Storm Over Saturn (12 page)

Hunter found the convoy a few minutes later. It was scattered across the next ten square miles of ocean. Every plane reduced to debris floating on what looked like a sea of red aviation fuel. Or was that blood?

There was no piece of wreckage bigger than a few feet across. The planes in the air convoy had been the victims of an ambush. Hundreds had been killed. But how?

Hunter had his answer a few moments later. Sitting about five miles east of the vast sea of debris was a warship. A very big one.

An aircraft carrier…

Hunter didn't even think about it. He armed his weapons, specifically his four antiradiation HARM missiles. He knew they had a warhead powerful enough to blow apart a radar station. He was sure they could do a job on the skin of a boat.

He was furious. Scores of his countrymen were dead, and the people on this ship did it, of that he was sure. He went into a power dive, dropping four miles in a matter of seconds. The ship was now just a few thousand feet in front of him. The sun dawning on the horizon provided him with a perfect silhouette of the target. He went so low he was certain he would not show up on any of the ship's radar screens. He checked his weapons again. They were ready to go.

The ship was dead in his sights now, this as he lowered himself to just twenty feet off the surface of the rough Atlantic. He was intent on putting at least one of the guided bombs into the ship's midsection where he was sure the fuel compartment and the magazines lay. There was a chance he might even crack the hull in two.

He spotted the ship's mast. It was flying only one flag. Big and red with a yellow sickle and hammer on it. Even over thousands of years and several lifetimes, he remembered this flag, too. It was the banner of Soviet Russia, the people who'd just wiped out half of Europe and had killed many American pilots and airmen just minutes ago.

Mad Russian or not, it was now time for some payback.

It struck him suddenly as strange that this aircraft carrier would be out here all alone, with no escorting ships, not even any of its jump jets patrolling its airspace. No matter; that just made his job easier.

He fired the first HARM at about 500 feet out. It shot ahead of his airplane, leaving a long trail of yellow smoke in its wake. Just before it impacted, he let loose a second missile. Both were designed to home in on the signals produced by radar, and the big Soviet carrier was literally crackling with these waves. Again, he knew one HARM missile impacting on the right spot could do serious damage to the ship. If two hit on the money, he could set this murderous boat on fire. If three and four hit good, he might even send it to the bottom and revenge the American souls just lost.

The first missile hit the hull of the ship just where he'd wanted it, directly below the superstructure, about fifteen feet above the waterline. He instinctively knew that something either combustible or explosive was located there. But as he was pulling up over the ship, he saw his missile not bursting through the carrier's hull as he intended, but instead bouncing off of it.

The missile exploded harmlessly in the water. It didn't even chip a piece of paint off the ship's skin. The second missile arrived just a second later, to the same effect. A hit, a bounce off, an explosion, and absolutely no damage.

Everything went into slow motion after that. Not only did Hunter see the two missiles fail, he could see hundreds of Soviet sailors lining the huge flight deck and the catwalks ringing the superstructure. They were pointing and laughing at him as he roared over. He couldn't believe it!

He turned the F-16 sharply and found himself approaching the huge ship at the same low altitude, but now from the opposite direction. Either way, a missile hit here or there would have the same effect. He let both HARMs go, again in tandem, and watched their yellow trails head for the side of the carrier. From this angle with the sun at his back, Hunter saw the ship in a brighter light, and he was amazed how gleaming and special it looked. He couldn't have imagined a ship like this. It seemed to be made of the brightest chrome and shiniest steel. It was spotless, glowing, sparkling in the rising sun.

At the same time, he was beginning to notice that the inside of his jet was actually quite old and run down. His seat was threadbare. The canopy was scratched. Some panel lights were not working. He looked back up at the ship. He saw even more sailors now, massing on the deck, pointing and laughing at him.

The two missiles hit, and the same thing happened… which was nothing at all. They bounced off and exploded in the water, doing absolutely no damage to the ship. All this was to the great delight of the sailors on the deck. Hunter pulled up and away again, feeling like he'd done no more than provide a few moments of entertainment for these people who had just killed hundreds of his countrymen.

