by T I WADE
“Patterson, I want to know exactly how many satellite phones we have within four hours. Get the information from the Chinese engineers. Then get a company of men to guard the Chinese engineers while we pair each one up with one of our own engineers. Treat them like gold-dust, get them everything they need, and then fly or drive them where they were meant to go and allow them to do the jobs they were flown in for. Try and borrow a couple of them to start repairing some of our fighters at Andrews and see if we can get a few of our aircraft operational again.”
“We have two weeks to defend our country. We believe the attack will be there in New York. I want every Air Force base commander that gets a radio to go to their closest Army, Marine and Naval bases and get an inventory list of fighting equipment that is operational now. I’m looking for trucks—any trucks—to drag howitzers up to New York. I’m looking for anything that can blow a high-explosive or armor-piercing shell through ship’s armor. I want 50,000 troops readied to move into New York in the next two weeks. Are you taking notes, Patterson?”
“Yes sir, I have you on speaker phone and two men writing your orders down,” the major replied.
“I want your five bulldozers to move across to La Guardia Airport and clean that runway, then get them into Teterboro and Newark. I want aircraft to be able to go in there within 24 to 36 hours. Get those Charlie engineers to turn on the lights and get heat into the terminals, or at least get one generator, or even truck engines generating power in all four airports.
“Patterson, I suggest you fuel up the only long-range aircraft we have left, the second HC-130 tanker, get two sets of flying crew aboard and at least 24 operational satellite phones, as well as half a dozen of the Chinese engineers who speak English, and a varied selection of spare electrical parts. Not enough to deplete reserves needed on the East Coast, but important parts to repair electrical components for getting heat and power into the bases, or hopefully getting some of our aircraft flying. Send the HC-130 out with somebody you can trust and start distributing the equipment. Leave one engineer, spare parts, and a phone with the commander at Hill, then give Vandenberg one engineer, parts, and three phones—two phones are for their neighbor bases. Deliver two phones to Travis, then fuel up and head over to Hawaii and deliver an engineer, spare parts, and one phone. Get that baby full of fuel there and head over to Anderson in Guam to deliver a few parts and one phone. Refuel and head to Yakota Air Force Base in Japan to deliver the same. Then, get two phones, one engineer, and parts into Kunshan in South Korea, one engineer and parts into Baghdad, and the same into Turkey. Fuel up and fly to Ramstein and then the Azores, leave a phone at each, and tell the pilots to get back to McGuire ASAP.”
“The number I’m giving you now is a number that can help them find their locations during daylight hours only. The codeword is ‘Carlos Lee.’ Tell the pilots to follow orders from Carlos Lee and they will get a pretty accurate location. Tell them never to answer the phone if the call is from the red number, which I assume will be on all the phones—that is the enemy. Remember, daylight only, so tell them not to get into a bad situation at night. The HC-130 has a 4,500 mile range but remind the pilots to use their fuel wisely. I want another situation report from you in 24 hours, Patterson. You have all Air Force personnel at your beck and call. I will need a copy of all the numbers, once you have set up which phone is going where. If you have any problems, call me on this number, but right now I need some sleep, we are six hours out in the middle of nowhere and I need to get to Misawa. Good luck!” And the general hung up.
Chapter 12
The Hit Squads
Strong Air Force base was up early the next morning, three hours before dawn. It was cold outside. The temperature was 24 degrees out, which was normal for January. Carlos and Lee had taken turns monitoring the cell phones and the feed coming off the satellites.
General Allen was on his way to Japan, an hour from Alaska when the airport woke up. The technical guys had refueled and rearmed the aircraft throughout the night. Carlos’ P-51 was still being worked on and would not fly that day. General Allen called and asked that the food distribution be put off for 48 hours as he needed civilian help communicating with Fort Bragg, Seymour Johnson and Camp Lejeune. He wanted exact numbers of vehicles and available troops and, if necessary, they needed to start walking to New York.
