By John Taylor
Chicago May 19th 1931
High heels clicking on fine marble announced the entrance of five gorgeous dames marching in lockstep. Each dame had an oversized handbag on her right elbow and a violin case in her left hand, and sported a poker face that cut the air like a switchblade. The dames brushed past the coatroom like an ex-lover, and the sultry air in the grand ballroom turned icy, getting colder with each step. Revelers suddenly became self-conscious of the constellation of jewelry that glistened from their wrists and necks, outshining the night sky. The band ground to a halt, and Christian Axeworth’s eyes narrowed on the showstoppers. He knew trouble when he saw it, but this was his hotel, and all the trouble in Chicago was supposed to be on his payroll, especially tonight for the exhibit's unveiling. Yet there they were, dressed to the nines, all in black like a funeral procession. Christian bit down on his cigarette holder furiously and continued to eye them with contempt.
Sharp heels and dark nylons greeted his stare, with custom tailored black skirts to the knee and business jackets. Each wore chrome-tinted aviator’s goggles under the mesh veils of their broad, dark hats, and lipstick so blood red it made Christian’s pulse race. But his attention was fixed on the devices they wore on their backs. Thick leather straps and belts supported what looked like a cross between an engine and an artillery shell. Multiple exhaust vents and rudders lined the sides, and the devices seemed to be wired to wristwatches the dames wore over their leather gloves. The party-goers noticed them, too, and shuddered under their furs and tuxedos. The dames moved with a purpose toward the bar, silent as death, and Christian flicked an alarm switch under his table. These gatecrashers may have been dressed for a funeral, but it damn well wasn’t going to be his.
The five dames eyed the bartender, and he began to sweat like a bootlegger on death row. Without a word, all five released the catch on their violin cases, flipped out Tommy guns and opened fire. A deafening volley of shots echoed in the vaulted stained glass ceiling of the ballroom, followed by the screams of the crowd as the bartender went down in a spray of cheap blood and expensive crystal. The lead dame, a white haired woman with a pale complexion, fired to her left and shattered the ice sculpture that had been the centerpiece of the room and sent the band ducking for cover. The dames turned to the rest of the ballroom, but kept their silence. They didn’t need words. A Tommy gun can say ‘your money or your life’ in any language. They began to work the room and garlands of diamonds and pearls fell at their feet like roses for a triumphant matador. Christian ground his teeth and furrowed his brow, fighting to keep silent. Jewel by jewel, their handbags swelled with a fortune in the world’s choicest gems until only the grand prize, the reason for the evening’s festivities, remained.
The Rosenkruentz Diamond, set with gold and sapphires, gleamed like the sun in its display case in front of Christian, its new owner. The leader of the gang shattered the glass with the butt of her gun and lifted the massive gem off its velvet cushion. Christian snarled at her when she casually dropped the world’s most precious gem in her handbag and triggered an alarm that left most of the guests screaming. Still the dame’s sphinx-like silence held, their faces showing no trace of emotion. That maddened Christian even more. They’d stolen his wealth, his thunder, his pride, yet showed no satisfaction, like his priceless gem was just another trinket to pawn. He was just another job to them. Christian Axeworth could deal with being hated or rejected, but he refused to be ordinary. He bit into his cigarette holder until it snapped, waiting for the alarm to be answered. The gang kept their cool despite the racket. Their silent revel seemed unbreakable until another clatter of footsteps filled the ballroom with fleeting hope. Ten police officers burst in the door with guns drawn and badges gleaming. The five dames ignored their cries of “freeze” and “drop it” like bad advice. A Cheshire Cat grin spread across their faces, the first trace of emotion from any of them, and they pointed their guns up at the stained glass skylight.
“Hit it, girls!” the dame in charge yelled, and they hit a button on their watches. There was a deafening roar as their backpacks rocketed to life and sent the dames rushing skyward like fireworks. They fired in unison at the stained glass dome of the ceiling, unleashing a storm of hot lead and covering the ballroom with a rain of shattered Tiffany glass. Camera flashbulbs and screaming guests drown out gunshots as the ground bound police watched them rush through the shattered skylight toward a zeppelin flying overhead. Before vanishing out of sight, the lead dame tossed her hat down and blew Christian Axeworth a kiss as it landed. Sullenly, Christian cast a glance at the hat. On the inside of the brim, a calling card was written.
