It would be just like the old days, he thought.
But he always caught himself laughing at this last notion.
The old days. They seemed like a million years ago.
As a ghost, he'd been many other things over the past few months besides a Death Skull. It was easy for a spirit to step into many disguises. He'd posed as a slave, working in a granite quarry in old Indiana, carving out huge pieces of stone. He'd walked the dusty roads of the American Midwest hi the rags of a sputnik, working for food and spreading rumors of his own death.
He'd donned the garb of a lowly NS sub-private and had driven a garbage truck back and forth through dozens of cities and towns located on both banks of 183
the southern Mississippi. He'd constructed a raft of driftwood and had sailed up and down the Big Muddy.
He had done all this for one reason: To spy.
And what had he found?
That in many ways the Fourth Reich was no ordinary enemy. That they were not the usual gang of criminals and thieves elevated to a higher status simply by possession of military equipment and control over thousands of soldiers who would use it.
No, the Fourth Reich was more than that. It was in fact a movement. A state of mind. Not some Johnny-Come-Lately post-World War III crackpot brigade. The beliefs espoused by the Fourth Reich had been ingrained in world history for decades. It was an unholy religion, one that preached that a single race of people was somehow superior to another, not simply because of skin color or ethnic origins, but because of their beliefs. This was the worst kind of arrogance, and it produced the worst kind of enemy, one that apparently could not die. World War II had been fought to put an end to it. But despite the sacrifices, it did not kill it completely. Many battles big and small had been fought since, yet it was still here. How would it be possible to kill it now in a wildly anarchic world, when five years of war and one hundred million dead back in the Forties couldn't do it?
It was a problem for the ages.
Yet in years past, Hunter would have attacked this menace head-on. Full steam ahead. All-out. No questions asked. This was because he'd believed back then that he had one key advantage over his enemy. He believed that he was in the right. That he was fighting for Truth, for Freedom, for the universal Good.
The right side of people, of nature, of the Universe.
But, yes, he'd changed.
The sometimes barely visible, yet seemingly inextinguishable, flame of optimism which had burned in his heart for all his life was now out cold. It was dead. Snuffed by his realization that, in the end, there was no even struggle between Good and Evil as he had always believed. It was never a fair fight. Evil was always prevalent. Sure, the forces of Good could deflect it every once and a while, and give the appearance of triumph. But it was simply an illusion of victory. Evil always returned. Why? He didn't know. But he had come to the conclusion that the Universe had been set up this way.
So why fight this time? Why become a ghost? What was the point? What was the sense in battling time and time again when the enemy always reappeared? He and his comrades in arms had fought hard to reunite America again and won more than a handful of times. But still nothing had changed. America was still not free. The people were still enslaved. Why? Again, the only possible explanation to his mind was that it was meant to be that way.
So it was all these gloomy thoughts that had brought him to this place, to look out over the grand landscape, to dream about what it looked like before the world flipped upside down.
The place afforded such a view that he imagined it to be an ideal location for a vision.
Sometimes he became filled with rage. Sometimes he would shake his fist at the sun and wish that a bolt from Heaven would hit him. Damn! He needed a big bright fucking bolt of lightning to hit him on the head and reveal something-anything-to him.
But always, in almost the same moment, he felt foolish for thinking the thought. Miracles, like Truth and Love, could not be manufactured.
Or could they?
He ran his hands over his tired face and then back through his long hair.
He'd lost so much over the years. Friends, now dead or missing. His country, divided up between those who in the end were simply jealous of it all.
The one true comfort of his life; his friend, his lover, his soul mate, Dominique. Probably gone . . .
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But he knew he had to fight. He'd know it for months. But what he didn't know was why. Until just lately. What motivation could he summon up this time?
There was really only one left and it was not the most admirable of human traits.
But it would have to do. It was appropriate in its way.
So this time, he would not make war for Truth, or for Freedom, on for the preservation of America's heritage.
No, this time he would do it for the most base of reasons.
This time, he'd do it purely for revenge.
His plan was actually a plan within a plan.
It was based on several indisputable facts that he'd discovered during his time as a ghost. One was, when confronted with a threat, the Fourth Reich always reacted the same way: with something he could only label as "aggressive caution."
They unwittingly proved it time and time again. Despite their overwhelming strength in men and armor, they weren't really military men. They didn't have the slightest idea as to the difference between strategy and tactics. When posed with a threat, they rarely counterattacked. Instead they simply bolstered their defenses and hoped whatever happened wouldn't occur again.
A prime example was the so-called "Noninterference Decree." He'd learned of the unusual semi-secret Fourth Reich field order while ransacking a small NS
outpost in Louisiana. Simply put, the Noninterference Decree forbade Fourth Reich officers from ordering their troops to fire on Free Canadian cargo aircraft, even though they might encounter them in Fourth Reich airspace. The reason behind the order was to prevent an incident-mistakenly shooting down an off-course FC airplane filled with nonmilitary goods, for instance-which might provoke a war with the large democratic neighbor to the north.
On closer examination, the rule was pure insanity on a military level. It allowed Free Canadian cargo planes to routinely 186
violate Fourth Reich skies on intelligence gathering missions,"1 guerrilla supply drops and so on. From a military commander's point of view, this should be an intolerable situation. But the Fourth Reich was not made up of military commanders. They were not warriors. They were occupiers. And when they became afraid to provoke an action they could not handle, they'd simply legislate the problem away.
But on the other hand, they were so arrogant that they believed anything positive that happened to them was simply the result of destiny. They believed good fortune was their fate, and any evidence presented to them under this wrapping they took as gospel, no matter how foolish or unlikely it seemed.
