Freedom Express

by Maloney, Mack;

Crossbow continued studying the mounted army carefully.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he finally said. “They’re Piutes—and that means they are tough motherfuckers. I think the one in front is a chief named Bad River. His tribe is about the only one left in the southwest that still has enough manpower to mount a threat against anybody.”

  “Are they as unfriendly as they look?” Hunter said.

  “Probably more so,” Crossbow replied. “We’d better talk to them and see what they want.”

  At that moment, Fitz heard two, seemingly innocuous clicks of static come from his walkie-talkie. Actually, it was a message.

  “Airborne guys are in place,” he whispered to Hunter. “First sign of trouble, you guys hit the ground and stay the hell down.”

  Hunter nodded, at the same time hoping it wouldn’t come to such drastic measures.

  He and Crossbow slowly approached the tall, grim-looking rider that Michael had identified as Chief Bad River. Hunter half-expected the two Indians to start conversing in some strange tongue, but both spoke perfect English.

  “Greetings, Bad River,” Crossbow called. “I am Michael of the Oklahoma Shawnee Plains tribe. Our grandfathers were friends.”

  Bad River didn’t say a word or move a muscle.

  Crossbow raised his voice. “What are you doing here, my friend?”

  “I could ask the same of you” came Bad River’s sudden, deep-voiced reply. “You are a Shawnee. Why are you with these blacks and whites?”

  “They are friends,” Crossbow explained. “I am helping them get their train across the Badlands. In return, they will help my people against our common enemy.”

  Bad River looked at Hunter and the other United Americans.

  “Are they not with the people who have been bombing us, killing our people and destroying our villages?” he asked.

  Crossbow shook his head. “No—those are the people we are trying to defeat. We want to drive them from the Badlands and make this area safe again. Like before the war.”

  For a long time, Bad River continued to stare at the small group behind Hunter and Crossbow. Finally, he dismounted and slowly walked forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter could see the well-hidden faces of the Airborne troops lying in wait on both sides of the track.

  Bad River reached Crossbow and stood no more than a few inches away from him.

  “Our tribes have not always been friends,” he said sternly. “But in these times, when there are few men to be trusted, I am forced to greet you like a brother.”

  “And I you,” Crossbow replied.

  Bad River gestured to Hunter and his group. “If you say these people are fighting our enemy, then I must believe you.”

  “It is an honor to have your trust,” Crossbow answered correctly.

  On that, the two Indians shook hands.

  Crossbow motioned for Catfish and Fitz to come forward, and introduced them along with Hunter as the three men in charge of the train.

  The men exchanged curt nods.

  “We wish you no harm,” Bad River said. “It is the devils who attack us with their airplanes that we seek.”

  “We are after them, too,” Hunter said. “Perhaps you can help us. We can always—”

  Suddenly Hunter stopped talking. He turned and quickly scanned the southern horizon.

  “Aircraft coming,” he said, almost to himself.

  The other men turned to look in that direction. At first, they could see nothing. Then came a low, rumbling sound, followed by six dark specks in the sky. The specks rapidly grew into a half dozen F-4 Phantoms, bearing down on the train.

  Pandemonium broke loose on the ground. The Piute warriors scattered, as did the United American soldiers. Hunter was already running top speed down the tracks toward his Harrier car when the first pair of Phantoms roared over.

  Alerted at the very last possible second by the train’s fairly sophisticated radar system, a half dozen of the Express’s anti-aircraft crews were ready for the F-4’s. As the six jets streaked over in three staggered pairs, the AA gun crews commenced firing. First only a few scattered pops could be heard—but within seconds, a cacophony of gunfire filled the air, combined with the distinctive whoosh! of small SAMs being launched. The Phantoms were flying so low over the train that some of the Airborne soldiers hidden in the woods were firing at them with their various infantry weapons.

  Yet, the Phantoms did not return the fire, nor did they drop any bombs. Instead they flew through the near-solid wall of lead and SAMs, careening back and forth and surviving the heavy AA fire. All the while their nose cannons were silent, their wings full of undropped ordnance. Just as quickly as they came, they turned and disappeared over the eastern horizon.

