HELLFIRE
A RYAN MITCHELL THRILLER
BY RICHARD TURNER
~~~
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2015 by Richard Turner. All rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
1
North America
Approximately 12,000 BC
An unnatural silence gripped the wide valley floor. It was yet another sign that something terrible had befallen the land.
Gray Wolf raised his hand and warily pulled down the tree branch blocking his sight. He silently looked out from the thick pine forest; his dark-brown eyes studied the snow-covered ground. He saw nothing dangerous, but his instincts told him to be cautious. He brought a long, sharpened, stone-tipped spear up to his chest and clenched it tight in his callused hands. His scraggly black hair hung down onto the dirt-encrusted fur clothing he wore to keep his body warm. In his twenty-sixth summer, Gray Wolf was the second-oldest person in his ever-diminishing clan.
Gray Wolf glanced up and saw the sun hanging high above his head. He shook his head. Spring had come late this year. The snow had only just begun to melt under his feet, and the nights were still bitterly cold.
It had been three full moons since the night sky was brilliantly lit up with hundreds of shooting stars that streaked and danced across the top of the world. The clan’s shaman, a toothless and crippled old man, joyfully said that it was a good omen. He told everyone around the fire that night that the spirits of their ancestors had flown across the night to bless them with a good hunt this year.
He was wrong.
Almost right away, the large animals the clan had been tracking from the north began to die. At first, they found only one or two dead animals lying in the open. To Gray Wolf, it was as the Gods had always wanted; those that died were the sick, old, or very young. However, as the days slipped by, things began to change for the worse when the tribe came upon whole herds of animals lying dead, scattered about the frozen countryside. What troubled Gray Wolf was the fact that scavengers like the wolf, coyote or fox had all but vanished. Normally, they would have been tearing at the carcasses of the dead, but there were none to be seen.
They seemed to be avoiding the dead.
Even the crows were keeping clear of the dead, and this was a bad omen as far as Gray Wolf was concerned. Why had the Gods told the scavengers to avoid the bodies of the other animals? Was it not their place in life to feed upon the remains of their larger cousins? pondered Gray Wolf.
With his spear held tight, he crept cautiously out of the cover of the woods. His moccasin-covered feet barely made a sound on the ground as he made his way towards a rocky rise overlooking a large, partially frozen lake. Gray Wolf moved swiftly and silently. When he was near the top of the hill, he dropped down behind a tall boulder, using it for cover. He quickly glanced over his shoulder at his son, Setting Sun, and whispered at him to keep low. They didn’t want to be seen, especially if there were any animals resting near the lake.
Setting Sun was a tall boy for his age of nine summers. The fact that so many of the clan’s other hunters had left in search of food had forced Gray Wolf to bring his only son along with him today.
Gray Wolf lifted his head slightly and smelled the cool breeze coming off the lake. The smell of death hung heavy in the air.
He knew something awful had happened. On all fours, Gray Wolf crawled from behind cover until he could see out over the long lake. What he saw broke his heart: lying all around the lake were whole herds of mammoths, caribou, and deer.
The shaman was wrong. Evil spirits must have come with the shooting stars to kill off their food.
“Father, why is everything dead?” asked Setting Sun.
“I do not know. Our shaman had predicted plenty, but we must have done something to anger the Gods,” replied Gray Wolf.
“Father, what are we going to do? We cannot go back without something to feed the women and children.”
Gray Wolf smiled. His son was barely old enough to come on the hunt, yet he was worried about the rest of the clan. He would do well as a man.
Gray Wolf knew there was no reason to remain hidden. He stood and looked down at the body of a large deer. His stomach grumbled loudly. He hadn’t eaten in days. None of them had. If he didn’t bring something back for his people to eat, his clan was going to starve to death long before they made it to the hills where they rested for the summer. With his spear held out in front of him, Gray Wolf walked down towards the dead animal. With each step, he expected the Gatherer of the Dead to suddenly appear out of the lake and take his spirit into the underworld for trespassing where he did not belong. The fear of never seeing his ancestors in the afterlife kept him alert and tense.
“Father, look!” shouted Setting Sun.
Gray Wolf turned his head and saw several bodies lying face down in the snow. They were clustered around the eviscerated remains of a caribou. His heart began to race as he walked slowly towards the bodies. When he was a few paces away, he called out to them.
No one replied.
Gray Wolf cautiously stepped closer. He saw that they were dressed as he was, in heavy furs, but he didn’t recognize any of their faces. They weren’t from his clan, or any other tribe that lived and hunted in the lands near his. With his spear, he gently prodded the body of a man. Gray Wolf saw that the man appeared to have died while eating some meat, the man’s last meal frozen in his blood-covered hands. He said a quick prayer to the Sun God to watch over the dead and stepped back. He never turned his back on the dead. Gray Wolf still feared that the Gatherer of the Dead was lurking nearby. One by one, Gray Wolf checked the other corpses. They all seemed to have died the same way.
