Emerald Death by Bill Craig

need to get airborne if you want to reach the prize before the Italian.”
    “What have you done?” Ragnarok demanded.
    “The Italian has a copy of the map.”
    “Impossible!”  Ragnarok raged.  “I hold the only copy.”
    Wessel moved past Ragnarok, eager to take refuge in the zeppelin.  “You should have investigated the Italian more thoroughly.  I discovered that he is known to have a perfect photographic memory.  He no doubt had duplicated the map within hours after we showed it to him.  My spies revealed that he has been trying to recruit men for a journey deep within the jungle.  I believe he was going to make a try for the emerald,”
    “Stop!” Ragnarok’s voiced crashed out behind him.
    Wessel froze.  It took him a moment to realize he could not move.  There was a strange humming all around him; he could hear it and feel it.  Mein Gott, he thought, failing the first test of his unbelief by taking refuge in thoughts of the Divine. How is this possible?
    “Let me go,” Wessel managed to get out between clenched teeth.
    “You are sure they are going to go after the emerald?” Ragnarok’s voice had taken in the sibilant quality of a snake.  Wessel felt his head swivel seemingly of its own volition to look the masked man directly in the eyes.
    “Yes!” he hissed, the pain wracking his body almost overwhelming. Then it ceased, gone as immediately as it had come.  Wessel felt his muscular control of his body return and the humming vibration was gone.
    “What did you do to me?” Wessel croaked, fear filling his body and mind.
    “I command your obedience.”  Ragnarok said imperiously.  “You were insolent.  Gather your men and make arrangements for us to depart immediately.”
    “Sieg Heil!” Wessel replied, raising his arm in the traditional Nazi salute.  He staggered off, frightened of what had happened, afraid of what Ragnarok was capable of.  Wessel waved at his men and they ran for the zeppelin. They had seen Ragnarok’s power at work. 
    …Now it wasn’t rumor, it was fact!
               
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    He looked over at Captain Morgan.“We have to reach the Mission ahead of Bridget and the others,” Niles McKenzie said, wiping the sweat from his brow.
      “Now Padre, if they’s a flyin’ that plane, there certainly ain’t no way for us to get there before them.”  Morgan reminded him. 
    “At best we might end up a day behind them, depending on if there are people waiting to transfer cargo from this boat to the one above the falls.”
    “They have no idea what they are getting themselves into, of the danger they will be in,” McKenzie muttered almost as if he hadn’t heard Morgan.  There was a good chance he hadn’t.  More and more of late, he was having trouble focusing his thoughts.  He sometimes wondered if he hadn’t been too long in the jungle.
    Right now, he had to think about Bridget, about protecting her from the secrets that lay deep in the jungle.  He had to prevent her from traveling into Prester John’s territory.
     
    The actual location of the legendary Priest King’s hidden demesne was but one of many secrets with which he was burdened.  For centuries - really since its inception - rumors of the fabled lost Christian Kingdom of Prester John had trickled out of Africa.  Rome had long known of his existence, but they conveniently chose to look the other way.  Prester John left the Church alone, and they had learned the hard way to leave him alone.  McKenzie knew that on several occasions the Holy Roman Order had sent assassins after the immortal Priest King.  None of them returned in one piece.  The last had been left dismembered in the Pope’s own bed while the Pope slept unaware.  The message had been received.  ‘Leave me alone or war will be waged!’
     
    Even the mighty Vatican knew when to back off; the cost of an open holy war with the Priest King of legend would have been incalculable. Instead, they had