  Nevertheless, Hunter was firing up his Harrier by this time, determined to give chase.

  Major Stef Drews was the United American Airborne officer in charge of the mini-fort so recently installed in Eagle Rock, New Mexico.

  He had just finished a long meeting with the town’s mayor and several of its leading citizens when his second-in-command rushed into the center car of the fort.

  “Sir!” he shouted. “We just heard from the train. They say an enemy air strike is heading our way.”

  Drews couldn’t believe it. Why would the attackers bypass the train and head for the small town? After all, the small fort was an unlikely target when compared to a prize like the two-mile-long train. Yet even before he could tell the mayor and the others to take cover, the first pair of Phantom jets roared over the small town.

  Drews’ men went to work with such courage and efficiency he made a mental note to officially commend them afterward. No sooner had the Phantoms appeared than his twelve-man SAM team deployed and began keying in on the enemy F-4’s. All the while, the citizens of Eagle Rock—they having been so deliriously happy at the arrival of the Freedom Express just hours before—were running for their lives.

  Drews himself was at one of the SAM sites when the Phantoms turned and came back over the town. His men got off a solid first shot with their Stinger missile; it exploded just off the wing of the first high-speed, zigzagging jet, causing damage to its tail section.

  Still, the F-4 pressed on, dumping two cannisters of napalm on the small row of buildings next to the rail station. A sudden explosion of flame engulfed the structures with terrifying proficiency. Another F-4 roared in, two black teardrops of jellied gasoline falling from its wings. These hit the Town Hall and church, immediately enveloping them in a blossom of deadly orange fire.

  A second pair of Phantoms appeared. Two SAMs were immediately launched, both of which hit the lead F-4 head-on. The instantly crippled airplane never wavered from its course however; it continued over the town, dropped its payload then smashed into a row of houses next to the tracks.

  The destroyed F-4’s wingman flew low over the fort itself, then dropped what appeared to be a large iron bomb on the tracks beyond it. The bomb exploded with such violence the entire town shuddered as if it had been hit by an earthquake. The UA soldiers watched in horror as a mini-mushroom cloud rose from the site—the trademark of an authentic, and very rare, blockbuster bomb.

  At the same moment, the third pair of Phantoms streaked over, and they too unleashed heavy bombs, not on the town or the fort, but on the tracks to the east.

  “God damn it,” Drews whispered as he tried to interpret the enemy pilot’s odd strategy. “What the hell are they doing?”

  Nearly half of Eagle Rock was burning when Hunter roared onto the scene.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he sent a Sidewinder missile streaking into the ass end of a nearby Phantom, causing an explosion that destroyed both the enemy airplane as well as the one behind it. At the same moment, the troops on the ground downed an F-4 just as it was dropping its payload on the already devastated trackbed.

  That left but two Phantoms, both of which had already dropped their bombs. As one, they turned and started to flee, when suddenly six more Phantoms appeared ju
st over the horizon. Sensing them before seeing them, Hunter quickly vectored the Harrier into a sudden hover, turned a tight 360 degrees, then shot off in the direction of the approaching F-4’s.

  Hunter took on the first two enemy planes, firing Sidewinders at both with uncanny accuracy. He immediately broke left as the now-flaming Phantoms streaked by before plunging to earth.

  Another Phantom had overshot the pair of doomed F-4’s and was dropping its massive blockbuster bomb farther down the tracks. As the Phantom completed its bombing run and started to climb, Hunter’s Harrier suddenly appeared in its path. A missile from the jumpjet ripped into the belly of the F-4, tearing the aircraft apart.

  As Hunter started to turn the Harrier back toward the town, he spotted a pair of Phantoms maneuvering directly behind him.

  Two solid streams of cannon fire passed over his head as he instantly applied his vector thrusts to braking. The lead F-4 flashed over him a second later, the look of astonishment on the pilot’s face clearly evident as the plane streaked by. One of Hunter’s Sidewinders followed close behind, smashing into the F-4’s hot exhaust and obliterating the plane in midair.

