"Yes. they'll be the sunburned warriors," Erste added with an appropriately evil chuckle.
"And we will crush them!" the lowly communications officer shouted from behind them. He'd become totally caught up in the high-level discussion.
In an instant, three sets of high-official eyes were burning a hole right through him.
On cue, all three Reich Marshall's bellowed at the lowly CCU officer: "You are dismissed!"
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Chapter Thirty-seven
The name of the place was Grand Royal Island, but despite the moniker, it was little more than a dot of land practically lost in the middle of Lake Erie.
The highest point on the four-square mile, pine tree covered, crescent shaped island was a fifteen-hundred-foot hill which looked out onto a small settlement and an even tinier airfield. It was from this vantage point that Hunter and Roy From Troy studied the terrain below through NightScope glasses.
Even through the pre-dawn darkness, it was obvious that at one time the place had served as a vacation resort. But now it looked practically deserted. Of particular interest, however, were the dozens of grassy mounds which dominated the area: surrounding the small airfield. To the casual observer, these mounds would have appeared innocuous enough, especially from the air.
But Hunter knew better.
"How long have you known about this place?" he asked the airplane salesman, who was still pale and queasy from his first flight in a Harrier jet.
"Years," Roy burped back. "We used to stash planes up here during the New Order years, whenever things got real hot. I don't think anyone's ever bothered to figure out whether it's inside Free Canada or not. But it was close enough for us, especially back then, when no one knew what was what.
After the Circle Wars, and things eased up, we used it for awhile as a stopover point. But I'm surprised it's all still here. It's amazing no one has found it and plundered it."
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Hunter had to agree. "Not many places like this left anywhere," he said packing up the NightScope. "Too bad we've got to blow the lid off this one."
Captain Ryan St. Marie, a retired fifty-year veteran of the Canadian Armed Forces, was the tiny island's only resident. Basically a caretaker with little to do, he spent his time holed up inside the small building which had served as its police station many years before.
He was reading an ancient copy of Playboy when Hunter and Roy From Troy walked into his office.
St. Marie immediately reached for his handgun. He hadn't had a visitor in years. But no sooner had he found the handle to his pistol when he found himself staring down the barrel of Hunter's M-16.
"What is this? A hold-up?" he asked, stunned by the quickness of Hunter's rifle.
"No," Roy told him. "We are here to talk business."
"Business?" St. Marie asked incredulously. "No one's been here for business in years."
"Then we should get some real bargains," Hunter told him.
"Maybe," St. Marie admitted. "But what do you have as payment? We don't take silver, real or otherwise. Never did. And you wouldn't insult me by offering cash . . ."
Hunter and Roy heaved a heavy money chest up onto St. Marie's desk.
"Open it," Roy said.
St. Marie complied and found himself staring at about fifty heavy gold bars.
Roy took out one of the bars and tossed it to the old man. St. Marie studied it and then a wide smile spread across his craggy features.
"Well, gentlemen," he said. "I think we can do some business. . ."
Ten minutes later, Hunter, Roy and St. Marie were walking out to the fringe of the ah1 field.
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St. Marie was still glowing from the sight of the huge chest of gold bars. It was more money than he'd ever seen in one place in his life.
"We aim to please here, you understand." he told them over and over. "We don't have the customers we used to. You know, things are so much different since the mainland was overrun."
"To say the least," Hunter muttered.
He reached the first "grassy mound" and studied it for a moment. It was actually a large piece of camouflage netting with a multitude of fake plant stems weaned in. The netting had been in place for so long that real plants and trees had grown up and over it, adding immensely to its innocent appearance.
"Good 'rug' job," Hunter admitted. "Take nothing less than a high-power infrared scan to find them, and maybe even not then."
St. Marie was anxious to accept the compliment. "We try our best," he said, the wide grin never quite leaving his face.
Hunter poked the snout of his M-16 under the netting and gently lifted it, dislodging a number of the plants, both real and fake.
