Ghost War by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online Page A

mean we can forget exactly what America—and Americans—are all about.”
    Hunter nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, sir …”
    They briskly shook hands. “Good luck, Hawk …”
    Hunter saluted once again. “Thanks, General.”
    He turned to Yaz. “Wish you were coming, old buddy,” Hunter said, putting on his crash helmet. “Could be quite a trip.”
    Yaz just shook his head. With his successful rehabilitation from the hypnotic shock more than a month old, he certainly felt strong enough to go. Yet Jones had forbidden it.
    “Don’t worry, Hawk,” Yaz replied, his voice almost cracking. “I’ll be in the sequel.”
    Hunter shook his hand and then turned and ran out to Bozo.
    “And tell JT to keep it in his pants!” Yaz yelled after him.
    Ten minutes later, Hunter gunned the four massive engines on Bozo and ran them up to full power. Slowly, the huge Galaxy gunship began to move down Edwards’ long runway.
    To the thunderous applause of those assembled, it rose up and off cleanly, followed close behind by Nozo, with JT at the controls and then Football One. The JAWs-NJ104-Football Two troika went next, with Crunchtime, Big Snake and Football Three right on its tail.
    The air fleet formed up high above Edwards. Then as one, it roared overhead in a three-chevron formation, turning west, toward the other side of the planet. Toward the unknown.
    In pursuit of a ghost….
    It took more than twenty minutes for the roar of their engines to completely die away.

Chapter Six
    Fiji
    S UPREME COMMANDER SOHO COULD hardly hold the chisel steady, his hands were shaking so much.
    What is happening to me? he heard a voice whisper inside his left ear. Am I dying? Or am I just going insane?
    It was close to midnight and Soho’s ears had been ringing all day. On the table in front of him was a chunk of black Turkish hashish the size of a coconut. In his left hand was a large cold chisel; in his right, a heavy ballpeen hammer. He’d been trying to chip off a smokable piece of the hash for what seemed like hours—but his strength was so depleted, all he could get were slivers, most not big enough for even a couple of puffs.
    And he needed more than that.
    Finally, he summoned up enough strength to drive the chisel into the center of the hash block, chopping off an ice-cube-size piece. This was more to his liking. He took the chunk of hash over to his small wood-fired stove and dipped it into a pan of clear liquid that had been simmering on one of the burners for hours. This liquid was pure opium. He watched, eyes watering in anticipation, as the hash began to grow in size, absorbing the morphia.
    Five minutes later, the chunk of hash was twice its original size. Soho retrieved it from the opium soup, put it inside his water pipe and quickly began toking on it, keeping it lit by means of a hand-held propane torch.
    Five minutes of opium sucking followed. Then, suddenly, the candles inside his hut exploded and it became dark as night. Soho found himself on a hill, his mouth full of dirt, his eyes watering, his breathing labored. There were scores of dead bodies all around him, twisted in ghoulish poses. He was looking down on a steel graveyard—there were crashed airplanes everywhere. And there were soldiers, dressed in strange garb, carrying flaming acetylene torches, cutting into the dead airplanes and causing them to shriek with ungodly mechanical horror….
    Soho opened his eyes; he was shaking from head to toe. What was the problem? Too much opium? Or not enough? He wasn’t sure….
    He got to his feet, his knees close to buckling, and headed for the door, pipe and torch in hand. Bursting out into the dark night, he found two guards standing next to the entranceway.
    “They … they are still here, sir,” one stuttered in mumbling Japanese. “They are still on the island …”
    Soho looked at the man queerly. His face seemed to be melting away. “Who are you talking about? Who is still here?”
    The guard gulped