Return from the Inferno

by Maloney, Mack;

  Crockett was talking rapid-fire on his lip radio by the time Frost made it up into the cockpit.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Crockett signed off the radio and put the helicopter into a long wide bank to the north.

  “We just got a code two flash,” he yelled back to Frost, as the copilot armed all of the copter’s weapons. “We’re going into action …”

  Frost was astonished, “Action? Where?”

  “Something big is going on,” Crockett yelled back. “About forty clicks from here. They need all hands and all weapons there. Now!”

  The nine Norwegian commandos were up and ready by the time the first smoke of the battle was spotted.

  Frost was ready too. He was double strapped right at the edge of the open bay door, forming the bottom link in a human wall of machine guns and rifles. His own weapon was a .357 Magnum given to him by the chopper’s copilot. Huge and bright silver, it had been adapted to fire enormous, high-impact cannon shells.

  But just what would they be shooting at? It was a question running through the minds of everyone on board.

  They had their answer just two minutes later.

  From a height of four thousand feet and a distance of five miles, the enjoined battle looked like a swarm of bees pouncing on something hidden down below in an enormous cloud of fire and smoke. Struggling to keep his eyes focused and clear against the wind blowing directly into his face, Frost was able to pick out at least eight UA-marked Huey helicopter gunships flying in the midst of the battle. It seemed as if they were all firing their weapons at once: M-60 machine guns, TOW missiles, 2.75-inch rockets, 20-mm cannons, miniguns, 40mm grenade launchers. A virtual rain of steel and high explosives was falling on the still unseen target.

  As fire packed as the venerable Hueys were, the pair of Westland Lynx were loaded with an even more overwhelming array of weapons. Each one had two Hellfire missiles strapped to its twin external pylon mounts. Each was also carrying a pair of computer-controlled torpedoes, and four small, air-launched depth-charges. Added to this the trio of 20mm cannons in each chopper’s nose, plus a squad of commandos with their weapons poised and ready at the open door.

  “Hang on, boys,” Crockett yelled back to them through the crackling radio speaker. “We’re going right in.”

  A second later the pair of Lynx began dropping out of the sky, their already loud engines roaring up to full attack power at a deafening pace. Frost rechecked his enormous hand cannon. It was secure and ready. The commandos all inched forward, their weapons up, their double-locked safety straps straining as they moved forward for the most optimum firing position. Still none of them knew what the target was.

  One mile out, the two Lynx leveled off at five hundred feet, and at precisely the same moment, launched a computer-controlled torpedo into the billowing cloud of smoke and flame. Almost immediately, Frost could hear the nose cannons on each chopper open up. A Huey suddenly flashed by, its pilot turning it over so he could follow the Lynx in on their first bombing run. Another one was right on its tail. Now the sounds of the explosions hidden in the conflagration were rivaling the roar of the Westland’s engines.

  That was when the chopper finally broke through the shroud of flames and smoke and they all saw the target for the first time.

  “Jesus!” Frost yelled over the engines and multitude of explosions. “I don’t believe this …”

  None of them could. They were so surprised, that no one fired a shot for a few seconds. What they saw before them was so astounding.

  It was a submarine. Long, black, sleek, and shiny.

  “Damn,” Frost yelled above the wind and the noise of battle. “It’s one of the Fire Bats …”

  It was a Fire Bats and it was being absolutely pummeled from all sides with all kinds of weapons as it raced through the surface waters apparently too damaged to submerge. But still, it didn’t look real somehow. It was more like something from a big-budget Hollywood movie of days gone by. He had heard of the Fire Bats—they all had. Four submarines had appeared at the same time as the Norse invaders, each one said to be carrying at least one nuclear missile. It was in their missile chambers that lay the nuclear terror which held all of the American continent in the grasp of two fascist fists. But they were as elusive as the Loch Ness monster.

  Until now.

  By some apparently incredible stroke of good fortune, the United Americans had found one of the mysterious, hated submarines on the surface. And they were not going to let it escape alive.

