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  Thinking an attack on the mothership was just seconds away, the fishing-boat captain turned his steering wheel hard to the port, bringing him on a course parallel to the huge, slow-moving vessel. At that moment, the scream of the jet engine reached truly deafening proportions. His eyes going fuzzy from the high-decibel roar, the captain nevertheless squinted off into the murk off to his left.

  That’s when he saw the barest outline of the approaching jet.

  It was coming in low and fast, and the first thing the captain noticed was that its wings were so full of weapons and bombs that they appeared to be sagging under the combined weight. Fate had positioned him now directly between the attacking jet and the battleship, but he knew that even as a suicidal shield, his boat would not serve admirably. The weapons being aimed at the battleship were so destructive and powerful they would tear through his little fishing boat as if it were made of cardboard.

  There was nothing he could do at this point. Nothing he could call out to his crew, no prayers that he could say in time. In seconds it would be over for him, and he would die in a less than courageous manner.

  But then something strange happened.

  The attacking jet did not open fire. Nor did it drop any bombs or launch any missiles. Instead, it roared directly above him, and up and over the main sail of the battleship. Even stranger, none of the battleship’s automatic defense systems—from the SAM to the AAA’s to the close-in Phalanx Gatlings—opened fire, either.

  It was almost as if the pilot of the airplane and the master of the battleship had come to an instantaneous truce. But how? Even a hasty radio conversation could not have delayed the airplane’s attack in time.

  Somehow the fishing-boat captain knew that it had to be something more …

  Hunter’s psyche was still buzzing after he pulled the Harrier out of its attack dive.

  It was a familiar sensation running through him. A wave of intuition had washed over him just seconds before he was to launch the Harpoon missile into the conning tower of the battleship. Some might call it ESP or clairvoyance, but for Hunter it was much more than that. It was the special gift that he had always possessed, the kind of forward-looking psychic radar that, for good or bad, was able to briefly take him several steps ahead in time. It was what made him the best fighter pilot who had ever strapped in. He had always simply called it “the feeling” and the one overriding thing he had learned from it was to never, ever question it.

  So it was, as his finger was poised over the Harpoon launch button, just moments before he would have sent the high-explosive-packed missile into the huge battleship’s vital organs, something told him not to do it. A psychic voice, crying deep down inside his soul told him that firing on the battleship was not the thing to do, even though it had attacked him.

  But with this flash of intuition came more questions, questions that Hunter knew had to be answered.

  He brought the Harrier up to twenty-five hundred feet and then banked back down toward the ship. Kicking back his speed to a crawl, he lowered his landing gear and then lined up the nose of his jet with the ship’s stern. He was hoping this approach would serve two purposes. First of all, it was the position that would give the majority of the ship’s AA gunners an almost unworkable firing angle on him. Second, it was an angle that a jet would least likely take if attacking a ship.

  In other words, he was coming up on the ship in the most non-belligerent manner he could think of. He just hoped someone understood the gesture.

  As it turned out, someone onboard the battleship understood Hunter perfectly.

  A man standing on the ship’s end rail, wearing a red fluorescent helmet and vest, indicated through a series of hand signals that Hunter should land the jumpjet on the battleship’s deserted helicopter pad.

  It took a half minute of maneuvering for the Harrier to drift over the end of the ship, its jet engine screaming in the near-hovering mode, its forward speed matched exactly to that of the vessel.

  Finally, it came down, right in the middle of the large painted X, without so much as a bump.

  The Harrier’s engine was quickly cut, the persistent whine of its turbine slowly winding down. Then the canopy opened, and Hunter stepped out.

  The man in the fluorescent vest disappeared and another man, he, too, wearing a protective helmet and visor, was waiting as Hunter climbed out of the cockpit, carefully made his way along the fuselage, and finally jumped down to the deck from the wing.

  For a few long moments, they just stood there, not moving, each staring at the other through their helmet’s protective visors. All the while the noise of the choppy sea and the gradual fadeout of the Harrier’s engine filled the air.

  Finally, both men took off their helmets at the same time.

  To his surprise, Hunter found himself staring into a mask. The man was wearing a tight black cloth that covered his face from the bottom of the nose up and was tied in the back, bandana-style. With its shiny black veneer and the cutouts for the eyes, the mask gave the man an appearance that was a cross between Zorro and the Lone Ranger, with a little of Batman thrown in.

  Despite the strange garb, Hunter began to introduce himself.

  “I am Major—”

  The other man held up his hand. “I know who you are,” he said in a thick northern European accent. “Few people in the civilized world don’t know Hawk Hunter.”

  Hunter could only shrug. He was the victim of his own celebrity—but at least he didn’t wear a mask.

  “And you, sir?”

  “I am Wolf,” the masked man answered. “The master of this ship.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  DOMINIQUE PULLED THE STRAP on her life jacket tight as she stepped down into the large see-through raft.

  The sea was choppy, and she nearly lost her balance several times before she finally eased down to the floor of the raft. Looking down through the clear plastic to the dark blue water below created an optical illusion that did little to settle her stomach. The rolling waves made a bad situation worse.

