Smythe unfolded his ladder and put it up against the F-4. He slowly climbed up until he was eye level with the two pilots. Unstrapping a bottle of ice water from his belt, he passed it to the pilot.
“You look like you got a bad wing there,” Smythe said looking at the Phantom’s starboard side.
“We did a skid back in Casablanca,” Crunch told him, taking a long swig of ice water, then passing the bottle back to Elvis.
“Casablanca!” The old man laughed. “Well, you boys are lucky you made it out of there with just a twisted wing!”
“You saw Hunter?” Crunch asked.
“No,” Smythe answered. “But we heard about him. He saved this base he did. Stopped two out of three missiles from blowing the place off the map. What a corker! Flipped the bloody things right over, they say.”
Crunch eyed the scarred portion of the highway-runway where the third missile had fallen, then asked, “Do you know where Hunter is now?”
“Yes I do,” Smythe told him. “He’s gone. Gone with the rest of them. Gone to fight the war.”
Crunch looked at Elvis, then shook his head. “Do you exactly where?”
Smythe laughed. “Aye, haven’t you blokes heard? He and the RAF guys are sailing a carrier to the Suez! Going to stop that Lucifer character right where he lives, the arse!”
“An aircraft carrier?” Crunch said in disbelief.
“It’s a grand-sounding adventure isn’t it?” Smythe said. “A Crusade they are calling it. I’d be with them if I wasn’t seventy years old. They all left—days ago. Sent Roger and me here. Just to top off the tanks of the regular customers we get through here. Things have been slow, though, mate. The war is coming. People are afraid to fly, even this far west.”
Roger had arrived with the fuel truck and began filling the F-4’s wing tanks. Smythe pulled out a piece of beef jerky and started chewing on it.
“Course they haven’t got a prayer, the poor bastards,” he said.
“Who’s that?” Crunch asked.
“Well, your boy Hunter and the heroes of the RAF, I’d say,” Smythe replied. “They’re sailing to an early death if you ask me. Why, they’ll be lucky if they make it past Crete. Do you know what the Med is like these days, lads? Blimey. It’s filled with Russians, terrorists, Lucifer’s allies, and Lord knows what else. And that’s even before you get to Lucifer’s Kingdom. Who knows what’s floating around out there.
“Aye, those RAF guys. Brave. Filled with courage they are. And your boy Hunter too, of course. Brave fools, laddies.”
Roger had completed filling up the F-4’s tank. Crunch turned over four bags of silver to Smythe.
“Where can we find out more about this crusade?” Crunch asked, flipping his standby switches and turning on the F-4’s generator.
“You’re heading there, mates,” Smythe said, taking his bottle and descending the ladder. “Gibraltar, lads. Been having trouble raising them on the radio this morning. But don’t worry. They’ll tell you all about it in Gibraltar … ”
With that, Crunch lowered the canopy, gave Smythe a wave, and taxied the jet slowly to the end of the highway runway. The two reservists watched as a spit of flame erupted from the back of the F-4. Then, its engine screaming, the Phantom roared down the runway, lifted off, and disappeared over the horizon.
Chapter 15
HUNTER BROUGHT UP THE throttle on the F-16 and made a final check of his instruments. Everything was okay. He gave the thumbs-up signal to one of Yaz’s men standing next to the aircraft, then leaned back in the fighter’s seat and braced himself. A long thin wisp of steam rose up in front of him as he counted down:
“ … three … two … one … Now!”
He was slammed against the seat with such a force, his ears started ringing. The carrier deck whipped by in a blur and next thing he knew, he was out over the open sea. The F-16 had gone from standing still to 120 mph in less than three seconds.
“Jeezuz!” he thought as he yanked back on the side-stick controller and gained altitude. “No wonder those Navy pilots are all crazy.”
The first catapult launch in a long time from the deck of the USS Saratoga was a success.
