The radio room of the Icarus was a closet filled with stolen military surplus and glowing vacuum tubes.
Sarah sat hunched over the receiver, headphones pressed tight against her ears. The static was heavy at 30,000 feet—cosmic radiation interfering with the signal.
"Jason, you need to hear this," she said into the intercom.
Jason arrived a minute later. He ducked his head to enter the small room.
"What is it? Hoover again?"
"No," Sarah said, flipping a switch to put the audio on the speaker. "It's worse. It's Gates."
The speaker crackled. A smooth, deep voice filled the room. It sounded professional. Reassuring.
"...and we must remember, citizens, that the explosion in New Mexico was not a test. It was a threat. The rogue industrialist Ezra Prentice has built a weapon of mass destruction. He aims to hold the world hostage."
The voice paused for effect.
"But do not fear. Apex Industries is working with your governments. We are building a shield. A network of vigilance. Trust the system. Trust the data."
Jason slammed his fist against the wall.
"He's pivoting," Jason said. "He's not just selling guidance chips anymore. He's selling a narrative."
"It's broadcasting globally," Sarah said. "London. Berlin. New York. He's calling it 'Voice of the Future.' People believe him, Jason. They think you're a nuclear terrorist."
"I am a nuclear terrorist," Jason muttered. "Technically."
"But you aren't trying to destroy America," Sarah argued. "He's painting you as a villain so he can sell the cure."
Jason looked at the glowing dials of the radio.
Gates controlled the information. He controlled the perception.
"We can't fight him on the airwaves," Jason said. "We don't have the reach. We need to fight him on the supply chain."
He turned to the door.
"Get Hughes. Tell him to drop us to sea level. We have a meeting."
The Atlantic Ocean was a gray, churning expanse of waves.
The Icarus descended through the cloud deck like a vengeful god. The massive shadow of the airship fell over the water.
Below them, a small freighter bobbed in the swell. It looked innocent—rusty, flying a Panamanian flag.
But Jason knew better.
"Lower the shuttle," Jason ordered.
The Icarus had a small hangar bay in its belly. A modified amphibious plane—a Grumman Goose—was winched down.
Jason and O'Malley climbed in. Hughes piloted.
They splashed down near the freighter.
A rope ladder was thrown over the side. Armed men in trench coats watched them climb up. They held Thompson guns, but they didn't aim them. They looked curious.
On the deck, sitting on a crate of "Canadian Whiskey," was a man with a thick neck and a scar on his cheek. He wore a cream-colored suit that was somehow spotless despite the salt spray.
Al Capone.
"Mr. Prentice," Capone said, not standing up. He held a cigar. "You have a very big balloon."
"It's a rigid-body airship, Al," Jason said, stepping onto the deck. "Nice boat. Rum running?"
"Logistics," Capone corrected. "I supply what the market demands. But the Coast Guard is getting smarter. They're finding my ships."
"That's because they're using Gates's tracking algorithms," Jason said. "He's selling them your routes."
Capone's eyes narrowed. "I suspected a rat. I didn't suspect a computer."
Jason motioned to O'Malley.
O'Malley placed a heavy metal box on the crate. It looked like a typewriter with too many keys.
"What is this?" Capone asked.
"An Enigma Machine," Jason said. "Built by Albert Einstein. It encrypts your radio traffic. Rolling codes. Unbreakable. The Coast Guard will hear nothing but static."
Capone ran his hand over the keys. He understood value.
"And what do you want for this magic box?"
"Supplies," Jason said. "Food. Water. Fuel oil for the heating systems. And I want it delivered mid-air. We don't land."
Capone laughed. "You want me to throw steaks at a cloud?"
"I want you to use your network," Jason said. "You have ships in every port. You become my ground crew."
Capone took a puff of his cigar. He looked up at the massive silhouette of the Icarus hovering above them.
"You're an outlaw, Prentice. Like me. But bigger."
Capone extended a hand.
"Deal. But if the machine breaks, I break you."
Jason shook his hand. "Fair enough."
They flew back to the Icarus in silence.
The deal was done. They had food. They had a lifeline.
But as they docked the shuttle, the red alarm light in the hangar bay began to flash.
WHOOOP-WHOOOP.
"Contact!" Sarah's voice screamed over the intercom. "Radar contact! Fast mover! Bearing 090!"
"Is it the Americans?" Jason shouted, running for the ladder to the bridge.
"No! The transponder... it's German!"
Jason burst onto the bridge. Hughes was already wrestling with the yoke.
"He's fast!" Hughes yelled. "And he's aggressive!"
Jason looked out the starboard window.
A black shape tore through the clouds.
It was an airship, but not like the Icarus. It was smaller. Jagged. Painted matte black with a red iron cross on the tail. It bristled with gun turrets.
"Who the hell is that?" Jason asked.
The radio crackled. A voice cut through the static. Calm. Aristocratic. German.
"Unidentified vessel. This is the Iron Sky. You are in my airspace."
Jason grabbed the mic. "International waters, pal. Identify yourself."
"I am Baron Manfred von Richthofen," the voice said. "And the sky belongs to the strong."
Jason froze.
The Red Baron.
In real history, he died in 1918. Shot down over the Somme.
But in this timeline, Jason had ended the war early. He had saved the German economy.
And he had saved the deadliest pilot who ever lived.
"He's supposed to be dead," Jason whispered.
"Well, he looks pretty alive to me!" Hughes shouted. "And he's opening fire!"
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.
Cannons flashed from the black airship.
Shells exploded around the Icarus, rocking the massive hull.
"He's a mercenary," Jason realized. "Adolf hired him. The Nazis have an air force."
"We have no guns!" O'Malley yelled. "We're a cargo ship!"
"We have mass!" Hughes countered. "Hang on!"
Hughes slammed the throttles. He didn't turn away. He turned into the enemy.
"Ramming speed?" Jason asked, grabbing a rail.
"Intimidation speed!" Hughes laughed maniacally.
The Icarus surged forward, a million tons of nuclear-powered metal aiming straight for the smaller pirate ship.
The Red Baron swerved at the last second, diving beneath them.
"Drop the flash!" Jason ordered.
O'Malley hit a button.
A hatch opened in the belly. A magnesium flare—the size of a barrel—dropped out.
It detonated right in front of the Red Baron's cockpit.
A blinding white star exploded in the clouds.
"He's blind!" Hughes yelled. "Punch it!"
The Icarus shot upward, disappearing into the storm front above.
Jason watched the radar screen. The black dot circled, confused, then faded.
They were safe. For now.
Jason slumped into the captain's chair.
"The Red Baron," Jason muttered. "Adolf has the Red Baron."
He looked at the dark storm clouds swirling outside.
"The ground judges you," Jason whispered. "But the sky just kills you."