“Who the hell were they, major?” Heath asked, nervously pulling on a cigarette.
“Who knows?” Hunter replied, downing a cup of whiskey-laced coffee. “Whoever they were, they sure knew how the hell to fly those goddamn mothers low-ass-end on the water.”
They were sitting in a small dining room that doubled as the Saratoga’s pilot-debriefing room. Besides Hunter and Heath, Olson, Yaz, and the Commodore were present. Even the industrious O’Brien was there.
“We lose so many men,” the Commodore said. “Those bastards. We must find them. Destroy them!”
“Do you think they were in Lucifer’s employ, major?” Olson asked.
“I’m sure of it,” Hunter replied. “And the fact they were using Soviet-designed, if not Soviet-built and — piloted, aircraft, is really bugging me. God knows what they have out there waiting for us.”
“Couldn’t we send out a search plane and locate their base?” O’Brien asked.
“Sure, we could,” Hunter said. “But the thing is, I’ll bet they don’t have a base. Not a fixed, permanent one anyway.”
Heath refilled a cup with coffee and spiked it with the bottle of no-name whiskey on the table. “How do you mean, major?”
“Well, they wouldn’t really need a fixed land base,” Hunter began. “All they need is a source of fuel. They could have a few supertankers filled with JP-8 aviation fuel floating around out there somewhere. They land on the water nearby and fuel up. They could even have some kind of docking works extended from the ship. Some supply ships nearby, where they keep the food, and extra crews. Hell, the crew members could live right on the aircraft without much trouble. They wouldn’t have to put into dry land for weeks.”
Yaz let out a groan. “God, that’s all we need,” he said, his Southern accent betraying him. “We got a floating airbase out there, keeping one step ahead of us.”
“That’s not the only problem,” Hunter said. “Those big seaplanes are carrying some very sophisticated radar domes on them. They might be slow and clumsy, but I’ll tell you, there’s a lot of them and they can probably fight in all situations.”
“Like night fighting?” Olson asked.
“Yes,” Hunter replied, deadly serious. “Night fighting and even in bad flying weather. If that happens, there’s not a fighter on this ship that would be safe going up after them. And I doubt if even the Spanish rocket teams could stop them.”
Heath thought for a second, bit his lip, then asked, “So, what if they ever got into us here — on the carrier, I mean — what would happen?”
Hunter looked them all straight in the eye, then said, “They could sink this ship … ”
Hunter couldn’t sleep. His normally fourth-gear-and-racing mind was working overtime now, to the point where he couldn’t lay still. He carefully moved Emma’s sweet, naked body from his, kissed her, then rose and left his cabin.
It was a calm, cool, moonless night. The Med was like a sheet of glass; hardly a wave rose and fell. Peaceful, yet uneasy. The calm before the storm. He knew the attack that day had been simply a probing action. The flying boats knew they could go after bigger game than the potluck vessels of the Freedom Navy.
And Peter had predicted it, the spooky son of a bitch …
Hunter walked through the CIC, speaking briefly with the night-shift crew. They reported everything as normal. Nothing out of the ordinary had been picked up in Lucifer’s radio transmissions since the seaplane attack — but then again, Hunter didn’t expect anything unusual.
He left and walked about the Saratoga’s superstructure. The French anti-ship group had doubled their watch, as had the Spanish rocketeers. Two Harriers and a Viggen were on the deck, ready to launch at a moment’s notice. On the frigates surrounding the carrier, he could see more than the normal running lights were burning. Cabin lights were on; figures moved silently on the walkways. He knew all of the ships were on general, first-degree alert.
A quarter-mile off the carrier’s stern was the Moroccan troop ship. His extra-sensitive ears could hear the unmistakable drone of chanting. The desert fighters were praying in the middle of the night. Most of the boats of the Liberte Marina were now mixed in amongst the frigates and the tugs, although the Commodore insisted that twenty-five of his boats still be allowed to “sail the point.” The whole fleet was on edge. Expecting the unexpected. Even O’Brien’s tugs had their deck guns fully manned.
He walked into the bridge, where Yaz sat, going over sea and weather charts with O’Brien’s second-in-command.
“We could be in Malta in forty-eight hours, Major,” Yaz told him. “Currents here are still running against us, but O’Brien says he can put on an auxiliary tug or two.”
“God knows what it’s like in Malta these days,” Hunter said.
Yaz nodded. “It’s anyone’s guess,” he said. “When we were holed up in Algiers, we heard some pretty wild stories about the place. Still, Sir Neil had scheduled it as our first resupply stop. He felt confident at the time that we could get gassed up there.”
Suddenly a loud, howling scream split the night.
“What the fuck was that!” Yaz yelled.
Hunter picked up on the last tones of the scream and determined it was coming from below, in the general area of the sick bay. “Sounds like it came from Sir Neil’s room,” he said, running out of the bridge, with Yaz and two SAS men in tow.
They reached the sick bay to find two more SAS men and a couple of Gurkhas in the process of battering down the hatch door that led to Sir Neil’s recovery room. Another scream pierced the night.
“Bloody door’s locked from the inside,” one of the SAS men grunted as they pounded away at the hatch handle. Finally it gave, and those on the outside rushed in just as another scream was heard.
When Hunter got inside, he was relieved to see Sir Neil, awake and relatively safe, though looking quite confused. Clara, the Madam who had taken a liking to the British commander, was at his side, stark naked. She looked absolutely petrified. She had done the screaming.
It was almost completely dark inside the room and it was oddly cold. Someone tried the light switch, but it didn’t work. Still, Hunter could see that Clara was pointing to the far corner. He whirled around and saw a figure sitting there, hunched low, groaning and shaking.
It was Peter …
No one dared approach him. And for good reason. The strange man had raised his head and Hunter saw a sight he would never forget. The man’s eyes were glowing. Glowing the color of red. Hunter shut his own and quickly opened them again, just to check and make sure it wasn’t him. It wasn’t. Nor was it some freak reflection. The man’s eyes were actually burning red. It looked like a special effect from a cheap sci-fi movie. But in real life, it was extremely chilling.
“He came out of nowhere!” Clara screamed. “One moment there was no one there, the next he was there. And he’s making such an awful, dreadful sounds. And those eyes—”
She screamed once again, causing everyone in the room to jump. Hunter gave the thumb to two SAS guys and they quickly picked her up and literally carried her outside the room.
Then the cabin became very hot.
“Peter … ” Hunter said, daring to take a step toward the man.
Suddenly, a strange laughter filled the room. Peter’s mouth was open, and the deep, booming laughter was coming from it. But it was not Peter’s voice …
“You fools!” the echoing, graveled voice said, gurgling in mocking laughter. “You should know better than to dare attack me!”
At that point, the normally unruffled Gurkhas left. A suspicious lot, they had had enough. Hunter could hear one of them vomiting outside the room.