The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  “How old?” Hunter wanted to know what he had to work with.

  “Would you believe everything from a few B-24s up to a B-58 Hustler?” Roy said.

  “B-24s?” Hunter said. “Liberators? They were retired at the end of World War II.”

  “Well, just about,” Roy said. “But, you gotta remember, I’m in the airplane salvage business, too. We found a couple of B-24s that got stuck in the snow way up in Canada. Happened in 1943. They were heading over to Europe when they had to put down at an emergency strip because of weather. Well, the weather turned out to be a blizzard and it iced them right over. Preserved them perfectly. No one ever bothered to dig ’em out, until the Free Canadians let me do it. In fact, they paid me to get them out. I did and the boys at Wright-Patterson did them over real nice.”

  “But will they fly?” Hunter wanted to know.

  “Shit, yes,” Roy said. “Carry a shitload of bombs for you, too. Still got the Norden bombsights in them, for Christ’s sake. They’re collector’s items, but you guys can get them for cheap.”

  Hunter looked at St. Louie, who shrugged.

  “What else you got?” Hunter asked.

  “I got four B-25 Mitchells. Got ’em from a flying club down south that didn’t want the Mid-Aks to get them. They’re also in good shape. These were ship busters from the South Pacific. Got double cannons in the nose, one on top, two on each side and one on the ass. Buy all four I’ll give you a deal.”

  Hunter nodded. “Mitchells were a good plane. That’s what Doolittle bombed Tokyo with. What else?”

  “Got twelve B-29s,” Roy continued. “Real good shape, only saw a little action at the end of World War II, and minimum stuff during Korea. I found them at an air museum out in California.

  “I’ve got a lot of B-47s. Strange airplanes. No one wants them. They’re stretched-out fighters. Long wings and bodies. Carry three guys, but two sit like they’re in a fighter, one in back of the other. I’d hate to go a long way in one. They threw them together in the 50s, just so they’d have a jet that could make it to Russia carrying the Big One. You can get them for a song. I’m looking to get rid of them.”

  “You said you’ve still got a B-58?” Hunter was almost afraid to ask.

  “The Hustler?” Roy said. “Yep. I got one. It’s got to be the last one in existence. First big bomber to go supersonic, you know. And I don’t mean one click over the line either. I talking about Mach 2-plus! Another stretched out fighter. Like a big F-106 Delta Dart. Fucking this is too big and it’s got some mean engines. But I’ll tell you something: it sucks up the J-P8 like crazy, but that shitbox can haul ass. Scares you to be moving that fast in something that big.”

  “What’s left?” Hunter asked.

  “I got a few C-130s,” Roy said. “Just fixed them up. They could help you out. You can open the back and roll bombs out. Plus you put everything from a popgun to a howitzer in them. That’s what they used ’em for ’Nam. Spectre gunships, they called them. Or Puff the Magic Dragons.”

  “C-130s are good stuff,” Hunter agreed. “We can always use a few more. Is that it?”

  “Just about,” Roy said, trying to think. “Your boys kidnapped me before I could get my sales book. Or my girls.”

  “That’s a pity,” Hunter said.

  “Yeah,” Roy said, taking out a notebook. “So which ones do you want?”

  Hunter looked again at St. Louie, who nodded.

  “We want all of them,” Hunter said.

  Roy From Troy’s notebook dropped at the same instant as his jaw. “All of them?”

  “That’s right,” Hunter said. “We need them all.”

  “I’m talking about almost forty planes. What the hell are you guys gonna do? Fight World War II all over again?”

  Hunter smiled. “Something like that,” he said.

  They cleaned Roy from Troy out of his stock and made him a rich man. It was by far the biggest deal of his life. The planes started arriving the next day, flying in from Wright-Patterson, carefully avoiding the Family’s airspace during the trip. St. Louie used some of the diamonds that Hunter had delivered to him as payment for the bombers.

  But more importantly, Hunter managed to hire most of Roy’s pilots to fly the planes, just for the one time. The diamonds helped but, in most cases, once the pilots heard that they’d have a fleet of F-20s flying cover for them, plus Hawker Hunter in the lead, they knew the odds of their getting back were greatly increased.

