For a moment, Malvolio looked as if he was about to cry.
Irene spoke. “I don’t understand what all of this is about... but I’m in love with someone else. I’m in love with Alan. Alan Scott.”
Malvolio’s pitiful expression twisted into one of rage. Before she could react, Malvolio was on his feet and had Irene by her hair with one hand and her throat by the other.
Instantly she felt her breath cut off and tunnel vision from lack of blood to her brain.
Malvolio’s face was ugly. The premonition she had at the door came back to her-she hated being right.
Malvolio growled, his voice low. “You would have him over me? Don’t you see his worthlessness?”
Irene grabbed at Malvolio’s arms and clawed at his face and eyes. She tried to scream but she could make no sound, her throat squeezed shut by his enormous fingers.
Malvolio continued to rage at her, pulling her by the hair as he drew her face to his. “Alan Scott is no more. I sent him through this Stargate to a place where one as weak as him has no chance for survival. He’s dead, Irene!”
Even through her pain and the shock of his words, Irene fought against this monster. She was filled with fear and rage-fear of death and rage at the thought of this child in a man’s body threatening her. She would not succumb without a fight, and he would have to kill her to have her.
But Malvolio did not want her dead. If he’d willed that it would have happened in a blink of an eye. Like so many men who resort to violence against women, he was simply, pathetically, trying to get her attention. Viciously and without a thought, he threw her to the floor where she landed next to the piano.
She was still gasping to get a breath when Malvolio turned to
her, once again the pleading child. “Please. I love you. We can stop this all if you just say yes to me.”
Heaving, gasping, Irene struggled to catch her breath. Finally she got enough air in her lungs to talk.
“Okay,” she croaked. “Fine.”
Malvolio could not believe it. He began ciying from joy. He stood up and found the ring, which had fallen to the floor behind him. He prepared to throw it through the Stargate. But before he did, he slipped it on his finger one last time.
Irene used the moment to find something, anything, to protect herself. Reaching on the desk she found a six-inch letter opener. Her hand wrapped around it.
Malvolio felt the power come through him for one last time. Her turned to his love to let her see him in this state before forever becoming mortal.
And she stabbed him.
If not for the power of the ring, the blade would have pierced his heart. Instead it broke against the skin of chest.
Irene, running on pure survival instinct, moved back toward the door, her eyes never leaving Malvolio’s. Her hand reached for the knob.
Malvolio did not move, his face neutral. “Go ahead. Leave.”
Irene got the door open and fled.
Malvolio watched the only thing he’d ever loved leave him. He felt empty, as if something had literally been removed from him.
He looked down at the broken blade, and at the ring on his finger, glowing dimly. He took the ring off.
He stood before the Stargate. For a moment he contemplated throwing it through and turning his back on his destiny.
But the folly of this made him laugh aloud for a long time. Instead, Malvolio walked to the mantel of the enormous fireplace and opened the mahogany box there. Inside were the rings he’d taken from Ackermann. He gathered up the box and walked toward the open door.
Irene poured a large glass of bourbon for herself and set it down on the coffee table next to her loaded .38 revolver. She knew that it would have little effect against Malvolio if he decided to come after her, but it was a comfort nonetheless. She lay back on the sofa, her mind running over what just happened.
Then she reached for that atlas with her on the couch and opened it to the string of islands running across the Central Pacific toward Japan. Her memory was air-tight and it didn’t fail her now. Using the coordinates she remembered from Malvolio’s map, she found the islands with ease.
he task force was a day’s sailing from the target of the invasion. On board the U.S.S. Eldorado, the invasion planners, a cross-service collection of militaiy elite, had just finished their morning planning meeting, reviewing the details of the invasion yet again.
Now back in his wardroom, the general was keyed up—he hadn’t slept in several nights and was functioning on caffeine and nicotine. In the cabin normally assigned to four Naval officers, he paced nervously in front of Piyne.
