Return From the Inferno (24 page)

"What's so special about today?" "Yaz" asked her, his words slow and measured so as not to upset the delicate balance of his grumbling stomach. "Other than the fact that this ship is rocking. . . and rocking. . ."

Juanita shot a glance at him that would have frozen a blowtorch.

"You are not here to ask questions," she zapped. "Just do as you are told."

"Yaz" tried to steady himself on the waterbed, closing his eyes and trying to imagine his stomach settling down. But it was impossible.

Suddenly he heard the door to the large love nest open, and felt a perceptible change come over the room.

Without even opening his eyes, he knew that Elizabeth Sandlake had just made her entrance.

"My Lady!" he heard Juanita cry out. "You look.. . absolutely stunning!"

" 'Stunning'?" Came Elizabeth's caustic reply. "Don't you really mean,

'beautiful'?"

"Yes, certainly, My Lady. I meant 'beautiful.' "

"Yaz" couldn't imagine what all the gushing was about. He knew less about the goings-on around the ship since he'd become the resident human blow-up doll than he did when he was relegated to the hole down at the very bottom of the ship.

But he also had learned that the beautiful but very unbalanced Sandlake needed a healthy dose of adulation every day to keep her raging megalomania stoked.

And woe to the person who failed to feed this addiction.

So it was with much discomfort that he managed to turn over on his queasy stomach and check out the fuss.

What he saw was almost enough to make him heave, not from repulsion, but from laughter.

Elizabeth was standing before him in a full-length pearl white wedding dress.

"White?" Yaz said too late to stop the word from escaping his lips.

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Elizabeth glared at him. "You dare . . ."

"It's very, very beautiful, My Lady," "Yaz" quickly recovered. "The color white becomes you . . ."

Elizabeth straightened up a bit and turned to examine herself in the room's huge full-length mirror.

"It's our own design," she told her image. "It's the dress I've wanted ever since I was a little girl."

Now "Yaz's" eyes were rolling as much as his stomach. The self-proclaimed

"Queen of America" had come up with many different costumes for their enforced lovemaking sessions. She'd dressed up as a cowgirl, a belly dancer, a man, a priest, a nun and on and on.

But dressing as a bride as a prelude to another lustfest was a bit too much, even for her.

But that was when "Yaz" got his second surprise of the early day.

"You can have your gown made as soon as we get to the ceremony," Elizabeth told Juanita who had jumped up to help her mistress out of the flowing dress.

"We used all of the material on board for this one."

The two women then began an extended conversation, that if "Yaz" didn't know better might have concerned a real wedding.

Ten minutes into this talk of floral arrangements, band numbers and whether a waltz was proper as the first dance at a formal reception, "Yaz" began to think that he was missing something here.

He swallowed hard and opened his eyes again. The only thing that had kept him sane during his long months on the Great Ship was that he'd strive to convince himself that he was on an unexpected, yet valuable, intelligence mission. This meant getting important information, hopefully for use in the United American cause later on. This crazy conversation about the wedding sounded important.

But before he could open his mouth, Elizabeth had spun around and was glaring at him again.

"What are you thinking, knave?"

"I am thinking that you might actually be getting married, My Lady."

She took off her flower and lace wristlet and slapped him twice across the top of the head with it.

"You are not here to think!" she screamed at him. "You are here to fuck!"

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She'd stepped out of the dress by this time and was now naked except for the long white veil. "Yaz" felt his stomach turn a complete triple somersault as he was confronted with her lovely, heaving body once again.

"Now turn over," she ordered him. "And get to work."

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The young man known as the Amerikafuhrer tugged at the highly starched collar of his white NS dress uniform jacket and spit.

"It's too tight!" he said, stamping his foot once. "It has to be looser. . ."

One of the three tailors kneeling at his feet stood up and made yet another measurement of the young man's neck size.

"And what happened to the rows of little flowers you promised on the lapels?"

the Amerikafuhrer asked him.

"You never told us what kind of flowers, Your Excellency," the tailor dared to reply.

