But as Strike Leader, Hunter decided to play it safe. An attack on the empty tankers would have been a dangerous waste of time. That's why the strike force systematically destroyed the base's air-/ planes and headquarters before going after the supertankers.
That would be Hunter's job ...
He was carrying a Shrike missile, an antiradiation "smart" bomb that was usually targeted against radar installations. They had retrieved several from the Sardinians and Hunter had done some last-minute modifications on its guidance system.
He had wired the missile so its warhead would home in on any kind of radio signal, even one as small as a ship's intercom. But in doing so, he knew, the missile would have to be fired at close range, not the usual fifteen-mile
"fire-and-forget" firing distance intended for the Shrike.
Once Hunter was sure the rest of the strike force had cleared the area, he brought the 16 down to wavetop level. He streaked along the surface, lining up the first tanker-a rust bucket with a large, faded orange Gulf ball on its smokestack.
Fifteen seconds out, he armed the missile. Everything went green on his weapons-control displays - the missile was now "hot." Ten seconds out, he raised the 16's nose slightly, and throttled down.
Five seconds out he hit the Launch button . . .
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He felt the jerk under his left wing as the Shrike took off. He instantly put the F-16 on its tail and booted it. If even one of the tankers had any fuel in it, he wanted to get as far away from the explosion as possible.
He was at 3500 feet when the missile hit. Looking back on it, he theorized the Shrike must have gone right through the first tanker, out the other side, and into the middle vessel. The explosion was delayed by five seconds. But when it went off-it went off big ...
Hunter felt the shudder as the heat wave rose from the exploding tankers. He put the jet over onto its back at 5500 and was surprised to see the flames were licking at his tail.
"Christ," he said, having to flip down his sun shield to look at the mighty explosion. "What the hell were they carrying? Nitroglycerin?"
The explosion was so powerful, the fireball so intense, it knocked out about a third of his avionics plus his UHF radio. He looked back once again and saw the shock wave had created a whirlpool in the sea. A mini-hurricane swirled around the remains of the base, sucking in and pulling down everything around it into a maelstrom of fire and smoke. He could feel the artificially created winds rock the jet fighter from side to side. It only took fifteen seconds-then everything-the burning airplanes, the cratered tankers, the collapsed oil platform -was gone, drawn into the vortex and quickly covered over by the sea.
"That's what you get for screwing around with us," Hunter said defiantly.
The tugboat approached the island of Malta and set anchor about a half-mile off the partially fog-shrouded coast. Three hooded men-Heath, Hunter, and O'Brien-were crowded into the boat's high mast, sharing a pair of powerful binoculars. Off in the distance was the island's capital city of Valletta. At the moment it was being-plastered by an aerial bombardment.
"Blast, this is the last thing I expected to find going on here," Heath said, passing the spyglasses to Hunter. "Is there anyplace in the Med that isn't at war?"
"Welcome to World War Three, the fifth chapter," Hunter said dryly.
"Any idea what kind of airplanes are doing the job, Hunter?" O'Brien asked.
"It's hard to say," Hunter said, scanning the cloudy sky for any sign of the anonymous attackers. "By the rate the bombs are falling, I'd almost guess they were old-timers. Jets. First-generation jobs. Not a lot of them-maybe six, maybe seven. No fighter escort either."
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"Well, this puts a crimp in our plans to resupply here," Heath said. "The way it looks, the Maltese won't have a thing to sell."
"Good thing we solved our aircraft fuel problems," Hunter said, referring to the Commodore's daring sea-pirate attack and capture of the Exxon Challenger.
The ship, now part of the Saratoga flotilla, was filled with JP-8 aviation fuel.
The three men waited for the bombing to stop, then pulled anchor and entered the harbor.
There was no one on the docks, no one in the streets. The three men cautiously got off the tug and headed toward the center of the city, avoiding areas that were still on fire. They had been walking for a few minutes when the sounds of air-raid sirens went up all over town.
"Not another raid," Heath said.
"No, probably more like the all-clear signal," Hunter said.
Sure enough, as the sirens wailed away, people began emerging from cellars and hardened buildings. The citizens routinely went about their way, some pausing to discuss the latest destruction. Hunter asked for directions to the nearest military facility and was told to head for the city's municipal building.
