by Todd Downing
The tropical heat necessitated keeping any windows which could to remain open, much to the bridge crew’s ultimate chagrin. Katoc and his two braves found open window panels on the bridge and were on the skeleton crew with bone knives and fists in an instant. The only trooper to put up a fight, the backup navigator, produced a stiletto from his belt and made short work of the smaller native warrior, savagely opening the crook of his neck just above collarbone. Katoc responded with his own obsidian blade, driving it through the base of the navigator’s skull. There was no other resistance, and the episode had remained relatively silent, save for the chants wafting in from the temple across the lake. Katoc and his associate watched in horror as the Silver Star troops melted and dissolved into ash and bone fragments, then they headed aft.
Duke climbed the perforated aluminum ladder two steps at a time. Soaking wet from the lake and his own sweat, he felt a draft move up his back and he shivered. There before him was the main gantry through the center of the ship. It ran from the metal landing grate to the stern, over six hundred feet, and into a hazy obscurity. On either side, in reinforced vulcanized canvas ballonets, was enough hydrogen to burn down a small city.
A Silver Star airman came stalking out of the dark, knife drawn, as firearms were forbidden in the area. Then a native javelin pierced his chest, and he stumbled and sprawled on the deck. Duke turned to see both royal guard women ascending the landing. He thanked them, but beckoned them to head back down to the gondola—and if it looked like the ship was on fire, to get the hell off.
Squinting into the dark, Duke took the wet satchel from his shoulder. He dug out one the heavy spheres from the bag and surged forward by sheer will, regardless of any hidden danger. Were there any more airmen with knives lurking down the hallway? He sure didn’t know, and anyone waiting down the gantry was about to be shown the inherent dangers of hydrogen lift gas. At Ballonnet 3, Duke thumbed the trigger that popped open the metallic globe of the Tesla Grenade, flipped the toggle that engaged the battery, and dropped it back into the satchel with its brothers and sisters.
Then he shoved the satchel into the crevice between Ballonets 3 and 5, opened a twelve-inch seam in Ballonet 3 with his trench knife, and ran like hell.
# # #
The air behind Crowley grew blurry and swelled as if ready to give birth. Electric tendrils erupted from the eye of the phenomenon, crawling over the altar and across the stone floor. The mage continued his chant, calling forth the demon Choronzon. The initial appearance was relatively easy, but creating a large enough power pool to actually open a portal to bring the entity through—much less bind it to one’s will—would take all the blood in the slave pen.
Crowley continued his invocation:
“I entered with woe; with mirth
I now go forth, and with thanksgiving,
To do my pleasure on the earth
Among the legions of the living...
Nuit, Hadit, Ra-Hoor-Khuit...”
The crowd of soldiers and acolytes answered the phrase in kind.
“Nuit, Hadit, Ra-Hoor-Khuit...”
Doc and Maria were perhaps a dozen steps up the pyramid when the lake and surrounding jungle lit up like a bonfire. Maria stopped, aghast at the sight of the Luftpanzer bursting into fire in sections.
Doc knew what was coming, and she took the opportunity to duck and twist backward, thrusting her elbow into Maria’s ribs, sending her backward into one of the candle-holding acolytes, which set his gauzy robes afire and sent her Luger skittering off the pyramid steps.
Chaos erupted with the hydrogen from the zeppelin’s gas cells.
Deadeye leaped into the circle of sandbags around the first machine gun emplacement, clubbing both Silver Star commandos in the skull with the butt of his Mauser rifle. He dropped the rifle and angled the surplus Lewis gun at the lone slave pen guard. The machine gun chattered and the guard was ripped apart. Then he sprinted to the corral and flung the gate open, letting the native hostages run free. Most ran to the cover of the trees. Some who still had a bit of strength attacked the closest troops and took their guns.
Rivets ran to the first Lewis gun and started picking off troops as they scurried to the motor pool. One truck pulled away into the jungle and a second exploded in flames, peppered with rounds from Rivets’ machine gun.
