The Lucifer Crusade (21 page)

He dropped down to 500 feet and slowed the jet down to a crawl, certain that there were no antiaircraft missiles ready to fire at him. He tipped the 16 to its portside to get a better look at the boats. They appeared to be crowded with armed men-irregulars, he theorized. No specific uniforms. And, far from appearing hostile, they were all waving and cheering as he flew by.

He buzzed the fleet a few more times, noticing several of the boats were carrying radio antennas on their masts. On a chance the boats were carrying modern communications equipment, he searched both his VHP and UHF bands to try to pick up any signal. At the end of the UHF band, he started to pick something up.

". . . Liberte Marina calling," the heavily Italian accented voice called out through a burst of static. "We are compadres. Please do not attack. We are the Liberte Marina . . ."

Liberte Marina? Did that translate into Freedom Navy? If so, what the hell was the Freedom Navy?

Two Harriers arrived on the scene a few minutes later, and luckily one of the pilots was conversant in Italian. As Hunter orbited above monitoring the radio conversations, the two Harriers hovered over the now-stopped flotilla, the pilot speaking with the fleet's leader.

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They were the Freedom Navy, a combination Sicilian-Italian force that had apparently heard all about the Saratoga's mission to the Suez.

But what did they want?

"We are here to join you!" the fleet leader kept saying over and over in very broken English. "Compadres! We sail with you!"

An hour later the Freedom Navy boats were floating beside the Saratoga fleet.

Several Norwegian frigates repeatedly sailed through the Liberte boats keeping an eye on them. A half-dozen helicopters buzzing above them did the same. The BBC video crew was hanging off the side of the carrier deck, diligently capturing all the action on film.

Hunter was back on board the Saratoga by the time the Navy's leader had been airlifted aboard. He joined Heath, Yaz, and Captain Olson in the carrier's stateroom, where they questioned him.

His name was Commodore Antonio Vanaria. He was a short, stubby character complete with knee-high boots, a feathered Napoleon-style hat, a mean-looking double-barreled carbine strapped over his shoulder, and bandolier ammunition belts crossing his chest.

He had come to offer help.

"Everywhere people are talking about the Saratoga!" he said in broken English, gesturing expansively. "They say, The men on the Saratoga will stop Lucifer in his tracks!' The men on the Saratoga-they the bravest in the whole world!

"We-my men of the Liberte Marina-want to join such brave men. We too will fight the devil, Lucifer!"

"Commodore," Heath calmly began, taking the place of Sir Neil. "We are on a very, very dangerous mission here. You can see the type of ships and 198

weapons we had to hire for protection. I'm afraid your, well, boats, would be very vulnerable to weapons such as the Exocet, especially-"

"We no care," the Commodore broke in. "We want to fight. We want to fight with the brave men of the Saratoga!"

With that, the strange little man walked to the stateroom's typically round porthole window, opened it, and screamed at the top of his lungs: "Viva la Saratoga!"

His cry was immediately received with a return chorus of "Viva! Viva la Saratoga!" Amazingly, it was coming through loud and clear from the men on his boats nearby.

"It appears we have a fan club," Yaz said in an aside to Hunter.

"I guess so," Hunter said, shaking his head. "And this was supposed to be a secret mission."

The Commodore returned from the porthole. "Me-my men-we have been waiting.

Preparing. Training to sail with you. We-know our stuff, si-gnori. We are good fighters. Sea fighters."

"Sea fighters?" Heath asked.

"I believe he means 'pirates,' " Olson, the Norwegian commander, said.

"Good pirates," the Commodore quickly injected. "We no raid women and babies.

We raid the Sardinians. We raid no-good Sidra-Benghazi. We raid Russians - "

"What a minute." Hunter stopped him. "You've seen Russian ships in these waters?"

"Si, signor" the man answered excitedly. "Reds. Armed trawlers. Destroyers.

Even some submarines and cruisers."

"Heavy-duty stuff." Yaz whistled.

"Between them and whatever the hell Lucifer's 199

allies have floating around," Hunter said, "we're going to have our hands full."

"Si, si, signor!" the commodore said, bounding over to Hunter. "We help. We know the waters!"

