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.”
“Navy?” Hunter asked. “What kind of Navy?”
“Most of us are submariners, sir,” another told him.
“Atomic or diesel?”
“Atomic, sir,” was the answer.
Bingo.
“Who’s your commanding officer, guys?” Hunter asked, already moving towards the American camp.
“Lieutenant Yastrewski,” one yelled.
“Just ask for ‘Yaz,’ major,” another called out.
Hunter reached the American camp, his eyes fixed on the large American flag that flew above its main tent. The flag was bigger and higher than those of other camps. It was the biggest one Hunter had seen since The New Order went down. The American camp, though much smaller than many of the bivouacs, was also more elaborate. He spotted a number of sophisticated weapons and a lot of top-shelf communications gear dispersed around the ten-acre site. He also noticed that members of other armies were present in the camp, mostly gathered around Americans near the state-of-the-art hardware. It appeared the Americans were instructing the other troops.
Hunter identified himself to the camp guards and was ushered into the camp’s HQ.
A small man—typical of submariners—came in to meet him. Unlike his men, this officer was dressed in Navy blues.
“I’m Lieutenant Yastrewski,” the slightly younger man said, shaking hands with Hunter. “First American Seaborne Assault, Repair and Support Group.”
“I’m Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps,” Hunter said. Immediately he knew his title sounded as strange to the submariner as “First American … ” did to him.
“I’m a pilot for the territory that was once called California, Washington, and Oregon,” Hunter clarified.
“There’s no more California?” the man asked.
Hunter shook his head. “Probably not as you remember it.” He was not surprised that the man didn’t know what was going on in New Order America.
“When’s the last time you were stateside, lieutenant?”
The man shook his head. “Not since the war, sir. I was stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. I suppose that area’s changed pretty much now too.”
Hunter nodded. “The whole country has changed,” he said.
“We hear bits and pieces,” the officer told him. “But not much.”
Hunter looked around the HQ tent. It was jammed with some of the most advanced electronics and communications gear he’d ever seen since the war. “Quite a setup you got here,” he told Yastrewski.
“Well, we try, major,” the Navy man replied. “Are you here to contract some help?”
“Well, friends of mine are,” Hunter told him. “Some Brits I hooked up with may be looking for some sailors with experience in nuclear operations.”
The officer was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Could I offer you a cup of coffee, major. Or a drink?”
Hunter smiled. “How about both?”
Five minutes later, they were sitting inside the camp’s chow tent, mixing muddy Algerian coffee with even darker Algerian liquor. A large pot of noodles, boiling in a creamy wine sauce, appeared. The lieutenant scooped out two bowls for them.
“How many men do you have, lieutenant?” Hunter asked between bites.
“Three hundred and seventy-six,” Yaz replied proudly. “We’re the smallest group here, but we are by far the best-equipped.
“Most of us were aboard the USS Albany when it went down off Ireland on the last day of the war. We made it to shore and a bunch of us stuck together. We kicked around for a year or so, doing some protection work. Then made it over to En
gland. Got work driving a bunch of ferries back and forth over the Channel. Eventually we moved to France, then here. Been camped about five months now.”
“How did you know to come here?” Hunter asked.
“Because of all the war rumors,” Yaz told him. “People said a big one was coming, or, actually, that World War Three was about to heat up again. They said they would need soldiers, equipment, weapons.
“Well, we’re not combat soldiers, at least we weren’t trained to be. But we are technicians, engineers, specialists. We’ve found that very few people in the Med know how to operate a lot of the high-tech stuff that’s floating around these days. We do. We know what a semiconductor is and what it does. We understand laser-sighters, gate-arrays, tele-guidance. We had the skills. So we came here and opened for business. On one hand we repair some of the stuff that comes in. On the other, we teach people how to use it once it’s fixed.”
“Sounds like a very enterprising idea,” Hunter said, swigging his drink.
“Well, we need the money,” Yaz continued. “We’re trying to get enough cash to get a boat or an airplane or something to get everyone back to the States.”
