Return from the Inferno

by Maloney, Mack;

  By this time there were more than forty red lights blinking across the entire snowy horizon. Fitz knew each of these lights was attached to a container ship carrying the weapons he’d ordered just the day before.

  “We at BBI pride ourselves in prompt delivery and service …” one of the arms dealers said.

  “Yeah, great,” Fitz said, once again cutting short the BBI man’s bullshit. The quick service was crucial, but he knew it was not entirely due to the BBI’s good business practices. The arms cartel had had an enormous fleet of supply ships cruising the west coast of Africa on a selling voyage when the first UA-BBI meeting was arranged. Those ships immediately diverted to the Falklands and had been a day away when the first Herc crashed in Argentina. They’d been waiting just over the horizon ever since.

  “The use of the ships comes with the price, of course,” one of the BBI men explained to Fitz for the fifth time. “We will transport your weapons to one port of call, or help you with one amphibious landing. Then, for extra considerations, we can …”

  Fitz waved away the man’s overkill pitch.

  “I insist on inspecting each ship cargo myself,” he told him. “And I want a squad of my own men on each ship that passes inspection and heads north.”

  The BBI men wrapped their robes around them in the suddenly cold wind.

  “This is highly unusual,” one lied. “Our business is based on trust and …”

  Fitz held up his hand, cutting the man off at the quick. There were too many stories about arms dealers selling good stuff “on the front end,” only to load up the back end with junk. With the UA’s precarious position, such a rip-off would mean disaster.

  “I know all about your business,” Fitz told them. “That’s why I insist that my men accompany every load.”

  “But it could take some time to get your men here and on board the ships, my friend,” the second BBI man whined. “And as a high official of your army, shouldn’t your place be up north, with them?”

  Now it was Fitz’s turn to shiver. Suddenly his thoughts flashed back to that sunny bucolic day he’d spent with his kids swimming in the Wabash. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

  “My place is here,” he replied soberly. “For however long it takes.”

  They spent the next six hours moving from ship to ship in Sandhurst’s Lynx helicopter, checking lot numbers and inspecting tanks.

  Despite his obvious dislike for the BBI men, Fitz silently gave them credit. The first four ships he inspected held more than seventy-two tanks in both their holds and in containers lashed to the deck. Random checks proved that the tanks—huge British-made Chieftains mostly—were in top working condition from greased barrels to the latest in fire control computer software. Despite their smarmy ways, it was obvious that the BBI men kept the wares in good shape.

  The long day came to an end in Sandhurst’s small dining area. He and Fitz were splitting a bottle of no name Chilean wine while the two men from BBI were noisily slurping from the same bowl of soup.

  “You were pleased today by what you saw?” one of the arms dealers asked Fitz, his question seeking nothing more than another begged compliment.

  “So far, so good,” Fitz replied crisply.

  “You know, for large purchasers such as yourself, we usually offer a very nice personal item,” the second BBI man said. “Something in normal times you might consider too extravagant, yet now, you might consider a good buy.”

  Fitz looked at Sandhurst for help in figuring out exactly what the weapons merchant was talking about. But the stately British officer could only shrug. He had no idea either.

  “It’s an airplane, sir,” the first BBI man said, reading Fitz’s thoughts exactly. “One of only a few left on this planet. We know you Americans are fond of high tech aircraft. This might be something for you to treasure, once the infidel has been expunged from your lands.”

  Fitz was curious. “What kind of airplane?”

  The two BBI men stopped eating immediately. One reached into his pocket, produced a small brown envelope, and passed it to Sandhurst. He opened it and a single photograph fell out. He glanced at the photo, and Fitz saw the officer was suitably impressed.

  “I’ll say it’s a rare bugger,” he said, passing the photo to Fitz.

  Fitz took one look at the picture and felt his jaw drop.

  It was a photo of an F-117 Stealth.

  Fuhrerstadt

  The young officer in charge of the Fourth Reich’s central communications unit knocked once on the huge oak door, then entered the strange triangular shaped room.

  Walking to the center of the three-cornered rug, he turned and bowed separately to the three Reich Marshalls, each of whom was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk in his own corner of the room.

  “An important communique has just arrived from one of the southern tier agents,” he told them. “I believe it requires your immediate attention.”

  “Has it been properly decoded?” Erste asked him.

  “I have to assume so, sir,” the officer said, turning in Erste’s direction.

  “And how was it transmitted?” Dritte wanted to know.

  “Via the CommStar satellite,” the officer replied, spinning around toward Dritte.

  “Who else has seen it?” Zweite asked.

  “Only myself, Herr Marshall,” the CCU officer answered, turning to the third corner.

  “Very well,” Zweite boomed. “Read it to us.”

  The young communications officer took a deep, but nervous, breath. This was a big moment in his career. He knew the message had been sent by one of the Fourth Reich’s many undercover agents working inside the BBI weapons cartel. If the news contained within it pleased the trio of high Nazi officers, he might be the recipient of some kind of commendation, or possibly even a promotion.

