When he woke up that night, under a pile of rubble and dismembered bodies, his face was hot pulp. Everyone else was gone-those not killed had fled. He remembered finding his troops in the Trade Center's lobby looking horrified as they saw his face. There he had collapsed again, a soldier covering his face before loading him onto a waiting helicopter. Those that had seen the act thought he was deadv and later, after he recovered, he did nothing to dispel the rumor. The battles of The Circle War had been long lost by that time.
But his goal had been achieved. America was torn to pieces. The first step of his plan had been fulfilled brilliantly. After all, he couldn't start World War III up again if the Americans were unified.
Those assholes back in Moscow. He needed them for The Circle War, and they were helping in his latest endeavor. But not for much longer. They were already afraid of him -he was one of their kind and they had come to fear him.
Soon he would be rid of those old men on the Politburo. Soon he would be the Politburo. He would call the shots. He would possess their remaining ICBMs and not screw around with an ounce of nuclear material here and there.
He found his hand inside his pocket, fingering the photograph he always kept there. Against his better judgment, he pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a photo of Dominique. She was completely naked. He had taken it a long time ago, after filling her with drugs. She was beautiful. Now she was gone-the only thing he had really lost. He didn't love her-he
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just wanted to possess her.
If only . . .
He shook off the thoughts and took his hands away from his face. "Revenge will be mine, Hunter," he whispered. He reached for a bottle on his desk and poured out a handful of painkillers. Swallowing them one at a time, he began to laugh uncontrollably. "The whole world will pay!"
As the pills started to take affect, he began ranting to himself again. "These crazy Englishmen? Towing an aircraft carrier? They are fools who have been out in the sun too long! There are a million of us!"
He looked at the photo again.
"There is only one hero left in this world, my dear!" he screamed. "And if millions of people have to burn and die for everyone else to realize it, so be it!
"You might have your precious fly-boy, Hunter. But how many men can ignite a world war?"
They didn't call him Lucifer for nothing . . .
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It was cold inside the pyramid. The walls had a strange, clammy feel to them, the opposite of what Hunter had expected from a structure standing in the middle of the desert.
He had no trouble finding the entrance to the massive Cheops -the Russians had carved a large door out on one side of the base. Trudging up to the doorway, Hunter came upon a trove of abandoned Soviet equipment scattered about in front of it. He found AK-4?s, grenade launchers, mortars, and even a few SA-7
shoulder-launched SAMs. There was no one around. Just as he had hoped, all of the Soviet troops had fled.
"Well," he thought, taking the knapsack off his back, "time to get dressed."
Ten minutes later he was inside the pyramid, his
powerful searchlight in one hand, a small Geiger
- counter in the other. He found walking in the bulky antiradiation gear to be torturous, especially in the cramped passageways. The suit-he looked more like
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suits similar to the one Hunter had carried with him. These men were all Yaz's guys, former crew members from the USS Albany. Hanging from a net underneath their chopper was a crate. Inside the crate was a specially lead-lined box.
Hunter had finished the last of his canteen's water when his head started buzzing.
"At last," he said aloud. Friendly aircraft were approaching. He knew it -he could feel it in his bones. He ran outside the entrance to the pyramid just in time to see the two Harriers appear out over the northern horizon. They were intentionally moving slow, this to enable the two frigate choppers to keep pace. Sure enough, appearing out of a large white cloud came the two specks he knew were the copters.
Now, as the first chopper, the one carrying the Moroccan troops, came in for a landing next to the pyramid, the two Harriers immediately started to circle the structure, keeping an eye out for any unwanted company. The troop-carrying copter touched down, and immediately the crack Moroccan troops piled out. With enviable precision, they double-timed it to preassigned positions around the pyramid's base, dodging the hot and decaying bodies of the Soviet guards killed in Hunter's one-man air raid.
Hunter greeted the Moroccan commander and the man returned the gesture with the special "W-for-Wingman" hand sign. Hunter then served as the landing officer for the second chopper. Its pilot deftly lowered the net containing the crate so it hit the ground with no more than a slight bump. The pilot then disengaged the net and landed the chop-322
per nearby. Instantly, six men, all wearing antiradiation suits, emerged from the chopper and walked toward Hunter.
