Final Storm (2 page)

Training for the strike team itself had been done quickly and secretly. The Special Forces Rangers—being the protective force for the continent’s gambling mecca, Football City, formerly known as St. Louis—were everyone’s first choice to carry out the strike. And there was never any question that Hunter would be the mission commander.

There were many long days and sleepless nights leading up to the mission. As D-Day approached, Hunter and the other members of the United American top echelon found themselves immersed in a myriad of last-minute details. Air cover. Refueling. SAM suppression. Landing sites. MedEvac. The inevitable unexpected contingencies.

Despite the avalanche of concerns, they were ready to go in less than three weeks….

At 3AM on the morning of D-Day, the team had taken off from the short field at Cherry Point. Hidden in the darkness, at first they flew southeast,
away
from the primary target of Bermuda.

The odd flight plan was necessary because, first and foremost, the Osprey needed a disguise. This is where the American intelligence operatives came in. The spies had discovered that the Cuban Air Force routinely flew a supply mission to deliver food, fuel, and ammunition from Havana to the New Order ministers. Using a battered Soviet AN-12 Cub turboprop cargo plane, the weekly flight had been “requested” of the Cubans years before by the very mysterious military clique that had run the Kremlin since the war.

Far from an inconvenience, the weekly milk run to Bermuda was considered a plum assignment by the Cuban pilots who flew it—neither the United Americans nor the renegade Yankee air pirates had ever bothered these flights before.

On this day, however, the Cubans discovered that there was a first time for everything.

They had been 250 miles from their destination when the Cuban pilots first spotted the Osprey.

It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere, popping up from the hazy sea with its twin rotors tilted up, positioning itself just a quarter mile off the cargo plane’s port side. Before the Cubans could react, a Stinger anti-aircraft missile—fired by one of the commandos stationed on the Osprey’s side gunner’s station—flashed in on them.

At that range, the sophisticated weapon couldn’t miss. The Cuban pilot was too stunned to even key his radio before the American missile’s guidance system drove its warhead home, smashing deep into the hot exhaust of the cargo plane’s portside outer engine. Within seconds, a mushroom of orange flame engulfed the plane. Then there was a powerful explosion …

There was no need to confirm the kill—aside from a scattering of wreckage and an oil slick bobbing on the ocean surface, nothing remained of the Cuban aircraft.

The lightning-quick action had been needed to provide their disguise—the Osprey’s radar signature resembled that of the Cuban cargo plane, and if all went well, it would be interpreted as such by enemy radar operators.

That had been an hour ago. Now as they closed in on the island, JT leaned over and yelled to Hunter.

“We’re in their SAM envelope,” he reported. “About five minutes to landfall.”

Taking the Toomey’s cue, Hunter quickly scanned two screens in front of him, hoping he would not see the tell-tale blips indicating that hostile radars were locking in on them. At the moment, there was nothing.

So far, the disguise was working.

Hunter was glad to see the weather was cooperating—at that moment, the weather around the usually pleasant island was miserable. Low-hanging clouds, fairly high winds, and a moderate rain had been the forecast and the United American meteorologists had been correct again.

Using a thick cloud layer to hide themselves, they were skirting the island’s southernmost tip a few minutes later.

There was still no sign of alarm on the ground, at least none observable from the air. Using the NightScope goggles, Hunter could see that there
was
a large cluster of military vehicles at a tiny airport about six miles to their west. He could also make out an assortment of cargo and combat aircraft bearing Cuban, Soviet, and commercial insignia. Although heat images indicating ground personnel were evident around the base, none of the airport’s intercept airplanes appeared to be on alert.

And, best of all, not a single one of the anti-aircraft batteries was manned.

Hunter took another deep gulp of oxygen from his mask, a small celebration of relief. Their intelligence proved correct once again: It appeared as if complacency
had
become the norm on the New Order’s island headquarters, at least in the early morning hours.

Once they were beyond the radar sweep emanating from the airbase, Hunter knew that if they continued to be lucky, few of those awake on the ground would give the lone plane flying above the heavy layer of clouds a second thought. Upon hearing the high whine of the Osprey’s engines, those in the know would just assume it was the routine “crack o’dawn” supply flight coming in from Cuba and heading for the island’s only other aircraft facility, a small grass strip on the northeastern shoulder of the island.

