Dagger Magic

Chapter Twenty-Nine

DILLON went rigid, quivering convulsively as if struck by an electric charge, his lantern glowing momentarily brighter before tumbling from his hands. Plunkett backpedalled frantically, slamming into the side of the cliff behind him and dropping his duffel bag. When Dillon's spasms abated, he crumpled to his knees in the sand, staring blindly ahead. The man who had touched him caught him easily under one elbow to keep him from falling over.

"Jayzus, Mary, and Joseph!" Plunkett muttered, and hastily crossed himself.

The gesture did not escape Raeburn.

"I doubt that will avail you very much, Mr. Plunkett, unless you are a man of far greater depth than I take you for. And I wouldn't even think about trying to run. I doubt my associates would take it kindly. Mr. Dillon, please leave your satchel, and go back and get into the dinghy. I shouldn't want you to drown when the tide comes in."

Plunkett blenched visibly as Dillon shouldered out of the strap on the satchel and got to his feet, oblivious to anything around him as he walked back to the beached inflatable and got in, sitting statue-like amidships. Running a dry tongue across his lips, Plunkett managed to whisper, "Who the devil are you people?''

Raeburn disdained to answer the question, only tucking his pistol into his waistband as he turned back to the two Phurba priests.

"I see you got here in good time," he said in German. "So, which way is this cave?"

The two Tibetans traded glances. Then Kurkar silently turned and pointed with his Phurba toward a shadowy section of the cliff fronting the cove. Frowning, Raeburn directed the beam of his lantern upward, where its glare lit up a jagged hole in the cliff-face, with the edges showing raw like a newly opened wound.

Smiling faintly, Raeburn turned back to Plunkett and gestured toward the satchel Dillon had left. Nagpo had retrieved the fallen lantern.

"All right, pick that up and come with me."

Plunkett's gaze flicked to the pistol in Raeburn's waistband, but at his captor's pointed glance back at the nearest Phurba priest, he bent to obey, awkwardly slinging the satchel alongside his bag of flares, then reshouldering the duffel bag. He staggered a little under the combined weight as Raeburn directed him toward a tumbled rockfall at the cliffs base.

"I can't climb that," he protested, faltering to a standstill. "Not carrying these."

"My associates believe that you can," Raeburn informed him. "And you will - unless, of course, you prefer to find out precisely what happened to your man. Personally, I would advise against it. I'm told that he will suffer no permanent harm - but I am never entirely certain, when dealing with another language and culture, whether the vocabulary is exactly equivalent. Start climbing, Mr. Plunkett - and do be careful. You're carrying explosives."

"What the - "

"You did indicate to Mr. Kavanagh that obtaining explosives on such short notice would be impossible - something about government red tape intended to foil would-be terrorists. Fortunately, Mr. Kavanagh is extremely resourceful. Climb, Mr. Plunkett."

As he gestured upward with his lantern, Plunkett made a noise between a groan and a sob, now convinced that Raeburn himself was one of those terrorists, but he was already readjusting the weight of the satchel and the flares, to counterbalance the duffel bag, and began immediately, if laboriously, to climb.

The rockfall had made a rude stairway leading up to a diagonal ledge. Soon puffing and panting under his burden, Plunkett scuffed his way sideways along the ledge, now and then casting nervous glances over his shoulder at the moonlit beach below. Raeburn followed hard on his captive's heels, shining the electric torch onto the path ahead, his own thoughts carefully screened behind a mask of professional inscrutability. With Nagpo and Kurkar keeping close behind him, shadowing his every move, he knew he was as much a prisoner of the present situation as Plunkett. But with any luck, he might succeed in altering the circumstances in his own favor.

The threshold to the opening was choked with fresh rubble. Squeezing past Plunkett, Raeburn shone the lantern inside and then entered, bidding Plunkett to follow. With the two Phurba priests following after, the skipper of the Rose needed no further encouragement, though he stifled a curse as he stumbled on rough footing and nearly fell.

The opening became a passage that wormed its way into the fabric of the cliff. After a couple of tight, zigzag turns, the party arrived at the mouth of a second opening, where light from Raeburn's lantern dispersed into open space beyond. Peering ahead and past his captor, Plunkett gasped and nearly dropped his burden.

"Sweet Mother of Mercy!"

Even Raeburn had to admit that the submarine made an impressive sight. Framed by the vault of the surrounding cavern, it slumbered half-in, half-out of the shadows like some giant, armor-plated prehistoric creature. Leaning out from the entryway. Raeburn let the lantern-light play over the long, streamlined hull as Nagpo did the same. Bracketed between the deadly bristle of fore and aft gun-turrets, the conning tower reared up above the straddling swell of the fuel tanks like the dorsal fin of a hunting shark.

