Emerald Death (10 page)

            The element of surprise had served them well.  With Hannigan and Morgan rowing determinedly, it had taken only a couple of minutes to reach the riverboat.  The four of them had hurried aboard and Morgan had passed out rifles to Bridget and McKenzie.  He had taken the gun reluctantly, but with a sigh of grim determination accepted it and knelt down behind the gunwale. 

            “We’re going to be outnumbered,” Hannigan had hissed in the darkness.

            “It’s too late to run away,” the boat’s captain had argued.

            “That’s not what I mean.  We need to do something to tip the balance in our favor.”  He glanced around, looking for inspiration, and when he spied the spare fuel cans, he found it.

            Working feverishly, Hannigan had rigged one of the cans into a giant Molotov cocktail, and decanted the rest of the petrol into the water.  Then armed with both his trusty .45 and his Zippo lighter, he had crouched behind the low gunwale and waited as the sound of the other boat drew closer.

            The battle had been over before it was begun.  Although the pirates had superior numbers, the defenders had struck first, slashing their strength by half in the first salvo.  Hannigan’s field-expedient explosives had taken care of the rest.

            Some of the attackers had tumbled off the boat into the black water of the Congo River.  Their screams still echoed loudly in Hannigan’s ears as he remembered the sight of big Nile crocodiles, drawn by the scent of fresh blood in the water, literally ripping their victims’ limb from limb in a frothy bloody feeding frenzy.  The snuffling grunts of the feeding reptiles and the desperate cries of the dying pirates had sent chills along Hannigan’s spine, but the effect on the surviving pirates had been even more dramatic.  They had fled.

            Hannigan moved to Bridget, enfolding her into his arms as she let the muzzle of the rifle drop to the deck.  He touched her chin and raised it so he could look into her eyes “You okay, Kid?”

            Bridget’s eyes were wet with tears, if they were for the men she had killed or the innocence that she had lost, Hannigan didn’t know.  He kissed her softly, tasting the tears on her face.

            “Yeah, Mike, I, well I just never knew it could be like this,” she sobbed.  Hannigan hugged her tightly against him.

            “We need to get moving,” Morgan called from the pilothouse.  “We may have licked them, but they’ll be back and gunning for revenge.”

            Hannigan looked at McKenzie.  The priest seemed even paler against the darkness, more ghost than human as he nodded his head and went to aid Captain Morgan.

            “We’re safe,” Hannigan whispered as he kissed her forehead.  “Things will get better.”

            “Promise, Mike?” her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her over the engines.

            “I promise, Bridget,” Hannigan told her, meaning it.

                                   *****

            Only a few yards away, Niles McKenzie aimed the spotlight out across the black waters of the river, but his eyes were riveted on his daughter and Hannigan.

Though his expression did not show it, he was angry - angrier than he had been in a long time.  He had killed men tonight.  He knew that it was something that had to be done, but the justifications that good men used to ease their guilt at having to break one of the sacred commandments had long since failed to assuage his conscience.  He felt hollow and empty inside, much as he had during the War.

            Part of him blamed Mike Hannigan and his friends for forcing his hand and causing him to have to kill, but he knew better.  Hannigan hadn’t led the pirates here to imperil his daughter.  Rather, it was he that had kept her in this violent barbaric place.  His insistence on atoning for his past life had placed her in mortal danger.  More than that, he had held her back from having a life, and now the fruit of that misdeed was ripening.  She was becoming willful, and her naturally rebellious nature was about to launch her on a fool’s errand with a rogue - a handsome, charismatic rogue, but a rogue nonetheless.

            He had to get her out of this place, away from jungles and pirates, back to the States where she could have a good life.  But first, he had to persuade her to abandon the idea of traveling upriver and into the lands ruled by Prester John.

                                    *****

            Gregor Shotsky snapped to alert when he heard the sound of distant gunfire echoing through the jungle.  …A lot of gunfire.  The silence that followed was even more ominous.

            Had the Nazis found them?  He looked over to where Degiorno lay sleeping near the fire.  The Italian was so worn out from their escape that he slept through the noise, drowning it out with his snores. 

