Mack maloney wingman 0.., p.21
Mack Maloney - Wingman 08, page 21
She passed unhindered to the opposite end of the hall, not one of the raiders daring to touch her or even look directly into her eyes.
She arrived at Verden’s third-deck quarters ten minutes later.
The door was open and the man was sitting on a throne-like wooden chair placed at the far end of the cabin. The room was very dark, six weary candles providing the only light.
In an instant, her two escorts were gone.
“Come in, my beautiful friend,” Verden said in his heavily accented, withdrawn, and raspy voice. “It’s with pleasure that I greet you. I’m happy that you decided to pay me a visit.”
“Your note was an order,” she replied, walking to a spot 234
about fifteen feet from the throne. “I had little choice but to obey.”
He looked up at her, making an effort to distinguish her features in the dark room with his good eye.
“An order or an invitation,” he shrugged, “… what’s the difference?”
“I am your prisoner,” Dominique said. “I must do as you say or suffer the consequences.”
He lowered his head to his hand and pulled worriedly on his beard.
“That is true, my lovely,” he said in his dreary monotone, grabbing a goblet filled with myx and practically draining it in a single swallow. “But you are not like the others. This you must know by now. I have chosen you above them all to be my Valkyrie. This is a position that millions of women would give their lives for …”
“And so I must give mine?” she countered.
He poured and gulped another cup of myx and then stared hard at her.
“I drink so rarely,” he said. “But now that I do, I simply cannot believe your beauty …”
“I have had the myx,” she said, “I know how it distorts reality.”
“No,” he said, shaking his finger at her. “Your loveliness transcends the myx.”
“Then it is just another part of your dream,” she said, spreading her hands to indicate everything from his throne to the shipload of drunken Vikings. “This dream …”
Suddenly, Verden’s voice became deeper, clearer, and, for lack of a better description, more contemporary.
“Don’t be entirely fooled by what you see around you,” he told her. “To you, my men and I probably look like actors in an old movie or people drawn in a comic book. But believe me, before the Big War, we weren’t all that different from you-you and your ‘civilized’ American friends.”
Another goblet was filled and quickly consumed.
“True, many of my men are from the mountains,” Verden 235
went on. “And from the small villages up near the Arctic where it seems to be dark every hour of every day of every year. Modem civilization was something that intruded in on us only every so often.
“But don’t be deluded, my lovely creature, that we are totally ignorant of convention. We know that planes fly and bombs destroy and that men have walked on the moon. We also know that the blood of Eric and Leif and the others runs in our veins, and that it was they who first discovered America and not this Italian interloper.
“As I told you before, we are simply returning to recapture our claim.”
Once again, he lowered his head and stared into the empty goblet.
“Though, I must admit,” he said, his voice returning to its original sad timbre, “that it is the myx that makes our blood boil and permits the ghosts of our ancestors to burst through. Then, perhaps, we do look like comic book characters.”
Several minutes of a stone-cold silence descended on the room. The candles flickered and the ship rolled gently in the Atlantic swell. Verden stayed almost motionless, staring at his empty cup, the aura of despondency almost visible around his hulking frame.
“You belong to another?” he asked her, suddenly looking up.
Dominique slowly nodded her reply.
“And do you think he is still alive?”
“I know he is …” she whispered.
“And he will be faithful, even after he knows you’re gone?”
“That makes no difference,” she said.
He tilted his head up to look at her again. “And why is that?” he asked.
“Because he is looking for me,” she replied. “And he will keep looking until he finds me.”
Verden reached for his flask and refilled his goblet once 236
again with myx.
“You know him so well, do you?” he asked.
“Yes…”
Verden downed the full cup of myx in a loud gulp, wiping his mouth with the end of his sleeve. His movements were shaky and almost convulsive now, due to the large quantity of the powerful mind-bending liquor he’d consumed in just the past few minutes.
“But he is not here now,” the chieftain slurred. “And you are my Valkyrie.
Thus, you shall do what I say …”
He drained another cup of myx, and coughed hard. Then he poured out another full goblet and handed to Dominique.
“Drink this, my lovely,” he commanded. “This and two more …”
“And if I refuse?” she asked, trying to stay calm. “Certainly you wouldn’t kill your Valkyrie so soon after selecting her.”
For the first time, Verden smiled.
“No, my dear,” he said, now barely able to prop his head up on one elbow. “But if you do refuse, then I will kill that friend of yours, who right now sits at the bottom of this ship.”
Dominique drank the myx.
His name was Thorgils, Son of Verden. In the cabin full of clan leaders on the other side of the Great Ship he was the only one without a beard.
Two decks below them, they could hear the orgy reach a new height of ferocity.
But frivolities such as eating and jricking young slave girls were of little concern to Thorgils and the other dozen men in the room. Before them was a map of the East Coast of America, around which they were discussing the largest Norse assault yet on the American continent.
