The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  “Good God,” Heath yelled. “They’ve actually done it!”

  “I never thought I’d see the day … ” O’Brien said, speechless for probably the first time in his life.

  “We couldn’t have gotten this far without you,” Hunter told the Irishman.

  “Hear, hear!” Heath echoed, shaking hands with the tugboat skipper. “In fact, on special orders from Sir Neil, I am now naming you the commander of the Saratoga.”

  As those sailors present on the bridge gave him a round of applause, O’Brien pointed to himself, genuinely surprised, and asked, “Me? Why me?”

  “It’s just logical,” Heath told him. “Of us all, only Olson, the Commodore, and yourself are real sea captains. I’m sure you’ll agree they’ve got their hands full right now. Yaz’s job has now increased tenfold since he’s got the ship running. So, Captain O’Brien, that leaves you in command.”

  The BBC crew was on hand, of course, to record the historic moment. As the leader of the video crew came forward, microphone in hand, to interview O’Brien, the old tug man looked at Hunter. But the pilot only smiled and said, “It’s all yours, Skip … ”

  That night, as the Saratoga was approaching the Canal at a speed of fifteen knots, two frigates pulled out ahead of the flotilla and steered due south. On board was the Commodore, the UDT team, and a squad of Spanish Rocketeers. One of the frigates carried a Harrier, just in case the pair of ships was spotted from the air.

  The other frigate was running on a skeleton crew. All of its armament had been stripped off, as had anything of value not bolted down. In the frigate’s cargo hold were the 100 Soviet mines.

  The two ships plowed silently through the night waters traveling the sixty-five miles to a point just a mile off the entrance to Alexandria, Egypt. It was two in the morning when they arrived. Quickly, quietly, the UDT frogmen slipped into the calm seas and went about the task of planting the Soviet mines in strategic, predetermined places.

  Later on they would report that, while the mine-laying operation was going on, they had observed the holographic face of Lucifer projected off in the distant eastern sky.

  Hunter spent most of the night in the CIC, sitting with Heath, a Moroccan translator, and Giuseppe, the head of the Italian communications group, listening to the multitude of radio broadcasts coming from Lucifer’s fleet.

  The carrier flotilla had lost time crossing the Med. The battles, the storm, the loss of the tugboats, and other distractions had put them days behind Sir Neil’s original schedule. For Hunter, it was a miracle they had made it at all, but the delay had presented some problems.

  Originally Sir Neil had intended to sail the carrier through the Canal and plant it—and the soldiers sailing with it—at the northern entrance, thus denying the entire gateway to the Med to Lucifer’s ships. But, as the intercepted communications indicated, the first elements of Lucifer’s fleet had already entered the Canal. And, in fact, gunboats allied with the madman had been patrolling the Canal for days.

  Now it looked as if a mid-Canal confrontation were imminent.

  “It’s going to be tight,” Hunter told Giuseppe and Heath as they moved markers around the ship’s plotting map. “The Canal is only about three hundred feet across. That’s wide enough to accommodate two major ships going in opposite directions and that’s about it.”

  “We are lucky that the Egyptian Navy dredged the blasted thing before the Big War,” Heath said. “Otherwise, we might have scrapped the bottom.”

  “We still won’t have much room to maneuver, if any,” Hunter said.

  “Well, I imagine if we were still using the bloody tugs!” Heath said. “I guess our best bet is to crank it out, get to a good position in the middle of the Canal, disperse the troops, and launch an air strike immediately.”

  “I agree,” Hunter said, studying the map. “We can tie up a lot of his ships if we just sink a few early, thereby sealing off the Canal midway, at least temporarily. I’m sure his Soviet mine-laying group is equipped with a UDT. They can clear one sunken ship in about six hours. But if we ice six or seven ships, those guys are going to get real tired real quick.”

  “Look here on the map,” Heath said, directing a pointer to an area about halfway down the Canal’s 100-mile length. “Here’s the only place where the Moroccans would have some kind of cover to meet Lucifer’s troops—granting that, if we sink his ships, he’s going to throw his foot soldiers off the transports and make them walk.”

