Skyfire (16 page)

Yet, their leader, a man who had only one arm and one ear, instantly recognized that Dominique was much too beautiful to be ravaged then and there.

Instead, she was gently bound and gagged and then thrown over the shoulder of the raiding party's strongest member. Yaz, on the other hand, was trussed up with long strands of twine and forced to tramp along like a dog on a leash.

140

They had descended Nauset Cliff down to the beach and were picked up by a small motorboat that had been commandeered by other raiders. Meanwhile, they could hear the battle back in the village going full blast. In fact, Yaz had not only heard the tremendous explosion on the side of the sand dune, he had felt the shock wave of it as well, even though he had been a good two miles away at the time.

From the motorboat they were transferred to a kind of transparent rubber raft, one that for all the world looked invisible when riding atop the water at night. In a second, Yaz knew that the see-through raft was the reason the raiders had been able to give the illusion that they could materialize right out of the surf.

But the biggest surprise was to come.

When Yaz first saw the submarine he thought he was going to faint. Being a former U.S. Navy submariner himself, he was very familiar with submersibles.

But never in his dreams did he think he would ever see a sub as gigantic as the one the raiders brought them to.

His astonishment didn't last long, however. As soon as they were brought down into the sub's control room, Yaz was struck by its total lack of sophistication. Judging from the absence of even the most rudimentary safety and backup systems, he was beginning to wonder how the boat could stay afloat, never mind travel under the water.

At that point, the man who appeared to be in charge of the sub gave Dominique the onceover. Then, with a jerk of his thumb, he ordered his men to take her away, which they did with as much poise as they could muster.

Yaz, in turn, was thrown into a cramped and clammy compartment that held about fifty terrified civilians, all of them women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-six, and many of them from the village of

141

auset.

The way things were going, he began to believe that he would be kept inside this crowded room forever. Yet his stay there was surprisingly brief. After only two hours-during which he had traded stories with the women-two guards came for him. He was brought to a man who apparently served as the boat's doctor (though he was as crude and scarred as his comrades), was given a mug of liquid and told to drink. The barrel of the physician's machine gun convinced Yaz that he was indeed thirsty, and drink he did.

He was unconscious ten Seconds later.

He reckoned by the growth of his beard that he'd been out for more than two days. Now, with his headache receding, his nose adjusting to the stench, and his stomach starting to grumble, the piece of stale bread was beginning to look pretty good.

He was about to reach for it-just to determine how inedible it really was-when the door of the cabin suddenly flew open and six armed men barged in.

Without a word they dragged him from the bed and marched him through a series of passageways that eventually led to the sub's control room.

Along the route, Yaz couldn't help but notice that the lightbulbs illuminating the corridors were getting dimmer by the moment. He was also vaguely aware that the sub was listing to one side. And while the sound of the vessel's power plant operation was roaring unimpeded in the background, the sub itself was moving very, very slowly.

They reached the crowded control room to find that the place was in state of pandemonium. Everyone was jabbering at everyone else and speaking so fast in their indecipherable language that all Yaz could make out 142

was an occasional ya! and na! here and here.

The man he assumed was the captain of the ship was at the center of the confusion. One moment he appeared as if he were in deep discussion with one or two others; the next he was slapping some underling across the face. All the while he was eating a leg of lamb and washing down the huge greasy bites with some kind of sticky red fluid from a tarnished chalicelike cup.

Yaz's guards shoved several of the control-room men out of the way, and with a burst of chatter, made Yaz's presence known to the captain. The man turned and looked Yaz right in the eyes. Yaz simply stared back. The only thing he could say for the man was that his face was less broken, less scarred, and less weathered than the others. His hair was also somewhat shorter, and his beard was fairly combed and trimmed. He also spoke some English. "I hear you know submarines," he said to Yaz in a deep, thick accent. "Who says?" Yaz replied.

"Your woman tells us this," the man stated matter-of-factly. "She says you are a genius in this regard."

