Power by C.K.M. Scanlon

Book Details

A Coast Guard cutter is called out to interdict drug smugglers but there are other forces at play. When the drug interdiction turns into the assassination of a foreign dignitary, it brings the nation to the brink of war. Ace FBI Special Agent Dan Fowler must figure out the score before the bullets start to fly.

Power (1938) – The Seeds of War are Planted by a Diabolical Criminal Who Brazenly Defies Humanity
Chapter I – Eternal Mission
Chapter II – “Diplomatic Immunity”
Chapter III – Peace – and War!
Chapter IV – A Nation’s Honor
Chapter V – Conference
Chapter VI – The Leak
Chapter VII – The Broken Screens
Chapter VIII – Enter Science
Chapter IX – Insufficient Evidence
Chapter X – Aboard the CG-0412
Chapter XI – The Leak
Chapter XII – Tracks to New Orleans
Chapter XIII – The Wraith
Chapter XIV – Mystery Warehouse
Chapter XV – The Fireworks
Chapter XVI – To Prevent Bloodshed
Chapter XVII – Death Strikes Again
Chapter XVIII – Strange Errand
Chapter XIX – Desperate Stand
Chapter XX – An Empire Crumbles

C. K. M. Scanlon was a “house name” that Standard Publications used for several years. It was used on the Dan Fowler stories as well as many other short stories throughout their publications.

Power contains 26 illustrations.

Files:

1. Scanlon-Power.epub

Excerpt: Power

Chapter I

Eternal Mission

THE steam yacht Oro Del Mar nosed eastward through the black void, its white prow splitting the dark waters of the Gulf. A gleaming row of lighted port-holes paled the phosphorescent fire of the roiled waters. Over the still air came the mournful toll of a buoy marker.

Capitan Esteban Garcia stirred restlessly on the glass-inclosed bridge and looked aft to where the official flag of the Republic of Parazilla stood straight in the breeze behind the fast-running boat.

Throughout this entire trip the estimable and efficient Capitan Garcia had displayed that flag of as proud a country as South America could boast. Days, of course. And nights, as well!

Up the west coast of South America . . . through the Panama Canal . . . on along the coast of Hondagua in Central America. . . .

And now, as the Oro Del Mar churned a mid-channel course that took it unerringly for Key West, Florida, the good captain frowned, uncrossed his braid-banded sleeves from over his chest. He leaned forward to listen, his head cocked attentively and his dark eyes flashing in the dim light of the navigation bridge.

Standing to the left of the steersman, the chief mate understood the unspoken question of his superior.

“The channel marker, on the right,” he said in his soft, Spanish speech, “It is but a matter of hours now, mi capitan.”

The mate, sturdier, calmer of eye and manner than his chief, moved to stand nearer Garcia. The Oro Del Mar’s skipper shuddered slightly as the keening of the buoy’s bell came louder, seemed to intensify its doleful, melancholy toll.

“Por Dios. I shall not regret when we have reached our port! With so important a man as Don Pedro a passenger— and affairs of the world as tense as they are—” He broke off, slight beads of perspiration making shiny the blur that was his face.

THE mate’s face was stolid; but interest showed in the eyes that he turned on his superior. “But, mi capitan— of what use to worry now?” He shrugged his own unconcern, his man-of-the-sea confidence in himself and in the ship. “De veras— indeed, it is not one’s first such journey.”

Garcia reached a hand up to tug nervously at his mustache.”

“From the first,” he confided in a low voice, “misgivings have been heavy on my mind. El Jefe Dyaz himself came to me, himself said, ‘Esteban Garcia! It is I— your jefe— who warn you to be on guard at all moments! On the safe deliverance of Don Pedro to the United States rest affairs so great that I— I, myself, dare not consider what the consequences might be!’ ” The man took a deep breath. “Those were the words of El Jefe Dyaz to me!”

The mate blinked. “En verdad— In truth, mi capitan, there are those who speak of peculiar affairs since the Great One in Europe has made himself to be interested. But, since the day has passed when one could be anything but a Dyachista—”

“Silencio!” Captain Garcia hissed. He slid his eyes covertly to see if the steersman were listening. But the sailor, a mestizo whose high cheek bones, wide, flat face and narrow eyes marked him for the South American Indian half-breed that he was, was staring woodenly ahead. Then, as if repeating a formula long rehearsed:”

“There is but one jefe, and that is El Jefe Dyaz!”

The mate repeated it after his captain, mechanically. He stepped back to his former post near the steersman, his eyes narrowed, watchful, peering into that dark void for which the yacht speared.

After about ten minutes he tensed slightly, leaned forward and peered through the glassed-in bridge, to the left in the direction of land.

“Mi, capitan,” he spoke softly, but with a jolt in his words, “do I mistake when I say that I see lights bearing this way?”

Garcia trained his night glasses in the direction indicated. He lowered them after a moment, his face taut.

“Full speed,” he snapped crisply. “Bear slightly to the right. Turn the searchlight— the small one— aft, to shine on our Parazillan official flag. Order all hands to stand by, under arms. Man the machine-gun!”

“Si, mi capitan.”

Excerpt From: C.K.M. Scanlon. “Power.”