Return From the Inferno (25 page)

It was representatives of BBI that Fitz had flown down to this cold end of the world to meet. It was well known that the RAF Reserves ran the East Falkland Island base as a kind of neutral ground. It had hosted several peace conferences in recent years, mostly among the gaggle of militaristic cults who were constantly battling each other for control of the South American continent. It was also the quietest, most secure place in the world to make major arms deals.

And that was why Fitz was here. It had been a long trip but a necessary one, a crucial part of the plan.

"Can we begin right away?" he asked Sandhurst. "We're up against a very tight deadline."

Sandhurst pointed to the base's operations building and nodded.

"Grab yourself a cup of tea and sandwich in there," he suggested. "I'll round up our other guests."

One hour and ten minutes later, Sandhurst ushered Fitz into a small room just off the operations building's main hallway.

The BBI men were already there. It appeared that everything Fitz had heard about them was true-and then some.

Both men were wearing the garb of Bedouin Arabs. Both had hair that reached to their waists and was elaborately braided.

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Each also wore a long thin beard held in place by shiny hair grease. They would hold hands through the entire meeting.

"Our deepest regrets to your comrades lost in the unfortunate plane crash a few days ago," one of the BBI men said in cracked English and without an ounce of sincerity.

Fitz quickly eyed Sandhurst, who barely nodded back.

"I thank you for your concern," Fitz replied. "I lost two good friends on that flight."

"Was it a bomb on board or simply mechanical difficulties?" the second BBI man asked with a twisted grin.

Fitz stared hard at the two strange men.

"We'll never know," was all he said.

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room. Finally it was up to Sandhurst to break it.

"Well, then," he said in a perfect stiff upper lip accent. "Shall we begin?"

Fitz cleared his throat for effect and pulled his chair closer to the table.

"I have no time for formalities, gentlemen," he said soberly. "We need weapons and we need them quickly. The plane crash has set our schedule back by some very critical days. So now our needs increase by the hour."

"How will you pay for these weapons?" one BBI man asked.

"Gold," Fitz replied firmly.

Both BBI men smiled stained gaping grins.

"We can appreciate your timetable," the man on the right said. "So let us get our manifest."

He passed a thick document to Fitz, with an exact copy to Sandhurst. Fitz turned to the first page which was headed: "Heavy Weapons-Mobile."

What followed were ten pages of descriptions of wholesale lots of main battle tanks, armored personnel carriers, Multiple Rocket Launch Systems, and mobile howitzers. Beside each lot was an ID number and a price.

Fitz studied each page carefully, jotting down notes as he went along. Then he went back to the first page and looked up at the dark arms dealers. It was against his better judgment to deal with such men. He knew they would have no compunction about

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dealing with the Fourth Reich or any one of a number of other enemies of America.

But these were desperate times. And he had to stick to the plan.

"I will take six squadrons of Chieftains," he began again, referring to the British Army's main battle tank. "I will take the two squadrons of M-1A Abrams only if they are NightScope fitted."

On and on it went, for the next half hour, Fitz reading out the weapons he wanted to purchase, with the BBI men gladly punching in the corresponding prices. At the end, he had more than four hundred pieces of heavy battle equipment, including two hundred main battle tanks, plus service equipment and ammunition.

The price: twelve hundred pounds of real gold and four thousand pounds of real silver.

"And where is the money, my friend?" the BBI man on the left asked.

"When can I inspect the merchandise?" Fitz responded.

The BBI man began to say something, but Major Sandhurst interrupted him.

"I am holding Mister Fitzgerald's money," he said in his precise, clipped British accent. "It is aboard his airplane under tight guard. And I am assured you can deliver the hardware for inspection within twenty-four hours. Is that correct?"

The men from BBI nodded happily.

Sandhurst clapped his hands with delight. "Perfect," he declared. "Then let us have a spot of gin to celebrate, and we will consummate this agreement tomorrow morning. Is that acceptable?"

The BBI men were nodding giddily now. They had just made a fortune.

