The New Adventures of Thunder Jim Wade, page 1
THE NEW ADVENTURES OF THUNDER JIM WADE
Copyright © 2012 Pro Se Productions
A Pro Se Press Publication and a Volume of the Pulp Obscura imprint
Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords
The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.
Edited by - Tommy Hancock, Russ Anderson, and David White
Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions - Tommy Hancock
Submissions Editor - Barry Reese
Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC Chief Execuitive Officer - Fuller Bumpers
Pro Se Productions, LLC
133 1/2 Broad Street
Batesville, AR, 72501
870-834-4022
proseproductions@earthlink.net
www.proseproductions.com
“Thunderstruck” copyright © 2012 Andrew Salmon
“The Hellmouth” copyright © 2012 Barry Reese
“The Invisible Pirates” copyright © 2012 Nick Ahlhelm
“Depths of Horror” copyright © 2012 Frank Schildiner
“The Veiled Lady” copyright © 2012 Ashley Mangin
“Ninety Nine Peaks” copyright © 2012 Mark Squirek
Front Cover Art by Mike Fyles
Cover Format and Logos by Sean E. Ali
Print Version Formatting by Matt Moring
E-book Formatting by Russ Anderson
The New Adventures of Thunder Jim Wade is a work of the PULP OBSCURA imprint
PULP OBSCURA is an imprint of Pro Se Productions and is published in conjunction with titles from Altus Press, collecting the original adventures of lead characters featured in PULP OBSCURA titles.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THUNDERSTRUCK
by Andrew Salmon
THE HELLMOUTH
by Barry Reese
THE INVISIBLE PIRATES
by Nick Ahlhelm
DEPTHS OF HORROR
by Frank Schildiner
THE VEILED LADY
by Ashley Mangin
NINETY-NINE PEAKS
by Mark Squirek
THUNDERSTRUCK
by Andrew Salmon
(Dedicated to the memory of Howard Hopkins)
Chapter I
Race Against Doom
Odd Starheim heard the sound of boots pounding behind him, drawing closer on the deserted streets of Stavanger. His life had been reduced to mere frantic, terrible minutes now. However what he might accomplish in these last moments would make the thirty years which had preceded them worthwhile.
Starheim’s last desperate act was to try to save the world.
To do that he had to reach the hidden sending station three blocks from where he crouched, panting and wheezing from desperate flight.
He had to get a message to Thunder Jim Wade.
The sounds of running feet drew nearer. The iron fist squeezing his chest had slackened its inexorable grip though he could still feel his heart thump as he paused three doors from the lensmann’s office. The law was firmly in the grip of Nazi evil as was all of Starheim’s beloved Norway. He would find no help there. Shakily he rose to his feet and with one last exhale he resumed his flight.
Hoarse shouts in German reached his ears. The Nazis were drawing the noose tight. That’s how he thought of them. Not as Germans, but Nazis. As a youth he’d lived in Berlin where his father operated a telegraph office. The Germans he had known there had been intelligent people, filled with joie de vivre and, more importantly, free thinkers. Not like these jackals running him to ground. Or the brown-shirted thugs who had beaten his father to death when he stepped in to halt an attack on the Jewish shopkeeper next door to the telegraph office.
Now the barked orders came from up ahead. Starheim skidded on the icy cobblestones, his head whipped from side to side. An old woman peered at him from behind a window blind etched with holly and tinsel. Her sad, sympathetic eyes told him that she, like so many, was unable to vanquish the terrible foe which had slammed its boot heel down on the throat of the world.
But Starheim might slow them down. If he could just get the signal out to Thunder Jim Wade… if he could only do that.
Spurred by steely determination, Starheim ignored the agony in his chest and raced down the black alley to his left. He wore soft-soled shoes and their whispered slapping on the cold stone bought him precious seconds as his pursuers did not detect this change of direction right away. From one partially opened window he heard a Christmas carol being sung in low, plaintive tones.
There was the roof of the house he sought, jutting up from the next street over. He strained his ears. The sounds of pursuit had faded. Perhaps he had fooled them. Perhaps they would not find him. A faint glimmer of hope flared in his breast. Perhaps...
It was then that Starheim heard the dogs.
Silent streaks in the night, they moved invisible in the darkness. Starheim heard their nails clack on the stones, echoing around the empty courtyard between him and his destination.
It was stark terror that moved him now. With a desperate cry, Starheim crossed the courtyard as fast as his rubbery legs would carry him. The house abutting the one he sought was abandoned but the former owner was sympathetic to the resistance. The door would be unlocked as would the basement door leading to the short tunnel between the two buildings.
