War of the Sun (8 page)

But Hunter and the others weren’t too interested in labcoat theories at the moment. Instead, they were going by the old “bumblebee theory,” to wit: if one studied a bumblebee’s weight and aerodynamic shape, the conclusion would have to be that it is theoretically impossible for the bumblebee to fly. But it did—somehow.

And so would the TF Squadron.

It was Yaz who gave the final go-ahead. Ensconced on the bridge, practically ripping the sides of his captain’s chair with tension, he looked down at the flight deck officer’s raised hand and took a deep breath.

Then he spoke three words into his microphone, “Commence launching operations.”

Not a second later, Viggen One was rocketing down the flight deck, its wings literally sagging from its bomb weight. It reached the end of the ship in 1.2 seconds and was suddenly flung out into space. For one tense instant it just seemed to hang in the air, its full-blast engine fighting for altitude against the strong winds and the weight under its wings. Then, with a great burst of power, the fighter began to climb, slowly at first, then gradually picking up velocity and altitude. When it banked away and leveled off, everyone on board heaved a great sigh of relief.

The launch of Viggen Two was equally flawless. It joined its brother not ten seconds later, and the two planes went into a long orbit around the carrier.

The two Tornados went up next. With no less than eight Mk84 2,000-pound GP bombs locked under each plane, the British warplanes were lugging nearly half again as much as they would normally be called on to carry.

Behind the Tornados came a tired, old friend, the Douglas A-4 Skyhawk. A relic left over from the old
ZAP
days, it was still one hell of a tough airplane. Usually capable of handling 8,200 pounds of bombs, this Skyhawk was loaded with more than 12,000 pounds of heavy ordnance; this in addition to its pair of 20mm cannons. With its extra fuel tanks, the little plane was so overloaded, it looked like it could barely roll into position, never mind actually get off the deck.

But it catapulted successfully, making room for the two A-7 Strikefighters which launched next. Though these subsonic workhorses were capable of a top speed of less than 700 mph, their internal fuel capacity, coupled with two 300-gallon pylons on each wing, translated into a flying range of more than 1,500 miles. This meant that out of all the other strike craft, the Corsairs had the fuel to spare to engage in any dogfights that arose on the way in. Thus each was outfitted with two AIM-9 Sidewinders, and two AIM-120 Advanced medium-range missiles bolted under their wings.

Next to go were the two Alpha-1 Jets. Essentially an advance trainer/light attack plane and armed with only a single 30mm cannon, one of these Alphas was now carrying six bulging BLU-27 napalm bombs, the other six, cluster bombs. Of all the attacking airplanes, it was the Alphas whose targets had to be hit with the most precision and at exactly the right time. If not, then the entire American effort would quite literally go up in smoke.

Next to launch in quick succession were the three weak sisters: the IAR-93 Orao, now the “Yugo”; the Indian Air Force Marut, and the
Italiano
Fiat G.91. Just like their more sophisticated counterparts, these airplanes had been modified to carry an extra heavy load of bombs. But because of their relatively substandard construction, their modifications had taken longer and were far more Mickey Mouse than the other strike craft. (Indeed, some of the extra ordnance was hanging from nothing more than steel cord and duct tape.) It was for this reason that the air service crew was most concerned about the fate of the trio of somehow endearing aerial oddballs.

Hunter’s jumpjet was the last to go.

Unlike the other strike craft, the amount of ordnance assembled under the wings of the Harrier was not mind-boggling.

In fact, all he was lugging on the jumpjet was a 30mm cannon pod. Inside the cockpit, he was carrying his trusty M-16, plus a smaller pistol, which he considered the most important weapon of the mission.

There was no need to hook up the Harrier to the carrier’s catapult system; the jumpjet lifted off after a short roll down the
Fitz
’s flight deck, and after ascending to 4000 feet, it joined the rest of the circling TF Air Squadron.

Once the 13 airplanes formed up, they turned as one and headed west.

Yaz watched them quickly disappear over the ever-brightening horizon, and then told his communication officer to send a coded message to Jones back in Washington.

