“What’s going on?” Hunter asked.
“Be patient with us, major,” Sir Neil said. “He’s been saying some very interesting things. He could be coming around to them again soon.”
“Virgins! Sacrifice her! Sacrifice her!” Peter laughed, tears rolling down his craggy cheeks. “They’ve all gone to the party. Sidewinders. Yes, Sidewinders! More than I’ve ever seen!”
“Did he say Sidewinders?” Hunter had to ask, trying to make some sense out of the gurgle.
“Yes,” Heath answered. “He’s been saying it over and over for the past twenty minutes.”
“Perhaps he knows something we don’t?” Sir Neil said to Hunter.
Hunter shrugged and moved close to the man. “Peter,” he said calmly, “where are the Sidewinders?”
The man turned and looked into Hunter’s eyes, his gaze triggering a jolt that ran through to Hunter’s brain. “You,” he said. “You are The Wingman, aren’t you? I know you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Once again, Hunter was startled by one of Peter’s revelations. Even in his spookishly accurate ship’s log prophecy, he had never mentioned Hunter’s “other” name.
“The Sidewinders, Peter,” Hunter repeated. “Where are they?”
He grabbed Hunter’s sleeve and pulled him close. The man looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a decade or so, and now Hunter’s nose confirmed it.
“You know I dream … ” Peter said, his voice a raspy whisper. “I see many things … I know you see many things too.”
Hunter couldn’t argue with the man. He did possess a certain degree of extrasensory perception.
“They’re all gone to the orgy,” Peter continued. “Let’s go! We can sneak in. We can steal their Sidewinders!”
“Where, Peter?” Hunter asked him, staring deep into those blue pools of madness. “Where are the Sidewinders?”
Peter drew himself up straight in the chair, brushed back his gooey hair, and said: “Cagliari … ”
Chapter 17
THE S-3A PASSED OVER the coast of Sardinia and turned southeast. The Australian pilot named E.J. Russell was at the controls; Hunter was strapped into the side-by-side copilot’s seat, working the sophisticated surveillance gear. The airplane had recently received a coat of Navy gray to cover its former punk-pink color. It was flying at 56,500 feet, higher than any SAM that might be lurking on the western coast of the island, and hopefully beyond the reach of the radar they assumed was operating on the eastern edge.
Cagliari was the largest city on Sardinia, the island that sat below Corsica, and less than 200 air miles west of Rome. After the Big War started, the Italian Navy evacuated the civilians from the sparsely populated island as they were easier to protect back on the mainland. As the war intensified, all that remained on the island were the tens of thousands of goats that lived there—and the American troops stationed at the massive air base at Cagliari.
Cagliari’s air base was built by the Americans in the 1980s for two good reasons. First, as a possible launching point for air strikes against the looney-tunes that once ruled Libya, and second, as a modern weapons-storage facility for NATO. Sardinia’s central Mediterranean location and small population made it ideal for storing armaments that could be needed anywhere in the region. When fighting broke out in Europe, the aircraft stationed at the big base were instantly dispatched to the front. They never came back. Soviet SCUD missiles, carrying poison gas, hit the airbase soon afterward, killing every living thing on the island, including all of the base’s ground personnel.
After the major battles of the war were over and done with, and the whole of Europe became a strange kind of netherworld, unseemly elements drifted down from northern Italy, sailed back to Sardinia, and claimed it as their own.
What they found was a huge military complex, an air base still virtually intact—containing, everything except the airplanes. There were many deep, underground, concrete bunkers containing thousands of weapons that were never used. It was an arms bonanza. So, the new Sardinians—deserters and war criminals, most of them—set up a large arms-wholesale operation.
At the same time, they wrapped the island—and their enterprise—in a veil of secrecy. They were wise to the point of knowing that the less said about what they had, the better. So they sold their wares through an army of middlemen, with entangled webs of backdoor deals and money passed in the night. They quietly reaped incredible profits. Though few of the buyers knew it, many of the weapons bought in the bazaars of Algiers—especially air weapons—originated from the underground warehouses just across the Med at Cagliari.
