Lucifer Crusade

by Maloney, Mack;

  Baldi thought for a moment, then said, “It’s like clockwork. Every other day, just before noon. They awake, eat breakfast, fly here at a leisurely pace, bomb, and get home for a late lunch.”

  Hunter was getting an idea. “Mr. Baldi,” he said, “how would you like to make a deal?”

  Two days later, just before noon, radar operators on one of Olson’s frigates stationed off the southern coast of Malta picked up eight blips on their radar screens. The news was flashed to the Saratoga, where Hunter sat in the F-16 waiting for launch.

  “Okay, major,” he heard the launch officer say over the radio. “They’ve got eight bogies coming in at two-niner Tango. Airspeed three-four-six knots.”

  “Roger, Launch,” Hunter answered.

  He felt the steam pressure build up under the fighter. The launch officer twirled his finger, then pointed an emphatic signal. In an instant, Hunter was hurled back against the cockpit seat and the jet was roaring off the carrier.

  “From zero to one hundred twenty MPH in two seconds,” Hunter thought. “I’m beginning to enjoy this.”

  His launch was quickly followed by the three Harriers, taking off the conventional way to save fuel, plus two Viggens. Once all the airplanes were aloft, they formed up into two three-plane groups and headed southeast.

  Hunter began monitoring all radio frequencies immediately, searching for the band the Sidra-Benghazi bombers were using. After five minutes, he finally got lucky. The pilots were talking in Arabic, but he recognized enough flying terms to know it was the Bisons.

  He called back to the carrier. “Monitor one-two-five-six UHF,” he radioed to the CIC radio operators. “We’ve got some Med Arab dialect.”

  “That’s okay, Major,” the reply came back. “We’ve got an expert standing by.”

  Hunter smiled. He knew that the commander of the Moroccan desert fighters was in the CIC, ready to translate.

  They tracked the bombers as they routinely swung around the northeast side of the island and prepared to start their bombing approach. While the CIC monitored the routine chatter between the bomber pilots and passed the translation on to the Saratoga pilots, Hunter activated his radar-monitoring system. Unbelievably, the Bison pilots hadn’t switched on their long-range airborne radars. In fact, he was willing to bet the cost-conscious mercenaries didn’t bother to carry an air-defense radar man. “Boy, they are leisurely,” he thought.

  The Bison group pilot began to drop down through a thick cloud bank to his bombing altitude. As soon as he broke through the overcast, he noticed a glint of light off to his left. He was startled to see a F-16 fighter jet riding just 200 feet off his wing.

  He looked to his right, hoping to turn that way to escape when he saw a Harrier riding on that side too.

  He was trapped and he knew it.

  Suddenly a strange voice broke in on his group’s frequency. It was the Moroccan troop leader. The pilot listened to his ultimatum: follow instructions or all eight of his airplanes would be shot down. The pilot—a hired mercenary with no real loyalty to the Sidra-Benghazi faction—agreed.

  As instructed, he followed the F-16 …

  One by one the eight Bison bombers circled the abandoned RAF Malta base and came in for a landing.

  Hunter was there to meet the bombers, having landed before the mercenaries. There was also a battalion of Moroccan Marines on hand to surround the Soviet-built bombers once they reached their taxi stations. Unexpectedly, the troops were needed to keep away angry Maltese citizens, who showed up to throw rocks, bottles and, in one case, a fizzled Molotov cocktail at the bombers.

  The pilots were immediately handcuffed and led away to a Maltese jail. “If they are worth anything,” Baldi said, “we’ll be able to ransom them.”

  Now Hunter and Heath and six other carrier pilots climbed into the Bisons, along with other assorted members of the carrier force. Each airplane carried a Moroccan officer, plus a bombardier, a navigator, and a radar operator who knew what he was doing. The airplanes were refueled and their bomb loads checked. Within ten minutes, the Soviet-built airplanes were roaring off the runway, heading south for the Libyan coastline.

  The hired-hand radar officer stationed at the SAM base at Tripoli yawned. It was almost the end of his shift. His assistant—a corporal just hired for the station—called his attention to the eight blips on the radar screen. They were approaching from the north, he said, flying at 340 knots.

