by D. R. Martin
Normally, Johnny would have loved telling his sister what to do. What kid brother wouldn’t? But he was still blind and there were no pictures of the mushroom cloud. Something about the explosion—like x-rays, for example—had ruined his film. What a mess.
Still, he made sure Mel followed the “inverted pyramid” technique of news writing—putting the really important stuff at the beginning, the less important facts later on. They both interviewed Uncle Louie, Nina, and Danny about the crisis in the cockpit. It was a spine-tingling tale, worthy of any front page anywhere.
But right in the middle of Nina’s interview something very peculiar happened in Johnny’s unseeing eyes.
Ever since the bomb exploded, Johnny had, for practical purposes, been trying to see an ebony cat in an unlit coal mine at midnight. Only inky blackness. But now, sitting there carefully listening to Nina, he saw some flashes, glitters of green off to his right. Then, as he turned in that direction, a human figure took shape, also in green. A stout man in a uniform with a bushy beard. Lieutenant Finn! The colonel’s second in command, standing at ease at the other end of the room.
Johnny was dumbfounded. Was he just imagining it or could he really see the ghost soldier? And if he could, how was it that he could see someone who was dead, but no one who was alive? How could he see something ethereal, but nothing solid?
Mel’s voice cut in on his reverie. “Johnny, what is it? Are you okay?”
He fluttered his eyelids a few times, and Finn was still visible, suddenly looking at Johnny with a curious expression.
“I can see Lieutenant Finn,” he said. “Nothing else, though.”
Johnny could almost feel everyone in the room staring at him.
“Johnny, you’re sure that all you’re seeing is Finn?” asked Mel.
“Uh-huh, that’s right.”
“Lieutenant Finn, please make a gesture of some kind at Johnny.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the lieutenant answered.
Johnny stared at Finn. “He saluted us, Mel,” Johnny said, as the first grin in many a long hour broke out on his face.
Someone grabbed him and hugged him. It had to be Mel. And for once, Johnny didn’t mind.
“This is good,” said Mel. “This is very good.”
“Now he’s giving me the A-OK sign.”
“But you can’t see anything else,” said Mel.
“That’s right.”
“Hmmm…” Mel muttered. “That seems kind of strange. It could mean your regular vision’s on the way back. But I’ve never heard of anything like this happening before, when someone with etheristic sight goes blind. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
A bit after three in the afternoon, Tangie typed Mel and Johnny’s finished story into one of his teletypewriters. Mel insisted that Johnny share the byline with her. It was thrilling to know that their report would travel halfway around the globe in a matter of moments—to the headquarters of the World Press Association in Neuport. And from there it would go to hundreds of newspapers and radio stations all over the world.
An hour and a half later everyone was sitting directly under the WPA office, on benches at a plank table in Theodore’s Island Café. Dinner was Theodore’s chicken gumbo, fried seaweed, pineapple slices, and coconut cream pie. Johnny managed to eat his food without any help. It intrigued him that the flavors tasted more intense without his eyesight.
And he had to admit, it was nice to see somebody, anybody—even if they were just the ghosts of Lieutenant Finn and a few of the troopers.
* * *
One of the teletypewriting machines was rattling madly away upstairs, as everyone filed back into the office. The teletypewriter finally dinged, indicating that the transmission was complete. Johnny heard the rip of paper being torn out of the machine. There was a pause and Tangie announced, “Home office in Neuport didn’t make many edits in your story. Good job, you two.”
Just then, another teletypewriter clattered to life. A short time later another piece of paper was ripped out.
“A message from a Mr. Carlton Cargill?” Tangie said. He obviously didn’t know who this was.
“The editor at the Zenith Clarion,” said Uncle Louie. “Let me look at it.” There was a pause. ”Dogs in dishwater! More bad news.”
“What is it, Uncle Louie?” asked Johnny.
“Mr. Cargill’s gotten word that the Ministry of War knows we’re here,” Uncle Louie said. “They’ve arranged for a special team of agents to fly in tomorrow morning and grab us all.”
