
## IN THE SHADOW OF FALCON'S WINGS

A DODGE DALTON ADVENTURE

SEAN ELLIS

In the Shadow of Falcon's Wings

Copyright 2010, 2015 Sean Ellis

Published by Gryphonwood Press

Ebook Edition License Notes

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## Praise for Dodge Dalton

"Falcon's Wings is high flying adventure at its best. Cleverly conceived, original, and multi-layered, the action literally jumps off the page and takes the reader through unexpected twists and turns." — Rob MacGregor, author of INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE and AMAZON: THE GHOST TRIBE.

"Sean Ellis writes action scenes that rival those of Clive Cussler and James Rollins. His novel IN THE SHADOW OF FALCON'S WINGS is a fast-moving yarn reminiscent of classic Thirties pulp novels and movie serials. This is great entertainment for adventure fans." — James Reasoner, author of DUST DEVILS and TEXAS WIND.

"Fans of unrelenting, unceasing action-adventure with a classic pulp feel will race to buckle their seatbelts for The Adventures of Dodge Dalton." — Rick Chesler, author of WIRED KINGDOM.

"Anyone who grew up reading adventure stories from the pulps will relish Ellis' affectionate evocation of the era and his unapologetically old-fashioned storytelling. Its yarns like his that got me into the adventuring game, and I'm delighted to see them still being penned." — Gabriel Hunt, author of HUNT AT THE WELL OF ETERNITY and HUNT THROUGH THE CRADLE OF FEAR.

"With Falcon's Wings, Sean Ellis has created a truly unique pulp-era action hero, pitting him against memorably diabolical villains, dastardly pirates, and enemies wielding ancient and deadly technology. Saving the world has never been this much fun. A must-read for fans of Cussler, Rollins or anyone that just loves their adventure thrillers electrifying and engrossing." — David Sakmyster, award-winning author of SILVER AND GOLD and THE PHAROS OBJECTIVE (A Morpheus Initiative thriller).

"The Golden Age of Adventure is back! With characters larger than life, exotic locations and more action that you can shake a stick at Dodge Dalton in the Shadow of Falcon's Wings delivers! Grab a bucket of popcorn and a handful of napkins because once you sit down, you're not getting up again until you've turned the last page!" — Paul Byers, author of CATALYST.

"Fasten your seatbelt and get ready for a no-holds-barred adventure that keeps the pages turning. Sean Ellis soars to new heights with The Adventures of Dodge Dalton in the Shadow of Falcon's Wings!" — David Wood, author of CIBOLA and DOURADO.

## Acknowledgments

This novel could not have been possible without extensive creative input from Bill Craig, George Elder, and Mark Orr.

I would also like to thank (in no particular order) Rob MacGregor, James Reasoner, RJ Archer, Marty Olver, Steven Savile, Paul Byers, Rick Chesler, David Sakmyster, Robert Charest, Wayne Skiver, David Wood and Kent Holloway for their support and advice. I'm sure I've missed a few...catch you next time.

None of the ideas presented herein are terribly original, but the speculative works of David Hatcher Childress have been especially useful as a road map through this undiscovered country.

I would be remiss if I did not pay homage to two authors who have inspired me from the very beginning: Clive Cussler and Jerry Ahern. You gentlemen are the reason I decided I wanted to do this.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I am grateful to my sons Connor and Campbell for their constant support and cheerleading. One of these days, I'll make good on all those promises.

~ Sean Ellis (May 2010)

...IN THE GOLDEN AGE OF ADVENTURE...

## PROLOGUE

DISCOVERY

The explorer paused a moment to brush the crust of ice from his goggles. It was actually much warmer here, deep below the surface, but still cold enough to freeze the water vapor in his exhalations. A beard of icicles had grown over the wool scarf covering his mouth and nose, but he no longer felt the chill. His discovery, a prehistoric ruin in this unforgiving landscape, filled him with a new purpose that burned within him like a fire.

He had not come to the end of the world to find this ancient place; in fact, there had been no tangible motivation at all. The object of his quest was much harder to define; was it absolution he sought? Solace? He didn't really know. The weight of the world had become a burden he could no longer bear, yet like Atlas, he couldn't put it down. So, in the tradition of prophets and messiahs, he had fled into the wilderness. If deprivation and hardship did not kill him, then it would be the crucible in which the last of his weaknesses would evaporate away, leaving only the unadulterated metal of his soul.

He had secretly been pleased when the expedition leader had grudgingly admitted that they were lost. By that time, the pack animals had already dropped in their tracks and been subsequently butchered for meat in order to supplement their dwindling supplies. Two of the men had likewise perished; one lay in a shallow grave chiseled into the icepack, and another had been swallowed alive by a crevasse which had closed over him as quickly as it had appeared. The remaining members of the team had gathered to discuss their options, only to learn the dire reality of their situation. Lost and low on provisions, they could either continue to wander, or establish a semi-permanent base camp and await the unlikely appearance of a rescue party. The majority had elected the latter course of action and hunkered down in tents and hasty igloos to weather the almost constant storms. One by one, cabin fever and the angry gods of the ice had claimed them, until only the explorer remained alive.

Hardier than the rest, he had endured because he did not fear death. When there was no longer anyone to check his hand, he gathered what supplies he could carry and struck out on his own, looking for a good place to make his final stand. Yet it seemed the Grim Reaper had now lost interest in his fate. For a week he wandered, blinded by stinging needles of ice borne on the devil wind, until the gods determined that he was worthy of their gift. On the seventh day, found the cave.

As he roamed the cramped throat that plunged deep into the blue pack ice, he did not immediately grasp its significance. Nature often behaved in unpredictable ways, leaving wormholes through solid matter without cause or reason; this one seemed no different. However, the tunnel soon opened into a passage so smooth and perfectly symmetrical that he could no longer dismiss it as a fluke of weather or geography; this was the work of hands.

Of human hands? He thought not.

His explorations soon uncovered marvelous things; artifacts of a civilization remembered only in myths, abandoned even by the ghosts of those who had built this place. He kept looking, kept descending, filled with the certain knowledge that greater secrets must lay in the deepest reaches of the cavern. He was not disappointed.

Time had ceased to mean anything to the explorer, but the cavern metered the diurnal rhythms of the surface world, giving him periods of daylight in the form of a pale blue illumination — light without heat — from the smooth walls of the passages. Had he cared to notice, he would have observed that the duration of the subterranean days was almost exactly twelve hours, whereas the sun's journey through the sky on the surface world, where it was late summer, lasted nearly eighteen hours, but he neither noticed nor cared. When the sapphire gleam dimmed to nothing he would stop and sleep. When its brightness was such that it interrupted his peaceful repose, he would resume his trek. He meandered through arterial branches, sometimes finding only an inexplicable dead end, but more often than not, uncovering mysteries beyond comprehension. In this manner, he came at last to the furthest recesses of the ice cave. What he found there beggared belief.

In the course of his wandering, he had never found anything that was not utilitarian. Every object was a tool, even if its operation eluded his grasp. There had been no ornamentation, no inscriptions or artwork to adorn the various relics or the chambers in which they were situated. This place was different.

The long descending passage opened into an anteroom of staggering proportions. It was as if a vast domed amphitheater had been bisected vertically by a slab of ice, and upon that surface, a sculptor possessed by a demon had wrought images almost too hideous for his gaze to bear. Were he a lesser man, the explorer certainly would have fled in terror at the sight, but weeks of privation had purged him of fear. Instead, he gazed in wonderment, reading the strange hieroglyphs and runes as if he understood them, pondering the bas-relief of cavorting gargoyles and chimeras, and letting his consciousness wander through the maze of razor-like protrusions that scrolled in every direction along the upright surface, until at last he found the door.

With an alacrity that belied his emaciated and exhausted physical condition, he scrambled onto the vertical ice, finding holds in the intricate designs and using frozen thorns as ladder rungs, until he was at last face to face with the only section of ice in the tableau that was neither decorated with macabre designs nor emanating the ethereal blue luminosity.

That it was a door, he knew only on an intuitive level. It resembled nothing ever devised by man to block a threshold; there were no hinges, nor was it equipped with any obvious latching mechanism. Yet, the explorer correctly recognized it for what it was, and did what any explorer will do when finding a blocked portal.

He opened it....

The Adventures of Captain Falcon

By D. "Dodge" Dalton

Castle Perilous

Episode 10

Falcon looked up at the chute through which he had just plummeted and breathed a rare curse. The square frame around the trap door gaped high above, mocking his helplessness. Then the maw closed; a sheet of dull steel slid across the opening to seal him in a tomb of eternal night.

He couldn't believe he had fallen for such an obvious ruse. Still, Hurricane and the Padre would have known better than to call out to him if there was even a remote chance that their summons would lead him into a trap. Had he been mistaken?

"Captain, here! Help us!"

The shout echoed in the confines of the dark chamber. The stentorian roar — like boulders crushing together in an earthquake — could only belong to Hurricane Hurley.

Falcon fished his lighter from a pocket and struck the flint wheel. The orange tongue of fire threw scant light in the gloom, but it was enough for him to accurately assess the depth of his troubles.

The chamber into which he had fallen was long and narrow, a trench or a dried up canal; the pervasive mustiness was evidence for the latter explanation. Holding the flame before him like a torch, with his trusty, razor-sharp hatchet at the ready in his right fist, he advanced in the direction from which the shouts had come.

The voice did not repeat, but after a few strides he heard a different sound, barely audible in between the slap of his boot soles on the damp cobble floor. He froze in place and pitched his voice just above a whisper. "Is it a trap?"

The answer came immediately, a muffled affirmative. Then his world was abruptly filled with light. He shaded his eyes reflexively with one hand, snuffing out the lighter with the other. It took only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden glare of the overhead klieg lights, but even through the haze he could distinguish the forms of his friends bound and gagged like sacrificial victims awaiting their fate.

Nathan "the Padre" Hobbs was held in place with only a simple wrought iron chain affixed to shackles at each extremity. The bonds had been pulled taut, forcing him into an immobile spread-eagle against the wall, and a length of rope had been forced between his teeth like a bit, to prevent him from calling out. Somewhat more strenuous measures had been required to subdue Hurricane; the burly soldier looked like King Kong trussed up for his New York debut. When his fierce eyes fell upon his leader, the giant found an untapped vein of fury and renewed his assault on the triple strand of rope that kept him from speaking. With a single, massive effort, he succeeded in biting the ropes apart. He spat out the fibers with an unprintable oath.

Falcon remained motionless, studying his compatriots in their bonds. The Padre and Hurricane had been gagged; there was no way they could have called out to him. "Then who...?"

"A trap indeed, Herr Hauptmann."

A weasely laugh fluttered down from a parapet overlooking the junction in the trench where the two men had been secured. Falcon didn't have to look to identify the voice. "Von Heissel."

Baron Otto Von Heissel eased his corpulent form out over the railing. "I knew your loyal men would never lure you into my snare, so I had to use something more innovative: A phonograph recording. Very clever, nein?"

"What do you want, Baron?"

A smug expression contorted the Prussian noble's porcine countenance. "What I have always wanted, Hauptmann Falcon: to humiliate you, and when your humiliation is complete, to bring about your utter destruction."

"That's why you'll fail," Falcon retorted, his voice barely louder than a whisper. "Every minute you waste crowing over your victory, brings me a minute closer to escaping your trap. And when I get free, I won't hesitate to wipe you off the face of the earth."

The bald baron's gloating grin slipped a notch. "Perhaps you are right. Very well then, I shall have to settle for simply killing you."

Falcon knew that Von Heissel's pronouncement was absolute. The Prussian warlord was no fool; death loomed just around the corner. As the baron moved away from the parapet, Falcon hastened to the two bound men. He snapped Hobbs' bonds apart with a simple twist of his hatchet blade, but the multiple shackles holding Hurricane were more problematic; anything less than elephant chains would have been broken apart, as easily as cobwebs, by the tremendously strong giant. Already, Hurley's struggles had succeeded in wrenching one of the shackle rings loose from the masonry, but the others remained firmly fixed.

Before Falcon could even begin to conceive of a solution, a tremor shuddered through passage, vibrating the stones beneath his feet. He exchanged glances with his men; Hobbs shook his head gravely. "That doesn't sound good, Cap."

"The sound you are hearing," announced Von Heissel, now only a disembodied voice issuing from a loudspeaker mounted on the parapet, "is fifty thousand gallons of water rushing through the aqueduct toward you. It will hit with the force of a freight train. In the unlikely event that you survive the impact, you will be washed into an underground river where you will certainly drown, if you do not first die shattered upon submerged rocks."

The rumble beneath their feet grew ominously louder, until even Hurricane had to shout to be heard. "What now, Cap?"

"You've been a worthy foe, Falcon." The baron's electronically amplified laughter cascaded above the tumult. "I can't think of a better way for your adventures to end."

...to be continued!

## CHAPTER 1

PARTY CRASHERS

"Gosh. What happened next? How ever did you escape?"

David Dalton — "Dodge" to both his intimate friends and the thousands of Americans who eagerly devoured his Sunday syndicated feature "The Adventures of Captain Falcon" — glanced over at the breathless young woman and the man with whom she was conversing, curious to see how the question would be answered.

The mountainous hulk that was "Hurricane" Hurley shifted nervously in his chair and averted his gaze, glancing down at the newspaper clenched in his massive paws. He had been reading aloud the latest installment of Falcon's adventures — as one of Captain Falcon's trusted confidants during the Great War, he was not only a contributor to the ongoing serial, but also a key player — eager to impress his pretty young blonde tablemate with this most recent tale of derring-do.

It wasn't at all like Hurricane to be caught with nothing to say. Dodge considered letting the big fellow suffer a little longer, but then decided to affect a rescue worthy of Falcon's chronicler. "Sorry miss," he interjected, gesturing with his champagne flute, "but you'll have to wait a week like everyone else."

The blonde girl's lips turned down in a pout, but Hurricane seized the opportunity and recovered his composure. "We had been in situations a good deal worse than that. I remember the time Jocasta Palmer nearly drowned us in fish eggs."

Dodge smiled absently and took a sip of the bubbly, letting his attention wander. He felt partly responsible for Hurley's embarrassment. In the past year, the Falcon adventures had relied less heavily upon the historical account inarticulately recorded in Hurricane's unpublished — some would say 'unpublishable' — memoirs, and more on Dodge's own imagination. Hurley had not objected; the Falcon stories had never been more popular, and ostensibly as the only member of Falcon's coterie of heroes still in circulation, he was more than happy to be the sole focus of attention at sporting events, county fairs and other public gatherings frequented by attractive, starstruck young ladies. Unfortunately, the hero of the story didn't have a clue about how some of these latest adventures would end.

Dodge didn't feel too guilty over taking creative control of the serial. It wasn't like he was rewriting history. Hurley's magnum opus read exactly like what it was; a pulp adventure worthy of the Sunday comics. While the man was certainly an imposing physical presence, and had probably served with distinction in the Great War, the outlandish exploits of Captain Zane Falcon, Father Nathan Hobbs and Brian "Hurricane" Hurley were simply too unbelievable to be anything but fiction.

It had been pure serendipity that Dodge, a sportswriter for The Clarion, had been buttonholed by an editor too intimidated by Hurley to say no, and given the task of cleaning up the meandering prose for publication. In only a few short months, "The Adventures of Captain Falcon" six column inches times two, and a single cartoon illustration — also Dodge's work — had been picked up by King Features and now ran in every major Sunday newspaper in the country. Now, three years later and at the height of their popularity, all of Hurley's stories had been told. The well had dried up, and it was up to Dodge to fill the void, which he had done admirably, boosting readership to a new peak. All of which had brought him here, to a garden party in the most famous garden in America.

"Another glass, sir?" inquired a voice at his shoulder.

He glanced up at the nattily attired waiter, but before he could answer in the affirmative, a ripple of anxiety passed through the group of diners and people began rising to their feet. He shrugged apologetically and stood up just as the band launched into the customary ruffles and flourishes. Dodge craned his head to get a look at the man who was both host and guest of honor but couldn't see him through the crowd. Abandoning the effort, he simply followed the example of everyone else, standing at attention until the final note was played. He applauded along with the rest of the crowd and then queued up in the orderly reception line as the band segued from "Hail to the Chief" into "Stars and Stripes Forever."

Perhaps because he felt more dread than anticipation for the impending introduction, the time spent waiting flew by quickly, and in a matter of only minutes he heard a voice made familiar by weekly radio discourses speaking his name... well, almost. "Mr. Dodge, isn't it?

It was a common mistake. "Dodge" was a nickname the sandy-haired athletically inclined writer had earned during a boyhood summer spent running bats out to the on-deck circle at Ebbets Field. Normally, he would have gently corrected the error, but this time he thought better of it.

"That's right, Mr. President." He shook the extended hand, mildly surprised to see the chief executive of the country seated behind a small café table.

"That's a good firm grip you've got there," observed the President. "You must get your exercise."

"I played a lot of ball as a boy, sir."

"Aha. And do you tag along with Falcon and his team on their adventures?"

Dodge forced a chuckle. "Only in my daydreams. I fight Falcon's villains with the pen, not the sword."

"I'm a big fan," the President announced with what appeared to be sincere joviality. "Big fan. Can't wait to see how Falcon gets out his latest scrape. Keep up the good work, young man. You're a national treasure."

Dodge correctly read the exit cue and moved on, letting the Commander-in-Chief have the final word. He strode away, but not before he heard: "Hurricane Hurley! Why, you're even more impressive that I had imagined. How did you get so strong?"

The walking mountain gave a thunderous guffaw to the delight of everyone in line. Even Dodge couldn't resist a smile as he heard Hurley, with the barest of prompting, launch into an elaborate anecdote about his childhood on the Cumberland Plateau.

He and Hurley had become friends after a fashion, and while the six-and-a-half foot giant wouldn't have been his first choice for company on a Friday night, there was no denying that an aura of rough charm surrounded the man they called Hurricane. Part of that was most certainly his proclivity for exaggeration, which had played no small part in the creation of the Captain Falcon legend. Dodge had heard this particular tall tale before and knew it always grew with the telling. Leaving Hurley to his admirers, he went in search of the waiter with the champagne service.

To his chagrin, he found that the beyond the reception line, the party seemed to have ground to a halt. Instead of the gentle rumble of multiple conversations, there was only a faint hum of awed whispers. The attention of the group, more than three score in number, was fixed skyward. Movie stars stood alongside cocktail servers, gaping in consternation at what appeared to be a flock of birds around a distant airship. Curious, he joined the stilled crowd. "What's all the fuss?"

"Barnstormers," suggested one man. "Some kind of aerial circus."

Frowning, Dodge looked again, squinting into the mid-morning sun. The array was much nearer than he had first realized and steadily moving closer. He now saw that what he had first taken to be birds were in fact... "Those are men up there."

"Parachutists," ventured the man.

"There aren't any parachutes," argued one woman. "But they aren't falling; they're flying!"

Dodge verified her statement with a glance, then looked to the airship at the center of the formation, thinking perhaps that the men were suspended by fine wires. What he saw however only further confounded a logical explanation.

The aircraft, if it was indeed that, was like nothing he had ever seen, save perhaps in dime novel artwork. The vessel looked like a round cake pan and was just as featureless. There appeared to be no means of propulsion — no spinning propellers or rocket flames — yet it was moving far too rapidly to be a dirigible carried on the wind. One thing was certain however: the aerial display was moving inexorably toward the White House.

"I'll wager this is something the Army cooked up; some new secret flying machine. The President probably arranged this stunt as entertainment for the party."

There was little conviction in the tone of the man voicing this opinion. It sounded more like an unsuccessful attempt to hide growing panic. Dodge's gut reaction was similar; something bad was about to happen. "I think we should take cover."

It was as though a dam had broken. In an instant, the quiet group of onlookers became a pandemonium of shrieks and frantic purposeless running. Dodge was buffeted by the human tide, and then just as suddenly found himself standing alone near the perimeter of the garden. After the chaos of the fleeing mob, the ensuing quiet was eerily peaceful.

Then the sky fell.

The next moment was surreal; something glimpsed in a dream or spawned from his pen in the latest chapter of Falcon's adventures. An invisible hand slapped him against the perfectly manicured lawn. He had only a dull memory of the collision; it felt something like a belly flop dive into a warm swimming pool, rather than a forceful trauma such as might accompany being struck by a solid object. He lingered there, pressed to the ground by a blanket of pressure that seemed everywhere all at once.

"Hellfire!" Hurricane's voice thundered above the din, but any further imprecations were lost in a deafening hail of gunfire.

In the corner of his vision, Dodge could just make out a contingent of dark-suited men — the President's Secret Service bodyguards — forming a skirmish line. Their backs were to him, their faces set against the entrance to the West Wing, which was the only means of egress from the Rose Garden, and each man's Thompson sub-machine gun spat a lethal volley of lead at the unseen attackers.

Then a different noise split through the chaos. It was a crack like the discharge of a pistol, but louder in volume and longer in duration. There was a blinding flash of light and when his ability to see returned, Dodge saw a break in the line. One of the Secret Service men had been pitched backward several yards and lay motionless with wisps of smoke trailing from his scorched clothing. However, Dodge's gaze was riveted elsewhere, for through the gap in the wall of bodyguards, he got his first good look at the party crashers.

They were men, the same men that had flown apparently unaided through the skies, but men nonetheless. The one who now blocked the President's only avenue of escape wore no particular uniform, but the singular distinctive accessory to his ensemble defied simple explanation. At first glance, it looked like some kind of medical apparatus or perhaps a medieval torture device. A framework of metal rods outlined the man, reaching down from a rigid waist belt to hinged footpads, up to his shoulders and down the length of his arms, and finally connecting to a domed cap, like something worn by medieval infantrymen. The rods were jointed at the elbows and knees to allow fully articulated movement, but where hands ought to have been, Dodge saw what looked like heavy armored gauntlets. The intruder brandished these metallic fists at the Secret Servicemen, disdaining the muzzle flashes of his foes' guns. Without warning, another brilliant flash arced through the air and blasted a second bodyguard from the line.

Dodge realized two things in that instant: First, that the blinding discharge could only be lightning —artificial lightning from a cathode in the attacker's heavy gauntlets; and second, that the man wearing the strange exoskeleton seemed to be impervious to bullets.

One by one, the Secret Servicemen were scattered like so much chaff by the unknown enemies' lightning bolts. There were at least half a dozen of the intruders, all wearing the metal gloves that shot electricity and all apparently invulnerable to any sort of counterattack.

Suddenly a new combatant appeared on the field of battle; a giant warrior who eschewed firearms and weapons in favor of the equipment Mother Nature had bestowed. Hurricane Hurley, roaring like an enraged grizzly bear, waded into the fray swinging his fists like war hammers. One of the intruders bounced away from a blow as if imprisoned in a giant beach ball. Two more were slapped aside as indifferently as buzzing flies; evidently the invisible armor that deflected bullets was no match for the human touch.

As the tide began to turn, it occurred to Dodge that he had not moved since the attackers' untimely arrival. When he tried to rise however, he again felt the insistent pressure at his back, like an enormous rubber balloon filled with water. As he pushed harder, the opposing force grew, then just as abruptly vanished. He craned his head around to get a look at the cause of his temporary immobilization.

He digested what he saw in large chunks of incredulity. The first thing he noticed was an expanse of dull silvery metal looming overhead and eclipsing the sky; it could only be the airship he had glimpsed from afar. The craft was almost close enough to touch, at least fifty feet in diameter, and its surface was impossibly smooth, without and seams or rivets. Yet all of those observations paled when held against the next thing Dodge ascertained about the invaders' aircraft: it was floating.

Except floating wasn't exactly the right word. It didn't bob or waver like a moored dirigible or hovering gyrocopter; rather it was absolutely motionless, as though the whole thing were the roof of a building supported on invisible columns. Momentarily overcome by journalistic curiosity, he reached up to touch the smooth underbelly of the craft, but the artificial thunder of the invaders' weapons snapped him back into the moment.

Hurricane stood transfixed in the path of a sizzling lightning bolt. Astonishingly, the giant was not blasted aside as the President's guards had been. His normally curly black hair stood straight up and his jaws were clenched, teeth bared in a rictus of pain, but he did not budge; he was as immovable as the airship. The tendril of electricity continued to lick at his torso a moment longer, then winked out. Dodge surmised that the weapon employed some sort of capacitor and that it had entirely expended its stored charge. Hurley shook his head, shrugging off the assault like a prizefighter, and charged at the now impotent attacker.

Lightning flared again, not from the man on the ground, but from the floating disc. Hurricane staggered back as the discharge struck him in the chest, but he recovered in an instant and renewed his advance. Another blast, this time a sustained tongue of sizzling blue fire, and then a second. To Dodge's utter amazement, four more intruders, all wearing metal exoskeletons, descended from the airship on a ramp that had deployed unnoticed from its underbelly. The reinforcements concentrated their electrical weapons on that lone target, and even the prodigious Hurricane Hurley could not endure such a withering assault. As the juggernaut went down, the clamor of combat immediately ceased. A few Secret Servicemen remained upright, but had discarded their useless weapons in order to create a defensive ring around the man they were sworn to protect. It was a futile gesture. The intruders, ten altogether, advanced menacingly and peeled the bodyguards away to reveal the object of their quest: the President of the United States.

The Chief Executive sat motionless at his table, his gaze locked warily on the man directly before him. His lips were pursed tight; if he said anything in defiance of the assault, or heaven forbid, begged for mercy, it was spoken too softly to be heard by anyone but those who now held his fate in their hands. Two of the men seized hold of his arms and bodily lifted him away from the table. The President was again lost from view as the remaining attackers formed a perimeter around their prize and commenced escorting him to the idle airship.

Dodge remained where he was, paralyzed with fear and disbelief as the Commander in Chief was taken up the ramp into the hovering craft. It was simply too much to absorb; anonymous commandos equipped with exoskeletons that imbued their wearers with the powers of flight and invincibility, shooting bolts of lightning and kidnapping the President. It was like....

"Like something from a Falcon story," he whispered. But Falcon wouldn't be frozen in place, petrified with fright as the foes absconded victorious. Falcon would take action! He would....

What would Falcon do?

Four of the invaders, along with their captive, entered the disc after which the ramp vanished back into the craft. The silvery metal skin sealed over the opening so that it was impossible to tell where the entryway had been. Then, without any sort of preamble, the airship leaped into the sky. Dodge felt a push, similar to what one might experience when a descending elevator car halted abruptly, but that was all. Whatever force motivated the craft, it seemed to operate in defiance of Newton's Laws.

The six remaining raiders formed a circle on the lawn, their steel gauntlets extended toward the defenseless guests that huddled for cover throughout the garden. One of them stood only a few paces from Dodge, so close that he could see the man's dark brown eyes and the rivulets of sweat that beaded on his forehead and trickled along a furrowed scar that ran the length of his jaw. The hard man locked eyes with Dodge and flashed a menacing grin. The meaning was explicit: stay back or get fried.

"Move out!" shouted another of the invaders, and then acting on his own admonition, he flexed his knees as if preparing to jump and was whisked into the sky. Another followed on his heels, zooming into the air as if there were rockets on his back. There were no rockets, only a metal lump, of the same dull color as the airship, which extended from the rigid belt of the exoskeleton up across the man's back. The scarred man threw Dodge a smug nod, then bent his knees in preparation to take flight.

Something broke inside Dodge. A sound, intimately familiar, but at the same time completely foreign, broke the ominous quiet. It was his own voice, and his words, while simple and ambiguous, felt like a declaration of war. He looked the man in the eye and in a grinding whisper said: "I don't think so."

Dodge had only one thought: seize the man to prevent him from escaping. Beyond that, he had only the vaguest idea of what might occur. Perhaps the police would be able to identify the culprit and compel him to betray his confederates... perhaps he could be used as a bargaining piece against the President's safety. He didn't explore all the possibilities; his attention was focused on the sole objective of restraining the man. In the instant before the man burst into flight, Dodge hurled himself forward and wrapped both arms around the intruder's waist. His momentum should have taken both of them down in a typical flying tackle, but what happened next was anything but typical.

As his arms opened around the man, Dodge again felt the same subtle pressure that had flattened him beneath the airship. He recognized it now or at least was able to reconcile it with a known phenomenon. The closest likeness he could come up with was the effect of magnetic repulsion; two magnets, lined up a certain way, would push each other apart. But the strange corona of force around the men had proven capable of repelling bullets — lead slugs with no magnetic characteristics — and even human flesh. Dodge could think of only one explanation, and it wasn't something he had read or heard about in the annals of science. Rather, it was the stuff of science fiction. The serials that shared the comics page with Falcon were always describing invisible force fields that could protect spaceships or superheroes. Dodge had always dismissed such stories as too fanciful to warrant serious consideration, but then again, he would have felt the same way about steel mitts that shot lightning bolts.

Whatever the cause, the energy field almost thwarted Dodge's desperate attempt to restrain the escaping rogue; his arms couldn't quite close together. He redoubled his efforts, hugging tightly to the shielded figure, but it was like trying to wrestle a greased pig. The force field seemed to squirm and ooze in his grip and for a fleeting second, Dodge knew he would fail. Then without any particular climax, the struggle ended and Dodge's arms locked around the man's metal shod ankles.

"Gotcha!" The momentum of his intended tackle maneuver had been lost, but Dodge had a taste of victory now. He tried to plant his feet, throwing his body weight to the side; but his shoes couldn't find the ground. His legs thrashed about, trying to somehow gain a position of advantage, but terra firma eluded him. He didn't have to look down for an explanation — somehow he knew with sickening certainty what had happened — but he looked anyway.

## CHAPTER 2

SKY CHASE

The city was particularly beautiful from above. The midmorning sun gleamed off the white dome of the Capitol to his right, and was a blinding fiery dance on the surface of the Reflecting Pool to his left. Dodge had never flown in an airplane or zeppelin, so the aerial view of the city was a completely new experience. As glorious as it was though, the sudden realization that he was now soaring through the skies, with absolutely no safety net — literal or otherwise — sent a jolt through his veins that was easily the equal of anything produced by the invaders' weapons. The pyramid-shaped capstone of the Washington monument appeared beneath his feet; he knew the monument to be over five hundred and fifty feet tall, which meant his current altitude had to be more than six hundred feet, and they were still ascending. Dodge clutched the man's legs as if the Grim Reaper's scythe were slicing the air beneath him.

Strangely, the scarred man had done nothing to shake off his stowaway. When this realization filtered through the primal panic confounding Dodge's thinking process, he tore his gaze from the metropolitan landscape below to assess the situation above.

The man's arms were stretched out away from his torso, raised over his head with hands pointing to the sky. Even his head was tilted back, nose pointed in the direction of travel, as if completely unaware that he had picked up a hitchhiker. Only his eyes, glaring down at an impossibly awkward angle, revealed both his awareness of and irritation at Dodge's desperate heroics. The significance of this slowly filtered through the mental chaos.

Dodge thought about the way the flying raider had prepared to depart — bending at the knees as if to jump — and his current posture; every move mimicked the behavior of a creature capable of unaided flight. It was nothing like an airplane, where the controls were levers, pedals and switches; the apparatus that enabled this villain to move through the air was controlled by the movements of his body. The position of the man's arms and legs, even the orientation of his head, were all integrated into the control mechanism. The scarred air pirate couldn't do anything about his passenger because doing so would send them both spinning uncontrollably through the sky. It was the ultimate standoff, but Dodge knew that as long as his foe controlled their destination, he would wind up on the short end of the rope. All the man would have to do was rejoin his confederates and let them deal with the unarmed stowaway.

As if reading his thoughts, the man lowered one arm slightly, and banked to the south. The rest of the raiding party swarmed around the airship, following the course of the Potomac River, barely visible in the distance.

Dodge winced as they began to pick up speed. There was no breeze against his face — the force field evidently deflected the air mass as easily as it did bullets — but the sudden motion in three dimensions sent a fresh wave of vertigo rolling through his gut. Of course it didn't help that he was now rushing toward what would almost certainly be his doom.

He couldn't help thinking about the decision that had landed him in this mess; he should have known better than to try to imitate a man who existed only as ink on news pulp. Captain Falcon was going to get him killed. Behind the web of accusations, panic and self-pity however, was another voice defending his decision, or perhaps simply exonerating his fictional creation. You asked what Falcon would do, it said. He wouldn't just hold on and wait for the end to come.

He glanced up at the raider, trying to read the situation through Falcon's eyes, and immediately saw the only course of action. "Nope," he whispered. "I can't do that."

As they drew closer to the retreating airship however, he realized that a better solution wasn't going to appear out of thin air. His choice was simple; wait for the axe to fall, or die trying to do something. Let's be smart about this, he told himself. If I slug this guy, we both go down.

He shook his head, trying to banish the voices of doubt. The only chance he had was putting his trust in uncertain luck; indecision would guarantee that all his luck would be bad. Without further deliberation, he relaxed the grip of his left arm and reached up for the rigid belt of the exoskeleton.

The scarred man saw the movement and immediately divined his intention. He brought his arms together in front of his chest in a downward arc, and suddenly Dodge's world turned upside down.

If the man had hoped to shake him loose, he was disappointed. Their constant acceleration was more than enough to compensate for the inexorable pull of gravity. Dodge instinctively pulled himself higher and wrapped all of his limbs around the raider's legs. The more they looped and swooped the tighter Dodge held, all the while advancing whenever a momentary opportunity presented itself. The struggle wasn't much different than Dodge's school wrestling matches, and he had always excelled on the mat.

In a few short seconds, he snaked his way behind the raider, finding a better grip on the metal rods of the exoskeleton than on the man's clothes or extremities. He knew his foe was worried; the man hurled imprecations back at him in a foreign tongue — Dodge thought it sounded a little like German but couldn't be sure — and had even slipped one of his hands free from the gauntlets in a futile attempt to pry loose his opponent's grip.

Dodge meanwhile was paying close attention to how the man's movements affected their flight. His confidence was increasing, but holding the advantage was different than winning. Victory would require the ultimate leap of faith. He endured another dizzying series of aerobatic maneuvers, and then when the raider leveled out to assess the results of his effort, he delivered a single closed-fisted blow to the base of the man's neck. It was a blow worthy of Falcon himself.

The man jerked reflexively, curling his limbs and sending them into a corkscrew dive. Dodge could barely make out the river looming below; the details were lost in a blur of motion. He tore his gaze away from the spinning landscape and focused on the next part of his desperate plan.

Following the knockout punch, the raider had gone limp in the flying rig. Dodge on the other hand felt as though someone had replaced the blood in his veins with liquid lead; the uncontrolled spiral made every movement seem like the labors of Hercules.

With his legs locked around the man's waist, he struggled against centripetal force and managed to straighten the man's arms. The spin immediately ceased, and when he levered his foe's arms to shoulder height, the headlong dive began to level out.

Dodge heaved a sigh of relief. "That's better."

Although his body had stopped turning, it took a few moments for his head to catch up. Only when the waves of nausea subsided did he attempt to take stock of his situation.

He was still over the river and easily located the Washington Monument. The white obelisk was the highest landmark on his horizon and an easy reference point to judge both elevation and distance. The mid-air struggle had brought him nearly back to the point from which his journey had begun. It would take a little gentle experimentation, but he felt reasonably certain he could make his way back to the White House with his captive.

He turned his head to see if the airship carrying the President was still there. He found it, a barely visible speck winging south above the Potomac, but his eyes barely registered the fact. His attention was fixed on the four other flying shapes racing toward him.

If he had any doubts about their intentions, they were put to rest when a bolt of lightning suddenly lit up the clear blue sky. The searing arc crackled dangerously close; close enough that Dodge felt his hair stand on end. Another followed, and another, in rapid-fire succession from the approaching swarm.

Dodge's understanding of the rudimentary controls was sufficient to turn his slow crawl across the sky into a steep climb that wove back and forth in front of the sun — the best strategy he could devise on the spur of the moment — but every action was made doubly difficult because he wasn't simply steering the flying rig but also manipulating the unconscious villain who wore it. As a lattice of electrical bolts scorched the air near his feet, he realized he was going to have to address that liability.

He knew what he had to do, yet the implications of that course of action stopped him in his tracks. If he unbuckled the belt and let the scarred raider fall, the man would most certainly perish. Dodge had never faced a situation where someone's fate rested in his hands; he had never even sat for jury duty. He didn't doubt what the other man would do if their roles were reversed, but that thought brought him no comfort. A host of rationales clamored against his equivocating conscience. These men were killers, death was what they deserved. Worse, they had abducted the President of the United States. Whether they were agents of a hostile foreign power, or simply audacious criminals, their actions were tantamount to a declaration of war, and bad things happened in wars; ordinary men had to make hard decisions that no civilized person should have to make.

Dodge had learned this lesson well during the time spent chronicling the adventures of Captain Falcon. Falcon was always walking that fine line between acting decisively and keeping his humanity intact. When Dodge wrote those stories, he always found a way for his pulp hero to resolve that dilemma. That was the great thing about fiction.

His fingers found the belt clasp. I guess I'm going to find out what it's really like to kill someone.

As Dodge opened the buckle, there was a strange audible disturbance. It wasn't a sound, but rather the end of it; the abrupt termination of a pervasive humming noise he had been unaware of during his struggles. It reminded him of a high voltage electrical light being switched off.

He realized his mistake in the same instant that his upward motion ceased. Whether it was dread at his fatal error or simply the sudden free fall, Dodge's stomach rolled over. The earlier moral struggle was swept away by the cold wind blasting against his face as he and his still unconscious opponent plummeted uncontrollably. Almost without thinking, he relaxed the grip of his legs and gave the man a hard shove. Rather than dropping away however, the man simply drifted at arm's length, tumbling in the updraft at exactly the same rate of fall.

Dodge now found himself holding the impossibly light exoskeleton. His left hand was curled tenaciously around the upright shaft that connected the hump-like back piece to the arm branches. It was difficult to make out any details about the device through eyes squinted into slits, the only defense against the rush of air as he fell, but it seemed simple enough; if opening the belt clasp turned the thing off, then logically, closing it would turn it back on.

He clumsily twisted the flying rig around and plunged his right hand into the corresponding gauntlet. The metallic shell wasn't articulated like a glove, but rather resembled the basket hilt of a dueling epee. Dodge's fingers briefly explored the handgrip inside, but found nothing resembling a trigger for the lightning weapon. He decided to worry about figuring that out if he survived.

It had taken only a few seconds for him to reach terminal velocity, almost two hundred miles per hour straight down, and he knew it would take only a few more seconds before he came to a very sudden, and very permanent, stop. He hastily wriggled into the exoskeleton, found the stirrups on the footpads and hooked his shoes under the bar, then secured the left-hand gauntlet. Still, he fell.

The belt!

He was reluctant — terrified, really — to let go of both his handholds, but he knew the ferocity of his grip would count for little on impact. He flexed his ankles against the footpad stays, and cautiously let go with his hands, one at a time, transferring his fingers to the belt. As he slid the halves of the catch together, he sneaked a glance at the approaching landscape, an action he instantly regretted. It was so close....

The belt clasped together with a satisfying click and Dodge both felt and heard the comforting hum of an electrical current. The rush of wind immediately abated allowing him to open his eyes.

The scarred raider still tumbled through the air a few yards away. Panic obliterated any sense of triumph as Dodge realized he was still falling. He tried moving the arms, but there was no change in his descent. The force field was functioning; why wasn't he flying? I turned it on, he thought angrily. What else do I have to do?

His mind flashed back to the moment when the invaders had retreated from their attack in the Rose Garden. They had bent their legs as if preparing to jump...It's worth a shot.

Extending his arms fully as he had seen the raiders do, he did his best to simulate a jump in freefall, coiling his legs, then unleashing like a spring with his toes pointed straight out. It worked... sort of.

Instead of falling uncontrollably through the air, he was now shooting toward the river at breakaway speed. There was no time to think, not even time to say a quick prayer that the exoskeleton's force field would cushion the impact. All he could do was curl into a fetal ball and wait for the inevitable.

For what seemed an eternity, all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears, syncopated to the allegro tempo of his pounding pulse. Finally, when his heart had hammered a few hundred beats, he risked opening his eyes.