  “The message reads as follows,” he began. “United Americans have made large military hardware purchases this date, East Falkland air station. Mobile armor, ammunition and parts. No airplanes. Paid in gold. Delivery starts immediately and will be ongoing as trusted transport crews can be put in place. UA agent now in residence at RAF officers’ quarters, indicating long stay.’”

  Instantly all three Reich Marshalls gave out a whoop of joy.

  “It fits the Argentine plans perfectly!” Dritte exclaimed, pounding his fist triumphantly. “At last, our serendipitous find is confirmed.”

  “It is so intriguing,” Erste declared, smugly fingering his completely cosmetic monocle. “They’ve gone ahead and bought their armor and not airplanes. Just as the plan stated.”

  Even Zweite was happy. “Now we know the ‘how,’” he said. “What is left is the ‘when’ and ‘where.’”

  The three men gathered near the center of the room where a large war table containing an elaborate laser generated topographical map of the North American continent was set up. Having not been officially dismissed, the CCU man remained hovering a respectful distance from the planning table.

  “We know they’ll stage a seaborne landing somewhere on the East Coast,” Dritte said, pulling out his telescoping map pointer. “I would guess it will come anywhere from the mid-Atlantic region up to the old New England area. The tides are better, they have a wider range of landing sites, plus our population control is lacking a bit in some of those areas.”

  “We can be certain it will be some relatively unprotected piece of shoreline,” Erste said, pulling out his own, slightly larger map pointer. “I would guess somewhere in the middle. The Chesapeake Bay area would work to their advantage. That way they would have access to sea supply, plus they’ll have a large river system to work with.”

  “I agree,” Zweite continued, “and as the plans said they will try to establish a protectorate of their own, and set up a provisional government. That area is certainly suited for it.”

  He let out a long cruel laugh. “In fact, they can set their government either on the beach or in the swamps.”

  “They can go sunbathing wh
ile they appeal for their precious civil uprising!” Dritte joined in, with an uncharacteristically boisterous laugh.

  “Yes, they’ll be the sunburned warriors,” Erste added with an appropriately evil chuckle.

  “And we will crush them!” the lowly communications officer shouted from behind them. He’d become totally caught up in the high-level discussion.

  In an instant, three sets of high-official eyes were burning a hole right through him.

  On cue, all three Reich Marshalls bellowed at the lowly CCU officer: “You are dismissed!”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  THE NAME OF THE place was Grand Royal Island, but despite the moniker, it was little more than a dot of land practically lost in the middle of Lake Erie.

  The highest point on the four-square mile, pine tree covered, crescent shaped island was a fifteen-hundred-foot hill which looked out onto a small settlement and an even tinier airfield. It was from this vantage point that Hunter and Roy From Troy studied the terrain below through NightScope glasses.

  Even through the pre-dawn darkness, it was obvious that at one time the place had served as a vacation resort. But now it looked practically deserted. Of particular interest, however, were the dozens of grassy mounds which dominated the area surrounding the small airfield. To the casual observer, these mounds would have appeared innocuous enough, especially from the air.

  But Hunter knew better.

  “How long have you known about this place?” he asked the airplane salesman, who was still pale and queasy from his first flight in a Harrier jet.

  “Years,” Roy burped back. “We used to stash planes up here during the New Order years, whenever things got real hot. I don’t think anyone’s ever bothered to figure out whether it’s inside Free Canada or not. But it was close enough for us, especially back then, when no one knew what was what. After the Circle Wars, and things eased up, we used it for awhile as a stopover point. But I’m surprised it’s all still here. It’s amazing no one has found it and plundered it.”

  Hunter had to agree. “Not many places like this left anywhere,” he said packing up the NightScope. “Too bad we’ve got to blow the lid off this one.”

  Captain Ryan St. Marie, a retired fifty-year veteran of the Canadian Armed Forces, was the tiny island’s only resident. Basically a caretaker with little to do, he spent his time holed up inside the small building which had served as its police station many years before.

  He was reading an ancient copy of Playboy when Hunter and Roy From Troy walked into his office.

  St. Marie immediately reached for his handgun. He hadn’t had a visitor in years. But no sooner had he found the handle to his pistol when he found himself staring down the barrel of Hunter’s M-16.

  “What is this? A hold-up?” he asked, stunned by the quickness of Hunter’s rifle.

  “No,” Roy told him. “We are here to talk business.”

  “Business?” St. Marie asked incredulously. “No one’s been here for business in years.”

  “Then we should get some real bargains,” Hunter told him.

  “Maybe,” St. Marie admitted. “But what do you have as payment? We don’t take silver, real or otherwise. Never did. And you wouldn’t insult me by offering cash …”

  Hunter and Roy heaved a heavy money chest up onto St. Marie’s desk.

  “Open it,” Roy said.

  St. Marie complied and found himself staring at about fifty heavy gold bars.

  Roy took out one of the bars and tossed it to the old man. St. Marie studied it and then a wide smile spread across his craggy features.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said. “I think we can do some business …”

  Ten minutes later, Hunter, Roy and St. Marie were walking out to the fringe of the air field.

  St. Marie was still glowing from the sight of the huge chest of gold bars. It was more money than he’d ever seen in one place in his life.

