by Mack Maloney
“This must be the place,” he thought.
He approached the box cautiously. Soon he was close enough to peer in. Sure enough, sitting in the middle of a bed of straw was a metal box. An instantly recognizable radiation symbol—like those that once marked the entrance to 1960s bomb shelters—was emblazoned on its top.
“Thank you, Mr. Cheops,” Hunter said to himself, smiling. “Wherever you are … ”
Less than 100 miles away and to the northeast, a half-dozen yachts sailed into the mouth of the Suez Canal. At the controls of the first boat—a sixty-five-foot cruise beauty—was Commodore Antonio Vanaria. The Commodore was not wearing his usual Napoleonic-style uniform. He had replaced the colorful garb with a black frock and a Roman collar. For this mission, the Commodore—like his five lieutenants on the other boats—was disguised as a man of the cloth. To add to the illusion, each boat carried two of the call girls, dressed in nun’s habits hastily sewn from dyed bedsheets.
Each yacht also carried a large crucifix on its bow, flags and flowers adorning its base. Large, hastily painted cloth signs hung from the boats’ sides, extolling the one thing the Mideast—like the entire globe—had not experienced in a while: “Peace.”
The yachts had sailed about fifteen miles into the Canal when they were intercepted by the three gunboats.
“Everyone below decks,” the Commodore had called out after first sighting the three boats heading for him. “Except the women. Keep it quiet down there. Not a word.”
The patrol boats were of South African manufacture. Large and swift-looking, they carried powerful rocket launchers and .60-caliber machine guns. As the first one pulled alongside the Commodore’s lead boat, he saw the decks were crowded with Arab soldiers, armed with Soviet-made AK-47 assault rifles. Each man was wearing a distinctive white uniform, with gaudy gold trim, and a Soviet-style helmet. Each had a patch on his left arm: a triangle containing a field of red and a design of two interlocking Arabic letters.
The Commodore recognized the emblem immediately. It was the coat of arms for Lucifer’s Legion.
“At last,” the Commodore thought, fingering the .357 Magnum he had hidden in his smock. “No more dealing with surrogates and stand-ins. Now we meet the Devil’s men themselves.”
“Prepare to be boarded,” the Caucasian officer on the patrol boat called over to the Commodore in a heavily accented English. The Commodore knew that the man, like the patrol boat, came from South Africa.
The Commodore had cut all his engines at this point and, standing on the deck with the two nuns, raised his hand in a sign of peace. He called out, “You may board my ship, but leave your weapons behind. This is an instrument of peace.”
The patrol boat commander ignored the Commodore’s request and six of his men jumped onto the yacht, their AK-47s at the ready. Next the commander himself came aboard.
“You are in a restricted military zone,” he said to the Commodore. “We could have sunk you on sight.”
“We are on a mission of peace, sir,” the Commodore told him with a straight face. “The sisters and I are sailing to the south to meet with this man Lucifer, to urge him not to make war.”
The patrol commander laughed. Meanwhile, his other two boats had taken up positions on either side of the small fleet of yachts. Their guns were manned and ready.
“I don’t think you can change his mind,” the patrol boat commander told the Italian.
“With prayer, my son, all things are possible,” the Commodore intoned. “Please, let us through. We have traveled the entire Mediterranean to come to this place. We have taken up collections all along the way from people who want peace.”
“Collections?” the patrol boat commander asked.
“Yes, sir,” the Commodore answered. “For we heard that there are tributes to be paid—perhaps to someone like yourself—to pass through here, sir. A tariff of free passage, so to speak.”
In other words, a bribe.
The Commodore motioned to one of the “nuns,” who came forward with a small burlap bag. “Do we turn these collections over to you, sir?”
The patrol boat commander looked inside the bag, saw it was filled with gold, and didn’t hesitate. “Yes, that is true,” he said. “You may give me such a payment.”
At the same time he motioned all his soldiers back onto the patrol boat, with a look that said: this never happened.
“Thank you, my son,” the Commodore said. “You have done your part for peace today. Now, with your kind permission, sir, we shall continue our voyage.”
The commander laughed again. “Go right ahead, padre,” he said, stepping back onto his boat. “But be careful of the mines.”
