by Mack Maloney
He was out the luxury box door before the first missile was even fired by the MIG-21s. He didn’t have to see the dogfight. He could hear it and know what was going on. Knowing the exits would be soon filled with panicking fans, he opted for climbing out on one of the girders that supported the stadium stands. He shimmied down the beam and was soon out on the street beside the stadium. The noise of the crowd and the screams of the jets high above filled the air. He saw the first jet come crashing down. Quickly, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Which way was the fucking airport? He had to get to his F-16 …
Frustration. It was no use. The streets were clogged within seconds. Injured people fell out of the stadium by the hundreds, burnt, crying, bleeding. It was utter chaos. Sirens were going off all around him. The smoke from the fires inside filled his nostrils. It smelled of burning flesh. The street was a mass of suffering humanity. People grabbed him, some with burning clothes, others with burning skin. Overhead, he caught a quick flash of the mystery jets—their ruthless work done—disappearing into the clouds. They would be far away before he could even get to the airport. He hated to give up so easily, but there was nothing he could do now. In desperation, he shook his fist at the sky.
Rescue vehicles were arriving. Soldiers appeared and started treating the victims. Hunter looked around and began to think more rationally. He was needed here on the ground right now. People were dying. They needed help. His heart burning with hate, heavy with rage, he joined the rescue crews and started administering first aid.
He stayed there the entire day and most of the night, helping the survivors, recovering the dead. The lights usually used for the football games were turned to the parts of the stadium where the jet and the tower crashed. Rescue workers sifted through the debris, looking for more victims. The remains of the crashed T-33 still smoldered in the rubble. The sirens kept blaring; no one had bothered to turn them off.
Meanwhile, people were packing up and fleeing Football City in droves. Rumors, fueled by the fires rising out of the rubble of the stadium, raced through the city. Another attack was coming. Get out while you can. Head for the hills. Once again, civilization came toppling down.
“Who were they?” Hunter asked Louie St. Louie. “Who would want to do this?”
They were in the cellar of St. Louie’s estate, in a makeshift war room. Dozer and a half dozen other top officers of the Football City Army were there, trying to assess the situation. Despite his protests, St. Louie’s security forces had hustled him away from the stadium as quickly as they could. The first thing he did was order his troops into the city to help the people who were left find bomb shelters. He redeployed the SAMs surrounding his estate to the downtown area, in case a second attack did come. His army was on full alert, but aside from a few anti-aircraft guns, he knew they would be helpless should the black fighters return.
After leaving the site of the attack, Hunter had caught a ride to the airport, checked to make sure his F-16 was safe, then rushed back to St. Louie’s estate. It was early morning.
St. Louie called him to an isolated corner of the room.
He spoke in a hushed tone. “The Family did this.”
“The Family?” Hunter asked with some surprise. “How can you be sure?”
“They’re the ones who have been threatening us for months,” St. Louie said. “Goddamn criminals is what they are! They’d be in prison or deported if it were the old days.”
“What do they want?”
“‘A piece of the action.’ Protection money for not attacking us.”
“That’s blackmail!” Hunter said.
“Sure as shit,” St. Louie replied, angrily. “They’ve been at me for months. First, they came down here to gamble in the early days. I told my guys to keep a close eye on them. I never liked them, but I couldn’t start kicking every shady character out of the city. These guys spent money.
“Then, they started sending their cozy ass ambassadors down here with gifts. Booze, women, even drugs. Trying to get me to sign a ‘mutual defense treaty’ with them.”
“Mutual defense treaties are an old Mid-Ak tactic,” Hunter said.
“Well, I’m sure they got it from these crooks that are running New Chicago,” St. Louie snorted. “They’re goddamn mafioso, is what they are.”
“I hope you didn’t pay them off.”
“No way. I kept telling them to go to hell with their protection money. They got mad. Sent more threats. I got mad. Locked up two of their ambassadors for a couple of nights, then threw their asses right out of the city. After that it was everything from death threats to warnings of all-out war. Luckily, I have some pretty good intelligence guys. I was able to send agents up there. They’d been warning that something like this might happen, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“How would you match up against them in a war?” Hunter asked.
