Lucifer Crusade

by Maloney, Mack;

  “But, it’s what will be riding in those ships that’s important, major,” the Englishman continued.

  The airplane turned east. Soon, they were flying over what Hunter recognized immediately as a massive military complex close by a mountain range.

  “This is Montemor-o-Novo,” Sir Neil said, rolling the word perfectly. “This is the major staging facility for The Modern Knights. They have hired hundreds of thousands of mercenaries. From all over western Europe. There’s another facility like this at Plymouth in the UK. It is these troops, traveling on those ships, that will go against Lucifer’s Legions. This undertaking rivals the invasion force put together for the Normandy landings back in World War II.”

  While the Nimrod circled, Hunter studied every aspect of the huge base. It did look like a scene out of the movie on D-Day. “Just when will these troops be ready to move out?” he asked.

  “We are hoping they’ll embark just a few days after we do,” Sir Neil said, slowly. “Trouble is, the logistics of such an operation are monstrous.”

  Hunter looked back at the Englishman. For the first time since meeting Sir Neil, Hunter heard a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  An hour later, Sir Neil was seated at the navigator’s control station with Hunter peering over his shoulder. The Englishman fiddled with the bank of touch-sensitive buttons that controlled the airplane’s sophisticated “look-down” radar.

  The Nimrod had climbed to 50,000 feet and headed northeast. They had hit the bad weather just before crossing over the Pyrenees. Now, even at this height, rain pelted the jet, and strong headwinds buffeted its wings.

  “We’ll be over our second ‘target’ in a few minutes,” Sir Neil said, working hard to get the jumble of lines on the video screen in front of them to properly shape themselves to the contour of the earth below. “This weather gives us a good hiding place, Hunter, but it also plays daffy with the TV imaging.”

  Sir Neil gave the control panel a well-placed slap just above its fuse bank. The screen blinked twice and then became crystal-clear. Where there had been hundreds of lines of wavy static before, now there was the sharp, neon-blue-and-white image of the snow-capped mountain range.

  “Ah, yes, the Pyrenees,” Sir Neil said happily by way of explanation. “Used to take the wife skiing there before the war. She’s in Free Canada now, thank God.”

  Hunter couldn’t help but think of Dominique; she too was in Free Canada.

  The TV screen was beautifully registering the ground ten miles below, despite the poor weather. The image was so clear, it almost looked like it was being shot by a television camera, not a ground-imaging radar.

  “Great piece of equipment, this,” Sir Neil said, fine-tuning the picture even more. “It’s a LORAL TK-1Q imager.”

  “Next best thing to being there,” Hunter agreed.

  Slowly the image of the mountain faded and was replaced by the swaying lines of the ocean.

  “We’re over the Gulf of Lions now,” Sir Neil said. “That’s Marseilles up ahead.”

  The airplane bucked once, hard. The video screen protested with a brief burst of static, then returned a faithful picture of the southern coast of France. Hunter turned to look over the heads of the Nimrod’s pilots and out the cockpit window. The rain was getting heavier, the air more turbulent. The pilots had the airplane’s windshield wipers working overtime, and were taking turns wrestling with the controls in an effort to keep the airplane level.

  “Here it comes!” Sir Neil called out, drawing Hunter’s attention back to the screen. At the same time, the Nimrod’s pilot called back to them. “Toulon is clear, Commander.”

  Hunter knew the pilot had just done a routine electronic-weapons sweep of the ground below and found no hostile SAMs waiting for them. Now, as Hunter studied the TV screen, he saw the outline of the once-famous French Riviera come into view.

  An anxious jolt ran through him. The most important element of the Brits’ plan to capture the Suez was soon to come into view below. The closer they got, the wilder the British plan was becoming to Hunter.

  “Just a few seconds now,” Sir Neil told him. “Just the other side of Nice and we’ll see it … ”

  Sir Neil and his men were convinced the only way to seize control of the Canal was with air power. Warplanes were rarer items in the Med than in America. Lucifer’s Legions had very few, although the madman’s allies in the area boasted some small but formidable air forces. These were mostly local air units, satisfied with their role as air terrorists in Lucifer’s employ, doing occasional air pirating or free-lance bombing jobs on the side.