“Courtesy of Rocket Molly,” it read in elegant, silver cursive letters.
***
New York City, June 18th 1931
“So, Miss Maxwell, may I call you Millicent?” Miles Donovan yelled to the woman in the pilot’s seat of the K-5 Fleet biplane, struggling to keep his press pass in place while he scribbled on his notepad. “It’s a very refined sounding name for an...independent contractor.”
“I’ve told you twice to call me Millie,” she replied without taking her eyes off the horizon. “And we’re mercenaries. Just come out and say it. The only refined thing about me is the oil in my plane’s engine.”
“Millie, then,” Miles began again, “what contract brings you and your siblings here today?” he asked, eying the second plane, another K-5, that had three occupants, with one daredevil standing on the upper wing in a harness. The lettering on their sides read “Maxwell and Sundberg’s Flying Circus,” in gaudy, but badly faded colors. They were armed with front mounted machine guns and rear facing harpoons cannons that made them look as formidable as any warplane.
“Doyle and O’Brien's dinosaur carnival had four of their laboratory-grown Pterodactyls escape,” Millie said over her shoulder, “including Gusto the Magnificent, their alpha male. He carried off their tightrope walker during a show in the Bronx, and is roosting with the three others atop the Empire State Building. The New York Fire Department hired me to get her back.”
‘Is this an unusual errand for you, Millie?”
“I’ve flown stranger assignments,” she replied, “but this one will probably be one I tell the grand-kids about someday.” She hated having the reporter along, but his riding along was part of the deal. And a mercenary pilot couldn’t be too choosey on contracts, not with the depression going full steam and the F.E.A.R Act closing every flying circus in sight. Millie felt the patched knee of her flight suit break a stitch. She sighed and shot a quick glance at her employer’s promissory note, which was taped to her instrument panel, her leather pilot’s jacket creaking softly as she did.
“Millie to Cecilia,” she said into her radio handset, “our target is in range. Aim for Gusto first and prepare to attack.”
The early evening skies of New York City were filled with police and fire department airships flashing their warning colors to air traffic over the Empire State Building, diverting taxi zeppelins and autogyros wildly away from the aerial blockade. The symphony of air raid sirens was answered by cries of primal defiance from the four pterodactyls that perched on the zeppelin mast. Painted in heavy, caked grease makeup and wearing the tattered, soiled remains of clown costumes. The largest of them perched at the pinnacle, wrapped in a shredded banner that read “Gusto the Magnificent, Miracle of Science.” In his once majestic talons, Gusto clutched a shapely blonde woman spilling out of a torn acrobat’s costume. She struggled for her freedom, her cheap eyeliner ruined by hours of tears and her voice hoarse from screaming. Gusto was indifferent to her cries, cawing and snapping at the circus trainers and reporters at the base of the mast. He screeched at their flashbulbs, challenging the 20th century to cage him.
“Roger that, Millie,” came the radioed reply. Miles Donovan jumped at the clanking sound of something locking into place under his seat, and saw a cannon built like a six shot revolver drop out of the bottom of the other plane, matching Millie’s. “What are those?” he asked nervously.
“Net launchers,” Millie replied. “You’d be surprised how often they get used.”
“I take it you’ve done this before, Millie?”
“Our family gets a lot of trap and transport jobs. Now, just pipe down and take notes, Mr. Donovan,” Millie replied, her frustration mounting.
Cecilia’s plane rushed into its pass at the Empire State Building and fired the net launcher. The net flew fast and curved low, wrapping the lowest Pterodactyl in a squawking bundle. It screeched madly, sending the others flying in a frenzy toward midtown with the acrobat still in Gusto’s talons.
“Stay on him, Cecilia!” Millie yelled into her radio. Her heart sank. Of all the times for a botched job, it would have to be the time there was a reporter flying with her. She was not pleased at this turn of events, and having Miles instead of her brother Frank in the gunner’s seat wasn't helping. But Millie didn’t have time to dwell on it, not when a woman’s life and her paycheck were on the line. The other plane followed in pursuit, and Millie turned to Miles Donovan. “Are you buckled in?” she asked. Miles nodded yes. “Then put away your notepad, this is gonna' be a little rough.”
