Yaz’s guys had the steam catapult working soon afterwards, and by nine o’clock Hunter was ready to attempt a takeoff. The Saratoga needed air protection quick; it was still moving fairly slowly and would be a sitting duck for a well-placed Exocet missile. So Hunter began what would be the first of many combat air patrols.
The carrier’s first destination was the coast of Algeria. That was where they would pick up the bulk of their hired fighting force, plus meet the oiler that O’Brien had arranged for. In the meantime, the six Tornados and the two dozen other aircraft that Sir Neil’s men had commandeered from their RAF units would begin the risky business of learning how to land and takeoff from a carrier deck.
As Hunter soared to 10,000 feet, he was both fascinated and amused by the sight below him. There was the Saratoga, from stem to stern nearly a quarter-mile long, looking magnificent against the sparkling water of the Med. The amusing part was the twelve tugs that were pulling and the eight that were pushing the majestic ship.
It was at that moment that Hunter had to stop and remind himself just what the hell he was doing. Towing a lifeless nuclear aircraft carrier across 1500 miles of God-knows-what all the way to the Suez Canal? In the vanguard of a modern-day crusade? Only in the New Order world could such an outrageous enterprise make sense. And only an Englishman could have talked him — or any of them — into joining up. The question was: would it lead him to Lucifer?
Another thing worried Hunter. The conglomeration of jet aircraft the RAF had assembled for the adventure ranged from eleven state-of-the-art Tornados to four shitbox Jaguars, aircraft built way before Hunter was even born. Sure, there were three Harrier jump-jets he could count on, plus an American-built S-A3, but most of the aircraft were more suited for ground support. His 16 was the only real fighter-interceptor in the bunch.
The problem was weaponry: the RAF had managed to buy a fair quantity of bombs — from napalm to antipersonnel bomblets and everything in between — that could be fitted to most of their aircraft. But for Hunter, the only real dogfighter in the group, there were only three Sidewinders to be had. He had previously rigged his F-16 to carry as many as twenty at a time. Should any real trouble happen — such as another Exocet attack or an air strike on the carrier — Hunter might expend three Sidewinders in a matter of seconds.
He wrestled with these and other thoughts as he slowly orbited the Saratoga. They were cruising on a slow southeasterly course, in the general direction of the Algerian coast, but also close enough to Majorca so the four helicopters at their disposal could ferry equipment out from the island. Now, as he watched from above, two Tornados, arresting hooks newly installed on the underbellies, approached to practice landing on the carrier.
O’Brien’s tugs had slowed the carrier down to a dead stop and turned her into the wind. A stationary target was much easier to land on than one that was moving. But it was crucial that they get all twenty-four airplane pilots up to speed on carrier landings within the next thirty-six hours. Beyond that, aircraft flying out from Majorca would have to stay there, because they would be beyond their operating range and to wait for them would disrupt Sir Neil’s rigorously planned timetable.
Hunter watched as the first Tornado came in for its initial try. The Norwegian frigates were strategically placed around the carrier in case one of the RAF airplanes went into the drink. The Sea King helicopter hovered nearby, ready for sea-rescue duty if needed, as were O’Brien’s idle tugs. The Tornado came in hard, bounced on the deck, and received the wave-off. The pilot gunned its engine and the plane screamed for altitude. After a long arc around the carrier, the Tornado tried again. But this second attempt only resulted in a higher bounce on the Saratoga’s deck and another wave-off.
“Come on, Redcoat,” Hunter murmured. “Set it down once and you’ll be doing it in your sleep in two weeks.”
The Tornado’s third attempt was successful, and everyone breathed easier. His wingman made it on board in two attempts. As soon as their airplanes were cleared away — via the carrier’s huge and now-working mid-deck elevator — two more Tornados appeared on the horizon. They too received several wave-offs before finally setting down. That’s when two elderly Jaguars arrived, and to just about everyone’s delight set down perfectly on the carrier, each on the first try.
For the next hour they came: seven more Tornados, two more Jaguars. Then came the unusual American-made, S3-A Navy antisubmarine aircraft, a small, twin-engined airplane that looked like a minibomber. This airplane — contracted from an Australian pilot — was painted entirely in garish punk pink.
Somehow, the RAF guys had got a hold of four SAAB JA37 Viggens, veterans of the Swedish Air Force. Because these ground-attack airplanes were custom-made to operate from highways and very short airstrips, setting them down on the carrier proved to be no problem.
Finally, the Harrier jump-jets arrived, each one setting down on the carrier deck vertically. Now, all the airplanes were aboard. Within minutes, O’Brien’s tugs gunned their engines and began the pull-push process once again.
Before he prepared to land, Hunter put the F-16 into a steep climb. He soared past 30,000, 40,000, 50,000 feet. The atmosphere was extraordinarily clear, the sun bright as he had ever seen it. A good feeling washed over him. What the hell? So they’re towing the goddamn carrier across the Med. They’ll have twenty-five jet fighters, and more than 8500 soldiers on board. Plus the frigates and the armed tugs — it all made for a formidable fleet. Maybe it would all lead him to Lucifer …
He turned the jet over and pointed it to the east. Instantly he felt the euphoria drain from him. Off on the eastern horizon was a cloud bank so dark it looked like the onset of night. Long, mile-high spirals of churning black and gray cumulus clouds washed over the sky like huge, nightmarish, slow-motion tidal waves. Hunter knew an omen when he saw one. This adventure would be anything but a leisurely cruise across the Med. God help us, he thought.
He put the F-16 into a dive and headed back for the carrier.
Chapter 16
Hunter brought the F-16 in for a now-routine carrier landing. His approach was slightly distracted by a group of people standing on the lip of the flattop’s deck. Strangely, at first, he thought they were aiming a gun at him. In an instant though he realized it wasn’t a gun at all — it was a movie camera.
The 16 screeched to a halt and Hunter jumped out, leaving the aircraft in the capable hands of Yaz’s sailors. As he stepped down onto the carrier deck, he noticed the camera crew had rushed to the side of the jet and that they were faithfully recording his every movement.
“Hold it right there, we got some dramatic light,” the man who seemed to be the leader of the film crew yelled to him. “Give us a salute, major!”
Hunter awkwardly saluted, then hurried to the nearest hatch door. Sir Neil was coming out just as he was going in.
“Hunter, old boy!” the Englishman said with a mile-wide grin. “I thought all you Yanks were keen on being in the flicks? Hollywood and all that.”
“You’ll have to talk to my agent,” Hunter said, removing his flight helmet and running his hand through his longish sandy hair. “Where did you dig up the camera crew?”
“They were a BBC unit attached to our base when the Big War started,” Sir Neil said, walking with him toward the ship’s mess. “We were stuck with them, and they with us, when the big battles were going on. Got some incredible footage of the first few days of fighting, they did. When the war died down, they had nowhere to go. So I commissioned them and they’ve been with us ever since.”