Ghost War (3 page)

But suddenly a sharp knocking on the door shattered his impending moment of bliss. His euphoria quickly disappeared. The island girl slowly raised her face up to Soho; it showed nothing but fear at what she thought was her failure to please her master.

He lightly stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry, little one,” Soho said benignly. “There will be another time for you.”

She smiled, gathered up her grass skirt, and hurriedly tiptoed out of the room—before he could change his mind.

Soho leaned back and took another long drag on his pipe, causing the rock-sized chunk of hashish to glow brightly in the darkened room. Once again, he became lost in thought, pondering the events that had brought him to this moment in time. They seemed so far away and so long ago.

Okinawa, where he was stationed, was under heavy attack by the United Americans. He was a pilot of a Sukki Me-262 jet, and like everyone else on the island fortress, he was ready to die to protect the Supreme Commander of the Asian Mercenary Cult, the beautiful young woman with red hair named Aja. At the height of the battle, he was summoned to Shuri Castle to appear before her in her private quarters. Fully prepared to receive his suicide mission orders, she instead ordered Soho to drop his pants. Then this great woman commanded him to enter her. An ever faithful and obedient soldier, Soho obeyed immediately.

When he was done, she ordered him to fly to Island Facility Number Two. Then, to his utter astonishment, she plunged a sharp knife into her stomach, killing herself in the most horrible, ritualistic way.

He was in his jet within minutes, streaking through a hail of deadly gunfire thrown up at him from the ground and from the American aircraft carrier floating offshore. He eventually made it here, as ordered, to Military Manufacturing Facility Number Two, which wasn’t a manufacturing facility at all. Rather, it was the tropical paradise of Fiji, a place devoid of the thick dense industrial smog that covered Okinawa; a place with very little military activity.

But it was here where things began to get
really
strange for him.

Upon his arrival, he was immediately treated by the island’s top Cult military brass as
their
Supreme Commander. His jet, the Me-262, was painted a sickly pink and mounted on stilts at the edge of the cliff overlooking the main beach. It was covered with fresh flower petals and multicolored blossoms. Six smoking urns were placed around it, their firepots constantly billowing cinnamon incense that mingled with the smoke from the five hundred candles that also surrounded the jet and which burned twenty-four hours a day.

But that was not all.

Hundreds of beautiful island women were instantly put at his disposal to do with as he pleased. Alcohol flowed like water; the drugs, the best in Asia, were plentiful. Incredible feasts of wild game, fruits, and vegetables were brought to him whenever he wanted. He lived like a king—in fact, he
was
their king. But despite the royal treatment and their attendant pleasures, many things still troubled him.

One was the disturbing memory of Aja, who, right before she killed herself, seemed to transform from a bloodthirsty leader into a young innocent girl. From the moment he had landed on this island—an island where his every whim was catered to—another thought had constantly replayed in his mind, over and over again: “
Why me?
” Why had he been chosen to be the Supreme Commander of the Asian Mercenary Cult?

But what had bothered him the most was the distinct feeling that he was no longer sure of his own identity. As time went on, he felt less in control of his destiny. In reflection, this feeling seemed to begin right after he’d completed his coupling with Aja—it was almost as if some being had entered
him
as well. At first he thought maybe it was the drugs, or the booze, or the constant sexual pleasures that he enjoyed so often since arriving on Fiji. But now, he had no idea what was happening to him. It was as if someone—or something—had stolen his very soul from him.

Even stranger, it was bothering him less and less as the days went by.

Another loud rap at the front door broke Soho away from his thoughts.

“Enter!” he barked.

Colonel Ikebani double-timed into the hut, stepped before Soho, and gave a smart salute. Soho returned the gesture by exhaling a cloud of hashish smoke right into the Colonel’s face.

“Colonel Ikebani reporting, sir!”

Soho did not respond. He simply sat there, taking his time, looking the soldier up and down, much to the discomfort of Ikebani. Then he reached over, lifted up a pitcher and refilled his coconut cup with a sweet alcoholic drink.

“Would you like a drink, Colonel?” Soho politely asked.

“No thank you, sir, I’m on duty.” he replied, hoping that his answer would please his leader.

