Return from the Inferno

by Maloney, Mack;

  None of the commandos spoke fluent English. Norwegian seemed to be the language of choice. Not that it mattered. The combination of the Westland’s powerful but noisy engines and the open bay doors made any kind of conversation impossible.

  The pilot of the chopper was one man that did speak English. And as luck would have it, he was also an old friend. Bobby Crockett, one half of the famous Cobra Brothers attack helicopter team, had been flying helos for Wolf since the first days of the Fourth Reich invasion. His Cobra partner and brother-in-law, Jesse Tyler, had been missing since the first days of the German occupation.

  Frost and Crockett had spoken many times since Frost’s deployment to the battleship. They had gone through much together in the heyday of United America. Now both of them shared the grief of knowing that many of their close comrades in arms were either missing, imprisoned, or dead.

  So it was with genuine appreciation and mystification that Crockett heard about Frost’s incredibly bizarre encounter with another old mutual friend, Mike Fitzgerald. In fact, Crockett insisted that Frost tell him the story many times over, just to make sure he’d gotten all of the weird details straight. After imparting the story at least a half dozen times, Crockett admitted that he was as baffled as Frost as to what it all meant. A similar message to Wolf explaining the strange incident produced a similar reaction.

  The pair of Lynx flew for about forty-five minutes over the clean green waters of the Caribbean. They passed over dozens of small islands, and intentionally flew around several more. Several times Frost spotted other aircraft, cargo planes mostly, flying off in the distance, heading west as he was heading east. As the Lynx pilots did nothing to avoid being spotted by these airplanes, Frost had to assume they were part of the growing anti-fascist coalition.

  They’d just passed an hour in flight when Frost saw Crockett waving him into the Lynx’s cockpit. It took the Free Canadian several minutes to unbuckle his safety straps and make his way over the mountain of commandos. But he finally reached the front part of the heavily armed, heavily loaded helo and crammed himself into the narrow space between the two pilots’ seats.

  “We’re five minutes from touchdown,” Crockett yelled to him. “I thought you’d want to see our destination from up front.”

  Frost immediately began scanning the far horizon, searching for some kind of landfall or an island on which he expected the Lynx to set down.

  “Cuba?” he yelled up to Crockett, appreciative of the irony that would accompany his finding that a secret American base had been established on the island nation.

  But it was not to be. The destination of the Lynx was not Cuba or any other island.

  “There it is,” Crockett yelled over the racket of the engine blades, pointing directly east. “See it?”

  Frost strained his eyes to focus on the horizon, but saw nothing at first. But then, gradually, he began to make out something riding atop the green sea. It was just a speck, but it quickly grew large as the helicopter drew closer. Soon it began to take a definitive shape. It was a large black-gray rectangle, long and flat except for a brief interruption midway on its silhouette. It was definitely floating, and there seemed to be bits of air activity going on above and around it.

  It finally dawned on Frost what he was looking at. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Is it?” he yelled into Crockett’s earphone. “Is it really … ?”

  The pilot nodded once. “It is,” he confirmed.

  Before them, riding still but proud in the calm tropic sea, was an enormous aircraft carrier.

  Two minutes later, the pair of Westland Lynx were circling the ship.

  Despite the immense majesty of its size, Frost could quickly tell that the aircraft carrier was far from operational. Its deck was bare of aircraft, save for two gray camouflaged Sea Hawk helos and a single all black Huey. None of its half dozen radar dishes were spinning, none of its navigation runners were lit. And, for want of a better description, the ship looked fairly beaten up. At the very least it needed a good cleaning and a fresh coat of paint.

  “Which one is she?” Frost yelled to Crockett as they made their final circle before landing.

  “It’s the USS Enterprise,” Crockett yelled back. “CVN-Sixty-Five. Last seen in the Indian Ocean the day World War Three ended.”

  Frost could not help but stare down at the massive ship in awe. Already he was rushing to some very likely conclusions. This was no doubt the aircraft carrier used by the Fourth Reich to launch their devastating sneak attack on the United American air forces right after the successful repelling of the vicious Norse assault on the Florida east coast. Yet it was obviously now in the hands of the Americans.

  The big question was: How?

  As it turned out, it was a query that had many different answers.

  The two Lynx landed on the aft deck, right next to an up and operating Roland anti-aircraft missile battery.

  Frost waited for the commandos to deploy before he finally crawled out of the back of the Lynx. He helped Crockett and his copilot secure the chopper to the deck bolts with ratch chains and then held the main rotor blade still while the two flyers tied it off by rope to the front of the aircraft.

  His helicopter thus secured, Crockett led Frost to the ship’s island and up toward its high tech Combat Information Center.

  “You look over the evidence my. friend,” he told Frost. “Then you tell me what you think happened.”

  Ten minutes later, Frost and Crockett were sitting in a corner of the Enterprise’s CIC.

  There were a few technicians from the New Jersey moving about, some off loading computer data to be used back on the battleship, others trying to activate a number of sophisticated communications and weapons systems which had not been turned on for at least a half year.

