War of the Sun

by Maloney, Mack;

  Stretching out in his oversized bed, he tried to push his troubles to the recesses of his mind, begging for the deep sleep that soon overcame him.

  But it was not to be a sleep of sweet dreams …

  He was alone aboard an ancient Viking ship. Its forty unmanned oars were rowing at double speed, and each powerful stroke made the fiery-tongued dragon atop the prow seem to leap into the air. Faster and faster he could feel the ship slice through the night fog that enveloped it, barely missing rocky shoals that seemed to be all around him. Where was he going? Where had he been? Would he ever find out?

  Suddenly a powerful gust of wind came up and stripped his cape and mask away. An instant later the night and fog were gone, too. What he saw next startled him deeply—it was a highly disturbing image even for a Scandinavian’s nightmare.

  He was in the middle of a red sea, one which contained hundreds of identical enormous slate-gray battleships. They were all steaming out of the southwest, flowing past him, heading to the north. As each ship passed, its crew would jettison scores of shrouded bodies that seemed to float down from the sky like cherry blossoms in the spring.

  Soon Wolf’s vessel was coursing through a sea of wrapped corpses, so many that they hindered his ghost ship’s progress. But the unmanned oars continued to propel the Viking ship, and Wolf continued on and on and on, cutting through the sea of bodies and smashing over the wake of each battleship that passed by.

  That’s when he looked up to the bow of one battleship passing dangerously to port and saw a ghost of an image of himself beckoning down to him.

  Seconds later, he awoke with a scream.

  Twenty-three

  Okinawa

  “HOW MUCH CUFF DO you want?”

  Hunter shrugged somewhat uncomfortably. “You’re asking the wrong person. What’s everyone else have?”

  The man fitting him for the pants of the dark yellow uniform shook his head in mock disgust.

  “My old partner should be having you for a customer,” he said, despite a mouthful of pins. “Then I would have nothing but good memories of the thief.”

  The man was a tailor—or more specifically, a wardrobe coordinator. He was fitting Hunter for a field uniform made to replicate exactly that of an Asian Mercenary Cult sergeant. It certainly looked authentic—right down to the intentionally-frayed collar and sun-bleached insignia.

  He had learned several truths in the last few hours. The people inhabiting the small village were hardly natives. They were, in fact, a movie crew, survivors of a plane crash on the island shortly before Hashi Pushi’s armies had begun their well-coordinated rampage of the South Pacific two years before. Not so much trapped as having no place to go and no way to get there, the movie people established the camp high in the Okinawa mountains hoping that someday the area would revert back to its formerly-anarchic ways and allow them to resume their filming.

  The village itself was a testimony to what a gang of bored, talented people could do with a lot of free time on their hands. It contained twenty-five “huts” in all, though, as Hunter had seen, they were hardly the ramshackle shelters they appeared to be. Instead they were all fairly well-appointed cabins, cleverly disguised by the movie crew’s special effects people to look like typically rundown South Pacific jungle dwellings. Several of these places were actually burned out and abandoned, or, more accurately, built to look that way, giving the village the intended dangerous and desperate appearance.

  Even odder than the inhabitants was the elderly woman who had greeted him on his arrival. She was not part of the movie crew; rather, she’d been living on various islands in the area for nearly seven decades, mostly among the small and civilization-shy authentic native tribes.

  She had recognized Hunter as soon as he arrived, but she still questioned him extensively about his intentions. She was very sharp, and it took Hunter some time to convince her that he was simply on a recon of the island, with the intention of reporting back to a small expeditionary force waiting further out to sea.

  Once he had won her over, her demeanor changed 180 degrees. She became a very friendly, extremely intelligent earth-mother granny type. Her language was sometimes as salty as a sailor’s, and she had a corncob pipe to match. Every time she exhaled, Hunter detected the sweet smell of marijuana.

  She would not give him her name, but it was quite clear that the movie people counted on her to show them the correct means for survival in the jungle. She was their resident sage—an unlikely diva, playing the part of their adventure’s grande dame. They accorded her much respect, which she seemed almost uncomfortable accepting.

  Now that they were friends, she arranged to have Hunter accompany one of the village’s routine missions against the brutal occupying force that lived underground on the island, the same people who had been befouling its air and water and plant life since arriving two years before.

  “I’ve heard of Hashi Pushi,” the old woman told Hunter when he returned from his uniform fitting. “His raiding parties first came here about three years ago. They were like Vikings: raping, pillaging, murdering, taking anything they could carry. It was evident that they just looked at this place as a stopover point, a rest stop in their conquests to the south. Then, about a year and a half ago, a large landing party arrived and stayed. They blasted out the hollows of the mountain and built whatever the hell they’ve got underground. The air began to stink in a few months, then it gradually got worse. The water went bad pretty quickly, too, and their foraging parties killed all the game and bird life.

  “I hate them. This was a very peaceful place to live before they got here—one of very few left in this world, I suspect. It had everything: good crop growing, fresh water, and plenty of fishing. The weather is always great, too. That’s why the movie people were coming here in the first place. They were filming a jungle-romance-type movie and needed a lot of sun and natural backgrounds.”

