Eric Nylund - Paladin Blake and The Secret City

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Paladin Blake
And the Secret City
-From the files of Blake Aviation Security-
By Eric Nylund
Chapter One: Thicker than Water...
Paladin Blake had never had it so good-and had never felt so lousy about it, either.
Gray light diffused through his office window; outside was the Santa Monica pier and the
roiling Pacific. In another hour the sun would be up, and the citizens of Hollywood would
start their day, take the trolleys to work, build planes, and pretend the world had a happy
ending like every motion picture churned out by the studios.
He flipped on the intercom. "Tennyson, you there?"
"Yes," replied a voice with a British accent, "working up a bit of a surprise on one of our
Devastators."
"Surprise? Is there a problem?"
"Everything is under control, my boy. Business as usual, smooth sailing and all that."
"Good." Paladin snapped off the intercom.
Smooth sailing and success were dreams easily bought into. Blake Aviation Security had
been out of the red ink for a solid year. Barely. There had been a string of headline-
smashing cases-The Phantom Prototype, the Klondike Caper, and the Destruction Island
Incident-but good business was the problem.
He picked up a handful of telegrams from his in-box. There were urgent requests from
Empire State bureaucrats and Dixie dignitaries, mission requests from Boeing and Hughes,
and three checks wired as payment for his services.
Paladin glanced at the map of North America covering the west wall of his office. Pushpins
and lines of string traced the air lanes protected by Blake Aviation; they crossed and
crisscrossed from Seattle to Baja, Cuba to the Maritime Provinces. His business was making
sure passengers and airfreight got delivered safely along those lines...and making sure that
every pirate got what was coming to them.
Each line on the map was there because the state militias looked the other way when pirates
attacked their competitors, and because there were behind-the-scenes cold wars raging
between the tiny empires.
Blake Aviation Security prospered because of it. Paladin would have felt a lot better if there
was no need for his protection-indeed, if there was no need for Blake Aviation, at all. The
world was falling apart and he was profiting from it. That made him sick to his stomach.
Paladin flipped to the next telegram-and froze as he spotted the sender's address: Matthew
Blake, Sky Haven, Free Colorado.
Paladin dropped the telegram like it was on fire.
Matthew Blake. Paladin thought of his brother as a dead man, and had for the last eight
years. Paladin knew Matthew was really alive; it was just easier to pretend he wasn't.
Paladin opened his lower desk drawer and retrieved his bottle of fourteen-year old bourbon.
He also pulled out the yellowed photograph of his father sitting on the wing of his plane,
pistol in one hand, and in the other, a bottle identical to the one on Paladin's desk.
The picture was snapped on Thanksgiving 1927, when there had still been a Blake family:
his father; his brother, Matthew, his sister, Flora; and, of course, Paladin.
The next day pirates shot his father down as the wily old bootlegger flew moonshine across
the Colorado-Texas state line-pirates that Paladin had sworn he'd pay back. Every last one
of them.
Matthew had his revenge on pirates, too. He took their money and planes, and whenever he
could, their lives. He had become a pirate preying upon pirates, until eventually, he took
anything from anyone that crossed his path. Now, Matthew was the thing he most hated.
Paladin uncorked the bottle of bourbon and poured a shot. He cradled the glass, warming
the liquor until he smelled its smoky aroma.
His mouth watered. It brought back those days when he and Dad and Matthew had flown
and fought and drank together. Like it was yesterday. Like it was a million years ago...and
when Paladin had been a very different man.
Paladin poured the bourbon back into the bottle, replaced the cork, and then stowed it back
in its drawer. Drying out was one of the hardest things Paladin had ever done. He should
have poured the last of this booze into the ocean once and for all.
Ironically, his family crest appeared not only on the Blake Aviation Security masthead, but
also on the labels of the most infamous brand of bourbon in speakeasies from Hawai'i to
Iceland-Matthew still carried on the family tradition of moonshining and bootlegging. Anger
burned in Paladin's gut every time he saw the rampant black knight.
"Okay, Matthew," he whispered. "Let's see what you want."
Paladin tore the telegram open and shook out a slip of paper. It read:
DON'T KNOW IF YOU CARE IF I LIVE OR DIE STOP. CORRECTION STOP. SURE YOU
PREFER ME DEAD STOP.