The squad leader, a black man named Marvin, came up to Hunter.
"Greetings, major," he said, with a smile Hunter could see through the visor of the man's radiation suit. "Looks like we missed the fun." He was looking around at the still-burning remains of the Soviet camp.
"Oh no, Marvin," Hunter said. "For you guys, the, fun is about to begin."
/
He then quickly gave the man instructions as to the location of the chamber containing the metal box.
"It's going to be cramped, crowded, and complicated," Hunter said in conclusion. "I will personally give you a case of Sir Neil's homemade scotch if you guys can get the box out of there in less than twenty minutes."
Again, Marvin smiled. "Get some ice cubes, major," he said. "We'll be out in twenty minutes."
Hunter was back to his F-16, up, and flying in fifteen minutes. He joined the two Harriers in circling the Great Pyramid, keeping an eye out for enemy aircraft.
He had just heard from one of the chopper pilots that Marvin's team was coming out when he felt a chill in his bones. Enemy aircraft were approaching.
He immediately hit his radio button. "Harriers, this is Hunter," he said quickly. "We're going to have company soon. Arm up!"
The Harrier pilots acknowledged his message. Both were wondering the same thing: how the hell
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did Hunter do it? Neither of their radars indicated anything in their area, yet they knew Hunter didn't give such instructions lightly. Instantly, both pilots started arming their Sidewinder missiles.
Hunter began arming his own missiles, at the same time giving his nose-cannon Six Pack a very brief test burst. He was low on ammo for the guns, having used a quantity ripping up the Soviet encampment. But his 16 was still bulging with the weight of the Sidewinders.
He closed his eyes and let his senses go to work.
"Choppers," Hunter said to himself. "A lot of choppers ..."
He radioed the frigate chopper pilots and told them that enemy helicopters were approaching and that he needed a status report on the recovery operation.
One of the pilots, a Norseman named Erik, returned the call.
"They've got the 'valuable' inside their lead-lined box," he told Hunter.
"It's at the entrance of the pyramid now. Next they have to crate it and then put it in the net. At that time I'll make the pickup."
"We don't have time," Hunter said, eyeing for the first time the blips on his radar screen which confirmed his extraordinary senses. He wasn't surprised they were coming from the southeast. "Tell Marv and his guys to take cover in the pyramid. The Moroccans should set up a defense line just inside the opening."
"Roger, major," Erik radioed back. "What should we do, sir?"
"What's your weapons status?" Hunter asked, his eye scanning the horizon for the approaching enemy force.
"The troop carrier is unarmed," Erik reported.
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"But I've got two TOWs and a cranky .30-caliber machine gun on my door."
"Okay," Hunter said. "Grab one of Marv's guys and tell him he's now a waist gunner. Get airborne, then you and the troop carrier get the hell out of the area. We don't want to lose either of you."
"Aye, aye, major," Erik radioed back.
Hunter changed frequencies. "Harriers One and Two," he called. "Do you have radar lock?"
"Radar lock confirmed," both pilots answered almost simultaneously.
"Okay," Hunter said. "Visual will be in about twenty seconds. I count about thirty choppers. Some of them are gunships, probably Hinds and maybe even a couple Havocs. Others might be carrying troops. They might even be dispatched from Lucifer's fleet ships. I'm sure they are coming to investigate what the hell happened to their comrades."
"I've got a visual, major!" one of the Harrier pilots called out.
Hunter looked to the southeast just in time to see the thirty specks riding out of the clouds.
"Just as I thought," he called to the Harriers. "Hind gunships escorting troop carriers. Okay, let's meet them halfway. Remember, those Hinds are bad news with their nose cannons, and the Havocs might be outfitted with Aphid air-to-air missiles."
With that, the two Harriers and the F-16 formed up into a triangle pattern and streaked toward the incoming chopper force. Hunter put his hand to his left breast pocket as he was wont to do before going into battle. The reassuring folds of the American flag and Dominique's photo were still there.