  Hunter then put the Harrier into a dive, pulling it out of the line of fire from the trailing Phantom. Suddenly, there was a huge flash, and this F-4 too disappeared. Hunter swung around to see a friendly trail of smoke coming from one of Drews’ SAM crews.

  By now, the surviving enemy planes had dropped their bombs and had retreated to the south. A half dozen had been shot down, but at least six others had made it to their target.

  Now, Hunter overflew the section of track just east of Eagle Rock where the enemy pilots had dropped the blockbuster bombs. Where a half-mile-long stretch of perfectly straight track once lay, now were five enormous craters, some of them more than a football field in width. Not even a few strands of twisted metal remained; everything in and around the craters had turned to dust. The well-aimed blockbusters had destroyed the trackbed and the nearby turn-arounds beyond any hope of repair.

  As he turned back toward the train, Hunter quickly surmised the reason why the enemy pilots had bombed the tracks in back of the Freedom Express and not in front of it.

  “Those bastards don’t want us to turn back,” he whispered bitterly.

  Chapter 30

  HUNTER AND THE OTHERS spent the rest of the afternoon helping the survivors of Eagle Rock bury their dead.

  The Freedom Express was somberly backed up into the town where its troops were deployed in recovery and burial details. Even Chief Bad River and his warriors joined in the task that was so grim, some of the Football City Rangers had to forcibly restrain the grieving families from entering the devastated areas where their loved ones had been killed.

  Hunter felt horrible about the tragedy that had befallen the small town—everyone on the train did. No amount of rationalizing could erase the fact that Eagle Rock probably wouldn’t have been caught up in the terror bombing had the Freedom Express not been close by.

  A brief memorial service was held at sunset, with an Airborne trooper tearfully blowing taps. Then, leaving behind an additional battalion of troops to reenforce the mini-fort, the train painfully slipped away into the night.

  Once it had reached its former position ten miles west of the town, Catfish ordered the Freedom Express to halt once again.

  It took about an hour to secure the train, and as soon as this was done, a gloomy meeting began in the Control car.

  “We’re fucking trapped” was how Fitz so succinctly put it. “We can never return the way we came now, and the only alternate track routes are hundreds of miles west of here.”

  No one argued his point; those were the facts. With one swift blow, Devillian had once again changed the equation. With their all-important route of escape now cut off, most around the table figured there were only two realistic options left: They could fight their way to a track turn-off located just inside of Arizona, then travel north to the border of Colorado and then retreat to the east. Or, they could abandon the train where it sat and hope Jones could muster up enough transport—preferably large troop-carrying helicopters—to lift out all of those on board.

  Either way, it would be like admitting defeat.

  Catfish left to radio Jones and brief him on their situation. As he was going out, Chief Bad River was ushered in.

  “We fight the common enemy,” the Piute leader proclaimed. “And my men are good warriors. Some of them will stay with you. If you are attacked, they will fight to the death.”

  The weary United Americans were grateful for the help, knowing however that it would do little in altering their grim predicament.

  “And how about you, Bad River?” asked Crossbow. “Where will you be?”

  “I will take the rest of my men and ride into the mountains,” the chief said. “You will not see us … but we will be there if you need us. And we will let you know when danger is near.”

  Fitz gave Bad River a customized walkie-talkie that would allow the chief to communicate with the train. Then, leaving twenty-five of his braves behind, the chief took the rest of his men and disappeared into the nearby mountains.

  Chapter 31

  AT 0500 THE NEXT morning, Jones ordered that the Freedom Express be abandoned.

  His message, sent via scrambled telex, didn’t carry any weighty discussion as to why he’d decided as he did. After the massive attack on Eagle Rock, no lengthy explanation was needed.

  It was Catfish who volunteered to deliver the bad news to Hunter. Although his friend wasn’t due to report to duty until 0600, the train commander knew Hunter would want to hear of Jones’ decision immediately.

