Skyfire

by Maloney, Mack;

  “Dish and all,” he had muttered at the time.

  Just moments before, Hunter had dispatched his third F-14 in as many minutes, the hat trick plane belonging to the pilot that Hunter was sure served as strike leader for the carrier craft.

  Splashing the sophisticated Tomcats hadn’t been easy—their radar systems could see as far as forty-five miles away under certain conditions. Yet Hunter had known going in that if any of the shotgun-riding F-14’s picked him up on their radar screens, then he would have been involved in a dogfight with a dozen or more of the big, high-tech fighters, and even he would have been hard-pressed to fly away from that.

  So the situation had caused him to play it by the seat of his pants.

  The key to beating the F-14 was to beat its whiz-bang radar systems. These electronic eyes could not only see forever and in many directions, they could also track more targets than one could count on his fingers and toes.

  But they did have blind spots. One of them was straight down.

  Seconds after getting a solid visual on the attack force, Hunter had put the jumpjet down on the deck, which in this case was the rolling Atlantic Ocean. Skimming the wavetops, he kept his fingers crossed that the Harrier’s radar signature—already fairly small to begin with—would be masked by the natural background clutter created on the surface of the ocean.

  He lucked out as he watched the frightening strike force pass right over him up at fifteen thousand feet while he was sucking up sea spray just fifteen feet above the water.

  His extraordinary flying skills came into play next.

  Turning the AV-8 around on its tail one hundred eighty degrees, he quickly positioned himself directly under the trailing left flank F-14. Then he pushed the Harrier into a near vertical ascent, adjusting a hair-thin flight path as he went along and in effect sneaking up under the F-14’s radar umbrella. A pinpoint accurate burst of his cannons destroyed the first Top Gun plane before its crew knew what hit them.

  The second F-14 was splashed in an identical maneuver, but the third, the one belonging to the strike leader, proved harder. When he and Hunter caught sight of each other, both were just barely twenty-five feet off the “soft deck” of the ocean. Robbed of his background clutter hiding spot, Hunter had had no choice but to turn into the F-14 and lay on the trigger.

  Like the two pilots pursuing the E-3, the strike leader had been momentarily startled by his opponent’s bold maneuver. That second’s worth of hesitation cost him his life. Before he could get his rear-seater to arm a missile for him to light, Hunter’s cannon shells had ripped into the ’Cats’ cockpit instantly killing the two-man crew.

  But that was all the damage that Hunter could do with his guns. Although he was reasonably sure that he’d eliminated the brains of the Strike Force, he had expended the last of ammunition in doing so. What was worse, his fuel reserves were so low, he figured he had five more minutes of flying left, tops.

  By this time the carrier planes were within ten miles of the Florida coast and there was nothing left that he could do to stop them.

  As Hunter watched powerlessly, four of the A-6 Intruders—their wings jammed with air-to-ground missiles—broke off from the main body, and picking up two F-14’s for protection, veered south. Four of the F/A-18’s did likewise, turning off to a course roughly south by southeast.

  To Hunter’s dismay, the main body of the attack force stayed on a due west course. This could only mean one thing: they were heading for the Jacksonville Naval Air Station.

  To make matters worse, Hunter saw that one of the F-14’s finally caught up to the pesky E-3 and had fired a Sidewinder into its port wing. The last he saw of the AWAC’s, it disappeared into a thick cloudbank, smoking heavily.

  With no ammo and only drops of fuel left, Hunter was incapable of preventing the impending disaster. It was almost completely dark now, and the cover of night would give the attackers an extra added shield during their bombing runs. And besides the general broadcast warning he’d transmitted upon first seeing the naval Strike Force, and perhaps a similar warning from the AWAC’s plane, there was no way he could know whether his colleagues at Jacksonville knew the attack was coming or not.

  In a word, he was helpless.