  Don’t worry, the officer told him. That was the regular bombing force returning from Malta. But they were breaking up into eight separate flight courses, the corporal told him. The officer yawned again. Don’t worry about it, he told the rookie. It was probably some training maneuver, or the weather, or something. Besides, it was end of the officer’s shift.

  Soon the corporal was alone in the SAM radar station. He didn’t get too concerned when he noted that one of the blips was heading right for his position.

  A minute later, he heard a curious, whistling sound. Almost like a bomb …

  Up and down the coast, the Bisons attacked the eight major SAM installations. Once the antiaircraft sites were destroyed, the Tornados swept in and hit troop concentrations, oil-storage tanks, and port facilities. The Viggens, carrying antirunway bombs, cratered the Gang’s only workable landing strip in the area. The final insult came when the four old Jaguar jets, on their first mission, swept in and destroyed the Sidra-Benghazi headquarters with delayed-fuse iron bombs.

  The attack was a complete surprise—and an overwhelming success. Not only were no aircraft lost—none of the attackers were even fired upon. Why? The Sidra-Benghazi Gang had committed the cardinal sin of warfare. They’d become lazy. They had assumed that well-paid mercenaries would compensate for the lack of loyal, homegrown soldiers. The opposite was true. Hunter knew by the way the Saratoga’s aircraft carried out the raids with such impunity that many of the Gang’s hired hands simply left their posts at the first sign of trouble.

  It all came down to a fighting for a cause. The Saratoga force was made up almost entirely of paycheck soldiers, but they believed in what they were doing. They recognized that Lucifer had to be stopped and that they were in the vanguard of that effort.

  It made all the difference in the world …

  They returned the Bisons to Baldi. “Our plan,” he told Hunter, as they shared a bottle of Maltese wine in Baldi’s office, “is to sell them on the open market. They should bring a pretty penny, I should think. Then we’ll buy some decent fighter protection and some SAMs.”

  “Malta has always been fought over, invaded, disputed,” Hunter said. “Yet it has never capitulated. It’s a tribute to your people.”

  “We couldn’t have done it without your help,” Baldi said. “Now, when we first met, you mentioned a deal. Well, you’ve fulfilled your part of this unspoken bargain. Now what can we do for you?”

  “Lend us your UDT unit,” Hunter told him. “We got a report that the Soviets have mined a good part of the Suez canal. We’ll need frogmen to clear a path for us.”

  Baldi slapped his hand down on his desk for emphasis. “Done!” he said in a booming voice. “And, by the way, we will be able to scrape up some supplies for you. Not much, but we want to show our appreciation.”

  “You’ve already done that and more,” Hunter told him, shaking his hand and rising to go.

  “Well, please stop by here on your way back,” Baldi said, smiling.

  Strange, Hunter thought as he left, it was the first time anyone had said anything about actually coming back …

  Chapter 29

  THE SARATOGA TASK FORCE got underway shortly after midnight. On-board were a half-ton of supplies from the Malta Defense Force—provided free of charge—plus twenty “volunteers” from the island’s underwater demolition team.

  Now, as the chugging symphony of O’Brien’s tugs’ engines started up once again, Hunter and Heath held a late night meeting with Sir Neil.

  “Well, I think it was a bloody good trade!”
Sir Neil said, after hearing the details of the Sidra-Benghazi operation. “I’m sure that once we reach the Canal, those UDT boys will come in handy.”

  “Plus, I think we gained valuable experience for our pilots and planes,” Heath said. “First, we were successful against the Panatella floating base. And then to go into action just a short time later against the Libyans, well, that’s quite a statement on our readiness.”

  “This is true,” Hunter said. “I can’t think of two better targets I would have wanted for our first and second missions. But we can’t lose sight of the fact that we had virtually no opposition in either case. We can’t expect to have it so good from here on out.”

  “Yes, Hunter,” Sir Neil said. “The American is coming out in you now.”

