"Mesa of Damned Souls"
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dochermes"Mesa of Damned Souls"
2/27/1998
I/
At dawn, the terrain of Arizona looked red and orange below him. Bane lowered the CORBY from its cruising speed of 300 MPH down to barely 100 and started his descent. The black stealthcopter lowered to two hundred feet. Its passage was almost completely silent. An observer on the ground might have heard something like a stiff wind pass overhead, but that was it.
The Dire Wolf was alone in the craft. He sat in the pilot seat, grim-faced and taut. His helmet had the visor up, showing pale grey eyes a little colder than usual. He had flown out here from New York after getting the call. As soon as he had the necessary altitude, Bane had disengaged the rotors and cut in the Trom impulse drive to shoot the CORBY forward at Mach-1. It wasn't until he was over the Southwest that he brought the craft down to cruising speed and used the rotors again.
The call from Archangel's son disturbed him. The man had never shown any interest in the Midnight War. He was not the hero his father had been, that was certain. As far as he knew, Michael Pulaski was content to run a helicopter courier service that ferried occasional tourists over the Grand Canyon. His sudden call that he needed help freeing prisoners had not rung true to Bane. But he owed enough to Archangel that he had agreed to come.
Bane glanced over the dials and gauges in a constant sequence, always checking everything every few seconds. The Mesa should be coming up soon. This was a bleak area without the colorful rock formations that filmmakers loved. The Mesa loomed up by itself, isolated for miles from anything but sand and bare rock and sparse shrubbery. It was half a mile across, perfectly flat on top and vertical on the sides. Supposedly there was a way to climb it, as the Comanche had reportedly done so a hundred years ago, but he couldn't see how it was possible.
Bane circled and checked out the situation. From the air, commercial flights would see nothing. You had to be low and slow-moving to spot the buildings concealed under tarps the same color as the mesa itself. There was a long residential hall and hangar under a tent of brown tarp. If he had not been looking for it, he would have thought it was just bare rock. Bane brought the CORBY down at about a hundred yards from the buildings. The landing gear of three wheels lowered and he touched down lightly.
No one was in sight. Bane brought the rotors to a halt and powered down the CORBY to standby. Where was Michael? Or his crew? He opened the hatch and air hissed out of the pressurized cabin. It had been 65 in the cabin but now 92 degree air rushed in, dry and comfortable. Bane hopped down and looked around. He was wearing the black field suit with its inner layer of Trom armor. The waist-length jacket held a dozen tools and gadgets and the long-barreled .38 Colt was holstered behind his left hip. Bane kept the helmet on for the moment
Then he saw the other helicopter approaching from the West. It resembled the CORBY in some respects, but had normal lights and a tail rotor, and was Navy blue with yellow markings. On the side was painted ARCHANGEL AIR SERVICES. Bane watched the craft land nearby, its backwash stirring up dust. As the rotors slowed, and the door opened, he began walking toward it.
Michael Pulaski emerged from behind the stick. He resembled his late father, several inches over six feet in height, with thick black hair and a hawklike face. He was wearing the uniform his father had made famous during WW II. The polished black boots, Navy blue jodhpurs and stiff tunic with a logo of white wings across the chest. As he stepped out, Michael placed a billed cap on his head. From this distance, Bane might not have been able to tell the difference between father and son.
"Jeremy!" he called. "Good of you to come all the way out here. I haven't seen you in years."
"Hello, Michael. What's up? What's this about prisoners?"
"It's all too true. I hope you can help us. Come with me, please."
Bane followed the man toward the main building. Under the tarps, the air was cool and shady. The residential hall was a long brick structure with the white wings symbol over the main door. An American flag flew on a white pole with a plaster eagle on top. Michael held the door and Bane walked in. The lobby was businesslike, with a counter packed with phones, clipboards hanging on the wall, a big map of the area taking up most another wall. A bench stood just inside the door, and there were two chairs in one corner.
The Dire Wolf said nothing as Michael led him through a swinging door and down a narrow hall. Framed photos of aircraft and of historical persons were on the walls. Michael Pulaski opened a door and turned to Bane. "The ready room."
Bane stepped inside. Here were a dozen chairs in three rows of four, facing a raised stand with a projection screen. As he entered, five old men turned their heads and regarded him. They wore the Archangel uniform without the wings logo. These men were in their seventies at least, with white hair and sagging jowls and eyes deepset in wrinkles. And yet, even so, Bane recognized them. "What? The original Archangels?"
