Читать книгу Shadow Fortress - James Axler - Страница 12

A cool breeze wafted from the wine-dark sea over the aerial craft, the ropes creaking as its speed remained constant.

The balloon, now called Pegasus, as Mildred finally decided to name the craft, had leveled off at four hundred feet and sailed effortlessly along with the thick jungle spread over the landscape below like a lush green carpet. Here and there a craggy rise of bare rocks broke the cover, and to the west was the shiny flat expanse of the nameless lake, edged by the quagmire full of muties.

The churning ribbon of blue cut a path through the trees, and as the Pegasus sailed above the river, it abruptly descended to merely two hundred feet, and angled away from the winds to unexpectedly begin to follow the rushing waters. Disturbed by this, Ryan started to cut away another weighted bag, but Mildred stopped him.

“Not necessary,” she explained. “The cool air above the river forms a low-pressure zone that makes us drop a little. Nothing to be concerned about. Once we reach the sea, the Pegasus will go right back up and catch the high winds again.”

“Hope so,” Ryan replied curtly, holding on to the support ropes. “Because Cascade is built on a waterfall, this river could feed that.”

“Heading in the right direction,” J.B. added, checking his compass.

“Better do a recce,” Krysty suggested, trying to listen for any hints of men or machines. But the endless rustle of the leaves masked sounds coming from the ground.

“No prob,” the Armorer said, reaching into his shoulder bag to extract a short, fat, brass can.

Sliding the antique telescope to its full length, he swept the landscape. The storm clouds were thin in the sky, admitting a wealth of silvery moonlight, the jungle turning black in the reflected illumination. No birds were in flight, no campfires visible. Other than the burning wreckage they had left behind, the entire valley was peaceful.

Then tiny jots of yellow flickered into existence to the south. Following the river, J.B. adjusted the length of the telescope and brought into focus the outline of a predark bridge with a small ville built on top. The shore at one end was sealed off with some form of bamboo wall, tiny figures moving along the top. Beyond the bridge was more forest, partly masked by great clouds of mist.

“There’s a ville dead ahead,” he reported, struggling to hold the telescope steady against the rhythmic rocking of the rope basket. “Seems to be a waterfall just beyond. Must be Cascade.”

“How picturesque,” Doc rumbled in amusement. “A city on a waterfall.”

Mildred added, “Pretty slick if they know anything about building waterwheels.”

“Fireblast,” Ryan cursed, throwing his weight to the left to try to stop the rope basket from turning. The trick worked and the craft settled. “No wonder there are so many bastard wags in the area. Cascade was only a few miles away from the crashed plane. We were right on top of the baron’s troops.”

“Yeah, but do they know we’re coming?” Dean asked urgently, drawing his bowie knife and holding the blade to a plastic rope.

“Don’t think so,” J.B. answered slowly. As the Pegasus moved steadily toward the ville, more details were coming into focus, but the balloon was making him queasy with its crazy motions. His guts felt watery and cold.

“There are—” he swallowed hard and tried again “—there are some sec men moving along a defensive wall. But they’re smoking cigs, and one guy is taking a leak in the river.”

He lowered the brass scope and compacted it down in size. “The ville is way too quiet. I’d say they have no idea we’re coming.”

“Good,” Ryan said, drawing the SIG-Sauer. “Mebbe we can sail by and they never know it.”

“We’re going to be dangerously low as we pass,” Krysty reminded him, easing out the clip of the H&K blaster and counting the rounds she had remaining before sliding it back into the grip. “Mebbe we should drop another bag.”

“Only six left,” Mildred warned. “Best we save them for emergencies.”

As the ville swelled closer, J.B. tucked away the telescope. Now they could see the lit windows of brick houses, cooking fires scattered about on the ground and sputtering torches moving along the concrete streets. They heard the sounds of drunken singing and the crack of a whip followed by yowls of pain.

“Backpacks on the flooring,” Ryan ordered, sliding his off and stepping onto the canvas bag. The companions copied his action, but withheld shooting at the small figures of the sec men, knowing they were out of range.

In graceful majesty, the Pegasus silently floated over the wall of the ville, and a sec man screamed loud enough to be heard by the companions.

Calmly, they watched as the guards frantically dashed about waving their arms, and several dived into the river to escape from the horrifying sky machine. Then a cannon roared, throwing a smoke ring across the ville square, and a bonfire grew bright and strong to cast harsh light across the ville as a bell began to ring in strident urgency.

