Thunder Jim Wade

by Henry Kuttner

  Wade had seldom seen a more villainous collection of thugs, the gutter-sweepings of Basra, renegades of the desert. He wondered whether this was the usual clientele of the native café.

  “Chêt-Ahadh essa hetisenet,” Tanit sang, her nimble feet flying. “Mâteredjrê d’Erredjaot….”

  The Song of the Pleiades ended. To a burst of applause, the girl danced into the shadows and was gone. Nesserdin rose and followed her.

  Wade hesitated. The entrance of two new customers distracted his attention. A pair of white men were entering the Ramadan.

  One was a burly giant with flaming red hair. The other was small and undersized, with blond hair and a singularly innocent expression. They looked like tourists.

  Wade suppressed a smile. The Thunderbug had finally arrived, with Red Argyle and Dirk Marat piloting the giant craft.

  Wade made a small, almost imperceptible signal and Marat answered it. The two took a table near the door, ordered drinks, and appeared to relax.

  When next they looked for him, he was gone. Like a shadow he had drifted between the pillars after Nesserdin. Drawing the burnous closely about him, he mounted a rickety stairway to the balcony that looked down on the courtyard.

  He was in time to see a rectangle of light vanish as a door closed. On noiseless feet he tiptoed toward it. The balcony was ill-lit and Wade kept in the darkest part, against the wall. The sound of low voices drifted to him.

  Under his hand the door moved slightly. He glimpsed a small section of the room inside—red and blue cushions, and an open window. He could see neither Nesserdin nor Tanit, but he heard the girl’s voice, softly argumentative, a little frightened.

  “This is evil that you do,” Nesserdin said.

  “They forced me to!”

  “Your sins must be paid for in all the hells. You walk with Shaitan. I tell you that!”

  Then there was the sound of low, broken sobbing. The Hadj’s voice grew more gentle now, but it still held iron.

  “This is not a true Jihad. You know that.”

  “The mu’min Mabruk is—is immortal. He cannot be killed.”

  “Trickery!” Nesserdin snarled. “He seeks to foment a holy war for his own evil ends. He does not serve Allah, nor do you!’

  WADE remembered what Godoy had said and the bazaar whispers about the supposedly immortal mu’min, perhaps the same one who had led the attack on the fort in Transjordania. A fake Jihad? But why?

  Nesserdin was speaking again.

  “Many are credulous. Already our people are ready to follow Mabruk. Eric Godoy is a good man. He did not commit the murder of which he has been accused. Who did?”

  “Nay—” The girl’s voice faltered. “It—it was Ali Hassan.”

  “You will go to the police and tell them that. Now what does Mabruk plan?”

  “I know but little—”

  “Tell me what little you do know.”

  Wade leaned closer to the door, every sense alert.

  “His men are gathering at the Hills of Gold.”

  Hills of Gold? But where were they? Wade listened again.

  “Already he has made raids!” Nesserdin said angrily. “He has gathered about him a tribe of renegades, thieves and murderers who kill for profit. He seeks to cause a Jihad. Soon even the good men will flock to his banner and then the land will be bathed in blood. But he is not alone, Tanit. Who is with him?”

  “There are white men. One is called Klett.”

  “I know of him.”

  “There is another, but his name I do not know. Klett brings weapons to the Hills of Gold.”

  Wade’s eyes narrowed. So Skipper Klett was indulging in the lucrative trade of gun-running now, supplying the natives with arms, preparing them for the insurrection the mu’min was planning!

  “He lands his boat at Eblis Rock, north of El Hofuf tonight, Hadj. He will take the guns by caravan inland to the place where the mu’min waits.”

  “I shall see the mu’min Mabruk,” Nesserdin stated grimly. “I shall expose him for a false prophet. The people will listen to me. They know and trust me. Then—”

  The staccato bark of a shot tore through the night. Tanit screamed. Instantly Wade’s automatic came out from under his burnous. He kicked open the door, bending low to avoid a possible shot.

  He was in time to see a door across the room swing shut. He had a glimpse of a black-bearded, savage face, a white scar that slashed across the brown forehead. Then the Arab was gone.

