"Thank you," Smith called after the man, the first words he'd uttered since Lima.
The Peruvian didn't acknowledge him but MacKenzie and Pendle stopped to regard Smith with surprise.
"Thank you, I said," Smith repeated in a louder voice.
Neville's manservant turned and looked at Smith. The man was leather-skinned and lined, his expression blank.
"Thank you for your help." Smith pointed to the llamas and nodded his head in a stiff half-bow.
The Peruvian broke into a broad toothless smile before he returned to settling the llama's into their pen. Smith mirrored the smile and then made to join his fellow mercenaries.
An engine drone caught Max's attention. It was subtle, distant, and unnatural. He stopped mid-stride, standing perfectly still with duffel bag in hand, as he listened for the noise. It grew in strength, becoming clearer over the wind and the slurping sound of Dirke's footsteps. MacKenzie, then Smith, and then Pendle slowed, then stopped as the noise intensified. The men looked to each other and to the slopes above them. Dirke hurried towards the cover of the guest quarters. Smith unslung his rifle and pointed it with uncertainty at the mud. Max remained still, his eyes fixed on the sky.
"What is it?" Pendle fumbled with his rifle. "Mining machines?"
Max held up his hand as MacKenzie whispered, "Quiet, lad."
As the pitch of the noise rose, it became clear that there was more than one source, all coming from the far side of the mountain.
Max dropped his bag, withdrew his Webley revolver, and cocked the hammer.
Two biplanes, flying side by side, appeared from the north, bearing down on the camp. It may have been a trick of the setting sun, but the planes appeared black. They streaked in formation low over a ridge.
Smith and Pendle braced their rifles for an attack. Dirke, too, had his pistol out and ready to fire as he took shelter in a doorway. Only MacKenzie ignored the threat. He shook his head, hefted his bag, and trudged towards the bunk house.
The planes passed over the camp low enough for Pendle and Smith to instinctively duck. So close, that Max could count the individual wires and struts of the latticework between the wings. Unusual large hooks were mounted at the centre of their upper wings. The roar of the planes' engines drowned out everything.
The biplanes banked away in a wide arc as another, louder chorus of engines approached. Max turned to see a huge flying object range into view. With the sun at its back, it looked to be the tip of an oval storm cloud. A condor was startled from its perch by its approach.
As the craft tilted with the breeze, more of its shape became obvious. The rev of its engines under full power made the biplanes sound like mosquitos in comparison. It was a deep sound, penetrating enough to thrum through Max's bones.
"It's a zeppelin!" Pendle shouted. The look on his face undid his hours of work playing at hard-edged composure.
The zeppelin loomed low, nearing the camp as another two biplanes streaked past on either side. Seeing the red rampant lion NWI logo on the side of the airship's hull, Max holstered his pistol. He visored a hand over his eyes to get a look at the men in the control gondola, but the glare had the better of him. Neville, too, stared up at the zeppelin, but he remained poker-faced.
"Come on, lads." MacKenzie waved to Max and then tugged on Pendle's shoulder. Smith had already hoisted his pack and was heading for the bunk house, but Pendle resisted the Scotsman's tug. MacKenzie shook his head. "Suit yourself." He left Pendle staring at the flying craft, enraptured as it encroached over the camp.
Max fell into step with MacKenzie.
"Strange business, this," the Scotsman said.
Max nodded and suppressed a shudder when the zeppelin's shadow passed over him.
#
Chapter 2
The ricochet of gunfire ripped Max Calder from sleep. He rolled from his bed, dragging the covers with him, and spun into a crouch. His revolver was in hand, cocked and ready to fire.
Max's bunk mates were all alert. Pendle remained prone but had pulled his rifle close, whereas Dirke followed Max's example and had sprung from his bed to crouch low to the floor. Smith and MacKenzie sat upright, their rifles aimed at the door. The door's bolt appeared especially flimsy now that danger was close to hand.
More gunshots echoed across the camp. The thin mountain air and gulfs between peaks exaggerated every sound.
