The room was quiet while Sir Neil let the information sink in.
“As you know, we’ll have to hold the beach for at least six hours until the Yanks can get the carrier’s primary systems running,” he continued. “Captain Olson’s men will help the Yanks install the main towlines so when O’Brien’s tugs arrive at midnight, we’ll be set to pull her off.”
The moon was with them — the tides would be ideal to float the big ship, providing everything was ready. And one of the first tasks Yaz’s men would perform would be to get the carrier’s aircraft-retrieval systems in order. Once that was done, Hunter, his F-16 already equipped with the necessary belly-attached arresting hook, would be able to land on the USS Saratoga’s flight deck. Important task number two would be to get the carrier’s aircraft-launching catapult systems working.
Hunter knew the recovery plan was solid. But he also knew all too well that the best-laid plans are usually screwed up by an uncalculated variable. Sir Neil read his mind.
“The Fist shouldn’t be that much of a problem,” he said. “But as far as the Faction soldiers on R and R, well, we have to expect the unexpected. We have to assume that they bring their equipment on liberty with them, and as they are a motorized division, this means tanks and personnel carriers. Plus they can just as easily pick up a radiophone and buy some free-lance air cover or heavy warships.
“That’s where you come in, Major Hunter. We’ll have to rely on you to counter anything unexpected, either in the air, on the sea, or on the ground.”
Hunter knew it was a tall order. But the cause was worthy.
“It’s going to take some practice to set the Tornados down on the carrier,” Sir Neil continued. “We won’t be able to do it during this operation. So only you and your F-16 have the agility to do it with so little preparation. Plus it will probably be dark by the time we get the arresting cables working. So you’ll be looking at a nighttime landing. But, for at least the time being, you’ll have to be our only recoverable aircraft. Let’s just hope the sea stays calm and it doesn’t get too sticky.”
Yaz turned to Hunter and with a wide grin said, “Welcome to the Navy, major.”
Hunter shook his head. “This is what I get for betting against Army all those years.”
The six Tornados swept in at wave-top level, rising up to 500 feet only when they were in sight of the coast of southern France. The crude radar system of the Iron Fist picked up the incoming blips about a mile out to sea. Antiaircraft guns opened up almost immediately after the airplanes passed over the first row of beachfront casinos of Villefranche. The British pilots expertly maneuvered around the deadly bursts of smoke and proceeded to select targets of opportunity. It was an hour before dusk. The opening shots in the plan to free the USS Saratoga had been fired.
Three of the Tornados split off and were soon over the beach near where the USS Saratoga lay. The three remaining British jets repeatedly twisted and turned their way above the city, firing at the ack-ack guns and lining up the not-yet-warm SAM sites for laser-guided bombs.
A little more than 10,000 feet above, Hunter orbited in his F-16. He was able to watch the action around Villefranche via his terrain-radar video system. It was like having a TV camera hovering over the battle. Meanwhile, he could see the three Norwegian frigates as they dashed for Gold Beach, their cargo of 600 SAS troopers waiting on the decks to be loaded onto landing craft and put ashore. The remaining frigate, carrying Sir Neil and the command staff, circled the Saratoga. The immobile aircraft carrier, its stern pointing directly toward the beach 2000 feet away, was a huge, imposing sight, dark and ominous in the middle of the now-frenetic activity.
His radar picked up the blip of the approaching RAF helicopter. This would be ferrying the SAS troops to be dropped onto the carrier.
So far, so good, he thought.
Hunter moved the F-16 directly over the carrier just as the Sea King chopper was setting down on the deck. He knew twenty-four SAS men were leaping out, and by the chatter on his radio he also knew that the landing on the carrier was unopposed.
He could now see the first of the landing crafts being disgorged from the frigates. Soon the first of the SAS beach troops would be splashing ashore. The trio of Tornados were methodically roaring up and down the beach at 1000 feet, carefully watching for any opposing troops. Less than a mile away, fires were beginning to erupt in the town of Villefranche as the bombing Tornados were finding targets.
That’s when Hunter felt it. Enemy aircraft. Coming his way. Six of them. Approaching from the northeast. Moving at just under Mach 1.
His hands were immediately a blur of movement. He started pushing buttons, flicking switches, punching in computer codes. A mental checklist went off in his head. Weapons systems on. Fuel reserves switched, external tanks dropped. Flight computer set for intercept. Sidewinders armed. Test-firing of his nose cannons successful.
He was ready. Now, who the hell was the enemy?
He found out soon enough. “Christ,” he murmured, looking at his radar screen. The jets were still forty miles away, but he could tell by their radar signatures that they were Dassault-Breguet Super Etendards. The airplanes were originally French-built naval strike craft, but obviously they were operating from a land base somewhere in central Europe. The Red Army Faction had indeed made the call for some free-lance air support.
“Of all the goddamn airplanes to show up,” Hunter cursed. It wasn’t the performance of the jets that bothered him. The French airplanes only had a top speed of 745 mph. His F-16 could do two and a half times that without breathing hard. Rather it was what the airplanes were armed with that was troubling. He knew Super Etendards could only be carrying one weapon: Exocets.
The Exocet was an anti-ship missile of the deadliest order. It could be fired from long- or short-range, depending on the ability and the motives of the pilot. It was programmed to deliver a 364-pound warhead of high explosive into a ship while traveling 600 mph. The missiles had made their murderous debut years ago in the Falkland Islands War. A few years later, an American frigate had been hit by one in the Persian Gulf. They flew again in the opening battles of World War III. Now Hunter knew at least six of them were heading his way.
Just as he was about to call in to Sir Neil on the Norwegian command ship, he heard one of the Gold Beach Tornados break in on the line.
“We’ve got trouble on Gold,” the cockney-accented pilot reported. “Tanks moving on beach highway from Villefranche. Looks like a gang of them — T-62s. Thirty at least. Also BMPs … ”
Goddamn! The Faction brought their tanks with them on holiday. Thirty Soviet-built tanks to boot.
Hunter flipped his radio-send switch and was immediately talking to Sir Neil. “We got six Super Etendards coming your way,” he told the British officer. “They’re probably loaded with Exocets.”
“Christ, Hunter,” the reply came back. “Who are they and what’s their bloody position?”
“Probably free-lancers, coming in a two-seventy Tango,” Hunter said, noting the aircraft were now just thirty miles away and staggering their flight pattern into three groups of two. The enemy planes were starting a long arc out over the sea. “They are getting in their attack positions now. You’d better red-alert everyone on the ships. Once those Exocets are launched, they’ll hit the first thing that configures to their computer ‘ship-ID’ profile. And that includes the carrier.”
There was a burst of static, then Sir Neil’s voice came through: “Hunter, can you hold them, man? We’ve got tanks moving toward the SAS guys on Gold. All six Tornados are being vectored there right now!”