Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost

by George Mann

  Gabriel hoped it would be enough. The monster was half dead anyway, poisoned and weakened by Abraham's ministrations. When Goliath hit, there would be an explosion unlike anything he had ever seen, a massive, roiling ball of gas. If anything could destroy the monster, it had to be that.

  Gaining momentum as it began to slowly fall out of the sky, Goliath plummeted toward the earth.

  Gabriel looked to the door. He hoped Rutherford hadn't finished off that raptor.

  Ginny saw it coming. She saw the airship bank in the air, apparently out of control, and begin its inexorable dive toward the earth. She saw that it was headed directly toward the Ferris wheel, and she saw hundreds of people who were going to die in the ensuing explosion.

  Not knowing what else she could do to warn the people around her of the terrible danger they were in—they had failed to listen to her pleas, her shouts, and her screaming—she withdrew one of Gabriel's pistols from her pocket, along with a handful of loose bullets, and began loading the gun with shaky fingers.

  A moment later, when she'd managed to slide six bullets into the chamber, she climbed up onto an overturned garbage can, hoisted her arm above her head, and squeezed the trigger, firing off all six shots in rapid succession. The sound was incredible, even against the backdrop of screaming and stampeding feet.

  A handful of people turned to look, hopeful, she supposed, that someone had finally arrived to tackle the beast, someone with military training. But instead they saw a small woman in a pink cloche, standing on a dustbin firing bullets into the sky and pointing toward a falling airship that was growing larger with every passing second as it loomed over them, gaining momentum.

  It was enough to clear the area, finally, as people fanned out, spreading away from the crush to put enough distance between themselves and the site of the oncoming collision.

  Ginny saw Donovan hurtling toward her, and she leapt down from the garbage can, allowing him to take her hand as they rushed off toward the river. Donovan didn't even speak—he didn't need to.

  Ginny could hardly breathe. She was waiting for the moment the airship was going to strike, waiting for the sound of the explosion, waiting for…

  And then it happened, and it was at once the most devastating and most beautiful thing that Ginny had ever seen. She heard it first, her back still turned as she fled the scene, trailing after Donovan, who pulled her along behind him as he ran.

  She released his hand and spun about, and everything she saw from that moment on seemed to occur in a sleepy haze of slow motion. It was as if none of it was real, as if she had somehow entered some dreamlike state as she stood there beside the river and watched the massive liner crumple into the Ferris wheel.

  At first, everything was silent. The nose of the airship came down at an acute angle, striking the beast and then collapsing as the rear of the vessel folded in on itself, forcing the Ferris wheel over. Then the gasbags exploded with a detonation the like of which she could never have even imagined. She covered her eyes involuntarily as the flash seared her retinas, and all she could hear for seconds afterward was the ringing of the explosion in her ears.

  When she finally peeled the crook of her arm from her face, the Ferris wheel, toppled to a jaunty angle, was alight and spinning like a giant pinwheel, and the beast—that strange, alien creature—was writhing beneath the ruins of the liner, squirming in pain as its flesh burned with a sickly sweet stench. It issued a terrifying screech, an inhuman wail, and then lay still, its body roasting in the intense heat of the flames.

  The wreckage of the airship was like the massive, shattered carcass of a whale, its aluminum ribs jutting toward the sky from which it had fallen so dramatically. The silvery skin had been all but incinerated in the explosion, and now, Ginny found, it was hard to imagine the wreckage had ever been an airship at all.

  Around the fallen vessel a number of trees had caught alight as the gasbags had gone up, and they burned with gusto, their wintry branches cracking and popping in the ferocious heat.

  Ginny stepped forward, taking it all in, feeling the warmth of the fire upon her face. Beside her, Donovan was surveying the scene with a blank expression. He clearly didn't know what to make of it all.

  She heard someone call out, and she looked up to see an object hurtling out of the sky. It glinted in the firelight, and at first she couldn't make out what it was. But then she felt as if her heart had stopped in her chest, and she was running, sprinting across the grass verge to where the projectile was about to strike the earth.

