The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  His excitement was cut short. He heard the unmistakable whine of a propeller airplane as it was turning to attack. He looked out and saw an A-l coming in at wavetop level, heading straight for the Memorial and his position.

  He was up and firing the M-16 in less than a second. The A-l was fitted with a Vulcan cannon, which now opened up. A rain of shells exploded around him. Hunter kept firing away trying to puncture the engine beyond the whirling prop enough times to make it stall. But the airplane was on him. Two bombs released from its wings and seem to hang in the air. With quick precision Hunter pumped four shots into each bomb, exploding one in mid-air and deflecting the other to fall short of the Memorial and into the water.

  He knew he’d just made two of the luckiest shots in his career. He couldn’t duplicate them if he tried. That’s why he didn’t want to be in the conning tower when the airplane came back. He quickly slammed the safe shut again and slipped it into his backpack. Then he was back down the conning ladder and running down the ship’s deckways toward the gangplank.

  The entire base and city were now under a crushing attack. It seemed like the entire sky was filled with airplanes—bombing, strafing, twisting, turning, diving. Another swarm of A-1s had joined the attack and they were mercilessly pounding everything from the dock to the skyscrapers nearby. He could see people running in terror through the streets outside the base. But no one was rushing to mount a defense from the inside.

  He remembered the APC he’d seen near the base’s main gate and ran toward it. There were a few sailors—all in the dirty, unpressed uniforms—running about, looking confused. Their commander—McDermott—was nowhere to be found.

  Christ, where are the officers of these sailors? Hunter thought. No matter where he looked, he saw only enlisted men. It quickly became apparent that he would have to rally a defense.

  He grabbed a sailor and pointed toward the APC.

  “Can you drive that thing?” he yelled to him. The man nodded uncertainly. “Then let’s go!”

  Hunter dragged the man with him toward the tankish-looking personnel carrier. There was a .60 caliber machine gun mounted on it with a belt of ammunition hanging off its side. Hunter crossed his fingers and hoped the gun would work.

  Zig-zagging through the rain of exploding bombs and fiery debris, he and his reluctant ally reached the vehicle and climbed on-board. Explosions were going off all around them. A huge fire raged just 20 paces from the tracked vehicle. Some of the attacking Skyraiders were strafing the APC, trying to take out what they had identified as the only formidable piece of gunpower on the base.

  Hunter knew he had to move fast.

  The sailor crawled down into the driver’s seat, while the airman positioned himself behind the big gun. He squeezed the .60’s trigger. The gun bucked. He squeezed again, it bucked once, then twice. “C’mon you mother …” He squeezed again. This time the gun kicked and a short burst streamed out of the muzzle. “Solid,” Hunter yelled, turning to the man at the controls. “Get me down to the pier!”

  Slowly the APC creaked to life and right away Hunter knew the thing was a shitbox. Black smoke was belching out of the back, nearly choking him and making them a perfect target for the angrily buzzing Skyraiders. The engine sounded like it was going to throw a rod. The nervous sailor was driving like he’d just drunk a fifth of bad scotch. Somehow they dodged the shrieking bombs, the building fires and the smoking debris and rolled out onto the pier.

  Despite the absolute lack of return groundfire, the A-1s were relentlessly pressed home their attack. Hunter had no idea who the attackers were, but they were polished airmen, he knew that much. The attack was being conducted in a very effective workmanlike manner. They had done this kind of thing before. The airplanes were all painted in the same uniform gray color, too, indicating some kind of organized force, as opposed to just a pirate gang. The only insignia he could see was three small red dots painted on the tails. Where the attackers came from or why they would choose to strike at the defenseless base and city was a mystery. But it made no difference to him. He didn’t really care who they were. One of America’s most precious memorials was in danger of being destroyed and he refused to let it happen without firing back.

  He had the sailor drive right past the Arizona on out toward the furthest point on the pier which ran about a hundred yards out into the harbor. The bombs were falling uncomfortably close to the Memorial. At least he could draw some of the fire from it. As the APC bumped its way along, Hunter spotted his first target. It was a rogue A-l sweeping in from the north, just 10 feet off the water. The attackers had become emboldened and were now flying slow and easy, routinely depositing their bombs.

