The Icarus looked like a dying whale floating in a sea of gray clouds.
As the seaplane approached the docking cradle, Jason could see the damage. The massive silver envelope of the airship was patched with mismatched fabric—squares of darker canvas that looked like scabs.
Black soot stained the exhaust ports of the nuclear thrusters. The ship listed slightly to port. It wasn't the majestic "Sky Fortress" the newspapers screamed about. It was a glorified life raft held together by rivets and prayers.
"Docking clamps engaged," Sarah said over the radio.
The seaplane shuddered as the magnetic locks caught the pontoons. The winch screamed, hauling them up into the belly of the beast.
The hangar bay doors groaned open. The air inside smelled of stale recycled oxygen, machine grease, and unwashed bodies.
Howard Hughes was waiting on the catwalk.
The billionaire aviator looked terrible. His face was gaunt, his eyes manic. He wore rubber gloves and a surgical mask. He held a clipboard like a shield.
Jason climbed out of the plane, his legs stiff.
"Don't touch me," Hughes snapped immediately, stepping back. "You've been on the ground. You're contaminated."
"Nice to see you too, Howard," Jason said, brushing soot from his suit. "We survived, thanks for asking."
"Survival is a binary state, Jason. You are currently 'True.' That is irrelevant," Hughes rattled off, tapping his pen against the clipboard. "The reactor coolant pumps are vibrating at 40 hertz. We need high-grade ball bearings. Tungsten carbide. And we are out of coffee."
Hughes looked up, his eyes desperate behind the mask.
"The physicists are threatening to strike, Jason. Einstein refuses to calculate the control rod decay rates without caffeine. Oppenheimer is just crying in his bunk. If the math stops, the pile goes critical."
"I'll buy the coffee," Jason said, walking past him toward the command deck. "And the bearings."
"With what?" Hughes shouted after him. "We have been trying to hail the supply runners in Chicago for six hours! No response!"
Jason ignored him. He needed a telegraph.
The Command Deck was a chaotic mess of wires and brass instruments. The panoramic window showed a endless blanket of clouds over Ohio.
O'Malley took up a position by the door, hand on his gun. He looked at the crew. They looked back.
The crewmen—engineers, mechanics, mercenaries—didn't salute. They looked hungry. Their uniforms were dirty. They watched Jason with the predatory gaze of employees who hadn't been paid in two weeks.
Jason walked to the communications station. The operator, a young kid named Sparks, looked nervous.
"Get me Al Capone," Jason ordered. "Secure channel. Priority One."
Sparks hesitated. "Sir... I tried. The Chicago hub is offline."
"Then try the secondary relay in St. Louis," Jason snapped. "I need to wire five million dollars to the Outfit. We need a resupply rendezvous over Lake Michigan in twelve hours."
"Sir," Sparks whispered. "You don't understand."
He handed Jason a ticker tape. It was still printing, the paper curling onto the floor.
Jason grabbed it.
NY STOCK EXCHANGE: SUSPENDED.
US TREASURY: SUSPENDED.
FOREX MARKETS: HALTED.
"The wire transfer system is down," Sparks said. "The banks in New York closed their doors an hour after the Capitol fell. The runs were instant. People are burning cash in the streets."
Jason stared at the tape.
"The dollar," Jason realized. "It's not just weak. It's dead."
He looked at his account ledger sitting on the desk.
Balance: $412,000,000.00
It looked impressive. It was a lie.
Those numbers represented electronic promises from a government that no longer existed. He was a billionaire in a currency that was currently worth less than toilet paper.
"Boss?" O'Malley stepped forward. The tension in the room spiked.
The crew stopped working. A mechanic put down his wrench. A guard shifted his rifle.
"If the banks are closed," O'Malley said slowly, "how do we get paid?"
Jason felt the eyes of fifty men on his back. These men were loyal to the paycheck, not the dream. If the check bounced, mutiny wasn't a possibility; it was a certainty.
Jason turned slowly. He needed to lie. He needed to bluff.
Before he could speak, the radio crackled.
A sharp, static hiss filled the room. Then, a voice.
Clear. Cultured. Cold.
"Calling the Icarus. This is Station Detroit. Are you there, husband?"
The room went silent.
Jason walked to the microphone. He pressed the transmit key.
"Hello, Alta," Jason said.
Alta Rockefeller Prentice's voice floated through the speakers. She sounded amused.
"I saw the news, Jason. Very dramatic. 'The Fall of Washington.' You always did have a flair for destruction."
"I freed the country," Jason lied.
