A tense silence was broken when Yaz scooped up another huge spoonful of the vanilla ice cream and began devouring it. He was halfway through when he suddenly stopped and looked around.
“Hey, wait a minute—where is Hawk?” he asked.
Those in attendance shot sudden nervous glances at each other.
“Can we tell him?” Ben asked the doctors.
“Going to have to do it sometime,” one said. “We’ve already filled him in on the Okinawa and Pearl Harbor actions.”
Ben leaned in a little closer to Yaz.
“Hawk took off in the jumpjet yesterday,” he began slowly. “Said he had an appointment to keep, back on Okinawa. We haven’t heard from him since. He’s long overdue …”
Yaz was astounded. “He’s overdue? Again?” he asked incredulously.
“We’re searching for him now,” JT replied somberly. “But, as you know, with each hour, it gets a little …”
Yaz suddenly held up his hand.
“Wait a minute,” he said, closing his eyes and straining his face as if he were deep in thought. Suddenly he stopped moving completely, his eyes shut so tight, the lids were turning a shade of blue.
Then he smiled again. “You want to know something?” he said, “I can tell you exactly where he is …”
Forty-four
Washington, D.C.
GENERAL DAVID JONES PULLED a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and uncapped it.
Before him was a well-worn, unopened file. His hands shook slightly as he reached for a paper cup and prepared to pour himself a drink. He never thought he would ever have to review this particular file again, never thought he would ever even have to pull it from his secure safe again. For the information contained within had so much potential for bad news, it could effect not just the United American cause, but freedom-loving people around the entire globe.
He picked up the whiskey bottle and poured a stiff shot into the paper cup. It was early in the morning—he wasn’t even sure of the time—but he’d been behind the desk for at least ten straight hours now. In that time, he’d been accessing the UA’s central security computer files, going over the names and profiles of various criminals and terrorists the UA had come up against in recent times, trying to determine who, if any of them, was responsible for the recent carnage in the Pacific.
But nothing was adding up. Not yet, anyway.
The only thing Jones was sure of was that the whole episode in the Pacific was not what it appeared to be. He was, in fact, absolutely convinced they’d all been hoodwinked. Fooled. Played like a violin for someone’s hidden agenda. After studying the results of the recent actions in Japan, Okinawa, and lastly, at Pearl Harbor, his conclusion was that the Asian Mercenary Cult, though brutal, though powerful beyond all expectation, was not what it had first seemed to be. It was, he now believed, little more than a front, a facade for something else. Something even more sinister.
And Jones knew that after his analysts studied everything that went on in the Pacific, and debriefed all the principals involved, they would conclude that what had begun as “Operation Long Bomb” had not been a conventional combat engagement at all. Rather it had been orchestrated to look that way. Its intention was never really for one side to battle the other to gain territory or power or prestige. It had been simply a vehicle to take lives, to destroy both sides, militarily and morale-wise.
Furthermore, he was certain now that the man they knew as Hashi Pushi, the man they had targeted in the first place as being the be-all and end-all of evil in the Pacific rim, was, in fact, a front man drawn into the weird drama by God-knows-what forces to simply play a part, and then, when his usefulness was drained, eliminated to make room for the next player, and so on. This was why the Cult didn’t collapse after the airstrike on Japanese Home Islands. This was why they kept on fighting even after losing the massive facility on Okinawa. This was why the Cult pulled out of occupied California, against all standard military operating principles, and redeployed to Hawaii only to be used as sacrificial lambs.
And someone was behind it all. Someone with incredible power—both persuasive and military, psychological and physical.
It was a scary thesis. But Jones was convinced he was right.
He’d spent hours going over and over in his head who this villainous mastermind might be.
There was no shortage of suspects: there was Duke Devillian of the fascist Knights of the Burning Cross, the unbalanced white supremacist who had brought wanton slaughter and unbearable suffering to the America Southwest less than two years before; there were the surviving leaders of the so-called Canal Nazis, the fascists who had mined the Panama Canal with nuclear explosives not three years before. There were the surviving members of the Family, the Super-Mafia that had once ruled a large section of the American Midwest with a corrupt and iron fist. There were any one of a number of officers known as the Mid-Aks, the wacko murder-for-hire army that rampaged throughout the eastern part of America shortly after the Big War and the deceitful disarmament and fractionalization of the United States that followed. Even Elizabeth Sandlake, the beautiful but highly unstable villainess, who’d aided the men behind the Norse invasion of America not a year before, and who, more than anyone else, was responsible for the presence of the still-missing nuclear-armed Fire Bats submarines.
Anyone in this gallery of rogues could have been responsible for pulling the strings behind the tragic events which had unfolded recently in the Pacific, except for one thing: all of them were either dead, or incarcerated in a United American prison.
This was why Jones now had the last unopened computer file before him. It contained the profile of the only villain the Americans had fought since the Big War who had the sheer bombastic mesmerizing charisma to pull off such a titanic feat of evil. And though he was thought to be dead, Jones knew that if anyone had the power to expertly fake his own death, it was this particular individual.