  The two Lynx roared over the stricken submarine, their cannons firing nonstop. A second barrage was coming from the cargo bay itself as the jammed-in commandos let loose with all their weapons at once. It was evident from the maddeningly desperate fire power being unleashed onto the boat that every shot would count in preventing the Fire Bats from getting away. So, hanging on for dear life, and not quite believing what was happening, Frost added his large-caliber pistol fire to the fusillade.

  Frost’s Lynx roared up and over and swung back in for a second strafing pass. Two Hueys were lined up in front of it, all weapons blazing, their duo barrages of 2.75 missiles impacting all along the submarine’s shiny black conning tower.

  The Hueys cleared and the Lynx went in again. This time Crockett reduced the chopper’s speed, giving his copilot and the men in back a longer opportunity to fire. Frost squeezed off two shots. The second shot might have shattered one of the sub’s tower-attached antennae. Though in the storm of bullets, missiles, and bombs, it was truly impossible to determine who was hitting what. What was for certain was that the Fire Bats—flames and smoke pouring out of dozens of places—was mortally wounded.

  “Pour it on!” Crockett was screaming over the intercom, as he turned the ship for its third pass. “Pour it on!”

  The commandos and Frost obliged, emptying clip after clip at short range onto the sub’s hull, even as the Lynx’s second pair of torpedoes smashed into the rear of the vessel. The Lynx made another turn, lining up behind two more Hueys, and then flashed in for a third attack. And then a fourth. And then a fifth.

  This aerial dance of death continued for ten long minutes, until finally, smoking heavily and aflame from its bow to its tower, the Fire Bats slowed and went dead in the water.

  On a call from the flight leader of the Hueys, all of the gun-ships backed off and went into ragged orbits two hundred fifty feet above the sub. From these vantage points, all eyes watched with a mixture of awe and brazen satisfaction as the big sub shook with two explosions and broke in two.

  Then, with one final mighty explosion, it slipped beneath the waves and went down for the last time.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  LIEUTENANT STAN YASTREWSKI, ALSO known as “Yaz,” woke up and found himself staring at two beautiful, naked breasts.

  He instantly shut his eyes back tight and froze in position.

  Where the hell am I?

  His mind strained to recount what had happened in the past twelve hours. But it was all a big blur. Was he still aboard the so-called Great Ship? The former Royal Viking luxury liner was first converted into a command ship for the invading Norse armies and now served as a gigantic, bizarre reincarnation of Cleopatra’s famous love barge. He thought so; he could feel the gentle rocking of the ship that had become so familiar.

  But this was not his regular room. Through slits in his eyelids he could see that this cabin was easily a hundred times bigger. And this was definitely not his regular bed. His usual bunk was dirty, stained, and without a blanket. This bed—actually a water bed—was enormous and it was covered with satin sheets! Something else was different. Not a morning went by when he didn’t wake up with his stomach screaming for food because he was only allowed one meal a day. Now, his belly was so full he would have let his belt out two notches. If he had a belt.

  What happened to him?

  He’d spent the last eleven months living in a cabin that was less than the size of a broom closet. Located deep with
in the bowels of the ship, it was not like one of the brig cells on the ship. They were much bigger. He was not a prisoner, not really anyway. He was, in fact, a “human resource,” because of his knowledge of naval vessels. Since he was a commissioned US Navy submarine officer prior to World War III, the people who ran this ship had decided, as had his original captors, that he was better off alive than dead. Whenever a particularly sticky problem came up (with the engines, or the fueling system, or the navigation stuff) the ship’s chief master would call him to “consult” on how to fix the malady. In return for this help, “Yaz” was allowed to live.

  His somewhat helpless situation was a bit more tolerable for one reason only. Before his capture by the Norse invaders, he had been a ranking member of the United American Command Staff. The key factor of the United American past successes had been resourcefulness, doing the best one could with a bad situation. To this end, “Yaz” had spent much time gathering intelligence information about the Great Ship and its newest owners, telling himself it would be helpful to the United American cause someday.