The Commodore's three yachts were thirty miles 325
into the Canal when they spotted their first Soviet mines . . .
They had been moving very slowly down the waterway after encountering the gunboats. Just twenty minutes before, they had seen a large force of helicopters - Russian helicopters -pass right over them. They were heading towards either Cairo or Giza, but they didn't pay any mind to the yachts.
"Screw you, you bastards!" the Commodore had yelled up at them, all the while waving at the aircraft as if he were a friendly native.
Once the Commodore was certain no one could see them, he had put six of the UDT swimmers into the water. They were acting as point men -scanning the waters ahead of the yachts, their eyes peeled for mines.
Now they had found what they were looking for.
"How many?" the Commodore asked the leader of the UDT swimmers as he surfaced next to the lead yacht.
"At least one hundred," the frogman answered. "More than enough for our purposes."
"Deo gratias!" the Commodore said with a slap of his side. "But can you disarm them quickly?"
"It will take the rest of my men and some Aussies in two rubber boats," the diver said. "But then we are talking about an hour's work."
"Then go to it!" the Commodore said excitedly. "I will get your other men in the water as well as the Aussies."
The man slid beneath the surface once again, leaving a trail of air bubbles breaking the surface.
The Commodore checked his watch. It was almost 0900. He had just an hour to fulfill this first part of his mission. Then he would have to get back out of the Canal and start phase two.
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He raised his eyes toward heaven. They had been lucky so far. "Please, Father," he whispered. "Remember us today . . ."
The S-A3 continued to circle the port of Alexandria, its elaborate cameras clicking away.
"We've got enough film for three more passes," Gump reported to the pilot, E.J.
"Okay," the Aussie pilot said. "Let's drop down a hair, mate, and try for some closeups."
The recon airplane had been flying way up-at, nearly 70,000 feet-for nearly a half hour. Now it slowly slipped down and leveled off at 62,000.
Their target was the Soviet sub base installed at the Egyptian base. Through the jet's long-range telescopic camera lens, Gump had counted at least thirty subs of all sizes and configurations, docked out in the open in the port.
The city of Alexandria itself had been long ago abandoned-its ordinary citizens had either sailed or trekked across to Algeria months before. The richer ones had flown out. They were the first of the calvacade that had descended on Casablanca airport, avoiding the war they knew was to come. Just when the Russians had moved in was anyone's guess. But the subs posed a significant threat not only to the Saratoga flotilla, but also to the ships of The Modern Knights-should they ever arrive.
But the problem was, the men of the Saratoga couldn't afford a battle with the Soviet subs right now. They had to marshal all the energy and reserves for the battle that lay ahead in the Canal.
That's why these photos of Alexandria were so important.
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Five minutes into the swirling air battle, Hunter had personally shot down five helicopters. The Harriers had accounted for three more each. But, as the allied pilots were soon to find out, this would be a numbers game. Despite their victories, there were still nineteen enemy choppers to contend with.
Hunter had decided to concentrate on the troop-carrying Mi-14 Haze-A helicopters first. He methodically pumped four Sidewinders into their loose formation, downing three of them and causing a half-dozen of their comrades to quickly execute 180-degree turns and head off in the direction from which they had come. That's when Hunter went after the Hind gunships that had pressed on, trying to get to the pyramid.
Meanwhile the Brits were facing off against the potentially troublesome Havocs
. . .
The small choppers, about the size of a US AH-64 Apache attack copter, were quick, maneuverable, and outfitted with the Aphid missile-a Soviet equivalent to the Sidewinder. If there was a helicopter in the world that could give most jet fighters a run for their money, it was the Mi-28 Havoc.
But, like the F-16, the Harriers were not ordinary jet fighters . . .
On first confronting the Havoc, the two jets immediately went into their
"vectoring" or hover mode. The two Havocs did the same. For a moment it looked like an Old West gunfight was shaping up -the two Havocs in the black hats squaring off against the two Harriers in the white hats.
The standoff lasted almost a minute -an eternity in the middle of a battle.