“We will not leave those clouds alive,” Doc warned

Ryan drew his blaster and started firing, the red-hot rounds easily punching through the tough polymer and deflating the balloons.

“Water!” Krysty called out, pointing ahead.

There was a wide break in the stygian forest, a calm river that traversed the valley floor. Their target was a slim area of flat mud between the rocks, impossible to hit at their current speed.

“That’s our best chance,” Ryan shouted, slashing at the side ropes. “Wait for it.…Now!” In unison the companions dived from the pallet, and a split second later the Pegasus rammed into the trees and was torn apart by a thousand sharp branches.

Only the babbling of the shallow river disturbed the heavy silence. Then swatches of light bobbed through the darkness, and armed men stepped from the bushes along the riverbank to approach the still figures sprawled in the bloody mud.

Other titles in the Deathlands saga:

Pilgrimage to Hell

Red Holocaust

Neutron Solstice

Crater Lake

Homeward Bound

Pony Soldiers

Dectra Chain

Ice and Fire

Red Equinox

Northstar Rising

Time Nomads

Latitude Zero

Seedling

Dark Carnival

Chill Factor

Moon Fate

Fury’s Pilgrims

Shockscape

Deep Empire

Cold Asylum

Twilight Children

Rider, Reaper

Road Wars

Trader Redux

Genesis Echo

Shadowfall

Ground Zero

Emerald Fire

Bloodlines

Crossways

Keepers of the Sun

Circle Thrice

Eclipse at Noon

Stoneface

Bitter Fruit

Skydark

Demons of Eden

The Mars Arena

Watersleep

Nightmare Passage

Freedom Lost

Way of the Wolf

Dark Emblem

Crucible of Time

Starfall

Encounter:

Collector’s Edition

Gemini Rising

Gaia’s Demise

Dark Reckoning

Shadow World

Pandora’s Redoubt

Rat King

Zero City

Savage Armada

Judas Strike

Shadow Fortress

DEATH LANDS®

James Axler

To Rich Tucholka, a good friend, and a good man

Storm’d at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro’ the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them…

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1809–1892

THE DEATHLANDS SAGA

This world is their legacy, a world born in the violent nuclear spasm of 2001 that was the bitter outcome of a struggle for global dominance.

There is no real escape from this shockscape where life always hangs in the balance, vulnerable to newly demonic nature, barbarism, lawlessness.

But they are the warrior survivalists, and they endure—in the way of the lion, the hawk and the tiger, true to nature’s heart despite its ruination.

Ryan Cawdor: The privileged son of an East Coast baron. Acquainted with betrayal from a tender age, he is a master of the hard realities.

Krysty Wroth: Harmony ville’s own Titian-haired beauty, a woman with the strength of tempered steel. Her premonitions and Gaia powers have been fostered by her Mother Sonja.

J. B. Dix, the Armorer: Weapons master and Ryan’s close ally, he, too, honed his skills traversing the Deathlands with the legendary Trader.

Doctor Theophilus Tanner: Torn from his family and a gentler life in 1896, Doc has been thrown into a future he couldn’t have imagined.

Dr. Mildred Wyeth: Her father was killed by the Ku Klux Klan, but her fate is not much lighter. Restored from predark cryogenic suspension, she brings twentieth-century healing skills to a nightmare.

Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.

Dean Cawdor: Ryan’s young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.

In a world where all was lost, they are humanity’s last hope.…

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Chapter One

Slithering through the jungle brush, the huge cobra reared its head and hissed loudly at the sight of the approaching humans.

Both of his hands splayed wide to force a path through the tangled vines, Ryan Cawdor didn’t pause at the sight of the reptile, but instantly stomped down with his combat boot, pinning it. Struggling furiously, the cobra uprooted small plants as the man pulled a panga from its sheath on his belt and sliced downward with all of his strength. The blade neatly severed the head, pale blood spraying from the neck stump as the long body thrashed madly about in the leaves.

But as the snake head hit the ground, its eyes flared wide and the mutie spit out a long stream of greenish fluid. Ryan bent out of the way and the poison hit a tree, the bark turning white almost instantly. Stomping harder on the reptile, the one-eyed warrior felt bones crack, but the creature still struggled to get free. Muttering a curse, Ryan kept his boot in place and drew his 9 mm SIG-Sauer blaster from the holster at his hip. Racking the slide to chamber a round under the hammer, he lifted his boot and fired twice, the soft chugs of the sound-suppressed weapon lost in the rustle of the trees overhead from the ocean breeze. The soft-nosed slugs punched through both of the cobra’s eyes, blowing its head apart, bones and brains splashing across the stubby grass under the papaya plants.

Three feet away, the hanging cluster of flowery vines burst apart and out stepped a short wiry man with a pump-action shotgun in his callused hands. The newcomer was wearing a fedora hat and wire-rimmed glasses. An Uzi machine pistol was slung across a shoulder, and a bulging canvas bag hung at his side. His leather bomber jacket was stained with sweat, and his clothes were discolored with quicksand and dried blood.

“Centipede?” John Barrymore Dix asked, the maw of his S&W M-4000 blaster sweeping the area for possible targets.

“Just a snake this time,” Ryan grunted in reply, stabbing the panga into the moist soil to clean away any possible trace of the venom. “Nothing serious.”

On the ground, the headless body of the mutie reptile still wiggled about as if unwilling to accept its unexpected demise. Ryan kicked it aside.

“Well, anything’s better than those triple-damn leeches,” J.B. said with a scowl, easing his stance.

Holstering his blaster, Ryan grunted in agreement, then ripped a leaf from a breadfruit tree to wipe the soft dirt off the steel before sheathing his blade.

Ryan towered over J.B. Long curly black hair framed a humorless face covered with a network of scars, an old leather patch masking the puckered ruin of his left eye. A 7.62 mm bolt-action Steyr sniper rifle was slung over a powerful shoulder, and a heavy canvas pack rode easily on his back. A coat lined with ratty fur was tied around his waist from the stifling jungle heat, his shirt was unbuttoned halfway, exposing a muscular chest with more knife scars and the dead-white dots of old bullet wounds.

Taking a small drink of water from his canteen, J.B. then offered the container to Ryan, who gratefully took a sip, sloshing the precious fluid about in his mouth before swallowing. Fresh water was merely one of the many things the companions were drastically running low on. This gamble to reach the crashed plane had better payoff, or they might find themselves in chains before Lord Baron Kinnison, a lunatic infamous for giving prisoners his terrible rotting disease before torturing them. That way, even if somebody escaped, he or she still died in screaming torment. It was a serious threat that few dared to risk.

“Which way?” Ryan asked, brushing back his wild crop of hair.

Reaching into a pocket, J.B. checked the compass in his hand and watched until the needle trembled only slightly. “Left.”

Nodding in agreement, Ryan headed in that direction, using his bare hands to push aside the thick vines and broad banana leaves. The weight of the panga was a tempting reminder of how easy it would be to cut a path through the bushes. But that also left behind a trail so clean any feeb could follow. And on this nameless island, being discovered meant death.

Swatting a buzzing skeeter, J.B. let the tall man get a few yards ahead, then followed in his wake, trying to put his boots in the other man’s prints to minimize the trail. Close behind the wiry Armorer came a ragged line of five more people, each moving quietly through the dense foliage: a tall redhead armed with a Smith & Wesson revolver, an albino teenager hobbling along on a homemade crutch, a stocky black woman with beaded hair who was hugging a predark med kit, a young grim-faced boy brandishing a sleek Browning semiautomatic pistol and, lastly, a thin old man with silver hair, sporting a huge revolver and an ebony walking stick with a silver lion’s head on top. The group stayed three yards apart, the old man judiciously scratching the ground in their wake with his ebony stick to rearrange the leaves and try to hide their passage.

