, scowling in fear and anger.
"What in the hell have you gotten us into?"
6: Old Friends
The pale moon was a vague silver glow above the rapidly
moving clouds, limning the edges of the rolling hills in
frosty light. Machiavelli cruised high over the sleeping
countryside, her silvery hull just brushing the undersides of
the wintry overcast as she navigated by compass and the
sharp eyes of her shivering lookouts. The airship's flanks
were ragged with holes, and her two aftmost engines were
silent —
the starboard motor a burnt-out shell and the port
motor shut down to keep the ship's thrust in balance.
After the fierce air battle over the People's Collective
and the skirmish with Japanese fighters above New York,
the zep was nearly crippled, fighting a headwind over the
Empire State as she struggled to make it across the border be-
fore dawn.
Jonathan Kahn stepped aside to let a pair of the ship's rig-
gers make way down the narrow passageway. Their
their
faces were taut and weary, smudged with smoke stains and
grease from long hours spent struggling to keep the zeppelin
in the air. The lead rigger stood a little straighter as he passed
Kahn, and gave the boss a tired smile as the men headed aft to
CRIMSON SKIES !«
head off another crisis. The pirate leader waited until they
were out of sight before rubbing fiercely at his aching eyes.
He checked his watch. It was just after three in the morning.
The last time a lookout had seen searchlights was nearly an
hour ago, some four miles to the east. The Empire State Navy
apparently believed Kahn would head back to the I.S.A., the
Red Skulls' home ground, and had thrown every ship they
could into his path. Up until now events had occurred too
quickly for La Guardia's forces to organize a coordinated
search, but now the Machiavelli was struggling to make half
her rated speed, and time was no longer on her side.
Kahn pictured the Empire State patrol zeppelins glid-
ing through the night like sharks, peering through the dark-
ness with searchlights and flares, drawing ever nearer to his
stricken ship. They'd been lucky to lose their pursuers in the
clouds over New York City, where a sane pilot couldn't risk
groping blindly through the overcast with all the traffic filling
The same didn't hold true out here, near the border,
the skies.
and Kahn couldn't shake the feeling that his luck was about to
run out.
Kahn took a deep breath and tried to push the worries out
of his mind. As long as he could still think, he could always
find a way out. The pirate leader reached into his jacket and
pulled out a cigar as he paced a little farther down the pas-
sage and pushed open the door to the zeppelin's sick bay.
The cold air in the small room smelled of smoke, blood,
and death. Five of the sick bay's eight beds were occupied,
and two more men sat dejectedly on the room's operating
table, clutching bandaged limbs. One of the men stretched
out in the beds moaned fitfully in a morphine-induced sleep.
A short, broad-shouldered man with a grizzled crew cut
stood in the center of the room and watched the moaning man
worriedly, wiping his hands on a bloodstained apron. "Doc"
Adams turned as Kahn entered the sick bay and nodded a
tired greeting.
"How bad is it?" Kahn asked around his cigar. He had his
lighter in his hands, but looking over the wounded men, he re-
sisted the urge and put it and the cigar away.
"All told? Two dead, eight injured," Adams said with a
"
sigh. He gestured at the beds. "I did the best I could for the
worst cases, but about all I'm really good for is simple first
aid. Murphy took three rounds in the gut; I'm not sure he'll
last the night." The former horse doctor looked guiltily at
Kahn. "I've been giving him morphine pretty steadily, and
it's used up almost a third of our stocks. I know how expen-
sive the stuff is

—
"Don't worry about that," Kahn said quietly. "Make him as
comfortable as you can. We'll worry about the rest later." His
eyes settled on the room's eighth bed, hidden from the rest of
the room by a curtained screen. "What about our guest?"
Adams shrugged. "I gave hersome laudanum, so she's
sleeping now. Somebody roughed her up pretty good a lot —
of bruises, maybe a cracked rib. Looks like she hasn't been
fed much, either. You can look in her eyes and tell she's been
through Hell."
Kahn frowned. The Japanese wanted to keep the girl's fa-
ther from addressing the League of Nations, so what purpose
did torturing her serve? The mere threat of harming the girl
should have been sufficient.
Kahn shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his
sleep-deprived brain. Clearly there was more going on than
Hayes, his old partner in crime, had led him to believe. Now
that Hayes was dead, Kahn found himself fumbling in the
dark, unsure of how to proceed —but certain that there was no
turning back now.
"Has she said anything, Doc? Anything at all?"
"Not a word," Adams said. "Boss, she's in deep shock. I
wouldn't expect anything out of her for a good long while."
He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't
know what else to do. All I know are horses and airplane
engines."
"Yeah. Okay." Kahn did his best to keep the desperation
out of his voice. "You're doing okay, Doc. Stay here and keep
an eye on everybody, and if she wakes up, let me know."
Kahn stalked out into the passageway and headed aft,
deeper into the shadowy interior of the ship. He could still
smell smoke from the fire that had broken out in the hangar
bay. The Red Skulls were in deep trouble, far worse than
CRIMSON SKIES 149
they'd ever been before. His hands curled into fists, but there
was nothing and no one he could strike at that would drive out
the frustration that he felt. If there was one thing his father
had taught him, it was that a man survived by controlling the
events that surrounded him. Kahn wasn't in control anymore,
and he knew it.
He lit his cigar and started pacing again, trying to think.
Kahn's thoughts kept going back to his recent conversations
with Hetty. The girl was worried; she was no dummy, and
could see the signs as well as he could. She was afraid he was
going to bail out on them.
The more he thought about it, the more he saw that skip-
ping out would be the smartest play, given the way the cards
were stacked against him.
Kahn kept walking, turning the problem over and over in
his head.Without consciously intending to, he found himself
wandering through the cargo deck. One of the cargo lockers
was padlocked shut. There was no guard. Kahn considered
the door for a moment, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar,
and then reached a decision. He pulled out a set of keys and
undid the padlock. The cargo locker was windowless and
black as a cave. Kahn figured Dane was probably asleep.
Standing in the doorway, he reached for the light switch and
realized with a start that it was still turned on. She'd put out
the light. That was when something came flying out of the
darkness and smashed against his head.
Everything went white. Kahn fell to his knees. He felt a
lithe figure try to force its way past him, and he grabbed
hand closed on a small foot,
blindly with both hands. His left
and he jerked backward, hard. Dane fell to the deck with a
loud grunt, and he knew he'd knocked the wind out of her.
The pirate boss forced himself to his feet, holding the trapped
foot as high as he could and blinking furiously at the stars that
danced in front of his eyes.
Dane thrashed and writhed in his grip like a snared tiger,
kicking furiously with her free leg. Kahn's head began to
throb with a dull, pounding ache, but the passageway came
back into focus. He let go of Dane, who quickly sprang to her
feet, ready to kill or be killed. Kahn looked over her diminu-

tive form and scowled. "Save it, sister. You've got the brass,
but not the muscle. And even if you did, there's nowhere to
run." He looked down and saw pieces of porcelain scattered
around the deck. Kahn picked up a shard, wincing at the
pain in his head. "You hit me with a chamber pot?" he said,
examining the fragment in the light.
"It seemed appropriate," Dane replied. She hadn't relaxed
in the least, her small hands balled into fists. "And if you
don't cut me loose, you can expect a hell of a lot worse than
that."
Kahn pulled his gun. "Of course, I could just shoot you and
save myself the trouble."
Surprisingly, Dane gave him a humorless smile. "If you
were going to kill me, you'd have done it a long time ago,
pirate."
The pirate boss tossed the shard aside. "Touche," he said,
and put the pistol away. "You're proving to be a headache in
more ways than one, Captain Dane. In fact, I do have certain
uses for you. Do you have any medical skill? A number of my
men are seriously hurt, and need a doctor's attention."
Dane's lip curled in a sneer. "If I did, do you think I'd actu-
ally waste it on thugs like you and your men?"
"Where is your sense of humanity, Captain?"
The Collective pilot let out a derisive snort. "That's rich,
coming from a man like you."
"Fair enough," Kahn conceded. "Then I'll settle for using
you as a hostage ransoming you back if the Col-
if need be, or
lective will still have you." He picked out a piece of ceramic
on the deck and methodically ground it under his boot. "If
not, I'm sure we can find someone in Hawai'i willing to take
you off our hands."
Dane's eyes narrowed appraisingly. "So you rescued the
girl, then? You're the last person in the world I would peg for a
knight in shining armor, Kahn."
"I'm not," Kahn replied darkly. "A long time ago, Artemus
Hayes took me under his wing and taught me a great number
of things . . . including how to fly a plane. He also saved my
CRIMSON SKIES 151
life." The pirate shrugged. "I owe him. And I don't like being
indebted to anyone. It's as simple as that.
"Unfortunately this little errand has become a great deal
more complicated than I'd bargained for. It's nearly dawn,
and if we aren't across the border into the I.S.A. by then,
things are going to get unpleasant." Kahn gestured down the
forward passageway. "Let's go."
"You're not going to lock me up again?" Dane asked.
"I don't have enough healthy crewmen to keep an eye on
you, Captain, and I don't want you left alone to get into any
more mischief."
The Collective Captain raised her chin defiantly. "Watch
me all you want, Kahn. I'll still find a way to escape."
"Feel free, Comrade," the pirate said with a wolfish grin.
"Assuming we can clear up the debris on the hangar deck to
launch any planes, there's a big enough reward on our heads
that you'd get shot down or captured by the first militia you
ran across, and I doubt they'd be inclined to believe your
story. After all, the Red Skulls have earned something of a
reputation for . . . misdirection. For the time being, you're
much better off with our company than without it."
Dane paled. Her mouth worked, but no sounds came out.
The look on her face was the best thing that had happened to
Kahn in quite some time.
Dawn found the Machiavelli still a hundred miles short of

the border, but the Red Skulls' luck still held. Snowstorms
blanketed the Empire State's western border, cutting visi-
bility to less than fifty feet and muffling the sound of the Zep-
pelin's engines. On the downside, the airship's electrical heat
failed shortly after daybreak, leaving the crew huddled and
shivering in their flight gear for four long hours untilit could
be repaired.
Dugan and Kahn watched layers of ice build on the Zep-
pelin's hull and deemed it an acceptable risk, given the alter-
natives. They crossed the border at a little after nine, but the
crew knew better than to think they were home free.
All the radio stations were buzzing with the news of the
Manhattan raid. According to the reports, La Guardia was
152 The Hanchurian Gambit
ready to send his zeppelins into the I.S.A. if that's what it
took, touching off a heated exchange of threats between

Chicago and New York. Kahn wasn't fool enough to think
that the I.S.A. was staring down the Empire State for his sake;
if anything, they probably wanted the credit for his capture as
much as La Guardia did.
Kahn kept the Machiavelli in the air, since the Red Skulls'
hidden base was now a likely ambush site. Instead, he kept
the airship headed west, well away from established commer-
cial shipping lanes, and crossed over into the People's Collec-
tive the following night. As Kahn had hoped, the search for
the Red Skulls hadn't yet spread into the socialist nation; ac-
cording to the news, the authorities seemed certain that Kahn
would go to ground somewhere in his home territory.
The Red Skulls needed a sanctuary, to be sure, but Kahn
had another destination in mind.
Bright sunlight slanted through the zeppelin's bridge view

ports, causing Kahn to squint against the glare. Beside him,
"Deadeye" Dugan looked up from the bridge's map table and
called out to the helm. "We're thirty seconds from the initial
turn. On my mark, come to course three-three-five."
Ahead of them, Rocky Mountains loomed in a jagged,
the
forbidding wall of snowcapped rock. Kahn had run the
treacherous route to Sky Haven dozens of times, but he still
had trouble picking out the narrow defile that marked the be-
ginning of the path.
Dugan held up a stopwatch. "Ready . . . Ready . . . Mark!
Port engines back one third, new course three-three-five."
The huge zeppelin seemed to pivot in place, her bow
swinging to port and seemingly pointing straight at a sheer
rock face. Finally, just past the point of no return, Kahn saw
the cleft, barely wide enough to let the airship through. The
Machiavelli nosed into a tight, twisting defile that would
eventually lead them to Sky Haven, pirate hide-out and unof-
of Free Colorado.
ficial capital
Hetty Corbett turned away from the map table and joined
Kahn, eyeing Dane warily. The Collective pilot stood off to
one side, well away from the telltale maps, watching her sur-
CRIMSON SKIES 153
roundings intently. Kahn's wingman folded her arms and

spoke in a quiet voice. "We're just about out of gas, boss, and
Dugan's worried that we might lose the number three engine
before much longer. We need parts and supplies bad, and Sky
Haven doesn't run on credit."
"Relax," Kahn said wearily. He hadn't slept more than a
couple of hours at a time since leaving Manhattan, but with
the Rocky Mountains finally around him he could afford to
relax,and fatigue threatened to suck him under like a riptide.
"We'll sell the autogyro I stole in New York for some seed
money, and then I'll scam the rest. The worst part's over, kid."
Hetty looked sidelong at Kahn. "You think so? What about
the reward? Ten grand is ten times what's been put on our
heads in the past. I'd turn in my own mother for that kind of
dough."
"You'd turn in your mother for a cup of coffee," Kahn shot
back. "Don't get me wrong —I'm not enough to believe
fool
that there's any honor among thieves. But no one's nuts
enough to sell us out. Sky Haven's neutral territory, and the
locals want it to stay that way. A war between pirates is the
last thing anybody here wants."
"It's not the locals I'm worried about," Hetty grumbled.
The officer of the watch pressed a hand to his headphones.

"Bow lookouts report engine sounds ahead. Six fighters,
sounds like heavies."
Kahn nodded. "There's our escort. Let's get on the horn
and pay our respects before we get used for target practice."
He headed across the bridge to the radio room with Hetty
in tow.
Loud, snarling engines swept past the Machiavelli to port
and starboard, heralding the arrival of the patrol. Kahn
reached over to the radio and set the dial to Sky Haven's fre-
quency and picked up a microphone. "Sky Haven Flight, this
is Genghis Kahn and the Red Skulls," he said. "You're a sight
for sore eyes."

The flight leader answered immediately. "The feeling's
mutual, Kahn," he said, in a voice as cold as stone. "Me and
the boys have been counting the days until we'd cross paths
with you again."
Kahn's grin faded. Hetty's eyes went wide. "Oh, no,"

she said.
The voice belonged to Harry Nesbitt, the man they'd
cheated at Deadwood.
7: The Welcome Mat
tions?" Hetty asked nervously. The bridge

R e
att * sta
l/again from the buzz-saw roar of engines as Nesbitt's
rattled
heavy fighters came around for another pass, close enough to

rattle the compartment's thick Plexiglas windows.
Kahn shook his head. "The second we go for our guns, he's
going to start shooting; then we're as good as dead."
The Red Skulls were in no shape for a fight. Almost a third
of the zeppelin's crew was walking wounded from the battle
over Manhattan, and the ship was dangerously low on fuel
and ammunition. Kahn leaned out through the radio room's
doorway. "Dugan, have we got the hangar deck clear?"
The zeppelin's scarred captain was bent intently over the
bridge's map table tracing a line with his finger and taking
careful note of the sweeping second hand of the stopwatch he
held. The airship was in the middle of a treacherous course
through the Rockies to Sky Haven. Nesbitt and his men were
the least of Kahn's worries at the moment; the sheer rock
walls and hidden pirate gun emplacements were of more im-
mediate concern.
"Deck's clear," Dugan called out, "but we can't launch. We
don't have the altitude, and the wind's coming in from amid-
ships. You'd hit the floor of the defile before you got enough
airspeed to stay aloft."
"We're dead," Hetty said bleakly.
"Not yet," Kahn muttered. "He hasn't started shooting."
Kahn reached came up empty.
in his jacket for a cigar, but
The ground his teeth and tried to make his tired
pirate boss
brain function. He keyed the radio. "Not bad, Nesbitt. You
caught us with our pants down. How'd you get so smart all of
—
CRIMSONSKIB 155
a sudden? You weren't this sharp over Deadwood, that's for

sure."
Hetty's eyes went wide. The radioman's jaw dropped. Nes-
bitt's ftirious voice screeched through the radio's static. "You
damn near ruined me, Kahn! I had to take a contract with Sky
Haven just to stay in the air, but I knew that sooner or later
you'd show up here, and I'd be waiting to collect!"
A sly grin spread across Kahn's face. "You aren't going to
blow us away on Sky Haven's dime, Nesbitt. Not if you want
to hang your hat here ever again. Karl Regen and his gang
don't care for pirates shooting each other up over their heads,
much less having one of their patrol pilots carrying on a per-
sonal vendetta."
"You listen to me, Kahn. You're going to fly that shot-up
gasbag of yours to Sky Haven, and when you dock, you're
—
going to turn over the money my money that you stole at
Deadwood, or by God, I'll have your scalp for it!"
Kahn laughed. "Blow it out your ear, Nesbitt. You can't
make me give you the time of day ... let alone the money."
"You think I can't?" Nesbitt's voice grew shrill with anger.
"Guess again, genius. I'm challenging you and your crew,
right here and now. We're going to fly the Cut, winner take
all. Unless you want to back down, and show everybody what
a coward you are!"

The pirate leader affected an exasperated sigh, though
Hetty watched him grin from ear to ear. "Have it your way,
Harry. We'll do the Cut tomorrow at dawn."
Nesbitt made no reply. Kahn chuckled, handing the micro-
phone back to the radioman. "No, no Bre'r Fox!" he mut-
."
tered, grinning. "Don't throw me in that there brier patch . .
"Have you lost your mind?" Hetty exclaimed. "We're

down to seven planes, no gas, and no bullets. How the hell do
you expect us to fly the Cut?"
"I don't," Kahn replied, pushing past Hetty and stepping
back out onto the bridge. Nesbitt's fighters roared past a final
time, and ahead, the tightly hemmed mountains were falling
away to the left and right, revealing the crowded plateau
where the buildings of Sky Haven catered to their aerial
clientele.
"C'mon, kiddo, this is me we're talking about here. Karl

Regen owes me some favors. He has to agree to any duels
flown around the town, and if I say so, he'll keep Nesbitt
twisting in thewind until we can get fixed up. Then we'll slip
out of town late at night and worry about Nesbitt some other
day, preferably when he least expects it." The pirate boss
breathed a sigh of relief. "It looked a little dicey there for a
second, but don't worry. I've got it covered."
"What the hell do you mean you're approving the duel?"

The thin mountain air didn't let Kahn put the full force of his
voice behind the shout, but he leaned across Karl Regen 's
dark wood desk and glared down at the would-be "master of
Sky Haven" with all the bluster he could summon.
Karl Regen was a tall, handsome man with a square jaw,
straight silver-blond hair, and emotionless blue eyes. He spread
his hands in a gesture of helplessness common to politicians the
world over. "What do you want me to say, Kahn? I can't go
doing you favors like this. It'll kill my credibility."
"That's baloney. What's he paying you, Karl? Name it, and
I'll double it."
Regen sighed. "Kahn, be reasonable. Nesbitt's been brag-

ging about this all over town. People will talk if I try to string
him along. And he's got as legitimate a right to challenge
someone as you or I." He shrugged. "Listen, if you don't want
to take Nesbitt up on it, you can leave. He can't follow you."
"And have every pirate in North America think 'Genghis'
Kahn backed down from a man like Harry Nesbitt? Not likely,"
Kahn growled. He leveled a finger at Regen. "Put the word
out. The Red Skull Legion will be flying tomorrow at dawn."
With that, he jerked his head at Hetty, who stood by the
door, and the two pirates stormed out into the cold Colorado
sunshine.
"So much for having things covered," Hetty grumbled,
folding her arms.
"It's the whole flap about the Empire State and 'kidnap-
ping' Chiang Liu-mei," Kahn said, seething with frustration.
"Regen doesn't want any part of an international scandal,
(RIMSOHSKItS 157
never mind that we were rescuing the girl from a Japanese

cell. He wants us out of town, one way or another."
Hetty looked over at her boss, her long face somber. "We
can't fly the Cut, boss," she said quietly. "We're at the end of
our rope."
"We'll empty the zep's fuel tanks, and strip the ammo from
her guns," Kahn said. "We
won't be able to arm everybody,
but at least the heavies should have something to shoot with."
"For what? Just so we can go up there and get killed to-
morrow?" Hetty stopped in her tracks, fists planted on her
hips. "Nesbitt's going to have more planes than us, and he'll
be armed for bear. The word at the airfield is that he took out a
loan from 'Fingers' Malone to make sure he'd have every-
thing he needs when the time comes tomorrow."
"What do you want me to do, Hetty? Quit?" Kahn rounded
on her, there in the middle of the snowy lane. "First you're
nagging me about walking out on the crew; now you're on my
back because I'm trying to hold everything together! What
do you want?"
Hetty glared at him, her brown eyes blazing. She walked
up until they were nose to nose. "What I want," she said qui-
etly, "is for you to stop thinking about yourself for half a
second and consider what is best for your crew. You know, all
the little people that do the bleeding when one of your plans
goes south."
For a moment, Kahn couldn't find the words to reply.
"What is this, a mutiny?"
Hetty managed a choked laugh. "Good Lord," she said,
shaking her head. "Does it always have to be all or nothing
with you?"
"That's what life is all about, kid," Kahn said. "All or
nothing. Take it or leave it."
"Yeah, well, what's to take, at this point?" Hetty stared
hard at Kahn. "We're broke. Our birds are shot to hell. Half of
North America is after us, and we're running on fumes. What
the hell do we have to look forward to tomorrow except more
of the same?"
"Well, what do you suggest?"
Hetty shrugged. "We're in Sky Haven. There are plenty of

captains who could use experienced crews. If there was ever a
point where we could pack it in and start over, this is it."
"You want to quit?" Kahn said, his voice hollow.
"What I want is for you to think about your crew for a
change. That's allI'm saying. It's one thing to think you can
beat the devil at his own game, and another thing entirely to
wager our lives, too."
Kahn shook his head. "Hetty, have I ever let you down?
Ever?"
His wingman gave him a sad smile. "Me? No. Maybe you
should ask Murphy that, instead. He's the one who took three
rounds in the gut because you owed Hayes a favor."
Before Kahn could answer she pushed past him and con-
tinued down the narrow lane.
The hangar deck still smelled of oil and smoke. The bulk-
head walls were streaked with soot from the fire started by
Japanese flak rockets, and a heavy crate sat in one corner of
the cavernous compartment, filled with charred and twisted
debris. One of the Red Skulls' remaining planes, Amos
Jones' Sanderson "Vampire" —newly acquired a few months
back during a raid in the Republic of Texas —was seared
and blackened along its port side, out of action until some-
one could afford the parts to repair its notoriously finicky
engines.
The hangar bay was packed with people. Kahn had called
the entire crew assemble there, even the seriously
to
wounded. They sat in chairs brought down from the ward-
room, holding themselves gingerly while they waited to hear
what Kahn had to say. Everyone except Murphy; he died a
few hours after the Machiavelli made port at Sky Haven.
Kahn eyed his crew and wished for the power to look in-
side their heads. To a man, they all looked exhausted, but
—
none seemed fearful or angry except Hetty, who stood near
the back, her arms folded tightly. She looked as though her
world was coming to an end. Despite the fact that she is the
one who pushed me to this point in the first place, Kahn
thought. He'd never figure out dames as long as he lived.
CRIMSON SKIES 159
The burly pirate leader stepped forward without preamble,

and immediately the deck went quiet. He found himself
wishing for a A last smoke for a condemned man,
cigar.
maybe, Kahn thought. He took a deep breath.
"Anybody here who's been with me for any length of time
knows I don't like making speeches . . . unless I'm about to
put one over on somebody." Several members of
the crew
laughed weakly. "Well, These aren't ordinary
this isn't a con.
times. For the last few days we've been going at things hard
and fast, and there hasn't been much opportunity to sit and
take stock. It's high time we did.
"You guys aren't blind, and you aren't stupid. You can
prettymuch look around and see what kind of shape we're in.
Frankly, we're broke. There's no money for gas or bullets,
much less repairs. And now I've gotten a ten-thousand-dollar
bounty on all our heads. Why? Because of another debt that I
personally owed to someone else.
"Now, Harry Nesbitt, whom I'm sure you all remember
—
from Deadwood" a few more stifled chuckles arose from
—
the crowd "has got us dead to rights. He's called us out. To-
morrow at dawn the Red Skulls are flying the Cut, winner
—
take all. And I mean all if Nesbitt wins, he gets the Machia-
velli and everything in her."
Now heads turned. Not everyone had heard the news, and
looks of shock were appearing among the crew. It didn't take
a genius to calculate the odds in a duel with Nesbitt 's gang.
Kahn's eyes swept the room. "You people know me, or at
least you ought to. I think we can still beat Nesbitt. There isn't
a pirate crew in North America we can't outfly or outfight.
But odds are we're going to pay a price for it this time. If we
go up tomorrow, at least half our birds won't even have
ammo, and maybe not even enough gas to fly the Cut, much
less beat Nesbitt. We stand to lose a hell of a lot, no matter
what happens."
He took another breath, dreading what he was about to say.
"A pirate crew isn't a democracy. I don't make decisions by
committee. But the fact of the matter is that nobody is forcing
you to go up there with me at dawn. This ain't the army, and
you didn't sign any contract. It's not like I can pay you any-
time soon. So far, you've followed along and trusted me to

make things right. Now I'm telling you that there's no reason
to think that the Red Skulls have a future past tomorrow.
"There's eight different gangs in Sky Haven right now, and
they'd give their eyeteeth to have you working for them."
Kahn stepped up an empty crate of machine parts and
to
placed an empty jar on it. "You're a good crew, the best there
is. I can't make you any guarantees for the future, and you've
got a right to make your own decisions." He nodded at the jar.

"Every one of you wears the emblem of the Red Skulls. You
can take those wings off and leave them in the jar. You can
walk away right now and start over. It's your choice."
For a few minutes no one spoke. No one breathed. Then,
slowly, "Deadeye" Dugan, the zeppelin's captain, rose to his
feet and stepped purposefully up to the jar.
Kahn's heart sank. Other members of the crew started to
stand.
It looked like the Red Skull Legion was finished.
8: Death at Dawn
" lleadeye" Dugan strode through the crowd, his jaw set and
l/his shoulders straight. Almost a dozen Red Skulls stood
behind him, some of them fingering the red-and-brass Red
Skull insignia pinned to their flight jacket collars.
Kahn studied the men and women packed into the hangar
bay, and didn't like what he saw. The men on their feet looked
guilty as blazes and once the first set of wings fell into the
. . .
glass jar he'd set before them, things would quickly gain mo-
mentum; within minutes the Red Skull Legion would com-
pletely fall apart.
Despite his rising frustration, Kahn couldn't bring himself
toblame the crew for wanting to cut and run. He had given
them the choice to jump ship, and now he would have to live
with the consequences.
CRIMSON SKIES 161
Dugan stepped up to the jar. He reached up —not to his

collar, but to the mass of scar tissue that twisted the left side
of his face. His hand came away with something that gleamed
dully in the overhead lights and clinked like a marble as it
rattled against the sides of the jar.

The old captain's green glass eye came to rest against the
side of the jar, glaring balefully at the ceiling. Dugan turned
to face the rest of the crew, the left side of his mouth pulled
back in a snarl.
"You want to come up here and throw away your wings, go
right ahead," he growled. "That," he said, pointing to the jar,
"is so you'll know that I'm watching. I'll remember, and if it
takes the rest of my days I'll make sure youpayfor it"
. . .
Several of the men on their feet shuffled uncomfortably,

and more than one blanched. None would meet the captain's
grim stare. Dugan leveled an accusing finger at one of them.
"You," he snarled. "Jimmy Collins. You've been a Red
Skull for two years. What were you doing when Kahn took
you on?"
Blake ran a hand nervously through his curly red hair. "I
was . you know
. . sellin' apples in Chicago."
. . .
"You were a starving little runt who robbed drunks and

played lookout for rumrunners," Dugan barked. "And that's
where you'd be now if it wasn't for the boss." The captain's
one good eye swept the crowd. "Amos Jones: you were
headed for the hangman down in New Orleans. Pete O'Neil:
you wouldn't have a finger to call your own if the boss hadn't
covered your debts in Atlantic City. And then there's me," he
said. "I'd been given my walking papers after twenty years'
service. Kahn didn't give a damn what I looked like, only
how well I handled a ship. If it hadn't been for him, I'd be at
the bottom of a bottle right now, or pushing up daisies in
potter's field.
"Now I'll be the first one to say Kahn's no saint," Dugan
said, nodding at his boss. "But there isn't one of you in this
room who doesn't owe everything you've got to him. He made
you part of the Red Skulls, and now you're known from Holly-
wood to the Empire State. The nations of North America sure
don't like you, but they do fear you. All because of those
wings you're wearing."
Dugan folded his arms. "So which of you weak-kneed
. . .
sob wants to cut and run just because things have

sisters
gotten tough?"
"Tough?" One of the men found his courage. "C'mon,
Dugan, we've all got ten grand sitting on our heads. What do
you want us to do?"
"I want you to act like the kind of man the boss pegged you
for when he gave you those wings," Dugan snapped. "Ruth-
less. Aggressive. One of the deadliest SOBs in the sky. Some-
body you'd want at your back when things get rough."

The Red Skulls looked uneasily at one another. The men
who'd lined up behind Dugan seemed to shrink in upon them-
selves. Jimmy Collins stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well,
I'm not gonna touch that jar now that you put your damn eye
in there, you crazy old goat."
The rest of the crew laughed, and the tension broke. Within
moments there was no one left standing but Dugan and Kahn.
The pirate boss did a poor job of concealing his relief. It
doesn mean a thing, he told himself. This is just a scam like
't
all the rest. One day, when things get too bad, I'lljust chuck it
all and run away. But the vise squeezing his heart slowly re-
laxed, and it he could breathe again. He stepped for-
felt like
ward, clappingDugan on the shoulder. "That was the biggest

load of hogwash I've heard in my whole life," he told the
crowd. "I think you missed your calling, Dugan: you should
have been a politician ... or a used autogyro salesman."
Dugan shook his head. "Not me, sir. I prefer to lie and steal
the old-fashioned way: at gunpoint."
More laughter rang off the hangar walls. Kahn raised his
voice over the din. "All right, Red Skulls, the party's over. You
had your chance, and now you're in it for the duration. I want
every drop of fuel and every round of ammo we've got left
packed into the birds. We'll transfer them to the airfield and
then hit the saloons. Drinks are on me." A ragged cheer went
up from the crew as they climbed wearily to their feet. Within
minutes a pair of grease monkeys were banging away at
CRIMSON SKIES 163
Jones' fire-damaged Vampire. The Red Skulls were back in

business.
Kahn moved through the bustling crowd, already trying to
figure the angles for the next day's showdown. Suddenly he
found himself face-to-face with Hetty. His wingman looked
up from the clipboard in her hands. "The hangar monkeys say
it's a fifty-fifty chance they can get Jones' bird ready by to-
morrow, which leaves us with only seven planes.

"If we drain the zep's fuel tanks," she continued, "we can
top off the fighters. We can take the fifty-cal and sixty-cal
ammo from the gun positions to give some of our heavies
something to shoot with. That's the good news." Hetty low-
ered her voice. "The word at the airfield is that Nesbitt's put
out an open call to pilots to 'join' his crew in time for to-
morrow's duel. He's promising them anything they want off
the Machiavelli after they've beaten us. There could be a
whole hell of a lot of planes on his side come dawn."
The pirate boss regarded his wingman with some surprise.
"Sounds like you've been doing some legwork," he said be-
musedly. "I thought you were ready to call it quits."
Hetty's eyes went wide. "Where the hell did you get
that kind of idea?" Her eyes flashed angrily. "If you weren't
my boss, I'd knock your teeth in!" She tucked her clip-
board under her arm, spun on her heel, and stalked out of the
hangar bay.
Kahn watched her go, trying to figure out exactly what had
just happened. Dames, he thought to himself. Go figure.
Something Hetty had said stuck out in his mind. "Hey!" he
called out. His wingman stopped at the hangar's entryway.
"Did you just say that Nesbitt's doing a cattle call for pilots
tomorrow?"
Hetty rolled her eyes. "I hadn't planned on making a public
announcement about it, but yeah. Why?"
"Perfect!" Kahn said with a feral grin. "That's just the
angle we need!"
She looked at him like he'd lost his mind.
As far as Kahn was concerned, that was the first normal
thing she'd done in days.
* * *
"You're out of your mind," Angela Dane said flatly. "I

wouldn't help you if you put a gun to my head."
"An interesting figure of speech, under the circumstances,"
Kahn replied. He reached in his flight jacket for one of the ci-
gars he'd purchased in town. Sky Haven's airfield was still
shrouded in darkness, though the rutted field bustled with ac-
tivity. Dawn was less than a half hour away, and he stood with
Dane and a cluster of the Machiavellfs engineering crew by
the nose of his plane.
"Comrade Captain," Kahn said, "has it occurred to you
that if Nesbittwins this little contest, you will be turned over
to him, along with everything else the Red Skulls possess?"
The pirate leader bit off the end of the cigar, grimacing at
the taste; it had been months since he'd had a hand-rolled
Cuban. "Nesbitt lost a lot of men to you and your townsfolk. I
doubt he'll be as .congenial as I have been. Besides," he
. .
said with a shrug, "if we win, you can legitimately say you
were instrumental in putting a notorious aerial pirate out of
business. Surely that has to count for something."
The People's Collective fighter pilot glared defiantly at
Kahn, but he knew that he had her hooked. He nodded at the
leader of the engineering crew. "You know what to do, Tony,"
Kahn said. "When Regen starts his speech, you make your
move." He tossed a tired smile at Dane. "Good luck, Captain.
See you at the finish line."
Tony and his men led the reluctant Dane off into the dark-
ness. Kahn walked around the wing of his Devastator heavy
fighter and started his preflight inspection. He was halfway
through when Hetty found him. "They're buzzing like bees
over there," she said, nodding in the direction where Nesbitt's
planes waited. "Looks like he's got eighteen planes."
Kahn nodded, still looking over his plane. "How many of
those are Nesbitt's new friends?"
"Almost half."
"Perfect," he replied. "We couldn't ask for much better."
Hetty shook her head worriedly. "I hope you know what
you're doing."
CRIMSON SKIES 165
"I know exactly what I'm doing, kid. I'm just not sure it
will work."
Within ten minutes, the sky over the field had turned pale
gray, hinting at the sunrise to come. Kahn climbed into his
cockpit, wincing at the feel of the cold metal seat, and sur-
veyed the dark silhouettes of Nesbitt's aerial fleet. The pi-
rates' assembled planes stretched nearly half the length of the
airstrip, parked wingtip to wingtip.
Karl Regen and a few other town leaders had gathered at
the airfield's control tower, along with a surprisingly large
number of spectators. Many would be making bets on who
would win, or who would enter the Cut but not make it to the
other side. No one knew how many people had died flying the
canyon route since the challenge became popular.
They just knew that the number of fatalities in the Cut was
very, very high.
The first faint streaks of color were staining the sky as
Kahn pulled on his flying cap and plugged in his radio.
Across the field a set of speakers hissed and popped, and
Regen 's voice carried across the still morning air.
"When I give the command, you will start your engines,"
he declared. "Once both sides have taken off, you will circle
the field until the green flare is fired; then you can make your
way to the Cut. The rules of the challenge are clear: the first
pilot from either side to complete the course and land back at
the field wins the duel. No firing is allowed until you have en-
tered the canyon ... so make sure we don't see you cheat,
boys" —rough laughter rumbled from the crowd
—"and once
inside, anything goes. Start your engines!"
Kahn pressed the starter, and the Devastator's powerful en-
gine roared to life. He looked down the length of the Red
Skulls' parked planes and fervently hoped Tony had done
his job.
"Okay, Red Skulls, you know the plan," he barked into the
radio. "Stick to your wingman and go after Nesbitt's old-
timers first. The rest are amateurs."
Kahn released his brakes, and the fighter rolled forward
across the bumpy ground. Within minutes, friend and foe
alike were racing down the strip, wingtip to wingtip. Kahn
searched the field and caught a glimpse of Nesbitt's Peace-

maker 370. He threw a mocking salute at his adversary and
then sent his fighter hurtling into the sky.
The fighters took to the air like crows, circling tightly
over the airfield. The air itself quivered from the combined
thunder of twenty-four high-performance planes. Already the
pilots were pushing their planes to the limit, making the tight-
est turns they could in anticipation of the start flare. They
didn't have long to wait. The last plane was scarcely off the
ground when a streak of green shot into the sky and the pi-
rates raced for the mountains to the east.
Nesbitt's recruits were already pulling into the lead. Four
light fighters, a mix of Bloodhawks and Valiants, pulled
ahead of the pack, their engines wide open. The rest of Nes-
bitt's planes were strung along in their wake, ready to provide
cover in case the Red Skulls went after them. They were the
barrier Kahn and his pilots had to break through.
They reached the nearby mountains in moments, and
ahead loomed the knife-edged cleft that marked the start of
the run. Nesbitt's light planes reached the Cut first, a decided
advantage, but Kahn's birds were close behind. The pirate
leader rolled his Devastator onto its port wing and hurtled
into the narrow, twisting canyon. "Let's get 'em, boys!"
The walls of the Cut were barely twenty yards across,
forcing Nesbitt's planes into a tight mass of darting, swooping
shapes. There was no way past, but on the other hand, they
were almost impossible to miss. Kahn checked his meager
store of rockets and selected half of them. "Flash rockets!" he
called, and let two of them fly amid a storm of tracer fire.
The rockets streaked into the middle of Nesbitt's group and
exploded, throwing stark shadows against the close-set rock
walls. The pirates scattered, climbing and diving like spar-
rows, but two weren't so lucky. A Brigand banked right into
the path of a black-painted Raven, sending both of them tum-
bling to the canyon floor in a tangle of twisted metal.
Another of Nesbitt's planes, a Defender, veered sluggishly
to port, its ailerons and rudder damaged by the torrent of fire
from the Red Skulls. Just ahead the canyon twisted to the
right, and the pirate fought to bring the nose of the Defender
CRIMSON SKIES 167
around. Just short of the turn, the Defender's wing clipped the
side of thecanyon and the plane exploded in an orange flash.
Kahn whipped his plane through the turn. Ahead, four of
Nesbitt's men were pulling into high, tight loops, ready to
come down on the Red Skulls' tail. "Hold 'em off," Kahn
called back to his pilots. "We've made the hole. O'Neil,
Young, and Walker, you're up."
O
Three of the Red Skulls' planes— 'Neil's Valiant plus
—
Young's and Walker's Bloodhawks surged ahead like thor-
oughbreds, leaving the heavier planes behind. Nesbitt still
had ten planes waiting ahead, a deadly gauntlet for the light
planes to run. "Hetty, we've got to cover their tails," Kahn
called to his wingman. "You with me?"
"Right on your tail, boss," she said confidently.
Four of Nesbitt's planes completed their loops, and Kahn's
remaining heavies rose to meet them. They came together in a
twisting, slashing dogfight that was quickly left behind. Nes-
bitt could afford to tie up all the Red Skulls' planes and still
have plenty left to concentrate on winning the race.

