Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

“What?! Where?!”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t explain. But she climbed through the hatch, and Charlie followed without argument. After all that’s happened so far, what’s the point of arguing?

They stripped off what remained of their scuba gear and, barefooted, made their way back through the B-17, passing the ghosts—or as Charlie saw them, the animated skeletons—of Lance and the two Harrys at their posts. There were holes in Belle ’s skin large enough to drop them to their deaths, but they managed to avoid them and finally reached the tail gun.

And just in time—lightning flashed again, revealing Julia, now bigger than ten Island Belle ’s, reaching a giant hand of cloud and wind and rain and lightning toward the exposed rear of the bomber. She grasped and just missed—the old bomber was just barely out of reach—but the B-17 rocked and bucked, plummeted and rose like a mad bull.

Rain slipped into the ragged, rotting seat that once belonged to Tail Gunner Joey. She tried to aim the large gun, but it was frozen in place by decades of rust. She turned to Charlie. “Help me!” He slid in beside her, the skinny teenage boy sharing the man-sized seat with his equally skinny best friend. No longer asking for explanations, Charlie helped Rain wrench the gun out of its locked state. Something cracked audibly, and the thing moved, nearly slipping off its housing completely—but the gold aura held it more-or-less in place for Rain.

She watched then as the second snake’s electric blue flared on her arm and from within the gun itself. She knew she was locked and loaded. “Where’s the trigger?” she shouted.

“Here!” He guided her hand. All those video games finally paying off….

She waited for the next lightning strike—and didn’t have long to wait. There was Julia, her dark cloud mane streaming around her, her eyes flashing with electricity—and her expression: pure fury. But Rain was angry too. This woman—this thing—had tried to kill her grandfather twice. Once after he was already dead! Rain rotated the gun, taking aim. Charlie’s hand still surrounded hers on the trigger. And when the lightning flashed again, she opened fire.

Streaks of electric blue sailed from the tail gun’s muzzle. They lit up the sky (for Rain, not Charlie) and struck the female fury right between the eyes. Rain could hear the storm shriek. Even Charlie heard a cry on the wind that sounded almost human, something very angry and in pain.

“She’s hit!” Rain shouted. Charlie didn’t ask who “she” was. From his point of view, Rain had aimed the gun toward the darkest section of the storm. He saw no “she”—but he saw the locus of darkness moving. Without thinking—for once—he wrenched the big gun around to keep it on target.

Rain didn’t think to ask how her friend knew which way to aim. She fired again. The blue light seared across the sky and struck the spirit—the goddess —of the storm once more. Rain could see her shrinking under the blue fire. And Charlie could now see gaps in the cloud cover, exposing a few stars.

But the darkest of the dark clouds moved again, and Charlie followed it with the gun, while Rain maintained fire. And she wasn’t the only one. From both the top turret and the ball turret, Pete and Ducky fired more streaks of blue light back on the enemy as well. For the third time in four nights, the drums in Rain’s brain rose to a crescendo. The shrieking continued, louder and more horrible, but Rain and the others were merciless. The blue fire strafed the clouds… until Hurricane Julia finally gave up the ghost. Or at least the Belle.

Pete’s voice crackled in Rain’s ear: “Well, we didn’t get the kill. But we sent her scurryin’, Captain. I think we’re home free.”

Rain remembered to breathe. The drums were silent, but she was sure she could hear an orchestra of strings hailing their triumph. She released the gun. Charlie did the same. They looked each other in the eye intensely. Then embarrassed, they both looked away.

Two minutes later, they were back in the cockpit and once again gripping the back of Tommy and ’Bastian’s seats for dear life. For a second, it had felt like it was all over. Then they remembered just where they were and how precarious their situation remained.

’Bastian again spoke into his “radio”: “Sergeant Pedros.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Let ’em know we’re coming.”

“Roger that.” And at his station, Lance spoke into his ancient, rusted, waterlogged unit. It glowed a beautiful gold. “Tío Samuel, this is Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four requesting permission for an emergency landing.”

The tower at Tío Sam’s airfield was painted white, like most of the base. Inside, Ensign Chris LeVell, a confused young air traffic controller, was sitting in front of his radar screen trying to identify the source of the strange broadcast. “Please, repeat designation. Acknowledge.”

Lance Pedros’ voice crackled in Ensign LeVell’s ears. “Roger. That’s Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four requesting permission to land.”

Commander Stevens wasn’t supposed to be there that night. He had just been in the mood for a walk in the rain, and his feet had found their way to the tower without any help. Now he leaned in over LeVell’s shoulder. “What did he say? Put him on speaker.”

LeVell flinched, suddenly realizing who was behind him. Then he nodded and said, “Yes, sir.”

On the Belle, Lance’s ghost was shaking his head and smiling. “Captain, what we have here is a failure to communicate.”

The Dark Man grinned. “Patch me through.”

“Roger that. You tell ’em, Cap.”

’Bastian took a deep breath, then: “Tío Samuel Naval Base, this is Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four. We’re flying on three engines and a prayer here. I’m requesting permission to land, but I’m landing with or without it.”

Stevens leaned in further, hovering over LeVell’s mic, listening to that strange, distant voice. “Broadway? That’s a B-17 designation. No one’s used that for fifty years.”

“Well, we are running a bit behind schedule.”

Pete, back in position in the hatchway, chuckled. “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie, Captain.”

’Bastian, Tommy and Rain laughed. Charlie yelled, “What? What’s so funny?”

In the tower, Stevens’ first instinct was to mobilize. Something on the scope was coming in under his watch, and the thought of a terrorist attack was never far from any military man’s mind. But Tío Sam’s held no strategic importance and had never been considered a likely target. The truth was, the base had been caught flat-out unprepared. By the time Stevens got any birds in the air, whatever was coming would already be here. All he could do was press a button, lean in and order Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four to circle. Then he shut off the microphone, pressed another button and put the entire base on alert.

But Captain Sebastian Bohique was tired of waiting for some swabbie’s approval. Still smiling, he pushed forward on the wheel. And the Belle began her descent.

’Bastian eased up on the throttle. “Lower landing gear.”

“Roger,” Tom said, flipping another switch.

The golden glow prodded the landing gear bays open. But the glow could only do so much. The bay doors jammed long before opening wide enough for the rotted rubber wheels to lower. The gear was stuck and—glow or no glow—wasn’t budging.

Tommy turned to ’Bastian, shrugged and drolly commented, “Could be a rough landing.”

The Island Belle continued her descent, entering a mild fog bank that shrouded Tío Sam’s. Through the shattered windshield, Rain could now see the runway lights shimmering hazily in the mist. We’re going to land! We’re really going to land! She turned to Charlie and shouted, “Hold on!”