by Mack Maloney
“Cobras!” Hunter called into the radio. “Soften the LZ will you?”
The two Cobras seemed to appear from nowhere and strafe the bandits as they dove for cover. Cobra Brother One stayed on the tails of five bandits who ran into a concrete bunker next to the runway. Pausing to hover for a moment, the Cousin soaked the structure with his flamethrower. The five bandits emerged, completely engulfed, and ran wildly until they were mercifully shot down by Cobra Brother Two.
The Sea Stallion was the first to come in. The troopers, led by Dozer, leaped from the craft before it even touched down. They were met by a band of determined pirate guards firing a variety of weapons from behind the parked F-100s and from the ditches lining the runway. A sharp firefight immediately erupted. The assault team hit the pavement and started pumping lead into the pirates’ positions. The battle was at such close quarters, the pirates were hurling hand grenades and the troopers were picking them up and throwing them back. The pirates fired shoulder-launch SAMs right into the assault team. The attackers returned the fire with their RPGs.
All the while, the Cobras were making breakneck strafing runs, using their flamethrowers and TOW missiles, flying so close to the defenders’ lines, the pirates had to duck.
Hunter had lowered his flaps and landing gear and flew as slowly as possible over the battle. While most of the fighting was taking place on the Sea Stallion’s port side, Hunter saw a group of 20 or so daring pirates, trying to sneak up on the chopper’s starboard side, and attack it from the blindside. That was their mistake; the starboard side hid all three of the chopper’s Gatling guns.
“Stallion,” Hunter radioed. “Goofballs on your backdoor. Lock on.”
“Roger, ’16,” the call came back. “We see them.”
The bandits were detected on one of chopper’s target acquisition video screens just as they started to charge. In less then a second, the chopper’s shutters opened up to reveal the guns. Inside, the gunner pushed a button. In an instant, every pirate was severed at the waist by a one-second, computer-controlled burst from the chopper’s Gatling guns.
“Hueys!” Hunter called, after twisting and flying back over the runway. The two Hueys came in, landing on either side of the Stallion. More of the strike force troopers jumped out and joined the fray. By this time, bullets were flying everywhere, as were RPGs and cannon shells. The airwash from the choppers gave the appearance that the battle was being fought in a windstorm. Hunter continually passed over the battle scene, adding cannon fire when and where it was needed.
Although they were outnumbered, the strike force quickly gained the upper hand on the runway. The pirate guard broke and started to retreat, half heading for the nearby woods, the other toward the graveyard of wrecked planes at the far end of the landing strip. Dozer and the Stallion troops pursued the bandits into the sea of twisted metal, smashed jet engines and burnt out fuselages. There were many places for the bandits to hide, and the assault team had to work each plane, one at a time, to flush out the defenders.
Meanwhile, the choppers themselves were catching fire from the bandits in the woods and from some of the perimeter AA guns. One of the bandit gun crews had leveled their guns and were blasting away at the choppers on the runway. Hunter quickly swooped in and put a air-to-surface missile right into the AA nest, silencing the gun.
The Ace Wrecking Company Phantoms reappeared and started buffeting the woods hiding the pirates with murderous cannon fire. At the battle of the airplane graveyard, Dozer called Hunter on the radio.
“’16? Dozer here. We got a nest of snipers. Can you put an arrow in that 707 wreck?”
“Roger, Captain,” Hunter answered. “Heads up.”
Hunter turned, and bore down on the target. He immediately began picking up anti-aircraft fire from all over the field. Below, he could see the group of pirates, hiding in the burnt out cockpit area of the wrecked convoy plane, training their machine guns on the assault troopers. Sighting through his HUD, he squeezed the firing button and felt the resulting kick as the air-to-surface missile left his wing and instantly impacted on the pirates’ nest. He pulled up, turned left and looked back through the bubble canopy to see the missile had done its work.
“Thanks, ’16,” Dozer radioed. “We owe you a beer.”
“No problem,” Hunter called back. “I’m picking up the tab when this one’s over.”
