“Then, they started sending their cozy ass ambassadors down here with gifts. Booze, women, even drugs. Trying to get me to sign a ‘mutual defense treaty’ with them.”
“Mutual defense treaties are an old Mid-Ak tactic,” Hunter said.
“Well, I’m sure they got it from these crooks that are running New Chicago,” St. Louie snorted. “They’re goddamn mafioso, is what they are.”
“I hope you didn’t pay them off.”
“No way. I kept telling them to go to hell with their protection money. They got mad. Sent more threats. I got mad. Locked up two of their ambassadors for a couple of nights, then threw their asses right out of the city. After that it was everything from death threats to warnings of all-out war. Luckily, I have some pretty good intelligence guys. I was able to send agents up there. They’d been warning that something like this might happen, but I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
“How would you match up against them in a war?” Hunter asked.
“We’re good,” St. Louie said. “Damn good. But they’ve got a hell of a big army. Free-lancers, mostly. At least sixty thousand standing. Who knows what they would call up in reserves. It’s an army of thugs. Lots of tanks, APCs and trucks.”
“And MIG-21s,” Hunter added.
“That’s just it,” St. Louie said, his voice rising in anger. “They never had an air force before. That’s why we never got one. We figured if they ever attacked us, it would be by land. We have a hell of a defense line out there called the Mississippi River. It practically surrounds the city. If you control the seven bridges crossing it, you can keep anyone out. But these MIG-21s change the balance of power. And …”
“And?”
“Well, there’s more,” St. Louie ran his hand through his white hair. “My spies tell me that they’ve spotted some Russians in New Chicago.”
The Russians. Orders from Moscow. Hunter had to think for a moment. The late, great General Jones had always believed that the Russians were operating, in some form, on the continent. Their aim was to keep things destabilized. Keep things out of kilter. Keep the people on the continent in disarray, so they could not become cohesive once again.
Hunter never quite bought it; his complex logic process prevented him from doing so, although, he too, had seen some evidence of it. The Russian rifles in New York City. The whispers of collusion between the Russians and the Mid-Aks. The East European cargo plane he had sabotaged at The Aerodrome. It was heading for New Chicago. Now the MIG-21s …
Things might seem to add up, but Hunter, as always, needed proof. The Russian army couldn’t fire a popgun after the war in Europe. They had been decimated, wiped out. No command structure, no weapons, no nothing. They had had a hard time consolidating their gains in conquered Europe. They had to rely on collaborators—like the Finns—to do their dirty work after the great battle. So how could they be operating over here? Could they have recovered so quickly in three years? He’d have to meet a live Russian, nose-to-nose, to believe it.
“Major,” St. Louie continued. “This was the reason I wanted to meet you. After you came through on the diamond shipment, I knew you were the man I needed.”
“This is the ‘business’ you referred to earlier?”
“That’s right. Major. Last week my agents told me that New Chicago could launch a ground attack against us within a few months. Now it looks like they are ahead of that schedule.”
“What can I do? I’m just one pilot. One plane. You need a whole goddamned air force.”
“That’s it exactly, Major Hunter.” St. Louie was speaking in all earnesty. “This city is a jewel. It’s the closest thing there is to the old days. Sure, it’s based on gambling. But men are free here, Major. There are very few places on this continent where anyone can make that claim. Those criminals want it. To ruin it. Rape it. Destroy it.
“We know this is not your fight, Major. But we also know that you are a patriot. And patriots are also in very short supply these days. We are hoping you will help us. Help us fight for this last bastion of freedom in this part of the country. If we go, all that’s left would be Texas and the Coasters.”
Hunter was quiet for a moment. His mind was flashing. Western Europe. New York City. The mountain. Otis. Baltimore. His rebirth in the hangar in Vermont. The Aerodrome. The Pitts. The Stukas’ base. Now, Football City. His search, his quest, his goal. Continue the fight for freedom. Fight for it until the last ounce of strength in his body was gone. For the brave men who died in the war. For the people trapped in the horror of New York City. For Jones and all he stood for. St. Louie was preaching to the faithful.
“What do you want me to do?” Hunter asked.
