by Mack Maloney
“I roger you, sir,” the Marine replied. “And I have you in visual. I am passing your orders along, and opening up this channel for our receivers.”
There was a half minute of silence. Hunter booted it and flew low over the smoking city flying fast enough to discourage the Family gunners from taking a shot at him. He did a quick 180 over the river and headed back toward the Stadium.
“Major? This is Tango Red,” the radio crackled to life. “All ground stations now tuned to you. Enemy drive has stopped. Repeat, enemy has halted and is in place. Possible regrouping.”
“Please repeat, Tango Red,” Hunter called back. “Do I copy enemy in place? Not moving?”
“That’s a roger,” came the reply.
Odd, Hunter thought. The Family was right on the verge of completely overwhelming the defenders and winning the battle. Why stop?
But then again, Hunter thought, why fight it? He’d just got lucky.
“Okay, Tango Red,” Hunter replied. He knew the kit with the radio was a good one. All of Dozer’s guys were. “What are your present defense perimeters?”
“’16,” the voice came back. “Our positions are completely surrounded. Our lines are static. We control area two blocks square around Stadium. And that’s it. Understand fall back to that position. My officers copy.”
“Tell them they have to move quickly,” Hunter told him. “This is a B-52 strike. Coming in now less than seven.”
“We copy, sir,” the Marine replied, his voice going up a level in excitement. “B-52s sir? Perfect time, repeat, conditions A-OK for strike. Enemy still in place. We are pulling back.”
Hunter came down low over the Grand Stadium. He saw the Marine was as good as his word. There was a lull in the battle. Thousands of Free Forces’ troops were pouring into the huge arena, battered and burning as it was. Above the grandstands the tattered Football City flag was still flying. He could almost feel the excitement rising up from the troops below. He was sure most of them had given up the battle—and the cause—as lost. And now they had a shot. The enemy had surrounded them in the most protected structure around. What the hell, the place could once hold 250,000. If there were 10,000 friendly soldiers left, there would be room to spare.
Around the Stadium, outside the two-block buffer zone, he could see tens of thousands of Family troops. Some were hunkered down, waiting in foxholes, doorways, wrecked buildings. Others were sitting in smoking, idle tanks or APGs waiting for the go-word. There were even more in the rear area—just milling around, waiting. Waiting for the word to close in, tighten the circle and massacre the last of the Football City defenders.
For Hunter, the situation was this: He would have to call in the air strike on top of the surrounding enemy troops, yet save the soldiers inside the stadium. He knew it could get tricky, but it was a gamble he had to take.
The B-52s were now less than five minutes away. Hunter had already radioed warning of the strike to the other friendly aircraft in the area and they gratefully evacuated the airspace. Now, he contacted the B-52s and began transmitting target information to each one of them. This was the critical part. He had to quickly take into consideration everything from wind direction and speed to the rotation of the earth. A reading in error of just a few seconds to bomb release and the Grand Stadium would go up in smoke with the rest of the city.
Hunter bypassed using his on-board computer—he preferred to calculate the target coordinates in his head. People’s lives hung in the balance of accurate numbers. Using his own brain was the only real way that he could have trust in them.
His mental calculations complete, he called the final coordinates for the B-52 pilots, along with exact positions, release points and fusing instructions for each bomber. They would strike at concentrations of Family troops surrounding the stadium, then walk their bombs all the way back and across the river to sweep the enemy positions on the east bank of the Mississippi. He was acting as the sole forward air controller. The B-52s’ bombardiers would drop only on his command. It was as if he alone had his hand on the bomb release lever. Once pushed, 20 million pounds of bombs would rain down—and around—the Free Forces. He knew he had never make such a crucial call before.
His radio suddenly crackled. “Hunter! Come in!” Hunter recognized St. Louie’s voice.
“Go ahead,” Hunter radioed back.
“Hawk, we’re just about all in the stadium. Few stragglers. I wish the damn dome was working so we could close it up, but it’s been knocked out. Do we have two minutes?”
