Her Majesty's Western Service (59 page)

Fear rose through him, but he’d been terrified before. It was controllable.

“You are going to be
so fucked
,” Rienzi smirked. “Marko is going to cut your fucking lungs out when he learns you’ve been going through his shit.”

“You like to kill people,” said Ferrer, keeping the fear down. Engaging the incompetent psychopath on his own terms, something told him, was a bad idea.

But some men you couldn’t reason with.

“Maybe I’ll get to kill
you
,” said Rienzi.

“Maybe you will,” said Ferrer. “Draw.”

“What the fuck?”

“I said draw,
quick boy,” said Ferrer, and drew his own gun.

Rienzi was reaching for his when Ferrer shot him - once, twice in the chest, and then, as the body fell, on
ce again in the head because he only
thought
Rienzi had neglected his kevlar.

That murderous little punk had bragged about how much fun killing people was, Ferrer thought as he picked up one of Rienzi’s boots and pulled the body into their cabin. Shoved it under the lower bunk. The murderous little punk had talked constantly about how enjoyable it was to end lives, and it had disgusted Ferrer from the start.

But under certain circumstances, the engineer had to admit, the act
could
have a certain satisfaction to it.

Skorzeny pointed from his armored car. “That looks like the weak point,” he gestured to Schierbecker. “Signalman, flash that to the
Fuhrer
. Everything directed at that point.”

The point in question was a cluster of ranch buildings about two miles north of the Dodge city line, where industry met plains quite sharply. A unit of pirate troops - the Lakota b
attle standard indicated what type of a unit, hit-and-run guerilla raiders who kept the Feds off their land by hitting supply lines and long-range raiding of logistical points, not farmers used to defending fixed positions.

That was evident by how they’d relied on the - now trashed wreckage - buildings for cover, hadn’t thought to dig much in the way of anti-tank defenses. The position bristled with anti-tank guns and
rocket launchers, but it wouldn’t withstand a concerted attack; a company of Tigers would crush it easily, let alone the division. That would open a gap, but…

The SS wasn’t used to this kind of fighting. The simple reality was that they were a counterguerilla force, not a conventional armored unit, and their thirty years of institutional experience had been
primarily against Klan-type irregulars; the last really organized action had been the fighting around Raleigh in 1944, nineteen years ago.

As if to confirm his thoughts, another Tiger went up in flames, hit by
that monster of a stolen-back Imperial ship that seemed to have an endless supply of missiles for pouring in.

This was going bad fast. The SS was reeling and Heinrich was kidding himself if he thought they still had much of a chance.

He said as much to Schierbecker, who nodded. Wouldn’t do for a promising young first lieutenant to agree too loudly with any criticism of his Fuhrer, even if it
was
the Fuhrer of an organization being steadily destroyed.

“
Fuhrer
says he’ll try,” said the signalman. Skorzeny could see Himmler’s command group and, yes, red-tinted flashes - the filters meant certain commanders, the red meant priority to
all
commanders - said that he was directing attention.

Nobody seemed to be listening.

Tell him that if he doesn’t try harder
, Skorzeny thought but didn’t say,
he may as well not bother.

“That’s the command group,” said Martindale. “See the signal propagation, the repeaters?”

“See the black airship right above them, holding station and repeating?” asked Ahle. The last of Cordova’s Armadillos, Commodore Cordova himself. A ship the equal of 4-106, and less damaged from the fighting. Burning wreckage around the path of the command group had shown why everyone in the sky had learned to keep a very, very wide berth.

“See him go down, then,” said Perry.
Ahle wanted to engage the SS commander directly, wanted that more than anything else, and it was time to give the pirate what she wanted. Not to mention the tactical benefit: cut the head off, and the rest of the snake might just give up.

“
I get to engage? Do we turn to engage him?” Ahle asked eagerly.

“Weapons?”

“Sir?”

“Hold fire. We’re loading up for the black one.”

“Aye, sir.”

“
Helm? Turn to engage as desired.”

“Aye
sir
,” said Ahle.

“
We’re getting flashed,” said Judd’s signalwoman aboard the
Ruby Red Robber
. “SS commander says he wants a ride out. That Imperial bird’s engaging his air support and he’s no longer comfortable. Wants to direct the battle from up here.”

“As he should have been all along,” said McIlhan.

“They didn’t expect such a fight. Wouldn’t have one if not for that fucking Imperial son of a bitch
who should be dead like the Kennedys,
” said Marko. “Punk.”

“It safe to go down and get them?” asked Ferrer. So far the
Robber
had been mostly unmolested, well above the fight at nine thousand feet relative, because the pirate horde was clearly dedicated to stopping the SS. A couple of venturesome attempts had been beaten off with the ship’s defensive rockets, although a couple of pesky idiots were circling at a distance.

I’ll enjoy cutting your cowardly throat
, thought Marko. Although maybe he’d just let the fucker outlive his usefulness, with another couple of slashed-up banknotes to remind the weak who was strong.

“This ship’s
fast
,” said Judd. “We’ll nip down, pick up Himmler and Dietrich and a couple of their people.” He began issuing orders; dropping heat, the airship began to descend.

Below, Marko could see 4-106 exchanging rocket volleys with Cordova’s black
Lone Star
, other pirates taking advantage of the opportunity to circle in and nip at the heels of the Armadillo commander. That battle would last a few minutes, at least.

