He wouldn’t live that long. Although the F-16, after firing the missiles, had passed right off his left wing, a few seconds later, it was streaking toward him from the dead right. A Sidewinder flashed from underneath the wing, and in an instant the F-16 disappeared. The missile kept coming and crashed into the canopy of the Soviet Su-17. It actually lodged there for one, long terrifying second. The Soviet was face-to-face with the tip of the Sidewinder missile. He could hear it ticking. He knew it would soon explode. The last thing he remembered before becoming one with the cosmos was the writing printed on the side of the missile. It read: “MADE IN AMERICA.”
Without its leader, the attacking formation began to break up for good. Hunter was able to pick the stragglers off one-by-one, using the remaining Sidewinders, and when they were gone, the M61 cannon six-pack. Some of the enemy pilots simply ejected when they saw him coming. Others would swear they saw two of their comrades go down at once, hit by missiles fired from opposite directions. The handful that survived were permanently scarred for life. They would never dream again without seeing the ghostly F-16.
Fifty miles before the Football City airport lay a trail of wreckage of more than 60 airplanes. Not one attacker reached the target. In the years that followed, and in the many retellings, the story of how Hunter had stopped the 100 planes would pass from fact to history to legend.
CHAPTER THIRTY
HE BROUGHT THE BATTLE-WEARY jet in for a landing at the Football City airport, its fuel tanks running dry just as the wheels touched the runway. He rolled the plane toward the nearest fuel truck. The place was strangely deserted. No radios were working. All the aircraft were gone, except for the B-58 which stood by the edge of the runway, its engines stopped cold. Off to the east, he could see columns of smoke rising from the battle scene. Every once in a while, an aircraft would break through the smoke, its guns firing, dodging anti-aircraft fire, only to plunge back into the dark abyss seconds later.
He felt completely drained, and hard-pressed to explain his action against the attacking force. The “feeling”—100 times stronger than he’d ever felt it before—had completely taken him over. He had felt as if he were disembodied and watching someone else fly the F-16, while at the same time, knowing it was him at the controls. He had performed maneuvers he knew were impossible. He had hit targets he knew were unhittable, even with the help of radar systems. And he’d gone into the battle with his turned off. With the F-16, he had always felt as if he became part of the airplane, another cog in its machinery. This time, he felt as though the airplane became part of him. Beyond that, he found it unexplainable.
He tried to put it all into his memory banks, to be called up later and reconsidered, but he even found this nearly impossible. He felt revitalized yet drained. Nothing he had ever done compared to this. It was exhilarating and spooky at the same time. He knew he was changed forever.
The sound of a loud explosion brought him back to earth. A building less than a mile away from the airport had blown up in a cloud of fire and dust. He heard gunfire, getting closer. He saw the F-20s streaking back and forth over the fighting, still strafing, still delivering their ordnance.
The F-16 had come to a halt and he climbed out. Banging on the side of the fuel truck he could feel it still had some JP-8 left inside. He quickly unhooked the hose and started to drain the gas out of the truck and into his plane’s fuel tanks.
The explosions and gunfire were getting ever nearer. He saw that most of the action looked to be centered near the Grand Stadium. The Family troops had broken through and the Free Forces were falling back toward the huge structure. Within a minute, the sky was filled with what was left of the Football City aircraft—the B-29s, the C-130s, the F-20s, the Cobras, the Stallion, even the B-25s. He knew they all must be low on fuel and ammo, but they courageously kept on fighting. Incredible what some people will risk and give up when freedom is at stake.
He had to get airborne again. His tanks filled, he jumped back into the cockpit and started the engine. Soon, he was rolling out toward the runway again. He passed the abandoned B-58, noting the two small pools of gas around its fuel tanks. Obviously, the plane had refused to take off, so the monkeys had purged its tanks of its precious fuel.
Suddenly, his body was reverberating once again. More airplanes. Big ones. Not fighters. Bombers. Coming this way. From the north-northeast.
Could it actually be happening again? His instincts told him so. He switched on the ’16’s radar and got an electronic confirmation. A large group of planes—looked like 35 in all—was approaching from the northeast.
