The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  Jones figured the destruction of the enemy HQ would give the west another few days of valuable time. Off in the distance, he could see the nuke station was also enveloped in flames, courtesy of 50 additional tons of bombs. Suddenly, there was a green flash of light, followed by a king-sized mushroom cloud. Jones knew that was the nuke’s reactor going up. Anyone left alive on the ground would now have even radiation to contend with.

  Jones figured the destruction of the enemy HQ and the nuke would seriously disrupt the Soviets’ command structure and give the west another few days of valuable time.

  Now if only Hunter would show up …

  Chapter Thirty

  ONE BY ONE, THE surviving B-52s approached the Denver air station and began their landing descent. Jones was stationed toward the end of the pack as several of his ships had been damaged and had fallen behind the main group. Suddenly the pilot of the last trailing bomber—code named Caboose—called ahead to Jones with an urgent message.

  “Sir, we got a bogie back here!” the pilot radioed. “He’s right off our tail!”

  Jones yelled back to his own radar man. “What do you show back there?”

  “Nothing sir,” the answer came back. “All I got is ’52s.”

  Jones radioed back to his tail pilot. “What do you have? Visual sighting? Or a blip?”

  “It’s a visual, sir,” the pilot replied. “I’ve got no radar signature. My set must have caught some damage over the target.”

  Jones was worried. The bogie might very well be a Yak recon ship, following the stragglers back to their home base in preparation for an air strike of their own. But why didn’t the aircraft show up on radar? He quickly radioed all the other airplanes ahead of him to drop down and land as quickly as possible.

  “What’s his airspeed and altitude, Caboose?” Jones then radioed the last ship.

  “He’s at 450, and about 2000 feet above us,” came the reply. “He’s keeping pace with us, sir.”

  There was a crackle of static. “Stand by sir,” the pilot called out. “He’s booted it sir, coming down fast.”

  “Can your tail gunner get a fix on him?” Jones radioed back.

  “Negative, sir,” the pilot said, his voice raising a notch in anxiety. “He’s going right by us … right now!”

  Jones turned around in his seat and looked back toward the Caboose. Sure enough, a small, strange-looking fighter streaked by right underneath him. His co-pilot saw it too.

  “What the hell kind of airplane is that, General?” he asked.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Jones said. Just then, his B-52 entered a low hung cloud bank. Jones had to concentrate on landing the airplane. He activated his landing gear and deployed his tail chute to further slow down the big bomber.

  When he broke through the clouds, the landing strip was directly ahead of him. And so was the mysterious fighter!

  “The Goddamned thing has landed!” co-pilot called out. “Jesus, he walked right in without the tower or the scramble jet picking him up? He’s got to be friendly or crazy …”

  “Or both,” Jones said, looking at his co-pilot.

  By the time Jones taxied his Stratofortress into its holding station, a crowd of armed guards and curious monkeys had surrounded the strange jet. The general quickly shut down the big bomber’s engines and climbed out of the access hatch. He wasn’t totally surprised to see Hunter standing on the wing of the oddly-shaped black fighter, coolly discussing something with the group of onlookers.

  Hunter jumped off the wing and walked quickly to meet Jones. He was holding the fifth black box.

  “Am I glad to see you,” Jones said. “And that black box.”

  The general put his fingers to his mouth and let out a long, shrill whistle. Immediately a jeep filled with military police appeared. Jones handed the precious black box to the sergeant of the group, saying: “You know what to do.”

  The jeep sped off to a pair of F-104s waiting nearby. The two planes were already warmed up and ready to go. The MP passed the box to a monkey who gave it to one of the pilots. Immediately the two Starfighters taxied out onto the runway and began their take-off roll.

  “They’ve been waiting to scramble with that box for the past three days,” Jones told Hunter as they watched the scene. “It will be in Eureka within three hours.”

  The recovery mission was now complete. But there would be no time for celebration. No round of welcome back drinks.

  “Sorry for sneaking in unannounced,” Hunter said, his voice slightly distant. “I was down to two pounds of fuel when I touched down. I had to cut off everything, lights, radio, radar, everything except the flight controls.”

