He was officially listed as “missing in action,” until his friend, Stan Yastrewski (aka “Yaz”), had a sudden vision from his bed in the sick bay of the Fitz, shortly after coming out of a deep hypnotic coma. From this, Yaz was able to lead rescue forces to Hunter’s small tropical island, where they found the Wingman living the life of Robinson Crusoe, well-tanned, well-fed, and well-rested for the first time in years.
In retrospect, Hunter was glad that he had taken advantage of the down time on the small island to recoup and recharge. Because he knew now, by the photographic evidence before him, that their war with the Cult—or more specifically the evil forces behind the Cult—was indeed far from over.
“The good news is this,” Hunter began, referring to a message he’d received shortly before the meeting commenced, “despite the fact that Xmas was totally destroyed, we can rule out a nuclear strike. There were no detectable signs of weapons-related radiation on Crunch’s flight suit, boots or airframe.”
There was a collective sigh of relief from the others in the room. The nuclear-armed Fire Bats had not been present at the climatic battle of Pearl Harbor. In fact they had not been seen since they disappeared from the waters off the West Coast. One initial fear was that the rogue subs, considered “missing but still operational” by the United American strategic advisory unit, had nuked Xmas.
Hunter went on. “The bad news is that Crunch’s report also states that three more islands on the eastern edge of the Caroline chain got the same treatment recently.”
Another tense silence gripped the room.
“Same M.O.?” Frost asked finally.
“Apparently so,” Hunter replied. “None of those islands had any strategic military importance whatsoever. They were simply stripped of anything of value, their populations wiped out, and then completely leveled.”
He studied the photos of Xmas again.
“I’m convinced this was done by 16-inch high-explosive shells,” Hunter said. He knew that Captain Wolf, the Norse commander of the battleship New Jersey—itself armed with 16-inch guns—would have agreed with him. The formidable Wolf was presently en route to Norway to refit his own battered vessel and would rejoin the allies as soon as possible.
“I’d say hundreds of big shells, fired in a barrage that lasted for at least four hours, is the only thing that could have caused these craters,” he continued, dropping the prints back on the conference table. “And from the intensity of the firing pattern, it looks like they not only wanted to make sure that everything was destroyed …” he paused and looked at the men around the table. “… they wanted us to know about it.”
“It’s got to be them,” JT said bitterly, now stating the obvious. “The freaking battleships.”
Just before the battle for Okinawa, the United Americans had discovered a second, huge Cult manufacturing facility. Located on a string of islands south of Okinawa, this gigantic complex was dedicated to building World-War-II-style battleships. Though they had spotted scores of them steaming out of the gigantic shipbuilding facility, with their hands full on Okinawa, the Americans could do little about them. By the time the Okinawa operation was over, the battleships had disappeared. But to where? No one knew—so they, too, were officially tagged “missing but operational”.
These battleships made for a formidable enemy. With a displacement of 58,000 tons fully loaded, each was more than 880 feet long. Each had a weapons complement of twenty 5-inch guns, sixty pairs of 40-mm Bofors, and nine gigantic 16-inch cannons, whose powers of destruction were quite evident to all in the room. In fact, the concentrated firepower aboard one of the highly automated battleships could nearly mimic a nuclear strike. And there were twenty-four of them. With a maximum cruising speed of 30 knots and a range of 15,000 nautical miles, this fearsome extension of the brutal Cult slash-and-kill doctrine could go just about anywhere—and do just about anything it pleased.
Hunter was as much in the dark about the exact whereabouts and intentions of the battleships as everyone else. But obviously at least one of them had paid a visit to Xmas Island recently.
“If they are establishing a sphere of influence in one particular area by leaving their calling cards,” Hunter went on. “The populations down there must be close to panic. There’s no military good or bad to protect them.”
“Easy pickings,” Toomey summed up.
Again, everyone in the room nodded in grim agreement.
“If they are intent on destroying island after island,” Toomey added, “they could be down in that part of the world for months.”