SENDING THIS FOR FLORA STOP. OUR SISTER IS NO STRANGER TO TROUBLE STOP.
BUT THIS TIME SHE HAS BITTEN OFF MORE THAN SHE CAN CHEW STOP.
MEET ME ALONE STOP. DUSK SATURDAY DURANGO FIELD FREE COLORADO STOP.
OR NEVER SEE FLORA AGAIN STOP.
MATT
Flora? What did Matthew mean by "she had bitten off more than she could chew?" Or that
he'd never see her again? "So help me," Paladin said through clenched teeth, "if you're using
her to get to me-"
-No. Not even Matthew would use Flora. Everyone loved Flora...that was her biggest
problem.
Paladin had last heard from her a year ago. She was in Paris, hob-knobbing with the social
elite and indulging in equally elite vices; her lifestyle made Dashiell's wild partying seem like
a church bake sale in comparison. She had asked Paladin for money. He had wired her five
hundred dollars along with a suggestion that she clean up. While he had hoped for the best,
he knew the odds were long.
He re-examined the telegram. Today was Saturday-which figured. Leave it to Matthew to cut
things close.
Paladin drew his .45 from its hiding place under his desktop, holstered it, then strapped it
on. He flicked on the intercom. "Tennyson, get me a plane ready. Pronto."
"Of course," came the reply. "Can I inquire...why the rush?"
"I'm coming over to show you what the rush is."
Paladin hung a "Be Right Back" sign on his office door, and stepped down the zigzag of stairs
to the pier. He hurried past the bait stores and the ice cream parlor and the penny arcade to
the old cannery warehouse. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The interior looked more like the inside of a combat zeppelin than a cannery. The machinery
had been removed and a dozen planes hung on hooks from beams over the open water.
Crates of bullets and rockets were stacked in a corner. Half a dozen engines on blocks were
in various stages of assembly and disassembly.
Paladin's nose wrinkled involuntarily; the place always seemed to reek of tuna.
Blake Aviation Security had leased this building because the rent at the Burbank Airport
went up every time Paladin made the headlines. The press and other unsavory types were
always watching Paladin and his planes. There had been a few instances of sabotage, too;
one such "accident" had nearly ended his career for good.
The cannery had been the perfect solution. Tennyson had seen to the architectural
modifications, and designed a floatation chaise for their planes. These pontoons could be
released in flight if needed, or left on for a water landing. Their planes were safer here and
Blake Aviation could scramble flights at the drop of a hat.
Tennyson set down his wrench and ducked from under the engine compartment of a
Devastator. He carefully wiped the grease from his hands on a clean towel. Somehow,
Paladin mused as his loyal friend strode to greet him, Tenny never seemed to smudge his
coveralls.
"What's the emergency this time, my friend?" he asked Paladin.
Paladin handed him the telegram.
Tennyson stroked his white beard as he read and then re-read the message. "It's a trap, of
course," he murmured. "Matthew knows you are a man of character. A man who would not
hesitate to charge to Flora's rescue."
"You're right," Paladin said. "But...she's my sister, Tennyson. What would you do? Ignore
it?"
"What would I do?" Tennyson pondered this, frowned, and then declared, "Why I would
come with you, naturally. Obviously, you'll require a wingman."
Paladin set a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Can't let you do that. Half the people in
Colorado wouldn't mind seeing me dead. The other half wouldn't mind killing me."
Tennyson's hands clenched and then relaxed. "Our friend, Dashiell, has started a rather
morbid pool wagering when your final mission will occur. I can see he is not too far from the
truth." He exhaled. "But if you are determined to meet Matthew's deadline, you must take
my Devastator. I have fine-tuned her motor to perfection. She is the fastest plane here-" he
arched a bushy white eyebrow "-she has to be, to survive the modifications I have made."
Paladin eyed the plane curiously. "Show me."
Tennyson turned on his heels and marched toward the suspended Devastator. He stood
under the aircraft with his arms akimbo. "Tell me what is different."
"I don't have time for a quiz-" But Paladin saw it immediately: all eight of the Devastator's
hardpoints were loaded. Two pairs of rockets, however, pointed backwards.
