by Mack Maloney
No sooner had he spoken than the first volley of shells streaked over their heads and came crashing down around the platforms. As soon as those shells hit, another barrage was tearing over their heads.
“Paddy!” Hunter yelled, “can you get this baby going just one more time?”
“I’ll give it a try,” the Irishman said, scrambling down the ladder leading to the boat’s engine room. “But I think she’s had it … ”
Now the oil platforms began their revenge. Suddenly two Exocets zoomed by the tug, no more than twenty feet out.
“I’m glad we’ve got nothing those bastards can home in on,” Hunter said. He watched as the two rockets streaked off toward the Briareus ships, blue flames spitting out of their tails.
Bang! Bang!
“Two direct hits!” Yaz yelled out as the Exocets slammed into a destroyer and a missile-launcher corvette. The explosions were so powerful, a shock wave rippled back to the tug.
Now, less than a minute after the Harpoons had hit, the sky was filled with flaming ordnance. Incredible naval gunfire from the fleet, dozens of Exocets from the platforms. The dark night had now become like day in the reflections of the explosions. Hunter looked up at the face of Lucifer, still hanging in the sky, the expression oblivious to the sudden violent battle that had broken out.
“Well, we’ve certainly started something,” Yaz said excitedly as a trio of Exocets raced by. “Now where the hell is that chopper?”
At that moment, O’Brien emerged from the engine room. “She’s dead, major,” he said. “Can’t get her to even cough.”
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said, closing his eyes and listening. Ah, yes, the feeling was coming over him. It had been a long time. Too long. “The chopper is on its way.”
Exactly one minute later, the frigate copter was hovering above the tug, its winch line lifting the first two crew members up to safety. Despite all the missiles flying around and the shells streaking overhead, the Norwegian chopper pilot held steady. He didn’t flinch when a stray round from a destroyer fell within a few hundred feet of the tug.
Hunter and Yaz were the last to go up. No sooner were the crew members dragging Hunter on board then the chopper pilot dropped to nearly wave-top level and throttled up. In seconds, the copter was dashing out of the battle zone and heading for the carrier flotilla.
There were handshakes all around as the tug crew congratulated each other for a job well done.
“They’ll be battering each other all night,” Hunter said, watching the flames of the battle still visible fifteen miles away.
“And they’ll probably never figure out who got the first shot in,” Yaz said, the glee evident in his voice.
Hunter craned his neck and looked up to where the face of Lucifer was. Just as he spotted it, he noticed it was losing some of its glimmer. Then he watched as it slowly faded away …
Chapter 32
THEIR JUBILATION DIDN’T LAST very long …
As soon as they touched down on the deck of the Saratoga, they saw Heath was waiting for them, an extremely worried look on his face.
“Don’t tell me,” Hunter said, holding up his hand. “More bad news?” He knew something was up because the Saratoga was barely moving.
“I’m afraid so,” Heath said, nodding. “While you were gone, we were attacked by two submarines.”
“What?!” They all said in unison. Hunter couldn’t believe it.
“They got three of your tugs, I’m afraid,” Heath said to O’Brien.
“Mother of God.” The Irishman’s face went crimson. “How about my men?”
“Only one lost,” Heath said, brightening a little. “The choppers got into a running gunfight with the subs so the Commodore’s boys went in and plucked your guys out.”
“What kind of subs?” Hunter asked as the Norwegian chopper took off and headed back to its frigate.
“That’s the even worse news,” Heath said. “They were Soviets.”
“Soviet-built?” Yaz asked.
Heath shook his head. “No, I mean, Soviet-manned.”
“How can you be sure?” Hunter asked.
Heath nodded his head grimly. “Because the chopper guys managed to nail one with a depth charge while it was close to the surface. We fished two of its crew members out. They’re as Russian as borsch.”
“Are they in any shape to talk?” Hunter wanted to know.
“Yes, one is,” Heath said. “They’re both up in sick bay.”
