Perfidia
A short story of intrigue and ocelots, set in an alternate 1943 with... y'know, death rays and stuff.
A short story of intrigue and ocelots, set in an alternate 1942 with... y'know, death rays and stuff.
This continues the story from "Reckless," in Bodies in Motion_. That was the story where Walker Wright, a mercenary pilot, rescues Amelia McIntyre, a British not-at-all-spy whose flying boat is set upon by mysterious unmanned (!) fighters staging from a submersible (!!) aircraft carrier, which is all you really need to know to get caught up, don't worry :P Patreon subscribers, this (along with "Reckless" for that matter) should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff. Many, many thanks to Blu3wolf for technical consultancy and proofreading and, y'know, just generally being great._
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"Perfidia," by Rob Baird
As the wheels touched tarmac, Dan Mitchell thought of how_alien_ that feeling was. The Border Collie hadn't landed in nearly two months. Two months of endless sorties, recovering to the hook mechanism on the Athabasca Sunrise so often it was second nature. He felt the lurching tug in his sleep sometimes, on the zeppelin.
But now he was in Washington, courtesy of an enigmatic telegram.
Of course, it wasn't all bad; the Piasa Legion had a proper base in Seattle, and the_Sunrise_ was sorely in need of repairs. And Mitchell was equally sorely in need of R&R, or at least a comfortable bed.
He parked his Wildcat and pushed the canopy open, letting a cool evening breeze fill the cockpit. Outside, the sound of the engine coming to rest was replaced by the sound of another--an open-cab truck driving up, bringing with it fuel. And a ladder. And a young raccoon, whose eyes widened at the sight of the Border Collie. "Sir!"
"Don't have to salute," Mitchell reminded him. "I'm a civilian."
"Not really, though, sir." The raccoon quickly secured the ladder and stepped back so that Dan could clamber down. "Can I, uh--if not a salute, uh--I'm Sergeant Jackson, sir, can I..."
He had his paw out, and Dan took it--the kid was too excited for a proper handshake, and Mitchell did most of the work. "Nice to meet you, sergeant."
"You too, captain. We'll get you refueled and, uh--where are you headed? The Legion's base is over to the east, but you landed here--d'you mind if I ask why? Is it secret? I'll bet it's secret. Sorry I asked."
The collie had to chuckle; he shook his head. "No. I'm meeting an old friend in town. Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid."
After he'd signed an autograph and was in the back of a taxi headed into Seattle, though, Dan scanned the telegram again. He_hoped_ it wasn't anything 'so exciting.' But who knew? He was meeting Walker Wright, head of the Nevada Rangers, who said he'd be waiting in the lobby of an upscale hotel downtown.
Walker looked like Dan remembered him, which was to say that the mutt looked like the burly mess that belied his good nature. His mottled grey fur looked permanently grease-stained, and his ears were often askew, but his eyes were bright and his grin was appreciably familiar.
"Danny!" He threw his arms around the collie in a bear hug. "Long time, no see. You didn't freeze, huh?"
"No, but I damn well tried. If I've learned one thing, it's that the money isn't good enough to stay in Alaska. You picked well." Despite the name, the Nevada Rangers had moved to Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, and Walker himself was back from a tour of the South Pacific.
"Invest in some boats, cap," the mutt told him, before jerking his thumb in the direction of the hotel's elevator. "C'mon. Wanted to talk."
"Your message said that, yeah. Can I get a hint?"
"Something big's going on. You're up for a little excitement, right?"
"No."
"Liar. Twentieth, please," Walker told the elevator attendant. "You're always up for excitement, Danny."
"You seen what a 75-millimeter cannon does to a zeppelin's engine?"
Walker's eyebrows arched. "How'd that happen?"
"Where there's oil, there's money. Where there's money, there's people spending it on guns. It's a fucking--sorry," Dan caught himself, for the benefit of the attendant. "Cover your ears, I guess."
The attendant grinned. "Like hell, captain. I want to hear."
"It's a fucking mess, Walker. Fairbanks was supposed to be the front line. We showed up and it was a goddamn three-way. The Feds, the wildcatters, the natives--fuck, man, we got bailed out by some Inuit fighter-bombers on a sortie east of Denali when that went south? Showed up outta nowhere in these commie Ilyushins like God's own angels. Two weeks later I had a flight of those bastards inbound, loaded for bear, and ready to chase me back to fuckin' Juneau. I don't even know who's who anymore."
They were at their floor. "Good luck, cap," the attendant said. Mitchell added a second quarter to the one Walker tipped him.
"Who's backing the oil guys, now?" Wright asked. "Do you know?"
"The Japanese, I think. But it could be the Californians. Might be they're sending their old materiel north to cause trouble."
'Fucking mess' was the nicest way to describe it. In six years of free rein, private companies seeking to exploit Alaska's oil had plenty of time to fortify their positions. And in six years of resisting them, with Soviet backing, the locals had gotten damned good at fighting back.
