by Mack Maloney
Hunter turned his attention the second lead enemy airplane. It too had launched a deadly missile. Then, like a true hired hand, the pilot had turned his airplane around and fled the area. Hunter instantly had a clear visual sighting on the missile it had launched. Trouble was, it was moving too fast for him to shoot it down.
He knew the Exocet’s radar-homing computer had selected the circling Norwegian command frigate as its target. It was much too late for him to radio the ship to take evasive action. There was only one way he could prevent the missile from hitting its target. Hunter booted the F-16 until he was flying on an intersecting collision course with the missile. He kicked the 16’s engines once more and flashed right in front of the rocket, at the same time boosting up the power in his three cockpit radar sets.
The missile took the bait. Its on-board computer instantly “went dumb,” forgetting about the frigate and instead homing in on all the activity in the F-16’s cockpit. Hunter smiled, yanked back on the side-stick controller, and put the jet fighter into a merciless, straight-up climb.
The missile followed as advertised, but the speed of its target and the strain of the hellish climb were too much for its on-board circuitry. Wires began to melt, fuel began to heat up. Its electronic brain went crazy, instructing the missile’s steering systems to begin rotating. This caused the warhead to be jolted against its protective casing. A spark resulted and this ignited the warhead. The missile exploded an instant later.
“Two missiles down … ” Hunter whispered. “Only four to go … ”
He flipped the jet onto its back and found himself directly above two more incoming Super Etendards. Instinctively his fingers pushed the Sidewinder launch trigger and two missiles shot out from under his wings. They flew unerringly toward the slower attacking airplanes. One was sucked up into the trailing Super Etendard’s rear exhaust pipe. The airplane was instantly obliterated. The second Sidewinder caught the other jet right in the cockpit, exploding the chamber and ejecting the lifeless form of the pilot out through the smashed canopy glass. The aircraft went into a crazy spin and slammed into the sea with a steamy crash.
He found the last two remaining Super Etendards roaring over the top of the small fleet of three troop-carrying frigates, their Exocets still under the wings. He knew the pilots were trying to spin about and attack from the east, thereby giving them the option of attacking some of the SAS landing crafts in the process. But the gunners on the frigates interrupted those plans. The Norwegians sent up a wall of lead that impressed even Hunter. The SAS troopers on the beach were also firing at the enemy jets. One of the Super Etendards was caught square in a crossfire, its fuel tank taking hundreds of hits before it finally split and erupted into a ball of flame, taking the aircraft and its pilot with it.
The remaining jet, its pilot inordinately plucky, roared out into a wide turn and started back toward the small fleet.
“Send up chaff! Quick!” Hunter yelled into his microphone.
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, he could see a wall of chaff come flying up from the frigates. But the attacking jet was too far away from the close-to-shore frigates. The pilot launched his missile and immediately fled the area. Hunter instinctively wanted to chase the retreating airplane, but there was a much more immediate threat.
The Exocet was heading right for the Saratoga …
Without an instant’s hesitation, Hunter launched a Sidewinder, although he was not in a line-of-sight position. It was the only chance he had, and a risky one at that.
He was hoping the Sidewinder would get to the Exocet before the Exocet got to the carrier. It would be missile against missile. The Sidewinder was infrared, the Exocet was radar-targeted. The Exocet was an anti-shipper, the Sidewinder an air-to-air. The Exocet was bigger, faster, much more powerful—its warhead could damage the carrier beyond repair. The Sidewinder was more nimble, but it was carrying only enough explosive to shoot down an aircraft. Plus it would have to make one hell of a maneuver to get to the Exocet. But Hunter knew the Sidewinder had at least one advantage: it could take out a target head on. He crossed his fingers and watched the drama unfold.