“We’re good,” St. Louie said. “Damn good. But they’ve got a hell of a big army. Free-lancers, mostly. At least sixty thousand standing. Who knows what they would call up in reserves. It’s an army of thugs. Lots of tanks, APCs and trucks.”
“And MIG-21s,” Hunter added.
“That’s just it,” St. Louie said, his voice rising in anger. “They never had an air force before. That’s why we never got one. We figured if they ever attacked us, it would be by land. We have a hell of a defense line out there called the Mississippi River. It practically surrounds the city. If you control the seven bridges crossing it, you can keep anyone out. But these MIG-21s change the balance of power. And …”
“And?”
“Well, there’s more,” St. Louie ran his hand through his white hair. “My spies tell me that they’ve spotted some Russians in New Chicago.”
The Russians. Orders from Moscow. Hunter had to think for a moment. The late, great General Jones had always believed that the Russians were operating, in some form, on the continent. Their aim was to keep things destabilized. Keep things out of kilter. Keep the people on the continent in disarray, so they could not become cohesive once again.
Hunter never quite bought it; his complex logic process prevented him from doing so, although, he too, had seen some evidence of it. The Russian rifles in New York City. The whispers of collusion between the Russians and the Mid-Aks. The East European cargo plane he had sabotaged at The Aerodrome. It was heading for New Chicago. Now the MIG-21s …
Things might seem to add up, but Hunter, as always, needed proof. The Russian army couldn’t fire a popgun after the war in Europe. They had been decimated, wiped out. No command structure, no weapons, no nothing. They had had a hard time consolidating their gains in conquered Europe. They had to rely on collaborators—like the Finns—to do their dirty work after the great battle. So how could they be operating over here? Could they have recovered so quickly in three years? He’d have to meet a live Russian, nose-to-nose, to believe it.
“Major,” St. Louie continued. “This was the reason I wanted to meet you. After you came through on the diamond shipment, I knew you were the man I needed.”
“This is the ‘business’ you referred to earlier?”
“That’s right. Major. Last week my agents told me that New Chicago could launch a ground attack against us within a few months. Now it looks like they are ahead of that schedule.”
“What can I do? I’m just one pilot. One plane. You need a whole goddamned air force.”
“That’s it exactly, Major Hunter.” St. Louie was speaking in all earnesty. “This city is a jewel. It’s the closest thing there is to the old days. Sure, it’s based on gambling. But men are free here, Major. There are very few places on this continent where anyone can make that claim. Those criminals want it. To ruin it. Rape it. Destroy it.
“We know this is not your fight, Major. But we also know that you are a patriot. And patriots are also in very short supply these days. We are hoping you will help us. Help us fight for this last bastion of freedom in this part of the country. If we go, all
that’s left would be Texas and the Coasters.”
Hunter was quiet for a moment. His mind was flashing. Western Europe. New York City. The mountain. Otis. Baltimore. His rebirth in the hangar in Vermont. The Aerodrome. The Pitts. The Stukas’ base. Now, Football City. His search, his quest, his goal. Continue the fight for freedom. Fight for it until the last ounce of strength in his body was gone. For the brave men who died in the war. For the people trapped in the horror of New York City. For Jones and all he stood for. St. Louie was preaching to the faithful.
“What do you want me to do?” Hunter asked.
A wave of relief came across the older man’s face. He looked like a cowboy again. “I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care what it takes. Get us some pilots. Get us some planes. Get us some ground personnel. Get us ammunition …
“Get us a goddamn air force!”
Hunter smiled. He was one step ahead of St. Louie. He knew where there were pilots and monkeys. Some were among the best in the world. And he knew where there were airplanes, also some of the best in the world. He also knew where there was a hangar full of bombs sitting on a mountain in Vermont. That would be a start. He loved a challenge. He loved the chance to strike a blow for freedom. Good or bad, Football City stood for freedom. It was worth fighting for. It was worth dying for.
