Rain of the Ghosts

by Greg Weisman

  Dripping and shivering, an excited Rain was wearing a big old grin: “Now, do you believe?!”

  Charlie looked around, stunned. He saw no ghosts. But there was a fully animated skeleton sitting right in front of him and another standing right behind him. And the thing does seem to be flying.… He turned back to Rain and shouted, “Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind!”

  The Belle rattled and shook. And shook again. And shook more violently. Tommy turned to ’Bastian: “She’s building, Captain. She’s on our tail.”

  “Who?” Bastian asked.

  “Julia.”

  “Who?”

  “Hurricane Julia. She’s back. To finish what she started. To make sure we never complete the mission. Never get home. She took us out once, and she doesn’t want her works thwarted now. She doesn’t want us to get away. And she’s back to get the last of us. She’s back for you, Cap.”

  More drums. Rain and ’Bastian both looked outside with new eyes. The clouds were already black, yet somehow getting blacker. Lightning flashed all around with less than a “one-one-thousand” before the thunder followed. The B-17 was rocked. Thrown down then up. The wind sheared across her. And it didn’t take ghost senses for Charlie to hear the pieces of its fuselage grinding and tearing apart. The aura was holding the bird together, but every magick has its limit.

  More lightning and thunder struck—even closer and now in perfect synch. And in that half a second between the blinding flash and the darkness that followed, Rain and ’Bastian both saw her: a figure of cloud and wind and rain and flashing eyes: Hurricane Julia herself.

  The Dark Man’s expression hardened into a dangerous grin. “So we have an enemy,” he said, holding a hand up to his neck to speak into the approximate location of where his radio microphone should have been. “That’s something this crew knows how to handle. Battle stations, boys.”

  Rain looked back over her shoulder. Pete was gone from the hatchway, but she heard his voice saying: “Roger that, Captain. Top turret ready.”

  This was instantly followed by four other voices, announcing that bombardier, left waist gunner, right waist gunner, and ball turret were in position and prepared for a fight.

  But ’Bastian groused: “No tail gunner. Flank’s exposed.”

  And that’s when the second snake on Rain’s armband made its presence felt. The first was still glowing gold, maintaining the healing aura that had resurrected the Belle. But Rain felt a charge and looked down. The other snake was glowing now, too: a bright electric blue. It was powerful, mesmerizing, and it seemed to speak to her deep beneath the conscious level of her brain. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do. “C’mon,” she said to Charlie.

  “What?! Where?!”

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t explain. But she climbed through the hatch, and Charlie followed without argument. After all that’s happened so far, what’s the point of arguing?

  They stripped off what remained of their scuba gear and, barefooted, made their way back through the B-17, passing the ghosts—or as Charlie saw them, the animated skeletons—of Lance and the two Harrys at their posts. There were holes in Belle’s skin large enough to drop them to their deaths, but they managed to avoid them and finally reached the tail gun.

  And just in time—lightning flashed again, revealing Julia, now bigger than ten Island Belle’s, reaching a giant hand of cloud and wind and rain and lightning toward the exposed rear of the bomber. She grasped and just missed—the old bomber was just barely out of reach—but the B-17 rocked and bucked, plummeted and rose like a mad bull.

  Rain slipped into the ragged, rotting seat that once belonged to Tail Gunner Joey. She tried to aim the large gun, but it was frozen in place by decades of rust. She turned to Charlie. “Help me!” He slid in beside her, the skinny teenage boy sharing the man-sized seat with his equally skinny best friend. No longer asking for explanations, Charlie helped Rain wrench the gun out of its locked state. Something cracked audibly, and the thing moved, nearly slipping off its housing completely—but the gold aura held it more-or-less in place for Rain.

  She watched then as the second snake’s electric blue flared on her arm and from within the gun itself. She knew she was locked and loaded. “Where’s the trigger?” she shouted.

  “Here!” He guided her hand. All those video games finally paying off.…

  She waited for the next lightning strike—and didn’t have long to wait. There was Julia, her dark cloud mane streaming around her, her eyes flashing with electricity—and her expression: pure fury. But Rain was angry too. This woman—this thing—had tried to kill her grandfather twice. Once after he was already dead! Rain rotated the gun, taking aim. Charlie’s hand still surrounded hers on the trigger. And when the lightning flashed again, she opened fire.

