“SIRE?”
The man sitting behind the large, black desk did not respond.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty?”
Again no response.
The general gulped. The ship’s cabin was dark, the only light coming from a half-dozen flickering candles and the tint of the orange video screen in the corner. Masks, paintings, and other artifacts of the occult were everywhere about the gloomy room. The man behind the desk was dressed completely in black—robe, boots, tunic, and hood. His face was hidden in the dark shadows. Even his hands were covered with black-leather gloves. How did he do it? the general thought, wiping the sweat from his brow. It was 110 degrees outside the ship and easily 15 degrees warmer inside the cabin. Yet the man behind the desk did not appear to be sweating …
The general tried a third time. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but—”
Suddenly the man looked up, his scorched, angry face reflected in the dim light. “What do you want!?” he growled at the officer.
“Sire, you asked me to give you a status report at 0800,” the general said meekly.
“And?” the man in black asked, barely containing his anger.
“And, it is now 0800, sir—”
“So what are you waiting for?” the man asked in a chilling voice.
Still standing at attention, the general gulped once again and started talking. “Our fleet is now completely underway,” he began, trying not to look at the man’s horribly scarred face.
“How many goddamned boats?” the man nearly screamed at him.
“Three hundred and twelve, sire,” the general answered.
“Were any men left behind?”
The general hesitated for a moment, then answered, “A few, sir—”
“How many?”
Another gulp. “Approximately seven hundred, Your Majesty,” the general answered.
There was a long, tense silence.
“Seven hundred men?” the man finally said. “You call that ‘a few’?”
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness,” the general said. “But seven hundred men out of a total of nine hundred sixty-seven thousand is an exceptionally low dropout rate—”
“I beg your pardon, general,” the man said sarcastically. “But in this Legion, one malingerer is not acceptable.”
“But most of those men are suffering from heat exhaustion, sire,” the general replied. “They were among the first troops to load onto our barges. They have been waiting at the dock in the hot sun, with nowhere to move, for four days.”
“They are cowards!” the man screamed. “Shoot them all!”
The general started to protest, but thought better of it.
“Anything else, general?” the man in black asked in his strange voice.
The general shifted uneasily. This would be the hard part. “Yes, sire,” he began. “We have received a report that the carrier is still operating.”
The man’s eyes became just slits, anger turning his ashen, scarred face to fire. “What … did … you … say?”
“The carrier, sire,” the officer replied, his voice but a whisper. “It is still heading for the Canal.”
“Those fools!” the man screamed. “They sent ten submarines after it and they didn’t sink it?”
“I … I’m afraid not, Your Majesty,” the general answered. He wanted to get out of the dark room very quickly, yet he felt glued to the spot. “Actually, they lost two submarines.”
“Get out!” the man in black roared.
The general was quickly out the door, leaving the man alone. The man rubbed his disfigured face. He knew the scars did not show up when he was “projecting.” No, his image was electronically “cleaned up” long before the laser beams flashed it into the sky.
But now, alone, as he ran his fingers over the burns, his face stung. The pain was miniscule compared to the horrible flash of fire that had scarred him that night, back in New York City, when Hawk Hunter had brazenly rescued the beauty named Dominique. He could still see the small miniplane crashing through the window of the top floor of the World Trade Center. The incredible wind that followed sucked out objects and humans alike into the darkness. The fire—caused when the fuel in the miniplane exploded—had leaped across the room and caught him full in the face. Almost as if Nature had intended it that way.
When he woke up that night, under a pile of rubble and dismembered bodies, his face was hot pulp. Everyone else was gone—those not killed had fled. He remembered finding his troops in the Trade Center’s lobby looking horrified as they saw his face. There he had collapsed again, a soldier covering his face before loading him onto a waiting helicopter. Those that had seen the act thought he was dead, and later, after he recovered, he did nothing to dispel the rumor. The battles of The Circle War had been long lost by that time.
But his goal had been achieved. America was torn to pieces. The first step of his plan had been fulfilled brilliantly. After all, he couldn’t start World War III up again if the Americans were unified.
Those assholes back in Moscow. He needed them for The Circle War, and they were helping in his latest endeavor. But not for much longer. They were already afraid of him—he was one of their kind and they had come to fear him. Soon he would be rid of those old men on the Politburo. Soon he would be the Politburo. He would call the shots. He would possess their remaining ICBMs and not screw around with an ounce of nuclear material here and there.
He found his hand inside his pocket, fingering the photograph he always kept there. Against his better judgment, he pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a photo of Dominique. She was completely naked. He had taken it a long time ago, after filling her with drugs. She was beautiful. Now she was gone—the only thing he had really lost. He didn’t love her—he just wanted to possess her.
If only …
He shook off the thoughts and took his hands away from his face. “Revenge will be mine, Hunter,” he whispered. He reached for a bottle on his desk and poured out a handful of painkillers. Swallowing them one at a time, he began to laugh uncontrollably. “The whole world will pay!”
As the pills started to take affect, he began ranting to himself again. “These crazy Englishmen? Towing an aircraft carrier? They are fools who have been out in the sun too long! There are a million of us!”
He looked at the photo again.
“There is only one hero left in this world, my dear!” he screamed. “And if millions of people have to burn and die for everyone else to realize it, so be it!
“You might have your precious fly-boy, Hunter. But how many men can ignite a world war?”
They didn’t call him Lucifer for nothing …