All eyes on the pyramid turned to the exploding airship on the lake, and Doc took advantage of the moment to leap down the stairs, beyond the reach of Maria Blutig, who had just separated herself from the burning acolyte. Maria caught the motion and turned to follow, knocking over two more robed cultists.
The jungle came alive with poisoned darts and long hunting arrows, skewering panicked soldiers. Some troops returned fire, shooting blindly into the jungle. Jack and Deadeye immediately shed their Silver Star uniform jackets, a signal to the native hunters not to target them.
Deadeye ran to the second machine gun and pummeled both soldiers unconscious. Then he panned the Lewis gun around on its tripod to face the camp.
The Luftpanzer continued to burst into flames, front to back, one section at a time. Captain Ecke stood helplessly on the small pier extending from the south shore, watching her die in pieces. He became suddenly aware of the chaos in the camp, and took off running toward the pyramid—and the troop truck he knew was parked behind it.
Atop the pyramid, Crowley was a seething ball of rage.
“Infidels!” he shrieked from the altar. “Deceivers!”
Two elite Silver Star agents pounced immediately, pulling him away from the altar and ushering him down the back stairway.
A demonic claw penetrated the shimmering membrane behind the altar, catching one of the elder acolytes by his robes. The elder screamed and his body popped and contorted as the demon pulled it through the tiny hole between dimensions. The elder’s blood seemed to bolster the incomplete spell—to strengthen Choronzon—and the membrane became thinner.
Maria leaped over burning cultists to close the distance with Doc.
Doc was well ahead, but missed her footing on the final step. She felt her left ankle give way and she sprawled on the jungle floor. A strong hand pulled her upright, and she found herself face to face with Jack McGraw.
“You okay?” he asked.
Doc winced and grunted, “Ankle.” She looked up at the roiling, expanding rift above the pyramid, and her jaw went slack. “Oh no…”
Jack wrapped his left arm around her waist, pointing the .45 in his right hand at Maria. “Stop right there!” he ordered, then he blinked and looked again. It couldn’t be her.
Maria froze, shock and realization on her face. “You!” she gasped. “Jack McGraw!”
Jack gaped at her. “Maria Gunnhild?”
“Blutig,” Maria corrected.
“Bloody Mary?” Jack smirked. “Are you serious?”
Doc frowned. “You know this woman?”
“She worked at a bar in Beauvois during the war, under a fake name,” he explained. “But her real job was as a spy for the Central Powers. The Allies used her to spread false intelligence back to the enemy.”
Maria’s face swelled red with fury at this revelation, but she had one of her own. “You shot down Hans Heinrich!”
Jack glared back at her, wondering at the significance.
“You killed my betrothed—you killed my heart!”
It suddenly sank in—this woman had been driven mad with grief and anger, her quest for vengeance fueled by Crowley’s megalomania and resources. And now she had occult knowledge and a paramilitary army at her disposal.
Doc lunged for the Cross of Cadiz in Maria’s hand, wrenching it out of her grip. But the surge of proximity energy from the lodestone in her pocket burned and numbed her entire leg, and she crumpled on her bad ankle, pulling Jack off balance. She dropped the cross and winced in agony.
Maria angled up the stairs and leaped off the far side of the stairway, disappearing toward the lake shore.
Jack glanced around. Troop trucks were
already making for the jungle trail. The pyramid stairway was a trail of burning cultists and dead commandos. At the top, an ancient demon threatened to burst into their world.
Deadeye and Rivets ran to the bottom of the pyramid, where Jack was trying to hold Doc upright.
“J-Jack,” she stammered.
“Where’s Crowley?” Deadeye asked.
Jack nodded toward the trail. “Flew the coop,” he said. “Maria’s heading for one of those planes. Get Doc back to the tree city. I’m going after this one!”
Before Doc could argue, he’d all but flung her onto his two comrades, then he was gone.
Doc reached for him in vain. “Jack, no!”
Rivets shook his head. “Let’s go, Doc,” he said. “No use tryin’ to talk him out of it.”
