Sky Ghost (2 page)

Another urgent message from the SuperSea bomber interrupted Wolf’s musings. The enemy cruiser was firing its guns! A bright flash was spotted out on the eastern horizon a second later. The destroyer’s massive combat computer warned a spread of eight long-range disruption shells was on its way.

Wolf ordered a hard turn to port—and just in time. The squeal of the enemy barrage was picked up by the rescue launch’s TV camera. Its shriek filled the bridge’s intercom speakers. Two seconds later, the eight shells slammed into the sea 100 yards off the destroyer’s starboard bow.

The explosions created a huge swell beneath the surface. This instantly grew into a small tidal wave that hit the destroyer not five seconds later. It struck with such force, the
Louis St. Louis
nearly went right over. Bells and whistles began going off all over the ship. Anything not secured, bodies included, was suddenly flying through the air.

“Evasive action!” Wolf yelled into his intercom. “They might have a radi-seeker. Ice the hulls!”

On the captain’s call, a supercoolant called Roxy-5 began flooding through lines built into the ship’s hull. The idea was to lower the hull’s temperature and prevent it from being warmed by the enemy’s own version of a targeting beam.

Then Wolf pushed a series of buttons and was soon talking to the Sea Marine in charge of the rescue launch. It too had barely stayed afloat in the man-made tsunami.

“Can you see the other floaters?” Wolf asked the man quickly.

“We can see one more, sir,” came the reply. “He’s a half mile to the southeast. He’s also alive. He’s waving to us!”

A second later another barrage of disrupter shells came screaming out of the sky. They landed just 40 yards off the destroyer’s port bow. Once again, the small warship was nearly tipped over by a sudden tidal wave.

Too damn close,
Wolf thought. The cruiser was playing with them. The next barrage would definitely be guided by a radi-seeker.

“Roxy team, report!” he barked into the microphone.

“Hull temperature down to thirty-eight degrees, sir,” came the reply. “And dropping…”

“Double your efforts,” Wolf yelled back.

But Wolf knew that hull-cooling or not, they couldn’t hold this position much longer. He needed to buy just a little more time, though.

He flipped his intercom switch and was soon talking to the destroyer’s air officer.

“Launch air assets,” he said.

Seconds later, both Pogos revved up to full power and bounced off the rear of the destroyer. Once airborne, they turned over the horizontal and retracted their undercarriage wheels.

Wolf was quickly connected directly through to the pilots.

“OK boys, two passes, no heroics,” he told them. “Just give us time to withdraw.”

The pilots replied in the affirmative and clicked off. Then one pilot radioed over to the other.

“OK, sport,” he said, “time to make some noise.”

The two Pogo pilots increased power and quickly climbed to 10,000 feet above the enemy ship.

Each plane was bearing four machine guns, wing-mounted and synchronously fed. The enemy cruiser below was heavily fortified. From two miles up, it looked like a floating, ironclad castle. Spotting the pair of vertiplanes, it went into a wide circle as part of its evasive action maneuver.

The Pogos turned over and began a murderous dive. As airplanes, they were very noisy and their Super Browning big fifties were known for their bright muzzle flash and high velocity sound. But each Pogo was also carrying a device under its right wing known as SE/X. This stood for Sound Enhancement/Extra. Essentially these were electronic whistles which rang up high-pitched screeches whenever an aircraft equipped with them went into a steep dive.

The combined noise of all this was frightening—that was the point. Despite the cruiser’s defensive lockdown, many enemy sailors were standing exposed at their weapon stations.

And now their ears were beginning to fill with the Pogos’ ear-splitting screech.

The Pogos opened fire at 7500 feet. Small clouds of antiaircraft shells started coming up at them, but the pilots expertly began spinning and avoided the flak. They passed through 5000 feet and now the pilots could see flashes of sparks atop the mainsail of the enemy cruiser. Their armor-piecing shells were making contact.

The horrifying screech got louder as the Pogos continued their dive, guns blazing. At just 500 feet above the ship, they finally pulled up, each plane strafing the cruiser’s bridge before peeling away to the south. Though the bridge was locked up, some of the Pogos’ shells hit home and damage to the command center within was extensive. Now the ship had to slow down further—and that was the true purpose of this air attack.

