Читать книгу Shadow Fortress - James Axler - Страница 11

Dean was surprised how easily the craft was constructed.

The sun was hovering just above the horizon by the time the balloon was ready to launch. The cargo netting barely proved adequate to contain the weather balloons as they were filled with helium from the pressurized tanks. With each balloon, another rope had been tied to the plastic pallet to keep the craft from soaring away, and the companions ceased adding balloons only when the overhead net was completely filled, the anchor ropes creaking from the strain of containing the lighter-than-air vehicle.

“These will help,” Krysty said, tying a lumpy bag to the pallet. Trousers from the dead paratroopers were tied off to make crude sacks, and then filled with broken pieces of electronic equipment from the cockpit. The counterweight would give them a hair more control over the flying craft. Not much, but every little bit helped. But the balloons didn’t descend in the slightest until six more of the heavy bags were lashed into place.

“She’s got more than enough lift,” Mildred said, beaming in pleasure at the buoyant craft. The bobbing net filled with the taut balloons nearly blocked out the stars it was so large. “We’ll ride like kings on the wind.”

“Till crash-land,” Jak added grimly, standing guard over the pile of their backpacks. They had all removed their packs to work faster, but wisely didn’t toss them into the rope basket of the flying machine until ready to launch. If a rope broke and the packs soared away with all the food and ammo, they would be good as chilled.

“She needs a name,” Dean said, studying the huge thing, then glanced at the airplane. “Did Hercules have a kid?”

Checking the anchor ropes, Doc paused to scratch his head. “Indeed, he did. Three sons, but I cannot recall any of their names.”

“Don’t need a name, long as it works,” Ryan said, zipping up his pants as he stepped from the plane. “Remember to use the washroom before we go. And throw away anything not needed. Weight is at a premium.” The craft had plenty of lift now, but not with seven people in its basket.

“Never thought we’d leave the island this way,” J.B. observed, placing a cigar in his mouth. The pilot had been carrying a pocket humidor of the best quality, and two of the cigars inside were in smokable condition. The Armorer was trying hard to quit, but sometimes the urge simply couldn’t be denied.

Reaching in a pocket, he pulled out a butane lighter and Doc rushed forward to snatch the device from his grasp.

“Are you mad, John Barrymore?” Doc whispered urgently, brandishing the lighter. “Hydrogen is extremely flammable! One spark and we’ll be blown to pieces.”

“Not filled with hydrogen,” J.B. replied curtly. “Helium.”

Doc paused in confusion. “Helium,” he repeated slowly. “The word sounds familiar, but I fear its meaning eludes me.”

Refilling the canteens from a lotus flower that bled water, Mildred gave a start and stared at the man askance, then slowly recalled that the element was discovered around 1870 by Sir somebody or other. Damn, she couldn’t recall the name. Maybe helium wasn’t in wide usage by the time Doc was trawled.

“Trust me,” Mildred said, topping off a canteen and letting the excess water flow onto the broad wing. “We’re completely safe. Helium is a noble gas, totally inert.”

“Really, madam?” Doc exhaled deeply. “In truth, I had been deeply worried about an aerial conflagration. The Army of the Potomac constantly had their observation balloons destroyed by flaming arrows from Lee’s rebels.”

“Can’t happen here,” she stated confidently, screwing on the last cap and slinging the heavy container over her back.

“How delightful to know.” Doc said, then passed back the light. “Yours, I believe.”

“Thanks,” J.B. drawled, pocketing the lighter. For some reason he no longer had an urge to smoke, the image of the airship exploding into flames filling his mind.

“We are gonna fly,” Dean said excitedly, swatting a skeeter and lifting his head to look at the darkening sky. The fiery storm clouds weren’t bad, lots of distant thunder, but very little sheet lightning. Plus, there was no smell of rotten eggs, so the chances of acid rain were zero.

“I say we wait another hour until night,” Ryan suggested, squatting on the wing. He pulled out a stick of gum from an MRE pack and started chewing. “We disappear in the darkness, then Mitchum and Glassman can search the nuke-shitting jungle for us till they chill as wrinklies.”

