by Mack Maloney
“Raghead. Need ID. What kind of bombers.”
There was a pause in the transmission, then: “Chicago. Sounds crazy. We have visual on what looks to be old B-24s, Mitchells. A group of B-47s. At least seven C-130s. One plane that’s smoking heavy. Maybe a dozen B-29s in the distance.”
This time the silence was on the Chicago controller’s end.
“Raghead Two,” the controller radioed the flight leader’s wingman. “Do you copy Raghead’s sighting?
“That’s affirmative, Chicago,” was the answer. “I count thirty-eight planes in all.”
“Raghead Leader,” the controller radioed. “Let me remind you of the disciplinary action for filing false reports …”
At that point, Raghead Leader snapped out. “Listen you assholes, I’m looking at the belly gunner of a B-24 Liberator. I know it sounds like a dream from World War II, but these planes are real and they are heading your way. Now please give us instructions or we are going to vacate the sector.”
All the while, Hunter was monitoring the radio transmissions. He had to chuckle at the MIG leader’s plea to convince his controllers that he wasn’t seeing things. But now, as those controllers decided what to do, he could detect another voice, in the background at Chicago flight control, barking orders. The voice was speaking in a heavy accent, and alternating between English and a foreign tongue. Hunter listened very closely. He needed to hear only three or four words of the foreign language until his suspicion was confirmed. Dozer was listening in and heard it too.
“That sounds like a Russian voice on Chicago control,” Dozer called to him.
“It is,” Hunter said coolly, though he was beginning to burn inside. “I’m not surprised. They’re obviously controlling the MIGs, and probably a lot more in New Chicago.”
“Looks like those East European planes you told me about were carrying more than Mid-Aks to Chicago,” Dozer said.
“Just like those East European oil tankers on Lake Michigan,” Hunter said. “Well, that’s okay with me. It will only make this mission a little sweeter.”
“Tigershark Leader,” Hunter radioed. “Intercept.”
“Roger, Leader,” came the reply.
With that, four of the F-20s streaked past him, diving down on the MIGs. The Family jets never knew what hit them. One F-20 pilot locked on to Raghead Two in the dive itself and launched a Sidewinder. The missile dashed unerringly to its target, striking it almost head-on. The jet went up in a ball of flame and smoke. The pilot never had a chance, his flaming corpse was ejected by the explosion and was seen plummeting to earth along with the hundreds of pieces of wreckage.
“We are under attack!” the pilot in Raghead One screamed.
“ID attacking aircraft,” Chicago tower radioed back.
“For Christ’s sake!” the panicking pilot shot back. “They’re F-20s!”
“F-20s?” the controller asked. Hunter, still listening in on the Chicago frequency, could hear a great amount of shouting and confusion coming from the New Chicago end.
“Raghead,” the controller called. “Confirm F-20s.”
Silence.
“Raghead One, confirm F-20s.”
Still silence.
“Raghead?”
Raghead wouldn’t be answering anything except the doorbell in hell. The MIG-21 had taken two simultaneous Sidewinder hits and had simply disintegrated. No wreckage. No parachute. Just a puff of smoke.
“Target ahead!” Hunter called into the microphone. “Ten miles. Drop to assigned altitudes and let’s get this party hopping.”
With that, the two B-24s and the four B-25 Mitchells dropped down to barely 100 feet off the deck. Hunter had known all along that the only way they could successfully attack the oil tanks was to come in low, below the radar that controlled the Family’s AA guns. He was bombing on sight. There were no video acquisition aids, no HUD screen, no fire-and-forget missiles. This one would be down and dirty.
Hunter could see the target off in the distance but straight ahead. Past the skyscrapers around New Chicago, there was the railroad yard and then the oil storage farm. There were easily 120 large round tanks. A couple of smokestacks were sticking out at each end of the facility, spouting flames of burnt off gas.
Hunter nosed the B-24 down even lower. That’s when the flak started coming up. Puffs of harmless-looking but all too deadly smoke. He knew if one hits the wrong spot—like in the fuel-laden wing or the bomb bay—he and his crew would be one with the air in a matter of seconds. They started picking up small arms fire too. The plane was low enough that a well-placed bullet could also send them off packing to the Great Beyond.
