The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  Yaz’s guys had the steam catapult working soon afterwards, and by nine o’clock Hunter was ready to attempt a takeoff. The Saratoga needed air protection quick; it was still moving fairly slowly and would be a sitting duck for a well-placed Exocet missile. So Hunter began what would be the first of many combat air patrols.

  The carrier’s first destination was the coast of Algeria. That was where they would pick up the bulk of their hired fighting force, plus meet the oiler that O’Brien had arranged for. In the meantime, the six Tornados and the two dozen other aircraft that Sir Neil’s men had commandeered from their RAF units would begin the risky business of learning how to land and takeoff from a carrier deck.

  As Hunter soared to 10,000 feet, he was both fascinated and amused by the sight below him. There was the Saratoga, from stem to stern nearly a quarter-mile long, looking magnificent against the sparkling water of the Med. The amusing part was the twelve tugs that were pulling and the eight that were pushing the majestic ship.

  It was at that moment that Hunter had to stop and remind himself just what the hell he was doing. Towing a lifeless nuclear aircraft carrier across 1500 miles of God-knows-what all the way to the Suez Canal? In the vanguard of a modern-day crusade? Only in the New Order world could such an outrageous enterprise make sense. And only an Englishman could have talked him—or any of them—into joining up. The question was: would it lead him to Lucifer?

  Another thing worried Hunter. The conglomeration of jet aircraft the RAF had assembled for the adventure ranged from eleven state-of-the-art Tornados to four shitbox Jaguars, aircraft built way before Hunter was even born. Sure, there were three Harrier jump-jets he could count on, plus an American-built S-A3, but most of the aircraft were more suited for ground support. His 16 was the only real fighter-interceptor in the bunch.

  The problem was weaponry: the RAF had managed to buy a fair quantity of bombs—from napalm to antipersonnel bomblets and everything in between—that could be fitted to most of their aircraft. But for Hunter, the only real dogfighter in the group, there were only three Sidewinders to be had. He had previously rigged his F-16 to carry as many as twenty at a time. Should any real trouble happen—such as another Exocet attack or an air strike on the carrier—Hunter might expend three Sidewinders in a matter of seconds.

  He wrestled with these and other thoughts as he slowly orbited the Saratoga. They were cruising on a slow southeasterly course, in the general direction of the Algerian coast, but also close enough to Majorca so the four helicopters at their disposal could ferry equipment out from the island. Now, as he watched from above, two Tornados, arresting hooks newly installed on the underbellies, approached to practice landing on the carrier.

  O’Brien’s tugs had slowed the carrier down to a dead stop and turned her into the wind. A stationary target was much easier to land on than one that was moving. But it was crucial that they get all twenty-four airplane pilots up to speed on carrier landings within the next thirty-six hours. Beyond that, aircraft flying out from Majorca would have to stay there, because they would be beyond their operating range and to wait for them would disrupt Sir Neil’s rigorously planned timetable.

  Hunter watched as the first Tornado came in for its initial try. The Norwegian frigates were strategically placed around the carrier in case one of the RAF airplanes went into the drink. The Sea King helicopter hovered nearby, ready for sea-rescue duty if needed, as were O’Brien’s idle tugs. The Tornado came in hard, bounced on the deck, and received the wave-off. The pilot gunned its engine and the plane screamed for altitude. After a long arc around the carrier, the Tornado tried again. But this second attempt only resulted in a higher bounce on the Saratoga’s deck and another wave-off.

  “Come on, Redcoat,” Hunter murmured. “Set it down once and you’ll be doing it in your sleep in two weeks.”

  The Tornado’s third attempt was successful, and everyone breathed easier. His wingman made it on board in two attempts. As soon as their airplanes were cleared away—via the carrier’s huge and now-working mid-deck elevator—two more Tornados appeared on the horizon. They too received several wave-offs before finally setting down. That’s when two elderly Jaguars arrived, and to just about everyone’s delight set down perfectly on the carrier, each on the first try.