This only enraged him further. He turned the F-16 over a little too sharply, causing him to collide violently with the right side of his cockpit. He nearly lost control of the plane, regaining flight only through a quick boost of the throttle and a sharp turn to the left. This put him in a position just behind the ship, pointing toward its stern. He opened up with his nose cannon and watched the stream of shells rush toward the vulnerable ass end of the ship. There were sailors on the rail here, too. They weren't making any effort to shoot at him. Instead, they were waving at him, jeering at him, shaking their fists, and even giving him the finger. Making him look foolish.

And the cannon shells?

They bounced off, too.

He arrived over Rota two hours after daybreak.

According to his orders, he was to link up with American warplanes already on the ground at the Spanish NATO base, and then join in a systematic aerial assault on the advancing Soviet forces.

The background section of the orders stated that the Soviet army would take at least forty-eight hours before moving into those areas of Europe they'd poisoned with their Scud attack.

The main thrust of this assault would come, it was believed, through the center of West Germany, with Soviet forces moving in from Poland, Hungary, and, of course, East Germany. There were many bridges along this 300-mile section of the autobahns. By taking out a few of these key bridges and then hitting the Soviet columns in the rear areas, a large air armada, such as what was supposed to be waiting here in Spain, could deal a crushing blow to the invaders, perhaps delaying them long enough for the bulk of U.S. forces to get to the war zone.

But there was a problem. While Hunter could indeed see dozens if not hundreds of warplanes on the ground below him, he could see no activity going on around them. Instead it looked like they were simply left standing where they'd stopped rolling after landing. Many were gathered in haphazard fashion at the end of the main runway. Others looked simply abandoned. Even the clarity of the air around the base told him that nothing had taken off or landed here in hours, perhaps even days.

The final clue: although Hunter was calling the control tower asking for landing clearance, no one was responding. Finally, he just landed on his own, having to reduce his airspeed to the bare minimum so he would use less runway and not wind up colliding with the gaggle of airplanes at the end of the landing strip. It was a close run thing though, as he had to zigzag down the strip, trying to dodge the tails of some planes that had become stuck in the side ditches. He finally slowed down enough to pop his scratched canopy and taxi by the haphazard parking lot of warplanes located at the end of the runway.

He was horrified by what he saw. Some of the planes still had pilots strapped into them. Slumped over their controls, they were all dead, killed by poison gas. And at that moment, Hunter was glad that he hadn't taken off his oxygen mask. He quickly closed the canopy again and kept on taxiing.

He moved to the end of the airplane ramps, past the hangars, the admin buildings, and the living quarters. He taxied right out of the air base itself, steering the F-16 on to the base access highway and rolling for a half mile or so before he finally stopped. He paused a moment, then popped the canopy again.

He was guessing that the air base had been hit by soft gas, a type that dissipated quickly. He was certain the Soviets would want to occupy any allied military bases for their own use eventually and therefore would have been unlikely to lob some hard gas at the place, as it could make the area inaccessible for months. So while the interior of the base was still probably too hot to spend any time in, one deep breath told him the outlying areas were clean.

It was very strange to be driving a fighter jet down the highway as if it were a land vehicle, but that's what he did for about another mile. He eventually reached an off-base housing complex. To his surprise, he found five more jets here: three F-15s, and a pair of A-10s. They were parked in a blacktop lot outside one of the larger buildings.

He knew there was only one reason these planes were here. Their pilots had landed at the base, and just like Hunter, had determined the situation enough to know that they were best in a closed environment—their aircraft—and wise to put a mile or so between them and the base.

Hunter pulled his F-16 into the parking lot as well. He popped the canopy, shut everything down, and jumped to the ground. He walked into the main building. Here he found the five pilots, huddled in the corner of the lobby, helmets still on, masks attached, sucking on portable oxygen tanks.

"Who's in charge here?" Hunter asked them sternly.

