Tomorrow War

by Maloney, Mack;

  After all, with the beautiful weather, scenery, food, wine, and girls—why leave? There were enough girls to go around for him and Soho. Viktor figured, all he had to do was best Soho in the personal hygiene department and he would get the pick of the beauty litter, so to speak.

  “Are you busy?” Soho asked Viktor now. He was carrying a frying pan with him. “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all,” Viktor lied, casting a woeful glance toward the cowering girls. “Can I do something to repay your kind hospitality?”

  Soho slipped the frying pan behind his back in an amateurish attempt to hide it.

  “Yes,” he replied. “Walk with me. Talk with me.”

  So they took a long walk.

  They passed the crude airplane sculpture up on the ridge, strolled along a path that led over to yet another taller cliff, and slowly meandered along the rim of an ancient volcano. The views were spectacular.

  Soho did most of the talking. He spoke of how beautiful the island was, how much he cherished it, and how he had spent a lot of time arranging for the right “helpers”—the beautiful young girls—to come to this part of Fiji and stay with him.

  He pointed out his favorite plants and trees. He talked about how the weather affected everything on the island, and that the weather was always perfect. Therefore, the island was perfect, too.

  He spoke about how he would leave the pineapple rinds out in the sun for a week and then bury them to give the pine-wine its slight hallucinogenic affect, though Viktor did not believe this was the only reason for the wine’s kick. Soho was pleasant, and in a jolly mood. Still, Viktor wanted to do nothing else but turn around and walk—no, run—back to his “recovery” hut.

  Their walk went on for about a half hour before Viktor became aware that Soho was leading him around to the other side of the island, a piece of the paradise he’d yet to see.

  They reached a peak that anchored the northern end of the island and provided a breathtaking view of the ocean beyond. Soho stopped and looked at the great sea beyond, the high winds blew away his cloud of body odor for the moment.

  “Strange things have been happening up that way,” he said, indicating a northeasterly direction. “I had a dream that someone told me most of Japan does not exist anymore.”

  Viktor just shrugged.

  “Strange things are happening all over,” Viktor said, more for lack of anything else to say. “One big war concludes, another begins. Some wars last a day, some for half a century. This is a strange world you live in.”

  Soho turned and looked him in the eye.

  “You say that like you’re from someplace else,” he said.

  Viktor froze for a moment He was not going to tell this individual his life story—brief as it was to his mind. That was something the Man back on West Falkland Island had warned him about. The less people who knew his origins, the better.

  “Just an expression,” Viktor finally replied. “Though I have to admit I have no idea how I made it from the bottom of South America to this paradise. One second I was being enveloped by a huge wave. The next, I’d been washed upon your shore. It’s almost as if we have a link, you and I. Perhaps the cosmos wanted us to meet.”

  Soho just smiled and stared at him for a long moment.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps …”

  Soho started walking again and Viktor naturally followed. They went over the next hill and for the first time, Viktor realized that there was more to this island than just Soho’s smelly being and a bevy of tropical angels.

  Down the cliff on the beach was a long line of gigantic holding pens, each with about a hundred young men inside. The pens were all double-reinforced with thick wire, which included a roof, giving the place the look of a zoo where only the wildest and most dangerous animals might be kept.

  A large black ship was anchored offshore. It was heavily armored, with a swarm of Bug copters buzzing around it.

  Viktor was astonished at what he was seeing. Up until that moment, he just assumed that Soho and the girls were alone in paradise.

  “Who … who are those men in the cages?” he asked Soho.

  “They are all the other males who live here,” Soho replied, his voice getting a bit deeper, his reek getting a bit stronger. “Every able-bodied one from fifteen to fifty-five is down there. Waiting to be loaded aboard that ship you see.”

  Viktor could not take his eyes off the cage full of men. They all looked dejected, dopey, even sleepy.

  “They are all full of pine-wine,” Soho said, reading his mind. “They drank way too much of it two nights ago—and that’s where it got them.”

  “But why?” Viktor asked.

  “Because it is like you said, my friend,” Soho answered. “There is a new war every minute on this planet. A new war means there must be gristle for the grinder. I’m a businessman. I sell soldiers.”

  “All these men are going to fight somewhere?”

  Soho laughed. “Yes, they are,” he said “Whether they know it or not.”

  “And you sold them into this?” Viktor asked him astounded.

  “Yes,” Soho replied. “Of course I did.”

  Viktor was feeling like this might be a dream. Either that, or he’d drunk too much pine-wine to make sense of this.

  “But why?” was all he could ask as he saw men in black uniforms take about a dozen men from one pen and force them at gunpoint onto a boat, which would bring them out to the waiting ship.

  “Why?” Soho laughed. “You really have to ask me why?”

  Viktor just shrugged. One of the prisoners was resisting and was now being beaten mercilessly by the men in black uniforms.

  “Once all these men are gone, I’ll have this place plus all the girls to myself,” Soho bragged. “Who wouldn’t want those circumstances?”

  Viktor had to admit that Soho had a point. But at what cost?

