Crabb grabbed hold of Hunter’s arm. “For Christ’s sake will you stop!” he commanded. “These guys will drop an air strike on us in a second.”
The man was back up in an instant, his face totally red from the blood and also from embarrassment. His two colleagues made a big deal of holding the man back.
“You’re dead meat, mister,” he screamed at Hunter.
Hunter cocked his fist back, as if to hit the man again. The air pirate cowered involuntarily, to the laughter of the crowd. He was being made a fool of—and by an expert, no less.
“This is a shootout!” one of the other pirates yelled.
A cheer went up from the crowd.
“Tomorrow,” the battered air pirate said. “At high noon. You and me go at it, fly boy.”
“How?” Hunter asked him, legitimately curious.
“In fighters, how else?” the man sneered, still pretending to be held back by his buddies.
Both Fitz and J.T. instantly burst out laughing. They actually felt sorry for the man.
“I don’t have a fighter,” Hunter said honestly.
The injured pirate smiled, displaying a set of cracked and stained teeth. “Don’t worry, the mayor will set you up.”
With that, he and his seconds stomped out of the hall.
“Is this going to be a duel type of thing?” Hunter asked Crabb.
The mayor nodded. “Yep,” he said, almost sadly. “And it’s really too bad. I was beginning to really like you guys …”
CHAPTER 35
THE NEXT DAY DAWNED bright and cloudless.
Hunter was up early as usual, finding it nearly impossible to sleep. The sight of the party girls wearing the same provocative clothes as Dominique had proved very unnerving. “Queenies” is what they called themselves, and if the one girl he talked to could be believed, the fashion was even more the rage back east, in the heart of Circle-held territory.
He ate breakfast and took a shower in the C-5’s midget lavatory. Then, at ten on the button, he, J.T., Fitz and the rest of the Nozo’s crew gathered around the C-5’s radio. Within minutes they were in touch with Jones who was broadcasting back in Football City via a high-range band frequency that they knew wasn’t compatible within any the Family used.
The most important news was about Ben Wa and Yaz tracking down six of the mysterious tractor-trailers. Jones told them that the A-37’s videotape had been analyzed and segments of it magnified to reveal the weld marks on the semis spotted near Terre Haute.
“Was there any sign of the gold APC?” Hunter asked.
“Negative,” was Jones’s reply. “Just the half dozen semis. Our thinking now is that the convoy split up right after bugging out of here.”
“So what’s next?” Hunter asked Jones. “Can you chopper in a strike force to the location, and have them see what’s inside those trailers?”
“We’re working on it,” Jones replied. “The territory is heavy with McDeath pirates, so we’re going to have to play it very safe.”
Hunter told him about his confrontation with the McDeath air pirate the evening before.
“They’re a tough bunch,” Jones said. “Be careful.”
“You, too,” Hunter told him. “Good luck to the guys who are jumping in. And please let us know what you find inside those trucks. The smart money here says it’s gold bullion.”
“Or big leftover SAMs …” J.T. yelled in the background.
“Your guesses are duly noted,” Jones said. “Personally I think they’re carrying a load of uranium or something radioactive. Those trucks could be lead-lined for all we know. And if someone wanted to start making A-bombs again, you need the ingredients.”
“That’s a reassuring thought,” Hunter answered dryly.
“How is your operation going?” Jones asked them.
“On schedule, with no problems,” Hunter replied. “We’ve been real lucky in several respects. It pays well, too.”
“Pays well?” Jones asked.
Hunter quickly explained how they’d made more gold than expected for taking out the Circle’s SAM capability.
“Quite an enterprise,” Jones told them. “Fitz must be tickled green …”
“How are things on that end?” Hunter then asked. “Will you be ready with Phase Three when we need you?”
“We’re getting the equipment together right now,” came the reply. “I’m happy to say that Elvis is adapting quite nicely to his role of military governor here. As you know, all our supplies will transit through this city, so his job is really crucial right now.”
“He’s a good guy,” Hunter said, an opinion seconded by the others. “He can’t help but do a good job.”
