Lucifer Crusade Page 18

  “Who the hell were they, major?” Heath asked, nervously pulling on a cigarette.

  “Who knows?” Hunter replied, downing a cup of whiskey-laced coffee. “Whoever they were, they sure knew how the hell to fly those goddamn mothers low-ass-end on the water.”

  They were sitting in a small dining room that doubled as the Saratoga’s pilot-debriefing room. Besides Hunter and Heath, Olson, Yaz, and the Commodore were present. Even the industrious O’Brien was there.

  “We lose so many men,” the Commodore said. “Those bastards. We must find them. Destroy them!”

  “Do you think they were in Lucifer’s employ, major?” Olson asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” Hunter replied. “And the fact they were using Soviet-designed, if not Soviet-built and -piloted, aircraft, is really bugging me. God knows what they have out there waiting for us.”

  “Couldn’t we send out a search plane and locate their base?” O’Brien asked.

  “Sure, we could,” Hunter said. “But the thing is, I’ll bet they don’t have a base. Not a fixed, permanent one anyway.”

  Heath refilled a cup with coffee and spiked it with the bottle of no-name whiskey on the table. “How do you mean, major?”

  “Well, they wouldn’t really need a fixed land base,” Hunter began. “All they need is a source of fuel. They could have a few supertankers filled with JP-8 aviation fuel floating around out there somewhere. They land on the water nearby and fuel up. They could even have some kind of docking works extended from the ship. Some supply ships nearby, where they keep the food, and extra crews. Hell, the crew members could live right on the aircraft without much trouble. They wouldn’t have to put into dry land for weeks.”

  Yaz let out a groan. “God, that’s all we need,” he said, his Southern accent betraying him. “We got a floating airbase out there, keeping one step ahead of us.”

  “That’s not the only problem,” Hunter said. “Those big seaplanes are carrying some very sophisticated radar domes on them. They might be slow and clumsy, but I’ll tell you, there’s a lot of them and they can probably fight in all situations.”

  “Like night fighting?” Olson asked.

  “Yes,” Hunter replied, deadly serious. “Night fighting and even in bad flying weather. If that happens, there’s not a fighter on this ship that would be safe going up after them. And I doubt if even the Spanish rocket teams could stop them.”

  Heath thought for a second, bit his lip, then asked, “So, what if they ever got into us here—on the carrier, I mean—what would happen?”

  Hunter looked them all straight in the eye, then said, “They could sink this ship … ”

  Hunter couldn’t sleep. His normally fourth-gear-and-racing mind was working overtime now, to the point where he couldn’t lay still. He carefully moved Emma’s sweet, naked body from his, kissed her, then rose and left his cabin.

  It was a calm, cool, moonless night. The Med was like a sheet of glass; hardly a wave rose and fell. Peaceful, yet uneasy. The calm before the storm. He knew the attack that day had been simply a probing action. The flying boats knew they could go after bigger game than the potluck vessels of the Freedom Navy.

  And Peter had predicted it, the spooky son of a bitch …

  Hunter walked through the CIC, speaking briefly with the night-shift crew. They reported everything as normal. Nothing out of the ordinary had been picked up in Lucifer’s radio transmissions since the seaplane attack—but then again, Hunter didn’t expect anything unusual.

  He left and walked about the Saratoga’s superstructure. The French anti-ship group had doubled their watch, as had the Spanish rocketeers. Two Harriers and a Viggen were on the deck, ready to launch at a moment’s notice. On the frigates surrounding the carrier, he could see more than the normal running lights were burning. Cabin lights were on; figures moved silently on the walkways. He knew all of the ships were on general, first-degree alert.

  A quarter-mile off the carrier’s stern was the Moroccan troop ship. His extra-sensitive ears could hear the unmistakable drone of chanting. The desert fighters were praying in the middle of the night. Most of the boats of the Liberte Marina were now mixed in amongst the frigates and the tugs, although the Commodore insisted that twenty-five of his boats still be allowed to “sail the point.” The whole fleet was on edge. Expecting the unexpected. Even O’Brien’s tugs had their deck guns fully manned.

