War of the Sun

by Maloney, Mack;

  Wolf reintroduced his senior men, all of whom Hunter had met back when he’d first met the Norse captain. Then Hunter escorted the party up to the meeting room off the CIC, where Yaz, Ben, JT, and the captains of the Tennyson and the Cohen were waiting.

  After the introductions, Yaz quickly outlined the specifics of “Operation Long Bomb” for the Norsemen. Then Ben and Toomey briefed the visitors on the carrier’s odd collection of strike aircraft.

  Using recon photos supplied to him by General Jones, Hunter pinpointed the targets the airplanes would hit. The pictures clearly showed that the proposed targets were well defended.

  When the Wingman finished, Wolf was silent for a moment. His hand slowly fingering his Zorro-like mask, he seemed to be processing all the information, just as a computer might.

  “This is indeed a very bold plan,” he said finally. “But boldness is what we have come to expect from you. All of us here have been fighting for a long time, longer than any of us care to, I am sure. We have seen our friends, our family, our countrymen fall. If by this bold plan we can prevent others from having to fight, if we can ensure the safety of those whom we love and have left at home, then I say this is a good plan. You can count on my men and my ship.”

  Wolf’s speech evoked a spontaneous round of applause. The Task Force was now complete. The men shook hands all around. A bottle of Scotch appeared, and a toast was proposed to the mission’s success. There was a moment of silence as the men drank. Then Wolf proposed another.

  “To absent friends,” he said.

  The men drank again, this time a little more somberly.

  Once again the glasses were filled.

  “To fallen comrades,” Ben said.

  At that point, Hunter produced a sealed envelope from his shirt pocket.

  “Before the general left, he asked that we open this when the Task Force was finally assembled,” he explained, handing the envelope to Yaz. “I guess this is as good a time as any.”

  The slight but rugged captain ripped open the seal and read the brief message inside. A wide smile spread across his usually concerned facial features.

  “It’s an official ‘request’ from Jones,” he said. “He asks if there are any objections to renaming the carrier.”

  “To what?” JT asked.

  Yaz passed him the letter, which he read. It caused him to grin, too. He then passed the note on to Ben.

  “An aircraft carrier named after an Air Force guy?” he exclaimed. “I like it.”

  Hunter finally got to read the message, and he, too, had to smile for a second.

  “I don’t think anyone has any objections,” he said.

  From that moment on, the aircraft carrier was known as the USS Mike Fitzgerald.

  The toasting and discussion continued for another hour. But Hunter wasn’t there. He’d slipped out of the conference room practically unnoticed and was now sitting out on the deserted bow of the carrier.

  He was looking out over the ocean. As always, the questions had been flooding in. How much longer would he have to fight? Would he ever have the chance to enjoy the things he was fighting for? It was ironic, he thought, that all this time he was fighting for freedom, yet he didn’t feel free at all. He felt imprisoned instead, chained to the responsibilities he had taken upon himself.

  What the hell kind of life was that?

  But the problems ran even deeper than that. Because with this mission, and his “special” part in it, he wondered for the first time whether he could continue as a soldier.

  Just then he heard footsteps behind him. Hunter turned and saw Wolf approaching through the darkness, his cape snapping in the wind.

  “The famous Wingman, all alone?” the Norse captain asked.

  “Need time to think,” Hunter replied.

  “You think too much, my friend.” Wolf said, sitting down next to him. “You would have made a good Dane.”

  “You’re the first to accuse me of that,” he replied.

  “Perhaps not everyone understands the way I do,” Wolf said. He gestured toward the carrier’s island. “The men up there—good men, and brave warriors. But it is different for them. They do their duty. They go into battle, yes, and they fight valiantly, willing even to die for what they believe in. But rarely do they have to make the decisions that we have to. They do not know—nor can they know—the weight we carry on our shoulders.

  “So why is it that we have to do these things? Why is this our special fate?”

