Lucifer Crusade Read online

  He checked his instruments again. Ten miles out, fuel getting lower. Time to negotiate.

  “Casablanca control,” he said into his microphone. “What is your ‘landing authorization’ fee?”

  There was only the slightest of hesitation, then the answer came back. “Small aircraft. Jet fighter. One bag of gold, or five silver.”

  Steep, but expected. But he didn’t intend to pay anywhere near that just to land.

  “Casablanca control,” Hunter called just as he reached the coastline. “I have one bag of silver. It’s yours if you give me landing okay.”

  “Two bags,” came the reply.

  “Bag and a half,” Hunter said.

  “Land clear on seven,” the controller said, his shrill voice rising yet another octave. “Right behind the Air-India Jumbo.”

  Welcome to Casablanca.

  Hunter inserted the F-16 into the melee of landing and departing airliners. A fog bank in the night sky over the airport made the approach even more hazardous. He dodged at least a half-dozen airliners, nearly clipped the tail section of a stray 727, and actually landed ahead of the red Air-India 747. As his wheels touched the ground, a DC-10 was lifting off no more than 500 feet ahead of him.

  He followed the line of yellow runway lights to a taxiing path lined with blue. The number of aircraft above the airport was nothing compared to what was on the ground. The place was a traffic jam of airliners.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he asked himself as he rolled up to a very thin empty station point near the bustling terminal. There were people everywhere—some carrying luggage, others just bags on their backs. Men, women, kids. They were in the terminal, on its roof and walkways, even on parts of the runway. There were flashing lights everywhere and he could hear sirens even over the noise of his jet engine.

  He noticed there was a slight twinge of panic in the way the crowds were behaving. The loading of a nearby DC-9 was not going at an orderly pace. People were pushing and shoving each other—squeezing themselves up the loading ramp and into the airplane. Fistfights were breaking out near other airplanes.

  This isn’t just another busy night at the airport, he reasoned. It looked more like an evacuation …

  He shut down the 16 and punched up his exotic anti-theft computer program. Once it kicked in, the airplane was not only theft-proof but, thanks to a zapping electrical charge that ran throughout its body, it was also tamper-proof. Convinced the airplane was secure, Hunter popped the canopy, grabbed his M-16, and climbed out.

  The noise was deafening. He walked across the crowded tarmac, avoiding the crowds as best he could. He could see desperation in their faces, but they weren’t a refugee rabble. They looked well-fed and mostly well-clothed. Yet people were battering each other to get on the airliners. But why? He noticed another curious thing: the incoming aircraft were not discharging anyone. They were flying in empty, loading up, and taking off without so much as a wipe of the windshield.

  There were a lot of bad vibes in the air. He felt like a full-scale panic could break out at any moment.

  Instinctively, he looked around for some kind of police force or military presence. There was none. Nor were any of the aircraft of non-civilian design. His F-16 was the only military aircraft in the airport.

  He made his way through the confusion to the control tower and found it too was a madhouse. There were more than forty air controllers, all barking orders into the microphones and frantically looking into their radar screens. The place was strewn with plates, half-eaten meals, pots of bubbling tea and coffee, and more than a few empty wine bottles. Hunter felt lucky he had made it down in one piece.

  He was here to pay his landing fee, and perhaps get a little information. He sought out the head of the place, figuring this would be the man who should receive his “authorization fee.” A man sitting at a desk slightly away from the pandemonium seemed to fit the bill.

  Hunter threw a bag and a half of silver onto his desk. The man looked up immediately from the Arabic-language newspaper.

  “I own that F-16 that just came in,” Hunter told him.

  The man looked him over. “Aren’t you Hawk Hunter?” he said with a surprised look.

  Hunter was taken aback slightly. Who the hell knew him way out here?

  “Yes,” he replied, looking into the older man’s steel-black eyes. He was completely bald: a small, tough, a very distinguished-looking Arab. “My name is Hunter. I’m from the Pacific American—”

  “—from the United States Air Force,” the man said, cutting him off knowingly. “And the Thunderbirds. And the Northeast Economic Zone Air Patrol.”