T
“This whole thing stinks. Scott is missing, so I don’t know if he’s a security breach or he’s dead somewhere. And if he’s dead I don’t know who killed him. Maybe this Malvolio is on the up and up, or maybe he’s not.”
Piyne agreed, but tried to assuage the general’s concerns. “As he pointed out, he could have chosen to go after the rings without us.” The general faced Pryne. “So why does he need us now?”
“I don’t know, sir. I wish I did.”
“The whole thing makes me nervous.”
A knock on the polished cabin door.
“Enter,” the general barked.
A Navy officer strode in. “Sir, Captain Brenenthal is here.” “Send him in.”
A young Marine officer strode into the cabin and snapped at attention. He was a recruiting poster Marine, straight out of central casting: strong jaw, confident demeanor, with a freshly healed scar running along his cheek.
He snapped a salute. “Captain Brenenthal reporting as ordered, sir.”
“At ease, Captain.”
The captain stood at parade rest, but still carried himself as if at full attention.
The general continued his pacing. “What do you know of your mission, Captain?”
“The colonel briefed me about Lord Malvolio, sir. My detail is to escort him as he gathers important... artifacts from the island, sir.” “Tell me what the detail is comprised of.”
“A hand-picked platoon of men from my company, sir. All are veterans of combat who have performed well under fire.”
“Fine. Your mission orders are correct. Escort Mister Malvolio in the recovery of said artifacts. But there’s one more thing. If your charge appears in any way to exhibit any behavior counter to the best interests of the mission, you are ordered to take him out.”
For the first time the Marine captain broke his stony demeanor, looking faintly surprised.
“Am I to hold him in custody?” “Negative. You are to use all forces at your disposal to kill him. Captain, this Malvolio character is capable of great destruction. If you have any doubt whatsoever, take him out. And be armed for bear. The man who was to keep tabs on this Malvolio is missing, so it’ll be up to you and your judgment. Err on the side of caution, Captain.”
The stoniness returned to Brenenthal’s face-he had his orders and was prepared to cany them out.
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, be aware that we will be observing your unit. If we see you engage Malvolio and he appears to have the upper hand, we’ll be calling in air and artillery strikes on your position.”
A slight tension showed in his jaw, but otherwise the young captain betrayed no emotion.
“Understood, sir.”
“What happens today could end this war very quickly. But if it turns against us, we’ll have to do eveiything we can to stop it.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
“Good luck Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The captain saluted, turned on his heels and strode out of the cabin.
The general opened another pack of cigarettes. He wished he had a drink, but it was only eight in the morning and he had a long day of preparation ahead.
Malvolio sat on the fantail, the warm salty breeze feeling good on his face. He watched the captain preparing with his escort of soldiers. They sat on the aft cargo hatch, cleaning their weapons.
&n
bsp; There was a seriousness about them that Malvolio appreciated—they registered none of the nervous joking or plain fear that most soldiers going into battle revealed, like bad gamblers. These men were seasoned—salty, as their captain described them, and they were ready for combat.
This was good for Malvolio. Their strength would be useful in the weeks ahead. Once he armed them with the recovered rings, they would make the core of his army and would be very helpful in taking over this planet.
The Stargate stood glowing amidst the trashed debris of the townhouse. It had sat that way since Malvolio left. In the darkness of the wrecked room, the shimmering Stargate took on a brightness as a harbinger to an arrival. Then suddenly, in a flash and visual warp like a heat wave, Alan Scott appeared through it, ready for a fight.
He floated in the room—the sight of the destruction around him surprised Scott and he realized that he’d have to find Malvolio first in order to stop him.
Scott flew through the upper atmosphere and stopped to look down at the world below him. Malvolio was doing nothing to hide his presence and power—the world was sloppy with the pollution of his force, like sprayed blood at a crime scene. All Scott had to do was use his own power to track and follow it.