  The main target was the oil yards right in the heart of New Chicago. Hunter knew that an army moves on oil—more so than its stomach. Hitting the Family’s fuel supply would hurt—hard. Maybe not right away. But some time, when the fighting reached the critical level, the enemy would turn and the oil wouldn’t be there.

  Trouble was, except for a few outdated and grainy photographs, Hunter had little information on the target area. He didn’t want to risk sending a photo recon plane up now, for fear of tipping his hand to the Family. But there were crucial questions that would have to be answered right away. Oil facilities always proved to be tough targets. For instance, how much of the bomber force should concentrate on the oil tanks themselves? One or two bombs in the right place and the tanks will blow themselves up. Yet, as the Allies found during World War II, sometimes you can bomb the shit out of a refinery, and manage only a brush fire for your trouble. He wanted to hit the railroad marshalling yards at the same time, but the oil would have to have priority. That meant the very first plane in would have to score a direct hit on a large oil tank, hoping to set off a chain reaction that would destroy most of the oil farm and free up much of the bomber force to concentrate on the railroad yards and the city of New Chicago itself.

  That’s why he would be flying the lead plane …

  For the next two days, he pored over maps and planned the approach of the mission. He knew he would have to fly the lead in one of the B-24s, because it was slow and yet could carry the good-sized bomb-load he’d need.

  Problem number two was getting the bombs. Because of St. Louie’s connection in Texas, he had a fairly stable access to guns and ammunition. The people in Texas, probably more than anyone else, knew what price freedom. They also realized that if the Family won this fight, they, the Texans, would probably be next. To those ends, they supported St. Louie as much as possible. Cargo planes from Texas arrived at Football City’s airport every hour, carrying ammo, supplies and food. The material necessities of war.

  But aerial bombs were a different story. And this was where Fitzie came through for Hunter again. While they were back at the Aerodrome, fueling the F-20s for the flight to Football City, Hunter drew Fitzie a map. It gave directions to a mountain way up in Vermont where a small airstrip was hidden. Fitz was able to rent two massive Sky Crane helicopters from a legitimate lumber company in Free Canada. Using the map, a highly-paid salvage crew made its way to the airstrip and dropped down running hooks to the cratered, debris strewn runway. It took them the better part of a day to clear enough area for the Sky Cranes to set down. Then, they broke the lock off the small hangar located at the edge of the field. Inside, just as Hunter said, was an eye-popping huge cache of bombs, air-to-air missiles and napalm. Using the Sky Crane’s best-in-the-world lifting ability, the crew tied the bomb crates together and started lifting the ordnance out. It took them two days of working around the clock. Finally the entire motherlode was sitting in Syracuse, where it would take three trips by the C-5 to lug it to Football City. In a few days, Football City was well-stocked in aerial bombs. It was another legacy from General Seth Jones. It was almost as if he had foreseen the need for the ordnance some day and that’s why he had led Hunter to the base that cold day.

  But the recovery mission had a much more personal meaning for the Wingman. Using a smaller map, the salvage crew foreman located an unmarked grave near the edge of the strip. He was carrying a heavy bronze plaque made in one of Fitzie’s machine shops. At Hunter’s request, the man laid the plaque in the grave and ringed
it with boulders.

  It read simply:

  General Seth Jones—Hero & Patriot

  Thus, one more loop was closed in Hunter’s mind.

  Preparations continued. But a strange thing was happening. As Roy from Troy had told them, the impending war between Football City and the Family was on the lips of everyone across the continent, friend and foe alike. Word got around fast in these days. Suddenly, volunteers had begun to pour into the city. Many were Texans, but others were from all over—Free Canadians, Coasters, exiled Zoners.

  “Volunteers for freedom,” Hunter commented to Dozer as they watched from a balcony of a building downtown the soldiers flood into the city. “People on this continent never forgot what it was like before the New Order. Before it was illegal to carry the flag, or mention the stars and stripes, or fly with it painted on your airplane. Before the New Order or the Mid-Aks, or the Family. Before the Russians stabbed us in the back. They may have forgotten about TV, and cars and paper money. But they never forget about freedom.”

