by James Axler
“Nonsense,” Mildred chided, placing a palm on his forehead, then checking his pulse. “You’re not dying, John. It’s just airsickness. The adrenaline rush of battle must have held it off until you relaxed. This happens to a lot of people.”
“Not me,” Dean announced, deeply breathing in the clean salty air. “Hey, look over there! It’s a whale!”
“Shut up,” J.B. muttered weakly, then started retching again. As a kid he had envied the birds in flight, sailing effortlessly over the deserts and rad craters. Never again.
When he was eventually finished, Mildred fumbled in her med kit to extract a small battered tin canteen. “Here, try this.”
Hawking and spitting to clear his mouth, J.B. took the canteen and drank a healthy swig of the contents in the canteen. The Armorer waited nervously to see if his churning stomach would keep the fluid, then greedily drank some more.
“What was that?” J.B. asked, passing back the container. He felt much better, his stomach calm and steady as if they were back on firm ground.
“Some of my jump juice,” she replied, screwing the cap on tight. Half the precious contents were gone, but this was what she had made it for. “I figured that if it helps with the nausea we get taking a jump in a mat-trans chamber, it should work for air-sickness, too. Did it?”
“Some,” he muttered hesitantly, then stood a bit straighter and slid on his glasses. “Yeah, it did. Thanks, Millie.”
“Any time, John.” She smiled, closing the straps on her med kit. This mix promised to be her best batch yet. Boiled tobacco leaves, menthol cough drops, honey, mint leaves and whiskey. Maybe she had finally found the right combination to keep them from puking out their guts after a bad jump. Some were easy as a nap in bed, but others were pure hell with nightmares and physical sickness.
“We’ve attracted attention,” Ryan said, pointing with his H&K autoblaster.
Large birds with tremendous wingspans were starting to circle the cluster of balloons. The shadows of the clouds blocking the moon disguised their features until one flew close and Ryan saw it was a condor. Exactly the same as the giant muties that attacked them on Spider Island. Doc said they were normally that size, but Ryan didn’t believe it. The triple-damn things were too fast and strong. Intelligent killing machines.
“Here they come!” Krysty shouted, pumping a round at the winged giants.
But instead of heading for the companions, the flock of condors dived straight for the cluster of weather balloons, clawing and pecking at them. The resilient plastic netting resisted their attacks, and the balloons themselves, designed to survive the worst tropical weather, proved too tough.
Defending their territory, the enraged flock now circled the cluster of balloons, screaming a challenge. A small condor dived straight through the ropes, its talons extended to rip apart the soft human flesh. The companions opened fire in unison, the barrage of lead blowing holes through the wings and forcing it back. Only wounded, the mutie charged again while another appeared, walking along the ropes with its claws, and dropped into the rope basket.
As the first dived into the ropes, the bird caught a wingtip in the complex rigging. With a gesture, a knife slid from Jak’s sleeve into his waiting hand and he stabbed upward, slit open its belly, then blew off its head with the .357 Magnum blaster.
Caught reloading his blaster, Doc slapped the second bird with the long barrel of his weapon, shattering its hard beak, then, while the creature was momentarily stunned, he tossed it overboard.
Leaving a contrail of blood, the condor struggled to spread its wings and catch the wind, but the bird plummeted straight down onto the sharp rock spurs, where it burst apart in a gory spray of guts and feathers.
Cawing in rage, a condor sailed under the basket to land on the pallet, its claws clinging tightly to the plastic. Shoving the barrel of the Steyr through the open spaces in the flooring, Ryan fired the longblaster at point-blank range and the bird exploded in a spray of feathers. But the corpse stayed there, the claws locked tight in death.
Using three rounds, Mildred took out a condor flying by, Krysty got another, Dean missed twice, then J.B. triggered the shotgun and two more were ripped apart by the ferocious blast of stainless-steel fléchette rounds. Moving hastily away from the Pegasus, the remaining flock whirled about, screaming in rage. Then they started to fly away, returning beaten to their nests in the rocky crags of the congealed lava flow.
