by Mack Maloney
A question of money. So much for heroism, he thought. So much for glory. He was well along to convincing himself that his worst fears were justified. This was a fool’s errand. Towing a disabling aircraft carrier to the Suez? What the hell did that have to do with America?
He should have stayed home. He was needed there. The country he loved was in danger of dissolving completely and he was here, in the middle of the Med, playing crusader with a bunch of half-mad Brits. The original plan had only an outside chance of working. They might have stemmed the tide for four or five days, tops—and provided air cover for when The Modern Knights arrived. But two weeks was impossible.
Even if they were able to bottle up Lucifer’s troopships at the far end of the Canal, what would prevent him from disgorging his troops and marching them up both sides of the waterway? It was only a hundred miles or so. Less than a day’s journey by truck, five days by foot. The Moroccans—as good as they were—could not hold off a million of Lucifer’s troops for more than five minutes. And eventually, Hunter knew, he would start to lose aircraft—to SAMs, to accidents, to one of the many calamities that always accompanied military operations. Once the airplanes were gone, what good was the carrier?
He reached inside his pocket and drew out the American flag he kept folded there. He turned it over and over in his hands. It was beautiful. He was never at a loss for amazement when he looked at it, felt it, kissed it. This is what he should be fighting for. Not some crazy foreign adventure where the bottom line was not the cause, or freedom, but how to pay nearly a million paycheck soldiers up front.
He should have stuck to his original plan. Track down Viktor wherever the hell he was. One man. One plan. It could have been infinitely easier than this! He took out his second prized possession: the photo of Dominique. He loved her. He wanted her. He should be with her. Back home. In America.
He looked up at the night sky. It was brilliant with stars. Billions of stars and billions of galaxies. He once thought he would ride among them someday. His ticket to pilot the space shuttle was already punched. He had the Russians to thank for screwing up that dream.
In fact, they were at the heart of all this darkness. He saw their hand everywhere. Russian cruise missiles fired at the desert highway base, the Red Army Faction opposing their refloating of the Saratoga. Robot-controlled Soviet Ilyushins, Soviet-made flying boats, Soviet-made Bison bombers. Soviet mines bobbing in the Canal. No doubt radio-controlled and activated mines, being attended to by Soviet technicians that would allow Lucifer’s troopships to pass through unhindered, while anything else would be blown up. Everywhere was the Red Star. The Hammer and Sickle. The same old, robot-like mentality of “Either we control the world or no one does.” He was getting sick and tired of it.
Yet what could he do now? Desert Sir Neil? Jump ship from the Saratoga?
He looked back up at the stars. Dominique. Jones. Dozer. His friends: Twomey, Ben Wa, and the others. Would he ever see them again?
Yaz was pulling duty on the bridge that night. The sea was quiet, as was the entire flotilla. The only noise was the constant drone of O’Brien’s tugboats.
“Coffee, sir?” the other sailor on duty with him asked.
“Sure,” Yaz answered. “Could you run down and get a pot?”
“Back in ten,” the sailor said, leaving Yaz alone on the bridge.
The dull green light of the bridge’s computer screens and the wide windows of the room allowed Yaz a great view of the Mediterranean night sky. He took a seat next to one of the windows and studied the twinkling wash of galaxies, trying to pick out his favorite constellations.
But something was wrong. Yaz was an astronomy buff. He knew the star formations were slightly different in this part of the world. But should their colors be different too? He stared at one particular star that was glowing blood red. Was that really Mars? He knew the planet often appeared a hazy shade of red, but it was not at this high angle this time of year. And nowhere this bright.
While he was trying to figure this out, he saw another red star. Then another. And another.
“What the hell is going on here?” he said aloud, standing up. As he watched, as many as 100 stars suddenly went red.
He started checking for location. All of the stars were in one general area of the sky—about seventy degrees to the east, way, way, off in the distance. He strained his eyes to look closer.
