Hunter had confidence in his plan. Surprise would be his major advantage, but he also knew that the Mid-Aks had rudimentary radar around the city, at best. And bad radar meant bad SAM capability. He was sure the diversionary action would catch someone’s attention. The plan called for one of the Cobras to sneak into the harbor at wave-top height, and put two rockets into the side of a liquid natural gas holding tank near a docking facility that St. Louie’s agents had pinpointed. The target was perfect. Not only were there no civilians around for miles, but the Mid-Aks had foolishly set up an army ammunition dump close by. If the Cobra made it—and its trip required a rather perilous journey into the harbor and up the Mystic River, Boston’s main water flow that emptied into the ocean—a third of the city along with the Mid-Ak ammo dump would go up in smoke.
Hunter ordered the Stallion loaded up and soon the big chopper was lifting off from the island base. The Cobra Brothers waved as it ascended and turned south, toward the occupied Mid-Ak capital. He checked each detail of the plan once again with Dozer and the assault force’s five officers, only then was he completely satisfied everyone was ready.
It didn’t take a long convoluted explanation to the troopers as to why they were going to fight a thousand miles away from home. They knew what was at stake. Simply their way of life. Twenty-five had accompanied him on the rescue mission, but all 900 of Dozer’s men had volunteered. When it came to fighting for freedom, one usually never had to look far for recruits.
The Stallion cruised down the rocky coast of the former state of Massachusetts, passing over many abandoned cities along the way. The true sinister nature of the Mid-Aks hit home as Hunter looked out of the chopper’s window at the near-desolate landscape of Boston’s North Shore. Even after the war, the area had been alive, vital, working for the good of the Northeast Economic Zone. Now, it was practically deserted. The ’Aks had made good on their promise to evacuate the populace from all the coastal cities near Boston, except for those unlucky souls who were slave laborers. The invaders’ mentality dictated that all the coastal ports should be militarized to handle the seaborne trade. What they didn’t count on—call it arrogance, call it stupidity—was that most civilized people were loathe to trade with the Middle Atlantic occupying force. It was like dealing with the devil. The Northeast Economic Zone was now the Northeast Depression Zone. Business was bad for the Mid-Aks and it showed.
Hunter could feel the slow burn again rise up within him as he looked at the empty cities below. The Mid-Aks can’t even make a dictatorship work! Their problem was that they weren’t geared toward holding and occupying territory. Their threat was based on military strength, with little or no regard for consolidating their gains, or for taking advantage of the spoils of war, no matter how ill-gotten they were. Even Ghengis Khan secured and kept alive the trade routes he conquered. The Mid-Aks didn’t. They were in it simply for the blood-lust of war.
That’s why Hunter planned to give them a dose of their own medicine …
The helicopter flew right by the once bustling, now almost abandoned Logan Airport, without so much as a call from the field’s control tower. The Mid-Aks’ lack of security was laughable. They passed right over SAM sites which appeared not to even be manned. Several jet fighters sat sleeping on the runway. The wreckage of a crashed airliner decorated one end of a landing strip—wreckage no one had bothered to clear away.
They approached the skyline of downtown Boston, then made a turn to the north. Below was a deserted shopping mall, its merchandise long ago stolen by the conquerors, its buildings reduced to burnt-out shells. Even its huge parking lot was cratered. But the Stallion pilots found a level space big enough to put the chopper down.
It was a clear late spring day, but no birds sang and the trees were blossoming only reluctantly. Even Nature hated the Mid-Aks, so it seemed. The once-colorful, profitable city was now covered in a dull, prevailing gray. It gave more than a few of the strike force the shivers, although it wasn’t a cold day.
The troopers sat quietly inside the helicopter, each man going over the part he’d play once the mission got underway. Hunter sat in the cockpit with the pilots, simultaneously checking the time, the weather and the area around the shopping mall. As far as they could tell, there was no one around to see them land.
Suddenly, a Mid-Ak armored personnel carrier appeared in the little-used avenue next to the parking lot. It was speeding along as if on a routine patrol, when it slowed and then turned in their direction. There was a sharp, instantaneous crack as every trooper flicked the safeties off their guns all at once. No one spoke. Hunter used his hands to urge caution and calm, then pointed at two of the troopers who were given extra duties just in case this eventually rose.
