“Miss Nora, do you trust me?”
She looked up from her labors with a quizzical expression. “I should say so. After reading the Captain Falcon stories for three years, I feel like I know you very well. Assuming, of course, that Mr. Dalton hasn’t embellished your stalwart qualities.”
He smiled patiently. “He may have exaggerated a bit. Nevertheless, I want you to do something for me, and I won’t be able to explain it all right away, so I’m going to need you to play along and not ask a lot of questions.”
Her brows came together in a mask of concern, but she pressed her lips together, silencing the inquiry that he knew was already forming, and nodded.
“In just a few moments,” he continued, “we’re going to get up and walk out of here, rather briskly. Don’t look around. Just take my arm and stay with me. Can you do that?”
She closed her notebook and returned it to her clutch purse. “Say the word.”
Hurricane maintained eye contact with her, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the Japanese men make another surreptitious observation of the lounge. As soon as the man lowered his head again, he said: “Now.”
They both sprang to their feet and Nora slipped her arm around his. He quickly guided her through the maze of tables, out the door, and turned left, hastening along the sidewalk. As soon as he reached an intersection, he made a turn, heading up the gently sloping street, away from the port, but then almost immediately stopped and maneuvered Nora close to the side of the nearest building. He could sense the questions building within her like an impending volcanic eruption, but he forestalled her with a finger pressed to his lips.
The wait was mercifully short. Less than two minutes later, one of the gray-suited Japanese men appeared at the corner. Although he wasn’t quite running, his strides were almost as quick. His gaze was focused down the street, but as soon as he entered the intersection, he swung his head around to search the side street…
… and came face to face with Hurley and Nora.
Hurricane smiled broadly, and dusted off a greeting he’d learned ages before. “Konnichiwa.”
Even as the man opened his mouth to respond, some part of him recognized that he’d been found out. For just a moment, he was paralyzed by indecision, but only just a moment. His dark eyes grew hard with resolve as he ripped a handgun from a shoulder holster concealed beneath his suit jacket, and stabbed it in Hurley’s direction.
Lightning fast, the big man swatted the pistol away. The stunning force of the blow knocked the weapon out of the gunman’s hand. As the pistol skittered across the pavement, out onto the frontage road, Nora’s scream split the air.
Hurley followed through with punch that could have pulverized stone. But his knuckles struck only air. The Japanese had recovered quickly from the disarming block, and deftly dodged Hurley’s punch. Before the big man could draw back for another attempt, his opponent darted in close and with hands open and rigid like knife blades, delivered several quick strikes to Hurricane’s abdomen.
Hurley gasped and staggered back. The pain was like nothing he could remember having experienced. Gritting his teeth through it, he brought his left arm around in a haymaker punch, but his foe dodged again, and as Hurricane’s fist smashed a hole in the side of the building, the Japanese man repeated the attack. His hands were like pistons, driving forward and back faster than the eye could follow. Although the strikes had not been that powerful — mere slaps against the anvil that was Hurricane Hurley’s muscular physique, each one had found a nerve cluster with pinpoint accuracy. Hurricane felt pain so intense that it was literally blinding, and dropped to his knees, doubled over, unable to move any of his extremities.
The Japanese man did not hesitate to capitalize on his victory. He thrust a hand under the folds of his suit jacket, and a single deft motion, drew out a short sword and slashed at Hurley’s exposed neck.
“Is all of this really necessary?”
Newcombe paused in his struggle to don the heavy leather jacket and glanced over at Lafayette, who regarded the coat he had been handed as if it had just been stripped off the carcass of a cow.
The dark-haired man with the scar — Captain Tyr Sorensen, Barron’s chief aviator — made a disapproving face. “We are presently 20,000 feet above sea level. The air temperature at this altitude is about ten degrees Fahrenheit and we’ll be flying through it at a hundred miles an hour, so it’s going to feel like twenty below zero. But if the jacket offends your sartorial sensibilities, by all means, feel free to leave it behind.”
“I think you’ll look quite dashing in it,” opined Fiona.
Newcombe thought Fiona looked rather dashing in her jacket, replete with a leather helmet and a pair of goggles which were presently pushed up above her forehead, but knew it would take a lot more than a fancy coat to have that effect on him. But Sorensen’s approximation of the external air temperature and the effects of wind chill — something scientists were only just beginning to understand — were no exaggeration.
At the appointed hour, they had gathered in a room at the opposite end of the service corridor, where Captain Sorensen had been waiting with the gear for their flight. Another door, in the far aft bulkhead, led out of the ready room, but unlike the other doors, this one was made of solid metal and looked more like something from a ship or submarine than the elegant wood doors Newcombe had seen thus far.
“I meant this whole business,” Lafayette complained. “This is a luxury airship; why on earth would we want to subject ourselves to this excursion? It sounds rather like a polar expedition.”
“We’re not on earth, Rodney,” Fiona said with a laugh.
“These flights are routine,” Sorensen explained. “We go out every day to inspect Majestic for damage.”
“Because of thermal expansion?” Newcombe inquired, then explained: “The sun heats the gas, increasing the volume.”
“Majestic is engineered with such considerations in mind. The outer skin of the vessel is built over a rigid frame of duralumin. The helium is actually contained in a smaller envelope within that frame, which reduces some of the effects from heating. But the outer skin is vulnerable to temperature changes. At these altitudes and temperatures, the metal and other materials can become brittle. The crew constantly inspects the interior for damage, and once a day, we inspect the exterior.” Sorensen smiled unexpectedly, softening the almost sinister effect of the scar. “Plus, it gives us a chance to get some time in the cockpit.”
“Always a good thing,” Fiona chimed in.
“But why do I have to go?”
“Goodness, Rodney. You sound like a spoiled child.”
Newcombe couldn’t resist laughing aloud. He had been thinking the same thing for some time, but somehow when the pretty archaeologist said it, it didn’t sound quite so much like an accusation.
He finally got both arms into the sleeves of the heavy jacket and began fastening the toggles. Fiona soothed Lafayette’s ego by helping him into his coat, and when he had it on, Sorensen passed out gloves, scarves, and helmets with goggles.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to wear your spectacles,” Fiona warned.
“How do you manage to fly?”
She smiled and tapped the goggles on her helmet. “I had this pair made with special lenses.”
“This way,” Sorensen announced, leading them to metal door. He threw it open to reveal a spiral staircase, which he immediately ascended. Trilling with eager laughter, Fiona followed, with Newcombe close behind her, and a still grumbling Lafayette reluctantly brought up the rear.
At the top of the stairs, standing on a wide metal platform that extended in both directions farther than he could see, Newcombe got his first look at the interior of the Majestic. It appeared, at first glance, like the roof of an enormous warehouse, with long exposed girders and beams, but curving up, down and around, stretching in every direction. High above, he saw the envelope containing the lifting gas, looking a little like a smaller airship nestled within the cavity of the parent dirigible’s belly.