by Mack Maloney
The general had once told Hunter a chilling story about an F-111 he had seen in Viet Nam. The pilots in the aircraft had taken off from Da Nang. The airplane was serving as flight leader for three other F-111s to bomb the Na Trong Bridge, a hot target just outside of Hanoi. The bridge was ringed with antiaircraft guns and SAM missiles, but the flyboys managed to blow up three of the four spans anyway. On their last pass though, the flight leader took a direct hit from an ack-ack position. Damaged, the airplane flew on. It returned to Da Nang, landed and taxied up to its station. The ground crew quickly blocked it off and scrambled up to the pilots. They pried the canopy open and found both men long dead. Each had had his head blown off over Na Trong. But the airplane came back.
Hunter knew the old man would love the airplane, and that it would beef up ZAP’s capability, so he finally bought it from a very happy Roy From Troy. The salesman had been trying to unload it for some time. No other Air Patrol had the expertise to fly or maintain it. But then again, no other Air Patrol had pilots like Hunter and the Thunderbirds or mechanics like those at Jonesville.
As expected, the general took to the F-111 like a kid to his first Chevy. He spent many a night alone, tinkering with the airplane, giving it all kinds of weapons and snooping abilities. Despite his cowboy demeanor, the general was a whiz at aeromechanics—almost as good as Hunter himself. Whenever the old man had a spare moment, he took the F-111 for a cruise, usually a terrifying low-level flight, with the Terrain Avoidance gear kicked in and the airplane roller-coastering over mountains and buildings alike. Occasionally, Jones would invite one of the other pilots along—an invitation more and more of the flyboys politely declined in deference to their stomachs, if not their equilibrium.
Yet, despite the diversion of the F-111 and the growth in size and popularity of ZAP, Hunter noticed that the general’s behavior had taken a strange turn. His flights in the F-111 became more frequent, but obviously less pleasant. He stopped logging in destination codes or filling out the necessary fuel-use forms. He also started committing the cardinal sin of flying: not filing a flight plan.
Jones seemed worse whenever he returned from his trips to Boston. The Leaders seemed to be making him jump through hoops, sometimes ordering him to report to them every day, then cancelling the meeting once Jones had arrived. Like any good soldier, Jones put up with it, for the sake of ZAP and his men.
But the old man’s mysterious behavior was starting to be picked up by the other pilots. Rumors began flying around the base that he was sick, shell-shocked or just plain old. Hunter knew he would have to talk to him about it and was waiting for just such an opportunity, when one night in the base club, Jones spilled his gut to his wingman.
“It’s just a matter of time now, Hawk,” the senior officer said. “The Mid-Aks are really setting us up this time.”
“Give me details,” Hunter told him, ordering another round of drinks.
“You remember a while back when I told you I heard talk of kissing ass with the Mid-Atlantic?”
Hunter nodded. He remembered the conversation very well.
“Well, this time, it’s more than talk. I’ve got proof there have been secret meetings between some of the Boston Leaders and the ’Aks.”
“Proof? How so?”
Jones leaned in conspiratorially. “The Flight Operations Director up at Logan is a buddy of mine. It’s a good job, but he always has the Leaders on his ass about something. Adding airplanes to a convoy at the last minute, getting rides for their wives and girlfriends. Shit like that.
“Well, he told me that for the past half year or so, four or five of the Leaders and a bunch of their flunkies were flying out of Logan almost every other weekend. No matter what the weather was, no matter what was happening in the capital at the time. And using the airport’s Lear jet to boot!”
“So?” Hunter asked.
“So, they’re not filing a flight plan and they’re not entering anything on the airplane’s log. This guy gets suspicious. These bozos are using up a lot of fuel that he’s responsible for and he thinks they’re just buzzing around, burning the stuff up for no reason. So what’s he do but start checking the distance indicator and he finds the airplane is going the exact mileage every trip. And it’s landing somewhere, because it’s coming back with gas still in the tank. My buddy gets a map out and starts plotting possible destinations. After a little detective work he figures out that the only suitable landing field for a Lear within the mileage range was down in Baltimore.”
“The capital of Mid-Atlantic,” Hunter filled in.
“Right. These guys are meeting with them. They’d have to be! I asked this guy who the pols were and he gave me the names of the five slimiest whozits on the Leaders’ Council. And one of them turns out to be the guy who I told you first started dropping hints that the Mid-Aks weren’t all that bad.”
The general seethed whenever he talked about the Mid-Atlantics. This time, a vein was bulging out of his forehead so prominently, Hunter thought it would burst.
“I hate those bastards,” Jones said, finishing his beer in one gulp and calling for another in the same motion. “They’re dirty. They’re rapists. They’re child murderers. I’d love to bomb the faggots back into the Stone Age.”
“What do you think is up?” Hunter asked. “Some kind of a trade deal?”
“Shit, no,” Jones said. “I’d bet a bag of real silver they’re talking some kind of mutual-cooperation pact, again. Some of the good guys on the Council are gone. If five of the others are playing footsies with the scum—well, there are only eleven people on the Leaders Council. Lock up one more vote and they’ve got the God Almighty majority. Then we’ll all be expected to suck up to the ’Aks.”
