The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  The airport was bustling with activity. On the way back, he had taken advantage of a low cloud cover to fly the B-24 over the Family’s troop concentrations waiting now just across the Mississippi River.

  He wished he could bomb up again and strike at the New Chicago army, but there was a more pressing matter.

  St. Louie was waiting for him and Dozer on the tarmac.

  “Congratulations, Major, once again,” the man said, shaking his hand.

  “Thanks,” Hunter said. “But there were a hundred guys up there with me.” Then, changing the subject, he asked St. Louie what the situation was with the Family army.

  “My agents tell me there are eighty thousand Family troops right across the river,” St. Louie answered soberly. “They’ve got tanks and hundreds of artillery pieces. It’s only a matter of time before they attack.”

  “Tonight,” Dozer said. “They’ll start throwing everything at us tonight.”

  Hunter looked at both of them. St. Louie’s inner grief was so apparent, the man appeared to be aging right in front of him. Dozer looked like a man who hadn’t slept in a year. At that moment, he realized these men were more than his comrades-in-arms. They were also his friends.

  “Well, if they are going to attack us tonight,” he said. “That means we only have a few hours to figure out how we’re going to beat them, too.”

  They returned to the battle command center and took account of their forces. They still had enough men—almost 40,000—to fill three divisions. Thirty of the city’s howitzers were operational and were in place along the river bank, and there was an odd assortment of mobile guns, rocket launchers and tanks.

  All of the F-20s were still in flying condition, likewise the F-4s and the choppers. Hunter had previously ordered all of the B-29s, the B-25s, and the C-130s to be refueled, re-armed and made ready to stand by. Even the shitbox B-58 Hustler was gassed up and ready to go. But the surviving B-47 Stratojets would be practically useless to them now—they could neither bomb low nor provide ground support. Hunter ordered them stripped of usable parts, and their tanks drained. But even with that, the supplies would soon begin to dwindle. There was only so much JP-8 fuel to go around; the Texans had sent all they could spare and more. Now the pipeline was shut off. Hunter estimated he had enough left over to refuel the bombers once, the F-20s and the F-4s twice and the ’16 three times. Then, they would be dry.

  And dry meant grounded.

  St. Louie ordered all of the city’s troops deployed to positions along the west bank of the Mississippi River. Across the muddy waters, the Football City forces could clearly see the Family troops bringing up artillery and digging in. Football City’s ammunition supply was also low; if it hadn’t been, St. Louie would have fired on anything that moved on the east bank of the river. But now, every commander in the Free Forces was under orders to “make every shot count.”

  On a suggestion from Hunter, Dozer sent his best explosives men to mine the seven bridges that spanned the Mississippi and led into Football City. He knew that eventually, every one of the bridges would be blown—by waiting, there was a good chance that they would catch some enemy troops or equipment on the bridges when they went down.

  The Mississippi hugged the Football City border for 15 miles. By nightfall, St. Louie’s intelligence corps reported as many as 2500 of the Family’s large guns and tanks along that stretch. There were reports of gunboats and smaller ferries coming down the river from the interior of the Family’s territory. Worse still, Football City airport radar had picked up many airborne blips on its screens shortly before nightfall.

  Hunter wasn’t surprised when the enemy aircraft report reached them in command center. He, St. Louie and Dozer were studying an enormous map of the city and its defenses at the time.

  “One of two things has happened,” he told them, reading the report. “Either they’ve hired on air pirates, or they’ve been supplied very quickly with more MIGs. Maybe both.”

  “Where the hell could they get MIGs so goddamn fast?” St. Louie asked, the exasperation coming through, loud and clear.

  “If I had to guess,” Hunter said. “I’d say the same people who own those East European ships we saw in the New Chicago harbor had something to do with it.

  “The Russians?” St. Louie asked, his voice still containing a trace of disbelief.

  “I’m convinced, without a doubt,” Hunter said, adding, “Finally.”

  “Where does that leave us, Hawk?” Dozer asked, wearily rubbing his eyes.