The battle was slowly winding down as the attackers started to take control. Hunter made several more passes over the base, just to make sure. The place was almost totally aflame. The airplane graveyard was burning. A small forest fire had started. From the air, it appeared that every building was either raging out of control or smoking heavily—every building except one—the black building at the end of the landing strip and away from the fighting.
High above, the C-5 Galaxy circled the base, waiting for his call. Once he was sure the big plane could come in safely, Hunter radioed its pilots.
“Galaxy. ’16 here,” he said. “Runway clean. Join the party, will you?”
“Roger, ’16,” the C-5 pilot radioed back. “Looks like we’ve been missing all the fun.”
“Heads up down there,” Hunter called to the ground force commanders. “C-5 coming in, followed by the F-4s and the ’16.”
A chorus of ‘Roger’ echoed back through his earphone.
The huge silver Galaxy descended onto the runway like a giant, graceful bird. It touched down smoothly, kicking up a minimum of smoke and dirt as its dozens of wheels touched the runway. A small parachute on the plane’s tail helped slow down the big craft with runway to spare.
The F-4s came in next, side-by-side, their wheels touching the landing strip at precisely the same instant.
By the time he brought the F-16 in, the Galaxy’s wide-flap mouth was open and Fitzie’s monkeys, mixed with some from the old ZAP, were filing out and forming up outside the huge airplane. Also aboard were twelve of the rescued ZAP pilots. He knew they’d be itchy to get into the action. He taxied up to the staging area, shut the engine down and jumped out of the jet.
Dozer and the assault force officers were waiting for him. He shook hands with them, saying “Beautiful work. What about casualties?”
Two dead, six wounded, none seriously. The landing strip was littered with bodies of dead pirates. The surprise attack had decimated what was left of the Stukas.
“It’s hard to believe that some of these guys are actually pilots and mechanics,” Hunter said to Dozer, looking at the carnage on the tarmac. “Drugs. And greed. That’s what killed them. What a waste.”
Then he turned his attention to the matter at hand …
The black hangar was still locked up and apparently untouched. As before, Hunter quickly picked the lock on the doors and swung them open. To his great relief, he saw the twelve F-20s were still there.
“There they are, boys,” he said to the army of monkeys standing around him. “Get ’em working. We have an hour, ninety minutes tops!”
With that, the mechanics methodically attacked the sophisticated jet fighters, removing the engine cowlings and lifting the engine access hoods. The ZAP pilots each staked a claim on one of the jets, admiring the beauty of the rare airplanes. For them, it was a dream come true. A week ago, they were languishing in the Mid-Ak’s skyscraper prison. Now, they were about to pilot one of the most sophisticated jets ever made.
Outside, he could hear occasional gunfire. The Cobras were still airborned, supporting the attack troops as they chased the remaining pirates through the woods.
“Where the hell did they ever get these planes, Hawk?” Dozer asked.
“Beats me,” Hunter said, running his hand over the fuselage of a F-20. “They’re right from the factory, never been flown.”
“I admit I don’t know anything about airplanes,” Dozer said. “But these look like beauties to me.”
“Beauties is the word,” Hunter agreed. “Long ago, the government didn’t even want to buy these babies. Thought they would be
too much plane for the pilots.”
“Too much plane?”
“That’s right,” Hunter answered. “They can fly and turn faster than some pilots can handle it. The gs can be tremendous, even when the plane isn’t kicked in all the way. The ’16 is the same way. In many respects it’s hotter than these planes, but I’m partial to it.”
“Well, either way, St. Louie will be happy to see them, I’m sure.”
Hunter nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said, moving to help one of the monkeys check an engine. “If we’re not too late.”
Within an hour, the first of the F-20s rolled out of the hangar. The pilot, the former ZAP flyboy named Digger Foxx, was in the cockpit. He gave the thumbs up signal, pushed his throttle and started the take-off roll. Every eye was on the F-20 Tigershark as the plane sped down the captured runway. Suddenly, it leaped into the air. A cheer went up. The pilot did a neat 180 and the brilliant red and white fighter came in low over the field, wagging its wings. Dozer shook Hunter’s hand. “Success!” “Yep,” he said. “One up, eleven to go.” They watched as the plane sped off toward the north for its first refueling stop at the Aerodrome.