Were they moving? It appeared that they were. “Damn!” He wished the other sailor was on the bridge with him now, just to witness the event and convince him he was not crazy. He kept his eyes glued on the group of crimson stars. Now they were forming a pattern. Spinning, twisting, circling, now moving in all directions. Slowly, something was forming.
“Jesus Christ,” Yaz swore as he watched the incredible scene.
It was a face. A dastardly face. A familiar, yet distorted face. This was crazy, he thought.
It was the face of Lucifer …
Yaz closed his eyes and rubbed them. He was thinking too long and too hard. He counted to five and opened his eyes again. The face was still there—unbelievably, an enormous, horrifying caricature of Lucifer’s face formed by the interconnection of the “red stars.” It was leering, mocking, laughing …
Then it disappeared.
Yaz spent the rest of the night searching the sky for the vision. He decided not to mention it to the sailor who returned with a steaming pot of coffee, so bizarre was the vision. Only briefly did Yaz question his sanity. It was only one of many possible explanations. He knew Lucifer was powerful—but was he powerful enough to project such an illusion over thousands of miles? Or was it an illusion at all?
Hunter was the first one to see the boats …
He was up before dawn and on the carrier deck when he saw them, just as the sun was lifting out of the calm, aqua-blue Mediterranean. Out on the horizon. First a group of five, sailing together. Then another group. And another. He looked close. There were fishing boats, sailboats, skiffs. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. All different. All packed to the railings with people. All heading west.
The boats didn’t slow down or change their course to avoid the eastbound ships of the Saratoga flotilla. They just wended their way through the task force, braving the wakes of the huge warships and tugboats.
Soon, Heath and many of the other sailors on the Saratoga appeared on the deck to witness the strange parade of ships. The BBC camera crew was also on hand, recording the scene.
Five sailors were dispatched in a small boat to stop and question some of the people. They returned with a strange report.
“The people are from Crete,” one of the sailors said. “They say they are fleeing for their lives.”
“Fleeing from what?” Yaz asked.
The sailor, a machinist’s mate, shrugged. “Sounds crazy. Some kind of god, a giant from the netherworld. Named something like Bry-a-roos … ”
Hunter thought for a moment, then asked, “Could it be Briareus?”
“That sounds more like it,” he said.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Heath said. “Is it from Greek mythology?”
“I think so,” Hunter said. “Briareus was one of the giants. He supposedly had a hundred arms. Some of his friends—the Cyclops, Orion—had more familiar names. The giants were so bad-ass, they chased the top gods—Jupiter, Apollo, Venus, Mercury—out of Greece. Chased them all the way to Egypt.”
“Tough cookies,” Heath said.
The machinist’s mate spoke up once again. “The people we talked to swear he appeared to them.”
“Appeared to them?” Hunter said. “How?”
The man shrugged again. “They said they saw his face,” he said. “In the sky, last night … ”
Yaz was much relieved when Hunter later found him sitting alone in the messhall and told him about the boat people and their claim of a vision.
“I saw the same goddamn thing!” Yaz said. “I thought I’d gone around the deep end. The frigging thing sp
un itself right out of the stars. All red. Strange. Like a movie.”
“And you’re sure it was Lucifer’s face?” Hunter asked.
“One hundred percent, major,” Yaz said, downing his third cup of coffee. “It was weirdly distorted. Like it was changing back and forth. But it was definitely Lucifer. I’d know that face anywhere. And it was horrifying. I’ll never forget it.”
Hunter shook his head. Yaz was a tough kid and still the vision had chilled him. Was there no end to Lucifer’s psycho-weapons?
“He’s somehow convinced the people of Crete that he is this giant Briareus,” he said, anger building inside him.
“But why?” Yaz asked.
“Well, he probably wants the island as a base of operations,” Hunter theorized, downing a cup of joe himself. “He can control a lot of the eastern Med from that island.”
“But we haven’t heard anything from the radio intercepts that Lucifer has gone anywhere,” Yaz pointed out.
“And he probably hasn’t,” Hunter said. “This is probably something he’s entrusted to his allies. It’s a preinvasion tactic, spooking the population to get them out of the way.”
