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    The Lucifer Crusade
    The Lucifer Crusade
    The Lucifer Crusade
    Ebook438 pages7 hours

    The Lucifer Crusade

    By Mack Maloney

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    After a devastating Russian attack on the United States, a lone American fighter pilot is out for revenge—even as he evades every air force on earth.
     When Soviet nukes destroyed the United States, Hawk Hunter took refuge in the only place he has ever felt safe: the sky. One of the finest fighter pilots of all time, he used his talents to found the Pacific American Air Corps (PAAC), a democratic counterweight to the corruption that dominates the rest of the country. Their first action was the Circle War: a Russian invasion led by the sinister terrorist Viktor Robotov. The PAAC expelled the Russians, but Robotov managed to escape. And the Wingman has taken up the pursuit. In a world where it’s a crime to wave stars and stripes, Hunter paints his F-16 red, white, and blue. Pursued by every air force on Earth, he tears up the sky in search of revenge. There are hundreds of killers on his tail, but he has only one target—and Hunter never misses.  The Lucifer Crusade is the third book of the Wingman series, which also includes Wingman and The Circle War.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJun 18, 2013
    ISBN9781480406681
    Author

    Mack Maloney

    Mack Maloney is the author of numerous fiction series, including Wingman, ChopperOps, Starhawk, and Pirate Hunters, as well as UFOs in Wartime – What They Didn’t Want You to Know. A native Bostonian, Maloney received a bachelor of science degree in journalism at Suffolk University and a master of arts degree in film at Emerson College. He is the host of a national radio show, Mack Maloney’s Military X-Files.     

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    • 5/5
      Just keep on reading people , hawk got um but what mysterious person is behind this.

    Book preview

    The Lucifer Crusade - Mack Maloney

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    Wingman

    The Lucifer Crusade

    Mack Maloney

    Contents

    Chapter 1

    Chapter 2

    Chapter 3

    Chapter 4

    Chapter 5

    Chapter 6

    Chapter 7

    Chapter 8

    Chapter 9

    Chapter 10

    Chapter 11

    Chapter 12

    Chapter 13

    Chapter 14

    Chapter 15

    Chapter 16

    Chapter 17

    Chapter 18

    Chapter 19

    Chapter 20

    Chapter 21

    Chapter 22

    Chapter 23

    Chapter 24

    Chapter 25

    Chapter 26

    Chapter 27

    Chapter 28

    Chapter 29

    Chapter 30

    Chapter 31

    Chapter 32

    Chapter 33

    Chapter 34

    Chapter 35

    Chapter 36

    Chapter 37

    Chapter 38

    Chapter 39

    Chapter 40

    Chapter 41

    Chapter 42

    Chapter 43

    Chapter 44

    Chapter 45

    Preview: Thunder in the East

    A Biography of Mack Maloney

    Chapter 1

    THE F-4 PHANTOM JET fighter touched down on the deserted runway and taxied towards a nearby row of hangars.

    Just off the landing strip, next to the aircraft parking area, the remains of a MiG-21 were still burning. Another MiG had crashed through the roof of one of the hangars, and the resulting fire had burned down half the building. Still another Soviet fighter had crashed into the base’s only radar antenna, scattering pieces of the huge, once-revolving dish all over the tarmac.

    Smoke from the three smoldering fighters had spread out over the small airbase like a dark and dirty fog.

    The F-4 came to a halt in front of the burning hangar and its pilot popped the airplane’s canopy. Standing up in the open cockpit, Captain Crunch O’Malley removed his flight helmet and looked around.

    Welcome to the Azores, he muttered.

    Crunch’s rear-seat weapons officer, a lieutenant named Elvis, also stood up and surveyed the damage. Do you think he’s been here? he asked Crunch.

    Well, we got three MiGs shot down here and two more burning on the beach, Crunch said. All apparently iced by one person. Only one pilot I know that could do that.

    Then Elvis noticed an odd thing: through the smoke and next to the burning hangar, he could see a man tied to a chair. Captain, he said pointing toward the bound and gagged man. Who the hell is that?

    The two pilots climbed out of the F-4 and cautiously walked toward the man. Crunch was armed with an M-16, Elvis with a 9mm pistol.

