The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  It was a good thing for Hunter that they did …

  Hunter had never flown a Yak before, but he had got the hang of it quickly. The Soviet-designed cockpit and controls didn’t bother him; they were essentially the same as the British VTOL Harrier, an aircraft he had flown on several occasions. As long as he knew where the throttle, the up-down-forward steering controls and landing gear buttons were, he was okay.

  Getting the Russian-made radio to work was another story.

  For the first 50 miles, Hunter had flown the jet slowly and steadily, being careful not to drop the minijet hanging underneath. It was not for entirely sentimental reasons that he had risked getting shot down in order to retrieve the small airplane. There was a load of valuable recon film in the minijet’s cameras—film that he knew would be critically important to PAAC in the coming weeks and months.

  He had located an isolated stretch of roadway and set down long enough to discard the minijet’s wingsail, fold up the small aircraft’s irreplaceable parts, and store them inside the Yak’s undercarriage. As long as he flew with the landing gear deployed, the valuable minijet would stay secured. He took the precaution of removing the precious film and keeping it inside the cockpit with him.

  He was up and flying within an hour, though the wheels-down gear position prevented him from putting the Yak at full throttle. He started fooling around with the radio soon after taking off. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get so much as a crackle of static on the thing. The airman spent most of the flight cursing the so typically Soviet malfunctioning radio; he was certain it was busted before he ever arrived on the scene. The trouble was he hadn’t talked to Dozer via the gunship link in a while. He knew because of the information he did get to them, the base and all of PAAC’s aircraft would be on a high state of readiness, which was not casually nicknamed a “shoot first” alert. All they needed to see was a Russian Yak come streaking out of the Badlands unannounced and they’d be picking him up in pieces somewhere between Cheyenne and Yellowstone. He had to somehow warn them off …

  The F-105s slowed down and took up positions on either side of the inverted Russian fighter, their Sidewinder missiles armed and ready. They could see the pilot waving and giving them the thumbs-up sign, but it wasn’t until they saw the small American flag attached to the inside of the Yak’s canopy did they back off long enough to allow the airplane to do a quick flip. Only then did the Thunderchief pilots recognize Hunter as the grinning man at the controls. Heartened to see their commander again, the F-105s escorted the Yak home.

  Alerted ahead of time that a “friendly” Soviet fighter was on its way in, a large group of base personnel and civilians turned out to see the airplane make a dramatic vertical descent and landing. Hunter received a half-kidding round of applause from the crowd of mechanics and others who quickly gathered around the VTOL jet.

  General Jones and Dozer were waiting for him.

  “Are we glad to see you,” Jones told him, shaking his hand as Hunter stepped down from the Yak.

  “Same here, General,” Hunter said. He took off his helmet and shook hands with Dozer.

  Jones walked around the Yak, inspecting its unusual features. “Wait ’til we get a bottle before you tell us how you got this,” Jones said. “Right now, let’s have it. How bad is it?”

  “Real bad, sir,” Hunter said solemnly rubbing his sandpaper-like beard. “They have more SAMs sitting out there than in Ho Chi Minh’s best wet dream.”

  The trio started walking toward the base saloon.

  “Can we take them out with air strikes?” Jones asked, his face furrowed with concern.

  Hunter shook his head. “It would take every airplane this side of the Mississippi, plus all of the Free Canadian Air Force too, just to make a dent in it,” Hunter said grimly. “We’d face very heavy losses to the SAMs. Plus we’d have the Yaks to contend with—forty-nine of them anyway. Then, there’s their cavalry …”

  “Cavalry?” Dozer asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Hunter said, “but not only have they moved in all those Yaks and SAMs, they’ve somehow managed to infiltrate at least a division of cavalry. Probably much more. Ever hear of the People’s Mounted Army of Mongolia?”

  “Yes,” Jones said. “They were the last regular cavalry units left in the world. But the Russians disbanded them in the early ’Fifties. Gave ’em trucks instead.”

  “Well, they’ve been reactivated,” Hunter said. “I tangled with a bunch of them. They’re tough customers.”