  Hunter was speechless. He knew he had made somewhat of a name for himself back in America. But had news of his exploits carried all the way over to North Africa?

  The answer was no. However, a less-than-flattering mug shot of him had made the trip. The man reached inside his desk draw and came out with a bounty poster. It was for Hunter. His old service ID picture was on it, as were these words:

  ONE BILLION DOLLARS IN SILVER OR GOLD FOR THE CAPTURE OR PROOF OF DEATH OF HAWK HUNTER, CRIMINAL WANTED BY THE NEW ORDER. COLLECTION POINTS: PARIS, THE BAHAMAS, MOSCOW.

  “One billion?” Hunter blurted out. “Christ.” He knew The Circle had put a price of a half-billion on his head about a year ago. But a billion? Apparently the New Order had doubled the pot.

  This would only mean more trouble for Hunter.

  “I could shoot you right now and collect, major,” the man said.

  Hunter had his M-16 off his shoulder and ready in an instant.

  “But I won’t,” the man quickly added.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t need a billion dollars?” Hunter asked defiantly.

  “No, it’s because I know who you really are, major,” the man said, confidently lighting a long, dark cigarette. He was a native Moroccan. Hunter could tell by his accent. “And I know you’re not a criminal.”

  The man rose, gathered in the silver, and motioned Hunter to a miniscule office at the rear of the control tower. They went inside and the man closed the door, effectively blocking out the noisy confusion of the air controllers.

  “Said el-Fauzi,” the man said, introducing himself, extending his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, major.”

  Hunter shook his hand. “Really? ‘An honor’?”

  “Yes, major,” el-Fauzi said, producing a bottle and pouring out two drinks into miniature, porcelain cups. “I worked with US Naval Intelligence during the war. We—everyone—knew of your F-16 squadron and the big air battles. After the war, the Russians let everyone know that you and your squadron were officially ‘war criminals.’ That’s what you get for kicking their asses.”

  “But you also knew about the Zone Air Patrol,” Hunter said.

  “You mean ZAP?” el-Fauzi said. “Oh, we hear a lot of things here, major. All the time.”

  The office’s window looked right out onto the tarmac. Hunter couldn’t help but be distracted by the pandemonium outside.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “Those people?” el-Fauzi said, sipping his drink. “Well, they’re escaping, of course.”

  “Escaping?”

  “Yes, major,” el-Fauzi said, looking surprised. “Escaping. Getting out. Flying to South America. All of them. Before the war breaks out again.”

  “That seems to be on everyone’s minds these days,” Hunter said, tasting the thick, ultra-bitter liquor. His friend, Diego on the Azores, had talked about the imminent war.

  “As well it should be, major,” el-Fauzi said. “But isn’t that why you are here in Casablanca?”

  “To fight?” Hunter asked.

  “Why, yes,” el-Fauzi answered. “To join The Modern Knights.”

  “I don’t know anything about any Modern Knights,” Hunter said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a picture of Viktor.

  “I am chasing this man,” he said, handing the photo to el-Fauzi.

&n
bsp; El-Fauzi took the photo and instantly dropped it as if it were on fire. “That’s him!” he nearly screamed, his unflappable manner temporarily leaving him. “That is Lucifer!”

  “Lucifer?” Hunter said. “Who the hell is Lucifer? That man is Viktor Robotov. He’s a Russian agent. Caused a rather large misunderstanding back in America—one that left a couple hundred thousand or so people dead. So now I’m tracking him. Heard he might have passed through here.”

  “This man is the one they call Lucifer,” el-Fauzi said, downing his drink and pouring another. He was slowly regaining his composure. “He passed over us, some time ago.”

  “‘Passed over’?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” el-Fauzi said. “In his horrible black airplane. He had several free-lance fighters with him. Ran right through our airspace, shot down several planes, simply for being in their way.”

  Sounds like Viktor, Hunter thought.

