* * * * *

It was Labor Day; the end of summer vacation season. And, the day after tomorrow, Howard Ashton Phillips, Junior, would be returning to school. True, temperatures were still warm; the humidity, still quite high; and the first calendrical day of fall was still more than two weeks off. Yet, some trees were beginning to show early signs of the autumnal rainbow, all the same. So, for this ten year-old boy, summer was as good as over.

Thus, with resolve in his heart, he entered the lodge's sound-proofed library.

"Dad?"

The forty-eight year-old archeologist looked up from his research.

"Oh! Hello, Ash. What can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you would finish that story for me. The one about Ishimura Takeo and the Black Cross Knight?"

"Now?!" exclaimed his father.

"It's already four o'clock. And, Mom expects us home at six!"

Professor Phillips looked at his pocket watch, and compared it to the grandfather clock in the corner.

"Why, so it is! Okay, then. Scoot on over here and climb on my lap."

The joyful grin that adorned Ash's face was proof positive that he did not need to be told twice!

"Now, where did I leave off the last time?" asked his father (semi-rhetorically).

"Ishimura had just revealed himself to be a spy for the pirates. And, the Mercedarian priest had just revealed himself to be a Knight Hospitaller from Rhodes!"

"Ah, yes! Well, as you can imagine, they were quite eager to trade blows. Ishimura, because he coveted the Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie for its evil power. And, the Black Cross Knight, because he wanted to punish this traitor. Unfortunately, for both of them, they were interrupted by a giant mermaid named...Taranga!"

* * * * *

ISLAND OF KAPU HIVA (1432)

"Please!" she exclaimed: "You must not injure yourselves. For I like to eat all my morsels, alive. So, which of you wishes to be first?"

The Black Cross Knight looked at the ronin (and vice-versa) before declaring that he had an idea.

"Let myself and this traitor settle our accounts with each other, Milady. And, if I am the sole survivor, I promise to throw myself down your beauteous gullet with no resistance."

Taranga gazed down at Ishimura.

"What say you, little warrior?"

"A samurai fears no gaijin. I make the same promise!"

Taranga giggled and brought both of her hands together. So that both of her palms formed one huge arena.

"Proceed!"

Ishimura immediately tried to vertically cleave the Hospitaller in two with his katana. But, the latter parried the blow with his main-gauche. While simultaneously bringing his cruciform "bastard" sword up and around for the same type of blow! The ronin was quick to duck under it, however. Leaping away, and spinning counter-clockwise, in an attempt to bisect this gaijin with his katana held outward, horizontally!!

Yet, the Black Cross Knight swiftly fell to one knee, before rolling over on to his back. Thereby evading the strike. Ishimura had anticipated that, however, and skidded to a halt. Moving clockwise, once more, to try and impale the Hospitaller with his katana. Unfortunately, the Black Cross Knight had already somersaulted back on to his feet. As a result, the only thing penetrated by the katana's point...

...was the epidermis of Taranga's left palm.

"AHHHHH!" yelped the mer-giantess: "That hurt."

This was the opening the Hospitaller had been waiting for. He entangled the katana within the sword-breaking qullon of his main-gauche's hilt. While applying leverage with his cruciform sword against the opposite side of Ishimura's blade.

It did not prove easy. But, the katana ultimately broke in half! Whereupon, the Black Cross Knight made a left-footed kick to the side of Ishimura's head. Stunning the ronin and landing him flat on his back!!

Yet, the Hospitaller made no move to finish him off. Which naturally puzzled Taranga.

"Why do you hesitate, victorious one? Finish him! So that I might savor the taste of your victory in my mouth."

"It is not in my nature to kill an unarmed foe. But, I shall honor my pledge to you, all the same."

Whereupon, the Hospitaller threw his sword and main-gauche down, on either side of the ronin.

"Keep these as a reminder of our duel, traitor. And, always remember the courage displayed by a man of honor."

Whereupon, the Black Cross Knight turned and nodded upward at Taranga. The mer-giantess smiled before opening her mouth wide. And, the Black Cross Knight ran forward, yelling (for all the world to hear, as he did so):

"FOR GOD AND COUNTRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"

Yet, as he passed the boulder-sized teeth of Taranga's lower jaw, she failed to see what the puzzled Ishimura saw. Namely; the Black Cross Knight unslinging Le Bec-de-bardiche Giserne Chinois from his back.

* * * * *

"You see," explained Professor Phillips: "...the Black Cross Knight knew there was only one weapon that might be powerful enough to kill such a giantess. The magical Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie!"

"And, did it work? Huh? Did it work?" his son demanded, excitedly.

"According to Ishimura's autobiography, it did. The Black Cross Knight used the Hsia Jie-ji to cut his way out of Taranga's very stomach! As a result, she gave forth with an indescribably loud shriek of pain, and fled back into the depths. Of course, in the process of doing so, she dropped Ishimura into the sea."

"Ishimura then swam over to the Black Cross Knight, who was slowly sinking beneath the surface from the weight of his chain mail. Yet, the ronin quickly saw that the Hospitaller wouldn't drown...as he had already died from burns caused by Taranga's stomach acids."

"Fortunately, for Ishimura, himself, the trained osprey he had been using to secretly send messages back and forth (between himself and his father-in-law, Zahir Khan), was waiting for him on a nearby piece of drifting mast. So, Ishimura swam over to it; shrank himself down; and flew back to Debal astride the osprey's neck."

tbc

* * * * *

Lodge President Arthur B. Fox shook hands with his guest.

"How was your New Year, Professor Phillips?"

The sixty-two year-old archeologist smiled.

"Very productive."

Fox arched his eyebrows.

"You mean...?"

"It's confirmed. Ishimura's last living descendant became a post-Meiji ronin. Emigrating to the Chinese mainland, where he ultimately entered the service of a rather brutal warlord named Chen Wu Lung; 'the Black Dragon of Lanchou.' He became Chen's son-in-law, after helping to rescue the man's daughter from some Dongan rebels.* But, both he and the warlord were later killed while fighting against the International Relief Expedition, during the Boxer Rebellion. And, the ronin's widow suffered a fatal miscarriage during the second trimester of her first pregnancy! So, all her personal effects were inherited by her brother, Chen Ying; the new and present warlord."

"Including Ishimura's map to Kapu Hiva?"

The professor nodded.

"So, what can the Manhattan Lodge do to help?"

"When I was a boy," Phillips replied: "..., I heard tales of a daring Dutch seadog named Boojum Vandersnatch, who did a lot of blockade-running for the Confederacy out of Sint Maarten. The fortune he accumulated, as a result, was increased by his son, who shipped freighters full of picks and shovels up to Anchorage during the Alaskan Gold Rush. But, now, rumor has it that the grandson is only keeping the company in the black through rum-running!"

"So, with a little help from the Justice Department, I believe I could convince Mr. Vandersnatch to use his various 'business associates' to help us contact Warlord Chen."

The lodge president smirked.

"Consider it done."

* * * * *

SOUTH ATLANTIC CITY, NEW JERSEY
(SEVEN MONTHS LATER)

They met in the Howdah Suite of the Elephant Hotel. After some preliminary hand-shaking and sipping of (non-alcoholic) ice tea, the two men got down to business.

"How did your trip to the Orient go?" asked Fox.

Professor Phillips shook his head.

"The man will not part with it for all the money in the world. He's only interested in power. And, he thinks American military-issue tommy guns will help him achieve that power!"

"What?!"

The professor solemnly nodded.

"Over the next two years, he will systematically trade us raw opium (which he has, heretofore, traded for war-surplus British arms from Hong Kong) for those tommy guns. At the end of that two-year period, he will throw in the map as a 'free bonus.' "

"The arrogant blackguard!"

"I concur with your assessment. Yet, it doesn't change the fact that what happend in Michigan, last month, makes it more imperative than ever that we find the Hsia Jie-ji. Because, I don't think our world can survive another pair of back-to-back calamities like we've suffered through these past seven years!"

"Even it means committing what is tantamount to treason?"

The professor nodded again.

"Very well," said Fox: "I'll contact General Hopkins at the Pentagon. The arrangements we make will have to be elaborate ones. And, that will require his influence within the War Department!"

* * * * *

FISHERMAN'S WHARF,
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIF.
(DEC. 24, 1922)

Professor Phillips walked toward the end of the fog-shrouded pier. Half way there, he saw the agreed-upon signal. A hurrican lantern lifted once, vertically. Then, once more, side to side.

"Captain Lancer, I presume?"

He looked at the thinner and older of the two men before him.

" It's 'Matt' to my friends. And anybody who pays me as much as you did is definitely a friend! But, where are my manners? This is my godson; Gianni Martelli. Better known in boxing circles as 'Jack the Hammer.' "

The professor doffed his weather-beaten old top hat, and the younger man nodded in acknowledgement.

"Well?" Phillips now asked, getting right to the point: "Did you get it?"

"Oh, yeah! It took twenty-four straight hours of poker, and a helluva lot of Irish whiskey. But, the Ishimura map is now mine. Or, should I say, yours? Whatever his other faults, at least Chen Ying honors his gambling debts."

The professor sighed with relief: "Good! Because even the Knights of Melion don't have enough influence to side-track a Federal investigative task force, forever!! One too many tommy guns went missing from the Rock Island arsenal for that."

As all three men went walking back to the Pierce-Arrow town car waiting for them, at the landward end of the pier, Lancer asked how long Phillips thought it would take to form a complete expedition.

The professor shrugged: "With luck? We should be ready by April."

tbc

PHILADELPHIA LODGE,
KNIGHTS OF MELION,
PHILADELPHIA, PA.
(JUNE 19, 1923)

* * * * *

Lodge President Ryan Therebel had chosen to break the news, personally.

"Dr. McGee and young Liebenkraft were the sole survivors.
Everyone else either died of ciguatera poisoning, or was murdered. Some, by Von Hauptmann's pirates. The rest, by the degenerate natives of that island!"

"From what the FBI has managed to piece together, Von Hauptmann had spent the World War as captain of a commerce raider called the U-168. After the Armistice, he emigrated to South America. Becoming a 'free-lance advisor' to the Chilean navy on a decommissioned E-class sub (the SS-26) that they had just purchased from Uncle Sam for Antarctic exploration. Unfortunately, for them, he ultimately wound up stealing it, with the help of his old war-time crew! And, they subsequently used it for smuggling all manner of contraband...when not engaged in full-fledged piracy."

"I can only hope you take comfort in the fact that poetic justice swiftly caught up with him. And, once again, please accept my deepest condolences on the loss of your father."

Ash Phillips did not reply. He merely nodded; stood up; and shook the older man's hand before leaving.

* * * * *

THE ISLAND OF KAPU HIVA
(MARCH 15, 1943)

The Salmon-class submarine U.S.S. Razorfish surfaced beneath a starry sky. A few minutes later, the hatch on top of the conning tower opened up. The first two people to emerge from it were a pair of enlisted seamen. One was armed with a Garand M-1 rifle. The other, with an infra-red snooperscope. The two of them performed a slow, clockwise circle before informing those still below that it was all clear.

They were subsequently joined by Captain Hobart Ross (USN), Dr. Ash Phillips, and Alejandro Herrera of Valparaiso, Chile.

Ash looked through the snooperscope after the captain. He then passed the device to the seven foot-tall man next to him!

"There it is, Alika," said the former (using the latter's Polynesian name) in Spanish: "Tomorrow morning, if luck is with us? We'll go ashore; set up camp; then, you can use your ancestral ability to find the ship and salvage it. All in one day!"

"And, if I am required to do more with that ability than just salvage?" replied the Chilean-born Easter Islander: "What, then?"

Ash merely shrugged: "We will have to pray that God is with us."

It was Ash who had explained the historical roots of their strange mission. Including the island's one-time status (according to legend) as the religious center of Mu'u Hiva. A proto-Polynesian counterpart of Atlantis, more often referred to as just "Mu," for short.

"If Dr. McGee wasn't just hallucinating...if Taranga really does exist...she won't like us trespassing. And, in that case? Your ancestral ability is the only thing that might stand between us and total extermination. Comprende'?"

Alika nodded: "Si, senor."

* * * * *

MARCH 16, 1943

The day dawned clear and bright. And, after breakfast in the captain's wardroom, Ash and Alika got up to finalize the preparations for their landfall. The two of them would be in one self-inflatable life raft (because of Alika's seven foot stature). While half a dozen sailors paddled after them in an identical raft. And, both rafts were only half way to shore when it happened.

Taranga of Kapu Hiva made a personal appearance.

Next: WRESTLING WITH A MER-GIANTESS

* * * * *

It began with a series of large bubbles hitting the surface. Isolated bubblings, initially. But, then they began to converge. Sort of like the bubbles in a tea kettle slowly coming to boil.

The contingent of sailors in the second raft paddled portside, then starboard, in an effort to maintain their equilibrium. Yet, ultimately, they still wound up capsizing. Even worse, only two of the sailors managed to surface, before being dragged back under with a scream. And, the raft containing Alika Herrera and Ash Phillips was going to be next, any second!

Unless...

"Alika! Put on your snorkeling mask and dive overboard. Quick! If this is what I think it is,..."

The seven-foot tall Polynesian was way ahead of him and cannon-balled into the water. A moment later, _she_ rose to the surface. Taranga of Kapu Hiva Cursed guardian of the soma'loa tree.

Ash had to admit; she was even more beautiful than the Ishimura autobiography had described. Voluptuously round breasts. Raven-black hair falling halfway to her waist. And, skin the same golden-brown as the sweetest honey!

"So!" she exclaimed: "Once more, menehunes come to my island seeking to steal what is not theirs.* And, according to what I mystically gleaned from the little seamen I just swallowed, you are the son of Professor Howard Phillips. Leader of the previous menehunes!"

"But, not your enemy!!" Ash hastened to add: "We are not here for the soma'loa fruit. We're simply here for Le Bec-de-bardiche Giserne Chinois."

"You mean, the Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie?" the hundred foot-tall mermaid retorted: "Oh, yes! I remember it well. Painfully so! That accursed Hospitaller became the first menehune to escape my stomach because of it. But, I assure you, he will be the last. And, no matter what pantheon they come from, no fellow goddess..."

"Don't you mean, 'demoness?' " Ash defiantly interrupted.

"...will suffer that same fate," Taranga concluded (ignoring his taunt): "The dagger-axe stays here. And, now, so will everyone of you!!!"

Yet, just as she began reaching down for Ash, with her enormous right hand, Alika sprang up out of the water. Now, one hundred feet tall, himself! And, with the element of surprise momentarily on his side, he dragged _her_ back under. His left arm around her throat. And, his right hand wielding a Bowie knife just as proportionately enlarged as his face mask.

[For some reason they could never explain, whatever Alika wore on his person gigantized with him. Yet, just the opposite was true with his sister, Kaikala!]

The ensuing battle churned up the water twice as roughly as before. Through some miracle, however, Ash's raft managed to stay upright. But, he was--quite understandably--too preoccupied to focus his undivided attention on that battle. Only Captain Ross, aboard the Razorfish, witnessed the whole thing from atop the conning tower. Through his binoculars, he saw a giant pair of dungaree-clad legs entangled with an equally huge fish tail.

Then, they rolled over. Revealing the upper torso of a giant man and woman trying to kill each other. The former, with a knife. The latter, with suddenly shark-like teeth!

Then, they repeated the cycle. In the prccess, the water started to turn red. And, that, in turn,...

...is when the Aitu Ai-Kanaka began to climb aboard.

"Skipper!" screamed the executive officer.

Ross hurriedly activated the P.A. system.

"General quarters! All hands on deck! Repel boarders! Repeat: repel boarders!"

The crew of the Razorfish had been briefed on what they might encounter if any number of them set foot on the island. And, naturally, most of them had been skeptical. But, that skepticism was gone, now.

Flamethrowers, bayonet-tipped Garand rifles, and Colt M-1911's went up against the claws and fangs of monstrosities that looked equal parts fish, frog, horse, and ape. And, there was a great many casualties on both sides! But, it was the last-second addition of flare-ignited Molotov cocktails (plus the throwing of hand grenades in the water) that turned the tables. Driving the sub's inhuman invaders back to shore.

As for the fight between Alika and Taranga?

In the end, the former's Bowie knife (which had been blessed by the same naval chaplain who had blessed the ammunition of the sub's firearms) took its toll on the latter's regnenerative capabilties. The mer-giantess broke off her attack and swam off to her hidden lair.

"Senor Phillips! Tu eres bien?"

The second-generation archeologist nodded.

"What about the dragonship?" he now asked: "Were you able to spot it during the fracas?"

The Chilean-born giant grinned: "There was no need. Look what I found braided into her hair!"

The knife-severed locks that he let fall atop Ash's raft looked more like black seaweed! But, sure enough; there was no mistake about what was tangled up within them. The sunlight glinting off the solid gold likeness of Chi Yue was almost blinding.

tbc

* * * * *

Unlike most other first-generation operatives of the CIA, Bryce Paxton had not served in the O.S.S. during World War II. Rather, he had been stationed in South America as part of the FBI's semi-autonomous Special Intelligence Service! But, following the dissolution of the SIS, in January of 1946, he was transferred to the American embassy in Paris to serve as the Bureau's liason with Interpol.