  For the next hour they came: seven more Tornados, two more Jaguars. Then came the unusual American-made, S3-A Navy antisubmarine aircraft, a small, twin-engined airplane that looked like a minibomber. This airplane—contracted from an Australian pilot—was painted entirely in garish punk pink.

  Somehow, the RAF guys had got a hold of four SAAB JA37 Viggens, veterans of the Swedish Air Force. Because these ground-attack airplanes were custom-made to operate from highways and very short airstrips, setting them down on the carrier proved to be no problem.

  Finally, the Harrier jump-jets arrived, each one setting down on the carrier deck vertically. Now, all the airplanes were aboard. Within minutes, O’Brien’s tugs gunned their engines and began the pull-push process once again.

  Before he prepared to land, Hunter put the F-16 into a steep climb. He soared past 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 feet. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear, the sun bright as he had ever seen it. A good feeling washed over him. What the hell? So they’re towing the goddamn carrier across the Med. They’ll have twenty-five jet fighters, and more than 8500 soldiers on board. Plus the frigates and the armed tugs—it all made for a formidable fleet. Maybe it would all lead him to Lucifer …

  He turned the jet over and pointed it to the east. Instantly he felt the euphoria drain from him. Off on the eastern horizon was a cloud bank so dark it looked like the onset of night. Long, mile-high spirals of churning black and gray cumulus clouds washed over the sky like huge, nightmarish, slow-motion tidal waves. Hunter knew an omen when he saw one. This adventure would be anything but a leisurely cruise across the Med. God help us, he thought.

  He put the F-16 into a dive and headed back for the carrier.

  Chapter 16

  HUNTER BROUGHT THE F-16 in for a now-routine carrier landing. His approach was slightly distracted by a group of people standing on the lip of the flattop’s deck. Strangely, at first, he thought they were aiming a gun at him. In an instant though he realized it wasn’t a gun at all—it was a movie camera.

  The 16 screeched to a halt and Hunter jumped out, leaving the aircraft in the capable hands of Yaz’s sailors. As he stepped down onto the carrier deck, he noticed the camera crew had rushed to the side of the jet and that they were faithfully recording his every movement.

  “Hold it right there, we got some dramatic light,” the man who seemed to be the leader of the film crew yelled to him. “Give us a salute, major!”

  Hunter awkwardly saluted, then hurried to the nearest hatch door. Sir Neil was coming out just as he was going in.

  “Hunter, old boy!” the Englishman said with a mile-wide grin. “I thought all you Yanks were keen on being in the flicks? Hollywood and all that.”

  “You’ll have to talk to my agent,” Hunter said, removing his flight helmet and running his hand through his longish sandy hair. “Where did you dig up the camera crew?”

  “They were a BBC unit attached to our base when the Big War started,” Sir Neil said, walking with him toward the ship’s mess. “We were stuck with them, and they with us, when the big battles were going on. Got some incredible footage of the first few days of fighting, they did. When the war died down, they had nowhere to go. So I commissioned them and they’ve been with us ever since.”

  Hunter guessed the rest from there. “And you’re recording our mission to Suez then?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Sir Neil said. “I can’t resist. They were able to dig up some fairly high-tech video equipment somewhere around Casablanca a few months ago, and miles of blank videotape. So I figured, ‘Why not?’ Whatever happens to us, it will be preserved for posterity. They got some great stuff of our recent engagement with the Fist and the Faction, especially your removal of th
ose howitzers.”

  Hunter shook his head in admiration of the robust British commander. For Sir Neil, the mission to Suez was more than a preemptive action spearheading for the Modern Knights and their armies; it was a high adventure, and Sir Neil had the kind of love for a bold undertaking that was in every English soldier’s blood since, well, since there was an England.

  They arrived at the ship’s mess, where a temporary kitchen had been set up. They waited in line with everyone else, old-fashioned tin cups in hand. Once served, they sought out an empty table. The fare for the day was nothing more than a watery stew, slightly peppered with a rare piece of vegetable floating around.

  Hunter took one sip and grimaced. “God, we’ve got to do something about the food,” he said.