In two hours’ time, all of the F-20s were successfully launched. A special squad of explosive experts had blown up the pirates’ F-100s after stripping the planes of any usable parts and munitions. The rest of the attacking force climbed into their aircraft and they too were soon airborne and heading for the Aerodrome. All the while, the pirate defenders in the woods, under the mistaken notion that the main pirate force would soon return, had continually peppered the assault team during the F-20 take-offs. Dozer’s men had returned the fire, but stayed at their positions on the perimeter of the base.
Finally, everyone was gone. Hunter was the last to leave. As he started his takeoff roll, a few mortar rounds came crashing down onto the runway, coming close, but missing by enough so as not to cause any damage.
He yanked the throttle back, left the ground and put the F-16 into a tight turn. Streaking back low over the landing strip, he deposited four bombs in succession onto the runway. The bombs, specially made blockbusters, cratered the landing strip beyond repair. Then he put the F-16 into a screeching, steep climb. When he reached 40,000 feet, he leveled it out, knowing he was high enough for his jet engine to emit the water condensed contrails.
Far below, a few of the bedraggled pirate defenders crawled out of the woods to claim what was left of their base. The place was a total wreck, the bodies of their dead comrades were everywhere. They were mostly in a state of shock, having no idea who the attackers were or how they came to know that the F-20s were hidden there. Only later would they discover that one of the three prisoners who had escaped in the hot air balloon weeks earlier had led the raid.
One of the pirates looked up and saw. something moving high above the destroyed base. He told his comrades and together they watched as a huge “W” formed in the sky.
It was a sight they wouldn’t soon forget …
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TWO DAYS LATER, THE sun was shining over Football City. The city was under a complete war footing. Everywhere, tanks, APCs, howitzers, military trucks, moved through the streets. While St. Louie had found problems equipping his air force, buying land weapons was no problem at all. And, strangely enough, neither was manpower.
It was precisely at noon when they heard them coming. The low distant rumble, more akin to thunder than anything else. Getting louder, getting closer. The sound was deeper than the noise of the attacking MIG-21s. Soon, every eye in the city was looking upward, hand over brow to shut out the bright sun.
St. Louie was at the Grand Stadium when he heard the noise. The place had been turned into the main staging area for Football City’s armed forces. All work at the stadium stopped as the soldiers looked up.
Then someone yelled: “There they are!”
St. Louie looked up. Sure enough, high up he could see six dots, flying in a chevron, emerging from a gigantic cumulus cloud. Right behind were six more. He felt an excitement run through him. Had Hunter really pulled it off?
He got his answer as the jets descended, and then flew in formation right over the stadium. They peeled off, one by one, with professional precision and made their landing approach to the battered, but still operating, Football City airport.
He immediately jumped into a jeep with three of his staff officers and was at the airport just as the third pair of F-20s were coming in.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “They’re beautiful!”
Within minutes, all 12 were down and taxiing to their holding stations. Next the big C-5 landed, carrying the Sea Stallion inside, plus the Cobras. Two C-130s circled the field once, and set down, carrying Fitzie’s army of “volunteer” monkeys, the ZAP mechanics plus Dozer’s strike force.
“Look!” one of St. Louie’s officers said. “They look like F-4s!”
It was true. Captain Crunch and his F-4 Ace Wrecking Company had decided to join the Football City forces—free of charge, St. Louie would find out later.
The final plane to land was the lone F-16. St. Louie made sure he was at the station point when the jet taxied up.
The canopy popped and Hunter jumped out. St. Louie, overjoyed that his city now had not just an air force, but probably the most sophisticated air force on the continent, couldn’t resist putting an old Texas bear hug on Hunter.
“You did it!” St. Louie told him. “You just might have pulled our asses out of the fire!”
