War of the Sun

by Maloney, Mack;

  The small aerial armada had left Vancouver in Free Canada some ten hours before. By making no fewer than seven air refueling rendezvous points, the six airplanes had flown the entire journey out to the Task Force nonstop. As if that wasn’t arduous enough, the six airplanes had to make practically the entire flight at the truly scary altitude of two hundred feet—this to prevent enemy radar detection. Even the tricky in-flight refuelings were done at this ass-dunking altitude, maneuvers perilous beyond description. At that speed, at that height, if the slightest thing went wrong, in less than a second, tanker and tankees would have impacted on hard ocean surface and gone up in a ball of flame.

  The reason why the six airplanes had made such a perilous journey was evident as the C-130 came back around. Slowing to about 85 knots, with the aid of lowered landing gear, the big workhorse of an airplane began methodically disgorging paratroops. They were jumping out the back, their small, special-issue chutes immediately unfurling and carrying them quickly to the water below. There were forty-three of them in all, and all were carrying heavy supply packs. No sooner would they hit the water than they were being picked up by service boats from the Cohen, the Tennyson, and the New Jersey. Some of the paratroops even managed to land on these boats directly.

  Within two minutes, all of the jumpers were safe and out of the water.

  Hunter and Ben had watched the precision operation from the deck with the rest of the crew and now they marveled as the C-130 formed up with the KC-135 and began yet another aerial refueling at two hundred feet. It took about two minutes as the two planes made a wide circle around the Task Force, the long hose from the rear of the KC-135 feeding into a receptacle in the nose of the C-130. Once the C-130’s tanks had been topped off, they broke off, and then each fighter refueled in turn.

  Once the last Strikefighter was filled, the entire group formed up again and roared over the Task Force, each airplane wagging its wings. Then they all headed east, the fighters in the lead, disappearing over the horizon in less than 30 seconds.

  In all, the operation took less than five minutes.

  “Jonesie came through again,” Hunter said to Ben as the last of the exhaust trails from the airplanes faded into the rising sun. “I hope he’s able to keep it up.”

  Indeed, the general had delivered. The air-drop force was made up of troopers from two separate units, probably two of the most specialized combat teams in the world. One, consisting of twenty-two members, were from the Jacks-Are-Wild crew. Nicknamed JAWs, the highly-trained, highly-motivated commando crew had originated from a pre-Big War police force out of Johnstown (now “Jack Town”), New York. With Hunter as their guide, it was these crack troops who, at the end of a titanic battle several months before, captured the Fourth Reich’s Amerikafuehrer headquarters in occupied Football City, effectively ending the short but brutal Nazi rule in America.

  The second group of twenty-one soldiers were part of another highly-specialized unit: the 104th Engineering Battalion of the former New Jersey National Guard. Basically Special Forces’ combat engineers, the 104th had a sterling history of which many regular service units would have been envious. In 1945, it was members of the 104th who captured the strategic high ground of Shuri Castle on Okinawa, basically heralding the beginning of the end of Japanese resistance on the island, and thus, the ground war in the Pacific.

  It was more than fitting, then, that they should have a hand in what was looming as the second battle for the infamous island.

  Hunter and Ben headed back up the Fitz’s CIC—they had much work to do. Hunter was readying a situation briefing for the officers of the two paratroop groups plus the principals from the Task Force. They would all play an important role in the strategy he’d spent the last 24 hours cooking up. Appropriately enough, he was jokingly calling it “Operation Wing and a Prayer.”

  Hunter and Ben were attending to some last-minute details when the intercom in the conference room squawked to life.

  It was JT calling down from the bridge.

  “Hey, guys,” he yelled, “check your flight deck monitor.” Then he signed off.

  Hunter snapped the nearby TV monitor to ON just in time to see the live televised image of an airplane lining up for a landing on the Fitz. Although it was still several miles out, Hunter recognized the aircraft type right away. It was a rare bird called an RF-4X “Super Phantom.”

