Force guy?” he exclaimed. “I like it.”
Hunter finally got to read the message, and he, too, had to smile for a second.
“I don’t think anyone has any objections,” he said.
From that moment on, the aircraft carrier was known as the USS Mike Fitzgerald.
The toasting and discussion continued for another hour. But Hunter wasn’t there. He’d slipped out of the conference room practically unnoticed and was now sitting out on the deserted bow of the carrier.
He was looking out over the ocean. As always, the questions had been flooding in. How much longer would he have to fight? Would he ever have the chance to enjoy the things he was fighting for? It was ironic, he thought, that all this time he was fighting for freedom, yet he didn’t feel free at all. He felt imprisoned instead, chained to the responsibilities he had taken upon himself.
What the hell kind of life was that?
But the problems ran even deeper than that. Because with this mission, and his “special” part in it, he wondered for the first time whether he could continue as a soldier.
Just then he heard footsteps behind him. Hunter turned and saw Wolf approaching through the darkness, his cape snapping in the wind.
“The famous Wingman, all alone?” the Norse captain asked.
“Need time to think,” Hunter replied.
“You think too much, my friend.” Wolf said, sitting down next to him. “You would have made a good Dane.”
“You’re the first to accuse me of that,” he replied.
“Perhaps not everyone understands the way I do,” Wolf said. He gestured toward the carrier’s island. “The men up there—good men, and brave warriors. But it is different for them. They do their duty. They go into battle, yes, and they fight valiantly, willing even to die for what they believe in. But rarely do they have to make the decisions that we have to. They do not know—nor can they know—the weight we carry on our shoulders.
“So why is it that we have to do these things? Why is this our special fate?”
Hunter remained silent. It was a question he’d been asking himself for years.
They sat there not speaking for a few minutes. Yet perhaps unintentionally, Wolf’s words had touched at what was really bothering Hunter: the center of the plan—his special targeting mission.
“I know of this special mission,” the Norse captain told him thoughtfully. “And I know how it troubles you. I also know that there is no choice in the matter. You could no more walk away from the things you feel you must do than I could. And, my friend, what you are about to do is the right thing—in the end. Of that I am very sure.”
With that, the mysterious figure rose and walked away, leaving Hunter alone on the bow of the deck.
The newly-named USS Fitzgerald, the New Jersey, and the two supply ships set sail early the next morning.
Seven
Zobi, Japan
T HE BRIGHT ORANGE GLOW of the rising sun flooded the small fishing village, bathing its tiny, neatly-kept shacks in the new morning warmth.
The day had dawned bright and cloudless, perfect weather for putting to sea and harvesting fish, seaweed, and pearls. Already the men of the village were heading down to the docks, their lunchpails and tins of tea clanging as they walked. Some of them were even singing to celebrate the occasion of the beautiful dawn.
Just waking up in her small home on the edge of this idyllic setting was a young girl of seventeen named Mizumi.
Mizumi was the most beautiful creature in the village of Zobi. Even as a child her delicate features and alabaster skin had made her enchanting. As she grew older, her body developed curves and her features matured, too. In the past year, she had turned into a gorgeous young woman.
But Mizumi’s beauty was most unusual, too. For of the several hundred people in the village, only she had red hair.
Like everyone else in Zobi, her family made their living from the sea. Their boat was one of the largest of the small fleet and readily
Hunter finally got to read the message, and he, too, had to smile for a second.
“I don’t think anyone has any objections,” he said.
From that moment on, the aircraft carrier was known as the USS Mike Fitzgerald.
The toasting and discussion continued for another hour. But Hunter wasn’t there. He’d slipped out of the conference room practically unnoticed and was now sitting out on the deserted bow of the carrier.
He was looking out over the ocean. As always, the questions had been flooding in. How much longer would he have to fight? Would he ever have the chance to enjoy the things he was fighting for? It was ironic, he thought, that all this time he was fighting for freedom, yet he didn’t feel free at all. He felt imprisoned instead, chained to the responsibilities he had taken upon himself.
What the hell kind of life was that?
But the problems ran even deeper than that. Because with this mission, and his “special” part in it, he wondered for the first time whether he could continue as a soldier.
Just then he heard footsteps behind him. Hunter turned and saw Wolf approaching through the darkness, his cape snapping in the wind.
“The famous Wingman, all alone?” the Norse captain asked.
“Need time to think,” Hunter replied.
“You think too much, my friend.” Wolf said, sitting down next to him. “You would have made a good Dane.”
“You’re the first to accuse me of that,” he replied.
“Perhaps not everyone understands the way I do,” Wolf said. He gestured toward the carrier’s island. “The men up there—good men, and brave warriors. But it is different for them. They do their duty. They go into battle, yes, and they fight valiantly, willing even to die for what they believe in. But rarely do they have to make the decisions that we have to. They do not know—nor can they know—the weight we carry on our shoulders.
“So why is it that we have to do these things? Why is this our special fate?”
Hunter remained silent. It was a question he’d been asking himself for years.
They sat there not speaking for a few minutes. Yet perhaps unintentionally, Wolf’s words had touched at what was really bothering Hunter: the center of the plan—his special targeting mission.
“I know of this special mission,” the Norse captain told him thoughtfully. “And I know how it troubles you. I also know that there is no choice in the matter. You could no more walk away from the things you feel you must do than I could. And, my friend, what you are about to do is the right thing—in the end. Of that I am very sure.”
With that, the mysterious figure rose and walked away, leaving Hunter alone on the bow of the deck.
The newly-named USS Fitzgerald, the New Jersey, and the two supply ships set sail early the next morning.
Seven
Zobi, Japan
T HE BRIGHT ORANGE GLOW of the rising sun flooded the small fishing village, bathing its tiny, neatly-kept shacks in the new morning warmth.
The day had dawned bright and cloudless, perfect weather for putting to sea and harvesting fish, seaweed, and pearls. Already the men of the village were heading down to the docks, their lunchpails and tins of tea clanging as they walked. Some of them were even singing to celebrate the occasion of the beautiful dawn.
Just waking up in her small home on the edge of this idyllic setting was a young girl of seventeen named Mizumi.
Mizumi was the most beautiful creature in the village of Zobi. Even as a child her delicate features and alabaster skin had made her enchanting. As she grew older, her body developed curves and her features matured, too. In the past year, she had turned into a gorgeous young woman.
But Mizumi’s beauty was most unusual, too. For of the several hundred people in the village, only she had red hair.
Like everyone else in Zobi, her family made their living from the sea. Their boat was one of the largest of the small fleet and readily
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