Kahn's three light fighters were well ahead, closing fast on
six enemy fighters. Nesbitt's four nimble recruits still led the
pack, well ahead of the rest of the combatants.
O 'Neil's Valiant led the Red Skulls' charge, plunging
through the enemy formation. They passed Nesbitt's heavy
planes nearly close enough to touch, but their guns stayed
silent; their meager ammo loads had to be conserved for the
front runners yet ahead. Nesbitt's men, however, had no such
compunctions. They unleashed a torrent of cannon fire at the
nimble fighters, and there was little room to dodge. A mo-
ment later, there was a bright flash, and a streamer of black
smoke poured from the engine cowling of Hiram Young's
Bloodhawk. The fighter lost speed immediately.
Kahn cursed and lined up one of the enemy planes in his
sights. He sent his last two rockets streaking at the enemy
Brigand and ripped apart its left wing. The pilot jumped clear
as the plane spun out of control. If there was anyone in the
fighters rear turret, Kahn noted, smiling, he didn't make it
out. Good riddance.
Hetty lined up behind the Brigand's wingman, a Vampire,

and let off a long burst that tore into the heavy fighter's tail.
Telltale smoke trailed from the magnesium rounds burn-

ing steadily through its skin, but the plane stayed in the air,
jinking sharply out of the line of fire. Kahn watched as the
enemy —
dropped his flaps which killed the Vampire's
pilot
airspeed, and allowed the Vampire to drop into position be-
hind them. Short bursts flashed past Kahn's canopy.
"Do you want me to take him?" Hetty called.
"No! Keep covering Walker and O'Neil!"
They swept around a hairpin turn to the left, then immedi-
ately right. The tight turns strung out the heavy planes even
further, letting the lighter birds pull a little ahead. "I'm
closing on the lead planes!" O'Neil called over the radio.
"Concentrate on the Bloodhawks," Kahn ordered. Just
ahead, one of Nesbitt's recruits struggled to stay out of
Kahn's line of fire. The pirate leader peppered the enemy
Warhawk with short bursts that stitched across its starboard
wing and tail. The inexperienced pilot was so preoccupied
with Kahn he failed to notice Hetty, who fired two armor-
piercing rockets into his tail. The plane exploded in a deadly
blossom of crimson and orange fire, and metal shrapnel rico-
cheted wildly in the narrow canyon.
Rounds hammered into Kahn's plane, walking the length
of his fuselage. The sound of the Devastator's engine turned
ragged. Cursing, Kahn saw that his oil pressure was drop-
ping. If he didn't slow down, the Devastator's engine would
seize.
There was another tight turn to the right, and now they
were through the midpoint of the course, heading back
toward the airfield. "Got one!" O'Neil called out. "Boss, you
better get up here! Nesbitt's goons are zeroing in on Walker!"
Kahn opened the throttle and watched the engine tempera-
ture rise. Nesbitt and three others were closing in on Forest
Walker's Bloodhawk. "Hetty, you got any more rockets?"
"Way ahead of you, boss!" Two streaks of fire and smoke
arced out and slammed into the wing of an enemy Devastator,
sending it spinning to the canyon floor.
Harry Nesbitt settled onto Walker's tail and cut loose with
CRIMSON SKIES 169
everything he had. The light fighter blew apart under the

withering fusillade of shells.
Kahn grimaced. "Pete, Walker's gone. You're all that's
left."
"Yeah?" O'Neil replied. "Well, this one's for Walker,

then."
There was a flash up ahead. The last enemy Bloodhawk ex-
ploded. Only the two Valiants remained, but were now far
ahead of everyone else.
Kahn's oil temp gauge was well into the red. He could feel
the heavy plane losing power fast. "Hetty, I'm almost finished
myself," he called out. "You've got to cover Pete. I'll take
care of the Vampire."
"Roger, but I'm low on ammo."
Kahn looked back at the enemy Vampire, now closing in
again for a sure shot. Abruptly he cut his throttle and popped
his flaps; relatively speaking, the Devastator practically
stopped in place. The Vampire flashed past, and Kahn cut
down in a single, long burst. Bits of
loose, holding the trigger
shredded armor fell from the enemy fighter's fuselage, and
then its canopy exploded. Two of the Devastator's four guns
jammed, but the enemy plane rolled over onto its back and
plunged to the canyon floor.
Suddenly the canyon walls parted like a curtain. They'd
made the Cut, and emerged south of the city. Another of Nes-
bitt's planes was plummeting to the earth, victim of Hetty's
deadly accuracy, but Nesbitt and his wingman were closing

steadily on O'Neil. Already tracer bursts were reaching for
the speeding Valiant. "Keep 'em off me for another ten sec-
onds, and can catch the rats!" O'Neil yelled.
I
"Hang on!" Hetty cried.

Kahn watched one of the Valiants peel off and come back
at O'Neil. The two fighters raced head-to-head, firing as they
came. Hits flashed along both plane's hulls, but still they
charged at one another, neither willing to give way. At the last
second, the enemy plane exploded as O 'Neil's magnesium
rounds found its fUel tank.
O'Neil whooped exultantly. "Got him, boss!"
That was when Kahn saw the rocket. A single streak of
white flashed from beneath the wing of Nesbitt's plane. No

doubt he'd saved the shot until the last, just in case.
The rocket ran true, exploding between the Valiant's twin
engines. Kahn saw a shape leap from the plane's cockpit just
before the fighter exploded, scattering wreckage across the
snowy plateau.
Moments later, Nesbitt's wingman fell from the sky, trail-
ing black smoke. "I'm out of ammo!" Hetty cried.
The lone remaining Valiant lowered its gear and made a
clean landing at Sky Haven's airstrip.
9: The Shell Game
Harry Nesbitt's Peacemaker 370 rounded Sky Haven in lazy

circles, like a buzzard waiting for the inevitable. Kahn
eased back on the throttle of his damaged fighter, hoping to
takesome of the strain off its engine. There was little point in
prosecuting a dogfight; the race had been run, winner take all.
As was concerned, shooting up Kahn's plane

far as Nesbitt
would only be damaging his newly acquired property.
Hetty circled back to cover him as he lined up for his
landing. Other planes had begun to emerge from the treach-
erous course; of the seven planes the Red Skull Legion had
started the course with, only five emerged, most of them heavily
damaged.
Kahn lowered the gear on his Devastator and cut his en-
gine. The heavy fighter glided down onto the rutted, snowy
landing strip. He touched the brakes lightly and coasted to a
stop just a few yards away from the winning plane. A crowd
had already gathered around the Valiant. Karl Regen caught
Kahn's eye and shrugged. No hard feelings, his expression
said. The Red Skulls' leader responded with a wintry smile.
Nesbitt's Peacemaker landed next. It streaked in and
bounced across the frozen ground. The twin-hulled fighter
taxied in and stopped next to the Valiant. Spectators ducked
and clutched their hats as the Peacemaker's powerful engines
CRIMSON SKI£S 171
kicked up dirt and snow. Kahn pulled off his flying cap and
rubbed wearily at his shaven head. Time to face the music, he
thought grimly, and pulled himself from the Devastator's
cockpit.
The crowd of onlookers parted as Kahn approached. Nes-
bitt climbed out of his cockpit and hopped onto the Peace-
maker's wing, his hands planted on his hips and his face
twisted into a vicious sneer. "You didn't think I had it in me,
did you, Kahn?" he crowed. "How's it feel to get taken for a
ride, mastermind?"
Kahn cocked his head and squinted up at Nesbitt. "I'm not
sure I understand, Harry," he said mildly as he reached for a
cigar.
Regen stepped from the crowd between the two men and
nervously cleared his throat. "The rules of the challenge
didn't say anything about how many planes each side could
bring to the duel, or where they came from," he said, loud
enough for everyone to hear. "Nesbitt didn't have to play fan-
any more than you did, Kahn. All that mattered was being
the first side to get a pilot through the course and back on the
ground."
"Winner take all!" Nesbitt cheered. Several people in the
crowd added their voices to his.
Kahn looked from Nesbitt to Regen, and back again.
"What makes you think I'm disputing any of this?" he said
innocently. "You're absolutely right." He struck a match with
his thumbnail. "I must say, Harry, you're taking this remark-
ably well." Kahn puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and cast his
cold gaze at his opponent.
Nesbitt's exultant face froze, then started to melt. His ex-
pression went from glee to amazement, then unease. "What
the hell are you getting at?"
The Red Skulls' leader walked around Nesbitt's Peace-
maker and stood at the Valiant's port wing. He extended his
hand with a smile. "Congratulations on a fine bit of flying,
Captain."
Comrade Angela Dane, of the People's Collective Air
late
Militia, pulled the pilot's cap from her head and ignored
Kahn's offer of assistance, leaping gracefully to the ground.
"
Her small mouth curled in distaste as Regen and the other on-
lookers crowded around her and Kahn.
Regen 's eyes widened. "Are you telling me she's one of
yoursi"
"Let's just say I was flying against Nesbitt and leave it at
that," Dane said sullenly.
"We persuaded the owner of the Valiant to lend his. . .
plane to us at the last minute," Kahn interjected, "in return for

a share of the winnings after the race."
Kahn looked back at Nesbitt. "I can't lay claim to the idea,
of course. Harry was the inspiration behind it all."
Nesbitt spat out a curse, his voice rising to a shriek. He
leapt from the Peacemaker's wing and charged Kahn,
clawing at the holstered pistol at his hip. "You son of a b
at
—
Nesbitt 's tirade — —
and his pistol draw were cut short as
Kahn launched a powerful blow at the enraged pirate's solar
plexus. Nesbitt sucked air, and crashed into the waiting arms
of a cluster of burly men in coveralls.
Kahn nodded to Tony and his gang of engineers, then
turned his gaze back on Nesbitt. "No one likes a sore loser,
Harry," he said, "and as our mutual friend Karl here said, this
had nothing to do with playing fair." The burly pirate stepped
closer. "About all you've got left to lose now is your life. Are
you sure you want to keep rolling the dice with me?"
Nesbitt slumped in the engineers' arms, eyes downcast.
Kahn regarded him coldly. "Tell you what," he growled. "Just
to show you there's no hard feelings, I'll let you keep your
plane. You've got at least half a tank of fuel left. See how far
that'll take you."
On cue, Tony and his boys flung Nesbitt back the way he'd
come, and the pirate collapsed in an untidy heap in the snow.
He glared at Kahn and the rest, but said nothing. His eyes
burning with hate, he climbed to his feet and turned his
back on the crowd, heading for his plane which was al- —
ready being stripped of rockets and ammo belts by Tony's
mechanics.
Kahn turned his attention to Regen. He stepped close to
Sky Haven's boss, looming head and shoulders over the man.
CRIMSON SKIES 173
"Spread the word, Karl. I'll be sending some men over to my

new zeppelin within the hour. I don't expect there'll be any
more trouble. Do you?"
Just then Kahn's surviving planes roared low overhead, the
rumble of their engines sweeping across the plateau like a
peal of thunder. Regen went pale. Kahn grinned like a wolf,
savoring the sense of power.
It was good to be calling the shots again.
"We would'a made out like bandits if you guys hadn't

gone and shot down everything Nesbitt had," Pete O'Neil
groused. One hand strayed to the bandage at his forehead. His
Valiant had taken a rocket just shy of the finish line, and he'd
been lucky to make it out alive.
The Machiavelli had been moved to a mooring tower close
to Nesbitt 's former airship, a converted merchant zeppe-
lin called Wanderer. Kahn watched from the Machiavelli^
bridge as his crew moved crates from one ship to the next.
Nesbitt's airship couldn't hold a candle to Kahn's heavily
modified combat zeppelin, but her spare parts and supplies
would go a long way toward putting the Machiavelli back in
fighting trim.
"As I recall, you accounted for one of those kills yourself,
Pete, so I don't think you've got much room to complain,"
Kahn replied.
He turned back toward the map table, where Dugan, Cor-
bett, and O'Neil were going over the long list of plunder
taken from Nesbitt's gang. "We'll sell off anything we can't
use, and see about picking up some replacements for the
planes we've lost."
He clapped O'Neil on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll let
you lease one for a reasonable fee. I might even be persuaded
to lend a fighter to our hero of the People's Collective." Kahn
eyed Dane, who stood near one of the starboard view ports,
apparently lost in thought. "What do you say, Comrade? The
Red Skulls could use a good pilot."
The pirates laughed. Dane threw Kahn a look of pure
murder. "Don't do me any favors, Kahn," she said. "I'd
sooner die than turn pirate."
Kahn grinned savagely. "Such misplaced conviction. What

makes you think you're any different from the rest of us?"
The color drained from Dane's face. "Are you kidding? My
pilots don't rob and kill innocent people! We protect and
serve a law-abiding government and try to keep the peace!
You're just a bunch of bloodthirsty thugs!"
"Really?" The pirate leader started to pace, folding his
arms and frowning thoughtfully. "So when the People's Air
Militia are sent to raid airship convoys across the I.S.A.
border, that's keeping the peace?"
"We do no such thing!"
"Comrade, please! You're not that naive. The I.S.A. flies
'training missions' near your border to give new pilots a
chance to shoot at live targets from time to time and your . . .
government retaliates by hitting their supply convoys. Do

you suppose that the innocent people in the crossfire are
somehow magically bulletproof?" He pointed an accusing
finger."Your hands are no cleaner than ours in the long run,
Captain. You and your superiors simply choose to obfuscate
the facts behind the anonymous facade of government. You
"
do what you want and justify it as 'national interest.'
"You're just twisting the facts to suit you," Dane said dis-
gustedly. "Save your breath, Kahn. It won't work, Sure, I've
killed my share of men. But it was always in the observance
of law."
"Law?" Kahn said the word with a sneer. "Laws are
nothing but a set of excuses to keep the strong from preying
on the weak, as nature intended. It's the sheep dictating terms
to the wolves."
"No, it's about giving everyone an equal chance at pros-
perity.Government by the people and for the people. That's
what America was about."
"Look how well that worked out," Kahn said with a snort.
"Hey, newlyweds! Knock it off!" Hetty cried. "Do you
hear that?"
Kahn and Dane paused. From outside came a distant,
rising wail.
Dugan cocked his head and frowned. "That's an air raid
siren."
—
CRIMSON SKIES 175
"So who the hell would attack Sky Haven?" Kahn said in-
credulously. "Even Paladin Blake isn't that stupid."
He crossed the bridge in four long steps and stuck his head
into the radio room. The radio operator looked up, one hand
pressing a headset to his ear. "What's going on?" the pirate
leader asked.
The radioman shook his head. "There's a lot of chatter
coming from Regen's tower controller. Sounds like one of the
regular patrols picked up a Mayday, just outside the east ap-
proach." The operator paused, listening intently. "Yeah. It
was Nesbitt. He'd just made it out of the mountains and ran
into some kind of trouble. The patrol decided to go bail him
out." His expression turned grim. "Now they're getting their
kicked in."
slats
Kahn looked back at Dugan and Hetty, then to Dane.
"Could it be a Collective raid?"
Dane shook her head. "No way."
Dugan straightened. "You don't think La Guardia
?"
—
"The tower is asking the same thing," the radioman called
out. "The Flight Leader says he's spotted unknown fighters
white with red circles on their wings."
Hetty's eyes widened. "The Japanese* They followed us
all the way here?"
"They will follow you to the ends of the earth and beyond,"
a woman's voice said from the bridge hatchway. "And they
will kill whoever gets in their way."
Chiang Liu-mei stood at the hatchway, leaning against its
rim for support. Her fine-boned features looked incongruous
against the oil-stained coverall she wore. The young woman
stared hard at Kahn, her green eyes reflecting the torment
she'd suffered at the hands of her captors.
"So long as I remain in your hands, 'Genghis' Kahn, you
and your crew are in gravest danger."
"The man you saw at the Embassy was Major Saburo

Murasaki," Chiang said, cradling a steaming cup of tea in
her long-fingered hands. She sat at the edge of a leather couch
in Machiavellis wardroom, back straight and shoulders
squared. Her English was precise, with a faint British accent.
"He is an officer in the Imperial Japanese Navy, and a highly
decorated fighter pilot. Until recently he served in Manchuria

as an agent for Naval Intelligence, gathering information on
the Kuomintang and my father's attempts to stop the Japanese
invasion."
It had taken quite a bit of explaining to convince Chiang
Kai-shek's daughter that she wasn't the Red Skulls' prisoner,
as the rest of the world seemed to assume. She dimly remem-
bered the events leading up to her rescue, but had never heard
of Artemus Hayes, much less believed that her father's gov-
ernment had any idea where she was being held. Ironically it
was Angela Dane who managed to convince her that Kahn
was telling the truth; the two young women had developed an
immediate rapport that won Chiang's trust.
"So this Murasaki learned of your mission and pursued
you to the Empire State, where he kidnapped you?" Kahn
asked, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar and leaning back into
a leather-covered armchair.
"That's right," she said. "And he is no doubt leading the
pursuit now. The Japanese government gave him wide lati-
tude to act in the occupied territories, and I expect he has the
same authority here, as well." Chiang looked down at her
cup. "He is absolutely relentless. And the crudest, coldest
man I have ever known."
"Really? Well, we'll see about that," Kahn said mildly. "He
certainly seems intelligent and aggressive. Clearly, he rea-
soned we would attempt to return you to your government,
and it was only logical to assume we would at least stop at
Sky Haven while en route." His eyes narrowed. "He also has a
zeppelin and a complement of fighters.
"But I don't imagine he's going to come in here after us,"
he continued. "Scrapping with an isolated patrol is one thing;
poking blindly through Sky Haven's east approach is tanta-
mount to suicide. I think he's trying to flush us out and
then intercept us on the other side of the mountains." The pi-
rate leader smiled. "But I doubt he's got a Deadeye Dugan
commanding his zeppelin. We can slip out of Sky Haven
tonight and be halfway across Hollywood by morning, while
Murasaki is still trying to find a passage through the Rockies.
CRIMSON SKIES 177
We'll have you at the ChineseEmbassy on Hawai'i before he

knows what's happening."
Chiang's head came up. "Chinese Embassy? No we —
must go to the British Embassy. Surely this Mr. Hayes told
you?"
Kahn frowned. "He told us you were on your way to Co-
lumbia to protest Japanese atrocities in Manchuria."
"What? No, no, that is wrong," Chiang said. "What is the
point in protest? Our enemies have been committing horrible
acts against my people for years, and the world has done
nothing. We have no time to waste in empty protest. China
is in a fight for its very existence." Now Chiang's voice
strengthened, and her dark eyes flashed. "They think we can

be terrorized into surrendering to their Imperialist demands,
but they have misjudged us. We will fight!"
Kahn straightened in his chair. "Why were you in New
York?"
"To meet with the British," she said. "To finalize a deal for
weapons and equipment for the Kuomintang. They were ne-
gotiating with President La Guardia to use the Empire State
as the transfer point between our two nations. The deal had
been struck. I was sent to Manhattan as my father's represen-
tative to make payment for the first shipment. That was why
Murasaki kidnapped me."
Kahn's mind whirled. "How much money are we talking
about, Miss Chiang?"
"Haifa million dollars," she said. "In gold. And Murasaki
will stop at nothing to get it."
10: Serpents in Paradise
''You're a fraud, Kahn."

The pirate looked over his shoulder. Angela Dane
stood with her arms folded and a smug grin on her elfin face.
The boss of the Red Skull Legion quirked an eyebrow. "If I
had a nickel for every time I heard that one, I'd never have to
steal again," he said with a snort. "What, precisely, am I
being accused of now?"

The bridge of the Machiavelli was bathed in the crimson
glow of battle lanterns as the pirate zeppelin made her way
south by west across the Nation of Hollywood. The night be-
fore, they had slipped out of Sky Haven under a heavy over-
cast and worked their way through a little-known canyon
route that allowed them to reach the Utah border by midnight.
The next day found them holed up in a canyon in Arixo, a
hundred miles from nowhere, where they were able to put
some of their newly acquired spare parts to good use. Now
with a freshly repaired hull and six working engines, the air-
ship was high and quiet, keeping close to the clouds as the
Red Skulls crept carefully through Hollywood's air defenses.
Lookouts strained to peer through the moonless night, and
the officer of the watch kept one hand pressed to the head-
phones he wore, listening intently for any reports.
The Red Skulls rarely found themselves so far west, and
not even the well-traveled Dugan knew what to expect. There
were rumors that Howard Hughes had secretly installed a net-
work of huge listening devices in the Hollywood Hills that
could track zeppelin movements hundreds of miles away.
Conversely, another source had it that the Hollywood Knights,
the nation's premier fighter squadron, had been destroyed in a
pirate attack several months past. It was all taken with a
healthy pinch of salt, but the crew remained vigilant never-
theless. Kahn had stood watch with the bridge crew ever
since crossing the Hollywood border.
"You Chiang Liu-mei from the Japanese be-
didn't rescue
—
cause of a personal debt to Hayes you did it because she's
sitting on half a million bucks in gold." She stared intently
into his eyes, as if she could read his thoughts. "What I want
to know is how you figured out she had the gold to begin
with."
Kahn chuckled, a low rumble from deep within his broad
chest. "My reputation he said, half
for omniscience grows,"
to himself. "Comrade, I any idea about Miss
didn't have
Chiang's secret mission. She's here on this ship because I
CRIMSON SKIES 179
made a promise to Artemus Hayes, and that's it. Why is that

so hard for everyone to understand?"
"Because you're a liar and a thief," Dane stated. "People
likeyou don't put much stock in personal honor."
Kahn studied Dane carefully. "A comment based upon
your vast knowledge of human nature, I suppose," he said.
"Well here's a curious little anecdote for you: I keep my
promises. Always. If I give you my word, it's iron."
"Yet you'll cheat old folks out of their life savings peddling
fake influenza cures," she shot back.
"Of course. I don't give my word to just anyone and, if . . .
folks are dumb enough to fall for my pitch, they deserve to

be fleeced like sheep," Kahn answered. "Get down off your
high horse, sister. You're afraid to accept that I might have a
shred of integrity. In fact, you can't bear to think that we're
even a little bit alike. That's hardly a Christian attitude . . .
Comrade."
He expected her to fly off the handle, but Dane surprised
him. Instead, she coolly met his stare. "So why did you make
the promise to Hayes in the first place. It obviously wasn't out
of any sense of compassion." Her eyes narrowed thought-
fully. "Was it guilt? I bet that's it. Once upon a time you were
in over your head and Hayes bailed you out. He even saved
your life. You'd screwed up, and he felt sorry for you, and it's
eaten at you ever since."

Kahn's expression darkened. He stepped closer, looming
angrily over the diminutive pilot. "A little knowledge is a
dangerous thing, Comrade," he said quietly. "You'd do well to
remember that."
teeth, collecting him-
Before she could reply, he gritted his
and turned to Dugan. "Deadeye, why don't you take the
self,
good Comrade here to the galley and scare up some coffee?

You could stand to have a break and so could I."
. . .
Dugan took one look at Kahn and hustled Dane off the
bridge without another word. The pirate captain stared after
them long after they'd gone.
"When am I ever going to learn to stop arguing with
women?" he muttered, shaking his head.
* * *
The Hawai'ian island shone like an emerald against the

sapphire blue of the Pacific, ringed with white sand beaches
that glowed in the warm afternoon sun. Massive, purple-black
thunderheads were gathering behind the dark bulk of Mauna
Kea, the island's restive volcano, sending warm, wet gusts of
wind down its slopes and through the bustling streets of Hilo.
The new capital of the kingdom of Hawai'i had grown
rapidly along the shore of Hilo Bay, with modern stone build-
among stately wood and bamboo structures. As the
ings set
taxiwound through a maze of twisting, crowded streets,
Kahn watched native Polynesians in colorful local garb brush-
ing shoulders with suit-and-tie Englishmen, Frenchmen, and
North Americans. It was as if Manhattan or Washington had
been dropped into the middle of the Garden of Eden. Before
long, Kahn's thoughts turned to what manner of serpents
such a paradise would harbor.
The taxi was shown through the gate at the British Em-
few blocks away from King
bassy, a tall stone building just a
Jonah Kuhio Kalaniana'ole's newly completed palace. By the
time the car pulled around to the building's grand entrance, a
gentleman in a somber gray suit was waiting for them at the
steps, as though they had been expected. He flashed a daz-
zling smile as Chiang Liu-mei emerged from the car, wel-
coming her to the island with all the respect accorded to
visiting dignitaries. She accepted the courtesies graciously,
and Kahn could see the relief in her eyes as she found herself
back in the embrace of civilization. The gentleman ushered
Chiang, Kahn, and Dane inside; Hetty remained with the ship
under vociferous protest, but Kahn insisted on meeting the
British with Dane alone.
They were taken across a marble foyer and up a grand,
sweeping staircase built in the best traditions of British impe-
rialism, and led through a pair of polished teak doors into
a richly appointed office. The embassy official crossed the
large room and paused at a set of French doors that opened
onto a sunlit balcony. "Miss Chiang Liu-mei and associates,"
the official announced to the men waiting there.
"
CRIMSON SKIES 181
A wicker table and chairs had been arranged on the bal-

cony, with a view that overlooked the bay. Two men in tai-
lored suits rose to their feet. The first was a tall, dapper
gentleman of middle years with a thick mane of iron-gray
hairand blue eyes that shone from a tanned, weathered face.
"Miss Chiang," he said warmly, taking her hand. "What a
pleasure it is to meet you. I am Sir Trevor Carlyle, His
Majesty's ambassador to the islands." Carlyle gestured to
his companion, a gentleman not much younger than the
ambassador, who gave the impression of a mild-mannered
scholar —
save for his cold, appraising stare. "This is William
Downing, with the Foreign Service. He's been instrumental
in working out the details of our arrangement with your
father."
"How do you do?" Chiang said, smiling politely. She
turned to Kahn. "Let me introduce
—
"Jonathan Kahn," Carlyle said with a smile, reaching for
his hand. "Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Kahn."
The pirate took the diplomat's hand. "Am I to take that as a
compliment or an indictment, Ambassador?" he replied.
"I'd say bringing Miss Chiang here safely makes the an-
swer self-evident," Carlyle answered smoothly, refusing to
take the bait."We were just enjoying our afternoon tea. Do
join us, please."
The ambassador nodded toward the table's three empty
chairs, and Downing stepped around to pull one out for
Chiang. Kahn took one of the proffered seats, and Dane did
likewise. The Collective pilot had grown increasingly restless
since they had arrived, and now it looked like she was work-
ing up the nerve to speak.
Carlyle was quick to take control of the conversation, how-
ever, entreatingChiang to relate the details of her capture and
imprisonment at the hands of the Japanese. The young woman
went on to describe what she remembered of her rescue, and
her subsequent journey to Hilo.
After nearly an hour she set her teacup down and folded
her hands in her lap. "I do hope you'll forgive my frankness,
Sir Trevor, but now I must ask if your country's offer to my
—
people still stands. I learned just before my capture that the

Japanese army had surrounded Nanking, and I fear that
the situation for China is very grave indeed."
The ambassador leaned forward and rested a paternal hand
on Chiang's arm. "You may be assured, young lady, that His
Majesty's government stands behind the Chinese people in
their time of peril. But," he added, "there is the matter of your
country's payment. Was it not to be delivered to you in the
Empire State weeks ago?"
Chiang nodded. "That is correct. I was sent ahead to sign
the necessary documents while the gold itself followed in a
well-defended airship traveling along a highly secret route. It
was hoped that the Japanese would believe the gold was with
me, in the event their agents worked up the courage to openly
interfere with our mission." The young lady smiled rue-
fully. "Compared to the arms payment, I was considered
expendable.
"Unfortunately, something went wrong," she continued.
"The airship made its last report over Taiwan, and then was to
assume radio silence until reaching the coast of Hawai'i. We
have heard nothing more after that."
Kahn digested the news. "The Japanese couldn't have in-
tercepted the shipment — otherwise they wouldn't have both-
ered capturing you"
"Your airship might have run into bad weather," Downing
said quietly. "There's been a typhoon brewing east of the
Philippines for the last two weeks. They could have been lost
in the storm."
"Or possibly they were attacked, but managed to escape
pursuit," Chiang countered. "There were a few prearranged
locations along the route where the airship was to take
refuge —
in the event they couldn't continue to New York
then call for assistance. The captain was ordered to take no
chances that might risk the loss of the gold."
She paused, considering her options, and then continued:
"There is one such location in the Marshall Islands, approxi-
mately halfway between here and Taiwan. If the airship sur-
vived, that is where we will find it."
—
CRIMSON SKIES 183
"Except that we don't have any zeppelins immediately

available to undertake a rescue,"Downing said.
"Really?" Kahn asked, genuinely surprised. "I would have
thought your forces here would be better equipped."
"Our 'friend,' the good King Jonah, frowns on the presence
of armed British troops on his islands," Downing said. "An
armed zeppelin would be ... a political difficulty for us."
"Even if we had a zeppelin," Carlyle added, "if that ty-
phoon starts to move our way, as the reports indicate it might,
we'd be sending the expedition into the teeth of the storm.
"However," the ambassador continued, "we may have
—
another albeit unconventional —
option. I'm certain Mr.
Kahn and his resourceful crew can recover the gold with little
bother."
"He could. However ... he won't," Kahn said. "Never
mind the fact that I'm short on crew and my ship is damaged
that area is probably thick with pirates and Japanese patrols.
Plus there's the typhoon. No way," he said, rising to his feet.
"I've got better things to do. Like paying offDon DeCarlo
and waiting for the reward on my head to blow over."
"Ah, yes, the ten-thousand-dollar reward," Carlyle said. "I
can see how that would make your professional life rather
difficult. We might be willing to help with that."
This gave Kahn pause. "You can call off the reward?" he
asked cautiously.
"I don't see why not," the ambassador said confidently.
"Who do you think posted it in the first place?"
"You put the reward out on us?" Kahn replied, thunder-
struck.
"Of course," Downing said. "We had been watching the
Japanese Embassy from the moment we knew that Miss
Chiang had been captured. We were planning a rescue at-
tempt of our own, but you beat us to the punch. The only
theory we could come up with was that you'd somehow found
out about the arms deal and kidnapped Miss Chiang to de-
mand a ransom."
Kahn leaned forward, looming over Downing and Carlyle.
—
"But now, of course, you know the truth and will cancel the
bounty on my head."
"
Carlyle's smile turned cold. He sat back in his chair and

sipped at his tea. "The moment you return with the gold, the
price on your head will be a thing of the past, I can assure
you. Downing here and some of his men will accompany you
and assist in recovering the shipment."
to the island
must go, as well," Chiang said in a tone that brooked no
"I
argument. "So that I can confirm the transfer of the gold from
my country to yours."
Carlyle started to protest, but saw the look in Chiang's eye.
"Very well," he said with an elegant shrug. "I admire your
courage in the face of danger, Miss Chiang." He set his
teacup down and stood. "It's good to see such an example of
cooperation between our governments and, of course, . . .
concerned 'private citizens' such as yourself, Mr. Kahn.

