Target Rich Environment

  Since the Oriental Elite was slower than dirt and taking its sweet time, it would take another nine days of leisurely sailing to reach Buenos Aires. The crew had a Weatherman capable of magically altering the weather, but his instructions were to keep the winds comfy, not fast. With that much time over nothing but ocean, that meant there were basically two possibilities. If the saboteur was sane, they had nine days to catch him, before he set his bomb’s timer and then disembarked; if he was suicidal, then he could strike at any time.

  Unless there was another way off this tub . . .

  On the second day out of Casablanca, Sullivan ditched his tail and snuck down to the cargo hold. Despite Wells’ confidence in his staff, it was fairly easy to get by the guards on the door, and Sullivan wasn’t exactly Shadow Guard material. He simply used his Power to make his body light as a feather, climbed into the superstructure, then dropped through the top of the cargo hold.

  The crew had given the hold a thorough search after finding the first bomb, but there was probably a second one stashed somewhere aboard, and if there wasn’t, there were plenty of chemicals aboard that could be used to cook up another, only Sullivan wasn’t looking for bombs or components. He was looking for escape routes. Not for himself, since he’d already proven he could jump off of airships easy as pie, but for the bomber.

  There weren’t any windows in the hold, but enough light seeped through the gas bag overhead that he didn’t need to use his hand torch to see. There was a single airplane tethered in the hold above a large drop door. It was a small Dornier Duck flying boat. A quick look through the window confirmed that it was a four seater. Sullivan was no pilot, but he’d flown enough to know that this little thing couldn’t have that much range, but it could make an amphibious landing.

  A regular cruise ship had lifeboats. Passenger airships had parachutes, though that was mostly wishful thinking since anything bad enough to make an airship crash was probably going to happen so fast that parachutes wouldn’t really be an option. Plus, who were they kidding? It wasn’t like any of these socialites would know how to use a parachute without breaking their necks anyway. There were chutes stored at the emergency exits, but they were locked up tight, and only the crew had keys. You didn’t want just anybody being able to mess with an airship’s parachutes. There were also life vests and inflatable rafts. If the saboteur was really desperate, he could set a bomb anywhere between here and South America, jump, and then swim for it. If he had accomplices, there could even be a boat waiting nearby for a pickup.

  If the bomber didn’t have to wait for landfall, then time was of the essence. Sullivan never cared for rush jobs, but he had a way of getting things done. If Wells wanted an earthquake, he was about to get one.

  It was time to shake things up.

  The angle of the sunlight was shifting through the dome.

  “Why are we changing course?” asked one of the passengers.

  “I am sorry, sir. I’m afraid I do not know,” answered the nervous serving girl as she hurried past.

  Sullivan sat at a small table at the edge of the casino floor, enjoying a fine scotch on Doctor Wells’ dime, and channeling just enough of his gravity-altering Power to make a real mess of things.

  The ship’s nose was angled down. They were losing altitude. Gamblers began complaining as the spinning roulette wheels became unbalanced. They were far more worried about where that little ball would land, never realizing the real problem might be where they were about to land.

  He had to admit, Wells’ crew was solid. They didn’t alarm the passengers as news of their impending demise spread through the ship. Very few of the rich folks noticed a few nervous crewmen in engineer’s coveralls bolt up the stairs in an awful hurry, but a few of the toughs and security types did, and they alerted their charges. Word began to spread.

  Sullivan watched the jitters set in as their nose-down profile kept getting steeper until the streamers and flags on the walls were hanging at an obvious angle. Then the Oriental Elite began turning hard. The captain was trying to get them back toward land before they lost too much altitude and hit the waves. The ship began to rattle. Compared to the lazy motion of the entire trip, things had suddenly gotten very rough. Ever since Shanghai, the ship’s Weatherman had kept everything nice and easy, but now the winds weren’t about comfort, they were about getting a strong push so they could move fast.

