The Lucifer Crusade (4 page)

And he couldn't help thinking that the spectre of Viktor-or Lucifer-was lurking behind it all.

He set a course low over the Moroccan desert, heading for Algeria and the unknown. He had to expect the unexpected. Play it smart. If war were about to break out in the region, he'd have to assume that any population center would be equipped with SAMs, maybe interceptors. Both of which he wanted to avoid.

The sand-skimming course over the desert seemed to be his best choice.

Suddenly he felt trouble. His well-developed sixth 33

sense -particularly attuned to nearby hostile aircraft-had his body tingling.

He checked his long-range radar, which soon confirmed his feelings. There were two fighters approaching him from the northwest. They were moving fast and they were heavily armed.

He instinctively checked his instruments. Everything looked good until he went to test-fire his specially designed "Six Pack" of M-61 Vulcan cannons in the nose of the F-16. To his surprise, a push of the trigger produced nothing.

Another push, still nothing. According to his panel lights, everything was in order. Strange ... He quickly rerouted the fire command through his flight computer. Still nothing.

Someone had tampered with the airplane while it was parked at Casablanca, he knew it. He punched up his air-to-air missile-arming program. It too was drawing a blank. Sabotage! He should have expected it, although the electrically charged alarm system had never failed him before. An expert had done the dirty deed. But he'd have to figure out who the culprit was later.

Right now, he needed to concentrate on the approaching interceptors.

He booted the 16 up to full military speed and was glad to feel the afterburner kick in so smoothly. The saboteur had apparently only tinkered with his armaments and not the airplane's power plant. He stayed down low, hoping to skirt the look-down radar the interceptors might be carrying. His pursuers were just twenty miles behind him. He was sure he could outrun them to Algiers, but what would happen then?

"F-16, F-16." His radio suddenly burst to life. "This is the Gibraltar Defense Force. You are in an unauthorized air zone. Prepare for interception."

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He was "unauthorized" again. Yet he didn't feel threatened. The voice on the radio was British. Oddly, it did not sound hostile. Just serious. Hunter felt instinctively drawn to trust it.

"Gibraltar Defense," he radioed back. "This is Major Hawk Hunter of the Pacific American Air Corps. I was unaware this was restricted air space.

Request permission to leave the area at once."

"F-16." The voice came back. "You are not only in a restricted airspace, you are also traveling at illegally high rate of speed. You must be cited. We are tracking you with long-range missiles. We will fire if we have to. Please reduce speed and prepare for interception."

High speed? Cited? What the hell was this?

Hunter decided to slow down and let the interceptors catch up to him. He was unarmed, and although he knew he could have outran the long-range air-to-airs, with all the twisting and turning required more than half his fuel would be burned up uselessly. Anyway, the interceptor pilots didn't sound menacing.

They were Tornados. Impressive fighters that had been made back in the old days by a group of European companies. Hunter had seen many of them during the air battles over France. They were a rugged, versatile, even-flying aircraft, one of the best in the world.

They came up on either side of him. They were definitely British -both airplanes had Union Jacks painted on their tail sections. One moved in closer to his port wing and gave a gentlemanly wave.

"Sorry, F-16, but you'll have to follow us," he radioed over. "Course seven-two-niner Tango. Our base is thirty-four kilos northwest."

Hunter waved back. Something about the British.

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No matter what, they always sounded so civilized. The Tornados pulled ahead and turned northwest. Hunter followed.

The air base was actually a small, straight stretch of abandoned highway with a half-dozen large tents on either side. A long fuel truck sat off on the edge of the makeshift runway; jeeps and personnel carriers moved about. Several Rapier antiaircraft missile batteries ringed the base. Two other Tornados were parked on metal plates that served as temporary parking stations on the highway shoulder.

The two British interceptors landed in formation and Hunter came in right after them. They taxied to their assigned metal plates, while Hunter rolled along to the center of the base. Several men waited there. A ground mechanic directed him in with a pair of red flags and gave him the thumbs-up when he was in the correct parking position. He shut down the engine, popped the canopy, and climbed out to meet the men.