Millie banked into a barrel roll and fired at Gusto with her machine gun while upside down, sending him into a sharp left toward the aerial barricade and Miles into a near panic at the sight of the Chrysler Building looming ahead. There, zeppelins re-directed from the barricade were moored in a circle. Gusto swooped below one, a dingy yellow air taxi, and Millie followed. Gusto released his grip on the acrobat with one talon and slashed the zeppelin’s envelope. He screeched with malice as Millie fired on him again. There was a spark, and Millie saw, to her chagrin, the taxi pilot bailing out. His zeppelin’s hydrogen filled envelope burst into flame and fell to the street as Gusto flew around it. Miles screamed in terror and Millie pulled up sharply from below the flaming wreck, barely clearing it as the three pterodactyls rushed toward midtown.
“N.Y.P.D. to Maxwell one,” Millie's radio crackled, “cease fire, I repeat cease fire. Further use of unauthorized live fire will not be permitted in city airspace.”
“Are they serious?” Millie yelled at Miles. “Have you ever tried to steer a ‘dactyl into a trap without live fire?”
“Can’t say I have,” he croaked in a seasick tone.
Millie banked hard and slowed down to the other two dactyls as her siblings pulled ahead. She dropped altitude and nudged the closest one with her wingtip. With a squawk, it dived between buildings and skimmed the side of the Flatiron building. Millie followed tight on its tail, her wheels grazing the building’s side. She winced and tried to remain airborne. The pterodactyl and her plane had comparable wingspans, but the ‘dactyl was far more agile than her rigid bi-plane. As the ‘dactyl reached the edge of the building, Millie fired her net launcher and ensnared it. It fell for a moment, then was caught by the harpoon from the other plane and flung gently to the street in a thrashing bundle.
A satisfied grin came to Millie’s face. “Did you see that?” she yelled over her shoulder to Miles Donovan.
“I could see my office from there,” he replied weakly.
Millie was getting her confidence back and she let out the throttle, speeding up and banking wide opposite Cecilia’s plane. Their paths crossed around the next 'dactyl, then each looped upside down and Millie fired her net launcher. She snared her target, which was instantly harpooned by Cecilia’s gunner and towed to street level where a fearful mob ducked, then cheered, as the captive ‘dactyl landed with a soft thud.
“Second one down at Broadway and fifth,” Millie said triumphantly. “On to the main event.” Millie opened up the throttle and charged after Gusto, who weaved maddeningly in her sights, still screeching in defiance at her. “Millie to Cecilia,” she barked into the radio in an exasperated tone. “Cecilia, the cops said we can’t shoot them down. New plan, I want you to get wingtip to wingtip with me and trade places with Frank up on top.”
“But I’m the better pilot,” Cecilia protested.
“I know you are,” Millie radioed to her, rolling her eyes. “I need you to fly my plane while I go after the acrobat.”
“You’re wing walking after her, Millie?” Cecilia asked.
“There’s no way around it. I can’t risk dropping her in the net,” Millie replied as the other plane pulled parallel with hers. Millie’s brother dropped into the cockpit of the other plane and Millie released her seat restraint, then stood up and pulled a .45 Mauser ACP pistol from her belt.
“What are you doing?” Miles cried.
“Changing pilots,” Millie replied over her shoulder, “Meet my sister, Cecilia.” A teenage girl in oil stained mechanic’s overalls and a pilot’s cap with goggles that seemed much too large dropped into the pilot’s seat and took the throttle.
“Y-You’re flying the plane! But you’re just a kid!” Miles stammered in alarm.
“I’m not a child anymore!” Cecilia spat defensively. “I’m seventeen and I’m already a better pilot than Mom was.”
“You watch what you say about Mom, you hear?” Millie snapped back. “And catch up to that ‘dactyl!”
Cecilia sped up and Millie hooked her belt onto the cable that spanned her upper wing. Her eyes narrowed behind her goggles and she took the safety off her pistol.
“Come on,” she thought, “just one clean shot.”