  The British Commander expertly took a belt of wine from a flask he now routinely hid under his covers. The man was looking better every day and the doctors had told Hunter that the chest and shoulder wounds were healing well. But he would still be bedridden for quite some time.

  “The fuel on the supertanker,” Sir Neil asked. “Quality stuff?”

  “A-1 quality,” Heath answered. “We can use it in all our aircraft, including the Jags, thank God.”

  “We’ve got a rotating crew of Olson’s guys piloting the tanker,” Hunter continued. “But it’s officially under the command of the Freedom Navy.”

  “As well it should be,” Sir Neil said. “Those brave bastards! Hijacking a supertanker on the high seas! Their ancestors would be proud of them.”

  “They really are good fighters,” Hunter said. “And they’ve proved themselves. They took a beating during both flying boat attacks, especially in the hurricane battle. Lost a lot of men. They could have easily turned back at that point. But they’re proud men. They’re as committed to beating Lucifer as we are.”

  Sir Neil rested his head back and sighed. “And that poor beggar, Peter … ”

  There was a long silence, none of the three wanting to talk. Peter had been so strange, yet so chillingly accurate with his predictions. His passing couldn’t be taken lightly.

  “Something was there,” Hunter said finally. “He tapped into a part of the collective psyche like no one I’ve ever heard of.”

  “Somehow, Lucifer is wired into it too. Call it long-range brainwashing, or mind over matter, or whatever, I’m convinced that Lucifer was responsible for that horror show in here the other night.”

  “I am too,” Sir Neil confirmed. “It just shows you how much we threaten him.

  “He’ll try anything to turn us back … ”

  The next few days passed uneventfully for the carrier task force as it cruised the sea east of Malta. The Italian communications team was able to replace the antenna lost during the hurricane battle, and they were soon listening in on Lucifer’s Empire again. The latest radio intercepts indicated that Lucifer’s troopships would embark in force sometime in the next two weeks. That was the same time frame projected for the carrier to reach the northern end of the Canal.

  They saw a lot of odd sights during this part of the journey. As it was easier to push and pull the carrier in stiller water, the task force moved northward and sailed into the calmer regions of the Ionian Sea, southwest of Greece. Along the way they passed many islands surrounded by blue-green water.

  In many cases where the islands were inhabited, the people burned fires on their beaches or on their highest points when the flotilla passed by. At first these actions mystified Hunter and the others. Were they signals to Lucifer’s allies? A means of tracking the task force? They had no way of knowing.

  Then, one morning, a small fleet of fishing boats was intercepted heading for the task force. The captain of the fleet said his boats were filled with fish to give to the flotilla’s men. He said the Med was abuzz with the news of the Saratoga’s mission, and their victories against the flying boats and the Sidra-Benghazi Gang. These groups had terrorized the people in the central Med for years, and they were grateful that the task force had dealt with them. From then on the reasons for the fires on the beaches and on the island peaks was clear. They were signs of support. As the fishing fleet captain put it: “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.” And just about everyone in the Med considered Lucifer and his allies—the Soviet ones especially—as their enemy.

  The area itself was hardly at peace. In one case the flotilla came upon a pocket cruiser flying a strange flag, anchored off the coast of an island. For whatever reason, it was firing away at the island, lobbing shell after shell into the forest-shrouded spit of land, some incomprehensible action in an unknown war.

  Hunter used the lull in the excitement to finish work on rearming the S-3A to carry Sidewinders. Also, as a favor to Sir Neil, he began paying regular visits—via a frigate chopper—to the commanders of the other groups in the task force—Olson, O’Brien, the Moroccans, and The Commodore—to get status reports on their units.

  The Moroccans intrigued him the most. They were the silent partners of the voyage, enduring its dangers without a word of complaint. Their commanders kept the 7500 troops in fighting trim with a daily regimen of physical workouts and group training. The soldiers took it all very religiously—which was not surprising. On quiet nights, one could hear the droning of prayer and chanting coming from the Moroccan troopship, although it was usually tucked into the back of the battle formation.

