War of the Sun (6 page)

That’s when Hashi Pushi’s ultimate wet dream turned into a nightmare.

Suddenly, he was in the dream itself, trying to run but finding his enormous bulk was making it impossible. Several of the maidens grabbed him, dug their fingernails deep into his flesh, and suddenly pinned his arms down. The rest of the maidens each drew heavy daggers from sheaths buried in the moist folds of their gowns. The knives were razor-sharp and gleamed in the rays of the early morning sun.

Hashi Pushi opened his mouth and tried to scream, but nothing came out. The maidens began to laugh at his helplessness. Their laughter then turned into deep-throated roars. Their beautiful faces transformed into hideous demon faces that oozed a bloody slime and smelled of rotting flesh.

Then Hashi Pushi saw them raise their daggers high above their heads. He tried to squirm free, but he was helpless. They brought the daggers down with all their might, and Hashi Pushi felt his chest cave in from the force and the chill of their cold steel blades as they penetrated his heart.

The bloodcurdling sound of Hashi Pushi’s scream echoed throughout the cavernous dungeon and brought a squad of his Imperial Guards running toward the grotto. Smashing through the locked oaken door, three of his most loyal bodyguards threw themselves into the room, their AK47s at the ready, looking for a target.

All they found was their leader, bathed in sweat and gasping for breath.

Hashi Pushi could barely manage an angry croak. “Get out,” he gasped, “or I’ll have you gutted.”

The men quickly left, confused at what they saw, but obedient to the words of their supreme master.

Alone again, Hashi Pushi rose and stumbled over to a full-length mirror. In the reflection, he saw thirteen huge black and blue bruises beginning to form on his chest, directly over his heart.

He nearly collapsed—this vision had been worse than the previous one. And unlike that nightmare, the meaning behind this vision was perfectly clear: he had just foreseen his own death.

How could this happen? he wondered, his ample body soaked through now with equal parts of reeking sweat and cold dread. After all, he
was
Hashi Pushi, Supreme Warlord of the Asian Mercenary Cult, a being more powerful than all the gods in the heavens combined.

Or was he?

He stared into the mirror again and was shocked to see not his own reflection, but that of a young girl with red hair, looking back at him.

He closed his eyes quickly and began crying again.

That’s when a disembodied voice whispered in his ear,
“It is time to find a new soul…”

Several hours later

Hunter looked out from the bridge of the
Enterprise
at the silhouette of the massive battleship just three hundred yards away.

Even in the dimming moonlight, the
New Jersey
struck an ominous profile. Bristling with guns, the ship was a floating weapons platform capable of delivering an almost unimaginable rain of high-explosive destruction on anything that came within miles of it.

Launched in 1942, the
New Jersey
had seen action all over the globe for decades. It had been refitted on several occasions with the most advanced weaponry available. In addition to its nine massive 16-inch guns and its array of smaller 5-inch guns, it also boasted the Tomahawk cruise missile, a weapon capable of hitting land targets 700 miles away. The battleship currently had two such missiles on hand. The vessel was also outfitted with the Harpoon antiship system, which could blast a ship out of the water at a distance of 60 nautical miles. It had three Harpoons on board. In the command of a capable captain such as Wolf, the battleship was a formidable weapon indeed. Hunter was glad it would be making the voyage with them.

As he studied the ship, a small motor launch appeared on its side and was slowly lowered into the water.

Aboard, Hunter knew, were Wolf and a party of his staff officers, ferrying over to the
Enterprise.
It would be the first face-to-face meeting since Hunter and Wolf had communicated over the Nav-Star satellite link.

It was a meeting Hunter had been anticipating for days.

Fifteen minutes later, the Wingman was shaking hands with Wolf.

“It is good to see you, my friend,” the mysterious costumed figure told him. “Though it is always in times of crisis that we seem to meet.”

“It might not always be that way,” Hunter replied.