  He walked into the bridge, where Yaz sat, going over sea and weather charts with O’Brien’s second-in-command.

  “We could be in Malta in forty-eight hours, Major,” Yaz told him. “Currents here are still running against us, but O’Brien says he can put on an auxiliary tug or two.”

  “God knows what it’s like in Malta these days,” Hunter said.

  Yaz nodded. “It’s anyone’s guess,” he said. “When we were holed up in Algiers, we heard some pretty wild stories about the place. Still, Sir Neil had scheduled it as our first resupply stop. He felt confident at the time that we could get gassed up there.”

  Suddenly a loud, howling scream split the night.

  “What the fuck was that!” Yaz yelled.

  Hunter picked up on the last tones of the scream and determined it was coming from below, in the general area of the sick bay. “Sounds like it came from Sir Neil’s room,” he said, running out of the bridge, with Yaz and two SAS men in tow.

  They reached the sick bay to find two more SAS men and a couple of Gurkhas in the process of battering down the hatch door that led to Sir Neil’s recovery room. Another scream pierced the night.

  “Bloody door’s locked from the inside,” one of the SAS men grunted as they pounded away at the hatch handle. Finally it gave, and those on the outside rushed in just as another scream was heard.

  When Hunter got inside, he was relieved to see Sir Neil, awake and relatively safe, though looking quite confused. Clara, the Madam who had taken a liking to the British commander, was at his side, stark naked. She looked absolutely petrified. She had done the screaming.

  It was almost completely dark inside the room and it was oddly cold. Someone tried the light switch, but it didn’t work. Still, Hunter could see that Clara was pointing to the far corner. He whirled around and saw a figure sitting there, hunched low, groaning and shaking.

  It was Peter …

  No one dared approach him. And for good reason. The strange man had raised his head and Hunter saw a sight he would never forget. The man’s eyes were glowing. Glowing the color of red. Hunter shut his own and quickly opened them again, just to check and make sure it wasn’t him. It wasn’t. Nor was it some freak reflection. The man’s eyes were actually burning red. It looked like a special effect from a cheap sci-fi movie. But in real life, it was extremely chilling.

  “He came out of nowhere!” Clara screamed. “One moment there was no one there, the next he was there. And he’s making such an awful, dreadful sounds. And those eyes—”

  She screamed once again, causing everyone in the room to jump. Hunter gave the thumb to two SAS guys and they quickly picked her up and literally carried her outside the room.

  Then the cabin became very hot.

  “Peter … ” Hunter said, daring to take a step toward the man.

  Suddenly, a strange laughter filled the room. Peter’s mouth was open, and the deep, booming laughter was coming from it. But it was not Peter’s voice …

  “You fools!” the echoing, graveled voice said, gurgling in mocking laughter. “You should know better than to dare attack me!”

  At that point, the normally unruffled Gurkhas left. A suspicious lot, they had had enough. Hunter could hear one of them vomiting outside the room.

  Goddamn, this is spooky, Hunter thought, taking another step toward the man.

  “Don’t you dare come any closer to me,” the voice said “You! Hunter! I won’t rest until I see you dead!”

  At that point, all the electrical systems on the ship went out. Hunter knew because the distinctive sounds of the gas-
powered generators located in the ship’s hold had suddenly ceased.

  “Jesus Christ,” one of the SAS men swore. “He’s knocked out the blooming power.”

  Hunter had experienced some pretty strange things before, but nothing as strange as this.

  Still, he drew yet another step closer to the man.

  “Peter,” he said, loudly. “Snap out of it—”

  The voice roared. “Don’t you dare come near me!” With that, a great glob of green, stinking mass came spraying out of Peter’s mouth. Hunter deftly moved to the side just in time to avoid the disgusting spit.

  Hunter gulped, then in a voice as strong as he could muster, he yelled: “Fuck you!”

  A terrifying scream filled the cabin. The sickly Sir Neil put his hands to his ears, as did the two remaining SAS men. Another glob of smelly mess—this one blood red—came spitting from Peter’s mouth. Hunter was also able to dodge this.

