Ghost War (2 page)

48 hours later

U
NITED AMERICAN ARMED FORCES
Captain Ben Wa scanned the pile of black and white photographs spread out in front of him and felt his jaw tighten.

“Unbelievable,” he whispered. “Just incredible …”

He was sitting in the conference room aboard the aircraft carrier, USS
Mike Fitzgerald.
The ship, battered and hurting from a recent campaign in the Pacific, was now in dry dock for major repairs and refitting, a project expected to take a year or more. But because the carrier still held a lot of important communications gear, the United Americans were using it temporarily as a base of operations.

The photo prints before him were so recently back from the darkroom, Ben could still smell the developing solution. When he first saw them, he actually thought they were shots of the lunar landscape. There was photo after photo of nothing but desolation and craters. But when he learned they were of Xmas Island, a place he was familiar with, he was simply astonished. The once-beautiful haven of capitalistic hedonism was now as barren as the moon. Absolutely nothing was left.

And one thing was clear: Whoever was responsible for the devastation was a very dangerous force indeed.

“We sure as hell don’t need this,” Wa whispered again.

That was an understatement.

It had been a tough past few months for the United American Armed Forces. The USS
Fitz
and the men aboard had taken a terrific beating in the all too recent confrontation with their latest enemy, the Combined Greater East Asian Warrior Society, otherwise known as the Asian Mercenary Cult.

This fanatical, quasi-religious organization had successfully invaded the American continent just over a year before. Occupying most of the territory west of the Rockies with fifty infantry divisions, the Cult also had two very dangerous aces up its sleeve—a pair of nuclear-armed submarines, known as the
Fire Bats
, which continually patrolled the waters off California, their sixteen-megaton ballistic missiles ready to be fired at a moment’s notice.

The United American forces couldn’t readily attack the occupying Cult forces as long as these submarines cruised offshore. On the other hand, the Cult did not have the military or logistical ability to expand eastward over the Rockies and beyond. The result was a stand-off—a “Phony War”—existing between the two sides for several months.

Then American intelligence sources learned that the Cult was preparing for a nuclear first strike against the helpless American citizens held captive by the occupying forces. The United Americans had to act and act fast before a million or more innocents were immolated.

The Americans’ counterplan was to stage a preemptive air strike called “Operation Long Bomb,” using the
Fitz
as its launching platform. Modeled after the famous Jimmy Doolittle Raid during the early days of World War II, the idea called for bombing a number of key targets on the Cult-controlled Japanese Home Islands, one of which had also been high on Doolittle’s list:
Tokyo.

The strategy was to do away with the Cult’s leader, Hashi-Pushi, a drug-crazed madman who exercised absolute control over a brutally repressive, far-flung Pacific empire. The hope was that with the head of the snake eliminated, confusion would cascade down to the highly regimented Cult officer corps and quickly diminish their fanatical willingness to die—or to order the launch of a nuclear warhead on their own.

Incredibly, the bold American air strike worked.

Using an ungainly collection of land-based jet fighters adapted for carrier service, the United Americans nearly burned the entire city of Tokyo to the ground. The destruction was so swift and so widespread, Hashi-Pushi chose to do the Americans a favor and blow his brains out.

But the battle was far from over.

Unbeknownst to the Americans, the Cult had created a tremendously efficient underground factory on the nearby island of Okinawa, dedicated to manufacturing World War II-vintage kamikaze airplanes. Hundreds of explosive-packed Mitsubishi-type A6M Zeros were being turned out twenty-four hours a day by this facility, mainly with the labor of enslaved natives.

Faced with this unexpected threat and their own diminishing resources, the small American fleet—consisting of the
Fitz,
two supply ships and the Norwegian-manned battleship, USS
New Jersey
—eventually staged a brilliantly conceived air-land operation which resulted in the total destruction of the huge Okinawa complex, freeing thousands of slave laborers in the process.

When news of this defeat flashed around the world, the
Fire Bats
disappeared and the Cult ground forces began withdrawing from West Coast. With this stunning victory, the American continent was totally free of foreign invaders for the first time in years.