They were now more than fifty miles away from the Riviera and heading east. Moving the Saratoga proved to be just another few hours’ work for O’Brien’s tugs. The Irishman and his men had pulled and pushed and pulled some more with their twenty extra-large tugboats. Just as the sun was coming up, O’Brien got all of his tugs working together and, sure enough, the carrier slipped off its sandy resting place and out into deep water once again. All the Faction tank gunners could do was lob a few angry but meaningless shells into the sea as the Saratoga and its strange attending fleet of tugs and frigates sailed away.
Yaz’s guys had the steam catapult working soon afterwards, and by nine o’clock Hunter was ready to attempt a takeoff. The Saratoga needed air protection quick; it was still moving fairly slowly and would be a sitting duck for a well-placed Exocet missile. So Hunter began what would be the first of many combat air patrols.
The carrier’s first destination was the coast of Algeria. That was where they would pick up the bulk of their hired fighting force, plus meet the oiler that O’Brien had arranged for. In the meantime, the six Tornados and the two dozen other aircraft that Sir Neil’s men had commandeered from their RAF units would begin the risky business of learning how to land and takeoff from a carrier deck.
As Hunter soared to 10,000 feet, he was both fascinated and amused by the sight below him. There was the Saratoga, from stem to stern nearly a quarter-mile long, looking magnificent against the sparkling water of the Med. The amusing part was the twelve tugs that were pulling and the eight that were pushing the majestic ship.
It was at that moment that Hunter had to stop and remind himself just what the hell he was doing. Towing a lifeless nuclear aircraft carrier across 1500 miles of God-knows-what all the way to the Suez Canal? In the vanguard of a modern-day crusade? Only in the New Order world could such an outrageous enterprise make sense. And only an Englishman could have talked him—or any of them—into joining up. The question was: would it lead him to Lucifer?
Another thing worried Hunter. The conglomeration of jet aircraft the RAF had assembled for the adventure ranged from eleven state-of-the-art Tornados to four shitbox Jaguars, aircraft built way before Hunter was even born. Sure, there were three Harrier jump-jets he could count on, plus an American-built S-A3, but most of the aircraft were more suited for ground support. His 16 was the only real fighter-interceptor in the bunch.
The problem was weaponry: the RAF had managed to buy a fair quantity of bombs—from napalm to antipersonnel bomblets and everything in between—that could be fitted to most of their aircraft. But for Hunter, the only real dogfighter in the group, there were only three Sidewinders to be had. He had previously rigged his F-16 to carry as many as twenty at a time. Should any real trouble happen—such as another Exocet attack or an air strike on the carrier—Hunter might expend three Sidewinders in a matter of seconds.
He wrestled with these and other thoughts as he slowly orbited the Saratoga. They were cruising on a slow southeasterly course, in the general direction of the Algerian coast, but also close enough to Majorca so the four helicopters at their disposal could ferry equipment out from the island. Now, as he watched from above, two Tornados, arresting hooks newly installed on the underbellies, approached to practice landing on the carrier.
O’Brien’s tugs had slowed the carrier down to a dead stop and turned her into the wind. A stationary target was much easier to land on than one that was moving. But it was crucial that they get all twenty-four airplane pilots up to speed on carrier landings within the next thirty-six hours. Beyond that, aircraft flying out from Majorca would have to stay there, because they would be beyond their operating range and to wait for them would disrupt Sir Neil’s rigorously planned timetable.
Hunter watched as the first Tornado came in for its initial try. The Norwegian fri
gates were strategically placed around the carrier in case one of the RAF airplanes went into the drink. The Sea King helicopter hovered nearby, ready for sea-rescue duty if needed, as were O’Brien’s idle tugs. The Tornado came in hard, bounced on the deck, and received the wave-off. The pilot gunned its engine and the plane screamed for altitude. After a long arc around the carrier, the Tornado tried again. But this second attempt only resulted in a higher bounce on the Saratoga’s deck and another wave-off.
“Come on, Redcoat,” Hunter murmured. “Set it down once and you’ll be doing it in your sleep in two weeks.”
The Tornado’s third attempt was successful, and everyone breathed easier. His wingman made it on board in two attempts. As soon as their airplanes were cleared away—via the carrier’s huge and now-working mid-deck elevator—two more Tornados appeared on the horizon. They too received several wave-offs before finally setting down. That’s when two elderly Jaguars arrived, and to just about everyone’s delight set down perfectly on the carrier, each on the first try.