It read simply: “We’re in the air.”

Tokyo

D
EEP WITHIN HIS FLYING-SAUCER-SHAPED
castle, Hashi Pushi, the Supreme Warlord of the Asian Mercenary Cult, was crying.

It was now close to dawn. Usually at this time of day, the whim to indulge in yet another orgy would hit him. On these occasions, he would order a dozen or more “pleasure girls” from the Teishintai Corps. These were young women snatched from each village and hamlet that his ruthless troops continued to capture and occupy throughout the Asian hemisphere. The most beautiful and desirous ones were, of course, immediately transported to his headquarters, where he would use them for his sole enjoyment. The castoffs were left for his top commanders to do with as they pleased. It was perhaps the most well-organized sex slavery operation that had ever existed, and neither he nor his bloodthirsty troops ever wanted for any kind of carnal pleasure.

It also did wonders for morale.

But there would be no orgy this early morning. Indeed, Hashi Pushi was convinced that there would be no more orgies at all. At least, not the kind he was used to.

So instead of ordering his adjutant officer to choose an assortment of young girls for his master, Hashi Pushi told the man to summon what was known as the Hi-Si String Orchestra. Famous throughout Asia as the most talented collection of Asian classical musicians ever assembled, they and their families were captured when the Cult overran the main island of Nippon. Hashi Pushi had them imprisoned in his palace, and whenever he felt the desire for music, they were brought before him to play.

Not a minute after Hashi Pushi had so commanded, the twenty-four men and women members of the Hi-Si were led into his combination ballroom/ bedroom under the watchful eyes of a dozen armed guards. They quickly began to set up, ready as always to play the Warlord’s requests, though it was obvious that the supreme leader was suffering much emotional discomfort.

But instead of requesting the usual show tune or score from some obscure
kabuki
play, Hashi Pushi had a different kind of song in mind this day.

“When one achieves the status of power and respect that great ones have achieved, as I have,” he began, his voice fighting back the tears, “there are those that wish him dead. They do this for only selfish reasons, usually so that they themselves can step onto the pedestal of absolute power.”

Hashi Pushi paused, wiped the tears from his eyes with his greasy hands, and then continued, “I have recently ordered every one of your family members arrested. They are now all in chains, right here in the palace.”

The members of the orchestra began to stir uneasily.

“They will all be butchered,” Hashi Pushi told them, his voice still quivering, yet unnervingly calm, “unless you fulfill the order that I am about to give you.”

Hashi Pushi then carefully looked each of the musicians directly in the eye.

“When I command you to begin to play, you will stop only when I say so,” he went on, his voice now rising, going shrill with madness. “And though you may one day be told that my mortal being has been destroyed, that will not be enough for you to stop. You will play forever, just as my soul shall live forever. If you cease to play, your families will cease to exist, as will their families, and their families after that.”

It was deadly quiet in the room now. The musicians were absolutely terrified.

Hashi Pushi was literally clawing his face now, as if scratching his dirty skin alone would stop the seemingly endless flow of tears.

“Now!”
he suddenly bellowed. “Now,
begin to play!”

The musicians paused and looked to each other, confused over what they had been ordered to do.

“But, Master,” the orchestra leader dared to ask. “What song shall we play?”

Hashi Pushi stared at the man for a moment. Even through his bloodshot eyes, his murderous glare was apparent. But then, strangely, a slight, benign smile washed across his bloated face.

“Play my favorite,” he said, his voice seeming to climb an octave or two. “You know the one …”

Some of the Hi-Si giggled nervously; others fought back their own tears. Within a minute, they had tuned up and had launched into the opening strains of a shaky version of “The Firebird Suite.”

S
EVENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD SUKISAN KROTCHOKI WAS
hauling in the first catch of the early morning.

He was trawling about thirty-five miles east of Tokyo Harbor. The tide was beginning to run out, and the fish were going with it. So it was time to head back into port, dump the load, and then go out again.