He could feel Malvolio’s presence thousands of miles away. It was taking him to the Pacific.
The Avenger torpedo bomber usually held a crew of three, but since it was not carrying ordnance, it had room for an observer. The observer on this flight had her hair tucked under her flight helmet, and from her position below the rear gunner’s compartment she had an excellent view of the invasion that was about to begin.
The pilot’s voice crackled over her earphones. “You can see the first wave going in just to our port side.”
Irene looked through the small window positioned under the fuselage of the plane. On the surface of the ocean below them, dozens of little comma-shaped curves—the wakes of the Higgins boats—were moving in a rough line towards the wide beaches of a large atoll. Hundreds of yards behind the first wave, Irene saw the rough 0’s of the next wave of boxy boats circling, crammed with seasick soldiers.
And beyond those boats, in the darker, deeper water, lay the hundreds of ships of the invasion fleet: battleships, carriers, destroyer pickets, cruisers, oilers, hospital ships and transports, all doing their part to destroy the Japanese on the island and keep the Marines going in alive and equipped. The warships were finishing their last bombardment of the island before the Marines hit the beach.
The Higgins boats looked tiny on the water compared to the massive invasion fleet, like the offspring of a large pack of monsters, the bigger monsters spitting fire and iron toward the beach.
The scale of activity was enormous—the artillery bombardment, flashes and the geysers of sand and debris, palm trees and jungle fringe chewed up by the huge shells. Farther inland, Avenger and Dauntless bombers whipped low to drop bombs on perceived targets in the jungle growth. Occasionally a bright flash of secondary explosion followed by a plume of dirty smoke roiling skyward proved out the spotter’s guess.
Irene took pictures with her camera. The photos would be published in the Tribune as her exclusive and would compliment the radio stoiy she’d write and record later today. She kept herself busy at her job, recording everything on film, in notes and to memory—a professional witness to professional killing. She knew she was the only reporter to have this catbird’s seat to this enormous endeavor of mayhem and conquest and she was going to make the most of
She had pulled eveiy string she could to get on a transport and to the invasion fleet, but her argument was reasonable: now that she knew the details of the invasion, the military may as well include her so that she’s not a security risk. With her as part of the operation, they could keep an eye on her.
She’d gotten the scoop of the century.
She pressed her throat microphone. “Lieutenant, do you think we can get in closer?”
The pilot, a young man from Indio, California, was just as thrilled by the scene below and despite his orders to stay clear, he was eager to get in and perhaps do more than fly a woman reporter around as she took pictures and notes.
“Sure. Let me see what I can do.”
Irene felt the plane nose down as the pilot put it into a shallow spiraling decent over the invasion beach.
The wide stretch of beach was crammed with fighting and dying men. As the plane flew lower, Irene could see tracer fire snaking from hidden bunkers at the jungle’s edge. The American bombardment had abated as the Marines clambered from the Higgins boats at the water’s edge. She saw a squad of Marines wading ashore from their grounded LCT, and then, unable to move quickly in the water and weighted down with their combat equipment, they watched Japanese machine gun fire send up spurts of sand on the beach toward them, then into the water, then into the group of men, killing or wounding half of them. The surviving half struggled around their comrades, surging in the red-tinged water past them, their entire beings focused on getting onto the beach and to take cover, any cover.
Then Japanese mortar rounds began dropping down on the beach, spraying sand and shrapnel through the Marines crawling and stumbling forward.
The pilot’s voice came through on Irene's headset. “They have the beach zeroed in for mortar fire. Those boys are sitting ducks unless they get off the beach.”
The Avenger flew farther inland, over a tiny airstrip cratered to uselessness, the Japanese planes burning or destroyed.
Irene spotted a clearing at the base of the atoll’s dormant volcano, the only high point of the island.
She pressed her throat microphone. “Can you fly over that clearing?”
The Avenger dipped towards the camp.