They were all officers of the Royal Air Force, dressed in the correct desert fatigues. As one, they snapped to a perfect opened-palmed salute. Hunter returned it as best he could. One officer stepped forward -a man with bright red hair and an enormous mustache to match. He walked over and shook Hunter's hand.

"Captain Stewart Heath," he said in a slight Cockney accent. "Sorry about all this, Major Hunter."

"Well, it's been a hell of a long time since I've got a speeding ticket,"

Hunter said.

Heath pointed to the two taxiing pilots. "They're just young bucks, major,"

Heath said. "Just a tad, shall we say, 'enthusiastic'?"

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Hunter smiled for the first time. "They're just doing their job," he said.

"I'm glad you see it that way, major," Heath said with a grin. "Now there will be a smallish fine. But not too much. Say, a quarter bag of silver. And if you pay it up right now, I can invite you to have breakfast with us with a clear conscience."

Hunter reached into his flight-suit pocket and came up with a small bag of coins. A lieutenant appeared, and Hunter handed him the bag. He returned the gesture with a salute.

Heath clapped his hands once loudly. "Smashing," he said, beaming. "Now, major, please. Will you join us?"

Although it seemed as if he had just finished his roasted lamb feast at the cafe, Hunter found himself hungry again. Plus he genuinely liked the Brits.

"Okay," he agreed. "Could always use a little more chow."

The entire group of officers, along with the two intercepting pilots, adjourned to a large tent where a meal of scrambled eggs, rolls, and tea was already waiting for them. Everyone helped themselves and settled down at the cafeteria-style benches to eat. Heath sat next to Hunter.

"We've heard of you, of course, Major Hunter," Heath told him. "When our boys radioed in they were tracking an F-16, well, there's only one F-16 flying these days, so we're told."

"What are you guys doing way out here?" Hunter asked him.

"It's a long story," Heath said, sipping his tea. "After the war cooled down, we -our wing of the RAF, that is -came into possession of the land on 37

both sides of Gibraltar. We must patrol this far, to watch our southern flank.

The speed-limit rule is simply one more way we can control the airspace. It keeps the troublemakers out, plus if we see anything coming our way at full boot, well, we'll know he's an enemy, won't we?" Hunter couldn't argue with the typically British

logic.

"Are you here to join the war, major?" one of the other officers asked across the table.

Hunter shook his head. "Believe it or not, the answer is no," he said. "In fact, up until a short time ago, I had no idea this war -or any other war-was going on."

"Oh, but you are out of touch over in America," Heath said. "It's not the

'quick jump over the pond' that it used to be."

"How true, captain," Hunter agreed. "We are very isolated. And we're embroiled in so many of our own problems, we don't have time to catch up on what's happening over here. But, by God, I would never have thought the big war was still going on."

"Well, in fairness to you Americans, the war did calm, down a bit for nearly two years," Heath told him. "Became sort of a 'phony war,' actually. The Soviets were too weak to lift a gun right after . . . well, after the dirty bastards nuked you. Many countries had entire armed units still intact. Most settled where they stood. V-'V //eve at the RAF base on Gibraltar when the armistice was (--/.dared. We sat there -on our bas.? -foi close to seven months. No one came to disarm us. Only then did we realize the Russians couldn't throw together five working divisions in Europe on a bet. So we started, well, moving about a bit."

He courteously refilled Hunter's plate with eggs

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and his cup with tea. Then he continued.

"It was about a year ago when we realized that the Russians were suddenly desperately light on the surface-to-airs. That's when we started flying long-range patrols. With nothing to shoot at us, we were flying as far north and east as Berlin. For the most part, we didn't see any appreciable Russian strength anywhere."

"You said they were short on SAMs," Hunter said.

"Yes, it was the most curious thing," Heath said. "We had our eyes on them, of course. And we were in contact with other RAF bases. And it seemed as if their SAM forces just dwindled overnight. It was such a strange thing for them to do, leave themselves open like that. They gave up whatever control they might have had over the European airspace. And there weren't enough MIGs around to make much of a difference. Plus a lot of their men defected."