            The plane was their lifeline; he had to protect it at all costs.  Gregor moved towards the Grumman, jumping from the bank onto the float closest to the bank.  Ripples spread out across the river from the float.

            He remembered seeing an equipment locker in the pilot’s well; maybe there would be something there that would prove useful.  Clambering up into the cockpit, he began searching.  Tucked in with various tools and implements, he found a Very pistol, a type of flare gun, and four flares.  It was better than nothing.  He loaded one flare into the pistol and stuffed the rest into his pockets, and then scrambled back out of the cockpit.  Jumping back to shore, he concealed himself in the shadows and waited, his fist tight around the flare gun’s pistol grip.

            For several anxious minutes he waited, aiming the Very pistol in at a place on the opposite bank, as the sound of an approaching engine grew steadily louder, until at last, the riverboat came into view.

            A spotlight played across the black surface of the river, searching for obstacles that could stave in the bottom of the boat, but Shotsky’s gaze was drawn to the two people standing at the front of the boat, backlit in its glare. 

            Gregor breathed a sigh of relief.  It was Hannigan and the girl!  He lifted the flare gun and fired.

                                    *****

            Mike Hannigan laughed as he saw the streak of light from shore followed by the red starburst of the flare.  Shotsky was on top of things all right.  He turned and waved at Morgan, pointing towards the shore.

            The captain stayed with his vessel, while Hannigan and the others climbed into the skiff.  Hannigan set the oars and began rowing, quickly bringing them into the marshy shallows.

            A familiar voice called from the darkness.  “Hardluck, so glad you could join us at last.”

            Hannigan flashed him a grin back.  “Me too, Gregor.  Good work, finding that flare gun.”

            The Russian shrugged his shoulders.  “I do what I can.”

            “We got pirates on our tail.  I think we ran them off for tonight, but they might be back.”

            “What do we do?”

            Hannigan glanced at Bridget and McKenzie.  “We can defend the boat if the pirates return, but I think Bridget should take the plane on to the Mission.”

            “Amen,” McKenzie added unexpectedly.

            Hannigan was expecting Bridget to object, but instead she said only: “I can’t take off and land in the dark.”

            He sighed in defeat.  It was going to be a long night. He glanced at McKenzie, remembering the evident remorse the man had exhibited following the firefight with the pirates. “Here’s how we’ll play this.  Gregor and I will row out to the boat and keep watch with Captain Morgan.  Padre, you stay here with Bridget and Degiorno.”

            McKenzie nodded and Bridget, despite the protest in her eyes, held her tongue.  Hannigan turned his eyes to the Priest.  “First things first, Padre. You know a lot more about what’s going on than you’ve let on.  It’s time to level with us now.  What is out there?”

            “Do you think you are ready for this, Mr. Hannigan?” McKenzie replied soberly. “Ready for the truth?  I’ll tell you then.  There’s an army, Mr. Hannigan.  An army of the dead!”

            Hannigan regarded him with a cool unblinking stare.

            McKenzie sighed. “Have you ever heard of the legend of Prester John?”

Chapter Eleven

Hans Wessel sat back thoughtfully, digesting the news he had just received.  He felt his mouth twitch into a half-smile.  He had new orders concerning Ragnarok.  While the search for the Emerald of Eternity continued, the good doctor would continue to hold supreme authority, but once it was recovered, we would be expendable!  Doctor Ragnarok was now under a death sentence.

            It seemed that his squandering of two pilots and fighters from the elite Kondor Squadron of the Luftwaffe had caused him to fall out of Hitler’s favor.  Wessel’s new orders called for him to recover the gemstone and then rendezvous with Colonel Wolfgang Kondor.

            Kondor was an enigma.  The Luftwaffe did not openly acknowledge that such a man even existed and little was known about his history.  Nevertheless, an appointment to the Kondor Legion was the most coveted posting a pilot could hope for.  Whoever he was, the mysterious Colonel Kondor was refused nothing. 