  He dared to open his eyes again in order to study the breasts. He did not recognize them. And the night before was still very hazy. He closed his eyes, knowing something had to be done. Still feigning sleep, he mustered up enough courage to turn over, and at least reconnoiter an escape route from the strange bed. To this end, he slowly rolled his body from his right shoulder to his left.

  But when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into another pair of equally lovely, if slightly smaller, breasts.

  Oh, my God …

  Now his mind was really racing, panicking in its amnesiac state. He sucked in a silent, deep breath and held it. Slowly things began coming back to him.

  He had bedded down as usual the night before, on his little smelly bunk in his smelly little room. Of this, he was sure. Then the soldiers came. Not the usual ones who summoned him when repair work was needed. No, they had been the Queen’s own personal bodyguards, distinct by the white naval uniforms.

  They took him out of the room and forced him to drink something from an old wine bottle. As he recalled, it wasn’t liquor exactly; rather it was sticky and sweet, with the consistency of maple syrup. He remembered being terrified, thinking it was poison. But then the guards led him onto an elevator that he knew was used only by the hierarchy of the Great Ship. They rode up to the fifth level in silence; the controlled breathing of his half dozen guards still ringing in his ears.

  But then what had happened?

  He slowly let the breath out and took in another.

  The elevator door had opened and he was pushed inside a huge dining hall by the guards, who then disappeared. There were only two people inside this hall, but they were barely visible. Sitting at the end of a long table, their faces were obscured by a kind of golden fog.

  After that, it got really sketchy.

  He recalled walking toward them, compelled because they were calling his name. Their features still hidden, they gave him more of the sticky fluid to drink. After that they almost literally stuffed food down his throat.

  He recalled their laughter. Good God—they were women! And they had … They had …

  At that point it all came flooding back to him. The two women. The big water bed. The hours upon hours of sexual activity. Highly erotic. More talk and touching than actual penetration and fluid exchange. There were costumes and masks and strange music.

  And the women had asked him if he knew Hawk Hunter. Over and over and over again.

  Suddenly, he felt a soft hand slide down his back and begin probing his upper thighs.

  “Don’t pretend that you’re asleep,” the voice belonging to the owner of the hand said. “Do you really think you could fool me?”

  “Yaz” felt a deep freeze run through him. He recognized that voice. It belonged to Elizabeth Sandlake, ruthless martinet, authentic witch, the virtually self-anointed “Queen of America.”

  He couldn’t believe it. Like a strange wet dream, the hazy, druglike sex romp had involved the most powerful person on the ship—male or female. But this was not what had turned his spine to an icicle. No, rather it was the stories he’d heard about this woman Elizabeth in regards to her sexual habits. Quite frankly, she frequently murdered her lovers shortly after consummating, like a Black Widow devouring its partner once the heavy breathing had stopped.

  “Don’t worry,” he heard her voice waft over his shoulder as she continued her light massage. “You’re safe. I would never harm someone who was so close a friend to the late, great Hawk Hunter.”

  Her unseen reassurance did little to melt “Yaz” back to reality. He knew for a fact that it was a deceitful boast. Elizabeth Sandlake had been the one responsible for sending the person closest to Hawk Hunter—his girlfriend Dominique—off to her death. “Yaz” couldn’t imagine why he’d be spared.

  “It’s because you are a man,” came the answer to his unspoken dilemma. “You are the last man on this ship who can come anywhere near satisfying both of us.”

  That was when “Yaz” opened his eyes for real and found the beautiful face of Juanita Juaraez, Elizabeth’s “companion,” smiling sleepily at him.

  “You are lucky,” Elizabeth’s voice told him as Juanita’s hand joined hers. “For years, men have enslaved women,. To feed them. To clothe them. To bear their heirs. To be their whores.”