His vision was filled with brown — the murky, polluted water of the Potomac River. Still curled up like a frightened hedgehog, Dodge hung in midair only a few feet above the surface. Had he been so inclined, he could have reached out and dipped his hand in the water.

A sickening slap broke his momentary reverie, followed by a geyser of water and an almost simultaneous eruption of blue sparks against Dodge's skin. He grimaced involuntarily as a score of electrical shocks bloomed all over his body. The force field crackled angrily as the water droplets threatened to short it out completely, but stabilized a few moments later. When he looked again, there was a gory oil slick, like the effluent of an abattoir, spreading below. Dodge knew what had caused the bloody splashdown, but strangely felt no remorse. That could have been me, he thought, shuddering. Splattered on the river or electrocuted by his own force field; he had escaped both fates by a hair's breadth.

With the tedious caution of someone who knows he's used up a year's supply of luck in a single throw of the dice, Dodge extended his limbs, mimicking the motions of a swimmer trying to roll over in a pool. Evidently it was the right thing to do, because his attitude shifted and he began to gently rise once more toward the sky.

I think I'm getting the hang of this.

His elation was once more short-lived. The four raiders that had doubled back to intercept him were organizing into a loose formation and following him from above, evidently biding their time. With the demise of their comrade, there was no longer any reason for them to hold back.

Remembering the adage about a good offense being the best defense, Dodge tried rolling over onto his back. He kept his movements slow and cautious, lest an inadvertent arm swing send him plunging into the river. The maneuver worked as planned; the controls of the exoskeleton responded intuitively to his body, almost as if it was meant to be an extension of his own musculature. Not bad, he thought. Now let's try something a little more spectacular.

He extended one metallic fist toward the quartet of flying villains and experimentally squeezed the handgrip. Nothing happened. He tried stabbing his hand at skyward, as if throwing a punch....

A blinding flash leaped from his hand and arced into the sky. He let go, more as a reflex than from any conscious intent, and the lightning bolt vanished. A dark ribbon lingered on his retina, partially obscuring his vision, but beyond it, he could see the four flyers still aloft. He lined up another target, and squinted in preparation for a two-fisted attack.

His barrage failed to strike a target, but he certainly had his foes' attention. One of the men, after banking to avoid a blast, lowered his gauntlet and took aim at Dodge. Before the latter could take any kind of evasive action, a bolt of blue lightning seared toward him.

The electrical discharge missed him by a few yards — close enough for him to again feel the creeping cobwebs of static on his skin — but then something unusual happened. A second lightning bolt, inextricably intertwined with the first, raced back to the source. The shooter was enveloped in a coruscating field of sparks, and then the light abruptly blinked out. Dodge saw a dark smudge in the sky around the man, which became a trail of black smoke as the scorched figure lazily heeled over and began to plummet.

In a leap of comprehension, Dodge realized that his foes were not the professionals he had first imagined them to be. Their grasp of the limitations of the strange technology they employed seemed little better than his. He knew from writing the Falcon adventures that bellicose foreign warmongers always tested their new devices and extensively trained their soldiers on the correct use of those weapons before sending them out on some audacious enterprise, but at least one of the sky pirates had either forgotten that striking water might cause the lightning to feedback on its source, or had never known it to begin with.

I might actually have a chance here, thought Dodge. But a chance to do what?

He stabbed another bolt skyward, then rolled over and straightened himself into streamlined arrow, no more than a hundred feet above the river. No longer did the Capitol skyline dominate his horizon, though. Instead, he followed the watercourse, straining for even a glimpse of the strange disc-shaped airship that held the most precious hostage in America. It was impossible to gauge his speed, but he estimated that he was moving about as fast as an automobile could travel — forty or fifty miles per hour. Alexandria flashed by on the west bank of the River and he could make out George Washington's historic home on the Mount Vernon plantation. There was however, no sign of the airship.

The three remaining raiders had learned from their comrade's deadly mistake. They withheld their lightning bolts and chose instead to bring the fight down to his level. Dodge kept a wary eye on the group, pondering the strategic options at hand. There weren't many.

He made a few exploratory feints, rising and swooping to see if he could provoke another lethal misstep, but his opponents did not take the bait. Instead, they matched his speed and kept low.

So they mean to run me down. Well, then, let's bring the battle to their doorstep.

The fact that the escaping airship had kept to the river course was not lost on Dodge. It was an easy navigational reference, especially for someone unfamiliar with either the city or the vagaries of aerial navigation. It was time, he decided, to gamble. After another feint, he angled his body upward, and shot into the blue. This time, the raiders bought his ploy, and were left behind as he angled toward the west bank of the river.

Dodge continued to climb, rising high enough to increase his line of sight by several miles. The circular shape of the airship, still following the river as it wound to the right and began a long southward journey toward Chesapeake Bay, was barely visible but nonetheless unmistakable. He didn't linger to enjoy the view, but immediately angled toward this new destination and started giving up altitude.

The trio of pursuers had adapted to his latest gambit and was closing fast. Lightning burst below him, right in his path, forcing him to veer off. Another burst sizzled in front of him. The raiders were learning quickly.

Dodge resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to veer away from the electrical charge. He knew that they were waiting for him to do exactly that. Instead, he steered almost head on into the ribbon of energy. He passed so close that his force field crackled angrily. He felt a tooth-rattling shock shoot through one arm, but then he was past, momentarily out of harm's way.

"They don't call me Dodge for nothing!" he shouted, with more enthusiasm than he actually felt.

More electrical discharges passed through the air below him, too far off the mark to be attributed merely to bad aim. Unable to hit him directly, his enemies were trying instead to keep him from reaching the relative safety of the river. Fortunately, his foes had no idea what his real goal was.

The airship continued apace and banked to the right, past Mason Neck, the boot-shaped hook of land beyond which the river began to broaden to more than three miles across in some places. The airship stayed in the center of the waterway like a hound following a scent, leading Dodge to speculate on its ultimate destination. Even with their astonishing technology, the kidnappers would have to know that watchful eyes on the ground would be following their progress across the sky. Even now, he reckoned, the police broadcast net must have been humming with activity, alerting patrolmen to follow the strange object over the river. If the raiders were as clever as he thought, they would be looking for a place to ditch their wings in favor of a less conspicuous mode of travel.

His intercept course cut the airship's lead by nearly half. He was still a few miles off, but he was able to distinguish the dark shape of the lone man who had stayed with the vessel. Braving the random bolts of lightning that still scoured the air below, Dodge angled downward, putting himself between the receding craft and the pursuit. The lightning had no range limit and once his enemies realized that their attacks could very well hit their cohorts, the electrical storm abated.

Now it's just a race. But what if I win? Indeed, what would he do if he caught up to the airship?

The chase continued, wending past the Quantico Marine Corp base and the historic battlefields of Fredericksburg, and then the airship turned east as the Potomac rounded Maryland Point. From here, the river grew increasingly brackish as it mingled with tidewater from the bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. A Brooklyn native, Dodge didn't know the geography of area that well, but he did know one basic fact: rivers always lead to the sea.

Are they meeting a ship?

Even the fastest ship would not be able to elude pursuit for long; US Naval warships, using spotter aircraft would eventually hunt them down, and even if the military stayed their hand for fear of harming the President, there would be no place to hide, no port where the ship would be safe. A U-boat maybe?

The river turned south again, allowing Dodge a chance to gain a few hundred yards by cutting the corner above the Dahlgren US Naval Proving Grounds. He could make out rows of sailors lining the docks and the decks of ships moored in the river, but it was plainly obvious that none of the vessels were being marshaled to join in the chase. He turned his attention back to airship and hastened toward open water.

More than ten miles of river separated Virginia from Maryland. There were a few commercial freighters sitting at anchor along the watercourse and a handful of pleasure craft enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon, but Dodge's gaze was drawn to a pair of oblong vessels out in the middle of the current, directly in the path of the strange aircraft.

One vessel was easily identifiable by its rectangular configuration and flat, low riding hull — a barge — but the other looked like no boat he had ever seen; its long cigar-shaped hull was crossed with a pair of extensions that looked exactly like...

"Wings? It's a plane!"

Dodge could make out a lone figure standing motionless on the cargo vessel, near the makeshift ramp that connected it to the enormous amphibious plane. The man's face was obscured by a heavy black cowl, like the cassock of a monk, and in his right hand he held a long rod. The airship and its lone escort came to an abrupt halt in mid-air directly above the barge and settled feather-light onto its open deck. As soon as the flying disc was down, a pie-shaped section opened in its smooth skin and the occupants were disgorged. The President, still held bodily by two men wearing the exoskeleton rigs, was hastened onto the waiting airplane. In the time it took them to make the transfer, Dodge reached the barge.

His approach had not gone unnoticed by the hooded figure. Before he could land, an arc of violet energy burst from the tip of the man's staff. At point blank range, he couldn't miss.

Dodge's force field bore the brunt of the discharge, shrieking angrily as his form was enveloped in a blinding blaze of energies in conflict. Without the shield, the bolt would have vaporized him. Instead, it felt merely like a slap from the hand of mighty Zeus. He almost blacked out as pain wracked every extremity, but the sweet release of unconsciousness was denied. The force of the blast knocked him back into the sky, spinning crazily in response to the involuntary spasms of his electrified musculature. Through the haze of pain, he remembered what had saved him earlier, and struggled to curl into a protective ball lest his uncontrolled flight plunge him into the river.

After a few moments, the agony subsided enough for him to first take a breath, and then to orient himself on the vessels floating two hundred feet below. The hooded figure paid him no heed, but rather had his attention fixed on the flying disc. He gestured with the long rod, like a bishop offering a benediction, and then the unimaginable happened.

The things he had seen and experienced, beginning with the assault on the White House Rose Garden, had left Dodge believing that nothing could surprise him. He was mistaken. His mind had no frame of reference for what he now saw.

The flying disc started shrinking. Every second that passed saw it reduced by halves; from a diameter of about thirty feet, it contracted steadily down to almost nothing. When it was only about as large as pizza pie plate it began to drift toward its cloaked master's outstretched left hand, and by the time it arrived, it was too small for Dodge to see from his aerial vantage. The disc that settled into the gloved palm was no larger than a silver dollar. The man closed his fist over the metal shape, then wheeled and stalked across the ramp, into the waiting airplane.

Dodge shook his head to banish the paralysis of incredulity and was about to make another run at the barge when he realized he was not alone in the sky. One of the three raiders that had pursued him almost from the start appeared below him; close enough that Dodge could see the man's rough countenance split by a grin of triumph, while his comrades pulled up on either side. They had him surrounded; worse, he couldn't use the lightning weapon because he would almost certainly strike the water. The grinning man raised his gauntlets and took aim.

Dodge whipped his hands from the exoskeleton and held them up in a placating gesture. "I give up!" he shouted.

The unexpected surrender confounded the other man for a moment, but his features hardened just as quickly. "I don't care," he replied in strangely accented English.

"I don't suppose you do." Dodge managed a grin of his own, and then before the other man could deliver the coup de grace, he released the grips, reached to his waist, unclasped the belt and dropped like a stone. The man's expression barely had time to register his surprise before Dodge's feet struck his force field.

While the unexpected maneuver spared him a jolt from the lightning weapon, Dodge's plan to penetrate the man's shield and switch off his exoskeleton was quickly thwarted when contact not only brought about a stunning shock but also deflected his attack and sent him ricocheting off into space. Successful or not, he had anticipated a fall into the river. He didn't try to re-engage his own flying rig, but twisted in mid—air so that his body was as straight as a pike, toes leading the plunge.

It was a long drop, at least a hundred and fifty feet to the river's surface. The water would probably feel as hard as concrete when he struck, and he might break his legs, if not his neck, but in the two-second-long vertical journey, his greatest concern was the exoskeleton. He was betting his life that the unclasping the belt would suffice to keep him from getting fried when he hit the water. If he was wrong... well, he'd probably never know.

The brown water rushed up impossibly fast. He kept his body tense and rigid, arms tight against his torso, but nothing could adequately prepare him for the impact; a stabbing pain completely unlike the electrical jolts shot through his legs, followed by a hammer blow to his gut. Immediately after entering the river, he tried to throw his limbs out to keep from plunging too deep, but it was impossible to tell if the message reached his extremities. A moment later, a crushing vise of pressure closed over his head.

At least I didn't get electrocuted.

Grimacing against the pain, he started kicking and stroking toward a blurry light spot overhead. When what seemed like several minutes had passed, and when he felt his lungs convulsing with the urge to draw a fresh breath, he started to get a little worried. His powerful, disciplined swimming techniques became a frantic thrash, as if through sheer panic he might claw his way to the surface. Despite an overwhelming urge to simply give up and take that final liquid breath, he knew he was making progress. His view of the surface cleared, giving him a final burst of motivation, and then he was there, splashing through the choppy, windswept surface.

He discovered the source of the sudden tempest too late to do anything about it. The wind was artificial, generated by four propeller engines mounted to the wings of the enormous flying boat. As Dodge trod water, greedily sucking the air and wincing at the pain that accompanied every movement, the roar of airplane engines grew to deafening proportions and then climaxed. He caught a glimpse of the plane a few seconds later, now several hundred yards further down the river, as it lifted off the surface and rose from behind the derelict barge.

His joy at having survived the plunge was dampened by the realization that he had failed; the raiders had escaped with their hostage, and nothing he had done had made a bit of difference. Dejected, he sidestroked toward the low hull of the barge and paddled until he found a hawser trailing over the side. The flat-bottomed craft was riding high in the water, evidently empty of cargo, and Dodge had to struggle to pull himself over the gunwale. Safe at last, he lay on the deck for a few minutes, staring helplessly up at the clear sky.

He was surprised to discover the exoskeleton still loosely attached to his body. His sodden shoes were still in the footpads and the stiff belt, though unbuckled, hugged his waist. The metal framework was so light and so perfectly articulated that it had not impeded his movements in the water. The technology that made it work would no doubt be of great interest to the nation's scientists. Well, that's something, he thought. Maybe the day isn't a total loss.

He rolled over and got up in degrees; hands and knees first, then a final agonizing stretch to stand erect. His earlier assumptions about the barge were confirmed. It was completely empty. The decks, designed to haul heaps of grain or coal, were bare. The boat had no superstructure, nowhere for anyone to hide. He was the only soul aboard.

Then he noticed something that did look out of place: a pair of long wires that stretched the length of the deck. He followed them with his eyes, trying to figure out why they looked familiar in an environment that was so wholly foreign. There was a twist in the wires every few feet, as if the metal remembered how it had once been coiled around a spool. It wasn't until he saw the bundle of dynamite in one corner that everything fell into place.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding."

There were four bombs in all, each linked to a central nexus near one end of the boat. It was a wind-up alarm clock, rhythmically ticking away, mere seconds from the moment when a lot more than just an alarm would go off.

## CHAPTER 3

THE ULTIMATUM

The White House Rose Garden looked like a war zone. Given the events that had recently transpired there, that might have seemed an appropriate description, but the Presidential Manor and the surrounding grounds showed surprisingly little damage from the exchange between Secret Servicemen and the unidentified invading force. There were scorch marks on the polished white exterior and a few bullet scars, but for the most part, the distinguished residence, which had been gutted by British troops during the War of 1812, and then survived the Whig Riot in 1841 and the Christmas Eve fire of 1929, had weathered this latest assault quite well. It was only after the combatants had left the field that most of the damage had occurred, all due to a human hurricane of destruction named Brian Hurley.

Hurley did not deal well with failure, and although he was under no special obligation to protect the Chief Executive, nor had he in any way been prepared to defend against enemies using an incomprehensible technology against which bullets were completely ineffectual, he was coping with this latest rare defeat with his customary grace: he was breaking everything in sight.

Delicate flowers, lawn furniture and bone china, all suffered the same fate. Hurley destroyed anything that he could pick up, and there was very little Hurley couldn't pick up. Three Secret Servicemen had tried to restrain him, but had been tossed aside as easily as it they were made of balsa wood. The fact that they suffered nothing worse than mild sprains and one possible concussion, belied the berserker expression Hurricane wore; had he not been holding back at least a little bit, the men would have been pulverized.

Most of the party guests had been evacuated to an inner conference room where they were being forcibly sequestered, while a small group of White House staff and military personnel, drawn by perverse curiosity, had trickled into the Garden. General Frank Vaughn was the latest to arrive.

Like the others, he gazed in humble awe at the destructive colossus as an entire family of wooden lounge chairs was crushed like matchwood. Only then did the officer turn to the rest of the assembled onlookers.

He found the Secretary of the Treasury conversing with the White House Chief of Staff and the senior Secret Service agent on the scene. He joined them and waited for the agent to recapitulate the events of the day and lay out the subsequent actions taken. "Police spotters are following the airship as it moves down the river. All of the reporters that were here have been isolated and a total news blackout is in force. The Vice President has been contacted, but no one outside knows the full situation."

Vaughn was unimpressed. "I'll wager very few inside know what's really going on. What have you told the police?"

The Chief of Staff cleared his throat. "We're reporting a runaway experimental weather balloon."

"And the men flying..." He glanced down at the teletype report and read it again. "Is that right? Flying men?"

"Ground crew members who were holding the mooring ropes and inadvertently carried aloft."

Vaughn waved the report at him. "And how does that explain them shooting lightning bolts from their hands?"

The man spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, but offered no comment.

"Do we know who is behind this?"

The Treasurer spoke for the first time. "It can only be a foreign government; Germany, if I had to hazard a guess. They have always been at the forefront of scientific and military development, and this sort of belligerence is just their style."

Vaughn was wary. The Cabinet Secretary was known to be an advocate of aggressive foreign policy and was especially vocal about the threat posed by Hitler's Nazi regime in Europe, but there were many others in Washington who felt that Hitler was a potential ally in the struggle against communism. The General knew he had to tread carefully in this particular political minefield. "If you're right, this can only mean war."

As they spoke, a group of Marines in full battle rattle and wielding riot batons was preparing to move in on Hurley and subdue him. Vaughn eavesdropped as they finalized their plan of attack. When he had heard enough, he excused himself from the war council and gently intervened. "Forgive me, sergeant, but I think you may want to reconsider. That's Hurricane Hurley."

The Marine bit back a caustic reply when he spied Vaughn's stars and snapped to attention. "Sir, we're going to do our best not to hurt him."

"Son, I'm not worried about him." Vaughn smiled forbearingly. "Look, he's just blowing off a little steam. He'll calm down in a few minutes and then we can get down to figuring out who the real enemy is."

The Marine sergeant waited until the General turned away to roll his eyes, but the point became moot when Hurley's rampage abruptly ceased. To the amazement of all onlookers, he froze in place for a few moments, then stooped down to pick up a silver serving platter. He stared at it for a moment, then turned it over and looked at the other side.

It was as if someone had thrown a switch. The transformation was nothing short of extraordinary. Hurley went from a raging, roaring behemoth to a gentle giant in an instant. He spied the general and with his new prize in hand walked over. Only the deluge of perspiration trickling out from beneath his curly black mop offered any testimony to the ferocity of his earlier behavior. From a few paces away, he threw a smart salute to Vaughn. "Good to see you again, sir."

"Sergeant Major," Vaughn nodded, returning the salute, then clasped Hurricane's prodigiously large hand. "It's been too long."

"I'm surprised an old war horse like you hasn't retired."

"I've a few rides left in me before they put me out to pasture." The general's smile hardened to a look that was strictly business. "What happened here?"

Hurley shook his head. "I did my damnedest, but they had some kind of weapon... It was like nothing I've ever seen before. Dodge — that's Mr. Dalton —"

"Dalton writes the..." Vaughn made a curious face that a mixture of displeasure and amusement.

Hurley needed no translation. "That's right. He managed to grab one of them, but..." He shook his head again, this time with a sorrowful sigh.

"Any idea who we're dealing with?"

Hurricane raised the silver plate. "This is made from the same metal as their ship and flying packs. It's the only clue they left, and I'd say they wanted us to find it."

Vaughn now saw that it was neither truly silver nor a plate at all, but a smooth disc eight inches in diameter and half an inch thick. As Hurley turned it over, it separated into two matching halves, and nested inside was a reel of film. He unwound a strip of celluloid and examined it. "It's a Movietone reel."

Vaughn turned to the Chief of Staff. "We need to see this. Do you have a projector?"

"In the theater. Follow me."

Hurley and the general joined a procession of men moving into the halls of the Presidential mansion and entered the private movie theater. The film reel was given to the projectionist who threaded it onto a newsreel device. The Fox Movietone projector used a special film upon which was recorded not only visual images, but also a synchronized audio soundtrack. The quality was not as sharp as that used by feature motion pictures, which employed a separate soundtrack recorded on a vinyl album, but the advantage of the Movietone system was that it required only one piece of machinery to display both sound and moving pictures. The villain had no doubt taken this into account when choosing the medium in which to make his intentions known.

As everyone took their seats, Vaughn addressed the group: "This film is our only clue to the identity of the men who abducted the President. I don't think I need to tell anyone that whatever you see stays in this room."

There was a chorus of affirmatives, and then the lights went down and the screen filled with a scratchy pattern of light through dark film. This continued for a moment, and then resolved into a scene of almost total blackness. At the center, mostly hidden beneath the shadow of a dark cowl, was a lone human figure. Only his lower jaw and cryptic humorless mouth were visible, starkly white in contrast to the rest of the picture. For a long time the figure was motionless; the image was awkwardly static for a medium characterized by activity. Similarly, the strident musical score that most moviegoers had come to expect from weekly newsreels and serials was absent; there was only the soft hiss of film passing through the projector.

At last the dramatic silence was broken by a pronouncement even more profound: "People of America, I have your leader."

A mournful exhalation rippled through the benighted room but no one spoke except the mysterious figure on the screen.

"By now you must realize that no weapon in your arsenal can vanquish me; no scheme of yours can hope to succeed. The fate of your leader is in my hands, and only by complete compliance with my demands can you hope to effect his release.

"The ransom for your leader cannot be paid with any coin in your treasury. I demand only one thing, and my demand is absolute."

Vaughn held his breath. From the sudden hush, he knew he wasn't the only one.

"I seek to prove myself in mortal combat with your greatest champion. I have studied your news journals and identified America's greatest warrior; the only man who could hope to stand against me in battle: Captain Zane Falcon."

The general felt as though all the blood had drained from his body. He slumped in his chair, almost deaf to the closing statement of the ultimatum. "I will give instructions to Captain Falcon in one week's time; the location of his final battlefield, and the place where I have imprisoned your leader.

"Do not break faith with me. If you attempt any act of defiance, your leader will be the first victim of my wrath. He will not be the last. I await your pleasure, Captain Falcon."

The reel ran out almost as soon as the final word was uttered, leaving the hushed room to ponder the threat to the rhythmic flapping of the loose end. Abruptly, the noise stopped and the interior lights came on.

Hurley let out a heavy sigh. "Falcon."

Before anyone else could comment, the door opened and a Secret Service agent rushed in with a report. "The airship was spotted rendezvousing with a barge near the mouth of the bay. The... ah, hostage was transferred to a large amphibious airplane, which immediately took off."

Vaughn rose to still the murmur that followed. "I sent up a squadron of P-36 Hawks from Baltimore before I came here. I will direct them to follow this plane."

"They can't shoot down the President," gasped the Treasurer.

"The planes aren't armed, but even if they were, I wouldn't give that order. I will have them follow this boatplane. I've also called for a pair of B-10's from Wright Field. They're more than an hour out, but they are just about the fastest thing we got. They ought to be able to pick up the scent before those fighters have to turn back."

"And what do we do if they run the plane to ground? We can't risk the President's life by defying this villain openly."

"Mr. Secretary, I respectfully suggest that figuring that out is our most immediate course of action."

"Sir," interrupted the messenger. "There's more. The spotters report that one of the flying men is coming back up the river."

"Damnation," rasped the Chief of Staff. "Do you suppose this fiend has another message for us? Or does he just want to gloat?"

Vaughn came to his feet, poised for action. "I'll divert one of the planes to intercept and keep an extra eye on him. By God, I'll be damned if I let him rain Hell twice in one day. We have enough artillery lining the river to ruin his day."

"It won't be enough."

All eyes in the room turned to the source of the low rumble that was Hurricane Hurley's thoughtful voice. He elaborated: "They use some kind of... invisible shield. Stops a bullet like a fly on the wind—shield of your car. When I tried to hit these guys, my fists never touched 'em. This shield of theirs surrounds them like a turtle shell."

The general wasn't convinced. "But you were able to knock them around, right? Believe me, an anti-aircraft shell packs a lot more punch than even your fists, old friend."

Hurley remained skeptical. "Sir, it almost seemed like the harder and faster I hit, the harder the shield got."

Vaughn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "These fellows used some kind of electrical weapon, right? I'm willing to bet that this fancy shield works off electricity as well. The fragmentation jacket on an ack-ack shell is made of steel, which conducts electricity a whole lot better than a lead slug from a Tommy gun... or your fists. If we put enough steel in the air over the river, it might be enough to short-circuit this device of his."

"Short circuit. I think you've hit on it, sir. But firepower isn't the answer." Hurley bounded from his seat, a fallen champion eager for a rematch. "You don't really fight fire with fire."

There was no time for a concentrated effort, but in the few minutes that were available, a strategy was devised and implemented. A single fire hose was attached to the White House standpipe and unfurled onto the lawn.

To minimize the risk of shock, the members of the fire brigade manning the hose wore their rubber boots; it was no guarantee of safety but then nothing about this plan was guaranteed.

General Vaughn's aide-de-camp, a young first lieutenant, established direct wireless contact with the chase plane that followed the lone sky raider up the Potomac, reporting on all his activities and measuring his progress. There seemed little doubt concerning his ultimate goal. The general himself was scanning the horizon with a pair of field glasses. "I see the plane."

Hurley, who loomed over the uniformed officer like a small mountain, squinted up at the sky. He could just make out the speck that was a P-36 Hawk patrol aircraft, but his unaided eye could not discern the figure of the flying man. "Sir, may I?"

Vaughn passed the binoculars over without hesitation. He knew of no finer marksman than Hurley; if anyone could spot the approaching enemy, it was Hurricane.

The big man quickly located the plane, a low-slung fighter with a single radial engine and stubby wings. The distant pilot was turning wide circles in the sky, desperately trying to keep his plane from stalling as he tracked the much slower target. Hurley followed him through a series of spirals, then lowered his field of view to a point roughly at the center of the circle. There, more than a thousand feet below the Hawk, still out over the river, was a black shape that might have simply been a soaring bird.

"Got him," Hurley announced. "He's a few minutes out."

"Do you know the range of his weapon?"

"No, but it's a safe bet that he can shoot lightning a lot further than we can pump water."

"Let's see if we can't bring him down a little before he gets here."

"Tell your man to be careful. Those lightning bolts weren't lethal down here, but up there... Well, if the pilot gets knocked out or his engine catches fire, he'll be done for."

Vaughn nodded crisply, and relayed his instructions to the pilot of the P-36. The plane immediately executed a rolling loop and drew up behind the lone raider. Hurley couldn't tell, given the distance, if the flier was aware of the chase plane; if not, he was about to get the surprise of his life.

The plane made a dive-bombing run at the flier, swooping down like a hunting raptor from more than a thousand feet. The pilot pulled up well short of a collision, but the effect was nonetheless quite dramatic. The sky raider seemed unaware until, at the very last second, he lurched in mid-air and then dropped almost straight down. The evasive maneuver abruptly took him below the horizon created by the structures of the capital city, but Hurley reckoned the fellow was now over land and only about a minute away.

"It's working," Vaughn announced, relaying the pilot's radio transmissions. "He's down to about two hundred feet. One more pass should put him right where we want him."

Hurricane nodded grimly and kept the glasses trained on the fighter plane. The pilot was playing a dangerous game now; to corral the flying villain into the range of the makeshift water cannon, he would have to walk the tightrope between overhauling his quarry and dropping out of the sky. The planes that had flown two decades before, during the Great War, would have had an easier time matching the pace of the flying attackers, but today's monoplanes were built for speed; they had to go fast to keep from stalling. At two hundred feet, there would be precious little time to correct any mistakes.

"Here they come! Ready on the fire hose!"

The Hawk executed a broad loop and lined up on its unseen target. Even without fixing the man in his binoculars, Hurley was able to approximate his position by the trajectory of the incoming aircraft. It was close enough now that all on the ground could hear the roar of the 840 horsepower Wright Cyclone power plant as the plane began its final dive. The Doppler effect caused the pitch of the engine's whine to grow with its approach, punctuating the impending climax. Then, when it seemed the plane must surely crash, the pilot nosed up with full flaps, showing the belly of his aircraft to all on the ground below. It seemed almost close enough to touch.

At that same instant, the man who flew without wings burst into view directly above the garden. Hurricane was unable to focus his glasses on the man before Vaughn's stentorian voice commanded: "Let him have it!"

Something was wrong though. Hurley had an overwhelming urge to take another look at the attacker; there was something familiar about his sun-bleached hair and the silhouette of his jaw, but it was the clothing he wore under the metallic outline of his flying pack that really caught his eye. The group that had shanghaied the President had been wearing the attire of laborers, dungarees and T-shirts, but this man was crashing the party in formal attire; he was wearing a tuxedo.

The answer came to him in a rush of understanding. "Wait!"

But his roar was drowned out by the eruption of water blasting from the hose.

## CHAPTER 4

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

The wind-up alarm clock wired to the explosive bundles spread across the barge, ticked inexorably toward a very final deadline. Whether for simplicity's sake or simple perverse humor, the bomb maker had set the alarm to ring at twelve o'clock — Dodge immediately thought midnight, though it could have been noon — and both hands were nearly on that mark.

Dodge knew that disarming the bomb might be as simple as yanking the wires from the clock to prevent the circuit from closing, or merely resetting the alarm hand in order to postpone the terminal event, but he also knew that attempting to do so could easily cause to happen the very thing he sought to prevent. He might accidentally cross the wires in the act of removing them, or turn the alarm key the wrong direction and prematurely ring the bell. Better to let the device do what it was intended to do, and view the results from a nice, safe distance.

Escaping the blast zone was likewise easier said than done. Dodge was a strong swimmer, but drowning in the river was not the greatest threat along that path. Water was the perfect medium for transmitting the energy of an explosion, a fact well demonstrated during the Great War when Her Majesty's destroyers had effectively neutralized the Kaiser's U-boat menace with depth charges. A blast that, on terra firma might merely stun a bystander, would pound a swimmer's internal organs to jelly.

There was but one avenue of escape yet Dodge was loathe to employ the flying pack. He was soaked through from his plunge into the Potomac and there was no telling what sort of reaction would occur if he activated the exoskeleton's electric field. Nevertheless, the uncertain possibilities inherent in using the enemy's device to save himself was preferable to any alternative, and as the clock ticked into its final seconds, he moved to clasp the belt.

His next memory was one of fire — fire burning all around, and scorching needles of pain erupting, like tiny conflagrations, throughout his body. Underlying the agony however, there was a sense of exhilaration as his cognitive abilities caught up with the tempest. The overall effect was such that, had he been able to breathe a word through his clenched jaws, he might have uttered an expletive to make a longshoreman blush.

In the instant that the exoskeleton belt clasp clicked shut, the electrical field from the device did indeed conduct through his body as he had feared it might. The shock was relatively small; as voltages are measured, it was nowhere near a lethal current. That was little comfort to Dodge though; the spasms that seized every muscle and nerve in his body were worse even than his splashdown a few minutes earlier. Seized by the involuntary muscle contractions of an electrocution, there was little he could do to avoid what happened next.

The clock made its final tick and the catch holding back the spring-loaded clapper was released. As soon as it made contact with the bell, a circuit formed by an attached dry cell battery and the dynamite distributed throughout the barge was closed. In an immeasurable fraction of a second, an electrical charge detonated the blasting caps, which in turn caused the stabilized nitroglycerin in the dynamite sticks to explode.

The four simultaneous blasts pulverized the flat cargo boat, leaving only unrecognizable fragments scattered across the water, and sent a shockwave rolling across the surface of the river that shattered windows miles away. Standing at the heart of the blast, Dodge ought to have been crushed by the converging walls of force, or shredded by the shards of wood and metal turned into ballistic projectiles by the explosion, or incinerated in the ensuing conflagration, but none of these calamitous eventualities claimed him.

The shock wave created by the detonation was really nothing more than a wall of air pushed out at such an incredible rate of speed that it achieves the hardness of steel. When those particles of super-accelerated atmosphere converged on Dodge's force field, it had the effect of pushing him out of the way, and there was only one direction he could go. The colliding waves squirted him skyward like a bean escaping its husk.

The force of the explosion propelled him high above the broken barge, but once he reached the zenith of his arc, gravity immediately snatched at him. Although blue sparks continued to dance painfully between his still damp form and the invisible cocoon that enveloped him, he retained the wherewithal to perform the sequence of leg movements that activated the exoskeleton's flight mode. With his fall arrested, he pulled up into a hover and took stock of his situation.

The amphibious plane was a dark spot on an otherwise blue sky, too far distant for him to even consider pursuit. The President was beyond his reach; the bad guys had won. "This never happens to Captain Falcon," he said with a defeated sigh.

His only consolation was that two of the villains wouldn't be returning to their hidden base of operation. Moreover, he had captured one of their flying rigs. Perhaps an analysis of the device would put the authorities on the scent of the perpetrators. The electric shocks gradually abated as he made his way back up the watercourse, allowing him to think more clearly. Only now did the enormity of what he had done finally settle into his gut. As the adrenaline drained from his veins, he felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

I almost died. Is this what it feels like to be a hero? To be Captain Falcon?

He pondered this for a few minutes, floating between hysteria and elation. Indeed, he had almost died, but in extremis had found the means to save himself. It was a singular experience, something that could not be taught in a school or captured in the pages of a book. His misadventure was like the fire of a forge, refining and tempering his steel, making him stronger.

Is this how it feels to be a hero like Captain Falcon? he thought. If so, then I kind of like it.

With such weighty musings to accompany him, the return voyage flashed by beneath his feet. Soon, the monuments of America's seat of power hove into view and he corralled his stray thoughts in order to concentrate on the matter at hand. It occurred to him that he had not yet successfully landed the exoskeleton, and he was pondering the best strategy for doing so when the Hawk made its first run.

He had only a few seconds warning; scant moments in which his already overtaxed brain tried to make sense of the high pitched whine that seemed to be coming from above. After realizing that it was an airplane engine, he craned his head around to locate the source, and found himself staring at the nose of the fighter.

He reacted instinctively, curling his body into a dive at the same instant the pilot of the P-36 pulled up. The monoplane was unquestionably a military aircraft, and Dodge correctly reasoned that, in the panic following the abduction of the President, he had accidentally been identified as one of the enemy. With no way to communicate his intentions to the aircraft, he continued toward his rendezvous at the White House, where he knew that Hurley at least would be able to vouch for him.

With a wary eye on the warplane, Dodge speared onward. He could tell the fighter was going to dive bomb him again, for what purpose he couldn't imagine, and knew his only salvation lay in reaching his goal. The White House — symbol of a nation unknowingly bereft of its leader — loomed directly ahead. He divided his attention between the green expanse below and the roaring phantom above. It was going to be close.

The Hawk bore down on Dodge and there was only one place for him to go: down. He was no more than a hundred feet above the Rose Garden when the swooping cross shape abruptly veered back into the sky. Breathless with relief, Dodge turned his gaze toward the figures assembled on the lawn below.

Suddenly a frothing white geyser filled his gaze and he understood the game the fighter plane had been playing. The pilot had skillfully maneuvered him into a trap. Dodge had survived his enemies, only to be checkmated by his allies. There was no time to react, not even a second in which to unclasp the belt and risk another fall. He could only watch the gush of water from the fire hose as it cut across his path.

Abruptly the torrent receded before him; the vertical sea parted miraculously to let him pass. Stunned at the last instant reprieve, Dodge glanced down at the four men in overcoats and galoshes who still held their high-pressure weapon aimed skyward, but were like him gazing in consternation as the flow from its nozzle slowed to a trickle. Their stares followed down the length of sheathed rubber and found the cause of the interruption. Dodge shared their sense of utter disbelief, not so much at who had saved him, as at how that feat had been accomplished.

Hurricane had recognized that Dodge was operating the flying device, but his shouted exhortations had gone unheard. A man of action, he knew that every second lost trying to explain himself was a second his friend spent imperiled, so he eschewed discussion in favor of a more direct approach. Single-handedly snatching hold of the hose, he did what would have been impossible for almost any other man on the planet: he put a kink in the hose.

The hydrodynamic pressure of the fire hose was such that it required no less than three men to hold and operate; a single man trying to control the nozzle would find himself whipped about like the prey in the mouth of an angered python. The volume of water in the hose was not only incredibly heavy, but under such pressure that the hose seemed as inflexible as a piece of structural steel. Nevertheless, Hurricane Hurley had lifted it in his massive hands and bent it double, stemming the deluge that poured skyward in the nick of time.

The strain was evident on his face. His jaws bulged as he gritted his teeth with exertion. The arms of his specially tailored formal dinner jacket had burst at the seams as his biceps expanded beyond the wildest dreams of any garment designer. For a moment, everyone stared in disbelief, both at Hurley's amazing strength and at the madness that had prompted him to thwart a plan of his own devising in order to spare the enemy.

Dodge too was gripped with such incredulity that he had no conscious memory of easing to the ground, landing as gently as if he was simply stepping down from a train. He was immediately surrounded by Secret Service agents brandishing Thompson sub-machine guns, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, though he maintained the force field just in case one of the G-men developed a case of itchy trigger finger.

The standoff endured until someone turned off the hose, permitting Hurricane to push through the throng and come to Dodge's defense. The agents fell back, but did not lower their weapons until another personage — this one wearing the full dress uniform of a United States Army General — advanced through their ranks. The latter addressed Dodge: "Well, if it isn't Mr. Dalton back from the dead. I imagine you've quite a story to tell."

Dodge lowered his hands and deactivated the device. "You have no idea."

They took him into the White House, and while his treatment was deferential, Dodge had a sneaking suspicion that he was being regarded as a prisoner, not a guest. Given the circumstances, he accepted the handling without protest. Hurricane remained at his side, but no requests for information were forthcoming until he was secured in a windowless conference room. He surrendered the flying rig to a group of Secret Service men, and then collapsed wearily into a chair and began recounting his tale.

Except for an occasional request for clarification, he was not interrupted until his narrative touched on the matter of the amphibious aircraft. "That doesn't sound like any plane I've ever heard of," interjected General Vaughn.

Dodge spread his hands. "It's what I saw. I can sketch it for you."

A pencil and notepad was provided, upon which Dodge drew his best approximation of the flying boat that had whisked the President away. Vaughn gazed at the finely drawn image then turned to the knot of official looking men in suits. "Do you fellows know what this is?" His inquiry was received with a unanimous negative response. "This gentleman is the X-314. It's been in development at Boeing for several years now; this is the prototype. It's a long-range amphibious plane designed for intercontinental commercial air travel."

"Intercontinental?"

Vaughn frowned. "Intercontinental as 'in between continents;' non-stop across the ocean. It has a range of 3,500 miles, nearly twice as far as the Sikorsky Clippers. The X-314 has this unique triple-tail design and these half-wings, called sponsons, which replace the typical catamaran-type pontoon floats that most other planes have on the wings. In addition to providing lifting surface and stability on the water, the sponsons hold reserve fuel tanks, increasing her range that much more."

Dodge immediately caught on to his line of reasoning. "You're saying they could take the President almost anywhere."

The general frowned as if reluctant to share this information with a mere civilian, but nodded. "Our pursuit planes will have to turn back long before this fellow has burned up even a quarter of his fuel."

"How did these rogues get their hands on this prototype?" asked one of the men. "And how do they know how to fly it?"

"Respectfully, Mr. Secretary, they seem to be able to accomplish anything they set their minds to." The officer drummed his fingers on the table. "Mr. Dalton, is there anything else you can add that might help us unmask these conspirators?"

Dodge furrowed his brow. "The man I fought with said something — an oath I imagine — in a foreign language. It sounded like German —"

"Aha!" exclaimed the man Vaughn had spoken to. "What did I tell you?"

