Chapter Nine

Niles McKenzie looked up as a shadow passed over the water.  The big silver cigar shape of the zeppelin floated past overhead, its altitude low enough that he could easily distinguish the red, white and black Nazi emblem on its tail fins.  McKenzie had a bad feeling about the airship.  It was a symbol of the new Germany - a nation built by a fiendish demagogue who had masterfully played on the fears and prejudices of Germans still hurting from economic collapse that had followed their defeat in the Great War.  There had been others like this Hitler - criminals and false messiahs, who had tried to seize power in the early days after the War, and some of them doubtless would have succeeded in their schemes if not for the bravery of Captain Hawkins and his men.  Now Hawkins was gone and there was no one left to battle this insidious enemy.  McKenzie felt almost as if the silvery airship was a ghost from his past, reaching out to draw him once more into the struggle.

            He could feel his heart beating faster at the thought.  A part of him was excited by the thought, but part of him was appalled.  Did he truly miss the danger; the excitement; the rush of adrenaline?  McKenzie hated to think so.  He wanted the peaceful life of a missionary and teacher. 

            Or did he? 

McKenzie didn’t often think about the old days; those memories summoned the ghosts.  And yet, the ghosts had only come after the fighting was done.  When he and Hawkins and the others had fought their war around the globe, as tragic as some of the battles had been, he had been able to endure and drive on.  It was only when the Fighting Hawks had been disbanded and scattered to the Four Winds that the dreams had begun.  Perhaps that was what the ghosts were trying to tell him: never stop fighting.  Maybe the best way to honor their memory was to keep the war alive, even if it meant more sacrifices.

            Of course, there was Bridget’s welfare to consider.  She needed to be moved back to civilization, to a place where she didn’t have to live in fear of wild animals and wilder men, or of terrible diseases that could strike without warning and disfigure, paralyze or kill their victims.  More than that, she needed a real family, real friends - something he could never give her.

It might be better if he went back to what he had once been, a warrior cleric like the Templars of old.  Better for himself, better for Bridget, better maybe for the world.  Yet, he hesitated.  He had worked so long to become the person he now was - a good person, the person he wanted to be - could he give that up?  Could he be that person, and still be the warrior priest? It was an absurd notion; change without change.

            He gazed up again at the retreating zeppelin.  Perhaps the decision would be made for him.

                       *****

Bridget Ellen O’Malley watched Mike Hannigan from a distance as he and the Russian made plans, and just now, that was where she wanted to keep things: at a distance.

She was puzzled by her feelings for Hannigan.  Just a glance from him sent warm sensations flowing to parts of her body that embarrassed her.  She had never been with a man, but nonetheless recognized the stirrings of desire - “lust,” her adopted father would call it.  She was aware of her naiveté; not only was she inexperienced in matters of the heart (or was this simply a matter of the flesh?) but she had never gotten so close to any man the way she had with Hannigan in the past few hours. She tried to hide her feelings behind sarcasm, but wondered whom she was really trying to hide from.

I’ve fallen in love with Mike Hannigan.

The realization came like a rap of knuckles on the head of a wayward child.

A rational voice inside tried to protest, but her heart won out; I’m in love, she thought.  And I love this feeling.

She had to know whether this was a mutual attraction, or just unrequited infatuation, but how to find out?  She knew it wouldn’t do to just blurt out a proclamation of undying love; that would most likely scare him off.  No, she had to figure out a way to make sure that Hannigan felt the same for her, that he wanted her as badly as she did him.

She shook her head.  She certainly couldn’t discuss the subject with her adopted father.  But there was one of the village women, Nekoosa, who might have some advice.  Nekoosa had been her nanny since her parents had died - not quite a mother figure to McKenzie’s fatherly role, but the closest thing to it - and she had taught Bridget what to expect as her body had ripened from that of a young girl into that of a young woman.  Yes, Nekoosa would be able to advise her on how to act upon her feelings once they had reached the Mission.

An unconscious smile cracked her determined expression as she continued pretending to tinker with the engine. Yet beneath the flutter of her heart, there was another voice spinning dire alternatives. Hannigan might not even reciprocate her feelings; she might be nothing more to him than a conquest and a night of distraction.  He was an adventurer, looking for excitement and buried treasure, not a lover or wife.  Indeed, she wasn’t competing with another woman for his affections; her rival was the Emerald of Eternity.

                                    *****

            “So do you still think Degiorno can be trusted?” Hannigan asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

            “That is a very good question, my friend.”  Gregor shrugged.  “Once, I trusted him implicitly.  Now… well, I do not know.  I am tempted to say ‘not at all.’  He wants the treasure, so he will be as honest as he needs to be to get it.”

            “I had a feeling you were gonna say that.”

            Gregor spread his hands.  “You asked.  I gave you the truth.”

            “That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.”

            “There is a proverb, my friend.  'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.'”

Hannigan scratched his light brown mane.  “Which is Degiorno?”

            “Exactly.  We will keep him very close; close enough that he will not be able to stab us in the back.”

            “I'm still more worried about those Nazis.  After all, they have the original map.”

            “Good news, boys,” Bridget Ellen O’Malley said as she walked up to them.  “I’ve checked the plane over good.  Except for some scratches along the top edge of one wing, she’s unharmed.”

            “That’s good to know.” Hannigan replied earnestly, not taking his eyes off of her.  He seemed on the verge of saying something more, but instead his speechless stare grew into an uncomfortably long silence.

Bridget blushed beneath her freckles, unable to match her green eyes to his blue. For his part, Hannigan felt his pulse start racing; he hadn't felt this nervous since just before the big high school dance.

            Shotsky rolled his eyes.  “How long before we can take off?”