The young man, barely eighteen, closed his eyes in an attempt to hold in his anger. "I told you roses," he said through gritted teeth. "Roses were my great, great, grand-uncle's favorite flower. Or have you never read your history book?"

The tailor gulped audibly. "I have, Your Excellency," he stuttered. "And I will personally sew the roses on your lapel for you."

The young man habitually brushed back his blond hair and closed his eyes once again.

"I'm tired of this," he said, effectively ending the fitting session. "Finish tomorrow . . ."

The three tailors quickly retrieved the jacket and their sewing boxes and hastily left the room.

"And make sure no Jew, no colored person, nor any American savage touches that garment!" he called after them.

As the three tailors departed, they were replaced by a very concerned-looking NS colonel. The officer stood briefly at attention and saluted.

The Amerikafuhrer was clearly uncomfortable with the man's sudden arrival. He recognized him as being from the office of his three Reich Marshall's: Erste, Zweite, and Dritte.

"Isn't it much too early for my daily briefing?" he asked the officer.

"I am here at the request of the Reich office, sir," the colonel told him.

"And I'm afraid I have bad news."

The Amerikafuhrer collapsed onto his purple velvet couch.

"Bad news?" he groaned, somewhat sarcastically. "Why didn't your superiors come and tell me themselves?"

The NS colonel wisely chose to ignore the question. He knew that the three Reich Marshall's had been keeping a very dirty secret from just about everybody until this day. And it was the misfortune of lower rank that led to his selection as the person to pass on the troubling news to the high-strung Nazi Leader.

"Several days ago, sir," he began nervously, "there was an incident at the Drache Mund Prison. Three men escaped."

The young Nazi leader's face screwed up into an angry frown.

"Escaped?" he hissed incredulously. "Two days ago? Why wasn't I told earlier?"

"We didn't want to bother you, sir, until we finished our investigation," the colonel lied.

The Amerikafuhrer narrowed his eyes and stared long and hard at the officer.

"I thought escape from Dragon's Mouth was impossible, Colonel," he said finally.

The colonel gulped. "Apparently not, sir . . ."

"Well, who the hell were they?" the young man fumed, working his way into a full-fledged snit.

The colonel hesitated for a few heartbeats. "One was the false priest who we believe was part of the conspiracy to murder the First Governor of Bundeswehr Four," he replied slowly. "Another was a man previously caught escaping while pretending to be dead. The third was a United American saboteur caught down in New Orleans and transferred up here for interrogation. All were about to be executed."

"You mean they were three condemned men?" the Amerikafuhrer asked, plainly astonished. "How did they possibly get out?"

"We are not sure," the colonel answered. "They were led into the execution yard and their sentences were about to be carried out. Shots were heard, but everyone in the immediate area just assumed they were caused by the gunfire of the Skull executioner."

"Well-what does he say of it?" the teenage leader asked.

The colonel looked blankly at the ceiling for a moment.

"He's dead, sir," he finally replied. "As are the officer of the day and two guards."

"Were they all shot by the prisoners?"

"We are still investigating that aspect," the officer said quickly.

The Amerikafuhrer stood up and began pacing nervously.

"Well, these prisoners didn't just disappear into thin air," he said. "Or did they?"

"There is some evidence that the prisoners escaped in helicopters painted in our colors," the colonel replied.

The Amerikafuhrer slammed his fist twice against his forehead. "And these are dangerous men, I suppose?"

"The assassin's cohort certainly is," the colonel told him bluntly. "As you know, he had constructed a very elaborate ruse to get close to the First Governor. His duplicity in the assassination has never been questioned. We have already flooded the city with wanted posters bearing his likeness."

"Is that really necessary?" the young leader asked worriedly. "All that clutter. All that potential litter?"

"This man might still be in the city," the colonel replied. "And he might be intent on shooting you, Your Excellency."

The young Amerikafuhrer felt a lump form in his throat, He felt a veil of paranoia descend upon him. Was this a legitimate threat? Or yet another case of his Reich Marshall's subtly torturing him again?