"— only I don't think it was German," Dodge finished. "It didn't quite sound right. The only other thing I saw was the hooded man waiting on the barge."

This statement had the effect of silencing the murmur that had arisen from the previous revelation, though for reasons Dodge could not fathom. Hurley was the first to speak, but said only: "The leader."

Something about his big friend's tone told Dodge that the assembled group was holding back a vital piece of information, but he continued his story, describing how the disc-shaped airship had shrunk to the size of pocket coin. "It was more like... magic, than any kind of scientific technology I've ever seen."

This provoked another round of subdued discussion and hand-wringing, which was eventually curtailed by the general. "We've got one of the top scientists in the nation looking at that contraption you brought us. We'll know soon enough what kind of technology our enemy has at his disposal. With any luck, we'll learn where they're taking the President and at the same time discover their Achilles Heel."

He said it with such conviction that Dodge felt content to leave the whole mess in more capable hands. In the quiet that followed, he sensed the tacit agreement of the rest of the audience, but then a familiar voice broke the mood. "What about Captain Falcon?"

Every eye in the room focused on Hurricane's earnest countenance.

"Falcon?" Dodge inquired. "What's Falcon got to do with any of this?"

Vaughn waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "It doesn't concern you, Mr. Dalton. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to excuse us now —"

"He should see it," intoned Hurley, his voice almost a threatening growl. "He's earned the right. God only knows he's done more than any of us."

The general was unmoved. "I won't have this incident showing up in the funny papers."

"It won't," Hurley promised.

"I've allowed you to stay because of your honored service to this country, but that is merely a courtesy. You're a civilian now, Hurricane. So is he. Worse, he's a journalist."

Dodge was tired of the general's game. With more confidence than he felt, he snarled: "What the devil is this all about?"

"The hooded man you saw left a film with his demands," answered Hurley before the general could protest.

"A film?" Dodge's mind raced to connect the puzzle pieces, but there remained one that just wouldn't fit. "You still haven't told me what any of this has to do with Falcon."

"Show him the film," growled Hurley.

To his credit, Vaughn kept a brave face — more than most men could have done transfixed in the menacing stare of Hurricane Hurley. The general knew, perhaps better than any man at the table, just how far the big man would go to get what he wanted. But before the battle of wills could escalate to physical conflict, the Secretary of the Treasury declared a truce. "Show him the film. It's the least we can do."

Dodge's elation at being included in the inner circle quickly faded as he realized that he was being brought deeper into the crisis. He had imagined his role in the drama would be ended once his deposition was complete. Still, he was curious, especially since Captain Falcon seemed inexplicably linked with the President's abduction.

Before they could adjourn however, a disturbance at the door froze Dodge in place. A slightly built man with frizzy hair was arguing with the Secret Service agents guarding the proceedings, but Dodge did a double-take when he saw that the man was wearing one of the exoskeletons. He started involuntarily, and quickly glanced about for some means to defend himself, but the anticipated pandemonium of a new attack by the raiders never materialized. Instead, General Vaughn approached the man and addressed him in a patient tone.

"What is it, Dr. Newcombe?"

"Ah, General, there you are." The frizzy-haired man gazed out through the thickest spectacles Dodge had ever seen. He pushed past the guards and strode into the room. "This device is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Did you know that it can fly? You must tell me everything you know about it."

"I'm afraid that information is top secret."

The man identified as Dr. Newcombe appeared crestfallen. Dodge however seized on the opportunity. "I brought it here. It was used by a group of criminals to carry out a daring daylight abduction."

"Mr. Dalton," admonished Vaughn, sternly. "You are not at liberty to —"

"Stuff it, General. This insistence on keeping secrets is only slowing down our response. I take it this is your science adviser? He should have been here for my debriefing. Now I'm going to have to tell the story all over."

Vaughn's expression showed his displeasure at the rebuke, but he conceded with a brisk nod. "I would appreciate your discretion Mr. Dalton, and yours doctor, regarding anything you hear in this room."

The scientist looked mystified by the atmosphere of concealment and tension in the room, but nodded. Dodge quickly related his story again, omitting any direct reference to the identity of the hostage, and focused primarily on his observations concerning the flying exoskeletons and especially the strange shrinking airship. Dr. Newcombe gasped when he described its transformation from enormous flying machine to something the size of a coin.

"Outrageous. Sir, I tell you that is flatly impossible. A conjuror's trick."

Dodge spread his hands patiently. "I only know what I saw."

Newcombe continued shaking his head. "Impossible, I say. The Laws of Physics cannot be contravened. The shape of a thing may change, but you can't change its mass. The only way it would work..." His voice trailed off and his gaze followed, but Dodge saw an elated gleam in his eyes as his mental machine began processing a solution. Despite the urgency of the predicament, Dodge felt the corners of his mouth curling into a grin as he watched the erratic fellow's antics.

Hurricane was less patient. "Care to share, Newton?"

The scientist either did not hear, or chose to ignore the intentional mispronunciation. "I can't begin to guess how this fellow accomplished it, but it would be possible to alter the shape of metal in such a way, without violating the Law of Conservation of Matter. If the airship you described was in reality made of a very thin layer of the metal, it could then conceivably be compressed down into a very small lump. The mass wouldn't change, only the shape."

Hurley was dubious. "That big thing squashed down no bigger 'n four bits?"

"An ounce of gold can be beaten into a layer of foil 300 square feet. Of course, it's incredibly thin, but augmented by the force field it could be made strong enough to sustain the weight of passengers."

"What about the force field?" inquired Vaughn.

"Ah, I'm glad you asked. From my initial experiments, I would say that the device enhances the natural electrical field that is universally present in all things."

"Come again?"

Newcombe put his hands together, palms opposed. "Do you know why I can't pass my hands through each other?"

"Because they're solid."

"Actually, matter is mostly empty space. You see, everything is made of atoms, which in turn are made of infinitesimally small particles called protons, neutrons and electrons."

Hurley rolled his eyes as the scientist began his lecture, but Dodge hung on every word. He had a basic grasp of chemistry, but didn't mind the refresher course.

"Now the electrons orbit the nucleus — the protons and neutrons — the same way that the planets orbit the sun. In between however, there is empty space. Even in the densest metal, the relative distance between nuclei is immense, yet we cannot pass one solid object through another, because the electrons form a sort of shield. Although you can't see it, the electrons of my hands are pushing each other apart.

"The force field works the same way. As an object enters the field, its electrons are actively repelled by the electrons in this device."

"So how can it stop a bullet?" asked Vaughn.

"The device seems to be able to add the energy of any approaching object to the equation. The harder or faster something is moving, the greater the resistance."

"So that's why I was able to slip through," Dodge said.

"Exactly. I expect you felt a little resistance, but a slow moving object would have an easier time penetrating the field."

"Why doesn't it work with water?"

"I wasn't aware until you told me that it didn't. I can only surmise that water, being a very reactive substance, draws too much electricity from the system. I'll need to experiment with it some more, but I believe the device may draw electricity from the atmosphere using principles explored by a man named Nikola Tesla."

Dodge recognized the name. "He was an inventor, wasn't he?"

"Indeed. He's fallen on hard times lately, but most of the technological advances we've made in the last forty years are owed to his discoveries."

"Could he be working with a foreign power?" Vaughn asked.

Newcombe was incensed. "Good God, the man is almost eighty years old."

"There's no retirement age for crime. Mr. Tesla is known to have grudges with several key figures in American industry. What better way to avenge himself?"

"Unthinkable," maintained the scientist. "Besides, I merely stated that this device used principles that Tesla experimented with. There's no way that he invented this."

"How can you be certain?"

Newcombe was nonplussed. "Because, General, this device is generations ahead of even Tesla's genius."

"Generations? Well then, who made it?"

"I was hoping you would be able to tell me. You really have no idea?"

"Perhaps we should allow Dr. Newcombe to view this film as well," Dodge suggested. "I'm sure he understands the importance of keeping the matter secret."

Vaughn wore a mask of reluctance, but after a deep breath surprised everyone by agreeing to the request. "Perhaps you'll recognize this villain as a fellow scientist."

Newcombe was about to protest the characterization, but Dodge forestalled him by taking the fellow's elbow and steering him toward the door. "Don't press your luck," he advised. "I didn't think he'd actually go for it, so count your blessings."

The group moved en masse to the theater where the film reel was rewound. Dodge unconsciously held his breath as the hooded figure took the screen and felt a chill as he made his opening pronouncement with the finality of a guillotine. "People of America..."

He listened with rapt attention as the villain made his boasts, but was still unprepared for the ultimatum. He groaned aloud as the lights came up. "This is my fault."

"Your fault?" queried Vaughn.

Hurricane echoed the sentiment. "How do you figure?"

"Isn't it obvious? 'America's greatest champion, Captain Falcon?' Where do you suppose he got that idea?"

Vaughn and Hurley exchanged a glance, but Dodge missed the subtle communication.

"And now this madman expects to meet Falcon in combat? He might as well have asked for Santa Claus and an army of pixies to come riding in on unicorns."

"You're right of course," intoned the general. "A madman with a madman's demand. In his delusions, he believes your Falcon stories to be factual. Obviously, we'll have to find a better solution."

"Sir?"

This time Dodge caught the nuances underlying Hurricane's monosyllabic inquiry. He looked between the two faces, and immediately saw that, once more, he wasn't being told the whole truth. He focused his scrutiny on Hurley, knowing that his friend was already yearning to make the revelation, but it was Vaughn that spoke.

"Captain Zane Falcon is indeed a great American hero. He didn't do all the crazy things you attribute to him, but he did some of them."

Dodge kept looking at Hurley. He had always more or less known that Falcon was based on a real individual, but something about the demeanor of the two men told him that this estimation was woefully inadequate.

Hurley shook his head sadly. "You did such a good job with my stories that I didn't see any harm in letting you embellish the facts."

"Then it's all real? Baron Von Heissel? Jocasta Palmer? The Skull Brigade? Dr. Ragnarok?"

"Yes. Well, not the Skull Brigade; you made that one up."

Dodge settled back in his chair then stood up just as abruptly. "Where is he?"

"Falcon?"

"Yes. If this fellow wants to fight America's greatest hero, maybe we should let him. We've already discovered that he's not as invincible as he believes. With a little help" — He nodded to the speechless Newcombe — "Captain Falcon ought to be able to save the day one more time."

This prompted another round of unspoken communication between the general and Falcon's former sidekick. "Captain Falcon may not be... ah, enthusiastic about returning to duty."

"It's the one story I never wrote," confessed Hurley. "He got tired of it all. I've no idea where he's gone off to."

Vaughn shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. "No. This battle will not... cannot be fought by one man alone. America is greater than any one man; greater than Falcon, greater even than the President. If he falls, another takes his place. In the meantime, we have all the resources of the government at our disposal to unmask this fiend and bring him to justice."

Hurricane seemed not to have heard him. "The Padre might know."

"Father Hobbs?" Somehow Dodge was surprised to learn that this character, with whom he was intimately familiar in his stories, was also real. "Where's he?"

"Last I heard he was runnin' a mission in the Congo. If Falcon was going to tell anyone his whereabouts, it'd be the Padre." Hurley turned to Vaughn. "If you can get us to the Congo, we'll find Falcon and get him back here."

"You and him?" Vaughn nodded in Dodge's direction.

Dodge was about to protest his sudden inclusion in the adventure, but he caught himself when he saw a crafty gleam in the general's eye. The old warhorse was actually considering Hurricane's seemingly ludicrous request, and Dodge immediately saw the method behind his mad scheme; if Dodge and Hurley were shuffled off to the dark continent, it would mean the removal of a major thorn in the general's side.

Vaughn stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I've got two Martin B-10 bombers on their way from Wright Field in Dayton. They should be here in about an hour. I was going to send them after that boatplane, but if it's the plane I think it is, they'll never be able to run her down. Now, it's now exactly first-class accommodations, but I'll wager they can put you on the ground in the Belgian Congo inside of thirty hours."

Hurley brightened visibly at the idea. For his own part, Dodge wasn't sure he liked being a pawn in the general's game, but then he remembered that feeling of exhilaration he had experienced after the escapade on the river.

"Africa," he murmured. "Well, it might be kind of fun."

One hundred and thirty miles away, a hooded figure appeared to be studying his reflection in a metal mirror. A closer examination however would have revealed that the image in the mirror was not the likeness of the man holding it, but something altogether more complex.

The apparatus was similar in some respects the electric television invented by Vladimir Zworykin, but like the other devices in the hooded man's collection, this was, as Dr. Findlay Newcombe might say, generations beyond state of the art. It did not show images on a cathode like the device developed for RCA by the Russian émigré, but rather formed three-dimensional relief images from the metal surface images that moved and, if one listened carefully, spoke. The hooded man was listening very carefully.

He listened very carefully to what the big man, Hurley had to say. He knew this one had been with Falcon in his heyday, one of the champion's most trusted minions. It was no coincidence that he chosen to capture the American leader on this day, when Hurley was scheduled to appear at the Presidential residence.

The fate of the leader was of no great concern to him. All that mattered was the man called Falcon; the only person that could threaten his ascension to godhood. He expected the Americans to do the very thing he had instructed them not to do: break faith, by attempting to rescue their leader or muster an armed response. That also did not greatly concern him; they would react exactly the way an animal reacts to a threat, instinctively. But Hurley... he would rise to the challenge and find his old comrade, and when he did this new god would be waiting.

"The Padre might know."

Ah, yes. The Padre. Father Nathan Hobbs, the priest who forsook his vows to fight evil in every form. He had looked for that one as well, but to no avail. These one-time heroes had truly gone to ground following the Great War where their reputations had been forged.

"Last I heard he was runnin' a mission in the Congo."

The Congo! The god lowered the device and immediately the flat surface compressed into a small sphere on the end of his scepter. He then moved forward to the cockpit where the pilots were still getting familiar with the control systems of the stolen plane.

"We have a new destination."

In the theater of the White House, unnoticed by anyone, the silvery halves of the film can began to shrink. In a matter of seconds, they were each no larger than the head of a pin, almost invisible to the naked eye.

It would be several hours before anyone would think to look for the container that had brought the startling demands of the President's abductor. A Secret Service agent, intent on checking for fingerprints asked the projectionist to turn over the film can and only then was its absence noted. No one was too concerned. It was unlikely that the villains would have left incriminating evidence anyway. They had the film itself, and that was a much better lead.

Besides, what harm could come of a missing film can?

## CHAPTER 5

THE MISSION

Technically speaking, Dodge's passage aboard the US Army Air Corps torpedo bomber was not his first time aloft, but as his virgin experience aboard an airplane, it was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Unlike the lavish appointments which made a ride aboard one of Pan American's small fleet of clippers into something like a luxury cruise, the darkened bomb bay of the B-10 was strictly no frills. An engineer at the airfield had rigged up some web belts for the passengers to hold onto during take off, landing and the occasional patch of mid-air turbulence, but that was the extent of creature comforts. He, Hurricane and the relief flight crew sat on their luggage amidst the empty bomb racks. Early on in the voyage, Dodge had accepted the invitation to sit in the forward gunnery turret, but once aloft and away from recognizable landmarks, the novelty faded and the only change in the scenery was a darkening sky.

Their route was chosen by the availability of refueling outposts. From Baltimore, they flew south to Florida, then Havana, Maiquetia in Venezuela, French Guiana and finally Rio de Janeiro. Brazil was the jumping off point for a long journey over water, where any mechanical problems could easily spell the end not only of their trip, but their lives as well. The only interruption in the trans-Atlantic voyage was a stop at Wideawake Field on Ascension Island, a remote outpost run by the Eastern Telegraph Company. Their flight mechanic gave the plane a thorough check up before pronouncing it fit to fly the remaining sixteen hundred miles to Leopoldville.

Hurricane seemed ambivalent about the journey. An accomplished world traveler, he had crossed this ocean in almost every imaginable means of conveyance; it took a lot to get him excited. He spent most of the trip asleep. As they stretched their legs on the remote knob of volcanic rock that was Ascension Island, Dodge caught up with him.

"Why did you bring me along?"

Hurley gazed at him sidelong. "You didn't have to come."

"That's not what I asked."

"Well, I guess it ain't at that." The big man chuckled. "I could say because you might very well be the world's leading expert on Zane Falcon."

Dodge laughed humorlessly. "I don't know anything about the real Captain Falcon."

"You know more than you realize. The way you write him... that's his ideal; the hero he always wished he could be."

"But that's not the reason."

"It is, at least a little bit. If and when we find him, he might need some persuasion of the kind that's more your forte than mine — gentle persuasion."

This time Dodge's chuckle was more heartfelt. Hurley wasn't the big, dumb brute everyone thought he was. "You don't give yourself enough credit. I happen to know that head on your shoulders is good for more than just cracking walnuts."

"He's lost his way," Hurley continued, ignoring the platitude. "I tried to help him once before but it wasn't enough."

"What happened?"

"Who knows? It wasn't any one thing really." He sat on the ground Indian-style and took out a hand-rolled cheroot. "Maybe he just buried one too many friends in a war none of us really understood. You know, it wasn't just the three of us. He took a whole company of kids over there. Seemed like it was always me 'n' the Padre there when things got ugly, but there were others too. Most of 'em are still over there, if you take my meaning,"

It was odd hearing Falcon described this way, not as a pulp hero, but as a real man, conflicted by human emotions. "Quite a lot for one man to bear."

"A company of ghosts." Hurricane shrugged and savored a mouthful of sweet smoke. "Well, like I said, there are other reasons why I wanted you along."

"Such as?"

"You're good in a fight. I couldn't believe how you tackled that fellow, and flew off with him and took away his wings. That was pretty bold... heroic, even."

Dodge looked away quickly, hoping that his friend wouldn't see the rush of color in his cheeks. "I'm no Captain Falcon."

"Nope," agreed Hurley, blowing a perfect smoke ring. "You might be better."

Dodge was no stranger to Africa. He had been there many times. He had crossed mountains and deserts with Quatermain, roamed the jungles with Lord Greystoke, and even steamed up the mighty Congo with Marlow. As he disembarked the B-10 shortly before midnight onto a muddied airstrip under the full fury of a tropical downpour however, the Dark Continent seemed a bit more prosaic than he expected.

They were met on the tarmac by Pieter Demme, an expediting agent recommended by the diplomatic service. Demme shuttled them from the airfield in a lumbering Citroen P45 — more vehicle than they needed for just themselves and their duffle bags, but a far better means of getting around on dirt roads turned to quagmires by the heavy rain than anything else available. It was their next stop, at the Hotel Imperial in the sprawling city of Leopoldville, where Dodge got his first real taste of Africa.

Despite the lateness of the hour, the saloon of the Imperial was bustling with activity, or to be more accurate, debauchery. The tables and the long hardwood bar were lined with a motley group of weathered, hard-looking Caucasians; the only Negroes in the establishment were the bartender and a loose assortment of prostitutes that wandered from table to table plying their trade. The latter group immediately took note of their arrival and began gravitating toward their table, but a stern look from the expediter deflected their advances.

"You're welcome to sample the local fare," Demme explained in English, clipped with an almost guttural Flemish accent, "but just now, we're awaiting Monsieur Marten, a riverboat operator."

"Can he be trusted?" inquired Hurley, intuitively recognizing that this requirement was of foremost importance.

Demme shrugged. "You are not carrying a great deal of money, so he has no reason to resort to skullduggery. If he fails to deliver you to your destination, he will receive no payment from my office."

"Not exactly a ringing endorsement," Dodge observed.

"It is a rough place, Monsieur, and sometimes one is required to do business with rough men. Ah, speak of the Devil and he appears; here is Monsieur Marten."

Marten looked like a cross between a character from a Joseph Conrad tale and a Brooklyn longshoreman. Almost as tall and burly as Hurricane, he wore a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face and had a curious Oriental dragon tattooed on the right side of his clean-shaven skull. He offered Demme an indifferent greeting in French, then sat at the table where he regarded the Americans as an alley cat might observe a mouse and the bulldog that keeps him company.

"Monsieur Demme tells me you want to go upriver," he began, disdaining polite preamble. "How far?"

Hurley seemed unperturbed by the coarse Belgian. "We don't know for sure. We're looking for a man: Father Nathan Hobbs."

"Oui, I know him. He preaches to the Kongo who clear the forests to plant rubber. I stop there on my way to Stanleyville."

"We'd like you to take us there."

"But of course. There is only the question of price." He sucked through his teeth as if trying to clear a piece of food lodged in his molars. "I have no cargo, so if I take you now, you would bear the entire cost of the journey. I could not take you upriver for less than...two thousand francs."

Dodge did the arithmetic in his head. Two thousand francs was more than four thousand US dollars. He wasn't clear on who was picking up the tab for their little jaunt, but that was a lot of money by anyone's standard.

"How long to get us there?" Hurricane pressed, ignoring the issue.

"If we make no stops? Two days."

"Two more days," groaned Dodge. "We've only got a week. It's not enough time."

His friend made a comforting gesture. "For two thousand francs, you will take us to Father Hobbs' mission, agreed?"

Marten's scowl turned into an avaricious grin. "Oui, monsieur. We have a deal."

"Excellent, we leave immediately."

The riverboat captain's smile slipped a notch. "Ah, but monsieur...."

There was a gleam in Hurricane's eye and Dodge realized the big man had set the hook. "If you can't do it, maybe we should talk to someone who can."

"Non." Marten wore the look of a man who knew he had been had. "A deal is a deal, monsieur. Je vais le faire immédiatement!"

"Excellent." Hurley turned to Demme. "Listen, I'd like you to wire your office in Stanleyville and have 'em buy a whole mess of rubber. We can have Mr. Marten here bring it back on the return trip, seeing as how we're paying for him to run an empty boat."

Demme's face also fell and Dodge, in a moment of clarity, saw the game the two men had been playing. Demme and Marten, recognizing that the urgency of their need would translate into a willingness to pay an exorbitant fee, had already made plans to bring their own cargo back from upriver, essentially doubling their profit. It wasn't that much different from an unscrupulous New York cabbie, taking advantage of an out-of-town fare. What really amazed Dodge however, was how Hurley had so easily seen through their scheme and outplayed them.

Marten and Demme both rose, their movements almost synchronized. The boat operator spoke first. "You must give me one hour, monsieur. I must buy fuel and provisions for the trip if we are to make no stops. You cannot ask for more than that."

"And I must contact Stanleyville," added Demme. "I will collect you in an hour."

"Say, that's just fine. It'll give me a chance to... how'd you say it Mr. Demme? Sample the local fare?" Hurricane grinned broadly then winked at one of the working girls.

Demme affected a supercilious expression, but nodded and took his leave, close on Marten's heels.

Dodge shook his head. "That was amazing. You really hustled them."

Hurley's smile never faltered, but his eyes grew hard. "Just letting them know that we didn't just fall off the turnip truck. But I'd be lying if I said this is the end of it."

"How's that?"

"Like Demme said, the Congo is a rough place. There's a gang of pirates that pretty much own the stretch we're headin' into."

"Pirates? It's the twentieth century for God's sake."

Hurley chuckled darkly. "Forget about Captain Blood or Long John Silver. These guys are more like Scarface Al Capone; we tangled with them once or twice back in the day. Anyone who wants to run the river either pays 'em off, or works for 'em."

"So which is Marten?"

"Exactly, my boy. Never turn your back on that rat. I'm banking on him leaving us alone since we're no good to him dead, but who knows? He might decide we're not worth the trouble and knife us in our sleep."

Chastened, Dodge sat back in his seat as his companion flagged the barman. Barely on the ground and already I've fallen in with pirates and cutthroats, he thought. So much for adventure.

As Hurley ordered food for them both, Dodge let his eyes roam the room, as if by his scrutiny he might be able to identify the pirates in their midst. The room was abuzz with conversations and arguments, but Dodge recognized none of what was said. The Belgian Congo, like most of Africa, was a melting pot of rogues from all over Europe. French and German were the official tongues of the place, but even within those linguistic divisions, there were dozens of dialectic variations.

Then, from the midst of the auditory pandemonium, he heard a familiar utterance. He didn't know what it meant, but the exclamation — a curse shouted by a man who had just been caught cheating at cards — set alarm bells ringing in his head. He picked the man out of the crowd and mentioned the incident to Hurley.

"What language is that?"

Hurricane focused his attention on the card game. "He's an Afrikaaner. Probably got caught cheating at cards in Jo'burg and had to sneak up here. Why?"

"The man I took that flying rig from was speaking the same language; I'm sure of it."

The giant pondered this. "Mercenaries; they're as thick as flies over here. It's a good bet that whoever is behind all this hired his men in Africa. Come to think of it, he's probably set his base of operations hereabouts. It's a big, lawless place."

"Then we're not just here to find Father Hobbs."

Hurricane shrugged. "We might get lucky, but for now, finding the Padre is our first priority."

Their discussion went fallow as the waiter arrived with drinks and bowls of a strange, pungent stew. Dodge chewed a mouthful of tough meat, much as he chewed on this latest bit of information. The identity of their foe remained an evolving enigma; a villain with other-earthly technology at his disposal and the means to hire a small army of soldiers-of-fortune, had pulled off the greatest abduction in history, yet his demands were the ravings of a lunatic. Mortal combat with a comic book character? It defied logic. There had to be something else at work, some ulterior motive that was the method behind this seeming madness.

Demme returned within the hour and drove them to the port, where Marten waited. The Belgian had one white mate, who appeared to be cut from the same cloth as his skipper, and a crew of five dark-skinned natives. Dodge noted that the latter group looked positively haggard; their scarred and diseased skin was stretched over emaciated and deformed skeletons. One was missing a hand, another had lost part of his left foot and two others had lost fingers during the short course of their lives. Marten and his second bellowed orders imperiously and although the crewmen reacted promptly as directed, Dodge saw in their eyes that they had long since abandoned hope of earning any sort of reward for hard work; they were slaves, living on a diet of terror and empty promises.

Marten hastened them under the cover of a tin awning as the boat cast off and begin plowing the muddied river. The heavens continued to deluge them and more than an inch of water sloshed about on the deck, but as Marten was quick to point out, the rain kept the mosquitoes at bay and provided them with barrels of fresh water; in the Congo, being soaked to the skin was preferable to the paroxysms of malaria or dysentery.

From Leopoldville, they traveled the broad waterway known as Stanley Pool, a section of the river just above Livingstone Falls. Leopoldville along with its sister city Brazaville on the opposite bank in the French Congo territory had become one of the busiest trade hubs in Equatorial Africa; all of the natural resources harvested from the interior region along the Congo Basin wound up in Leopoldville before being loaded on rail cars bound for the coast.

In the sixty years since American journalist Henry Morton Stanley had explored the Congo basin and laid claim to all that he surveyed in the name of King Leopold II of Belgium, the Congo Basin — the darkest place on the so-called Dark Continent — had become the chief source of income for its distant European landlord, but that wealth had been yielded up at great cost to the native inhabitants. In the words of Stanley himself: "the savage only respects force, power, boldness, and decision." Of course, the "savage" occupants of the land prior to the Belgian conquest were not without culpability.

For more than three hundred years, the Kongo Empire had operated a highly profitable trade network in the region, dealing in ivory, copper, and that most evil of commodities, human lives. The flood of slaves sent up the Lualaba River and on to Zanzibar took such a heavy toll on the Kongo Empire that it had almost ceased to exist by the 17th century when Portuguese forces administered the coup de grace by defeating the Kongolese forces at the Battle of Ambuila, and subsequently executing the royal house.

Yet, for all the historic interest in the region, the Congo Basin remained largely unexplored. Although the river — the world's fourth longest — was almost entirely navigable, the thick rainforests, second only to the Amazon region in South America, turned back even the hardiest adventurers. In his landmark expedition from Zanzibar to the Atlantic coast, Stanley lost more than two-thirds of his army of native porters. Although most of the Dark Continent was in reality very well-lit, divided between the arid Sahara desert and the vast sun-drenched veldt, the Congo was truly benighted, covered by an emerald blanket that eclipsed all illumination. Dodge got a taste of this as their boat rounded the broad curve of Stanley Pool, and the lights of Leopoldville were swallowed up in the rain and darkness.

Morning brought an end to the rain, but the resulting humidity soaked them even more thoroughly. Hurley remained placid, alternately cat-napping and reading a stack of well-thumbed pulp novels he had borrowed from one of the B-10 pilots. Dodge remained with him under the protective mosquito net, likewise motionless, but his languor was more complete; in the thick tropical air, he felt incapable of physical activity.

The mystery of the attack on the White House continued to rattle around his subconscious like a pebble in his shoe, but even more troubling was the matter of Captain Falcon. For three years he had chronicled the exploits of a man he believed to be largely fictional, only to learn that an inverse proportion of the tale was actually true.

He knew Hurricane well enough to believe that such a thing was actually possible; the big man was a character in the broadest sense of the word — a walking anachronism, heroic in deed as well as ideals, in a world ruled by men who were threatened by such superlative individuals. Were Falcon and Hobbs similarly larger than life?

As described in Hurley's memoir, Father Nathan Hobbs was a tall, painfully thin man with lank black hair, possessed of an extraordinarily dour demeanor. "He was so thin," Hurricane had said, "because he only ate when taking Communion; his only nourishment was the Sacred Host." An exaggeration to be sure, but such gaunt joylessness bespoke a man given to asceticism. Nevertheless, Nathan Hobbs, a seminary-trained Roman Catholic clergyman who had traveled the world studying not just the religious beliefs but also the day-to-day customs of people in every corner of the globe, was at heart an American patriot. When the call to arms had come in 1917, he had signed up to do his part in The War to End All Wars. A commission had been extended along with an opportunity to serve as a chaplain, but Hobbs had demurred, choosing instead to relinquish his priestly collar and enlist as a combat soldier. It was in this capacity that he had been shipped overseas with the Fighting Falcons.

The company first sergeant, a monster of a man nicknamed "Hurricane" had quickly realized the inherent danger in telling a man of God to go forth and kill, and at the direction of his commander, gave "the Padre" a new set of orders. He would once more minister to souls, those of the men in his company, battling against the demons that constantly assaulted the morale of young men sent off to die in a foreign land. He carried his Springfield 1903, but never fired a shot in anger. Yet he was no pacifist; evil in all its forms was his enemy. In his travels, he had learned a method of unarmed fighting called te — the way of the open hand — which was, at least the way Hurley told it, as effective in close combat as a bayonet thrust. The Fighting Falcons did not suffer from the loss of a rifleman, but instead earned accolades for heroics above and beyond the call of duty, owing in no small part to the Padre's ministrations. But the yearlong tour that culminated in the signing of the Armistice at Compiegne was only the beginning of Hobbs' adventure with Captain Falcon.

The Great War had left the world in shambles, a fertile ground for opportunists to build phoenix-like criminal empires from the ashes of the past. Although the United States Congress had elected to return to the pre-war policy of isolationism and refused to join the League of Nations, the sitting President had by executive order, extended the Fighting Falcons' mission to battle evil wherever it reared its ugly head. Their assignments were diverse; they traveled to every corner of the globe battling warlords and mad scientists, pirates and gunrunners. It was such a perfectly ludicrous premise that Dodge had always believed it to be a fabrication. Now, he didn't know what to believe.

Hurley's memoir stated that the Great Depression had signaled the end of the Fighting Falcons' secret war, and that the surviving members of the team had been blown to the Four Winds. In the three years since Dodge's weekly feature had made its first appearance, no one but Hurricane himself had made a credible claim to membership in that elite force, further supporting the idea that it was a fiction. The Padre had evidently returned to the cloth and resumed his ministry here, on the edge of Hell itself. Dodge wondered how the real Nathan Hobbs would measure up to his literary counterpart.

In daylight, Marten's boat proved a shock to Dodge's nervous system. In the driving rain and darkness, he had paid little heed to the craft, but what he now saw filled him with dread. The boat was little more than a rotting wooden deck with low gunwales and a ramshackle superstructure. It was difficult to imagine the vessel hauling tons of cargo up and down the river, driven only by a smoky diesel engine. A small consolation was that the boat required constant attention from its crew, leaving the passengers mostly to themselves.

Dodge was not fooled by Hurley's passivity. The big man knew that they were in dangerous company — dangerous enough that sleep was a luxury they could ill-afford — but by remaining almost dormant, Hurricane was saving his energy for the long night watch ahead.

The first day and night passed without incident. The boat chugged pedantically along, passing haphazard settlements where local villagers gathered on the dock to see if they would stop. It was the only human contact they had, but the river region teemed with other forms of life; a non-stop cacophony issued from the forest and Dodge caught glimpses of various primate species capering in the overhead canopy.

During the afternoon of the second day, Hurricane pointed out a column of smoke rising into the air high above the verdant ceiling.

"They burn the forest to make way for rubber trees," explained Marten. "That is our destination; the village where your Father Hobbs is."

Dodge saw that the explanation had not served to satisfy Hurley. The big man's eyes were now fully alert, and his muscles were tensed like a spring ready to explode into action. As the boat churned onward, the smell of burning wood became a choking miasma hanging over the water. Marten and his crew tried to act nonchalant, but even Dodge could sense that something bad was about to happen.

"Stay alert," Hurley whispered, "and follow my lead."

The dock came into view first, a simple wooden pier floating on the muddy water anchored to decayed pilings. The rest of the village was surrounded by trees that hid the outbuildings from view, but there was no mistaking the source of the smoke that continued to waft skyward — it was coming from the village itself. Dodge stared aghast as the boat drew nearer to the scene of devastation. It was, he would later realize, exactly what Marten was counting on.

Hurricane knew it too, but even he was unprepared for the carnage that met them as the boat sidled up to the dock. Not a building had been left standing; there were only smoldering heaps to mark the places where they had been. Once the big picture came into focus, Dodge saw the smaller shapes that were enshrouded in dark clouds, not of smoke, but flies. He turned away in disgust, and found that he and Hurricane were now surrounded.

The crew carried only makeshift cudgels — pieces of pipe and lengths of chain. The five had formed a horseshoe around the pair of travelers, and hefted their weapons menacingly. Behind them, at the top of the arch, stood Marten and the first mate, both armed with revolvers.

Dodge's heart caught in his throat, but Hurley's veneer of calm held up. There was rage in his eyes, but his manner was almost blasé. "That was a nice touch, waiting until we were distracted. I knew you were a rat, but I didn't figure that you would be willing to kill all those innocent people just to get at us."

Marten's menacing expression cracked just a little. "We had nothing to do with this. This is the work of Krieger's pirates."

"Krieger? That would be Johannes Krieger?"

"Ah, you know of him?"

Hurley gave a disappointed sigh. "I thought I killed him."

Dodge found his voice at last. "I don't understand. If you aren't working with these pirates, why turn on us now? What's in it for you?"

Hurricane answered, speaking loud enough for all to hear. "When the authorities investigate this massacre, it will be assumed that the pirates killed us as well. Mr. Marten will demand his payment, claiming that he brought here as agreed. He'll still get paid."

"Indeed. A win for me no matter how you look at it. I expected Krieger will be quite pleased when I deliver your heads." He barked a command in French and in unison the crew of cutthroats advanced.

## CHAPTER 6

DARK WATER

The men closest to Dodge's exposed flank made the first move. Hurricane's sheer size alone was enough to give the remaining ruffians pause. Marten, confident that the smaller man posed no significant threat, kept his revolver trained on Hurley, but did not fire. Hurricane was truly a bear of a man, and Marten correctly recognized that a wounded and enraged Hurley might do a lot of damage before finally going down.

Dodge had no time to consider any of this. A length of chain came whipping toward his head and he barely had time to throw his duffel bag up to parry the assault. The chain thudded ineffectually against the cloth, but the man's counterpart moved in from the other side, swinging a length of board adorned with rusty nails.

In the moments before the attack had commenced, Dodge had thought about the fighting techniques he had learned as a young man in Brooklyn. He had never been a brawler, but had been a better than average wrestler and as a budding sportswriter had spent a lot of time at boxing gyms. One lesson came back to him now; always follow a block with a counterattack.

He ignored the man with the club and instead threw all his weight behind the duffel bag. With luggage leading, he slammed into the torso of the chain-wielder and bowled him backward over the gunwale. The African stumbled over the edge and plunged into the river, while Dodge pitched forward onto the sodden deck planks and slid into the bulkhead.

The unexpected turn of events caused a momentary lull in the attack. No one had expected Dodge to offer any sort of resistance, and although the thugs still held three-to-one odds, they now viewed their foes with just a little more caution. A crewman holding a length of pipe moved to back up the other assailant and both men stalked toward Dodge as he scrambled to his feet, his back against the waist high gunwale and his luggage hefted as a shield.

Before the men could coordinate an attack however, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from behind Dodge. He risked a sidelong glance at the crewman he had knocked into the river, and saw the man thrashing in a panic. Then, just as abruptly, he vanished under the surface as if snatched by a submerged hand. Dodge caught a glimpse of something black and scaly swishing in the muddied water, and realized that jumping overboard to escape the attack would be a classic 'frying pan to fire' blunder. He didn't have time to consider other alternatives because the two crewmen chose that moment to charge.

Hurricane's situation remained a tense standoff. The two crewmen facing him had yet to make their move, despite a torrent of curses from Marten's mate. The fury of his words was not enough to motivate them to risk the titanic fists of Hurricane Hurley. Despairing of the impasse, the mate charged forward and stabbed his pistol toward the big man's chest. Hurley's response caught everyone by surprise.

Hurricane did not unleash his thunderous physical power against his foes, but instead merely tossed his bag at the advancing first mate. The duffel slammed into the extended pistol and deflected the barrel down in the same instant that the man squeezed the trigger. The slug tore a ragged hole in the deck near Hurley's left boot, but the giant's stance never wavered. The mate wrestled the smoking firearm back up, but as the barrel came level with his target's chest, he saw that Hurricane was no longer a defenseless mark.

Faster than the eye could follow, Hurley had unlimbered a pair of guns — to call them 'pistols' did not begin to express the size of Hurricane's firearms of choice — from beneath his bush jacket. The guns were enormous. Although they appeared to be just right for his massive grip, it had to be remembered that, when held by Hurley, a Colt M1911 looked like a ladies pocketbook derringer.

Dodge had written extensively about Hurricane's hand cannons. The customized semi-automatic pistols had been commissioned and designed by John Moses Browning specifically for Hurley. Patterned after the Howdah pistols — large bore handguns used in India to hunt tigers from the backs of elephants — the guns put the power of a big game rifle into a rapid-fire handheld package; handheld for Hurricane, that is. Most mere mortals had difficulty holding one of the seven-pound hunks of iron on target, and those who managed to pull the trigger were liable for a bone cracking recoil. Each gun held a magazine with six hand-loaded .50 caliber cartridges, likewise custom ordered for Hurley. Only two of the weapons had ever been made and until this moment, Dodge had believed the guns, like so many of the things in the Falcon chronicle, to be an elaborate tall tale.

Marten's mate didn't get a very good look at the guns. He saw only the gaping barrels pointed directly at his eyes, and even that was only a brief glance. The pistols thundered simultaneously and the hooligan's eyes along with everything else above his nose, vanished in a crimson cloud.

One of the rounds continued unimpeded to blast apart one of the upright posts holding up the tin awning, peppering the stunned Marten in a shower of splinters. The sudden pain of wood spurs ripping into his flesh jolted the treacherous skipper into action, and as one corner of the overhang drooped down between himself and Hurley, he dove for cover behind the onboard engine.

Hurricane's guns spoke again, blasting one of the crewmen dead center in the chest and punching him back under the misshapen awning. The other fellow was marginally luckier. His last minute attempt to remove himself from the line of fire had almost worked; the half-inch slug merely knocked a fist-sized chunk of flesh and bone from his shoulder.

Hurley did not curse the rare off-center shot, but instead brought his guns to bear on the pair of men assailing Dodge. Both thugs had done an abrupt about-face at the first pistol shot and now cowered in place in his sights. He checked his fire, not to mercifully spare their lives, but simply because Dodge was right behind them.

Marten chose that instant to snap off a blind shot that was partially deflected by the collapsed metal awning. The bullet caromed from the corrugated tin and caught one of the crewmen in the jaw, spinning the unfortunate fellow around to send him crashing into Dodge. Hurley answered with a shot that rang the engine cowling like a bell. With his attention diverted, he was a split-second too late to prevent Dodge and the wounded crewman from toppling over the gunwale.