“The spies tell us that much of the East Florida coast is 237
still inhabited,” Thorgils told them in rapid, tense Norwegian. “The lack of fuel has forced many of the people there to stay put. Plus, the Americans haven’t yet started to ship troops and equipment down there by rail, again because of the fuel situation. Therefore the opportunity lies with us.”
Thorgils pointed to the multicolored squares of cloth that dotted the map along the eastern Florida coast.
“There are twenty-five targets,” he said of the various markers that ran from Jacksonville in the north to Orlando in the south. “You know your clan colors.
Those are the targets you should suggest to your men. Each target has three means of access and retreat. When your raiding party goes ashore, they will have a choice of which direction to attack from and how to withdraw. These multiple routes will also confuse the enemy.”
The clan leaders murmured in silent approval. It had been this way since the campaign had started. The dozen men-they being the senior commanders representing the twelve major clans that made up the overall Norse raiding force-would come to the Great Ship for a thing, the Norse traditional gathering. While their officers and selected warriors reveled in the mandatory prebattle orgy, the clan elders would quietly meet with Thorgils and learn his thoughts for the upcoming assault.
This was not a “strategy session,” however-there really wasn’t any phrase in the Norse vernacular for such an event. Thorgils drew the map, worked out a timetable, and suggested to the clan leaders where and when to strike. It was up to them to fill in the blanks.
Usually the rest of the clan leaders would simply nod or more likely, grunt their approval of Thorgils’s plans. They rarely even spoke. Thorgils was, after all, the oldest son of Verden, and therefore his word was good for them.
If he suggested a target and a way to approach it, the clan elders would go along with him more often than not.
The clan heads welcomed this hands-off approach. When it came to making war, the Norse had traditionally
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taken the less complicated, blunt approach. They knew that there really wasn’t any need to go into much detail the night before a battle; strategies, plans, counterplans, and such only cluttered a soldier’s head.
Hundreds of years of history had taught them-almost religiously-that in the midst of battle, the highly individualistic Norsemen were best left on their own. This way their minds would be clear, their instincts would be at their sharpest, as would their determination should events turn against them.
So once Thorgils had pointed the way, the dozen clan leaders-each of whom commanded a fleet of five to seven attack subs-would return to their flag boats and pass his recommendations to their subordinates on other boats and they to their crews.
After that, they were all on their own.
“Many of the Volk Bats will be available to assist you in the landings,”
Thorgils told them. “Their captains have secured a number of sturdy landing crafts which will allow you to move your men into the beaches quicker. I think it would be wise to use these vessels if you can.”
Thorgils looked around at the twelve men; if there were any questions, now would be the tune to ask. But there weren’t any. In fact, there was really only one topic left to discuss: the price to be paid to the clans for carrying out the invasion.
“As always, the spoils of choice should be the women,” Thorgils told them.
“The Volk Bats will be waiting after the operation as usual and the exchange rate will remain the same. Supplies will be distributed based on the number of slaves brought back as well as tonnage of booty. However, because this will be the largest, most ambitious operation yet, I hereby declare extra myx rations for the clans bringing in numbers over quota.”
To this bit of news the clan leaders brightened in an instant. Food, ammunition, and coal made up the staples of the Norsemen’s otherwise dreary, violent lives. In many
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ways, they and their men simply fought and killed and kidnapped just so they could get food and bullets and fuel in order to kill and kidnap again.
But drinking the myx changed everything. It was a much-needed relief from an existence that, as dictated by Norse history, was doomed from the start.
And the indisputable fact was that Thorgils and his father controlled the myx.
Stored in wooden casks and protected like gold in the holds of the Great Ship, the father and son spent much time and effort carefully dispensing it to the various clans in return for the women slaves and booty taken during raids. It was, in fact, the lifeblood of the Court of Verden, the entity around which everything else swirled. Verden and Thorgils could use the strange, highly addictive liquor as an incentive to the most loyal clans, or, by withholding it, as a way of bringing an unruly tribe back in line.
So while many in the clans regarded Verden as a very wise and brave man whom they trusted for the most part, his real power came from the fact that he regulated the flow of the myx.
“Once ashore, you men might meet some resistance, but not much,” Thorgils went on. “We hear that some of the militias in Florida are fairly well trained but others are not. Some regular United American forces are in place several miles back from the coast, but your men shouldn’t have any trouble overwhelming them once they move off the beaches and into the cities beyond.
“The attack time should be one hour before dusk on the next day from tomorrow.
It will be wise to make sure you are in place in plenty of time.”
With that, Thorgils began to fold the map away. This alone indicated the meeting was over. There were no salutes. No wishes of good luck or godspeed.
Unlike other cultures, it was not in the Norse tradition to include sentimentality into warfare.
But just as the clan leaders were preparing to go, the 240
door to the room swung open and a dark figure walked in.
The elders froze as they saw it was a woman wearing a long black gown, her head covered with a hood.
“My Lady,” one man said, immediately falling to one knee. Like bowling pins/the rest of the clan leaders did the same. Only Thorgils remained standing, although he did doff his helmet in a slightly more reserved tribute.