The incoming tide was being channelled into the cavern through an underwater rift. Already the sub was partially awash amid a gentle roil of greenish-black swells. The air stank of spilt oil and rotting kelp. The vibration of the surf, pounding at the cliffs from outside, sent echoes bouncing round the walls like the mutter of phantom voices.

There in the cavern mouth, with Nagpo and Kurkar looking on, Raeburn bade Plunkett put down his burdens and break out the flares. After planting one to either side of where they stood, he had Plunkett toss half a dozen more among the rocks opposite the conning tower to provide general illumination. The harsh, actinic glare sent monstrous, magnified shadows leaping toward the cavern roof as Plunkett reclaimed his somewhat lightened load and reluctantly followed Raeburn down toward the bow-end of the sub. Smoke from the flares hung wraith-like on the stale air as the four men sprang across onto the foredeck and made their way carefully aft, pausing beside the forward hatch.

"Have a look at this one first," Raeburn said, shining his lantern on the rusted hatch and wheel. "You can put the gear down here while we decide what to do. The hatch in the conning tower is probably going to be easiest, but our friends may simply not have had the physical strength to shift this one."

Plunkett gratefully obeyed, donning a pair of work gloves that he pulled from a rear pocket and then bending his back to the wheel that dogged down the hatch. It refused to budge.

"Try the one aft," Raeburn said, handing Plunkett his torch.

He and the monks accompanied Plunkett as far as the salt-corroded ladder that led up into the conning tower, but the second deck hatch proved no more cooperative than the first. As Plunkett reluctantly returned, Raeburn took back his lantern and shone it up the ladder.

"Up you go, Mr. Plunkett."

Plunkett climbed carefully, testing each rung. Raeburn followed right on his heels. The skipper of the Rose was already straining at the wheel atop the hatch as Raeburn came onto the bridge.

"Nope, can't budge this one, either," Plunkett said nervously, bidding Raeburn bring the lantern closer as he continued to inspect the hatch. "It - ah - is cleaner than the others, though - probably because it hasn't been submerged twice a day for fifty years."

"So, what do you propose?" Raeburn asked.

Plunkett sat back on his heels, fearful of meeting Raeburn's gaze beyond the glare of the lantern.

"Well, we might chisel our way in, but that would take a while. I'd rather try the cutting gear before we resort to explosives. I don't even know what you brought."

"Standard SBG and Cortex fuse - exactly what you're accustomed to working with," Raeburn replied.

Plunkett raised an eyebrow. "Well, that'll get you inside in next to no time, all right, but the concussion could bring the cave down on us."

"I think not," Raeburn said, with a glance down at the Phurba priests, who shook their heads impassively.

"Right." Plunkett drew a nervous breath, then exhaled gustily as he considered the matter.

"All right, this may not be as bad as I'd expected," he allowed. "Not being underwater makes life much easier. Since you seem to be in a hurry, I think we can manage just by binding a length of Cortex round the hatchway and setting it off."

"I'll bring you what you need," Raeburn said with a faint smile.

He left the two Phurba priests to keep an eye on Plunkett while he went back to the pile of equipment by the forward hatch and fetched the smaller of the two canvas satchels. Kavanagh had briefed him on what would be needed, depending on circumstances. He watched Plunkett carefully as he deposited the satchel beside the hatch.

Unpacked, the Cortex looked like nothing so much as a coil of white plastic washing line, but Plunkett's heavy face was beaded with sweat as he measured off the requisite length of fuse and cut it loose with the Swiss Army knife from his pocket. After pressing the fuse down around the hatch, he connected it up to a detonator that Raeburn handed him. The detonator, in turn, he wired to a 9-volt battery.

"We'd all better get well back from the conning tower," Plunkett advised as they came down off the ladder. "This stuff packs a wallop when it blows."

At Raeburn's gesture, both the Phurba priests retreated with them as far as the forward hatch, Plunkett stringing out wire as they went.

"Brace yourselves," Plunkett muttered, and made the final connection.

The Cortex exploded with an earsplitting crack. The deck underfoot gave a violent answering shudder. After a brief, smoldering rain of rust particles, everything fell silent.

"Now, let's see just how good you are," Raeburn muttered, urging Plunkett back toward the conning tower with a push.

He made Plunkett go first back up the ladder. The hatchway showed a blackened fringe of torn metal where the Cortex had ripped away the surrounding matrix of rust and corrosion. Slipping his work gloves back on, Plunkett gingerly seized hold of the hatch-wheel and gave it an experimental tug. There was an answering grating noise as the hatch shifted.

"It's free," he announced.

"Excellent," Raeburn said. "Let's have it open, then."

