Wingman

by Maloney, Mack;

  But more importantly, Hunter managed to hire most of Roy’s pilots to fly the planes, just for the one time. The diamonds helped but, in most cases, once the pilots heard that they’d have a fleet of F-20s flying cover for them, plus Hawker Hunter in the lead, they knew the odds of their getting back were greatly increased.

  The main target was the oil yards right in the heart of New Chicago. Hunter knew that an army moves on oil—more so than its stomach. Hitting the Family’s fuel supply would hurt—hard. Maybe not right away. But some time, when the fighting reached the critical level, the enemy would turn and the oil wouldn’t be there.

  Trouble was, except for a few outdated and grainy photographs, Hunter had little information on the target area. He didn’t want to risk sending a photo recon plane up now, for fear of tipping his hand to the Family. But there were crucial questions that would have to be answered right away. Oil facilities always proved to be tough targets. For instance, how much of the bomber force should concentrate on the oil tanks themselves? One or two bombs in the right place and the tanks will blow themselves up. Yet, as the Allies found during World War II, sometimes you can bomb the shit out of a refinery, and manage only a brush fire for your trouble. He wanted to hit the railroad marshalling yards at the same time, but the oil would have to have priority. That meant the very first plane in would have to score a direct hit on a large oil tank, hoping to set off a chain reaction that would destroy most of the oil farm and free up much of the bomber force to concentrate on the railroad yards and the city of New Chicago itself.

  That’s why he would be flying the lead plane …

  For the next two days, he pored over maps and planned the approach of the mission. He knew he would have to fly the lead in one of the B-24s, because it was slow and yet could carry the good-sized bomb-load he’d need.

  Problem number two was getting the bombs. Because of St. Louie’s connection in Texas, he had a fairly stable access to guns and ammunition. The people in Texas, probably more than anyone else, knew what price freedom. They also realized that if the Family won this fight, they, the Texans, would probably be next. To those ends, they supported St. Louie as much as possible. Cargo planes from Texas arrived at Football City’s airport every hour, carrying ammo, supplies and food. The material necessities of war.

  But aerial bombs were a different story. And this was where Fitzie came through for Hunter again. While they were back at the Aerodrome, fueling the F-20s for the flight to Football City, Hunter drew Fitzie a map. It gave directions to a mountain way up in Vermont where a small airstrip was hidden. Fitz was able to rent two massive Sky Crane helicopters from a legitimate lumber company in Free Canada. Using the map, a highly-paid salvage crew made its way to the airstrip and dropped down running hooks to the cratered, debris strewn runway. It took them the better part of a day to clear enough area for the Sky Cranes to set down. Then, they broke the lock off the small hangar located at the edge of the field. Inside, just as Hunter said, was an eye-popping huge cache of bombs, air-to-air missiles and napalm. Using the Sky Crane’s best-in-the-world lifting ability, the crew tied the bomb crates together and started lifting the ordnance out. It took them two days of working around the clock. Finally the entire motherlode was sitting in Syracuse, where it would take three trips by the C-5 to lug it to Football City. In a few days, Football City was well-stocked in aerial bombs. It was another legacy from General Seth Jones. It was almost as if he had foreseen the need for the ordnance some day and that’s why he had led Hunter to the base that cold day.

  But the recovery mission had a much more personal meaning for the Wingman. Using a smaller map, the salvage crew foreman located an unmarked grave near the edge of the strip. He was carrying a heavy bronze plaque made in one of Fitzie’s machine shops. At Hunter’s request, the man laid the plaque in the grave and ringed it with boulders.

  It read simply:

  General Seth Jones—Hero & Patriot

  Thus, one more loop was closed in Hunter’s mind.

  Preparations continued. But a strange thing was happening. As Roy from Troy had told them, the impending war between Football City and the Family was on the lips of everyone across the continent, friend and foe alike. Word got around fast in these days. Suddenly, volunteers had begun to pour into the city. Many were Texans, but others were from all over—Free Canadians, Coasters, exiled Zoners.

