Dagger Magic

Chapter Thirty-One

IN the cavern above which the seaplane circled, nascent lightnings crept along the hull of U-636 in a flurry of fluorescent green. Huddled far forward in the conning tower, Francis Raeburn ducked low as a javelin of light crackled down the periscope above his head. His lean face tight with tension, he darted a hand into the front of his jacket and took out a slender rod of stripped ashwood.

The rod was tipped with an iron-bound lump of rock crystal. With a muttered incantation, Raeburn used it to trace a sign of personal warding around himself, between him and the open hatch. Another lightning bolt sheered off before it could hit the railing and struck the radio antenna instead. It hung there writhing like a serpent for the space of a heartbeat, then dissipated downward through the fabric of the deck.

The power of the storm grew. Though apparently insulated from its brunt, Raeburn could feel the static electricity stirring the fine hairs on the backs of his hands, crawling on his scalp. Thrusting tongues of wildfire invaded every valve and outlet of the vessel beneath him, burning away five decades' worth of filth and corrosion until the air grew choked with the reek of charred barnacles and scorched metal. Freed from their bondage of rust, the deck-guns swung crazily on their pivots as if chasing ghost targets. From deep down in the bowels of the ship came the liberated groans of other systems coming back on line after half a century of paralysis.

The water beneath the keel began to boil, tossing up angry gouts of foam. Feeling the sub shudder beneath him, Raeburn clutched at the nearest railing for support. As he did so, he heard dimly through the hiss of the electrical storm another unmistakable sound: the hard rattle of gunfire.

Raeburn's jaw tightened at this latest complication. The noise was coming from outside. It could only mean that Kavanagh had encountered opposition. Commanding his zone of protection to move with him, he grabbed up his lantern and scrambled down out of the conning tower, making a dash toward the bow, for the need to find out who the new arrivals might be outweighed all other considerations of safety. He dared not look back as he sprang across the gap between the deck and the rocks and sprinted for the base of the ledge.

Sparks rained down on him from the rift in the cavern roof as he began his ascent. He scaled the gradient in leaps and bounds, dodging fiery hailstones as he went. Fending off a last, blazing shower with a sweep of his wand, he won through to the passageway at the top and made his way out into the sanctuary of the open air, keeping low and to one side.

The Rose of Tralee was standing offshore where he had left her, but a second boat was now drawn alongside, showing lights fore and aft. That meant that Kavanagh probably was neutralized. Drawing a deep breath, Raeburn pocketed his wand and pressed the stone of his Lynx ring to his forehead, forcing himself to concentrate, to re-engage patterns established earlier. As his perceptions sharpened, he scanned the scene below, seeking some clue as to the identity of the newcomers.

One of the figures aboard the second cruiser was a woman, but not anyone he recognized. Her male companion was some years younger than she, slender and fair-haired, but he could not see the face because the man was looking through a pair of binoculars trained in the direction of the cliff below. A third man was in the pilothouse, also gazing intently at the shore and pointing. At that moment, Raeburn's own attention was diverted by a flicker of movement near the water's edge, not far from where he had left the Rose's dinghy.

Keeping close to the wall, lest he show a silhouette, he bent his gaze downward, bringing deeper levels of awareness into play as he attempted to pierce the obscuring distance and moonlight. He located the dinghy easily enough, and the crewman he had left behind unconscious, but a second dinghy now was drawn ashore beside it, and three other figures were skirting the base of the cliffs, heading his way. Their faces were obscured in the shadows, but not the aura of authority that centered on the tall, dark man who led them.

The signature of power was one that Raeburn had encountered before. Sucking in breath, his teeth drew back from his lips in a silent snarl of recognition as he acknowledged that presence by name.

Adam Sinclair: Master of the Hunt.

Mentally cursing his luck - and Dorje had warned him of this possibility! - Raeburn ducked back into the sheltering darkness of the cave mouth. As he did so, he became aware of the distant drone of aircraft engines. He spotted its source as the distinctive silhouette of a Grumman Widgeon passed across the moon. In the same instant, the comlink in his breast pocket gave a subdued beep.