Now,finally, as long as peace held with California and Colorado, the United States was trying to take back control. Their alliance with the Canadians, tired of dealing with the spillover, was solid. The one with the Inuit militias was far more fractious.
"And you were caught in the middle?"
"Hell of a place to be, yep."
"Let me take yer mind off it," Walker promised him--ominously. The mutt held the door to his hotel room open. A map of the Pacific was spread out on the table, held down by pieces of machinery Mitchell didn't recognize.
He didn't recognize the white wolf sitting in a chair facing the table, either, until she lifted her head and spoke, and he caught the trace of her German accent. "Ah--Captain Mitchell, is it?"
"You haven't met Dr. Metzger, right?" Walker Wright closed the door behind them, and quickly took a seat, pointing for Mitchell to do the same.
First he shook Beth Metzger's paw, quickly. "No, unfortunately. But I've heard the name, of course." He'd also heard her nickname--'Dazzle'--and the light catching off the wolf's thick glasses gave him a hint at where it might have come from. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"And you, too," she answered, smiling. "We should get started. Mr. Wright can set the stage better than I can. Would you mind?"
"Sure, doc. Two months ago, I was in Australia. I saved a British flying boat from being ambushed by strange fighter craft. These. And then, the next day, I narrowly escaped being shot down by two more. These..."
He'd put two drawings down on the table. The planes were totally unfamiliar to Mitchell, and 'strange' barely began to describe them. The 'fighter craft' looked like arrowheads, with raked wings and a single pusher prop at the rear of the fuselage. The other drawing showed a larger craft, with the same wedge-shaped planform and four propellers at the rear, a pair on either side of two angled tails.
"I trust you ain't seen 'em before, Danny?"
"No. You saw them flying?" He didn't bother asking if the mutt was putting him up to something--April Fool's Day was two weeks in the past, and Walker didn't seem like the type. "Where are the horizontal stabilizers?"
"Don't have 'em. They move like nothing I've ever seen, and it gets worse. They're unpiloted, so far as I can tell. 'Least, I couldn't see a pilot; my passenger couldn't, either. There's no cockpit."
"Controlled by wireless?" Mitchell guessed.
"Perhaps," Metzger answered. "Walker was able to tag one of them with a radio beacon. We triangulated it to a position here, in the middle of the Philippine Sea. There it vanished. The trail was cold for three weeks."
"And then," Wright continued, "a Ranger patrol had another encounter west of Manila. We forced one of the planes down and recovered a bit of wreckage. That's what you see here." He picked up one of the enigmatic pieces of machinery: a small piece of bakelite, studded with tiny electrical components. "Dr. Metzger, if you please."
"They are microrelays, but of a precision and scale I've never seen before. They could be part of a calculator, perhaps a control apparatus--perhaps even for automated guidance. The truth is that, Captain Mitchell, I can't even begin to speculate. The expertise involved in creating this is almost inconceivable."
Mitchell, of course, was hardly a prodigy in electrical engineering; he had to take Dr. Metzger's word. He looked over to Walker Wright. "Have you talked to the War Department?"
"And given them samples, yes. They promised they'd have top men looking into it. But I want you to know, too. I think things could be... complex. We'll need help. And I know you're up for a challenge..."
"Speak for yourself. I told you: my flagship is already beat to shit, and the Pacific is your sphere. What makes you think I want to be involved with this?"
"Because it's not just the Pacific. Dr. Metzger found, uh... whatever the hell this thing is, too." The dog reached across the table, holding up a tiny piece of glass embedded in a brass ring; wires leading from the ring suggested it had once been connected to something else.
"Some sort of photonic element. The mount is inscribed with an address in Jena, Silesia." Proper nouns brought Metzger's heritage to the fore. "And there is the end of a word on another component: -erstärkungsgerät 41. An 'amplification device.'"
"The Germans have no designs in the Pacific, though," Mitchell protested. "Right? That's right, isn't it?"
Wright shrugged. "Mostly. Chancellor Brüning has been cozying up to the Japanese, though, and they're meddling in India, too. I also have some personal experience: after tangling with the bigger craft, I had to ditch in the Andaman. I was rescued by a German submarine--"
"You were shot down?"
The dog coughed; looked away. "Rescued by a German submarine, and the captain--"
"Wanted to know if you'd been shot down?" Mitchell asked again.
"Another time, Danny. He refueled my plane, and he asked if I'd seen anything unusual. He suggested that if I did, I might speak to a contact of_his_, in San Francisco. I think Berlin doesn't know what's going on any more than we do. And, well... I don't want to speak for the doctor, but things in Germany aren't much better than they are here."
