“That’s the Saratoga, man,” Sir Neil continued. “O’Brien has twelve tugs waiting to come in and start ferrying the troops aboard. Once we’ve got the majority of them on board, we’ll radio the Moroccans and the oiler to make their move.”
“I understand, sir,” Raleigh said, pulling his hood over his head again, walking towards the gangplank. “Tell the tugs to come in. We’re ready for them.”
Hunter sat dozing in the cockpit of the F-16. The jet fighter was secured to the carrier’s catapult system, ready to rocket the aircraft off the deck at a moment’s notice. Should any trouble arise that would interfere with the pickup of the mercenaries, Hunter would be airborne first to counter the threat.
He was beat. The day’s preparation for the midnight pickup off Algeria had been brutal. Hunter’s role was to check, double-check, and then triple-check each of the carrier’s aircraft, then document a lengthy status check on every available pilot. Without the modern conveniences he once enjoyed way back when with the regular Air Force, the combat evaluation procedure turned into a long, arduous process.
Once the ferrying operation got underway, the air arm would be responsible for providing air cover. The job called for helicopters, and the Sea King had had to be left behind on Majorca. But because the Saratoga had linked up earlier in the day with the eleven additional frigates of Captain Olson’s Norwegian fleet, Hunter was now flush with choppers. Each frigate carried one—mostly British-built Bell Sea Scouts. Under agreement with the Norwegians, these copters were at Hunter’s disposal.
He was also tired because his pleasant liaison with Emma had lasted well into the morning and very little of that time had been devoted to sleeping. She had finally opened up and talked to him, though, about herself and about Clara’s girls. Far from being street hookers, the women had actually been the highest-priced group of “mistresses” on the prewar European continent. They had specialized in escorting jet-setters—both men and women, as it turned out—and all their clients had been fabulously wealthy. Clara had insisted on it: every client had to have at least $10 million in the bank before Clara even returned their calls. It was her way of protecting her girls—along with stringent medical tests. Small wonder Clara’s girls had charged—and were gladly paid—as much as $20,000 for just a single night of bliss.
The odd thing about it all was that Emma realized she looked like a younger version of Dominique. Clara had told her so. But how did Clara know? Hunter had asked during the love session. Emma’s answer stunned him. She said the man Peter had come to Clara and told her that Emma was the girl for Hunter. Once again Peter’s perceptive abilities chilled him. He was both mystified and amazed that Peter could look that deep into his soul.
There was a constant chatter of radio traffic bouncing around in his headphones and it was getting mixed up with his half-awake dreams of the beautiful Emma. Suddenly he got a message that didn’t come by way of his on-board radio. Aircraft approaching! his senses told him.
And they ain’t friendly …
Hunter was wide awake in an instant. He knew there were four of them—bombers, flying way up there and coming in from the east.
Reacting fast to his sixth sense, he simultaneously hit his engine-engage switch and radioed the carrier’s control tower that he was launching immediately. The F-16 was warm in less than thirty seconds, long enough for the ever-vigilant BBC crew to crank up their lights and catch the action on video. Hunter waved to the launch officer and two seconds later the 16 streaked off the carrier deck, its exhaust flame lighting up the dark Mediterranean night.
Hunter put the fighter into a steep climb, mentally setting a course to intercept the incoming aircraft. He climbed to 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 feet, all the time listening to his own inner voice guide him toward the unidentified airplanes.
His radar picked them up less than a half-minute later sixty-five miles out.
“Christ,” he whispered as he interpreted the blips on his screen. “They look like Ilyushin-28s.”
The Ilyushin-28 was a Soviet-built, medium-sized, two-engine jet bomber, from the 1960s. He knew it carried fairly sophisticated equipment which enabled it to find and hit a target accurately, but not from this high an altitude. Another strange thing, these four airplanes must have converted to night-fighting duty, not exactly a routine retrofit.
Hunter was within twenty miles of them in a minute. From there he could clearly study the aircraft on his video-imaging radar and try to ascertain what they were up to. They were acting suspicious—one clue was the fact they were “flying quiet,” that is, under radio silence.
