The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  On the other hand, the RAF, with its major air facility at Gibraltar and a few outposts like the Highway Base scattered throughout the Western Mediterranean, could muster as many as thirty aircraft, of varying types and quality. And unlike the air raiders, the Brits had a coordinated air-command system; their units frequently did training exercises together, with the entire command carrying out extensive maneuvers several times a year.

  The trouble was the British air power found itself confined to the western Med. The RAF airplanes rarely ranged much beyond the airspace west of Sardinia. There were no friendly air fields that would serve them if they did. These days, going from west to east on the Med was like sailing up the proverbial River of Fools. The further one traveled, the more bizarre and unpredictable things became. All kinds of dangerous characters plied the waters of the central and eastern sea, as well as sometimes prowling the skies above it. Appropriately enough, the miscellaneous madness peaked right around the Suez Canal. And just 250 miles beyond that lay the outer reaches of Lucifer’s evil empire.

  Just as in America, where Hunter and democracies stopped a larger land army with a small but effective air force during The Circle War, the Brits felt that if they could project their air superiority—quickly—to Suez, they could seize the canal and the air above it. Thus, the skies would be in friendly hands when The Modern Knights arrived a few days later.

  “We’re like the air commandos who go in just before the big invasion,” Sir Neil had told him. “Get there before the enemy. Hold him off with our air power. Deny him use of the canal.”

  The question was: how to move all that air power?

  The answer lay directly below the RAF Nimrod.

  “Here it comes,” Sir Neil said, adding in all proper English seriousness, “Major Hunter, this will be one of the most beautiful sights you will ever see.”

  Hunter focused his eyes on the radar-imaging screen. The big jet—still rolling and pitching in the severe weather—was over the once chic city of Nice. He could see the miles of shoreline, the glamorous beachfront buildings he knew were casinos. It evoked memories of the happier, exciting time of the prewar world.

  Suddenly the Nimrod hit a violent air pocket, driving the aircraft down and causing another wave of static to burst onto the video screen. “Bloody—” Sir Neil murmured as he tried to revive the video screen.

  Hunter readjusted his flight helmet, which had been knocked almost 180-degrees around his head in the latest jar. By the time he fixed it and could see again, Sir Neil had the TV screen back up and working. “There it is!” Sir Neil was yelling. “Isn’t it tremendous?”

  That’s when Hunter saw it. It was so big it filled the radar screen even though they were ten miles high.

  “Jezzuz,” he whispered. Suddenly everything started to make sense. The Brits couldn’t fly their air armada to the Suez—so they were going to float it there instead.

  “It’s an aircraft carrier,” Hunter said.

  “It’s the USS Saratoga,” Sir Neil informed him.

  “It’s an enormous aircraft carrier.”

  “Well, you see, it looks very big because it’s run aground,” the Englishman explained with glee. “You’re seeing a lot of what’s usually below the water line.”

  “It’s still the biggest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s quite true—it is one of the largest you Yanks ever built,” Sir Neil told him. “It was converted to nuclear power. Had a proud war record too. Until it washed up here anyway.”

  The pilot had put the Nimrod into a turn. The bad weather was still shaking every nut and bolt in the airplane, but nowhere near enough for Hunter’s eyes to be distracted from the TV screen.

  The ship was about an eighth of a mile off the sandy beach of Villefranche, just east of Nice. Its titanic draft being what it was, it appeared to be firmly stuck in the mud. “How did it get here?” Hunter asked.

  “We’re not sure, actually,” Sir Neil said. “We know it saw a lot of action off the Balkans during the Big War. It was fighting off the coast of Italy when the armistice was signed. After that, we don’t know what happened. Like a lot of other ships, it probably drifted until supplies were out. Then, it was abandoned.”

  “Most important,” Hunter said, excitedly, “where the hell are the airplanes?”

  Sir Neil shook his head. “Again, no way to know,” he said. “They’re gone, of course. F-14s, A-6s, A-7s, a few SA-3s also, don’t you think?”