"They withdrew their SAMs and sent them to America," Hunter told him. "They tried to split the continent right in half. Came close to doing it too. We just got through with them. It was rough."

"By God, major, are you serious?" Heath said. "We had no idea you were having a go with the Russkies over there."

Hunter settled back and told them the whole story. The formation of The Circle, the SAMs hidden in The Badlands, the ferocious battle between the democratic Western Forces and the fanatical, Soviet puppet armies of The Circle. The British officers were at once fascinated and flabbergasted by the tale.

"They took a huge risk," Heath said at the end of the story. "They were so intent on keeping you Yanks down."

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"Well, they've set us back," Hunter said with bitterness in his voice. "And that's why I'm here."

He reached inside his pocket and pulled out the picture of Viktor.

"I've been tracking this man," he said, handing the photo to Heath. "He's responsible for the whole Circle War."

Heath looked at the photo. "Why, this is the Lucifer bloke," he said. "The Madman of the Mediterranean. He's behind all the war talk right now."

"Well, he's the one who formed The Circle," Hunter said. "We know him as Viktor Robotov. He's a Russian agent, obviously high up on the ladder. He's the guy that got the Soviets to sneak in their SAMs."

"Well, he's quite dangerous," Heath said. "He's got almost a cult following.

I've seen videotapes of him. Religious, socialist, anarchic rubbish. It's all jibberish. But he's pushing the right button in the lowest common denominator, if you will."

"He did the same thing in America," Hunter said. "That's why I'm on his tail."

Heath stroked his fiery red mustache. "Well, you've taken on quite a task for yourself, major," he said. "I believe Lucifer is busy relighting World War Three right now. I'm not so sure he'll have time for you."

Hunter only smiled and said, "We'll see."

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He enjoyed talking to the Brits. They offered to give him a look at one of their Tornados, an invitation Hunter readily accepted. He loved airplanes and airplane design. He'd go anywhere, anytime, and talk airplanes with just about anyone.

After he went over every inch of the British fighter, it was time to turn his attention to his own airplane and its sabotaged firing system.

It took him less than a minute to find the problem. The saboteurs had been clever. They hadn't tripped the electric-shock alarm because they hadn't touched the airplane's body. Nothing was tampered with, no wires were cut.

Instead the saboteurs, most likely using a small laser, had cut through a thin seam on the side of the airplane's radardome located on its snout. Once through, the laser zapped the hundred or so semiconductors attached to its sophisticated logic center. The result: no weapons.

Hunter could fix the problem, but only by hot-wiring all the systems back to the power generator-a slow, time-consuming, two-day job at the least. But it was clear he couldn't go on without his defenses. He decided to take advantage of being in a

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friendly base. The Brits told him he could stay as long as he liked.

That night he lay in the visitor's tent, wrestling with his bug netting. An hour before, he had finished eating a hardy meal with the Brits, downing several cold Algerian beers along the way. Now the desert was cooling down and Hunter was looking forward to a good night's sleep.

Having finally solved the bug net, he lay on his bunk thinking. He reached inside his flight-suit pocket and took out a small flag. He unfolded it and fingered the material. It was his most prized possession: a small American flag. He carried it with him everywhere -ever since he'd taken it from a citizen he saw shot in war-torn New York City right after returning from the European theater years before.

The flag meant so much to him. It was the last symbol he knew of that reached back to the days before the big war started. Back when his country was called The United States of America. Back when there was that special unity found in all Americans. Back when it wasn't illegal to carry this flag. It was a law he defied every day of his life. He would gladly die fighting for his right to carry the Stars and Stripes. For his right to remember what it used to be like. For his right to dream what it might someday be again . . .

Also inside his pocket he carried a picture of Dominique. What was she to him?

His girlfriend? His lover? His soul mate? She was in Canada now, in friendly hands, recovering from a terrible two-year ordeal in which Viktor had kidnapped her and used her shamelessly for his twisted, brainwashing 42