“We’ve also got to do some more repairs to the airport here,” Jones continued. “It’s a real mess, especially for the high-performance stuff. Then, we have to arm and outfit the former POWs and get them ready for the next phase.”
“Well, we both have full dance cards,” Fitz said.
They signed off with a promise to talk to each other in 24 hours.
No sooner was the transmission broken when the lookout spotted a small convoy of jeeps heading for the C-5.
Hunter waited for the knock on the C-5’s hatch and opened it to find Mayor Crabb, blonde on one arm, a redhead on the other, plus the usual phalanx of security men.
“I hope you can drive a Mirage,” he said right away. “It’s the only bird I could rustle up on such short notice.” The duel had been in the back of Hunter’s mind all morning. Although it was an inconvenience, he knew there was a way to fit the aerial fight perfectly into their plans.
“What’s it packing?” he asked Crabb.
“It’s got a bolt for a single Sidewinder and that’s it,” the mayor replied, almost embarrassed by the answer.
“That’s the best you could do?” Fitz said, coming to the hatchway. “A shitty French plane with one missile?”
“Hey, what do you think this is?” Crabb snapped. “We lost all of our own airplanes to the cowboys a long time ago. That’s why we have to order out for our air support.”
“And what’s the McDeath boy flying?” Hunter asked.
Crabb didn’t say anything, he simply pointed to a spot across the tarmac, near a rundown terminal building.
“He’s right over there,” Crabb said.
Sure enough, Hunter could see the checkerboard pattern on the side of the pirate’s fighter. He was fairly surprised to see the pirate would be driving a hot-shit Soviet-built Su-27 Flanker. There weren’t many of the Soviet-built airplanes left in the world, never mind in the inventories of the air pirates.
“I count four missiles under his wing,” Fitz said. “This is grossly unfair …”
Crabb just shook his head. “Look, guys,” he said. “I like you. But we’re in New Chicago now. These air duels happen about two times a week, and that’s in a slow week. It’s the biggest bet in town; there’s more action on these things than half the stuff down in Football City …”
“So?” Hunter asked, wondering what Crabb’s point was.
“So, someone has to be the underdog, you see,” he answered. “You know: point spread, odds betting, over-under?”
“He’s got four missiles, I got one,” Hunter surmised. “So let me guess—I’m the underdog.”
Crabb slapped him on the back. “Now you’re catching on,” he said, squeezing his girls for good luck. He started to leave, turned and said: “Good luck, pal. And, really, I appreciate what you guys did for me. Nice knowing you …”
Hunter took one more look at the Flanker then turned to Fitz and said: “Let’s go, we’ve only got an hour before I have to suit up …”
“Go where?” Fitz asked.
Hunter looked at him for a moment. He assumed Fitz knew what he had in mind.
“Where else?” he said to the Irishman. “To bet that gold we got yesterday …”
“Will there be any rules of engagement?” Fitz was asking the second for the air pirates.
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“What do you think, Potato-head?” the man answered gruffly. “We consider the fight on as soon as they start their engines. You’d better watch it: our man might just toss a grenade up your friend’s ass before he even takes off!”
The crowd at the airport was enormous. They lined the terminal walkways and had spilled out onto the runway itself. TV cameras were everywhere—they would beam the duel back to New Chicago’s many barrooms, where even more people were betting on its outcome.
Those lucky enough to get close were filled with “oohs” and “ahs” looking at the pirate’s Flanker. The jet was top of the line for the Soviets when the balloon went up in Europe. In looks, it resembled a cross between an Air Force F-15 Eagle and a Navy F-14 Tomcat, two airplanes thought to be non-existent in the New Order world. It carried four AA-10 heat-seeking missiles, plus a large gun the pirates had jury-rigged under its nose.
For Hunter’s part, he was sitting in one of the crappiest airplanes he thought he’d ever seen. It was a Mirage in name only. More than half the avionics were gone—there was no engagement radar, no fuel gauge, no afterburner, no gun and one, rusty Sidewinder that was carrying half the normal load of explosive in its warhead.
