by Mack Maloney
In the meantime, the Spanish rocketmen were launching missile after antiaircraft missile at the attacking helicopters. The French-manned Phalanx super-machine guns were going off with businesslike regularity. Even the Moroccan troops on the eastern side and the Aussie-Gurkha force on the western side were getting into the act. They were launching Stinger missiles and firing at the Hinds with their rifles. The action was as intense as anything Hunter had ever seen. Yet, despite all the danger, the BBC crew was rushing about the deck, recording all the action on video.
Two deck monkeys rushed up to Hunter. “No time to take it down,” he yelled to them. “Fuel me up right here! And load up the cannons! Hurry! Those Viggens got about ten minutes of fuel left and then they’re coming in!”
The two monkeys were joined by five others and together they broke the record for servicing the F-16. Within five minutes he had a full tank and about eighty percent ammo for his Six Pack. Then he and the monkeys literally pushed the 16 to the catapult and hooked it up.
All the while the confusion of the battle swirled around them.
“You got a bad fuel leak on your starboard, major!” one of the monkeys yelled to him.
“I know,” Hunter yelled back, climbing back into the cockpit. “But I don’t have time to worry about it now!”
He strapped in and immediately fired up the engine. His instruments went “hot” in forty-five seconds and he was ready to go. The deck officer, ducking the debris from a near-miss explosion, gave Hunter the go sign. The next thing he knew, he was thrown back against the seat of the 16 as it rocketed off the deck.
He immediately found himself on the tail of two Hinds as they swooped in to attack one of the frigates. He twisted once, then sent a long stream of cannon fire into one of the tail rotors. The chopper immediately broke up, spun out to the right, and smashed into its partner. The midair collision caused a spectacular explosion. As one, the two burning choppers fell into the water.
Then Hunter saw one of the Viggens get it. Three Hinds had ganged up on the slow-moving Swedish fighter as it was coming in for a landing. The airplane was simply obliterated by a concentration of cannon fire. Hunter immediately started pumping cannon fire back at the trio of Hinds, scattering them and allowing the remaining Viggen to set down.
Finally, the Hinds started to back off. Hunter got two more as they were fleeing off to the south, and a Moroccan Stinger team took down two more. Just in time too, as it turned out, for seven aircraft from the second attack force, plus the two Jags, were now returning to land on the carrier.
These pilots had bad news. Not only had three of their jets—two Viggens and a Tornado—been downed. They also reported that a large combined land and sea force was moving toward the carrier.
“Three battleships are just twenty miles away, coming on fast,” one of the pilots told Hunter as he orbited above the carrier. “Also, there are at least ten divisions coming up on the eastern side. Lucifer landed a bunch of his troops and they got transport.”
Ten divisions. That meant more than 150,000 men. If they were on trucks, they’d be in the area soon. So would the approaching battleships.
And Hunter knew, in his gut, that Lucifer was on one of those battleships …
Chapter 42
THE MOROCCAN TROOP COMMANDER looked out over the trench line and saw a nightmare.
Focusing his electronic binoculars, he at first thought the vision was a mirage. But as it became clearer he realized that what lay before him wasn’t a trick of the sun. “Allah have mercy on us,” he whispered.
There were more than 100,000 foot soldiers heading right for his line. He knew by reports from the carrier planes that there were 50,000 more troops somewhere behind those he saw. He looked at his own troops—all 7500 of them. They had battled the Hinds fiercely—now they would battle this approaching enemy with the same tenacity.
“Troop, attention!” the commander yelled. His soldiers all the way down the lines were suddenly bolt upright. The commander then stood up, a sword in hand, and yelled: “Troop, forward!”
Hunter had seen the approaching troops of Lucifer’s army too, through binoculars from the very top of the carrier’s conning tower.
He had been forced to land shortly after the Hinds departed the battle area, as the fuel leak in his wing had grown worse. Now, he was having the quickest patch job on record being done on the fighter. He had told the monkeys to forget about the nicks and dings on the 16’s nose and canopy and the fact that more than half his avionics was not working. “Just get it in flying condition,” he had told them.
