The Lucifer Crusade (31 page)

"Why not?" Hunter asked. "They're right next to-' it. Don't they see it?"

"No, no, no!" the man said, gasping for breath. "You cannot get near it. It is in a tomb. Stone tomb. It is blocked off by doors, stones, and metal. We ship special doors in for them."

Beatrice's hand movements were now reaching a climax. Hunter needed one more question answered.

"What kind of special doors?" he asked quickly.

The man looked like he was about to explode. He grimaced and said with great effort: "They . . . were . . . made ... of ... lead."

At that moment, Nature took its course. The man bit his lip, his eyes were pressed shut. He shook once, then slumped down onto his pillow. Beatrice quickly reached for a towel.

"Lead?" Hunter asked, more to himself. Then it hit him. An agreement with Lucifer. A valuable weapon. You can't get near it. Lead doors.

It all added up to one thing: there was something nuclear in the Great Pyramid of Cheops.

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end of their rope about now. This would also work to his advantage.

He found the Nile and turned north. This would be a backdoor operation all the way. The weapons dispenser attached to the 16's belly carried hundreds of small but deadly bomblets, each packing the punch of a large HE grenade. The dispenser-a device custom-made for destroying runways and such-would be particularly effective against the Soviet choppers, provided he could get low enough. The Sidewinders would have to deal with any choppers that might be in the air at the time or that managed to get off the ground during the attack.

A warning light began to blink on his control board. It was the SLQ-32, telling him that radar devices were straight ahead. He eased the 16 over with the side-side controller so it was now flying directly above the highway that ran parallel to the Nile and would eventually run past the Great Pyramid itself. This was the highway he knew the Soviets were using for their chopper base.

He armed his weapons and checked the dispenser triggers. Everything came back green. His SLQ-32 tone got a little higher, hinting that radars ahead were close to going to fire-control mode. No matter, he thought. He'd be on top of them in seconds.

He rose up slightly and peered over a small set of mountains he knew was just south of Giza, the location of the Great Pyramid. Sure enough, his radar sweep indicated sixteen choppers lined up in two neat rows along the highway. In the distance, the massive outline of the Great Pyramid was dominant.

"Okay, gang," he said, dropping down to attack level.

A Soviet sergeant walking to the latrine saw the F-304

16 first. His initial thought was that the fighter was either a Soviet airplane or one belonging to one of their myriad of allies.

"Maybe Lucifer finally got himself an airplane," the sergeant thought as he saw the red-white-and-blue jet streak acros^ the desert, a mean-looking exhaust stream trailing behind it.

But almost immediately the sergeant realized the airplane wasn't coming in for a landing. He saw the outline a littleniore clearly. Being a chopper pilot, he was not totally ignorant of airplanes. "Is that an , F-16?" he thought.

,

He soon knew the answer was yes. The airplane' was above the base in a flash, a sputtering noise coming from its belly. The sergeant also knew a weapons dispenser when he saw one. Just seconds before the first tiny parachutes carrying the bomblets landed, the sergeant realized the base was under attack.

He also realized it was too late for him to do anything about it. The bomblets began landing and exploding and spraying huge amounts of deadly, burning shrapnel in all directions. Three seconds later the sergeant was obliterated along with two Hind helicopters sitting nearby.

Hunter completed the first bombing run, then pulled up and put the jet on its side so he could survey the damage. He counted seven choppers burning, plus a good portion of the runway torn up. Not bad for the first pass. But the easy part was over. They'd be waiting for him when he came around again.

Sure enough, his SLQ-32 started squealing-two lock-ons were indicated. This would call for special measures. He completed his 360-degree turn and came in again. Suddenly a shoulder-launched SA-7 missile flashed up from a perimeter bunker. No

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matter-he was by it in a flash. He hit the weapons-dispenser trigger and quickly let go the rest of the bomb lets. At the same time, another SA-7

started up towards him, this one shot from a lookout tower near the center of the base. This was where it got tricky. Once he knew the dispenser was erftpty, he put the F-16 into a quick succession of rolls-&x of them in all, enough to confuse the most intelligent homing system.

