Wingman

by Maloney, Mack;

  “How come?” Hunter asked. “Highway system destroyed?”

  Jones nodded. “Not only are there no reliable roads, but like I said, there are some really bad characters living out in the middle of the country—and there are more than a few of them.”

  There was a distinct chill in the general’s voice.

  “They’re all crazy, Hawk,” the senior officer said. “They’ll blow your head off just as soon as look at you. They live in filth and squalor. They steal everything they can get and get it any way they can.”

  It sounded to Hunter like New York City. “Who are these people? Why did they turn so—anti-social, so quickly?” he asked.

  Jones removed his baseball hat and ran his hands through his hair. “Who knows? ICBM shell-shock? Or exposure to nerve gas? Or maybe this hallucinogen gas the Reds sent over. Maybe this is what a man becomes when there is anarchy, I don’t know. A guy in Boston told me there were a couple big prisons in Kansas that were busted open when the bombs started falling. He said it was done on purpose, by persons unknown, just to disrupt the recovery. Other people say that the wardens were just giving the prisoners a chance to save themselves. Whatever, a lot of them survived and some banded together and decided that the best way to make it in this brave, new world was to take what you want and kill if you had to get it.

  “It’s a treacherous place, these days, Hawk, my boy. That’s why they call it the Badlands.”

  The Badlands. Hunter filed the term away in his memory, to be recalled many, many times.

  “You mentioned ‘air pirates,’” he said.

  “Can you believe it?” the general said, taking a belt from the flask. “They’re everywhere! That’s what makes me believe that these people in the Badlands aren’t just escaped cons or shell-shocked victims. The pirates got air bases out there! They are at least peacefully co-existing with the creeps. They have aircraft and they have to be getting fuel to be flying the stuff. That shows there’s some kind of intelligence working. I mean, it takes more than a driveling idiot to fly a plane.”

  “Or fix one,” Hunter added.

  “Right,” Jones nodded. “Well, however they’re doing it, the skies are very dangerous. And not just over the Badlands, either, although that’s where it’s the worst. These guys are flying all over the continent and out at sea.”

  “What are they flying?” Hunter wanted to know.

  Jones had to laugh. “Anything and everything, Hawk. You wouldn’t believe what’s still around. First, the pirates started showing up in old shitkicker jets like F-80s, F-84s, even a few F-94s, from what I hear.”

  Hunter immediately recognized the planes. They were Korean War vintage and early 1950s models. Sub-sonic stuff.

  “And that’s just the beginning,” Jones continued. “Lately the bastards have been seen flying more advanced stuff—F-101s, F-104s, F-106s, lots of F-100s.”

  “Interceptors!”

  “Right, they must have gotten into some Air National Guard bases, or something. Maybe even Wright-Patterson sold them the hardware. Who knows? That stuff might be old, but it’s still very effective.”

  Hunter thought for a moment. F-80s, ’84s, 94s, really anything in the double digits was slow, built before the sound barrier was broken. The F-100 Super Sabre was the first mass-produced jet to do it. Then anything made after that—the F-101 “Voodoo,” the F-102 “Delta Dagger,” the F-104 “Starfighter,” the F-105 “Thunderchief,” the F-106 “Delta Dart”—were all supersonic fighters. The Thunderchief, which pilots in ’Nam called “Thud,” was one tough fighter-bomber. The others were quick, rocket-firing planes built when the threat from Russia was thought to be through a bomber attack, air raid sirens, the whole bit. Before ICBMs became the rage. And the Navy had a whole different family of planes, carrier attack craft like A-4s. Most of these jets had made their mark in Southeast Asia. American ingenuity had turned planes originally built to protect the North American skies and seas into camouflaged birds of death, a horror in the skies above the rice paddies.

  “But,” Hunter said, “if the pirates have some Air National Guard bases, they must also have some later stuff. A-10s and the like.”

  “They probably do, Hawk,” Jones confirmed. “But as you know, those planes are for ground-support. Tank busting, that sort of thing. The pirates are more interested in catching you in the air. They jump you and either you land where they say, or they shoot you down. You can try and get away, but they fly in wolfpacks, just like the Luftwaffe did. It’s hard to outrun a dozen or so fighters. That’s why it’s so hard to move materiel back and forth to the Coasts.”