Slow miles passed, and Ryan checked with J.B. twice more on their direction as the group penetrated deeper into the heart of the island jungle. Soon the moss-coated trees were growing so close together that walking between the trunks was becoming difficult, and the branches overhead crisscrossed each other, effectively blocking out the sun. Midnight ruled the forest, but the travelers dared not light their sole oil lantern. The fish oil smelled awful, and they were much too close to the enemy ville of Cascade. The slightest mistake now, and it was all over.

Finally, Ryan reached a grove of massive banyan trees, the hanging vines so thick with leaves and orchids that the group could see nothing in the branches above. The only illumination came from a peppering of sunlight streaming in through a hundred tiny breaks in the foliage. It was like a rain of sunbeams.

As his vision adjusted to the dim lighting, Ryan gestured at J.B. The short man checked his compass, counting to twenty until he saw the needle quiver again, but it no longer seemed to be pulling to the left or right.

“This looks like the spot,” the Armorer stated, tucking the predark device into his munitions bag. “We must be right underneath the plane.”

“Can’t tell a thing from down here,” Ryan stated, studying the overhang of leaves and flowers. “We need Mildred’s flashlight. I’ll call in the others.”

Stepping backward, J.B. put his back to a tree and leveled the shotgun. “Got you covered,” he said, snicking off the safety.

Cupping both hands around his mouth, the man trilled a soft whistle three times. The signal was repeated so low Ryan almost couldn’t hear it, but he answered with one short whistle. A few moments later, familiar faces started easing from the bushes on every side with loaded weapons in their hands.

“Hey, lover,” Krysty Wroth whispered, her animated red hair splaying outward in anxiety. To those who knew the woman well, the movements of her hair betrayed her every emotion.

The tall woman was wearing a khaki jumpsuit with the front partly unzipped to expose a wealth of tan cleavage. Instead of combat boots, Krysty wore blue cowboy boots with steel-tipped toes and a spread-wing-falcon design emblazoned on the sides. Her bearskin coat was tied around her hips to keep the garment out of the way. An old police gun belt with ammo loops circled her shapely hips to support the open holster for the S&W .38 revolver. A sloshing canteen and U.S. Ranger knife were clipped to her regular belt, a bulky backpack riding high on her firm shoulders.

Glancing at Krysty for a moment, Ryan once again realized just how truly beautiful she was. Sometimes it was as if he were seeing her for the first time: the high cheekbones, emerald-green eyes and animated red hair that flowed past her shoulders. Krysty was the most beautiful woman Ryan had ever seen.

Ryan felt the usual rush of blood to his loins and forced his attention back to counting the shadows emerging from the jungle. He had to make sure it was just his crew, and that nobody was trying to sneak among them under cover of the shadows. When he was satisfied there was nobody else in the small clearing but the companions, he reached out and gave Krysty’s slim hand a brief squeeze. She squeezed back with surprising strength almost equal to his own.

“Any trouble?” Ryan asked. He knew Krysty had some mutie blood, which gave her an ability to sense danger. More than once, it had saved their lives.

Leaning against a banyan tree, the woman breathed in the strange perfumes of the exotic flowers. “All clear,” Krysty answered. “Not a sound of folks for miles.”

For the first time in a day, the Deathlands warrior allowed himself to relax the tiniest bit. “Good. You’re on guard. Let me know if anything starts coming our way.”

Stepping away from the tree, Krysty nodded.

“So this is the location of our aerial El Dorado, eh?” Dr. Theophilus Tanner rumbled in a deep voice. The silver-haired man placed his walking stick on a tree root so it wouldn’t sink into the soft earth, and leaned heavily on its lion head ferrule. “Well, we are indeed pilgrims in the valley of the shadows. Most appropriate.”

Although only thirty-eight years old, Doc appeared to be more than sixty, with his heavily lined face and a wild shock of silvery hair. The alteration of his features was merely one of the side effects Doc had suffered at the hands of the ruthless scientists from Operation Chronos.

Ripped from the bosom of his family in the late 1880s, Doc was trawled forward in time to the late 1990s as a test subject. However, Doc proved to be an unruly and uncooperative specimen and was sent forward in time to what had become the Deathlands. Unfortunately, the trawling scrambled some portions of his mind, and Doc sometimes drifted away, reliving prior events or just dreaming aloud while wide-awake. But in a fight, the gentle scholar from Vermont became a deadly fighter and was a valuable member of the group.

Refusing to relinquish any hold on his past, Doc wore clothes of his day, including pin-striped pants and matching vest, a frilly white shirt with a string bow tie and a long frock coat, now with several bullet holes in the twilled fabric. A U.S. Army backpack was carried effortlessly on his shoulders, and around his waist was a cracked leather belt lined with ammo pouches for his gigantic .44 Civil War blaster.

“Pipe down, you old coot,” Mildred Wyeth muttered, using handfuls of grass to try to wipe the residue of quicksand from her clothes. Once it dried, the stuff came off easily. It was only the high viscosity and depth that made the bog dangerous.

Short and stocky, the physician wore loose Air Force fatigues, with a Czech-made ZKR target pistol holstered on her left side for the cross draw she favored. Before skydark Mildred had gone into a hospital for a simple operation, but there had been complications, and a hundred years later she awoke in a cryogenic freezer, a new Gulliver trapped in a frightening world forged from atomic nightmares.

“Might as well set off a gren if you’re going to talk that loud,” Mildred stated, tossing away the filthy grass.

“My humble apologies,” Doc muttered in a wry apology, then continued in the same volume.

“So where is our arboreal harbor located, John Barrymore?”

“Straight up,” J.B. said, jerking a thumb at the impenetrable ceiling of the jungle. “From here, we climb.”

“Indeed,” Doc said, studying the dense weaving of vines and creepers. “How antediluvian for us.”

Standing her post, Krysty ignored the conversation, forcing herself to listen to the distant sounds of the forest, the chattering of a distant monkey, a flowing stream, birds in flight and the constant hum of the insects all around them. There were a lot of bugs in this jungle.

“I’ll take the lead and cut us a path,” Ryan stated, tightening the straps on his backpack. “Just remember to put any loose branches or leaves in your pockets. Don’t let anything fall to the ground and mark the spot.”

“Easy,” Jak Lauren grunted, wincing slightly as he accidentally put some weight on his sprained ankle.

The bus crash at the quagmire had almost chilled the lot of them, and it was just chance that a barrel of shine had fallen on his leg. Thankfully, it was empty and he only received a sprain, not a break. Mildred was a good doctor, but there wasn’t really much a person could do for a broken leg.

A true albino, Jak wore his snowy hair long, and often leaned forward so it fell across his scarred face to mask his pale red eyes from enemies and preventing them from detecting which way he was going to charge. Deception was the Cajun’s favorite weapon.

In spite of the humidity and heat, Jak was still wearing his camouflage jacket, the lapels and collar decorated with bits of razors, special hidden surprises for anybody foolish enough to grab him by the jacket. At least a dozen leaf-bladed throwing knives were hidden on his person, and a big .357 Magnum Colt Python pistol was tucked into his belt.

“How are you doing?” Mildred asked, coming closer. “Feeling okay?”

In the gloom, Jak scowled. “Fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Nothing but pain.”

“Crap,” Mildred replied, and rummaged about in her med kit until unearthing a plastic film container. Snapping the top, she poured out three aspirins and gave the teenager two.

“Take them,” the physician ordered in a no-nonsense tone of voice. “If we’re going to be climbing trees, you’ll need these.”

Although hating to ever appear weak, Jak was no stupe and took the pills with a swig from his canteen. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth on a sleeve.

“No problem,” Mildred replied, tucking away her meager medical supplies.

Boots softly crunching on the carpeting of leaves as he walked through the crowd of adults, a boy strode to the biggest banyan tree and briefly inspected the trunk. The branches were low and thick, vines everywhere for easy climbing. To anybody but the wounded, it was an easy climb.

“Want me to do a recce?” Dean Cawdor asked, holstering his blaster to free both hands.

Almost twelve years old, Dean was already the spitting image of his father.