Paul Shustak poked his head from the mouth of the cave they had been digging for the past several months. The cave tormented them for so long: the Japanese officer with the strange device, the never-ending work of digging deeper into the volcanic rock, dying men being dragged from the depths of the tunnel. So many dead of disease, starvation, and torture, their captors flogging them on like beasts, not caring about their suffering or if they died.
All for those yellow rings.
And now the tunnel they dreaded entering became a sanctuary from their countiymen’s bombs.
Two dozen POWs—the only survivors left—huddled just inside the mouth of the cave, listening and looking expectantly. Shustak was the oldest among them. Some were captured airmen, others unlucky veterans of sunken ships or failed invasions. Shustak was the most veteran of them, having survived on pure animal instinct.
Paul sensed that their liberation was close at hand, and he wanted to get involved. Even now Paul had the urge to fight—it’s what had kept him alive all these months, and what drove him from the cave mouth. It was stupid—the others told him so—and he knew it, yet he wanted to put himself out there, get involved and take part in his own salvation.
The beachhead went from random sniping and the occasional mortar round exploding, to a steady stream of enemy fire and artillery rounds dropping all around them.
The LCT’s front ramp had dropped with a splash. Brenenthal’s men were lucky—their LCT made it to the beach instead of wallowing on the reef. Coming in, Malvolio had seen a mortar round score a direct hit on a neighboring LCT, and he heard the shrill screams and saw body parts flying up.
“They got the entire beach zeroed in, the bastards,” Brenenthal said, peering over the lip of the ramp. He said it almost with admiration, like the captain of an opposing team watching his underestimated opponent putting up a resilient defense.
Malvolio was amazed—the mechanical ferociousness of the battle was overwhelming, deafening, blurring. It was an alien experience, and looking about he saw the same grim fear and bewilderment in the Marines around him. The fear was childlike and irrational, without philosophy or politics. If he had his power he would have simply wished himself away to anywhere but here. It was the simplest and strongest thought in his head. But
his power had waned badly and he would need all of it to activate the rings. For now he was as vulnerable as any man on the beach.
Malvolio could see that only Captain Brenenthal was focused, completely locked in to the goals of the mission. The first and foremost was to get the men off the beach.
They were taking cover behind a sandy berm created by the receding tide. It provided no cover and negligible concealment. Other than a few fallen palm trees, the only real cover were the bodies of the Marines that had fallen before them, which the surviving Marines, in that moment of madness, were eternally grateful to have.
Malvolio felt and heard the snap of bullets passing by him, and he was sprayed by sand thrown up from the artillery shells. The air felt alive with the very molecules of death, and moving in them would be like trying to walk between molecules. He felt a tug and turned to see a concerned Brenenthal pulling at his shoulder, yelling and pointing up the beach.
Malvolio looked to where Brenenthal was gesturing—a trailhead to a simple path barely noticeable in the dense jungle. Malvolio understood that that was the path to the dig. Brenenthal was mouthing something, and for what seemed like a long time Malvolio could not understand, until finally he saw the two words that Brenenthal was yelling through the roar of gunfire.
“Follow me.”
Malvolio nodded, and Brenenthal got to his feet and made a run for the trail. Malvolio followed closely behind. Around them, the platoon of Marines instinctively provided covering fire for their leader. Brenenthal knew that they would do so and didn’t bother to give the order.
Not that it would have mattered. The Marines were firing blindly. It was more psychological than practical—it gave them something to do other than cower.
Malvolio crashed through the leafy jungle growth to a dirt path and fell to the ground. The captain was in front of him, on his stomach, searching for any nearby enemy. Malvolio breathed heavily. He hated being mortal and he felt the smallness of it. The gunfire in the jungle was much less, although the huge leaves were dancing to occasional random shots whipping through them.
He crawled to the captain, who was stock still, peering into the jungle, down the path. Malvolio knew not to say anything.
Green Lantern - Sleepers Book 2 Page 20