  “Yaz’s” eyes went wide as both women made a concerted effort to get him revved up again.

  “But as of last night, you are now our whore.”

  It was almost thirty minutes later when the red phone on the table next to the huge water bed began buzzing.

  “Yaz” was grateful for the break in the action. With his stamina just about peaking, he needed a few moments to catch his breath and coax some feeling back into his jaw.

  Answering the phone with a cold, angry response, Elizabeth’s attractive if deadly features drooped as she received the bad news from the unfortunate sort on the other end of the line. She hung up the phone while the caller was in midsentence, then slumped back to the water bed.

  “Those heathens!” she cursed. “They’ve sunk one of the Fire Bats …”

  “Oh no …” Juanita moaned. “How? When?”

  Elizabeth ignored her questions. “They’ve obviously found out about my coronation,” she said in a voice so low, that “Yaz,” situated at the foot of the bed, barely heard her. “They want to spoil what is rightly mine.”

  Both women were totally ignoring “Yaz” by now. “Will we still go through with the ceremony?” Juanita asked.

  “Yes! Of course!” Elizabeth bellowed. “We must go through with it. Now more than ever!”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Dragon’s Mouth Prison, Football City

  GENERAL DAVE JONES REACHED into the bucket of grimy water and splashed a few drops onto his dry, sunburned face.

  It was closing in on noontime and this meant that his chiseling station, mercifully hidden in the shadows for most of the morning, would soon lose its shade and be subjected to the intense summer heat.

  Jones gave his tired neck a crack and then picked up his tools and began chipping away at the massive block of stone in front of him. This was Piece 34-A Center, half of the buckle which centered on the uniform belt surrounding the massive stone impression of Hitler. He would have to chip away nearly half the two-ton block by sundown that day or face punishment. It was a daunting task made even more difficult by the fact that he no longer had an assistant. After Frost had “died,” the prison camp administrators failed to assign him a new helper.

  So now, besides the lonely fact that he was the only one left on the inside who knew that something was going on on the outside, his work load had doubled.

  He chipped away for several minutes, working quickly as the last of the cooling shadows slipped away. Then, somewhere off in the distance, he heard a deep-throated whistle, like one from a steam pipe organ. Instinctively, many of the ragged men around him
perked up. They had all learned that the sound of the strange whistle usually presaged the serving of their single daily meal.

  Sure enough, a minute later the doors to the prison yard swung open and the mess truck rolled in followed by two jeeps filled with the hooded Death Skull soldiers.

  The mess truck came to a slow stop in the center of the yard, and a line of hungry prisoners quickly formed. The meal was the same as always: a weak-tasting, foul smelling soup which only on the best of days featured a few raw vegetables swimming in it, plus a piece of stale black bread. Each man ladled out his own, one scoop per man, as the faceless, heavily armed Death Skulls stood by, whispering to each other through their black hoods. Once he’d drawn his meal, each prisoner was given five minutes to consume it before returning to work.

  Jones wearily picked up his rusting meal can and made his way to the end of the food line. It was obvious that as the work progressed on the gigantic statue, the number of prisoners still available was dwindling. Deaths, real and otherwise, were gradually taking their toll on the officers’ prison population.

  He worked his way down the queue, finally scooping out a ladle of the bad stew and grabbing a piece of black bread. His usual procedure, acted out like a ritual when Frost was still around, was to head back to this station and eat in the last remaining bits of shade. But now, on this day, something attracted his attention to the far side of the prison yard.

  A small group of inmates had gathered there and were in fact sitting and eating their meals together. This sudden show of solidarity mystified Jones. It was rare to see three or more prisoners sitting together in the work yard. To see as many as two dozen in one place was highly unusual.

  He drifted over toward the group, dipping his bread into his soup and eating it as he walked. It wasn’t until he was about fifty feet away that he realized the prisoners hadn’t just spontaneously sat down in the rough semicircle. Rather they were listening to another prisoner, one who was sitting in the middle of the group.