Skyfire (33 page)

The results looked like an old black-and-white slasher movie.

The scene of the one-sided battle tightened the stomachs of those inside the New Jersey's CIC, including Wolf. It seemed somewhat perverse that their job was to add to the carnage.

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Wolf grabbed a microphone and called down to the ship's weapons' officer.

"Is gun turret number one ready?"

"Up and waiting" came the reply.

All the while, Wolf never took his eyes off the TV screen.

"Stand by . .."

As the RPV slowly made its way down the beach, it found a group of six Norse landing craft that had, for whatever reason, lashed themselves together during the mad dash for the beach and were now just reaching the shore. Invaders were pouring out of the boats in six long lines.

Wolf spotted the enemy boats and pointed them out to the RPV's steering technician.

"There's our first target," Wolf said. "Put the bird into a tight pattern, one and fifty feet up."

The tech did as told, punching Wolfs instructions into the RPV's controlling computer. Within seconds, the TV screen jiggled as the RPV went into a tight orbit above the enemy boats.

"Mark it," Wolf said.

Another technician immediately pushed a series of buttons which automatically sent the targeting information being sent back from the RPV to the weapons officer in turret number one.

"Marked and locked," the technician replied once his computer told him the target info had been fed into the first turret's fire-control system.

"Put the bird up to three hundred feet," Wolf told the flight controller. "And give it a wide-out of two hundred and fifty . . ."

Several seconds went by before the man reported that the RPV was heading for the safer altitude and distance away.

Wolf did one last quick check of his main systems and then said: "Fire when ready."

The radio crackled back immediately. "Fire!"

Three seconds later a familiar tremor went through the New Jersey. From stem to stern, everything from coffee

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cups to computer terminals began to shake violently. The sound of three monstrous guns going off at once hit a split second later, a report so loud that even as each man routinely blocked his ears, it still sounded like a shotgun blast being fired a foot away.

The sound of the gun blast gave way to the screech of the twenty-two-hundred-pound shells as they rocketed away from the ship and toward the target. Every man in the CIC who could, kept his eyes on the big TV

screen, watching and waiting as the three tons of high explosives raced toward the unsuspecting invaders.

The shells hit U.5 seconds later.

It was a rare occasion for the men in the CIC, or anyone in the battleship's company for that matter, to see the results of their deadly barrages so immediately. It was normal procedure to have the RPV evacuate the area just as soon as the firing order was given. But in this case, that was not necessary.

The RPV had climbed to a safe height out over the water and therefore was less apt to be hit by any flying debris.

Still the explosions resulting from the three 1.1 ton shells hitting simultaneously sent a shock wave through the air that caused the RPV to black out for a few seconds. The back shock reached the battleship several seconds after that.

"Looks like a good hit, sir . . ." the second weapons officer called out.

When the RPV's camera blinked back on, it confirmed the man's estimate with sickening accuracy.

The barrage had landed right on the lashed-together landing craft, instantly obliterating them. The resulting gigantic explosions had simply vaporized the dozens of Norsemen still on the boats while throwing those close by in every direction. The CIC crew watched with open jaws as dozens of bodies-or more accurately pieces of bodies-tumbled through the air in slow motion, caught within the deadly, ever-widening fire cloud.

The three rapid explosions also served to throw thou-293

sands of gallons of seawater up into the air, where it instantaneously mixed with fire and smoke and just as quickly turned to steam.

The resulting smoky fog temporarily blinded the RPV's camera, causing Wolf to tell the flight controller to direct the RPV out of the prevailing winds and over the target itself.

When the picture cleared several seconds later, the RPV had steadied itself at a point about five hundred feet above where the shells hit.

There was nothing left, of course. No more boats, or bodies or even remnants of bodies. All that was evident was a huge gaping crater which, at that moment, was being filled with rushing seawater. The only indication that a half minute before more than a hundred invaders had stood near the spot was the fact that this seawater was discolored in a shade of TV-video gray that everyone knew in color was actually bloodred.