  A red light began to flash and a warning klaxon sounded.

  Now the passengers knew something was very wrong and their case of the jitters turned to fear. The band stopped playing when the angle got bad enough that the tuba player lost his balance and fell off the edge of the stage. Passengers began looking for safety, not that there was any place actually safe aboard an airship that was suddenly going down. Heels weren’t the best type of shoe for a now steeply-angled dance floor, and some of the ladies took a spill on the hardwood. A few of their gentlemen abandoned them to save their own necks.

  A bead of sweat was rolling down Sullivan’s forehead. This wasn’t burning that much of his magic, but it did require a lot of concentration. Not so much concentration that he’d spill his drink though, and as his glass began to slide across the table, Sullivan caught it. He only needed to keep this up long enough to spook the players he had eyes on. They had to really believe that the Oriental Elite was going down.

  Professor Nishimura, Japanese robot designer extraordinaire, was not the easily riled type. One of his Iron Guard whispered something in his ear, but he brushed the soldier off. Even though the professor was having to hold onto the table felt to keep from falling off of his bolted-down stool, he kept on trying to play cards, and seemed a bit put off when his stack of chips toppled over and rolled onto the floor. He barked a command, and the junior Iron Guard whom Sullivan had slugged in the nose, got on his hands and knees and began picking up the chips. When the card dealer couldn’t take it anymore and began sliding across the floor, even Nishimura had to call it a day. He threw down his cards in disgust. He’d probably had a very good hand.

  The Iron Guard would have an escape planned for their VIP. The senior Imperium elite must have had enough, because he took Nishimura by the elbow and gently hoisted him off the stool. Sullivan was too far away to hear the words, but it had to be some variation of it’s time to go. The three Imperium men began making their way through the fearful gamblers. They were headed for the back stairs, which would take them to the cargo hold.

  It all came down to this: If Sullivan was wrong, he’d just sabotaged a cruise ship for no good reason. A ship’s officer had begun shouting orders, and because he had a fancy uniform and a cap with gold braids on it, most of the passengers were listening to him, so it was easy to pick out those who were paying attention to something else. There were three men sitting in a shadowed alcove by the bar, and they, too, were watching Nishimura. They all got up at the same time and began following the Japanese contingent across the gambling hall. Sure enough, one of them was the skinny Russian with the glasses, and he didn’t look happy.

  Now normally, if the two most evil countries in the whole world wanted to go and kill each other that would be their business, but his main concern was keeping the regular folks safe.

  On that note, it was probably time to quit crashing the ship and scaring the hell out of everybody. Sullivan let up on his Power. The gravity-altering spell he’d carved onto the main bag’s compressor system wouldn’t have much strength on its own. Though enough magic was probably still lingering there, messing things up, to unnerve the engineers so they’d keep running for land. He’d hoped that would force everyone’s hands, and it looked like he’d guessed right.

  He’d forced the saboteurs to make their move early or abort their mission. No wonder Beria looked so angry, and Sullivan figured anything that upset a commie that much was a good thing.

  Sullivan got up and rudely pushed his way through the socialites. There was just enough angle to the floor to make it hard not to knock anybody down. The Russi
ans were moving about as fast as they could without drawing too much attention to themselves. Beria broke off and went to the right while the other two took the same path as the Japanese. Sullivan kept on Beria. If there was another bomb, he’d be setting the timer now while his boys jumped the Iron Guards. He didn’t know what the NKVD’s magical capabilities were, but if they were prepared to have an even fight with Imperium elite, they were either very capable, or extremely stupid.

  The halls were crowded with passengers rushing from their rooms in various states of undress. Alarms and flashing lights had that effect on folks. Beria kept his head down and walked fast, bumping between the frightened. Sullivan plowed along after him, as far back as possible without losing sight. If Beria made him, he’d flee, and that would complicate things.