"Dodge!" Hurley holstered his pistols as quickly as he had drawn them and rushed to the edge, but Marten seized the moment to unload his weapon at the big man. Hurricane caught a glimpse of his friend as the dark water swallowed him, but the fusillade forced him back behind the rudimentary cover afforded by the demolished tin shelter.

Dodge managed to suck in a breath before the river closed over his face. For just a moment, all he could think about were the horror stories he had heard of waterborne tropical illnesses, and he clamped his mouth shut to avoid ingesting the murky fluid. Then something brushed against his leg and all concerns about microscopic predators went out the window.

The bump he had felt was the wounded crewman, thrashing in a total panic because he, unlike Dodge, had caught a glimpse of the crocodiles lurking in the marsh at the river's edge. His hysterics were the wilderness equivalent of a flashing neon sign, and a brace of fifteen-foot long reptiles eased smoothly from their lair and shot toward him like torpedoes.

Dodge willed himself motionless, trying more than anything else to imitate a drifting log. He didn't know if crocs were that gullible, but he reckoned he stood a better chance by not drawing attention to himself. A moment later, the air in his lungs buoyed him back to the surface. The sight that greeted his mud-streaked eyes was something that would forever haunt his dreams.

The wounded crewman, still screaming like the damned, was caught in a crushing grip across the abdomen by one of the immense crocodiles. A second leviathan had clamped its jaws down on a leg, and to Dodge's horror, twisted itself violently in the water. There was an awful cracking, tearing sound as the man's knee joint came apart. The triumphant croc rolled back onto its belly and thrust its snout triumphantly skyward, and then in a single gulp devoured the severed limb.

A cascade of blood stained the surface of the thick water, marking the location of the feast for the rest of the herd that now splashed from their resting place, eager to pull off a few chunks for themselves.

Dodge fought the panic that crawled up his spine and stayed perfectly motionless. A gentle current was pushing him away from the embattled riverboat and further from the relative safety of shore. His feet occasionally dragged across the bottom, but he was too far out to stand up.

He cursed himself for not having thought to bring a weapon. Hurricane had his guns, Falcon had always carried the hatchet his ancestor had used fighting with Rogers' Rangers, but Dodge didn't have so much as a pocket knife — not that any sort of weapon would be much use against the armored monsters that lurked along the edge of the Congo.

Something brushed his outstretched fingers and he started involuntarily; it was only the nail-studded timber the ill-fated crewman had been using as a bludgeon. Dodge took it in his grip. Better than nothing, I suppose. The crocs however had noticed the sudden movement and those that were on the fringe of the feast turned their hungry gaze in his direction.

Hurricane had heard the bloodcurdling screams but didn't know their source. In his mind's eye, it was Dodge being ripped apart — another comrade lost on his watch. During the battle at the White House at least, Dodge's fate had been uncertain; there was nothing uncertain about a plunge into crocodile infested waters.

Marten however did not relent in his attack. Bullets sizzled through the air, blasting chunks of wood from the dilapidated craft's gunwales or pinging off the tin awning mere inches from Hurricane's hiding spot. At least ten shots had been fired; Marten was either able to reload his revolver with lightning fast fingers, or possessed more than one weapon. Hurley assumed the latter.

He forced back the berserker rage that often arose when his friends were imperiled, and instead applied his not inconsiderable intellect to the immediate task of defeating the treacherous Marten. He let Marten get off two shots to his one, and with deft fingers topped off his magazines; a good thing about a fifty-caliber round was that its size made reloading a snap. That, and it puts big holes in bad guys, thought Hurricane, letting his weapon do the talking.

Hurley put all his chips on twelve. As soon as Marten let his twelfth shot fly, the rampaging giant broke from cover and side-stepped across the deck, his guns alternately thundering toward the engine behind which Marten cowered. The renegade skipper stayed down, giving Hurricane a chance to glance over the side.

His heart did a somersault. Dodge was still alive, but a gaggle of crocs was bearing down on him, now more than thirty yards from the boat. Hurley targeted the beast nearest his friend and let lead fly.

Normally, a round from a handgun would have the effect of irritating a scale-armored crocodile, not unlike pebbles thrown by a small child. The bullets from Hurricane's cannons however, were more like the stones from David's sling. His first shot blasted into top of the beast's flat skull, right between its eyes, and skewered it like a bug on pin.

The stricken animal's death throes broke apart the concerted charge. Its whipping tail stunned two crocs in its wake, sending them splashing back to shore in a primal panic, but the rest veered around the thrashing corpse and renewed the attack.

The sight of Hurricane at the edge of the boat, raining Hell on the black-snouted carnivores was just the thing Dodge needed to pull himself back from the brink of despair. A second croc squealed as a slug punched into its torso, tearing its innards to shreds inside its armored barrel, but for every dragon slain by the giant, there were two more splashing from the shallows to take its place.

Almost too late, it occurred to Dodge that staying still wasn't helping anymore. His abrupt decision to start paddling away from the onslaught spared him from a pair of snapping jaws, but the reprieve was brief. Another gullet gaped, close enough for him to count the rows of peg-like teeth.

Dodge threw himself sideways, and in the same motion jammed his captured club into the beast's throat. The trap snapped shut on the length of wood and the crocodile immediately shook its head vigorously, trying to break its prey's spine. Dodge, still hanging onto the timber by one hand, was hurled back and forth, but before he could think to let go, the croc changed tactics and dove beneath the surface.

Dodge was sucked once more into the river's dark embrace, drawn to the bottom by his fierce hold on the club. The crocodile did not differentiate; the piece of wood was merely an extension of its meal's body. All it had to do was wait for the victim trapped in its jaws to drown, and then the feast would begin.

A cry escaped Hurricane's lips as Dodge went under. All thought of avenging himself on Marten evaporated, as did his hesitation for entering the bestial battle in the waters below. Holstering his empty pistols, he leaped onto the transom and launched himself out over the river.

The bow of the vessel rose from the water as his full weight bore down at the stern, throwing the frantic Marten from his hiding place. The wounded and dead members of his crew were likewise catapulted into the air, but did not share the luck of their captain who managed to snare a handhold. Their bodies sailed over the side into the slavering jaws of a dozen crocodiles.

As big as he was, Hurricane would have been outmatched by even a single Nile crocodile. The fearsome carnivores, named for the waterway where they had first been discovered, were arguably the most rapacious species in Africa; they had to be in order to feed their massive bodies. The average length for the creatures, whose range extended to nearly every part of the Dark Continent where water was plentiful, was sixteen feet and a healthy adult might weigh more than 500 pounds. They were bigger, stronger and faster even than the awesome Hurricane Hurley. But you wouldn't have known it to look at him.

He came down with both feet directly on the back of one croc, driving the creature into the depths. His landing was so forceful that the reptilian snout was plunged into the murky mud at the bottom where suction held it fast. The croc, a complete stranger to panic, launched into a spasm of thrashing but succeed only in miring its stubby forelegs as well.

Hurley caught a blow from the doomed beast's tail, but his berserkergang was fully on and he barely felt the impact that would have killed a lesser man. A pair of jaws yawned before him, but he gripped the animal's throat and thrust its head into a second opened mouth, removing two threats at once. He oriented himself on the place where Dodge had disappeared, and launched out with massive strokes like the oars of a war galley.

Still trapped in the darkness below the surface, Dodge got his other hand on the timber and started pulling. It was a fierce tug of war against a creature three times his size, with jaws that were the equal of an industrial vise. His lungs were on fire, but all he got for his efforts was a palm full of splinters. Then the croc jerked his head sideways and wrenched the board from his hands.

Although he had lost his only weapon, Dodge now realized that he was free of the crocodile's death-grip. Unsure of which way was up, he picked a direction at random and started kicking. Several seconds passed before he rose to the top and greedily sucked in a breath.

The boat was now nearly fifty yards away and in between it and him was a small army of crocodiles. A face, barely visible in the distance, rose into view from the vessel's deck, and Dodge's spirits fell again. It was Marten.

The villainous river pilot was bloodied, but his countenance wore the expression of a man victorious. Marten gazed down the visible length of the river for a moment, and then took the helm of his idling craft. The engine was coughing and smoking due to damage from the gun-battle, but it could still turn the screws, and at the skipper's guiding, the boat turned away from the dock and began chugging upriver.

Suddenly a geyser of muddy water exploded in front of Dodge, and from its midst emerged Hurricane, one arm wrapped around the snout of a thrashing crocodile while the other gouged at its eyes and nostrils. When Hurley saw Dodge, a fierce grin split his face.

"Get to the —"

The hoarse shout was cut off as the leviathan's struggles took its rider once more under the surface, but Dodge got the message. Most of the crocodiles had relented, preferring the easy pickings from the remains of the crew to this pair of tough nuts. There remained three between Dodge and the shore however, not counting the one Hurricane now fought.

Dodge swam with the current, adding its speed to his own as he angled toward the reedy bank, but it wasn't enough. The crocs were faster; there was no way he was going to make to shore. Then, salvation hit him in the face... literally.

He jerked involuntarily, once more thinking the worst, but the object that had glanced off his cheek did not belong to the animal kingdom. Quite the contrary, it was a plant, a root actually, of a sapling that had sprouted on a moss clump in an overhanging tree branch and extended its tendrils down to drink from the river. Dodge immediately seized at the fibrous cords, but when he tried to climb, his raw fingers slipped uselessly on the slick surface. He tried lifting himself up to grip the root between his legs, but he couldn't seem to get his knees high enough. The reptiles, sensing that they had finally run their prey down, closed in.

Dodge marshaled all of his frantic energy into a single effort, stretched his arms as high as they would reach, and hauled on the root. His panic gave him additional strength, but it was the boost he got from planting a foot on the snout of the nearest croc that got him clear of the water. The pack snapped at his heels and tried to grip the root, but he deftly avoided their strikes. Then the unthinkable happened.

Dodge felt himself drop once more toward the water. He tightened his grip, but his descent only hastened. In fact, his grip was secure; it was the tree that had failed. The African mahogany tree, which played host to the plant that now served as Dodge's lifeline, had drunk mightily over the years from the marshy soil from which its seed had sprung, but the trade off for such abundant and easily obtained moisture was a superficial root system anchored in soft mud. For years it had been canting lazily toward the river as the seasonal floods undermined its foundation; now Dodge's weight was the final straw.

There was a cacophony of shrieks as a horde of lounging colobus monkeys was evicted from their resting place in the crowned treetop. The small primates were suddenly everywhere, swarming over Dodge as the entire trunk plunged toward the river. Dodge was still hugging the root to which he clung when the Congo embraced him once more.

## CHAPTER 7

WALK WITH THE DEAD

The tree's collapse ended less violently than he had expected. There was no impact to speak of, only a sudden stop, the whiplash subdued by the thick water. The surface continued to boil with hysterical monkeys trying to flee a watery demise, but below all was as still as the grave. Dodge relaxed his grip and tried to swim away but was immediately caught in a tangle of branches. He tried patiently to free himself, but as the seconds ticked by his anxiety multiplied; he was pinned.

From above his head he heard branched snapping-crocodiles! He struggled harder, knowing that if the relentless devourers caught him here, there would be no escape, knowing also that if he didn't get free, his last breath would be a lungful of the Congo. Suddenly something as hard as iron closed on his shoulder and he was pulled up through the web of tree branches and once more into the light. He fought, twisting his body in order to rip free of death's jaws, flailing with his fists to beat the beast away, but all to no avail.

"Dodge! Dodge it's me!"

"Hurri—" he choked on a mouthful water that he had unwittingly drawn, and the subsequent coughing fit distracted him long enough to realize that he was not being pulled to his death by a crocodile. Instead, he was being pulled to safety by Hurley; his friend was perched on the exposed bough of the toppled tree, safe from the river and safe from its deadly denizens.

Hurricane chuckled. "I gotta hand it to you. Pulling this tree down was a stroke of genius. I told you there was a good reason for letting you tag along."

Dodge spit out the last of the vile liquid, and then his coughing turned to laughter as well. "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

They lingered on the tree trunk only long enough for Hurley to shake the water out of his pistols and reload his empty magazines from the wax-coated box of cartridges in his pocket. He bemoaned the loss of their luggage; his bag, along with several more boxes of ammunition, was still on Marten's boat while Dodge's duffel was lazily making its way toward the Atlantic. They were stranded in the middle of nowhere with only the sodden clothes they wore. Nevertheless, once his guns were ready, the big man put aside all complaints.

"Let's make our way to the village. Maybe one of those poor devils is still alive and can tell us what happened."

Dodge nodded, and it occurred to him that Hurley had probably already embraced the likelihood that his old comrade in arms was one of the ravaged corpses in the burned out mission. He too felt a pang of grief at the loss; though he had never met the man called 'the Padre,' Father Nathan Hobbs seemed like an old friend.

They picked their way through the tangle of exposed roots and waded up onto solid ground. The crocodiles appeared to have lost interest, but they remained wary as they pushed into the dense thicket beneath the boughs of the ancient tropical hardwood forest. It took the better part of an hour for them to reach the perimeter of the settlement, where they encountered a palisade of eight foot-long pointed stakes. Some of the upright timbers were scorched from the flames that had devastated the village, but the defense barrier remained mostly intact.

"Maybe there's a gate somewhere," Dodge ventured. "We'll have to walk around until we find it—"

Hurricane made a face then lashed out with one still damp boot. A ten-foot section of the wall toppled like a child's Tinkertoy creation.

"—or not."

The gap revealed a different perspective on the massacre of the settlement, but the images were the same. Smoking heaps where huts and wooden structures had stood, and fly-shrouded shapes that could only be the remains of the residents. Hurley's face was stoic as he pulled a charred stick from the nearest ruin and fanned its coals into a low flame. He then moved among the corpses, driving away the bloated flies with smoke, just long enough to determine if it was Hobbs. There were a dozen in all, mostly older men and women, all of them native Africans.

"They took the able-bodied alive as captives," Hurley explained. "Slaves."

The word gave Dodge a chill despite the heavy tropical heat. "Can't the authorities do something about it?"

"I'm afraid that what passes for a police force around here is more concerned with meeting rubber quotas than protecting people — especially these people." Hurricane was uncharacteristically somber. "I'm sure it's the reason the Padre came back here; to help the natives where no one else would. Come on, let's find the church."

As they searched the rubble piles, Dodge tried to distract himself from the grim task by sating his curiosity. "Who is Krieger?'

"My greatest regret. About fifteen years ago, we were chasing a gang of international gunrunners — they called themselves 'the Ninety-nine.' I'm not sure why, there was only about twenty-nine of them — but they led us on a merry chase."

"Krieger was their leader?"

"They didn't have a leader as such, but there was a pecking order, and Krieger was near the top. He was definitely the brains of the outfit. It all came to a head not too far from here. Krieger was trying to move a boatload of Enfield rifles to a group of Mahdist rebels hiding out in the jungle. Unfortunately for us, he got the guns to them before we caught up with him.

"It was a bloodbath. We took more losses that day then we did in the War."

"You never wrote about it." Dodge kept his tone low, sympathetic.

"Lord knows, I tried. Those boys that fell were heroes, and deserved to be remembered; I just couldn't find the words." He cleared his throat, as if to bring himself back from the edge of the emotional abyss. "Anyway, when all was said and done, we licked 'em good. Krieger and his rats took refuge in a cave, so we dynamited the entrance and thought that was the end of it. I guess we should've given Krieger more credit, but we never heard about him after that."

"This is the kind of place you go to lose yourself," Dodge observed.

"That's what the Padre was trying to do." He stopped, pointing to something in the ruins. "That look like a cross to you?"

It was indeed a cross of hammered metal, ash gray now from the flames that had destroyed the chapel. The ruin was no larger than any of the other buildings, but as they started pulling apart the scorched timbers, they found the trappings of a house of worship, and more bodies. Three elderly Africans had perished seeking sanctuary in the church, and their charred remains were laid side-by-side, arms inextricably entwined, as if they had sought to create a human barrier against the invading force.

"They were protecting something," Dodge realized aloud. "Or someone."

Hurley shook his head sadly. "Poor souls gave their lives for nothing. They should have run."

"I'm not so sure about that. Look at how they're positioned. I don't think the pirates came in here; they just torched it from outside." He tried to look past the carnage and view the bodies analytically. "Help me move them out of the way. I think there's something underneath them."

Hurricane's cheek twitched, but he knelt reverently beside the macabre tableau. Dodge placed his hands on the opposite side and together they lifted the arrangement of bodies out of the way. It was a surreal moment for Dodge; he had never touched a dead body before, and the experience was nothing like he expected. The remains were impossibly light, as if the absence of life had somehow subtracted a disproportionate amount of mass from their molecules, the weight of their souls.

"I'll be damned."

Hurley's soft utterance broke the spell. Dodge looked back to see what had prompted his words and saw revealed a flat wooden dais that had been spared the force of fire. The big man probed it experimentally. "It's covering something... a priest hole."

He slid his fingers under the plank and heaved it back. There was a flash of movement in the dark hole underneath and Dodge caught a glimpse of something metallic rising toward Hurley.

"Shotgun!" He acted without thinking, grabbing the barrel of the weapon as a snake charmer might seize the head of a viper, and thrust it skyward. The weapon discharged with a deafening boom and the blast of expanding gases from the exploded gunpowder hit his exposed face like a slap. The barrel grew instantly hot in his grip, but he kept a tight hold and tried to wrench it from the hand of the person hiding below the dais.

Hurricane rolled back on his haunches and snatched out his guns, ready to do some damage, but Dodge hastily interposed. He had seen what Hurley had not; the person with the shotgun was no pirate lying in wait, but a frightened survivor. More than that, it was a young woman.

She wore a simple white shirt with faded trousers, and a nun's wimple covered her hair, but these plain garments could not hide her essential beauty. She wore no cosmetics on her freckle spotted, doe-shaped face, but her thin copper-colored eyebrows perfectly accentuated emerald eyes. Those eyes stared up at Dodge in fierce defiance; she had not yet relinquished her hold on the gun, even though the discharge had rendered it momentarily impotent.

"It's okay," he soothed. "We're the good guys."

She stopped struggling immediately. "Good guys? English? You're not with them."

The last was not a question, and Dodge saw that the message had finally sunk in. He released the weapon and extended a hand to help her out of the priest hole. "They're gone. But I'll warn you, it's not pretty out here."

A sob escaped her lips, but she still held the shotgun like a ward against evil. Hurley holstered his guns and also reached out to her.

"Come on, miss. Up you go."

Her green eyes fixed on him and then widened in astonishment. "You? I know you. You're Hurricane!"

He chuckled. "I am indeed, miss."

"Guess Captain Falcon even makes the Sunday funnies out here," Dodge commented as they pulled her from the hide.

"Falcon?" She turned to Dodge. "You?"

He smiled, grateful that her attention was momentarily distracted from the horror that had nearly claimed her. "Good heavens, no. I just write about him."

"I don't think she's one of your readers," Hurley observed then turned to her. "You know Father Hobbs, don't you?"

She smiled. "I should say so. He's my dad."

Hurley scouted the perimeter of the settlement, while Dodge set to the dismal task of burying the dead. At least he was in good company.

The girl's name was Molly Rose Shannon. "I grew up here," she told him as they worked together to clear a space for the hasty grave. "My real parents were missionaries. They brought me here when I was very young, but died in a cholera outbreak. I don't really remember them."

"I'm very sorry."

She shrugged. "It's a hard place; folks die easy here. You get used to it."

"I don't think I could ever get used to this."

"No, this is..." Her voice trailed off, prompting him to look her in the eye, and he saw emotion welling there. "I should have been here with them, but they pushed me in that hole and covered it with their bodies. They gave their lives for me."

Dodge didn't know how to comfort her. The shallow grave they were excavating — an expediency to prevent carrion eaters from defiling the remains — seemed an inappropriate way to honor their sacrifice. "We didn't find the Padre," he said. "Father Hobbs; do you think he's still alive?"

It was the right thing to say. Her eyes brightened and she looked to the jungle, where Hurley was finishing his reconnaissance. He joined them a moment later. "I found a trail."

Molly however shook her head. "They came from the river; a single boat."

Hurricane frowned. "The trail I found is fresh, a big group. I'm sure it was the captives being forced to march."

"You don't understand. They had to leave by boat; they took our plane."

Dodge threw a glance toward the river and the empty moorage there. Hurley too pondered this. "Maybe the boat was overcrowded on the return trip. All I know is, there's a trail in the jungle, and I mean to follow it. If they are running the captives on that trail, it's a good bet the Padre's with them."

Molly straightened at this. "You're right of course."

"You two should be safe here. There's no reason for them to —"

"We're coming with you," Molly announced, an instant ahead of Dodge.

Hurley put his hands on his hips. "Sister, when we catch up to them, there's gonna be some shooting."

She snatched the headdress off, releasing a cascade of fiery copper ringlets that reached below her shoulders. "Don't let the habit fool you. I only wear it so the local ruffians will keep their distance."

"I've only got my pistols. That shotgun of yours isn't going to do much good in a gunfight."

"Then we'll keep our heads down," intoned Dodge. "But Molly's right. We need to stick together."

Hurricane gave them both an appraising glance, and then looked skyward. "It will be dark soon. We'll spend the night here, finish tending to the..." He gestured to the grave Dodge was still digging. "And get some rest. We'll be a lot faster tomorrow if we get a good night's sleep."

Dodge knew that his friend was merely stalling, hoping to let Molly's emotional tinder cool a bit before attempting to talk her into staying, but decided not to push the issue. Outnumbered and outgunned as they were, for any of them to attempt to pursue the pirate gang seemed patently foolish.

Still, it was hard to imagine Falcon turning his back on a captured comrade.

Molly elected herself to say a few words over the mass grave, then to Dodge's amazement, named the victims and gave a brief eulogy for each. The crimson-haired girl continued to confound his sensibilities. She wasn't exactly a tomboy, but Dodge had a feeling that she would be a lot more at ease in a pair of dungarees than the latest Paris fashions. Her rough manner seemed to counterpoint her raw beauty; she was nothing like the girls back home.

Oddly enough, it was Dodge's own inability to put up with feminine pretensions that had earned him, undeservingly so far as he was concerned, the reputation as a misogynist among the secretaries in the Clarion newsroom. He was similarly impatient with the girls he met at the various public appearances, who seemed more in love with the idea of celebrity worship, than actually interested in him as a person. He envied Hurricane for his ability to simply enjoy empty flirtation while sampling the eye candy.

Molly was certainly easy on the eyes, but he had a feeling that, like her middle name, she was a thorny flower indeed.

Following the brief service, they rooted in the ruins of a building near the chapel and found some canned food that had escaped the flames. Their explorations also yielded up a box of shells for Molly's shotgun and a battered machete in need of a whetstone. Hurley built up a large, smoky bonfire to drive off the mosquitoes and other jungle denizens, then settled back to enjoy a cheroot as twilight fell, while Molly set to work transforming canned beans and potted meat into a passable meal.

"I haven't eaten that well in days Miss Molly," Hurricane declared. "In fact, I was recently a guest of the President of the United States, and let me say, this repast put that meal to shame."

Dodge laughed before he could stop himself. "As I recall, we never got to eat that meal."

"Son, you've a thing or two to learn about complimenting a lady." He fired up another hand—rolled cigar and gazed into the darkening sky. "We'll need to keep a watch."

Molly gave a little gasp of fear. "Do you think they'll be back?"

"The pirates? Not likely. As far as they're concerned, there's nothing worth returning for. No, I'm more worried about the things with teeth and claws that will come out to feed once it's dark. But a pair of watchful eyes and Miss Molly's shotgun should suffice to keep us safe through the night. So, who wants to go first?"

Despite his anxiety about a night surrounded by fearsome creatures and the impenetrable darkness of the jungle, Dodge was on the verge of nodding off when Hurley touched him on the shoulder.

"Rest easy, lad." He stirred the embers of the fire and threw a large chunk of wood into the blaze. "I thought we might let our feminine friend skip guard duty, what with all she's been through, but it will mean giving up a little of your own shut eye."

"Sure." Dodge nodded blearily, and passed over the shotgun.

"You hang on to it. I've got my pistols." Hurley settled down with his back to the fire and his eyes searching the black woods.

"Hurricane, I've been thinking. What happens when we catch up to these pirates? There's only the three of us."

"I've had worse odds before. Come to think of it, so have you."

Dodge laughed half-heartedly. "If I'd taken half a second to think it through, I probably would have run the other way."

Hurley laughed softly. "Sometimes, we find ourselves in a position where the only choice we really have is to do something absolutely, plumb crazy. Krieger and his rats took the Padre; going after them is the only choice I've got."

"Even though we might get killed?"

Dodge already knew the answer, and Hurley knew the question was purely rhetorical, but he answered nonetheless. "They don't know we're coming, so the element of surprise is ours. I've got a couple other cards up my sleeve too, so it's not as bad as it might seem. But we're gonna need to be at our sharpest, so go catch forty winks. I'll wake you in two hours."

Dodge nodded again and climbed under the makeshift mosquito netting on the other side of the blaze. He held the shotgun as he might an unruly child, clutching it to his chest. He had never fired such a weapon — in fact, but for the lightning weapons on the metal exoskeletons, he had never fired any sort of weapon — but it seemed simple enough; point in the general direction of the target, brace it against a shoulder and pull the trigger. He wished he felt as confident about the road ahead.

Part of his concern was for Molly. He had no doubt that the fierce redhead would stand and fight with them, and probably acquit herself well in combat. As a lifelong resident of the region, she probably knew more about the jungle than even Hurley. His fear was not that she would freeze at the onset of the battle, but rather that she might get hurt or killed. For reasons he couldn't begin to explain, he was feeling very protective of Molly Rose Shannon.

He drifted off to sleep thinking about her, painfully aware of the fact that she slept only an arm's length away. Adolescent fantasies fluttered like moths through his semi-conscious state, until sleep stole over him.

Time had no meaning in the sleep state, but he drifted back to wakefulness when he felt a soft touch on his leg. Half asleep, his first thought was that it was Molly looking for comfort in what must be the loneliest of nights. As he gradually came back to the surface, he realized the foolishness of that scenario and that the hand on his leg must be Hurricane, rousing him for his turn at watch.

Except he couldn't make out Hurley's silhouette in the dim orange light, nor could he fathom why his friend was letting a hand wander along his right leg. Maybe it is Molly....

"I'm awake," he mumbled, stretching his arms. The shotgun had slipped from his grasp and as he fumbled for it in the darkness, he wondered why Hurricane had let the fire burn so low.

The hand now crept to his abdomen, moving in a slow sinuous massage that was he imagined, exactly like the movement of a...

"Snake?"

He was instantly wide-awake, yet it required every ounce of self-control for him to remain perfectly still. He didn't even move his lips, but rather stage whispered through clenched teeth. "There's a snake on me. Hurricane! A snake."

He rolled his eyes toward the fire pit, but the glow from the crimson coals cast scant illumination. He looked back down, trying to spot the serpent as it slithered onto his belly. It was big. He could feel its weight pressing against his diaphragm, not enough to prevent him from breathing, but a constant pressure nevertheless.

"Molly, wake up!" She mumbled a reply, but clearly was nowhere near waking.

He would have spat a curse, but the unseen creature had coiled into a knot on his torso, and he feared that even the act of breathing might trigger a deadly strike.

His fingers brushed the stock of the shotgun, lying where it had fallen to his side, but the proximity of the weapon gave him little comfort; he wasn't about to blast the serpent with buckshot. There was another way the gun might save him though.

He gripped the weapon then manipulated it so that it was stretching away from him, perpendicular to his body, and then pushed out with it until it encountered something unmoving. "Molly!"

It was a risk, but there seemed little alternative. His repeated jabs and hoarse whispers succeeded in rousing her. "What is it?"

"There's a snake on me."

"A snake." She didn't sound very concerned. "Well, it will probably go away if you leave it alone."

"Molly!" He jabbed her again.

"Oh, for pity's sake." She sat up, and in the dim light he could just make out her coppery ringlets and the glint of her eyes. "Where's Hurricane?"

"Molly! There's a snake on me. Can you focus on that?"

"Hold your horses." She cut a wide circle around his supine form, then jabbed a long branch into the coals. After a second, bright yellow tongues of fire sprang up on her makeshift torch, throwing light several yards in every direction. Dodge now had no difficulty at all in identifying the arrow-shaped head of the animal coiled on his abdomen; its lidless eyes stared inscrutably back at him.

Molly swept the flaming brand toward him in broad arcs, trying to disturb its rest without unduly rousing its venomous ire. The serpent drew back its head and opened its mouth to reveal hook-like fangs, beading with venom, and on one of her passes, it made a half-hearted strike.

"Jesus, Molly. Be careful."

She swung the torch again, and the viper relented, slithering away into the darkness. Dodge sagged in place as the adrenaline drained out of his bloodstream.

"Puff adder," Molly observed. "Good thing you didn't rile him in your sleep."

"Poisonous?"

She nodded then held her torch up. "Hurricane!"

Dodge rose and joined her in calling out, but only the chatter of nocturnal jungle animals answered their cries. Hurricane Hurley was gone.

## CHAPTER 8

RUN THROUGH THE JUNGLE

He moved through the woods like wraith.

He had always possessed the uncanny ability to move that way, and given his size, that was nothing short of miraculous. He ducked under low hanging branches, slipped through dense thickets without brushing a single leaf, and hopped lightly over deadfalls without leaving a footprint.

He had come by his skills honestly, growing up on the Cumberland Plateau, hunting game and varmints in the Appalachian forests, or simply cavorting on the sandstone bluffs that defended the highlands from everyone but the coal miners. He had always been a creature of the forest, and it mattered not a bit if those forests were in his own backyard, or on a continent on the other side of the world from his Kentucky home.

He now stalked his enemies on a trail that would have confounded a bloodhound. He had exaggerated it to Dodge and Molly; it was no broad path hewn from the jungle by a machete-wielding expedition. Rather, the captives had been driven single-file, while a rear party had done their best to minimize the impact of their passage and cover their tracks. There was however only so much that could be done to mask the presence of such a large group, and Hurricane knew exactly what to look for.

That he could see anything in the darkness beneath the dense canopy likewise defied comprehension. He had always been possessed of good eyesight, a genetic gift from his mother, but on this night he had taken the added precaution of shielding his gaze from the firelight for nearly an entire hour while waiting for Dodge to drift off to sleep. He knew some other tricks for multiplying the efficiency of his night vision — ways of compressing the muscles in his eyes to focus differently, and a technique for looking with the peripheral vision, which was more effective in darkness that looking straight ahead. He also looked with his ears and nose, smelling areas where the vegetation had been trampled and was decaying, or hearing the sound of insects and small rodents agitated by the recent passage through their demesne.

He was, he estimated, only about six hours behind the party, but they had likely stopped moving before dusk, while he was nearly running to intercept them. He was completely in his element; a wolf on the prowl. The only thing that disturbed his deadly calm was his decision to abandon Dodge and Molly.

There were a dozen reasons why it was a good idea, and from the moment Molly had protested being excluded from the pursuit, he had known that slipping away after nightfall was the only logical answer. Yet, he was troubled, mostly because of leaving Dodge behind.

The young sportswriter was a natural; he had not been guilty of exaggeration on the occasion of telling Dodge that he might someday rival even Zane Falcon. They were cut from the same cloth. Falcon had been a lettered man, answering the call to serve and accepting a position of leadership because of inner convictions regarding right and wrong. Dodge had come up from hard beginnings, but he had educated himself and along the way picked up a similar set of values and an ability to quickly take charge of even the most challenging situations; all he was lacking was the battlefield on which to prove himself. Perhaps that was why this act of well-intentioned betrayal stung so much; he had denied Dodge a chance to truly shine.

But there was no way Hurley was going to take that sweet Irish rose into battle. She might be able to hold her own, but her very presence would be a distraction to the men in her company, men who would very likely make the fatal mistake of looking out for her, when they most needed to look out for themselves. Molly could not go with them and she could not be left to fend for herself, ergo Dodge had to stay behind with her.

The odds didn't concern him too much. He knew he could pick off the rear guard one at a time, thinning the ranks of the enemy before they knew what was happening. Once he reached the captives, he would have allies in hand, more than eager to avenge themselves for the foul attack, to say nothing of the Padre; Father Hobbs, expert at Oriental fighting techniques, was the equal of any three pirate rogues. Hurley had even seen the otherwise unflappable cleric go toe to toe with Falcon during an unfortunate incident toward the end of their long war; not many men could fight Captain Falcon to a draw. If there was ever a man to have at your side in a fight, it was the Padre, the best part of course being that after the fighting was done, there was no additional fighting for the attention of the ladies at the local watering hole. That thought brought a smile to his otherwise darkened countenance and he kept running.

He smelled the pirate camp before he could see the flicker of their flames, and halted in mid-step. They aren't making very good time, he thought, dropping onto his belly and inching forward. In fact, it had been less than two hours since his covert departure from the ruins of Father Hobbs' mission.

He crept closer to the encampment at a snail's pace, and the instant that their fires were visible, he drew back into the lightless forest and commenced skirting the perimeter until he knew exactly where the guards were posted. Halfway through the circuit, he found the reason for their choice of campsite. A tributary creek, easily twenty yards across, blocked their way. A start had been made of rigging up a bridge, but the work had barely begun. Hurricane took note that the bridge footings were unguarded, and moved on.

Perimeter security was equally poor. The handful of guards scattered around the site were more interested in warming themselves at their respective fires than attending to their duty station.

Of course they're not on their game, he realized. They aren't expecting anyone to pay a visit.

He picked the one that seemed furthest from the others and least vigilant to boot, and advanced stealthily on his location. The man was not aware of the danger he was in until one of Hurricane's beefy hands clamped down over his mouth, and what panic he did evince died when Hurley gave his head a full twist.

Taking out the sentry had not been accomplished without sacrifice, specifically, the loss of his heightened nocturnal abilities. The fire's acrid fumes and orange brilliance had left him night blind and unable to smell the peculiar scent of human activity in the jungle, but then again, one sometimes had to endure small losses to accomplish greater victories. He continued onward, toward the heart of the camp.

The pirates had erected lean-to huts in a loose ring around the center, but the camp appeared to be completely asleep. Hurley edged close to one of the shelters, grimacing silently as he heard a soft feminine whimper. He couldn't pierce the veil of darkness, but it was easy enough to deduce that the pirate who occupied this hut had selected one of the captives to keep him company.

I'll deal with it in a minute, he promised himself. After I find the Padre.

At the center of the semi-circle, bisected by the river, he found a dozen male captives, tied with ropes and tethered to a tree by a single line that encircled each man's neck. The restraints were probably unnecessary; the men had dropped in their tracks from exhaustion. All were African natives, some in traditional garb, others in tattered trousers; Hobbs was not among their number. Hurley was about to advance on them when he spied the cage.

Situated away from the other captives, in an isolated corner of the camp, the cage was a hasty construct of fresh cut mahogany limbs bound with twine. It depended a few feet above the ground, hanging by a rope thrown over a tree limb. Hurricane could just make out a human shape inside, a form clad in black.

Padre!

He checked for any sign of surveillance then stole forward. When he was only a few yards from the cage, he risked breaking his silence with a sibilant hiss, but there was no movement from the figure inside. Muttering an oath, he continued forward.

Suddenly the ground vanished beneath his feet. He flailed, struggling to arrest his fall, but his hands closed on loose dirt and twigs. Total darkness enveloped him and the odor of decaying vegetation crashed over him in a suffocating wave. An instant later, he found himself lying in a shallow puddle.

A familiar rage began to boil but much of it was focused inward. His fists lashed out at the soft earthen walls of his prison but his almost incoherent curses were self-directed. His epic pursuit through the jungle, following the enemy like a vengeful ghost, had come to the most ignominious of climaxes; he had taken the bait in his mouth and jumped headlong into an amateurish pitfall.

His solitary imprisonment ended quickly as the mouth of the pit, more than ten feet above his head, was filled with torchlight. He drew his pistols in a flash and thrust them skyward, but the first face to come into view was that of a sobbing native female and he immediately checked himself.

"Throw your guns up, or her blood will, quite literally, be on you."

Hurley's lips curled in a snarl, but he thumbed the safety catch on his pistols and hurled them up at the opening.

"Very good." The captive was pulled away from the edge and the silhouette of the man giving the harsh commands came into view; his features remained in shadow. "Hurricane Hurley. You don't know how long I've waited to see you like this."

"Krieger! This time I'll make sure to finish the job."

"How terrible for me," the pirate chuckled. "Perhaps I should simply leave you here, entombed alive as you left me. I could even put the good priest in with you for company before I fill the grave."

"Do your worst."

"Hah. Having caught you so readily, I am reluctant to cede my advantage, but alas, I am driven by motives more pragmatic than revenge."

Hurricane bit off another retort. Cede his advantage? What did that mean? No answer was forthcoming though, as Krieger continued talking. "There are four more captives here with me — women, if it matters — and I will not hesitate to kill them all if you show the slightest resistance. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yes." Hurley forced the word through teeth that were grinding together like millstones.

A rope, knotted at two-foot intervals, dropped into the pit and he immediately commenced ascending. As his head reached ground level, he saw that he was surrounded by a group of more than a score of pirates, all completely alert.

It was a setup from the beginning. They knew I would come. But how?

Some of the pirates held torches aloft in their non-dominant hand, while the other gripped their firearm of choice. The remaining villains were armed only with knives, which they held pressed to the throat of the hostage women. In the firelight, he saw that the captive in the cage — the bait that had lured him into the pitfall — was merely an effigy stuffed into priestly vestments. That cage now rested on the ground beside the hole, with one of its sides removed to allow access to the interior.

He didn't know which of the pirates Krieger was; he had never seen him up close and no photographs of the man had ever emerged during Falcon's hunt for the Ninety-nine. Had he known, he might have been tempted to risk everything for a chance to decapitate the monster; perhaps in the absence of leadership, the pirate organization would crumble, sparing the imperiled lives. He did however recognize another face — or rather a dragon tattoo on a shaved skull — among the gaggle.

"Marten!"

The treacherous riverboat captain stood among the scoundrels, towering above most, and smiling victoriously. "Bonjour, monsieur. I had not thought to see you again. I am pleased that it is under such favorable circumstances."

"Get in the cage."

He whirled, trying to isolate Krieger, but the voice had come from behind him and could have belonged to any of the pirates standing in that quarter. Dismayed, he complied with the command. Two from the enemy number hastened forward to lash the wooden bars in place.

The box was very cramped; from a seated position, his head was bent down by the overhead slats, and rested between his knees, which were mere inches from the top of the cage. Notwithstanding the discomfort, he instantly saw that his prison was a flimsy construct; very little effort would be required to break out. He feigned acceptance of his capture, and sunk his head a little lower.

Litter poles were secured to sides of Hurley's cage and four male captives were propelled forward and ordered to lift him up. The entire assembly fell in line behind the procession as he was carried toward the river. The rudimentary bridge however was not their destination; instead they skirted the bank for a distance of more than three hundred yards, until they reached a natural harborage where several vessels were moored. Hurricane saw a bi-plane floating amid the armada.

The craft bobbed on pontoons and a central hull that extended out like a mallard's bill from under the fuselage. Although there were no markings on its reflective metallic skin, Hurley recognized it as a Grumman JF "Duck," a small amphibious airplane ideal for use in the Congo where the only clear area to land was on the water. He wondered how Krieger had managed to acquire the plane, but then recalled Molly's statement that the pirates had captured their plane. If the plane belonged to the Padre, then it would be the perfect means for them to make their escape when the time came. He was carried up a ramp and onto the deck of a boat nearest the water's edge, where another surprise waited.

"Padre!" His joy at seeing his old comrade momentarily superseded all other concerns, but only momentarily. As soon as he got a good look at the friend he had not seen for nearly a decade, his elation turned to agony.

The pirates had beaten him savagely. His eyes were blackened and a long, untended weal marked his chin. His shirt had been removed, revealing a mass of bruises on his naturally gaunt-looking chest. But the recent trials did not account for the most dramatic change: Father Nathan Hobbs' hair had gone completely white.

