They were just getting to flight trials when the Second Axis invaded America. Once the Fourth Reich was ejected from the eastern part of the country, the Kephart Brothers went back to work and got SR-71 up and flying. They’d been doing secret recon work for Jones and the United American Armed Forces ever since.
Once the SR-71 reached the proper coordinate, Pilot Jeff told Brother George to get the cameras rolling. The SR-71 was so fast it could do 3000 mph, and its cameras were so powerful it could photograph the entire coastline of California in a mere twenty minutes.
Their run started directly over San Diego and lasted past Port Orford, in what used to be Oregon. Even though they were flying more than eighteen miles high—and thus way beyond detection by the Cult’s barely adequate AA radar systems—they really didn’t need the long-range lenses on their cameras to show them what was happening below.
Up and down the entire coastline, there were Cult troops massed on the beaches and at various staging points. From these locations, they and their equipment were being packed onto troopships. And those troopships were clearly setting sail.
It didn’t take a military genius to figure out what was happening: the Cult was pulling out of California.
The question was, why?
As soon as their photo run was completed and the camera bays checked, Brother Jeff turned the big plane east and booted its massive ramjet engines up to top speed.
They and the precious photographic evidence would be in Washington in less than an hour.
Azusa, Occupied California
Master Sergeant U Suk Bum was the highest-ranking noncommissioned officer in his unit.
But still he was not a happy man.
Although he had more than seventy men under his direct command, he knew that he would never be elevated to the better-paying Asian Mercenary officer corps simply because the Cult never promoted anyone who was not full-blooded Japanese beyond the rank of sergeant.
Bum was not Japanese; rather he was Korean—or Chinese, he really didn’t know. The point was that he was not born Nipponese, and therefore would never be entitled to the full benefits of what was actually the misnamed Asian Mercenary Cult.
Bum’s unit ran the supply line between downtown Los Angeles and the suburb of Azusa. As such, they were responsible for keeping the four divisions of Cult troops arrayed along the line supplied with bullets, bombs, water, and food. It had been an easy assignment during what was a tense but nevertheless leisurely occupation.
That was, until this morning.
Now his unit was being ordered to work harder than he thought possible. All four divisions along the Azusa Line were pulling out and heading for the LA docks. Bum’s trucks and men were responsible for driving them there.
But even with fifty troop trucks operating at once, it would take Bum’s unit dozens of trips and many, many backbreaking hours back and forth to move the 40,000-plus troops and their equipment. But the Cult High Command was demanding it be done by 0900 the next day or Bum and his men would face a firing squad. It was such an unreasonable mission, Bum had already been forced to break up an attempted mutiny of his ranks, shooting and killing two of his drivers who’d balked when he’d first given them their do-or-die orders.
Now it was close to midnight, and fully half of the four divisions had yet to mount up, never mind be driven the ninety-minute trip down to the docks. Bum was sitting in his broken-down staff car in a highway rest stop located on Route 395A, counting the number of his trucks that were passing by. Each one that was delayed or going slow meant he was one step closer to eating a bullet courtesy of his commanding officers. It was not a pleasant task.
At this moment his hate for the Japanese commanders reached its zenith. Though they claimed to be conquering the planet in the name of all Asians, Bum knew this was simply bullshit. In addition to being stingy and petty beyond all belief, his commanders were overtly racist toward the other non-Japanese Cult members, especially the certified Koreans. On the slightest whim, the officers would shoot any Korean who they believed was out of line, or, even worse, ship them back to one of the manufacturing facilities which dotted the South Pacific islands where nothing waited for them but a life of slave labor followed by a guarantee of a painful and terrifying death.
Bum sighed as the last of his trucks finally ambled by. There was no way they were going to make the 0900 deadline. And he had no doubt that his officers would make good on their threat to kill them all, starting at the top.
Bum got out of his car, lit a cigarette, then sat down on a nearby wall. Stretched before him was the panorama of Cult-occupied LA County. Despite the thick, omnipresent smog, it still looked like quite a prize, an uncomparable spoil of war for as far as the eye could see.
He drew heavily on his butt, contemplating the brightly-lit landscape. Too bad they were all leaving. He had actually come to like this place.
The next thing he knew, there was a gloved hand wrapped around his mouth and nose. He was yanked back off the wall and thrown into a high bramble bush. Two men were suddenly standing over him, dressed in black, wearing camouflaged ski masks and pointing laser-sighted M-16s at his heart.
Bum was instantly frozen with fear. Surely these were his executioners, sent by the Cult command to eliminate him.
Purely on instinct, he tried to roll away only to have one of the men kick him in the groin. After that he knew it was useless to struggle.
They dragged him down the embankment, across a dirty stream, and into a gully next to a water culvert. Finally they stopped at the end of the gully, throwing him against a concrete support adjacent to the culvert and kicking his legs out from under him. They searched him and, finding little, tied both hands behind his back.
Only then did they remove their masks. Bum couldn’t believe it: they were both Caucasian.
