by Mack Maloney
“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 England. 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 direc
tly 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.
An instant after the shell exploded, Hunter was up and firing his M-16 towards a point two-thirds of the way up the cliff. He had detected a telltale puff of smoke from the grenade launcher and was now spraying the point with tracer-laced M-16 bullets. The two Brits and many of the soldiers caught along the road did the same thing. But, at the same moment, a powerful machine gun opened up from another part of the rocky bluff. Then another and another.
Within seconds, a full-fledged firefight had broken out.
Hunter still concentrated his fire on the point where he knew the RPG launcher was. After his fifth barrage, he heard something hit home. There was a loud explosion on the side of the cliff and a rain of rocks and metal showered down onto the roadway. Hunter’s fire had not only found the RPG operators, it had hit their ammunition. Two bodies came down the bluff in the small avalanche, both landing with a bloody splat in the middle of the road.
The machine-gun fire intensified. Still, Hunter had to find out who the attackers were. To the shock and amazement of the two British pilots, he was up and running toward one of the attackers who had fallen from the cliff. With bullets splashing all around him, the Wingman dragged the fallen ambusher back to the trench.
Even Hunter was amazed that the man was still breathing, though he had only seconds to go. His body was cracked and bleeding from a number of points. The pilot studied the man. He was wearing a nondescript black uniform, with a turban and a cloth covering most of his face. Each breath the man took resulted in a exhalation of blood, which spurted out of the cloth covering his mouth. Still, his eyes were open.
“Who are you?” Hunter demanded. “Who is your boss?”
The man actually managed a laugh. “Hunter … ” he gasped. “You fool … ”
His eyes then went up into his head. A gush of blood came out of his mouth and he was dead.
Hunter, surprised that the man knew him by name, slowly unwrapped the bloody cloth that covered most of the dead man’s face. He recognized the man’s features right away. It was el-Fauzi, the man he had met at the Casablanca control tower.
“Do you know him?” Heath asked, crawling over to Hunter and the dead man.
“Believe it or not, I do,” the pilot replied, searching the body. “He led me to a character named Lord Lar
d in Casablanca. Lard’s the guy who told me to come here, to Algiers. They must have been setting me up.”
“That’s what it looks like, old boy,” Heath said, ducking away from a barrage of machine-gun fire. “But the question is: were they just after that billion-dollar bounty or are they allies of Lucifer?”
Hunter looked at el-Fauzi’s broken body.
“Maybe I’ll never know,” he said to himself.
The fire from the cliff intensified. Hunter pushed aside the body and concentrated on the rest of the attackers. There were spits of fire coming from at least a dozen locations on the side of the cliff as well as at its peak. Meanwhile, many of the mercenaries who happened to be on the fringes of the ambush had withdrawn, leaving only Hunter, Heath, Raleigh, and three bystanders square in the line of fire.
The good news was that one of those bystanders had a radio …
Fifteen minutes later, Hunter heard the chopper approaching from the west. It was a Westland Lynx, the British-built helicopter originally built for antishipping operations. As the copter came into view, Hunter could clearly see its bright yellow-and-green markings as well as the half-dozen TOW missiles jimmy-rigged on its belly.
“Humdingo came through for us,” Heath said to Hunter.
They had crawled over to the mercenary who happened to be carrying the radio and called back to the Algiers airport control tower. For the promise of a bag of silver, a runner carried a detailed message to Humdingo, who was on duty guarding the F-16 and the Tornados. Humdingo then arranged to have one of the airport’s many free-lance helicopter gunships fly out to the site of the ambush.
The fire from the cliff had intensified in the ensuing time, but now it was redirected when the helicopter arrived. The Lynx ignored the barrage of bullets being thrown up at it by the ambushers and, in workmanlike fashion, swooped in and deposited a TOW missile directly on the top of the cliff. The resulting explosion caused a small landslide—two more bodies landing on the road amidst the debris.
The Lynx circled around and fired two more missiles into the side of the bluff. Again, the two explosions caused minor avalanches as well as three tumbling bodies. The chopper made two more passes, both times firing its dual machine guns. Even above the racket of the chopper blades, Hunter could hear the shells puncturing flesh. One more TOW missile strike and all fire from the cliff ceased. The attack was over.