Wolf reintroduced his senior men, all of whom Hunter had met back when he’d first met the Norse captain. Then Hunter escorted the party up to the meeting room off the CIC, where Yaz, Ben, JT, and the captains of the
Tennyson
and the
Cohen
were waiting.

After the introductions, Yaz quickly outlined the specifics of “Operation Long Bomb” for the Norsemen. Then Ben and Toomey briefed the visitors on the carrier’s odd collection of strike aircraft.

Using recon photos supplied to him by General Jones, Hunter pinpointed the targets the airplanes would hit. The pictures clearly showed that the proposed targets were well defended.

When the Wingman finished, Wolf was silent for a moment. His hand slowly fingering his Zorro-like mask, he seemed to be processing all the information, just as a computer might.

“This is indeed a very bold plan,” he said finally. “But boldness is what we have come to expect from you. All of us here have been fighting for a long time, longer than any of us care to, I am sure. We have seen our friends, our family, our countrymen fall. If by this bold plan we can prevent others from having to fight, if we can ensure the safety of those whom we love and have left at home, then I say this is a good plan. You can count on my men and my ship.”

Wolf’s speech evoked a spontaneous round of applause. The Task Force was now complete. The men shook hands all around. A bottle of Scotch appeared, and a toast was proposed to the mission’s success. There was a moment of silence as the men drank. Then Wolf proposed another.

“To absent friends,” he said.

The men drank again, this time a little more somberly.

Once again the glasses were filled.

“To fallen comrades,” Ben said.

At that point, Hunter produced a sealed envelope from his shirt pocket.

“Before the general left, he asked that we open this when the Task Force was finally assembled,” he explained, handing the envelope to Yaz. “I guess this is as good a time as any.”

The slight but rugged captain ripped open the seal and read the brief message inside. A wide smile spread across his usually concerned facial features.

“It’s an official ‘request’ from Jones,” he said. “He asks if there are any objections to renaming the carrier.”

“To what?” JT asked.

Yaz passed him the letter, which he read. It caused him to grin, too. He then passed the note on to Ben.

“An aircraft carrier named after an Air Force guy?” he exclaimed. “I like it.”

Hunter finally got to read the message, and he, too, had to smile for a second.

“I don’t think anyone has any objections,” he said.

From that moment on, the aircraft carrier was known as the USS
Mike Fitzgerald.

The toasting and discussion continued for another hour. But Hunter wasn’t there. He’d slipped out of the conference room practically unnoticed and was now sitting out on the deserted bow of the carrier.

He was looking out over the ocean. As always, the questions had been flooding in. How much longer would he have to fight? Would he ever have the chance to enjoy the things he was fighting for? It was ironic, he thought, that all this time he was fighting for freedom, yet he didn’t feel free at all. He felt imprisoned instead, chained to the responsibilities he had taken upon himself.

What the hell kind of life was that?

But the problems ran even deeper than that. Because with this mission, and his “special” part in it, he wondered for the first time whether he could continue as a soldier.

Just then he heard footsteps behind him. Hunter turned and saw Wolf approaching through the darkness, his cape snapping in the wind.

“The famous Wingman, all alone?” the Norse captain asked.

“Need time to think,” Hunter replied.

“You think too much, my friend.” Wolf said, sitting down next to him. “You would have made a good Dane.”

“You’re the first to accuse me of that,” he replied.

“Perhaps not everyone understands the way I do,” Wolf said. He gestured toward the carrier’s island. “The men up there—good men, and brave warriors. But it is different for them. They do their duty. They go into battle, yes, and they fight valiantly, willing even to die for what they believe in. But rarely do they have to make the decisions that we have to. They do not know—nor can they know—the weight we carry on our shoulders.

“So why is it that we have to do these things? Why is this
our
special fate?”

Hunter remained silent. It was a question he’d been asking himself for years.

They sat there not speaking for a few minutes. Yet perhaps unintentionally, Wolf’s words had touched at what was really bothering Hunter: the center of the plan—his special targeting mission.