The Sidewinder twisted down toward the Exocet, homing in on its infra-red target. Urging it on with body English, Hunter watched as his missile executed the necessary 120-degree turn. The Exocet was now less than 500 feet off the bow of the Saratoga. Gunners on all four frigates were throwing up a wall of bullets in the enemy missile’s general direction hoping a lucky shot would hit the missile. Even the SAS men on the deck of the carrier were firing at the oncoming missile with their rifles as it came right for them. “Christ,” Hunter whispered. “This is going to be real close … ”
The Sidewinder won the race …
Just 100 feet off the side of the carrier, the smaller American-made weapon caught the front fin of the Exocet, clipping it and causing its warhead to explode before it hit the carrier. Pieces of near-supersonic debris still carried on into the side of the Saratoga, but with much less force and resulting damage than if the missile had impacted intact. A small fire broke out on the carrier, but Hunter, streaking by the big ship, knew it was manageable.
He heard a burst of cheers from his earphones. “Good shooting, Hunter!” Sir Neil’s voice came through, so loud it caused his ears to ring.
“Don’t thank me,” Hunter said, only half-jokingly. “Thank the guys who built that Sidewinder so many years ago. That’s what it means to be ‘Made in the USA.’”
But now there was a new threat.
While Hunter was taking on the Exocets, a major battle had erupted on Gold Beach. Approximately 500 SAS troops were ashore and they were battling many of the T-62 tanks that had moved up from the town. Another group of about a dozen tanks were firing directly on the frigates, which were aggressively firing back.
The Tornados were strafing the tanks firing at the beach soldiers, but already one of the jets had been shot down by a shoulder-launched SAM. Two other Tornados were low on fuel and ammo and would shortly have to return to Majorca.
But in his highly trained mind’s eye, Hunter knew the battle would soon change. It was getting dark, and right now the night would be the Recovery Force’s best ally. He swooped in over the beach and started strafing the T-62s. Meanwhile, shells from the frigate’s deck guns were finding targets in the enemy column. The SAS troops were also joining the fray, sending mortar shells crashing on to the enemy-controlled highway near their beachhead.
Two more passes over the tank column and Hunter saw the predicted change in the battle. The tanks were withdrawing to the side of the road where their crews would dig them in. They could continue to shell the beachhead from these stationary positions, but the battle had reached a point where the tanks needed to be resupplied.
As darkness quickly enveloped the area, the shooting on both sides died down to just scattered exchanges. Both sides hunkered down for the night.
Chapter 12
“OK, F-16,” THE VOICE crackled through the radio, “you are cleared for landing.”
Hunter began a final turn over the USS Saratoga. He’d been circling the carrier for nearly an hour, using every trick in the book to preserve his precious fuel. Now he had about five minutes’ worth of gas remaining.
It was nearly completely dark. A full moon was rising, and with it the tides. The SAS beachhead troops were exchanging scattered fire with the Faction tanks. The three Norwegian frigates were sweeping up and down the shoreline, battering both the tanks and the city of Villefranche itself with their small but powerful deck guns. Meanwhile the SAS carrier contingent had secured the Saratoga and Yaz’s men were on board. They had been able to fix two of the four arresting cables on the carrier’s deck in record time, setting up a bank of temporary floodlights in the process. Now it was time to test the cables.
Hunter had never attempted a carrier landing before, but he had hooked onto arresting cables on many occasions. He brought the F-16 down low as he made the final turn to the carrier. Th
e floodlights that bathed the carrier deck gave it the appearance of a football field at night. He lined up the centerline of the deck with his HUD display and brought down his landing gear. The carrier was listing at a slight angle, but not enough to bother him.
Yaz himself was on the radio, his voice calmly calling out the wind direction and the all-important distance-to-ship measurement. The Navy man confirmed that the F-16’s arresting hook was fully deployed.
Hunter was now 500 feet out. He caressed the F-16’s side-stick controller. Flaps were lowered, air brakes engaged. 300 feet to go. He pulled the nose up slightly. A cross wind came up, causing him to dip the starboard wing slightly. 200 feet. Down a little more. His speed was just 120 knots. He throttled back on Yaz’s suggestion. 150 feet out. He could see the two arresting cables now. He would try for the first one. Missing that, he could always hope to snag the second one. If that were unsuccessful, he would be swimming for his life in the dark waters of the Med.
