by T I WADE
“Chinese soldiers on American soil?” questioned the general.
“Yes, sir!” a smaller boy added.
“Real Chinese gooks, sir!” stated another boy.
“Is everybody in town okay?” asked Buck.
“Yes, sir!” stated the eldest boy. “The Chinese soldiers and several Americans in fancy clothes flew in, in jets, and took over the town. They left us civilians alone, but killed the dozen guards at the detention center and released all the prisoners and over a week flew them out from this airport.”
“Weren’t you guys snowed in?” asked General Patterson.
“Oh yes sir, over three feet of snow on the runway and the airport staff, who were also murdered, were first forced to clear it for the jets. A helicopter, a Chinese helicopter came in before the jets and landed the first soldiers, about six mean Chinese dudes, who got our guys here to clear the runway. Then these fancy jets came in with a bigger Chinese propeller airplane full of men and a couple of jeeps, and sort of took over the whole town.
“We had a small base of army soldiers just outside town, and they didn’t stand a chance. The Chinese killed all 20 of them, and then headed over to the prison. And, on their way through town they searched out every truck or car that was still working and shot its engine to pieces. They searched every house and business in the town and blew up all the radios people used to talk to others in the outer areas. Then they shot all the prison guards, took the prisoners, flew them out, and we never saw them again.”
“How many prisoners,” asked the general?
“About 225, Colonel,” stated one boy.
“General, to you young man, I was a colonel a month or so ago,” General Patterson smiled.
“Sorry, General,” the young boy replied. “It took them about a week, my dad was a cook at the detention center and was not there when they murdered his friends.”
Once the F-4s had been topped off with fuel they took off for Dillingham, 250 miles to their southeast, where the two Cessnas were soon due to land. General Patterson waited for the two jeeps and then did a complete surveillance of the town and detention center. The inhabitants were living well, had enough food and fuel for another few months, and told them that he would get a C-130 in with more generators, fuel and food before winter. He thanked the boys for their good information.
* * *
Preston was two miles behind the gunship and ahead of Sally, going in on finals for Dillingham airport when a new voice came over the radio.
“Easy Girl, this is Foxtrot Four Leader, do not, I repeat do not land until we check out the airport. We are at Foxtrot Lima (Flight Level/Altitude) 21, 900 knots and 150 miles out from your location, ETA, ten minute. Over.”
“Roger, abort landing,” replied the pilot of the gunship. “Aircraft behind me abort landing, climb, and follow me around. Out!”
“Roger that,” replied Preston and he retracted the undercarriage, decreased his wing flaps and increased the engine’s revs as ordered.
Sally did the same and Preston climbed hard, following the dot of Easy Girl in front of him. She was climbing away rapidly and he had the Cessna’s turbocharged engine on full power.
Minutes later, the F-4s swooped over the town of Dillingham, now a couple of miles ahead of them and Easy Girl headed down to also search, telling the two smaller aircraft to stay above 10,000 feet and wait for orders.
Twenty minutes later, with the F-4s heading back to Anchorage, Preston climbed out of the Cessna and headed towards the main terminal of Dillingham Airport.
A frightened voice in the airport tower, on seeing the F-4s fly over a few hundred feet above the airport and fully armed, stated the airport was safe, still under American civilian control, and nobody had seen anything odd since New Year’s Day, when nothing worked anymore.
The enemy was not based here either.
* * *
Mike Mallory’s head hurt badly, and he regained consciousness to feel a bandage being put around his head.
“How long have I been out?” he asked his Southwest flight attendant who was bandaging him.
“About eight minutes since those sods left. Twelve people dead and two still alive but won’t make it. I think that radio communication stopped them from killing all of us. That guy shot people until he ran out of ammo and then left. I watched them, and they are setting up some sort of shoulder rocket launcher outside, close to the main runway. The radio is dead. What do we do Mike?”