  Still, her spirits were high. She was at last leaving the smelly, problem-filled submarine. For some reason, the Norsemen were transferring her to what everyone referred to as the Stor Skute—the Great Ship. A second submarine just a hundred feet away was to be her transport to this other, very mysterious vessel, and although this sub looked exactly like the one she was leaving, she couldn’t imagine it being anything but an improvement.

  Another reason she felt heartened was that Yaz was with her. Although they had been ordered not to talk to each other, he had whispered to her that he, too, was being transferred to the Great Ship because he had shown his expertise in fixing the sub’s propulsion problems. He also expressed something that Dominique, too, was feeling: that although they had no idea where they were going or why, at least they were going there together.

  Also in the raft were the four Norsemen who would row to the other sub. As it turned out, the ride over to the second boat was a queasy, sloppily executed affair, courtesy of the quartet of brutes. Several times the raft almost capsized, not so much due to the high, irregular waves but because the four Norsemen rowers spent most of the time working against each other. Dominique and Yaz could only hold on tight and roll their eyes as the men argued nonstop over how best to reach the second sub. If there was one myth to be broken in this whole adventure it was that the Norsemen were expert seaman. From all that Dominique and Yaz had witnessed so far, it appeared that just the opposite was much closer to the truth.

  Finally they reached the second boat. Climbing up an access ladder and then down into the squat conning tower, Yaz and Dominique noticed that this vessel was an improvement over the first simply because the ambient smell inside was that of burnt coal as opposed to human body reek.

  Once inside the control room, the captain only briefly turned his attention toward Dominique and Yaz. He went through a series of shrugs and chin scratchings before he held up three fingers and pointed to the clock.
/>   They didn’t know just how to take the captain’s message. Did it mean that their voyage to the Great Ship would take three hours? Or maybe three days?

  Or maybe even three months?

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Third Majestic Kingdom of Hawaii

  CAPTAIN ELVIS Q TOOK a long swig of his warm beer and checked his watch.

  An impatient man by nature, he hated unreasonable delays of any kind. But now his better half was telling him to calm down, wait it out. The mission had gone on too long and was too important to screw up now.

  He was sitting in one of the seediest barrooms he’d ever seen. It was a dark, smelly, poorly stocked, and at this moment, murderously hot. Only the beam of the early-morning sunlight coming through a small crack in a nearby painted-over window gave any indication of the warm, clean air of Honolulu outside. To Elvis, the saloon was a little piece of misery wedged into a large chunk of paradise.

  One table away from him sat five men in the midst of a brutal game of poker. There had already been one attempted stabbing and one minor exchange of gunfire between the participants, and the game was barely five hours old. The trouble was, the man Elvis had waited to meet since midnight was one of the players, and at this moment, he was winning big.

  Elvis winced as he checked his watch again. Despite his efforts to cool out, he knew that time was running out. The deal he’d come to make several weeks before now had to be done within the next hour. If not, things would simply fall apart and he would be immersed in little disasters, not the least of being that the gang of gunmen who he had hired to guard his F-4X Super Phantom at the nearby airport would go off the clock. He knew that as soon as that happened, his jet would be stripped down to the frame in no time.

  But the poker game went on and his boy kept on winning and he could do nothing about that.

  Against his better judgment, he signaled the clammy waitress for another tepid beer. All the while he kept counseling himself to stay calm, to be patient and let the world turn for him.

  About five minutes later, it did.

  Knowing that there was no such thing as pure luck, Elvis had seen it coming from a mile away. His contact had just raked in his fifth big pot in a row when the inevitable accusation of “cheat!” reared its semiugly head.

  Two gunshots and the swing of a baseball bat later, one of the players was out cold and bleeding heavily, and another was contemplating a large hole in his shoulder. Those not wounded played one last hand and then, at last, the game was declared over.

  As the injured were unceremoniously dumped out a side door and into a trash-strewn alley, Elvis’s contact—and the big winner all around—counted up his money, left it in care of the bartender and then finally meandered over to his table.

  His name was Zim. He was a small Oriental man, balding slightly and sporting a range of tattoos plus a pair of gold bottom canine teeth. If a man’s importance was figured by the number of bodyguards he employed, then Zim was very important indeed. Elvis had previously counted as many as twelve hired goons swarming around the guy, and that didn’t include the jeep full of gorillas he knew was parked outside the barroom.

  With the snap of his fingers, Zim had a bottle of no-name liquor thrust into his hand. Another snap and his long, thin cigarette was lit. Finally he sat down directly across from Elvis, and with as much ceremony as he could muster, he withdrew .45 Colt automatic from his shoulder holster and laid it on the table.

  “You want to talk, white boy?” he asked in a sneer.

  Elvis stared back at him for several long moments and then reached down into his flight suit’s ankle pocket. He came up with an enormous .440 Magnum and placed it on the table next to the now-diminutive-looking Colt.

  “I want to talk,” he replied.

  The display of massive firepower unnerved the already fidgety man, his troop of bodyguards all seemed to take one step forward at once. But he quickly regained his composure and took a long draw from his cigarette.