  “It’s incredible,” Dozer said. “But I guess that would explain these horses we’ve been hearing about lately.”

  “But how did they do it? Did they swim over from Siberia?”

  Jones asked.

  Hunter shrugged. “They must have come across the Bering Straits in anything that could float, then let ’em off in the Yukon somewhere and pointed them toward the ’Bads.”

  “Like Hannibal and the elephants,” Dozer said incredulously. “And these guys are probably experts in working their horses in the snow, over mountains, through the desert, Jesus, wherever.”

  “And the plains of Kansas and Nebraska are perfect for operating cavalry,” Jones added.

  “So is Texas,” Hunter said ominously. “We know they’ve been flying some of these guys from a hidden base somewhere way out in northern Montana and ferrying them and their horses down to southern Oklahoma. That’s what that convoy was doing when I ran into them.”

  “No wonder that seven-o-seven looked like a stable,” Dozer said, laughing at the absurdity of it. “They’ve probably been flying the nags all over the Badlands.”

  They arrived at the base’s club and quickly took possession of a corner table. The bar maid brought over their usual brand of whiskey and a plateful of bar sandwiches. Hunter began wolfing down the first of several of the saloon delicacies.

  “A well-trained cavalry could do a lot of damage in Texas these days,” Jones said, pouring out the drinks. “They could drive the Texans crazy raiding along the border then provide cover for the infantry when the big push came.”

  “There are still two major questions,” Hunter said, downing his drink and reaching for another sandwich. “One: how the hell did they get all those SAMs over? And two, who’s supplying the infantry when the balloon goes up?”

  “We might have both answers,” Jones said, knocking back a shot of the no-name whiskey. “A lot of things have happened since you left.” He reached inside his flight jacket and produced a photograph. “But first of all take a look at this. It came from the Texans a couple of days ago.”

  Hunter took the photo and examined it. It was a typical recon picture, taken at low-level. The photo showed a long stretch of beach, perhaps two miles worth, dotted with what looked at first to be about fifty beached whales. A closer examination showed them to be not whales, but submarines. Russian submarines.

  “Christ,” Hunter exclaimed. “Where the hell was this taken?”

  “That’s Acapulco, Mexico,” Jones answered. “Two Texans in an F-4 took it about a week ago.”

  “The lost patrol boat. These have got to be the subs we’ve been looking for,” Hunter said.

  “Or some of them, anyway.” Dozer added.

  “We know they’re all diesel-powered boats,” Jones continued. “Russian mothballed stuff, mostly, but also a few North Korean and Indian. Most of them are old. I mean really old. Granddaddies. Some of them are lucky as hell they made it.”

  “Has anyone searched them?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” Jones said, swallowing a shot and lighting a massive cigar. “The Texas Special Forces choppered in a couple of squads the next day to look around. Each sub was stripped to the bone inside. No torpedos, no missies, no nothing. Not even any bunks. Every boat was stark empty. The controls were even modified so that a skeleton crew could bring them over.”

  “They were using them as cargo ships,” Hunter said, as he continued exam
ining the minute details of the photo. “They were hauling only very exclusive cargo. Ammunition, fuel, anything too flammable to risk bringing it in by soarplane.”

  “You found Fitzie’s ‘UFOs?’” Dozer asked.

  “Yep,” Hunter said, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “Just as we thought, they were very terrestrial gliders, running over the Great Lakes with their landing lights on so they wouldn’t have a fender-bender at 80,000 feet.”

  “My God,” Jones said. “You mean they skipped them over the Lakes and hoped to get a thermal around Milwaukee?”

  Hunter nodded a split-second before he downed his second shot of firewater.

  “Jesus, that’s one hell of a trip!” Dozer said, astonished.

  “Some of them must have made it,” Hunter said. “There’s a bunch of sailplanes—every inch of them wood and plastic—sitting out in South Dakota. I’ve got pictures of them. And, just like these subs, they were used strictly for a one-way mission.”

  Hunter turned his attention back to the photo. “But why Acapulco?” he said, almost to himself.