  It was their mistake. Hunter lined up the first A-l in his sights and opened fire on it, no more than 50 feet away from him. A stream of shells walked up the surface of the bay toward a rendezvous with the Skyraider. Unlike his M-16 bullets, the .60 shells were able to rip into the airplane’s fuselage. Hunter moved the stream of fire up to the airplane’s canopy. The pilot, finally realizing he was under attack, tried to accelerate. But Hunter saw his bullets hitting the plane’s bubble-top and, just as it was passing out of his range, the airplane’s canopy shattered and exploded. Its pilot mortally wounded, the A-l turned up slightly, then twisted and plunged into the water, exploding on impact.

  He thought he heard his cohort let out a cheer, but Hunter didn’t have time to celebrate. Another A-l was bearing down on them from the south.

  “Back up! Back up!” Hunter yelled to the driver. He had to stay moving or the Skyraiders would eat him up. The APC slammed into reverse just as he unleased another burst at the A-l coming in at him about 300 feet away. This time he aimed at the Skyraiders’ external belly tank. The shells hit home and the fuel inside the teardrop shaped tank exploded, obliterating the airplane just a hundred feet away from them.

  Suddenly, a stream of cannon shells raked the APC from the rear. Hunter swung the big gun around to find another A-l bearing down on them. But before he could squeeze off a burst at the attacker, the vehicle was buffeted by a second accurate barrage, this one coming from his left. It was another Skyraider, sneaking in low and from the west. Hunter knew in a matter of seconds, the APC would be caught in a deadly crossfire.

  He yelled at the sailor to bust the thing into forward and the driver rammed the APC into drive. The transmission screamed. Hunter was nearly knocked out of the turret and off the back of the vehicle. Recovering, he swung the gun around did some instant calculations then took careful aim on the first A-l’s starboard wing. He counted to three, then pulled the trigger and a two-foot section of the airplane’s steering control ripped away. This caused the big prop plane to bank suddenly to the right and directly into the path of the second attacker. The two A-1s hit head-on a few seconds later. The sound of the blazing collision was tremendous. A rain of smoking debris fell all over the APC. This time, Hunter didn’t have to yell to the driver, he had already jammed the APC back into reverse. The two Skyraiders, now strangely joined, plunged to earth, striking the pier near where the APC was seconds before. The airplanes exploded again, then kept right on going, taking out a large section of the dock and sinking into the harbor.

  Hunter whistled. That was too close. A momentary break in the action let him take stock of the situation. He was glad to finally hear some return fire—feeble as it was—coming from the city itself. Probably Tribesmen firing their small arms at the attackers. He could see a few sailors were up and about and doing the same thing.

  The attack was gradually winding down. In twos and threes, the A-1s were dropping the last of their bombs and turning away off to the west. He told the driver to stop. No more Skyraiders came within his range. Within a minute, the attackers were gone.

  They spun around and rolled forward again, back toward the base. Nearly half its buildings were in flames, as was a good portion of the city. Survivors were staggering about the docks, some still in their sleepwear. Those few who had taken part in th
e defense were half-heartedly celebrating. Some of them rallied around the APC.

  But Hunter knew the celebration was premature. High above the harbor he saw a single Skyraider slowly circling. He knew it was a spotter plane, charged with assessing the damage of the sneak air attack—and identifying targets for a second strike.

  “They’ll be back within two hours,” Hunter told the ragged sailors around the APC.” Get your asses in gear and find your CO. Get something coordinated with the people in the town and be ready when they come again.”

  He then climbed down from the APC and clasped the hand of the sailor who did the driving. “Thanks, pal. What’s your name.”

  “Murphy, sir,” the sailor said. “Mark Murphy.”

  “Well, Murph, you done good.” Hunter told him. “Hang in there.”

  “But where are you going, sir?” the sailor asked, nervous that the man rallied the small but effective defense was now heading off. Other defenders started to air the same view.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” Hunter said, “I’ll be back.”

  With that, he was sprinting for the base’s main gate, the precious black box firmly in his grasp.