For the next hour they came: seven more Tornados, two more Jaguars. Then came the unusual American-made, S3-A Navy antisubmarine aircraft, a small, twin-engined airplane that looked like a minibomber. This airplane—contracted from an Australian pilot—was painted entirely in garish punk pink.
Somehow, the RAF guys had got a hold of four SAAB JA37 Viggens, veterans of the Swedish Air Force. Because these ground-attack airplanes were custom-made to operate from highways and very short airstrips, setting them down on the carrier proved to be no problem.
Finally, the Harrier jump-jets arrived, each one setting down on the carrier deck vertically. Now, all the airplanes were aboard. Within minutes, O’Brien’s tugs gunned their engines and began the pull-push process once again.
Before he prepared to land, Hunter put the F-16 into a steep climb. He soared past 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 feet. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear, the sun bright as he had ever seen it. A good feeling washed over him. What the hell? So they’re towing the goddamn carrier across the Med. They’ll have twenty-five jet fighters, and more than 8500 soldiers on board. Plus the frigates and the armed tugs—it all made for a formidable fleet. Maybe it would all lead him to Lucifer …
He turned the jet over and pointed it to the east. Instantly he felt the euphoria drain from him. Off on the eastern horizon was a cloud bank so dark it looked like the onset of night. Long, mile-high spirals of churning black and gray cumulus clouds washed over the sky like huge, nightmarish, slow-motion tidal waves. Hunter knew an omen when he saw one. This adventure would be anything but a leisurely cruise across the Med. God help us, he thought.
He put the F-16 into a dive and headed back for the carrier.
Chapter 16
HUNTER BROUGHT THE F-16 in for a now-routine carrier landing. His approach was slightly distracted by a group of people standing on the lip of the flattop’s deck. Strangely, at first, he thought they were aiming a gun at him. In an instant though he realized it wasn’t a gun at all—it was a movie camera.
The 16 screeched to a halt and Hunter jumped out, leaving the aircraft in the capable hands of Yaz’s sailors. As he stepped down onto the carrier deck, he noticed the camera crew had rushed to the side of the jet and that they were faithfully recording his every movement.
“Hold it right there, we got some dramatic light,” the man who seemed to be the leader of the film crew yelled to him. “Give us a salute, major!”
Hunter awkwardly saluted, then hurried to the nearest hatch door. Sir Neil was coming out just as he was going in.
“Hunter, old boy!” the Englishman said with a mile-wide grin. “I thought all you Yanks were keen on being in the flicks? Hollywood and all that.”
“You’ll have to talk to my agent,” Hunter said, removing his flight helmet and running his hand through his longish sandy hair. “Where did you dig up the camera crew?”
“They were a BBC unit attached to our base when the Big War started,” Sir Neil said, walking with him toward the ship’s mess. “We were stuck with them, and they with us, when the big battles were going on. Got some incredible footage of the first few days of fighting, they did. When the war died down, they had nowhere to go. So I commissioned them and they’ve been with us ever since.”
Hunter guessed the rest from there. “And you’re recording our mission to Suez then?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sir Neil said. “I can’t resist. They were able to dig up some fairly high-tech video equipment somewhere around Casablanca a few months ago, and miles of blank videotape. So I figured, ‘Why not?’ Whatever happens to us, it will be preserved for posterity. They got some great stuff of our recent engagement with the Fist and the Faction, especially your removal of those howitzers.”
Hunter shook his head in admiration of the robust British commander. For Sir Neil, the mission to Suez was more than a preemptive action spearheading for the Modern Knights and their armies; it was a high adventure, and Sir Neil had the kind of love for a bold undertaking that was in every English soldier’s blood since, well, since there was an England.
They arrived at the ship’s mess, where a temporary kitchen had been set up. They waited in line with everyone else, old-fashioned tin cups in hand. Once served, they sought out an empty table. The fare for the day was nothing more than a watery stew, slightly peppered with a rare piece of vegetable floating around.