  “We aim to please here, you understand,” he told them over and over. “We don’t have the customers we used to. You know, things are so much different since the mainland was overrun.”

  “To say the least,” Hunter muttered.

  He reached the first “grassy mound” and studied it for a moment. It was actually a large piece of camouflage netting with a multitude of fake plant stems weaved in. The netting had been in place for so long that real plants and trees had grown up and over it, adding immensely to its innocent appearance.

  “Good ‘rug’ job,” Hunter admitted. “Take nothing less than a high-power infra-red scan to find them, and maybe even not then.”

  St. Marie was anxious to accept the compliment. “We try our best,” he said, the wide grin never quite leaving his face.

  Hunter poked the snout of his M-16 under the netting and gently lifted it, dislodging a number of the plants, both real and fake.

  Underneath was a near antique CH-47 Chinook troop helicopter.

  Roy From Troy nearly knocked Hunter aside in order to get a good look at the aircraft. His ingrained salesmanship was now kicking at full throttle.

  “This one is cherry, Hawk,” he told Hunter. “It’s old, but look at the finish. Not a pockmark anywhere.”

  Hunter knew Roy’s enthusiasm was justified. He could even smell the fresh oil coming from the chopper’s engine bay, a good indication that the Chinook had been well maintained during its long dormancy.

  They inspected the chopper for five more minutes, but Hunter had been convinced from the start.

  “I’m sold,” he told Roy. “It’s probably older than we are, but we won’t find anything even close as good anywhere else.”

  St. Marie was positively bursting with happiness now. He would be due a nice ten percent commission for selling the helicopter, with the balance going to his boss in Brazil.

  But the caretaker had a surprise coming.

  Roy quickly counted out roughly fifty mounds. “Are they all like this?” he asked St. Marie.

  “They are, my friend,” the caretaker replied, his smile getting even broader. “You were thinking of buying more than one, perhaps?”

  “We want all of them,” Hunter told him point-blank.

  St. Marie almost swallowed his tongue.

  “All of them?” he gasped. “Do you realize, kind sir, there are fifty-three in all?”

  “You said they are all in as good a shape as this one, correct?” Hunter asked.

  “They are …”

  “Well, then,” Hunter said, “Let’s talk price …”

  Fuhrerstadt, two hours later

  The young communications officer studied the most recent communique even as it was being printed out by his laser-fax machine.

  It had just flashed in from Brazil, sent by a paid informant who worked for that country’s royal family.

  The message read: “Unconfirmed but reliable report that two UA operatives have purchased fifty heavy-lift helicopters from unknown source. Delivery immediate. Paid in gold.”

  The CCU officer studied the message a second time. He knew the trio of Reich Marshalls would be pleased. The chopper purchase fit squarely into the strategy that the Fourth Reich was expecting from the United Americans. That was, a seaborne landing somewhere on the upper east coast. Such an operation would be obviously enhanced by fifty heavy-lift helicopters, especially in getting crucial weapons and supplies on the beach in a hurry.

  But the CCU officer knew better than to deliver this message to the troika of Marshalls himself. After his previous faux pas, he was lucky he was still alive, never mind in uniform.

  So he copied the communique twice, keeping a copy for his own files. Then he called in his assistant and ordered him to deliver it unopened to the three Marshalls immediately. Let them eat a mouse for a change.

  Once outside the CCU, however, this young officer skillfully opened the sealed pouch to read the message. After doing so, he could barely contain himself. He’d been working the CCU long enough to know that the news would please the Reich Marshalls to
no end.

  So with a spring in his step, he headed for the triangular office, convinced that good things frequently came to the man bearing good news.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Near Old Johnstown, Free Territory of New York, three days. later

  IT WAS A CALM, clear night above the rugged mountains of the central Adirondacks, the sky moonless and starfilled.

  The peaceful setting was misleading. Hidden below, among the vast forests of these mountains, were bands of highwaymen, cutthroats and other assorted human vermin. Hideouts were everywhere. Here and there, evidence of temporary air pirate bases could be found, scorch marks on the miles of abandoned highways being the most obvious clue. There were even stories that these mountains had become haunted in the post-World War III era. Tales abounded of the spirits of risen Native Americans patrolling their old hunting grounds, trying to find final peace.

  This area, once known as upstate New York, was unique in Second Axis America for one reason. After the Fourth Reich invaded America, it chose to leave this territory virtually unoccupied. Save for an occasional long-range ground patrol or irregular aerial recon missions, the Nazis had conceded the Adirondacks to the outlaws and the ghosts.

  Falling somewhere in between those two definitions were the men who ran the small paramilitary facility known as Jack Base. And it was over this small, nondescript, heavily camouflaged air field that the clear mountain skies suddenly became very crowded.

  First there were six of them, flying without running lights, their enormous twin rotors carving up the still night air. Then came six more. Then six more.

  Painted all black with no markings, some of the helicopters had guns protruding from various portholes, but the majority were virtually unarmed. Once they arrived above the small air base, they would split up. Following landing lights no brighter than flashlights, each would set down to a quick landing. Seconds later it would be rolled into a revampment specially built under the thick canopy of trees. Once six were down and hidden, another half dozen would come in. Then another. And another.