Black Sun Reich Read Online Free Page B

It was emblazoned with a cartoon scorpion sporting wings, a sneer, and a cigar. It was breathing fire. It was the same symbol on Rucker’s cap.
    But on this patch, below the scorpion, were the words 3RD TEXAS VOLUNTEER AIR GROUP—MIGHTY FIREFLIES .”
    It was a flight squadron patch.
    Rucker had fought in the Great War.
    Gott in Himmel. Deitel suppressed a shiver. He wondered if there were German scalps hanging somewhere else in the cockpit.
    The Freeholder mercenaries who’d fought for the French? They were animals. Their hatred of Germans, rumor in the Fatherland held, was downright pathological. It didn’t matter what they were called—Texas hellhounds was one of the nicer epitaphs—they were said to be the bastard children of the devil and a coyote.
    The fact that Rucker chose to wear a sidearm in his own cockpit only served to heighten Deitel’s anxiety. And yet Deitel couldn’t ignore one fact: Rucker had treated him as hospitably as a regular at a hofbrau.
    When he noticed from the corner of his eye that Rucker was looking at him in a manner that was part curious, part annoyed, Deitel coughed to clear his voice.
    â€œYou were a flier? In the Great War?” he finally said, his voice only cracking a little.
    Rucker simply nodded.
    The silence stretched out like the horizon before them.
    â€œWell, then,” Deitel said, forcing a pleasant smile.
    He was floundering, and Rucker wasn’t inclined to rescue him.
    â€œAnd so . . . yes,” the doctor finally said, and retired to the passenger compartment, where he spent the next few hours playing gin with Chuy, whom he found to be as refined as Rucker wasn’t.
    E ight hours into the flight, Deitel’s nap was interrupted by an announcement and apology from the cockpit that, owing to engine trouble, the plane would be landing at a nearby strip where the two passengers could catch flights to their final destinations.
    â€œWe’ll be wheels down in about three minutes,” Rucker said over the intercom.
    Deitel shook his head. Of course. Here it was. Travel in the banana republics. Shoddy engineering and primitive conditions. No doubt they’d be landing on some Central American dirt airstrip where the choice would be cargo carriers or old two-seater biplanes. His mission to Austin was too urgent for these kinds of delays. But what were the alternatives?
    He looked out the window to his left. Odd. Nothing but the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea far below. To the right, the same.
    So then, an airstrip on an island. Even more primitive than he’d imagined. But from what he could fathom, the plane seemed to still be cruising at an awfully high altitude with no obvious indication of descent. Three minutes?
    The quizzical look on Chamberlain’s face told Deitel he wasn’t alone in this observation. Both made their way into the cockpit where Captain Rucker and Lago—Chuy, Deitel reminded himself—were about their business readying for a landing. The altimeter held steady at around 10,000 feet as Chuy engaged the landing gear. That didn’t seem right, thought Deitel.
    â€œHerr Kapitan, I am not experienced as you at matters aeronautical . . .”
    Rucker hadn’t noticed they’d poked their heads in until then.
    â€œWhat the hell are you two . . . ? Look, this is supposed to be a professional air service. Passengers in the back, crew in the cockpit and all. Ah, never mind. Take the jump seats if you want a good look. But don’t touch anything,” Rucker said.
    The Raposa flew steadily on into a huge cloud bank, bringing visibility to zero. Still, the gauges showed no change in attitude or altitude.
    â€œAs I was saying, I am not experienced in flight as you, er, claim, but shouldn’t we be descending to something like sea level so we can actually touch ground at whatever grass hut, bamboo, and coconut airfield you have in mind?”
    Chamberlain,