Skyfire (37 page)

It was at that moment that he wondered if Zim the Honolulu businessman realized how right he had been. An enormous mercenary army and fleet was gathering on these islands. Their ships were covered with guns and soldiers and enough supplies to last for months.

And they all seemed to be pointing eastward.

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Thorgils, Son of Verden, took a deep breath and then opened the cabin door.

Dominique was on the large bed, lying perfectly still, the only indication that she was not asleep being the barely visible stream of tears running from her eyes. Thorgils walked into cabin and quietly shut the door behind him. He had been both dreading this moment and awaiting it with indescribable sexual anticipation for hours.

For before him was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen-possibly one of the most beautiful in the entire world. And by his father's orders, Thorgils now had to sexually force himself on her.

Then he would eliminate her.

He was not surprised that his father's belief that this lovely creature would fulfill her duty as a Valkyrie had failed. From the moment she had been captured, everyone who came in contact with her beauty had been blinded by it, the great Verden included. There was nothing in the old Norse myths that stated the Valkyries had to be beautiful-it was simply a myth that had grown up around a myth.

But the blind devotion to the Norse way of life, combined no doubt with the daily intake of myx, had skewered his father's judgment, and that was the reason he had picked this beauty Dominique to assume the very important position of Valkyrie. The fact that she wanted no part of it once the shooting began didn't surprise Thorgils a bit.

She had been willing at first, though, and it was on this count that Thorgils himself felt the fool. The day before

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the great battle she had eagerly devoured the mostly ceremonial instructions Thorgils had given her, memorizing them in an incredibly short amount of time, and even at one point reciting them back to him strictly from memory.

Temporarily blinded himself by this display-as well as her beauty and a flask of myx-Thorgils had foolishly answered every question she asked about the Fire Bats sub. He had even given her a tour of the missile chamber after she had slyly allowed him a glimpse of her exposed breasts while bending down to sensually massage her delicate feet. She had purposely rubbed against him as he told her about the three ICBM warheads sitting atop the missiles inside the tubes-they being recovered from a lake in Nova Scotia, an island off New Hampshire, and a beach on the northern Massachusetts shore respectively.

When she accidentally-on-purpose nuzzled her breasts against him upon returning to her cabin, he spit out everything he knew about the other three Norse nuclear-capable subs: the one that was steaming off the coast of the Yucatan with a landing party ready to search for gold long ago hidden within some ancient Mayan temples, the one that was heading around the tip of South America to take up a position off the Pacific coast of America; and the one that was lying on the ocean floor just fifteen miles off the coast of Maryland, a single ICBM poised to be launched against Washington, DC.

And then on the eve of the great battle, after she had once again recited the responsibilities of a Valkyrie-a mishmash of psychic nonsense that had her determining in no explainable way the number of Norse who would die the next day-she had requested another goblet of myx and asked that he join her in drinking it.

Drink they did, until Thorgils felt a fire in his loins of an intensity he had never imagined. Then she slowly undid the back of her gown and let it slip to the floor, revealing the small, short dress that served as her underwear. He made more promises to her at this point-ones he couldn't even remember now-and then she let the undergarment fall.

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His myx-flooded eyes then beheld a creature of astonishing grace and beauty, a perfectly shaped naked female form that rivaled all great works of art. Lovely pert breasts, an uncanny hourglass shape, upper thighs that led into just the barest hint of light pubic hair, and perfect legs and feet. It was all there, dazzling his intoxicated senses.

What man would not have told her everything?

But then the deflating reality burst in upon him.

Just as it seemed as if she was guiding his hand to touch her naked breast, he felt his body shake with an incredible split second of pleasure-only to feel a damp spot gathering in the crotch of his uniform pants a second later.

At that moment he knew he had been tricked by this woman, and that she was probably a witch.

She had used the myx against him, tempting him with her beauty, and he had foolishly fallen for her spell. The result of his folly? Now four people knew exactly what was behind the entire Norse invasion scheme: himself, his father, the woman Elizabeth, and now this treacherous beauty, Dominique.