  Jones scratched his wiffle haircut. He looked at Hunter. He looked different. He could tell his pilot was burning inside. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Yes,” Hunter confirmed. “It’s a Stealth fighter. A warlord in Manhattan named Calypso got a hold of it somehow. He was about to … well, trade it … to Viktor, when I upset their plans.”

  “Viktor himself? Sounds interesting,” Jones said.

  “I’ll tell you all about it sometime,” Hunter said soberly, choosing his words very carefully. “But it will have to keep for now.”

  Jones looked at him again. This man, his friend, had changed. Something, almost imperceptible, yet very obvious had come over him. He looked different.

  “Hey, Hawk,” Jones told him. “Grab some chow and shut eye. You’ll need it.”

  “Chow, yes,” Hunter said. “Sleep, no. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and this airplane is going to come in handy.”

  For the first time in what seemed like years, Hunter chowed down, showered and climbed into a fresh flightsuit. A few hours later, he was sitting in the operations room at the air station. The usual group of PAAC principals was there, gathered around an enormous map of the mid-American continent. Jones laid out the strategy for the crucial days ahead.

  Western Forces recon teams had located three major concentrations of Circle troops making their way toward the Badlands. One army, dubbed the Northern Group, was made up of two divisions or 30,000 men. It had been gradually moving across the north central states, and was now on the border of old Minnesota and Wisconsin.

  “This army is probably going to link up with the northern part of the SAM line in the Dakotas,” Jones told them.

  The Circle’s Southern Group, made up of three divisions, or 45,000 men, had swept through the southern states and now was encamped in northern Louisiana.

  “These guys are getting a lot of heavy equipment and supplies from New Orleans,” Jones continued. “They’ve got a major concentration at Shreveport, and it’s a good guess they’re going to get into Oklahoma or possibly invade Texas when the time is right.”

  The third and largest Circle Army group—this one containing as many as 105,000 men in seven divisions—had formed up near occupied Football City and would soon embark across Missouri, heading for central Kansas and Nebraska.

  “This has been their plan all along,” Jones said, moving colored indicators representing the enemy troop movements. “Link up with the Russians, use the SAMs as an umbrella and just keeping on coming until they meet some opposition. And we, gentlemen, are the only opposition that they can meet.”

  He pointed to the area around the Dakotas.

  “We’ve got to rely on the Canadians to deal with this Northern Group,” he said. “The idea will be to isolate them in Minnesota. Fitzie’s ADF F-105s will help out there.”

  He shifted his attention to the southern part of the map. “The Texans and the exiled Football City troops will take charge of stopping this Southern Group. The key here is to grease New Orleans. That port had been lousy with Russian subs for weeks now. The Texans have one hell of a bunch of F-4s down there, so that will be their job. St. Louie’s F-20s will support the action near Shreveport.”

  Jones paused and turned his attention to the center of the map. Then he said soberly: “Gentlemen, I’d be less than
honest if I didn’t say we’ve got the toughest job facing us.

  “I’ve got to figure that this middle group will move right through the Badlands in Kansas and southern Nebraska. They’re the ones we need to worry about. They’re more than three times as large as the other two groups, so they represent their major thrust. They’ve got the most transport—trucks, railroad, boats.

  “So they’re very mobile. And they’re heading right for us.”

  He turned his attention to the markers representing the middle positions of the democratic forces. “Here are our lines,” he said, indicating a long stretch that roughly coincided with the borders of Colorado and Kansas-Nebraska. “This is where we’ve got to meet them. We’re digging in. All of our ground troops will be in this trenchline in the next two days. And, frankly, we’ll be lucky if we get sixty thousand men in place.”

  Jones turned and addressed the group directly. “They’ve got us by about two-to-one as things stand now,” he said earnestly. “If they break through, they’ll be unstoppable.”

  There was a deadly silence in the room.

