Assault on Atlantis a-5

by Robert Doherty

  ‘’There is something ahead,” Kalansky said.

  The ride was getting rougher as the submersible was being tossed about in the torrent of water being sucked into the portal.

  “We cannot go back now,” Kalansky announced.

  Dane leaned forward and looked at the radar display. It indicated what appeared to be a solid wall directly ahead. “That’s the portal. Radar can’t penetrate it.”

  “Are you sure we can?” Kalansky asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And then’?” Kalansky pressed.

  “We should be in the Inner Sea of the Space Between,” Dane said.

  “And then?” Kalansky looked over his shoulder. “If you have a plan it might be good to share it with me, as we will reach this portal in less than two minutes.”

  “We land on the shore and link up with Amelia Earhart.” Dane said.

  “And where is all this water going?” Kalansky asked.

  ‘’Most likely to another portal and then on to the Shadow’s world.”

  Kalansky’s hands were fighting the controls, trying to keep the craft relatively stable. “If this volume goes from one place to another in this Inner Sea, the current in this Inner Sea will be tremendous. How do you suggest we get out of the current to the shore?”

  Dane hadn’t thought of that. He had simply known they had to go through a portal and the Devil’s Sea one was too dangerous.

  Kalansky looked over his shoulder. “You don’t have a plan, do you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “‘Not yet’? Kalansky turned his attention back to the Controls. “You’ve got one minute before we’re into this thing to come up with a plan.”

  Dane leaned back in the crash seat and closed his eyes. He felt the dread that close proximity to a portal always produced. But beyond that there was nothing. No voice. No vision, just darkness and-he was slammed against the shoulder straps and everything inside the submersible went dark.

  He heard Kalansky yelling something in Russian. Then Dane’s head slammed back against the seat as the front of the submersible rapidly dipped down. Within seconds it was upside down.

  “English,” Kolkov yelled at the pilot, who was still speaking rapidly in his native tongue.

  A dull red glow lit the interior as a battery-powered emergency light went on. “We’ve lost main power,” Kalansky said, his hands flying over the controls, flipping switches. “I’ve got no thrust, no steering, and if you haven’t noticed, we are inverted.”

  “Get us to the surface,” Dane said. He closed his eyes once more, reaching outward with his mind.

  “Surface of what?” Kalansky yelled back. “1 don’t even know where we are.”

  Dane pointed down, which was actually up. “That way. Drop ballast.”

  “If I drop ballast-” Kalansky began, but Dane cut him off.

  “Do it now. We’re still moving. We’re in the Inner Sea being drawn to the Shadow portal.”

  Cursing in Russian, Kalansky hit a lever. There was a ding sound and the submersible rotated halfway, so that they were now hanging on their left sides.

  “Some of the ballast won’t empty,” Kalansky said as he hit another lever. “It wasn’t designed to work upside down.”

  Dane looked to the portal to his right. There was the faintest sign of light. “We’re not too far from the surface.”

  “Got it,” Kalansky yelled as there was another grinding sound and the submersible rotated once more, this time to the upright position. ‘’We should be going up.”

  Dane unbuckled from the seat and moved to the ladder, clambering up. He began undoing the hatch. He flung it open, letting in a rush of foul black water-the Inner Sea. It slid over his exposed skin with a greasy feeling. He pushed up through it onto the top of the submersible. The first thing he noted was that they were moving-quickly-away from a massive portal behind them. Turning, Dane could see another portal about a quarter-mile ahead, equally large. The water from Baikal was forming a mile-wide stream in the middle of the Inner Sea, pouring from one to the other and taking the submersible with it. And hovering directly above the stream, about a hundred yards away, were two Valkyries.

  “Come on,” Dane yelled down into the submersible.

  In the time it took Kolkov to join him, the distance to the Valkyries had been cut in half.

  “Kalansky,” Dane called. He looked down and saw the Russian pilot looking up at him.

  “I cannot leave my ship,” Kalansky shouted.

  “How will we get back?” Kolkov argued.