"Sure," Fitz replied, reaching to tug at his priest's collar which was no longer there. "Tomorrow, it is. . ."

East Falkland

The next morning dawned cold and blustery.

Fitz and Major Sandhurst made their way through the deserted 210

streets of Port Stanley, moving down the narrow main boulevard and to a predesignated spot on the ice encrusted east beach.

The two arms traders from BBI were already there, displaying their gold plated AK-47s as prominently as their personal computers.

"God be praised for this morning," one said, as they both bowed deep at the waist. "And for the life he gives us every day to..."

"Yeah, sure," Fitz huffed in reply, his disdain for the shady weapons merchants not dimming a bit. "Let's just get on with this."

The men bowed again. They were used to being insulted.

One produced a small portable radio and made a quick call: "Please flash ID

lights! Yes, flash ID lights!"

The perpetually falling snow almost completely obscured the far horizon of the cold South Atlantic. But no sooner had the man made the radio call when Fitz could see a trio of red lights begin blinking way out to sea. Soon there were three more, and three more and three more.

"We picked them up on the Air-Sea radar last night," Sandhurst whispered to Fitz. "They were eighty miles out at midnight and pushing full steam toward here."

By this time there were more than forty red lights blinking across the entire snowy horizon. Fitz knew each of these lights was attached to a container ship carrying the weapons he'd ordered just the day before.

"We at BBI pride ourselves in prompt delivery and service ..." one of the arms dealers said.

"Yeah, great," Fitz said, once again cutting short the BBI man's bullshit. The quick service was crucial, but he knew it was not entirely due to the BBI's good business practices. The arms cartel had had an enormous fleet of supply ships cruising the west coast of Africa on a selling voyage when the first UA-BBI meeting was arranged. Those ships immediately diverted to the Falklands and had been a day away when the first Herc crashed in Argentina. They'd been waiting just over the horizon ever since.

"The use of the ships comes with the price, of course," one of the BBI men explained to Fitz for the fifth time. "We will transport your weapons to one port of call, or help you with one amphibious landing. Then, for extra considerations, we can . . ."

Fitz waved away the man's overkill pitch.

"I insist on inspecting each ship cargo myself," he told him. "And I want a squad of my own men on each ship that passes inspection and heads north."

The BBI men wrapped their robes around them in the suddenly cold wind.

"This is highly unusual," one lied. "Our business is based on trust and . . ."

Fitz held up his hand, cutting the man off at the quick. There were too many stories about arms dealers selling good stuff "on the front end," only to load up the back end with junk. With the UA's precarious position, such a rip-off would mean disaster.

"I know all about your business," Fitz told them. "That's why I insist that my men accompany every load."

"But it could take some time to get your men here and on board the ships, my friend," the second BBI man whined. "And as a high official of your army, shouldn't your place be up north, with them?"

Now it was Fitz's turn to shiver. Suddenly his thoughts flashed back to that sunny bucolic day he'd spent with his kids swimming in the Wabash. It seemed like a hundred years ago.

"My place is here," he replied soberly. "For however long it takes."

They spent the next six hours moving from ship to ship in Sandhurst's Lynx helicopter, checking lot numbers and inspecting tanks.

Despite his obvious dislike for the BBI men, Fitz silently gave them credit.

The first four ships he inspected held more than seventy-two tanks in both their holds and in containers lashed to the deck. Random checks proved that the tanks-huge British-made Chieftains mostly-were in top working condition from greased barrels to the latest in fire control computer software. Despite their smarmy ways, it was obvious that the BBI men kept the wares in good shape.

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The long day came to an end in Sandhurst's small dining area. He and Fitz were splitting a bottle of no name Chilean wine while the two men from BBI were noisily slurping from the same bowl of soup.

"You were pleased today by what you saw?" one of the arms dealers asked Fitz, his question seeking nothing more than another begged compliment.

"So far, so good," Fitz replied crisply.