Soho grunted, and then drank the entire contents of the coconut cup in one long swig. He put the cup down, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, folded his arms across his chest, and looked up at the Cult officer.

“Well?”

“A radio message for you, sir. It just came in over the secure frequency.” Ikebani produced a red envelope, sealed with black tape, and handed it to Soho.

Soho looked at the envelope and the words
TOP SECRET
stamped across its front. He wondered why they constantly bothered him with this crap instead of leaving him alone so that he could enjoy himself. He snatched the envelope out of Ikebani’s trembling hand, tore it open, and quickly scanned the decoded cable. He then looked back up at the officer.

“You thought
this
was important enough to disturb me?” he hissed.

“Ahhh, yes … sir.” Ikebani stammered.

“Well, Colonel,” Soho corrected him. “You were wrong.”

Ikebani’s small prayer was indeed granted by the gods. He
did
live to see the sunset. But it was only after being tied to a post at the edge of the cliff, partially skinned, and left as a delicacy for the scavenger birds. By the time the sun finally dipped below the horizon, Ikebani was quite nearly picked to death. He was grateful then for the cold steel blade that was finally drawn across his throat.

He did not live long enough, however, to see the people who sent what he thought was such an important message. For one hour after Ikebani died, two Fire Bats nuclear-armed submarines broke surface in the island’s inner harbor.

Edwards Air Force Base

Southern California

Three weeks later

T
HE A-37 DRAGONFLY APPEARED
as a dot on the eastern horizon, its silver body glistening in the rising sun.

The small jet circled the huge airfield once, then touched down for a picture perfect landing on the longest runway in the world.

Less than a minute later, the Dragonfly rolled up to its hardstand and stopped, its canopy open. General Dave Jones, Commander-in-Chief of the United American Forces, unhitched himself and climbed out.

“Been flying a desk too damned long,” he said, taking off his crash helmet and rubbing his stiff arm muscles. “Got to get up more often.”

A white HumVee pulled up to the Dragonfly just as the General stepped down to the hot asphalt. Hawk Hunter was at the wheel.

“Welcome to Edwards, General,” Hunter said with a salute as Jones climbed into the passenger seat. The two men shook hands. “How was the trip out?”

“It’s always a gas to fly out here,” Jones said, studying the vast expanse of the high California desert. “I love this place. I saw everything from the X-15 to the Shuttle land here. Lot of aviation history has been made in these parts.”

Hunter put the HumVee in gear. “Well, General,” he said, with a wry smile. “I think we might be working on another chapter.”

They took off with a squeal and were soon traveling across the acres of tarmac towards the back side of a long row of enormous hangers. It was there that Hunter was going to show Jones the fruition of the idea he first proposed back in San Diego nearly a month before.

Everyone in that conference room that day agreed that the Cult’s rogue battleships posed an enormous threat not only to the defenseless people of the South Pacific, but to the world security as well, as shaky as it was. Yet they were also in agreement that to organize an American naval fleet, arm it, train its crews, and then sail halfway around the world to counter the Cult threat would take at least six months—much too long to do anybody any good. The problem called for the quickest response possible.

Hunter’s idea that day was simple: if we can’t float a force to check the Cult battleships, then let’s fly one there instead.

Now, General Jones was about to see firsthand how that concept had been turned into reality.

The row of hangers seemed to stretch for more than a mile. Hunter swung the jeep around the corner of the end barn and brought it to a halt.

“Well, here they are, General,” Hunter said after he killed the engine. “The First American Airborne Expeditionary Fleet.”

Jones’ eyes grew to twice their normal size. “This is incredible,” he finally managed to say.

What he saw was a long row of gigantic C-5 Galaxy cargo jets. There were at least two dozen of them, sitting wingtip-to-wingtip in the hot California sun. Each one was surrounded by scores of support trucks and dozens of ground personnel, flight mechanics and cargo handlers, all working at a feverish pitch. Each one was painted in the strangest way.