  Hunter remained silent. It was a question he’d been asking himself for years.

  They sat there not speaking for a few minutes. Yet perhaps unintentionally, Wolf’s words had touched at what was really bothering Hunter: the center of the plan—his special targeting mission.

  “I know of this special mission,” the Norse captain told him thoughtfully. “And I know how it troubles you. I also know that there is no choice in the matter. You could no more walk away from the things you feel you must do than I could. And, my friend, what you are about to do is the right thing—in the end. Of that I am very sure.”

  With that, the mysterious figure rose and walked away, leaving Hunter alone on the bow of the deck.

  The newly-named USS Fitzgerald, the New Jersey, and the two supply ships set sail early the next morning.

  Seven

  Zobi, Japan

  THE BRIGHT ORANGE GLOW of the rising sun flooded the small fishing village, bathing its tiny, neatly-kept shacks in the new morning warmth.

  The day had dawned bright and cloudless, perfect weather for putting to sea and harvesting fish, seaweed, and pearls. Already the men of the village were heading down to the docks, their lunchpails and tins of tea clanging as they walked. Some of them were even singing to celebrate the occasion of the beautiful dawn.

  Just waking up in her small home on the edge of this idyllic setting was a young girl of seventeen named Mizumi.

  Mizumi was the most beautiful creature in the village of Zobi. Even as a child her delicate features and alabaster skin had made her enchanting. As she grew older, her body developed curves and her features matured, too. In the past year, she had turned into a gorgeous young woman.

  But Mizumi’s beauty was most unusual, too. For of the several hundred people in the village, only she had red hair.

  Like everyone else in Zobi, her family made their living from the sea. Their boat was one of the largest of the small fleet and readily identifiable by its yellow gunwales and its orange mast. And though she did not go out on the brightly-painted boat like her father and her two older brothers, she worked with her mother on other essential tasks on shore.

  Her favorite job was the mending of the fishing nets. Not only was it less messy than cleaning fish, it also provided her with a social life of sorts. On certain days she and her mother would take the nets to a beach near the town’s docks. The other village women would bring their mending there, too, and gossip as they worked. Mizumi would listen to the other women’s talk, and do her work conscientiously.

  It was not an easy life, yet she’d been content there simply because she loved her family and her neighbors and the sea itself. She couldn’t imagine wanting to live anywhere that didn’t border the vast expanse of water.

  She had awakened this morning happy and excited because it was net-mending day. Little did she know that this was the day her idyllic life in the village would end.

  By full dawn she had seen her father and brothers off to their boat, knowing if the fishing was good, they might not return for two days or more. She was helping her mother gather the nets that needed mending when her father suddenly burst back into the house.

  He was out of breath, his features pale with alarm. There was a ghastly look of terror on his face.

  Wild-eyed, he looked at Mizumi a moment, then ran to his wife’s side.

  “Soldiers are here!” he had told the mother in an anxious whisper. “They are looking for a girl to … to serve …”

  “Serve Hashi Push
i?” her mother had answered, saying the words her father could not.

  “They’ll take Mizumi,” her father had cried, no longer trying to mask his words in whispers. “We must hide her!”

  From her room, Mizumi had heard everything—yet she was not even sure what her father was talking about. She had heard of this Hashi Pushi, but she had never thought of him as a real person. His name was spoken only in solemn murmurs, if at all, and more as a mythical character than anyone real. She had always imagined him to be a mighty godlike warlord, someone who lived in the clouds far away, his only connection to Earth the tribute the village paid on a monthly basis.

  “We’ll send her running up to the mountains,” her mother said, fighting back panic. “My grandmother’s sister-in-law’s niece has relations there.” As she spoke she was already hastily gathering items to pack into a rucksack.

  But at that moment three soldiers burst into the house. They were dressed in identical orange uniforms with garish black helmets. All three had their guns raised. Their eyes were full of desperation.

