“Here it comes!” Sir Neil called out, drawing Hunter’s attention back to the screen. At the same time, the Nimrod’s pilot called back to them. “Toulon is clear, Commander.”
Hunter knew the pilot had just done a routine electronic-weapons sweep of the ground below and found no hostile SAMs waiting for them. Now, as Hunter studied the TV screen, he saw the outline of the once-famous French Riviera come into view.
An anxious jolt ran through him. The most important element of the Brits’ plan to capture the Suez was soon to come into view below. The closer they got, the wilder the British plan was becoming to Hunter.
“Just a few seconds now,” Sir Neil told him. “Just the other side of Nice and we’ll see it … ”
Sir Neil and his men were convinced the only way to seize control of the Canal was with air power. Warplanes were rarer items in the Med than in America. Lucifer’s Legions had very few, although the madman’s allies in the area boasted some small but formidable air forces. These were mostly local air units, satisfied with their role as air terrorists in Lucifer’s employ, doing occasional air pirating or free-lance bombing jobs on the side.
On the other hand, the RAF, with its major air facility at Gibraltar and a few outposts like the Highway Base scattered throughout the Western Mediterranean, could muster as many as thirty aircraft, of varying types and quality. And unlike the air raiders, the Brits had a coordinated air-command system; their units frequently did training exercises together, with the entire command carrying out extensive maneuvers several times a year.
The trouble was the British air power found itself confined to the western Med. The RAF airplanes rarely ranged much beyond the airspace west of Sardinia. There were no friendly air fields that would serve them if they did. These days, going from west to east on the Med was like sailing up the proverbial River of Fools. The further one traveled, the more bizarre and unpredictable things became. All kinds of dangerous characters plied the waters of the central and eastern sea, as well as sometimes prowling the skies above it. Appropriately enough, the miscellaneous madness peaked right around the Suez Canal. And just 250 miles beyond that lay the outer reaches of Lucifer’s evil empire.
Just as in America, where Hunter and democracies stopped a larger land army with a small but effective air force during The Circle War, the Brits felt that if they could project their air superiority — quickly — to Suez, they could seize the canal and the air above it. Thus, the skies would be in friendly hands when The Modern Knights arrived a few days later.
“We’re like the air commandos who go in just before the big invasion,” Sir Neil had told him. “Get there before the enemy. Hold him off with our air power. Deny him use of the canal.”
The question was: how to move all that air power?
The answer lay directly below the RAF Nimrod.
“Here it comes,” Sir Neil said, adding in all proper English seriousness, “Major Hunter, this will be one of the most beautiful sights you will ever see.”
Hunter focused his eyes on the radar-imaging screen. The big jet — still rolling and pitching in the severe weather — was over the once chic city of Nice. He could see the miles of shoreline, the glamorous beachfront buildings he knew were casinos. It evoked memories of the happier, exciting time of the prewar world.
Suddenly the Nimrod hit a violent air pocket, driving the aircraft down and causing another wave of static to burst onto the video screen. “Bloody—” Sir Neil murmured as he tried to revive the video screen.
Hunter readjusted his flight helmet, which had been knocked almost 180-degrees around his head in the latest jar. By the time he fixed it and could see again, Sir Neil had the TV screen back up and working. “There it is!” Sir Neil was yelling. “Isn’t it tremendous?”
That’s when Hunter saw it. It was so big it filled the radar screen even though they were ten miles high.
“Jezzuz,” he whispered. Suddenly everything started to make sense. The Brits couldn’t fly their air armada to the Suez — so they were going to float it there instead.
“It’s an aircraft carrier,” Hunter said.
“It’s the USS Saratoga,” Sir Neil informed him.
“It’s an enormous aircraft carrier.”
“Well, you see, it looks very big because it’s run aground,” the Englishman explained with glee. “You’re seeing a lot of what’s usually below the water line.”
“It’s still the biggest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s quite true — it is one of the largest you Yanks ever built,” Sir Neil told him. “It was converted to nuclear power. Had a proud war record too. Until it washed up here anyway.”
The pilot had put the Nimrod into a turn. The bad weather was still shaking every nut and bolt in the airplane, but nowhere near enough for Hunter’s eyes to be distracted from the TV screen.
The ship was about an eighth of a mile off the sandy beach of Villefranche, just east of Nice. Its titanic draft being what it was, it appeared to be firmly stuck in the mud. “How did it get here?” Hunter asked.
“We’re not sure, actually,” Sir Neil said. “We know it saw a lot of action off the Balkans during the Big War. It was fighting off the coast of Italy when the armistice was signed. After that, we don’t know what happened. Like a lot of other ships, it probably drifted until supplies were out. Then, it was abandoned.”
“Most important,” Hunter said, excitedly, “where the hell are the airplanes?”
Sir Neil shook his head. “Again, no way to know,” he said. “They’re gone, of course. F-14s, A-6s, A-7s, a few SA-3s also, don’t you think?”
“F-18s too,” Hunter said. “That’s a bunch of pretty hot airplanes to be on the loose.” For the first time in as long as he could remember, Hunter was legitimately worried. In America, his F-16 was undisputedly the hottest fighter around. One of the reasons for this was that it was the only F-16 around that he knew of. In fact, it was the most advanced fighter still flying — the rest of the continental American air corps were relegated to flying older, though no less lethal, fighters.
But these missing Navy jets were a problem. A monkey wrench thrown into the works. Forty highly sophisticated, state-of-the-art aircraft in the wrong hands was clearly troublesome, not to mention ego-bruising.
“Wherever they are,” Sir Neil said, “it’s not anywhere around here. One story has it they were washed overboard. In the storm that grounded her, you see. Another — more romantic — tale goes that the pilots simply took off and flew until their fuel ran out, at which time they dropped patriotically into the sea.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Hunter said, his eyes leaving the TV screen for the first time.
“I’ll say,” Sir Neil continued. “Of course, there is one other rumor. Some say they were flown down South America way.”
South America. He’d been hearing a lot of mention of the continent lately. Hunter filed it all away and let the matter drop. He turned his attention back to the radar screen.
“So you intend to refurbish her, put your aircraft aboard, and sail to the Suez,” Hunter asked.
“That’s correct, major,” Sir Neil said. “We can adapt about twenty-five aircraft — fighters mostly — to set down on her. She’ll need work on the catapults, but we’re sure we’re up to it.”