It was an office job he quickly grew tired of, however. So, when the fledgling Central Intelligence Agency approached him for recruitment, in mid-1947, he jumped at the chance! Consequently, his first major assignment for them involved the resurrection of his old photojournalist cover. Thereby providing himself and a former Mexican fighter-pilot (named Pepe Garcia) a seemingly legitimate reason for taking aerial photographs of the Soviet blockade that was set up around Berlin in 1948.

Ironically, Paxton now sat across from someone he had not seen in nine years. A fellow veteran of WWII who had also been part of Operation: Beanstalk.* Major Robert Howard Phillips; G-2/CIA liason officer.

"How credible is this threat?" the latter now asked.

"Very! Stalin first heard about them from Anatoly Ivanovitch Berkov. An early agent-provocateur for the Communists, who spent most of World War I exiled in Ryojun. But, who's now a bigwig in the NKVD. Stalin subsequently employed their services to assassinate Trotsky...and the Nazis similarly used them against FDR!"

Major Phillips shook his head in near-total disbelief.

"The man is that desperate to end the Korean stalemate?"

Paxton nodded: "Even more than Ike."

The major rested his chin upon his steepled fingers, in deep thought, before finally replying.

"I see only one way out of this. We beat them to the punch."

"I beg your pardon?!" exclaimed Paxton.

"What I mean is; we hire these Heikegani-ryu away from Stalin...and turn them against him."

The CIA operative sighed with relief.

"I don't think I'll have any trouble selling the DCI on that idea. But, what about the Joint Chiefs?"

"You leave them to me."

* * * * *

PHILADELPHIA LODGE,
KNIGHTS OF MELION,
PHILADELPHIA, PENN.
(ONE WEEK LATER)

"How did Gramps finally get in touch with Chen Ying?"

Lodge President Ash Phillips looked at his son (briefly beaming, with fatherly pride, at how dashing the latter looked in his uniform), before answering.

"Boojum Vandersnatch III knew a guy named Joe Kennedy, who knew a certain businessman in Bostonian Chinatown, who had ties to a secret society called the Earth Tiger Tong. A letter-of-introduction from the latter is what finally achieved an audience between Warlord Chen and your grandfather."

"Do you happen to remember the name of this Chinatown 'businessman?' "

Ash's facial expression became deadly serious.

"This isn't just a social call, is it?"

The now thirty-something major shook his head.

"I need someone with heavyweight connections in the Orient to arrange a meeting between me and the head of some Japanese outfit called the Heikegani-ryu. It's a matter of life-and-death, Dad. And, I'm afraid I mean that literally!"

Ash sighed: "If he's still among the living? Ask for Fukien Yu."

* * * * *

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
(TWO MONTHS LATER)

Yu Chao Li offered his distinguished visitor some tea. And, Major Phillips graciously nodded in the affirmative. After a minute or two of sipping, the army intelligence officer (who, today, was wearing civilian garb) got right to the point.

"Have you heard anything, yet, from your affiliates in Japan?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," replied the elderly widower (most of whose fortune came from a chain of dry-cleaning stores up and down the Eastern Seaboard).

"Pro or con?" prompted Phillips.

"They will take the assignment," said Yu: "But, their price will be a steep one. And, it will not be a monetary one!"

"I don't understand," confessed the major.

"The jonin of the Heikegani-ryu...wishes the Hsia Jie-ji as payment."

tbc

* * * * *

"So?" began John Aaron Phillips (President Emeritus of the Independent Petroleum Company): "How'd it go?"

Major Robert Phillips scowled at his paternal great-uncle.

"Why do I get the feeling you have the Philadelphia Lodge bugged, or something?"

The older man laughed, semi-ruefully.

"I don't have it bugged! I just know your old man. Stubborn as all get-out...just like his own father. Of course, my brother never called it 'stubborness,' when appraising himself! It was merely 'dogged determination,' instead. Which, I suppose, is a _good_ thing for someone striving to become a world-famous archeologist. But, things have changed since your granfather's day. We have to consider the future. Like it or not, Labia is still out there, somewhere. Still looking for Ovaria's place of imprisonment! And, every day we allow her to keep drawing breath is one more day she's closer to succeeding."

"A nice speech, Uncle John. But, I need the Hsia Jie-ji as payment for the Heikegani-ryu. Without it, Stalin keeps drawing breath...while Ike is one day closer to assassination. And, that could do worse than end the Korean War in Russia's favor! It could lead to nuclear armageddon!!"

"All the more reason why I'm glad I planted a private eye among the museum staff," replied the older man.

"Come again?"

John Aaron Phillips explained how his nephew--Bob's father--had used the post-WWII donation of the dagger-axe, to the American Museum of Natural History, as an elaborate ruse to have the Manhattan Lodge smuggle it out of the country, altogether!

"Not for monetary gain, mind you," the older man hastened to add: "Ash is much too altruistic for that. No, he was merely having it returned to the Eastern Hemisphere. Just like everybody else and their brother has periodically tried to do, for the last eight hundred years! To break the alleged curse on it."

"Are you trying to tell me that Dad had it returned to where Alexander the Great supposedly found it? The ancient ruins of Harapa, in India?"

"Nah! Too many other archeologists are poking around there, these days. Mohenjo-daro, too. So, he had the dagger-axe taken someplace where he was sure it would never be found. Someplace _famous_ for permanent disappearances! Mount Kalkajaka, in Australia."

"And, all this was discovered by one private eye?!" exclaimed Bob Phillips, quite dubiously.

"Over the last nine years, yeah."

The army intelligence officer sipped at his Long Island "iced tea," while he contemplated this admittedly startling information.

"It won't be easy organizing an expedition without the Knights catching on," he mused: "And, even if we accomplish that, there's also the difficulty of hiring local laborers once we get down under. The aborigines of that region consider the mountain to be the sacred home of Kadroo Wanjina.* Daughter of Kunapipi and the Rainbow Serpent!"

The older man nodded: "I know. That's why I've made arrangements with a certain employment agency in Hong Kong. I can get you all the diggers you need...courtesy of the Bear Eagle Tong. Long-time rivals of the Earth Tigers!"

tbc

* * * * *

Major Robert Howard Phillips looked at his octagenarian great-uncle as if he had suddenly developed two extra heads.

"Let me get this straight. You want me to use laborers, hired by you, through the rivals of the Chinese tong that's been serving as our chief negotiator with the Heikegani-ryu?"

John Aaron Phillips shook his head.

"They weren't hired by me. They were hired by Chemique Internationale! A joint Anglo-French business venture that Vandersnatch Shipping and I recently 'invested' in. They have interests ranging from perfume factories in Marseilles to oil-drilling platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. With equipment for the latter supplied by Indepetroco. And, with Vandersnatch tankers transporting their output!"

The younger man smirked.

"I see. And, has this joint venture recently begun wildcatting anywhere in the Australasian region, by any chance?"

His great-uncle's smirk was even bigger.

"Funny you should ask...!"

* * * * *

SEA OF JAPAN
(OCT. 25, 1952)

The meeting took place in the captain's cabin aboard the Midway-class aircraft carrier "U.S.S. Java Sea." And, the people present (in addition to Captain Cuthbert Holmesby, himself) included Major Phillips; Captain Hobart Ross of the Flasher-class submarine "U.S.S. Tomcod;" and First Lt. Gerard Elkhorn (USMC Airwing).

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," prompted Ross: "Tell them what you told me."

The twenty-something young man nervously nodded.

"The Chickasaws were flying in textbook formation. Each one carrying ten of the Cantonese laborers that had been hired to help us set up the base camp for our 'wildcatting' of Black Mountain.* And, we were halfway between Port Moresby and Cooktown when it...happened."

"What happened?" demanded Phillips.

"We...we were attacked, sir."

"Attacked?! By whom?"

"Not by whom, sir. By what! It was something...monstrous. Literally, monstrous!!"

"Could you be a little _more_ specific, lieutenant?"

Noting the exasperation in the major's voice, Elkhorn nodded.

"It...it looked like a dinosaur, sir. Only, no dinosaur I'd ever seen before at any museum! It was more like...well, it had a tail like a snake; wings like a bat; and the upper torso of a...a naked woman!!!"

Holmesby could not figure which he was more shocked by: the lieutenant's description; or the _lack_ of shocked amazement on the other officers' faces. What he heard a second later, however, eclipsed both of those for shock value.

"How big was this snake-tailed, bat-winged woman?" asked Phillips (with no skepticism in his voice, whatsoever).

"About a hundred--maybe even a hundred fifty--feet long. And, her wings were about another fifty feet from tip to tip!"

"I see. And, what did she do when she began her attack?"

It turned out that, of the five helicopters that were supposedly civilian-owned, the first two had collided with each other in trying to stabilize themselves from the turbulence created by this flying giantess' initial pass. Exploding almost on contact. The giantess had then performed a surprisingly nimble U-turn for something so massive. And, in passing over the three remaining helicopters, she had flicked her tail like an Australian cattleman's whip!

Smashing the lieutenant's helicopter to pieces even before it landed in the water.

"The two left over? She grabbed them up in those big, clawed hands of hers...and squeezed. Scrunching them up like scrap paper! The guys inside never had a chance. After that? She...it...flew off. With me and one of the Chinese guys as the only survivors."

"God must've been with us, though. Because we got picked up by some Torres Island fishermen within fifteen minutes! Apparently, they'd seen the same thing we did. Because, when I asked them what that was, one of them (who only spoke a little pidgin-English) kept saying this one word, over and over."

" 'Ropen! Ropen!' "

tbc

* * * * *

The marine lieutenant concluded his story by relating how the Australian Flying Doctor Service shuttled him from Cooktown to Canberra, where he was met by a medical officer and two yeoman nurses from the American embassy's marine guard contingent. Two days later, a Bell Sioux whirlybird flew him to Sydney.* There, he boarded the "Tomcod" (just arrived from American Samoa) for a rendezvous with the "Java Sea."

The aircraft carrier from which the ill-fated Chickasaws had initially launched.

Subsequently, Major Phillips made a scrambled radiophone call to Philadelphia, relating all of this to his father. Ash Phillips, however, was more intrigued by the culprit's physical description than anything else.

"Ropen?!" he exclaimed: "How very interesting! That's the term used by the Papuans of Umboi Island for what's basically their local equivalent of the Amerindian thunderbird. Yet, the lieutenant's description sounds more like a female avatar of Hatuibwari! The draconic creator god of Solomon Islands mythology. Foreign sailors' tales must have gotten the two concepts mixed up in the minds of Torres Strait islanders."

"Save the speculation for your next academic conference, Dad," snapped his son: "Is that she-creature why you chose Mount Kalkajaka as the dagger-axe's new hiding place?"

There was a bit of an awkward pause before Ash Phillips finally answered.

"Yes."

Major Phillips' response was immediate and unequivocal.

"Are you insane?! How could you do such a thing? That weapon is one of the few things, in this whole world, that can deal a permanent death blow to the Melissae and their misbegotten progeny! You had no right..."

"As President of the Philadelphia Lodge, I had every right!!" his father rebutted in: "The Hsia Jie-ji has brought nothing but misfortune to every individual who's owned it, and whatever country he/she has resided in. As to permanently killing the Melissae? Why use the dagger-axe, when we can use Christian-blessed weapons like Alika Herrera's Bowie knife? You weren't at Kapu Hiva, Bob. I was. I saw how close Taranga came to being slain, once and for all, with that blade!"

"But, the Heikegani-ryu don't want a Bowie knife in exchange for Stalin's death," his son persisted: "They want the dagger-axe."

"Then, find some other way to kill that moustached maniac! Uncle Sam shouldn't be doing business with FDR's killers, anyway."

That pronouncement was followed by the abrupt hanging up of the telephone in Philadelphia.

"I take it he still refuses?" Capt. Ross asked, semi-rhetorically (the call having been made from the "Tomcod").

Major Phillips nodded...adding:

"But, I can be stubborn as all get-out, too. Can your radioman patch me through to this phone number?"

The army intelligence officer wrote something down on a slip of blank white paper, before handing it to the submarine captain.

"I don't see why not," replied the latter: "Who's at the other end?"

Major Phillips grimly smiled: "The President of the Detroit Lodge."

* * * * *

HOLLAND, MICHIGAN, USA
(TWO DAYS LATER)

Ronald Van Helsing took the receiver of the telephone from his wife's hands.

"Hello?"

"Ron? My name is John Scrivener. Head of the Knights of Melion in Detroit. And, I have a job for you. One related to your family's...traditional...line of work."

tbc

* * * * *

The Buru-nagas came to the surface of Lake George. Shifting back to their more human-looking female forms as they did so. Of course, once they had, the cold night air raised gooseflesh on the muscular upper torsos that made them more closely resemble hermaphroditic wrestlers!

Fortunately, their local contacts were on time.

The general public thought the Twin Cities chapter of the Sisterhood Of Bellona was merely an organization similar to the Gold Star Mothers. That is; an organization composed purely of those women who had lost loved ones in World War II and, more recently, South Korea. It had taken over thirty years to rebuild and expand, following the Camp New Hope debacle in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan!* But, now, they were numerous enough that they could finally strike back.

And, their first blow would be dealt against the innocent children of the nearby town during their annual Halloween Parade.

"Here!" exclaimed the woman in charge, as she handed out towels: "Dry yourselves off. Then, put these on."

She pointed to three separate piles of clothes. Each pile marked with a white cardboard sign on which a number had been drawn in black felt-tip marking pen. The first pile consisted of long-Johns. The second pile consisted of blue denim cover-alls. And, the third pile consisted of bedsheets with little pairs of holes cut into each sheet!

"The underwear and cover-alls will keep you warm until your task is done. The bed sheets will make everyone think you're participating in the parade as ghosts! When you reach the mayor's reviewing stand..."

"We sssssssssssssstrike!" hissed the lead virago (with a fiendish grin).

Her contact (a recent immigrant from El Paso, Texas, who called herself "Astartita") grinned back, and nodded. The grin left her face, however, after a brief whooshing noise was heard. Followed by a sickening "thunk" that made Astartita's posture go rigid. All before she fell to the ground, face-first, with a crossbow quarrel in her back!

Hissing in startlement and anger, the Buru-nagas quickly shifted back to their bipedal varanid forms, while the local Sisters Of Bellona merely screamed. Furthermore, that screaming and hissing only increased when a thunderously loud voice suddenly shouted (in fluent Spanish):

"MUERTE A TODOS EMPUSAE!"

This was instantly followed by a bare right foot, roughly the length and width of a canoe, apparently materializing out of thin air. A bare right foot that crushed Astartita's corpse to a bloody pulp!

"Don't stop, Alika!" shouted Ron Van Helsing through his old rowing coxswain's megaphone: "Follow through! Follow through!"

The hundred foot-tall Easter Islander did as instructed. As he had spent the last five days training to do! Namely; using his giant size to augment the vampire-hunting techniques he had been taught (in a veritable crash course) by the man from Holland, Michigan.

The Buru-nagas who had swum all the way up the Mississippi River, via the Rum River, tried to escape back into the water. Only to be impaled, like shrimps on a fork, by proportionately gigantized quarrels! While the non-shapeshifting Sisters Of Bellona were mowed down by a silenced Browning Hi-Power in nine millimeter...that was now the size of a howitzer.

And, it was only when both men were sure that all their targets were dead that Alika used his bare left foot to obliterate every single trace of the corpses. Five minutes after doing so (then cleaning his feet off in the lake), Alika resumed his comparatively less conspicuous height of seven feet tall.

"Was good, Ronaldo?" he asked, half-rhetoricaly/half-hopefully, in his limited English.

"Mui bueno!" replied Ron, with a thumb's-up sign: "I now believe you're ready for Australia."

NEXT: DOGFIGHT WITH A WINGED GIANTESS

* * * * *

Officially, it was going to be a war game under the terms of the ANZUS Treaty.* And, just as officially, the purpose of the game was to test which kind of aircraft the DOD would rule as more feasible to mass produce. The Convair NB-36 Peacemaker (with six pusher propellors, Jet-Assisted Take Off, and portable fighter escort in the form of the McDonnell XF-85 Goblin); or an American version of the English Electric B2 jet fighter-bomber (already affectionately known by RAAF pilots as "the Canberra").

The means by which this was to be determined? The shooting down of a World War II-surplus barrage balloon (moored somewhere in northern Queensland) with a Chinese dragon painted on it. The respective test pilots having been ordered to regard the balloon as a Mig 15 fighter jet, piloted by a Communist Chinese national, seeking to shoot down a pair of Piasecki Shawnee Workhorses. And, whichever aircraft shot the balloon down first, its manufacturer would be the winner.

In reality, however, the helicopters were once more bound towards Mount Kalkajaka. But, this time, the passengers were not a mixed bag of Chinese contract laborers from Hong Kong and U.S. Navy Seabee foremen. This time, the passengers were Roman Catholic monks...of the Saint Hubert Society!

Collectively known as "Tien Kou" (or "Heavenly Dogs"), these monks were Christianized Eurasian orphans from Fort Bayard, China, who had been raised by Corsican Benandanti; endowed with the same lycanthropic abilities thereof; and, then, properly trained in their use. With their part of this masterplan calling for them to disembark from the Shawnees at the foot of Mount Kalkajaka...and then proceed to sniff around underground.

The "Tomcod" (with just its conning tower showing above the surface) had two seamen scanning the skies above with binoculars. And, what they had each been dreading to see was finally spotted.

"Lookout 1 to Captain! Lookout 1 to Captain! Bogie at eight o'clock, headed towards two o'clock, at approximately 100mph! Over."