The warning the MIGs had sent back had alerted the Family’s defenses. As he passed the eight-mile-to-target mark, the air was suddenly filled with hundreds of flak explosions. St. Louie’s agents were right again. The oil farm and the city were protected in depth by AA guns.
He ordered the gunners in the nose and in the tail of his ship to start firing back. He could see Family soldiers on the ground shooting at them with rifles and machine guns. Then the missiles started coming.
“We’re getting SAMs!” he radioed the rest of the bomber force. “Take evasive action.”
There were hundreds of them. Big ones that looked like flying telephone poles and other small ones that he knew where shoulder-launched. It was like the sky was filled with Fourth of July rockets. He weaved in and out, up and down in order to confuse the radar equipment in the AA guns and the SAM launchers. He could see the B-24 on his right was doing the same thing. The air actually became bumpy with flak and the wash from the SAMs’ exhaust.
Six miles to target. He passed over the heart of the city and the air became even more intense with antiaircraft fire. He could actually see gunmen in the windows of the buildings in the downtown section of the city firing at the bombers. It was incredible. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that just about everybody in New Chicago carried a gun, and they were all firing them at the attacking bomber force.
Three miles to target. Hunter’s B-24 finally passed over the city and was above the huge railroad yards. Thousands of troops were scrambling below. If anything, the amount of anti-aircraft fire increased. He called for the Mitchells to move up alongside the B-24s. Strength in numbers. Together the six old airplanes, looking like a scene from a World War II movie, plunged on toward the target.
At two miles to target, they were aware of a new threat. There was a flak train moving alongside of them, firing away at the Liberators and the Mitchells. The gunners in all six planes returned the fire, at first aiming at the guns and then finally hitting the locomotive pulling the train. There were also towers scattered around the railroad yard, manned by troops with shoulder-launched SAMs. But the planes were so low, the soldiers had to shoot down at them as they streaked past.
Suddenly, one of the Mitchells got it. A SAM landed smack in the cockpit area, destroying it instantly. The B-25 flew on for a few ghostly seconds, then plunged into the railroad yard, hitting a fuel tank car and causing an explosion.
The five remaining planes pressed on. Hunter knew the bulk of the next flight of the bomber force—the B-47s—were right behind, but he could only guess how they were faring. He had an open line to them, and all of the planes in the strike, and could hear the usual calls between planes to start evasive actions, watch out for the flak towers and so on. But so far, he had heard of only three planes taking hits. One of them was the lead B-47. It had taken a SAM in one of its engines and had crashed into one of the taller skyscrapers in the city.
Meanwhile, high above them, the F-20s were tangling with two squadrons of Family MIG-21s. Even down 2-to-l, the Tigersharks were making mincemeat of the Russian-built fighters, as evidenced by a flaming MIG that had crashed off to Hunter’s right. By switching back and forth to the enemy’s frequency, he could clearly hear Russian voices intermixed with ones speaking English. Russian pilots flying the MIGs? No surprise. It was yet another suspicion of his confirmed.
He was glad to hear, though, that most of the radio talk coming from the enemy pilots had to do with the fucking F-20s. “These planes are just too damned good,” he heard one enemy pilot say. “What’s next?” another pilot yelled. “F-16s?” That comment made him wish for an instant that he was in the ’16, tangling with the MIGs. But now he was less than one mile from the oil farm. He returned his full attention to the matter at hand.
He gunned his engines and opened up a lead on the other planes in his flight. Thirty seconds later, he was right over the farm. He would head for the largest tank, the three other planes in his formation now following behind. He saw a large, silver colored tank with the word CHIGAS painted on its side, sitting smack in the middle of the complex. The tank, which was prominent in the old photos he had studied, would be his target. He pulled back on the old, steering wheel style controls and the B-24 rose slowly.
“Open bomb bay doors!” he called into the microphone to his bombardier, who was located in the forward compartment right below the B-24’s flight deck.