Raeburn snatched it out and upped the volume. Barclay's drawl came through on a wave of static.

"Sea Wolf, this is Sky Hawk. Do you copy?"

Raeburn darted a venomous glance at the enemy ship below and eased slightly closer to the entrance to enhance reception, keeping to the cave wall.

"This is Sea Wolf," he muttered, as he thumbed the button to transmit. "What the hell is going on?"

Another rattle of interference intruded before Barclay's voice made itself heard again.

"Good to hear from you, Sea Wolf. I've been getting nothing but static for the past quarter of an hour. What's your status?"

"We've located the parcel," Raeburn said. "Our partners still say it will be delivered as scheduled. I have my doubts, but that's what they say. Unfortunately, we've got company."

"I see 'em, Sea Wolf. Want me to keep 'em busy while you get things under way?"

"Negative." Raeburn was vehement. "Give me about ten minutes, then bring the plane down as close as you safely can and stand by for further orders."

"Understood, Sea Wolf," came the response. If there was anything else to follow, it was lost in a blanket of electronic noise.

The seaplane banked, circling gently away from the boats. Raeburn wasted no more breath or energy cursing the damnable perspicuity of his Hunters. Leaving Kavanagh to whatever fate might await him, Raeburn turned on his heel and made his way back toward the cavern. Though he had no intention of serving Green Gloves any further than he had to, self-interest demanded that he warn his unwanted Tibetan associates that the success of their joint enterprise was now under threat, unless they could move quickly to conclude it.

The electrical storm was subsiding as he regained the cavern. Steeling his courage, Raeburn sprang back aboard the sub amid the fading glare and trotted back to the conning tower, quickly negotiating the ladder up to the command bridge. He almost faltered as he saw the well of sickly green-white light gaping to receive him.

"I'm coming back down," he called. "We have a complication."

He started down, overstepping the last few rungs to land with a clatter in the middle of a scene from a nightmare. The control room now was feverishly lit from all sides, control panels softly aglow, gauges pulsing. Through the soles of his shoes, Raeburn could feel the fabric of the deck vibrating with restored power.

But what sent a chill down his spine was the sluggish movement of half a dozen gaunt, grey-clad figures now standing erect over the consoles, wasted hands tending an array of switches and levers and valves. Nagpo was standing in their midst, surveying his work with apparent satisfaction.

Both awed and aghast, ignoring the Tibetan's amused glance in his direction, Raeburn slowly made himself approach the back of the nearest figure, which wore a peaked, once-white cap. As he cautiously set a hand to its shoulder, the figure turned, and he found himself staring at the bearded face of the dead U-boat commander. The sunken eyes burned with an unearthly greenish light, and as the dead lips parted, a hollow groan escaped from between the yellowed teeth. As Raeburn snatched his hand away, memory from his days at Tolung Tserphug supplied the Tibetan term for such creatures, and he spoke it aloud in disgust.

"Rolag!"

Nagpo's dissonant laugh mocked his response.

"You demanded a crew, Gyatso. They are here as Rinpoche promised - right where they have been since the end of the war."

Swallowing his distaste, Raeburn let his gaze flick to the others moving sluggishly in the background. Until this very instant, he had not been willing to believe that Dorje was serious.

"You are - very resourceful," he acknowledged, tearing his gaze from the rolag captain only with an effort. "I just hope you can maintain your control long enough to get us out of here in very short order, because I'm here to tell you that there's a Hunting Party assembling outside, preparing to come in and challenge this operation. Its leader is a man I've encountered before, and I must warn you that if we allow him time to prepare himself, to realize what he's up against, he might conceivably be able to marshal the resources to stop us."

"I very much doubt that," Nagpo said condescendingly. "Our resources extend far beyond your limited comprehension."

He gestured. Following the line of the other man's pointing finger, Raeburn discovered Kurkar sitting cross-legged at the far end of the control area, deep in trance, his eyes turned upward in their sockets so that he looked almost like a rolag himself. He was rolling his Phurba between his palms, his lips framing an ongoing chant in an effort of total concentration.