Yaz shook his head. There was a slight chance that this man did not smell as bad as the others.

"She is not 'my woman,' " he said, wanting to get the record straight right away. "But she is a very close friend to a very good friend of mine. If any harm comes to her, I will kill the man responsible."

Yaz had unconsciously tensed his shoulders as he said all this, part of him suspecting that he was about to be dispatched by a battleaxe from behind at any second.

But the captain simply waved away his threat. "If she is not your woman, then you shouldn't be so concerned about her," he said, rather nonchalantly. Yaz was stumped for a counterreply. It was obvious

143

the captain had other things on his mind.

"Now I ask you . . ." the man said, tearing a gristle-packed piece of meat from the greasy bone, "Do you know submarines?"

"I've done some time in them," Yaz replied simply.

"Just riding, or working them?"

Yaz shrugged. "What difference does it make?"

The captain looked around at the gang of smelly, bearded men that had formed a circle around the conversation.

"The difference is your life," he said, his yumping-yippedy tone turning dead serious. "And possibly the life of your friend's woman.

"Now tell me, what do you know about subs?"

Knowing he had little other choice, Yaz prudently took the next few minutes explaining to the captain that he had served as an executive officer aboard the Navy submarine USS Albany during World War III.

"Do you know propulsion systems?" the captain asked.

"Some," Yaz answered.

"Then you will help us," the captain replied. He turned to the rabble and tore off a short burst of yips and yaps. They immediately broke into a loud cheer.

Turning back to Yaz, the captain explained that although the sub's powerplants were working at maximum, only a small amount of power was reaching the propeller screws. Plus, the boat's electrical systems were faltering en masse.

"Power-shift differential is all screwed up," Yaz said by way of an instant diagnosis.

The man took another bite of lamb. "Can you tell us how to fix it?" he asked.

Yaz thought quickly and then answered: "Possibly. But first I want to know the whereabouts of my friend's woman and what her condition is."

144

"What else?" was the captain's reply.

"I want food," Yaz continued, sensing he could extract more from the man. "I want clean clothes and I want freedom for myself, my friend's woman, and all of the civilians you have on board this vessel."

The captain simply shrugged. He was a get-to-the-point type of guy and sensed that Yaz was, too.

"You will be fed," he said, drinking from his chalice, "And given clothes. But you are too late to get freedom for the civilians you spoke of. They are no longer on board. This is a warboat-a Krig Bat-and therefore is no place for slaves."

Yaz took due note of the reference to "slaves."

"So where are they?" he asked.

The man took another huge bite of meat. "They were transferred to another boat last night," he said, his words barely understandable with his mouth full.

"Only you and your friend's friend remain on board, and we are keeping you both."

"OK," Yaz said. "Then I want to see her."

The captain spit out a piece of fat and ground it into the floor with the toe of his boot. Then he wiped the residue of grease from his mouth with his bare hand.

"You will eat first, get clothes, and then help fix our gears," he said. "And then, maybe you will see this woman."

"No," Yaz said firmly, at the same time wondering just how far he could bargain with the man. "I must know her condition first and above all other things. . ."

The captain just shook his head and kind of chuckled in an exasperated way.

"Will you please forget about this female? This 'friend of your friend?'" he said. "She is all right. In fact, she's in the best hands possible."

"Prove it," Yaz said defiantly.

145

The captain let out an enormous, greasy laugh, causing the others around them to laugh, too.

"Prove to me the world is round," he told Yaz in a mocking tone. "And tell me why the sky never catches on fire . . ."

146

Mike Fitzgerald took another swig of whiskey and relit his cigar.

"Some days I wish I was lying on a sunny beach somewhere," he said wistfully, leaning far back in his chair and closing his eyes. "Tub of ice-cold beer in front of me, redheads on either side, rubbing on the tanning oil, keeping the sun out of me face..."

"Dream on," Hunter told him grimly. "This ain't like the old days. . ."