    The man sat silently as they approached. The only noise was the jet’s engine winding down and the crackling of the three MiG fires. Directly above, the noon sun was beating down unmercifully.

    Crunch took out a knife and immediately cut off the man’s gag.

    "Gracias, señor," the man gasped, taking a quick succession of deep breaths. He was about sixty years old, with a slight build and wearing the sweaty remains of a mechanic’s overall. The two pilots, themselves clad in sleek dark-blue flight suits, towered over him.

    How long you been here, Pops? Crunch asked, hesitating to undo the ropes holding the man’s hands and feet to the chair.

    Two days, the old man answered, with a slight accent. They come. Wreck my home. Wreck the base. Look at that hangar. It’s ruined. Burnt. I’m an old man. I cannot repair it myself.

    Who wrecked this place? Crunch asked, deciding the man was harmless enough to untie. He quickly undid the ropes.

    Air pirates. Russians. I don’t know, the man answered, rubbing his wrists made raw by the twine.

    Russians? Elvis asked, catching Crunch’s eye.

    "Si, the man said, stretching his arms and legs. Russian air pirates. Bounty hunters. They land here, three days ago. Five MiGs. They don’t call ahead. They don’t contact me in control tower. They just land, with no permission. Steal my fuel. Steal my food."

    This sounds interesting, Crunch said, wryly. Go on, Pops, tell us the whole story.

    Start by telling us who you are and what the hell you’re doing here alone, Elvis added.

    My name is Diego de la Crisco, the craggy-faced man began. "I run this base. Used to be four hundred men. Now just me. Airplanes, flying from America, used to stop here all the time. For fuel, food, ammo. Now not as much. But those who stop, I sell to them food. Fuel. Maybe fix an engine blade sometimes.

    Three days ago, the MiGs came. The pilots, they bust in, slap me around. Keep me locked up. They don’t talk my language, but I can tell they are waiting for someone.

    Who’s that someone? Crunch asked.

    The American pilot, the man said. He is my friend. He saved me. He is the man who shot them all down.

    Crunch and Elvis exchanged winks. Go on, Diego, Crunch said.

    The MiG pilots, he continued, "they knew the American was coming. They are very excited as there is a reward for shooting down the American’s airplane. They wait until he shows up on radar, then they take off, all five of them. They plan beforehand how they will attack him. Like an ambush.

    Ah, but the American, he’s way too smart for the MiGs. He knows somehow they are waiting for him. He has more Sidewinders on his jet than anyone I have ever seen. The MiGs jump him, right over the base. But he flies like a demon. Twisting. Turning. Diving. One minute he’s here. Next second, way over there. One by one, he blasts all five MiGs from the sky. I watch the whole thing, cheering. My throat still stings I cheer so much. Trouble is, the wrecked MiGs, they fall on my base.

    After the battle, did this American land here? Crunch asked.

    "Well, of course, señor, Diego said, slightly taken aback. This American is now a very good friend of mine."

    Did he tell you what his name was? Elvis asked.

    Yes, the old man said with a sly smile. But I know who he is before he even lands his airplane. I have heard of this American pilot. He flies a red, white, and blue jet. The powerful F-16. I know my airplanes. I know no one flies the F-16 anymore, except for this American.

    Was his name Hawk Hunter? Crunch asked.

    "Si, señor, the man said excitedly. But I know him by his other name. He’s the pilot they call The Wingman."

    Crunch and Elvis looked at each other and nodded.

    The Wingman stays only a day, Diego went on. Then he says he must go.

    So, if you and he are such good friends, Elvis asked, who tied you up here?

    "The others, señor, Diego said, anger coming back into his voice. The others land hours after Hawk Hunter leaves. They too are looking for him."

    Who were these ‘others’? Crunch asked. More Russians? Were they flying Russian jet fighters?

    No, Diego answered. They come in only one airplane. An American P-3. Big, four propeller engines. Old US Navy. But these men are not Americans. They are Arabs, I think. The plane is painted all black. I know they stole it somewhere.

    And they were also looking for Hunter? Elvis asked.

    Yes, Diego continued. "They come and they slap me around. I’m an old man. I can’t take all this. They are mad that Hunter has shot down the MiGs. These men have paid for the MiGs to shoot down Hunter. Now they are mad that it is the MiGs that have crashed."