“Get somebody up to the control tower. Those guys sounded pretty rural and hopefully didn’t think about destroying the control tower,” he replied.
“We watched them enter the four aircraft out there, the FedEx Cargomaster, the two Red Cross aircraft, and the one we flew in on, and we heard gunfire. I think they destroyed all the aircraft’s instrument panels.”
“Okay, help me up; let’s get to the control tower. It was quite a way, and they had to climb several flights of stairs to get up there. The door was locked and several of the men helping Mike up the stairs kicked it in.
“We always lock it down for the night,” stated one of the men as they entered. Mike quickly checked the closest radio. It was still operational and he quickly found the frequency the C-130s would be using.
“Medford to incoming Charlie-130s, Medford airport to Charlie-130s, are you reading me? Come in. Over. ”
“Who are you? State your identity, over.” crackled the old radio.
“Mike Mallory, Southwest Captain under orders from PattersonKey. Do not go onto finals, enemy combatants on Medford runway with rocket launchers and you will be shot down! You need air support to clear the runway,” Mike stated into the microphone.
“Are you crazy Captain, or whoever you are? But we will abort and circle. Do you have direct communications directly to PattersonKey? Over.”
“Charlies, abort long finals and stay low, let’s circle until we find out what’s going on down there.”
Mike Mallory breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, Charlie 130, somebody has gone to get my phone. Do you have contact with any fire power? I believe these guys are American; they have modern weapons by what I can see, and heat-seeking, or infra-red possibilities. Get somebody out here to clean them out. They have four civilian trucks mid-runway on the runway crossover, both left and right side, civilians and amateurs, but dangerous. They just executed a dozen of our staff. Twelve causalities down here. Over.”
“Wait one,” the pilot responded and the radio went silent for several seconds. “We have two Foxtrot Fives taking off from an air base to our south. ETA fifteen minutes, carrying heat for the guys on the ground. One Charlie 130 coming in closer to circle and keep them interested. We found an open section of highway about five miles north of the airport. Two jeeps are on board one of our aircraft and I will get them down and send them your way while I direct the heat onto target. I‘ve been told Medivac Charlie 130 enroute to you now as well. Over.”
Mike Mallory sat in the air-traffic controller’s chair, asked for a set of binoculars and looked along the horizon line from the control tower. He could just make out three flying dots west of the airport and spreading out to do their thing.
Then he looked towards the men half a mile away on the main runway. They had pointed one truck facing southeast and one pointing northwest on either side of the longest runway and directly on the crossing point of the two main runways. Mike could see dozens of men dressed in civilian clothes around the four vehicles; four had what looked like shoulder rocket launchers, modern looking ones, at the ready. Boxes of rockets or missiles were being unloaded and made ready and most of the men were using the vehicles as protection.
His head hurt like crazy, his eyes watered as he tried to focus, leaning on the desk to steady the glasses. Then he saw a military uniform, and it wasn’t American. It was a foreign uniform and had lots of red braiding on the breast and shoulders, and an odd style military hat.
“Crap!” he said aloud, as a second and a third soldier wearing th
e same uniform climbed out of the front seat of the same black truck. It had a shell over the rear bed and a couple of the American civilians ran towards the vehicles and began lifting off the rear shell. Mike noticed that it was a 1970s or early 80s Ford with an extra-long bed. He held his breath at what he saw once the shell had been tossed away.
“Charlie 130s, I have just seen three Chinese soldiers climb out of a truck. Men have pulled off the rear shell of one of the trucks, an old black Ford F-350, and there is some sort of anti-aircraft rocket launcher on the rear. It looks mean and deadly. Over!”
“Roger that. Confirm Chinese soldiers, and can you count how many missiles ready? Over.”
“There are two missiles on two different gun-looking launchers. Four in total,” Mike replied.
“Roger, that. Wait one,” and the radio went silent as the operator in the aircraft must have been checking with his control center. “Charlie 130 to ground, they could be Chinese LY-60s, we are in trouble and pulling back. Out!”