  “F-18s too,” Hunter said. “That’s a bunch of pretty hot airplanes to be on the loose.” For the first time in as long as he could remember, Hunter was legitimately worried. In America, his F-16 was undisputedly the hottest fighter around. One of the reasons for this was that it was the only F-16 around that he knew of. In fact, it was the most advanced fighter still flying—the rest of the continental American air corps were relegated to flying older, though no less lethal, fighters.

  But these missing Navy jets were a problem. A monkey wrench thrown into the works. Forty highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art aircraft in the wrong hands was clearly troublesome, not to mention ego-bruising.

  “Wherever they are,” Sir Neil said, “it’s not anywhere around here. One story has it they were washed overboard. In the storm that grounded her, you see. Another—more romantic—tale goes that the pilots simply took off and flew until their fuel ran out, at which time they dropped patriotically into the sea.”

  “That’s hard to believe,” Hunter said, his eyes leaving the TV screen for the first time.

  “I’ll say,” Sir Neil continued. “Of course, there is one other rumor. Some say they were flown down South America way.”

  South America. He’d been hearing a lot of mention of the continent lately. Hunter filed it all away and let the matter drop. He turned his attention back to the radar screen.

  “So you intend to refurbish her, put your aircraft aboard, and sail to the Suez,” Hunter asked.

  “That’s correct, major,” Sir Neil said. “We can adapt about twenty-five aircraft—fighters mostly—to set down on her. She’ll need work on the catapults, but we’re sure we’re up to it.”

  “Have you been down to her?” he asked.

  “No,” Sir Neil said. “The area is not exactly … secured, shall we say? But two of our commandos dropped in and had a look a few months ago. She’s seaworthy. Her holds are secure.”

  “What shape are the reactors in?” Hunter asked.

  “Oh, they’re in fine shape,” Sir Neil told him. “Trouble is, there’s no nuclear fuel. Perhaps the sailors were smart and dumped it into the ocean before she was beached. Of course, then again, perhaps someone stole it all.”

  Another bit of unsettling news.

  “So,” Hunter said, trying to fit in the last remaining pieces of the Brits’ plan, “do you have replacement fuel?”

  “No, no,” Sir Neil said, almost laughing. “We don’t have any fuel. Nor do we have anyone who would know how to get the thing running if we did. We were with you Yanks in nuclear-power subs, but nuclear-powered carriers just weren’t our game.”

  Hunter ran his hand over his chin. “Well, if you can’t power the thing to the Suez, how the hell are you going to get it there?”

  Sir Neil laughed again. “Simple matter, Hunter, my good man,” the Englishman said flawlessly. “We intend to tow it there … ”

  Chapter 9

  HUNTER STEERED HIS F-16 TOWARD its final landing approach to the Algiers airport. This day too was crystal-clear and bright, the sun so hot he could feel it even in his air-conditioned cockpit. In front of him the two single-seat British Tornados were lowering their landing gear and activating their air brakes. Hunter routinely disengaged his flight computer and took over the airplane manually for landing. All the time his radio was blaring with excited Arabic coming from the Algerian air controllers.

  The F-16’s weapons systems were fixed. With the help of a mile of electrical wire, Hunter had been able to hot-wire both his
Vulcan cannon Six Pack and his Sidewinder launchers back into working condition. But it had been a long, arduous process. He renewed his vowed revenge against the saboteurs many times. No one—but no one—could screw around with his airplane and get away with it …

  One day after overflying the aircraft carrier, he and Sir Neil had come to an understanding. They had agreed that, no matter how different their approach, their goal was the same: stop Lucifer. Whether Hunter did it by tracking down the super-villain (admittedly a difficult mission), or the Brits did it by securing the Suez for The Modern Knights (also very difficult), the effect would be the same: the madman’s plans would be put asunder. And as crazy as the Brits’ idea was, Hunter was always a sucker for a noble cause. In the end, he knew they needed his help.

