Emerald Death

by Bill Craig

  “Sieg Heil!” Wessel replied, raising his arm in the traditional Nazi salute. He staggered off, frightened of what had happened, afraid of what Ragnarok was capable of. Wessel waved at his men and they ran for the zeppelin. They had seen Ragnarok’s power at work.

  …Now it wasn’t rumor, it was fact!

  Chapter Seven

  He looked over at Captain Morgan. “We have to reach the Mission ahead of Bridget and the others,” Niles McKenzie said, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  “Now Padre, if they’s a flyin’ that plane, there certainly ain’t no way for us to get there before them.” Morgan reminded him.

  “At best we might end up a day behind them, depending on if there are people waiting to transfer cargo from this boat to the one above the falls.”

  “They have no idea what they are getting themselves into, of the danger they will be in,” McKenzie muttered almost as if he hadn’t heard Morgan. There was a good chance he hadn’t. More and more of late, he was having trouble focusing his thoughts. He sometimes wondered if he hadn’t been too long in the jungle.

  Right now, he had to think about Bridget, about protecting her from the secrets that lay deep in the jungle. He had to prevent her from traveling into Prester John’s territory.

  The actual location of the legendary Priest King’s hidden demesne was but one of many secrets with which he was burdened. For centuries - really since its inception - rumors of the fabled lost Christian Kingdom of Prester John had trickled out of Africa. Rome had long known of his existence, but they conveniently chose to look the other way. Prester John left the Church alone, and they had learned the hard way to leave him alone. McKenzie knew that on several occasions the Holy Roman Order had sent assassins after the immortal Priest King. None of them returned in one piece. The last had been left dismembered in the Pope’s own bed while the Pope slept unaware. The message had been received. ‘Leave me alone or war will be waged!’

  Even the mighty Vatican knew when to back off; the cost of an open holy war with the Priest King of legend would have been incalculable. Instead, they had adopted a policy of denial and isolation, which was certainly amenable to Prester John. The College of Cardinals had reluctantly settled for satisfying their unquenchable penchant for meddling by assigning spies to watch from afar - spies like Niles McKenzie. Yet McKenzie did not report everything he learned to his masters.

  In his fortress in the lost city of Simbalwe, hidden deep in the reaches of the Congo jungle, the legendary of the Priest King concealed one of the deadliest artifacts known to man: The Emerald of Eternity. He guarded it savagely, as a hyena fights for carrion; it was more important to him than any of his treasures, perhaps more valuable than any other treasure in the world, for the emerald was the key to his immortality. He would kill to keep it - kill at the first hint of a threat to his sole possession. And now Degiorno was poised to take Bridget into the lion’s den. If Hannigan and the others insisted on going after it, he would intervene, go himself rather than put Bridget in that kind of danger.

  McKenzie thought about that and almost laughed. How much danger did he put her in daily by keeping her here in Africa? Really, what was he doing here at all? Trying to atone for some imagined sins against God or man? God forgave - if he believed anything, he had to believe that - and man simply did not care. So whom did he need forgiveness from? His ghosts?

  He felt moisture on his cheeks that wasn’t sweat. It took him a moment to realize what it was and where it had come from. Tears. Tears of revelation? Tears of penance? Tears shed for all those he had not been able to help over the years?

  You can never run from your ghosts. They always find you. Maybe it was time to leave, time to go back to the States and resume a real life.

  McKenzie wiped his face, careful not to let Morgan see what he was doing. He could not afford to show weakness, not now, not in front of the riverboat captain. As circumspect as he knew Morgan to be, rumors had a way of spreading, and he could not afford to be thought of as anything but Father McKenzie, the warrior priest. If it were even whispered that his resolve was flagging, the Mission would become a prime target for the various bands of pirates that operated along the Congo River.

  He pulled himself together, straightening his back. He had to focus, focus on catching up with Bridget and the others. He had to reach them before it was too late.

