Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb

by D. R. Martin

  Temur turned his head and finally noticed the wide-eyed Ozzie Eccleston, still in the firm grip of Marchiano and another Zenith trooper. He peered at Mel. “Tell your soldiers to release that man. The khan requests his presence.”

  Her face the very picture of defeat, Mel gave a curt nod and told Marchiano, “Do what the man says, Corporal. Let Ozzie go.”

  With grimaces of disgust, the two troopers did just that, and Ozzie—with an air of sneering contempt—flew up into the sky and away.

  It practically broke Johnny’s heart to see the devastated look on Mel’s face. She glanced from Dame Honoria to Nina to himself. As if she were saying goodbye to them forever.

  This can’t be happening, Johnny thought. He had to do something!

  * * *

  When Johnny and the others emerged out of the jungle shadows onto the broad sandy beach, their Steppe Warrior captors herded them to the left, while Mel and Temur went right.

  The black-haired girl and the warrior wraith faced each other, sabers drawn.

  Without any warning, the specter charged at Mel, raining down a cascade of strikes—sending her skittering backward and off balance.

  Johnny winced and blinked at every clang and clank, desperately wanting to put a stop to this madness, but not knowing how. The Steppe Warrior clearly had no intention of letting this become a long, drawn-out struggle.

  With one final, brutal stroke, Temur smashed the old army saber out of Mel’s hand, sending it flying. Mel sprawled backward onto the sand.

  Johnny’s heart went up in his mouth. Mel was defenseless! She was going to die!

  The wraith hefted his blade for a two-handed, sidearm chop through that thin, white, living neck, when—

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Thunderous gunshots!

  Johnny couldn’t believe who he saw landing on the sand, right between Mel and her would-be executioner.

  Colonel MacFarlane and Buck!

  The colonel aimed his revolver at Temur.

  Up above hovered almost every other missing Zenith trooper. Repeating carbines and six-shooters drawn all around. Many of them aimed at the head of the Steppe Warrior who was about to decapitate Melanie Graphic.

  “Move the slightest little bit, sir,” the silver-bearded officer growled, “and we’ll blow your ugly noggin to smithereens!”

  To Johnny, the next silent half-minute felt like an eternity. The Steppe Warriors had their arrows aimed at Johnny and Nina, at Dame Honoria and the scientists. The troopers floating above had the Steppe Warriors in their sights. Johnny had never seen the colonel so furious—as if he were ready to take on hell itself. One itchy finger, and the six living people on this beach could all die.

  Finally, the colonel spoke. “Now, what I would suggest is that we all lower our weapons and have a little parley among ourselves.”

  Wiping blood from the cut on his nose, Johnny looked all around. Against the odds, all those military ghosts sensed the wisdom of the colonel’s advice and stood still as statues.

  “I have terrible news for you, sir,” the colonel said, staring straight into Temur’s black eyes. “I have seen and heard what the etheric bomb did to the spirits who hoped to truly die.”

  Several of the Steppe Warriors muttered excitedly to each other, and squinted all the harder at Horace MacFarlane.

  “Your khan,” the colonel said, “has not told you the truth.”

  Chapter 46

  Johnny wished he could get a picture of the colonel, the very image of unstinting heroism. Alive or dead, what a man he was!

  “I repeat,” the colonel said. “Let us put our weapons down.”

  Temur scowled at the colonel, but nodded and sheathed his curved sword. Simultaneously, the colonel holstered his pistol. All the other soldiers there slowly lowered their swords and pistols.

  The colonel nudged Buck forward, until they were a little bit in front of the Steppe Warrior.

  “Tell us what you found, bluecoat,” said Temur.

  The colonel didn’t need to clear his throat, but did, for dramatic effect. “We all saw the bomb explode. A green fireball miles wide. A colossal mushroom cloud. But…” He gravely shook his head.

  “But what?” asked the Steppe Warrior.

  “You had hoped the detonation would blow you all the way to your final resting place. Any sensible ghost would wish for that. Am I right?”

  “The Eternal Blue Sky,” said a teenaged Steppe Warrior. The boy’s expression alternated between joy and dread. “At last we’ll go to the Eternal Blue Sky.”

