The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  “But, Captain,” Jones said, the anger beginning to betray his voice. “The Northeast Economic Zone is a democracy, a form of government that you are obviously not familiar with. There is no Chairman and there is no Revolutionary Council.”

  “Well,” Spencer answered in a voice with a more evident Southern tone, “There is now.”

  Jones turned to Hunter. “Turkson has taken over,” he said. “He was the one who was winging down to Baltimore playing footsies with the ’Aks.”

  The general turned his attention back to the microphone.

  “Captain. Your ‘special force.’ Was it stationed on the disabled freighter which was given port in Boston a few days ago?”

  “Listen, General,” the Mid-Ak captain began. “Senator Turkson told us you were a pain in the ass. Fighting for democracy, people free to do what they want. All that bullshit. Well, now that’s over, Jones.

  “Your kind went out with World War III. Democracy? Ha! When will you and your flag-waving fly-boys wake up? This is The New Order. Survival of the fittest. And to the highest bidder. Anyone who’s eating, got clothes on his ass and a roof over his head had better thank the people in power, the people who are running things. Money is power, Jones. Because without it—or us—nine-tenths of the people wouldn’t know where to take a leak!”

  “And you sound quite qualified to teach them that, Captain,” Jones said, not resisting a grim smile. He winked at Hunter, then half-whispered to the radio operator to raise Toomey in the T-38.

  “Captain,” Jones continued, “then can I assume that your forces are now running things in the Northeast?”

  “That’s affirmative, Jones,” the arrogant reply came back. “And let me tell you something else. We’re here to stay. This part of the country was making too much money to be handled—doled out—to the citizens. Now, it will be in the hands of people who know what to do with it.”

  “Captain,” Jones said. “What’s to prevent me from launching an air strike right now, against Government House, and putting an end to your little game?”

  “Try it, Jones,” Spencer answered. “And you’ll kill hundreds of those citizens you find so precious. We thought you might pull something like that. So we’ve rounded up a bunch of the plebs. Women, Jones. And kids. And they’re at the Government House right now. Under guard. So, c’mon up, Jones, you and your God-Almighty air force. Napalm the women and kids. Do us the favor. Then we won’t have to freed them.

  “And what about my hitting Logan?” Jones asked Spencer. Hunter could feel the general stalling for time.

  There was a laugh at the other end of the line. “Do it Jones! Nuke the fucking place. And then you’ll be cutting the throats of even more of your innocent civilians. Bomb the airport and you’ve got no air convoys. No convoys means no money, Jones. No money means no food. No food means no lousy citizens, ’cause when it gets tight, there won’t be enough to go around.”

  They were over a barrel. Jones knew it. Hunter knew it. Suddenly, the control tower room felt very small, as if it was closing in on them. Hunter wished he had the Mid-Ak—any Mid-Ak—in front of him. He would choke the life out of him. Next to him, the radio operator had been using a separate channel to contact Toomey’s T-38s.

  Jones kept his cool.

  “Captain, maybe we can make a deal. I’m assuming that you are broadcasting from the Government House radio station.”

  “Right again, Jones.” Spencer answered. “And it’s a great view!”

  Jones smiled. Caught. The fish took the bait. Hunter knew it. Jones knew it. Even the radio operator knew it.

  “Let’s talk, Captain,” Jones said using all the false politeness he could muster. Quickly taking another microphone from the sparky, the general was soon talking to Toomey’s two-ship of armed T-38s. They were streaking in low over the water, less than a minute flying time from downtown Boston.

  “J. T.,” Jones began. “Here it is in a nutshell. The government has been overthrown by the Mid-Aks. We’ll soon have our asses to the wall. Do me a favor will you?”

  “Name it, sir,” Toomey answered, after an appropriate pause long enough to let the news sink in.

  “You know the Government House, right downtown, the old Prudential Insurance Building?”

  “Yes, sir,” came Toomey’s crisp reply.

  “On top, there’s a communications shack. You can tell it because of all the antennas sticking out of the roof.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Take it out,” Jones ordered. “Just the shack. There are civilian hostages being held in the building itself.”

