Skyfire

by Maloney, Mack;

  Neither was true, as it turned out. In fact, the ship’s most recent history was downright odd, even spooky.

  The ship was sailing off the coast of Oman, providing fire support in an effort to keep the Straits of Hormuz open when the ceasefire was declared. As part of the armistice agreement—later found to be bogus—all warring factions were ordered to disarm and destroy their equipment. Witnesses said that when the order went out to US ships in the Persian Gulf to return to the nearest port and comply with the armistice terms, the New Jersey simply went into a hundred-eighty-degree turn and sailed away, out into the deeper waters of the Indian Ocean.

  When agents of the hated New Order finally found her two months later, she was drifting some two hundred miles off the west coast of Sri Lanka. All of her electronics were up and operating. All of her guns were stocked and loaded. Even the food in the chow hall was warm.

  But no one was aboard. The three thousand members of her crew had simply vanished.

  Baffled, the New Order agents had the battleship towed to the former US base of Diego Garcia, which was a speck of land in the middle of the Indian Ocean. There the ghostly ship sat, rusting away, its engines unoiled and seized, its on-board systems withering in the brutal heat.

  Then the mysterious Captain Wolf came on the scene.

  “I heard the ship was capable of being salvaged,” he told Hunter. “So I bought it from the Sultanate of Diego Garcia.”

  It took a full year to refurbish the vessel just to the point where it was capable of going out into deep water.

  “Just about everything had to be cleaned, oiled, rewired, and tested many times before we put to sea,” Wolf went on. “The engines proved to be less of a problem than I thought. But things like the propellers and the steering gears all had to be replaced with new parts.

  “We finally got her seaworthy and went on a shakedown cruise in the Indian Ocean. We dropped anchor off Sri Lanka, but the people wouldn’t let us go ashore because they had heard the ship was haunted. We went on to the tip of Indonesia—which is a very strange place these days—and then back to Diego Garcia.

  “Once we thought she was capable, we sailed her around the Cape of Good Hope and on up to England. It was a hell of a voyage, but we were all the better for it.

  That was about a year ago.”

  Hunter forced down another few sips of the bad beer.

  “But why did you do all this?” he finally asked. “Is there a need for a battleship in Europe’s mercenary market?”

  Wolf slowly shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice again lowering to a somber timbre. “I’m not a mercenary—at least not anymore.”

  “But how about the time and effort you’ve put into this vessel?” Hunter pressed. “And the obvious dangers you faced to get to this point? I mean, you are pursuing these Norsemen, are you not?”

  “Again, these are questions without easy answers,” the masked man answered.

  Hunter was stumped. The man was filled with contradictions. He had openly greeted him on the ship like a hero even though he’d sent up a barrage of AA fire just seconds before. He was obviously admired by his crew and he respected them, yet he chose to hide from them by wearing a mask. Hunter had met few people who played everything so close to the vest, almost as if the purpose of his mask was not just to hide his face but also to represent a symbol of his reticence.

  “But I know you’ve come all this way in pursuit of these Norsemen,” Hunter tried again. “So surely there must be some reason for doing what you do.”

  Wolf stared back at Hunter through his black mask.

  “Is there a reason for what you do, Major Hunter?” he asked.

  Hunter hesitated for a moment. “Of course,” he said finally. “Though it’s hard to put into words …”

  Wolf shook his head knowingly. “That’s exactly how I feel,” was all he said.

  Ten minutes later, they were walking on the teak wood deck of the ship.

  But no matter how hard he tried, one part of Hunter just couldn’t believe that he was walking on the deck of the most famous battleship in history.

  Launched in August of 1942 in the midst of World War II, the famous “Big J”—all fifty-eight thousand tons of her—not only saw action in many crucial South Pacific sea battles, she was also on station during the Korean War and the Vietnam conflict, coming out of mothballs both times.