“OK, major,” Hunter heard Yaz say. “You’re looking good. Down just a hair. One hundred feet to go. Throttle back. Back. Steady. Nose up a little. Good!”
Hunter’s F-16 hit the first cable. There was a great screech and a burst of friction smoke as the arresting hook grabbed the cable, stretched it to its full limit, and snapped back. The F-16 shuddered all over, its engines screaming. Hunter was thrown forward in the cockpit, then slammed back against his seat. What a rush! he thought. He was down. The airplane was safe. From 100 mph to a dead stop in a second and a half. No wonder the Navy guys likened carrier landings to “having sex in a car wreck.”
The 16 was immediately surrounded by Yaz’s men, who started attaching securing lines to the aircraft and bolting them to the carrier deck. He could see other sailors were already draping the heavy-wound towlines over the stern of the carrier in preparation for O’Brien’s tugs. Hunter popped the canopy and climbed out. Heath and Yaz were waiting for him.
“This might be a first,” Yaz told him. “An Air Force plane landing on a Navy carrier … unopposed, that is.”
Hunter checked over the fighter and, once he was convinced it was in relatively good shape, he, Heath, and Yaz headed towards the Saratoga’s Combat Information Center or CIC, the central nervous system of any warship. As they walked along the ship’s passageways, Hunter could see SAS men and Yaz’s sailors running throughout the ship performing their prearranged tasks.
“The beachhead is in good shape,” the British officer told him. “Our SAS guys have occupied the shoreline buildings and have a good defensive perimeter set up. We’re lucky because the Faction are not known as night-fighters and the Iron Fist people are probably cowering under their beds.”
“How about the ship’s launch system?” Hunter asked. “Can we get it working?”
Yaz raised his hands to display two sets of crossed fingers. “We got electricity to the primary controls,” he said. “And the hydraulic pumps for the steam catapult are fixable. If the steam tanks don’t leak and the pipes take the pressure, we could launch in less than three hours if we had to.”
Hunter felt a jolt of pride for the Navy guys. He knew the jobs Yaz had described would usually take at least a day to complete.
“No trouble when your chopper guys landed on board?” Hunter asked Heath.
Heath shook his head. “The ship was nearly empty,” he said.
“Nearly?”
“Except for one person,” Heath said. “I’ll introduce you.”
They reached the bridge to find a squad of SAS men surrounding a strange figure. It was an old man, dressed in rags and sporting a dirty, gray beard and long, stringy hair that nearly reached his waist. He was wearing a sackcloth tied at the middle with a piece of electrical wire and dilapidated combat boots on his feet. A dozen garishly colored strings of beads hung around his neck. He looked like both a hermit and an out-of-date hippie. The man was sitting in an old pine box that looked to be a cross between a bed and a coffin. His eyes closed as if he was meditating.
“Who’s the old guy?” Hunter asked.
“His name is Peter,” Heath said. “Or so he tells us. We found him here, in this box. Says he’s been living here for a while. Also says that he’s been ‘expecting us.’”
The man opened his eyes and looked at Hunter. The pilot could tell right away the man was a little crazy.
“It’s him!” Peter started yelling. “He’s come!”
Hunter looked at Heath. “Who the hell is he talking about?”
“I think he’s talking about you, major,” Heath answered.
Peter bounded out of the box and into a kneeling position. He started chanting loudly in gibberish, pausing occasionally to look up at Hunter and let out an insane laugh.
“Christ,” Hunter said. “This guy’s nuts … ”
“Maybe so,” Heath said. “But look at this.” He picked up a notebook and gave it to Hunter. “The SAS guys found him writing away in this when they came aboard.”
Hunter recognized the book as a typical ship’s log. He was surprised to find the writing inside was not only extremely neat and readable, it was almost stylized, like that in a Bible.
Hunter started reading the log and felt a wave of astonishment pass over him. There, on the first three pages, was a completely accurate version of what he and the Brits had been doing in the past week. From the bombing at the Highway Base to the trip to Algiers to their attacking Villefranche to their boarding of the Saratoga. It mentioned Sir Neil, Heath, Hunter, and even Yaz by name. The whole story—right up to the section titled “Peter Meets the Pilot”—written as if it were already history.
