by Mack Maloney
His landing gear was barely up when he was screaming in on one of the ships, a craft that looked to be a light cruiser. It was painted in black camouflage and had about a dozen guns firing at the base. Hunter held the F-16 just 50 feet off the surface of the water, and was closing in fast. He pressed his cannon trigger. The familiar popping sound filled the cockpit as the powerful gun started to blaze away. The first shells sent up shots of spray as they hit the water and walked right up the broadside of the ship. Black uniformed sailors scattered as he bore down on them. They never expected to be attacked so quickly. He could actually see their horrified faces as he closed in, the 20 mm cannon pumping away. Just when it must have appeared to them like the crazy pilot was about to ram the ship, he eased up on the control stick and streaked up and over the craft, rocking it with an ear splitting scream and washing it with blazing jet exhaust. In a split-second, he was clear of the ship. Looking behind him, he saw several small explosions light up. Targets were hit. Fires began to burn.
The second ship lay just beyond the cruiser on almost the same heading. It appeared to be armed with a couple of dozen missile launchers, streaks of fire were bathing its decks as it launched missile after missile toward the beach. This ship was also serving as the enemy’s troop carrier. Landing craft, filled with enemy troops, were still being loaded alongside.
Hunter never veered from his course. Still barely above the waves, but gaining speed all the time, he coolly flicked the Bomb-Safety switch on his control stick and line sighted the mast of the ship through the video projected target sight on the canopy in front of him. He started picking up some return fire, but it didn’t concern him.
Like a torpedo-bomber pilot of World War II, he released two bombs and yanked back on the control stick at the same time. The bombs seemed to hang suspended in the air before slamming into the side of the troop carrier. He pulled up and put the F-16 in a straight-up climb, the digitals on his altitude indicator flashing by in a blur. Soon he was out of sight of the ships, three miles above the action.
He gracefully started to roll the fighter plane over on its back. The last of the morning stars reflected off his helmet visor as he closed his eyes and relaxed, letting the G-force wash over him. The few seconds of intense action were now replaced with the serenity of flight. He was calmed. It felt good to be back in the saddle again.
The plane properly flipped over, his mind properly, if briefly rested, he began a wicked dive, anxious to return to the battle. His radar had just now switched on and the UHF radio began to crackle. In the wall of voices, he was able to discern Ben Wa and Toomey talking, exchanging heading information and target coordinates. He also heard another familiar voice—“We are under attack! Two enemy ships are firing on our position. Troops have been landed. Please relay instructions.” It was Jones, calling Boston, reporting the attack. Technically, Jones had to get an okay from the Leaders’ Council to take any armed action, but this procedure was lost in the burning rubble of Jonesville. Still, the general, a soldier to the end, was calling his commanders, asking them for permission to act.
As the earth rushed up to meet him, he saw the outline of the attacking ships against the vast ocean. Both were burning. He saw two A-7s—it had to be Wa and Toomey—following his lead by streaking across the wavetops, attacking the ships side-by-side. He detected some spits of fire coming from the stricken craft, indicating that not all of the anti-aircraft fire was suppressed. Not yet, anyway.
He smiled. Pulling the F-16 out of its dive, he banked hard to the right and put the jet into a screaming 180-degree turn. He was sure the A-7s—and anything else that got off the ground—could handle the ships. It was time for him to visit the beach.
There were hundred of soldiers splashing ashore after being disgorged from one of dozens of World War H-style landing craft. It struck him that this was a fairly elaborate seaborne invasion. But who was the enemy? He pondered the question only for an instant. The answer would come later. Now, the first order of business was to destroy this mysterious invader.
He checked his bomb load and confirmed he had ten 500-pounders left. He put the jet into another 180 and lined up with the shoreline. He could see soldiers scampering as they heard him approach. He opened with the cannon and flipped the Bomb-Ready switch. Four pushes of the button and four bombs fell in a neatly timed sequence, one right after the other. The four explosions ripped through the groups of soldiers as they vainly tried to find cover. Soon, the frozen sands on the beach near Jonesville ran red with the blood of the unknown attackers.
He executed another loop and bore down on the beachhead again. He could see a T-38 and an F-106 strafing the beach ahead of him. He didn’t even think to call them on the radio. The pilots and planes of ZAP were just doing their thing. Quickly, but not quietly blowing the shit out of anything that moved.
Suddenly, an indicator light and buzzer told him a shoulder-launched missile, fired from a position hidden in the dunes, was homing in on him. He calmly dropped four more bombs in sequence, and then, using a maneuver from his Thunderbirds days, rolled the plane six times in quick succession. The trick baffled the anti-aircraft missile and it slammed into the side of a sand dune, exploding harmlessly.
He pointed the F-16 straight up, once again and flipped it over on its back. Only the F-16 could handle all this maneuvering while still carrying a full fuel and bomb load. “What a plane!” he yelled, banging the console with an appreciative fist. “What a fucking plane!”