“Just about,” he replied. “Then get ’em all down on the ground and covered up. And have them stay that way.”
“Roger, Hawk,” St. Louie called back. “And when you finally come down from up there, will you please tell me how in hell you came up with a B-52 strike?”
“When it’s over,” Hunter answered. “I’ll be glad to.
The B-52s arrived over Football City two minutes later. Hunter counted down to the very last second, re-checked each of the 39 bombers’ individual coordinates, took a deep breath and radioed: “Bombs away? Now!”
High above, the bombardiers started unleashing the strings of 1000-pounders onto the enemy-occupied streets around the Grand Stadium. Those huddling on the playing field inside instantly felt the ground begin to shake violently. Shock waves filled the air. The wind above them became hot and like a hurricane. The noise of the explosions around them were so loud, many found their ears bleeding. Most were too nervous to care or notice. They were too busy praying that a stray string of bombs wouldn’t come down on them.
The enemy troops on the receiving end of the tremendous bombing never knew what happened. The B-52s were so high, they were no more than glints of white in the sky, followed by miles of contrails. The Family’s final drive was still inexplicably held up. At the moment the hundreds of 1000-pound bombs came crashing down on them, many of the Family troopers, smelling the bloody lust of victory, were griping that their commanders told them to halt their advance. The majority would never know why they were stopped just minutes away from total victory.
The bombs continued to fall for five frightening minutes. The aftershocks of the strike were so powerful, portions of the stadium’s walls threatened to crumble. But the huge arena stayed together. Bits of debris and sparks rained down on the huddled defenders, starting several small fires. Few of the soldiers had ever heard anything so loud, so violent. The thundering roar of the bombing was to all who heard it, the very sound of death. The Free Forces’ soldiers just thanked the spirits that Hunter was above, watching over them.
Then it was over. The last of the 1000-pound bombs exploded across the river. The reverberations echoed and died. The low, rumbling noise of the departing B-52 formation slowly faded away and then were gone completely. The soldiers inside the stadium cautiously dared to look up. Had they really made it? They listened. Something was strange. For the first time in what seemed like a century, Football City was quiet.
One by one, the defenders rose to their feet. Was it really over? They wondered. Their officers told them to stay put for the moment. St. Louie, Dozer and several others headed for the massive gates which led into the Stadium and pushed them open.
They were horrified. The entire section of the city from the Stadium to river—more than a mile of what was once urban sprawl—was completely obliterated. Flattened. Leveled down to the curbstones. There were few fires, some smoke, a million tons of rubble and a layer of dust hanging over everything. But beyond that, there was nothing over four feet standing.
“My beautiful city. Now it’s Dresden,” St. Louie said, almost unconsciously recalling pictures of that battered German city after the Allied bombers had gotten through with it.
“Worse,” Dozer said, taking in the massive destruction. “Hiroshima. Without the rads.” Even the battle-hardened Marine choked at the utter devastation.
One by one, then in groups, the soldiers of the Free Forces wandered out of the Stadium, their mouths hanging i
n awe. There was no need to fear being shot at by the enemy. There simply was no more enemy. No one could have lived through the massive carpet bombing. Not unless they had a guardian angel.
“Only Hunter could have directed a strike on a dime like this,” Dozer told St. Louie.
They looked up and saw the F-16 high above them. It started to move among the fading white contrails of the now-long gone B-52 bombers. Carefully, the F-16 began spouting its own contrail. As the victorious survivors watched, the tiny jet carved out a miles-long letter “W” in the sky above Football City.
The word flashed across the continent almost immediately: tiny Football City had actually defeated the once-powerful New Chicago Family. The free governments remaining on the continent—especially Texas—breathed a sigh of relief. Freedom-loving citizens everywhere had been rooting for Football City although the former super-resort city had definitely been tagged as the underdog.
But sometimes, the underdogs win.
