“What could this mean?” he cried.
Six
One week later
HUNTER STOOD ON THE flight deck of the Enterprise and watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.
Having left Vancouver under the cover of night and fog five days before, the giant aircraft carrier was now cruising at barely five knots in a circular pattern about ten miles off of Kittery Island, a small atoll located in the far western section of the Hawaiian chain, just east of the more famous Midway Islands.
This place had been chosen as the Task Force’s rendezvous point for several reasons. Not the least of these was that although the Cult occupied all the major islands in the Hawaiian chain, there was no enemy present within 250 miles of Kittery. Kittery also supported an airstrip which had been hosting almost nightly visits from huge Free Canadian C-5 cargo planes, dropping off supplies for the Task Force. Finally, the island’s harbor was sheltered on three sides and boasted several spots for deep mooring.
The preparations for the highly-secret mission had proceeded at a frenetic pace, twenty-four hours a day for the past six days. Typically, Hunter had slept but ten hours in that time, and had eaten next to nothing. There was just too much to do.
Much of the time had been spent going over the small, rather bizarre air unit General Jones had put together for the mission. It turned out that all the aircraft had come by way of Roy From Troy, the notorious used-airplane salesman who’d been instrumental in scrounging up aircraft to defeat the Fourth Reich several months before. Working a variety of leads from a variety of places, Roy and Jones had managed to secretly put together the patchwork air wing.
The twelve aircraft in the Task Force Squadron all had two things in common: they all were older, less advanced machines than the very best in the United American arsenal, and all were in some sense expendable. Hunter loathed thinking about the airplanes in this manner, never mind their crews. But he knew Jones was just being realistic when he assembled the dozen aircraft. Even though American air strength had almost doubled with the capture of many of the Fourth Reich’s high-tech jet aircraft, few were designed for carrier use. Besides, what was on hand was needed at home, protecting the American continent. In fact, of the 120 or so workable warplanes in the United American arsenal, a hundred were on constant standby for action against the Cult armies occupying the West Coast.
On the other hand, the Task Force’s mission was akin to the Hail Mary pass in football. Indeed, the official nickname for the mission was “Operation Long Bomb.” In other words, while the chance for failure was high, desperation was running even higher. Under the circumstances, it would have been militarily foolish to risk what Jones called “the big everything” on such a long shot. Hunter and the others had to agree.
Of the dozen aircraft secured by the general, nine were of well-known, fairly-reliable, if older, designs. This A-list of sorts included two A-7J Corsair Strikefighters, two elderly GR, 1 single-seat British Tornados, two Swedish-built AJ37 Viggens, two German-built, single-seat Alpha-1 Jets, and a single ex-U.S. Naval Reserve A-4 Skyhawk. All these airplanes had seen service around the globe in the anything-goes days since the Big War, and their ilk could be had for premium prices on the burgeoning worldwide used-weapons black market.
On the flipside, the three remaining airplanes could have been pulled from an antique aircraft museum—and knowing Roy From Troy as Hunter did, they probably were. One was a prewar Italian Air Force Fiat G.91, a so-called “tactical support” aircraft first built in the late 1950s. It bore a striking resemblance to the former-USAF’s venerable F-86 Sabrejet, specifically the later so-called “Dog Fighter” version. The second oddball was a HAL HF-24 Mk 1 Marut, a poorly-designed interceptor built in the late sixties by the Indian Air Force. The third partner in this unlikely trio was the IAR-93 Orao, a cranky, clunking fighter built in the late seventies as a joint project between Yugoslavia and Romania, neither of which was known for its aerodynamic expertise. This airplane had already been rechristened the “Yugo” by the carrier’s air service crews.
Still, Hunter had to give Roy From Troy some credit. Not only did the rascal procure the airplanes, he had delivered them already adapted for carrier use. This was truly an amazing feat simply because none of the aircraft had originally been designed for the rigors of carrier launch and recovery.