Doc pulled back. “You don’t understand,” she urged. “The spell Crowley started is still going, and it’s taken on a life of its own. If we don’t close the rift and banish that demon, it’ll get through!”
“Get through?” Rivets asked, completely dumbfounded.
Deadeye looked Doc over, not wild about her condition. “You sure you’re up for that?” he asked. “I mean, do you know how?”
Doc stared at the crackling portal above and shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “But I have to try.”
- Chapter 19 -
Doc limped up the pyramid stairs, Rivets on her left, Deadeye on her right. She gripped the Cross of Cadiz in her right hand, leaning on her two crewmates and wincing with every step. Her left ankle was a swollen beehive of pain, and her right thigh felt as if the lodestone had burned a hole in it. About halfway up, a robed acolyte leaped out of the night on the stairs above them, and Deadeye snapped off a shot from his temporary Luger. The cultist spun away and flopped down the stairs like a discarded rag doll.
The membrane between the world and whatever putrid dimension Chroronzon called home shimmered and warped, revealing the entity’s entire reddish-black, scaly arm. It extended a good dozen feet beyond the portal and continued to slash with savage claws. The impossibly low rumble of its demonic choir vibrated through the ancient stone stairs, and the trio stumbled with every third or fourth step.
Doc could hardly stand, let alone walk. Rivets and Deadeye all but carried her.
As they neared the apex, they could see the sundered bones of the elder priest scattered across the stairs, streaked with blood.
The transparent membrane between the dimensions pulsed and stretched, and Doc saw the creature’s yellow eye peering at her from beyond the rift. The demon’s beastly arm grabbed and swiped at them, as fingers of lightning traced the altar. A sound like metal straining under high tension groaned from the weakening portal.
Doc pulled her right arm from behind Deadeye and held the Cross of Cadiz in front of her. Reaching toward the portal, she closed her eyes and began to move her hand in a counter-clockwise motion, her fingers gripping the artifact just below the horizontal arms of the crosspiece. She could feel the pulse of energy radiate from its core, and heard its high-pitched tone begin to emanate from all around. Her ankle throbbed spikes of agony with every heartbeat. She tried to recall her occult studies—any arcane portal-closing spell would do—but nothing came. She decided to abandon dogma and trust her instinct and sheer will. And perhaps the innate properties of the holy artifact in her hand.
Then she closed her eyes and thrust the cross forward. It glowed with impossible intensity, as if she held a star, ringing with a high, pulsing celestial tone. The magic-detecting stone in her pocket burned and seared her thigh. She cried out in pain, almost dropping where she stood, but Rivets and Deadeye held her fast.
Her arm continued its counter-clockwise circles, and she heard Oba speak as if from within the stone itself.
“Papa Legba, Guardian of the Crossroads, let this nexus be closed!”
She remembered, as she’d held the dying bokor in the old Spanish fort, how he’d grasped the lodestone with the last of his strength. He must have infused his own soul into it.
He’s here, she thought. Right here in the stone!
Reaching across her body with her left hand, she dug the lodestone from her pocket and held it parallel with the Cross of Cadiz. She felt a surge of power from deep within her aching body travel up through her arm, and through the conduit of the lodestone filled with Oba’s spirit. The high-tension groan became a storm of conflicting sound. Lightning shot in desperate tendrils across the pyramid. One caught Rivets square in the chest, throwing him back down several steps, unconscious. Another threw Deadeye clear off the main stairs onto the side. A third hit Doc’s injured foot, traveled up her leg and through her chest, filling her with a pain she’d never known. She collapsed like a lump of clay where she’d stood, her heartbeat shallow and random. Every nerve was fire.
Doc weakly opened her eyes and watched the portal contract and seal itself with an explosion of wind and light.
An unholy shriek echoed through the jungle as Choronzon’s severed arm dropped to the altar. Its clawed hand gripped the edge of the stone table, then lay still.
The Cross of Cadiz blinked once more and extinguished its light. The lodestone went dark, immediately cool against Doc’s hand.
Delirious with pain, she muttered, “Jack…” and passed out.