Even a dolt like Thorgils knew that was one too many.

So it was that when the hour of the great battle came, Thorgils felt like his insides were being pulled in many different directions.

His father's orders were for him to observe the Norse landings and provide a kind of ritualistic eyewitness report on their execution. It was also decreed that Dominique would watch the landings and, through chanting line upon line of mythological Norse mumbo-jumbo, would somehow have an effect on its outcome and the number of Norse who would die.

But no sooner had the Fire Bats cruised into the battle area just as the landings began when Dominique told Thorgils in no uncertain terms that she would not partake in the bizarre ritual. Without the ceremonial, yet supposedly essential contribution of the Valkyrie, Thorgils was 329

convinced that not only would many Norsemen die but that the enemy would quickly gain the upper hand and that the entire invasion itself would be a failure.

And that's what happened.

It was a painful moment when Thorgils radioed his father aboard the Stor Skute and reported Dominique's refusal and the subsequent slaughter of the Norse clans. The next sound Thorgils heard was a loud clump! followed by a burst of static. Then an underling officer came on the line and told him that his father had taken ill and could no longer speak to him.

Several minutes passed by, and then the woman Elizabeth came on the radio. Her frightening voice intimidating the very radio waves, she told Thorgils of his father's final two orders: first, "deflower the Valkyrie," then, sacrifice her.

And that's exactly what Thorgils intended to do.

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I

It was dark by the time Hunter crawled out of the Harrier's cockpit.

He was spent, in mind, body, and spirit. His hands were nearly trembling, his eyes ached, and the pounding in the pit of his stomach felt like it would be with him forever.

Dropping down off the Harrier's wing on to the damp sand of Jacksonville Beach, he felt the grip in his gut tighten up by a factor of ten. There were Norse bodies everywhere. Tangled, twisted and broken, some were missing arms, legs, or heads. Others were contorted into nightmarish positions.

Even worse, the crabs and the seagulls and the insects had already begun their feast.

Despite his exhaustion, Hunter ran. Up through the red-tinged sand, past the fires started by the nonstop bombing of just two hours ago, up and over the sea wall, and onto the deserted street of the one-time resort city. He ran until he was out of breath, and still he kept on running, his flight boots clacking through the deserted streets in such a way as to mimic the sounds of someone chasing him.

Running . . . until his mouth was dry and his eyes were watery. Running . . .

with visions of the nightmarish force of carrier-attack craft pounding in his head. Running . . . with the frightening knowledge that the whole world had suddenly changed.

Running . . . with the fear that he could no longer conjure up a clear picture of Dominique's beautiful face in his mind.

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Running. . . away from the swashbuckling past and into a very uncertain future. Running . . .

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The small white lifeboat was lowered over the side of the Skor Skute, its solemn descent lit by the dozens of searchlights piercing the night and underscored by the baleful blowing of ten Norse bugles.

Placed in the center of the wooden boat was the body of the Great Verden. A long silver sword on one side, a symbolic flask of myx on the other, the body was wrapped in a white linen sheet that gave it the appearance of a mummy.

Once the boat reached the surface of the water, the bugles temporarily went silent. From the bow of the Great Ship, a solitary Norse soldier fired a flaming arrow into the boat. Then, as the contingent of crew on the converted luxury liner watched along with those on the twenty Norse surface ships and ten Krig Bats subs nearby, the flame began to slowly spread along the gunwales of the wooden funeral boat.

The Great Verden was going to his grave.

Elizabeth Sandlake watched the somber ceremony from the bridge of the Great Ship, barely able to contain her glee. Verden had died a coward's death really, she thought. Not by an enemy's sword or bullet but rather by a failure of the heart, the result of hearing about the refusal of his hand-picked Valkyrie to fulfill her duties and the subsequent disaster on the Florida beaches.