It had already been a good day. The hold below was two-thirds full of tuna and dolphin, just the kind of catch that would bring top payment for Krotchoki and his grandson, who helped him crew the boat. But it was not the three dozen or so fish in the hold which had Krotchoki in such good spirits this early morning. Rather it was the small crab that had got snagged in their net during the last haul.

It was called a warrior crab. The name was eerily apt, for the crab’s shell was formed unmistakably in the face of a fierce
samurai
warrior. It was said that the crabs were actually the reincarnated souls of soldiers who had defended the Homeland centuries before, and it was the custom for anyone finding such a crab to throw it back, thereby preserving the hero’s soul.

But such creatures were also very valuable to anyone who risked breaking the tradition. Krotchoki knew a certain Cult general who would pay him handsomely for the warrior crab. He would therefore risk the curse of bad luck which supposedly fell upon the family of anyone using the crab for personal gain. After seventy-two years, Krotchoki felt he was a little too old to believe in such superstitions.

The money he would receive from selling the rare creature was more important.

It was Krotchoki’s grandson who spotted the three jets.

They were way off in the distance, hugging the waves, probably fifteen miles off their bow to the east.

He called out excitedly to his grandfather, who saw them at once. He knew the airplanes did not belong to the Cult air force—they were missing the distinctive three-red-balls emblem worn by all Cult aircraft. These strange airplanes carried no markings on their wings or fuselage. Plus, it appeared that they were three different types of airplanes, and not the standard sweptback jets flown by the Cult Defense air forces.

They watched as the three jets roared past them, not more than a mile and a half off their starboard side. No sooner had they disappeared over the western horizon than Krotchoki spotted three more mystery planes rocketing in from the same direction.

“It is an attack!” the old man cried.
“We must get word to the military…”

Krotchoki’s grandson had already climbed up the mast and attached the long-range UHF antenna—it was important that they radio back to the Cult coastal patrol station that unidentified airplanes had been spotted. Krotchoki’s shaking hands worked the radio dials, trying to raise the Cult naval base while at the same time keeping an eye on the second trio of airplanes as they flashed by. If this was in fact an enemy attack, he would be rewarded heavily for spotting the airplanes.

“More!” his grandson was screaming from the mast. “Three more! And three more!”

Krotchoki’s fingers could barely turn the radio’s tuner now. It usually took a minute or so to raise the naval base; he prayed that someone would answer sooner this time.

“Grandfather!
Quick!”

Krotchoki looked up from the radio to see an expression of absolute horror spread across his grandson’s face. He was pointing right off their bow. Three more of the strange airplanes were no more than a mile away, not twenty feet off the surface of the water—and heading right for them.

It was at that instant that Krotchoki finally got a reply from the nearest Cult naval base. But it was too late now. The jets were suddenly right on them.

The first one went directly overhead, the roar from its engine bursting his grandson’s left eardrum. The second one was right on its tail. Krotchoki felt the skin on his face almost melt as this plane’s jet exhaust bathed the fishing boat with searing hot smoke.

But it was the third airplane which struck the most fear into Krotchoki’s suddenly feeble heart. This strange airplane actually seemed to slow down as it approached their boat. How could that be? he wondered, even as his grandson lay on the deck, his ear bleeding profusely, screams of pain coming from his dried, burned lips.

Just as the third airplane seemed to come to a complete halt, it started up again, and was now bearing down on the small fishing boat at an extremely high speed. Krotchoki could no longer hear his grandson’s screams, his ears were filled with the roar of pure mechanical horror. He was certain the airplane was going to crash right into the boat. He immediately dived for the cover of a nearby net spool.

Then, just like that, the strange airplane streaked overhead, neatly clipping the top of the boat’s mast and destroying the UHF antenna.

Then it was gone.

Krotchoki looked up and found the sky empty. His grandson was an arm’s length away, still screaming from the pain in his ear. This was the only sound Krotchoki could hear—that, and the gentle lapping of water against the sides of the boat.

Krotchoki crawled along the deck on his hands and knees, his head shaking involuntarily. Reaching into a chum bucket near the hold lock, he took out the warrior crab and with all his strength threw it overboard.

His grandson stopped screaming soon afterward.