No telling or retelling of the story would be complete without detailing the heroics of Hunter—“The Wingman”—who stole jets from the air pirates for Football City’s air force, then went on to bomb New Chicago, singlehandedly stop a 100-plane bombing raid against the Free Forces, then direct a B-52 strike to win the battle on the ground. It was the stuff of legends, and he had just become one. Soon, his name was on the lips of every fighter—friend and foe alike—across the land.
Only three B-52s of the Northern Pacific and Southern California Strategic Air Company landed at the Football City airport after the bombing mission. The others linked up with their KC-135 flying tankers, refueled in the air, and headed back to the West Coast.
Hunter was on hand at the airport when the three big jets came in. The lead jet pulled up and came to a rest. The first person to emerge from the escape hatch underneath the cockpit was no other than J. T. “Socket” Toomey. Sunglasses cemented to the bridge of his nose, not a hair out of place. Ben Wa climbed out next. The hula-hula boy was all smiles as usual. Hunter sprinted to the side of the plane to greet them.
“You really ought to get out to the Coast, Hunter, my man,” J. T. told him, pumping his hand and surveying the battle-scarred conditions of the Football City airport. “I think you need a change of surroundings.
“Great shooting, Hawk,” Ben Wa beamed. “Can’t do tricks without the Wingman.”
Hunter shook his head and grinned. “Well, you guys provided me with the biggest surprise of my life when I heard friendly voices coming from those B-52s.”
“Oh, you ain’t got the biggest surprise yet,” J. T. said, mysteriously. “Get a load of this.”
He was pointing to a third figure emerging from the B-52’s escape hatch. The man was of thin, wiry build. A familiar hair and face. Even more familiar smile and voice. He walked forward, his hand extended. “Major Hunter, I presume?”
Hunter almost dropped on the spot. It was the general.
“General Jones,” the man said, shaking Hunter’s hand. “Davy Jones.”
Hunter came speeding back to reality. “The general’s twin brother,” he said finally.
“That’s right,” Jones said.
Hunter had never known such identical-looking twins. It was spooky to stand and talk to a man that looked exactly like the one he had buried months before.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, sir,” Hunter told him.
“And I about you, Major,” Jones returned. Then he leaned in and whispered to Hunter. “I know Seth is dead. Even though I was out on the Coast, I knew—I felt—the exact second he died.”
“He died a hero, sir,” Hunter said, a slight lump of emotion rising in his throat. “I was with him. He gave his life to ice a lot of Mid-Aks—Mid-Aks who would have been here, fighting us today—if it weren’t for him.”
“I know,” Jones said sadly. “I just wanted to thank you, Major. My brother … he spoke of you highly and often.”
The conversation could go no further. Both men were filled up with the memories of the late, great General Seth Jones. It was almost unbearably sad.
St. Louie and Dozer saved the day. They arrived beside the big bomber, and Hunter broke the silence by introducing everyone around.
“You will stay for the victory celebration, won’t you?” St. Louie asked the B-52 airmen.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” the other general said, breaking into a wide, familiar grin.
The people began returning to Football City the next day. After weeks of hiding in the hills, they were glad to reclaim their city, utterly devastated as it was. Food, medicine and other supplies started coming in via planes from Texas and Free Canada. Appropriately enough, the first plane in the Texas airlift was the huge C-5 Hunter had used in the early stages of rescuing the ZAP pilots.
The next night they finally solved the mystery of why the Family commanders had halted their advance just as they were about to overwhelm the outnumbered Free Forces.
“If you can believe it,” St. Louie told Hunter and Dozer over a round of drinks amidst the rubble that was once his government house and headquarters. “I still had two agents in New Chicago. They just got in. Took them two days to float down the river.
“They said that right about the time we were about to be overrun, someone delivered an air strike on old Chicago.”
“What?” Hunter had to hear it again to make sure it wasn’t the whiskey.
“There’s more. Not only did they pull this in daylight. They managed to ice the Black Tower.”
“Holy shit!” Dozer said. “The place must have been thick with SAMs.”
“So that’s what happened,” Hunter said, the information starting to sink in. “They lost their central command. With the Black Tower knocked out, the front line commanders couldn’t take the initiative and move themselves.”