  “But, we know him as Lucifer,” the Moroccan continued. “He’s the most powerful man left in the Mediterranean. Europe. The Middle East. Anywhere. His allies hold every piece of major territory east of Tunisia all the way to the Sinai. He controls everything east of that. It is he who is to make war on the rest of the Mediterranean. People know it’s coming. They’re trying to get out now.”

  “And that’s what this is all about?” Hunter asked, motioning towards the mass of humanity outside trying to fit onto the waiting airliners.

  “Yes,” el-Fauzi said, refilling their cups. “World War Three, major, is about to heat up again.”

  Hunter shook his head. That’s just what Diego had said. He still couldn’t believe it.

  “Where is this Lucifer?” he asked. “Where’s his base? His headquarters? Where is he right now?”

  El-Fauzi laughed, then quickly became dead serious.

  “He is everywhere,” he whispered.

  “You mean, his spies are everywhere?”

  “Spies too,” el-Fauzi said. “But the man himself. He walks among us, they say. He’s seen frequently. Here. In Tunis. On Crete. Cairo. And farther east. Spreading terror. People are afraid just to look on his image. The poor believe him to have god-like powers. His face appears in the night sky, they say. Even looking at his photo can cause death.”

  Hunter closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He realized that he hadn’t been giving Viktor enough credit. He had sown his seeds of fear and hysteria in Europe and the Mediterranean just as effectively as he had in America.

  “Who knows where he really is?” Hunter asked.

  El-Fauzi laughed again. “One man, in town,” he said. “The Lord. He’ll tell you. He knows where everyone is. Come. I’ll take you to him.”

  Chapter 3

  A HALF-HOUR LATER THEY were in a jeep bouncing over a cratered highway, approaching the city of Casablanca. Or at least Hunter assumed it was Casablanca.

  The city before him was brilliantly lit up, like a neon oasis in the middle of the desert. In fact Hunter felt it was too bright. A dozen multi-colored searchlights dashed across the night sky. From this distance, every building seemed to have all its lights on at once. Everywhere was blazing electricity. No wonder the light of the city could be seen from seventy miles out.

  But, as a city, it also looked, well … too small to Hunter.

  El-Fauzi, behind the wheel for the breakneck trip, roared into the city. Almost immediately the jeep was forced to slow down to a crawl, so crowded was the street. Everywhere were shops, eating places, gambling dens, rug stores, whorehouses, and cafes. And despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people, some dressed in authentic-looking Moroccan clothes, others wearing strange, 1940ish styles.

  And everything was so goddamn bright!

  Hunter had to shield his eyes to look at some of the streetlights. Finally he saw one that was broken and he realized it was a Kleig light, an ultra-powerful piece of illuminating equipment used for filming movies.

  Then he noticed the buildings were very authentic. Too authentic. Nothing seemed out of place. That was the problem. From the stucco-type construction to the grand Arabic and English lettering, the “perfect” buildings looked more like movie props.

  El-Fauzi knew what he was thinking. “It is a movie set,” he explained. “Years ago, right before the war broke out, a Hollywood movie company came here, built this place. The real Casablanca was destroyed in the war. It’s over the next hill—or what’s left of it.”

  “Are you telling me that all these people are living on a movie set?” Hunter asked.

  “That’s right,” el-Fauzi said. “Oh, they’ve added to it. And it’s barely one-tenth the size of the real city, and that’s only counting downtown. But when the war cooled down, there were a lot of people passing through this part of the world. We had a fairly serviceable airport, and we knew if it were operational, we could make money and survive. And why build another city? Hollywood built this one for us!”

  “God, this place is wired,” Hunter said, seeing mules of thick electrical cables stretched everywhere. “How can you afford to burn this much juice?”

  “‘Juice’ is one thing we have a lot of, major,” el-Fauzi said, turning a corner and heading for the center of the small prop city. “Natural gas. It’s everywhere. Under the ground. We’ve got gas turbines. A bunch of them. They drink the stuff. It’s pure and they love it. They run like charms. So we got more electricity than we need.”

  It was all starting to make sense to Hunter. The crazy kind of sense that served as normalcy in the New Order world.

