Dagger Magic

Raeburn darted a venomous glance at the enemy ship below and eased slightly closer to the entrance to enhance reception, keeping to the cave wall.

"This is Sea Wolf," he muttered, as he thumbed the button to transmit. "What the hell is going on?"

Another rattle of interference intruded before Barclay's voice made itself heard again.

"Good to hear from you, Sea Wolf. I've been getting nothing but static for the past quarter of an hour. What's your status?"

"We've located the parcel," Raeburn said. "Our partners still say it will be delivered as scheduled. I have my doubts, but that's what they say. Unfortunately, we've got company."

"I see 'em, Sea Wolf. Want me to keep 'em busy while you get things under way?"

"Negative." Raeburn was vehement. "Give me about ten minutes, then bring the plane down as close as you safely can and stand by for further orders."

"Understood, Sea Wolf," came the response. If there was anything else to follow, it was lost in a blanket of electronic noise.

The seaplane banked, circling gently away from the boats. Raeburn wasted no more breath or energy cursing the damnable perspicuity of his Hunters. Leaving Kavanagh to whatever fate might await him, Raeburn turned on his heel and made his way back toward the cavern. Though he had no intention of serving Green Gloves any further than he had to, self-interest demanded that he warn his unwanted Tibetan associates that the success of their joint enterprise was now under threat, unless they could move quickly to conclude it.

The electrical storm was subsiding as he regained the cavern. Steeling his courage, Raeburn sprang back aboard the sub amid the fading glare and trotted back to the conning tower, quickly negotiating the ladder up to the command bridge. He almost faltered as he saw the well of sickly green-white light gaping to receive him.

"I'm coming back down," he called. "We have a complication."

He started down, overstepping the last few rungs to land with a clatter in the middle of a scene from a nightmare. The control room now was feverishly lit from all sides, control panels softly aglow, gauges pulsing. Through the soles of his shoes, Raeburn could feel the fabric of the deck vibrating with restored power.

But what sent a chill down his spine was the sluggish movement of half a dozen gaunt, grey-clad figures now standing erect over the consoles, wasted hands tending an array of switches and levers and valves. Nagpo was standing in their midst, surveying his work with apparent satisfaction.

Both awed and aghast, ignoring the Tibetan's amused glance in his direction, Raeburn slowly made himself approach the back of the nearest figure, which wore a peaked, once-white cap. As he cautiously set a hand to its shoulder, the figure turned, and he found himself staring at the bearded face of the dead U-boat commander. The sunken eyes burned with an unearthly greenish light, and as the dead lips parted, a hollow groan escaped from between the yellowed teeth. As Raeburn snatched his hand away, memory from his days at Tolung Tserphug supplied the Tibetan term for such creatures, and he spoke it aloud in disgust.

"Rolag!"

Nagpo's dissonant laugh mocked his response.

"You demanded a crew, Gyatso. They are here as Rinpoche promised - right where they have been since the end of the war."

Swallowing his distaste, Raeburn let his gaze flick to the others moving sluggishly in the background. Until this very instant, he had not been willing to believe that Dorje was serious.

"You are - very resourceful," he acknowledged, tearing his gaze from the rolag captain only with an effort. "I just hope you can maintain your control long enough to get us out of here in very short order, because I'm here to tell you that there's a Hunting Party assembling outside, preparing to come in and challenge this operation. Its leader is a man I've encountered before, and I must warn you that if we allow him time to prepare himself, to realize what he's up against, he might conceivably be able to marshal the resources to stop us."

"I very much doubt that," Nagpo said condescendingly. "Our resources extend far beyond your limited comprehension."

He gestured. Following the line of the other man's pointing finger, Raeburn discovered Kurkar sitting cross-legged at the far end of the control area, deep in trance, his eyes turned upward in their sockets so that he looked almost like a rolag himself. He was rolling his Phurba between his palms, his lips framing an ongoing chant in an effort of total concentration.

"Kurkar-la prepared these men half a century ago," Nagpo explained, "when he occupied the spent body you saw before. He is one of the reincarnating ministers, reborn nearly half a century ago for this hour and this moment. I am accomplished, but I stand in awe before such mastery."