"Did you have to wait so long to cut the chute?" he complained, good-naturedly, once the hatch was shut behind them.
"You try monkeying about on the outside of a frozen metal plate in gale force winds," she countered.
Indeed, her role in the plan had been the most challenging. In addition to setting the grenade that had blown one of the anchor ropes and cutting another at exactly the same moment, she had also drawn the Herculean task of climbing onto the airframe and cutting the chute free before it dragged the plane all the way to the ocean or smashed it apart on the landscape.
All of them were chilled to the bone by their brief exposure to the elements and the cabin of the Trimotor, although heavily insulated for polar exploration, did little to warm them. But none of them needed to be reminded that the danger was far from past. Dodge remained in the rear cargo area only long enough to rub a little life back into his hands and arms, before moving up the center aisle to the cockpit.
The Tin Goose, like all of the vehicles that rolled of Henry Ford’s assembly lines, was strictly a no-frills affair. By comparison to the Catalina and some of the other airplanes that Dodge had become qualified to fly, it was quite simple to operate and yet there were some parts of it that were almost primitive. Most of the gauges were mounted on the engines, outside the aircraft and under normal circumstances would be visible through the side windows, windows that were presently obscured by a scrim of frost. Fortunately, there wasn’t much risk of the air-cooled engines overheating.
After a few minutes of familiarizing himself with the controls, he fired the starter on the main engine and the interior of the aircraft was filled with the throaty purr of a Wright radial engine. Dodge experimented with the levers and controls and when he felt a measure of confidence, fired the outboard engines. Only then did he realize that Newcombe and Jocasta were pressed up against the back of his chair, anxiously watching his every move.
“Better buckle up. I make no promises that we’ll still be alive in five minutes.”
Newcombe nodded and retreated to the passenger area, but Jocasta unexpectedly leaned closer. “What’s the fun of living if you don’t take a chance now and then?”
And then she kissed him.
He was so stunned that he didn’t think to push her away until it was already too late. The next thing he knew, she was sitting primly in the co-pilot's chair, fastening her safety belt. Her scent lingered on his lips. “Why did—?”
She smiled. “Just fly the plane, love.”
The Trimotor was still on the ice, picking up speed and perhaps fifteen seconds from lifting off, when the explosion Newcombe had been predicting finally occurred.
The interplay of heat from the source pillar and freezing conditions in the environment had created a sealed bubble. The pillar itself, now more than a thousand feet deep in solid ice and over three hundred degrees Fahrenheit, was now effectively sublimating everything it touched, transforming the ice directly into vapor. That vapor had risen up the sides of the cavity where it formed into ice crystals, but the process of deposition could not keep pace with the rapid evaporation. The natural processes were inadequate to the task of stabilizing the air pressure and there could be only one result: A steam explosion. The energy released in that instant was greater than any bomb ever devised; it rivaled a volcanic eruption for intensity.
A section of ice, much greater than the area that once defined the network of tunnels comprising the Outpost, was heaved skyward. The speeding Trimotor was hurled into the air, engulfed in a cloud of steam and ice shards. Then, like some kind of mythical creature struggling to be born from the fires of its own destruction, the plane emerged and winged away on its own power, outpacing the expanding nimbus of devastation.
Where the Outpost had once existed, there was now only a crater, a steaming caldera in the ice. The secrets of that ancient place — and indeed there were secrets that the very few humans to discover those tunnels had scarcely imagined, locked away in tunnels never found — were now gone forever, smashed into oblivion.
At the center of that ring of devastation, in a narrow vent that continued to hiss steam into the frigid air, the Source continued its downward journey. And the ever increasing cycle of destruction began its next evolution.
CHAPTER 17 — THE PILLAR OF THE ANCIENTS
Although he had asked to be let off at their first stop — the seaport of Nice, in the south of France — Sir Reginald made arrangements for the rest of the travelers to be met by a representative of the Trevayne Society upon their arrival at the Palam RAF Aerodrome near Delhi, India. Winterbourne, who was still on the mend from wounds suffered during the assault on his flat, had elected to remain with them for the duration.
"It's been too long since I was of any use to anyone," he had declared. "And this business of the skull child… well, let's just say I'd like to see it finished, one way or another."
Molly found that she enjoyed having the elderly gentleman along, enjoyed ministering to his injuries. Even so, it could not quite soothe her own hurts; the memory of that horrible attack and of her own actions, was like a sliver in her conscience, infected and festering, oozing poison into her dreams with each passing night. It didn't help that her father seemed to be growing more distant with each mile they traveled.
The uniformed man waiting for them at the aerodrome introduced himself as Chadwick or rather, "Colonel Graeme Chadwick, of His Majesty's Royal Air Force, at your service, sirs and madam."
Hurricane chuckled a little at the man's seemingly exaggerated military bearing, but Hobbs, dour as ever, simply said, "You were supposed to tell us something."
"Ah, so it's the old cloak and dagger routine, is it?" Chadwick laughed. "Jolly good. Let's see, I believe I the word for today was 'Rudyard.'
Hobbs nodded and Molly heard Winterbourne mutter under his breath, "'Go, bind you sons to exile.'"
Chadwick evidently heard him. "Indeed. It does rather feel that way sometimes. In any case, on behalf of the RAF and—" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—"the Trevayne Society, welcome to Delhi. The telegram did not specify your purpose here…"
"Sightseeing, actually. We'd like to visit the Iron Pillar."
"That old thing," Chadwick's smile was half-hearted. "Shouldn't be too hard to arrange. It's in the Qutab complex in Mehrauli."
"I know where it is," the priest replied tersely. "I've been there before."
Molly raised an eyebrow. She had assumed that her father, in his world traveling days, had visited India; how else would he have known of the Iron Pillar in the first place? But she knew him well enough to realize that the memory of that event in his past was causing him pain. She also knew that when Hobbs was in pain, he withdrew from everyone.
Chadwick seemed unfazed by the priest's brusque manner. "I've held rooms for you at the Imperial, but as it's still early, we can go there directly, if you'd like. It's only about ten miles from here."
Hobbs nodded mechanically. "We'd like."
Chadwick led them to his waiting staff car, a gray Lanchester saloon. He directed his driver, a handsome young Indian corporal, to remain behind with the aircraft in order to free up space in the car. Molly took the rear seat, sandwiched in between her father and Winterbourne, while Hurricane rode up front with the colonel. After the relatively cool and spacious environs of the plane, the interior of the car coupled with the warm humid air should have been stifling, but Molly found it strangely reminiscent of the Congo, where she had spent almost her entire life and in that familiarity she found a measure of comfort.