“Get ready,” Ryan said, tucking away the SIG-Sauer and drawing his H&K blaster. If silence was no longer important, he’d rather use the autofire. The sound suppressor on the SIG-Sauer cut down muzzle-blast, and he might need those few extra foot-pounds of pressure to accurately hit a target two hundred feet away.

Suddenly, a flight of arrows shot up from the ville to arc across the dark sky and impotently fell away, completely unable to reach the balloon.

“Thank God. These people have never heard of the longbow,” Doc muttered, one hand holding his H&K, the other resting on the checkered grip of the LeMat snug in its holster.

Directly above the settlement, they could see gardens planted on every rooftop, and a row of corpses hanging from nooses thrown over the side of the wall. Then a gasoline engine sputtered softly into action, and an electric light stabbed onto the shoreline, then angled upward to sweep across the sky.

Before the beam reached them, Ryan worked the bolt on the Steyr SSG-70 and fired a shot. The searchlight shattered into darkness, and a wild barrage of assorted blasters banged away from every roof in the bridgetop ville, the miniballs humming past the Pegasus by the dozens.

The companions returned the fire, and sec men fell from the walls. But more took their place, and tiny puffs of smoke from the ville announced further incoming rounds. Then a backpack on the floor jerked from an impossible hit.

“Fuck that,” Ryan growled, and pumped half a dozen rounds at the guards. Two dropped their blasters, clutching red bellies, another grabbed a limp arm and a fourth toppled over the bamboo wall falling onto the hard city streets.

Without warning, the Pegasus was past the wall and over the river once more, the dim lights of the ville fading into the distance. As the companions checked the vessel for damage, the balloon built speed, heading down the waterway straight toward the thundering falls only a hundred feet distant. A huge cloud of mist rose from the torrent flowing over the jagged cliff, effectively hiding whatever was beyond.

“Anybody hurt?” Mildred demanded, hugging her med kit.

“Only an MRE,” Krysty said, lifting the dripping backpack, red fluid oozing from the bullethole. “Spaghetti, I’d say.”

“Scorch! Don’t talk about food,” J.B. muttered huskily, mopping the sweat off his pale face. Dark night, he felt awful. What the hell was wrong with his guts?

As the craft entered the cool spray, the Pegasus lost height and was seized by a cross current, abruptly changing direction to race directly for the southern shore, a solid line of tall trees looming ahead.

“The branches!” Mildred warned, fumbling for her belt knife.

But Ryan already had his in hand, and cut away a weighted bag, just as Dean did the same on the other side of the rope basket. Instantly, the Pegasus flew higher and missed the row of trees by less than a yard. A flight of birds exploded from the branches at their passing, cawing angrily at the aerial invader.

Doc muttered something in Latin, and Mildred nodded agreement, thinking that had been much too close for comfort. Maybe the balloon hadn’t been such a great idea. Only an hour in the air, and already they had been nearly aced a dozen times.

Leaving the waterfall in its wake, the Pegasus caught the western winds once more and sailed away, free and safe again.

Looking behind, Ryan could see the trees along the edge of the cliff mixed with the misty cloud of the waterfall to perfectly hide the ville from any passing vessel. The layer stone of the ridge was only a couple of yards high, no more then three or four, and the sides sloped gently to a sandy beach. Jutting into the ocean waves, smooth spurs of volcanic rock formed natural docks for fishing boats and visiting ships.

Slinging the Steyr over a shoulder, Ryan grunted in approval. Mighty good location. Under the right hands, it could be quite a formidable settlement. Too bad it was under the control of some spineless futz brain who was loyal to Lord Baron Kinnison. He would never willingly bend a knee to a fool, no matter how much power and arms some baron wielded. The Deathlands warrior would rather die as a man than live as any form of a slave.

“Have at thee, stout hearts,” Doc announced, staring straight down. “And let loose the dogs of war!”

The companions looked in the same direction and saw that moored to the stony jetties were several of the lord baron’s PT boats, the decks full of men staring in fright at the balloon passing by overhead. Several raised their blasters, but none fired, some of the navvies taking refuge behind the pod of Firebirds, the smokestack of the engine or the big .50 cal machine gun.

“They’re no danger,” Ryan said in some satisfaction. “Too damn scared of us to try anything.”

The two groups stared hard at each other as the Pegasus moved over the open sea. Beyond the cooling influence of the falls, the airship steadily rose and built speed once more. Soon the peteys were left behind, far beyond blaster range.