The wolf's attempt at smiling stayed firmly as a grimace. "My father and I left even before that idiot Bavarian was assassinated. Ruling alone, Brüning is attacked from all sides. He's unpopular with the commoners, who say he's done too little, and with the aristocracy, who say he's done too much. Rumors are that the military is truly in control, and that is...dangerous."
And so, Dan guessed, both Brüning and the military leadership would be worried about a rogue militia in the Pacific--even if their concern came from very different sources. "What do you want from me?"
Wright handed him a thin booklet, a few dozen hastily bound pages. Typewritten notes, one after the other: a date, a coordinate, and a handful of letters.3.9.42 6°1'10"N 109°14'20"E OPJS IAZA MEPT, read the first. The second, apparently two days later: 7.9.42 8°27'52"N 96°3'46"E WAYI OKFM IHBY.
"What is this?"
"A collection of reports. Sightings, attacks; radio intercepts. We'll send the codebook separately. We don't see a pattern in this, but... honestly, Danny, intelligence is the Piasa Legion's area of expertise, not ours. I'm hoping you can tease something out of it."
Mitchell sighed. He was thinking about the_Athabasca Sunrise_, with two of her gasbags leaking badly and one engine shot completely away. They'd lost six planes in Alaska, and two pilots, and the intelligence section at Spokane was working round the clock to keep tabs on Soviet moves along the northern frontier.
He was also, though, thinking about Walker Wright, who wouldn't have asked for help if he didn't need it. Wright was a good person. He trusted the mutt, and he trusted the mutt's judgment.
"I'll see what I can do. But... "
"You can see the other angle, right? The Rangers aren't exactly on_bad_ terms with the California Republic."
"They sell you planes, right?"
"And we're one of the outfits they_will_ sell to. And the Republic is trying to stay on good terms with Japan." Japan had been the first country to recognize their independence, after all. Wright held up his paw, watching Mitchell's expression. "I know. I know. I don't call myself a Californian, do I?"
"But you want me to keep your nose clean for ya, so the Republic doesn't get any ideas."
"That's about the long and short of it. I know what I'm asking, Danny."
Probably, the collie had to admit, Walker was telling the truth. "Yeah," he said, with another sigh. "I know you do. Let me figure somethin' out."
Figuring things out started most easily at the hotel bar. He settled onto a free stool--plenty of those, honestly; the place was nearly empty--and waited for the bartender to come over. The bear looked bored; nodded his apathetic greeting. "Evening. Get you something?"
"Whiskey, rocks."
"Sure." But then, as he turned away to get a bottle, the bartender cocked his head. His mood appeared to be on the verge of changing. "Say... are you Dan Mitchell?"
"Guilty as charged."
"Never thought I'd see the day!" He grinned and pulled a bottle down from the top shelf, offering an explanation as he poured a glass of whiskey for the collie. "The Legion bailed my brother out when his convoy was hit north of Winnemucca. Said if it wasn't for you they'd've been dead for sure."
"Doing our jobs, sir."
The bear shook his head firmly. "Nah. He said even after they'd run out of ammo, Legion planes would dive on the Californians like they were on an attack run, anyway. Scared 'em back into cover 'til the reinforcements showed up." Just as decisively as he'd shaken his head, he shoved the glass across the counter. "On me. Folks would never let me live it down if I made you pay for a drink here."
"Thanks. How's your brother these days?"
"Still deployed. There's no way we're staying at peace with the secessionists."
"I'd tell you it's 'quiet for now,'" Mitchell began. "But I agree. I hope he manages to stay safe."
The bartender poured a smaller helping of the whiskey into a smaller glass and lifted it. "Same. Cheers, cap'." He downed the whiskey and turned to face a new customer. "What are you having?"
"Not as good a time as you are, apparently," the woman answered, flashing a smile. "I'll have a manhattan, if you please. I hope I'm not interrupting your conversation, sir?"
"It was just getting started," the bear answered before Mitchell could say anything. "This is Dan Mitchell--runs the Piasa Legion. Pretty much an American hero, if you ask me."
"I recognize him." Mitchell thought she was probably an ocelot; she had a slight build, and graceful black stripes along her eyes. "We report on the Legion, from time to time."
"You're a reporter?" Dan asked.
The feline nodded. "Rosa Reed, from the Seattle_Post_. I'm not looking for a story right now, don't worry."
"Right."
"You're not on my beat, anyway."
"Naturally." He was not in the mood to deal with reporters.
The ocelot's pale eyes rolled, and she turned to look at him, leaning on the bar heavily. "You think I'm just looking for an exclusive, Mr. Mitchell? I handle city affairs. What do you have to do with city affairs?"
"I think I know where this goes. Things are wild in Alaska, and I bet Seattle's hungry for information as much as anybody. If you want to know what's going on, I'm not the one to ask."
She got the hint, sipping quietly at her drink while Dan thought about what Walker Wright had found.Damn it all. What do the Germans want with the Pacific now? The world's gone mad. That's it: the world's gone mad.