They were sitting in the commodore's swanky office on the top floor of the once-luxurious Montauk Point Yacht Club. The multi-million-dollar building, which was built overlooking the scenic Montauk Bay, had been turned into a temporary United American field base. As such, it was crawling with Long Island militiamen as well as regular United American Army troops. A makeshift helipad large enough to handle three choppers plus Hunter's Harrier had been set up in the parking lot, and the entire area had been ringed with defensive weapons and sentries.

The battle at Montauk Point and the subsequent seizure of the raiders'

submarine was the reason for all the activity around the yacht club. Once word of the capture of twenty-two enemy sailors had been flashed to Washington-and eventually across the country-the sleepy area around Montauk suddenly became the cen-147

ter of the universe. For it was here that the vicious, marauding invaders had finally been thrown back. Now some people were using Montauk in the same breath as the Battle of Saratoga, Doolittle's raid on Tokyo, the brave stand at Khe Sanh.

But the corraling of the twenty-two POW's had also created the need for interrogation, and that's why Fitz was in town. When it came to grilling prisoners-of-war, the barrel-chested Irishman was the best in the business. In fact, in the past forty-eight hours he had done little else but question the sailors, letting other UA officials deal with the swarm of media types who had camped out by the yacht club's main gate.

Yet with all his experience in the technique of "POW persuasion," Fitz's sessions with the captured seamen had been the strangest by far. As it turned out, language had not been a problem. Fitz had a definite knack for speaking in northern European dialects, and with his knowledge of Norwegian and Swedish, he was able to converse with the prisoners quite easily.

But understanding just what the hell the prisoners were talking about proved to be another matter.

Now it was late afternoon, and he and Hunter were awaiting an open line to Washington so they could give a complete report to General Jones. After that, they would have to start planning for their next step.

Both of them were tired, but The Wingman looked uncharacteristically weary.

Fitz knew there was good reason for this, however, for his friend had not stopped to eat, sleep, or even breathe in the past two days. When he wasn't flying long, torturous search patterns off the American East Coast trying to locate other enemy subs, he was arguing, cajoling, and outright bribing people for the jet fuel needed to make the flights. When he couldn't get the fuel, he was helping Fitz with the interrogations, or lending a hand setting up a SAM

148

site or flying close-in chopper patrols along the Long Island beaches.

And in his spare time, he had pored over several dozen books on Viking lore.

Throughout it all, the expression on his face never changed. It was both grim and sad-clear in its yearning for Dominique.

Another few minutes passed, and then the phone on Fitz's desk rang twice.

Picking it up, he listened for a moment and nodded to Hunter. "It's him . . ."

Hunter immediately turned on the telephone squawk box on the table beside him and soon all three men were able to talk and hear each other.

"How did the sessions go?" Jones asked through a minor storm of static.

"I've had better," Fitz answered, putting down his cigar and picking up a notebook which featured page upon page of names, numbers, and other various scrib-blings. "We've got a strange lot on our hands here."

"I'm not surprised," Jones said, the telephone-line connection gradually clearing up.

"If you are ready, General," Fitz continued, "we'll start at the top."

Fitz took the next few minutes explaining to Jones that all of the POW's had basically told the same story.

And what a story it was . . .

As it turned out, Hunter's description of the strange invaders as "modern Vikings" turned out to be quite accurate. Fitz was able to ascertain that just about all of the prisoners were of Scandinavian origin. Moreover, all of them also quite freely admitted they had sailed to North America for the primary purpose of raiding, pillaging, and capturing slaves-especially women between eighteen and thirty-six.

However, when Fitz asked them to identify their overall military commander or a central point where their

149

force was headquartered, the men answered with little more than blank stares.

The twenty-two men were all part of one clan. The captain of the submarine-a man who was killed on the beach the night of the battlewas the top man in this clan. And while the prisoners admitted that many clans were involved in the North America raiding campaign, they knew very little about these other groups.