“How the hell did this guy know all this?” Hunter asked, plainly shocked.
Heath could only shrug his shoulders. “We don’t have the foggiest idea,” the Englishman said. “A bit spooky, don’t you think?”
“Spooky?” Hunter said. “It’s damned scary!”
Hunter looked at the man called Peter. He was now lying prostrate on the floor, his soft moaning muffled by his wild hair and beard.
“He says he’s been living on ship for a long time,” Heath continued. “Waiting for us. Hiding from the Fist and the Faction whenever they came aboard. He apparently knows the ship like the back of his hand. He might even be a member of the original crew, though from all that mumbling he’s doing, it’s hard to pick out an accent.”
“Yeah, he also looks pretty old to be a regular crew member,” Yaz said. “He could be a CPO or even an officer, though.”
Hunter knelt down beside the man. “Hey, pal,” he said in a soothing, coaxing tone. “Who told you we were coming?”
The man looked up at him, his shaking hands brushing the hair from his face. “I knew … ” he said in a trembling voice. “I’ve known for years … ”
Those eyes, Hunter thought. He saw madness behind them, but also a flicker of intelligence. “What else do you know?” he asked.
The man gathered himself back up into a kneeling position and closed his eyes tight. “Women! I see painted women,” he said through gritted teeth. “Beautiful women. You’ll see them to! And flowers! Green flowers floating in the ocean!”
Hunter caught Heath’s eye. The Englishman was shaking his head as if to confirm that he believed the man was nuts.
Still, Peter went on, his voice going low. “I see a face in the sky,” he croaked. “I see the ocean burning. I see you, the pilot, alone in the desert. And I see Viktor … ”
“What do you know about Viktor?” Hunter asked him quickly.
Peter’s eyes went wide with authentic terror. “Viktor is Lucifer. Lucifer is Viktor. He is the Evil sent to destroy the world … ”
“Well, he’s got that part right,” Hunter said.
Peter then stretched upward and put out his arms as if he were hanging on a cross. “Lucifer!” he bellowed, startling everyone in the room, including the battle-hardened SAS men. “He is the Anti-christ!”
“Oh, brother,” Hunter said, instinctively backing away
from the man. “Not this … ”
“Lucifer is the real thing—he comes from Hell, I tell you!” the old man screamed, his voice tortured and cracked. “He is six-six-six … ”
“The man is over the edge,” Heath said.
Suddenly Peter’s head was bolt upright. He began to shake uncontrollably. “Listen!” he whispered. “Here it comes … ”
Those in the room could hear a faint whistling sound, quickly getting louder.
“Incoming!” someone yelled.
Bang!
Suddenly the whole ship shuddered with the sound of an explosion. The lights flickered twice, then went out completely. In a second, the CIC was filled with black, acrid smoke. The crackling of flames could be heard in the next compartment.
Instantly, the room was a scene of controlled confusion as those inside tried to make their way in the smoky blackness to decks above.
The man called Peter let out a long agonizing scream, then sank back to the darkened floor …
Chapter 13
HUNTER WAS ALREADY ON the carrier deck before the second shell hit the Saratoga. He had recognized the distinctive whistling sound of the howitzer and could tell by its pitch that it was being fired at the ship from a position somewhere near Villefranche.
Heath and Yaz were right behind him when he reached the deck. Off in the distance they could hear the thumping of the three howitzers firing simultaneously.
“I hear them but I don’t see them!” Yaz said trying to locate the howitzers’ positions.
“They’re hidden in the town, probably close to the shoreline,” Hunter said. “Those are the only kind of guns that could possibly have the range to do us some damage.”
“Jesus, I didn’t think the Faction had such heavy-duty stuff,” Heath said as one of the shells crashed into the sea just 100 yards off the port side of the carrier.
“Maybe they don’t,” Hunter said. “They could have got lucky and hired a free-lance howitzer group that was camped nearby.”