  Dane had no time to argue with either of them. The Valkyies were moving apart, stretching something between them a rope. Dane dove down into the submersible, one hand on the ladder, the other gripping the collar of Kalansky’s wetsuit. He literally dragged the old man up the ladder.

  “Grab the rope,” Dane yelled at Kolkov.

  The Russian scientist looked doubtful, but there was no ne to question the order. Dane reached up with his free hand and grabbed hold of the rope. He was tom from the top of the submersible as it was pulled by underneath him. His other arm jerked hard as Kalansky dangled from it. The submersible continued its inexorable movement toward the portal.

  The two Valkyries began moving, heading toward shore, when Dane’s arm was jerked sideways. He looked down to see a red tentacle wrapped around Kalansky, holding the Russian even with Dane’s own altitude. The tip of the tentacle reared back, and opened, revealing razor-sharp teeth, then punched into the Russian’s back, exploding out of his chest in a gush of viscera and blood.

  Still Dane didn’t let go. The strain on his arms, particularly his hands, was unbearable. One of the Valkyries circled, coming close, and swept a free hand down, claws extended, slicing through Kalansky’s forearm, severing the hand Dane held from his body.

  Dane swung back to the vertical as the tentacle disappeared under the water with Kalansky in tow. The Valkyries gained altitude as several more tentacles popped out of the water, mouths agape, searching for targets. Dane felt one brush the bottom of his boot.

  As the Valkyries reached the shore, they descended until Dane’s feet touched the ground. He stumbled and then fell to his knees. Kolkov seemed to be in a state of shock. The front halves of the two suits split open and Earhart and Asper stepped out.

  “You can let go of that,” Earhart said to Dane, indicating the severed hand, which he still had a firm grip on.

  “Damn it.” Dane got to his feet, letting Kalansky’s hand fall to the ground. He looked back at the Inner Sea, half expecting to see the arms of a kraken reaching toward them, but the surface was flat black, belying the danger underneath.

  “I’m sorry;’ Earhart said. “ We haven’t seen a kraken in the Inner Sea in a while.”

  Dane blinked, reorienting himself from the loss of the Russian pilot. He briefly wondered if the man had family, then forced himself to face the reality of how many had already died in this war and how many were going to die if he didn’t succeed. “1 think the Shadow is guarding the portals more vigilantly. Rachel indicated there was an ambush at the Devil’s Sea portal.”

  “I know,” Earhart said. “She was here not long ago. The kraken must have just come through, because I picked up nothing from her about it.”

  “This is Professor Kolkov,” Dane said, indicating the Russian. “Professor, Amelia Earhart.”

  Kolkov was trying to get over the shock of Kalansky’s brutal death and taking in the vastness of the Space Between, and it was with great difficulty that he turned to Earhart and took her offered hand. “This is unbelievable. I read the reports from Mister Dane, but seeing it is so different.”

  Earhart glanced at the Inner Sea, then nodded toward the wall in the distance. “I say we put some space between us and the water.”

  Asper used the rope to take both suits in tow and they moved out, heading toward the small encampment of those stranded in the Space Between. As they crossed a low, black dune, Dane paused and looked back. He couldn’t see th
e Shadow sphere that had crashed here. But portals blocked much of the view of the Inner Sea. The black columns pulsed with power. He felt a moment of despair-was the vision he had a true one? And even if it was, could he accomplish it?

  And given that the only active portals in his time line were Baikal and the Devil’s Sea, where did all these other portals go to? And how many worlds were suffering under the assault of the Shadow?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE ROSEBUD CREEK, MONTANA TERRITORY: 17 JUNE, 1968

  Crazy Horse listened to Sitting Bull invoke the protection of the great buffalo as he fought to suppress a yawn. The elder chief was walking in front of the half-circle of select chiefs, holding up a buffalo skull, speaking in his famous loud voice of the Great Spirit and honor and glory in battle. Crazy Horse was standing near the rear, on the gentle slope leading to the small open space next the creek, looking down on Sitting Bull.