  Tanit lay motionless on the Bokhara rug, blood welling from her throat. Wade saw at a glance that she was beyond aid. The Hadj Nesserdin, kneeling beside the girl, sprang up. His keen eyes probed into Wade’s. Abruptly he hurled himself across the room toward the window.

  “Wait!” Wade called. “Hadj!”

  It was too late. Nesserdin sprang out through the open window with surprising agility and was swallowed by the night. Wade took a step forward, and froze in his tracks as the door burst open behind him.

  He whirled. Three Arabs stood on the threshold. One of them was the native who had killed Tanit. His bearded mouth gaped in a snarl.

  “There is the dog who slew the dancing girl!”

  “Ai! He still holds the weapon, Ali Hassan,” another barked, and his hand swept up with a long knife.

  ALI HASSAN—the man who had killed Harding, the British officer!

  Wade lifted his gun menacingly. Then, at the sound of a soft footstep behind him, he whirled. He was too late. A chair swept down at his head. He dodged in time to deflect the blow, but his automatic was knocked out of his grasp.

  The three Arabs swiftly closed in. The other, who had slipped in by the other door, ran at Wade. Snarling, he went reeling back under the force of a hard fist that smashed against his jaw.

  “Kill him!” Ali Hassan snapped.

  Wade kicked the knife from an Arab’s hand. Then he dived in, striving to break through the group. In a tangled, writhing knot they staggered across the threshold, out on the balcony, bringing up with a jarring impact against the rickety rail. The noise from below hushed suddenly and then broke out again in surprised uproar.

  One of the natives broke away, drew back and lifted a heavy Luger, aiming it pointblank at Wade’s head. Instantly he dropped the weapon to claw at his throat, from which a knife-hilt was protruding. The silvery flash of the blade had shot up from the café below.

  The voice of Dick Marat rang out.

  “Got him! Come on, Red!”

  Ali Hassan snatched up the fallen weapon. Bending low, he took careful aim at Wade. The strange civilian battling desperately with two brawny Arabs, could not break free in time to save himself. He put all his strength in a surging drive that sent his shoulders against the wooden railing.

  It splintered and gave. Wade and the Arabs shot out into mid-air, went hurtling down into the courtyard. They crashed on a table, smashing it to matchwood.

  “Kill the kafir dogs!” Ali yelled from above.

  Wade tried to get up, but the breath was temporarily knocked out of him. His assailants were in worse condition. One was dead, the other unconscious. But other Arabs were leaping forward, armed and ready. One of them slashed at Wade with a cutlass. He missed, and then a large fist came out of nowhere and made a scarlet mess out of his face.

  “That’s the way!” Red Argyle roared.

  He straddled Wade, his huge arms swinging. When the natives grew wary, be ripped a leg from a table and increased his range. But Dirk Marat fought differently. His bland face was impassive, yet his fists streaked out with deadly, machine-like accuracy, never missing their mark. Together the pair held off the attackers until Wade could stagger to his feet.

  He was in time to see Ali Hassan race out of the courtyard.

  “Come on!” he ordered. “Let’s beat it.”

  It was more easily said than done, but the three of them fought their way toward the door together.

  “Let’s have your gun, Dirk,” Wade said.

  He caught the wiry
little man’s weapon as it flipped through the air toward him. Quickly he shot out the glaring lights overhead. The moon was overcast. In the resulting darkness, it was not difficult to slip out of the Ramadan Café. All Arabs who got in the way of that hurtling, irresistible wedge were knocked aside.

  Chapter V

  The Forgotten of God

  WHEN the three were in the street, Wade glanced around sharply, seeking a glimpse of Ali Hassan. The Arab, however had made good his escape. Men were pouring from the café.

  “Come on!” Wade snapped, beginning to run.

  “Where to?” Dirk panted.

  “Where’s the Thunderbug?”

  They hailed an old Renault taxi and the trio piled in. Dirk Marat gave instructions. The cab rolled forward, leaving the tumult behind.

  “No use staying in Basra,” Wade said. “Give me a cigarette, somebody. Thanks. We’re traveling south, toward El Hofuf.”

  Mentally he reviewed the situation. Tanit was dead. The Hadj had vanished, perhaps suspecting that Wade was an enemy. He would head for the mysterious Hills of Gold, where the false mu’min was gathering his forces. Unluckily there was no way of telling just where that spot was.