You'll no doubt want to leave without delay, so Mr. Downing
will escort you downstairs and secure a cab."
"Hey! Not so fast!" Dane shot to her feet. The words she'd
been working up to came out in a rush. "Mr. Ambassador,
my name is Angela Dane. I'm a captain in the air militia of
the People's Collective, and I'm Kahn's hostage. I request
asylum until I can be returned to my government and
. . .
country."
Carlyle looked from Dane to Kahn. "Indeed?" His eye-
brows arched. "I'm shocked. Certainly His Majesty's govern-
ment is sympathetic to your plight. We would be pleased to
extend to you our hospitality in this difficult time. As soon as
this present crisis with China is resolved."
Dane's hopeful expression froze. "You wouldn't
—
The ambassador tried to look apologetic, but the effort
didn't quite reach his eyes. "I must. National interests, you
know. Don't worry. The trip will be over before you know it."
Thunder rolled ominously down the slopes of dark
Mauna Kea.
II: Into the Storm
If you ask me, I say we throw the lot of 'em into the sea,"
Hetty growled, glaring at Chiang Liu-mei and her British
entourage.
The view ports of the Machiavellfs observation deck were
open, letting in the briny smell of the ocean as the zeppelin
hugged the rocky coastline of an island barely ten miles
across. If the island had a name, it wasn't on the detailed
map Dugan had acquired in Hilo; once the airship was safely
away from the Kingdom of Hawai'i, Chiang tapped a well-
manicured nail over a brown dot in the Marshall Islands and
left it at that.
Since then, the daughter of Chiang Kai-shek had been

withdrawn and increasingly anxious, no doubt fearful of
what Kahn and his crew would find once they reached their
destination. The future of her country rested in large part on
the gold that — —
hopefully awaited them there. She paced the
airship's observation deck, her shoulders uncharacteristically
hunched, as if the suspense were a physical weight that
threatened to crush her.
If Chiang had grown silent in the face of her concerns, the
six men by the British ambassador to take charge
sent along
of the gold were all too eager to share their ideas about
the expedition. Ostensibly, they were associates of William
Downing, but Kahn thought the men were the youngest, fit-
test bureaucrats he'd ever met. He figured they were hand-
picked soldiers or spies, members of their country's vaunted
Secret Service. Despite the fact that they knew next to noth-
ing about airship operations, their leader —a dashing fellow
named Rupert Gordon, offered an endless stream of "sug-

gestions" about every conceivable aspect of the "operation."
Kahn eyed the British team, clustered aft along the starboard
ports, each member clutching a set of powerful binoculars.
"Don't tempt me, kid," he growled. "We've got enough prob-
lems as it is."
We, indeed, Kahn thought ruefully. Thanh a bundle,
Artemus.
Kahn thought back to the time, many years ago, when
Artemus Hayes had saved his hide. A high-stakes poker game
the pair was running went sour in New York City. Kahn had
misjudged their mark, a Texas oil tycoon, and never dreamed
the man would catch them dealing from the bottom of the
deck. The memory of terror and helplessness when the ty-
coon threw the cards in the air and stuck a gun in his face still
haunted him. Hayes, of course, never let him live it down.
Kahn eyed the dense jungle growth surrounding the is-
land's twin peaks. The Chinese zeppelin carrying the arms
payment had never reached the Empire State; either it had
fallen prey to pirates, Japanese patrols, or the increasingly
hostile weather. If the airship had been too damaged to com-
plete the journey, there had been several waypoints planned
where the zeppelin could lay up and call for help. The island
was one such waypoint, and the likeliest place the Chinese
airship would be hiding.
"Why didn't Hayes tell you who she was, or why she was
in Manhattan in the first place?" Hetty asked, as if reading his
thoughts. Perhaps she was —they'd been wingmen as long as
Kahn had been terrorizing the skies over North America.
The pirate leader shrugged. "He probably didn't know.
Mercenaries aren't usually kept well informed by their em-
ployers. Or maybe he was afraid I'd balk, knowing who
Chiang Liu-mei really was, and planned on letting me in on
the full picture only after I'd rescued her. Instead he caught a
bullet, and here we are."
"What /want to know," said a small, hard-eyed woman to
Kahn's left, "is why no one has heard any word from this
gold-laden airship." Captain Dane rested her hands on the
edge of an open view port and leaned out into the warm
CRIMSON SKIES 187
tropical breeze. "It's been, what, almost three weeks since the
zep disappeared?" she continued. "You'd think they'd have
gotten a message to someone by now."
"That concerns me, too," Kahn said. "Even if their radio
was damaged, they've had plenty of time to make repairs."
"So something else happened once they got here," Hetty
said thoughtfully. "You don't think the Japanese caught up
with them, do you?"
Kahn shook his head. "I doubt they would have followed
us across the continent if they already had the gold. There are,
however, other possibilities."
"Such as?" said a cultured, British voice. Rupert Gordon
spoke the question with a friendly smile, but something about
his manner turned it into a demand. Kahn wasn't certain if it
was Rupert's imperious tone that irritated him, or the fact that
the Englishman had managed to cross the length of the obser-
vation deck without the pirate leader noticing him.
"Pirates, Mr. Gordon," Kahn replied curtly. "According to
the newsreels, these islands are a favorite hiding place for pi-
rate bands. It's possible that the Chinese might have stumbled
onto one."
Gordon sniffed dismissively. "Attacking relatively un-
armed merchant zeppelins is one thing, Mr. Kahn, but a mili-
tary airship is another matter entirely. I doubt the Chinese
would have much from some South Seas rabble. In
to fear
fact," he continued, "I and my men are coming to the conclu-
sion that the zeppelin was likely lost at sea." He nodded
toward the island. "I rather think a thousand-foot-long air-
ship would be hard to miss, don't you think? Yet there's no
sign of her."
Hetty looked pointedly at Kahn, then at Gordon, then cast
a sidelong glance at the open view port. Before he could
reply,however, Dane interjected. "There!" she said, pointing
with an outstretched hand.
Kahn wasn't sure what she saw at first, but then he noticed
the black stain, a subtle dark shading against the green jungle
canopy. Gordon shouldered past Hetty and stared out at the
"What is it?"
island.
"The Chinese zeppelin," Kahn answered. "Or what's left
of her." He pointed to the black outline against the slope of

one of the island peaks. "She crashed against the hillside
there, and someone set fire to her later, hoping the jungle
would conceal the evidence. Looks like South Seas rabble isn't
so harmless after all."
They found the crew in a mass grave, not far from the Zep-
pelin's charred and twisted skeleton. Kahn had landed the
Machiavelli at the closest beach and led a landing party up to
the site. He'd entertained little hope of finding the gold amid
the wreckage, and he was right. What he hadn expected to
't
find was a freshly cut trail, leading to a lagoon on the other

side of the island.
The pirates had hacked out a crude airstrip at the edge of
the lagoon, and sometime in the past had built bamboo huts
to house machine shops and living quarters. "Not all that
different from our setup in the I.S.A," Kahn observed,
crouching with the landing party in the dense undergrowth
alongside the landing strip. There was a mix of fighters
parked haphazardly on the packed ground, some with their
engine cowlings open but covered with tarps after the pirates
had found something better to do. Judging by the sounds
emanating from one of the larger huts they were in the middle
of a raucous party.
The landing party formed a rough crescent around Kahn,
clutching shotguns and pistols and watching closely for any
sign of movement amid the huts. Kahn had brought Dane,
Corbett, O'Neil, Scales, and Jones, plus Gordon and his
men. He counted ten planes on the strip. If the pirates had
any ground crew, there could be anywhere between fifteen
and twenty men between them and the gold, possibly more.
He cradled a Tommy gun in his arms and rubbed his chin
thoughtfully.
"Looks like they haven't been here too long," Dane mused.
"The jungle's had enough time to start reclaiming the strip, so
no one's been using it in the last few weeks, at least."
"They've probably got little bases like this scattered all
through these islands, and just shift from one to the other,"
Kahn suggested. "I bet the Chinese pulled in, and were in the
"
CRIMSON SKIES 189
middle of making repairs when the pirates showed up. They

jumped the zep more out of self-preservation than greed,
probably. Once it crashed, they settled in here at the base, and
eventually put together a salvage party."
"And hit the mother lode," O'Neil whispered, shaking his
head in wonder. "Why can't stuff like that happen to us once
in a while?"
Gordon frowned. "I don't understand why they're still
here, then."
"Their boss has probably been trying to figure out how he's
going to turn all that gold into something he can actually
use," Kahn replied. "He needs a fence to turn the gold into
cold cash. Judging by the celebration, it sounds like he's fi-
nally got that part of the problem licked."
"Do you think the gold's still here?" Gordon asked.
"Absolutely," the pirate leader replied. He pointed to a
well-made hut, separate from the rest. Two men stood out-
side, holding shotguns. "Those boys wouldn't be missing out
on the fun without a damn good reason."
"Right. Right," Gordon said, putting it all together. "The
only problem is that they most likely outnumber us."
Kahn surveyed the landing strip carefully. His eyes settled
on a concealed ring of sandbags, partially covered by the tarp.
He nodded to himself. "Sit tight," he told the Englishman, and
crawled over to O'Neil and Jones. Kahn whispered instruc-
tions to the two men, and they set off silently through the
undergrowth. He returned moments later. "Okay. Get ready,"
he said, checking his weapon.
The pirates quickly followed suit, readying for action.
Dane shared apprehensive looks with Gordon. She looked at
Kahn. "What do you want us to do?"
"Just follow my lead," he answered. "When I give the
signal, we're going for the gold. Shoot whoever gets in your
way."
Dane snorted. "With what? My finger?"
Kahn stared at her for a moment. "Under other circum-
stances, I'd say relyon your razor tongue," he said, "but
—
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol, a battered
but serviceable Colt. "Here," he said, handing her the gun.
She took the weapon —and immediately checked to make

sure it was actually loaded. It was. Dane looked at Kahn
strangely. "I take it you've got some master plan to sneak in
there and get the gold, with no one the wiser?"
Kahn smiled. "Not at all, Comrade. I learned my lesson at
Deadwood." He turned to Hetty. "What was it I said to you?"
She grinned. "Stealth is for the birds."
As if on cue, O'Neil and Scales broke from cover. They
sprinted across the strip and dived into the sandbag emplace-
ment. Moments later Scales threw aside the tarp, revealing a
.60-caliber machine gun mounted on a tripod. He swung the
heavy gun around and cut loose with a roaring burst. Armor-
piercing rounds scythed through the hut where the pirates
were holding their celebrations.
"Now!" Kahn cried, leaping to his feet. The rest of the
landing party fell in behind him, howling like banshees as
they rushed the camp. The guards standing watch over the
gold froze momentarily, but recovered quickly and brought
their weapons to bear. Kahn fired a sustained burst from the
Tommy gun. Both guards collapsed.
Kahn and his people stumbled to a halt in front of the hut.
Scales' machine gun fired another burst, then went silent.
There were no cries, no answering shots. The building where
the pirates were celebrating had been torn to pieces by the
heavy .60-caliber rounds. The ambush had been sudden,
deadly, and ruthlessly effective.
There was a padlock on the hut's door. A quick burst from
the Tommy gun took care of the problem. Kahn kicked the
door open, still wary, but the one-room structure was empty,
save for six chests. Each was roughly the same size as a foot-
locker. One chest had been thrown open by a machine-gun
round to reveal a gleaming mass of golden coins.
Kahn looked around at the awed faces of his crew and
couldn't resist a triumphant grin. "We've got to do this more
often."
The gold slowed the return trip considerably. Even with a

freshly cut trailtook them nearly four hours to cover the five
it
miles back to MachiavellVs landing site. Kahn noticed along

CRIMSON SKICS 191
the way that the wind was picking up, and clouds were scud-
ding across the sky. By the time they reached the edge of the
beach there was an angry, black overcast looming overhead.
The typhoon, it appeared, was headed in their direction.
"Step on it!" Kahn yelled to the landing party. "Let's get
this stuff on board!" There was supposed to be a ground crew
waiting for them, but the beach was deserted. Evidently they
had gone back inside the zeppelin to avoid the coming storm.
"We're not out of the woods yet!"
The team surged across the sands, and shots rang out from
the tree line only fifteen yards away. Bullets kicked up sand
all around them, and a loud voice ordered them to halt. "Put
down your weapons!" came a shout, in accented English.

The pirates froze as a wave of brown-uniformed Japanese
soldiers emerged from their hiding places, rifles leveled. Be-
hind them came the proud figure of Saburo Murasaki, naked
sword in hand.
But that wasn't the sight that made Kahn's blood run cold.
It was the man who walked beside Murasaki, idly clutching a
pistol of his own and grinning like the devil.

Artemus Hayes shook his head sadly. "Told you you're
getting slow, partner," he said over the rising wind. "Now it
looks like the end of the line."
12: Owning Up
Kahn let the Tommy gun fall from his hands as the soldiers
closed in. One by one, the rest of the landing party fol-
lowed suit. The Japanese soldiers charged across the sand and
formed a firing line barely six feet away. Lightning flickered
against the purple-black clouds overhead.
The pirate leader glared at Murasaki and Hayes. "Long
time no see, partner" Kahn snarled at Hayes. "You're look-
ing prettygood for a dead man."
Hayes gave Kahn a roguish grin. A gust of wind plucked at
his jodhpurs and ruffled his salt-and-pepper hair. "People see
— .
what they want to see, Johnny-boy. I thought I taught you that

years ago."
"I saw the Japanese shoot at you, and I saw the blood on
your hand when you told me to leave you behind."
"You saw them shoot, but you didn't actually see me
get hit, did you?" Hayes said, clearly proud of himself.
"The blood came from that scalp cut I got when you pulled
that damn-fool stunt in the Embassy basement." He shook
his head ruefully. "You just about ruined the whole plan
right then and there but then, you always were a loose
. . .
cannon."
Murasaki took a step forward. "Back away from the gold!"
he ordered. His men advanced purposefully, bayonets at the
ready.
Kahn and fell back. His crew looked
the landing party
calm; they'd been on the wrong end of a gun many times.
all
Dane glared defiantly at the Japanese, but backed away with

her arms held high. Rupert Gordon and his men the "bu- —
reaucrats" sent by the British Embassy to recover the gold
backed away warily, like cornered wolves. Pete O'Neil
stumbled and fell; one of the soldiers grabbed him by the
scruff of the neck and hauled the flailing pilot to his feet, then
sent him stumbling along with the rest.
"How long have you been a patsy for the Japanese?" Kahn
asked Hayes. He struggled to control his anger. Now that he
thought about it, the clues had been there, but he'd missed
them in the confusion.
"A long time, old son," the mustachioed smuggler replied.
"Prettymuch from the minute I left Hollywood. Murasaki-
sama found me in Hong Kong, where I'd gotten into some
difficulties with the local authorities. He bailed me out, and
we've been business associates ever since."
"You mean he blackmailed you into spying on the
—
Chinese or whatever other dirty work he could think of,"
Kahn said coldly. "What I can't figure is why he'd involve a
moth-eaten old dog like you in something this important."
The pirate's eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Wait. Let me guess.
He used you to intercept the gold shipment in the first place . .
CRIMSON SKIES 193
only you screwed it up. The Japanese didn't put a bomb on

—
your zep you got it shot down tangling with the Chinese."
Hayes' grin faded. "Murasaki-sawa didn't want to risk an-
tagonizing the Brits by sending a Japanese airship, so he de-
cided on a pirate attack instead." He shrugged. "The Chinese
put up a hell of a had to break off, and lost my ship just
fight. I
off the coast of Hong Kong."

Kahn nodded thoughtfully "You must've thought Murasaki
was going to skin you alive after you'd botched the job. But
then the Chinese airship failed to show up in Manhattan, and
neither one of you knew why. So you grabbed Chiang Liu-
mei, hoping to shake loose some answers."
Deep, distant thunder rumbled to the west, and a warm,
damp wind gusted through the trees. Murasaki suddenly
barked a string of orders in Japanese, and half the troops
shouldered their rifles. Most ran back to the tree line and
pulled away crudely made camouflage screens to reveal two
medium-size autogyros. The troops pulled them from cover
and began preparing them for takeoff while the rest began
wrestling with the crates of gold coin.
Murasaki paced around the crates, glaring officiously at
his men. Hayes gave the officer a sidelong look. "He was sure
Liu-mei would break," the smuggler said with a sigh. "But I
knew better." Then he looked at Kahn and winked. "And
that's where you came in, Johnny-boy. I figured that if she
were loose, she'd run right for the gold."
Kahn felt his cheeks burn. "And you needed a sucker to
come along and 'rescue' her," he said, angrily biting out
each word.
"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, Johnny," Hayes said
with a cruel smile. "You were the perfect choice. I knew
you'd go to Hell and back if it squared things between us, and
that's exactly what you did." The smuggler let out a laugh.
"I've gotta admit, though, you sure threw us some curve balls
here and there. I had no idea you'd move so quick getting to
the Empire State. You didn't give me any chance to warn
Murasaki that we were coming. I had to send those soldiers
we ran into in the basement to go find him so we wouldn't get
killed on the way out!"
1% The Manchurian Gambit
"And you had to make it look good enough that you could
fake being shot in the confusion." Kahn gritted his teeth.
"Not, bad, Hayes. Not bad at all. But how did you manage to
follow us from Hawai'i?"
Hayes laughed. "Hell, Johnny-boy, we've been tracking
you since you left Manhattan! That was all Murasaki's baby,
though. When his fighters tangled with you on the way out of
New York, they hit you with a couple of experimental rockets
the boys in Tokyo came up with."
Hayes paused, clearly savoring his control of the situa-
tion . and Kahn's anger. "They work kind of like the beeper
. .
units we use for beeper-seeker rockets," he continued, "only

they use the metal skeleton of a zeppelin like a big antenna to
We were
transmit a low-power radio signal in timed bursts.
tracking you even when you were on the other side of the
Rockies, Johnny-boy. You were out of your league from the
get-go"
There was a cough and a rattle from across the beach, and
the first autogyro's engine sputtered to life. Murasaki noted
this and smiled grimly. He turned to Hayes. "There is no time
left. The weather is worsening. Finish things here and then
get under way." The officer then faced Kahn and gave a deep,
mocking bow. "I told you we would meet again, Mr. Kahn,"
he said. "But now we part forever. You were an excellent tool,
and it is a pity my country will not be able to make use of you
again."
He gave the pirate leader a brief, mocking smile, then
turned and ran for the waiting autogyro. The troops handling
the gold redoubled their efforts to haul the cargo over to the
second machine.
Kahn shook his head. "You know he's never going to give
you a cut of that gold," he said to Hayes. "You're just another
pawn to him."
"Gold? Who said I was getting any of the gold?" Hayes
smiled. He jerked a thumb at the Machiavelli. "That's my
prize right there, and I've got enough troops on board to make
sure the crew behaves. If they get me to Hong Kong without
any trouble, I might even let them go."
"I'm not stupid, Hayes," Kahn snarled. "Your boss isn't
CRIMSON SKIES 195
going to be happy with any witnesses to what happened here.

You're going to kill them— just like you're about to kill us."
Hayes paused. There was a bright flash of lightning, and
then, distantly, a hammer-blow of thunder. "You catch on
quick, old son," he said, almost sadly. "It's not personal, you
understand. None of this was. Not that it matters much, I
suppose."
Murasaki's autogyro roared down the beach and hopped
into the air,wavering momentarily in the crosswind. Dane
suddenly stepped forward, hands thrust into the pockets of
her flying jacket. "Hey! Hold on! I'm not with these guys and
you know it! Can't we come to some kind of arrangement?"
Hayes looked her over. "You know, normally I wouldn't be
able to resist that kind of invitation," he said with a sly wink.
"But Murasaki was very specific. Sorry, doll . but this just
. .
ain't your lucky day."

Dane's face fell. "Yeah," she said with a sigh. "That's what
I was afraid of." She started to turn away — then pulled Kahn's
pistol from her pocket and fired wildly into the cluster of
Japanese guards. Men screamed and fell. Hayes threw him-
self to the ground, firing a couple of wild shots of his own.
"Run!" Kahn bellowed.
Everyone scrambled, kicking up plumes of sand. "Kahn!"
O'Neil yelled, and threw a small, dark object at his boss.
Kahn plucked it out of the air. It was a grenade, lifted from
the pocket of the guard who'd grabbed the wiry little thief
when he made his phony stumble.
—
Kahn pulled the pin and at the last second remembered
to strike its base against the heel of his boot. The fuse sput-
tered, and he threw it. The grenade sailed over the heads
of the troops and rolled under the remaining autogyro, almost
twenty yards away. The troops carrying the gold scattered,
and the little bomb went off with a flash and a sharp bang,
blowing out the autogyro's tires and windows.
The pirate leader turned and sprinted after his men. Rifle
shots rang out behind him, and a bullet hissed past his head.
He plunged into the gloomy depths of the jungle and put as
many trees as he could between himself and the surviving
troops.
People seemed to materialize out of the shadows around

him as he ran. "What do we do now?" Hetty asked, gasping
for breath.
"For now, just keep running!" Kahn said, hardly slowing
down. "If we get deep enough in here, they won't bother to
follow us. They're running out of time to get under way be-
fore the storm hits and they know it. They won't waste
. . .
time chasing us."

O'Neil's voice came from the shadows to Kahn's left. "If
you hadn't completely blown that grenade toss, we wouldn't
have to run at all. I swear, you hardly dinged the paint on that
bird!"
"I put it right where I wanted it, smart aleck," the pirate
leader replied. "That autogyro can't taxi without wheels, so
the gold isn't going back to Murasaki's airship. They're going
tohave to load it onto the Machiavelli and fast." . . .
"A fair lot of good that does us, old chap," came Gordon's
cultured voice. The man didn't sound the least out of breath.
"Either way, it's still going to wind up in Japan."
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Kahn snarled.
"And how do you propose to catch them? Fly?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," the pirate replied.
They got back to the pirate base in record time. Kahn sus-
pected that the storm brewing overhead encouraged them to
pick up the pace. Each flash of lightning felt like another tick
of a bomb timer . . . and everyone knew that time was run-
ning out.
All ten of the pirates' planes were airworthy, and two of
them were two-seaters, so no one had to be left behind. The
British agents, it turned out, were competent — if not espe-
cially combatworthy — pilots.
Once what
airborne, the ad hoc squadron conferred about
direction thetwo zeppelins must have taken. The consensus
was south by southwest, figuring that they would try to skirt
the edge of the typhoon and head for Hong Kong. They
opened the throttle and sped through the steadily darkening
sky, knowing full well that they were gambling their lives on
being right.
CRIMSON SKIES 197
"Even if we catch them, then what?" Corbett asked him

once they were on their way. "We don't have any rockets, and
even if we could knock down the Japanese zep, what about
the Machiavellil"
"We're going to have to take her back, of course,"
Kahn said.
"How? You don't think they'll just open the hangar and let
us in,do you?"
"Something like that, kid."
13: Interesting Times
Kahn struggled to control his aircraft in mounting turbu-

lence. He caught sight of the two airships, making fifty
knots into a headwind at eleven thousand feet. The Ma-

chiavelli trailed about a mile behind the smaller Japanese
zeppelin —and small, white shapes kept close formation
around her flanks. "Tally ho!" Kahn growled over the radio.
"Looks like the Japanese have got four — no, six — fighters es-
corting our ship."
"Flying escort? In this?" Hetty exclaimed. "They're either
gutsy as hell or out of their minds!"
"I hope it's the latter," Kahn said. "Let's see if we can
bounce these guys and take them down fast; then I'll get
aboard the ship."
"You hope," Hetty said, her voice strained with worry. "Of
all the schemes you've come up with, this one's got to be the
worst."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," he replied. "But it's
all or nothing.We've only got about thirty minutes of decent

light left, and that's it. It's do or die."
"Yeah. What else is new?" Hetty managed a throaty laugh.
"What the hell. Let's get 'em, Red Skulls!"
The ten planes swooped down on their prey, engines
roaring, and at the last moment the white enemy fighters scat-
tered like startled birds. Kahn cursed under his breath. The
Japanese planes were fast, pulling tight turns and loops he

knew that his captured Devastator couldn't match. "So much
for the element of surprise, gang," he called out. "Let's see
how well they mix it up!"
Kahn caught sight of an enemy plane in a tight, diving turn
and rolled in after him. The pilot saw him at once
to port,
and began to pull his lighter plane into ever-tighter turns.
Kahn cursed and fought with the Devastator's controls, but
watched helplessly as the enemy plane slipped inexorably
away. Startled shouts filled his earphones as the enemy planes
turned the tables on their attackers.
Not only were enemy fighters swift and maneuverable,
the
knew them inside out. Kahn watched as
but their pilots also
the Japanese plane pulled far enough into the turn that now it
was dangerously close to ending up on his tail. He rolled out
of the turn and pulled into a climb, hoping the enemy couldn't
follow. Moments later, bullets hammered into his wing
and tail.
where the hell are you?" Kahn yelled.
"Hetty,
"Hang was strained as she
on," she replied. Hetty's voice
fought the g's punishing her aircraft. "I can't get a bead on
him!"
More hits struck along the Devastator's fuselage. Kahn
thanked gods he never believed in that at least the enemy
planes had to trade firepower for maneuverability. Still, he
could see a half-dozen telltale wisps of smoke seeping from
magnesium rounds buried in his tail and wings. He couldn't
keep taking hits like this for long.
"Hetty, on 'three,' I'm going to roll right and fly level, like
I'm shaken up," Kahn said. "Get in behind him and finish him
off!"
"Roger!"
"One . two
. . three!"
. . .
Kahn rolled out to the right and leveled off. Tracers imme-
diately filled the air around him, and hits struck all along his
right wing. Then an orange flash lit up the sky behind the
Devastator. "Got him!" Hetty cried. "They've got armor like
tissue paper!"
"Great ... but there's still five more of 'em out here, and
CRIMSON SKIB 199
we're running out of time," Kahn said. "Break off and help
the others. I'm making my run on Machiavelli. It's now or
never."
"Roger, boss," Hetty said gravely. "Good luck."
Kahn pulled the Devastator into a right turn, noting that the
starboard aileron and elevator were shot to hell. He settled
quickly onto the airship's stern and cut his throttle to ninety
knots.So far, none of the enemy planes had noticed him.
The Devastator overtook the airship. Kahn slipped around
the zeppelin's giant aft stabilizer; then he cut his speed to
sixty knots and dropped closer to the airship's gray hull. For-
tunately the zeppelin's guns were silent — evidently Hayes
didn't have enough men to guard his crew and man the ship's
weapons.
The fighter pulled along the length of the huge airship.
Kahn cut his speed further, to just over fifty knots. She's a
thousandfeet long and over a hundred and thirty feet across,
he thought. Like hitting the broadside ofa barn.
He reached down and slipped a length of rope around the
control stick. The rope —
one end secured to the seat held —
the stick relatively steady. It would keep the plane straight
and level . . . but not for long.
Kahn pulled open the canopy and undid his seat harness.
Roaring air slapped at his face and neck. He pulled himself to
his feetand stepped out of the cockpit onto the port wing.
As he exited the cockpit, Kahn could see the red ember
glow of the magnesium rounds eating through the armor
plate at his feet, less than six inches from the wing tank. A
tracer whipped past his head, and Kahn saw an enemy fighter
boring in on his tail.
The Japanese pilot was good, maybe one of the best in the
sky over the Machiavelli. He roared in on the zeppelin and
streaked down the length of her hull, nearly close enough to
touch. Kahn watched the guns blaze from the engine cowling
and wings, and bright red flashes of light more magnesium —
—
rounds slashed across the intervening distance.
One bullet punched a neat hole in the rudder, and another
drilled through the canopy, right beside his hand.
Then the enemy plane seemed to fly through a fan of
greenish sparks, as cannon fire raked along its starboard side.

The enemy plane exploded, two hundred feet away,
less than
and Kahn caught a glimpse of a PR-1 Defender flying
through the cloud of debris as he launched himself into space.
The wind flung him like a chip of wood as he dived from
the wing, hurtling toward the zeppelin below him. The thick
layers of armor fabric gave a little, but the impact still took
his breath away and sent him tumbling end-for-end along the
length of the ship. His shoulder slammed into something hard
and unyielding, and he flung out his hands, desperately scrab-
bling for something to halt his tumble. His right hand closed
on the armored lip of the dorsal gondola, and he held on for
all he was worth, pulling his battered body over the lip and
onto the steel deck.

He was only dimly aware of the Devastator exploding mo-
ments later as the magnesium rounds found their way into the
fuel tank.
Kahn crept through the zeppelin 's central passageway,

bitingback the pain in his shoulder. It didn't appear to be
broken, but he was definitely injured, and the mobility in his
arm was restricted.
There was no one about. Evidently Hayes had a skeleton
crew on the bridge and everyone else under guard. Kahn
worked his way to the hangar deck. If he could get the hangar
doors open and the docking hook deployed, he'd have rein-
forcements fairly quickly. Provided anyone survived the
dogfight.
He reached the hatch to the hangar bay. The metal door was
slightly open, and he could hear worried voices inside.
Kahn peered through the hatchway. The hangar deck was
one of the largest spaces on the ship, with two large hangar
doors at either end —
one for receiving planes, and the other
for launching them. The planes themselves were parked in
between the two. At the far end of the hangar, close to the re-
ceiving door and in the shadow of the huge crate of debris left
over from the battle in the Empire State, three guards stood an
uneasy watch over the Chinese gold.
The pirate leader shook his head. Can this get any worse?
—
CRIMSON SKItS ZOI
He reached inside his coat for his pistol. Then he remembered

he'd given it to Dane and never got it back.
All he could hope for was to live long enough to be embar-
rassed about it later.
Kahn pushed the hatch open wide enough to slip through

and ducked inside. There was plenty of cover as he moved
among the parked planes and over to the portside bulkhead,
where most of the tools were kept. He quietly picked up
a large wrench, stuck it in his pocket, and then carefully
grabbed a heavy, five-gallon drum.
He crept aft, using the planes once more to conceal his ap-
proach, then dashed the final few feet to the other side of the
large crate of parts. The troops paid little attention to their
surroundings, speaking to one another in low, apprehensive
tones. They never saw him come around the corner and bring
the drum down on the first soldier's head.
—
The drum flew out of Kahn 's hands and doused the other
two men with five gallons of motor oil. They staggered and
sputtered, the rifles slipping from their hands, and Kahn
pulled out the wrench and dispatched them with a few quick,
deliberate blows.
There was an emergency release latch for the hangar door
on the aft bulkhead. Kahn tossed the wrench aside and
limped over to the latch. He paused to catch his breath
— and was spun around by the impact of a bullet. A pain
like a red-hot poker jabbed through his arm.
Kahn let out a yell and clapped his left hand over the
wound. Echoes from the gunshot rang in the cavernous space.
"Get away from that latch, Johnny-boy."
Artemus Hayes stepped from the shadows of the parked
planes and walked over to the downed guards, stepping care-
fully through the oil. He checked them quickly and shook his
head. "Murasaki ain't gonna be happy about this," he said. He
looked at Kahn. "I gotta tell you, Johnny, I knew you'd show
up. I didn't know how, but I just knew you would. And here
you are. Now step away from that latch."
"Or what?" Kahn said, wincing in pain. "You'll shoot me
again?"
"I surely will," he said evenly. "And the next one is going
M The Manchurian Gambit
to be between the eyes." He watched Kahn for a moment and

then smiled. "You know, we could make an arrangement, you
and I."
"How's that?"
"Nobody but me knows you're alive right now. And we've
got the gold right here . . . thanks to you." He indicated the
crates with a nod. "We can wait till it gets dark, then slip away
from Murasaki. Head south. Hell, maybe buy an island and
live like kings. You sure wouldn't have to worry about De-
Carlo anymore." He winked. "Just like old times, eh, Johnny-
boy? What do you say?"
Kahn took a deep breath. "I've got people still outside.
What about them?"
Hayes laughed. "Don't worry about them. If the Japanese
don't get them, the storm will. Then we're home free."
The pirate considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah,
that's what I thought you'd say. No dice, Hayes. No way in
Hell"
Hayes frowned. "I do believe you're getting soft, old son."
Kahn grinned. "Think so?"
He dived for the latch.
The move caught Hayes by surprise. Kahn grabbed the
handle and pulled down for all he was worth.
Behind them, the hangar doors fell open, letting in the
howling wind. For a brief second, the wind filled the hangar
deck. Invisible hands yanked at Hayes, and his feet slid out
from under him in the oil. He hit the —and
deck slid over
the edge.
Kahn could hear Hayes' screams even over the raging
wind. He walked carefully to the edge of the hangar door. The
con man clung to the lip of the door with one white-knuckled
hand. Hayes looked up at Kahn, his eyes pleading. He knew
that look of helplessness well.