“You mean, like kidnap us?” Johnny asked, incredulous.
“Basically, yeah. That’s what Mr. Cargill says. Haul us back home in chains. If it’s true—and we’ve gotta assume it is—we have to make some tough choices. Do we stick around until morning, and chance getting in a dust-up with these people? Or do we make a run for it in the dark tonight?”
“Absolutely no way,” Danny said firmly. “Remember our little escapade up over the Treport River? No more of that, thanks very much. That bird’s not flying in the dark!”
“Okay then, Dan,” Uncle Louie agreed. “Fair enough. We can hide out here. But the problem is we can’t hide the Eagle. How do you conceal a big four-engine flying boat? They’ll take her or disable her and we’ll end up stranded on this island. It’ll all be over.”
Tangie cleared his throat. “Umm, sorry to contradict, Mr. Hofstedter, but yes, you can hide her. We can ferry your aircraft a few miles up the coast and anchor in my private lagoon overnight. I have spare bedrooms and a nice sofa. You can fly out at first light.”
“That’s a super idea,” Johnny exclaimed.
“Gotta admit that I like it, too,” said Uncle Louie. “How’s the gas, Dan? The food and water?”
“Clever me,” the pilot boasted. “I had her fueled up as soon as we arrived. The local market delivered food and other supplies just before I hiked over here to join you for dinner. Filled up the fresh water tank. Kinda wondered if this might happen. Half the time we seem to be making narrow escapes.”
“But what about that charming guesthouse where we’re supposed to stay?” asked Nina, sounding as if she couldn’t believe this turn of events. “The comfy beds with down pillows? Cakes and eggs and pork and delectable tropical fruits for breakfast? Sunrise over the scenic lagoon?”
“Sorry, kiddo,” Uncle Louie laughed. “We all gotta make sacrifices.”
Suddenly Johnny let out a gasp of surprise. Something was happening. Something perhaps very good. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles.
It looked a lot to him like it did when the rising sun slowly lit up his darkened bedroom early in the morning. And it was revealing the real world, not just the ether.
“Johnny, are you all right?” Mel said.
He looked toward his sister’s voice and felt a big smile creep across his face. “You were right, Mel. Seeing Finn was the beginning. I’m starting to see some regular light, Sis. I see the light bulbs, and the bright windows, and some people shapes.”
“Great news, John!” boomed Uncle Louie.
Mel hugged her brother again, and Nina and his uncle slapped him on the back. Tangie ran downstairs for more root beer and something a little stronger for Danny, Uncle Louie, and himself. A toast and a celebration, he said, were most definitely in order.
* * *
Just before they left for the flying boat docks, Mel and Johnny stood with Lieutenant Finn on Landfall’s dusty, rutted Main Street.
His eyes finally working again, Johnny noticed that there wasn’t much there—a few threadbare shops, saloons, offices, a bank, a police station, and lots of palm trees.
Lieutenant Finn cleared his throat, even though a ghost shouldn’t need to. “Commander Graphic, what are your orders with regard to the colonel? No sign of him yet.”
“I can’t understand what could have delayed him,” Mel said, with a clear tone of concern. “It’s simply not like the colonel to be this late. I told him not to take any risks.” She looked down
and shook her head. “Maybe he misunderstood me. Maybe he and the men went ahead to Gorton Island and he’s waiting for us there.”
“Always a possibility, ma’am,” answered Finn.
To Johnny it sounded as if both of them were trying to avoid mentioning the unmentionable. Who knows what that horrible explosion could have done. Even to a ghost.
“But let’s leave a few men here, in case they show up after our departure,” said Mel.
Johnny was uncomfortably warm, but he shivered nonetheless.
He didn’t want to think that he might never see Horace MacFarlane again.
Chapter 36
Thursday, October 31, 1935
Capital City, Plains Republic
Peter Santangelo watched Minister of Etheristics Hubert Scofield pace up and down alongside the broad oak table, twirling his gold-rimmed spectacles in his right hand. They were in a room many levels underground, in the bowels of the Ministry of War Building. This bare, windowless chamber had seen a thousand top-secret meetings since the Second Border War. It was a depressing place, especially in the middle of the night. Even more depressing than some of the places where Santangelo had recruited his ghost assassins.