  “So who the fuck are you?” Hunter yelled defiantly, stepping a little closer towards Peter. “That coward, Lucifer?”

  “I am your worst nightmare, Hunter,” the deep voice gurgled with ear-splitting volume. “I am in this wretch’s body only to curse you. To condemn you! You fools!”

  Hunter was now three steps away from Peter. His eyes were glowing even more intensely. His beard was covered with the repulsive, sticky vomit. Hunter had to do something. The room smelled worse than anything he’d ever imagined.

  “Stay away!” the voice from within Peter screamed. “Stay away from me!”

  Hunter then quickly moved two steps and planted his boot right against Peter’s chest. He pressed hard. Another blood-curdling scream came out of the man’s mouth, so intense Hunter could feel the vibrations right through his boot.

  He leaned over and with a balled fist laid a strong punch on Peter’s left jaw. Another scream. But this one was cut short by a left uppercup from Hunter. Peter’s body was lifted up and flung back against the wall, where his eyes went wide. In a microsecond, they changed back to a normal human color. Then they closed and the man slumped to the floor.

  A few seconds later, the lights came back on …

  Chapter 25

  THE NEXT DAY DAWNED cold and stormy. The seas were rougher than at anytime in the voyage and the crews of the Saratoga flotilla witnessed the beginning of a savage mid-morning thunder and lightning storm. It was as if Hunter’s punches, thrown the night before to break Peter’s spell, had dented some fragile fabric of Nature. Now Nature would seek its revenge …

  The sudden bad weather—none of which had shown up on the carrier’s fairly sophisticated meteorological hardware—forced the towing operation to stop. The risk of damage to both the carrier and the precious tugboats was too great to attempt pushing on in the wind-swept seas. Reluctantly, Heath, acting as temporary commander of the operation in Sir Neil’s incapacity, asked Yaz to order the carrier’s anchor dropped. The other ships in the fleet did likewise.

  Hunter was still mystified by the bizarre happenings of the night before. No one could figure out how Peter had gotten inside Sir Neil’s room—his SAS guards once again had left him heavily sedated in his box-bed, and they swore they hadn’t left his cabin’s door for a moment. Clara, who had been sleeping with Sir Neil, said she simply woke up and Peter was there, crouched in the corner, the frightening glow coming from his eyes. Peter himself would provide no clues either; he was heavily sedated. The SAS guard watching over him was increased again to four.

  The whole day was a series of storms, thunder, lightning, and waves so high they crashed regularly on to the Saratoga’s deck. One gigantic wave hit the stern of the flattop and carried away a frigate helicopter with it, although the chopper was triple-fastened to the deck. While the Norwegian frigates, the Moroccan troopship, the oiler, and the tugs were rugged enough to ride out the weather, the storms were especially destructive to the smaller boats of the Freedom Navy. Several had already sunk—though the loss of life was slight due to heroic efforts of the Norwegians, who managed to pluck many of the hapless sailors out of the rough seas.

  Hunter spent most of the day in the CIC. The radio-intercept operations were at a standstill too. But his major concern—next to being thrown around due to the violent up-and-down motion of the carrier—was to maintain some sort of defensive perimeter around the fleet despite the storm.

  Around mid-afternoon, Hunter was trying to drink a cup of coffee in the mess when Yaz came in.

  “Well, it’s official,” the American sailor told him. “We are in the middle of an authentic hurricane.”

  “I didn’t think they had hurricanes in the Mediterranean,” Hunter replied.

  “They don’t. But the winds are strong enough to qualify it as one,” Yaz said, trying to drink some coffee himself.

  “Any sign of it letting up?” Hunter asked.

  “None that we can see,” Yaz said. “Of course, it really snuck up on us. Maybe it will go away just as quickly.”

  At that moment, the ship went through a particularly violent shudder, caused by a gigantic wave hitting it broadside. The lights blinked a couple times, then stayed on, though noticeably dimmer.

  “Those poor generators,” Yaz said. “If they hold out through this, I want to buy stock in the company that made them.”

  Hunter spent several more hours in the CIC, then went up to see Sir Neil.