“Is it enough time for us to get our act together?” Frost asked. “We have to do something about it. After all, we’re the only power in the world that could come to the defense of these people in the South Pacific. If we don’t do it, who the hell else will?”
“Wait a minute,” JT interrupted, “maybe we need to take a step back and consider one thing.”
The room fell into silence.
“Is it really our job to stop them?” he asked. “We dealt with them here in America, and we finally got rid of them. What we’re talking about now is a danger that is all the way around the other side of the planet,” he paused, then quietly asked, “Is it really our job to be the policemen of the world?”
No one said a word for a long time. It was Hunter who finally addressed the hypothetical question.
“Freedom is the most cherished thing anyone can have,” he began. “After what we’ve all been through, we here know that better than anybody. We have to fight for it, constantly. As Americans, we have to know its value.”
Hunter stared into the eyes of each man seated at the table, then looked downward. “For me, it’s simple. If one person in the world is not free, then no one is entirely free.”
Every man in the room, in turn, nodded without the slightest hesitation.
“It’s true,” JT said quietly. “But you know what that means …”
They all did. They were going to war. Again. Yet another leaden silence enveloped them.
“So what the hell do we do?” JT finally asked.
For the first time in a while, Hunter’s face actually brightened.
“I think I might have an idea,” he replied.
Chapter Three
Fiji
COLONEL UBU IKEBANI STRODE briskly through the lush garden of the heavily guarded compound, heading toward an elaborate grass hut.
The morning dew made the thousands of red flowers lining the path glisten in the dawn’s early light, and their sweet scents perfumed the air. But Ikebani did not revel in this natural beauty. Instead, he was doing the best he could to suppress the fear boiling in the pit of his stomach. He had a right to be nervous—he was on his way to deliver important information to the man named Soho, the rather irrational Supreme Warlord of the Asian Mercenary Cult.
As each guard he passed snapped to attention and saluted briskly, Ikebani knew the authority he had over these men was absolutely nothing compared to the power of life and death that his leader inside the hut possessed. Ikebani reminded himself to stay on his toes, to keep his mind razor sharp. For though the news he was bringing was good, what mattered most of all was the mood of the man to whom he was delivering it. So as Ikebani raised his hand to knock on the wooden door of the hut, he steeled himself by saying a small prayer to whatever gods were listening, beseeching them to allow him to live to see the sunset.
“This is really unbelievable,” Soho mumbled. He took another long drag on his hashish pipe and patted the head of the beautiful island girl who was kneeling between his legs performing the best fellatio he had ever experienced.
“Unbelievable,” he moaned again as he raced faster and faster to a glorious climax. “Just incredible …”
But suddenly a sharp knocking on the door shattered his impending moment of bliss. His euphoria quickly disappeared. The island girl slowly raised her face up to Soho; it showed nothing but fear at what she thought was her failure to please her master.
He lightly stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, little one,” Soho said benignly. “There will be another time for you.”
She smiled, gathered up her grass skirt, and hurriedly tiptoed out of the room—before he could change his mind.
Soho leaned back and took another long drag on his pipe, causing the rock-sized chunk of hashish to glow brightly in the darkened room. Once again, he became lost in thought, pondering the events that had brought him to this moment in time. They seemed so far away and so long ago.
Okinawa, where he was stationed, was under heavy attack by the United Americans. He was a pilot of a Sukki Me-262 jet, and like everyone else on the island fortress, he was ready to die to protect the Supreme Commander of the Asian Mercenary Cult, the beautiful young woman with red hair named Aja. At the height of the battle, he was summoned to Shuri Castle to appear before her in her private quarters. Fully prepared to receive his suicide mission orders, she instead ordered Soho to drop his pants. Then this great woman commanded him to enter her. An ever faithful and obedient soldier, Soho obeyed immediately.
When he was done, she ordered him to fly to Island Facility Number Two. Then, to his utter astonishment, she plunged a sharp knife into her stomach, killing herself in the most horrible, ritualistic way.