  In the pit of his stomach Hunter felt an anger. A good part of it was channeled toward this new, mysterious, high-tech airborne enemy, but a great deal of it was also turned within himself. He felt that he’d been fooled again by the dark forces of the cosmos, fooled into thinking that all he needed was a jet fighter and his extra large supply of ESP to defend his country and his friends.

  Now, as he watched the carrier attack planes perform their prestrike maneuvers flawlessly, Hunter’s spirits hit rock bottom. The sub carrying Dominique was long gone by now. And despite his cagey victories against the three F-14’s, he still felt like the old gunfighter who had just been thoroughly humiliated by the new kid in town, or more aptly, by the new gang in town.

  And that gang had enough firepower and radar technology to virtually control the skies over the East Coast of the Continent and attack anywhere just about at will.

  He knew from that moment on, things would never be the same in America.

  With this devastatingly sober thought in mind—and an empty water gun in hand—Hunter slowly made his way to an inglorious landing on the bloody shore of Jacksonville Beach.

  Chapter Fifty

  THE FIRST WAVE OF A-6 Intruders screamed in on the Jacksonville Air Station at tree-top height, unleashing runway-cratering GP bombs before streaking away into the night.

  The F/A-18 Hornets roared in next. Their undersides jammed with Mk-8 Snake-Eye retarded bombs, the first four high-tech strike craft systematically demolished a string of aircraft hangars that bordered the air station’s main runway, as well as a line of A-4 attack craft that had minutes before returned from action over the beaches. A second wave of Hornets destroyed the base’s main radar station as well as its main fuel depot located nearby.

  The Intruders reappeared at this point and, flying at a more reasonable five hundred feet, dropped their secondary loads of GP bombs. The heavy five hundred pound weapons streaked to earth and randomly destroyed buildings and aircraft alike—one string of bombs decimated a group of A-10’s that had been in the process of rearming when the enemy air strike came.

  The F/A-18’s returned and, one by one, strafed the entire base with their awesome Vulcan cannons. All the while, the flight of F-14 Tomcats orbited the target, watching out for any interfering aircraft.

  But theirs turned out to be an easy job. All of the United American aircraft were on the ground when the air strike commenced. Lined up and vulnerable to the enemy guns, they were slaughtered like sheep. And even if one or two had been able to get airborne, it would have been an act of needless suicide for the pilots, as aircraft like A-4’s and A-10’s were absolutely no match for fighters like the Tomcats and the Hornets.

  However, many of the United American pilots wanted to go up at first warning of the impending attack and at least attempt to block some of the enemy aircraft. But General Jones had ordered them into the base’s bomb shelter instead. From the second he’d received word—almost simultaneously from the New Jersey, Hunter and Logan’s E-3 AWAC’s plane—of the approaching enemy force and the aircraft it was made up of, Jones knew it would be hopeless to mount a defense. He and his force were outgunned to a maximum degree. At that point, saving the lives of his men was of the utmost importance.

  So he had ordered them all into shelters—pilots and technicians alike. And when the last sound of the last departing jet finally disappeared, they emerged from the shelter and walked into a kind of group state of shock. The entire air station was aflame, totally and completely demolished.

  In the course of five minutes, more than half of the United Americans attack planes based in Florida had been destroyed.

  It took Jones and Fitzgerald nearly thirty minutes to find a workable radio at the base. When they did, all they heard wa
s more bad news. Each of the four UA bases that stretched from Jacksonville down to Orlando had been devastated. Casualties were high, due to the fact that these bases hadn’t had as much of an advance warning as Jacksonville had. What was worse, the extent of the destruction and the scope of the attacks led to another chilling conclusion: not just one, but as many as three separate naval strike groups had taken part in the action. This meant that more than one hundred of the high-tech aircraft were in the area. By comparison, there were only one hundred twenty United American aircraft on the entire continent.

  “It’s the end,” the normally unflappable Fitzgerald told Jones as they walked stunned through the wreckage of the air station. “The Norsemen had been a screen all along. Now we have these airplanes and the fact that the Fire Bats have nuclear capability to face? It’s just too much, even for us.”