  “You understand, then?” Soho asked him. “I mean, really … why would I want a bunch of guys around here to ruin such a good thing? Even one other rival would be too much. With them all gone, I would be king of this paradise.”

  “I have to tell you, that would be a dream of mine, I guess,” Viktor said.

  “That’s just what I thought,” Soho replied.

  Viktor turned just in time to see the frying pan heading right for his temple. It hit with such a force, he actually saw stars, for about two seconds. Then he slumped to the ground where Soho knelt down and whacked him on the head again. And again.

  “Dream about this,” he said.

  CHAPTER 29

  BOBBY BAULIS HAD BEEN at the controls of the Bro-Bird for seventeen straight hours when the long-range radio message came in.

  He’d just finished sharing a huge cup of coffee with one of the young hookers. She’d been on his lap for the past six hours of this long tour, keeping him company. He was looking to be relieved within the hour—in more ways than one.

  The huge seaplane’s position was exactly 101 miles south of the towed aircraft carrier. The carrier was about to enter the Straits of Mallaca, near what was known to some as Singapore. The seaplane was just above the northern tip of Sumatra.

  This was the third long-range scouting mission Baulis had undertaken since the six-plane search party departed for inland Indochina. So far, the voyage of the seaplane-aircraft carrier tandem had been quiet. They’d met no hostile forces; they’d seen very few other ships or airplanes. In fact, things had been going remarkably smoothly considering they were traveling in rather dangerous seas.

  But all that was about to change.

  Bro had just readjusted his petite beauty on his lap and set in the autopilot for another hour-long, figure-eight course when his radioman climbed up to the enormous flight deck and handed him a long sheet of yellow paper. It had few words typed onto it.

  “Just received and decoded, Bro,” the radioman told him. “I think our friends are in some trouble.”

  Bro read the missive twice before the words on it
really sank in. The last full message he’d received from Y and the others had reported that they had set down in the River Valley of Kwai in Thailand. That message had given their position, their fuel supply, and their general disposition, and had ended with a slightly enigmatic: “Much more later ….”

  That had been nearly twenty-four hours ago. Now this message was sent not by Y but by the radioman inside the converted HellJet cargo plane.

  It reported that the Z-16 and two AirCat fighters had been lost to hostile action, with two other AirCats damaged.

  Baulis was shocked by this news—but it was the location of the plane’s downing that really lit him up: Kabul Downs in the wilds of Afghanistan.

  “That’s the last place I would want to go,” Baulis said to the radioman.

  “They want to know what they should do, sir,” the radioman replied. “They are awaiting further orders. Your orders …”

  “My orders?” he asked. “Why me? No one has ever awaited my orders before.”

  The radioman just shrugged. “Well, Bro,” he said. “I guess with that OSS guy down, and the Jones boys, as well, you’re the next in line on this crazy operation.”

  Baulis thought about this for a long moment and finally lifted the young hooker off his lap.

  It was time to get serious.

  “Yell down to the carrier,” he told the radioman. “Brief them on this, and tell them we’re coming back. I want a meeting of all the remaining AirCat pilots at exactly sixteen hundred hours in the carrier’s war planning room … Got it?”

  “Got it,” the radioman confirmed as he began to walk away.

  But that’s when the pretty little hooker whispered something into Bro’s ear. Bro nodded once and called the radioman back.

  “Make that sixteen-thirty hours,” he said with a grin.

  Another whispered conversation ensued.

  “And tell them if I’m not there,” Bro added, “they can start without me ….”

  CHAPTER 30

  Kabul Downs

  LOOKING BACK ON IT, Y remembered almost everything with amazing clarity.

  He recalled the calm that settled upon the flight deck of the Z-16 in the last few seconds before it crash-landed in the center of the city of Kabul Downs.

  He remembered thousands of faces looking up at the stricken airplane as it was coming down. They were all soldiers—some in blue uniforms, some in red. They were battling each other on the wreckage-strewn streets below; the sudden appearance of the Z-16 caused an odd temporary halt in what had been a huge running battle.

  Etched most clearly in his mind were the actions of the Jones boys just moments before the airplane plowed in. Somehow the pilots had kept the airplane airborne long enough to find what had to be the only flat piece of real estate inside the cluttered medieval-looking city: that was Saint Kensington Park. This was a half-square-mile area with several rolling hills and a huge lake in its exact center. It was here that the Jones boys were able to steer the broken, flaming wreckage of the big Z-16, killing the single workable engine about fifteen seconds before impact, and pulling the sharp nose up so severely, everything not tied down inside the plane wound up at the rear end of the cabin—people included.

  Maybe five seconds before impact, the airplane leveled off again, and using the remaining lift caused by its ultra-long wings, the Jones boys were able to glide the plane into the large artificial lake, somehow being able to set the ass end of the aircraft down on the water first, before the nose came crashing down.

  It was still a very hard impact The Z-16 weighed thirty tons and its speed on the way down was more than two hundred knots. But the Jones boys’ superb flying skills had made the best of a disastrous situation. The plane’s nose hit once, bounced up, hit again, bounced again, and then finally crashed into the lake for good.

  Y’s next clear memory was of water—tons of it rushing into the flight cabin, sucking down everything and everyone with it.