            “We can take off any time we want, but the moment we do, we'll be waving a red flag.  That zeppelin will spot us for sure, and if they pick us up, it's a good bet they'll send more fighters after us. If that happens, I don’t think we can afford to count on Mike to shoot them down this time.  Surprise and dumb luck can only carry you so far.” Bridget's tone stopped just short of disparaging Hannigan's earlier heroics.

            “Mike there has done okay.” Shotsky grinned, recognizing the (probably subconscious) motive for her diatribe.

            “Mike is lucky he isn’t dead!”  Bridget replied, her cheeks flushing and her voice rising.  “Lord knows he should be.  What happened up there was about the only good luck I have seen him have.”

            “Actually, I've one other piece of good luck,” Hannigan intoned.

            “Really?” she asked, arching one eyebrow at him.  “What was that?”

            He took her shoulder and gently turned her until they were face to face.  Then he slid his arms around her and drew her body against him, feeling her curves molding to his body as his lips found hers in a long passionate kiss.  When he broke the kiss, they were both left gasping for breath.

            “Wow!” Bridget gasped, staggering slightly.

            “Wow is right,” Hannigan agreed. 

            “You two need to get a room,” Gregor's expression was one of mock disapproval.  “Soon.”

            “Gregor, go check on Degiorno,” Hannigan growled.

            The Russian laughed and walked away whistling a cheery tune.  Mike Hannigan looked at Bridget and this time her emerald eyes did not look away.

            “Where were we?” she asked, smiling a smile that turned his insides to jello.  Hannigan took her in his arms once more.

                                    *****

Hans Wessel stared out the porthole at the verdant expanse of jungle below them.  It looked nothing like the carefully drawn lines that decorated the antique parchment that was their only guide.  That was the bad part of surveying the jungle from so high up.  The muddy brown thread that was the river often vanished beneath the canopy of trees for several miles before emerging again.  There was no guarantee that the river you spotted was the same one you had been following.

            He had tried comparing the map to the official survey of the region.  Not surprisingly, the respective representations bore little similarity to one another. The course of tributaries could change without notice due to a fallen tree or boulder that might dam the river and change its course.  The map to the lost city had about as much in common with the official charts as the maps available to Columbus had with the Mercator Projection.  Well, he thought with a chuckle.  They have one thing in common.

Here there be monsters....

He had already run into his share of monsters.  Somewhere down there were the four that had escaped them in town.  Their victory, albeit a small one in the grand scheme, was nevertheless like grit in the gears of his pride.  The only way to begin remedying that was to make them pay; he vowed that their debt would be settled through a long and painful accounting.

            Nevertheless, the mercenaries helping the Italian were not his foremost concern, not the biggest monster on his horizon.  That dubious distinction belonged to someone much closer: the good Doctor Ragnarok.

            What concerned him most about Ragnarok was the degree of control the sorcerer had over the mission, and by extension, Wessel's own destiny.  To the masked mystic, he and his commandoes, along with the Valkyrie and the Messerschmitt fighter planes of the famed Kondor Legion, were but pawns on a game board.   As an officer and a fighting man, Wessel knew that sometimes war was exactly like that, a grand game of chess, but the power to command men to go to their deaths ought to have been given to someone trained in military strategy, not to a superstitious wizard with no battlefield experience whatsoever.

Now two of the pilots were dead and their planes lost, and for what?  Some fabled lost city and a treasure that could grant immortality.  He shook his head.  Fairy tales and valuable resources were being directed into finding them rather than making Germany stronger.  The Reich needed men and money, not fairy tales if it were to conquer the world.

                        *****

The sun was sinking low on the horizon and darkness was already falling within the jungle as Captain Morgan guided the riverboat up the middle of the river channel.  They were still a few hours from the thunderous cataract known as Livingstone Falls.  Barring any sort of problem, he anticipated reaching the portage sometime early in the morning.

That was the easy part of the journey.  The lower Congo region was fairly pacified.  It was the upper reaches of the river where trouble seemed to lurk around every bend.  The inherent danger of the long river journey was part and parcel of the reason Morgan left that part of his business to younger, more adventurous men.

“What do you hear about the pirates, Padre?”

            McKenzie stared into the darkening jungle as if lost in thought.  “So far they have left the Mission alone, but even I have no idea how long that will last.”

            “Maybe you should consider arming your flock. I know a fellow who could get you a good deal on some Springfield rifles.  Old war surplus.”

“I can’t do that, Captain.” McKenzie offered a look of earnest remorse at refusing the offer.

“The Force Publique would never permit native laborers to form a militia.  We'd be in more danger from the authorities than the pirates.”

Morgan laid one finger alongside his nose.  “What they don't know....”

McKenzie chuckled. “It’s a matter of principle,” he replied softly. 

            “Guess then you are doin’ what you gotta do, Padre.” Morgan knew he was right, and knew that McKenzie knew it to.

Principle, he thought, taking a pipe and pouch from his back pocket.  He dipped the bowl of the pipe into the tobacco, tamped it and lit it with a wooden match.  Damned foolishness is what it is. 

            “Dad!” a voice called out from shore, snatching the captain's attention.

            “Bridget?” McKenzie called back.

Morgan squinted his eyes; he still couldn’t make out the source of the female voice, the jungle and the river could certainly make things tricky, but there was no doubt concerning the identity of the speaker.

            “Over here,” the voice called again, and this time Morgan saw a flash of light.  The small flicker of flame from a cigarette lighter caught his attention.  He pointed towards it, letting McKenzie follow his finger.

            “Thank God,” McKenzie gasped.

            Coming from him, the invocation seemed to carry a lot more weight.