"Ah, you've spotted them," Tennyson said. "The outer set are flash rockets. The inner two
are high explosives. Both have a customized fuse that detonates a quarter of a second after
launch."
Paladin shook his head with disbelief. "That'll blow off the tail."
"Correct," Tennyson replied. He mounted the ladder next to the Devastator and gestured
inside the cockpit. "With one caveat, however."
Paladin climbed after Tennyson saw he pointed at a hand-painted line on the airspeed
gauge.
"If you're flying faster than this," Tennyson explained, "there is a very good chance you will
outrun the explosion-at least, that's what my calculations indicate. They should make for a
nasty surprise to an opponent on your six, don't you think?" Before Paladin could reply,
Tennyson continued: "I was going to test the modifications tomorrow, with a flash rocket
loaded with a charge of paint."
"Great." Paladin climbed past Tennyson and maneuvered into the cockpit. As he strapped
himself in, he said, "I'll let you know how these contraptions work."
"Wait," Tennyson said. He climbed down and trotted to his locker. He returned with his lunch
pail. "You need to eat. There is a thermos of English Breakfast tea as well."
"Thanks, old man."
"Just come back in one piece."
"I always try." Paladin fired up the engine and waved to Tennyson as he pulled away the
ladder. He closed the canopy then flipped the release-a second of freefall-and the
Devastator splashed into the ocean.
"I try," Paladin said to himself, "but it just never works out that way."
Paladin eased the throttle to one-half, and rode over gentle waves until he was a hundred
yards from the pier, then he opened her up all the way. The Devastator nosed up and broke
free of the ocean. Paladin pulled a lever and dropped the pontoons.
He shot into the sky, pointing the Devastator toward the rising sun.
Flora wasn't the only reason Paladin was going to meet Matthew. Paladin had promised his
dead father that he'd get every last pirate in the sky...no matter what it took.
Even if that meant shooting down his own brother.
Chapter Two: White Knight / Black Knight
Paladin banked his Devastator between red and gold mesas. Below, a herd of wild mustangs
scattered, startled by the roar of the plane's powerful engine. It was four o'clock and he had
just cleared the Navajo border. Headwinds, a brief layover, and trouble with the locals had
held him up.
He had initially stopped to top off his tanks. If Matthew had a welcoming committee in the
air waiting for him, the last thing he wanted was to be flying on fumes. Paladin also
purchased a gallon of beige paint to cover the BAS logos on his Devastator. For the pirates
in Free Colorado, those markings were bulls-eyes.
Back in Navajo territory, his pale skin-and the handful of Hollywood five-dollar gold coins he
had used to pay for the fuel-had raised a few eyebrows at Sunning Lizard Airfield. They'd
taken his money without comment, but four dust-colored Ravenscroft Coyotes had appeared
when he'd tried to take off...to "escort" him to the border of the Navajo Nation. An escort
that hadn't been free.
The mesas and meadows melded into stone-covered foothills, pine forests, and the snow-
capped peaks of the Rockies. Paladin increased his throttle and climbed over them.
Free Colorado was certainly beautiful to look at from a thousand feet. It was too bad, he
thought, that upon closer inspection she was infested with pirates, bootleggers and other
human vermin. Like his brother.
Paladin would deal with Matthew, but first he intended to find out what happened to their
sister, Flora-assuming Matthew hadn't lied about her, and this wasn't an elaborate trap.
Durango Airfield was a dirt strip cut into the forest, a few shacks, and scattered fuel tanks.
He circled the field, then eased this Devastator onto the bumpy runway, taxied to the end,
and parked so he could take off quickly.
Sunning Lizard Airfield had been clean and neat-complete with whitewashed adobe
buildings, chili reaños and piping hot coffee in the pilot's lounge. Durango, in contrast, was a
disaster. The area was cluttered with discarded airframes which lined the runway. Old
engine blocks and rusty machine parts were strewn across the ground, and the odor of
grease, smoke and sour mash wafted from a leaning A-frame. Over the door of this
structure was a sign with a painted figure of a woman encircled by a leering cobra, and the
words: "Snakes and Ladders." It was just the kind of dump Matthew would like.