“Do you speak English?” one of them asked him gruffly, his M-16 not an inch away from Bum’s runny groin.
“Yes, I do,” he breathed, still petrified.
“Then get this straight,” the man ordered him, jabbing him with the snout of the M-16. “Answer my questions or you’re singing falsetto. Understand?”
Bum did.
“Why are you guys pulling out?” the second man asked him.
“Orders from the top,” Bum replied trembling.
The first man applied more snout pressure on Bum’s crogies. “Don’t be a wise-ass,” he said. “He asked you why you’re pulling out. Is it an evacuation before a nuke strike?”
Bum shook his head vigorously. He didn’t know much, but he was sure that the reason for the sudden withdrawal was not related to an impending nuclear attack.
“We are being redeployed to a major battle zone,” Bum told them, repeating what his commanding officer had told him.
“Redeployed?” the first man asked. It was the last thing he expected to hear.
Bum sensed right away that the men didn’t believe him. He was right.
The man slipped the safety off his M-16. “You’re lying.”
Bum was terrified beyond words now. “No—please, listen to me,” he pleaded. “If we were pulling out because they were going to nuke the place, do you really think it would be like this?”
He was referring to the traffic jam of troop trucks heading down into the valley on a number of nearby highways.
“You see? Everyone’s in a hurry,” Bum went on. “If they were going to drop a nuke, they would have given us orders to strip the entire countryside, and the time to do so. Believe me, I know them. They think they’re coming back.”
The two men still seemed unconvinced.
“And,” Bum hastened to add, “they’d be raping anything that walked. Of that you can be sure …”
On this, the two men grudgingly had to agree.
“Okay, then,” the second man said. “Tell us everything you know. Starting with where the hell you are deploying to.”
Bum was only too happy to oblige. It took him fifteen minutes to spill his gut
s. Times, dates, locations. Estimated troop strength. The works. When he was done, his captors were both angry and impressed. He had no doubts that they believed him.
“You’re one of the lucky ones,” the first man told him, finally removing the snout of the M-16 from Bum’s privates.
With that, they put their masks back on and took off down the culvert, leaving Bum still tied, but safe in the gulley.
Five minutes later, the Cult sergeant heard a slight mechanical sound off in the distance. Then, silhouetted in the full moon, he saw the shadows of two Cobra gunships rise into the sky and dash off at a low level to the east.
Thirty-eight
Two days later
THE PILOT NAMED SOHO had never known such luxury.
He was surrounded by sixteen young women, all dressed in little more than leis and grass skirts. His chair was expertly woven of silk and bamboo. The coconut cup in his right hand was filled to the brim with some alcoholic concoction; the massive pipe in his left hand was filled with hashish.
Before him stretched a view of scenic beauty found nowhere else on the planet. The dramatic cliffs, the gently swaying palm trees, the friendly green ocean.
To the Cult high command on Okinawa, it had been known as Greater East Asian Warriors’ Association Military Manufacturing Facility Number Two, but soon after his arrival, Soho learned that the title was intentionally misleading. There was little military here, few “warriors,” no smog, and certainly no manufacturing. Rather, this was tropical heaven on earth.
This was Fiji.
He had no idea what time it was, no idea what day it was. And he really didn’t care. The traumatic events leading to his escape from Okinawa and his journey here were already slipping from his mind, oozing out of him like the greenish foam running out of the corners of his eyes, ears, and mouth.
The seven Cult high officers waiting off in a corner of the huge outdoor ballroom had been anxiously whispering since their arrival several hours before—but Soho had no idea what they were talking about. He had simply chosen not to speak with them at this time. Why would that make them uneasy? He’d given them their orders as soon as he’d arrived, and they’d assured him that they were being carried out at the moment.
So what was the problem? He was in paradise—there were as many girls for the taking as he could ever want. There was an abundance of drugs and liquor. And the food was outstanding.
He didn’t want to waste time trying to figure out how to conquer the world.
Mounted on stilts on the edge of the cliff overhanging the beach nearby was the pink Sukki jet. It was now covered in flower petals and multicolored blossoms. Six smoking urns surrounded it, their firepots billowing cinnamon incense. There had to be more than five hundred candles arrayed around it in wonderfully haphazard fashion. Despite the wind, they were all burning quite brightly. Nearby was the island’s native band, playing his favorite song on ukes and conch shells. He didn’t know the name of it—it was, in fact, Stravinsky’s “Firebird Suite”—but he certainly liked the tune, so much so, he’d ordered them to keep playing it, over and over again, day and night. So far, they had complied.
He took a refill on his coconut drink and had the hash pipe relit. The warm wind felt so delightful on his face, he reached to touch it. But in doing so, he found a surprise. His face felt uncharacteristically rough with stubble, or at least, his chin was.
Was it true? Was he really growing facial hair for the first time in his young life?
He drew out the razor-sharp knife from his belt and studied his skewed reflection on the gleaming blade.
