Shadow Fortress

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.”