The Lost Army Read online

  Neither Professor Bruttenholm nor the attractive young pyrokinetic woman spoke another word. The only other person in the room, the operative called Abe Sapien, was slumped over the conference table with his head on his folded arms, apparently asleep.

  Showtime.

  “All right, people, here we go,” Dr. Manning said as he hustled into the room.

  As Director of Field Operations, Tom Manning was perhaps the most powerful individual within the BPRD. Much to his dismay, that meant he was also the person whose job it was to send people into situations of great danger. In his career, he had sent two men and four women to their deaths. Those souls haunted him, but not in any way that the Bureau could detect.

  Dr. Manning sat at the head of the conference table and began sliding information kits detailing the mission and its objective to the three operatives present. When the white folder bumped against Abraham Sapien’s hands, the man looked up. Tom struggled not to react, as he did every time he got a good look at Abe.

  In truth, Abraham Sapien was not a man at all. Rather he was an amphibian, the only known humanoid able to breathe water. The Bureau suspected genetic engineering, but Abe’s true origins were still shrouded in mystery. He had been discovered by plumbers working in the basement of St. Trinian’s Hospital in Washington, D.C. They had broken through a sealed door and discovered an abandoned laboratory.

  Within a fluid-filled glass cylinder, apparently lifeless, floated the amphibious man. A label on the cylinder classified the “experiment” as an Icthyo Sapien. It was dated April 14, 1865, the day Abraham Lincoln was murdered. Hence his name, Abe Sapien.

  As Liz had once said, “It’s better than calling him ‘Icky.’”

  Liz. Elizabeth Sherman, twenty-four years of age. Her powers were no less disturbing. Their initial manifestation thirteen years earlier had decimated a city block and incinerated thirty-two people, her entire family among them. Looking at her, Dr. Manning thought, it was easy to forget her history, her power.

  Abe was not so lucky.

  “Okay,” Dr. Manning said. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “What of Hellboy?” Professor Bruttenholm inquired. “Shouldn’t we wait for him? He is our point man on this mission, after all.”

  Tom nodded slightly, about to respond. He was grateful when a familiar, heavy tread in the hallway relieved him of the responsibility.

  All three operatives assigned to the Edinburgh investigation looked around toward the door. Only Professor Bruttenholm was smiling. It occurred to Dr. Manning that the observation was uncharitable: it was possible Abe Sapien was not capable of smiling.

  The heavy oak door swung open, and Hellboy ducked slightly to enter the room.

  “Glad you could join us,” Abe said with friendly sarcasm.

  “Up late,” Hellboy replied. “I had to get a few hours sleep.”

  Hellboy regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. He glanced guiltily at Liz, then looked away. Sleep was a difficult subject for her. She was never able to sleep undisturbed by horrific dreams. Hellboy often wondered what effect that deprivation might have on her over time. He wasn’t certain he wanted an answer.

  “Glad to see you emerged unscathed from your encounter with the Crittendon family,” Professor Bruttenholm said kindly.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hellboy said, as he took a seat next to the professor.

  Bruttenholm gave Hellboy an affectionate pat on the shoulder, and turned his attention back to the meeting.

  The two were extremely close. Professor Bruttenholm had been among those present on a night in December 1944, just before Christmas, when the Second World War had proven to be a conflict on many levels. The Nazis were seeking paranormal weapons. They tried to summon something, something powerful to fight for them.

  What they had called looked for all the world like a demon child.

  “. . . Hellboy . . . ,” Professor Bruttenholm had whispered.

  That was the only name they knew to call him.

  Dr. Manning had not yet been born, but he knew the details well enough from the dozens of times he had studied the file. Hellboy was an extraordinary creature, an extraordinary person.

  Since the American government had been in charge of the operation that had resulted in Hellboy’s discovery, they laid claim on him as if he were property. Despite Trevor Bruttenholm’s furious protests — he felt quite protective of their strange visitor — the Americans brought Hellboy back from England with them.