"Roger that, Lookout 1," replied Capt. Ross: "Sparks? Get me that Peacemaker!"

The radioman immediately complied.

"Tomcod to Turtledove. Tomcod to Turtledove. Do you read? Over."

"Turtledove to Tomcod. Read you, loud and clear. Over!"

"Tomcod to Turtledove. Bogie spotted heading for Flying Bananas. What's your present position? Over."

"Fifty miles out, and closing, Tomcod. Over."

"Strongly recommend you deploy Hummingbird, at once. Over!!"

"Roger that, Tomcod! Turtledove, over and out."

The pilot of the NB-36--which had taken off from London, England, nearly twelve hours earlier--immediately had Sergeant Pepe Garcia enter the egg-shaped, ramjet-powered, short-range fighter jet. The latter was then lowered from the otherwise-empty bomb bay by a quartet of umbilical cords loosely referred to as a trapeze harness. Once the Goblin was clear of the hydraulic trap doors, Garcia pressed the button that lowered the semi-foldable delta wings into place.

"Hummingbird to Turtledove. Ready to deploy. Over."

"Roger that, Hummingbird. Deploying in five--four--three--two--ONE!"

The snub fighter's engine ignited within ten seconds of release from the harness. The fuel in its tanks only good for thirty straight minutes of flying (max. speed: 650mph). Five of which had already elapsed by the time he spotted his target converging on the Shawnees.

So, he immediately took the Goblin into a dive, before opening up with the quarter of 2.0mm Browning light machine guns (two per wing). And, the snake-tailed, bat-winged giantess he aimed at did not ignore the fusillade for long.

Not with blessed steeljackets being fired!

"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"

As anticipated, the flying she-demon turned around and came after him. So, Garcia immediately did a U-turn with the Goblin. Prompting the she-demon to increase the rate with which it flapped her giant wings in order to catch up!

When she almost had, Garcia banked the Goblin sharply to the left. He then doubled back and fired a few more rounds. These bullets tracing a horizontal pattern across her giant back!

So, once more the giant she-demon changed direction. And, once again, the Goblin evaded her. This time, by banking sharply to the right! Only, this time, he did not circle around to strafe her a third time. This time, he began a pendulum-like motion. Much like the owner of a cat waving a piece of string, with a tin foil ball, in front of said feline.

"Hummingbird to Turtledove! This hag's getting too close for comfort! Where the frig's Jumping Jack? Over."

"He just deployed, Hummingbird. He's now free-falling toward your six at a ninety-degree angle. And, he should be reaching you, just--about--NOW!"

With a "thud" that was audible, even through the Goblin's canopy, Alika Herrera (who had shot up to his hundred foot-height in the midst of his free fall) collided in mid-air with Kadroo Wanjina. The two of them landing in the waters of the strait with an even louder splash! So, Garcia immediately doubled back to circle the area of battle.

The water below frothed and frothed for at least ten minutes. Sometimes, the she-demon's head rose above the surface. Other times, Alika's did. It was during this interim that Garcia's radio came back to life.

"Frigatebird to Hummingbird. Frigatebird to Hummingbird. Do you read? Over."

"Hummingbird to Frigatebird. Read you, loud and clear. Over."

The Canberra B2 had taken off from the British aircraft carrier "HMS Redoubtable II" (out of Hong Kong via New Zealand), just two minutes after picking up the transmission about the Goblin's launch. Now, they were almost on the scene.

"Frigatebird to Hummingbird. How goes the battle? Over."

Almost on cue, there was a veritable geyser of water that erupted upward from the strait.

"Red Alert! Red Alert! Big Balloon has busted loose. Repeat: Big Balloon has busted loose! Come in, guns blazing!! Over!"

"Rodger that!" replied the British pilot: "We have her in our sights."

Five seconds later, the Hispano-Suiza machine cannons (mounted two per wing) began firing blessed ammunition at the giant she-demon. Finishing off what the Goblin's blessed bullets--and Alika's blessed Bowie knife--had started. Ultimately causing her to spontaneously combust from within!

In the end, the war game was publicly announced to have been a success. Plans for mass production of the NB-36 and XF-85 would be permanently scrapped, in favor of the Canberra. With the Martin Aircraft Company being the American defense contractor being awarded the right to mass produce it as the USAF B-57.

As for the Goblin that Pepe Garcia had flown? He allowed it to crash-land into the strait after hitting the button for the ejection seat. The "Tomcod" picked him up within fifteen minutes of his parachute landing in the water.

Which was five minutes after they had pulled a badly-wounded Alika from the water.

The sub's chief medical officer did not know if the Chilean-born Easter Islander would live. But, this news was (arguably) balanced out by Major Phillips personally radioing the "Tomcod" with news from Cooktown.

"The Heavenly Dogs succeeded in fetching the stick," he told them: "Repeat: stick successfully fetched! This is Penn Pal. Over and out."

tbc

* * * * *

The doctors in the intensive care unit had been forced to put two beds together in order to accomodate Alika Herrera's seven foot-tall frame!

Other than that, however, his condition was miraculously fine. His breathing, within the oxygen tent, was steady and even. And, he had not popped any of the stitches in his chest since the initial eight hours of surgery aboard the "Tomcod."

Looking at him through the glass partition, Ash Phillips wore a facial expression that could only be described as...severely disappointed.

"You deliberately went behind my back," he now muttered.

"You left us no other choice," replied his son: "If it's any consolation, though, Eisenhower has lived to win the election. And, the Hsia Jie-ji is still in the Eastern Hemisphere! It's simply that, soon, the same will no longer hold true for Stalin."

"Then, I hope you never live long enough to regret the high price you paid for this victory, Bob! Because if there's one thing I've learned, in my nearly fifty-six years on this Earth, is that there is no such thing as making diabolical deals without getting your fingers burnt."

With that, the elder Phillips put his fedora back on...and walked away.

Four months later--March 5, 1953, to be precise--came the world-wide announcement of Josef Stalin's death from "natural causes." Twenty-four hours after that, Dr. Ash Phillips resigned his post as President of the Philadelphia Lodge of the Knights of Melion. Instead, he resumed going abroad on archeological digs. In fact, he became so consumed by his work that he did not even attend the funeral of his Uncle John!

The aging oil tycoon passed away, in 1955, at the age of ninety-two. And, never having had any children of his own, his will bequeathed his stock shares in the Independent Petroleum Company to his nephew. Ash, however, wanted nothing to do with the oil business. So, he sold the shares to an overseas corporation: Chemique Internationale.

The latter promptly Americanized their name to "Interchem." And, it was under this new name that the Defense Department awarded them the right to analyze--and the responsibility to ultimately duplicate--a certain biochemical (stolen from a certain Soviet laboratory in Cuba) in October of 1962.

The effects this biochemical had on the human body were astounding, to say the least. And no one could vouch for this better than Pepe Garcia of the CIA.

"If I wasn't seeing this for myself," muttered Colonel Robert Phillips: "...I wouldn't dare believe it!"

"With all due respect, sir?" retorted Myron Meriwether (Garcia's partner): "After all the trouble we had getting here, you'd better believe it...sir!* "

"Muzzle it, Meriwether!" snapped Deputy Director Paxton: "Go wait outside."

"Sir!" replied the younger man (with a semi-curt salute): "Yes, sir."

"Don't take it personally, colonel," a new (and rather shrill) voice chimed in: "The kid was recruited fresh out of the Marine Corps. They take loyalty pretty seriously."

Phillips looked at the source of that voice...through the magnifying lens of the reading lamp currently being employed by the scientific team from DARPA.

"I understand, Mr. Garcia. I just hope you understand that I've only seen photos of men your current size, once before. And, according to the files attached to those photos, the latter had been injected with some kind of neuro-toxin via a bee-like sting...more than fifty years ago!"

Paxton nodded: "I've seen those same files. Apparently, the closest chemical match that could be found to that toxin was the stuff that makes Siberian salamanders unpalatable to fish."

Colonel Phillips looked up with interest.

"Any particular part of Siberia?"

"As a matter of fact, yes! The Tunguska River region."

tbc

* * * * *

[Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Gustave Liebenkraft.*]

"2 Jan. 1930:

The New Year has been kind to me. It has re-united me with Klaus Kraus; my former under-graduate roommate at Leipzig! He is a professor of biochemistry, now. With cross-training in pharmacological botany. And after several hours of beer-fueled reminiscing,..."

"...he took me back to his house, where he showed me something astounding in the laboratory he has created for himself, in his proportionately modified basement."

"First, he filled an hypodermic needle with a clear solution of some kind. Then, he took one of the white mice he breeds for his experiments...and injected it with the solution."

"In ninety seconds, it had grown to the size of a rat!"

" 'Gott in Himmel!" I exclaimed: 'How...?' "

" 'Distilled water containing microscopic spores," he replied: 'Spores I extracted from several mushrooms I found growing at the base of a first-generation regrowth conifer near Lake Cheko. In the Tunguska River region of Siberia!' "

Colonel Robert Phillips looked up from the classified microfilm he had been reading in the sub-basement archives of Fort Holabird. He knew his memory had not been playing tricks on him! He then resumed reading Liebenkraft's narrative about the Thule Society sending a scientific expedition to that part of Siberia on the twentieth anniversary of the Tunguska Event. And, of how they had encountered (among other things) reindeer the size of extinct Irish elk.

That discovery--as he later learned from reading the transcript of Vasco Gonsalves' G-2 debriefing, plus his own perusal of Kraus' confiscated papers--had led to the development of the Nazi giantess formula in 1943. A formula that the Soviets had now seemingly found a counter-active antidote for!

Perhaps the answer was to be found in the journals of Bernhard Heuvelmann. The German zoologist who had been part of the same 1929 expedition as Kraus. So, Colonel Phillips had his adjutant make some discrete inquiries on what had happened to Heuvelmann after the expedition. It turned out that he had fled to London, England, after the Nazi Party seized total power, in Germany, in 1933. From there, he had subsequently emigrated to the United States. Specifically; New Bern, North Carolina. And, much to the colonel's delighted surprise, the man was not only still alive. He was a member of the local Knights of Melion Lodge!

Consequently, the army intelligence veteran found himself shaking hands with Lodge President Elwood Atkins, two days later.

"How can I help you, colonel?" the latter promptly asked him, after they were both seated.

Phillips gave him as much confidental information as he could without violating all of G-2's protocols.

"Would you be able to arrange a meeting between the two of us? I really need to know what other...biological anomalies...he might have encountered at Tunguska."

Atkins pondered this request for a few seconds, then nodded. He then flicked a switch on his office intercom, and ordered his car to be brought around. Ten minutes later, the two men disembarked from it in front of a small house, behind which was a veterinary clinic.

Atkins knocked on the door, and was immediately recognized by the seventy-somethng woman who answered it.

"Elwood!" she exclaimed with a smile.

"Hello, Maxine. Is Barney available? I need to talk to him. Lodge business; very important!"

"I'll see if he's free. Come right in."

"Thank you. But, where are my manners? Colonel Phillips? This is Maxine Heuvelmann (nee Schmidt)."

"Oh, really!" replied Phillips (as he shook her hand): "Are you originally from Germany like your husband?"

"No," she laughed: "I'm merely descended from one of the original Schwyzerdeutsch families that first settled this area."

She then gestured for the two men to sit down while she went out back to see if her husband was between patients. Evidently, he was, for the couple returned within five minutes. And, when Phillips saw the wolf-headed ring of full Lodge Council membership, on Heuvelmann's right index finger, he uttered the eighty-two year-old recognition code of the Knights.

" 'O Death, where is thy sting?' "

The perplexed smile on Dr. Heuvelmann's face instantly disappeared.

tbc

* * * * *

The three men went upstairs to the master bedroom, where Dr. Heuvelmann quickly locked the door. He then gestured to the bed, and the two other men sat down.

"So!" began the naturalized veterinarian: "What is it, precisely, you want of me, Herr Oberst?"

Colonel Phillips told him. When he had concluded, Dr. Heuvelmann ruefully smiled.

"It would be far less time-consuming to tell you what we did _not_ find! But, in answer to your question; how about specimens of Limax flavus...almost twice the size of L. cinereoniger?* Or, adults of S. keyserlingii that looked more like...half-grown Japanese giant salamanders? Or, round gobies....as big as American bullfrogs?!"

Both of the older man's visitors were momentarily dumbfounded.

"How do you account for that, doctor?" Phillips finally managed to inquire.

Heuvelmann shrugged: "It is as you read in Liebenkraft's diary. Something in the 1909 meteorite ultimately contaminated the ground water, and it ultimately ascended through the food chain. The Limax snails absorbed it through consumption of the aforementioned mushrooms. The salamanders fed on the snails; the round gobies fed on them (in their tadpole form); and the snakes..."

"Snakes???" echoed Atkins: "In Siberia?"

"Ach! Ja; I was saving the best for last. In addition to everything else, we found a relict population of Natrix maura pseudocerastes! The horned viperine water snake. A non-venomous Batesian mimic of the true horned viper, previously considered extinct after 'the Year Without A Summer.' Also known, more erroneously, as 'the Little Ice Age of 1815.' "

"And, how abnormally big did these snakes prove to be?" asked the colonel (sensing the pattern).

"About as long as a South American bushmaster."

Phillips now got to his feet, and looked Heuvelmann right in the eye.

"Did any members of your expedition partake of that ground water?"

There was an awkward pause before the latter replied:

"Ja; indirectly."

"Define 'indirectly.' "

"Our guide--a German widow from Konigsberg--was examining a late-blooming specimen of Limonia bicolor, when, suddenly, she got bee-stung. By a member of the Osmia species that had been gathering pollen from one of the blossoms! The allergenic swelling that ensued was...highly unexpected...to say the least."

"You mean, she swelled upward rather than outward?"

Heuvelmann nodded: "To a height of approximately...twenty-seven meters."

"Roughly one hundred feet," Phillips translated for Atkins.

Whereupon, he turned back to Heuvelmann and asked what that German widow's name was, and what had happened to her after the expedition. The naturalized veterinarian could not answer the second question. But, he had no trouble answering the first one, as there was no way he could ever forget a hundred foot-tall naked blonde!

"Her name...was Hertzmann. Gertruda Hertzmann."

Twenty-fours after Phillips had returned to Baltimore, he got a call from one of his operatives in East Berlin.

"An Air Force RB-58, out of Alaska, was making a routine photo-recon flight over one of the Soviet missile bases in the Kurils. And, they took the following from thirty thousand feet."

The photograph that emerged from the Telefax on his stateside desk showed--in full living color--a blonde giantess. Skinny-dipping...near a fleet of Soviet naval vessels.

tbc

* * * * *

She had been born Gertruda Rosenkreuz, in the Silesian town of Breslau, in 1879.* This made her twenty-one when she married Swedenborgian missionary Kristoff Hertzmann, of Konigsberg, East Prussia, at the turn of the century. In 1915, however, they were arrested by the czarist secret police in Vladivostok--on the pretext of being German spies--and shipped off to a concentration camp near Siberia's Lake Baikal.

It was there she lost Kristoff to malnutrition...on what would have been their twentieth wedding anniversary.

The following year, after the liberation of that camp by elements of the U.S. 27th Infantry Regiment (one of many Western military contingents fighting against the Bolshevik take-over of Russia), she returned to Breslau. There, she joined a local branch of the German Order of the Eastern Star. A theosophical organization later assimilated by the Depression-era Thule Society. And when the society approached her, in 1929, to request her services as a guide for their Tunguska River expedition, there was only one reason she agreed. To get hold of some Tungusic shaman's "magic" mushrooms and, thereby, determine whether or not her beloved Kristoff had finally been reincarnated.

It was not mushrooms that seemingly answered her question, however. It was the bee sting that temporarily rendered her comatose!

"Kristoff?!" she had exclaimed in her glorified fever dream: "Is that really you?"

"Ja, mein liebchen. I am communicating with you, in this state, to tell you that you have been given a unique opportunity. When you re-awaken, you will have all the power you need to over-throw the present tyrants of this land. And, those who are gradually becoming just like them. Left; right; it is irrelevant which side of the political fence a government claims to occupy. Tyranny is tyranny! And, tyrants must be dealt with, accordingly."

With that, she had opened her eyes and stood back up.

"Klaus? Bernhard? Where is everyone?"

Whereupon, she heard the faintest of shouting and looked down at her feet. To her amazement, she not only found herself naked. She also found that the rest of the expedition had seemingly shrunk!

"Vas ist los...?"

Professor Kraus (using a hand-held megaphone) had explained the truth to her. Specifically; that no one had shrunken. Rather, it was she who had enlarged to supra-normal proportions!

"How are you feeling?" he had finally asked, after completing the recitation.

"To be truthful?" she had replied: "I feel...quite famished. In fact, I feel like there is only one thing that will satisfy my...enormous appetite."

Whereupon, she had immediately repositioned herself so that she was now kneeling on both knees. And, when that had been accomplished, she scooped up four of the expedtion's rank-and-file laborers (two, in each hand) and began to swallow them. Alive, whole, and head-first!

BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
(33 YEARS LATER)

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Colonel Phillips: "How'd any of them get out of that alive?"

His double-agent in East Berlin had just finished reading him the Thule Society account, of that bizarre incident, from an old Gestapo file. One of many that the Soviets had captured when they first occupied Berlin in May of 1945.