As a result of this strictly enforced code of silence—omerta was a tradition in the region—very few normally informed sources in the Med knew what was going on with the people running the Cagliari base these days. But the reports that filtered through—via rumors, travelers’ stories, and gun-running braggadocio—added up to one strange situation.
The arms marketeers had quickly conquered Corsica to the north and set up a territory majestically called The Holy Sardinian Empire. And they took their ancient Roman history seriously. They reportedly paraded around in togas, accompanied by modern Roman-Legion-style guards. They acquired slaves and with the free labor built a slew of pseudo-Roman-style buildings—palaces, temples, coliseums, meeting houses, bathhouses, and aquariums. By raiding nearby Italy—now in the throes of anarchy—the Sardinians were able to capture their most prized possessions—their “virgins.” These young girls—hundreds if not thousands of them—were used by the twenty central figures in the Sardinian government in a never-ending frenzy of lust and perversion. Not a day started on Sardinia without the obligatory virgin sacrifice, and the sado-masochistic rituals carried on all day and well into the night. The Sardinian rulers were apparently gluttons (they had appropriately built vomitoriums), living a satyr’s life of endless food, wine, and sex with young girls. All of it was fueled by the profits they made selling the nearly bottomless supply of weapons held in storage in the underground warehouses at Cagliari.
How Peter knew there was a major celebration in the works for Sardinia was anyone’s guess. But by using the S-3A’s long-range, video-imaging, look-down radar, Hunter was able to confirm the strange man’s prediction. Crossing over the center of the island, he could clearly see that preparations for some kind of holiday were going on inside the city of Cagliari itself even though it was the dead of night. The adjacent air base was all but unlit and apparently deserted. By monitoring local radio bands and using the small amount of Italian at his disposal, Hunter was able to ascertain that the celebration—The Day of the Kings, they were calling it—would take place in forty-eight hours.
The pilot Russell pulled the S-3A to the south and started a long sweep around the bottom of the island. Here Hunter got his first good look at the defenses surrounding the base at Cagliari itself. In a word, they were heavy.
“Christ, these guys have air defense in triple depth,” Hunter said to Russell as he watched his video-imaging screen from the side jump seat of the S-3A. “It’s all American stuff too. Hawks. Rapiers. I’m sure they must have hundreds of Stingers lying around too.”
“They’re like kids in a candy store, mate,” Russell said, taking a peek at the video screen. “But how can they possibly have enough guys willing to man all that stuff? No one’s ever attacked them—and with all that young stuff tied down and waiting for them, who’d want to sit in front of a Rapier screen all day?”
“That’s a good question,” Hunter said, sharpening the image on the video screen. “They must have a central firing station somewhere.”
“You mean someplace where one or two guys can watch over the whole thing?” Russell asked.
“Possibly,” Hunter said, unfastening his oxygen mask and stroking his two-day beard. “They would see a blip coming and push the right buttons. Or maybe push all the buttons and hope they hit something.”
The S-3A streaked on into the night, Hunter watching the video screen
carefully for anything likely to be the base’s central firing-control station.
Then he saw it. “Take a look at this, E.J.,” Hunter told the pilot. “The place looks like a small temple of some sort. It’s got a lot of what look like phone lines running into it.”
“Yes, and it’s up on a hill,” Russell commented. “Good command of the sky in all directions.”
Hunter pushed a bank of buttons and turned some fine-tuning knobs. “Bingo!” he said. “I got a lock on a radar dish. A big one too. Right next to the temple. But it’s only operating at half power.”
“They probably have to make their electricity locally, maybe with gas-driven generators,” Russell said. “It would take a big one to run all those SAMs, though.”
Hunter scribbled down a barrage of notes, then told Russell, “Okay, let’s head for home.”
“You got an idea, major?” the Aussie pilot asked.
“Not yet,” Hunter said, smiling. “But I’m working on it.”