The drone of aircraft echoed off the mountains. Paladin squinted and spotted a line of six
incoming Fairchild F4 Corsairs. The snub-nosed planes banked, descended, and then landed,
one after another.
Paladin flipped the secret kill switch under his Devastator's control panel and climbed out of
the cockpit. He checked his .45s-making sure each pistol had a round in the chamber-and
then strode toward the Corsairs.
Matthew jumped down from the wing of his Corsair. He pulled off his flight cap and shook
out a mane of gray hair. He was taller than Paladin by a head. Matthew's face was similar to
Paladin's-the same strong jaw and blue eyes-but his features were weathered by age,
crossed with frown lines, his eyes ringed with fatigue.
Matthew's wingmen clambered out of their planes and gathered around their leader. They
looked like a tough bunch, in black flight jackets and combat boots. Each of them-three men
and two women-packed a mix of weapons, mostly bulky revolvers. But they looked a little
scared of Paladin.
Good, he thought. Let them be scared.
The truth was that Paladin was a little scared, too...of Matthew. Anything that crossed his
brother's path, anyone that got in his way, Matthew made sure they never caused him
trouble again. Pirates. Mercenaries. Lawmen. Civilians. They were all equal in Matthew's
book: all equally dispensable. Did that extend to his kin as well?
Probably.
Paladin broke the silence: "You said to come alone, Matthew. I did...but I see you needed a
crowd to face me."
Matthew took a step toward Paladin. "I don't need anyone's help to handle you, little
brother." He glanced at the horizon, then back at Paladin. "I just didn't know if there'd be a
few"-he spat the name out-"Blake Aviation planes buzzing around. Or maybe a combat zep."
"I came with everything I needed," Paladin replied, his right hand resting lightly on the butt
of his holstered gun.
"Look, I didn't come here to exchange shots." Matthew frowned, and pulled his gloves off.
We've got important things to talk about." He nodded to the leaning A-frame. "Come on."
Matthew marched toward the "clubhouse." Paladin followed, and Matthew's crew trailed
behind them.
Paladin wasn't so sure if turning his back on this pack of wolves was a good idea. Then
again, Matthew was many things-but he was never subtle. If this meeting had been a trap, it
would have been sprung the instant Matthew had seen he had Paladin outnumbered.
Paladin pushed through the double doors of the A-frame. The smell stopped him cold-
burning charcoal and the scent of bourbon so thick it made him choke. There was a player
piano, a Ben Franklin stove with a fire crackling inside, and a stained bar top with a brass
railing. The thing that caught Paladin's eye, however, was the back wall-shelves jammed
with bottles: tall slivers of icy-looking Vodka, cobalt blue decanters, magnums of
champagne, moonshine jugs, and rows of square bottles filled with an amber liquor that he
was all too familiar with. For a dive, it was well stocked.
Matthew dropped a ten-pesado silver piece onto the counter-which was snatched up by the
barkeep. "Drinks are on me tonight, gang. I'll be out back with my brother." He grabbed a
bottle and two glasses, and held open the back door.
Paladin left, glad to be out in the fresh air. There was a small table set up on the back porch.
The view of the mountain silhouetted against the purpling sky was magnificent.
"A drink." Matthew popped the cork. "For old time's sake."
Paladin sat and said nothing. He watched his brother pour from the bottle labeled with the
same knight-and-shield insignia that Paladin used for Blake Aviation Security...only this
knight was black, not white.
"I came to hear about Flora, Matthew, not to get drunk with you."
Matthew slammed the bottle on the table. "Can't you ease up for a second? I stick my neck
out a mile to meet you, and you don't even have the decency to say 'hello,' or 'how've you
been for the last six years?' Nice to see you, too."
"How have you been, Matthew?" Paladin's right hand eased from his lap to the holster on his
right hip. He quietly unfastened the snap.
"I'm lousy, thanks for asking." Matthew filled the highball glasses to their brims-downed
one, then the other. "You know what happens if word of us talking gets out? No decent
bootlegger will get within spiting distance of me."
"Sorry to be a such an...embarrassment to you," Paladin said and set his hands on the table.
"You want to tell me about Flora?"