  The jeep screeched to a stop in front of a well-lit cafe. Crowds of people were streaming in and out. Many of them were beautiful women. A piano tinkled inside. A bright neon sign above the place featured a flashing palm tree and the establishment’s name: “Rick’s American Cafe.”

  “I think I’ve seen this movie,” Hunter told el-Fauzi.

  “We all have.” El-Fauzi laughed, jumping out of the open jeep. “That’s why they built this place. They were going to film it again!”

  They went into the cafe and el-Fauzi hugged the maître d’. They were soon escorted to the best table. A bottle of champagne appeared out of nowhere. Normally, Hunter would have felt silly. Most of the women present were wearing evening gowns; many of the men were in tuxedos. He was dressed in his flight suit, baseball cap on his head, flight boots on his feet, his helmet dangling from his belt, and the M-16 on his shoulder. Yet no one seemed to notice he wasn’t exactly formal.

  There were many soldiers there too. Officers mostly, wearing a wide range of dress uniforms, most with flashes of medals on their chests. Each officer appeared to be holding his own personal court with two, three, or four women. Those fancy uniforms did it every time. Most of the officers appeared to be unarmed. But Hunter could see their bodyguards lurking in the shadows, drinking at tables on the periphery of the action.

  The air was thick with the smell of incense, hashish, cooking food, and sweet liquor. A beautiful young woman was singing on a stage nearby. A courtly black gentleman played a flawlessly moody piano. Again, everything was script-perfect.

  El-Fauzi knew half the people who walked by the table, rising and kissing most of them once on each cheek. A waiter appeared, said nothing, and snapped his fingers. A searing rack of lamb materialized an instant later.

  Hunter was legitimately hungry, and apparently so was el-Fauzi. The man attacked the piece of smoking meat with vigor. That’s all Hunter needed. He started carving off pieces of the lamb for himself.

  They sat and ate and drank two bottles of champagne. The band played, people danced. Hunter spent half the time eyeing the many, many beautiful women in the place—the other half wolfing down his meal.

  They finished off the lamb in about twenty minutes. The meal cleared away, they sat sipping after-dinner drinks. Suddenly el-Fauzi said, “That’s him.”

  Hunter turned to see a large man, wearing a white suit and a fez, stroll into the cafe and head for a dinner booth near the wall. Within sec
onds, other dark figures moved toward the booth. Some stopped briefly to whisper something to the large man, then hurried on their way. It was obvious he was some kind of top dog.

  “That’s the Lord,” el-Fauzi told Hunter. “Lord Lard. Very rich. Very powerful. He’s big in arms sales. He can get fighters, tanks, SAMs, ammo. He has connections. No one is sure just where. Italy, some say. Some say Sicily or even Sardinia. But he sells to anyone, any side, any leader, any flag. Deals only in gold, no silver.”

  “And this is the guy who’s going to tell me where I can find Viktor?” Hunter asked.

  “If anyone knows, Lard does,” el-Fauzi said. El-Fauzi rose and walked over to the man. A second later, he was motioning Hunter to join them.

  Hunter squeezed into the man’s booth and found a martini sitting in front of him. El-Fauzi whispered something to Lard, then turned to Hunter. “You’ll excuse me,” he said, with a wink. “There’s an old friend of mine—a stewardess—whom I must absolutely buy a drink for. We’ll talk later.”

  El-Fauzi’s quick exit seemed designed to leave Hunter and Lard alone.

  “So you’re the famous criminal, Hawk Hunter,” Lard said, a smile wrinkling his plump face. His accent was vaguely British. “What’s the asking price for your head these days, major?”

  “I understand it keeps going up all the time,” Hunter replied.

  “Not many criminals will The New Order pay a billion dollars for, Hunter,” Lard said, swigging his martini. “A man could buy a country and rent an army with that kind of money.”

  “Spoken like a true businessman,” Hunter told him.

  Lard laughed. “But I understand you are not here to fight, Hunter. This surprises me. There are probably more mercenaries per square mile between here and Algeria than anywhere, ever, in history.”