“But you have to understand, once you’re sealed up inside this thing, there’s no good way to communicate with the rest of us. You’ll be on your own—no speaking amplifiers like the Texians use, or anything like that. And if you run into trouble, we might not be able to help.”

Cly squeezed the arms of the captain’s chair and looked at each of his crewmen in turn. Fang, first mate. Sitting in the next seat over already, as if he’d assumed it’d play this way all along. Kirby Troost, standing by the bay doors that led to the engines, to the blast charges, and the rest, looking like he wasn’t 100 percent certain of this after all, but was unwilling to say so. And then there was Houjin, one hand resting on the pivot handle for the mirrorscope, his face beaming with excitement because the risks meant little to him. Even if he understood them as well as he thought he did, obliviousness to death was the privilege of the young.

“Well?” Deaderick asked. “What do you say?”

Captain Cly replied, “I say it’s time for supper almost. Let’s have a bite to eat, then spend the rest of the afternoon getting to know this thing.”

Ten

Josephine waited on the bayou dock between Wallace Mumler and Chester Fishwick, with Anderson Worth, Honeyfolk Rathburn, Dr. Polk, and Deaderick Early standing by. Much as Deaderick had wanted to ride along, his sister and his doctor had given him such grief about it that eventually he’d decided it’d be easier to do as they said.

Josephine didn’t enjoy treating him like a child, but men were childlike when they were sick or injured—she knew that for a fact, and sometimes it was simply easier to insist, so long as it was for his own good. She would have done anything to keep him safe, and she suspected he would do whatever he wanted the moment her back was turned.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. His arms were folded across his chest, one of them held a bit awkwardly because of the bandage. His injuries could have been much worse, and so far, nothing had begun to fester. His strength was returning with his appetite, and though he shouldn’t have been up and around so much—he should’ve been resting, damn him—she had to admit that for a man who’d taken two bits of lead, he looked very well.

Still, she eyed him constantly, looking for signs of weakness or a worsening state. Every breath that came with less than perfect ease, every small stumble, every wince and cringe … she cataloged them in her head and played them over and over again, constantly trying to assure herself that all was well, and he was fine.

He was a cat with eight lives left. Or seven: one lopped off the total for each bullet.

Together the small group watched the water where Ganymede was once again fully submerged. Sealed inside it were Captain Cly, Fang, Houjin, Kirby Troost, and Rucker Little—who had volunteered, knowing the risks. If anything, he knew them better than the Naamah Darling’s crew.

Josephine had wanted to call Rucker aside before he got on board; she wanted to have a private word with him, explaining that Cly and his men didn’t know the whole truth. She hadn’t been straightforward with them, because she was afraid that if she’d given them the numbers, they would’ve balked. She’d told Hazel and Ruthie to lie, and lie they had. Ruthie’d quietly confirmed it for her while the men inspected the vessel.

“What did you tell them?” Josephine had whispered.

Ruthie had whispered back, “That it was safe. That it worked just fine.”

“And no one died?”

“Hardly anyone. I think that’s how Hazel put it. Just McClintock.”

“Jesus,” Josephine had blasphemed under her breath. “I hope nobody tells them the truth.”

“I hope they do not die,” Ruthie had added.

Josephine hoped they survived, too. She wanted nothing more than a living, breathing, successful crew to emerge from Ganymede out in the Gulf of Mexico, at the airship carrier Valiant. But deep down, in a hard, dark little corner of her heart she did not care to confront … she was glad it was Cly taking the risk, and not her brother.

Bubbles sputtered to the surface and stopped. A wide ripple cut concentric circles across the lake and then, with an almost silent click of gears and the slip of lubricated metal, the mirrorscope’s small round lens poked up through the low ripples—like an alligator’s eyeball on a thick steel stalk.

The mechanical eye dipped once, and resumed its position.

“That’s the signal,” said Chester. “They’re doing okay.”

But Josephine noted, “They haven’t left the dock yet. I’ll hold my cheers until after I’ve seen them take it out for a lap.”

“Show a little optimism,” her brother urged. “This was your idea, wasn’t it?”

“It was. And Cly is good, but I guess we’ll see how good.”

Honeyfolk said, “I’m not sure that’s fair. He might be the greatest pilot who ever flew, but Ganymede might still be more than he can handle.”