Skirting the island to the far eastern side, Hunter decreased the Osprey’s speed to a near-hovering crawl. His electronically assisted vision scanned the hilly contours that curved down to meet the ocean on this, the island’s rocky side. He was looking for one patch of ground in particular—its form was emblazoned in his memory via a high altitude recon photo taken of the island just a week before. The place was ideal for their mission—it was isolated, fairly well-hidden and provided a flat place to set the Osprey down.

He checked his watch again—it was just 0600. The sun was coming up and eventually, it would burn off the inclement weather. He knew that quick action was crucial now. Although they had successfully pierced the enemy’s airspace, there would be trouble if just one of the island’s radar operators suddenly became alert while the strike force was still airborne.

“There it is …” Hunter called over to JT.

The co-pilot adjusted his own NightScope glasses then he too saw it. Off to their left, a small, flat-top mountain that broke off into a cliff. At its summit was a tall white skyscraper.

This building was their objective.

Once an ultra-luxurious resort hotel, the 25-story structure was surrounded by high walls and fronted on the seaside by a large concrete bunker. A long curving road ran from the entrance to this bunker down the sloping oceanfront hillside to the beach below, a distance of about a mile.

Halfway down, the road flattened out slightly right next to a dense grove of palm trees. This was the predesignated landing zone. In seconds, Hunter had turned the Osprey toward it.

“Hang on, gang,” he called to the troops in back as he approached the LZ. Then, pulling back on the Osprey’s controls and rotating the big nacelles fully skyward, he quickly put the aircraft into its hover mode. The effect was like slamming on the car’s brakes at 70 mph. There was an audible screech as the airplane suddenly went true vertical and started to drop, its huge rotors scattering sand and loose brush in the downwash as it drew closer to the palm grove.

They landed with a
thump!
Hunter instantly idled the twin engines and once again called back to the Rangers.

“Welcome to Bermuda, boys.”

Swiftly and silently, the Rangers lowered the Osprey’s rear ramp and scattered into the palm grove. In less than a half minute, they had secured the deserted landing zone. Thirty seconds later, the airplane was camouflaged with special netting.

At that point, Hunter keyed his microphone and set the Osprey’s transmitter to “Long Range—Send.”

“OK, partner,” Hunter said to JT. “Let’s see if we can get a clear radio shot.”

Using his best
hey-mon
accent, Hunter called into the microphone: “Hello, Cousin. Hello Cousin. Fishing is fine … I say, fishing is fine …”

Five agonizing seconds went by.

He repeated the message.

“
Hello
, hello, Cousin. I say, fishing is fine … very fine …”

Both he and JT stared at the aircraft’s radio speaker, as if looking at it would produce the needed reply.

“They might be out of range,” JT offered, his tone slightly worried.

“Not if they’re on time, they’re not,” Hunter said before repeating the message a third time.

Suddenly the speaker burst to life. “’Alio,
’alio!
Cousin!” a strange, obviously mimicked voice on the speaker called back to them. “If fishing is fine, then we come to fish …”

Both Hunter and Toomey breathed a sigh of relief. The low, focused radio message had come back loud and clear, so much so it caused both Hunter and JT to shake their heads at someone else’s bad imitation of a Bermudan accent.

“See you soon, Cousin,” Hunter replied. “Over and out.”

The all-important diversion was in motion. Now it was time for the strike team to get to work.

Hunter and JT climbed out of the Osprey and quickly took a look at the lay of the land. They were just 20 feet from the dirt road that led up to the cliff that jutted out above them about a mile away. It had stopped raining and was getting lighter. The sun was just above the horizon now, its intense gold light already burning off some of the clouds.

Once again, Hunter checked his watch. It was 0607. They had less than twenty minutes to get in position before the diversion started. But one important element was still missing. He gathered the assault team in the thicket of palms to review the plan and wait.

Barely a minute later, the low rumble of a large diesel engine caught his ear. Someone—or something—was advancing up the coast road.

