“Thank you, my son,” the Commodore said. “You have done your part for peace today. Now, with your kind permission, sir, we shall continue our voyage.”
The commander laughed again. “Go right ahead, padre,” he said, stepping back onto his boat. “But be careful of the mines.”
Now the Commodore laughed. “Thank you, kind sir!”
The three gunboats pulled away and were soon gone. Below the decks of the six yachts, there was a collective sigh of relief. For the members of the Maltese underwater demo team and Australian Special Forces hiding in the yachts, it had been a brief but dangerous encounter.
The radio in the Saratoga’s CIC suddenly sprang to life.
“Delta-Tango-Maxwell,” the static-filled voice announced. “Package retrieved. Need pickup. Over.”
That was the entire message. Still Heath, who had heard it, smiled broadly. He twirled his huge red mustache and clapped his hands.
“Sparky,” he called to the CIC radioman. “Please call over to Olson’s flagship and give him the go code.”
As the sailor instantly started sending the prearranged signal, Heath turned to Yaz and gave him the thumbs-up sign. There were smiles everywhere in the CIC. Even the BBC video crew, who were capturing the event on film, had to smile.
“I must go tell Sir Neil the good news,” Heath said to Yaz, shaking his head in admiration. “If Hunter pulls this one off, I’m going to have Sir Neil recommend him for the Victoria Cross … ”
The S-3A roared off the deck of the carrier and climbed. E.J. Russell, the Australian mercenary pilot, was at the controls, and one of the Tornado pilots — a Scotsman known as “Gump”—was sitting in as the navigator-photo man.
The big jet reached 6500 feet and did a quick 360-turn before heading south. The maneuver was necessary to test the S-A3’s sophisticated cameras. Below them sat the stationary Saratoga, Olson’s frigates and ninety-odd boats of the Freedom Navy surrounding it like covered wagons drawn into a circle. Above them, four Jaguars circled in slow patterns, each pilot on the lookout for airborne threats. Closer to the surface, a half-dozen of Olson’s helicopters buzzed around the collection of ships, their sensitive electronic devices listening for the distinctive sounds of approaching enemy submarines.
“Camera and lens all check out,” Gump reported to E.J.
“Okay,” the pilot said, increasing the jet’s speed to 350 knots. “Let’s go get us some pictures of submarines.”
Just twenty minutes before, another flight had taken off from the Saratoga. Two Harrier jump-jets had lifted off and, linked up with two of Olson’s choppers, had headed south. One of the choppers contained twelve members of an elite Moroccan strike team. They were armed to the teeth. Everyone inside the other copter was wearing antiradiation suits similar to the one Hunter had carried with him. These men were all Yaz’s guys, former crew members from the USS Albany. Hanging from a net underneath their chopper was a crate.
Inside the crate was a specially lead-lined box.
Hunter had finished the last of his canteen’s water when his head started buzzing.
“At last,” he said aloud. Friendly aircraft were approaching. He knew it — he could feel it in his bones. He ran outside the entrance to the pyramid just in time to see the two Harriers appear out over the northern horizon. They were intentionally moving slow, this to enable the two frigate choppers to keep pace. Sure enough, appearing out of a large white cloud came the two specks he knew were the copters.
Now, as the first chopper, the one carrying the Moroccan troops, came in for a landing next to the pyramid, the two Harriers immediately started to circle the structure, keeping an eye out for any unwanted company. The troop-carrying copter touched down, and immediately the crack Moroccan troops piled out. With enviable precision, they double-timed it to preassigned positions around the pyramid’s base, dodging the hot and decaying bodies of the Soviet guards killed in Hunter’s one-man air raid.
Hunter greeted the Moroccan commander and the man returned the gesture with the special “W-for-Wingman” hand sign. Hunter then served as the landing officer for the second chopper. Its pilot deftly lowered the net containing the crate so it hit the ground with no more than a slight bump. The pilot then disengaged the net and landed the chopper nearby. Instantly, six men, all wearing antiradiation suits, emerged from the chopper and walked toward Hunter.
The squad leader, a black man named Marvin, came up to Hunter.
“Greetings, major,” he said, with a smile Hunter could see through the visor of the man’s radiation suit. “Looks like we missed the fun.” He was looking around at the still-burning remains of the Soviet camp.
“Oh no, Marvin,” Hunter said. “For you guys, the fun is about to begin.”
He then quickly gave the man instructions as to the location of the chamber containing the metal box.
“It’s going to be cramped, crowded, and complicated,” Hunter said in conclusion. “I will personally give you a case of Sir Neil’s homemade scotch if you guys can get the box out of there in less than twenty minutes.”
Again, Marvin smiled. “Get some ice cubes, major,” he said. “We’ll be out in twenty minutes.”
Hunter was back to his F-16, up, and flying in fifteen minutes. He joined the two Harriers in circling the Great Pyramid, keeping an eye out for enemy aircraft.
He had just heard from one of the chopper pilots that Marvin’s team was coming out when he felt a chill in his bones. Enemy aircraft were approaching.
He immediately hit his radio button. “Harriers, this is Hunter,” he said quickly. “We’re going to have company soon. Arm up!”
The Harrier pilots acknowledged his message. Both were wondering the same thing: how the hell did Hunter do it? Neither of their radars indicated anything in their area, yet they knew Hunter didn’t give such instructions lightly. Instantly, both pilots started arming their Sidewinder missiles.
Hunter began arming his own missiles, at the same time giving his nose-cannon Six Pack a very brief test burst. He was low on ammo for the guns, having used a quantity ripping up the Soviet encampment. But his 16 was still bulging with the weight of the Sidewinders.
He closed his eyes and let his senses go to work.
“Choppers,” Hunter said to himself. “A lot of choppers … ”
He radioed the frigate chopper pilots and told them that enemy helicopters were approaching and that he needed a status report on the recovery operation.
One of the pilots, a Norseman named Erik, returned the call.
“They’ve got the ‘valuable’ inside their lead-lined box,” he told Hunter. “It’s at the entrance of the pyramid now. Next they have to crate it and then put it in the net. At that time I’ll make the pickup.”
“We don’t have time,” Hunter said, eyeing for the first time the blips on his radar screen which confirmed his extraordinary senses. He wasn’t surprised they were coming from the southeast. “Tell Marv and his guys to take cover in the pyramid. The Moroccans should set up a defense line just inside the opening.”
“Roger, major,” Erik radioed back. “What should we do, sir?”
“What’s your weapons status?” Hunter asked, his eye scanning the horizon for the approaching enemy force.
“The troop carrier is unarmed,” Erik reported. “But I’ve got two TOWs and a cranky .30-caliber machine gun on my door.”
“Okay,” Hunter said. “Grab one of Marv’s guys and tell him he’s now a waist gunner. Get airborne, then you and the troop carrier get the hell out of the area. We don’t want to lose either of you.”
“Aye, aye, major,” Erik radioed back.
Hunter changed frequencies. “Harriers One and Two,” he called. “Do you have radar lock?”