He was out of Sidewinders and carrying less than half a full-load of cannon ammo. But he knew he had to intercept this force, too. Almost numb, he racked his brain as he took off. Who could this be? He turned out over the airport and headed in the direction of the mystery formation. They were big planes, no doubt about that. Soviet Bear bombers? A second Family bombing mission? Revitalized Mid-Aks?
He wearily shook his head. He flew over the Grand Stadium and the scene below confirmed his worst fears. The Free Forces were retreating back into the heart of the wrecked city. He could see a number of the aircraft had crashed, knowing full well they had run out of fuel and went down fighting. The battle would soon be lost, and thus the war. Even a miracle would be hard-pressed to turn the tide. He prayed the spirit of the cause would survive after they were all gone.
He turned again and passed low over the battle scene. Wagging his wings one last time, climbed, went full throttle and streaked toward the north to meet the incoming force of bombers.
On the ground, St. Louie himself had taken up a rifle and joined his troops in the defense of the city. They had been battling the Family reserve troops block-by-block, building-by-building, since the attackers broke through an hour before. He was firing from behind an overturned truck in the middle of a main thoroughfare. The air was filled with bullets, mortar shells and hand grenades. Dozer was at his side, as was Captain Crunch and his weapons officer. The famous Ace Wrecking Company F-4 had been zapped by a SAM while napalming enemy troops, but the two flyers parachuted to safety and had been fighting on the ground ever since. Their counterpart, Ace Phantom Number 2 was still airborne, strafing the invaders and providing recon information.
St. Louie’s plan was to make a last stand at the Grand Stadium. The Family troops were pressing on the defenders from three sides—more than half the Free Forces’ soldiers had been killed. The Family had suffered worse in numbers killed. The muddy Mississippi now ran thick with blood. But, it had always been a question of numbers—men, ammo, gallons of fuel. The Family—despite the devastating air raid on their capital—always had the numbers in their favor. St. Louie, the Father of Football City and the consummate gambler, knew the odds had always been against the Free Forces. But sometimes, you have to fight the battle even though you knew it was impossible to win. You had to make a stand, and if you died doing it, well, so be it.
The battle was at its darkest when they had heard the familiar scream of the F-16. The red-white-and-blue fighter had flashed over them, tipped its wings and roared off. For Hunter, it was an action of last camaraderie. For the troops fighting on the ground, it was like a bolt of lighting.
“Jesus Christ!” St. Louie had yelled when he saw the F-16 streak over. “That boy is still alive!”
Even the defending troops paused a minute to look up when the F-16 appeared. “The son-of-a-bitch is still flying!” a cheer went up. “Hunter is still with us!
“Where the hell are the Family airplanes?” Dozer asked St. Louie, as he reloaded his weapon. “I thought they would have iced the airport by now.”
“There were at least a hundred of them,” St. Louie told him, firing his M-16 at two Family troopers as they ran toward a doorway right across the street. “Even Hunter couldn’t have shot them all down!”
“Don’t be so sure,” Crunch said, managing a smile. “The Wingman ain’t exactly human when it comes to flying.”
&n
bsp; “Amen to that,” Dozer agreed. “But we were expecting the guy to come up with one too many miracles.”
“You’re right,” St. Louie said, firing another burst and pinning the Family soldiers in the doorway. “But no one can ever say he didn’t give it all he had.”
Hunter watched the blips on his radar screen get bigger. These were heavy bombers, he knew. Three columns of 12 each, with three bombers in the lead. They were flying high—close to 50,000 feet—indicating they had traveled a long way. He checked his weapons reserve. Probably two minutes of cannon ammo left, then that would be it.
The sun was just passing its high mark. “High noon,” he thought. “High noon on the longest day.”
Then he saw them. Faint outlines at first, trailing thick, white contrails, getting larger by the second. He climbed to 52,000, so he could dive on attack on his first pass. The shapes of the bombers were getting clearer now, their outlines turning distinct. He could hear their rumbling. He could feel the disturbance in the airstream they were creating. They were about twenty miles away when he squinted his eyes and took a long look.