  “Roger …”

  “Come in low, J. T.,” Jones counseled. “And stay over the water as long as possible. The radar in that city is kid’s stuff so you’ll be able to get in okay. Ice the shack and then get the hell out of there. Code Red Two.”

  “Code Red Two, sir?” Toomey asked.

  “That’s a roger. Good luck, J. T.”

  Code Red Two. Hunter knew the term, but hoped he’d never hear it. It meant the shit had hit the fan. The unit was ordered to disperse.

  “Thank you, sir …” Toomey’s voice trailed off.

  “Good luck, sir,” said a transmission from Toomey’s wingman.

  Jones was silent for a moment, then said into the microphone: “Are you still there, Captain Spencer?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply.

  “Not for long …” Jones said.

  The radio speaker crackled as the sound of a jet engine became evident in the background. Thumping and bumping followed, then a few moments of confusion as the sound of the approaching jet got louder. Shouts were heard. Then, came a loud explosion and the speaker went dead.

  “Goodbye ’Ak,” Jones said.

  “That’s one,” Hunter said. “But how many others are there?”

  The answer came an instant later.

  “Blue Leader to Otis Base,” the radio crackled. It was Ben Wa.

  “Go ahead, Blue Leader,” the radio operator said, adjusting the radio’s dials for better reception.

  “General?” Wa asked.

  “Here, Ben,” Jones said again grabbing the mike.

  “General, this is too big for me not to break radio silence. I am looking at an unbelievable sight, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Ben.”

  “There are hundreds of them …” a voice, probably Wa’s weapons officer in the rear seat of the Phantom said. Their voices were fading in and out.

  Jones gave Hunter a worried look.

  “Go ahead, Ben,” Jones urged. “What’s going on?”

  “Sir, I am observing a large airborne force, heading two-seven-niner, due south,” Wa said, the normally ice-cool pilot’s voice shaking.

  “Airborne?” Jones asked, the crackling in the transmission becoming more irksome.

  “Hundreds of them, sir!” Wa said, his voice sounding weak and far away. “Heading your way.”

  “Hundreds of what, Ben!?” Jones yelled into the mike.

  “Helicopters!” Wa finally said.

  “Christ!” Jones exclaimed. He turned to the radio operator and said: “Son, get to the ops building and tell the commander to get that air raid siren going. Tell him to expect an airborne attack at any minute. Tell him I said to evacuate any civilians left on base and to order a Class Red Alert. Then get your ass in a safe place.”

  The radio man, a young Ranger, snapped a salute and hurried out. “Good luck, sir!” he said on leaving.

  Jones turned to Hunter. “Well, they succeeded in moving all those choppers up to Boston. Now they’re heading this way.”

  Hunter took the mike from Jones. “Ben,” he said. “What kind of choppers?”

  “Everything, Hawk,” Wa reported, his voice sounding fainter by the moment. “Hueys, Chinooks, Cobras, Apaches. Most of them look to be carrying troops.”

  “What’s your position, Ben?” Hunter asked, reaching for a map.

  “I’m orbiting at twenty-four thousand,” came the repl
y. “I’m about ten miles off Logan at three hundred knots.”

  “Can you slow ’em down, Ben?” Jones asked.

  “I can sure try,” Wa answered immediately.

  “Okay, Ben.” Jones said. “J. T. and his wingman are in your area. Get on his frequency and link up. Make a few passes, then Code Red it out of there.”

  “Code Red, sir?” Wa asked. “That’s serious …”

  “Ben,” Jones said. “You know I’ve always said that we are just paycheck soldiers. This isn’t our fight. The government of the Northeast Economic Zone has been overthrown. That means our paychecks have stopped coming. That means it’s time for us to go. We’re joining the ranks of the unemployed.”

  “Any suggestions, sir?” It was J. T., who had finished off the communications shack on top of the Government Tower and had been monitoring Jones’ orders to Wa.

  “Try to make Canada,” Jones told them. “They’re the closest friendlies. Lay low and wait until things cool off. Remember, you guys are celebrities. The ’Aks might just put a price on your heads.

