Hawke clenched his teeth as he circled above the Port of Los Angeles. His narrowed eyes locked on the three Arab submarines sitting at the main entrance to the port.
"Dom," he spoke deliberately. "Can you call up the specs on the Gato-class sub?"
Santini only managed to tap a couple keys of his computer console when Ross spoke. "Built by the US between 1940 and 1944. Diesel-electric engines. Speed, twenty-one knots surfaced and nine knots submerged. Complement, about sixty personnel. Armament, ten twenty-one inch torpedo tubes, six forward, four aft, with a load of twenty-four fish. One three-inch deck gun, one twenty-millimeter cannon and one forty-millimeter cannon."
Hawke nodded, impressed by Ross' knowledge. He then looked back down at the subs, his stomach twisting into a painful knot. All those torpedoes and guns could wreck havoc on the port.
His anger boiled when he saw hatches open and men swarm the deck. How long would it take them to have the deck guns ready for firing?
Then something else caught his attention. He leaned forward in his seat, his sharp eyes picking out a dark oval shape on the deck of one of the Gatos.
A Zodiac inflatable raft.
Hawke's chest tightened in dread as he watched several men gather around the raft. Two of them had something strapped to their backs, a rod with a conical top. He recognized it instantly. A Soviet-made RPG-7 rocket launcher. Other men around them carried either light machine guns or AK-47s, the favorite assault rifle of bad guys the world over.
"It looks like they're launching a commando raid." Ross glared through Airwolf's windows at the subs below. "We have to stop them."
"How?" Hawke snapped. "Our chain guns are knocked out."
"Well we have to find another way."
"There is no other way. Didn't you hear what I said? We have no weapons."
"So you're just going to let those commandos come ashore? Slaughter everyone they come across? Maybe plant explosives in key areas of the port? This whole place could be out of operation for months."
"I know, dammit!" Hawke whipped his head around to face Ross. "What do you want me to do? Crash into one of those subs?"
A stony expression formed on Ross' face. "If it becomes necessary."
Hawke's eyes widened. Shock slammed into him with the force of a runaway Mack truck. This guy was serious. Absolutely serious.
"You're crazy, Lieutenant. That kamikaze stuff might work for you and your friends on Yonaga, but here, that's not an option."
"Well we're not going to just fly around and do nothing."
Hawke looked back down at the subs. Already a few Zodiacs were bobbing in the water, commandos climbing into them.
He glanced back at Ross. The young lieutenant targeted him with a harsh gaze. Hawke wondered if Ross might try to kill him and Santini and crash Airwolf into one of those submarines.
Even if he did that, that'd still leave two submarines and a bunch of commandos to attack the port.
Rage burst inside Hawke. He slammed a gloved fist on his console. Ross was right about one thing. They couldn't just stay up here and allow the Gatos and the commandos to devastate the Port of Los Angeles. But how the hell could they stop them? The chain guns were damaged, they'd unloaded all their missiles back at the FIRM air strip.
What a stupid thing to do. Even if their guidance systems couldn't work, he still could have lined up for a straight-on shot at the subs.
Damn hindsight.
He crushed the cyclic stick, watching the commandos pile into the Zodiacs.
Tracers streaked past Airwolf as the Gatos opened up with the 20mm and 40mm guns. Hawke banked away to get out of the range of the anti-aircraft fire. He wanted to cry out in fury. He was being shot at, commandos were poised to strike the Port of Los Angeles, and he had no way to fight back.
His anger propelled his mind back to the conference room on Yonaga, and Admiral Fujita's words to him about fighting without most of Airwolf's hi-tech systems.
"No matter if all our guns are empty, we will keep fighting. We will do whatever it takes to defeat our enemies, no matter how desperate it may seem. Can I expect that sort of commitment from you, Mister Hawke?"
His instinct was to say, "Yes." The word, however, felt empty given their situation. By his estimate, they had ten minutes of fuel left, fifteen at most. The only weapons system they had that worked was the Sunburst flares.
Hawke held his breath. A plan took shape. A desperate plan, beyond desperate.
Desperate? Try stupid. Try suicidal.
But it was their only shot at stopping the Arabs.
"Dom, listen up. I'm gonna fly back over those subs. When I give the word, I want you to execute a fuel dump."