The burly pirate reached down and grabbed Hayes' wrist
with his good hand, then hauled upward. The con man
scrambled back onto the deck and struggled shakily to
his feet.
"Now, finally, we're even," Kahn said gravely.
"
CRIMSON SKIES 203
Hayes looked up at him and grinned. "Absolutely, Johnny-

No question." He took a deep, grateful breath. "It's lucky
boy.
for me you have gone soft
—
That was as far as he got before Kahn shoved him off the
deck. Hayesplummeted into the ocean far below.
Kahn refused to let Gordon take the gold off his ship until
Ambassador Carlyle revoked the ten-thousand-dollar reward,
and he stood over Carlyle 's shoulder until the necessary
telegram had been drafted and sent.
Rain fell in sheets along the Hilo docks. Kahn and Dane
watched Chiang Liu-mei take her farewell. She was hustled
down the long gangway from the zeppelin and escorted into
a Rolls-Royce by Chinese diplomats. She'd expressed the
deepest gratitude of her father's government to Kahn and his
crew, then wasted no time in getting off the Machiavelli and
back to the Chinese Embassy. In her wake went Gordon's
men, lugging the heavy crates that were now His Majesty's
property.
"It sure took you long enough to get that damn landing
hook down," Dane groused, watching the British agents pro-
ceed slowly down the gangway.
"I had a bullet in my arm," Kahn said with a snort. "I'd love
to see you try it sometime, sister." He wore his right arm in a
sling; Doc Adams said the bullet went right through the meat
and would heal up just fine in a couple of months. Until then
he was going to have a hell of a time lighting his cigars.
The Japanese fighters had put up a fierce fight, but in the
end, sheer numbers turned the tide. The Red Skulls and their
British companions were circling the zeppelin and growing
increasingly worried by the time Kahn had managed to run
out the landing hook and start recovering planes. Once they
were aboard, Gordon and his men proved remarkably tal-
ented at eliminating the remaining Japanese guards.
By the time the Red Skulls and their British allies had
seized the Machiavelli, Murasaki had known something was
wrong aboard the pirate airship, but was too late; darkness
it
had fallen like a curtain. After making sure none of Hayes'

.
men were stowed away, Kahn ordered the Japanese tracker-

beepers found.
Hetty found them, far back in the stern of the zeppelin, and
Kahn tossed them into the Then they turned away, losing
sea.
the Japanese airship in the darkness. Not even the ruthless
Japanese agent could risk an engagement at night, and in the
teeth of a Pacific storm.
Two days later, after a circuitous route east, the Red Skull
Legion made it back to Hilo.
safely
Dane looked up at Kahn. "So, what now?"
"We head back home and settle up with DeCarlo," Kahn
said. "I figure the Japanese will forget about me after a while,
but the Don won't rest until he gets his money."
Dane nodded. She watched the crates being loaded into a
waiting truck, surrounded by armed guards. "It's got to be
tough, watching all that gold slip through your fingers."
Kahn watched the truck pull away from the dock and
shrugged. "I try to be philosophical about such things. Easy
come, easy go."
She watched the pirate intently. "I'm surprised you didn't
try to switch the gold out with something equally heavy. Like
that crate of spare parts."
The pirate looked at her and smiled. "My, my, Comrade . .
Of course, when would I

you're starting to think like a pirate.
have had such an opportunity? Gordon always had at least
one man watching the crates from the moment they came
aboard."
"Maybe. But somehow, if you'd wanted to, I'm sure you
would have thought of something."
Kahn chuckled. "Don't go believing everything you hear
about me, Comrade. I'm not as clever as the pulp novels
would have you believe."
A taxi pulled onto the docks, picking its way carefully
through the rain. Kahn nodded at the car. "That would be
your ride, Comrade. Here is where you and I part ways."
."
Dane's eyes went wide. "But ... I don't understand . .
"You saved my life," the pirate said solemnly. "That was

CRIMSON SKIES 205
your Defender who shot down the Japanese fighter over the
zeppelin, right?"
"Well, yes, it was . . . but—"
"Then, I hate to say it, but I'm in your debt." He gestured
toward the car. "Think of this as a down payment."
She looked at the car, then back at him. "I'll never under-
stand you, Kahn. Never in a million years."
"The feeling's mutual, Comrade. Now get out of here, be-
fore I change my mind."
Dane started to say something more, then thought better of
it. She set off, moving hurriedly down the gangway. Then, at
the bottom, she turned. "Hey! Wait a minute! You can't just
leave me here in Hawai'i! How the hell do you expect me to
get home?"
Kahn grinned. "Oh. Good point." He dug in his pocket and
fished out a coin. "Here's something for cab fare," he said,
and sent it tumbling at her with a flick of his thumb.
By the time she caught it, he was already gone, shutting the
hatch behind him. The Machiavellfs engines coughed into
life. Dane opened her palm —
then looked back at the airship.
"You sneaky son of a bitch," she muttered. Dane laughed
—
and tossed the coin solid gold, and stamped with a Chinese
—
mint marking high into the air.
—
Intermission: Rogues and Thieves
With the collapse of the United States and the subsequent

rise of aerial commerce, crime eventually took to the
skies. Squadrons of pirates prey on cargo airships, stealing
cargoes and sometimes even the huge ships themselves. Pri-
vateers hunt the shipping lanes under the authority of Letters
of Marque that define the split between the raiders and the
governments they defy.
Pirates are by no means a homogenous lot, no matter what
the Tinseltown cliffhangers would have one believe. Like
their militia counterparts, pirates are highly individualistic
from opportunistic predators who prey on the weak (such as
"Genghis" Kahn) to mysterious adventurers like the beautiful
aviatrix known only as "The Black Swan."
Which brings us to our final tale, and its hero.
—
The infamous Fortune Hunters and their enigmatic leader,
—
Nathan Zachary have built a reputation among the criminal
fraternity, specializing in daring, high-risk raids that maxi-
mize profits . and minimize civilian casualties.
. .
Formed in the early days of the breakup of the United

States, Zachary insists that his crew steal only from those
wealthy enough to afford the loss, earning the Fortune Hunters
somewhat undeserved reputations as modern-day Robin
Hoods. (They've mastered stealing from the rich; they just
haven't gotten around to giving to the poor quite yet.)
In addition, the Fortune Hunters are not given to the
savagery that typifies much of modern piracy; the group's
"Articles of Piracy" states that no Fortune Hunter will harm
or kill the innocent ... a tenet that has led many brave (and
foolish) pirates to underestimate Zachary's resolve.
CRIMSON SKIES Z07
For the first half of the 1930s, the Fortune Hunters were re-
garded as little more than flamboyant and daring but ulti-
mately minor thieves. Zachary's raids rarely equaled the
colorful exploits of the mysterious aviatrix, The Black Swan,
and lacked the lurid appeal of the machinations of ruthless
schemers like "Genghis" Kahn.
The Fortune Hunters' operations have grown increasingly
bold, however — and more deadly. Zachary's recent conflicts
across North America — including several dogfights with Pala-
din Blake, no less — have shown the rest of the pirate under-
world that this intrepid band of rogues is anything but soft.
Now, follow Nathan Zachary as he enters a dangerous
confidence game in the seedy underbelly of New Orleans.
The stakes are high, and one slip means Zachary will be
singing the "Bayou Blues."
—Nero MacLeon
Manhattan, 1938
Bayou Blues
A Nathan Zachary Adventure
by Nancy Berman
and
Eric S. Trautmann
—
Prologue: The Alley (at
distant fork of lightning punctured the night sky, the flash

A illuminating the iron-gray storm clouds that gathered in
the distance. A thick mist blanketed the streets, an unpleasant
drizzle that swallowed the glow from the street lamps.
On an ordinary night, the threatening weather would have
chased pedestrians off the streets and into the warm, cheerful
speakeasies that lined the boulevard. Tonight was anything
but ordinary.
Streams of people flowed along the streets, some clad in
garish costumes, others wearing very little despite the weather.
The echoes of wild music, laughter, and happy yells crashed
along Bourbon Street. The mob of revelers shouted and sang,
heedless of the ominous thunderheads that drew closer by the
—
minute. The jubilant crowd mostly well-heeled tourists
cheered at the first distant peal of thunder, defiant in the face
of the storm.
The swirl of activity was and it cut like a search-
electric,
light through the gathering Another flash of lightning
rain.
closer this time —
heralded the clear ringing of the city's bells.
The crowd howled with delight.
It was midnight, and Mardi Gras had begun.
A bedraggled man, stoop-shouldered and filthy, staggered

through the swirling crowd. His threadbare coat, tattered
cloth cap, and matted beard were wine-stained and filthy. As
he took a long pull from a dirty bottle clutched in his fist, his
gaze swept the milling crowds.
He spied a trio of men in gray raincoats and suits, half a
block behind him. They pushed through the knots of people
—
ZIZ Bayou Blues
that clogged the street. Their heads swiveled methodically

back and forth as they searched the crowd.
The bum muttered a curse under his breath.
He shambled on his way, swept along Bourbon Street by
the pull of the crowd. Cheap wine sloshed from the open
bottle. No one paid any attention to him.
Since Louisiana had declared independence almost a de-
cade ago, the local economy was in a shambles; only help
—
from the French government in exchange for the unwel-
—
come presence of a Foreign Legion garrison and a roaring
trade in stolen guns and illegal whiskey kept money trickling
in. A lone, down-on-his-luck derelict was such a common
sight in New Orleans that it was hardly worth noticing, espe-
cially in themiddle of Mardi Gras.
The man reached the edge of the crowd. He paused, took
another pull from the wine bottle, and then shuffled into a
—
nearby alley just another vagrant looking for a dry place to
bed down for the night.
He crouched in the shadows behind a stack of discarded
crates, pulled his dark coat tightly around him, and waited.
Minutes later, silhouetted in the mouth of the alley, the
gray-suited trio stepped into view. Though they were only
a few feet away, it was impossible to hear what they were
saying over the barrage of Mardi Gras noise. The tallest of the
three — —
probably the leader gestured angrily back at the
crowd. The motion brushed aside the man's coat and revealed
a revolver tucked into his waistband.
The two men nodded, then moved back onto the street. The
leader stopped to light a cigarette. He carelessly flicked the
wooden match back into the alley. The match landed
—
miraculously still lit on one of the crates that shielded the
bum from the gunman's view.
The bum grimaced. If he moved, he'd be spotted for sure.
As the match flame guttered and faded, the gunman faced
back into the alley. His eyes narrowed with suspicion as he
noticed the stacks of rubbish that clotted the alley. He stepped
toward the crates, and his hand slipped into his coat.
The vagrant's grip tightened on the neck of the wine bottle.
—
CRIMSON SKIES ZI3
It was a poor defense against a gun —but maybe, in the dark,

with the element of surprise
There was a blur of movement from behind the crate. The
startled gunman crouched and drew his revolver in a single
fluid motion. The gun's muzzle swept the alley as he searched
for his target.
An alley cat, wet and miserable, leapt onto the pile of crates
and hissed at the man in the gray topcoat.
The gunman chuckled. He shook his head, holstered his
gun, and walked back onto Bourbon Street.
The bum slumped with relief.
The alley cat peered down on him from her perch atop
the crates. She hissed at him, her yellow eyes baleful and
imperious.
"I know how you feel," he muttered.
He waited another minute, then stood and moved farther
down the darkened alley. His drunken staggering had van-
ished, replaced by a sure, steady gait. The sounds of the
Mardi Gras celebration were muffled now. The mounting rain
sounded like marching feet on the cracked pavement.
The vagrant wound through the twisting maze of back al-
leys. With the relative safety of the tourist areas behind him,
his motions became stealthy and cautious. The few people he
passed on the street were hard-eyed and ready for trouble,
—
and most of them were armed dangerous people in a tough
neighborhood.
He
stopped in front of a small dilapidated building. Its
once-vibrant green paint was peeling and faded.A weathered
wooden sign above the door was the only decoration: a faded
yellow- white drawing of an anchor.
He paused and looked back over his shoulder. Satis-
fied that there were no unwanted observers, he pushed open
the door and stepped inside.
Even in the dim light, it was obvious that White's Anchor
had seen better days. The air had that peculiar New Orleans
smell of rot, cigarette smoke, and musty damp blowing off
the lake. The few pictures on the pale redbrick walls might
have been considered good nautical art once, but now they
just looked cheap and old. A single wooden ceiling fan spun
214 Bayou Blues
in lethargic circles on the mold-speckled ceiling. A handful

of men in dark blue peacoats sat at the bar and nursed their
drinks in silence. The ones who bothered to look up glared at
the vagrant, then returned to their glasses.
A firm hand clapped him on the shoulder. "This ain't the
charity ward, Mac," a deep voice intoned. "Payin' customers
only. Go sleep it off somewhere 's else."
—
The bum turned and faced the speaker the Anchor's bar-
tender. He was a large man, pushing six feet tall. He had the
crooked nose and scarred knuckles of a back-alley brawler.
Black eyes glowered at the vagrant from beneath bushy brows.
The large white apron tied around his ample waist made him
look more like a butcher than a barkeep. "I mean it, pally," he
growled. He cracked his knuckles impressively.
Without missing a beat, the bum produced a neat stack of
franc notes. "I am a paying customer."
The startled bartender looked the bedraggled man up and
down. Finally, he sighed and dropped his hand from the
grimy shoulder and wiped it on his apron. "All right, but don'
give me no trouble, okay?"
"No. No trouble." He paused, then asked, "You got a
phone?"
"Yeah, in th' back," the bartender grumbled as he returned
to his place behind the bar. "So what'll it be?"
The bum slid half the stack of franc notes across the bar
top. The paper stood about an inch high. "Five minutes of pri-
vacy on that phone."
The bartender's eyes again registered surprise, but he
merely shrugged, collected the bills, then jerked his thumb to
the phone booth nestled in the back of the taproom. "Make it
quick," he said.
The vagrant moved to the booth and closed the door be-
hind him. He dialed a number from memory and waited.
When the call was answered, he spoke in a low, urgent
—
voice almost a whisper.
"It's me. We're in play." A pause. "Yeah, it's all set . for
. .
just after Mardi Gras. Any sooner and I can't be sure they'll
trust me."
a
CRIMSON SKIES ZI5
Another pause, longer this time.

"What can I tell you? They're suspicious I had to shake
a trio of his goons tonight. No, they didn't pinch me. Look,
. . .
I gotta get back. Just make sure everything's in place."

He hung up the phone, exited the booth, and walked back
to the bar.He placed the rest of the francs in his pocket on the
sticky bar top.
"What's this for?" the bartender asked.
"Peace of mind. I wasn't here, right?"
"Never saw you before in my life," the bartender agreed as
he slid the stack of bills off the counter with practiced ease
and returned to washing beer glasses.
The bum slipped out of the bar and back onto the street,
where he resumed his drunken shuffling.
Soon, he had disappeared into the fog.
1: My First Impression of You
The door crashed open, shattering the midmorning calm

with a sound like a gunshot. Nathan Zachary 's hand dropped
to the pistol in his jacket. His eyes checked the room for
threats, although his tanned and handsome face gave no indi-
cation of any concern.
New Orleans was just settling down after the hubbub of
Mardi Gras. The tourists who had survived the annual event
had gone home; the bodies of those who hadn't were tucked
away, sleeping peacefully in the local morgues. Zachary had
no intention ofjoining them.
He didn't have any enemies in New Orleans not seri- —
ous ones, anyway. Still, he was a wanted man, and wanted
men didn't last long in his business without being ready for
trouble.
The kid who'd just burst into the bar was definitely trouble.
He was an interesting contrast to Zachary, who stood out
in a dive like The Flyin' Horses bar. Though his attire —
—a
216 Bayou Blues
battered flight jacket, a khaki work shirt, matching pants, and

polished high leather boots —were common enough among
he somehow made them look like a million bucks.
air pirates,
Like Zachary, the kid was
tall and rangy, about eighteen or
nineteen years old. His blue eyes, rimmed with red, burned in
his tanned, angular face. Sandy hair, slicked back, offset the
kid's leading-man features. He wore a pearl-handled Colt re-
volver on his hip.
The kid was a pilot, Zachary noted. The back of his leather
jacket was festooned with tiny, embroidered kill markers —
tradition with some Texan sky bandits. He wore a small
squadron insignia, a comical picture of a mock-angry craw-
fish on a field of green and purple, which marked him as a
member of the "Rajin' Cajuns."
The lanky young man took a seat at the bar and kept his
eyes on the street. He slapped a handful of coins on the
cracked and stained bar top; the barman wordlessly poured a
shot of cheap bourbon. The kid downed the shot in one mo-
tion, then gestured for a refill.
The sound of raised voices from the kitchen startled the
young man. He spun around, and his hand dipped for his re-
volver. Nathan's grip tightened on his own gun, just in case.
The kid looked edgy enough to start shooting at any moment.
Zachary almost laughed in relief when the source of the
young pilot's agitation burst in through the swinging kitchen
doors. Itfigures, he thought. // had to be a dame.
—
She was young seventeen or eighteen, Nathan guessed.
The girl was a stunning brunette with legs for days. With a
wry grin, Zachary sat back, nursed his chicory-laced coffee,
and watched the little drama unfold.
The brunette flung herself into the young pilot's arms, and
they shared a passionate kiss. The kid ushered her back to
a little table in the corner, directly across the room from
Zachary. They sat huddled together for a few minutes, their
conversation hushed.
—
She was a real looker, who judging by her clothes
came from money. She had knockout southern beauty: soft
waves of dark hair framing a heart-shaped face, skin like
CRIMSON SKIES ZI7
creamy magnolia petals, and wide dark eyes framed with

thick lashes.
With her stylish, expensive clothes, she was an odd match
for the young man's battered leather and khaki outfit. No
question, this had all the earmarks of a forbidden romance,
—
which meant that New Orleans being New Orleans sooner —
or later there would be violence and bloodshed.
The capital of French Louisiana was no stranger to vio-
lence and bloodshed. Some called it the murder capital of the
old United States. Despite the city's fearsome reputation,
New Orleans was, in Nathan's estimation, if not a classy
town, at least a colorful one. The city was a bit like a tawdry,
fading grande dame whose lip rouge was a bit smeared and
whose was a little tarnished
finery which suited Nathan
. . .
just fine. But she had the patina, the sense of history, of a Eu-
—
ropean city something the metallic towers of the Empire
State and the blinding lights of Hollywood lacked.
New Orleans was a proud city, and it showed in the way the
locals talked about her, with pride that verged on obsession.
Nothing tasted as good or looked as beautiful or boasted such
a storied past as everything in New Orleans —just ask a local.
Even though Nathan Zachary was fluent in French, he could
decipher what the locals were saying only half the time. Their
accent was a strange mishmash that sounded like a cross be-
tween stereotypic southern and nasal Bronx; one moment
they were asking "where y'at" and the next, pointing out the
location of the "catlick" church on the corner.
Zachary's ruminations ended abruptly when the young
man cursed and pounded his fist on the table. "What? What
the hell are you sayin'?"
The brunette burst into tears and flung her head down on
her right arm while the young man held her left hand up to the
light, staring at her ring finger. Zachary was impressed; the
ice on the girl's finger could keep a pirate in champagne and

caviar for a long time.
At the sound of her tears, the young man was immediately
contrite."Aw, jeez, sweetie. I'm sorry. C'mon, Emmy, please
don't cry." When he tried to comfort the girl she sobbed even
218 Bayou Blues
harder. Zachary looked away. He was starting to feel like a

Peeping Tom.
He saw the sleek black Packard 1508 Touring Sedan pull
up before the young couple did. The car doors opened, and
two men got out. They were obviously bodyguards, the thick-
chested, no-neck types, dressed in gray trench coats and fe-
doras. They carried weapons openly as they scanned the
street. They weren't coming into The Flyin' Horses for a so-
cial drink.
One of them, a short fireplug of a man with red, close-
cropped hair, opened the right side passenger door for a tall,
well-dressed Creole man in his early forties, who emerged
with arrogant grace. He was wearing a dark charcoal gray
suit, beautifully cut and expensive, over which he sported a
camel-colored vicuna coat.

Before Zachary could warn the lovestruck couple, the door
crashed open and the trio entered. The young man jumped to
his feet and drew his pistol. The gunmen crouched and pro-
duced guns of their own. The girl screamed.
The fireplug flicked off his pistol's safety. "Drop the gun,
boy," he growled. "Or, as God is my witness, you're a dead
man."
Zachary quietly slipped his own pistol from its holster,
hidden beneath the table. The whole scene looked like some-
thing on a Tinseltown movie lot, complete with cheap hoods,
a hotheaded kid, and a damsel in distress —
except the guns
were real.
The man in the expensive suit made an elaborate show of
handing his fedora to Fireplug. "Now, now, Benny," he said,
"no need to get so dramatic." He smoothed the sides of his
perfectly cut hair, although nothing on the slightly graying
temples was out of place.
"Emmeline, ma cherie. I had no idea that you knew about
places like this." Disdain was etched on his face. "Y'all come
home now A nice long bath should wash the stench of this rat
hole away."
"Deschaines, you can't treat her like she's property." The
young pilot was still pointing his gun at the well-dressed man.
"Listen up, Tug, ol' son. I can treat my fiancee any way I
" —
CRIMSON SKIES ZI9
damn well please. And right now it would please me a whole

came home." He held
helluva lot if she just got in the car and
out a leather-gloved hand to the girl, who was shaking like
a leaf.
"Emmy isn't going anywhere with you, you son of a —

"Emmy andTuggy The city's answer to Romeo and Juliet,
!
eh?" The two bodyguards snorted like bulldogs at their

master's joke.
"Get the hell outta here, Deschaines. Like I said " He
—
—
thumbed back the Colt's hammer. " she isn't going anywhere
with you."
The spoke up in a soft accented voice. "Tommy,
girl
please. Don't do this. They'll kill you." She rose reluctantly

from the banquette, her shoulders sagging in despair. "I'll go
with you, Bertrand."
Tommy's head snapped back, as if he'd just been slapped.
A thin, arrogant smile tugged at the corners of Bertrand
Deschaines' cruel mouth. "That's a good girl. You see, Tommy?
Emmeline knows who the better man is."
The girl stepped toward Bertrand, but pointedly ignored
his outstretched hand. For a moment, the arrogance fled from
Deschaines' face, and was replaced with anger. He roughly
pulled the girl closer to him.
Nathan watched as Tommy's eyes narrowed and the Colt
tracked Deschaines. The damn-fool kid was about to turn the
bar into a shooting gallery. Zachary was on his feet in an in-
stant. He crossed the bar in two quick strides and locked the
kid's arm in a vise grip.

Everyone froze, startled by Zachary's sudden, unexpected
actions.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said, his voice calm. "Am I
interrupting?"
He whispered into the kid's ear: "Put the gun away, son."
The young pilot bristled. "You with them?"
"If I were, you'd be dead now," Nathan replied. "Just
relax."
Zachary stepped forward and placed himself directly in
front of the kid. He gestured at Deschaines' gunman
ZZO Bayou Blues
Benny —with his own pistol. "You, too, pal. It's too nice a
morning for a gunfight."
A faint smile crossed Bertrand's face. He nodded to the
two thugs who frowned but tucked their weapons aw ay. r
"Why don't you take the young lady out of here before
someone gets hurt," Zachary said. Tommy started forward,
ready for a fight, but Zachary barred the kid's path.
Deschaines clasped his fingers firmly around the girl's
shoulder and guided her toward the door. He paused, and
called back over his shoulder: "Maybe you can teach the
boy some manners, Mr. ?" He trailed off, the question
. . .
implicit.
"Nathan Zachary."
One aristocratic eyebrow arched in surprise before De-
schaines could recover his mask of nonchalance. "Mr.
Zachary. Your reputation precedes you."
Zachary sighed. For years, his pirate gang the Fortune —
Hunters —
had been a small-time outfit. In the last year, they'd
had a string of good luck which meant his face had been
. . .
plastered in the papers. The price offame, he thought. So

much for anonymity.
"What brings you to New Orleans, Mr. Zachary?"
Bertrand inquired. "Not here on 'business,' I hope."
"Plane trouble, actually. My bird's laid up at Pontchartrain
Aerodrome for repairs, so I thought I'd cool my heels here for
a bit." He shot a pointed glare at the gun that Deschaines'
man, Benny, had trained on them.
still "It's supposed to be
quiet here after Mardi Gras, after all."
Deschaines gave a humorless chuckle. "Put it away,
Benny. It's time to leave." He nodded at Nathan. "It's been
a . pleasure making your acquaintance. Another time, per-

. .
haps " With that, Deschaines exited the bar and ushered the
girl into the backseat of the black car.
Zachary's handsome face hardened as he kept his gaze on

the departing foursome, their image distorted by the bar's
grimy window. Benny was the last to leave. He glared at
"
Nathan and added, "Another time for sure, 'pal.'
Satisfied that the danger had passed, he looked back over
CRIMSON SKICS 2ZI
his shoulder. The kid was a mess, drenched in sweat and

shaking from the rush of adrenaline and anger. "Go in the
back and splash some cold water on your face, kid. Then
we'll talk."
Tommy began another splutter of protest —
he was starting
to sound like the faulty prop on an old Warhawk but —
Zachary cut him off. "Just do it."
The young pilot crashed through the kitchen doors in fury.
It was a good thing the kid left the taproom when he did.
Zachary watched as Deschaines got into the backseat behind

the driver and turned to face the girl. It was obvious he was
furious even before he slapped her hard across her face.
She crumpled against the passenger window, her pale com-
plexion marred by tears and a reddening handprint. For a
moment, Zachary could see her look of utter defeat and
—
misery and then the Packard peeled away from the curb.
Zachary 's own anger flared. If anyone needed a lesson in
manners, it was Bertrand Deschaines.
Z: Boy Meets Girl
' jlamn it, Zachary," Tommy growled. "You should 've let
1/ me send that bastard outta here in a box."

Tommy looked angry enough to take the bar apart with his
bare hands. He paced back and forth like a caged animal, his
fists clenched. Finally, he snarled and kicked a chair across
the floor. It crashed into the bar and broke apart.
Nathan sized up the kid, from his battered flight jacket to
his cheap boots. There was no way Tommy could pay for
damages if he busted up the bar. Nathan suppressed a wry
—
grin he'd wrecked more than his share of speakeasies in his
time, too. And, like the kid, it was usually because of a
woman.
"Calm down, kid. Let me buy you a cup of coffee."
Zachary steered the young pilot to the table and firmly sat
him down. "Stay put and take it easy on the furniture."
. . .
ZZ2 Bayou Blues
Zachary waved over the bartender and passed him a few

franc notes. Within moments, the bartender returned with a
plate of the ubiquitous beignets and two steaming cups of
coffee.
Nathan took a sip of the coffee and grimaced. It was hot
and dark, just the way he liked it. Unfortunately, the locals in-
sisted on putting chicory in it, which made it slightly less
drinkable than the sludge in his plane's oil pan. On the other
hand, the kid had downed enough rotgut for one day, so
coffee — —
even bad coffee was an improvement.
"Go ahead, kid," Zachary said. "Looks like you could use
some food." He pushed the plate of pastries across the table.
Suspicion clouded Tommy's face. "What's your story?
Why would a big-time pirate want to buy breakfast for some
stranger?"
Nathan shrugged. "Good question. In your place, I probably
wouldn't trust me, either. But, since I just kept you from get-
ting shot, I'd say I'm probably as trustworthy as anyone else
in this town."
He pointed at the insignia on Tommy's shoulder. "So what
if my motives aren't completely pure? I know the Cajuns — or
rather, I'vehad some dealings with your boss and maybe—
there's some money to be made by cooperating. Helping you
out would get me in solid with him."
He paused, then leaned back his chair and grinned.
"Mostly, though, I got in the middle of that mess because you
were disturbing my breakfast."
The younger man chuckled and attacked the pastry like he
hadn't eaten in a week.
After a few minutes Tommy came up for air, wiped the
powdered sugar off his face, and reached across the table.
"I'm Tommy Boates, but everyone calls me Tug. Everyone
except for Emmy." His blue eyes got that glazed-over look
that said he had it pretty bad for the girl. Zachary knew that
look—he'd seen it in the mirror a couple of times himself, al-
though not recently, thank God. The kid had a good grip, nice
steady hand. He was probably a pretty fair pilot ... if he kept
that hair-trigger temper of his under control.
"You're from Texas, right?" Zachary asked.
CRIMSON SKItS Z23
"Yessir. How'd you know?" That flat twang was unmis-

takable.
"Oh, I've traveled around a bit. How did you end up here?"
"Well, I ran into some trouble a while back." Tommy
flushed and looked around the room as if he expected a posse
to come through the door at any moment waving a wanted
poster at him.
"No need to spell it out, kid. You're not the only one who's
got trouble on his heels."
."
"Look, Mr. Zachary . .
"Nathan."
"Okay, Nathan. See, I had to leave Texas kinda sudden-
like. I hitched a ride on the
plane outta there, an' I ended
first
up here. I kicked around for a day or two but I didn't have

anywhere to go. Deschaines an' his cronies have tied up all
the legal flying gigs in this town. I didn't have my own wings,
an' I couldn't get into the militia because of the trouble back
home, so things were lookin' pretty bad."
"Why not sign on with the Foreign Legion? The garrison
here always needs pilots, and they don't ask uncomfort- . . .
able questions."
"I almost did, but things between the locals an' the Le-
gion are pretty tense. Seemed like a good way to get shot
down. I was considerin' goin' back to Austin an' facin' the mu-
sic when I met up with 'Wild Card' Thibodeaux. He took
me into the Rajin' Cajuns, gave me a plane an' a place to hang
my hat."
"Louis Thibodeaux? When did he join the Cajuns?"
Nathan had met Thibodeaux a while back the cagey half- —
Creole was running a sweet gambling operation along the
Mississippi (and was cheating the players blind, naturally).
He was gregarious and charming, and as crooked as they
came. Nathan liked him despite the fact that Thibodeaux
. . .
had conned him out of a bundle.

"Huh?" Tommy looked puzzled. "Thibodeaux runs the
whole outfit."
Zachary studied his coffee intently for a moment and tried
to keep a straight face. The Rajin' Cajuns were a pretty well-
known pirate gang in these parts, going back some two
"
Ilk Bayou Blues
hundred years when ships sailed on water instead of air. The

last Zachary had heard, the head of the gang was a man
—
named Gaspard a wily old con man who'd bragged that his
roots went clear back to Jean Laffite. Of course, every two-bit
grifter in French Louisiana made the same claim but Gas-
. . .
pard was colorful, so his antics were tolerated.

Under Gaspard's leadership, the Cajuns were airborne
bandits who, in the old days, were likely to hand a lady a
rose with a flourish as they took the diamonds off her neck.
Despite their generally lawless activities in the past several
years, they had actually done a lot to help the poor folks in the
bayou who had gotten crushed under the wheels of the French
—
Louisiana government so the locals protected them when
the law tried to shut the Cajuns down.
—
And now, Gaspard was out of the picture and Wild Card
Thibodeaux was the new top dog? Perfect.
"The Cajuns have been real good to me," Tommy con-
tinued. "Louis gave me my own plane — —
a Fury an' let me
fix her up so she really purrs."
Zachary smiled. Listening to Tommy talk about his plane,
he could tell the kid loved to fly, but there was something
guarded even in his rapturous description. "It's just that, well,
my daddy raised me to respect the law, an' the Cajuns are
sorta on the other side of it, if you know what I mean. I just
don't feel real comfortable havin' to look over my shoulder
when I'm flyin'."
for militia an' such
Zachary had been on the wrong side of the law for most of
his career. He nodded. "Enough said. So, what's the story
with you and that rich guy?"
Tommy's blue eyes flashed. "Bertrand Deschaines," he
said, his voice flat. "I'm tellin' you, Nathan, you should have
let me finish that son of a bitch off
—
"Throttle back a second, kid," Nathan said. "From where I
was sitting, it looked like you were the one who was going to
get his ticket punched."
Tommy glowered, but before he could protest, Nathan cut
him voice kind. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Tommy.
off, his
I've —
been outgunned myself on occasion I just try not to
make a habit of it. So, who's the girl?"
—
CRIMSON SKIES 225
Tommy relaxed a bit. "Emmeline-Marie Fonteneau. Emmy.

She's . . . she's . .
." The young pilot paused, his face red.
"She's special," Zachary said. "Happens to the best of us,
kid. And I take it Bertrand is the competition?"
"No, sir!" Tommy's fist pounded the table. "I love Emmy,
an' she loves me. The problem is her guardian, Henri
Deschaines.
"See, Emmy lost her folks when she was real young. Her
daddy was partners with old man Deschaines. So here she
was, an orphan child with no relatives an' a pile of dough —
she inherited. Old man Deschaines, he becomes her guardian.
Makes sure she's treated real good, like a princess, best of
everything."
"Sounds like a decent enough thing to do," Nathan said.
"No way. Henri Deschaines only cares about money, an'
Emmy's folks died rich. Henri wants the money, so he's
forcing Emmy to marry Bertrand — to keep her trust money
under his thumb."
Zachary's interest was piqued at the mention of "trust
money." He had a soft spot for damsels in distress
especially beautiful ones who were swimming in dough. Al-
though the adored Miss Emmy was a little shy and retiring for
his taste, there was no denying that she was a looker. He
imagined it wouldn't be too hard to wake up every morning
knowing that you were married to that kind of beauty and —
that kind of money.
Tommy continued. "See, Emmy, she doesn't care about the
money. She'd up an' leave it all if she could. An' me, I don't
wanna marry her because of the money. Hell, a man's sup-
posed to support a woman, not the other way around, right?"
Nathan nodded and hoped he looked convincing. He could
think of a couple of ladies who were more than welcome to
support him. The kid's sincerity made him feel old and a little
'
sad. "Kid," he wanted to say, 'you hang on to that dream as
long as you can. You '11 find out that sometimes, in the real
world, things just don work out like they do in fairy tales"
't
"So, what are you going to do?" Zachary interjected. "You

can't just run off with her. Bertrand strikes me as the kind of
fellow who doesn't like it when people take things that
.
ZZ6 Bayou Blues
belong to him. You run off with Emmy, his guys will gun you
down like a dog."
Tommy shrugged. "Yep, I figured that out pretty quick, so
at their own game. That's
I'm gonna have to beat these creeps
why I was meetin' Emmy today to tell her my plan." —
He paused, a mischievous grin creasing his handsome
face. "See, Henri Deschaines is a respected 'pillar of the
community' —but he's as dirty as yesterday's dishwater. He
runs all sortsof gambling outfits an' bettin' parlors. Plus,
he sponsors damn near all the air racin' in Louisiana, all of it
illegal, an' all of it with cash prizes. The next race is the day
after tomorrow, an' the payoff is a cool twenty grand."
Zachary gave a low whistle. "That's quite a prize. And you
figure on collecting it?"
"Well, the way I see it, I spend more time out there flyin'
the bayou than they do. My plane is better an' faster than most
of the local racers' rigs. I can probably beat anyone De-
schaines throws at me. I win the race, get the twenty grand,
an' then Emmy an' me get the hell outta town. Maybe Holly-
wood or Pacifica, someplace like that."
"That's a pretty big if, Tommy. Is your plane in shape for
that kind of race?"
The young Texan's face fell. "That's the problem. I can win
the race, but I gotta make a coupl'a repairs to my bird . .
an' the parts ain't cheap.Thibodeaux ain't eager to spend the

Cajuns' money on 'some damn-fool' race. I don't mean
—
no disrespect, but " A sly look crossed Tommy's face as
he launched into an approximation of the local dialect.
"— 'Tommee, mon gargon, how far you zink ze twenty grand
will go? Emmy's not some little bayou girl gonna be happy
"
wid ze life of a poor man.'
Zachary smiled at the Texan's imitation of his leader. "He
does have a point, Tommy. I'm sure Emmy loves you but if
she's been raised on Chateaubriand and champagne, she may
not be ready for beans and beer."
Tommy looked defiant. "She says she doesn't care where
we live as long as we're together."
Zachary took another sip of his bitter coffee and consid-
ered the situation, looking for all the angles. The smart play
—
CRIMSON SKIES 2Z7
was to leave this dime-store Romeo and Juliet act to play out
on its own. On the other hand, there was money to be made
here: an inheritance, a corrupt local businessman, and illegal
cash racing all added up to a nice, juicy score.
The ace sighed. There was no point in kidding himself-
there was more to this caper than money. He despised bullies,
and there was no question that pere etfils Deschaines were a
matched set. The pit of his stomach went cold as he remem-
bered the miserable look on Emmy's face after Bertrand
slapped her.
Finally, he stood up and clapped Tommy on the shoulder.
"Come on, kid. Let's go see your boss. I have a feeling we can
work something out."
3: The Fox Den
' A lmost there, Nathan," Tug called out. He eased the bat-
Htered J2 Fury The thick green
into a leisurely port bank.
canopy of the Louisiana bayou stretched below the speeding
fighter, shrouded in a yellow-gray haze.
"It's about time," Nathan muttered. He sat in the plane's
—
"rumble seat" the copilot position directly behind the pilot.
His typical calm expression had been replaced with a dark
frown. His hands clutched Tug's seat back in a white-knuckle
grip. Nathan Zachary had never been a good passenger.
His expression darkened further as Tug rolled the plane out
of its turn and dropped her nose. The Fury plummeted like a
rock, then leveled off as Tug expertly trimmed out of the dive.
Zachary's fingers tightened reflexively when the plane's fuse-
lage scraped the tops of the taller trees.
"Kid, any lower and we'll be walking," Nathan shouted.
His voice barely carried over the roar of the Fury's powerful
fourteen-cylinder Wright R-1800-C engine. In the bar, Tug
had said his plane "purred." Some purr, Zachary thought. I've
fired machine guns that made less noise.
ZZ8 Bayou Blues
"If you think we're too low now," Tug replied, "you're
gonna hate this."
Tug ruddered to starboard and aimed for a hole in the tree
canopy. Nathan swore in surprise as the Fury dived through
the gap in the foliage. Trees and vines flashed past as Tug
shed more altitude.
As the Fury sped along the natural corridor formed by the
trees, Zachary realized that much of the "tree cover" was ac-
tually overlapping layers of camouflage netting. It wouldn't
be hard to spot the pirates' hideout from the —
air it would be
damn near impossible.
Moments later, Tug lined the plane up with a small dirt
landing strip. He cranked the landing gear into position, then
more or less bounced the Fury down the end of the landing
strip. As the plane taxied to one side of the landing strip, Tug
killed the engine. He stripped off his leather flight helmet and
gloves, then turned to his white-faced passenger with a grin.
"That wasn't so bad,now was it?"
Nathan managed a grin of his own. "Not bad ... for a
rookie."
Tug chuckled, rolled the canopy back, and climbed onto
the wing. "Time to see the boss."
"Looks like the welcoming committee is already on its
way" Nathan pointed at a cluster of men walking toward the
plane. "And they don't look too happy."
There were five of them, all pirates judging by their attire.
Zachary had lived and worked among air pirates for the better
part of a decade. Some were like him —
thrill-seekers inter-
ested in a of compromise. Others were just in it for
life free
the cash. Many were violent thugs, one step away from the
electric chair.
This bunch fell firmly into the latter category: hard-
looking men, dressed in stained dungarees tucked into high
boots.Most wore work shirts, open to the waist. An assort-
ment of powerful rifles and pistols were all trained on the
Fury's cockpit.
"Hey, what's the big idea?" Tug called out. "It's me, Tug."
"Yeah, I know," one of the pirates replied, and then pointed
at Zachary. "But who's heT
" "
CRIMSON SKIES ZZ9
The pirate was a big man, built like a carnival strongman.

