Greg Weisman - Rain of the Ghosts

He rolled his eyes and yelled, “You think?!”

‘Bastian said, “Crew, assume positions for crash landing.”

Rain shouted, “Crash?!”

And Charlie yelled, “WHAT?!”

But they didn’t crash. The Belle came in for a landing. Her aura acted as something of a cushion—though the fuselage still scraped and sparked against the tarmac, throwing off magickal golden flashes and not-so-magickal red-hot fragments of metal. Inside the cockpit, Charlie was fairly certain he’d be one with Rain’s ghost crew soon enough. He and Rain were barely able to hold on to the seats and each other as the bomber shook and jumped.

Ghost or no ghost, ’Bastian was rattled by Belle’s quaking hull and his inability without wheels to bring her to a halt. He was afraid she’d break apart. Afraid that if she did, if she broke or blew, the mission would still end in failure. His men would still be lost. And Rain?! For the first time since resuming command, he turned around and saw his granddaughter and her friend. My God, what have I done?!

He tried to smile at her, tried to reassure her. “Smooth as silk, huh?” She forced a smile back at him.

And just then, finally, the bomber skidded to a full stop.

Rain and Charlie were still vibrating. But they wore the kind of goofy grins that only come with knowing you lived through something you had no right to.

Rain scanned the cockpit. The golden aura was fading. And so was the flight crew. ’Bastian was again transparent. Rain took note, and her grin faded as quickly as their glow.

’Bastian stood and glanced from Tommy to Pete. “Mission accomplished. We’re home.”

Still in his seat, Tommy’s spirit no longer fully concealed his nodding skull. “Roger that, Captain.”

From throughout the plane, the voices flooded Rain and ’Bastian’s minds one last time. “Nice flying, Cap.” “Knew you could do it.” “Better late than never.”

“And thanks,” Pete said. “Thank you.” And on that heartfelt note, his spirit completely faded away along with the last of the Belle ’s glow. His skeleton collapsed in the hatchway, causing Charlie to jump. Tom’s skeleton sat back in its copilot’s seat, finally at rest. The Eight were gone, leaving only their bones and tattered clothes, the rusted hulk of the Island Belle, Rain, Charlie… and ’Bastian.

’Bastian faced his granddaughter, both of them starting to tear up. “I guess I’m next,” he said.

“I’m going to miss you so much.”

“Same here, Raindrop. But I’m glad we had a chance to say good-bye.” He looked away. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, but the Dark Man knew he could not. Better to make a clean break. “Now you climb out of here, before the whole thing collapses.”

Rain nodded once and then fled; she needed to get out before she collapsed. She climbed over the skeleton in the hatchway. Charlie swallowed hard and followed.

They quickly found a large hole in the Belle near the nose. They swung down, hanging there, giving each other nods of encouragement, before dropping a few feet to the fog-shrouded pavement below. They could already hear sirens in the distance. As one, they ran across the tarmac in their wet clothes and bare feet and lost themselves in the mist and the brush beside the runway. A strong scent of mint leaves, mixed with ocean salt, surrounded them and seemed to momentarily offer a cocoon of protection from the approaching authorities.

A fine rain was still falling, but Charlie was pretty sure those were tears on Rain’s cheeks. Gently, he asked, “Are they all gone?”

Rain looked around. No ghosts. No ’Bastian. “I guess so,” she said. “I guess they’re at peace now.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Rain wheeled about to find the Dark Man standing behind her, young, handsome, transparent and glowing softly white.

“Papa!”

A smiling ’Bastian shrugged and pointed at Rain’s snake charm. “I must still have a mission left to complete.”

“Don’t make me pretend I’m sorry.”

“I won’t… if you won’t.”

Charlie watched Rain stare happily at empty space. “Is he still here?”

“Yes!”

“No offense, but… why?”

’Bastian considered Charlie’s question as the siren’s wail heralded the shining headlights of a Navy emergency truck—the first of several vehicles approaching rapidly from down the tarmac. “The snake charm just won’t let me go.”

Rain asked, “Did your grandmother tell you anything else about it?”

Thinking on that, ’Bastian rubbed his hand over his chin and was distracted by the odd lack of sensation. He couldn’t put his hand through his face, and yet there was no true solidity to either part of his body. Like oil and water, they simply wouldn’t mix. Recovering his train of thought, he said, “No… but after I was released from the infirmary here, she did take me someplace. She made a point of taking me someplace.”

“Then I think you’d better take us too…”

The truck pulled to a stop a few yards from the plane. Its siren abruptly cut out. Rain and Charlie ducked further down behind the brush and the scent of mint. ’Bastian whispered a “let’s get out of here” to Rain. She tugged on Charlie’s arm, and the three of them slinked away.

No one saw the two teens—let alone the ghost—thanks to the fog and the GIANT DISTRACTION parked on the runway. Through the truck’s windshield, two Shore patrolmen looked up at the Belle in a state of pure shock. This wreck couldn’t have landed here. Could hardly have been towed here in one piece.

The passenger-side door opened, and Commander Stevens slowly exited the vehicle. How in heaven…? His eyes gradually took in the entirety of the rusted hulk of the B-17 that loomed above him, still dripping salt water and seaweed. An awed whisper escaped his lips: “Broadway-Niner-Niner-Four…”

Getting back to San Próspero proved far easier than they could have dreamed. ’Bastian knew Tío Sam both from the war and from the occasional Veteran’s Day ceremony. He was able to lead them through the base and act as an invisible advance scout to help them avoid the assorted naval personnel running about in semi-urgency. Too, the universe seemed to be cooperating, as the light mist quickly became a dense fog to further cover their movements.

They found Miller mopping up the Mess Hall alone. He gaped as they approached like two scared drowned rats. “Dudes, what are you doing here?”

“Long story,” Rain said. (And the trouble-prone Miller nodded as if that was explanation enough.) “Can you help us get home?”

And Miller did. He wasn’t exactly a brilliant strategist, but again the cards seemed to fall in their favor. The fog helped. So did the fact that this particular Sunday had been Visiting Day on Tío Sam’s. Families of various sailors, who didn’t have more than a billet for housing on the base, were already scheduled to head back to the big island on a Navy shuttle. A shuttle piloted by Ensign Dusanek, one of Miller’s surfing buddies. Miller explained that his two young friends had lost their I.D. badges in the surf, and Dusanek agreed to sneak them on board—an unusually easy prospect as shore patrolmen had been pulled off their regular duty to help investigate the mysterious appearance of a certain skeleton-filled B-17 bomber and the very modern scuba gear found inside. No one, certainly not Dusanek, suspected two thirteen-year-olds could have been behind it.

Before Dusanek led them off, Rain gave Miller a quick hug. “Thanks, Miller. We definitely owe you one.”