For Peter, Oleg and possibly Rasmus. Coming soon, to a table top near you:
After rescuing Audrey Summers from the Iron Tsar, Daniel Mansfield returns to London on the first of August, 1936 to find Project Meteor has been reactivated. He meets with Sir Hugh Sinclair, head of MI6 who informs him that the rocket pack built by Prof. Summers is now once again the property of the British government.
“We’re very impressed with what you did in Kazakhstan” Sir Hugh says over a glass of sherry in a wood panelled office, “and we’d like you to do it again, this time for us, if you don’t mind.”
Mansfield, never one for hesitation, swiftly replies.
“By us, I take it you mean MI6?”
Sinclair hesitates.
“Not quite... actually, espionage is rather a dirty business and you never know just who is working for whom. The thing is, we just can’t risk this invention falling into the wrong hands, do you see? We have to be absolutely sure that no one even suspects, who or what Rocketman is.”
“Rocketman?”
“Yes, rather a fetching name don’t you think? My personal secretary Miss Jennings thought of it. This way, if any one does see you or catch wind of your exploits, we can put the word about that your some kind of phantom... a figment of the imagination rather than an actual agent of his majesty’s government”
“It sounds rather jolly when you put it that way”.
The spy master regards the handsome pilot with a raised eye brow. He’d been warned not to be fooled by Mansfield’s boyish manner and now he see’s why. His long experience with evaluating agents for dangerous missions recognizes the ruthless man of steel hidden beneath the smiling charm and old school tie. Mansfield is the perfect man for the job he realises. Too bad he’s married though...
“So what’s the game then?”
Sinclair pulls out a slim brown dossier and hands it over.
”We had this a few days ago and I’ve been mulling it over. Its a stroke of luck you returned when you did because its right up your alley. I believe you even know the man...”
Curiousity hooks Mansfield and he opens the folder to reveal a map, some type written papers and a telegram...
+PACKAGE+ARRIVES+24TH+STOP+
+MESSNIER+NO+LONGER+NEEDED+STOP+
+INITIATE+PLAN+C+STOP+
+LIQUIDATE+ALL+ASSETS+STOP+
”Messnier?” Mansfield looks up sharply. ”Marcel Messnier?”
”The same, Sinclair replies as he lights his pipe.
”Whats the old chap got himself into now?”
”Its a curious affair really. Some time last year Messnier came back from a clandestine operation in North Africa with some kind of animal no one had ever seen before. A giant spider or so I’m led to believe. Maybe you’ve heard of this? Well anyway, he showed this thing to some boffins in Paris and it didn’t take long before the French had a secret project in the works to examine this thing. Trouble is, they weren’t the only ones who were interested. One of their science boys, a biologist called...”
Sir Hugh peers at the type written papers myopically,
”...Eduardo Lopez, a Peruvian, sold the French out to some very dubious types in south America. Its all written in this report if you care to read it, but I’ll just give you the bare facts. Lopez passed on a lot of technical information to a character known as Moros, we have a whole file on him which I’ll let you read in due course. Suffice to say we’ve had our eye on him for some time. He was recently in Paris posing as an historian. He bought a famous statuette known as the Golden Anaconda, apparently to return it to its ancient home in Brazil. We think this was when he made contact with Lopez. We can’t be sure, because Lopez was found dead not long after that, killed by an unknown toxin.”
”Moros...” Mansfield frowns, ”Doesn’t that mean something?”
”Yes, it means ’fate’, or ’doom’, depending on which historian you ask. Its obviously an alias and we don’t know who he really is. What we do know is that he has connections to a lot of strange and otherwise unrelated people, not least one of whom you’ve already had dealings with.”
”Oh?”
”Indeed. I’m informed you are familiar with a certain Prussian aristocrat?”
”Do you mean the Baron von Schöenberg?”
”The very same.”
”But it was Schöenberg who discovered the valley with the giant spiders!”