  “So, how do you do it?” Hunter asked. “You said something about ‘convoys?’”

  “Yep. Convoys.” Jones answered. “The Northeast is the major trading partner with the Coasters. We both assembled a lot of airliners. Boeing 707s, DC-10s, DC-9s, 727s. Anything big and airworthy. They ripped out the seats where they had to and made cargo carriers out of them. That’s how ninety percent of the goods get delivered. We have a big convoy that leaves Logan Airport in Boston every three days. The time changes for security reasons, but anyone hanging around can tell when a convoy is getting ready to leave. I mean, it’s hard to hide getting forty, fifty airliners getting ready to fly.”

  “And the pirates have spies, I assume,” Hunter said.

  “You assume right there, Major,” Jones said. “They know when we’re coming and they attack just about every convoy we send out. They get a few planes every time. Mostly, they shoot them down. But sometimes they can place a rocket or a cannon burst in just the right spot, enough to disable it. If the pilot brings the plane down relatively softly, there may be something left over for the pirates to take as booty. So if a plane is disabled, or if they catch a plane trying to make it alone, the pilot knows they’d just as soon shoot him down, so he is more inclined to land the thing and take his chances.”

  “And you have to fly over their territory to save fuel?”

  “Right again. We can’t waste a drop, even at the expense of losing a few birds.”

  “Well, I know it’s hard in a plane like an airliner,” Hunter said. “But why don’t the pilots just bail out?”

  “Because they’ll shoot you anyway. Always remember that. They’ve shot at parachutes. Christ! That’s child play for them. They hijacked a plane about a year ago. This was when people actually flew from coast to coast. The pirates forced the pilot to land at one of their bases, the airport in Tulsa. They put a gun to his head and told him they just wanted the plane and that they would let the people go. He really had no choice but to believe them, and as it turned out, he was the first one to get it. Then they lined up the men and shot ’em all, right on the runway. They killed off all the old women, and the young ones they could screw, they did. It was a massacre. That ended regular passenger service for a while.”

  “That’s just plain terrorism,” Hunter said. “What’s the point of it?”

  “That’s just it, Hawk,” Jones said, anger creeping into his voice. “There is no point, other than to destabilize the country, which, if you haven’t noticed, is already pretty unstable.

  “Some people say ‘It’s their turf.’ It gets into that old territorial thing. But I don’t buy it. There’s something behind it. Something—or someone—is controlling it. It’s too coordinated to be so random, but they try like hell to make it appear that way.”

  “Who would be behind it?” Hunter asked. “These Mid-Aks?”

  Jones was silent for a moment. He looked out to sea. “Maybe,” he said finally. “They are crazy. They’re worse than the pirates in a lot of ways. I have no doubt that the pirates get fuel and stuff from them. But airplanes? I just don’t know. The Mid-Aks aren’t big on air power. They’re more concerned with who’s got the biggest army. In fact, they’ve got the biggest goddamn army on the continent already.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Well, there are some screwballs running things in Chicago,” Jones said
, shaking the flask and taking a drink. “The Family, they call themselves.”

  “Religious zealots?” Hunter asked, taking the flask from the general.

  Jones laughed. “No, although we’ve too many of those running around too. The Family is nothing more than the crooks who were running things in Chicago behind the scenes when the war started, come out in the open. They didn’t miss a beat. They were out collecting ‘taxes’ the day the New Order came down. They’ve also built up a large army, some airpower, too.”

  The older man thought for a second, pulling on the end of his unlit cigar. “But Chi-town’s pretty close to the Badlands, so I think they’d just as soon leave the pirates alone,” he said.

  They were both silent for a few moments. Hunter letting all the new information be absorbed; Jones trying to untangle all the seemingly loose ends of the destabilization that was sweeping the continent.

  “I just don’t know,” Jones said finally. “The pirates, the goonies in Chicago, even the ’Aks are getting support and—I think guidance, if not direct orders—from somewhere. I just don’t know where. I do know it’s getting worse. A big convoy left Boston last week. More than seventy planes in all, including escorts. The pirates knew they were coming. Chopped them up something terrible. Shot down thirty big planes. What a horror show.”

