"There's just one more thing," Newcombe continued. "When I said eight, I was counting the Shenandoah's pilot. That's four planes; four pilots with passengers. The nigger stays."

Hardas muttered something under his breath. Morgan took a step backwards.

"Listen, mister, I didn't vote for you then, and I sure as hell ain't risking my ass for some jungle-bunny butler now."

"Impressive," Shine said. "You know how to vote."

Newcombe's jaw dropped. Sudden silence gripped the gondola, so deep that Lightholler had to wonder if Shine had spoken at all.

Morgan chuckled softly.

"He's CBI?" Newcombe asked Kennedy incredulously.

Kennedy looked to Shine. Lightholler, astonished, realised he was seeking permission to answer on the man's behalf. Kennedy said, "You don't want to know what he is."

"I'll take him, Major." Rose spoke up, an easy smile spreading across his gaunt face. "The airship's crew can't spare a pilot if they're going to drop the hangar for us."

He turned to face Newcombe. "I wasn't old enough to vote, but I reckon a man's politics is his own business. The 4th Mech-Cavalry saved our hides is all I know, and a bunch of those guys were blacker than a coal miner's ass. If we're doing this for cash, you ain't giving the orders."

Newcombe scowled but did not reply.

Rose slapped him on the back. "Hell, Newcombe, just think about the money."

VIII.

There were seven men inside the Shenandoah's hangar, a long, high-roofed compartment they'd gained via a slender enclosed gangway. Kennedy was elsewhere with the dirigible's captain, making final arrangements.

For the moment, the airship hovered within a bank of thick cloud just over the southeastern portion of Manhattan. The Japanese aircraft circled nearby.

Newcombe and Tucker paced from plane to plane, four of which were arrayed along a depressed aisle that ran down the middle of the deck. They were biplanes. Red and blue roundels, surmounted with white steer's heads, marked the wing surfaces and tailplanes. The short, stubby fuselages were counterpointed by the broad wings that extended out towards either side of the hangar.

"What are these?" Morgan was on his knees, pointing at the undercarriage of one of the biplanes. Thick cables extended from beneath the aircraft to the deck, ending in sharp twin-bladed hooks that strained against bolts in the hangar's floor.

"Arrester hooks," Hardas replied, "for landing on flight decks. Usually carriers." He turned to the Confederate pilots. "What do you think? They pass inspection?"

Rose slapped a hand against the side of the foremost biplane. "High aspect ratio, extensive de-icers on the wing surfaces. Twin turbocharged, gyratory, Santos-Dumont aerodiesels. I'm familiar with the military's version, but this here's your standard supply-delivery aircraft."

"We've all flown 'em," Newcombe called out. He was inspecting the cargo hold on one of the other planes. "This one's fully loaded."

"Same here." Tucker struck the cargo door on the last of the planes. "They must have been planning on rendezvousing with a stratolite somewhere between here and New Orleans."

"What makes you say that?" Lightholler asked. He was standing with Morgan, watching as the pilots made their quick inspection.

Tucker reached a hand into the cargo hold of his plane and withdrew a roll of toilet paper. "This stuff is gold up there," he said with a laugh.

"Aren't they going to be too heavy, carrying three men apiece and all those supplies?" Morgan asked.

"Won't be a problem," Rose chipped in. "These crates might be relatively slow, but they have to climb to at least fifty-thou to reach the stratolites, and they can stop on a dime. That'll count for something."

But will they be able to get away from our escort, Lightholler wondered. And where the hell was Kennedy? They'd stopped the Shenandoah nearly ten minutes ago. Surely the japs would be getting impatient by now.

It was about as uncomfortable as Lightholler had ever felt. The soft sway of the deck beneath his feet was eerily reminiscent of the sea. He kept trying to forget that only a thin strip of metal separated him from a drop of thousands of feet to the ocean below.

Hardas approached one of the planes. "Any weapons?"

"Nothing I can find," Rose replied. "Here's where the rocket-launchers would be." He'd clambered up the side of one of the planes to check out its cockpit. "Used to have a gun mount back here for the co-pilot. It's sealed up now, but I've got me a couple of ideas in case things get hairy out there." He gave Tucker and Newcombe a wink. "Tell me what you think of this," he said, leading them to the front of the hangar.