Just like a follower of the zodiac who cannot believe the stars could be wrong becomes a slave to their alignments, so too the Fourth Reich found their paths laid hi superstitions and rituals. Their never ending stage managing of
"official state ceremonies" was a good example of their misguided self-fulfilling prophesies. In stirring up all the pomp and circumstance, they hoped to find some end result. More knowledgeable conquerors of the past knew that just the opposite was true.
It was with these typical Fourth Reich blunders and many more that Hunter had so carefully constructed his plan within a plan.
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The trio of technicians inside Argentinean Imperial Air Corps Radar Post Number 6 didn't notice the blip on their radar screens at first because all three were fast asleep.
Their dereliction of duty was partially understandable. It was two in the morning, and their fourteen-hour shift was drawing to a close. Few airplanes flew at night anymore. And if they did, it was only under escorting and with permission from whatever governments were in power along their air route. Not to do so might result in either a confrontation with jet interceptors or a nasty meeting with a barrage of surface-to-air missiles.
So the Argentinean Imperial Air Corps technicians had no reason to expect to see anything on their radar scopes, never mind an airplane as large as a Hercules C-130. But when the warning buzzers suddenly came alive and the rows of trip wire red light indicators began flashing, the cacophony of noise was enough to instantly knock all three techs out of their insubordinate slumbers.
A rush of sleepy button pushing and triangulation ensued, and gradually the three men determined that a big Here had wandered into their airspace.
But there was more: by calculating its gradually sloping flight path, the techs realized that the airplane had not only violated Imperial Argentina's airspace, but that it was in serious trouble.
Calls went out to the local interceptor base as well as the 188
nearest pair of SAM sites. But it was already too late. The C-130-its unmistakable radar profile well known to the Argie radar men-was losing altitude very quickly. They watched with a mixture of astonishment and horror as the blip fell off their radar screens less than a minute after it had lit up the fort.
By another round of quick calculations, they determined the airplane had crashed about a mile offshore from the small fishing village of Tia Tipuncio into a coastal area called Mar del Plata. It was an area pockmarked with hazardous reefs and jetties.
They passed this information on to the local militia commander and continued to monitor the situation by radio for the next half hour. But gradually it became apparent that their role in the unfolding drama was over. The plane was down and that was it.
Less than a hour later, all three were back asleep again.
It was dawn before the 25-man Imperial Argentinean militia unit reached the wreckage of the HC-130.
The commander of the unit had secured five fishing boats from Tia Tipuncio, but with the tides running in, his men found it tough going just to travel the mile and a quarter out to the wrecked and burning airplane.
They finally made landfall on a small jetty close to where the plane had come to its end. From here they could see up close how the big cargo craft's wings were practically twisted off and that its fuselage was almost neatly severed in two. Several small fires were still raging toward the rear of the airplane and the stink of aviation fuel filled the early morning sea air.
Leaving five men to stay with the boats, the militia commander set out over the eighth of a mile of seaweed covered rocks with nineteen men, intent on inspecting the wreck and determining the fate of its crew.
The airplane was painted all black and had no insignia, but this was not unusual. Few airplanes flying the wild, pirate filled South American skies these days wore their colors proudly. Still fewer went about unarmed. Yet this airplane was definitely not
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a gunship. It appeared to carry no weapons, offensive or defensive. Instead, its ripped wings and cracked fuselage bore the evidence of many extra fuel tanks having been carried in lieu of armament. From this, the militia commander could only draw one supposition. The Hercules had been on a very long flight, perhaps one that originated from North America.
After much slipping and sliding, the militiamen finally reached the wreck. The airplane's nose was facedown on the jetty and torrents of seawater were rushing through the cracked cockpit windows. It was apparent immediately that any crew members stationed on the flight deck-either alive or dead-had been swept away by the raging sea long ago.
Instructing his men to be wary of the same fate, they carefully inspected what was left of the airplane, inside and out. But there was little to be found at first. There were no bodies and the commander's initial suspicion proved correct. The airplane was carrying little else but fuel. Several large inflatable rubber bladders had been stuffed inside the cargo compartment, two of which still contained full loads of fuel.
With the threat of an explosion imminent, the commander ordered his men back to a safe distance. But then he crawled up as far as he could get to the shattered, deluged cockpit, just on the outside chance that the airplane was carrying money or gold. He did find a small safe that had been broken open, presumably by the crash, but there was no money or gold inside. Instead, it contained a packet of documents loosely wrapped in black cloth. Grabbing the papers, he beat a hasty retreat as the big plane began shifting again, slave now to the raging waves and fast flowing incoming tides.
Once back to safer ground, the commander did a quick check of the documents, and was at once astounded. Even though his grasp of English was rudimentary at best, he still could read enough to know that the documents were the equivalent of a ticking time bomb.
First off, they told him that this plane had originated up in the northern hemisphere, specifically from an island in the Caribbean and that the only two people aboard-a pilot named Jones and his navigator Frost-were North Americans.
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Secondly, it was apparent by the flight plan that the airplane was on its way to East Falkland Island, where a small outpost of British military entrepreneurs ran a quasi-secret air base. The militia commander knew there was only one reason why an American airplane would make such a long-range treacherous flight. As unlikely as it seemed, East Falkland Island, with its natural isolation, had become a go-between point for many secret yet major arms deals in the post-World War III world. Obviously the two Americans had been making the journey to buy weapons.
But the real bombshell was yet to come. Opening up a separate black folder sealed hi Jones's name, the militia commander discovered documents that he knew would make him rich or famous or both.
What he found inside the folder was a blueprint for a secret United Americans'
counterstrike against the Fourth Reich.