Now the Commodore laughed. “Thank you, kind sir!”
The three gunboats pulled away and were soon gone. Below the decks of the six yachts, there was a collective sigh of relief. For the members of the Maltese underwater demo team and Australian Special Forces hiding in the yachts, it had been a brief but dangerous encounter.
The radio in the Saratoga’s CIC suddenly sprang to life.
“Delta-Tango-Maxwell,” the static-filled voice announced. “Package retrieved. Need pickup. Over.”
That was the entire message. Still Heath, who had heard it, smiled broadly. He twirled his huge red mustache and clapped his hands.
“Sparky,” he called to the CIC radioman. “Please call over to Olson’s flagship and give him the go code.”
As the sailor instantly started sending the prearranged signal, Heath turned to Yaz and gave him the thumbs-up sign. There were smiles everywhere in the CIC. Even the BBC video crew, who were capturing the event on film, had to smile.
“I must go tell Sir Neil the good news,” Heath said to Yaz, shaking his head in admiration. “If Hunter pulls this one off, I’m going to have Sir Neil recommend him for the Victoria Cross … ”
The S-3A roared off the deck of the carrier and climbed. E.J. Russell, the Australian mercenary pilot, was at the controls, and one of the Tornado pilots—a Scotsman known as “Gump”—was sitting in as the navigator-photo man.
The big jet reached 6500 feet and did a quick 360-turn before heading south. The maneuver was necessary to test the S-A3’s sophisticated cameras. Below them sat the stationary Saratoga, Olson’s frigates and ninety-odd boats of the Freedom Navy surrounding it like covered wagons drawn into a circle. Above them, four Jaguars circled in slow patterns, each pilot on the lookout for airborne threats. Closer to the surface, a half-dozen of Olson’s helicopters buzzed around the collection of ships, their sensitive electronic devices listening for the distinctive sounds of approaching enemy submarines.
“Camera and lens all check out,” Gump reported to E.J.
“Okay,” the pilot said, increasing the jet’s speed to 350 knots. “Let’s go get us some pictures of submarines.”
Just twenty minutes before, another flight had taken off from the Saratoga. Two Harrier jump-jets had lifted off and, linked up with two of Olson’s choppers, had headed south. One of the choppers contained twelve members of an elite Moroccan strike team. They were armed to the teeth. Everyone inside the other copter was wearing antiradiation suits similar to the one Hunter had carried with him. These men were all Yaz’s guys, former crew members from the USS Albany. Hanging from a net underneath their chopper was a crate.
Inside the crate was a specially lead-lined box.
Hunter had finished the last of his canteen’s water when his head started buzzing.
“At last,” he said aloud. Friendly aircraft were approaching. He knew it—he could feel it in his bones. He ran outside the entrance to the pyramid just in time to see the two Harriers appear out over the northern horizon. They were intentionally moving slow, this to enable the two frigate choppers to keep pace. Sure enough, appearing out of a large white cloud came the two specks he knew were the copters.
Now, as the first chopper, the one carrying the Moroccan troops, came in for a landing next to the pyramid, the two Harriers imme
diately started to circle the structure, keeping an eye out for any unwanted company. The troop-carrying copter touched down, and immediately the crack Moroccan troops piled out. With enviable precision, they double-timed it to preassigned positions around the pyramid’s base, dodging the hot and decaying bodies of the Soviet guards killed in Hunter’s one-man air raid.
Hunter greeted the Moroccan commander and the man returned the gesture with the special “W-for-Wingman” hand sign. Hunter then served as the landing officer for the second chopper. Its pilot deftly lowered the net containing the crate so it hit the ground with no more than a slight bump. The pilot then disengaged the net and landed the chopper nearby. Instantly, six men, all wearing antiradiation suits, emerged from the chopper and walked toward Hunter.
The squad leader, a black man named Marvin, came up to Hunter.
“Greetings, major,” he said, with a smile Hunter could see through the visor of the man’s radiation suit. “Looks like we missed the fun.” He was looking around at the still-burning remains of the Soviet camp.
