The air was cool, but moist enough to drink. Karl Bemberger found ducking under the camouflage netting provided little relief, as the pouring rain was merely diffused from large droplets to an uncomfortable mist. He was glad of his rain slicker and tried to shake off some of the mud that coated it, along with his trousers and boots.

"Captain?" he called out. The masked Mors leaned out an open port in the autogyro's small engine compartment.

"Ah, Karl. How are things?"

"Rather unpleasant, Captain," Bemberger replied as water dripped down his clothes. "It is very muddy, wet and hard to get camouflage netting properly tied down. We did complete the job, of course," he added conscientiously.

"Good." Mors crawled out of the engine compartment and bolted the port shut behind him. "I'd have helped if this damn engine hadn't blown a gasket seal during the landing. I do apologize for the rough nature of that landing, but I am afraid finding a suitable landing location in the middle of a fog-covered mountain range proved rather tricky."

"We understand, of course. What is next?"

"I am not entirely sure where Robur's base is, but I believe we are within several miles of it. We'll need to scout around, find it, get in, rescue the hostages, and get out." Mors opened the cargo compartment and began to pull out weaponry.

"That sounds difficult." Bemberger accepted a repeating rifle. "Where are we, anyhow? My knowledge of American geography is mostly limited to the coast."

"Mine is little better, I'm afraid," Mors admitted, calling over the rest of his men to get their arms. "We are either in the Blue Ridge or the Great Smoky Mountains. Or both, maybe they overlap. I am not quite sure. Robur does have a base here. I was able to ascertain that some time ago." He waved his men in. "Gather around, please. Thank you. This is the plan. Leaving two men behind to guard the autogyros, we will divide into two teams. I will lead one. Farid—" Mors indicated a mustachioed, turbaned Sikh. "You will lead the other. My group, which will include our new friends, will go north for approximately two to three miles. Farid's group will go south. We will then proceed in a clockwise pattern until we have achieved a 180 degree position change. We will make contact at two hour intervals." Mors paused to haul out one of a pair of heavy electronic units designed to be carried on the back. "These are portable radio transmission units. Pull the antennae out here, and then turn this crank constantly to activate the unit."

"I must admit I am impressed," Bemberger commented as they formed up. "I rather thought you might charge headlong into Robur's camp with nothing more than a torn shirt."

"Karl, Karl, Karl!" Mors tried and failed to keep from laughing. "I'm not some—dime novel hero, with no common sense. We'll carefully take a look around before we do anything too dramatic."

"I am very glad to hear that, Captain."


Two hours later found Mors, Bemberger, and his squad some distance north, peering distantly at a local homestead.

"Can't we just ask for directions?" Fritz asked. "These people can't like having a pirate like Robur nearby."

"I wish it was that simple," Mors replied. "But we cannot trust the locals."

"Surely Fritz is right and people can't like having Robur terrorizing them?" Bemberger inquired. "Or is it some sort of… parochialism? I've heard things about the people in the Appalachians," he finished darkly.

"It's rather simpler than that. Robur doesn't terrorize these people at all. Much the reverse." Mors held up a pair of binoculars to his eyes, and then offered them to Bemberger. "Take a look, Karl." Bemberger looked at the magnified view.

"That's some icebox they have," he said.

"Look closer. That's not an icebox. That's a full-fledged refrigeration unit."

"Mein Gott. How can these people afford – oh, Robur. Of course."

"Precisely. Robur is an inveterate tinkerer and gadgeteer. Much like myself in that respect, I suppose. These people have nothing worth stealing, and he can dole out a few mechanical devices like a refrigeration unit. It costs him little – not parts, not even time, since it is for him a hobby. And it buys him their loyalty, or at least acquiescence. Cheap at the price. We must be cautious."

"Captain!" one of the men called, pointing off into the distance. "Look!" Some distance to the north Robur's giant airship rose from beneath the mountains. They could hear the distant roar of the propellers as the Albatross left her hidden valley and took flight.

"Curses," Mors said, peering at his enemy's vessel through the binoculars. "We took too long, and now Robur is off again. On the other hand, we might be able to take advantage of his absence to get into his base. At least we know where it is. Heinrich, get the radio," he directed. His radioman put down the set, started the crank, and handed the handset to the captain. "Farid, are you there? Farid?" He paused to listen. "We've identified Robur's base. Head north to our position." Another pause. "Understood." Mors looked over his assembled squad. "Now we wait."

They waited. Bemberger took back the binoculars and kept watch on the farmstead.

"Captain, we have company," he warned.

"What do you see, Karl?"

"It looks like at least five men coming this way." Mors recovered the binoculars and took a panoramic view.

"Make that at least fifteen. We're being flanked. Damn. They must have seen us and called for reinforcements. Take cover. Fire only on my command."

They watched the hill men approach. The locals, seeing they were spotted, opened fire.

"Return fire when you have a target," Mors ordered, snapping off a shot with his rifle. "Conserve your ammunition."

"Should we call Farid?" Bemberger asked as a broader firefight erupted in the mountainous woods.

"Not much point, he'll have his radio off." Mors fired again, and Bemberger saw one of the locals fall. Then one of Mors' men went down with a shoulder wound. The battle continued inconclusively and Bemberger lost track of the time until one of the locals suddenly jumped up, shouted "Injuns!" and fell over. Mors' Sikh crewman Farid and a similarly clad co-religionist appeared behind the locals and opened fire with semiautomatic weapons. With the hill men's position taken in flank by surprise, Mors counterattacked and the locals were quickly routed. Casualties proved to be minimal.

"We must hurry. I doubt we will face further difficulty with irregulars, but Robur's defensive force will undoubtedly be alerted soon," Mors commented. They pressed onward, coming at last to the ridge surrounding Robur's secret base. Down on the valley floor there was a guard barracks and some outbuildings. A gust of wind fluttered the flag by the barracks and Mors, watching from a distance, caught the sight and laughed. He handed over his binoculars. "Do you see the flag there?" Bemberger looked.

" That's not Robur's gold sun on black. It's blue, with a yellow star. Wait, isn't that the flag of the Congo?"

"Here? It sure isn't the lone star of Texas. We've caught a break." Mors shaded his eyes and looked down. "Robur must have bought his guards from the Belgian King."

"This is good news, captain?"

"The Force Publique is not exactly a highly skilled armed force. White mercenaries, leading black soldiers, many of whom are conscripts. I suppose both Robur and King Leopold figure they are not likely to desert into the countryside here. Which may be true, but I doubt they are motivated to do much beyond patrol the perimeter." Mors spent some time studying the base. At last he gathered his men together just below the hill ridge, and out of sight.

"This is what we are going to do…"