Emerald Death (7 page)

*****

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 behind 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.”

            “Slam bang, yeah I bet that’s what you were doing all over my plane.  Slamming and banging against the fuselage.”

            “It was worth it Bridget.  You’re safe.  That’s what matters the most to me.”

            “Listen Hardluck, don’t go all mushy on me.  We saved each other’s life; it happens a lot out here.”

            “Why do you keep calling me that?”

            “Calling you what?”

            “Hardluck.”

            “Because you have the hardest luck of any man I have ever met!  If it were not for bad luck, Mike Hannigan, you wouldn’t have any!” She winked, to let him know that she was only joking… mostly.

            “
Hardluck Hannigan
; now why do I have a feeling I’ll be living up to that name all my life?” he asked.

            “Hmm, maybe because it suits you?” Bridget asked, rolling her eyes.

            “Could be,” he grinned. 

            “We were damned lucky none of their hits penetrated the engine cowling.  Otherwise this trip might not have had the happy ending it has so far.”

            “Yeah.  I wonder how much time we have before the Nazi zeppelin catches up with us?” Hannigan asked.

            “With any luck they won’t see us at all.  Where I landed, we have a pretty thick canopy of jungle overhead.  The trees really grow out over the river here,” Bridget replied.

            “Is the engine okay then?” he asked.

            “It’s as good as a new one,” Bridget replied.

            “You know I want to kiss you, right?” Hannigan asked.

            “I know you want to use a toothbrush before you try it,” She replied with a grin.

            “As long as you know,” he grinned back. 

            “After you use a toothbrush,” she smiled back and it was a smile full of promise.

            “I can live with that,” Hannigan grinned.

                        *****

            Doctor Ragnarok scanned the jungle below as the zeppelin moved deeper into the Congo basin.  It had been years since he had thought of Captain Dane Hawkins, the man responsible for his disfigurement.  It had shocked him when Hawkins had drawn a pistol as opposed to the antique hatchet he normally carried.  The pistol had been totally out of character for the American.  The bullet had counter-acted his warding and turned the spell he had been casting back in on himself.  It was something he should have foreseen, but he had not.  Instead it had cost him his human face and locked him into a mortal body.  The Emerald of Eternity was his only chance to free himself from his fleshy prison.

            The Emerald of Eternity had been created in Atlantis before the dawn of recorded time.  The greatest wizard in Atlantis, Oshram Kadella, had not only created the emerald, but had stored in it the life force of ten thousand people, enough to make him immortal.  Ironically, immortality had not been Kadella's goal; he knew the toll that magic was taking on his body, on his soul, so he had taken it and fled Atlantis, vanishing into the jungles of a giant uncharted continent: Africa. 

It had taken Ragnarok more than two millennia to track the emerald down.   Now it was within his grasp once more and he would not allow it to escape him again.  Captain Hawkins had stopped him the last time... one of only a few who had been a constant thorn in his side.  Ragnarok dropped into a seat and looked backwards in time….