The structure, itself partially damaged, had a strange flag flying from its top above the sign that read: "Malta Self-Defense Force."
They went inside and were soon introducing themselves to the commanding officer of the MSDF.
"Yes, we've heard of you and your carrier," the officer, a man named Baldi, told them. "But resupply? We're just barely holding on here ourselves."
"Who's doing this to you?" Hunter asked.
"Those bastards of the Sidra-Benghazi Gang,"
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Baldi said, spitting out the name. He was a large man, possibly a weight lifter in his younger days. He wore a red-and-brown camouflage uniform and a vintage World War I helmet.
"The Sidra-Benghazi Gang?" O'Brien asked. "The name sounds familiar. Are they Libyans?"
"Yes, they are based on the coast of Libya," Baldi said. "But they're from all over. Bandits, thieves, cutthroats, murderers. The dregs of the Mediterranean.
They all wind up with the Sidra-Benghazi."
"Don't you have any antiaircraft capability?" Hunter asked. "Or fighter protection?"
/
Baldi shook his head. "When the Big War started, the British were here in force. Then, as the battles heated up, they gradually were drawn away. Soon we were without any protection at all. Sidra-Benghazi know this. They've been bombing us regularly for about a year and a half. We hear they are trying to raise an army of paratroop mercenaries to invade us, but as you guys know, good help's hard to find these days. We can't pay as much as Lucifer or your own Modern Knights can.
"In fact, our only armed forces now are some ex-Royal Navy UDT guys."
"UDT?" Hunter said. "Underwater demolition teams? That's interesting . . ."
His mind flashed back to the report they'd received about the Russian ships laying mines in the Canal at Lucifer's bidding.
"What kind of bombers are they using on you?" Hunter asked.
"Russian-built, what else?" Baldi said in disgust. "Old Bisons, mostly. What you must understand is the Russians are everywhere in this part of the Med.
They are in league with that demon Lucifer. Their armies may be depleted, but Lucifer has the manpower now. The Russians supply the instruments of 251
death, then let their lackeys to the fighting."
"What's their SAM capability back -at their bases?" Hunter asked Baldi.
"The best," the man replied. "We did hire a mercenary group about a year ago.
Bunch of Finnish guys flying some old shitbox Italian fighter-bombers. They reconned the Sidra-Benghazi coastline, flew back here, and gave me our money back. Too many SAMs. They didn't want any part of it."
"What's their bombing timetable?" Hunter asked.
Baldi thought for a moment, then said, "It's like clockwork. Every other day, just before noon. They awake, eat breakfast, fly here at a leisurely pace, bomb, and get home for a late lunch."
Hunter was getting an idea. "Mr. Baldi," he said, "how would you like to make a deal?"
Two days later, just before noon, radar operators on one of Olson's frigates stationed off the southern coast of Malta picked up eight blips on their radar screens. The news was flashed to the Saratoga, where Hunter sat in the F-16
waiting for launch.
"Okay, major," he heard the launch officer say over the radio. "They've got eight bogies coming in at two-niner Tango. Airspeed three-four-six knots."
"Roger, Launch," Hunter answered.
He felt the steam pressure build up under,the fighter. The launch officer twirled his finger, then pointed an emphatic signal. In an instant, Hunter was hurled back against the cockpit seat and the jet was roaring off the carrier.
"From zero to one hundred twenty MPH in two seconds," Hunter thought. "I'm beginning to enjoy this."
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His launch was quickly followed by the three Harriers, taking off the conventional way to save fuel, plus two Viggens. Once all the airplanes were aloft, they formed up into two three-plane groups and headed southeast.
Hunter began monitoring all radio frequencies immediately, searching for the band the Sidra-Benghazi bombers were using. After five minutes, he finally got lucky. The pilots were talking in Arabic, but he recognized enough flying terms to know it was the Bisons.
He called back to the carrier. "Monitor one-two-five-six UHF," he radioed to the CIC radio operators. "We've got some Med Arab dialect."
"That's okay, Major," the reply came back. "We've got an expert standing by."
Hunter smiled. He knew that the commander of the Moroccan desert fighters was in the CIC, ready to translate.