Hunter, Yaz, Heath, and Olson all looked at each other. The Commodore's enthusiasm was contagious. And Hunter could just tell by the nature of the man that he was trustworthy.

"But how could we feed them all?" Heath said. "You know what the food situation is on this ship."

"Yeah," Yaz said. "The bad news is the food is terrible. The good news is that no one can cook it and there's not much to go around."

The Commodore's eyes lit up. "Food?" he said, a wide grin revealing a tooth-gaped smile. "We have plenty of food! Good food! And we can cook. My men and I are the best-fed sailors in the whole Mediterranean!"

Whether the little man knew it or not, his value had just gone up a few notches.

Once again the four principals exchanged looks and a round of "what the hell"

shrugs.

"We'll have to blow it by Sir Neil," Hunter said. "Though I know he could stand a few good meals - "

"And he's not averse to adding every fighting hand we can get," Heath said.

Hunter turned to Olson. Really the final decision would be his. "Captain, you would have to coordinate the Commodore's boats with yours. Can it be done?"

The craggy, proud-looking Olson rubbed his chin in a habit of thought. "They could provide a fine protection for our flanks and rear, of course."

"Of course!" the Commodore yelled in glee, waving his hands.

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"If it's okay with Sir Neil," Olson said, "it's okay with me."

A quick meeting was held in Sir Neil's intensive-care room. Heath slowly and deliberately whispered the situation into the British commander's ear. Hunter could hear the key word "food" repeated several times. Finally they saw Sir Neil nodding his head, before falling back into semiconsciousness.

"The Commodore can throw in with us," Heath told Hunter, Yaz, and Olson afterwards. "If Captain Olson can shepherd them for a while-who knows, they might bring us some luck."

"Luck, hell," Hunter said. "I'll be glad to have one thousand sea pirates on my side any day."

"Plus they can cook," Heath said, raffishly twirling his huge red mustache.

The Commodore soon made good on his promise for edible food and decent cooking. That night he and 100 of his men fed the entire crew of the Saratoga a huge pasta meal. Similar feasts were prepared for the men on the other ships in the carrier's entourage. But, privately, Hunter, Heath, and Olson agreed that the Norwegians would keep a close eye on the pirates-although, judging by the Commodore's fervor, the likelihood of one of his men being a spy for Lucifer was remote.

In the meantime, the Italian communications team continued monitoring long-range radio transmissions emanating from Lucifer's Arabian Empire. Hunter was constantly kept informed on critical messages. Most of the radio intercepts had to do with movements of Lucifer's Legions and coordinating their transfers to troop ships anchored near his base at Jidda on the Red Sea.

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But then, on the afternoon following the appearance of the Commodore's fleet, Hunter and Heath were called up to the Saratoga's CIC. The communications people had eavesdropped on a conversation between the pilot of Lucifer's only airplane-a captured US-made P-3 Orion-and the captain a fleet of mercenary ships sailing in the Red Sea. The ships were discussing instructions to head toward the Suez Canal and "commence operations."

"What kind of operations?" Hunter asked Giuseppe, the leader of the Italian communications team.

"It's hard to say, major," the man told him as he sat working over a sophisticated radio set. "But, judging by the strength of the mercenary's radio signal, we can approximate the size and type of the ships they are using."

"And?" Heath asked.

"And, if I had to guess," Giuseppe said, "I'd say they were minelayers.

Russian-built minelayers."

"Blast!" Heath spat out. "Soviet mines! That's all we need."

"Mines in the canal could definitely crimp our style," Hunter said.

Heath tugged at his mustache with worry. "Should we consider an air strike, major?" the Brit asked.

"I don't think we can risk it," Hunter replied. "We could lose some very valuable aircraft to SAMs, especially if they have a P-3 Orion flying around out there. With the AWACs gear on that airplane, they'd see us coming for miles.

"Plus we can sink the minelayers, but that wouldn't take care of the mines themselves."

"So what are our options?" Heath asked.

Hunter shook his head. "I'm afraid we don't have any right now," he said.

"We'll just have to deal with

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it as we go along."

"Christ," Heath said. "Just one more thing to worry about . . ."

Another day passed. Slowly. Tension was building on the carrier, Hunter could feel it in his psyche. Even the Med seemed to be working against them. They were running into strong head winds. The resulting currents were making the towing operation more difficult.

