The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  The carnage was quick, complete, almost surgical. More than 700 of the sappers lay dead or dying on the pavement. Those fortunate enough to find cover, lived, then bolted as soon as the deadly chopper lifted off. In less than a minute, the Stallion’s guns had taken out one of the top units of the Family’s army. No Free Forces’ soldier even alighted from the chopper. The warriors were sitting behind video consoles, their triggers disguised as computer buttons. The enemy had never fired a shot.

  “Serves you right, you fuckers,” Dozer said, peering out one of the Stallion’s windows as the pilots lifted the big helicopter away. “I hope they can fit you all in hell.”

  Back at the Family’s forward headquarters in East St. Louis, the New Chicago commanders were in disarray. Their once-neatly pressed and clean black uniforms were now covered with dirt and dust. The early morning bombing raid had taken them completely by surprise, and had killed many of their top officers. The entire west side of the abandoned city was on fire. The commanders had been forced to move their HQ into the cellar of a partially-destroyed building, as protection against further air raids. Their biggest worry was communications with the front. It was spotty at best, giving them less and less control over the nearly 90,000 troops under their command. Now, to make matters worse, they had just received a report that their top sapper unit had been decimated by a helicopter posing as a supply chopper.

  “The fools!” one of the commanders roared, pounding his fist on a map table that was illuminated by candles. The bombing had knocked out all of the headquarters’ electrical power. “We’ve never delivered food to them in a helicopter before! What the hell make them think we would start now?”

  “It’s this guy Hunter who’s behind it,” another officer said, spitting the name out. “He’s the guy who put the hurt on the ’Aks a couple of times at least. And he’s been on our ass for months, we just didn’t realize it.”

  “Look,” a third officer said. “We’ve still got these guys almost 3-to-l. We blew the shit out of them last night. I say we jump off now. Get the thing over with!”

  “What about the big boats?” another commander asked. “A lot of them got big firepower on them and we’re supposed to use the others to get most of the troops across the river. Trouble is, they won’t reach us until noon at the earliest.”

  “Let our guys use the bridges,” the first officer roared. “There are seven of them, for Christ’s sake. If they can’t capture two or three of them, what the hell kind of army are they?”

  “Right,” another added. “And they’ve already got a bunch of smaller motorboats. So what if the first guys over get chopped up? If we can establish some beachheads now, when the big boats do come downriver, it’ll be gravy.”

  “But most of the troops haven’t eaten yet,” one lone dissenter said. “We’re having one hell of a supply problem ever since … well, you know, since those Football City flyboys iced the capital.”

  “Screw ’em!” the officer who liked pounding on the table screamed. “What the hell is this? A country club? We’re paying these soldiers big bucks to kick ass on St. Louie. That don’t mean they’re entitled to grub every other God damn minute! I say send them off! Now!”

  His suggestion was met with near-unanimous, if half-hearted, shouts of approval. Only the officer who was in favor of feeding the troops argued against it.

  A quick vote was taken and the motion, as it was, passed. The officer who had protested was led outside, forced to kneel down and shot twice in the back of the head. Soon after, the order to move out was flashed to the Family’s front line units.

  The shooting started a few minutes later …

  The first shots fired by the Free Forces were from riflemen protecting one of the bridges leading into Football City. Just after 8 AM, a squad of sharpshooters guarding the Alexis Avenue Crossway saw several figures splashing in the water under the span. They were Family skindivers trying to locate the charges the Free Forces had placed on the bridge. The sharpshooters peppered the water around the divers as Free Forces’ frogmen entered the river from their side and swam out to meet the enemy. A fierce knife battle broke out under the bridge, with the Free Forces’ divers eventually gaining the upper hand. By the time they had returned to land, shooting along the entire front had broken out.

  There had once been a cohesive plan on the part of the Family to invade Football City: batter the city with artillery, send in sappers to take control of the bridges while waiting for the makeshift fleet of boats to get downriver. Now the front line officers learned the plans had been changed. The new orders were simply to “take the city.” Every officer was on his own. Some of the units had the benefit of rafts and rubber boats, even some speedboats, with which to cross the Mississippi. Other units simply charged across the bridges. Still others decided to start their attack with a resumption of the artillery barrage and wait for the larger boats.