“Sounds good,” Jak said, walking carefully up the ramp into the plane. The predark bandage on his ankle eased most of the pain. Running was out of the question, but at least he could walk again without gritting his teeth.

“Mebbe we should leave now. The wind is right,” Krysty announced, her animated hair moving with the tangy sea breeze. “With any luck, it’ll carry us straight to the next island.”

“Mebbe,” Ryan muttered thoughtfully.

“How about the Jules Verne, or better, the Papillon,” Mildred said out of the blue. “That’s a good name. She’s not a war wag, after all, just an escape pod.”

“The Papillon,” Doc said, arching a snowy eyebrow. “And if I recall my French correctly, why should we christen it, the Butterfly, madam?”

Before Mildred could explain, from somewhere in the growing darkness came the long drawn-out howl of a hound dog. Immediately, the companions pulled blasters and waited, listening hard. His boots softly tanging on the metal deck, Jak appeared at the hatch-way, his belt partially undone, both knife and Magnum blaster at the ready.

The barking of hounds grew fainter, then came back strong until it seemed the beasts were directly under the plane. Seconds later came the roar of Hummer engines, and the voices of men.

“Look at the dogs, sir!” a man cried. “They must be in the trees!”

“Shut up, you damn fool!” a deeper voice snapped. “Now they know we’re here.”

“Open fire!” a third voice commanded, and a fusillade of blasters cut loose, the big .75-caliber mini-balls from the flintlocks peppering the tree branches and ripping the flowers apart. A stray shot punctured one of the lower balloons of the airship, and with a long blubbering hiss it began to deflate.

“Stop firing!” another man shouted angrily. “Glassman wants them alive!”

There came the sounds of grunting from below, and the companions knew that armed sec men were climbing the trees. Fast and silent, Mildred grabbed a backpack and heaved it into the rope basket. Jak joined her efforts, and when the airship was loaded, he awkwardly climbed in himself.

Standing on the wing of the great plane, Ryan felt hot blood pumping through his veins and fought to control his terrible temper. He hated to run from a fight, but if the balloons got damaged they would be trapped there. It was now or never.

Getting into the basket, he accepted the handful of canteen straps from Doc, who climbed in, closely followed by J.B. and Krysty. Holding his knife to an anchor line, Ryan whistled softly, but his son ran to the edge of a wing and drew the Veri pistol. Taking a balanced stance, Dean fired the magnesium charge straight down. The flare hissed away, and seconds later there came a blinding flash of light from below, followed by numerous screams. Dean fired twice more, changing the angle of the shots, and there came a large explosion, bitter smoke fumes rising into the trees. He had to have hit a Hummer.

Turning, the boy started for the balloon when a sec man appeared amid the gently waving leaves of a nearby banyan tree. Blaster in hand, the soldier paused for a moment, startled at the sight of the bizarre floating craft, and that split second of indecision was all Ryan needed to ace the man with the SIG-Sauer blaster. The sleek weapon gently coughed twice, and the sec man’s eyes disappeared, instantly becoming bloody holes. The lifeless corpse released the branch and plummeted into the foliage below.

“Black dust, it’s Jimbo!” a voice cried.

A second replied, “Screw Glassman! Let’s ace the fuckers!”

Suddenly, a .50 cal burped into life, the bottom of the plane rattling with incoming rounds, the skeletons in the jumpseats shaking apart as if dancing. Holes were punched through the wing, the flowers exploding into tiny sprays of juice and petals. Dean remained motionless until the barrage stopped, then he raced to the airship. He barely got a leg over the ropes when another sec man swung into view on a vine and landed on the wing of the plane. Jak jerked his arm forward, and the invader staggered backward, blood gushing around the knife jutting out of his throat. As the man dragged the flintlock pistol from his belt, Ryan fired his SIG-Sauer once more, the 9 mm slug spinning the man off the wing. His scream lasted for brief seconds, then abruptly stopped.