Preston asked Maggie and Staff Sergeant Perry to fly into Pope Field in one of the 172s and find out what the largest Army base in the country could supply as defensive protection. John and Technical Sergeant Matheson were to fly the Cessna 210 into Seymour Johnson, and Pam Wallace and another sergeant were to fly the second 172 into McClutcheon Field—the main Marine airfield in Jacksonville, North Carolina.
Martie had been pretty quiet that night after she arrived home. Preston congratulated her on a good job and she began to get back to normal. Sally had been relieved by a new group of pilots and they had taken off for McGuire as soon as she landed. Sally had been living in her aircraft for five solid days and needed a bath and some sleep.
Lady Dandy was now the main troop transporter, and with the FedEx Cargomaster, was ready to help the ground troops near Heflin, Alabama just after dawn. Preston decided to fly the P-38 this time, its Hispano cannon was able to put a lot more power down on the enemy if need be. Carlos was totally exhausted, unable to fly, and needed sleep. They had tried to control incoming and outgoing communication all night, but had been unable to do so. The satellites were not, and they realized would never be controlled by anybody other than their Chinese controllers. Carlos hoped that they were in the Headquarters building, hopefully about to be destroyed by the AC-130 gunships under the command of General Allen in about 24 hours time.
Preston’s airstrip was busy two hours before dawn. First, Buck and Barbara flying Lady Dandy climbed into the dark sky, then Mike Mallory in the turboprop Cargomaster ten minutes later. The 172s took off an hour after Lady Dandy to arrive at their closer destinations at dawn, and then the 210. Lastly, Martie in her Mustang and finally Preston in his P-38 took off 70 minutes behind Lady Dandy.
Martie and Preston climbed quickly and reached a cruising altitude of 15,000 feet within 15 minutes. At a fast cruise of 370 miles an hour, they covered ground rapidly and arrived over Atlanta as the sun was coming over the horizon.
“Good morning, ground gentlemen. Your flying back-up is ten minutes out. What do you need from us? Over.”
“Good morning, flyboys,” was the reply from the ground troops. “We had a skirmish with some guys wanting to continue east just after midnight, and hit three more of their vehicles coming along the highway. Since then, we have seen nothing. Our guys inspected the three vehicles—they will not move again—and found two of those fancy cell phones you guys so desperately want. There were nine dead or nearly-dead Charlies and I think you should land about two to three miles behind the first road attack you guys did yesterday, form a sweep line along the road, and work your way inwards, towards us. We can do the same and you can coordinate us from the air. I suggest that you guys head west for 20 miles and see if any Charlie are retreating in that direction. Over.”
“Roger that,” replied Preston. “Buck, Mike, do you copy?”
“We copy,” replied Buck. “I suggest one of you check the road and look for 800 yards of open space so that our aircraft can get down, and you circle above the spot while we go in. Over.”
“Okay,” replied Preston. “Martie, follow me and let’s find a suitable landing strip,” and they headed over the battle ground. There were still wisps of black smoke rising here and there since there had been no wind the previous night. The smoke hung in the low-lying areas, making it difficult to see. They found a big enough flat piece of clear road just east of the exit to Heflin on the southern strip of road. The landing area was out of view from the bridge, between the bridge and the first attack and the only piece of straight road around. It would be safe for a landing, and there were only a couple of vehicles on the east-bound side and a
rolled-over tractor trailer. The clearing had at least 800 yards of clean asphalt before it started curving slightly, and any pilot with a slowing aircraft could negotiate the slight bend if need be. They would have to fly in from the west to make it work, however.
“Mike, do you see the bridge underneath where I am? Over.” Preston asked.
“Roger, I have the bridge visual,” Mike Mallory replied from the Cargomaster, now over the area.