    So they tied you up and left you out here? Crunch asked.

    "Si, si, señor, Diego said, spitting for emphasis. They are pigs. They could have just shot me. But they leave me to die the slow death. But I knew that either Hunter or his friends would rescue me."

    What else did these other men say? Elvis asked.

    Diego shook his head. They say a big battle is soon to happen. Out in the eastern Mediterranean. Out in the desert. These men, like the MiGs—they are on the bad side. But they are afraid.

    Afraid? asked Crunch. Afraid of what?

    A wide smile creased Diego’s face. "They are afraid, señor, that they will have to fight Hunter."

    They gave Diego some food packs from the F-4 and also a cask of brandy they always carried. The old man ate heartily and drained the brandy, then immediately went to sleep. Retreating to the base’s control tower, Crunch and Elvis discussed their mission so far.

    They were looking for Hawk Hunter. He, like they, belonged to the Pacific American Air Corps, the air defense arm for the territory formerly known as the states of California, Washington, and Oregon. Hunter was one of PAAC’s commanders, and in a strict military sense their commanding officer. But he was more their friend than anything else, and an unusual friend at that. Formerly a pilot in the Air Force demonstration team known as the Thunderbirds, Hunter was also a genius (certified at a young age), a doctor of aeronautics (at seventeen, being the youngest student ever to graduate MIT), and had trained to pilot the Space Shuttle.

    He was also widely regarded as the best fighter pilot who had ever lived …

    There were many stories about how Hunter had fought so bravely in World War III. But no one was more bitter than he when America was tricked into signing an armistice with the Soviet Union—supposedly to end World War III, a non-nuclear struggle that the US and NATO had won on the battlefield of Western Europe. But no sooner was the ink dry on the treaty—and the traitorous US Vice-President safely transported to Moscow—when the Kremlin ordered a devastating surprise nuclear strike against the center of the American continent. It was the most dastardly sneak attack in the history of mankind.

    Mortally wounded, the US had no choice but to accept Russia’s terms. The punishment was called The New Order. Its major demands had the US Armed Forces immediately disarmed and their weapons destroyed. Then the US itself was dismembered—broken up into a mishmash of countries, republics, and free territories. Dividing the continent down the middle was The Badlands, the radioactive netherworld that stretched from Oklahoma to the Dakotas, courtesy of the Soviet ICBMs.

    Ever since they were broken up, the many American states and countries had frequently been at war with one another—wars started in large part by Soviet agents and their agitating terrorist allies. The latest battle had pitted the democratic forces of the West against a Soviet-infiltrated, cultish Eastern army known as The Circle. The leader of The Circle had been a Soviet agent named Viktor Robotov. Hunter had successfully led the air forces for the West in defeating The Circle, despite the fact that Viktor’s Russian allies had secretly infiltrated thousands of SAM antiaircraft batteries and troops into the American Badlands.

    The victory was a costly one for the West, though. Many major cities as well as small towns had been destroyed in the fighting. The vital air trade routes between Free Canada and Los Angeles—plied by convoys of airliners now turned into cargo carriers—had been disrupted for a long period of time. Shortages of all kinds had been felt on both sides.

    What was worse, thousands of Americans on both sides had died in the civil war. And this was the real reason Viktor and the Kremlin had started The Circle War. Their aim was to continue the distablization of America, thus forestalling any notions that the American states and territories might have about reuniting and carrying out their revenge on Mother Russia.

    But the fighting aside, The Circle War had had a very personal effect on Hawk Hunter. Before the war broke out, Viktor had kidnapped the pilot’s true love, a stunning Bardot look-alike named Dominique. He had drugged her, forced himself on her, and used her viciously—through a kind of pornographic psychological warfare—to control his Circle troops. Hunter had finally rescued Dominique, literally crashing in on a party being given for Viktor atop one of New York City’s World Trade Center buildings. Once she was safe, Hunter had made arrangements for her to live in the relative security of Free Canada.

    But he could not let Viktor get away with his crime. The man had violated the two things that meant the most to Hunter—his country and his woman. Hunter had vowed to track Viktor down.