  Back at the Free Forces’ war command center in the basement of St. Louie’s headquarters, the Football City commanders sifted through reports as they flooded in from the front and tried to come up with sensible defenses to meet every threat.

  Meanwhile, at the airport, Hunter was ready to take off on the second mission of the day. The unpredictable side of war had already begun to take hold. The fighting was going full tilt along the river now, and the ground units were calling for air support. The B-29 gunships were first in line to take off. Originally, he had planned to send the C-130s up with the Superfortresses. But that plan had to be scrapped earlier when he was forced to send the C-130s and the Cobra Brothers north to intercept a large flotilla of Family boats that was steaming down the Illinois River and soon to reach the Mississippi. His air cover over the river battle was cut in half.

  Dozer was already out there somewhere, using the Sea Stallion to harass the Family lines of communication. The Ace Wrecking Company was also already in action; they had delivered an air strike minutes before on Family troops attempting to charge across the Gilean Boulevard Bridge in the south of the city, and were now strafing industrious Family amphibious soldiers trying to cross the river on rafts and in rubber boats.

  Hunter finally took off, the F-16 loaded with three, 1000-pound anti-personnel bombs. He flew immediately to the Sullivan Square overpass, where Family divers had succeeded in dislodging explosives placed there by the Free Forces.

  When he arrived over the concrete bridge, a Family tank column was attempting to cross. The B-29 gunship was already on station and attacking the half dozen tanks. He circled above and watched the fascinating engagement. The World War II-vintage B-29 Superfortress must have been carrying 20 gunners, firing everything from M-16s up to RPGs. Flying in a low, slow circle, the gunners aboard the big plane delivered a steady stream of fire on the tank column below. Many of them were firing with tracers in their ammunition, the long red streaks adding to the strangeness of the battle. Troops on the west side of the river also added to the lead shower. One by one, the tanks halted, unable to move in the withering hail of bullets. One tank—an M-1 Abrams—exploded. Then another. And another. The rear tank attempted to back off, but a gunner riding in the rear turret of the B-29 delivered a perfectly placed RPG right under the tank’s fuel supply. It exploded with a loud whump! causing it to blow up and over the side of the bridge.

  The remaining Family tank crewmen tried to abandon their machines, but the ever-circling B-29 stayed right on them, cutting down anyone who moved. In the course of five minutes, all of the tanks were reduced to burning hulks, and dozens of enemy tankers’ bodies littered the overpass.

  Hunter turned south and spotted a fleet of about 25 motorboats trying to cross a narrow part of the river, between the Sullivan Square Bridge and the Cardinal Avenue span. He brought the F-16 down almost level with the top of the water. The surprised Family troops saw him coming and vainly attempted to fire their rifles at him. It was no use. He opened up with his M61 cannon six-pack, riddling the boats, sinking a dozen instantly. Up ahead loomed the Cardin
al Avenue bridge. Enemy boats were also trying to cross under the protection of the bridge supports as well as on the other side. Instead of pulling up, he booted the throttle and flew right under one of the spans. He never stopped firing. Those soldiers who survived were amazed that the streaking jet had actually come out from underneath the bridge.

  He stayed low, angling over and above the enemy side of the river, dodging enemy flak as well as the hundreds of artillery shells that were being fired by both sides. The air was filled with bullets, rockets, surface-to-surface missiles, mortar shells, tank shells, and airplane exhaust. It seemed like both banks of the river were aflame. The smoke was blinding in some places. Through the smoke above him, he’d catch an occasionally glimpse of a B-29 or one of the F-4s or Cobras, each thick in the middle of action. His radio was filled with the excited chatter of war, cries of direct hits and calls for help. The battle was already more ferocious than anything he’d been in since World War III.