The two Marines, named Russ and Stitch, were natives of Maine. They looked like it, acted like it and, most important of all, spoke like it. Hunter had arranged for these two only to be dressed in typical down Mainer fashion—lumberjack boots, heavy jeans, plaid hunting shirts, baseball caps. They would serve as the first dodge for getting rid of the Mid-Aks. Should they fail, the Stallion’s three GE Gatling guns would be sighted on the APC, a split-second push of the button away from spitting out deadly shells at the rate of 600 per second. A two second blast would evaporate the Mid-Ak vehicle and crew, but would also cause a commotion. Hunter knew the best tactic would be to talk their way out of it.
Russ and Stitch climbed out of the chopper, tool cases in hand, and pretended to head for the craft’s tail section. They faked surprise when the APC pulled up.
Six Mid-Aks leaped out of the back. Another, this one an officer, appeared in the access hatch of the tank-like vehicle.
“What’s going down here?” the officer said, as the Ak troops unshouldered their rifles and aimed them at Russ and Stitch.
“Chopper broke down,” Russ said in a flawless Down Mainer accent. “Got to fix it.”
“Why are you here?” the officer asked. “This is a restricted zone. You hillbillies could have been shot down by one of our SAM crews.”
That’s a laugh, thought Hunter as he watched the scene from the corner of one of the Stallion’s smoked windows.
“Chopper broke down,” Stitch chimed in, mimicking to the letter Russ’s accent. “Didn’t have no choice where to land her.”
“Well, looking at that piece of shit, it’s a wonder you made it down here at all,” the officer said, eyeing the seemingly bruised and battered flying beast. “Do you have your ID papers?”
“Papers?” Russ said, innocently. “Ain’t got no papers. Don’t need ’em at home.”
“You goddamn lumber jockeys,” the officer laughed. “When you gonna get civilized? Everyone needs ID papers to live in this region.” He turned to his troops and said: “Search the helicopter.”
Hunter bristled. He put his hand up, indicating to the gunner sitting at the Gatling guns’ computer controls to stand by. “Don’t screw it up boys,” he whispered.
“Suit yourself,” Stitch said, calmly stepping aside. “Nothing inside …”
“We’ll see about that,” the officer said.
“… Except the barrels of pig grease,” Russ said finishing his companion’s sentence.
“Pig grease?” the officer asked, momentarily stopping his climb out of the vehicle.
“Innards,” Stitch said. “Traded our lumber for twelve barrels. Strong stuff. Figure the smell might have clogged up the engine.”
He and Russ broke into a perfectly spontaneous two second laugh, then returned the dour expressions to their faces. The officer turned slightly pale. These guys should get an Academy Award, Hunter thought.
The Mid-Aks troops looked to their leader for guidance. Search twelve barrels containing bloody pig muscle, marrow and intestines? Even the Mid-Ak officer couldn’t order his men to do that.
“If there were some slaves around,” the officer said, settling back down into his position, “I’d sure as shit have them search that craft.”
He sniffed the
air. “Christ! I can smell it already,” he said, putting his hand up to his nose.
Talk about mind over matter, Hunter thought.
The Mid-Ak soldiers quickly did the same as their officer thumbed them back into the APC.
“Get that smelly piece of shit out of here, pronto!” he screamed at Russ and Stitch as the APC belched a cloud of black smoke and lurched away. “I don’t want it here when I come back this way.”
“Try our best,” Russ said, with a smile and a wave.
Once the vehicle was out of sight, Russ and Stitch climbed back inside the Stallion to a muted round of applause from the strike force.
“Pig grease?” Hunter asked them, smiling. “What the hell is pig grease?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” Russ shrugged, settling back down on his seat. “Closest I’ve ever been to a pig is eating bacon and eggs.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AS THE SUN BEGAN to set, anticipation began to rise aboard the chopper. Each man checked his black combat jump suit for ammo, hand grenades and the other necessities of hand-to-hand combat. Hunter looked around the interior of the craft. The assault troops were ready, helmets on, faces blackened, guns loaded. The chopper crew was ready, the pilot re-checking his instruments, the co-pilot fine-tuning the radar, the gunners lovingly patting their muzzles and testing their computer terminals.
