The Lucifer Crusade (20 page)

Less than thirty minutes later they came upon a seaside villa. Its name was Casillino and, by the looks of it, it had once been a fancy, high-priced resort area.

But it wasn't the expensive-looking hotels or the fancy yachts abandoned in the harbor that caught Hunter's attention. It was the medium-sized freighter that was tied up to its pier. "That's our ticket home, boys," he said. But it wouldn't be easy. As they approached the town, Hunter could clearly see that the entrance to the harbor area was guarded by Sardinians. He could also see several soldiers on the freighter itself. "Okay," he yelled up to the driver through the cab's access window. "Just pretend like we are the guys who were supposed to be driving this truck." The driver nodded and headed straight through the abandoned town and right up to the main gate. Two soldiers were sitting in a guardhouse, and as soon as they saw the Spanish driver's uniform, they knew something was amiss.

It didn't matter. Hunter ripped a hole in the truck's canvas siding and was spraying the guard hut with M-16 fire. The Spanish driver then hit the accelerator and the truck bolted into the harbor area.

"Head right for the ship!" Hunter yelled to the driver, while he reloaded his M-16. The driver spun the truck around and they were soon roaring down the dock going toward the freighter. They were beginning to take some return fire now but, judging by its intensity, Hunter determined there were only a dozen or so soldiers guarding the otherwise deserted

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resort docks.

They reached the ship and quickly piled out of the truck, taking pains not to unduly upset Sir Neil or the wounded pilot.

Hunter and the Spaniards shot their way up the gangplank, causing the soldiers who were guarding the ship to jump overboard instead of shooting it out with the wildmen from the truck.

But then Hunter saw that the force of Sardinians that had been tracking them for two days had just appeared at the far end of town.

"We need a diversion," Hunter said to one of the rocketeers as soon as they were all aboard. Just as soon as he said it, he saw exactly what he needed. It was a fuel tank, not very large, but conveniently placed between the ship and the entrance to the docking area.

Using his M-16 on single-shot, he started peppering the fuel tank's top ringer valve. After about a dozen shots, he had managed to start a small fire. That was all he needed.

With, the rocketeers returning the guards' fire and the two wounded members of the party safely put aboard, Hunter went about the task of trying to get the freighter underway. He knew some-but not much-about how to get a ship of this size moving. Luckily, the vessel was fairly modern and had a number of automatic start-up controls. It was also equipped with electronic start motors that revved the ship's main screws and jump-started its main engines at the same time. What the hell, Hunter thought, he would simply drive the ship out of the harbor on these electric motors -no doubt burning them out in the process, but at least they'd be underway. He yelled to the Spaniards to cast off the lines. Then he pushed some buttons, turned some dials, and-to 188

his surprise-the ship actually started to move.

By this time, the pursuing Sardinians had arrived on the dock just as the fuel tanks he'd set ablaze blew up. The dock area was suddenly awash with flame.

That put an end to the enemy fire.

"Now all I've got to do is figure out how to sail this thing," he said to himself.

As it turned out, he wouldn't have to. The wounded pilot, a Norwegian named Olaaf, hobbled to the center of the bridge and volunteered to steer the ship.

"I used to be a skipper," he told Hunter. "This is all automatic anyway. May I?"

Hunter gladly stepped aside and let the Norseman take over. Soon they were sailing quickly out of the harbor, Olaaf having gotten the main engine to work.

Hunter checked Sir Neil. He was stable but still in bad shape. He leaned over and said in the man's ear, "Don't worry, sir, we're out now. We're heading back to the Saratoga."

He thought he saw the slightest look of acknowledgment on the Englishman's face.

Just then one of the rocketeers came forward and indicated to Hunter that he should follow him.

"Big, sir," the Spaniard kept saying. "Big. What we need."

Hunter followed him into the hold of the ship and flicked on the lights.

"Jesus H. Christ," he said, stunned.

Inside the hold were at least a hundred crates marked "SIDEWINDERS."

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The F-4 circled the Gibraltar air base five times before finally coming for a landing. Although the base's landing lights, radar dishes, and other equipment were operating, Crunch had gotten no response to his repeated attempts to radio the control tower.