  “And the aircraft fuel situation,” Sir Neil said, coughing himself on the bitter-tasting stew. “And the electricity. Yaz’s guys are straining the two generators we have on board.”

  “And ammo for my 16,” Hunter said, continuing the list.

  “Aye, Hunter,” Sir Neil said, finally giving up on the stew and reaching instead for a stale piece of bread. “I know we’re not exactly flush in the Sidewinder department. And we could use some more antiaircraft and antimissile defenses. Not just for us, here on the carrier, but for O’Brien’s tugs too. They’re as valuable to us as anything.”

  “Will we be able to afford some of this stuff on the black market when we reach Algiers?” Hunter asked, attacking a piece of bread himself.

  “Afford it, by all mean, yes,” Sir Neil said. “But whether it will be available is the real question. Raleigh is back at Algiers now, organizing the pickup of our mercenaries. He called in to say that most of the top arms are being bought up—both openly and secretly—by Lucifer’s allies. The neutrals are getting into the action too. The rumor is the people who are holding all these weapons—the behind-the-scenes blokes—are turning off the spigot for a while. Driving the prices up. An artificial shortage. Raleigh says there probably won’t be very much left when we get there.”

  “It’s a problem,” Hunter said. “We know things can get hairy after we pass through the Strait of Sicily. According to the schedule, that could be as soon as a week from now.”

  “We probably won’t have to worry about it, major,” Sir Neil said, taking one last brave sip of the stew before pushing it away from him. “The food will kill us long before that … ”

  An hour later, Hunter was inspecting the carrier’s newly acquired air arm. He was particularly impressed with the Tornados, even if they were of the two-seat, ground-attack design. (The single-seat version was quicker and built for the interceptor role.) The Tornado was the only fighter aircraft made containing reverse thrusters. It could land on a dime. So the carrier landings would be soon quite routine for their pilots.

  The SAAB Viggens too were durable aircraft, and Sir Neil had spoke highly of their Swedish mercenary pilots. The Harrier jump-jets would be the most handy, and the ancient Jaguars—well, he admired the pluck of anyone who would dare fly them, let alone fight in them.

  But besides his F-16, it was the S-3A that would be the most valuable. The S-3A—owned and operated by an Australian pilot named E.J. Russell—had a vast array of sophisticated reconnaissance gear on board as well as “standoff” missile-attack and antiship capability. So this airplane could act as the Saratoga’s scout plane.

  Many of the pilots knew who Hunter was, and as he walked amongst the aircraft they came up and introduced themselves. As Hunter was the overall air commander for the mission, it was up to him to coordinate the air arm’s priorities and procedures. The first thing he did was schedule a meeting later that day for all of the pilots at which tactics and strategies would be discussed. His second act was to schedule a poker game to follow the first meeting.

  He was in the middle of inspecting one of the Tornado’s unique radar systems when the ship’s intercom system barked out: “Major Hunter, please report to the bridge, immediately.”

  It was the first time the intercom had been used since the ship was liberated and it startled a number of people below the deck.

  “Well, I’m glad they got that working,” he said to one of the Tornado pilots as he climbed down from the Tornado and headed for the Saratoga’s bridge. “I think … ”

  The man called Peter was sitting in the chair normally reserved for the Captain when he was on the bridge. Surrounding the bizarre little man were Sir Neil, Heath, and Gjiff Olson, the commander of the Norwegian frigates.

  “Hunter, you’ve got to hear this,” Sir Neil told him as he walked in.

  Peter was fighting with a long, slimy drool that was drenching the beard immediately around the sides of his mouth. His filthy hands were pulling at his tangled hair, which Hunter now noticed was falling out in clumps. The man was babbling as usual, staring off into space, alternately laughing and crying. But it was those eyes! Madness. Craziness. But windows to an intelligence that had not quite completely diminished but that could also apparently see what no others could see.

  “Eyes in the sky!” Peter was yelling in between his unintelligible ranting. “Follow me! They’re all gone to the orgy. We can sneak in. Caesar! Caesar! Beware the eyes in the sky … ”

  “What’s going on?” Hunter asked.