Hunter took one sip and grimaced. “God, we’ve got to do something about the food,” he said.
“And the aircraft fuel situation,” Sir Neil said, coughing himself on the bitter-tasting stew. “And the electricity. Yaz’s guys are straining the two generators we have on board.”
“And ammo for my 16,” Hunter said, continuing the list.
“Aye, Hunter,” Sir Neil said, finally giving up on the stew and reaching instead for a stale piece of bread. “I know we’re not exactly flush in the Sidewinder department. And we could use some more antiaircraft and antimissile defenses. Not just for us, here on the carrier, but for O’Brien’s tugs too. They’re as valuable to us as anything.”
“Will we be able to afford some of this stuff on the black market when we reach Algiers?” Hunter asked, attacking a piece of bread himself.
“Afford it, by all mean, yes,” Sir Neil said. “But whether it will be available is the real question. Raleigh is back at Algiers now, organizing the pickup of our mercenaries. He called in to say that most of the top arms are being bought up—both openly and secretly—by Lucifer’s allies. The neutrals are getting into the action too. The rumor is the people who are holding all these weapons—the behind-the-scenes blokes—are turning off the spigot for a while. Driving the prices up. An artificial shortage. Raleigh says there probably won’t be very much left when we get there.”
“It’s a problem,” Hunter said. “We know things can get hairy after we pass through the Strait of Sicily. According to the schedule, that could be as soon as a week from now.”
“We probably won’t have to worry about it, major,” Sir Neil said, taking one last brave sip of the stew before pushing it away from him. “The food will kill us long before that … ”
An hour later, Hunter was inspecting the carrier’s newly acquired air arm. He was particularly impressed with the Tornados, even if they were of the two-seat, ground-attack design. (The single-seat version was quicker and built for the interceptor role.) The Tornado was the only fighter aircraft made containing reverse thrusters. It could land on a dime. So the carrier landings would be soon quite routine for their pilots.
The SAAB Viggens too were durable aircraft, and Sir Neil had spoke highly of their Swedish mercenary pilots. The Harrier jump-jets would be the most handy, and the ancient Jaguars—well, he admired the pluck of anyone who would dare fly them, let alone fight in them.
But besides his F-16, it was the S-3A that would be the most valuable. The S-3A—owned and operated by an Australian pilot named E.J. Russell—had a vast array of sophisticated reconnaissan
ce gear on board as well as “standoff” missile-attack and antiship capability. So this airplane could act as the Saratoga’s scout plane.
Many of the pilots knew who Hunter was, and as he walked amongst the aircraft they came up and introduced themselves. As Hunter was the overall air commander for the mission, it was up to him to coordinate the air arm’s priorities and procedures. The first thing he did was schedule a meeting later that day for all of the pilots at which tactics and strategies would be discussed. His second act was to schedule a poker game to follow the first meeting.
He was in the middle of inspecting one of the Tornado’s unique radar systems when the ship’s intercom system barked out: “Major Hunter, please report to the bridge, immediately.”
It was the first time the intercom had been used since the ship was liberated and it startled a number of people below the deck.
“Well, I’m glad they got that working,” he said to one of the Tornado pilots as he climbed down from the Tornado and headed for the Saratoga’s bridge. “I think … ”
The man called Peter was sitting in the chair normally reserved for the Captain when he was on the bridge. Surrounding the bizarre little man were Sir Neil, Heath, and Gjiff Olson, the commander of the Norwegian frigates.
“Hunter, you’ve got to hear this,” Sir Neil told him as he walked in.
Peter was fighting with a long, slimy drool that was drenching the beard immediately around the sides of his mouth. His filthy hands were pulling at his tangled hair, which Hunter now noticed was falling out in clumps. The man was babbling as usual, staring off into space, alternately laughing and crying. But it was those eyes! Madness. Craziness. But windows to an intelligence that had not quite completely diminished but that could also apparently see what no others could see.
“Eyes in the sky!” Peter was yelling in between his unintelligible ranting. “Follow me! They’re all gone to the orgy. We can sneak in. Caesar! Caesar! Beware the eyes in the sky … ”
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