”Indeed. Clearly there is a connection, but we haven’t been able to clarify it as yet. Before he quit Germany Schöenberg used to supply weapons to Moros, but we never saw any reason why. Moros is deeply involved with local Amazonian tribal groups and may be involved in some kind of secret organisation, possibly a rebel faction which wishes to set up its own state, or something more obscure. We can’t see any possible reason why Schöenberg was supplying these people with weapons.
What we do know is that Moros has already departed France with the Golden Anaconda and is set to arrive at Macapá on the 19th. We believe that Eduardo Lopez gave him something important, something to do with this giant spider the French are busy studying. ”
” Macapá?”
”Its a city at the mouth of the Amazon. A mining town mostly. We have an agent there, Sancho Gutiérrez, he’ll be your contact when you arrive. He’s well connected with the people who run the Amazon, officially and unofficially.”
”What about Messnier, shouldn’t I take him along?”
”We considered it but thought it might be risky, he is after all a French agent with unscrutable connections of his own but it turns out he went missing shortly after his arrival in Paris and no one knows where he is”
Mansfield looks down at the telegram
”You don’t think...?”
Sir Hugh smiles around his pipe.
”I don’t have to. I’m sending you to find out.”
Meanwhile, off the east coast of Africa...
At a casual glance the steamer resembles any other ship of its kind. Old, rusting gently, its age is apparent in its tall funnel and upright bow. The
Santa Maria is obviously an old ship, built before the turn of the century, probably in northern Europe though she now bears a Cuban registry, ’Havana’ painted almost illegibly across her broad stern.
A closer inspection by an experienced sailor might note a few unusal aspects of the ship however. Old and rusty as she might appear to the eye, her engines sound deep and powerful, she carries more radio masts than a ship her size needs and her some what large crew, all of whom are European, walk briskly and with great purpose. Only one man appears to be taking his leisure aboard this ship. Standing at the stern and contemplating the ships wake is a tall, iron grey haired gentleman dressed in an impecable ivory suit and smoking an expensive cigarette.
Otto Lübke is the ships radio man. Sitting in his cabin to the rear of the ships bridge he listens to the incoming radio message intently ignoring the noise from the mess below where several of the ships crew are listening intently to a another radio broadcast, this one from Berlin where Adolf Hitler is opening the Olympic games. The list of numbers is long and precise and he writes down the ciphered message with care and precision on a note pad. A single error could result in a garbled message so he requests a repeat broadcast and double checks through the list of numbers just in case. The list is intact and so he breaks radio contact. A button operates a distant bell below and not long after the message is being decyphered by Oberleutnant Weiskirchner.
Weiskirchner reads through the message and then makes his way aft to the stern where Baron Gottfried von Schöenberg having finished his cigarette is standing with his hands clasped behind him.
“Yes?”
“A message from Brazil mein Herr”
The Baron regards the message with cold hard eyes.
Moros is demanding triple original fee.He threatens to sell the formula to HH if demands not met by 25th.What are your orders?“A renegotiation of an agreement is always possible.” The Barons words startle Oberleutnant Weiskirchner who is not used to such blatent introspection from the Baron.
”Indeed mein Herr” he manages to reply.
Von Schöenberg regards him with something akin to benevolence.
“But a threat? That we will not tolerate. Reply to the message at once. Tell Helga to execute plan E.”
“Jawohl mein Herr!”
Oberleutnant Weiskirchner returns at a brisk pace to the radio room and the Baron turns to regard the distant horizon with a cold chilling smile.
Arriving by a specially chartered empire flying boat in Macapá Daniel Mansfield steps up onto the dock and regards the busy dockyards. Behind him Mad Dog Mitchell passes several cases up to George McArthur from the small boat which has ferried them to land.
“Well, hell, here we go again” The Texan mutters to himself. “Another mad caper in some Gawd forsaken hell hole.”
“Isn’t that why your called Mad Dog?” George replies with a broad grin.
Mitchell pauses in mid toss.
“You watch your manners boy! People gotta earn the right to call me by that name”
George laughs and catches the heavy suit case Mitchell throws at him.