"According to this?" the double-agent replied: "Chinese mercenaries, supplied by the Bear Eagle Tong of Manchuria (as protection against both Red Army patrols and rogue bands of Cossacks) basically anesthetized her with opium-filled sky rockets! And, when she hit the ground unconscious? She shrank back down to normal size!!"

"After that; she was shipped back to Berlin--under heavy intravenous sedation--and put in cold storage. Literally! As part of proto-Nazi experiments in artificial hibernation."

Colonel Phillips paused to consider all he had just been told.

"So, let me get this straight. You're telling me that the East Germans have now thawed her out--for possible use, by the Russians--as a living secret weapon?"

The double-agent's reply was mildly sarcastic.

"Can you think of any other reason why they'd code-name her 'Rusalka?' After a man-eating mermaid from medieval Russian mythology?"

tbc

* * * * *

He had been flown out West aboard an RCAF-surplus DH115 (a two-seated trainer version of the De Havilland Vampire*) piloted by an old acquaintance whom he had not seen for ten years.

Major Gerard Elkhorn; USMC Airwing.

"You've come up in the world," Colonel Phillips had observed during the flight: "No pun intended!"

The major had dutifully chuckled: "Thank you, sir."

But, all merriment had ended once Phillips was shown the film footage from Alaska.

"As far as we can timeline it," began Commodore Joshua Buckler (Office of Naval Intelligence): "...she disappeared from the Kurils within twenty-four hours of that initial recon photo being taken. Smuggled out, we think, aboard this vessel."

Projected on to the screen was a slide photograph of a World War II-era LST of the DeSoto County-class.

"You're looking at the M.S. Zeehavik; of Liberian registry. Originally known as the USS Lamont County, she was lend-leased to the British navy during the Big One. Then, sold to the post-war French navy, who ultimately decommissioned her, seven years ago, before re-selling her to a shipping company, based on the Dutch side of St. Martin's, in the Caribbean."

"What was she doing in the Sea of Okhotsk?" asked the colonel.

"Supposedly picking up food and medical supplies, donated by the Soviets, for refugee relief in the Belgian Congo. Hence, the 'protective escort' of two Lenin-class icebreakers...and five Kildin-class guided missile destroyers."

Commodore Buckler flashed two more slides, of the aforementioned ships, before adding:

"The Soviets claim they wanted to make sure she made it through the Northeast Passage in one piece! But, personally? I think it was so they could off-load their real cargo undercover of the annual polar night."

Here, he had ordered the activation of the Bell & Howell film projector.

"What you're about to see was filmed at our DEW Line base, between Nome and Barrow, by the Special Services officer in charge of the men's off-duty recreation."

The only sound heard in the conference room, for the next ten minutes, was the mosquito-like whine of the projector as it soundlessly depicted the blonde, naked giantess from the original RB-58 photo. Only, this time, she was not skinny-dipping. Rather, this film showed her rising up out of the Bering Sea like Venus. And, then, slowly wading ashore to subsequently devastate everyone and everything in her path!

"As you can see for yourself," remarked the commodore: "...they tried everything to stop her. Grenades; anti-aircraft machine gunfire; even Molotov cocktails! Nothing."

The film finally ended, with the base commander being picked up in the giantess' left hand...and swallowed alive.

"How was the destruction explained away, officially?" Phillips finally managed to ask after the lights came back up.

"An Air Force tanker plane developed engine trouble and crashed into the DEW base's generator plant," replied the commodore: "Resulting in an uncontrollable wild fire. As for Comrade Rusalka? She marched southeastward, after that. Inuit scouts, with the local National Guard unit, followed her by dogsled for the next forty-eight hours. That is, until they were relieved by S&R helicopters sent up from Anchorage. The choppers then followed her to the shores of Bristol Bay. Losing her only after she submerged. Without coming back up!"

Phillips sighed: "I suppose it's too much to hope she drowned?"

Buckler shook his head: "A Skipjack-class nuclear sub, the Alewife, established sonar contact with her about eight hours ago. Roughly a hundred miles southwest of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. And, from what they were able to ascertain, they think she's headed due south (alternating between a butterfly kick and a dog-paddle), straight toward California!"

"Any idea _where_, in California, sir?"

"Not as yet. But, given the indestructibility she demonstrated in Alaska, I don't think any of our forces, here, will be able to stop her from coming ashore anywhere she feels like it."

Colonel Phillips nodded. Then, he asked the obvious question.

"What do you wish of me, sir?"

"It's my understanding that you belong to a certain fraternal organization that might be on speaking terms with the current owners of a certain historical artifact. I would like you to intercede with both of them, on Uncle Sam's behalf, and get us that artifact. As it is also my understanding that it's the only thing known to man that can...negatively affect...giantesses like this one!"

Phillips knew immediately what the commodore was referring to; the Hsia Jie-ji. And knowing that Buckler's "understanding" was spot on, he stood up and saluted.

"Affirmative, sir! You can count on me."

tbc

* * * * *

During the Golden Age of Hollywood, "Bronco Jack" Barrett had starred in a string of "singing cowboy" movies. Nowadays, though, he worked for Interchem as a TV commercial spokesman for the (formerly) Independent Petroleum Company. And, this Thanksgiving, he would be aboard his cabin cruiser, "La Rosa Amarilla," watching either a Telstar broadcast of the Macy's Parade from New York City; or the cavorting of Calfornia sea lions between the islands of Santa Cruz and Anacapa in the waters of Channel Islands National Park.

Officially, anyway.

For, in reality, the Thanksgiving dinner that had been served in the main salon was turning out to be more of a business luncheon. Seeing as how he was entertaining an Arabian oil sheik named Abdul Hassan, and a Japanese industrialist named Toyoma Hajime. With the latter currently explaining something to the former in layman's terms.

"Basically, there are four kinds of guided missiles, Your Majesty. Surface-to-surface; air-to-air; surface-to-air; and vice-versa. The Nike Artemis (an upgraded version of the Nike Zeus) will combine all four of these attributes. Making it the ultimate hunter/killer projectile! Hence, the partial reference to the ancient Greek goddess of the hunt."

"Yet, the computer chip controlling the missile's guidance system must be made from a special kind of silicon. And, right now, there is only one place in the whole world where this special silicon can be found."

The sheik could not help smiling.

"My province?"

Toyoma-san nodded. Whereupon, the sheik meditatively sipped on his Long Island "iced tea" before asking his next question.

"If I agree to let Dai-no-byte construct the required branch plant in my province, what is in it for...my people?"

"Ten percent of the first hundred thousand such missiles that come off the assembly line," replied Barrett: "Along with a dozen 'free-lance military advisors' for trainin' your own armed forces how to use 'em. Like, say, in the event of an Israeli air strike!"

"A very tempting off..." Abdul Hassan began to reply.

Only to be interrupted by a sudden left-to-right lurching of the entire cabin cruiser. Followed by the excited shouting of the top-side deck hands! This, in turn, prompted Barrett to head for a nearby wall-mounted intercom.

"Barrett to bridge. What in tarnation is happenin' up there?!"

"Sorry, sir! But, there must've been an undersea tremor of some kind. Because, the sea water around us is bubbling and frothing like a tea kettle!"

"Then, what're you waitin' for, you idiot? Raise anchor and haul ass out o' here!"

"Aye-aye, sir!!"

The boat's captain gave the necessary orders, and the crew complied accordingly. Yet, even as they did so, their path was suddenly obstructed by the head and scowling face of a giant-sized woman! A woman with kelp strewn throughout her blonde hair. And, with blue eyes that each looked to be as big and round as an ocean sunfish.

The bridge crew were stunned speechless for a few moments. That all ended, however, when the cabin cruiser was lifted out of the water by the giantess' right hand. While her left hand peeled back the roof of the main salon like the lid of a sardine can!

"Allah have mercy!" exclaimed the sheik.

Those would prove to be his last words as the giantess' left hand now lifted him up...and bit off his entire upper torso.

His lower half was gulped down even faster. Prompting Toyoma-san to try and flee from the salon, back to the dubious shelter of his stateroom. The Japanese industrialist was manually intercepted, however, and lifted up toward the giantess' gaping mouth. Where he subsequently suffered the same fate as Sheik Hassan.

But, when it became his turn, Barrett proved unwilling to go down without a fight. Ergo; when the giantess' left hand lifted him up, he made sure that his pearl-handled, nickel-plated Colt Peacemaker single-action revolver was in his right hand.

"Eat lead, you over-grown bitch!" he defiantly yelled, as he began fanning the gun with his left hand.

The giantess, however, merely turned her head in annoyance. The way a normal-sized woman might who was being dive-bombed by three pairs of mosquitoes in the summer twilight. When the bullets ceased flying, she turned her head back in Barrett's direction...and promptly swallowed him whole.

When that was done, the giantess flattened the remainder of the cabin cruiser between her massive hands. As effortlessly as a normal-sized man might crush a paper cup!

This, of course, caused an explosion of the cruiser's fuel. The ensuing heat and light, however, bothered her no more than a flashlight beam would bother someone who has spent five minutes in pitch darkness. After which, she sank beneath the waves.

Ten minutes later, the U.S.S. Alewife surfaced to rescue the small handful of survivors.

tbc

* * * * *

The Stockton Lodge of the Knights of Melion had not seen such an assemblage of VIP's since the presidency of founding member Lewis Cross, himself.

At the head of the conference table sat the current Lodge President, Taro Kitahara (the first non-Caucasian lodge president in the history of the Knights). At the opposite end of the table sat Colonel Phillips of G-2. To his left sat Captain Hobart Ross; commanding officer of the U.S.S. Alewife. To the captain's left sat Dr. Peter Thorpe; president emeritus of the Manhattan Lodge. And, directly across from those two sat Elwood Atkins and Bernhardt Heuvelmann of the New Bern Lodge.

The gray-haired veteran submariner spoke first.

"According to the surviving bridge crewmen, the giantess that sank them had gill slits on both sides of her neck! This would certainly explain how she was able to swim from Alaska to California without resurfacing for air more than once. It definitely allowed her to dive deeper than our sonar could track her! Because we lost her one hundred miles west of San Pedro. So the best I could do, in that instance, is have our radioman contact Miramar. Strongly suggesting the rapid airborne deployment of sonar tracking buoys, every ten miles, between L.A. and the Panama Canal Zone."

Phillips nodded in approval at the course of action taken. But, he frowned at the physical description of the giantess' neck. Revealing how that failed to jibe with what he had been told by his double-agent in East Berlin.

"That old Gestapo file mentioned nothing about gills. Just supra-normal enlargement! How do you explain that discrepancy, Dr. Heuvelmann?"

The zoologist-turned-veterinarian shrugged.

"When Frau Hertzmann breathed in all that atomized opium, at Tunguska, she collapsed, flat upon her back, almost immediately. The seismic vibrations that ensued panicked some of the N. m. pseudocerastes specimens that I had captured for further examination. Causing them to emit some very noxious fumes!"

"The rest of us hurried to cover our nostrils, to prevent our inhalation of those fumes. But, of course, Frau Hertzmann was unable to do likewise. So we were naturally taken quite aback by her resumption of normal size!"

"And that's how the Thule Society was able to transport her back to Berlin so inconspicuously?" asked Dr. Thorpe.

Heuvelmann nodded, adding: "Klaus Kraus took my snakes with him. Hypothesizing that some biochemical within the fumes had done this. And he was determined to locate, isolate, and duplicate it. As to the gills? I can only surmise that they are the result of...post-facto experimentation upon her. First, by the Nazis. Then, by the East German Communists."

Phillips then looked at Kitahara.

"Have you had any word, yet, from the Frisco Earth Tigers?"

Kitahara (a Purple-Hearted veteran of the 442nd Regimental Combat Team*) nodded.

"They notified me that the Heikegani-ryu have agreed to meet with our emissary, in Honolulu, forty-eight hours from now. That's where their emissary will turn over the Hsia Jie-ji. Although, I confess I can't see what good it's going to do us if this Comrade Rusalka doesn't resurface shortly afterward!"

"I think I can solve that mystery," replied Dr. Thorpe: "Comrade Rusalka seems to have a specific agenda. The destruction of the DEW Line base, in Alaska, was probably a test run of sorts. But, the sinking of the cabin cruiser? I think that was highly deliberate...due to the nature of the conversation that I'm sure was taking place aboard her!"

"What do you mean, Dr. Thorpe?" asked the colonel.

"I mean, according to the Justice Department, 'Bronco Jack' Barrett was more than likely brokering an illegal arms deal! They got wind of it while investigating Mafia domination of certain labor unions. Like the one to which so many interstate truck drivers belong...including the ones who drive oil tanker trucks for Interchem! A known DOD contractor."

Phillips frowned again.

"How come I didn't hear about any such investigation, and you did?"

Dr. Thorpe could not resist smiling.

"The FBI has a lot of contacts within the NYPD. Some of whom are mutual friends of mine! And if the Bureau caught wind of such an impending arms deal, then so, too, could've the KGB. The only question, now, is...what else of Federal importance, along the West Coast, could have been targeted for destruction by Comrade Rusalka?"

Almost as if on cue, there came a knock at the door. Kitahara stood up and walked over to unlock it. Upon opening it, he was handed a piece of paper by his administrative assistant. Kitahara then closed and re-locked the door before reading the message. The news within must have been very dire, indeed.

For the battle-hardened Nisei went pale...as he looked directly at Captain Ross.

"This is from the naval chaplain at Miramar. Sent via the San Diego branch of the St. Hubert Society. I'm sorry, captain. But, it seems that all contact has been lost with your sub."

tbc

FEDERAL BUILDING,
SACRAMENTO, CALIF.
(DECEMBER 1, 1962)

* * * * *

Colonel Robert H. Phillips shook hands with Inspector Tom Stewart of the FBI, after SAIC Moses Ramsay had made introductions.* Then, all three of them sat down. Following which, the army intelligence officer got right to the point.

"Tell me, inspector. How is it I have to hear about the Bureau's investigation, of a current DOD contractor, from a retired NYPD medical examiner?"

Inspector Stewart grimly smiled.

"I understand if you're a little miffed, colonel. But, first of all, it wasn't us who initiated the investigation. We were approached by 'Bronco Jack' Barrett, who was in trouble with both the IRS and the Vegas Mob! And he thought notifying us of how the latter had sold his gambling markers, to a Los Angeles trucking racketeer, might persuade us to intercede on his behalf with the former."

"I see. And, this racketeer's name?"

"You might've heard of him," replied Ramsay: "Adriano Greco. He got his start back in the Midwest. Hijacking whiskey-smuggling trucks, from rivals of the Taliaferro Syndicate, during Prohibition. Since then, he's branched out into interstate drug trafficking...and chemical waste disposal."

"We think it was the latter activity," continued Stewart: "...that inspired him to take up arms dealing. Hence, his purchase of Barrett's casino markers! He evidently figured that Barrett's role, as Interchem's pitch man, might make him privy to all kinds of company gossip. Like, say, the upcoming missile test the Air Force is about to conduct?"

Phillips' posture noticeably stiffened. There was just such a test scheduled to occur within the next twenty-four hours. A remote-controlled BOMARC drone was going to be launched from Isla Santa Rosa, in the Gulf of Mexico, towards Kwajalein Atoll in the Pacific. And, two of those new Nike-Artemis missiles were to be launched from there in an attempt to intercept it, mid-flight!

But, of course, he was not at liberty to officially confirm such a test.

"Even if what Barrett heard was more than gossip," Phillips hedged: "...why not inform Washington about that development? As well as your investigation?"

"Because Greco has a lot of Congressmen in his pocket," replied Stewart: "Some of whom have drinking buddies at the Pentagon! If one of them inadvertentely spilled the beans...? Well, you get the idea. Besides which; I, personally, am still a little peeved over the deal the Armed Forces made with Luciano just to insure a successful invasion of Sicily during the Big One."

Ten minutes later, Phillips was back in his government-issue sedan, talking on the back seat radiophone with Captain Ross down in San Diego.

"Bart? It's me. I think I know where Comrade Rusalka is headed next. And, if your first officer realized the same thing, while shadowing her, it might explain why your sub 'disappeared.' "

MEANWHILE, IN HONOLULU, AT THAT SAME MOMENT...

The two men met at a Shinto shrine in Little Tokyo. One of them was retired U.S. Army Ranger Anjiro Watanabe. The other (who was about five years younger) merely introduced himself as "Kusanagi."

Watanabe smiled: "Nice shave and haircut. But, I recognize the voice! Enjin-san, the Osaka Ape-Man. Ex-sumotori-turned-AAWF bad guy-of-the-week."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," replied the wrestler: "Do you have the money?"

Watanabe took off his knapsack, and opened its top.

"You don't get to touch until I see the artifact."

Enjin-san unzipped a leather bag of the type usually used for transporting pool cues. Only, what he withdrew from the interior was definitely _not_ a pool cue!

It was the Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie.

tbc

* * * * *

It had seemed like such a simple plan. Watanabe would bring a knapsack, containing two million dollars in old one hundred dollar bills, to the Hachiman shrine in Little Tokyo.* He was to give the knapsack to a six foot-tall betto named "Kusanagi;" the betto would give him the Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie; and both men could go their separate ways after ascertaining the authenticity of what they had been given. Yet, just as Watanabe and the aforementioned betto were about to do that,...

...a dozen HPD officers suddenly came rushing in!