  *****

  Sturmscharfuhrer Hans Wessel peered through one of the sealed portals in the smooth hull of the Valkyrie, searching for some sign of the small floatplane that had slipped into the air ahead of him. From this lofty vantage, he commanded a view of hundreds of square kilometers, but the green expanse played tricks on the eye. The jungle hides its secrets well, he thought mordantly.

  A thunderous roar shuddered through the zeppelin as two of the Messerschmitt fighter planes blasted down the internal runway and out into the sky. Wessel couldn’t help but smile as the fighters came back across the bow in a display of aerial acrobatics. The pilots of the famed Kondor Legion - the Sky Masters - had cut their teeth on the exploits of Richtofen and the Bloody Circus. They were Germany’s new best of the best, and couldn’t resist a little showing off. They were champing at the bit to prove their steel on the field of combat.

  …Too bad that their first mission, hunting a lone unarmed float plane, wouldn’t provide much sport.

  *****

  Mike Hannigan squinted at the dots that appeared on the horizon behind them. He had spotted the zeppelin early on, rising lazily like a second moon from the verdant horizon. He wasn’t too concerned about that; there was no way the ponderous gasbag would be able to catch them. It was the smaller shapes that had him worried. They were zigzagging across the sky, and growing larger with each passing second. It didn’t take a gemstone with magic powers to divine their intentions. As the dots grew bigger, he recognized them for what they were: fighter planes. Things were about to get very hairy.

  The planes were still barely larger than buzzing flies in the distance when they swung into line and began driving straight toward the floatplane.

  Hannigan spied a flickering light emanating from the pursuing aircraft, yet it wasn’t until he saw white streaks zipping through the sky that he realized what was happening: the Nazi fighter planes had opened fire!

  Hannigan drew his Colt as he tried even harder to make himself a part of the Duck’s fuselage. Tracer rounds burned past him; close, too close. Something sparked off a wingtip, a scratch only, but nonetheless, a hit.

  Bridget reacted like someone stung by a wasp; sending the floatplane in what felt like a panic climb higher into the sky. Hannigan’s stomach dropped and he involuntary clutched at the smooth exterior of the plane for a moment. The fighters however, easily mimicked the maneuver, and continued to close the gap.

  Hannigan, feeling a little like David with his sling, leveled the Colt towards the approaching warplane and thumbed down the safety. Locking his elbow, he took careful aim and pulled the trigger again and again. The closest plane suddenly swerved away and Hannigan swore he saw glass on the cockpit shatter.

  Then he saw nothing but sky as Bridget threw the Duck into a gut-wrenching loop and barrel roll trying to evade the gunfire from the second fighter. Hannigan tried to aim at the Messerschmitt, but Bridget’s acrobatics had put the fuselage of the Duck between him and it. So he did the one thing he could: he held on for dear life!

  *****

  Bridget was a much better pilot than Hannigan could have conceived. While she was no combat veteran, she had learned her skills, not just from her father, who was an adequate aviator, but also from a former ace that had fought in the Great War, and retired to Africa. His stories of dogfights over the fields of Europe had inspired her to practice and learn a repertoire of daredevil stunts, which she used to entertain native children whenever an occasion arose.

  Still, it was a lot different when bullets were bouncing off the wings.

  “Holy Mary!” she had exclaimed as the first volley sparked
off the edge of the wing. Someone was shooting at them.

  Instinctively she had sent the plane climbing higher into the sky, racking her brain to come up with a survival strategy. It wasn’t until she heard a loud popping noise from the tail of the Grumman that she remembered Hannigan, tied to the fuselage near the tail.

  He’s shooting back! For all the good it will do.

  She looped, diving back down just as suddenly one of the fighters veered off. She sent the plane into a barrel roll, praying that Hannigan would survive the battering she knew he had to be enduring.

  Over the din of the engine, she heard a strange mewling noise from the observer’s cockpit; the fat Italian was throwing up. “You’re going to clean that up!” she shouted, then threw the Duck into another roll.

