War of the Sun (38 page)

It was about an hour past sunset now, and as he sat watching the full moon rise, he contemplated the wildness of the last few weeks: the original plan for Operation Long Bomb. His bizarre journey into the heart of burning Tokyo. His confrontation with Hashi Pushi. The near-infallible instinct that led him to discover the huge war-making facility on Okinawa. The battle for the smog-covered island itself. The loss of the USS
Cohen.
The final action at Pearl Harbor.

Through it all, he’d kept his long-standing goal in mind. Fighting for the freedom of America was his number one priority. But now, looking out over the vast Pacific Ocean, he felt new feelings slowly coming over him. The planet was changing—the recent battles so far away from the American mainland had convinced him of that. Now, he was sure that the battles of the future would not be fought exclusively on American soil.

Rather, he saw global conflicts ahead—and with this new feeling came an overwhelming sense of new urgency. He could no longer labor under the illusion that fighting for freedom always meant just fighting for America. Sure, the American continent was once again free of invaders and reunited. But there had to be millions of people around the world who were
not
free, and until they were all released from the shackles of tyranny and terrorism, then America could not really call itself free.

He took a deep breath and contemplated the rising moon. It looked so crisp and clear, its mountains, valleys, and craters so sharply focused, it was breathtaking. He leaned back and actually felt his shoulders start to relax. He knew he’d be found eventually. Until then, he told himself, several days on a tropical island might not be the worst thing in the world for him.

If only Dominique were here with him.

He threw some more oil on the huge, blazing fire and then leaned back again and closed his eyes …

He would never know if he actually fell asleep or not.

When he next
thought
he’d opened his eyes, he found himself staring once again at the full moon. But it looked different now. It seemed larger. More brightly orange.
More sinister.

He closed his eyes—or at least, he thought he did—and upon opening them once more, he found that the mountains, valleys, and craters on the moon had suddenly changed shape. Now their shadows were forming a frightening image, one of a devilish-looking man with eyes of hate, a thin, pale face, and a sharp goatee.

And the face was laughing at him.

Fiji, the next day

The man known as Soho was walking along a deserted beach about a mile and a half away from his palatial cliffside residence.

With him was a young girl, one he’d selected from the local population for her virginal beauty, her innocent Polynesian features, and especially, her long, lovely dark red hair.

“I have a story to tell you,” Soho told the girl after a long time of just walking along the beach in silence. “You must remember this story, for it will be important to you later on. Do you understand?”

The girl nodded shyly. “I guess so,” she replied.

They stopped near a waterfall which was splashing into a tiny shimmering pool. Sitting on its edge, they let their feet dangle in the pure, warm water.

“Not long ago,” Soho began, “there was a man who tried to show the world that he was a supreme being. He did this by gathering some trusted people around him. They were a small group at first. But quickly their numbers grew, for this man had the ability to attract and influence ordinary people, and convince them that they could do extraordinary things.

“Soon, the name of this man was on the lips of many, many people. Some walked for miles just to hear him speak. Others began to pray to him. They were the first to realize that this man had a vision for the world, one which all people would live by.”

The girl was listening very intently, equally fascinated and confused.

“Where did this great man live?” she asked.

“He lived in an area of the world we once called the Middle East,” Soho went on, as always, not really knowing where the words were coming from. “It’s very hot there, very dry. There’s lots of sand, like here, but not a lot of water. It’s a desert.

“He lived there and spoke his beliefs there, for he was sure that this was where the human race began. He was trying to build a new way for men to live—but not everyone agreed with him. Many disliked him. Many tried to kill him. Soon many were waging battles against him, wars of struggle over men’s souls.

“Soon, these battles went out of control. This great man knew that only by sacrificing himself could he really influence how others thought of him. And so, in that place called the Middle East, he was killed, murdered by those who disagreed with him.”

“That’s very sad,” the young girl said.

Soho smiled and stroked his chin.

“It is,” he agreed. “But this sadness didn’t last long. Because this man was
so
great that not even death could prevent him from telling the world his ideas, his beliefs.”

“But how could he do that?” she asked.

“By rising,” Soho said. “By rising from the dead and walking among his followers once more.”

“What did he look like?” the girl wanted to know.

Soho smiled. “He was tall. Very strong. He had long hair, and a short beard.”

Suddenly the girl became quite animated. “You know, I think I have heard of this man,” she said. “My grandmother told me about him when I was small. Was his name Jesus?”

Soho looked at the girl and laughed.

“Jesus?”
he said, suddenly slipping his hand around her lower waist and fondling her upper leg. “No, my dear. His name was
Victor…
”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Wingman Series

C
APTAIN “CRUNCH” O’MALLEY WAS
exhausted.

For the last ten hours, he had been flying his RF-4X Super Phantom in a wide search pattern over the eastern sector of the Philippine Sea. Under normal circumstances, he would have quit for the day a long time ago.

But there was nothing normal about today’s recon.

What Crunch was looking for, what he was actually hoping
not
to find, was nowhere to be seen. Except for the occasional green dot of some obscure, uncharted island, all that stretched before him were thousands of square miles of empty ocean. Water, water everywhere.

“But not a drop to drink,” O’Malley muttered.

A quick glance at his control panel’s fuel quantity indicator told him that the Super Phantom was getting critically low on gas.

He banked to the left and set a new course.

“Time to head for the barn,” he thought.

His new destination was a place called Xmas Island. Located approximately 400 miles southeast of Luzon, Xmas Island had nothing to do with Santa Claus or Divine Birth. Just the opposite, in fact.