  Streaks of electric blue sailed from the tail gun’s muzzle. They lit up the sky (for Rain, not Charlie) and struck the female fury right between the eyes. Rain could hear the storm shriek. Even Charlie heard a cry on the wind that sounded almost human, something very angry and in pain.

  “She’s hit!” Rain shouted. Charlie didn’t ask who “she” was. From his point of view, Rain had aimed the gun toward the darkest section of the storm. He saw no “she”—but he saw the locus of darkness moving. Without thinking—for once—he wrenched the big gun around to keep it on target.

  Rain didn’t think to ask how her friend knew which way to aim. She fired again. The blue light seared across the sky and struck the spirit—the goddess—of the storm once more. Rain could see her shrinking under the blue fire. And Charlie could now see gaps in the cloud cover, exposing a few stars.

  But the darkest of the dark clouds moved again, and Charlie followed it with the gun, while Rain maintained fire. And she wasn’t the only one. From both the top turret and the ball turret, Pete and Ducky fired more streaks of blue light back on the enemy as well. For the third time in four nights, the drums in Rain’s brain rose to a crescendo. The shrieking continued, louder and more horrible, but Rain and the others were merciless. The blue fire strafed the clouds … until Hurricane Julia finally gave up the ghost. Or at least the Belle.

  Pete’s voice crackled in Rain’s ear: “Well, we didn’t get the kill. But we sent her scurryin’, Captain. I think we’re home free.”

  Rain remembered to breathe. The drums were silent, but she was sure she could hear an orchestra of strings hailing their triumph. She released the gun. Charlie did the same. They looked each other in the eye intensely. Then embarrassed, they both looked away.

  Two minutes later, they were back in the cockpit and once again gripping the back of Tommy and ’Bastian’s seats for dear life. For a second, it had felt like it was all over. Then they remembered just where they were and how precarious their situation remained.

  ’Bastian again spoke into his “radio”: “Sergeant Pedros.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Let ’em know we’re coming.”

  “Roger that.” And at his station, Lance spoke into his ancient, rusted, waterlogged unit. It glowed a beautiful gold. “Tío Samuel, this is Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four requesting permission for an emergency landing.”

  The tower at Tío Sam’s airfield was painted white, like most of the base. Inside, Ensign Chris LeVell, a confused young air traffic controller, was sitting in front of his radar screen trying to identify the source of the strange broadcast. “Please, repeat designation. Acknowledge.”

  Lance Pedros’ voice crackled in Ensign LeVell’s ears. “Roger. That’s Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four requesting permission to land.”

  Commander Stevens wasn’t supposed to be there that night. He had just been in the mood for a walk in the rain, and his feet had found their way to the tower without any help. Now he leaned in over LeVell’s shoulder. “What did he say? Put him on speaker.”

  LeVell flinched, suddenly realizing who was behind him. Then he nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

  On the Belle, Lance’s ghost was shaking his head and
smiling. “Captain, what we have here is a failure to communicate.”

  The Dark Man grinned. “Patch me through.”

  “Roger that. You tell ’em, Cap.”

  ’Bastian took a deep breath, then: “Tío Samuel Naval Base, this is Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four. We’re flying on three engines and a prayer here. I’m requesting permission to land, but I’m landing with or without it.”

  Stevens leaned in further, hovering over LeVell’s mic, listening to that strange, distant voice. “Broadway? That’s a B-17 designation. No one’s used that for fifty years.”

  “Well, we are running a bit behind schedule.”

  Pete, back in position in the hatchway, chuckled. “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie, Captain.”

  ’Bastian, Tommy and Rain laughed. Charlie yelled, “What? What’s so funny?”

  In the tower, Stevens’ first instinct was to mobilize. Something on the scope was coming in under his watch, and the thought of a terrorist attack was never far from any military man’s mind. But Tío Sam’s held no strategic importance and had never been considered a likely target. The truth was, the base had been caught flat-out unprepared. By the time Stevens got any birds in the air, whatever was coming would already be here. All he could do was press a button, lean in and order Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four to circle. Then he shut off the microphone, pressed another button and put the entire base on alert.

