The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  Most bizarre of all, one of the helicopters had come in low and a man with a camera was hanging out of its hatchway, filming the action.

  “What the fuck is this?” the tanker captain screamed. “A pirate movie!?”

  He was close …

  As he watched the dozens of men scramble over the sides of his ship, he ordered the men on the bridge, “Stop those bastards!”

  His second in command turned to him and asked, “How?”

  The captain looked at him in a rage. “Shoot them, asshole.”

  The officer glared back at him as the film chopper passed right by the bridge. “Shoot them? You’re the asshole. You start firing on this ship and we’ll go up like an atom bomb.”

  The captain knew he was right—one spark and the whole ship would go up. There was nothing he could do but watch helplessly as the sea-jackers continued to swarm over the side of the ship. Within a minute, they had overwhelmed his crew.

  Five men burst into the bridge, one of them a small man dressed in strange uniform, carrying a saber and wearing a hat like Napoleon.

  “I am Commodore Antonio Vanaria!” the little man roared. “I declare this vessel captured and claimed in the name of the Freedom Navy!”

  The supertanker captain and his eight crew members were put in a lifeboat and set adrift. Twenty minutes later they heard a great roar coming from the north.

  “Christ! What the hell is that!” one of the crew members cried out.

  Another spotted a series of dots materializing on the northern horizon. “Look! Out there, low over the water.”

  The captain and the crew were stunned. Heading right for them were four chevron waves containing four jet fighters each. The airplanes were flying so low, their tails were nearly touching the wave tops.

  “Who are they?” someone asked.

  The supertanker captain knew his airplanes. The majority of the ones approaching him were swing-wing Tornados—eight of them in all. The green camouflage jets were loaded with antiship bombs. One chevron was made up entirely of cream-colored Swedish Viggens, each carrying two deadly racks of air-to-surface missiles. But it was the first formation of jets that was most impressive. This lead wave was made up of three Harrier jump-jets and a fighter that the captain didn’t think existed any more.

  “Christ, is that an F-16?” he asked himself.

  “Get down!” someone yelled. “The fuckers are going to swamp us!”

  In a moment the first wave passed right over the lifeboat. The roar was deafening. The hot exhausts did stir up the sea enough to make the surface foaming and choppy, but not enough to capsize the boat.

  In enviable precision, each wave passed over the lifeboat and disappeared over the southern horizon—heading directly for the “hidden, air-strike-proof” sea base off Panatella.

  “Start paddling,” the captain said after the jets had disappeared from view. “Head northeast. We might make the shipping lanes off Malta.”

  Then, looking back to the south where the exhaust trails of the jet fighters were still visible, he muttered, “We’re lucky those sea pirates hijacked us. The last place I’d want to be right now is Panatella … ”

  The jets attacked without warning. As the helicopter containing the video crew hovered from a safe distance, the Tornados went in. Flying in pairs, they headed right for the neat line of Beriev flying boats. Cannons blazing, the British jets methodically ripped up the amphibians. After two passes with cannon, the Tornados commenced their missile attack, using modified antiship rockets. One by one, those flying boats not destroyed in the strafing runs exploded with missile hits. At the end of three missile passes, the Tornados withdrew, and climbed to 10,000 feet to provide air cover for the rest of the strike force.

  The Viggens went in next. They concentrated on the converted oil platform, sending a murderous barrage of small air-to-surface rockets into the huge, ten-story structure. The missiles were penetrating the tough outer core of the floating building, crashing through to its center, and exploding within. Soon the structure was rocking back and forth with the power of the blasts. Its massive struts—connected to concrete counterweights below the surface—started to bend in the ferocity of the attack.

  Still the Viggens attacked relentlessly. A huge fire broke out on the platform’s upper stories. Its topside crane came off in one direct hit, coming down with a mighty splash. Soon the platform was noticeably leaning to the port side, all of its floors belching fire and smoke. Bodies could be seen falling from the upper floors.

