adopted a policy of denial and isolation, which was certainly amenable to Prester John. The College of Cardinals had reluctantly settled for satisfying their unquenchable penchant for meddling by assigning spies to watch from afar - spies like Niles McKenzie. Yet McKenzie did not report everything he learned to his masters.
In his fortress in the lost city of Simbalwe, hidden deep in the reaches of the Congo jungle, the legendary of the Priest King concealed one of the deadliest artifacts known to man: The Emerald of Eternity. He guarded it savagely, as a hyena fights for carrion; it was more important to him than any of his treasures, perhaps more valuable than any other treasure in the world, for the emerald was the key to his immortality. He would kill to keep it - kill at the first hint of a threat to his sole possession. And now Degiorno was poised to take Bridget into the lion’s den. If Hannigan and the others insisted on going after it, he would intervene, go himself rather than put Bridget in that kind of danger.
McKenzie thought about that and almost laughed. How much danger did he put her in daily by keeping her here in Africa? Really, what was he doing here at all? Trying to atone for some imagined sins against God or man? God forgave - if he believed anything, he had to believe that - and man simply did not care. So whom did he need forgiveness from? His ghosts?
He felt moisture on his cheeks that wasn’t sweat. It took him a moment to realize what it was and where it had come from. Tears. Tears of revelation? Tears of penance? Tears shed for all those he had not been able to help over the years?
You can never run from your ghosts. They always find you. Maybe it was time to leave, time to go back to the States and resume a real life.
McKenzie wiped his face, careful not to let Morgan see what he was doing. He could not afford to show weakness, not now, not in front of the riverboat captain. As circumspect as he knew Morgan to be, rumors had a way of spreading, and he could not afford to be thought of as anything but Father McKenzie, the warrior priest. If it were even whispered that his resolve was flagging, the Mission would become a prime target for the various bands of pirates that operated along the Congo River.
He pulled himself together, straightening his back. He had to focus, focus on catching up with Bridget and the others. He had to reach them before it was too late.
*****
Sturmscharfuhrer Hans Wessel peered through one of the sealed portals in the smooth hull of the Valkyrie, searching for some sign of the small floatplane that had slipped into the air ahead of him. From this lofty vantage, he commanded a view of hundreds of square kilometers, but the green expanse played tricks on the eye. The jungle hides its secrets well, he thought mordantly.
A thunderous roar shuddered through the zeppelin as two of the Messerschmitt fighter planes blasted down the internal runway and out into the sky. Wessel couldn’t help but smile as the fighters came back across the bow in a display of aerial acrobatics. The pilots of the famed Kondor Legion - the Sky Masters - had cut their teeth on the exploits of Richtofen and the Bloody Circus. They were Germany’s new best of the best, and couldn’t resist a little showing off. They were champing at the bit to prove their steel on the field of combat.
…Too bad that their first mission, hunting a lone unarmed float plane, wouldn’t provide much sport.
*****
Mike Hannigan squinted at the dots that appeared on the horizon behind them. He had spotted the zeppelin early on, rising lazily like a second moon from the verdant horizon. He wasn’t too concerned about that; there was no way the ponderous gasbag would be able to catch them. It was the smaller shapes that had him
In his fortress in the lost city of Simbalwe, hidden deep in the reaches of the Congo jungle, the legendary of the Priest King concealed one of the deadliest artifacts known to man: The Emerald of Eternity. He guarded it savagely, as a hyena fights for carrion; it was more important to him than any of his treasures, perhaps more valuable than any other treasure in the world, for the emerald was the key to his immortality. He would kill to keep it - kill at the first hint of a threat to his sole possession. And now Degiorno was poised to take Bridget into the lion’s den. If Hannigan and the others insisted on going after it, he would intervene, go himself rather than put Bridget in that kind of danger.
McKenzie thought about that and almost laughed. How much danger did he put her in daily by keeping her here in Africa? Really, what was he doing here at all? Trying to atone for some imagined sins against God or man? God forgave - if he believed anything, he had to believe that - and man simply did not care. So whom did he need forgiveness from? His ghosts?
He felt moisture on his cheeks that wasn’t sweat. It took him a moment to realize what it was and where it had come from. Tears. Tears of revelation? Tears of penance? Tears shed for all those he had not been able to help over the years?
You can never run from your ghosts. They always find you. Maybe it was time to leave, time to go back to the States and resume a real life.
McKenzie wiped his face, careful not to let Morgan see what he was doing. He could not afford to show weakness, not now, not in front of the riverboat captain. As circumspect as he knew Morgan to be, rumors had a way of spreading, and he could not afford to be thought of as anything but Father McKenzie, the warrior priest. If it were even whispered that his resolve was flagging, the Mission would become a prime target for the various bands of pirates that operated along the Congo River.
He pulled himself together, straightening his back. He had to focus, focus on catching up with Bridget and the others. He had to reach them before it was too late.
*****
Sturmscharfuhrer Hans Wessel peered through one of the sealed portals in the smooth hull of the Valkyrie, searching for some sign of the small floatplane that had slipped into the air ahead of him. From this lofty vantage, he commanded a view of hundreds of square kilometers, but the green expanse played tricks on the eye. The jungle hides its secrets well, he thought mordantly.
A thunderous roar shuddered through the zeppelin as two of the Messerschmitt fighter planes blasted down the internal runway and out into the sky. Wessel couldn’t help but smile as the fighters came back across the bow in a display of aerial acrobatics. The pilots of the famed Kondor Legion - the Sky Masters - had cut their teeth on the exploits of Richtofen and the Bloody Circus. They were Germany’s new best of the best, and couldn’t resist a little showing off. They were champing at the bit to prove their steel on the field of combat.
…Too bad that their first mission, hunting a lone unarmed float plane, wouldn’t provide much sport.
*****
Mike Hannigan squinted at the dots that appeared on the horizon behind them. He had spotted the zeppelin early on, rising lazily like a second moon from the verdant horizon. He wasn’t too concerned about that; there was no way the ponderous gasbag would be able to catch them. It was the smaller shapes that had him
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