“We can’t let them get anywhere near the train,” Hunter called, immediately firing a Sidewinder at the lead bomber. The B-57’s pilot was surprised by the rare head-on shot; the air-to-airs were usually shot from behind unless the pilot was one of extraordinary skill. Seeing the tell-tale brown smoke coming right for him, the B-57 pilot put the two-engined bomber into a sharp bank. But it was too late; the Sidewinder caught him on his right wing’s leading edge, blasting a hole in the wing itself and seriously damaging his starboard engine.
The B-57 managed to struggle on long enough for its bombardier to launch two Mavericks. Then it exploded as the flames from its wings reached its topped-off fuel tanks.
Now, even though the mother ship was gone, the Mavericks headed for the train just eighteen miles away, their infra-red homing systems taking over.
Hunter immediately assessed the situation and slammed the Harrier into a near-hover.
“JT, can you guys handle those three?” he called over to his friend. “I’ve got to stop those Mavs.”
“Go, Hawk” was the reply.
The jumpjet was heading in the opposite direction less than two seconds later.
Chapter 66
FITZ WAS IN A state of controlled chaos when several buzzers went off at once inside the Control car.
“Damn … that’s the incoming missiles warning system,” he yelled out to Crossbow, punching several buttons on the threat-evaluation computer at the same time. A readout quickly informed him that two infra-red-guided Mavericks were homing in on the train, their distance only fifteen miles away.
The problem was that the train’s own defensive systems—they being radar-controlled Gatling guns which destroyed incoming missiles by putting up a wall of lead that nothing could get through—were being worked ragged by the multitude of smaller TOW missiles being fired non-stop by enemy troops in the hills on either side of the tracks.
The incoming missile warning system was positively screaming by the time Fitz saw the Harrier streaking directly toward the train. Suddenly, it stopped on a dime and went into a hover about one hundred yards off to the right of the speeding train.
“Mother of God,” Fitz cried, knowing at once that Hunter was placing his airplane between the Mavericks and the train. “Can he possibly get the both of them?”
Hunter was wondering the same thing as he watched the two Mavericks streak right for him, guessing correctly that their infra-red homing device would ignore the train and key in on his hot engine.
The two missiles were no more than one hundred yards away when Hunter took a deep breath, counted to three and then opened up with his Aden cannons. Imitating the train’s own close-in defense system, he filled the air with a wall of cannon shells and crossed his fingers….
The first Maverick blew up not more than 150 feet from the Harrier—the second one just 30 feet away. The resulting explosions lit up the sky like a gigantic Fourth of July fireworks display; shock waves crashed into the Harrier, and it took all of Hunter’s skill to keep the jumpjet from spinning into a nosedive.
“Right on, Hawk!” he heard Fitz screaming through his headphones.
“That was too close,” Hunter replied under his breath.
Meanwhile, a short but deadly aerial battle had erupted between JT, the F-5’s and the three remaining bombers. Through quick action and flying skill the United Americans were able to shoot down two of the B-57’s and send the other one scurrying away, both its engines smoking heavily.
But now Hunter had another problem.
The actions against the bandits around the footbridge, the Voodoos and the Mavericks had depleted his ammunition. And yet the train was just barely two miles into the hellish ten-mile straightaway.
Hunter knew he had to re-arm, or be totally out of the battle at the most critical juncture.
Contacting Fitz, he told him of his predicament.
“But what can you do?” the Irishman asked. “There’s not a friendly base in five hundred miles.”
“I know,” Hunter replied. “That’s why I have no other choice.”
Despite a murderous rain of rifle, rocket and cannon fire that was pelting the sides of the train non-stop, he knew his only option was to attempt to land on his platform car.
Now he would really see what this Harrier could do, he thought grimly. Landing on a small flatcar was difficult enough when the train was stopped; doing it while it was speeding through the narrow canyon bed, under heavy enemy fire would be, to say the least, challenging.
Looking down on the speeding train, he felt like he was watching some immense video game. Everything was moving by so quickly; the air was filled with bullets and rockets, most of them bouncing off the heavily armored sides of the train, but some finding targets. The smoke and missile exhaust alone was enough to obscure visibility.
However, the train crew was fighting back—and in a big way. Once every ten seconds or so, three or four of the armored railcars would suddenly lift their shutters and let loose all at once with an incredible barrage of their own, usually directed at a concentration of troops on a hillside or hiding beneath an underpass. Then just as quickly, the shutters would be closed again, only to have four more cars do the same thing farther down the line.
Directly above the train, the Cobra Brothers seemed to be everywhere—dogfighting with the pesky Hind gunships, and occasionally taking out a fixed target with their powerful nose cannons. High above it all, JT, Ben Wa and the others were still battling the KKK fighters.
And Hunter knew he had to rejoin the fight.
He located the landing car and got the Harrier in position overhead, matching the forward motion of the train. It was a tricky maneuver, and it wasn’t made any easier by the hail of enemy gunfire that was suddenly directed at the aircraft. The train was rounding a bend and was soon to pass through a small grove of trees. Knowing it was now or never, Hunter slammed his thrusters into the descend mode and sent the Harrier crashing to the landing car, just as the front portion of the train passed into the small forest.