“I know of this special mission,” the Norse captain told him thoughtfully. “And I know how it troubles you. I also know that there is no choice in the matter. You could no more walk away from the things you feel you must do than I could. And, my friend, what you are about to do
is
the right thing—in the end. Of that I am very sure.”

With that, the mysterious figure rose and walked away, leaving Hunter alone on the bow of the deck.

The newly-named USS
Fitzgerald,
the
New Jersey,
and the two supply ships set sail early the next morning.

Zobi, Japan

T
HE BRIGHT ORANGE GLOW
of the rising sun flooded the small fishing village, bathing its tiny, neatly-kept shacks in the new morning warmth.

The day had dawned bright and cloudless, perfect weather for putting to sea and harvesting fish, seaweed, and pearls. Already the men of the village were heading down to the docks, their lunchpails and tins of tea clanging as they walked. Some of them were even singing to celebrate the occasion of the beautiful dawn.

Just waking up in her small home on the edge of this idyllic setting was a young girl of seventeen named Mizumi.

Mizumi was the most beautiful creature in the village of Zobi. Even as a child her delicate features and alabaster skin had made her enchanting. As she grew older, her body developed curves and her features matured, too. In the past year, she had turned into a gorgeous young woman.

But Mizumi’s beauty was most unusual, too. For of the several hundred people in the village, only she had red hair.

Like everyone else in Zobi, her family made their living from the sea. Their boat was one of the largest of the small fleet and readily identifiable by its yellow gunwales and its orange mast. And though she did not go out on the brightly-painted boat like her father and her two older brothers, she worked with her mother on other essential tasks on shore.

Her favorite job was the mending of the fishing nets. Not only was it less messy than cleaning fish, it also provided her with a social life of sorts. On certain days she and her mother would take the nets to a beach near the town’s docks. The other village women would bring their mending there, too, and gossip as they worked. Mizumi would listen to the other women’s talk, and do her work conscientiously.

It was not an easy life, yet she’d been content there simply because she loved her family and her neighbors and the sea itself. She couldn’t imagine wanting to live anywhere that didn’t border the vast expanse of water.

She had awakened this morning happy and excited because it was net-mending day. Little did she know that this was the day her idyllic life in the village would end.

By full dawn she had seen her father and brothers off to their boat, knowing if the fishing was good, they might not return for two days or more. She was helping her mother gather the nets that needed mending when her father suddenly burst back into the house.

He was out of breath, his features pale with alarm. There was a ghastly look of terror on his face.

Wild-eyed, he looked at Mizumi a moment, then ran to his wife’s side.

“Soldiers are here!” he had told the mother in an anxious whisper. “They are looking for a girl to … to serve …”

“Serve
Hashi Pushi?”
her mother had answered, saying the words her father could not.

“They’ll take Mizumi,” her father had cried, no longer trying to mask his words in whispers.
“We must hide her!”

From her room, Mizumi had heard everything—yet she was not even sure what her father was talking about. She had heard of this Hashi Pushi, but she had never thought of him as a real person. His name was spoken only in solemn murmurs, if at all, and more as a mythical character than anyone real. She had always imagined him to be a mighty godlike warlord, someone who lived in the clouds far away, his only connection to Earth the tribute the village paid on a monthly basis.

“We’ll send her running up to the mountains,” her mother said, fighting back panic. “My grandmother’s sister-in-law’s niece has relations there.” As she spoke she was already hastily gathering items to pack into a rucksack.

But at that moment three soldiers burst into the house. They were dressed in identical orange uniforms with garish black helmets. All three had their guns raised. Their eyes were full of desperation.

Mizumi’s father bravely confronted them, but was immediately struck down with the butt of a rifle.

“We are on an errand for our lord, old man,” one spat, leering down at the bloody face of her father, who now lay prone and dazed on the floor. “You were very foolish to interfere.”

This soldier seemed to be the leader of the trio. With cold eyes, he shifted his attention from the father to the trembling mother and finally toward Mizumi. He studied her for a moment, taking in the classically beautiful face, her evolving figure. Then he saw her red hair.