He dashed too quickly along the slippery stones and could not slow down. He slammed into the door with a bone-rattling crash he was certain would alert his enemies to his presence. Well, so be it, he thought, he was almost where he needed to be. He had won this battle. Now if he could win the battle against the clock, he might deal these Nazis butchers a blow they would never recover from.
He flung the door open and disappeared through the dark maw. He heard the dogs on the other side, racing across the courtyard. The door was stout and triple locked. He threw the bolts before lancing deeper into the deserted home, reached the basement door. He found the control device in its hidden niche in the wall and unlocked the door.
The door opened smoothly on oiled hinges and Starheim plunged down the stairs.
The tunnel entrance was behind fetid mattresses leaning against one wall. The air was dank, rife with rot. Starheim covered the distance and threw the mattresses aside. The time for stealth had passed. As he dove into the tunnel, he was certain he’d heard the front door crash inwards above. So be it. He might beat them yet.
***
Lieutenant Manfred Worm-Muller stood in the courtyard with an aide as the rest of the SS men disappeared inside the house after Starheim.
“We have him, Sir,” the aide said smugly. His ice blue eyes and blond hair glinted in the street lights.
“I’ll twist his head off personally,” Worm-Muller threatened, a grimace pulling at his face. He was tall with chiselled features – the very epitome of Nazi racial superiority except for the shock of brown hair with eyes to match. He had been given the assignment of overseeing the Norsk plant and had taken on the responsibility grudgingly as he sought the glory of the battlefield. His thinking had changed when he learned what the plant could mean for the Reich. Since then he had employed every ounce of skill and intellect at his disposal to keep the plant up and running despite the cursed partisans.
Damn Starheim anyway, he mused. First the man had delayed production by introducing cod liver oil to interrupt the system during the electrolysis process and now outright espionage. Worm-Muller’s network of collaborators hinted that something was in the works beyond Starheim’s attempt to delay transport. He could not help feeling that Starheim’s mad flight was but a precursor for some future operation.
“Blasted partisans,” the aide went on. “Well, Starheim will tell us all he knows.”
Worm-Muller drew his coat closed at his throat and peered at the house through the plume of breath issuing from his bloodless lips. “Patience,” he said. “We don’t have him... yet.”
“Herr Lieutenant,” the aide said, unwavering conviction in Nazi superiority. “Surely it is but a matter of time.”
The fool’s words struck a chord with Worm-Muller and he would act immediately. “That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said. Time is the key here. There is going to be a change of plans.”
***
The transmitter was in the closet on the second floor of the burned out building. The wires, carefully camouflaged against the blackened wood beams and stonework, led to the antennae on the sagging roof. Starheim had used it the night before and the set was working perfectly.
He pounded up the stairs and along the short hallway to the transmitter room. He ducked inside the slanted doorway and dashed to the closet. Starheim eased inside and threw himself onto the stool in front of the transmitter.
Could he get the message out in time? How much longer did he have to live?
To hell with such thoughts!
The cells were still partially charged. Starheim contemplated cranking the handles but knew that seconds were fleeting. He could only hope the signal would be powerful enough to reach Thunder Jim Wade’s receiving station in Iceland.
Starheim had been a scientist all of his adul
His hand stilled over the key. The message had been sent. He had beaten them. He yanked off the contact wires and re-attached them to a smaller unit. He tapped the code which sent an electronic pulse to the dynamite planted in the basements of both buildings.
“For you, Papa,” he whispered and a sad smile pulled at his thin lips. “Merry Christmas.”
The Nazis were right outside the closet door when the signal set off the hidden explosives.
Both buildings became raging fireballs an instant before they crashed in on themselves with a noise like the chariots of Heaven.
Chapter II
Eve of Armageddon
Thick, gray clouds smothered the moon as Thunder Jim Wade calmly guided the Thunderbug in a smooth descent. Although they had reached the trickiest portion of their journey, Jim Wade and his associates, Red Argyle and Dirk Marat, had been quiet since taking off from Scotland. The approach into Norway called for the Thunderbug to soar high above the coastal belt until heading inland and dropping quickly until eventually skimming the surface through the mountain valleys to avoid German radar. The Thunderbug levelled off at two hundred feet with Wade’s strong, capable hands at the controls.
To glance at Thunder Jim Wade you’d think the man hadn’t a care in the world. The tall, well-built, good-looking Wade with his habitual pleasant grin projected a deceptively casual appearance while his tousled, inky black hair lent him an air of youthful innocence. However on closer examination, a trace of iron beneath the bronzed face became apparent. Small wrinkles around the eyes spoke of trials beyond his youthful look and his velvety black eyes were cunning. Those lines seemed slightly more drawn since Pearl Harbor and there was new tension in the set of his broad shoulders. Such was the importance of their mission.