"I guess we really don't have anything to talk about but her." He slumped into his chair. His
eyes met Paladin's for a second; he opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, then
blinked and looked away.
"Flora?"
"Yeah, Flora. You know she's always been in trouble-not the kind of trouble you and I get
into, but booze and men and all that high society stuff." Matthew poured himself another
shot. "Well, I guess it's not so bad when you stop to think about it."
"Uh huh," Paladin remarked.
Matthew was wrong. Flora had not always been trouble. Once, she had been enrolled at
Smith College with plans to go on to law school. Then their father had died and nothing
mattered to her, except trying to forget. She wrapped herself in vice and extravagance.
Liquor and men were just a start. She often indulged in things much more
"sophisticated"...and much more unsavory.
But Flora was always everyone's darling. She entered the room and instantly became the
center of attention. Everyone loved her. They couldn't help it, not even Paladin.
"This time," Matthew whispered, "she's in real trouble, little brother...I mean, she's in way
over her head. She got mixed up with a New Orleans crowd."
"Last I heard she was in Paris."
Matthew snorted a laugh. "A year ago. She's spent time in London since then, and South
Africa. I got a postcard from her last week to meet her for Mardi Gras."
Paladin winced. The only time Flora ever contacted him was when she needed cash. "And?
You saw her?"
"Kind of." Matthew gazed into his glass. "She said she could only get away for an hour. She
looked scared. And not for her...for me."
Matthew furrowed his brow, struggling to find the right words. "I followed her after she left
and got a glimpse of her new friends. I asked the locals a few questions about them. I had
to get rough before they coughed up what they knew.
"These friends of hers have money and hired muscle. Their kind buy and sell things, doesn't
matter from where or from who. Guns, booze, narcotics-" Matthew paused, then added,
"Well, you name it and they can get it for a price."
A smuggling outfit? Paladin could see why Flora would be with that crowd. Exotic delicacies
and fast times would, for her, outweigh the danger involved.
"They call themselves 'Derpsins,' or 'Diespines'-something like that," Matthew said. "Thing
is, when Flora's ready to move on, I don't think these people will let her go. She knows too
much."
"You wired me because you think I can get her out?"
"You've got the guns and the men to go in there. Hell, you did it when you were in the
Pinkertons-for strangers. You should be able to do the same for your own flesh and blood."
"Working with the Pinks was different," Paladin said. "I did all the wrong things for the right
reasons. And, it was a long time ago."
"Well, there's another reason it's got to be you. If I get Flora out, then what? How do I tell
her to clean up? I'm no angel. She'd laugh in my face and have every right to do it."
Matthew drank his shot of bourbon. "But you're squeaky clean, a businessman. Hell, you're
a hero if you believe the newspapers. She'll listen to you."
He was right-it had to be Paladin. Matthew would use a sledgehammer when a light touch
was needed. He'd go in with guns blazing and get everyone killed. Paladin knew the odds
that he could convince Flora to change her ways were long, but there was another way to
help her. Dasheill had connections with a hospital in Santa Barbara that dried out studio
starlets. That might do the trick.
"I'll see what I can do." Paladin stood. "Thanks for telling me, Matt."
"I knew you'd do it." Matthew stood, too, and held out his hand.
Paladin stared at it. He wanted to reach out and clasp it. He tried to move his arm, but it
might as well have been made of lead. Matthew was his brother, his blood, but he was also
everything that Paladin had sworn to fight.
"There's one last piece of business between us, Matthew. You're coming back with me.
You're wanted in Hollywood, Texas, and a dozen other places for larceny, theft, murder-take
your pick."
Matthew retracted his outstretched hand. He looked his bother up and down, then laughed.
"You think you can take me? With five of my crew to back me up? You're a hoot, little
brother."
How fast could Matthew draw his gun with a quarter bottle of bourbon in him? Probably too
quick for Paladin's liking.
"I mean it, Matthew. You come with me now, the easy way...or later, the hard way."
Matthew's smile vanished. "Get out of here. Get out of here and get Flora-or don't. I don't
care anymore."
"Everything okay, boss?" Matthew's crew stood silhouetted in the frame of the back door.
"Get back inside," he growled at them. "This is none of your businesses."