Millie braced herself as Cecilia swooped so near the 'dactyl that she could hear the acrobat scream. Millie saw her shot and took it, hitting Gusto in the wing and tearing the fragile web of skin that kept him aloft. Gusto screeched in pain and attempted to climb again, but the wounded wing stopped him. As if sensing the challenge, Gusto turned to face the bi-plane and snapped at Millie, bringing the terrified acrobat within reach. Without hesitation, Millie grabbed the acrobat by her dress and Cecilia sent the plane on a seven hundred and twenty degree twist into a power dive. Gusto’s wings buckled and Millie fired four shots into his chest. With a final squawk, Gusto released the acrobat and fell away dead, sending her and Millie sliding down the wing as the plane banked away. The acrobat’s dress tore at the shoulder strap, and she tumbled off the edge of the wing, screaming. At the last second, Millie caught her by the wrist.
“Cecilia!” she cried to her sister. “Get me a place to drop her, fast!”
“Maxwell one to N.Y.F.D. air rescue,” Cecilia radioed, “Mission accomplished. Are you ready to receive the rescued woman?”
“Affirmative, Maxwell one,” it crackled in reply. “Proceed to the rescue zeppelins at the edge of the barricade.” Millie saw the receiving team ahead, a pair of N.Y.F.D. zeppelins with a safety net spread between them. Cecilia slowed and cut between them and Millie gently dropped the acrobat into the net. A smile crossed her face. Millie looked back to see Miles Donovan, wide eyed and quietly saying a Hail Mary, his knuckles white as a ghost gripping the sides of his seat, and her smile became a heartfelt laugh.
***
At the airfield, Millie’s plane was surrounded by story seekers and reporters as she taxied into the hangar. That wasn’t good. She’d promised Miles Donovan an exclusive for a fee. When she jumped down from the plane, a flash bulb went off to her left, held by some young, hotshot photographer for another paper. Before Millie could address him, the crown parted and a tall, gaunt, man with sharp, unforgiving features and gray hair that matched his high collared uniform well approached her.
“Miss Maxwell,” the man in gray said, flashing a badge. I’m Commissioner Stephenson I’m here on behalf of the F.E.A.R. Act compliance office in Brooklyn. We have a matter to discuss with you.”
“Am I under arrest?” Millie asked, leaning on the plane with her arms crossed.
“Let’s just say your participation is mandatory if you want to keep your pilot’s license,” he replied. “I have an urgent matter to discuss with you.” The Commissioner motioned toward a ’29 Lincoln touring car parked near the end of the runway. Millie sighed and quietly walked to the car at the end of the runway, and winced as the door slammed with deafening finality and sped off toward the city. At least in the mind of the driver. To Millie, who was used to four G turns and ninety–three mile an hour power dives, the thirty minute drive seemed to take years and it only gave her time to seethe in her frustration. The F.E.A.R. Enforcement Commissioner was the bane of every freelance pilot and crop duster. Millie would just as soon spit in his eye as look at him, yet she rode quietly to his office when she should be picking up a fat paycheck for a hard day’s work. She looked at her watch. Seven thirty-four. Millie cracked her knuckles.
“Something the matter?” Commissioner Stephenson asked her.
“Just wanted to be back to the hangar in time for dinner,” she replied distantly, watching people shuffling away from the closing breadlines under the shadow of great factory smokestacks that blotted out the sunset.
“The American dream, eh?” he replied as shiny glass and steel gave way to gritty ironworks and the car pulled into a dark, dirty industrial park. “A hard day’s work nets you a chicken dinner, maybe some apple pie, is that it? This is not that America, Miss Maxwell,” he continued, “not for you, not for anybody. You may not see it from the clouds, but down here we’re in love with this thing called progress, and she’s a bitch of a mistress.”