  His cannons never stopped blazing. He shot at anything that moved. Jeeps, tanks, fuel trucks, troops, artillery guns. They all felt the wrath of the awesome power of the F-16’s six guns. It seemed like hundreds of SAMs were fired at him, but he was much too low for most of the missiles to arm properly. In some cases, the missiles wandered around and sought out the nearest source of heat. One headed for an old commandeered Sunoco gasoline truck, that was serving as a mobile filling station for some Family vehicles. The missile impacted just behind the driver’s cab, causing the full tank of gas to explode.

  His body was vibrating with adrenaline as he continued his murderous, low-altitude run down the river. A barge full of Family troops was his next victim. He placed one of the anti-personnel bombs square on its deck, where it burst open in a ball of flame, ripping the 200 soldiers aboard with thousands of pieces of hot, deadly shrapnel.

  Another mile of strafing passed when his target acquisition computer started flashing. An aircraft was “hot,” a half mile down the river. Looked like a chopper—a big one. He was there in a matter of seconds, just in time to see a heavily armed helicopter rising up from behind the trees on the bank. They had picked the wrong time to take off. In one motion, he armed and fired a Sidewinder which flew a spiraling course right into the chopper’s exhaust pipe. The resulting explosion split the helicopter in two, the rotor continued to whip around and climb while the flaming body fell back to earth. He was by the wreck in a flash, but it was long enough for him to see the chopper was a Hind gunship—designed and built in the Soviet Union. He wasn’t surprised to see that some Russians had joined the battle. That made it all the better. “Sayonara, comrades,” he said bitterly as he continued to fly downriver.

  He had reached the southern edge of the battle zone when he heard a call for help. Family troops were close to breaking across the James Street Bridge, the second span north of the city. He immediately put the F-16 on its tail and accelerated straight up. Attaining the height he needed, he put the jet over on its back, flipped over and cut the engine. Silently, he glided toward the James, saving precious fuel. Below him, smoke and flames were rising from the fighting up and down the river. He realized the Free Forces were taking a beating, yet holding up well. And, as far as he knew, no Family troops had yet crossed successfully.

  He saw the James Street bridge below him and restarted the engine. The B-29 was on station, firing away at Family troops who had managed to drive many APCs more than halfway across the bridge. Suddenly, a SAM flashed up from the east bank and caught the B-29 on its left wing. The Superfortress shuddered once as the missile exploded. The big plane then turned over, flames engulfing its fuselage. Hunter could almost feel the pilot struggling with the controls. The doomed flyer managed to aim the bomber right at the span itself. With a tremendous explosion the B-29 crashed square into the top of the bridge, killing the Family troops and detonating the explosives put there previously by the Free Forces. The entire structure seem to lift out of the water then fall. A great gush of flaming, muddy water shot up as secondary explosions went off. By the time Hunter was in position, the bridge—and everyone on it—was gone.

  More SAMs appeared from the east bank, so he turned in their direction. His target acquisition video screen showed him five SAM sites foolishly erected right in a row. Dozens of Family troops frantically moved about the missile launchers. It was a perfect target for his second anti-personnel bomb.

  He came in low, popped his bomb release button, yanked on the side-stick controller and again, stood the ’16 on its ass. The anti-personnel device exploded, perforating man and missile alike. Looking back through the bubble-top canopy, he saw the SAMs still on the launchers blow, causing a half dozen secondary explosions. “Someone should have told those boys how to deploy their missiles,” he thought.

  “Breakthrough on Alexis!”

  It was the words Hunter had hoped he wouldn’t hear, but at the same time, knew he would.

  The call had come from Captain Crunch’s weapons officer riding in the rear seat of the Ace Wrecking Company’s F-4.

  “Crunch, Hunter here,” he called.

  “We got you, Major,” the reply came back. “We’ve got a breakthrough on Alexis. They must have disarmed the mines or they just didn’t go off. They’re pouring across right now, and our guys are going tooth and nail with them.”

  “Where’s the gunship?”

  “They iced it, Major,” the reply came back through a haze of static. “Looks like a SAM got it. It’s down and burning right next to the bridge.”

