Ghosts of War (22 page)

The two aircraft were stuck in a deadlock, Gabriel knew, and it was not a deadlock he could win. Sooner or later one of the weapons would strike home, or else the biplane would run out of fuel and go spiraling toward the earth, out of control. It was a light craft, built only for ferrying cargo around the tristate area, no match for the airship, which was built to have stamina—a warship designed to carry its precious payload right across the Atlantic.

Gabriel felt the zip of a stray shot strike the fuselage by his legs, and he glanced round to see a man leaning out of a window in the flank of the passenger gondola, brandishing a snubnosed rifle. He sneered at Gabriel and brought the sight up to his eye to ready another shot. Gabriel took the controls in his left hand, holding the plane steady for a moment, and flicked his right arm up and around, allowing the barrel of his fléchette gun to flip up onto his forearm beneath the sleeve of his shirt. The trigger bulb landed neatly in his palm and he squeezed it, setting loose a shower of tiny metallic blades.

The fléchettes struck home, splintering the glass window and embedding themselves in the man's chest and face. He jerked suddenly, dropping the rifle and crumpling to the floor.

The biplane veered, and then Gabriel grasped the controls with both hands once again and eased the aircraft away from the belly of the great
Goliath.
He couldn't hold out in this stalemate much longer.

Gabriel pulled back on the controls and the biplane climbed. He needed a moment to think, to work out what he needed to do. That was when he saw them, bright and shimmering on the horizon. The eyes.

He stared into them, and they seemed to imbue him with warmth, with calm. He could hear Rutherford shouting something, unsure why they were climbing away from the airship, climbing higher and higher, but Gabriel ignored him.

He thought he realized for the first time what those eyes represented. They were nothing but a mirror, reflecting everything back at him. They belonged to Gabriel Cross. The
real
Gabriel Cross, the man he had buried so very long ago. They were a reflection of the man trying to get out, the man who now sat behind the controls of the biplane. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was why he was now seeing them properly for the first time. His buried conscience, the hidden things that defined who and what he really was—they were surfacing now because he had dropped his mask, because he'd allowed himself to become Gabriel Cross the man, rather than
Gabriel Cross
the pretender or his alter ego, the Ghost. All those myriad facets of his life had merged into one. He felt whole again for the first time in years.

Suddenly, Gabriel knew what he had to do.

“Are you prepared to die for your country?” he called to Rutherford, who glared back at him, incredulous.

“Yes,” the Englishman nodded. “Of course.”

“Then brace yourself,” Gabriel shouted above the whine of the engines. “I'm going to get us onboard that thing, or I'm going to kill us both in the process.”

He didn't wait for a response. Taking a deep breath, Gabriel jammed the controls forward as far as they would go, sending the biplane into a sharp dive, a direct collision course with
Goliath.

Gabriel doubted the impact of one biplane would be enough to bring
Goliath
down: it was simply too big and too sturdy to buckle beneath that, even with a full tank of fuel to generate an explosion. If he could aim it right, though—if he could puncture the pliable, silvery skein of the airship and drive the biplane in between two of the aluminum ribs—there was a chance, a very small chance, that they might survive at least long enough to clear the wreckage before the plane went up in flames.

Rutherford was bellowing now as the bulk of
Goliath
hove into view. Gabriel twisted the controls, fighting furiously to align the nose of the biplane with the flat expanse of the airship's flank that he judged to be their best chance. If there proved to be a gasbag behind it, everything would be over.

The nose of the biplane impacted with the airship with a loud crunch, and Gabriel released the controls, flinging his hands up to cover his face as the aircraft chewed its way into the side of the liner, drilling its way down like a corkscrew as if aiming for the very heart of the beastlike vessel.

Everything was sound, confusion, and pain. Gabriel couldn't see. Something struck him hard in the head, and he lolled backward in the pilot's pit. His legs felt numb.

There was a moment of serene silence, of nothingness. To Gabriel it felt as if he were floating in water, drifting quietly in empty space.