Gritting his teeth, Plunkett heaved the hatch-cover up the rest of the way. The exertion left him gasping as he dropped forward onto his knees to peer inside - and came face to face with a mummified corpse lodged on the inside access ladder.

The corpse was bearded, and wearing the grey uniform of a German naval lieutenant. It had one withered arm wound tightly around the uppermost rung. The other had dropped away from the underside wheel of the hatch-cover with a loose rattle of finger-bones against the ladder below and the flap of an empty grey sleeve. Plunkett recoiled with a yip, then froze as he felt the sudden, icy pressure of a gun barrel against the back of his head.

"Thank you, Mr. Plunkett," Raeburn said softly. "You've been very helpful. Unfortunately, your services are no longer required."

The Walther's blast sent echoes reverberating in the cavern and in the depths of the boat as the big Irishman collapsed forward, blood and brain matter seeping from the hole in the back of his skull and the larger exit wound in the center of his forehead. After pausing to holster his weapon, Raeburn hauled the body up by its jacket and sent it tumbling over the conning tower railing. It bounced heavily off the deck and slid into the water with a sucking splash as the two impassive Phurba priests started up the ladder to join him.

Eager now to be on with it, Raeburn turned his attention to clearing the hatchway. A couple of kicks knocked the German corpse loose from the ladder, sending it tumbling back into the dark womb of the ship. He stood back as the first of the two Phurba priests entered the hatch and started down, the second lighting his way and then handing down a lantern. Raeburn followed more slowly, fumbling with his own lantern until he could gain floor-level.

The hatch gave access to the control room. As he stepped off the ladder, Raeburn's wary gaze met an eerie tableau. The two Phurba priests were standing motionless near the periscope column in the center of the control room. But beyond them, the probing glare of the two electric lanterns picked out nearly a dozen mummified corpses in grey German naval uniforms, all loosely slumped at their duty stations as if death had taken them unawares.

A thin current of fresh air, filtering down the hatchway, stirred up the dust of nearly five decades and reawakened the reek of old decay. Raeburn studied the scene for a long moment, momentarily at a loss to read the riddle.

"They were gassed," said Nagpo, speaking from the shadows.

Raeburn shifted his gaze. "Why?"

"It was necessary that there should remain a command crew on board," the monk replied.

"Why?" Raeburn persisted.

This time he got no response. Impervious to the stench and the shadows, the two Phurba priests moved off toward the aft section of the control room. Raeburn followed them with the second light. Skirting the base of the periscope, he fetched up short at the sight of a third monkish figure, attired like his companions in robes of orange silk, one bony shoulder bare, seated cross-legged on the floor in an attitude of meditation.

Like all the members of the bridge crew, this monk was long dead, reduced to a mummified corpse. The hairless skull was bowed over the sunken chest as if in prayer, and the claw-like hands were curled about the dusty hilt of a Phurba much like those carried by Nagpo and Kurkar. With all the decay, Raeburn could not tell whether the blade Nagpo reverently lifted from the desiccated fingers had been the means of death or only seemed to broach the abdomen. He started slightly as Nagpo gravely saluted his living companion with the blade, then presented it to him with bowed head.

"Now is your past sacrifice made good in this present day," he declared in Tibetan. "Receive what is yours, that you may resume your destined task."

Kurkar accepted this cryptic tribute with an inclination of his shaven head, taking the Phurba that Nagpo held out to him and running a stroking hand down the blade.

"That which was surrendered now is reclaimed," he replied.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a moment, the blade of the Phurba pressed flat against his cheek; then the hand with the Phurba lashed out to strike the mummified skull of its previous owner. A bright flash left Raeburn blinded for a few seconds, only able to see in afterimage the outline of the bowed body engulfed in a white-hot flame that consumed all. When he could see properly again, only a fine powdering of white ash remained where the body had rested, and Kurkar was tucking the Phurba into the belt of his robe beside the other one.

"Now for the rest," the Phurba priest declared, as he turned back to the forward section of the control room.

There were four of the wooden crates shoved against the grey-painted bulkhead, each about a cubic foot in size, all with German eagles and SS markings boldly stencilled across them in red and black. With the boxes was a somewhat larger chest of brass-bound teakwood, its lid and sides intricately decorated with grotesque and fanciful carvings.

Smiling slightly, Kurkar approached the chest and lifted the lid. Though kept from Nagpo from approaching too close, Raeburn could see that the chest was full of Tibetan texts, each one swaddled in a band of green brocade. As Nagpo shone his light upon them, Kurkar lifted out the topmost one and deftly removed the wrapping. He let his fingers linger briefly over the pattern carved on the wooden cover, then turned to the first page inside.