  “Ginny!” Donovan called after her, and she sensed him break into a run behind her. But she wasn't about to be stopped.

  Seconds later the object slammed into the ground with the crunch of buckling metal, rebounded twice from the flagstones, and then finally came to rest after a long, grating slide across the dock.

  The object then broke into three distinct components, each one rolling away over the ground. Near to her, the remains of a raptor, still sparking and twitching, the rotors of its engines spinning fitfully, came to a dramatic stop.

  A little farther away, two men, both bruised and covered in spattered blood, lay panting—and laughing—on the ground.

  “Gabriel!” gasped Ginny, as she ran to his side. He looked up at her through barely open eyelids. His face was streaked with black soot, and his shirt was torn open, exposing a chest that had been shredded by the claws of numerous raptors.

  He grinned. “Hello, Ginny,” he said. “Found me at last, then.”

  She grinned, crouching down and placing her cupped hand to his face. “Something like that,” she said, before kissing him brightly on the forehead. Then, bracing herself, she took his hands in hers and hefted him to his feet. He stumbled slightly, and she took his weight for a moment while he righted himself. “How did you steer that thing?” she said, glancing at the remnants of the raptor.

  “We didn't,” replied Gabriel, laughing. He looked over at Donovan, who was helping the other man to his feet. “So you've met Jerry Robertson, Felix?” said Gabriel, still smiling. “Or rather Peter Rutherford, our missing British spy.” The other man, looking just as haggard as Gabriel, was brushing himself down, which Ginny found faintly ridiculous given the torn and bloodied state of his suit. He smiled at her expectantly.

  Donovan's eyes widened in surprise, and Ginny laughed, suddenly caught by how incredible the whole thing seemed. Gabriel had just come tumbling out of the sky on the back of a raptor, and now he was standing there introducing them to the British spy they'd spent so long searching for the last few days.

  “I take it the two of you had something to do with that?” Donovan asked, nodding toward the burning wreck of Goliath.

  “Well…” Rutherford started, but Gabriel cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “We'll explain in the car, Donovan. We'll tell you everything. You need to know the truth.” He paused for a moment. “You do have your car, don't you?”

  Donovan laughed. “Somewhere around here. If it hasn't been flattened by falling aircraft, that is.”

  Rutherford approached Gabriel, clapping a hand on his shoulder and causing Gabriel to wince in pain. “It's over, Gabriel. Thank you.”

  Gabriel shook his head. “No. It's not over yet. We still need to stop Banks.” The look on Gabriel's face was telling. Ginny knew what that expression meant.

  Rutherford nodded. “Yes. You're right. We need to finish this.” He turned to Donovan. “You say you have a car? I know where we can find Banks, and most likely the others, too, if you'll help us?”

  Donovan didn't hesitate. “Of course,” he replied.

  Gabriel stepped forward. “Then let's go,” he said, taking Ginny by the arm. Behind him, the burning wreckage of the Ferris wheel was still turning lazily against the skyline, dripping flames as it was slowly consumed. The husk of the monster had all but disappeared, leaving nothing but a dark stain on the concrete where it had once been. “First, though,” Gabriel continued, “there are some things I need
to collect on the way.”

  Donovan nodded in understanding, and together, the four of them made for the inspector's car, leaving Goliath to smolder on behind them.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Donovan's car slewed to a stop before the main entrance of the Plaza Hotel, and the four of them—Donovan, Ginny, Rutherford, and Gabriel, the Ghost—climbed out onto the sidewalk. It was late, the dead of night, and a hush seemed to have settled over the city. Whether it was news of what had happened at the docks spreading, or whether it was simply the city itself, holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come, the Ghost didn't know.

  They hadn't stopped for long at his apartment on Fifth Avenue, long enough only to collect the Ghost's things, for Gabriel to assume his mantle, and for Rutherford to dress his wounds and change into a borrowed suit. Gabriel had outlined everything to Donovan and Ginny as they had driven through the city streets, with the Englishman filling in the occasional gap, helping to establish the full picture.