And then the world crashed back into being, and he was fighting for breath, choking on the blood that was pooling in his mouth. He opened his eyes, and all he could see was twisted metal. The biplane had caught in the steel spokes beneath the surface of the silvery skein, forcing itself partially inside the airship so that it hung there, partway inside
Goliath
, partway out, like a fly caught in a spider's web.

Gabriel could see that Rutherford was still alive. He was sporting a large gash in his forehead, and he was shaking his head, dazed by the impact that had caused it. Otherwise, he seemed to have survived the crash in one piece.

Gabriel spat blood and noticed at least one of his teeth went with it. “Can you move?” he barked to the Englishman, and his voice sounded tinny and harsh in the huge space. He looked down over the side of the wrecked biplane to realize they were suspended above the main storage bay. He could hardly believe the irony: down below stood the large, oval form of the gateway, the weapon itself, Abraham's portal through which the creatures would be birthed. Around it, two banks of Tesla coils stood ready to be fired up, providing the massive electrical charge that would be needed to open the dimensional rent and allow the monsters through. Gabriel knew that it worked—the creature attacking the fairground below was evidence enough of that. Now he had to find a way to destroy it.

“Yes,” Rutherford called weakly in response. “Yes, I think I'm all right.” He shook his head again and then wiped away the dripping blood with his sleeve.

“They'll be here soon,” Gabriel said, trying to ease himself out of the ruined pilot's pit. “We need to move.” He glanced up at Rutherford, who was watching him, a vacant expression on his face. “Now, Rutherford! Move!” Gabriel bellowed, and this seemed to bring the spy round, snapping him out of his reverie. He started, realized that Gabriel was levering himself out of the wreckage, and did the same, pulling himself free of the ruins of the biplane.

The sudden movement seemed to unbalance whatever tenuous equilibrium the biplane had found, and it shifted beneath their feet, the nose breaking free of one of the airship's support struts and dipping dramatically. Gabriel managed to grasp hold of one of the steel rods as his footing went from beneath him, and a quick glance told him that Rutherford had done the same, leaping up to grab hold of an aluminum rib. The biplane bucked and then seemed to settle once again.

“She could blow at any moment,” Rutherford called over. We need to get down there.” He nodded to indicate the floor of the hangar bay. Gabriel nodded. Together, the two men began their descent, using the steel supporting rods to find purchase as they scrambled as quickly as possible toward the hangar floor.

Gabriel could hardly believe they were still alive. It had been a reckless move, born out of desperation, and he hadn't really expected to make it out alive. Now they were here, actually on board
Goliath
, and the only plan he had was to somehow find a way to ground the leviathan vessel.

He heard shouting from below and looked down to see three men, dressed in the same gray uniforms as the others he'd seen earlier, burst into the hangar bay wielding shotguns. One of them dropped to one knee, raised the twin barrels, and squeezed off a shot, which reverberated loudly in the open space. Gabriel was surprised they'd risk shooting inside the vessel in case they damaged it, but he supposed the large rent he'd opened with the biplane had emboldened them to risk it.

The shot pinged off the fuselage of the biplane close to where Rutherford had been climbing, and he swung out on the support strut, trying to reach into his pocket and free his handgun to reply.

Gabriel was quicker to the draw, however, and bracing himself against the nearest rib, he squeezed off a volley of fléchettes. The tiny blades sparkled in the electric light as they whizzed through the air, showering the three men and felling two of them instantaneously, blood oozing from multiple wounds in their faces and throats. Their shotguns clattered harmlessly to the floor. The third man managed to squeeze off another shot before Rutherford dropped him with a bullet to the chest, but it went wide, sparking off the metal skeleton of the airship and tearing a small gash in the silver skin.

Gabriel and Rutherford wordlessly continued their descent.

It wasn't until Gabriel reached the ground that he allowed himself to breathe. His body ached all over from the exertion and the battering he'd taken in the crash. His shoulder was still bloody and sore from the abduction earlier that evening, and more than anything else, he needed a cigarette. But he had to go on. He had to plumb every reserve of strength he had left. They were so close.

