“Now!” Dozer yelled, pumping his raised arm like a trucker pulling his horn. The word was instantly passed a half mile back of the lines to the 30-piece howitzer column that waited there. Almost simultaneously, the big guns opened up.
Dozer grabbed the radioman’s mike, nearly strangling the kid in the process. “Now, Hawk!” Dozer yelled. “Now!”
The Stealth materialized out of thin air. One second, the sky was empty—the next instant, the strange black jet was roaring overhead, just 50 feet off the ground, rushing to meet the charging cavalry head-on. Close behind were the F-4X Phantoms of the Ace Wrecking Company. Behind them were more airplanes—Crunch’s F-4s, the F-104s, A-7s, T-38s, A-l0s, the old F-84.
Each plane carried a full load of napalm …
“So this is what it’s come to,” Hunter thought as he gripped his weapons’ release control. “Jets against horses? This is the pure insanity of war.”
“Drop on me,” he radioed the planes behind him. A chorus of “Rogers,” came back.
The jets fanned out to form a large arrow formation with Hunter in the lead. He aimed the Stealth right at the center mass of the Mongol horde. Even before the first bomb was dropped, he imagined he could already smell the stink of burning horse and human flesh. “Too bad,” he thought, punching the weapons control system computer one last time. “You guys should have stayed where you belong.”
He was so low and so close to the charging cavalry now, he could see the determination on the faces of the horse soldiers.
“… three … two … one … now!”
With that, two napalm cannisters dropped from the Stealth’s wings and exploded in the midst of the Mongols. Those in the Western Forces’ trenches, again holding their fire until the order was given, saw a tidal wave of flame wash over the attacking cavalry. Horses and men were seared through in an instant. Some of the animals were reduced to skeletons before they even hit the ground.
The Ace Wrecking Company Phantoms dropped their napalm cannisters as soon as they saw Hunter drop his. Sixteen additional bombs landed on the horse soldiers, drawing a blanket of fire over the attackers. Then the rest of the air armada unleashed their bombs containing jellied gasoline. At the same time, the howitzer shells started landing among the charging cavalry, sending up great plumes of fire, smoke and deadly shrapnel.
The Mongols were about a half mile from the Western Forces’ lines and still they kept coming. Hunter gunned the Stealth into a tight, 180-degree right hand turn, positioning himself above and parallel the leading edge of the charging army. He released two more napalm cannisters which exploded on the ground slightly ahead of the charging Mongols. Unable to slow their steeds, the cavalrymen plunged right into the sheet of flame, some emerging on the other side, still charging, horse and rider horribly engulfed in fire. The other jets followed Hunter’s maneuver, relentlessly laying down a wall of flame in front of the Mongols’ lead horsemen.
As many as half of the original 30,000 horsemen were now either dead or dying. But still the remaining attackers plunged onward. Hunter did a quick loop, knowing he would have time for one more pass before the Mongols hit the Western Forces’ lines. Again parallel to the attacking edge of the cavalry, he opened up with his cannons.
The Stealth shuddered as the shells ripped through the mounted troops and their steeds. He continued to fire across the entire length of the attacker’s front line. The howitzer barrage intensified, pounding the rushing Mongols. The trench soldiers now opened up with mortar fire. Next came the shelling from the tanks dug in along the Western Forces’ lines. The Phantoms and the other aircraft were also blazing away with their respective machineguns and cannons. Hunter called a predescribed order over the radio. On his command, the Cobra Cousins’ attack choppers, hovering nearby, were thrown into the fray and started firing on targets of opportunity.
The remaining Mongols were 100 yards from the Western Forces’ lines when Dozer gave the word to his riflemen to fire. At once the entire line opened up on the attacking horsemen. Those riders who had survived the napalm, the howitzers and the strafing were now met by a wall of lead. Horses were hit head on, reared up and then collapsed, causing the steeds behind them to trip and tumble. The mounted soldiers were thrown and trampled by the unstoppable, panicking animals.
Again and again, up and down the line, the defenders fired into what was left of the charging horsemen. Then the first Mongols reached the defenders’ ramparts. The fighting became intense in close quarters. The trench soldiers fired away at the attackers’ horses, killing the animals, then shooting the displaced cavalrymen. The Mongols were barely able to squeeze off a shot, the fire from the trenches was so heavy. Hand-to-hand combat ensued up and down the trenches. By this time, Hunter had swung the Stealth back around and was strafing the rear elements of the attacking army, as were the other fighters.