  One word sparked in Hunter’s mind. “Escorts?” he asked, looking out on the nearly empty base.

  Jones immediately read his thoughts. “Patience, my boy,” he said, taking the last swig from the flask. “No, we’re not in the escort business. That’s a job for free-lancers. And they can have it.”

  “Free-lancers?”

  “That’s right. Free-lance fighter pilots. It’s the latest rage. Get yourself an airplane and get hired out to ride shotgun for the air convoys. Good money. Trouble is, you rarely live long enough to spend it.”

  “How come?” Hunter was fascinated.

  “Because, you’re the first one the pirates go for,” Jones said coolly. “You can be flying an F-14 with Sparrow missiles up the ying-yang, but if twenty F-80s jump you, it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Unless …” Hunter said slowly. “Unless you’re good enough.”

  Jones looked at him. “That’s right, Major,” he said. “And you’re the best pilot ever to sit behind the controls—better than anything I’ve ever seen or heard about. And there isn’t a person left standing who knows airplanes who would disagree with me if I said you could probably be the richest man in this continent within a year. You’d be in demand. Leading convoys of seventy-five, shit—one hundred planes or just some rich cat who needs his diamonds moved via a Piper. You’d be the man they’d want riding shotgun.

  “But I don’t think you’re that greedy. I don’t think it’s in your make-up. Free-lancers will shoot for anybody—for the highest bidder. Half of them would sell out to the pirates for the right price. And it’s happened. A convoy flying along all of a sudden loses its escorts? Next thing you know, boom! jumped by the bad guys.

  “No. Not you, Hawk. Maybe if you had to earn a quick buck someday, you would do it. But you’re the type of man who has to fight for a flag. Fight for something to believe in. For a cause.”

  With that, the general lifted the rim of his cap and shielded his eyes against the morning sun. He was looking for something, far out on the ocean on the eastern horizon. It was nearly a cloudless day and the sun was bouncing off the sea, forming a huge field of sparkling, floating jewels.

  The general was still, his eyes squinting. Suddenly, Hunter realized how quiet it was. There was no wind. The symphony of seagulls’ squawks and other sea fowl squeals was silent. Even the waves seemed to have temporarily halted their relentless crashing against the shore.

  Then he felt it.

  He didn’t close his eyes for this one. He wanted to see it first. An excitement started to shake him. Slowly, a distant roar, getting louder. More intense. Angry. Powerful. An almost heroic sound.

  It was a sound he knew well …

  Then he saw them. Five specks just above the horizon, each trailing a thin, gray, wisp of smoke. They were getting louder by the second. He knew it would soon be unbearably loud, but he waited for it with glee.

  Closer and closer, the specks grew bigger, their forms taking shape. They were no more than 25 feet above the waves and flying in a perfect chevron formation. About a half mile out, Hunter began to recognize wings, and tail sections and air intakes and engine noise. He managed to steal a quick glance at Jones. The general had a smile a mile wide.

  Instantly, the jets were right over them. Head up at a 90-degree angle, Hunter took a mental snapshot of the five fighters as they were right above him. They seemed to hang in the air. He felt a thrill shoot from his head to his heart down to his toes and up again. These muthas were flying!

  The leader was flying an F-4 Phantom. A Viet Nam-era fighter-bomber, the F-4 looked like someone had shut the hangar doors on it before it made it all the way out. Its wings were cranked upward on their ends, while the rear stabilizers were bent downward. There were reasons for the bizarre shape: air down-wash, lateral stability, dihedral angles. It was an ugliness that only a pilot could love. The plane, though decades old, had a lot of guts in its day—it could fly at 1450 mph—and was always a favorite of flyboys. It was the only thing the Air Force and the Navy ever agreed on. Both services flew them. Hunter could see a 20-mm cannon on each wing, with two Sidewinders and an old Bullpup missile hanging underneath. The Phantom was loaded for bear.