  And there was only one guy in the world who flew that kind of airplane. An old friend of them all.

  Hunter turned back to Ben, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  “I knew he wouldn’t miss this party,” he said,

  “I just hope he brought us some decent booze,” Hunter replied, smiling as well.

  Five minutes later, a rugged yet stately middle-aged man walked into the CIC. He was holding his flight suit and helmet in one hand, two bottles of Scotch in the other.

  He looked at Hunter, Ben, and Toomey, and then shook his head in mock disgust.

  “Don’t you guys ever take a vacation?” he asked.

  His real name was Captain TJ O’Malley—but he was known to all as “Captain Crunch,” or to JT as “Crunchman.” He had once run a fighter-bomber-for-hire service called the Ace Wrecking Company along with a partner named Elvis. But the business was dissolved after Elvis was lost on a recon mission west of Hawaii prior to the AMC’s West Coast invasion almost a year before. It was a loss they all felt, as Elvis, just like Crunch, had partaken in every major United American campaign since the end of the Big War.

  Crunch was now doing a solo act. Beside providing general fighter bomber duties, he also flew the best armed recon in the business.

  He was also a great guy to have around when things got hairy. Crunch was the type of guy who, no matter how dire a situation was, made it a little less so whenever he arrived. He was one of Hunter’s closest friends, a person the Wingman considered an extremely wise man. He also owed Crunch a debt of everlasting gratitude, for it was he who’d saved Hunter’s F-16XL from certain destruction during the dark days of the Second Axis invasion of America.

  Hunter greeted his friend warmly, then examined the two bottles of Scotch.

  “‘Old Black Boot’?” Hunter said, reading the label. “Where the hell did you get this stuff?”

  “Same place I buy my ammo,” Crunch said, beaming. “That stuff is 151 proof. I can run the jet on it.”

  They found a bunch of coffee mugs and Hunter poured each man a thick shot.

  They raised their cups. “To Fitz,” Hunter said.

  “To Fitz …” the others replied in unison.

  It took the next twenty minutes for Hunter to explain the situation to Crunch. The raid on Japan. The discovery of the Okinawa underground factory and the enormous shipyards.

  Because security had been so tight on the Task Force’s mission, Crunch was hearing most of it for the first time. He shook his head and whistled in amazement throughout.

  “These Pacific cruises can be murder,” Crunch told them. “You guys should really have read the small print.”

  Hunter poured out another round.

  “What bothers me is that I don’t think we’ve uncovered all our problems yet,” Hunter said, after they all downed the second shot of gutty but tasty booze.

  Crunch lit up a huge cigar. “How so?”

  Hunter shook his head worriedly. “It comes down to this: the Cult seems to do everything in threes. When I was in Hashi Pushi’s palace, everything looked like it was in triplicate. Three houses. Three towers. Three entrances. Three guards at every station. Three AA guns at every site.

  “We’ve uncovered a huge air potential, and a huge shipbuilding facility. What does that leave?”

  “An army,” Crunch replied. “If he’s got planes and boats, then he’s got to have men somewhere. Probably a lot of them.”

  “Exactly,” Hunter replied gloomily. “The question is where. Their pattern is to find some remote island or chain of islands and set up shop. There’s a lot of islands in t
his part of the world, as everyone found out back in 1941.”

  Crunch blew out a long stream of cigar smoke.

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for,” he said with a grin.

  “Got some stashes in this part of the world, have you?” Hunter asked, pouring out a third round.

  Crunch was smiling broadly. “I got stashes everywhere,” he said, referring to hidden caches of fuel, ammo, and other flight necessities that a man in his position needed for long-range work. “And believe or not, I got friends in this part of the world. The Cult ain’t on every single island in this pond.”

  “Not yet, they ain’t,” JT said.

  Crunch relit his cigar. “I can do a three-thousand-square mile search in three days—four tops. Fuel me up here, and I’ll be back in seventy-two hours. Just point me in the right direction.”