Ten of the police officers (all of whom appeared to be Chinese-American) brandished .38-caliber Smith and Wesson revolvers. The remaining pair were armed with twelve-gauge Remington pump-action shotguns. And, the barrels of these weapons were all aimed, in a perfect circle, at Watanabe and "Kusanagi."

"Is there a problem, officers?" asked the former.

"Yeah," replied one of the shotgun toters: "We received an anonymous tip that some stolen property was about to be fenced, here. And, by gosh, didn't that turn out to be the case?"

"May I ask whom this property was allegedly stolen from?"

"Red China! So, now, here's what's gonna happen. The big bald guy is gonna slowly bend down; pick up that leather bag; and then put that gold-plated meat cleaver inside it. Meanwhile, you're gonna give that knapsack to my partner! After which, the two of you are gonna kneel on the ground. Hands behind your heads, and legs crossed at the ankles."

"Kusanagi" slowly complied. But, just as he nearing the completion of his instruction, he suddenly threw the bag up in the air, while simultaneously yelling:

"BANZAIII!"

As he yelled this, he lunged for the policeman nearest him. Tackling the latter to the ground, and consequently knocking the wind out of him. Meanwhile, Watanabe had gone into a half-crouch. From this position, he flung a trio of Superballs, outward, with each hand! Each of those Superballs hitting a policeman in the forehead (including the two shotgun toters), and rendering them instantly unconscious.

Unfortunately, that still left five policemen on their feet. And, even as "Kusanagi" threw the revolver of the one he had knocked out towards Watanabe, the hammers of those other revolvers were being cocked. Ergo; none of the guns' owners saw the four ninja who grew to normal human-size, after jumping out of the leather bag while it was still in mid-air!

"KIAIIIIIIII!" they shouted as one.

Four of the policemen turned as one, too. As a result, they each got hit on the left front side of their necks with a drug-tipped tonki dart (hand-flung with the same speed as a shuriken). And, as expected, each of them slumped to the ground in a narcotic stupor.

The sole remaining policeman now found himself surrounded. And Watanabe said as much, out loud.

"So, you might as well as surrender, peacefully," he added: "...and tell us who sent you."

The "policeman's" only response was to grin, before shouting:

"Soo Ming! Fu Ching!"

Following which, he ate his gun.

Watanabe looked at "Kusanagi."

"I take it he wasn't one of yours?"

The ersatz betto shook his head.

"Most likely a member of the Bear Eagle Tong. Arch-enemies of the Earth Tigers since the days of the Manchurian-founded Ching Dynasty. Hence, the inverse of the usual tong oath, which traditionally calls for a restoration of the _Ming_ Dynasty."

While "Kusanagi" was giving this explanation, Watanabe silently observed as each of the four ninja took a spray can out of their respective duffel bags. Each spray can emitting a fluorescent green mist that subsequently shrank each policeman whose face the mist settled on!

"Don't worry," remarked "Kusanagi" with a grin: "We're only going to 'question' them."

Following which, each of the four ninja shrank down to one inch tall, and climbed into the knapsack containing the two million dollars. "Kusanagi" disappearing with the latter in a literal puff of smoke.

tbc

* * * * *

On paper, the weapons test was simple.

Upon being notified, by Navy radar trackers on Midway, that the BOMARC drone had crossed the International Date Line, a Douglas A-3 Skywarrior would be launched from the "U.S.S. Fisher's Island Sound" (a Commencement Bay-class escort aircraft carrier). This heavy strategic bomber would then fly to the point-of-no-return, of its maximum range, and release the two Nike-Artemis missiles it was carrying in much the same fashion as it would release a pair of conventional free-fall bombs. Following which, the bombadier/weapons officer aboard the Skywarrior would activate those missiles by remote control, before turning over that chore to a counterpart aboard the carrier.

And, of the high-ranking spectators gathered aboard the "Fisher's Island Sound," to witness the test (via a satellite-relayed TV transmission from a modified Air Force RF-84F Thunderflash out of Guam), the highest was Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara, himself!

The latter had been persuaded by the Joint Chiefs of Staff to secretly attend the weapons test, in person, in the hopes that he might be persuaded that anti-missile missile research and development was a better deterrent against World War III than the concept of "mutually assured destruction." A hope that he was admittedly quite dubious about seeing realized.

In any event, the BOMARC had been launched on schedule. And it eventually passed the Midway naval tracking station on schedule. So, the Skywarrior was soon being catapulted into the air, on schedule.

"Chicken Little to Mother Hen," recited the Skywarrior's pilot: "Chicken Little to Mother Hen. Acorns away. Repeat: acorns away! You may begin backseat driving. Over?"

"Mother Hen to Chicken Little," replied the carrier radioman: "Roger that. We are grabbing the steering wheel...now! Mother Hen, over and out."

With the transfer of remote control successfully accomplished, the Skywarrior began its U-turn on schedule. Completely unscheduled, however, was the presence of an Air Force F-100-F Super Sabre en route to Kwajalein from Oahu! At the controls of which was Major Gerard Elkhorn, USMC Airwing (still officially on "detached duty" with NORAD). While in the trainer/observer's seat behind him sat Capt. Anjiro Watanabe; U.S. Army Reserve.


Golden Dagger-axe and all.

"You sure this mer-giantess is after the Sec-Def, captain?" asked the major.

"It's the only scenario that makes sense, sir. The destruction of the DEW Line base, in Alaska, was just a test run. The real mission was two-fold. To get rid of Toyoma-san, the man responsible for designing the Nike-Artemis guidance system. To be followed by elimination of the man who could successfully endorse continuation of its R&D to President Kennedy. Comrade Rusalka accomplished the first half of her mission. But, now, it's up to us to prevent her accomplishing the rest of it."

"Well, I sure hope you're right," replied Elkhorn: "Because, we're coming up on the test area, now. I can see the flames from the BOMARC's ramjets from here!"

Watanabe lifted up the sun visor of his flight helmet, and put a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He aimed them in the direction indicated by the younger man and confirmed the latter's sighting. But, then, he softly-yet-sharply inhaled as he spotted something else. Something cleaving through the surface of the Pacific just ahead of them. Something that resembled nothing less...

...than the fish-scaled buttocks of a giant naked woman.

tbc

* * * * *

It was the sonar operator, aboard the Providence-class guided missile cruiser "U.S.S. Albemarle," that first alerted everyone else that trouble was coming.

"Skipper! Bogie closing fast, off the port side!"

"What is it; a whale?"

"Negative! No corresponding sonar pings.

"What's the depth?"

"Sixteen fathoms, and rising*!"

Consequently, the captain of "the Albemarle" contacted his opposite number aboard "the Fisher's Island Sound." The latter then ordered the immediate scrambling of two Vought Crusader jets (equipped with ASW tracking radar) to reconnoiter. Meanwhile, back aboard "the Albemarle," her captain had similarly ordered all Convair Terriers readied for launching. For with Secretary of Defense McNamara being present, at this weapons test, nothing could be safely assumed!

A wise precaution, as it turned out. For no sooner had both ship's captains been notified that their orders had been carried out, the "bogie" finally cleared the surface of the ocean. And, the image telecast to the bridge of the aircraft carrier (by the just-arrived Thunderflash from Guam) justifiably caused almost everyone to think what Mr. McNamara, himself, muttered aloud.

"God---have---mercy."

Almost as if she had heard him, Comrade Rusalka smiled as she started to wade forward. Her right arm already outstretched, as if she were a toddler reaching out for her favorite bathtub toy. At the last moment, however, she was distracted by a barrage of Terriers from "the Albemarle." Simultaneously, the two scrambled Crusaders fired half their Sidewinders!

Distraction, however, was all they achieved.

The mutated mer-giantess simply knelt down in the ocean water to extinguish the flames that had ignited in her hair. Yet, ironically, doing so bought enough time for the BOMARC drone to arrive on the scene. True, it was not carrying any kind of explosive warhead. At its present speed, however, it was basically a giant-sized bullet. Unfortunately, for Mr. McNamara and all others concerned, the back of her head proved bullet-proof!

The nose of the BOMARC crumpled up against her impenetrable epidermis like a paper drinking cup.

Even so, this proved to be an additional, and highly beneficial, distraction. For it allowed the circling Thunderflash to get a good shot of her face as the pursuing Nike-Artemis missiles now homed in on her. This was followed, a second later, by a fiery explosion more thunderous than the earlier volleys by "the Albemarle" and the two Crusaders!

This second explosion, while caused merely by conventional high-explosive warheads, at least pained her enough, this time, that she had to completely submerge in order to extinguish the ensuing cranial conflagration. Furthermore, when she resurfaced, this time,...

...she was no longer smiling.

The captain of "the Albemarle" saw no choice.

"Sparks! Tell Captain Rutherford to have the Sec-Def evacuated aboard the fastest transport he can scramble. Because, I'm about to order the launching of...of one of our Honest Johns!"

The rest of the bridge crew grew deathly silent at the mention of this nuclear-capable surface-to-surface missile. Fortunately, for them, Mr. McNamara's earlier prayer finally seemed to get answered.

"Hun Foxtrot to Albemarle! Hun Foxtrot to Albemarle! Cease fire. Repeat: cease fire! I'm coming in from your two o'clock with something that just might provide the lethality you're looking for."

tbc

* * * * *

Secretary of Defense McNamara had logged a lot of flying time to get to this weapons test. The Air Force had clandestinely flown him and his four Secret Service bodyguards, from Washington to Honolulu, aboard a SAC B-52.* From Honolulu, a MATS Globemaster had transported them to Canterbury Island. And, there, a tandem-rotor Kaman Huskie helicopter had ferried them to the awaiting "Albemarle," which was anchored just off shore. Yet, none of that had prepared him for the G-forces he was now experiencing from the backseat of a RATO-equipped Grumman F-11-T supersonic trainer!

For Captain Rutherford of the "Fisher's Island Sound" had correctly anticipated what his counterpart, aboard the "Albemarle," would try next.

"Evac the Sec-Def aboard the Tiger," he had ordered: "Then, launch every other remaining Crusader, and 'King Kong' that bitch!! They may not kill her. But, hopefully, they'll keep her pre-occupied long enough for the Tiger to get out of range of the magnetic shockwave once Billington _does_ nuke her!"

His orders were carried out with the speed and efficiency he had come to expect from his crew. Orders that were vindicated within five minutes by Captain Billington's message from the "Albemarle."

As for Mr. McNamara's pilot? Lieutenant Commander Harold Buckler, Junior, was at the controls. The son of "Hurricane Hal" Buckler (pride of the RAF Eagle Squadrons during WWII), and the nephew of ONI's Commodore Buckler, this highly decorated veteran of the Korean War was the first to spot the approaching Super Sabre.

"Golf Tango to Hun Foxtrot," he swiftly radioed: "Golf Tango to Hun Foxtrot. Get the frig out of here! The U.S.S. Albemarle is about to launch an Honest John with nuclear warhead. Repeat: a nuclear warhead! Do you read me? Over."

"Hun Foxtrot to Golf Tango," replied the F-100's pilot: "Read you, loud and clear. But, we've got something better than nukes. Hun Foxtrot; over and out."

Major Elkhorn then started transmitting to the bridge of the guided missile cruiser.

"Hun Foxtrot to Albemarle; Hun Foxtrot to Albemarle! Cease fire. Repeat: cease fire! I'm approaching you from your two o'clock. And, I have something that just might provide the lethality you need. Over!"

"Albemarle to Hun Foxtrot," Captain Billington immediately replied: "It better be a wooden stake about the size of a redwood. Because, that's about the only thing we _haven't_ thrown at her, yet! Over."

"Roger that," confirmed Elkhorn.

The marine major then looked at his passenger.

"You heard the man," said the former: "You ready to eject?"

"Just so long as you don't do it, prematurely," quipped Anjiro Watanabe, with a wink and a thumb's up.

Whereupon, Elkhorn grinned and pressed the button that allowed for separate ejection of the pilot and observer's seats.

"GERONIMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" shouted Watanabe as he flew upward.

That lasted for about thirty eternal-seeming seconds. Then, at the zenith of his arc, he unbuckled his seat belt....so he could begin free-falling toward Comrade Rusalka's head!

It had been ten years since his last skydive. Only, this time, he was not opening the parachute at the count of three. Rather, he was peforming a relatively new maneuver called a High Altitude/Low Opening jump (HALO, for short). And, when the Nisei ninja finally did pull the rip cord, he drifted down right in front of the her eyes!

As anticipated, the mer-giantess was intrigued enough by this new type of intruder that she instinctively reached out and snagged the parachute in her left hand! She then looked over the little man dangling from it before sniffing him...and then smilingly opening her mouth.

Nor did Watanabe make any outcry of terrified protest as he slowly sank between both rows of algae-stained teeth.

tbc

* * * * *

The HALO jump had worked as anticipated. So, while dangling like a marionette, Anjiro Watanabe used the momentary lull to don his shuko claws. Following which, he unbuckled himself from the parachute pack!

Naturally, he fell straight down her throat. Alhough, not all the way. As he fell, he angled himself toward the interior side of the gill slits on the right side of her neck! Thereby allowing himself to arrest his progress...

...by digging both shukos into the flesh of those slits.

Almost instantly, Comrade Rusalka felt a strange tickling sensation in her throat. As if she had tried to talk and swallow an over-sized morsel of her favorite food at the same time. Consequently, she began to wheeze and hack and cough like a cat with a hairball in its throat!

"ULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLK!"

Yet, Watanabe was not done with her. He used the suction cups tied to his knees to doubly secure his present perch, so that he could use his right hand to wield the Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie, while still clinging by his left hand. When that had been accomplished, he began using the dagger-axe to cleave at the gill slit in front of him!

Another ninja, on the exterior side, would have immediately begun to witness a series of vertical slashes appearing on the epidermis of that gill slit. As it was, Major Elkhorn (at the controls of the F-100-F Super Sabre) only knew what was happening from the way Comrade Rusalka was beginning to react. Slapping a webbed hand to the right side of her neck in obvious pain! So, the marine aviator decided it was time to initiate the second phase of the plan.

He immediately made a one hundred eighty degree turn, and began to climb. When he had ascended an additional one hundred feet, he doubled back...

...and started a power dive towards the mer-giantess.

"Time to eat Bullpups, baby!* "

Even as Major Elkhorn pressed the red button for firing those projectiles, Watanabe had finished hacking a slit through the webbing separating the mer-giantess' little finger from her ring finger. As a result, he just barely managed to squeeze his way out, when he heard the tell-tale "whoosh" of rocket-powered projectiles being fired.

"Oh, shit!!!"

Watanabe immediately dived off of Comrade Rusalka's right shoulder. Assuming the fetal position of a "cannonballer" for most of the dive. Only to unfurl himself during the last ten feet;...

...with the Hsia Jie-ji held straight above him.

SPLASH!

He hit the water just as the Bullpups hit their target; the blood-covered right hand of Comrade Rusalka. Almost instantly, there was an thunderous explosion. Followed, a moment, later by a fluorescent green cloud of some kind! The mer-giantess naturally yelped in startlement and anger, as she shook her enormous right hand as if that, alone, would be sufficient to ease the pain.

Meanwhile, the Super Sabre had already banked to its pilot's right, and made another hundred foot-descent before leveling off. Consequently, Elkhorn almost missed what happened next.

The mer-giantess had begun to shrink!

* * * * *

OVAL OFFICE OF THE WHITE HOUSE
(DECEMBER 7, 1962)

"So, let me get this straight," said John Fitzgerald Kennedy: "Those Bullpups were loaded with some of the stuff your people brought back from Cuba, two months ago?"

Bryce Paxton nodded: "Yes, Mr. President. Preliminary analysis by some of the eggheads at ARPA indicated that this solution activates fastest when absorbed directly into the bloodstream. Porous absorption taking a lot longer (as best exemplified by Agent Garcia's shrinkage). So, it was decided that Brevet Captain Watanabe..."

"Brevet Captain?" echoed the President.

"Yes, sir. As only commissioned officers can ride in a naval jet, Capt. Watanabe's rank was purely a brevet promotion for the duration of this particular mission. And, it was decided that he would have to risk being devoured in order to be in a perfect position to cut his way out of her throat. Thereby, literally, getting blood on that giantess' hands!"

"I see. And, how far down did this giantess shrink?"

"Well, let's put it this way, sir. She was treading water--like any _normal_ person--when the good captain finally resurfaced. So, he had no trouble putting her in a sleeper hold, as a result!"

"Thank God for small favors. Where is she, now?"

"For the time being? In solitary confinement, within the women's wing of the Federal penitentiary at Atlanta. After all; she _did_ try to assassinate the Sec-Def!"

"Too true. Which brings me to the other reason for this debriefing, Bryce."

"Other reason, sir?"

"Yes. After talking it over with Bob, and seeing the videotape from the Thunderflash for myself, I've decided to veto mass production of the Nike-Artemis missiles. Instead, I'm going to establish a new division within the CIA. The Miniscule Operations Command...of which _you_ will be the deputy director in charge!"

Paxton was genuinely stunned: "Me, sir?!"

JFK grinned and nodded: "Your people alerted us to this danger. So, it seems only fitting. And, as the head of Mini-Ops, you'll be answerable only to me and the oversight committee I'll form to act as my occasional proxy. Said committee to be composed of the Sec-Def, Brigadier General Phillips, Rear Admiral Buckler, and one or two others yet to be named."

Paxton did not fail to note the new ranks of the other parties mentioned. But, he kept a good poker face and said nothing...except for four little words.