“Oh, God!” he yelled. “They’re B-52s!”
The B-52 Stratofortress was the heaviest of heavy bombers. The huge jet airplanes—long thin fuselage with wide, swept back wings supporting eight engines—were the workhorses of the Americans from the 1950s, through Viet Nam and up to the advent of the sleek, sophisticated B-1s. The B-52s had fought in World War III, over Europe and against the Soviet Navy in the Pacific. Louie St. Louie had once been a pilot in a B-52.
And now here were 39 of them. Heading for Football City. They were all painted one color—off white with lettering and numbers on their tails and wings which he couldn’t make out. He knew ’52 was capable of carrying up to 50 10,000-pound bombs—that was a half-million pounds of bombs per plane. No wonder that back in ’Nam, a B-52 strike caused the equivalent of a minor earthquake. And now the Free Forces were going to have 20 million pounds of TNT dropped on their heads? Football City would become a crater. Hunter knew he couldn’t stop them all, so he would try to stop the leaders. He put the F-16 into a steep dive and lined up his cannon sights on the lead plane …
“This is Big Thunder Leader calling F-16 …”
Hunter’s radio crackled with the words just as he began his dive to attack.
“’16! ’16! Break off! Break-off!”
They had spotted him. He was still closing in fast. The voice on the radio sounded familiar.
“’16! WE ARE FRIENDLIES! BREAK OFF!”
Hunter’s mind started to click. Friendlies? The voice is what did it. He broke off the attack before firing a shot.
He reached for his radio. “Go ahead, Big Thunder. ID yourself.”
“Hawk! It’s me. J. T.!” the voice came back.
By this time, Hunter had swept past the huge bombers, and was turning 180 to close in on them again.
“J. T.?” Hunter radioed. “J. T. Toomey?”
“The one and only, Hawk,” was the answer.
Hunter pulled up and leveled off beside the big bomber leading the formation. For the first time he could read the lettering on the side of the B-52s. It read: “Northern Pacific & Southern California Strategic Air Company.”
“J. T.,” Hunter said cautiously. “If this is you, when was the last time we saw each other?”
“Jonesville, Hawker my man,” the voice came back. “We had just iced some rent-an-army seaborne troops. I went off to sortie up to Boston and ran into more choppers than a 100-year-old dentist.”
Hunter had to admit that only J. T. spoke like that. And the voice was the same. If it was a trick, it was an elaborate one.
Still Hunter remained cautious.
“Let me put it this way,” the voice came back on. “Where the hell have you been, Hunter, my boy? I thought we were all supposed to link up out on the Coast?”
Hunter was surprised. The voice was right. The remnants of ZAP were supposed to head for the West Coast and re-form. He just assumed no one had made it.
“Hawk?” another voice came on the radio. “This is Ben Wa. No jive, Hunter. Your reinforcements have arrived.”
“Reinforcements?” was all Hunter could say.
“That’s straight, Hawk,” the voice claiming to be Wa answered. “Your little war here is the talk of the land. You’ve got more people pulling for you than you know about. We’ve been having troubles ourselves. Minor stuff, compared to you, but it took us a while to muster up enough of these big boys to come and help out.”
The strange flight was approaching Football City. Hunter had to decide to trust the voices or start shooting. He opted to trust them.
“We’re loaded for bear, Hawk,” J. T.’s voice came back on. “Just tell us where to put it.”
It was just beginning to sink in. The awesome firepower of the B-52 formation was on his side. His former ZAP mates had come through in the end. The miracle had arrived.
“Roger, Big Thunder,” Hunter called back. “Follow me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AFTER SEVERAL ANXIOUS MINUTES, Hunter finally got through to the Free Forces’ troops on the ground.
“This is Major Hunter,” he told the radio operator, one of Dozer’s Marines who happened to be monitoring the frequency. “Pass the word. This is five-by-five. Air strike coming in. A big one. All friendlies have to get inside the Stadium now.”