# # #
Jack leaped down the side stairs of the Temple of the Elders, trying to close the gap with Maria. He couldn’t believe the person who had been dogging their trail all this time was the fiancé of the German ace he’d shot down while saving Stede Bonnet over France. No matter, he thought. I’ll finish this tonight. One way or another.
As his boots hit ground at the foot of the pyramid, he could barely make out Maria’s running form along the pier in the distance, silhouetted by the burning canvas of the Luftpanzer. Its aluminum frame was bent and broken, looking like the ribcage of a colossal beast as it sank into the lake.
Jack found his footing on the long wooden pier. Already he could hear one of the Caspar engines rev. She was trying to fly out of here.
He wasn’t going to let that happen without a challenge.
Jogging down the narrow dock with only the moon and the dying fire of the giant airship to light his way, Jack finally arrived at one of three Caspar U.1 seaplanes moored with their noses facing in. Its cantilevered wings had no struts or wires between them. He could make out the shape of a Lewis gun mounted to the upper wing. At least there was armament.
There was a mooring line for each float, and he cast them both off, giving the plane a push backward as he climbed aboard.
The cockpit was small and the controls a no-frills affair. The Caspar U.1 was designed to be light and small, and to fit within a transport cylinder for submarine launch. What it lacked in strength, speed, and comfort, it made up for in ease of setup. Jack hit the ignition and the 5-cylinder radial engine sputtered to life. He revved it hard and used his feet to rudder the plane in a short turn. He felt down in the cubby by the seat and found a pair of cheap pilot goggles.
Better than nothing, he thought, and snapped them over his head.
Maria’s plane was already in the air, illuminated by the rising moon.
Jack throttled forward, maximum speed. The lake became black silk under him, the sinking Luftpanzer a deadly beacon to his right. He pulled back on the stick, and the Caspar nosed into the air, trailing water from the airborne floats.
The moon shone bright over the jungle, casting a blue-white blanket over the dark green canopy. Jack climbed in a slow corkscrew, keeping an eye on the plane in the distance. When he finally found the right altitude and air current to compliment his speed and angle of attack, he throttled forward, pushing the little plane to its top speed of 90 miles per hour.
The jungle trees whisked by underneath. In the distance ahead, he could see Maria banking into a turn. Clearly she knew that Jack was as tenacious an enemy as she.
Jack McGraw had flown nighttime raids and covert missions
during the war, but never had the personal stakes been higher. He stood up in the pilot’s seat and tilted the Lewis gun back to check the disc-shaped magazine on the top of the weapon. It was full. He pulled back hard on the cocking bolt, readying the gun for use, then sat back in his seat. He didn’t fasten the belt, as he knew mobility might be at a premium, and if he had to invert, he felt that he could brace with his legs to keep from falling.
Maria’s plane completed its turn and was now facing Jack’s. For an uncomfortable minute, the two planes barreled toward each other, the only sound the roar of the rotary engines. Then, when Jack had approximated the range of the Lewis, he reached for the trigger. There was a loud clack and the gun was silent. It had jammed.
Maria’s plane screamed toward Jack, her Lewis gun barking. Jack instinctively banked his plane away from the onslaught, taking a few rounds of incoming fire on the floats and belly of the Caspar. Every fourth round was a green-white blaze of light. Then they were past each other, banking around for another pass. But Jack knew he couldn’t clear his jammed machine gun while setting up another pass.
This was like a medieval joust, except Jack had no lance.
Maria banked in a hard turn. She’d seen his plane take damage and was emboldened by that.
Jack was out of options. He throttled forward and hauled back on the stick, climbing into the night sky.
He rolled out of the climb and felt his stomach leap in the moment without gravity, then his legs clamped to the outer edges of the cockpit to keep him in place, and he pitched forward into a sharp dive.
Maria lined up her shot and relaxed the throttle, letting him come to her. The Lewis gun chattered away, sending bright tracers into the night sky.
Jack felt the impact of bullets on the nose of the plane, sparks erupting from the engine cowling and propeller. They were just a few yards away now, Jack’s engine puffing with flame and spraying oil.
