The Tornados were strafing the tanks firing at the beach soldiers, but already one of the jets had been shot down by a shoulder-launched SAM. Two other Tornados were low on fuel and ammo and would shortly have to return to Majorca.
But in his highly trained mind’s eye, Hunter knew the battle would soon change. It was getting dark, and right now the night would be the Recovery Force’s best ally. He swooped in over the beach and started strafing the T-62s. Meanwhile, shells from the frigate’s deck guns were finding targets in the enemy column. The SAS troops were also joining the fray, sending mortar shells crashing on to the enemy-controlled highway near their beachhead.
Two more passes over the tank column and Hunter saw the predicted change in the battle. The tanks were withdrawing to the side of the road where their crews would dig them in. They could continue to shell the beachhead from these stationary positions, but the battle had reached a point where the tanks needed to be resupplied.
As darkness quickly enveloped the area, the shooting on both sides died down to just scattered exchanges. Both sides hunkered down for the night.
Chapter 12
“Ok, F-16,” the voice crackled through the radio, “you are cleared for landing.”
Hunter began a final turn over the USS Saratoga. He’d been circling the carrier for nearly an hour, using every trick in the book to preserve his precious fuel. Now he had about five minutes’ worth of gas remaining.
It was nearly completely dark. A full moon was rising, and with it the tides. The SAS beachhead troops were exchanging scattered fire with the Faction tanks. The three Norwegian frigates were sweeping up and down the shoreline, battering both the tanks and the city of Villefranche itself with their small but powerful deck guns. Meanwhile the SAS carrier contingent had secured the Saratoga and Yaz’s men were on board. They had been able to fix two of the four arresting cables on the carrier’s deck in record time, setting up a bank of temporary floodlights in the process. Now it was time to test the cables.
Hunter had never attempted a carrier landing before, but he had hooked onto arresting cables on many occasions. He brought the F-16 down low as he made the final turn to the carrier. The floodlights that bathed the carrier deck gave it the appearance of a football field at night. He lined up the centerline of the deck with his HUD display and brought down his landing gear. The carrier was listing at a slight angle, but not enough to bother him.
Yaz himself was on the radio, his voice calmly calling out the wind direction and the all-important distance-to-ship measurement. The Navy man confirmed that the F-16’s arresting hook was fully deployed.
Hunter was now 500 feet out. He caressed the F-16’s side-stick controller. Flaps were lowered, air brakes engaged. 300 feet to go. He pulled the nose up slightly. A cross wind came up, causing him to dip the starboard wing slightly. 200 feet. Down a little more. His speed was just 120 knots. He throttled back on Yaz’s suggestion. 150 feet out. He could see the two arresting cables now. He would try for the first one. Missing that, he could always hope to snag the second one. If that were unsuccessful, he would be swimming for his life in the dark waters of the Med.
“OK, major,” Hunter heard Yaz say. “You’re looking good. Down just a hair. One hundred feet to go. Throttle back. Back. Steady. Nose up a little. Good!”
Hunter’s F-16 hit the first cable. There was a great screech and a burst of friction smoke as the arresting hook grabbed the cable, stretched it to its full limit, and snapped back. The F-16 shuddered all over, its engines screaming. Hunter was thrown forward in the cockpit, then slammed back against his seat. What a rush! he thought. He was down. The airplane was safe. From 100 mph to a dead stop in a second and a half. No wonder the Navy guys likened carrier landings to “having sex in a car wreck.”
The 16 was immediately surrounded by Yaz’s men, who started attaching securing lines to the aircraft and bolting them to the carrier deck. He could see other sailors were already draping the heavy-wound towlines over the stern of the carrier in preparation for O’Brien’s tugs. Hunter popped the canopy and climbed out. Heath and Yaz were waiting for him.
“This might be a first,” Yaz told him. “An Air Force plane landing on a Navy carrier … unopposed, that is.”
Hunter checked over the fighter and, once he was convinced it was in relatively good shape, he, Heath, and Yaz headed towards the Saratoga’s Combat Information Center or CIC, the central nervous system of any warship. As they walked along the ship’s passageways, Hunter could see SAS men and Yaz’s sailors running throughout the ship performing their prearranged tasks.
“The beachhead is in good shape,” the British officer told him. “Our SAS guys have occupied the shoreline buildings and have a good defensive perimeter set up. We’re lucky because the Faction are not known as night-fighters and the Iron Fist people are probably cowering under their beds.”
“How about the ship’s launch system?” Hunter asked. “Can we get it working?”
Yaz raised his hands to display two sets of crossed fingers. “We got electricity to the primary controls,” he said. “And the hydraulic pumps for the steam catapult are fixable. If the steam tanks don’t leak and the pipes take the pressure, we could launch in less than three hours if we had to.”
Hunter felt a jolt of pride for the Navy guys. He knew the jobs Yaz had described would usually take at least a day to complete.
“No trouble when your chopper guys landed on board?” Hunter asked Heath.
Heath shook his head. “The ship was nearly empty,” he said.
“Nearly?”
“Except for one person,” Heath said. “I’ll introduce you.”
They reached the bridge to find a squad of SAS men surrounding a strange figure. It was an old man, dressed in rags and sporting a dirty, gray beard and long, stringy hair that nearly reached his waist. He was wearing a sackcloth tied at the middle with a piece of electrical wire and dilapidated combat boots on his feet. A dozen garishly colored strings of beads hung around his neck. He looked like both a hermit and an out-of-date hippie. The man was sitting in an old pine box that looked to be a cross between a bed and a coffin. His eyes closed as if he was meditating.
“Who’s the old guy?” Hunter asked.
“His name is Peter,” Heath said. “Or so he tells us. We found him here, in this box. Says he’s been living here for a while. Also says that he’s been ‘expecting us.’”
The man opened his eyes and looked at Hunter. The pilot could tell right away the man was a little crazy.
“It’s him!” Peter started yelling. “He’s come!”
Hunter looked at Heath. “Who the hell is he talking about?”
“I think he’s talking about you, major,” Heath answered.
Peter bounded out of the box and into a kneeling position. He started chanting loudly in gibberish, pausing occasionally to look up at Hunter and let out an insane laugh.
“Christ,” Hunter said. “This guy’s nuts … ”
“Maybe so,” Heath said. “But look at this.” He picked up a notebook and gave it to Hunter. “The SAS guys found him writing away in this when they came aboard.”
Hunter recognized the book as a typical ship’s log. He was surprised to find the writing inside was not only extremely neat and readable, it was almost stylized, like that in a Bible.
Hunter started reading the log and felt a wave of astonishment pass over him. There, on the first three pages, was a completely accurate version of what he and the Brits had been doing in the past week. From the bombing at the Highway Base to the trip to Algiers to their attacking Villefranche to their boarding of the Saratoga. It mentioned Sir Neil, Heath, Hunter, and even Yaz by name. The whole story — right up to the section titled “Peter Meets the Pilot”—written as if it were already history.