To his surprise, he found he’d landed in one piece, the grove of trees giving him the cover he needed to set down, though none too gently. A courageous team of Rangers appeared immediately. Half of them helped him secure the airplane, while the others fired their heavy weapons off both sides of the car, suppressing some of the incoming fire. Meanwhile Fitz had ordered that the weapons cars on either side of the Harrier platform open up with everything they had once the jumpjet was down.
Hunter and the Rangers quickly secured the plane and then started loading it up with what he needed: fuel, ammo and missiles.
Halfway through the operation, Fitz and Crossbow scrambled out to the platform car.
“Just got a message from the Cobras,” Fitz yelled above the cacophony of gunfire hitting all around them. “They’ve spotted at least a battalion of cavalry up about a mile … looks like mounted Mexican bandits.”
“The terrain flattens out right up ahead.” Crossbow shouted above the din. “They might be attempting a boarding scene … a real one this time.”
“Christ … that’s all we need,” Hunter yelled back.
“We’ve alerted everyone on board,” Fitz told Hunter, as the pilot was once again climbing up into the Harrier. “They’re expecting hand-to-hand combat within the next few minutes.”
“I’ll go up ahead,” Hunter yelled back, just before closing the Harrier cockpit. “Maybe I can soften them up before you get there.”
Then, in a flash of fire and smoke, the Harrier lifted off once again.
Chapter 67
JORGE JUAREZ WAS SITTING in the back of his extra-wide jeep, eating a large salami sandwich.
“Geeve me more mustard,” he ordered one of his go-boys.
A script girl appeared out of nowhere and shoved three pages of scene information under Jorge’s disgustingly dirty bearded chin.
“You’re on in thirty seconds,” she told him.
He seemed not to notice the c
ue at first. But then, very gradually, he reached down into the folds of his grossly obese body and came up with a .45 Colt automatic.
“Amigos!” he spit out loudly between bites. “Get ready….”
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and struggled to get a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. A few seconds of lens adjustment went by before he spotted the train heading down into a slight gulley about a mile from his position, the Harrier jumpjet rising above it.
Jorge didn’t even have the stamina to turn around and review his troops. Instead he called his second-in-command, a bandit officer named Feelth, who was positioned at the rear of the mounted column.
“Is everything ready?” he asked the man.
A quarter mile away, Feelth popped the button on his walkie-talkie and looked out on the five hundred members of the Mexican bandit cavalry. They were lined up in ten waves of fifty apiece, with no units held in reserve, per Devillian’s orders.
“Si,” he finally replied to Jorge. “We have the white horses up front as you requested. Plus our best-looking riders will also go in first.”
“Remind your men not to look directly at the cameras,” Jorge chomped as he polished off the huge sandwich. “Any man seen looking at the cameras during the screening will be shot. Got that?”
“Si,” Feelth answered again.
Jorge took the first bite of another huge salami sandwich and then calmly shot his automatic twice into the air.
“First unit … attack!” he yelled only slightly louder than his loudest belch.
In an instant the first wave of bandit cavalry was off—heading down the slight rise and toward the tracks.
“Second unit … attack!”
Again, another wave of mounted soldiers were dispatched by his command.
Another bite of his sandwich, another order: “Third unit … attack!”
With that the bandit chief settled back down into the jeep’s already weakening seat, his work done.
He continued stuffing his face, practically oblivious to the mounting racket of gunfire, jet engines, the roar of the locomotives, missile blasts and explosions going on all around him. When one of the KKK Voodoos was suddenly shot out of the sky by a Coaster F-5 and came crashing down no more than a half mile from his position, Jorge barely lifted an eyebrow.
So it took him about thirty seconds to realize that his third unit of cavalry had turned around and was now heading straight back toward him in total disarray.
“What is happening?” he managed to burp out before he realized that something was chasing his horse soldiers up the rise and away from the train. Using all his strength, Jorge managed to stand up in the jeep to get a better look. What he saw was the Harrier streaking right behind his rapidly retreating troops.
“You fuckin’ yellow-bellys!” Juarez screamed at them, as they rode right past him in hordes. “Get your asses back here! You gonna let one airplane chase you away?”
For some of his men, the answer apparently was yes.
Juarez quickly ordered his driver to pull back, at the same time calling Feelth on the radio.
“Regroup your last two waves into one,” he told the second-in-command. “Have half of them fire at that airplane, the other half get down to the train … and hurry, the cameras are rolling!”
The last two hundred bandits followed Feelth’s quickly shouted orders. Half of them started firing at the Harrier as it swept overhead, blazing away with their rifles, hoping that a lucky shot might hit a fuel tank or another vulnerable spot on the jumpjet.
Just then, five Hind gunships appeared over the edge of the canyon and dipped down into the gulley next to the tracks taking dead aim at the Harrier. Hunter saw them coming and, in an instant, sent the AV-8BE screaming straight into their formation. Firing frantically at the ducking and diving Harrier, two of the Hind pilots succeeded only in blowing each other out of the sky. Hunter downed two more with his cannons, leaving just one gunship flying. That Hind pilot, suddenly realizing he was all alone, desperately tried to flee and ran the chopper right into the side of the canyon wall. Within seconds the flaming debris from the gunship was raining down onto the bandits below.