"Still here, still alive," Michael said grimly. "They're the prisoners I told you about."
II.
The Dire Wolf unfastened his helmet and tugged it off. His short black hair was damp and his narrow face wary. The pale grey eyes moved over the five men. It wasn't impossible that they were alive, of course. If they had been in their early twenties during the war, they would be in their seventies now. They looked it. More, their faces were sad and mournful. They stared up at Bane as if regretful he was there.
He recognized each one. The Archangels had been famous during WW II, an unofficial strike force the Allies used on suicide missions deep in Occupied Europe. The membership changed as pilots were shot down or captured, but always a squadron of seven pilots were led by Archangel himself. What gave the team their advantage was that they flew the first true helicopters. Fast as the fastest enemy planes but able to rise vertically and hover, the Archangel craft were ahead of their time. Bane knew the reason why. He knew how Archangel had obtained the plans to build the advanced copters but he was sworn not to reveal the secret.
"I think some explanation would be a good idea," Bane said.
"Jeremy Bane, allow me to introduce the team. This is Leopold, from Belgium. Etienne, of France. Colin, Great Britain. Park, our Korean. And Morgan, formerly of Texas. I myself was born in America but my father was of course Polish, born in Warsaw."
The Dire Wolf nodded to each of them politely. "I've read about you men, of course. You're in history books. There was even a TV movie about your team. But it was always implied you were all dead."
"If only we were!" cried out Leopold. He was a thin old man with sunken cheeks and a white mustache. The Archangel uniform hung loosely on him. "It'd be better."
Bane looked at Michael, who said, "These men are under a curse. They are doomed to exist forever unless released. They literally can't eat or sleep and they can't leave the mesa. Only I can come and go, because I was not part of the team in March 1945."
"And who put this curse on them?"
"Wu Lung, the Chinese warlock. I know you've fought him."
"Yes," Bane answered. "He was very skilled in gralic magick. Why would Wu Lung curse the Archangels? Your team helped liberate China from Japanese occupation."
No answer came. The Dire Wolf snapped, "You can't expect me to help you guys if you won't level with me. I have a murder case underway in New York that I have to get back to."
Morgan the Texan spoke. His voice had that same hollow cadavarous echo to it as Leopold's. "It was what we did. Terrible things to a Chinese village. We have regretted it every minute of every day for fifty years! How much penance can be asked of us?"
Michael was standing beside Bane, looking at the seated elderly men. "Don't believe the glamorized cleaned-up stories about World War Two, Jeremy. War brings out the worst in those it touches. Every army of every nation commits atrocities. These men went over to the darkness one night and slaughtered a Chinese village, then landed and abused the survivors. They don't know why. There was no reason for it. It was war and they were getting to enjoy carnage. But that village was where Wu Lung was born."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the suffering you men have endured. But I'm not a sorceror. What can I do about it?"
"There is only way the curse can be lifted," said Michael Pulaski. "The leader of the team must die in aerial combat. That would be me, and that is why you were summoned here..."
III.
"No. Absolutely not." Bane's voice was icy. "I will not go up and shoot you down. It's ridiculous."
"It's the only way," sobbed one of the old men. "Please, Mr Bane. We are neither living nor dead. This torture can go on forever."
The Dire Wolf turned to them and tried to soften his voice. "I won't do it. Let me go back to New York and bring one of my friends here. Garrison Nebel. He has gralic abilities. Or maybe Ted Wright, the Blue Guide. I think he can draw the unnatural energy away that is keeping you like this."
"If only," wailed the Korean. His face was sunken and his eyes mere slits in pouches. "Wu Lung was too strong. He was 'fang shih.' His curse can only be lifted one way."
Bane suddenly lowered his helmet over his head and fastened it, leaving the visor up. "I'm going! I'll bring Ted and Garrison back here as soon as I can."
"I didn't think you would cooperate," interrupted Michael. "Here. Look out this window. The seventh member of our team, Nils, is out there."
"What is he doing by my ship?" Bane yelled. Turning on his heel, he headed for the door but was stopped as Michael Pulaski spoke.
"He placed an explosive device under it. Quite powerful. It can be detonated by a radio signal from him or from me." He moved his hand inside his tunic pocket. "You'll be stranded here with us."
"Like Hell! I'll take your helicopter and don't think you can stop me, Michael."
"We have two helicopters and vital engine parts are buried somewhere on this mesa. How many months would it take you to find them? The radio is also disabled. We've thought this through, believe me."