“Not yet,” Hunter said, cautiously. “We still have a lot of work to do and a tough fight ahead of us.”
“I know it,” St. Louie said, his initial exuberance disappearing. “And things have gotten worse.”
Hunter turned the plane over to the airport ground crew and sat down in a long abandoned airport coffee shop with St. Louie. A bottle appeared. Dozer joined them.
“What’s the situation?” Hunter asked.
“Bad,” St. Louie said, pouring out three drinks. “We’ve spotted advance elements of Family troops sitting right across the river from us. Our recon boys tell us their main columns are stretched on the road and the rails from here all the way back to New Chicago.”
“Any tanks, howitzers?” Hunter asked.
“A few, not many,” St. Louie said, a slight note of relief in his voice. “But they’ve got a lot of artillery, a few rocket launchers, and some heavy mortars. They have it all loaded up on tractor trailers, old semis, Diamond Reos, things like that. It appears like they’re moving some of their troops by train and the rest plus the equipment by truck.”
Hunter took another drink and thought for a moment. “Where are they getting all the fuel to move them? Those big rigs need diesel and I’m sure they’ve got gasoline-powered vehicles, too.”
“You’re right,” St. Louie said. “Our spies have seen them hauling fuel in old gasoline trucks—Mobil, Exxon, Sunoco—you name it.”
“But, where is all the petro coming from?”
“Well,” St. Louie said. “It’s coming from New Chicago. The Family has an oil storage area—a big one—right near the downtown. Ships come in off the lake and unload. Mostly under contract to East European concerns, I might add.”
“And, what was this about some train yards up there?” Hunter asked, refilling his glass.
“That’s right,” St. Louie said. “Big marshalling yards right next to the oil storage farm. That’s where they’ve been staging their troops.”
Hunter was getting an idea.
“We’ll need bombers,” he said suddenly.
“Fighter-bombers?” Dozer asked, trying to read Hunter’s mind.
“No, not just fighters,” Hunter said. “I mean bombers, too. Big stuff. Nothing fancy, just good enough for one bombing mission.”
“But where the hell are we going to find planes like that now, Hawk?”
“All we have to do,” he said, “is find one man. If we do, we’ll get our airplanes.”
That man’s name was
Roy From Troy.
St. Louie’s spies were good; they located the carnival-barker-turned-airplane salesman in two days. He had just returned from a selling trip to Canada when St. Louie’s agents spirited him away, and with the help of one of the Cobra Brothers, got him to Football City in a matter of hours.
He nearly fainted when he saw Hunter.
“My God! I heard you were dead,” he said to the airman. “They said the Mid-Aks got you over Baltimore. Or was it Otis?”
“Wishful thinking,” Hunter told him. They were standing in St. Louie’s command center in the basement of his mansion.
“Okay,” Roy said, getting down to business as usual. “You guys got me here in the middle of the night, so I hope it’s for doing a deal.”
“We want bombers,” Hunter told him simply.
“Bombers? I thought you were strictly fighters?”
“We need anything that will carry bombs a long way,” Hunter said.
“Bombers are rare these days,” Roy said. “Good ones anyway.”
“I told you,” Hunter said, already seeing dollar signs in Roy’s eyes. Some things never change. “We don’t need fancy. We just need something that’s going to make one mission. That’s all.”
“Well, they are still in short supply,” Roy said. “For some reason, bombers don’t last as long as fighters.”
“What have you got?” Hunter asked.
“Well, we’d be scraping the bottom of the barrel at Wright-Patterson.”
“I said, ‘Nothing fancy.’” Hunter reminded him.
“It’s going to cost.” Roy said, holding his hand up in mock caution.
“We don’t give a bull’s ass what it costs,” St. Louie told him, the anger evident in his voice. “We’re fighting for our lives here, mister.”
“Okay,” Roy said, dropping his huckster front for the first time that Hunter could remember. “I can see you guys are in a bad way here. Everyone on the continent knows you are. I got bombers. But I’m warning you. It’s old stuff.”