“Well,” Hunter said, his voice angry. “Let’s go see what he has to say … ”
Ten minutes later, Hunter was sitting in the Soviet crewman’s room, staring down at the man. He had resisted bringing in a whole gang of people, though he was tempted to scare the man rightfully out of his wits. But for now, he decided on a different tactic.
The man, an oldster about fifty, opened his eyes and was startled to see Hunter hovering over him.
“Dobriy vyehchyeer, comrade,” Hunter said. “Understand any English?”
The man looked at him suspiciously, then slowly nodded his bandaged head.
“Understand good?” Hunter asked.
The man shrugged.
Hunter clapped his hands twice. The cabin door opened and one of the call girls—a friend of Emma’s named Beatrice—walked in. She was lovely. Blonde, well-proportioned, and very alluring, she was the youngest of the group except for Emma herself.
“Okay, Boris,” Hunter said to the Soviet sailor. “This is how we’ll work it. Tell me what I want to know and you not only go free, you get to get acquainted with Beatrice.”
Now a look of complete surprise came across the Soviet’s face. Hunter’s statement begged the question. “What if I no talk?” the Soviet asked.
Hunter slowly drew out a borrowed .45 Colt automatic. In a half-second it had found itself just a quarter-inch away from the Russian’s nose. “We either shoot you or you go overboard.”
The man gulped. Hunter turned to Beatrice and nodded. She smiled and slowly undid her blouse. Five buttons later, she revealed her see-through black-lace bra.
The Soviet began to sweat.
“Where’s your base?” Hunter asked.
The man shook his head. “They kill me if I tell.”
“There is no more ‘they,’” Hunter told him. “Your ship is gone. Except for another guy who is busted up in the next room, you are the only one left. Face it, champ. They think you’re dead.”
Hunter nodded once again to Beatrice. She seductively removed her miniskirt and shoes, then walked to the other side of the Russian’s bed.
“Okay, where’s your base?” Hunter asked.
The Russian’s eyes were fixed on Beatrice’s well-rounded breasts. She did her best to further inflame him, slowly shaking and stretching her beautiful body.
“I cannot tell,” the Soviet said, though never taking his eyes off Beatrice.
Hunter winked at her. She smiled and slowly removed her bra. The man’s face turned five shades of red. These sub guys, Hunter thought. Always horny and always deprived.
Beatrice moved in very close to the man, so much so her nipples wound up just inches from his face.
“Listen, pal,” Hunter said. “There’s an Englishman out there that would just as soon cut you up and feed you to the fishes. Then there’s an Irishman who is very pissed off that you and your buddies sank his tugboats. He’s taking it very personally. He’d as soon drag your ass around on a fish hook until you fall apart into little pieces. And I won’t even mention what the Moroccans would do to you.
“But you see, you’re lucky. You’re dealing with an American here, okay? All I want is information. Once you’re done, we chopper you to the nearest land and you can walk back to Moscow for all I care.”
While Hunter was talking, Beatrice had moved her breasts right into the man’s face. It was clear that he was breaking down.
“Now,” Hunter said a third time. “Where’s your base?”
“Alexandria,” t
he Soviet answered.
“Very good,” Hunter said, watching as Beatrice rewarded the man by sticking her lovely right nipple into his mouth. The man made a half-hearted attempt to suck it briefly, before Beatrice teasingly withdrew.
“Okay, how many subs?” Hunter continued, as Beatrice zoomed in with her left breast.
“Two squadrons, ten boats in each,” the Russian said, gasping. Beatrice inserted her left nipple into his mouth and left it there. The man, a little more greedy this time, sucked it for a good three seconds, before Beatrice again moved away.
“Why are you stationed in Egypt?” Hunter asked.
“That I cannot tell you,” the man answered, his eyes never leaving Beatrice’s chest.
Hunter again nodded to her. In a second, her hand was resting on top of the blankets right above the man’s crotch.
“Why are you in Egypt?” Hunter asked, calmly.
The man gasped. “We are protecting the pyramid.”
“A pyramid?” Hunter said. The answer surprised him. Subs protecting a pyramid? “Which pyramid?” He watched as Beatrice’s hand began to feel its way around and under the blankets. It soon found its mark.