  “What did you find, old man?” Temur said, his voice laden with suspicion. “Out with it!”

  The colonel described how he, Schecter, and Underwood had flown into the mushroom cloud. How the debris had battered them and scattered them heaven knows where. Schecter and Underwood had vanished utterly—still missing in action.

  Johnny stifled a gasp. Those two, they had been his friends. Schecter had taught Johnny how to play poker and Underwood had rescued him once, when he’d gotten stuck out on a boulder in the middle of a rushing stream. He might have drowned, but for Private Underwood.

  “Next thing I knew, I was huddling on the ocean floor, with Buck here.” The colonel ran his fingers through the ghost horse’s mane. “Pitch dark and dead quiet down there. Then it began. And I still shudder to think of it.”

  Johnny couldn’t help jumping in. “What? What began, Colonel?”

  “I started hearing voices, Master Johnny, a galaxy of voices. All talking at once. Mostly different, but some the same. As if there were ten or a hundred of the same person. They got inside my head. A chorus of the damned. They came raining down on me.” The colonel gazed at Temur. “Do you understand, sir?”

  The warrior, his face suddenly very gloomy, shook his head. But, Johnny thought, he did understand. He just didn’t want to admit it.

  Mel pulled herself up and took a few reluctant steps toward her nemesis. “I think the colonel is saying, Temur, that the ghosts in the bomb were blown to bits, but not to the Eternal Blue Sky.”

  Johnny’s stomach did a flip-flop. Nothing more hideous could happen to a ghost. Shredded to little pieces, but still cognizant, still capable of feeling pain—and utterly helpless.

  “Every atom of their being,” the colonel continued grimly, “was screaming with regret. All those ghosts. All those thousands. Torn. Ripped apart. Destroyed but not freed.”

  At first, Temur looked dismayed, but then came rage. “These are lies! Dirty, miserable lies! The khan promised an end to our curse.”

  “He told us we’d live forever in the Eternal Blue Sky,” whined the young Steppe Warrior.

  “Either your khan didn’t know what would happen or he told you an untruth,” the colonel said.

  “Your word alone is not good enough,” grunted Temur. “Give us proof.”

  The colonel nodded. “Thought you might want something like that.” He leaned over and opened his saddle bag. He reached inside it, grabbing something. Bringing his closed fist around, he snapped his hand open, scattering a half-cupful of fine gravel over Temur’s head.

  “What sort of foolery is this?” Temur snarled.

  With no warning, a look of absolute pain came over his face. “ARRRGGHHH!” he cried, then stared up at the colonel. “No! NO! It cannot be!”

  The Steppe Warrior swayed on his feet and groaned. “I hear hundreds of voices, every one screaming in agony.” He crumpled to the ground and huddled in a fetal position, quivering and quaking.

  Then Johnny slapped his hands up to his ears, trying to shut out the thin, horrible keening of the ruined spooks. Somehow, it seeped into his brain and bones and muscles. Dame Honoria and Mel wore expressions of horror on their faces, as well.

  Some of the Steppe Warriors looked as if they were going to sob and shriek. Some tried to remain stoic, their faces rigid and brittle. Still others shook their heads miserably and rode slowly away toward the coral hills.

  Now the ancient horse soldier
s looked like ordinary ghosts, robbed of hope—vague, diaphanous, without the capacity to touch and affect the real world. Percy Rathbone’s hold on them had ended. Their agreement with “the khan” had been violated by this deception.

  As the Steppe Warriors faded away, Johnny noticed Bao whispering into Dame Honoria’s ear. The old lady’s face first showed a look of surprise, then grim determination.

  “I believe we have one more job to do before we leave this wretched island,” she boomed. “Melanie, Johnny, Colonel MacFarlane, I need to speak with you.”

  Chapter 47

  Gritting his teeth—as he always did when he went flying with the colonel and Buck—Johnny was the first to spot the little rowboat. The tiny vessel was heading out to a two-engined floatplane in the big lagoon at the north end of Old Number One.

  Despite feeling utterly worn out and starving, Johnny had been determined to go with the colonel on this one last vital mission—to capture the khan. The news photographer in him could hardly wait to snap a shot of Percy Rathbone getting his comeuppance.

