The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  A year after the war, General Seth Jones, the late twin brother of PAAC’s Commander-in-Chief, Dave Jones, had found the plane locked away in an isolated hangar at the abandoned Thunderbirds’ HQ at Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas, Nevada. Why the plane had escaped the disarmament destruction, he never knew. But to be caught with the aircraft was a crime in the eyes of the New Order, punishable by death. Nevertheless, as part of his plan to draw Hunter out of his self-imposed exile on a New Hampshire mountain, Jones risked death by firing squad and had the aircraft disassembled, then flown piece by piece back to ZAP’s Jonesville base on Cape Cod where it was put back together in secret. Once Hunter got a look at the ’16—probably the last one left in the world—he immediately agreed to give up the hermit’s life and to join ZAP.

  Jones had the plane repainted in its original Thunderbird red-white-and-blue colors, but it was Hunter who modified the aircraft to carry up to a dozen Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, instead of the usual four. He also installed a “six-pack” of Vulcan cannons, three on each side of the jet’s nose. The pilot put his aeronautical doctorate to work when he disassembled the jet’s GE engine and uprated it to nearly twice its power. Now the F-16 could reach speeds of nearly 2000 m.p.h. with the afterburner kicked in.

  Even before the war, Hunter was well recognized as the best fighter pilot who had ever lived. Now, in the dangerous, post-war world, his fighter was well known and accorded the highest respect across the continent. Consequently, the F-16 was known as the best fighter ever built. If any plane was built with a pilot in mind, it was the F-16 and Hunter. They were made for each other.

  Hunter put the F-16 into a long slow turn back over the base. At this point he knew he was serving as a “target” for the anti-aircraft crews below—these daily flights allowed the crews to test their tracking and aiming equipment.

  His flight path brought him over the dozens of quonset huts that served as the base’s barracks. There were about 15,000 troops in all stationed at the base—the infantry division, the Airborne group, Dozer’s 7th Cavalry. With their support groups and families, the population at PAAC-Oregon reached 25,000. And just as with the old ZAP base on Cape Cod, a large community of ordinary citizens had sprung up around the installation. In the anarchaic New Order, the prime real estate was near the protection of friendly forces like PAAC. Not only did the citizens know that in times of trouble they could seek refuge inside the base, but living next to the installation also provided them with work in the many support operations needed to run the huge operation.

  Once he received radio confirmation that the AA crews around the center of the base had completed their exercises, Hunter steered the fighter toward the outer defense perimeter of the base. Below him he could see the acres of farmlands, tilled by citizens, that supplied the base with its food. Just as the small fleet of fishing boats docked near the base provided the servicemen with fresh catches daily, these farms put the vegetables on the mess tables. The neat squared-out patterns on the ground were broken occasionally by an anti-aircraft battery or a SAM site. Corn grew right next to a string of ack-ack guns, and a Hawk missile system cohabitated with a field of carrots.

  The outer defense line was located some 11 miles out from the center of the base. Its perimeter ran nearly 30 miles and was demarked by several waves of barbed wire. In front of this was a half-mile wide, heavily-mined and booby-trapped defoliated area that would discourage the feistiest infiltrator. Guard towers appeared at 200-yard intervals and the perimeter was patrolled endlessly by the base’s security forces and the local civilian militia. The commanders of PAAC-Oregon were vigilant to a fault. But with good reason. Just beyond the no-man’s land and the barbed wire sat the hills and forests of old Oregon. This is where the uncertainty began. The land that stretched all the way down the coast and east to the Rockies and beyond, was filled with bandits, raiders, terrorists. The PAAC-Oregon base was the exception, not the rule in New Order America, just like the old U.S. Cavalry forts in the old Wild West days. Along with the Frontier Guardsmen outposts that were scattered throughout eastern Oregon serving as the trip-wire for the main base, PAAC-Oregon was an island of sanity and civilization on the edge of a lawless, out-of-control countryside.

