Dodge cast a skeptical eye at the pilot, a reaction that Jocasta shared. "Does he understand what we’re doing?"
"Mr. Burton was a bootlegger, flying cases of liquor down from Canada during Prohibition. His smuggler connections should speed us on our way."
"I’m your man," Burton intoned. "Whatever the job, I’m up for it."
Jocasta avoided making eye contact with the rough looking pilot and, sensing the need to gather allies, gravitated toward Fuller as she stepped out of the Float Car. The matter of the new face in their midst seemed to have derailed Dodge’s ire toward her, but there was no telling how long that would last.
General Frank Vaughn stormed into the radar command center like a force of nature. Beneath his immaculate uniform, he was a bunched knot of stress and rage — a rumbling volcano ready to explode. When one of the officers present glimpsed his stars and started to call the room to attention, Vaughn cut him off with a swipe of his hand and a guttural growl. "Carry on. I hope someone has some good news for me."
The officer remained rigid as an oak tree. "Sir, I — we tracked them for a while, then they dropped below our radar beams."
"Then what the hell good are you?" Vaughn took a deep breath and brought the eruption under control. He was an old warhorse and didn't fully understand the intricacies of newfangled devices like radar, which was kind of ironic considering that he had been put in charge of the top secret Office of Special Projects, the primary mission of which was to turn the technology of a highly advanced ancient civilization into a tactical and strategic advantage for the modern American military. "Do we at least have planes in the air?"
"Four squadrons, sir. Flying search patterns based on the known range of the…" The officer faltered, unsure of what to call the strange device. We may not know exactly where they are, but we know the limit of how far they've gone. And if they rise above two hundred feet, we'll see them right away on our radar."
"Put two more squadrons in the sky," Vaughn grunted, but with considerably less ferocity than before. For the first time since his phone had begun ringing — mere seconds after the air raid sirens all over the base had begun to wail — he was feeling like there was hope that the situation could be salvaged. Satisfied that there was nothing more that could be done in the search, he turned his attention to filling in the gaps in his knowledge of what exactly had happened at Dr. Newcombe's laboratory.
A brief phone call to the base commandant and five minutes later, the military police sergeant that had initially reported the security breach strode into the command center and snapped a smart salute.
"What happened, Sergeant?"
The man looked him in the eye as he offered a brief but detailed account of the incident and was clearly not as intimidated by the stars on his epaulets as the officer in charge of the search had been. Vaughn interrupted only once.
"David Dalton? That's the name he gave?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Dr. Newcombe was cooperating with him?"
"I'd say so, sir. He helped this Dalton escape. Told me something about…bronzium, I think it was."
"Interesting. Please continue."
As the MP finished his tale, Vaughn mulled over the implications of what he had just been told. Dalton. Why would he steal the flying apparatus when he already had unrestricted access to the source of that bizarre technology?
"Sir!" The officer in charge of the search could barely contain his enthusiasm. "We've found them. One of the spotter planes."
"Where?"
"On the Severn River." The man held the headphone of a radio set to his ear and repeated the detailed location as it was transmitted by the pilot. "They appear to be loading the device into an amphibious plane. We'll have to act fast to intercept them. I'll alert the commandant to send out the MPs."
Vaughn chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment. What was Dodge doing? Why steal something that was, for all intents and purposes, already his? He could take whatever he wanted from that outpost of his in Antarctica.
And then it dawned on him. "As you were, Major. Let's just keep an eye on them for now. Let's see where they lead us."
CHAPTER 9 — BROTHERS OF BLOOD
Molly’s first impression of London, as the city skyline came into view, was of a fairy tale kingdom made real. The icons of the city — The Tower Bridge, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey — had always existed merely as intellectual constructs; something written about in books or sung in nursery rhymes. Seeing them in all their splendor was like a dream come true.
Once they were down however, the reality of London, a place that seemed shrouded in a perpetual fog, was a less mythic experience. In the cold gray drizzle, the trio from New York hailed a taxi. Hobbs supplied the driver with a street address, which the driver instantly recognized.
"Been to London before, gov’n’r?"
"It’s been a few years," the priest admitted.
"Well, I can tell you that there’s naught left at this address but a few bricks. Destroyed in a fire three years past; never rebuilt."
Hobbs brow furrowed and he glanced nervously at Hurley; the latter shrugged. "Take us there," he finally answered. "It’s a place to start."
As reported, the brick building that Hobbs and Hurricane remembered as the covert headquarters of the Trevayne Society was a scorched ruin — a dead and blackened tooth in the smile of Hyde Street. Why the structure had not been razed to make room for a new edifice was anyone’s guess, but as they disembarked the taxi and moved up to a walkway covered in moss, it seemed evident that they had reached a dead end.
"What now, Padre?"
"Trevayne has survived far worse than a fire, but I’ll admit, the trail seems to have gone cold. There’s a chance that the Vatican mission will have kept tabs on them, but as you might well imagine, there’s no love lost between the two groups. I would have preferred not to let my superiors in the Church know of my dealings with Trevayne, but it seems unavoidable."
The group moved back to the street, but to their chagrin discovered that their taxi had already driven off, leaving them momentarily stranded. Hobbs stepped to the edge of the sidewalk in order to hail another, but Hurley forestalled him. "Padre, we’ve got company."
Both Hobbs and his daughter looked in the direction of the big man’s nodding head and saw that they were the objects of scrutiny for a group of three men dressed in charcoal gray suits. Molly instinctively turned away to look for an escape route but saw another trio of men moving toward them from the other direction. Two of them stopped perhaps a dozen paces away, but the man in the center continued forward and as he did, she caught a glimpse of something metallic descending from a chain around his neck. It was a large silver crucifix.
"Friends of yours, Dad?"
Hurricane casually opened his jacket and was poised to draw his pistols if the men made a threatening move, but the leader of the group — a tall dark haired and swarthy man whose suit could not hide his muscular physique — seemed unperturbed as he strode close enough to look Hobbs in the eye as he spoke.
"No need to make a public scene," he said. His English was impeccable, but with an accent that was certainly nothing like that of the average citizen of the United Kingdom. "A lot of innocent people might be hurt."
"Not by me," Hurley growled. "I don’t miss."
"Easy, Hurricane. These gentlemen are professionals."
"Professionals or not, there’s only six of ‘em."
Hobbs offered a tight smile. "Only six that you can see. But unless I miss my guess, there are a couple more watching us through rifle scopes right now."
"Yes, at least a few," intoned the other man.
"Who are these guys?"