In a split-second the strike force dove for cover among the palms, pointing their M-16s down the open road at the advancing sound. Soon a vehicle, completely enveloped in a cloud of smoke, came into view. It was a battered, double-deck tour bus, its trail of dirty engine exhaust punctuated by staccato bursts of backfiring.

The clustered Rangers hunkered down even farther as the ancient vehicle came grinding up to the clearing. The driver, intent on jamming his balky gearshift into what seemed like every other gear, didn’t see the commandos until he was literally on top of them.

Suddenly he was facing 25 M-16s …

The bus driver, a tall, rugged black man, slammed on the brakes, and seeing he was surrounded, nervously stepped out of the creaking bus. Two Rangers stepped up to frisk him and found nothing. By this time, Hunter and JT had moved up.

Immediately, Hunter and the driver engaged in a hearty handshake and a quick orgy of back-slapping.

“Hunter, my old friend!” the sunny black man said in an excited whisper dripping with the Queen’s English. “It is good to see you well.”

“Humdingo, it seems like I am always asking you for a favor,” Hunter told the man. “But it is good to see you also, sir.”

Though he looked and talked the part, the man, Humdingo, was not a native Bermudan at all. In fact, he was an African, and a chief of a tribe of Congolese warriors to boot. Educated in England before the Big War, Humdingo had close ties to the British Free Forces who now held some semblance of order in near-anarchic Western Europe. Hunter had met the chief a year before when the pilot helped some Brits tow a disabled nuclear aircraft carrier across the Mediterranean in an effort to stop the ruthless terrorist known as Viktor from relighting World War III. Humdingo and his men had guarded Hunter’s precious F-16 at a crucial time during that mission.

Now, the mighty chief was working with the United Americans. He was the leader of one of the UA spy teams that had been inserted on the island. He had learned much. But most important, via a pocketful of bribes, he had bought a job driving non-essential New Order personnel and visitors from the center of town to the skyscraper and back.

“We have so little time to talk, my friend,” Hunter told him. “Is everything going according to plan?”

“Yes,” Humdingo answered quickly. “Everything is set. I suggest you have your lads hop into the motorcoach. Their clothes are bundled up in the back.”

A signal from Hunter and 20 of the Rangers scrambled aboard the ancient vehicle. They immediately hid between the seats, retrieving packages of clothing they found there. As planned, JT and the rest of the commandos would stay with the Osprey.

“Good luck, Hawk,” JT called out to Hunter.

“You, too,” Hunter replied as he hopped into the rickety open cab of the bus. “And when you hear us holler, come a-runnin’.”

Then, with a series of loud backfires and grinding of the gears, the double-decker behemoth started up the steep incline, heading to the entrance of the bunker.

Hunter looked at the time again, and peered over the cracked dashboard to see the dusty road ahead.

Only twelve minutes to showtime, he thought.

F
IFTY MILES OFF THE
western coast of Bermuda, the two brightly painted F-4 Phantoms were hugging the surface of the softly swelling Atlantic. On the flight leader’s count, they turned at a predescribed point and streaked toward the island at more than 800 miles per hour.

The bold lettering on their nose sections labeled them “The Ace Wrecking Crew,” the well-known free-lance air combat team that flew for Hunter and the United American Army. Their slogan, emblazoned in similar circus-style lettering on the shining fuselages, read: “No Job’s Too Small, We Bomb Them All.”

The owner/operator, Captain “Crunch” O’Malley, had always believed that it paid to advertise. Because these days if you had two supersonic fighters and crews who knew their business, you had a very marketable commodity in the New Order world.

But Crunch and his team weren’t flying for pay now—this mission they were doing
gratis.

The “fishing is fine” signal they had received from Hunter told them that they still had the critical advantage of surprise—no alert had been sounded at the time Hunter had called in the strike. That was fine with Crunch—his Phantoms were kick-ass jets, but any day he could avoid tangling with MiGs and the like was fine with him.

With a wing signal to his partner in the Number 2 Phantom, a captain known to all as Elvis Q, Crunch relayed the order to arm their ordnance. Each plane was carrying about ten thousand pounds of napalm bombs on hard points under the wings and fuselages of the souped-up fighter-bombers.