  “Now, just mix it up with those guys a little, and buy us some time to get the civilians out of Otis.”

  “Roger, sir,” Wa replied.

  “See you soon,” J. T. radioed, his two T-38s falling in behind Wa’s F-4.

  “Let’s go for the Chinooks,” Wa said as the three planes closed to within a mile of the massive helicopter formation. “They’ll be carrying the grunts.”

  “That’s a roger,” Toomey answered.

  The three ship formation rolled out one at a time and, with the sun at their backs, dove into the mass of helicopters.

  Wa went in first. His back-seat weapons officer fired the first shot, unleashing two Sidewinder air-to-air missiles simultaneously. The heat-seeking rockets found a couple of heavy, troop-laden Chinook helicopters, flying side-by-side at the head of the formation and homed in on each craft’s hot engine exhausts. The missiles hit instantaneously. Chopper number one got it in the mid-section, splitting it neatly in half. Wa could see troops falling from the Chinook and into the ocean more than a mile below. The other chopper, its main rotor destroyed, flipped over wildly, taking out a Huey gunship flying to its left. Together the two Mid-Ak craft plunged into the sea, as the rest of the chopper formation scattered.

  Toomey went in next. Armed with dual M61 cannons, he sought out another Chinook. He pulled his trigger and riddled the aircraft with a 100-shot blast that took less than two seconds. He pulled up and through the choppers who were now wildly scattered across the sky. He found a Huey in his sights and squeezed off another 100 rounds. The enemy chopper exploded instantly. He rolled to avoid the flying debris and found a Cobra gunship at two o’clock. Another squeeze, another dead chopper.

  With only another squeeze or two left, he climbed out and looped back into the maze of helicopters that were attempting to get back into a loose formation. The main chopper force was now completely spread out over the ocean. It was then he noticed that one of the helicopters bringing up the rear wasn’t of a familiar design. He’d seen the type of craft before, but in the confusion of the battle, it didn’t register.

  He sighted the mystery chopper and let go his final rounds, hitting the craft’s tail section and immediately igniting its fuel tanks. The helicopter fell out of the sky trailing a long stream of black smoke down to the water below. It would much later until Toomey would realize that he had fought a historic engagement—that he was the first pilot since the end of the war to down a Soviet-built Hind gunship.

  Toomey’s wingman, a free-lancer named Charlie Waters, was the last of the pilots to take on the wave of choppers. By this time, the helicopter pilots were starting to fire back. Gunners in the waists of the Hueys and the Chinooks were drawing a bead on Waters as he started his first pass. He was met with a wall of machinegun fire as he made his way through the wall of helicopters, hard as it was for a chopper gunner to follow the jet fighter in close quarters. Waters’ first burst of cannon fire neatly took out a Huey, but his plane caught a few lucky slugs from a retaliating Apache gunship.

  Suddenly, the T-38 was spinning wildly. The bullets had ripped away his flaperon control and Waters realized he was disabled. Unable to steer the plane, he fired off one last long burst, wounding a couple of choppers in the process. That done, he hit the eject button, clearing the T-38 just as it slammed into yet another Chinook.

  Waters floated down, but to his terror, saw an Apache double back and move in his direction. Dangling helpless beneath the parachute, Waters could only watch as the swift little chopper approached. About 100 yards out, it opened fire. The rounds from the copter riddled the helpless pilot shaking him like a out-of-control marionette. Waters’ bleeding, battered body immediately went limp and floated down into the sea about two miles off Boston. There it was quickly fed on by bloodlusting sharks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BACK AT OTIS, THE Code Red evacuation was already underway. It was what they had been expecting short of a direct attack. This way, they had a chance to get out in one piece.

  “They used to call it a bug-out in the old days,” Jones said, addressing the base over the field loudspeaker system. “These days it’s called ‘a turnover in employment.’ In other words, we’ve gotten our pink slips. Good luck and we’ll see you out on the West Coast!”