  After one tour off Vietnam, the vessel was retired, only to be resurrected again in the early 1980s. Fitted with Tomahawk and Harpoon missiles to complement its already formidable deck weapons, the ship was recommissioned for the fourth time in 1982. It saw action during the chaos in Beirut in the mid-1980s, did some time in the Pacific before being retired again, temporarily as it turned out. She was in her fifth reincarnation when the big war broke out.

  Now, as they walked the long, slender deck line, Hunter couldn’t imagine the mammoth vessel looking any better than it did at this moment.

  At 887 feet long, the New Jersey was nearly the length of three football fields. It was 108 feet at its widest point and it boasted a 38-foot draught, meaning more than half the dreadnought’s hull lay below the surface. Four giant propellers that Wolf had had painstakingly manufactured by the Omanis, used the 212,000 horsepower produced by the vessel’s massive distillate-fueled engines to move the ship at a respectable 20 knots cruising speed.

  But of course the real stars of the New Jersey were her nine massive sixteen-inch Mark Two naval guns.

  With a barrel bore measuring those sixteen inches in diameter and an overall length longer than fifty feet, the gigantic cannons were capable of hurling a high-explosive projectile weighing more than a ton over a distance of twenty-seven miles. Wolf explained that to load and fire one of the guns took a well-trained crew about a minute, during which there was an endless flow of communication between the gun crew, the combat information center, and the bridge. Using as much as eight hundred pounds of gunpowder to fire each shell, just one of these “bullets” could turn concrete bunkers to dust, could release a concussion capable of killing a man a thousand feet away, and could leave a crater fifty feet wide and twenty feet deep.

  A barrage of three shells, like the one that had hit Slaughter Beach, could be accurately compared to a small atomic bomb hit.

  Firing such guns took a lot of manpower. The Big J had three triple turrets—two forward of the mast and one in back of it. Each triple turret alone weighed seventeen hundred tons and required a crew of seventy-seven to work it, with another thirty-six men stationed below in the gun magazine supporting the gun crew. In fact, manning the guns was such a constant and labor-intensive activity that the third deck passageway that ran beneath turrets two and three was accurately nicknamed “Broadway,” for the number of people that used it on any given minute of the day.

  After touring the turrets, Wolf led Hunter through a maze of passageways and bulkheads, pointing out literally dozens of cabins and workplaces, all of them in one way or another connected with firing the big guns.

  But the sixteen-inch Goliaths weren’t the only firepower available on the ship. It also boasted a dozen dual-purpose, semiautomatic five-inch guns which could be used to attack shore targets at ranges up to seven miles, or aircraft flying as high as 4.5 miles overhead, using, like the big guns, a Mark 48 fire control computer. There were also the four Tomahawk cruise missile launchers, as well as four Harpoon antiship missile launchers. Finally, for close-in protection, the ship had four Mk15 Phalanx Gatling guns capable of firing a hundred rounds a second. There was also room for four LAMPS helicopters.

  The tour eventually led up to the ship’s bridge where Hunter saw that the ship was bristling with electronic gear both inside and out. Walking through the all-important Combat Communications Center—the C-Three—he recognized control boards for a SPS-67(V) surface search radar system and a SPS-49(V) air search radar system as well as a LN-66 navigation radar.

  None of these systems were manned, however.

  �
�We can only sail it,” Wolf offered as a preemptive explanation. “Navigate by the stars and shoot the big guns where the RPV tells us to. Working this stuff is beyond our capabilities, I’m afraid.”

  Hunter took a quick scan of the entire C-Three.

  Most of the essential systems were locked on automatic, including the ship’s AA weapons systems. This told him that, in a strange way, neither Wolf nor his crew had had a hand in a firing at him. It had been the ship’s main computer, detecting a possible threat and carrying out its program to fire unless told not to. The trouble was, Wolf’s crew didn’t know how to countermand the ship’s main weapons computer.