He was in his jet within minutes, streaking through a hail of deadly gunfire thrown up at him from the ground and from the American aircraft carrier floating offshore. He eventually made it here, as ordered, to Military Manufacturing Facility Number Two, which wasn’t a manufacturing facility at all. Rather, it was the tropical paradise of Fiji, a place devoid of the thick dense industrial smog that covered Okinawa; a place with very little military activity.
But it was here where things began to get really strange for him.
Upon his arrival, he was immediately treated by the island’s top Cult military brass as their Supreme Commander. His jet, the Me-262, was painted a sickly pink and mounted on stilts at the edge of the cliff overlooking the main beach. It was covered with fresh flower petals and multicolored blossoms. Six smoking urns were placed around it, their firepots constantly billowing cinnamon incense that mingled with the smoke from the five hundred candles that also surrounded the jet and which burned twenty-four hours a day.
But that was not all.
Hundreds of beautiful island women were instantly put at his disposal to do with as he pleased. Alcohol flowed like water; the drugs, the best in Asia, were plentiful. Incredible feasts of wild game, fruits, and vegetables were brought to him whenever he wanted. He lived like a king—in fact, he was their king. But despite the royal treatment and their attendant pleasures, many things still troubled him.
One was the disturbing memory of Aja, who, right before she killed herself, seemed to transform from a bloodthirsty leader into a young innocent girl. From the moment he had landed on this island—an island where his every whim was catered to—another thought had constantly replayed in his mind, over and over again: “Why me?” Why had he been chosen to be the Supreme Commander of the Asian Mercenary Cult?
But what had bothered him the most was the distinct feeling that he was no longer sure of his own identity. As time went on, he felt less in control of his destiny. In reflection, this feeling seemed to begin right after he’d completed his coupling with Aja—it was almost as if some being had entered him as well. At first he thought maybe it was the drugs, or the booze, or the constant sexual pleasures that he enjoyed so often since arriving on Fiji. But now, he had no idea what was happening to him. It was as if someone—or something—had stolen his very soul from him.
Even stranger, it was bothering him less and less as the days went by.
Another loud rap at the front door broke Soho away from his thoughts.
“Enter!” he barked.
Colonel Ikebani double-timed into the hut, stepped before Soho, and gave a smart salute. Soho returned the gesture by exhaling a cloud of hashish smoke right into the Colonel’s face.
“Colonel Ikebani reporting, sir!”
Soho did not respond. He simply sat there, taking his time, looking the soldier up and down, much to the discomfort of Ikebani. Then he reached over, lifted up a pitcher and refilled his coconut cup with a sweet alcoholic drink.
“Would you like a drink, Colonel?” Soho politely asked.
“No thank you, sir, I’m on duty.” he replied, hoping that his answer would please his leader.
Soho grunted, and then drank the entire contents of the coconut cup in one long swig. He put the cup down, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, folded his arms across his chest, and looked up at the Cult officer.
“Well?”
“A radio message for you, sir. It just came in over the secure frequency.” Ikebani produced a red envelope, sealed with black tape, and handed it to Soho.
Soho looked at the envelope and the words TOP SECRET stamped across its front. He wondered why they constantly bothered him with this crap instead of leaving him alone so that he could enjoy himself. He snatched the envelope out of Ikebani’s trembling hand, tore it open, and quickly scanned the decoded cable. He then looked back up at the officer.
“You thought this was important enough to disturb me?” he hissed.
“Ahhh, yes … sir.” Ikebani stammered.
“Well, Colonel,” Soho corrected him. “You were wrong.”
Ikebani’s small prayer was indeed granted by the gods. He did live to see the sunset. But it was only after being tied to a post at the edge of the cliff, partially skinned, and left as a delicacy for the scavenger birds. By the time the sun finally dipped below the horizon, Ikebani was quite nearly picked to death. He was grateful then for the cold steel blade that was finally drawn across his throat.
