But dressing as a bride as a prelude to another lust fest was a bit too much, even for her.
But that was when “Yaz” got his second surprise of the early day.
“You can have your gown made as soon as we get to the ceremony,” Elizabeth told Juanita who had jumped up to help her mistress out of the flowing dress. “We used all of the material on board for this one.”
The two women then began an extended conversation, that if “Yaz” didn’t know better might have concerned a real wedding.
Ten minutes into this talk of floral arrangements, band numbers and whether a waltz was proper as the first dance at a formal reception, “Yaz” began to think that he was missing something here.
He swallowed hard and opened his eyes again. The only thing that had kept him sane during his long months on the Great Ship was that he’d strive to convince himself that he was on an unexpected, yet valuable, intelligence mission. This meant getting important information, hopefully for use in the United American cause later on. This crazy conversation about the wedding sounded important.
But before he could open his mouth, Elizabeth had spun around and was glaring at him again.
“What are you thinking, knave?”
“I am thinking that you might actually be getting married, My Lady.”
She took off her flower and lace wristlet and slapped him twice across the top of the head with it.
“You are not here to think!” she screamed at him. “You are here to fuck!”
She’d stepped out of the dress by this time and was now naked except for the long white veil. “Yaz” felt his stomach turn a complete triple somersault as he was confronted with her lovely, heaving body once again.
“Now turn over,” she ordered him. “And get to work.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Fuhrerstadt
THE YOUNG MAN KNOWN as the Amerikafuhrer tugged at the highly starched collar of his white NS dress uniform jacket and spit.
“It’s too tight!” he said, stamping his foot once. “It has to be looser …”
One of the three tailors kneeling at his feet stood up and made yet another measurement of the young man’s neck size.
“And what happened to the rows of little flowers you promised on the lapels?” the Amerikafuhrer asked him.
“You never told us what kind of flowers, Your Excellency,” the tailor dared to reply.
The young man, barely eighteen, closed his eyes in an attempt to hold in his anger. “I told you roses,” he said through gritted teeth. “Roses were my great, great, grand-uncle’s favorite flower. Or have you never read your history book?”
The tailor gulped audibly. “I have, Your Excellency,” he stuttered. “And I will personally sew the roses on your lapel for you.”
The young man habitually brushed back his blond hair and closed his eyes once again.
“I’m tired of this,” he said, effectively ending the fitting session. “Finish tomorrow …”
The three tailors quickly retrieved the jacket and their sewing boxes and hastily left the room.
“And make sure no Jew, no colored person, nor any American savage touches that garment!” he called after them.
As the three tailors departed, they were replaced by a very concerned-looking NS colonel. The officer stood briefly at attention and saluted.
The Amerikafuhrer was clearly uncomfortable with the man’s sudden arrival. He recognized him as being from the office of his three Reich Marshalls: Erste, Zweite, and Dritte.
“Isn’t it much too early for my daily briefing?” he asked the officer.
“I am here at the request of the Reich office, sir,” the colonel told him. “And I’m afraid I have bad news.”
The Amerikafuhrer collapsed onto his purple velvet couch.
“Bad news?” he groaned, somewhat sarcastically. “Why didn’t your superiors come and tell me themselves?”
The NS colonel wisely chose to ignore the question. He knew that the three Reich Marshalls had been keeping a very dirty secret from just about everybody until this day. And it was the misfortune of lower rank that led to his selection as the person to pass on the troubling news to the high-strung Nazi Leader.
“Several days ago, sir,” he began nervously, “there was an incident at the Drache Mund Prison. Three men escaped.”
The young Nazi leader’s face screwed up into an angry frown.
“Escaped?” he hissed incredulously. “Two days ago? Why wasn’t I told earlier?”
“We didn’t want to bother you, sir, until we finished our investigation,” the colonel lied.
The Amerikafuhrer narrowed his eyes and stared long and hard at the officer.
“I thought escape from Dragon’s Mouth was impossible, Colonel,” he said finally.
The colonel gulped. “Apparently not, sir …”
“Well, who the hell were they?” the young man fumed, working his way into a full-fledged snit.
The colonel hesitated for a few heartbeats. “One was the false priest who we believe was part of the conspiracy to murder the First Governor of Bundeswehr Four,” he replied slowly. “Another was a man previously caught escaping while pretending to be dead. The third was a United American saboteur caught down in New Orleans and transferred up here for interrogation. All were about to be executed.”
“You mean they were three condemned men?” the Amerikafuhrer asked, plainly astonished. “How did they possibly get out?”
“We are not sure,” the colonel answered. “They were led into the execution yard and their sentences were about to be carried out. Shots were heard, but everyone in the immediate area just assumed they were caused by the gunfire of the Skull executioner.”
“Well—what does he say of it?” the teenaged leader asked.
The colonel looked blankly at the ceiling for a moment.
“He’s dead, sir,” he finally replied. “As are the officer of the day and two guards.”
“Were they all shot by the prisoners?”
“We are still investigating that aspect,” the officer said quickly.
The Amerikafuhrer stood up and began pacing nervously.