More rounds peppered the hull of the craft, and another balloon was punctured as the companions rapidly cut through the anchor lines. Another face appeared in the leaves, and Doc had no choice but to trigger the LeMat. The massive blaster thundered flame at the invader, the soft-lead miniball blowing away half of his face. But even as the mutilated corpse fell, two more men swung out of the trees holding on to vines. Both landed on the wing of the plane and dropped flat, opening firing with their flint-lock pistols. One sec man fired at the Hercules, while the other turned his attention to the waving balloon and basket. A miniball hummed past Ryan as he returned fire with the barking H&K, but the smoky discharge from the black-powder weapons effectively masked the position of the prone invaders.

From the jungle below, the crackling of the flames steadily became louder, and it was soon apparent that the trees were on fire. Extending his arm as far as he could reach, Ryan managed to slash another anchor rope. The other ropes would have to be cut by whoever was near them. The companions were packed like sardines in the little basket, and it was difficult to move.

Their rifles spent, the sec men pulled pistols and fired again. While they hastily reloaded, the companions shot blindly into the smoke, eliminating both. But with the wing directly beneath them, the companions were unable to shoot at the sec men until they peeked into view from the trees. Sniper fire erupted from the shadows, but most of it was concentrated on the Hercules. The darkness worked both ways, and it was obvious that the ville sec men thought the companions were hidden in the plane.

Tongues of flame lanced from the treetops, the miniballs peppering the hull of the huge aircraft and punching straight through, the stressed aluminum no match for the heavy wads of rolled lead. Unexpectedly, an explosion shook the Hercules.

“By the Three Kennedys, that was a helium tank!” Doc thundered, firing the LeMat again. A sec man fell from the trees, hitting another and they both dropped out of sight. A voice cried from below, sounding more surprised than in pain. “The gas may be inert, but those pressurized tanks burst apart like a bomb when hit!”

“How many left!” Ryan demanded, tracking the muzzle-flashes in the trees and firing back just slightly above. Almost every time he was rewarded with a scream.

But the sec men were learning that trick and starting to fire back at the people in the rope basket. J.B. grunted as a miniball hummed by so close he felt the heat of the lead. An inch to the left would have aced him on the spot.

“Too damn many!” Mildred spit, working the slide to clear a jam. “If a chain reaction starts, with the helium tanks damaging each other, the wave of shrapnel will tear the Herc apart, and us along with it!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean told her, slashing through the last anchor rope with his bowie knife. Instantly, the balloon began to drift leisurely across the wing as it followed the gentle evening breeze, heading straight for the sec men in the trees.

“Too heavy!” Jak started to saw at the tough plastic ropes holding the weighted bags. The loss of the two weather balloons may have grounded the airship before its maiden flight. The first bag dropped away and nothing happened.

More sec men appeared in the foliage, firing their handcannons in a cacophony of blasts, a stray round nicking one of the plastic ropes holding the overhead netting in place. Swinging up the Uzi, J.B. cut loose with the subgun in a stuttering spray and emptied nearly a full clip into the trees, wounded sec men slumping over branches, the dead falling away like overripe fruit.

Screams filled the night, black smoke was pouring from the ground fire and flintlocks threw hot lead everywhere. Holstering her piece, Krysty went to slash the next weighted bag, but it snapped before her blade could touch the plastic rope. Instantly, the balloon and its crew bobbed straight into the air, their velocity increasing with every second.

“Hot pipe,” Dean whispered, watching the wreckage of the Hercules and the jungle dwindle below them.

As the strange craft cleared the trees, the evening wind took hold and they swung away from the crashed plane and over the treetops. Continuing to shoot, Ryan could see the sec men swarm over the smoking Hercules, several managing to climb on top to send a unified volley toward the escaping airship. Another balloon in the net noisily deflated. Their craft slowed its ascent, and Mildred frantically dropped one of the few remaining bags in response.