  A fourth shot was disposed of over a discussion of additional logistics and flight plans.

  “You’re right, Crunch,” Hunter said after downing the shot and grimacing. “This stuff does get ugly with age.”

  “Just like jet fuel,” JT said.

  The CIC conference room was packed.

  Sitting around the table were the principals of the Task Force: Ben, JT, Hunter, Wolf, and the captains of the Cohen and Tennyson, the command officer of JAWs, a man named Jim Cook, the ranking officer of the 104th Engineering Battalion, a man named Frank Geraci, and Crunch.

  Gathered around the periphery were all the members of JAWs and the 104th, all of the carrier’s pilots, officers of the flight deck crew, and the staffs of the supply ships. In all, it was more than seventy-five people, shoehorned into a room built to hold forty at most.

  They were three hours and twelve pots of black coffee into the briefing. It had begun with Hunter’s narration of his first Okinawa recon flight video, then the details of his clandestine visit into the underground airplane factory. Toomey’s report of his discovery of the shipyards and the harrowing rescue of Wolf followed, a tale which elicited a spontaneous round of applause at its conclusion.

  A lively two-hour discussion of the Big Picture followed, with just about everyone in the room—officers and non-coms alike—adding their own two cents. There were no arguments, really, just debate on the threat itself, and on just how dangerous their opponent could be.

  One thing everyone in attendance did agree on: even though Hashi Pushi was dead, the Asian Mercenary Cult was, for whatever reason, still thriving and apparently going forward with a fevered passion that bordered on the mind-boggling. The recent discoveries were so big, in fact, that a deep chill inside Hunter was telling him that something even more sinister than Hashi Pushi’s legacy or successor might be at work.

  But either way, it had to be stopped. Or at least an attempt had to be made.

  Now it was just a question of priorities.

  “Those airplanes inside that mountain are like bees in a hive,” Hunter said. “Some are obviously already on the loose. Once they all get out, we’ll never be able to get every one of them—or even most of them. So I think we all agree that we’ve got to attack Okinawa first?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Okay. Then let’s talk about what we have to do the job.”

  Ben stood up, a long sheet of computer readouts in hand.

  “First of all,” he began, “all our airplanes are either operational or will be within six hours. I hasten to add that each one is hurting in its own way—and several are suffering from more than one ailment. Many are at the end of the operating parameters. But our air service crews have become miracle workers. All aircraft can be relied on—but again for only a short, quick engagement.

  “Second, one thing we do have is weapons. We’ve got plenty of Sidewinders, Sparrows, and ‘smart’ bombs. Also a healthy supply of 500-lb. Mk82 general-purpose bombs, some Wasp air-to-surface minimissiles, a bunch of Penguin Mk3 antiship missiles, and several tons of 20mm ammo.

  “Conclusion: our air arm is being held together with wires and strings, but it’s as ready as it will ever be.”

  At that point, the captains of the Cohen and the Tennyson did a thorough job of bringing everyone up to date on the supply situation. There was a borderline amount of essentials like fuel and food. They were hoping for another long-range resupply effort from America after the Okinawa operation was complete. But each made it clear that the holds of their ships were closing in on empty.

  Next came the subject of combat support. This was Wolf’s department. The masked and caped figure stood, cleared his throat, and began a short speech.

  “I’m sure you are well aware of our ship’s 16-inch Mark Two naval guns,” he began, his voice heavy with dead earnestness. “There are, of course, nine in all, arrayed in three triple turrets. Each of these guns is capable of hurling a one-ton-high explosive shell a distance of more than twenty miles.

  “We have a dozen semiautomatic five-inch guns which can serve as both shore attack weapons or in an antiaircraft mode. Our four Mkl5 Phalanx Gatling guns—one port, one starboard, one fore and one aft—are each capable of firing one hundred rounds per second. We have adapted them for long-range firing. In addition, we have the ability to launch Tomahawk cruise missiles and Harpoon antiship missiles.