  Before Frost and Crockett was a thirty-six-inch high-definition television screen, with a gaggle of attendant VCRs and remote controls. A cabinet containing hundreds of multi-hour video cassettes was close by.

  “Somehow, Wolf’s guys found this ship floating around the south end of the Grand Cayman Islands,” Crockett explained as he lit up the big TV. “When they finally came aboard, they were very surprised to find that a lot of its critical stuff was still functioning. All in pre-set modes, all running on batteries.

  “Now, as you probably know, the US Navy used to video record just about every operation on board its carriers. This ship was no different. What is different is that these cameras all around the ship stayed operating for quite some time after World War Three. Obviously the people who took over this bird farm wanted to continue this video history of its operation.

  “But as you’ll see, it didn’t turn out the way they planned.”

  The screen burst to life and Frost found himself looking at a wide angle view encompassing about two-thirds of the carrier’s deck. Unlike its barren and somewhat shabby present condition, the deck in the videotape was alive with men and machines, all of them obviously belonging to the US Navy.

  “We’ve determined that this footage was shot on the last day of World War III,” Crockett explained. “This is probably the last air strike launched.”

  Frost watched as airplane after airplane was hurled off the carrier via its three steam launch catapults. The airplanes—F-14s, F/A-18s, A-6s, S-3s—were all loaded to the max with ordnance, and it was obvious by watching the actions of the launch crews that this was a scene of desperation. The highly coordinated, yet chaotic looking dance of launching a carrier aircraft looked just chaotic.

  “They knew the end was near,” Frost confirmed.

  The screen went blank for a few moments then came to life again.

  This time the deck was covered with aircraft, so many in fact that it was too crowded to almost move about, never mind launch planes. Men in black coveralls were squeezing between planes or scampering beneath them, many carrying large black buckets of paint. Plainly these people were newcomers.

  “What happened to the original Navy cre
w?” Frost wanted to know.

  “No one has the slightest idea,” Crockett replied. “They left the ship anchored a mile off Guam and then they just vanished. Maybe they got ashore, maybe they were boarded and all shot. We’ll probably never know.”

  Frost felt a chill run through him. Five thousand brave Americans, gone just like that.

  “This footage was shot the first or second day after the ship was reclaimed,” Crockett went on. “We figure it was at least two years before anyone else came onboard.”

  “Who are these people?” Frost asked. “And what the hell are they doing?”

  “Just who they are is still up in the air,” Crockett told him. “But as you will soon see, they are painting over all the markings on the airplanes.”

  It was true. The men in black were systematically covering all insignia on the Navy planes, replacing the various numbers and symbols with two quick splashes of black paint in the form of an X.

  “We figure that these guys might be part of a huge black market weapons gang,” Crockett explained. “There are plenty of them in Asia these days. They apparently found the ship and salvaged it, not for their own use, but to sell to someone else.”

  He speeded up the video to another blank space. Slowing it down to regular speed, the same camera angle showed the deck operating again, though on a much smaller scale than the hectic yet professional US Navy launches. As they watched in silence, barely two planes were launched in the span of five minutes, a speed that would be considered tortoiselike under normal Navy operating conditions.

  “These are apparently the new owners,” Crockett said, noting their light blue work uniforms. “They’re slow, but they’re getting planes off.”

  “And these people are?” Frost asked.

  Crockett let out a long breath. “They’ve got to be closely connected to the Fourth Reich units who launched the big strike on Florida,” he said. “This is obviously early in their operations. In later tapes, their ‘efficiency’ is very apparent, if you know what I mean.”

  Frost did.

  Crockett pointed to the series of numbers rolling by in the lower right hand corner of the screen.

  “Usually this is the setting for time and date,” Crockett said, “but these bozos came up with their own time system. It’s probably just a random thing, but after Wolf’s crypto boys examined this tape they determined it was made fourteen months before the Florida sneak attack.”

  “So they’d been planning on attacking us all that time?”

  Crockett shrugged. “Well, they were clearly planning on attacking somebody. But now, watch this …”

  He ejected the videotape and quickly inserted another. It was the same angle, same view. But the activity on the deck was very different. Planes were being shot off the carrier at a much improved rate of two a minute.

  It was obvious that the famous Prussian efficiency had kicked in.

  “They must have trained their asses off to get that good, that quick,” Crockett said. “It’s an example of how dedicated, or should I say, fanatical, these guys were about this ship. About everything they do.”

  Frost shook his head in grudging agreement. “But what happened then?” he asked. “Why did they abandon this ship? It had to be their most formidable weapon.”

  Crockett inserted yet another tape and pushed the play button.

  “The cryptos figured this is the tape that was shot during the launch of the Florida raid,” he explained as the tape began playing. The launching of the carrier aircraft was now even more coordinated.

  “Look at the underwing stores,” Crockett suggested. “High explosives. Runway cratering stuff. Iron bombs.”

  “Everything they hit us with during the strike,” Frost observed. “God, did they set us up!”

