The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  Two volleys from the trench hit The Circle line just 100 feet away. Several of the enemy troops broke into a run toward the defense line, but they were quickly cut down. One last volley all along the trench and then it was over …

  The gunfire stopped. The gentle wind blew the smoke away. It was quiet for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. The Western Forces soldiers looked up from over their rifles and took in the carnage in front of them. A few screams and moans could be heard coming from the field of dead and dying before the trench. Tens of thousands of the enemy lay mangled and twisted before them.

  Not a single Circle soldier had made it to the defense line …

  Now, more news was flashed back to the Western Forces’ troops in the line. The enemy column on Route 70 had been stopped. There would be no more Circle soldiers charging the trenches. The back of the evil Circle-Soviet alliance was broken.

  Although the war was apparently over, the soldiers in the trenches couldn’t relax. The anxious hours, days, weeks. Adrenaline pumping. All to end in the slaughter of innocents? The mass killing of the hopped up brainwashed kids. It was disgusting. Death for death’s sake.

  But the calm did not last too long …

  Dozer scanned the horizon. He felt something. Out there. Beyond the ridgeline. Something much more dangerous than the helpless troops they had just gunned down.

  Then he saw them …

  “Jesus Christ …” Dozer said, blindly reaching for his radiophone to call Hunter. “There’s thousands of them …”

  For miles in every direction, on the ridges in front of them, sat the 30,000 men of the 1st Mongolian Cavalry …

  They had come out of nowhere. The unexpected variable. The troops in the trenches suddenly found themselves alert again. Tense again. It was frightening. The line of the Mongolian soldiers covered the whole horizon.

  Dozer radioed all along to his officers. Each report was the same. The Mongol horde stretched for miles. And it was preparing to attack.

  Word was instantly flashed back to the Denver Air Station. Most of the jets that had defeated the Yaks had returned and shut down. Now they learned they had to quickly refuel, bomb up and speed back to the front.

  Hunter was the first one off the ground …

  “Here they come!”

  The cry went up in the Western Forces’ trench-works. Every soldier stared out on to the flatlands before them.

  The Mongols were bringing their horses up to a canter.

  “Get ready!” the word passed through the Western Forces’ lines.

  Dozer’s Marines walked among their volunteer troops on the flank, making sure everyone was in position with a full-load of ammo. The regular Pacific American soldiers in the middle of the line waited patiently in grim anticipation—to finally to draw blood from the Asian horsemen.

  Two miles out, the Mongols kicked their horses into a fast trot. They fanned out until their line was nearly two miles across. Many of them were wearing uniforms akin to those worn by their ancestors—bright, colorful, evil-looking. Others were simply dressed in used Chinese Army fatigues. Each carried some kind of rifle—the Mongols’ proficiency was shooting well from a moving horse—and the mandatory, razor-sharp sword.

  The leader of the horde, a man known as the Great Obo, was at the head of the column, dressed to the nines in the ancient oriental costume, riding a tall, pure-white stallion. He would lead his men into battle this time, just as he had done for the past few months. They would move as he moved.

  The moments passed tensely through the Western Forces’ line. Dozer, the powerful pair of electronic spyglasses pressed against his face, had identified the Great Obo as the cavalry’s leader and watched him every step of the way. Even through the scope, the warrior looked fierce, fearless and proud.

  When the horse column reached a mile out, Obo broke his horse into a slow gallop. His army followed in kind. Dozer raised his hand. The young Marine radioman stood close by, holding a phone which crackled continuously with static. High above and far away, the sound of jet engines could be heard …

  Dozer had Obo in full view now. Suddenly the Mongol gave his steed two, sharp cracks with his whip and the horse responded by breaking into a full gallop. Obo, reins and a rifle in one hand, raised his sword with the other and pointed it toward the trenches. Dozer could almost read the man’s lips as Obo screamed the Mongol equivalent to “Charge!”

  “Now!” Dozer yelled, pumping his raised arm like a trucker pulling his horn. The word was instantly passed a half mile back of the lines to the 30-piece howitzer column that waited there. Almost simultaneously, the big guns opened up.

  Dozer grabbed the radioman’s mike, nearly strangling the kid in the process. “Now, Hawk!” Dozer yelled. “Now!”

