Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  He needed a distraction.

  The Ghost leapt out from behind the forest of wires, loosing a spray of flechettes into the air. They scattered on the ground in a wide semicircle around Reece and Donovan, and seconds later went up in a pyrotechnic display, flashing brilliantly in the darkness, the pattering boom echoing away across the adjoining rooftops. Reece, panicked, glanced from side to side, spotting the Ghost in the stuttering light. He squeezed the trigger of his pistol, but his aim was wide in the smoky aftermath of the explosions. The distraction was exactly what Donovan had been waiting for, however. The policeman, finally coming to his senses, leapt to his feet and charged Reece, bowling him over and sending them both careening across the flagstones. The Ghost moved just in time to miss a storm of lead, spat from the mouth of a tommy gun. The goons had likely spotted the red glow of his goggles, bobbing in the darkness.

  The Ghost rushed to where Donovan was lying on his back, nursing his wounded shoulder. The man looked pale. He needed to get him out of there. Injured, he was a liability, and the Ghost wanted him alive. "Donovan. On your feet! Out of here, now!"

  The policeman looked up, his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to focus on the vigilante. The Ghost grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He pointed to the open door that led down into the apartment building. "There! Go. NOW!" He shoved Donovan in the direction of the stairs.

  The policeman nodded once and then set off at a run, his damaged arm trailing behind him as he pelted for cover. One of the mobsters moved to go after him, but Reece was back on his feet, dusting himself down. "Leave him! We can deal with him later. I want this one dead."

  The Ghost swept the barrel of his flechette gun in a wide arc that would encompass two of the mobsters. He needed Reece alive, but the others ...

  A handful of shimmering flechettes spat from the end of the gun, but to his dismay, the Ghost watched as the silver spray stuttered and petered out. He squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. He must have used up all of his explosive rounds on the moss men and the pyrotechnic display he'd put on for Reece.

  The remainder of the tiny blades struck the ground and detonated ineffectually, allowing the goons to duck easily out of the way. They swung their weapons around and took aim. The Ghost was out of time, a sitting target, and there were three sub-machine guns pointing in his direction.

  He had to think quickly.

  He ran to the edge of the building and leapt into the air, tugging the cord inside his jacket as he fell into a graceful dive. The darkness swam up to meet him as he rushed toward the street below. His heart was thudding wildly. What if it didn't work?

  Then, all of a sudden, the rocket canisters tied to his boots ignited with a roar and he was kicked sideways by the force. He spiraled, keeping his hands clasped tightly by his sides to avoid slamming into the nearby building. For a moment he spun out of control, thought he was going to break his neck as he smashed into the sidewalk. Then, fighting the urge to panic, he arched his back, swinging his feet down low so that his body was now angled upward, back toward the lip of the building's roof. The rocket boosters caught his fall and he soared through the air, feeling the cold wind whistling past him as he rose once again into the night sky. His hat came loose, gusting away into the street below, but he plowed on through the darkness, riding on a plume of orange light.

  By now the mobsters were at the lip of the building and had realized what had happened. They let loose with their tommy guns, bullets chattering into the sky as they tried to pick out the soaring vigilante. The Ghost didn't give them the chance. He weaved and twisted, turning gracefully as he dodged the oncoming streams of bullets. One tore through the skirts of his trench coat; another pinged off the brass barrel of his flechette gun. But miraculously, the Ghost himself never felt the expected thud of hot lead burrowing into his flesh.

  The gap between Donovan's apartment building and the next building on the block was only a matter of a few feet. The Ghost swept up through the top of the narrow alleyway, bursting out over the roof of the adjacent structure and cutting the rockets dead. He slammed painfully into the roof terrace, sliding along on his belly, his arms outstretched, sending clouds of gravel pluming into the air. He rolled quickly onto his back and scrambled to his feet. The three goons had not been dissuaded by his momentary escape, and whilst he had temporarily put himself out of the range of their bullets, he knew it would not be for long. He watched, dismayed, as one by one they leapt across the gap between the two buildings, each of them still carrying their black snub-nosed guns. Reece, it seemed, had made other plans, for he was nowhere to be seen.