Wolf took a deep breath and pulled the CIC microphone to his mouth. The RPV's camera was now picking up a trio of Norse subs still offloading troops about a mile of Neptune Beach, with a fourth sub launching landing craft nearby.

"Reload and prepare for next target," the masked man said in a voice just barely above a whisper.

The captain of the New Jersey's fishing boat, Lieutenant Commander Bjordson, had seen the barrage of three massive shells hit the beach, and from his position about a mile and a quarter away, had witnessed and felt their devastating aftermath.

Now he watched as the RPV turned southeast and headed for a quartet of Norse subs about two miles away. Sensing an impending attack on the subs was just seconds away, he knew that even the wake from the violent sixteen-inch barrage could swamp his small vessel. He hit the throttles of the fishing boat and began to put some distance

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between himself and the three Norse subs.

His role on this fateful day was to act as a backup communications ship between the New Jersey and the United American forces on shore and in the air.

The high-flying AWAC's planes were just about at peak load coordinating the air strikes along the two-hundred-mile front, and thus there was a need for a close-in support radio ship.

Therefore, ever since the fighting had begun, Bjordson had been plying the waters off the invasion coast, sending information on sub dispersement, enemy troop strengths, and target coordinates to the United American HQ at the Naval Air Station as well as back to the New Jersey.

His crew had also taken full advantage of the 20mm all-purpose deck gun mounted on the fishing boat's bow. They had found out very early that the Norse landing crafts carried no weaponry of their own, short of the rifles belonging to the individual troops. So, in between sending out intelligence broadcast, the fishing boat's crew had been firing on any landing craft in their vicinity, sinking several and damaging many others.

While the captain was understandably proud of his crew's accomplishments, the sinkings seemed hardly necessary with the ongoing slaughter up and down the coast. He, like many others fighting the Norse clans on that bloody late afternoon, just wanted to get the whole grisly business over with.

Bjordson yanked back on the throttles after he determined that he was a good two and a half miles away from the doomed Norse subs. Sure enough, ten seconds later, the first three shells from the New Jersey's second battery landed in amongst the Norse Krig Bats, blowing one of the war boats right out of the water and cracking the other two like they were dried sticks of wood. The fourth sub, the Volk Bats that was carrying the LST's, was instantly swamped, the seawater pouring into its wide-open, vast storage chambers. It went down even quicker than the boats that had been closer to the blast. The resulting shock wave hit the fishing boat, too, caus-295

ing it to be tossed about violently in the suddenly swelled waves.

Bjordson had yelled a warning to his men just seconds before-as if they needed any-and all hands held tight as the quick, invisible storm blew over.

"Survived another one," Bjordson said to himself with a breath of relief.

But a moment later he heard an ear-piercing scream from one of his men.

Swinging around in the bridge he saw a huge, dark shape looming up on their portside.

"Christ... no!" he shouted involuntarily, leaping toward the boat's controls in a desperate attempt to turn away.

But it was too late. The enormous black-and-red Fire Bat submarine hit the fishing boat amidships, instantly splitting it in two.

It sunk inside of ten seconds, taking all on board down with it.

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Hunter had just dropped his last pair of cluster bombs from his second reloading when the top of his spine began to tingle.

Deep within him, something was compelling him to change course-to steer the Harrier jumpjet not back to the Naval Air Station for reloading as planned, but out to sea, out beyond the smoke and fire rising from the hapless trio of Norse subs.

Out into the unknown.

^Hunter knew better than to doubt this intuition. From the moment long ago when he had recognized his extrasensory perceptive gift, he had always gone with it.

But this particular vibration was different.

As he burst through the funnel of smoke and flames rising from the destroyed subs, the feeling was washing over him to the degree he'd never imagined. And although it seemed as if all of his warning panel lights were blinking at once, he ignored them. What he was feeling could not be picked up on a radar screen or an infrared scope. It could not be detected by a heat-seeking sensor or a microwave beam.