It was true! There were definitely signs of hair growing through on his chin and upper lip. He was delighted. He’d sprouted a thin goatee over night.
He lowered the blade to find the seven Cult officers standing before him again. They were bowing, mumbling. Groveling.
“This is getting uncomfortable,” Soho told them with his newfound haughty exasperation. “What is it that you want?”
“We ask only a minute of your time, sir,” the eldest of the group pleaded. “It is extremely important.”
He wiped the ooze from his mouth and face and slowly shook his head.
“One-half minute,” he said, “and only if you promise not to disturb me for another forty-eight hours.”
The seven officers exchanged worried looks, and then all seemed to shrug at the same time.
“One-half minute,” the oldest officer agreed.
Soho pulled one of the lovelier girls around him closer to his thigh and took another long drag of the hash pipe.
“Well, you have twenty-eight seconds left,” he informed the officer.
The man inched forward a little and bowed one more time. “We really only have one question, sir…”
“And it is?”
He crept forward just a few steps more.
“Well, sir,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “Now that we’re redeploying all our troops as you ordered, what shall we do next?”
Soho stopped drinking from his coconut in mid-sip.
“I told you to redeploy what?”
The officer looked genuinely startled. “Our occupation forces, sir,” he answered shakily, “our entire army on the West Coast of America is being pulled out, redeployed. So are our troops in this part of the domain. We have emptied all the garrisons. On your orders, sir. Don’t … don’t you recall?”
Soho thought about it for a moment. Something about what the officer was saying sounded familiar, almost as if he’d been thinking about this very thing just moments before.
But it was gone now.
“Of course I remember,” Soho lied. “Do you really think that …”
The officer was suddenly bowing like crazy. “I meant not to offend, sir,” he was saying between grunts. “Please forgive my …”
Soho held up his hand and the man went suddenly still.
“You have eighteen seconds left,” Soho said, happily sucking on the hash pipe again. “To finish your question, I mean …”
The officer, certain that he’d just avoided a quick death, coughed and started again. “Sir, our redeployed forces are simply awaiting your further orders.”
Soho stopped a moment to think again.
“Just how many of our troops are we talking about?” he asked.
The officer bowed quickly, almost proudly. “Twenty-five divisions. Two hundred and ninety-two thousand combat soldiers. Several thousand support and supply groups. We are moving them day and night, on both aircraft and ships, from California as well as the islands on our Pacific rim. There has never been a military maneuver of this scale in the history of …”
“Have them solidify their present position,” Soho suddenly heard himself say. “They must prepare immediately for an attack from the air as well as the sea.”
The senior officer was stunned. “At their present position, sir?”
“That is what I said, isn’t it?” Soho replied, really not quite sure himself.
“Yes, sir,” the officer stumbled. “But our present position is little more than a staging area. Our port of redeployment. It’s extremely crowded at the moment, and grows worse as more and more of our troops arrive. Surely you mean for us to expand our perimeters. To take the high ground, build our positions in depth, and …”
“No!” Soho suddenly screamed. He knew this would upset him. “I said solidify our present position. For an attack from the air and from the sea.”
The six other officers were now gritting their teeth and staring at the ground. It was happening again.
The senior officer began to speak again, but Soho was done with him.
“You are dismissed,” he said coolly.
The officer looked him square in the eye for a moment, but quickly shrank away. “Yes, sir …”
The senior officer fell back into the ranks of his six comrades. They bowed as one and began to sadly troop away.
“Just one more thing,” Soho called after them,
freezing them in their steps.
“Yes, sir?” the senior officer asked.
Soho took another long drag of his hashish.
“Exactly where is our present position?”
All seven officers went pale at once.
“Right where you stated in your orders, sir,” the senior officer gasped his answer. “The place they used to call Pearl Harbor.”
Thirty-nine
Washington
GENERAL DAVID JONES REACHED into his bottom desk drawer and came out with a bottle of no-name whiskey.
“I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” he told the other two men sitting in his small, cluttered Pentagon basement office. “This just isn’t what I had in mind.”
The two men nodded in grim agreement. They were still wearing their black camouflage uniforms, their faces were still covered in charcoal paint. They even had their laser-sighted M-16s by their sides. Neither had had the time to change since their lightning-quick trip from occupied California to Washington.
They were Jesse Tyler and Bobby Crockett, better known as the Cobra Brothers. It was they whom Jones had sent to enemy-held Los Angeles to get some hard intelligence on the ground. It was they who, after finding and interrogating a Cult prisoner, flew directly to DC via a high-speed Texas Air Force C-2 aircraft.
And it was they who bore the mysterious news that the Cult was pulling out of the American mainland and redeploying to, of all places, Pearl Harbor.
“It makes no sense,” Jones said, pouring three drinks into paper cups. “It wasn’t like we were ready to attack them—or even start harassing them. They’ve got the numbers. In weapons. In transport. In pure manpower. And they’ve got the nukes. So why the hell are they pulling out?”
War of the Sun Page 25