  Sitting Bull was chief of the Hunkpapa, one of the seven tribes of the Lakota Sioux. Those listening to him were chiefs representing not only the other six tribes, but several other tribes-Oglalas, Miniconjous, Sans Are, and Northern Cheyenne. They were here because the white men had sent out an edict that all the people who had not reported the previous winter to the reservations were the enemy. That proclamation had been followed by a winter assault along the Powder River, where Wooden Leg’s village was routed, the survivors showing up at Crazy Horse’s encampment. The white men had retreated quickly after destroying the village, but now the Word Was that several columns of blue coats were on the move from the north and south.

  Although Crazy Horse was not impressed with Sitting Hull’s extensive oratory, exhorting the various leaders to unite together to fight the white man, he did have to admit he respected both Sitting Bull’s bravery and his strategic sense. Sitting Bull was one of the few chiefs who spoke frankly of the fact that the penchant for warriors to put acts of individual bravery above that of fighting cohesion would doom them in battle against the blue coats and their massed fire-power.

  Sitting Bull had been one of the first chiefs to espouse using the white man’s rifles over the bow. To focus on ambushing parties of surveyors and miners, recognizing them as the tip of the white man’s intrusion into their country. He had been preaching for years that the tribes needed to put aside their differences and unite to face the whites or they were doomed.

  Now there were three columns of soldiers approaching. Three Stars — General Crook-was the closest, coming from the south, from the place the whites had named after the officer Crazy Horse had helped ambush, Fort Fetterman. Others were to the east and north, but not close enough to have been spotted by the far-ranging scouts Sitting Bull had sent out.

  Behind Sitting Bull was a tall pole, stripped of bark, on which a buffalo skull had been set. Leather lariats with bone awls hung limply from the top, ready to be used. Crazy Horse saw no need for a sun dance. They knew the whites were coming, and they knew the only choices were to go to the reservation, run to the west-which wasn’t practical given the harshness of the mountains-or fight. But he knew Sit· ting Bull was trying to do something unprecedented — unite all these disparate tribe to fight as one. Such an act required great shows of power and symbolism.

  Sitting Bull pulled off his tunic. His chest was covered with scars from previous sun dances. Medicine men came up to him, painting his hands and feet red and drawing blue stripes across his broad chest. Then his brother, Jumping Bull, performed the “scarlet blanket,” using an awl and knife. Starting at Sitting Bull’s right wrist, his brother inserted the awl, lifted up a section of flesh, then sliced it off with the knife, all while Sitting Bull’s face remained calm and he murmured prayers to the Great Spirit. Working quickly, Jumping Bull sliced his way up the arm, inflicting fifty cuts. Then he went to work on the left arm.

  Crazy Horse looked about at the warriors watching the ceremony. He could tell they were impressed at Sitting Bull’s lack of reaction to the pain. When his brother was done, the Hunkpapa chief held up both bloody arms as his offering to the Great Spirit. Crazy Horse thought the fact that Sitting Bull had to draw his own blood to impress the other leaders had an intrinsic flaw in it, although he couldn’t exactly put his finger on it.

  Sitting Bull then ordered all except a handful of senior leaders to leave. His brother and the others mounted their ponies and rode off. Once they were gone, the sun dance began.

  Crazy Horse did not participate. He stood still as a stone, looking down the creek, waiting. He knew who was coming, but he didn’t know why.

  Just as dusk was falling, a lone figure appeared, riding up the creek from the south. Crazy Horse was the first to see him, as the others were engrossed in their pain-filled dance. A white man on a tall horse, with a loaded pack mule behind him, approached.

  As the dancers became aware of his presence, there was a minute of confusion as they tried to separate in their dance fever whether the man was real or a vision. Crazy Horse walked past the dancers to the water, his rifle resting in the crook of his arm.

  “Brother,” Mitch Bouyer called out in Lakota.

  Crazy Horse ignored the greeting as he always had. “You have power with you. I can feel it.”

  Bouyer dismounted. The others, tethered to the center pole, were still, watching, waiting and listening. Crazy Horse felt like he was on the edge of a knife, balanced between the power of the sun dance behind him and the aura of whatever it was Bouyer was bringing in front of him.

