“How the hell did this guy know all this?” Hunter asked, plainly shocked.
Heath could only shrug his shoulders. “We don’t have the foggiest idea,” the Englishman said. “A bit spooky, don’t you think?”
“Spooky?” Hunter said. “It’s damned scary!”
Hunter looked at the man called Peter. He was now lying prostrate on the floor, his soft moaning muffled by his wild hair and beard.
“He says he’s been living on ship for a long time,” Heath continued. “Waiting for us. Hiding from the Fist and the Faction whenever they came aboard. He apparently knows the ship like the back of his hand. He might even be a member of the original crew, though from all that mumbling he’s doing, it’s hard to pick out an accent.”
“Yeah, he also looks pretty old to be a regular crew member,” Yaz said. “He could be a CPO or even an officer, though.”
Hunter knelt down beside the man. “Hey, pal,” he said in a soothing, coaxing tone. “Who told you we were coming?”
The man looked up at him, his shaking hands brushing the hair from his face. “I knew … ” he said in a trembling voice. “I’ve known for years … ”
Those eyes, Hunter thought. He saw madness behind them, but also a flicker of intelligence. “What else do you know?” he asked.
The man gathered himself back up into a kneeling position and closed his eyes tight. “Women! I see painted women,” he said through gritted teeth. “Beautiful women. You’ll see them to! And flowers! Green flowers floating in the ocean!”
Hunter caught Heath’s eye. The Englishman was shaking his head as if to confirm that he believed the man was nuts.
Still, Peter went on, his voice going low. “I see a face in the sky,” he croaked. “I see the ocean burning. I see you, the pilot, alone in the desert. And I see Viktor … ”
“What do you know about Viktor?” Hunter asked him quickly.
Peter’s eyes went wide with authentic terror. “Viktor is Lucifer. Lucifer is Viktor. He is the Evil sent to destroy the world … ”
“Well, he’s got that part right,” Hunter said.
Peter then stretched upward and put out his arms as if he were hanging on a cross. “Lucifer!” he bellowed, startling everyone in the room, including the battle-hardened SAS men. “He is the Anti-christ!”
“Oh, brother,” Hunter said, instinctively backing away from the man. “Not this … ”
“Lucifer is the real thing — he comes from Hell, I tell you!” the old man screamed, his voice tortured and cracked. “He is six-six-six … ”
“The man is over the edge,” Heath said.
Suddenly Peter’s head was bolt upright. He began to shake uncontrollably. “Listen!” he whispered. “Here it comes … ”
Those in the room could hear a faint whistling sound, quickly getting louder.
“Incoming!” someone yelled.
Bang!
Suddenly the whole ship shuddered with the sound of an explosion. The lights flickered twice, then went out completely. In a second, the CIC was filled with black, acrid smoke. The crackling of flames could be heard in the next compartment.
Instantly, the room was a scene of controlled confusion as those inside tried to make their way in the smoky blackness to decks above.
The man called Peter let out a long agonizing scream, then sank back to the darkened floor …
Chapter 13
Hunter was already on the carrier deck before the second shell hit the Saratoga. He had recognized the distinctive whistling sound of the howitzer and could tell by its pitch that it was being fired at the ship from a position somewhere near Villefranche.
Heath and Yaz were right behind him when he reached the deck. Off in the distance they could hear the thumping of the three howitzers firing simultaneously.
“I hear them but I don’t see them!” Yaz said trying to locate the howitzers’ positions.
“They’re hidden in the town, probably close to the shoreline,” Hunter said. “Those are the only kind of guns that could possibly have the range to do us some damage.”
“Jesus, I didn’t think the Faction had such heavy-duty stuff,” Heath said as one of the shells crashed into the sea just 100 yards off the port side of the carrier.
“Maybe they don’t,” Hunter said. “They could have got lucky and hired a free-lance howitzer group that was camped nearby.”
The shoreline was now a portrait of flames and smoke. The beachhead had yet to be attacked by the howitzers. Whoever was firing the ten-mile-range guns was zeroing in on the carrier. The first shot had been a lucky hit right against the side of the ship near the CIC. Fortunately, it made more noise than anything else, and Yaz’s men were already fighting the small blaze that had broken out. But other shells were now landing dangerously close. Two of the frigates were moving into position off Villefranche in an attempt to locate the howitzers’ hidden positions. One of them was the command ship carrying Sir Neil and the Recovery Mission planners. But Hunter knew the frigates’ gunners would not be able to get in close enough to find out where the big guns were.
Just then one of Heath’s men yelled to him from the bridge on the carrier’s conning tower. “Sir! The tugs are here!”
The trio whirled around to see a group of red and white blinking lights stretching across the dark horizon. “Well, well, Mr. O’Brien,” Heath said. “You’ve arrived ahead of schedule … ”
“And just in time,” Yaz added.
“We’ve got to get this show on the road,” Hunter said. “Yaz, get on the horn to Sir Neil, will you? Tell him the tugs have arrived and we’ve got to start pulling the SAS guys off the beach now.”
“Where you going, major?” Yaz wanted to know.
Hunter and Heath were already running toward the big Sea King helicopter sitting on the carrier deck. “We’re going to find those howitzers!” he yelled back.
The Sea King was armed with two outdated but still effective 40mm grenade launchers. Heath had automatically jumped behind the controls of the big chopper and Hunter had strapped himself into the side-door gunner’s seat. They were airborne less than a minute later, taking off just as a howitzer shell had come crashing down on the deck, dangerously close to where the F-16 was parked.
Hunter hung out the open bay door of the chopper as Heath steered the Sea King toward the shore. Already a frigate was moving toward the SAS beachhead, preparing to take off the first contingent of troops. Sir Neil’s command ship was still looking for the howitzers, but now the entrenched T-62 tank crews — probably awakened by the resurgence in fighting — were beginning to take shots at the Norwegian ship. Soon the night sky was filled with hundreds of crisscrossing shells.
“Let’s drop in by the back door!” Hunter yelled to Heath. The smiling Englishman with the enormous red mustache gave Hunter the thumbs-up signal and put the chopper into a steep bank. Soon they were away from the battle and over the dark hills of southern France.
Heath brought the chopper inland about twenty miles, then he turned south again, the fires of Villefranche providing a good beacon for them. Hunter studied the outline of the town. Then, amidst the smoke and the flames, he saw one, then two, then three telltale muzzle flashes. He yelled to Heath and pointed. The howitzers were mobiles — huge tank-like vehicles capable of firing, then moving to another position. Right now, they were on the far outskirts of the city, partially hidden by a seawall and practically impossible to see from the frigates. Heath gunned the Sea King in their direction.