They tracked the bombers as they routinely swung around the northeast side of the island and prepared to start their bombing approach. While the CIC
monitored the routine chatter between the bomber pilots and passed the translation on to the Saratoga pilots, Hunter activated his radar-monitoring system. Unbelievably, the Bison pilots hadn't switched on their long-range airborne radars. In fact, he was willing to bet the cost-conscious mercenaries didn't bother to carry an air-defense radar man. "Boy, they are leisurely," he thought.
The Bison group pilot began to drop down through a thick cloud bank to his bombing altitude. As soon as he broke through the overcast, he noticed a glint of light off to his left. He was startled to see a F-16 fighter jet riding just 200 feet off his wing. He looked to his right, hoping to turn that way to 253
escape when he saw a Harrier riding on that side too.
He was trapped and he knew it.
Suddenly a strange voice broke in on his group's frequency. It was the Moroccan troop leader. The pilot listened to his ultimatum: follow instructions or all eight of his airplanes would be shot down. The pilot-a hired mercenary with no real loyalty to the Sidra-Benghazi faction-agreed.
As instructed, he followed the F-16 . . .
One by one the eight Bison bombers circled the abandoned RAF Malta base and came in for a landing.
Hunter was there to meet the bombers, having landed before the mercenaries.
There was also a battalion of Moroccan Marines on hand to surround the Soviet-built bombers once they reached their taxi stations. Unexpectedly, the troops were needed to keep away angry Maltese citizens, who showed up to throw rocks, bottles and, in one case, a fizzled Moltov cocktail at the bombers.
The pilots were immediately handcuffed and led away to a Maltese jail. "If they are worth anything," Baldi said, "we'll be able to ransom them."
Now Hunter and Heath and six other carrier pilots climbed into the Bisons, along with other assorted members of the carrier force. Each airplane carried a Moroccan officer, plus a bombardier, a navigator, and a radar operator who knew what he was doing. The airplanes were refueled and their bomb loads checked. Within ten minutes, the Soviet-built airplanes were roaring off the runway, heading south for the Libyan coastline.
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The hired-hand radar officer stationed at the SAM base at Tripoli yawned. It was almost the end of his shift. His assistant -a corporal just hired for the station-called his attention to the eight blips on the radar screen. They were approaching from the north, he said, flying at 340 knots.
Don't worry, the officer told him. That was the regular bombing force returning from Malta. But they were breaking up into eight separate flight courses, the corporal told him. The officer yawned again. Don't worry about it, he told the rookie. It was probably some training maneuver, or the
weather, or something. Besides, it was end of the officer's shift.
Soon the corporal was alone in the SAM radar station. He didn't get too concerned when he noted that one of the blips was heading right for his position.
A minute later, he heard a curious, whistling sound. Almost like a bomb . . .
Up and down the coast, the Bisons attacked the eight major SAM installations.
Once the antiaircraft sites were destroyed, the Tornados swept in and hit troop concentrations, oil-storage tanks, and port facilities. The Viggens, carrying antirunway bombs, cratered the Gang's "only workable landing strip in the area. The final insult came when the four old Jaguar jets, on their first mission, swept in and destroyed the Sidra-Benghazi headquarters with delayed-fuse iron bombs.
The attack was a complete surprise-and an overwhelming success. Not only were no aircraft lost-none of the attackers were even fired upon. Why? The Sidra-Benghazi Gang had committed the cardinal sin of warfare. They'd become lazy. They had
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assumed that well-paid mercenaries would compensate for the lack of loyal, homegrown soldiers. The opposite was true. Hunter knew by the way the Saratoga's aircraft carried out the raids with such impunity that many of the Gang's hired hands simply left their posts at the first sign of trouble.
It all came down to a fighting for a cause. The Saratoga force was made up almost entirely of paycheck soldiers, but they believed in what they were doing. They recognized that Lucifer had to be stopped and that they were in the vanguard of that effort.
It made all the difference in the world ...
They returned the Bisons to Baldi. "Our plan," he told Hunter, as they shared a bottle of Maltese wine in Baldi's office, "is to sell them on the open market. They should bring a pretty penny, I should think. Then we'll buy some decent fighter protection and some SAMs."