“The Great Pyramid … ” the man burst out. “The Great Pyramid of Cheops … ”
“Besides your subs, who else is protecting the pyramid?” Hunter asked.
“Two helicopter squadrons,” the man answered quickly, anticipating Beatrice’s next move. “Also ten each. Plus soldiers on the ground.”
He fell back onto his pillow as Beatrice snuggled in closer. Hunter could see a jerking movement begin under the man’s covers.
He drew close. He had to ask the all-important question. “Why are you guarding the Great Pyramid?”
Hunter nodded to Beatrice and she suddenly stopped all movement. The man, who had settled back onto his pillow with his eyes closed, was suddenly up again, eyes wide open. He looked at Hunter.
“Why are you guarding the pyramid?” the pilot asked again.
The man looked confused. At first he shook his head, but a slight tickle by Beatrice delivered an unmistakable message. Finally the man broke down.
“It’s part of an agreement,” he said in broken but understandable English.
“An agreement with Lucifer?” Hunter asked.
“Yes. There is something, ‘the valuable,’ hidden in the pyramid,” the man continued. Beatrice had begun her hand movements once again.
“What is it?” Hunter pressed.
“We do not know,” the man answered quickly, closing his eyes again. “They don’t tell us submariners. Why would they? We are small pawns in big game.”
“You must have some idea,” Hunter said. “What was the scuttlebutt on your ship? Gold? Jewels?”
“Nyet, not money valuable,” the man said, the passionate strain showing on his face. “Very valuable as a weapon of some kind. But we would never know. And neither do the soldiers on ground.”
“Why not?” Hunter asked. “They’re right next to it. Don’t they see it?”
“No, no, no!” the man said, gasping for breath. “You cannot get near it. It is in a tomb. Stone tomb. It is blocked off by doors, stones, and metal. We ship special doors in for them.”
Beatrice’s hand movements were now reaching a climax. Hunter needed one more question answered.
“What kind of special doors?” he asked quickly.
The man looked like he was about to explode. He grimaced and said with great effort: “They … were … made … of … lead.”
At that moment, Nature took its course. The man bit his lip, his eyes were pressed shut. He shook once, then slumped down onto his pillow. Beatrice quickly reached for a towel.
“Lead?” Hunter asked, more to himself. Then it hit him. An agreement with Lucifer. A valuable weapon. You can’t get near it. Lead doors.
It all added up to one thing: there was something nuclear in the Great Pyramid of Cheops.
Chapter 33
THE F-16 ROARED IN at wave-top level, its whole airframe almost drooping from the weight of ten specially fitted Sidewinders on its wings and the weapons dispenser that was attached to its belly. Hunter checked the time. It was an hour before sun up. He checked his coordinates. The land he saw on his radar scope some fifteen miles ahead was probably the tip of land near the old Egyptian city of El Alamein. He did a radar sweep of the area. No hostile weapons were indicated. So far, so good.
He switched on his cockpit’s specially adapted SLQ-32 radar detector. This would warn him with a low tone if anyone on the ground happened to get a radar lock on the airplane. If the device detected that a radar was switched to a fire-control mode, a higher tone would be emitted. This meant a missile was about to be launched at him. At that point, he would have to take evasive action.
But for the time being, everything seemed to be quiet on the ground. He made landfall and streaked over El Alamein. Site of a famous World War II tank battle, the place was now deserted. In seconds he was on the other side of the city and heading into the barren area of Egypt known as the Qattara Depression.
He had left the Saratoga dead in the water about 150 miles northwest of Alexandria. The tugboat fleet was now history. Those vessels that hadn’t burned out their engines had been sunk by the subs. Now the Norwegians formed a protective ring around the carrier, as did the Freedom Navy boats. The frigate choppers were continuously circling the area looking for subs, while four of the carrier jets were in the air at any given time, watching out for any flying threats.