It had never really recovered after the Great War, he guessed; strange new things blossomed in the shadow of its fallen empires. The wealth of the Pacific was fertile ground for the new powers: Japan, and the Soviet Union, and the colonies struggling to break free of their masters' weakening grip.
That made it a tinderbox, for sure. Even_if_ the Piasa Legion found out more information--even if they were able to put a stop to the attacks--how much time would he really be buying? It had all been so much simpler before.
The rhythm of the Glenn Miller orchestra filtered out over the bar, lending an unexpected class to it when the saxophones chimed in. Mitchell hummed along, and smiled wistfully at the vocals.To you, my heart cries out, perfidia...
"You like the song?" Rosa spoke up.
"Brings back memories."
"It's the same for me," the ocelot said. "The first time I heard it, it was live... late summer in 1939. They were on tour, in Seattle, and my fiancé took me."
Mitchell lifted an eyebrow. "Late summer? September?"
Rosa smiled and, like the dog, hers had a slight, melancholy softness. "September 23rd. At the Avalon. You weren't there, were you?"
"I was. Your husband's a soldier?" It had been a free dance, a morale-booster--tensions were rising in California, and they were talking about calling up the US Army. Rumors, that Saturday evening, had been every bit as infectious as the swing music.
"Fiancé, but yes. We never got married," she explained. "And I never heard from him after the fighting in California. The War Department wouldn't say--and you know what that means."
"Not necessarily. But, well... well, it was a wretched time." 'Not necessarily' because, even though he'd just met the ocelot, there was no point in asking if she really thought her fiancé had been with one of the units that deserted--or mutinied.
"It was, but at least it's calmer now. Right? In a few weeks, it'll be almost a year since the fighting. That's something to celebrate."
Dan nodded. "I'll drink to that." That was the last of his whiskey; he ordered another and when, in the silence that followed, Rosa nudged her seat closer, he didn't protest. "Does that mean 'city affairs' are calmer, too?"
Her smile warmed; she laughed. "It's all a matter of degree. I'm from a farm just outside Moscow. Seattle's a change of pace; you can understand."
"From your accent, I would've--"
"Idaho, sir. Moscow, Idaho: six thousand people, a train station, and the state university. I wrote for the newspaper, which is to say, I spent most of my day bored."
"Oh. What brought you to Seattle?"
"My fiancé thought there'd be work, and then he enlisted, and then... he was a veteran, and he listed me as his dependent, so when he... didn't come back... I had priority for job placement. And I found that I liked the excitement and sophistication of the big city."
"Sophistication? Seattle?"
She raised her glass, smirked, and took a demure sip. "You're calling me unsophisticated?"
"Nah." But he was coming to like her smile, and the whiskey helped his enjoyment. "Wouldn't dream of it, farmgirl."
When Rosa's eyes narrowed, it knitted the black stripes on her face rather fetchingly. "What did you say?"
"Nothing. You're right, I mean... Seattle's got its place."
"Where are you from?"
"Dayton." He grinned; it was not the kind of place that warranted putting on airs. They both knew that. He let her rib him gently--and then he let her keep talking. What she thought about Seattle; what they were going to do about their relatives on the wrong side of various borders.
"It's a bit ironic," she said. "Somebody said Walker Wright was staying at this hotel, too. He's also a pilot--have you met?"
"We've met. We go back a fair spell. He's a good man."
Rosa nodded. "So I hear. The ironic part, I was going to say: the borders and all... they ought to be easier for men like you, with your airplanes. You could go anywhere, if you wanted. But I bet it's not, not really."
"No. Flying isn't exactly as liberating as it was when I started."
"I imagine. And the stakes are higher. You still like it, though?"
"Still do. Wouldn't give it up for anything."
"I can imagine that, too. How'd you get into flying?" She caught his expression and rolled her eyes. "I was just_curious_... didn't figure it was a state secret."
"Just a personal question, that's all. And we're in public--never know who might be listening in."
Rosa looked him over, and her head tilted. "Are you suggesting something?"
"Just that if you want anything on the record, a bar ain't the place..."
"I suppose I could consent to a private interview. Are you staying here?"
"No, sad to say."
"No," she echoed, turning the word over. "But you_could_ be."
True. He wasn't in any shape to drive back to the airport, anyway, and there wasn't any pressing Legion business to take care of. He needed a room, with or without company--but when he went to the front desk, Rosa started packing up her belongings.
She wasn't so indiscreet as to make herself visible when he was trying to get a room; instead she met him at the door to the elevator. "So,are you staying here?"
"Yes. Floor seventeen," he told the attendant. Rosa slipped through the door. "I told you, I'm not doing interviews."
"Just a few questions," she pleaded. "C'mon, it doesn't have to be anything serious."
"Talk to my press agent."
"Ten minutes?"
"Press agent," he repeated, for the benefit of the elevator attendant.