  Dozer nodded in agreement, but Hunter knew he had to say more. He felt a fire start in his belly. He felt an anger build in his brain. He felt a lump form in his throat.

  “They never forgot that they were …” he started to say, but, again, had to stop for a moment and regain his composure. Looking at the troops—volunteers—like the original Minutemen, walking past, heading to take up positions along Football City’s defense line. He knew they would fight a battle that some—maybe most—wouldn’t survive. But still they continued to come …

  He felt something burst inside him. A flame ignited in his heart.

  “God damn it!” he finally blurted out. “Look at them! They never forgot they were once Americans!”

  The words stung in his ears. His mouth went dry. Fluid collected in the corners of his eyes. “God damn it!” he said. “I’m an American!”

  He looked at Dozer. Tears were also forming in the Marine’s eyes. The tough leatherneck turned away and gazed out into space. “I’m an American, too, Hawk,” he said quietly.

  They stood in silence and watched the volunteers move through the city. Hunter knew this would be the biggest fight of his life. Bigger than over the Rhine, or anything with ZAP. This was against a very real enemy. One who, like the Mid-Aks, was in bed with the Russians. One who shared with the godless Soviets the same twisted ideal of government by slavery. Slavery of the mind and body.

  Well, tomorrow, they would start to do something about that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING THE strange armada of bombers began to form up on the Football City’s airport runways. There were the two B-24s—Hunter in one of them—warming up next to the B-47s. The B-29s were already rolling, as were the C-130s. The cranky B-58 was sprouting black smoke and was, by far, the noisiest plane on the runway. The two-engined B-25 Mitchells looked small compared to the other flying brutes.

  Bomb crews raced between the planes, loading a bizarre collection of ordnance aboard the planes. The napalm and high energy bombs from the Vermont hideaway were divided up equally among the bombers. After that, it was catch-as-catch-can. Everything from anti-personnel bombs in the B-29 Superfortresses to a pair of 18,000-pound blockbusters the B-58 was carrying. Hunter’s B-24 was loaded with dozens of small incendiary bombs, 3,500 pounds in all. The B-47s were outfitted to drop napalm; some of the C-130s would drop delayed-fuse anti-personnel bombs while others would drop barrels filled with sticks of TNT. Hunter hoped it would all make for one hell of a fire.

  Riding shotgun for the bomber force would be the F-20s. All 12 of them rolled off the runways first. The F-4s of The Ace Wrecking Company went next; they, too, would ride escort. St. Louie’s spies told Hunter that bombers could expect MIGs to intercept them over the target area. If they did, they would have formidable opponents in the F-20s and the Phantoms. The spies also reported that the bombers would find the railroad yards and the oil facility ringed with hundreds of AA guns and SAM sites.

  Hunter, as mission leader, radioed all the aircraft commanders in the force—38 in all. Each one checked off preliminaries leading up to their ready point. Hunter had held a briefing before the take-off, where last minute information on weather, fighter strengths and other details had been gone over. The mission had been planned and discussed and planned some more, but there was no getting around the fact that things tended to look a whole lot different up in the air than they did on a map.

  Very few of the bombers had worthwhile targeting systems—the exotic equipment had been stripped from the planes long ago. Knowing this, Hunter had to plan the mission around providing the bomber pilots with targets they could visually acquire quickly. The groups would be flying in at one minute intervals, and he wanted to keep radio talk among them to a minimum so as not to help the AA crews home in on the radio frequencies.

  Hunter checked his own plane, the antique B-24 Liberator, and found everything in working order. He looked at his navigator, Captain Dozer, specially trained for the flight, and gave him the thumbs up signal. Dozer returned the salute. Both men smiled. They had managed to find what had to be the last two girls in the city the night before and bedded them. It was better going into the jaws of death knowing that you had tasted life’s one great pleasure at least one more time.