Xmas was owned and operated by the Triad Holding Corporation, a collection of some of the most greedy and cutthroat wheeler-dealers on the planet. Absolutely anything could be had for a price on Xmas—it was capitalism gone amok. Any kind of operation was allowed on the twenty-square-mile island: prostitution, drug manufacturing, weapons running, money laundering … and jet refueling. Just as long as Triad got its cut—usually 50 percent—anyone could do business there. It was all strictly cash and carry. If the payment was short one penny, justice was swift. No trial, no jury of peers, no appeals—only execution. Sometimes as many as ten a day. All in all, it was definitely not a place for the faint of heart.

O’Malley had been to Xmas Island dozens of times over the past few years and knew it well. None of the squalor, fifth, and disease that was rampant in this part of the world existed on Xmas. The reason was simple: despite their econo-authoritarian ways, the Triad Holding Corporation poured a substantial amount of their profits back into development and maintenance of the island. So, oddly, Xmas boasted the best living conditions in the Pacific Rim—a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there.

The island itself was beautiful. Except for the harbor, where much of the importing and exporting went on, the entire coastline was covered by gorgeous beaches of pearl white sand. Fishing was ideal and plentiful, wild fruits and vegetables grew everywhere, cattle and exotic game hunting provided the meat, five state-run distilleries provided the booze. And it was said that the power surfing there was better than any other place in the world outside of Hawaii.

But Crunch wasn’t going there to fish or eat or surf or get drunk. This time is was simply a fuel-up stop for a tank of JP-8 and maybe a bottle or two of scotch. Then it would be up and out again for another 2500-mile loop, this time south, skirting northeast New Guinea, continuing his search for a nightmare.

He activated his radio and set it to the regular hailing frequency for the control tower on Xmas Island.

“Triad One, Triad One, this is Phantom Zebra-Adam. Over.”

Crunch continued to eyeball his fuel status while waiting for a reply. But none came. He radioed again.

“Triad One, Triad One, this is United American Air Force Phantom Zebra-Adam. Are you receiving me?”

Nothing. The island was just appearing through the haze on his southern horizon. Crunch dialed over to the Xmas tower’s emergency frequency.

“Triad One, I am approaching at 28,000 feet, about sixty-four miles east of you. Request permission to land and purchase refueling services. Over.”

All that came back was an earful of static.

“What the hell is going on?” he thought. “These guys go out of business?”

He brought the RF-4X down to 10,000 feet, tried the radio again, and got the same results. He quickly double checked his own UHF set system—maybe something was busted on his end. But everything came back green. The island was now looming in the distance about forty miles away.

Gradually reducing his airspeed, Crunch descended through the cloud cover preparing for a visual fly-by over the island. He also armed his weapon systems—just in case.

He was down to an ass-scrapping 1,000 feet when he streaked over the island’s outlying barrier reef and immediately headed inland. A bad feeling began to rise in his stomach. His gut was telling him that something was
very
wrong on Xmas—a correct assumption as it turned out.

He broke through the last cloud cover about a mile in. He wouldn’t soon forget what he saw.

Gone was the lush green vegetation that had covered the island. Now the landscape below consisted of nothing but hundreds of smoking craters. No buildings. No roadways. What few trees remained were only charred stumps.

What the hell happened here?

He banked towards the main town and was over it four seconds later. It was a pile of rubble and smoking debris. The high rises, the casinos, the barrooms, and the brothels were all gone. All that was left were thousands of bodies and body parts lying everywhere. It was astonishing—Crunch had never seen such utter devastation. The entire twenty square miles of the island had been completely leveled.

It was the Bingo Bell that snapped Crunch out of the shock of viewing the hellish vision below. Reality returned. He was running out of fuel—fast. He needed gas, and he needed it now.

He nosed the RF-4X toward the airfield, located at the island’s southern tip. It too was completely devastated. All that was left of the control tower was its foundation. Every other major structure around it was little more than a pile of twisted steel and busted concrete.

Suddenly Crunch got lucky: Most of the auxiliary runway still looked serviceable. That was the good news. The bad news was that right smack in the middle of the usable part was an airport maintenance truck, laying on its side, burning wildly.

Crunch quickly assessed the situation. His fuel gauge was buried past bust—he was flying strictly on fumes. He had to put the Rhino down before it put itself down, and he had only once chance to do it.

He roared back around, this time at a right angle to the runway, lined up dead on with the overturned truck. His weapons control system up and running, he let loose his single offensive weapon, a Maverick air-to-ground munition. The missile shot out from under his right wing and Crunch banked hard starboard as soon as it cleared. Twisting in his cockpit, he turned to see the AGM hit the truck square. Its warhead exploded as advertised, scattering chunks of the burning vehicle everywhere.

The runway was now as clear as it was going to get.

He came around a third time, even as he heard his last fuel reserve tank click off. The Phantom hit the runway with a bone-jarring thud. Crunch immediately deployed his drag chute, but the landing proved to be like driving through an obstacle course. He fought with the stick, careening the big jet away from chunks of concrete, steel, and debris scattered across the concrete ribbon. Finally he got passed most of the wreckage and gradually brought the Phantom to a halt.

He popped the canopy and slowly climbed out of the cockpit, his 9-mm pistol in hand. The devastated landscape was like something from a science fiction movie. And absolutely quiet. He jumped from the plane and cautiously began to reconnoiter the immediate area. It wasn’t long before he was convinced that not a single soul had survived whatever the hell had happened. He slipped his sidearm back into its holster. Except for the occasional squawking of a couple of vultures fighting over a piece of flesh, the silence was deafening. It was so eerie Crunch started to get a major case of the creeps. He had to find some fuel—quick.