Nevertheless, the commanders agreed on some tactics. The whole idea was to plant the Saratoga somewhere in the northern half of the Canal, then take possession of the land immediately on both sides of the carrier’s position, creating a strong buffer zone. The bulk of the land-occupation duties would go to the Moroccans. The Australian Special Forces would handle the “weak side” of the Canal. The area around the canal was itself fairly demilitarized, so Hunter and the others didn’t expect any opposition upon first arriving in the area.
As the plans stood, the Saratoga task force would only have to hold the position for three days at the most. By that time, the advanced units of Modern Knights would be in the area.
As agreed, there had been no radio contact with The Modern Knights since shortly after the Saratoga was refloated. This was because any messages between the carrier and the Knights were liable to interception by Lucifer or his allies. At the time of the last radio transmission, the vast mercenary army was being loaded on troopships and was expected to set sail within a few days.
But Hunter continued to ask himself over and over: exactly just when would The Modern Knights arrive?
He got his answer one morning as they were cruising past Cape Tainaron on the southern tip of Greece. Working on the bridge, he got a call from Yaz to come down to the CIC.
“Major, we’ve just received a message from our rear-guard frigate,” Yaz told him. “They report contact with an unidentified aircraft coming our way from due west. Slow-moving, maybe a biplane.”
“Have they raised the pilot?” Hunter asked, checking the CIC’s electronic plotting board for the intruder’s position.
“Yes,” Yaz replied. “He claims to be a friendly.”
“Well, if he isn’t, he’s got a lot of guts blowing in on us like this in a biplane,” Hunter said. Then he asked, “Who’s hot on the deck?”
Yaz did a quick check. “One Harrier is about to transfer to the control frigate. Should we divert him?”
“We’d better,” Hunter said. “And tell the frigate to contact us when they get a visual.”
This happened three minutes later. The captain of the frigate reported a slow-moving biplane, flying with its landing lights blinking. Hunter knew this was the universal sign of nonaggression. He asked the frigate captain to watch the airplane but not to fire unless the pilot initiated an aggressive action.
The Harrier intercepted the biplane less than a minute later. He reported the pilot was waving and displaying a small Union Jack in the cockpit. The Harrier’s weapons-check system detected no advanced armaments aboard the airplane, nor was it flying in such a way that it might be carrying a kamikaze-type load of explosives. The only thing unusual was that the plane carried extra-large fuel tanks under its wings. The pilot was also requesting permission to land on the carrier.
Hunter put in a call to Heath, who was up in the CIC in seconds.
“God knows who he is or what he wants,” Hunter told him. “But it may be important. The large fuel tanks tell me he’s flown a long way.”
“He’s taking one hell of a risk if it’s all just a joke,” Heath said, twirling his red mustache in thought. “I vote let him come down. If he’s not cricket — well then, over the side with him!”
A few moments later, they watched from the bridge as the mysterious airplane approached. The Harrier was right on the tail of the aircraft — an ancient Gloster Gladiator — as it bounced in for a landing. The pre-World-War-II antisubmarine airplane coughed and clanked to a stop, its undercarriage almost being ripped away by the tautness of the arresting cable. The pilot pulled back his makeshift canopy to find himself staring down at fifty stern-looking Gurkhas.
“Friend!” he yelled at them in an unmistakable Cockney accent. “I’m a subject of the Crown!”
This didn’t make a dent in the Gurkhas. They crowded in even closer. Hunter and Heath were down on the deck and beside the airplane immediately.
“Who are you and what do you want?” Heath yelled up to the man.
“I have a message for Sir Neil Asten,” the man said. “And for no one but Sir Neil Asten.”
“Well you’re not in a position to make demands right now, are you?” Heath countered, spreading his arms to emphasize the large Gurkha contingent of the Australian Special Forces.
“I got me orders,” the pilot answered defiantly. “I’m carrying Top Secret information that can only be given to Sir Neil Asten by me personally.”
“And who are you?” Hunter said, reasking Heath’s question.
“I’m Lieutenant Mike Stanley,” the man replied with a touch of pride in his voice. “First Recon Wing. First Division of the Royal Airborne Lancers.”
Heath shook his head. “Royal Airborne Lancers?” he said. “What the hell is that?”
The man had reached his limit. “For God’s sake, man!” he called down. “I’m with the blooming Modern Knights! And I might add I am also a personal friend of Sir Neil’s son Roderick!”
Five minutes later, Lieutenant Stanley, Heath, and Hunter were in Sir Neil’s room. Clara was there and, upon seeing the unexpected guests arrive, quickly clothed herself and left, returning moments later with a pot of steaming Moroccan tea.
“Ah, Stanley,” Sir Neil said, warmly shaking hands with the man. “My son Rod has mentioned you often. How is the lad?”
“He’s quite well, sir,” Stanley replied, in a somewhat curious awe at seeing the great Sir Neil laid up with a mile of bandage wrappings around him. “He would have come here himself, sir, but he’s needed back home, you understand.”
“Yes,” Sir Neil said sadly. “Tell us news of home.”
Stanley got excited. “There’s much of it, sir!” Stanley said, removing a document from his pocket. “Here’s the Order of Battle.”
Sir Neil took the document, read it over quickly. “This is splendid!” the commander said. “Infantry. Motorized divisions. Desert troops.”
Stanley bit his lip. “Well, there is a down side of it, sir,” he said, his voice dropping a notch. “We had a bit of a delay in departing.”
“A delay?” Heath asked Stanley. “How long of a delay? We’re going to be in the bloody Canal inside of a fortnight. And so is Lucifer.”
“That’s why they sent me, sir,” Stanley said. “They’ve told me to ask you to hang on a bit longer than they thought.”
“Longer?” Sir Neil asked, his voice sounding stronger than at any time since his wounding. “I expected you to tell me they were two to three days behind us. How long do they think a few bloody ships and twenty-five airplanes can hold off one million of Lucifer’s men?”
“Two weeks, sir.”
Hunter thought Sir Neil was going to expire on the spot. His face went crimson. His uncovered eye bulged out. “Two weeks!” he roared. “Are they daft?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Stanley said. He knew he carried unpopular news. “The real holdup is that a number of the soldiers are asking for payment in advance. And most of them won’t move until it’s in the bank, so to speak. I’m afraid it’s a question of money, sir.”
Money? Hunter thought. Whatever happened to fighting for a cause. Fighting to save the world from Lucifer. What happened to heading off a relighting of World War III?
“But I thought The Modern Knights had plenty of money,” Hunter said.
“Oh, they do, sir,” Stanley answered. “It’s just making the arrangements to disperse it to the soldiers that takes time.”
The situation was all too clear to Sir Neil.
Through gritted teeth, laying back down on his bed, he said: “Damn them all … ”