A wave of relief came across the older man’s face. He looked like a cowboy again. “I don’t care how much it costs. I don’t care what it takes. Get us some pilots. Get us some planes. Get us some ground personnel. Get us ammunition …
“Get us a goddamn air force!”
Hunter smiled. He was one step ahead of St. Louie. He knew where there were pilots and monkeys. Some were among the best in the world. And he knew where there were airplanes, also some of the best in the world. He also knew where there was a hangar full of bombs sitting on a mountain in Vermont. That would be a start. He loved a challenge. He loved the chance to strike a blow for freedom. Good or bad, Football City stood for freedom. It was worth fighting for. It was worth dying for.
“Mister St. Louie,” Hunter said, extending his hand to shake on it. “You’ll get your air force.”
Hunter reached into his back pocket. The folded flag was still there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE HUGE C-5 GALAXY cargo plane descended out of the sky above The Aerodrome, its engines whining, its landing gear kicking up a skid of smoke as they touched the runway. The C-5 was the largest airplane ever built. It was half again the size of a 747 Jumbo Jet and would dwarf a 707. It could carry close to 600 troops plus their equipment. Or move a half dozen tanks, APCs, trucks, jeeps, whatever. Few jobs were too big for the mighty aircraft.
The Galaxy was a rare sight these days. So a crowd made up of Aerodrome ground crews, was waiting when the big plane taxied up to its station point, its four massive engines still screaming. Fitzgerald was at the head of the crowd, his cigar billowing smoke, checking his watch. The giant plane was right on time.
The jet came to a stop and its engines began to shut down. The pilot’s hatch opened and Hunter climbed out. Those assembled gave him a spontaneous round of applause. He laughed and waved back. It had been a month since he’d left The Aerodrome and most everyone at the base knew he was helping Football City prepare for the impending war with New Chicago.
“We just can’t seem to lose you, Wingman,” Fitzgerald said, warmly greeting his old friend.
I’m just a stick jockey trying to make a living,” Hunter said. “You got my message. Is everything ready?”
“Everything’s set,” Fitz told him. “This is a bit risky Hawker, isn’t it?”
“Life’s a risk, these days,” Hunter answered. “How’s Aki? Mio?”
“Both well and waiting for you,” Fitzgerald said with a wink.
“Let me show you something first,” Hunter said, giving his co-pilot the thumbs up signal. Slowly, the entire blunt nose of the jet began to lift, like a giant fish opening its mouth. Fitzgerald could see the air crew was already preparing to unload the plane’s cargo.
A ramp was lowered and the first materiel offloaded were two dozen crates of various bombs, missiles, RPGs, and rifles, courtesy of the Football City Army. Next off was the first of two small, Cobra attack helicopters. With their rotors folded back, the bright red, diminutive choppers had the appearance of some kind of huge, alien insects.
“Cobras!” Fitz said, with admiration in his voice. “I been looking for one of them for years. How’d you manage to get hold of two?”
“Ever hear of the Cobra Brothers?”
Fitzgerald had to think for a minute. “The T
exans?”
“That’s them,” Hunter said. “They’ve been tearing things up down on the Mexican border for the past year. Things were real hot down there until lately.”
“Well, I heard a lot about them,” Fitzie said. “They’re the best in the business. You were lucky to get them.”
“St. Louis arranged it,” Hunter said, watching as the crews wheeled out the second Cobra. “He’s a Texan and he put out a call to his relatives back home. That’s where he got the C-5.”
“’Tis a fine airplane,” Fitz said, looking at the behemoth aircraft, then at the second Cobra. Each chopper was armed with twin M-16 cannons, which were placed on a turret located on the sharp snout of the aircraft. In addition to the cannons, the helicopter had short, stubby wings for missile firings. The two Cobra Brothers, who weren’t brothers at all, had also ripped out the second seat in each of the choppers and replaced it with firing control systems capable of handling everything from small anti-ship rockets to flame-throwing techniques.
Next to be rolled out was a larger, rather beat-up looking helicopter. Fitzgerald was surprised to see the battered old beast of a chopper wheeled out of the belly of the C-5.