For unlike the others, this person could actually affect men’s minds, he could actually steal their souls. He was, in fact, the walking symbol of Evil itself.
And if he was somehow loose again, in whatever form, then the entire planet was in dire circumstances.
Jones raised the paper cup full of whiskey to his lips, thought briefly about his brave men in the Pacific, who had just scored yet another victory for freedom, and then downed the shot of powerful no-name booze.
Thus bolstered, he opened the file and found himself staring at a photograph of a thin-faced, hard-featured, absolutely sinister goateed man.
Instantly Jones felt a shot of revulsion rip through him.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take his eyes off the photograph of the bearded devilish figure.
“God help us all,” he whispered.
Somewhere in the Pacific
Hunter didn’t know whether he felt more foolish or embarrassed.
“Bonehead,” he muttered to himself. “Dumb. Amateur. Rookie.”
He was trudging up the side of a steep hill, carrying two containers full of engine oil drained from the Harrier. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was—his best guess was Lisianski Island, a barren spit of rock and vine-covered cliffs about seventy miles southeast of famous Midway Island and a few hundred miles northwest of the larger Hawaiian Islands.
He had run out of gas. It was the first time it had ever happened to him, and this was why he was so mortified. He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened—one moment he was breezing along, heading back to the Task Force’s location, the next, his bingo light was flashing. He tried every trick in the book to limp along, but Lisianski was as far as he could get. His engine, in fact, cut out on him while he was still in his landing hover, dropping the jumpjet twenty-five feet and causing it to bounce almost half that high before finally coming down for good on the island’s rocky upper beach.
With no radio and no locator beam, he had little choice but to climb to the high ground, light a signal fire, and wait. This was why he�
��d drained about ten gallons of lubricant from the airplane’s engine. Once he reached the top of the island’s tallest peak, he would start a smoky fire and then cool his heels until help arrived.
His only consolation was that he wasn’t on a combat mission. Rather it had been a make-good trip. He’d returned to Okinawa, not to survey what was left of the Cult’s Shuri Mountain facility, but to land back at the movie set village. Once there, he’d found the gray-haired woman who had been so helpful earlier in his Pacific adventure.
And with little prompting, he’d brought her on her first airplane ride ever.
They had soared high above the still-smoggy island of Okinawa, past the former, now devastated Cult base on Iko, and back again. Throughout the high-speed romp, the woman sitting in the backseat of the AV-8F gasped in amazement and roared with delight.
“My mother would never believe this!” she yelled on several occasions.
After thirty minutes or so, Hunter returned her to the movie-set village and promised to report their location to a Free Canadian relief convoy he knew would soon be passing through the area. Then he headed back for the Task Force, making it about halfway before inexplicably running out of fuel.
He finally reached the top of the island’s tallest peak and within minutes got a black, smoky fire going.
It was about an hour past sunset now, and as he sat watching the full moon rise, he contemplated the wildness of the last few weeks: the original plan for Operation Long Bomb. His bizarre journey into the heart of burning Tokyo. His confrontation with Hashi Pushi. The near-infallible instinct that led him to discover the huge war-making facility on Okinawa. The battle for the smog-covered island itself. The loss of the USS Cohen. The final action at Pearl Harbor.
Through it all, he’d kept his long-standing goal in mind. Fighting for the freedom of America was his number one priority. But now, looking out over the vast Pacific Ocean, he felt new feelings slowly coming over him. The planet was changing—the recent battles so far away from the American mainland had convinced him of that. Now, he was sure that the battles of the future would not be fought exclusively on American soil.
Rather, he saw global conflicts ahead—and with this new feeling came an overwhelming sense of new urgency. He could no longer labor under the illusion that fighting for freedom always meant just fighting for America. Sure, the American continent was once again free of invaders and reunited. But there had to be millions of people around the world who were not free, and until they were all released from the shackles of tyranny and terrorism, then America could not really call itself free.
He took a deep breath and contemplated the rising moon. It looked so crisp and clear, its mountains, valleys, and craters so sharply focused, it was breathtaking. He leaned back and actually felt his shoulders start to relax. He knew he’d be found eventually. Until then, he told himself, several days on a tropical island might not be the worst thing in the world for him.
If only Dominique were here with him.
He threw some more oil on the huge, blazing fire and then leaned back again and closed his eyes …
He would never know if he actually fell asleep or not.
When he next thought he’d opened his eyes, he found himself staring once again at the full moon. But it looked different now. It seemed larger. More brightly orange. More sinister.
He closed his eyes—or at least, he thought he did—and upon opening them once more, he found that the mountains, valleys, and craters on the moon had suddenly changed shape. Now their shadows were forming a frightening image, one of a devilish-looking man with eyes of hate, a thin, pale face, and a sharp goatee.
And the face was laughing at him.
Fiji, the next day
The man known as Soho was walking along a deserted beach about a mile and a half away from his palatial cliffside residence.
With him was a young girl, one he’d selected from the local population for her virginal beauty, her innocent Polynesian features, and especially, her long, lovely dark red hair.