Hunter checked the sun, then gave a thumbs-up signal to the pilot. The mighty rotors on the chopper began to turn, slowly at first, then gaining momentum. Soon, they were a blur of speed. The helicopter started to shake slightly, then whine as the engine came up to speed.
Hunter shook each man’s hand then nodded to the pilot. The chopper jerked once, then slowly ascended into the air.
Twenty miles off the coast of Boston, the two smaller Cobra gunships were streaking inland. They passed several ships who paid them no mind. Soon the outline of the city was visible. The sun was setting down in back of the skyscrapers which marked the downtown. At the entrance to the harbor proper. Cousin One waved to his partner and peeled off toward the skyscrapers. Cobra Two stayed over the water, soon picking up the twists and turns of the Mystic River tributary which connected the city to the Atlantic Ocean. Up ahead, using his infrared view-scope in the twinkling light of twilight, he could see his target—a large, orange fuel tank with the letters BOSTON GAS fading on its side. A ship was docked close by, its igloo-like compartments marking it as a LNG tanker. He thought he could make out an East European flag flying above it. “All the better,” he smiled, as he pushed his MISSILE WAITING button on the fire control panel.
Meanwhile the other Cobra was up and over the city, heading for the Government Building. The square, 52-story bluish structure that still had the name of its former owners—Prudential—painted on its peak. Below, the Cobra Brother could see the streetlights of the city burning away, some traffic on the roads, mostly military, and a few people ambling down the main streets. There were SAM sites located throughout the area, as well as AA guns. But amazingly enough, no one paid any attention to his bright red chopper as it made its way across the sky above the city.
He put the Cobra into a wide orbit high above the Government Building and waited. It didn’t take long until he saw the familiar Sea Stallion heading toward him. A blink of the Stallion’s landing lights was the signal he needed. He armed his TOW missiles and fired a short, test burst of his cannons. The waiting was over.
Hunter was squeezed into the cockpit of the big chopper as it approached the helipad atop the skyscraper. There was a token force of guards out on the roof. Hunter could see the charred remains of the rooftop communication shack that Jones had ordered destroyed the day the ’Aks first moved on Boston. Fifty-two stories below, he could see several Huey gunships, parked on the plaza next to the building. His memory of blasting the Mid-Aks’ main helicopter force at Otis raced through his mind. “Must have missed a couple,” he thought.
The Stallion was now hovering above the helipad, the Mid-Ak guards looking on impassively. Choppers probably touched down and took off from the building several times a day. There was no central flight control. Helicopters just came and went. The guards looked on the Stallion as just another visitor—although, as helicopters go, a fairly grubby one.
The Stallion brazenly set down. The assault troops were up and ready, fingers on triggers, eyes on the helipad door which they knew led down to the interior of the building. A Mid-Ak guard ducked as he ran over to the side of the chopper. Hunter slid the cargo door back. The soldier, expecting to see an interior as unkempt as the exterior of the craft, stood dumbfounded for an instant as he took in the banks of blinking computer lights, the three Gatling guns poised at the chopper windows and the 25 heavily armed troopers bracing to leap out of the aircraft.
“What the hell is going on here …” the guard said, reaching for his pistol. They were the last words he ever spoke. The nearest trooper pointed his M-16 at the man’s forehead and squeezed off a shot. The guard’s head exploded like a bloody egg.
“This is it!” Hunter said as he was the first to jump off the chopper. The other guards still looked confused as the assault troopers poured off the Stallion. The ’Aks were cut down before they ever knew what was going on, the racket of the Stallion’s blades and engine drowning out the noise of the assault team’s rifles.
In a matter of seconds, the top of the roof was clear of Mid-Aks. The entire strike force was off the ship and most were gathered around the door which led down into the building. Others were at pre-determined station points around the roof, serving as lookouts. Off to the left, Hunter could see Cobra Brother II sweeping in to strafe the street below.