Yaz shook his head, then said, “But the question is, how the hell does he do it? How does he make his face appear in the sky like that?”
Hunter could only shake his head. “Right now, it beats the hell out of me … ”
Chapter 30
IT WAS ABOUT NOONTIME when Hunter got an urgent call to report to the CIC.
Heath was there, looking very worried as he and the rest of the CIC group stared into a radar set.
“We’ve got big trouble,” he said as Hunter entered.
“How big is big?” Hunter asked, looking down at the green screen. He soon had his answer. The radar sweep indicated a large concentration of vessels off to the east, coming out of Crete and heading right for the Saratoga.
And as if that weren’t bad enough, another, similar-sized force was also heading right for them, approaching from the southwest.
“Christ … ” he whispered. “They ain’t fishing boats, are they?”
“They’re warships,” Heath told him. “Everything from cruisers to frigates to missile boats according to their radar signatures. Probably some armed supply ships and tankers too. Everything but a battleship and a bloody carrier.”
“The way they’re formed up, they must be acting in concert,” Hunter observed.
“And not a peep out of them on the radios,” Heath said.
“Damn!” Hunter swore. “They’re coordinating an attack and we’re caught in the middle.”
“This might have something to do with those escaping civilians,” Heath said. “These ships could have been what really scared the hell out of them, along with Lucifer’s face-in-the-sky bit, of course.”
A thought suddenly leaped into Hunter’s head. “How many ships?” he asked. “How many … exactly?”
The radar operator took ten seconds to count the blips. “Fifty coming from the east,” the sailor told him. “And another fifty from the southwest. Exactly a hundred ships, major.”
“The hundred arms of Briareus maybe?” Hunter theorized.
Heath thought for a moment. “Could be,” he finally drawled out in his British accent. “Ready to put on a stranglehold. We’re in trouble if we are in the noose. Those small missile ships alone could really muck us up.”
“And we have to assume they are allies of Lucifer,” Hunter said. “No one with fleets of this size could survive this far east in the Med without playing footsies with that snake.”
“They are still twenty-five miles off in each direction and moving fairly slow,” Heath said. “If we start turning to the southeast now, and tell O’Brien to go full speed up, we might avoid the major warships for the time being.”
“And we’ll most likely blow out most of the tug engines,” Hunter said. He thought it over for a moment, then said, “But we’ve got no choice. I’d rather have these guys on our tails than on either side of us.”
He reached over to the ship’s radio and buzzed the lower deck where the carrier’s aircraft were stored.
His voice was calm, steady, forceful. “Prepare all aircraft for standby to launch,” he said. “Get the Jags fitted with antiship missiles. They’ll be the first to go, if we have to go. Put the radar-homing air-to-surface jobs on the Viggens. Harriers get the same thing.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the reply came back immediately.
Heath then hit the battle stations’ klaxon. Instantaneously, they could hear the emergency bells and sirens going off on the nearby surrounding ships.
“I hate to risk our airplanes and crews on something we can avoid,” Hunter said. He turned to one of the CIC technicians and asked. “What kind of a course do we hit going southeast?”
The man punched a handful of computer buttons, then read out the answer from his computer terminal. “On a straight southeast course, we would pass right by an offshore oil facility, major,” the man reported.
“God, that’s just the kind of place we want to avoid,” Hunter said, adding, “Got any more info on it?”
The man pushed more buttons and waited for the lines of words and numbers to jump up on the screen.
“Turkish-controlled, apparently,” the tech said. “Crude oil. Unrefined, of course. No good for fuel. Their refinery is back on Crete.”
“Turkish, you say,” Hunter said, hand on chin. “Why do I have the feeling that those platforms are the real target of these hundred ships?”
“It’s a good theory,” Heath said. “The Turks have been strictly neutral since the big battles died down. Neutral meaning they’ll do business with anyone. They also control a lot of the oil in this part of the Med. Lucifer and his allies have dealt with the Turks before. But it’s strictly business.”