He set his sights on two landing craft that were just reaching the beach. The soldiers on board never had a chance as Hunter placed a 500-pounder in each craft. The bomb, more suitable for taking out hardened gun positions and the like, simply obliterated the two small ships. Looking back, he saw bodies, and parts of bodies, flying wildly through the air. They looked like busted-up, blown-up dolls. Whoever they were, they, like the guys on the ships, just succeeded in getting themselves killed. Sorry guys, he thought. You just got yourselves hooked up with the wrong customer.
CHAPTER NINE
HUNTER MADE TWO MORE passes over the beach, using up the rest of his cannon ammunition. The A-7s did the same. It didn’t appear to make much difference—the beach and the shoreline were covered with the bodies of the black-uniformed attackers. He could see the Rangers, who had immediately met the invaders on the first line of sand dunes, now start to emerge from their positions and pick over the dead soldiers. The situation on the beach seemed to be in hand.
He rolled right, out to sea. Offshore, the two ships were burning fiercely. The secondary explosions that were continually rocking the vessels told him that there wouldn’t be very many survivors left on board. The cruisers was going down bow first. The missile launcher/troop ship looked no better. He doubted it would stay afloat long enough for them to inspect it and look for evidence as to who had attacked them and why.
He streaked over the base and saw the destruction the attack had wrought. A half dozen airplanes were destroyed and several buildings—including the ammo bunker and the club—were in flames. All the while, he could still hear the base radio operator repeatedly trying to raise Boston to tell them of the attack.
As Hunter made his final turn for landing, he was filled with a strange mix of confusion and elation. ZAP and the Rangers had stopped the invaders before they even reached the high water line. And, in all, the action had lasted only a half hour. Yet, some valuable men and equipment were lost in the surprise attack. And for what? Mercenaries killing other mercenaries? But that seemed to be the accepted norm in these days of the New Order.
He brought the F-16 in right on the tail of the A-7s, rolled it up to its station point and leaped from the cockpit. Monkeys quickly surrounded the plane and started to re-arm it. There was no way to be sure whether this was just a first of several attacks on Otis. Hunter, like the rest of the pilots, wanted to be ready, just in case.
The base was a scene of controlled pandemonium. Several fires were burning out of control, and the ammo
bunker was still exploding. Rescue vehicles were speeding about, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Rangers were double-timing it to the beach to set up a defense line. Several jets went hot and took off to provide the base with air cover, should another attack occur. Hunter could see that a couple of civilian houses had also taken hits, and the base fire crews were battling those blazes. Everywhere there was smoke and the smell of spent ammunition.
Hunter was in full sprint, heading for the communications shack. He knew he’d find the general there. In fact, when he reached the front door, Jones was running out.
“The beach is secure, Hawk,” Jones, clad in a combat uniform and carrying an M-16, yelled back over his shoulder to Hunter. “Let’s find out who these bastards are!”
The two men ran across the runway to the scene of the battles, neatly dodging the pieces of flaming debris and rescue vehicles that were speeding about. They passed the wreckage of two planes on the way: one of the F-106s had bought it. So had a T-38. While the damage would hurt, Hunter considered them “acceptable losses.” “Unacceptable” would have been if the F-4 or the F-111 went up. The destroyed ammo dump would be another story.
They reached the beach just as the Rangers were through mopping up. Not one of the invaders survived. The Rangers counted about 350 on the beach in all, with many bodies floating offshore. Each corpse was dressed in the same black, overall-style uniform. The beach was awash in blood from the carnage. At least a dozen landing craft were burning in the water; many others had sunk beneath the waves, carrying their troops with them. It had been a massacre. The invading soldiers never had a chance.
A Ranger lieutenant told Jones and Hunter that none of the attackers carried identification—no dogtags or papers, just a variety of weapons. Many M-16s, a few Stens and even a dozen old BAR automatics were found among the bodies.
But the Jonesville defenders had had another ally in the action; the attackers had picked the very worst time to attempt an amphibious landing: high tide. The waves were three to four footers and the wind was coming in off the water.
Hunter walked down the water’s edge with Jones and watched the waves roll the bodies of the attackers in and out at will. Even the ocean water was running red, as if some huge fish had just been gutted.
“This was insanity!” Jones said, looking at the hundreds of broken bodies. “What kind of a commander would order an attack like this? At high tide, on a cold day, with no air cover? They walked right into our fields of fire!”
Hunter could only shake his head.
“This looks like a bad version of what happened in Miami a while back,” Jones said, spitting the bad taste out of his mouth.
“You never did raise Boston?” Hunter asked, reading the general’s thoughts.
“No,” Jones said, kicking over the body of one of the dead soldiers. The man’s mouth was filled with sand and his body was already starting to bloat. “But I just assumed that it was because no one was awake this time of day.”
Jones knelt beside the body and took a good look at his face. Everything about him—the uniform, his belt gear, his sunburned face—pointed to one thing. “This guy’s either a Mid-Ak or someone they’ve bought to do this,” Jones said. “Either way, I see the Mid-Atlantic’s hand in this. I can smell them a mile away.”
“A distraction,” Hunter said.
“Or just a screw-up in timing,” Jones said, wiping his brow. “These guys might have just arrived a little too early. The main attack might be on the way.”
“Could be, but from where?”