“Oh no, Marvin,” Hunter said. “For you guys, the fun is about to begin.”
He then quickly gave the man instructions as to the location of the chamber containing the metal box.
“It’s going to be cramped, crowded, and complicated,” Hunter said in conclusion. “I will personally give you a case of Sir Neil’s homemade scotch if you guys can get the box out of there in less than twenty minutes.”
Again, Marvin smiled. “Get some ice cubes, major,” he said. “We’ll be out in twenty minutes.”
Hunter was back to his F-16, up, and flying in fifteen minutes. He joined the two Harriers in circling the Great Pyramid, keeping an eye out for enemy aircraft.
He had just heard from one of the chopper pilots that Marvin’s team was coming out when he felt a chill in his bones. Enemy aircraft were approaching.
He immediately hit his radio button. “Harriers, this is Hunter,” he said quickly. “We’re going to have company soon. Arm up!”
The Harrier pilots acknowledged his message. Both were wondering the same thing: how the hell did Hunter do it? Neither of their radars indicated anything in their area, yet they knew Hunter didn’t give such instructions lightly. Instantly, both pilots started arming their Sidewinder missiles.
Hunter began arming his own missiles, at the same time giving his nose-cannon Six Pack a very brief test burst. He was low on ammo for the guns, having used a quantity ripping up the Soviet encampment. But his 16 was still bulging with the weight of the Sidewinders.
He closed his eyes and let his senses go to work.
“Choppers,” Hunter said to himself. “A lot of choppers … ”
He radioed the frigate chopper pilots and told them that enemy helicopters were approaching and that he needed a status report on the recovery operation.
One of the pilots, a Norseman named Erik, returned the call.
“They’ve got the ‘valuable’ inside their lead-lined box,” he told Hunter. “It’s at the entrance of the pyramid now. Next they have to crate it and then put it in the net. At that time I’ll make the pickup.”
“We don’t have time,” Hunter said, eyeing for the first time the blips on his radar screen which confirmed his extraordinary senses. He wasn’t surprised they were coming from the southeast. “Tell Marv and his guys to take cover in the pyramid. The Moroccans should set up a defense line just inside the opening.”
“Roger, major,” Erik radioed back. “What should we do, sir?”
“What’s your weapons status?” Hunter asked, his eye scanning the horizon for the approaching enemy force.
“The troop carrier is unarmed,” Erik reported. “But I’ve got two TOWs and a cranky .30-caliber machine gun on my door.”
“Okay,” Hunter said. “Grab one of Marv’s guys and tell him he’s now a waist gunner. Get airborne, then you and the troop carrier get the hell out of the area. We don’t want to lose either of you.”
“Aye, aye, major,” Erik radioed back.
Hunter changed frequencies. “Harriers One and Two,” he called. “Do you have radar lock?”
“Radar lock confirmed,” both pilots answered almost simultaneously.
“Okay,” Hunter said. “Visual will be in about twenty seconds. I count about thirty choppers. Some of them are gunships, probably Hinds and maybe even a couple Havocs. Others might be carrying troops. They might even be dispatched from Lucifer’s fleet ships. I’m sure they are coming to investigate what the hell happened to their comrades.”
“I’ve got a visual, major!” one of the Harrier pilots called out.
Hunter looked to the southeast just in time to see the thirty specks riding out of the clouds.
“Just as I thought,” he called to the Harriers. “Hind gunships escorting troop carriers. Okay, let’s meet them halfway. Remember, those Hinds are bad news with their nose cannons, and the Havocs might be outfitted with Aphid air-to-air missiles.”
With that, the two Harriers and the F-16 formed up into a triangle pattern and streaked toward the incoming chopper force. Hunter put his hand to his left breast pocket as he was wont to do before going into battle. The reassuring folds of the American flag and Dominique’s photo were still there.
The Commodore’s three yachts were thirty miles into the Canal when they spotted their first Soviet mines …
They had been moving very slowly down the waterway after encountering the gunboats. Just twenty minutes before, they had seen a large force of helicopters—Russian helicopters—pass right over them. They were heading towards either Cairo or Giza, but they didn’t pay any mind to the yachts.
