“Okay, I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” Hunter said. He put the F-16 into the same orbit as half the circling choppers and started pumping out Sidewinders. The missiles had a liking for the hot exhausts spewing out of the choppers’ main rotor engines. First one, then two Hinds went down. Then another. And another.
The other Harrier, having chopped up the Soviet ground troops, joined him in the tactic. Soon the sky was filled with streaking Sidewinders and long, fiery contrails. Hunter could only imagine that the Soviet in charge of the copter attack was pressing his pilots to continue the battle at all costs. As a result, the fighters had a turkey shoot. After seven copters were finally downed in the circling battle, the survivors — barely five of them — finally broke off and fled.
“That was the balmiest goddamned battle I’ve ever been in!” one of the Harrier pilots radioed.
“Same here,” Hunter echoed. He saw it as a portent of things to come.
Now the recovery operation could proceed. The two frigate copters reappeared and, as the Moroccans climbed aboard the troop carrier, Marv and his men, still dressed in their antirad suits, loaded the precious crate into the chopper net. His men then scrambled aboard the copter, which took off and made a successful grab of the net. Marv jumped on the troop carrier for the ride back. The two Harriers fell in behind the copters and, with Hunter’s F-16 in the lead, the force headed north, out over the sea, and toward the Saratoga.
It had been an exciting morning …
Chapter 36
The S-A3 spy plane — its mission high above the port of Alexandria complete — landed on the Saratoga right after Hunter’s F-16. Once the deck was cleared, the two Harriers and the frigate choppers came in, Yaz’s men carefully handling the crate containing the radioactive material found in the Cheops pyramid.
Ten minutes later, Yaz, Marv, and Hunter were standing in the “Clean Room” of the Saratoga, dressed in antirad suits. Before them was a huge, thick, plate-glass window which looked in on another smaller room. This “Critical Room” was entirely surrounded by lead — a foot thick in some places. It was a place where most nuclear materials could be handled safely. This was where the metal container had been placed.
Using long, robot-like appendages controlled from the safe side of the window, Yaz managed to open the metal casing. Inside were as many as two dozen short tubes, each one sealed at both ends with a large dob of lead.
“This is interesting,” Yaz said as he manipulated the left hand of robotic fingers to pick up one of the tubes. “This lead-end-sealing procedure. I’ve seen it used for UB-40 uranium. If this were plutonium, I would guess the entire tube would be covered in lead.”
“How can you find out what’s inside?” Hunter asked.
“There’s really only one way — open ’em up,” Yaz answered as he began using the right metal arm to carefully scrape off the lead end-seal of one of the tubes. “It will take me a few minutes to get all this lead off, though.”
So here it was, Hunter thought, looking at the tubes. “The valuable” the Soviets were guarding for Lucifer. Had they themselves been tricked? Thinking the radioactive stuff could be made into bombs? Or was it he and Yaz that had fallen for a ploy? Could the tubes contain some ultra-high radioactive substance that would instantly contaminate the ship despite protections like the Clean Room and the Critical Room?
Or did the tubes contain the answer to all their prayers?
“We’ll know in a few moments,” Yaz said as he skillfully worked the lead off the end of the tube.
A lot rested on those few moments. Hunter knew it. Yaz and Marv knew it, everyone on the ship and in the fleet knew it. They were dead in the water. Just 150 miles from their goal. After the long, arduous push-pull journey, the battles, the mind games of Lucifer, the wounding of the valiant Sir Neil, the shows of support from people along the way, the frustration of waiting for The Modern Knights. And now all that could change. Change with the simple identification of the atomic structure of whatever the hell was in those tubes.
Hunter closed his eyes. Dare he evoke the spirits just one more time?
“Okay,” Yaz said, completing the operation. “The seal is off. I’m going to put the tube down and shake it a little. Whatever pops out, we’ll have our answer. Here we go.”
Hunter and Marv watched in silence as the robot arm lowered the tube to the table. Then Yaz swung the tube around to the end and deftly nudged it two times. Nothing came out. He hit it two more times. Still nothing.
“Christ,” he swore. “I hope it’s not plutonium sealed in some kind of plastic or glass. If it is, it will melt within minutes of the air hitting it.”
He nudged it again. Then twice more. Still absolutely nothing.
“Screw it,” Yaz said as he clamped his fingers back around the tube. He picked it up and started to shake it.
Suddenly something dropped out of its end …
Marv was the first to cry out. “Hallelujah!”
“Yeah!” Yaz joined him.
Hunter looked at the small object. It looked like a pellet. Although he didn’t have the trained eyes of Marv and Yaz, he caught on quickly as to what the pellet was.
“It’s uranium, isn’t it?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face. “UB-40?”
“It sure looks that way,” Yaz said, pushing a few buttons on the control panel in front of him. It was a device that determined the origin and strength of radioactive elements. A few seconds passed, then lights blinked, meters started registering, and, finally, a buzzer went off.
Both Yaz and Marv started frantically reading the meters and taking notes. A brief orgy of calculations followed, then the two men looked at each other and smiled. Then they slapped each other with high fives. Then they hugged.
“Oh baby!” Yaz proclaimed. “It’s enriched UB-40 … ”
“And that means … ” Hunter said, prodding him.
“And that means we put it into the carrier’s reactor,” Yaz said, not trying to contain his excitement, “and we’ll be at full power. Engines, propulsion, electrical systems, weapons. Everything will work.”
Hunter felt an excitement build up inside him. Then he asked the critical question: “How long?”
Yaz thought for a moment. “Normally, it would take a week to ten days,” he said. “With my guys and some help — twenty-four hours.”
“Solid,” Hunter said, giving him the double thumbs-up sign. “Let’s get to work … ”
The Commodore looked through the binoculars and swore. “Son of a bitch!”
Approaching his three yachts was a single gunboat. It was still a mile away, but The Commodore knew it was the same patrol boat that had stopped them earlier in the Canal. Perhaps the South African captain would try to extract another bribe from him. Perhaps worse.
The gunship was soon alongside the Commodore’s yacht. The Commodore struggled to tighten up his Roman collar as three soldiers jumped on board. The gunboat captain was the next to come across.
“Well, my good holy man,” the captain said sarcastically. “Have you decided no one wants his soul saved today?”
“Our prayers are with the people in this area,” the Commodore said, feigning his best angelic voice. “The power of prayer can save men’s souls.”