  Everything they'd imagined had been true. Banks, Montague, and seven other men had formed a cabal. They had plotted for months, if not years, to bring their plans to fruition. They were intent on instigating the downfall of the British Empire and the rise of the American Republic in its stead. They would assume control of its colonies when it could no longer govern them, they would establish the British Isles as a new state of America, and they would look to Senator Banks to lead them through the political and social upheaval that would follow.

  It seemed incredible to the Ghost that nine men and a single airship could pose a threat to an entire nation. But Banks had planned to play on the political fears that already existed between the two superpowers, to take advantage of the rivalries that had given birth to the cold war in which they were now locked.

  Donovan had accepted all of this with a resigned weariness. The Ghost didn't know what it meant for the police inspector, to be going after his own commissioner, but he doubted it would end well. Nevertheless, even when offered the opportunity to walk away, Donovan had thrown his lot in with them. He would do what he knew to be right, and damn the consequences. The Ghost admired Donovan for that, more than he might ever say.

  The four of them, holding their weapons ready, lined up before the revolving doors of the hotel. Inside, from what he could see through the windows, the lobby appeared to be abandoned. The Ghost wondered if perhaps they were expected, that Banks was lying in wait like a spider at the center of his vast and intricate web. Had he cleared the hotel in anticipation of their arrival?

  Of course he'd be expecting them, Gabriel considered, or expecting someone at least—whoever it was who had foiled his plans down by the docks, who had caused Goliath to end her maiden voyage in the midst of a raging inferno.

  Tired, but filled with the heady rush of adrenaline and the desire to bring the matter to a close, the Ghost burst through the revolving doors, sweeping the barrel of his fléchette weapon back and forth across the hotel lobby. The Plaza was as opulent as he'd anticipated, all marble and glittering chandeliers, prints of old masters and classical statutory. There was no one at the reception desk, no porters, no guests. No one at all. Everything was silent and still.

  Until, that was, he heard a familiar shrieking sound and glanced up. Two raptors came diving out of the sky, their wings extended like blades, slicing through the air as they swept down toward him.

  Gunfire erupted from all around him as Rutherford and Ginny snapped out shot after shot with their handguns, puncturing the wings of the creature on the right and causing it to tumble heavily to the marble floor. The Ghost didn't have time to watch it clamber to its feet, however, before the other raptor was upon him.

  He waited until it was no more than a few feet above him and then reached into his trench coat and pulled the cord that ignited his rocket canisters. He couldn't suppress a smile as he shot up and forward, his arms extended, catching the raptor around the midriff and forcing it up and backward toward the balcony above. Its legs kicked and wheeled uselessly as they slammed into the decorative railing with an enormous crash, sending debris pitching to the lobby below. The two of them—the Ghost and the mechanical beast—slid across the carpeted walkway above, driven on by the force of the Ghost's rockets.

  The raptor was strong, however, and it thrashed out, striking him hard in the face and causing him to reel, losing his grip. The raptor twisted out from underneath him, fluttering away over the balcony, and the Ghost, still hurtling along the carpeted walkway, was forced to break into a dangerous roll in an attempt to stop himself colliding headfirst with the oncoming wall.

  Shielding his face with his arms, he crashed through the railings once again, spinning through the air, out of control. He struck one of the chandeliers, sending a glittering rain of cut glass tinkling to the marble floor below.

  Donovan, he saw, was still standing by the marble doors, but a snatched glance told the Ghost that the inspector had finished assembling the weapon he had brought with him in the trunk of his car: the portable rocket launcher he had taken from Rutherford's apartment.

  He swung the stocky barrel around on its tripod, tracking the progress of the downed raptor as it stalked across the lobby toward Ginny and Rutherford, who were standing shoulder to shoulder, their weapons still barking, their bullets pinging harmlessly off the raptor's brass skeleton.

  The Ghost, still spinning through the air, watched as Donovan pulled the trigger. The weapon belched and juddered as it spat its payload, and a second later the raptor detonated in a shower of golden fragments and body parts.