But a final confrontation with the Cult was still to come.

Massed around what was once called Pearl Harbor, the Cult was tricked into expending its entire aerial strength on the destruction of a United American “phantom navy.” The result was the bulk of the Cult’s forces were either killed or isolated on the island of Oahu, their food and water supplies obliterated. There, they were left to the unheroic fate of mass starvation, cannibalism—or suicide.

But now, as Ben scanned the photographs once more, he realized the fight was not yet over.

He was not alone in this conclusion. There were three other men in the conference room with him, and by the grim look on their faces, Ben knew that they silently agreed.

Sitting to his left was JT “Socket” Toomey, one of the most experienced and capable fighter pilots in the United American Armed Forces. Next to Toomey was Major Pietr Frost, the Free Canadian pilot who served as military liaison officer between the United American Armed Forces and the democratic government of Free Canada.

And sitting at the far end of the table was Major Hawk Hunter, known to all as The Wingman, the greatest fighter pilot who ever lived.

It was to him they turned to now.

Hunter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. For once he was well-rested, but hardly by design. Shortly after the defeat of the Cult forces at Pearl Harbor, he had returned briefly to Okinawa. On the return flight, he somehow ran out of fuel and was forced to ditch on a deserted island at the very western end of the Hawaiian chain.

He was officially listed as “missing in action,” until his friend, Stan Yastrewski (aka “Yaz”), had a sudden vision from his bed in the sick bay of the
Fitz
, shortly after coming out of a deep hypnotic coma. From this, Yaz was able to lead rescue forces to Hunter’s small tropical island, where they found the Wingman living the life of Robinson Crusoe, well-tanned, well-fed, and well-rested for the first time in years.

In retrospect, Hunter was glad that he had taken advantage of the down time on the small island to recoup and recharge. Because he knew now, by the photographic evidence before him, that their war with the Cult—or more specifically the evil forces
behind
the Cult—was indeed far from over.

“The good news is this,” Hunter began, referring to a message he’d received shortly before the meeting commenced, “despite the fact that Xmas was totally destroyed, we can rule out a nuclear strike. There were no detectable signs of weapons-related radiation on Crunch’s flight suit, boots or airframe.”

There was a collective sigh of relief from the others in the room. The nuclear-armed Fire Bats had not been present at the climatic battle of Pearl Harbor. In fact they had not been seen since they disappeared from the waters off the West Coast. One initial fear was that the rogue subs, considered “missing but still operational” by the United American strategic advisory unit, had nuked Xmas.

Hunter went on. “The bad news is that Crunch’s report also states that three more islands on the eastern edge of the Caroline chain got the same treatment recently.”

Another tense silence gripped the room.

“Same M.O.?” Frost asked finally.

“Apparently so,” Hunter replied. “None of those islands had any strategic military importance whatsoever. They were simply stripped of anything of value, their populations wiped out, and then completely leveled.”

He studied the photos of Xmas again.

“I’m convinced this was done by 16-inch high-explosive shells,” Hunter said. He knew that Captain Wolf, the Norse commander of the battleship
New Jersey
—itself armed with 16-inch guns—would have agreed with him. The formidable Wolf was presently en route to Norway to refit his own battered vessel and would rejoin the allies as soon as possible.

“I’d say hundreds of big shells, fired in a barrage that lasted for at least four hours, is the only thing that could have caused these craters,” he continued, dropping the prints back on the conference table. “And from the intensity of the firing pattern, it looks like they not only wanted to make sure that everything was destroyed …” he paused and looked at the men around the table. “… they wanted us to know about it.”

“It’s got to be them,” JT said bitterly, now stating the obvious. “The freaking battleships.”

Just before the battle for Okinawa, the United Americans had discovered a second, huge Cult manufacturing facility. Located on a string of islands south of Okinawa, this gigantic complex was dedicated to building World-War-II-style battleships. Though they had spotted scores of them steaming out of the gigantic shipbuilding facility, with their hands full on Okinawa, the Americans could do little about them. By the time the Okinawa operation was over, the battleships had disappeared. But to where? No one knew—so they, too, were officially tagged “missing but operational”.