  “Well, if they commit the MIGs to ground support or to bomb us, we can engage them with the F-20s,” Hunter said. “But dogfights suck up fuel. We use the fuel to fight them and we lose the F-20s in the ground support role.”

  “And if we commit the F-20s to ground support too soon,” Dozer continued the theory. “The MIGs can jump us once we’ve gone dry.”

  “That’s the situation,” Hunter agreed.

  “What about the B-29s?” St. Louie asked.

  “They’ve got full tanks, enough gas for two missions,” Hunter answered. “I’ve ordered each of them to have as many guns as they can carry standing by. Machine guns, recoilless rifles, even RPGs if they can handle them. They’ll stick them all out of one side, punch holes in the fuselage if they have to.”

  “To use as gunships?” Dozer asked.

  “Right. First, we’ll have them unload what we have left in bombs on the east side of the river, then come back, pick up their extra guns and turn them into Spookys. We’ll assign at least one to each bridge. The rest will be vectored to where they are needed. Same with the C-130s and the B-25s. I don’t know if they’ll get the B-24s airborne, though.”

  “How about SAMs?” St. Louie asked.

  “I’m sure we’ll see a lot of them. Stingers, Blowpipes, the works,” Hunter said grimly.

  “Whew!” Dozer exclaimed. “It’s gonna get crowded up there.”

  “We’ll keep the choppers on this side of the river,” Hunter continued. “They can help on ground support and recon, plus watch for the amphibious crossings.”

  St. Louie peered at the map of his dream city. “We just can’t let any of those bastards get across the river,” he said. “If we do, we’re sunk.”

  “We’ll blow the bridges,” Dozer said, pointing at the huge map. “But I’m not so sure that will stop them. If they don’t get across here, they could cross at any number of points north or south of the city. We know they’ve got boats they’ve floated down from Peoria. And, they’ve got pontoon bridges. If they do cross either north or south, we’ll have to commit troops there, and leave our center and other flank open.”

  Hunter stared at the map and the markers indicating the Family’s troop and gun concentrations. It was a matter of numbers. The Family’s forces outnumbered Football City 2-to-l. They were better equipped. He couldn’t imagine what their strength would be—materially and mentally—if his thrown-together air force hadn’t bombed New Chicago. Nevertheless, what remained still added up against the Free Forces. It had all the makings of a last stand. Yet he was never one to give up hope.

  “We’ll have to take risks,” he said finally. “Do the unpredictable. They won’t be expecting us to launch all the bombers at once against them. It’ll knock them for a loop, at least for a while. But then, we’ll have to keep them off balance and …”

  Dozer and St. Louie looked at him, both saying “And?”

  “And,” Hunter said. “Hope for a miracle.”

  The first shells from the Family’s artillery started landing on the west side of the river at precisely midnight. The Free Forces’ troops dug in along the river bank hunkered down as the artillery barrage intensified. Soon, Family guns all along the 15 mile stretch of river were firing into the city. The night sky was lit brighter than daytime. Streaks of red crisscrossed above the soldiers. It was at once fascinating and frightening.

  Soon the shells were coming in so fast and loud, the Free Forces’ troopers found their ears had
started to bleed. They bravely held their fire. Most of the Family’s shells were going over the troopers’ heads anyway; the target of this opening barrage was Football City itself. Many of the beautiful buildings and casinos were reduced to rubble. Fires erupted everywhere. The massive Grand Stadium, a marshalling yard for the Free Forces, was taking an inordinate amount of pounding. Fortunately, the airport, located a few miles northwest of the stadium, was just out of range of the Family’s gunners.

  The nightmare continued for three hours. Slowly, the proud city, once a symbol of freedom, commerce and rebuilding, began to crumble. Small fires joined to create larger ones. Roads were damaged beyond repair, making the movement of emergency vehicles next to impossible. All the while, the Free Forces didn’t fire a shot. In this, possibly last, battle, each bullet was worth its weight in gold.