The strike force stood frozen, looking to him for the signal to move. He looked at his watch.
“5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … now!”
One second later, the sky to the north of them opened up. It appeared as if a geyser of bright red, fiery blood had suddenly boiled up from the nearby river and splattered to all sides. The sounds of the explosion came next, an incredible booming noise. A shock wave hit the building that very nearly knocked some of the troopers off their feet. Holding on in the hurricane-like wind, they strained to watch a huge mushroom of fire shoot straight up into the sky. The whole building shook as if it would crumble. The city was suddenly lit again as if it were high noon.
“Holy Christ!” Hunter whispered. Obviously, Cobra-Brother II had fulfilled his mission.
“Go! Go! Go!” Hunter heard himself yelling and it was no sooner said than done. The helipad door was blown open and the strike force was pouring inside. Below, the Cobra I started his first strafing run. Hunter could hear the confusion begin in the street as he followed the troopers through the door.
Digger Foxx fell off his bed when the LNG tank six miles away went up. He was one of the captured ZAP pilots who had spent the last seven months locked in the same room, an office-like affair located on the 48th floor. He had heard the helicopter come in, but had paid it no mind. Choppers were constantly shuttling ’Ak officials on and off the top of the building. This one sounded no different. He had just pushed aside the evening’s slop of a meal and was drifting off to sleep when the gas explosion occurred.
He quickly picked himself up off the floor and wiped a cut that had opened on his forehead. The building seemed to be swaying. He looked out the window only to see the blinding flash of the LNG going up. He was certain it was a nuclear bomb and he expected in the next moment to be swept away in the winds of the atomic blast. Good! he thought. At least I’ll take all of these fucking ’Aks with me.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Digger expected either to see a Mid-Ak executioner or the Grim Reaper. Instead, the face in the door was familiar.
“Hunter!” Foxx yelled. “What the hell …?”
“Digger, old boy,” Hunter said, smiling. “We’ve come to spring you.”
Then he was gone. Foxx could see the corridor was filled with heavily armed, black suited soldiers. He could hear g
unfire further down the hall, and the noise of doors being broken down.
A trooper stopped at his door long enough to yell to him: “Get your ass up to the roof, pal!”
Foxx didn’t have to be told twice. He was out the door and bounding up the steps in a matter of seconds.
On the street below, Mid-Ak functionaries and soldiers were hugging for cover as the bright red Cobra gunship turned to make another strafing pass. Cobra Brother I had already destroyed six troop trucks and one of the Huey gunships parked in the building’s plaza. His missiles spent, he zoomed back down to street level and pulled a lever simply labeled FIRE. The front of the insect-like Cobra grew a long flickering tongue of flame. He slowed the ship up to a hover and, spinning in a tight, quick 360-degree circle, he set everything and everyone in range on fire.
He lifted himself out of the circle of fire and roared off, turned and returned to puncture the street with cannon fire again.
The Cobra made six passes before anyone started shooting back.
Mid-Ak soldiers inside the Government Building recovered from the initial shock and started flooding up to the top floors. They were met by the assault force at the 47th floor lobby and a fierce gun battle broke out. Most of the pilots were released by this time—20 in all—plus some of the monkeys and MPs that were being held. The rescued were herded up to the helipad and packed aboard the waiting Sea Stallion.
Hunter was everywhere during the firefight. Shooting it out with the ’Aks in the 47th floor lobby, helping the wounded to the upper stories, even breaking out a window to shoot at a surprised ’Ak gun crew on the building next door.
By now Mid-Ak forces on the outside were starting to react. Anti-aircraft crews were unlocking their guns, thinking that with the intensity of the flame from the gas explosion and the strafing of the Cobra, that a full scale air raid was under way. The gun crews, two located on a skyscraper directly across the street from the Government House, began opening up at random, shooting at what they thought were aircraft passing over. When they realized they were shooting at ghosts they turned their attention to the hand-to-hand fighting that was raging on the top floors of the Government Building and clearly visible through the windows of the building.
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