Without warning the big double doors flew open and the minister of war trod into the room—red in the face, her silver hair plastered down around her head like a helmet. Mabel Patterson threw her fur stole and white kid leather gloves right onto the table. Looking slightly inebriated, she wobbled a bit. She was short and dumpy and stooped at the shoulders.
Her assistant—a brigadier Army general in full dress uniform—tried to take her elbow. But she turned on him and snapped, “Out.” He nodded sharply, backed away, and closed the doors.
“Where were you?” said Scofield. “The report about the bomb came over the news wires hours ago. Had a devil of a time locating you.”
She squinted at him, looking like a grumpy bulldog. “The opera. Tickets scarce as hens’ teeth. Giacomo Paranelli himself singing King Renaldo. Afterwards to Mrs. Pillsbury’s party. Then this news gets whispered in my ear. A splendid evening turns to ashes in my mouth. Those blasted Graphic brats!”
Scofield put on his spectacles and sat. “I am sorry.”
The minister of war regarded Santangelo with an evil eye, and he felt his stomach flip-flop. She was one of the most dangerous politicians in Capital City. Rumor had it that the reason Mabel Patterson was chosen as minister of war was because one look at that scary face of hers was enough to stop an advancing army.
“Who is this, Hubert?”
“Peter Santangelo. He’s been handling some of the, um, trickier aspects of the operation. He came here to tell us what he thinks has gone awry.”
Mabel Patterson plopped down in her chair, opposite Santangelo and Scofield. “Tell you something, Hubert. Didn’t take this affair seriously enough. Never really believed our so-called ‘khan’ would pull it off. I mean, a bomb made of ghosts? Really now. But the generals told me we had to have a piece of it, had to play his game in order to get the knowledge. It’s why we did this. Put our scientists in there. Funded it. Helped eliminate that ratty little bunch of etherists he was so worried about, who might be able to peddle the information elsewhere. What do you call them? The, um, Hammerschlager something or other.”
“Hausenhofer Gesellschaft,” said Scofield.
Patterson sneered at Santangelo. “And this nincompoop here fails to deal with the most dangerous opponents that we have, Melanie Graphic and that pipsqueak brother of hers. A seventeen-year-old girl and a twelve-year-old boy. Three chances to get rid of her, all flops. And their wretched newspaper articles, besides, creating unhelpful publicity about our little project. Do you have any idea of the mess you have made, Mr. Sat… Sat… Sat-in-cello? Any idea?”
Santangelo wasn’t about to correct the minister of war’s pronunciation of his name. And he hardly thought it his fault that his ghosts couldn’t get to Miss Graphic. She had a blasted cavalry troop to protect her and was a decent swordswoman, to boot. Her brother, for his part, was certainly a feisty little fellow. He had underestimated them badly.
“I take all the blame,” he gulped, nodding. Because excuses would get him nowhere with Mabel Patterson.
“The bomb could make us the most powerful nation on earth,” Patterson continued, bright red in the face. “The prime minister agrees. But why in Hades did Mr. Khan set off the device days early? Why didn’t our people warn us?”
“Where, indeed, are our people?” sighed Scofield. “They’ve all vanished.”
“No chance now to see the thingy go boom. In fact, the only people who apparently saw the explosion were the Graphic brats. And they send out the news, worldwide. Could our luck be any worse? Couldn’t the bomb have blown them up? Done something useful for us, at least?”
The war minister drummed her pink-enameled, highly manicured fingernails in a military cadence on the glossy oak. “Might it have been the business with Mrs. Rathbone? Maybe we angered the khan.”
“Perhaps,” said Scofield.
“The khan specifically asked that no one harm her.”
“Ma’am,” said Santangelo, screwing up his nerve, “that information got to me too late. I’d already given Mr. Canfield, the ghost gangster, his orders. To machine-gun the old lady in Neuport. When I tried to stop him, he had already set out to do the deed.”