  Pausing outside Hunter’s quarters, Catfish placed his ear against the cabin door. He figured the pilot was either asleep or possibly “involved” with Diamond. Either way, Catfish knew he’d probably be disturbing him.

  So it was with mild surprise that he opened the cabin door to find Hunter lying awake on his bunk, his face clearly showing the past few days of worry. Catfish slowly entered the room, trying not to stare too long at the beautiful Diamond, who was still asleep and quite naked on the bunk next to the door.

  “Sorry, Hawk, am I bugging you?” Catfish asked.

  “No, Cat,” Hunter said, looking up at him only for a moment. “I’m just trying to think of something that can get us out of this mess—”

  “Hawk,” Catfish interrupted, “it’s over.”

  “What do you mean?” Hunter asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

  Catfish took a deep breath. “Jones just killed the operation,” he said finally. “We’re to abandon the train here and walk back to Eagle Rock. He’s sending every available chopper unit to carry us out, figures it’ll take about two, maybe three days.”

  Hunter stared up at Catfish, an extremely painful look in his eyes.

  “No,” he said in an urgent whisper. “We can’t turn back now.”

  “We have to,” Catfish said. “Jones is sure that Devillian’s troops are all over the hills of Arizona. Some of them are even as far east as the track turn-off. They’re just waiting for us, Hawk. We’d be fools to walk into such a situation.”

  “But we can’t let this bastard win,” Hunter replied. “If we turn tail now, we might just as well hand him all of the Bads on a silver platter.”

  “He just about owns it anyway,” Catfish said somberly. “Look—you know if it were up to me, damn, I’d keep on going ’til we couldn’t go anymore. That’s how much I believe in this. But Jones is looking at it from another perspective. Ultimately he’s the guy responsible for every person on this train. He simply doesn’t want to see us all get killed.”

  “But what about the train itself?” Hunter said, tossing away the notebook in which he’d been scribbling ideas. “We just can’t leave it here, with all these weapons. Devillian will have it stripped down in a matter of days.”

  Catfish nodded somberly. “I know,” he said. “And that’s the most painful part of all.
”

  That night, Hunter fell into a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep.

  His dreams were filled with the burning faces of the people of Eagle Rock being napalmed as their small brass band played on. Hundreds of the distinctive-colored Burning Cross F-4’s filled the sky, and despite his best efforts, he could not shoot down a single one. Everytime he fired a Sidewinder, it would dematerialize into vapor long before reaching its target. Anytime he pulled the trigger for his Aden nose gun, streams of blood would come out instead of cannon shells. Even the Harrier was beyond his control in the nightmare. When he wanted to go forward, he would invariably wind up going backward. When he wanted to go up, he would go down and vice versa. Finally, he wound up completely upside down and streaking straight up, giving him a terrifying, diminishing view of the small town being eaten up by flames, all to the bleats of an out-of-tune tuba.

  He shook himself out of the disturbing dream and got up to throw cold water on his face. Sleeping peacefully on a bunk in the opposite corner of his quarters was Diamond. He was tempted to crawl in bed with her; maybe that would ease the dread left over by the dream.

  But in the next instant he knew it would only be a brief respite, and Band-Aid approaches would do him no good now.

  Instead he lay on top of his bunk and simply tried to think—about the Freedom Express and the current grave situation; about the fate of the country; about his own complicated life.

  But try as he might, he could not prevent the other voice from creeping into his stream of thought. Once again, he did not recognize it; it was like someone trying to communicate with him from some great beyond, and the words were being broken up by some kind of cosmic interference.

  At first he tried to fight off the strange sensation, but ultimately found it impossible. Finally, after all his fighting, he gave in. He cleared his mind of all its usual defenses and let the message come to him.

  Difficult missions should be prepared for while they are still easy; do great things while they are still small.

  Hunter felt a shudder run through him from head to toe. This time the voice sounded so close—so real—that he opened his eyes thinking someone had crept up beside him and had whispered in his ear. But no one was there.