That night Hunter returned to the spot at the front of the carrier where he usually went to think.
A question of money. So much for heroism, he thought. So much for glory. He was well along to convincing himself that his worst fears were justified. This was a fool’s errand. Towing a disabling aircraft carrier to the Suez? What the hell did that have to do with America?
He should have stayed home. He was needed there. The country he loved was in danger of dissolving completely and he was here, in the middle of the Med, playing crusader with a bunch of half-mad Brits. The original plan had only an outside chance of working. They might have stemmed the tide for four or five days, tops — and provided air cover for when The Modern Knights arrived. But two weeks was impossible.
Even if they were able to bottle up Lucifer’s troopships at the far end of the Canal, what would prevent him from disgorging his troops and marching them up both sides of the waterway? It was only a hundred miles or so. Less than a day’s journey by truck, five days by foot. The Moroccans — as good as they were — could not hold off a million of Lucifer’s troops for more than five minutes. And eventually, Hunter knew, he would start to lose aircraft — to SAMs, to accidents, to one of the many calamities that always accompanied military operations. Once the airplanes were gone, what good was the carrier?
He reached inside his pocket and drew out the American flag he kept folded there. He turned it over and over in his hands. It was beautiful. He was never at a loss for amazement when he looked at it, felt it, kissed it. This is what he should be fighting for. Not some crazy foreign adventure where the bottom line was not the cause, or freedom, but how to pay nearly a million paycheck soldiers up front.
He should have stuck to his original plan. Track down Viktor wherever the hell he was. One man. One plan. It could have been infinitely easier than this! He took out his second prized possession: the photo of Dominique. He loved her. He wanted her. He should be with her. Back home. In America.
He looked up at the night sky. It was brilliant with stars. Billions of stars and billions of galaxies. He once thought he would ride among them someday. His ticket to pilot the space shuttle was already punched. He had the Russians to thank for screwing up that dream.
In fact, they were at the heart of all this darkness. He saw their hand everywhere. Russian cruise missiles fired at the desert highway base, the Red Army Faction opposing their refloating of the Saratoga. Robot-controlled Soviet Ilyushins, Soviet-made flying boats, Soviet-made Bison bombers. Soviet mines bobbing in the Canal. No doubt radio-controlled and activated mines, being attended to by Soviet technicians that would allow Lucifer’s troopships to pass through unhindered, while anything else would be blown up. Everywhere was the Red Star. The Hammer and Sickle. The same old, robot-like mentality of “Either we control the world or no one does.” He was getting sick and tired of it.
Yet what could he do now? Desert Sir Neil? Jump ship from the Saratoga?
He looked back up at the stars. Dominique. Jones. Dozer. His friends: Twomey, Ben Wa, and the others. Would he ever see them again?
Yaz was pulling duty on the bridge that night. The sea was quiet, as was the entire flotilla. The only noise was the constant drone of O’Brien’s tugboats.
“Coffee, sir?” the other sailor on duty with him asked.
“Sure,” Yaz answered. “Could you run down and get a pot?”
“Back in ten,” the sailor said, leaving Yaz alone on the bridge.
The dull green light of the bridge’s computer screens and the wide windows of the room allowed Yaz a great view of the Mediterranean night sky. He took a seat next to one of the windows and studied the twinkling wash of galaxies, trying to pick out his favorite constellations.
But something was wrong. Yaz was an astronomy buff. He knew the star formations were slightly different in this part of the world. But should their colors be different too? He stared at one particular star that was glowing blood red. Was that really Mars? He knew the planet often appeared a hazy shade of red, but it was not at this high angle this time of year. And nowhere this bright.
While he was trying to figure this out, he saw another red star. Then another. And another.
“What the hell is going on here?” he said aloud, standing up. As he watched, as many as 100 stars suddenly went red.
He started checking for location. All of the stars were in one general area of the sky — about seventy degrees to the east, way, way, off in the distance. He strained his eyes to look closer.
Were they moving? It appeared that they were. “Damn!” He wished the other sailor was on the bridge with him now, just to witness the event and convince him he was not crazy. He kept his eyes glued on the group of crimson stars. Now they were forming a pattern. Spinning, twisting, circling, now moving in all directions. Slowly, something was forming.
“Jesus Christ,” Yaz swore as he watched the incredible scene.
It was a face. A dastardly face. A familiar, yet distorted face. This was crazy, he thought.
It was the face of Lucifer …
Yaz closed his eyes and rubbed them. He was thinking too long and too hard. He counted to five and opened his eyes again. The face was still there — unbelievably, an enormous, horrifying caricature of Lucifer’s face formed by the interconnection of the “red stars.” It was leering, mocking, laughing …
Then it disappeared.
Yaz spent the rest of the night searching the sky for the vision. He decided not to mention it to the sailor who returned with a steaming pot of coffee, so bizarre was the vision. Only briefly did Yaz question his sanity. It was only one of many possible explanations. He knew Lucifer was powerful — but was he powerful enough to project such an illusion over thousands of miles? Or was it an illusion at all?
Hunter was the first one to see the boats …
He was up before dawn and on the carrier deck when he saw them, just as the sun was lifting out of the calm, aqua-blue Mediterranean. Out on the horizon. First a group of five, sailing together. Then another group. And another. He looked close. There were fishing boats, sailboats, skiffs. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. All different. All packed to the railings with people. All heading west.
The boats didn’t slow down or change their course to avoid the eastbound ships of the Saratoga flotilla. They just wended their way through the task force, braving the wakes of the huge warships and tugboats.
Soon, Heath and many of the other sailors on the Saratoga appeared on the deck to witness the strange parade of ships. The BBC camera crew was also on hand, recording the scene.
Five sailors were dispatched in a small boat to stop and question some of the people. They returned with a strange report.
“The people are from Crete,” one of the sailors said. “They say they are fleeing for their lives.”
“Fleeing from what?” Yaz asked.
The sailor, a machinist’s mate, shrugged. “Sounds crazy. Some kind of god, a giant from the netherworld. Named something like Bry-a-roos … ”
Hunter thought for a moment, then asked, “Could it be Briareus?”
“That sounds more like it,” he said.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” Heath said. “Is it from Greek mythology?”
“I think so,” Hunter said. “Briareus was one of the giants. He supposedly had a hundred arms. Some of his friends — the Cyclops, Orion — had more familiar names. The giants were so bad-ass, they chased the top gods — Jupiter, Apollo, Venus, Mercury — out of Greece. Chased them all the way to Egypt.”
“Tough cookies,” Heath said.
The machinist’s mate spoke up once again. “The people we talked to swear he appeared to them.”