James Axler - Shadow Fortress

“You folks firing blanks?” J.B. asked skeptically, thumbing the last round into a clip, then easing the magazine into the Uzi. He worked the bolt, chambering a round, and slung the weapon over his shoulder. “We’re going to fly to Forbidden Island?”

Standing, Doc wet a finger and held it outside. “The wind is blowing in the correct direction,” he announced. “Well done, madam. An exemplary idea! There is no way Mitchum could follow us aloft.”

“Fly the Hercules?” Dean asked, frowning. “Hot pipe, this thing will never eat clouds again. It’s completely aced.”

“We’re not going to use the plane,” Mildred told him, crossing the deck to the first canvas mound. She ran a hand over the rough expanse of material. “We’ll fly the cargo.”

“Worked once before. Why not again?” Ryan mused.

“How can we steer?” Dean asked bluntly.

“We’ll wet blankets and hold them over the side,” Krysty explained. “That’ll give us some drag, and as we slow down to the left, to drift to the left.”

“Crude and dangerous,” Doc rumbled. “Yet, alas, we don’t really have another choice.”

“Anybody want to row across fifty miles of open sea with those steam-powered PT boats hunting for us all the way?” Ryan asked brusquely.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Didn’t think so,” Ryan said, cracking the knuckles of his hand. “Okay, we start with the ropes.”

Dean was surprised how easily the craft was constructed.

The sun was hovering just above the horizon by the time the balloon was ready to launch. The cargo netting barely proved adequate to contain the weather balloons as they were filled with helium from the pressurized tanks. With each balloon, another rope had been tied to the plastic pallet to keep the craft from soaring away, and the companions ceased adding balloons only when the overhead net was completely filled, the anchor ropes creaking from the strain of containing the lighter-than-air vehicle.

“These will help,” Krysty said, tying a lumpy bag to the pallet. Trousers from the dead paratroopers were tied off to make crude sacks, and then filled with broken pieces of electronic equipment from the cockpit. The counterweight would give them a hair more control over the flying craft. Not much, but every little bit helped. But the balloons didn’t descend in the slightest until six more of the heavy bags were lashed into place.

“She’s got more than enough lift,” Mildred said, beaming in pleasure at the buoyant craft. The bobbing net filled with the taut balloons nearly blocked out the stars it was so large. “We’ll ride like kings on the wind.”

“Till crash-land,” Jak added grimly, standing guard over the pile of their backpacks. They had all removed their packs to work faster, but wisely didn’t toss them into the rope basket of the flying machine until ready to launch. If a rope broke and the packs soared away with all the food and ammo, they would be good as chilled.

“She needs a name,” Dean said, studying the huge thing, then glanced at the airplane. “Did Hercules have a kid?”

Checking the anchor ropes, Doc paused to scratch his head. “Indeed, he did. Three sons, but I cannot recall any of their names.”

“Don’t need a name, long as it works,” Ryan said, zipping up his pants as he stepped from the plane. “Remember to use the washroom before we go. And throw away anything not needed. Weight is at a premium.” The craft had plenty of lift now, but not with seven people in its basket.

“Never thought we’d leave the island this way,” J.B. observed, placing a cigar in his mouth. The pilot had been carrying a pocket humidor of the best quality, and two of the cigars inside were in smokable condition. The Armorer was trying hard to quit, but sometimes the urge simply couldn’t be denied.

Reaching in a pocket, he pulled out a butane lighter and Doc rushed forward to snatch the device from his grasp.

“Are you mad, John Barrymore?” Doc whispered urgently, brandishing the lighter. “Hydrogen is extremely flammable! One spark and we’ll be blown to pieces.”

“Not filled with hydrogen,” J.B. replied curtly. “Helium.”

Doc paused in confusion. “Helium,” he repeated slowly. “The word sounds familiar, but I fear its meaning eludes me.”

Refilling the canteens from a lotus flower that bled water, Mildred gave a start and stared at the man askance, then slowly recalled that the element was discovered around 1870 by Sir somebody or other. Damn, she couldn’t recall the name. Maybe helium wasn’t in wide usage by the time Doc was trawled.

“Trust me,” Mildred said, topping off a canteen and letting the excess water flow onto the broad wing. “We’re completely safe. Helium is a noble gas, totally inert.”

“Really, madam?” Doc exhaled deeply. “In truth, I had been deeply worried about an aerial conflagration. The Army of the Potomac constantly had their observation balloons destroyed by flaming arrows from Lee’s rebels.”

“Can’t happen here,” she stated confidently, screwing on the last cap and slinging the heavy container over her back.

“How delightful to know.” Doc said, then passed back the light. “Yours, I believe.”

“Thanks,” J.B. drawled, pocketing the lighter. For some reason he no longer had an urge to smoke, the image of the airship exploding into flames filling his mind.

“We are gonna fly,” Dean said excitedly, swatting a skeeter and lifting his head to look at the darkening sky. The fiery storm clouds weren’t bad, lots of distant thunder, but very little sheet lightning. Plus, there was no smell of rotten eggs, so the chances of acid rain were zero.

“I say we wait another hour until night,” Ryan suggested, squatting on the wing. He pulled out a stick of gum from an MRE pack and started chewing. “We disappear in the darkness, then Mitchum and Glassman can search the nuke-shitting jungle for us till they chill as wrinklies.”

“Sounds good,” Jak said, walking carefully up the ramp into the plane. The predark bandage on his ankle eased most of the pain. Running was out of the question, but at least he could walk again without gritting his teeth.

“Mebbe we should leave now. The wind is right,” Krysty announced, her animated hair moving with the tangy sea breeze. “With any luck, it’ll carry us straight to the next island.”

“Mebbe,” Ryan muttered thoughtfully.

“How about the Jules Verne, or better, the Papillon,” Mildred said out of the blue. “That’s a good name. She’s not a war wag, after all, just an escape pod.”

“The Papillon,” Doc said, arching a snowy eyebrow. “And if I recall my French correctly, why should we christen it, the Butterfly, madam?”

Before Mildred could explain, from somewhere in the growing darkness came the long drawn-out howl of a hound dog. Immediately, the companions pulled blasters and waited, listening hard. His boots softly tanging on the metal deck, Jak appeared at the hatch-way, his belt partially undone, both knife and Magnum blaster at the ready.

The barking of hounds grew fainter, then came back strong until it seemed the beasts were directly under the plane. Seconds later came the roar of Hummer engines, and the voices of men.

“Look at the dogs, sir!” a man cried. “They must be in the trees!”

“Shut up, you damn fool!” a deeper voice snapped. “Now they know we’re here.”

“Open fire!” a third voice commanded, and a fusillade of blasters cut loose, the big .75-caliber mini-balls from the flintlocks peppering the tree branches and ripping the flowers apart. A stray shot punctured one of the lower balloons of the airship, and with a long blubbering hiss it began to deflate.