“It’s a lot different over there now,” Hunter told him. “Some might think it’s not much to go home to.”
The lieutenant nodded. “I know,” he said slowly. “We hear different things. Never enough to put the whole picture together, though. We know it’s changed. But we still want to go back. It’s our country.”
Hunter instantly admired the man.
“Do you guys hire out like the rest of the people here?” he asked.
“We’ve never been approached,” Yaz said. “Rarely does anyone need us more than two or three at a time. Most of the stuff we do is strictly one-man, one-job.”
“Could your guys sail a big ship?” Hunter asked him.
Yaz thought a moment. “How big?”
“The biggest,” Hunter said.
“A carrier?” Yaz asked, his eyes going slightly wide. “A nuke?”
Hunter knew he could trust the man. “Yes, but a disabled one,” he told him. “No juice in the reactors.” He quickly explained what the Brits’ plan was and why he had flown to Algiers.
“This Lucifer guy is supposed to be one tough weirdo,” Yaz said after taking it all in. “I mean, he’s the guy behind the big war that’s coming. I’m glad someone’s going to try and stop him before he blitzkriegs his way to the Atlantic.”
He stopped and drained his drink, then said, “But actually towing a carrier through the Med to the Canal? That’s one very crazy idea.”
“In your best Navy opinion, can it done?”
Yaz thought it over. “I doubt it. There are a thousand things that could go wrong.”
“But is it impossible?”
Yaz looked him in the eye. “Well, nothing’s impossible, major. At least that’s what they taught us in Naval Officers training.”
Hunter nodded and took a long swig of his drink. “The Brits came here to buy protection forces and hoped to scrape up some sailors in the process,” he told him. “But these are RAF guys. They don’t have the foggiest idea how to move the ship and they’ll be the first to admit it. And, believe me, they’re paying good money.”
Again Yaz gave it some careful thought, then said, “Well, you know, even if the reactors aren’t running, the ship could still be powered up enough to run the weapons and to have some lights, I suppose. If we can rustle up some generators, that is. Or, better yet, get the gas turbines running.”
“Can your guys handle it?” Hunter asked.
“I think so,” Yaz said. “We live and breathe electronics here. But getting that carrier where they want it to go will take more than just lining up the circuits right. It will need a lot of coordination, teamwork more than anything else. That I can convince them of.”
Hunter was already convinced.
That night the British pilots had arranged for a secret conference to be held in a village nearby. The site was the back room of a rundown cafe. The Englishmen had interviewed more than forty different mercenary groups during the day and now they asked seven group leaders to join them at the session. They were anxious to talk to the Americans too.
The meeting started precisely at midnight. Hunter, seated at the left of Heath and Raleigh, studied the other men who sat around the table in the smoky backroom.
The man directly to his right represented a group of Frenchmen who specialized in ship defense. They would come equipped with a dozen Phalanx Gatling-style machine guns—weapons so quick and powerful, they could send up a wall of lead so intense, no antiship missile could penetrate it.
The man next to him was a captain in the Australian Army. His 900-man battalion, a mixture of Aussies and Gurkha troops, was well-trained in special weapons and tactics. If the carrier ever actually made it to the Suez, these soldiers would come in handy.
Next came a colonel in the Free Spanish Air Force. His group had been originally attached to a NATO early-warning radar unit. Now they hired out as an air-defense team, complete with portable shoulder-launched, antiaircraft Stinger missiles from the US. Appropriately enough, they were called Rocketeers.
A man in a black, flowing robe and a turban sat to Spaniard’s right. He represented the Free Moroccan Brigade—a group of 7500 men. They were very versatile combat soldiers, well acquainted with desert warfare as well as seaborne assaults. These troops would serve as the carrier’s strike force, large enough to seize and hold moderately sized objectives. They were also very anti-Lucifer, despite the fact they, like many in Lucifer’s Legion, were devout Moslems. The Brits knew this to be an important point.