"You know, for large purchasers such as yourself, we usually offer a very nice personal item," the second BBI man said. "Something in normal times you might consider too extravagant, yet now, you might consider a good buy."

Fitz looked at Sandhurst for help in figuring out exactly what the weapons merchant was talking about. But the stately British officer could only shrug.

He had no idea either.

"It's an airplane, sir," the first BBI man said, reading Fitz's thoughts exactly. "One of only a few left on this planet. We know you Americans are fond of high tech aircraft. This might be something for you to treasure, once the infidel has been expunged from your lands."

Fitz was curious, "What kind of airplane?"

The two BBI men stopped eating immediately. One reached into his pocket, produced a small brown envelope, and passed it to Sandhurst. He opened it and a single photograph fell out. He glanced at the photo, and Fitz saw the officer was suitably impressed.

"HI say it's a rare bugger," he said, passing the photo to Fitz.

Fitz took one look at the picture and felt his jaw drop.

It was a photo of an F-117 Stealth.

Fuhrerstadt

The young officer in charge of the Fourth Reich's central communications unit knocked once on the huge oak door, then entered the strange triangular shaped room.

Walking to the center of the three-cornered rug, he turned and bowed separately to the three Reich Marshall's, each of whom was 213

sitting behind a massive mahogany desk in his own comer of the room.

"An important communiqué has just arrived from one of the southern tier agents," he told them. "I believe it requires your immediate attention."

"Has it been properly decoded?" Erste asked him.

"I have to assume so, sir," the officer said, turning in Erste's direction.

"And how was it transmitted?" Dritte wanted to know.

"Via the CommStar satellite," the officer replied, spinning around toward Dritte.

"Who else has seen it?" Zweite asked.

"Only myself, Herr Marshall," the CCU officer answered, turning to the third corner.

"Very well," Zweite boomed. "Read it to us."

The young communications officer took a deep, but nervous, breath. This was a big moment in his career. He knew the message had been sent by one of the Fourth Reich's many undercover agents working inside the BBI weapons cartel.

If the news contained within it pleased the trio of high Nazi officers, he might be the recipient of some kind of commendation, or possibly even a promotion.

"The message reads as follows," he began." 'United Americans have made large military hardware purchases this date, East Falkland air station. Mobile armor, ammunition and parts. No airplanes. Paid in gold. Delivery starts immediately and will be ongoing as trusted transport crews can be put in place. UA agent now in residence at RAF officers' quarters, indicating long stay.'"

Instantly all three Reich Marshall's gave out a whoop of joy.

"It fits the Argentine plans perfectly!" Dritte exclaimed, pounding his fist triumphantly. "At last, our serendipitous find is confirmed."

"It is so intriguing," Erste declared, smugly fingering his completely cosmetic monocle. "They've gone ahead and bought their armor and not airplanes. Just as the plan stated."

Even Zweite was happy. "Now we know the 'how,'" he said. "What is left is the

"when' and Where.'"

The three men gathered near the center of the room where a 214

large war table containing an elaborate laser generated topographical map of the North American continent was set up. Having not been officially dismissed, the CCU man remained hovering a respectful distance from the planning table.

"We know they'll stage a seaborne landing somewhere on the East Coast," Dritte said; pulling out his telescoping map pointer. "I would guess it will come anywhere from the mid-Atlantic region up to the old New England area. The tides are better, they have a wider range of landing sites, plus our population control is lacking a bit in some of those areas."

"We can be certain it will be some relatively unprotected piece of shoreline,"

Erste said, pulling out his own, slightly larger map pointer. "I would guess somewhere in the middle. The Chesapeake Bay area would work to their advantage. That way they would have access to sea supply, plus they'll have a large river system to work with."

"I agree," Zweite continued, "and as the plans said they will try to establish a protectorate of their own, and set up a provisional government. that area is certainly suited for it."

He let out a long cruel laugh. "In fact, they can set their government either on the beach or in the swamps."

"They can go sunbathing while they appeal for their precious civil uprising!"

Dritte joined in, with an uncharacteristically boisterous laugh.