Free Sky Ghost by Mack Maloney Page A

machines carried a crew of 10, an enormous 188-mm gun and could travel nearly 80 miles per hour on the open road. These three were just about the last ones left in the German inventory.
    There was a stretch Mercedes limousine on hand too, and it was this vehicle which was now driven up to the dock, where the gangplank from the sailing castle had been placed.
    A flurry of hand signals and walkie-talkie blasts bounced between the ship and the dock. The port and the city were secured; this was confirmed over and over again. Five massive Messerschmitt helicopter gunships were circling high overhead—yes, the skies were secured too.
    Finally, the main hatch leading from the ship’s bridge opened and a dozen heavily armed SSS troopers came out They were followed by a phalanx of the ship’s officers. Then three more armed SSS guards. Behind them, a dark figure, dressed all in black, stepped out.
    A hush went over the port. Some fool played a spotlight on the man’s face. Thin features, a short beard. Black hair. The man looked directly into the light and the bulb exploded.
    Startled, the officers hustled down the gangplank; one quickly opened the limo door. The figure in black climbed in, the door was closed behind him, and the entire motorcade sped away. Out of the port, through the deserted city and to the Spanish Autobahn beyond. They headed north—the entire roadway was clear ahead of them for miles. At top speed they’d be in Berlin by morning.
    Two citizens, two middle-aged sisters, did dare to look out their window while all this was going on. All the security in the world could not prevent them, or anyone else in the city, from knowing what was happening. Not even a well-planned German security net could keep hidden a secret this big.
    “This man who has come to save us, to save Germany,” one sister said to the other as the motorcade flashed by. “They found him out in the ocean.”
    “Walking atop the waves?” the second sister asked. “Just as they always said it would happen?”
    “Yes,” the other replied in a hushed reverential voice. “Walking atop the waves. That’s exactly how they found him…”
    Near Bermuda
    The next morning
    Somebody had finally found the third floater. It happened about 40 miles off the northern coast of Bermuda. The waves were high and the wind was blowing at 30 knots. A rainstorm had just passed through the area and it was cold for this time of year.
    A small rescue launch was sent to pick him up—a very small boat from a much larger one. The rescuers were astonished when they reached the man and found he was still alive. They quickly pulled him onboard.
    He was dressed very oddly; right away they felt he was from a different place than they. His skin was very white—he’d been in the water a long time. And he was very thin, as if he were malnourished.
    Yet once they laid him at the bottom of their launch, he simply opened his eyes and stared up at his rescuers.
    “You’re alive.” one of the men blurted out. His accent was very thick.
    “I know,” said the man they pulled from the sea.
    “How did you get out here?” a second rescuer asked.
    The man thought for a moment.
    “That I still don’t know,” he finally answered.
    He looked up at the men. They were in gray uniforms, but they wore long scraggly beards and had oddly curled hair. Their arms, hands, faces, and chests were emblazoned with outlandish tattoos, most of them six-pointed stars.
    The man saw their boat was just one of many. Indeed, a long string of boats stretched out before him. Though they were armed, these weren’t naval vessels; rather they looked like large passenger ships that had been heavily armed in a very haphazard fashion. They were rusty and old, but their decks were crowded with people. Tough, angry faces on the seamen, gentle, inquiring faces on the women and children. They were all looking down at the man who’d just been pulled from the water.
    “What is your name?” one of the