Glaring out the window, the Dire Wolf fought his anger. When he turned back, his voice was calm and unemotional. "All right. Fine. You've got yourself a duel."
Michael sighed. "I'm not happy about this, Jeremy. I don't want to die. But I owe it to these men. They raised me on this mesa, they are my uncles. I've watched them suffer here all my life."
"I said I'd do it," Bane snapped. "Let's get it over with."
The five elderly men rose to their feet, stiff and uncertain. Leopold used a cane. In their Navy blue uniforms, with the brass buttons and shiny black boots, they were a sad remnant of past glory. Silently, they hobbled from the room.
Bane followed them, with Michael in the rear. Outside, the five undead aviators formed a line to watch. Michael strode over to the hangar and called, "I'll be in the air in five minutes."
The Dire Wolf headed to the CORBY, fists clenched so hard they hurt. He had seldom been so angry. As he neared, the sixth Archangel got up from underneath the black helicopter and bowed his head.
"I couldn't do it," Nils said with a strong accent. "The bomb is there but I didn't arm it. It was too dishonorable."
Bane said nothing. He touched the keypad and opened the hatch on the right side, gripped the handle to swing in. As he settled in the pilot seat and went to close the hatch, the old man spoke again.
"Mr Bane, I can see you don't want to go through with this. But you should know it was Michael's idea. We have been talking him out of it for years. He wanted to just hire a mercenary but we felt it was more fitting if it was you who did it as an act of mercy."
The Dire Wolf did not trust himself to reply. He sealed the hatch and powered the CORBY up. Lights went on all over the cockpit, subdued pale green and blue and yellow. Gauges and dials lit up. He started the top rotors; the craft did not have a tail rotor, just two vertical vanes that steered with pressurized air streams.
The CORBY was not heavily armed. It had two chain guns mounted on stubby vanes that protruded behind the hatches. He had rejected adding missiles or cannons because he intended the craft to be for transportation and exploration rather than combat. It also dawned on him abruptly that he himself was not a great pilot. Bane had been trained by Steven Weaver and Leonard Slade on earlier CORBY models, which were easier to fly than regular helicopters because of their advanced systems. Bane was competent but he was no ace. He realized that Michael Pulaski had grown up flying different copter models, trained by real experts, and would be much more skilled in the air.
Then a Navy blue helicopter taxied out of the open hanger. It resembled the CORBY to some extent, but that was natural. Michael's father, Archangel himself, had built his craft on plans designed by the Trom themselves, although Human engineering and skill was not up to Trom standards. Bane could see the Archangel helicopter did have at least four Stinger missiles and two cannons, as well as panels where other weapons would be located. Suddenly the Dire Wolf realized this fight was not going to be a sure thing for him.
As it developed, though, the duel was incredibly short and undramatic. Bane lifted clear, retracting his landing gear, and rose straight up. Michael did the same and, before the CORBY got much above rooftop level, the son of Archangel opened fire with his machine guns. The bullets pinged off the CORBY's nose and windscreen with whining noises and a few sparks but did no damage to the Trom armor coating. Without hesitating, Bane returned fire. He cut three short bursts with his chain guns and the heavy 50 mm shells tore through the cockpit of Michael's helicopter. This close, the Dire Wolf could see the man sag forward behind the stick. He must have been killed instantly. The Archangel craft spun wildly, hit the ground not sixty feet below and burst into a spectacular fireball.
Bane watched somberly. The flames gave off heavy black smoke that was whipped around by the winds over the mesa. After a few more moments, he relaxed with a deep exhalation. It was clear that Michael had not survived the bullets, much less the fire. The CORBY touched down again, less than four minutes since he had lifted off. Again, Bane powered the ship down and climbed out of the hatch while the rotors were still slowing. He felt tired and disgusted.
Walking back to the main building, he realized the old men were no longer standing at attention. Six empty blue uniforms were lying on the tarmac just as they had fallen. There was not even dust within them. Bane knelt and picked up a billed cap and gazed as it thoughtfully. It had all been true. Until that moment, he wasn't sure about the men being undead for fifty years.
Rising wearily, the Dire Wolf decided to leave everything as it was. It might be decades before anyone spotted the structures here. Perhaps never. Let the fate of the Archangel crew remain a mystery. He started to walk back to the CORBY, then paused. Going to the flagpole, he undid the loop of the rope and lowered the flag, raised it again and then left it at half-mast.