"A fuel dump? String, are you nuts? We barely have any fuel left."
"I know. But we don't have a choice. As soon as you've dumped the fuel, I'm gonna launch a couple Sunbursts, then find a place to land." Or more likely crash land.
Santini sighed heavily. "You do know this is probably the craziest stunt you've ever pulled."
"If you have a better idea, I'm all ears."
"I wish I did," Santini grumbled. "Okay, let's get this over with."
Hawke looked over at Ross. A hint of a smile crossed the young lieutenant's lips.
Taking a quick breath, Hawke shoved the cyclic stick to the right. Airwolf went into a tight turn and headed back toward the Gatos. He lowered the nose. The damaged engine shuddered as he milked every bit of speed he could out of it. His gaze locked on the submarines, lined up in a perfect row.
Streaks of yellow ripped through the sky. Tracers. Lots of them.
Clang! Clang!
Airwolf shook. Hawke groaned and clenched the stick tightly. Those had to be 20mm shells. Had they been 40mm, he doubted the chopper would still be in one piece.
Another hammer blow rocked Airwolf. Another. A puff of orange and black belched from the first Gato's 3-inch gun. Hawke tensed. There'd be no way they could survive a hit from that.
A fountain of water went up twenty feet off their starboard side. Airwolf drew closer to the subs. Closer. Almost . . .
"Dom! Now!"
"Dumping fuel!"
Airwolf jumped higher in the air from the sudden loss of weight. Hawke checked to his left. A thick spray of fuel rained over the subs and the commandos boarding the rafts. The anti-aircraft fire halted almost instantly. The Arabs must have realized what it was that covered them.
"Halt fuel dump!" Hawke ordered.
"Fuel dump stopped."
Hawke banked to the left, no longer worried about AA fire from the submarines. The Arabs couldn't risk firing their guns. They knew just one spark would put them in the middle of an inferno.
Exactly.
"Sunbursts away!"
Hawke thumbed the countermeasures button. Three flares shot out from the rear launcher and fell toward the water.
Any moment now . . .
Flames sprouted over the water, sweeping out in all directions. It washed over the submarines like a tidal wave of fire. A few men dove into the fiery water. Others spun around and flailed, their bodies resembling human matchsticks.
Sparks shot up from one of the Zodiacs, then another and another. That had to be rockets and ammo cooking off.
A gusher of flame rose from the middle submarine, severing the bow. Hawke assumed the fire had set off the rounds for the 3-inch gun.
More explosions rocked the submarines as shells continued to detonate. The conning tower of one of the Gatos ripped in half. A huge fireball tore apart the front half of another Gato.
"See, Mister Hawke. You were wrong."
He turned to Ross as the young lieutenant continued. "You still had weapons left on this helicopter."
Hawke responded with a snorting laugh.
A steady beeping filled the cabin. He checked his console. No surprise, the LOW FUEL indicator flashed.
He turned away from the burning submarines and headed toward the port. The engine sputtered a couple times, causing Hawke to tense.
C'mon, baby. Just a little bit more.
He aimed for the first clear spot he saw, a parking lot next to a three-story rectangular concrete building. The landing gear went down – Thank God that works. Airwolf hovered lower, lower . . .
The engine sputtered, groaned, then died. Airwolf dropped the remaining fifteen feet, landing with a jolt. Once all was still, Hawke let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He also heard Santini give an audible sigh of relief. Ross just sat in his jump seat, a stoic look on his face.
"Well, not the most graceful of landings," Hawke said. "But we're alive, that's what counts."
"And Kadafi's butchers are dead," Ross added. "That counts even more."
Hawke stared at Ross for a few silent seconds before nodding. He then opened the side door and stepped out onto the blacktop.
Two blue uniformed port security guards rounded the corner of the building, both leveling shotguns at Hawke.
"Hands up! Get your hands up!"
He complied without argument.
"Who the hell are you?"
"To be honest, we're the guys who just saved your butts from a major terrorist attack."
XXXXX
Hafiz Ufaral, the Pakistani-born captain of the carrier Al Bayda, praised Allah when the radio finally started working. It didn't work a hundred percent. At best it worked forty, maybe forty-five percent. Still better than not having it work at all, which had been the case since they sailed through that strange lightning storm.
Now, however, he wished the damned thing didn't work.