His shaven head was covered with a green-and-purple ban-
danna, and a large gold hoop hung from his left ear. An ob-
scene tattoo decorated the massive expanse of his chest.
"Look, he's a friend," Tug protested. "There's no call
for—"
"Shut up, Tug," the pistol-toting pirate cut in. "Let the
chump speak for himself." He called up to Zachary. "Step on
down from there and no funny stuff."
Zachary stood slowly and showed his empty hands. He
joined Tug on the ground. He crossed his arms and looked
the bald pirate square in the eyes. "I'm a friend of Tommy's,"
he said, his voice even and calm. "My name is
—
"Nathan Zachary." A new voice spoke up from behind the
pirates. The voice was accented, that strange mix of southern
and French that was so common in these parts. The bald pi-
rate moved aside as the speaker stepped forward.
Louis Thibodeaux was tall, lean, and dark. His wine-red
silk shirt was clean, as were his jodhpurs and high leather
boots. A Bowie knife and pistol hung from his wide belt. His
autocratic features were softened by a neat, pencil-thin mus-
tache. Thibodeaux looked every inch the pirate — except for
the somewhat threadbare beret he wore.
Thibodeaux faced Zachary, his arms crossed. "Nathan,
—
mon ami" he said. "It's been a while. You look " He paused
—
and looked around at the assembled gunmen. " outgunned."
His henchmen chortled.
"Good to see you, Louis," Nathan replied. "You've moved
up in the world. Still wearing that stupid hat, I see."
Thibodeaux snorted with amusement. "Ah, oui. And you?
I see you makin' 'eadlines all over the place lately. And yet,
'ere you stand, in the middle of the bayou, wit 'out your For-
tune Hunters. Wearin' a scarf, no less."
Nathan grinned.
"I don' see why you're smilin', mon ami," Thibodeaux
continued. His own smile was frozen on his face, but his eyes
had become hard and cold. "I hate to be in'ospitable, but you
crashed this party wit 'out an invitation. If this is about that
money I won off you, you lost to me fair and square

—
—
230 Bayou Blues
"I wouldn't call the way you deal cards 'fair and square,'
Louis," Nathan said, "but no, I'm not here about old
business."
"So?"
"New business. Let's talk somewhere more private."
Thibodeaux frowned, then shrugged. "All right, Zachary.
Follow me back to the command shack."
The Cajun sent the other pirates back to their posts and
walked toward the small collection of tin shacks in the center
of the compound. Nathan and Tug followed.
Zachary nonchalantly looked around, sizing up the Ca-
juns' operation. It was a hell of a setup, he had to admit. Aside
from the camouflage netting, several of the trees contained
hidden antiaircraft emplacements. There were enough shacks
to house as many as twenty pirates, and half that many were
visible, working on a small fleet of fighter planes.
Fuel drums were stacked neatly in the southwest corner of
the compound, near a larger wood and sheet-steel structure.
Judging by the noises from inside the building, Nathan guessed
it was a tool shop.
On the opposite side of the central compound was a big
building, maybe the size of a warehouse, but much lower to
the ground. He was about to ask what the building was used
for, when swamp air shifted slightly. One whiff
the stagnant
—
answered his question the Cajuns had their own distillery.
Thibodeaux opened the door to the central shack and
stepped inside. Nathan followed him into the dark, cluttered
room. Paintings and jewelry were stacked on shelves and
piled in corners, undoubtedly loot captured during pirate raids.
—
A half-dozen bottles of bootleg bourbon the Cajuns' own
—
brand competed with a shortwave radio for space on top of
a battered old card table. A scuffed and worn wooden desk
covered with papers, charts, and maps —
dominated the cen-
ter of the small room.
Thibodeaux took a seat behind the desk and gestured for
Nathan to sit in a rusty folding chair. He poured bourbon into
a pair of smudged glasses and pushed one across the desk to
Nathan. "So, mon ami, what's this new business?"
CRIMSON SKIES Bl
"Tug wants to fly in Deschaines' air race. I think you

should let him."
Louis smirked. "I never figured you'd be a soft touch for a
'ard-luck story, Zachary."
"Depends on the story."
Thibodeaux's smile vanished, and he leaned forward.
"This isn't new business, Zachary. . . . It's personal business.
Tug's personal business, to be precise. As long as 'e flies with
the Cajuns, 'e flies when and where /tell him to and I say —
'is personal business is not my concern."
"So what's the harm in letting the kid fly in the race?"
Nathan asked. "I saw him handle that Fury, and he's good. If a
Cajun wins the race, that'll only enhance your reputation,
Louis. That's good for business. So's the cash prize."
Thibodeaux made a slashing gesture with his left hand.
"Don' con me. You never make a move wit'out considerin' all
the angles. What do you care about my reputation?"
"Fair enough," Nathan conceded. He set his untouched
bourbon on the desk and leaned closer. "This Deschaines
clown has to finance these races with cash, right?"
"Ow/. Twenty thousand francs."
"If we get Tug inside the race, we can case his operation
and figure out how to steal the cash."
Thibodeaux laughed. "C'est impossible. M'sieur De-
schaines, 'e draws a lot of water in these parts. I already
have troubles wit' Prime Minister DuPre." He gave Nathan
a conspiratorial wink. "Apparently, I'm a 'scourge of th'
skies.' Why would I wan' to go makin' trouble in my own
backyard?"
"That's the best part, Louis. If we play this right, he'll think
I'm the one who stole the money. You get away clean."
Louis considered for a moment, then grinned. "And all you
need is for me to front the money to fix up Tug's plane?"
"That's all."
"No deal."
"What?" Nathan exclaimed. "Why not?"
"Maybe you wan' to recruit Tug into the Fortune Hunters.
Why should /pay for this?"
— — .
Z3Z Bayou Blues
"Louis," Nathan said with an air of wounded pride, "you

really should learn to trust people."
Zachary reachedinto his jacket and produced a deck of
cards, wrapped in paper. "Tell you what," he said. "Let's
still
settle this .fair and square."

. .
He tore open the package and removed the cards. He

quickly fanned the deck and stripped out the jokers. "Here's
my proposition, Louis," Nathan said. "Whoever draws the
high card wins the bet. Simple as that."
Thibodeaux nodded. "What are the stakes?"
"If I win, you let Tug fly in the race. I'll even front the
money to fix his bird and cover his entry fee. If you win . .
you get my Devastator."

Louis arched an eyebrow. "So? Devastators are a dime a
dozen."
"Not like mine. She's got a nitro boost system fast —
enough to leave Paladin Blake eating my exhaust."
Thibodeaux considered, then shrugged. "Oui. I accept," he
said. "Not that I don' trust you, mon ami, but I'd prefer to use
my cards."
He removed a battered deck from a drawer and set them on
the desk. Nathan's expert eye spotted trouble right away: the
cards were marked —and Thibodeaux had expertly palmed
away the top card.
"I've got a better idea," Nathan said. He reached over and
scooped up Louis' marked deck. His nimble hands shuffled it
in with his own. He gave the oversize deck a one-handed cut.
The last time Nathan had gambled with Thibodeaux, the
wily Cajun had won several times. Louis was a hell of a card-
sharp, with a mechanic's grip that was almost invisible
even to a cheat as accomplished as Nathan. Thibodeaux could
slip the palmed card to the top of the deck at will, given half a
chance.
Louis' eyes never left Nathan's hands as the cards danced
back and forth. Zachary spied one of the marked cards from
— —
Thibodeaux 's deck an ace and curled the fingers of his
left hand slightly, in preparation for a card steal he'd learned
onTortuga. If he could just jostle the cards just right, he could

control the ace to the top of the deck
CRIMSON SKIES Z33
"Ah, Nathan," Louis admonished, "you've gotten rusty.

You need more practice. Next time, use the cards to cover
your left 'and a bit more."
Zachary chuckled. "My apologies."
"Why don' we save some time, mon ami," Thibodeaux
said, "and just cut to the card, nice and simple? The way you
'andle those cards, c 'est horrible. It pains me to watch you
abuse them."
"Sure, Louis," Nathan said. He placed the cards down on
the cluttered desk and gestured at the Cajuns' leader to go
first.Louis would have to make his move now.
Louis cut the deck into two piles. It looked like Thi-
bodeaux had simply drawn the top card from the second pile
and placed it facedown on the desk, but Nathan had no doubt
that Thibodeaux had simply produced the palmed card.
Nathan cut the deck again and drew a card.
Thibodeaux looked at Nathan as he turned his card faceup
and announced, "La reine du pique, the queen of spades."
Nathan met Thibodeaux 's gaze and smiled as he flipped his
own card over. "The king of hearts. You lose."
Thibodeaux 's eyes went wide. " 'ow the 'ell did you
?"
—
Nathan shrugged. "What can I tell you, my friend? Most
people know better than to gamble with a Gypsy."
Louis laughed. "Well played, Zachary. I still win, 'owever."
Nathan's eyes narrowed. Thibodeaux was a cheat, but not a
welsher. "How do you figure?"
"Simple. You pay to fix up Tug's plane which means I —
—
come out ahead but 'e can' win the race. You still lose."
The Cajun drained his bourbon in a single gulp. "The race
is fixed, mon ami. The only winner is gonna be Henri
Deschaines."
4: Les Fautons du Marai
he air was filled with the echoing thunder of dozens of

T:fighter engines, loud enough that Nathan's ears rang. The
—
234 Bayou Blues
din from the engines was not unusual for an air race; the crash
of cannon and rocket fire was.
Nathan fought the urge to duck as a quartet of fighters
roared overhead, low enough that he was buffeted by the prop
wash. The planes were deep blue and devoid of insignia
except for the wings, which featured a meticulously painted
pattern of silver and gold hawk feathers.
Zachary instantly recognized the fighters' distinctive bat-
like profile — the Whittly & Douglass M210 Raven. Tough
and agile, the Raven was built to be a dogfighter and
zeppelin-buster. The Raven's six guns —
a quartet of .40 cals
—
and a pair of .60s thrown in for good measure could tear a
target apart. In sufficiently skilled hands, the Raven was an
implement of mayhem and destruction.
The throaty roar of the Ravens' engines mingled with the
coughing grumble of a fifth plane, a battered old PR-1 De-
fender. The Defender dived from the cloud cover and fell into
position behind the Ravens.
As the Defender opened fire, the Ravens broke formation
in perfect unison, banking in pairs. With pinpoint precision,
the Ravens looped and rolled.
The Defender's dive had been too steep and too fast it —
overshot the Ravens. In seconds, they had returned to their
wing-to-wing formation directly behind the Defender. The
lead Raven opened fire. Tracers carved a line through the sky.
The Defender was a designed-by-committee bona fide piece
ofjunk; Nathan's wingman, Jack, had once joked that piloting
a Defender was like flying a tractor: "It's damn hard, damn
ugly, and damn sure gonna make the pilot look stupid."
Nathan scowled, and his hands flexed in frustration he —
ached to be in the cockpit of his own Devastator, preferably
with the lead Raven in his gun sights. In his years of combat
flying, Nathan had seldom seen such a one-sided battle.
In seconds, the Defender's tail disintegrated in a hail of
bullets. Smoke blossomed from the engine cowling as gun-
fire walked along the Defender's fuselage.
—
The Defender pilot dropped his landing gear the sign of
surrender. The Ravens broke off, still in perfect formation.
— "
CRIMSON SKIES Z35
The Defender pulled into a sluggish, wobbling climb. Nathan

had seen enough air combat to know the plane was doomed
and that her pilot was desperate to climb high enough for a
relatively safe bailout.
Tug nudged Nathan. "Here they come again," he said.
The blue Ravens moved in for the kill.
The Defender pilot saw them, too. A bare few hundred feet
from the ground, the Defender's canopy popped open and the
pilot dived from the cockpit. Seconds later a pair of rockets
slammed into the crippled Defender.
Smoke wreathed the Defender, just before it blew apart.
Fire and steel careened into the bayou. Nathan caught a
glimpse of white silk as the pilot's chute popped open, low to
the tree line. Too low, in fact. The pilot would be lucky to get
out of the landing with a busted leg ... or a broken neck.
"Good Lord," Nathan muttered. He tapped Thibodeaux on
"What the hell kind of race is this?"
the shoulder.
Louis shrugged. "The illegal kind, mon ami. And this is
just the qualifyin' run."
"Yeah, the qualifyin' run / should be in," Tug groused.
Zachary, Thibodeaux, Tug, and a half-dozen of the Rajin'
Cajuns walked along a muddy footpath. Twisted, vine-
strangled trees lined the path, making it hard to see anything
save swamp and the sky directly overhead.
"We're here," Tug said.
Just ahead on the path was a crude gate, built from a couple
of old sawhorses. The gate was flanked by machine-gun nests,
each manned by a pair of gunners. Behind them, a dozen
hard-faced men with pistols and rifles stood post. Their eyes
never wavered as Nathan and the Cajuns approached.
A small canvas awning stood just beyond the gate. A hand-
lettered sign tacked to the awning read admission: two
FRANCS. NO FOREIGN CURRENCY. NO REFUNDS.
A slender man in wire-rim glasses stepped forward. "Two
francs. Each." He held out his hand. When it was his turn in
the line,Nathan drew out a pair of wrinkled one-franc notes
and handed them to the man. Wire-rims inspected each bill
carefully, then nodded. "Let 'em in. Check your weapons
—
—
He jerked his thumb at the canvas awning. " over there."
Z36 Bayou Blues
Two of the burly gunmen moved the gate aside and waved
them toward the makeshift awning. One by one, Wire-rims
disarmed the pirates.
He smirked when he saw Zachary's pistol a cheap —
French automatic he'd picked up after landing at the Pont-
chartrain Aerodrome.
"Nice gun," Wire-rims quipped. A sarcastic smile tugged
at the corners of his thin lips. Nathan couldn't argue with the
creep's assessment of the pistol —
it was garbage. The fact that
Wire-rims was right didn't change anything, though; Zachary

still wanted to wipe the smirk off the man's mug with a left
cross.
Once the pirates' weapons had been collected, Wire-rims
pointed farther along the mud path. "Seats are that way. Bet-
ting booths just beyond the bleachers." With that, Wire-rims
turned back to counting the francs and placing them in a steel
lockbox.
Just ahead, Nathan saw that much of the foliage had been
cleared away. A few hundred yards ahead, a skeletal structure
—
of wood and metal was visible the bleacher seating for race
spectators. There was enough seating for nearly a thousand
people in a pinch, though today fewer than a hundred people
were seated in the stands.
Thibodeaux nudged Nathan and pointed at a small con-
crete structure, partially sunk into the wet earth. "That, mon
ami'' Louis said, "is where Deschaines keeps the prize
money."
The building was uncomfortably similar to the enemy
bunkers Zachary had seen in Europe during the Great War. A
massive steel door dominated the front of the structure.
Nathan gave a low whistle. "It looks like a bank vault."
"It is," Louis replied. "Deschaines is the boss man of the
national bank. Henri 'ad one of the vaults brought all the way
out here." He winked and added, "Blamed the loss of the
vault on 'air pirates', if you can imagine."
"Swell," Nathan groused. "A simple grab job was too
much to hope for, I guess."
"Not unless you've got a key to the vault," Thibodeaux
replied. "And not unless you're ready to tangle wit' them."
—
CRIMSON SKIES 237
He nodded at a cluster of men that stood in front of the

bunker. The hulking figures wore blue uniforms, despite
the muggy heat. Nathan could see the thin sunlight glint off
the gold-colored badges on their chests.
Cops. A lot of cops.
New Orleans had always been a tough town, rife with
crime. That was, in Nathan's view, part of the city's charm
particularly when compared to the industrial fascism of
Chicago or the stuffy, teetotaling elitism of Manhattan. In New
Orleans, there was always someone with a hand out; bribery
and were just part of doing business. It was effort-
graft
less . almost casual. It made Nathan feel right at home.
. .
—
After the fall of the United States and French Louisiana's
aborted conflicts with her neighbors — the corruption that
permeated virtually every of the government had wors-
level
ened. Even the locals, who generally accepted shakedowns
and protection rackets, had tired of the brazen criminal ac-
tivity perpetrated by the city's supposed protectors.
Prime Minister DuPre had been elected to office with
promises of rooting out the criminals hiding within the system.
Several crusading journalists had assisted DuPre's campaign
and kept the corruption scandals in the public eye. Bribery
—
and graft hadn't gone away not by a long shot but most —
cops on the take at least made an effort to be subtle about it.
Which is what made the presence of uniformed police so
unusual and worrisome. —
"So Deschaines has the cops in his pocket," Nathan said.
"This just gets better and better."
"Oui. Rumor 'as it 'e's runnin' some kind of blackmail
."
scheme on the chief of police and the mayor. Which means . .
Thibodeaux trailed off.

". which means," Nathan finished, "if we cause trouble
. .
here, he'll have every cop in town on our trail."

They made their way to the bleacher seating. The bleachers
were a ramshackle, rusty affair that looked ready to collapse
at any moment. Thibodeaux led the way to the upper rows.
From this elevated position, Nathan got his first good look at
the racecourse.
Z38 Bayou Blues
The course was marked with low-flying hot air balloons,

tethered at the race checkpoints. Nathan guessed that the
was around five or six miles short
route the racers had to fly —
laps,compared with the races Nathan had seen elsewhere.
The fliers also had to pass through a number of obstacles.
Nathan drew a small pair of field glasses from his jacket and
studied the course. He watched a yellow-and-red Brigand
dive through the nearest obstacle — the rotting wooden frame
of an old barn that had long ago lost its battle with the swamp.
The Brigand squeaked through with mere inches to spare.
Nathan focused the field glasses on the next obstacle: a
large wood-and-metal hoop that stood almost two stories
high. The hoop had spokes that radiated from a central hub.
Something about the obstacle nagged at him it looked —
familiar, but he'd never seen anything like it in an air race. He
frowned and examined the rest of the obstacles on the race-
course. Several appeared to be constructed out of all sorts of
ordinary materials; large, circular wooden frames suspended
between a pair of balloons seemed to be the most common of
the dozen or so obstacles.
Among the makeshift obstacles were several structures
that appeared to be more or less permanent. The rusting edi-
fices were clogged with vines and mud. He squinted for a
better look.
Then— like a black-and-white drawing of two faces re-
solving themselves into a vase —he saw it.
One of the distant obstacles appeared at first to be a

roughly cone-shaped building, low to the ground. The front
of the building was open, barely wide enough for two planes
to pass through. Just inside the building, Nathan could see a
central support pillar — the conical roof actually spun on a
central rod.
The building was constructed around an old, and very
large,merry-go-round. The carnival horses had been re-
placed with sheets of metal and wood, moving barriers that
spun and bobbed erratically.
The racecourse had been built like a Frankenstein monster
from a cast-off and dilapidated carnival. Nathan spotted the
CRIMSON SKIES Z39
remains of an old roller coaster, a Ferris wheel, and a second

merry-go-round.
Louis grinned. "Deschaines 'as an interestin' sense of
'umor, nonV
Nathan nodded. The scene disquieted him despite Louis'
levity.The races were bloody, violent, deadly affairs all —
built on the corpse of a carnival. It just felt wrong. Per-
. . .
verse, somehow.
Something didn't figure, though. Since no one in their
right mind would build a carnival out here in the middle of
nowhere, Deschaines would've been forced to build it or —
move it — out here.
"So, whobuilds a carnival in a swamp?" he wondered
aloud. "This must have cost Deschaines a bundle."
"Non." Louis shook his head. "Mos' likely it cost the bank
a bundle. That's 'ow Henri makes a lot of 'is money. He
charges the locals extra interest on loans and mortgages and
skims the difFrence."
Nathan nodded. Now it made sense. "So he used the bank
and foreclosed on the carnival owner."
"Out" Louis said. "Then 'e forgave a few small debts to
have locals move the 'ole mess out here."
"Smart."
"Jus' like these qualifyin' runs."
"How do you mean?"
"Deschaines opens up the course to local pilots and most —
of them owe the bank back mortgage payments," Louis ex-
plained. "If they qualify, they can enter the race wit'out
payin' the entrance fee. Otherwise, you just cough up the cash
up front and you're in."
Nathan nodded. It was a smart setup. Deschaines could
monitor the racers during the qualifying runs, fix the odds,
and make a bundle when his ringers inevitably won the race.
He'd have to lose a race now and then, just to keep the locals
interested, but if Deschaines played it smart, Nathan rea-
soned, then he could clean up on the big day.
He turned his attention back to the racecourse, as the
Ravens screamed back into view. The lead Raven broke off
240 Bayou Blues
and opened fire on a cherry-red Brigand. The Brigand turned

to evade and banked right into a hail of rockets from the
. . .
other Ravens.
"Who are those guys?" Nathan asked.
"Deschaines' personal pilots . . . sky meres, most of 'em,"
Tug said. "Call themselves Les Faugons du Marai — the
Hawks of the Swamp."
"They're good."
"They're not so tough," Tug grumbled.
Nathan ignored Tug's bravado and studied their flying.
The Fortune Hunters had encountered all sorts of oppo-
nents in the skies over North America: aviation security hired
guns, rival pirates, and local militias. The only outfit Na-
than had ever fought against that could hold a candle to De-
schaines' pilots was the Flying Witch Squadron.
The Flying Witch Squadron was a crew of air meres that
operated along the eastern seaboard. Nathan had tangled with
them over Dixie during an attempt to heist a cargo zep. The
Witches had earned Zachary's grudging respect; they were a
crafty bunch and the Fortune Hunters barely managed to
boost the airship and escape.
Unlike the Flying Witch Squadron which was cunning, —
sneaky, and unpredictable in combat Deschaines' merce- —
naries were killers, plain and simple.
Finally, the blue-and-silver Ravens circled the landing
strip and touched down, one after the other. The other local
fliers who made it through the qualifying run —perhaps a
half-dozen planes all told— followed.
"Let's go check out the competition," Nathan said.
"It's your funeral, mon aw/,"Thibodeaux said. "Lead on."
The pirates made their way to the landing field. As Nathan
approached the lead Raven, her pilot clambered down from
the cockpit.
"You again?" the pilot said. "I'm starting to see as much of
you in person as I do in the newsreels, Zachary."
Nathan gave the pilot an insincere smile. "Hello, Bertrand.
Nice bird."
Bertrand Deschaines stripped off his leather helmet and
CRIMSON SKIES 241
goggles. The rest of Deschaines' squadron joined Bertrand.

Among them, Nathan recognized the thugswho had almost
gunned Tug down in The Flyin' Horses. The whole crew looked
ready for a fight.
Bertrand glanced around at Nathan's companions and

smirked. "Out slumming, Zachary? I thought the Fortune
Hunters had a reputation for class ... yet here you are, asso-
common thugs." He
ciating with shot a pointed look at Tug.
"Very common thugs."
Nathan calmly surveyed Deschaines' men. "Dime-a-dozen
thugs, from the looks of it," he snorted. "Seriously, Bertrand,
your daddy can afford better than these clowns."
Behind Bertrand, one of the thugs bristled and balled his
fists. Nathan recognized him —
the red-haired fireplug from
the encounter in the bar. "Who you calling 'dime-a-dozen/
you cheap little punk?"
Nathan met the man's gaze and held his ground. "Run
along, little man," he said. "I'm talking to the organ grinder,
not the monkey."
The Cajuns chuckled, and Fireplug's face reddened.
Without warning, the smaller man swung a vicious up-
percut. His fist crunched into Nathan's jaw. Zachary saw
stars.
He rolled to his left and narrowly avoided a brutal kick to

the head. He grabbed the smaller man's leg and twisted it
roughly. Fireplug hit the ground.
Nathan sprang to his feet, dragged Fireplug up by the
collar of his flight jacket.
They traded body blows, neither man giving ground.
Zachary winced as a hard left slammed into his kidney. He
countered with a quick jab to Fireplug's ribs.
The stocky man stumbled backward, stunned by the blow.
His partners caught him before he fell again.
Nathan glared at Bertrand and wiped a trickle of blood
from his lip. "You should teach that little puppy some man-
ners, Bertrand," he said, "before I swat him with a rolled-up
newspaper."
"I'll keep that in mind," Bertrand said. He nodded at his
—
ZAZ Bayou Blues
men —who drew pistols. Nathan cursed; the "no weapons"

policy at the gate apparently didn't apply to Deschaines' own
racers.
Deschaines turned to Fireplug. "Benny," he said, his voice
thick with anger, "kill that bastard."
"With pleasure."
Before he could fire, Thibodeaux cleared his throat. "Per-
haps you should reconsider, Monsieur Deschaines."
—
Zachary looked at Louis who brandished a small pistol,
aimed directly at Bertrand. The rest of the Cajuns produced a
variety of concealed weapons, like magicians conjuring rab-
bits.Louis gave Zachary a mischievous wink.
Nathan grinned back. "I'm not sure I want to know where
you hid that thing," he muttered.
He faced Bertrand. "It's your move, Deschaines."
Bertrand's face darkened with anger. For a moment,
Zachary was convinced he'd misread Deschaines; he had
thought Bertrand a coward at heart but the man looked . . .
mad enough to start a shoot-out, regardless of the conse-

quences.
Before Bertrand could order his men to fire, a rasping,
gravel-laden voice spoke up from behind them. "What the
hell is going on here? You men put those damn things away,
right now."
5: R.S.V.P. . . . Or Bse
" heard me. Put those guns away this instant."

Y ouBertrand's expression shifted from anger to embar-
rassment. "Yes, Papa," he said. The gunmen holstered their
pistols.
—
Henri Deschaines was tall a full head taller than Nathan
and gaunt. He wore an immaculate white linen suit and
matching panama hat. A cornflower blue tie silk, naturally —
matched the handkerchief that neatly adorned his breast
"
CRIMSON SKIES 2«
pocket. A gold watch chain decorated his vest, and he clutched

a sturdy, well-polished mahogany cane in his right hand.
He marched directly between Bertrand and Nathan and
glared at both young men. His face was painfully thin, almost
cadaverous. His body was and he walked with a limp,
frail,
but a fearsome vitality shone from his eyes, as if Henri

Deschaines could stave off the ravages of age purely through
the force of his will.
"Bertrand," he croaked in his strange, rasping voice, "what
is meaning of this?"
the
"Papa I'm sorry, sir," Bertrand stammered, "it's just
. . .
that these men were trying to start trouble."

. . .
Henri shot the Cajuns an angry look. His gaze fixed on

"
Tug. "Boates. I might have known.
"Look here, Deschaines you can't — —
"I can. And I just did, as a matter of fact. Now shut up."
Bertrand 's gunmen chuckled, and Tug's face went red.
Henri turned to scowl at his men. "I fail to see what you all
find so amusing."
The gunmen paled and fell silent.
"All of you better get this through your heads." He gripped
the cane tightly and leaned forward, glaring at each of his
son's hired guns in turn. "There's too much at stake for this
foolishness. If there are scores to be settled, do it in the race.
Do I make myself clear?"
Henri faced Nathan and his companions. "The same goes
for the rest of you. If you don't have the sand to enter the race,
go sit in the cheap seats with the rest of the rubes."
Tug stepped forward. "I'll race," he growled through
clenched teeth. "An' I reckon we'll see who's man enough,
won't we, Bertrand?"
"Tug, you could be twice the man you are," Bertrand spat,
"and you'd still be half the man I am."
Henri's expression softened into amusement at his son's
words. "Now, now, monfiter he said, his voice patronizing.
"You're being quite unfair to young Boates."
He looked Tug up and down and added, "It's not as if the
Ztt Bayou Blues
little ruffian has enough money to actually enter the race.

Isn't that right, boy?"
Before Tug could respond, Henri clapped his son on the
back. "A pity, too. We could settle this business about Emme-
line once and for all but Boates here didn't even try to qualify
for the race."
The elder Deschaines gave Tug a sardonic smile. "Makes
me wonder what all the fuss is about, Mr. Boates," he said. "If
you were serious about winning young Emmeline's hand, I'm
surprised you weren't here for the qualifying run." He placed
a condescending hand on Tug's shoulder. "I'm beginning to
doubt your sincerity, boy."
Tug shrugged the hand from his shoulder.
"Then let him in the race, Papa," Bertrand said. "Let him
in, and we'll finish it." Bertrand's men nodded in agreement.
Henri cocked his head, as if considering the idea, then

waved his hand dismissively. "I can't fault your generosity,
son," he chuckled, "but that would be against the rules. Can't
be breaking the rules, now, can we?"
He looked Tug square in the eye and added, "Either you
make it through the qualifying race, or you pay the entry fee.
No exceptions."
Nathan stepped forward. From his jacket he drew a bundle
of franc notes, wrapped in a paper band, and tossed them on
the ground in front of Henri.
"I'll cover Tug's entry fee," he announced.
Henri Deschaines' eyes widened with surprise. He glanced

down at the money on the damp ground, then stepped past it
and peered curiously at Nathan. He was easily a foot taller
than the pirate, and was accustomed to using his height and
appearance to intimidate people —but Zachary met his gaze,
his face impassive.
"And who might you be?" Deschaines asked.
"Nathan Zachary"
A thin smile crossed Deschaines' sunken features. "Ah,
yes, Mr. Zachary, the illustrious 'Fortune Hunter.' My son
mentioned that you'd been of some . . . assistance when dear
Emmeline had wandered into town."
CRIMSON SKIES Z45
you could say that." Nathan shrugged. "Mostly, I

"I guess
just kept Tug from kicking your son's teeth in."
Henri chuckled. "Well, I'm sure my son appreciated the
'help.' " He nodded at Thibodeaux and the Cajuns. "I had no
idea you'd joined up with the local undesirables."

"I haven't."
"Then, may I ask, what is your interest in this matter, sir?"
"Simple," Nathan replied. "I'm interested in money . . .
and I know a sure thing when I see it."

Henri gave Nathan a curious look. "I've been known to in-
dulge in a wager now and again, sir," he countered, "but I'm
"
damned if I can figure how Boates is a 'sure thing.'
Zachary shrugged. "I've seen your boys in action. They're
adequate ... for backwater bush pilots."
Henri flushed with anger, but quickly regained his compo-
sure. "I think you underestimate them, Mr. Zachary. My men
are the best that money can buy."
"Your men are straight from Central Casting, Mr.
Deschaines." Nathan pointed at the stocky gunman, Benny.
"If a guy like that is one of your best, then backing Tug is
money in the bank."

Benny stepped forward, his hand resting on the butt of his
pistol. "You just keep on riding me, Zachary," he hissed, "and
I God I'll plug you where you stand."
swear to
Henri considered for a moment, then waved Benny back.
"Benny raises a good point, Mr. Zachary," he said. "You
seem to run your mouth rather recklessly."
Nathan ignored the rebuke. "We're not talking about me.
We're talking about Tug. Is he in, or not?"
"Very well, sir. I'm happy to take your money." He nodded
at Benny. "Collect Boates' entry fee, Benny."
Benny gritted his teeth, then bent over to pick up the packet
of bills. It was caked with mud.
"It's all there: two thousand francs," Nathan said. "You'd
better count it though, Mr. Deschaines." He smirked down at
Benny. "Leave the job to a mutt like Benny, and you could
lose your shirt."
Benny scowled up at Nathan, hatred on his face.
?W Bayou Blues
"I can see you do indeed like to gamble, Mr. Zachary,"

Henri said with a trace of amusement.
"I may bet, Mr. Deschaines . but I never gamble. Like I
. .
said, I'm interested in money. People who gamble eventually

lose."
Henri nodded. "Vraiment."
Deschaines leaned close to Bertrand, and there was a whis-
pered exchange, but Nathan couldn't make out what the
father and son were discussing. Whatever it was, Bertrand
didn't look happy about it.
Finally, Henri turned back to face Nathan. "I would be
honored to host you for supper, Mr. Zachary," he said. "Why
don't you join me at my home this evening? Say, seven o'clock?
Perhaps there's some business we can discuss."
"Seven o'clock," Nathan agreed. "I'll be there."
Thibodeaux nudged Nathan. " 'ave you lost your mind?"
he whispered.
"Relax. It's just dinner," Nathan replied, sotto voce. "I'll
check the place out before I go in, and if it looks like a trap,
I'll scram. No problem."
"Oh, Mr. Zachary?" Henri's rasp cut short the pirates'

whispered exchange. "Where are my manners? My estate can
be very difficult to find, especially after dark."
"I'll manage."
"Nonsense." Henri gave Nathan a cold smile. "Bertrand

and Benny will make sure you don't get lost. Follow them,
please."
Benny balled his meaty fist. "That's right, Zachary," he
quipped. "I wouldn't want you to wind up missing ... or
worse"
6: Southern Hospitality
|L et movin', big shot." Benny gave Nathan a shove toward

\jthe waiting Packard. "The boss don't like to be kept
waiting."
CRIMSON SKIES Z«
Zachary rolled his shoulders, stiff from the hour-long

autogyro flight out of the swamps. "You need to work on your
patter, Benny. It's getting a little stale."
"You just keep on crackin' wise, pirate," Benny shot back.