"Five minutes?"
Dan Mitchell took a deep breath and sighed. "Three questions. Off the record."
She beamed. "Thank you." Then they were at his floor. She followed at his heels like an affectionate pet until the door was closed behind them. "So where do you want to do it?"
"The interview?"
Rosa shrugged, so he poured two glasses of brandy and they wound up on the couch. She smoothed her dress down; straightened up. "How'd you get into flying?"
"That's classified." He took a sip, watching for her reaction.
"What?" Her tail lashed. "What do you mean?"
"Classified. Can't tell you."
"You're impossible!"
Dan laughed. "Yeah. But it's good brandy, right? Ask something else."
Rosa buried her muzzle in the glass while she thought. "Your family," she finally decided. "Have any brothers and sisters?"
"Classified."
"You have to give me_something_," the ocelot protested.
"Do I? Why? You said nothing in your beat involved the Legion."
"Maybe I was playing hard to get?" She looked him over again, this time noticing his look. Abruptly her eyes glinted, matching a wry smirk that echoed his own smile. "I did come all this way..."
He grinned wider. "Maybe you did too good a job. I can't just go out giving exclusives to_everybody_, can I? It's right in the word."
Rosa pouted, setting her glass down so that she could lean closer to the collie. "I'm not saying_everybody_, though. What do I need to do? Would it help if I purred?"
"That might help, yeah."
She sidled up against him; the purr rumbled between the pair. When he slid his arm around the ocelot, Rosa's purring deepened and her nose drifted until it was right before the collie's muzzle. "Not enough?" she asked, her voice a breathy whisper.
Dan tugged her closer and she gave in immediately--their lips met, and the glint vanished as her eyes slid shut. He heard the purr build, then catch with her hitching gasp as his tongue slipped easily between her teeth.
When the kiss faltered for a half-second, Rosa pushed herself onto the Border Collie to resume it. He felt her slender leg press against his thigh; her dress rode up, but even through the bunched fabric the warmth of her hips was an obvious, pleasant pressure.
He growled at her taste, at the rough texture of her tongue; at the weight when she slipped her leg over and straddled him. Her breath was uneven, just like his, but Rosa recovered first. "So, what do you say?"
The collie lapped her nose. "The bedroom's that way. Try losing your dress and see what happens..."
She stood, and immediately he followed. Even as she began walking the dress was slipping from her shoulders--and then everything else. Rosa paused at the door to the bedroom, looking over her shoulder. Her tail swayed, close enough to brush against the dog. "Well?"
He guided her into the room and then onto the bed itself. He was atop her, then, their lips together again and the ocelot's exposed pelt a tantalizing warmth beneath him. Alaska hadn't offered many opportunities--this was a good chance to make the most of one.
When he broke the kiss he moved lower, nosing from her neck down to her collarbone, then to her chest. He found her nipple, coaxing a pleasured squeak from the spotted feline as he teased it to stiffness between his lips. His nose sank into her pelt, filling his thoughts with her at his every breath.
He waited for her to protest when he reached her navel--no. Nothing but a rising unsteadiness in her breathing. She let the dog slide between her legs; held still as he made his way up her inner thigh one quick, darting kiss at a time.
Her scent flooded his muzzle now. He inhaled deeply, letting out another growl, and nudged forward to draw his tongue along her lips. Taking his time--enjoying the ocelot's taste, and the way her hips shuddered faintly as he neared her clit. A brief lap--another shudder, a heated gasp--and he started again from the beginning.
As Rosa whimpered and squirmed, though, the Border Collie let his movements gain focus. He worked his way into her, tongue parting her folds, and the feline arched her back heavily with a deep groan. He kept going, lapping faster, broad tongue blanketing her lips in its satin heat.
Her paws were at his back, claws out and razor-sharp. Like the strength in her supple, spotted frame it was something to keep in mind--vaguely--but the flash of pain vanished as soon as it started. She adjusted her grip, pulling him closer between his thighs. He dragged over her clit, smothering her in warm, soft pressure until she bucked a second time.
Mitchell growled, as much for the vibration it put on his muzzle as anything else. He nuzzled her, sank his tongue between her lips; held her down with his paws as he explored the ocelot's body. Rosa purred and moaned and panted hoarsely--and then she pressed him away. "More," she gasped. "Take me."
It seemed like a reasonable order to follow. Dan tugged his belt open until he could kick his pants off--untidily, but the collie was not really in the mood to think about consequences. His jacket was next, contents spilling from it; he kicked his wallet and Dazzle's notebook under the bed distractedly, already on to his shirt.
That was the last of it, getting out of his clothes had taken all of thirty seconds, and it was twenty-nine seconds too long. He settled atop the ocelot, her canted head framed by hair she'd tossed in her earlier squirming. It was disheveled, and her expression was plaintively wanton, and he hadn't seen anything so_damn_ good looking in months.