Hunter spent most of his time this day supervising/ the rewiring of the Swedish Viggen fighters to carry heavy ordnance. The constant, more noticeable pull-push of the carrier in the rough seas made the precise work required twice as difficult.

After the long day finally ended, Hunter walked alone to the stern of the Saratoga. He stood close to the edge of the mighty carrier's deck, watching O'Brien's tugs churn up the Mediterranean in front of him, their thick towlines taut and vibrating like a too-tightly-strung violin.

As always, his mind was going in a million different directions. Life was so strange, he thought. He loved the USA. He missed his friends back home. Anna had filled a nice niche in his life, but he yearned for the sweet touch of Dominique. Yet here he was, out in the middle of the Mediterranean, on a disabled flattop, being towed into "the Gates of Hell," as Sir Neal liked to describe it. Chasing the super-criminal who had so ruthlessly destroyed the fragility of America.

But was it worth it? Was it more like chasing a phantom? Punishing one man certainly wasn't going to rebuild America from the ruins of The Circle War.

Was the fact that Lucifer-then Viktor-had

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this way!"

By this time, Peter was screaming at the top of his lungs. His SAS guards were on the scene and dragging him away. Hunter was stunned. He couldn't move. A strange feeling had completely wrapped around his body, holding him rigidly in place. It wasn't so much what Peter said-to anyone else it was only so much raving, drooling malarky. But it was how he said it. A psychic link existed between him and the strange man. Peter's words had penetrated the deepest recesses of Hunter's soul. The place where the feeling came from. Now an ice-cold chill enveloped his body as he watched the SAS men lead Peter into a hatchway in the carrier's superstructure.

Do not turn away. The words echoed in Hunter's ears. Do not turn away!

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One of the Commodore's boat captains saw them first ...

The carrier fleet had passed through the Strait of Sicily and was about 100

miles due east of the island of Malta. Captain Olson had decided the best way to utilize the Liberte Marina was to deploy them forward of the carrier. This way they could serve as lookouts and warn the Saratoga of any treacherous waters ahead.

So now the proud fleet of armed yachts, converted workboats, ferries, and trawlers plowed the sea, spread out anywhere from ten to fifteen miles ahead of the carrier force.

It was mid-afternoon. The day had dawned hot and nearly breezeless. Hunter was in the CIC, catching up on the latest radio intercepts from Lucifer's Empire, when a frantic call came in from one of the Commodore's lead boats.

"Emergency! Emergency!" the heavily accented voice cried out from the radio speakers. "We are

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under attack! Enemy aircraft! We are under att -"

The radio suddenly went dead.

"Christ," Heath said to Hunter. "What the hell was that?"

Hunter didn't reply. He was already out of the CIC, and up on the ship's bridge. There, the six men of Yaz's group charged with keeping the carrier on course had also heard the message and were already reacting. Yaz himself was crouched over the bridge radar. It had momentarily picked up several blips just as the panicky call had come in from the Freedom Navy boat. Now Hunter was peering out of the ship's powerful telescope, searching the horizon for the boat that made the call.

The first thing he saw was a faint wisp of smoke off to the northeast.

"Yaz, can we establish contact with any of those boats out there?" Hunter called out, zooming in on the smoke.

Yaz moved over to the bridge radio and started punching buttons and twisting dials. "We've only got radio linkup with a few of them," he said. "I'll try the Commodore's boat itself. He's in that area."

At the same time, a call came in from one of Olson's frigates. "We've got enemy aircraft out here," the calm, cool, Norwegian-accented voice reported via the bridge radio speakers. "They have sunk one Freedom Navy boat. They are attacking others. We are moving in to engage ..."

Hunter gave up on the telescope-the action was too far away from them. Instead he moved to the bridge's backup radio set and called the frigate commander.

"This is Major Hunter. Please ID number of enemy aircraft and type."

The radio crackled with a burst of angry static. Then the same Norwegian voice came back on, this

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time a little less calm. "We are now under attack ourselves!" the radioman reported. "At least twenty-five aircraft! They are firing on us with cannon and missiles . . . We are . . ." Another burst of static drowned out the man's word.