  The Ghost cursed himself for letting the man get away. He needed Reece. But first he had to deal with the imminent threat of those guns. He glanced around, weighing options and risks. He could fight, or he could run. Running most likely meant another leap off the side of the building, and that was risky. But so was standing his ground. He'd need to get close enough to the goons to fight back, and that wasn't likely, given the weapons they were sporting.

  He backed up, glancing over his shoulder to judge where he had landed. Behind him, three biplanes sat on tall ramps, stark silhouettes in the moonlight, their noses pointing to the sky. The Ghost smiled. There was his answer.

  He turned and made a dash for the second of the three flying machines. One of the goons called out, and then his tommy gun barked, but he was still too far away to hit his mark. The Ghost heard their boots crunching on the gravel as they gave chase.

  The Ghost dashed up the steps alongside the old biplane, his lungs burning from the exertion. He glanced at the aircraft in its launch housing. It was modified from an original design: an older vehicle that had been retroactively fitted with a modern rocket launcher. The rocket booster was bolted into a sub-frame at the rear of the aircraft, a long, thin canister containing enough rocket fuel to power the vehicle up off the ramp and across the rooftops until the main propeller kicked in. It dispensed with the need for a runway for takeoff, but landing on the confined space of the rooftop again was a real skill, and most pilots found themselves ditching on a nearby airfield and having the biplanes lifted back in situ by airship.

  The aircraft wasn't in great shape, but it would have to do. The green paint was peeling and the whole thing stank of oil. The propeller was a smooth blade of polished wood, and the four wings were flimsy and thin, formed from sheets of pressed steel. There were two pits in the body of the plane: one at the rear for the pilot, another at the front for a passenger.

  Grasping hold of the side of the aircraft with his gloved hands, the Ghost vaulted over the edge of the steps, landing smoothly in the pilot's pit. He glanced back over his shoulder. The goons were closing in. Two of them split off, left and right, and he realized they were heading for the other aircraft. The third was standing at the foot of the steps, just behind the Ghost, readying his weapon.

  The Ghost ran his hands over the familiar controls. He was momentarily overcome by a vision of being back in the war, of sitting behind the controls of a similar plane, spiraling out of control as he came in over the treetops to crash-land in a field full of bodies and blood and sticky mud. Of facing death. Of strange things that no man should ever have to see.

  He shook his head, trying to lose the memory. Now was not the time. His fingers danced over the dials as he readied the controls, hardly noticing the rat-a-tat-tat of the bullets that were riddling the steel panels at his back. He pulled the ignition lever and the rocket engine flamed to life. He turned to see the mobster at the foot of the steps drop his weapon and scream, staggering away from the launch platform as his face melted in the backwash of the rocket engine. His suit went up in flames, and he stumbled and collapsed in a fiery heap, scorched to the bone.

  The Ghost felt the biplane straining against its moorings and pulled a second lever, launching the vehicle up the ramp and away over the rooftops. He banked wildly, swinging the aircraft around to double back on himself, twisting knobs and pulling the start
er cord that would give life to the main propeller. It choked angrily, as if reluctant to start, and then buzzed to life.

  Behind him, the other two aircraft slipped their moorings and shot into the air, illuminating the street below with the red glow of their rocket engines.

  The Ghost searched the area around the cockpit, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. Nothing. This was a civilian craft. Unlike the vehicles he had flown in the war, this decrepit old thing didn't boast any machine-gun mounts or pneumatic cannons. It was down to his piloting skills, then. And luck.

  The Ghost sent the aircraft into a steep climb, trying to get above the mobsters, who had both managed to start their propellers and were now cruising behind him, side by side. He expected they would try to fan out and flank him, but if he could get high enough, he'd be able to swing out of the way.

  He leaned over the side of the cockpit. Far below, he could see the glow of the city as he banked again, the twinkling lights of modern America. It was a beautiful sight, a sight to be proud of. A sight he intended to protect.