  “Be patient with us, major,” Sir Neil said. “He’s been saying some very interesting things. He could be coming around to them again soon.”

  “Virgins! Sacrifice her! Sacrifice her!” Peter laughed, tears rolling down his craggy cheeks. “They’ve all gone to the party. Sidewinders. Yes, Sidewinders! More than I’ve ever seen!”

  “Did he say Sidewinders?” Hunter had to ask, trying to make some sense out of the gurgle.

  “Yes,” Heath answered. “He’s been saying it over and over for the past twenty minutes.”

  “Perhaps he knows something we don’t?” Sir Neil said to Hunter.

  Hunter shrugged and moved close to the man. “Peter,” he said calmly, “where are the Sidewinders?”

  The man turned and looked into Hunter’s eyes, his gaze triggering a jolt that ran through to Hunter’s brain. “You,” he said. “You are The Wingman, aren’t you? I know you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Once again, Hunter was startled by one of Peter’s revelations. Even in his spookishly accurate ship’s log prophecy, he had never mentioned Hunter’s “other” name.

  “The Sidewinders, Peter,” Hunter repeated. “Where are they?”

  He grabbed Hunter’s sleeve and pulled him close. The man looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a decade or so, and now Hunter’s nose confirmed it.

  “You know I dream … ” Peter said, his voice a raspy whisper. “I see many things … I know you see many things too.”

  Hunter couldn’t argue with the man. He did possess a certain degree of extrasensory perception.

  “They’re all gone to the orgy,” Peter continued. “Let’s go! We can sneak in. We can steal their Sidewinders!”

  “Where, Peter?” Hunter asked him, staring deep into those blue pools of madness. “Where are the Sidewinders?”

  Peter drew himself up straight in the chair, brushed back his gooey hair, and said: “Cagliari … ”

  Chapter 17

  THE S-3A PASSED OVER the coast of Sardinia and turned southeast. The Australian pilot named E.J. Russell was at the controls; Hunter was strapped into the side-by-side copilot’s seat, working the sophisticated surveillance gear. The airplane had recently received a coat of Navy gray to cover its former punk-pink color. It was flying at 56,500 feet, higher than any SAM that might be lurking on the western coast of the island, and hopefully beyond the reach of the radar they assumed was operating on the eastern edge.

  Cagliari was the largest city on Sardinia, the island that sat below Corsica, and less than 200 air miles west of Rome. After the Big War started, the Italian Navy evacuated the civilians from the sparsely populated island as they were easier to protect back on the mainland. As the war intensif
ied, all that remained on the island were the tens of thousands of goats that lived there—and the American troops stationed at the massive air base at Cagliari.

  Cagliari’s air base was built by the Americans in the 1980s for two good reasons. First, as a possible launching point for air strikes against the looney-tunes that once ruled Libya, and second, as a modern weapons-storage facility for NATO. Sardinia’s central Mediterranean location and small population made it ideal for storing armaments that could be needed anywhere in the region. When fighting broke out in Europe, the aircraft stationed at the big base were instantly dispatched to the front. They never came back. Soviet SCUD missiles, carrying poison gas, hit the airbase soon afterward, killing every living thing on the island, including all of the base’s ground personnel.

  After the major battles of the war were over and done with, and the whole of Europe became a strange kind of netherworld, unseemly elements drifted down from northern Italy, sailed back to Sardinia, and claimed it as their own.

  What they found was a huge military complex, an air base still virtually intact—containing, everything except the airplanes. There were many deep, underground, concrete bunkers containing thousands of weapons that were never used. It was an arms bonanza. So, the new Sardinians—deserters and war criminals, most of them—set up a large arms-wholesale operation.

  At the same time, they wrapped the island—and their enterprise—in a veil of secrecy. They were wise to the point of knowing that the less said about what they had, the better. So they sold their wares through an army of middlemen, with entangled webs of backdoor deals and money passed in the night. They quietly reaped incredible profits. Though few of the buyers knew it, many of the weapons bought in the bazaars of Algiers—especially air weapons—originated from the underground warehouses just across the Med at Cagliari.