The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  The BBC video crew roamed the Saratoga’s deck, its cameraman taking shots of opportunity. Launch officers fingering their radio buttons. The French anti-missile gunners at their posts chain-smoking. The Spanish rocketeers going over their firing tubes. The Italian communications experts with their ears pressed against their headphones, straining to hear any sound that would indicate that the jig was up and the Saratoga fleet had been detected. It would be dusk soon. Hunter knew that, with the gathering darkness, the chances that they would “slip through” would increase.

  “Major Hunter?”

  The voice knocked him out of his trance. It was the video crew chief, yelling up to him from the carrier deck.

  “Can we ask you a few questions, major?” the man, whom Hunter knew as “Chips,” called up.

  Hunter nodded. What the hell? he thought.

  The crew’s cameraman was instantly up the 16’s access ladder and rolling. The film crew chief started yelling up questions.

  “Major, we’re in a bit of a jam right now,” Chips began. “We’ve apparently got two fleets converging on us and we’re trying to get out of their way undetected. Any idea who the enemy is, major?”

  “Lucifer’s allies, we figure,” Hunter called back. “There are a hundred ships in all, and a force like that could not have been put together in this part of the Med without some help from Lucifer.”

  The cameraman moved in a little closer.

  “We’ve been through some pretty intense action already, major,” Chips said, continuing the interview. “We’ve done battle against the Red Army Faction, some robot-controlled Russian aircraft, the Holy Sardinians, the Panatellas, and the Sidra-Benghazi Gang. And now this. It doesn’t seem to be getting any easier, does it?”

  Hunter shook his head. “We don’t expect it to,” he answered. “It seems like the further we sail into the Med, the stranger things become.”

  “Major, we all know that you are somewhat of a celebrity back in the States,” Chips said. “And we also know that America is going through some particularly tough times right now. What are you doing over here?”

  Hunter bit his lip. He’d been asking himself the same question ever since the voyage started. Push-pull. He felt as if he were being tugged in many different directions. “Well, the cause of all the recent troubles in America is Lucifer,” Hunter answered. “We know him as Viktor Robotov. But whatever he chooses to call himself, he has brought about untold suffering for many people, back in the States and here.

  “Just as American troops came here in World War Two to stop Hitler, I feel my help is needed here in to stop this madman. There are also more than three hundred other Americans on board. US Navy personnel who are in charge of running this ship. I’m sure they feel the same way as do the men of all the other nationalities in the fleet. It’s an international, allied effort to stop Lucifer.”

  “But what will happen if this bold maneuver—this ‘slip-through’—does not work?”

  “Well … ” Hunter searched for the most diplomatic answer he could think of. But the situation defied any mincing of words. “We’ll be in for a fight that would significantly hinder our ability to carry out our ultimate mission, which is holding the Suez Canal—through our airpower—until The Modern Knights and their armies arrive.”

  “One last question, major,” Chips called up. “What if The Modern Knights don’t arrive in time?”

  Hunter found himself tongue-tied. He knew that it was a very real possibility, especially since hearing the disturbing news from Stanley, the biplane pilot. The man had been dispatched back to England, carrying a bitter message from Sir Neil admonishing The Modern Knights for their delay and telling them in no uncertain terms to get their act in order.

  The cameraman moved in very close now, the camera-mounted microphone just inches away from Hunter’s face.

  The delay in Hunter’s answer caused Chips to reask the question. “What will happen if The Modern Knights don’t arrive in time?” Hunter detected a hint of nervousness in the questioner’s voice. He wasn’t surprised; they were all in this together.

  “No comment,” Hunter finally answered.

  Hunter never had to launch. Night fell and they could see the flares and blue lights of the oil platforms off on the southern horizon. The trailing Norwegian frigates reported the mysterious fleet had linked up and was also heading for the platforms. Yet they were now a good fifty miles behind the Saratoga fleet and moving slowly. The carrier flotilla then steered as one to the starboard for a few degrees to avoid the oil platforms. Another correction maneuver would take place in a few hours, putting the fleet back on course towards Suez.

