He knew Hurricane well enough to believe that such a thing was actually possible; the big man was a character in the broadest sense of the word — a walking anachronism, heroic in deed as well as ideals, in a world ruled by men who were threatened by such superlative individuals. Were Falcon and Hobbs similarly larger than life?
As described in Hurley’s memoir, Father Nathan Hobbs was a tall, painfully thin man with lank black hair, possessed of an extraordinarily dour demeanor. “He was so thin,” Hurricane had said, “because he only ate when taking Communion; his only nourishment was the Sacred Host.” An exaggeration to be sure, but such gaunt joylessness bespoke a man given to asceticism. Nevertheless, Nathan Hobbs, a seminary-trained Roman Catholic clergyman who had traveled the world studying not just the religious beliefs but also the day-to-day customs of people in every corner of the globe, was at heart an American patriot. When the call to arms had come in 1917, he had signed up to do his part in The War to End All Wars. A commission had been extended along with an opportunity to serve as a chaplain, but Hobbs had demurred, choosing instead to relinquish his priestly collar and enlist as a combat soldier. It was in this capacity that he had been shipped overseas with the Fighting Falcons.
The company first sergeant, a monster of a man nicknamed “Hurricane” had quickly realized the inherent danger in telling a man of God to go forth and kill, and at the direction of his commander, gave “the Padre” a new set of orders. He would once more minister to souls, those of the men in his company, battling against the demons that constantly assaulted the morale of young men sent off to die in a foreign land. He carried his Springfield 1903, but never fired a shot in anger. Yet he was no pacifist; evil in all its forms was his enemy. In his travels, he had learned a method of unarmed fighting called te — the way of the open hand — which was, at least the way Hurley told it, as effective in close combat as a bayonet thrust. The Fighting Falcons did not suffer from the loss of a rifleman, but instead earned accolades for heroics above and beyond the call of duty, owing in no small part to the Padre’s ministrations. But the yearlong tour that culminated in the signing of the Armistice at Compiegne was only the beginning of Hobbs’ adventure with Captain Falcon.
The Great War had left the world in shambles, a fertile ground for opportunists to build phoenix-like criminal empires from the ashes of the past. Although the United States Congress had elected to return to the pre-war policy of isolationism and refused to join the League of Nations, the sitting President had by executive order, extended the Fighting Falcons’ mission to battle evil wherever it reared its ugly head. Their assignments were diverse; they traveled to every corner of the globe battling warlords and mad scientists, pirates and gunrunners. It was such a perfectly ludicrous premise that Dodge had always believed it to be a fabrication. Now, he didn’t know what to believe.
Hurley’s memoir stated that the Great Depression had signaled the end of the Fighting Falcons’ secret war, and that the surviving members of the team had been blown to the Four Winds. In the three years since Dodge’s weekly feature had made its first appearance, no one but Hurricane himself had made a credible claim to membership in that elite force, further supporting the idea that it was a fiction. The Padre had evidently returned to the cloth and resumed his ministry here, on the edge of Hell itself. Dodge wondered how the real Nathan Hobbs would measure up to his literary counterpart.
In daylight, Marten’s boat proved a shock to Dodge’s nervous system. In the driving rain and darkness, he had paid little heed to the craft, but what he now saw filled him with dread. The boat was little more than a rotting wooden deck with low gunwales and a ramshackle superstructure. It was difficult to imagine the vessel hauling tons of cargo up and down the river, driven only by a smoky diesel engine. A small consolation was that the boat required constant attention from its crew, leaving the passengers mostly to themselves.
Dodge was not fooled by Hurley’s passivity. The big man knew that they were in dangerous company — dangerous enough that sleep was a luxury they could ill-afford — but by remaining almost dormant, Hurricane was saving his energy for the long night watch ahead.
The first day and night passed without incident. The boat chugged pedantically along, passing haphazard settlements where local villagers gathered on the dock to see if they would stop. It was the only human contact they had, but the river region teemed with other forms of life; a non-stop cacophony issued from the forest and Dodge caught glimpses of various primate species capering in the overhead canopy.
During the afternoon of the second day, Hurricane pointed out a column of smoke rising into the air high above the verdant ceiling.
“They burn the forest to make way for rubber trees,” explained Marten. “That is our destination; the village where your Father Hobbs is.”
Dodge saw that the explanation had not served to satisfy Hurley. The big man’s eyes were now fully alert, and his muscles were tensed like a spring ready to explode into action. As the boat churned onward, the smell of burning wood became a choking miasma hanging over the water. Marten and his crew tried to act nonchalant, but even Dodge could sense that something bad was about to happen.
“Stay alert,” Hurley whispered, “and follow my lead.”
The dock came into view first, a simple wooden pier floating on the muddy water anchored to decayed pilings. The rest of the village was surrounded by trees that hid the outbuildings from view, but there was no mistaking the source of the smoke that continued to waft skyward — it was coming from the village itself. Dodge stared aghast as the boat drew nearer to the scene of devastation. It was, he would later realize, exactly what Marten was counting on.
Hurricane knew it too, but even he was unprepared for the carnage that met them as the boat sidled up to the dock. Not a building had been left standing; there were only smoldering heaps to mark the places where they had been. Once the big picture came into focus, Dodge saw the smaller shapes that were enshrouded in dark clouds, not of smoke, but flies. He turned away in disgust, and found that he and Hurricane were now surrounded.
The crew carried only makeshift cudgels — pieces of pipe and lengths of chain. The five had formed a horseshoe around the pair of travelers, and hefted their weapons menacingly. Behind them, at the top of the arch, stood Marten and the first mate, both armed with revolvers.
Dodge’s heart caught in his throat, but Hurley’s veneer of calm held up. There was rage in his eyes, but his manner was almost blasé. “That was a nice touch, waiting until we were distracted. I knew you were a rat, but I didn’t figure that you would be willing to kill all those innocent people just to get at us.”
Marten’s menacing expression cracked just a little. “We had nothing to do with this. This is the work of Krieger’s pirates.”
“Krieger? That would be Johannes Krieger?”
“Ah, you know of him?”
Hurley gave a disappointed sigh. “I thought I killed him.”
Dodge found his voice at last. “I don’t understand. If you aren’t working with these pirates, why turn on us now? What’s in it for you?”
Hurricane answered, speaking loud enough for all to hear. “When the authorities investigate this massacre, it will be assumed that the pirates killed us as well. Mr. Marten will demand his payment, claiming that he brought here as agreed. He’ll still get paid.”
“Indeed. A win for me no matter how you look at it. I expected Krieger will be quite pleased when I deliver your heads.” He barked a command in French and in unison the crew of cutthroats advanced.