“Strike Leader, this is Group Commander Heath.”
“Go ahead, Group,” Hunter answered. He had been orbiting the action at 5000 feet, on the lookout for any antiaircraft weapons. There were none.
“Major objectives hit and destroyed,” Heath reported. “We will clear the area now for your run.”
“Roger, Group,” Hunter replied.
The three supertankers were moored at the edge of the facility, somewhat isolated from the rest of the action. The other jets had purposely left them alone — there was no way the attackers knew if the tankers were loaded with fuel or not. Had they had that information, one jet with one missile could have swooped in, fired on the tankers, set one ablaze, and the whole facility would have gone up.
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 airplanes 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 wave-top 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 …
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.
Chapter 28
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.”
“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,” 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 death, then let their lackeys to the fighting.”