A chill ran down his spine. Perhaps the Gods had killed them because they had disturbed the bodies of the dead, thought Gray Wolf.
He shook his head in frustrati
on. He couldn’t understand why the Gods had cursed the land.
A sound from above suddenly caught his ear. Like a tiger, Gray Wolf crouched down and looked up into the sky. Right away, a smile crept across his face when he saw a flock of birds coming in to land on the still-frozen lake.
Perhaps their luck was about to change.
Gray Wolf slowly set his spear down beside his feet. Together with his son, he dug out his sling and slipped a small stone inside. They waited patiently until the geese landed nearby. With his heart racing, Gray Wolf quickly stood up, swung his sling over his head, and with a practiced eye, aimed for the biggest bird he could see.
His aim was true.
Before the other birds could react, Setting Sun brought down another bird.
Three hours later, they returned to their clan’s camp nestled deep inside the thick woods. In each hand were three birds. Met by Young Spirit, his wife, Gray Wolf helped her pass around the plentiful food to the other members of the tribe. There had been thirty-two people in the White Bear clan when they began their annual migration south following the herds. Now there were only nineteen. Some had died of old age, others of malnutrition, while still others had left to find better hunting grounds.
That night the food was hungrily devoured. Gray Wolf noticed that people laughed and joked with one another, the first time in many days. Even his usually dour wife was smiling.
He woke early the next morning and crept out of his shelter to the sound of their shaman coughing and hacking. Gray Wolf doubted if the man would last through the summer.
In the gray light of dawn, he could see his breath. Gray Wolf walked over to the fire pit in the center of their camp. He squatted down and placed his hand over the top of the charred wood; there was some heat coming from the still burning embers. Gray Wolf put a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, got down on all fours, and blew on the embers, giving them life. Within a minute, the bonfire was burning hot. The fresh pine boughs snapped and cracked in the heat of the fire.
His empty stomach rumbled. Gray Wolf looked about and found what he was looking for. Hanging outside of his shelter on a pole was a piece of frozen goose meat. He reached over, grabbed a piece of meat, and jammed it onto the end of a long stick. Gray Wolf took a seat on a log and held his stick out over the fire. It was then that he realized he was feeling fine. If the geese had been diseased like the larger animals, they had not passed on the sickness to the people.
Relief replaced the gnawing fear that had inhabited his heart for the past few days. Gray Wolf began to realize that with luck, they were going to make it to their summer lands to catch fish as they had for generations. They weren’t going to starve to death after all. If he and his son could continue to catch geese and other birds, they could continue to feed the clan. He sat back, looked up into the early-morning sky, and saw a lone star shining bright on the horizon. Like an impudent child, it waited to be chased off by the rising sun that jealously guarded the daylight sky as her own. He recognized it as the star his father had told him his ancestors’ spirits rested on. Gray Wolf thanked his ancestors for letting him and his people live. Before the star left, he asked his ancestors why the Gods had decided to kill so many of the large animals.
Gray Wolf grew old and died without ever receiving his answer.
2
Bouvet Island, South Atlantic
November 12th, 1923
A thick, impenetrable wall of fog rolled off the freezing waters of the South Atlantic, swallowing the ice-covered island whole. Damp and bitterly cold, the mist quickly seeped into the bones of the badly injured men trapped on Bouvet Island, a bleak, uninhabited, sub-Antarctic, volcanic island claimed by England. Their twin-engine Dornier flying boat was a wreck. It would never fly again.
What had started as a bright idea between two old friends in Oxford late last year had ended in tragedy when their plane developed engine troubles on its maiden flight over the South Atlantic. William Hetherington and Darcy Wright, both second sons of well-to-do Earls, had hired a ship and crew to take them to and from Antarctica with the goal of flying over the South Pole. It was all just a big lark to both young men. They had survived the horrors of the Great War and lived each day as if it were their last. Like a pair of drunken sailors, they spent their substantial inheritances on a series of wild and exotic schemes. From a failed attempt to climb Mount Everest in which five Sherpas had died in an avalanche, to an expedition into the Amazon to look for a fabled lost mine full of conquistador gold that nearly killed them both, Hetherington and Wright wanted desperately to do something that would bring fame to themselves and glory to England. After a long night drinking with some of their friends, they hit upon the idea of dropping the Union Jack from a plane onto the South Pole. They would hire a camera crew and film the grand adventure from beginning to end.
Neither man was an experienced pilot, but that didn’t stop them from buying a flying boat from an old acquaintance who told them that for a modest price he could obtain the most advanced flying boat of its day. The seller even claimed that it was the ideal plane for flying over the South Pole.