  Finishing his patrol of the base’s outer defense ring, Hunter headed due east. It was a beautiful day for flying, mostly clear except for huge cumulus clouds that waited for him at 20,000 feet off to the northeast. But great flying weather or not, he was filled with a troubled feeling he could not shake. It had clawed at him since the last recon flight. Despite Dozer’s encouragement, Hunter blamed himself for not detecting the mysterious Russian fighters sooner. How could he have been so lax as to let the Soviets build a fighter base—and somehow make it disappear—right under his nose?

  He flew higher.

  When he had joined PAAC, he had thought of it as the best way to continue his personal vendetta against the enemies of old America. He knew it would take not only fancy flying but hard work—in intelligence, in logistics, in procurement—to continue his crusade. He knew that to be successful, he would have to keep his hand on the pulse of what was happening across the continent and beyond. He designed the role of America’s sentinel for himself. And, until now, he was always confident that it was thumbs-up and “do-able.” Now, he wondered if that confidence was just cockiness. Some sentinel! He had radars and radios and long, dramatic recon flights and yet he let the Russians build a base so close to him he was surprised he hadn’t smelled the borscht cooking.

  He flew even higher—up to 40,000 and into the white mist of the huge, billowing cloud.

  Betrayal. He felt that he had betrayed his own people—the other servicemen in Pacific American Armed Forces. The butchered frontier guardsmen and the sailors missing from the abandoned patrol boat. And how about the civilians that he pledged to protect? How had he served the murdered citizens of Way Out? No doubt the time he’d spent drinking and gambling and whoring and joy riding should have been put to better use.

  And if he was such a great intelligence expert, what the hell happened down near Vegas? What the hell was going on over the Great Lakes? What the hell really happened to St. Louie’s recon troops in the Badlands? And where the hell were those Goddamned Russian jets?

  Now he went even higher. 50,000 feet. 55,000, 60,000.

  What the hell was he doing? Flying around, playing soldier. Harboring some stupid dream of reuniting his country. He knew he was the last of the sentimental Americans. Why couldn’t he accept the reality of the New Order and just live with it? Make some money. Make a lot of money! He was once hired to retrieve some diamonds for St. Louie, a job that paid him more than $100,000. Most of it was gone now—put toward purchases of PAAC-Oregon aircraft. And soldiering was the least profitable business to be in these days. Freelance convoy protection duty. That’s where he should be. Hire out to the highest bidder. He’d been offered incredible sums to ride shotgun for “special” cargoes. Let the rest of them fight it out. Why be a soldier? Why did he do it? He shook himself out of it temporarily. Questions. Too many questions …

  He needed answers and he needed them now!

  A faint ringing began in his brain. His ears perked up; his eyes cleared. Within seconds, he could feel a very distinct buzz throughout his body, this one very recognizable. It meant only one thing. Aircraft. A lot of them. Out toward the east. Two, maybe three hundred miles away. He checked the time. Just past 1200 hours. He checked his fuel supply. It was at 85%. He checked his weapons. Four Sidewinders and a maximum load of cannon shells—all okay.

  The sensation grew stronger. The hair on the back of his head was standing up. Trouble. This was trouble. He knew it. He had to check it out. No time to call for the scramble jets. He had to act now. He booted in the afterburner and steered due east.

  Chapter Six

  IT WAS A CONVOY.

  Although he was still 30 miles due west of them, Hunter could see the airplanes quite clearly. He counted 11 Boeing 707s, four
727s, an L-1011 and two DC-9s—18 airliners in all. They were traveling in the standard convoy formation; six groups of three-plane chevrons, each aircraft leaving a slight, wispy contrail in its wake.

  But right away Hunter sensed something was very odd about the airplanes. There was no radio chatter at all coming from the airtrain—highly unusual as convoy pilots were known to be as talkative these days as truck convoy drivers were before the war. Hunter knew it had to mean the pilots were flying “booted,” maintaining radio silence. Second, the airplanes were flying low, down around 10,000 feet. This was strange because it was better and cheaper to cut through the thin air at higher altitudes than the sludge down below 15,000. So most convoys cruised at 40,000 feet or higher, just to save gas.

  But it was the convoy’s direction that tipped him. The airliners were traveling due north. Every big air convoy flying these days flew either northeast-to-southwest or vice versa. So where the hell were these guys going?