All he had received were broken bits of bad news. A pilot from the attack squadron reported most of al Bayda's planes had fallen victim to the Zeros of the sons of whores from Yonaga.
Yonaga. Always Yonaga, damn them to hell.
He also picked up a few garbled transmissions from the second wave of the attack, the three Gatos with their suicide commandos. An officer on one of the subs reported their attack was about to commence when Ufaral heard a burst of static, a thump, another burst of static, then screams, then nothing.
He had to assume the attack on the Port of Los Angeles failed.
Ufaral concentrated to keep from shaking. He knew Colonel Kadafi would not tolerate a failure like this. Even moreso since the Yonaga had once again been responsible. Once the al Bayda battle group docked in Tripoli, he knew his life expectancy could be measured in minutes. Actually, when the radio began working properly again, The Colonel would probably order him taken to the brig and shot.
Yonaga. The very word stoked the burning coals of his rage. But with that word also came the chance to redeem himself. The attack on the Port of Los Angeles may have failed, but surely Colonel Kadafi would forgive him if he could hunt down the Yonaga and send it to the bottom of the sea forever.
And how can I do that with my air wing gone?
They would just have to do it the old-fashioned way. Fight it out at close range with guns.
But if Yonaga has most of its aircraft, it could be suicide.
What did that matter? He was a dead man anyway.
"Lieutenant Nava. You have the bridge."
The former Argentine naval officer nodded. Ufaral noted the short, mustached man as he headed for the hatch. As with most non-Arabs serving with Kadafi's forces, Nava was not a believer. Money motivated him and his ilk more than anything else. But what Nava lacked in faith he made up for in competence, honed by six years of service in the Argentine Navy, including combat during The Falklands War a few years back.
Ufaral opened the hatch and turned left, heading for the Combat Information Center. From there he could try to guess Yonaga's position and intercept them. With their radios working somewhat he could use some of the Me-109s flying CAP for the battle group for reconnaissance to try an locate –
"Multiple planes!" Someone on the bridge shouted before Ufaral could close the hatch. "Multiple planes approaching from the south."
Ufaral jumped back inside the bridge. Nava and two other crewmen gathered around the starboard bridge window, binoculars pressed against their eyes. Ufaral raised his own set to his eyes and scanned the sky.
Dozens of specks lined the horizon, headed straight for al Bayda and its escorts.
Dammit! Dammit! It had to be Yonaga's planes, damn their luck.
Ufaral ordered all anti-aircraft units to fire as soon as the enemy planes were in range. He'd just finished speaking when the six Me-109s flying CAP darted over al Bayda and made for the Japanese. His heart pounded furiously as he watched through the binoculars.
The Me-109s dove on the incoming planes. Ufaral smiled as he watched three Japanese aircraft plunge into the ocean in flames. His elation quickly turned to dread as several enemy planes broke off to engage the Me-109s. One of his fighters spiraled toward the water, belching smoke and flame. Another Me-109 went down trailing smoke. Another. Another.
The Japanese planes continued their approach. Ufaral could clearly distinguish between the Val dive bombers and the Kate torpedo planes.
Hundreds upon hundreds of yellow tracers streaked across the sky. Ugly black puffs of smoke from larger AA guns blossomed overhead. A Val exploded. Another Val burst into flames and fell. Two Kates trailed smoke and slammed into the water, disintegrating. The murderous fire continued. Two more Japanese planes met fiery ends.
Ufaral's breathing increased. They could do it. They could shoot down all of Yonaga's planes, then find the carrier itself and –
"Torpedoes in the water!" a young seaman to his left called out. "Two torpedoes, thirty degrees to starboard!"
Ufaral spotted the white wakes of the torpedoes barreling toward the carrier.
"Hard right rudder!" he shouted. "Hard right rudder!"
"Hard right rudder!" the helmsman responded, twisting the large wheel.
Ufaral pressed a hand on the console to keep his balance as the 45,000 ton modified Kiev-class carrier heaved to the right. Fear bubbled inside him as he willed the ship to turn faster, willed the torpedoes to miss.
The wakes drew closer.
Miss. Please miss. Please miss.
The two wakes sped past the al Bayda.