“Screw you, you bastards!” the Commodore had yelled up at them, all the while waving at the aircraft as if he were a friendly native.
Once the Commodore was certain no one could see them, he had put six of the UDT swimmers into the water. They were acting as point men—scanning the waters ahead of the yachts, their eyes peeled for mines.
Now they had found what they were looking for.
“How many?” the Commodore asked the leader of the UDT swimmers as he surfaced next to the lead yacht.
“At least one hundred,” the frogman answered. “More than enough for our purposes.”
“Deo gratias!” the Commodore said with a slap of his side. “But can you disarm them quickly?”
“It will take the rest of my men and some Aussies in two rubber boats,” the diver said. “But then we are talking about an hour’s work.”
“Then go to it!” the Commodore said excitedly. “I will get your other men in the water as well as the Aussies.”
The man slid beneath the surface once again, leaving a trail of air bubbles breaking the surface.
The Commodore checked his watch. It was almost 0900. He had just an hour to fulfill this first part of his mission. Then he would have to get back out of the Canal and start phase two.
He raised his eyes toward heaven. They had been lucky so far. “Please, Father,” he whispered. “Remember us today … ”
The S-A3 continued to circle the port of Alexandria, its elaborate cameras clicking away.
“We’ve got enough film for three more passes,” Gump reported to the pilot, E.J.
“Okay,” the Aussie pilot said. “Let’s drop down a hair, mate, and try for some closeups.”
The recon airplane had been flying way up—at nearly 70,000 feet—for nearly a half hour. Now it slowly slipped down and leveled off at 62,000.
Their target was the Soviet sub base installed at the Egyptian base. Through the jet’s long-range telescopic camera lens, Gump had counted at least thirty subs of all sizes and configurations, docked out in the open in the port.
The city of Alexandria itself had been long ago abandoned—its ordinary citizens had either sailed or trekked across to Algeria months before. The richer ones had flown out. They were the first of the cavalcade that had descended on Casablanca airport, avoiding the war they knew was to come. Just w
hen the Russians had moved in was anyone’s guess. But the subs posed a significant threat not only to the Saratoga flotilla, but also to the ships of The Modern Knights—should they ever arrive.
But the problem was, the men of the Saratoga couldn’t afford a battle with the Soviet subs right now. They had to marshal all the energy and reserves for the battle that lay ahead in the Canal.
That’s why these photos of Alexandria were so important.
Five minutes into the swirling air battle, Hunter had personally shot down five helicopters. The Harriers had accounted for three more each. But, as the allied pilots were soon to find out, this would be a numbers game. Despite their victories, there were still nineteen enemy choppers to contend with.
Hunter had decided to concentrate on the troop-carrying Mi-14 Haze-A helicopters first. He methodically pumped four Sidewinders into their loose formation, downing three of them and causing a half-dozen of their comrades to quickly execute 180-degree turns and head off in the direction from which they had come. That’s when Hunter went after the Hind gunships that had pressed on, trying to get to the pyramid.
Meanwhile the Brits were facing off against the potentially troublesome Havocs …
The small choppers, about the size of a US AH-64 Apache attack copter, were quick, maneuverable, and outfitted with the Aphid missile—a Soviet equivalent to the Sidewinder. If there was a helicopter in the world that could give most jet fighters a run for their money, it was the Mi-28 Havoc.
But, like the F-16, the Harriers were not ordinary jet fighters …
On first confronting the Havoc, the two jets immediately went into their “vectoring” or hover mode. The two Havocs did the same. For a moment it looked like an Old West gunfight was shaping up—the two Havocs in the black hats squaring off against the two Harriers in the white hats.
The standoff lasted almost a minute—an eternity in the middle of a battle. But then it was the Havocs that blinked first. One of their pilots let off a short burst of cannon fire. The two Harriers—both pilots highly trained and in sync with each other—instantly lowered their airplanes to avoid the volley. In doing so, they were able to get cannon shots of their own at the unprotected belly of the choppers. One Havoc took a full Harrier burst on its tail. The punctures vibrated the rear of the enemy aircraft so much, the tail rotor snapped off in an instant of smoke and flame. Scratch one Havoc …
