In the Shadow of Falcon's Wings

CHAPTER 10 THE FACE OF THE ENEMY

Hurricane had never seen the Boeing X-314, but he had no difficulty identifying the large amphibious aircraft as it taxied into the natural harborage below Krieger’s treetop fortress; there was no plane on earth quite like it. Bigger than the Sikorsky Clipper Ships, it seemed almost too large for the narrow tributary where Krieger and his pirates had set up shop.

“Looks like you were on the money with that one, Padre.”

Hurley and Hobbs peered down from their perch, high in the branches of an immense baobab tree — one of a pair that stood watch over the sheltered river lagoon where Krieger’s pirate armada was moored. The pirate — or more precisely, their slave laborers— had been busy over the years, hewing out the trunks of the baobabs and erecting wooden battlements in their branches. An area of several acres had been cleared around the inlet and a wooden palisade secured the perimeter; the only way into the harbor was beneath the fixed gun ports in the colossal trees.

In addition to providing a defensive post, the trees were crisscrossed with catwalks and ladders, which connected innumerable tree house dwellings, evidently the residences of Krieger and his select minions. There was also a suspended holding area for their captives — it dangled high above a section of the harborage where half a dozen crocodiles had been corralled. The hostages taken from the mission were presently occupying this cell, while Hurricane and Hobbs were still in their respective cages nearby. The array of tainted stakes still loomed below, but now with the added peril of a fifty-foot drop.

On the water, the plane behaved like a wind-driven speedboat. The pilot had killed two of the four engines and was feathering the throttles to make the minimal corrections that would bring it up to the dock. Once it was moored, a hatch opened and a man jumped out onto the stubby sponson, then leaped over to the pier to secure the mooring line. Hurricane winced as he saw the familiar exoskeletons adorning the crew, but his expression hardened when he saw a different, but no less recognizable figure step out onto the dock.

“That’s him.”

Hobbs continued to watch as Krieger appeared at the moorage and greeted the hooded newcomer. “Well that relegates Krieger to the role of hired gun, but it still doesn’t tell us anything about the identity of the villain.”

“I have a feeling we’re about to get a real good look at him.”

Their cages were brought down to the level of a nearby catwalk and a contingent of armed pirates herded them into the main fortress crowning the tree trunk. Once more, the captured natives were held as leverage against any failure to cooperate. It was an unnecessary precaution; both men were eager to behold the face of the enemy.

They were ushered into a dark, windowless enclosure at the center of the treetop castle. The room had been decorated along the lines of a Viking mead hall, with long hofbrau tables and benches. At the far end on an upraised dais, seated on an elaborately carved ebony throne was the pirate king himself, Johannes Krieger, but for all his posturing, there was no question about who was really in charge. That honor belonged to a hooded figure that stood in the shadows like the waiting specter of death; waiting, it seemed, for Hobbs and Hurley.

Hurricane peered into the void beneath the hood looking for some sign of familiarity, hoping against hope that the brief moment of recognition he had experienced on the first occasion of seeing this villain — on the screen of the White House movie theater — would now be proved false. In the room’s low light, it was even more difficult to distinguish facial features. As if in response to his unspoken wish, the man took a step forward and gestured to them with his staff.

“Where is Captain Falcon?”

He glanced at Hobbs and caught the almost imperceptible nod and the sad certainty in the other man’s eye. Then, to his surprise, the Padre spoke. “Who the devil are you?”

Hurley grimaced in anticipation of a reprisal. Instead, the hooded man began to laugh. “Very good. I would expect nothing less from Captain Falcon’s closest companions.”

The dull metal rod in his hand began coruscating with violet tendrils of electricity and as it did, his presence seemed to grow. “I am your new god, Father Hobbs. Soon, every knee will bend to me.”

“You’re mad.”

There was a blinding discharge from the staff as a tendril of purple light blasted into Hobbs’ chest and threw him across the hall. The tongue of energy then abruptly shifted to Hurricane knocking him back as well. When the shower of sparks abruptly ceased, everyone in the room was momentarily unable to see anything but spots.

“Now, you will tell me where to find Captain Zane Falcon.”