"Do Erste, Zweite or Dritte think I should postpone my ceremony because of all this?" he asked the colonel.

"No, sir," he replied firmly. "All three are confident that the ceremony can go on as planned. Security will be tripled. There should be no problems."

The Amerikafuhrer stopped pacing in mid step.

"I want you and them to make sure there are no problems," he said to the officer. "I want you to tell them that from now on there will be no more citizens allowed anywhere near our state functions.

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No more crowds at the parades. No more crowds at the rallies. And definitely no crowds at my ceremony. Is that understood?"

The officer stood motionless for a few long moments, then he performed a shallow bow. "Perfectly, sir . . ."

"Now get out of here," the Amerikafuhrer ordered him.

With that, the officer quickly walked out of the room confident that he'd made it through the difficult duty relatively unscathed. Something that would undoubtedly bode well for him with the Reich Marshall's.

After the officer departed, the Amerikafuhrer spent the next few minutes fighting back an unmanly tear. He knew that other men in his high position would have simply ordered the officer bearing that kind of bad news to be shot. But he could not bring himself to do it. He had ordered civilians to death of course, and indirectly caused the deaths of many others, simply by signing off on the most oppressive occupation decrees. These deaths never bothered him.

But he could not find the courage to purge his own commanders, whether they be lowly colonels or the Marshall's Erste, Zweite and Dritte. He was certainly entitled to dispose of them. He knew they all lied to him on a regular basis.

Even now, he wasn't quite sure whether they were telling the truth about beefing up security for his ceremony, or how the prison break was executed, or whether it had even happened at all.

Now the tears came for real. It was by an accident of birth that he was in this position. And though he was the highest official in this occupied land, he believed at that moment he was also the most lonely and isolated.

His glum thoughts were relieved somewhat when a smiling face walked through the door. It was his personal dresser, a young Swede named Lance. He was carrying a large, gift wrapped box with him.

"It is time to prepare our lunch," Lance whispered to him.

Both men grinned as he set down the box, opened it, and lifted out a small, squawking goose.

The long range HC-130 Hercules gunship went into a tight circle over the bare, windswept air base and then came in for a reasonably smooth landing.

The blowing snow picked up as the big Herc taxied up to the base's single operating hangar. Two men were waiting for the plane, both wearing faded but cleanly pressed pre-war Royal Air Force uniforms.

The HC-130 reached its parking station and its pilots began shutting down the plane's major systems. The side door opened quickly enough and three people emerged. Two were members of the Football City Rangers Protection unit.

The third was Mike Fitzgerald.

The pair of RAF officers walked forward and met Fitz with two handshakes.

He introduced himself to the RAF men. and they to him. The senior officer was Major Sandhurst Jerrold. His aide was Lieutenant Patrick Sally.

"Sorry, we couldn't arrange for better weather," Jerrold told Fitz. "But I trust you had a good flight?"

"Problem free," Fitz replied.

He looked around the air base. The wind was up to fifty knots at least, its moaning provided the soundtrack for the bleak desolate spot of land that Britain and Argentina once fought over hi the first, real high tech war. Now the base, like the rest of the is-207

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land, appeared virtually deserted.

"Has the other side shown up?" Fitz asked the Brits.

"See for yourself," Sandhurst said with a nod.

He showed Fitz to the door of the base's main hangar. Using a battered remote control device, the RAF officer opened the airplane barn's creaking doors to reveal an all black Boeing 707.

"They flew back in late last night," Sandhurst told Fitz. "They went to their quarters and we haven't seen them since."

Fitz couldn't take his eyes off the big black converted airliner. He'd seen it before. It had once belonged to the Canal Nazis of the Panama-based Twisted Cross. Once that admittedly amateurish fascist group was defeated via a United American invasion, the 707 had bounced around the world's arms markets, being bought and sold on the whim or fortune of its owners.

Now it belonged to a very shadowy North African weapons trading firm named Big Blast Incorporated or BBI.