His muzzle took hers in a kiss, catching her tongue with his own. Rosa mewled, and tensed, and he knew she could taste herself on him. There was no sign that she minded. Her purr only deepened as he slid closer, between those sleek, golden-furred legs, parted in invitation for the Border Collie.
He found her on his second, searching thrust: a gentle buck, and the tip of his smooth canine shaft pushed inside her. Dan groaned at the sensation of warmth around him, amplified by a quivering shudder that brought her hips a fraction of an inch closer still.
The collie took another hitching, restrained pump, waited for the ocelot to relax--then swiveled his hips forward. Heat slid over his cock as he sank into her, smoothly, burying himself to the hilt. Rosa locked up, inhaling sharply and letting her breath out in a grateful, satisfied sigh. "God, Danny..."
He managed a brief kiss--shaky, breaking altogether when he pulled back all of two inches and bucked in to claim her again. "You like that?"
Rosa nodded. "Uh-huh. It's so_good_..."
Dan started thrusting, then--deep, full strokes, nearly sliding free of the ocelot before plunging back between her spread thighs. Her hips lifted to meet him, and she twitched and gasped when his heavy rocking drove their bodies slickly together. He nipped her ear; a louder gasp rewarded him. "More where that came from," he growled.
"Uh-huh!" she repeated.
Dan grunted, rocking faster, the effort of keeping his pace steady starting to grow. For the moment he was still in control--or he might've told himself he was--but there was no escaping the slick, soft warmth enveloping him and the rising need it brought along for the ride. That subtle, soft velvet coaxed every new groan, every harder, more purposeful thrust.
And the ocelot under him seemed to revel in it. Her claws were out again, digging in when she clutched desperately at his swiftly bucking hips. It stung--but when he stiffened and pushed forward reflexively, cock plunging her full as he hammered her into the bed, that seemed to have been the point. Rosa cried out, his name on her lips and her voice husky.
It served to change his rhythm, shifting inexorably shorter and sharper. He could feel his knot swelling and with it the need to tie the ocelot--to stay close and deep until they were locked together, until she was_his_ and every telling throb made sure they both knew it. The second uh-huh had been a pretty good sign that she knew how that worked.
Still, he might have asked while he was in control of his wits enough to do so. Except that it was beside the point--as his bucks turned rough and pointed she wrapped her legs around him to keep him in place anyway. That firm, strong grip held him close while his eager rutting did its work, cock hammering rapidly until his knot tugged on her walls from all sides.
It kept spreading until he was no longer really thrusting, just shoving against her urgently, all but immobilized--the clenching pressure telling his baser instincts that the job was done, pulling him over the edge, willing him to sate himself. Dan muffled a growl against the side of her neck--there it was again,uh-huh! The pitch rose with his erratic humping.
It became a yowl when he stopped: when he rammed to a halt, hips pinning hers to the bed. His tail flagged once, twice, and with the third jerk it joined a strong throb along his length, a rush of pleasure, of snarling carnal_relief_ as he shot himself deeply into the ocelot. He heard Rosa begging for him to fill her, as if the squeal hadn't tipped their neighbors off--or the second one when she clamped down on his knotted, pulsing cock, gripping him as he flooded her.
But he did, of course, not that he could help himself. Warm collie seed splashed in one virile gush after the next, and even after he'd emptied himself--even after he was panting on her, spent and satisfied--he still twitched gently every few seconds, and the feline shuddered in sympathetic response.
She ran her fingers down his back gently. No more claws: Rosa was being tender now, her purring a reassuring constant in his ears. Mitchell sighed, closing his eyes, and nosed tiredly into her fur.
God, I needed that, he thought--more than he'd expected. It'd been too damn long without anything so nice and straightforward. He could figure out what to do with Walker Wright later. Tomorrow. Deal with it tomorrow, that's it. For now you've got this, and... and...
Sunrise shot through the open window. Dan's first thought was that he'd been too distracted to close the curtains, what with the ocelot and all--but by the time he got to_ocelot_, he'd noticed that Rosa was no longer in the room. And by the time he got to no longer, he was aware that the notebook was nowhere to be found under the bed--though his wallet remained.
The Border Collie growled and tugged his clothes on quickly. He didn't feel like waiting for the elevator--instead he sprinted up the stairs to the twentieth floor, and then to Walker Wright's hotel room. Wright opened the door on the second knock.
"We've got a..."
"Problem?" Wright asked; Dan had already trailed off into silence. The room was in complete disarray. "I already called a cab--we're going to Boeing Field. Somebody took the equipment."
"The notes you gave me, too. I met a reporter from the Seattle_Post_ yesterday. It might've been her."
Wright arched an eyebrow and gave short, purposeful sniff that wrinkled his muzzle. "'Met'? How'd that go?"