He did not live long enough, however, to see the people who sent what he thought was such an important message. For one hour after Ikebani died, two Fire Bats nuclear-armed submarines broke surface in the island’s inner harbor.
Chapter Four
Edwards Air Force Base
Southern California
Three weeks later
THE A-37 DRAGONFLY APPEARED as a dot on the eastern horizon, its silver body glistening in the rising sun.
The small jet circled the huge airfield once, then touched down for a picture perfect landing on the longest runway in the world.
Less than a minute later, the Dragonfly rolled up to its hardstand and stopped, its canopy open. General Dave Jones, Commander-in-Chief of the United American Forces, unhitched himself and climbed out.
“Been flying a desk too damned long,” he said, taking off his crash helmet and rubbing his stiff arm muscles. “Got to get up more often.”
A white HumVee pulled up to the Dragonfly just as the General stepped down to the hot asphalt. Hawk Hunter was at the wheel.
“Welcome to Edwards, General,” Hunter said with a salute as Jones climbed into the passenger seat. The two men shook hands. “How was the trip out?”
“It’s always a gas to fly out here,” Jones said, studying the vast expanse of the high California desert. “I love this place. I saw everything from the X-15 to the Shuttle land here. Lot of aviation history has been made in these parts.”
Hunter put the HumVee in gear. “Well, General,” he said, with a wry smile. “I think we might be working on another chapter.”
They took off with a squeal and were soon traveling across the acres of tarmac towards the back side of a long row of enormous hangers. It was there that Hunter was going to show Jones the fruition of the idea he first proposed back in San Diego nearly a month before.
Everyone in that conference room that day agreed that the Cult’s rogue battleships posed an enormous threat not only to the defenseless people of the South Pacific, but to the world security as well, as shaky as it was. Yet they were also in agreement that to organize an American naval fleet, arm it, train its crews, and then sail halfway around the world to counter the Cult threat would take at least six months—much too long to do a
nybody any good. The problem called for the quickest response possible.
Hunter’s idea that day was simple: if we can’t float a force to check the Cult battleships, then let’s fly one there instead.
Now, General Jones was about to see firsthand how that concept had been turned into reality.
The row of hangers seemed to stretch for more than a mile. Hunter swung the jeep around the corner of the end barn and brought it to a halt.
“Well, here they are, General,” Hunter said after he killed the engine. “The First American Airborne Expeditionary Fleet.”
Jones’ eyes grew to twice their normal size. “This is incredible,” he finally managed to say.
What he saw was a long row of gigantic C-5 Galaxy cargo jets. There were at least two dozen of them, sitting wingtip-to-wingtip in the hot California sun. Each one was surrounded by scores of support trucks and dozens of ground personnel, flight mechanics and cargo handlers, all working at a feverish pitch. Each one was painted in the strangest way.
The C-5 Galaxy was the king of long-range heavy military cargo transports. Indeed, it was the largest airplane ever built in the free world. Powered by four turbofan jet engines capable of 41,000 pounds of thrust, the C-5 could cruise at 440 knots and climb as high as 50,000 feet. The airplanes were simply enormous. At 250 feet long, they were a scant 50 feet shorter than a football field. Their wing span was 222 feet, encompassing 6,200 square feet in area. Most important, the C-5 could carry nearly 150 tons of equipment, military gear, weapons, people—whatever—in its gigantic hold.
Jones let out a long, low whistle.
These monstrous airplanes, dug up from all corners of the American continent by the well-known used-airplane salesmen, “Roy From Troy,” were the cornerstones of Hunter’s latest brainstorm.
They started coming in three weeks before, just hours after Hunter put the call out to Roy to find as many of the giant airships as possible. As always, the intrepid salesman came through; he began finding them everywhere. For five days they were landing at Edwards, some from as far away as Nova Scotia, others from the hellish sun of nearby Arizona. All were in various states of disrepair. Several were barely flyable; others were in such bad shape they could only be cannibalized for parts. Those that were repairable were slated to be overhauled from stem to stern, a massive undertaking considering the ever-shrinking timetable.
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