  “So talk …” Zim said, a thin, shiny grin returning.

  Elvis pulled his chair closer to the table.

  “You’ve got something that I want,” he said. “I’ve been in town for weeks just to tell you I’m here to buy it.”

  Zim laughed and took a long swig from the liquor bottle.

  “Obviously you have never heard of the Oriental art of business negotiation,” he told Elvis. “The object desired is never discussed at the first meeting.”

  Elvis slammed his fist down on the table, the tremor causing the ring of bodyguards to close in even tighter.

  “I don’t have any more time for your goo gai pan bullshit,” he said in his thick southern accent. “Tell me the price and let’s get on with it!”

  Zim smacked his lips and took another drag of his cigarette.

  “Typical American,” he said. “No patience. No time to talk. No time to appreciate things …”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Elvis countered, “we ain’t got much to talk about besides what I’m here for.”

  Zim shook his head slowly, letting a long plume of smoke escape from his nostrils.

  “Don’t be so sure about that,” he told Elvis, his tone turning ominously serious. “I might have something even more valuable to you. But, nevertheless, I can see you are in a hurry, my impatient friend. So go ahead.”

  Elvis took a deep breath and drew in even closer to the man.

  “Let’s make it simple,” he said. “You have the merchandise, yes or no?”

  “Yes,” Zim answered.

  “And it is for sale?”

  “Yes—for the equivalent of one million dollars. Nothing less.”

  “Gold or silver?”

  “Gold. Bars not chips …”

  Elvis sat back and stared hard at the man. “That sounds too cheap,” he said. “What condition is it in?”

  “Good condition,” Zim replied, sounding like he was offended by the question. “It’s all packed in crates, of course. Twenty-three in all, I believe. Every part marked and listed.”

  Zim took a quick swig of his bottle and an even shorter drag of his cigarette.

  “As for the price …” he said. “I’m a businessman. I know that sometimes it is best to move merchandise quickly. Besides, I am leaving the islands soon and therefore I must liquidate all my commodities.”

  Elvis bit his lip; the next question was probably the most important of all.

  “Just how did you happen to get it?” he asked the man deliberately.

  Zim was caught off guard by the question, a slight amount of color draining from his face.

  “Why should that be of any importance to you?” he stammered.

  “I’ll give you half again the price if you tell me how you came by it,” Elvis said, staring the man right in the eyes.

  What was left of the man’s cool facade was now crumbling by the second.

  “I cannot tell,” Zim said nervously. “I would be a marked man if the wrong people learned that I was selling it to you.”

  “I’ll give you twice the price,” Elvis said.

  “No,” Zim replied defiantly. “You want it, you can have it for the million in gold. But that is all.”

  That was enough. Elvis knew he couldn’t push his luck. Not in this situation. Not in this time or place. The man was getting very jumpy and that was making his goons nervous.

  “All right,” Elvis told him. “One million in gold bars. We can load it tomorrow morning at ’Lulu Airport and you can get paid then.”

  “No!” Zim half shouted. “You take delivery within two hours or the deal is off.”

  Once again, Elvis knew it was not a time to quibble. Still, he had to wonder why someone like Zim—well known in these parts as an ice-water-in-the-veins operator—was so jumpy.

  “OK,” he told him. “At the airport in two hours …”

  “Agreed,” the man said, his voice returning somewhat to its normally snide timbre.

  With that, he stood up, an
d gathering his bodyguards in tow, quickly marched out of the barroom.

  Elvis instinctively checked his watch again. The negotiations had taken hardly any time at all. Not only had the man sold quickly—too quickly—he also seemed to be in an awful rush to free himself of the merchandise. The question was: why?

  But first things came first. Elvis had to make a radio call to Maui, the next island over and get a cargo plane waiting there under heavy guard into the air. Then he had to retrieve his jet before it was reduced to the hubcaps.

  But he did take a second to finish his beer and contemplate what he had just done. He had the feeling that somehow, somewhere, Hawk Hunter knew that his beloved F-16XL was soon to be in friendly hands once again.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Two hours later

  THE HUGE C-5 GALAXY circled the former Honolulu International Airport once before coming in for a perfect landing.

  Waiting at the end of the otherwise deserted runway, Elvis followed the gigantic plane’s progress as it taxied toward him.

  If we can get this show on the road within an hour, he thought, we’ll be in LA by midnight.

  It took several minutes for the big cargo plane to reach the prescribed spot and another couple for its pilots to shut down its engines and various flight systems. Already two squads of United American Rangers were disembarking from the rear cargo door, smartly forming a tight defense perimeter around the big airplane. Finally, the front cargo hatch lifted open, giving the big plane the appearance of a huge fish ready to swallow anything in sight.

  The first person down the runway was Elvis’s partner, the famous Captain “Crunch” O’Malley of the Ace Wrecking Crew.

  “Everything still peachy?” he asked Elvis with a sly wink.

  “Ask them,” Elvis replied, pointing to the small army of Hawaiian gunmen that surrounded the pair of battered tractor trailer trucks parked nearby.