Giving each airplane some sealegs had not been an easy task: each jet’s undercarriage had to be strengthened significantly to take the stress of gut-wrenching steam-catapult launching and slam-down arresting-wire recovery. Each also endured the addition of an arresting-hook system, a nose-tow assembly, and some over-water safety devices.
But once again, Roy had done it with mirrors. For just like everything else dedicated to the mission, the modifications for the odd mix of airplanes were intended to be temporary; with the exception of the A-7s (which were more adaptable to sea life than the others), the aircraft involved in the operation were guaranteed for one takeoff, one landing. Anything after that was “off warranty,” as Roy put it, meaning anything could happen. Yet if everything went as planned, one takeoff and one landing were all the airplanes would have to do.
Just getting them on board the carrier had been an adventure in itself. Hunter learned that Roy had the aircraft modified secretly at an abandoned base in what used to be Key West, Florida, under the supervision of a mysterious local figure known only as “Big Seth.” When all the planes were ready, they were ferried out to the Enterprise, which was anchored near the big key, in the same heavily-disguised Mississippi dredging barges which had played a pivotal role in the final battle against the Super-Nazis in Fuhrerstadt. At the same time, a group of experienced carrier pilots, half of them Americans, the other half Free Canadians, was spirited aboard. The mission ahead of them was daunting, to say the least: without the luxury of practice runs or test flights, they would be called on to take off from a carrier in an airplane which had never been sea-launched, carry out a high-risk bombing mission over heavily-defended targets, and then land back on the carrier, again using nonflight tested arrestor gear.
No surprise, then, that all the pilots were volunteers.
With the twelve airplanes carefully hidden away deep inside the ship, the carrier had then proceeded down the coast of South America, around Cape Horn, and then up to Vancouver, dodging the rather spotty Cult-allied naval and aerial patrols along the way. Once safe in port at Vancouver, work began in earnest to prepare the Enterprise for the mission.
Unbeknownst to Hunter, a thirteenth airplane had been secretly put aboard in Vancouver, this one coming disassembled and packed in three extremely large crates. It was Jones who, shortly before the Enterprise sailed, finally showed this plane-in-three-parts to Hunter.
Using the crowbar himself to open the largest crate, the general slowly detached one side of the wooden container. No sooner had the panel been lowered when Hunter felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his head.
Then they became misted.
Packed in the crate was the main airframe for his long-lost beloved F-16XL.
He hadn’t seen it in what seemed like centuries. Actually, it had been barely two years since one of the country’s neo-Nazi groups had stolen it and put it into the hands of the ultra-dangerous seriously-deranged Queen-of-America wannabe Elizabeth Sandlake. By the time the villainess’s Alberta hideout was attacked by a joint American-Free Canadian force, the F-16XL had been trucked away. It was later chopped up and sold to some West Coast hoodlums. It was then won in a card game by a major Pacific drug dealer, and won again by an equally unscrupulous Hawaiian “businessman.” It was the United American pilot named Elvis who found the airplane in Honolulu and arranged for its return to America shortly before the Fourth Reich’s invasion. Sadly, Elvis was lost on a recon mission soon after that.
For most of the time that the east coast of America was occupied by the Super-Nazis, the F-16XL was hidden away on the top of a mountain in the eastern Rockies. Once the Fourth Reich’s �
��instant occupation” regime fell, the airplane was repacked and brought overland to Vancouver.
Securing the famous ’XL was just another part of Jones’s overall plan, and one he was certain would be important as far as Hunter’s role in the upcoming operation was concerned. Jones knew that the Wingman was giving up a lot to take part in such an extremely dangerous operation, especially so soon after the titanic campaign against the Fourth Reich, and nearly a year after the famous pilot had announced his “retirement.” By including the restorable F-16XL in the small air wing, Jones was offering Hunter some well-deserved payback. It also meant that Hunter would be operating the two airplanes that his talents were best suited for: the versatile Harrier jumpjet, and the futuristically-awesome F-16XL. With the inclusion of these two very high-tech aircraft, the Task Force’s combat air capacity stood at fourteen airplanes.