  Ali Hassan was gone, too, yet there was a clue. Skipper Klett was landing a cargo of guns and ammunition that night on the coast of the Persian Gulf, at a place called Eblis Rock. No doubt those guns would go to the mu’min.

  Klett would unknowingly lead Wade to his goal.

  Briefly Thunder Jim explained, which took time. They reached the Thunderbug before he had finished. The black, small-winged cabin plane stood alone on a sandy plain outside of Basra, near a road. Wade dismissed the cab-driver, tipping him liberally to hold his tongue.

  Then he manipulated the Thunderbug’s complicated locks.

  The plane looked slightly deformed. It was made of an incredibly light, tough alloy that came from the lost African valley where Wade had been reared.

  It was a marvel of scientific ingenuity. The stubby wings were retractable. Caterpillar treads could be pumped out in their place, so that the Thunderbug could be turned at will into a light, fast tank. It was completely air-tight, as well, and a powerful screw propeller could change the streamlined craft into a submarine.

  The few scientists who had been allowed to glimpse the Thunderbug in action had rubbed their eyes, decided that it was impossible and then vainly endeavored to duplicate the craft. They could not hope to succeed, for they did not know the secret of the incredibly light alloy that removed the problem of lifting such a bulky mass into the air.

  The Thunderbug weighed about a quarter as much as one would have guessed and its engines were unusually powerful. Wade’s study of modern science, combined with his training in the lost knowledge of an ancient civilization, had produced this fantastic conveyance. Often in the past, he had used it as he was using it now, to battle ruthless and deadly forces of evil.

  It took the air lightly, with Wade at the controls. Swinging south over Basra, it headed toward the coast.

  DIRK MARAT had found another knife in a locker, to replace the one he had left in an Arab’s throat. He was testing its edge against his thumb.

  “So that’s the story,” he observed. “Too bad we weren’t along sooner.”

  “Came as fast as the Thunderbug would fly,” Argyle rumbled. “Anyhow we can deal ourselves in on the next hand, eh, Jim?”

  Wade nosed the plane higher.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “This may be a waiting game. The first thing to do is to locate headquarters—the Hills of Gold, wherever they are.”

  “You say Klett’s going there,” Dirk pointed out. “We can trail his caravan.”

  “In the Thunderbug?” Wade shook his head. “He’d spot us. We’ve got to make him lead us to where we want to go, without his suspecting anything’s wrong.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll need the Thunderbug. The Hadj Nesserdin said Mabruk had gathered a gang of toughs around him and they have guns. Klett’s probably been running the stuff to the mu’min for some time.” Wade snapped his fingers. “Got it! Remember what I said about the pearl pirates of the Bahrein Islands?”

  “Klett?” Argyle boomed.

  “The same gang, anyway. Tanit said two white men were in this racket with the mu’min, and Klett was one of them. It could be that they were raiding the pearl fisheries to get money to finance the gun-running!”

  “Sound’s logical,” Dirk admitted. “But why should anyone finance a Jihad?”

  “A foreign power might want to cause a rumpus in the Near East,” Wade offered, “but a nation could afford to pay anybody it hired. It wouldn’t have to depend on stealing pearls from natives. A real Holy War may have a good reason, but this hasn’t. Unscrupulous crooks are taking advantage of the Arabs’ sincere beliefs. It’s a dirty trick, if you ask me.”

  “So what’s the answer?” Red asked.

  Dirk smiled sardonically at him.

  “Figure it out. We get the job of trailing, as usual. That right, Jim?”

  “Yeah,” Wade said. “I’m going to parachute down when we get near Eblis Rock, then try to mingle with Klett’s crowd. I may be able to do it alone. The three of us certainly can’t. Toss me the makeup kit, Red. I’ll need it. And let’s have one of those portable radio kits. I’ll set it to a beam so you can pick up the signals in the Thunderbug and keep on my trail.”

  Dirk slipped into the seat beside Wade and took over the controls as Thunder Jim moved back into the cabin. Deftly Wade attached the lightweight, powerful radio sending set under his burnous. He clipped the little make-up box to his waist.

  “That’ll do,” he said at last, satisfied. “Now for a ’chute. Dig up a black one, Red, so they won’t spot me.”

