“Of all the goddamn airplanes to show up,” Hunter cursed. It wasn’t the performance of the jets that bothered him. The French airplanes only had a top speed of 745 mph. His F-16 could do two and a half times that without breathing hard. Rather it was what the airplanes were armed with that was troubling. He knew Super Etendards could only be carrying one weapon: Exocets.
The Exocet was an anti-ship missile of the deadliest order. It could be fired from long- or short-range, depending on the ability and the motives of the pilot. It was programmed to deliver a 364-pound warhead of high explosive into a ship while traveling 600 mph. The missiles had made their murderous debut years ago in the Falkland Islands War. A few years later, an American frigate had been hit by one in the Persian Gulf. They flew again in the opening battles of World War III. Now Hunter knew at least six of them were heading his way.
Just as he was about to call in to Sir Neil on the Norwegian command ship, he heard one of the Gold Beach Tornados break in on the line.
“We’ve got trouble on Gold,” the cockney-accented pilot reported. “Tanks moving on beach highway from Villefranche. Looks like a gang of them—T-62s. Thirty at least. Also BMPs … ”
Goddamn! The Faction brought their tanks with them on holiday. Thirty Soviet-built tanks to boot.
Hunter flipped his radio-send switch and was immediately talking to Sir Neil. “We got six Super Etendards coming your way,” he told the British officer. “They’re probably loaded with Exocets.”
“Christ, Hunter,” the reply came back. “Who are they and what’s their bloody position?”
“Probably free-lancers, coming in a two-seventy Tango,” Hunter said, noting the aircraft were now just thirty miles away and staggering their flight pattern into three groups of two. The enemy planes were starting a long arc out over the sea. “They are getting in their attack positions now. You’d better red-alert everyone on the ships. Once those Exocets are launched, they’ll hit the first thing that configures to their computer ‘ship-ID’ profile. And that includes the carrier.”
There was a burst of static, then Sir Neil’s voice came through: “Hunter, can you hold them, man? We’ve got tanks moving toward the SAS guys on Gold. All six Tornados are being vectored there right now!”
“Roger,” Hunter replied, turning toward the Super Etendards and kicking in his afterburner. “You take care of the tanks. I’ll go after these guys … ”
Almost immediately the red alert was flashed to the Norwegian frigates. Their crews started to take countermeasures. The Exocet was a radar-homing missile. Hundreds of ship profiles were locked into its computer memory. Once a profile took hold via the missile’s on-board radar, the rocket would set a course right for its center. To counteract this, the Norwegian sailors started firing chaff rockets—small projectiles containing millions of ultra-thin, metalized, fiberglass wires. The cloud of chaff was designed to confuse the Exocet’s radar-homing device by mimicking several attractive radar targets. It was a good idea, but in reality the chaff defense worked about half the time.
Hunter put the 16 into a screaming dive and was instantly in the airspace between the attacking airplanes and the ships. Already he knew the lead Super Etendard had released a missile. The mini-blip on his radar screen confirmed it. He coolly set a path directly for the oncoming computerized projectile. The F-16 was traveling at 1100 mph and the Exocet was coming at him at nearly 650 mph.
“This won’t take long,” he thought.
Sure enough, five miles away he saw the telltale trail of smoke coming from the sea-skimming missile heading straight at him. He held the F-16 steady, barely flicking the aircraft’s side-stick controller. Now the missile was just three miles away. He counted off 1-2-3, then squeezed his cannon trigger. The Vulcan Six Pack roared in response, sending up a wall of lead. The missile and the cannon shells met a split-second later head on. A huge yellow explosion lit up the late afternoon sky. When the smoke cleared, nothing was left but cinders.
Even before the Exocet exploded, Hunter had launched a Sidewinder at the lead Super Etendard. The missile raced toward the attacking aircraft. An explosion off on the horizon ten seconds later confirmed the lead airplane had been hit.
Hunter turned his attention the second lead enemy airplane. It too had launched a deadly missile. Then, like a true hired hand, the pilot had turned his airplane around and fled the area. Hunter instantly had a clear visual sighting on the missile it had launched. Trouble was, it was moving too fast for him to shoot it down.