For Hunter, it was a reunion that rivaled only his finding Dominique as the major event in his life. With the help of a dedicated crew of a hundred air service technicians, he had the F-16XL put back together in less than twenty-four hours, and ready for carrier-launches just twelve hours after that.
Now, as the sun finally disappeared over the distant horizon, the carrier was bathed in a dim purple light.
Plying alongside the Enterprise on a similar parallel course were the two supply ships that would accompany the Task Force. They were identical vessels of the mid-size cargo class; one was the USS Tennyson, the other, the USS Cohen. Both ships were crammed to the gills with ammunition, foodstuffs, fresh water, weapons, fuel, and the thousands of other necessities that would be required for what they had determined would be a six-day mission.
There was only one player yet to make an appearance—and Hunter knew that was about to change.
He turned his eyes to the east.
Airplanes were coming. He was certain of this, even though he could see nothing out on the darkening horizon. It was a sixth sense he had, this ability to detect the approach of aircraft even when they were many miles away. It was just one more thing about his extraordinary psyche, the feeling that came over him at crucial moments in his life. It gave him a wide edge in air-to-air combat and had saved his butt more than once. He trusted it completely.
Hunter was finally able to make out the distant sound of jet engines. Soon afterward he saw the two Strikefighters streaking toward the carrier. Ben Wa was piloting one, JT Toomey the other. Besides Hunter’s two airplanes, the A-7s were the only aircraft on the Enterprise that they dared risk using more than once. They’d been scrambled to check out a report of an unidentified vessel somewhere over the southern horizon. When the long-range indication was first spotted by the Enterprise’s over-the-horizon radar, it was decided that a visual confirmation flight would be conducted to avoid breaking the strict radio silence each Task Force ship had been observing.
Hunter remained on the flight deck as the two Strikefighters marshaled in a holding pattern well behind the carrier. From there, Ben and JT would coordinate their approach with the landing signal officer before coming in for a “trap,” or arrested landing, on the ship’s angled deck.
Even in daylight, landing on a carrier was a tricky proposition. Yet within a minute, both jets had screeched in and recovered safely—Ben first, JT close behind. Hunter walked over to the elevator, where a blue-shirted crew was already preparing to move the A-7s down to the hangar deck. Even though they had had no chance to practice on most of the airplanes aboard the carrier, Hunter was still impressed with the efficiency of the Enterprise’s deck crew. The launching and recovery of modern jet aircraft from a moving ship was a complex operation which involved a precise coordination among the crewmen. From the air boss up in the primary flight control center to the blue shirts Hunter now watched moving the A-7s, everyone had to perform his or her specific duty as part of a precisely-choreographed team. With so little practice, it was amazing that men who had been working together only a few weeks were already functioning as smoothly as a well-drilled squad.
Toomey and Ben Wa climbed out of their airplanes and met Hunter near the ship’s superstructure.
“It’s the New Jersey, Hawk,” Toomey reported. “Right on time, right on course. We spotted them about fifty-five miles out.”
“It was hard to miss it,” Ben said, pulling off his helmet. “That’s one big ship. They acknowledged our code okay. They’ll be here in about two hours, two and a half at the most.”
Hunter nodded purposely. The Task Force’s “covering fire vessel” was here. Now that the final piece of the puzzle had moved into place, the Task Force could set sail immediately.
“Well,” he said, “I guess this is where it starts to get interesting.”
Deep inside the triple-turreted castle that was his headquarters, Hashi Pushi was sitting in the grotto, staring into the red waters of the Blood Pool.
He was lost in a dream of orgasmic ecstasy, brought on by his physician’s concoction of drugs, whose secret ingredient was nothing less than the superhallucinogenic known as myx. In the pool, the grossly overweight madman saw thirteen maidens clad in only sheer nightgowns. They were gracefully floating down through the air, coming toward him, arms open. He could see that their thighs were damp with expectation.
The closer they came to Hashi Pushi, the more desirous they were of his flesh. Despite his bulk, Hashi Pushi felt his body responding in kind. His heart began to beat faster as the dull ache in his groin grew unbearable. As these delicious floating maidens came closer, he could smell their musky scents; they aroused him to the bursting point. He smiled and opened his arms wide to accept all of these ripe, tasty morsels.