  When Johnny had told Mel and Dame Honoria that he planned to go with the colonel, neither of them argued. After all, Percy’s deal with the Steppe Warriors on the island had ended once they had witnessed the horrific effect of the etheric bomb. The ancient ghost soldiers presented no further danger. The colonel even figured that it would take only three troopers—himself plus Finn and Marchiano—to apprehend Percy and his blonde accomplice. The rest would stay and guard Mel, Dame Honoria, and Nina.

  The ghost horses and their riders circled down toward the solitary rower. Johnny could tell from Dame Honoria’s description that it was Percy. The now-dethroned khan flailed with the oars in a desperate attempt to reach the floatplane. From the door of the aircraft, a woman in an aviator helmet—with copious blonde hair sticking out every which way—urged the rower on.

  “Harder, Percy!” she screamed. “Row harder!”

  “So it really is him!” Johnny exclaimed, from his perch behind the colonel.

  “So it’d seem,” the colonel returned. “Now we have the scoundrel.”

  Suddenly, someone in the floatplane pulled the blonde woman back and began firing at Johnny and the troopers.

  More quickly than Johnny thought possible, Finn and Marchiano returned fire, shooting holes in the aluminum skin of the airplane. In the midst of the gunfire Johnny managed to see the shooter just before he ducked back inside the floatplane. That rat, Ozzie!

  With a brisk hand signal, the colonel directed Corporal Marchiano down to the water—right between the rowboat and the floatplane. The corporal skidded to a halt atop the gentle waves and aimed his carbine at the open door of the plane.

  Even though he was trapped, Percy kept rowing.

  “Stop, Mr. Rathbone, or we shoot!” the colonel bellowed from above.

  But the grim-looking culprit paid him no heed.

  The colonel barked an order to Finn. “Shoot holes in the boat, lieutenant.”

  In rapid succession, Finn fired a dozen shots through the thin wood planking of the boat’s bottom. Almost immediately, water began to gush into it.

  Percy threw down his oars and stood. He cupped his hands to his mouth and hollered to his blonde friend, who had reappeared in the airplane door. “Get away, Pamela! And keep a good eye on Mummy!”

  “No, Percy, no!” the woman wailed.

  But Percy didn’t respond. He just stood there, frozen in place in the sinking rowboat. He made no effort to swim away. It appeared that the mighty khan intended to go down with his ship.

  Johnny knew he had work to do. It was now or never, one shot only. “Colonel, can you hover for a minute?” he shouted in the old officer’s ear. “Steady as possible?”

  “Consider it done, Master Johnny,” the specter replied, lightly tugging on Buck’s reins.

  Pulling his left hand from the belt around the colonel’s waist, Johnny took his camera in both hands and aimed it at the rowboat below. The little vessel was rapidly filling with water.

  Just as it started to slip beneath the surface, Finn swooped down and grabbed Percy by the collar of his safari jacket, tugging him up toward the saddle.

  At that precise instant Johnny pressed the shutter.

  Finn hauled the dripping khan up over the saddle and barked a few intemperate words at him. Percy had the good sense to not struggle.

  Thrilled beyond belief, Johnny yelled, “Got you, you bum!” right in the colonel’s ear.

  With a mechanical roar, the floatplane’s two propellers had both started to turn. Johnny could see the blonde woman through the front windshield, in the pilot’s seat, a dismal look on her face. She turned the aircraft out to sea and began taxiing away.

  “We’ve gotta stop that floatplane,” Johnny continued. “They’re gonna get away.”

  “There aren’t enough of us, Master Johnny,” the colonel said. “We have Mr. Rathbone. That’ll have to do for now.”

  Though he felt bitterly disappointed that Ozzie and the woman were getting away, Johnny understood. They would still be flying back to Mel and Dame Honoria with the biggest catch of all.

  * * *

  The very instant that Buck touched down on the beach back at the opposite end of the island, Johnny leapt from the saddle and rushed over to Percy—whom Finn had unceremoniously dumped in a heap on the sand. Percy’s face was sullen beneath his pith helmet.

  “What happened to my parents on Okkatek Island?” Johnny shouted at him. “You were there. You know. I know you know.”