  The group was silent for a time, until Heath spoke up again.

  “The question is,” he said, “can we get to that point before Lucifer does?”

  Hunter finally retired about three in the morning. Tomorrow would be a busy day, he knew, and even three hours’ sleep would help.

  He found Emma as he always did: curled up naked on his bunk as a candle flickered away on the bed table. He took off his boots, zipped down his flight suit, and crawled in next to her. She immediately drew herself up close to him, one of her small delicate breasts falling right into his hand. He squeezed it softly. Then he looked at her sweet face. She’s so much like a young Dominique, he thought.

  Right away his thoughts flashed over the Mediterranean, across the Atlantic, and back to America. Dominique. He yearned for her as much as he yearned for his country. Although he knew he was changing his mind almost every other day, right now he had somewhat settled whether his being here, on this “crusade,” was really the most productive thing to do. In the long run, he felt the answer was yes. Whether Lucifer was in the picture or not, his Legion would keep moving if they weren’t checked in some way. It sounded old hat, but there was a good possibility that, if the madman’s army was not stopped here, in the eastern Med, the day would come when they’d be landing on the shores of America. And the democratic forces in America might not have their shit together enough to mount a decent defense. It was a question of where and when to battle the enemy.

  For Hunter, the place was here and the time was now.

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out the American flag, and felt its threads with his fingers. He always gained some power from the act. Someday, he said. Someday the flag will fly again. Mean something to millions again. It was his life and he knew it and he accepted it. “America,” he whispered to himself. “I am an American … ”

  He had drifted off for a couple hours, only to be awakened by a sharp knock on the cabin door. This was getting to be a habit. He would finally start to get some sleep when something would happen and he’d be back in action again.

  This time the person at the door was one of Giuseppe’s men. “Message,” he kept saying, as if it were the only English he knew. “Message … ”

  Hunter was in the CIC inside of two minutes. Heath and Yaz were there, along with Giuseppe.

  “What have you got?” Hunter asked, reaching for a mug of coffee.

  “An intercepted radio message from the western Med,” Heath said.

  Hunter stopped in mid-sip. “The Modern Knights?” he asked.

  “Could be,” Yaz said. “Listen for yourself … ”

  He reached over to the large radio set and turned on the built-in tape recorder. There was a burst of static, then an indecipherable chatter. Then, gradually, individual voices could be heard. They had definite British accents.

  “Lancelot, Lancelot … ” one voice repeated. “Fueling time for you is 0830.”

  “I copy you, Galahad,” another voice said.

  More static went by, then another moment of clarity.

  “Godfrey, Godfrey,” a distinctly French-accented voice said. “Repondez. Repondez.”

  “Oui, Norman,” the reply came back. “Nuit blanche. Repete. Nuit blanche.”

  The tape ended with a final burst of static.

  “Nuit blanche,” Hunter repeated. “I think that means ‘a white night,’ like in ‘a sleepless night.’”

  “It’s got to be some kind of code,” Yaz said.

  “Could be,” Hunter said, rewinding
the tape and listening to it again.

  “Maybe it means they’re working overtime,” Heath offered.

  “Any idea where they are?” Hunter asked.

  Giuseppe nodded and pointed to a map of the Mediterranean. “Near Majorca,” he said in his best English.

  “Really?” Hunter was surprised.

  “I felt the same way,” Heath said. “I thought, ‘My God, at least they’ve pushed off.’ Maybe Stanley’s return got them into gear. But then I realized they are still some distance away. That is, if they manage to avoid all the problems we encountered.”

  “Christ,” Yaz said. “We did our best to clear the way for them.”

  Hunter looked at the map. Majorca. Where it all started. It seemed like a year ago, when it was only a matter of a couple of weeks. How things had changed in this New Order World. At one time, crossing the Med was a lark on a cruise ship, or a flash in a jet airliner. Now, the other side of the Med—and those ships—might as well be a million miles away.