Hurley coughed, trying to clear his head after the stunning electrical shock. “Sorry, pal. I’d love to help, but we don’t know where Falcon is. He disappeared years ago.”

“Can this be true? America’s greatest champion, gone? Hiding like a craven weakling?” The dark god circled the room, his movements invisible behind a veil of blindness. “If the coward will not come forward to spare the American leader, then perhaps he will do so to save his dearest friends.”

Dodge and Molly reached the perimeter of the jungle compound undetected, but were stopped in their tracks by the palisade fence. They hunkered down there, peering around the edge of the barrier, to observe the situation unfolding on the other side.

There had been no question of returning to the river. They knew from the angle of the plane’s approach that they were already much too close to the pirate camp to risk using the boat again. The forest however afforded a surprisingly easy approach. The dense canopy above not only gave them concealment from the watchful eyes of pirate sentries, but also prevented sunlight from nourishing the undergrowth, allowing them to move at a near run. With the sound of the aircraft’s engines to guide them, they reached the edge of the compound in time to see the procession of its passengers enter the treetop fortress. Despite the humid tropical atmosphere, Dodge felt a chill as he spied the hooded villain, accompanied by three men wearing the flying exoskeleton rigs. A fourth remained on the dock, guarding the plane.

“What now?” asked Molly, at his shoulder.

Dodge studied the compound like a general on the battlefield. “I’ve got an idea, but it could be risky.”

“We’re about to go up against an army of pirates. I think risky goes with the territory.”

“I’m not worried about the pirates,” Dodge replied, looking at the murky river. “I’m worried about the crocodiles.”

Because there is no honor among thieves, the dark god had left a man behind to guard the plane. He knew Krieger’s ilk well, and knew that an experimental intercontinental airplane was too tempting a prize not to warrant at least a token presence. That was about all the man reckoned his duty to be — a token effort. All of the action was inside the fortress; not a single pirate could be found roaming the compound and none seemed to be interested in the plane.

His boredom was short-lived however, for only a few minutes after his master and the others entered the gigantic hollowed-out tree, which formed the foundation of the pirate king’s demesne, the river sent one of its sirens to visit him. He almost rubbed his eyes in disbelief as the red-haired beauty arose from the brown-green water and gave him a winning smile.

“Hey there, big fella. Want to give a girl a hand?”

The stunned guard was deaf to the soft splash of water behind him, and didn’t notice until it was too late, that a pair of hands had slipped through his humming force field to unclasp his belt. “Ach—”

Dodge clamped one hand over the man’s mouth and hammered a fist down at the base of his neck. The guard slumped unconscious in his grasp. “Quick, hide in the plane.”

It had been a plan worthy of Captain Falcon; in fact, it was something Falcon had done in one or two of the stories. Using hollow reeds as snorkels, Dodge and Molly had braved the treacherous waters and swam undetected to the dock where the plane was moored. Fortunately, the turbulence generated by the aircraft’s landing had sent all the river’s deadly denizens scurrying out of the area.

Dodge knew well the risk of bringing water in contact with the force field, but it was a calculated risk that he believed worth taking and ultimately one that had paid off. He stripped the deactivated exoskeleton off the guard and rolled him into the water. It was a cold thing to do, but mercy was often the first victim sacrificed on the altar of urgency.

He warily pulled Molly into plane, but his caution was unwarranted. The plane was completely empty of occupants; in fact, it was empty of almost everything. The experimental prototype was short on creature comforts. The cabin was strictly utilitarian. There were no seats on the rough wood plank floor, and a simple wooden extension ladder provided access to the upper deck and the pilot’s cockpit. Dodge saw several metal barrels strapped down in the rear of the plane, but no cargo to speak of.

“You need to get back out there,” Molly said after their quick inspection. “If they don’t see a guard, they’ll know something’s up.”

“If they see me, they’ll know.”

“Maybe not. You look enough like the guard that they might not notice. At least not from a distance.”

He gave her a sour look, but once again her logic was on the mark. With the skull cap-like headpiece to covering his distinctive sandy-colored hair, he might be able to perpetuate the fraud at least long enough for them avoid attracting any more attention. He pulled on the familiar exoskeleton, but refrained from activating it. “What about you?”

