Skyfire (34 page)

And though the storm of psychic messages was complex and overlapping, he knew its presence could mean only one thing: Dominique was on that boat.

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For the first time in more than an hour, Wolf was able to lean back and relax for a moment.

The frantic activity that had inundated the CIC for the past hour had now calmed down to a more civilized buzz. Cigarettes were being lit and slowly smoked. Tea and coffee were being passed around. Conversations were being punctuated by relieved breathing and an occasional congratulatory laugh.

And there was reason to celebrate: The New Jersey had just gone through its first real sea battle and it had performed flawlessly.

The whole story could be told on the CIC's multitude of TV screens. The surface radar monitor displayed little else besides the lifeless green blips of the dozens of crippled and sinking Norse subs. The below-surface sonar monitor was pinging madly off the dozens of hulks of Norse subs already sunk.

The radio-intercept monitor, cued to pick up broadcasts from the Norse subs, was so quiet, it might as well have been turned off altogether. Unlike at the height of the battle, now there were no more enemy radio transmissions. There were no SOS's, no calls for help. The remaining Norse subs were dying silently, for most of them, their grand adventure ending in the pale-blue waters off the Florida coast.

But it was the large TV screen that told the biggest story. The RPV was still diligently sweeping back and forth above

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the Jacksonville coastline, documenting the aftermath of the disasterous invasion attempt. Every sector within the RPV's range looked the same: dozens of wrecked and burning landing craft, hundreds of dead Norse on the beaches and in the nearby surf, burned and sinking subs offshore. The RPV's TV

transmission was stark proof that in the zone stretching from Jacksonville flats down to cliffs of Vi-lano Banks, no invader had made it off the beach.

Wolf finally accepted a cup of tea and spontaneously toasted those sitting around him. From the first shots fired against the Norse troops on the beach to the last barrage sent into the already-burning hulk of a Norse supply sub, the New Jersey had wreaked destruction on the hapless enemy that to some might have seemed inconceivable. The total was simply awesome: twenty-three Norse troop subs sunk, another twenty-five left afloat but burning, and six more probably sunk. The total of forty-four, three-gun sixteen-inch barrages fired with pinpoint accuracy at the troops on the beaches had undoubtedly killed literally thousands. This firepower, combined with the unopposed air strikes performed by the United American attack jets, had delivered an astounding defeat that rivaled few events in military history.

Still, after taking a few sips of his tea, Wolf could not shake the feeling that the victory was in certain aspects fairly hollow. As backward and loutish as the Norsemen were, they still had to be stopped. Yet much of the battle had seemed like little more than shooting fish in a barrel. Slaughtering unsophisticated if gallant soldiers did not sit well with a man like Wolf.

So when his executive officer turned and asked him almost nonchalantly: "What next, Skipper?" Wolf felt a chill run through him. Although he knew it wasn't the XO's intention, some part of Wolfs brain interpreted the remark to mean:

"Who's our next victim?"

Wolf just stopped himself in time from lashing out at the man. Instead, he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. He was the captain of the most powerful surface vessel left on

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the face of the earth, and at times, the job seemed like a nightmare.

"Call in Bjordson," Wolf said quietly. "Tell him to retrieve the RPV and head back. Have the crew go on half stations, except in turret number two. They'll be on alert until midnight when turret three takes over. Prepare the steam screen just in case we have to go undercover."

The XO immediately put down his coffee cup and stood at near attention. He knew by Wolfs tone that the skipper was still operating in the all-business mode.

"Is that all, sir?" he asked crisply.

"One more thing ..." Wolf told him, nervously adjusting his mask. "Contact the Jacksonville air station. Advise them of our position and tell them we will be standing by for further communications."

The XO saluted smartly and quickly left the CIC. His departure signaled an unofficial end to the respite among those in the war room. Coffee cups were drained, and the chatter immediately died down. Technicians went back to their green screens and weapons officers to then-control panels.

But still the XO's question rang in Wolfs ears: What next, Skipper? What next?