He knew the Exocet’s radar-homing computer had selected the circling Norwegian command frigate as its target. It was much too late for him to radio the ship to take evasive action. There was only one way he could prevent the missile from hitting its target. Hunter booted the F-16 until he was flying on an intersecting collision course with the missile. He kicked the 16’s engines once more and flashed right in front of the rocket, at the same time boosting up the power in his three cockpit radar sets.
The missile took the bait. Its on-board computer instantly “went dumb,” forgetting about the frigate and instead homing in on all the activity in the F-16’s cockpit. Hunter smiled, yanked back on the side-stick controller, and put the jet fighter into a merciless, straight-up climb.
The missile followed as advertised, but the speed of its target and the strain of the hellish climb were too much for its on-board circuitry. Wires began to melt, fuel began to heat up. Its electronic brain went crazy, instructing the missile’s steering systems to begin rotating. This caused the warhead to be jolted against its protective casing. A spark resulted and this ignited the warhead. The missile exploded an instant later.
“Two missiles down … ” Hunter whispered. “Only four to go … ”
He flipped the jet onto its back and found himself directly above two more incoming Super Etendards. Instinctively his fingers pushed the Sidewinder launch trigger and two missiles shot out from under his wings. They flew unerringly toward the slower attacking airplanes. One was sucked up into the trailing Super Etendard’s rear exhaust pipe. The airplane was instantly obliterated. The second Sidewinder caught the other jet right in the cockpit, exploding the chamber and ejecting the lifeless form of the pilot out through the smashed canopy glass. The aircraft went into a crazy spin and slammed into the sea with a steamy crash.
He found the last two remaining Super Etendards roaring over the top of the small fleet of three troop-carrying frigates, their Exocets still under the wings. He knew the pilots were trying to spin about and attack from the east, thereby giving them the option of attacking some of the SAS landing crafts in the process. But the gunners on the frigates interrupted those plans. The Norwegians sent up a wall of lead that impressed even Hunter. The SAS troopers on the beach were also firing at the enemy jets. One of the Super Etendards was caught square in a crossfire, its fuel tank taking hundreds of hits before it finally split and erupted into a ball of flame, taking the aircraft and its pilot with it.
The remaining jet, its pilot inordinately plucky, roared out into a wide turn and started back toward the small fleet.
“Send up chaff! Quick!” Hunter yelled into his microphone.
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, he could see a wall of chaff come flying up from the frigates. But the attacking jet was too far away from the close-to-shore frigates. The pilot launched his missile and immediately fled the area. Hunter instinctively wanted to chase the retreating airplane, but there was a much more immediate threat.
The Exocet was heading right for the Saratoga …
Without an instant’s hesitation, Hunter launched a Sidewinder, although he was not in a line-of-sight position. It was the only chance he had, and a risky one at that.
He was hoping the Sidewinder would get to the Exocet before the Exocet got to the carrier. It would be missile against missile. The Sidewinder was infrared, the Exocet was radar-targeted. The Exocet was an anti-shipper, the Sidewinder an air-to-air. The Exocet was bigger, faster, much mor
e powerful—its warhead could damage the carrier beyond repair. The Sidewinder was more nimble, but it was carrying only enough explosive to shoot down an aircraft. Plus it would have to make one hell of a maneuver to get to the Exocet. But Hunter knew the Sidewinder had at least one advantage: it could take out a target head on. He crossed his fingers and watched the drama unfold.
The Sidewinder twisted down toward the Exocet, homing in on its infra-red target. Urging it on with body English, Hunter watched as his missile executed the necessary 120-degree turn. The Exocet was now less than 500 feet off the bow of the Saratoga. Gunners on all four frigates were throwing up a wall of bullets in the enemy missile’s general direction hoping a lucky shot would hit the missile. Even the SAS men on the deck of the carrier were firing at the oncoming missile with their rifles as it came right for them. “Christ,” Hunter whispered. “This is going to be real close … ”
The Sidewinder won the race …
Just 100 feet off the side of the carrier, the smaller American-made weapon caught the front fin of the Exocet, clipping it and causing its warhead to explode before it hit the carrier. Pieces of near-supersonic debris still carried on into the side of the Saratoga, but with much less force and resulting damage than if the missile had impacted intact. A small fire broke out on the carrier, but Hunter, streaking by the big ship, knew it was manageable.