“Well, these prisoners didn’t just disappear into thin air,” he said. “Or did they?”
“There is some evidence that the prisoners escaped in helicopters painted in our colors,” the colonel replied.
The Amerikafuhrer slammed his fist twice against his forehead. “And these are dangerous men, I suppose?”
“The assassin’s cohort certainly is,” the colonel told him bluntly. “As you know, he had constructed a very elaborate ruse to get close to the First Governor. His duplicity in the assassination has never been questioned. We have already flooded the city with wanted posters bearing his likeness.”
“Is that really necessary?” the young leader asked worriedly. “All that clutter. All that potential litter?”
“This man might still be in the city,” the colonel replied. “And he might be intent on shooting you, Your Excellency.”
The young Amerikafuhrer felt a lump form in his throat. He felt a veil of paranoia descend upon him. Was this a legitimate threat? Or yet another case of his Reich Marshalls subtly torturing him again?
“Do Erste, Zweite or Dritte think I should postpone my ceremony because of all this?” he asked the colonel.
“No, sir,” he replied firmly. “All three are confident that the ceremony can go on as planned. Security will be tripled. There should be no problems.”
The Amerikafuhrer stopped pacing in mid step.
“I want you and them to make sure there are no problems,” he said to the officer. “I want you to tell them that from now on there will be no more citizens allowed anywhere near our state functions. No more crowds at the parades. No more crowds at the rallies. And definitely no crowds at my ceremony. Is that understood?”
The officer stood motionless for a few long moments, then he performed a shallow bow. “Perfectly, sir …”
&n
bsp; “Now get out of here,” the Amerikafuhrer ordered him.
With that, the officer quickly walked out of the room confident that he’d made it through the difficult duty relatively unscathed. Something that would undoubtedly bode well for him with the Reich Marshalls.
After the officer departed, the Amerikafuhrer spent the next few minutes fighting back an unmanly tear. He knew that other men in his high position would have simply ordered the officer bearing that kind of bad news to be shot. But he could not bring himself to do it. He had ordered civilians to death of course, and indirectly caused the deaths of many others, simply by signing off on the most oppressive occupation decrees. These deaths never bothered him.
But he could not find the courage to purge his own commanders, whether they be lowly colonels or the Marshalls Erste, Zweite and Dritte. He was certainly entitled to dispose of them. He knew they all lied to him on a regular basis. Even now, he wasn’t quite sure whether they were telling the truth about beefing up security for his ceremony, or how the prison break was executed, or whether it had even happened at all.
Now the tears came for real. It was by an accident of birth that he was in this position. And though he was the highest official in this occupied land, he believed at that moment he was also the most lonely and isolated.
His glum thoughts were relieved somewhat when a smiling face walked through the door. It was his personal dresser, a young Swede named Lance. He was carrying a large, gift wrapped box with him.
“It is time to prepare our lunch,” Lance whispered to him.
Both men grinned as he set down the box, opened it, and lifted out a small, squawking goose.
Chapter Thirty-six
East Falkland Island
THE LONG RANGE HC-130 Hercules gunship went into a tight circle over the bare, windswept air base and then came in for a reasonably smooth landing.
The blowing snow picked up as the big Herc taxied up to the base’s single operating hangar. Two men were waiting for the plane, both wearing faded but cleanly pressed pre-war Royal Air Force uniforms.
The HC-130 reached its parking station and its pilots began shutting down the plane’s major systems. The side door opened quickly enough and three people emerged. Two were members of the Football City Rangers Protection unit.
The third was Mike Fitzgerald.
The pair of RAF officers walked forward and met Fitz with two handshakes.
He introduced himself to the RAF men and they to him. The senior officer was Major Sandhurst Jerrold. His aide was Lieutenant Patrick Sally.
“Sorry, we couldn’t arrange for better weather,” Jerrold told Fitz. “But I trust you had a good flight?”
“Problem free,” Fitz replied.
He looked around the air base. The wind was up to fifty knots at least, its moaning provided the soundtrack for the bleak desolate spot of land that Britain and Argentina once fought over in the first, real high tech war. Now the base, like the rest of the island, appeared virtually deserted.
“Has the other side shown up?” Fitz asked the Brits.
“See for yourself,” Sandhurst said with a nod.
He showed Fitz to the door of the base’s main hangar. Using a battered remote control device, the RAF officer opened the airplane barn’s creaking doors to reveal an all black Boeing 707.
“They flew back in late last night,” Sandhurst told Fitz. “They went to their quarters and we haven’t seen them since.”
Fitz couldn’t take his eyes off the big black converted airliner. He’d seen it before. It had once belonged to the Canal Nazis of the Panama-based Twisted Cross. Once that admittedly amateurish fascist group was defeated via a United American invasion, the 707 had bounced around the world’s arms markets, being bought and sold on the whim or fortune of its owners.
Now it belonged to a very shadowy North African weapons trading firm named Big Blast Incorporated or BBI.
