Of all the strangenesses going on, it was the man Peter that stuck in his mind. The Saratoga could use all the weapons it could get, especially Sidewinders. The original plan was to buy anything they could on the Algiers black market, or get it by some other means. But even Sir Neil had admitted that he hadn’t considered the armaments at Cagliari until Peter had gone into his trance on the bridge. The only well-known fact about the island empire was that it was considered too well defended to fool with. But Peter’s prediction that “they’ll all be at the orgy” seemed to be confirmed by Hunter’s interception of radio signals concerning the “Day of the Kings” celebration. And if Peter’s tip that the Sardinians could be caught with their pants down was true, it might signal an opportunity too good to pass up. Especially since Raleigh had reported that the flow of arms into the Algerian markets was quickly drying up.
The question was: did they dare risk an operation on the word of a crazy man?
Sir Neil and Hunter had had a lengthy discussion earlier on what to do with Peter. When he wasn’t blathering on the bridge, he could be found blathering in his pine box, which Yaz and his guys had judiciously moved to an empty cabin. If Peter had been just an ordinary wacko, Sir Neil would have had one of the choppers set him down on the nearest dry land and that would have been it.
But obviously, Peter was not just a run-of-the-mill lunatic. Hunter had reread his prophetic ship’s log three times and was chilled each time by its uncanny, unearthly accuracy. Names, places, events, all were exact. And, as far as anyone could figure out, Peter had simply pulled it out of the ether and scribbled it into the log.
Even in Peter’s drooling ramblings there could be gems of prophecy. One obvious example: Hunter knew the “flowers on the sea” Peter ranted about were, in fact, O’Brien’s shamrock-adorned tugs arriving just in time off the Riviera. Then there were the painted ladies …
So Sir Neil and Hunter decided that they couldn’t just cast the loon off. Though they also agreed that he be watched by at least four SAS men at all times.
Hunter took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. He could feel his bunk vibrating in the never-ending pull-push motion of the carrier as O’Brien’s tugs worked endlessly into the night. His mind felt as if it too were in a pull-push mode. Was all this worth it? Did his mission even have the slightest chance of succeeding? Or was he just caught up in the adventurism that had nobly gripped the Brits? And still the major question nagged him: was all this swashbuckling eventually going to lead him to Viktor?
Like many events in his life, this one was getting very, very strange …
He closed his eyes and let his thoughts take off in a million different directions, a usual exercise before he drifted off to sleep. He knew several crucial events would dominate the next few days. They were soon to rendezvous with the rest of Olson’s Norwegian frigates. Then the carrier would have to be put in its best defensive condition. But the first priority would be their arrival off the coast of Algiers to meet the oiler and the Moroccan desert fighters, the Aussie Special Forces, the French ship defensemen, the Spanish air defensemen, the Italians, and the rest of Yaz’s men.
There was still a long road ahead …
He unconsciously reached into his pocket and felt the reassuring bulge of the folded American flag and the dog-eared corners of Dominique’s photograph. He wished for a moment with Peter’s perceptive power to look the thousands of miles to the west to where Dominique was. “I love you, honey,” he whispered, his eyes closed tight. “I’ll be home someday … ”
Suddenly there was a knock at his door. The hatch swung open, and in the dim light Hunter could see the unmistakable form of a female. She came closer to him. It was Clara, the Madam.
She sat down on the edge of his bunk and nonchalantly put her hand on his upper right thigh. Although she was dressed in a one-piece mechanic’s uniform, her zippered front was open to her navel and her perfume smelled like sweet air.
“Mister Hunter,” she whispered seductively, “I have something for you.”
“For me?” Hunter asked innocently, trying to hide a slight shaking in his voice.
“Yes, monsieur,” she continued. “I had a very long talk with Sir Neil earlier tonight.”
“And?” Hunter asked, very well aware that Clara’s hand was inching its way up his leg.
“And he’s agreed to let us — my girls and me — stay on board,” she said slowly. “For the time being … ”
“He has?”
“Yes, my love.” Clara laughed. “Over wine and candlelight, I can be quite persuasive.” On cue, her hand moved closer to his crotch.
“So how’s this … uh, involve me?”
“Oh, Monsieur Hunter,” Clara said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “He told me that it was you that requested we stay on board. He said it was an American tradition, is it not? To have women on board ship? To help, of course.”
“Help …?”
“Yes, major,” she said, leaning even closer and stroking his long hair. “As therapists … ”
“Therapists?”
“Yes, major. This mission you are going on will be very stressful, no?”
“It could get, uh, stressful … ” His excitement level was reaching the bursting point.
“Well, then, major. When was the last time you had a deep, relaxing massage?”
She didn’t give Hunter time to answer. She snapped her fingers and another female slipped into the room.
“This is Emma,” Clara said. With that, she stood up and led the other woman to his bunk. Then she gracefully left the room.
Hunter could sense the other woman’s shyness, but he had yet to see her face. He reached up and clicked on the small light over his head. Their eyes met for the first time.
Hunter was thunderstruck …
She was young, beautiful, and looked hauntingly reminiscent of Dominique …
She didn’t speak. She reached up and turned out the bunk light. Then he felt her hands slowly work up his arm to his shoulder. To his neck, down his chest, to his waist, and back up again. He wasn’t about to fight it. His hormones were flying about his body in afterburner. Nature takes its course, he thought.
Emma’s hands worked his tired thigh muscles, front and back. Then she undid his flight boots — he usually wore them to bed to be ready in an emergency — and let them drop to the floor. His flight suit came off next.
Then she stood and removed her own coverall. In the dim light he could see her lovely silhouette. Small, delicate breasts. Beautiful shape. Shapely rear and outstanding legs. Best of all, the long, blonde hair. He closed his eyes and imagined it was Dominique. Younger, before the War, when he didn’t even know her. Emma lay down beside him and caressed his shoulders and chest. His mind was working the fantasy overtime.
After what seemed like hours of foreplay, they made love. His psyche was reeling, his brain exploding. It was wonderful. Emma was perfect for him. Even Dominique would understand …
It was only much later that he realized that Peter had even had a hand in this.
Chapter 18
It was nearly midnight when the tug slipped into the small Algerian cove and tied up to a rickety dock. The tide was high and a full moon was shining above. The harbor was deserted except for a lone figure, dressed in Arab robes and a turban, who quickly helped tie up the tug, then came aboard.
Sir Neil himself greeted the man with a warm handshake. It was Raleigh, the British officer who had helped arrange the mercenary deals with Heath and Hunter. He had returned to Algiers to facilitate the transactions. Now the time had come for the Brits to take delivery.