The carrier was in rough shape, he knew it. A quick conversation with Yaz confirmed it. “All our work,” Yaz had said, “half of it went down the drain when the Hinds attacked.”
Many sailors had been killed or wounded in the attack. Heath had taken a cannon shell directly on his shoulder and was now wearing bandages rivaling those of Sir Neil. To his credit, Sir Neil had stayed on the bridge throughout the attack, directing the carrier’s defenses, an effort that brought down more than half of the attacking Soviet choppers.
But the Saratoga itself had paid dearly. The catapult was just barely working, as it had taken several direct rocket hits from the Hinds. The carrier’s communications room was in a shambles, and O’Brien was having trouble just keeping the controls working in case the carrier should have to move quickly. Power was again intermittent, and they were running out of ammunition of all kinds.
One question that Yaz posed to Hunter was why the Hinds didn’t attack the oiler or the supertanker filled with volatile jet fuel. Hunter knew why. “Because the Hinds were under Soviet command,” he told him. “Their orders were to attack the carrier and the frigates and that’s what they did. There’s no freedom of thought in the Soviet military. Just follow orders, even though, in a military sense, a well-placed rocket into the supertanker would have blown us all sky high. And they would have been rid of us. But they are too rigid, too robotic.”
Now, as Hunter watched the Moroccan troops, he felt another kind of military strategy take over. That of self-sacrifice …
Although he couldn’t believe it at first, he watched the Moroccans climb out of their trenches and, with bayonets on their rifles, walk out on the desert and toward the approaching multitude of enemy troops.
“Christ … ” Hunter said in awe of the Moroccans. He knew the advance was suicide, but there was nothing to be done. No airplanes from the carrier could take off in time to help them. Not that it would have done much, so overwhelming were the odds against the brave desert fighters. He knew the Moroccans believed strongly in freedom. They were the most vocal anti-Lucifer element in the flotilla. Now they were sacrificing themselves in order to sting the madman’s Legion.
“‘Into the jaws of Hell … ’” Hunter whispered. As he watched, the Moroccans slowly walked into the cloud of dust being raised by the approaching enemy troops. Soon the air crackled with the sound of gunfire. He could see explosions rising up as the two forces clashed. He could almost hear the cacophony of shouts that usually accompanies fierce hand-to-hand combat.
It was over in a matter of thirty minutes. He saw the Moroccans had stopped the Legion advance, at least temporarily. But he was also sure there were no Moroccan survivors.
Things got worse. Now there was a new threat on the horizon. He could see the smokestack trails of four major ships sailing up the Canal. These were the battleships. Above them flew an escort of at least two dozen Hinds.
“Fuck it,” Hunter said, climbing down from his perch. He was going to get airborne whether the 16 was ready or not.
Chapter 43
ONE BY ONE THE aircraft launched off the Saratoga. Many of the pilots knew it was for the last time. Hunter had assigned half the remaining jets to bomb and strafe the approaching Legion troops, the other half—his F-16 included—would take on the Hinds and the battleships.
The battle lasted for more than two hours. The swirling dogfight between the slow but maneuver
able Hinds and the supersonic jet fighters was both incredible and bizarre. The missile-firing Soviet choppers got the worst of it, to be sure. But it had turned into another numbers game. Despite the best efforts of the fighter pilots, there were so many Hinds that some inevitably got through and were able to deliver devastating blows to the Saratoga and the frigates. Luckily, by this time the supertanker and the oiler had withdrawn further up the Canal.
Hunter was in the thick of it, blasting endless waves of choppers. When the opportunity presented itself, he strafed the lead battleship for good measure. The jets attacking the Legion ground troops had succeeded in mauling the soldiers to such a point they temporarily retreated. Now these planes joined the air battle above and around the carrier. But then, as if on cue, more Hinds appeared.
Hunter felt a chill run through him. There were just too many Hinds and they were attacking with suicidal ferocity.
Suddenly his radio crackled. “Flight Ops to F-16,” the caller said. Hunter instantly recognized it as Sir Neil.
“Go ahead, Flight Ops.”
