Return of Sky Ghost (12 page)

He had to get away, had to get further into the jungle. But he was just too sacred to move. His legs wouldn’t work; neither would his arms. He felt as if his body was made of stone. All was lost then, he thought, and he would probably die here, of fright if not a slashed throat, on this haunted mountain, all alone.

But wait … there was another noise on the wind now. Not the sound of the still-burning forest nearby or the screams coming from the slaughter of his men.

No,
this
was a different sound.

Ganganez looked up and was pleasantly stunned. It was a very hopeful sight: eight SuperZeroes of the Japanese Occupation Air Force were coming right toward him. Ganganez’s heart soared. What providence this was!

His mind began buzzing madly. The SuperZeroes could easily mow down the enemy troops now engaging what was left of his column. After that, the planes could bomb the secret enemy air base on top of this damned mountain as well. This meant that the day still might still be saved for Ganganez. He took a deep breath and inhaled a mouthful of smoke. He’d just gone from hell to heaven in a split second. Now, not only did he believe that he could still make it out alive, he was actually thinking he could claim credit for what was about to happen on top of the mountain!

But he still had to stay alive and he was at the moment too close to where the ’Zeroes would be coming in. Ganganez finally managed to get his arms working and crawled to an outgrowth of rock nearby. It would provide perfect cover for him during the impending air strike. He huddled behind it, eyeing the eight SuperZeroes as they peeled off into their attack profiles. Across the field the one-sided battle continued going badly for his men. They were still proving little match for the strange enemy, falling calmly to the razor-sharp machetes of the bizarre natives.

Ganganez was certain the upcoming air strike would take care of the enemy, even if he knew many of his own men would be killed in the process. He was sure there were still plenty of his troops hiding in the woods and it would be with them that he would ascend the rest of the mountain and emerge triumphant at its peak.

So he took one last look at the eight incoming jet fighters and then cowered behind the outcrop of rock, hiding his eyes again and waiting for the ground to shake.

But just then, he thought he heard yet another, higher-pitched screech. Then he felt not a ground tremor but a disruption in the air around him. He opened his eyes and saw two SuperZeroes crashing into the fires already burning on the plain.

He felt another concussion and saw a third ’Zero plow in. Behind it was a fourth. Then a fifth. The jet fighters were coming down in pieces—many pieces, as if they’d been shredded by something from above. But how? The flying monster gunship was certainly nowhere to be seen—its screaming engines would wake the dead at twenty miles.

Ganganez dared to look up and saw the seventh SuperZero disintegrating before his eyes as a very unusual-looking airplane attacked it. The plane was very small, looking like it had been cut in half just behind the cockpit, where oddly enough its propulsion unit was. But this plane was acting very strangely as well; Ganganez could tell just in the first few seconds. It seemed to be able to flit back and forth across the sky, more like a hummingbird than a normal aircraft. Herkyjerky, turning, twisting, at times it seemed to come to a complete halt as it sprayed gunfire into the hapless number seven ’Zero.

The ’Zero came down not 200 yards away from him just seconds later. Even through blocked ears and closed eyes Ganganez could tell what was going on above him. The last ’Zero was being executed by the strange airplane. Fire on metal, explosions above his head. Maybe even a long human scream. Inevitably the crash came. Number eight augured-in nearly on top of the wreckage of number seven.

The flight of SuperZeroes had been shot down by one little airplane in less than forty-five seconds. Their bullets never reached the spot where the last of his men were being slaughtered.

Now came a dreadful silence.

No more airplane engines, no more wind. No more crackling of nearby flames. Just the faint screams of his men as they continued to get their throats slashed.

Something inside Ganganez’s mind snapped. It was an actual snap—he heard the noise as plain as the scream of a jet engine or a cannon round going off.

Snap!
Just like that. And after that, he knew he would never be the same.

That’s when he jumped up and started running. Running like death itself was on his tail. Running away from the fire and the smoke and the pleading cries of his men.