“And what the hell is this, Hawker?” he asked, his brogue ringing.
Hunter only smiled. The large chopper sported a coat of chipped red and white paint, one cracked cockpit window and a piece of rope to hold the side hatch door closed.
“Well, I can see why you carried this monster in the Galaxy,” Fitzgerald said, looking at the beat-up helicopter. “It cannot fly, can it?”
“Oh, it does more than that, Fitz,” Hunter said as the crew finished wheeling the chopper off the C-5. “Come aboard. I’ll show you.”
“Just promise not to try to get the thing airborne,” Fitz said, inspecting a faded sign painted on the side of the chopper. It read: MAINE LUMBER COMPANY. Fitzgerald could only shake his head.
Stepping inside, though, he got a surprise. The interior of the helicopter was one long bank of computers, dials, switches, lights, flashing red, green and blue, digital read-outs, computer keyboards and video screens. Eight crewmen scampered around the inside, all dressed in blue flight suits and fighter pilot helmets.
“Mother of God, Hawker,” Fitzgerald said. “What’s this? A spaceship?”
The interior of the chopper did resemble a spacecraft. Actually it was a highly sophisticated firing platform, convincingly disguised as a flying lumber truck.
“Take a look,” Hunter told him. He pushed a control button and automatically a section of the helicopter’s bottom lowered, revealing a steerable missile firing platform. Fitz could also see more than a half dozen gun ports with M61 machine guns stationed at them. Three windows on the port side served three GE Gatling guns, each capable of firing 6000 rounds a minute. The walls of the craft held miles of belts of ammunition plus a potpourri of hand weapons from shoulder-fired SAM launchers to dozens of M-16s and Browning automatic rifles.
“What kind of helicopter is this?” Fitzgerald said, nearly flabbergasted at the aircraft’s potential destructive firepower.
“It’s an old CH-53E ‘Super Sea Stallion,’” Hunter told him. “The Texans found it in an abandoned Coast Guard station down on the Gulf. They gave it to St. Louie and he let me tinker with it a bit.”
“I see more than a bit of your hand in this,” Fitz said, gingerly touching the computer panels. “Who but the famous Hawker Hunter could make heads or tails of all this computer mumbo-jumbo?”
“Well,” said Hunter. “We did soup it up a little. It’s got three separate engines and we super-charged each one of them. We can lift ten tons for one hundred miles or five tons for two hundred miles. We have radar jamming equipment on board, stand-off missile firing capability, LANTERN night-fighting gizmos. Plus we can carry fifty-five people on board, maybe seventy if we squeeze them on.”
Fitz smacked his lips. “I’ve changed my mind, Hawker,” he said, only half-jokingly. “You have to take me for a ride in it some time. Show me what it can do.”
“If it’s still in one piece when we get back,” Hunter told him. “You got yourself a deal.”
Two hours later, a C-130 cargo plane landed at The Aerodrome. On board were Dozer, the two Cobra Brothers, plus a 25-man Special Operation unit, drawn exclusively from Dozer’s 7th Cavalry. Each member had volunteered to accompany Hunter on his quest to find an air force for Football City. Dozer’s commandos had trained day and night for the past month on air assaults, rescue techniques and special weapons handling. Dozer and Hunter worked with them separately, spending days on end, with no sleep, practicing, training, studying. In the end every last one of them knew there would be no time or leeway for screw-ups. Football City had become their home. Theirs would be the first step in what would prove to be a valiant defense of that city and its way of life.
Hunter spent the next two days at The Aerodrome going over the plan with the assault force and the next two nights, enjoying the erotic delights of Aki and Mio. They could feel a distance in him this time, though. His mind was a million miles away. Thinking about the mission. Fitzgerald noticed it too. The night before the assault team was to pull out, he split a bottle of bourbon with his friend.
“It’s a dangerous one,” the Irishman told him. “Are you sure about using minimum air support?”
Hunter nodded. “Can’t muck it up with jets this time, Fitz. We got to go in, hit them, get what we went for and get the hell out of there. The Cobra Brothers will keep them busy while we’re in and help us shoot our way out.”