One man took his mask off long enough to say: "You are… until you drop dead from the gas."

Hunter took a quick scan of the men's uniforms. Three were lieutenants, two were captains. He, meanwhile, was wearing the uniform of a major. He was the senior man.

"Take those masks off," he told them. "You don't need them. The gas didn't spread this far."

"How the fuck do you know?" one pilot cursed right through his mask.

"Because if it was hard gas, we'd all be dead by now," Hunter shot back at them.

They mulled this over for a few moments, and then gingerly, each man lowered his mask and took a tentative breath.

"Hey, how about that?" one said. "The dude is right…"

Hunter was instantly furious. "Get up off your asses," he roared at them. "That's an order."

The five men reluctantly got to their feet. Hunter looked about the first floor of the building. It was typical off-base housing, more like a college dorm than anything else. It was also clear that whoever lived here had cleared out quickly. Scattered belongings, from clothes to record albums, littered the floor and the stairs leading to the upper rooms. He also detected the scent of liquor in the heavy air.

The men formed a ragged line in front of him, and Hunter proceeded to read them the riot act. He couldn't remember exactly what he said, losing each angry word the instant it came off his tongue. But he reviewed for them the tough situation the U.S. was suddenly facing, the need for America to counterattack, and the need for every able-bodied soldier to pitch in. The men just stared blankly back at him.

He then told them what he'd experienced coming over the Atlantic, and how his orders stated that an aerial assault on the advancing Soviets was critical before the situation got further out of hand.

"We have to fuel up, bomb up, get our asses up over West Germany," Hunter told them. "If we can stop them there, we've got a chance to—"

The five men all burst out laughing at him. Hunter was so mad, he couldn't speak.

"Major," one of the captains finally said. "You're a little behind on this thing. "There
is
no more West Germany. The Soviets took it over last night. The last we heard, they were marching on Paris."

Hunter was stunned to hear this news. But he instantly formulated a new plan. If indeed the Soviets were already as far as France, that meant their lines of communication were stretched even thinner than before. It also meant more targets for American aircraft, more bridges to bomb, more supply columns to attack.

"The farther these guys move west, the more they'll be strung out," Hunter said now. "If we can hit them somewhere in the middle at a choke point, we can have a very big effect. Plus their soldiers are weighed down by all that chem gear. They must be dragging ass for at least a hundred miles by now."

But the pilots just laughed at him again.

"Who the fuck made you the hero?" one asked. "We just want to get the hell back home."

Another pilot spoke up: "I've got a wife and three kids. I want to see them one more time before the world comes to an end."

A third said, "Why should we die trying to save a bunch of assholes in France?"

Hunter was momentarily stumped for a reply. Finally he shot back with the only response he could think of.

"You're going to go," he said. "Because I'm giving you a direct order to go."

They found a large fuel truck on the edge of the base that was filled with JP-8.

Testing his theory that soft gas had been used against the base at Rota, Hunter drove the truck back to where the jets were parked without the aid of oxygen. The pilots reluctantly worked together to fuel their aircraft. While this was going on, Hunter returned to the periphery of the base and canvassed it for ordnance. There was plenty to be found on the outlying edges. Mostly 2,000-pound blockbusters, but also antipersonnel weapons and even some high-explosive bombs.

This time he wore his oxygen mask not for the gas but because there were hundreds of bodies lying about. The air was getting fetid. He loaded up an ordnance truck by himself, using a portable hangar crane to do the heavy lifting. By the time he returned to the others, they had fueled up their aircraft.

Loading the bombs was long and sweaty, and a major pain in the ass. They were pilots, not ground crew guys, so it was trial and error at first. After a few hairy moments, they'd finally bombed up the A-10s. They would carry the heaviest loads.

The F-15s came next. They, too, could carry an awesome amount of munitions, plus they were easier to work than the A-lOs. Lastly, Hunter's F-16 was given two 2,000-pound bombs, plus an additional 5,000 pounds of antipersonnel munitions.