  Sweat beaded on her forehead as she maneuvered the floatplane in ways it was never meant to be maneuvered. Weaving and sliding from side to side, she could hear Hannigan firing whenever the attacking fighter was where he could aim at it. She breathed a little easier, knowing he was still alive at least for the moment. She let the Duck sideslip to the left, giving Hannigan a better angle, but knowing also that he would be completely exposed to the enemy fire.

  Suddenly there was an explosion behind her. She sent the plane into a loop and watched in amazement as the Messerschmitt plunged into the jungle, and erupted in a ball of fire. Breathing a sigh of relief, she began searching for a stretch of river to land on.

  She had to know if Mike Hannigan was okay.

  *****

  Hannigan nearly lost his grip on the Colt as the Duck went into a roll and looped. His stomach was in his throat as Bridget took the plane through a dizzying dance of evasive maneuvers. Her antics succeeded in sparing them from the fighter’s machine guns, but had the unfortunate side-effect of alternately slamming Hannigan against the hard outer skin of the Grumman and throwing him against the ropes, so that he could almost feel the fibers cutting into his skin. He hoped that Gregor had done a really good job of tying those knots; his life depended on it.

  Suddenly the Duck slipped left, putting the cockpit of the attacking Messerschmitt in his sights. Hannigan fired out the magazine, and was amazed to see one of the propeller blades snap off. The cockpit’s windscreen shattered and suddenly the fighter was a ball of flames plummeting like a fiery meteor into the green carpet below.

  Hannigan breathed a sigh of relief. It was only then that he realized that the slide of his Colt was locked open over an empty chamber. With shaking hands he drew a full magazine from his pocket and buttoned out the empty, carefully catching and stowing it, before sliding the fresh magazine into place. He hit the slide release to chamber the top round so that the weapon would be ready for the next crisis. Upping the safety, Hannigan shoved the pistol back into his waistband. His movements were very methodical and deliberate, as if to prove to himself that he wasn’t rattled by the near death experience.

  Nevertheless, as the Duck dropped towards the river, he wondered if Bridget would think it unmanly if he were to faint.

  *****

  Wessel watched in shock as the second fighter trailed a plume of smoke down into the jungle and a fireball erupted into the air from the emerald jungle below. He lowered the binoculars, shock evident on his face.

  “Launch more fighters,” he told his aide, in a hoarse whisper. “Launch the whole squadron.”

  Although the fighter pilots were not directly under his command, their loss was a stunning blow. Worse, he could feel Ragnarok standing nearby, the sorcerer-scientist’s eyes burning into him.

  “What has happened?”

  “They shot down the fighters,” Wessel announced, numb with shock.

  “You said that their ship wasn’t armed,” Ragnarok reminded him, his voice hard edged. “How then is this possible?”

  “I don’t know!” Wessel was almost frantic. “Perhaps they are very lucky. Why don’t you use your magic to find an answer?”

  “Are you raising your voice to me?” Ragnarok’s voice sounded all the more deadly for its calm quiet.

  “Nein, Herr Doktor,” Wessel answered quickly, fearfully. He secretly wished that he could just draw the Lugar 9mm from his belt and shoot the man in the head. But as tempting as the idea seemed, he wasn’t sure if it would actually kill Ragnarok, or what the Fuhrer would do when he learned of it.

  Wessel shook his head in frustration at this second defeat in a day’s time, and returned to scanning the horizon to watch their enemies’ progress. Suddenly the floatplane disappeared from view, dropping into the embrace of the jungle somewhere ahead.

  “They have gone to ground,” Wessel announced.

  “Tell the squadron to stand down,” Ragnarok directed. “We cannot afford to waste time chasing after this rabble. But I warn you, do not make the mistake of underestimating them again, Herr Sturmscharfuhrer. You and your countrymen are too arrogant by far. The tiniest insect may kill a strong man with a single bite.

  “It has been a long time since I have faced such adversaries. Not since Captain Dane Hawkins and the Fighting Hawks have I faced such adversaries. They had the luck of the gods themselves. They cost me my face.”

  “Sir?” Wessel was shocked by the admission.