Two Rolls Royce V-12, water-cooled piston engines powered the Dornier Do J—known as the ‘Whale’ for the long design of its body. Capable of flying up to 180 kilometers an hour and climbing to thirty-five hundred meters, the flying boat could carry up to eight passengers. However, for their inaugural flight, Wright and Hetherington decided to fly alone.
On a cool, but cloudless day, they had their plane lowered from the side of their ship onto the gray water of the South Atlantic. They took off at precisely noon, intending to do a quick trip to get a feel for their plane. With a hearty wave up at the ship’s captain, Wright shouted that they would be back in a couple of hours after a good long flight. It was the last anyone would see of them for decades.
After an hour of flying straight south with Hetherington at the controls, Wright opened up a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne. “Here’s to England,” said Wright raising his glass.
“To England,” heartily replied Hetherington. Together they toasted their first successful flight.
Although the plane could fly for over four hours before needing to refuel, both men knew that it was better not to press their luck. Besides, they were due back at their ship in just over an hour. With a hearty handshake, Hetherington handed off the controls to Wright. He headed back into the cabin to retrieve his camera when all of a sudden the plane’s engines, mounted on a nacelle behind the cockpit, began to shake and sputter. Within seconds, a thick black oily cloud of smoke trailed behind the plane.
Neither man panicked. It wasn’t in their nature. They looked out the windows of their plane hoping to find a spot to put down. Wright soon spotted an island a couple of kilometers to the east.
Had they tried landing on water, as their plane was designed to do, they most likely would have survived the ordeal and been found several hours later by their ship. However, for reasons known only to themselves, they decided to try to land on the island. They overflew the island and chose a spot to put down. Wright brought the plane around and dove out of the sky. He lined up the plane for what he hoped would be a smooth landing. From above, the glacier looked as flat as glass but it was deceiving. The truth was that long ridges of ice, as solid and thick as a brick wall, jutted out of the glacier.
Wright calmly brought their plane into land. He slowed the plane down as much as he could without stalling their already troubled engines and touched the belly of their plane down on the ice. Immediately, the thin metal underbelly of the plane slid across the glacier, like a puck shot across an ice rink. Shaking loudly, with a cloud of ice and snow trailing behind, the plane rocketed over the glacier.
Wright tightly held onto the plane’s controls, even though he no longer had any control over what happened to the flying boat.
For a few seconds, both men thought they were going to make it, when they suddenly hit a jagged ridge of ice. With a loud, shrieking wail, the undercarria
ge of the flying boat tore wide open. Ice and snow instantly flew up inside the cabin, blinding both men. A couple of seconds later, the plane struck another, slightly higher wall of ice, ripping off several large pieces of the undercarriage as if it were paper and sending the plane spinning like a child’s toy across the glacier. Anything not securely fastened down flew about inside the plane in a swirling maelstrom of maps and papers.
Unable to do anything but hold on for dear life, both men waited for the inevitable while the plane spun out of control towards a jagged, open fissure. In the blink of an eye, the floatplane disappeared headfirst into the fifteen-meter-deep crevice. With a loud crunch, the plane smashed into the far side of the rocky gap. The front of the plane instantly crumpled inwards, trapping both men in their seats, while the rest of the seventeen-meter-long plane collapsed in on itself like an accordion. The sound of snapping and twisting metal was deafening. The plane’s long wing ripped free from its nacelle, collapsing down on either side of the fuselage. A few seconds later, the plane settled down at the bottom of the icy hole.
Silence soon filled the air.
As if their predicament couldn’t have been any worse, clouds quickly rolled in and snow began falling from the sky to cover the wreckage.
Hetherington was the first to wake up. His head ached horribly. His stomach suddenly turned. With a moan, he vomited onto the wrecked windshield of the plane. When he had nothing left in his stomach, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves and reached up with his right hand. He wasn’t surprised to find a large goose egg-sized bump growing on the side of his head. Hetherington was about to check on his friend when he felt a snowflake land on his cheek. He turned his head and saw that the glass window on the top of their cockpit had been destroyed during the crash and that snow was coming down inside from above. Hetherington swore when he tried to unbuckle himself from his seat, only to find that his left arm was broken. What bothered him the most was that he couldn’t feel his legs. He glanced down and saw that his legs were trapped under a twisted piece of blood-covered metal. Hetherington cursed when he realized that he couldn’t feel a thing below his waist. He had shattered his spine in the accident. There was no way he was ever going to free himself. Fighting back the growing feeling of despair in his chest, Hetherington called out Wright’s name several times, trying to get his friend to wake up. After a few agonizing minutes in which Hetherington thought that his friend was dead, Wright slowly came to life.
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