  The leader’s wingman was flying an F-8E Crusader, a plane nearly 40 years old, yet still deadly looking. It was the first aircraft carrier-launched plane to break 1000 mph, and saw a lot of action in Viet Nam. Its entire wing could tilt upward by about seven degrees, giving it a humpbacked look, but making it easier to set the baby down on a bouncing carrier. The jet was armed with two 20-mm and what looked like about 2000 pounds of bombs. It had been ages since Hunter had seen one and he couldn’t imagine where the general’s people had found it.

  On the leader’s port wing there was an A-7 Corsair that looked to be carrying a Seapup missile as well as some anti-personnel bombs. Strangely, the smallish plane was just a more recent, down-sized version of the F-8 Crusader. The Navy used them during the early ’80s and some of them saw action in Grenada and over Beirut. An odd little plane—this one was a two-seater and looked like a trainer—Hunter had never flown one, but knew there were a lot of them in Air National Guard units at the outbreak of the war.

  The two remaining planes were T-38 trainers. A simplified, stripped-down version of the kick-ass F-20 Tigershark, it was the type of plane Hunter flew at NASA for training purposes. In fact, he was sure he recognized these two particular jets as NASA property. Each plane carried an Exocet missile, jury-rigged to its fuselage.

  It was an odd menagerie of aircraft, representing different eras of flight, different services and different missions. Each one was painted in the same green color as the general’s suit, and it looked like someone had done the job with a paintbrush.

  The planes streaked overhead, and pulled up as one, staying in formation, and angling up 80-degrees. The after-noise hit as did the wash from the low-flying jets. Hunter felt the wind and the smoke and exhaust mixed with the spray kicked off the ocean from the powerful machines hit him right in the face. It felt beautiful.

  He looked at Jones. The older man’s smile hadn’t dulled an iota. “Dawn flight,” he said, producing a new cigar and ritually spitting off the end, “That was our Air Patrol.”

  The planes peeled off and, in sequence, began their landing approach. Five minutes later the fighters were taxiing up to a hangar where Hunter and the general were waiting.

  The canopies opened, a ground crew appeared and placed a ladder beneath each cockpit of the still whining jets. The first three pilots to emerge Hunter had never seen before. And he didn’t recognize the other two until they were down from their planes and had removed their flight helmets. Sudd
enly he realized he was looking at two smiling, familiar faces.

  Captain J. T. Toomey. Lieutenant Ben Wa. Two pilots from the old Thunderbirds team.

  It was good to see them. They had performed together for a year before the war and had been tight—just like all of the T-Bird teams over the years. Then they went to war together. Never did Hunter think he’d see them again. But here they were.

  “Hey, flyboy,” J. T. “Socket” Toomey started off. “What do you think, that the world stops turning because you go off and live on some mountain like a yogi?” Toomey was the designated Mister Cool of the group. He was ruggedly handsome, with a face that looked like an ad for an aftershave.

  Ben Wa, the crazy hula-hula boy from Maui, gave a deep, solemn bow. When he was made a member of the team, people scoffed that the Air Force was including him as a token Oriental. That was before these people had seen him fly. Wa let his wings do the talking.

  “Good to see you, Hawk,” the diminutive Wa said, smiling. “Can’t do any tricks without The Wingman.”

  “I only see five planes,” Hunter countered, with a laugh. “What am I going to fly?”

  At that moment, he would have flown the Piper Cub.

  Toomey and Wa looked at the general.

  Jones only smiled. Relighting his cigar, he motioned to the group to grab Hunter and lead him toward the back of the hangar. Even members of the ground crew had stopped attending to the jets and followed the group of pilots to the last bay in the building.

  It was covered floor to ceiling with a white drop cloth. The only thing Hunter could see inside the shroud was the glare of two powerful lights, throwing weird shadows around the inside of the structure.

  Without fanfare or suspense, Jones drew the curtain back and revealed what was behind.

  Hunter felt a lump immediately form in his throat.

  Sitting before him was the most beautiful F-16 ever built.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS HIS OLD airplane—the F-16 he had flown when he was a member of the Air Force Aerial Demonstration Squadron, as the Thunderbirds were officially called. He had last seen it just before reporting for his NASA shuttle training.