  “So what are we going to do?” Jones asked. “Well, three things …

  “First, you’re all familiar with the so-called “Land-Air Battle” strategy. Anyone who fought in Europe knows it well. This will be our plan of action. We’ve got to hit their supply lines, their lines of communications and their means of transportation. Fitzie’s got to do it in Minnesota. St. Louie and the Texans have to do it in Louisiana. And we’ve got to do it in Kansas and south Nebraska.

  “We’ve got to break through the SAM line using the holes we’ve punched in it before they seal them up. We’ve got to take out every bridge, highway and railroad line in Missouri. We’ve got to isolate those troops from their reserves and their supply lines.

  “Second, once we’ve done that, we go after the troops themselves. Bomb the shit out of them wherever they are. And we can’t be timid. Napalm, antipersonnel stuff. Whatever it takes. And anyone we miss in Missouri, we catch on the roads and rivers in Kansas and south Nebraska. The harder we hit them and the longer we delay them, the better our chances in the trenches will be.”

  “As for strategic bombing …” Jones produced a large photo of the Soviets’ castle-like main base, with the still smoking nuke station nearby. “This was taken just a couple of hours ago, right after we went over. We lost five airplanes and crews to accomplish this, but I have to say it was worth the price. You can see both targets were hit hard.

  “We have to assume they’re now trying to operate without electricity, which, if anything, will screw up their radio communications. Plus we’re banking on some of their top people being stationed at their HQ when we hit it. Also, I wouldn’t want to buy any property real soon near that bombed out nuke station. It’ll be hot there for a while.”

  Once again, there was a stark silence in the room.

  Then Dozer spoke up: “You said we have to do three things, General.”

  Jones nodded. “That’s right. Missions one and two—hitting their lines of communications and blasting their troop concentrations—these things we can do.

  “But we have to do one more thing—and it may be the hardest mission of all.”

  He paused, looking several of the principals straight in the eye. “We’ve got to remember that Viktor—wherever he is—assembled The Circle Army the same way Hitler assembled his. By deceit, propaganda and hero-worship. First he gathered together all of the riff-raff, leftovers, anyone who could aim a gun. Then he ‘recruited’ some young blood. Teenagers. Filled them with a bunch of bullshit and pointed them in the direction of the front. From what we hear from Fitzie’s spies, a lot of these soldiers are really young kids, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen years old. They’re heavily indoctrinated. Brainwashed. Fanatical. They look to Viktor as their leader, their general, their god.

  “So what does this mean? Well, for one thing, I think we can expect human waves once we meet them on the battlefield. We’ll see suicide squads, human booby-traps, things like that. At least with these young grunts.

  “But remember, Viktor’s army is really made up of two kinds of soldier. These young radical kids and the old vets—the ’Aks, Family guys, whatever—that are just along for the ride. They know what’s ahead of them. We have to assume these guys are very tightly-strung. Whatever Viktor has buzzing around their heads—probably drugs—they’re close to the edge at any given moment. They’re one step away from snapping out.

  “So, the third objective I spoke about is to get to these guys. Zap them. Demoralize them. Drive ’em crazy. Force them to go over the brink. You can be sure that Viktor and his guys are not leveling with them. Not telling them we’ve got more than one hundred fighters and fighter bombers and heavy bombers ready to unload on their asses. You know they haven’t told them about our hitting the SAM line or flattening their HQ. But you know the army. You can be sure that rumors are flying through those camps. I’m sure Viktor’s told them all it would be a cakewalk. Well, some of them have got to be questioning that right about now.

  “Now most of the crazy kids will believe the Party line, no matter what. But the vets won’t, if we show them different. They remember the battle for Football City and what happened to the ’Aks. I think Viktor’s empire is a house of cards. And, from what Fitzie’s spies tell us, we’re not even sure if he’s still alive. I think one or two good slaps in the face and half these veterans do a one-eighty and starting walking back east. For every guy that deserts, that’s one less that we have to waste fuel and airplanes and bombs and bullets on. We’ve got to be economical with our firepower. It’s not a bottomless pit.