  Besides the three radar systems and the auto-AA function, the battleship also had an extensive antisubmarine warfare setup that was capable of handling a towed sonar buoy array attachment used to detect enemy submarines. But this, too, was not operating.

  “Lots of nice high-tech stuff,” Hunter said, admiring the impressive arrays. “It would help you a lot if it was all up and running.”

  He saw Wolf blink from behind the mask. “We are a ship full of sailors, Major Hunter,” he said. “Not technicians. When we refurbished the ship, this equipment was the only stuff on board that didn’t need to be overhauled. We’ve been running it on the simplest modes possible ever since.”

  Hunter took another quick look around and then said: “Maybe I can help you in a few areas.”

  For the first time Hunter noticed a brightening in the captain’s demeanor.

  “You are familiar with these systems, Major Hunter?”

  “I could be,” Hunter replied wryly. “But we’ve got to get a few things straight first.”

  He turned and looked Wolf straight in the eye.

  “Our goals seem to be the same,” he told him. “I am pursuing these Norsemen, and it’s obvious now that you are, too.”

  Wolf nodded, though somewhat grimly.

  “And aside from these electronics, this vessel looks to be in A-1 condition,” he continued. “Your crew is well trained and obviously hard-working. And I’m sure that there are enough troubles over in Europe for you to hire this battlewagon out for months at a time. Just seagoing escort duty alone could mean a fortune for you.”

  Again, Wolf nodded.

  “As far as the mask …” Hunter said. “Well, I figure that’s your business.”

  “True,” Wolf replied.

  Hunter took a breath and let it out slowly. “If I teach you how to run all this equipment, and you do so properly,” he said, “then you must realize that I am providing you not only with a wealth of information but also with a means to make this ship more efficient, more protected, more powerful than it is at this moment.

  “But before I do this, you have to level with me. I must insist on your telling me of your true motives.”

  Hunter fell silent for a moment and tried to figure out whether his words were having any effect on Wolf. But once again, the mask was effective in hiding the man’s true emotions.

  “In other words,” Hunter concluded, “why are you over here, fighting our battles?”

  At that moment, Wolf lowered his eyes and shook his head. Then it was his turn to take a deep breath.

  “You’re a famous man, Major,” he said after a pause.

  “A smart man, and a respected one. But you know very little about who these raiders are and why they have come here.”

  Hunter pulled over one of the C-Three chairs and settled down into it.

  “Well, Captain …” he said, folding his arms behind his head and stretching his legs in indication that he was ready to sit for the long haul, “I guess you’ll just have to educate me.”

  Wolf shrugged and sat down, too.

  For the next ten minutes, the mysterious masked man went into depth on the origins of the raiders, confirming some of the information that Hunter had learned from the interrogation of the Norsemen captured off Montauk. Wolf also told Hunter the unusual story behind the construction of the submarines.

  But it was the information about the Fire Bats—the four ultrasophisticated subs that were capable of launching nuclear missiles—that sent a chill up Hunter’s spine.

  “Devious forces are at work behind the scenes, Major Hunter,” Wolf said. “Ones that won’t settle for anything less than total victory.”

  Hunter could only shake his head in grim agreement.

  “From what you say, then I’d have to guess that a central figure is behind all this,” he told Wolf. “Yet, the raiders we questioned insisted that there is no main plan, that they were acting independently.”

  “And in their minds, they were correct,” Wolf replied. “They are clan members, recruited from some of the most barren sections of Scandinavia. For many of them, the world ends with their second or third cousin. They know no more about military strategy than we do about how to operate all these electronics. All they know is war and raiding. The idea that someone might be behind it all isn’t so much beyond their comprehension as it is of no concern to them.”

  “But someone has to have the guiding hand here,”

  Hunter told him. “Someone scoped out and attacked my country’s major oil refineries. Someone did the advance spy work for the raids along New England and in Delaware. And someone must be masterminding these Four Boats you spoke about—and their nuclear delivery capabilities.”