“This is Tango Red, I copy you, Major, five-by-five,” the operator said. “Let me repeat. Confirm you say big strike coming against enemy troops?”
“That’s a roger,” Hunter replied. He had just arrived over the battle zone, having shot ahead of the B-52 formation. He was hoping he wasn’t too late. “Strike is in ten minutes. Counting right now. Please advise of your situation. I need a right-on fix on enemy positions.”
“I roger you, sir,” the Marine replied. “And I have you in visual. I am passing your orders along, and opening up this channel for our receivers.”
There was a half minute of silence. Hunter booted it and flew low over the smoking city flying fast enough to discourage the Family gunners from taking a shot at him. He did a quick 180 over the river and headed back toward the Stadium.
“Major? This is Tango Red,” the radio crackled to life. “All ground stations now tuned to you. Enemy drive has stopped. Repeat, enemy has halted and is in place. Possible regrouping.”
“Please repeat, Tango Red,” Hunter called back. “Do I copy enemy in place? Not moving?”
“That’s a roger,” came the reply.
Odd, Hunter thought. The Family was right on the verge of completely overwhelming the defenders and winning the battle. Why stop?
But then again, Hunter thought, why fight it? He’d just got lucky.
“Okay, Tango Red,” Hunter replied. He knew the kit with the radio was a good one. All of Dozer’s guys were. “What are your present defense perimeters?”
“’16,” the voice came back. “Our positions are completely surrounded. Our lines are static. We control area two blocks square around Stadium. And that’s it. Understand fall back to that position. My officers copy.”
“Tell them they have to move quickly,” Hunter told him. “This is a B-52 strike. Coming in now less than seven.”
“We copy, sir,” the Marine replied, his voice going up a level in excitement. “B-52s sir? Perfect time, repeat, conditions A-OK for strike. Enemy still in place. We are pulling back.”
Hunter came down low over the Grand Stadium. He saw the Marine was as good as his word. There was a lull in the battle. Thousands of Free Forces’ troops were pouring into the huge arena, battered and burning as it was. Above the grandstands the tattered Football City flag was still flying. He could almost feel the excitement rising up from the troops below. He was sure most of them had given up the battle—and the cause—as lost. And now they had a shot. The enemy had surrounded them in the most protected structure around. What the hell, the place could once hold 250,000. If there we
re 10,000 friendly soldiers left, there would be room to spare.
Around the Stadium, outside the two-block buffer zone, he could see tens of thousands of Family troops. Some were hunkered down, waiting in foxholes, doorways, wrecked buildings. Others were sitting in smoking, idle tanks or APGs waiting for the go-word. There were even more in the rear area—just milling around, waiting. Waiting for the word to close in, tighten the circle and massacre the last of the Football City defenders.
For Hunter, the situation was this: He would have to call in the air strike on top of the surrounding enemy troops, yet save the soldiers inside the stadium. He knew it could get tricky, but it was a gamble he had to take.
The B-52s were now less than five minutes away. Hunter had already radioed warning of the strike to the other friendly aircraft in the area and they gratefully evacuated the airspace. Now, he contacted the B-52s and began transmitting target information to each one of them. This was the critical part. He had to quickly take into consideration everything from wind direction and speed to the rotation of the earth. A reading in error of just a few seconds to bomb release and the Grand Stadium would go up in smoke with the rest of the city.
Hunter bypassed using his on-board computer—he preferred to calculate the target coordinates in his head. People’s lives hung in the balance of accurate numbers. Using his own brain was the only real way that he could have trust in them.
His mental calculations complete, he called the final coordinates for the B-52 pilots, along with exact positions, release points and fusing instructions for each bomber. They would strike at concentrations of Family troops surrounding the stadium, then walk their bombs all the way back and across the river to sweep the enemy positions on the east bank of the Mississippi. He was acting as the sole forward air controller. The B-52s’ bombardiers would drop only on his command. It was as if he alone had his hand on the bomb release lever. Once pushed, 20 million pounds of bombs would rain down—and around—the Free Forces. He knew he had never make such a crucial call before.
Wingman Page 34