Hobbs was also caged, but his prison box was suspended in a manner that would have brought a tear to the collective eye of the Spanish Inquisition. It hung by a single rope from a gallows, which had in turn been erected over the center of a bed of foot long stakes. Hurley could not help but notice that fire-hardened tips of the poniards had been smeared with excrement. If the prisoner did anything to disturb the cage, he would wind up skewered on the stakes, and if by some miracle that did not kill him, the resulting infection would most certainly do so in a protracted agonizing manner. That threat alone would be enough to compel a prisoner to remain docile, and such was no doubt the intention of its architect.

The litter bearers carefully positioned Hurricane's cage over the spikes alongside Hobbs', after which one of the pirates moved forward to wrap the anchor rope around the gibbet crosspiece and secured it to one of the uprights. The poles were then removed and Hurricane's prison swung free above the lethal nest of spikes.

The Padre hung only a few feet away; close enough that Hurricane could look into his old friend's haunted eyes. Hobbs had the hollow look of a man who had endured the most horrible tragedies, but then he had always kind of looked that way; it was difficult to tell how deep the wounds went. The clergyman stared unblinking at him for a few seconds then, in a perfect deadpan imitation of Oliver Hardy, said: "Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten us into."

Hurricane was so caught off guard that for a few seconds, he appeared to be in the grip of a paroxysm of coughing. The sound gradually resolved into peals of laughter that rolled across the muddy river like thunder. The Padre had made a joke; that didn't happen very often.

There was a stir from the midst of the pirate ranks, and a figure that Hurley had not seen earlier, strode forward. Although the man's face was obscured by a mask of dark wood, carved in a demonic visage, Hurricane knew instinctively that this at last was Johannes Krieger.

"What impressive men you are," Krieger snarled, barely controlling his rage. "Laughing in the face of death. I wish I had possessed your grace when I had to claw my way out of that hole you left me in."

He thrust his hands at them, and Hurricane saw that instead of fingers, each of Krieger's deformed hands ended in a prosthetic that resembled the talons of a raptor, with curving metal claws honed to razor sharpness on the inside edge. He laid the blade edges of his right hand on the rope that suspended Hurley's cage.

"In my dreams," the pirate leader continued, "there are three of you here. But I will settle my account with your fearless leader in due time."

Hurley's mirth had already subsided, but something about Krieger's declaration struck a chord. The pirate wanted revenge on Falcon; was that what this was all about? Was it conceivable that the attack on the White House and the President's abduction, and the horrible savagery of the massacre at the mission, were all part of some fiendish revenge plot?

Krieger offered no further insight on the matter. He had only one thing more to say: "Laugh at this." And then with a wicked slash of his hand, he cut the rope.

## CHAPTER 9

UP THE CREEK

Any lingering suspicions that Dodge might have harbored, concerning whether Molly was a nun, novice or some other kind of missionary worker, were swept away in the torrent of profanity that spewed from the feisty redhead's shapely lips. Molly Rose Shannon knew curses that would make a sailor blush, and she used them all to underscore the irritation she felt toward Hurricane. Dodge could only stand back and do his best not to get hurt by the blowback.

She simmered down after a while and sat beside Dodge in the light of the newly stoked fire. "So what do we do now?"

"Do?"

"We can't just sit here. We have to go after him."

He took her by the shoulders and held her gaze with his own. "Molly, I want nothing more. Can you find and follow his trail in the dark? Because I sure can't."

"Well..."

"That's what I thought. As I see it, we can't do a thing until daybreak."

She slumped then petulantly pulled out of his grip. "I hate this!"

"I do too. But Hurricane was right about one thing. If we get some rest, we'll be in a lot better shape to make a big push tomorrow."

She crossed her arms and purposefully stared at the fire. After a moment however, she broke her self-imposed silence. "There might be another way."

He glanced sidelong at her. "I'm listening."

"I tried to tell Hurricane; the pirates attacked from the river."

"Okay. Why is that important?"

"The jungle is... well, people get lost out there — permanently lost. If you want to get anywhere, you stay on the river. The pirates know that; they operate from the river."

Dodge turned this over. "So if we want to find the pirates, we stay on the river? We don't have a boat."

"We can cut the dock loose; it's really nothing more than a raft. Use the machete to cut a couple poles so we can punt upstream."

He had to admit it was a good idea. "So one group left with the boats —"

"And our plane."

"— and your plane, while a second group marched the captives through the forest. Leaving aside the rationale behind that decision, it tells us something very important. Our pirates must be based somewhere close by. I think this might actually work."

Molly's smile was enough to melt any remaining icicles of doubt. He set to work hacking a pair of poles, while Molly began transferring their limited array of supplies down to the dock. Neither task took very long. Removed from the jungle canopy, they discovered an abundance of natural light — moon and stars — reflected on the surface of the river. Dodge joined his new companion on their makeshift raft and started sawing through the ropes that anchored it to the pilings. When the last strand separated, the dock settled into the water and started drifting with the current.

Dodge planted one of the poles and gave the craft a push in the opposite direction. As the dock sidled up river, something stirred in the water near the place where his pole had been, causing him to jerk back in alarm. As he did the platform rocked in the water and a low wave washed across the deck. "Ah, Molly, what's to stop the crocodiles from climbing up onto the raft?"

He couldn't see her face very well, but her long silence was answer enough. Her eventual observation offered little comfort. "Frankly, I'm more worried about the hippos."

"I'm sorry I asked." Dodge eyed the shadows along the bank as he pushed them further along, but he also made sure the machete was always within reach.

The greatest challenge in punting up the Congo was keeping the raft out of the main channel. On more than one occasion, a random eddy sent them too far from shore, and into the deeper water where the poles could not reach the bottom. These mishaps required them to wait until another vagary of the current brought them back to shore, for a loss of hundreds of yards and several minutes. By daybreak, Dodge estimated they had gone no more than a few miles from the ruins of the settlement.

The constant friction of the pole against the skin of his palms, which was already raw from the struggle with the crocodiles on the previous day, soon began to weep blood. In the ascending light of dawn, Molly spied the scarlet rivulets running down the length of wood and immediately called for a halt.

"It's okay," Dodge lied. "I don't even feel it."

"Good for you, tough guy." Molly didn't sound very impressed by this stoicism. "The bad news is that your blood is stinking up the water for miles. Anything with a nose is going to think there's wounded animal or a fresh kill floating on the river. So why don't we clean and bandage that before we attract unwanted attention."

Dodge scanned the reedy shore to make sure there were no crocodiles sunning themselves there then pushed them onto the beach. "Whatever you say, doc."

He was impressed with her firm grip as she took his hands and twisted them in opposite direction in order to view his ragged palms. "Oh, I see why you're not feeling much pain. See these black specks?

"What's that, dirt?"

"Leeches," she answered, matter of fact. "They secrete a natural anesthetic in their saliva so that their victims won't feel the bite."

Dodge grimaced, but said nothing as she went to her satchel and brought out a clear glass decanter. "Here, take a sip of this."

"What is it?" He took a swig of the odorless liquid, and immediately choked as it burned a cool trail down his throat.

"Medicine. I distilled it myself from a local tuber. I guess it's kind of like gin." She took the bottle and before he could protest, splashed a copious amount on his ravaged flesh.

He tried to snatch his hands back, but it was too late. The spirits felt like liquid fire in the open wound, and if it had been within his power to draw breath past the burn in his throat, he would almost certainly have screamed out loud. Instead, he flailed his hands in the air, trying to cool the ongoing blaze.

"Damn!" he finally managed, still coughing. "You should have warned me."

There was a gleam in her eye and a mischievous smile she could not quite suppress crept over her lips. "That's what they always say."

His indignation quickly gave way to laughter. "Maybe I should have another sip."

"That's the other thing they all say." She took out a packet of gauze and after verifying that the wounds were clean, began wrapping his hands. "So why are you called 'Dodge'?"

"When I was a kid, I wanted to play baseball. I was even a bat boy for the team in Brooklyn. Back then, the team didn't really have an official name, but everyone was already calling them the Dodgers — short for 'trolley dodgers' — and the name stuck. My friends started calling me 'Dodger' and eventually it just became 'Dodge.'"

"But you don't play baseball now?"

"No. I guess I found out that there's a difference between doing something you love for fun and doing it for a job."

She finished cinching the gauze bandages in place. "How's that?"

He flexed experimentally. "Doesn't give me very much freedom of movement."

"That's the idea. It will heal better that way. Let me ask you something else. You're not old enough to have served with my dad in the war, so why are you here?"

Dodge wasn't used to conversing with people who didn't already know everything about him. That he was with someone who probably knew Captain Falcon's story better than he, only complicated things further. "Well, I'm a writer. Hurricane and I write a weekly feature based on... I should say, loosely based on his experiences with Captain Falcon and your father, during the war and after."

"Really? I'd love to read them sometime."

Dodge scrutinized her expression. From any other girl, he would have taken that to be the opening salvo in one of the flirtatious exchanges he had so come to loathe. Ironically, Molly was the one girl he wouldn't have minded making an impression on, but flirting didn't seem Molly's style, which meant she was probably sincere. "You probably know them all already," was his guarded reply.

"Not really. Dad doesn't talk about the old days much; his friends, yes, but no war stories. Dad's kind of... well, he keeps to himself a lot."

Dodge had to smile; that was exactly how he had imagined Hobbs to be.

"I sure hope he's all right."

Dodge reached out patted her shoulder. The gesture felt awkward because he was unquestionably attracted to her and didn't want to seem forward. "He's fine. Believe me, once Hurricane helps him escape, there's nothing those two can't accomplish."

Hurley's hands shot through the bars of his cage to seize the taut rope, just as the last hemp fiber parted under the assault of Krieger's claw blades. There was a lurch as the tension holding the box abruptly vanished but it stopped, bare inches from the poisoned tips of the spikes below. Hurley's fists were clenched tight around the rope, his grip the only thing holding him back from a painful demise.

Krieger was inscrutable behind his mask, but made no further effort to dispatch Hurricane. "That should keep you busy for a while," he remarked sardonically. "Wouldn't want you entertaining notions of escape."

"If you're going to kill us," Hurley rasped through clenched teeth, "just do it. Get it over with."

"I thought I told you. I am a businessman; you are worth more to me alive." Krieger turned abruptly and stalked away, leaving only a handful of pirates to guard the caged men and the native captives; the rest of the gang moved off to their respective duty stations and commenced getting the armada ready to depart. As the first gleams of dawn illuminated the sky, the pirate vessels commenced moving further up the tributary.

After recovering from the shock of the nearly getting skewered, Hurricane pulled in the slack, drawing down enough of the rope to knot it around one of the bars. Once the cage was secure, he turned to Hobbs. "Just like old times, eh?"

"Yes," the clergyman observed sourly. "I'd forgotten how much fun we had. So how did you get dragged into all this?"

Hurley briefly recounted the attack on the White House and the demands of its hooded mastermind. "Do you think it could have been Krieger? That this was all part of an elaborate plot to bring the three of us together so he could take his revenge?"

Hobbs stroked his bloodied chin thoughtfully. "Krieger's known where to find me for years. He could have taken me any time."

"What? You knew Krieger was alive and didn't do anything about it?" Despite the bonds they shared, both brotherhood-in-arms and currently prison bonds, Hurley could not stem the flood of anger that arose from learning of the omission.

"Yes, well it seems I am being punished for that sin." Hobbs sighed heavily. "I didn't come here looking to relive the glory days, Hurricane. But I was keeping an eye on Krieger. He's never done anything like this; it's not his style."

Hurricane took a deep breath, letting his wrath boil away. "Seems exactly like his style, Padre."

Hobbs shook his head. "Krieger's insane, but he's not stupid. An attack like this will bring unwanted attention. He's had a good thing going here — a protection racket that the Belgians turn a blind eye to. Now they'll be forced to do something about him."

"Ha. They won't get a chance. I'll see to that."

"We'll see to it," amended Hobbs, and gave a reassuring nod.

Hurricane grinned. "Just like old times."

"Now, it occurs to me that the timing of this little coincidence is impeccable."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that I have trouble believing that Krieger decided to make this move at almost the same moment you come looking for me. There's another hand at work in all of this; someone who wants all of us together."

"Another of our old nemeses?"

"It crossed my mind, but none of our old foes had access to technology that confounds even the best scientific minds in America."

Hurricane chewed on this for a moment. "Dodge told me that one of the fellows spoke what sounded like Afrikaans; could have been German, though."

"Dodge? Oh, your partner in crime."

"He's a good kid. Reminds me a lot of the Cap. The way he went after those guys... it was exactly something he'd of done."

Hobbs mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Germans. They're definitely spoiling for a fight, but this flying technology you describe — I don't know if they're that advanced. It reminds me more of..."

Hurricane could not endure the thoughtful silence. "Reminds you of what?"

Hobbs face took on the serious expression he sometimes used when he was about lecture. "In the Hindu Vedas, there is a deity known as Indra who rode the sky in a golden chariot and wielded a magic thunderbolt to slay monsters."

"Magic," Hurricane scoffed.

"I have studied these matters," Hobbs continued tolerantly, "and there is a ring of truth to some of it. Indra may well have been an early tribal hero whose deeds were embellished over the ages, something you might be familiar with."

"Hah!"

"Thunderbolts and flying ships; these things are common in the old myths, common enough that some wonder if there isn't more to the story than just the wild imaginings of storytellers."

"Like what?"

"Have you ever heard of Atlantis?" Hurricane answered with another bark of derisive laughter, and Hobbs' patience began to wear thin. "Whether you believe it or not, you must believe your own eyes. You saw men flying without wings, you saw them hurl lightning bolts from their hands. Was it magic? Was it a technology far superior to our own? Perhaps there's no difference."

"So these magic flying machines were just laying around, waiting for this madman to find them?"

"Perhaps well hidden, but yes. I think he may very well have found the remains of an ancient, advanced civilization — a society remembered in legends as Atlantis, Shambala or Xanadu — and when he learned that he had the power of the ancient gods at his disposal, he developed delusions of grandeur."

"Delusions," Hurley echoed. "Then why hire an army of mercenaries? And why, with the world at his fingertips, does he decide that the most important thing he needs to do is tangle with the Cap?"

"That, my friend, is the real mystery."

They found Marten's boat run up on the bank, shortly after they resumed their upriver journey. Dodge was cautious as he nudged the raft closer, but it was evident that the boat had been abandoned many hours before. A crowd of monkeys had succeeded in breaking open some of the cartons of provisions left behind and the mess they had left added to the shambles left by the earlier gun battle. They discovered the reason behind the dereliction of the boat when they tried to start the engine.

"Well, it's got plenty of diesel," Molly announced after a practiced inspection. "But none of it's getting to the motor."

Dodge, was a quick study, but as a trolley riding New York pedestrian, he knew nothing about mechanical systems. "It took a few hits when Hurricane shot it out with Marten. Maybe something got damaged."

"There are some holes in the tank, but I don't see any leaks along the fuel line. I wonder..." She worked the fuel line loose from its fitting to the tank and stood back to avoid the expected spray of diesel oil, but there was only a very slow drip. "Aha. There's something in the tank blocking the outflow."

Dodge was in awe. "You're a mechanic, too?"

"You've got to be a little bit of everything out here. If something breaks, it could be weeks before you get a replacement." She probed the blocked stem fitting with a twig and was rewarded with a jet of fuel. "I thought so. It was a bullet. Must have rolled down to block the hole."

"Why didn't it blow up the tank?"

"Diesel doesn't burn very easily." She reconnected the line and primed the engine. "Your friend Marten probably assumed the engine was done for and decided to take his chances in the jungle."

"Or someone gave him a ride." Dodge tried the starter, and after a few coughing lurches, the engine caught. He shot Molly a grin. "Now we're in business."

With a new burst of speed, they resumed the upriver journey while breakfasting on some food that had escaped damage from curious monkey fingers. Shortly thereafter, they arrived at the confluence of a tributary large enough to navigate.

"Decision time," Dodge announced.

"I've been upriver to Stanleyville a few times, but always on the main watercourse."

"In other words, this would be a perfect place for the pirates to hide." He steered the boat through the tricky currents and onto the side channel. "This river will cross the foot trail used by the ground party."

Molly gazed down river, into the impenetrable verdant veil. "What do we do when we catch up to them?"

He gave her a sharp look, but then burst out laughing. "I guess that's something we should work out in advance."

He had in fact been considering their options, but it was a short list. Armed with only a shotgun and a dull machete, they could not hope to win in a pitched battle. If they could not somehow join up with Hurley along the way, their only chance of surviving any encounter and effecting the rescue of the captives would lay in a stealthy approach. Unfortunately, there was nothing stealthy about the chugging diesel engine powering the boat.

"We're probably still a few hours behind them," he said, with more confidence than he felt. "I'll think of something."

He was still thinking to no avail, two hours later when they heard the distant noise of an engine. Dodge immediately steered into the reedy shallows and killed their own motor, and then he and Molly darted for cover in the jungle.

"We were lucky that time," Molly breathed once they had found a place of concealment. "We heard them before they heard us."

"We'll see just how our luck holds. If they see the boat, they'll know someone is here, and they might stop to investigate." Dodge watched the water intently as the sound grew louder, but something about the roar of the engine struck him as familiar. "That's not a boat. It's a plane."

"I think you're right; a big one at that." She leaned out of their hide and peered skyward. "Holy..."

Dodge joined her and saw the reason for her oath. An enormous aircraft was descending from the sky, plowing through the air at a shallow angle. It was no more than five hundred feet above the treetops.

"That's a big commercial job," Molly observed. "What's he doing out here?"

"He's going to land upriver, at the pirate camp."

"How can you know that?"

"Because," Dodge answered, still reeling from the revelation, "I've seen that plane before."

## 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."

## CHAPTER 11

CLASH OF TITANS

Dodge reached the top of the ladder at the exact moment that Hurricane made his charge. He expected one of two things to happen; either the hooded villain would blast the rampaging giant with a stunning electrical discharge, or Hurley would pulverize the mysterious man. To his complete astonishment, neither occurred.

It was easy to believe that Hurricane was nothing but an enraged beast, flailing about and hoping to make up for a lack of fighting skill with the intensity of violence, but such was not the case. He directed his blows carefully, feinting with his right to distract attention from a left hook that should have taken the villain's head off.

The hooded man remained motionless until Hurley threw the first punch, but when he moved, it was merely to twist his body sideways. Hurricane's jab shot past his head, but stopped short as he launched the follow through. His left never connected. His foe darted inside the radius of his swing and struck, not with a display of electrical power, but with open hands made rigid like knife blades.

The blows seemed as inconsequential as the buzzing of an insect; the man's fingers bounced away from Hurricane's massive chest as from a stone wall. Then the hooded figure twisted out of Hurley's closing embrace and stepped aside as the big man's momentum carried him into the bulkhead. Dodge expected the giant to whirl around, but instead Hurley clutched his chest where his opponent had made contact, grimacing as if in the grip of a heart attack.

The villain did not get a chance to savor his mythic victory; the white-haired figure of Father Hobbs appeared in front of him like a wraith and struck a fighting pose. Dodge recognized it as a te stance; an opening position, where all of his muscles were loose and ready for combat. Dodge had written this moment a dozen times; he knew how fast and effortless Hobbs would appear as he lashed out with hands and feet, redirecting his opponents mass and energy to use it against him. Now he would get to witness it first hand.

The robed foe fluidly assumed a mirror image pose, and Dodge's certitude cracked a little. The confidence exhibited in the villain's body language was proof enough that he was also skilled in the Oriental martial arts. This was going to be an epic battle like nothing Dodge had ever captured on paper.

Hobbs waited patiently for his enemy to make the first move. His personal code would never allow him to attack first; his skills were only for self-defense. There was however another reason he held back: in his foe's initial attack, he would be able to discern the best strategy by which to defeat the man.

For a long time, both men regarded each other, two vipers poised to strike at the first sign of aggression from the other. Dodge could not believe that a standoff had been so quickly reached. Hurricane meanwhile was shaking off the stunning finger hits that had left his muscles twitching in agony. He curled his fists and headed back into battle.

The villain saw this as well and recognized that he could no longer wait out the Padre. He stamped forward onto his left foot and swung his left hand, fingers extended, in a chop aimed at Hobbs' neck. The latter deflected it easily with a forearm block, but even Dodge could tell that the move was a feint, designed to draw Hobbs into combat. The Padre did not commit, but stepped back, mimicking the other man with a knife-hand attack of his own. The two traded chops and blocks, but neither man gained an inch. It might have gone on like that for hours, but Hobbs had one big advantage working for him; it was named Hurricane Hurley.

The giant charged again, capitalizing on the huge blind spot cast by the cowl, and tried to sweep the man up in a bear hug, but the villain must have had eyes in the back of his hood, for he chose that moment to launch a blistering attack on the Padre. Hobbs deflected the first few punches, but one out of every three got through his defenses. The clergyman staggered back as close-fisted punches caught him in the ribs and diaphragm. It all happened in less than a second, and by the time Hurley recovered from his first failed attempt, Hobbs was on the deck, one hand up to deflect overhead blows and his feet lashing out at the other man's shins in a desperate effort to hold the superior opponent at bay.

Hurricane swooped out with his arms, but the robed figure whirled and struck up at his chin. Impossibly, Hurley's head snapped back and his eyes rolled up in their sockets. His arms closed reflexively as he toppled forward, and for just a moment, it looked like he would take his foe down with him, but the robed figure squirmed loose from the fallen giant's grasp and got out of the way as Hurricane slammed into the rough plank floor.

Dodge was likewise stunned, but not because of any physical blows. It wasn't unthinkable that there might exist a fighter better than either Hurley or Hobbs, nor would he have expected either man to be invincible against the electrical weapons in the enemy's arsenal. But the villain had eschewed use of that superior technology to meet both men in hand-to-hand combat, and had beaten them.

Who is this guy?

Dodge entertained no illusions of being a fighter on par with his companions. He could hold his own on a wrestling mat against someone of equivalent weight and stature, but he knew when he was outmatched, and this opponent was way out of his league.  But Dodge also knew that Marquess of Queensbury rules had no place in a fight for survival. He clasped his belt and stabbed the gauntlets at the triumphant figure.

"Dodge this!"

Electricity sizzled in the close quarters of the cabin and twin tendrils of light lashed out at the hooded enemy. Amazingly, the man twisted around the lightning bolts like a piece of eggshell slipping through the tines of a fork. The man was fast; faster than anyone Dodge had ever seen.

But he wasn't faster than light.

One of the discharges caught him in the shoulder and threw him back against the bulkhead. Dodge tried to focus both gauntlets on his foe, but the tongues of fire vanished before he could press his advantage; the electrical charge had been expended and needed a few moments to rebuild. The other man shook his head to clear away the lingering effects of the stunning attack and then drew his staff from the folds of his robe. As the dull metal rod began to flicker with violet sparks, Dodge grimly realized a few moments might just be too long to wait.

"What have you done with the President?"

It was the first thing that came to his mind, and he said it before he could even weigh the value of such a question. His shouted inquiry was almost lost in the roar and tremor of engine noise vibrating through the airframe, but his foe's momentary hesitation signaled that he had been heard. That was all the answer he got. The villain raised the staff, centered on Dodge's chest and unleashed his full fury....

Or would have, had Father Hobbs not lashed out with his foot in that instant and struck the rod from his hands. The contact knocked the Padre backward, his leg numb from the shock, but it was a small price to pay. The metal staff bounced once on the deck then rolled through the access hole, caroming off the ladder rungs. The hooded villain lost interest in everything else, and dived for the opening, vanishing through it like a wisp of smoke in the wind.

Dodge quickly deactivated his force field and hastened to Hobbs' aide. The prematurely aged priest gazed up at him, stone-faced despite what must surely have been an agonizing injury. "Dodge Dalton, I presume?"

Dodge cracked a grin, grateful that the Padre was relatively unhurt. "Is that what passes for a joke in the Congo?"

"Actually it is." He extended a hand, which Dodge shook briefly before pulling the other man to his feet. "Hurricane has told me good things about you son, but I'd say he was being stingy with the praise."

"Thanks, Padre. I hope you'll forgive me for being so familiar. I feel like I've known you for years."

Neither man had forgotten the imminent peril posed by the villain below decks, but the brief respite from battle was welcome. Their next immediate thought was of Hurley, who was just beginning to stir as they reached his side.

"How are we doing?" he asked, still trying to clear the cobwebs.

Hobbs gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Holding our own, with a little help from our new teammate."

"You mean you guys didn't finish him off already?" Hurley didn't sound terribly disappointed.

"We were saving him for you, Hurricane." The almost playful banter seemed like a foreign language when issuing from Father Hobbs' dour, expressionless lips.

"Well, then, let's do it!" Hurley heaved himself erect and looked around. "Where did he go?"

A concern that had been nagging at the back of Dodge's mind finally reached the surface. "Fellows, I hate to change the subject —"

That was as far as he got, for in the next instant, the entire deck erupted in a shower of smoke, splinters and electricity. The three men tumbled amidst the debris, crashing onto the lower platform. Dodge's exoskeleton, while deactivated, nevertheless helped him absorb some of the impact, while Hobbs and Hurley managed to land cat-like on their feet. Through the haze of dust and ozone, they could make out the hooded villain, shimmering scepter in hand, standing at the rear of the cabin.

There was no hesitation on the part of the old warhorses. Hurley and Hobbs, as if by some previously choreographed arrangement, split to opposite sides of the cabin and rushed the enemy. Dodge, intuiting their purpose, clasped the exoskeleton belt and started lobbing lighting shots at the hooded foe, more to distract him than anything else.

The villain focused on him first, deflecting the bolts with his staff and lashing back with a different hue of power. Dodge was ready for it this time, and sprang into the air. Using the flying rig was just like riding a bike, once learned never forgotten. He curled around in the air, darting into the upper reaches of the cabin, and returned fire until his friends could close the trap below.

The hooded head turned in every direction, darting glances at the three-pronged attack, unable to do anything but weather the storm. It had taken a concerted effort, but they had done it; they had brought this titan to heel.

But the villain had one more trick up his sleeve. As Hurricane closed the final distance, the cowled figure produced what looked like a coin and dropped it at arm's length.

The cabin was suddenly filled with a sphere of dull silver, as though a balloon had been inflated under high pressure. The men below Dodge's feet were lost from view as the bubble pushed them back against the bulkheads. The manifestation lasted only a few seconds, the bubble began to recede almost right away, leaving a stunned Hurley and Hobbs to peel themselves away from the sides of the cabin.

Abruptly, a fierce wind filled the plane, creating a tempest of debris. Dodge's force field protected him from the storm, but he could see nothing through the swirling mass, except for the shrinking metal globe. He angled himself down to the lower deck just as the ball, now only a few feet in diameter, was yanked through a hole in the side of the fuselage and out into daylight. There was no sign of their nemesis.

The air rushing past the opening was creating a sucking vacuum inside the plane, but the initial ferocity of the icy blast had somewhat abated. Gripping the exposed beams that ran the length of the cabin, Dodge advanced toward the hole, which he saw to be the main hatchway. The door was still attached by its hinges, but stuck in the open position against the exterior of the plane. He leaned out into the rush of air, scanning behind for some sign of their enemy, but saw only a golden expanse of grassland beneath an azure sky. Grimacing from the effort, he pulled the hatch back into place, shutting off the sucking wind.

The battle had lasted only a few minutes, but in the abrupt silence that followed, Dodge felt as though he had lived an entire war in that short space of time. Hobbs and Hurley were likewise winded. The clergyman was characteristically stoic but Hurricane wore a grim smile of satisfaction.

"We showed him!"

Dodge nodded breathlessly, and gazed about the plane to survey the damage. He recalled that he had been on the verge of asking a very important question in the moments before the final showdown, and it came back to him in pieces. What's missing here? "Molly!"

Hobbs jerked as if receiving a latent jolt from the dark god's scepter. "What about Molly? Where is she?"

Dodge shook his head. That was the wrong question; there was something even more urgent that he was forgetting... Something about the... "The plane! There's no one flying the plane!"

Hurley was already moving, scaling the broken remains of the ladder to reach the cockpit, but Hobbs focus had not shifted. He grasped Dodge by the shirtfront. "What about Molly?"

Before Dodge could answer, Hurricane's voice roared over the engine noise, thundering down through the gaping hole in the upper deck. "She's here, Padre. She's flying the plane!"

Both men hastened up to the flight deck, where they indeed found her seated at one of the two red captain's chairs in the foremost quarter of the long cockpit. She gripped the steering wheel-like control column and looked very much like she knew what she was doing. Hobbs, in a rare display of emotion, hugged her shoulders, unable to suppress the tears that welled from his eyes.

Dodge sagged against a bulkhead in relief. "You can fly?"

She laughed at the silliness of the question. "I told you; you've got to be able to do a little bit of everything out here."

The joyous reunion was short lived and punctuated by a flashing red light on the instrument panel. Molly frowned and inspected the gauges. Her fingers brushed over a bank of switches, and then came to rest on a t-bar handle which had been left fully extended. "Damn."

"What is it?"

"He dumped the fuel tanks," she answered grimly. "We're out of gas."

## CHAPTER 12

THE HIGH COST OF AIR TRAVEL

Dodge scanned the unfamiliar gauges, as if he might somehow in his ignorance, discover that she was mistaken.

"Can you glide her down?" asked Hurley.

"Sure... well, maybe. This is an awfully heavy bird. But it doesn't really matter. Have you looked outside?"

Dodge did so, seeing once again the familiar golden brown of the veldt spreading in every direction toward the horizon. "We've left the jungle."

"We've left the river," she said slowly to underscore the clarification. "We've been on a northerly course for a while now—north, away from the river. I don't know if there's enough fuel to get us back over water."

Hobbs placed a reassuring hand over hers. "What about a crash landing? Think you can pull it off?"

Molly was equivocal. "I don't know if this bird will hold together through that."

"What about the river? Shouldn't we turn around?"

"If I have to set her down on land, I'd rather take my chances out in the open then over the forest." She pulled back on the yoke and the nose of the plane came up. "I'm going to climb while we've still got some fuel in the lines. The purpose of the fuel dump is to get rid of excess fuel so that the plane doesn't explode if you have to pull off a crash landing. There's still a little bit left to play with. Once we lose the engines, we can use the speed of our descent to keep from stalling, but it won't allow much room for maneuvering."

Hurley wasn't about to surrender to gravity. "Maybe there's something else we can do; parachutes or..." His gaze settled on Dodge. "Hold on. There are three more of those flying packs below decks. We took 'em off those mercenaries. Dodge, can you give us all a crash course in how to fly one?"

"Crash course? I'll assume the pun was intended." Dodge felt a glimmer of enthusiasm. "I think we can manage that."

"That's it then. We can bail out and we still won't have to walk back to civilization."

Hobbs stopped him before he could leave the cockpit. "And what about those poor souls we tied up down there?"

Frustration snatched Hurley's elated smile away, but he made no retort. It was an old argument between the two — almost as old as their partnership. Dodge had written of it in fiction, but could not believe that, in the face of certain death, the Padre's mores would thwart their one chance at salvation.

To everyone's surprise, Molly stated the obvious. "What about them? Let them figure out how to land the plane. They'd do no less to us."

A cloud of disappointment darkened Hobbs' countenance. "Molly —"

"Don't 'Molly' me, dad. They killed everyone at the settlement; defenseless old men and women, murdered. Don't give me a sermon about respect for life or turning the other cheek."

"That was Krieger's doing."

"It makes no difference."

"The difference is me, Molly. I made a promise to God —"

Hurley interposed. "Dodge, couldn't we could carry them along, piggyback style? The packs can lift that much weight, right?"

Dodge's gaze flickered from face to face in the small control cabin. Although he shared Molly's sentiment, something about Hobbs' passionate plea for mercy reached him. Maybe it was the simple fact of bringing Hobbs to life with ink and paper for the better part of three years that made him understand how someone could value another's life — even an enemy's — more than his own.

He thought about Hurricane's suggestion. It had merit, but was there really time to instruct the others in operation of the exoskeletons, compounded with the difficulty of carrying unwilling captives? There had to be a better way.

"Molly, if this bird had wheels, could you bring her down in one piece? Even if we ran out of gas?"

"Sure." She stared at him quizzically. "But where are you going to get wheels?"

He turned to Hurley and Hobbs. "This is a nice airplane and we worked awfully hard to get her. It might come in handy later."

The two old friends exchanged a glance then Hobbs spoke. "That sounds like something the Cap might say."

"Darn right," agreed Hurricane, shooting Dodge a wink. "What have you got in mind?"

"You asked if the flying rigs can bear the weight of two people; I think they can support a whole lot more than that. The force field itself acts like a cushion, and the more energy against it, the more it will push back. If we attach them to the hull —" he drew an imaginary outline of the plane on a table top, then indicated three points on the fuselage, two in the front by the wings and one further back near the tail — "I think we can land her just like she had wheels."

"Attach them how?"

"I can weld them in place using this." He raised one of the spherical gauntlets.

"You mean to do this from outside? Out there?" Hobbs looked about as enthusiastic as a kick in the shins, but Hurricane nodded slowly.

"It's crazy, no doubt. But if you think you can do it, I've got your back."

"It's insane," declared Molly from the pilot's chair. "What if you fall?"

"I'll just fly down," he said quickly. He didn't add that, while he might survive such a failure to complete his task, the prospects for those on the plane were a far sight grimmer.

"Then do it," she said. "And hurry. Once the engine's fail, we'll start to plummet like a millstone."

"I'll be back in a flash."

"Oh, wait! Dodge, I need to tell you something." She leveled the column and switched on the autopilot, and then before he could even turn around, she slipped in between her adopted father and Hurley to embrace Dodge. Then she kissed him. "Good luck."

In spite of the urgency of the situation, he blushed. "With a blessing like that, how can I fail?"

His confidence lasted about as far as the side door. Beyond that, only the urgency of the situation impelled him to action. He gathered the three exoskeletons and lashed them to his belt. Folded up, they seemed like nothing more than a bundle of steel rods. Hurricane and the Padre accompanied him to the side hatch, with the bigger man wrestling the door open against the fierce headwind. "Be careful!"

Dodge nodded, then activated his force field and stepped out onto the sloping top surface of the truncated wing-shaped sponson.

He kept a fierce grip on the doorframe, but immediately recognized that some of his assumptions, made from earlier empirical observations, were holding true. The energy bubble was deflecting the wind as effectively as if it were a solid object. More importantly, the field seemed to extend to anything already within its limits, creating a very tenuous bond with the exterior of the aircraft. The analogy of a bubble was apt; the closer he stayed to the plane, the more his energy shield sucked him against the smooth metal surface. However, despite the fact that Dodge was spared direct contact with the wind, he could feel its pressure against the force field, threatening to blast him loose. He might have been in a bubble stuck to skin of the plane, but that bubble was being blasted by a two hundred mile an hour wind.

The metal of the exoskeleton seemed to respond to his unspoken desire to cling to the aircraft, revealing a further property of the strange metal. Forcing back the instinctive impulse to hang on for dear life, he put his hands inside the spherical gauntlets and started moving along the side of the plane. The metal of the flying rig stuck to the aluminum skin like a magnet to steel. Heartened by the discovery, he commenced spider crawling down to the underbelly of the X-314.

This is actually going to work.

The catchall name for amphibious aircraft was "flying boat," but the Boeing aircraft had been designed as a luxury cruise liner for the skies, and its dimensions were certainly on that scale. Dodge felt as though he had slipped beneath the Queen Mary; all he could see was silvery metal spread out in every direction. He sidled forward to a point where he could just see the wingtips, and went to work.

He released the right-hand grip and immediately slid a few inches along the remaining points of contact. To compensate, he flattened his body against the frigid aluminum, arresting his slide but constraining his freedom of movement.

I don't have time for this.

He freed one of the exoskeletons from his belt and awkwardly brought it up to his working area where he braced it in place with a forearm then fumbled the clasp shut to activate its force field.

The insistent force of the wind relented as if a switch had been thrown. The second exoskeleton seemed to have added its power to his own, creating a refuge from the constant flow of air beneath the plane.

"That's kind of nice," he said, finally relaxing enough to breathe.

The bundle of metal rods remained exactly where he had placed it, affixed by some indescribable electric bond, but Dodge had already determined that a different, perhaps redundant, means of securing the exoskeleton was called for. He returned his hand to the basket-shaped gauntlet and directed a small but focused burst of electricity at the plane. When the sunspots faded from his eyes, he saw that the metal frame had been successfully fused into the aluminum surface.

"One down!"

He slid laterally to the opposite side of the fuselage and with a good degree more certainty repeated his efforts in half the time. He had just finished welding it in place when the engines began to backfire and die.

He felt the shift as the plane began to angle downward; Molly was putting the craft into a shallow dive, letting gravity make up for the loss of power. As long as wind continued to rush over the airfoil shape of the wings, creating an updraft above and pushing up from below, the plane would stay aloft. From their current altitude, he could see for miles. The green band of the Congo Basin was visible to the south, behind them, but below was the endless flat savannah that stretched all the way to the Sahara. There was only about five thousand feet of air between where they were and the ground, and the plane was losing altitude fast.

He scooted back out of the area protected by the two secured exoskeletons and immediately felt the push of wind rushing along the belly of the plane. His movements were hasty, but he was filled with a surety born of prior success. The fear that had slowed him before was gone. He crept like a fly to the predetermined apex of the triangle and reached back for the last remaining exoskeleton.

When his probing fingers did not immediately find it, he craned his head around, using his eyes to guide the search, but saw nothing. He stared in disbelief at the rope ties that hung impotently from his belt. It was gone.

Two force fields on opposite sides of the plane would probably suffice for an emergency landing, but the tail section would eventually settle onto the ground where it would be ripped apart by friction. They would probably survive, but the plane would never fly again. With one more force field near the tail, Molly might actually be able to save the plane, but now that wasn't going to happen.

All for nothing, Dodge raged. Should have just bailed out in the first place.

But then another inner voice reminded him that he did have a third exoskeleton, the one he was wearing.

Dodge's travails had not gone unnoticed. From the moment he had embarked on his desperate mission, Hurricane had begun searching for a way to back him up. He quickly discovered an abundance of rope in a storage area situated in the nose of the plane, under the flight deck. Because the aircraft was also a seagoing vessel, mooring ropes were a necessity, and sometimes needed to be replaced. Hurley cut off a short section and rigged a Swiss seat climbing harness, which he then secured to one of the mooring lines with a figure-eight knot.

"Go help her fly the plane," he told Hobbs. "I've got this."

The Padre nodded and went back to the cockpit while Hurricane crept out onto the sponson. He got into a good position to observe Dodge just as the latter finished securing the second exoskeleton, and gasped in horror when he saw the third one slip unnoticed from its restraint at Dodge's waist and vanish in an instant.

"It's enough! Come back." His shouts were swept away in the wind. Dodge moved along the underbelly of the plane, unaware that anything was wrong.

He witnessed the moment where Dodge realized what had happened; saw the look of despair on the young man's features. He continued to hurl his pleas into the atmosphere, but Dodge never heard him. And then to Hurricane's utter amazement, Dodge began moving again.

He did not make his way to safety, as any sane man would have done, but instead scurried back to one of the fixed force fields and wedged his feet behind the assembly of rods. Then, as simply as if he were unbuttoning a coat, he deactivated his exoskeleton.

"No!" Again, Hurley's cry went unheard. He understood now what Dodge intended, and saw just as clearly that the plan was beyond foolhardy; it was suicidal. But shouting about it wasn't going to do a bit of good; he had to find a better answer.

Dodge left his force field off only long enough to squirm out of the restraints. As soon as he was clear, he folded it up and clasped the belt once more. The exoskeleton adhered to the plane just like the others, with Dodge holding onto it like the rung of a horizontal ladder. He pushed it along the hull as far as he could, but his effort was limited by his reach. The apex of the critical triangle was only five feet from its base; not nearly enough to keep the plane from sustaining damage upon landing. He worked his foot loose and placed the sole of his shoe against the exterior of the plane, bracing himself upside down. The energy bubble sheltered him from the rush of air, but it could not alter the inexorable attraction of gravity. His face turned purple from the exertion and the rush of blood pulled down from his extremities, but inch by inch, he pushed the charged exoskeleton toward the tail of the plane.

