“Christ!” Zal yelled. “It looks like an armored column coming our way.”
Hunter took a look through the scope. He counted at least twenty vehicles, all gunwagons of some sort, including several tanks.
“Who the hell are they?” Simons, the Canadian commander asked, taking the scope from Hunter.
“Probably some ‘instant allies,’” Wack told them. “If Viktor is still alive, he could have rounded up some heavy metal from the other groups. Either that or word got around real quick as to what we found here.”
“Whoever they are, they’re coming to claim this package,” Hunter said referring to the Stealth. Suddenly a tank round landed even closer to them, causing the group to hit the pavement. “And they ain’t going to be friendly about it,” he finished.
Another round came in, and landed dangerously close to the Stealth. The column was about a half-mile away, traveling quickly up the Hudson Parkway. At this rate, Hunter’s tiny army would soon be overwhelmed.
Suddenly they saw another muzzle flash—this one coming from the blackness of the nearby Hudson. A shell landed right in front of the column hitting squarely on the lead gun wagon.
Hunter took the NightScope and peered in the direction of the latest gunfire. “It’s the sub!” he yelled.
Hunter could see the definite outline of the submarine as it sat in the middle of the river. Several figures were scurrying around its deck, working the gun installed there.
“Come on!” Hunter yelled. “They’re giving us the cover we need …”
He turned to look at the parking lot. It was only about 1800 feet long and he calculated the Stealth would need at least 2500 to take off. Still he had to try it.
The enemy column was recovering. It had stopped but now was returning fire toward the sub as well as toward the stadium parking lot. Hunter grabbed Dominique one more time. She hugged him and then squeezed his hand and whispered: “I’ll always be with you …”
Then she was gone, hustled off into Wack’s gunwagon. Zal rushed up to Hunter and quickly shook hands.
“Don’t worry, Hawk,” he said. “We’ll take care of her. We’ll get her to a safe house in Quebec. Fitz will know where she’ll be.”
“Thanks, Zal,” Hunter told his friend. “Thanks for coming to the rescue.”
“Good luck, buddy,” Zal said, as they both ducked away from another enemy shell explosion. “I hope I get a chance to get back into my F-105 and join the party out in the Bads.”
“Great!” Hunter yelled over the noise.
With that Zal jumped into the House gun wagon. Wack wheeled the big car back toward Hunter. The fighter reached his hand out the window.
“See ya, Hawk,” he said. “Take good care of that flag.”
“You know it,” Hunter told him. “We’ll meet again.”
The gun wagon roared away, followed by the rocket car that was firing as it went. The last Hunter saw of Dominique, she was waving to him through the bullet-proof glass. “Goodbye,” he said, to no one but himself. Suddenly, he was alone. He couldn’t remember ever being so devastated.
Another shell hit nearby, too close to the now-warmed up Stealth. He turned his attention to the troops firing at him from the highway. His sadness turned instantly to anger. A fire was lit in his heart that wouldn’t go out for a long time. He clenched his fists. His eyes began to burn. These troops. The Russians. The Circle. The Mongols. Viktor. All of them were marked. He felt himself go a little bit crazy. Another shell landed nearby, but he didn’t even bother to duck.
“Fuck around with me, will you?” he screamed, climbing into the Stealth.
He spun the jet around and pointed it toward the longest part of the parking lot. There was only one way the jet would get airborne. He simultaneously engaged the air brakes and gunned the engine. Higher and higher the RPMs climbed. The engine was roaring, smoking, straining. Like a coiled cat, it was ready to leap. Yet he held back, waiting. Two more shells landed nearby. He could see the deck gun of the submarine go off again. The House of David rocket car fired once more. There were tracer bullets flying everywhere. All the while, the Stealth’s engine was screaming for release.