“I’ll go this time,” Ryan stated, and reached up to grab a branch.

Suddenly, Krysty snapped her head to the left and raised a clenched fist. Instantly, the group froze, hands poised on their assorted weapons. Long minutes passed before the sound of engines could be dimly heard, then the voices of angry men. The noises came closer, the voices soon loud enough to hear clearly over the struggling engines of several vehicles. The companions tensed as the volume grew, then in ragged stages, the sounds of the wags and sec men began fading into the distance.

“Are they gone?” Mildred whispered tersely.

“No. There are more wags to the north and east,” Krysty said, her green eyes half-closed to concentrate on the task of listening. “There’s an army combing the jungle looking for something.”

“Us,” Ryan stated, holstering his piece. Mitchum wanted them aced; Glassman wanted to capture them alive. He wasn’t about to let either event happen.

“No sounds of plants being crushed under tires,” Mildred said thoughtfully as the tiny beams of sunlight streaming across the clearing flickered from the passing of a cloud overhead. “Must be a road close by.”

“Too close,” Jak stated, keeping his .357 Magnum blaster pointed at the greenery. He was down to four rounds, and was going to make each one count before he took the last train west.

“Think it was Mitchum?” Dean asked anxiously, his young face tense and serious. They had befriended the sec man, saving him from the stew pot of cannies, but somehow that had gotten turned around and now the sec man was hell-bent for revenge.

“I do not believe so, lad,” Doc rumbled. “To the best of our knowledge, the good colonel did not have access to any motorized transport. Horses were his sole venue.”

Carefully, Doc set the selector pin on his huge hand cannon from the shotgun barrel to the .44 cylinder. The LeMat was a Civil War antique, but in the old man’s steady hands the LeMat struck like the wrath of God.

“Must be his new associate, Glassman,” Ryan said, pulling the panga from its sheath and sliding it into his belt for easier access.

“Here fast,” Jak said slowly.

“Those steam-powered PT boats of his are mighty quick,” J.B. agreed, tilting back his fedora. “He must have swung around the island and gotten fresh troops from Cascade ville, trying to catch us between him and Mitchum.”

A distant rattle of a machine gun shook the jungle, the animals going quiet, the birds screaming loudly and rustling the trees as they launched for the sky.

Frowning deeply, Krysty turned in a circle. “Gaia save us, there are Hummers everywhere.”

“Trying to flush us out,” Jak said, awkwardly shifting his stance on the crutches.

Reaching high, Ryan grabbed a branch and pulled himself off the ground. “Wait for my signal to follow,” he said from the blackness above. “Don’t do anything until I come back. If I get aced, head for the mountains. We passed a cave there you can use to hide in until things cool down.”

“Get going and find that plane,” J.B. growled irritably, balancing the shotgun in his grip.

Digging in his boots, Ryan started shimmying up the tree and soon disappeared from sight in the thick foliage. A few minutes later, a brass cartridge fell to the ground, bouncing off the branches until it hit the ground. Dean scooped it up and saw the cartridge was intact, and not a spent round ejected from his father’s blaster.

“Live,” he reported. “Dad found it.”

“Get moving,” J.B. said, and started up the tree himself, moving slower than Ryan because of the Uzi on his back. The little branches kept sticking into the weapon and slowing him.

Grabbing a vine, the Armorer tried climbing that instead of the tree and made much faster progress. The vine was thicker than a gren, and the wide leaves provided good bracing for his boots. As the vine ended, he shimmied along the branch until reaching the trunk. He stabbed a knife into the wood, drawing himself up as he kicked footholds in the rough bark with his boots.

The higher he climbed, the cooler it got and the brighter the sunlight. Soon J.B. emerged from the canopy of leaves to find himself blinking in direct sunlight. Ryan stood nearby with a boot resting in the fork of two branches, looking through the curtain of vines.

“There she is,” he said, indicating the direction with his chin.

Pulling himself onto the stout branch, J.B. could only marvel at the titanic machine sprawled in the treetops before them. It was gigantic.

More than a hundred feet long, the incredible aircraft supported two huge engines with six propellers on each wing. Vines and creepers covered the plane, only the glass of the cockpit and the tail rudder clearly visible amid the flowering creepers. It was a wonder Dean had spotted it from a mile away.

“That’s a Hercules,” Ryan said, swaying to the wind. It was a lot stronger up there and carried a strong taste of salt from the nearby ocean. “Saw a picture of one in a redoubt, pinned to the wall like a girlie poster.”

“Yeah, I know,” J.B. replied. “I spent a month living in a crashed wreck once. Good planes.”

Carefully, Ryan glanced downward. “Any chance the sec men could see us up here?”

“No way in hell,” Krysty replied, crawling into view. Then the woman paused at the sight of the huge plane. “That flew?”

“Like an angel,” Mildred said, pulling herself along a vine and stepping onto a branch. “The Hercules C-130.”

In a short while, the rest of the companions arrived, Jak and Doc last, the elderly man assisting the wounded teenager to a fork in the trunk. The Cajun gave the old man a nod in thanks and settled his aching back against the trunk of the tree.

“No way this thing flew,” Dean stated flatly. “No way.”

“Big mother,” Jak agreed, massaging his throbbing ankle.

Careful of his footing, Ryan walked along the branch and experimentally rested a boot on the tip of a wing. It didn’t move, so he put on more and more weight until he was standing fully on the leafy metal. Nothing moved. He chanced a jump, and the leaves shook a little, but the plane remained firmly in place. There was no way anybody could have moved such a colossal machine into the treetops to make a hidden ville. The aircraft had to have crashed here during a storm, and the branches grew around the trapped plane over the decades, trapping it forever.

Moving to a more secure position, Ryan brushed away the vines to see a smooth expanse of green metal. There was no sign of rust. He rapped it with a knuckle and heard nothing. Too solid to echo. Good enough. If it hadn’t fallen in a hundred years, there was no reason it should this day.

“Okay, it’s safe,” Ryan said to the others over a shoulder. “She’s solid as a rock, moored in place by over a dozen trees. Couldn’t move the damn thing if we wanted.”

Curiously, the rest of the companions started warily closer, with Jak staying behind to guard their flanks. The aspirins had helped ease his pain, but not a lot.

“Yeah, this should be okay for a temp shelter,”

J.B. said, adjusting his glasses to glance at the fiery storm clouds overhead. The metal hull would protect them from any acid rain. If they had to stay somewhere until Jak healed, this was as good a place as any.

“Certainly be a triple-bad bitch to attack,” Krysty agreed, placing one boot carefully ahead of the other as she crossed the wing.

His long hair blowing in the steady wind, Ryan scowled at the pronouncement. Proceeding very slowly with a hand hovering near his blaster, the man surveyed what he could of the downed behemoth. There was no sign of anybody using it as a home. The cockpit windows weren’t broken, the side hatch was still in place and the aft cargo hatch appeared to be sealed shut. He relaxed with the knowledge that they were the first to discover the predark wreckage.

Warily, the Deathlands warrior eased along the network of branches between the wing and the front of the plane to reach the cockpit windows. A layer of dust covered the plastic, and he used a handful of leaves to brush the transparent material clean. The sun was at the wrong angle to illuminate the interior, so Ryan cupped hands around his face to try to see inside. After a few minutes, his eye became adjusted to the darkness. The pilot and copilot were still strapped in their chairs, their skeleton hands on their throats. Their uniforms were mixed; the pilot was Air Force, the copilot Army, the navigator Navy. There were blasters in flap-covered holsters at their sides, and he thought there was another skeleton slumped over a radio set just aft of the cockpit, but it was too dark to tell. But the major factor was the complete lack of vines, spiderwebs or even cobwebs inside the vehicle. The hull hadn’t been breached over the long decades.

“Hull is still intact,” Ryan stated to the others. “There are skeletons inside.”

“How are the seats?” J.B. asked.

“Never been touched.”

“Dark night, our first good luck in weeks.” J.B. sighed.