  Two trailing Viggens swooped in and delivered the coup de grace, a pair of direct hits on the platform’s left-side struts. They took the full weight of the explosions, tottered for a moment, then gave way. The whole structure collapsed, falling over on its side in a massive, fiery crash. The four Viggens regrouped and flew over the utterly destroyed platform, each jet performing a 360-degree victory roll.

  In the confusion, several pilots attempted to take off in the small sea-jets. But the Harriers were on hand to prevent that. Two sea-jet pilots gunned their engines and tried to make a break for it, ripping across the sea surface, hoping to escape in the pandemonium.

  But the sea-jet pilots were terrified to see two Harriers hovering over them, watching their every move. The Harrier pilots waited for the sea-jets to lift off. Then two Sidewinders flashed out from their wings. Scratch two sea-jets.

  “Strike Leader, this is Group Commander Heath.”

  “Go ahead, Group,” Hunter answered. He had been orbiting the action at 5000 feet, on the lookout for any antiaircraft weapons. There were none.

  “Major objectives hit and destroyed,” Heath reported. “We will clear the area now for your run.”

  “Roger, Group,” Hunter replied.

  The three supertankers were moored at the edge of the facility, somewhat isolated from the rest of the action. The other jets had purposely left them alone—there was no way the attackers knew if the tankers were loaded with fuel or not. Had they had that information, one jet with one missile could have swooped in, fired on the tankers, set one ablaze, and the whole facility would have gone up.

  But as Strike Leader, Hunter decided to play it safe. An attack on the empty tankers would have been a dangerous waste of time. That’s why the strike force systematically destroyed the base’s airplanes and headquarters before going after the supertankers.

  That would be Hunter’s job …

  He was carrying a Shrike missile, an antiradiation “smart” bomb that was usually targeted against radar installations. They had retrieved several from the Sardinians and Hunter had done some last-minute modifications on its guidance system.

  He had wired the missile so its warhead would home in on any kind of radio signal, even one as small as a ship’s intercom. But in doing so, he knew, the missile would have to be fired at close range, not the usual fifteen-mile “fire-and-forget” firing distance intended for the Shrike.

  Once Hunter was sure the rest of the strike force had cleared the area, he brought the 16 down to wave-top level. He streaked along the surface, lining up the first tanker—a rust bucket with a large, faded orange Gulf ball on its smokestack.

  Fifteen seconds out, he armed the missile. Everything went green on his weapons-control displays—the missile was now “hot.” Ten seconds out, he raised the 16’s nose slightly, and throttled down.

  Five seconds out he hit the Launch button …

  He felt the jerk under his left wing as the Shrike took off. He instantly put the F-16 on its tail and booted it. If even one of the tankers had any fuel in it, he wanted to get as far away from the explosion as possible.

  He was at 3500 feet when the missile hit. Looking back on it, he theorized the Shrike must have gone right through the first tanker, out the other side, and into the middle vessel. The explosion was delayed by five seconds. But when it went off—it went off big …

  Hunter felt the shudder as the heat wave rose from the exploding tankers. He put the jet over onto its back at
5500 and was surprised to see the flames were licking at his tail.

  “Christ,” he said, having to flip down his sun shield to look at the mighty explosion. “What the hell were they carrying? Nitroglycerin?”

  The explosion was so powerful, the fireball so intense, it knocked out about a third of his avionics plus his UHF radio. He looked back once again and saw the shock wave had created a whirlpool in the sea. A mini-hurricane swirled around the remains of the base, sucking in and pulling down everything around it into a maelstrom of fire and smoke. He could feel the artificially created winds rock the jet fighter from side to side. It only took fifteen seconds—then everything—the burning airplanes, the cratered tankers, the collapsed oil platform—was gone, drawn into the vortex and quickly covered over by the sea.

  “That’s what you get for screwing around with us,” Hunter said defiantly.

  Chapter 28

  THE TUGBOAT APPROACHED THE island of Malta and set anchor about a half-mile off the partially fog-shrouded coast. Three hooded men—Heath, Hunter, and O’Brien—were crowded into the boat’s high mast, sharing a pair of powerful binoculars. Off in the distance was the island’s capital city of Valletta. At the moment it was being plastered by an aerial bombardment.