“Okay,” Hunter said after checking the instruments. “Time to go …”
With that he snapped off the air brakes. Like a dragster starting out down a quarter mile, the jet’s tires squealed and smoked. The airplane catapulted forward, going from zero to 100 mph in less than three seconds. At 125 mph, Hunter coolly brought up the landing gear. Now the airplane was airborne whether it liked it or not. At the same time he yanked back on the controls and turned the nose of the airplane straight up. He felt the tail end of the ship smack into the far parking lot fence. No matter. Scratched paint he could live with. He was flying.
Higher he climbed, until all the lights and the omnipresent fires of New Order Manhattan came into view. He quickly checked his instruments. Everything looked good. The airplane was very smooth flying and easy to handle. And the controls were so standard, any military pilot could have figured them out eventually. It took Hunter approximately four seconds.
He test-fired the cannons. They too worked perfectly. Then he turned the airplane around and dove. Below him was the enemy convoy. He could see the sub still firing off shore. Somewhere down there he knew that the Canadian commandos were scrambling aboard a rubber life raft and paddling like hell toward the sub. Wack and his fighters, vastly outnumbered, would soon be drawing all the fire from the enemy column. Hunter intended to even things up.
He came in low and fast on the line of trucks, tanks and gunwagons. With the press of a button, the two cannons opened up and a deadly spray of fire rained down on the column. One truck, then another went up in flames immediately.
He flipped the airplane over and bore down on the enemy again. The cannons routinely chopped up vehicle and body alike. More explosions followed as the shells hit gas tanks and ammunition boxes. Best of all, no one was shooting at him.
By the end of his third strafing run, all firing from the column had ceased. He pulled up and slowed down. After a few seconds he spotted the two House of David gunwagons sprinting across the George Washington Bridge. They would temporarily retreat into New Jersey then sneak back into Manhattan when the time was right. Hunter was glad to see the brave fighters make it out in one piece.
He turned again and came down low over the river. A light was flashing at him from the sub’s conning tower. It was blinking: “A-OK. A-OK.” One more pass over the river and he saw the sub was submerging. He knew it would glide just a few feet below the surface until it got out into deeper water. Then it would be off to the sanctuary of Canada. He felt his heart lighten just a notch. For the first time in a long while, he felt that Dominique was finally safe.
He climbed and turned the jet west. Already he could feel the sting of the battle in his bones.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THE FLIGHT OF 20 B-52 Stratofortresses were still 30 miles from their target when the SAMs first appeared.
“Take evasive action!” each bomber pilot heard simultaneously. “We got company coming up at five o’clock!” The familiar voice belonged to General Jones. Flying the lead bomber, he was the first to pick up the Soviet anti-aircraft missiles. The general hit a button on his control column which activated a chaff dispenser at the rear of the airplane. Immediately a long stream of radar-reflective tinfoil squirted out of the B-52. The other bomber pilots did the same. The tinfoil cloud would serve to confuse the on-board radar homing devices on the SAMs. But not by much.
Within 10 seconds the early morning sky was filled with SA-2 missiles—the same type American pilots dodged over North Viet Nam years before. One missile found its target with deadly accuracy, hitting one of the big bombers on the port wing, severing it from the fuselage. The airplane immediately flipped over and began a long plunge to earth. There were no parachutes.
“Group, break!” Jones yelled into his radio. Immediately the Stratofortresses peeled out of the
ir closed formation and went to pre-assigned staggered altitudes. At the same time, each pilot switched on his airplane’s Electronic Counter-Measures devices designed to confuse the enemy missiles. But Jones knew that this would provide only minimal protection at best.
“Jesus, this one has our name on it!” Jones yelled to his co-pilot, as they could see a missile’s trail of smoke rising up toward them. Jones pushed down on the controls and put the B-52 in a harrowing dive. The missiles whooshed by them dangerously close to the starboard wing. They had hardly recovered when another missile just missed impacting on their nose.
“Christ, there are hundreds of them!” the co-pilot yelled, looking down at the multitude of tell-tale smoke trails rising up out of the clouds.