Careful of his balance, the man traversed the tangled vines to reach the side door and ran a finger along the seam. There was a light coating of moss and some windblown seed pods, but nothing serious. J.B. started pulling out tools from his munitions bag and got to work releasing the ancient catch.

“No structural damage in sight. Doesn’t look like it hit bad enough to chill the crew,” Krysty commented. “So why didn’t they leave?”

It was a good question and Ryan quickly checked the rad counter on his lapel, but saw only the usual background count. There had been “clean” nukes used in the war that didn’t leave lingering rads. Maybe that was what happened here. An airburst caught the plane and threw it into the trees with the crew already dead from the rad burst.

Or perhaps whatever the soldiers were carrying as cargo had burst open on the rough landing and chilled the crew instantly.

Spinning, Ryan started to shout a warning when J.B. stepped away from the aircraft. The Deathlands warrior could only watch as the door dropped open and out billowed a dry metallic wind tasting of ancient death.

Chapter Two

Dust rose in tiny clouds around his shuffling boots and sweat dripped off his haggard face, but Cal Mitchum forced himself onward, raw hatred fueling his every step.

Using his longblaster as a crutch, the chief sec man continued along the jungle trail, pieces of predark asphalt appearing now and then from under the layer of windblown dirt. For some unknown reason, the jungle stopped at the side of the roadway, only the tiniest of creepers daring to grow across the old road. Perhaps it was some ancient science that held off the plants, or maybe it was simply that there was no nourishment in the soil atop the hard black macadam. He had no idea. The world was full of unanswerable questions, and a man would go futz-brained if he tried to solve them all. Mitchum found a simplified view of life was sufficient for him: stand by your baron, keep your word, treat your sec men like children and get revenge in any way possible.

Ryan had betrayed the chief sec man and shot him in the shoulder and thigh, leaving him for dead after Mitchum warned Ryan of the arrival of Glassman. The son of a bitch had said they were flesh wounds and would convince the baron of his story of the companions jumping him. But Mitchum didn’t believe a word of that bullshit. Ryan had tried to ace him to cover his escape, and simply fucked it up. The outlander would pay for that, if Mitchum had to walk every trail to every ville in the Thousand Islands. He would find the one-eyed bastard, cut out his beating heart and make him eat it raw.

Every step was torture, but Mitchum kept moving. His almond skin was turning light gray from the accumulated dust, and his bandaged shoulder stung from the sweat seeping into the wound. His thigh throbbed like the pounding surf. But pain could be controlled. He’d suffered worse defending his ville, and still been alive to watch the crucifixion of the attackers. Pain made you strong.

An odd motion in a bush made Mitchum jerk alert, and he drew a flintlock pistol from his belt with lightning speed. Pushing the weapon across his chest, he cocked back the hammer and leveled the blaster ready to fire when two hands rose above the greenery and waved in surrender.

“Don’t shoot!” a man’s voice called, and out stepped a young sec man in unfamiliar garb. “Damn, you’re fast with a blaster, sir.”

The stranger was in ragged clothes made from beaten hemp fibers. He had a spear in his hand, a bow and arrow strapped to his back and a flintlock pistol tucked into his rope belt.

“Who the fuck are you, boy?” Mitchum growled, the gaping maw of the .75 black powder weapon never wavering from the stranger’s stomach. He normally went for a chest shot, but in his weakened condition, Mitchum wasn’t sure he could ride the recoil of the hog-leg enough to keep the miniball on target. Best to aim for the belt buckle and let the lead hit the other man in the face. Anything above the waist was a clean hit. Afterwards he could cut the kid’s throat and steal his ammo.

The youth started to answer when the sound of engines filled the air and Mitchum dropped the long-blaster to painfully draw and cock the other flintlock pistol. Adrenaline pounded in his veins, giving the exhausted sec man the needed strength to stand and watch the convoy of Hummers appear around a curve in the road. The wags were badly dented and streaked with dirt, the grilles filled with clumps of vegetation. But long .30-cal machine guns rested on fancy supports, the back seats filled with armed sec men. And more importantly, Captain Glassman was in the front wag, his hands on the windshield to keep standing. His light brown hair was pushed off his grim face, exposing the flares of gray at his temples. Liver spots dotted his hands, and he was unshaved.

“Full stop,” Henry Glassman yelled, and the convoy braked to a ragged halt.

The thin commander of the lord baron’s navy was dressed in loose gray clothing and sandals, the standard wide leather belt around his middle serving as a tool belt and holster for his flintlock and an even bigger predark revolver. A machete hung handle down in a shoulder holster. The navvies, as his sec men liked to be called, were heavily tattooed, displaying their ranks on their faces, and dressed in a similar way, making them easy to spot among the others in the wags. Old and young men, their crude homemade uniforms were identical to that worn by the man in the bushes.

As the engines were turned off to save juice, Captain Glassman looked over Mitchum and could readily tell the bad news. The big sec man was battered and bruised, his crew of twenty armed riders nowhere in sight. Glassman could guess what happened; Ryan and the others had ambushed the patrol and aced the riders with only Mitchum surviving—probably from sheer stubbornness. The sec man was stronger than an armored tank, nearly unkillable. Everybody in his ville was terrified of the man, and most considered him a mutie of some sort. But nobody had ever dared to say that aloud.

“This idiot yours?” Mitchum sneered, gesturing at the youngster still standing in the bushes.

“A scout,” Glassman answered. “We sent out a dozen. Private, get your ass in the wags. Campbell!”

“Yes, sir?” the sergeant rumbled from behind the wheel of the first wag. Campbell had a smiling face and laughing eyes. He always seemed amused, even as he sliced off a tongue or testicle. His face was a mask of tattoos, showing his rise, fall and subsequent rise again in the navy of Lord Baron Kinnison, ruler of the Thousand Islands. Unlike any of the others, Campbell was armed with a sleek bolt-action long-blaster, and a bandolier of long brass shells was slung across his chest. He was both the top kick for the captain and his executioner should the officer fail to recover the outlanders.

“When we get back, give this feeb ten lashes with the whip for this failure,” Glassman ordered, climbing from the Hummer.

“Done,” Campbell said and smiled pleasantly.

“B-but, sir!” the private said, fighting his way out of the thorny plants to stand on the roadway. “I was sent to find Colonel Mitchum, and I did!”

Checking his blaster, Glassman snorted in disdain. “Seems more like he found you. And now it’s ten lashes with a whip soaked in salt water. Any more objections, and I’ll make it twenty.”

Silently, the sec man stumbled toward the rear of the convoy to be as far away from the sergeant as possible.

Leaving the rest of the troops behind, Glassman walked over to Mitchum and softly said, “Okay, tell me.”

“They live,” the man replied simply, easing down the hammers of both his blasters. “Caught us in a boobie and fried my men alive.”

Glassman scowled. Alive was all he cared about. Kinnison was going to exchange his family for the outlanders, but only if they were still breathing. Briefly, he considered chilling Mitchum right there, then realized that was stupe.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find them,” the captain said, patting the man on his good shoulder. “Do you have anything that was worn by one of the outlanders, or better, has their blood on it?”

“You got dogs?” Mitchum asked suspiciously, glancing at the wags.

“Something close enough.”

There was only one other possibility. “Hunters!” the sec chief gasped, backing away a step. “Are you mad?”

“No Hunters,” Glassman snapped. “The local baron had one that he claimed was tame as a gaudy slut. Even did tricks, and such. Shot it dead in its cage. There is no such thing as a tame Hunter. They just act whipped until that door is open, and then rip off your head.”

“Smart move,” Mitchum said, sagging a little as his thigh trembled with weakness. For a moment, he gazed at the wags longingly, then stood tall once more.

The captain tucked his thumbs into his wide belt. “We’ve got a dozen hunting dogs trained to track escaped slaves. You give us anything with their smell, and those beasts will track them through fire and water.”

“Lots of bloody clothing at the wreckage,” Mitch-um said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Most of it is burned, but mebbe something is still usable.”