  As they talked, the notion gradually dawned on Hunter that this woman looked vaguely familiar, or at least, her features did. The slightly puffed cheeks, the curly brown hair, the freckled face—she resembled a throwback to a model on a 1930s magazine cover.

  Suddenly, Hunter realized exactly who she looked like.

  It was as if the woman read his mind. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “And the answer is yes, she was my mother. My father was the man she was flying with—her navigator—the day she was lost so many years ago.”

  Hunter was astonished. After all these years, he’d tripped over the answer to one of the greatest aviation mysteries of all time.

  He could ask only one question: why wasn’t her famous mother ever found?

  The woman’s answer was equally surprising: “She didn’t want them to find her,” she told Hunter matter-of-factly. “Oh, I’m sure she did at first, but they never looked where she was. She and the navigator were on a deserted island for years, all through the war and the years beyond. I was their love child, and I think that after I was born, she just felt she could never return home to face her husband. My father died when I was very young and she and I were all alone—for many years.”

  “There must be more to it than that,” Hunter prodded her. “She was a very famous woman in her day. She must have known that half the world was looking for her.”

  The woman paused for a moment, then went on. “There is more. You see, when she first crashed, she and my father almost died from exposure and, I’m not embarrassed to say, it left both of them half out of their minds. They weren’t sure sometimes exactly who they were. So they just fell into the island ways. They were friendly with various native groups, and after a while, no one even bothered to ask them anymore where the hell they’d come from …”

  She cast her tired, sad eyes skyward.

  “But ultimately,” she added wistfully, “I believe she found peace out here. I don’t think she ever enjoyed all the hoopla. She loved living the simple life—away from the spotlight. She died so long ago, I can’t even remember
what year it was.”

  “And you decided to stay because she did?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes becoming watery. “I’m very much her daughter. I know more about these islands than many of the natives do. And look at me. Never did I think I would live this long. It comes from good eating, and a lot of exercise.”

  “Have you ever been in an airplane?” Hunter asked.

  His question stunned her slightly. She shook her head no, tears now forming in the corners of her eyes. “Never had the chance to,” she said.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a group of men walking by the hut toward the village main gate. Two men were carrying silver platters, each holding a half dozen of what looked like recently-severed human heads.

  “Were you afraid you’d end up like them?” she asked Hunter with a laugh.

  Hunter nodded. He’d landed in that particular spot ten miles away just on a hunch, a flash he’d gotten from his inner self. But when he saw the “natives” surround him, he wondered for a moment if his ESP had at last failed him. Only upon entering the village and finding out the “real story” did he relax.

  Now he studied the skulls as the men walked by. They seemed real, gruesomely pulpy and covered with real-looking blood. But he could tell there was something wrong with them.

  “They’re fakes,” the old woman finally told him. “There are more than a few special effects people here. They spend the day perfecting those things. They compete on who can make the most realistic human head.”

  “They do good work,” Hunter noted. “But what’s the point?”

  She shrugged, and relit her pipe. “Part of the security plan,” she said. “They stick them on spikes and then plant them up on the hill outside the main gate. It’s a remarkably effective way of keeping the Cult soldiers out of this territory. You’ll know what I mean when you hear the screaming later on.”

  “Screaming?” he asked. “Real screaming?”

  “Tape-recorded, prefabricated screams,” she told him. “Sounds like someone’s getting fileted. They blast them out of here several hours a night. One of the music directors has a battery-operated synthesizer. He’s adapted it to do amazing things. He can actually produce a wide variety of screams. Screams from torture. Screams from gunshots. Screams of delight.”

  “Also part of the security plan?”

  “Another very effective part,” she replied. “They set out to create the impression that a pack of bloodthirsty head-hunting boogeymen live up here and they’ve done a hell of a job keeping the Cult soldiers away. I probably wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for them.”

  “If they’re all so smart, how come they’re still out here?” Hunter asked. “I don’t imagine it’s impossible to avoid the Cult patrols. They could have at least made it to one of the smaller uninhabited islands nearby. Wait for friendly faces over there.”

  She laughed again. “Oh, I think they could have left a long time ago. I think they just don’t want to leave. They’re still filming their godforsaken movie. They still do miniature work on it every day. They think it’s their duty to carry on. As if they’re starring in their own movie. It’s like they won’t leave until a rescue team from Hollywood arrives and takes them out of here in grand fashion. Then they’ll have their proper shoot-’em-up ending.”

  “That’s show biz,” Hunter observed.

  A young woman appeared from the hut next door and began applying yellow-brown make-up to Hunter’s face and hands. Then the wardrobe man appeared and told Hunter to climb into his uniform, its alterations now complete.

  Hunter did so and was simply amazed at the workmanship. The wardrobe guy had done a great job; the uniform fit like a glove.

  The make-up person finished applying the last of the color under his eyes, then helped him on with his gas mask. It, too, fit perfectly.