"We'll see who laughs last."
Nathan looked around the private landing field. It was
small but tidy and well maintained. He was impressed; be-
tween the standard hangar fees and the de rigueur protection
money the local hoods undoubtedly charged, Deschaines
probably dropped a bundle just to keep this place clean and
secure.
To the northeast Zachary could see the sweeping beams of
the searchlights that ringed Pontchartrain Aerodrome. In the
distance, the ghostly silhouettes of low-flying aircraft drifted
beneath the ever-present cloud cover.
Benny pushed Nathan into the Packard's backseat and
slid in next to him. A second gunman took the front pass-
enger seat.
Benny drew a revolver from his overcoat and pointed it
at Nathan's ribs. "Just in case you get any funny ideas,

comedian."
Zachary ignored Benny and leaned back against the
leather seat. The Packard sped through the outskirts of New
Orleans, then out of town —
into the backwater. The cityscape
had given way to woodsy swampland filled with droopy wil-
lows and kudzu.
The sunlight began to fade as the Packard turned off the
road. Dirt and rock crunched beneath the car's tires as the
driver guided the Packard down a narrow lane. The path led
deeper into the thick, dank swampland. Zachary caught a
glimpse of a gator as it splashed through the stagnant water.
The Packard rounded a curve, then headed down a straight
piece of road that afforded a panoramic view of the property.
For a wealthy man, Deschaines has a terrible eye for real
estate, Nathan thought.
At the end of the road stood a large white plantation house.
It displayed a picture-perfect antebellum facade, complete
with wrought-iron railings, high French windows, and a

spacious verandah.
—
Z48 Bayou Blues
The car rolled to a stop in front of the house, and Henri

Deschaines stepped out to greet them. He had dressed for
company —
a clean white suit, an expensive silk handker-
and a cane, this time with a gold pommel. Deschaines'
chief,
welcoming smile did little to soften his gaunt, skeletal features.
Zachary stepped out of the car and extended his hand to
Deschaines.
Deschaines ignored the hand and nodded at the gunmen.
Benny grabbed Nathan's extended arm and shoved him
against the hood of the Packard. The other gunmen took up
positions nearby as Benny patted down Nathan's coat and
pants.
Nathan looked over his shoulder at Deschaines. "You don't
you?"
get a lot of repeat guests, do
"Most 'guests' aren't in any condition to come back,"
Benny whispered in Nathan's ear. "Especially the visitors
with smart mouths."
"I hope you'll pardon my lack of traditional southern
hospitality, Mr. Zachary," Deschaines said. "I need to as-
sure myself that you haven't had any unfortunate lapses in
judgment."
"He's clean," Benny announced. He eased Nathan off the
hood of the car. "Too bad."
Nathan straightened his collar and gave Benny a sour look.
"I didn't bother to pack anything, Mr. Deschaines. I assumed
Bertrand and his sidekick here would be able to protect me."
—
Deschaines gave a short laugh a rasping croak. "One can
never be too careful; that's my motto. In any event, welcome
to my home, Mr. Zachary."
He extended a thin hand and Nathan shook it. He managed
to hide his revulsion at Deschaines' clammy, cold grip.
Benny opened them and Deschaines gestured
the door for
for Zachary to enter. Based on Deschaines' fancy clothes and
apparent wealth, Nathan expected the interior of the house to
be ostentatious. He stepped into the foyer
— and stifled a gasp of surprise.
The stark white room was almost completely bare. The few
pieces of furniture — —
a settee, a pair of chairs were draped
CRIMSON SKIES ZW
in white cloth, like shrouds. The whole place felt cold and
empty.
Deschaines ignored Nathan's puzzlement and strode through
do appreciate you coming so far out of your way
the foyer. "I
for a visit, Mr. Zachary," he said. "I must apologize for the
long trip. I prefer the quiet and solitude out here to the tire-
some bustle of the city."
He paused, his thin smile devoid of warmth or humor. "Out
no one to disturb us."
here," he added, "there's
The veiled was obvious. Nathan had no doubt that
threat
those who "disturbed" Henri Deschaines ended up as ga-
tor food.
Deschaines looked around and sighed. "With the up-
coming nuptials, I suppose I should do something to dress up
the place. We wouldn't want Miss Emmeline getting married
in anything less than splendor, would we, son?"
Nathan realized that Deschaines wasn't talking to him. The
old man was looking past his guest to the base of a winding
staircase. At the foot of the stairs stood Bertrand, dressed for
dinner. Emmeline was at his side, wearing a striking peach-
colored dress that fitted her like a silken skin. Nathan's mouth
tightened involuntarily at the sight of her on Bertrand's arm.
The two of them even near each other was just plain wrong,
in every possible way.
"No, we wouldn't, Papa," the younger Deschaines said. He
and glared back at Zachary.
gritted his teeth
"Now, now, Bertrand. Mr. Zachary is our guest." He
smirked. "Mz cherie, I believe you and Mr. Zachary have
—
already met? Ah, but never mind it was hardly a proper
introduction. Sir, allow me to present my ward, Mademoi-
selleEmmeline-Marie Fonteneau. My dear, this is Nathan
—
Zachary the colorful fellow who's been in all the papers
lately."
Zachary gave Bertrand a sly look, then kissed the girl's
outstretched hand. Bertrand clenched his fists but said
nothing.
Emmeline withdrew her hand graciously and used her mo-
mentary freedom to step away from Bertrand and take
Henri's arm. "Please, Uncle Henri, can we go in to dinner
250 Bayou Blues
—
now?" Her voice was soft but brittle Nathan could see the
girl was nervous as hell. He couldn't blame her —
living in
an empty house in the middle of a swamp would unnerve
anyone.
Henri wrapped his thin arm around hers and patted her
hand with his bony fingers. "Propriety would suggest some
conversation before dinner, but I think you may be right. It
might be best if we gave the boys something to do with then-
hands right away."
The dining room was spacious, with more of the high
French windows that provided a view of the mansion's
gardens —or what would be the gardens if they had been
tended. The landscaping consisted mostly of the omnipresent
kudzu.
The men waited while Bertrand seated Emmeline to Henri's
right; then Benny helped Deschaines ease the high-backed
chair up to the table. Nathan nodded with approval; the old
man may not spend a lot on furniture, but he'd definitely laid
out more than a few francs for the table setting. It was all
expensive and in perfect taste, including a crystal decan-

ter filled with a rich amber liquid that Zachary hoped was
bourbon.
The waiters were by now familiar; they were the hired guns
Zachary had met in The Fly in' Horses. The taller one was
muscular and well built, and without his gray topcoat, the re-
volver in his belt was clearly visible. Benny took up his posi-
tion behind Henri Deschaines' chair like a praetorian guard.
Sure enough, the amber liquid was bourbon smoky, —
warm, and incredibly smooth. It was a taste Zachary would
have recognized blindfolded: fourteen-year-old Black Knight,
good stuff.
the really
Nathan attempted some idle chatter, but with Emmeline 's
nervousness and Bertrand's hostility, the mood settled into
one of sullen discomfort. Henri quietly sipped his bourbon
—
and watched. Despite the food a fabulous crab dish, spicy
—
and hot the atmosphere was charged with tension. Finally,
Henri spoke into one of the lapses in conversation. "So,
Mr. Zachary, your reputation has preceded you, of course."
CRIMSON SKIES 251
Deschaines had not eaten much of the meal so far, apparently

content with the Black Knight. "So, I have to ask myself, why
—
would a well-known dare I say it? infamous pirate take —
such a keen interest in my affairs?"
Nathan shrugged. "Like I said, I take an interest wherever
there's money to be made."
Deschaines chuckled —a raspy croak that sounded painful
and unhealthy. "Money? Not on the scale that should interest
such a notorious Fortune Hunter." He smiled, pleased at his
play on words. The old man gave a convincing performance
as an affable host, but his eyes held no warmth.
Nathan gave a noncommittal shrug and swallowed another
gulp of the exquisite bourbon."I suppose I must see oppor-
tunities that you don't." He flicked his eyes toward Emme-

line and was rewarded with a flush of anger from Bernard.
Benny started to move toward Zachary, but stopped at Henri's
raised hand.
"Touche, Mr. Zachary. Indeed opportunities are sometimes
found in the least likely places. Sometimes, in fact, right
under one's nose. But you should be careful not to poke that
nose where it isn't wanted, or it could get cut off."
"I once read about a scientist with a golden nose he lost —
hisown in a duel."
"If I may offer unsolicited fashion advice, I don't believe it
would suit you."
"You never know. I may just start a trend."
—
The arrival of dessert cherries jubilee — stilled the con-
versation yet again. Henri barely touched his food. He shifted
were in severe pain.
slightly in his chair, as if he
"Uncle Henri, are you all right? Do you need to go for a
little walk?" Despite the circumstances, Emmeline appeared
to be genuinely concerned for her guardian's well-being. No

wonder Tug was so crazy about her.
"Perhaps I do," he admitted. He struggled to his feet, but
waved off Bertrand's assistance. "Mr. Zachary, join me in the
library."
When they reached the foyer, Emmeline stopped. "If you
don't mind, gentlemen, I believe I will retire for the evening.
—
Z52 Bayou Blues
Mr. Zachary, it was a pleasure to see you again." She ex-

tended her hand; as he bent over to kiss it, he felt a slight pres-
sure from her fingers. A small slip of paper slipped into his
palm. She looked him in the eye and added, "I do hope we see
you here again."
Nathan surreptitiously slipped the note into his pocket
and followed Henri, Bertrand, and their retainers into the li-
brary. The room was warm and cozy, and a fire burned in the
fireplace. The warmth from the fire seemed excessive it —
wasn't a particularly cold evening. Still, the air was damp
and Zachary figured that had to be hard on the old man's
joints. No one had mentioned anything, but from the way
—
Deschaines looked and the rasping quality of his voice
it was pretty clear that his health had been poor for quite
some time.
Once they were seated, Benny poured another round of
bourbon, then took up his accustomed watchdog position be-
hind the old man. Henri sipped the drink, then faced Nathan.
His air of congeniality dropped away. In its place was the
stern, harsh man who had thundered at his men during the
scuffle at the racecourse.
know what your angle is, Mr. Zachary, but I'm
"I don't
sureyou have one. Men like you always do, and you couldn't
have achieved the reputation you currently enjoy without more
than a passing ability to deceive. Mind you, I respect a man
who looks out for himself. Frankly, I probably wouldn't trust
you if you didn't have some scheme in the works." He leaned
across the table. "I can tolerate many things, mon ami, but I
have no patience for stupidity.

"So, now that you know my position, perhaps we could
dispense with the pleasantries and put our cards on the
table —
before someone meets an unfortunate end."
Nathan swallowed his bourbon and nodded. "All right, Mr.
Deschaines. But first," Zachary paused and looked pointedly
at Benny, "I don't make a habit of talking business in front of
the hired help. Especially a cheap hood like Benny."
Benny's face reddened with anger. He looked ready to ex-
plode. The level of tension in the room increased, and for a
" " .
CRIMSON SKIES 253
moment, it looked like Benny was going to start shooting, re-
gardless of the consequences.

Henri gave another wheezing chuckle. "You do like to live
"You should be careful
dangerously, don't you?" he said. . .
one of these days you might overplay your hand." He consid-

ered Nathan for a moment, then turned to Benny and added,
"Benny, please wait outside."
"What?" Benny exploded. His hand rested on the butt of
his gun. "Boss, no one gives me this kinda lip and gets away
with it."
Henri flicked his wrist, and the tip of his cane rapped
painfully against Benny's knuckles. "You're still new here,
Benny," he thundered, "so you better get this through your
head: You shoot when / tell you to shoot. Now get out of
here."
Bertrand wasn't happy about the command "Papa!
Maybe Benny's right — either.
Deschaines waved him into silence. Benny walked to the

door and exited without looking back. Nathan saw that the
man's shoulders quaked with anger.
Good, he thought.
Nathan raised his glass to his host. "Here's to the possi-
bility of a mutually beneficial business relationship."
"Ah, yes, business. That is the important thing, isn't it?
Life without money can be tedious."

"I couldn't agree more. And I know that there's money to
be had from this little venture of yours. Quite a setup, fixing
the race."
The older Creole leaned forward sharply. "And what do
you know about that?"
Zachary smiled and took another sip of his drink. "Don't
—
worry no one in your operation ratted you out. Like you,
I'm not stupid. I listen; I watch."
Nathan stood and paced around the room. "You and I both
know that my information, my contacts, and my guns, could
be an asset in a number of ways. Especially for someone who
has, shall we say, political aspirations."
Bertrand swore. "Father, don't trust this cochon —
1% Bayou Blues
Henri silenced his son with a slashing gesture. "I appre-

ciate your concern, monfils," he hissed, "but I'm quite ca-
pable of managing my own affairs."
He locked eyes with Nathan. "I would prefer that we
confine our conversation to the race, Mr. Zachary. The other
matter is not up for discussion."
Nathan nodded. "Very well. The way I figure it, you've got
high-priced mercenaries flying as ringers, and you've used
the qualifying rounds to control which locals make it into the
race."
Deschaines nodded. "Go on."
"You stand to make a grand or so just in attendance fees,"
Zachary continued. "Not enough to cover the twenty-grand
prize. Which means, you're conning the bookies. If I had to
guess, I'd say you've leaked information that will make the
—
odds long so when your boys win, you'll clean up on bets."
"Very good, Mr. Zachary," Deschaines said.
"What I can't figure out is what you gain from cleaning out
the bookies. Aside from some quick cash, that is."
"There's more to it than that, of course," Deschaines said.
"A number of locals took out sizable loans from my bank, —
—
of course to bet on a 'sure thing.'
"
"Ah, I get it. So, when they lose their shirts and can't repay
the loan, you move in and foreclose."
"In essence, yes."
"Of means you need me, Mr. Deschaines,"
course, this
Nathan "Tug stands a good chance of winning and
said. —
right now, my backing is the only thing that'll get him in the
race."
Deschaines' poker face slipped into annoyance for a mo-
ment. "Boates is a nuisance," he said, "but against my men,
he hasn't got a prayer." Henri painfully stood. "Come with

me. I have something to show you, Mr. Zachary."
As Bertrand, Deschaines, and Zachary entered the hallway,
Benny fell in step behind them. They walked out the door and
toward the Packard. It seemed like a rather abrupt ending to
the evening until Deschaines got in with them. He turned his
head around slightly from the front seat to chat. "I think
.
CRIMSON SKIES ZS5
you'll find what I'm going to show you quite interesting, Mr.
Zachary." With that, he turned back around and said, "Take
us to the hangar, s 7/ vous plait."
The hangar was a few minutes' drive away from the house.
It —
was a large building big enough to house the eight
M210 Ravens neatly lined up beneath its spacious dome.
A handful of men worked in the hangar. They looked like
typical mercenaries: grim jawed, hard eyed, and intensely
focused.
The look inside the hangar was brief, but told Zachary
what Deschaines had wanted him to know the Ravens were —
in perfect condition and armed to the teeth each plane now —
carried six .60-caliber cannons and a full load of rockets.
"As you can see, Mr. Zachary," Henri said, "we have more
than enough firepower to handle one little swamp bandit."
Nathan smiled. "Maybe. But he's still a wild card. That
means you're not wagering you're gambling"
. . .
Henri winced, and Nathan realized he'd hit a nerve. Henri

—
Deschaines didn't just want to win he had to win. The act of
winning, by any means, was what mattered most to him.
Perfect.
"All right," Zachary said, "here's my proposition: I make
sure —
Tug never flies in the race and that he stays the hell
away from Emmeline. Would that, and my silence about fix-
ing the race, be worth twenty percent?"
Deschaines looked at Nathan thoughtfully, then shrugged.
"I could assure your silence right now, sir," he said.
A chill crept up Nathan's spine. He had no doubt that De-
schaines would order his death on the spot. If the appeal to his
greed — the assurance of victory — didn't work . .
Henri continued, "you make a good point about

"Still,"
Tug and I suppose if you were to vanish into the swamp, I'd
have to deal with that tiresome Cajun, Thibodeaux."
He made an exaggerated show of checking his pocket
watch. "Mon dieu," he exclaimed, "it must be later than I
thought! What a thoughtless host I am. Pierre you and —
Benny take Mr. Zachary back to town."
He clicked shut the pocket watch and placed it back in his
—
236 Bayou Blues
vest. "Mr. Zachary, it has been illuminating to get to know the

man behind need a little time to con-
the mask, as it were. I
sider your proposition. Until then, I must ask that our conver-
sation remain strictly between us."
With that, Benny escorted Deschaines into the house, then
returned to the car and took his position in the backseat, next
to Nathan.
As the Packard drove through the darkness, Nathan
thought about the dinner and the conversation. It was difficult
to gauge whether Deschaines believed him, or was just play-
ing with him. One thing was clear from their conversa-
tion: Dealing with Deschaines was a chess game played in —
blood.
At least he'd gotten inside the hangar, so he knew what
kind of competition Tug would encounter in the race. That
was worth something.
The car stopped in front of The Flyin' Horses. He opened
the door and stepped out onto the street.
Zachary never saw the blow coming. He felt a sharp pain in
the back of his head. His vision blurred; then everything went
black.
His last conscious thought echoed in the darkness:
Damn it. Looks like Henri turned down my offer. . .
7: Family History
'Tachary you are one lucky son of a bitch."

. . .
LNathan was only dimly aware of Thibodeaux 's remark.

Everything was black; for a fleeting moment, Zachary feared
he had been blinded somehow. He struggled to remember
—
what happened it had to be a crash, or an accident, or
". . . Or creep, Benny," he muttered. He could
that little
recall stepping from Deschaines' fancy Packard, and then

bang! Someone turned out the lights. Zachary's head swam,
but the darkness that clouded his mind began to recede. He
—
CRIMSON SKIES 257
risked opening his eyes. The light was too bright. Everything
looked blurry, like an out-of-focus photograph: grainy and
surreal.
He took a deep breath and shook his head to clear his
blurred vision.
Big mistake. A wave of vertigo and nausea crashed into
him like a freight train. He groaned.
"Right. Lucky." His stomach churned. "Just let me die,
already."
Pain arced through his temples and then — like a miracle
began Something warm and soft rested gently on
to subside.
his forehead. Maybe he wasn't going to die after all.
Too bad, he thought. Right now, death would be an
improvement.
"Hush now, the both of you." A woman's voice
surprisingly deep and soothing —washed over Nathan. "The
boy needs to rest a spell."
Zachary risked opening his eyes again. The light was still
too bright, but this time, no one jabbed knitting needles into
his skull.
He was in a small dingy room. Boxes and crates were
stacked in one corner. He lay —
on a small cot too small, in
fact. His feet hung off the end.
A woman sat next to the cot. Her appearance would have
been intimidating and stern, it not for the humor and
were
wisdom in her sparkling black eyes. She was tall, with aus-
tere, regal features. Her skin was impossibly dark. Large gold
hoops adorned her ears, and a heavy gold cross hung from a
chain around her neck. She rested a maternal hand on his
forehead.
—
She was older than Nathan, but aside from a strand or
two of gray hair and a fine network of lines at the corners of
—
her eyes her age was almost impossible to pin down.
"Where am I?" Nathan said, his voice hoarse.
"Back room of The Flyin' Horses," Thibodeaux said. The
Cajuns' leader sat on a rickety chair in the small room, facing
the cot. "This fine lady is Maman Leonie —
she owns the
joint."
258 Bayou Blues
"A pleasure, ma'am," Nathan said. He attempted to sit up.

Maman Leonie smiled and nodded slightly then gently —
halted Nathan's attempt to right himself. "You just lie back,
sweet. You have a nasty knot on dat pretty head."
"Most people who go inside chez Deschaines, they get a
one-way trip into the swamp," Thibodeaux added. "Like I
said —
you pretty lucky, mon amir
"The evening wasn't a total waste. Aside from a decent
meal, I got a good look at Deschaines' place and his men." . . .
Nathan closed his eyes as the throbbing in his head spiked.

"They're an unpleasant bunch. Especially that creep, Benny."
" 'E's no local boy," Thibodeaux said. " 'E just popped up a
few months back. S 'posed to be some kind of mercenary."

"Figures. Deschaines' fliers are all hired guns, except for
that cold-fish kid Nathan rubbed the bump on the
of his."
back of his head. It ached to the touch. "Plus, he's got a
—
hangar full of Ravens all armed to the teeth, naturally. That's
a lot of firepower."
"So?"
"So, Deschaines is up to more than fixing a backwater air
race." Nathan opened his eyes. The room wasn't spinning

quite so fast now. He sat up. "He's using the race to fund
something else .something big."
. .
"Shh, mon fils, soit tranquil" Maman Leonie said, her

voice calm and soothing. "You wan' to be careful. You fool
'bout too much, an' you'll end up regrettin' it, I think."
She reminded Nathan of his gran'mama, a Gypsy woman
with a reputation for witchery. Though he'd left his heritage
long behind him, he felt a chill run up his spine. Perhaps
Maman Leonie was a mamba, a priestess of voodoo. They
were not to be trifled with, these voodoo women.
"Eh, Maman, you worry too much. " Louis laughed. "This
boy's got luck to spare."
The Creole woman gave Louis a cryptic smile and took
Nathan's hand. She turned it over and ran her red-lacquered
Her brow furrowed as she looked at
fingernail along his palm.
hishand and then into his green eyes. She folded his hand
onto his chest and patted it gently "Dis Gypsy boy ... he
make his own luck, and dat for certain."
CRIMSON SKIES Z59
Thibodeaux chuckled. "You got a pretty big clout on the

'ead, soI'm hopin' you haven't used up all your Gypsy luck.
We gonna need it."
"This?" Nathan pointed at the lump on his skull. "This is
nothing. Believe me, I've been through worse. But we've got
work to do."
"You gonna be okay for now, Gypsy boy," Maman Leonie
said. "But you an' Louis, you gettin' in deep wit' some-
thin' tres dangereuser She paused. "You both wash up an'
come out front. I get you some coffee an' a little something
to eat. There're fin's you need to know 'bout Henri
Deschaines."
She stood up and placed her hand on Zachary's head, as
if in a brief benediction, and then left through the door
to the kitchen. Nathan grimaced —
the headache was bad
enough. Another cup of chicory-laced coffee made his stomach
churn.
He remembered the slip of paper that Emmeline had
passed him during the dinner at Deschaines' estate. His flight
jacketwas tossed over one of the crates in the storeroom. He
checked the pocket and was relieved to find the scrap still in
his pocket.
He unfolded the paper. It read,
mr. zachary:
please be careful. they don t trust you. send
tommy my love.
"Now you tell me," he muttered.

Tug was a lucky man, all right. Emmeline was honest,
kind, and brave as hell. It took some real grit to pass this
note right in front of her guardian, her fiance, and a pair of
gunmen.
He put the note back in his pocket and made his way to the
kitchen.
Once Maman Leonie was satisfied that Nathan and Louis
had full cups and full plates, the proprietress of the speakeasy
launched into her tale.
— .
260 Bayou Blues
"Henri Deschaines claims to be from New Orleans — dat

his family been in dese parts since forever."She scowled.
"It's all a lie. He came to town years ago, broke an' tryin' to
get a business off de ground, wit' no luck.

"But he's smart, Henri is, so he finds himself a local man
Guillaume Fonteneau. He's not so smart, Guillaume, but he's
got some money, some political connections. Henri becomes
his friend ... an' soon, dey become partners.
"Henri ran de business —Guillaume was jus' a figurehead.
Dey prospered. Soon, dey got nice cars, nice homes ... an'
nice wives.
—
"Henri, he married a girl, Virginia from a good famille.
She was a sweet girl, but weak. She passed away soon after
Bertrand was born. Didn't matter none to Henri, though he —
had a male heir, and dat's all dat mattered to him. Dat, an'
money.
"Guillaume married, too. His wife was a nice local girl
an' soon enough, along came Miss Emmy.
"Guillaume busied himself wit' his new family, an' Henri,
he stayed busy makin' money. And he always wants more:
more power, more money, more prestige an' influence. Pretty
soon, he's runnin' guns, stealin', blackmailin' de works.
. . .
All under de respectable front of de business.

"Guillaume figured it out, though. He threatened to end the
partnership, an' to turn Henri in to de police. So, Henri
arranged an 'accident.' Guillaume an' his wife died in a plane
crash. —
Dere was never any proof Henri paid off de judges
an' de police —
but mos' folks still think dat Deschaines sabo-
taged de plane."
"So, that's when Emmeline inherited her folks' money . .
and how she ended up under Deschaines' thumb," Nathan said.

She nodded. "Dis Henri, he's not a man. He's a demon wit'
no heart. And de son, he no better dan his papa. Worse, even:
he knows his papa is a bad man ... an' he don' care."
Zachary studied the grounds in the bottom of his coffee
cup, then set it down on the table. "All the more reason to take
the bastards down a peg or two."
"Dis isn't jus' fun an' games," Maman Leonie said. "He
CRIMSON SKIES Z6I
killed de girl's parents —

an' he'll kill her, too. You go foolin'
wit' Deschaines, you gonna need more dan Gypsy luck."
Maman Leonie grabbed Nathan's hand and turned the
palm up. She pointed at his life line, her voice stern. "Dis
ain't a guarantee, boy. If your luck runs out, Henri De-
schaines' gonna kill you, too."
8: The Best Laid Schemes...
Nathan took a healthy slug of Louis' bourbon and leaned

back in his chair. The back of his head still ached, but he
felt a great deal better than he had in The Flyin' Horses. From
outside, the muffled sounds of someone working on an air-
plane made his temples throb.

The trip back to the Cajuns' hideout had been without
incident —nowhere near as harrowing as his first flight with
Tug. Louis was a good pilot; unlike his young protege, he
didn't show off by pruning the treetops.
He looked at the clutter in Thibodeaux's makeshift office
and grinned. "You ever considered hiring a maid?" he quipped.
"It looks like a bomb went off in here."
Louis gave Zachary a sour look. "Very funny," he replied.
"We can't all live in a zeppelin. Some of us still get our 'ands
dirty."
Nathan chuckled and handed the bourbon bottle back to
Louis. "Touche."
Thibodeaux snatched the bottle from Nathan's hand and
set it down on his desk, hard enough to knock over a half-
full coffee cup perched on top of a stack of navigational

charts.
"Relax, Louis," Nathan said. "The way you're carrying on,
you'd think you were the one who got clobbered by De-
schaines' goons."
Thibodeaux paced around the tiny office, an uncharacter-
isticscowl on his face. "I ought to clobber you myself."
" " —
Z6Z Bayou Blues
From outside, the metallic clanks and whirrs of airplane

maintenance grew slightly louder. The pounding in his head
aside, Nathan found the sounds familiar and comforting; the
Cajuns' base might have been in the middle of a swamp, but
the joint was always bustling.
"Next you'll try and tell me that gettin' smacked in the 'ead
was all part of your 'big plan,' " Louis said.
"Well, not exactly," Nathan admitted.
"So now maybe you'll let me in on whatever this big
scheme is?" Louis stood in front of Nathan, arms crossed.
For a moment, he seemed distracted by more noise from
outside — the clanging ring of metal hitting metal.
you the plan
"I already told — the high points, leastways."
Nathan sipped his bourbon.
"An' I still don' believe you, mon ami? Thibodeaux said.
"You're always playin' some angle, an' I 'ave the feelin'
me for a sap." Thibodeaux started pacing again.
you're playin'
"Now you've got ol' Henri on my back." He looked skyward,
as if seeking strength from a higher power. " 'You'll get away
clean, Louis,' you said. 'Don' worry,' you said
—
Nathan had to suppress a chuckle; Louis looked like he
was about to have a heart attack. "Look," he said, "maybe I
didn't tell you every little detail but . . .
—
Zachary was interrupted by a blast of noise. It sounded like
a gunshot, loud enough to make both pirates jump.
"Mon Dieul" Louis exclaimed. Nathan and Louis ran
outside, and Thibodeaux grabbed the nearest Cajun the —
big man —
with the obscene chest tattoo by the arm. "'Ey,
Marcel," he demanded, "what the 'ell was that?"
The big pirate looked puzzled. "What 're you talkin' about,
boss?" he asked. "That old Doc fella's fixin' up the planes."
"What? " Louis exploded. "What 'ol' Doc fella'?"
Nathan cleared his throat. "He's talking about Doc Fass-
biender, a friend of mine."
Louis rounded on Nathan. Zachary braced himself
Thibodeaux looked like he was going to take a swing at him.
"Let me guess: another 'little detail' that you some'ow forgot
to mention, owz?"
"
CRIMSON SKIES 263
Nathan nodded.
"You know, mon ami'' Louis seethed, "ever since you blew
into town, my 'ideout's become Grand Central Station."
Before Nathan could respond, Louis wheeled around again
to face Marcel. "An' you! Do we let jus' anyone wander in
'ere an' start foolin' wit'
"Tug was okay
said it
—our birds?"
Louis shook his head in disgust. He waved Marcel away
and scowled at Nathan. "Any other li'l surprises I should
know about?"
"As a matter of fact, yes." Nathan clapped Louis on the
shoulder. "Come take a look."
"I can 'ardly wait," Louis groused.
They walked across the pirate compound, toward the ma-
chine shop and repair hangar adjacent to the landing strip.
Nathan felt a surge of excitement — his Devastator sat just

outside the hangar.
The plane was painted a vibrant blood red, offset by curved
black-and-white trim. Aside from the Fortune Hunters' in-
signia on the wings, the plane's sole decoration was nose art.
Painted just below the cockpit was a scantily clad woman,
nominally "dressed" as a fortune-teller. She gazed seduc-
tively from within a crystal ball. Beneath the picture were the
WOrds GYPSY MAGIC.
Nathan's wingman, Jack Mulligan, painted all of the For-
tune Hunters' nose art. Most of the Fortune Hunters agreed
that Gypsy Magic was Jack's best work. He had real talent,
too; if Jack ever tired of piracy, he could make a mint as an
artist. Once, after a skirmish with the Hollywood Knights,
Jack was mortified to find a line of .30-caliber bullet holes

had marred the fortune-teller's beauty.
"Nathan, you get her shot up again," Jack had griped, "and
I'll sock you in the jaw."
Zachary's pleasure at the sight of his plane diminished as a

second blast of noise erupted from the hangar and blue- —
gray smoke puffed from his plane's exhaust. He smelled
burning oil.
There was a torrent of German from beneath the plane, and

"
264 Bayou Blues
a thin, stooped figure stepped into view. He kicked the Devas-

and cursed. "Verdammt piece of
tator's front tire
—
"Hey, Doc," Nathan called out, "take it easy!"
Doc Fassbiender squinted through his soot-streaked goggles
for a moment. His face brightened as he recognized Zachary.
"Ah, Nathan, my boy," he exclaimed, delighted. "So good to
see you!"
Fassbiender was older than Nathan — in his seventies, in
fact. Despite his advancing age, he moved around with the
vigor of a much younger man. He was thin, and a network of
deep lines crisscrossed his face. An unruly shock of silver-
gray hair formed a halo around Doc's head. Humor and mis-
chief shone from his blue eyes.
Nathan had known Doc Fassbiender since the Great War.
At sixteen, Zachary had lied about his age and joined the Es-
cadrille Lafayette — pilots fighting the Kaiser in the Great
War. What started out as youthful adventure ended in disaster
after —
Nathan tangled with Heinrich Kisler and lost. After
Kisler shot Nathan's plane to pieces, the young pilot spent
most of the war in a German prison camp.
Wilhelm Fassbiender was in that camp, too the Kaiser —
took a dim view of the Doc's refusal to develop war machines
for the military. Nathan, Doc, and a handful of Allies broke
out of the camp and fled to Russia, then Europe, and finally to
the States.
They'd lost touch with each other for several years, espe-
cially once Nathan had formed the Fortune Hunters and
turned to piracy. A few months ago, the Fortune Hunters
— —
sprung the Doc and his daughter, Use from the Boeing
"Special Projects Group." Doc and Use had perfected a new
fuel-boost system that Boeing was wild about —
and so were
theRed Russians.
Everyone who knew about the engine —
code-named the
—
"Blue Streak" was looking to abduct the Doc. Nathan and
his gang got wind of the Fassbienders' predicament and res-
—
cued the old man and his daughter and filched the nitro
booster in the process. Doc had traveled with the Fortune
Hunters ever since.
CRIMSON SKIES 265
Nathan adored the old coot; sure, his crackpot "experi-

ments" and "inventions" occasionally blew up, but he was a
bona fide genius. Nathan could barely remember the man
who had sired him; in many ways, Doc was the only father
Nathan had ever known.
He gave the Doc a kindly pat on the arm. "So, how's my
plane?"
Doc fiddled with his tool belt. "Ach. Temperamental, as al-
ways," he said, "but she should be ready soon."

"Good," Nathan replied.
He made introductions and was gratified that Louis
seemed amused, even fascinated, by the wily old scientist.
They traded pleasantries, and Thibodeaux finally relaxed a
little.
For his part, Doc seemed pleased to show off his handi-
work. He of the Devastator's engine cowling
slid aside part
and explained his nitro booster to Louis; the booster could in-
crease the plane's top speed by as much as 150 miles per
hour, in short bursts.
Louis looked skeptical. "You'll be lucky if the thin' doesn't
explode, or jus' rip the wings off."
Fassbiender looked wounded. "It's not luck, my boy. It's
science."
"See, Louis?" Nathan interjected. "Nothing to worry
about."
Louis snorted. "Right. Nothin' at all."
Damn. Thibodeaux still needed convincing and without
. . .
his help, this caper was sunk. "You win, Louis," Nathan said,
"I'll tell you everything you want to know."
"And 'ow do I know you're tellin' the truth, mon ami?"

Nathan's face was a mask of innocence. "Hey, would / lie
toyou? Trust me."
Louis shook his head in exasperation but he led Nathan
back to his office to talk.
Nathan did his best to ignore the roar of the engines and the
noise of the crowd. Deschaines' big race was just under an
Z66 Bayou Blues
hour away, but the racecourse was already filling with specta-
tors, racers, and bookies.
Outside of Free Colorado pirate enclaves like Sky Haven
and Boulder, Nathan had seldom encountered a more dis-
reputable mob. Races in Manhattan or Los Angeles were gen-
erally cultured affairs; the spectators at Deschaines' race
were more interested in bread and circuses.
Louis leaned close and pointed to the front of the vault
building. "There's the big man himself," he said.
Henri Deschaines stood amid a contingent of his hired
—
guns including several cops. The gold tip of his cane re-
flected the thin, haze-dimmed sunlight.
"Let's go pay our respects," Nathan said. "Just remember
to stick to the plan."
The pirates crossed the field. As they approached De-
schaines, Nathan could see that the old man had a smile on
his face. "Hello, Mr. Deschaines," he said.
The old man's smile faded at Nathan's greeting.
"Mr. Zachary." Deschaines nodded, his poker face firmly
in place.
"It's almost post time," Nathan continued. "Have you con-
sidered my proposal?"
Deschaines expression darkened —he didn't like being
confronted so directly, or so publicly. Nathan struggled to
keep his own expression neutral; if Deschaines actually
agreed to Nathan's "proposal," the whole plan was in
jeopardy.
Finally, Henri favored Nathan with an alligator smile. "I
have indeed," he said. "I regret that I must decline. Your repu-
tation speaks for itself —you're a liar, a cheat, and a thief, if I
might speak plainly. Assuming that my profits were intact at
the end of the venture, I would then have to split them."
Nathan almost exhaled with relief, but caught himself in
time. "I'm sorry to hear that." He reached inside his battered
leather flight jacket and withdrew a wad of cash. "You've left
—
me no choice but to back Tug and to protect my investment,
I'll be flying today, too."
Nathan studied Henri's face intently; this was a poker

CRIMSON SKIES 267
game, and a good player always looked for his opponent's

"tells" —physical tics that revealed much about the man be-
hind the cards.
If Henri was surprised or upset by Nathan's decision to
race, he kept it well hidden. Instead, he merely nodded and
said, "Very well, sir."
Time to up the ante. Nathan handed over the cash.
Henri collected the stack of bills, and Nathan thought he
caught a flicker of surprise in Deschaines' eyes. "You appear
to have overpaid rather handsomely, Mr. Zachary," he said.
"Not exactly," Nathan replied. He pointed at Thibodeaux
and added, "My friends will be flying, too."
This time, anger flashed across Deschaines' face —but
only for a moment. He croaked with harsh, humorless laughter.
"I am happy to accept your entry fees, gentlemen."
Deschaines counted the money, folded the bills, and then
placed them in his pocket.
"Here are the race rules, Mr. Zachary," he said. "The
winner is the pilot who completes five laps on the course in
the shortest amount of time either that, or he's the only
. . .
one to cross the finish line. Is that clear, sir?"

"Crystal."
"Any racer whose plane is not ready to fly within five min-
utes of the starting gun forfeits his entry fee and is disquali-
fied. Is that also clear, sir?"
"Yes," Nathan said.

