Chapter Eight

Mike Hannigan stepped away from the plane on wobbly legs.  Once he was a safe distance from the edge of the river, he dropped to his knees and kept his head down until the urge to vomit passed.  After several long minutes, he felt someone’s presence behind him. Hannigan looked over his shoulder. 

Gregor Shotsky stood there.  “You okay?”

            “As well as expected after being tossed around like a bird in a hurricane while being shot at by fighter planes,” he shrugged weakly.

            “Always the joker, Michael.”  Shotsky’s voice dropped, his tone becoming solemn. 

“The girl, she worries for you.  If you are ready, you should go back to the plane and let her know you are okay.”

            “Right,” Hannigan tried to climb to his feet but he found that his legs still felt like India rubber. 

Shotsky reached down and slipped his hands under Hannigan’s arms and hauled him to his feet. 

            “Thanks, Gregor.” His legs weren’t shaking quite as badly now.  Maybe the adrenaline rush that had fueled his actions in the air was finally wearing off.

            “It is nothing, Michael,” Shotsky waved away the thanks.  “What you did was very brave.  Very stupid, but brave.”

            “No argument there, Pal,” Hannigan managed to grin.

            Bridget was working under a steel panel she had raised to reveal the engine of the Grumman Duck.  Hannigan noted that there were several large dents in the cover.  “So is this what you do for fun out here?” he quipped. 

            She glanced over her shoulder at him.  “You still look a little green, Hardluck.”

            He grinned.  “Yeah well my Ma always said green was my color.”

            “Too bad she can’t see you now, or better yet, when Gregor untied you.”

            “Yeah, well, she’s been gone a long time anyway.”

A shadow passed over his face, eclipsing his grin for just a moment, but he shook it off.  “That was some slam bang flying back there.”

            “Slam bang, yeah I bet that’s what you were doing all over my plane.  Slamming and banging against the fuselage.”

            “It was worth it Bridget.  You’re safe.  That’s what matters the most to me.”

            “Listen Hardluck, don’t go all mushy on me.  We saved each other’s life; it happens a lot out here.”

            “Why do you keep calling me that?”

            “Calling you what?”

            “Hardluck.”

            “Because you have the hardest luck of any man I have ever met!  If it were not for bad luck, Mike Hannigan, you wouldn’t have any!” She winked, to let him know that she was only joking… mostly.

            “Hardluck Hannigan; now why do I have a feeling I’ll be living up to that name all my life?” he asked.

            “Hmm, maybe because it suits you?” Bridget asked, rolling her eyes.

            “Could be,” he grinned. 

            “We were damned lucky none of their hits penetrated the engine cowling.  Otherwise this trip might not have had the happy ending it has so far.”

            “Yeah.  I wonder how much time we have before the Nazi zeppelin catches up with us?” Hannigan asked.

            “With any luck they won’t see us at all.  Where I landed, we have a pretty thick canopy of jungle overhead.  The trees really grow out over the river here,” Bridget replied.

            “Is the engine okay then?” he asked.

            “It’s as good as a new one,” Bridget replied.

            “You know I want to kiss you, right?” Hannigan asked.

            “I know you want to use a toothbrush before you try it,” She replied with a grin.

            “As long as you know,” he grinned back. 

            “After you use a toothbrush,” she smiled back and it was a smile full of promise.

            “I can live with that,” Hannigan grinned.

                        *****

            Doctor Ragnarok scanned the jungle below as the zeppelin moved deeper into the Congo basin.  It had been years since he had thought of Captain Dane Hawkins, the man responsible for his disfigurement.  It had shocked him when Hawkins had drawn a pistol as opposed to the antique hatchet he normally carried.  The pistol had been totally out of character for the American.  The bullet had counter-acted his warding and turned the spell he had been casting back in on himself.  It was something he should have foreseen, but he had not.  Instead it had cost him his human face and locked him into a mortal body.  The Emerald of Eternity was his only chance to free himself from his fleshy prison.

            The Emerald of Eternity had been created in Atlantis before the dawn of recorded time.  The greatest wizard in Atlantis, Oshram Kadella, had not only created the emerald, but had stored in it the life force of ten thousand people, enough to make him immortal.  Ironically, immortality had not been Kadella's goal; he knew the toll that magic was taking on his body, on his soul, so he had taken it and fled Atlantis, vanishing into the jungles of a giant uncharted continent: Africa. 

It had taken Ragnarok more than two millennia to track the emerald down.   Now it was within his grasp once more and he would not allow it to escape him again.  Captain Hawkins had stopped him the last time... one of only a few who had been a constant thorn in his side.  Ragnarok dropped into a seat and looked backwards in time….

                                    *****

            Paris , France   1925

            Among the elite of Paris, he was known as Dr. Alfred Rodgers, an expatriate scholar, combing the archives of the Sorbonne for esoteric knowledge.  Only his acolytes knew his true identity.  But somehow, a stranger had found him.