“I suggest that with your shorter landing distance, you go in on the southern side of the highway just before the bend to the bridge and get your guys out. I’m worried that there might be trouble under the bridge. The bend will cover you and then Lady Dandy can go in. Mike, Lady Dandy will need all the available space, and pilots, stay on the ground if it looks safe. I recommend you guys go in and clear the bridge first. Martie, you are back-up if need be.”
Mike went in while Preston flew off along the highway further to the west, searching for any vehicles moving along the highway. He heard the Cargomaster go in over the radio and then Lady Dandy landed and both aircraft stayed on the ground, saving fuel.
Ground fire erupted from under the bridge several seconds later, as Preston turned to fly back. It was only two guys with one vehicle, he heard over the radio, and the men on the ground soon had the situation secure with a machine gun taking out the enemy from an easy 400 yards. Martie hadn’t needed to get involved, but circled at 5,000 feet just in case.
Preston turned again and flew for another ten minutes, not seeing a single vehicle moving. He decided that 50 miles was far enough, and returned at low cruise to the two aircraft on the ground.
The men who had just gone in were already in a line across both highways and across the fences and into the woods on the southern side and working their way eastwards and towards the first attack area. Preston spoke into his radio.
“We have a line up and walking along both highways westwards of you and walking in your direction ground control. They cleared a bridge, found two injured guys and a broken vehicle. Over.”
“Roger that. We have a line up and will do the same, walking towards them,” came the reply. “We see a straight piece of road for about 100 yards and then it curves to the right. What is ahead of us? Over.”
“You have 100 yards before the road curves to the right for another 400 yards, then it curves to the left and the main attack was in the middle of this straight piece, which is about 1,800 yards long and full of smoking vehicles. By the time you get to this stretch, you should be able see our guys coming the other way. One of us will stay up here until you meet up. Then we need to… hold on. Martie, is that a tractor coming up to the highway bridge from Heflin?”
“Roger, he’s being stopped by our troops,” replied Martie, now lower and circling at 2,000 feet.
“He’s a farmer from the area, asking if he can help,” the troop leader reported over their radio.
“Get a situation report from him and ask him if he has any friends with aircraft in the area. They could fly into their local Air Force base and get supplies.
He also told Martie to go in and land and conserve fuel, but be ready for take-off.
For an hour, Preston flew over the two lines of men slowly converging on each other. The eastern group had just arrived on the final straight part when they got fired upon from the south side woods, a mile to the west of where the aircraft were waiting. He noticed three vehicles in the trees as far in as they could go, and he relayed a message to the ground troops. He pulled his P-38 away and went north at full power, climbing rapidly to 8,000 feet. Preston turned, fired several rounds with the cannon, and swept back into the area where he had seen the vehicles. He let go with the Hispano cannon a mile out and he watched as the large cannon rounds danced across the grass and into the area where the vehicles were hidden. A massive explosion rose up to meet him as he straightened out and radioed the guys on the ground to go in.
He watched as the line of Marines ran into the smoking area, began a firefight, and dispatched the last of the Chinese hit squads.
That was the end of Mr. Deng and his group. Preston flew around for another 15 minutes and saw that the second group of soldiers had already reached the site and searched for anybody alive in the carnage.
Just before he went in to land where the other three aircraft were waiting for him, he counted 43 stationary vehicles that he could see, and one under the bridge that made 44.
It was weird standing in the middle of a U.S. Interstate, with two World War II aircraft, a FedEx aircraft, and a DC-3 while chatting with a farmer sitting on a tractor older than the aircraft themselves. The farmer was about 70, born during the Second World War, and had been given the 1930s tractor by his father. It was the only thing left on his farm, which still worked, and he explained to Martie, Buck, Mike, and Preston that he could run his farm with it for the next century, or at least his sons could. Preston asked him about airports and military bases and the farmer told him that the closest Army base was Anniston Army Base due west. It had a lot of ammunition dumps and supplies. As far as airports, he thought the town with the same name would have the closest one.