“Good,” the captain said, turning to the wags. “Corporal Yantar! Take a squad and check over the wreckage of a wag down the road. I want anything stained with human blood. Anything at all. If these dogs are any damn good, they should be able to track the scents of a dozen slaves with no trouble.”

The corporal grinned, displaying badly stained teeth. “We’ll have those outies in chains by nightfall! I’d bet my life on it!”

“Accepted,” Mitchum grunted. “Find them by darkness, or we leave you staked out for muties.”

Going pale, Yantar scrambled from the Hummer to join the sec men walking past the officers and headed for the wreckage.

“Better get in a wag, Mitchum,” Glassman ordered. “Have the healer check those wounds. Should put some shine on them, and a little in you to ease the pain.”

“I’ll walk,” Mitchum replied stiffly. “Can’t show weakness in front of my men.”

“They aren’t your sec men,” Glassman stated coldly. “All of your troops are chilled. These are my navvies, and some of the local baron’s grunts. They obey only me. Now, get in the bastard wag. You’re the only person alive who has seen the faces of the outlanders, and I may need that in case they try to slip through us to steal a boat. I’m gonna keep you alive at any cost, so get in or get dragged in like a chained slave. I don’t care. Your choice.”

“How about we try this instead, ya skinny fuck. Tell them I’m your new chief,” Mitchum growled softly, “or I blow you in half.”

There was a jab into his gut, and Glassman looked down to see a blaster pressed against his stomach, the hammer pulled back and ready to fire. The barrel was warm, but it sent a chill down his back. Unfortunately, Glassman was blocking the view so there was no way the sec men in front, or behind, could see he was in danger.

“Decide fast,” Mitchum ordered, touching him up a little with the barrel. “Share the command or die. Your choice.”

Glassman could feel sweat forming on his face, but kept his voice level and forced out a soft chuckle. “Black dust, I’m impressed. Always need men good as you. But the lord baron wants the outlanders alive. Agree to that, and you’re my new top kick.”

The blaster moved forward an inch. “No.”

“Then do it, gimp,” Glassman spit, pressing his body against the blaster, forcing a surprised Mitchum to back up. “Shoot me and watch my men take you apart as I drop.”

Temporarily outmaneuvered, Mitchum clenched his teeth, fighting the pain of his wounds and the burning desire to seek revenge. Few men would face down a weapon to their guts. Glassman had to be a fanatic, or Kinnison had a hold on him more frightening than death.

“I get to ace Ryan, you get the rest,” he offered hatefully.

“Agreed,” Glassman stated, then bellowed over a shoulder. “Sergeant Campbell!”

“Sir?” came the prompt reply.

“Mitchum here will be assuming your duties as my second in command. You’re the new top gunner.”

Looking around the dirty windshield, Campbell stared at the two men talking down the road. Something was going on, but since he had no idea what it was, he’d best just obey orders for the present.

“Yes, sir!” Campbell shouted, stepping into the rear of the vehicle to take a position at the big machine gun.

“Satisfied?” Glassman asked, staring the man in the face.

“For the moment,” Mitchum said, jabbing the sailor with the muzzle of his flintlock one more time, then holstering the piece. “But remember, I took you face-to-face, while surrounded by your stinking troops, and I can do it again whenever I please.”

“Mebbe,” Glassman muttered.

“Try me anytime,” the wounded man growled, shuffling for the lead Hummer, then bitterly added, “sir.”

“Count on it,” Glassman whispered, but only the ocean breeze heard the words.

AS THE LONG EXHALATION of stale air ceased flowing from the inside of the plane, the companions stopped holding their breaths and took a tentative sniff. The interior of the craft still reeked faintly of rotten flesh, kerosene and dust, but the smell was quickly fading as the fresh clean air of the jungle poured into the ancient cargo bay.

His blaster leading the way, Ryan walked inside and waited for his vision to adjust to the dim recesses of the giant aircraft. J.B. and the others were right behind him, with Doc staying at the open hatch and Jak remaining in the tree.

The scant light coming in through the open hatch-way of the C-130 was barely sufficient to see anything, so Krysty and Dean lit candles, while Mildred dug a small flashlight from her med kit. Pumping the handle a few times to charge the ancient batteries, she flicked its switch and out came a strong white beam that soon faded to a soft yellow. The hundred-year-old device was slowly dying, and there was no way the physician could ever replace it. But the weak light filled the cargo bay of the aircraft, outshining the dancing flames of the tallow candles.

The ceiling was twenty or so feet above them, and heavily padded with some sort of insulation material. Pieces of ventilation conduits, wiring and fuel pipes showed here and there for maintenance. Directly in front of Ryan was a row of seats filled with the bones of dead crew members. To his left, a door was set into a metal wall that led to the front ammo bunkers and the washroom. Alongside that was a short flight of stairs going to a veined door with multiple hinges, the access to the cockpit. J.B. went straight up the steps and checked the door.

“Give me a sec, it’s locked,” he announced, pulling tools out of his bag.

Moving deeper into the behemoth, Ryan saw the main body of the aircraft extended for yards and yards, with huge canvas lumps filling the central passageway, the mounds of cargo resting on thick pallets and firmly lashed into place by a dozen ropes and chains. The distant rear of the craft was lost in shadows. Dean headed that way along the left wall, and soon came back along the right.

“Nothing else but these things,” the boy said, nudging a pallet with his boot. “No more bones or doors.”

“Careful opening those,” Krysty warned, lifting her candle high to follow the path of some power cables. “The gov often booby-trapped important cargo.”

“Gotcha,” Dean said, moving away from the canvas mound. He made a mental note to ask J.B. to start teaching him about traps and locks. It was an important skill these days.

At the open hatch, Doc stomped on the deck, crushing something with a lot of legs under his boot. “Be-gone, Visigoth!” he snorted, and kicked the dead millipede onto the wing. As it landed on the leaves, the vines twitched and a flower bent over it to close its rainbow petals about the pulped insect and start eating.

“A sylvan glade, indeed,” Doc muttered, holstering his LeMat.

Going to the wall seats, Ryan inspected the desiccated skeleton of paratroopers still strapped in place. Their uniforms were only rags now, the fresh air making them crumble apart. Each man and woman was armed with an M-16 carbine and a side arm. But all of the weapons were so heavily rusted salvage was impossible. Only the plastic stocks of M-16s and the rubber grips of the handblasters were still in pristine condition. The rest of the steel had been corroded by acid, eaten clean through in spots. The weapons had been fired just before the plane crashed, the cordite exhaust gas mixing with the moisture in the atmosphere to make carbolic acid that destroyed the weapons slowly. He checked the clips and found them full of lumpy green brass and loose lead rounds. Placing the rapidfire aside, he tried the automatic blasters and found they were in the same condition. Had to have been a hell of a firefight somewhere. He studied the sheets of insulation lining the hull and saw no signs of bullet holes. Perhaps the troopers had seized the craft by force to escape the nukestorm. He would never know, but it seemed a logical guess.

Inspecting the collection of uniformed bones, Krysty discovered that one of the officers was a woman with a large military chron on her wrist. Krysty removed the timepiece and wound the stem to see if it worked. The watch started ticking without pause and continued steadily. Thank Gaia! She removed her own wrist chron smashed in the bus crash and slid on the new chron. It fit fine, and hopefully was a lot tougher than her old model.

“How are the blasters?” she asked, adjusting the strap on the mechanism.

“Pure junk,” Ryan stated, shoving the rusted lump of metal that had once been a 10 mm Colt back into its dusty holster.

“I see something,” Mildred said, retrieving a briefcase from under the wall seats. A handcuff dangled from its steel handle, but there was no way of knowing which of the dead soldiers it had once been attached to. Setting her flashlight on an empty seat, Mildred tried to open the case but it was firmly locked. However, her belt knife swiftly cut through the leather flap holding the carrying case closed. Inside were hundreds of papers bearing government seals, but the printing was so faded with age it was impossible to read in the dim light.

