Hack Writer
2013-11-17, 09:14 AM
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….
~~~~
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.
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.
“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….
~~~~
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.
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.