    He was gone the day the war ended. Somehow, he had gotten to New York City and retrieved his F-16 from its hiding place at the abandoned JFK Airport. Then he had set out across the Atlantic in pursuit of Viktor. Crunch and Elvis had no idea how Hunter knew Viktor had headed for the Mediterranean after The Circle War ended. He just knew. The fact was that Hunter had been born with an amazing aptitude for ESP. Hunter’s extraordinary abilities were particularly acute in detecting enemy aircraft. Besides being the ultimate fighter pilot, Hunter was also a kind of human radar. But he also had an astounding sixth sense about many things. Knowing where Viktor fled to after the war was one of them.

    Everyone—from the Russians to the PAAC pilots to the air pirates that roamed the North American skies—knew that a man of such intelligence and skill as Hunter was an automatic threat to those who ran The New Order. These Soviet puppets, firmly ensconced in the Bahamas, had put a price of $500 million on Hunter’s head. He was wanted—dead or alive—for crimes against The New Order. Crimes such as carrying an American flag. Or espousing reunification of the states. Or even uttering the words United States of America.

    But Hunter had decided long ago that if these were the kinds of crimes that made The New Order put a price on his head, then he would continue to commit them freely and openly.

    Besides, the amount of money a bounty hunter could get for his hide was source of amusement for the pilot. He would tell people that he wasn’t worth even half that much.

    He was, however, very valuable to PAAC and all the democratic peoples who wanted to reunite America again. That’s why his overall commander at PAAC, General Dave Jones, had sent Crunch and Elvis after Hunter. Crunch and Elvis made up one half of a free-lance F-4 fighter unit known as the Ace Wrecking Company. They were, in effect, under contract to PAAC. So General Jones was their employer. Jones knew Crunch, a veteran F-4 Phantom pilot from way back, was best suited for the mission. At best he and Elvis could convince Hunter to return to America. At worst, they could give him protection in his search for Viktor.

    But they would have to find him first.

    Well, we know he was here in the Azores two and a half days ago, Crunch said, looking at a large map of the Atlantic and Mediterranean. He could be in Portugal, Gibraltar, maybe North Africa by now.

    Well, he had no trouble icing those MiGs, Crunch said, shaking his head in admiration. Maybe he doesn’t need any help in tracking down Viktor either.

    Well, I agree that Hunter is the best to ever fly, and so he’s very valuable to PAAC right now, Elvis said. But I also know him pretty well, as you do, captain. And when he gets something set in his mind, it’s impossible to talk him out of it. Viktor fooled with his lady big time. Screwed up the country too. That’s playing with fire as far as Hawk is concerned. I don’t blame him for going after Viktor. And he could probably track down the creep better if he is alone.

    Crunch ran his fingers through his hair, then continued. Hunter’s a good friend of mine and a good friend to all the guys in PAAC. But Jones is the boss. He says find him and drag him back. So we find him.

    Well, it’s not the finding him that will be difficult, Elvis said. It’s the ‘dragging him back’ part that worries me.

    Chapter 2

    THE SKIES OVER CASABLANCA were busy the night Hunter arrived.

    He had seen the lights of the city from seventy miles out, reflecting off the atmosphere and the nearby Atlantic. Now, as he descended from 55,000 feet, the city’s blue-green glare got brighter, shining out like a beacon on the otherwise pitch-black Moroccan coastline.

    Fifty miles out, he brought his F-16 down to wavetop level and throttled back to a 350-mph crawl. The jet fighter’s terrain-radar-acquisition system had painted an infrared picture of the city’s airport onto one of his control panel’s TV screens and he had been studying it with much interest.

    He had assumed that the airport—and the city—would be deserted. But just the opposite was true. In fact, there were so many airplanes circling Casablanca, it looked like a typical stack-up over Chicago’s O’Hare in the old days.

    Suddenly, his radio crackled.

    Casablanca control to approaching aircraft, a high-pitched voice sang over the static. We have you on our radar screens. You are on an unauthorized landing pattern. Break off! Break off!

    Hunter calmly pushed his radio transmission button. Casablanca Control, this is an aircraft of the Pacific American Air Corps. I am requesting emergency landing clearance. I am low on fuel.

    Break off, the shrillish reply came back. We are at over-capacity. Our airspace is at the critical point. We have no open landing zone for you. You are unauthorized.

    Hunter checked his instruments. He was twelve miles off the coast. He tapped the back of the throttle bar twice, slowing the F-16 down further.

