Return From the Inferno (15 page)

Frost stared down at the bow of the ship as his helo ascended. At the very tip, near the end of the steam catapult channel, were two faint burn marks, distinct only because someone had painted two white circles around them, as if to preserve them. These were telltale marks of a VTOL (Vertical Take-off and Landing) aircraft, and further evidence that whoever attacked the Enterprise so many months ago had arrived and apparently departed in a jump jet.

Frost felt his mouth go dry. Strapped in next to the chopper's open bay for the return trip, he watched the carrier slowly fade from view. The evidence was certainly there: the jump jet burn marks, the relentless gun battle against astronomical odds, the selective destruction of some of the carrier's main systems and its eventual, pre-programmed autopilot circular course. It was obvious that there was only one person who could have waged the incredible single-handed campaign.

So then, why would no one say it? Why would no one breathe the name? Were they afraid that by speaking it, it wouldn't be true?

As the chopper climbed and the carrier finally disappeared into the haze, Frost wondered if they would ever really know.

Suddenly a warning buzzer reverberated throughout the cabin.

"Load weapons!" Came the call from Crockett to the nine commandos.

Frost was unstrapped and squeezing his way up toward the 123

cockpit in a flash. Load weapons? For what? They were out in the middle of the ocean.

Crockett was talking rapid-fire on his lip radio by the time Frost made it up into the cockpit.

"What the hell's going on?"

Crockett signed off the radio and put the helicopter into a long wide bank to the north.

"We just got a code two flash," he yelled back to Frost, as the copilot armed all of the copter's weapons. "We're going into action . . ."

Frost was astonished. "Action? Where?"

"Something big is going on," Crockett yelled back. "About forty clicks from here. They need all hands and all weapons there. Now!"

The nine Norwegian commandos were up and ready by the time the first smoke of the battle was spotted.

Frost was ready too. He was double strapped right at the edge of the open bay door, forming the bottom link in a human wall of machine guns and rifles. His own weapon was a .357 Magnum given to him by the chopper's copilot. Huge and bright silver, it had been adapted to fire enormous, high-impact cannon shells.

But just what would they be shooting at? It was a question running through the minds of everyone on board.

They had their answer just two minutes later.

From a height of four thousand feet and a distance of five miles, the enjoined battle looked like a swarm of bees pouncing on something hidden down below in an enormous cloud of fire and smoke. Struggling to keep his eyes focused and clear against the wind blowing directly into his face, Frost was able to pick out at least eight UA-marked Huey helicopter gunships flying in the midst of the battle. It seemed as if they were all firing their weapons at once: M-60

machine guns, TOW missiles, 2.75-inch rockets, 20-mm cannons, miniguns, 40mm grenade launchers. A virtual rain of steel and high explosives was falling on the still unseen target.

As fire packed as the venerable Hueys were, the pair of West-124

land Lynx were loaded with an even more overwhelming array of weapons. Each one had two Hellfire missiles strapped to its twin external pylon mounts. Each was also carrying a pair of computer-controlled torpedoes, and four small, air-launched depth-charges. Added to this the trio of 20mm cannons in each chopper's nose, plus a squad of commandos with their weapons poised and ready at the open door.

"Hang on, boys," Crockett yelled back to them through the crackling radio speaker. "We're going right in."

A second later the pair of Lynx began dropping out of the sky, their already loud engines roaring up to full attack power at a deafening pace. Frost rechecked his enormous hand cannon. It was secure and ready. The commandos all inched forward, their weapons up, their double-locked safety straps straining as they moved forward for the most optimum firing position. Still none of them knew what the target was.

One mile out, the two Lynx leveled off at five hundred feet, and at precisely the same moment, launched a computer-controlled torpedo into the billowing cloud of smoke and flame. Almost immediately, Frost could hear the nose cannons on each chopper open up. A Huey suddenly flashed by, its pilot turning it over so he could follow the Lynx in on their first bombing run. Another one was right on its tail. Now the sounds of the explosions hidden in the conflagration were rivaling the roar of the Westland's engines.

