Mack Maloney
The Lucifer Crusade
Chapter 1
The F-4 Phantom jet fighter touched down on the deserted runway and taxied towards a nearby row of hangars.
Just off the landing strip, next to the aircraft parking area, the remains of a MiG-21 were still burning. Another MiG had crashed through the roof of one of the hangars, and the resulting fire had burned down half the building. Still another Soviet fighter had crashed into the base’s only radar antenna, scattering pieces of the huge, once-revolving dish all over the tarmac.
Smoke from the three smoldering fighters had spread out over the small airbase like a dark and dirty fog.
The F-4 came to a halt in front of the burning hangar and its pilot popped the airplane’s canopy. Standing up in the open cockpit, Captain “Crunch” O’Malley removed his flight helmet and looked around.
“Welcome to the Azores,” he muttered.
Crunch’s rear-seat weapons officer, a lieutenant named Elvis, also stood up and surveyed the damage. “Do you think he’s been here?” he asked Crunch.
“Well, we got three MiGs shot down here and two more burning on the beach,” Crunch said. “All apparently iced by one person. Only one pilot I know that could do that.”
Then Elvis noticed an odd thing: through the smoke and next to the burning hangar, he could see a man tied to a chair. “Captain,” he said pointing toward the bound and gagged man. “Who the hell is that?”
The two pilots climbed out of the F-4 and cautiously walked toward the man. Crunch was armed with an M-16, Elvis with a 9mm pistol.
The man sat silently as they approached. The only noise was the jet’s engine winding down and the crackling of the three MiG fires. Directly above, the noon sun was beating down unmercifully.
Crunch took out a knife and immediately cut off the man’s gag.
“Gracias, señor,” the man gasped, taking a quick succession of deep breaths. He was about sixty years old, with a slight build and wearing the sweaty remains of a mechanic’s overall. The two pilots, themselves clad in sleek dark-blue flight suits, towered over him.
“How long you been here, Pops?” Crunch asked, hesitating to undo the ropes holding the man’s hands and feet to the chair.
“Two days,” the old man answered, with a slight accent. “They come. Wreck my home. Wreck the base. Look at that hangar. It’s ruined. Burnt. I’m an old man. I cannot repair it myself.”
“Who wrecked this place?” Crunch asked, deciding the man was harmless enough to untie. He quickly undid the ropes.
“Air pirates. Russians. I don’t know,” the man answered, rubbing his wrists made raw by the twine.
“Russians?” Elvis asked, catching Crunch’s eye.
“Si,” the man said, stretching his arms and legs. “Russian air pirates. Bounty hunters. They land here, three days ago. Five MiGs. They don’t call ahead. They don’t contact me in control tower. They just land, with no permission. Steal my fuel. Steal my food.”
“This sounds interesting,” Crunch said, wryly. “Go on, Pops, tell us the whole story.”
“Start by telling us who you are and what the hell you’re doing here alone,” Elvis added.
“My name is Diego de la Crisco,” the craggy-faced man began. “I run this base. Used to be four hundred men. Now just me. Airplanes, flying from America, used to stop here all the time. For fuel, food, ammo. Now not as much. But those who stop, I sell to them food. Fuel. Maybe fix an engine blade sometimes.
“Three days ago, the MiGs came. The pilots, they bust in, slap me around. Keep me locked up. They don’t talk my language, but I can tell they are waiting for someone.”
“Who’s that someone?” Crunch asked.
“The American pilot,” the man said. “He is my friend. He saved me. He is the man who shot them all down.”
Crunch and Elvis exchanged winks. “Go on, Diego,” Crunch said.
“The MiG pilots,” he continued, “they knew the American was coming. They are very excited as there is a reward for shooting down the American’s airplane. They wait until he shows up on radar, then they take off, all five of them. They plan beforehand how they will attack him. Like an ambush.
“Ah, but the American, he’s way too smart for the MiGs. He knows somehow they are waiting for him. He has more Sidewinders on his jet than anyone I have ever seen. The MiGs jump him, right over the base. But he flies like a demon. Twisting. Turning. Diving. One minute he’s here. Next second, way over there. One by one, he blasts all five MiGs from the sky. I watch the whole thing, cheering. My throat still stings I cheer so much. Trouble is, the wrecked MiGs, they fall on my base.”
“After the battle, did this American land here?” Crunch asked.
“Well, of course, señor,” Diego said, slightly taken aback. “This American is now a very good friend of mine.”
“Did he tell you what his name was?” Elvis asked.
“Yes,” the old man said with a sly smile. “But I know who he is before he even lands his airplane. I have heard of this American pilot. He flies a red, white, and blue jet. The powerful F-16. I know my airplanes. I know no one flies the F-16 anymore, except for this American.”
“Was his name Hawk Hunter?” Crunch asked.
“Si, señor,” the man said excitedly. “But I know him by his other name. He’s the pilot they call The Wingman.”
Crunch and Elvis looked at each other and nodded.
“The Wingman stays only a day,” Diego went on. “Then he says he must go.”
“So, if you and he are such good friends,” Elvis asked, “who tied you up here?”
“The others, señor,” Diego said, anger coming back into his voice. “The others land hours after Hawk Hunter leaves. They too are looking for him.”
“Who were these ‘others’?” Crunch asked. “More Russians? Were they flying Russian jet fighters?”
“No,” Diego answered. “They come in only one airplane. An American P-3. Big, four propeller engines. Old US Navy. But these men are not Americans. They are Arabs, I think. The plane is painted all black. I know they stole it somewhere.”
“And they were also looking for Hunter?” Elvis asked.
“Yes,” Diego continued. “They come and they slap me around. I’m an old man. I can’t take all this. They are mad that Hunter has shot down the MiGs. These men have paid for the MiGs to shoot down Hunter. Now they are mad that it is the MiGs that have crashed.”
“So they tied you up and left you out here?” Crunch asked.
“Si, si, señor,” Diego said, spitting for emphasis. “They are pigs. They could have just shot me. But they leave me to die the slow death. But I knew that either Hunter or his friends would rescue me.”
“What else did these other men say?” Elvis asked.
Diego shook his head. “They say a big battle is soon to happen. Out in the eastern Mediterranean. Out in the desert. These men, like the MiGs — they are on the bad side. But they are afraid.”
“Afraid?” asked Crunch. “Afraid of what?”
A wide smile creased Diego’s face. “They are afraid, señor, that they will have to fight Hunter.”
They gave Diego some food packs from the F-4 and also a cask of brandy they always carried. The old man ate heartily and drained the brandy, then immediately went to sleep. Retreating to the base’s control tower, Crunch and Elvis discussed their mission so far.
They were looking for Hawk Hunter. He, like they, belonged to the Pacific American Air Corps, the air defense arm for the territory formerly known as the states of California, Washington, and Oregon. Hunter was one of PAAC’s commanders, and in a strict military sense their commanding officer. But he was more their friend than anything else, and an unusual friend at that. Formerly a pilot in the Air Force demonstration team known as the Thunderbirds, Hunter was also a genius (certified at a young age), a doctor of aeronautics (at seventeen, being the youngest student ever to graduate MIT), and had trained to pilot the Space Shuttle.