  “Blast, this is the last thing I expected to find going on here,” Heath said, passing the spyglasses to Hunter. “Is there anyplace in the Med that isn’t at war?”

  “Welcome to World War Three, the fifth chapter,” Hunter said dryly.

  “Any idea what kind of airplanes are doing the job, Hunter?” O’Brien asked.

  “It’s hard to say,” Hunter said, scanning the cloudy sky for any sign of the anonymous attackers. “By the rate the bombs are falling, I’d almost guess they were old-timers. Jets. First-generation jobs. Not a lot of them—maybe six, maybe seven. No fighter escort either.”

  “Well, this puts a crimp in our plans to resupply here,” Heath said. “The way it looks, the Maltese won’t have a thing to sell.”

  “Good thing we solved our aircraft fuel problems,” Hunter said, referring to the Commodore’s daring sea-pirate attack and capture of the Exxon Challenger. The ship, now part of the Saratoga flotilla, was filled with JP-8 aviation fuel.

  The three men waited for the bombing to stop, then pulled anchor and entered the harbor.

  There was no one on the docks, no one in the streets. The three men cautiously got off the tug and headed toward the center of the city, avoiding areas that were still on fire. They had been walking for a few minutes when the sounds of air-raid sirens went up all over town.

  “Not another raid,” Heath said.

  “No, probably more like the all-clear signal,” Hunter said.

  Sure enough, as the sirens wailed away, people began emerging from cellars and hardened buildings. The citizens routinely went about their way, some pausing to discuss the latest destruction. Hunter asked for directions to the nearest military facility and was told to head for the city’s municipal building.

  The structure, itself partially damaged, had a strange flag flying from its top above the sign that read: “Malta Self-Defense Force.”

  They went inside and were soon introducing themselves to the commanding officer of the MSDF.

  “Yes, we’ve heard of you and your carrier,” the officer, a man named Baldi, told them. “But resupply? We’re just barely holding on here ourselves.”

  “Who’s doing this to you?” Hunter asked.

  “Those bastards of the Sidra-Benghazi Gang,” Baldi said, spitting out the name. He was a large man, possibly a weight lifter in his younger days. He wore a red-and-brown camouflage uniform and a vintage World War I helmet.

  “The Sidra-Benghazi Gang?” O’Brien asked. “The name sounds familiar. Are they Libyans?”

  “Yes, they are based on the coast of Libya,” Baldi said. “But they’re from all over. Bandits, thieves, cutthroats, murderers. The dregs of the Mediterranean. They all wind up with the Sidra-Benghazi.”

  “Don’t you have any antiaircraft capability?” Hunter asked. “Or fighter protection?”

  Baldi shook his head. “When the Big War started, the British were here in force. Then, as the battles heated up, they gradually were drawn away. Soon we were without any protection at all. Sidra-Benghazi know this. They’ve been bombing us regularly for about a year and a half. We hear they are trying to raise an army of paratroop mercenaries to invade us, but as you guys know, good help’s hard to find these days. We can’t pay as much as Lucifer or your own Modern Knights can.

  “In fact, our only armed forces now are some ex-Royal Navy UDT guys.”

  “UDT?” Hunter said. “Underwater demolition teams? That’s interesting … ” His mind flashed back to the report they’d received about the Russian ships laying mines in the Canal at Lucifer’s bidding.

  “What kind of bombers are they using on you?” Hunter asked.

  “Russian-built, what else?” Baldi said in disgust. “Old Bisons, mostly. What you must understand is the Russians are everywhere in this part of the Med. They are in league with that demon Lucifer. Their armies may be depleted, but Lucifer has the manpower now. The Russians supply the instruments of death, then let their lackeys to the fighting.”

  “What’s their SAM capability back at their bases?” Hunter asked Baldi.

  “The best,” the man replied. “We did hire a mercenary group about a year ago. Bunch of Finnish guys flying some old shitbox Italian fighter-bombers. They reconned the Sidra-Benghazi coastline, flew back here, and gave me our money back. Too many SAMs. They didn’t want any part of it.”

  “What’s their bombing timetable?” Hunter asked.