Majestically, the balloon continued along the ragged coastline, following a volcanic peninsula of broken lava spurs that formed the eastern boundary of the large harbor. To the west was a vague palisade of forest and boulders forming a barrier to blunt the crushing waves and killer winds of tropical storms.

Yanking off his hat, J.B. stuffed the beloved fedora into his jacket, then did the same with his glasses.

“Hot pipe, I like flying.” Dean beamed in delight, holding on to the woven sides of the rope basket with both hands. “Makes my stomach feel like I’m steadily falling. Kind of tickles.”

Krysty smiled at the boy; there was still a lot of child left in the young warrior. Hopefully, that part of him would never die. She loved Ryan with all of her heart, but the man had dark places buried down deep inside that she’d never reach. Ryan was a steel blade, forged in emotional fires that would have melted most men. He survived, but would forever carry the scars of his own brutal creation.

“I say, John Barrymore, are you quite all right?” Doc rumbled in concern, studying the trembling man. “You seem rather pale.”

“Catch round?” Jak demanded, checking the man’s clothing for any signs of blood.

“Worse,” J.B. mumbled, then leaned over the top rope of the woven basket and proceeded to lose everything he’d recently consumed. Jammed next to the man, the others did their best to ignore the event and give him some privacy. Luckily, he was standing downwind of them at the rear of the basket.

After a few minutes J.B. lifted his face, a string of spittle hanging from his slack lips. “Dark night,” he gasped. “What the hell is wrong with me, rad poisoning?”

“Nonsense,” Mildred chided, placing a palm on his forehead, then checking his pulse. “You’re not dying, John. It’s just airsickness. The adrenaline rush of battle must have held it off until you relaxed. This happens to a lot of people.”

“Not me,” Dean announced, deeply breathing in the clean salty air. “Hey, look over there! It’s a whale!”

“Shut up,” J.B. muttered weakly, then started retching again. As a kid he had envied the birds in flight, sailing effortlessly over the deserts and rad craters. Never again.

When he was eventually finished, Mildred fumbled in her med kit to extract a small battered tin canteen. “Here, try this.”

Hawking and spitting to clear his mouth, J.B. took the canteen and drank a healthy swig of the contents in the canteen. The Armorer waited nervously to see if his churning stomach would keep the fluid, then greedily drank some more.

“What was that?” J.B. asked, passing back the container. He felt much better, his stomach calm and steady as if they were back on firm ground.

“Some of my jump juice,” she replied, screwing the cap on tight. Half the precious contents were gone, but this was what she had made it for. “I figured that if it helps with the nausea we get taking a jump in a mat-trans chamber, it should work for air-sickness, too. Did it?”

“Some,” he muttered hesitantly, then stood a bit straighter and slid on his glasses. “Yeah, it did. Thanks, Millie.”

“Any time, John.” She smiled, closing the straps on her med kit. This mix promised to be her best batch yet. Boiled tobacco leaves, menthol cough drops, honey, mint leaves and whiskey. Maybe she had finally found the right combination to keep them from puking out their guts after a bad jump. Some were easy as a nap in bed, but others were pure hell with nightmares and physical sickness.

“We’ve attracted attention,” Ryan said, pointing with his H&K autoblaster.

Large birds with tremendous wingspans were starting to circle the cluster of balloons. The shadows of the clouds blocking the moon disguised their features until one flew close and Ryan saw it was a condor. Exactly the same as the giant muties that attacked them on Spider Island. Doc said they were normally that size, but Ryan didn’t believe it. The triple-damn things were too fast and strong. Intelligent killing machines.

“Here they come!” Krysty shouted, pumping a round at the winged giants.

But instead of heading for the companions, the flock of condors dived straight for the cluster of weather balloons, clawing and pecking at them. The resilient plastic netting resisted their attacks, and the balloons themselves, designed to survive the worst tropical weather, proved too tough.

Defending their territory, the enraged flock now circled the cluster of balloons, screaming a challenge. A small condor dived straight through the ropes, its talons extended to rip apart the soft human flesh. The companions opened fire in unison, the barrage of lead blowing holes through the wings and forcing it back. Only wounded, the mutie charged again while another appeared, walking along the ropes with its claws, and dropped into the rope basket.

As the first dived into the ropes, the bird caught a wingtip in the complex rigging. With a gesture, a knife slid from Jak’s sleeve into his waiting hand and he stabbed upward, slit open its belly, then blew off its head with the .357 Magnum blaster.

