The first message detailed the air raid, its damage, the number of raiders shot down and a preliminary report that the Voodoos were owned by a notorious southern air pirate band run by a former drug-running pilot named Riggs.
The second communiqué reported Crunch’s discovery of the destroyed Skinhead squadron.
“Will we ever catch a break on this one?” Fitz asked, as he read the reports over for the third time. “No sooner do we get rid of those Skinhead bums than a new bunch takes their place.”
Hunter too was momentarily disheartened. With the Skinheads gone and many of Devillian’s Mirages and Soviet aircraft destroyed in the Santa Fe air strike, he had hoped that the Burning Cross’s air support would be at a minimum once the train reached the Grand Canyon.
But now it appeared that this would not be the case.
“The only bright spot is that these air pirates are probably undertrained as compared to the Skinheads,” he said. “If they’ve thrown in with Devillian—which it appears that they have—they might be a little easier to handle when the time comes. But not much.”
“Devillian’s got to be hopping mad over the fact that the Skins deserted him,” Cobra Brother Jesse Tyler said. “He probably doesn’t even realize that we just did him the favor of icing the bastards.”
“That appears to be true,” Fitz said, reading a new report as it clicked over the telex. “This is from Bad River’s guys down near the mesa. They say that Devillian’s own chopper was spotted leaving the place early this morning. He had an escort of Hinds with him, and fighter contrails were also spotted overhead.”
“If past performance is any indication, Devillian’s probably on board,” Tyler said. “They’re so short of fuel I can’t imagine anyone just taking the SOB’s personal gunship up for just a joyride.”
Hunter nodded gloomily. “He’s making his move.”
Chapter 58
RED BANNER WAS TERRIFIED.
He’d been beaten and chained by the three men in Nazi uniforms. Yet the worst torture of all for him was the frightening helicopter ride he had been forced to endure shortly after his abduction. Following the flight he’d taken the day the Modern Pioneers train crashed into the LA Amtrak station, Banner had an addendum written into his contract at KOAS-TV that he would never have to fly while on duty again. Being the station’s senior on-air man, the management agreed, and Banner was positive that he would never leave terra firma again.
But his mysterious kidnappers had changed that.
After being spirited away from his high-rise, his abductors, practically oblivious to the air raid going on all around them, pummeled him for several minutes and then threw him into the trunk of a car. Roaring off into the night, they drove at break-neck speed for more than three hours.
When they finally stopped and pulled him out, it was close to midnight. They were in an isolated canyon that might have been near Topanga, but Banner had been too frightened to even get his bearings. At this point, he was clubbed briefly with what looked to be pool sticks.
He was then thrown into a sack, and minutes later he heard the dreadful sound of the helicopter approaching. Through a pinhole in the bag, he saw that the aircraft was a cleverly disguised version of a regular LA militia chopper. Banner vomited heavily at this point, so certain that the strange men in Nazi uniforms were about to drop him into the Pacific Ocean.
Instead, he stayed sick for the next five hours as the helicopter made its way south and east, setting down frequently in order to dodge the Coaster militia’s air patrols.
When the chopper finally reached its destination and Banner was unleashed from the bag, it was morning, and he was standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon.
He vomited once again, his condition hardly being helped by the several swift kicks to the stomach he received courtesy of the man dressed in the very ornate Nazi uniform. Then he was blindfolded, dragged up a hill for about an eighth of a mile and at some point thrown into a small pool of water, which though muddy, did serve to wash away the more disgusting stains from his clothes.
Still blindfolded, he then was force marched for about fifteen minutes. When his captors finally removed the cloth from his eyes, he was astonished to see that he was in the middle of what looked like a cross between a military encampment and a movie set.
Some sort of a lecture was going on not far away, and his guards eventually kicked him in that direction. They met a tall, blond, very German-looking man who was covered in bandages about his head and shoulders.
One of the men addressed this man as Major Heck.
“This is the newsman,” the other told Heck. “He threw up the entire way here.”
The Nazi officer looked at Banner and sneered. “Typical,” he said.
“What … what do you want with me?” Banner was surprised to hear himself ask.
The Nazi officer smiled, though obviously it pained him to do so.
“You are a guest of the Burning Cross,” he told Banner with fake politeness. “You are a newsman, and we are about to create one of the biggest news events of all time. We want you to report it.”
“But I’m not a reporter,” Banner replied weakly, thinking he might have suddenly found a loophole out of his predicament. “I’ve never taken a journalism course in my entire life.”
Heck looked at him angrily. “You are on TV reporting the news, no?” he asked.
“Reading the news,” Banner corrected him. “I’ve never actually written a news story. I don’t even know how to type!”
Heck turned to the three kidnappers. “Did we get the right man?”
As one, the three men nodded. “Yes, sir,” one said. “This is the guy that Devillian showed us on the tape. He’s supposed to be the most watched newsman in LA.”