"You broke the toys," Alta corrected. "And now you're floating in a tin can above a burning world. Tell me, how are your finances?"
Jason gripped the microphone until his knuckles turned white.
"My finances are fine, Alta. Standard Oil, however, looks like a short sale."
"Oh, Jason," Alta laughed. It was a cruel sound. " didn't you check the commodities markets before you destroyed the Treasury?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I shorted the dollar," Alta said. "Three days ago. I moved all liquid assets of the Trust into hard goods. Gold. Grain. Steel. Ammunition."
Jason felt a chill.
"I bought the debt of your suppliers, Jason," Alta purred. "Al Capone? He works for me now. The grain silos in the Midwest? Mine. The fuel refineries in Pennsylvania? Mine."
She paused for effect.
"You have a nuclear reactor, darling. But you can't eat uranium. And you can't pay your men with radiation."
Jason looked at the crew. They heard every word. They looked terrified.
"What do you want?" Jason asked.
"Surrender," Alta said. "Land the Icarus at the Ford airfield in Detroit. Turn over the nuclear core. Turn over the scientists. I'll give your crew a hot meal and a job. I'll even let you live. In a cell."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you starve," Alta said cheerfully. "Enjoy the view. Station Detroit out."
Click. The line went dead.
The silence on the bridge was deafening.
"She owns the food," Sparks whispered. "We have three days of rations left."
"And she owns the fuel," the chief engineer muttered. "We need refined petroleum for the thruster coolant loops."
O'Malley looked at Jason. His hand drifted toward his gun. Not as a threat, but as a question. What now, Boss?
Jason looked out the window. The clouds were dark.
He had no money. No allies. No phone. No food.
He started to laugh.
It was a low, dry chuckle that made Hughes step back nervously.
"Jason?" Sarah touched his arm. "Are you okay?"
"She thinks she's a genius," Jason said, turning to the crew. "She thinks she won because she bought the market."
He walked to the center of the room. He unbuttoned his ruined jacket. He looked like a wolf who had been kicked but was still showing teeth.
"Alta Rockefeller thinks the rules still apply," Jason shouted. "She thinks contracts matter! She thinks ownership matters!"
He pointed at the floor, at the world below.
"There are no rules down there anymore! The law is dead! The police are vegetables! The army is broken!"
He looked at the crew. He made eye contact with the mechanic who had put down his wrench.
"She wants to starve us?" Jason yelled. "She wants to buy our loyalty with bread?"
He reached into his pocket. He realized he had given his last gold to the kid in D.C. He had nothing.
Wait.
He reached into his other pocket. He pulled out a single, crumpled piece of paper. A one-dollar bill. A Silver Certificate.
He held it up.
"This is what she thinks has power!" Jason roared.
He took a lighter from the desk and set the bill on fire.
The crew watched it burn. The blue flame curled the paper into black ash.
"The old world is gone," Jason said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Money is a myth. Power is what you can take."
He walked to the navigation table. He swept the charts off onto the floor.
"Hughes!" Jason barked.
"Yes?" Hughes squeaked.
"What is the range of this ship?"
"Unlimited," Hughes said. "As long as the core holds."
"Good."
Jason pointed to a spot on the large wall map. A spot on the coast of New Jersey.
"Set a course for Atlantic City," Jason ordered.
"Atlantic City?" Sarah asked. "Why? It's just gambling and boardwalks."
"Not anymore," Jason said. "The Federal Reserve has a hidden vault there. A depository for bullion meant for international shipment. It holds forty tons of gold bars."
"The Vault of the Atlantic," O'Malley breathed. "I heard rumors. But it's guarded by the Treasury Department."
"The Treasury Department doesn't exist," Jason smiled. It was a terrifying smile. "The guards aren't being paid either."
He turned to the crew.
"You want your paychecks?" Jason shouted. "We're not going to wait for a wire transfer! We're going to go down there and take it!"
The crew murmured. The fear was turning into something else. Greed. Desperation.
"We are not businessmen anymore," Jason declared. "We are the apex predators of the sky. If Alta has the food, we'll take it. If she has the fuel, we'll take it."
He slammed his fist onto the table.
"Battle stations! prime the weapons! We are going to rob the Federal Reserve!"
A cheer erupted. It was ragged and angry, but it was loud.
O'Malley grinned. He racked the slide of his pistol.
"Now that," the Irishman said, "is a plan I understand."
Jason turned back to the window.
The Icarus began to turn. The engines roared, a deep nuclear thrum that vibrated the deck plates.
Jason watched the horizon.
You want a war, Alta? he thought. I'll show you what a bear market really looks like.