  “But we have to light that fuse. Get into the minds of these guys, just at the right moment. Just when they’re wondering just what they hell they’re doing. The question is, how do we do it? How do we spook these guys?”

  Suddenly someone spoke loud and clear from the back of the room. “Leave that to me.”

  It was Hunter.

  An hour later, Hunter was strapped inside the refueled, rearmed Stealth fighter, warming up its engines for take-off.

  Jones and Dozer watched from the flight line as the radar-proof airplane took off and disappeared into the clouds.

  “I’ve known him for what seems like a long time now,” Dozer said. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s like a quiet madman. That look in his eyes is terrifying. He’s carrying around some emotional baggage with him. And it’s so typical that he won’t talk about it.”

  “Maybe it’s his F-16,” Jones said. “That was a bold move leaving it behind in New York City. There’s a good chance he’ll never see it again. And he knows it’s probably the only F-16 left in the world.”

  “Or it could be the girl,” Dozer theorized. “All he told me was that he found her in New York. Rescued her. But I guess he had to leave her behind too.”

  Jones lit a cigar. “Or, then again, maybe it’s the Russians. The Circle. Viktor. Maybe it’s the whole fucking mess.”

  “Well, whatever it is,” Dozer said. “Someone’s made a big mistake messing around with him.”

  Jones paused for a moment. “He says he wants to operate on his own for this one,” he said finally. “Wants to be the unpredictable driver. Operate independently. Be what he called ‘the uncalculable equation.’ I can’t stop him. I wouldn’t want to. But we’ll miss him …”

  Dozer nodded in agreement, adding: “Yes. But we don’t have to worry too much. He knows what our strategy is. He’ll be on top of every move we make.”

  “I’m glad he’s on our side.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  THE WAR BEGAN IN earnest the next day.

  Using the narrow “holes” in the SAM shield cleared by the surgical air strikes of the previous days, PAAC fighters and fighter-bombers swept through the central Badlands just as their allies were doing in the north and south. Bridges, roads, communications stations, fuel dumps and other targets were attacked up and down the Circle areas. Mo
re than 80 missions were flown. The strategy of hitting the enemy’s rear echelon was put into full effect.

  The day was not without its losses. While the heavy duty SAMs were fixed in the Badlands, many of the rear units of the Circle Army were equipped with Soviet-made SA-7 shoulder-launched SAMs. Two of Fitzgerald’s Thunderchiefs met their end this way while attacking an ammo train near Mankato, Minnesota.

  But the Aerodrome Thuds took back their measure of revenge. One flight, led by Mike Fitzgerald himself, caught a converted AMTRAK train moving south from Minneapolis, carrying ten cars of Circle troops. The four F-105s attacked the train just as it was going over a bridge which spanned a gorge near Springfield, Minnesota. Using rather dated, but still deadly TV-guided bombs, both the bridge and the train were completely destroyed.

  In the south, St. Louie’s famous F-20 Tigersharks attacked a number of Circle targets around Shreveport. Oil storage tanks and pump houses were high on the priority list. Some of the F-20s were carrying 500-pound “iron” bombs, ideal for busting the sides of oil tanks and igniting the precious fuel inside. The Tigersharks were also successful in severing two major highways leading out of Shreveport, roads on which Circle troops were already moving toward the Texas border. Using laser-guided bombs, the F-20 pilots were able to collapse overpass structures which fell and crushed hapless troops who had sought shelter underneath them. By the time the Tigersharks broke off the attack, a 15-mile span of Interstate Route 20 was rendered useless and dripping with Circle blood. Not one of the ultra-sophisticated F-20 jets was lost.

  The Texas Air Force launched a bold air strike on the port of New Orleans, the major staging area for the Circle Southern Group and their Soviet allies. Sweeping in off the Gulf of Mexico, the Texans bombed and strafed the city’s docking facilities and managed to sink two Soviet subs. More oil storage tanks and volatile liquid natural gas facilities were also hit. The city was well-defended and returning pilots told of a sky filled with SAMs of every size and power. Four of the 16 F-4s were lost.