Molly was already scampering up the ladder to the top deck. “I’m going to look around a little.”

“Molly!” His protest went unanswered, and he lowered his pitch to a mutter as he breathed a few choice curses on his way out of the aircraft. Outside, there was no indication that their assault on the guard had raised an alarm.

So far, so good, he thought. They actually had come much further than he could have hoped for; they were in the lion’s den. The real trick would be determining how to keep that advantage and win the day.

He curled his palms — he had discarded the sodden bandages after dispatching the guard — around the grips inside the gauntlets. It felt good to be in control of one of the flying rigs; unlike the guns that everyone but him seemed to possess, the exoskeleton was a weapon and a tool that he understood at least as well as anyone. With the element of surprise on his side, he might be able to take one or two of the sky raiders, before they realized he was in their midst.

A sound he had heard before reverberated in the treetops. Somewhere up there, someone had used one of the energy weapons. He peered up at the fortress in the branches wondering what had happened then looked away as the exodus began. In the space of a few seconds, the entire motley assembly of pirates, along with the hooded mastermind, emerged from the opening at the base of the baobab and started toward the plane. In their midst, towering above every other head, was Hurricane Hurley.

Dodge’s heart sank. He threw the group a wave, and then as nonchalantly as he could manage leaned into the plane. “They’re coming!”

He stood at an oblique angle to the approaching group, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. When the group was still about fifty yards away, he buckled the clasp on the exoskeleton and heard the familiar hum as the force field activated. There was an occasional popping sound as drops of water fell into the electrical current but that was the least of his concerns. He had about thirty seconds to figure out what he was going to do. And then thirty seconds became twenty, then ten, then he was caught between the mass of armed men and the plane.

Miraculously, none of the missing guard’s comrades noticed the substitution. Their attention was focused on the pair of prisoners they guarded. The pirates were none the wiser, having not paid much attention to begin with, but Dodge saw one man in the group who would recognize him on sight: Marten.

The burly riverboat captain marched a few steps behind the hooded mastermind and another fellow whose face was obscured behind a demonic mask. Dodge averted his gaze, pretending to look out across the river as the throng reached the ramp to the plane. The pirates held back letting the three men in exoskeletons take sole responsibility for the pair of men in custody. Dodge got his first look at the battered, white-haired figure of Father Hobbs — he doesn’t look anything like I thought he would — as he fell in behind them. The raiders’ vision was tunneled on the two dangerous men in their charge and did not give Dodge so much as glance.

The hooded man and the man in the mask, whom Dodge correctly took to be Krieger, conversed for a few moments on the dock and some kind of exchange was made; presumably payment for services rendered. The mastermind then stalked onto the sponson and gave a general order to secure the plane for takeoff as he brushed past Dodge and headed straight for the ladder. Dodge breathed a silent prayer that Molly had concealed herself, and set to work readying the plane for takeoff.

It was a dangerous game he was playing, but victory was nearly in sight. He ran through the possibilities in his head. If he could free Hurricane and Hobbs without raising an alarm, they would be able to overpower the guards and take the ringleader alive. He just had to maintain the status quo until the plane was aloft.

Hurley and Hobbs were restrained only by ropes and the constant threat of violent reprisal from the gauntlets of their guards. Dodge risked a glance in their direction as he pulled the hatch closed, and made brief eye contact with Hurricane. The big man nodded imperceptibly, but managed to keep his expression neutral, which was more than Dodge could do. Grinning like an idiot, he turned back to the door and pretended to check the latching mechanism; this was actually going to work.

The engines roared to life, one by one, and the pilot — evidently the hooded man — revved each engine up to speed before starting the next. It was an interminably long process and Dodge felt anxiety growing like a volcano ready to erupt.

“Where are you taking us?” Hurricane asked abruptly, shouting over the roar of the engines.

Dodge nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected voice, but Hurley’s outburst had been intentional; he had noticed the vigilance of the guards straying and feared that one them might, with a casual glance, realize that Dodge was not whom they believed him to be.

The three guards reacted exactly as expected, raising their gauntlets menacingly. The de facto leader of the group snarled in Afrikaans, and another of the men translated in heavily accented English. “Shut up, or we’ll fry you!”