He hadn't lived long enough to hear about the devastating air strikes launched against the United Americans.

Now, as Verden's funeral boat drifted away from the Great Ship, the flame on board growing with every second,

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it was all Elizabeth could do to stop from laughing out loud. Her plans could not have been executed more perfectly if the bumbling Norsemen had been in on them from the beginning. With Verden out of the way, and his son Thorgils in the midst of a ffyx-induced, psychological hangover that would scar him for years, Elizabeth was a queen-again.

This time hex kingdom was much larger than the Alberta fortress. Now she ruled over the remaining Norse clans-the surviving leaders having just radioed in their support of her elevation -and the men who sailed the nuclear-armed Fire Bats, Thorgils included. Plus, she had at her disposal, via a secretly negotiated contract, more than one hundred of the most advanced fighter and attack aircraft left in the world and an agreement with the Greater East Asia Divine Warriors' Association who, at the moment, were staging for an enormous invasion of first Hawaii and then the West Coast.

What more would she need to conquer America?

Deep inside the Great Ship, peering through a cracked and stained porthole window, Yaz also watched the traditional Viking funeral ceremony.

Even though he was locked in the small room near the very bottom of the ship, Yaz had been one of the first to hear that Verden had died. He had learned quickly that there were few secrets on the Great Ship; it was simply against the Norse nature to keep anything in confidence. So his guards, excited and talkative as ever, had told him everything: the death of Verden, the defeat of the Norse clans, the massive retaliatory strike by the mysterious naval attack aircraft, the impending doom waiting to befall Dominique.

But as bad as it was, there was one startling fact they'd relayed to Yaz that caused his morale to plunge even further. And that was the treacherous Elizabeth Sandlake-of all people! -now ruled over the Norse.

At first Yaz was stunned. After her narrow escape during 334

the lightning-quick raid against the woman's Alberta fortress, he would have thought that she'd lie low-possibly forever. But the more he thought about it, the more it made a crazy kind of sense.

Who else but her would have the purely maniacal drive, the absolutely ruthless cunning and totally blind fury of ambition to pull the strings behind the whole Norse invasion facade? Who else would be able to cajole, threaten, or bribe all the major players who would have to participate in such a grandiose scheme? Who else was more capable of destroying the delicately reconstructed, still-fragile idea called America?

Now, as the flames completely engulfed the small boat carrying Verden's body, the mournful blaring of the Norse bugles began again. Suddenly another more personally disturbing question popped into Yaz's mind.

What the hell will happen to me? he wondered.

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Mike Fitzgerald wrapped his hands around the broken cup half filled with coffee and tried to draw some warmth from its contents.

Even though the Florida night was a miserably sticky eighty-five degrees, his fingers were cold to the point of being numb.

"Stress," he whispered to himself, trying to explain away his contradictory ailment. "Stress must come with defeat . . ."

He and Jones were sitting in the barely lit bomb shelter, their clothes dirty and in tatters as a result of their efforts to rescue the wounded and retrieve the dead after the massive air strike on the base. The base's only working radio was sitting on the rickety table next to Jones. Until an hour ago, it had been blaring so many messages being sent between the various UA facilities down the coast of Florida that no one would have been surprised if the speaker suddenly began smoking. Now, nothing more than a mild score of static could be heard from the radio. All of the damage-assessment reports had been called in, as had the pleas for help with the dead and dying.

Now the radio was devoid of human voices, allowing those listening to the blur of background interference to contemplate exactly the magnitude of the disaster that had befallen the United Americans. In one day-or more accurately, in one hour-the jewel of the UA Armed Forces their 336

Air Force-had been reduced by nearly one half. It was a situation akin to Patton losing half his tanks or LeMay half his bombers. Worse even, as the destroyed aircraft and equipment was irreplaceable in the postwar world.

In another corner of the shelter sat the base's telex machine, scrapped and battered from the air raid, yet still in working condition. It, too, had been silent now for hours.