That’s when Hashi Pushi’s ultimate wet dream turned into a nightmare.
Suddenly, he was in the dream itself, trying to run but finding his enormous bulk was making it impossible. Several of the maidens grabbed him, dug their fingernails deep into his flesh, and suddenly pinned his arms down. The rest of the maidens each drew heavy daggers from sheaths buried in the moist folds of their gowns. The knives were razor-sharp and gleamed in the rays of the early morning sun.
Hashi Pushi opened his mouth and tried to scream, but nothing came out. The maidens began to laugh at his helplessness. Their laughter then turned into deep-throated roars. Their beautiful faces transformed into hideous demon faces that oozed a bloody slime and smelled of rotting flesh.
Then Hashi Pushi saw them raise their daggers high above their heads. He tried to squirm free, but he was helpless. They brought the daggers down with all their might, and Hashi Pushi felt his chest cave in from the force and the chill of their cold steel blades as they penetrated his heart.
The bloodcurdling sound of Hashi Pushi’s scream echoed throughout the cavernous dungeon and brought a squad of his Imperial Guards running toward the grotto. Smashing through the locked oaken door, three of his most loyal bodyguards threw themselves into the room, their AK47s at the ready, looking for a target.
All they found was their leader, bathed in sweat and gasping for breath.
Hashi Pushi could barely manage an angry croak. “Get out,” he gasped, “or I’ll have you gutted.”
The men quickly left, confused at what they saw, but obedient to the words of their supreme master.
Alone again, Hashi Pushi rose and stumbled over to a full-length mirror. In the reflection, he saw thirteen huge black and blue bruises beginning to form on his chest, directly over his heart.
He nearly collapsed—this vision had been worse than the previous one. And unlike that nightmare, the meaning behind this vision was perfectly clear: he had just foreseen his own death.
How could this happen? he wondered, his ample body soaked through now with equal parts of reeking sweat and cold dread. After all, he was Hashi Pushi, Supreme Warlord of the Asian Mercenary Cult, a being more powerful than all the gods in the heavens combined.
Or was he?
He stared into the mirror again and was shocked to see not his own reflection, but that of a young girl
with red hair, looking back at him.
He closed his eyes quickly and began crying again.
That’s when a disembodied voice whispered in his ear, “It is time to find a new soul…”
Several hours later
Hunter looked out from the bridge of the Enterprise at the silhouette of the massive battleship just three hundred yards away.
Even in the dimming moonlight, the New Jersey struck an ominous profile. Bristling with guns, the ship was a floating weapons platform capable of delivering an almost unimaginable rain of high-explosive destruction on anything that came within miles of it.
Launched in 1942, the New Jersey had seen action all over the globe for decades. It had been refitted on several occasions with the most advanced weaponry available. In addition to its nine massive 16-inch guns and its array of smaller 5-inch guns, it also boasted the Tomahawk cruise missile, a weapon capable of hitting land targets 700 miles away. The battleship currently had two such missiles on hand. The vessel was also outfitted with the Harpoon antiship system, which could blast a ship out of the water at a distance of 60 nautical miles. It had three Harpoons on board. In the command of a capable captain such as Wolf, the battleship was a formidable weapon indeed. Hunter was glad it would be making the voyage with them.
As he studied the ship, a small motor launch appeared on its side and was slowly lowered into the water.
Aboard, Hunter knew, were Wolf and a party of his staff officers, ferrying over to the Enterprise. It would be the first face-to-face meeting since Hunter and Wolf had communicated over the Nav-Star satellite link.
It was a meeting Hunter had been anticipating for days.
Fifteen minutes later, the Wingman was shaking hands with Wolf.
“It is good to see you, my friend,” the mysterious costumed figure told him. “Though it is always in times of crisis that we seem to meet.”
“It might not always be that way,” Hunter replied.
War of the Sun Page 4