“All Charlie 130s get down low immediately, possible Chinese Mach 3 missiles on the airport. Charlie 130 Leader to Foxtrot Five Leader, did you hear the conversation with base? Over.”
“Loud and clear,” came a new voice over Mike’s radio. “Foxtrot Five Leader to ground spotter, we are ten minutes out and incoming from the south. Which way are the rockets pointing over?”
They are working on them now,” replied Mike. “At the moment they are all pointing skywards, but I can see that they are mobile as one has just done a three-sixty. Over.”
“Foxtrot Leader Roger, nine minutes out. Charlie 130 Leader, can you begin long noisy finals onto main runway 32 from the south. Go in very low and keep just above the buildings. I want you to be a decoy over. Get their attention in five minutes, we are going hot. Out.”
Even Mike Mallory knew that going hot meant lighting their afterburners, and he watched the men below him. “Everybody get down; they also have binoculars and could look this way at any second.” There was a rustle of body movement as bodies dropped just as one set of Chinese binoculars held by the high-ranking Chinese officer with lots of red braid turned towards the control tower.
He swept the tower for a whole minute, Mike watched the man trying to look through the darkened glass, and then somebody shouted something and pointed towards the south and all the binoculars turned in that direction. So did Mike and he saw a lone C-130 turning in to set up for finals a couple of miles south of the airport. A second C-130 was visible a couple of miles behind the first one and he assumed that the men on the ground had heard the noise of the aircraft’s engines as they were too low for the men on the ground to see the very low-flying aircraft.
“Charlie 130 Leader to Foxtrot Five Leader, we are at 400 feet, three miles from the airport and turning in on finals.”
“Roger that. We are coming around and need 90 seconds. Stay low and we will go over the top of you. Out!”
“Foxtrot Leader to Ground Spotter, we need wind direction, speed, direction of aiming missiles and which way the target is focusing their attention. Over.”
“Wind coming in directly from the west, windsock looks like about 3 to 5 miles an hour, missiles facing incoming Charlie 130s from the southeast and all targets facing south. Over.”
“Roger that, Ground. You say four vehicles together on mid-runway crossover, confirm final target please. Charlies, stay under 500 feet. Thirty seconds to target, will have visual in 15 seconds. Over.”
Mike confirmed the target, which looked like they were ready to fire at the incoming C-130s. As he put his binoculars down, he saw two dots silently sweep over the runway from the north at about 500 feet and suddenly two lines of red fire erupted from several hundred feet to the north of the enemy trucks and sped towards the unsuspecting men who were beginning to look up. Then there was an almighty explosion as the flames engulfed the four trucks and all hell broke loose as the windows in the control tower shook and vibrated as explosion after explosion slammed against the reinforced glass.
Once Mike realized that the glass wasn’t going to break he looked over the window sill and was shocked at what was going on down there.
* * *
“Foxtrot Four to Charlie 130, the airfield looks safe. We will stay up here at 10,000 until you can confirm that. Over.”
The C-130 went in followed by Preston and then Sally. The airport looked deserted and three blackened circles showed where three small aircraft had once stood.
The Marines were out and within ten minutes declared Dillingham Airport safe. The F-4s headed back to Elmendorf and it began to get dark and rain looked pretty close. Preston’s satellite phone rang.
“Preston, Patterson here. I’ve just had a message from Mike Mallory in Medford Oregon. Something about an attack by Chinese soldiers in Oregon of all places. He seems badly beaten up and his team has had several causalities. I have a 747 passenger jet incoming with Marines here at Elmendorf in 75 minutes. Leave the soldiers to guard Dillingham. You guys get your Cessnas back here, and I’ll wait for you.”
Within five minutes, Preston told Sally to follow him, gave orders to the soldiers on base and was pulling back slightly on the Cessna’s throttle and retracting his undercarriage. It would take them at least ninety minutes to fly the 300 plus miles back to Elmendorf at a fast cruise.