"Thank you, Mr. President."

tbc

* * * * *

Michael Romanoff had been born William Gerguin. And, he had never been related, in any way/shape/form, to the ill-fated Russian royal family. Yet, in Hollywood, California (and its neighboring environs), it was not who you were that mattered. It was who you were perceived to be! So, when he had opened the first of his two Beverly Hills restaurants, using the German spelling of the Romanov name, everyone simply suspended their disbelief for the sake of the admittedly good food, sexy cigarette girls, and ultra-courteous waiters.

Unfortunately, times and tastes change. And, at midnight, tomorrow night, both restaurants would be closing their doors forever. It was for this reason that Don Antonio Ivanez (naturalized Spanish immigrant and retired bullfighter-turned-Mexican luchador film producer) had ordered _two_ helpings of Strawberries Romanoff for his dessert!

Yet, he almost lost his appetite when he recognized the man in the pristine white suit and black tie who was subsequently shown to his table. Along with a very attractive Chinese-American woman.

"Buenos dias, Don Antonio," said the Man in the White Suit: "May we join you?"

"Por favor," Ivanez replied (gesturing to the two vacant chairs at his table).

The duo sat down and ordered two helpings of Noodles Romanoff. The waiter nodded, wrote down the orders accordingly, then left. Whereupon, the Man in the White Suit whispered:

"It is good to see you again, Kamerad Berkov."

"Ivanez" managed to keep a straight face as he replied (also in a conspiratorial whisper):

"I take it you are here about Comrade Rusalka?"

The Man in the White Suit nodded.

"Moscow is very displeased with you over that. Not only did you have no authorization to activate her. You also jeopardized an already on-going operation of the KGB!"

"You mean...Operation: Mordred?"

The Man in the White Suit glowered at him.

"Ja! Thus, before liquidating you with extreme prejudice, I am to find out what possessed you to take the actions you did."

Anatoly Ivanovitch Berkov finished another spoonful of Strawberries Romanoff before replying.

"Because I am even more displeased than Moscow by the lack of security demonstrated at the Cuban laboratory. As a result of which, the Americans now have a working sample of nolongitol! So, to salvage something from that debacle, I had Comrade Rusalka activated. Thereby initiating a campaign of terror that would force the Americans to field test the solution for us."

"The good news is...it worked. Now, Mother Russia can begin mass producing more nolongitol, should the long-feared threat of a giantess army from South America finally materialize."

The Man in the White Suit was about to whisper a caustic rejoinder when the waiter finally arrived with two heaping dishes of Noodles Romanoff. It was only after the latter went to get a pair of vodka martinis (ostensibly, for the washing down thereof) that the East German got to express his sentiment.

"The bad news, kamerad, is that your rationalization in no way commutes your death sentence. Fraulein?"

The "Chinese-American" woman subsequently smiled at Berkov...before kicking him in his right shin.

To his credit, the elderly secret agent managed to suppress whelping at the pain caused by the drug-tipped needle that had emerged from the young woman's left high heel. Ten second later, however, no amount of whelping would have been discernible to the ears of any of the other restaurant-goers, anyway. As the Russian-born octogenarian was now only an inch tall!

Of course, the good news was that his clothes had shrunken with him. The bad news was...they in no way made him impervious to being impaled by the prongs of the young woman's fork. The same fork which she now used to twirl some of the aforementioned noodles around and around. Before slurping them into her mouth, that is, and then swallowing them down with a highly audible sigh of contentment.

tbc

* * * * *

Bryce Paxton gently deposited two black-and-white photographic blow-ups on General Phillips' desk. One of them showed a Russian army officer; the other, a Latin-American bullfighter. The faces of both men were superficially similar (up to and including their moustaches and goatees). Although, the former looked twenty-to-thirty years younger than the other.

"Meet the legendary Anatoly Berkov," said Paxton (reading from a beige-colored dossier): "After becoming a big hero for the Commies, during the Russian Civil War, he spent most of the Twenties and half of the Thirties running guns to the Chicoms via Macao.* In the process, he learned enough Portuguese to pose as a Brazilian war correspondent--for DIARIO DE PERNAMBUCO--during the civil war in Spain. After which, he emigrated to Mexico, posing as a refugee matador from Galicia! Thereby allowing him to spy on Gestapo agents in Mexico City during World War II."

"A naturalized citizen of the U.S. since 1950, he switched to making luchador movies, eight years ago. Supposedly, because of arthritis. But, more likely, as a front for smuggling sleeper agents up from TJ as 'uncredited extras.' "

General Phillips looked over the two photos.

"This guy disappeared--from the middle of a crowded restaurant--over a month ago. And, we're just hearing about him, now?!"

Paxton could only shrug.

"The LAPD initially treated it as a routine missing persons case. It's only in the last twelve hours that the FBI brought it to our attention."

"Who were the last people to see him alive?"

"This May/December couple."

Paxton--quite respectfully--threw down two more photos. Albeit, full color ones. The one on the right showing a young Chinese woman wearing a pink pillbox hat, a la Jacqueline Kennedy. The one on the left showing a Caucasian male at least thirty-to-forty years her senior.

"Their Dutch passports identified them as Mr. and Mrs. Hans Van Praag. Originally from Sinkawang, Borneo. But, we think the husband might actually be an East German operative named...Werner Petermann."

Paxton turned another page in the dossier.

"An Old Guard Commie, like Berkov, Petermann was run out of Nazi Germany in 1933. Spending most of World War II heading a French Resistance cell in Alsace-Lorraine. He was later appointed adjutant to the military attaché of the East German embassy...in Czechoslovakia. But, he's been 'out-of-sight/out-of-mind' ever since his transfer to Peking in 1960."

"Hmmmmmm!" mused the general (left hand on jaw): "Do you think he was ordered to resurface and eliminate Berkov for some reason?"

"It wouldn't surprise me," replied Paxton: "He certainly holds quite a record for 'extreme prejudice' against the Nazis!"

"Well, then; if he ever pops up again, in our sphere of influence, be just as prejudicial and sic that young bulldog on him."

"What young bulldog?"

"That scout-sniper from Guantanamo who first helped us get our hands on Solution 62."

"Oh! You mean, Myron Meriwether."

Phillips nodded: "Bingo!"

* * * * *

DALLAS, TEXAS
(TEN MONTHS LATER)

The moment he had re-enlarged himself to normal size, Park Kim Jung had quickly inserted a drug-tipped acupuncture needle into each of the sleeping couple's necks. The one in young Mrs. Oswald's neck was to insure she stayed just plain asleep. Her husband, however, was given a different drug. One that would allow the North Korean ninja to more effectively apply his saiminjitsu!

"Tomorrow morning, you will report to the School Book Depository, no differently than usual."

"No differently than usual," muttered the young man in repetition.

"When you see the motorcade approaching your position, you will immediately open fire."

"I will immediately open fire.

"Without fear or hesitation," added Park.

"Without fear or hesitation," replied Oswald.

The North Korean smiled: "Ni!"

With that, he retraced his footsteps to the fireplace; shrank back down to a foot tall; and, then, climbed back up the chimney to where the specially trained barn owl was waiting for him.

A moment later, he had mounted the bird's neck and flown away.

tbc

* * * * *


RUSSIAN CONSULATE, HONG KONG
(11 APRIL, 1964)


Vassily Alexandrov was naturally startled by the older of the two people who suddenly barged into his office. Namely; General Sergei Yerkov of the GRU (Soviet Army Intelligence). The former waited until the latter had gestured to his secretary to leave the three of them alone. Alexandrov then exclaimed (as cheerily as possible):

"Tovarisch General! To what do I owe the honor of this most...unexpected visit?"

"To put it bluntly, Tovarisch Alexandrov? You are under arrest. For conspiring with certain other neo-Stalinists in the recent death of the American President Kennedy. Nyet! Please, do not trouble to deny it."

Alexandrov had started to raise his right hand, prepatory to an instinctive protest.

"We have all the evidence-to-the-contrary we need. Courtesy of your late mentor; Tovarisch Berkov."

The bearded Eurasian clenched his fists in helpless fury, as he saw that the older man was not bluffing.

"That Old Bolshevik fossil was a traitor," he then growled: "It was he who leaked word to the CIA, ten years ago, about the plot against Eisenhower! Leading to the pre-emptive strike against Stalin, himself!!"

Yerkov ruefully smiled.

"A clear case of doing the wrong thing for the right reason. For, how is Communism to change the world for the better...if there is no world left to change? We both know that Eisenhower's assassination would have led to nuclear conflict, in which the only true victor is Death, itself! Contemplate this, during the final moments of your own life."

Whereupon, Comrade Sergeant Olga Makarova drew a snub-nose semi-automatic pistol from the left inner pocket of her uniform jacket. Seeing this, Alexandrov dove in near-panic for the Tokarev TT-30 in his top desk drawer! Albeit, in vain, as Makarova wounded him, behind his left knee, with a special kind of dum-dum bullet. One that did not possess an exposed core of soft lead. But, rather, one made of frozen nolongitol!

Consequently, Alexandrov began to shrink. And, at a rate proportionate to how swiftly the biochemical was being thawed out by his body temperature. It was, therefore, not long at all before Alexandrov was...

...no longer tall.

Whereupon, Makarova permanently silenced his shrill pleas for mercy beneath the sole of her right boot.

"Spashiba, Tovarisch Sergeant," praised the elderly general.

A second later, Alexandrov's secretary began insistenly knocking on the office door. Prompting Yerkov to personally re-open it.

"Tovarisch General! Is everything all right?"

Yerkov smiled and nodded: "Da! But, please, to inform the Consul-General that the position of commercial agent has suddenly become...vacant."

* * * * *

SOMEWHERE IN THE PENTAGON
(THREE YEARS LATER)

"His name is Little Jimmy Locke," said Bryce Paxton: "During World War II, he was part of the Flea Circus. A troupe of refugee circus performers who used their collective talents to steal Nazi military secrets on behalf of British Military Intelligence! Little Jimmy being the resident dwarf clown of English Gypsy descent."

"After 1945, though, they went free-lance. More specifically; they became high-end cat burglars. Jewelry; fine art. You name it, they'll steal it."

Major General Phillips studied the surveillance photograph more closely.

"The taller man he's talking to; is that who I think it is?"

Paxton smiled and nodded: "Kamerad Petermann. Back on American soil, again."

The general looked at the head of Mini-Ops.

"You know the standing order. Carry it out."

"Yes, sir."

* * * * *

SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTE
(THE VERY NEXT DAY)

Myron Meriwether slowly sauntered past all the exhibits. The female operative, posing as his wife, struck what felt like her one hundredth pose since they had entered. Whereupon, Meriwether snapped her picture with the Polaroid Instamatic.

Juanita Cierva half-seriously frowned as she examined it.*

"Yet another one that makes me look fat!"

"Must be a defect in how they ground the lens," Myron replied.

Pepe Garcia (hiding beneath the strands of long black hair falling across Juanita's right shoulder) chuckled as he whispered in her right ear.

"He certainly knows how to flatter like a true husband."

"Quiet, you!" she harshly whispered back: "Or you sleep in the hamper, tonight. In a smelly white sock!"

As good-natured as that threat was, Pepe quickly grew serious, again.

"It still doesn't make any sense to me. Why would an East German hit man be meeting up with a capitalistic jewel thief? The two seem...mutually exclusive."

"Paxton thinks the Flea Circus might've been hired to go after the Smithsonian's newest acquisition," replied his giantess bodyguard: "The centerpiece of a private collection recently donated to them by the Estate of the late Howard Ashton Phillips, Junior."

Juanita heard her shrunken partner gasp in astonishment.

"You mean...?"

"Yep," she whispered back: "The Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie."

tbc

* * * * *

CHESTER, PENNSYLVANIA
(APRIL 30, 1931)

From the day he was born, Howard Ashton Phillips, Junior, had been referred to, by friends and relatives alike, as "Ash." And, as he lowered the commemorative floral wreath on to his father's empty grave, he now looked at his own ten year-old son, Robert. The latter's facial expression was very solemn.

"Dad; did Grandpa Howard love his work more than me?"

Ash was dumbstruck by the question for at least five seconds.

"Of course, he didn't!" he finally exclaimed: "How could you even ask such a thing?"

"Then, why did he disappear while looking for that stupid golden axe?" persisted the boy.

Ash had to ponder, for a minute, how best to answer that.

"Your grandfather could get a bit...greedy...when it came to the pursuit of knowledge. The same way 18th century pirates could get greedy for material treasure. For him, the Golden Dagger-axe of Hsia Jie was proof of a time and place that most people don't even think existed! And, thanks to his very, very diligent research, he managed to trace it from India (where the Chinese had hidden it) to ancient Greece (where Alexander the Great took it) to ancient Rome (where Julius Caesar finally brought it). It took quite a round-about route, thereafter, from a 10th century Moorish villa, on Sicily (from which it was stolen by several Norsemen), to Canterbury Cathedral in England."

"But, how it got from there to a certain uncharted island in the South Pacific is...complicated."

* * * * *

THE GREEK ISLAND OF RHODES
(27 MAY, 1432)

Sir Alan Fitzmaurice D'Angleterre--a Norman Knight Hospitaller from Ireland--knelt and kissed the proffered right hand of Cardinal Jean-Michel De Rabas. He then stood and watched as one of the cardinal's acolytes brought something, cylindrically wrapped in burlap, over to the wooden table dominating the center of this private room. The burlap was unfurled, and the metallic object within...

...fell out onto the table top with a resounding clang.

"Behold, Sir Alan! Le Bec-de-bardiche Giserne Chinois. An unholy weapon of heathen origin. And, one that has been a burden on the Holy Mother Church for far too long!"

"The last attempt to return it whence it came--a certain ruined city in the Valley of the Indus River--was made by Fray Lupo De La Cruz, of the Society of St. Hubert, over two hundred years ago. He picked it up at Canterbury Cathedral (wherein it was stored _on the very day_ St. Thomas a Becket was murdered!). And, in Constantinople, he almost joined St. Thomas in the after-life!!"

* * * * *

22 JUNE, 1175

Friar Tuck hurriedly nocked an arrow to his longbow. He aimed it at the head of the monstrosity facing away from him. Then, he let it fly. Only to see it intercepted by a quarterstaff wrapped in black cloth!

A quarterstaff wielded by a Cathayan wearing a strange conical hat.

"For a holy man of the Invisible God," growled the latter (as he plucked loose the arrow): "...you are unduly swift to judge by appearance alone."

"Are you daft, man?!" exclaimed Friar Tuck: "That abomination..."

"...is not slaughtering innocent Tuareg camel drivers. He is defending himself from disguised Assassins!"

No sooner had the Cathayan made this pronouncement when there was an unearthly howl of pain. The two men looked in the direction of the strange battle. Whereupon, they saw that the werewolf in question had been stabbed in the ribs with a silver dagger! And, that the "camel driver" wielding it...was now maliciously twisting it.

This prompted the Cathayan to enter the fray. Subduing with his quarterstaff all those Assassins not already eviscerated by the werewolf! When that had been accomplished, the Cathayan unfurled the black cloth from around the staff.

Revealing it to be the hooded robe of a Dominican priest.

"God's Blood!" exclaimed Friar Tuck: "He is a man of the faith?!"

"Fear not, good friar," wheezed the now-naked man lying on the ground: "I belong to a pack whose ancestors were Christianized, long ago, by St. Hubert of Liege, himself! Since then, we have aided the Holy Mother Church as no ordinary men of the faith could. As Domini Canes (Hounds of God)!"

"Quickly," ordered the Cathayan (who subsequently introduced himself as Wu Chang Chuan): "Help me get his robe on."

Friar Tuck did as he was bade. Together, they half-dragged/half-carried the wounded clergyman to a private room at a nearby caravansary.

"If it was not to avenge some unholy evil you perpetrated," the friar finally demanded: "...why were those Assassins after you?"

"To get hold of this," replied Fray Lupo.

Whereupon, he held up a solid gold, single-bladed battle-axe.

"My instructions were to return this to the Land of the Indus. Or, failing that, to leave it with the local Templar garrison in Jerusalem (where I had hoped to join a caravan bound for the Persian seaport of Basra)."

"But, word of what he carried obviously leaked out," continued Wu: "And those Assassins were hired to steal it by whomever covets its terrible magic power!"

"I must now ask you, good friar, if you will complete my mission," concluded Fray Lupo.

"I?!" echoed Tuck.

"Werewolves heal faster than mortals," replied Wu: "They have one potentially fatal weakness, however; a vulnerability to silver. Fray Lupo must now remain bed-ridden, for at least a month, to heal properly."

Tuck frowned with suspicion.

"How come you to know so much of his kind?"

Wu Chang Chuan smiled.

"In my native Sinkiang, I travel from village to village. Entertaining people in the marketplace as a humble acrobat, juggler, and story-teller. And, this is not my first journey westward in search of fresh material with which to spin new tales!"

* * * * *

27 MAY, 1432

"As Friar Tuck was on pilgrimage to Jerusalem, in the first place, when he stumbled across that bizarre struggle, he reluctantly agreed to finish what Fray Lupo had started," the cardinal summarized: "In retrospect, it would have been better had he refused. For look at the calamities that have befallen, since then. The recapture of Jerusalem by the Saracens; the invasion and occupation of Russia by the Golden Horde; and the corruption and dissolution of the Templars! This accursed object must be removed from the Western Hemisphere, once and for all."