“Spare me the monologue,” Millie snapped as the car came to a halt in front of a tarnished, brick and iron office building. It was emblazoned with the winged hand in a stop gesture that was the emblem of the F.E.A.R. Enforcement Corps in faded, green copper. Like the rest of the world, the art deco exterior had seen better days and stood in sharp contrast to the elegant touring car. The Commissioner escorted Millie through the cavernous lobby, toward an elevator and past a receptionist who gave her a condescending “nice knowing you,” smile. Millie expected it. She knew what this place was; a graveyard for pilot’s careers. This was where men walked in aviators and walked out janitors, blacklisted from flight. Here, pilots were at the mercy of rulebooks written by men who’d never looked up from their desks, much less actually flown, and yet fancied themselves the gods of the skies. Yet as the aging elevator’s gears droned on, Commissioner Stephenson kept his silence. No gloating, no lecturing, no triumphant smirk of victory that usually graced the face of a G-man about to bust another rogue pilot. And somehow, that bothered Millie even more as he lead her through the door of his office. It was an office well suited to the man; a dark, cold box lit only by a desk lamp, with a north facing window that overlooked the industrial cesspool below.
Christian Axeworth sat near him, lighting a cigarette. He glanced at Millie's with a contempt usually reserved for hookers and deadbeats, then motioned to the Commissioner, who strong armed Millie into a seat in front of the desk.
“That was quite a performance today, Miss Maxwell,” Stephenson said, pacing around her with steely determination. “And you only broke forty-four regulations doing it, impressive. A lesser pilot might have stopped at the five year suspension threshold, but you, Miss Maxwell, have raised the bar for flagrant violation of the F. E. A. R. Act. Do you remember what the F.E.A.R. Act stands for?”
“Feds Ending Aerial Recreation?” she quipped mockingly.
“You know damn well what it stands for,” the Commissioner barked, striking his desk. “The Federally Enforced Aerial Roadways Act of 1925. The law that created ordered skyways above our country, complete with the speed and altitude limits you delight in breaking for a career, and gave us absolute authority over them. No agency or office of government short of Congress has the power we do, so I suggest you modify your attitude, Miss Maxwell. As I said, I have you dead to rights on forty-four violations from today’s escapade alone. I’d very much like to tear up your license in front of you. However, I cannot. We...” he paused, looking for the words, “... have need of a pilot of your skill.”
Millie sat silent and confused.
“We want to hire you as a contractor for an undercover operation, Miss Maxwell,” Christian Axeworth chimed in.
“What do the feds want a stunt pilot for?” Millie asked guardedly.
The Commissioner emptied a manila envelope marked classified onto his desk, pouring out several grainy photos. “It all started about three months ago,” he began, “with the theft of a half-ton of asbestos from a warehouse in Tennessee. The thieves made their getaway in a zeppelin. The FBI put a low priority on it then. I mean, what were they going to do, fireproof half of Nashville? But then there was a major break-in at the Knoxville Aerospace Laboratory. The thieves took this.” He changed photos to show a small, steel rocket mounted on what looked like a parachute harness. “The Phaeton mark III personal transport engine,” Commissioner Stephenson said. “It’s a covert project, developed for use on F.E.A.R. Enforcement Corps interceptor airships, to perform pilot arrests midair.”
“How are the two connected?” Millie asked.
“The asbestos was for fireproof clothing. A lot of it,” he replied, spreading out several grainy photos of a white haired woman in an expensive evening dress and wearing pilot’s goggles. She was firing a Tommy gun in midair, with a Phaeton Mark III on her back. Other photos were of the large, gray zeppelin from the previous heist with what appeared to be several other women flying toward it on rocket packs. At the sight of these, Christian Axeworth's pulse seemed to quicken. “These were taken by a society pages reporter last month,” the Commissioner told Millie. “She calls herself Rocket Molly, head of an all-female organized crime outfit. Since this photo was taken, she and her gang have pulled fourteen bank jobs and jewel heists, including robbing Mr. Axeworth of the Rosenkruentz Diamond, and muscled in on bootlegging rackets all over the Midwest. She hits hard and fast, too fast for cops on the street. And while interstate aerial crime falls into F.E.A.R. Enforcement Corps jurisdiction, my men can’t open fire until they're one hundred feet above the skyline, regulations and all.”
“That’s where you come in, Miss Maxwell,” Christian told her. “We need a pilot who can play by their rules, fly circles around the cops and fight dirty. We want to hire you to infiltrate her gang, recover the Phaeton mark III and my diamond, and bust their syndicate. The job pays fifty thousand, Miss Maxwell. Plus, if you co-operate Commissioner Stephenson has agreed clear your record with the F.E.A.R. Enforcement Corps.”