1/29/2014
1/29/2014
2/27/1998
I/
At dawn, the terrain of Arizona looked red and orange below him. Bane lowered the CORBY from its cruising speed of 300 MPH down to barely 100 and started his descent. The black stealthcopter lowered to two hundred feet. Its passage was almost completely silent. An observer on the ground might have heard something like a stiff wind pass overhead, but that was it.
The Dire Wolf was alone in the craft. He sat in the pilot seat, grim-faced and taut. His helmet had the visor up, showing pale grey eyes a little colder than usual. He had flown out here from New York after getting the call. As soon as he had the necessary altitude, Bane had disengaged the rotors and cut in the Trom impulse drive to shoot the CORBY forward at Mach-1. It wasn't until he was over the Southwest that he brought the craft down to cruising speed and used the rotors again.
The call from Archangel's son disturbed him. The man had never shown any interest in the Midnight War. He was not the hero his father had been, that was certain. As far as he knew, Michael Pulaski was content to run a helicopter courier service that ferried occasional tourists over the Grand Canyon. His sudden call that he needed help freeing prisoners had not rung true to Bane. But he owed enough to Archangel that he had agreed to come.
Bane glanced over the dials and gauges in a constant sequence, always checking everything every few seconds. The Mesa should be coming up soon. This was a bleak area without the colorful rock formations that filmmakers loved. The Mesa loomed up by itself, isolated for miles from anything but sand and bare rock and sparse shrubbery. It was half a mile across, perfectly flat on top and vertical on the sides. Supposedly there was a way to climb it, as the Comanche had reportedly done so a hundred years ago, but he couldn't see how it was possible.
Bane circled and checked out the situation. From the air, commercial flights would see nothing. You had to be low and slow-moving to spot the buildings concealed under tarps the same color as the mesa itself. There was a long residential hall and hangar under a tent of brown tarp. If he had not been looking for it, he would have thought it was just bare rock. Bane brought the CORBY down at about a hundred yards from the buildings. The landing gear of three wheels lowered and he touched down lightly.
No one was in sight. Bane brought the rotors to a halt and powered down the CORBY to standby. Where was Michael? Or his crew? He opened the hatch and air hissed out of the pressurized cabin. It had been 65 in the cabin but now 92 degree air rushed in, dry and comfortable. Bane hopped down and looked around. He was wearing the black field suit with its inner layer of Trom armor. The waist-length jacket held a dozen tools and gadgets and the long-barreled .38 Colt was holstered behind his left hip. Bane kept the helmet on for the moment
Then he saw the other helicopter approaching from the West. It resembled the CORBY in some respects, but had normal lights and a tail rotor, and was Navy blue with yellow markings. On the side was painted ARCHANGEL AIR SERVICES. Bane watched the craft land nearby, its backwash stirring up dust. As the rotors slowed, and the door opened, he began walking toward it.
Michael Pulaski emerged from behind the stick. He resembled his late father, several inches over six feet in height, with thick black hair and a hawklike face. He was wearing the uniform his father had made famous during WW II. The polished black boots, Navy blue jodhpurs and stiff tunic with a logo of white wings across the chest. As he stepped out, Michael placed a billed cap on his head. From this distance, Bane might not have been able to tell the difference between father and son.
"Jeremy!" he called. "Good of you to come all the way out here. I haven't seen you in years."
"Hello, Michael. What's up? What's this about prisoners?"
"It's all too true. I hope you can help us. Come with me, please."
Bane followed the man toward the main building. Under the tarps, the air was cool and shady. The residential hall was a long brick structure with the white wings symbol over the main door. An American flag flew on a white pole with a plaster eagle on top. Michael held the door and Bane walked in. The lobby was businesslike, with a counter packed with phones, clipboards hanging on the wall, a big map of the area taking up most another wall. A bench stood just inside the door, and there were two chairs in one corner.
The Dire Wolf said nothing as Michael led him through a swinging door and down a narrow hall. Framed photos of aircraft and of historical persons were on the walls. Michael Pulaski opened a door and turned to Bane. "The ready room."
Bane stepped inside. Here were a dozen chairs in three rows of four, facing a raised stand with a projection screen. As he entered, five old men turned their heads and regarded him. They wore the Archangel uniform without the wings logo. These men were in their seventies at least, with white hair and sagging jowls and eyes deepset in wrinkles. And yet, even so, Bane recognized them. "What? The original Archangels?"