Hurley hung his head submissively, but managed a surreptitious wink in Dodge’s direction. Dodge nodded and then unbuckled his belt clasp, hoping that the other man would intuitively comprehend his message. It was all he had time for as the floor lurched beneath his feet and sent him stumbling for a handhold. The entire airframe shuddered violently as the engines throttled up and the plane began moving into the river channel.

It was the moment Hurricane had been waiting for. He moved so swiftly that the guards were paralyzed with disbelief. Although his hands were still bound, a sweep of his mighty arms sent two of the men tumbling down the length of the cabin; their force fields kept them from making contact with the deck and gave the impression of two figures trapped inside soap bubbles. The third man stabbed out with his gauntlets, but nothing happened. He stared at the metal fists in disbelief then tried again, but this time his frustration was punctuated by a snap-kick from Hobbs. The latter had, in the instant of Hurricane’s attack, slipped his bound hands through the fellow’s electrical shield and unclasped the belt, leaving the guard completely defenseless.

Hurricane meanwhile was charging the other two, relying on speed and intimidation to keep his advantage. One man managed to snap off a jolt from his gauntlet, which slowed Hurley but did not stop him, but the remaining guard found his exoskeleton similarly inoperative. His consternation was interrupted as Dodge — who had covertly unbuckled the man’s belt — now used his own gauntlet against the man, not as an electrical weapon, but simply as a bludgeon. His metal-encased fist slammed into the fellow’s jaw and put him down for the count.

Hurricane shook off the effects of the electrical jolt and backed his foe against a bulkhead. The man tried to shoot him a second time, but Hurley was faster. He slipped his hands slowly through the energy shield and throttled the guard. The man sagged as the flow of blood to his brain was interrupted, and Hurricane would have gone on squeezing if not for Father Hobbs’ gentle restraining hand on his shoulder.

“We’ve won,” he said, speaking into Hurricane’s ear to be heard over the engine noise. “It’s enough.”

Hurley met his gaze with eyes on fire, but he relented, letting the unconscious guard slump to the floor. “Not quite.”

The jungle was an emerald blur in the cockpit windows, speeding by as the plane roared down the watercourse for more than a mile before lazily climbing into the air. The hooded god, alone at the controls, extended the flaps for maximum lift and pulled back on the yoke, easing the nose skyward. The X-314 was a lot of plane for one man to fly, but he managed capably. Although he had trained a select few of his minions to operate the craft, he had left them behind this time. When he was alone at the controls of the plane and soaring through the sky, he was never closer to the inner peace he so craved and that so eluded him.

A tinny voice interrupted his momentary rapture and he picked up the radio headset to hear the message repeating: “This is Krieger, do you read?”

“I read you,” he answered, disdaining any sort of identification. “What is it?”

“We just found one of your men floating in the river.”

“All of my men are accounted for.”

“Are you certain?” countered the pirate king. “He’s not one of mine.”

The god pondered this. “I will see to it.”

He set the radio headset down and then turned his attention to the instrument panel. The experimental plane was equipped with the latest Sperry automatic pilot — an ingenious mechanical and hydraulic system that linked the gyroscopic attitude controls and the compass to the rudder and ailerons to literally fly the plane when no one was at the controls. When the altimeter registered three thousand feet, he activated the system and rose from the cockpit.

At the top of the ladder, he took his scepter from the folds of his robe and held it up for inspection. The top of the staff began to stretch and flatten until it resembled a hand mirror. A small disc of the same metal floated from the god’s other hand and dropped through the opening into the lower section of the fuselage. A bas relief image formed on the surface of the staff head, and the god studied the figures as they moved toward the ladder.

Almost disdainfully, he lowered the scepter, paying no attention as it instantly returned to its normal state, and stepped back into the cockpit. His fingers drifted over the levers and switches until he found the one he sought. He gave it a sharp pull then left the control center again, just as Hurley’s head appeared in the hole.

Hurricane froze for a moment as they made eye contact, but then deliberately finished his ascent and made way for Father Hobbs, close on his heels.

The dark god thrust his scepter into recesses of his robe and raised his empty hands, beckoning his foes nearer. His flat voice was as final as a guillotine. “This ends now.”