Black Sun Reich Read Online Free Page A

your leave and be on your merry. That there’s the door,” Rucker said.
    Chamberlain’s face reddened.
    â€œOh, and as for ‘that damn darky’—he’s my copilot, but he’s also fifty-one percent owner of the company. So I think that makes me his uppity boy.”
    Rucker moved up a row and to the other side of the plane to sit down next to Deitel.
    â€œHow ’bout you? Like some coffee? Cerveza? We were just in Colombia so we have some stronger relaxants and stimulants.”
    Deitel shook his head. “ Nein, Herr Kapitan.”
    â€œWe ain’t been properly introduced. Sean Fox Rucker, at your service.”
    â€œDr. Kurt von Deitel,” he said, shaking hands. “For a pilot, you don’t seem to be doing much flying today.”
    â€œChuy likes taking first shift on even days. And when I stay out too late. Besides, he’s behind on his flight log this month,” Rucker said.
    â€œFlight log? I was under the impression that your Freehold doesn’t regulate or license pilots. This made me hesitant to fly a Freehold airline until I examined the safety records.”
    â€œThere’s a question here?”
    â€œSo who requires he maintain minimal hours?”
    â€œHe does.”
    â€œI do not understand, Herr Kapitan.”
    â€œProbably not. Lemme put this simple. Who do you think is more interested in making sure we know how to keep our bird in the air? Us, or some regulator flying a desk?”
    Deitel bit back his almost reflexive counter. Was this a joke?
    â€œI suppose I wouldn’t know much of such things, Herr Kapitan. I am a physician and new to your Freehold. I am studying the latest advances made in medicine—particularly infection control. First in Rio, and now in Austin.”
    Rucker nodded.
    Whispering, Deitel said, “I thought it was the southerners who had a problem with colored people, not the Northrons.”
    â€œBigoted southerners are just more up front about it than bigoted northerners, in my experience,” Rucker said.
    Once again Deitel didn’t know what to say.
    A little louder for both passengers, Rucker announced, “Gonna take over for Chuy. He’ll heat y’all up some lunch. You can have anything you want long as it’s tacos.”
    A fter what Chuy called “pulled pork barbecue tacos” and another half hour of fussing and griping, Chamberlain fell asleep. With Chuy now doing something in the rear of the aircraft, Deitel invited himself into the cockpit. Rucker obliged, neither offering nor refusing the second seat. Rucker didn’t take notice—well, he didn’t take issue—when the doctor used a handkerchief to wipe the seat before he sat.
    The cockpit of the Raposa confounded Deitel as much as the exterior had. It looked old and lived in—timeworn and with obvious make-do replacement parts here and there. But even for someone with only brief exposure to the modern world of late 1920s avionics, it looked advanced—more advanced than anything he’d been allowed to see of Luftwaffe technology.
    It was as much an odd mix as the captain and copilot in styling, too. Chuy had the manners and tailoring of a prancing, preening, Portuguese peacock, while Rucker was exactly what Deitel pictured when he heard the word “Texas”—cowboys, worn leather, rough edges, and a manner as smooth as sandpaper.
    Rucker was a hard-looking man despite his apparent young age—no more than thirty, Deitel guessed. A long scar ran along the back of his right hand. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once. The hard lines and angles of his features, combined with the sun-baked tan of his skin, made Rucker look like he was carved from a piece of iron wrapped in leather. But something about his eyes and demeanor brought some warmth to what could have been intimidating.
    Deitel saw an old shoulder patch was clipped to an empty part of the control panel.