  “All this,” he concluded, “including the lives of myself and my men, are, of course, once again at your disposal.”

  The JAWs commander, Captain Jim Cook, was next.

  “We’re packing our fire suppression gear,” he reported. “Each of the guys will be carrying two major weapons: his rifle, and anything from a grenade launcher, to a small mortar, to an antitank gun, to a flamethrower. We’ve drilled extensively in attacking what we call ‘natural hardened positions’—caves, cliffs, and such, natural terrain where an enemy can dig in. I’ve got to admit, we’re pretty good at it.”

  Major Geraci of the 104th now had the floor. “As a complement to the JAWs, we brought our blockbusting equipment. We work in teams of eight. Each team can clear a man-made obstacle—pillboxes, tank berms, barbed-wire barriers—in about a minute. When this is accomplished, the next team comes up and moves up to the next barrier, and so on. The objective is to leapfrog our way up and seize the objective faster than the time it takes the enemy to figure out what’s happening. After all, that’s a specialty of ours.”

  Throughout these reports, Hunter just sat back and drank it all in. He was proud of these men—and damned proud to be part of their common cause. The past success of the United American Armed Forces were not based entirely on weaponry, or skill or expertise, really. No, the rock-solid core of their success was that these men were Americans. True Americans. Their lives were simply dedicated to preserving the self-evident truths spelled out in the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, and they had little time or patience with anyone who sought to muddy those waters. They knew these near-holy writs said all men are created equal—and that was that. No arguments. Everyone has a right to privacy—and that was that. Everyone has the right to be religious or not, everyone is entitled to a fair trial, everyone can go out and make as much or as little money as he wants. These were simple things to understand, for they are rooted in common sense and humanity.

  Defending them was the hard part.

  In the end, Hunter knew that these were smart men. They would no sooner fall for “patriotic” malarkey from right-wing conservatives who were actually closet racists as they would from left-wing Let-the-People-Rule-pretenders who were actually totalitarian wannabes.

  And they believed in these ideals so deeply, he knew it was practically impossible for them not to give their all in this constant battle with both sides. This engagement would be no different, even though it was evident to all that they were a small, battered force, thousands of miles from home, with their butts hanging way, way out.

  And if they did taste defeat, then they would have all died in a noble cause.

  The discussion had come right around the table and now it was back to him. Everyone knew he had
a plan. They were very eager to hear it.

  “Okay, then,” the Wingman said. “This is how I think we should do it.”

  In a darkened room two decks below the CIC, there was a flicker of life.

  Yaz’s eyes opened.

  He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. But he was awake.

  The long nightmare was still dancing in his brain. Rodents. Were they rats? Or mice? There were thousands upon thousands of them, all chanting in what sounded like squeaky, twisted English.

  What were they saying? What were they doing?

  They were throwing themselves off the White Cliffs of Dover, the tall sheets of chalk that circled around above him. Or was it La Jolla? They were landing on him, biting him. Gnawing on his bones, sinking their tiny pointed teeth into his flesh. They would not let go! No matter how hard he tried to shake them off, they held on with their bloody little mouths.

  He closed his eyes and saw millions of the rodent bodies washing up on the beaches of California. Santa Monica. Malibu. Pomona. That’s when he got a look at them close up for the first time.

  That’s when he realized they were lemmings.

  He was covered in blood—or was it sweat? There were knives sticking in his arms and legs—or were they needles? And someone was trying to slowly choke him. Or was that a breathing tube? Did he really need air? Was he underwater?

  He tried to talk out loud, but couldn’t. He tried to focus his eyes, but saw only plastic—plastic sheets that were smothering him. Or were they protecting him?

  Then the real nightmare came back to him. He is sitting in the CIC conference room. He is watching the videotape of Hunter’s descent into the typhoon. There is a crack of lightning. And then …

  He opened his mouth wider than the breathing tube and tried to scream. But nothing would come out.

  “I’ve seen … his face,” he wound up whispering to the empty room.