The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  No matter. He had enough in the camera anyway; it was time to leave. All in one motion he flicked the landing gear up, pointing the U-2’s nose skyward and booted in the airplane’s afterburner. The airplane seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment. Then a great burst of energetic fire shot out of the rear. In a split second, the U-2 was gone. The missile tried to keep up but it was too much. It ran out of fuel and crashed into a snow-covered mountain four miles away.

  Hunter headed south, his throttle open on “full military” power the whole way. The missile fired at him confirmed it; those were not “friendlies” down there. He had to get back to his base, organize an air strike and return as quickly as possible.

  What he had just barely seen was unbelievable but unmistakable. He was soon 20, 30, 40 miles away, but the image was still burned onto his retinas and in his brain. He had only seen the jet for a split-second, not nearly long enough for him to ID its type. But emblazoned on the side of that one jet was an emblem. A red star with a yellow border. The insignia of the Soviet Union. The Pacific American Air Corps had a bunch of Russian jet fighters right in their backyard.

  But not for long …

  Chapter Two

  ONE HOUR AND 20 minutes later, Hunter was leading a strike force comprised of eight PAAC aircraft back to the site of the Soviet base.

  He had had no time to explain; no time to review the infra-red tape in the U-2’s cameras. He had kept strict radio silence all the way back to the base, but once he landed, he virtually leaped out of the U-2 and into his F-16. He called to the two “scramble” jets—aircraft that were always armed and warmed up and ready to go at a moment’s notice—to get airborne, while at the same time, sounding a red alert at the base.

  Within minutes, five more airplanes were gassed, armed and taxiing for take-off. Hunter allowed himself a tinge of pride at the speed and professionalism of it all, though it wasn’t all that surprising. The majority of PAAC pilots were, like him, veterans of the old ZAP …

  The strike force was made up of a potpourri of aircraft. The two scramble jets were A-7 “Strikefighters” bulging at the wings with napalm cannisters. There were also three T-38s, converted training jets that he knew were carrying four 1000 pound bombs each. Two A-10 “Thunderbolts” were also along for the ride. They too were carrying napalm, and each plane had two Vulcan cannons in its snout. Hunter’s famous souped-up F-16—the highest performance jet left on the continent—was carrying its standard “six-pack” of Vulcan cannons, plus a ordnance dispenser attached to its belly. This device would drop up to 800 “bomblets” on the base—small hand-sized explosive charges that were well suited to destroying parked aircraft and landing zones.

  Hunter swung his F-16 in and out of the formation, checking with each airplane’s pilot that their craft were ready for action. He then checked his own instruments. He was within 10 miles of the location of the base. The snow was still falling but it had let up slightly. He knew that whoever was at the base would probably be expecting some kind of an attack, especially after they had taken a shot at the U-2. He had to be prepared to see a few of the Soviet jets airborne, flying protection over the base, that is, if they were able to take off in this weather. Luckily both his F-16 and the A-7 Strikefighters were carrying Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.

  He slowly brought the formation down low—they would come in right above the deck. He and the A-7s would go in first, lay down their bombs and then climb up to 2000 feet and serve as the air cover while the T-38s and the A-l0s did their work. If no Russian jets were there to challenge them, each plane would return and strafe targets of opportunity.

  He recognized the mountain just ahead of him as the one that formed the southern edge of the valley’s border. Just beyond it was where he had spotted the Russian planes. He checked his instruments a final time, and increased his throttle slightly. The F-16 responded and pulled a little ahead of the A-7s. The trio of T-38s were slightly behind and the A-10s brought up the rear. Hunter would be the first over the target—if any SAMs were coming up, they’d be aimed at him. He gave a thumbs-up signal over his head for the A-7 pilots to see. Then he bore down over the mountain and prepared to unleash his bombs on the Russian base …

  But there was nothing there.

  He streaked down the mountain valley only to find that where he had seen the Soviet jets less than two hours before was now nothing more than a snowswept landscape. The jets, the huts, the antenna, the radar—everything was gone. He quickly re-checked his coordinates; he knew this was the place. But where the hell were the Russians?