“Probably just a duty roster,” Krysty said, holding her candle dangerously close to the yellowed paper.

“Most likely,” Mildred agreed, watching some of the faxes crumble into dust at her touch. “I’ll take these outside and see if I can read them there.”

As the woman left, Krysty started going through the remnants of the uniforms, and Ryan went to the base of the stairs. “How’s it coming?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the confines of the great vessel.

“Almost through,” J.B. answered, both hands busy with lock picks.

Stepping out of the forward hold, Dean glanced at the two men working on the door to the cockpit. “How’s it coming?” he asked.

Ryan allowed himself a brief smile. Like father, like son. “Almost through,” he said.

“Well, I checked the front blasters,” the boy said. “See if we could salvage anything. But they’re rusted solid, the barrels full with bird nests. Lots of 40 mm and 20 mm ammo shells in the ammo bunkers, but the brass is covered with corrosion.”

Mildred walked back in and tossed the briefcase back under the seats. “Krysty was right, just a cargo manifest.”

“Nothing useful, then?” Dean asked hopefully.

“No weapons or food.”

“Damn.”

“Got it,” J.B. said, the armored door to the cockpit swung aside on creaking hinges.

There was another rush of stale air, and after it passed, Ryan and J.B. stepped into the cockpit, their faces tense with anticipation. The sunlight streamed in through the leafy-edged windows, casting odd shadows. The remains of the command crew were in the same positions, but now their clothing was starting to visibly decompose at the invasion of clean air. Ryan gave the skeletons a fast glance, while J.B. took out his compass and went to the dashboard. He flipped several switches until the needle stopped jerking.

“It was their emergency beacon,” he said, tucking away the compass. “The nuke batteries were almost drained. Another couple of months and we never would have found this plane.”

Lying on the deck, Ryan was looking under the pilot’s chair. “Seals are unbroken,” he announced, running his fingertips along the undercarriage of the pilot’s seat.

“Same here,” J.B. said, doing the same to the copilot’s chair. “We might just be in luck here.”

Both men got busy with their knives, removing service panels, and then slicing through the nest of wiring inside the seats. They knew the sequence, blue, green, red, and each man did the job carefully. Ejector seats were tricky. Ryan remembered when Finn tried to take one apart too fast and it launched straight through the top of the plane, damn near taking his head along with it for a ride. And the fiery blast of the launch nearly aced the Trader.

Soon, they had the ejector rockets disassembled and toppled the seat to extract a sturdy plastic box shaped like a lopsided arch.

The boxes were sealed airtight, but J.B. made short work of the lock. Lining the inside was some form of clear plastic wrapping that knives wouldn’t cut. But Ryan found a ring tab on the side and gently pulled it along the seam, the plastic parting sluggishly to expose a layer of gray foam. Tossing away the plastic, Ryan removed the foam cushion to finally uncover an assortment of supplies, each neatly nestled in a shaped depression in the gray foam. It was the wealth of the predark world in perfect condition.

“Good stuff?” Dean asked curiously, craning his neck to see.

“The best,” his father replied.

“This is a pilot’s survival kit,” J.B. said, grinning in triumph. “An emergency pack for a crashed pilot to grab as he ran from a burning plane, just enough supplies to keep him alive for a few weeks until a rescue team could arrive.”

“Haven’t seen one in years,” Krysty said, watching the proceedings eagerly. “They are almost always taken after the crash.”

“Not this time,” Ryan said, and began laying out the contents in a neat row.

J.B. freed the copilot’s survival kit and then started defusing the navigator’s chair. Soon the five seats were in pieces and the precious kits splayed open wide.

There were five 9 mm Heckler & Koch blasters, vials of oil, fifteen empty clips, ten boxes of ammo. Survival knives with whetstones, fishing line and hooks, dye markers, Veri pistols with colored flares, signal mirrors, water-purification tabs, gold coins, MRE packs, spools of wire, bundles of rope and med kits.

J.B. called Mildred in from outside, and the physician eagerly went through the collection of pills and capsules, throwing away most of the drugs. Even sealed in an airtight container, a lot of the chemicals would lose their potency over the long decades, and a few would turn lethal. Everything else she placed in her battered shoulder bag: bandages, bug-repellent sticks, elastic bandages, methamphetamines, barbiturates, sulfur powder, antiseptic cream—as hard as a rock but reclaimable—sunscreen, toothpaste, three hypodermic needles, sutures, surgical thread, iodine tablets and silver-based antibiotics.

After taking inventory, the companions divided the supplies, each taking what he or she needed the most. Ryan and J.B. split the 9 mm ammo, the Uzi getting the lion’s share. Ryan, Krysty and Mildred each took one of the fancy two-tone H&K blasters to replace their depleted weapons. Neither woman cared for autofires, the things had a bad tendency to jam just when you needed them the most. However, fifteen shots of maybe was better than two rounds of definite.

Since his Browning had a full clip, Dean took the Veri pistol and studied the single-shot blaster until figuring out how the 30 mm breechloader worked. The catch was very simple. Satisfied, he tucked away the blaster and filled his pockets with the flares. The stubby gun could throw a flare three hundred feet into the air, where it would detonate into brilliant colors to help searchers find a lost crew member. But the device could also fire horizontally and punch a sizzling flare straight through a man at fifty feet.

Nodding in approval, Krysty took the other Veri pistol and the rest of the signal flares.

“Be right back,” Mildred said, checking the elastic strength of the bandage. “I’m going to wrap Jak again. This will get him back on his feet.”

“Good. Give him this, too,” Ryan said, tossing her an extra H&K pistol. “No spare ammo, but it’s something.”

“Right.” She made the catch and disappeared down the ramp to the broad wing.

“Here’s your share, Doc,” J.B. said, placing a pile of food packs, soap, razor blades and other assorted small items next to the man sitting on the ramp. Amid the salvage was the last of the H&K pistols.

“Thank you,” Doc said solemnly, reluctantly lifting the blaster for examination. The LeMat was on its last reload. Nine shots and he was defenseless.

Awkwardly, Doc worked the slide of the blaster, chambering a round, and experimented dropping the clip, then inserting it again.

“Think he’ll take it?” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of cherry-nut cake, the other envelopes scattered on the floor around his boots. He had been starving, but then he was constantly starving these days.

Weighing the weapon in a palm, Doc made his decision and clicked on the safety of the sleek blaster to tuck it away in his frock coat.

Just then, Mildred rushed into view. “Great news,” she said, clambering into the airship.

“Jak can walk now?” Ryan said as a question. “Good.”

“Better than that,” she said excitedly. “Remember those cargo manifests I was looking at? Couldn’t read them at all, until Jak smeared the paper with gun oil. Damned if that didn’t bring the words out nice and clear.”

“What were they carrying?” Krysty asked, glancing at the six huge canvas lumps on their stout pallets. “Hovercrafts?”

“Weather-sensing equipment,” she said in a rush. “Balloons to carry computerized pods high into the sky to check on the pollution levels from the old nukes. See if the air was any better.”

“Stop using the nukes,” Dean said bluntly, wiping his face with a moist towelette. “Then the air would get better.”

“Amen,” Doc agreed roughly.

“Weather balloons,” Ryan repeated slowly, then stood and walked over to the first pallet. It was the triple-craziest idea he had ever heard. “Big ones?”

“Thirty feet across.”

“How many?”

“Hundreds,” Mildred said eagerly. “A year’s supply for the testing station. Don’t know the lift-to-drag ratio. So we just make it as large as possible. Always best to err on the side of power.”

“We’d need something for a basket,” Ryan said, nudging the shipping pallet with his boot. The honeycomb plastic was a good foot thick, and more than ten feet wide on each side. Designed to airdrop supplies to troops in the field, the pallets would make perfect bottoms. “These should work fine. They’re light and very strong. Just no sides.”