A siren went off at exactly noon, signalling both pilots to begin taxiing to the runway. To say the air pirate was the overwhelming favorite would have been an understatement. Even as the two combatants were moving toward the take-off point, the air pirates were moving through the crowd, taking bets on their boy.
The match was delayed ten minutes as a small storm front moved through the area. No rain, but plenty of wind and low clouds, which would obscure the battle. So the jets waited at the end of the runway, their engines warming, waiting for the go-signal from the New Chicago tower.
Hunter took the time to catch a cat nap, and was aroused only after the tower controller had whistled into his microphone. “Wind down to fifteen knots,” the controller told him. “You can begin your take-off roll as soon as your opponent lifts off.”
Hunter looked over to his left at the air pirate who was doing his last minute check before taking off. The man laughed at him, gave him the finger then streaked away.
“Real class …” Hunter said, disgusted.
He knew the odds against him were at XX-to-1, but he was sitting on the horns of another dilemma: he couldn’t let the pirate get him into a long, protracted dog fight, not because he was afraid he’d lose, but because he didn’t want everyone in New Chicago to find out who he was. And to beat the pirate’s sleek Flanker with his rickety Mirage would take a number of his best air combat maneuvers, moves that he had to admit, in all modesty, that no one but The Wingman could perform.
So the solution called for a short match. This, and that fact that Hunter loathed every second he spent sitting in the Mirage, had convinced him it should be very, very short.
He watched the Flanker reach its take-off point, and as soon as its wheels left the runway, he gunned the Mirage and lifted off cleanly.
The Flanker was bigger than his French flying shitbox, and, were it to be an even fight, the only obvious advantage Hunter had with his quicker take-off speed. But now the Flanker had done a quick twist and was heading back toward him even before he could pop the Mirage’s throttles. The pirate was intent on shooting Hunter even before the Mirage could lift off.
“OK, jerk,” Hunter said, legitimately smiling for the first time in what seemed like years. “You’ve just solved my problem for me …”
Hunter wasn’t even airborne when he launched the missile—he had simply raised the nose of the Mirage and fired the damn thing. It came off his wing with surprising smoothness, rose up quickly and impacted on the Flanker’s nose cone.
The Flanker’s forward section exploded immediately; the air pirate hadn’t even had a chance to pull his trigger. An instant later, the Soviet jet’s filled-to-capacity fuel load ignited and completely obliterated the airplane.
End of duel …
CHAPTER 36
THE RECON STRIKE FORCE left Football City shortly after sundown and headed east.
The CH-53 Sea Stallion was loaded with two squads from the Football City Special Forces Rangers, an elite unit that was made up almost entirely of ex-professional football players who once earned their living playing the never-ending matches that made their home city so famous and successful. Escorting the chopper were two A-7D Strikefighters, whose home base was the Pacific American Air Corps air station near Coos Bay, in the old state of Oregon. These unique duo-role airplanes would be able to provide ground support for the troopers and also fend off any intervening enemy fighters.
Also accompanying the strike force was the A-37 Dragonfly, with Ben at the controls and a pilot from the Texas Air Force riding in the right hand seat. The A-37 would function as the small group’s air warning platform and radio link, a job which required someone on the ground with the troops to maintain the contact.
That job fell to Yaz …
The target was the warehouse where the mysterious tractor trailers were spotted. A high-flying reconnaissance flight early that day, courtesy of Crunch O’Malley, had confirmed the mystery trucks were still hidden at the remote location. O’Malley’s RF-4 cameras also spotted a half dozen guards surrounding the warehouse.
The plan this night was to land near the target area, overtake the guards and gain access to both the mystery trucks and the warehouse. Two of the troopers were carrying photographic and video equipment. The opposition was hoped to be either McDeath ground troops or mercenaries in their employ. The worst case scenario would be that the guards were regular Circle Army troops, though this was unlikely.