  They had dodged the bullet.

  But not without a price …

  Hunter, Heath, Yaz, and Olson sat in the carrier’s messhall holding an impromptu strategy session. O’Brien was also there, giving them the bad news.

  “We burnt out five tugs,” the Irishman said slowly. “Engines completely blown beyond any repair. Four others are in real bad shape, being held together by God-knows-what.”

  Hunter shook his head. “We owe you a lot, Paddy,” the pilot told him. “You saved us from a very dangerous situation.”

  “I know,” the Irishman said, the pain obvious in his voice. “It’s just that it happened so quickly, after all this time. And you can’t find a good tug these days. No one makes ’em.”

  The room was completely silent.

  “What’s worst is we can expect slow going from here on out,” O’Brien finally said. “One-third the speed we were making, and even that will take a toll on the remaining tugs.”

  Heath looked at Hunter. “That is very serious,” the Englishman said. “We need to get to the Suez as quickly as possible. Lucifer’s troops are already aboard their invasion ships—so the radio intercepts tell us. They’ll be sailing very soon.”

  O’Brien could only shrug. “The more strain we put on the tugs now, the more they’ll blow. As it is we won’t have much to maneuver with once we get to the Suez.”

  Heath turned to Olson. “Captain, could we hook up a couple more of your ships for towing duty?”

  “By all means,” the Norwegian said in heavily accented English. “But if we run into any more trouble, we’ll have to cut loose and respond to it.”

  Hunter shook his head. “We’ll be in real danger of leaving the carrier dead in the water,” he said. “In which case it will be a perfect target.”

  “A proverbial sitting duck, as they say,” Heath added.

  “Exactly,” Hunter replied.

  Again, the room was silent.

  “But we’ve got other problems right now,” Hunter said finally. “Whatever the Briareus fleet does, they’ll eventually be on to us. Even if we make it to the Canal, they could come right in after us and we’ll really be squeezed between them and Lucifer’s forces.”

  “What have you got in mind, major?” Heath asked. “We certainly can’t fight them on our own.”

  “No way,” Hunter agreed. “But let’s think for a minute. This entire ‘face-in-the-sky, hundred-arms business’ is probably all an attempt to intimidate the Turks into handing over the oil platforms—and Crete—without a fight. These tactics have worked for Lucifer before all over the Mideast. He’s probably just assuming they’ll work here again. Just like during The Circle War, anything he can get by using mind over matter he’ll try for.”

  “So what can we do?” Yaz asked.

  “Well,” Hunter said. “We can screw up his little psych-out party. Get some real fireworks going.”

  “An air strike?” Heath asked.

  “No,” Hunter answered. “I’m thinking of something a little more subtle. If those ships out there take a little hostile fire, it just might dissuade them from coming after us. All I’ll need is one of Paddy’s ailing tugs, a few of Yaz’s electrical boys, and a couple of Harpoons.”

  Chapter 31

  THE TUGBOAT COULD HARDLY get up enough speed to carry them all. O’Brien spent
most of the trip fretting over the boat’s gearbox and the lack of RPM’s coming from the engine. The motor—its rings and valves completely shot—would only provide sporadic bursts of turning power, causing the tug to lurch forward for a few seconds, then float for a few minutes, before another unpredictable surge would push them forward again.

  Of course, this was exactly what Hunter wanted.

  “If they have any close-in sonar listening devices on those ships,” he said, referring to the Briareus fleet, “they’ll be picking up our screw-turn vibrations. But the way we’re going, they’ll never suspect that a boat this shitty would be floating around out here in the middle of the night. They’ll probably be ripping apart their machines, looking for a glitch or something.”

  The ships of the Briareus fleet were just two miles away, sailing southward at a leisurely pace. “They’re taking their time,” Hunter said to Yaz as they stood on the bow of the tug. “Probably waiting for the face in the sky to make its appearance.”