Matthew then turned back to Paladin and whispered, "If I ever see you again, on the ground
or in the sky, I'll kill you. Brother or no brother."
"That's good to know," Paladin said. "It looks like we do have something in common."
He stared at his brother-years of drinking and hard living had made Matthew's eyes sunken
and his skin pallid. In the shadows, Matthew's head looked more like a skull than human
flesh. Paladin didn't know the man anymore-no, that wasn't right. He knew him, he just
wished he didn't.
"Goodbye, Matthew."
Paladin turned his back on his brother and marched back to the runway. He climbed into his
Devastator and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He had promised his father he'd get
every last pirate in the air. But what would Dad say about this? Which of his sons would he
disapprove of more? Matthew for his murdering and thieving or Paladin for wanting to bring
his own brother down?
That didn't matter. His father was long dead, and Paladin was his own man, with his own
reasons for fighting.
Paladin flipped the ignition switch, cranked the Devastator's engine, and taxied onto the
runway. He pushed the throttle full open and shot into the sky. The moon rose past the edge
of the mountains, casting silver and shadows into the valley. He climbed to three hundred
feet then banked and headed back toward Durango Field.
Sometimes, he thought, you need a light touch to solve your problems. This wasn't one of
those times.
Paladin lined up with the runway and dove. He opened fire, peppered the Corsairs on the
ground with .30-caliber bullets, then launched rockets one and four.
He pulled back on the stick. He risked a quick glance, and saw two planes explode as men
and woman ran onto the airstrip. Paladin circled back for another pass, but the remaining
Corsairs were already taking off.
Chapter Three: In the Shadow of the Black Knight
Paladin Blake pushed the stick forward and sent his Devastator into a dive, right toward the
runway-and straight at the first two Corsairs gathering speed on the field. Just as their
wheels cleared the ground, he opened fire.
His Devastator's .40-calibers stitched a hail of gunfire across their tails and canopies. The
Corsairs dropped to the earth, bounced, and crashed into the trees at the end of the landing
strip.
Had one of those been Matthew's plane? A sickening heaviness settled in his gut. Paladin
pulled back on the stick and banked for another pass.
His radio crackled. "Shooting men on the ground, huh?" It was Matthew's voice. "So the
great Paladin Blake isn't the hero the papers say he is. I knew you'd show your true colors."
Paladin didn't bother replying; it had been four-against-one with him on the short end of
that deal. He didn't gamble with odds like that...especially when the bet was his life.
He made another pass over Durango Field. He spied the glint of reflected moonlight off the
wings of the two remaining Corsairs-now aloft and behind him. Paladin had survived two-on-
one dogfights before...but not flying against Matthew.
He pushed the throttle to full, started to bank right, hoping the pirates would follow. Paladin
quickly reversed and pulled hard to the left.
Corsairs were notorious for their high engine torque-which made starboard turns easier, but
port turns more difficult. Paladin had, hopefully, bought himself a little maneuvering room.
He glanced back. One of the pirates had fallen for the feint; the enemy pilot broke right and
was trying to recover and find Paladin. The other Corsair was still on his tail. That had to be
Matt.
Matt-who learned to fly in the Great War-would never be eloquent with words, or successful
with the ladies, but he was a brilliant pilot. He'd shot down five Germans in Europe-all of
them aces-and never had the favor returned. Paladin knew he was outclassed.
"Give it up, brother," Matt said. "Land and I'll let you walk out of here-that's the best offer
you'll get from me."
That was a lie. No one crossed Matthew Blake and lived to tell about it.
Paladin dove, weaving back and forth, skimming over the tree line.
Matt was right on his tall.
A burst of .50-caliber fire peppered his Devastator's wing. Paladin pulled up.
The Corsair followed-less than a hundred feet behind him and closing.
摘要：

PaladinBlakeAndtheSecretCity-FromthefilesofBlakeAviationSecurity-ByEricNylundChapterOne:ThickerthanWater...PaladinBlakehadneverhaditsogood-andhadneverfeltsolousyaboutit,either.Graylightdiffusedthroughhisofficewindow;outsidewastheSantaMonicapierandtheroilingPacific.Inanotherhourthesunwouldbeup,andthe...

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