The Lucifer Crusade

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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.

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