That was when the chopper finally broke through the shroud of flames and smoke and they all saw the target for the first time.

"Jesus!" Frost yelled over the engines and multitude of explosions. "I don't believe this. . ."

None of them could. They were so surprised, that no one fired a shot for a few seconds. What they saw before them was so astounding.

It was a submarine. Long, black, sleek, and shiny.

"Damn," Frost yelled above the wind and the noise of battle. "It's one of the Fire Bats. . ."

It was a Fire Bats and it was being absolutely pummeled from all sides with all kinds of weapons as it raced through the surface waters apparently too damaged to submerge. But still, it didn't

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look real somehow. It was more like something from a big-budget Hollywood movie of days gone by. He had heard of the Fire Bats-they all had. Four submarines had appeared at the same time as the Norse invaders, each one said to be carrying at least one nuclear missile. It was in their missile chambers that lay the nuclear terror which held all of the American continent in the grasp of two fascist fists. But they were as elusive as the Loch Ness monster.

Until now.

By some apparently incredible stroke of good fortune, the United Americans had found one of the mysterious, hated submarines on the surface. And they were not going to let it escape alive.

The two Lynx roared over the stricken submarine, their cannons firing nonstop.

A second barrage was coming from the cargo bay itself as the jammed-in commandos let loose with all their weapons at once. It was evident from the maddeningly desperate fire power being unleashed onto the boat that every shot would count in preventing the Fire Bats from getting away. So, hanging on for dear life, and not quite believing what was happening, Frost added his large-caliber pistol fire to the fusillade.

Frost's Lynx roared up and over and swung back in for a second strafing pass.

Two Hueys were lined up in front of it, all weapons blazing, their duo barrages of 2.75 missiles impacting all along the submarine's shiny black conning tower.

The Hueys cleared and the Lynx went in again. This time Crockett reduced the chopper's speed, giving his copilot and the men in back a longer opportunity to fire. Frost squeezed off two shots. The second shot might have shattered one of the sub's tower-attached antennae. Though in the storm of bullets, missiles, and bombs, it was truly impossible to determine who was hitting what. What was for certain was that the Fire Bats-flames and smoke pouring out of dozens of places-was mortally wounded.

"Pour it on!" Crockett was screaming over the intercom, as he turned the ship for its third pass. "Pour it on!"

The commandos and Frost obliged, emptying clip after clip at short range onto the sub's hull, even as the Lynx's second pair of 126

torpedoes smashed into the rear of the vessel. The Lynx made another turn, lining up behind two more Hueys, and then flashed in for a third attack. And then a fourth. And then a fifth.

This aerial dance of death continued for ten long minutes, until finally, smoking heavily and aflame from its bow to its tower, the Fire Bats slowed and went dead in the water.

On a call from the flight leader of the Hueys, all of the gunships backed off and went into ragged orbits two hundred fifty feet above the sub. From these vantage points, all eyes watched with a mixture of awe and brazen satisfaction as the big sub shook with two explosions and broke in two.

Then, with one final mighty explosion, it slipped beneath the waves and went down for the last time.

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Chapter Twenty-two

Lieutenant Stan Yastrewski, also known as "Yaz," woke up and found himself staring at two beautiful, naked breasts.

He instantly shut his eyes back tight and froze in position.

Where the hell am I?

His mind strained to recount what had happened in the past twelve hours. But it was all a big blur. Was he still aboard the so-called Great Ship? The former Royal Viking luxury liner was first converted into a command ship for the invading Norse armies and now served as a gigantic, bizarre reincarnation of Cleopatra's famous love barge. He thought so; he could feel the gentle rocking of the ship that had become so familiar.

But this was not his regular room. Through slits in his eyelids he could see that this cabin was easily a hundred times bigger. And this was definitely not his regular bed. His usual bunk was dirty, stained, and without a blanket.