  It was close to noon when the second wave of 12 Skyraiders appeared over the western horizon and bore down on the base again. But things would be different this time.

  The A-l flight leader looked over his shoulder and caught a glint of reflection coming out of the sun. It was moving too fast to be one of his Skyraiders. In fact, it was moving too fast to be any other kind of prop airplane. It must be …

  Before the pilot could get his thought out, his airplane exploded into a thousand flaming pieces, the victim of one of the three Sidewinder missiles heading toward his formation. As soon as the other A-l pilots saw the explosion they began to react. But just as quickly, two more of their number fell victim to air-to-air missiles.

  Before the Skyraider pilots knew it, a red-white-and-blue F-16 was spinning wildly through their formation. It came out of nowhere. A thick, steady cough of flame was coming out of its nose. Pieces of Skyraiders were flying everywhere. Not one of the A-1 pilots thought of shooting back. The F-16 pilot was acting like a wild man behind the controls. Every time the jet fired, its cannons hit something.

  The would-be attackers tried to scatter. The F-16 launched another Sidewinder. The heat-seeking missile was attracted to a hot-running Skyraider piston-driven engine, slamming home just below the pilot compartment. The A-l flipped over and went down. Another Sidewinder clipped the tail portion of an A-1, splitting it in two before carrying on and impacting on another luckless Skyraider nearby. A third missile managed to lodge itself into the underbelly of another airplane, pausing a few frightful seconds before exploding.

  Its six missiles spent, the F-16 roared after a group of three retreating A-1s, cannons blazing. One by one the airplanes dropped into the sea. By the time it was over, only two of the 12 Skyraiders escaped, and that was only because the F-16 broke off the attack. The last they saw of the jet it was streaking off to the east and climbing. Whoever the hell the crazy man in the F-16 was, he had singlehandedly prevented the second wave of attackers from going in and finishing off the targeted base and harbor.

  The A-l pilots knew their employers were not going like the story they would have to tell them …

  Back on the ground at Pearl, a combined sailor-tribe gunmen force had watched the spectacular air battle off in the distance. They cheered as the surviving A-1s scurried away. They would not have to fight off another attack. Then, they saw a lone airplane was criss-crossing the sky high above them, leaving behind long, white contrails that eventually took the shape of a huge “W.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  HUNTER RETURNED TO HIS base in Oregon only long enough to turn over the black box to Jones, get a quick briefing and make preparations to take off again. This time, he was flying the captured Yak. His destination: Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.

  Jones had filled him in on the situation in the Badlands. Another convoy had been attacked; this time 31 airliners were shot down passing over the northern top of South Dakota. This was the last convoy to attempt to fly over the middle of the continent. By now, every convoy jockey knew that someone was shooting at them from the Badlands. It would still be a matter of days before they knew just who it was.

  Jones told Hunter he had ordered both PAAC-Oregon and PAAC-San Diego on to a First Class Red Alert. The Texans had taken the same action. Dozer and some of his airborne troops were at the moment flying in the Crazy Eights and scouring the western edge of the Badlands, looking for an acceptably large place where the PAAC jet fighters and other aircraft could set down. Once this forward base of operations was found, Jones planned to start sending elements of PAAC aircraft east.

  On the other side of the Badlands, St. Louie was organizing an airlift evacuation of Football City. Huge C-5 transports, courtesy of the Texas Air Force, began shuttling in and out, their routes being covered by Texas jet fighters. It was a strategic and intelligent retreat. The two Circle army divisions closing in on the city were too big and too well-equipped to try to fight off, especially since Football City was still recovering from its massive war against The Family. Instead, St. Louie sent his squadron of elite F-20 jet fighters to harass the advancing enemy, giving him enough time to lift out his small civilian population and his well-equipped army.