Sir Alan now bowed; his clenched right fist atop his heart.

"I swear it shall be done, Your Eminence."

tbc

SUPREME HEADQUARTERS, ALLIED EXPEDITIONARY FORCE (SHAEF),
LONDON, ENGLAND (1 APRIL, 1943)

* * * * *

"They were initially referred to, in Greek mythology, as 'the Thriae.' A trio of pre-Hellenic goddesses worshipped mostly on the island of Rhodes. It was only after their worship spread to mainland Greece that they became known as 'the Melissae,' and started getting depicted on varius amphorae as anthropocephalous bees! The Minoans of Crete, however, worshipped them in the singular as 'Melissa' (nymphic nursemaid to the infant Zeus). While in Asia Minor (as present-day Turkey used to be called), their worship was assimilated by the equally matriarchal Cult of Ephesian Artemis."

"And, it's this cult, Major, that became the theocratic nucleus of the Gorgonian Empire. A confederation of matriarchal tribes that, at its height, ruled from North Africa to southern Scandinavia. But, which is better known to modern laymen as simply...the Amazon race."

Major Percival Throckmorton (British Military Intelligence, Section 5) was dumbfounded.

Two months earlier, one of his operatives--a Dartmouth-educated Inuit from Greenland, based in Sweden and posing as a Lapp reindeer herder--had received a disturbing message from the Norwegian resistance. Usually, he smuggled them arms and ammunition and they paid him back with updated information on German troop movements and air traffic. But, this time, they had intercepted--and decoded--an urgent radiogram from the Nazi High Command, in Berlin, to the German embassy in Stockholm. Translated into English, it had read:

"LIEBENKRAFT: BARBAROSSA IS KAPUT. ACTIVATE OPERATION: UTGARD, IMMEDIATELY--HIMMLER."

It was subsequently determined that the radiogram referred to Herr Doktor Gustave Liebenkraft; archeologist, mythologist, and "ethno-genetic historian" for the occultist Thule Society.

According to the British embassy, in Stockholm, Liebenkraft had been a Visiting Professor at Uppsala University when World War II broke out. Officially leaving him "stranded" on campus. Yet, once the radiogram's message was evidently relayed to him, he disappeared from Sweden, altogether. Ultimately turning up in Cayenne, French Guiana, as "Dr. Jose' Aleman" from Spain!

There, Liebenkraft had hired an expatriate Portuguese bounty hunter, named Vasco Gonsalves, to help him track down a Chilean woman, of Easter Islander descent, named Marisol Herrera. Supposedly, to get back some stolen research papers involving the mysterious Peruvian ruins of Tihuanaco. But, Gonsalves quickly realized he had been lied to when Senorita Herrera grew into a one hundred-foot tall giantess when cornered!

It was after her eventual drug-induced capture that Gonsalves was given the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth from Liebenkraft aboard a Fokker trimotor airplane en route to an island in the Bahia Huemul region of Lake Nahuel Huapi, in Argentina. Unfortunately, for him and Senorita Herrera (who preferred to be called by her Polynesian birth-name of "Kaikala"), the plane crashed into the lake not that far from the island.

Upon swimming ashore, as the only survivors of the plane crash, Gonsalves and Kaikala wound up being captured by a bevy of blue-eyed blonde giantesses from a Nazi research facility, masquerading as a German Red Cross refugee relocation camp. The head of this facility being a German biochemist named Klaus Kraus. The latter egotistically explained, to Gonsalves, how he had developed a means of causing supra-normal growth in human beings. Using fungal spores from an old meteor-impact crater, near Gardnos, Norway, that he injected into gigantized guinea pigs. Which were, in turn, fed upon by vampire bats smuggled in from Brazil...and which subsequently urinated that sucked blood into a pool of similarly mutated leeches!

Unfortunately, for Kraus, an Anglo-American team of commandos (code-named "Eagle Owls") had been landed upon the island via Waco glider. Their mission: to destroy the whole facility, while simultaneously stealing all the research papers they could carry. And, in this regard, they were successful.

Unfortunately, for the Eagle Owls, they were not as successful in destroying the Hitler Youth giantesses. The latter were magically teleported to safety by a raven-haired giantess clad in nothing more than a black-feathered cloak! And, who had defiantly identified herself, just before the mass vanishing, as...

Labia of the Melissae.

All of this now being explained to the major as part of an after-action report by Professor Ash Phillips. Father of U.S. Army Ranger Captain Robert H. Phillips, who had been the commando team leader on this operation (code-named "Beanstalk").

"Let me see if I've gotten this straight, Professor," Throckmorton now attempted to summarize: "This solid gold thingamabob..."

"The Hsia Jie-ji," Ash corrected him: "...also known as Le Bec-de-bardiche Giserne Chinois."

"Yes; that one. It's the only thing in the world that can cut down one of these antediluvian giantesses?"

"Well, not the only item. They're also vulnerable to any Christian-blessed projectile of sufficient mass and velocity! But, when I learned that Professor Kraus' research assistant was a female Italian national, descended from the Italian House of Barbini, I became duly concerned. You see, the heraldic symbol of the Barbinis consists of three honeybees in triangular formation. The exact same formation as on this ancient shard of Rhodian pottery!"

Whereupon, the fifty-something archeologist held up a small rectangular box of acrylic glass. Sure enough; inside it was a reddish-brown piece of clayware with a black-painted central region. And, within that central region were three bees. One between and below the other two.

And each one possessing the head of a maliciously-grinning woman.

"I know for a fact," continued Ash: "...that Lucretia Borgia belonged to a Melissae off-shoot known as the Sisterhood of the Eastern Lady (or 'Signora Oriente' in Italian). Beginning a tradition that passed down to the House of Barbini via the Casa D'Este! So, knowing that the heiress-apparent to the title of Contessa Barbini was working for a Nazi scientist, I could only draw one conclusion. The Melissae had infiltrated Operation: Utgard and were using its progress for their own purposes."

tbc

* * * * *

Anjiro Watanabe shook hands with Ash Phillips as they met in the parking lot near the Golden Bears' football stadium. The campus, of course, being quite deserted.

"One solid gold dagger-axe, as requested."

He handed over the item in question...which had been quite literally gift wrapped. White paper, red ribbon, and all!

"If you don't mind me asking," said Jiro: "Where on Earth did you manage to get two million dollars?"

Ash could not resist smirking.

"When my paternal uncle died, he left me both his stock shares in Indepetreco, _and_ the number to his Swiss bank account! I might have sold the former out of spite. But, I was smart enough to hold on to the latter! Good thing, too. Because, as of now, that's precisely where I'm going to store this: in a bank vault in Switzerland! And, after I pass away, my estate will bequeath it to the Smithsonian Institute."

"With the proviso that they permanently return it to Red China, one year afterwards."

* * * * *

DRACHENHOF, AUSTRIA
(FIVE YEARS LATER)

Gabriella Barbini, daughter of Count Carlo Barbini, had married Alfredo Longobardi (of the Italian-Swiss banking Longobardis) in the early 1870's. That union subsequently produced three children: two sons and a daughter. The latter, born as the middle sibling, was christened Enrichetta Faustina Longobardi. And, she was in her second year of boarding school, in Geneva, when she met--and fell in love with--Hans Schildkraut. A young student teacher from the village of Drachenhof, in the Austrian province of Styria.

The feeling proved mutual. And, three months later, when they learned that Enrichetta was pregnant, Hans immediately tried to do the honorable thing. He asked Alfredo for his daughter's hand in marriage. But, the latter absolutely refused! He would rather send his daughter to a convent, until the delivery; and, then, anonymously give the baby up for adoption.

Instead, the youngsters eloped. Prompting Alfredo to disown the girl, completely and permanently. Refusing to speak her name, or have anyone else speak it in his presence, ever again!

This was one of the reasons why Frieda--the couple's own daughter and only child--grew up and joined the German Communist Party following World War I. The sexual and socioeconomic equality espoused by this controversial political philosophy! Yet, it was also through this same organization that she also met Werner Petermann. The man she married in 1922; and whose son she bore a year later.

Ernst Petermann was ten years-old when the whole family fled to the French province of Alsace, to escape Nazi persecution. Seven years later, however, the Nazis invaded France, as a whole. And, just before the occupation of Paris, the three of them wound up being approached by a GRU officer from the Russian consulate.

Major Sergei Yerkov.

The latter recruited them as spies for the Communist cause. As a result, Werner and Ernst joined a French resistance cell in Alsace. While their mother became a double-agent in Fascist Italy. Ultimately posing as "Maria-Giuseppina Santapietro." Research assistant to Prof. Klaus Kraus of Isla Utgard, in Argentina!

Yet, it would have shocked both men had they known the truth. Frieda was actually a triple-agent...of sorts!

More specifically; she--like her mother and grandmother before her--was a follower of La Signora Oriente. And, it was in the ruins of a Roman temple, in a cavern beneath Drachenhof, that she now telepathically communed with the entity currently hiding behind that alias.

Labia of the Melissae.

"Bring me that dagger-axe, my child. By whatever means, necessary! Bring it to me...so that I may destroy it."

"As you command, Mein Mistress," Frieda telepathically replied (before snapping out of her self-induced trance).

tbc

* * * * *

GREER GALLERY,
SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
(FEB. 23, 1968)

It had taken eight months of planning. But, tonight was going to be the night!

The black janitor wheeled his semi-rusty bucket of ammonia and water into the Chinese wing of the art gallery. There, he withdrew the sponge mop and started cleaning the floor with it. As he did so, he hummed along to the latest tune from Motown, via the earpiece of the transistor radio he carried in the right lapel pocket of his cover-alls.

It was only when he got between the TV camera and the statue of Sun Wu Kung that it happened.

The statue was four feet tall, and was supposed to represent the Chinese monkey "god's" punitive petrification (by Buddha, himself) atop Mount Hua-kuo in Jiangsu Province. Unbeknownst to most others, however, the real statue had been stolen the night before! And, in its place, had been left behind the unlikeliest replica in the world: Little Jimmy Locke, himself.

Coated with painstakingly applied papier-mâché, which had then been just as carefully painted to resemble the statue's porcelain exterior.

Now, however, small cracks were beginning to appear within the papier-mache', as Little Jimmy commenced the yogic exercises that would free him from this ersatz cocoon. Exercises similar to the ones that had helped him enter the trance-like state needed to endure the twenty-fours he had just gone through! And, the only reason the nearby TV camera was not recording this on videotape, at that moment, was due to the electronic expertise of Gary Sparks.

Sparks had served as an electrician's mate, in the U.S. Navy, during World War II. And, after his honorable discharge, he applied what he had learned to the neophyte television industry. That is; till he was wrongfully blacklisted, as a "Communist sympathizer," by HUAC!*

Two months ago, difficulty with the videotape recording equipment had compelled the calling of a TV repairman. The latter, of course, had been Gary Sparks. Then, two nights ago, Sparks had returned--far less publicly--to the museum. Helping Little Jimmy make a recording of Henrique Manolo (a foot-juggling capoeirista from Brazil) peacefully cleaning the floor of the Chinese wing. It was that recording which had camouflaged their substitution of the Sun Wu Kung statue, twenty-four hours earlier. And, it was now similarly protecting them as they commenced the final phase of this ambitious heist.

Once the last of the papier-mache' had crumbled off him, Little Jimmy flexed his shoulder muscles. He then jumped down and headed for the display immediately adjacent to "Mount Hua-kuo." That being the glass-topped display case...

...containing the Hsia Jie-ji.

Henrique, seeing that his boss was now free of the cocoon, put the mop back in the bucket and turned off the transistor radio. He then watched as Little Jimmy used an aerosol spray can to mark the presence of infra-red lasers around the base of the case. Lasers that were all too-easily reflected by the use of mirrors inserted into the kind of picture frames that usually stand up, on a night stand, with the help of adjustable triangular wedges!

Five minutes later, the two of them had silently-but-deftly removed the glass top, itself. By which point, the fourth member of the crew had joined them! "Princess" Soo Ming Toy; acrobatic contortionist and trapezist. She had been lowered down, through the skylight, on a rope held by the fifth--and, by far, the strongest--member of the crew; former heavyweight prizefighter George "Gorilla" Simeon.

It was Ming Toy who dropped the real statue of Sun Wu Kong back down to Henrique's waiting hands. And, after he had put it back atop "Mount Hua-kuo," he laid down, on the not-yet-mopped portion of the floor, flat on his back. Following which, Little Jimmy (the Golden Dagger-axe tucked under his left arm) ran toward Henrique's feet.

Faster than one might say "Allez-oop," Henrique had launched his boss straight up towards the waiting arms of Ming Toy! And, when she had both of her hands clasped about Little Jimmy's right wrist, a snap of his left hand's fingers signaled Gorilla to pull them both up and out. Whereupon, the carefully cut-out pane of glass was glued back into the skylight, while Henrique cleaned up all the papier-mache'.


Little did they know that, while each of them was mentally congratulating themselves on a job well-done, another substitution had been quietly made. Only this substitute was painted gold, and had a hollow handle!

Inside of which was a shrunken man named Pepe Garcia.

tbc

* * * * *

"Gorilla" Simeon, Soo Ming Toy, and Little Jimmy Locke piled into the Navy-blue 1967 Ford Econoline van. Behind the steering wheel of which, Gary Sparks had been waiting...with ever-mounting nervousness.

"About time! Where's Manolo?"

"He can't leave until the scheduled time for all night shift custodians," Locke reminded him: "So, get going!"

This was true. It would be Spark's job to come back for the Brazilian much later that morning. But, in his anxiety to finally be away from the scene of the crime, right now, he had momentarily forgotten. So, he now drove as fast as the local speed limits allowed.

Arriving at the Five Forks Motel in Burke, Virginia, roughly an hour later.

This choice of hide-out had initially puzzled Juanita Cierva, as she and her normal-sized partner trailed the van in a 1964 Dodge Dart station wagon.

"Why aren't they headed directly for the East Germany embassy?" she wondered aloud.

"Petermann probably didn't want to risk direct complicity," replied Myron Meriwether: "In the event something went wrong...like museum security proving more efficient than anticipated! And, tactically speaking, a 'no-tell' motel, relatively close to Dulles International, does make a lot of sense.* If only in terms of getting there in time for an imminent diplomatic flight to China! How's the homing beacon, by the way?"

Juanita flipped open the glove compartment to examine the Japanese-built miniature radar screen.

"Still transmitting, loud and clear. Good thing we shrank those ear muffs for Pepe. El pobrecito would probably be stone-deaf by this point!"

Eventually, they pulled into the parking lot of the Five Forks Motel about ten minutes behind the Econoline.

"You wait here," Meriwether instructed: "I'll see if I can get us a room with twin beds."

Registering himself and Juanita, with the night manager of the motel, only took another five minutes. So, when he got back to the car, he immediately went to the window of the shotgun seat and gently rapped on it. Whereupon, she rolled it down.

"Room 444. Any visitors, yet?"

She grinned, and nodded. Holding up an infra-red Polaroid photograph of a Volkswagen Beetle that had pulled in, two minutes earlier. And, pointing at the couple on either side of its front bumper.

"The male is definitely Petermann! I didn't recognize the woman, though. All I can tell you is that she was grayish-blonde, and roughly the same age as him. Late fifties/early sixties."

"Which room did they go in?"

She pointed toward the right-hand corner of the balcony of Building Two. So, Myron asked for the infra-red binoculars.

"Room 453," he slowly read aloud: "Shades are drawn. But, from the silhoutettes going back and forth behind them, I'd wager there's more than two people occupying it! Let's get started."

Whereupon, he and Juanita checked on their Government Model Colt .45's (hidden within the holsters sewn into the left-handing linings of their windbreakers).

Meanwhile, within Room 453, Frieda Petermann was demanding to see the Golden Dagger-Axe of Hsia Jie. But, Little Jimmy was not so easily intimidated.

"Show us the money first, mein frau," he countered.

Frieda looked at her husband and nodded. So, he put the brief case he was carrying--in his right hand--down on the nearest bed. Following which, he opened the locks; lifted the lid; then, showed off the contents. All, with melodramatic slowness!

"The other half of your agreed-upon fee," he declared: "Do you wish to count it, Herr Locke?"

The latter nodded. When he had personally confirmed that the full amount was there, he nodded to Simeon. Whereupon, the ex-heavyweight boxer brought the Hsia Jie-ji over to Frieda. Yet, the moment she grasped it, two strange things happened!

First, the palms of her hands began to sizzle and smoke...as if she had just grabbed a red-hot fireplace poker. Naturally causing her to scream at the top of her lungs!

Then came the even stranger part. She not only shot up to a height of eight feet tall. She also took on the semblance of a half-grown Tyrannosaurus rex!!

tbc

* * * * *

Juanita and Myron paused just outside the motel room door. There, they carefully pulled down the brims of their black woolen beanies, revealing them to be ski masks. Then, with silenced Colt .45's in hand, they prepared to kick in the door.

They were stopped in their tracks, however, by a roar too loud to have come from a human throat. And, yet, the shout which followed was in clear--if strangely hoarse--English.

"Blessed iron...painted gold! What have you traitors done with the real Hsia Jie-ji?"

The M.O.C. agents looked at each other and nodded as one.* Foregoing the traditional three-count, they just barged right in. Hand guns trained straight ahead of them, even as a blood-curdling scream ripped through the equally cold February night.