Jones yanked back on the controls and put the bomber into a steep climb. Back in Viet Nam, a bomber force such as this would have had the luxury of dozens of fighter aircraft as escorts, as well as many fighter-bombers sweeping in on SAM sites before the big boys arrives. But not so here. With the exception of a half dozen fighters looking out for the Yaks, the B-52s were on their own.
Jones had ordered the big bomber strike on the most formidable targets in the Badlands: the Soviets’ castle-like main base near Wichita and the nuclear power station nearby, both of which Hunter had identified during his foray into the forbidden zone. The pre-dawn bombing raid was timed to catch the enemy off-guard. But still, Jones knew his losses to the SAMs would be high—probably no other target in the ’Bads was so protected as these two were by the deadly Soviet missiles.
Time was running out for the Western Forces. Jones’s intelligence people told him that the Circle Army would be in place and linked-up with the Soviet forces in the Badlands in a matter of days. Once that took place, the Western Forces would be facing an organized, fully deployed enemy. It would be next to impossible to fight them even up at that point. The democracy’s only hope harked back to Jones’s conversation with Hunter several days back. Increase the air attacks, disrupt the enemy’s lines of communication, hit important targets, keep them guessing.
Which is why Jones knew this bombing mission was so necessary. Air strikes on SAM sites up and down the Badlands had continued unabated for the past several days, with thankfully low loss rates for the democratic air forces. These attacks served two purposes. They kept the enemy off-balance, and they punched holes in the SAM line, very important passageways that the Western Forces would soon need critically.
But Jones needed time. Time for the armies of the west to fully mobilize. Time for all of the available air units to get operational. Time for all the Free Canadian “volunteers” to get in position. And time for the west’s best weapon—Hawk Hunter—to return, ideally with the fifth black box in hand. Then they might have a chance.
A missile explosion off to his left jarred Jones’s thoughts. He saw another one of his bombers get hit; a long fiery trail spiraling down was all that was left of it. He put his airplane into another dive, and yanked it hard to the portside, just in time to avoid two missiles that were rising up toward him, side-by-side.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he called over to his co-pilot. The sky all around them was filled with powerful explosions and white streaks of exhaust contrails caused by the seemingly endless barrage of SAMs.
And they were still 20 miles from the target …
Still the bombers pressed on. Jones’s navigator called out the coordinates of the “castle” target, now 10 miles ahead. Jones radioed for his bombardier to make his final adjustments, then he ordered his remaining bombers to quickly form up again. One group would divert to hit the nuke station; he would lead the others to hit the Soviets’ main base.
They were going to use an old World War II tactic called “bomb-on-leader.” This meant when Jones’s B-52 started dropping its bombs, the rest of the bomber group would follow suit. It was up to Jones and his crew to pick the absolute correct time to order their bombs away.
Seven miles to target and amazingly the SAM fire increased. Two more Stratofortresses were hit; one right behind Jones took a missile hit direct on its bomb bay door. The big airplane was immediately obliterated. The other airplane got its wing clipped. Jones watched as most of its crew bailed out and the pilot steered the ailing bomber into a suicide dive directly into a SAM concentration just outside the castle base. The airplane slammed into the enemy position with a tremendous explosion.
Soon Jones’s bombers were only seconds from the target. The general’s bombardier called up his ready signal and Jones acknowledged it. He waited for a three count, gritted his teeth then yelled, “Bombs away!”
He immediately felt the aircraft go lighter as the 30 tons of bombs fell away from the bomb bay. The other B-52s dropped their bombloads at exactly the same times. As Jones watched out of his window, he could see the first string of bombs landing right in the middle of the walled city. Then another string hit. Then another. The resulting explosions were so powerful and concentrated, a fiery mini-mushroom cloud rose up over the city.
Just as the last bomb was dropped, Jones ordered the entire force to immediately climb. Then the survivors turned for home. The B-52s had battled their way in and now would have to battle their way out. But they had delivered 400 tons of high explosives right on top of the main command center of the enemy.
