DAY AFTER RAGNAROK Adventure # 2 [IC]

[Hack Writer]

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FYI, Carl: I think I'm going to entitle the last adventure 'Slaves of the Storm God!" It's a subtle title; I like subtle titles.

“Punch it, Uley. We’ve got to get out of here!”

Fingers bleached white fingers gripping the steering wheel of the stolen junker, face set in an expression of utter determination, you acknowledge Mick’s words with a curt nod and a muttered grunt. The snap and crack of rifle fire sings in the air around the taxing junker as it begins to build up speed for a take off. Cursing, several of the nazi troopers try vainly to prevent the aircraft’s escape, only to be dashed aside like bowling pins as the junker’s wheels leave the asphalt of the snow-wreathed runway. And then… and then everything becomes a blur. You’re on autopilot, operating on sheer adrenaline and raw instinct. Crackling hands of lightning reach out to thwart your escape as the Junker rockets on unsteady wings through the tumultuous sky. The interior of the aircraft shudders and the engine cuts as a blast of lightning takes the Junker square in the tail; but you work the throttle and tease the starter generator, inciting spluttering life into the machine’s failing heart. And then – miraculously! – you’re free, exiting the belly of the storm out into a iron-grey sky….

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You sail on for the rest of the day, the junker’s nose aimed squarely at the burnished copper disk of the distant sun embossed against the afternoon sky. Below, the flint-edged spear tips of the Himalayan peaks begin to descend, giving way to snow swept foothills of Northern India. The stolen aircraft drops likewise, skirting the surface of the precipitous mountains, sailing the calm sub-zero thermals like a kite in the grasp of a child on a warm summer’s day.

The weather is still bitter and hostile, the sky still an unremitting grey, but neither fact seems able to dim the feeling of elation that overcomes you when you consider the trials you have been forced to endure on that hideous mountain of madmen and alien invaders. Only one thought tarnishes your victory: the death of Choden.

You can still see the old monk’s bloodstained and frail body, prostrate on the snowy airfield, bleeding out but defiant. Guilt overcomes you for a second, but you quickly but the emotion aside. You turn your attention to the rear of the plane, where Mick and Sally and Guo Zai are hauled up. The Australian seems in good spirits, all things considered. Guo Zai, clearly sullen over the death of his master, clutches tight the tattered brown remains of the ancient scroll Choden bequeathed to him shortly before the old man’s demise.

“Where to now, Uley?” Mick enquires from his seat in the passenger compartment. “I need to reach Lahore as soon as possible – the world needs to know about the horrors inside those mountains!”

You pause to get your bearings and plot where in the mountains you’ve come up. Judging by the lay of the land, you’re somewhere on the borders of the Congress Indian state of Uttarakhand, perhaps three hundred miles from Lahore. Reaching British territory will require a stopover at Shimla first, for refuelling and a restock of supplies; but even Shimla’s going to be a struggle given the half-tank of fuel the Junker has remaining. You’re going to have to use your initiative and pit stop somewhere soon.

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Right, it’s time that Ulysses made use of his contacts in the area to find a friendly airfield. What I’ll need from you, Carl, is a description of the airfield’s operator, how you know him/her, and what – if any – services the airfield provides (beyond storage and refuelling). Because the airfield’s location ties into the start of the next adventure, I can tell you that it will be isolated, in the mountains, and receive very few visitors. All other details are yours to decide upon.

[cdwjava]

"Lahore will have to wait, Mick. We're a tad shy on gas. That'd be 'petrol,' to you," he adds with a grin.

Ulysses grunts, then sighs. "Shimla," he says. "We'll have to put over in Shimla."

Looking over to Mick, Ulysses continues. "It's best reached by road or rail, but, I know a guy ... guess you can call him a friend ... he might be able to help us out."

Ulysses ponders the situation ...

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'Friend' might be a little on the optimistic side of things. Darvesh Signh ... something about being a humble or gentlemanly lion. Well, he roared like a lion, that was for sure, but he was a slender and unassuming fellow. Loud voice. A bookworm - thoughtful and educated ... Oxford, was it? Someplace British.