100 feet … 50 … 25 …
“Now!” he yelled to his bombardier, who flipped a switch letting the hundreds of incendiary bombs tumble out. Simultaneously he yanked the controls back and put the big plane into a climb. He knew the Mitchells and the other B-24 would do the same maneuver. He pitched the plane to the left and looked back. The fire bombs had covered the oil tank and were burning like lights on a Christmas tree.
But nothing was happening …
It was like everything stood still. He knew he had to get lucky on this one. One of those bombs had to touch something off, or the party wasn’t worth coming to.
“C’mon Jones,” he implored to the spirits in himself. “Light the match.”
Suddenly, one of the fires hit the right spot, probably a feeder line, and the tank exploded with a tremendous blast. The shock wave buffeted the B-24, so much so, he and Ernie the co-pilot had to work together to keep the plane level.
“Jesus!” Dozer yelled, nearly thrown from his seat by the blast. “What did you hit?”
“Probably a tank used to store jet fuel,” Hunter said looking back at the conflagration he had caused. The Mitchells and the other B-24 had roared in and ignited smaller tanks nearby. Within 15 seconds of his drop, about a tenth of the huge oil facility was exploding and already burning.
He radioed back to the other bombers.
“This is Group Leader,” he called. “B-47 flight. Go to Plan B. Drop early. Repeat. Drop early. We took the oil tanks. You take out the railroad yards.”
“Roger, leader,” came the replies.
He called back to the B-29’s flying five minutes behind him and bringing up the rear. “B-29 flight leader, what’s your ETA over the city?”
“One minute, Group Leader,” the answer came back. “We hear you’ve caused an instant oil shortage in New Chicago.”
“That’s correct,” Hunter confirmed. “Play Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, will you? Drop your incendiaries over the city. Chicago’s been long enough without a big fire.”
“You got it, Group,” the B-29 leader called back. “You pulled the inside straight, Hawk,” Dozer said, looking out the B-24’s porthole at the flames below.
“It pays to be flexible, Captain,” Hunter said with the smile of relief. “That tank farm is going to burn for days as it is. Wait until the C-130s drop their TNT into it.
“How about the Hustler?” Ernie asked.
“Those blockbusters would do the most damage at the airport, I say,” Hunter said, calling the Odd Duck flight. “C-130s, this is Group Leader. You proceed on Plan A. Drop on the oil yards.”
“Roger, Group Leader,” the call came back.
“Roger, 130s,” Hunter replied. “Hustler, you double back and unload on O’Hare. Wake ’em up. Repeat. Drop those big sons-of-bitches right down their throats.”
“That’s a roger, Group Leader,” the B-58’s pilot replied. “Then can I request permission to climb and kick this thing into afterburner?”
“That’s affirmative, Hustler,” Hunter radioed back. “You’ll beat us all back. Put the beer on ice, will you?”
“That’s also a roger, Group,” came the reply.
By this time, Hunter had swung the B-24 in a high 180 and was surveying the damage to the oil field. Fully one half of the tank farm was now a sheet of flame. And, the B-47s had done a number on the railroad yards. The huge napalm bombs had splashed down upon the railroad cars and tracks. Thousands of Family troops below were instantly burnt to a crisp. Many secondary explosions were going off. The railroad yards were engulfed in the trademark greenish flame that napalm was known for. As the last of the Stratojets passed over, the intensity of the flames coming from the marshalling yard rivaled the ones blazing next door at the oil farm.
“That’s what you fuckers get for attacking a stadium full of innocent people,” Hunter cursed.
Now, the C-130s were just arriving over the city. The AA fire was still intense, but the C-130s were best suited of all to fight back. Many of the planes were carrying Gatlings or cannons, even a few small howitzers. As they were passing low over the downtown, the gunners—mostly Dozer’s 7th Cavalrymen—shot at anything and everything that moved. At times, the planes were actually lower than the tops of the skyscrapers and their gunners blasted away at any building that looked like a target.