A few moments later, all three of them climbed into the cargo holds of the planes. There was the sound of things being torn, crates rattling, and raucous laughter from within.

"What gives?" Morgan asked Hardas. "Are they nuts?"

"Damned if I know," Hardas said. "Who can figure out what runs through a flyboy's head?"

Lightholler's face broke into a wry smile. "Anyone who prefers being cooped up in one of these things, when they could be on the solid deck of a ship, has a few screws loose to start with."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "I don't call anything solid unless it's got trees growing out of it."

Kennedy emerged through a hatch near the top of the hangar. "The captain's given us five minutes to get moving. He's stalling the japs right now."

Lightholler caught his eye.

"He's told them he's having engine trouble. He's pouring junk out of the starboard engine nacelle to sell it. When he cuts the running lights, then we roll." Kennedy scrambled down a narrow metal stair that dropped onto the hangar's floor. One of the dirigible's crewmen followed him down.

"What about the Fuck Yous?" Hardas asked.

"Only two of them still out there," Kennedy said. "The others turned back five minutes ago."

"Those odds sound a little better," Newcombe said.

"They're as good as we're going to get," Kennedy replied.

As the Shenandoah's crew entered the hangar and began making preparations for launch, Kennedy and the three Confederate pilots outlined a strategy. They would use three of the biplanes. Kennedy and Lightholler would go in the first scout, with Tucker as their pilot. Morgan and Hardas would take the second with Newcombe. Rose and Shine would bring up the rear. The Shenandoah's captain would give the signal once he had both the remaining Mitsubishis on his starboard side inspecting the "damaged" engine. The entire operation would take place while they were suspended in cloud cover.

The plan called for a rapid launch sequence. No more than forty-five seconds between each scout's departure. Then, close-formation flying, keeping the dirigible's massive frame between them and the Japanese escorts, in an attempt to obstruct any radar. At five minutes out, the Shenandoah would release its starboard engine housing. That had been the captain's idea. After that, they would be able to limp back to New York while still rendering the airship unusable by the Japanese for any length of time.

Dumping the engine would be the signal for all three scouts to descend to just above sea level. Any pursuit would assume that the scouts, by virtue of their specifications, were flying high. Keeping radio silence, and maintaining an altitude below radar detection, they'd make for Richmond, Virginia. Kennedy knew of a landing field where they could refuel without undue attention.

It sounded simple enough.

IX.

The low rumble of engines echoed through the hangar.

Lightholler was secured in the navigator's seat, with Kennedy pressed tightly against him in the narrow confines of Scout One's cockpit. He struggled to peer over Tucker's hunched shoulders. Crouched in the pilot's seat, Tucker sealed the ungainly bubble of the cockpit's canopy overhead. Through it, Lightholler could see the figure of the Shenandoah's crewman standing by the bay doors.

The air was thick with fumes.

Lightholler did a quick inventory. Radio transceiver. Intercom headphones. Ground proximity warning system. Compass. Altimeter. Tachometer. The canopy provided an almost three-sixty-degree view.

He picked up his pair of phones and placed a hand over the mike.

"You trust him?" he asked under his breath.

"He wants off this airship as much as we do," Kennedy replied. "Besides, I don't think we have much choice."

"I wonder how far we'll get in these rust-buckets?" Lightholler watched as the crewman secured himself to a fixture by the hangar door.

"Rose seems to think as far south as Charlotte. I reckon we'll be lucky enough to make Charlottesville. From there, we make our own way across the border. I know a few bootleg routes."

"I'm sure you do." Lightholler had to smile. "But I thought we were making for New Orleans."

"We were." Kennedy's face creased thoughtfully. "But that could change. We might have more options once we cross the border. It all depends."

"On what?"

"On where we're welcome. That might not be in too many places, North or South. But I know a spot where we can hole up till we're ready to head for Nevada."

"Nevada," Lightholler probed. "So that's our final destination?"