Since receiving Odd Starheim’s message via Wade’s own unique tight-beam transmission two days ago, the three men had hardly stopped to catch their breath. The Norwegian engineer’s message had been precisely the information Wade had been on the lookout for as part of the assignment he and his companions had taken on for the Office of Strategic Services in this sector of Europe. Starheim’s terse words flashed across Wade’s mind’s eye:
Material to be moved... 72 hours...Ferry...
Have tried effect delay... Equipment to Berlin...
Safety precaution...Godspeed...
Gud Signe Norge
(God Bless Norway)
The response had been immediate. Final touches were put on the plan Wade had proposed to his OSS superiors and the Thunderbug was cleared for takeoff.
“I don’t like it one bit, Jim,” Dirk Marat complained as he withdrew Daisybelle from the sheath between his shoulder blades. He was small in stature but did not need the knife to compensate in a fight for what he lacked in size. Cold steel was simply his obsession. An expert marksman, Marat preferred knife work while in the thick of it. “Only a day and a half to get ready... there’s too much to pin down in that time. What a way to spend a Christmas Eve! If even one thing goes wrong... ”
Wade had heard all this before. “Fate dealt the cards, Dirk. We’ve got to play the hand. We’ve got to!”
“Relax will ya, runt.” Red Argyle was a red-haired giant of a man with gnarled fists like knotted rigging. Those meaty fingers were surprisingly deft however and he could manipulate them like a surgeon when called upon. “The Norwegians gave us everything we need to know.”
Marat’s incongruous black eyebrows drew down from the skullcap of blond hair atop his head and he glowered at Argyle while he moved the knife around in his hands with cat-like quickness. “If no one intercepted Starheim’s last message. We’ll only get one chance at this.”
“Then we had better make it count,” Wade concluded, putting a stop to the debate for now. The mission was the most important of the war. Millions of lives hung in the balance and Wade would let nothing get in his way.
Thunder Jim Wade was born to adventure. The son of an explorer who died in Africa, Wade had been raised by the inhabitants of a lost Cretan city called Minos. There he had mastered hypnosis, fighting with a plethora of weapons as well as hand-to-hand combat, sleight of hand, and countless other physical and mental skills. Returning to civilization, Wade became incensed by the greed, corruption, and crime in the modern world, and dedicated his life to wiping out evil wherever he encountered it. That had been the way with Thunder Jim Wade ever since war had shown him new depths of man’s inhumanity to man. Since the United States had joined the war against the Axis powers, Thunder Jim and his associates had worked covert missions for the OSS when asked.
The black oblong Thunderbug streaked and weaved through the stygian blackness of the mountain walls towering on either side of the narrow ravine the ship navigated. Wade guided the ship effortlessly as if it were broad daylight.
“You fellows know I love a good fight,” Dirk resumed. “And I’ve got no love for Hitler and his gang of thugs, but I at least like to know what I’m fighting for. What is this dooterum whatsit? Why is it so blasted important to blow up the German’s source of the stuff? What the heck are we risking our necks over?”
Thunder Jim paused before replying as he weighed the profound implications of what he was about to say. The whispers of an invasion of Europe grew louder each day. Everyone knew it was coming. Millions of men would be putting their lives on the line to end tyranny in Europe. The outcome of the war would rest on this bold move. But it was doomed to catastrophe if their mission tonight did not succeed. How could he expect Red and Dirk to put their lives on the line without their knowing exactly what was at risk should they come up short?
“Water,” he said at last. “That’s what we’re here to destroy. Deuterium oxide is water.”
“Water!” Dirk sputtered. “Are we going to force the krauts to surrender by making them thirsty?”
“If only it were that simple,” Wade sighed. His knowledge of chemistry came into play as he went on. “No, the water we must destroy is very special. In layman’s terms it’s referred to as heavy water and the world’s largest supply is right here in Norway. It was originally a by-product of chemical fertilizer manufacture at the plant we’ve targeted, but the Germans have forced the plant to create the stuff exclusively. It’s 10% heavier than regular water because it has twice as many hydrogen atoms. This extra weight works to slow the speed of neutrons set free in a nuclear reactor, permitting these atomic particles to split uranium atoms in a chain reaction producing plutonium – a fissionable element used in the construction of atomic bombs. Muy malo.”
“You’re crazy!” Marat blurted. “That’s kid stuff out of those rags on the newsstand.”
“Would we be here if it wasn’t true?” Wade asked, simply. “We’re in a race, brothers. One the Allies have to win.”
Thunder Jim’s two associates took a moment to let Wade’s words sink in. If the Nazis split the atom and created atomic weapons, no one could stand in their way and the cities of the world would be laid waste. The full implications of that were not lost on the three men in the Thunderbug and a profound silence once more settled over the cabin.