This bed-actually a water bed-was enormous and it was covered with satin sheets. Something else was different. Not a morning went by when he didn't wake up with his stomach screaming for food because he was only allowed one meal a day. Now, his belly was so full he would have let his belt out two notches. If he had a belt.

What happened to him?

He'd spent the last eleven months living in a cabin that was less than the size of a broom closet. Located deep within the bowels of the ship, it was not like one of the brig cells on the ship. They were much bigger. He was not a prisoner, not really anyway. He was, in fact, a "human resource," because of his knowledge of naval vessels. Since he was a commissioned US Navy submarine 128

officer prior to World War III, the people who ran this ship had decided, as had his original captors, that he was better off alive than dead. Whenever a particularly sticky problem came up (with the engines, or the fueling system, or the navigation stuff) the ship's chief master would call him to "consult"

on how to fix the malady. In return for this help, "Yaz" was allowed to live.

His somewhat helpless situation was a bit more tolerable for one reason only.

Before his capture by the Norse invaders, he had been a ranking member of the United American Command Staff. The key factor of the United American past successes had been resourcefulness, doing the best one could with a bad situation. To this end, "Yaz" had spent much time gathering intelligence information about the Great Ship and its newest owners, telling himself it would be helpful to the United American cause someday.

He dared to open his eyes again in order to study the breasts. He did not recognize them. And the night before was still very hazy. He closed his eyes, knowing something had to be done. Still feigning sleep, he mustered up enough courage to turn over, and at least reconnoiter an escape route from the strange bed. To this end, he slowly rolled his body from his right shoulder to his left.

But when he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into another pair of equally lovely, if slightly smaller, breasts.

Oh, my God. . .

Now his mind was really racing, panicking in its amnesiac state. He sucked in a silent, deep breath and held it. Slowly things began coming back to him.

He had bedded down as usual the night before, on his little smelly bunk in his smelly little room. Of this, he was sure. Then the soldiers came. Not the usual ones who summoned him when repair work was needed. No, they had been the Queen's own personal bodyguards, distinct by the white naval uniforms.

They took him out of the room and forced him to drink something from an old wine bottle. As he recalled, it wasn't liquor exactly; rather it was sticky and sweet, with the consistency of maple syrup. He remembered being terrified, thinking it was poison. But then the guards led him onto an elevator that he knew

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was used only by the hierarchy of the Great Ship. They rode up to the fifth level in silence; the controlled breathing of his half dozen guards still ringing in his ears.

But then what had happened?

He slowly let the breath out and took in another.

The elevator door had opened and he was pushed inside a huge dining hall by the guards, who then disappeared. There were only two people inside this hall, but they were barely visible. Sitting at the end of a long table, their faces were obscured by a kind of golden fog.

After that, it got really sketchy.

He recalled walking toward them, compelled because they were calling his name.

Their features still hidden, they gave him more of the sticky fluid to drink.

After that they almost literally stuffed food down his throat.

He recalled their laughter. Good God-they were women! And they had ... They had ...

At that point it all came flooding back to him, The two women. The big water bed. The hours upon hours of sexual activity. Highly erotic. More talk and touching than actual penetration and fluid exchange. There were costumes and masks and strange music.

And the women had asked him if he knew Hawk Hunter. Over and over and over again.

Suddenly, he felt a soft hand slide down his back and begin probing his upper thighs.

"Don't pretend that you're asleep," the voice belonging to the owner of the hand said. "Do you really think you could fool me?"

"Yaz" felt a deep freeze run through him. He recognized that voice. It belonged to Elizabeth Sandlake, ruthless martinet, authentic witch, the virtually self-anointed "Queen of America."

He couldn't believe it. Like a strange wet dream, the hazy, druglike sex romp had involved the most powerful person on the ship-male or female. But this was not what had turned his spine to an icicle. No, rather it was the stories he'd heard about this woman Elizabeth in regards to her sexual habits. Quite frankly, she frequently murdered her lovers shortly after consummating, 130

like a Black Widow devouring its partner once the heavy breathing had stopped.