“We can tie extra ropes around support ropes,” Krysty said quickly. She finally realized what they were discussing. “Weave a basket around the pallet. And we can use the ropes lashing down the canvas to hold it all together. The cargo netting is plastic and should certainly be strong enough.”

“You folks firing blanks?” J.B. asked skeptically, thumbing the last round into a clip, then easing the magazine into the Uzi. He worked the bolt, chambering a round, and slung the weapon over his shoulder. “We’re going to fly to Forbidden Island?”

Standing, Doc wet a finger and held it outside. “The wind is blowing in the correct direction,” he announced. “Well done, madam. An exemplary idea! There is no way Mitchum could follow us aloft.”

“Fly the Hercules?” Dean asked, frowning. “Hot pipe, this thing will never eat clouds again. It’s completely aced.”

“We’re not going to use the plane,” Mildred told him, crossing the deck to the first canvas mound. She ran a hand over the rough expanse of material. “We’ll fly the cargo.”

“Worked once before. Why not again?” Ryan mused.

“How can we steer?” Dean asked bluntly.

“We’ll wet blankets and hold them over the side,” Krysty explained. “That’ll give us some drag, and as we slow down to the left, to drift to the left.”

“Crude and dangerous,” Doc rumbled. “Yet, alas, we don’t really have another choice.”

“Anybody want to row across fifty miles of open sea with those steam-powered PT boats hunting for us all the way?” Ryan asked brusquely.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Didn’t think so,” Ryan said, cracking the knuckles of his hand. “Okay, we start with the ropes.”

Chapter Three

Dean was surprised how easily the craft was constructed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mebbe,” Ryan muttered thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I know.”

“Any ideas?” Jak asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nukes from above,” someone whimpered.

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

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

Another trembling man slipped from the wag and ran away.

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

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

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

There was no reply.

“Sergeant, shoot the fifty!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So?”

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

“Now we are,” she finished somberly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll take that chance.”

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

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

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

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

Chapter Five

As the Pegasus floated away on the evening breeze, the companions shifted their backpacks to make some room and settled in for their flight. With no way to calculate airspeed, they didn’t have any idea how long the journey to Forbidden Island would take. Maybe only a few hours, but it could be much longer.

Time passed slowly, the moon traveling across the starry sky while the companions took turns catching short naps. There was little room in the rope basket, but they had lived in cramped quarters before and knew how to make do.

After the weapons had been cleaned and checked, the MRE envelopes were carefully ripped open, and the chow eaten cold. It was edible, but no more than that. Mildred tried to make coffee in a tin cup, and while the brown crystals dissolved satisfactorily, neither the sugar nor the powder cream would. She experimented with her butane lighter to no success and in the end poured the sodden mess overboard.

Pulling out a plastic safety razor, Jak dry shaved while standing guard duty, the scrape of the twin blades becoming fainter as he successfully removed his snowy beard.

Hoping nobody was watching, Dean rubbed a palm along his own chin but found only smooth skin. Nothing yet. Standing guard, Ryan caught the furtive motion and held back a grin. He remembered his first shave, and the bushy mustache he sported for a while as a teen.

Just then, something in the darkness caught Ryan’s attention. He studied the open sky until he caught the reflection of moonlight off leathery wings. The soft flapping grew steadily louder, and when Ryan was sure the creature was coming their way, he waited until the clouds parted, catching it in plain sight, and snapped off a shot with the SIG-Sauer. The blaster coughed, and the flying creature gave a piercing squeal, promptly identifying it as a bat. Gushing blood, the mutie spiraled down out of control to splash into the smooth expanse of the shimmering sea.

The discharge of the blaster made Dean stand and draw his own weapon. “What was that?” he demanded.

“Just a bat,” Ryan said calmly, holstering his piece. “Already aced. Everything’s green.”

A bat? Curiously, Dean looked over the rope sides of the makeshift basket and watched the dying creature flounder in the water, sharp fins already circling the bloody carcass. Then huge white figures rose from beneath the waves and began tearing the wiggling corpse apart.

“Those sharks?” Dean asked as the balloon drifted over the struggling creatures.

“Great whites, yes, indeed. But not those,” Doc said, gesturing with a waggling finger. “See the difference in the dorsal fins? Those are dolphins come for the kill.”

“Dolphins eat sharks?” Dean asked, shocked. The dolphins were so much smaller than the great whites it was hard to believe.

“No, they eat fish,” Mildred replied, looking at the moon. There had been too much death already today; she had no interest in watching the aquatic battle. “Dolphins kill sharks on sight. The two species hate each other.”

“Ace, no eat?” Jak said with a frown, running a whetstone along the blade of a knife in slow strokes. “Triple stupe.”

“Not if you’re in the water with sharks coming after your ass and a bunch of dolphins show up,” Ryan said, unwrapping a foil envelope to expose cherry-nut cake. Fireblast, was this the only dessert the Army ever fed its troops? He broke off a corner with his teeth and found it dissolved easily. Okay, not bad.

“They’re one of the few good muties that are friendly to norms,” he finished with a full mouth.

“Not a mutation, my dear Mr. Cawdor,” Doc rumbled. “Since time immemorial, dolphins have been the friends of humanity. Although God alone knows why. We have certainly treated them poorly enough.”

“How chill?” Jak asked, mildly interested. The dangers of the deep were important things to know.

“A dolphin will ram a shark in the belly with its nose,” Doc explained, watching the event occur. “See? They die almost instantly.”

“Hot pipe.” Dean sighed. “Dad, didn’t you say it’s possible to chill a man that way, too?”

“Requires a hell of a kick,” his father said, tossing away the wrapper. “But it can be done.”

“Smack in the belly?”

“Just under the rib cage,” Ryan said, moving a hand to the spot on his chest. “Right here, and slightly upward.”

The boy nodded studiously, filing away the info for future use.

“Enough of that, land ho!” Mildred cried out, breaking into a smile. “There she is, people! Forbidden Island!”

Majestically rising over the horizon like a green dawn was a wide island of hills, cliffs, mountains and volcanoes, everything covered with a lush growth of tropical plants. Silly thought, but to Krysty the place almost looked like two or three islands rammed together.

The Pegasus started to accelerate toward the island as a fresh wind blew over the companions, forcing the balloon onward. The twin volcanoes rumbled softly, sounding like distant thunder, their ragged tops lit from internal fires, wisps of yellow sulfur fumes rising to the sky. The firelight actually reflected off the thick layer of storm clouds. Two volcanoes so close to each other seemed unlikely to Mildred, and she postulated they were simply the planet trying to-clean itself from deadly residue of multiple nuke hits.

“Found them,” J.B. announced, holding the brass telescope to his face. In a valley set between the volcanoes were the ruins of a large predark metropolis sitting on top of a short mesa. The buildings were only silhouettes in the ambient light, black shadows as still and dead as the ferro-cement from which they’d been built.

As they continued closer, details came into view, a huge waterfall rushing off a tall cliff to their left, the smashed wreckage of a Navy yard to the right, the buildings and rusted hulks of warships partly swamped in a bay full of violently swirling water. The whirlpool made more noise than the waterfall, as it raged out of control.

Something large winged across the dark ruins, and Doc rubbed his eyes to see clearly, but the apparition was already gone. Tightening his lips, the time traveler wondered if he had just actually seen a pterodactyl, a winged lizard from the Jurassic period. No, quite impossible.

“May I be so bold as to strongly suggest that if we encounter anything exceptionally large,” Doc said, checking the load in his LeMat, “shoot only for its head? Nowhere else.”

“See something?” Krysty asked in concern, staring at the approaching land. Seemed rugged and wild, but ordinary enough.

“I do not know for sure, dear lady,” Doc muttered, frowning. “And that is what quite worries me.”

“Rad pits coming,” Ryan announced as the ebony night thinned about the island showing reddish-green glows dotting the landscape, and completely covering the Navy base. Quickly, Ryan checked his rad counter and saw the readings steadily climb toward the danger zone.