  The other pilots came over the mountain and shared the same surprise. Quickly, each pulled up and threw their arming switches to the Off position. Soon the eight planes were flying in formation once again. While the others orbited above, Hunter streaked low through the valley. He couldn’t even see so much as an oil spot to indicate the Russian base had been there a few hours ago. He put the F-16 on its tail and climbed to join the others.

  Hunter was the first to break radio silence. “Sorry, guys,” he said with the puzzlement much evidenced in his voice. “I guess we’re shooting at ghosts again.”

  “That’s okay, major,” one of the A-7 pilots, a guy named Mick, radioed back. “Alaska’s pretty this time of year.”

  “Well, you guys enjoy the scenery on the way back,” Hunter said, checking his fuel. “I’m going to look around a little more.”

  “Gonna need help, Major?” It was Max, one of the A-10 pilots.

  “Thanks, Max,” Hunter replied. “But I’ll go this one alone. Go buy yourselves a round of drinks and put it on my tab.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Mick radioed back. “Good luck.”

  With that, the seven attack jets turned southward and streaked off. Alone again, Hunter began searching …

  The conference room at the PAAC base headquarters was filled to capacity. More than 60 pilots plus base support personnel were squeezed into a room that was built to hold 50 people, tops. Around the round conference table—its top strewn with empty and full coffee cups, wrappers from sandwiches and countless liquor and beer bottles—sat the principal officers of the Air Corps. The atmosphere was tumultuous as the pilots talked among themselves. Finally, the man they had been waiting for—General Dave Jones, commander of the Pacific American Air Corps—strode into the room. The assembled men snapped to attention as one, and barraged their commanding officer with an orgy of salutes.

  The general, small, craggy faced and wiry, instinctively returned the salute. These guys are real pros, he thought. The PAAC had done away with all but the most barebone rules and regulations between the ranks, yet Hunter and his guys never failed to catch the old USAF officer in him.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Jones said, walking over to shake hands with a few of the officers within reach.

  “Relax …”

  Hunter, standing at the head of the conference table and in front of a large video screen, greeted Jones. For Hunter, seeing Jones was like seeing a ghost. The man was the identical twin brother of the deceased hero, General Seth Jones—Hunter’s onetime commanding officer and mentor. Seth Jones had died bravely in the opening rounds of the Mid-Ak coup in the Northeast. Before he died, he told Hunter and the other ZAP pilots to head west and join up with his brother Dave. Eventually, they did.

  “Good flight up, sir?” Hunter asked him. Jones’s HQ and the main base for PAAC was located at the old Naval Air Station in San Diego.

  “Sure, no problem,” Jones said, taking off his trademark baseball cap and undoing his leather flight jacket. “Any coffee or whiskey left?”

  “Both,” Hunter said, retrieving a bottle from the table while another pilot handed a mug of coffee to the general. Jones splashed a healthy slug of whiskey into the coffee cup and took a gulp. “Okay. It’s good to see everyone. As you all know, I’ve been out of touch for a while. Without going into detail, we’ve got a secret project working and I was locked up in a laboratory—me and a bunch of eggheads—fo
r several weeks. Now I hear there’s been some strange stuff happening. So what the hell is going on up here, Hawk?”

  Hunter looked around at the soldiers in the room and especially at those seated around the table. This was the first council of war called since the new PAAC base was established at Coos Bay, Oregon. Anyone who was anyone at the base was on hand. At the far end of the table sat Ben Wa and J. T. Toomey, Hunter’s friends who had served with him in the Thunderbirds before the war and in his F-16 squadron during it. They had also been with him at ZAP. Next to them sat four officers known as the Ace Wrecking Company, the two-plane F-4 fighter team for hire—and commanded by the swaggering Captain “Crunch” O’Malley. They had helped Hunter win the Battle of Football City and had accepted employment with PAAC when Hunter headed west.