    Casablanca Control, I am down to a hundred pounds of fuel. I must land.

    We have no fuel for you, the air controller came back. You are unauthorized …

    Hunter was carefully watching the action over the airport on his TV screen. The aircraft were stacked up ten high over the airport. More than forty airplanes at various altitudes were traveling around and around on the same lazy circling pattern. At the same time, other aircraft were taking off every thirty seconds from the airport’s single runway.

    Hunter could tell that most of the air traffic was made up of airliners. 747s, 707s, DC-10s, Airbuses. Some appeared to be riding on each other’s tails. Airplanes were taking off just as incoming aircraft bounced in. The radio chatter was a storm of pilot’s voices, yelling out their coordinates and doing everything they could to avoid a midair collision. It was the most confusing aircraft handling pattern he’d ever seen. But somehow the overworked air controllers were making it work.

    He checked his instruments again. Ten miles out, fuel getting lower. Time to negotiate.

    Casablanca control, he said into his microphone. What is your ‘landing authorization’ fee?

    There was only the slightest of hesitation, then the answer came back. Small aircraft. Jet fighter. One bag of gold, or five silver.

    Steep, but expected. But he didn’t intend to pay anywhere near that just to land.

    Casablanca control, Hunter called just as he reached the coastline. I have one bag of silver. It’s yours if you give me landing okay.

    Two bags, came the reply.

    Bag and a half, Hunter said.

    Land clear on seven, the controller said, his shrill voice rising yet another octave. Right behind the Air-India Jumbo.

    Welcome to Casablanca.

    Hunter inserted the F-16 into the melee of landing and departing airliners. A fog bank in the night sky over the airport made the approach even more hazardous. He dodged at least a half-dozen airliners, nearly clipped the tail section of a stray 727, and actually landed ahead of the red Air-India 747. As his wheels touched the ground, a DC-10 was lifting off no more than 500 feet ahead of him.

    He followed the line of yellow runway lights to a taxiing path lined with blue. The number of aircraft above the airport was nothing compared to what was on the ground. The place was a traffic jam of airliners.

    What the hell is going on here? he asked himself as he rolled up to a very thin empty station point near the bustling terminal. There were people everywhere—some carrying luggage, others just bags on their backs. Men, women, kids. They were in the terminal, on its roof and walkways, even on parts of the runway. There were flashing lights everywhere and he could hear sirens even over the noise of his jet engine.

    He noticed there was a slight twinge of panic in the way the crowds were behaving. The loading of a nearby DC-9 was not going at an orderly pace. People were pushing and shoving each other—squeezing themselves up the loading ramp and into the airplane. Fistfights were breaking out near other airplanes.

    This isn’t just another busy night at the airport, he reasoned. It looked more like an evacuation …

    He shut down the 16 and punched up his exotic anti-theft computer program. Once it kicked in, the airplane was not only theft-proof but, thanks to a zapping electrical charge that ran throughout its body, it was also tamper-proof. Convinced the airplane was secure, Hunter popped the canopy, grabbed his M-16, and climbed out.

    The noise was deafening. He walked across the crowded tarmac, avoiding the crowds as best he could. He could see desperation in their faces, but they weren’t a refugee rabble. They looked well-fed and mostly well-clothed. Yet people were battering each other to get on the airliners. But why? He noticed another curious thing: the incoming aircraft were not discharging anyone. They were flying in empty, loading up, and taking off without so much as a wipe of the windshield.

    There were a lot of bad vibes in the air. He felt like a full-scale panic could break out at any moment.

    Instinctively, he looked around for some kind of police force or military presence. There was none. Nor were any of the aircraft of non-civilian design. His F-16 was the only military aircraft in the airport.

    He made his way through the confusion to the control tower and found it too was a madhouse. There were more than forty air controllers, all barking orders into the microphones and frantically looking into their radar screens. The place was strewn with plates, half-eaten meals, pots of bubbling tea and coffee, and more than a few empty wine bottles. Hunter felt lucky he had made it down in one piece.

    He was here to pay his landing fee, and perhaps get a little information. He sought out the head of the place, figuring this would be the man who should receive his authorization fee. A man sitting at a desk slightly away from the pandemonium seemed to fit the bill.

