The first aerosan, in the lead, turned to the right and made a wild circle. Vivian reasoned they too, had seen this awesome miracle. But Mikhail Gallatinov was now climbing up the side of the third aerosan, and when he got up on the top at the gunner’s hatch he hit the astounded and dumb-struck soldier in the face so hard the teeth flew out like river pebbles. The soldier slid back in, and then as the aerosan careened across the snow Vivian’s jaw dropped again as the white body rippled with bands of black hair, the spine contorted, the skull changed, a tail burst free and twitched like a rudder and the wolf leaped down into the passenger and driver’s compartment.
Within seconds, the exit door crashed open and three men came flying out. The aerosan turned to the left and headed to intersect the vehicle carrying Vivian and Raznakov. The major realized Gallatinov must be manning the wheel, and the lycanthrope’s intent was to ram.
“Shoot it!” Raznakov screamed. “Shoot the thing!”
The machine gunner started firing. Bullets slashed across the snow and holes pocked the aerosan’s side. It was then that Vivian decided he could sit still no longer; he twisted around in the narrow compartment, grabbed Raznakov’s gun wrist and jabbed for the man’s eyes with the outstretched fingers of his other hand. Blinded, Raznakov got off a shot that scorched past Vivian’s side and put a hole through the aerosan’s roof. Then Vivian headbutted the bastard, and though it was neither cricket nor gentlemanly the move was successful because Raznaskov’s thin nose exploded and suddenly Major Vivian had the pistol.
The first aerosan’s gunner got off burst after burst at the vehicle Mikhail was piloting. Splinters flew into the air. The bullets hissed past Mikhail’s face, his shoulders and chest as he twisted the wheel back and forth. Then, at the same time as Vivian put the pistol against the chest of Varga Raznakov and shot him somewhere north of the heart, Mikhail left his wheel, climbed through the hatch and swivelled the machine gun to take aim at the aerosan that roared down his throat. He fired two bursts not at the gunner but at the front of the vehicle where the driver sat, and then he jumped.
And as he jumped, he once again summoned the pain and the power.
The two aerosans, both runaways, slammed together. Wood crashed and crumpled. One of the huge propellers flew, still spinning, into the air. Gasoline and oil ignited on a spark. First one aerosan exploded and then the second blew, and the one with the remaining prop began to spin around and around in a mad circle throwing flaming fluids in all directions. Burning men rolled frantically in the snow.
The black wolf took quick note of the carnage and then sped toward the last aerosan.
Within it, Major Valentine Vivian had taken charge. He saw the gunner squaring aim at the wolf that bounded ever closer, and with no hesitation he fired into the man’s groin. That caused all machine gunning to cease. The gunner crawled out, leaving a bloody trail, and flung himself off the top of the aerosan into the snow where he thrashed in agony. The wolf passed him, close enough to touch, and then went on.
Then there was only the driver.
Vivian pressed the pistol against the man’s head and shouted, “Stop this damned thing!”
The driver, a sensible and long-suffering soldier with a wife and six children, decided he did wish to live. He cut the engine and guided the aerosan to a halt.
A moment or so later, a naked young man walked up alongside the vehicle and peered through a viewslit. Mikhail Gallatinov wasn’t even breathing hard.
Vivian couldn’t speak for awhile. But someone had to speak, eventually. “You!” he told the driver. “Get out and take off your clothes!” Then, to Mikhaiclass="underline" “For God’s sake, cover yourself! We don’t do things like this in London!” Vivian dragged Raznakov’s body out to lighten the load. When Mikhail was dressed in the uniform, which was far too big for him but would have to do, he entered the aerosan through the door and took a seat. The naked driver, induced by pistol, started the aircraft engine again. The prop began to spin faster and faster.
“Are you all right?” Vivian asked the young man, as the aerosan turned toward the west and gained speed.
Mikhail nodded, but his eyes were hollow and his face grim.
“Listen to me,” Vivian said. What he wanted to say tangled up in his mind and in his mouth, and he had to wait for his English composure to return to him as best it could. “You are a miracle.” His voice cracked. “Do you understand that? You are…very, very fortunate.”
“Am I?” Mikhail asked. “I hope you’re correct. But I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Vivian couldn’t help it. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and gave him a fatherly pat. Or maybe it was a pat one might give an exceptional animal.
A stop must be made first, to arrange the delivery of gold coins to a village in Russia where the ruins of a church sat atop a hill. After that, the aerosan would be crossing the border into Poland. Once there, the driver would be thrown out, naked and wiser to the ways of things he could never understand and that no amount of babbling could ever explain.
Then the two men would be going home, to the land of Shakespeare. To the land of the blessed plot.
To the land where stands the city of London.
Sea
Chase
One
At Work By Midnight
He was a gentleman in search of a good piece of meat.
He was out for enjoyment this evening, strolling casually through the charming streets of Danzig, a busy harbor city on the coast of the Baltic Sea. It had once been known as Gdansk and was originally part of Poland, had a complicated political history between the rulership of Poland and Germany and was now, in this month of April in the year 1938, known as a “free city” with its own national anthem, constitution, government and even its own stamps and currency apart from the Polish standard. The population was ninety-eight percent German, and this was also reflected in its language.
As he walked along what was locally known as the Royal Road—so named because it was the procession path of visiting kings—he passed sights like Neptune’s Fountain at the center of the Long Market and the Golden Gate with its statues symbolizing Peace, Freedom, Wealth and Fame.
He enjoyed peace, he relished freedom, he didn’t really need wealth nor did he desire fame. But tonight he had to find the perfect chateaubriand.
The clerk at the very expensive Hotel Goldene Eiche had given him the name of the Restaurant Maximillian. Too far to walk? Not at all. Three miles was a nice stroll and the evening was cool, the city was lighting itself up for the night and there was a certain excitation de la vie in the air. So he’d set out, dressed in a dark blue Saville Row suit with a crisp white shirt and a plain-spoken black tie, neither walking too slowly nor striding too fast, for he always took pleasure in every moment.
He was twenty-eight years old and as fit, probably, as he would ever be. He was a large man, standing six-feet-two with a broad chest, narrow hips and long, lean legs. He had the look and smooth motion of a track-and-field athlete. He wore his thick black hair closely-trimmed, and from his darkly-handsome and rugged face his intense green eyes inspected the street-scenes he passed with genuine interest, consideration for the cast of characters involved, and not a little flash of humor at the chaos of what was called ‘civilization’.
His eyes also did not fail to note the bright red posters on some of the street corners proclaiming the future of the Nazi Party as the future of Germany.