"Then good luck to you, sir," Deschaines said. He turned
to his men and added, "Come Sunday, I must remember to
thank the good Lord for the heaven-sent parade of suckers
he's seen fit to bless me with."
The gunmen laughed at their employer's joke all except —
Benny, who stared at Nathan with blank, dead eyes.
It was time to prime the pump. Deschaines oozed
—
confidence now Nathan had to shake that confidence.
Zachary drew another stack of bills from his coat. "The
only amateurI see here is you, Mr. Deschaines," he growled.
"Perhaps you'd care to wager on the outcome of your little

contest?"
268 Bayou Blues
"I'm always happy to part a fool from his money," he

shot back.
"Very well. I've got five thousand francs that says Tug will
cross the finish line before Bertrand."
"Five thousand francs," he said. "Done."
Perfect,Nathan thought. He didn't even hesitate. De-
schaines can help himself—he has to take the bet.
't
Deschaines opened his pocket watch. "By my reckoning,

gentlemen, the race begins in forty-nine minutes. Good day."
He clicked the watch shut, a clear dismissal.
As Nathan and Louis turned to leave, Benny stepped for-
ward and blocked Nathan's path. "This time," he growled,
"you're gonna get more than a tap on the head, Zachary."
9: The Starting Gun
Nathan tightened the shoulder harness and took a deep

breath. He patted the plane's stained and worn instrument
panel and tried to forget the butterflies in his stomach. It
never failed: despite the countless tough spots he'd been in,
he always got a case of nerves before flying into battle.
He nudged the throttle forward. The Devastator's engine

growled in response, and the heavy fighter rolled into posi-
tion on the starting line. He flexed his fingers, then resumed
his light, steady grip on the control stick. Doc Fassbiender
—
had worked his usual magic the Devastator was in tip-top
shape.
The big fighter, with its unusual biwing design, was far
from state of the Hughes Aviation had stopped
art; in fact,
producing the Devastator years ago. Of course, the manu-

facturer hadn't counted on Doc Fassbiender either. Doc had
gotten rid of the old Tornado engine in favor of a slick Rolls-
Royce job. Even with the thick armor that Fassbiender had in-
sisted on, Nathan's plane was surprisingly agile.
Of course, Nathan thought, a grim smile on his face, that's
CRIMSON SKIES 269
not the only ace up this baby 's sleeve. He tapped a pressure
gauge, bolted to the instrument panel just above the airspeed
indicator. The needle twitched and then steadied. Doc's custom
nitro booster was ready for action.
Zachary gave the instrument panel a final once-over,
then — satisfied that everything was in order —looked over his
right shoulder and surveyed the other racers awaiting the
starting gun.
The Devastator sat near the center of the line of aircraft.
Just off his starboard wing, Louis readied his green-and-

purple Brigand for takeoff.
Nathan flicked on his radio and adjusted the frequency.
"Hey Louis," he called out. "You think you could cook up a
gaudier paint job for that bird?"
"Barbarian," Louis replied. "These are Mardi Gras col-
ors .. . lucky colors."
"If you're lucky," Nathan chuckled, "no one'll shoot you
just for flying something so hideous."
"Very funny. An' if you're lucky, I won' shoot you for
talkin' me into this."
"Relax, Louis," Nathan said. "Think of the money."
"I am. I'm thinkin' I'm gonna 'ave the mos' expensive
funeral in 'istory."
"Just stick to the plan,and everything'll be fine."
The midmorning sun burned away the mist and left the air
moist and heavy. Though the last several days had been com-
paratively cool and rainy, today promised to be plenty warm.
Nathan wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead.
He turned his attention to the control tower. The tall, open-
framed wooden structure marked the starting line position.
Mounted on top of the tower were powerful speakers the —
public-address system for the race's announcer.
In the distance, Nathan could see the bleachers, filled with
cheering spectators. Unlike the previous day's visit, the stands
were filled to capacity. He could faintly hear the roar of the
crowd, despite the roar of aircraft engines.
"Two minutes! All racers, the race begins in two minutes!"
The announcer's voice crackled through Nathan's radio
—
270 Bayou Blues
headset. Ground crew mechanics finished last-second work

on their planes and then sprinted off the field.
Zachary's unease faded away. In its place was a glacial
calm. It didn't matter that he was about to fly against dozens
of armed opponents. Now that he was once again behind the
stick of his beloved Devastator, his fate was in his own hands.
The local fliers didn't look like much of a threat. Most of
them were has-beens, with their best days long behind them
either that or rookies, desperate for a long-shot grab at the
brass ring. When the shooting started, they'd do their best to
stay the hell out of the way. Which left Nathan and the Cajuns
against Deschaines' mercenaries.
That suited Nathan just fine.
A curse in static-shrouded French burst from the radio.
"Nathan! I got a problem 'ere!"
Nathan twisted in his seat to look at Louis' Brigand.

Smoke poured from the plane's engine cowling. There was a
sudden grinding noise, and fire shot from Louis' engine.
Nathan keyed the radio. "Get out! Get out of there!" he
yelled.
Louis threw open the canopy and struggled to loosen his
shoulder straps. Fire and smoke billowed from the plane, fol-
—
lowed by another metallic bang this one much louder. A
noxious black cloud swallowed Louis.
A dozen mechanics swarmed over the damaged Brigand.
They doused the engine with fire extinguishers and pulled
Louis from the cockpit. He was soot-streaked and filthy.
From what Nathan could see, Louis was mad as hell, but
unharmed.
The announcer's voice blared from the PA. "Ladies and
gentlemen, we have a fire on the runway. There will be a short
delay ."
. .
Nathan slid back the canopy as Louis climbed on the Dev-

astator'swing. "What the hell happened?" Zachary asked.
"You tell me," Louis said, his face grim. "Your Doc Fass-
biender 'fixed up' my bird. Perhaps 'e's not the mechanic you
think, mon amir
"There isn't a machine on Earth the Doc can't fix," Nathan
said. "This is something else. The only time I've seen an en-
CRIMSON SKIES Z71
gine seize up like that is when I've hit it with a burst from my
sixty cals."
"Which means?"
"Which means sabotage."
Louis met Nathan's stare. He threw his flight gloves on the
ground in disgust. "Deschaines."
Nathan nodded. "Has to be. His guys are all over the
place."
"Speak of the devil," Louis muttered, and nodded in the di-
rection of the control tower.
Nathan followed Thibodeaux's gaze and spied Henri De-
schaines. Deschaines cautiously picked his way across the
accompanied by his assistant with the wire-rim glasses.
field,
As he approached Louis' Brigand he fanned away the smoke

with his panama hat.
"Well, gentlemen," he said. "It would appear that Mr. Thi-
bodeaux has been disqualified. I'll have my men tow this
heap off the field ... for a small fee, of course."
Louis jumped down from Nathan's plane and confronted
Henri. "Bonne chance tryin' to collect that fee, Deschaines."
Henri held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, now,
mon ami," he rasped. "You know the rules. If your plane isn't
ready to fly when the race starts, you forfeit. It's out of my
hands."
"The hell it is," Nathan snarled. "That plane was sabo-
taged."
A faint smile played across Deschaines' gaunt features.
"Sabotage such an ugly word, Mr. Zachary," he said, "and
is
I'd hate to think that tone in your voice is directed at me, sir."
He turned and looked Louis up and down, and added, "I
do not believe this was sabotage. More likely, it is the result
of shoddy maintenance. Backwater hedge robbers are not
known for being fastidious." He shrugged. "In any event,
. . .
Thibodeaux here is out of the race."

—
"Now just a minute " Nathan growled. He reached to un-
fasten his shoulder harness.
"If you'd care to exit the cockpit and discuss this further,
Mr. Zachary," Henri cut in, his eyes flat and hard, "I'll hap-
pily accept your forfeiture, as well."
Z7Z Bayou Blues
A large flatbed truck trundled along the damp ground and

took up position in front of the damaged Brigand. Mechanics
chained the plane to the truck and began to tow it from the
Louis gave his plane a forlorn look, then climbed back
field.
up on the Devastator's wing. "What do you think, mon ami?

The race begins in a couple minutes."
"I think someone ought to knock that creep on his ass."
Louis chuckled and nodded. "Oui. But it'll 'urt 'im worse,
I think, if someone takes 'is money, nonl"
"You're right," Nathan sighed. He settled his flight goggles

in place.
"You jus' be careful, Nathan," Louis said. "Ol' Henri's
boys play rough."
"I'm always careful." Nathan gave Louis a lopsided grin.
"But stick by the radio just in case."
Louis nodded. He latched the Devastator's canopy shut and
dropped from the wing. He gave Nathan a jaunty salute and
then jogged toward the bleachers.
The roar of the racers' engines deepened as race time
neared. The noise was thunderous.
—
Seconds ticked by then a checkered flag waved from the
top of the control tower. The announcer's voice blared from
the radio: "And they're off!"
Nathan jammed the throttle forward, and the Devastator
leapt forward and climbed into the sky.
10: Aces or Better to Open
Thirty seconds into the first lap, everything went straight

to Hell.
Like most air races, the race began once all the competitors
were in the air; they flew in a circular pattern until the an-
nouncer called "Go." Nathan had a few moments to view the
racecourse and the red balloons that marked the maximum al-
—
lowed flight ceiling about a thousand feet up. Anyone who
CRIMSON SKIES 2B
strayed above the ceiling was instantly disqualified. It made

Nathan he was flying in a box.
feel like
—
The radio blared the "go" signal and nearly every com-
petitoropened fire.
Nathan sent the Devastator into a sharp portside turn as a
rocket slashed at him from above. The rocket exploded in a
deceptively delicate blossom of fire. He flinched as a piece of
blackened, twisted metal embedded itself in the canopy be-
side his head.
He rolled out of the turn and pushed into an inverted dive.
The ground rushed to greet him as the Devastator dropped
like a stone. A scant few feet from the ground—he couldn't
spare even a glance at the altimeter —he ruddered hard to
starboard and righted the aircraft.
From above him, a trio of rockets splashed into the swamp
and exploded. Mud sprayed across the Devastator's canopy.
Nathan snarled and sent the Devastator into a wild corkscrew
roll. The maneuver slowed him slightly, and the attacking
fighter overshot. He hauled back on the stick and brought the

Devastator's nose in line with the underside of the pursuing
aircraft —an emerald-green F2 Bandit.
He fired a burst from his guns and laced the Bandit with
.60-caliber magnesium rounds. —
The insidious bullets coated
with phosphorous —were softenough to worm their way into
a target's fiiselage, and burned hot enough to melt through the
metal for several minutes.
A moment later, he was rewarded by a puff of smoke
and flame as the magnesium rounds found their mark the —
Bandit's primary fuel line. The Bandit hit his flaps to shed
speed. A moment later, the fighter slammed belly-down into
the swamp in a plume of filthy, brackish water.
Nathan twisted around in his seat and searched for another
target. The air was filled with fighters. Most of them were
solo fliers —
locals, from the looks of them. They hugged the
terrain and struggled to reach the obstacles. Passing through
an obstacle, rather than over it, shaved precious seconds off
the racer's lap time.
The rest — the Cajuns, a handful of local fliers with more
guts than sense, and Deschaines' squadron — dived into the
—
m Bayou Blues
twisting ballet of the dogfight. Cannon and rocket fire filled
the air.
He switched the radio frequency and yelled: "Cajuns, form

up on me! Tug, you're on my wing."
"Roger, Nathan," Tug acknowledged.
Tug's Fury slotted into position off Nathan's port wing.
The rest of the Cajuns formed a V-formation, with Nathan's
Devastator at the front.
"All right, Cajuns," Nathan barked, "ignore the other
racers and concentrate on Deschaines' boys."
"Cajun Two to Lead: What if the other racers shoot at us?"
"Then break off and defend yourself, Two," Nathan re-
plied. "All right, boys, let's get to work."
He —
spied Deschaines' squadron they bore down on a
stringof local racers. The locals were low to the ground, ap-
—
proaching the makeshift merry-go-round easy prey to an
attack from above.
Nathan opened up the throttle, and his Devastator's Rolls-
Royce engine roared. The Devastator swooped into position
behind the trailing Raven. "Knock knock," he murmured, and
squeezed the trigger.
His cannons blazed and spat a line of fire at the enemy
fighter. The telltale sparks of bullet impacts pinged from the
—
Raven's tail but only for a moment.
The Raven's pilot was good, all right; the blue fighter
rolled onto its port wing. Nathan's second burst missed; the
streams of bullets passed the Raven on either side. Before
Nathan could roll his own plane to bring his cannons in line
with his target, the Raven pilot broke off. The blue fighter
—
banked to starboard and gave Nathan a peach of a shot at
the Raven's spread-eagle profile.
He ruddered to the right to match the Raven's maneuver.
His finger tightened on the trigger
— until a burst of incoming fire riveted across his wing.
Directly ahead, the Raven's wingman screamed head-on at
the Devastator. The wingman opened fire and bullets stitched
a line across the Devastator's starboard wing.
Nathan cursed and again inverted the Devastator, just in
time. The fighters skimmed past one another, belly to belly.
CRIMSON SKIES 275
For a terrifying moment, Nathan was convinced that they'd

trade paint— and auger into the swamp, locked in a twisted-
steelembrace.
Deschaines' boys worked well as a team that was for —
sure. The lead Raven had suckered him in and allowed
his wingman to get into position. Which meant that, after
narrowly escaping the wingman, the first Raven would be
looking to finish Nathan off.
He rolled the Devastator, then kicked into a port climb.
"Tug," he called out, "watch my back!"
Nathan craned his neck, looking for either Raven and —
spotted them both, right on his tail. Another burst of cannon
fire drummed along the Devastator's armor plating.
"Coming around to the right," he called out then pulled —

his Devastator to the left.
The Raven jinked right as Nathan began the maneuver; the

bastards were listening in to the Cajuns' frequency. "Nice try,
pal."
He had begun the maneuver in a climbing left bank, and
tightening the turn had shed even more speed. As the Ravens
banked to regroup, Tug's Fury flashed into view and opened
fire. The lead Raven slowed as smoke poured from a line of
bullet holes in the engine cowling.

"Bull's-eye!" Tug crowed.
Nathan rolled the Devastator out of the climb and dived in
on the second Raven. He fired a pair of rockets at his target.
The first rocket missed and exploded harmlessly in the
swamp. The second caught the Raven just above the starboard
wing. The explosion detonated a handful of the Raven's own
rockets. The Raven tumbled into a sickening death spiral as
the starboard wing sheared off.
Two down, Nathan thought. Six to go.
"Nice shootin', Nathan," Tug cheered.
"Thanks," Nathan replied. "Now, let's go find Bertrand."
"Don't worry, pirate," Bertrand's voice crackled from the
radio. "I'll find you —once I settle accounts with your little
buddy, Tug."
A trio of Ravens in a delta formation swooped after Tug's
Fury, guns blazing.
"
Z76 Bayou Blues
"Okay, Cajuns," Nathan said, "kid gloves are off. Pick a

target,and take it out."
The Ravens swarmed around Tug. Nathan grimaced; the
kid's plane just didn't have the firepower to deal with three-
on-one odds. The Fury had been designed as a zeppelin-
—
based aircraft it normally didn't even have landing gear,
relying on a zeppelin docking hook for takeoffs and landings.
Furies usually carried a single massive .70-caliber "Goliath"
cannon, slung beneath the fuselage more than enough to —
shred a Raven in short order.
Unfortunately, Tug had been forced to shed the Goliath and
add landing gear, since the Cajuns didn't operate from a zep-
pelin. Tug's bird carried a pair of .40-caliber cannons and
some flak rockets — pretty light arms given the hardware the
other racers carried.
Nathan swooped in close to cover the kid's tail. He snapped
off a quick shot at one of the trailing Ravens, rolled, fired
and then dropped into a covering position. "Okay,
again,
Tug," he said, ready to
"let's get
—
Without warning, the Devastator shuddered and a sharp
metallic clang rattled his teeth. Something had just slammed
into his fighter's fuselage.
He twisted in his and immediately saw the problem: a
seat
cylindrical piece of metal protruded from the port side of his
Devastator. The end of the metal cylinder was offset by a
quartet of fins —
the tail of a rocket.
If it had been a high-explosive rocket, he would've already
been dead which meant that the weapon embedded in his
. . .
fuselage was either a dud —

or something more sinister. He
felt a pang of dread and quickly dialed the frequency knob on
the plane's radio.

A moment later, a droning, high-pitched tone beeped from
the radio, a sound he recognized immediately.
Itwas a homing signal.
"Damn," he muttered. "A beeper rocket."
Since the early part of the decade, the "beeper-seeker"
rocket had become a common enough weapon. Essentially,
the system consisted of a pair of rockets: a "beeper," which
embedded itself in a target and broadcast a short-term ultra-
..
CRIMSON SKIES 277
sonic or radio signal; and a "seeker" rocket, which homed in

on that signal. The beepers lasted only a short time — usually
sixty seconds; but every seeker rocket fired within that time
would home in on the target.
With a beeper in his hide, Deschaines' men would fire
every seeker they carried and blow the Devastator right out of
the sky.
Zachary looked around, desperate to find cover; the only
chance he had was to find enough cover to block incoming
seeker rockets. If he was lucky, he could last long enough for
the beeper signal to cut out. If not . .
He had a flash of inspiration. He quickly changed radio

frequencies. The drone of the homing signal vanished in a
squawk of static.
"Nathan! Nathan! Can you hear me? Are you okay?" Tug
sounded like he was in a near-panic.
"I'm okay, Tug," he said. "Try to keep some of these creeps
off my back. I'm going to pay Bertrand a visit."
He twisted the radio dial until the homing signal again
filled the radio headset. With that, he sent the Devastator into
a dizzying series of banks and rolls —
right into the heart
of the Faugons' formation. Deschaines' men, startled by
the reckless maneuver, scattered in all directions to avoid
collision.
His eyes locked on to Bertrand's Raven as the Devastator
inched closer closer
. . closer
. . . . . .
The Devastator dropped into position, inches from the

Raven's starboard wing. Before Bertrand could react, Nathan
its port wing and skimmed even
rolled the Devastator up onto
closer to the Raven — suicidally close.
He button on the radio. "Tell your boys to
hit the transmit
blastaway now, Bertrand," he whooped.
The planes were close enough that Nathan could see the
look of surprise on Bertrand's face. He quickly regained his
composure and tried to bank away from the Devastator and —
was forced to stop. The Raven's wingspan was massive; if
Bertrand tried to break off too quickly, the Raven's wing
would collide with Nathan's smaller Devastator.
The Raven could drop altitude, however; Bertrand sent his
Z78 Bayou Blues
plane into a shallow dive. Nathan struggled to keep his plane

in position as they fell lower and lower.
Nathan immediately spotted Bertrand's objective: the slowly
spinning Ferris wheel dead ahead.
. . .
The obstacle was too narrow for them to fly through to-
gether. Worse, it had started spinning. It would take a hell of a
pilot to fly through the wheel —
it would take a miracle for
both of them to make it through.

If Nathan broke off, he'd be open to seeker rockets and
—
cannon fire he'd be dead in seconds. His only chance was to
pull ahead of Bertrand's fighter and keep the Raven between
his own plane and Bertrand's wingmates.
"All right, Bertrand," Nathan muttered to himself. "Let's
see what you've got."
He firewalled the throttle, and the Devastator shot ahead.
He ignored the tracers that burst from Bertrand's guns, and he
lined up on the Ferris wheel. He took a deep breath, then hit a
switch on the instrument panel.
A hissing noise from the engine turned into a high-pitched
whine . and then a roar like thunder as Doc's nitro boost
. .
kicked in. Nathan was slammed back into the pilot's seat as
the Devastator zoomed ahead at blinding speed.
A bead of sweat formed on Nathan's forehead as he hurtled
at the wheel. If he'd made the slightest miscalculation, the
Devastator would become his coffin.
The Devastator careered through the obstacle and shot out
the other side, narrowly avoiding the steel support spokes in-
side the wheel. Nathan breathed a sigh of relief —then real-
ized he had a new problem.
Doc's nitro boost fired in bursts — once the switch was
thrown, the boost would continue until the pressure gauge
dropped to zero. While the booster was in operation, the
plane's handling turned sluggish. Anything other than gradual
turns would tear the wings right off the plane.
Bertrand's Raven emerged on the far side of the Ferris
—
wheel and opened fire. The Devastator trailing fire from the
—
booster exhaust pulled away, but not fast enough.
Bullets chewed through the engine cowling. The needle on
CRIMSON SKIES Z79
the booster pressure gauge twitched and then dropped to

zero. He was lucky the whole damn thing didn't explode.
The acceleration eased as the booster died away, and
—
Nathan pulled into a loop then he broke off. A seeker rocket
arced right for him, locked on the beeper's homing signal. At
the last second he dived, and the rocket skimmed past. The
rocket began a lazy turn back toward the Devastator, relent-
less as abloodhound.
—
Without warning, the homing signal died away the inces-
sant beeping on the radio replaced by static. He changed back
to the primary frequency. Nathan swooped out of the seeker's
path and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Tug, where's Bertrand?" he said. "I lost him."
"CajunTwo to Lead: I got him. He's all over Tug on your —
three o'clock."
Nathan turned to the right, and a short distance away, he
saw Bertrand's Raven open fire on Tug's Fury. The kid evaded
the attack, and a pair of Cajuns covered him. Cannon fire
forced Bertrand and his wingmen to back off.
"'Ey, mon ami," Louis' voice broke in, "I thought you
were always careful."
"Well, maybe not always" Nathan admitted. "Is Henri
there?"
"Out."
Nathan's hand tightened on the stick, and he fought to keep
the anger out of his voice. This race was serious, deadly busi-
ness; the fact that Henri allowed his own son to compete
meant that he either had one hell of an ace up his sleeve — or
he just didn't care if he lost his own son.
"Put him on."
There was a burst of static. A moment later, Henri De-
schaines' rasping voice broke through. "Well, Monsieur
Zachary," he said, "a very exciting contest, wouldn't you say?
—
I'm surprised you have time to talk to me I would think
you'd be more concerned with staying alive just now."
"Your concern is touching."
"What do you want?"
"I want to up the ante in our little wager," Nathan said.
—
280 Bayou Blues
"I've got another ten grand that says none of your men finish
this race — regardless of who crosses the finish line first."
"And how do I know you've got another ten thousand

francs?"
"Contact Don Giovanni DeCarlo in Chicago. He's holding
the cash," Nathan said, "unless you'd rather concede now and
save us a lot of trouble."
There was a brief pause. "I see," Henri said. "You've put
some thought into this little contest of ours. I knew you were
playing some angle."
"Enough patter. Are you going to take the bet, or not?"
"Why should I? I'm quite satisfied in the original condi-
tions of our wager."
It was time
Nathan to play his trump card a blow
for —
to Deschaines' vanity."Because if you don't," he said, "re-
gardless of what happens, you'll never know if you could
beat me."
There was a static-drenched pause, then, "Very well, sir"
Henri hissed. "You have a bet. An additional ten thousand
francs."
11: Upping the Ante
Nathan hand and forced himself to relax his grip

flexed his
on the control There was a brief respite as the racers
stick.
struggled to regroup —
a good dozen aircraft had been taken
out of the race as lap two began.
The Faugons stood off at a distance, playing it safe
uncharacteristic behavior for them. "Okay, Cajuns," he called
out."Looks like Henri is giving his pilots new orders. Let's
hit'em!"
The Cajuns formed up on Nathan, low to the ground. The
Devastator swooped back and forth to avoid the stooped trees
that rose from the swamp. Within seconds, the Faugons were
within range.
Nathan sent the plane into a climb and opened fire on the
—
CRIMSON SKIES Z8I
tight formation of Ravens. The Cajuns followed hot on his

heels, and rockets and tracer fire crisscrossed the sky.
He raked his guns across the trailing planes in the forma-
tion. Between the
rain of cannon fire and the barrage of
rockets,one of Deschaines' planes went down in flames.
The Cajuns accounted for a pair of Ravens, as well but —
not without cost. "Cajun Two to Lead: I have to bail out! They
shot my rudder to hell!"
"I read you. Climb as high as you can and get clear!"
Zachary ordered. "Cajun Three, cover him."
There was a brief pause. "Three to Lead: If I climb too
high, I'll be disqualified," the pilot cautioned. "You sure you
want me out of the fight?"
Zachary 's jaw was clenched. "Roger. Cover your wingman,
and get to the ground."
"Aw, Zachary," a familiar voice cut in, "ain't that sweet.
You're bringing a tear to my eye, it's so touching."
"Come a little closer, Benny," Nathan snarled, "and I'll
show you tears, little man."

"First things first," Benny replied. A single Raven
undoubtedly Benny's —broke formation and dived for Tug's
plane, guns chattering. Bullets punched into the Fury's fuse-
lage, but Tug rolled his plane out of the way before he took
too much fire.
"I could use a little help over here!" Tug shouted. "Some-
body get this clown off me!"
Nathan risked a snap shot and sent a rocket streaking for
Benny's Raven. No luck — banked out of the line
the fighter
of fire and rejoined the Faugons formation. The rocket ex-
'
ploded harmlessly in the distance.

"Tug, stick close to me," Nathan said. "Cajuns, take out the
trailing Ravens, but leave Benny and Bertrand to me."
The Cajuns acknowledged and broke off. They slammed
into the line of Faugons.
It was a close fight. The Cajuns fought well, but De-
schaines' men were good —too good. Neither side gave quarter,
but Nathan could see that the Cajuns were taking too much
fire. Smoke poured from several of the Cajuns' fighters. A
Z8Z Bayou Blues
number of the Ravens were in rough shape, too —but not

enough.
Fortunately, most of the locals had figured out that getting
between the Cajuns and the Faugons was a bad idea. A dozen
of them stayed low and skimmed through the obstacles.
The only way to shut down was to take their
this fight
leader out. In the confusion, the Cajuns would have enough
time to press the attack. Nathan looped around and hunted for
Bertrand.
The radio squawked for his attention. "Well, Mr. Zachary,"
Henri said, "you and your disreputable allies seem to be ac-
quitting yourselves rather well. Would you be interested in in-
creasing the stakes of our little wager, sir?"
"How much?"
"Two hundred fifty thousand francs says my men win this
fight . . . and you personally will not make it through the
race."
Nathan snapped the Devastator into a tight roll and fired a
burst at Benny's plane. He cursed as the Raven danced out of
his gun sights.
"That's a lot of cash. I may not be able to front it."
"I'll accept your collateral, Monsieur Zachary," Henri
replied. "Your plane, for instance. Plus your zeppelin, the
—
Pandora and her crew, of course. By my calculations that's
worth almost two hundred thousand francs. A high roller like
yourself shouldn't have any trouble producing a mere fifty
thousand."
Benny's Raven came around for another pass, and bullets
pinged off the Devastator. Nathan triggered another burst and
fired his last pair of rockets. They missed the Raven, but
forced Benny to break off.
Nathan's mind raced. He was almost out of cash —and he

had no time for subtlety. It took all his skills to concentrate on
the dogfight in the sky and the deadly poker game on the
ground. This was his chance to bury Deschaines, once and
for all.
"Louis, you there?" he asked.

"Oui, Nathan," Thibodeaux replied. "What's it gonna be?"
CRIMSON SKIES Z83
"I need fifty thousand francs. I'm good for it."

"What?" Louis sputtered. "Are you out of your mind? It's
bad enough I let you talk me into this mess. Now you wan' to
borrow money from me?"
"There's no time for this, Louis. I have to keep my head in
the fight, or I'm dead and so are your men. Fifty thousand-
yes or no?"
There was a pause. For a moment, Nathan had the sinking
feeling that Louis was going to turn him down.
"All right, damn you," Louis finally said. "But ifyou make
it back to the ground in one piece, we're gon' have words, you
and I."
"I'm afraid that's not good enough, Monsieur Zachary,"
Henri rasped. "Thibodeaux's word has no currency with me,
and unless I see the fifty thousand in cash, I'm afraid I can't
accept."
Damn.
"What'll it take, Deschaines?" Zachary growled. "It's not
like I can run to the bank for a withdrawal."
"Aside from the Pandora, your plane, and the clothes
on your back?" Henri chuckled. "Why, just Thibodeaux's
—
marker for the Raj in' Cajuns' liquor distillery and their
planes. That would be acceptable collateral."
A torrent of French obscenities filled the airwaves. 'Wow.
Impossible."
"Louis, there's no time for this. You have to trust me. It's
my neck on the block, too."

"You better be right."
"I'm always right."
"Sure. Jus' like you're always careful." Louis sighed with
resignation. "Done. Nathan, you'd better win. Otherwise, I'm
gonna kill you."
"Take a number," Zachary muttered.
Nathan pointed his Devastator at the nearest Faugons
Raven and opened up the throttle. His fighter thundered
through the sky and drew closer. There were fewer planes in
the air now; many fighters had fallen prey to the rain of bul-
lets that punctured the skies.
—
284 Bayou Blues
"Oh, just one other thing, Monsieur Zachary," Henri said.

"Since there's some small danger of you and Thibodeaux
attempting to skip out on your debts —following your in-
evitable loss, of course —I'm forced to call in a little insur-
ance policy."
"Nathan, we've got a problem," Tug broke in. "One
o'clock high!"
Zachary looked up and spotted Deschaines' "insurance
policy."Dropping through the clouds was a zeppelin
armored and bristling with cannons and rocket tubes. Embla-
zoned on the zep's envelope was the insignia of the New
Orleans Police.
The zep took up position at around two thousand feet. It
hovered over the bleachers and turned its broadside guns
toward the racecourse.
"Great," Nathan whispered. "Some insurance policy,
Henri."
"What can I tell you?" Henri chortled. "The good mayor
of our fair city saw fit to ensure that today's festivities would
be safe."
Nathan snorted. "I'm sure he did . . . particularly when you
threatened to make a certain set of photographs public if he
didn't send in the troops."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Henri replied. The
false camaraderie in his voice was replaced by icy anger.
"You're so unoriginal, you're practically a vaudeville act,"
Nathan shot back, mocking Henri's tone, "but you've got
ambition, I'll give you that. Slipping the chief a Mickey and
photographing him in a compromising position isn't exactly
the freshest scam. But pulling the same trick on the mayor?
You've got moxie. No wonder the cops turn a blind eye to
your operation."
"You seem to know a great deal about my business, Mon-
sieur Zachary."
"I have friends in low places, Mr. Deschaines," Na-
than said.
"I'll make sure to give them my regards ... at your
funeral." With that, the signal faded into static.
" —
CRIMSON SKICS 285
Nathan turned his full attention back to the dogfight. His

comments to Henri had had the desired effect. In seconds, the
remaining Faugons dropped into a diamond formation and
banked right for him.
12: Wild Card
"fajun Four bailing out!

V Nathan watched helplessly as Bertrand's cannon fire
chewed apart a Cajun Brigand. He was too far away from the
scrap, and there was no way to get there in time. Doc's nitro
boost had some kind of leak, thanks to Bertrand's guns
the gauge read a paltry 50 percent. He fired his cannons
anyway.
Deschaines ignored the ineffectual fire and put a final burst
through the Brigand's starboard wing.
The pirate managed to bail out in time —but he was dan-
gerously low. Nathan cursed as white silk bloomed and then
crumpled as, seconds later, the downed pilot splashed into
the swamp.
Before Nathan could slot in behind Bertrand, another pair
of Ravens swooped in and forced him to break off. Tug stuck
close behind Nathan and covered his back, but the Faugons
superior teamwork was starting to take its toll.
There was only a handful of Cajun Brigands left the rest —

had pulled out of the fight or been shot down. So far, Nathan
hadn't received word of any fatalities, but the pilot who had
just bailed out was guaranteed a long hospital stay. The fight
was turning ugly.
"Nathan!" Tug shouted. "I've got Bertrand on my six!"
Without hesitation, Nathan snapped the Devastator into a
loop. At the top of his arc, he flipped the plane over and
pushed out into a dive. Sure enough, Bertrand and his wingman
had latched on to Tug's tail.
He fired a burst, and Bertrand's wingman broke off to engage
—
Z86 Bayou Blues
him. The radio crackled. "Let's see how funny you are now,
comedian," Benny growled.
"The only joke here is you, clown," Nathan responded.
"And here's the punch line." He triggered a second burst, but
Benny was ready for the attack. The Raven banked and
twisted, and evaded the stream of magnesium rounds that
sizzled through the air.
Benny returned the favor and sent a hail of .60~caliber bul-

lets slashing at the Devastator. A few punched through the
starboard armor plating. Nathan pushed the stick forward and
dived beneath the incoming fire. The two fighters circled one
another, like wary, punch-drunk boxers near the end of a
bare-knuckle bout.
Just ahead,he could see that Bertrand was still hot on Tug's
tail.The kid was holding his own for now, but just barely.
Benny's Raven dived in for another pass and Nathan saw —
his chance. He applied more power to the Devastator's engine
and placed himself on a collision course for the oncoming
Raven.
The Raven wobbled for a moment, then banked hard to the
left —unprepared for Nathan's mad dash. Nathan grinned
he had a clear run at Bertrand.
Nathan hit the trigger and peppered Bertrand's Raven.

Bertrand pulled up and spiraled away to the right; Tug dived
to the left.
The Devastator was moving too fast — it sped past Tug's

plane and almost collided with one of the local racers, low to
the ground. Nathan hauled back on the stick with all his
might and kicked the rudder hard to the left. He skimmed
past the other plane, which careened out of the way and al-
most plowed into one of the taller trees.
Close. Too damn close.
Before Nathan could correct his course, bullets hammered
the Devastator. Bertrand had taken advantage of Nathan's
predicament and dropped right onto his tail.
Tug's Fury roared back into the battle. A pair of rock-

ets streaked from the Fury and passed directly behind the
CRIMSON SKIES 287
Devastator — for a split second, Nathan thought Tug was

shooting at him.
The rockets exploded directly in front of Bertrand's Raven,
starring the glass in the canopy.
"Nice shooting, kid," Nathan said. "You sure you can
handle this clown?"
"No problem. You just keep Benny off my back," Tug
replied.
"You got it."
Nathan kept an eye on Benny as Tug and Bertrand looped,
rolled, and dived at one another. Every time Benny tried to
move in and help his boss, Nathan swooped into the battle
—
and chased him off with cannon fire a stalemate.
Finally, Benny broke off and began to circle the course.
Nathan turned his attention back to Tug's fight with Bertrand.
He knew the kid had a score to settle, and that he'd be hop-
ping mad if Nathan interfered. Nathan was stuck on the side-
lines, as long as the kid didn't get into trouble.
With Bertrand and Benny held in check, the Faugons
coordination faltered. Nathan grinned as the Cajuns' Brig-
ands slammed the Ravens with rockets. Within moments,
three more Ravens were out of the fight —
but not before two
more Cajun Brigands splashed into the swamp.
Nathan looked back and forth, and could just make out the
of the other planes as they turned into the
tiny silhouettes
final lap. They were too
far away to be an immediate threat.
The Devastator made another tight turn, and Nathan spied
Tug's Fury. Tug cursed as Bertrand's Raven turned inside
him. Tug frantically tried to correct his course, but Bertrand
sent his plane into a perfect split-S. He locked on to the Fury's
tail like a pit bull. Bullets knifed through the Fury's tail
armor.
"Damn it," Nathan shouted, "break off! Break off!"
"No way," Tug replied. "I got the bastard right where I
want him."
Suddenly, twin streaks of fire burst from the Fury's ex-
haust,and the battered plane shot forward like a rocket. The
Fury pulled away from Bertrand's bird in seconds. "Thank
you, Doc!" Tug cried.
—
Z88 Bayou Blues
The Raven wobbled for a moment and then turned into

a clumsy bank; Bertrand had clearly been startled by
Tug's sudden, unexpected burst of speed. Nathan saw his
opportunity.
The Devastator dived like a hawk. Nathan fired his guns
not to hit the Raven, but to force Bertrand to turn back to
the left.
The maneuver worked. As Bertrand struggled to shake

Nathan off his tail, he turned . . . right into the path of
Tug's guns.
The Fury had looped back around and streaked for the
Raven. There was a sustained burst of cannon fire —then
smoke and fire, as Tug's shots shattered the Raven's engine.
The Raven's canopy popped open, and Bertrand bailed out.
Tug sent the Fury into a victory roll.
"Nice shooting, kid," Nathan said.
"I hate to interrupt your victory celebration, mon ami''
Thibodeaux's nervous voice broke in, "but there's still one of
Deschaines' men left in the race."
"I see him," Nathan growled.
Benny had pulled away as the racers entered the final lap.
His Raven was well ahead, a speck in the distance.
The Devastator shot ahead as Nathan firewalled the
throttle. He dropped low and shot through the makeshift
merry-go-round, narrowly avoiding a fiery crash.
The Raven was bigger and slower, but Benny had a big lead.
"Mon ami," Thibodeaux warned, "y°u aren't gonna make it."
"The hell I'm not," Nathan snarled. He glanced at the nitro
booster's pressure gauge — it read just shy of 60 percent.
Bertrand's bullets had smashed up the main compressor
either that, or punctured the booster's feed line. If he hit the
switch, there was a good chance that the whole plane would
explode.
Tug's bird was too shot up to make it in time; plus, he'd just
fired his own booster. would be almost a minute before he
It
could fire it again. There wasn't enough time.