  On the other hand, the RAF, with its major air facility at Gibraltar and a few outposts like the Highway Base scattered throughout the Western Mediterranean, could muster as many as thirty aircraft, of varying types and quality. And unlike the air raiders, the Brits had a coordinated air-command system; their units frequently did training exercises together, with the entire command carrying out extensive maneuvers several times a year.

  The trouble was the British air power found itself confined to the western Med. The RAF airplanes rarely ranged much beyond the airspace west of Sardinia. There were no friendly air fields that would serve them if they did. These days, going from west to east on the Med was like sailing up the proverbial River of Fools. The further one traveled, the more bizarre and unpredictable things became. All kinds of dangerous characters plied the waters of the central and eastern sea, as well as sometimes prowling the skies above it. Appropriately enough, the miscellaneous madness peaked right around the Suez Canal. And just 250 miles beyond that lay the outer reaches of Lucifer’s evil empire.

  Just as in America, where Hunter and democracies stopped a larger land army with a small but effective air force during The Circle War, the Brits felt that if they could project their air superiority—quickly—to Suez, they could seize the canal and the air above it. Thus, the skies would be in friendly hands when The Modern Knights arrived a few days later.

  “We’re like the air commandos who go in just before the big invasion,” Sir Neil had told him. “Get there before the enemy. Hold him off with our air power. Deny him use of the canal.”

  The question was: how to move all that air power?

  The answer lay directly below the RAF Nimrod.

  “Here it comes,” Sir Neil said, adding in all proper English seriousness, “Major Hunter, this will be one of the most beautiful sights you will ever see.”

  Hunter focused his eyes on the radar-imaging screen. The big jet—still rolling and pitching in the severe weather—was over the once chic city of Nice. He could see the miles of shoreline, the glamorous beachfront buildings he knew were casinos. It evoked memories of the happier, exciting time of the prewar world.

  Suddenly the Nimrod hit a violent air pocket, driving the aircraft down and causing another wave of static to burst onto the video screen. “Bloody—” Sir Neil murmured as he tried to revive the video screen.

  Hunter readjusted his flight helmet, which had been knocked almost 180-degrees around his head in the latest jar. By the time he fixed it and could see again, Sir Neil had the TV screen back up and working. “There it is!” Sir Neil was yelling. “Isn’t it tremendous?”

  That’s when Hunter saw it. It was so big it filled the radar screen even though they were ten miles high.

  “Jezzuz,” he whispered. Suddenly everything started to make sense. The Brits couldn’t fly their air armada to the Suez—so they were going to float it there instead.

  “It’s an aircraft carrier,” Hunter said.

  “It’s the USS Saratoga,” Sir Neil informed him.

  “It’s an enormous aircraft carrier.”

  “Well, you see, it looks very big because it’s run aground,” the Englishman explained with glee. “You’re seeing a lot of what’s usually below the water line.”

  “It’s still the biggest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s quite true—it is one of the largest you Yanks eve
r built,” Sir Neil told him. “It was converted to nuclear power. Had a proud war record too. Until it washed up here anyway.”

  The pilot had put the Nimrod into a turn. The bad weather was still shaking every nut and bolt in the airplane, but nowhere near enough for Hunter’s eyes to be distracted from the TV screen.

  The ship was about an eighth of a mile off the sandy beach of Villefranche, just east of Nice. Its titanic draft being what it was, it appeared to be firmly stuck in the mud. “How did it get here?” Hunter asked.

  “We’re not sure, actually,” Sir Neil said. “We know it saw a lot of action off the Balkans during the Big War. It was fighting off the coast of Italy when the armistice was signed. After that, we don’t know what happened. Like a lot of other ships, it probably drifted until supplies were out. Then, it was abandoned.”

  “Most important,” Hunter said, excitedly, “where the hell are the airplanes?”

  Sir Neil shook his head. “Again, no way to know,” he said. “They’re gone, of course. F-14s, A-6s, A-7s, a few SA-3s also, don’t you think?”