  Four miles in the other direction was the cluster of Turkish oil platforms. Hunter had counted at least twenty of the rigs as they’d slipped by earlier in the night. By monitoring the radio transmissions from the platforms, he knew the men aboard them were armed, dangerous, but somewhat unsure as to whether they should fight the approaching, overwhelming fleet or just surrender the whole operation.

  In all the confusion, the Saratoga flotilla had managed to slip on by them, undetected, fifteen miles to their southwest. The flotilla—with the lone exception of a single frigate—was now moving away from the potential battle zone, slowly but surely.

  “I have to ask you again, how the hell does Lucifer do it?” Yaz said to Hunter as the tug went into yet another drifting mode. “This face-in-the-sky stuff? I mean, I’ve seen fireworks displays back home where they’ve made flags or whatever hang up in the sky. But nothing like this.”

  “I’ll know more when I see it,” Hunter said. “But my guess is that he’s using laser projection. It would have to be pretty sophisticated, to be sure. Beamed from some distance away, maybe even bounced off a satellite or even his P-3 Orion.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s effective,” Yaz said, adding a whistle. “Anyone the least bit superstitious is guaranteed to jump right out of his shoes.”

  “Well, Lucifer’s nothing if not clever,” Hunter said. “I mean, the face in the sky is the coup de grace, but he also had to have his agents do a lot of legwork on Crete and in this area in order to convince the people of the Briareus connection. You saw the horror show back around Casablanca—people trying to get the hell out of the way of the war. I’m sure that panic was for the most part caused by tactics like this. Intimidation. Rumors. Disinformation. Playing on people’s paranoia. Fleets popping up here and there. Faces in the sky. He managed to evacuate most of the whole frigging Med of unwanted citizens—and probably more than a few would-be soldiers—again, all without firing a shot.”

  Just then, one of Yaz’s men appeared. “We’re ready when you are,” he said. The sailor was talking about the Harpoon antiship missile-launch system he and his crew members had just finished installing on the old tug.

  Hunter and Yaz looked over the launcher. It was jimmy-rigged for sure, and its only power was a five-pack of small automobile-type batteries they had carried along. But a quick look at the electrical connections told Hunter that the launcher would probably work the two times they would need it.

  Now they waited. O’Brien cut the tug’s engines and let the boat drift between the platforms and the slow-approaching Briareus ships.

  “Any minute now,” Hunter said to Yaz and O’Brien as they searched the brilliantly star-washed sky.

  “There it is!” Yaz shouted, barely able to contain himself. He was pointing to the eastern horizon.

  Hunter scanned the area. Sure enough, he saw a single red star, burning brightly. “Definitely a laser,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Then another red star appeared. Then another. Soon, one part of the sky consisted of nothing but the red stars. Then they started moving. Circling. Changing positions. Forming patterns. Sure enough a face started taking shape.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Hunter said. He had to admit the special effects were superb.

  But not only that, the illusion was so real it almost appeared to be holographic in nature. It alternated between Lucifer’s devilish face and what Hunter imagined to be Briareus, the giant.

  “I can see what you mean,” Hunter told Yaz as they and all of the sailors on the boat—O’Brien included—stood in awe of the gigantic vision. “It’s a very powerful image. Just enough to throw a lot of people over the edge, I would think.”

  “Getting a radio message,” a sailor watching over the tug’s communications set reported.

  Immediately Hunter, O’Brien, and Yaz were inside the tug’s bridge.

  “What language is it in?” Hunter asked.

  The sailor adjusted his headphones. “If I had to guess, I’d say Arabic,” he said.

  “Strange,” Hunter said. “I didn’t expect they’d be broadcasting in Arabic. Unless … ”

  “Unless what?” Yaz asked.

  “Can you try another frequency?” Hunter asked the radio operator.

  The sparky twisted a few dials, then said, “Yes, here’s another broadcast coming through. Same source, but in a different language.”