    Hunter threw a bag and a half of silver onto his desk. The man looked up immediately from the Arabic-language newspaper.

    I own that F-16 that just came in, Hunter told him.

    The man looked him over. "Aren’t you Hawk Hunter?" he said with a surprised look.

    Hunter was taken aback slightly. Who the hell knew him way out here?

    Yes, he replied, looking into the older man’s steel-black eyes. He was completely bald: a small, tough, a very distinguished-looking Arab. "My name is Hunter. I’m from the Pacific American—"

    —from the United States Air Force, the man said, cutting him off knowingly. And the Thunderbirds. And the Northeast Economic Zone Air Patrol.

    Hunter was speechless. He knew he had made somewhat of a name for himself back in America. But had news of his exploits carried all the way over to North Africa?

    The answer was no. However, a less-than-flattering mug shot of him had made the trip. The man reached inside his desk draw and came out with a bounty poster. It was for Hunter. His old service ID picture was on it, as were these words:

    ONE BILLION DOLLARS IN SILVER OR GOLD FOR THE CAPTURE OR PROOF OF DEATH OF HAWK HUNTER, CRIMINAL WANTED BY THE NEW ORDER. COLLECTION POINTS: PARIS, THE BAHAMAS, MOSCOW.

    One billion? Hunter blurted out. Christ. He knew The Circle had put a price of a half-billion on his head about a year ago. But a billion? Apparently the New Order had doubled the pot.

    This would only mean more trouble for Hunter.

    I could shoot you right now and collect, major, the man said.

    Hunter had his M-16 off his shoulder and ready in an instant.

    But I won’t, the man quickly added.

    "What’s the matter? You don’t need a billion dollars?" Hunter asked defiantly.

    "No, it’s because I know who you really are, major, the man said, confidently lighting a long, dark cigarette. He was a native Moroccan. Hunter could tell by his accent. And I know you’re not a criminal."

    The man rose, gathered in the silver, and motioned Hunter to a miniscule office at the rear of the control tower. They went inside and the man closed the door, effectively blocking out the noisy confusion of the air controllers.

    Said el-Fauzi, the man said, introducing himself, extending his hand. It’s an honor to meet you, major.

    Hunter shook his hand. Really? ‘An honor’?

    Yes, major, el-Fauzi said, producing a bottle and pouring out two drinks into miniature, porcelain cups. I worked with US Naval Intelligence during the war. We—everyone—knew of your F-16 squadron and the big air battles. After the war, the Russians let everyone know that you and your squadron were officially ‘war criminals.’ That’s what you get for kicking their asses.

    But you also knew about the Zone Air Patrol, Hunter said.

    You mean ZAP? el-Fauzi said. Oh, we hear a lot of things here, major. All the time.

    The office’s window looked right out onto the tarmac. Hunter couldn’t help but be distracted by the pandemonium outside.

    What’s going on here? he asked.

    Those people? el-Fauzi said, sipping his drink. Well, they’re escaping, of course.

    Escaping?

    Yes, major, el-Fauzi said, looking surprised. Escaping. Getting out. Flying to South America. All of them. Before the war breaks out again.

    That seems to be on everyone’s minds these days, Hunter said, tasting the thick, ultra-bitter liquor. His friend, Diego on the Azores, had talked about the imminent war.

    As well it should be, major, el-Fauzi said. But isn’t that why you are here in Casablanca?

    To fight? Hunter asked.

    Why, yes, el-Fauzi answered. To join The Modern Knights.

    I don’t know anything about any Modern Knights, Hunter said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a picture of Viktor.

    I am chasing this man, he said, handing the photo to el-Fauzi.

    El-Fauzi took the photo and instantly dropped it as if it were on fire. That’s him! he nearly screamed, his unflappable manner temporarily leaving him. That is Lucifer!

    Lucifer? Hunter said. Who the hell is Lucifer? That man is Viktor Robotov. He’s a Russian agent. Caused a rather large misunderstanding back in America—one that left a couple hundred thousand or so people dead. So now I’m tracking him. Heard he might have passed through here.

    "This man is the one they call Lucifer, el-Fauzi said, downing his drink and pouring another. He was slowly regaining his composure. He passed over us, some time ago."

    ‘Passed over’? Hunter asked.