  So Hunter decided to take a two-option approach. He would help the Brits get their aircraft carrier floating, loaded up, and moving towards the Suez. Then, and only then, would he make up his mind whether he would press on to the East by himself to find the elusive Lucifer.

  This flight to Algiers fit right into his dual approach. The Brits needed manpower—friendly, employable manpower—to serve both as the USS Saratoga’s crew and as a protection force once they reached the Suez. Algiers was the site of the largest mercenary encampments in the entire Med and the Brits were here to buy. Hunter had agreed to accompany Heath and the other Tornado pilot to the Algerian city for their shopping spree. They were carrying millions of dollars in gold—good soldiers didn’t come cheap—and needed someone of Hunter’s caliber to watch their backs in the volatile arms-and-man bazaar.

  But Hunter also had a more personal reason to make the trip. Just before he died, the last thing Lord Lard had said to him was, “Algiers.” Hunter took this to mean that some clue to the whereabouts of Lucifer could be found in the coastal city. So, while he was riding shotgun for the British, he would also have his eye out for something—anything—that could lead him to Lucifer …

  He set the F-16 down right behind the Tornados and together they taxied to their assigned holding stations. Unlike Casablanca, the Algiers airport was totally devoid of citizens. The place was crowded, but with soldiers. Soldiers of many countries and allegiances, wearing every possible combination of uniform and carrying many different types of weapons.

  The pilots emerged from their airplanes just as a squad of red-uniformed men appeared. Each of the men was over six-five, heavily armed, and black.

  Heath approached the man in charge. “Humdingo, my friend,” the British pilot said, greeting the soldier. “Good to see you, brother.”

  The man grinned. “Heath, it’s been more than a year since you’ve visited your friends in Algiers. We thought you had forgotten about us.”

  Hunter smiled. The man was obviously a member of some tribe from the middle of Africa, yet he spoke English with the flair and accent of someone who had graduated from Oxford.

  Heath introduced Hunter and the other Tornado pilot—a Captain Raleigh—to Humdingo, explaining, “Humdingo used to be a chief. Big chief in the Congo. That’s before he found his way to England and learned our nasty ways.”

  “This is true,” Humdingo said in a booming voice. “I learned that the British refuse to believe the sun has set on their Empire. And that they will go to great lengths trying to prove it! Me? I just like their food.”

  Heath laughed. “Humdingo, you’re the only person in the world who actually likes English food.”

  They got down to business. Heath produced a bag of gold. “We shouldn’t be gone for more than twenty-four hours,” he told Humdingo, handing him the gold. “By all means, shoot anyone suspicious who comes near these airplanes.”

  “An F-16?” Humdingo said, admiring Hunter’s sleek jet fighter. “Never guarded one of these before.”

  Heath turned to Hunter. “These guys are specialists,” he told him. “Nothing will happen to our aircraft while we’re gone.”

  As if to emphasize the point, Humdingo barked out a sharp order in Congolese and his squad snapped to. With crack precision, the soldiers two-stepped to their positions. In ten seconds they had formed a protective circle around the three jet fighters. Hunter couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to tangle with the two dozen well-armed black warriors. He left his F-16 in their hands, enjoying a certain degree of peace of mind.

  Humdingo also provided the trio with a jeep. With Heath behind the wheel, they roared off toward the city of Algiers.

  They called the fortress “Maison de la Guerre”—Place of War. Hunter’s first glimpse of it had been misleading. They had driven through Algiers proper, reached the hills beyond its limits, and found the authentic-looking fort sitting atop a rise on the edge of town. It looked like it was right out of a Foreign Legion movie, except that from the top of its parapets flew literally hundreds of flags. The two soldiers of undetermined origin guarding the front gate eyed them suspiciously as they pulled up in front. A few gold pieces from Heath’s hand to their pockets made them instant allies.

  The pilots climbed out of the jeep and walked through the huge gate the guards had opened for them. “Here is where we will find our crew,” Heath told Hunter.

  Inside, the fort’s front courtyard was no less authentic. Soldiers were milling around, as were some camels and a scattering of civilians selling a variety of black-market items. Rifle ammunition looked to be the biggest seller.