Hurley's horror was grudgingly giving over to admiration, but there remained only one possible finale for Dodge's heroics. He might have time to complete his task, but once the third force field was in place, he would be stranded where he was, clinging to his tentative handhold as the plane scraped across the veldt at more than a hundred miles an hour. If Dodge was going to survive, he was going to need some help from above; help, not from God, but from a Hurricane.

The plane was dropping about fifty feet a second. The landscape below still looked like something captured by an artist's brush, but there could be no denying that it was getting closer. He was only going to get one chance to save Dodge, and it was going to take split second timing. With his legs gripping the edge of the sponson like the back of champion bucking bronco, Hurricane measured out thirty feet of the mooring line and tied off the excess. At that same moment, Dodge made his final adjustment, positioning the exoskeleton dead center on the hull, at the edge of the point where it began to taper up toward the tail.

Hurley threw himself into the wind, pushing off so that when his full weight hit the end of the line, he swung like a pendulum toward the place where Dodge hung on for dear life. As the rope snapped taut and he began arcing up toward Dodge, he threw his arms wide to catch his friend. His estimates were dead on; the line was exactly the right length, his trajectory had perfectly compensated for the rushing wind, his timing was right on the mark. He had only forgotten one thing.

When he tried to close his arms around Dodge's inverted torso, something slapped him away. He bounced away from the force field as though he had hit a brick wall, and fell back into the wind.

His eyes met Dodge's in that moment — a horrible instant of time, bloated to an eternity, where both men knew that a crucial opportunity had been lost. Hurricane could see the strain in his friend's face, the quivering of muscles fatigued by the already inhuman expenditure of energy just to hold on. He made a final desperate attempt, knowing that it was futile, knowing that he was too far away....

But Dodge was already gone.

## CHAPTER 13

HARD LANDING

Hurley fluttered at the end of the rope like a tattered flag in a windstorm. The chaotic air currents turned him in the gyre and repeatedly threw him up into the hull of the plane. Every time he hit, the aluminum buckled with the impact, but the bell was still made of tougher stuff than the clapper. Bright spots of blood dotted the fabric of his shirt, and would have been streaming from his nose and mouth were the drops not snatched away instantly in the turbulent headwind.

He felt none of it.

Dodge, what have I done?

Another brave soldier lost on his watch. It was a wound struck deeper than anything his physical body was enduring. In his mind's eye, he saw the company of ghosts — the men that had died fighting under his leadership — welcoming Dodge into their ranks. No, damn it! No more.

The rope was an appropriate metaphor; he was dangling at the edge of an emotional precipice. But nothing would be served by surrendering to gravity, and there might yet be a chance to avenge his fallen brother. Like an automaton, he found the taut umbilical connecting him to the airplane, and began to haul himself in.

The ground continued to rush up. Molly had angled the plane down for maximum airspeed, but very soon she would have to bring the nose up to start slowing their downward plummet. Once she did that, they would be only seconds away from a hard landing on the plain below.

As he advanced up the safety line, Hurricane managed to do what he had always done; he found the strength to drive on. Dodge had sacrificed himself to save the rest of them; himself, the Padre and Molly, even the three hapless mercenaries who would have slit his throat for the change in his pocket. He couldn't let that be for nothing. Using his legs to propel himself faster, he reached out and found the open frame of the side hatch. He left the door as it was and took only a moment to struggle out of the harness before charging up to the flight deck.

Hobbs turned at the sound, and a gasp escaped his lips — whether because of beholding Hurley's bloodied form, or perhaps because he saw the ghastly horror of Dodge's demise written in the big man's eyes.

"Where's Dodge?" Molly did not look away from the windscreen, but her tone evinced more concern for the absent member of the group than for the safety of the plane.

Hurricane sank wearily into one of the remaining cockpit chairs, but tried to fill his voice with urgent enthusiasm. "He did it. The force fields are in place. Take her down, Molly."

Hobbs continued to hold his gaze and saw the unspeakable truth. His lips parted in a silent prayer and he surreptitiously crossed himself before turning back to the co-pilots' controls. "Tell me what to do, Mol."

"Get ready to pull back on the stick," she instructed. "I'll need both hands to feather the flaps. We're only going to get one chance to do this right."

Though she didn't dare let it show, Molly felt like she was in over her head. She had pulled off more than her share of hairy landings, but always in a single engine aircraft where she could at least see the ground. Even the Duck — their Grumman amphibious plane, currently in the possession of Krieger and his river pirates — had a fully glassed canopy that could be slid back in-flight for a better view of the water when coming in for a landing. With this bird, she was flying blind. The flight deck windows looked out over the nose, and the only land she could see was the distant horizon.

She checked the altimeter, but didn't put much value in the reading. Twenty-five hundred feet above sea level might mean as little as a thousand feet between the belly of the aircraft and the savannah below. And knowing when to haul the nose up, stalling the plane at exactly the moment they made contact, was the difference between a good landing — one they would walk away from — and getting smeared across half of French Equatorial Africa.

Airspeed was a whole lot more important right now. She trimmed the plane, watching as the needle dropped steadily, then nosed down again at about 120 knots. She didn't know what the enormous craft's stall speed was, but she figured that would put her in the general neighborhood.

"That's it," she declared. "Nothing to do now but wait for the ground to come up."

The altimeter had just tipped a thousand feet when Molly spied brown earth over the crest of the nose. That was the cue she had been waiting for. "Pull up, now!"

Hobbs gripped the wheel and drew back with steady pressure, even as Molly joined the effort. The plane seemed to hop upward for a moment, the nose once more eclipsing the horizon, but then their stomachs dropped again as the aircraft settled into a stall — still moving forward, but without enough speed to achieve lift.

Below their feet, unseen by any eyes, the force fields brushed against the arid soil, and exactly as Dodge had predicted, pushed back with equal energy. Three furrows appeared across the savannah, trailing out behind the X-314 as it almost landed — almost, because although the energy bubbles were squashed nearly flat, there remained a few inches of space between the fuselage and the ground.

The plane slid across the grassy plateau like a skater on slippery ice. Molly deployed the braking flaps, but there was little else she could do to slow their headlong slide across the terrain. The force fields created almost no friction as they plowed up the landscape. The airplane's considerable mass slid along for nearly a mile before aerodynamic resistance brought them to a halt.

On the flight deck, there was a general sense of exhausted relief. Molly collapsed back into the pilot's chair, with perspiration beading on her forehead.

"Well done girl," Hurley boomed. "That was some crackerjack flying."

Molly blew a stray lock from in front of her face. "Thank Dodge. Those wheels of his made for the smoothest landing I've ever pulled off."

Hobbs shot Hurricane a sharp look, and this time Molly had nothing else to distract her attention. "Where is Dodge?" she asked, unable to staunch an eruption of worry. When Hurley did not immediately answer, she rushed him and grabbed the lapels of his bush jacket. "Where the Hell is he?"

"He fell Molly," Hobbs intoned, placing a calming hand on her shoulder.

"Then he's all right, isn't he? He had one of those things on; he said he could just fly down."

Hurley shook his head sadly. "He saved us all Molly; never forget that."

He expected her to break down in hysterics, but instead she released his shirtfront and averted her eyes. A lifetime in the hardest place on Earth had inured her to loss. Africa had taken her parents and many other loved ones; it was a hard place and only hard people survived.

"I'm going to see if there's any damage," she said slowly, not meeting anyone's stare as she moved off the flight deck. "To the plane. I'm going outside."

Hurley looked to Hobbs with an unspoken question, but the clergyman shook his head. Hurricane sank wearily into a chair. "I never should have let him go out there."

"He seemed like a remarkable young man. I wish I had gotten the opportunity to know him better."

The big man nodded dumbly, then began patting his pockets. He found his metal cigar case and opened it, but inside there was only a jumble of broken brown leaves. He closed it with a sigh. "It was him, you know."

Hobbs chose that moment to also take a seat. "I know. When did you realize it?"

"I guess from the very start, but I didn't want to admit it." There was another long silence. "The question now is: what do we do about it?"

"There's no 'we' Hurricane. I'm not going to fight anymore."

A spark of anger enlivened Hurley's countenance, but he kept it in check. "How can you say that, Padre? Didn't you learn anything from Krieger?"

Hobbs gave a heavy sigh. It was an old argument, fanned to new urgency only because of the Hell they had just escaped. "What would you have me do? Kill him?"

"If that's the only way, yes. We owe it to Dodge and every one of the boys we left behind. Damn it, they did not die for nothing."

"I can't kill again. The ghosts..." He leaned forward, cradling his head with his fingertips. He suddenly looked very old. "I'll do what I can. Where do we start?"

Hurley thought a while before answering. "Those mercenaries down below. Since we saved their skins, the least they can do is answer a few questions."

Hobbs brightened perceptibly at that. "Amen, brother."

Hurley found Molly sitting on the sponson, just outside the hatch. The ground was a good eight feet below the dangling soles of her shoes. She looked up when she heard him, and self-consciously wiped her eyes. "I couldn't figure out how to get down."

He pulled the mooring line from the cabin and allowed it to drop down to the grassy plain, after which he conspicuously pushed the hatch door shut. "Let's take a look, shall we."

He took both her hands in his and lowered her down to the savannah, and then like a gymnast, swung down and landed lightly beside her. Molly was already gazing in fascination at the underside of the airplane, or more specifically, at the layer of air which separated it from solid ground.

"That's incredible," she gasped, sliding one flat hand into the void.

"See any damage?"

The girl seemed grateful for the distraction. "None at all. I couldn't have set her down that smooth on water."

"Do you think you could get her back up?"

Molly rose and put her hands on her hips. "I could certainly try. But she's not going anywhere until we can refuel her."

"Already done. The previous owners were flying around their own filling station. There's a good five hundred gallons reserve stacked up in barrels inside the cabin. Ought to be enough to get us back to civilization."

She glanced involuntarily toward the hatch, and as she did, made note of the fact that Hobbs had not joined them. "Where's dad?"

"He's...ah, talking to our captives."

As if to underscore his ironic word choice, a bloodcurdling shriek resonated from the great hollow body of the aircraft. Although Molly, who had delivered countless babies and sewn up or cauterized dozens of machete wounds, had experienced a rich catalog of screams, she had never heard anything like the unnatural cries coming from the fuselage. It sounded as if a door to Hell itself had been opened and the damned were fighting to escape their eternal torment. She shuddered and looked to Hurley for an explanation. "Talking to them? What's he saying?"

"He's unburdening their souls." The big man gently took her hand and led her away from the plane. "Let's give him a few minutes. He knows what he's doing."

The screams continued to rattle her nerves. She couldn't imagine what her father, a man of peace and God, could be doing in the plane that might elicit such outcries, but the thought chilled her to the bone. After a few minutes however, the deluge of agony abated. "So what's next?"

Hurley stared at the distant horizon. "I don't know how much you know already, or how much the Padre wants you to know, but I can tell you this much. There's an evil out there, an evil we — your dad and I — fought once before."

There was an undercurrent of sadness in his tone. She didn't know him that well, but his voice was that of a man haunted. That was something she understood.

Before he could elaborate, the sound of a door banging against the side of the plane drew their attention. Hobbs emerged onto the sponson, drenched in sweat and seemingly on the verge of collapse, but wearing a grim smile. "We have him."

Am I dead?

Dodge remembered falling... remembered a moment of pure, absolute horror... remembered also a feeling of acceptance and sublime readiness to accept this final fate... then darkness.

The darkness was absolute but he was conscious, of that much he was certain; conscious and corporeal. He lay prone on a hard surface and could feel something cool and solid beneath his fingertips.

"I'm still alive," he said, curious to see what would happen to the sound of his voice in the strange, otherworldly blackness.

"Shhh!" The voice was a soft hiss, from somewhere to his right. "He'll hear you. Here, drink this."

A hard container — Dodge immediately identified it as a canteen — was thrust into his hand. Without questioning his unseen benefactor, he rolled over and fumbled with the offering until he located an opening. He then pressed this to his lips and tilted the whole thing up until tepid brackish water flowed into his mouth. "Thanks," he said, keeping his voice low. "Where am I?"

"There's not much time. He won't be happy when he learns I saved you."

"How? How did you save me?"

The disembodied voice again ignored his inquiry. "You are the Chronicler."

It was a statement, not a question. "Chronicler?"

"He's coming." The voice was full of urgency now, as if the speaker were already taking flight. "You must find Falcon. Only Falcon can stop him."

"Wait!" Dodge's restraint was slipping. "You have to tell me who you are."

The last whisper was barely audible: "Find Falcon."

"Who are you?"

Then from the depths of the darkness, incandescent energy of the lightest shade of violet, began to burn and a different voice, one Dodge knew all too well, cut through the still. "Who am I, intruder? I am that which you fear the most."

## CHAPTER 14

GOD IN THE MACHINE

"It is well that you grovel before your god." The hooded figure glided closer to where Dodge still lay on his belly.

Suddenly feeling very defiant, Dodge tried to rise, but a swift blow from the sparkling staff hammered him against the floor. He remained there, clinging to consciousness, and still trying to put the pieces together.

He won't be happy when he learns I saved you...

Who? Who saved me? Where did he go?

A battered metal canteen lay on the silvery floor, mere inches from his face. He absently reached out to touch it, but a booted foot knocked it out of reach. So that much of it was real.

"I know you, intruder. You are the Chronicler."

Chronicler? He called me that, too.

"You are the keeper of Captain Falcon's victories. I have studied these writings. You would make me believe that this Falcon is a worthy adversary. Why then does he continue to cower behind his minions?"

Dodge tried to rise again, and again was forced down. His spirit however refused to kneel. "You poor fool. You're afraid of a pulp magazine character. A figment of my imagination."

The dark god pondered this as he paced a circle around Dodge. "Your words have no meaning. Where is Falcon?"

"There is no Falcon. He's a bedtime story; a myth."

"You do not lie well Chronicler. If Falcon is only a myth, why do his minions hunt me?"

Dodge rolled onto his back, and then tried to spring to his feet, but the hooded one was there and struck him down yet again.

You must find Falcon. Only Falcon can stop him.

The plea of his anonymous benefactor was as much a mockery as the torment meted out by this villain. Find Falcon? Zane Falcon was just a man; Dodge's father would have said about him: "He puts his pants on one leg at a time, same as you."

"What's so special about Falcon? Why are you so afraid of him?"

"Afraid!" A sudden sphere of light erased Dodge's vision as surely as had the darkness. "Falcon is the one who cowers in the darkness. He will not even fight me to save his king. This is America's champion?"

Dodge grimaced as he defiantly stared up into the brilliance. "You didn't answer my question."

The light from the staff gradually dimmed. "You don't know where he is either. He hides, even from his chronicler."

"You didn't answer my question," Dodge repeated, successfully getting to his feet. "What do you want?"

The light continued to shrink. Dodge caught a glimpse of the dark god, no longer hooded, his robe thrown back to reveal a very human figure. The face was that of a wild prophet, clean-shaven, but with an unkempt mane of white hair. His eyes blazed with supernatural intensity, but below the sharp jut of his chin, he seemed supernaturally ordinary; a skid row Rasputin. He wore a tattered shirt and heavy denim trousers, hardly the attire of a mythic deity. Then Dodge saw the talisman lashed to his very ordinary leather belt and the final piece of the puzzle slipped into place.

Abruptly the light vanished altogether and Dodge was left alone in the maddening dark.

He gradually reconstructed the events missing from his memory. Concern for his friends was uppermost; he vividly remembered fixing the exoskeletons in place, but had Molly been successful in landing the big aircraft? Images of a fiery crash flooded his brain, and he tried to force himself to think about something else.

His solitary imprisonment did not last long. It seemed only a few minutes had passed when a wedge-shaped line of illumination split the unseen walls of his cell. As the light grew larger, becoming a pie shaped gap in what he now realized was the flying disc he had first glimpsed above the skies of Washington DC, he saw a green line of distant trees on the horizon. A few feet below was a field of scorched barren earth. The gap continued to widen as the strange metal peeled back, and Dodge was faced with the choice of retreating or jumping down to the ground. He chose the latter and hopped lightly down to the trampled cinders. He knew where he was even before he glimpsed the towering baobab trees.

As the flying disc reduced to almost nothing, Dodge became aware of a gathered throng of pirates. He saw Marten, towering above the rest, and at the head of the assemblage was the mask wearing figure he had earlier assumed to be the pirate king Johannes Krieger. The group shifted to surround him, and while no weapons were bared, they collectively exuded menace. As he turned to take in the situation, he found the dark god, hooded once more, standing directly behind him.

Krieger's mask hid his scowl, but could not conceal his irritation when he spoke. "Why have you returned?"

"I was forced to sacrifice my aircraft. I require the one you captured from the priest."

"The Hell you say. That plane is worth a lot of money to me."

"I will not barter with the likes of you. The gift I have given you is of greater value than any amount of gold." As he spoke, the god seemed to swell from beneath his robes, an angry volcano about to erupt. He thrust out the staff, once more wreathed in a halo of static electricity.

Krieger kept his defiant posture, but he knew when to cut his losses. "Take the plane. But if you darken my doorstep again, your threats will not save you."

The man in the cowl ignored Krieger's posturing. "This is Falcon's chronicler. I have no further use for him, but he may be of some value as a hostage. He is an American of some notoriety."

Krieger regarded Dodge with eyes barely visible through the slits in his carved demon face, then the turned to one of his lieutenants. "Put him with the others."

Dodge got a glimpse of his former captor striding toward the amphibious biplane floating in the harborage, before a quartet of rough men hustled him into one of the fortress-like hollowed trees.

The pirates were needlessly rough with him, shoving him forward so hard that he stumbled and randomly hitting or kicking him for their own amusement. To his own amazement, Dodge felt none of the dread he imagined they hoped to instill. While he knew better than to think that he was invincible, his recent experiences, walking in the shoes of his literary creation, had taken the edge off the fear that so often shocked and paralyzed the unready. He did not resist his captors, but let their punishment wash over him like an ocean wave. He could almost picture the Padre doing the same thing; weathering the storm of abuse, while focusing his energies on the task of planning an escape. He observed everything — memorized the guards' appearance and mannerisms. Which among them seemed just a little bit slower than the rest, or physically weaker? Which were too large and powerful to be dealt with man-to-man? He drew a mental map of the compound, noting places where he might find temporary refuge or lose, if only briefly, a pursuer. And he thought about where he would go once he escaped the fortress...not if, when.

The pirates all but dragged him out onto a sturdy tree branch, where a plank landing had been constructed, the only point of access to the suspended holding cell. He was pushed into a haphazardly constructed cage of wooden bars tied with hemp rope and already dangerously overcrowded with half-naked native hostages. Before he could pick himself up, the cage was pushed away from the tree branch and allowed to swing over a pit of crocodiles that waited lazily, mouths frozen open it seemed, thirty feet below.

Crocodiles, thought Dodge, adding the information to his escape plan without a hint of trepidation. More important to him at this moment was the possibility of finding allies among his fellow captives. After the pirates had moved off, he addressed the group. "Anyone here speak English?"

The hostages had barely stirred upon his arrival. They were battered and emaciated; it wasn't too hard to believe that Krieger had deprived them of food and water since dragging them off from the mission nearly two days previously. One young man perked up at the sound of his voice. "Anglais? Non. Parlez vous francais?"

Dodge understood that much, but no more. He shook his head. "Sorry, I don't parlez francais, so this is going to be a little harder than I thought. We're going to escape, okay? Um, liberte?"

He didn't know if that was the right word, but several more heads turned when he said it. The young man shook his head and pointed at the ravenous beasts below. "Les crocodiles."

He gave the young man a comforting smile, as a parent might a frightened child. "You let me worry about the crocodiles."

He already had the beginnings of a plan that would get them as far as the jungle. The voracious reptiles were key to that scheme; or rather their captors' belief that the mere threat of being eaten alive would keep anyone from attempting to break through the prison bars. The pirates would trust their scaly watchdogs to do the real work of guarding the prisoners, and their initial response to any perceived escape effort would be slow and unenthusiastic. With luck, that would buy them enough time to swim around the palisade barrier and gain concealment in the forest. From there, he could lead them to Marten's boat, which hopefully was still stranded on the marshy bank. The plan was a good one, if hasty, but he wondered how many of his haggard cellmates would survive to its conclusion.

On the river below, the airplane engine turned over and began to roar. Dodge craned his head around to observe the Grumman JF "Duck" as it taxied into open water and then charged skyward. The little single-engine biplane looked a lot more at home on the river than the enormous X-314 had, and that image brought a pang of sadness, particularly when he thought about the fiery-haired pilot whose kiss still lingered on his lips. He knew he would see Hurricane again; somehow, he couldn't imagine a world without the giant Hurley, but Molly's impression on his life had been too brief to leave him with that kind of confidence. Instead, he was filled only with fear and dread concerning her fate.

Forcing the dire predictions from his mind, he turned back to the other captives, focusing primarily on the young man that had spoken. He touched a palm to his chest and spoke his name.

The man nodded and mimicked his actions. "Claude."

"Okay, Claude... and the rest of you, too. Here's what we're going to do." Using pantomime, he demonstrated his plan. When he got to the part where they all fled into the jungle however, Claude snared his wrist and shook his head emphatically.

"Notre femmes."

Dodge blinked uncomprehending, then emphatically repeated himself. Claude shook his head, and then turned to the other men who had begun to take more interest in the exchange. He spoke rapidly in a language that sounded nothing like French to Dodge's unskilled ears, and a few of the prisoners nodded sympathetically. More words in the unusual tongue passed between them, then Claude abruptly turned back to Dodge, an anxious but eager smile on his bruised visage.

"That settles it then," Dodge announced. "And no time like the present."

He had actually debated waiting until nightfall, but thought better of it. Any advantage afforded by darkness would be offset by the inherent peril of traversing the jungle in pitch black. The pirates were certainly as tired as Dodge, having spent a night trekking through the forest and boating upriver, and the lassitude borne of confidence in static security measures— namely the crocodile pit below the hanging cage — would make them slow to react to any disturbance. Or at least that was what Dodge was going to bet his life on.

He gazed up at the rope connecting them to the tree limb. The hemp was swollen with moisture, impossible to untie given the load it bore, but showed signs of rot and fraying. Dodge once again cursed his shortsightedness in failing to acquire a pocketknife; he was going to have to do this the hard way.

He turned his eyes to the bars running vertically down the sides of the cage. All of them were fashioned from thin but mostly straight tree branches. The rough bark had already sloughed away, leaving gray weathered wood, likewise bound with twine. He selected one at random and gave it a sharp kick. The entire structure shuddered and started to spin, but there was no turning back. A lone pirate roaming below had already raised his eyes to observe the strange behavior of the captives.

The near ancient pole fractured on his fifth kick, splitting down nearly half its length as it broke in two. Dodge wrenched the longer section loose, initiating a second round of vibrations that prompted his fellow prisoners to clutch at the remaining bars. The crocodiles below seemed to sense that something was afoot; the long black reptiles began rolling around in their enclosure, gaping their jaws skyward in anticipation. Dodge decided not to disappoint them.

"Get ready!"

Using the broken branch like a saw, he began rubbing it vigorously across the single rope that held them fast to the tree branch. The fibrous line yielded quickly to the friction and in a few moments the remaining strands, stretched to their breaking point, snapped in two and the cage plummeted.

At the last instant before the break, Dodge and his new friends grasped the overhead bars and lifted their feet off the lattice-like floor. When their prison abruptly dropped more than three stories into the crocodile pit, they were spared the initial impact, but the reprieve was infinitesimally brief. Instead of taking the crash landing on their feet, it was their hands and arms that blossomed with pain as the full weight of their falling bodies hit the stopping point.

The cage's flimsy construction alleviated some of the burden however. It did so by disintegrating. When it hit the shallow pool full of ravenous crocs, some of the kinetic energy was absorbed by its collapse. The crocodiles were stunned by the unexpected crash, but their leathery hides spared them mortal injury, and after an initial moment of animal panic, they regained their voracious ferocity. That moment was enough however for Dodge and the others to wrestle free of the wreckage and escape the death trap.

Dodge gripped the length of wood and brandished it like a sword as he splashed out of the pit and onto solid ground. The pirate sentry was still staring in stunned disbelief, but his body language revealed a conflict of priorities — sound the alarm, or take action to halt the escape? Dodge knew that he had only seconds to prevent the man from doing either, and as the fellow clutched at his holstered sidearm, a swipe from the cudgel eliminated both threats simultaneously. By that time however, the commotion had alerted the entire camp. Dodge wheeled on his compatriots and pointed toward the river. "Swim for it!"

The native men acted without hesitation or fear; the uncertain threat of deadly creatures lurking in the water was preferable to the unequivocal response that would be meted out by the pirates. On by one they leaped from the pier and splashed into the muddy water. Dodge lingered at the water's edge, determined to make sure that every one of the captives escaped, and was thus in a perfect position to see Claude and another young man abruptly turn back into the compound.

"Claude, no!" His shouted denial fell on deaf ears. The two men knew what they were doing; they had worked this out in advance. Biting back a curse, Dodge charged after them, headlong into the growing pirate menace.

The mayhem provided a strange sort of concealment for Dodge; he was just one more white face wandering amidst the fatigued and confused men of the compound. The pair of dark-skinned Africans stuck out like a sore thumb, but most of the attention was directed toward the larger body of escapees that had plunged into the river. Dodge muscled past the milling pirates and caught a glimpse of his former cellmates ducking into the second hollowed out baobab.

He was never more than a few paces behind them and it was evident that Claude and his companion had only a general idea of where they were going. At one point, as the two frantic young men were backtracking from a dead end, Dodge caught them. He clapped a hand down on Claude's shoulder and spun him around so that they were face to face.

"We've got to get out of here!" he shouted, hoping that the urgency of his tone would serve in lieu of a translator.

"L'femmes!" Claude wrestled free and hastened after his comrade who was already scrambling up a rickety ladder to the next level of the fortress.

"Damn it!" Dodge tucked his club under one arm and commenced a hasty ascent just a few steps behind the native. Before he reached the top however, a bloodcurdling scream split the air. Even more ominous was the sudden silence that terminated the cry.

Claude quickened his pace at the sound and pulled himself onto the catwalk, out of Dodge's view. The latter raised his head level with the catwalk, wary of whatever had caused the outburst, but he was still unprepared for the sight that greeted his eyes.

The first man up the ladder — a native whose name was unknown to Dodge — lay at arm's length from the uppermost rung, staring sightlessly back at him, wreathed in a corona of bright scarlet. The coppery smell of fresh blood hit Dodge like a slap and he had to force himself to look away from the hideous image.

Claude stood a few paces to the left, facing the unseen enemy that had slain his companion. He moved, as if to sidestep a blow or throw one of his own, and Dodge caught a glimpse of motion beyond — a swift, violent movement that ended with a strangled gurgling sound. Claude sagged forward, his legs no longer supporting his weight, but did not fall. He remained suspended in mid-air, twitching spasmodically as if held in the jaws of a predator, then was suddenly thrown sideways, out over the edge of the catwalk.

Dodge's horror-numbed gaze followed the now lifeless shape as it crashed down to the first level of the fortress. It seemed impossible that the living, vibrant individual Dodge had met only a few minutes before was now nothing but an empty shell. He tore his eyes from the macabre scene below and found himself once more facing the pirate king, Johannes Krieger.

Krieger's wooden mask looked even more demonic splattered with the blood of his victims, but it was his hands that grabbed Dodge's attention. Krieger had no fingers, but instead wore twin fans of curved knife blades, like the talons of a raptor rendered in gleaming steel. Krieger laughed menacingly as he brandished his steel claws at the latest victim to land in his web. Cradled in the razor grip of his deadly prostheses was a still beating human heart.

A primal beast deep within Dodge's core began urging him to flee — to descend and run for his life. His fellow escapees were beyond his ability to help; there was no longer any reason to linger here and face this savage murderer. But instead of scrambling down the ladder, Dodge pulled himself onto the catwalk and swung his cudgel back and forth to challenge the pirate leader.

Krieger laughed again, but seemed less confident. No one chose to stand against him, not since Captain Falcon and his army had brought the Ninety-nine to their collective knees. Still, what could this weakling hope to accomplish, armed only with a broken piece of wood? He cast his bloody burdens aside and flashed his claws at his opponent, accepting the implicit invitation to fight.

Dodge kept his gaze focused, not on the blades, but on the narrow eye-slits in Krieger's mask. He couldn't see the man's eyes, couldn't detect the subtle cues that would presage an attack, but reasoned that Krieger might not realize how completely the covering shielded him. In fact, as menacing as the carved visage appeared, the wooden facade severely limited the pirate's field of vision.

Krieger slashed tentatively, trying to drive his enemy back over the edge. Dodge took one careful step back, luring the other man closer. He sidestepped a more decisive attack and slashed at Krieger's forearm as the blades sliced the air where he had been standing. Krieger spat a curse in his native Afrikaans, then launched a two-handed assault that seemed more like an animal scratching wildly than a deliberate attack, but the net effect was the same. Dodge gave ground, skirting the edge of the catwalk as the finger-blades hacked closer. When he could retreat no further, Dodge parried with his club.

Krieger's knives cut deep into the wood, but lacked sufficient mass and momentum to chop completely through. Instead, the thin metal blades stuck fast in the cross-grain. Krieger made a futile attempt to wrest his claws free, and inadvertently gave Dodge the opening he'd been waiting for. He jabbed the end of the club, with Krieger's right hand still bound in place, into the pirate's masked face.

The jagged length of wood struck right between the narrow eye slits, with sufficient force to split the carved image down the middle. Krieger lurched backward, ripping the club from Dodge's grip as he fell. He reached up instinctively to protect the wound, but his steel claws instead sliced deep into his now unshielded countenance. For the first time in a decade, Johannes Krieger's face was revealed. And just as ten years before, he was screaming.

Disarmed, Dodge could only stare at his stricken foe. Krieger's face was streaming blood from numerous slashes, including a vertical gash where the mask had been driven down to the bone. Yet, beneath the new injuries was a tapestry of scars that bore witness to the violence that had prompted him to hide his features from his fellow man. The pirate king's face was a tiger-striped pattern of twisted purple and white scars; ten years ago, consumed by madness after being buried alive, with fingers scoured down to bloody nubs of bone, Johannes Krieger had tried to tear his face off.

The unmasked pirate struggled both to sublimate his agony and to wrench his right hand free of the club. He succeeded in the first effort, but the knife claws remained fixed in place. Panting from the exertion, Krieger relented, and turned his gaze back to his opponent.

"Do you think you've won?" he hissed, a froth of blood forming around the corners of his mouth.

Dodge balled his fists warily but disdained to answer. His minor victory had severed the pirate's tenuous connection to sanity; the man, like a wounded wild animal, was capable of anything now. Nevertheless, Krieger's next action was completely unexpected.

The pirate extended both hands toward Dodge — the club still bound in the grip of his right — as it to bestow a blessing. It was only when the smell of burning wood scented the air that Dodge saw violet sparks rippling across the metal surface of the talons. He recalled the parting words of the hooded villain to Krieger. The gift I have given you....

The dark god had given the pirate king the gift of lightning.

## CHAPTER 15

THE GIFT OF LIGHTNING

The club abruptly transformed into a bright yellow torch, increasing to near white—hot brilliance, and then was extinguished. When the spots cleared from Dodge's vision, he saw that the broken wooden pole had been completely incinerated. Krieger's claws continued to spit purple tendrils of lightning and Dodge knew what was coming next. He barely had time to throw himself flat on the catwalk as twin bolts of electricity scorched the air above his head.

The lightning scoured the interior walls, leaving trails of flame in the rough wood. Dodge rolled toward the ladder and flipped over the edge, just as a second burst of electricity set the catwalk on fire. Krieger, possessed by madness, seemed to revel at the wanton display of destructive power. Dodge's feet slipped uncertainly on the rungs, and failing to find a foothold, he simply pushed away and let himself fall.

He landed on his back, the breath driven from his lungs, and Krieger was there, looming high above on the second level, his talons dancing with violet sparks. Gasping for air, Dodge backpedaled away from yet another attack.

A pall of smoke tainted the air of the enclosure. The walls of the fortress bled fire wherever the pirate king's lightning touch was felt, and despite the soggy humidity of the tropical environment, the baobab wood burned quickly; the flames were spreading. Dodge finally caught a breath and rolled onto hands and knees, struggling to rise. Krieger, still laughing maniacally, swept down the ladder intent on blocking his foe's escape.

Dodge scrambled for the large opening but he wasn't fast enough. An arc of energy blasted into his shoulder blades and launched him through the air to collide with the wall. The electrical shock seized the muscles of his extremities, leaving him momentarily paralyzed and in a daze, but through the miasma of wood smoke, he could smell the aroma of burnt flesh and knew intuitively that it was his own.

Krieger stalked toward him, a cat eager to toy with his prey, intent on delivering the coup de grace in person. Dodge willed his quivering limbs into action and succeeded in rolling over the threshold of the fortress, a mere whisper ahead of his enemy's arrival.

The compound was still in an uproar from the escape of the prisoners but more than a few of the pirates had taken note of the smoke pouring from the heart of the baobab. If they were surprised to see Dodge half-crawling from the smoldering tree, that reaction was multiplied exponentially when the rogues saw their unmasked leader emerging from the firestorm. A collective gasp went up, faces twisting in revulsion as they beheld the terrible answer to the question that had fueled more than a few drunken debates; now they knew why Krieger wore a mask.

Dodge used the momentary distraction to regain his feet and plunged into the throng. The stunned pirates were slow to react but Dodge, still disoriented from the energy blast, was slower still. He staggered through their midst, careening from one body to the next, instinctively aiming for the river; if he could reach the water, he would be safe.

"Hold him!" Krieger's voice cut through the ominous quiet and it was enough to break the spell. Dodge felt hands grasping his biceps. He twisted in their grip, lashing out with kicks, but to no avail. They had him.

The pirates parted before their leader like the sea in a Bible story; where once they had merely feared his wrath, they now were petrified by his mere presence. Krieger however cared nothing for their disgust; his blood rimmed gaze was fixed solely on the recaptured fugitive and his claws blazed with static electricity as he closed the intervening distance.

Dodge felt the numbness in his limbs diminishing by degrees, but the reawakening was heralded by a wave of pain and it took every iota of his will to keep from passing out, though perhaps unconsciousness would have been preferable. He fought his captors' hold, but his resistance was instinctive not deliberate, he was a wild animal caught in the jaws of a trap while the hunter approaches.

Krieger leaned close — close enough that the blood streaming from his self-inflicted wounds dripped onto Dodge's shirt. "You will pay for this," he hissed. "You will suffer the tortures of the damned."

"Maybe," Dodge answered through clenched teeth as he stared back into the pirate king's crazed eyes. "But you'll still be ugly."

The taunt hit Krieger like a slap, and as his hideous visage twisted to a new level of rage, Dodge saw a chance to strike one last blow. Snapping his neck forward, he slammed his forehead into the other man's nose. There was a crack of cartilage breaking, and Dodge knew that the spike of pain in his forehead would be nothing compared to what Krieger would be feeling.

With a howl, Krieger randomly unleashed the electricity that had been building in his talons. Twin tentacles of violet lashed into the pirate ranks and set the treetops alight. Dodge felt the restraining hands fall away and abruptly he was standing unaided, free again. Krieger mastered his fire in that moment and turned his attention back to his hated foe, but this time Dodge was ready. Before the unmasked villain could raise claw-blade or lightning in his own defense, Dodge darted in close and delivered a right jab that connected squarely with Krieger's broken nose. He followed through by planting a booted foot in the pirate king's chest that sent him stumbling backward to crash in a heap near the entrance to the burning fortress tree.

For a moment, Dodge stood alone in the clearing. A few unlucky pirates, struck down by their leader's lighting blast, writhed on the ground, but the rest had fled the field. Dodge snatched up an abandoned cutlass and hefted it in his right hand as he closed on Krieger.

The pirate rose up on unsteady feet, but thrust his claws forward to defend against any attack. Dodge did not disappoint him; he swung the short sword in a sweeping arc aimed at Krieger's torso. The disfigured pirate deflected the blade with his talons and steel rang on steel in a shower of sparks — not the unnatural hues of blue and violent electrical arcs, but the bright yellow of friction. Dodge swung again and again Krieger parried but the claw-like prosthetic hands had never been intended for combat. Every smashing blow from Dodge's cutlass sent a numbing jolt up Krieger's weary arms. The cumulative effect of the fatigue was showing. Harried by Dodge's unrelenting assault and bleeding copiously from innumerable flesh wounds, Krieger was on the verge of collapse. Dodge however was hurting, too. He knew that if he didn't seize the advantage, he might lose it.

With a fierce war cry, Dodge drew back for a two-handed slash, but at the last instant pulled up short. Krieger fell for the feint and overextended himself to parry. Dodge twisted in place and swept up with a one-handed cut that caught the pirate's wrist. The blade crunched into bone and Krieger's left-hand claw fell ignominiously to the ground.

Dodge whirled around, drawing the grip of the cutlass back into both hands as he swept around for a follow through. The pirate stared incredulously at the impotent stump and made no move to block the final sweep of his foe's sword. The blade crashed into the side of Krieger's head in a spray of crimson, and the pirate king sprawled backward to fall in a heap on the threshold of the fortress. Dodge leaped after his enemy, raising the sword above his head to deliver the final cut. That was when he heard the screams.

For a moment, he thought his ears were being deceived by some trick of the fire; perhaps pockets of moisture evaporating to steam were causing the high-pitched shrieks as they escaped from the super-heated wood but when he cocked his head to listen, he knew better. The cries were human — female.

Notre femmes, Claude had said, and now Dodge understood what he had meant. Our women.

The pirates had taken all the able-bodied villagers from the settlement, male and female alike, but there had only been men in the cage with Dodge. The women had been locked up elsewhere and as the screams grew to a fever pitch, he realized that their prison cell lay somewhere within the flaming fortress tree.

Dodge thrust the mortally wounded Krieger from his thoughts even as he also cast aside hesitation. Following the path of screams, he raced into the tree and into the heart of the fire.

The interior of the tree was wreathed in stifling flames. Dodge inadvertently drew a choking breath of soot-filled smoke then wisely covered his mouth and nose with a shirt-tail as he stumbled toward the ladder. The catwalk on the second level appeared to be on the verge of collapse, but there was no turning back now. He climbed up and charted the quickest path to an opening leading out onto one of the baobab's massive limbs.

The screams were louder now, away from the crackling of wood being consumed by fire, but Dodge sensed that he was also physically closer to the captive women.

"I'm here to help!" he shouted, hoping that his earnest tone would compensate for any linguistic differences. It seemed to work, for the cries became more urgent and coherent. Dodge turned until he fixed their location; they were in a cage on the next highest branch, some twelve feet above and a quarter of the way around the exterior of the tree.

He ducked back inside the hollow trunk, but the catwalk was immersed in fire; there would be no going back that way. Cursing this turn of luck, he returned to the exterior. There was only one way to reach his goal and it was going to require him to employ skills he had not tested since childhood: he was going to have to climb a tree.

The rough bark made for a decent handhold, but Dodge was too battered and worn to play squirrel. To facilitate the traverse, he used the cutlass to hack out a series of steps reaching above head height and as far around the trunk as he could reach. Then, with the sword tucked in his belt, he started climbing.

It was much harder than he could have imagined. After only a few seconds, his forearms began quivering with the exertion. His anxiety escalated toward all-out panic when he happened to glance down and he forced himself to focus only on the goal, still well out of reach. He scaled out to the limit of his hastily cut notches then used the bark for a handhold as he lifted his feet up onto that last step.

He was close now; his head was level with the boardwalk deck that ran the length of the target limb, and under ideal circumstances, he wouldn't have hesitated to make a leap of faith. He decided instead to get a little closer — to use the last of his flagging strength to shorten the gap for that final fateful jump. When he knew he could climb no more, he got a good grip with his left hand and drew the cutlass with his right.