  As he closed in on them, he ran another check on his weapons systems. He knew he would soon be showing up on their radar screens if not already. The convoy could simply be lost. But he doubted it and he wanted to be prepared for anything. Green lights started popping up on his weapons control panel. All his armaments were in good shape. He closed to within 10 miles of the airliners and flipped on his radio sending switch.

  “Convoy leader, this is Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps,” he said slowly. “I am at two-niner Tango from your position. Everything okay with your course-direction finder?”

  Silence.

  “Convoy leader,” he repeated, closing to within five miles of the airliners and banking to fly a course higher but parallel to the leader. “Major Hunter, P-A-A-C here. Do you need course-direction assistance?”

  Again, silence.

  Hunter checked his own location. He was somewhere over the southern part of the old state of Montana, technically outside of PAAC’s air space. But screw it, no one bothered much about such distinctions these days. He banked again to his right and in seconds was streaking over the first three-plane formation.

  Instantly, he knew there was going to be trouble. The three airliners were typical in every way except one—each had twin-gun barrels protruding from its tail. Airliners with rear gunners were a rare item—they were the Rolls-Royce of airliners. And never did one see more than one or two and then only traveling with a 50-plane or bigger superconvoys. Yet here were three, flying side by side.

  He banked hard to the right and executed a 180 turn which carried him over the second group of airliners. These three airplanes also carried rear guns. He swept back over the third group and confirmed they too were carrying.

  But suddenly rear guns on airliners didn’t bother him anymore. He had something new to think about. Looking down toward the southeast he could see four F-101 Voodoos rising to meet him …

  He knew the jet fighters would show up sooner or later. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he had felt their presence. No sane convoy master would assemble 18 big airliners without contracting some freelance air cover. And, as this particular group of airliners was definitely shady, Hunter could only assume the F-l0ls were too. He took five deep gulps of the pure oxygen for a quick jolt, switched on his own, specially-designed engagement radar and dove to meet the Voodoos head-on.

  The lead ’101 fired first, followed a second later by his wingman. No warning, no radio message asking Hunter to ID himself. It was shoot first, so no questions had to be asked later. The Voodoo pilots were probably air pirates signed on to make some extra money. But they had just made a big mistake by shooting at him. They would soon know who he was. There was only one F-16 flying around these days and everyone on the continent knew who its pilot was and what he stood for. And now they had made themselves an enemy.

  The two Sparrow air-to-air missiles flew by him, both missing him by 300 feet. The Voodoos had tipped their hand, foolishly firing their Sparrows at him head-on when the missile was designed to be shot only when engaging from the rear. Hunter breathed a tinge easier. Despite the four-to-one odds, now he knew he had one advantage: These guys were shaky.

  He aimed the F-16 right at the center of the four ’101s and booted in the afterburner. The Voodoos scattered. He yanked back on the control stick. The F-16 stood on its tail for an instant, then rolled over on its back. A flick of the wrist and he was on the tail of Voodoos’ second flight leader. The pilot tried to zig-zag his way out of Hunter’s line of fire, but it was a useless maneuver. Hunter instinctively mimicked the Voodoo’s movement. He quickly selected a Sidewinder and let it rip. The missile flew perfectly into one of the Voodoo’s tail exhaust pipes and detonated. The blast broke the jet into two distinct pieces, both of which blew up seconds later.

  One down, three to go …

  He was already tracking his second victim, the lead flight wingman who had fired the second missile at him then attempted to flee to the east. Hunter pulled up and back and locked on to the Voodoo from long range. It was a distance shot for sure, but he fired anyway. The missile ignited and shot off out of his line of sight and toward its prey. Twelve long seconds later it hit. The ’101 disappeared in a puff of black smoke a full 10 miles from Hunter’s position. “That was a three point shot,” he thought as he yanked back on the control stick and climbed to meet the two remaining Voodoos.

  By this time the ’101 pilots knew who they were up against. The pair linked up and were now turning toward him. He let them. Would they be foolish enough to waste more Sparrows shooting at him head on? Or maybe they wanted to engage with their cannons. If so, then he’d return the favor with his Vulcan six-pack.