“Not enough,” Krysty said with a frown, holstering her blaster. Drawing the Veri pistol, she took careful aim and sent a blinding flare directly into the open cargo door of the Hercules. It ricocheted off the metal floor and disappeared into the cargo hold. Moments later, the interior of the plane became violently illuminated with the hellish red light from the sizzling magnesium charge. The woman sent in a blue flare, then a yellow, in an effort to set off the huge stacks of old ammo. Even a small explosion could damage the helium tanks and stop the sec men from shooting at them. She had no idea if guncotton lost its ginger over the decades the way black powder did, but the C-4 plastique sealed safe inside the airtight warheads of the big 40 mm Bofor rounds should be strong as ever. Hopefully.

Shifting position, Dean joined her and the two sent more incandescent flares into the ship before Ryan stopped them.

“Save it,” he directed sternly. “May need these to get out of here.”

“Flares?” Krysty demanded as she tucked away the stubby blaster. Then comprehension filled her face. “Right. Hadn’t considered that.”

The blasterfire from the sec men became sporadic as the airship rose high into the night, and then without warning a gout of flame belched from the open hatchway of the Hercules as the entire vessel shook. Then the hull split open lengthwise as the craft disappeared in a blinding thunderclap. The concussion of the staggering blast savagely rocking the balloon, causing Jak to lose his grip on the ropes and fall to the pallet, grabbing his bad ankle.

Incredibly, the tandem-mounted Bofors chattered into action as the corroded shells in their breeches cooked off from the heat, kicking the cannons into momentary life. Four stuttering streams of tracer shells flew in every direction, the ancient 40 mm war-heads detonating randomly.

As the rumbling mushroom cloud spread outward, the wave of shrapnel arrived, burning bits of wreckage soaring across the sky. A burning motor went straight by the companions to arch gracefully over the jungle and head back down like a meteor toward the nearby ocean. Then the partially dismantled ejector seats launched from the flaming wreckage, propelled high and wide by the rocket engines built into their stout titanium frames. At the apogee of flight, two of the rockets unexpectedly detonated, but the rest disengaged and white parachutes blossomed from the backs of the chairs. Then the ancient silk ripped apart under the weight of the empty seats, and the predark safety mechanism fell into the dark greenery to crash out of sight.

A roiling gout of flame washed over what little remained of the Hercules, and then the airplane simply vanished in yet another strident detonation of ancient ordnance, the windows finally shattering, the propellers spinning madly away.

Drifting ever higher above the burning rain forest, the companions watched as the remains of the destroyed aircraft began to slowly sink out of their sight. Distorted by the distance, the wreckage hit the ground in a muffled crash, the sec men and dogs trapped underneath screaming briefly then going utterly silent.

“We did it,” Mildred said softly, a touch of disbelief in her voice. “The damn thing actually works!”

“Fare thee well, Glassman and Mitchum,” Doc muttered, looking at the battle zone, his face ruddy from the flickering lights. As if in harmony with the destruction below, the ever present storm clouds rumbled threateningly above.

“We’re free and clear,” Dean said, the salty wind blowing back his unruly hair and making him squint.

“For the moment,” Ryan corrected him, rubbing a hand over his unshaved jaw. “Better start checking for damage. Still have a long way to go tonight, and we have to figure out how to land this thing without going into a rad pit and chilling ourselves.”

“Or landing in a volcano,” Krysty added, cracking open the Veri pistol to dump a spent shell and slide in a live round. “Forbidden Island has a lot of those.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Any ideas?” Jak asked.

“Working on it,” Ryan said grimly, tightening his grip on the topmost plastic rope.

SILHOUETTED by the cold moonlight, something flew above the convoy of Hummers tearing along the jungle road, but Mitchum paid it no attention. Probably just a cloud or a bird. Nothing important. They were heading toward the sounds of battle, naturally assuming that one of the recce squads had found the outlanders. Soon, Ryan would be dead at his feet. The thought filled him with an almost sexual pleasure, and he chuckled softly.

But suddenly, the .50 cal in one of the war wags started chattering loudly and men began shouting, cursing and screaming.

“Close ranks, volley fire!” Glassman shouted in an automatic response, hastily glancing around for any sign of their attackers. It had to be Ryan and his crew of coldhearts. Nobody else would dare to challenge an armed convoy. However, nothing was in sight but the cool jungle and the long empty road. What the hell was going on here?