  “What’s your weapons status?” Hunter asked, wheeling the F-16 around and heading for the scene.

  “We got cannon enough for one more pass, but no ordnance. Wrecker Two is back at base getting reloaded.”

  “Roger, Crunch,” he radioed back. “Let’s do a one-two. I’ll go in first. Just watch out for our troops.”

  “Roger, Hawk.”

  He arrived over the bridge to see hundreds of Family troops charging across the span. It was the only bridge that had not yet been blown and it seemed as if all of the enemy troops on the east side of the river had converged on it. Many, in fact, had reached the other side, where they were met by the Free Forces infantry. A sharp firelight was in progress around the approach to the bridge that once served as a toll island. The wreckage of the B-29 was burning a short distance away.

  As planned, he went in first, dropping his last remaining anti-personnel bomb in the middle of the bridge, then opening up with the six-pack all the way to the east side. A couple of shoulder-launched SAMs flashed by him, but he virtually ignored them. The F-4 came in right behind him, chopping up more enemy troops, and momentarily stopping their flow across the bridge.

  He was worried about this situation. The Alexis Bridge was two-tiered and had up and down spans, built in a time when the out-going used the upper span and the in-coming traffic the lower. The Family soldiers were flooding across both of them, with the troops on the lower span somewhat immune from the strafing attacks.

  He had to gamble. The Family had either disconnected the explosives on the bridge supports, or, for whatever reason, the charges just didn’t go off. He had to go with the second option. Neither he nor the Phantom had enough ammo to hold off the invading troops, and the rest of the Free Forces aircraft were tied up elsewhere.

  He brought the ’16 down low again, lowered the flaps and the landing gear, and prepared the air brakes. He had to get under the bridge to see if the explosives were still there. To do so, he’d have to slow the jet down to a crawl, almost stall it under the bridge, just a split-second for him to give a look around. It was an old Thunderbirds’ trick; no other pilot would even dream of trying such a maneuver under a bridge span. But he was looking forward to seeing if it could be done.

  He approached the bridge and hit the air brakes. The jet’s computer brain set as if the plane was coming in for a landing. The throttle went back automatically and the nose came up. The Family troops crossing the bridge saw him coming and started firing a
t him, a tempting target because he was going so slowly. He zig-zagged a little to deny them good aim. In a few seconds he was nearly under the bridge, wagging his wings to prevent the jet from plunging into the water just 30 feet below. The condition he had set up was as close as one could get to hovering in a jet, unless that jet was a VTOL Harrier.

  He gave the underside of the bridge a quick scan, then hit his throttle. The engines kicked and a second later he was back up to speed. Mission accomplished. The explosive charges were still there.

  Now all he had to do was ignite them. The wire controls leading to the detonator on the Free Forces’ side were probably damaged in the fight, or, perhaps, the man with his hand on the plunger had been killed. Hunter would rely on the six-pack to finish the job.

  He radioed the Free Forces’ commander battling to stem the flood of Family troops coming across the bridge. He told him of his plan to shoot the explosives and ice the Alexis. All of the Free Forces’ troops had to be prepared to get behind cover. He told their leader that when they saw him do a quick four-point maneuver, his soldiers should hit the deck. The ground commander, his troops outnumbered 6-to-l and battling the attackers with bare hands, would have hung up on anyone else but Hunter. But knowing full well the reputation of the Wingman, he passed the word to his troops. “When the F-16 goes fancy, everyone duck!”

  Hunter did a quick loop and approached the bridge again low over the water. The fire from the Family troops was much more intense this time. They were shooting at him from both levels of the bridge as well as the east side of the river. He kept the F-16 slow and steady as he approached the span, wheels down and air brakes engaged.

  Slowly. Down a little. The cannon shot would have to find its way through the bridge’s under structure to hit the TNT package. Up a hair. A little to the right. The Family was now starting to bring across tanks and APCs as the battle on the west side of the bridge turned into a simple holding action for the Free Forces’ troops. Hunter figured there were probably a couple of hundred attackers on the west side already, and as many as a 1000 coming across the bridge’s double decks.