He heard a burst of cheers from his earphones. “Good shooting, Hunter!” Sir Neil’s voice came through, so loud it caused his ears to ring.
“Don’t thank me,” Hunter said, only half-jokingly. “Thank the guys who built that Sidewinder so many years ago. That’s what it means to be ‘Made in the USA.’”
But now there was a new threat.
While Hunter was taking on the Exocets, a major battle had erupted on Gold Beach. Approximately 500 SAS troops were ashore and they were battling many of the T-62 tanks that had moved up from the town. Another group of about a dozen tanks were firing directly on the frigates, which were aggressively firing back.
The Tornados were strafing the tanks firing at the beach soldiers, but already one of the jets had been shot down by a shoulder-launched SAM. Two other Tornados were low on fuel and ammo and would shortly have to return to Majorca.
But in his highly trained mind’s eye, Hunter knew the battle would soon change. It was getting dark, and right now the night would be the Recovery Force’s best ally. He swooped in over the beach and started strafing the T-62s. Meanwhile, shells from the frigate’s deck guns were finding targets in the enemy column. The SAS troops were also joining the fray, sending mortar shells crashing on to the enemy-controlled highway near their beachhead.
Two more passes over the tank column and Hunter saw the predicted change in the battle. The tanks were withdrawing to the side of the road where their crews would dig them in. They could continue to shell the beachhead from these stationary positions, but the battle had reached a point where the tanks needed to be resupplied.
As darkness quickly enveloped the area, the shooting on both sides died down to just scattered exchanges. Both sides hunkered down for the night.
Chapter 12
“OK, F-16,” THE VOICE crackled through the radio, “you are cleared for landing.”
Hunter began a final turn over the USS Saratoga. He’d been circling the carrier for nearly an hour, using every trick in the book to preserve his precious fuel. Now he had about five minutes’ worth of gas remaining.
It was nearly completely dark. A full moon was rising, and with it the tides. The SAS beachhead troops were exchanging scattered fire with the Faction tanks. The three Norwegian frigates were sweeping up and down the shoreline, battering both the tanks and the city of Villefranche itself with their small but powerful deck guns. Meanwhile the SAS carrier contingent had secured the Saratoga and Yaz’s men were on board. They had been able to fix two of the four arresting cables on the carrier’s deck in record time, setting up a bank of temporary floodlights in the process. Now it was time to test the cables.
Hunter had never attempted a carrier landing before, but he had hooked onto arresting cables on many occasions. He brought the F-16 down low as he made the final turn to the carrier. The floodlights that bathed the carrier deck gave it the appearance of a football field at night. He lined up the centerline of the deck with his HUD display and brought down his landing gear. The carrier was listing at a slight angle, but not enough to bother him.
Yaz himself was on the radio, his voice calmly calling out the wind direction and the all-important distance-to-ship measurement. The Navy man confirmed that the F-16’s arresting hook was fully deployed.
Hunter was now 500 feet out. He caressed the F-16’s side-stick controller. Flaps were lowered, air brakes engaged. 300 feet to go. He pulled the nose up slightly. A cross wind came up, causing him to dip the starboard wing slightly. 200 feet. Down a little more. His speed was just 120 knots. He throttled back on Yaz’s suggestion. 150 feet out. He could see the two arresting cables now. He would try for the first one. Missing that, he could always hope to snag the second one. If that were unsuccessful, he would be swimming for his life in the dark waters of the Med.
“OK, major,” Hunter heard Yaz say. “You’re looking good. Down just a hair. One hundred feet to go. Throttle back. Back. Steady. Nose up a little. Good!”