The answer came an instant later.

It was the air-defense radar technician who saw them first. Two blips, then three, then four, moving rapidly onto his long-range screen, coming in from due east.

"Skipper . . ." the tech called out, watching as three more blips suddenly popped onto the oval screen. "Look at this..."

By the time Wolf was staring into the bright green control panel, the number of blips had increased to nine. Within two seconds, four more appeared, and then four after that.

"What's their range and heading?" Wolf asked the man.

A quick check of his instruction manual and another glance at the screen provided the answer to the tech.

"Thirty-eight miles out," he said slowly, "and on their 303

present course, they'll pass seven miles to our south."

"That's too close," Wolf said under his breath. A second later he hit the ship's attack-warning buzzer. , The klaxon immediately started blaring, and the sounds of men running to their battle stations echoed through the ship again. Suddenly the CIC was bathed in tension once more. Techs rushed back to their screens, weapons officers began readying their guns and missiles systems.

"Could they be the Americans, sir?" the air-defense radar tech asked with a slight gulp.

Wolf shook his head slowly. "Something tells me no," he said grimly. "Those are basic attack formations."

Other sensors were now picking up the mysterious airborne force, warning via a cacophony of buzzers and electronic whistles that the approaching aircraft were not only carrying radar-guided weapons, but that their cockpit radars were locked onto "hot" attack modes.

Three seconds later, the XO was on the radio to Wolf. By that time the number of bogies had increased to twenty-four.

"We have an unknown airborne force bearing thirty-seven miles out and ten miles down," Wolf told the second in command. "Seal everything up, and fast!"

The aura of good feeling that had invaded the CIC after the cessation in fighting on the beaches now quickly drained away, to be replaced by an atmosphere of surprise and dread.

"Buck up the air-defense system . . ." Wolf called into another microphone, turning away from the radar screen for a moment. "Program to automatic, with immediate manual override."

When he looked back at the screen, he saw there were now no less than thirty-six blips.

"Is there anyway to ID these guys?" Wolf asked the radar officer, who valiantly reached for the long list of instructions left behind by Hunter.

The second radar man spoke up at this point. "I can tell by the signatures that they are not anything like the UA at-304

tack craft," the man said, his voice quavering with concern. "Besides coming in from the ocean, they are moving much too fast for A-7's or A-4's."

From across the room, the main radio officer called: "Jacksonville must have picked them up, too, Skipper. They are sending out an emergency F-O-F signal.

. ."

Wolf felt his heart start beating an extra thump a second. The F-O-F

signal-for Friend or Foe-was broadcast as a kind of last resort before an accidental-or sneak-attack.

By this time, the incoming force was only thirty-five miles away.

"SAM status," Wolf yelled out.

"All missiles ready, sir . . ."

"AAA guns?"

"Locked and ready, sir. . ."

"Weapons computers?"

"Main is on and ready, sir. Backups on stand-by."

Wolf punched another button. "Activate steam screen . . ."

"We've got a stray indication," the radar officer called out, drawing Wolfs attention back to the massive air-defense radar screen.

The captain followed the man's finger to the tiny, lone blip that had suddenly appeared between the oncoming airborne force and the Florida shoreline.

"Who the hell is that?"

The radar officer dialed the screen to a slightly clearer intensity.

"It seems to be hovering out there," he told Wolf. "It might be a helicopter .

. ."

Wolf took a long look at the solitary blip that for all the world looked like an electronic David waiting for the flying army of Goliaths.

"That's no helicopter," he said grimly.

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On his worst day, Hunter had never imagined the scene that now played out before him.

Hovering at a point 32.6 miles put and 3,623 feet above the sea, Hunter watched with rising trepidation as the swarm of thirty-six black dots moved in and out of the heavy cloud break heading right at him. They were still too far away for normal visual identification-but Hunter did not have to see them to know what was coming.

Deep down inside, he knew this day would come. He just wished it hadn't come so soon.