At the end of the maneuver, he put the fighter on its ass and got the hell away from the base. Only when he was at 10,000 feet did he turn over and look back at the runway. Again, the bomblets had done the job. Scratch eight more choppers, plus another large chunk of runway. As a bonus, he had also set a fuel tank for the base on fire.

He climbed again, up to 60,000 feet. The two-pass air strike had accomplished more than he had hoped for. But at the same time he knew there were still five more choppers to contend with . . .

The Soviet troops stationed next to the Great Pyramid had heard the commotion at the chopper base several miles away. With a pall of smoke rising above the facility and calls to the base going unanswered, the Soviet troop commander ordered three truckloads of his men to drive over and investigate. Because no one at the troop base had actually heard an airplane -another plus gained by Hunter for attacking at dawn -the Soviet troop commander thought the chopper strip's ammo dump might have gone up.

The ride to the air facility usually took twenty minutes. But as the three trucks started out along the deserted highway, they suddenly heard a night-306

marish scream coming from behind them. Out of nowhere an F-16 had appeared.

Its nose looked as if it was on fire!, but this was just an illusion. The spits of flame coining from Hunter's specially installed Vulcan cannon Six Pack were simply converging into one long fiery tongue.

One sweep was all it took. In a matter of seconds, all three trucks were ripped into small, bloody pieces. It had happened so quickly, many of the men went into shock. Those who had been lucky enough to survive, and who still had their wits about them, simply fell to the ground and prayed the F-16, wouldn't return.

Now the troop commander knew what he was up against. He cursed himself for exposing half his troops on the desert highway like that. He literally shook his fist at the jet fighter as it roared overhead, at the same time screaming for troops to break out the shoulder-launched SAMs.

But even this order was issued too late. The F-16 had flashed around the pyramid and was now bearing down on the Soviet soldiers as they scrambled for cover. The Six Pack opened up once again, spraying the dusty ground with an incredible barrage of cannon fire. The Soviet commander watched in horror as his men seemed to explode before his eyes. The jet streaked directly over him and turned to go around again.

"This pilot is a madman," the Soviet commander thought. This time his men were able to man their SAMs. One was launched, then another. But the jet was twisting, turning, darting away from the rockets. All the while its ferocious Vulcan cannons were blazing away. More targets were hit. More men horribly perforated by the awesome flying death.

Suddenly the troop commander's mind flashed

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back to a time several years before, when the war was going full tilt in Europe. He remembered seeing an F-16 acting in a similar way. That airplane too had ripped up a battalion of troops in a matter of minutes, dodging everything the Soviets soldiers could throw up against it. "That man is crazy," the Soviet commander thought at the time. "Crazy because he keeps coming back for more."

Now, suddenly jerked back to the present, the Soviet officer watched as the F-16 approached for a third time. "It's the same pilot," he thought. "It's the crazy man." This legend he'd heard about even after the battles in Europe had died down. "The pilot, his name is Hunter," he said, surprised he had remembered it after all that time.

The F-16's third pass was the deadliest. As it weaved back and forth, the airplane's guns sprayed the flaming bullets all over the already burning base.

The cannon shells seemed to have a mind of their own; everyone of them either hit a man or something flammable, which instantly caught fire.

The troop commander was frozen, unable to move as the six separate streams of cannon shells walked right up to him. His last thoughts seemed to last forever. "This madman is an American," his mind flashed for the last time.

"They call him The Wingman."

A second later the commander was caught up in the murderous barrage. He felt the shells enter his chest. Surprisingly, there was no pain. No sensation at all. As he fell backward, his last sight was the bottom of the attacking airplane.

It was red, white, and blue ...

Hunter flew over the site of the burning Soviet 308

camp several more times, the adrenalin pumping through his body at breakneck speed. No one fired back at him and his SLQ-32 was silent. Anyone who might have survived the attack was laying low. He cleared the area after one more pass, allowing anyone still breathing to make good their escape.