  Baldi thought for a moment, then said, “It’s like clockwork. Every other day, just before noon. They awake, eat breakfast, fly here at a leisurely pace, bomb, and get home for a late lunch.”

  Hunter was getting an idea. “Mr. Baldi,” he said, “how would you like to make a deal?”

  Two days later, just before noon, radar operators on one of Olson’s frigates stationed off the southern coast of Malta picked up eight blips on their radar screens. The news was flashed to the Saratoga, where Hunter sat in the F-16 waiting for launch.

  “Okay, major,” he heard the launch officer say over the radio. “They’ve got eight bogies coming in at two-niner Tango. Airspeed three-four-six knots.”

  “Roger, Launch,” Hunter answered.

  He felt the steam pressure build up under the fighter. The launch officer twirled his finger, then pointed an emphatic signal. In an instant, Hunter was hurled back against the cockpit seat and the jet was roaring off the carrier.

  “From zero to one hundred twenty MPH in two seconds,” Hunter thought. “I’m beginning to enjoy this.”

  His launch was quickly followed by the three Harriers, taking off the conventional way to save fuel, plus two Viggens. Once all the airplanes were aloft, they formed up into two three-plane groups and headed southeast.

  Hunter began monitoring all radio frequencies immediately, searching for the band the Sidra-Benghazi bombers were using. After five minutes, he finally got lucky. The pilots were talking in Arabic, but he recognized enough flying terms to know it was the Bisons.

  He called back to the carrier. “Monitor one-two-five-six UHF,” he radioed to the CIC radio operators. “We’ve got some Med Arab dialect.”

  “That’s okay, Major,” the reply came back. “We’ve got an expert standing by.”

  Hunter smiled. He knew that the commander of the Moroccan desert fighters was in the CIC, ready to translate.

  They tracked the bombers as they routinely swung around the northeast side of the island and prepared to start their bombing approach. While the CIC monitored the routine chatter between the bomber pilots and passed the translation on to the Saratoga pilots, Hunter activated his radar-monitoring system. Unbelievably, the Bison pilots hadn’t switched on their long-range airborne radars. In fact, he was willing to bet the cost-conscious mercenaries didn’t bothe
r to carry an air-defense radar man. “Boy, they are leisurely,” he thought.

  The Bison group pilot began to drop down through a thick cloud bank to his bombing altitude. As soon as he broke through the overcast, he noticed a glint of light off to his left. He was startled to see a F-16 fighter jet riding just 200 feet off his wing.

  He looked to his right, hoping to turn that way to escape when he saw a Harrier riding on that side too.

  He was trapped and he knew it.

  Suddenly a strange voice broke in on his group’s frequency. It was the Moroccan troop leader. The pilot listened to his ultimatum: follow instructions or all eight of his airplanes would be shot down. The pilot—a hired mercenary with no real loyalty to the Sidra-Benghazi faction—agreed.

  As instructed, he followed the F-16 …

  One by one the eight Bison bombers circled the abandoned RAF Malta base and came in for a landing.

  Hunter was there to meet the bombers, having landed before the mercenaries. There was also a battalion of Moroccan Marines on hand to surround the Soviet-built bombers once they reached their taxi stations. Unexpectedly, the troops were needed to keep away angry Maltese citizens, who showed up to throw rocks, bottles and, in one case, a fizzled Molotov cocktail at the bombers.

  The pilots were immediately handcuffed and led away to a Maltese jail. “If they are worth anything,” Baldi said, “we’ll be able to ransom them.”

  Now Hunter and Heath and six other carrier pilots climbed into the Bisons, along with other assorted members of the carrier force. Each airplane carried a Moroccan officer, plus a bombardier, a navigator, and a radar operator who knew what he was doing. The airplanes were refueled and their bomb loads checked. Within ten minutes, the Soviet-built airplanes were roaring off the runway, heading south for the Libyan coastline.

  The hired-hand radar officer stationed at the SAM base at Tripoli yawned. It was almost the end of his shift. His assistant—a corporal just hired for the station—called his attention to the eight blips on the radar screen. They were approaching from the north, he said, flying at 340 knots.