Jones figured the destruction of the enemy HQ would give the west another few days of valuable time. Off in the distance, he could see the nuke station was also enveloped in flames, courtesy of 50 additional tons of bombs. Suddenly, there was a green flash of light, followed by a king-sized mushroom cloud. Jones knew that was the nuke’s reactor going up. Anyone left alive on the ground would now have even radiation to contend with.
Jones figured the destruction of the enemy HQ and the nuke would seriously disrupt the Soviets’ command structure and give the west another few days of valuable time.
Now if only Hunter would show up …
Chapter Thirty
ONE BY ONE, THE surviving B-52s approached the Denver air station and began their landing descent. Jones was stationed toward the end of the pack as several of his ships had been damaged and had fallen behind the main group. Suddenly the pilot of the last trailing bomber—code named Caboose—called ahead to Jones with an urgent message.
“Sir, we got a bogie back here!” the pilot radioed. “He’s right off our tail!”
Jones yelled back to his own radar man. “What do you show back there?”
“Nothing sir,” the answer came back. “All I got is ’52s.”
Jones radioed back to his tail pilot. “What do you have? Visual sighting? Or a blip?”
“It’s a visual, sir,” the pilot replied. “I’ve got no radar signature. My set must have caught some damage over the target.”
Jones was worried. The bogie might very well be a Yak recon ship, following the stragglers back to their home base in preparation for an air strike of their own. But why didn’t the aircraft show up on radar? He quickly radioed all the other airplanes ahead of him to drop down and land as quickly as possible.
“What’s his airspeed and altitude, Caboose?” Jones then radioed the last ship.
“He’s at 450, and about 2000 feet above us,” came the reply. “He’s keeping pace with us, sir.”
There was a crackle of static. “Stand by sir,” the pilot called out. “He’s booted it sir, coming down fast.”
“Can your tail gunner get a fix on him?” Jones radioed back.
“Negative, sir,” the pilot said, his voice raising a notch in anxiety. “He’s going right by us … right now!”
Jones turned around in his seat and looked back toward the Caboose. Sure enough, a small, strange-looking fighter streaked by right underneath him. His co-pilot saw it too.
“What the hell kind of airplane is that, General?” he asked.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Jones said. Just then, his B-52 entered a low hung cloud bank. Jones had to concentrate on landing the airplane. He
activated his landing gear and deployed his tail chute to further slow down the big bomber.
When he broke through the clouds, the landing strip was directly ahead of him. And so was the mysterious fighter!
“The Goddamned thing has landed!” co-pilot called out. “Jesus, he walked right in without the tower or the scramble jet picking him up? He’s got to be friendly or crazy …”
“Or both,” Jones said, looking at his co-pilot.
By the time Jones taxied his Stratofortress into its holding station, a crowd of armed guards and curious monkeys had surrounded the strange jet. The general quickly shut down the big bomber’s engines and climbed out of the access hatch. He wasn’t totally surprised to see Hunter standing on the wing of the oddly-shaped black fighter, coolly discussing something with the group of onlookers.
Hunter jumped off the wing and walked quickly to meet Jones. He was holding the fifth black box.
“Am I glad to see you,” Jones said. “And that black box.”
The general put his fingers to his mouth and let out a long, shrill whistle. Immediately a jeep filled with military police appeared. Jones handed the precious black box to the sergeant of the group, saying: “You know what to do.”
The jeep sped off to a pair of F-104s waiting nearby. The two planes were already warmed up and ready to go. The MP passed the box to a monkey who gave it to one of the pilots. Immediately the two Starfighters taxied out onto the runway and began their take-off roll.
“They’ve been waiting to scramble with that box for the past three days,” Jones told Hunter as they watched the scene. “It will be in Eureka within three hours.”
The recovery mission was now complete. But there would be no time for celebration. No round of welcome back drinks.
“Sorry for sneaking in unannounced,” Hunter said, his voice slightly distant. “I was down to two pounds of fuel when I touched down. I had to cut off everything, lights, radio, radar, everything except the flight controls.”
Circle War Page 22