Yet, it was all within and without him. Something way down deep was telling him to get ready . . .

He dipped the Harrier's wing to the east and pulled back on the throttle.

Before him lay the depths of the mighty Atlantic and something-or somebody-down there was calling to him.

He closed his eyes and gripped the Harrier's control stick 297

tightly. The vibration from his brain and spine was now running down his arms to his hands to his fingertips and into the jet itself. Suddenly it was as if the airplane knew which way to go. Hunter waited-five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen. Then he took a deep gulp of oxygen and opened his eyes.

Below him was a submarine.

It was apparent right away that this boat was not like the submersible lugs the Norsemen traveled in. This vessel was as sleek and futuristic in design as the Norsemen's troop subs were bulky and cloddish. This submarine was smaller by a third in length and sleeker by a factor of five. It was painted shiny black with bright red highlights and featured an elaborate, bright design that ran right up to the Norse monster head on its bow.

On one hand, the sub's design was reminiscent of the old Soviet Alpha 1-class, with its contoured swept-back conning tower and overall bullet design. Yet Hunter could also see traces of the U.S. Navy's Lafayette class of subs, especially in the deck length and beam. The truth was that this sub could cmly be a hybrid, designed by taVaag b\te and pieces from other subs and therefore allowing it to be mistaken for any number of submersibles.

But what was unmistakable were the two rows of hatches-four on each side-that were very prominent just aft of the conning tower. These, Hunter knew, were the coverings for missile-launch tubes.

It took less than a nano-second for Hunter to put it all together: he was staring down at one of the Fire Bats.

An instant later, the Harrier was shooting straight up in the air. With the gaggle of antennae and radio scopes poking out of the sub's conning tower, it was a good bet that there was air defense-sensing equipment on board capable of detecting him within a close radius.

Now his hands, still linked to the psychic tendons deep within, had rocketed the jumpjet up and away from the mysterious Norse submarine. Up through twenty-five hundred feet, through five thousand. Straight up-not like a 298

bird, not like any other airplane.

Straight up, like a god ascending into the heavens.

He leveled off at ten thousand feet. From this height he could keep an eye on the sub while being relatively sure that they couldn't see him. It was steaming due north, and by evidence of the miles-long, very distinct white seafoam trail left by its wake, Hunter deduced correctly that the boat had just cruised right through the battle area.

He felt an involuntary shudder run through him at the thought of what several nuclear-armed ICBM's could have done during the one-sided battle. Yet the people inside the sleek sub had just borne strange witness to the virtual destruction of the huge Norse raiding army.

And they had done so without firing so much as a single shot.

Hunter's brain switched into overdrive at this realization. Wolf had been right after all. The whole Norse invasion of North America had been a smokescreen.

But if this was indeed true-that the Norse invaders' actions had been a cover for yet another, more insidious plot-then it opened up another tog question'.

^\va\ wre the real intentions of these modern Vikings?

Hunter checked his watch. It was 0710 hours and getting darker by the minute.

Yet he found following the sub in the waning sunlight presented no problem.

Flying a zig-zag northerly course and trailing the vessel from two miles up and a mile behind, he could still clearly see the long white almost luminescent wake of the Fire Bats. Even when it got dark, he knew that his look-down radar would still be able to follow the sub.

And if the damn thing decided to submerge, then he'd fall back on pure intuition to keep it in track.

For there was more than a professional curiosity about this submarine-that had been evident from the moment he spotted it. No, the crackling cauldron within his soul was bubbling for more reasons than just another attack-and-destroy mission. Something aboard the submarine was calling to him-like a siren, it was sending out a psychic

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message that only his extraordinary internal antenna could receive. But this time the message was not bouncing off his spirit and then going straight to his brain. This time, the vibrations were richocheting off his soul and racing straight to his heart.