"About like you being shot down over the Andaman," Mitchell growled. "Did you see who broke in? Was it an ocelot?"
Walker gestured in the direction of Beth Metzger, who shrugged apologetically. "My glasses were not on. It was a blur--or perhaps two blurs."
Getting to Boeing Field was, itself, a blur. Walker Wright hadn't bothered to ask about Mitchell's participation: the mutt simply informed him that his plane would be waiting to take off when they got to the airport.
Without the codebook, all the thief had was a list of coordinates and dates. And Metzger explained that some of those were decoys, a fact revealed only by the coded annotations. "But it would still be better to recover it, if possible."
They were waved through the gate at the airport, and waved through again when they reached the area occupied by the United States Army Air Corps. An officer met them at the flight-line--not an MP, and not one of the technicians responsible for maintaining the resident squadron.
"Command wants you to know a plane left thirty minutes ago. According to the log, they came in from Twin Falls. The flight plan they filed takes them back there, but spotters might've seen them going south, instead."
"What kind of airplane?" Walker wanted to know.
"A Maryland, I think: twin-engined, single-tailed, and painted in some militia markings."
Walker looked over at Metzger; the wolf nodded. "Okay. How's my plane?"
"Fueled, started, and ready, sir--same as yours, Captain Mitchell. You're cleared to depart immediately. Right this way."
Indeed, the Pratt & Whitney was chugging at a comfortable idle when Mitchell got to it; its occupant obligingly vacated the cockpit at once. Mitchell took the man's place, fastening his harness and giving the gauges a quick double-check. Everything looked fine. Everything_sounded_ fine.
Except for the part where he was, presumably, waiting to give chase to a thief with a suspicious interest in whatever trouble Walker Wright had gotten himself into. Mitchell worked his ears through his helmet, and secured the radio speakers.
"You there, Walker?"
"I'm here. Up for taking orders? Get yourself airborne and head south. We'll try to beat 'em to the Columbia. Can any of your boys scramble?"
"Not immediately, no--most of them are on leave. A couple of hours."
"Figured we wouldn't get that lucky. Okay. Get up. I'll be right behind you."
God damn it. Mitchell leaned from the canopy, and a soldier waiting on the ground gestured him towards the open runway. There was nobody else waiting, and no traffic above them: it was too early for that.
He leveled the Wildcat at seven thousand feet and backed off the throttle. Walker's friendship with the California Republic let him buy one of their new P-38s, which the Rangers had extensively modified. In level flight it was a hundred knots faster than his F4F, better on the climb, and more heavily armed to boot.
Ten minutes later the twin-engined patrol fighter had settled comfortably off Mitchell's left wingtip. "There's no sign from any of the spotters, not yet. I have four Rangers inbound, but the carrier's parked off Coos Bay--it'll take a bit for them to join us."
"So what's the plan, then?"
"Keep heading south. There's not that many places for anybody to go. You mind doing me another favor, Dan?"
"I guess not."
"Call it in to the feds for me?"
Mitchell understood: the closer they got to California, the more exposed Walker Wright would be. The P-38 banked off to the southwest, leaving Dan on his own as the Columbia drew nearer before him.
Months of peace, and the impossibility of sustaining constant readiness, meant the US Army was slow to react. Nothing could be scrambled in Portland to help with the search--even Klamath Falls would be a stretch.
He understood that, too, though it made his job harder. Narrowing his eyes, sweeping the horizon, he looked for anything even the slightest bit out of place. He was so focused that the sound of his radio was startling.
"Ranger 1 calling Merlin. Come in, Merlin."
It wasn't Walker's voice. "Dr. Metzger? Go ahead."
"There's something airborne, bearing 110 degrees from your position at a distance of approximately sixty miles, between eight and twelve thousand feet in altitude."
"Can the spotters see what it is?"
"I picked it up on the plane's RADAR set, captain. It's right at the edge of our range."
Clever trick. Mitchell banked his Wildcat into a left turn and opened up the throttle. "Understood. I'm pursuing. Are the Rangers intercepting, too?"
"Yes. But--"
She stopped, and Wright came on the radio. "You'll get to it before they will. Before we will, too. But I'm on my way."
"Alright. Can ya keep me on track?"
With her next fix, Beth Metzger decided the aircraft was moving at about two hundred miles an hour, headed south-southwest and staying level. Mitchell strained his eyes for any sign, a glint of something catching the rising sun.
There it was: a little dot, its course unerring.Maybe I'll get lucky and the feds will have somebody to back us up. "Baker Easy, this is Merlin. I'm trailing a single ship, bearing two hundred at nine thousand feet."
"Baker Easy to Merlin. I don't have any flights scheduled, captain. Can you get any closer? See what's up?"
The Wildcat was doing nearly its maximum speed, and it took another ten minutes before the details resolved any better. "Merlin to Baker Easy. It's a twin-engined, single-tailed cargo plane. I left Seattle chasing a Martin Maryland with a probable fugitive aboard."