He radioed in to Heath, who was manning the CIC on the Saratoga. “We’ve got trouble,” he reported. “Four Ilyushin mediums, in preattack formation, but right now flying too high to hit anything.”
“Any idea what their intentions might be?” Heath asked through the static. He knew, as well as Hunter, that a bomber formation flying around the volatile Med region wasn’t all that unusual. They just couldn’t go around shooting at anything that flew by, without making a lot of unnecessary commotion or enemies. Plus Hunter had his Sidewinder shortage to think about.
“They’re flying in pairs right now,” Hunter said, arming his three remaining Sidewinders. “Judging from their course, two could be heading for Algiers, the other two could maybe break off, dive, and go for our tugs. But these guys have to get down on the deck for their bombing runs.”
There was a short silence. Both Hunter and Heath evaluated the situation.
Then Heath broke in. “We calculate that at their present course, speed, and altitude, they’ll have to break off and dive within the next ninety seconds if they expect to hit us.
“In other words, if we wait, they could just fly over and keep on going. But—”
“But, if we wait, they could come in and sucker-punch us,” Hunter finished.
There was an annoying burst of static, then Heath said, “Can you ID them, Hunter?”
“Well, I’m sure they’ve seen me on their radar,” Hunter answered. “No point in keeping it a secret.”
He throttled up and streaked passed the slow-flying bombers. As he flashed by, he was able to get a good look at the markings on the bombers. Even he was surprised. On the side of each airplane was the unmistakable red star of the Soviet Air Force.
Hunter radioed back, “You’d better get someone else up on deck and ready to take off. These guys look like genuine Soviet Air Force.”
“I say, Hunter,” Heath called back. “Did I copy? Soviet markings?”
“Roger,” Hunter confirmed. “I’d know that red star anywhere. I put them only forty miles from the carrier and the tugs right now, and even closer to the port at Algiers.”
A half-minute went by. It was agonizing. If they were belligerent, the Soviets would have to go into their attack mode within forty-five seconds. If they had decided to mind their own business, they would just keep on flying.
Hunter had never been in this position before. In the past, any Soviet airplane he spotted was immediately judged an enemy and immediately attacked. Things were done differently in and over the Med.
His radio crackled to life again. “We have two Harriers warmed up, Hunter,” Heath responded. “And Sir Neil is now aware of the situation.”
The aircraft were now only thirty seconds from the port of Algiers and the small harbor where the ferrying operation was taking place. Were the planes—although Russian—simply flying through? Or had the Soviets learned about the carrier’s mission and were they attempting to disrupt it? Maybe the airplanes were being flown by mercenaries, although it’s a rare occasion when the Soviet Air Force permits free-lancers to fly its equipment while still carrying the old Red Star. Then there was another way-out possibility: could the bombers actually be on a bounty-hunting mission, with Hunter and the billion-dollar reward as the prize?
The last thought shook him slightly. But whatever the case, Hunter knew the airplanes would have to act soon.
�
�Hunter?” Heath called. “Do you think your friends up there might chat on the radio?”
“Only one way to find out,” Hunter said, turning on his UHF band radio and closing to within a mile of the bombers.
“Ilyushin-28 flight commander,” he began. “This is Major Hunter of the … Allied Expeditionary Force.” He had just made up the name. “You are flying in a restricted area. Please identify yourself and your intentions.”
He flicked the radio switch back to “Receive.”
Nothing.
“Flight commander,” he tried again. “I am prepared to attack if you do not ID yourself.”
Again, nothing …
He flew right up on the tail of the trailing aircraft.
“Ilyushin flight commander, please ID … ” The words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly yanked the F-16 to the right. Just in time he had dodged a burst of gunfire from the tail gunner of the last Ilyushin.
“Jesus!” he yelled. “They just took a shot at me!” He was more surprised than anything; very few Ilyushin-28s carried tail gunners.
Just then the airplanes split up. The first pair dove through the clouds and toward the port at Algiers; the other two veered to the west, increased their speed, and went into a similar dive. These two were now pointed right towards the small village where O’Brien’s tugs were just starting to pick up the mercenaries.