            The most noteworthy example was the Valkyrie itself.   Officially, construction of LZ-131 had been abandoned as aircraft technology had made heavier than air flight more practical, but Kondor had picked up the pieces and finished building the enormous airship in secret.  Rumor had it, the Valkyrie was the first of a new fleet of zeppelins, and that Kondor was working on a spectacular flying airbase that could constantly provide fuel and repairs to entire fighter wings - all part of a massive unequaled sky armada.  With such a force, Germany could rule the skies, and from the skies, the world!

            Wessel smiled at the thought, his hand unconsciously dropping to the holstered Lugar on his belt.  World domination was a fine goal indeed, but he was more interested in disposing of a certain meddlesome wizard.

                                    *****

            It was Shotsky of all people who broke the silence to dismissively scoff, “Prester John, the ancient Christian Priest King?  He’s a legend, nothing more.”

            Niles McKenzie raised an eyebrow.  It was an obscure legend, and he hadn’t expected either of the young men to respond in the affirmative.   His face remained grim and tight, as did his voice.  “No, he is not.  I know this for a fact.”

            Mike Hannigan watched them both, unsure of who to believe or where any of this was going.  “I think I missed Sunday school the week they talked about him.  Anyone want to bring me up to speed?”

            “It is a story the old women tell, Michael.  Prester John was the son of Balthazar, one of the three Magi that visited Christ at the Nativity.  He’s the one who leaves naughty children a lump of coal.  According to the stories, Prester John protected a fabulous fortune that was later the envy of Mongol barbarians led by Genghis Khan. In the stories, his kingdom is in the Orient - an island of Christianity amid a sea of Muslims and infidels - but some versions say it is in Africa, Ethiopia to be exact, and that his fortunes remain undiscovered.”

            “So which is it?  Africa or the Orient?”

            Shotsky laughed.  “Neither.  It is a legend, nothing more.”

            “Prester John is more than just a legend,” McKenzie countered.  “While it is true that there is a great deal of falsehood in the stories you speak of, Prester John does exist, as does his kingdom - a rogue empire that is Christian in name only.  He is here in Africa, in the lost city Simbalwe; the very same city that you now seek.”

            Hannigan shot him a sharp look.  “How do you know what we’re looking for?”

            McKenzie did not deign to answer.  “Prester John will not permit anyone to violate the borders of his kingdom.  The Church has tried on several occasions to end his life.  Every attempt has failed.  In fact, the last assassin sent by the Church? His head ended up in the Pope’s bed.”

            “How typical of Rome,” Shotsky sneered.  “Your arrogance is without equal.  Rather than allow God to decide how he will be worshipped, you send your Inquisitions and assassins to protect your monopoly on faith.”

            Hannigan raised a hand to thwart Shotsky’s rant.  “So what happened?”

            “They sent me to keep an eye on him,” McKenzie said flatly.

            “They did that in order to what?” Hannigan asked, rolling his eyes.

            “To stop him if he showed any inclination to leave Simbalwe.” McKenzie said softly.

            “Back up,” Bridget interjected.  “You’re saying Prester John was alive in the time of Christ?  So the one here in Africa can’t be the same guy. He’d be nearly 2000 years old by now.”

            “He was rewarded with long life for his great faith,” Shotsky explained in a patronizing voice.

            “There’s another explanation,” Hannigan said.  “The Emerald of Eternity.”

            McKenzie’s sharp intake of breath confirmed the statement.

            “So the Church knows about the Emerald of Eternity,” Hannigan continued.  “Do they believe it’s real?”

            “Very real,” McKenzie replied soberly.

“I don’t know….”

“Don’t be too sure, Michael,” Shotsky offered thoughtfully.

“You were the one telling us it was a fairy tale,” Hannigan countered in disbelief.

Shotsky spread his hands apologetically.  “Well, most of this rather fantastic.  But if such a man did possess the emerald, then a great many things would be explained.”

Hannigan shook his head wearily.  “Mystic mumbo-jumbo.”

“You forget, Michael, until just a few years ago the Czar of my country had as an advisor a powerful sorcerer named Rasputin.”