It was representatives of BBI that Fitz had flown down to this cold end of the world to meet. It was well known that the RAF Reserves ran the East Falkland Island base as a kind of neutral ground. It had hosted several peace conferences in recent years, mostly among the gaggle of militaristic cults who were constantly battling each other for control of the South American continent. It was also the quietest, most secure place in the world to make major arms deals.
And that was why Fitz was here. It had been a long trip but a necessary one, a crucial part of the plan.
“Can we begin right away?” he asked Sandhurst. “We’re up against a very tight deadline.”
Sandhurst pointed to the base’s operations building and nodded.
“Grab yourself a cup of tea and sandwich in there,” he suggested. “I’ll round up our other guests.”
One hour and ten minutes later, Sandhurst ushered Fitz into a small room just off the operations building’s main hallway.
The BBI men were already there. It appeared that everything Fitz had heard about them was true—and then some.
Both men were wearing the garb of Bedouin Arabs. Both had hair that reached to their waists and was elaborately braided. Each also wore a long thin beard held in place by shiny hair grease. They would hold hands through the entire meeting.
“Our deepest regrets to your comrades lost in the unfortunate plane crash a few days ago,” one of the BBI men said in cracked English and without an ounce of sincerity.
Fitz quickly eyed Sandhurst, who barely nodded back.
“I thank you for your concern,” Fitz replied. “I lost two good friends on that flight.”
“Was it a bomb on board or simply mechanical difficulties?” the second BBI man asked with a twisted grin.
Fitz stared hard at the two strange men.
“We’ll never know,” was all he said.
An uncomfortable silence descended on the room. Finally it was up to Sandhurst to break it.
“Well, then,” he said in a perfect stiff upper lip accent. “Shall we begin?”
Fitz cleared his throat for effect and pulled his chair closer to the table.
“I have no time for formalities, gentlemen,” he said soberly. “We need weapons and we need them quickly. The plane crash has set our schedule back by some very critical days. So now our needs increase by the hour.”
“How will you pay for these weapons?” one BBI man asked.
“Gold,” Fitz replied firmly.
Both BBI men smiled stained gaping grins.
“We can appreciate your timetable,” the man on the right said. “So let us get our manifest.”
He passed a thick document to Fitz, with an exact copy to Sandhurst. Fitz turned to the first page which was headed: “Heavy Weapons—Mobile.”
What followed were ten pages of descriptions of wholesale lots of main battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, Multiple Rocket Launch Systems, and mobile howitzers. Beside each lot was an ID number and a price.
Fitz studied each page carefully, jotting down notes as he went along. Then he went back to the first page and looked up at the dark arms dealers. It was against his better judgement to deal with such men. He knew they would have no compunction about dealing with the Fourth Reich or any one of a number of other enemies of America.
But these were desperate times. And he had to stick to the plan.
“I will take six squadrons of Chieftains,” he began again, referring to the British Army’s main battle tank. “I will take the two squadrons of M-1A Abrams only if they are NightScope fitted.”
On and on it went, for the next half hour, Fitz reading out the weapons he wanted to purchase, with the BBI men gladly punching in the corresponding prices. At the end, he had more than four hundred pieces of heavy battle equipment, including two hundred main battle tanks, plus service equipment and ammunition.
The price: twelve hundred pounds of real gold and four thousand pounds of real silver.
“And where is the money, my friend?” the BBI man on the left asked.
“When can I inspect the
merchandise?” Fitz responded.
The BBI man began to say something, but Major Sandhurst interrupted him.
“I am holding Mister Fitzgerald’s money,” he said in his precise, clipped British accent. “It is aboard his airplane under tight guard. And I am assured you can deliver the hardware for inspection within twenty-four hours. Is that correct?”
The men from BBI nodded happily.
Sandhurst clapped his hands with delight. “Perfect,” he declared. “Then let us have a spot of gin to celebrate, and we will consummate this agreement tomorrow morning. Is that acceptable?”
The BBI men were nodding giddily now. They had just made a fortune.
“Sure,” Fitz replied, reaching to tug at his priest’s collar which was no longer there. “Tomorrow, it is …”
East Falkland
The next morning dawned cold and blustery.
Fitz and Major Sandhurst made their way through the deserted streets of Port Stanley, moving down the narrow main boulevard and to a predesignated spot on the ice encrusted east beach.
The two arms traders from BBI were already there, displaying their gold plated AK-47s as prominently as their personal computers.
“God be praised for this morning,” one said, as they both bowed deep at the waist. “And for the life he gives us every day to …”
“Yeah, sure,” Fitz huffed in reply, his disdain for the shady weapons merchants not dimming a bit. “Let’s just get on with this.”
The men bowed again. They were used to being insulted.
One produced a small portable radio and made a quick call: “Please flash ID lights! Yes, flash ID lights!”
The perpetually falling snow almost completely obscured the far horizon of the cold South Atlantic. But no sooner had the man made the radio call when Fitz could see a trio of red lights begin blinking way out to sea. Soon there were three more, and three more and three more.
“We picked them up on the Air-Sea radar last night,” Sandhurst whispered to Fitz. “They were eighty miles out at midnight and pushing full steam toward here.”
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