Hunter lay awake on his bunk, thinking. He and Russell had landed the S-3A just an hour before; Sir Neil’s BBC crew was all set up when they arrived to capture their landing on videotape. Now he was trying to catch some shut-eye before he briefed Sir Neil and the others on what they’d seen on Sardinia.
Of all the strangenesses going on, it was the man Peter that stuck in his mind. The Saratoga could use all the weapons it could get, especially Sidewinders. The original plan was to buy anything they could on the Algiers black market, or get it by some other means. But even Sir Neil had admitted that he hadn’t considered the armaments at Cagliari until Peter had gone into his trance on the bridge. The only well-known fact about the island empire was that it was considered too well defended to fool with. But Peter’s prediction that “they’ll all be at the orgy” seemed to be confirmed by Hunter’s interception of radio signals concerning the “Day of the Kings” celebration. And if Peter’s tip that the Sardinians could be caught with their pants down was true, it might signal an opportunity too good to pass up. Especially since Raleigh had reported that the flow of arms into the Algerian markets was quickly drying up.
The question was: did they dare risk an operation on the word of a crazy man?
Sir Neil and Hunter had had a lengthy discussion earlier on what to do with Peter. When he wasn’t blathering on the bridge, he could be found blathering in his pine box, which Yaz and his guys had judiciously moved to an empty cabin. If Peter had been just an ordinary wacko, Sir Neil would have had one of the choppers set him down on the nearest dry land and that would have been it.
But obviously, Peter was not just a run-of-the-mill lunatic. Hunter had reread his prophetic ship’s log three times and was chilled each time by its uncanny, unearthly accuracy. Names, places, events, all were exact. And, as far as anyone could figure out, Peter had simply pulled it out of the ether and scribbled it into the log.
Even in Peter’s drooling ramblings there could be gems of prophecy. One obvious example: Hunter knew the “flowers on the sea” Peter ranted about were, in fact, O’Brien’s shamrock-adorned tugs arriving just in time off the Riviera. Then there were the painted ladies …
So Sir Neil and Hunter decided that they couldn’t just cast the loon off. Though they also agreed that he be watched by at least four SAS men at all times.
Hunter took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. He could feel his bunk vibrating in the never-ending pull-push motion of the carrier as O’Brien’s tugs worked endlessly into the night. His mind felt as if it too were in a pull-push mode. Was all this worth it? Did his mission even have the slightest chance of succeeding? Or was he just caught up in the adventurism that had nobly gripped the Brits? And still the major question nagged him: was all this swashbuckling eventually going to lead him to Viktor?
Like many events in his life, this one was getting very, very strange …
He closed his eyes and let his thoughts take off in a million different directions, a usual exercise before he drifted off to sleep. He knew several crucial events would dominate the next few days. They were soon to rendezvous with the rest of Olson’s Norwegian frigates. Then the carrier would have to be put in its best defensive condition. But the first priority would be their arrival off the coast of Algiers to meet the oiler and the Moroccan desert fighters, the Aussie Special Forces, the French ship defensemen, the Spanish air defensemen, the Italians, and the rest of Yaz’s men.
There was still a long road ahead …
He unconsciously reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring bulge of the folded American flag and the dog-eared corners of Dominique’s photograph. He wished for a moment with Peter’s perceptive power to look the thousands of miles to the west to where Dominique was. “I love you, honey,” he whispered, his eyes closed tight. “I’ll be home someday … ”
Suddenly there was a knock at his door. The hatch swung open, and in the dim light Hunter could see the unmistakable form of a female. She came closer to him. It was Clara, the Madam.
She sat down on the edge of his bunk and nonchalantly put her hand on his upper right thigh. Although she was dressed in a one-piece mechanic’s uniform, her zippered front was open to her navel and her perfume smelled like sweet air.
“Mister Hunter,” she whispered seductively, “I have something for you.”
“For me?” Hunter asked innocently, trying to hide a slight shaking in his voice.