  Fortunately for all, the professor’s persistence and influence finally forced a compromise. Bruttenholm and a group of other paranormal experts founded the BPRD, with funding from the American government. They were granted custody of Hellboy. Bruttenholm raised him. Educated him. Trained him. And, of course, studied him. They still didn’t know precisely what Hellboy was.

  Professor Bruttenholm had been like a father to Hellboy for more than forty years. Tom Manning had asked himself many times who, or what, Hellboy’s real father might be. The question never failed to disturb him.

  But there wasn’t an operative he trusted more.

  “Hellboy will not be joining you in Edinburgh,” Dr. Manning said, then held up a hand to halt the questions and protests he knew would be forthcoming.

  “This is preposterous,” Professor Bruttenholm said, before Dr. Manning could speak again.

  “I agree,” Liz Sherman added. “We have no idea what’s waiting for us inside MacGoldrick Castle. We need a point man who knows the ropes. Hellboy’s the best.”

  “Or at least the most durable,” Abe said dryly, and glanced over at Hellboy, who smiled thinly.

  So much for halting their protests, Dr. Manning thought.

  “Listen, you guys, I appreciate it, really,” Hellboy said. “But the investigation Tom’s pulling me out of the Edinburgh trip for is important to me.”

  “Not just to you,” Dr. Manning said, grateful for Hellboy’s intervention. “The British, American, and Egyptian governments are in an uproar over the whole thing. We have to send somebody in, and it just so happens that Hellboy was specifically requested by the . . .”

  “So who’s our point man?” Liz asked, her doubt and disappointment almost palpable.

  “Mister Johnson,” Dr. Manning replied.

  “He’ll do,” Abe muttered.

  “Seems he’ll have to,” Professor Bruttenholm sniffed, obviously put out that Hellboy would not be on his team.

  “I’m a big boy, sir,” Hellboy said. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Since when?” Abe asked.

  Hellboy smiled again but didn’t reply. Dr. Manning realized that, despite Abe’s apparent inability to smile, Hellboy seemed to know when he was joking.

  “So where are you going?” Abe asked.

  “Egypt,” Hellboy said. “Apparently they’ve lost a bunch of archaeologists.”

  Abe popped a new cassette into his portable cassette player. A few moments later, Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life” began to pipe from the tiny speakers. The song had been a hit earlier in the year, and radio had played it to death. Hellboy was sick of the song. Sick of Dire Straits. Sick of MTV. But Abe couldn’t get enough.

  They were friends, so Hellboy did his best to ignore it. They’d be landing soon, anyway, the main team staying behind in Scotland while the plane’s crew took Hellboy on to Egypt.

  In the belly of the refurbished cargo jet the BPRD always had on call, Hellboy massaged his temples. The hum of the plane and the happy pop posturing of Dire Straits had begun to give him a headache.

  “I still don’t understand why they didn’t send us on different planes,” Hellboy complained. “Not that I don’t enjoy the company, but it would have made a lot more sense.”

  Professor Bruttenholm frowned.

  “How do you mean?” he asked. “You would have had to fly over Europe or the Mediterranean anyway. We’re close enough that sending two planes would not have been practical, even if it was within the budget.”

&nbs
p; “I don’t get it,” Hellboy admitted. “Why do we have to fly over Europe to reach Egypt? There must be some more direct . . .”

  “Apparently, you haven’t seen the news,” Professor Bruttenholm said.

  Hellboy heard disappointment in his mentor’s voice. Though he knew it might only be his imagination, still it disturbed him. The man was the only father he had ever known, and like any son, he wanted to make his father proud. Sometimes it seemed to Hellboy that he was a constant disappointment, but the old man loved him anyway. He knew that, without reservation. Most of the time, it helped.