Caught reloading his blaster, Doc slapped the second bird with the long barrel of his weapon, shattering its hard beak, then, while the creature was momentarily stunned, he tossed it overboard.

Leaving a contrail of blood, the condor struggled to spread its wings and catch the wind, but the bird plummeted straight down onto the sharp rock spurs, where it burst apart in a gory spray of guts and feathers.

Cawing in rage, a condor sailed under the basket to land on the pallet, its claws clinging tightly to the plastic. Shoving the barrel of the Steyr through the open spaces in the flooring, Ryan fired the longblaster at point-blank range and the bird exploded in a spray of feathers. But the corpse stayed there, the claws locked tight in death.

Using three rounds, Mildred took out a condor flying by, Krysty got another, Dean missed twice, then J.B. triggered the shotgun and two more were ripped apart by the ferocious blast of stainless-steel fléchette rounds. Moving hastily away from the Pegasus, the remaining flock whirled about, screaming in rage. Then they started to fly away, returning beaten to their nests in the rocky crags of the congealed lava flow.

Curiously, there was a flash of light from a cliff at the very end of the peninsula, and a high-pitched whistle sounded from the oceanic rocks as something streaked toward the Pegasus on a skylark tail of fire. The invisible object slammed directly into a condor and violently detonated, the concussion rocking the rope basket with savage force.

“Firebird!” Ryan growled, firing his weapon blindly down into the dimly seen distance. It had to be Mitchum. He had to make the sec man duck for cover, or else they’d be blown out of the sky!

“More coming,” Jak said, coolly aiming his .357 Magnum blaster at the fiery exhaust of the rockets and carefully squeezing off shots. If they hit, there was no reaction.

Dropping her revolver, Krysty yanked out the Veri pistol, thanking the forces of the universe that she had reloaded. Holding the signal device in a two-handed grip, she held her breath and forced everything else from her mind but the approaching Firebird. The trajectory was impossible; the Firebird was arching up from the ground, the balloon rising and drifting away, plus the wind was blowing in gusts, not a steady breeze. There had never been worse conditions for a shot, and they had only a half-dozen flares.

Gently, she squeezed the trigger, and the colorful blue flare streaked toward an empty patch of sky. A split second later, the Firebird rose to meet the wad of burning magnesium and violently detonated.

A couple of .50 cal machine guns began to chatter from the darkness, then another Firebird launched. The fiery back-blast silhouetted the sec men and Hummers parked on the approaching cliff in stark clarity.

While the others maintained a steady fusillade at the war wags, Dean took Krysty’s empty weapon and passed her the second flare gun, loaded and ready. Sweat trickling down her face, Krysty shot at the second rocket and made a hit. But then three Firebirds rose from the cliff, with two more close behind.

J.B. triggered the Uzi on full-auto, throwing flame at the receding sec men. As her H&K blaster clicked empty, Mildred grabbed a reloaded Veri pistol from Dean and shot off a flare. The sizzling green round punched through the leading rocket, making it explode, the blast damaging the Firebird alongside and throwing the rocket wildly out to sea.

Slamming in his last clip for the Steyr, Ryan fired as fast as he could work the bolt. Another Firebird altered course and shot straight upward to disappear into the stormy clouds. But despite the amount of copper-jacketed lead going their way, the last two rockets bore straight in at the companions.

Her hair a wild corona, Krysty released a green flare, but the windsheer threw it away from the incoming missiles. As J.B. slapped in a fresh clip, Ryan fired again and a rocket tore itself apart. As he worked the bolt, the spent shell jammed in the breech. Dropping the blaster to the plastic floor, Ryan drew his SIG-Sauer and started banging away. Meanwhile, Mildred and Krysty sent off a double charge of flares from the painfully hot Veri pistols. The signaling devices weren’t meant to be weapons and were over-heating from the constant use. The flares were sticking to the barrel from the accumulated heat, along with the women’s burned fingers.

In a gorgeous mix of colors, the flares curved toward the incoming missile when one abruptly died in midflight. The other erupted in a blinding purple flash, and the missile shot right through the display completely undamaged.

The companions concentrated their attention on the last rocket, but it was horribly close. J.B. abandoned the Uzi and used the last few shells in the shotgun to send off a hellstorm of fléchettes. Incredibly, the companions could see the damage it inflicted as the missile appeared to be slowing, and for several breathless seconds it seemed to hang motionless in the sky behind them. Then the flame of its rear exhaust sputtered away and died, the reserve of black-powder fuel gone. Rendered powerless, the lethal Firebird fell away and disappeared into the night.

