The craft bobbed on pontoons and a central hull that extended out like a mallard’s bill from under the fuselage. Although there were no markings on its reflective metallic skin, Hurley recognized it as a Grumman JF “Duck,” a small amphibious airplane ideal for use in the Congo where the only clear area to land was on the water. He wondered how Krieger had managed to acquire the plane, but then recalled Molly’s statement that the pirates had captured their plane. If the plane belonged to the Padre, then it would be the perfect means for them to make their escape when the time came. He was carried up a ramp and onto the deck of a boat nearest the water’s edge, where another surprise waited.
“Padre!” His joy at seeing his old comrade momentarily superseded all other concerns, but only momentarily. As soon as he got a good look at the friend he had not seen for nearly a decade, his elation turned to agony.
The pirates had beaten him savagely. His eyes were blackened and a long, untended weal marked his chin. His shirt had been removed, revealing a mass of bruises on his naturally gaunt-looking chest. But the recent trials did not account for the most dramatic change: Father Nathan Hobbs’ hair had gone completely white.
Hobbs was also caged, but his prison box was suspended in a manner that would have brought a tear to the collective eye of the Spanish Inquisition. It hung by a single rope from a gallows, which had in turn been erected over the center of a bed of foot long stakes. Hurley could not help but notice that fire-hardened tips of the poniards had been smeared with excrement. If the prisoner did anything to disturb the cage, he would wind up skewered on the stakes, and if by some miracle that did not kill him, the resulting infection would most certainly do so in a protracted agonizing manner. That threat alone would be enough to compel a prisoner to remain docile, and such was no doubt the intention of its architect.
The litter bearers carefully positioned Hurricane’s cage over the spikes alongside Hobbs’, after which one of the pirates moved forward to wrap the anchor rope around the gibbet crosspiece and secured it to one of the uprights. The poles were then removed and Hurricane’s prison swung free above the lethal nest of spikes.
The Padre hung only a few feet away; close enough that Hurricane could look into his old friend’s haunted eyes. Hobbs had the hollow look of a man who had endured the most horrible tragedies, but then he had always kind of looked that way; it was difficult to tell how deep the wounds went. The clergyman stared unblinking at him for a few seconds then, in a perfect deadpan imitation of Oliver Hardy, said: “Well, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
Hurricane was so caught off guard that for a few seconds, he appeared to be in the grip of a paroxysm of coughing. The sound gradually resolved into peals of laughter that rolled across the muddy river like thunder. The Padre had made a joke; that didn’t happen very often.
There was a stir from the midst of the pirate ranks, and a figure that Hurley had not seen earlier, strode forward. Although the man’s face was obscured by a mask of dark wood, carved in a demonic visage, Hurricane knew instinctively that this at last was Johannes Krieger.
“What impressive men you are,” Krieger snarled, barely controlling his rage. “Laughing in the face of death. I wish I had possessed your grace when I had to claw my way out of that hole you left me in.”
He thrust his hands at them, and Hurricane saw that instead of fingers, each of Krieger’s deformed hands ended in a prosthetic that resembled the talons of a raptor, with curving metal claws honed to razor sharpness on the inside edge. He laid the blade edges of his right hand on the rope that suspended Hurley’s cage.
“In my dreams,” the pirate leader continued, “there are three of you here. But I will settle my account with your fearless leader in due time.”
Hurley’s mirth had already subsided, but something about Krieger’s declaration struck a chord. The pirate wanted revenge on Falcon; was that what this was all about? Was it conceivable that the attack on the White House and the President’s abduction, and the horrible savagery of the massacre at the mission, were all part of some fiendish revenge plot?
Krieger offered no further insight on the matter. He had only one thing more to say: “Laugh at this.” And then with a wicked slash of his hand, he cut the rope.
CHAPTER 9
UP THE CREEK
Any lingering suspicions that Dodge might have harbored, concerning whether Molly was a nun, novice or some other kind of missionary worker, were swept away in the torrent of profanity that spewed from the feisty redhead’s shapely lips. Molly Rose Shannon knew curses that would make a sailor blush, and she used them all to underscore the irritation she felt toward Hurricane. Dodge could only stand back and do his best not to get hurt by the blowback.
She simmered down after a while and sat beside Dodge in the light of the newly stoked fire. “So what do we do now?”
“Do?”
“We can’t just sit here. We have to go after him.”
He took her by the shoulders and held her gaze with his own. “Molly, I want nothing more. Can you find and follow his trail in the dark? Because I sure can’t.”
“Well…”
“That’s what I thought. As I see it, we can’t do a thing until daybreak.”
She slumped then petulantly pulled out of his grip. “I hate this!”
“I do too. But Hurricane was right about one thing. If we get some rest, we’ll be in a lot better shape to make a big push tomorrow.”
She crossed her arms and purposefully stared at the fire. After a moment however, she broke her self-imposed silence. “There might be another way.”
He glanced sidelong at her. “I’m listening.”
“I tried to tell Hurricane; the pirates attacked from the river.”
“Okay. Why is that important?”
“The jungle is… well, people get lost out there — permanently lost. If you want to get anywhere, you stay on the river. The pirates know that; they operate from the river.”
Dodge turned this over. “So if we want to find the pirates, we stay on the river? We don’t have a boat.”
“We can cut the dock loose; it’s really nothing more than a raft. Use the machete to cut a couple poles so we can punt upstream.”
He had to admit it was a good idea. “So one group left with the boats —”
“And our plane.”
“— and your plane, while a second group marched the captives through the forest. Leaving aside the rationale behind that decision, it tells us something very important. Our pirates must be based somewhere close by. I think this might actually work.”
Molly’s smile was enough to melt any remaining icicles of doubt. He set to work hacking a pair of poles, while Molly began transferring their limited array of supplies down to the dock. Neither task took very long. Removed from the jungle canopy, they discovered an abundance of natural light — moon and stars — reflected on the surface of the river. Dodge joined his new companion on their makeshift raft and started sawing through the ropes that anchored it to the pilings. When the last strand separated, the dock settled into the water and started drifting with the current.
Dodge planted one of the poles and gave the craft a push in the opposite direction. As the dock sidled up river, something stirred in the water near the place where his pole had been, causing him to jerk back in alarm. As he did the platform rocked in the water and a low wave washed across the deck. “Ah, Molly, what’s to stop the crocodiles from climbing up onto the raft?”
He couldn’t see her face very well, but her long silence was answer enough. Her eventual observation offered little comfort. “Frankly, I’m more worried about the hippos.”