  Mizumi’s father bravely confronted them, but was immediately struck down with the butt of a rifle.

  “We are on an errand for our lord, old man,” one spat, leering down at the bloody face of her father, who now lay prone and dazed on the floor. “You were very foolish to interfere.”

  This soldier seemed to be the leader of the trio. With cold eyes, he shifted his attention from the father to the trembling mother and finally toward Mizumi. He studied her for a moment, taking in the classically beautiful face, her evolving figure. Then he saw her red hair.

  The soldier smiled cruelly.

  “We have found our treasure,” he declared.

  With that he gestured to the two other men. They rushed forward and grabbed Mizumi by the hands and feet. She struggled with them as they carried her out of the house and down the road toward their troop truck. She was screaming uncontrollably for her neighbors to save her, but it was no use. No one dared to challenge the soldiers.

  Mizumi was now screaming desperately for her parents. But suddenly there was the sound of two rifle shots coming from within her house. At that moment, everything seemed to stand still. Mizumi was able to turn her head and see the soldier who’d struck her father come out of the door, his rifle still smoking.

  That’s when she fainted. Thus she was only dimly aware of being dumped into the back of the truck and driven away.

  For Mizumi, nothing would ever be the same again.

  Eight

  Four days later

  THE USS FITZGERALD WAS coming apart at the seams.

  Or at least, that’s what it felt like.

  The massive carrier was shuddering, creaking, and groaning, all at the same time. It was caught in a cataclysmic pattern: giant waves would hit it broadside, allowing tons of water to crash down onto its huge flightdeck and knocking the vessel almost thirty degrees to port. Then, not a moment later, even larger waves would crash against its port side, serving to right the carrier again.

  Alone in the hangar deck, Hawk Hunter was hanging onto the nearest stable piece of hardware, a fairly heavy support beam. Inside the cavernous deck, lit only by the soft red glow of the emergency lights, he could hear the sounds of unsecured gear clattering all around the decks.

  Or were those really rivets popping?

  They were sailing right through a full-scale tropical depression, a storm just one notch below an authentic typhoon. The winds were clocking at close to 70 mph, and the seas were running at fifty feet and more. The ship was being battered so badly that all but essential operations had been shut down, even to the point that no food could be served in the galleys. Not that anyone on board wanted to swallow anything more than antiseasickness tablets.

  It was now 0300. The Task Force had first encountered the bad weather nearly twenty-four hours before, just as they’d passed the two-thirds mark on the way to the target area. And though the tempest was rough on the four ships and their crews, running smack into it actually turned out to be a beneficial twist of events: Nature’s elements, though stomach-turning, had provided excellent cover for the Task Force to close in on their destination without detection.

  Indeed, all indications were that the Task Force hadn’t been spotted—yet …

  Once the carrier finally stabilized, Hunter was able to let go of the support beam and resume his slow pacing. He’d been at it for nearly two hours now, walking, thinking, holding on, then walking and thinking again. He had much on his mind—too much—and he had sought the quiet peace of the hangar deck in an attempt to sort it all out.

  So far, he’d been unsuccessful.

  He was wrestling with the unorthodox mission that was before him, a mission that only he could undertake. For the dozenth time in two hours he took out the now-dog-eared sheet of paper that read “special targeting mission,” and once again read the sealed “FOR YOUR EYES ONLY” orders that Jones had given him shortly before the general had flown back to Washington from Vancouver.

  The orders were brutally simple: while the Task Force air strikes were going on, Hunter was to land inside Tokyo, find Hashi Pushi, and execute him.

  Once again those words burned their way into his overtaxed brain, this time even deeper. He was no stranger to the death and destruction of war. He had sent many enemies to their deaths in aerial combat and in hand-to-hand fighting. But there was a distinct difference here. Those men had been soldiers, too, fighting on a battlefield, with weapons on hand. As such, they at least knew what they could be in for once they stepped into that arena of combat, and they were prepared for it.