Hunter’s F-16 hit the first cable. There was a great screech and a burst of friction smoke as the arresting hook grabbed the cable, stretched it to its full limit, and snapped back. The F-16 shuddered all over, its engines screaming. Hunter was thrown forward in the cockpit, then slammed back against his seat. What a rush! he thought. He was down. The airplane was safe. From 100 mph to a dead stop in a second and a half. No wonder the Navy guys likened carrier landings to “having sex in a car wreck.”
The 16 was immediately surrounded by Yaz’s men, who started attaching securing lines to the aircraft and bolting them to the carrier deck. He could see other sailors were already draping the heavy-wound towlines over the stern of the carrier in preparation for O’Brien’s tugs. Hunter popped the canopy and climbed out. Heath and Yaz were waiting for him.
“This might be a first,” Yaz told him. “An Air Force plane landing on a Navy carrier … unopposed, that is.”
Hunter checked over the fighter and, once he was convinced it was in relatively good shape, he, Heath, and Yaz headed towards the Saratoga’s Combat Information Center or CIC, the central nervous system of any warship. As they walked along the ship’s passageways, Hunter could see SAS men and Yaz’s sailors running throughout the ship performing their prearranged tasks.
“The beachhead is in good shape,” the British officer told him. “Our SAS guys have occupied the shoreline buildings and have a good defensive perimeter set up. We’re lucky because the Faction are not known as night-fighters and the Iron Fist people are probably cowering under their beds.”
“How about the ship’s launch system?” Hunter asked. “Can we get it working?”
Yaz raised his hands to display two sets of crossed fingers. “We got electricity to the primary controls,” he said. “And the hydraulic pumps for the steam catapult are fixable. If the steam tanks don’t leak and the pipes take the pressure, we could launch in less than three hours if we had to.”
Hunter felt a jolt of pride for the Navy guys. He knew the jobs Yaz had described would usually take at least a day to complete.
“No trouble when your chopper guys landed on board?” Hunter asked Heath.
Heath shook his head. “The ship was nearly empty,” he said.
“Nearly?”
“Except for one person,” Heath said. “I’ll introduce you.”
They reached the bridge to find a squad of SAS men surrounding a strange figure. It was an old man, dressed in rags and sporting a dirty, gray beard and long, stringy hair that nearly reached his waist. He was wearing a sackcloth tied at the middle with a piece of electrical wire and dilapidated combat boots on his feet. A dozen garishly colored s
trings of beads hung around his neck. He looked like both a hermit and an out-of-date hippie. The man was sitting in an old pine box that looked to be a cross between a bed and a coffin. His eyes closed as if he was meditating.
“Who’s the old guy?” Hunter asked.
“His name is Peter,” Heath said. “Or so he tells us. We found him here, in this box. Says he’s been living here for a while. Also says that he’s been ‘expecting us.’”
The man opened his eyes and looked at Hunter. The pilot could tell right away the man was a little crazy.
“It’s him!” Peter started yelling. “He’s come!”
Hunter looked at Heath. “Who the hell is he talking about?”
“I think he’s talking about you, major,” Heath answered.
Peter bounded out of the box and into a kneeling position. He started chanting loudly in gibberish, pausing occasionally to look up at Hunter and let out an insane laugh.
“Christ,” Hunter said. “This guy’s nuts … ”
“Maybe so,” Heath said. “But look at this.” He picked up a notebook and gave it to Hunter. “The SAS guys found him writing away in this when they came aboard.”
Hunter recognized the book as a typical ship’s log. He was surprised to find the writing inside was not only extremely neat and readable, it was almost stylized, like that in a Bible.
Hunter started reading the log and felt a wave of astonishment pass over him. There, on the first three pages, was a completely accurate version of what he and the Brits had been doing in the past week. From the bombing at the Highway Base to the trip to Algiers to their attacking Villefranche to their boarding of the Saratoga. It mentioned Sir Neil, Heath, Hunter, and even Yaz by name. The whole story—right up to the section titled “Peter Meets the Pilot”—written as if it were already history.
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