"I got a very bad feeling about this," the pilot said as he rolled the airplane up to a hardstand. No ground personnel appeared to greet them, as would normally be the case at any airfield. "Did everyone take the day off?"

he wondered.

"I can't believe they all went off on this crusade," Elvis said.

"Well, if they did," Crunch said, looking around, "they left a lot of equipment on."

Suddenly Elvis called out, "Christ! What the hell are those things?" Crunch turned to see Elvis pointing at something directly over them. The pilot looked up and saw a dozen or more huge birds lazily circling the base.

"Are they what I think they are?" Elvis asked.

"Jesus, I'm afraid so," Crunch said, slowly. "Goddamned vultures."

He rolled the ship around to the back of the

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hangar, and it was there they made a gruesome discovery. Not only were there several dozen bodies scattered about, there were also five or six dead vultures lying nearby.

At once Crunch and Elvis were both glad that they hadn't popped the F-4's canopy and removed their oxygen masks.

"These guys were gassed," Crunch said. "We could probably find a SCUD missile casing around here somewhere if we looked hard enough. Painted with a big red star on its side, no doubt."

"The gas killed the people, then the poison in the people's blood killed the vultures," Elvis said.

"That's it," Crunch replied, looking back up at the buzzards circling overhead. "And those guys up there are still trying to figure it out."

Crunch rolled the F-4 closer to the bodies. They looked like base help as opposed to RAF personnel. He was sure that other groups of bodies in twos and threes could be found around the base. But then Elvis pointed out something. -

"Captain, look at the bodies closest to us," the Weapons Officer said. "Their pockets have been pulled out. Like they were searched or something."

"Either that," Crunch said, "or they got some pretty smart vultures in this part of the world."

"Who the hell would want to go through the pockets of a bunch of stiffs like these?" Elvis asked. "Looters of some kind?"

"Either that or whoever greased this place was looking to kill one person in particular," Crunch observed.

They were quiet for a moment, then Elvis asked, "Do you ... do you think they were aiming to kill Hawk?"

Crunch had been thinking the exact same thing.

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"It would be difficult to say," he answered. "But there is a possibility that's exactly what happened.

"Remember, our boy has a billion-dollar price tag on his head. And I believe the Russians would gladly supply some wacko everything he needed to bump off our good buddy. Even SCUD missiles.

"Or they'd probably take on the job themselves. I don't think the New Order boys would mind turning over a billion dollars to the gang in Moscow."

"It's probably their money to begin with," Elvis said.

Crunch fired up the engine and rolled the F-4 toward the runway.

"I've seen enough," he said to Elvis. "I think it's time to call home and tell them what's going on over here. Between some nutty crusade and the fact that every other weirdo in Europe is looking to bump him off, I think Mr. Hunter is going to need a little more help than just you and I can provide."

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They were at sea for only an hour before they were met by two of the Norwegian frigates sailing off the northern end of Sardinia. The ship's chopper was instantly used to evacuate Sir Neil back to the Saratoga, where two Italian doctors-members of the communications group-could attend to his serious wounds. Although Hunter and the Spanish rocketeers had been able to stem the bleeding from the Englishman's wounds, Hunter knew the swaggering Brit would never be the same again.

The loss of Sir Neil was tempered somewhat by the discovery of the load of weapons in the hold of the small Sardinian ship. Back on the Saratoga once again, Hunter met with Heath and Yaz and discussed the mother lode he had found.

"Either they were hiding their most valuable weapons in that ship or they were just about to make a huge arms deal and we happened to hijack the delivery truck," Hunter said as he battled his way through yet another plate of ill-prepared food. "Not only are there Sidewinders, but also Shrike antiship missiles and dozens of other weapons."

"If I had to guess, I'd say they were doing a deal,"

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Yaz said. "Most likely with one of Lucifer's allies. Probably to be used against us."

"If that's the case, we were more than dumb lucky jumping on that freighter,"

Heath said.

"Right," agreed Hunter. "Not only did we get more Sidewinders than we need, we kept them out of some unfriendly hands."