    Yes, el-Fauzi said. In his horrible black airplane. He had several free-lance fighters with him. Ran right through our airspace, shot down several planes, simply for being in their way.

    Sounds like Viktor, Hunter thought.

    But, we know him as Lucifer, the Moroccan continued. "He’s the most powerful man left in the Mediterranean. Europe. The Middle East. Anywhere. His allies hold every piece of major territory east of Tunisia all the way to the Sinai. He controls everything east of that. It is he who is to make war on the rest of the Mediterranean. People know it’s coming. They’re trying to get out now."

    And that’s what this is all about? Hunter asked, motioning towards the mass of humanity outside trying to fit onto the waiting airliners.

    Yes, el-Fauzi said, refilling their cups. World War Three, major, is about to heat up again.

    Hunter shook his head. That’s just what Diego had said. He still couldn’t believe it.

    Where is this Lucifer? he asked. Where’s his base? His headquarters? Where is he right now?

    El-Fauzi laughed, then quickly became dead serious.

    "He is everywhere," he whispered.

    You mean, his spies are everywhere?

    Spies too, el-Fauzi said. But the man himself. He walks among us, they say. He’s seen frequently. Here. In Tunis. On Crete. Cairo. And farther east. Spreading terror. People are afraid just to look on his image. The poor believe him to have god-like powers. His face appears in the night sky, they say. Even looking at his photo can cause death.

    Hunter closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He realized that he hadn’t been giving Viktor enough credit. He had sown his seeds of fear and hysteria in Europe and the Mediterranean just as effectively as he had in America.

    "Who knows where he really is?" Hunter asked.

    El-Fauzi laughed again. One man, in town, he said. "The Lord. He’ll tell you. He knows where everyone is. Come. I’ll take you to him."

    Chapter 3

    A HALF-HOUR LATER THEY were in a jeep bouncing over a cratered highway, approaching the city of Casablanca. Or at least Hunter assumed it was Casablanca.

    The city before him was brilliantly lit up, like a neon oasis in the middle of the desert. In fact Hunter felt it was too bright. A dozen multi-colored searchlights dashed across the night sky. From this distance, every building seemed to have all its lights on at once. Everywhere was blazing electricity. No wonder the light of the city could be seen from seventy miles out.

    But, as a city, it also looked, well … too small to Hunter.

    El-Fauzi, behind the wheel for the breakneck trip, roared into the city. Almost immediately the jeep was forced to slow down to a crawl, so crowded was the street. Everywhere were shops, eating places, gambling dens, rug stores, whorehouses, and cafes. And despite the late hour, the streets were filled with people, some dressed in authentic-looking Moroccan clothes, others wearing strange, 1940ish styles.

    And everything was so goddamn bright!

    Hunter had to shield his eyes to look at some of the streetlights. Finally he saw one that was broken and he realized it was a Kleig light, an ultra-powerful piece of illuminating equipment used for filming movies.

    Then he noticed the buildings were very authentic. Too authentic. Nothing seemed out of place. That was the problem. From the stucco-type construction to the grand Arabic and English lettering, the perfect buildings looked more like movie props.

    El-Fauzi knew what he was thinking. "It is a movie set, he explained. Years ago, right before the war broke out, a Hollywood movie company came here, built this place. The real Casablanca was destroyed in the war. It’s over the next hill—or what’s left of it."

    Are you telling me that all these people are living on a movie set? Hunter asked.

    That’s right, el-Fauzi said. Oh, they’ve added to it. And it’s barely one-tenth the size of the real city, and that’s only counting downtown. But when the war cooled down, there were a lot of people passing through this part of the world. We had a fairly serviceable airport, and we knew if it were operational, we could make money and survive. And why build another city? Hollywood built this one for us!

    God, this place is wired, Hunter said, seeing mules of thick electrical cables stretched everywhere. How can you afford to burn this much juice?

    ‘Juice’ is one thing we have a lot of, major, el-Fauzi said, turning a corner and heading for the center of the small prop city. Natural gas. It’s everywhere. Under the ground. We’ve got gas turbines. A bunch of them. They drink the stuff. It’s pure and they love it. They run like charms. So we got more electricity than we need.

    It was all starting to make sense to Hunter. The crazy kind of sense that served as normalcy in the New Order world.

    The jeep screeched to a stop in front of

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