  Crockett punched the tape to fast forward, stopping at the point where the carrier deck is finally cleared.

  “This is where it gets interesting,” he said, dead seriously. “Keep an eye on the timing numbers.”

  Frost watched as the numbers rolled by. Their infrequent changes and the sudden jump in the picture told him that what he was looking at was actually a time sequence.

  “When there was no activity on the deck, they would set the camera to shoot only a few seconds of footage every minute,” Crockett explained. “Then, when the air strike planes returned, they would switch it on full time.”

  But as Frost watched the numbers streak by, he realized something very strange was happening. The fateful air strike had taken place in the afternoon. The airplanes should have returned within a ninety minute time. Yet on the videotape, it was clear that night was falling. And there were no airplanes.

  “They never came back?” he asked Crockett.

  The Cobra Brother simply shook his head no. “Something—or someone—prevented them from doing so.”

  They passed the next few minutes of total silence as the time-lapsed videotape continued to roll. At times, figures could be seen moving about the deck, sometimes scanning the sky for the overdue airplanes. Night gradually turned into day.

  Then it happened.

  Suddenly the image began shaking violently. People could be seen scattering, smoke began blowing by the speeded-up camera’s lens.

  “Good God, they’re under attack,” Frost declared.

  The fractured flickering style video continued. It was clear that a gunfight had erupted very quickly. Armed crewmen could be seen firing at something aft of the deck, something just out of the camera’s range. But what was more, these men were unquestionably getting the worst of it. Burst upon burst of heavy cannon fire could be seen tracing across the deck and ricocheting into the waters below, frequently taking two or three of the armed men with it.

  This weird fast-motion battle went on for a full half hour in real time, but finally, no more armed crewmen could be seen on the deck. Nothing happened for at least another two hours. At least not within view of the deck camera, and soon, it was apparent that night was once again falling.

  At that point, Crockett reached over, ejected the tape and put in a final one.

  “This is the last piece in this puzzle,” he said.

  The screen came to life once again. The scene had changed. Now the camera angle showed a long passageway somewhere in the heart of the ship. There was an incredibly vicious firefight in progress, the combatants appearing as so many shadows moving about, illuminated like ghosts in the glare of tracer bullets. The scene changed again; now the view was in a large hall that Frost recognized as one of the ship’s below decks’ airplane hangars. But the gun battle was no less intense. Nor was the casualty rate. It was very apparent that despite their overwhelming numbers, the armed crewmen were clearly getting the worst of the contest.

  Then the scene changed for a third and, as it turned out, final time.

  It looked as if this footage had been shot several days later. The camera angle showed one of the ship’s mess halls. The place was filled with smoking clutter and wreckage. The remains of many armed crewmen were in evidence, as were casings of heavy caliber ammunition. There were many large gaping holes in the walls, floors and ceiling, most still sizzling with smoke and red glow, indications both that rocket propelled weapons had been used. There was no more shooting though, no more streaking tracer rounds. Just the wreckage, the smoke and the dead. The rampage was clearly over.

  “He hunted down every single one of them,” Crockett said, not daring to mention the name of the perpetrator of the vengeful destruction. “Wolf’s guys found his shell casings in the vent system, in the crawl spaces, in closets, on the gang rail, up in the conning tower. Everywhere.

  “More than twelve hundred men. The cryptos figure it took about a week. But he—whoever he was—got every last one of them.”

  “Damn,” Frost breathed.

  “After it was over, he rigged the ship’s main computer to run on a makeshift autopilot system,” Crockett continued. “It put the ship into a series of wide circles. Then he refueled the
engines, disabled the catapult and disconnected the key components in the communications house. All that took about two weeks.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” Crockett said with a deep breath, “he disappeared.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, THE pair of Lynx helicopters lifted off from the deck of the Enterprise.

  Frost stared down at the bow of the ship as his helo ascended. At the very tip, near the end of the steam catapult channel, were two faint burn marks, distinct only because someone had painted two white circles around them, as if to preserve them. These were telltale marks of a VTOL (Vertical Take-off and Landing) aircraft, and further evidence that whoever attacked the Enterprise so many months ago had arrived and apparently departed in a jump jet.

  Frost felt his mouth go dry. Strapped in next to the chopper’s open bay for the return trip, he watched the carrier slowly fade from view. The evidence was certainly there: the jump jet burn marks, the relentless gun battle against astronomical odds, the selective destruction of some of the carrier’s main systems and its eventual, pre-programmed autopilot circular course. It was obvious that there was only one person who could have waged the incredible single-handed campaign.

  So then, why would no one say it? Why would no one breathe the name? Were they afraid that by speaking it, it wouldn’t be true?

  As the chopper climbed and the carrier finally disappeared into the haze, Frost wondered if they would ever really know.

  Suddenly a warning buzzer reverberated throughout the cabin.

  “Load weapons!” Came the call from Crockett to the nine commandos.

  Frost was unstrapped and squeezing his way up toward the cockpit in a flash. Load weapons? For what? They were out in the middle of the ocean.