  “Volunteers for freedom,” Hunter commented to Dozer as they watched from a balcony of a building downtown the soldiers flood into the city. “People on this continent never forgot what it was like before the New Order. Before it was illegal to carry the flag, or mention the stars and stripes, or fly with it painted on your airplane. Before the New Order or the Mid-Aks, or the Family. Before the Russians stabbed us in the back. They may have forgotten about TV, and cars and paper money. But they never forget about freedom.”

  Dozer nodded in agreement, but Hunter knew he had to say more. He felt a fire start in his belly. He felt an anger build in his brain. He felt a lump form in his throat.

  “They never forgot that they were …” he started to say, but, again, had to stop for a moment and regain his composure. Looking at the troops—volunteers—like the original Minutemen, walking past, heading to take up positions along Football City’s defense line. He knew they would fight a battle that some—maybe most—wouldn’t survive. But still they continued to come …

  He felt something burst inside him. A flame ignited in his heart.

  “God damn it!” he finally blurted out. “Look at them! They never forgot they were once Americans!”

  The words stung in his ears. His mouth went dry. Fluid collected in the corners of his eyes. “God damn it!” he said. “I’m an American!”

  He looked at Dozer. Tears were also forming in the Marine’s eyes. The tough leatherneck turned away and gazed out into space. “I’m an American, too, Hawk,” he said quietly.

  They stood in silence and watched the volunteers move through the city. Hunter knew this would be the biggest fight of his life. Bigger than over the Rhine, or anything with ZAP. This was against a very real enemy. One who, like the Mid-Aks, was in bed with the Russians. One who shared with the godless Soviets the same twisted ideal of government by slavery. Slavery of the mind and body.

  Well, tomorrow, they would start to do something about that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING THE strange armada of bombers began to form up on the Football City’s airport runways. There were the two B-24s—Hunter in one of them—warming up next to the B-47s. The B-29s were already rolling, as were the C-130s. The cranky B-58 was sprouting black smoke and was, by far, the noisiest plane on the runway. The two-engined B-25 Mitchells looked small compared to the other flying brutes.

  Bomb crews raced between the planes, loading a bizarre collection of ordnance aboard the planes. The napalm and high energy bombs from the Vermont hideaway were divided up equally among the bombers. After that, it was catch-as-catch-can. Everything from anti-personnel bombs in the B-29 Superfortresses to a pair of 18,000-pound blockbusters the B-58 was carrying. Hunter’s B-24 was loaded with dozens of small incendiary bombs, 3,500 pounds in all. The B-47s were outfitted to drop napalm; some of the C-130s would drop delayed-fuse anti-personnel bombs while others would drop barrels filled with sticks of TNT. Hunter hoped it would all make for one hell of a fire.

  Riding shotgun for the bomber force would be the F-20s. All 12 of them rolled off the runways first. The F-4s of The Ace Wrecking Company went next; they, too, would ride escort. St. Louie’s spies told Hunter that bombers could expect MIGs to intercept them over the target area. If they did, they would have formidable opponents in the F-20s and the Phantoms. The spies also reported that the bombers would find the railroad yards and the oil facility ringed with hundreds of AA guns and SAM sites.

  Hunter, as mission leader, radioed all the aircraft commanders in the force—38 in all. Each one checked off preliminaries leading up to their ready point.
Hunter had held a briefing before the take-off, where last minute information on weather, fighter strengths and other details had been gone over. The mission had been planned and discussed and planned some more, but there was no getting around the fact that things tended to look a whole lot different up in the air than they did on a map.

  Very few of the bombers had worthwhile targeting systems—the exotic equipment had been stripped from the planes long ago. Knowing this, Hunter had to plan the mission around providing the bomber pilots with targets they could visually acquire quickly. The groups would be flying in at one minute intervals, and he wanted to keep radio talk among them to a minimum so as not to help the AA crews home in on the radio frequencies.