The script was not unfamiliar. Raeburn had seen other examples of its type amongst the collection of manuscripts jealously guarded by a former superior, self-styled the Head-Master. Kurkar read out a phrase that Raeburn took to be a title. The dialect was one he had heard the Head-Master use in the pronouncement of certain arcane magical formulae.

Even this brief utterance had the effect of generating unsettling resonances throughout the long-dead air of the control room. The two Tibetans traded inscrutable smiles. Still smiling, Kurkar lowered the cover and replaced the wrapping before turning back to Raeburn.

"This chest and its contents do not concern you," he said in German. "Your present duty is to examine this vessel and ascertain to what extent it is operational."

The arrogance in the order was no less offensive for being delivered in a tone of cool indifference, but Raeburn made himself bite back his anger.

"It isn't operational at all," he said stiffly. "I told Dorje - ''

"Just do as you are told," Nagpo interrupted. "Or do you wish to dispute the matter?"

With a snort and a gesture of resigned disbelief, Raeburn gave up the argument and set about performing a survey of the boat's mechanicals. With the sub's vast running batteries as dead as her crew, none of the automatic gauges were registering, so he had to activate them manually to get a status reading. It was a time-consuming operation, but eventually he was able to determine, in theory, that the compressors and the diesels were still in working order.

"She has fuel enough left in the saddle tanks to get her moving, if she weren't sitting on the bottom," he reported to his Tibetan supervisors. "That aside, I must remind you that I can't initiate a first-start arrangement by myself - I told Dorje that. There are too many systems involved."

"How many crewmen will you require?" Kurkar asked, as if determining catering arrangements.

"Pretty much all of your 'skeleton crew,' " Raeburn said with some acerbity, still unconvinced that Dorje's boast had been legitimate. "The captain and exec, the chief engineer and his second, a couple of junior mechanics - I told Dorje what was needed. I still think it would be just as easy to take the crates to the dinghy and - "

Nagpo calmly held up a hand. "Rinpoche informed you correctly," he said. "This necessity has been anticipated. You will now leave us and wait outside. Remain well clear of the hatch. Our work will require no little concentration."

Much as he might resent such a cavalier dismissal, Raeburn knew there was nothing to be gained by questioning it. Biting back an acid remark that would be wasted, he turned on his heel and made for the ladder.

Back out on the conning tower, he wondered what it was that the Phurba priests were going to do. It was just possible that they might, indeed, be able to reanimate the crew - though doing it on such a scale was beyond Raeburn's ability. But reanimating a submarine was a different matter entirely. Dagger magic dealt with primitive animistic forces that were sometimes difficult to direct or contain. This being the case, Raeburn could not imagine how forces of this kind could be induced to interact harmoniously with such a complex product of technology as a submarine. By his reckoning, the very incongruity could be potentially very dangerous.

He was half-minded to use his enforced withdrawal as an excuse to withdraw entirely, and make good his escape. What prevented him was the promise of a share in the sub's cargo. He had seen the crates, and knew what Dorje had said they contained. If even half the volume of each really was diamonds, such a prize was not lightly to be dismissed. And then there was the matter of the manuscripts….

After a moment's further deliberation, he set his lantern on the slimy floor of the conning tower and stationed himself at the forward railing, well back from the hatch, and settled in to wait and see what would develop.

At first all was silence. The eerie light of the flares began to get on his nerves. As the minutes ticked away, however, the hush became pregnant with eerie expectancy, like the prelude to a storm. Very occasionally, Raeburn became aware of a whisper of chanting coming from within.

Then all at once he became aware of a deep-toned rumbling that seemed to be travelling up from the sea-floor. As it grew louder, the light of the electric lantern began to flicker, as if something were interfering with the power in the batteries.

The atmospheric pressure inside the cavern was changing. Raeburn could almost feel the barometer dropping. His eardrums began to throb, filling his head with a dull tattoo like distant artillery fire. He pressed his palms to his temples, then gave an involuntary start as something whisked past him.

He wheeled instinctively toward the open hatch. There was nothing to be seen. Another passing flit raised the hackles on the back of his neck. Then suddenly the surrounding air was full of invisible movement.

Like water disappearing down a drain, the phantoms were sucked down through the hatchway into the belly of the ship, and Raeburn was assailed by a sudden, fleeting impression of voices shrieking in protest somewhere above and beyond the registers of normal sound.

The screams drained away like leaves caught in a whirlpool. Then the whirlpool turned itself suddenly upside down, its concentric forces rising up out of the depths of the sub in a cone of elemental power.

Like the tail of an inverted cyclone, the storm of power lashed out at the cavern's roof. There was a sonorous boom, like the report of a mortar. Looking up sharply, Raeburn saw a sudden rift appear in the cavern's roof. Out of that rift descended the first crackling rain of unearthly energies.