“Launch the Harriers!” Hunter yelled into his radio. “Get them vectored towards Algiers! And someone better warn that Moroccan troopship … ”
With that, he took off after the pair of bombers that were heading for the tugs.
Down below, O’Brien’s tugs were churning up the sea between the Algerian village harbor and the Saratoga. The ferrying operation was proceeding very smoothly when Sir Neil had first gotten word about the approaching Soviet aircraft. All of the tug crews were just receiving the word to go to battle stations when they heard a horrifying scream of engines coming from the east.
First to burst through the 1500-foot cloud cover was a shiny silver Ilyushin-28. It was heading for a group of three tugs that were just a mile away from the Saratoga. All of them filled with mercenaries. Sir Neil, watching from a tug a half-mile from the action, saw the bomber level up and going into a bombing-run course.
“Bloody Russians!” he screamed, “Those tugs are sitting ducks—”
But just then, another aircraft broke through the clouds. It was smaller, quicker. It was painted red, white, and blue.
“It’s Hunter!” he yelled. “He’s right on the bastard’s tail!”
The three tugs attempted to scatter, but the jets were moving too fast. The crews on the other tugs away from the action could only watch as the F-16 pulled right up on the rear of the Ilyushin while the Soviet airplane prepared to drop its first rack of bombs. All the while the Soviet tail gunner was blazing away at the fighter, and Hunter was blazing away at him with his Vulcan Six Pack.
Sir Neil knew something had to give. In this case, it was the entire tail section of the Ilyushin. Hunter’s six-knuckle, 20mm-cannon punch was too much for the old Soviet airplane. The 16’s cannon shells found something explodable in the rear of the Soviet airplane and ignited it. The tail was instantly incinerated. The bomber, its rear quarter completely enveloped in flames, did a slow flip and plunged into the Med, with a great fiery crash of steam and smoke.
A cheer went up from all those on the tugs. “That’s Hawk Hunter in that F-16.” The word was passed. “That’s the guy they call The Wingman!”
But the danger was far from over.
Off in the distance, the other Ilyushin had emerged from the clouds and was streaking along the wave tops, going in torpedo-bomber-style on the carrier itself. It passed two of the Norwegian frigates on the way—both ships sent up a wall of antiaircraft fire that lit up the overcast Mediterranean sky. But somehow the Soviet airplane made it through.
Hunter was there in a flash, streaking around the bow of the Saratoga and facing the Soviet airplane head on. The Six Pack opened up with a burst of orange flame that was clearly visible on the tugs more than a mile away. The two jets barreled on toward each other, neither giving quarter.
“Stay with him, man!” Sir Neil said under his breath as he watched the drama. “Hang in there, Hunter!”
Finally, those aboard the tugs saw a flash erupt from underneath the 16’s port wing. A streak of light and smoke followed, traveling a path straight and true towards the onrushing Ilyushin.
“He’s launched a Sidewinder!” Sir Neil called out.
Before the words were out of his mouth, the missile caught the Ilyushin face on, crashed through the plexiglas nose, and traveled on to the cockpit, where it detonated. A bright orange ball of flame appeared and seemed to hang in the air for one long moment. Then what remained of the bomber slammed into the sea, just 300 yards from the carrier.
“Blimey, that was close,” Sir Neil whispered. “Too close … ”
The ferrying operation was still going on when the sun popped up, large and red, the next morning.
Watching the sunrise from the deck of Olson’s command frigate, Hunter was reminded of the old saying “Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning … ”
Just 200 feet off the starboard bow of the anchored carrier the frigate’s crew was lifting the wreckage of one of the destroyed Ilyushins out of the water. The ship’s crane snared the airplane under its tail wing and swung it up and over, allowing a deluge of seawater to escape through the many perforations in the plane’s skin. Then the crane operator gingerly lowered the battered fuselage onto the frigate’s empty helicopter pad.
Hunter was the first one to approach the wreckage. Heath and Sir Neil followed. They watched as the American headed straight for the Ilyushin’s bashed-in cockpit. There wasn’t much left that the Sidewinder hadn’t destroyed, but Hunter was just looking for clues. Clues to prove his suspicions about the origins of the air attack.