“Hunter, we are really taking a beating here,” the British Commander began. “I can’t risk any more lives in this … ”
Hunter then waited for the words he thought he’d never hear from Sir Neil.
“I’m giving the order to abandon ship,” the Brit said slowly. Even through the impersonal radio speaker, the pain was evident in the man’s voice,
Hunter was stunned. He knew that, in the strictest military sense, the time to withdraw was long ago. But this was not a true battle in the strictest military sense. Wasn’t this a crusade? With a sense of purpose? How can one retreat from that?
But Hunter knew that Sir Neil was giving the order simply to stop the bloodshed. The Canal was now so blocked up with wreckage, both around Ismailia and at its southern entrance, that it would be a slow process indeed to move Lucifer’s huge fleet up and out of the waterway. The Saratoga’s mission was thus complete. Perhaps if The Modern Knights arrived on time, they would meet Lucifer’s ground forces just as they reached the northern end of the Canal, or even before that. Hunter knew the battle that would take place then would make this “holding action” look like a squirt-gun fight.
Sir Neil continued the transmission: “Can you hold them off until we get most of the people ashore, Hunter?”
“You can count on it,” Hunter replied.
So this is how it ends, the pilot thought, watching the sea battle continue in the narrow confines of the Canal. So typically British. Magnificence in defeat …
The word was passed on the carrier to evacuate. Now Heath’s job was to get everyone off. And quick. Emma, Clara, and the high-class call girls were the first to go, transported in life rafts to the western side of the waterway, where they were put under the protection of the combined Aussie-Gurkha force. The ship’s many wounded went next, then the surviving Italian, French and Spanish mercenaries, and then Yaz’s sailors.
Back in the air, Hunter knew his pilots were running low on fuel and ammo. In addition, the Legion troops had been reinforced, and now they had reached the area of the Canal opposite where the big ship lay. They began mortaring the carrier, despite two of the frigates blasting them with their deck guns.
In the course of two minutes, Hunter saw three more of his jets go down—whether by Hind air-to-air missiles or AA fire from the battleships, he never knew. Now he too felt as if he had tripped into the jaws of Hell.
Then he saw that even the evacuation was in jeopardy. Two of the battleships had been disabled by the fighters, but two were relatively healthy and were now steaming right toward the carrier. The huge guns began to open up on the flattop, one-ton projectiles splashing nearer and nearer to the carrier.
Between the battleships and the Legion troops pouring up the eastern shoreline, Hunter knew a “strategic withdrawal” was close to impossible.
That’s when he looked up and saw Lucifer’s face in the sky …
“Flight Commander, this is Eagle Strike Force Command aircraft, come in please.”
“Go ahead, Eagle,” Captain Crunch O’Malley answered, turning up the volume slightly on his F-4’s radio intercom.
“Flight, we have indications of aircraft at Two-Delta-Tango, your south heading zero-three-seven,” the voice from the KC-135 AWACs ship replied. “This puts some kind of activity in the vicinity of Ismailia, right on the Canal itself. Over.”
“I copy, Eagle Leader,” Crunch said, checking his position. They were now just over the deserted city of Cairo, the local pyramids casting strange shadows in the early afternoon sun. “Have you got a report on the situation at Alexandria yet?”
Crunch was at the head of a nine-aircraft convoy—three F-20s were directly behind him, as well as four C-130 gunships and KC-135 in flight tanker that was doubling as an AWACs plane. The airplanes, all belonging to the Pacific American Air Corps or their allies, were the force that General Jones had promised him when he had radioed the US less than a week earlier to report that Hunter might need help.
The Eagle Strike Force had set down on Majorca the day before. The crews had rested briefly, refueled, and took off early the next morning. Their destination: the Suez Canal.
It was an interesting flight. Shortly after taking off from Majorca, the members of the Eagle Strike Force passed over the devastated floating platform near the island of Panatella. They could only guess what had happened there, until they put down for a refueling stop on Malta. There, a man named Baldi told them how Hunter and the others had destroyed the flying-boat base and defeated the Sidra-Benghazi Gang.