“What in nuking hell is that?” a sec man gasped, staring at the nighttime sky in abject horror. As others looked in the same direction, some went pale, several screamed, more dropped their blasters from trembling hands. One weeping man bolted from the Hummer and dashed madly into the thorny bushes alongside the old road, uncaring of the deep gashes and rips he received.

Unnerved by these reactions, Mitchum glanced up from the wheel and savagely braked the Hummer, almost losing control. The other wags did the same, narrowly missing slamming into one another.

The collection of sec men and navvies stared into the sky without speaking. Floating high above them was something that resembled a bunch of huge balls caught in a fishing net, with a sort of basket slung underneath.

“Plane. It’s a bastard plane,” Campbell said hoarsely, backing into the .50 cal and sitting impotently atop its polished brass gimbal. The machine gun in the other wag continued firing until the barrel grew hot and it jammed.

“Nukes from above,” someone whimpered.

“Rad me…” Glassman whispered, instinctively drawing his revolver and pointing it skyward. He could tell the object was out of range for the weapon, but the feel of steel gave him a much needed boost of courage. A flying machine. He shuddered. The very thought made his blood run cold.

“S-skydark,” a sec man croaked, barely able to speak.

Another trembling man slipped from the wag and ran away.

“Ryan.” Mitchum cursed. So the big bastard had some sort of a predark flying machine, eh? That explained a lot. Marooned on the island chain, just trying to find a boat so they could leave. What a crock of shit. The outlanders had to be invaders from the mainland, spying out the local villes. Lies, everything Ryan had told him were now obviously lies!

Even as he raged at the sight, Mitchum fought back a shiver at the thought of a fleet of dozens of air wags filling the sky and dropping bombs onto villes. Even the lord baron would be defenseless against such an attack. It would be no more of a fight than clubbing a chained slave to death.

“Sergeant Campbell, shoot that thing down!” Glassman roared, stepping from the wag and firing his revolver at the flying object. The cracks of the .38 seemed lost in the immense jungle.

There was no reply.

“Sergeant, shoot the fifty!”

“Y-yes, s-sir,” Campbell managed to say, fumbling with the arming bolt with sweat-slick hands. Twice he lost his grip, then dried his hands on his pants, worked the bolt and started pounding lead at the bobbing aircraft.

“Stop wasting ammo! They’re too far,” Mitchum stated furiously, leaning forward to press his face against the windshield. “Launch a Firebird!”

“S-sir?” someone asked, turning to the captain.

“Belay that! Too many trees in the way,” Glassman countered, holstering his useless piece. “We need a clear shot. Back to Cascade! We’ll strike from the beach.”

“We’re heading north,” Mitchum snapped, starting the engine. “Only a few miles from here there’s a cliff that juts over the breakers. They’re following the wind, so we can outmaneuver them on land.”

“Get moving!” Glassman ordered. “And prepare a Bird. One warning shot and they’ll surrender quick enough.”

“Ryan will never surrender,” Mitchum stated in a growl, throwing the wag into gear. “We ace the bastard, or he escapes. There is no other choice.”

Visions of his family before a firing squad, Glassman opened his mouth to speak, then shot a glance at the thing in the sky. Desperately, he tried to cook up any kind of a plan to capture the flying machine, and nothing came to mind. He was down two men already. How could you trap a bird in flight? The only way he knew was with another flying machine. Lacking that, all he could do was chill the outlanders.

A great and terrible calm flowed over the officer as he realized this failure meant the death of his wife and child. Then his temples pounded with the knowledge that if they had to die, then so would the accursed Ryan and his crew!

“Prepare every Firebird we have,” Glassman stated, feeling oddly detached from the world, as if he were watching this happen to somebody else. “We’ll blow them out of the bastard sky and feed the fish their bones. Now move these wags!”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the navvy replied hesitantly, and commenced readying the entire pod of deadly missiles.

“Time to die, traitor,” Mitchum said, baring his teeth in a feral snarl as he began racing down the cracked length of predark asphalt.