“Mister St. Louie,” Hunter said, extending his hand to shake on it. “You’ll get your air force.”
Hunter reached into his back pocket. The folded flag was still there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE HUGE C-5 GALAXY cargo plane descended out of the sky above The Aerodrome, its engines whining, its landing gear kicking up a skid of smoke as they touched the runway. The C-5 was the largest airplane ever built. It was half again the size of a 747 Jumbo Jet and would dwarf a 707. It could carry close to 600 troops plus their equipment. Or move a half dozen tanks, APCs, trucks, jeeps, whatever. Few jobs were too big for the mighty aircraft.
The Galaxy was a rare sight these days. So a crowd made up of Aerodrome ground crews, was waiting when the big plane taxied up to its station point, its four massive engines still screaming. Fitzgerald was at the head of the crowd, his cigar billowing smoke, checking his watch. The giant plane was right on time.
The jet came to a stop and its engines began to shut down. The pilot’s hatch opened and Hunter climbed out. Those assembled gave him a spontaneous round of applause. He laughed and waved back. It had been a month since he’d left The Aerodrome and most everyone at the base knew he was helping Football City prepare for the impending war with New Chicago.
“We just can’t seem to lose you, Wingman,” Fitzgerald said, warmly greeting his old friend.
I’m just a stick jockey trying to make a living,” Hunter said. “You got my message. Is everything ready?”
“Everything’s set,” Fitz told him. “This is a bit risky Hawker, isn’t it?”
“Life’s a risk, these days,” Hunter answered. “How’s Aki? Mio?”
“Both well and waiting for you,” Fitzgerald said with a wink.
“Let me show you something first,” Hunter said, giving his co-pilot the thumbs up signal. Slowly, the entire blunt nose of the jet began to lift, like a giant fish opening its mouth. Fitzgerald could see the air crew was already preparing to unload the plane’s cargo.
A ramp was lowered and the first materiel offloaded were two dozen crates of various bombs, missiles, RPGs, and rifles, courtesy of the Football City Army. Next off was the first of two small, Cobra attack helicopters. With their rotors folded back, the bright red, diminutive choppers had the appearance of some kind of huge, alien insects.
“Cobras!” Fitz said, with admiration in his voice. “I been looking for one of them for years. How’d you manage to get hold of two?”
“Ever hear of the Cobra Brothers?”
Fitzgerald had to think for a minute. “The Texans?”
“That’s them,” Hunter said. “They’ve been tearing things up down on the Mexican border for the past year. Things were real hot down there until lately.”
“Well, I heard a lot about them,” Fitzie said. “They’re the best in the business. You were lucky to get them.”
“St. Louis arranged it,” Hunter said, watching as the crews wheeled out the second Cobra. “He’s a Texan and he put out a call to his relatives back home. That’s where he got the C-5.”
“’Tis a fine airplane,” Fitz said, looking at the behemoth aircraft, then at the second Cobra. Each chopper was armed with twin M-16 cannons, which were placed on a turret located on the sharp snout of the aircraft. In addition to the cannons, the helicopter had short, stubby wings for missile firings. The two Cobra Brothers, who weren’t brothers at all, had also ripped out the second seat in each of the choppers and replaced it with firing control systems capable of handling everything from small anti-ship rockets to flame-throwing techniques.
Next to be rolled out was a larger, rather beat-up looking helicopter. Fitzgerald was surprised to see the battered old beast of a chopper wheeled out of the belly of the C-5.
“And what the hell is this, Hawker?” he asked, his brogue ringing.
Hunter only smiled. The large chopper sported a coat of chipped red and white paint, one cracked cockpit window and a piece of rope to hold the side hatch door closed.
“Well, I can see why you carried this monster in the Galaxy,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the beat-up helicopter. “It cannot fly, can it?”
