Hunter had agreed to accompany Heath and the other Tornado pilot to the Algerian city for their shopping spree. They were carrying millions of dollars in gold -good soldiers didn't come cheap -and needed someone of Hunter's caliber to watch their backs in the volatile arms-and-man bazaar.
But Hunter also had a more personal reason to make the trip. Just before he died, the last thing Lord Lard had said to him was, "Algiers." Hunter took this to mean that some clue to the whereabouts of Lucifer could be found in the coastal city. So, while he was riding shotgun for the British, he 75
would also have his eye out for something-anything-that could lead him to Lucifer . . .
He set the F-16 down right behind the Tornados and together they taxied to their assigned holding stations. Unlike Casablanca, the Algiers airport was totally devoid of citizens. The place was crowded, but with soldiers. Soldiers of many countries and allegiances, wearing every possible combination of uniform and carrying many different types of weapons.
The pilots emerged from their airplanes just as a squad of red-uniformed men appeared. Each of the men was over six-five, heavily armed, and black.
Heath approached the man in charge. "Humdingo, my friend," the British pilot said, greeting the soldier. "Good to see you, brother."
The man grinned. "Heath, it's been more than a year since you've visited your friends in Algiers. We thought you had forgotten about us."
Hunter smiled. The man was obviously a member of some tribe from the middle of Africa, yet he spoke English with the flair and accent of someone who had graduated from Oxford.
Heath introduced Hunter and the other Tornado pilot-a Captain Raleigh-to Humdingo, explaining, "Humdingo used to be a chief. Big chief in the Congo.
That's before he found his way to England and learned our nasty ways."
"This is true," Humdingo said in a booming voice. "I learned that the British refuse to believe the sun has set on their Empire. And that they will go to great lengths trying to prove it! Me? I just like their food."
Heath laughed. "Humdingo, you're the only per-76
son in the world who actually likes English food."
They got down to business. Heath produced a bag of gold. "We shouldn't be gone for more than twenty-four hours," he told Humdingo, handing him the gold. "By all means, shoot anyone suspicious who comes near these airplanes."
"An F-16?" Humdingo said, admiring Hunter's sleek jet fighter. "Never guarded one of these before."
Heath turned to Hunter. "These guys are specialists," he told him. "Nothing will happen to our aircraft while we're gone."
As if to emphasize the point, Humdingo barkecl out a sharp order in Congolese and his squad snapped to. With crack precision, the soldiers two-stepped to their positions. In ten seconds they had formed a protective circle around the three jet fighters. Hunter couldn't imagine anyone wanting to tangle with the two dozen well-armed black warriors. He left his F-16 in their hands, enjoying a certain degree of peace of.mind.
Humdingo also provided the trio with a jeep. With Heath behind the wheel, they roared off toward the city of Algiers.
They called the fortress "Maison de la Guerre"- Place of War. Hunter's first glimpse of it had been misleading. They had driven through Algiers proper, reached the hills beyond its limits, and found the authentic-looking fort sitting atop a rise on the edge of town. It looked like it was right out of a Foreign Legion movie, except that from the top of its parapets flew literally hundreds of flags. The two soldiers of undetermined origin guarding the front gate eyed them suspiciously as they pulled up in front. A few 77
gold pieces from Heath's hand to their pockets made them instant allies.
The pilots climbed out of the jeep and walked through the huge gate the guards had opened for them. "Here is where we will find our crew," Heath told Hunter.
Inside, the fort's front courtyard was no less authentic.
But Hunter also had a more personal reason to make the trip. Just before he died, the last thing Lord Lard had said to him was, "Algiers." Hunter took this to mean that some clue to the whereabouts of Lucifer could be found in the coastal city. So, while he was riding shotgun for the British, he 75
would also have his eye out for something-anything-that could lead him to Lucifer . . .
He set the F-16 down right behind the Tornados and together they taxied to their assigned holding stations. Unlike Casablanca, the Algiers airport was totally devoid of citizens. The place was crowded, but with soldiers. Soldiers of many countries and allegiances, wearing every possible combination of uniform and carrying many different types of weapons.
The pilots emerged from their airplanes just as a squad of red-uniformed men appeared. Each of the men was over six-five, heavily armed, and black.
Heath approached the man in charge. "Humdingo, my friend," the British pilot said, greeting the soldier. "Good to see you, brother."
The man grinned. "Heath, it's been more than a year since you've visited your friends in Algiers. We thought you had forgotten about us."
Hunter smiled. The man was obviously a member of some tribe from the middle of Africa, yet he spoke English with the flair and accent of someone who had graduated from Oxford.
Heath introduced Hunter and the other Tornado pilot-a Captain Raleigh-to Humdingo, explaining, "Humdingo used to be a chief. Big chief in the Congo.
That's before he found his way to England and learned our nasty ways."
"This is true," Humdingo said in a booming voice. "I learned that the British refuse to believe the sun has set on their Empire. And that they will go to great lengths trying to prove it! Me? I just like their food."
Heath laughed. "Humdingo, you're the only per-76
son in the world who actually likes English food."
They got down to business. Heath produced a bag of gold. "We shouldn't be gone for more than twenty-four hours," he told Humdingo, handing him the gold. "By all means, shoot anyone suspicious who comes near these airplanes."
"An F-16?" Humdingo said, admiring Hunter's sleek jet fighter. "Never guarded one of these before."
Heath turned to Hunter. "These guys are specialists," he told him. "Nothing will happen to our aircraft while we're gone."
As if to emphasize the point, Humdingo barkecl out a sharp order in Congolese and his squad snapped to. With crack precision, the soldiers two-stepped to their positions. In ten seconds they had formed a protective circle around the three jet fighters. Hunter couldn't imagine anyone wanting to tangle with the two dozen well-armed black warriors. He left his F-16 in their hands, enjoying a certain degree of peace of.mind.
Humdingo also provided the trio with a jeep. With Heath behind the wheel, they roared off toward the city of Algiers.
They called the fortress "Maison de la Guerre"- Place of War. Hunter's first glimpse of it had been misleading. They had driven through Algiers proper, reached the hills beyond its limits, and found the authentic-looking fort sitting atop a rise on the edge of town. It looked like it was right out of a Foreign Legion movie, except that from the top of its parapets flew literally hundreds of flags. The two soldiers of undetermined origin guarding the front gate eyed them suspiciously as they pulled up in front. A few 77
gold pieces from Heath's hand to their pockets made them instant allies.
The pilots climbed out of the jeep and walked through the huge gate the guards had opened for them. "Here is where we will find our crew," Heath told Hunter.
Inside, the fort's front courtyard was no less authentic.
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