  Beside them sat two officers from The Crazy Eights, the eight-aircraft chopper team that once formed the equally famous Zone Air Ranger brigade back in the days of ZAP. The Crazy Eight Rangers were now doubling as the new base’s airborne security force.

  Captain Frost, an officer in the Free Canadian Air Force and another friend of Hunter’s, was on hand as the liaison officer for PAAC. Next to him, and sitting at Hunter’s right hand, was Captain John “Bull” Dozer, the tough Marine commander who had been with Hunter all through the war with The Family.

  These men made up the war council, the group which, by agreement, was called to a meeting any time a crisis threatened the security of PAAC or the territory it protected.

  Now Hunter had the floor.

  He flipped a switch and the video screen came to life in a burst of static. He waited until a fuzzy image appeared on the screen then froze the picture.

  “This is the videotape shot from the U-2 two days ago,” he started. “Before I roll it, let me just say that I’m glad what’s on this tape proves that I am not losing my mind—there were Russians out there—and that the tape will clear up a little of the mystery as to how the Soviets were able to disappear so quickly and take fifty jets with them. In a blizzard yet.”

  He paused briefly, “this is just one of a number of strange things that have been happening around here. Before I run this tape, let’s just hear what you guys have run into lately, then maybe somehow, we can try to figure out what the Christ is going on.”

  He turned to Ben Wa and Toomey. “Ben, you first.”

  Ben Wa, the Oriental fighter pilot, stood up and began his story.

  “About three weeks ago, J. T. and I were on TDY down to Nellis Air Force base outside of Vegas. As you know, we’ve been using the Nellis as a refueling station and target practice area lately.

  “Anyway, we were drinking in town one night—there are a few barrooms still open in Vegas—and the locals told us they had heard strange stuff out in the desert a month or so earlier.”

  “What kind of strange ‘stuff?’” Jones asked.

  “A loud explosion, sir,” Toomey, the perpetually sunglassed pilot jumped in. “Like an atomic bomb went off, one guy told us. Louder than a sonic boom or jet aircraft or things like that.”

  “But that area is practically deserted,” Jones said.

  “Yes,” Wa continued. “That’s what was so strange about it. The people were scared, sir. They said the explosion—or whatever it was—shook the city for ten minutes. Then they saw a lot of smoke and flame, out on the eastern horizon.

  “We decided to stick around and try to track it down. We flew around the area where they said they saw smoke and flames. It took us a while, but then we found it.”

  “And what was ‘it?’” Jones asked.

  “A crater, sir,” Toomey said. “The biggest Goddamn crater you’d ever want to see. It looked like it was made by a nuke. Easily a mile across. It was still smoking when we got there.”

  Jones took a swig of his spiked coffee. “Meteorite, maybe?”

  Toomey shook his head. “We landed, then drove out to the place, sir. It was definitely an explosion. There were bits and pieces of metal everywhere. Plus a few threads of clothing. Even a few fresh bones—they still had some, well, muscle on them.”

  Jones took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “A mile wide crater?” he asked. “That’s a lot of bomb, if it was a bomb …”

  “Whatever it was,” Wa said. “It shook up the civilians pretty bad. Some of them left town; others are chipping in to buy an anti-aircraft battery, just in case.”

  A murmur rose up and subsided among the assembly.

  Jones shook his head and took a swig of his booze-laced coffee. “What else?” he asked.

  Hunter nodded to Captain Crunch, commander of the Ace Wrecking Company.

  Crunch stood up and started his story. “We were flying routine sea patrol, General, a few weeks before Ben and J. T. were down in Vegas. We were about one hundred fifty klicks off what used to be San Fran when we started picking up some strange radio clutter.”

  “What kind of strange?” Jones asked.

  “Well, it sounded like a lot of different kinds of traffic. Routine stuff—like weather, wind direction, but also the kind of transmissions you’d hear between ships. Course headings, fuel loads, these kinds of things. Some of the voices were in English, others, well … not English.”

  “Russian?” Jones asked, looking up.

  “I don’t speak it, sir,” Crunch said. “But it could have been.”