  He didn’t mean to step on that lady’s foot, but she let up enough of an unholy screech that Beria turned to see who’d kicked a cat, and Sullivan was made. The Russian snarled, then ducked through the next doorway and disappeared. Sullivan shoved passengers out of the way and ran to catch up. When he reached the corner, Beria was gone. The hall was a dead end but he’d vanished. He’d not had grey eyes, so he wasn’t a Traveler. He must have walked through the wall . . .

  The Russian spy was a Fade.

  “Aw, hell.” It was a good thing he’d worked enough with Heinrich over the years to have a good grasp on how to track someone who could diffuse their matter enough to pass through solid objects. Sullivan’s eyes couldn’t see through walls, but his Power could, so he called on a little of it to feel all the gravitational forces around him. The view wasn’t perfectly clear, but it would do. There was a lot of movement and shifts in weight distribution . . . But one figure of about the correct mass and density was hurrying up a ladder into the superstructure. That one passed clean through an access hatch, and was climbing up the outside of the gas bag. No wonder the crew hadn’t found another bomb aboard the ship. Most folks wouldn’t go wandering around the top of a moving airship, but it was easy to stash something when you could pass through solid objects and you weren’t afraid of heights.

  Sullivan didn’t have time to double back and find access to that ladder. He needed to catch Beria fast. He needed a short cut. So he ran back into the hall, picked the nearest window, drew the big Browning automatic from inside his fancy new coat, and helpfully warned the fleeing passengers, “Cover your ears” before shooting a couple of holes in the glass. A lady screamed and a man cursed him, but Sullivan didn’t have time to apologize for the impoliteness of sudden gunfire because he had a dirigible to save. When he kicked the glass out, there was a terrible rush of cold air. The passengers ran for their lives as Sullivan began to climb into the wind.

  He caught a jagged edge. Damn it . . . Ripped my new suit.

  Oh, well. It had been too flashy for him anyway.

  Because all Gravity Spikers were big burly types, people tended to think of them as ponderous, but the smart ones learned how to cheat. It was easy to scale your way up the side of a moving blimp when you could magically make yourself nearly weightless. The Oriental Elite was only doing thirty knots, so scaling the side wasn’t even a challenge for Sullivan. It beat the heck out of riding around on the wing of a biplane or leaping off the Traveler in a Heavy Suit.

  Sullivan made it over the edge, let his weight return to normal to conserve his Power, and began stumbling along the top of the gas bag. The rubberized material squeaked and bounced as he moved across it. Beria was at the intersection of the gas bags, doing something to a big canvas sack that had been tied to the supports. Sullivan carefully noted the position. It was a good choice. The gas bags were broken into cells that could be sealed off, but even a small blast right there would take out at least four simultaneously. As heavy as this pig was, she couldn’t afford to lose that much lift and they’d be taking a swim within minutes.

  Beria saw him coming and stepped in front of the bomb.

  “Give up,” Sullivan ordered as he aimed his .45 at the Russian’s heart. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the wind.

  “Come no closer!” the Russian shouted.

  “I don’t need to get closer, dummy. I’ve got a gun.” So did the Russian, but his pistol was in his pocket. Problem was, if the Fade was quick enough on his Power, he’d go grey when Sullivan pulled the trigger and the bullet would pass through him and hit the bomb. Depending on what it was made of, that could have very disastrous consequences. Beria gave him an odd little smile, indicating he was thinking the same thing.

  “It seems we have an impasse. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement?”

  “I’m listening.” That was only half true. Mostly he was looking for an angle that would kill the commie bastard without blowing the top off the ship. He figured he had one, but Jake Sullivan by nature was a curious man, and he wanted to see if his theory had been right. Sullivan took a few steps closer so they could hear each other better.

  “No part of any deal lets you lay another finger on that bomb. I only care about the safety of the ship.”

  “Very well.”