“That’s a stupid way of doing things,” St. Louie laughed.
“That’s also the Soviet way of doing things,” Hunter said. “No freedom of thought. No freedom of action. Feelings are repressed. Imagination stifled. The Family was foolish to listen to them.”
“But,” Dozer said. “Who the hell did the air strike?”
St. Louie smiled. “Can’t be certain,” he said with a wink. “But my guys said the attacking aircraft were F-105 Thunderchiefs.”
“Fitzgerald!” Hunter yelled. “Why that old Irishman! Neutral, my ass. There’s never been an Irishman born who was neutral about anything!”
Two hours later they were able to raise the Aerodrome on the Free Forces’ only working long-range radio transmitter.
“We owe you one, Mike,” Hunter told him in all sincerity.
“Don’t be foolish, Hawker, me boy,” Hunter heard the solid Irish brogue come back. “It was business. If the Family had won, they would have been sitting right in the middle of one of my most lucrative air routes. I couldn’t allow that, now could I?”
“Sure,” Hunter said, going along with his friend. “And if you think I believe that, you can take my wings, too.”
“I got some more news for you, Hawker,” Fitzgerald continued. “You might like to know that the Mid-Aks have regrouped. What’s left of them, that is. Some new people have taken over from the ’Ak old guard. They call themselves The Circle. Quite mysterious. Apparently they’ve got some allies, too. Pirates. A few Family members, those who were lucky enough not to be in Chicago. Possibly some Russians and even freaks from the Badlands. The whole bunch of them met for the first time a few days ago, my spies tell me. Somewhere in old Delaware. And the first thing they agreed on was to put a price on your head.”
“How much?” Hunter had to ask. It wasn’t often a man got to know his true worth.
“Are ye ready for this?” Fitz asked with a chuckle that could be heard through the crackle of the radio transmission. “One half billion dollars in gold!”
“A half billion?” Hunter was shocked. He knew he had made some enemies. But a half billion dollars worth?
“That’s correct,
Hawker,” Fitz said back. “Five hundred million dollars. After you boys did a number on Boston, and with Baltimore gone, all the ’Aks have left is money—the gold from Knox. Now they’re willing to part with it just to get your head on a platter.”
“I guess I should be flattered,” Hunter said.
“Aye, you should,” Fitz said. “And you should also be keeping an eye out over your shoulder. There’s a lot of bums out there who’d be kings with a half billion in gold in their pockets.”
Hunter turned serious. “Any other … news?” he asked.
“About Dominique?” Fitz said. “No. Sorry. I sent three of my best men up to Montreal as you asked. They found nothing. The last time anyone saw her, she was getting off the Beechcraft Jones sent up. It’s like she disappeared into thin air, Hawker. Don’t worry, though. We’ll keep looking.”
There was a brief silence. “Thanks, Mike,” Hunter finally said.
“Well,” Fitzgerald radioed back. “I’ve always been a sucker for the good cause, be it blasting hoodlums or finding lost girlfriends.”
The next day was the victory celebration. Those who survived gathered in and around the Grand Stadium. Huge barbecue pits were dug and tons of Texas beef cooked. The Canadians delivered a plane filled with cases of whiskey. The Coasters sent wine and fruit. Fitzgerald himself arrived with five 747s filled with more than 1000 of the best-looking B-girls the Aerodrome could offer. The day’s events included aerial demonstrations by the ex-ZAP pilots performing in the F-20s, and fly-bys by the surviving aircraft of the Free Forces air corps. Most of the pilots and all of the planes were in Football City to stay. In a matter of a few months, St. Louis had gone from no air corps to having the best equipped and manned on the continent.
The party atmosphere enlivened throughout the day and carried over into the night. A huge makeshift stage had been set up and all the principals of the fight were seated there. The different groups of soldiers—from the Football City regulars to the Free Canadians and Texans to the volunteers—all stood in front of the stage. Citizens—nearly fifty thousand of them—filled out the rest of the crowd.