Soon afterwards, they passed over the scene of another battle, this one located around a group of oil platforms south of Crete. Every platform was either destroyed or burning, and the sea around it was littered with dozens of burning and sinking ships. Though he couldn’t be sure, Crunch was certain that Hunter had something to do with this battle also.
Then, an hour later, they had passed over the enormous convoy of The Modern Knights …
While Crunch and Elvis were on Majorca waiting for the American airplanes to arrive, they had learned that the huge Modern Knights’ convoy had departed Portugal several days before and was enroute to the Canal zone.
The Strike Force finally caught up to the convoy just off the coast of Egypt. Through the sophisticated communications setup on the KC-135, Crunch had talked to the convoy commander and learned that Hunter and the Saratoga force had somehow made it to the Canal and were engaging the enemy halfway down the Suez.
While the Knights were still at least a day away from the war zone (and they had told Crunch they were actually ahead of their original timetable), they had suggested that the American aircraft immediately go into mid-Canal. It was a suggestion the Americans would have taken anyway. Though Crunch and the others weren’t 100 percent up on the reasons or the purposes of the anti-Lucifer crusade, they did know their friend Hawk Hunter was caught up in the middle of it. His enemy was their enemy.
“Concerning the Alexandria situation,” the radio operator in the KC-135 continued. “Our best guess is that those subs were sunk by mines. We have not seen or heard any opposing aircraft or surface ships in the area. Over.”
“Well, that’s a strange one,” Crunch radioed back to Elvis, in the rear seat of the F-4. The Strike Force had just flown over the area and witnessed yet another curious sight. “A bunch of Russian subs, floating on the surface like a bunch of dead mackerel.”
“And no one fired a shot at them?” Elvis asked.
“That’s what the eavesdrop boys say in the AWACs,” Crunch replied. “No opposing craft anywhere near them. I mean, they could have done a number on that carrier. And they would have wreaked havoc on the Modern Knights convoy. But it’s like the Russians ran into their own minefield, as crazy as that sounds.”
“Well,” Elvis said, “whenever I hear anything crazy nowadays, I also just assume that Hunter was behind it.”
Crunch rechecked his position, then radio
ed back to the Strike Force Command ship. “Command, I suggest we turn to that Two-Delta Tango, zero-three-seven heading and check out that action near Ismailia,” he said. “It may involve Major Hunter.”
“We copy, Flight Leader,” the reply came back. Within seconds the nine-plane force was turning south.
“Whether you know it or not, Hawk,” Crunch said, “help is on the way.”
The huge, grinning face of Lucifer hovered over the battle area like a cruel vision from Hell.
The resurgent Legion ground troops were swarming all over the eastern side of the canal, the Norwegian frigates blasting away at them. The carrier was desperately trying to reverse its engines to back out of the area, but the battleships had now found the range and their enormous shells were hitting all over the big ship. The ship was so battered, it was impossible for any aircraft to land or take off from the carrier now.
On the western side of the canal, the Aussies and Gurkhas were already moving the evacuated soldiers and noncombatants toward the north. However, they knew it was a matter of time before the enemy troops would cross the waterway and pursue them. What was worse, some of the gunners on the battleships were firing on the smaller boats that were taking the last of Yaz’s sailors from the carrier.
There were only six fighters left now, and the others either shot down or crash-landed due to lack of fuel. The remaining airplanes—the F-16, three Harriers, and two Tornados—were continually bombing the battleships and the Legion troops. But the intensity could only last for another five minutes or so. Then the surviving jets would also fall victim to low fuel.
And above it all, Lucifer’s obscene image laughed, as if the soldiers fighting and dying below were his playthings.
It only took Hunter a few seconds to finally figure out the trick behind Lucifer’s illusion. High above the battle area, Hunter saw that Lucifer’s black P-3 Orion airplane was circling directly above the face in the sky. Hunter deducted that a video image was being beamed up to the P-3, which in turn was projecting a laser image of Lucifer’s face. He had seen similar laser-video displays before. Such projections could be beamed hundreds of miles away. Thus, Lucifer was able to project his ugliness over Crete while sitting comfortably in his Arabian Kingdom. And this one was red, like the projections on previous nights.