  But Captain Sebastian Bohique was tired of waiting for some swabbie’s approval. Still smiling, he pushed forward on the wheel. And the Belle began her descent.

  ’Bastian eased up on the throttle. “Lower landing gear.”

  “Roger,” Tom said, flipping another switch.

  The golden glow prodded the landing gear bays open. But the glow could only do so much. The bay doors jammed long before opening wide enough for the rotted rubber wheels to lower. The gear was stuck and—glow or no glow—wasn’t budging.

  Tommy turned to ’Bastian, shrugged and drolly commented, “Could be a rough landing.”

  The Island Belle continued her descent, entering a mild fog bank that shrouded Tío Sam’s. Through the shattered windshield, Rain could now see the runway lights shimmering hazily in the mist. We’re going to land! We’re really going to land! She turned to Charlie and shouted, “Hold on!”

  He rolled his eyes and yelled, “You think?!”

  ‘Bastian said, “Crew, assume positions for crash landing.”

  Rain shouted, “Crash?!”

  And Charlie yelled, “WHAT?!”

  But they didn’t crash. The Belle came in for a landing. Her aura acted as something of a cushion—though the fuselage still scraped and sparked against the tarmac, throwing off magickal golden flashes and not-so-magickal red-hot fragments of metal. Inside the cockpit, Charlie was fairly certain he’d be one with Rain’s ghost crew soon enough. He and Rain were barely able to hold on to the seats and each other as the bomber shook and jumped.

  Ghost or no ghost, ’Bastian was rattled by Belle’s quaking hull and his inability without wheels to bring her to a halt. He was afraid she’d break apart. Afraid that if she did, if she broke or blew, the mission would still end in failure. His men would still be lost. And Rain?! For the first time since resuming command, he turned around and saw his granddaughter and her friend. My God, what have I done?!

  He tried to smile at her, tried to reassure her. “Smooth as silk, huh?” She forced a smile back at him.

  And just then, finally, the bomber skidded to a full stop.

  Rain and Charlie were still vibrating. But they wore the kind of goofy grins that only come with knowing you lived through something you had no right to.

  Rain scanned the cockpit. The golden aura was fading. And so was the flight crew. ’Bastian was again transparent. Rain took note, and her grin faded as quickly as their glow.

  ’Bastian stood and glanced from Tommy to Pete. “Mission accomplished. We’re home.”

  Still in his seat, Tommy’s spirit no longer fully concealed his nodding skull. “Roger that, Captain.”

  From throughout the plane, the voices flooded Rain and ’Bastian’s minds one last time. “Nice flying, Cap.” “Knew you could do it.” “Better late than never.”

  “And thanks,” Pete said. “Thank you.” And on that heartfelt note, his spirit completely faded away along with the last of the Belle’s glow. His skeleton collapsed in the hatchway, causing Charlie to jump. Tom’s skeleton sat back in its copilot’s seat, finally at rest. The Eight were gone, leaving only their bones and tattered clothes, the rusted hulk of the Island Belle, Rain, Charlie … and ’Bastian.

  ’Bastian faced his granddaughter, both of them starting to tear up. “I guess I’m next,” he said.

  “I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “Same here, Raindrop. But I’m glad we had a chance to say good-bye.” He looked away. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but the Dark Man knew he could not. Better to make a clean break. “Now you climb out of here, before the whole thing collapses.”

  Rain nodded once and then fled; she needed to get out before she collapsed. She climbed over the skeleton in the hatchway. Charlie swallowed hard and followed.

  They quickly found a large hole in the Belle near the nose. They swung down, hanging there, giving each other nods of encouragement, before dropping a few feet to the fog-shrouded pavement below. They could already hear sirens in the distance. As one, they ran across the tarmac in their wet clothes and bare feet and lost themselves in the mist and the brush beside the runway. A strong scent of mint leaves, mixed with ocean salt, surrounded them and seemed to momentarily offer a cocoon of protection from the approaching authorities.