  Hunter checked his own plane, the antique B-24 Liberator, and found everything in working order. He looked at his navigator, Captain Dozer, specially trained for the flight, and gave him the thumbs up signal. Dozer returned the salute. Both men smiled. They had managed to find what had to be the last two girls in the city the night before and bedded them. It was better going into the jaws of death knowing that you had tasted life’s one great pleasure at least one more time.

  There were eight other men on board. A competent copilot named Ernie and seven of Dozer’s marines. The 7th Cavalry, and some of the Football City special forces, had been pressed into service as gunners aboard the bombers. In fact, anyone who could point a gun was recruited. Like everything else in the daring bombing mission, the air crews had been improvised. It gave a whole new appreciation to the phrase “Flying by the seat of your pants.”

  Once he was certain every plane had checked out, Hunter rechecked the instruments in his own aircraft. Everything appeared A-OK. Time to go. He brought up the throttle and released the brakes. “Okay, everybody,” Hunter said into his radio as the B-24 lurched forward. “Follow me.”

  The bomber force’s flight path had them follow the Illinois River right up to New Chicago. They were flying high, at 40,000. Hunter’s plan called for the planes to line up in pairs and triples, forming a train. The idea was to disguise the bomber force by making it look like a convoy to someone looking up from the ground. Though it would be unusual for a convoy to be passing through Family airspace, it was not unheard of one drifting off course and fighter strengths being what they were, no one bothered if a convoy passed overhead once in a while.

  This cover gave the bomber crews a good look at the preparations being made on the ground by the Family. They were, in a word, extensive. By the time they flew over Peoria, they saw the roads approaching the capital were clogged with military traffic. The rails were the same way. Hunter, taking it all in from the lead plane in the force, wished he could unleash his bombs on these targets too. But he knew that every vehicle he saw moving down below had to run on fuel, and fuel was the major objective of the mission.

  The flight lasted only a little over an hour before they were on the outskirts of New Chicago. They were still fifteen minutes away from their objective however, when their convoy cover was blown.

  Hunter saw the MIGs first. They were still 20 miles away and a mile below them, too far for them to pick up the bomber force on the shitty MIG on-board radar system. But Hunter knew it was just a matter of time. There were two of them, possibly on a routine mission, possibly heading to bomb Football City. He was determined that they would never make it, no matter what their destination.

  “Tigershark Leader,” he radioed to the fighter escort commander, flying several thousand feet above the main bomber force. “Group Leader here. We’ve got company. Twenty-five clicks out. My five o’clock.”

  “Roger, Group Leader,” the answer came back. “We see them.”

  “Okay, Tigershark,” Hunter called. “Keep an eye on them until we form up, then intercept.”

  “That’s affirmative, Group Leader.”

  Hunter knew that the F-20s would handle the MIGs with no problem. But he also knew the MIG pilots would detect the bomber force and radio the information back to their base.

  “Everyone else, get ready,” he told the rest of the bomber pilots. “We’re probably going to get a reception before we reach the target area.”

  Behind him, the bombers broke from the fake-convoy pattern and tightened up into boxes of fours and fives. There was strength in numbers, truer than ever in bombing missions. The combined number of guns aboard the bombers, plus the force’s compacted flying area, would give attacking interceptors something to think about before they plunged in amongst the aircraft.

  In less than a minute, the bombers were lined up in their proper attack formation. Some planes increased airspeed, while others dropped back. As planned, Hunter and the other B-24 were in the lead, followed by the four Mitchell B-25s. Behind them were the twelve B-47s, flying in three four-plane diamond formations. Coming next was the odd duck flight—the seven C-130s surrounding the B-58 Hustler, which had been bucking and shooting black smoke the entire way. The aging bomber had to make the trip flaps down and landing gear deployed just so it could reduce its airspeed to that of the propeller-driven C-130s. The dozen B-29 Superfortresses brought up the rear.

  The two Family MIG pilots broke through a cloud bank and stumbled upon the bomber formation now about four thousand feet above them. Both pilots couldn’t believe it at first. Neither could their flight controllers back in New Chicago.