“Fireblast! It’s hotter than Washington Hole,” he stated, shifting his arm about. The clicks of the device seemed slower to the left, toward the valley that cut through the mountain range. That was the location of the mesa. But this was no place to make a guess.

“J.B., check my readings,” Ryan said urgently.

“Yeah, valley seems okay,” J.B. added, his own rad counter out and sweeping for danger. The sides of the mesa were sheer vertical stone. A bitch of a climb to make, but no problem to reach from the air.

“Okay, start wetting those blankets and try angling us toward the mesa,” Ryan directed, sliding on his backpack.

“No need,” Mildred replied. “The wind has shifted again, and we’re heading straight for it.”

“The volcanoes are making a current for us,” Krysty said, frowning slightly. “Taking us right there.”

Tucking away his sharpened knives, Jak scowled. “Somethin’ wrong.”

Mildred shuffled around the rope basket and checked the weight bags. Each was tied firmly in place.

“Millie?” J.B. asked.

“We appear to be rising,” she answered slowly. “Nothing serious yet, but we better let out some helium.”

“My job,” Doc said, pulling the sword from his stick. Reaching high, he stabbed the lowest weather balloon and it noisily deflated in a blubbery rush. But the Pegasus didn’t lose any height. Puzzled, Doc stabbed another, then another, and incredibly the airship began to rise.

“How’s this possible?” J.B. demanded, trying to see above the makeshift craft. Did something have a hold of them and was dragging the balloons skyward?

“Goddamn it, we’re caught in an updraft from those cross currents!” Mildred said, drawing her blaster and blowing away the largest balloon. It burst as the hot round tore through, but their speed didn’t slow.

Steadily the Pegasus streaked for the storm clouds overhead, and Ryan briefly considered dropping all of their excess weight to get above the clouds. Unfortunately, the sheet lightning filled the sky and they would be fried rising through the wild storm—if the rads and chems didn’t ace them first. But if they shot out too many balloons, they would plummet from the sky and crash on the rocks below. They had passed the ocean several minutes ago and were now moving over bare soil studded with boulders and rusty predark junk. The companions would be torn to pieces even if they survived the brutal landing.

As they rose still higher, Krysty cried out in pain, then the rest rubbed their arms and faces, skin prick-ling from the deadly proximity to the heavily polluted clouds. Just then, both of the rad counters began to wildly click ever faster.

“If we enter those clouds,” Doc warned in a stentorian tone, his eyes painfully tearing, “none of us shall ever leave it alive!”

With no other choice, Ryan drew his blaster and started firing, the spent brass kicking over the side of the basket. Fireblast, he thought, the problem with balloon wags was supposed to be keeping them afloat, not getting them to come down. Just one solution for that. The red-hot rounds from the SIG-Sauer easily punched through the tough polymer sheeting, deflating balloons far out of the sword’s reach, and the craft instantly slowed. Then it began to descend, and soon the itchy crawling feeling of radiation was fading away. Only now the island was rushing toward them with nightmare speed as the Pegasus descended out of control.

“Too fast!” Jak stated, slashing through the ropes. The heavy bags fell, and the Pegasus continued to drop.

“Shitfire, we’ve slipped out of the thermal!” Mildred warned. “Now we’re too heavy. Toss everything overboard!”

The companions slid off their backpacks and heaved them away, but the reduction in weight made no real difference. Too many of the balloons had been destroyed in their efforts to avoid the death clouds. But the airship was also still moving inland. The moonlight heralding their way, the terrain became grasslands, then a forest with a stone arch extended across the valley, connecting one mountainside to the other. A natural limestone bridge flew by.

“Get ready to jump,” Ryan ordered, climbing the ropes.

The others copied his actions, but the Pegasus swung past the bridge moving way too fast, the bottom of the plastic pallet scraping across the limestone for the briefest instant before they were past the obstruction and over the trees again.

“Fireblast!” Ryan spit, falling back into the rope basket.

Incredibly, from somewhere below an alarm bell began to ring, and blasters crackled from the dark trees as cannons roared from hidden bunkers on the shadowy mountainsides, their discharges throwing tongues of flame that illuminated the valley.

“It’s another ville!” J.B. snarled as a cannonball rushed by, buffeting them with the wind of its passing.

“Water!” Krysty shouted, pointing ahead.

There was a wide break in the stygian forest, where a calm river traversed the valley floor. Unfortunately, the river was narrow, with sharp rocks lining both shores, with more trees returning on the far bank. Their target was a slim area of flat mud between the rocks, impossible to hit at their current speed.

“That is our best chance!” Ryan shouted, slashing away the side ropes, open air directly before the man. “Wait for it…Now!”

In unison the companions dived from the pallet, and a split second later the Pegasus rammed into the trees and was torn apart by a thousand sharp branches.

Only the babbling of the shallow river disturbed the heavy silence of the muddy banks. Then swatches of light bobbed through the darkness, and armed men stepped from the rushes along the riverbank to stealthily approach the deathly still figures sprawled in the bloody mud.

THEIR BLACK PLUMES trailing across the starry sky, the four PT boats steamed across the ocean, their engines thumping loudly.

A number of dolphins swam alongside the lead petey, occasionally lifting their bottle-nose heads to give a stuttering squeal. With both of his wounds stiff and aching, Mitchum slid the longblaster off his shoulder, pulled back the heavy hammer and shot one. The creature moved sideways from the impact of the .75 miniball, human-red blood spraying from the gaping wound. The entire pack dived out of sight instantly, and as the chugging fleet left them behind, the dolphins returned to circle the dying mammal, gently nudging it with their stubby noses. Then a female gave a long howl as if in mourning as the gut-shot male rolled onto its back to expose its pale belly to the air. The rest of the pack circled their dead friend once more, then swam away, leaving the lifeless meat to the endless scavengers. But more than one of the dolphins turned to stare at the noisy dead thing that thundered over the water, watching the two-legs with intelligent eyes full of raw hatred.

“What was that?” Glassman demanded, lowering his plate of beans and dried fish.

“Some kind of baby shark,” Mitchum said, purging the longblaster before refilling it with powder, lead and cloth wad, then carefully tramping down the fresh charge with a blunt nimrod. “Who cares? Just a fish. Ain’t got no brains or human feelings.”

With a shrug, Glassman returned to his meal.

“Ahoy, the captain!” a sailor called out from an aft PT boat, a hand pointing to the sky. “Two o’clock high!”

“It’s them!” Mitchum snarled, lifting his long-blaster, but withheld firing. The weird air wag was bobbing along in the sky without a care in the world. The sec chief trembled with the urge to kill, and had to mentally force his hands to lower the flintlock.

“Well, don’t stand there gawking like virgins in a gaudy house!” Mitchum snarled, stalking along the deck. “They’re getting away! Load the .50 cals! Ready the Firebirds!” Nobody moved to obey the command. The sec chief fumed in his impotence, and bit back words he knew would only get him aced.

“Land ho!” another called in warning. “Breakers at our noon!”

A corporal backed away from the sight. “That’s Forbidden Island!”

“What?” a sec man gasped, spinning in shock.

On the horizon was a long landmass with two live volcanoes. There could be no doubt as to which island that was.

“Nuke me, it is!” Glassman shouted, throwing away his plate. “Emergency stop! Cut all engines!”

The crew rushed to the tasks, and soon the boats were anchored relatively motionless in the waves. Reaching into an equipment box, Glassman pulled out binocs while Mitchum limped to the forward bow.

Illuminated by the silvery moonlight streaming through the rumbling clouds, the men watched as the distant air wag abruptly rose high into the sky, then dropped toward the ground, narrowly rushing over a stone bridge. Cannons roared at their passing, and the air wag disappeared into the darkness beyond.

“Did you see those cannons?” Mitchum growled, fighting a wild mix of emotions. “This must be a pirate base!”

“No,” Glassman corrected, lowering the binocs. “It has to be their main base. This is the home of the pirate fleet!”

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