Hunter produced a map and read it over for the thousandth time. “The Cobra Brothers will take off tomorrow at dawn,” he told Fitz, reviewing his scheme one last time. “They’ll arrange the refueling stop in Quebec. Then they’ll meet us here.” He pointed to a small speck of land off the coast of what used to be the state of Maine.
“Then,” he said, “We’ll all head out for the final destination and hope we find a full house when we get there.” Fitzgerald looked at the map and where Hunter’s finger was pointing and then poured them both a drink.
“To success,” Fitz said, lifting his glass to toast.
“I’ll give your regards to the Mid-Aks,” Hunter tapping the point on the map labeled: BOSTON.
“I’m lucky in two respects,” he told Fitzgerald. “First of all, St. Louie has spies everywhere. Damn good ones too. Without good intelligence, we’d be flying by the seat of our pants.
“Second, I have one hell of a strike force. Jesus Christ, they’re good, Mike!”
“Yer just lucky,” Fitz said. “Makes me wish I could go with you.”
“You could do me a big favor by staying here,” Hunter told him earnestly.
“Will it be good or bad for my business, now?”
“I won’t answer that,” Hunter laughed. “What I need is someone to feed the intelligence I get from St. Louis to me while I’m out there. He has guys right in the city for Christ’s sake, watching the ’Aks every move. I need that edge.”
“Consider it done, Hawker,” Fitz said. “I can still play ‘neutral’ and slip a radio message to you now and then.”
“I knew I could count on you, buddy,” Hunter said, draining his drink. “Well, time to go.”
“Good luck, Hawker, my friend,” Fitzgerald told him, clasping Hunter’s hand with both of his.
“Thanks, Mike,” Hunter said. “I’ll see you when I get back.”
Thirty-six hours later, Hunter was watching the sun rise out of the Atlantic Ocean, and start its climb across the sky. He looked around at the bivouac. It was a smoky collection of tents and sleeping bags, two campfires, a cauldron of hot, morning stew on one, a pot of boiling coffee on the other.
They were on an island just a stone’s throw off the southern coast of the old state of Maine. Hunter knew the place from his childhood. It was well-forested and difficult to see from the air. There were fields large enough to handle the three choppers on the mission. It was barely more than an
hour flying time to Boston. Here they would review the plan one last time. Here he would begin his war against the Mid-Aks in earnest.
Even though the Mid-Aks now controlled the Northeast Economic Zone, the invaders had been wise enough to leave the Down Mainers alone for the time being. The typical Mid-Ak arrogance didn’t jell at all with the Mainers, who, on their best days were only downright ornery. The Mainers didn’t blink when the coup went down in Boston. They just kept fishing and farming and cutting wood. The wood was turned into lumber and the lumber would be transported down to Boston in helicopters, and it would stay that way just as long as someone was on the other end to buy it. Boston politics was about the last thing to concern the people in Maine.
So he knew the assault force would be safe to hole up on the deserted island, and to use the place to launch the attack. There were 25 assault troops—each one part of Dozer’s Battalion, all veterans of the New York City days and many battles since—the Cobra Brothers, the Stallion crew of six, Dozer and himself. He was proud of them; proud to be serving with them. In one short month, they had squeezed in more training than a Green Beret would get in a year. Good teamwork usually was the most important factor of any military operation, and this bunch, he had to admit, knew about teamwork.
He hadn’t slept the night before. Didn’t need it. He spent the night spelling the guards and rechecking the weapons systems in the Sea Stallion. The last intelligence report he had received, sent by St. Louie, coded and forwarded to the Quebec fueling system by the “neutral” Fitzgerald, said that the captured ZAP pilots were still being held in the Government Building. The report also confirmed the prisoners were jailed on the floors near the top of the building and that the security on the building’s top-floor helipad, was light.
He called the whole team together and briefed them once again. The Stallion would lift off first, exactly at noon, and, disguised as a lumber chopper, would fly right into the heart of the city. There, feigning engine problems if need be, it would wait, with the Strike Force hidden inside, until sunset when the Cobra Brothers would arrive and start their diversionary tactics.
Wingman Page 23