  They moved on to the fort’s noisy center courtyard and found more than a hundred elaborate recruiting booths set up in neat rows. This was the Mercenary Supermarket.

  It was a combination exchange and recruiting post. The merchandise was paycheck soldiers. Business was brisk. Each booth had a banner flying from it, and two or three soldiers sitting in residence. Most also had customers with them, vigorously discussing the one thing that mattered in the place: price.

  The two Brits began shopping, Hunter began to wander. He walked through the courtyard viewing the various advertisements hanging on the booths. “Sappers—Italy’s Finest,” one placard boasted. “Underwater Demo Is Our Speciality, Free French Navy,” another announced. There were booths and ads for regular infantry, mountain soldiers, ski troops, seaborne assault forces, installation protection services, artillery specialists. Others boasted “Complete Package Deals” such as a battalion of infantry, two squads of artillerymen, sappers, scouts, and combat engineers. Each group for hire claimed allegiance to a certain country or territory—some such as Nepal, Greece, Italy, and Free Yugloslavia Hunter recognized. Others such as the First Central Empire, the Red Coast Territories, and the Sunset Islands he had never heard of.

  He walked through the bazaar and out toward the back of the fort. He had one question: where were all these soldiers the ads bragged about?

  Even before he had a chance to contemplate it, he had his answer.

  He stepped out the back of the fort to find a grassy valley. It was slight and perhaps three-quarters of a mile across. In this valley were thousands of troop tents and tens of thousands of soldiers. It was the home of the combatants for hire of the New Order world.

  Hunter looked out on the sea of soldiers. Some were training, doing exercises, or involved in target practice. Others were sitting near their tents, cleaning weapons or attending to other equipment. Still others were lounging about underneath the valley’s many trees. The most popular spot in the valley was a large watering hole in its center. It was an authentic oasis, surrounded by a thick collar of palm trees and makeshift open-air barrooms.

  Here too hundreds of flags fluttered in the breeze above the individual encampments. French. Swiss, Swede. Thai. Angolan. Irish. Hunter’s keen vision picked out a number of familiar patterns.

  Then his head started buzzing. His mouth went dry. Off at the far end of the valley, too far out for even his keen sight to zoom in on, one flag in hundreds stood out. It seemed to be flying slightly higher, slightly stiffer in the breeze. He reached to his breast pocket, to the bulge of folded cloth he always kept there. He felt a lump in his
throat.

  Could it be?

  Hunter started running. Down one dusty path to another. On to the dirt road that ran through the valley, skirted the watering hole, and led to the far end of glen. He was breathing heavily, his flight helmet clinking at his side. No one paid him much attention to him—he was just one soldier in thousands.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the flag flying at the end of the valley, getting closer to it with every step. He started to make out its design. Still he ran on, avoiding collisions with jeeps, jogging squads of soldiers, and smelly camels. Soon he could pick out the definite shapes on the flag—the lines, the pattern. He ran faster. About an eighth of a mile away, his eyes started to water. He could see the flag more clearly. The stars, the stripes, then the colors …

  There were red, white, and blue.

  Chapter 10

  HUNTER SAW HIS FIRST Americans before he even reached the camp underneath the fluttering American flag. There were six of them, walking nonchalantly down the road toward the watering hole. They were wearing green overall fatigues, baseball hats, and sneakers. Each man had a patch sewn onto his uniform’s left shoulder. It too was an American flag.

  Hunter ran up to them.

  “Are you guys USA?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” one of them answered.

  Hunter pulled out his own small American flag and said, “So am I.”

  The Americans immediately eyed his major’s bars and instinctively snapped to a salute.

  Hunter quickly saluted back. He wasn’t interested in such formalities now.

  “I’m Major Hunter, formerly of the US Air Force,” he said, with pride evident in his voice. “What are you guys? Army?”

  “No, sir,” one spoke up. “Just the uniforms are Army. We are US Navy, sir.”