  He started in his seat at the sound of bullets hammering into the fuselage below him. One of the goons had broken formation and was climbing beneath him, one hand clutching the control stick, the other spraying the undercarriage of the Ghost's aircraft with hot lead. The Ghost didn't fancy his chances, especially if the metal plates under his feet were as thin as the wings. He pulled back on the control stick, causing the nose of the craft to tip skyward, and jammed his legs under the control panels as tightly as possible as the biplane looped backward, turning full circle, the engine protesting with a howling whine.

  The Ghost steadied the aircraft just above and behind that of the mobster who'd been shooting at him. He dipped the nose, driving the plane down toward the other aircraft. The mobster howled as he fought furiously with the controls, trying to swing to the left to avoid a collision.

  At the last moment the Ghost flung his craft to the right, swerving away from the goon, with the result that the other plane banked sharply to the left and swerved in the other direction, leaving it out of the picture for a short while, at least until the mobster was able to bring it under control again.

  The dive had brought him perilously close to the rooftops, but now the Ghost had to contend with the second mobster, who was cruising along just above him, blocking any hopes he had of heading skyward. In the distance he could see the upper half of the towering Atlas, shimmering hazy blue against the backdrop of stars. Above him, he saw the second mobster lining up his tommy gun over the side of the cockpit.

  Waiting until the last possible moment, the Ghost shoved the con trol lever forward, dipping the biplane down and right, swinging around into Broadway. He leveled the craft about five stories up from street level, following the channel formed by the tall buildings as he buzzed uptown toward Times Square. Below, pedestrians were pointing and calling to one another as he raced over their heads. Above him, the mobster had to correct his turn, swinging wide as he tried to stay on the Ghost's tail. To his credit, the goon managed to wrestle the controls to his will, quickly coming up behind the Ghost, settling just a little higher to avoid dashing his wings on the fronts of the buildings. The Ghost caught sight of the third plane, too, sweeping back in from the east, heading straight for him.

  He had to shake them. He needed to lead them in a dance.

  The Ghost thought back to the evasive maneuvers he'd practiced during the war, patterns of movement that were still lodged in his brain. He grasped the control stick in both hands, rolling the aircraft through ninety degrees, the left wingtip only a hundred feet from the ground, the right pointing up at the heavens. Then, rotating the stick, he swept the nose around, bringing the wings to forty-five degrees and shooting up and over the shopping mall on his left. The mobsters banked, following his movements. Just as he'd hoped.

  The Ghost switched direction again, arcing the plane to the right. Once again, the mobsters followed suit, one of them pulling closer and offering another spray of lead from his tommy gun. The bullets drummed into the fuselage at the rear of the aircraft. The Ghost glanced back to see one of the panels, so damaged by the storm of bullets, shake loose and flit away behind him. He didn't have time to worry about what harm it might do to the pedestrians below.

  He pulled the biplane around in a tight circle, watching to ensure that the others were behind him. Then he dipped the nose again, diving low into Fifth Avenue. This time, one of them followed him down.

  The two biplanes yipped along, their engines roaring. The Ghost rocked the control stick gently from side to side, weaving the aircraft back and forth as they shot along the narrow channel, following the sweep of the road, above the hissing cars and crowds of tiny people. Then, with only seconds to spare, he spun the biplane onto its side and changed direction, shooting down a narrow alleyway between two large office buildings. The undercarriage was only inches from the brickwork. The alleyway was soot black, but the Ghost was able to see by virtue of his glowing red goggles, able to make out the hazards that loomed in the shadows.

  Avoiding an iron fire escape that clung to the side of one of the buildings, the Ghost tweaked his trajectory and shot out of the top of the alleyway, twisting the plane around in a loop to regain some height. The mobster who'd followed him into the tight space wasn't so lucky, however. Unable to see in the pitch darkness, and lacking the Ghost's years of flying experience, he was nevertheless carried away by the adrenaline of the chase. The goon had managed to swing his aircraft into the tight mouth of the alley in pursuit of the vigilante. But he didn't anticipate the iron staircase.