Running, up the path, toward the top of the mountain.

I
T TOOK GANGANEZ LESS
than thirty minutes to scramble up to the top of Xwo Mountain.

He made the trip quickly, fueled by the pure, unadulterated adrenaline of a madman. Breathing wildly, drool running from his mouth and nose, by the time he reached the summit, he could no longer feel his feet or his hands. Still, he became oddly calm. At least he was far away from the madness of the killing field at Axaz.

But what he would find at the top of Xwo would seem more insane, more unreal than what he’d seen below.

At first, he saw nothing. He reached the end of the steep path and found himself looking out over the vast Peruvian forests, stretching all the way to the sea. Ganganez was not interested in the scenery, as awesome as it was. He was actually quite startled. The flattened-out peak was deserted, barren, empty. There was nothing up here except windswept rocks and a few patches of snow.

How could this be?

Had he been suckered in and led to the wrong mountain to begin with?

It seemed that way. But that was not the case. There
was
something up here. Ganganez thought he could hear it: engines, generators, radio static, humans moving about. He thought he could smell it. Fumes. Gas. Exhaust. Thick as the night.

No—there was a secret base up here all right.

He just couldn’t
see
it.

Ganganez let out a long, chilling scream. He’d gone insane for sure, his worst fear since childhood. The next thing he knew, there was blood running from his ears, and a sound like the ocean was pouring over his head. He looked down at his feet and felt a great trembling. It was not him; he was too frozen to move a muscle. It was the ground that was shaking beneath him. Everything got black. The sun was blotted out. He could no longer see his shadow.

That’s when he was able to turn and see the monstrous gunship coming right at him.

He wet his pants. He couldn’t even breathe. Yet somehow he realized he was not totally insane. Not yet anyway. Because at least he could see this thing. He could hear it. It was there. Bearing down on him like death itself.

But instead of tearing him to pieces with its multitude of guns, it went right over his head, all noise and fire and smoke—and then it disappeared.

Ganganez, near the edge of the cliff, considered just jumping off right then and there. At last, his insanity
had
gotten the best of him. Why not just complete the trip and get it over with?

Then came another huge roar. He looked up just in time to see another gigantic airplane roar over his head—and disappear. Then another. And another.

Ganganez sank to his knees and held his head and knew at last that yes, he was going, going, gone.

With the last of his strength he reached into his belt, came out with his pistol, cocked back the double hammers and pointed it at his head.

He began to squeeze the trigger … but then, he stopped….

He looked up. Another plane went over his head and disappeared seemingly into nothingness. But Ganganez had seen something. Another plane came in, and instead of watching it, he watched the rugged, barren terrain in front of it.

Sure enough, he saw something move.

It was like a rip in the fabric of reality, a slight appearance of a spark. Something was quickly drawn back only long enough for the airplane to go through, and then was instantly drawn closed again.

Ganganez slowly rose to his feet. Maybe he wasn’t insane after all.

Another plane came in—they were obviously bombers returning from a raid somewhere over Japanese-occupied South America. Ganganez saw something move again, this time much more distinctly. It was an enormous curtain! One that was so highly reflective, it was nearly a mirror. It was being opened and closed so quickly, it gave the appearance that the planes were disappearing into thin air.

In fact, they were flying into something.

Ganganez began scrambling over rock and bush, his knees scraping badly, his face tearing from the thorns. It was about 500 feet to this thing, but Ganganez made it quickly and soon he was able to see it up close, and when he did, he knew immediately what it was.

It was called an LSD—Light/Sound Deflection. It was an electrically charged curtain, a device that could block out light, radio waves, TV waves, even human voices and mechanical sounds from the inside, while allowing those inside to look out.

Ganganez had heard of these things. The
norteamericanos
had placed them up and down their shorelines during the last years of the war against Germany to alleviate the need to black out their major coastal cities. But until this moment Ganganez never realized just how effective the damn things were.