“Yes, monsieur,” she continued. “I had a very long talk with Sir Neil earlier tonight.”
“And?” Hunter asked, very well aware that Clara’s hand was inching its way up his leg.
“And he’s agreed to let us—my girls and me—stay on board,” she said slowly. “For the time being … ”
“He has?”
“Yes, my love.” Clara laughed. “Over wine and candlelight, I can be quite persuasive.” On cue, her hand moved closer to his crotch.
“So how’s this … uh, involve me?”
“Oh, Monsieur Hunter,” Clara said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “He told me that it was you that requested we stay on board. He said it was an American tradition, is it not? To have women on board ship? To help, of course.”
“Help … ?”
“Yes, major,” she said, leaning even closer and stroking his long hair. “As therapists … ”
“Therapists?”
“Yes, major. This mission you are going on will be very stressful, no?”
“It could get, uh, stressful … ” His excitement level was reaching the bursting point.
“Well, then, major. When was the last time you had a deep, relaxing massage?”
She didn’t give Hunter time to answer. She snapped her fingers and another female slipped into the room.
“This is Emma,” Clara said. With that, she stood up and led the other woman to his bunk. Then she gracefully left the room.
Hunter could sense the other woman’s shyness, but he had yet to see her face. He reached up and clicked on the small light over his head. Their eyes met for the first time.
Hunter was thunderstruck …
She was young, beautiful, and looked hauntingly reminiscent of Dominique …
She didn’t speak. She reached up and turned out the bunk light. Then he felt her hands slowly work up his arm to his shoulder. To his neck, down his chest, to his waist, and back up again. He wasn’t about to fight it. His hormones were flying about his body in afterburner. Nature takes its course, he thought.
Emma’s hands worked his tired thigh muscles, front and back. Then she undid his flight boots—he usually wore them to bed to be ready in an emergency—and let them drop to the floor. His flight suit came off next.
Then she stood and removed her own coverall. In the dim light he could see her lovely silhouette. Small, delicate breasts. Beautiful shape. Shapely rear and outstanding legs. Best of all, the long, blonde hair. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Dominique. Younger, before the War, when he didn’t even know her. Emma lay down beside him and
caressed his shoulders and chest. His mind was working the fantasy overtime.
After what seemed like hours of foreplay, they made love. His psyche was reeling, his brain exploding. It was wonderful. Emma was perfect for him. Even Dominique would understand …
It was only much later that he realized that Peter had even had a hand in this.
Chapter 18
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT when the tug slipped into the small Algerian cove and tied up to a rickety dock. The tide was high and a full moon was shining above. The harbor was deserted except for a lone figure, dressed in Arab robes and a turban, who quickly helped tie up the tug, then came aboard.
Sir Neil himself greeted the man with a warm handshake. It was Raleigh, the British officer who had helped arrange the mercenary deals with Heath and Hunter. He had returned to Algiers to facilitate the transactions. Now the time had come for the Brits to take delivery.
While it was no secret that the English had contracted for the nearly 10,000-man multinational force, the exact time and place of their departure from Algiers had been kept especially confidential, as had been their mission. Sir Neil knew full well that they could never keep an operation like towing an aircraft carrier the length of the Med a secret for very long, but the longer it remained covert, the better.
So Raleigh had arranged to have most of the Aussie, French, and Spanish mercenaries trucked to a small coastal village twenty miles from Algiers, and it was from there the paycheck soldiers would be shuttled to the Saratoga.
“Everything is ready, sir,” Raleigh told the British Commander. “The Moroccans are loading on a freighter right now, back in Algiers. The oiler is also standing by. They’ll both move just as soon as we transmit the go-code. Everyone else is waiting up in the hills.”
“Well done, Raleigh, old boy,” Sir Neil told him, leading him to the stern of the tug. “See that pair of red lights out there?”
Raleigh strained his eyes to make out two faint crimson lights on the dark horizon. “Yes, I see them, sir.”
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