  There were eight other men on board. A competent copilot named Ernie and seven of Dozer’s marines. The 7th Cavalry, and some of the Football City special forces, had been pressed into service as gunners aboard the bombers. In fact, anyone who could point a gun was recruited. Like everything else in the daring bombing mission, the air crews had been improvised. It gave a whole new appreciation to the phrase “Flying by the seat of your pants.”

  Once he was certain every plane had checked out, Hunter rechecked the instruments in his own aircraft. Everything appeared A-OK. Time to go. He brought up the throttle and released the brakes. “Okay, everybody,” Hunter said into his radio as the B-24 lurched forward. “Follow me.”

  The bomber force’s flight path had them follow the Illinois River right up to New Chicago. They were flying high, at 40,000. Hunter’s plan called for the planes to line up in pairs and triples, forming a train. The idea was to disguise the bomber force by making it look like a convoy to someone looking up from the ground. Though it would be unusual for a convoy to be passing through Family airspace, it was not unheard of one drifting off course and fighter strengths being what they were, no one bothered if a convoy passed overhead once in a while.

  This cover gave the bomber crews a good look at the preparations being made on the ground by the Family. They were, in a word, extensive. By the time they flew over Peoria, they saw the roads approaching the capital were clogged with military traffic. The rails were the same way. Hunter, taking it all in from the lead plane in the force, wished he could unleash his bombs on these targets too. But he knew that every vehicle he saw moving down below had to run on fuel, and fuel was the major objective of the mission.

  The flight lasted only a little over an hour before they were on the outskirts of New Chicago. They were still fifteen minutes away from their objective however, when their convoy cover was blown.

  Hunter saw the MIGs first. They were still 20 miles away and a mile below them, too far for them to pick up the bomber force on the shitty MIG on-board radar system. But Hunter knew it was just a matter of time. There were two of them, possibly on a routine mission, possibly heading to bomb Football City. He was determined that they would never make it, no matter what their destination.

  “Tigershark Leader,” he radioed to the fighter escort commander, flying several thousand feet above the main bomber force. “Group Leader here. We’ve got company. Twenty-five clicks out. My five o’clock.”

  “Roger, Group Leader,” the answer came back. “We see them.”

  “Okay, Tigershark,” Hunter called. “Keep an eye on them until we form up, then intercept.”

  “That’s affirmative, Group Leader.”

 
; Hunter knew that the F-20s would handle the MIGs with no problem. But he also knew the MIG pilots would detect the bomber force and radio the information back to their base.

  “Everyone else, get ready,” he told the rest of the bomber pilots. “We’re probably going to get a reception before we reach the target area.”

  Behind him, the bombers broke from the fake-convoy pattern and tightened up into boxes of fours and fives. There was strength in numbers, truer than ever in bombing missions. The combined number of guns aboard the bombers, plus the force’s compacted flying area, would give attacking interceptors something to think about before they plunged in amongst the aircraft.

  In less than a minute, the bombers were lined up in their proper attack formation. Some planes increased airspeed, while others dropped back. As planned, Hunter and the other B-24 were in the lead, followed by the four Mitchell B-25s. Behind them were the twelve B-47s, flying in three four-plane diamond formations. Coming next was the odd duck flight—the seven C-130s surrounding the B-58 Hustler, which had been bucking and shooting black smoke the entire way. The aging bomber had to make the trip flaps down and landing gear deployed just so it could reduce its airspeed to that of the propeller-driven C-130s. The dozen B-29 Superfortresses brought up the rear.

  The two Family MIG pilots broke through a cloud bank and stumbled upon the bomber formation now about four thousand feet above them. Both pilots couldn’t believe it at first. Neither could their flight controllers back in New Chicago.

  “Chicago!” the first pilot radioed, a trace of panic in his voice. “Raghead Leader here. Do we have a convoy coming in?”

  “Negative, Raghead Leader,” came the reply.

  “Well, we have visual with a large force approaching two-two-niner from southwest, heading your way.”

  “Raghead. Please resend. Flight ops says large force impossible.”

  “Chicago. Tell flight ops we’re less than ten clicks from large force. Bombers. All types. Need instructions.”