## Dust & Chrome
The Lockheed Electra shuddered, a metal bird fighting the Gulf Coast chop. Amelia traced the coastline with a gloved finger on the sectional chart, her gaze distant. Not toward Florida, not today. South. Far south.
The radio crackled, a voice barely audible through static. “Goldfinch to Nightingale. Package secure?”
“Nightingale to Goldfinch. Secure as a Pharaoh’s tomb,” Amelia replied, her voice steady despite the turbulence. She glanced at the crates lashed in the cabin – not silk or radios this run. These held something heavier, more vital. Something carved from dark wood and ancient hope.
The Electra descended, the cypress swamps rising to meet them like grasping claws. Laurel Landing wasn’t on any official charts, just a patch of hardened earth carved from the Louisiana bayou. A single oil drum painted with a faded star marked the drop zone.
Old Man Tiberon, his face weathered like driftwood, waved them down with a tattered flag. He smelled of brine and diesel. “Took you long enough, Miss Earhart.”
“Weather,” Amelia answered, killing the engine. The silence descended thick and humid.
Tiberon didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Truck’s ready. Men are too.” He pointed to a pair of figures lurking in the shadows, their faces obscured by wide-brimmed hats. Liberian. Sharp eyes, even in the gloom.
The cargo transfer was swift, efficient. No wasted movements. These weren’t just crates; they were building blocks. For a school, for a hospital…for something more. Something that prickled at Amelia’s skin with an energy she couldn’t name.
Back in the Electra, climbing above the clouds, Amelia keyed the radio again. “Goldfinch to Nightingale. Drop complete.”
A clipped response came back. “Excellent. New coordinates incoming. Beirut. Be discreet.”
Beirut. The name tasted like dust and gunpowder on her tongue. This wasn’t about economics anymore. She felt it in the hum of the engines, the tremor of the wings.
—
The Hotel Commodore throbbed with a feverish energy. Smoke curled from ornate brass ashtrays, laughter battled with the clink of glasses. Beirut in ’36 was a pressure cooker – French mandate, simmering resentments, and enough secrets to sink the Mediterranean.
Amelia found Henri Dubois in a back booth, nursing a Pernod. He wore expensive suits and an even more expensive indifference. A collector of…things.
“Miss Earhart,” he acknowledged, his eyes assessing her like a rare specimen. “Punctuality is…refreshing.”
“I value efficiency,” Amelia stated, sliding into the opposite seat.
“As do I.” Dubois signaled a waiter. “You delivered the artifacts?”
“To Tiberon’s men. Securely.”
Dubois raised a sculpted eyebrow. “And the…discretion?”
Amelia met his gaze, unflinching. “Absolute.”
“Good.” He tapped a long cigarette in an ivory holder. “The Liberian project continues to fascinate.”
“It’s about self-determination,” Amelia offered, her voice carefully neutral.
Dubois chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Such noble aspirations. However…there are others with interests in those artifacts.”
He produced a photograph, sliding it across the table. A man in a sharp Nazi uniform stood beside a crumbling stone tablet etched with unfamiliar glyphs.
“Herr Schmidt. Archeologist. And enthusiastic follower of…peculiar theories.” Dubois paused. “He believes those artifacts hold the key to locating an ancient port city. A precursor to Tyre, perhaps even older.”
“And why should I care?”
Dubois leaned closer. “Because Schmidt isn’t interested in history, Miss Earhart. He’s interested in power. And he believes that port city holds something far more valuable than relics.”
He named a substance: Orichalcum. A mythical metal, said to possess unimaginable energy. “The legends claim it powered the lost civilizations of Atlantis.”
Amelia scoffed. “Legends.”
“Sometimes, legends are rooted in truth.” Dubois’ gaze bored into hers. “Schmidt is already making inquiries about your flight routes, Miss Earhart. Your stops in Arabia…your refueling at those disused aerodromes.”
The air in the booth felt suddenly thin. Amelia had been careful, meticulous. But Schmidt…he was digging deeper.
“He knows about the aerodromes?”
