Return From The Inferno by Mack Maloney

Author:Mack Maloney
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-11-26T03:27:57+00:00

Chapter Thirty

180

He was a ghost.

He felt like the sun's rays could go right through him. He felt like he cast no shadow. If he were to look in a mirror, he wondered if he'd see any reflection.

Probably not.

He'd accomplished what every great military commander had sought to do at least once in their careers: he'd become invisible. He'd gone on the offensive against overwhelming odds on many fronts, day or night, for nearly a year and had won every engagement simply because he'd mastered this science of transparency. It really wasn't that difficult-and this was not surprising. All great things were essentially simple. So too the secret to being invisible. It actually turned on one simple rule: make sure the enemy is not looking for you.

And how best to do that?

Make them think that you are dead.

But there were definitely drawbacks to being invisible. Much had to be given up. Much had to be surrendered. All of it with little chance of being recovered. He didn't look any different. There was the sturdy, slender frame.

The powerful shoulders. The lightning quick hands. The steel blue eyes. The handsome face. The hair too long.

Yet he was different. And he knew why. The problem with being a spirit was that you were always in danger of being empty-inside as well as out. You tried to feel it, but sometimes there was nothing deep anymore. As a phantom, nothing real remained of his life. No home. No roots. No friends. No loves. No real future. If anything, he become just a name now. Someone spoken about between breaths, or between beers, if at all.

Yes, the sentence he'd given himself was the worst kind of self-inflicted wound. The Native Americans knew it best.

How does a man feel when he's lost his soul?

He feels like a ghost.

The mountain looked out over miles of rolling flatlands of what was once upstate New York.

This territory was all but deserted now. No civilian in his right mind would live in such an absolutely lawless region when Free Canada, with its liberty, its laws, its high regard for human life, was barely a hundred miles to the north. It was much simpler to just walk across the border and leave all the fear and oppression behind.

Yet it was here that The Wingman had chosen to stay. Why? It had fit his needs. He'd found jet fuel here. He'd hidden stores of ammunition here.

Trusted allies were stationed nearby. It was an unlikely hiding place, yet a good location from which to project the beginnings of the intricately far-reaching plan he conjured up over the last dozen months.

It was also a good place to think.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd flown down near Football City, keeping the jump jet low and evading the Fourth Reich's rinky-dink radar nets, landing and hiding whenever he got too close and resuming his mission on foot.

It was on his last mission to the Fourth Reich capital, when under the new disguise as a

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