The 200-mile trip across Illinois took nearly three hours as each aircraft had to refuel in mid-air before approaching the target, and the chopper was inherently slow. Once they were in the area, the Strike-fighters went up to 23,000 feet, and started to orbit the target. Meanwhile, Ben and his co-pilot used the A-37’s hardware to scan the target for any heavy weapons indications. Finding none, the chopper moved in.
There was a small clearing a quarter mile from the warehouse, large enough to allow the Sea Stallion to land. Quickly and professionally, the Football City troops disembarked from the copter and moved into the nearby woods, Yaz sticking to the rear of the 24-man group with the radio operator and the medics.
They walked through the pitch black forest for 10 minutes until the target was spotted. The strike force leader, an Oklahoman major named Shane, told the bulk of the group to stay hidden, as he and five advance men moved closer to the target to assess the opposition. Should it turn out to be stronger than believed, Shane had standing orders from Jones to abort the mission and get out of the area quickly.
Five minutes went by. Then Yaz heard the first shots.
Suddenly it seemed like the air was filled with streaking bullets and rocket-propelled grenades. The trees themselves were exploding, raining thousands of sharp, burning splinters onto the Strike Force. The group’s two radios were crackling with commands and excited conversation. All that Yaz could make out of it was the scouting party ran into a changing of the guard at the warehouse and that the guards were not McDeath hirelings as was previously thought. Nor were they regular Circle Army troops.
Most of the Strike Force had moved up to the forward battle line, leaving Yaz, two medics and one of the radiomen behind. The sparky jabbed a microphone into Yaz’s face.
“It’s the major,” the man said.
Yaz had barely acknowledged when he heard Shane say: “Call in those airplanes … Now!”
“What are the target coordinates?” Yaz asked, getting his own ground-to-air radio set up.
“Have them lay down something heavy at coordinates three-five-zero by six-seven. Tell them to hurry. We just walked in on about one hundred fifty bad guys and we need some cover so we can get the hell out of here … Just make damn sure they don’t hit the trucks or that warehouse …”
Yaz was talking to Ben Wa inside of ten secon
ds. He relayed Shane’s message, and even before he signed off he could hear the screech of the approaching A-7s.
There was an odd kind of controlled confusion all around Yaz as the Football City Rangers began falling back. Major Shane was no fool—he was outnumbered nearly eight-to-one, and there was no better reason to cut the visit short.
The A-7s came in and each one laid down a wash of napalm. The exploding jellied gasoline lit up the forest as if it were daytime. Shane called back to Yaz immediately after the jets’ first pass. “Good shooting!” he yelled over the squawkbox. “Keep it coming!”
Yaz relayed the message and repeated the coordinates. By this time, the wounded were being rushed back toward the choppers. Once again the Strike-fighters roared in and dropped a napalm cannister apiece. Once again the nearby woods were splashed with two flaming waves of liquid fire.
Shane and his advance men moved back to Yaz’s position next, carrying the body of one of the enemy. The major was surprised to see Yaz still at his position.
“Shit, boy, you should have been the first one back on the chopper,” he said, managing a grin.
Shane took ten seconds to go through the dead man’s pockets, trying to get some identity on him. To Yaz, the dead soldier didn’t look like an American. It turned out he was right.
“Jesus Christ …” Shane whispered as he finally located the man’s ID chain. “This guy is Spetsnaz …”
Being an old US Navy boy, Yaz knew Spetsnaz. “God, we just walked into a hornet’s nest of them,” he thought.
But not for long.
Shane ripped the ID chain from the man, then jumped up and yelled. “C’mon, boys … Let’s go!”
They double-timed it back to the chopper as the A-7s came in a third time, laying down another napalm blanket to dissuade any pursuers.
After that, there were none.
“Spetsnaz?” Hunter was astonished. “I’m having trouble believing that.”
It was the next morning and Hunter & Co. were huddled around the C-5 radio, talking to Jones. They had quickly filled him in on the last 24 hours in New Chicago—the duel and the celebration Crabb had put together for them that night. Now the crew of the Nozo was getting its first report on the abbreviated raid on Terre Haute.
Thunder in the East Page 13