  But this killing would be different—this killing, Hunter felt, might change him forever. For this was not going to be a typical combat situation.

  This was to be an assassination.

  He knew Jones was right when he had first explained the mission to him back in Vancouver. He knew that Wolf was right too; getting rid of Hashi Pushi would probably save countless lives on both sides. It would rid an already overly-troubled world of yet another set of catastrophic problems, akin to popping Hitler in 1933 or Saddam Hussein in 1991.

  But was it right?

  Bombing Hashi Pushi’s palace might do the trick, but that wasn’t the point. This was a case of making sure—one hundred percent sure—because there was no way they’d have the chance again.

  So the motive was there.

  The real question was: Could he do it?

  He’d never shot anyone in cold blood before. Would he have time to look his target directly in the eye and squeeze the trigger? Would he keep squeezing until every breath of life had left his quarry? Would he have to pull that trigger one last time to administer the coup de grâce? Just to make sure?

  He needed a plan—his own secret plan. Was there a way that he could accomplish the special targeting mission and still preserve his sanity and his honor?

  Perhaps there was …

  At that moment, the hair on the back of his neck bristled, instantly snapping him out of his gloomy meditation.

  Deep inside him, his psyche had just received a very powerful message: Something is wrong.

  He turned and began running. Across the hangar deck, through the fire door, and up the ladder to the next deck. Suddenly he heard the Phalanx Gatling gun on the port side of the flight deck open up with its distinctive, bone-rattling, mechanical burp.

  Bolting up the next stairway and heading for the bridge, he literally ran right into JT, who was on his way down to the hangar deck to find him.

  “We’ve got big trouble, Hawk,” Toomey told him excitedly.

  “I know,” Hunter replied.

  Yaz was going in five directions at once.

  It seemed as if every light, bell, and buzzer was going off on the bridge simultaneously. All seventeen men in his bridge crew were at their stations, properly calling out information that somehow was pertinent to the sudden crisis.

  But all Yaz could do was concentrate on the tiny colored l
ight which was being tossed around on the rough seas about two miles off the port bow. His fire-control men said the light probably belonged to a Cult patrol boat, one which easily could radio back the discovery and position of the Task Force. If that happened, then the Task Force would lose its one and only advantage: that of complete surprise.

  Yaz had given permission for his fire crews to open up on the wildly bobbing colored light in order to get a range on it, and now there were two lines of red-tipped 20mm cannon shells streaking out of the rotating six barrels of the Fitzgerald’s Phalanx. At 600 rounds a second, their combined five-second barrage was simply awesome as it lit up the stormy darkness.

  “They’ve got the range on him, Skipper,” his fire control officer reported. “Next burst will nail him. Shall I give the order, sir?”

  Yaz bit his lip for a moment. This was his first authentic combat decision since being crowned captain of the aircraft carrier. He had to make sure it was the right one.

  “Are the Tennyson, Cohen, and New Jersey clear of the target area?” he called to his fire control officer.

  “Yes, sir,” came the immediate reply. “All three are running off our stern.”

  “And are we certain that’s an enemy military vessel out there?” Yaz asked his radar men.

  There was the briefest of pauses before the target-ID man replied, “I’m almost ninety-percent sure, Captain.”

  “Either way, it probably has a radio, Skipper,” his fire control officer said.

  Yaz put the NightScope glasses back up to his eyes. He could clearly see the small boat now, its engine pumping furiously, as it fought the windswept sea in an effort to get away. It seemed to be painted in odd colors. Its gunwales were yellow, while its mast was bright orange.

  Yaz gritted his teeth. He couldn’t wait much longer. Still, he knew that with his next order, he was sealing the death warrant for whoever was on the boat.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Open fire …”

  The Phalanx Gatlings immediately roared to life again and sent thousands of rounds of 20mm cannon shells ripping through the thin-skinned deck of the small boat, instantly exploding it into thousands of tiny splinters.