Once again, Sir Neil smiled broadly.
“Okay, Major,” Sir Neil said, rising and pulling down a map on the wall behind his desk. It showed the entire Middle East and Africa region in detail. “Let me preface this by saying that the majority of Lucifer’s forces — The Legion, he calls them — are concentrated in what used to be called Saudi Arabia. That country was hit pretty hard during the first clashes of the Big War, and not just by neutron bombs either. The government was wiped out, and so was most of their oil production facilities. All that was left was their land, and Lucifer took it.
“He recruited many radical religious freaks, terrorists — and, of course, mercenaries. There are close to one million men in all. For the past year, they have been training in his new Arabian Kingdom for the Holy War against the democracies. And, by the way, that Kingdom includes the Persian Gulf.”
“And all that oil?” Hunter asked.
“Yes,” Sir Neil nodded. “All that oil.”
Hunter let out a long, low whistle. One thing that stayed constant in the New Order world was the axiom “Oil is power.”
Sir Neil continued. “What makes this all the more dangerous for us is the number of allies Lucifer has bought throughout the Med itself. His confederates are operating all over. His tentacles are everywhere.
“But in all this disputed area, there is one point that has yet been claimed. One very important strategic position. The army that holds it will in fact control the flow of the war to come. And the race will soon be on. Our plan is to seize this strategic point. Our intelligence agents tell us that Lucifer covets it too.”
Hunter studied the map. Using the little information Sir Neil had told him, he had already guessed where the all-important strategic point was.
“The Suez Canal,” he said.
Sir Neil clapped his hands. “Right on! Major,” he said with obvious glee. “Suez. He who controls it can tighten or loosen the screws as he wishes. He can move his army through the canal and he’s assured of his oil supply once he breaks out into the Med.”
Hunter thought for a moment, then asked, “Do you know just what it is that Lucifer wants?”
Sir Neil shook his head. “A good question,” he said. “We’ve asked it ourselves many times. The answer apparently has to do with what exactly Lucifer’s deep-down intentions are. Here is a man using the name of the Devil himself. He’s not building an army as much as he is building a cult. He is attracting the most radical religious elements in the region to continue to fight this war. They are, for the most part, a rabble. Armed fanatics, just as you explained the Circle Armies were. The only difference is they receive extensive training in terrorist tactics. But there are certain limitations one must address when you have men in arms in quantity, but not quality.”
“Just like back in America,” Hunter said. “He never really believed that he could take us over per se. He was happy enough just keeping us destabilized.”
“Exactly, major,” Sir Neil said. “It’s all part of the same plan. Keep the whole world off balance. Until someone — be it the Russians, or some entity even more evil — can rise up and take over. Lucifer is more than just a Soviet agent. He is a master terrorist. He does what he does purely for the terror of it.”
Hunter’s head was spinning, and now he couldn’t blame it entirely on the gin. It seemed as if the world had become Lucifer’s deadly playground.
“The man is a monumental egomaniac,” Hunter said. “And he has to be stopped. But wouldn’t it be easier just to track him down? After all, that’s what I’m here for.”
Sir Neil shook his head grimly. “There are two problems with that approach, old boy,” he said. “First, we know though our intelligence agents that Lucifer has an extremely elaborate chain of command, manned by Soviets or Soviet puppets and designed, no doubt, in Moscow. It’s a highly intricate system and is quite the opposite of the rabble he calls his army.
“The central purpose of this command is not to win battles or even the coming war — although this is high on their list, of course. No, their major aim, we have learned, is to continue the fight even if Lucifer is killed or captured. They are expert propagandists. They are well-prepared to make their leader a religious martyr if they have to.
“In fact, it wouldn’t be beyond them in the least to fake Lucifer’s death at just the right time. Look at your own experience back in America. You said there was a point where you and many others thought Viktor might be dead. And what happened? Only the veterans in his army were dissuaded from fighting. The brainwashed young soldiers fought on.”
“That’s true,” Hunter agreed. “We know he was putting ‘feel-good’ drugs into their chow.”
“Exactly!” Heath said. “The difference here is that the drugs have been replaced by the traditional religious fanaticism of the region. He doesn’t have to dope these soldiers.”
“The second problem is finding Lucifer if we wanted to,” Sir Neil said. “His command headquarters is continually on the move. They have many secret locations in southern Saudi Arabia — a place so desolate even the old Saudis called it Rub al Khali or ‘The Empty Quarter.’ But he does have several major seaport bases on the Red Sea.”
Sir Neil quickly splashed out three more drinks. This time the formality of toasting was dispensed with; all three men drained their glasses simultaneously.
The British commander continued. “Lucifer is also very well guarded. It would be very hard for a single assassin to find him and get close enough to him. Even if that assassin is flying an F-16.”
Hunter thought for a moment. The situation was so bizarre, it took a minute to sink in. Finally he said, “I’m still not so sure that I can give up what I came over here for. But I have to admit I’m fascinated.”
He saw Neil and Heath exchange winks.
“Okay, so what is your plan?” the pilot asked. “How do you intend to seize the Suez Canal?”
Sir Neil smiled once again: “We thought you’d never ask … ”
Chapter 7
“Do you really think Hunter could have made it out of this place?” Elvis, the Weapons Systems Officer, asked.
Captain Crunch O’Malley shook his head. “This one might even have been beyond Hunter.”
Standing on the wing of their lopsided, stuck-in-the-mud F-4 Phantom, the two pilots were looking out on the astonishing mass of humanity that covered the Casablanca airport. The nervous air evacuation to South America of forty-eight hours before had turned into utter chaos.
Now there must have been 100,000 people crowded into the square half-mile-sized base. Few were carrying anything more than the clothes on their backs, although rifles and sidearms were much in evidence. There were so many people, they were lining the runways, standing no more than twenty feet from where monstrous 747s and DC-10s were roaring in and out. Thousands more were crushed inside the airport’s terminal, and overflowing onto its outside walkways, its roof, and its window sills. The area surrounding the T-shaped structure was thick with people, all of them trying to do one thing: get on an airliner and get the hell out of Casablanca.
The problem was the airliners were landing with much less frequency now. The aerial traffic jam had cleared up the night before; airliners coming in now were given a clear shot at landing immediately. And most of them were landing more for want of fuel than a desire to join the dangerous confusion. Plus, once the airplanes were down, it was taking them two hours or more to pass through the crowds and get from the taxiing strip to the terminal building.
Fewer airliners meant fewer seats to freedom. And the price of the ride was going up — drastically. Where two days before five bags of silver or one bag of gold would have meant at least a seat at the rear of the plane, now greedy aircrews were now charging as much as six bags of gold just to sit on the cabin floor. The quick hike in air fare led to some disagreements. The sound of gunfire, once distracting in its infrequency, was now a constant background noise.