Within minutes he found a stretch of highway suitably long and straight enough for him to set down on. The search didn't take long; telltale aircraft tire marks up and down the asphalt indicated that aircraft had used this particular juncture of roadway as a landing strip before.

/

The 16 was down and cooling in five minutes. Trouble was, he had no place to hide it and he didn't have time to worry about it. He pulled out his M-16 and checked its clip. It was full. Then, carrying a canteen full of water and a backpack of special gear, he set out for the Great Pyramid.

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"Sire?"

The man sitting behind the large, black desk did not respond.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty?"

Again no response.

The general gulped. The ship's cabin was dark, the only light coming from a half-dozen flickering candles and the tint of the orange video screen in the corner. Masks, paintings, and other artifacts of the occult were everywhere about the gloomy room. The man behind the desk was dressed completely in black-robe, boots, tunic, and hood. His face was hidden in the dark shadows.

Even his hands were covered with black-leather gloves. How did he do it? the general thought, wiping the sweat from his brow. It was 110 degrees outside the ship and easily 15 degrees warmer inside the cabin. Yet the man behind the desk did not appear to be sweating . . .

The general tried a third time. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but - "

Suddenly the man looked up, his scorched, angry face reflected in the dim light. "What do you want!?" he growled at the officer.

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"Sire, you asked me to give you a status report at 0800," the general said meekly.

"And?" the man in black asked, barely containing his anger.

"And, it is now 0800, sir-"

"So what are you waiting for?" the man asked in a chilling voice.

Still standing at attention, the general gulped once again and started talking. "Our fleet is now completely underway," he began, trying not to look at the man's horribly scarred face.

"How many goddamned boats?" the man nearly^ screamed at him.

"Three hundred and twelve, sire," the general answered.

"Were any men left behind?"

The general hesitated for a moment, then answered, "A few, sir-"

"How many?"

Another gulp. "Approximately seven hundred, Your Majesty," the general answered.

There was a long, tense silence.

"Seven hundred men?" the man finally said. "You call that 'a few'?"

"Begging your pardon, Your Highness," the general said. "But seven hundred men out of a total of nine hundred sixty-seven thousand is an exceptionally low dropout rate-"

"I beg your pardon, general," the man said sarcastically. "But in this Legion, one malingerer is not acceptable."

"But most of those men are suffering from heat exhaustion, sire," the general replied. "They were among the first troops to load onto our barges. They have been waiting at the dock in the hot sun, with nowhere to move, for four days."

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"They are cowards!" the man screamed. "Shoot them all!"

The general started to protest, but thought better of it.

"Anything else, general?" the man in black asked in his strange voice.

The general shifted uneasily. This would be the hard part. "Yes, sire," he began. "We have received a report that the carrier is still operating."

The man's eyes became just slits, anger turning his ashen, scarred face to fire. "What . . . did . . . you . . . say?"

"The carrier, sire," the officer replied, his voice but a whisper. "It is still heading for the Canal."

"Those fools!" the man screamed. "They sent ten submarines after it and they didn't sink it?"

"I ... I'm afraid not, Your Majesty," the general answered. He wanted to get out of the dark room very quickly, yet he felt glued to the spot. "Actually, they lost two submarines."

"Get out!" the man in black roared.

The general was quickly out the door, leaving the man alone. The man rubbed his disfigured face. He knew the scars did not show up when he was

"projecting." No, his image was electronically "cleaned up" long before the laser beams flashed it into the sky.

But now, alone, as he ran his fingers over the burns, his face stung. The pain was miniscule compared to the horrible flash of fire that had scarred him that night, back in New York City, when Hawk Hunter had brazenly rescued the beauty named Dominique. He could still see the small miniplane crashing through the window of the top floor of the World Trade Center. The incredible wind that followed sucked out objects and humans alike into the 312

darkness. The fire -caused when the fuel in the miniplane exploded -had leaped across the room and caught him full in the face. Almost as if Nature had intended it that way.