These battleships made for a formidable enemy. With a displacement of 58,000 tons fully loaded, each was more than 880 feet long. Each had a weapons complement of twenty 5-inch guns, sixty pairs of 40-mm Bofors, and nine gigantic 16-inch cannons, whose powers of destruction were quite evident to all in the room. In fact, the concentrated firepower aboard one of the highly automated battleships could nearly mimic a nuclear strike. And there were twenty-four of them. With a maximum cruising speed of 30 knots and a range of 15,000 nautical miles, this fearsome extension of the brutal Cult slash-and-kill doctrine could go just about anywhere—and do just about anything it pleased.

Hunter was as much in the dark about the exact whereabouts and intentions of the battleships as everyone else. But obviously at least one of them had paid a visit to Xmas Island recently.

“If they are establishing a sphere of influence in one particular area by leaving their calling cards,” Hunter went on. “The populations down there must be close to panic. There’s no military good
or
bad to protect them.”

“Easy pickings,” Toomey summed up.

Again, everyone in the room nodded in grim agreement.

“If they are intent on destroying island after island,” Toomey added, “they could be down in that part of the world for months.”

“Is it enough time for us to get our act together?” Frost asked. “We have to do something about it. After all, we’re the only power in the world that could come to the defense of these people in the South Pacific. If we don’t do it, who the hell else will?”

“Wait a minute,” JT interrupted, “maybe we need to take a step back and consider one thing.”

The room fell into silence.

“Is it really
our
job to stop them?” he asked. “We dealt with them here in America, and we finally got rid of them. What we’re talking about now is a danger that is all the way around the other side of the planet,” he paused, then quietly asked, “Is it really our job to be the policemen of the world?”

No one said a word for a long time. It was Hunter who finally addressed the hypothetical question.

“Freedom is the most cherished thing anyone can have,” he began. “After what we’ve all been through, we here know that better than anybody. We have to fight for it, constantly. As Americans, we
have
to know its value.”

Hunter stared into the eyes of each man seated at the table, then looked downward. “For me, it’s simple. If one person in the world is not free, then no one is entirely free.”

Every man in the room, in turn, nodded without the slightest hesitation.

“It’s true,” JT said quietly. “But you know what that means …”

They all did. They were going to war. Again. Yet another leaden silence enveloped them.

“So what the hell do we do?” JT finally asked.

For the first time in a while, Hunter’s face actually brightened.

“I think I might have an idea,” he replied.

Fiji

C
OLONEL UBU IKEBANI STRODE
briskly through the lush garden of the heavily guarded compound, heading toward an elaborate grass hut.

The morning dew made the thousands of red flowers lining the path glisten in the dawn’s early light, and their sweet scents perfumed the air. But Ikebani did not revel in this natural beauty. Instead, he was doing the best he could to suppress the fear boiling in the pit of his stomach. He had a right to be nervous—he was on his way to deliver important information to the man named Soho, the rather irrational Supreme Warlord of the Asian Mercenary Cult.

As each guard he passed snapped to attention and saluted briskly, Ikebani knew the authority he had over these men was absolutely nothing compared to the power of life and death that his leader inside the hut possessed. Ikebani reminded himself to stay on his toes, to keep his mind razor sharp. For though the news he was bringing was good, what mattered most of all was the mood of the man to whom he was delivering it. So as Ikebani raised his hand to knock on the wooden door of the hut, he steeled himself by saying a small prayer to whatever gods were listening, beseeching them to allow him to live to see the sunset.

“This is really unbelievable,” Soho mumbled. He took another long drag on his hashish pipe and patted the head of the beautiful island girl who was kneeling between his legs performing the best fellatio he had ever experienced.

“Unbelievable,” he moaned again as he raced faster and faster to a glorious climax. “Just incredible …”