Underneath was a near antique CH-47 Chinook troop helicopter.
Roy From Troy nearly knocked Hunter aside in order to get a good look at the aircraft. His ingrained salesmanship was now kicking at full throttle.
"This one is cherry, Hawk," he told Hunter. "It's old, but look at the finish.
Not a pockmark anywhere."
Hunter knew Roy's enthusiasm was justified. He could even smell the fresh oil coming from the chopper's engine bay, a good indication that the Chinook had been well maintained during its long dormancy.
They inspected the chopper for five more minutes, but Hunter had been convinced from the start.
"I'm sold," he told Roy. "It's probably older than we are, but we won't find anything even close as good anywhere else."
St. Marie was positively bursting with happiness now. He would be due a nice ten percent commission for selling the helicopter, with the balance going to his boss in Brazil.
But the caretaker had a surprise coming.
Roy quickly counted out roughly fifty mounds. "Are they all like this?" he asked St. Marie.
"They are, my friend," the caretaker replied, his smile getting even broader.
"You were thinking of buying more than one, perhaps?"
"We want all of them," Hunter told him point-blank.
St. Marie almost swallowed his tongue.
"All of them?" he gasped. "Do you realize, kind sir, there are fifty-three in all?"
"You said they are all hi as good a shape as this one, correct?" Hunter asked.
"They are..."
"Well, then," Hunter said, "Let's talk price ..."
Fuhrerstadt, two hours later
The young communications officer studied the most recent communiqué even as it was being printed out by his laser-fax machine.
It had just flashed in from Brazil, sent by a paid informant who worked for that country's royal family.
The message read: "Unconfirmed but reliable report that two UA operatives have purchased fifty heavy-lift helicopters from unknown source. Delivery immediate. Paid in gold."
The CCU officer studied the message a second tune. He knew the trio of Reich Marshall's would be pleased. The chopper purchase fit squarely into the strategy that the Fourth Reich was expecting from the United Americans. That was, a seaborne landing somewhere on the upper east coast. Such an operation would be obviously enhanced by fifty heavy-lift helicopters, especially in getting crucial weapons and supplies on the beach in a hurry.
But the CCU officer knew better than to deliver this message to the troika of Marshall's himself. After his previous faux pas, 219
he was lucky he was still alive, never mind in uniform.
So he copied the communiqué twice, keeping a copy for his own files. Then he called in his assistant and ordered him to deliver it unopened to the three Marshall's immediately. Let them eat a mouse for a change.
Once outside the CCU, however, this young officer skillfully opened the sealed pouch to read the message. After doing so, he could barely contain himself.
He'd been working the CCU long enough to know that the news would please the Reich Marshall's to no end.
So with a spring in his step, he headed for the triangular office, convinced that good things frequently came to the man bearing good news.
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Chapter Thirty-eight
Near Old Johnstown, Free Territory of New York, three days later It was a calm, clear night above the rugged mountains of the central Adirondacks, the sky moonless and starfilled.
The peaceful setting was misleading. Hidden below, among the vast forests of these mountains, were bands of highwaymen, cutthroats and other assorted human vermin. Hideouts were everywhere. Here and there, evidence of temporary air pirate bases could be found, scorch marks on the miles of abandoned highways being the most obvious clue. There were even stories that these mountains had become haunted in the post-World War III era. Tales abounded of the spirits of risen Native Americans patrolling their old hunting grounds, trying to find final peace.
This area, once known as upstate New York, was unique in Second Axis America for one reason. After the Fourth Reich invaded America, it chose to leave this territory virtually unoccupied. Save for an occasional long-range ground patrol or irregular aerial recon missions, the Nazis had conceded the Adirondacks to the outlaws and the ghosts.
Falling somewhere in between those two definitions were the men who ran the small paramilitary facility known as Jack Base. And it was over this small, nondescript, heavily camouflaged air field that the clear mountain skies suddenly became very crowded.