  Despite his age, Trevor Bruttenholm had resisted all of the BPRD’s attempts to limit him to a desk job. He took great pleasure in research, in the obtaining of knowledge, but it was in the field where the professor truly lived and thrived. Hellboy had always tried to live up to Professor Bruttenholm’s example, but he was a creature of action. Books and research, current events and reports, these things were dry and boring to him. He wanted to be like the professor, to be among dusty, ancient things, to find the face of evil and stand fast beneath its gaze.

  But he hated to study.

  This last had a tendency to get him into trouble. If he’d been human, his almost chronic lack of preparedness, the very thing which most disappointed his mentor, would have cost him his life dozens of times.

  Fortunately, Hellboy was pretty hard to kill.

  He ran his left palm over the black stubble of his scalp and his tail waved slightly back and forth on the floor of the airplane.

  “The news? No, I guess I haven’t,” he admitted. “What did I miss?”

  “Only that we’re on the verge of war with Libya,” the professor responded.

  “Libya?” Hellboy asked, incredulous. “With that moron, Khadafy, or whatever his name is? You’re kidding. Why?”

  Professor Bruttenholm sighed. Hellboy couldn’t blame him. Nor could he defend himself. He lifted his hands in a halfhearted, helpless shrug, then shot a glance at Liz Sherman, who had been listening to their conversation despite the roar of the plane’s engines.

  “A club filled with German civilians and American servicemen was bombed in West Germany yesterday,” she said, in an attempt to explain that was lost on Hellboy.

  “I still don’t . . . ,” he started to say.

  “Libya is a breeding ground for terrorists,” Professor Bruttenholm interrupted. “They’ve all but admitted their involvement, spitting in President Reagan’s face with every speech Khadafy makes. We may not be on the verge of war, but I sincerely doubt the Americans will let this go by without some sort of retaliation. Even ol’ Maggie Thatcher wouldn’t let that go.”

  “Jeez,” Hellboy cursed. “The dig I’m headed to is only a couple of miles from the border. That could get pretty hairy.”

  “Just make sure you stay out of Libya,” Professor Bruttenholm said. “All we need is an international incident.”

  “No problem, sir,” Hellboy promised. “Libya isn’t exactly a tourist mecca. No theme parks. No good restaurants.”

  Liz smiled and Hellboy felt a bit better.

  “Let’s hope Anastasia has more than military rations out in the desert,” Liz said. “Maybe she’ll make you that shepherd’s pie you liked so much.”

  Hellboy winced, let out a breath, looked anywhere but at Professor Bruttenholm. Abe hummed along to his music and tried to pretend he wasn’t listening. He was smart enough to stay out of these conversations.

  “Anastasia?” the professor asked. “Anastasia Bransfield? What’s she got to . . . Don’t tell me she’s the one who called in the BPRD on this!”

  “Well . . . ,” Hellboy started.

  “Come on, Trevor, give Hellboy a break,” Liz defended him. “He can handle himself. She’s just a woman, for God’s sake.”

  “There’s no such thing as just a woman, my dear,” Professor Bruttenholm sniffed.

  He looked disapprovingly at Hellboy. Professor Bruttenholm had never liked Anastasia, had blamed her for what had happened five years earlier. Hellboy had never faulted Anastasia. He had never expected things to turn out any differently. That just wasn’t the way things were meant to be.

  “Be careful, Hellboy,” Professor Bruttenholm said, more gently.

  Of what? Hellboy wanted to ask, but thought better of it. Whatever had happened to the archaeological team that Anastasia was searching for, whatever went down between the U.S. and Libya, the one thing Hellboy was anxious about at the moment was seeing Anastasia Bransfield’s face again.

  “Careful’s my middle name,” he finally said, and forced a smile.

  Turbulence jostled Hellboy awake. He yawned wide, scratched his head, and shook off the phantom weight and heft of his amputated horns, the way a man who has lost a limb must force himself to ignore phantom pains. Hellboy often dreamed he still had horns. These weren’t nightmares, but when he woke, he never liked the way the dreams made him feel.