Max slipped his shirt over his underclothes, pulled on his boots, and crept closer to the door. The other men hastily donned clothes, although MacKenzie remained bare-chested, clad only in his trousers and boots.
Max held up three fingers and then balled them into a fist. The others nodded. Max raised one finger, then two. MacKenzie slipped the door bolt free. On the third finger, MacKenzie flung the door open and dashed into the morning sunlight with rifle raised, squinting all the while. Max was on his heels, followed by Pendle, Smith, and Dirke.
The five men charged for the building at the centre of the camp, staying close to walls where they could. As they crossed open ground, a bullet whizzed past and buried itself in the mud only a few feet away. Dirke paused and unloaded a round in the direction of the gunshot. Dirke's shot rang like thunder across the yard. The llamas tethered near the gate grunted their distress. From the largest of the barracks, men called to each other in German but their shouts were muffled by the timber walls.
Above their barracks and tethered to the tower, the NWI zeppelin pulled on its ropes and twisted in the breeze. Its mountainous shadow covered a third of the camp.
Max reached the generator to find Neville crouching, pistol in hand, by the stairs to the camp commander's lodgings. Another shot sounded from higher up the slope, biting into the stone near Neville's head an instant later. The wiry man snarled and let loose two quick shots.
Max squinted up the slope but the gunmen had chosen their spot carefully. The sun obscured everything with its glare. All Max could see was a mountain's worth of rocks and shrubs above him. The outcroppings he'd spied the day before very likely concealed their attackers but the interplay of shadows and glare meant even his best guess was uncertain. He raised his gun, waiting for the muzzle flash of a rifle.
The Germans poured half-dressed from their barracks and fanned out in a practiced formation. Each held a Mauser Karbine or automatic pistol like Max's colleagues, except one man who emerged in full NWI uniform. His carried an MP28 sub-machine gun and took only a few steps into the yard before spraying the mountainside with gunfire. The staccato thrum of the weapon further startled the llama herd. Their groans lasted well into the ensuing silence.
Not a man moved for several minutes. More than a dozen sets of eyes scanned the upper slope for signs of trouble but none came.
"Come on," Max said. "Let's get dressed."
MacKenzie glanced at the rug of hair on his chest and then to the crowd of half-clothed Germans. He grinned. "Aye."
Staying low to the ground, following the buildings where they could, the five mercenaries crept back to their bunk house. Max passed close to the German with the sub-machine gun. The man glanced at Calder and the hint of a sneer crossed his face.
"Guten morgen, Herr Boche." Max mock-saluted the man as he passed.
The German's eyes narrowed. "It is Herr Lehmann. You would do well to remember that, English man." Lehmann puffed himself to full height and allowed his gun to stray towards Max.
"Captain Maximillian Calder, Herr Lehmann." Max stopped briefly to stare the German in the eye. "I've watched men braver and hardier than you die at the Somme. You would do well to remember that."
The two stared at each other, eye to eye in the open yard, until MacKenzie returned to drag Calder away.
"Herr Calder," Lehmann called to Max as he trudged away. "A little young to be a captain in the war, aren't you?"
Calder ignored him as he joined his peers at the door to their bunk house, but turned and mock-saluted the Germans one more time before disappearing inside.
#
T
he camp commander was a dried-up man. He may once have passed as handsome but burn scars and too many days exposed to the elements had robbed him of his looks. He hobbled in an excited fashion on a cane, favouring his left leg.
"Gentleman," Neville said. "This is commander Jonathan Harris. Mr Harris was the original camp commander and chief engineer, and he has kindly agreed to oversee one final operation."
Another man stood next to Neville. His NWI uniform was over-snug and well worn. He regarded the mercenaries with tight eyes, concealed by spectacles that caught the brightest of the morning sun.
"And this is Herr Muller." Neville said. "Herr Muller is a world-renowned scientist from New World Incorporated's Berlin office. He and his men have flown all the way here to conduct a special geological survey of the area before we close this site down for good. You'll treat both men and their assistants with the utmost respect at all times." Neville addressed this last point directly at Calder. "Got it?"