  A fine rain was still falling, but Charlie was pretty sure those were tears on Rain’s cheeks. Gently, he asked, “Are they all gone?”

  Rain looked around. No ghosts. No ’Bastian. “I guess so,” she said. “I guess they’re at peace now.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Rain wheeled about to find the Dark Man standing behind her, young, handsome, transparent and glowing softly white.

  “Papa!”

  A smiling ’Bastian shrugged and pointed at Rain’s snake charm. “I must still have a mission left to complete.”

  “Don’t make me pretend I’m sorry.”

  “I won’t … if you won’t.”

  Charlie watched Rain stare happily at empty space. “Is he still here?”

  “Yes!”

  “No offense, but … why?”

  ’Bastian considered Charlie’s question as the siren’s wail heralded the shining headlights of a Navy emergency truck—the first of several vehicles approaching rapidly from down the tarmac. “The snake charm just won’t let me go.”

  Rain asked, “Did your grandmother tell you anything else about it?”

  Thinking on that, ’Bastian rubbed his hand over his chin and was distracted by the odd lack of sensation. He couldn’t put his hand through his face, and yet there was no true solidity to either part of his body. Like oil and water, they simply wouldn’t mix. Recovering his train of thought, he said, “No … but after I was released from the infirmary here, she did take me someplace. She made a point of taking me someplace.”

  “Then I think you’d better take us too…”

  The truck pulled to a stop a few yards from the plane. Its siren abruptly cut out. Rain and Charlie ducked further down behind the brush and the scent of mint. ’Bastian whispered a “let’s get out of here” to Rain. She tugged on Charlie’s arm, and the three of them slinked away.

  No one saw the two teens—let alone the ghost—thanks to the fog and the GIANT DISTRACTION parked on the runway. Through the truck’s windshield, two Shore patrolmen looked up at the Belle in a state of pure shock. This wreck couldn’t have landed here. Could hardly have been towed here in one piece.

  The passenger-side door opened, and Commander Stevens slowly exited the vehicle. How in heaven…? His eyes gradually took in the entirety of the rusted hulk of t
he B-17 that loomed above him, still dripping salt water and seaweed. An awed whisper escaped his lips: “Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four…”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  RENDEZVOUS

  Getting back to San Próspero proved far easier than they could have dreamed. ’Bastian knew Tío Sam both from the war and from the occasional Veteran’s Day ceremony. He was able to lead them through the base and act as an invisible advance scout to help them avoid the assorted naval personnel running about in semi-urgency. Too, the universe seemed to be cooperating, as the light mist quickly became a dense fog to further cover their movements.

  They found Miller mopping up the Mess Hall alone. He gaped as they approached like two scared drowned rats. “Dudes, what are you doing here?”

  “Long story,” Rain said. (And the trouble-prone Miller nodded as if that was explanation enough.) “Can you help us get home?”

  And Miller did. He wasn’t exactly a brilliant strategist, but again the cards seemed to fall in their favor. The fog helped. So did the fact that this particular Sunday had been Visiting Day on Tío Sam’s. Families of various sailors, who didn’t have more than a billet for housing on the base, were already scheduled to head back to the big island on a Navy shuttle. A shuttle piloted by Ensign Dusanek, one of Miller’s surfing buddies. Miller explained that his two young friends had lost their I.D. badges in the surf, and Dusanek agreed to sneak them on board—an unusually easy prospect as shore patrolmen had been pulled off their regular duty to help investigate the mysterious appearance of a certain skeleton-filled B-17 bomber and the very modern scuba gear found inside. No one, certainly not Dusanek, suspected two thirteen-year-olds could have been behind it.

  Before Dusanek led them off, Rain gave Miller a quick hug. “Thanks, Miller. We definitely owe you one.”

  Miller’s smiling head bobbed. “Cool.”

  Once aboard the shuttle, Rain and Charlie (and an invisible ’Bastian) stuck close to a mom and her two young children. The mom smiled at the teens and wondered if they were traveling alone—and why they had no shoes—but to everyone else it looked as if they were under her supervision. The voyage home was uneventful.