  Jones could only shake his head. He was barely able to speak through his numbed lips.

  How could we have been so blind? he wondered bitterly.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Kure Island, South Pacific

  ELVIS FINALLY DISENTANGLED HIMSELF from his parachute harness and slowly, painfully, lowered himself down the palm tree and onto the jungle floor below.

  Depleted beyond words by his hours-long ordeal stuck in the trees, he simply lay on the ground now and wondered if someone could actually die of exhaustion.

  An initial survey of his aching body revealed no broken bones—to his great surprise. He was, however, covered from head to toe with cuts and bruises of various sizes and degrees. His left arm was particularly ripped up due to the shattering of his canopy glass when he punched out. Plus, his back was pulsating with deep pain, again the result of the split-second bailout.

  But he was alive and breathing and thinking as clearly as he could expect. Now he had to wonder just how long this condition would last.

  He had no idea exactly where he was. About a mile away he could still see the burning wreckage of his F-4X Super Phantom, its entire rear quarter gone from the blast of the enemy surface-to-air missile. The sound of waves crashing off in the distance told him the beach was nearby, but this being an island—and a small one to boot—reasoned that a beach was always close by no matter what the location. He had to guess that his stricken plane had traveled at least ten miles before he punched out, and that meant the people who shot the SAM at him were at least as close.

  He couldn’t imagine that they would not bother looking for him.

  He lay still on the jungle floor for another few minutes, knowing that he had to get up and get hidden, but on the other hand wondering whether it was all worth it. He was after all out in the middle of the Pacific somewhere, on an enemy-occupied island, with absolutely no means of escape. What difference then would it make if he simply decided to stay put and either allow himself to be captured or eaten by bugs?

  Putting aside the disturbing thoughts, he forced himself to sit up, and then finally get to a kneeling position. It was hard to determine what hurt the most, his perforated arm or his aching back. Deciding it was a tossup, he took a deep breath and finally got to his feet.

  He let the wooziness clear from his head, then, using a nearby stick as a cane, he hobbled out of the thick jungle and onto the edge of a small clearing. It was just past midmorning, he figured, and the tropical sun was beating down on him unmercifully. A searing thirst erupted in his throat, followed quickly by a pang of hunger that felt more like a kick in the gut. He hadn’t eaten since leaving Honolulu, and for a brief, frightening moment he wondered if he’d ever eat again.

  Rationality returned once again a few seconds later. Despite his desperate situation, he was savvy enough to know that he had to stay military—to the end, if necessary. This meant that if he had the chance, he should try to get some information on this mysterious enemy, reconnoiter their base if possible … try to get some answers that, on the slight chance he made it out of this green hell, might be helpful to his country.

  With these thoughts in mind, he set out on a path that he believed would take him toward the sounds of the crashing waves.

  It took him more than an hour to reach the edge of the cliff. The jungle seemed to fight him every inch of the way, but as he walked in a due east direction, the breaking of the waves had gotten stronger and clearer.

  About a half mile away from the cliff, he started to hear other sounds, those of machinery—engines running, wheels turning, tools being used.

  Now, as he crawled to the peak of the rocky outledge and looked out onto the beach below, he felt a great rush of air stick in his throat.

  Before him was an enormous, sprawling military base and dock facility. He counted at least two dozen ships docked within the island’s natural harbor, with another half dozen laying at anchor off the coast. A nonstop stream of smaller craft, supply boats and the like, were shuttling back and forth between the ships and the docks, feverishly carrying men and materiel to the ships.

  A small city was sitting at the edge of the docking facility, dozens of plain square wood buildings, each one sporting a bright red-and-yellow flag and a SAM launcher on its roof. A two-runway airstrip lay about a half mile inland from the clutter of buildings, large C-130 cargo planes and Huey helicopters appearing to make up most of its occupants.