  They listened to the messages one more time, then walked out into the open air, Hunter looked out on the horizon and saw it first.

  “Jezzuz,” he exclaimed. “Is that really it?”

  Heath shielded his eyes against the glare of the rising sun. “I believe it is, old boy,” he said excitedly.

  A voice above them confirmed what they were thinking.

  “That’s it, lads,” O’Brien called down from the bridge railing. “That’s the entrance to the Suez Canal … ”

  Chapter 38

  HUNTER WATCHED THE S-3A roar off the deck of the carrier, climb, and turn south. Inside, he knew, the pilot, E.J. Russell, would be flying the most dangerous mission of his life.

  Fate had dictated that the carrier, several days behind schedule, would reach the northern entrance of the Canal just as the advanced elements of Lucifer’s fleet were entering the southern end. Now only about 100 miles separated the two opposing forces.

  So, although the Italian communications team was working round the clock intercepting messages from the enemy fleet, Hunter and the others still lacked an accurate reading as to just how many and what type of ships Lucifer had under his command. That’s where the Aussie pilot Russell came in. The pilot’s mission was to overfly the southern end of the Canal in his S-3A, unescorted, and photograph the enemy with the plane’s sophisticated belly cameras. For good measure, the BBC cameraman volunteered to go along. Videotapes of the fleet would also be very helpful in the battle to come.

  The two mine-laying frigates rejoined the Saratoga flotilla just as it was preparing to enter the Canal. Before the task force entered the waterway, all of the ships had spent time with the flotilla oiler. Watching the refueling operation, Hunter wondered when they would get a chance to fuel up again. If ever …

  He spent the morning hours with O’Brien, Olson, Heath, and the Commodore determining the order of battle for the flotilla. They agreed that six of Olson’s frigates would enter the Canal first, followed by the carrier itself. The Moroccan troopship would come next, along with the oiler and the captured supertanker. The rest of Olson’s frigates would protect the rear. Twenty of the Commodore’s armed yachts, carrying members of the UDT, would sweep for mines beyond the area they had already cleared. The rest of the Freedom Navy would be scattered throughout the flotilla.

  Hunter had already worked out the air operations. The eleven Tornados were the heart of his squadron. The versatile airplanes were very valuable to their cause, so he divided them into two units, Alpha and Beta, and instructed that only in the worst possible scenario would both units be off the carrier at the same time. The Tornados would comprise the main bombing force. They would go after the enemy ships with everything and anything they could carry.

  The Viggens too would serve exclusively in the attack role. Hunter had the Swedish airplanes fitted with overstuffed “Greendog” bombs—so heavy that the airplanes would have to skim the surface of the water for their initial attacks.

  The creaking Jaguars would be given the pinch-hitter role. They would be loaded up with aerial bombs, cannon ammo, and Sidewinders. They could either take the measure of the lead enemy ships via dive-bombing attacks and strafing, or protect the bombers from any enemy interference in the air.

  The most difficult assignments fell to Hunter’s F-16 and the three Harrier jump-jets. They would have to free-lance for most of the air strikes. That is, be on station quickly, unleash whatever bomb loads they might have, then loiter over the battle area and apply force—whether it be Sidewinders, cannon fire, or air-to-surface missiles—as needed.

  The S-3A would provide armed recon. Olson’s choppers would serve in the air-rescue role.

  The flotilla sailed into the Canal quietly, without incident. Moving more or less in single file, the frigates and the Freedom Navy advance ships went in first, then the carrier, the troopship, the tankers, and the rest of the frigates. The only thing they encountered on the waterway was the still-smoldering wreckage of the gunboat that had made the mistake of stopping the Commodore twice.

  Hunter had never sailed through the Canal. As he watched the passing shoreline, he knew that in peaceful times the channel would have been bustling with merchant ships big and small. Now it was quiet, eerie. The shores were lined with wreckage everywhere, all of it slowly disintegrating in the mercilessly hot Mideast sun. He saw downed airplanes of all sizes and types, bows of sunken ships, demolished tanks, jeeps, trucks, pontoon bridges. Rusting, sand-blasted reminders of Mideast wars too numerous to count. It was almost as if war were attracted to the area, like tornados to the American Midwest or hurricanes to its East Coast.