“At this point, anywhere,” Jones said. He looked out at the bodies, rolling in the red suds of the surf. “This isn’t war, Hawk. This is greed.”
The general didn’t wait to hear his reply; he was already running back toward the radio shack.
“Christ,” Hunter whispered as he took off after the general.
They sprinted back across the runway, passing the obliterated ammo dump as they ran.
“What the hell do you think that was?” Jones yelled to him, “a lucky shot?”
Hunter looked at the smoking building as the base fire fighting unit poured water onto the already hopeless structure.
“Inside job?” Hunter yelled to Jones.
“You bet your ass!” Jones screamed back. “You think some gunboat deck jockey could shoot like that without help? I’ll bet you a bag of real silver that none of those ‘observers’ are anywhere to be found.”
The thought ran a chill up and down Hunter’s spine. Even with all their precautions, there had still been spies in their midst.
They reached the radio shack just as Wa and Toomey were arriving from the other direction, after helping fight one of the runway fires.
Jones yelled inside the radio shack: “Sparky! Any answer yet?”
“No, sir!” a voice from within answered.
That was all Jones needed. He physically collared Toomey and said: “J. T. Get a warm jet and scoot up to Boston. Fly around. Check it out. Stay over the downtown. But be cool. Fly high or low, but don’t slow down enough to be recognized unless I tell you to. We’ve been calling the bastards since the first blast and no one’s picking up the phone. Maintain radio silence. I’ll call you if I have to. Bring a wingman and make sure you’re armed.”
“Will do, General,” Toomey said with a sharp salute. He turned on his heel and ran toward the line of the T-38s.
The general turned to Wa. “Ben. Get the Phantom. You zoom up to Logan. Tell me what’s going on up there. Stay high and out of sight. Jam ’em if you have to. And stay off the radio unless it’s big. Link up with J. T. later.”
“You got it,” Wa said, already running in the direction of the F-4’s station point.
Jones and Hunter entered the communications control building. A harried Ranger communications specialist was repeatedly broadcasting the same message, over and over.
“Boston. Boston. This is Otis. We have been attacked by hostile force from the sea. Initial wave repulsed. Need instructions.”
Each broadcast was followed by a second or two of silence before the operator would repeat the message.
Jones scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to the radio operator.
“Here,” the general said, “Add this to the message.”
The sparky looked at the scrawled sentence and hesitated a second, then began broadcasting the revised message.
“Boston. Boston,” the radioman called, “This is Otis. We have been attacked by hostile force from the sea. Initial wave repulsed. Seek permission to carry out retaliatory air strike against Mid-Atlantic States military sites. Need instructions.”
Jones looked at Hunter and gave him a grim wink.
“That should get them off their asses,” the old man said.
Sure enough, the radio crackled to life.
“Otis. Boston calling,” a wavering, broken voice began. “Do not—Repeat—Do not launch any aircraft until you receive specific orders to do so. Otis. Please acknowledge.”
Jones looked out of the single story building’s only window, just as Toomey’s two-ship flight was lifting off from the base’s one remaining active runway.
“Acknowledge, my ass!” Jones said, grabbing the microphone. “This is General Seth Jones, Commander of the Northeast Economic Zone’ Armed Forces and Air Patrol. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Corporal Buford Smith …”
Neither Hunter or Jones recognized the name.
“Well, Corporal Smith,” Jones said. “I suggest you put someone with some authority on … immediately! We’ve been attacked. We have positively identified who originated the attack. We are obligated to the people we lost and to the free people of the Economic Zone to retaliate. Against the Mid-Atlantic States, immediately and with as much force as we can muster.”
There was the sound of microphone changing hands on the other end then a long silence.
“Otis,” a different voice began. “This is a direct order. Do not enga
ge in any reprisal strikes. Do not to launch any aircraft.”
Hunter would have bet that Jones would blow his top. But he was surprised with the coolness the general displayed in taking the microphone in hand and asking: “To whom am I speaking now?”
Another silence, followed by …
“Captain Bobby Joe Spencer,” the voice said, with more than a trace of arrogance. “Communications brigade, Special Marine Battalion, Mid-Atlantic Forces.”
The declaration stunned but didn’t necessarily surprise Jones and Hunter. The radio operator finally managed to speak:
“Sir! A Mid-Ak at the phone in Boston?”
Jones took off his trademark baseball cap and ran his hand through his short cropped hair.
“I’m afraid so, son,” Jones said. In the distance Hunter could hear Ben Wa firing up the F-4.
“Captain,” Jones said, calmly into the microphone. “Am I to assume that your forces are now in control of the government for the Northeast?”
Again, a short silence.
“You assume correctly, General,” Spencer declared over the crackling frequency. “There has been a coup d’etat. Our special forces were … requested … to help restore order and control the situation at the Government House.”
“And who invited you, Captain?”
“Chairman Turkson,” Spencer answered. “First Minister of the Revolutionary Council of the Northeast Economic Zone.”
Hunter recognized the name in the middle of the mouthful. Turkson was the Council member whom Jones had tagged as most likely to set up a dictatorship and screw up a good thing. He above others was the one who at first tried to gain control of ZAP, then, failing that, tried to destroy it.