"Sector command told us. It's not one of ours, Merlin. Can you raise them on the wireless?"
He tried a few times; there was no answer. "Baker Easy, it's Merlin again. Nobody's home on the radio. What do you want me to do?"
"Fire a warning shot and order them to land. If they don't... bring 'em down, captain. Based on what sector command said, I guess we have to."
"Understood." He was close enough to see the other plane clearly now, which meant they were close enough to see him. He squeezed the trigger, sending a short burst of tracers over the fugitive's nose.
They noticed that, at least, because the plane banked sharply away and dove for the ground. Dan growled and followed them. They were quick, though--liable to get away if he slipped up.
He settled the gunsight over where the starboard engine would be when the rounds hit it--theoretically--and fired. The wing dipped, but it was too late: thick black smoke poured from the engine pod. The propeller came to a jarring halt, refusing to even feather itself.
He broke off his attack, circling for altitude and watching the other plane to see what it would do. They were losing speed and descending in a spiral. Presently it straightened out; he followed the course with his eyes.
"Baker Easy, I've damaged the plane's right engine. They're going to try to ditch in... Bend, I guess that must be. Looks like an active airfield. Is anybody around to catch them?"
By the time the other plane noticed the halftracks waiting for them on the runway they couldn't abandon the landing even if their engine hadn't been wrecked. Dan watched them touch down and brake to an unceremonious halt as soldiers raced to meet them.
There was enough space left for him to land comfortably. He did so, pulling the Wildcat into the short-cropped grass next to the runway. By the time he'd checked to make sure the engine was safe and made his way over to the downed transport, a crowd of GIs had assembled around the craft's occupants.
The ocelot was among them, as he'd suspected she would be. A tall, black-furred wolf stood next to her, wearing a bomber jacket and looking like he was meant for the cockpit he'd just been compelled to vacate.
"Don't try to dive with an F4F next time," Dan suggested. The wolf scowled. "Who the hell are these mopes?"
"Good question, sir." The soldier in charge, a gruff-looking vulpine major, backed away, holding something up for Dan to inspect--a passport. "The pilot's one Kenny Allard. His passport was issued by an office in Oakland, the California Republic."
"Not too much of a surprise. What about the girl?"
"She said her name was Rosa. She doesn't have a passport, but we did find this: transit papers, in the name of a Rosa Reed."
Mitchell unfolded the document; his ears perked at the seal along the tip. "She's Coloradan? You're Coloradan, Miss Reed?" The ocelot stared at him fiercely, saying nothing. "Asked you a question. D'you, uh... do you 'reporters' not like being on the other side of those?"
"Rosa Reed. Lieutenant. 506562."
"Lieutenant?" Dan took a step closer. And then another, until their noses were nearly touching. "Thought you were just a farmgirl from Idaho. That ain't part of Colorado, is it? Not yet..."
Her lip curled, and she tried to step away, but the soldiers holding her kept her in place. "Rosa Reed. Lieutenant. 506562."
The Border Collie shook his head and gave up; the low droning sound in the distance could only have been Walker Wright coming to join them. "Hell of an interesting day, ain't it, major?"
"Yes, sir, it's looking to be that way. Any advice?"
"Search the plane. See if they might have been trying to leave our wonderful country with anything in particular. Anything...interesting, let's call it."
Wright's samples were in a wooden crate in the cargo area of the plane, along with the notebook Rosa had taken. As soon as he'd landed, Wright sent Beth Metzger over to make sure nothing had been damaged or hidden, then joined Mitchell. "Not Americans, I take it?"
"No. And you should keep your paws clean on this one, Walker. That ain't a Martin Maryland, in case you were curious--it's a Ki-48."
"Japanese? Fuck. Not many people fly Kawasakis over here. They're Californians?"
"One of 'em sure is, at least. The other's from Colorado. Somebody figured it'd be a good idea if they worked together; that's how I make it. And I imagine it isn't gonna make your life easier if you're tangled up in this. I'll have a salvage zep' come down and get the plane; take our two guests back east."
"Yourself? That could get you into trouble, too, Danny--and you said you didn't want to get involved. Why not leave it to the feds?"
"Because I don't trust a Californian and a Colorado spy to make it to DC safely in the company of the feds. Times are rough. 'Sides. It's personal, now."
Walker snorted. "The spy? You two had fun, huh?"
"Ain't like that," Mitchell drawled--though, of course, it was. "Just think we have a lot in common. Interest in that notebook, say."
"Just the notebook," the mixed-breed cautioned. "I think she probably wasn't all that interested in_you_, my friend."
"I think you're right. But hey. I'm a soft touch."
"Right."
"Get out before the real reporters show up, Wright. I'll let you know what I find."
"Sure. Good luck, cap."
"Same to you. We'll be in touch."
"Count on it."