The pair of VTOL-planes returned for their second pass. This time they came in low over the water, concentrating their fire on the unprotected rear of the cruiser. They managed to sever the cable towing the electronic-cloaking sled, causing the assembly to tip over and sink. The enemy cruiser was now very exposed and vulnerable to a variety of weapons.

But the Pogo pilots’ orders were for two passes and that’s all they would do. They’d bought time for the people out on the destroyer’s rescue launch, as Wolf had wanted. Moreover, both planes were running very low on fuel. It was time to break off the engagement and return to the ship.

Still, as the lead pilot pulled out of his strafing run, he aimed his guns squarely on the cruiser’s mainsail. A 25-shot barrage severed the secondary radar dish and the ship’s VHY radio antenna. It also cut down the main mast, tearing through its flag and sending it in pieces into the ocean.

Looking back down at their handiwork, both pilots could see the enemy ship’s colors blown into the sea and slipping beneath the waves.

“That’s the only way I want to see the Iron Cross,” the lead pilot radioed over to the other. “Ripped and sinking.”

“Roger that,” replied his wingman.

The crew of the Hughes SuperSea bomber witnessed the strafing attack and radioed down to the American destroyer that their pilots were returning safely.

But the enemy cruiser was still coming on—and now it was launching a recovery boat, too. This one was literally shot off the deck and was heading at very high speed toward the remaining floaters.

Watching all this on his TV screen, the bomber’s COA told his machine gun crews to stand by. Then he sent another radio message down to the
Louis St. Louis.
There was something he wanted to ask the captain of the destroyer.

At the same moment, Wolf was talking to the Sea Marines in the American recovery boat. They had the one floater aboard and were coming back. Wolf called down to the propulsion room and ordered more gas be put on the destroyer’s double-reaction plant. Then he told his crew to strap in for a quick getaway.

Meanwhile the enemy’s high-speed boat had slowed down and was hauling the second floater out of the water. This man appeared to be alive too, but barely. The third floater had drifted far away by this time.

That’s when Wolf’s air-sea radio began blinking again. It was the SuperSea’s COA with his question: Should his gunners strafe the enemy’s recovery boat?

Wolf had to think about this for a moment. It was a legitimate question. The enemy recovery boat
was
a vessel of war, and thus a fair target. But it did have at least one of the mysterious floaters on board. And the chances were good the enemy cruiser would disengage once it saw the
Louis St. Louis
accelerate and the SuperSea depart the area. So what was the point of shooting at the rescue boat?

Finally Wolf keyed his mike.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he told the airplane.

The
Louis St. Louis was
35 miles away from the area just 20 minutes later.

Captain Wolf was in his stateroom, writing up a report on the incident. Behind him, another large computer was whirring softly. He found it a comforting sound. There was a knock at the door. The ship’s Executive Officer, the man named Zal, came in.

He handed his own preliminary combat report to Wolf.

“We never got to use our targeting lamp,” he said. “We were never in range. Our hull temperature
did
achieve thirty-four degrees though—pretty good, considering.”

“They still would have nailed us with a radi-seeker after a third disruption barrage,” Wolf said. “But tell the crew they did well nevertheless. At this point, what difference does it make?”

“Will do, skipper,” Zal replied.

Wolf fed Zal’s report into the huge whirring computer and pushed a button labeled
PROCESS.

“I was surprised to see such a large enemy ship in these parts,” Zal told Wolf. “I didn’t think they could muster enough men or fuel these days to get one out this far.”

“A last-gasp patrol,” Wolf said with a shrug. “They’ll be lucky if they make it back to port. Without their cloaking stuff, they’ll be a big fat target for anyone with an air torpedo.”

Wolf then looked up at Zal.

“So, where is he?” he asked the XO.

“The man we brought aboard?”

“Yes. Is he still alive?”

“He is—and he’s actually in pretty good shape,” Zal said. “Probably hasn’t had a meal in a while. But other than that, he looks like he just went for a dip in the pool. He should be on the way up from sick bay about now.”

Wolf signaled that Zal should close the stateroom door. Then he lowered his voice.