  “Chicago!” the first pilot radioed, a trace of panic in his voice. “Raghead Leader here. Do we have a convoy coming in?”

  “Negative, Raghead Leader,” came the reply.

  “Well, we have visual with a large force approaching two-two-niner from southwest, heading your way.”

  “Raghead. Please resend. Flight ops says large force impossible.”

  “Chicago. Tell flight ops we’re less than ten clicks from large force. Bombers. All types. Need instructions.”

  “Raghead. Need ID. What kind of bombers.”

  There was a pause in the transmission, then: “Chicago. Sounds crazy. We have visual on what looks to be old B-24s, Mitchells. A group of B-47s. At least seven C-130s. One plane that’s smoking heavy. Maybe a dozen B-29s in the distance.”

  This time the silence was on the Chicago controller’s end.

  “Raghead Two,” the controller radioed the flight leader’s wingman. “Do you copy Raghead’s sighting?

  “That’s affirmative, Chicago,” was the answer. “I count thirty-eight planes in all.”

  “Raghead Leader,” the controller radioed. “Let me remind you of the disciplinary action for filing false reports …”

  At that point, Raghead Leader snapped out. “Listen you assholes, I’m looking at the belly gunner of a B-24 Liberator. I know it sounds like a dream from World War II, but these planes are real and they are heading your way. Now please give us instructions or we are going to vacate the sector.”

  All the while, Hunter was monitoring the radio transmissions. He had to chuckle at the MIG leader’s plea to convince his controllers that he wasn’t seeing things. But now, as those controllers decided what to do, he could detect another voice, in the background at Chicago flight control, barking orders. The voice was speaking in a heavy accent, and alternating between English and a foreign tongue. Hunter listened very closely. He needed to hear only three or four words of the foreign language until his suspicion was confirmed. Dozer was listening in and heard it too.

  “That sounds like a Russian voice on Chicago control,” Dozer called to him.

  “It is,” Hunter said coolly, though he was beginning to burn inside. “I’m not surprised. They’re obviously controlling the MIGs, and probably a lot more in New Chicago.”

  “Looks like those East European planes you told me about were carrying more than Mid-Aks to Chicago,” Dozer said.

  “Just like those East European oil tankers on Lake Michigan,” Hunter said. “Well, that’s okay with me. It will only make this mission a little sweeter.”

  “Tigershark Leader,” Hunter radioed. “Intercept.”

 
“Roger, Leader,” came the reply.

  With that, four of the F-20s streaked past him, diving down on the MIGs. The Family jets never knew what hit them. One F-20 pilot locked on to Raghead Two in the dive itself and launched a Sidewinder. The missile dashed unerringly to its target, striking it almost head-on. The jet went up in a ball of flame and smoke. The pilot never had a chance, his flaming corpse was ejected by the explosion and was seen plummeting to earth along with the hundreds of pieces of wreckage.

  “We are under attack!” the pilot in Raghead One screamed.

  “ID attacking aircraft,” Chicago tower radioed back.

  “For Christ’s sake!” the panicking pilot shot back. “They’re F-20s!”

  “F-20s?” the controller asked. Hunter, still listening in on the Chicago frequency, could hear a great amount of shouting and confusion coming from the New Chicago end.

  “Raghead,” the controller called. “Confirm F-20s.”

  Silence.

  “Raghead One, confirm F-20s.”

  Still silence.

  “Raghead?”

  Raghead wouldn’t be answering anything except the doorbell in hell. The MIG-21 had taken two simultaneous Sidewinder hits and had simply disintegrated. No wreckage. No parachute. Just a puff of smoke.

  “Target ahead!” Hunter called into the microphone. “Ten miles. Drop to assigned altitudes and let’s get this party hopping.”

  With that, the two B-24s and the four B-25 Mitchells dropped down to barely 100 feet off the deck. Hunter had known all along that the only way they could successfully attack the oil tanks was to come in low, below the radar that controlled the Family’s AA guns. He was bombing on sight. There were no video acquisition aids, no HUD screen, no fire-and-forget missiles. This one would be down and dirty.