"Okay, Louis," Nathan said, "hang on to your beret."
The racers had banked into the final lap. The course arced
—
CRIMSON SKIES Z89
back toward Nathan. He pushed the Devastator's engines as

hard as they would go. The Devastator drew closer to the
cluster of racers. They were now less than a mile from the
finish line.
Nathan opened fire. The racers scattered and broke off
as Nathan's fighter bore down on them. A handful decided
they'd had enough and climbed above the flight ceiling.
"You missed him!" Tug yelled. "Benny got past you!"
Nathan pulled the Devastator into a loop and came around
on Benny's tail. The finish line loomed just ahead.
"It would appear that you've lost, Monsieur Zachary."
There was no mistaking the triumph in Henri's voice. "You're
out of rockets, and you're out of time. One of my men is . . .
going to finish the race. You lose, sir."

"Is that so?" Nathan replied. "You readin' this, Jack?"
"Loud and clear, boss."
"Ditch that piece ofjunk."
"With pleasure."
With that, Benny's Raven slowed and banked away from —
the finish line. The Raven climbed above the flight ceiling,
and the pilot bailed out.
Nathan chuckled as Louis' laughter crackled from the
radio. "Hey, Louis, did I ever introduce you to Jack Mul-
ligan my wingman?"
. . .
"Not yet, mon ami but I can' wait to meet 'im." Louis
. . .
was delighted.
"Hey, Henri," Nathan added, "look on the bright side
now you'll always know you can't beat me."
". You'll pay for this, Zachary." The false bonhomie was
. .
gone. "If it's the last thing I do, I'll see you die."
The radio squawked; Deschaines had apparently switched
off the radio —
or changed frequency.
"'Eads up, Nathan," Louis cried. "Looks like Henri's a
poor loser."
The police zeppelin began to move. It picked up speed and
climbed. In moments, a squadron of police fighters dropped
from the zep.
"Uh, Nathan?" Tug sounded nervous. "What's the plan?"
. .
290 Bayou Blues
"Simple. I'll handle the cops. You cross the finish line.
You've still got a race to win."

"What? Are you nuts? There's gotta be a dozen of 'em!"
"Don't argue, kid," Nathan said. "It's under control."
Tug's Fury pulled away as the police fighters drew closer.
"Attention pirate fighter: surrender or be destroyed."
Nathan ignored them and circled around to put some dis-
tance between him and the approaching police zeppelin. The
fighters drew closer . .
Closer . .
Nathan switched radio frequencies yet again. "All right,"

he said, "hit 'em."
Nathan heard the thunder of massive guns, despite the roar
of his own engine. The police zeppelin reeled as a rain of
cannon fire raked her side. Half of her port-side engine
nacelles exploded like firecrackers. The airship listed and
slowed.
A second zeppelin dropped from the cloud cover. She was
shark white, with daggerlike, angular rudder fins. The For-
tune Hunters insigne gleamed on her envelope. A single
word —pandora—was stenciled in large block letters on the
bridge gondola.
Pandora's broadside guns boomed a second time, and a
barrage of cannon shells ripped through the police zeppelin 's
rudder. The crippled zeppelin began to drift in a wobbling, er-
ratic spiral.
Nathan moved his Devastator closer to the formation of
police planes. They had slowed their advance in the face of
Pandora's arrival. Their formation broke as the police zep-
pelin crumpled under the hail of cannon fire.
"Attention, constables," Nathan announced, "stand down.

It's over."
"Like hell it is!" Henri howled. "There's only two of them,
damn it! Kill them! Kill them!"
"There's not exactly two of us, Henri," Nathan chuckled.
"Colonel? They're all yours."
At Nathan's words, several of the "local racers" who had —
scattered as Nathan tangled with Benny fell into a tight dia- —
CRIMSON SKIES Z91
mond formation. They screamed back into the race area and
of warning bursts.
fired a series
"Attention, New Orleans Police," a woman's voice an-
nounced. "This is Colonel Andrea Hawks of the Flaming
Witch Company. Stand down, by order of the prime
minister."
The police planes fell back in disarray. Finally, the lead po-
lice dropped his landing gear. "Saint Leader to
fighter
Colonel Hawks: We surrender."
Nathan breathed a deep sigh of relief. He watched in satis-
faction as the police fell back to the landing field. The
crippled zeppelin's envelope began to deflate as her captain
struggled to put her down safely.
"That's one bag of hot air down," Nathan muttered, "and
one to go."
Epilogue: Loose Ends, Last (all
Nathan climbed down from the cockpit and stripped off his
flight goggles. He wiped his sweaty forehead with a grimy
hand and looked around. The race area was crawling with
armed men, most of them from the Foreign Legion garrison
in New Orleans. Cops arrested cops and led them away in
handcuffs. Race spectators and bookies were being lined
—
up and herded into blimps New Orleans' answer to the
paddy-wagon.
Thibodeaux stood amid a cordon of men in uniforms, right
in front of Deschaines' vault. There was an even dozen of
—
them, all armed a mix of Foreign Legion officers and local
cops who hadn't been on Deschaines' payroll. Nathan spotted
both the chief of police and mayor of New Orleans among the
soldiers and police.
Henri and Bertrand Deschaines stood in the center of the
knot of uniformed men. Bertrand had a bandage on his arm
and a bruise above his right eye. Both of them looked furious.
—
292 Bayou Blues
One of the Legionnaires stepped forward. "Henri and Ber-

trand Deschaines, I'm placing you under arrest on the charges
of racketeering, illegal gambling, and the blackmail of gov-
ernment officials."
"On what authority?" Henri spat. "This is local
jurisdiction —the garrison has no business interfering here."
"Actually," Nathan spoke up, "he has all the authority he
—
needs directly from Prime Minster DuPre."
The Legionnaire officer gestured at the policemen who —
slapped cuffs on the Deschaines.
The mayor scowled at the prisoners. "It's about time."
Henri glared at the mayor. "I'll ruin you," he vowed. "I
promise you, your career is over."
The mayor paled at the threat. Zachary stepped forward
and handed the mayor of New Orleans a brown envelope.
"Mr. Mayor? This might help."
The portly official turned a dangerous shade of red when
—
he viewed the contents of the envelope a small, neat bundle
of photographs. "The negatives are inside the envelope, as
well, Mr. Mayor," Nathan added. "You needn't worry about
them falling into the wrong hands."
Henri cursed as the policemen led him and his son to a
waiting squad car. Nathan held open the door for him.
The mayor shook Zachary 's hand. The bundle of photos

was clutched tightly in his other hand. "How how did you —
get these?"
Nathan grinned and said, "I had some help." He gestured
at a lineof stretchers nearby.
—
A dozen or so pilots most of them Deschaines'
—
mercenaries received care for their wounds. A stocky, red-
haired man sat on the nearest stretcher, propped up on his el-
bows as he flirted with one of the nurses.
Louis and Nathan walked over to the stretchers. "Get up,
you old goldbrick," Nathan said. "Louis, this is my wingman
Jack Mulligan. You probably know him better as Benny, the
cheap hood."
Jack gave Louis a jaunty wave. "Sorry for not getting up."
Nathan turned serious. "How bad are you hurt?"
CRIMSON SKIES 29i
Jack shrugged. "Not too bad. Busted my leg so I'm —

gonna be laid up for a while. I guess we're even for that
smack on the head I gave you."
"Kind of overdid it, didn't you?" Nathan groused. The
knot on the back of his head had receded but it still —
throbbed.
Jack chuckled. "I'm not sure which was worse — bustin'
my leg, or wearing that damned 'bum' disguise. I'm gonna be
itching for months."
—
had to be done, old buddy your performance had
"It
to be convincing," Nathan said with an apologetic smile.
"Deschaines can smell a con a mile away, so you had to look
like the real thing."
Jack smirked. "With that disguise, I'm sure he could smell
me a mile away."
Louis nodded appreciatively. "So, you sent Jack in under-
cover to 'ire on wit' Deschaines."
"Right." Nathan nodded. "So, when I had dinner at Henri's

—
place, I made sure I got 'Benny' ticked off and thrown out
of the room. While I had my .chat with Henri, Jack rifled
. .
his safe and got back the photos and the negatives."
"So, what about that clout on the 'ead in front of The
Flyin' 'orses?"
"Easy," Nathan explained. "Benny was still new to Henri's
organization —they Knocking me out
didn't quite trust him.
cold made it easier for Deschaines to believe he was on the
level —
then, he just slipped me the photos while I was on
the ground."
—
"And what about my planes and my pilots?"
"Look around, Louis." Nathan couldn't resist a smug
smile. "Aside from Tug, do you see any of your men?"
Thibodeaux looked over the men on stretchers —none of
the Cajuns were there. His frown deepened. "So, where are
my men?"
"Aboard the Pandora, manning the guns."
"What?" Louis exploded. "Then who was flyin' my
planes?"
"They were." Nathan pointed to the landing field where sev-
eral people clustered around one of the damaged Brigands.
1% Bayou Blues
The group — dressed in flight jackets — spotted Nathan point-

ing and walked over to join them. There were five of them,
laughing and joking amongst themselves as they crossed the
field.
"Louis," Nathan said. "Meet the Fortune Hunters." He

pointed at the five of them in turn.
—
"This is Eddie Conroy we call him Sparks. He usually
mans the radio, but we got him up in the air for a change."
"Sir." Conroy nodded and shook Louis' hand. "A pleasure."
Nathan gestured at a lithe, curvy woman with long, curly
honey-blond hair. A pearl-handled Colt revolver rode her hip.
"This is 'Tex' Ryder."
"Hey, sugar," she said with a grin. "Sorry fr messin' up y 'r
birds."
Nathan moved down the line to a tall black man. He was
thickly muscled and stood nearly six feet tall, though his fear-
some appearance was softened by the humor and warmth
in his smile. "This is John Washington
"
—
we call him 'Big
John.'
"Can't imagine why," Louis muttered.
A sandy-haired man in his early twenties was next in line.
He stepped forward and stuck out his hand. "Bob Deere, Mr.
Thibodeaux. You can call me Mos' everyone does."
'Buck.'
Last in line was a petite young woman, just out of her
teens. "How ya' doin'?" she chirped.
"This is the newest Fortune Hunter," Nathan explained.
"
"Betty Charles—aka 'Brooklyn.'
Louis' frown deepened. "So, you were playin' me, too,
mon amir he said. "You switched my pilots for yours. Why?"
"I didn't want your men to get hurt —
this was my scam,
after all." He paused, a sheepish look on his face. "It's also
—
why I had Doc rig your plane I needed you angry enough to
back me when Henri raised the stakes."
Louis' expression darkened. "Go on."
"A few of your men filled out the rest of the flight, but I
made sure that my guys took the lumps." He shrugged. "At
least on the ground, no one was shooting at you."
This did not mollify the Cajun pirate. "So why not confide
CRIMSON SKIES 295
in me? You think I couldn't pull off le grand con, eh? Mon-
sieur Famous 'as to come down 'ere and show the locals 'ow
to conduct their business?"
"Look on the bright side, Louis," Nathan said. "Not only
—
do you get a share of the spoils I'll fix your planes up out of
my share. Fair enough?"
Nathan stuck his hand out. Louis hesitated, then shook. "I
still think I should deck you."
Zachary laughed. "Yeah, you probably should."

They were interrupted by the growl of plane engines.
"Looks like the Witches are leavin'," Jack said.
A lean woman crossed the field and waved to Nathan. She
was attractive, if severe, and she walked with a compact, pre-
cise military bearing. She wore her hair short, and her
temples were starting to show signs of gray.
"Colonel Hawks," Nathan said. "A pleasure to see you
again."
Col. Andrea Hawks' stern expression broke into a sly grin.
"Hey, Zachary. This has been fun. . . . Let's do it again
sometime, okay?"
She gave Thibodeaux a friendly nod. "Monsieur Thi-
bodeaux." She kissed the Cajun on both cheeks in the Conti-
nental style, which he didn't seem to mind at all.
"Merci, Colonel. The pleasure is indeed mine." He gave
Nathan a nudge. "Although it would per'aps 'ave been better
if I 'ad been included in the plan."
Hawks chuckled. "Don't blame Nathan for that! He was
just acting on orders from Prime Minister DuPre."
"You're kiddin'." Louis rounded on Nathan. "You mean
you've been workin' for the prime minister?"
Nathan nodded. "But that's not the best part, Louis. You 've
been working for the prime minister."
— —
"But but 'e's been tryin' to shut down the Cajuns for
months." Louis was flabbergasted. "I mean, 'e put aprice on
f
my ead, Nathan."
"That's right," Nathan replied, "especially since you
boosted that payroll shipment out of Baton Rouge. He's
not real happy with you about that." Zachary grinned and
punched the Cajun pirate lightly in the arm. "Deschaines was
296 Bayou Blues
going to use the money he won here to finance his bid to win
the next election."
"So, now the great Nathan Zachary's turned into a
privateer?"
"For a while. DuPre's an old friend we fought together in —
France during the Big One." He smiled. "Of course, he's not
stupid —my letter of marque expires in one month. Guess he
doesn't want us to wear out our welcome."
Colonel Hawks waved good-bye.
"I'll leave you boys to
sort this outbetween you. We're off." The two men watched
as she ran to her plane and clambered up into the cockpit.
With a final salute, she maneuvered her plane down the
runway and led the squadron to a flawless takeoff.
"What do you say we finish this conversation some-
where more pleasant?" Zachary started to walk toward his
Devastator.
At The Flyin' Horses, the celebration was in full swing.

Nathan leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room full of
pilots, friends, and even the garrison commander of the Le-
gionnaires. Tug and Emmeline came over to his table; the kid
was grinning from ear to ear, and the young girl was radiant.
"We can't thank you enough, Monsieur Zachary, for all of
your help." Emmeline, who was snuggled close to Tug, reached
her slim hand to Zachary, who took it between his and gave it a
gentle squeeze.
"Don't thank me, Miss Emmy, thank your fiance —he was
the one who really stood up to Deschaines."
The young Texan pilot blushed as Emmeline turned his
face to hers and gave him a passionate kiss. Nathan grinned;
beneath her fragile southern belle exterior, Emmeline had a
lot of fire but Nathan had a feeling that Tug would find
. . .
that outsoon enough.

—
"What's your plan after the wedding, that is?"
Emmy gave Nathan a conspiratorial smile. "Well, it ap-
pears that I will soon own quite a bit of property including —
the house."
"An' the hangar an' the airstrip," Tug added. "I'm thinkin'
CRIMSON SKIES 297
about maybe startin' a little flight school here, an' maybe a

small private line."
"Sounds good, Tug. I'm happy to help you out where I
can." Zachary had a moment of nostalgia as he thought about
himself at that age. The kid had a lot going for him.
—
"Thanks, Mr. Zachary I mean, Nathan. And listen, you
an' the Fortune Hunters, you've always got a place to park
when you're in this neck of the woods, okay?"
Zachary saluted the couple with a raised glass. "Thanks,
kid."
The happy couple turned as one of the Cajuns called out
Tug's name and waved a bottle at him. They rejoined the fes-
tivities as Nathan relaxed.
"So, mon Boy gets girl, the bad guys go to jail, and
ami.
'ere we Thibodeaux plunked himself down across the
are."
table from Zachary. "So, what didôw get?"
"Bruises, mostly."
Louis cocked an eyebrow and waited for Nathan to con-
tinue. Zachary sighed and admitted, "Under the letter of
marque, I'm entitled to a percentage of Deschaines' seized
assets . plus any and all gambling winnings. That's why Tug
. .
had to cross the finish line first. After fixing up our planes, we
scored a little over a hundred grand."
He paused and took another sip of champagne. "Plus, I got
to derail Deschaines' little election scheme."
"What do you care about that? You're not a politician."
"No but I have to admit, Henri got my goat." He fin-
. . .
ished his champagne and set the glass down on the table. "At
heart, he was just a penny-ante grifter with delusions of
grandeur ... a hustling rube. Someone had to take him down
a peg. He gives honest con men like us a bad name."
"And of course, men like us mus' always keep busy, nonl
Otherwise, we lose our edge."
"Funny you should mention that." Nathan looked around
the room briefly and then leaned toward Thibodeaux. "I
hear there's a zeppelin casino that operates over the Gulf of
Mexico that's just ripe for the taking."
Louis frowned. "Non! Impossible. The Cajuns 'ave been
casin' the zep for months. If it's anybody's score, it's mine."
Z98 Bayou Blues
Nathan met Louis' gaze, his own face impassive. Though

the pirates respected each other, Nathan knew full well that
there was no honor among thieves. Finally, he said, "I can
see there's only one way to solve this."
He reached into his jacket. Louis watched him like a hawk
and dropped his hand to the butt of his gun. "Careful, mon
ami" he warned.
Nathan slowly removed a small cardboard package from
his coat. He opened it and removed its contents. "Like I said,
Louis," he said, "there's really only one way to solve this:
"Pick a card."
—
Appendix: Crimson Skies Over North America
The Path to the "Modern Aero-Age"
There was no single warning sign that pointed to the

breakup of the United States of America. The American
Civil War in 1860 may have played a part, say some, while
others blame the so-called Founding Fathers, who failed to pre-
dict the collapse of the nation. Regardless of the root cause, the
result is the same: The United States of America, that great ex-
periment in Democracy, crumbled in the late 1920s.
1920
The first signs of the coming collapse became apparent in
1920, in the aftermath of the postwar influenza epidemic.
Many isolationist movements —whose supporters were already
convinced of America's involvement in Europe's troubles
were only strengthened after so many citizens fell to a disease
brought back by returning servicemen.
President Wilson's push to form the League of Nations
drew increasing fire from U.S. citizens, allowing Warren G.
Harding's "New Independence from Europe" campaign to
gain momentum. Harding called for greater separation from
the world in general, and the Regionalist party adopted it as part
of their platform. Many Regionalists who won office in 1920
used their new power to push forward their own programs
most notably, Prohibition (which failed ratification as a Con-
stitutional amendment that year).
19Z3
Prohibition consumed the political scene for the next

three years, splitting its supporters and detractors across re-
gional lines. Its political power undercut by the Regionalists,
—
300 Crimson Skies Over North America
Washington's indecisiveness forced politicians to support ef-

forts to sign Prohibition into law, or to reject it, for their own
states.
The death of President Harding 1923 handed the Presi-
in
dency to Calvin Coolidge, who refused to
get behind the wa-
vering Federal Prohibition Bill. Without Presidential support,
the bill quickly died in committee.
The Prohibition issue that had polarized the country be-
came a battle between regions that supported it, and those
that did not. Checkpoints appeared on state borders as au-
thorities tried to restrict the flow of alcohol into "dry" regions.
Many states also used these checkpoints to levy unofficial
—
and highly illegal tariffs.
I9Z4
The election campaigns of 1924 illustrated the growing

shift in power from Washington to the statehouses. States de-
manded more authority, and state governments seized greater
power for themselves. Despite Federal efforts to reverse the
tide, the states continued to appropriate more power. The
result — stronger states and weak central government — is ex-
emplified by the 1924 Bluefield Incident.
Kentucky and West Virginia began armed conflict with
Virginia and North Carolina for control of the Appalachians
(the source of a large percentage of illegal alcohol that was
smuggled north). The Virginia National Guard captured a
large Kentucky convoy outside the town of Bluefield, only to
discover that their prize was a Kentucky guard unit running
alcohol out of the Appalachians toward the West Virginia
border. Though jurisdiction clearly belonged to Kentucky,
the men were tried in Virginia on vague charges and jailed.
Virginia refused Kentucky's request to transfer the men back
to their home state, and later rejected a similar "suggestion"
from Washington, D.C. Only under the threat of U.S. Army
intervention did Virginia finally release the prisoners to Fed-
eral authorities, almost two years after their capture.
—
CRIMSON SKIES 301
1927
Except for the Bluefield Incident (and a few other isolated

flashpoints in the United States and Mexico), the period from
1924 to 1927 was among the best the United States had
known. The elections were over, the Prohibition issue was
largely settled— at least within individual states — and the
country had a brief respite from the growing political unrest.
Unemployment dropped dramatically as states employed their
own people to maintain growing internal infrastructures (even
as the national infrastructure began to show signs of strain).
Per capita income increased, and more people began invest-
—
ing in the stock market foolishly, in most cases.
The Federal government might have reclaimed its au-
thority then, but chose to wait for the next major election year
to increase its power base and avoid reawakening Regionalist
opposition. Washington waited too long.
In 1927, a new and deadly strain of the influenza that rav-
aged the country in 1918 appeared, delivering a crippling
—
blow to national morale. States and even many cities
closed their borders and converted their liquor checkpoints
into quarantine-enforcement sites. Necessary border cross-
ings were made under armed supervision with strict controls.
Smugglers and raiders began adopting the airplane as their
primary method of border-jumping, avoiding the limitations
of ground-based transport.
1928
The election of 1928 suffered from poor voter turnout, as
most people avoided large groups (for fear of contracting
influenza). Capitalizing on this, the Regionalists launched
various "Strong State" platforms, effectively curtailing the
Federal government's remaining power. Governors negoti-
ated with their neighbors to establish interstate alliances, for-
malizing the segregated regions that had grown out of the
preceding decade's isolationist policies. In many cases, these
new alliances merely reinforced divisions that had existed
from the United States' founding days.
In early 1 929, Utah enacted the Smith Law, which made the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints the state's official
30? Crimson Skies Over North America
religion, with state government support. With the Federal gov-

ernment's impotence and Utah's isolation, cries to heed the
traditional "separation of Church and State" were largely ig-
nored. Fearing similar measures, strongly anti-Mormon states
such as Pennsylvania and Massachusetts began to discrimi-
nate against the Mormons, driving many toward Utah.
In October of 1929, the stock market crash sounded the
death knell for the United States. Regionalism had decimated
the national economy and Washington, D.C.'s, call for finan-
cial assistance from state governments was roundly rejected.
President Hoover called out the military to keep D.C. from
slipping into lawlessness, further damaging the reputation of
the central government.
1930
On January 1 1 930, Texas seceded from the United States,
,
with California, the Carolinas, Utah, and New York follow-

ing suit almost immediately afterward. Each formed a new
nation, much Confederacy had done in the 1800s. Un-
as the
able to mount the political and military campaign necessary
to hold the United States together, Washington was now
powerless.
This new period of extreme Regionalism created turmoil
on a grand scale. Quebec broke away from Canada, as well.
Mexico moved against Texas, and a minor shooting war
erupted. In the ten months following Texas' secession, Cali-
fornia, the Carolinas, Utah, and New York withdrew from the
Union, forming independent nation-states.
—
North America's love of airplanes once rooted in the
exotic, adventurous mystique surrounding them became —
deeply ingrained, as commerce between the new North Ameri-
can independent nations ground to a halt. Various brushfire
wars demolished the intercontinental railway system at na-
tional borders, and the few large highway systems built or
under construction quickly fell into disrepair or were sabo-
taged. The automobile, once thought destined to become the
national shipping vehicle, gave way to gyrotaxis, aerobuses,
and large cargo zeppelins that commanded the skylines and
made trade possible between friendly nations.
CRIMSON SKIES 303
The first "air pirates" began capturing the public eye

during this period of chaos. Generally small, disorganized
bands of thrill-seekers and publicity hounds, these pirates
began crime sprees that would inspire others to follow in their
footsteps in later years.
1931
As the Federal government in Washington, D.C., crumbled,

a large segment of the nation's military began to desert. The
soldiers' pay was slow in coming, and many were starving.
Many returned to their home states, while others began sell-
ing their skills as mercenaries or bandits. A few thousand

troops remained loyal, relocating to Washington, D.C., to de-
fend the capital.
The political geography continued shifting throughout
the year: The Banks nation of Virginia and
short-lived Outer
the Carolinas quickly folded itself into the rest of the Southern
states, giving rise to the new Confederation of Dixie through-
out the South. Samuel Morrow formed the People's Collec-
tive in the Midwest (abrogating all loans and mortgages
among its citizens, a move that angered outside financial in-
terests but kept the new nation from drowning in the Great
Depression).
The formation of the People's Republic also led to one of
the last major engagements of the Federalist armed forces; on
Presidential orders, the Army moved to retake the People's
Collective, but was roundly defeated.
Like dominos falling, various new nation-states began to
form quickly; the Industrial States ofAmerica (formed around
formed
the industrial centers of the Great Lakes); Appalachia
in the South; theMaritime Provinces and Atlantic Coalition
declared independence in the Northeast.
The first serious pirate threat manifested in mid- 1931.
—
Jonathan "Genghis" Kahn a former businessman from
—
Chicago formed the infamous Red Skull Legion. The Skulls
moved into Utah (posing as People's Collective militia) and
stole a military zeppelin, nearly starting a Utah-Collective
war in the process. The age of the air pirate had begun.
—
304 Crimson Skies Over North America
I93Z
In early 1932, the Native American Navajo and Lakota

tribes took up arms and seized a large portion of territory in
the American West. With little Federal opposition, the Na-
tives managed to secure a fairly broad section of territory be-
fore closing their borders to outsiders. Particularly scornful
of bootleggers, the Navajo and Lakota —never the greatest of
allies — still band together to fight off any incursion by pi-
rates, outsider militia forces, or anything else deemed a threat
to the tribes.
Free Colorado, in contrast, formed for entirely different
reasons; today, it is becoming a haven for pirates, boot-
leggers, and the other, more anarchistic elements. In light of
the lawless freehold's formation, President Coolidge ordered
troops to seize the lands near Washington, D.C., (including
parts of Maryland and Delaware) and declared a "state of
emergency;" the nation of Columbia was born.
Louisiana seceded from Dixie soon afterward, requesting
support from France for its independence. Ill-prepared to go
it alone, the Midwestern states sank deep into the Depression
and then resurrected themselves as a Christian Communist

nation, the People's Collective. The relatively strong Lakota
and Navajo Native American tribes founded their own na-
tions as well, carving territory out of the nearly defunct
Dakotas and the barren deserts and plateau country of the
American southwest.
Even worse, as national borders continued to form, con-
flict became inevitable. The first serious conflict occurred
near the end of 1932, as I.S.A. forces clashed with People's

Collective militia. The source of the conflict is hazy; some
claim it is a natural battle between capitalists and socialists,
while others believe that the I.S.A. thought that their techno-
logical superiority would allow them to capture the territory
and therefore the natural resources of the Collective. —
Whatever the case, through the rest of 1932 and into 1933,
the conflict continued.
CRIMSON SKIES 305
1933
The political destabilization and shifting of borders con-

tinued throughout 1933; small brushfire conflicts between
ground and air militias forged new national boundaries, fu-
eled by the continuing conflict between the I.S.A. and People's
Collective. In light of the hostilities that seemed to be on the
verge of blowing up into full-scale war, the Outer Banks
nation (formerly the Carolinas and Virginia) formed an al-
liance with Dixie, becoming a Protectorate of the Confed-
eracy, and fueling conflict between Appalachia, Dixie, and
the Outer Banks.
1934-1935
The low-intensity border skirmishes between these new
nations continued to flare up, and amidst the chaos, the boot-
leggers and pirates thrived. Scores of new militias —
most de-
termined to defend their hometown or state formed to —
battle increasingly colorful and flamboyant raiders. The Red-
mann Gang, the Red Skull Legion, the Black Swans, and
hosts of other pirate groups continued to raid across national
boundaries (sparking additional conflicts as overzealous mi-
litia pilots strayed across borders into unfriendly territory in
pursuit of the raiders).
1936
The borders and politics of the North American nation-
states solidified in 1936. Combined Navajo and Utah forces
allied long enough to fight off incursions by pirates based in
Free Colorado; the Broadway Bombers (the premier Empire
State militia) decimated the Hell's Henchmen pirate gang in
the Alleghenies; I.S.A. and the Peoples' Collective conflict
flared up yet again, though this time the Collective fared far
better than in previous engagements, retaking small parcels
of their territory.
1937
Sky pirates have prompted the rise of air militias to protect

the shipping lanes. The pirates maintained an edge, how-
ever, and their early successes gave way to today's large and
306 Crimson Skies Over Koith America
numerous pirate groups. Piracy got another boost when mili-

tiasbegan raiding rival shipping, often receiving bonuses from
their employers that reflected the value of the cargo taken or
destroyed. As pirate and militia raids cut deeper into national
economies, the various governments began subsidizing air
wings.
Piracy actually lessened in the face of this organized
response, though only briefly; the pirates adapted to the
changing times by forming larger, better-armed gangs. From
there, it was only a matter of time before nations began to
subsidize pirates as well, handing out letters of marque in
order to direct pirate activities away from their own zeppelin
fleets and toward those of their enemies.
Today, North America is a hotbed of conflict: Rival militias
prey on each other at will, striking m defense of their nations'

interests; pirates and privateers battle the militias for control
of the skies, and are too often victorious. The skies above
North America are the new frontier, where a single individual
with skill and nerve can make the difference between victory
and defeat.
—
Professor Warren Gilmont, Harvard University (1938)
Check out this official prequel to the
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BRUTE FORCE"
Betrayals
by Dean Wesley Smith
At the dawn of the 24th century, the

Confederation of Allied Worlds maintains an
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This novel is based on a

Mature rated video game.
Xbox, the Xbox Logos, Brute Force, and Digital Anvil are registered
trademarks or trademarks of Microsoft Corporation in the United States
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Copyright © 2002 Microsoft Corporation. All Rights Reserved.
Published by Del Rey Books.

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BBI countries. Primagames.com is

a registered trademark of
Random House, Inc., registered
and the Xbox Logos are either registered trade-
marks or trademarks of Microsoft Corporation in
the United States and/or other
in the United States. countries/regions and are used under license
Fly the Collect
unfriendly the best Ace

skies of the 1930s pilots, to display
in the miniatures game or add to your squadron.
based on the XBox game, The Crimson Skies Collectable

both from award-winning Miniatures Game will bring
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MM wuKUa. llC. Ail ffcfste re**v*i u>tm«cx> Se*s. t* cm-ace i»»si66 Lego Md ;r* vVUKkb tev» ** tadw'iav* erf YVizXOft. U.C. raeffl JWMg
Check out the official prequel
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HALO"
The Fall of Reach
by Eric Nylund
As the bloody Human-Covenant War rages on

Halo, the fate of humankind may rest with one
warrior, the lone SPARTAN survivor of another
legendary battle . . . the desperate, take-no-
prisoners struggle that led humanity to Halo—
the fall of the planet Reach. Now, brought to
life for the first time, here is the full story of
that glorious, doomed conflict.
This novel is based on a

Mature rated video game.
Bungie, Halo, Xbox, and the Xbox Logos are either registered trademarks or
trademarks of Microsoft Corporation in the United States and/or other coun-
tries. Used under license. Copyright © 2001 Microsoft Corporation.
Ail Rights Reserved.
Published by Del Rey Books.

Available wherever books are sold.
And look for the thrilling new Halo novel,

coming this spring 2003!
Eric Nylund has published six novels, including A Signal
Shattered, Signal to Noise, Pawn's Dream, Dry Water (a
World Fantasy Award nominee), A Game of Universe, and
Halo: The Fall of Reach, the official prequel novelization
of the Xbox game. He has a bachelor's degree in
chemistry and a master's degree in chemical physics,

and is a graduate of the Clarion West Writer's Workshop.
He lives near Seattle with his wife, Syne Mitchell.
Michael B. Lee is a writer and game designer whose short
fiction has appeared in the anthologies Inherit the Earth

and Dark Tyrants and the upcoming Lucifer's Shadow. An
avid student of aviation and military history, as well as a
devoted fan of the pulps, Mike lives in Nashville.
Nancy Berman has produced several computer games,

and written for both electronic and role-playing games,
including White Wolf's Vampire: The Masquerade, West
End Games' Hercules & Xena Adventure Game, and
Alderac Entertainment Group's 7th Sea. She regularly
contributes fiction to Microsoft's Crimson Skies Web site
(www.crimsonskies.com). She has a bachelor's degree in
English and Latin and lives in Los Angeles.
Eric S. Trautmann is the lead content developer for

Microsoft's Franchise Development Group, where he
writes and edits story bibles for a variety of Xbox and PC
games. He has contributed dialogue and Web content to
a variety of Microsoft games, includihg Mechwarrior 4:
Vengeance, Allegiance, Crimson Skies, and Halo. In
addition, he is the Webmaster of the official Crimson
Skies Web site (www.crimsonskies.com).
Welcome to the world of Crimson Skies. The United States is a
land torn apart hy epidemic and war. With chaos on the ground,
America's highways have been forced into the skies, a lawless
new frontier where the flying ace—hero, pirate, villain—is king.
Here are the exciting, danger-packed adventures of three
such daredevils.
The Case of the Phantom Prototype. A hefty payday convinced

dogfight genius Paladin Blake to fly a top-secret aircraft into the
Mojave Desert. But on this job, Blake must not only save himself,
but thousands of others slated for death by an unseen foe.
Genghis Kahn & the Manchurian Gambit. Why is the notorious leader
of the Red Skull Legion pirate gang rescuing a lady in distress,
returning gold and duking it out in blazing air battles from Manhattan
to Manchuria with no plunder in sight? Wonders never cease.
Bayou Blues. Ever since flying ace Nathan Zachary made a pirate
ship out of a stolen zeppelin, the oentleman air-pirate and his
"Fortune Hunters" gang have roam-^ e in search of money,
fame, and adventure. But a dou n sky-thief, a
crooked businessman, and a paij vers may just
trump this ace in a high-stakes,
Swashbuckling adventures ing aces, in all

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III
All Rights Reserved.

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Visit the official Xbox Web site: www.xbox.com

Ballantine / Del Rey /

If Paladin tried to climb they'd be all over him. So

BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK

A Del Rey* Book

The WizKids logo is a trademark of WizKids, LLC. All rights

Cover painting by Stephen Daniele

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition: October 2002

Crimson Skies owes a tremendous debt to the pulp writers

The of the Crimson Skies setting: Dave

Introduction: Where Were You? 1

Paladin Blake and the Case of the Phantom Prototype 5

Intermission: Dark Clouds 1 1

The Manchurian Gambit 1 03

Intermission: Rogues and Thieves 206

Bayou Blues 209

Introduction: Where Were Youl

was standing on the fiftieth floor of the Chrysler Building

to 1930. The Chrysler Building's night watchman, Gus, was a

radio. They just up an' quit."

the girl behind.

I had been working as a stringer for a number of news-

I had to get to a typewriter, to a telephone, to anything so

I could find out what happened. The Sentinel Publications

building was six blocks away.

ceded from the United States of America."

had to name the biggest cause of the breakup, I'd have

heating up. Kentucky and West Virginia actually ended up in

convoy outside the town of Bluefield, only to discover that

aerobuses, and large cargo zeppelins that commanded the sky

these pirates began crime sprees that would inspire others to

Which brings me to own gang

air bandits, a man with a reputation for bravery, daring, and

America. But before he tangled with Nathan Zachary, before

the Case of the

From the Files of Blake Aviation Security

Paladin Blake took a bottle of bourbon from his desk

Paladin cradled his glass of bourbon, warming it until he

away. The ritual was over.

pirates in the air, and, as improbable as it seemed, they were

slammed the ledger shut.

"Paladin Blake?" There was a richness to his voice, a

"I didn't know Lockheed had an airfield in the Mojave

But what choice did he really have?

the ashtray. It was one of those black European deals, expen-

The Club Gorgeio was packed with wall-to-wall tuxedos,

Paladin." He puffed once. "It doesn't add up."

At the opposite end of the fashion spectrum was Jimmy the

Paladin put him to work checking the backgrounds of his

with book deals and movie screenplays, suddenly everyone

"I never heard of him," Paladin replied.

It made him a valuable middleman to the shadier busi-

The sun wasn't upyet. Paladin fumbled in the dark until

his hands found his bag and parachute in the aerotaxi's

under "miscellaneous curiosities." He'd ask later.

The guard inside the shack tracked Paladin's approach

Paladin entered the hangar. On the other side of a row of