The other pilots drinking nearby had overheard the conversation and drifted over to the table where Hunter and the general were drinking.
“…And once they get in our pants like that,” Jones continued, realizing he had the attention of every pilot in the bar, “We’ll never get rid of them. They’re like a bad case of the crabs. Then it’s just a matter of time before they make their move.”
The pilots started to shift uneasily. They knew the general wasn’t prone to this kind of talk, even with a half dozen drinks in him. If anything, the normal Jones would be bragging about kicking ass on any potential enemy, in the air or on the ground. But Jones was clearly worried, and Hunter had to admit the old man was starting to give him the creeps.
“Look,” Hunter said, sipping his fourth beer of the night. “We can get fifteen airplanes into the air at any given moment. We’ve got the Air Rangers. If the Mid-Atlantic ever made a move, we could nail them before they ever left their territory. They don’t have an air patrol. We would have air superiority from the beginning. And I don’t care how big an army they have.”
“Right, Hawk,” Jones said. “I agree. They’ve got about two divisions—forty thousand men under arms. But it would be hard for them to attack us directly. We could probably drop the Rangers right into Baltimore and have them clean house. But a state of war has exist for that to happen. And from what I hear, these guys are talking marriage, not war.”
Hunter could only shake his head.
“Look what happened down South,” Jones continued. “They were passing out candy to kids one day and slaughtering them the next. They don’t fight fair. They’re sneaky. They’re as sneaky as the Russians. And because the Leaders Council is a ‘democracy,’ if that’s the word for it, the Mid-Aks could be attacking downtown Boston and the Council would have to take a vote on whether they should spend the money to go to war or not.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the other pilots who had had enough of the dour conversation. A fresh slew of bar girls had appeared at the front door and the flyboys turned their attention to more interesting subjects.
“Look, Hawk,” Jones said, when the others were out of earshot. “It’s worse than I’m letting on. I think we can be prepared up the yazoo, and we won’t be able to fi
re a shot.”
“What do you mean?” Hunter asked.
“I mean, I think they’re planning on getting us from the inside.”
“Spies?”
“Spies, saboteurs,” Jones said, nodding. “A mole on the Leaders Council.”
“A mole? You mean an ’Ak on the Council?”
“Well, maybe not an ’Ak.” Jones replied. “But someone working for them. Letting them know every move the Council makes.”
“Why?” Hunter had to ask. “How much could they pay him? And in what? Real quarters? Dimes?”
“Gold …” Jones said, reminding him the Mid-Aks first conquest involved the brutal takeover of Fort Knox.
“Well, that’s true,” Hunter had to agree. “They’ve got gold up the …”
“Booze. Broads. Drugs …” Jones continued, listing the various temptations at the Mid-Aks’ disposal.
“Drugs?”
“Drugs,” Jones said most definitely. “You know my buddy, the guy who’s bitching about the Lear. He searched the plane one time. Found drugs in the ashtrays and in the can. All over the place. You know, just because we lost the war, it didn’t mean the drug use—by bums and presidents alike—didn’t just stop.”
Hunter knew it was the truth. If anything, drug production—especially cocaine and marijuana—had increased. A lot of it was coming from Colombia, but most of South America was in on it too. It was their biggest export item. One of the greatest ironies of World War III was that of all the places on earth, the countries on the Southern American continent were the least affected. What was worse, since the war, many had become aligned with the Russians.
“Hawk,” Jones said, making sure no one could overhear them. “If anything goes down, take whatever you can and head out West. Link up with my brother, Dave, out in LA. The Coasters would love to have you guys.”
Hunter knew the officer’s twin brother was the commander of a Southern California Air Patrol. Although, they hadn’t seen each other in a while, the two brothers kept in touch.
Jones read his thoughts. “Look, Hawk, I know you’d be the last to bug out, but listen: This thing is bigger than just the Mid-Aks paying off a bunch of Boston pols with gold and drugs. There’s something much more sinister behind it all.”
“Like what?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. And I wouldn’t say unless I had proof, definite proof. But …”
“But …” Hunter said, urging Jones on.
“But I smell commies,” he said finally.
Hunter’s mind flashed to the flag that he still kept neatly folded in his back pocket. “Russians?”
“And …” Jones continued. “If there are Russians behind it all, then you’ll be more valuable—to yourself and to this country—if you’re alive. Same for the rest of those guys, our guys anyway. Those free-lancers. Any of the people we have wandering in and out of the base. God knows what kind of informers we have here.”
Paranoia, Hunter thought. But justifiable nevertheless.
“So, if—or I’ll say when—the shit hits the fan, I’m ordering you and as many of the guys who can, to get your asses out of here and make tracks for Dave. He’ll take care of you. Just let him know what the hell happened.”
With that, Jones rose shakily from his seat and walked out of the bar. He had talked like the fan had already been hit. Hunter knew that when Jones talked like this, it was just a matter of time.
He downed his drink, and ordered another. He spotted a nice-looking woman, sitting alone at the bar, blowing-smoke in his direction. Might as well get a piece, he thought, getting up to join her. Might not have much time left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A WEEK LATER, THE real trouble began.