Less than two minutes later, four of the C-130s were through the smoke of the rail yard and depositing their TNT cannisters into the raging inferno of the oil yard. Their flight leader had steered them toward the north end of the facility, the only part of the tank farm that hadn’t been ignited by Hunter’s flight’s bombing run. Taking the initiative, the C-130 flight leader had three of his ships hold their TNT bombs and fly on over a docking facility nearby. A large tanker was tied at the pier, as were hundreds of smaller boats. The C-130s came in, their rear doors wide open. With one kick, the TNT barrels started rolling out and landing with tremendous blasts on the docks. One hit the tanker amidships, which set off an even bigger blast, immediately sending the ship to the bottom of Lake Michigan.
Hunter had the B-24 right over the C-130s and really appreciated the flight leader’s improvisation.
“I’ll have to remember to buy that flyboy a drink when we get back,” Hunter told his crew.
There were several other big ships at anchor in the harbor. Hunter could tell they were troopships, and thereby worthy targets. Suddenly, the two F-4s of the Ace Wrecking Company flashed into view.
“Group Leader, Captain Crunch here,” Hunter’s radio crackled. “Do you see what I see?”
“Sure do, Phantom,” Hunter replied. “Make Fitzie proud of you.”
“Roger,” came the reply.
Hunter watched as the two Phantoms dove at the troopships. Small arms fire erupted from the soldiers on board desperately trying to stop the attacking F-4s. Crunch fired his missile first, a Sidewinder he correctly assumed would home in on something—anything—on the ship emitting an infrared signal. The missile impacted below the waterline, exploding in the bowels of the ship and igniting its boilers. With a great geyser of water, the ship was raised off the water, cracked in two, then came back down again and sank.
“Good shouting, Captain,” Hunter radioed to the lead F-4.
The second Phantom of the Ace Wrecking Crew took on the other warship. Someone on board had ordered the ship’s assault guns to fire at the jet, foolishly as it turned out, because the shells were missing the fighter by an eighth of a mile and crashing into the dock facility on shore. Phantom Number Two made quick work of the ship, first blasting it with its cannons, then dropping two 500-pounders right down its stack. The impact of the bombs immediately capsized the ship, and causing it to turn hull up. A large cloud of steam rose as the explosions ignited under water.
“You guys make a great team,” Hunter said, praising the Ace men.
“Our pleasure, Major,” the pilot of Phantom Number Two replied.
Hunter
circled around again and drew even. Down below, the B-29s were running the gauntlet of AA fire and approaching New Chicago. Per his orders, they spread out and proceeded to dump incendiary devices all over the city. Hunter could see fires starting up on block after block. More secondary explosions were going off. One B-29 took a SAM in the tail, partially severing it. As Hunter watched, the fatally-stricken plane continued its bombing run then plunged into the burning streets below.
Finally, the last of the B-29s had dropped its load and had turned for home. The F-20s, hardly scratched, had dropped down by this time, having shot down 28 MIGs and scared the rest away. They, along with the F-4s, would provide a more than adequate escort home.
Hunter couldn’t resist taking a final pass over the city. He counted fourteen separate major fires rising above it. The oil farm continued to explode as did the stricken tanker. The railroad yards were now nothing more than flaming debris. He could also see four large columns of smoke rising from the direction of the airport, indicating the Hustler had done its work well. Back over the city, the fire itself were so intense, the heated air above it buffeted the B-24 as it made its flyover.
He brought the big bomber up to 50,000 feet, so high, the crew had to bundle up and go on oxygen masks.
The engines sprouting pure white contrails, he swung the bomber back and forth high above the burning city, carving an enormous white “W” out of the clear blue sky.
Then, he switched to the Family’s radio frequency and said: “Mrs. O’Malley’s cow just kicked over another lantern, boys, courtesy of the Free Forces of Football City.”
Then, he turned the B-24 south and headed for home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
HUNTER NURSED THE LUMBERING B-24 back to a safe landing at the Football City Airport. Its engines straining and smoking, the plane’s wings creaked and groaned the entire return trip. It had taken more than a few hits from groundfire, yet kept on flying, plugging along. The old bomber had served them well. But he doubted if the bird would ever fly again. As the crew slid through the exit hatches, Hunter remained behind to take one long last look at the plane. All those years frozen in ice, just to be melted out for one last mission. The B-24’s official name was “Liberator.” He ran his hand over the control cabin’s wall, “Perfect handle,” he thought.