Dodge coiled his body like a spring then launched out toward his goal. An instant later, his chest slammed into the edge of the boardwalk, knocking the wind from his lungs for the second time in only a few minutes, but this time he was ready. Ignoring the sudden breathlessness, he drove the cutlass tip into the deck even as he started to slide back from his tentative perch. The sword point caught fast, arresting his fall and giving him a precious moment's rest to catch his breath and gather his energy for the final effort. The cries of the trapped women changed from fearful screams to shouts of much-needed encouragement. Thus motivated, Dodge hauled himself up to safety.

Smoke billowed from the opening into the trunk, a measure of the intensity of the blaze that now consumed the chimney-like interior of the tree. Dodge hadn't yet figured out how he was going to get down from this new height, more than forty feet up, and while he had the rough start of a plan, it wasn't his uppermost priority.

The cage housing the women was not situated above a deathtrap like the one Dodge had briefly occupied but was instead nestled in the hollow of several branches at the end of the tree limb. He chopped through the ropes that secured the door and nine women emerged, their clothes in tatters but their dignity still intact despite the abuse they had suffered at the hands of their captors. He led them back as close to the main trunk as the smoke and heat would permit. "Stay right here."

Using the sword tip and his bare hands, he tore up a section of the walkway to expose the limb beneath. The arterial branch was as thick as his body — it had to be to support its own weight — and Dodge sensed his hare-brained plan for escape starting to crumble. Still, given the time constraints, a bad plan was better than none at all.

Using the cutlass like an axe, he started hewing at the limb. His first few attempts rebounded as though he had hit a stone, but he stayed at it, refining his attack until he had removed a section of bark nearly a foot wide. Using a crosshatch technique, he was soon knocking out wedges of wood as big as his fist, and little by little, the task became less daunting and the goal that much closer to reality. When he had hacked a third of the way through the limb, there was a sound like a gunshot as the weakened wood broke nearly in two and the entire section fell away. A loud crash followed as the network of branches at the end came to rest on the ground below.

Dodge gazed down the length of the felled limb, admiring his handiwork. "Looks like my luck is finally changing," he remarked.

"Pardon, monsieur?"

He glanced at the woman who had spoken and shook his head ruefully. For all he knew, this was Claude's wife — widow, rather — and the thought dampened his elation. He clambered onto the near-vertical surface. "Follow me."

The slats of the boardwalk served as expedient ladder rungs, facilitating the escape from the doomed fortress. Dodge assisted the women in their descent and used gestures to urge them toward the river but freedom remained elusive. As soon as they left the cover afforded by the burning tree, they came into plain view of the pirates who were beginning to realize that their captives — who represented a source of future income — were slipping away. Some had taken refuge in the second fortress tree, but others were regrouping in the open and hefting clubs and blades as they moved to cut off the only avenue of escape. Dodge raced to the vanguard of his group to meet their charge.

He was only one man and against such odds, he should have been quickly overwhelmed. But it had been a long time since these men had faced a determined enemy, and Dodge's manic confidence coupled with the wildly swinging tip of his sword, was more than they could bear. Without Krieger's demon face and hellish wrath to drive them, they simply stood aside and let the fugitives pass. A few crossed swords with Dodge but did not pursue the fight after parrying his fleeting attack. The fugitives broke through the scattered ranks and made the final push for freedom while Dodge fell back to guard their rear. When the last of the women splashed into the muddy water, he whirled to join them.

He almost made it.

One moment he was running headlong for the marshy shallows, the next he was facedown and unable to move. In between jaw-clenching waves of agony, it occurred to him that he had once more been struck by lightning. Krieger?

But Krieger was dead...he had to be.

Dodge focused all his will power into pushing with his left hand, and rolled over onto his back. He wasn't surprised to see the pirate leader, a walking corpse reanimated solely by the intensity of his hatred; there could have been no other explanation for the electrical discharge. In fact, Krieger's toehold on life was tenuous at best. He shambled forward like a drunkard, barely able to keep himself erect. His head had swelled like an overripe fruit about to burst, and splinters of bone protruded from the wound in his skull. His eyes however were clear, and focused wholly on the object of his wrath. He took another lurching step forward and leveled his remaining steel talon at Dodge.

A new static charge blossomed on the curved claw blades. Dodge summoned enough energy to throw his body into a sideways roll that brought him a few feet closer to the water's edge, but he was too slow by a fraction of a second. The lightning bolt sizzled along his leg for a moment but then expended most of its energy harmlessly on the ground. Krieger spat an incomprehensible curse, along with a mouthful of bright blood and lurched forward again. Dodge grimaced through the pain. As his foe closed to within ten paces, he managed to get to his knees and faced the pirate king.

He didn't know if he could survive another blast of lighting. It was moot anyway; one more paralyzing attack would leave him vulnerable to a fatal slash of Krieger's knives. He had to stop his foe's advance.

"Is that all you've got?" The taunt seemed hollow, spoken breathlessly through clenched teeth.

Krieger's eyes boiled like lava and he thrust his talon at Dodge's face. The lightning was there an instant later, but this time, Dodge was faster. As the electric bolt sizzled from the curved claws, he threw himself flat and ducked under the blast.

The air crackled with ozone as the energy struck the water and fed back to the source. In an instant, Krieger was sheathed in a cocoon of brilliant purple energy — consumed by his own fire. The stunning discharge ended as suddenly as it had begun and when the electric shroud fell away, the smoldering lifeless body of Johannes Krieger toppled over like a stricken tree. Dodge was too exhausted to survey the final fate of his foe, too tired also to hear the crunch of approaching footsteps.

"Tsk. Tres tragique, monsieur. You fought admirably to slay the dragon, but alas, you will still die."

Though he recognized the voice, Dodge nevertheless turned his head to face the speaker. It was Marten, the treacherous riverboat captain, but his gaze did not linger on the familiar face. His eyes were locked on the enormous twin pistols the big man held in either hand — Hurricane's custom-made semi-automatic pistols.

With a cruel chuckle, Marten thumbed off the safety, and took aim.

## CHAPTER 16

THE LAST PLACE ON EARTH

A violent crack split the air, but it was not the sound of a gunshot and it was not Dodge that fell but rather Marten. The scoundrel froze in place, his eyes rolling back in his head, as a brilliant corona of energy blossomed all over his body. Dodge followed the snaking bolt of lightning to its source in the heavens, but it was no natural thunderhead that had reached out to strike the villain down.

An enormous shadow passed over Dodge, a familiar cross shape, and he could just make out the sound of the X-314's four Wright Twin Cyclone radial piston engines. More tongues of energy leaped out from the massive airplane, striking select targets with pinpoint accuracy. Dodge knew of only one marksman with that kind of skill: Hurricane Hurley! His friends had returned to save him. Dodge felt like weeping.

The pirates had no defense against the aerial assault. They fled back to the surviving fortress, but a heavy bombardment of lightning ripped into the flanks of the baobab and set it ablaze as well. In a matter of minutes, the second tree was fully engulfed in fire.

Dodge struggled to his feet and approached the stricken Marten. The renegade boat operator was still alive — the lightning weapons rarely delivered a lethal injury, as Dodge could well attest — but did not resist as Hurricane's pistols were plucked from his limp grasp. Dodge knew better than to attempt to use the titanic shooting irons, but he was looking forward to returning them to their owner, personally.

The plane made another pass, picking off a few souls who had managed to escape the flames, then raced downriver. When Dodge saw the plane again, it was surging along the surface of the muddy water, taxiing up to the dock. Hurricane and Father Hobbs stood on the sponson, wearing the familiar exoskeletons — evidently no longer being used as landing gear — over their clothes. The Padre was characteristically dour, but Hurley made no effort to hide his joy at seeing Dodge.

Dodge meekly held out Hurricane's pistols, and the big man gave a thunderous guffaw of delight as he leaped onto the dock and swept Dodge into a crushing bear hug.

"Dodge, m'boy, I can't tell you how happy I am to see you. How in blazes did you survive that fall?"

Dodge winced as the embrace exacerbated a multitude of hurts but managed a grin as the big man set him down. "Never mind that, how did you know to find me here?"

"Truth be told we didn't," intoned Hobbs, stepping across the gap to join them. "We came back to free the villagers."

"And deal with Krieger once and for all," added Hurricane.

"Done and done. Your flock escaped into the jungle, Padre. As for Krieger..." Dodge jerked a thumb in the general area where he had left the fallen pirate, but when his gaze followed he saw only the slithering shape of a crocodile tail as it slipped into the water. "Well, trust me, he won't be a problem ever again."

The Padre raised an eyebrow to salute the accomplishment, while Hurley was somewhat more effusive. "Well done. What did I tell you, Padre? He's just like... he's a good man in a fight."

Dodge sensed that the giant had been on the verge of making a very different comment, but ignored the omission. "Is Molly...?"

No sooner had he spoken than the fiery-haired pilot burst through the hatch and gave him a hug to rival Hurley's, followed by a kiss that was certainly without parallel. Dodge was still savoring the taste on his lips when the girl drew back and slugged him in the shoulder. "I told you to be careful. Don't you ever listen to anyone?"

He managed a weak smile, then impulsively pulled her close and answered her accusation with another kiss.

Hurley grinned at Hobbs, who seemed to be growing more uncomfortable by the moment, and then cleared his throat. "Son, we've got to get moving. We know where he's taken the President."

Dodge's eyes flew open and he gently disconnected from Molly's embrace. "Where?"

Hurley guided him back into the plane. "The last place on earth: Antarctica. We got a pretty good fix on it from..." He gestured to a trio of men who sat meekly on the cabin floor.

Dodge stared in disbelief at the three mercenaries they had defeated in order to gain control of the exoskeletons. The men were not restrained in any way, yet seemed completely unthreatening.

"I don't think we'll need their help any longer," intoned Hobbs. He knelt beside the men. "Find the people who were captured by the pirates and help them rebuild their village. Tell them I sent you."

The three former soldiers of fortune rose and began thanking the clergyman for rescuing them from a life of wickedness. Dodge stared in disbelief as Hobbs laid hands on each man and offered a benediction. "Go, and sin no more." As they filed out of the plane, it occurred to Dodge that, of the original trio of heroes that had led the Fighting Falcons, the peace-loving cleric was perhaps the most dangerous.

Once aloft and on course, Molly engaged the autopilot and ventured out to minister to Dodge's many wounds. The vibration of the plane, coupled with the abrupt cessation of life-threatening activity, quickly lulled the exhausted Dodge to sleep, curtailing his report on the events that had followed his earlier plummet from the aircraft.

He made only a cursory mention of his rescue at the hands of their enemy and omitted all reference to the strange conversations with both the dark god and the unseen benefactor. The other men did not question the exclusion; they understood all too well. He was in the middle of describing the climactic battle with Krieger when his words became incoherent and trailed off altogether.

He slept for more than ten hours, blissfully unaware of the monotonous course they charted through the sky. He did not stir until through the fog of dreams, he felt the tremors of a water landing. Awakening brought with it a host of aches and pains, but a few moments of stretching allowed him to move without visibly wincing. The interior of the plane was dark but there was a dim light burning on the flight deck, and he made his cautiously up to the cockpit where he found his three companions staring through the windscreen. Though he couldn't distinguish anything in the inky blackness, the pitching of the aircraft was indication enough that they had set down in rough seas.

"Where are we?"

Hurley, the only member of the group not involved in piloting, turned to greet him. "Cape Town."

"South Africa," Dodge replied blearily. He was struggling to remember why they would have ventured to the remote southern tip of the Dark Continent, the notorious Cape of Good Hope. He recalled something about... "You said we're going to Antarctica, right?"

Hurricane nodded. "The fellows we, ah, questioned told us that they only went as far as a base camp on a bleak little lump of rock called Flat Island, a couple thousand miles to the south in the middle of the Indian Ocean. But their leader took the President on to a secret location using that flying disk ship of his."

He paused long enough to take out a chart of the area in question. He rested a finger on a speck not far from the ice-covered polar region. "Now, we don't know exactly where he went, but the round trip took about fourteen hours. We know that ship can't fly faster than about fifty miles an hour, so the furthest he could have gone is about 300 miles. He went due south, and probably kept it in a straight line — no reason not to — which would put his secret headquarters somewhere in this area." He put his finger on a spot in a section of the continent dubbed Wilkes Land. The region was completely devoid of the sort of markers one usually found on a map, not because the continent was featureless, but because it was so remote and austere that all efforts at charting the geography of the region had thus far met with failure.

"It's winter below the equator," Dodge observed. "We're in no shape to mount a polar expedition even under the best conditions, but this time of year it will be impossibly cold."

"The force field from the flying suits ought to protect us from the cold and all but the worst of the weather."

That answer was so obvious that Dodge felt compelled to berate himself for not having thought of it before speaking.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, son." Hobbs' flat voice floated back from the co-pilot's chair. "We've had a lot of time to work this out."

"And you've more than earned the right to lead us."

"Lead you?" The offhand comment stunned Dodge, but when Hobbs came back to join them, he saw that both men were deadly serious. "Whoa. Hold your horses. I'm not anybody's leader. The very idea is ridiculous. I'm just a guy who writes stories."

Hurley was on the verge of speaking, but Hobbs silenced him with a plaintive gesture. "A poor choice of words. I think what my friend meant to say is that we're quite pleased to have you along, and not just as an extra pair of strong hands. We're a couple of old warhorses; you bring a fresh perspective that's sorely needed."

Dodge wasn't fooled for a second. Hurley and — to a lesser degree — the Padre were looking to cast him as their new champion, and that was the last thing he wanted. Because that would mean Captain Falcon was truly lost.

At dawn they entered Cape Town to buy food and fuel. Hobbs made surreptitious inquiries to ascertain that their foe had not yet passed this way, but that in itself proved nothing; there were other places in Africa to refuel. Nevertheless, the Grumman's range was considerably less than the X-314 and it was quite likely that their long, non-stop flight had put them well ahead of the dark god.

By noon they were airborne once more, winging into the turbulent wintry skies over the confluence of oceans. Aside from a scattering of desolate islets, there was nothing but water between the tip of Africa and the ice-locked southern polar region. It would take more than twenty-four hours of flight time, with an open water landing to refuel from their reserves, to reach their destination.

After they settled in for the long flight, Dodge broke the monotony by asking Molly for some rudimentary flying lessons. His motives were not entirely pure; it was mostly an excuse to spend time with her, but his curiosity about the principles of flight was real enough.

With an early winter twilight ruling the sky, he felt confident enough to attempt what proved to be an especially difficult landing. The heavier than air behemoth touched down on rough seas, rolling through twelve to twenty foot swells before finally coming to a stop.

"It's funny," he remarked, trying to conceal the edge of adrenaline that had left him slightly breathless. "A week ago I had never even been in an airplane, and now I can fly them."

The red-haired girl raised an eyebrow. "I'd recommend you do that about a dozen more times before you ask Pan American for a job."

To take off again, they tried a different approach, running at a slight angle in a trough, just enough to stay ahead of the moving mountain of water as the plane built speed. When they had enough velocity, Dodge angled up the face of the swell and vaulted aloft. Molly had given a little squeal of delight at the maneuver. Hurricane on the other hand retreated from the flight deck in search of a quiet place to throw up.

From that point onward, the atmosphere aboard the plane grew increasingly tense. Not only was the territory into which they were going held by the enemy, it was also well beyond the frontier. The charts of the region were woefully incomplete and unreliable.

The next day, they flew over Flat Island without stopping. The barely visible speck was a part of the mostly submerged Kerguelen Plateau that just happened to protrude a hundred and fifty feet above the surface of the ocean. They had been told that the remaining mercenary force — six men armed with exoskeletons — was lodged there awaiting their leader's return. Hurricane was able to pick out the tents of their enemy's camp, but saw no indication of activity. The island was their reference point; from here they would follow a due southerly course, flying as close the icepack as they dared. Every mile they could fly closer in the X-314 would translate to more than three minutes saved off their final approach in the much slower flying rigs.

It was mutually agreed that Molly would remain behind with the plane, tending the engines which they dared not shut down for fear that they might freeze up. Dodge was mildly surprised that she put up only a token argument against being excluded. It wasn't until they threw open the hatch and felt the icy embrace of the polar wind that he understood her decision; born and raised in the steamy jungles of Africa, Molly had little physical tolerance for the cold.

Dodge had complete faith in Hurricane's ability to navigate the remainder of the journey, which was more than Hurley could say. In a normal environment, the big man could easily chart a true course from memory, but here, where there were no landmarks to use as reference, it would be blind guesswork. As they left the shelter of the plane and glided out over the choppy seas, he discovered another monkey wrench in the works. Although their destination lay somewhere along the azimuth that ran to magnetic south, the compass did not work inside the force field. Hurricane would not be able to check the accuracy of their course until they reached hard ice.

The exoskeletons did however afford excellent protection from the elements. As they raced along, faster than an automobile could travel on open road, they felt no breeze on their faces. The air inside the force field was cold, but the warm clothes they had purchased in South Africa were more than enough to ward off the chill. Hurley and Hobbs had no difficulty mastering the intuitive control system, and within a few minutes they were all confidently gliding through the seemingly endless polar night.

They soon began to see large icebergs, pale blue against the inky ocean, and at the first opportunity, Hurricane dropped down and deactivated his exoskeleton while the other men hovered nearby. When he rejoined them, a dusting of ice crystals had formed in his eyebrows.

"Cold," he said through chattering teeth. "It's only going to get worse the further we go."

"Are we on course?"

The big man scowled. "No. According to the compass, we're twenty degrees from where we ought to be. Evidently we're not keeping as true a course as I thought."

"How is that possible?" Dodge's question was understandably rhetorical; none of them possessed enough knowledge about the exoskeletons to even attempt an answer.

"I can make an educated guess to get us back on course, but if we can't keep to a straight line, we could very well miss it completely."

The dire prediction was underscored half an hour later when they reached what appeared to be the main icepack and Hurley risked another blast of bitter cold to check their progress. Despite their best efforts, they had deviated from their southerly heading. Taken with their first error, they now faced the very real possibility that they might never find the enemy's headquarters.

"What now?" asked Hobbs in his usual dispassionate monotone.

Dodge glanced at both men and realized the clergyman had been asking him. "We keep going," he declared. "We can always double back, or run some kind of search pattern once we reach the turnaround point. It's not like we really have a choice."

The Padre's lips curled in a faint grin, and Dodge knew he had once again said something that reminded the men of their former leader. Big shoes to fill, he thought.

The weather grew steadily worse as they progressed. Although they could not feel the frigid wind blasting against their energy shields, the force of the air mass was nevertheless pushing against them, nudging them further off course. By the time they reached their turnaround point — an arbitrary position determined by the estimate of how far their enemy could have traveled in three hours — they were engulfed in blizzard-like conditions. Not only was it completely out of the question for Hurricane to drop his force field, even for a few seconds, to check their position, but it was quite likely that they had passed right by their objective and not seen it.

Dodge was beside himself. He had failed his duty to the President and worse, he had failed his friends. Unable to get their bearings, they faced the very real possibility that, if the weather didn't change, they might wander the icy wilderness until they perished. He turned to offer a futile apology to the other men, but they weren't there. Though they had diligently maintained visual contact throughout the night, a curtain of ice had fallen between them for the briefest instant. When he tried to push through, he found only more swirling ice.

He called their names, shouting into the maelstrom, but heard only the rush of wind against his force field. Seconds of panic grew into minutes of desperation, and ultimately a final, horrible revelation: He was lost and alone in the most desolate place on earth.

Molly pulled the blanket tighter in a vain effort to shut out the pervasive chill. She knew part of it was in her head; the absence of her friends and the inky blackness outside the windows made it seem much colder than it really was, and the constant pitching of the hull as it rolled over the swells didn't help.

She drew some comfort from the old shotgun resting on her lap. It had belonged to her father — the sire of her blood, if not also her heart — once upon a time, and while it hadn't been enough to save his life, she liked to think of it as his way of looking out for her.

After a while, the rolling deck and the rumble of the engines lulled her to sleep. It was a deep but peaceful repose; her body succumbed to a depth of exhaustion that her pride had denied. Yet, despite the depth of her dreamless state, she came instantly awake when she heard the noise.

It was soft sound and ought to have been inaudible given the constant chugging of the idling engines, but it was just different enough that she was immediately alert and on her guard. The blanket fell away as she leaped to her feet, brandishing the shotgun.

But she was already too late.

She fired off a blast of buckshot at the nearest figure, point blank range, but the pellets never reached their target. Before she could load another shell, the weapon was torn from her hands, and then a blast of brilliant white light returned her to the dark void of unconsciousness.

## CHAPTER 17

THE OUTPOST

After a while, Dodge recalled his mother's advice about getting lost — stay in one place and let someone find you. It was sage advice in most conceivable crises since it assumed that there would be a rescue party, but Dodge had to wonder if it would work in this remote wilderness, where the only possible searchers were also lost. Still, in the absence of any better strategy, it was something to do.

When he realized it was impossible to actually remain in one place, he blindly lowered down until he felt something solid beneath his feet, but even in this he was confounded. The near constant winds pushed him across the icy landscape as easily as when he was aloft. Worse, the blizzard-like blasts came at him from all angles, shoving him back and forth like the ball in a bagatelle game. Even when it seemed that the wind had died, he could hear the ice scraping by underfoot. After a few minutes, he discovered that it was not the wind at, but something else entirely.

I'm being pulled.

It was like magnetic force; a steady irresistible pull that wasn't as strong as the wind, but was nonetheless constant. A blast of air might knock him back a few yards, or spin him off at an angle, but immediately thereafter, he would resume moving in the original direction.

It's the exoskeleton, he thought. It's being attracted to... what?

He impulsively unbuckled the exoskeleton to test this hypothesis...

...and almost died.

His extremities instantly seized in place. The cold was so absolute that his breath was snatched away, and he could do nothing except lay in a fetal ball as his skin started to freeze.

The dark god watched as his minions carried the unconscious girl onto the flying disc. He did not know who she was, but her presence here was testimony enough that his enemies had gone on ahead to find his last redoubt, and find it they would. The original engineers of the place had implemented the simplest of devices to guide fellow travelers to what was otherwise an impossible to find location.

He barely remembered his own first encounter with the ice cave and nothing at all of what had gone before. His emergence from the frozen stronghold, equipped with the mysterious technology of a long-forgotten society, had been a rebirth. He could only surmise that, in the same figurative sense, he had died upon entering that place which was both tomb and womb.

That his enemies had come so far...that they might already have gained access to a place that he now thought of as his own possession...shook his confidence in a way that was completely alien. He was a god; this ought not to have happened.

He was loath to bring his men to the fortress; he guarded its secrets jealously, for indeed the place did not discriminate who benefited from the ancient knowledge and tools in its repository. But his foes might already have added some of those weapons to their arsenal, and he dared not face them alone. That too, was why he decided to bring the girl along.

He stroked his hooded chin thoughtfully as the hostage was laid to one side. Even her life might not be enough of a bargaining chip against these men, not if they got a taste of the power he had already mastered. If that happened, he would have no choice but to destroy the cave and seal his enemies away forever.

Of all his recent awakenings, this one was the worst. The warm glow radiating from his heart and spreading to his extremities was not a welcome heat to banish a chill but rather seemed more like the fires of Hell, searing every nerve without consuming his flesh. An involuntary wail crossed his lips, and in that instant he realized that he could no longer hear the roar of the wind.

Father Hobbs removed his hand from Dodge's chest and sank back wearily on his haunches. Dodge writhed in agony as the feeling returned to his still chilled limbs, but his torment was ameliorated but the realization that he was no longer freezing to death in the blizzard. When the pins and needles no longer felt like red-hot spikes in his skin, he raised his head.

Hurricane was sitting alongside him as well, opposite the Padre. The big man was shaking his head in disbelief. "Boy, you've the Devil's own luck. What possessed you to turn off your force field?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." Despite the relative warmth, Dodge's teeth were still chattering uncontrollably. His eyes gradually focused on the area beyond the faces of his friends, and he saw that they were surrounded on all sides by blue-tinted ice. "Where are we?"

"We are exactly where these flying machines brought us. It turns out, there's something here that pulls these exoskeletons in like a magnet. We got lost fighting against it. It wasn't until we started looking for you that we realized what was happening."

"You're very lucky indeed," added Hobbs. "You have a little frostbite on your nose and fingers, but you'll mend. But if we hadn't literally tripped over you when we did, you would have spent the rest of eternity in this frozen wasteland."

Dodge got to his feet and gave the ice enclosure another look. It was more a tunnel than a recess, gently sloping downward into the heart of the ice. It appeared to run straight in both directions, and when he turned his head in the direction of the rise, he could faintly hear the Antarctic wind howling past the mouth of the passage. He turned to Hobbs. "This isn't natural, is it?"

Hobbs shook his head. "There is something at work here that defies nature."

"We're not going to find those answers here," intoned Hurricane. "I say we buckle up and see where this train takes us."

He followed his own advice, and as soon as his belt was clasped, started sliding down the tunnel as if pushed by an invisible hand. Dodge's chattering teeth flashed a smile, and a moment later he and the Padre were close behind.

It soon became apparent that the unseen force drawing them on was nothing as simple as magnetism. The exoskeletons were not being pulled in a straight line, but rather followed the contours of the tunnel, weaving through its undulations and even making a right-angle turn at an unexpected crossroads. They were deep beneath the surface now but the walls still glowed an eerie blue and their steady pace remained unchanged.

"Who do you suppose made this place?" Hurley said, breaking the ominous silence.

Dodge didn't have to think about that one. "The same people that made these flying devices."

"If they were people," Hobbs added, cryptically.

"What's that supposed to mean, Padre?"

Hobbs gave an odd smile. "Look around you. What do you think is the explanation for it all? These contraptions that give us the power of flight? An impossible tunnel into the ice that glows like daylight? There is uncanny power at work here."

"Uncanny?" scoffed Hurley. "That's not what Doc Newton said. He talked about Tesla and the earth's magnetic field."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps that's the only way a man of science can grasp something that he does not understand. Do you remember when I told you about the Hindu deity who had the power to fly through the air and throw lightning bolts like spears?"

Dodge raised an eyebrow; he had not been privy to that earlier conversation. "You think all of this is the work of ancient Hindu gods?"

Hurley shook his head and gave the clergyman a patronizing grin. "No. He thinks this is Atlantis."

"Or something like it," Hobbs added, unashamedly. "The Bible tells a different version of the story. In Genesis, it speaks of the sons of God leaving their heavenly abode to take the daughters of men as wives. Their sons were mighty giants — the Nephilim — and they filled the earth with such wickedness that God determined to wipe all creation away in a deluge of water."

"Atlantis sinking beneath the sea."

"Just so. We can only imagine what sort of marvelous works those fallen angels and their mutant offspring carried out, but in those ancient legends we get a glimpse. Legends such as the tales of Indra."

"But why Antarctica?"

Hobbs shrugged. "Why anywhere? We can only surmise that when the heavens fell, the face of the planet was changed forever. Before the Flood, the great oceans were perhaps not so great. Afterward, the Ice Age would have locked away any physical remains of that wicked society, but perhaps here some vestige remains intact."

Dodge pondered this version of events. It was no less plausible than any other explanation. Come to think of it, it's the only explanation anyone's offered.

The abrupt end of the journey offered nothing to support or refute Father Hobbs hypothesis. The tunnel passed into a vaulted chamber from which several similar roads radiated outward like spokes on a wheel, and they were drawn to the exact center of the cavern where they came to a sudden stop.

Dodge unbuckled the belt and moved toward the perimeter of the chamber. The walls were uniformly smooth, without any sort of ornamentation or distinctive architecture. He was developing a grudging affinity for the Padre's explanation; no army of human workers could have hewed out such an imposing fastness in this austere place. This was the work of a god... or perhaps a devil. "Which way now?"

Hurley also began walking the outer circle, pausing at each tunnel mouth to inspect the icy floor. "There are faint footprints in the ice. I'll wager they've been here since... since he found it."

Dodge didn't have to ask who the big man was talking about.

"He didn't know what he was looking for so he wandered up and down...Hello. This one."

"How can you tell?"

Hurricane flashed them a triumphant grin. "The tracks go in, but they don't come out."

Hobbs affected a sour frown. "Why don't I find that encouraging?"

The invisible force that had drawn them to the central chamber had ceased at the moment of their arrival. They were now able to move unimpeded and used the exoskeletons to fly down the tunnel.

"You know," Dodge observed. "As big as this place is, I don't think it was Atlantis."

"Why do you say that?" Curiously, it was Hurley that voiced the question, not the Padre.

"There's nothing but tunnels. A city would have residences, marketplaces. This seems more like a refuge or a frontier outpost."

"A repository for their technology," ventured Hurley. "That would make sense."

Hobbs however withheld comment and when they reached the end of the passage some minutes later, what they found left them too awed to speculate. The half-domed chamber in which they found themselves was immense beyond belief; easily twice the size of the hub cavern, even though it was semi-circular, with one flat wall that dominated its far extremity. The dimensions of the vault were only the beginning however, for inscribed on that broad slab of ice were designs so intricate and terrifying that they could only be the workmanship of demons.

Dodge found himself involuntarily turning to flee, as though the relief figures carved in the frozen surface were alive and coming after him, and to his surprise, he saw that Hurley was also beating a hasty retreat.

"Stop." Hobbs voice was compelling and both of the other men stopped dead in their tracks. "Do not look at the wall."

Even as the priest spoke, Dodge felt his irrational terror slipping away, replaced by embarrassment at having panicked. Hurley echoed the sentiment. "Uh, Padre, what just happened?"

"The images carved on the wall are... well, think of it as an ancient 'Keep Out' sign. The specific arrangement of statuary and hieroglyphics work together to trigger an instinctive urge to flee."

"You're kidding, right? It's a picture so scary that you have to run away?"

"It's the perfect way to keep the curious away. The ancient Egyptian sorcerers left curses on the doorposts of their Pharaohs' tombs, but a warning is only as good as the language; most tomb robbers were illiterate." Hobbs strode forward, out of the view of the other men who obediently avoided looking at the wall, and began examining the carvings.

"Is that what this is?" ventured Dodge. "A tomb?"

"How come you can look at it?"

Hobbs ignored Hurley's complaint. "Perhaps a tomb. Perhaps something..."

"What?" Dodge gritted his teeth against the expected visceral response and looked up despite the earlier admonition. The waves of terror were bad, but his rational mind won out. He found the Padre several feet off the ground, staring at a blank spot in the middle of the elaborate mural.

"There's a door here."

Hurley also sublimated his panic response and rose up to inspect the portal blocked by a sheet of featureless ice. "Great. A door in the middle of the world's biggest 'No Trespassing' sign."

"This is what he found, isn't it."

Hobbs nodded soberly. "I don't believe this is an ancient outpost or a tomb, but something much more sinister. In the Bible, this place was called 'The Abyss' and when it was opened, great plagues were unleashed on mankind."

"He found it," Dodge deduced. "And let something out; something that changed him into... whatever it is he's become; a sort of evil god."

"Yes. It's possible he has no memory of his former life."

Dodge thought back to the strange encounter on the airship. Perhaps there was still some vestige of the man whose mind and body were now thoroughly possessed by the dark god. But trying to reform the lost polar explorer who had inadvertently opened Pandora's Box was not their mission. "Do you think he put the President in there?"

Hobbs nodded, and Hurley chimed. "I'd wager money on it."

"Dare we open it?"

"Whatever evil was once imprisoned here has long since escaped." Hobbs tone was less than convincing however and he made no move toward the portal. He was waiting for something; waiting for a command from his leader.

For as long as Hobbs and Hurley had followed Falcon, he had led them true, and now these brave men needed that kind of leadership again. They would have followed Falcon into Hell itself if he had given the command, but without an assertive voice to rally them, they were immobilized. Dodge shared their anxiety but with it he felt a growing frustration. He didn't want to be their leader, but if that's what it was going to take... "Open it."

Hobbs reticence evaporated and he moved forward to touch the doorway. Dodge perceived no mechanism to secure or open the portal, but Hobbs evidently knew something about secret doors, for after a few seconds, the ice was gone as if it had evaporated to steam in a flash.

Dodge braced himself against a half-expected rush of evil spirits, billowing like black smoke, but nothing of the sort happened. Instead, there was merely a square opening in the ice, a window into impenetrable night. He eased forward and peered inside.

Beyond the threshold, the darkness was absolute. Even the walls of the abyss surrounding the door itself could not be distinguished. Dodge extended a hand into the void and tried to find any of its limits, but his hands touched only emptiness.

"It may be," Hobbs offered gravely, "that what lies beyond this doorway is not a place on this earth."

"Not on this..." Hurley's outburst faltered as soon as he peered into the black opening and he said nothing more on the matter.

"Mr. President!" Dodge's call did not echo, but was swallowed whole, as if he had shouted into a pillow. He glanced at his companions. "I'm going in."

"Yeah," Hurricane offered unenthusiastically. "Right behind you."

Dodge shared the big man's apprehension, but there was no turning back. He angled his body forward and let the exoskeleton carry him into the black maw....

...and stepped onto the cold tile floor of the office.

Startled by the sudden change, he whirled to catch the door, but it had already clicked shut. He stared mutely at it for a moment, seeing from behind the painted black letters that were so familiar: "Sports Desk." Impulsively, he tried the doorknob and pulled the door open, but beyond was only the familiar corridors of the Clarion Building.

He shot a glance at his watch, realizing that he was dangerously close to the press time for the early edition and headed for his desk. He tried to remember the particular facts of the game he was going to write...No, it wasn't a game. There was something else I was going to do...Was it a Falcon story?

Just thinking about Captain Falcon broke the spell. He became aware of the exoskeleton, as if it had emerged from a fog, and he remembered everything. Then where am I? I was looking for...

"Mr. President?" Curiously, no one in the office looked up from their labors when he shouted, so he did it again as he opened the door once more. "Mr. President?"

The Commander-in-Chief looked up from his desk as Dodge passed through the doorway into the Oval Office. "Yes? Who are you? Who let you in?"

"I'm Dodge Dalton, sir." He stared at the familiar face of America's executive leader, trying to remember why he had come here. He felt faintly foolish for having barged into the man's private office and it didn't help that he had no good explanation.

"Dodge? Ah, yes, Mr. Dodge; I remember now, we met at the... at..." The Presidential brow wrinkled behind his spectacles. "I'm sure we've met. You write those marvelous Captain Falcon stories."

"That's right, sir. We did meet, last Sunday in the..." The veil lifted again. "Mr. President, you're in danger here. We have to get out."

"No, no. I have a two o'clock appointment with the Secretary of State. In fact, he should have been here by now."

"Sir, this isn't what it seems. We're not in the White House. You were abducted last Sunday by a group of mercenaries using advanced technology. Try to remember."

"Mercenaries?" scoffed the President. "I seriously doubt a group of thugs could..."

Dodge took the growing consternation evident in the President's expression as a good sign. "We're in some kind of... I don't know what to call it. It's like an illusion, and every time you turn a corner you forget why you're here. You have to concentrate on what you remember about last Sunday. Remember the garden party?"

"Advanced technology, you say. Yes, I... Something about lightning and men flying through the air." He stiffened in his chair. "Good God, I remember now. We were on that airplane for hours. We landed in the sea and then he brought me here. Mr. Dodge, you've got to tell me, who is the devil behind all this?"

"That's a long story sir. The important thing is that we're here to rescue you. I just have to figure out how to get back to the door."

"You just said 'we.' Where are your confederates?"

"Outside in the ice cave. I know it's a lot to swallow, sir, but you have to concentrate. Keep thinking about what happened." Dodge followed his own advice, trying to picture the steps that had led him to this place so he could retrace them, but when he opened the door, there was only an unfamiliar hallway lined with other doors. "One of these doors must lead out."

The President rose from behind his desk, and something about that image seemed odd to Dodge. Something about the Chief Executive's gait... "Sir, I don't believe I've ever seen you walking."

"Eh?" The President glanced down involuntarily. "Why that's because I... My goodness, that's curious."

He turned a few circles experimentally then flexed his knees as if preparing to jump. "Extraordinary. I haven't had this much strength in my legs in years."

Dodge was about to ask for clarification when it occurred to him that he too felt better than he had in a long time. He glanced at his hands and was mildly pleased to see only unmarked pink flesh. There was no pain from... I hurt my hands, didn't I? Why does this look strange?

"Say, Dodge. Are you a tennis player?"

"Tennis? Mr. President we..." Dodge scratched his head, trying to remember what he had been doing a moment before. He curled his fingers, thinking about the heft of a tennis racquet. Tennis with the President; what an amazing story that would make. "Well, baseball's more my game, but I'll bat a few over the net with you."

"Outstanding."

But the President contracted poliomyelitis a few years ago, Dodge recalled, slowly putting the pieces together. The news reports said he had recovered, but... I've never seen him walk. Yet he must have recovered, because he appears perfectly healthy now. Something's not right.

"This isn't real," Dodge blurted. "We're part of an illusion; this is all in our heads Mr. President."

The other man just stared back as if Dodge was speaking a foreign language.

"You know I'm right, sir. There's no cure for polio." He felt a pang of guilt as he said it, but maybe the harsh observation would be the slap needed to wake them both from this dream state.

"But it feels so real, just like when I was young...." The Chief Executive sagged back onto his desk, a look of pained bewilderment twisting his face. "Is this heaven or hell?"

"A bit of both, sir. As near as we can tell, it was a prison built by a forgotten antediluvian civilization, to banish some ancient evil." Dodge rapidly rattled off the fact as he remembered them from Hobbs' discourse. It didn't matter if he was wrong about some of the details; the important thing was to keep talking. "What better way to keep someone from trying to break out of prison than to give them everything they want, to make them believe they aren't really in prison.

"We aren't physically here, Mr. President. It's like that trick the yogis of India can do; sending their spirit traveling while their body is in a trance. We just need to figure out how to get back to our bodies." He looked at the door again and laid his land on the ornate lever. "Padre! Hurricane! We're coming out."

He lowered his voice, speaking more to himself than anyone. "When I open this door, we will be back in the ice cave, back in our bodies... now."

The door swung open and for a moment, Dodge thought he had failed. Instead of the blackness of the abyss, there was merely a featureless white wall. But then he heard the sound of someone speaking and his curiosity drew him through the portal.

"It's ice! Mr. President, we've made it."

His elation was short lived. As he crossed the threshold and once more entered the half-domed chamber, he saw Hurley and Hobbs waiting below. Then he saw that they were not alone; a group of mercenaries in exoskeletons stood in a ring around them, holding them at bay.

Then he saw Molly with the hands of the dark god tight around her throat.

## CHAPTER 18

GAZING INTO THE ABYSS

The hooded face turned up to greet him. "Ah, the Chronicler. I can only surmise that you destroyed Krieger. You might have made a worthy foe."

Dodge felt impotent rage boiling up in his chest. "I'm just getting started."

"I think not. I will kill her before you can raise a finger. Send your leader out."

"Leader?"

"The President," hissed the cloaked figure.

Dodge sucked in a breath to hide his fear. "No."

For just a moment, every pair of eyes swerved to gaze in disbelief — the mercenaries could not believe that anyone would defy the dark god, while Hurricane and the Padre were astounded that Dodge would risk Molly's safety so cavalierly. The hand at Molly's throat tightened and even from his distant vantage, Dodge could see her face turn beet red as the circulation was abruptly cut off. "You will."

"No." Dodge's voice was adamant — far more so than he felt. "I'm not God; I don't trade in human souls. I have no more power to order someone to his death than you do."

"Then you have signed her death sentence."

"Stop!"

Dodge's heart sunk at the stentorian command, which had issued not from any of the participants in the drama below, but from behind. "Mr. President, you can't —"

"As an American citizen, Mr. Dodge, you are duty bound to follow my orders." The President edged out of the doorway. "I will go with you if you release the girl."

"You dictate nothing to me." The cloaked figure gestured to his men, then pointed up the elevated threshold.

Two of the mercenaries complied, rising under the power of their exoskeletons to bodily seize the American leader. Dodge knew that once their foe had the President, the rest of them were as good as dead. He stared helplessly down at his friends, at Molly almost unconscious from the stranglehold... saw her flesh go pink as the deadly grip relaxed imperceptibly.

He was moving before he knew why, rocketing downward like an arrow aimed at the dark god. He blasted through the two mercenaries and the impact of force fields sent a shower of sparks onto the group directly below. The sizzling discharge of energy was like the sounding of a starter pistol and in an instant, chaos was unleashed.