Ufaral's muscles unraveled. He let out a long sigh of relief, watching the brilliant display of anti-aircraft fire cont-
A deafening roar consumed the bridge. The world shook. Ufaral grunted as he was thrown to the floor, along with everyone else on the bridge. His ears rang. Still he could make out a painful howl. He glanced to his left. A young seaman lay on the floor, clutching an arm Ufaral assumed to be broken.
"What happened?" he asked no one in particular as he climbed to his feet.
No one answered the captain. He didn't need anyone to answer his question. Staring out the bridge window, he saw a huge hole in the al Bayda's deck gushing smoke and fire like a miniature volcano.
A second bomb struck al Bayda aft. Again Ufaral and the bridge crew tumbled to the floor.
"Damage report!" he hollered. "Someone get me a damage report!"
Thick clouds of smoke drifted over the deck. Ufaral stared beyond it, taking note of the positions of his escorts. What he saw sent panic surging through him.
The Kanin-class destroyer was burning and listing. One of the Gearing-class destroyers sat dead in the water, fires blazing from one end of it to the other. A huge geyser of water shot up next to the Sverdlov-class cruiser Darj.
Ufaral clenched his fists until they shook. This couldn't be happening. Yonaga could not defeat him. He had to destroy that accursed ship, watch it sink below the waves, machine gun any damn Japanese or American that made it out alive.
He snatched a sound powered phone and inhaled deeply, ready to scream for his anti-aircraft crews to shoot down every last enemy plane if they valued their lives.
Just before Captain Ufaral uttered his first word, a 550-pound bomb dropped by an Aichi D3A Val struck the al Bayda's superstructure. The resulting fireball vaporized the bridge and everyone on it.
XXXXX
"Well you're a sight for sore eyes," Hawke said as Archangel walked into the holding area of the Port of Los Angeles security office, where he, Santini and Ross had been sitting for the past three hours. "Please tell us you brought a 'get out of jail free' card with you?"
Archangel smiled and held up a white, very official-looking, piece of paper. He then turned to the guard walking alongside him. "Officer, if you'd be so kind."
The man simply nodded and unlocked the cell door.
"You must be Lieutenant Ross." Archangel extended his hand.
"Yes, Sir." Ross shook it. "And who are you?"
"You can call me Archangel. I'm String and Dominic's . . . friend at The FIRM."
"So do we have a damage assessment on the port?" Hawke asked.
"A couple buildings suffered serious damage. About twenty or so cargo containers were damaged or destroyed. The ships that were hit can all be repaired. The casualty figures are twenty-five dead and forty-one injured. The port officials said they'll probably have to close the place for a week or so in order to move the sunken subs blocking the entrance. All in all, the attack could have been a lot worse. You three did a great job here today."
The Airwolf crew nodded and said, "Thanks."
"What about the al Bayda battle group?" asked Ross. "It's still out there."
"Actually, Lieutenant, that matter's about to be taken care of." Archangel grinned as they headed outside. "Radio communications have improved a lot over the past few hours. The FIRM has been able to contact Admiral Fujita aboard the Yonaga. He reports her planes found the Arab fleet and attacked it. The al Bayda, along with a Sverdlov-class cruiser and two destroyers were sunk. Two other destroyers were hit but still afloat. The Navy is sending in a Los Angeles-class attack sub, the Baton Rouge, to finish them off."
"So that's it," Santini beamed. "It's over. This whole crazy thing is over."
"Unfortunately, Mister Santini, you're wrong."
Santini shot Ross a quizzical look. "What are you talking about? We stopped that Arab battle fleet from taking out the Port of Los Angeles."
"True, but there's still one big problem. We're still here. Yonaga, her crew, her escorts. We're still stuck on this parallel Earth."
Santini swallowed. "Oh. Yeah right. Sorry."
Ross scowled. "We're desperately needed on our Earth. Without Yonaga, Colonel Kadafi and his forces will rampage across the entire world. How the hell are we supposed to get back to our Earth and stop him?"
"Believe it or not, Lieutenant, I may just have the answer to that question right here."
Archangel pulled out a folder from beneath his white jacket. Hawke, Santini and Ross leaned in for a closer look.
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me." Santini shook his head.
Hawke said nothing, just continued to stare at the words imprinted on the folder.
SP1943-591-FG
CODENAME: PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMENT
NEXT: THE CONCLUSION