The scream came from Soo Ming Toy. And, it had been prompted by the sight of Little Jimmy Locke being swallowed whole by the reptilian thing before them! Whereupon, Juanita began screaming. Although, with a vocal quality that could only be described as blind hatred.

"EMPUSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

This was followed by her immediately opening fire upon the dinosaurian demi-giantess. A fusillade that Werner Petermann just as swiftly tried to return, as he drew a Luger! But, Meriwether snapped out of his shocked trance just in time to open fire on the East German.

The latter was dead before he hit the carpet, flat on his back.

Unfortunately, for the two M.O.C. agents, this only succeeded in drawing Frieda Petermann's attention to them. As a result of which, she spun around, one hundred eighty degrees, and literally lashed out at them with her tail. Sending both of them through the motel room window!

Fortunately, for Myron Meriwether, he landed on the roof of the Chevy van the Flea Circus had used for their get-away vehicle. Ergo; he was merely rendered unconscious. His female partner would have fared far worse, however, had she landed face-first upon the asphalt of the empty parking space next to the van. Instead...

...she landed on her feet in a half-crouch that could only be described as feral.

Meanwhile, back in the motel room, "Gorilla" Simeon had managed to overcome his own shock and awe. Whereupon, he picked up one of the twin beds nearest him. Intending to use it as both shield and battering ram, as he charged straight at the lizard-demoness. Yelling at the top of his lungs like a Viking berserker!

She swatted the makeshift weapon aside, with a clawed right hand, as if it were nothing more than a piece of dollhouse furniture. She then gripped the ex-heavyweight boxer, by his throat, with her left hand. Lifting him bodily as she did so!

"I repeat; where is the real Hsia Jie-ji? One of you, talk! Before I bite off his head...literally."

But, Soo Ming Toy and Gary Sparks could only shake their heads and sputter their ignorance. So, Frieda moved to carry out her threat. Only to be interrupted by a sudden wave of vertigo, as the Solution 62--that had filled the hollow-point bullets Juanita had fired earlier--finally took effect.

Within ten seconds, at most, the shapeshifting she-demon was down to only five feet tall. Whereupon, she was attacked by a fur-coated figure shouting (in strangely hoarse Spanish):

"Para San Umberto!"

The two other cat burglars had had enough. With of each of them grabbing Simeon by a shoulder, they ran for the door way, as the two bestial figures began to wrestle past them. Because the last thing these three wanted to see was a fight to the death between a lizard-demoness and a werewolf!!

tbc

* * * * *

The duel commenced in a literal blur. With the werewolf jumping on to the she-demon's bony shoulders in an attempt to bite through the back of her neck. Unfortunately, her neck had wrinkles in it similar to those of a Chinese shar-pei dog. Giving the lizard-demoness a protective frill of sorts!

So, the werewolf tried to climb its way on to the she-demon's chest in an effort to tear out the vulnerable underside of her throat. But, this only served to let the demoness grab hold of the werewolf's fur with both of her clawed hands! Consequently, she lifted the werewolf over head, before slamming it down on to the carpeted floor of the motel room, flat on its back.

The lizard-creature then turned around. Intending to perform a pile driver-like death blow with its tail. But, the werewolf had not been as stunned as she had initially thought. As a result, the werewolf was able to dodge the blow, while returning to the she-demon's shoulder blades! Only, this time, it did not try to bite through the protective wrinkles. Rather, it covered the she-demon's eyes with its own hand-like paws before, once more, attempting to impersonate a South American sloth.

This, in turn, made the lizard-demoness start whirling about like a Turkish dervish on too much caffeine! Yet, instead of dislodging the werewolf, this had the opposite effect. Providing it with enough incentive to clamp down twice as hard and fast, with its fangs, as it had tried to do moments earlier!

It was in this weird piggy-back-like state that they went out the broken window and over the railing.

The werewolf, however, was in enough control of the situation that it could distribute its weight just enough to insure that the she-demon was the one who landed flat on her back, this time. Whereupon, it finally had enough leverage to finish the job it had started.

It was also, at this point, that the Solution 62 in Frieda Petermann's system started to accelerate. Causing her body to revert to human form even as that form shrank down to four inches tall!

"Who...?" she managed to gurgle: "Who...are...you?"

The werewolf reverted to Juanita Cierva.

"Yo soy Maria-Lupe' Ivanez.* Daughter of Don Antonio Ivanez (nee Anatoly Ivanovitch Berkov)! Your husband deprived me of my father. Now, I have done as much for each of you. It is at this point I would normally wish a dying person 'Vaya con Dios.' But, you Communistas do not believe in El Patron! Do you, senora?"

This penultimate taunt fell on deaf ears, however, as Frieda Petermann finally succumbed to blood loss. So, Juanita briefly returned to werewolf form in order to eat the evidence! An action she repeated with the posthumously-shrunken corpse of Werner Petermann, too.

She then returned to human form a second time. Partly, so she could cover her nakedness with a sheet from the un-bloodstained bed. And, partly, so she could recover Little Pepe Garcia from within the hollow handle of the fake Chinese dagger-axe.

"Esta bien, mi pocquito?" she inquired with genuine concern.

"Si!" he replied (with a thumb's-up for emphasis): "Mui bien. Donde' esta Myron?"

"Right behind you," replied the young scout-sniper.

He had revived atop the Flea Circus' Chevy van, just in time to see Frieda and Juanita come flying off the balcony in their theriamorphic forms. But, he had still been a little dazed at the time. So, when the two of them reverted to human form, he naturally thought he was hallucinating! The safety of that self-delusion deserted him, though, when he witnessed Juanita transform a second time.

Even so, he managed to keep his understandable curiosity on the proverbial short leash until he had anonymously notified the state police via the radiotelephone in the rear compartment of the Dodge Dart station wagon. Followed by an equally anonymous tip, to the FBI, concerning Henrique Manolo back at the Greer-Smithsonian.

Whereupon, the unusual trio high-tailed it back to Langley.

tbc

* * * * *

"So, let me get this straight," said Myron Meriwether, during the drive back to Langley: "The Catholic Church has secretly been using Christianized werewolves, to hunt other monsters, for centuries. Your mother was one such werewolf. And, she was affiliated with what used to be a Portuguese branch of the Knights Templars?!* "

Juanita Cierva half-smiled and nodded.

"Both of her parents were laymen medical missionaries with the Order of the Holy Ghost. And, following their deaths during the influenza pandemic of 1918, she was raised at a boarding school-orphanage (near Silves, Portugal) run by Third Order Dominican nuns. Or, at least, that is who she initially believed them to be! Because, the Dominican Order has long been used as a front by the Hounds of God."

"And, they're the ones who turned her into a werewolf?"

This question was asked by Pepe Garcia, who had been listening to what had happened back at the Five Forks Motel while he was hidden in the hollow handle of the fake Hsia Jie-ji. As his normal outfit (a G.I. Joe set of army fatigues, shrunken down to his size by careful squirts of Solution 62) would not have fit in there with him, he had been forced to crawl in, stark naked. With only the peanut-sized homing device preserving his waist-level modesty!

Yet, now, he was fully-clothed again, and sitting on the station wagon dashboard, atop a white terry-cloth towel from the motel.

"Correction," Juanita replied: "She _volunteered_ to become one, after she was told the true origin of the pandemic. An ancient Greek demoness, accidentally released from her icy prison, by the Titanic, in 1912!"

"But, it was in Mexico, during World War II, that your father first met your mother," Pepe persisted.

She nodded, again.

"When the Luftwaffe began bombing London, in July of 1940, the Belgian government-in-exile became worried about a certain religious item that they had brought with them, from Brussels, two months earlier. So, they resolved to send that item to the Apostolic Delegation, in Mexico City, for safe-keeping. And, they sent it via Portugal because, while officially neutral, she was still technically a British ally under the Treaty of 1386."

Juanita's mother (who had not yet taken her final vows as a Good Sister of the Benandanti) was appointed to serve as the religious item's courier. And, sure enough; the Gestapo tried to steal it from her (during her midnight arrival) less than half a mile from the delegation's front door.

"They might have succeeded, too, because their Lugers turned out to be loaded with silver bullets! But, Papa intervened on her behalf, at the last minute. And, the rest is what you might call...family history."

"And, just what was this religious item, might I ask?" Myron now inquired (eyes still on the road, of course).

Juanita could not help grinning.

"The stone-cutting hammer of St. Reinold of Cologne."

* * * * *

SOMEWHERE IN THE PENTAGON
(THE VERY NEXT DAY)

The package had come in the mail. Circular in shape; wrapped in brown paper; and with a return address that turned out to be genuine. Although, General Robert H. Phillips had to confess he had never before heard of Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe (Attys-at-Law) of Fargo, North Dakota.

Needless to say, his security staff had tried to X-ray it. But, the metallic canister beneath the brown wrapping paper turned out to be made of lead! So, the bomb squad had been forced to open it, first. Fortunately, all the circular canister contained was a reel of videotape...

...and a note saying "Play me."

"Obviously, a Lewis Carroll fan," the general muttered.

Even so, he ordered a videotape player and TV monitor to be brought in.

Five minutes later, his eyebrows arched in bemused surprise at seeing his long-dead father appear on the TV screen.

tbc

FEBRUARY 25, 1968

* * * * *

It had been sixteen years since Bob had looked upon this face. Sixteen bitter years! Neither one forgiving the other for what each had done (or not done, as the case might be). And, now, it was too late.

Any chance for mutual reconciliation had ended with Ash Phillips' death over a year earlier.

All of this flashed through the general's mind in the second or two before his father's black-and-white image began to speak.

"Hello, son. From my point of view, it's January 1, 1963. But, if you're viewing this, it means two things. That I've shuffled off this mortal coil; and, that the Golden Dagger-axe I posthumously donated to the Smithsonian has been revealed as a fake. Both having to come to pass before the law firm I randomly selected is to release this to you."

"The reason for my chicanery is simple. I anticipated that, sooner or later, either you, the Commies, or the Melissae would once again try to lay hands on the Hsia Jie-ji. So, after Jiro Watanabe smuggled it to me, I had a duplicate made. A gold-plated, blessed iron duplicate!"

"It's the latter I had squirrled away, in Switzerland. While a Tien Kou internuncio, from the Apostolic Delegation in Washington, delivered the real one to a certain Buddhist temple in Hue City, South Vietnam. Where it will hopefully stay for the rest of all time! Because, like I told you once before, son. That accursed thing brings nothing but misfortune to whoever owns it!"

"Bearing that in mind, I thank you for hearing me out. And, I hope you've fared well, in my absence."

Whereupon, the image of Ash Phillips moved his index finger across his throat to signal for the cutting off the videotape camera. Which was, in turn, immediately followed by static. So, Bob hit the "off" switch on the remote.

Later that day, he had an unexpected visitor: Captain Harold Buckler, Junior. United State Naval Air Corps.

"Hal!" exclaimed the general as he pumped the younger man's hand: "It's good to see you. Are you on leave from 'Nam?"

"Yeah. I've been undergoing training on the Douglas Skyhawks, down at Pensacola. Not bad! Still, I'm going to miss my propeller-driven Sky Raider. It made me feel like I imagine Dad must've felt, in his old Hawker Hurricane, during the Blitz."

"Does your Uncle Josh know you're in town?"

Captain Buckler nodded, adding:

"I went to see him, first, because I needed his advice on a certain matter. You see, one of the chopper pilots I fly escort for RT'd me from Saigon with some bad news. Concerning your daughter."

Bob Phillips' posture immediately stiffened.

"This was confirmed by one of the recondo units attached to our Marines at Hue. She was...the Viet Cong, they...."

There was no need to finish. The younger man's eyes said it all. Whereas, Bob's mind's eye instantly flew back to the last time he had spoken to his father, face-to-face.

"I hope you never live long enough to see the high price you paid for this victory."

Snapping out of this reverie, Bob looked at the reel of videotape still on top of his desk, and swore to himself.

"You self-righteous, hypocritical, paranoid bastard!"

To Be Concluded

* * * * *

BRITISH COLUMBIA, CANADA
(JANUARY 6, 1968)

Officially, the House of Yu was just a Hong Kong-based banking firm. owned by a family of Fukienese descent. And, officially, Nigel Smythe was just a solicitor in the service of Vancouver branch manager Yu Nohu. Yet, the conversation the two men were having was anything but official!

"Is it done?" asked the elderly Chinese.

"Yes, sir," nodded the middle-aged Englishman: "Our people in Hanoi smuggled it to Hong Kong; melted the gold down into less conspicuous ingots; and then exchanged the latter for diamonds in South Africa. Once we convert them into American dollars, the laundering process will be complete!"

"Excellent!" beamed Yu Nohu.

"Where am I to deliver the money?" the solicitor now asked: "His campaign headquarters in Oregon?"

"Not just yet."

* * * * *

BOHEMIAN GROVE, CALIFORNIA
(TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER)

"Are you satisfied, sir?"

"Immensely so," declared Richard Nixon: "So much so, in fact, that I'll let your employer keep half this money in exchange for a special favor. One that I hope his people can accomplish more successfully than the job I contracted them for back in '52!"

"That was before my time with them, sir," Smythe replied with grudging courtesy: "But, I'll relay your message, regardless. What is the precise nature of this favor?"

"Are you familiar with former Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy?"

* * * * *

WASHINGTON, D.C.
APRIL 1, 1968

"Are you sure about this, Bob?" asked Rear Admiral Buckler.

General Robert H. Phillips nodded.

"I can't make the life-and-death decisions expected of me with the same...clarity...any more, Josh. Kathy's death was just too much for me!"

"Understandable," replied the admiral: "Yet, headmaster of a Midwestern military school? Most people would regard that as...over-compensating."

"Well, maybe I can teach the young men of Culver to avoid the mistakes I made, during their own future rises in rank."

The two old warhorses shook hands and parted company. Whereupon, Admiral Buckler went over to his predecessor's desk and began looking through the latest progress reports from the Miniscule Operations Command.

* * * * *

M.O.C. HEADQUARTERS
(OCTOBER 17, 1972)

Dr. Ezra Long looked at the black-and-white photograph Bryce Paxton had just handed him.

"Buenos Aires," remarked the latter: "January, 1946. That's me on the right. Although, very much younger, of course. That burly old-timer on the left was my partner, Canute McGee. And the bearded guy with the black beret, standing between us? Bitor Belmondo; a Basque mercenary who posed as our 'locally hired' interpreter. Half of everything I know about espionage I learned from them. Canute, especially!"

Dr. Long smiled and nodded:

"I know. I've read his file. Prohibition-era gangbuster; decorated twenty-year veteran of the Marine Corps, before that; and the son of a genuine gun-slinging Federal marshal of the Old West! You couldn't have asked for better tutors, back then."

Then, he grew serious.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind, Bryce? I mean, let's face it. You'll be a tough act to follow. For crying out loud, you're not even sixty-one, yet!*"

Paxton nodded: "Nixon's visit to China made it clear to me that the lines of battle in this Cold War have gotten too blurry. Former war-time allies becoming enemies and vice-versa. Only to become tentative allies, again?! You're more mentally and emotionally able to cope with paradoxes like that than I am. That's why I recommended you, to the oversight committee, as my successor."

Dr. Long sighed: "Well, in that case; I'll do my best not to let you down."

Paxton smiled: "I know you will."

Dr. Long kept his promise for the seventeen years preceding his own eventual retirement. By which time, General Phillips had left Indiana's Culver Academy to head up the collegiate ROTC unit at the newly-opened Union Cities Annex of Bowling Green and Ball State Universities.

[More affectionately known, to the locals, as "Bowling Ball State."]

The latter was talked into it, in fact, by Bryce Paxton, himself, during a Christmastime reunion in 1989.

"Bryce?!" the septuagenarian general had exclaimed: "What the frig are you doing here? I thought you were enjoying the good life in Hawaii, now."

"Yep! I'm Lodge President of the Knights of Melion in Honolulu. A cushy job; but, someone's got to do it!"

The two old comrades laughed and gave each other a brotherly hug (after Paxton first put down a rather cumbersome, gift-wrapped box). Then, the slightly older visitor got to the point of his visit.

"I understand you're planning to become a beach comber down in Florida, pretty soon."

Phillips nodded.

"These increasingly old bones of mine can't stand many more Midwestern winters."

"Well, if you ask me (and I'm well aware you didn't), I think that's a tremendous waste of your talent and experience."

"Heh! Says the old fossil who was born in 1911."

"I'm serious, Bob."

Paxton, in fact, looked down right grim.

"What's eating you, Bryce? Why are you really, here?"

Paxton countered with a question of his own.

"How would you like to insure that no one else's sons and daughters would ever have to die in another useless military conflict overseas?"

"I would say...how much 'medicinal marijuana' have you been smoking?"

"I'm dead serious, Bob. Allow me to demonstrate."

Whereupon, Paxton snapped his fingers. Following which...a two foot-tall "toy" flying burst forth from the box and shrank the retired general with a white beam of light!

The dome on the saucer then retracted before another white beam of light was emitted. One that now shrank Paxton to the same size (six inches tall) prior to both men being lifted upward by two more white beams and placed under the dome that subsequently closed up and over them.

Phillips, still somewhat disoriented, could only manage to gasp out: "What on Earth...?"

To which Paxton replied: "Earth has nothing to do with it, Bob. Welcome to Project: Short Leash."

THE END?




*For crying out loud..." was the 1960's version of "Shut the front door!"