Molly's captor reacted as Dodge had hoped, throwing her aside in order to fully meet the new gambit. It was the only thing about his attack that went according to plan. Faster than the eye could follow, the hooded man whipped out his metal staff and unleashed a bolt of violet fire that struck Dodge head on. His energy field screeched in protest as the opposing currents waged a battle of attrition and Dodge was thrown back into the wall with such force that the bas-relief figures shattered into a blizzard of shards which were instantly vaporized in the sizzling electrical conflagration.

Hurricane and Hobbs had not been idle, but their captors held a distinct advantage: the first thing that their foe had directed upon their capture, using Molly as leverage, was for them to disengage their exoskeletons. When the fighting began, the split second required for them to buckle the belt clasps and activate the protective field was a measure of time they could not afford. Instead, they took their chances with old-fashioned fisticuffs.

Hobbs seemed to have intuitive knowledge of exactly the right speed and intensity required to slip a knife hand through the field of the nearest man. The blow caught the mercenary in the solar plexus, and he crumpled forward without getting off a single blast of his lightning weapon.

Hurley wasn't so lucky. His meaty fist slammed into his opponent's energy bubble, but instead of penetrating, his blow bounced the man away like a rubber ball, even as the energy of the assault rebounded back on him. He was spun around and fell back into Hobbs just as the cascade of ice from the shattered wall came down upon them.

Dodge stabbed out with his gauntlets, but withheld fire as his foe snared Molly once more and dragged her between them. Keeping her in that position, as a shield, the dark god began retreating back into the tunnel. Dodge was about to follow when a storm of thunderbolts began raining down from above. His force field flashed under the assault, screeching in protest as the opposing charges gradually weakened the shield. He cast a glance to the source of the attack and found two mercenaries, holding the limp body of the President between them, raining fury down on his head.

"Damn it!" He could not shoot the men, for fear of hitting their captive and knew he couldn't endure their bombardment much longer. Yet, the two mercenaries did not press their advantage. They kept moving, intent on taking the President to their leader, and there wasn't a thing Dodge could do to stop them.

Hobbs succeeded in downing a second of the mercenaries, and Hurricane, by slowing his attack, managed to wrap his arms around another and crushed him senseless. But as close as they were to evening the odds, the battle was already lost. As soon as the two mercenaries left the half-dome chamber, the dark god reappeared brandishing his staff. The metal rod crackled with an intensity unlike anything Dodge had seen before; it was as though the hooded man had captured a real lightning bolt on his rod and was preparing to....

"Uh, oh."

He turned to warn the others but before he could speak, the entire dome was filled with light so brilliant that even the oblique reflection off the glazed ice surface stabbed through his head like a white-hot poker. There immediately followed a detonation that was, Dodge imagined, like standing in front of a cannon. Without the force field to protect him, the concussion would have pounded him to a pulp.

Instead, the shockwave slammed him once more into the frozen wall, obliterating yet another section of the ancient warning carved there. Hurley and Hobbs were likewise buffeted by the thunderclap and for a moment, all three were too stunned to do anything. The enormous lightning bolt however, was only the catalyst for the dark god's attack. He had not turned the electricity against them, but had instead directed it up to the high ceiling of ice. The crystalline structure of the ice gave it remarkable insulating properties — unlike water in its liquid form, ice was not conductive — but the kinetic energy from the lightning strike was like a stick of dynamite. The frozen dome shattered and began to cascade down in jagged chunks.

Though still mostly blind from the dazzling lighting, Dodge knew what was happening when he felt the first shudder pass through his energy shield. "Hurricane! Padre! Go through the doorway."

He didn't know if they heard, didn't know if they would understand what he was telling them, much less if it was a good plan. That was one of the burdens of leadership. He flexed his knees then leaped straight up the wall.

The collapse of the ceiling was radiating out from the point of the blast, affording Dodge and the others the merest fraction of a second to make their escape. Even so, huge chunks of ice, like hailstones, rained down on them, bounced against their force fields and knocked them askew. Though relatively protected from the impacts, it was like trying to swim up Niagara Falls. The black opening, no longer perfectly square, became the only thing in Dodge's universe that mattered. When his fingers grazed the threshold, he pulled himself through and was swallowed once more by the darkness.

The dark god stood motionless as a piece of ice the size of an automobile tumbled down the tunnel toward him. It crunched to a halt mere inches away. The chamber beyond was unquestionably sealed and those within, surely dead.

The mercenaries holding the American leader between them exchanged a troubled glance. Although they felt no special loyalty to their comrades who now lay beneath tons of ice, entombed for all eternity, they could not help but be dismayed at the casual indifference of their leader; it might just as easily have been them in there.

The cloaked master knew their thoughts, knew also how easily they would forget those lost soldiers of fortune when they realized how their own share of the final payoff had just increased. He would probably have to dispose of them before returning to America. Emboldened by their possession of the ancient technology they wore, it was only a matter of time before one or both attempted a coup.

He turned away from the collapsed chamber and entered the flying disc, dragging the struggling girl along in his wake. As soon as the metal had sealed over the entry, he illuminated the interior with his staff and addressed the President.

"Your champions have failed. They have either fallen in combat or fled before my face." He leaned close so that the heat of his breath fell upon the other man's face. "You will abdicate your throne to me."

"America will never stand for a dictator in the White House. They will fight and they will throw you down."

The dark god smiled. "They may fight. But for every man that boldly asserts his freedom, there will be another craving to be ruled by a strong hand. Have you brought prosperity and security to your subjects? I will make such things law, and enforce them with a power that none can stand against. America will all too eagerly kneel before her new emperor, and the world shall soon follow!"

Dodge stared at the typewriter wondering how to finish the tale. He had brought Captain Falcon to such a place innumerable times; dangling from the edge of a precipice by his fingertips, bound and gagged by his foes and left in the path of an oncoming train, chained beneath the sweep of a pendulum scythe... Falcon always escaped. But how to get him out of this fix?

Maybe Hurricane could offer a suggestion. Or the Padre.

But that was silly, because Father Hobbs was in Africa. Hobbs was in Africa with Molly.

How did I know that? Because I went there with Hurricane when...

The scales fell once more and he remembered everything. He ran for the door. "Padre!"

Hobbs shot him a warning glance as he burst into the nave. Though the small chapel was empty of worshippers, the priest demanded that this newcomer show the respect due a house of God.

Dodge hastened forward. "Padre, am I glad to see you."

"You are welcome in this house, my son. You are an American?"

"Padre, it's me, Dodge. I need you to remember where you are. Remember the ice." Dodge was himself fighting to keep hold of his slippery consciousness. The forgetfulness of the dream was relentlessly seductive. "Padre, we're in the Abyss."

Hobbs eyes drew into narrow slits at the reference, and then he glanced around as if questioning the solidity of the chapel. "The Abyss? I remember. The roof was coming down; we fled here when there was nowhere else to go."

"Yes! Hurricane is here, too." He pointed to the simple door of tree branches lashed together with twine that shut out the steamy Congo jungle. "He's right through that door."

Yet, Hobbs did not move. "We are trapped, aren't we? In here, we live and think and dream, but beyond the portal there is nothing. Solid ice. We are buried alive, and if we try to flee, we will surely die."

He uttered a dry, mirthless chuckle. "We are already dead, and this is Hell."

"No!" Dodge was vehement, but there was a hint of doubt in his outburst. "I will not accept that. While we are alive, we can find a way. We have to. He has the Pres...He has Molly!"

"Molly." Hobbs gaze fell then just as quickly returned. "You are right, of course. Never give up, not while a single thought or breath remains. How do you propose we make our escape?"

Dodge sighed at the small victory. "First, we collect Hurricane. With the three of us working together, there's nothing we can't accomplish."

"Just like old times."

They found Hurley in a rustic log cabin, hunched over a notebook at a writing desk, illuminated by a single kerosene lamp. Dodge knew this place from the owner's description; it was a bungalow on the Hurley family property in the austere highlands of the Cumberland Plateau. Hurricane came here to write; this was the place where he had recorded the stories that had eventually been transformed by Dodge into the Adventures of Captain Falcon. Hurley wrote longhand, in a careful, almost delicate script that seemed at odds with his explosive demeanor.

It didn't take much persuasion to convince the big man of the illusory nature of their condition. His implicit trust in the Padre's word overrode any lingering doubt; if Father Hobbs had said the flood was coming, Hurricane would have started building an ark. Moreover, the Padre's presence seemed a natural antidote to the constant siren song of the waking dream, and none of the men had any trouble staying in the moment.

"So how do we get out?"

Hobbs deflected the question to Dodge with a glance. "When I left before, it was as simple as concentrating on the image of where I wanted to go."

The priest positioned himself in front of the door, closed his eyes and lifted the simple lever latch. The door however would not budge. Hurley raised an eyebrow. "That door doesn't have a lock. Don't need 'em out here."

"The door — that is to say, the portal to the Abyss — is blocked by ice." Hobbs did not repeat his earlier dire prediction, but it was evident in his eyes.

"Maybe there's another way out."

"This place is a prison, built to contain an evil beyond our comprehension. There isn't going to be a back door."

Dodge didn't ask how the Padre had arrived at the first conclusion. "People break out of prison all the time. Whoever designed this one was counting on the prisoners forgetting reality and living entirely in a dream of their own making. We've already broken that chain."

"Very well," replied Hobbs sourly. "Now if you can just hypnotize yourself into believing that the way out is not buried under a sea of ice, we'll be home free."

"Now hold on Padre," Hurley interjected. "Let's think this through. First, we're not really here in my cabin, right? So where are we — I mean where are our bodies while our minds are here?"

"We're just inside the portal."

"Right." Hurley drew a square on a page of his notebook, then drew three stick figures alongside. "So this Abyss is a physical place as well as a... a mental place."

Dodge thought he saw where Hurley was leading. "Yes. There must be some kind of open space on the other side of the doorway, and we are there, even though we can't see it."

"Hmm. And how big is this space?"

Dodge and Hobbs exchanged a glance. "How big?"

"If it's a physical place — a room or ice cavern of some kind — then it has to have physical dimensions, walls, a floor, a ceiling. That chamber outside was enormous, and look how high up the wall the door was." He sketched a rough cylinder on the paper to illustrate his point, and when he was done, the stick figures appeared to be suspended in a gigantic milk can. "I'd say this pit we're in must be pretty big in all directions. Maybe we can break through the wall somewhere up here —" he pointed to an area near the top of his sketch— "above the icefall."

"Except we can't see those walls to break through them."

"Maybe there is a way." Despite his earlier sarcasm, Hobbs now seemed to have warmed to the idea. "I was joking when I said it—"

"Joking? You?" Hurricane asked, grinning.

"Funny. However, when I suggested that we might be able to hypnotize ourselves into finding a way out... Don't you see? We are being hypnotized right now."

"You can wake us up?"

"I don't know. Whatever is at work here — strong magic or a science beyond our comprehension — is unlike anything we can conceive of. But even the dreamer can sleepwalk." He glanced at the low roof of the cabin. "We can't do it here though. We need to a place with some room to move. Follow me."

Hobbs lifted the latch and pushed the door open to reveal a cavernous enclosure, lit dimly by the flickering flames of hundreds of small votive candles. Even without identifying the religious imagery therein, Dodge knew that they were in a cathedral. It seemed only appropriate; what better place to pray them out of the Abyss?

He led them to a place in the center of the nave directly in front of the dais and instructed them to close their eyes. "Listen to the sound of my voice. If your mind wanders here, you may become lost again in forgetfulness.

"Imagine now that you are suspended in a warm fluid, like an embryo in the womb, cushioned and protected by the amniotic fluid. Float now, free of gravity, free of all limitations."

Dodge felt the warm liquid environment completely enveloping his body. He was no longer conscious of his own weight bearing down upon his feet — he wasn't standing anymore, but drifting in a tranquil sea.

"Rise now to the surface. Reach up and touch the sky."

Eyes still closed, Dodge began kicking with his feet like a swimmer ascending to the surface. The viscous environment slowed his movements, like a dream dance. After what seemed an eternity of sinuous undulating, he felt the cool air of the surface on his face.

"Very good," Hobbs said, his voice muffled by the fluid environment separating them. "Now, break through the sky!"

"How?"

"Hurricane, use your guns!"

At the first thunderous discharge, Dodge's eyes flew open and what he saw defied comprehension. Hurley hovered a few feet below the painted ceiling of the cathedral, eyes still closed, with both of his enormous pistols blasting straight up. But instead of piercing wood and masonry, the bullets were creating what looked like spider web fractures in a sheet of glass and through those cracks there was only deep shadow.

He saw all of this in an instant, and then he began to fall, slowly at first, until he looked down.

It was like something from a nightmare. When he had first entered the sacristy, he had observed a high vaulted ceiling, looming perhaps four stories above. Now, looking down from the upper reaches of the cathedral was like looking down from the top of the Empire State Building. The walls had stretched like taffy, growing in response to his somnolent ascent, so that now a drop of several hundred feet loomed below.

He flailed in the air, feeling the wind of his free fall whip through his hair, and then it occurred to him to try activating the exoskeleton...

Except I never deactivated it.

He stopped instantly, hanging in mid air twenty stories below the place where Hurley hovered, blindly blasting away at the ceiling not just of the cathedral but the Abyss itself. The twin semi-automatics abruptly fell silent as the last cartridge in each was fired. Hurricane automatically ejected and replaced the magazines, but before he could resume the blind assault, Dodge rose up beside him and laid a hand on his arm. The giant nodded in understanding and waited as Dodge forced open one of the fractures.

Beyond the ceiling there was only inky darkness, but as he ventured into it, he realized that he was not looking at the black void of the Abyss, but rather the lightless expanse of the Antarctic night sky.

With the walls of their prison breached, the last chains holding them fast fell away. Hurricane opened his eyes and ascended the remaining distance to join Dodge outside where both men got a look at their surroundings.

Hurley's bullets had chewed through a sheet of ice several feet thick on the sheer face of a glacier. The vertical wall fell away beneath them and was absorbed into the landscape below, where presumably the tunnels of the ancient outpost honeycombed the frozen polar crust. The glacier afforded a little protection from the blizzard conditions, but beyond close proximity, everything was a blur.

"How do we find our way back?" Dodge shouted.

Hurley peered at the snowscape, then looked heavenward. "If we can go high enough to get above this weather, we can use the stars."

Dodge nodded and as soon as Father Hobbs emerged from the Abyss, they flew straight up into the buffeting winds. The journey toward the stratosphere was more tumultuous even than the initial expedition across the ice, but after several minutes of struggle, they abruptly topped the clouds high above the frozen continent.

The Southern Cross lay just off to their left. It was a poor point of reference for navigating away from the South Pole since the heavens orbited around that constellation and none of the other stars were fixed. Hurley finally picked one of the brighter stars as a beacon and they set out, all too aware that they might very well be moving away from their goal. None of the men spoke that fear aloud; they all knew what was at stake.

More than an hour passed, an interminable period of solitude in which Dodge's sense of helplessness grew to exponential proportions. The possibilities for defeat were infinite, while the probability of success seemed infinitesimally small. But then, when he was certain that all was lost, the clouds parted and Hurricane's thunderous voice reached through the thin atmosphere to vibrate against his force field:

"I see them!"

Dodge followed his pointing finger to the endless sea of white below and caught a glimpse of motion, a lone dark speck sliding relentlessly forward. They were close, perhaps only ten minutes behind the flying disk, but there was no way to cut their enemy's lead. For another hour, they chased the distant mote, gaining not an inch, as the shore came into view over the horizon. Not long thereafter, they saw the plane rolling in the embrace of the sea.

"That is where we must make our move," Hurley declared. "We must catch them before they can take off."

The big man's words were strangely comforting to Dodge. He means to win this battle, he thought. With a friend like that on my side...

"He lost a few men in that cave in," Hurricane continued. "If we can keep the element of surprise, we just might be able to each take out one of them before they know what's happening."

Dodge shook his head. "You know that won't work. We have to take him."

Hurley shot him a wary look, but nodded reluctantly. "Won't be easy."

"No it won't," agreed Hobbs. "But the strategy is sound. Cut off the head of the serpent and the snake will die."

"The snake." Hurley's voice was just a murmur, but Dodge understood and shared his sentiment.

The disk ship drove onward, now skimming above the wave tops, slowing as it approached the final rendezvous. The plane was also barely discernible, separated by more than ten miles distance, but its silver outline was distinctive against the dark water. The airship came to a complete halt under the shadow of one wing, the disembarking passengers too small to be seen by the naked eye. Dodge felt a momentary elation as the distance separating them from their quarry began to diminish at last.

His anticipation was short lived. Almost the instant that the airship vanished from view, the plane began to move. Mere seconds after their arrival, the enemy was on the go again, this time racing across the open water until the plane's speed was sufficient to lift it skyward.

The aircraft remained visible for a few moments longer, but as it shrunk to nothing in the distance, so too did all of Dodge's hopes.

## CHAPTER 19

FINAL FLIGHT

Dodge's heart plummeted like a stone. They had failed.

A procession of evils that he imagined would be unleashed by this defeat paraded through his mind, not the least of which was their own fate. They were thousands of miles from any form of civilization, and at the exoskeletons' top speed it would take days for them to reach safety — days in which they would be without food or water. An outcry from Hurley jolted him out of his anguish.

"There's another plane down there."

He looked, but lacking Hurricane's sharp eyes, did not see it until nearly a minute later. His inability to distinguish the aircraft did not owe so much to any shortcoming of his eyesight, but rather the plane's diminutive size. When compared to the enormous X-314, the little bi-plane being tossed about in the swells looked like a bothersome gnat.

"It's the Duck," Hobbs declared.

Dodge kicked himself for having surrendered so quickly to despair; of course there was another plane. Their foe could not have come so far without one. And while the Grumman JF didn't have the same range as the larger Boeing, it was just as fast. The race was not over yet.

Their final approach to the small amphibious craft was unexpectedly nerve-wracking. Salt spray sizzled against their energy shields as they hovered above the pitching plane. To avoid getting electrocuted by a rogue wave, they took a stationary position above the wings, and when the plane rose to the crest of a swell, each man in turn deactivated his exoskeleton and dropped the remaining distance onto the fuselage. Without the protective bubble of the force field, the freezing cold ocean spray and wintry air chilled them to the bone instantaneously.

Once they were safely down, Dodge pushed back the canopy and slid into the pilot's well, while his companions squeezed into the observer's compartment. It took him only a moment to familiarize himself with the switches and levers in the cockpit; though radically different from Boeing, the Duck's control mechanisms were much simpler than those in the larger plane. After a moment of searching, he found the switch that started the lone Wright Cyclone engine.

His takeoff was nothing to be proud of. The plane yawed and banked dangerously close to the turbulent sea as he over-corrected again and again, but once clear of the swells, he quickly learned where a feather touch was required, and adjusted the flaps and propellers to pull the little biplane aloft.

Hurley guided him onto the track of the X-314, now too distant to be observed in the night sky, and Dodge took the plane as high as he dared to get above the weather and increase visibility. He kept the throttle wide open, pushing the nine-cylinder engine into the red. The fuselage shuddered violently from the torque of prolonged excessive exertion, but Dodge saw no alternative. The race would not be won with caution.

They spied the larger plane's running lights ten minutes later, a twinkling pinpoint too nimble to be a star on the horizon. Taking it as an omen that their fortunes were finally changing for the better, Dodge wrestled another five knots from the Cyclone engine and threw the aircraft into a dive that yielded two more. As focused as he was on the pursuit, Dodge kept one wary eye on the fuel gauge. It had registered less than half a tank when they had first reached the Duck; now they were down to nearly a quarter-tank. Although they were finally creeping up on their foe, there would be only a narrow window of opportunity to act before they ran out of fuel and plunged into the sea.

He looked over his shoulder to direct his voice back to the rear cockpit. "When we get close enough, try to shoot out the engines. If we can force them to land, maybe we'll have a chance."

The only response was an affirmative from each man. As dangerous as the suggestion sounded — especially to the hostages aboard — both men were soldiers and knew better than to question an order from their leader. For better or worse, they had chosen that role for him, and now they were bound to that decision.

As the silhouette of the enormous flying boat gradually materialized ahead of them, Hurley pushed the cowling back and leaned out one side of the plane, Hobbs the other. Dodge felt a faint crackle of energy as they activated their exoskeletons. He climbed the Duck up above the Boeing then angled down to give them the best field of fire. His fingers were tight on the control stick as he made his first attack run.

Twin bolts of lightning lanced out ahead of the Duck and scored hits on both of the Boeing's starboard engines. The inboard propeller continued to spin, evidently undamaged, but the outboard nacelle flared brightly and immediately began to stream smoke.

Dodge pulled back on the yoke and took the plane up to assess the results of the assault and prepare for a second run, but before as he rolled the plane onto its side, a tongue of white energy lashed up from the top of the larger aircraft — from the observatory window designed to allow the pilots to navigate by the stars — and flashed across their path.

"Damn!" he raged, reversing the roll, to peel away from the lightning bolt even as it vanished. He had hoped that the plane's occupants would not immediately attribute the engine failure to any hostile act, but it seemed such was not the case. To make matters worse, the Boeing did not appear to be losing speed or altitude.

Another volley of lightning speared into the heavens, forcing Dodge to live up to his nickname. The Duck danced to and fro above the X-314, but nonetheless took a glancing hit that left a black streak on the fuselage. Dodge threw the agile aircraft into a dive that took it out of the range of their foe's weapon, but a second shooter lurking just beyond the side hatch quickly took up the slack.

Hurley returned fire as Dodge twisted away from this new attack, and his lightning bolt left scorched aluminum across the side of the plane and forced the mercenary there to retreat from his position. It was only a brief reprieve; soon multiple bursts of electricity were arcing all around them. Dodge hauled back on the yoke and then rolled the plane over halfway through the loop — without knowing it, he had performed a maneuver known among barnstormers as an Immelmann turn — to change the direction of the plane, after which he retreated to an area of relative safety above and behind the larger plane.

"What now?" Hurricane shouted.

Dodge racked his brain for an answer. Their firepower was equal to the enemy's and their ability to evade was far superior, but like the whalers in a longboat, it would only take a single unlucky swipe of the behemoth's tail to destroy them, whereas the flying boat could withstand a lot of punishment. He circled back and contemplated the metaphor. The difference in their struggle was that they didn't desire the death of the great metal beast; they wanted to get inside it. Dodge felt faintly ill when he realized what he was going to have to do. He took a deep breath, buckled the clasp on his own exoskeleton, and then shouted over his shoulder again. "Hang on! And be ready to move!"

He tried to think about what he was doing in familiar terms, sports terms. This was like football, and he was the quarterback forced to tackle an opposing linebacker who had recovered a fumble. It was going to hurt...a lot...but if he didn't do it, no one could. He pushed the stick forward and charged.

Lighting stabbed out from the top of the larger plane and lanced head-on into the Duck. The engine flared brightly as the bolt incinerated hoses and set fire to the oil and fuel, and in an instant the cockpit filled with acrid smoke. But the electrical discharge could not stop or alter what Dodge had set in motion.

The smaller plane dove like a peregrine falcon on a fat pigeon. It swooped down onto the tail section of the X-314 and plowed into the airframe. The still spinning propeller blades, with the smoking mass of the ruined engine block behind them, chewed through the aluminum skin like it was tissue paper. With a cacophony of metal tearing apart, the Duck smashed into the cabin of the larger plane.

The difference in speed between the two was perhaps only ten miles an hour, but neither craft was designed to withstand a mid-air collision. The wings of the biplane snapped off, but not before carving halfway through the tail of the flying boat. What little fuel remained in the Grumman's tank sprayed out onto the flight deck as a broken support beam gutted its underbelly, and a spark from the smoldering engine set it alight.

Through it all, the Boeing seemed not to have felt the blow. Aside from a tremor at the moment of impact, the big aircraft continued to lumber forward undaunted. Nevertheless, as the flames sprang up in the tail section further damaging the weakened skeleton of the beast, the inevitability of the experimental plane's demise became certain; both aircraft were doomed.

The indefatigable Hurricane Hurley was the first to emerge from the wreckage. Shaken but unhurt, he tore himself free of the crumpled cockpit and came out ready to fight. Though he still wore the exoskeleton, some primitive impulse caused him to brandish his fists rather than the lightning weapon.

One of the mercenaries, the one that had taken a station at the side door, turned to meet his charge and he did not eschew the use of the ancient technology. Lightning sizzled through the smoky air, striking Hurley's shield in a dazzling discharge, but ultimately caused no injury to the raging giant. Hurricane's monstrous hands however, were far more effective. His punches did not penetrate the other man's shield, but the force of the blow sent the unlucky Afrikaaner bouncing around the interior of the craft. As he tumbled away, Hurley slipped a hand through the force field and seized the man's ankle, after which he whipped the unfortunate soldier of fortune around and pitched him headlong toward the wreckage of the biplane. The man bounced off the broken Grumman, and then vanished through the breach, sucked out into the darkness.

The crash had crumpled the lightweight frame of the biplane like a child's balsa wood glider, but Dodge's exoskeleton had protected him at the moment of impact. Nevertheless, it wasn't until Hurricane broke free of the wreckage that he and Hobbs were able to extricate themselves. By the time they escaped, the entire tail section of the plane was ablaze. Fighting through the flames, they reached Hurley's side at almost exactly the same moment that two more mercenaries came forward to challenge them.

Dodge saw Molly and the President, now bound hand and foot near the ladder that led up to the flight deck. Before he could take a step toward them, electric bolts began sizzling back and forth in the enclosed space.

Dodge joined the fight this time, adding the electrical energy from his gauntlets to Hobbs' attack on one of their foes. The man's shield crumpled under the combined assault and a final lightning blast sent him careening senseless into a bulkhead. Hurricane meanwhile engaged the remaining threat using the same methods that had defeated his earlier foe. It was over in seconds.

Dodge felt a surge of elation as he raced over to the hostages and began loosening their bonds; his insane suicide attack on the other airplane had worked! Yet he knew better than to count the outcome of this battle as victory in the war; their nemesis had yet to make an appearance and Dodge didn't believe for a second that the hooded villain would let them simply slip away.

"Hell of a plan!" chortled Hurricane, as he and Hobbs joined the group. "But how did you figure on getting away?"

"We fly," Dodge answered grimly. "We can carry them between us. It's not the best idea in the world, but it's all I've got."

"Then we'd better get moving," suggested Hobbs. "This bird is about to come apart at the seams."

As if to underscore his dire prophecy, a strange vibration began to shiver through the aircraft followed by an animal-like shriek as the weakened tail section began to sag under its own weight. The deformity was just enough to alter the flow of wind around the plane's aerodynamic profile. Dodge managed to snare Molly with one outflung arm and drew her into the protective field, but there was nothing to anchor them in place. The enormous aircraft began to undulate through the sky and the hapless passengers were tossed around like so much chaff. The violent, chaotic heaving further weakened the damaged section, and after only a few seconds the entire tail of the Boeing tore free and fell away into the night.

It was the beginning of the end. Suddenly unbalanced, the enormous plane nosed over and began to spiral downward. The corkscrew turning threw the battered passengers against the sides of the cabin and centrifugal force held them fast. The crazed carnival ride lasted only a few moments however, and then the intensity of the spin began to diminish and along with it, the noise of the three remaining engines.

Hobbs was the first to divine the import of this. He understood that up on the flight deck their arch-foe had switched off the engines to slow their deadly descent. The plane was now gliding in the same uncontrollable spin; not quite dropping like a stone, but still doomed to crash. Worse, there could be only one reason for their enemy to cut power: he was preparing to attack. "We have to go! Now!"

But his warning came too late. Before he could move, a pillar of violet fire transfixed him like an insect on a pin.

The energy bolt tore through his force field like it didn't exist and the full fury of the blast crashed into his chest. Hobbs' entire body jerked rigidly, enveloped within a corona of electricity, and he collapsed in a heap. Even after the lightning ceased, sparks of energy continued to coruscate along his extremities like rivulets of water, and wisps of smoke issued from his hair and clothing. From where he crouched, still hugging Molly and too dizzy from the spin to rise, Dodge saw no indication that the Padre still drew breath.

"No!" Molly tore free of Dodge's grasp and half-crawled across the deck. She cradled her father's lifeless head in her lap, oblivious to both the fire now creeping through the plane and the impending crash.

Hurricane seemed likewise unaware of these imminent dangers. He gazed at the stricken priest, rage boiling behind his eyes, and then focused on the source of the lethal attack. The hooded figure stood imperiously at the top of the ladder, wielding his metal staff like the god he claimed to be.

If he was intimidated by the display, Hurley didn't let it show. Instead, he lashed out with a two-fisted lightning attack of his own, even as he started running toward the ladder.

The cloaked villain gave a maniacal laugh then leaped from his perch, easily avoiding the electrical arcs, to land on his feet directly in Hurley's path. Hurricane tried to react to the unexpected maneuver but he was too slow. The dark god sidestepped and then lashed out with the lightning rod, using it like a cudgel, to hammer Hurley in the kidneys.

His momentum and the fierce pain of the blow, which passed effortlessly through the energy shield, caused Hurricane to stumble out of control into the ladder. He caromed from the sturdy rungs and rebounded back into the villain's clutches. The staff came down again, and although Hurley managed to throw up his left arm to parry, the blow connected with the intensity of a bomb blast. There was a burst of light from inside the ineffective energy bubble as Hurricane's forearm snapped, and then the full force of the dark god's weapon blasted against his torso and propelled him backwards down the length of the cabin, through the gaping hole where the tail section had been, and out into the night.

Dodge alone remained to face the villain, and could only watch in mute horror as the triumphant foe stalked toward him.

## CHAPTER 20

FALCON'S VICTORY

"Beg for mercy Chronicler. Perhaps I will let you live, so that you may record my victory today."

"Victory?" Dodge remained defiant. "Look around. We'll all be dead in a few seconds."

The dark god laughed again. "Have you learned nothing Chronicler? I cannot be destroyed."

"You're wrong."

The dark god's eyes flashed beneath his hood. "America's greatest champions have fallen before me. I have the power of the heavens at my command. No man can stand against me."

"You're wrong," Dodge repeated. "There is one man who can... who will defeat you, and you know who I mean. That's why you called him out. You were afraid Captain Falcon could beat you; you couldn't take the chance that he might show up and ruin your day."

"Falcon!" The name was spat out, like a curse. "The coward hides."

"No!" Dodge answered sharply, silencing the commanding voice of his foe. "He's not hiding. He's lost. After his war ended, he wandered the world trying to find himself — to find a new purpose. Instead, he only fell deeper into despair, until he barely remembered who he was. He tried becoming an explorer, and eventually joined an expedition to the South Pole. That was where he found you."

The dark god glowered but did not challenge Dodge's narrative. For a moment the only sounds were the rush of wind as the stricken Boeing continued to gyrate down to its doom and Molly's soft sobbing.

"He found you," Dodge continued. "How long had you been trapped in that pit? Ten thousand years? Millennium after millennium trapped in a dream, unable to wake up, and then someone opened the door.

"Ten thousand years is a long time, though. Your body was gone, turned to dust, and your memories... How much did you forget? Did you even remember your own name? Probably not, but you remembered wanting to rule the world, and here in front of you was the perfect vessel for your disembodied spirit. You took over his body and searched his memories asking one question: 'Who can oppose me?'"

Dodge had no way of knowing how much of his supposition was accurate, but his foe's sudden quiet suggested he was pretty close to the mark. But Dodge wasn't done yet; he wasn't simply stalling for time—he was trying to reach the one man that might still be able to defeat this monster.

"'Who can oppose me? What man is strong enough to defeat me?' Your new vessel didn't remember who he was, but he remembered a hero named Captain Falcon."

"No," whispered the man. "Not true."

"Hurricane probably noticed it from the very start, when you sent that movie, demanding to fight Falcon. He must have recognized you, even though he never told me. Hobbs too, when the time came. I didn't make the connection until you saved me in the Congo. You...or was that Falcon that saved me?"

He won't be happy when he learns I saved you...

He had told Dodge something else as well. You must find Falcon. Only Falcon can stop him.

The last piece clicked into place, and when he spoke again, it was not to the dark god, but to Captain Zane Falcon. "You did remember! You knew you couldn't beat such a powerful creature on your own; you were too weak, too lost. That's why you sent him after Falcon; you knew that eventually your old friends would figure out what had happened. It was the only way to send them a message; a cry for help. 'Wake me up, so I can fight this thing. So I can beat him.'

"You can beat him, Cap. You just have to wake up."

The hooded figure spat out a derisive laugh, but Dodge could see the conflict in his eyes. "Your lies will avail you not. This body does not belong to Captain Falcon. Falcon is a scared rabbit, hiding from my wrath..."

"You are Captain Falcon. The proof is right there on your belt."

A seeking hand unconsciously snaked beneath the robes and the man that was both the dark god and Captain Falcon removed the object Dodge had glimpsed earlier in the skies over the Congo.

"It's your hatchet; a family heirloom used by one of your ancestors during the French-Indian War when he fought with Rogers' Rangers. You've carved up more bad guys with that than I can count; Dr. Ragnarok, Rasputin, Kronos... I could go on all day. Our enemy would have known that if he'd paid attention to my stories. You are a hero, Cap, and that's your trademark — your talisman."

Falcon held the blade up so that it glinted in the firelight. He stared at it for a moment then looked past the razor-honed edge to where Hobbs lay unmoving in Molly's arms. His gaze came back to meet Dodge's stare, and when it did, there was no trace of the dark god in his eyes.

"They're good stories, Dodge." His sad smile was just visible beneath the shadow of the hood. He drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for the final battle, then held the hatchet against his heart.

"Wait!"

But Dodge's plea went unanswered. Falcon had long known that there could be only one outcome to this confrontation. Dodge's revelations had broken the dark god's control, but the entity Falcon had unwittingly released from the Abyss was strong; this moment would not last, and it would not come again. Free of fear or hesitation, Captain Zane Falcon closed his eyes and fell forward onto the naked blade.

Dodge raced to his side, but what had been done could not be undone. He rolled the fallen hero onto his back, and was immediately covered in the other man's blood; the hatchet was buried deep in his chest. Falcon's eyes were open and bright however. He smiled up at Dodge and whispered a final request: "Save my friends."

The words brought Dodge back into the moment. Molly!

The battle was won, but the victory would be hollow if the survivors perished in a plane crash. He gently lowered Falcon's head and rushed to where the girl sat, no longer crying, but simply dumbstruck with confusion at what she had witnessed.

Hobbs didn't appear to be breathing, but an occasional flutter of the eyes gave Dodge a glimmer of hope. "I think he's alive but we've got to get out of here."

"How?"

Dodge considered this. With Hobbs unconscious, there was no way for Dodge to bear three passengers on his back. Then inspiration dawned. He rushed back to Falcon's side and threw back his robes. There, tucked in a secret pocket, was the metal staff with which the dark god had wielded fire, and more importantly, controlled the airship.

Dodge didn't have the first clue how to use it, but thus far most of the artifacts of the ancient civilization that had built the Antarctic outpost had been controlled simply by the will power of their users. He held the staff up and closed his eyes, letting his mind form a picture of the disc-shaped vessel.

"It's working!" Molly shouted.

Indeed, a silvery coin had lifted from Falcon's pocket and moved to the very place Dodge had imagined, growing instantly into a shape large enough to accommodate all of them. Dodge gestured to it, imagining a place for them to enter. "Open sesame."

The metal peeled back in a pie-shaped wedge. Dodge stuffed the wand into his belt and hurriedly assisted Molly in moving her father and the President onto the airship. As soon as they were aboard, he sealed the gap, plunging them into darkness.

"How about some light?" he asked, addressing the staff, and was rewarded with an incandescent violet glow, but it illuminated only the interior of the disc. He let the flame die and instead tried to imagine something more useful.

The entire body of the airship suddenly became translucent, as though only a thin film of gray separated them from the interior of the X-314. "I think I'm getting the hang of this!"

He gestured with the rod, and immediately their tiny lifeboat slid down the length of the cabin and passed through the gaping wound where the Boeing's tail assembly had once been.

The airship shot out into the dark sky, barely a hundred feet above the churning ocean. The enormous flying boat continued to corkscrew away beneath them, but the plane's death-spiral lasted only a few seconds more. The smoking hulk splashed down with such force that the aluminum skin burst on impact. A few fragments of the once mighty plane floated briefly on the surface, but the rolling swells soon drew every trace of the X-314 down into the depths.

They managed to rouse Hobbs a few minutes after their escape. He was surprisingly lucid considering what he had experienced. The reunion was shattered however by an eerily familiar flash of light outside the protective membrane of their craft. A single bolt of white lightning had arced above them and stabbed ineffectually into the sky.

Molly groaned aloud. "I thought we finished this."

"Don't worry," Dodge said, angling the craft toward the source of the blast. "We've got a lot more firepower now."

There was another flash, and another, each one clearly pinpointing the location of the exoskeleton-clad attacker. Dodge fixed the man's location in his mind and prepared to unleash an assault that would vaporize their foe. The outside of the disc began to sizzle with a gathering charge of electricity.

"Stop! It's Hurricane!"

Hobbs' stern command almost jolted Dodge into releasing his blast, but he managed to pull it back before incinerating his friend. Overjoyed beyond belief, he angled the ship toward the hovering figure and lit up the interior so that Hurley could see that it was they, and not the enemy that controlled the airship. The big man was likewise elated to discover that his friends had not perished in the crash of the plane.

Despite the pain in his broken arm, the first thing Hurricane did upon entering the ship was to scoop each of his friends up in a crushing embrace. He held onto Molly perhaps longer than the others, but he saved Dodge for last. "I don't know how you did it, lad, but well done."

Dodge grinned, feeling a little foolish. "How did you survive?"

"Well, when he hit me with that blast, it knocked me for a loop. I woke up before I hit the water and managed to stop myself from falling, but I couldn't fly this thing with my arm all busted up."

Molly took this as a cue and immediately seized the big man's arm and commenced probing it to determine the extent of the injury.

Dodge turned to the Padre. "And you. I would have sworn you were dead."

"I was for a few seconds," the priest admitted. "That lightning bolt stopped my heart."

"Then how...?"

"A little trick I learned in India. I put myself into a deep trance state until the shock passed and I could start my heart beating again."

Dodge chuckled. "I'll have to remember that you can do that. I'm sure it will come in handy in a Captain Falcon story."

Even as he said it, he felt a flare of old pain, and saw the same in the Padre's eyes. "The Cap; is he...?"

The President cleared his throat. "I believe that Captain Falcon arrived to save us from that monster just in the nick of time. Sadly, he made the ultimate sacrifice to save his friends."

Hobbs nodded, and for a moment Dodge thought he saw a tear in the dour man's eye. Hurley too fell into a mournful silence, compelling Dodge to speak. "He was himself at the end. He was the Cap again and he saved us all."

Then he felt Molly's arms around his waist, hugging him from behind. "No, Dodge, you did."

THE END

## ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SEAN ELLIS is the author of several novels. He is a veteran of Operation Enduring Freedom, and has a Bachelor of Science degree in Natural Resources Policy from Oregon State University. He lives with his wife and two sons in Arizona, where he divides his time between writing, adventure sports, and trying to figure out how to save the world.

## BOOKS BY SEAN ELLIS

Mira Raiden Adventures

Ascendant

Descendant (forthcoming)

The Nick Kismet Thrillers

The Shroud of Heaven

Into the Black

Fortune Favors

The Devil You Know (novella)

The Adventures of Dodge Dalton

In the Shadow of Falcon's Wings

At the Outpost of Fate

On the High Road to Oblivion

Chess Team/Jack Sigler Thrillers

(with Jeremy Robinson)

Callsign: King

Underworld

Blackout

Prime

Savage

The Jade Ihara Adventures

Oracle (with David Wood)

Changeling (with David Wood-forthcoming)

Other Works

Dark Trinity - Ascendant

Magic Mirror

WarGod (with Steven Savile)

Hell Ship (with David Wood)

Destiny (with David Wood)

Flood Rising (with Jeremy Robinson)