  Bouyer held up both hands, empty palms out. “I come in peace.”

  “For now,” Crazy Horse said.

  “War comes.”

  Bouyer glanced over his shoulder. ‘’Three Stars is a day’s ride away. With many soldiers and Crow Indians.”

  Crazy Horse spit into the water running between his feet. “The Crow will die with the whites.”

  Bouyer looked past him at the dancers. “Many tribes.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the Crow ride with the whites.”

  Crazy Horse felt some of his anger drain, as if drawn out by the passing cool water that ran against his legs. What Bouyer said was true. Even though many had gathered here on the Rosebud, there were still those who would rather fight against all of the other tribes rather than the whites. He’d always known this, but like the scar on his face from Black Buffalo Woman’s husband, it was something he had always chosen to ignore, not wanting to face the reality of what it meant-that what he wanted the present and future to be did not matter. It would be what it would be, regardless of his feelings, hopes or desires.

  Bouyer led the two animals out of the water and tied off both to a sapling. He then took a large cloth-bound case off the mule. He carried it to the center pole of the sun dance, walking around Sitting Bull. He placed the case at the base of the pole, then opened it. He pulled out a leather satchel. Then eight more. He untied the cord at the top of the first satchel and pulled down the leather, revealing a crystal skull. He put it on the ground next to one of the buffalo skulls Sitting Bull had arranged. He continued until there were nine skulls aligned. Each one was lit from within with a pale blue glow.

  “What is this?” Crazy Horse walked up to Bouyer.

  Bouyer ignored his “brother” and looked at the older chieftain who was still tied to the center pole, arms encrusted with dried blood from one hundred wounds. Sitting Bull reached with both hands and ripped the awls holding the lariats out of his chest. He knelt next to the closest skull and ran his hands over the smooth surface.

  “Powerful medicine,” Sifting Bull said. He looked at Crazy Horse. “Why did he call you brother?”

  “Nahimana was our mother,” Bouyer said.

  “She bore you,” Crazy Horse said, “but she was not your mother.”

  Sitting Bull glanced between the two. “I have heard strange stories of Nahimana-” he held up his hand as Crazy Horse stepped toward him—“no dishonor intended upon you or your family. It is said the Great Spirit visited her when she carri
ed you,” he continued, looking at Crazy Horse. “That there was powerful magic at your birth.”

  Crazy Horse turned to Bouyer. “Why are you here? Why do you bring those?” He indicated the crystal skulls.

  “They are part of our destiny,” Bouyer said.

  “How?” Crazy Horse demanded.

  Bouyer pulled out a metal tube, which Crazy Horse recognized. Bouyer unscrewed the top and removed a piece of paper. He pointed at a skull and then the person whose name he read: “Sitting Bull. Crazy Horse. Gall.” He paused, as the last person wasn’t present. “And Walks Alone.”

  “Walks Alone is a boy,” Crazy Horse protested.

  Sitting Bull raised a hand, silencing the protest. “What do you want?”

  “Four skulls for the four people.”

  “Why?”

  Bouyer shrugged. “I don’t know exactly, but I know it is our destiny. There will be a great battle soon, not here but on the Greasy Grass. The Son of the Morning Star leads his blue coats there.” Bouyer paused, then he said the words. “Many soldiers falling into camps.”

  “How do you know that?” Sitting Bull demanded. “I had that vision years ago and have told no one of it.”

  “I have visions also,” Bouyer said.

  “Why should we trust you?” Sitting Bull asked.

  “Three Stars is camped on this creek, near the old willow felled by lightning two springs ago,” Bouyer said.

  “1 know the place,” Sitting Bull said.

  “He has no pickets out and no guards. His troops are unprepared. The Crow hunt buffalo between here and there.”

  “Why do you tell us this?” Sifting Bull demanded. ‘They are your people.”

  “All people are one,” Bouyer said.

  Crazy Horse stepped between the two. ‘’There are five other skulls.”