“OK, then—who the hell is he?” he asked the XO.

Zal just shrugged.

“Damned if I know, skipper,” he replied. “I don’t think he knows himself. He’s rather confused at the moment.”

Zal took something from his pocket and laid it on Wolf’s desk.

“This is all they found on him,” he said.

Wolf picked up the rolled piece of cloth and unraveled it. It was a small, tattered American flag. Wrapped inside was a faded picture of a young blond woman.

Wolf let out a whistle.

“Wow, nice babe,” he said.

“Look at that flag, skipper,” Zal said. “It has fifty stars.”

Wolf quickly counted the white stars in the blue field. “Yeah, fifty. What the hell is that about?”

“Last time I checked, the American flag had forty-nine,” Zal said.

At that moment there was a knock at the door. Wolf folded the picture back up into the flag and put it in his drawer. Then he signaled Zal to open the door.

Two corpsmen walked in. Between them was the man taken from the sea.

Wolf took one look at him and then did a double take. The man was tall, thin, muscular, probably somewhere in his mid twenties. His hair was very long, his face bearded, but handsome in features. He was obviously Anglo-Saxon. But he looked—
different.
Wolf even removed his thick sunglasses to get a better look at him.

“Well, who the hell are you?” he asked the man bluntly. “An angel who fell out of the sky?”

The man said nothing.

He was wearing sailor scrubs, but this guy was not an ordinary seaman. At least that was obvious. One of the corpsmen handed the man’s clothes to Wolf, then he and his partner quickly departed. Zal closed the door behind them.

Wolf examined the set of combat fatigues.

“Well, this is obviously a uniform,” Wolf said. “But for what army?”

The man just shrugged.

“I…can’t say,” he mumbled.

“‘Can’t say’ or ‘don’t know?’”

“Both, I guess…”

The man looked around the stateroom.

“This ship,” he asked. “Who does it belong to?”

Wolf put his glasses back on and leaned back in his seat.

“Let us ask the questions first, OK?” he told the man. “Have a seat.”

Zal guided the man to a chair opposite Wolf, then he took a seat himself on the couch nearby.

“Do you have any idea how you got to be out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?” Wolf asked the man.

The man just shook his head. “No idea.”

“Were you part of a ship’s crew? An officer maybe?”

The man shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

“Were you in an airplane? Are you an aviator?”

“Could be one of those top-secret flyboys, skipper,” Zal interjected. “You know, the Air Corps Commandos.”

Wolf thought about this and nodded slowly.

“How about it, sport?” he asked. “You a secret Air Corps guy? Under orders not to speak?”

“He could have been flying one of the new doodlebugs,” Zal added. “Those guys ain’t supposed to talk to nobody.”

“Any of this ringing a bell, pal?” Wolf pressed.

But the man just shook his head again.

“None of it,” he replied.

Wolf stared back at him. Even his voice sounded weird. Yet, just like the man’s overall appearance, he wasn’t exactly sure
what
was different about it.

The man was studying some of the papers on Wolf’s desk. “Can I ask a question now?” he wanted to know.

“OK, sure, ask away,” Wolf told him.

“What year is this?”

Wolf and Zal just looked at each other.

“Well, it’s 1997, sport,” Wolf replied.

A look of surprise registered on the man’s face—but it disappeared just as quickly.

“And you are at war, correct?” he asked Wolf.

“You saw that firsthand, didn’t you?” Wolf replied.

“But who are you fighting exactly?”

Wolf and Zal looked at each other again. It was a strange question to ask. Maybe it was best to ignore it, they thought.

“Hey, what’s with your hair, man?” Wolf asked him instead. “What army or navy would let you have hair like that?”

The man just stared at the floor. He
was
confused.

Wolf looked over at Zal.

“Well, this is going well,” he said sarcastically.

The XO came over and sat on the desk in front of the man. He lowered his voice slightly.

“Look, you ain’t a German, are ya, pal?” he asked him.

The man shook his head no.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere!” Zal exclaimed.

Wolf leaned forward in his seat a little. “Are you an American?” he asked.

The man thought a moment and then replied. “Yes.”

“Are you a member of the armed forces of the United States of America?”