The Dark Fantastic

Whit Masterson

• Publisher: Prologue Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781440540660
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

The Death Ship moved slowly toward the land bringing a cargo of terror and a threat more deadly than a bomb. Only a handful of men and one woman could stop the annihilation of mankind.

CHAPTER FOUR

LA PAZ

FRIDAY dawned clear and cloudless along the border, with no hint of the approaching storm, although increasing winds caused the U.S. Weather Bureau to issue small-craft warnings from San Diego north to Point Conception and to predict a rainy weekend. Of the more ominous threat creeping towards them from the south, Californians were not informed.

Yet, with secret urgency, the news was spreading across thousands of miles, to a dozen bureaus and agencies and governments, by coded messages and scrambled phone calls.

A squad of top-flight bacteriologists was flown in from Washington, D.C. Living cultures of the mutant plague — now in full production by the staffs of Dr. Mannheim and Dr. Slatore — were turned over to them for examination and classification. Classification failed. Cloris, who was allowed to sit in on the meetings, emerged feeling completely hopeless.

“If there was only something I could do,” she complained to Gabe Wise. “These specialists make my piddling little education look sick.”

“You’ve done plenty already,” he told her. “By rights, they ought to name the bug after you.”

“Thanks, no. They’re just calling it Blackjack for the time being.”

“Well, you let somebody else carry the ball for a while. Get some rest.”

“But I’ve got a personal stake in this thing.” She thought about that a second. “Revenge, I guess.”

Neither of the major colleges in the area had a Turkish language section but an exchange student from Ankara was found at San Diego State. He was spirited away from his dormitory, sworn to secrecy and installed in a motel near the border to translate the freighter’s log and wireless records. So far nothing of interest had turned up save the exact course of the Kaisar-i-Rum. All ports of call were queried as to the presence of any unknown fatal disease. None had yet replied affirmatively. The birthplace of Blackjack remained unknown.

The statuette, now sterilized, was turned over to the city’s Museum of Man for identification. After three conflicting opinions, the museum put in a call for Father Narramore from the Catholic university. Narramore, an archaeological authority specializing in the Mediterranean and Near East, was halfway to Los Angeles with the school basketball team when the urgent message plucked him off the bus.

Colonel Aguilar, after two hours’ sleep, three cups of coffee and an argument with his wife, set off at dawn to supervise the establishment of road blocks in Baja California.

The Border Patrol, followed by every other border agency, summoned back to duty all personnel on leave.

The F.B.I. in Los Angeles identified the cable address — Datsut — as belonging to Datus Sutton, a wealthy dealer in art objects and precious stones. This was not the first time that Sutton had come to their attention. During the war, when the Dutch diamond cutters fled Amsterdam and set up operations in Palm Springs, Sutton had been suspected of trafficking in smuggled diamonds. It was decided that, considering his reputation and likely connection with the smuggling operation, nothing would be gained by direct interrogation. His telephone was tapped, his correspondence processed through a mail-drop, and a twenty-four-hour stake-out established.

Ross Mallory, sending his clothes out to be cleaned, discovered the glass float in the pocket where he had forgotten it, and wondered what he should do with it. Gazing into its shifting light, he remembered the wreckage-strewn beach and his thought at the time. He couldn’t claim it as a very original thought but it was terribly true. It was a small world — and it was getting smaller….

The Italian consul in San Diego was notified of the death of his countryman in Baja California. A description of the dead man was cabled to the police in Florence, his presumed home, for possible identification.

The French administration of the Marquesas islands, informed of the probable diagnosis of the deaths of Dr. Howard and George Erastos, placed the main island of Hiva-Oa under quarantine.

At Boca de Soledad, Francisco Montijo died, as much a victim of sorrow as of the bacillus. And in Mazatlan, the men who had found the dying Jesus Baez were hospitalized for observation. The launch Cielito Lindo was hauled on to the mudflats and burned.

The maritime authorities at Istanbul were queried on the ownership, cargo and general reputation of the Kaisar-i-Rum. The doomed vessel, it turned out, was of Turkish registry but had been owned by a Greek syndicate and was fully insured. The captain, whose name was Idiger Kazan, had once had his licence suspended for tobacco smuggling but the charges had later been dropped.