  Mike Fitzgerald of the Syracuse Aerodrome was also forced to bug out. He knew it was a matter of hours before The Circle would be at his southern flank. Although his famous F-105 fighter-bombers could have inflicted much damage on the advancing army, he agreed with Jones, in a scrambled conversation they had had the night before, that the splendid Aerodrome Defense Force would be needed in the effort to take out the Soviet SAMs in the Badlands. Early that morning, a long convoy of Free Canadian army trucks and buses arrived at the Aerodrome and started loading on anyone at the outpost who wanted to get to the relative safety of the country to the north. Most of the people at Syracuse took advantage of the offer. As soon as the non-combatants were evacuated, Fitzgerald ordered his regiment-sized ADF armored unit to head out in their own trucks, driving east toward Lake Erie, warning and picking up civilians along the way before diverting into Free Canada by way of Buffalo. A contingent of Fitzgerald’s ground troops—the World War II GI-clad Border Guardsmen—were the last to go. As ordered, they had destroyed anything valuable they couldn’t carry, burned all the left-behind food and poisoned the water and liquor supply. After detonating huge blockbuster bombs along the center of the Aerodrome’s runways, the soldiers jumped in their big Chinook helicopters and flew away. When The Circle Army reached the Aerodrome less than a day later, they found the place smoking and empty.

  Long before he evacuated Syracuse, however, Fitzgerald had dispatched a large contingent of his undercover agents into areas coming under control of The Circle. These spies would be the eyes and ears of the democracies—first-hand witnesses to the madness that was sweeping the continent east of the Mississippi.

  Already their reports were filtering in …

  All across the eastern half of the continent, they said, regular army units loyal to The Circle were sweeping through small towns and villages, signing up eager recruits and impressing the not-so-enthusiastic, to fight in “The War Against the West.” It was a road show rivaling the fervor of a religious revival. Walls and billboards were painted and posters plastered up anywhere and everywhere—all proclaiming the righteousness of attacking the governments of Texas and west of the Rockies. “Manifest Destiny!” one poster read, “Recover our profitable lands! The oil of Texas, the mineral rich mountains of Colorado, the beachfront property of California are being held unfairly by the greedy governments of the West.” Only by war could the people of the East claim what was “rightfully” theirs.

  The rallying cry was all that was needed for the thousands of rogue soldiers who had been wandering the countryside, especially in the south ever since the break-up of the Mid-Aks and the
destruction of The Family. Making war was their trade. Most of them carried a festering hatred for the forces that now made up the armies of the West, for it was these same warriors who had defeated them in the Northeast and at Football City. Along in the ranks with these veterans were the raiders, bandits and outlaws who knew it was more profitable to fight with an army than on their own. Many grounded air pirates—no longer able to keep a working jet fighter in order—joined up too, a number of whom became officers in the ever-expanding army.

  But it was the raw youth of the East—teenagers who were too young to fight in the big war and had grown older in New Order America—who filled the infantry ranks of The Circle Army. Living a hand-to-mouth existence for several years made these recruits particularly vulnerable to Viktor’s brand of adolescent propaganda. It was widely rumored that, per Viktor’s orders, the chow at the recruiting camps was liberally sprinkled with feel-good drugs. Long hours of indoctrination followed for a new recruit, along with rudimentary military training and a promise of a bag of gold once The Circle captured California. In six weeks, The Circle had its “perfect grunt”: drug-addicted, brainwashed, armed and foaming at the mouth.

  So with this unhealthy mixture of cynical battle-hardened veterans, whipped-up teenage fodder and many freed prisoners, habitual criminals, psychotic murderers thrown in, the Circle Army could boast close to 180,000 men under arms. All under the tight control of the minions of the mysterious Viktor—a man they had never laid eyes on in the flesh.

  And conveniently unmentioned in all the hoopla was that the Russians would be providing air defense cover over the frontline in the catastrophic war to come …

  Hunter started to get shivers about a hundred miles south of Devil’s Tower.

  The sun was just setting on the day he began in Hawaii. His body was pumping with adrenaline. The news of the frenzy sweeping the East was upsetting, but he couldn’t let it get to him. The importance of the recovery mission had long ago overridden the less human concerns, such as peace of mind, eating a good meal or sleeping. His concentration had to remain focused on retrieving the second black box. The massacred convoys. The retreats from Syracuse and Football City. The Russian SAMs. The Circle. The slaughter that was about to begin. Dominique. Everything had to become secondary. Just get the box, he told himself.