  As the plane sped south, the air currents from the Arabian Gulf dissipated the clouds somewhat. The moonlight broke through in patches on the silvery-black water beneath. From the right-hand windows the rocky shore of Saudi Arabia was visible. They were beyond Iraq now, heading toward the Bahrein Islands near Oman.

  PRESENTLY Dirk whistled and jerked his thumb down. Wade leaned toward a window and peered out. Far below was visible a bare, towering pinnacle of stone jutting up near the shore and, on the moonlit Gulf, the squat, black bulk of a small ship.

  “Freighter,” Wade said. “Tramp. That’s Klett’s boat, I think. See those fires?” He pointed. “Arabs, ready to pick up the guns.”

  “The wind’s blowing inshore,” Dirk said. “Want to jump?”

  Wade nodded. He waited till the Thunderbug circled, its engines silent. Then he stepped out into space. Instantly the night swallowed him.

  He shot down through a rush of chill air that ripped at his burnous, blinded him, clawed at his body with vicious fingers. The sea seemed to leap up, ready to engulf him. One finger hooked in the rip-cord—he waited until it seemed like hours. Finally he jerked at the metal ring.

  The shock twisted him savagely, making him gasp. Then he was swinging like a pendulum over the Persian Gulf, drifting slowly toward the shore as he dropped. Over his head the black silk of the parachute was invisible against the night sky. It might have been a cloud that swept toward the Arab encampment….

  Wade pulled at the cords, spilling air from the ’chute to guide his descent. Dimly he heard the almost inaudible purr of the Thunderbug engines as they took up their regular heat again. He landed in a sandy patch, was dragged a dozen yards by the ’chute, before be could disentangle himself. Then he lay motionless, waiting.

  Apparently his arrival from the sky had not been seen. Faintly he heard distant cries, the guttural voices of Arabs. He had landed some distance from the encampment.

  Deftly Wade collected the parachute, rolled it up and buried the bulky bundle. Its presence now would be betraying. He tested the portable radio to make sure it was working and then slipped toward the lights near the shore.

  The light veneer of civilization fell from him almost palpably. He became a stalking,
silent, dangerous wolf that crept forward through the sandy wilderness, nostrils dilated as though to sniff the salt air, black eyes luminous with a curiously feral light of their own. In the African jungles Thunder Jim Wade had learned how to outwit Simba and leopard, how to stalk the kudu and the fleet, wary mountain antelope. He moved in complete silence.

  The Arab encampment lay before him. There were sentries, but none of these came close to where Wade crouched behind an outcropping rock. A chill wind blew in from the Gulf, bearing voices raised in harsh command and the sound of oar-locks. Veiled men filed up from the shore, carrying boxes which they dumped carefully near the tethered camels.

  Veiled men? Tuaregs—desert destroyers, marauders of the wilderness, whose vicious ferocity had long earned them the dreaded name by which the peaceful nomad tribes knew and feared them! The Forgotten of God!

  Blue veils fluttered in the firelight. Savage, cold eyes stared out from above the veils. Steel gleamed. Rifle barrels and cutlasses flashed.

  KLETT strode into view. He was a short figure with a barrel of a chest and simian arms whose hands touched his knees. A tangled mat of black hair concealed all of his face except a bulbous nose and pallid blue eyes. He looked like a bucko mate of the days of the Spanish Main.

  “One more load!” he shouted. “That’s the last. Then we head inland!”

  Thunder Jim smiled mirthlessly and nodded. If he had had any doubt about the justice of his cause, it was gone now. Any man who would join forces with the ruthless Tuareg was self-branded as bad as they. In the past Wade had run afoul of the Forgotten of God. Through his mind floated memories of unspeakable torture, of desert garrisons hideously maimed, of men staked out under the broiling Arabian sun.

  The Tuareg did not kill for religious reasons. Sometimes he did it for profit, and sometimes out of sheer, sadistic cruelty. He was the outlaw of the desert, shunned, feared and hated.

  Silently Wade edged his way toward one of the sentries, farther out than the rest from the flickering circle of firelight. The man paced back and forth, carbine on shoulder, savage eyes gleaming. But the man who stalked him was no less deadly.