Meanwhile, the two hundred bandits who had actually made it to the tracks found out that the train was going much too fast for them to attempt a boarding. What was more, they realized too late that every fourth weapons car was firing back at them with Gatling guns, rockets and combined rifle fire.
The resulting slaughter was sickeningly brief. Men and animals were cut to shreds by Gatling guns firing at a rate of six hundred rounds a second.
Within a half minute, the train had passed through Mile Four checkpost and disappeared around a small, craggy mountain, leaving on the tracks behind a grotesque jumble of dying horses and massacred riders.
Jorge Juarez decided he’d seen enough.
Throwing away his sandwich, he ordered his driver to “get this jeep the fuck out of here!” The vehicle began to scramble over the rocky base of the canyon, heading for the relative safety of a nearby area of brush and overhanging boulders.
Spotting the fleeing jeep, Hunter called to Fitzgerald.
“Anyone get on board, Fitz?”
“Not a one!” came the reply. “And we’re almost halfway through this.”
“OK,” Hunter replied. “I’ve got what looks to be a major officer in front of me, leaving the scene of battle. I’m going to pursue.”
He put the Harrier into a 180-degree turn and shot off toward the jeep. Overtaking it quickly, he buzzed it low, letting the red-hot jetwash cover the vehicle.
In an instant, the jeep and the two men inside it spontaneously combusted—Jorge’s huge mass literally exploding from the intense heat. Out of control and on fire, the jeep failed to turn away from the edge of the canyon. It went over the ledge in a spectacular blaze of fire and smoke, plunging more than a half mile down into the canyon itself.
At the same moment, Devillian and a dozen of his cameramen were also following the action from about two miles away.
“That was brilliant!” he screamed with rare authentic enthusiasm as he watched Jorge take his fiery death plunge. “That stuntman was great, whoever he was.”
Devillian’s rapture was quickly dissipated once he was informed of the failure of Juarez’s bandits to board the train.
Now, all around him, he saw evidence of his script going up in smoke. In the sky above, it was obvious the United American pilots were more than a match for Riggs’ KKK Air Force. The combined efforts of the jumpjet, the Strikefighters and the Coaster F-5’s had so far been successful in keeping the dwindling swarm of KKK Voodoos from reaching the Freedom Express.
And one look into his high-powered binoculars told him the damned train was still speeding through the canyon.
With a curse, Devillian retreated to his command tent and lit up a bowl of crack. He still had a pair of aces up his sleeve—both of which he was sure would look great up on the big screen.
And now was time to play his first one. He first ordered his personal Hind gunship to get ready to fly him to another location. Then he took another long drag from his crack pipe and placed a radio call to the officer in charge of his first secret weapon.
The conversation was brief. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he told the man. “And then, you’re on….”
Hunter rejoined JT, Ben and the Coaster pilots as they continued to drive away enemy aircraft while at the same time strafing the concentrations of Burning Cross soldiers hidden along the train’s route.
They passed through the Four and One Half Mile and entered a section of track that was elevated from the canyon rim and therefore gave the enemy no positions to fire on the train at close range. This meant for the next mile or so, the train would be relatively free from point-blank attacks.
Fitz ordered the train slowed to one third, to give Hunter the time to set down again, arm up and top off his tanks.
“We’re almost halfway through,” the Irishman said,
trying hard not to sound over-confident. “And our casualties have been very light, considering….”
“I know, Mike,” Hunter replied. “But we’ve still got a long way to go.”
But even Hunter couldn’t imagine what Devillian had waiting for them up ahead. In the previous four and half miles, the train had been attacked by helicopter gunships, fighters, anti-tank rockets, air-to-surface missiles, mortars, flamethrowers, mounted gunmen, and thousands of regular infantry weapons. Once a mighty mass of shining metal, the train was now a string of scorched, dented and smoking cars, with nearly half of the working locomotives disabled.
But the fact that they still stayed on the track was proof of their rugged construction—and it was almost as if that mettle was flowing down through the entire train. True, the Freedom Express was battered—but it was not beaten.
And true, Devillian’s airplanes and troops were still ahead, but nevertheless, the valiant train pushed forward on its treacherous dash through the canyon.
Hunter could almost feel that the Freedom Express had taken on a fighting personality of its own. In an instant of reflection, he knew it was alive—alive with the spirit that was America. The damn-the-torpedoes, full-speed-ahead locomotion that had kept the country alive throughout its travails since the big war had also kept it great in its own way. And that power came from its people, its citizens—of all colors, all religions, all walks of life. He knew that America was not about white power, or black power, or green power or polka dot power. Nor was it about one religion, one belief or one God. That kind of rationale was as foolish as saying the country should be about one baseball team, one type of haircut, one type of beer.
For it was the very fact that everyone was mixed in together that made the patchwork stay tight. Anyone who believed different was an idiot—a very unpatriotic idiot at that. But then again, who else but an imbecile would put on a white sheet just so he could play with matches at night once a month? And who but a fool would dare to wave a swastika?
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