Then something - no,
two
somethings, in close succession - exploded inside the
Ruby Red Robber.

The ship’s rapid descent stopped. Reversed.

The little pirate in crimson cursed, turned the wheel. Shouted orders.

“Steering’s gone, totally gone, boss!” someone shouted back. “And-”

“And buoyancy control’s gone, too, you don’t need to tell me
that
!” Judd yelled. “Get a repair team to
fix
it, then!”

One of the bridge crew dashed off. Followed by Ferrer.

Good, make yourself useful
, thought Marko. “Fucking logic man.”

Eight-inch rockets punc hed into 4-106, exploding invisible geysers of helium. 4-106’s rockets pounded back,
producing torrents of fire that riggers dashed to put out. Burning hydrogen sacs filled the air. Below them the SS had turned to laager, their assault halted; some individuals had broken south amidst the stampeding cattle, running already for the Texas border where they’d be safe. A lot of people seemed to simply be watching the duel between 4-106 and the
Lone Star
.

Which 4-106 was winning, but barely.
Lone Star’s
crew really was as good as the Texan media had made them out to be, thought Perry.

Almost up to Imperial standards.

Ferrer came back onto the bridge as the
Ruby Red Robber
continued soaring up into the air. Feigning panic, although in actuality strangely calm; the bombs he’d taken from Marko’s supply had been placed exactly as they should have been, gone off exactly when they were supposed to do. One thing with engineering, you always knew how proper components would act.

Marko bought his feigned panic. One thing with people, he’d learned from that psychopath; they always saw what they expected to.

“Steering completely gone,” he reported.

“
Shit
!” Judd snarled.

“Buoyancy too. And we’re on fire.”

Rising up, ten thousand feet or so relative now, and - yes, the ship began to list sideways and drop.

“Then we bail,” said Marko. “Fight again another day.”

“I got us parachutes,” said Ferrer, eagerly - but not too eagerly. Handed one over.

Marko strapped it on. Judd and the other crew were already wearing theirs; the signalwoman pushed open the downward-facing door of the airship, which was now tilting at almost a forty-five degree angle, and hurled herself out.

Judd followed.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Marko, heading for the door. “Let’s get the fuck out to Texas.”

Lone Star
tilted sideways, sideways and up, making her cabin vulnerable to 4-106 as she descended. Flasher signals W-F, W-F, W-F came from the fore station - its aft had been destroyed - and someone waved a white flag from the bridge.

“Nolan, general broadcast,” said Perry. “Armadillo is now a captured enemy and will be treated with mercy.”

“And what do
we
do?” Ahle asked.

“Weapons? Ship is now under helm command.”

Ahle’s teeth bared.

“Weapons,” she said. “See that cluster of SS vehicles in the center of their laager? The command IIb in particular?”

“Aye, ma’am.”

“Destroy it.”

A moment later, two thirds of a dozen rockets lanced out at the center of the fomation. Only eight of 4-106’s launchers remained functional, after the hard fight with the Armadillos.

Only three
of their rockets hit Heinrich Himmler’s command tank.

Only one would have been needed
.

In freefall, maybe ten feet apart, the air whooshing deafeningly around them as the
Ruby Red Robber
fell past behind Marko, Ferrer shouted to the anarchist.

“Thought
you’d appreciate the parachute-”

“Cowardice has its uses!” Marko grinned back.

Ferrer continued: “Like I appreciated my pay!”

It took Marko a moment to comprehend.

Horror on his face, turning to a snarl as he desperately pulled the ripcord.

The parachute cloth
unfurled - as torn and slashed shreds of fabric, a few of them crudely re-sewn together like Ferrer’s money had been. Fabric confetti spreading into the air above him.

Ferrer grinned.

“You fucker.”

Even then, Marko almost made it. Snarling and yelling and somehow pushing against the air, he flipped toward Ferrer, who yanked his ripcord
reflexively.

His
parachute blossomed open above him, arresting his fall with a sharp yank. Marko seemed to drop past him.

Twisting
and contorting desperately, he screamed all the way down.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Refoundation Day:
23
rd
April, 1909.

Not coincidentally the accepted death-date of St. George, Patron Saint of England, Refoundation Day is the day the Union Jack rose again over London as Parliament and the Royal Family officially returned after nineteen years of exile.

Although unofficial efforts had begun almost as soon as the notional street fighting of the Imperial Return had ended, London began to be rebuilt, and would soon take her place again as a world capital of commerce and culture.

The surviving leaders of the Communes, amnestied months earlier, were officially pardoned in return for their re-pledging loyalty to the restored Crown…

From
The Imperial Almanac: A Primer for Young Boys and Girls.

The SS was fleeing. On foot - the parachute
had been steerable but not very - Ferrer picked his way through the destroyed armored cars and milling cattle to where Marko had hit the ground. There was money in that greatcoat of his, a lot of money, and Ferrer intended to have some of it. The pay he’d been promised, at the very least.

His gun was drawn, but sti
ll he didn’t see the steam-bicycle until it was coming to a halt five feet away. Skorzeny swung his big body off the pillion, over the sidecar, and smiled. His assistant Schierbecker looked on, his pistol not
quite
drawn. Skorzeny’s was.