  He had a clear recollection of Crabb, with Brandee under one arm, and Brandy under the other, kicking his way up and out of the airplane through a large gash that had somehow appeared on the aircraft’s roof.

  He could close his eyes now and see Zoltan carrying Brayn-Di, under her shoulders, half swimming, half climbing his way out of the torn submerged fuselage.

  Y’s next memory was of Dave Jones pulling Emma away from him and then disappearing out of the lifesaving gash in the roof. Then, he recalled Seth Jones landing a roundhouse punch to Y’s jaw, a blow that was not slowed down very much even though they were under water.

  Y’s next memory was of being hauled to the cement shoreline of the artificial lake and being laid out on a concrete pad that, he noticed ironically, was really a platform supporting several public-drinking fountains. He recalled soldiers running by him, all of them in red uniforms, some ignoring them, others pointing their guns threateningly before moving on.

  Also clear was the sound of explosions going off all around them, and the sight of tracer streaks crisscrossing over his head making hundreds of crazy-quilt patterns against the afternoon sky. He remembered the pair of AirCat fighters—they looked so huge in flight!—buzzing the lake and the plane crash site twice before being waved off by Dave Jones.

  Then he remembered turning over on his side and allowing his stomach to regurgitate several gallons of water and just about every drop of liquor he had consumed in the past week.

  Then, he recalled seeing Emma lying beside him. And he remembered taking her hand and finding it very cold. Then he remembered lifting himself up and looking down into her face and seeing that she was smiling, her eyes open, her face pointing straight up but not seeing anything.

  He recalled putting his mouth to hers and trying to blow breath into her lungs, but knowing that it was useless.

  Then he remembered Seth Jones and Crabb pulling him away, and Dave Jones covering Emma’s face with his flight jacket.

  Then he remembered being surrounded by many soldiers in blue uniforms.

  Then he remembered crying uncontrollably.

  After that, he could remember no more ….

  Now Y raised his head and saw nothing but black.

  He was in a very dark room, carved of black stone. The floor was black with smudge and filth, the ceiling was covered with burnt-black from candles lit within for over seven centuries.

  Even the bars on the tiny window were black.

  He rubbed his dirty face and found it was wet again.

  He’d been in this prison cell for more than twenty-four hours, and still the tears were flowing down his cheeks.

  He closed his eyes and as always he saw Emma’s pretty face, smiling up at him. Eyes glistening, but lifeless within. What happened to her? Had she been killed by the impact? Or had she drowned? Was there anything he could have done to save her? Could he have held her just a bit closer? Would she still be alive today if he had?

  He cursed himself bitterly. He’d been drunk for ninety-nine percent of the little time he’d spent with her, and only the soggiest of memories remained. But he could still smell her sweetness on his lips, and feel her warmth in his chest. And those eyes! And that voice ….

  He put his head in his hands again and tried to stop crying, but couldn’t.

  Hell was black.

  He knew that now.

  He stood up and stretched his chains just enough to see out the tiny prison window.

  The Z-16 had come down in the middle of a huge battle in the central part of Kabul Downs. He and the others had been captured by the Blues, the soldiers who controlled the city. Apparently the Red Army soldiers had just completed a massive raid and were withdrawing back to their lines when the Z-16 plowed in. Everyone on board the recon plane was dubbed a spy for the Reds and thrown into chains.

  They had all been in this cell with him at first. But the Blues had come for them one by one. First, the four “Brandy”s. Then Zoltan, then Crabb. Then Seth Jones. Then his brother, Dave.

  They were being
shot as spies.

  Y was the last one left.

  Way off in the distance, he could see a long line of trenches just outside the city’s limits. Even now a huge battle was taking place out there.

  To Y’s bleary eyes it looked like a replay of World War One trench warfare. The trenches stretched for as far as he could see in both directions. Huge artillery pieces were firing from both sides, the sky was filled with puffs of white smoke. There were even dozens of those damn bijets flying above the battlefield, endlessly shooting at each other. The noise coming from all this was so loud, it was echoing around his cell walls.

  It was strange because Y was familiar with the building in which he was being held. He had visited here many times in years past. It was known as the Lords Towers and it was a huge structure that looked like a castle and was located on the highest point within Kabul Downs.

  There was a waterfall pouring out of the bottom of this castle; it flowed into the narrow Saint Yabuk river. This deep-blue waterway ran a zigzag course through the embattled city, before going under a bridge and passing beyond the lines held by the Red Army soldiers. The Yabuk was once a beautiful meandering estuary with trees and exotic plants lining both sides. Now its banks were dead, heavily littered with wreckage from a dirty little war that Y estimated had been going on for quite some time.

  All this was especially ironic. He had known this city long before it had been torn apart by war. Friendly, if eccentric, people, great food, great booze, great art and music. Whenever he’d thought back on it, his eyes would see a hundred different shades of green.

  Now, like his soul, it had all turned black.

  He collapsed back to the floor and put his head down on his knees again. There was a rock in Y’s stomach that told him he would not be a prisoner here much longer. Just as they came for the others, they would soon be coming for him.