Mike Mallory suggested to the farmer that he should drive over to the base and get food if need be, and Preston stated he would fly in to see what was going on there.
“Martie, why don’t you fly into Moody Air Force Base,” and he showed her on the map where it was, about 30 miles north of the Georgia-Florida border. “Tell them about General Allen and ‘Allen Key’ and see if they have anything flyable. If they do, tell them on behalf of General Allen to fly it up to Seymour Johnson. If they can’t refuel you, go straight into Robins Air Force Base in Macon, Georgia— it’s on your way home—and tell them the same thing. Hopefully they will give you fuel, but you should still have enough to get home. I’ll go into the Army base here and find out what the Army has in the area and try to get it moving up north.”
By this time, half of the ground troops were filing aboard the two aircraft and Mike and Buck took off to get the men back home. They would only have time for one more flight in and out during daylight and might have to get the last troops out the next morning.
Preston asked the farmer on the tractor if he could pull a few vehicles off the highway—three would be enough—so that anybody could land closer to the burned out wrecks on the other side of the bridge, and the farmer went about his mission with excitement.
An hour later Preston was sitting in the Army base commander’s office telling him the whole story. He had seen a straight piece of road inside the barracks. The 800 yards of two-lane tarmac road was clear, with no electrical wires, and he had gingerly put the P-38 down with several yards to spare on both sides.
The Army was pretty worried about an old aircraft landing in their private area, but it did have U.S. Air Force markings on it. For an hour, Preston told Colonel Peter Grady everything that had happened and that they were expecting an attack by the enemy in New York in about two weeks. The president was currently in North Carolina and was expected to start a food distribution program in a couple of days.
“What do you have that’s operational, Colonel,” Preston asked.
“We have 12 old transporters, and another ten loaned to the area’s National Guard that we can go and pick up,” he replied. “Apart from three old jeeps we use around here and a couple of fuel tankers from the 1980s, we have tried to start everything, and that’s all that works.”
“What sort of weapons and troops do you have?” was Preston’s next question.
“We have five old artillery pieces operational, training equipment from the 1970s. They are big boys, the older M198 155mm howitzers. They can fire two rounds per minute sustained, and we have 75 HE extended range 155mm projectiles in our armory. They have a range of up to 18 miles and the HE can put a good dent in anything out there that’s made of steel. Then, Mr. Strong we have ten of the older 105mm howitzers and those have a range of seven miles. We have 500 armor piercing projectiles stored for
those. We have eight operational 5-ton howitzer transporters from the 1960s that still work and can pull those 155mm howitzers. We have another three flatbed trucks, which can carry the 100-lb. projectiles. Since we only have 75, we can fill the flatbeds up with the lighter 105mm projectiles that weigh just less than 50 pounds. As far as troops are concerned, we have 1,500 troops on alert and we need several companies of them to guard our base here. If we got a platoon of 30 troops into our 22 usable troop transporters each that would be 660 men with ten of the trucks pulling the 105mm howitzers. We could fill one of the jeeps with rations for a couple of days and head over to our nearest base just outside Atlanta for more rations. I know for sure that the colonel there has one or two more howitzers and I’m sure a couple of old trucks to pull them with.”
“Could your fuel tankers get you to each Army base between here and New York?” Preston asked.
“I think so. We might need the Air Force to drop us a bit of fuel, but if I stopped and picked up troops at each Army base between here and Fort Bragg, I reckon I would have three times as many vehicles, howitzers, and projectiles and we could have a convoy miles long by the time we reached New York.”
“Well, on behalf of the President of the United States of America, I have a letter enabling me to commandeer anything I think will help us defend the United States of America,” stated Preston pulling the letter out of his flight jacket.
“And what is your rank, Mr. Strong, if I may ask?” replied Colonel Grady checking the letter, direct from the White House.
“I’m of equal rank to General Allen, head of the U.S. Air Force, so that makes me a four-star general, Colonel.”