The Doomfarers of Coramonde by Brian Daley

The imposing saber he wore
notwithstanding, he appeared friendly enough.
    Springbuck, for
his part, saw five bewildered faces studying him and the Keep’s other temporary
inhabitants. The leader of these foreigners, the one who’d made the decision to
come along with him to the castle, was fairly young, perhaps the youngest of
the five who rode this nonesuch machine. He had brown hair cropped short, fair
skin burned by the sun and premature age lines bracketing his mouth. Of the
others, one was a big husky fellow with a lantern jaw and a curling mustache,
another a frail-looking and pallid sort of individual who wore the same sort of
little lenses as Van Duyn—glasses. This one was addressed as Olivier while the
fourth, a rather short, heavily built, acned man, was called Handelman. But
most amazing of all was the one who pulled himself up to sit on an open hatch at
the front of the vehicle—the Prince hadn’t caught his name in their
conversation—for he was completely brown. Or at least, his hands, neck and face
were, and his black hair curled tightly to his head.
    Springbuck was
phrasing a hundred questions in his mind when the deCourteneys and Van Duyn
reached his side. The Americans didn’t miss the holstered pistol at Van Duyn’s
belt as he asked peremptorily, “Which of you is in charge here?”
    “I am.
MacDonald, sergeant, U.S. Army. Mind if I ask your name, pal?”
    “Edward Van
Duyn. I imagine that you and your friends are confused as to your present
situation. I’ll try to explain your circumstances to you in terms you can
comprehend and allay your misgivings, since your dilemma is, no doubt, quite
beyond your, er, grasp.”
    Gil stood, arms
akimbo, and replied airily, “Uh-uh, not so. Fact is, you’re all under my guns
and I’m going to start knocking this rock outhouse down around your ears unless
I get a whole lot of answers in a big hurry.”
    Van Duyn was
plainly annoyed by this, but didn’t pursue the topic. “If you’d care to step
inside, Sergeant, I shall be happy to clarify matters for you.”
    Gil hesitated,
then decided that there was little he could do until he found out what in the
world had happened to them, how the Nine-Mob had gotten here and where here
was.
    “Okay,” he
conceded, “wait a sec while I tell the crew what’s going on.” He clambered back
aboard Lobo and had Woods take the .50 caliber, then squatted in
conference with the burly grenadier and second-in-command.
    “So, loan me
your hog, Ski, and keep an eye on things till I get back. If I don’t show, say,
in thirty minutes, do whatever strikes you as best, although I can’t imagine
what the hell that would be. We just can’t do anything until we dope out what’s
happened to us.”
    He took the
other’s .45 automatic and slipped it into his belt under his jungle fatigue
jacket. Pomorski watched dubiously. “Pardon my candor,” he said, “but this
quixotic foray of yours is not particularly bright. Just load up on hardware
and charge out all dewy-eyed and shooting, that’s your style, MacDonald.”
    Gil felt the
heat of his own face as anger sent his blood racing. Friction with the
gregarious Pomorski was a frequent problem. With two years of college,
light-hearted Pomorski was better educated. He was also a former football
player and dangerous with bare hands and feet; neither of them was certain who
would win if they fought. They’d drifted into a sort of rivalry as dominant
personalities in the crew.
    “Dewy-eyed, my
aching, dying ass,” Gil whispered fiercely. “If you’ve got any alternatives,
any at all, let’s hear them.”
    Pomorski stared
at him for a moment, looked conspicuously at Gil’s three stripes and his own
spec-four patch, and shrugged. “Gunboat diplomacy,” he grumbled, and climbed back
up through the cargo hatch.
    Gil removed his
flak jacket, followed him up and jumped to the ground. He faced Van Duyn,
though his eye rested for an instant on the breathtaking woman at the