  Percy peered peevishly at Johnny as he picked himself up, dusting sand from his clothing.

  Mel rushed up next to Johnny, with the same imploring expression on her face, followed by Dame Honoria.

  “Percival, do you not even possess the common decency to answer these youngsters?” grumbled the old lady.

  Percy beamed a treacly, sarcastic smile at his mother. “Apparently not, Mummy.” Then he regarded the Graphics. “Sorry, darling children, can’t help you. Too, too bad about Will and Lydia.”

  Johnny couldn’t even sputter a retort. It seemed pretty clear that “the khan” wasn’t about to give them anything. Johnny supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. After all, this man had caused a whole lot of misery. And it didn’t seem like he intended to stop anytime soon.

  Chapter 48

  Saturday, November 2, 1935

  Airborne between Old Number One and Gorton Island

  To Dame Honoria the flying boat seemed like a little bit of heaven, as it winged its way back to Gorton Island early the next morning. For as soon as the big engines started up, deliciously cool air began seeping out of the ventilation ducts into her private compartment in the back of the aircraft. She sighed with pleasure, feeling the moisture on her skin begin to evaporate.

  Never in her life had she endured such a horrific experience as in the last several days. The physical demands of her harsh captivity had been very nearly more than she could stand—as a woman pushing on toward the age of sixty and not in the fittest condition.

  But more daunting was the emotional strain, which had sent her to the very brink of insanity. And the cause of it all was sitting right opposite her in this little cabin. He was bound hand and foot, but ungagged—in the hope that he might decide to say something useful.

  The khan, Percival Roderick Gorton Rathbone, smelling all musty and earthy, glowered nonstop at “the old mater,” as he used to call her. Though his voice had not changed one iota, his ever-glum face was even glummer than Dame Honoria could have imagined.

  Truth be told, he had always had a grim sort of demeanor about him, even as a youngster. His late father once observed, only half in jest, that Percy seemed to have been born fifty years old, as a hanging judge. What Dame Honoria couldn’t explain, however, was Percy’s fine new head of hair and his new physique—much like that of a weight lifter. He had to have been engaged in some kind of intense keep-fit program. Perhaps he had taken up rugby.

  At least she
knew who Percy’s female companion was. When Johnny reported that Percy had called her “Pamela,” a bell went off in Dame Honoria’s head. Pamela Worthington-Smythe had once worked as an assistant for Dame Honoria’s secretary. The pretty blonde had been fired six years ago, when it became apparent that she had set her sights on Percival and his potential inheritance.

  “Now Percival,” said Dame Honoria, “why should you have told Miss Worthington-Smythe to keep an eye on me?”

  “Because we’re both so very, very fond of you,” her son answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  Sighing, Dame Honoria recalled a time when Percy had seemed a good young man struggling for a good cause—as a tireless campaigner for the rights of ghosts. He’d even published a book on the subject, though it sold only a few dozen copies and left him quite embittered.

  Now, Dame Honoria could hardly believe that this creature—her only, beloved child—had hatched one of the most dastardly plots in human history. No one had ever devised such a powerful explosive as the etheric bomb. Was Percy’s only goal the dispatching of ghosts to their final rewards?

  Or might he have had some darker purpose in mind?

  Nothing forced home the terrible reality of Percy’s misdeeds more powerfully than the funeral of that poor young scientist. His name had been Franklin Fforbes and they had buried his corpse just off the beach, in a spot garlanded with tropical blooms. Dame Honoria had recited her favorite prayer. Fforbes’ ghost, though a bit tongue-tied at first, had given his own eulogy—a few touching, bittersweet words about having left the world far too soon.

  And how uncouth of Percy, to not answer Melanie and Johnny’s repeated questions about their parents. He had been there on Okkatek Island that dreadful night five years earlier. He had vanished with Will and Lydia. How could he not know something? How could he be so cruel, to not share the facts?

  As the aeroboat cruised along, Dame Honoria tried to engage her son by telling him items of interest that had happened back in Gilbeyshire since his disappearance. Retainers who had died or retired. Marriages, births, deaths. Local scandals and gossip. A childhood friend of his who had stood for parliament. The ongoing and rather costly restoration of Wickenham’s decrepit west wing. And so on.