  “What the hell is the big attraction?” Hunter asked himself. “Why have so many people died over a bunch of sand?”

  There were human skeletons everywhere too. Some still dressed in uniforms, helmets still strapped onto bare jawbones. There were clutches of them, here and there, like the wreckage, victims of wars past and forgotten. Watching them, Hunter got the distinct and unnerving impression that he was floating through a graveyard.

  The S-3A returned after the carrier had been in the canal for about an hour. Hunter met Russell as he emerged from the jet and immediately noticed the battle-hardened veteran was visibly shaken.

  Hunter ushered him to a remote corner of the Saratoga’s mess hall and signaled one of the cooks to bring them some “strong” coffee.

  “Jezzuz, Hawk,” E.J. told him. “I’ve never seen so many ships in my life! I thought The Modern Knights were stacked!”

  “What kind of ships?” Hunter asked as the cook dropped off a steaming pot of laced coffee.

  “You name it, they got it, mate,” E.J. answered. “Battleships, missile cruisers, armed freighters, rocket-launcher ships. They must have fifty or sixty destroyers alone. Plus a helicopter assault ship. One of those crazy half-battleship-half-carrier jobs.”

  “Russian?” Hunter asked.

  “Through and through,” E.J. said, swigging the coffee. He felt the whiskey-laced mixture slide down his throat. “Still got the hammer and sickle on it. A lot of the ships do.”

  “Well, Lucifer is an equal-opportunity employer,” Hunter said. “He’ll hire anyone to help him destroy the world.”

  “They must have sixty Hind gunships on that flattop,” E.J. continued. “The BBC guy has a lot of good footage. And the troopships! They got LSTs, steamers, converted cruise liners, barges, tugs, you name it! All of them stuffed with soldiers. Those guys must be chomping at the bit to get to the Med just so they can spread out.”

  “Were you spotted?” Hunter asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the Australian answered. “I didn’t get any radar-lock indications, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t spot us visually.”

  “No aircraft flying above or near the fleet?”

  “Just one airplane,” E.J. said. “This P-3 Orion. It’s an old Navy job, still with the long, pointy ass-end, you know?”

  “Yeah, we intercepted some radio transmis
sions from it a while ago,” Hunter said. “That’s how we knew the Sovs were laying mines in the Canal.”

  “That’s right,” E.J. replied. “This must be the same airplane. Yet, if anything was going to spot us, that plane would have. They’re usually jammed with enough gear to rival an AWACs, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, usually,” Hunter said, after thinking for a moment. “Unless they are carrying some other type of gear on board now … ”

  They left the mess hall and went to the CIC. There the BBC crew had set up a large-screen TV and videotape-playback machine. Heath, Yaz, Olson, O’Brien, and The Commodore were all on hand. Without much fanfare, the cameraman switched on the TV and inserted the freshly shot videotape.

  Even though Hunter knew what to expect, he was still stunned. Spread out on the Red Sea near the southern entrance to the Canal, Lucifer’s fleet looked like one of the huge armadas the US had thrown against the Japanese in the South Pacific.

  “My God,” Heath blurted out, speaking for everyone. “How in hell can we expect to hold up that whole bloody thing?”

  “Between Lucifer and The Modern Knights, they must have hired just about every ship in the world,” O’Brien said.

  Even the normally stony Olson was slightly rattled. “This is a formidable force … ” he said with typical understatement in his Scandinavian-accented English.

  “Their biggest problem will be getting all those ships through without causing one hell of a traffic jam,” Yaz said, dejectedly.

  “No,” Hunter said, stemming the tide of negatives. “Their biggest problem is going to be us … ”

  The Jaguars took off first, four of them catapulting into the air with a rush of steam and a scream of jet exhaust. The quartet climbed and began long circles around the carrier.