Curiously, there was a flash of light from a cliff at the very end of the peninsula, and a high-pitched whistle sounded from the oceanic rocks as something streaked toward the Pegasus on a skylark tail of fire. The invisible object slammed directly into a condor and violently detonated, the concussion rocking the rope basket with savage force.
“Firebird!” Ryan growled, firing his weapon blindly down into the dimly seen distance. It had to be Mitchum. He had to make the sec man duck for cover, or else they’d be blown out of the sky!
“More coming,” Jak said, coolly aiming his .357 Magnum blaster at the fiery exhaust of the rockets and carefully squeezing off shots. If they hit, there was no reaction.
Dropping her revolver, Krysty yanked out the Veri pistol, thanking the forces of the universe that she had reloaded. Holding the signal device in a two-handed grip, she held her breath and forced everything else from her mind but the approaching Firebird. The trajectory was impossible; the Firebird was arching up from the ground, the balloon rising and drifting away, plus the wind was blowing in gusts, not a steady breeze. There had never been worse conditions for a shot, and they had only a half-dozen flares.
Gently, she squeezed the trigger, and the colorful blue flare streaked toward an empty patch of sky. A split second later, the Firebird rose to meet the wad of burning magnesium and violently detonated.
A couple of .50 cal machine guns began to chatter from the darkness, then another Firebird launched. The fiery back-blast silhouetted the sec men and Hummers parked on the approaching cliff in stark clarity.
While the others maintained a steady fusillade at the war wags, Dean took Krysty’s empty weapon and passed her the second flare gun, loaded and ready. Sweat trickling down her face, Krysty shot at the second rocket and made a hit. But then three Firebirds rose from the cliff, with two more close behind.
J.B. triggered the Uzi on full-auto, throwing flame at the receding sec men. As her H&K blaster clicked empty, Mildred grabbed a reloaded Veri pistol from Dean and shot off a flare. The sizzling green round punched through the leading rocket, making it explode, the blast damaging the Firebird alongside and throwing the rocket wildly out to sea.
Slamming in his last clip for the Steyr, Ryan fired as fast as he could work the bolt. Another Firebird altered course and shot straight upward to disappear into the stormy clouds. But despite the amount of copper-jacketed lead going their way, the last two rockets bore straight in at the companions.
Her hair a wild corona, Krysty released a green flare, but the windsheer threw it away from the incoming missiles. As J.B. slapped in a fresh clip, Ryan fired again and a rocket tore itself apart. As he worked the bolt, the spent shell jammed in the breech. Dropping the blaster to the plastic floor, Ryan drew his SIG-Sauer and started banging away. Meanwhile, Mildred and Krysty sent off a double charge of flares from the painfully hot Veri pistols. The signaling devices weren’t meant to be weapons and were over-heating from the constant use. The flares were sticking to the barrel from the accumulated heat, along with the women’s burned fingers.
In a gorgeous mix of colors, the flares curved toward the incoming missile when one abruptly died in midflight. The other erupted in a blinding purple flash, and the missile shot right through the display completely undamaged.
The companions concentrated their attention on the last rocket, but it was horribly close. J.B. abandoned the Uzi and used the last few shells in the shotgun to send off a hellstorm of fléchettes. Incredibly, the companions could see the damage it inflicted as the missile appeared to be slowing, and for se
veral breathless seconds it seemed to hang motionless in the sky behind them. Then the flame of its rear exhaust sputtered away and died, the reserve of black-powder fuel gone. Rendered powerless, the lethal Firebird fell away and disappeared into the night.
As the companions relaxed, a salvo of rockets was launched from the Hummers on top of the jagged cliff. But the passengers of the Pegasus withheld shooting and merely watched as the swarm of deadly missiles climbed ever higher into the dark sky, only to slow as their tail flames weakened and died, the dreaded Firebirds tumbling helplessly into the cold sea.
“Finally out of range,” Ryan said, flicking the dead brass from the Steyr over the ropes. As if in reply, thunder rumbled from the clouds so very close overhead.
“Sons of bitches want us bad,” J.B. added, clearing the breech of the empty shotgun.