Crawling through the sharp, tangled mess of metal and wires, Hunter finally reached the pilot’s compartment. Sir Neil and Heath were right behind him, though moving a little slower. When they got there, Hunter was examining what was left of the airplane’s controls.
“Same as the two bombers the Harriers greased?” Heath asked.
“Exactly,” Hunter said. “And that’s what worries me.”
Sir Neil shook his head in disbelief. “No bodies,” he said. “No pilot. No crew.”
“No bombs,” Heath said.
“They didn’t need any crew,” Hunter said, wrestling with a black box attached on the airplane’s main control board. “These airplanes were flying on some kind of an ultra-sophisticated autopilot. More like a remote-control unit. I’m sure the guts of it are in this black box.”
“Autopilots, I can understand,” Heath said, trying to reason it out. “But why no bombs?”
“This might give us the answer,” Hunter said, struggling with yet another piece of smashed, tangled equipment.
“Is that what I think it is?” Sir Neil asked, looking at the almost unidentifiable chunk of melted metal and wires.
“If you are thinking TV camera, you’re right,” Hunter told him. “These airplanes weren’t on a bombing mission at all. They were sent here simply as TV spyships, getting closeup pictures of us and the ferrying operation and transmitting them back to whoever was watching at the other end.”
“And radio sensors triggered the tail guns?” Sir Neil deduced.
“I’m sure of it,” Hunter said, turning the destroyed TV camera over in his hands. “They were flying so strangely. The Harrier pilots noticed it too. They got to those Ilyushins before they even dived on the Moroccan troopship.”
“Well, that’s how a lot of Soviet pilots fly,” Heath observed. “Rather robotic bastards, aren’t they?”
Hunter nodded, then said, “Whoever sent these airplanes really knows our way of thinking. They know we’re not going to shoot down everything that comes close. They know we have to intercept
and ID anything before taking action. So they keep us guessing as to who is flying these things. Then, when I got too close, they have the tail gunner open up on me.”
“Pretty elaborate scheme just to take our picture,” Heath said. “Kind of spooky having someone up there watching us. Especially someone flying Soviet Air Force bombers.”
“Christ,” Hunter said softly, something clicking in his mind. “Wasn’t Peter going on about something like ‘eyes in the sky’?”
Both Sir Neil and Heath looked at him. “By God, man,” Sir Neil said. “Peter called this one too?”
Hunter didn’t even hazard an answer.
“Peter or not,” he said, “the lid is really off now.”
Despite the strange Ilyushins episode, the mercenary pickup was completed without further incident shortly before noon that day.
The 200-man, red-bereted French air-defense contingent was busy installing its Phalanx air-defense guns at various points around the ship. When used properly, the Phalanx was an awesome weapon. Using bullets made from depleted uranium, the Phalanx’s mission was to automatically destroy incoming antiship missiles, such as the Exocets. Each 20mm gun contained a search-and-track radar, a magazine holding tens of thousands of bullets, and a hundred or so pounds of electronics. The Phalanx gun had the ability to identify and attack any high-speed target approaching the ship. It did so by simply throwing up a wall of bullets—at a rate of 100 shells a second—in the path of the oncoming missile.
No matter how good the attacker’s guidance system was, nothing could get through a Phalanx barrage. Ships such as the Norwegian frigates usually carried just one Phalanx; a carrier the size of the Saratoga might carry two. The French mercenaries would set up a total of six Phalanx guns around the ship—two on the stern, two on the bow, and two on the Saratoga’s center superstructure. When it came to fighting off Exocets, Sir Neil wasn’t taking any chances.
Nor was he neglecting air defense. The Spanish air-defense team was also busy. The group boasted twenty-five two-man Stinger missile teams. These deadly antiaircraft missiles were launched from a bazooka-like tube held on one’s shoulder. The Spaniards were so good at firing the American-made missile, they actually held highly competitive target-shooting contests among themselves—using authentic, fully armed missiles for ammunition.
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