"Still here, still alive," Michael said grimly. "They're the prisoners I told you about."
II.
The Dire Wolf unfastened his helmet and tugged it off. His short black hair was damp and his narrow face wary. The pale grey eyes moved over the five men. It wasn't impossible that they were alive, of course. If they had been in their early twenties during the war, they would be in their seventies now. They looked it. More, their faces were sad and mournful. They stared up at Bane as if regretful he was there.
He recognized each one. The Archangels had been famous during WW II, an unofficial strike force the Allies used on suicide missions deep in Occupied Europe. The membership changed as pilots were shot down or captured, but always a squadron of seven pilots were led by Archangel himself. What gave the team their advantage was that they flew the first true helicopters. Fast as the fastest enemy planes but able to rise vertically and hover, the Archangel craft were ahead of their time. Bane knew the reason why. He knew how Archangel had obtained the plans to build the advanced copters but he was sworn not to reveal the secret.
"I think some explanation would be a good idea," Bane said.
"Jeremy Bane, allow me to introduce the team. This is Leopold, from Belgium. Etienne, of France. Colin, Great Britain. Park, our Korean. And Morgan, formerly of Texas. I myself was born in America but my father was of course Polish, born in Warsaw."
The Dire Wolf nodded to each of them politely. "I've read about you men, of course. You're in history books. There was even a TV movie about your team. But it was always implied you were all dead."
"If only we were!" cried out Leopold. He was a thin old man with sunken cheeks and a white mustache. The Archangel uniform hung loosely on him. "It'd be better."
Bane looked at Michael, who said, "These men are under a curse. They are doomed to exist forever unless released. They literally can't eat or sleep and they can't leave the mesa. Only I can come and go, because I was not part of the team in March 1945."
"And who put this curse on them?"
"Wu Lung, the Chinese warlock. I know you've fought him."
"Yes," Bane answered. "He was very skilled in gralic magick. Why would Wu Lung curse the Archangels? Your team helped liberate China from Japanese occupation."
No answer came. The Dire Wolf snapped, "You can't expect me to help you guys if you won't level with me. I have a murder case underway in New York that I have to get back to."
Morgan the Texan spoke. His voice had that same hollow cadavarous echo to it as Leopold's. "It was what we did. Terrible things to a Chinese village. We have regretted it every minute of every day for fifty years! How much penance can be asked of us?"
Michael was standing beside Bane, looking at the seated elderly men. "Don't believe the glamorized cleaned-up stories about World War Two, Jeremy. War brings out the worst in those it touches. Every army of every nation commits atrocities. These men went over to the darkness one night and slaughtered a Chinese village, then landed and abused the survivors. They don't know why. There was no reason for it. It was war and they were getting to enjoy carnage. But that village was where Wu Lung was born."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the suffering you men have endured. But I'm not a sorceror. What can I do about it?"
"There is only way the curse can be lifted," said Michael Pulaski. "The leader of the team must die in aerial combat. That would be me, and that is why you were summoned here..."
III.
"No. Absolutely not." Bane's voice was icy. "I will not go up and shoot you down. It's ridiculous."
"It's the only way," sobbed one of the old men. "Please, Mr Bane. We are neither living nor dead. This torture can go on forever."
The Dire Wolf turned to them and tried to soften his voice. "I won't do it. Let me go back to New York and bring one of my friends here. Garrison Nebel. He has gralic abilities. Or maybe Ted Wright, the Blue Guide. I think he can draw the unnatural energy away that is keeping you like this."
"If only," wailed the Korean. His face was sunken and his eyes mere slits in pouches. "Wu Lung was too strong. He was 'fang shih.' His curse can only be lifted one way."
Bane suddenly lowered his helmet over his head and fastened it, leaving the visor up. "I'm going! I'll bring Ted and Garrison back here as soon as I can."
"I didn't think you would cooperate," interrupted Michael. "Here. Look out this window. The seventh member of our team, Nils, is out there."
"What is he doing by my ship?" Bane yelled. Turning on his heel, he headed for the door but was stopped as Michael Pulaski spoke.
"He placed an explosive device under it. Quite powerful. It can be detonated by a radio signal from him or from me." He moved his hand inside his tunic pocket. "You'll be stranded here with us."
"Like Hell! I'll take your helicopter and don't think you can stop me, Michael."
"We have two helicopters and vital engine parts are buried somewhere on this mesa. How many months would it take you to find them? The radio is also disabled. We've thought this through, believe me."