Ragnarok spun towards the door of the laboratory as it crashed open.  A man stood there, a brown leather pilot’s jacket hanging open over a black turtleneck shirt, dark brown jodhpurs tucked into knee-high jackboots.  His dark brown hair was cropped close to his skull giving it almost the appearance of a dark skullcap.  “Ragnarok!” the man said, and it sounded like an accusation.

            “Who are you?” Ragnarok asked, shocked at the man’s impudence. 

            “I’m the guy they sent to stop you!” the man snapped, stepping into room.

            “Come no closer,” Ragnarok said, picking up a beaker and drawing back as if to throw it.

The man whipped something from off his belt and hurled it in less than an eye blink.  Pain erupted from the hand holding the beaker, accompanied by the sound of shattering glass and the splash of liquid raining down on the floor.  Ragnarok looked at his hand, his eyes growing wide.  Three of his fingers were missing and the flesh of his hand was bubbling and melting away.  He could hear someone screaming, and almost laughed at their misery before he realized it was him.  Then a fist slammed into his face, throwing him backwards. 

            It was only after he had hit the ground that he saw the nametag emblazoned across the left breast of the pilot’s jacket.  Hawkins.  Focusing his energy, Ragnarok channeled it through his ruined hand, healing the wounds as a burst of magical energy blasted towards the intruder.  The red bolt of energy struck the intruder in the chest and rocked him backward.

            But the strange attacker wasn't out of the fight by any means.  He grabbed a steel chair and sent it flying with unfailing accuracy, to slam Ragnarok backward against the wall.  It was only then he saw the hatchet embedded just above where he lay, still dripping red gore.  That was what the intruder had thrown at him that had cut off his fingers and ruined his hand. 

Anger boiled up in him.  He would have his revenge!

            Power blasted out from his good hand, knocking Hawkins across the room.  Two other men entered, one a giant, the other shorter and whipcord thin.  The giant roared and charged across the room.  Ragnarok fed on his anger, using it to draw power from the air around him.  He focused it into something hot and hateful, and then blasted it out at the charging giant.  The man crashed into and through the wall, sending up a cloud of plaster dust and splinters.  But the clumsy attack had been merely a diversion, distracting his attention from the third member of the group.

The smaller thin man moved forward chanting something.  Ragnarok fired a second blast, but instead of vaporizing the man, it harmlessly dissipated against a mystical shield that had sprung up between them. 

That caught Ragnarok completely by surprise.  “How?”

            “My secret,” the thin man replied grimly.  Suddenly something slammed into Ragnarok from behind, arms like steel bands encircled his chest, squeezing with almost superhuman strength, driving the very air from his lungs.  Ragnarok struggled, but being unable to breathe, his struggles were weakening.

The thin man was chanting again.  Ragnarok could feel the power building around him, but it wasn't enough... not nearly enough.

How did they do this to me?  Who are these men?

He focused his thoughts, sending out a blast of power that sent his captor flying back across the room and knocking the thin man to the floor. But the counterattack had done little more than stun the men.  He was too weak to keep fighting for the moment.  He had to escape!  He had to flee!

                       *****

            Ragnarok pushed the memories away.  He clenched his fist; it had taken several years for him to regenerate the missing fingers.  Human flesh was a prison that held him bound until death - and he was very hard to kill - but without corporeal form he was utterly powerless.  He had worn many coats of flesh throughout the ages, taking human form or putting it aside at a whim, but this body had been cursed with particularly bad luck.  His soul and this weakly flesh had been fused together by the disruption of his own power when Hawkins and his men attacked. He wondered if Captain Hawkins had emerged from his self-imposed exile to plague him once more. If so, this time the outcome would be far different!

                                    *****

            Mike Hannigan watched from beneath the tree canopy as the zeppelin floated past overhead, driven by the propellers of four enormous engines mounted around its prodigious girth.  They didn't dare attempt another flight.  Hopefully, the Nazis believed they were dead or stranded with mechanical difficulties.  He didn't think he'd be quite so lucky if they encountered more fighter planes.

After it passed, Hannigan went to join Shotsky, who stood over Degiorno as he redrew the map to the lost city from memory.  He wondered what they would find there. 

Hannigan was surprised by his interest.  He had never cared that much about such things - moldy old ruins and such - when he had been in school.  History had never been his strongest subject.

But a lost city...?

Mysteries hidden beneath the mists of time?  The prospect of possibly finding some long lost treasure was strangely exciting, like something out of a dime novel, and him the hero of the hunt.  It was stirring his blood in a strange way that wasn’t at all unpleasant.

Hannigan glanced over a shoulder to where the copper-haired pilot was still tending to her plane. …Maybe it wasn't the treasure hunt that was stirring his blood after all.