The C-5 Galaxy was the king of long-range heavy military cargo transports. Indeed, it was the largest airplane ever built in the free world. Powered by four turbofan jet engines capable of 41,000 pounds of thrust, the C-5 could cruise at 440 knots and climb as high as 50,000 feet. The airplanes were simply enormous. At 250 feet long, they were a scant 50 feet shorter than a football field. Their wing span was 222 feet, encompassing 6,200 square feet in area. Most important, the C-5 could carry nearly 150 tons of equipment, military gear, weapons, people—whatever—in its gigantic hold.

Jones let out a long, low whistle.

These monstrous airplanes, dug up from all corners of the American continent by the well-known used-airplane salesmen, “Roy From Troy,” were the cornerstones of Hunter’s latest brainstorm.

They started coming in three weeks before, just hours after Hunter put the call out to Roy to find as many of the giant airships as possible. As always, the intrepid salesman came through; he began finding them everywhere. For five days they were landing at Edwards, some from as far away as Nova Scotia, others from the hellish sun of nearby Arizona. All were in various states of disrepair. Several were barely flyable; others were in such bad shape they could only be cannibalized for parts. Those that were repairable were slated to be overhauled from stem to stern, a massive undertaking considering the ever-shrinking timetable.

Hunter knew from the beginning the amount of technical service the C-5s would need would be awesome. So he put out a call for volunteers. From all across the country they came, some with the airplanes themselves, others by car or truck, some even on foot. All offered their services for free. From aeronautical engineers to those who only knew how to tighten a screw, each and every one of them had been put to work. Between the scorching desert heat, the cold nights and frequent dust storms, it made for back-breaking, dirty, hard labor.

Yet not one person dropped out. But the sight of the long line of enormous cargo planes alone was not so mind-boggling for an old Air Force buck like Jones. Rather, it was the fact that each plane looked, well, … so
damn
different from anything he’d ever seen before.

“I never expected this,” Jones said, actually rubbing his eyes in order to take it all in. “These things look like hot rods….”

It was true. Each C-5 was done up in its own, individual design and color scheme. Some were subdued, some pretty garish. It made for either a treat, or a nightmare, for the eyes.

The first Galaxy was done up totally in black camouflage, except for its enormous nose which was painted over with a huge shark mouth, open and showing rows upon rows of sharp, deadly white teeth, similar to the nose art of the famous Flying Tigers of World War II fame.

The second C-5 was painted bright silver, with the designation
NJ
104 emblazoned on its fuselage and wings. The third airship was pearl white with broad red and blue stripes running along its hull and on top of its wings, and an immense decal of a football with the number “1” adhered to its tail.

The fourth C-5 was even stranger-looking: it was painted in yellow-tan with scroll designs and highly stylized lettering running from front to back. It looked like an airplane a circus would ride in—and that was the idea. Its name, printed in huge letters on the front, was “Bozo.”

Further down the line, a C-5 was painted a lime green camouflage with a graphic nose illustration of a huge Cobra, mouth open, forked-tongue poised and ready to strike.

“It all started with the JAWs guys, sir,” Hunter began to explain, pointing to the first in line Galaxy. “They’d been working on their airplane night and day, and the crew needed a diversion. They scared up some paint and designs and … well …

“Then when the others saw what JAWs did, everyone caught the bug.”

Jones was quiet for a few moments. Then he said: “I don’t know why, but I like it. Reminds me of the nose art on the B-17 Fortresses during World War Two. Shows individuality, but also unit pride.”

Hunter let out a low whistle of relief. He wasn’t quite certain how the rather straight-shooting senior officer would take to the elaborate detail work on the huge airplanes. Now, with the initial visual shock out of the way, he was able to get down to the serious business for which the enormous planes were readied.

They climbed out of the HumVee and began their tour on foot.

The first C-5 they passed—the one with the huge shark mouth on its nose—was being outfitted for the commando outfit known as JAWS. Originally a local police force from Johnstown, New York, JAWS was a twenty-man team that had evolved and expanded into a crack commando unit. Unlike other postwar militia, who tended to specialize in one particular fighting skill, the JAWS team was expert in many of them. From mountain climbing to scuba diving to night-parachuting to tunnel digging, these men were the best of the best. They were trained in getting in and doing the job on any kind of target, either hard or soft. Bunkers, fortresses, buildings, airfields, or any other obstacle were no match for the JAWS team. They had been very useful in the recent attack on Okinawa.