The woman threw back her hood and studied the men with her beautiful but cold steel eyes.
It was Elizabeth Sandlake.
“My Lady…” the Son of Verden said through strained, whispering lips. “I was just explaining the next attack.”
“Is that so?” she asked in a voice dripping with contempt. ‘Then you won’t mind explaining it to me …”
Thorgils nearly choked at the sound of her request.
“But My Lady,” he stammered. “It was you who …”
A stare like a laser beam caused his mouth to suddenly go numb. In the acute anxiety of the moment, he had very nearly given away one of the deepest secrets of the whole Norse campaign.
Now, as the clan leaders watched in anxious amazement, Elizabeth walked to the table in a kind of regal slow motion, and smiled cruelly as Thorgils spread out the map again.
“From the beginning, My Lady?” the son of Verden asked through tight lips.
“From the beginning,” she replied, openly mocking him. “Unless you can think of another way of explaining our biggest operation so far …”
With the clan leaders more or less frozen at attention, Thorgils took the next forty-five minutes to slowly, precisely, but obviously reluctantly, go over the entire procedure once again.
“Very ambitious” was Elizabeth’s reply at the end of the briefing. “And you’ve made provisions in case there is strong enemy air support?”
Once again Thorgils looked toward her in horror. Why 241
would she be asking me that question? he wondered, almost aloud.
“But there will be no strong enemy air support,” he replied, his tone leaving no further doubt that he loathed having to reexplain the attack details to Elizabeth. “According to our spy reports, no enemy aircraft of any consequence have been spotted anywhere near the attack points.”
“And why is that?” she snapped at him.
Thorgils was becoming just as angry as he was flustered.
“My Lady, the United Americans simply don’t have the fuel to move many warplanes to the region,” he said, trying his best to keep his composure. “Nor will they be able to move around the few they do have on hand to all the various attack points.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Elizabeth fired back at him. “These United Americans have a talent for turning the impossible.”
“I doubt that will happen in this case,” Thorgils hissed at her, his voice displaying more anger with every syllable. “They might be organized at some points on the ground, but their air capability is frozen. Once the clans get in off the beaches, they will rule the battle. Of this I am certain …”
“And of this 7am certain,” Elizabeth shouted at him. “If the United Americans call in even the barest amount of air cover, then the day could be lost for the clans. And that will be your responsibility, Thorgils…”
At this point, the Son of Verden completely lost his temper. Something was amiss here-Elizabeth knew more about these plans than he did. What’s more, he had discussed every detail with her earlier that day, just an hour after she was secretly whisked aboard the Great Ship.
Now she was trying to trick him, confuse him, embarrass him in front of the twelve clan elders. In the constant swirl of intrigue and deception that surrounded the Norse clans and the court of Verden, her attack was a very bad sign for Thorgils.
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He had no choice but to fight back. With squinting eyes and a red face, he launched into a nonstop verbal strafing of Elizabeth, attacking her intelligence, her rudeness, even her femininity. Elizabeth returned the fire, blow for blow, degrading Thorgils’s character, his lack of leadership qualities, and, inevitably, his own sexuality.
The clan elders could not believe what was happening. Although the argument was swaying back and forth between Norwegian and English, there was no doubt as to the viciousness of the invectives that were being hurled in either language. And though the gossip around the clans was that Thorgils and the mysterious American woman had been uneasy allies since the start of the campaign, the elders never dreamed the two rivals would be this open about their dislike for each other.
The climax of the argument came when Thorgils actually raised his hand as if to strike Elizabeth.
But she did not flinch an iota. Instead she just laughed-that frightening, bone-chilling laugh. And suddenly everything stopped. It appeared as if Thorgils, the second most powerful man in the Norse court, had become inert, paralyzed simply by that laugh.
“This can end only with your father, Thorgils,” Elizabeth told him, the wicked smile never leaving her lips.
With that, she pulled the hood back up over her head and stormed out of the cabin, leaving the son of Verden frozen in place, his open hand still poised above his head.
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Chapter Thirty-eight
Dominique was naked.
She was lying on her back on a bed of pillows placed on the floor of Verden’s cabin. Her hair was no longer held in place by the string of diamonds and pearls and her beautiful white satin-and-lace gown was nowhere to be seen. Her skin was sticky; it felt like some kind of oil had been spread all over her body, leaving a thin glaze and a highly aromatic smell. She was also very moist around her upper thighs and breasts.
On the pillow next to her were three empty goblets and a half-filled flask of myx.
She had just awakened, but for a moment she wondered if she was still dreaming. The cabin, so dark and claustrophobic when she first arrived, now looked like an enormous, brightly lit hall. The candles that had seemed so depleted before were now burning with the intensity of klieg lights. And Verden, standing over her, his hands on his hips, his teeth clenched, looked more like Michaelange-lo’s Creator than a rundown, melancholy Father Christmas.