  “So what happened?” asked Jones as he refilled his coffee cup.

  “Well, we alerted the base and vectored to the area,” Crunch continued. “That’s when we made contact with the Coaster intell ship that was coming back from a long-range patrol.”

  “That was the Liberty Two ship, General,” Hunter interjected.

  Now a collective shudder went through the room. Everyone there knew what happened aboard the Liberty 2 was downright spooky.

  “Right,” Crunch said. “We talked to them. Reported that we were hearing all this strange stuff and it seemed to be coming from a point close to their location. They said they were picking the stuff up too, and that they were getting a little jumpy. They also said they were in the middle of a first-class fog and to them, the radio traffic sounded like a whole Goddamned fleet of ships was bearing down on them.

  “We told them to sit tight, that we were about fifteen minutes away. We radioed the base again and requested back-up and also a air-sea rescue chopper, just in case. Then we lit out toward the Liberty. We were still getting a lot of noise on the radio, so much so we had trouble raising and maintaining contact with them.”

  Crunch stopped and took a chug from his coffee mug. It wasn’t holding coffee. He continued, slowly: “Well, we finally got to within twenty miles of the Liberty’s coordinates and sure enough, there was the biggest Goddamn fog bank I’ve ever seen. It went on for miles in every direction. Thick as hell. We got a good lock on their receiver and we started sending like crazy. At first we got no answer, then …”

  Jones looked up. “And then, Captain?”

  Crunch took another slug from his cup. “Then we had one more transmission with them, sir. We were talking to the skipper.”

  “What did he say?”

  Crunch reached out to the tape recorder which sat in front of him and pushed the PLAY button. “Here’s what we picked up, sir.”

  The room was completely silent as the tape crackled to life. First, a burst of static could be heard. Then noises, like hundreds of voices, were clearly evident. Then, one voice came through. It was the Liberty 2 skipper. His voice was shaky: “Get here, quick, Phantoms! Get here quick! They’re all around us! Jesus, there must be a hundred of them! Phantoms! Do you copy? May Day! May Day! May …”

  The tape abruptly ended in a burst of static. The whole room shuddered as one again. Even Jones shook off a chill.

  “We searched the area up and down, sir,” Crunch said, caution evident in his voice. “We were twenty five feet off the deck in that God damn fog and we didn’t see a thing.”

  “So what happened?”

&nb
sp; “We waited for the chopper and that’s when they found the ship,” Crunch answered.

  Hunter took it from there. “The chopper dropped two divers, General,” he said. “They climbed aboard the ship and found not a single soul on board.”

  “The engines were running, the radio was still on, the coffee was still hot on the stove,” Hunter said. “But there wasn’t anyone to be found.”

  “Any blood?” Jones asked. “Any signs of a struggle?”

  Hunter shook his head. “We sent an armed tug out and they towed it back. We went over it with a fine tooth comb. Didn’t find a thing. It’s like they vanished into thin air.”

  “Goddamn it, what happened to those men?” Jones said, lightly pounded his fist on the table.

  Absolute silence fell upon the room.

  “I’m afraid the worst is yet to come, sir,” Hunter said. He turned to one of the officers from the Crazy Eights. His was the strangest story of all.

  The officer, a lieutenant named Vogel, stood up and slowly, clearly told his tale:

  “We were sitting in the scramble house one day when we got a call from the frontier guardsmen’s post out in the Hell’s Canyon area,” Vogel began. “It seems that one of their patrols was on a week-long mission and they passed through a small town named Way Out.

  “They had planned to bivouac there, as they had in the past. But when they arrived, they found the town was … well, gone, sir.”

  “Gone?” Jones asked. “Don’t tell me the whole Goddamn town vanished, too …”

  “No, sir,” Vogel continued. “Gone as in dead, sir. Wiped out. All of the townspeople killed. Mutilated.”

  There was dead silence.

  “There were more than 300 people,” Vogel went on. “So many the guardsmen couldn’t bury them all. They headed back for their post and that’s when they called us.”