  Elvis concentrated on the activity along the piers. He could see thousands of soldiers moving about like ants, a frantic buzz of activity that was all the more surprising due to the crushing heat of the midday sun. The soldiers wore a variety of uniforms—some in white, others beige, other in jungle-green camouflage. But the assortment of uniforms itself was a confirmation of something: the soldiers were all mercenaries. Once again, another piece of the puzzle had glumly fit into place.

  Despite the extensive buildup along the beach, Elvis knew that the place was just a temporary stop for the hired troops. With the thousands of crates and tarp-covered supply palates overflowing on the docks, it was clear the base was more of a staging facility.

  “They’re getting ready,” Elvis heard himself say.

  His attention was caught by a Huey chopper lifting off from the airstrip. Through stinging eyes he followed its flight path as it rose, turned north by northeast, and headed for another island that lay about two miles offshore. It took him only a few more moments to realize that there was yet another facility similar to the one before him on this other island. And out beyond that he could see more islands, and judging from the clouds of brown haze that hung in the tropical heat above them, more bases.

  It was at that moment that he wondered if Zim the Honolulu businessman realized how right he had been. An enormous mercenary army and fleet was gathering on these islands. Their ships were covered with guns and soldiers and enough supplies to last for months.

  And they all seemed to be pointing eastward.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  THORGILS, SON OF VERDEN, took a deep breath and then opened the cabin door.

  Dominique was on the large bed, lying perfectly still, the only indication that she was not asleep being the barely visible stream of tears running from her eyes. Thorgils walked into cabin and quietly shut the door behind him. He had been both dreading this moment and awaiting it with indescribable sexual anticipation for hours.

  For before him was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen—possibly one of the most beautiful in the entire world. And by his father’s orders, Thorgils now had to sexually force himself on her.

  Then he would eliminate her.

  He was not surprised that his father’s belief that this lovely creature would fulfill her duty as a Valkyrie had failed. From the moment she had been captured, everyone who came in contact with her beauty had been blinded by it, the great Verden included. There was nothing in the old Norse myths that stated the Valkyries had to be beautiful—it was simply a myth that had grown up around a myth.

  But the blind devotion to the Norse way of life, combined no doubt with the daily intake of myx, had skewered his father’s
judgment, and that was the reason he had picked this beauty Dominique to assume the very important position of Valkyrie. The fact that she wanted no part of it once the shooting began didn’t surprise Thorgils a bit.

  She had been willing at first, though, and it was on this count that Thorgils himself felt the fool. The day before the great battle she had eagerly devoured the mostly ceremonial instructions Thorgils had given her, memorizing them in an incredibly short amount of time, and even at one point reciting them back to him strictly from memory.

  Temporarily blinded himself by this display—as well as her beauty and a flask of myx—Thorgils had foolishly answered every question she asked about the Fire Bats sub. He had even given her a tour of the missile chamber after she had slyly allowed him a glimpse of her exposed breasts while bending down to sensually massage her delicate feet. She had purposely rubbed against him as he told her about the three ICBM warheads sitting atop the missiles inside the tubes—they being recovered from a lake in Nova Scotia, an island off New Hampshire, and a beach on the northern Massachusetts shore respectively.

  When she accidentally-on-purpose nuzzled her breasts against him upon returning to her cabin, he spit out everything he knew about the other three Norse nuclear-capable subs: the one that was steaming off the coast of the Yucatan with a landing party ready to search for gold long ago hidden within some ancient Mayan temples, the one that was heading around the tip of South America to take up a position off the Pacific coast of America; and the one that was lying on the ocean floor just fifteen miles off the coast of Maryland, a single ICBM poised to be launched against Washington, DC.

  And then on the eve of the great battle, after she had once again recited the responsibilities of a Valkyrie—a mishmash of psychic nonsense that had her determining in no explainable way the number of Norse who would die the next day—she had requested another goblet of myx and asked that he join her in drinking it.