“By heaven! What do you have in here? It weighs a ton.”
Just the usual” Mitchell shrugs. “Mah Browning, a few grenades, some salami... I don’ know why I keep going on these crazy missions with you limey’s anyway. I oughtta be settlin’ down back in Texas, ‘cept there’s a few folks still sore at me there ah reckon.”
“Come off it. You love every minute of it.”
Mansfield lights a cigarette and turns to his two companions.
“You chaps stay here whilst I go find this Gutiérrez fellow”
“And do what?” Mitchell replies
Mansfield notices a hotel sign.
“Take a room at the hotel there and keep an eye open for me. I’ll return as soon as I can.” He makes his way through the crowded dockside and disappears amongst the mass of busy workers. Out in the bay a ships steam whistle cuts across Mitchells reply.
Sancho Gutiérrez is a small, stocky man in a seedy brown suit with a pock marked face. At first Mansfield is sure there is some mistake, but seeing the intelligence in Gutiérrez’s eyes he quickly understands that the Brazilian is far more than meets the eye. He sits down opposite the man in a small water front tavern, unperturbed by his candid gaze.
“Sir Sinclair has given me strict orders to assist you” Gutiérrez says as he holds out a packet of unfamiliar cigarettes. Mansfield waves them aside and sits at the table. Gutiérrez, his back to the wall lights his cigarette and then blows the smoke up to the ceiling.
“I was not sure I understood the message so I asked for a clarification. I think London was a bit surprised. They’re not used to agents questioning their orders I suppose but I had to be sure. The man you seek, this Moros, he is a very dangerous man and he operates far from Macapá. We will have to travel several days up the river to find him and he will probably know we are coming. His people own the river up there. It will be very dangerous.”
“Can’t you bring some men?”
“Certainly I can bring some men, but I can’t bring an army, not without drawing attention from quarters we do not wish to know what we are about.”
“How many?”
”Maybe four or five militia men, I don’t know, I’m well connected, but I’m not the army”
”Thats not enough. If we’re to face Moros on his own ground we’ll need more than that
”Ten then?”
Mansfield frowns and Gutiérrez sighs
“...and a machine gun?” he adds
”It’ll have to do. When do we leave?”
”Tomorrow morning. I shall go and see Captain Ortiz now” he drains his coffee and starts to get up but Mansfield holds his elbow, restraining the smaller man with ease.
”Captain Ortiz?”
”He is a friend of mine, don’t worry, he will cooperate, and anyway, we can’t do this without his men. You want ten men and a machine gun at such short notice, then I must meet with my friend and pay him some money to make him extra friendly”
Mansfield releases the small Brazilian and watches him leave the taverna. The job is on, can he trust Gutiérrez? He ponders this for a while, thankful that he has Mitchell and McArthur along to back him up. He sighs gently, finishes his tea and leaves a tip tucked under the plate. Seeing this, the waitress smiles at him as he tips his hat and leaves.
Its time to get the rocket out...
Well, so far I've managed to go swimming six times in January and I'm certainly paying for it. I have aches and pains all over, some of which are actually quite scary. According to the Beeb people like me age faster so it ought not be so surprising that years of illness, medical side effects and generally living before my computer have taken their toll. They have and I ache all over. After I got back from swimming I walked about the city centre with Freja (who was face painted as a zebra) on my shoulders for an hour or so and now I feel like I've had the bejeesus kicked out of me. The various aches and pains have gotten so over the top that I felt compelled to go and see my GP today. He found nothing wrong with me and my latest set of blood tests showed nothing but a slight D vitamin deficiency. He must think I am an avid hypochondriac and I really wish I was since the fourteen or fifteen points of agony I can now count on my body are starting to bum me out (you can tell why I never got into sports). I'm still trudging on, though I haven't been back to my psychologist again (can't afford the fee's). I'm going to be going on a job seeking course soon, as well as a project for people with long term chronic illnesses. I'm hoping against experience that these might help me climb further out of my 'dark pit of despair'.