  Then the barrage stopped. The air, heavy with the smell of cordite, was suddenly silent, the only sounds being the crackling of the fires back in the city. An eeriness settled over the Free Forces lines. Many of the soldiers, without sleep, could see ghosts of shapes moving on the far side of the river 300 yards away. But they resisted all temptations to shoot at the spirits.

  It was quiet for the next two hours.

  The 10 B-29s, propellers whirring, their sides spiked with gun muzzles, lined up to take off. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, but the Football City airport was in the ninth hour of frantic activity. While the artillery barrage battered the helpless city, those gathered at the airport worked madly to get the remaining planes armed and loaded and airborne.

  Hunter sat at the end of the runway, his F-16’s souped-up engine turned off to save fuel, watching the parade of aircraft from different eras roll by. First the Superfortresses went up and formed a ring high above the airport. Next went the nine rugged C-130s. They took up a lower orbit north of the field. Ten F-20s sped off next, lifting into the air in pairs. Only after the Ace Wrecking Company’s F-4s were airborne did he start his own engine and race down the runway. This would be Football City’s last strategic bombing mission. Afterward, all the planes would be committed to tactical support, that was, helping the Free Forces’ ground troops battle the Family. Just about all of the Vermont cache of weapons would soon be gone. The deployment of the big planes bordered on desperation. Whatever the outcome, the final act was underway.

  The air armada formed up according to plan, then flew the short distance over the city to the battle area. Hunter, like many of the crew members, looked down on the devastated Football City. It was practically unidentifiable. Little remained except heaps of smoldering rubble. However, in the midst of the destruction, the Grand Stadium stood out. It was heavily damaged, yet not totally destroyed. It was a tough, solid structure and it had somehow made it through the terrible night’s shelling. Flying on a staff above its highest point, someone had run up a shredded Football City flag.

  Hunter had to laugh as he led the planes over the stadium. “All they wanted to do was play football,” he thought. “What the hell was the matter with that?”

  He unconsciously reached to his back pocket and felt the form of the folded flag he always kept there. For the first time in a while, he took it out, and felt it. His hand tingled at its touch. He remembered that terribly bleak day in New York City so long ago when he took it from the dead Saul Wackerman. Despite the dire situation, Hunter felt good inside. He had been true to his word, in any case. He hadn’t forgotten. He was still fighting. The enemy was the same. The stakes were the same. The cause was the same. And it all came down to one word: Freedom. That’s what Saul Wackerman died for. As did Jones. And the millions killed in Europe. And the thousand defending Football City—those who would die that day. He thought of the enemy. Those who would repress them. Who would enslave them. The enemy may win the battles, but he knew they would never win the war. And the Free Forces may not win this fight. If not, it may take years … 20, 50, 80 … 100 years. But freedom-loving people would rise up again. The sons and daughters of these warriors would come back. And then the battles will be won. You can kill a man. But you can’t kill his spirit.

  He felt the flag once more, kissed it and then put it in his left breast pocket. “The bullet that takes me will have to go through you first,” he said to himself.

  The target of the bombing mission was the largest enemy troop concentration St. Louie’s agents could pinpoint. It was located just across the Mississippi in the old city of East St. Louis. The Family was using the city as a makeshift forward headquarters, taking advantage of its railroad yards. Hunter hoped by bombing the city, he would further disrupt the lines of communications between the enemy commanders and their superiors sitting in the black, ultra-skyscraper once known as the Sears Tower back in New Chicago. He had briefly considered flying up to New Chicago and blasting the tower, but discounted the idea on two points. First, it would use up precious resources for less than tangible results—for all he knew the Family leaders might not be in the Black Tower when he arrived. Second, he was a pilot and every pilot was needed right here in Football City.