Kennedy smiled. "No, Nevada's how we get to our final destination."

"I'm sorry I asked."

Three bursts of static rattled the intercom.

"Lights are out. That's the signal," Tucker growled over his shoulder.

Lightholler felt a sudden lurch. The biplane listed on the grooved runway as its retractable arrester hook slid from the hangar deck to snap against the scout's undercarriage. He could feel the hangar's descent in the pit of his stomach.

"Hold on," Kennedy said.

The crewman disappeared from view. The bay doors slid apart fore and aft. Exhaust fumes swirled out, cotton-candy cloud swirled in. Thin beams of light, emanating from somewhere beneath the Shenandoah, converged on the grey-white flurry ahead.

The biplane edged forwards as the runway deployed on an ever steeper decline.

"We're clear." Tucker reached for the throttle. The whine of the plane's engines rose to an ear-splitting roar.

"Tally-ho," Lightholler said through gritted teeth. He was thrust back into his seat as the plane surged into the vast emptiness below.

X.

Seated in Scout Two, Morgan watched as Tucker's biplane cleared the runway ahead of them.

"Just lean back and shut your eyes." Hardas reached across to tighten Morgan's restraint.

"I'm fine," Morgan murmured.

Their tether snapped loose and the plane began to taxi forwards. Morgan squinted through half-closed eyes, his earphones too tight, his head throbbing. There was the impression of the biplane's wheels bouncing on the deck and then a horrible disconcerting drop. He clutched his armrest in a white-knuckled embrace as he felt the plane plummet.

He could see Tucker's plane below them, skimming in and out of the clouds. The solar cells on its upper wing glinted in the moonlight as it completed its turn to port. He sensed their own wings gripping thin dark air.

Hardas was also looking at Tucker's plane, shaking his head. "He's turning too wide. Cargo must be heavier than he thought."

"I see it," Newcombe said. "Going to try and compensate."

An abrupt twist and the view shifted, the night sky whirling in a kaleidoscope of bright stars. Tucker's plane was five hundred feet ahead and to their right.

"Passive night vision enabled." Newcombe flicked a couple of switches on the instrument panel. "Infrared. Optronics. RWR. Shit."

"RWR?" Morgan stumbled over the letters.

Hardas, eyes straight ahead, spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Radar warning receiver. They've seen us."

Newcombe scanned the radar and threw a sidelong glance at his port reflector. "I've got a visual." He toggled his radio transceiver. "Bandits, two o'clock. Tucker, Rose, you copy? Over."

The only response was a harsh crackle.

"Hold on, boys, we've got trouble."

The world spun counter-clockwise. Morgan caught a glimpse of one of the Fuck Yous. Then stars, sea, stars. The Shenandoah emerged from a cover of cloud, her running lights still down, a vast black shadow against the moonlight. Roiling billows of smoke poured from her starboard engines, obscuring any view of the hangar. Tucker's plane was nowhere in sight.

"Where's Scout Three?" Morgan asked.

Hardas checked the display. "I can't see them. They'd have cleared the Shenandoah by now. They must be behind her."

Morgan twisted in his seat, trying to orient himself, his head spinning.

Newcombe growled, "Keep still, you dumb fuck."

Morgan kept still, tasting bile.

The Mitsubishis peeled away from the Shenandoah, making a beeline for Scout One.

"Tucker," Newcombe said into the transceiver, "they're coming in right behind you."

Tucker's reply was hoarse. "I know it."

"Coming in right behind you."

Morgan could see Tucker's scout well ahead of them. Both of the Mitsubishis were on its tail, weaving across each other's path.

Newcombe made a noise in his throat. "They're toying with him." He scoped the radar. "Where the fuck is Rose?"

"What are they waiting for?" Hardas said.

Tucker's plane began to bank. A sharp, angled turn, trailing twin streams of vapour. The Fuck Yous made to follow, pursuing a wider curve. Still weaving, as if deciding who would take the kill.

"What's he think he's doing?" Newcome hissed. He swung their scout into a spin, bringing them up behind the Mitsubishis. He pushed forwards on the throttle.