Ghost War by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online Page B

loudly. “The men … from the Fire Bats, sir …”
    Soho was stumped. He had no idea what the man was talking about.
    He turned to the second guard; he was trembling now as much as the first.
    “Explain this …”
    The second guard bowed quickly, letting out an involuntary grunt. Eyes down, he began to speak.
    “The submarines that sail beneath the heavenly oceans arrived here a few weeks ago, Your Highness,” the guard began. “Just yesterday, the men within finally came ashore, and by your supreme wisdoms, you ordered everyone on the island confined to their quarters—even yourself, oh, Great One.”
    Soho wiped a bit of drool cascading from his mouth.
    “Why did I do that?” he asked the guard.
    The man grunted again. He could barely breathe, he was so frightened. “The men from the boats that sail the heavenly ocean said they had work to do here. Very important work. That is why they finally came ashore. That is why they could not be disturbed.”
    “Even by me?” Soho asked, his feet suddenly feeling like they were growing roots into the ground.
    The man grunted a third time. “By your orders, your Supreme Beingness …”
    Soho considered this for a moment. “That doesn’t sound like me,” he said, to which both guards grunted.
    “And all our people are inside their houses?” he asked.
    “All—except the ones we shot….”
    “Shot?” Soho asked.
    “On your orders, sir,” the first guard said, finally summoning up enough courage to talk. “Anyone outside their hut while the men from the heavenly submarines were here was to be shot. On sight. With no warning …”
    “And you followed those orders?”
    “Yes, sir. Two women. An hour ago. They were bringing flowers to you, sir.”
    “And you killed them?”
    “Aye, sir,” came the reply.
    Soho thought for another moment. His arms were going numb. Were the fingers falling off his hands?
    Suddenly, he was enraged. “And I suppose you also used acetylene torches to kill these women?” he demanded of the stunned guards, the drool turning to foam at the corners of his mouth. “And did you also burn their wings off? Their propellers? Their wheels?”
    The guards looked at him. What was he talking about?
    They didn’t know—nor would they find out. Soho staggered away, the small torch cranked up to high, the chunk of opium-dipped hash glowing in the dark night.
    He stumbled through the beautiful floral gardens, down the pathway to the cliff and past the body of Colonel Ikebani, still rotting on its blood-smeared wooden post.
    Soho had decided he was going to fly—just fly away. He would have to do this without an airplane—all the airplanes had been butchered by the soldiers with the torches. No—he would have fly by himself, using his arms as wings, his feet as rudders. Getting airborne would be no problem. In fact, if he tried hard enough, he might make it all the way back to Okinawa.
    He fell twice before making it to the cliff. Here was the Shrine of the Sukki jet, the hideously pink airplane that he may or may not have flown to the island a couple months before. There were at least 500 lit candles surrounding it as usual, and its cinnamon fire pots were going full blast.
    But something was different here.
    He strained to focus his opium-soaked eyeballs and believed he could see four or five figures huddled around the jet. They were poking inside the cockpit, fussing with something, quietly murmuring among themselves. They were dressed oddly—their neon blue uniforms were actually glowing in the moonless night. There seemed to be halos around their heads. They may even have been floating several inches above the ground.
    Soho approached, his torch still ignited. Suddenly one of the men looked up at him.
    “… and you are?” he asked in very heavily accented English.
    Soho straightened up. Now all five men in glowing blue suits and white halos were looking at him.
    “I am the Supreme Commander of the Asian Mercenary Cult,” Soho