“I have a story to tell you,” Soho told the girl after a long time of just walking along the beach in silence. “You must remember this story, for it will be important to you later on. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded shyly. “I guess so,” she replied.
They stopped near a waterfall which was splashing into a tiny shimmering pool. Sitting on its edge, they let their feet dangle in the pure, warm water.
“Not long ago,” Soho began, “there was a man who tried to show the world that he was a supreme being. He did this by gathering some trusted people around him. They were a small group at first. But quickly their numbers grew, for this man had the ability to attract and influence ordinary people, and convince them that they could do extraordinary things.
“Soon, the name of this man was on the lips of many, many people. Some walked for miles just to hear him speak. Others began to pray to him. They were the first to realize that this man had a vision for the world, one which all people would live by.”
The girl was listening very intently, equally fascinated and confused.
“Where did this great man live?” she asked.
“He lived in an area of the world we once called the Middle East,” Soho went on, as always, not really knowing where the words were coming from. “It’s very hot there, very dry. There’s lots of sand, like here, but not a lot of water. It’s a desert.
“He lived there and spoke his beliefs there, for he was sure that this was where the human race began. He was trying to build a new way for men to live—but not everyone agreed with him. Many disliked him. Many tried to kill him. Soon many were waging battles against him, wars of struggle over men’s souls.
“Soon, these battles went out of control. This great man knew that only by sacrificing himself could he really influence how others thought of him. And so, in that place called the Middle East, he was killed, murdered by those who disagreed with him.”
“That’s very sad,” the young girl said.
Soho smiled and stroked his chin.
“It is,” he agreed. “But this sadness didn’t last long. Because this man was so great that not even death could prevent him from telling the world his ideas, his beliefs.”
“But how could he do that?” she asked.
“By rising,” Soho said. “By rising from the dead and walking among his followers once more.”
“What did he look like?” the girl wanted to know.
Soho smiled. “He was tall. Very strong. He had long hair, and a short beard.”
Suddenly the girl became quite animated. “You know, I think I have heard of this man,” she said. “My grandmother told me about him when I was small. Was his name Jesus?”
Soho looked at the girl and laughed.
“Jesus?” he said, suddenly slipping his hand around her lower waist and fondling her upper leg. “No, my dear. His name was Victor…”
Turn the page to continue reading from the Wingman Series
PART ONE
Chapter One
CAPTAIN “CRUNCH” O’MALLEY WAS exhausted.
For the last ten hours, he had been flying his RF-4X Super Phantom in a wide search pattern over the eastern sector of the Philippine Sea. Under normal circumstances, he would have quit for the day a long time ago.
But there was nothing normal about today’s recon.
What Crunch was looking for, what he was actually hoping not to find, was nowhere to be seen. Except for the occasional green dot of some obscure, uncharted island, all that stretched before him were thousands of square miles of empty ocean. Water, water everywhere.
“But not a drop to drink,” O’Malley muttered.
A quick glance at his control panel’s fuel quantity indicator told him that the Super Phantom was getting critically low on gas.
He banked to the left and set a new course.
“Time to head for the barn,” he thought.
His new destination was a place called Xm
as Island. Located approximately 400 miles southeast of Luzon, Xmas Island had nothing to do with Santa Claus or Divine Birth. Just the opposite, in fact.
Xmas was owned and operated by the Triad Holding Corporation, a collection of some of the most greedy and cutthroat wheeler-dealers on the planet. Absolutely anything could be had for a price on Xmas—it was capitalism gone amok. Any kind of operation was allowed on the twenty-square-mile island: prostitution, drug manufacturing, weapons running, money laundering … and jet refueling. Just as long as Triad got its cut—usually 50 percent—anyone could do business there. It was all strictly cash and carry. If the payment was short one penny, justice was swift. No trial, no jury of peers, no appeals—only execution. Sometimes as many as ten a day. All in all, it was definitely not a place for the faint of heart.
O’Malley had been to Xmas Island dozens of times over the past few years and knew it well. None of the squalor, fifth, and disease that was rampant in this part of the world existed on Xmas. The reason was simple: despite their econo-authoritarian ways, the Triad Holding Corporation poured a substantial amount of their profits back into development and maintenance of the island. So, oddly, Xmas boasted the best living conditions in the Pacific Rim—a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there.
The island itself was beautiful. Except for the harbor, where much of the importing and exporting went on, the entire coastline was covered by gorgeous beaches of pearl white sand. Fishing was ideal and plentiful, wild fruits and vegetables grew everywhere, cattle and exotic game hunting provided the meat, five state-run distilleries provided the booze. And it was said that the power surfing there was better than any other place in the world outside of Hawaii.
But Crunch wasn’t going there to fish or eat or surf or get drunk. This time is was simply a fuel-up stop for a tank of JP-8 and maybe a bottle or two of scotch. Then it would be up and out again for another 2500-mile loop, this time south, skirting northeast New Guinea, continuing his search for a nightmare.
War of the Sun Page 29