  Jones re-lit his cigar and ran his hand over his close-cropped head. “Let’s say the Russians knew that both the Texans and PAAC do a long-range recon to the Gulf of California on occasion,” he said between puffs. “They would have been sitting ducks for our anti-shipping patrols in those narrow waters.”

  “So they must have hired on some local help to unload the subs,” Dozer said, picking up on the theory. “Then they could float the stuff right up to the Colorado River. But from there, they could have kept right on going right up to …”

  “To Las Vegas,” Hunter filled in. “Or, the desert near Las Vegas …”

  “Then that must have been what all the commotion was about down there,” Jones said. “They were carrying a load of ammo and someone dropped a cigarette butt. Bang! Goodbye cruel world.”

  “Could have been an accident,” Hunter said, pouring himself a drink. “Could have been our patrol boat guys, letting us know where they were. If that’s the case, they were probably blown up in the explosion too.”

  “But there’s another thing,” Jones said. “Although whatever went off out there made a hole big enough to see down to China, it still was probably just the cargo from one of those subs.”

  “Well, they’re carrying some pretty heavy stuff,” Dozer said.

  Hunter pounded the table softly. “But it still doesn’t say how they got all those SAMs over here,” he said. “They wouldn’t dare fly them in. And they couldn’t fit them on these subs. How the hell they get ’em in?”

  “We have our theories on that,” Jones said. “But, Christ, it bothers me that the Reds are being innovative all of a sudden. Gliders. Cavalry. A million Goddamed SAMSs. Supplying criticals by sub then overland. Busting those Yaks in was a feat in itself.”

  “Yeah, and it’s not like them to be so smart,” Hunter said. “That’s what’s got me worried.”

  “Wait until you see this,” Dozer said. He produced a pouch that was marked TOP SECRET and handed it to Hunter. “One of Fitzie’s boys flew it in late last night, up and across Free Canada. And in the shittiest Piper Cub you’ve ever seen.”

  “Typical of Fitzie,” Hunter said, as he opened the pouch. “His intelligence guys are the best, but he’ll have them fly cheap junk.”

  His smile quickly faded as he read once, then twice, the telex-type message inside. “Oh God,” he said slowly. “This is very bad.”

  “When we asked Fitz to keep his eyes open on the East Coast,” Dozer said, his voice almost weary, “he blanketed the area with recon flights from old upstate New York all the way down to Florida. Got guys on the ground too. God knows if he ever thought that this is what he’d find.”

  “I think that answers your question as to who will be supplying the manpower—if not the missiles—for the Soviets, Hawk.” Jones said gravely.

  Hunter read the message over another time:

  SECRET TRAINING BASES … INFANTRY, SOME ARMOR FOUND IN PENNSYLVANIA. VIRGINIA. NORTH CAROLINA. GEORGIA. POSSIBLY MORE … HAVE I.D. FAMILY, PIRATES, AKS, MAYBE OFFSHORE MERCENARIES … ESTIMATE 10 DIVISIONS MINIMUM. FLYING UNDER CIRCLE FLAG. PHOTOS LATER.

  “The Circle!” Hunter spat the words out.

  “They’re for real, Hawk,” Jones said. “And in a big way. Not only is this ‘Viktor’ character, whoever the hell he is, whipping the Mid-Aks and The Family and God knows what other morons into a blood frenzy—the fucker is organized.”

  “If anyone else but Fitzie had sent this, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Hunter said. “But ten divisions! That could be one hundred fifty thousand men or more. At their best, the ’Aks and The Family couldn’t field one hundred twenty thousand guys, tops.”

  He was quiet for a moment, letting the new information sink in.

  “I wasn’t all that worried about this Viktor or The Circle until this,” Hunter began again. “Now it looks like everyone on the eastern side of the continent who wants to go play soldier.”

  “Could be some kind of cult,” Dozer said. “And he’s drawing in anyone who can shoot a gun and wants to eat. After losing Football City and Boston, I imagine there’s more than a few out-of-work Family soldiers or ’Aks out there.”

  “And what’s worse,” Hunter said. “We know that The Circle has the capability of producing weapons and ammunition. But if they were giving guns to only half these guys, it would mean that somehow, somewhere, there must be some major munitions factories or a large arsenal operating.”