  The bombing force arrived over the target area, led by Hunter and the F-4s. The F-20s cruised high above the airborne column, keeping an eye out for MIGs and conserving fuel. Luckily, no enemy jets were in the area. One by one, the airplanes unloaded their payloads—standard bombs, TNT barrels, odd napalm cannisters—then turned 180s for the 10 minute trip back to Football City. Only a handful of SAMs appeared, indicating the bombers had taken the Family by surprise. If they hadn’t, the air would have been filled with the anti-aircraft missiles. This told Hunter something else: The Family either didn’t have very good radar, or had turned it off as a precaution. Or maybe they were just lazy, sloppy, unconcerned about the airborne threat from Football City. Hunter entered all of the possibilities into his brain, to be recalled later when needed.

  The bombers and escorts all landed safely back at Football City airport. As soon as the planes rolled into their stations, an army of monkeys appeared and started stripping everything connected with bombing from the planes. In their place, they installed guns of every size and shape. The B-29s were perforated with dozens of small gun ports, all on the starboard side and just large enough to stick the muzzle of a M61 machine gun or a similar weapon through. The C-130s, boasting powerful engines and thus being able to lift more, had cannons, RPGs, even small howitzers placed aboard, again, sticking out of freshly drilled gunports on the port side. The idea, familiar to those close to gunship tactics, was that, in action, the pilot would fly the plane in a continuous 360-degree turn to the starboard. The combined firepower of every available gun, matched with the slow, arching turn, presented a formidable airborne threat to enemy ground troops. Hunter estimated the gunships could stay flying for up to six hours if needed. By that time fuel would start to run out. No matter. Because he knew by that time, the battle would either have been won or lost.

  He watched the feverish preparations, hoping the converted gunships could be flying within two hours. Still it was only just 7 AM. They had many hours to go in this, what would turn out to be, their longest day.

  On the east bank of the Mississippi River, near the entrance to the Merrill Avenue Bridge, a battalion of the Family’s crack sappers’ regiment was waiting for its morning meal to be brought in. The unit’s commanders knew they still had more than an hour to go before they would jump off and try to take the bridge leading into Football City. The soldiers were confident, even cocky. They were anxious to get the battle underway. Most had foregone sleep the night before simply to see the artillery barrage that had reduced Football City to near-rubble.

  “How could anyone live through that?” they had asked themselves and each other. “We’ll be playing football in their stadium by noon,” others said.

  Most of them were mercenaries, so there was a monetary reason to start the fighting. Their commanders were offering a piece of real silver for each enemy soldier they confirmed killed. A gold piece would be awarded for dea
d enemy officers. Plus, the first unit to reach the Grand Stadium would split a bag of gold. The sappers, being specialists, believed that gold was as good as in their pockets.

  Their officers were confident too. The men were well-rested and in high, if not greedy, good spirits. They were all well-armed and looking proper in their jet-black with red trim uniforms. Now if only the morning meal would arrive, the unit would be fully prepared to go into action.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  SUDDENLY, ABOVE THEM, THE Family sappers heard the distinct sound of a helicopter.

  “Here’s the chow,” one of the officers said.

  “Finally,” another, a major commented. “And, they’re doing it in style—by chopper.”

  By this time, most of the unit was on its feet, lined up with mess kits in hand. The chopper circled, then came in, kicking up a good amount of dust as it approached the four-lane entrance to the bridge.

  “The Family must be getting hard up,” said one soldier as he watched the helicopter descend. “That chopper is a piece of crap!”

  “That’s straight shit, Jack,” his buddy said, as the battered helicopter set down. “And what’s that shit written on the side? What the fuck is the Down Maine Lumber Company?”

  He never found out …

  The side shutters on the Sea Stallion dropped down one second before the computer-fired GE Gatling guns inside opened up. Many of the 900 soldiers had no idea what was happening. The three Gatlings, each spewing 100 rounds a second, didn’t sound like ordinary guns. They had more of a mechanical, buzzing sound, one which was almost completely drowned out by the racket of the chopper blades. To many of the sappers, it just appeared like their comrades were falling for no reason at all. Even when they caught a burst of computer-controlled bullets in the guts, they died wondering what the hell was going on.