  “Recovered from last night?” Hunter asked, slipping the British Commander a small flask filled with wine.

  “Aye, just barely,” Sir Neil said, keeping an eye on the Italian doctor on watch and taking a quick swig of the vino when he was sure the physician wasn’t looking.

  “Looked like a bad scene from a bad movie, no?” Hunter asked.

  “I’ll tell you, major,” Sir Neil said, “I’ve heard Lucifer had such powers, but I never believed until now. It really shows you what we are up against.”

  “Well, if he orchestrated that little spook show last night, he is quite an opponent,” Hunter agreed. “But I guess I should be used to it. He pulled some pretty unworldly things back during The Circle War too.”

  “One thing is for certain,” Sir Neil said, struggling a bit to sit up in his bed. “He wants to stop us from accomplishing our mission at all costs. In my mind, that should give us even more reason to push on.”

  “Hear, hear!” Hunter said, smiling.

  Sir Neil feigned a slight cough, expertly sneaking another swig of wine. “What shape are the airplanes in, Hunter?”

  “They’re in fine condition,” the pilot told him. “We’re keeping the Tornados, the Jags, and the Viggens secured until we get to the Canal, or unless we need them sooner. The Harriers are always on standby. They’re goddamn tough airplanes. The S-3A still needs some armament work, and its engine is just a little cranky.

  “But your monkeys are good. They’re smart and they know their way around a jet engine, whether it be British, Swedish, or made in the USA. When the time comes, we’ll be close to ninety-five percent available. And we’ll have plenty of ammo to strap under their wings, thanks to the haul from Sardinia.”

  “That’s all we want,” Sir Neil said, resting back down into his bed. “I’m just sorry that I’m laying here, all busted up. Goddamn Sardinians. The hedonistic bastards. Why wasn’t that bloke with the machine gun out getting laid or pissed like everyone else on the whole shitting island?”

  Hunter eyed a woman’s nightgown hanging from a hook near Sir Neil’s bed. It was obviously Clara’s.

  “Well, I see you’ve at least been making the best of the time you’ve spent here,” he said.

  Sir Neil caught his drift. “Aye. Clara.” He sighed. “She’s a sweetie, to come and comfort an old goat like me, especially with all these bandages and things.”

  “Well,” Hunter said, getting up to go, “if you’re bedridden anyway, what the hell?”

  Suddenly Sir Neil was sitting up again. “Hunter,” he said, extending his hand, “thanks, me boy.”

  Hunter took the ma
n’s hand and shook it.

  “Heath is a good lad and doing well in my stead—but he’s following orders because he’s RAF to the end,” Sir Neil said. “But I know you don’t have to be doing this. I feel sometimes like I’ve gotten you in to one hell of a mess. Mixed up in some fool’s cockamamy idea of a crusade to save the world. I just wanted to let you know I appreciate it.”

  Hunter became very serious. He could see in the man’s eyes the look one has when a dream is in danger of being lost. The worst fear in the world. The fear of the unfulfilled.

  He gripped Sir Neil’s hand harder. “Don’t worry, sir,” The Wingman said. “You can count on me … ”

  The storm continued unabated into the night. If anything, the seas got rougher. There was no need to calculate where the center of the storm was—the simultaneous crack of lightning and boom of thunder proved it was directly over the Saratoga.

  Once again, Hunter tried to sleep, but found it impossible. He had checked with the CIC one last time, and everything was normal—or as normal as they could be in the middle of a hurricane. Yet something was still gnawing at him—the anticipation of trouble ahead, compounded by the spooky trip the night before. His own fairly extensive extrasensory abilities were buzzing. Would he ever reach a point where he wouldn’t have to worry about such things again?

  The answer was no …

  He lay on his bunk and had just closed his eyes when the feeling washing over him.

  “Oh no,” he thought, immediately jumping up from the bunk. “Here we go again … ”

  He was up and running toward the deck in a moment, pausing only to put on his flight helmet and grab his M-16. He was working totally on instinct now—a nether region so baffling for him that in some cases he couldn’t explain his actions even after the crisis was over.