“Oh, it does more than that, Fitz,” Hunter said as the crew finished wheeling the chopper off the C-5. “Come aboard. I’ll show you.”
“Just promise not to try to get the thing airborne,” Fitz said, inspecting a faded sign painted on the side of the chopper. It read: MAINE LUMBER COMPANY. Fitzgerald could only shake his head.
Stepping inside, though, he got a surprise. The interior of the helicopter was one long bank of computers, dials, switches, lights, flashing red, green and blue, digital read-outs, computer keyboards and video screens. Eight crewmen scampered around the inside, all dressed in blue flight suits and fighter pilot helmets.
“Mother of God, Hawker,” Fitzgerald said. “What’s this? A spaceship?”
The interior of the chopper did resemble a spacecraft. Actually it was a highly sophisticated firing platform, convincingly disguised as a flying lumber truck.
“Take a look,” Hunter told him. He pushed a control button and automatically a section of the helicopter’s bottom lowered, revealing a steerable missile firing platform. Fitz could also see more than a half dozen gun ports with M61 machine guns stationed at them. Three windows on the port side served three GE Gatling guns, each capable of firing 6000 rounds a minute. The walls of the craft held miles of belts of ammunition plus a potpourri of hand weapons from shoulder-fired SAM launchers to dozens of M-16s and Browning automatic rifles.
“What kind of helicopter is this?” Fitzgerald said, nearly flabbergasted at the aircraft’s potential destructive firepower.
“It’s an old CH-53E ‘Super Sea Stallion,’” Hunter told him. “The Texans found it in an abandoned Coast Guard station down on the Gulf. They gave it to St. Louie and he let me tinker with it a bit.”
“I see more than a bit of your hand in this,” Fitz said, gingerly touching the computer panels. “Who but the famous Hawker Hunter could make heads or tails of all this computer mumbo-jumbo?”
“Well,” said Hunter. “We did soup it up a little. It’s got three separate engines and we super-charged each one of them. We can lift ten tons for one hundred miles or five tons for two hundred miles. We have radar jamming equipment on board, stand-off missile firing capability, LANTERN night-fighting gizmos. Plus we can carry fifty-five people on board, maybe seventy if we squeeze them on.”
Fitz smacked his lips. “I’ve changed my mind, Hawker,” he said, only half-jokingly. “You have to take me for a ride in it some time. Show me what it can do.”
“If it’s still in one piece when we get back,” Hunter
told him. “You got yourself a deal.”
Two hours later, a C-130 cargo plane landed at The Aerodrome. On board were Dozer, the two Cobra Brothers, plus a 25-man Special Operation unit, drawn exclusively from Dozer’s 7th Cavalry. Each member had volunteered to accompany Hunter on his quest to find an air force for Football City. Dozer’s commandos had trained day and night for the past month on air assaults, rescue techniques and special weapons handling. Dozer and Hunter worked with them separately, spending days on end, with no sleep, practicing, training, studying. In the end every last one of them knew there would be no time or leeway for screw-ups. Football City had become their home. Theirs would be the first step in what would prove to be a valiant defense of that city and its way of life.
Hunter spent the next two days at The Aerodrome going over the plan with the assault force and the next two nights, enjoying the erotic delights of Aki and Mio. They could feel a distance in him this time, though. His mind was a million miles away. Thinking about the mission. Fitzgerald noticed it too. The night before the assault team was to pull out, he split a bottle of bourbon with his friend.
“It’s a dangerous one,” the Irishman told him. “Are you sure about using minimum air support?”
Hunter nodded. “Can’t muck it up with jets this time, Fitz. We got to go in, hit them, get what we went for and get the hell out of there. The Cobra Brothers will keep them busy while we’re in and help us shoot our way out.”
Hunter produced a map and read it over for the thousandth time. “The Cobra Brothers will take off tomorrow at dawn,” he told Fitz, reviewing his scheme one last time. “They’ll arrange the refueling stop in Quebec. Then they’ll meet us here.” He pointed to a small speck of land off the coast of what used to be the state of Maine.