“The problem is,” he continued, “that once the Briareus ship captains get smart and realize that we’ve squeezed through their pickle, and realize who we are, they might hold off on taking over the platforms, by guns or words. If they do, they’ll be after us in a second.”
“And if we lose any number of O’Brien’s tugs, it will be the briefest escape in history,” Heath said.
Hunter ran his hand through his long hair. “One thing I know,” he said, excitement welling up in his voice. “We don’t have any friends on either side. Those Turks would attack us just as sure as Lucifer’s allies would.”
“You’re getting an idea?” Heath said.
“It’s a longshot,” Hunter said. “But the important thing now is to get the hell out of their way.”
He turned to the CIC radioman. “Sparky,” he said. “Get O’Brien on the horn, will you?”
Paddy O’Brien sat in the control room on his lead tugboat, his eyes glued to the vessel’s speed indicator.
All of the Irishman’s tugs were now at full speed ahead, on a course that would take them due south. The tow lines on the dozen “pull” boats were singing. The powerful diesel engines on the six remaining “push” boats were belching loud clouds of smoke as they strained to keep up speed. Even though Olson had pressed two of his frigates into pull duty, O’Brien knew the desperate bid to get out of harm’s way would soon deplete his beloved tug flotilla.
“Sorry, girls,” he said, referring to the boats in his fleet. “You’ll be busting up and all over soon. But I guess it’s better than being sent to the bottom by some swine’s deck gun.”
A pang of sadness exploded in his heart. He could actually feel strain of his engines. “You bastard, Lucifer!” he said under his breath.
High above the tugboats, on the deck of the Saratoga, Yaz’s sailors were working at a feverish pitch, getting the carrier’s aircraft up on deck and ready for takeoff should the bold “slip-through” maneuver not work.
Boats of The Commodore’s Freedom Navy had gathered around the flattop for protection, giving the carrier the appearance of an enormous, gray mother goose surrounded by her chicks. The captured supertanker and the oiler were about a half-mile behind the carrier, surrounded by four of Olson’s frigates, their anti-missile defenses on high alert. Behind them was the Moroccan troopship, it too surrounded by the Norwegian bodyguards. The rest of the Olson’s ships were bringing up the rear, their radar systems keyed in on the approaching pincers of the mysterious fleet.
Hunter sat in his F-16; the airplane would be the first to launch if the plan went awry and the Briareus ships turned toward the Saratoga. The entire fleet was now under strict radio silence. As far as they knew, the Briareus ships had not detected them yet. An uneasy tension settled over the fleet. All of the carrier fleet’s large ships were ready for battle, yet it was up to O’Brien’s small workhorse tugs to get them out of the squeeze.
The BBC video crew roamed the Saratoga’s deck, its cameraman taking shots of opportunity. Launch officers fingering their radio buttons. The French anti-missile gunners at their posts chain-smoking. The Spanish rocketeers going over their firing tubes. The Italian communications experts with their ears pressed against their headphones, straining to hear any sound that would indicate that the jig was up and the Saratoga fleet had been detected. It would be dusk soon. Hunter knew that, with the gathering darkness, the chances that they would “slip through” would increase.
“Major Hunter?”
The voice knocked him out of his trance. It was the video crew chief, yelling up to him from the carrier deck.
“Can we ask you a few questions, major?” the man, whom Hunter knew as “Chips,” called up.
Hunter nodded. What the hell? he thought.
The crew’s cameraman was instantly up the 16’s access ladder and rolling. The film crew chief started yelling up questions.
“Major, we’re in a bit of a jam right now,” Chips began. “We’ve apparently got two fleets converging on us and we’re trying to get out of their way undetected. Any idea who the enemy is, major?”
“Lucifer’s allies, we figure,” Hunter called back. “There are a hundred ships in all, and a force like that could not have been put together in this part of the Med without some help from Lucifer.”
The cameraman moved in a little closer.
“We’ve been through some pretty intense action already, major,” Chips said, continuing the interview. “We’ve done battle against the Red Army Faction, some robot-controlled Russian aircraft, the Holy Sardinians, the Panatellas, and the Sidra-Benghazi Gang. And now this. It doesn’t seem to be getting any easier, does it?”
Hunter shook his head. “We don’t expect it to,” he answered. “It seems like the further we sail into the Med, the stranger things become.”
“Major, we all know that you are somewhat of a celebrity back in the States,” Chips said. “And we also know that America is going through some particularly tough times right now. What are you doing over here?”
Hunter bit his lip. He’d been asking himself the same question ever since the voyage started. Push-pull. He felt as if he were being tugged in many different directions. “Well, the cause of all the recent troubles in America is Lucifer,” Hunter answered. “We know him as Viktor Robotov. But whatever he chooses to call himself, he has brought about untold suffering for many people, back in the States and here.
“Just as American troops came here in World War Two to stop Hitler, I feel my help is needed here in to stop this madman. There are also more than three hundred other Americans on board. US Navy personnel who are in charge of running this ship. I’m sure they feel the same way as do the men of all the other nationalities in the fleet. It’s an international, allied effort to stop Lucifer.”
“But what will happen if this bold maneuver — this ‘slip-through’—does not work?”
“Well … ” Hunter searched for the most diplomatic answer he could think of. But the situation defied any mincing of words. “We’ll be in for a fight that would significantly hinder our ability to carry out our ultimate mission, which is holding the Suez Canal — through our airpower — until The Modern Knights and their armies arrive.”
“One last question, major,” Chips called up. “What if The Modern Knights don’t arrive in time?”
Hunter found himself tongue-tied. He knew that it was a very real possibility, especially since hearing the disturbing news from Stanley, the biplane pilot. The man had been dispatched back to England, carrying a bitter message from Sir Neil admonishing The Modern Knights for their delay and telling them in no uncertain terms to get their act in order.
The cameraman moved in very close now, the camera-mounted microphone just inches away from Hunter’s face.
The delay in Hunter’s answer caused Chips to reask the question. “What will happen if The Modern Knights don’t arrive in time?” Hunter detected a hint of nervousness in the questioner’s voice. He wasn’t surprised; they were all in this together.
“No comment,” Hunter finally answered.
Hunter never had to launch. Night fell and they could see the flares and blue lights of the oil platforms off on the southern horizon. The trailing Norwegian frigates reported the mysterious fleet had linked up and was also heading for the platforms. Yet they were now a good fifty miles behind the Saratoga fleet and moving slowly. The carrier flotilla then steered as one to the starboard for a few degrees to avoid the oil platforms. Another correction maneuver would take place in a few hours, putting the fleet back on course towards Suez.