  They had stayed in Scotland only long enough for the plane to refuel. Hellboy had slept quite a bit of the second leg of the journey, from Scotland to Egypt. Now he just wanted solid ground beneath him, and the hum of the engines gone from his head.

  He twisted quickly to look as the navigator ratcheted open the cargo door. Heat and wind tore through the plane.

  “What’s going on?” Hellboy asked.

  Redfield, the copilot, tossed a large parachute on the floor in front of him.

  “Put this on,” the man said.

  “Look,” Hellboy snapped. “Just because I’m durable doesn’t mean I like getting shoved out of airplanes!”

  “You have two choices,” Redfield said. “You can parachute, or we can land in Cairo, two days’ ride by jeep from where you need to be. If you’re not in a hurry, then . . .”

  The copilot let his words trail off, but Hellboy got the gist of it. If anything had really happened to the archaeological team, he could not waste any more time than he already had. He sighed and buckled on his parachute.

  “Got your gear?” Redfield asked.

  Hellboy patted the massive belt that was cinched around his waist, the many compartments of which held all manner of charms, talismans, instruments, weapons, and some rations as well. He nodded.

  “Check your homing beacon?”

  Hellboy tapped a red sigil on his belt buckle, and a steady beep filled the transformed cargo hold. Redfield held up a small monitor and glanced at it.

  “We’re good to go,” he said.

  Hellboy turned toward the open door, the wind buffeted his face. He took three steps to the door, and dove out into the superheated desert air. Skydiving had never been fun for him. He had never imagined it was fun for anyone but lunatics. Whoever thought jumping out of a plane thousands of feet above the Earth was a good idea, he wondered.

  “Not me,” he grumbled, but the air whipped past him so quickly it stole the words away. He could only hear them inside his head.

  Hellboy fell. He’d seen the illustration of equal gravity many times, but he could not dismiss the feeling that his heavy right hand was pulling him faster and faster toward the Earth. No matter how tough he was, without the parachute . . .

  Below and slightly to the west was an encampment that had to be Anastasia’s group for the simple reason that there were no others. Still farther west was a large depression in the desert floor, almost like a massive oval footprint. Hellboy knew it must be the basin within which the oasis of Ammon flourished, a large lake at its center. As he fell, he even thought he could see the sun reflecting off the surface of the lake.

  Otherwise, all he saw was sand. Speeding rapidly toward him.

  Hellboy pulled the ripcord.

  Nothing happened.

  “Son of a . . . ,” he cursed, and pulled it again.

  The ripcord snapped off in his hand, his strength too much for the thin line. Frantically, he searched for the secondary cord, a precaution all parachutes had for just that kind of emergency. Problem was, in all of his previous jumps, he h
ad never had to find the secondary cord, and so, hadn’t bothered to pay attention to where it was located.

  He glanced down.

  “Yaaaa!” he thundered. “Don’t look down. Good idea.”

  But he couldn’t help it. As Hellboy searched for the secondary cord, the ground lurched toward him with nauseating speed. Seven hundred feet to go, as he searched the parachute restraints at his lower back. Six hundred as he ran his hands up and down the straps at his chest.

  Five hundred.

  Four hundred.

  At two hundred feet, he found it. Pulled.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  —

  Hellboy took a deep breath, and pulled the ripcord again. The cord came off in his hand . . . but the chute opened. One hundred feet above the ground, Hellboy was jerked back with extraordinary force by the opening parachute. A human man might well have had his neck broken from that jolt alone. A human man could never have survived hitting the ground if his parachute had opened one hundred feet in the air.

  His eyes were squeezed tight, waiting for impact. Hellboy opened them at the last moment to see two Bedouin guides and half a dozen camels immediately below him. There wasn’t a thing he could do but pray, and he’d never been very good at that. Hellboy wasn’t sure if even he could survive the impact. But he was lucky.

  A camel broke his fall.

  “Uhnff!” he grunted as he hit the ground, the shriek of the camel barely registering through the haze of shock.

  “Hey!” he said in amazement. “I’m okay!”