nasty experience, and probably no one ever would.
So Victor—or, at least, some incarnation of him—seemed to be back in the world. And nothing would be right again on the planet until this presence was eradicated.
This was why Hunter’s mind was now pulsating with rage. In addition to all the misery Victor had unleashed on the planet’s population, Hunter also had a personal motive for finding this devil. Several years before, at the height of the Circle War, Victor had kidnapped Dominique, Hunter’s lovely girlfriend. In a twisted example of propaganda and mind control, Victor had photographed Dominique in near-pornographic poses and distributed these pictures to his troops, along with vast quantities of mind-altering drugs. The powerful combination of the drugs and her stunning X-rated beauty was enough to make his legions follow Victor anywhere.
So was the superterrorist dead or not? Hunter didn’t know. His fingers still stung where he had felt for the man’s pulse that day in the desert and found none. But on the other hand, if there was anyone able to convincingly fake his own death, it was Victor. Finding him alive would be the equivalent of finding Hitler alive—maybe even worse.
But there was one thing for certain: someone, somewhere around the South China Sea wanted anyone who was listening to at least believe Victor was still alive. And with the recent atrocities committed by the Cult battleships in the same general area, Hunter was convinced something was up—something of cosmically evil proportions.
And he was equally convinced that it would be up to him, and the men of the United American C-5 air fleet, to attempt to stop it.
He took his eyes off the fading sun and turned back to the airbase. The lights were just coming on in the massive hangars, and he could see the outlines of the twenty-five multicolored Galaxys. Time was running out—he could feel it. And while the original plan called for all twenty-five of the C-5s to fly to the Pacific together, Hunter knew now that there wouldn’t be enough time for that.
They had to go with what they had—or forever lose the chance to do anyone any good.
Chapter Five
Edwards Air Base
T HE NEXT MORNING DAWNED hot and sunny, with low winds and a minimum of dust being blown around.
It was perfect flying weather.
There were nine C-5s warming up on the runway in three groups of three. The first flight consisted of the gun-ships Nozo and Bozo , plus the Football City Special Forces Rangers airship, Football One. The second flight held the JAWs plane, the New Jersey National Guard Engineers’ NJ104 , and Football Two. The third flight was made up of Crunchtime , the Cobra Brothers’ Big Snake , and Football Three.
Their engines whining up to full power, their holds jam-packed with up to 150 tons of men, weapons, equipment and supplies each, the air fleet made for an impressive, if gaudy, sight.
General Jones and Stan “Yaz” Yastrewski were waiting by a HumVee parked at the head of the column of Galaxys. Behind them were the thousand or so remaining troops and mechanics. Hunter had just completed his walk around Bozo , the airplane he would be piloting along with Ben Wa. The Wingman walked over to Jones and Yaz and gave them a crisp salute.
“Everything green, Hawk?” the General asked.
“As green as it’s ever going to be,” Hunter replied. “If we forgot anything, I’m sure you can send it over with the next wave.”
He grinned slightly upon making the statement—it was an inside joke. With the rush to get the first nine airplanes in the air, they all knew that there probably wouldn’t be any second wave. The other C-5s would leave Edwards and head for the Far East as soon as they became operational, and this meant individually, if at all.
“For the record, this is a great undertaking,” Jones told him, “This country has always stood for freedom, for all people. Just because we’ve been through our own upheavals, that doesn’t