“Hopefully, that is the last we see of them,” Krysty said, flexing her singed gun hand.
Glancing at the floor, Mildred saw the ejected brass had fallen through the holes in the plastic pallet and couldn’t be gathered for repacking. Great, they were low on ammo, attacked constantly from every direction and riding a makeshift helium balloon mostly held together by spit and baling wire. The situation could only make the physician snort a bitter laugh.
“What funny?” Jak asked, startled at the noise.
“Remember the condors?” Mildred replied, holstering her piece. “Those were an endangered species in my time.”
“So?”
The salty wind blowing her beaded hair, Mildred turned to face the featureless horizon of the east.
“Now we are,” she finished somberly.
HOBBLING TO the edge of the crumbling cliff, Mitch-um roared defiantly as he emptied his blaster at the departing airship.
“No! Not again!” Mitchum raged, cocking the hammer and dry firing the spent weapon several times. As his fury ebbed, the man turned toward the line of Hummers parked nearby.
“You there!” he shouted, pointing. “Launch another Bird!”
“Belay that shit,” Glassman stated grumpily, stepping out from behind the rocket pod. His face and clothes were streaked with black from the multiple launches, and he angrily tossed aside the glowing piece of oakum he had used to light the fuses. Privately, the former healer wondered what the hell had the outlanders used to stop the Firebirds.
“We failed, Colonel,” Glassman continued, pulling a rag from a pocket to wipe his face and hands. “They’re gone.”
“The hell they are. We’re going back to Cascade,” Mitchum snapped. Limping to the wag, the sec man climbed behind the steering wheel and started the engine.
“Get in!” he ordered brusquely. “We can race after them in the PT boats. Those are a lot faster than that floating soap bubble! If we use the coal-oil fuel instead of wood, we can easily get them back into range again and finish the bastard job once and forever!”
Reluctantly, Glassman had to admire the sec man’s blind determination. It was either that or his lust for revenge had driven the man mad.
“Sergeant Campbell,” Glassman said, going to the lead Hummer, “any more Firebirds on the boats?”
“Yes, sir,” the sailor replied with a salute. “Sixteen more in the arms trunk of each petey.”
“See?” Mitchum retorted, gunning the engine. “More than enough for another attack!”
“Only if we don’t encounter any Deepers on the journey back home,” Glassman countered, taking a seat in the war wag.
“Tomorrow’s problem,” the sec chief growled as he spun the steering wheel, driving the Hummer back and forth as he hurriedly turned on the narrow crag. A rear tire went over the cliff, but the wag didn’t tilt and he fought it back onto firm ground. Time was against them. Every minute put Ryan that much further out of his grasp.
“We’ll need to leave the Hummers behind,” Mitchum said, leading the convoy of wags along the narrow trail of the peninsula to the island. There was a sheer drop into the sea on both sides, but the predark headlights gave enough illumination to keep him from driving into the abyss. “Dropping the weight will give us better speed.”
Holding on to the door and windshield, Glassman scowled before answering. He was sick of this man’s private blood feud, and the baron’s threat against his family was lessening with every hour he was away from them.
“Too risky,” he decided. “That leaves us on foot if they go inland somewhere.”
“We’ll take that chance.”
“No, you will,” Glassman stated coldly, bouncing in his seat as the racing wag bounded over the rippled surface of the lava flow. “Because if we lose the outlanders again, I’ll personally bring you alive to the lord baron as payment for costing him so many men and weps!”
“Yeah?” Mitchum snarled, a hand going for his flintlock. Only the weapon wasn’t in its holster, and the cold barrel of a blaster was pressed to his neck from behind.
“Do as the captain says,” Campbell growled hatefully. “Or I’ll be delighted to pull the trigger. Your call, lubber.”
Furious at being trapped for the moment, Mitchum started driving faster. Suddenly, more than just mere revenge depended on his success in chilling the accursed outlanders.
Chapter Five
As the Pegasus floated away on the evening breeze, the companions shifted their backpacks to make some room and settled in for their flight. With no way to calculate airspeed, they didn’t have any idea how long the journey to Forbidden Island would take. Maybe only a few hours, but it could be much longer.