Santangelo felt fortunate that the minister of war merely gave him a very dark glower.
“Why so interested in the health of an old, washed-up suffragist, our khan?” the war minister asked.
Scofield shrugged. “Not a clue.”
“So what now, Hubert?”
“You’re the one with an army and a secret service at your beck and call, Mabel. You tell me.”
“We still have agents after the Graphics,” said Patterson. “We know they’re going to Landfall Island and we will have a team there in about twelve hours. Grab them or kill them. Also, they’ll investigate the bomb. The gizmo has massive destructive power. Maybe enough to level a city. If we had only a dozen of these things, we could—”
“Rule the world?” Scofield chuckled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mabel. Finally dealing with the Old Dominion would be quite enough, don’t you think?”
“The voice of reason, as usual, Hubert.”
“And don’t forget. We have to get our scientists out—if we can find them. They know how to build the thing. The khan seems to have double-crossed us and now we have to clean up the mess.”
The minister of war nodded. “We need to cover our tracks, most important of all. If the details got out, this government of ours could fall. And our own heads might end up on the chopping block.”
“Agreed,” Scofield said. “We also need to know if the bomb actually does the Second Impossible Thing—sending spooks to heaven or nothingness or whatever you care to call it. Without that, no more etheric bombs. Why would ghosts sacrifice themselves if it wouldn’t set them free?”
“What if he’s made another device, Hubert? One we don’t know about?”
Scofield groaned. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Santangelo felt that he had become invisible, as these two powerful people plotted their baleful schemes. And “invisible” was perfectly fine, as far as he was concerned.
“On the public side,” the war minister continued, “my people will have a press conference later today. Our story: Have no idea what just happened in the Greater Ocean. Volcano or meteorite most likely. Tidal wave. Rumors of etheric bomb, ridiculous. You have the easy job, Hubert—waking up the prime minister and briefing him.” She chuckled darkly.
The minister of etheristics groaned. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
Chapter 37
Thursday, October 31, 1935
Gorton Island
From his window seat on the starboard side, Johnny watched through the porthole as the flying boat cruised up the western shore of Gorton Island. The aircraft circled around,
and came back down the eastern side—a few hundred feet over the shoreline. Johnny took one aerial shot of the island, just in case he might need it for Mel’s next story.
A dense canopy of palms and other trees hid almost everything from sight. The only landmarks Johnny could clearly make out were Dame Honoria’s tin-roofed house and outbuildings, a clutch of decrepit barns, a brief stretch of white beach, and a substantial timber dock and boathouse. He didn’t observe anything moving on the island. Not a single person or animal or wraith. Not even a bird or the ghost of a bird.
Half an hour later Johnny and Uncle Louie were wrestling two black rubber dinghys out through the passenger door onto the sea wing. Together, they dropped them onto the gently lapping emerald green water. Within minutes, Johnny, Uncle Louie, and Nina were paddling under the pounding mid-day sun, toward the dock, through a wide gap in the reef. Behind them in the second dinghy came Mel and Danny.
Even though Johnny knew that Dame Honoria had been taken from the island, he felt excited just being here—a place he had heard about all his life. Certainly they’d find some clues about her abduction and, with any luck, some idea of where to find her.
* * *
The five of them and Lieutenant Finn were standing in Dame Honoria’s library. They’d gone through every room in the house, with nary a sign of anyone living or dead. They found no one in the servants’ huts, kitchen shack, or storage sheds. Troopers of the Zenith Brigade had fanned out across the island and confirmed that it was utterly deserted.
Bookshelves covered two walls of the library. Big windows in the third wall looked out on the white sand beach. The fourth wall was covered with old photographs. Honoria as a girl with her father and mother, on her winter holidays on Gorton Island. Honoria as a young mother, with her glum-faced little lad Percy.
“What’s this here?” Johnny asked, poking at the only item on the broad rosewood desk—a heavy brown cardboard box. He took the top off and peered inside. “Umm, ‘Beatrice Periwinkle. A Novel by Chauncy Holyfield.’”