  “You are correct, Major,” Wolf said. “In many ways, I believe the raiding submarines are a smokescreen for the Fire Bats, just like the campaign to disrupt your country’s fuel supplies. The plan, I think, was for the raiders to hold your attention while the people aboard the Fire Bats went about the real mission, which is to secure several nuclear missiles, and thus increase their chances of holding your country in the grip of … well, how shall I say it?”

  “Nuclear blackmail?” Hunter filled in for him.

  “Exactly,” the masked man replied, nodding.

  Hunter took a moment to consider all of Wolf’s information.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that enemies of America had attempted to destroy the country’s inherent democracy by way of the nuclear menace. The terrorist organization called The Circle had fought two wars and had practically devastated the eastern part of the American continent for a policy based in part on that very threat. So had the Nazi-backed Twisted Cross. But though these enemies had access to nuclear devices, they attempted to carry out their doctrine by somewhat more conventional methods, on the battlefield, armies against armies.

  Now it appeared as if the subraiders—or more accurately, the people behind them—were trying to overthrow America by much more insidious means. By creating the aura of a brutal, yet in tactical terms, “localized” threat such as the Norse raiders, the masterminds were apparently planning on sneaking in the back door.

  But another important question remained.

  “Where do they expect to get these nuclear missiles?” Hunter asked Wolf. “I’m sure nuclear bombs can be had on the weapons black market. But nuclear warheads, with targeting capability and so on, would be a completely different matter.”

  Again Wolf took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Major, more than a year ago, the Red Star clique launched and detonated an air-burst nuclear missile over one of your cities, correct?”

  Hunter nodded soberly. It was true, the cultish, anti-glasnost Soviet military clique that had ignited World War III in the first place had exploded a small nuclear bomb over the city of Syracuse in an attempt to disrupt the ongoing trial of the traitorous ex-vice president of the United States, who had been one of their agents.

  “Shortly after that I understand that your forces destroyed the Red Star headquarters in Central Asia,” Wolf went on.

  Again, Hunter nodded. It was he who actually flew the specially equipped B-1 bomber against the hardened Red Star fortress located at Krasnoyarsk, very close to the Siberian border.

  “Well, Major, did you know that just before their headquarters was destroyed, Red St
ar launched six ICBM’s at your country?” Wolf asked.

  Hunter was speechless. This was frightening news to him.

  “We tracked them from the moment of launch,” Wolf continued matter-of-factly. “They were fired from sites near Moscow. Our sensors picked them up the moment they left the pad.”

  “But none of us here knew anything about this,” Hunter said, plainly astonished.

  “I’m not surprised,” Wolf told him. “You see, these missiles were incorrectly fueled. They did not reach the critical suborbital altitude, and therefore their arming mechanisms didn’t respond. They landed well short of their intended targets and obviously did not explode. Thus your country was saved from a very catastrophic event.”

  “To say the least …”

  “However, while several undoubtedly fell into the ocean,” Wolf went on, “several more landed in remote places in eastern North America. The people behind this whole Norse invasion scenario became aware of the tracking of these missiles and from that have apparently located them.

  “And it is these missiles—or more accurately their warheads—that they intend to install aboard the Fire Bats.”

  It was the story of his life, Hunter thought. Every time he assumed he had heard it all, something more devastating always popped up.

  He felt a sickeningly familiar fire start to build in his gut. Had he been so foolish, sitting proud as wheat up on his hayfarm, to think that the world would suddenly become a civilized place just because he had retired?

  “Who is behind all this?” Hunter asked, his voice rising in fury.

  Wolf could only shrug. “Just who the overall masterminds are, I don’t know,” he said. “But I suspect at least one of them may be an American.

  “As for the people behind the submarines and the plan to raid your East Coast—that is, those who are providing the smokescreen for the Fire Bats—then I’m afraid I know them all too well …”