Glaring out the window, the Dire Wolf fought his anger. When he turned back, his voice was calm and unemotional. "All right. Fine. You've got yourself a duel."
Michael sighed. "I'm not happy about this, Jeremy. I don't want to die. But I owe it to these men. They raised me on this mesa, they are my uncles. I've watched them suffer here all my life."
"I said I'd do it," Bane snapped. "Let's get it over with."
The five elderly men rose to their feet, stiff and uncertain. Leopold used a cane. In their Navy blue uniforms, with the brass buttons and shiny black boots, they were a sad remnant of past glory. Silently, they hobbled from the room.
Bane followed them, with Michael in the rear. Outside, the five undead aviators formed a line to watch. Michael strode over to the hangar and called, "I'll be in the air in five minutes."
The Dire Wolf headed to the CORBY, fists clenched so hard they hurt. He had seldom been so angry. As he neared, the sixth Archangel got up from underneath the black helicopter and bowed his head.
"I couldn't do it," Nils said with a strong accent. "The bomb is there but I didn't arm it. It was too dishonorable."
Bane said nothing. He touched the keypad and opened the hatch on the right side, gripped the handle to swing in. As he settled in the pilot seat and went to close the hatch, the old man spoke again.
"Mr Bane, I can see you don't want to go through with this. But you should know it was Michael's idea. We have been talking him out of it for years. He wanted to just hire a mercenary but we felt it was more fitting if it was you who did it as an act of mercy."
The Dire Wolf did not trust himself to reply. He sealed the hatch and powered the CORBY up. Lights went on all over the cockpit, subdued pale green and blue and yellow. Gauges and dials lit up. He started the top rotors; the craft did not have a tail rotor, just two vertical vanes that steered with pressurized air streams.
The CORBY was not heavily armed. It had two chain guns mounted on stubby vanes that protruded behind the hatches. He had rejected adding missiles or cannons because he intended the craft to be for transportation and exploration rather than combat. It also dawned on him abruptly that he himself was not a great pilot. Bane had been trained by Steven Weaver and Leonard Slade on earlier CORBY models, which were easier to fly than regular helicopters because of their advanced systems. Bane was competent but he was no ace. He realized that Michael Pulaski had grown up flying different copter models, trained by real experts, and would be much more skilled in the air.
Then a Navy blue helicopter taxied out of the open hanger. It resembled the CORBY to some extent, but that was natural. Michael's father, Archangel himself, had built his craft on plans designed by the Trom themselves, although Human engineering and skill was not up to Trom standards. Bane could see the Archangel helicopter did have at least four Stinger missiles and two cannons, as well as panels where other weapons would be located. Suddenly the Dire Wolf realized this fight was not going to be a sure thing for him.
As it developed, though, the duel was incredibly short and undramatic. Bane lifted clear, retracting his landing gear, and rose straight up. Michael did the same and, before the CORBY got much above rooftop level, the son of Archangel opened fire with his machine guns. The bullets pinged off the CORBY's nose and windscreen with whining noises and a few sparks but did no damage to the Trom armor coating. Without hesitating, Bane returned fire. He cut three short bursts with his chain guns and the heavy 50 mm shells tore through the cockpit of Michael's helicopter. This close, the Dire Wolf could see the man sag forward behind the stick. He must have been killed instantly. The Archangel craft spun wildly, hit the ground not sixty feet below and burst into a spectacular fireball.
Bane watched somberly. The flames gave off heavy black smoke that was whipped around by the winds over the mesa. After a few more moments, he relaxed with a deep exhalation. It was clear that Michael had not survived the bullets, much less the fire. The CORBY touched down again, less than four minutes since he had lifted off. Again, Bane powered the ship down and climbed out of the hatch while the rotors were still slowing. He felt tired and disgusted.
Walking back to the main building, he realized the old men were no longer standing at attention. Six empty blue uniforms were lying on the tarmac just as they had fallen. There was not even dust within them. Bane knelt and picked up a billed cap and gazed as it thoughtfully. It had all been true. Until that moment, he wasn't sure about the men being undead for fifty years.
Rising wearily, the Dire Wolf decided to leave everything as it was. It might be decades before anyone spotted the structures here. Perhaps never. Let the fate of the Archangel crew remain a mystery. He started to walk back to the CORBY, then paused. Going to the flagpole, he undid the loop of the rope and lowered the flag, raised it again and then left it at half-mast.
1/29/2014
1/29/2014
