Hurricane meanwhile was charging the other two, relying on speed and intimidation to keep his advantage. One man managed to snap off a jolt from his gauntlet, which slowed Hurley but did not stop him, but the remaining guard found his exoskeleton similarly inoperative. His consternation was interrupted as Dodge — who had covertly unbuckled the man’s belt — now used his own gauntlet against the man, not as an electrical weapon, but simply as a bludgeon. His metal-encased fist slammed into the fellow’s jaw and put him down for the count.
Hurricane shook off the effects of the electrical jolt and backed his foe against a bulkhead. The man tried to shoot him a second time, but Hurley was faster. He slipped his hands slowly through the energy shield and throttled the guard. The man sagged as the flow of blood to his brain was interrupted, and Hurricane would have gone on squeezing if not for Father Hobbs’ gentle restraining hand on his shoulder.
“We’ve won,” he said, speaking into Hurricane’s ear to be heard over the engine noise. “It’s enough.”
Hurley met his gaze with eyes on fire, but he relented, letting the unconscious guard slump to the floor. “Not quite.”
The jungle was an emerald blur in the cockpit windows, speeding by as the plane roared down the watercourse for more than a mile before lazily climbing into the air. The hooded god, alone at the controls, extended the flaps for maximum lift and pulled back on the yoke, easing the nose skyward. The X-314 was a lot of plane for one man to fly, but he managed capably. Although he had trained a select few of his minions to operate the craft, he had left them behind this time. When he was alone at the controls of the plane and soaring through the sky, he was never closer to the inner peace he so craved and that so eluded him.
A tinny voice interrupted his momentary rapture and he picked up the radio headset to hear the message repeating: “This is Krieger, do you read?”
“I read you,” he answered, disdaining any sort of identification. “What is it?”
“We just found one of your men floating in the river.”
“All of my men are accounted for.”
“Are you certain?” countered the pirate king. “He’s not one of mine.”
The god pondered this. “I will see to it.”
He set the radio headset down and then turned his attention to the instrument panel. The experimental plane was equipped with the latest Sperry automatic pilot — an ingenious mechanical and hydraulic system that linked the gyroscopic attitude controls and the compass to the rudder and ailerons to literally fly the plane when no one was at the controls. When the altimeter registered three thousand feet, he activated the system and rose from the cockpit.
At the top of the ladder, he took his scepter from the folds of his robe and held it up for inspection. The top of the staff began to stretch and flatten until it resembled a hand mirror. A small disc of the same metal floated from the god’s other hand and dropped through the opening into the lower section of the fuselage. A bas relief image formed on the surface of the staff head, and the god studied the figures as they moved toward the ladder.
Almost disdainfully, he lowered the scepter, paying no attention as it instantly returned to its normal state, and stepped back into the cockpit. His fingers drifted over the levers and switches until he found the one he sought. He gave it a sharp pull then left the control center again, just as Hurley’s head appeared in the hole.
Hurricane froze for a moment as they made eye contact, but then deliberately finished his ascent and made way for Father Hobbs, close on his heels.
The dark god thrust his scepter into recesses of his robe and raised his empty hands, beckoning his foes nearer. His flat voice was as final as a guillotine. “This ends now.”
CHAPTER 11
CLASH OF TITANS
Dodge reached the top of the ladder at the exact moment that Hurricane made his charge. He expected one of two things to happen; either the hooded villain would blast the rampaging giant with a stunning electrical discharge, or Hurley would pulverize the mysterious man. To his complete astonishment, neither occurred.
It was easy to believe that Hurricane was nothing but an enraged beast, flailing about and hoping to make up for a lack of fighting skill with the intensity of violence, but such was not the case. He directed his blows carefully, feinting with his right to distract attention from a left hook that should have taken the villain’s head off.
The hooded man remained motionless until Hurley threw the first punch, but when he moved, it was merely to twist his body sideways. Hurricane’s jab shot past his head, but stopped short as he launched the follow through. His left never connected. His foe darted inside the radius of his swing and struck, not with a display of electrical power, but with open hands made rigid like knife blades.
The blows seemed as inconsequential as the buzzing of an insect; the man’s fingers bounced away from Hurricane’s massive chest as from a stone wall. Then the hooded figure twisted out of Hurley’s closing embrace and stepped aside as the big man’s momentum carried him into the bulkhead. Dodge expected the giant to whirl around, but instead Hurley clutched his chest where his opponent had made contact, grimacing as if in the grip of a heart attack.
The villain did not get a chance to savor his mythic victory; the white-haired figure of Father Hobbs appeared in front of him like a wraith and struck a fighting pose. Dodge recognized it as a te stance; an opening position, where all of his muscles were loose and ready for combat. Dodge had written this moment a dozen times; he knew how fast and effortless Hobbs would appear as he lashed out with hands and feet, redirecting his opponents mass and energy to use it against him. Now he would get to witness it first hand.
The robed foe fluidly assumed a mirror image pose, and Dodge’s certitude cracked a little. The confidence exhibited in the villain’s body language was proof enough that he was also skilled in the Oriental martial arts. This was going to be an epic battle like nothing Dodge had ever captured on paper.
Hobbs waited patiently for his enemy to make the first move. His personal code would never allow him to attack first; his skills were only for self-defense. There was however another reason he held back: in his foe’s initial attack, he would be able to discern the best strategy by which to defeat the man.
For a long time, both men regarded each other, two vipers poised to strike at the first sign of aggression from the other. Dodge could not believe that a standoff had been so quickly reached. Hurricane meanwhile was shaking off the stunning finger hits that had left his muscles twitching in agony. He curled his fists and headed back into battle.
The villain saw this as well and recognized that he could no longer wait out the Padre. He stamped forward onto his left foot and swung his left hand, fingers extended, in a chop aimed at Hobbs’ neck. The latter deflected it easily with a forearm block, but even Dodge could tell that the move was a feint, designed to draw Hobbs into combat. The Padre did not commit, but stepped back, mimicking the other man with a knife-hand attack of his own. The two traded chops and blocks, but neither man gained an inch. It might have gone on like that for hours, but Hobbs had one big advantage working for him; it was named Hurricane Hurley.