  He bit his lip and was silent for a moment. “And if they can turn out one hundred thousand M-16s plus ammo,” he went on, “How hard would it be for them to start manufacturing SAM components? Russian SAM components. I mean, you don’t have to be Albert Einstein to figure out how to attach part A to part B. If someone’s giving you the directions, that is.”

  “Russian weapons factories? Here in America?” Jones asked.

  “That’s crazy,” Dozer said.

  “So is sneaking in a Mongol horde,” Hunter said, his voice going up one notch in excitement. “But that’s got to be it. It’s the missing piece. We’ve been trying to figure out how the Russians got all those SAMs into the country. The answer is: They didn’t. They didn’t have to. They’re being made right here!”

  “Using Russian blueprints …” Jones filled in.

  “Exactly,” Hunter said. “They could even have ten, twenty, Christ—a hundred little factories churning these things out. And how would we know? Look at all the abandoned territory just in New England. The microelectronics sites around Boston, Route 128. No one trashed those places when the New Order came down. No one used them during the good old ZAP day, but only because there was nothing there the Northeast Economic Zone could sell.”

  “But now there is …” Jones said.

  “And the Russians are buying.” Dozer said.

  “I’ve got a feeling that it’s more like a partnership,” Hunter said. “They both have what the other one needs. The Circle has industrial savvy and now they’re raising an army.”

  “And the Russians are providing the high-tech stuff and advisors,” Dozer said.

  “That’s a roger,” Hunter agreed. “It was a policy of theirs for years before the war—however crudely it was handled. They haven’t changed.”

  “But what’s their purpose?” Jones asked.

  Hunter shook his head. “It has to be what the Russians have wanted all along. They want to control America. And we’re the only ones who can stop them.

  The three men were quiet for a long time. Finally, Hunter broke the silence. “But, then again, we’ve got a few aces up our sleeves, too …”

  “As in ‘Top Secret’ aces?” Dozer asked.

  “God, do we have to reach deep down into our bags of tricks so early?” Jones said. “I thought we could keep those deep-sixed for ten, fifteen years.”

  “Me, too,” Hunter said, feeling his body fill with emotion. “But we’re going to be face
d with at least ten divisions of infantry, a small air force of Russians and a wall of SAMs that runs from Texas to the Dakotas.”

  “And not to forget the Mongolian People’s Mounted Army,” Jones said.

  “And the lid is coming off,” Hunter said. “Damned quick. Not only did I trade shots with their ‘comrade’ horse soldiers, they’ll be missing that Yak soon. Also their other Yaks were on the move earlier today. Heading south. Loaded for bear.”

  Jones poured another drink. “I’ve called an emergency meeting of Security Group tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll have to get some Texans up here, and some Free Canadians. It’s going to be their fight, too. Can we show the film you shot during your trip to the ’Bads? They’ll need convincing.”

  Hunter pulled on his jacket and got up to leave. “If the Marines will help, I can have an edited print along with ballpark locations by noon tomorrow.”

  Dozer also got up, grabbing what was left of the whiskey bottle. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to spend the night watching movies,” the Marine captain said.

  “That’s right,” Hunter said. “Remind me to tell you how I grabbed the Yak later …”

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WASN’T UNTIL LATE the next morning that they found out why the Soviet Yaks were scrambled on Hunter’s last day in the Badlands.

  A small, camouflaged Lear Jet, carrying markings of the Texas Air Force, touched down at the base shortly before noon. Its occupants flew in to attend the emergency Security Group meeting that Jones had called. Hunter had finished developing the last reels of his aerial recon film and as commander of the PAAC-Oregon air base, he was on hand to meet the Texans.

  He watched as the jet taxied into the visitors parking area. A squad of monkeys materialized out of nowhere and proceeded to block off the airplane. The jet’s whining engines started to wind their way off as the door to the airplane opened and two Texans stepped out. Both were tall, of course and dressed in the standard issue uniform of the Texas Air Rangers—blue one-piece flight fatigues, snakeskin boots and no less than a ten-gallon cowboy hat.