The mercenaries nodded.
"You're here," Commander Harris's voice was dry and brittle, barely a whisper. "To secure the area from native incursion. They call themselves the Huari. A dirty, pagan people. They stole rifles when the mine was still operating and caused havoc, as you can see ..." He waved his hand toward a section of the perimeter fence that had been melted to slag. He paused and smiled but it was twisted by his scars into something ugly. "Find them. If you capture any of these savages, be sure to bring them to me." He paused again. "Now go."
MacKenzie raised his rifle and made to move. The others, including Max, hesitated.
"You heard the man. Move!" Neville pointed up the slope.
The five men headed for the trail that lead upslope to the abandoned mine site.
"Report back at sundown." Neville called after them. "With something to show for it, eh?"
Max looked behind him to see Herr Muller talking with Lehmann and two of his men, their zeppelin floating behind and above them, dominating the sky. The other Germans milled around, all watching him and the other mercenaries depart. Neville assisted Commander Harris up the stairs to his lodgings.
#
The skittering of gravel alerted Max to the natives' presence.
"There." He pointed to the ledge above.
MacKenzie and Pendle nodded to each other and held their rifles, ready to fire.
Max waved his arm to catch the attention of Smith and Dirke, who had circled to the left. Smith noticed Max's signal first, tugging on Dirke's sleeve to alert him. Dirke turned and scowled, but relented when he saw Max gesture toward the outcropping.
They'd scoured the mountain for the best part of the day, covering much of the eastern slope, searching for tracks, shell casings, any signs of the Huari insurgents. At last, they appeared about to close in on their quarry.
Max motioned for Dirke and Smith to continue circling. Tapping Pendle and MacKenzie on the shoulder, he gestured that they, too, should spread out and seek cover. Carefully picking a path around a clump of knee-high shrubs, he led them to a large boulder with a good line of sight on the outcropping. As he manoeuvred himself into place behind the boulder, he caught sight of a silhouette of a head above the outcropping. MacKenzie and then Pendle moved into place next to him.
Max held up one finger. MacKenzie countered by holding up two fingers and inclining his head towards their target. Max shrugged.
"Cover Smith and Dirke." Max's whisper was almost snatched by the wind. He then gripped Pendle by the shoulder, noticing the young man was dripping with sweat and sucking in deep but quiet breaths. "There'll be no killing today," Max whispered. "Flush them out. The others will catch them off guard."
"Aye, lad." MacKenzie whispered and then raised his rifle. The shot was deafening and echoed across the mountainside and into the valley below. Max aimed his pistol well above the hair and dark-skinned forehead he saw bobbing from side to side. The sound of Max's shot ricocheted just as loud as MacKenzie's. His bullet bit into a rock formation four feet above the Huari's head and rained chips of rock onto his quarry.
Pendle raised his rifle but a round slammed into their protective boulder within inches of him.
"Lord Jesus!" he said, ducking for cover.
"On three, lad," MacKenzie kept his eyes on Pendle all the while, ignoring more bullets as they whirred past overhead or ricocheted off their boulder.
Pendle nodded but he was red-faced and struggling for breath.
Max took the clue and raised one finger, then a second.
MacKenzie leapt up and blasted another round at their quarry.
Max held up a third finger.
Pendle followed MacKenzie's lead, firing off a hasty shot that was well wide of the mark.
Within a heartbeat, two more rounds bit into rocks near Pendle and MacKenzie, a good three feet too low to be a serious threat.
Seconds later, Max heard shouts but couldn't make out any words. The first sounded like an angry Smith. The other was in a foreign tongue.
A shot and a scream rang out almost simultaneously. A body fell from the outcropping. It was little more than a blur as Max caught sight of the figure tumbling down the mountainside several hundred feet below. The body smashed into rocks every dozen yards, bouncing off them with sickening fluidity and then tumbling again. The figure wasn't wearing grey—the NWI uniform—which Max took as a good sign.
