Episode 202: The Ides Have It
Iverson and Sarah sat at a cafť in Cairns, reading aloud from a copy of
Shakespeareís Julius Caeser. To the east, the sparkling waters
of the Coral Sea framed a setting entirely unlike anything imagined by
"The Ides of March are come," Sarah intoned. Somehow it didnít
seem incongruous for a Melanesian girl dressed in the latest English
fashions to take the part of an ancient Roman emperor.
"But not gone," said Iverson, reading the soothsayerís reply.
Sarah smiled and set the book down. "John?" she asked. "What are Ďidesí?
And why were they so important? Iíve always wondered."
"They were the middle of the month, on or around the fifteenth," answered
Iverson, whoíd had the benefit of a classical education. "The Romans
thought they were a time of change -- the turning point of the month,
perhaps. They were sacred to Janus, who as I recall was also the god of
The island girl laughed. "He sounds rather like Niaíalatope, the Messenger
of Change. Grandmother used to tell stories about him and his black goats
when I was a child. I suppose the ides of March would have been
particularly significant because they were close to the Equinox."
"Thatís true," mused Iverson. "I wonder what changes today will bring."
Everett and Jenkins were wondering the same thing. They sat in Michaelsonís
office, maintaining neutral expressions while the senior captain leafed
through their report. Outside, a switching engine rumbled as crews took
advantage of this spell of good weather to move one of the airships from its
shed. Parrots flitted past the window and a kookaburra laughed somewhere in
the distance, but Michaelson did not seem amused.
"I canít say you accounted yourselves well this time," he said sourly. "You
allowed those pirates to escape you on Tahiti. Indeed, when I read between
the lines of this report, it almost seems you cooperated with the fellows."
"It remains to be determined if they actually were pirates," Everett
observed. "No one ever filed charges. The French seem to regard them more
as entertainers than buccaneers."
"Perhaps," said Michaelson. "But then thereís this matter of Professor
Otkupshchikov. You expect me to believe that a Russian archeologist fled to
Kamchatka during the October Revolution, escaped the country with a
War-surplus blimp, and is now flitting about the Pacific in search of
evidence that might confirm the theories of this obscure Ukrainian
ethnographer, Karolek Solovyov, that some of our islanders may share a common
ancestry with the aboriginal inhabitants of Finland?" The senior captain had
to pause at this point to take a breath.
"I suppose this does seem far-fetched," Everett admitted.
"Absurd is more like it!" snapped Michaelson.
"But what are the alternatives, sir?" Jenkins asked cautiously. "Are we to
assume he was some manner of agent, who chose an implausibly round-about,
haphazard, and publicly visible route to deliver a secret message to this
Karlov fellow via that stone carving our friend Vincenzo happened to recover
from the Anglican missionariesí yacht?"
Michaelson drummed his fingers on his desk. "No," he said at last. "But
the events of the past few weeks have left too many unanswered questions.
Itís time we got to the bottom of this. Our mysterious Karlov seems to be
"You want us to search for the fellow?" asked Everett
Michaelson shook his head. "I do not believe this would be productive.
Your track record in such matters is not good."
"We did find Lord Milbridge," observed Everett.
"I think it would be more accurate to say the viscount found you,"
Michaelson replied tartly. Everett made no reply to this. There was some
truth to the senior captainís statement.
"What course of action do you have in mind?" he asked.
"We will examine the evidence the man has left behind," said Michaelson.
"This may give us some clue as to his agenda. Weíll begin with the White
Russian laboratories. Those canít move about, so you should be able to find
They were spared more of the senior captainís sarcasm when Phelps arrived
with a dispatch. "This just arrived from Sydney," he said. "They
forwarded it from London."
Michaelson accepted the message, studied its contents, and frowned.
"It would seem the matter has been taken out of our hands," he announced.
"The Admiralty has sent a representative to take over the investigation.
Heíll be arriving this afternoon aboard the Cottswold. Phelps,
see to the preparations, and make sure our senior people are present to
greet him when he arrives."
They stood in ranks near the foot of the Station's main mooring mast,
baking in the afternoon sun. It could have been worse, Everett reflected.
Michaelson could have decreed Number Ones for this affair. But it appeared
the senior captainís vindictiveness had its limits. Even so, it required
all of his and MacKiernanís considerable training as officers not to
perspire. The enlisted men, less constrained by convention, were free to
sweat as much as they wished.
"There she is, bearing 030!" cried a lookout.
Eyes turned to the northeast, where the Cottswold, His Majestyís
Airship R-382, had appeared around a bend in the coast. She was an Improved
Hill Class, with 3.5 million cubic feet enclosed volume, six engines, and a
gross lift of 210,000 lbs. Her armament of two HF-2 quick-firers made her a
formidable fighting ship.
The vessel closed rapidly. In a matter of minutes she was passing to the
east, engines droning in reverse to take off way. As she slowed, she lost
aerodynamic lift and began to descend. A precisely-metered shower of ballast
dropped from her tanks. Moments later, the vessel came to a stop.
MacKiernan gave a begrudging nod. "That was well done," he admitted. "I
trust it will put the Commodore in a good mood."
"We must cling to this hope," observed Everett.
MacKiernan noted his captainís choice of words. "I gather you know the man?"
"He would be senior captain Ethan S. Clark," said Everett, "appointed
commodore for purposes of this assignment. I met the fellow on the
Continent, shortly after I finished training. He has a... certain manner."
The Cottswold was moving again, edging toward the field. Handling
lines dropped and ground crews ran forward to take them. The teams might
not have moved with machine-like precision, but Michaelson trained his
people well, and in a creditably short time, the ship was being winched down
to the mast. There was the usual struggle to secure the nose fitting, then
the trail dolly was trundling forward to connect to the stern.
Gears whined as the boarding ramp swung down. Footsteps sounded above their
heads, a voice gave an order, and the elevator began its descent. When it
neared the ground, Michaelson snapped out a command. Beside him, the marine
guard sprang to attention. Then the car touched down, the doors slid open,
and a figure stepped onto the platform.
Commodore Clark cut a striking figure. His features were ruggedly handsome,
his hair neatly groomed, and his uniform might just have been delivered from
the tailor. The creases of his trousers looked sharp enough to shave with.
His shoes had been polished to mirror-like perfection and his gold braid
gleamed bright as the sun. If he noticed the heat, he dismissed it as
unworthy of his attention.
Michaelson stepped forward and saluted. "Commodore Clark, I am Captain
Michaelson. Welcome to the Cairns Royal Air Station."
The commodore returned his hostís salute with a mixture of precision and
disdain. "I understand youíve had some problems here," he observed. "Iíve
been sent to correct them. There's no more need for concern; Clarkís on
"Sir!" MacKiernan whispered to Everett in alarm.
Everett suppressed a sigh. "As I said," he whispered back, "the gentleman
has a certain manner."
Next week: Now That We Have It, What Do We Do With It?...
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