Hunter nodded. “That means that Lucifer would attack them in a second if it suited his needs,” he said. “Those oil platforms would be very valuable for his warships once they’ve broken out into the Med. They’ve probably already taken over the refinery of Crete.
“Lucifer could have hired these hundred ships—the arms of Briareus—to take both Crete and the oil. And that light show last night could be part of the plan. I mean, what better way to secure those facilities than by not having to fire a shot?”
“You mean spooking the platform crews?” Heath asked, shaking his head. “Making local fishermen and old people think you are a reincarnated god with some kind of nighttime projection is one thing, Hunter, old boy. But are the men on those platforms so easily fooled?”
“It’s hard to say,” Hunter replied. “Fooled might not be the right word. The face of Lucifer—as Briareus or not—still is quite a powerful psych-warfare weapon. If the platform guys are just hired help, Lucifer’s ugly face appearing to them in the middle of the night might be just enough to convince them of his overwhelming power. Cause them to just throw in the towel. And quickly.”
He thought for a moment then added, “Of course, then again, for all we know, the platform crews are probably armed to the teeth.”
“Aye,” Heath concurred. “I imagine it would be easy to slap a couple of Exocets onto a oil rig.”
Hunter was worried. There were too many unpredictables in this one. His mind flashed back to Peter. They could use his blathering but accurate foresight right now. Oddly, it seemed as if he’d been gone for ages.
“The problem is,” he continued, “that once the Briareus ship captains get smart and realize that we’ve squeezed through their pickle, and realize who we are, they might hold off on taking over the platforms, by guns or words. If they do, they’ll be after us in a second.”
“And if we lose any number of O’Brien’s tugs, it will be the briefest escape in history,” Heath said.
Hunter ran his hand through his long hair. “One thing I know,” he said, excitement welling up in his voice. “We don’t have any friends on either side. Those Turks would attack us just as sure as Lucifer’s a
llies would.”
“You’re getting an idea?” Heath said.
“It’s a longshot,” Hunter said. “But the important thing now is to get the hell out of their way.”
He turned to the CIC radioman. “Sparky,” he said. “Get O’Brien on the horn, will you?”
Paddy O’Brien sat in the control room on his lead tugboat, his eyes glued to the vessel’s speed indicator.
All of the Irishman’s tugs were now at full speed ahead, on a course that would take them due south. The tow lines on the dozen “pull” boats were singing. The powerful diesel engines on the six remaining “push” boats were belching loud clouds of smoke as they strained to keep up speed. Even though Olson had pressed two of his frigates into pull duty, O’Brien knew the desperate bid to get out of harm’s way would soon deplete his beloved tug flotilla.
“Sorry, girls,” he said, referring to the boats in his fleet. “You’ll be busting up and all over soon. But I guess it’s better than being sent to the bottom by some swine’s deck gun.”
A pang of sadness exploded in his heart. He could actually feel strain of his engines. “You bastard, Lucifer!” he said under his breath.
High above the tugboats, on the deck of the Saratoga, Yaz’s sailors were working at a feverish pitch, getting the carrier’s aircraft up on deck and ready for takeoff should the bold “slip-through” maneuver not work.
Boats of The Commodore’s Freedom Navy had gathered around the flattop for protection, giving the carrier the appearance of an enormous, gray mother goose surrounded by her chicks. The captured supertanker and the oiler were about a half-mile behind the carrier, surrounded by four of Olson’s frigates, their anti-missile defenses on high alert. Behind them was the Moroccan troopship, it too surrounded by the Norwegian bodyguards. The rest of the Olson’s ships were bringing up the rear, their radar systems keyed in on the approaching pincers of the mysterious fleet.
Hunter sat in his F-16; the airplane would be the first to launch if the plan went awry and the Briareus ships turned toward the Saratoga. The entire fleet was now under strict radio silence. As far as they knew, the Briareus ships had not detected them yet. An uneasy tension settled over the fleet. All of the carrier fleet’s large ships were ready for battle, yet it was up to O’Brien’s small workhorse tugs to get them out of the squeeze.