Rutherford was looking up at the gateway with something approaching awe. It was similar in shape and size to the ancient marble artifact the Roman had used for the very same purpose: a large, oval gateway impressed with a plethora of unusual occult runes. Only this time, rather than being carved into a block of ancient marble, the portal had been cut and shaped out of strips of polished steel, the runes etched carefully into its surface to form a gleaming archway that looked more like it should have formed a doorway in a contemporary skyscraper than a device for summoning interdimensional beasts. Power cables trailed from the base of the device, snaking away toward the banks of Tesla coils from which the power would be fed.

“So…this is it. This is the weapon,” said Rutherford, still clutching his handgun and looking as if he was trying to work out where to shoot.

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “This is it. This is what they're planning to deploy over London.”

“Then we have to destroy it.” There was no compromise in Rutherford's tone. They'd come this far. This should have been the easy bit.

“The best way to do that, Rutherford, is to bring
Goliath
down. Even if we jettison the weapon, the airship can still go on, can still turn its cannons on London. Banks will still be able to start a war, even without his superweapon. A preemptive strike will be enough to encourage a swift retaliation. Things will escalate from there. Banks will still get what he wants.” Gabriel clapped a hand on Rutherford's shoulder. “We have to finish the job.”

The Englishman nodded. “You're right. Let's find the control car and work out how to ditch this thing in the river.”

Gabriel smiled. “Oh, I have a much better idea than that.”

Rutherford shrugged. Despite everything, he seemed to be enjoying himself. “In that case, lead on.”

Gabriel circled around the weapon, looking for the doorway through which the three men had come in. There would be more along momentarily, he was sure. He held his right arm out before him, ready to cut them off with a spray of deadly fléchettes if they came for him.

Rutherford, following behind, sidestepped over the bodies of the dead crewmen, stooping to claim one of the shotguns and pocketing his hand weapon for the time being. Gabriel nodded his approval.

The gangway led down from the hangar bay to a long keel that appeared to run the gamut of the entire vessel. It was remarkable, Gabriel thought, how little of the space inside the airship was actually occupied. It had a cathedral-like air about it: hollow, desolate, and empty. Only a single passageway ran along the spine of the ship, surrounded by the enormous aluminum rings and webwork of steel supports that gave the whole thing structure.

Silently, keeping their own counsel for fear of giving themselves away, they crept through the belly of the great ship, passing through empty crew quarters and cargo rooms.

Gabriel had been right, however, and it wasn't more than a few minutes before another gang of men came barreling down the gangway, obviously dispatched to the site of the crash to ascertain what had happened to their fellow men. They, too, were armed with shotguns, and there were three of them, rough-looking types who Gabriel presumed had been hired more for their muscle than their experience.

Gabriel and Rutherford ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing themselves against the wall as the men, intent on getting to the hangar bay as swiftly as possible, jogged past, their boots ringing out on the metal concourse.

Rutherford waited until they had almost disappeared from sight before leveling the shotgun at their backs, clearly intending to take them out, but Gabriel reached over and stayed his hand. He didn't want to bring the whole crew down on top of them in a corridor where they could find themselves hemmed in with nowhere to run.

They waited a moment until the sound of the men's boots had faded out of earshot and then pressed on, winding their way farther toward the nose of the ship.

The passenger gondola, when they found it, wasn't, of course, fitted out as such, but instead had been converted into a map room, a viewing gallery and a kitchen area. Gabriel and Rutherford hung back by the doorway, peering inside.

At least five crewmen were flitting about inside, studying maps, peering out of the windows or hurrying about with plates of food. To Gabriel's astonishment, the man he had shot through the window still lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, and the other men were working around him, none of them having bothered to shift his body or show him even the slightest sliver of respect. Above his prone form, the wind was gusting in through the shattered window, noisy and chill.

Rutherford tapped Gabriel on the shoulder and made a gesture for him to look forward to where a wooden door presumably led to the control car. Flanking the door, to Gabriel's utter dismay, were two of Abraham's raptors. They hovered a few feet from the ground, their engines droning, their wings sheathed by their sides.