  His biplane smashed into the unforgiving metal structure at full speed, shattering the nose of the stolen aircraft and driving the stillspinning propeller back and up into the pilot's pit. He most likely didn't have time to register the loss of his legs to the whirling blade, however, as, moments later, the fuel tank ignited, causing the entire aircraft to erupt in a ball of fire that spat burning debris out into the street in a waterfall of dripping flames.

  The Ghost circled the wreckage once, and then prepared to climb before the remaining mobster had time to react. He felt exhilarated by the chase, by heat of the combat. He spiraled the plane upward, higher and higher, until he penetrated the thin layer of gray clouds that hung in wispy streaks over the city. He could hear the buzzing propeller of the other plane beneath him, as the mobster searched for him in the misty banks of gray. He circled, waiting.

  Then, taking his chance, the Ghost dipped the nose of the biplane and banked low, dipping out of the cloud cover. The engine growled in protest. Almost too late, he realized the other plane was on top of him. He'd dropped too low. The tommy gun chattered. The Ghost veered, first left, then right, then dipped again. He looped, trying to repeat his earlier trick, trying to get above the other plane once more. But this time the goon was wise to him and put his own plane into a climb, causing the Ghost to veer hard to the right simply to avoid a collision. His fingers danced over the control panel. He cursed himself, once again wishing that the old contraption were more like the aircraft he had flown in the war.

  He dipped again, hearing the wings creak under the strain of his constant maneuvers. He wasn't sure how he was going to shake the other plane. He glanced back over his shoulder. The other aircraft was hovering near, holding steady, the pilot watching him, waiting for him to make the next move. It was now or never.

  The Ghost yanked back on the control stick, causing the biplane to rear suddenly, driving it up into the path of the enemy plane. He heard the mobster scream as, unable to pull himself away in time, the front end of his biplane mowed into the tail of the Ghost's. The spinning propeller ate hungrily into the thin metal fuselage of the Ghost's plane, chewing the steel, mashing the two aircraft together and causing them both to veer drastically out of control. The Ghost was nearly jolted out of the pilot's pit and had to clutch desperately at the rim of the aircraft as he was tipped sideways, the entire thing shaking as the other pl
ane embedded itself deeper and deeper into the fuselage.

  The mobster was fighting furiously with his control stick, forcing it wildly to the left and right, doing everything in his power to separate the two planes as they spun out of control. The nose of the Ghost's plane dipped, and together the two biplanes fixed on a collision course with the sidewalk far below.

  The Ghost could smell fuel, realized it was likely bleeding out of a split tank. He glanced at his control panel. The dial was in the red. He swallowed. The two mangled aircraft were about to become one huge fireball above Manhattan. From behind him came the sound of rending metal as the substructure that housed the rocket exhaust finally gave way, the iron struts creaking and snapping one by one under the weight of the other plane. He glanced back. The mobster was pale with fear. The two aircraft were slowly separating in midair, the stress of their decent prizing them apart again as they tumbled through the sky.

  The Ghost pulled back on the control stick, trying to force the nose of his damaged biplane up. The propeller screamed, the engine unable to bear the combined weight of the two aircraft. They were perilously low now, only a couple of hundred feet above Madison Avenue. The grinding continued as the Ghost fought with the controls and then, suddenly, the other plane broke loose, and he was spinning away, climbing, wavering crazily as he tried to bring the remnants of the biplane under control.

  Beneath him, the other plane, no longer dragged along by the momentum of the Ghost's aircraft, plummeted toward the ground like a dropped stone. The Ghost thought he could hear the mobster's screams as the ruined biplane collided with the sidewalk, nose first, the tip of the left wing puncturing the window of a nearby store. The Ghost held his breath, expectant ... and then the crashed biplane detonated with a boom that rebounded off the tall white office buildings lining the avenue, a sound that was likely heard all over Manhattan. Flames licked hungrily at the wreckage.