Josephine wanted tell Mr. Rathburn that she was sure he’d be fine, but she kept silent and watched, because it was easier than making proclamations she was too nervous to believe in. She wrung her hands together without even noticing, squeezing her fingernails into her palms and staring down hard at the lake. “They don’t know the risk. They don’t know how bad it’s really been—how many men have died in that thing.”

Deaderick didn’t look at her. “Yeah, well. That was your idea, too.”

The ripples lurched, then shifted, and began to move.

The mirrorscope eye swiveled and aimed forward. It cut through the water’s surface cleanly, leaving only a tiny wake to mark its passage. Then it gave another quick dip and retracted again, leaving nothing to indicate that the craft had passed except for the squawk and parting of a group of ducks, bending reeds, and the peculiar sense that something heavy was just out of sight.

“They’re doing it,” she breathed.

“I’ll take the small engine rower and see about guiding them,” said Wallace Mumler, reaching for a rope that hung off the pier’s side. He drew the rope with several long, hard pulls of his arms, looping it between his hand and his elbow, until a little craft was drawn out from its hiding spot under the gray slats. Two long poles were crossed atop it, and cradled in the boat’s bottom was a trumpet-shaped device approximately the size of a tuba.

Mumler jumped down inside the small boat and used the poles to leverage himself across the water in the direction Ganymede had gone. Upon locating it, he used one of the poles to pound two whacks against the hull. Then he dropped the horn into the water, holding it by a rubberized tube that ended in an ear-pad shaped like a bun. He held this pad up to the side of his head and hit the ship again.

Then, hearing something he liked, he flashed a thumbs-up signal at the observers on the pier. “They’re good!” he said.

It wasn’t the world’s most sophisticated system, and it wouldn’t work very well when the water was deeper, but the short system of knocks and replies served for training purposes. In case of emergency or more complex communication requirements, Morse code would be the signal—performed with a hammer inside the Ganymede, and with one of Mumler’s poles from the surface.

While Josephine watched, there was a moment of concern when the ship dug itself into a submerged bank of silt and mud, but with Wallace’s guidance and some crafty maneuvering within the ship itself, Ganymede was extracted and continued its explorations.

After an hour of tense examination, the sun was going low and gold in the sky, and Josephine started to relax.

Ruthie had joined the party sometime before, arriving late because she’d paused to brew herself a cup of coffee before strolling to the scene. She’d watched the proceedings in silence, since there was little to say and, frankly, little to see. But now she raised the question, “Ma’am, should we head back to the Garden Court tonight?”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t leave Hazel for too long. She handles herself all right when it comes to being in charge, but she doesn’t like doing it. Besides, if anyone notices we’re both gone, it might not look good—and I don’t want anyone looking too close at the house.” She then asked Chester, “Do you think … it’ll be tomorrow night? Or the night after? We have to move this while the admiral is still within range. Last I heard from Edison Brewster, the Valiant will be in the Gulf only until the end of the week. Texas is eyeing it too closely for them to risk staying any longer.”

“Is Texas dumb enough to attack something that big?”

“They attacked Barataria and were successful. That can only make them cockier than they already are. The airship carrier isn’t a sitting duck, but the longer it leaves its anchors down, the more time Texas has to round up trouble.”

Chester nodded unhappily. “I know you’re right, but I don’t like it. We can’t rush this, Josie.”

“We can’t take our own sweet time about it, either,” she warned.

“It can’t be tonight,” he told her. “You’ve got to be patient.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because tonight we have to take her overland. We need to get her into position, to dump her into the river. Then, the night after, we can launch her. There won’t be time to do both, not before sunrise. And moving something that big, it’s dangerous as hell under the best of circumstances. If the sun comes up and catches us, we’ll be found out for sure.”

“Damn it all, I hate it when you’re right. How far is it to the river from here?”

“If we can get the ship a tad north and west of here, it’ll be maybe five miles. But it won’t be five fast miles, and we’ll be mighty conspicuous as we go. The plan is to haul it over to New Sarpy and stash it in one of the warehouses on Clement Street.”

“And it’ll be almost dawn by the time you’re done.”

“If we’re lucky,” he said. “Assuming Rick didn’t use up all the luck we’re owed in one lifetime, eh?”