  He kept trying other frequencies and picking up other languages.

  “They’re all over the band!” he said, excitedly.

  “Let’s hope there’s one in English,” Hunter said.

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth when the radio operator cried out, “Bingo! We got English!”

  He flipped a switch and put the broadcast on the tug’s tiny speaker. The person talking—a strange, whining, chilling voice—was in the middle of his message.

  “—the dawn of Briareus. You cannot resist this inevitable power. The age of Lucifer is here. Briareus, he of one hundred arms, is here. Here to do Lucifer’s bidding. Do not resist—”

  “I can’t believe someone would fall for something so hokey,” Yaz said.

  “I know,” Hunter said, marking down yet another instance that seemed right out of a bad horror movie. “But he’s touching a nerve somewhere.”

  They listened to the message repeat several more times before O’Brien asked, “He doesn’t even give them a chance to reply.”

  “That’s all part of the plan,” Hunter said. “They have no recourse. Either surrender or go down fighting.”

  “Well, let’s see if we can influence that decision,” Hunter said, bounding out of the cabin and onto the deck.

  He took a quick position check. The oil platforms were now about three miles to the south, the first elements of the Briareus ships were one and a half miles to the north.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s prepare the first missile. Sparky, put the call into the frigate helicopter crew. Tell to wait ten minutes, then take off.”

  Everyone pitched in to load the Harpoon missile onto the makeshift launcher. “This is a heavy bastard, isn’t it?” Hunter said. They all struggled somewhat until the rocket was finally in place. Then the launch crew started wiring the missile in place, followed by an orgy of button-pushing.

  “Ready to fire,” one of the sailors finally said.

  “Roger,” Hunter said. “Now, the first target … ”

  He was peering through powerful electronic binoculars. The spyglasses had a fairly elaborate nightscope capability, just enough for Hunter to pick out the biggest ship in the lead section of the Briareus fleet.

  “That one looks like a good-sized missile cruiser,” he said, handing the binocs to the launch sailor. “Can you get it?”

  “At this range, it should be no problem,” the man answered.

  Hunter double-checked through the scope, then said: “Okay. It’s your show. Fire when ready.”

  All those not involved in the launch retreated to the cabin. Suddenly,
there was a burst of flame on the deck and the Harpoon flew off its launcher.

  Hunter watched it climb, level off, and head straight for the missile-launching cruiser. “When that baby hits,” Hunter said, “everyone from the fleet captain to the cook will be convinced the Turks launched it.”

  Ten seconds later, the missile impacted right into the cruiser’s bridge, causing an explosion that lifted the beam of the ship right out of the water.

  “Jee-suz,” Hunter exclaimed as a ball of fire rose from the ship. “You Navy guys know how to pack a missile.”

  Immediately after the explosion, they heard a cacophony of klaxons and warning bells coming from the enemy fleet.

  “That’s one,” Hunter said. “Now let’s get two off.”

  Once again they struggled to put the Harpoon in place, while O’Brien coaxed the engine to chug one more time, just enough to turn the tug around.

  Less than forty-five seconds later, the second Harpoon was launched, this time right at the Turkish oil platforms. Hunter followed this missile’s flight with the binoculars. The Harpoon skimmed along the ocean surface as advertised, rising up when needed. Suddenly, its warhead homing device locked onto to a target and it veered to the left.

  “It might have found some kind of radar set,” Hunter said as the tug crew watched the Harpoon twist and turn through the platforms. Finally it streaked right into a large rig in the middle of the pack. Another enormous explosion followed. When the smoke and flame cleared, nothing remained of the platform except some scattered, burning debris.

  “Wow!” Hunter exclaimed. “Good shooting, guys!”

  But now they heard other noises. Turning back to the fleet, they saw by the light of the burning cruiser that five of the Briareus ships had turned broadside to the platforms.

  “Oh boy,” Yaz said. “Here we go.”