  Beria had one hand close to his pocket. Sullivan was pretty sure he knew what the Fade was going to try, because he’d seen Heinrich perform a similar trick when somebody had the drop on him. Beria would call on his Fade magic as he pulled his piece, Sullivan’s reaction shot would pass through nothing, and then Beria would re-form and plug him. It was a neat trick when it worked.

  “I can agree to that.”

  “Except Stalin needs you to blow up this ship so that the Imperium won’t ever know you kidnapped their robot expert.”

  Beria frowned. “I do not know what you’re talking about.”

  “It’s a good plan. I’ll give you that. The Imperium and the Soviets have a ceasefire. You get caught kidnapping one of their best Cogs, they’re likely to get all sorts of upset, and we both know how Toru gets when he’s angry. Only if the Imperium thought their professor died in a freak airship crash and his body was lost at sea, there’s no questions, and no angry Iron Guard declaring war, just a tragic accident. They’d never know that you boys took that little airplane in the cargo hold and flew off into the sunset right before the Oriental Elite blew up.”

  “How did you know?” the Russian asked.

  “I didn’t. It was just a hunch. So I sabotaged the ship to see if anyone took the bait.”

  Beria seemed to appreciate that. “A clever ploy . . . It seems that completing half of our mission will have to do.”

  That was a complete lie. Sullivan could tell that Beria was gathering up his Power, getting reading to go grey.

  “My men will already have taken Nishimura. We got the Cog before you could. I knew that I should have had you both killed the minute I was aware there were Grimnoir knights aboard.”

  “Nope . . . Just me.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You are alone? What about the German?”

  “He’s not one of mine. And the Grimnoir don’t know Nishimura from Adam.”

  Beria was surprised. “The Grimnoir are not attempting to kidnap the Cog too?”

  “Why? Should I be?”

  “Then you do not know about the Imperium plans for their super gakutensoku . . .”

  “There’s a—”

  It all happened fast. Beria used Sullivan’s momentary confusion to make his move. His body went grey and wispy as smoke as he grabbed for his pistol. Instead of pulling the trigger as expected, Sullivan surged his own Power, dropping several extra Earth’s worth of gravity on the Russian. The Fade’s body might have had less consistency than steam, but he was now heavier than a train, so he fell partially through the rubberized fabric of the gas bag before Sullivan cut his Power and let gravity return to normal.

  Not realizing what had happened, Beria let his body solidify as his hidden pistol came up . . . Only he found himself a few feet lower than expected, with the pistol pointed at Sullivan’s feet instead of his chest.

  “Neat trick. Too bad I’ve seen
it before.”

  The Russian looked down in shock. It wasn’t even so much as it had cut him in half, as you couldn’t tell when his body stopped and the thick bag started. An inch-thick slice of heart, lungs, and spine was now being shared with a whole lot of rubber and fabric. His legs would be dangling into the hydrogen-filled space below. Beria looked back at Sullivan in shock, but he couldn’t even form words. The pistol dropped from nerveless fingers and bounced off the bag. Beria’s head flopped forward and he was out.

  “Good riddance to bad Russians,” Sullivan said as he stepped over the dying man and went to the bomb. From what he heard, the serving girls aboard the ship would be a whole lot happier for the return trip with this joker gone. Assuming they got to have a return trip at all, but luckily the timer hadn’t been set. Things were looking up.

  And then there was an explosion at the bottom of the ship.

  The cargo hold was a mess. They’d opened the bay doors to vent the smoke out. The remains of the Dornier Duck flying boat were still smoldering, but the ship’s Torch and damage control team had gotten the fire under control.

  The ship’s captain had posted guards at the entrance to keep out the curious, but before Sullivan had to bull his way past them, he ran into Doctor Wells. The ship’s owner had gone incognito, and was wearing an engineer’s coveralls so he could come down and see the spectacle without drawing attention to himself.

  “Hello, Sullivan. When I heard there were bodies down here, I must admit that I expected one of them to be yours.”