  His three supporting cast members arrived, the men he would accompany down into the smog-filled valley. Two were armed with AK-47s, and the third was lugging a small movie camera. They gave Hunter his authentic-looking wide-brimmed Cult helmet. The make-up person tucked his overly long hair up inside the steel pot and then brushed out the last of his Caucasian-colored neck area.

  “You look ready, Champ,” one of the ersatz Cult soldiers told him. “But do you feel ready?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Sure,” he replied. “I’ve always wanted to be in the movies.”

  He quickly reloaded his M-16 with a fresh clip of tracer shells and checked its NightScope. Then, just as he was turning to go, the woman lightly touched his arm. “Just one more thing, Mr. Hunter,” she asked, her voice a whisper. “Will you promise me something?”

  “Anything,” Hunter told her.

  She smiled sadly. “If you make it back to America, will you be sure to tell someone that I’m out here?”

  Hunter politely shook her hand and bowed slightly.

  “I promise,” he said.

  With that, he and the three “natives” walked out of the village gate and quickly disappeared into the blackness of the jungle.

  Twenty-four

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Hunter to gain admiration for his guides.

  They moved so expertly through the bush,. Hunter was glad they were on his side. Without them, he would have spent hours trying to find his way. They were also heavily armed, with both rifles and fierce-looking blowguns. Yet they were amazingly relaxed.

  They called themselves the Extras, after the original roles they’d been hired to play in the film. Since coming to the island, they had excelled in learning the ways of the treacherous, polluted jungle. They now served as the eyes and ears of the beautiful people living back up in the village.

  The plan was for Hunter and the Extras to backtrack to the Harrier and secure it and then move down into the valley of smog itself. Hunter told the guides that he wanted to get as close as possible to an entrance to the underground facility. What he didn’t tell them was that he really wanted to get inside the place and do a quick covert reconnoiter.

  After reaching the Harrier and finding it untouched, they hid the jumpjet under a cover of leaves and branches and then pressed on. About halfway down the mountain, they turned off the trail and cut over a ridge. Then they dropped down into a small ravine and chopped their way through a mile or so of elephant grass. After crossing a small river, they picked up another trail that headed further down from the mountain to the smog-enshrouded valley.

  About a half mile from the smog line, the lead Extra suggested they stop for a blow before descending into the polluted fog. Leaving the trail, they sat in the cover of a large overhanging tree, their weapons up and ready for any possibility.

  The lead Extra produced a small satchel that was tied to his waist, took out a handful of small green leaves, and then passed the pouch around to the other two. Each man popped the leaves into his mouth and began to chew. In only a few moments, all three were grinning. At that point the lead Extra offered the pouch to Hunter.

  “Let me guess,” Hunter said. “Coca leaves, as in coke?”

  The lead Extra seemed offended. “Coke? As in cocaine?”

  “Isn’t that what it is?” Hunter asked.

  The lead Extra shook his head slowly. “Where you been, baby? Coke was out years ago. This stuff is a vitamin plant. Gives you the energy to run around in all that smog.”

  Hunter was mortified. He had just assumed the Hollywood types would be …

  “So, you want some?”

  Ever the diplomat, Hunter grabbed three leaves and started chewing, hoping to make up for having offended his hosts.

  The lead Extra started laughing once Hunter had reduced the leaves to mouth mulch.

  “Got him,” he yelled to the others, who were now giggling. They were obviously coconspirators in the prank.

  After another minute or so, they packed up, lowered their gas masks, and began moving down the trail again. While the three others were still occasionally chuckling, Hunter felt no different
than before.

  Whatever the leaves were, they had absolutely no effect on him.

  A mile away, deep under the smog cloud, eight men were making their way up the main trail in single file.

  The first four in line were unarmed and bound at the wrists. Barely clothed, these men hadn’t eaten a morsel of food in days. Their bodies were covered with welts, cuts, and bruises, and their noses were bleeding from lack of a proper breathing apparatus. Though they were once men of substantial esteem—all were former stockbrokers on the Tokyo Exchange—they were now simply slaves.

  Behind them were four Cult soldiers. Besides wearing a standard-issue gas mask, each soldier also carried a shovel as well as an AK-47. To the trained eye, the mix of equipment gave away their mission. These weren’t simply prison guards. They were executioners, about to eliminate the quartet of “native” slave laborers who were no longer of use to them.

  This sad parade left the main trail and turned a sharp corner which revealed a clearing bordered on three sides by a deep pit. Hundreds of shell casings were scattered about the clearing; off to one side was a large metal barrel containing powdered lime.

  Knowing what was about to happen, and forlornly resigned to their fate, the weary prisoners took their positions at the edge of the pit. Each soldier then took one shovelful of the lime and threw it onto the prisoners’ heads and chests, then took another to cover their torsos and legs.

  Then the soldiers picked up their rifles again, marched off twenty paces, and lined up in a row. While the prisoners awaited their death in silent terror, a good-natured argument broke out among the Cult soldiers as to who would get to fire first. When this was decided by the Cult version of bucking-up, the losing soldiers taunted the winner to shoot his prisoner in the groin instead of the heart, as had been mandated by the Cult’s Rules of Executing Undesirables in an effort to save bullets.