Anyway, he ran a sort of underground railroad for smuggling through the Himalayas and between British India and China. On the surface, all business. Underneath ... something rougher. Never one to get his own hands dirty, Darvesh was not a vicious man by nature, but cross him, and you might find yourself freezing to death on a midnight climb up Jakhoo Hill - or falling from it, in the summer.

He and Darvesh always had an understanding. Ulysses would ask for fuel, lodging, or other services at a certain price, Darvesh would play the brigand and claim that circumstances would change, and they would haggle a bit with Ulysses seemingly getting ripped off for higher fuel prices in the end. It was all a charade, however. Darvesh would get their usual - and always pre-arranged price - and Ulysses would get to claim some form of aggrieved status with his clients who would often agree to pay a slightly higher fee due to the unexpected change of fortune.

Ulysses smiles at the thought. 'Those were good times,' he thinks, pondering how it has been about a year - maybe a few months more - since he has seen Darvesh.

Never one to pass up a deal, and ever the middle man for whatever might need to be bought, sold, or disappeared - Darvesh was the consummate businessman. Because of that, Ulysses never completely trusted the man. A predictable relationship was fine. But, throw a surprise into the mix or have Darvesh smell a profit at his expense? Well, Ulysses can't be too certain how that might end up.
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Ulysses looks back to Mick after returning his thoughts to the here and now. "Be careful what you say there. The walls have ears, and those ears may be out for themselves."

[Hack Writer]

The small collection of wooden and stone houses that sit amidst the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains don’t have a name, at least not one that’ll ever find its way into a guidebook or traveller’s atlas.

To you and hundreds of men like you – bold, rugged walkers of the wild fringes of civilisation – it’s just a stopping point, a meeting post, a dot to punctuate the red line of grander journeys to come. Mercenaries, privateers, freebooters and explorers, these and more come here to lay down their rifles and warm their calloused hands, before setting off again to chart the wild unknowns.

One hundred yards of weed-choked and cracked asphalt pass for settlement’s runway; as far as runways go, you’ve landed on worse, and you’re just glad you’re somewhere familiar. Parking up the thirsty Junker and opening the pilot’s door, you step out into the wan light of the late afternoon sun, which glowers like a cooling coin of metal between the hoary old fangs of the northern mountains. It’s cold here – no, check that; it’s damned freezing – and tiny snowflakes corkscrew ground-ward like downed aircraft all around you as you stamp your feet, work your knotted muscles, and get your bearings. Then, with Mick and Guo Zai in two, you set off for the building you know to be Darvesh’s office.

Rapping once, you step through the door and into a room that’s part storehouse, part control tower. A faux log-effect electric heater buzzes away in one corner of the room, situated between rusted filing cabinets and stacks of wooden packing crates. A corkboard on the far wall holds shipping and pilot manifests, as well as faded yellow maps – horribly antiquated, now that the Serpent has shifted the world’s topography – and little reminder notes and monthly profit forecasts. Darvesh is there, among the mess, and he turns and greets you, his voice that curious mixture of 'Oxford set' rowboats-and-picnics gentility and Hindi spice.

“Ah, now here’s a sight! Ulysses Steele, the great sailor of the skies sees fit to once more lay anchor at our fair port!” Darvesh rises, extends a hand, “I didn’t realise you’d changed planes, old boy. What happened to the Beechcraft you were knocking about with? I thought you loved that thing.”

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Take your time with this one, Carl. I'm probably going to have my attention partially diverted until tomorrow night or Friday, so no great rush to get a reply up.

[cdwjava]

Ulysses smirks as he bobs his head, and then sighs. "Well, let's say that I had to make an unfair trade in a seller's market."

Nodding to the faux stove in the corner, "I see you have power. That means you have fuel to power a generator or two. You have moved up in the world!" He looks back to Mick and the others for a moment. "Mind if my friends warm themselves by your 'fire'?"

Stepping forward, he slips off the glove to his right hand and extends it to Darvesh. "So, how are things, old bean?" he asks, offering the last part in his best, exaggerated aristocratic British accent.