Heck turned back to Banner. “This is true?” he asked, fingering his sidearm. “If not, you die here.”
Banner recognized the man’s pistol as a .45 automatic and quickly changed his tune.
“It is true,” Banner assured him. “More people watch me than any of those other guys combined. I even pull better ratings than our weatherman.”
The boast was completely lost on Heck.
“You are here to report a story,” he said through gritted teeth to Banner. “We have a camera crew for you, and a satellite dish which will feed pictures back to your station in LA.”
Banner began stumbling around for the right words.
“I don’t know what you guys have in mind,” he said, once again eyeing the elaborate camp. “But have you cleared all this with KOAS? I mean, they won’t run just anything.”
Heck slapped him once, hard across the cheek.
“We are about to make history here!” he screamed at Banner. “Believe me, they will not only put it all on the air, they will show the movie once it is finished.”
The slap had knocked Banner nearly unconscious. Still, he somehow was able to cough out one last question.
“You mean you guys are making a movie, too?” he croaked.
On the other side of the encampment, Duke Devillian adjusted his fiery red beret and then snapped his leather horse whip.
“This is it,” he told himself out loud. “This is the first day of the rest of my life.”
Two quick tokes from his crack pipe and he bounded out of the circus-size tent that served as his temporary headquarters and onto a wooden stage that had been erected at the edge of one of the canyon walls.
Before him was an audience of about fifty men—officers of the Burning Cross as well as representatives from the various mercenary groups that made up the bulk of his army.
They gave him a polite round of applause, and then he spoke:
“As you all know, today we are about to embark on our greatest adventure,” he began, virtually repeating the speech given to practically the same audience back at the mesa a few days before. “And it is an opportunity given to us by those preposterous heroes who even as we speak are heading this way on that train of theirs.
With a drug-induced flair, Devillian dramatically pulled back the curtain that was hiding a large easel in the center of the stage.
“Tomorrow …” he intoned, “we begin the new era of a pure, all-white America!”
Written across the top of the large white pad being held by the easel were the words “Ten Miles to Hell, a Duke Devillian/Burning Cross Production.”
Devillian cleared his throat and began strutting up and down the stage.
“It is time for a review, gentlemen,” he said. “Our plan is to fight a battle here along the southern rim of the canyon that will be viewed by a large number of citizens of this country. Just like the politicians in the pre-war days, we must adhere to the fact that TV and the filmed image are what make people pay attention—actions, not words, are what make people take notice.
“And that’s what our production tomorrow will have: Action! Also adventure, realism, thrills and chills. In short, we will create the world’s largest action, adventure, splatter/slasher/snuff film of all time. And of course our production will have a moral—which is, that White is right.
“This creation will be our tool. Anyone who sees it—just like anyone who saw Triumph of the Will—will be convinced that we are right, that we are the future of this country. That we are the power! And they will accept this, whether it takes one viewing or a hundred viewings!”
By this time, most of the people in the audience were convinced that Devillian had finally gone off the deep end.
Not only was the man repeating parts of the same old speeches he’d been peppering them with for days, but even the crudest air pirate leaders saw that the cross-eyed terrorist was swinging in and out of reality, one second imagining himself to be some kind of Hollywood mogul, the next the commander of the dangerously large entity called the Burning Cross. Not a few of them were wishing they were someplace else.
But they had little choice but to sit and listen. They were a captive audience in all respects, a fact driven home by the large number of Devillian’s personal bodyguards surrounding the small open-air stage. It was also well known that with the defection of the Skinheads, Devillian was even more inclined to turn his wrath against any ally who showed less than dedicated enthusiasm.
The supremacist leader turned back to the easel and indicated a large map of a nearby section of the Grand Canyon rim that had been drawn in multi-colored crayons.
“Now, as you all know by now, all of our troops have been deployed along this ten-mile stretch of track,” he continued. “The United Americans’ train has no choice but to pass through here, and we’ll have every weapons system in our combined arsenals waiting for it. For those bleeding hearts, this stretch of track will truly be Ten Miles to Hell.
“Along with a myriad of gun posts and so on, we have stationed literally dozens of movie cameras as well as video machines. These will insure that every second of action is captured for posterity. Every moment of the fighting will be recorded on film and on video.
“Now, the video portion of the battle will be immediately beamed up to a working satellite and directed to the largest TV station in LA. They will have no other choice but to put it on the air because their citizens have been following the progress of this wretched train for days, wondering if it will make it to the West Coast. Well, gentlemen, it won’t—and we will have a fully documented video broadcast as evidence as to why this insane Freedom Express mission failed. We have even retained the services of one of LA’s best-known newsmen, and he will be describing the action for the large viewing audience out on the coast.