Like a man about to face death, key segments of the last five years of Hunter's unusual life flashed before his eyes. Five years ago, when the New Order still ruled America and he was the continent's most hunted man, the difference between life and death had frequently been his aircraft, the beloved F-16. In those turbulent days when America had been fractured into dozens of small countries, kingdoms, and free states, and air pirates ruled the skies, Hunter's F-16 had been the hottest bird around-no arguments, no debate. When the civil wars against the Circle erupted, his F-16 held sway over the aerial battlefield, challenging any aircraft the enemy could launch.

His subsequent record was a perfect 1.000. In the final battles for independence and in the action against the Panama-based Canal Nazis of the Twisted Cross, his airplane, now converted into the "cranked arrow" design of the ultrasophisticated F-16XL, was in the vanguard of the United American air forces.

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Then his airplane was stolen-but not before he had been able to transfer just about one hundred percent of the F-16's avionics and weapons systems out of the fighter and into his present mode of transport, the souped-up AV-8BE

Harrier jumpjet.

Even in the slower, less maneuverable if highly versatile AV-8, Hunter had established a kind of one-man rule of the skies over the barely united continent, the main deterrent to the rapidly dwindling number of air pirates being that they never knew where Hunter would be next. To them, he always seemed to be in just the right spot at just the precise time to foil their plans or just to pursue and shoot one or more of them down.

And while the United Americans and the allies boasted a number of hot fighters-notably the squadron of state-of-the-art F-20 Tigersharks employed by the Football City Defense Force-they said that even when Hunter's Harrier had sat idle in his barn back on Cape Cod, a case could be made that it was still the best plane around simply because of the man who owned it.

But myths are myths and legends are lies, and luckily Hunter knew the difference. If he was to accept the mantle of "best fighter pilot who ever lived," then he also could never forget the fact that he was the best because he flew the best.

But this, too, came down to a question of numbers.

It had been the first dictate of the now-destroyed hated New Order regime that the NATO forces destroy all of their military equipment, disarming completely in return for world peace. In the frenzy of technocide that followed, thousands of priceless fighter jets were destroyed, along with the vast majority of all of the US Armed Forces weapons materiel.

As far as he knew, Hunter's F-16 was the only one to escape.

But it was more than that. Not only F-16s had been destroyed per decree of the New Order. Other equally sophisticated, and in some cases, superior jet fighters had

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been demolished. Air Force F-15's. Navy and Marine F/A-18's. Navy F-14's. But Hunter had always believed-or he had tricked himself to believe-that all of these hotshit fighters had met the fanatical New Order axe, mainly because he hadn't seen any of them around in the ensuing five years. And with the American continental skies full of antique shitboxes like F-100 Super Sabres and F-101 Voodoos, and maybe an occasional dumptruck like an F-4 Phantom, it had been much easier for him to be labeled "the best."

But now, with his mouth going dry and his heart pounding through his flight suit, Hunter knew all that was about to change.

He recognized the formation right away. It was Navy through and through. Air superiority fighters out front and on the flanks, three rows of fighter/attack craft, a chevron of purely attack planes and missile luggers, and a guard of four air superiority fighters bringing up the rear. Thirty-six planes in all, one deployed air wing of a Navy supercarrier.

Actually, Hunter wasn't one to have nightmares. But in his worst bad dream, he confronted a mass of superlative fighters while he was flying an old biplane, armed with only a water pistol, and there wasn't even any ammo in that.

He felt thrust into the middle of that disturbing vision right now. For just twelve miles from him and a little over a mile above, he could clearly see eighteen F-14 Tomcats, nine F/A-18 Hornets and nine A-6 Intruders. All of them were fully armed. All of them were heading directly for him.

The Harrier was not carrying any air-to-air missiles. Its bomb racks had been packed with cluster bombs, and while Hunter was normally a cautious person to a fault, he had decided not to pack on board his usual compliment of two Sidewinder missiles for the attack on the Florida beaches. It had been a correct decision: the mission simply didn't call for air defense weapons.