As the man tumbled from sight, the ghost of a tune toyed with Max's ear. A few flute notes, distinct and off-kilter. Max shook his head vigorously for a second and the phantom tune disappeared with the rush of blood.
"Smith?" he called to the outcropping. "Dirke?"
"Clear!" Smith yelled back. "We got them."
"Come on. Let's see what we've caught," Max said to MacKenzie.
He stood and picked his way very carefully up the slope, his mind's eye recalling the tumbling man's fate. MacKenzie followed, dragging Pendle with him. The younger man kept looking down the slope.
"Keep your mind on the job, lad," MacKenzie admonished. "There might be more of them out here."
Pendle nodded and glanced around, his rifle held at the ready. His gaze lingered on two similar outcroppings to the one they had captured but higher up the slope.
"What do we have?" Max asked after he had made his way to the ledge.
Two Huari natives lay prone under Dirke's zealous guard. He stood over them, his pistol held in one of the men's faces. The other native was unconscious. He sported a large red mark to the side of his eye. Three rifles lay a couple of yards away, on the threshold of a man-sized fissure in the mountainside. Light penetrated the fissure for a few yards. Anything beyond that was lost to absolute darkness.
The captured Huari were barely clad. They were darker-skinned than the other Peruvians Max had seen and more wrinkled and leathery than Neville's manservant. Parts of their torso, arms, and legs were covered in sheafs of bark and what appeared to be shrub spines. A similar circlet of bark and spines was worn around their heads and hung low on the brow just over the eyes. Each wore a short skirt of rough-weave material. Their chests and arms were adorned with long wriggling scars ending in ovals, like stylised worms or snakes.
"What manner of man cuts himself like that?" MacKenzie asked when he came upon the scene.
"What happened?" Max asked.
Dirke was intent, perhaps too intent, on watching the Huari prisoner, so Smith butted his rifle against the ground and leaned on it, turning to Max and the others.
"They didn't see us coming. We snuck up on the three of them, like you signalled. I shouted at them to drop their rifles but they wouldn't. One of them shouted something back at me but Dirke was having none of it. When the man kept on shouting and moved his rifle, Dirke put a hole in him."
"And over he went." Max finished. "Dirke, was he going to fire?"
Smith almost imperceptibly shook his head.
"Does it matter?" Dirke didn't raise his eyes from the prisoner.
"It was a man's life, Mr Dirke." MacKenzie said.
Pendle lowered his head while MacKenzie reddened, his lips drawing into a tight line nearly lost to his beard and moustache. It was impossible to tell whether the Scotsman's expression was anger or shame.
"Let's get these two down to the camp." Max said. With this back to the cave, a cold zephyr brushed his neck. Goosebumps sprang up on his neck and arms. His Webley revolver tingled with that familiar electric charge as sweat broke out on his palm. He rubbed at his neck with his free hand.
Smith gathered up the natives' rifles and slung two over his shoulder. The third he carried along with his own, using them stock-down as makeshift walking sticks as he headed carefully back to the main trail that led to the camp.
Dirke yanked his prisoner by the hair to his feet. The native grimaced but didn't cry out. Dirke then shoved him in the direction of Smith, holding his pistol in the centre of the man's back all the while.
MacKenzie moved to pick up the prone native's body but Pendle stopped him.
"I'll take him," he said. "You're better with a rifle if there's any trouble."
"Aye."
Pendle scooped up the much smaller Huari, and after shuffling the man's weight, hoisted him across his shoulders.
As Max moved to follow them, he heard the ghostly flute tune again, this time much clearer but coming from somewhere deep. Each note was like a sickness to his ears, causing him to feel faint and feverish. He caught himself against the cave's entrance, propping himself up as he threatened to pass out. He peered into the darkness of the cave, staggered by the intensity of each note playing through his skull. The rhythm was hypnotic but mad at the same time; his mind couldn't properly string each note into a cohesive melody and yet there it was. A tune both broken and whole, rising and falling in a frenetic tempo.
Requiem for the Burning God Page 2