  “I didn’t always wear a mask to hide my features,” Ragnarok replied, his voice distant as if he were remembering. Not until the day I met Captain Hawkins and his me….

  *****

  Ragnarok spun towards the door of the room he was hiding in an instant before it burst inward. The young man that stood in the door was muscular beneath the tight leather flying clothing he wore, and while Ragnarok did not fear mere physical strength, he was wary of this man who was no more than a boy, with the bright blue eyes that glittered like polar chips beneath dark eyebrows.

  “Hawkins!” Ragnarok roared. He summoned his mystical energy, drawing it into his fist.

  “I mean to stop you, Ragnarok! I won’t allow you to destroy the ship!”

  Hawkins’ voice was as flat and cold as the blade of guillotine.

  Ragnarok clenched his fist, letting the power build in his body - a spell of power that would burn his foe’s bones to dust within his body - but before he could release it, Hawkins had crossed the room and slammed a fist across his jaw. Ragnarok flew backward and the power he had summoned dissipating like so much spilled milk as his concentration fractured. He fell to the deck of the passenger liner, groaning in pain.

  His weakness surprised him; it had been a long time since he had taken a mortal form.

  Hawkins moved in closer. Ragnarok summoned a blast of energy - relatively mild for its hastiness - and sent it snaking from his hands to the American interloper that had emerged to foil his plans.

  Hawkins flew backwards, his brown hair standing on end, and hit the deck, but just as quickly rolled and sprang to his feet with a pistol in his hand. It fired just as Ragnarok raised his hands.

  Flame erupted around the mystic, a supernova in the tiny passenger berth. Hawkins jumped back, his eyebrows singed by the heat as Ragnarok ran for the door, then gripped the railing and plummeted over into the sea below….

  *****

  “Hawkins nearly destroyed me. The people in that plane, they are of the same sort. If we catch them, we kill them immediately,” Ragnarok told him.

  Hans Wessel nodded in agreement. “I plan to destroy them if we catch them,” Wessel said.

  “We cannot allow them to reach the Emerald of Eternity before we do!” Ragnarok insisted.

  “They won’t,” Wessel replied between clenched teeth.

  “If they do,” Ragnarok stated, matter-of-factly, “you shall die.”

  “They won’t!” Wessel hissed through teeth clenched so hard they hurt.

  Chapter Eight

  Mike Hannigan stepped away from the plane on wobbly legs. Once he was a safe distance from the edge of the river, he dropped to his knees and kept his head down until the urge to vomit passed. After several long minutes, he felt someone’s presence behin
d him. Hannigan looked over his shoulder.

  Gregor Shotsky stood there. “You okay?”

  “As well as expected after being tossed around like a bird in a hurricane while being shot at by fighter planes,” he shrugged weakly.

  “Always the joker, Michael.” Shotsky’s voice dropped, his tone becoming solemn.

  “The girl, she worries for you. If you are ready, you should go back to the plane and let her know you are okay.”

  “Right,” Hannigan tried to climb to his feet but he found that his legs still felt like India rubber.

  Shotsky reached down and slipped his hands under Hannigan’s arms and hauled him to his feet.

  “Thanks, Gregor.” His legs weren’t shaking quite as badly now. Maybe the adrenaline rush that had fueled his actions in the air was finally wearing off.

  “It is nothing, Michael,” Shotsky waved away the thanks. “What you did was very brave. Very stupid, but brave.”

  “No argument there, Pal,” Hannigan managed to grin.

  Bridget was working under a steel panel she had raised to reveal the engine of the Grumman Duck. Hannigan noted that there were several large dents in the cover. “So is this what you do for fun out here?” he quipped.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You still look a little green, Hardluck.”

  He grinned. “Yeah well my Ma always said green was my color.”

  “Too bad she can’t see you now, or better yet, when Gregor untied you.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s been gone a long time anyway.”

  A shadow passed over his face, eclipsing his grin for just a moment, but he shook it off. “That was some slam bang flying back there.”