Two hours later, and with soldiers converging on Medford, and Oregon in general, the 747, which did not need refueling took off with an F-4 Phantom flying out to catch up to the larger aircraft.
Only one of the four F-4s that General Patterson had relocated to Elmendorf had all three of its extra under-wing fuel tanks fitted and Mother Goose was already heading 300 miles south of Elmendorf and would fly south so that the fighter jet could top her off with enough fuel to fly the 1,600 miles into Medford, only 250 miles further than its already extended range.
A high-cruise flight of three hours got the 747 down on a blackened, but cleaned up Medford runway. General Patterson had stayed on his phone for the whole flight, putting the country on high alert.
With no national communications, a pattern of calling one phone user and telling them to put out the alert on all radios in his area and also call several nearby bases with satellite telephone communication was the only alert system in place.
It took over seventy calls and three hours to get the whole of the United States on “High Alert”, where a year earlier it was virtually instantaneous. The general had ordered several C-130s to reinforce all the western air bases, in case there was more than one band of thugs, or enemy soldiers.
By the time the two aircrafts’ engines whined down, General Patterson was talking to the Air Force medical crew which had come in three hours earlier and transferred a dozen injured personnel to Travis Air Force Base, the nearest air base with full operating facilities.
Preston, Carlos, Martie and Sally found Mike Mallory in the airport’s small first aid center. He looked pretty bad. As he acknowledged their presence, the nurse tending him told Mike’s friends, that he had a bad concussion, had been given a pint of blood, some air force clothing to replace his bloodied clothes, and needed sleep. They noticed that his girlfriend seemed sedated, had a drip running into her arm and was asleep in the bed next to his.
They were asked to leave, and Mike weakly told them to give him an hour or two of sleep.
The four returned to find General Patterson looking through the terminal area which, even cleaned up, looked like a massacre had taken place. There were blood stains everywhere—floor, glass walls, chairs and signs. A Marine captain was updating the general with the information he received when he arrived twenty minutes after the two F5s had blasted the runway with napalm.
“The Charlie 130 flight leader ordered us, the third C-130 in line, down onto a clean stretch of Pacific Coast Highway, about five miles from the northern airport boundary,” the captain stated. “It took us several minutes to get down and out. As a dozen of us climbed into the two jeeps, we saw smoke coming from th
e direction of the airfield. We headed towards Rogue Valley International at top speed and crashed through the locked north gates to see half of the runway still lit up with napalm. We immediately headed towards the main terminal as the lead 130 came in on the northern section of the main runway. There was just enough room for her to land without getting her wings burned and we headed over to her to set up a secure perimeter. The runway smelled like cooked meat. It was bad. The Marines got out and Major Blakely ordered me to take my men to the terminal in the jeeps. They were no enemy in the terminal the civilian on the radio had reported. We got over there and it was horrible; twelve people, including seven air force dead, bullets in the head execution style. Then there were two civilian males and three civilian females, also murdered execution style. The rest were huddled in the control tower. This airline captain, Mallory, totally bloody from head to foot from a large gash or two on his head, was still on the airport radio keeping lookout. We had three medics with us, and they started helping the wounded, another dozen with head wounds from rifle butts and boots, and two of them had less severe wounds.”
“Let’s go and see the enemy position,” General Patterson ordered captain.
“Yes, Sir. We haven’t touched the enemy camp as you ordered, Sir. Major Blakely only cleared the runway for you guys to land.”
They all walked out of the terminal into air which smelled as if a hundred barbeques were cooking meat for a large gathering. Martie and Sally didn’t want to go and said that they were going to see if anybody needed help.
It was a grizzly scene. Four metal outlines of trucks could just be made out, as the ammo which must have exploded blew them to bits.
“General Patterson, Sir, over here please!” shouted a Marine major.
“Major Blakely, I presume,” stated the general, saluting back to all the men who had stood at attention and saluted.