The Saratoga once again starting sailing to the east in earnest. They entered the Strait of Sicily the following evening -a night during which Hunter closely examined the cornucopia of weapons they'd found aboard the Sardinian ship. Hunter counted more than 150 Sidewinders in the cache, which were moved to the ammunition magazine aboard the carrier. There were also a number of antipersonnel bombs, small napalm rockets, and a few dozen Shrike antiradar missiles, as well as more standard iron bombs and high-explosive devices.

Hunter immediately wired up six Sidewinders to his F-16, and began configuring the Harrier jump-jets to do the same. Of all the jets on the carrier, the Harriers could most easily adapt to the fighter-interceptor role.

Hunter later took an hour off to visit the ailing Sir Neil. The Englishman was confined in the carrier's version of intensive care, the two Italian doctors hovering over him. He was heavily bandaged from his waist to his head. Still, the Brit was conscious and typically plucky.

"Hunter, old bean," the man said when the pilot entered the room. "I hear our mission was a success in the end."

"I would have given it all back if we could have avoided this," Hunter told him, examining his

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wounds.

"Rubbish, Hunter!" Sir Neil replied, his weakened voice rising a notch. "We needed the weapons, man! We couldn't very well sail into the Gates of Hell with a popgun now could we? And an unloaded popgun at that."

"But we need you, sir," Hunter said. "You were the brains of this outfit."

"And what the hell makes you think I still can't be!" the wounded officer said, nearly ripping his head bandage. "What do you intend on doing? Casting me adrift in the Med and going on without me?"

"Wouldn't think of it, sir," the pilot said with a grin. "You'll have to stay here and eat this rotten food with the rest of us."

Sir Neil managed a smile, then motioned Hunter to come close. Speaking in a voice low enough that his doctors couldn't hear, he said: "Aye, Hunter, when you get a chance, please slip me a bit of the grape, wot? Just a small bottle

-would do. Some of Giuseppe's good stuff. Just to get the blood flowing in the right direction?"

At that moment, Hunter was certain Sir Neil would survive his wounds.

The sun was just starting to break the eastern Med horizon when one of Yaz's men started pounding on Hunter's cabin door. He was sound asleep at the time, wrapped very comfortably in young Anna's arms. But he was up and at the door in a second. He sensed that something was up.

"Sorry, major," the young sailor said, catching a peek at Anna's naked breasts out of the corner of his eye. "But CIC reports a large flotilla of ships 195

heading our way."

"Jeezus," Hunter cursed pulling on his flight suit and boots. "What kind of boats, any idea?"

"Well, the blips on surface radar indicate that they're fairly small," the sailor said. "But there's more than a hundred of them."

Hunter was up on the flight deck in a matter of minutes, glad to see that Yaz's guys had his F-16 fired up and ready for launch.

He met Heath just as he was climbing up the 16's access ladder. The BBC film crew was nearby, recording everything.

"They're about twenty-five miles to the northeast," Heath told Hunter.

"Definitely coming right for us."

"What kind of small boats are floating around here these days?" Hunter asked him as he put on his flight helmet. "Do they make PT boats anymore?"

"Could be anything, Hunter," Heath told him. "Armed trawlers perhaps. Maybe converted minesweepers."

"Can you get the Harriers warmed up?" Hunter asked just before he closed his canopy. "If there are more than a hundred of these guys, I'm gonna need help."

With that, the F-16 roared off the carrier in a burst of steam, climbed, and streaked off toward the northeast.

Hunter clicked on his "look-down" radar and located the fleet of ships immediately. He checked his cannon ammunition indicator. It showed all six of his M-61 Vulcans were full. His computers indicated that no sophisticated weapons were aboard the boats -yet he knew torpedos wouldn't necessarily trip the computer's sensors.

He took a deep gulp of oxygen and put the 16 into a dive.

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He broke through a light cloud cover at about 5000 feet and found himself right on top of the flotilla. The fleet was spread out for almost two miles.

He wasn't surprised that the boats were all different shapes and sizes-trawlers, pleasure yachts, ocean ferries, even a few armed tugboats similar to O'Brien's.

Hunter was surprised however when he saw that most of them were flying white flags.