“We will also be filming the action in wide-screen 35-millimeter, courtesy of our friends from the New Holy Roman Empire. You can see that they’ve been working very hard up here setting up their lights and cameras and so on. Later on, when our Roman friends develop and edit this film, we will distribute it to anyone and everyone who wants a copy, so that you can see once again the defeat of these United American dreamers. I predict here and now it will be one of the most-watched films of all time.
“So that once again, gentlemen, is our plan.”
There was an eerie silence as the officers in the audience tried to make some sense out of this, just one of a series of Devillian’s strange performances. Were they discussing a battle or a movie? No one was quite sure.
Suddenly one of the bodyguards began clapping. Then another joined in, and another and another. Soon the audience of officers was clapping too, harder and harder so as not to upset their leader.
When the somewhat reluctant applause finally died down, a number of Burning Cross lieutenants made their way through the audience, distributing small booklets marked “Shooting Schedule.” Inside the book were instructions for each unit of the Burning Cross and how they would play their roles during the production.
“In conclusion …” Devillian yelled in order to regain the attention of his audience, “we are looking for everyone to play their part when the time comes. We expect the train to pass through here as fast as it can. But the way we have laid out our gun posts and so on, our intent will be to gradually slow it down, thereby creating the tension as well as the momentum that every great production of this type must have.
“We estimate that by the time the train reaches the last few miles of the ten-mile stretch, it will be so battered and damaged that we will then be able to apply the coup de grace, so to speak. This is why the majority of our fixed cameras will be located around Mile Six through Mile Ten.
“I can also tell you that we have a number of surprises cooked up—as contingencies arise—plus a secret grand finale that you won’t want to miss.”
This pronouncement was met with only scattered applause and a barrage of baffled stares.
“Now, I do want to make a very special introduction at this point,” Devillian said, feeling that he was losing the audience ever so slightly. “I want to call someone up on stage here with me. Someone who has contributed mightily to this effort.
“Let’s have a big round of applause for Major Heck of the late, great Twisted Cross!”
Despite his injuries and bandages, Heck ran up to the stage with the enthusiasm of a game show contestant.
Joining Devillian at center stage, Heck saluted and bowed, bathed in the loud, bodyguard-directed applause.
Devillian laughed and, putting his arm around the German, asked the audience: “He’s a heck of a guy, isn’t he?”
Few people got the joke, but they clapped anyway, ever wary of the dozens of bodyguards’ guns that were close to being leveled at them.
Devillian went on: “I just want to say that Major Heck here has been given a very special place in the production tomorrow. He will be in charge of the opening sequence, which every buff knows is the most important part of any production.
“I would also like to say to him and to you, Good luck and don’t screw it up.”
There was yet another round of enforced applause. Then Devillian took one long bow and yelled:
“We begin shooting at daybreak tomorrow!”
Chapter 59
JUANITA JUAREZ AWOKE WITH a start.
For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The dilapidated ceiling above her was cracked and peeling, and the bed smelled of mildew and dust. It was raining outside—hard and cold—and through the yellow-stained window next to her bed she could see the runny outlines of pine trees swaying in a heavy wind.
It was late afternoon, and she had just had a dream in which she was a movie star who became fabulously wealthy and famous only to be shot by one of her admiring fans. The weird twist was the actual shooting was filmed before a large audience who seemed to enjoy it each time a bullet
hit her—in slow motion, appropriately enough.
It was slowly coming back to her now. Her middle-of-the-night flight from Santa Fe, just one step ahead of Devillian’s men—or so she supposed. It had been that man who caused it all—that mysterious stranger who claimed he was Hawk Hunter. She didn’t know whether she believed that or not; all she did know was that he had the power to put her into a sexual trance so deep, she would have revealed anything and everything to him just upon his request. That hot night in her apartment, she had told him the most dangerous thing of all: what she knew about Devillian’s plans for the train.
Spilling the information was akin to putting a death sentence on her own head. She knew that eventually she would have to pay for it, thus her decision to flee Santa Fe and go north, bound for a place she wasn’t sure even existed—but knowing that if it did, she would be safe, at least temporarily.
Someone stirred beside her; it was the pilot. She didn’t even know his name, but that didn’t matter. He was serving his purpose, which was getting her out of Santa Fe and eventually up into Free Canada, all in return for unlimited sex.
That was fine with Juanita. She didn’t mind playing the harlot in exchange for a good chance of escape.
The pilot woke up, and he too seemed to have trouble remembering where he was. He turned and saw her, and this was the trigger back to daytime reality.
“How much farther is it?” she asked, pulling up the coarse army blanket to her breasts, modestly covering them.
“To the border? About another day and a half,” he replied. “We still have to keep up our front by flying low and slow, like the lumber jocks do. Once we reach Free Canada, I figure another day, that is if you are sure where the hell this place is we’re going.”
“Just get me in the general area,” Juanita said. “I’ll find it.”
“You’re the boss,” the pilot replied with a lecherous smile.
“Then, we must leave soon,” she told him.
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