Hunter was called to the general’s office one morning right after dawn patrol. He found the normally electric officer sitting nearly motionless behind his desk, staring out into space. He hardly acknowledged Hunter.
“It’s happened, Hawk,” the old man said wearily.
“What’s happened?”
“I’ve been grounded,” he said slowly, taking a measure of the words.
“Grounded?” Hunter asked, his voice going angry. “Grounded by whom?”
The general didn’t answer. He just flipped a piece of paper Hunter’s way. The airman picked it up and read it. It was filled with paragraph after paragraph of official gobbledegook, but the bottom line did read: “General Jones is hereby restricted to base for insubordination and disobeying direct orders. Effective immediately.”
“What direct orders did you disobey,” Hunter asked, surprise joining his anger.
“Remember the Cherry Busters?” he asked. “Remember the goddamned Thruway War?”
“Of course I remember it,” Hunter said. “We kicked their asses. They’ve never been heard from again.”
“Boston said I overstepped my bounds going after them. They claim I was acting beyond my jurisdiction.”
“That’s absolute bullshit!”
“Sure,” the old man said. “I know it. You know it. But they needed something to nail me on, and this is it.
“They may want you out of the way,” Hunter said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to go. Let them try and keep you grounded. Who’s going to enforce this?” He hastily fashioned the document into a paper airplane and let it sail across the room. It landed perfectly in the office “round file.”
“It’s the beginning of the end, Hawk,” Jones said, still staring straight ahead. “They’re setting us up.”
Hunter was fuming. He knew that Jones had more guts in his little finger than the whole Leaders Council ever dreamed of having.
“Look,” he said, his confidence bolstered. “If the Mid-Aks make a move, we’d be on them in a second. They’ve got no air support or transport. They’ve got no air cover. What they’ve got is an army that’s too big for its own good and no way to get them anywhere.”
Jones reached into his desk and pulled out a photograph. It was a reconnaissance photo, the kind taken from an airplane camera, flying very high. Hunter looked at it. It depicted an airport, easily identified by its criss-crossed runway lines. The runways were bare but alongside them were what looked like little dots, hundreds of them.
“I took that picture two days ago,” Jones said, still staring blankly.
“Where is it?” Hunter asked.
“It’s Baltimore Airport,” he answered.
“Baltimore!” Hunter gasped. “The capital of Middle Atlantic?”
“Took that shot at 81,000 in the ’111,” Jones said, a hint of pride evident in the gloom of his voice. “Know what those dots are?”
“They’re not airplanes,” Hunter said, his trained eye studying the photo.
“You’re right,” Jones said. “They’re helicopters.”
“Choppers?” Hunter was really surprised. “Where the hell did they get them?”
“I’m not sure,” Jones said. “Most of those copters are Hueys, old ones, just like we have. My guess is they’re right out of the jungles of ’Nam, where they’ve been sitting with those little yellow bastards for years. With those choppers, the ’Aks can lift enough troops to take Boston, either by force or pretense. They could do it in less than a day’s time. And we probably couldn’t shoot ’em all down. We’d run out of ammo.”
Hunter was just finishing counting the specks on the photo. There were 339 of them. “Lot of airlift,” he whistled.
Hunter saw the general’s spirits were sinking fast. “Fuck ’em,” Hunter said. “We have the best guys. The best equipment. We’ll still kick their ass!”
Jones looked up at him sadly. “You know, Hawk,” he said, pulling out a cigar, “I believe you did lose your head sitting up on that mountain. You still think that having the best men, best equipment, best engine and best air-to-airs strapped to your wings is all it takes to win …”
“Well, isn’t it?”
Jones slammed his fist down on the desk. “For Christ’s sake, Hawk! It didn’t help
us the last time!”
With that, Jones stormed out of the office.
The last time. The words haunted Hunter for the rest of the day and the night. The last time. The Battle for Western Europe. The sneak attack on Christmas Eve. The first desperate days. The valiant allied effort. The turning of the tide. The mind-boggling battles of the Second Campaign, when men killed each other in hand-to-hand combat on the battlefield as satellites destroyed each other in space hundreds and thousands of miles above. In the middle of it all were the air battles, fought by men like Hunter, Jones, Toomey, Wa, and others—American soldiers of the air, fighting not because they like it or want it. But fighting because that was what they were trained to do. To protect their country. To insure that men could live in peace, and in freedom—no matter what the price or sacrifice. No matter what color, or race, or country. All men should be free. It was as simple as that.
And yet, they lost the war …
Not because of their heroics, but in spite of them. They had the best men and the best machines. Yet they lost the war.
The last time. The memories stung his brain. France, the Ruhr Valley, the battles in the skies over Western Europe. Living men against living machines. Quality against quantity. Human decency against human disgrace. They had won all the battles, fought harder and braver, sacrificed more in the name of their country than any American soldier had ever had—and for what? The proud but not idle boast. All the guns fired, bombs dropped, poison gas inhaled, cruise missiles fired and cities destroyed. And in the end, they had had the best—and still lost the thing with a simple stab in the back.
