“Have you been down to her?” he asked.
“No,” Sir Neil said. “The area is not exactly … secured, shall we say? But two of our commandos dropped in and had a look a few months ago. She’s seaworthy. Her holds are secure.”
“What shape are the reactors in?” Hunter asked.
“Oh, they’re in fine shape,” Sir Neil told him. “Trouble is, there’s no nuclear fuel. Perhaps the sailors were smart and dumped it into the ocean before she was beached. Of course, then again, perhaps someone stole it all.”
Another bit of unsettling news.
“So,” Hunter said, trying to fit in the last remaining pieces of the Brits’ plan, “do you have replacement fuel?”
“No, no,” Sir Neil said, almost laughing. “We don’t have any fuel. Nor do we have anyone who would know how to get the thing running if we did. We were with you Yanks in nuclear-power subs, but nuclear-powered carriers just weren’t our game.”
Hunter ran his hand over his chin. “Well, if you can’t power the thing to the Suez, how the hell are you going to get it there?”
Sir Neil laughed again. “Simple matter, Hunter, my good man,” the Englishman said flawlessly. “We intend to tow it there … ”
Chapter 9
Hunter steered his F-16 toward its final landing approach to the Algiers airport. This day too was crystal-clear and bright, the sun so hot he could feel it even in his air-conditioned cockpit. In front of him the two single-seat British Tornados were lowering their landing gear and activating their air brakes. Hunter routinely disengaged his flight computer and took over the airplane manually for landing. All the time his radio was blaring with excited Arabic coming from the Algerian air controllers.
The F-16’s weapons systems were fixed. With the help of a mile of electrical wire, Hunter had been able to hot-wire both his Vulcan cannon Six Pack and his Sidewinder launchers back into working condition. But it had been a long, arduous process. He renewed his vowed revenge against the saboteurs many times. No one — but no one — could screw around with his airplane and get away with it …
One day after overflying the aircraft carrier, he and Sir Neil had come to an understanding. They had agreed that, no matter how different their approach, their goal was the same: stop Lucifer. Whether Hunter did it by tracking down the super-villain (admittedly a difficult mission), or the Brits did it by securing the Suez for The Modern Knights (also very difficult), the effect would be the same: the madman’s plans would be put asunder. And as crazy as the Brits’ idea was, Hunter was always a sucker for a noble cause. In the end, he knew they needed his help.
So Hunter decided to take a two-option approach. He would help the Brits get their aircraft carrier floating, loaded up, and moving towards the Suez. Then, and only then, would he make up his mind whether he would press on to the East by himself to find the elusive Lucifer.
This flight to Algiers fit right into his dual approach. The Brits needed manpower — friendly, employable manpower — to serve both as the USS Saratoga’s crew and as a protection force once they reached the Suez. Algiers was the site of the largest mercenary encampments in the entire Med and the Brits were here to buy. Hunter had agreed to accompany Heath and the other Tornado pilot to the Algerian city for their shopping spree. They were carrying millions of dollars in gold — good soldiers didn’t come cheap — and needed someone of Hunter’s caliber to watch their backs in the volatile arms-and-man bazaar.
But Hunter also had a more personal reason to make the trip. Just before he died, the last thing Lord Lard had said to him was, “Algiers.” Hunter took this to mean that some clue to the whereabouts of Lucifer could be found in the coastal city. So, while he was riding shotgun for the British, he would also have his eye out for something — anything — that could lead him to Lucifer …
He set the F-16 down right behind the Tornados and together they taxied to their assigned holding stations. Unlike Casablanca, the Algiers airport was totally devoid of citizens. The place was crowded, but with soldiers. Soldiers of many countries and allegiances, wearing every possible combination of uniform and carrying many different types of weapons.
The pilots emerged from their airplanes just as a squad of red-uniformed men appeared. Each of the men was over six-five, heavily armed, and black.
Heath approached the man in charge. “Humdingo, my friend,” the British pilot said, greeting the soldier. “Good to see you, brother.”
The man grinned. “Heath, it’s been more than a year since you’ve visited your friends in Algiers. We thought you had forgotten about us.”
Hunter smiled. The man was obviously a member of some tribe from the middle of Africa, yet he spoke English with the flair and accent of someone who had graduated from Oxford.
Heath introduced Hunter and the other Tornado pilot — a Captain Raleigh — to Humdingo, explaining, “Humdingo used to be a chief. Big chief in the Congo. That’s before he found his way to England and learned our nasty ways.”
“This is true,” Humdingo said in a booming voice. “I learned that the British refuse to believe the sun has set on their Empire. And that they will go to great lengths trying to prove it! Me? I just like their food.”
Heath laughed. “Humdingo, you’re the only person in the world who actually likes English food.”
They got down to business. Heath produced a bag of gold. “We shouldn’t be gone for more than twenty-four hours,” he told Humdingo, handing him the gold. “By all means, shoot anyone suspicious who comes near these airplanes.”
“An F-16?” Humdingo said, admiring Hunter’s sleek jet fighter. “Never guarded one of these before.”
Heath turned to Hunter. “These guys are specialists,” he told him. “Nothing will happen to our aircraft while we’re gone.”
As if to emphasize the point, Humdingo barked out a sharp order in Congolese and his squad snapped to. With crack precision, the soldiers two-stepped to their positions. In ten seconds they had formed a protective circle around the three jet fighters. Hunter couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to tangle with the two dozen well-armed black warriors. He left his F-16 in their hands, enjoying a certain degree of peace of mind.
Humdingo also provided the trio with a jeep. With Heath behind the wheel, they roared off toward the city of Algiers.
They called the fortress “Maison de la Guerre”—Place of War. Hunter’s first glimpse of it had been misleading. They had driven through Algiers proper, reached the hills beyond its limits, and found the authentic-looking fort sitting atop a rise on the edge of town. It looked like it was right out of a Foreign Legion movie, except that from the top of its parapets flew literally hundreds of flags. The two soldiers of undetermined origin guarding the front gate eyed them suspiciously as they pulled up in front. A few gold pieces from Heath’s hand to their pockets made them instant allies.
The pilots climbed out of the jeep and walked through the huge gate the guards had opened for them. “Here is where we will find our crew,” Heath told Hunter.
Inside, the fort’s front courtyard was no less authentic. Soldiers were milling around, as were some camels and a scattering of civilians selling a variety of black-market items. Rifle ammunition looked to be the biggest seller.
They moved on to the fort’s noisy center courtyard and found more than a hundred elaborate recruiting booths set up in neat rows. This was the Mercenary Supermarket.
It was a combination exchange and recruiting post. The merchandise was paycheck soldiers. Business was brisk. Each booth had a banner flying from it, and two or three soldiers sitting in residence. Most also had customers with them, vigorously discussing the one thing that mattered in the place: price.