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First there were six of them, flying without running lights, their enormous twin rotors carving up the still night air. Then came six more. Then six more.
Painted all black with no markings, some of the helicopters had guns protruding from various portholes, but the majority were virtually unarmed.
Once they arrived above the small air base, they would split up. Following landing lights no brighter than flashlights, each would set down to a quick landing. Seconds later it would be rolled into a revampment specially built under the thick canopy of trees. Once six were down and hidden, another half dozen would come in. Then another. And another.
In less than twenty minutes, all fifty-four Chinooks had been landed and concealed. Only then did the all black Harrier jump jet touch down.
"Coffee or whiskey. Hawk?"
"Both," Hunter replied. "And keep it coming."
He was sitting in an overstuffed chair in one corner of a room that was a cross between a military bunker and a particularly randy officers' club. This was the headquarters of Jack Base.
Sitting across the huge oak desk from him was the commander of the base, a former chief of police named Captain Jim Cook. He and Hunter had become friends years before when the small base served as a refueling station in the relatively brief postwar time when the American continent was both united and free.
Jack One had been virtually ignored when the Fourth Reich's invasion forces swept through. It was abandoned when they arrived; they searched it thoroughly, found nothing of value and* moved on. That the fascists had not chosen to destroy the base or at least post a small garrison there had been a big mistake because the place had been slowly and quietly coming back to life ever since.
The base itself was nondescript. It was little more than a two-222
mile strip of asphalt and a handful of small white hangars. The people who ran it were far from bland. They called themselves JAWs as short for "Jacks Are Wild." Their nucleus was made up of former members of Cook's police department which had protected the small nearby city of Johnstown back in more peaceful times.
As the world changed and became more violent, the twenty-man JAWs unit had evolved from a local police force into a crack commando outfit. Unlike other postwar militia units who tended to specialize in one thing (mountain fighting, urban warfare, coastal patrol) the men in JAWs became experts in many things.
So it was to Hunter's great benefit that he could call on them now.
Cook poured out two strong black coffees and then added a healthy splash of no-name bourbon to each.
"We're refueling all the birds right now," Cook said, passing the steaming mug of laced coffee over to Hunter. "We should be done installing all the little lightbulbs by midnight and ready to go by 0300."
Hunter took a long swig of the hot Java. "That's great," he said. "The sooner the better."
"Looks like you've got a hold of a good crop of pilots," Cook told him, consulting a photocopy of the chopper force's roster list.
"Every one of them is a Free Canadian," Hunter replied. "Every one of them a volunteer. Not one of them wanted a penny."
Cook took a sip of his own spiked coffee and then took a long, slow look at his friend.
"When was the last time you got some sleep?"
Hunter stared at the ceiling of the office and pretended to be contemplating the question.
"I don't know," he finally replied with a straight face. "I think it was back in grade school."
"Well, you look it," Cook told him.
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Hunter couldn't argue. He really couldn't remember the last time he'd caught some substantial winks. It wasn't that he wouldn't welcome a good night's slumber. The trouble was that whenever he found a few minutes to conk out, he couldn't. There was too much going through his mind. The plan. It had to be carried out in precise time and precise order. One little deviation and the whole ball game would be over.
And still, there was much to do.
"You didn't have to do everything yourself," Cook told him. "You know my guys could have taken those recon missions up around the Lakes off your hands."
Hunter could only offer a weary shrug. He knew Cook was right, but he also knew there was another deeper, more personal reason he'd undertaken the near crippling work load.
It was so he wouldn't have time to think. Think about those few precious months when he'd retired from active duty. Think about the farm he'd tilled over on Cape Cod, the place called Skyfire. Think about the days he'd spent living there with Dominique.
Those were the days of Heaven, he thought. Now these were the days of Hell.
"You and your guys will be in the thick of it soon enough," Hunter finally replied, swigging his coffee and bourbon and trying to deflect the heart of Cook's question. "And I hope each one of you knows you don't have to go just because I asked you."