An Italian sat next to the Moroccan. The man headed up a small unit of communications specialists. These men would be in charge of getting the carrier’s sophisticated radio and radar systems up and running.
Next came the Norwegian Naval Commander, a man named Olson. He operated a squad of fifteen swift frigates. These vessels would provide the carrier with sea defense and escort and also would be called on to do scouting duties.
Then there was the Irishman. Small and red-faced, the man, authentically named Paddy O’Brien, also brought a very important aspect to the party—maybe the most important. He owned a fleet of twenty armed tugboats, each boasting a crew of ten. They would be the ones responsible for the actual “pulling and pushing,” as he put it of the USS Saratoga. O’Brien could also arrange to have an oiler—a refueling ship—join the venture.
Finally there was Lieutenant Yastrewski, US Navy. His specialists would run the ship.
The purpose of the backroom meeting was to hammer out contracts. The negotiations were intense. The Brits had plenty of money, courtesy of the wealthy Modern Knights. But they were rock-solid on the prices each group would be paid. Beyond money, though, the Brits had to make sure everyone in the room was of a like mind. There were no negotiations on this point. To a man, the group leaders agreed that Lucifer had to be stopped. The Moroccans were the most adamant. So it was not just for gold that the participants agreed to join the bold adventure. Freedom was also a factor. “My kind of people,” thought Hunter.
The conference was still going strong when the sun came up. All the deals had been struck before dawn. Now a multitude of logistics had to be planned: equipment and supplies secured, pickup points for the groups arranged.
Hunter was more impressed with the Brits all the time. Throughout the meeting, Heath and Raleigh had calmly addressed each concern, negotiated firmly but fairly, then assigned the units their responsibilities. All groups took their assignments with cool professional élan.
“Then it’s settled!” Heath said, after discussing the final points. “Gentlemen, if I had a drink, I would toast to you—all of you. What we are about to undertake will undoubtedly affect the balance of power in this area—if not the world—for many years to come. God—Allah—help us all … ”
The road back to the airport was clogged with soldiers returning from
a wild night in Algiers. Hunter was stretched out on the rear seat of the jeep, trying to relax before the return flight to RAF Gibraltar. Up front, Heath and Raleigh were enthusiastically discussing the forces they had just hired. They were much relieved. The first very important step had been completed. Hunter was only mildly troubled by the fact that he hadn’t been able to uncover any inside information about Lucifer. He admitted to himself that he was getting caught up in the Brit’s Great Suez Adventure.
Hunter sensed trouble just seconds before the rocket-propelled grenade landed in front of the jeep.
He had been able to sit up and yank Heath around the neck, causing the British driver to hit the brakes and thus avoiding what would have been a direct hit on their vehicle. The grenade exploded ten feet in front of them, filling the air with deadly shrapnel, which killed several soldiers unlucky enough to be walking on the road.
An instant after the grenade landed, Hunter, Heath, and Raleigh were out of the jeep and under cover in a trench next to the road. A cliff on the left side of the roadway looked to be the most likely spot for the ambushers to hide. Hunter had his M-16 up and ready, his extraordinary eyes scanning the ledges for any sign of the attackers. All around them, hungover soldiers, their weapons also at ready, had also taken cover, none of them sure who had fired the grenade and why.
Hunter had a couple good guesses …
“Someone up there doesn’t like us,” Heath said, his own 9mm automatic pistol at the ready.
“Either we’ve been betrayed by someone at the meeting, or Lucifer’s people heard we were in town,” Raleigh said.
“Could be someone trying to make a little extra cash,” Hunter said. “After all, the person who turns in my hide is in for a billion dollars.”
Just then he heard the distinctive whoosh of an RPG being fired.
“Here comes another one!” Hunter yelled loud enough so everyone in earshot could hear him.
Another shell crashed down three seconds later, landing twenty feet from the jeep and sending out another cloud of flaming shrapnel. Thanks to Hunter’s warning, no one was hurt in the second blast.
Lucifer Crusade Page 7