  But the Moroccans had a more personal bond with Hunter. Although he hadn’t been aware of it, Peter at one time had apparently had a long talk with several of the Moroccan troop commanders. The subject of the discussion had been Hunter, his exploits during the outbreak of World War III, and his adventures in the fragmented New Order America. The tales fascinated the Moroccan officers, who, in turn, told their subordinates, who went on to recount the stories to the enlisted troops.

  So Hunter, without any desire to do so, quickly became a hero among the Arab desert fighters. Whenever he saw one or a group of them—whether it be on the carrier or on their troopship—they would greet him by displaying a unique two-hand gesture. Made by putting two “V-for-Victory” signs together, their fingers would form a W as in Wingman. A deep bow would follow. When he inquired as to its origin, he heard that Peter had instructed the Moroccans to do it, as a sign of respect and luck. When he mentioned to Heath that he intended to ask the Moroccans to stop, Heath, a man with much knowledge about Arab ways, suggested otherwise, as the request might be interpreted as an insult or even a sign of impending bad luck.

  Another reason for talking to the group leaders was to formulate a concrete strategy for what would happen once they reached the Canal. It was a difficult task, as conditions at Suez were virtually unknown to them and recon flights over the area could only begin when the carrier was within some kind of reasonable range.

  Nevertheless, the commanders agreed on some tactics. The whole idea was to plant the Saratoga somewhere in the northern half of the Canal, then take possession of the land immediately on both sides of the carrier’s position, creating a strong buffer zone. The bulk of the land-occupation duties would go to the Moroccans. The Australian Special Forces would handle the “weak side” of the Canal. The area around the canal was itself fairly demilitarized, so Hunter and the others didn’t expect any opposition upon first arriving in the area.

  As the plans stood, the Saratoga task force would only have to hold the position for three days at the most. By that time, the advanced units of Modern Knights would be in the area.

  As agreed, there had been no radio contact with The Modern Knights since shortly after the Saratoga was refloated. This was because any messages between the carrier and the Knights were liable to interception by Lucifer or his allies. At the time of the last radio transmission, the vast mercenary army was being loaded on troopships and was expected to set sail within a few days.

  But Hunter continued to ask himself over and over: exactly just when would The Modern Knights arrive?

  He got his answer one morning as they were cruising past
Cape Tainaron on the southern tip of Greece. Working on the bridge, he got a call from Yaz to come down to the CIC.

  “Major, we’ve just received a message from our rear-guard frigate,” Yaz told him. “They report contact with an unidentified aircraft coming our way from due west. Slow-moving, maybe a biplane.”

  “Have they raised the pilot?” Hunter asked, checking the CIC’s electronic plotting board for the intruder’s position.

  “Yes,” Yaz replied. “He claims to be a friendly.”

  “Well, if he isn’t, he’s got a lot of guts blowing in on us like this in a biplane,” Hunter said. Then he asked, “Who’s hot on the deck?”

  Yaz did a quick check. “One Harrier is about to transfer to the control frigate. Should we divert him?”

  “We’d better,” Hunter said. “And tell the frigate to contact us when they get a visual.”

  This happened three minutes later. The captain of the frigate reported a slow-moving biplane, flying with its landing lights blinking. Hunter knew this was the universal sign of nonaggression. He asked the frigate captain to watch the airplane but not to fire unless the pilot initiated an aggressive action.

  The Harrier intercepted the biplane less than a minute later. He reported the pilot was waving and displaying a small Union Jack in the cockpit. The Harrier’s weapons-check system detected no advanced armaments aboard the airplane, nor was it flying in such a way that it might be carrying a kamikaze-type load of explosives. The only thing unusual was that the plane carried extra-large fuel tanks under its wings. The pilot was also requesting permission to land on the carrier.

  Hunter put in a call to Heath, who was up in the CIC in seconds.

  “God knows who he is or what he wants,” Hunter told him. “But it may be important. The large fuel tanks tell me he’s flown a long way.”

  “He’s taking one hell of a risk if it’s all just a joke,” Heath said, twirling his red mustache in thought. “I vote let him come down. If he’s not cricket—well then, over the side with him!”