  The remaining jets of ZAP were being hurriedly warmed up. The air patrol’s C-130 Hercules was already out on the edge of the runway, its four big propellers whirling, its engines kicking up a lot of noise and dust. Already, 18 ZAP pilots—mostly the loyal Air National Guard flyboys and the trusted freelancers who had remained but had no jets to fly—were aboard. The plane would wait until the monkeys finished getting the remaining jets in flying order. Then the mechanics would get on board and the big Hercules would fly all of them out of harm’s way.

  At the other end of the base, the 250 Zone Air Rangers assigned to Otis were preparing to pull out. Their Crazy Eight Chinook helicopters were being loaded with only the barest necessities—and as much ammo and guns as they could carry. There was some grumbling among the tough, elite fighters that they should stay and fight the ’Aks. Other, cooler heads, knew this would be foolhardy.

  Under Jones’s evacuation plan, the ZAP planes would pair up into two plane flights and simply leave. They would initially scatter in four directions, get fuel wherever they could, then re-group out on the coast, maybe within two to three weeks. It was a simple, catch-as-catch-can plan, which relied more on the pilots’ abilities and instincts to survive than any coordinated plan to deploy to the West Coast. But the evacuation would be more difficult for the Rangers.

  Their transportation—the eight choppers—had limited range and fuel capacity. They had to pick up 250 more troopers stationed in the listening posts on the Zone’s western borders. A direct trip to the coast was out of the question right away. Jones’s plan called for the Rangers’ choppers to head for one of those listening posts. From there, they would have to travel—and maybe fight—their way across the continent, eventually reaching the West Coast. In drawing up the Code Red plans, Jones knew ZAR would have the toughest time of it. After all, their route could carry them right through the worst of the Badlands, should they not be able to divert to the friendlier skies of Canada. The general estimated that they would lose anywhere from a third to a half their number—either to fighting or other temptations they would encounter crossing the volatile land.

  Jones had already made arrangements with the local militia to provide protection and transportation for the civilians living on and near Otis. They, too, would have to evacuate the area. It burned his ass that he had to leave the people behind. It was a no-win decision. There was an outside chance that the Mid-Aks would leave them be and it was for this reason that Jones had made an important decision. That was, not to leave the base’s various defense systems—the Gatlings, the SAM sites—on automatic, programmed to hit anything flying once ZAP pulled out. Leaving boobytraps was also verb
oten. He didn’t want to enrage the Mid-Aks any more than he had to because the civilians fleeing the area would be the only group the Aks could take revenge on. Visions of the Russians strafing helpless refugees in the last war had made a vivid impression in his mind.

  But this didn’t mean that the military equipment would be left behind intact. Instead, the plan was that everything would be destroyed …

  Among the last to leave would be the base MPs who were given the duty of destroying everything and anything that might be of help to the Mid-Aks once they landed. “Scorched Earth” they called it in wars past; don’t leave anything for your enemy that could be exploited by him. The “everything and anything” included the Gatlings, the SAMs, the radar system, the precious fuel supply and whatever was left of the ammunition. Even the base’s three auxiliary runways would be purposely damaged. Then—and only then—would Hunter and Jones take-off, drop one blockbuster bomb apiece on the base’s last usable runway, then quickly get the hell out of the area.

  “I’d give anything to see the look on the ’Ak commander’s face when he gets here and finds the place empty.” Jones told Hunter as they approached the flight line.

  “Empty and useless,” Hunter added as he watched the MPs detonate explosives on one of the base’s perimeter radar towers. He looked out to sea where the attackers’ ship was still burning. Although it had only been a few hours ago that they had repulsed the amphibious assault, it seemed to him like years. So much had happened. Once again, his whole world was crashing down upon him. Time for change anyway, he kept telling himself.

  Jones also turned his attention to the beach where the early morning battle—and slaughter—had occurred.

  “What a bunch of suckers,” he said, spitting on the runway for emphasis. “The ’Aks probably hired them—free-lance infantry—to stage the raid. Just like in Miami. Probably promised them air support, too.”

  “Either it was a diversion,” Hunter surmised, “Or, they figured that while we were chopping them up on the beach, they’d hit us from the rear with a million chopper troops.”