  The Ghost, finally managing to right himself, swung around in a wide circle, searching for the other raptor. Too late, he realized it was above him, and a moment later it was on his back, raking at him, trying to pry open his black suit to get at the soft flesh beneath. He dipped, twisting left and right, trying to shake it off, but it was no use—the thing had him in its viselike grip.

  He heard Donovan call out, loading another round into the rocket launcher, but there was no way he could shake the raptor free.

  “Donovan! The elevator doors!” he called, glancing down and grimacing in pain as the raptor tore a chunk out of his lower back. Donovan spun the barrel of the rocket launcher around on its tripod, aiming at the ornately wrought elevator doors on the other side of the lobby. He depressed the trigger, and the Ghost watched the doors implode, buckling inward with the force of the blow and tumbling away into the void beyond.

  The Ghost angled his body, forcing his feet together and dipping his head so that both he and the raptor shot forward toward the still-smoldering opening. The raptor screeched in confusion as they shot into the elevator shaft, and the Ghost angled his body, climbing higher and higher and higher, thankful that the elevator car itself wasn't blocking their ascent.

  As they hurtled toward the top of the shaft, the Ghost spun, slamming the raptor repeatedly against the walls of the confined space, until its grip on him had loosened and he was able to twist around in its grasp to face it.

  They were nearing the top of the building now, and beneath them the elevator shaft fell away into darkness. Facing the raptor, staring into its hateful, glowing eyes and trusting it would not loosen its grip any further, he raised both arms and punched out with all his might, puncturing the fleshy panels of both wings.

  The raptor screeched in fury, but the Ghost was relentless, and he knew what he needed to do. He slammed the raptor back hard against the wall of the shaft once more, forcing its head back with his hands. Then, kicking back off the wall to gain momentum, he dragged himself free of its hold.

  The creature's talons gouged long furrows in his side and his chest, but a moment later he was free of its reach, and the raptor, its wings flapping uselessly in the confined space of the shaft, was unable to maintain its altitude. It plummeted, shrieking, toward the bottom of the shaft.

  Moments later he heard it strike the roof of the elevator car far below. The lights of its eyes, now no more than tiny
pinpricks in the darkness, faded to nothing as he hovered at the top of the shaft, watching, waiting.

  Gasping for breath but nevertheless feeling triumphant, the Ghost turned and shot back down the elevator shaft to his waiting companions below.

  Rutherford led the way to Banks's suite, taking the stairs now that the elevator had effectively been decommissioned. The suite comprised almost an entire floor of the hotel, a private and exclusive apartment, perfectly suited to the grandiose tastes of the overambitious senator. The Ghost couldn't imagine that the man paid for such sumptuousness himself, but rather that he subsidized his lifestyle on the taxpayer's dime.

  The wooden door to the apartment was unmarked. The Ghost didn't bother to knock. Moving the others to one side, he stepped forward and slammed his booted foot into the lock, cracking the frame and sending the door bouncing back on its hinges. Clutching the trigger bulb of his fléchette gun, he strode brazenly into the room beyond.

  It was just as Rutherford had described it: garish, overdressed, and filled with gaudy baubles and gauche prints. The Ghost's first impression was that Banks wasn't at home. The living space was decidedly unpopulated and eerily quiet. But that didn't chime with the fact there had been two raptors waiting for them in the lobby, nor with the lack of any serving staff.

  Behind the Ghost, the others had paused on the threshold, their weapons ready, waiting to see what he would do. He cocked his head at the sound of movement from behind a set of double folding doors and then grinned when he heard the senator's ubiquitous cackle echoing out around the apartment.

  Yes, they were clearly expected.

  The Ghost crossed to the folding doors and swung them open with both hands. The room beyond was every bit as garishly decorated as the rest of the apartment, but this time, it was full of people.

  Nine men sat around a large oval table, most of them still wearing their gray suits and lounging around nonchalantly in their chairs swilling bourbon. Banks was there at the head of the table, and beside him, Commissioner Montague, who looked up at the Ghost as he stood on the threshold, taking in the scene. At the rear of the room, behind Banks, two more of Abraham's raptors hovered threateningly in the far corners, hissing and chattering like insane pets.