Time passed slowly, the moon traveling across the starry sky while the companions took turns catching short naps. There was little room in the rope basket, but they had lived in cramped quarters before and knew how to make do.
After the weapons had been cleaned and checked, the MRE envelopes were carefully ripped open, and the chow eaten cold. It was edible, but no more than that. Mildred tried to make coffee in a tin cup, and while the brown crystals dissolved satisfactorily, neither the sugar nor the powder cream would. She experimented with her butane lighter to no success and in the end poured the sodden mess overboard.
Pulling out a plastic safety razor, Jak dry shaved while standing guard duty, the scrape of the twin blades becoming fainter as he successfully removed his snowy beard.
Hoping nobody was watching, Dean rubbed a palm along his own chin but found only smooth skin. Nothing yet. Standing guard, Ryan caught the furtive motion and held back a grin. He remembered his first shave, and the bushy mustache he sported for a while as a teen.
Just then, something in the darkness caught Ryan’s attention. He studied the open sky until he caught the reflection of moonlight off leathery wings. The soft flapping grew steadily louder, and when Ryan was sure the creature was coming their way, he waited until the clouds parted, catching it in plain sight, and snapped off a shot with the SIG-Sauer. The blaster coughed, and the flying creature gave a piercing squeal, promptly identifying it as a bat. Gushing blood, the mutie spiraled down out of control to splash into the smooth expanse of the shimmering sea.
The discharge of the blaster made Dean stand and draw his own weapon. “What was that?” he demanded.
“Just a bat,” Ryan said calmly, holstering his piece. “Already aced. Everything’s green.”
A bat? Curiously, Dean looked over the rope sides of the makeshift basket and watched the dying creature flounder in the water, sharp fins already circling the bloody carcass. Then huge white figures rose from beneath the waves and began tearing the wiggling corpse apart.
“Those sharks?” Dean asked as the balloon drifted over the struggling creatures.
“Great whites, yes, indeed. But not those,” Doc said, gesturing with a waggling finger. “See the difference in the dorsal fins? Those are dolphins come for the kill.”
“Dolphins eat sharks?” Dean asked, shocked. The dolphins were so much smaller than the great whites it was hard to believe.
“No, they eat fish,” Mildred replied, looking at the moo
n. There had been too much death already today; she had no interest in watching the aquatic battle. “Dolphins kill sharks on sight. The two species hate each other.”
“Ace, no eat?” Jak said with a frown, running a whetstone along the blade of a knife in slow strokes. “Triple stupe.”
“Not if you’re in the water with sharks coming after your ass and a bunch of dolphins show up,” Ryan said, unwrapping a foil envelope to expose cherry-nut cake. Fireblast, was this the only dessert the Army ever fed its troops? He broke off a corner with his teeth and found it dissolved easily. Okay, not bad.
“They’re one of the few good muties that are friendly to norms,” he finished with a full mouth.
“Not a mutation, my dear Mr. Cawdor,” Doc rumbled. “Since time immemorial, dolphins have been the friends of humanity. Although God alone knows why. We have certainly treated them poorly enough.”
“How chill?” Jak asked, mildly interested. The dangers of the deep were important things to know.
“A dolphin will ram a shark in the belly with its nose,” Doc explained, watching the event occur. “See? They die almost instantly.”
“Hot pipe.” Dean sighed. “Dad, didn’t you say it’s possible to chill a man that way, too?”
“Requires a hell of a kick,” his father said, tossing away the wrapper. “But it can be done.”
“Smack in the belly?”
“Just under the rib cage,” Ryan said, moving a hand to the spot on his chest. “Right here, and slightly upward.”
The boy nodded studiously, filing away the info for future use.
“Enough of that, land ho!” Mildred cried out, breaking into a smile. “There she is, people! Forbidden Island!”
Majestically rising over the horizon like a green dawn was a wide island of hills, cliffs, mountains and volcanoes, everything covered with a lush growth of tropical plants. Silly thought, but to Krysty the place almost looked like two or three islands rammed together.