Dubois nodded slowly. “He’s piecing things together. The Liberian funding, the antiquarian investors obsessed with coastal voyages…the geopolitical resource mapping. He’s a skilled investigator.”
—
The aerodrome outside Jebel Akhdar was little more than a skeletal frame against the ochre sand. Dust devils danced across the cracked runway, obscuring the remnants of hangars swallowed by time.
Omar Hassan, a wiry mechanic with eyes like polished obsidian, fueled the Electra’s engines. He didn’t ask questions. Loyalty came at a price, and Omar understood the currency.
“Any trouble?” Amelia inquired, checking fuel lines.
Omar shook his head, his gaze sweeping the horizon. “Nothing obvious. But there are strangers in the village. Asking about the old flights.”
Amelia’s gut tightened. Schmidt wasn’t sending polite inquiries.
“Description?”
“European. Clean-shaven. Wears a suit even in this heat.”
Schmidt. He was closing in. Amelia finished the pre-flight check, her movements precise, efficient. This wasn’t just about smuggling anymore; it was about survival.
She keyed the radio, contacting a contact in Aden. “Nightingale to Phoenix. Need information. European male. Inquire about recent archeological permits in Yemen and Saudi Arabia.”
The response crackled back, fragmented but clear. “Phoenix to Nightingale. Permit issued three weeks ago. Herr Schmidt. Claiming research into pre-Islamic trade routes. Focusing on the Red Sea coastline.”
Amelia’s hand tightened on the control wheel. Schmidt wasn’t looking for trade routes; he was following a map. A map that led to the same place as Amelia’s cargo, the Liberian project…and the lost city.
“And anything on Orichalcum?” Amelia pressed.
A pause. Then, a hesitant voice: “Rumors of an expedition. Funded by a German consortium. Destination…Al-Ula. The ancient Nabataean city.”
Al-Ula. The sandstone canyons and crumbling tombs held more than just history; they concealed a secret. A secret Schmidt was determined to unlock.
—
The Electra sliced through the night sky, heading toward Al-Ula. Beneath them, the desert stretched like a vast, obsidian sea. Amelia felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on her. She wasn’t just a pilot anymore; she was a guardian.
She contacted Henri Dubois, relaying the information from Phoenix.
“Al-Ula?” Dubois’ voice was tight with concern. “Schmidt believes the city holds a cache of Orichalcum, enough to power…considerable weaponry.”
“Weapons?” Amelia echoed, her voice barely a whisper.
Dubois confirmed her fears. “The German consortium isn’t interested in archeology, Miss Earhart. They’re rebuilding a lost empire.”
Amelia landed at a small oasis outside Al-Ula, hidden among the sandstone cliffs. She needed to find Schmidt, uncover his plans…and protect the Liberian project, whatever the cost.
Omar secured the Electra while Amelia ventured into the ancient city, her senses on high alert. The crumbling tombs and weathered facades held a sinister beauty, concealing centuries of secrets.
She found Schmidt in the heart of the city, surrounded by a team of German archeologists excavating a massive stone structure. He was overseeing the removal of a large, intricately carved door.
“Looking for something, Miss Earhart?” Schmidt’s voice dripped with condescension.
Amelia met his gaze, unflinching. “Just admiring the architecture.”
“A curious hobby for a pilot.” He gestured toward the door. “We’ve discovered something remarkable. A pre-Nabataean chamber, sealed for millennia.”
“And what do you expect to find inside?” Amelia pressed.
Schmidt’s eyes gleamed with fanaticism. “The power to reshape the world.” He signaled his team to open the door.
As the massive stone slab groaned and shifted, revealing a dark chamber beyond, Amelia knew she had to act.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” she stated, drawing a small pistol from her satchel.
Schmidt laughed, a cold, brittle sound. “You think you can stop me? You’re just one woman.”
“Maybe,” Amelia replied, her finger tightening on the trigger. “But I know what’s at stake.”
The first shot echoed through the ancient city, shattering the silence. The battle for the lost empire had begun.