The battle pitched back and forth for what seemed an eternity. The fighting was so close that howitzers stopped firing for fear of hitting friendly troops. Hunter was confined to making low passes, the jet’s screaming engine spooking the Mongol horses.
From his perspective high above, he could see the bodies begin to pile up. The soil was actually turning blood-red. Fires were everywhere. Smoke was obscuring the battlefield.
Then, the battle began to turn …
The Mongols were slowly being drawn into the center of the defenders’ lines. Urged on by Dozer’s Marines, the volunteers on the flank, bolstered by the air support’s decimation of the Mongols and smelling victory, swept out of their trenches and began a pincer movement to contain the horsemen. Many minutes of intense combat followed until the Mongol attack finally ground to a halt. Completely surrounded, the attackers began to panic. They faced the crack Western Forces’ troops to their front, the advancing volunteer irregulars on their flanks and, now, to the rear. Helicopters were peppering them from above. Jets continued to streak in low, rattling the horses.
In the middle of the battle, the Great Obo knew he had been betrayed—by The Circle and in turn, by the Russians. “We are like lambs,” he thought, as he watched his once fierce army be slaughtered. “We are being sacrificed.”
The fighting continued. Obo had his horse shot out from underneath him by one of the attacking Cobras. Unaccustomed to fighting on foot, he emptied his rifle into the Caucasian soldiers, then started flailing away with his sword.
Out of the sea of faces, he saw a powerful-looking, stocky man moving his way. The soldier was wearing what Obo recognized as the uniform of a U.S. Marine captain. The name tag sewn above the man’s left breast pocket clearly read: Dozer. They were suddenly face-to-face. The Marine was chopping away with a captured Mongol saber. Obo raised his own blade to deflect the Marine’s thrust. The power of the Leatherneck’s blow knocked Obo off-balance. The Marine pressed his attack relentlessly. Obo wished he had the time to impale himself on his own sword, but the attacking officer showed no let-up. Another thrust from the Marine. Obo managed to deflect it, but lost his sword in the process and fell backward. On his back, looking up at the American, the fighting swirling around them, Obo reached into his belt for the dagger he kept there. Too late, as the Marine ran him through. A puff of blood exploded from Obo’s nose and mouth. The fierce Marine put his boot on the Mongol’s chest and brought his face close up to the dying man.
“What the hell are you doing here!” the Marine screamed at him. “What the hell are you doing in my country!”
They were the last words the Great Obo ever heard …
The battle was over by noon. Every one of the Mongols had died, most at the hands of the Western Forces, some by their own swords.
Hunter had landed the Stealth on a highway nearby. Jones had been airlifted to the site also. Both men met with Dozer on the battlefield.
“We lost about four thousand men,” the Marine told them. “Young men, most of them. Good troops.”
Scattered from the plateau to the trenches lay thousands of dead Mongols, covering the bodie
s of the dead Circle soldiers. On the ridges surrounding the valley, huge fires still burned.
Hunter looked out on the battlefield as the victorious Western Force soldiers collected rifles and swords from the dead Mongols.
“This was needless,” he said to Jones and Dozer. “It was nothing more than a mass suicide, with these creeps pulling some of our guys into hell with them …”
Hunter walked out into the battlefield alone. He faced the east. The sky was turning red. It was not the Aurora Borealis this time. The red was in his eyes. They were burning. Burning with hate.
Viktor was responsible for this. The devil himself had gored the American continent and watched it bleed. And for what? Ego? Power? Or was he just following orders?
Hunter was convinced. Viktor’s mission all along was twofold: Conquer America at best, keep it destabilized at worst. He would have won either way. It would take the continent years to recover from this. Hunter’s dream of reunification—a long shot before—was now even further stalled.
He felt his senses start rippling. Jolts of energy pumped through him. He closed his eyes. He called on the feeling. That’s when he saw him. Viktor. Alive. He was sure of it. Fleeing. Escaping. Across the Atlantic.
And Hunter was going after him …
Turn the page to continue reading from the Wingman Series
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.
Circle War Page 29