"Kurkar-la prepared these men half a century ago," Nagpo explained, "when he occupied the spent body you saw before. He is one of the reincarnating ministers, reborn nearly half a century ago for this hour and this moment. I am accomplished, but I stand in awe before such mastery."

Raeburn could almost feel the force of Kurkar's will outpouring to keep the rolag crew on their feet and under his control. The magnitude of the achievement elicited a grudging admiration.

' 'If you look around you, you will see that this vessel is now fully operational," Nagpo went on. "We must prepare to move out. I trust you to give appropriate orders to the captain. When you have done so, you will please to join me on the bridge."

Nagpo turned without further comment and began to retreat up the ladder into the conning tower. With a nervous glance at the entranced Kurkar, who might or might not be fully aware what went on in the control room, Raeburn cast his glance across the controls. The readouts on the accompanying gauges told him that the sub's diesel and electrical systems were, indeed, flashed up, with power levels restored to maximum. Resigned to the part he must play in Dorje's mad charade, at least for now, he turned to address himself to the rolag captain. He could find it in his heart to pity the man - all these men: soldiers once faithful unto death, now recalled to agony in bodies animated only by the darkest of sorceries.

"Listen carefully," he said in German. "I am aware that you are suffering. If you disobey, those who have commanded you here have the power to imprison you in these bodies until they rot into nothing. However, if you do as you are told, you will be released as soon as this vessel's cargo has been transferred to the flying boat that is coming in to land outside this cavern. Do you understand?"

The rolag captain executed a jerky nod, the eyes luminescent with dread comprehension.

"Good. Then blow all ballast and prepare to move out on my command. And as soon as we're underway," he added, with a darting glance at the oblivious Kurkar, "load both stern torpedo tubes and come to the bridge. I shall give you a target on which to vent your vengeance."

He edged toward the ladder to follow Nagpo, but he paused to watch with morbid fascination as the captain moved, whispering among his rolag crew. Accompanied by a sepulchral chorus of hissing and groaning, the resultant movement was jerky and slow as levers were shifted, switches thrown, valves opened, but with ponderous deliberation the interlocking systems began to engage. A rush of compressed air hissed through the pipes, followed by the start-up hum of the DC generator.

The hum built to a powerful drone as the ballast compressors began blowing air into the ballast tanks. The captain was swaying on his feet, sometimes staggering, his agony apparent, but at a sign from him, the helmsman engaged the rudder, testing, and the planesmen followed suit with the hydroplanes. Satisfied that his orders were being carried out, Raeburn mounted the ladder.

Nagpo was waiting at the aft railing of the conning tower, Phurba already in hand, and bade Raeburn come and stand beside him as he turned purposefully toward the stern. Throwing his head back slightly, he closed his eyes and began to chant, rolling the hilt of the dagger between his palms as he did so. After a moment, still chanting, he slowly raised the Phurba so that the point of it was directed toward the seamed rockfall blocking the sub's egress to the sea. Raeburn found himself almost holding his breath.

Nagpo's chant gained force, waking whispering echoes off the surrounding rocks, the Phurba a blur of motion between his swiftly moving hands. His voice rose sharply to a pitch of command, and in that instant, his hands sprang apart and the Phurba launched from his grasp like a tiny missile.

With only a whisper of displaced air, it raced toward the summit of the seam and struck. Raeburn cringed from the resultant explosion, but none of the falling rubble touched the sub as the rock-face split and separated. With a secondary explosion, he suddenly found himself looking out across open water through a rift like the mouth of a tunnel.

Almost too fast for mortal vision, Nagpo's Phurba returned to his hand. Clasping it to his breast, the Tibetan turned to Raeburn.

"The way is open," he announced. "Instruct the captain to proceed."

Swallowing down his apprehension, Raeburn crouched down to the hatch.

"Both engines, back one-third," he said in German.

There was a brief delay while the message was relayed to the control room. Then with a rumble of propeller blades and a churning of white water under the rudder, U-636 began edging backward through the jagged opening, making for the moonlit sea beyond.