  “F-18s too,” Hunter said. “That’s a bunch of pretty hot airplanes to be on the loose.” For the first time in as long as he could remember, Hunter was legitimately worried. In America, his F-16 was undisputedly the hottest fighter around. One of the reasons for this was that it was the only F-16 around that he knew of. In fact, it was the most advanced fighter still flying—the rest of the continental American air corps were relegated to flying older, though no less lethal, fighters.

  But these missing Navy jets were a problem. A monkey wrench thrown into the works. Forty highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art aircraft in the wrong hands was clearly troublesome, not to mention ego-bruising.

  “Wherever they are,” Sir Neil said, “it’s not anywhere around here. One story has it they were washed overboard. In the storm that grounded her, you see. Another—more romantic—tale goes that the pilots simply took off and flew until their fuel ran out, at which time they dropped patriotically into the sea.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Hunter said, his eyes leaving the TV screen for the first time.

  “I’ll say,” Sir Neil continued. “Of course, there is one other rumor. Some say they were flown down South America way.”

  South America. He’d been hearing a lot of mention of the continent lately. Hunter filed it all away and let the matter drop. He turned his attention back to the radar screen.

  “So you intend to refurbish her, put your aircraft aboard, and sail to the Suez,” Hunter asked.

  “That’s correct, major,” Sir Neil said. “We can adapt about twenty-five aircraft—fighters mostly—to set down on her. She’ll need work on the catapults, but we’re sure we’re up to it.”

  “Have you been down to her?” he asked.

  “No,” Sir Neil said. “The area is not exactly … secured, shall we say? But two of our commandos dropped in and had a look a few months ago. She’s seaworthy. Her holds are secure.”

  “What shape are the reactors in?” Hunter asked.

  “Oh, they’re in fine shape,” Sir Neil told him. “Trouble is, there’s no nuclear fuel. Perhaps the sailors were smart and dumped it into the ocean before she was beached. Of course, then again, perhaps someone stole it all.”

  Another bit of unsettling news.

  “So,” Hunter said, trying to fit in the last remaining pieces of the Brits’ plan, “do you have replacement fuel?”

  “No, no,” Sir Neil said, almost laughing. “We don’t have any fuel. Nor do we have anyone who would know how to get the thing running if we did. We were with you Yanks in nuclear-power subs, but nuclear-powered carriers just weren’t our game.”

  Hunter ran his hand over his chin. “Well, if you can’t power the thing to the Suez, how the hell are you going to get it there?”

  Sir Neil laughed again. “Simple matter, Hunter, my good man,” the Englishman said flawlessly. “We intend to tow it there … ”

  Chapter 9

  HUNTER STEERED HIS F-16 TOWARD its final landing approach to the Algiers airport. This day too was crystal-clear and bright, the sun so hot he could feel it even in his air-conditioned cockpit. In front of him the two single-seat British Tornados were lowering their landing gear and activating their air brakes. Hunter routinely disengaged his flight computer and took over the airplane manually for landing. All the time his radio was blaring with excited Arabic coming from the Algerian air controllers.

  The F-16’s weapons systems were fixed. With the help of a mile of electrical wire, Hunter had been able to hot-wire both his Vulcan cannon Six Pack and his Sidewinder launchers back into working condition. But it had been a long, arduous process. He renewed his vowed revenge against the saboteurs many times. No one—but no one—could screw around with his airplane and get away with it …

  One day after overflying the aircraft carrier, he and Sir Neil had come to an understanding. They had agreed that, no matter how different their approach, their goal was the same: stop Lucifer. Whether Hunter did it by tracking down the super-villain (admittedly a difficult mission), or the Brits did it by securing the Suez for The Modern Knights (also very difficult), the effect would be the same: the madman’s plans would be put asunder. And as crazy as the Brits’ idea was, Hunter was always a sucker for a noble cause. In the end, he knew they needed his help.