  The Voodoos opted for the cannons, streaking close to him and simultaneously squeezing off timid bursts before diving away.

  “C’mon boys,” he said into his microphone. “You’ll have to do better than that …”

  The Voodoos pulled up in tandem and tried to approach him from the rear. He simply flipped the F-16 over on its back again and headed straight for them upside down. He put the jet into a slow turn to right itself, pressing the Vulcan firing trigger at the same time. The ’16 shuddered as all six of the cannons opened up in a twisting murderous barrage. The lead Voodoo pilot never knew what hit him. His nose, then his canopy, shattered instantly. Smoke began pouring out of the open cockpit as the airplane started its long plunge to earth.

  Now Hunter turned his attention to the last F-101. The fighter had taken a few hits and had broken away to the south. He was now intent on fleeing in earnest.

  Hunter booted in the afterburner again and soon caught up with the Voodoo. The pilot knew he had no chance to shake the powerful F-16, so he took the safe route out and ejected, letting his airplane fly on unattended. The ever-conscientious Hunter deposited a Sidewinder into its exhaust tube anyway preventing the one-in-a-million chance that the jet’s eventual crash would kill someone innocent on the ground. The missile obliterated the Voodoo as advertised. Off to the east, Hunter could see the pilot’s parachute drifting slowly toward the mountains below.

  The engagement was over. Now Hunter turned his attention back to the convoy …

  The eighteen big airliners had disappeared in the time it took him to battle the Voodoos, but he quickly located them on his radar and floored it. Gradually, off in the distance, the distinctive contrails once again came into view. The airliners had climbed to 45,000 feet in an effort to make a fast getaway. But the deception was lost on Hunter. He was soon riding off the wing of the last Boeing 707 in the convoy.

  Just then his radio crackled. Someone, somewhere in the convoy had yelled “Break!” and the airliners instantly obeyed. The eighteen airplanes started to scatter in all directions. Some climbed, others dove. Some banked left, some banked right. Soon the sky around him was a patchwork of contrail streaks. Yet he stayed right on the rear 707, intent on identifying it or following it to its eventual landing place.

  Neither would happen. The rear gunner in the airliner foolishly o
pened up on Hunter as the plane banked to the left to cross in front of him. It was a stupid, risky maneuver. He could see the big airplane’s wing flap with the strain. The way the airliner was moving, Hunter doubted many people were on board. He tried to contact the airplane’s pilot.

  “707, 707,” he said calmly into his microphone. “Cease firing and ID yourself.”

  His message was returned by another burst from the airliner’s rear gunner. Hunter routinely dodged the cannons shells and moved up to a position beside the big jet’s cockpit. He could see the pilot inside, his attention fully devoted to flying the airplane.

  “707, ID yourself,” Hunter called again. Suddenly the big airplane did another quick bank to the left in an effort to ram him. Even Hunter was surprised by the desperate move, deftly pulling back on the control stick just in time to avoid getting hit by the airliner.

  “This guy’s crazy,” Hunter thought. He was also in trouble. Hunter could see smoke trailing from the 707’s port-side outer engine. The violent maneuver must have snapped a fuel line or oil feeder pump. He knew what would happen next. The engine caught fire and ignited the fuel tanks in the 707’s wings. Within seconds the airliner’s port wing was enveloped in flames. The big airplane started to go down. Flaming pieces of the wing were breaking off. Then the starboard engines, themselves buckling under the sudden strain, began to smoke.

  Hunter could only watch as the doomed 707 continued to lose altitude. He followed it down. 10,000 feet. 8,000 feet. 5000. He knew the pilot could not pull it out in time. 4000 feet … 3000. Except for one stretch of highway, the terrain below was all mountainous. It appeared to Hunter that the pilot was trying to steer toward the roadway. But at 2000 feet, an entire half of the jet’s portside wing broke off, trailing a long plume of black, oily smoke with it. Hunter could see the airplane shake as it involuntarily banked to the left. It never had a chance to attempt a landing on the road. Instead it hit a row of trees at the end of a small valley, bounced once, hit again and plowed up the side of a small mountain. He watched as it kicked up a great sheet of flame and earth and smoke before finally coming to a stop.