The barren topography helped the illusion. The LSD reflected light, like a huge, flexible mirror. Just like a magician’s box, if the mirror’s angle is just right, appears empty, when in actuality, one is simply staring at a mirror’s reflection of an empty space.

Ganganez found the strength somehow to get to his feet and walk over and actually touch the thing. He got a medium-sized jolt of electricity for his trouble, but still he was fascinated with it.

He heard another huge roar behind him and he turned around to see another gigantic airplane bearing down on him. It was so big and moving so fast, he didn’t have a chance to move. The flying monster went right over his head, no more than fifteen feet from the top of his singed hair and blew through the sudden opening in the LSD. The afterdraft was so powerful, and the screen opened and closed so quickly, the vacuum served to suck Ganganez right in with it.

It was like falling into a dream. On the outside, the mountain’s peak looked like it was part of the moon. Empty, cratered, craggy….

But inside the LSD, the brigade officer found himself in a whole new world.

There
was
an air base up here—buildings, runways, airplanes and all. Ganganez saw at least twenty bombers, lined up wing to wing. All of them were huge and frightening looking. There were dozens of smaller airplanes too.

But what was most astounding was the number of people on top of the mountain. Ganganez could see at least a couple of hundred people, walking around, going about the business of running airplanes off the mountain. It was just amazing!

Dazed as he was, Ganganez knew it was only a matter of time before someone spotted him. He tried to take a mental photo of this strange place. If he could somehow escape and return to New Lima with this piece of news, then maybe he could still prevent this mission from being a complete catastrophe.

In addition to the twenty bombers and the dozens of smaller aircraft, he saw two enormous, straight-ahead runways, plus a smaller, angled one. Four hangers, an administration building, a set of barracks, four watchtowers, a fuel dump, an ammo dump, a generator plant and a projection maintenance facility for the LSD.

The LSD itself was just about invisible. Looking out of it was like looking through a fine screen mesh. Several hundred feet above him, the screen was sagging a bit, almost like a circus tent. Now Ganganez knew how the Japanese recon airplanes had missed spotting the hidden base from the air. This place actually had a roof on it!

The LSD also served to seal in a lot of heat, he realized. It was hot in here—very hot.

That’s why it was so strange to feel something cold touch him on his neck. Cold steel. Like the barrel of a gun.

He turned around slowly and saw there were actually five of them. Double-barreled machine guns.

And they were all pointing at him.

Ten minutes later, Ganganez was sitting in a dark room located somewhere inside the base’s operations center.

His hands were not bound, he was not gagged or blindfolded. He had not been beaten or whipped or prodded by his captors. Indeed, it was almost as if they’d been expecting him to show up.

A woman and a man had come into the room first and like the insane fool he believed he was, Ganganez gave them a twenty-minute dissertation on all of the atrocities he’d committed in his career. Next, two other officers came in with a map and asked him to show them every Japanese Occupation base and weapons facility between here and New Lima. Again, Ganganez told them everything.

The third and last person to come in was a very strange-looking individual. He was a pilot, he was still in his flight uniform, all black with a black crash helmet adorned with yellow lightning bolts on its sides. The man was handsome, his hair long, his features distinctively hawklike.

But he looked so strange. Insane though he was, Ganganez knew this and stared at this man for a long time, trying but failing to determine exactly what was odd about him.

This man only had one question for him.

“Do you know who I am?” he had asked Ganganez.

Ganganez studied him. His face seemed familiar, but he just could not place him.

“No,” the Night Brigade commander finally replied. “I don’t.”

The man was obviously relieved. He finally said: “Good.”

Then he left.

The people who came to take Ganganez away were not soldiers protecting the base, but the grotesque natives who were still wearing the severed heads of his men around their necks.

The natives took him out of the LSD-shrouded base and back down the mountain. The long trip recounted the steps Ganganez had taken earlier that day. He saw the plain of Axaz, where most of his men had died. He saw the headless bodies of those men at the end of the column who’d been so cunningly attacked as the Brigade had climbed its last hill.