Despite all the protection, Hunter knew that the carrier would be discovered and eventually sunk—by the Soviets, by Lucifer’s other allies—if it stayed still for very long. Yet, with the loss of O’Brien’s tugs, moving the carrier was impossible. All of the other ships in the Saratoga flotilla combined could not generate enough sustained push-pull power to move the carrier very far.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself for the hundredth time. “So goddamn close to the Canal and we run out of gas.”
It got worse. Just before he took off, the Italian communications team intercepted a message right from Lucifer’s Arabian Kingdom headquarters. His Legion troopships had set sail. They were making their way up the Red Sea and would be in the Gulf of Suez—and at the very threshold of the Canal itself—in a matter of days, if not hours.
He pressed on. He had to find out just what was in the Great Pyramid. For two reasons. One, there was a possibility that “the valuable” was nuclear and therefore could be fissionable plutonium. This meant that, with very little effort, Lucifer would have a nuclear bomb—or bombs—courtesy of the Kremlin. If that were the case, “the valuable” would have to be destroyed at all costs, and that included blowing up the whole goddamn pyramid if he had to.
But there was a second reason he had to find out exactly what “the valuable” was. It was a grand-daddy of longshots to be sure, but there was a possibility that the nuclear material might be UB-40 grade uranium.
If that was the case, then it would be a whole new ballgame …
He swung around to the east and headed for the Nile. He had visited the Great Pyramid once before while touring with The Thunderbirds. He knew there was a long strip of highway—newly constructed at the time—which ran fairly close to the ancient site. He knew the Soviets were using a stretch of highway for their helicopter base. Although the choppers didn’t need any length of runway to take off or land, their supply airplanes did. And, just as with the RAF base near Casablanca where he first met Heath, highway bases were the only way to go in the desert. They saved the time and effort of building new bases out in the middle of nowhere. Plus, should something go wrong—like a sneak air attack—the survivors could always drive—or walk—out.
Hunter knew there were no Soviet fighters or fighter-bombers in the area. How? Because he knew they would have attacked the Saratoga by now. The Soviets knew the carrier was in their area—their subs had confirmed that. But they would never mount an all-out attack on the flee
t with just choppers. Thus sub attacks would be the only way to go.
He also knew that he couldn’t just set the 16 down on an isolated piece of asphalt and walk to the pyramid. If the thirst and sun didn’t get him, the Soviet soldiers guarding the place would.
So the situation would seem to call for an air strike. But again, there were problems. He was certain the Soviet troops around the pyramid and flying the choppers would be equipped with SAMs. No matter how many airplanes he could send against the chopper base and the troop site near the pyramid, he would have to expect the loss of at least three aircraft. And that was too many.
So he had decided to do the job himself. Before leaving he had discussed the whole scenario with Sir Neil, who pronounced him “daft” while at the same time crushing his hand with an almost tearful good-luck handshake. Hunter left one instruction behind. Should he not return by a specified time, the Tornados would bomb up and destroy the pyramid. Simple as that.
His plan was to catch as many of the Soviet choppers on the ground as possible. That’s why he chose sunrise for the one-man attack. He doubted the Soviets were into doing dawn patrols these days. In fact, knowing the Soviet military mind as he did, he would have bet the chopper pilots and the pyramid guard force would be just about fed up with desert duty right about now. They had obviously been guarding the pyramid for some time—waiting for Lucifer to make his grand entrance through the Canal, no doubt picking up his “valuable” along the way. The sand does crazy things to soldiers—gets in their eyes, their hair, their chow. They come to hate it very quickly. Sand also does crazy things to machines—especially helicopters. It gets into the oil, the fuel, the gears, the grease. It’s a bitch to clean out, and as soon as you do, some more will blow in anyway.
So, he figured the Soviets were just about at the end of their rope about now. This would also work to his advantage.
He found the Nile and turned north. This would be a backdoor operation all the way. The weapons dispenser attached to the 16’s belly carried hundreds of small but deadly bomblets, each packing the punch of a large HE grenade. The dispenser—a device custom-made for destroying runways and such—would be particularly effective against the Soviet choppers, provided he could get low enough. The Sidewinders would have to deal with any choppers that might be in the air at the time or that managed to get off the ground during the attack.