  So Hunter decided to take a two-option approach. He would help the Brits get their aircraft carrier floating, loaded up, and moving towards the Suez. Then, and only then, would he make up his mind whether he would press on to the East by himself to find the elusive Lucifer.

  This flight to Algiers fit right into his dual approach. The Brits needed manpower—friendly, employable manpower—to serve both as the USS Saratoga’s crew and as a protection force once they reached the Suez. Algiers was the site of the largest mercenary encampments in the entire Med and the Brits were here to buy. Hunter had agreed to accompany Heath and the other Tornado pilot to the Algerian city for their shopping spree. They were carrying millions of dollars in gold—good soldiers didn’t come cheap—and needed someone of Hunter’s caliber to watch their backs in the volatile arms-and-man bazaar.

  But Hunter also had a more personal reason to make the trip. Just before he died, the last thing Lord Lard had said to him was, “Algiers.” Hunter took this to mean that some clue to the whereabouts of Lucifer could be found in the coastal city. So, while he was riding shotgun for the British, he would also have his eye out for something—anything—that could lead him to Lucifer …

  He set the F-16 down right behind the Tornados and together they taxied to their assigned holding stations. Unlike Casablanca, the Algiers airport was totally devoid of citizens. The place was crowded, but with soldiers. Soldiers of many countries and allegiances, wearing every possible combination of uniform and carrying many different types of weapons.

  The pilots emerged from their airplanes just as a squad of red-uniformed men appeared. Each of the men was over six-five, heavily armed, and black.

  Heath approached the man in charge. “Humdingo, my friend,” the British pilot said, greeting the soldier. “Good to see you, brother.”

  The man grinned. “Heath, it’s been more than a year since you’ve visited your friends in Algiers. We thought you had forgotten about us.”

  Hunter smiled. The man was obviously a member of some tribe from the middle of Africa, yet he spoke English with the flair and accent of someone who had graduated from Oxford.

  Heath introduced Hunter and the other Tornado pilot—a Captain Raleigh—to Humdingo, explaining, “Humdingo used to be a chief. Big chief in the Congo. That’s before he found his way to England and learned our nasty ways.”

  “This is true,” Humdingo said in a booming voice. “I learned that the British refuse to believe the sun has set on their Empire. And that they will go to great lengths trying to prove it! Me? I just like their food.”

  Heath laughed. “Humdingo, you’re the only person
in the world who actually likes English food.”

  They got down to business. Heath produced a bag of gold. “We shouldn’t be gone for more than twenty-four hours,” he told Humdingo, handing him the gold. “By all means, shoot anyone suspicious who comes near these airplanes.”

  “An F-16?” Humdingo said, admiring Hunter’s sleek jet fighter. “Never guarded one of these before.”

  Heath turned to Hunter. “These guys are specialists,” he told him. “Nothing will happen to our aircraft while we’re gone.”

  As if to emphasize the point, Humdingo barked out a sharp order in Congolese and his squad snapped to. With crack precision, the soldiers two-stepped to their positions. In ten seconds they had formed a protective circle around the three jet fighters. Hunter couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to tangle with the two dozen well-armed black warriors. He left his F-16 in their hands, enjoying a certain degree of peace of mind.

  Humdingo also provided the trio with a jeep. With Heath behind the wheel, they roared off toward the city of Algiers.

  They called the fortress “Maison de la Guerre”—Place of War. Hunter’s first glimpse of it had been misleading. They had driven through Algiers proper, reached the hills beyond its limits, and found the authentic-looking fort sitting atop a rise on the edge of town. It looked like it was right out of a Foreign Legion movie, except that from the top of its parapets flew literally hundreds of flags. The two soldiers of undetermined origin guarding the front gate eyed them suspiciously as they pulled up in front. A few gold pieces from Heath’s hand to their pockets made them instant allies.

  The pilots climbed out of the jeep and walked through the huge gate the guards had opened for them. “Here is where we will find our crew,” Heath told Hunter.

  Inside, the fort’s front courtyard was no less authentic. Soldiers were milling around, as were some camels and a scattering of civilians selling a variety of black-market items. Rifle ammunition looked to be the biggest seller.