As the companions relaxed, a salvo of rockets was launched from the Hummers on top of the jagged cliff. But the passengers of the Pegasus withheld shooting and merely watched as the swarm of deadly missiles climbed ever higher into the dark sky, only to slow as their tail flames weakened and died, the dreaded Firebirds tumbling helplessly into the cold sea.

“Finally out of range,” Ryan said, flicking the dead brass from the Steyr over the ropes. As if in reply, thunder rumbled from the clouds so very close overhead.

“Sons of bitches want us bad,” J.B. added, clearing the breech of the empty shotgun.

“Hopefully, that is the last we see of them,” Krysty said, flexing her singed gun hand.

Glancing at the floor, Mildred saw the ejected brass had fallen through the holes in the plastic pallet and couldn’t be gathered for repacking. Great, they were low on ammo, attacked constantly from every direction and riding a makeshift helium balloon mostly held together by spit and baling wire. The situation could only make the physician snort a bitter laugh.

“What funny?” Jak asked, startled at the noise.

“Remember the condors?” Mildred replied, holstering her piece. “Those were an endangered species in my time.”

“So?”

The salty wind blowing her beaded hair, Mildred turned to face the featureless horizon of the east.

“Now we are,” she finished somberly.

HOBBLING TO the edge of the crumbling cliff, Mitch-um roared defiantly as he emptied his blaster at the departing airship.

“No! Not again!” Mitchum raged, cocking the hammer and dry firing the spent weapon several times. As his fury ebbed, the man turned toward the line of Hummers parked nearby.

“You there!” he shouted, pointing. “Launch another Bird!”

“Belay that shit,” Glassman stated grumpily, stepping out from behind the rocket pod. His face and clothes were streaked with black from the multiple launches, and he angrily tossed aside the glowing piece of oakum he had used to light the fuses. Privately, the former healer wondered what the hell had the outlanders used to stop the Firebirds.

“We failed, Colonel,” Glassman continued, pulling a rag from a pocket to wipe his face and hands. “They’re gone.”

“The hell they are. We’re going back to Cascade,” Mitchum snapped. Limping to the wag, the sec man climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

“Get in!” he ordered brusquely. “We can race after them in the PT boats. Those are a lot faster than that floating soap bubble! If we use the coal-oil fuel instead of wood, we can easily get them back into range again and finish the bastard job once and forever!”

Reluctantly, Glassman had to admire the sec man’s blind determination. It was either that or his lust for revenge had driven the man mad.

“Sergeant Campbell,” Glassman said, going to the lead Hummer, “any more Firebirds on the boats?”

“Yes, sir,” the sailor replied with a salute. “Sixteen more in the arms trunk of each petey.”

“See?” Mitchum retorted, gunning the engine. “More than enough for another attack!”

“Only if we don’t encounter any Deepers on the journey back home,” Glassman countered, taking a seat in the war wag.

“Tomorrow’s problem,” the sec chief growled as he spun the steering wheel, driving the Hummer back and forth as he hurriedly turned on the narrow crag. A rear tire went over the cliff, but the wag didn’t tilt and he fought it back onto firm ground. Time was against them. Every minute put Ryan that much further out of his grasp.

“We’ll need to leave the Hummers behind,” Mitchum said, leading the convoy of wags along the narrow trail of the peninsula to the island. There was a sheer drop into the sea on both sides, but the predark headlights gave enough illumination to keep him from driving into the abyss. “Dropping the weight will give us better speed.”

Holding on to the door and windshield, Glassman scowled before answering. He was sick of this man’s private blood feud, and the baron’s threat against his family was lessening with every hour he was away from them.

“Too risky,” he decided. “That leaves us on foot if they go inland somewhere.”

“We’ll take that chance.”

“No, you will,” Glassman stated coldly, bouncing in his seat as the racing wag bounded over the rippled surface of the lava flow. “Because if we lose the outlanders again, I’ll personally bring you alive to the lord baron as payment for costing him so many men and weps!”

“Yeah?” Mitchum snarled, a hand going for his flintlock. Only the weapon wasn’t in its holster, and the cold barrel of a blaster was pressed to his neck from behind.

“Do as the captain says,” Campbell growled hatefully. “Or I’ll be delighted to pull the trigger. Your call, lubber.”

Furious at being trapped for the moment, Mitchum started driving faster. Suddenly, more than just mere revenge depended on his success in chilling the accursed outlanders.