In Washington, following a series of hasty conferences on ascending levels of government, the possibility of a widespread epidemic was the subject of a special meeting of the National Security Council. And, later, of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. As a result, Navy, Marine and Air Force units in Southern California were ordered to be ready to move out on twenty-four hours’ notice. Civil defence was notified to be prepared for an imminent — but unnamed — emergency. At bases around the world, the Strategic Air Command was placed on fifteen-minute alert, lest an enemy choose a moment of national weakness to strike.

And, while this feverish activity occupied the lives and thoughts of several thousand men and women throughout the world, the men responsible lay asleep among the ruins of an old Franciscan mission near a promontory known as Punta Prieta, Black Point. One of the smugglers coughed almost continuously now, causing the other to watch him narrowly and to think his private thoughts. In three nights of gruelling driving, they had covered the greater part of the distance to their goal. The border was less than three hundred miles away.

Father James D. Narramore, S.J., didn’t fit the general conception of how a priest should look. Stripped of his clerical collar, he might have been mistaken for a ditch digger or perhaps even a middleweight prize fighter. His face was blunt and weatherbeaten and his hands, unlike most men of his calling, were big and calloused. He gave the impression of being a man in a hurry.

He put the bronze statuette on Kelso’s desk with an apology. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, gentlemen, but I wanted to be sure.”

“Long?” Kelso echoed. “I didn’t expect any news before tomorrow, Father. Do you mean you’ve identified the thing already?”

“Of course. It’s Etruscan ware.” Narramore glanced from Kelso to Gabe Wise, who lounged in the other chair. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

Both men hesitated, waiting for the other to speak. Gabe finally said, “You’ll have to forgive our ignorance, Father. Just what is Etruscan ware?”

“No reason you should be familiar with it, I suppose. Well, stop me when you’ve heard enough.” Narramore pursed his lips and studied the ceiling for a moment. “The Etruscans were among the original inhabitants of central Italy. They came from Asia Minor somewhere around 900 b.c. and built up a loose confederation of city-states that disappeared in the first century before Christ. That was when the Romans took over. We don’t know too much about the Etruscans or their language because they left no literature to speak of. However, they did leave a good deal of art objects behind — sculpture, pottery, friezes, that sort of thing — that rank with the world’s great art. Most of it has been found only recently, within the last couple of hundred years, buried in tombs. Their craftsmen were especially skilled in working with bronze.” He nodded at the statuette. “This is a splendid example of their work. See how much it resembles the latest modern abstract? I’d guess it was supposed to represent Tinis, the spear symbolizing the thunderbolt, the lightning.”

Kelso cleared his throat. “I don’t believe I caught that last.”

“Tinis, their chief god. The usual primitive concept of the storm deity. As a matter of fact, the Etruscans worshipped the thunderbolt to a greater extent than any other historic race. Then, when the Romans came to prominence much later, Tinis was taken over and somewhat refined to become the Roman Jupiter, king of the gods. The Romans largely adapted the entire Etruscan pantheon, plus a good many Grecian concepts. So Tinis became Zeus Pater, or Jupiter, Turan became Aphrodite, Sethlans became Vulcan …”

Kelso and Gabe were staring at each other. Gabe said, “Dr. Howard’s letter. That Greek sailor said something about Aphrodite when he was dying. He must have seen something in those crates.”

Narramore, understanding none of this, assumed they wanted to hear more about the goddess. “Tinis and Turan — the male and female principles — were naturally their oldest deities. In fact, the Etruscans seem to have had a myth, unknown to the later Greek and Roman beliefs, that Turan was the mother of Tinis. There is an extant statue that depicts — ”

Kelso interrupted. “This bronze thing came from somebody’s tomb, then?”

“Probably a king’s tomb, judging from the workmanship. The Etruscans believed that death was a continuation of the fullness of life. So their tombs were very house-like and the higher the man’s rank, the more elaborate his funeral furniture.” Narramore smiled slightly. “Unlike ourselves, who feel that all shall be equal before the throne of God.”

“You can’t take it with you,” Gabe Wise murmured.

“Exactly. However, that’s neither here nor there. Well, gentlemen, now have I told you what you wanted to know?”

“I’m not sure what it was we wanted to know,” Kelso admitted. “But what you’ve told us — the statue coming from Italy — fits in with the information we already have.”

“I’d like to throw in something from left field,” Gabe said. “Father, do you think there’s any possibility of this thing carrying disease germs? After all, it did come from somebody’s grave.”

Narramore raised surprised eyebrows. “Not in the least, Mr. Wise. Do you understand how o...