  The Stealth materialized out of thin air. One second, the sky was empty—the next instant, the strange black jet was roaring overhead, just 50 feet off the ground, rushing to meet the charging cavalry head-on. Close behind were the F-4X Phantoms of the Ace Wrecking Company. Behind them were more airplanes—Crunch’s F-4s, the F-104s, A-7s, T-38s, A-l0s, the old F-84.

  Each plane carried a full load of napalm …

  “So this is what it’s come to,” Hunter thought as he gripped his weapons’ release control. “Jets against horses? This is the pure insanity of war.”

  “Drop on me,” he radioed the planes behind him. A chorus of “Rogers,” came back.

  The jets fanned out to form a large arrow formation with Hunter in the lead. He aimed the Stealth right at the center mass of the Mongol horde. Even before the first bomb was dropped, he imagined he could already smell the stink of burning horse and human flesh. “Too bad,” he thought, punching the weapons control system computer one last time. “You guys should have stayed where you belong.”

  He was so low and so close to the charging cavalry now, he could see the determination on the faces of the horse soldiers.

  “… three … two … one … now!”

  With that, two napalm cannisters dropped from the Stealth’s wings and exploded in the midst of the Mongols. Those in the Western Forces’ trenches, again holding their fire until the order was given, saw a tidal wave of flame wash over the attacking cavalry. Horses and men were seared through in an instant. Some of the animals were reduced to skeletons before they even hit the ground.

  The Ace Wrecking Company Phantoms dropped their napalm cannisters as soon as they saw Hunter drop his. Sixteen additional bombs landed on the horse soldiers, drawing a blanket of fire over the attackers. Then the rest of the air armada unleashed their bombs containing jellied gasoline. At the same time, the howitzer shells started landing among the charging cavalry, sending up great plumes of fire, smoke and deadly shrapnel.

  The Mongols were about a half mile from the Western Forces’ lines and still they kept coming. Hunter gunned the Stealth into a tight, 180-degree right hand turn, positioning himself above and parallel the leading edge of the charging army. He released two more napalm cannisters which exploded on the ground slightly ahead of the charging Mongols. Unable to slow their steeds, the cavalrymen plunged right into the sheet of flame, some emerging on the other side, still charging, horse and rider horribly engulfed in fire. The other jets followed Hunter’s maneuver, relentlessly laying down a wall of flame in front of the Mongols’ lead horsemen.

  As many as half of the original 30,000 horsemen were now either dead or dying. But still the remaining attackers plunged onward. Hunter did a quick loop, knowing he would have time for one more pass before the Mongols hit the Western Forces’ lines. Again parallel to the attacking edge of the cavalry, he opened up with his cannons.

  The Stealth shuddered as the shells ripped through the mounted troops and their steeds. He continued to fire across the entire length of the attacker’s front line. The howitzer barrage intensified, pounding the rushing Mongols. The trench soldiers now opened up with mortar fire. Next came the shelling from the tanks dug in along the Western Forces’ lines. The Phan
toms and the other aircraft were also blazing away with their respective machineguns and cannons. Hunter called a predescribed order over the radio. On his command, the Cobra Cousins’ attack choppers, hovering nearby, were thrown into the fray and started firing on targets of opportunity.

  The remaining Mongols were 100 yards from the Western Forces’ lines when Dozer gave the word to his riflemen to fire. At once the entire line opened up on the attacking horsemen. Those riders who had survived the napalm, the howitzers and the strafing were now met by a wall of lead. Horses were hit head on, reared up and then collapsed, causing the steeds behind them to trip and tumble. The mounted soldiers were thrown and trampled by the unstoppable, panicking animals.

  Again and again, up and down the line, the defenders fired into what was left of the charging horsemen. Then the first Mongols reached the defenders’ ramparts. The fighting became intense in close quarters. The trench soldiers fired away at the attackers’ horses, killing the animals, then shooting the displaced cavalrymen. The Mongols were barely able to squeeze off a shot, the fire from the trenches was so heavy. Hand-to-hand combat ensued up and down the trenches. By this time, Hunter had swung the Stealth back around and was strafing the rear elements of the attacking army, as were the other fighters.

  The battle pitched back and forth for what seemed an eternity. The fighting was so close that howitzers stopped firing for fear of hitting friendly troops. Hunter was confined to making low passes, the jet’s screaming engine spooking the Mongol horses.

  From his perspective high above, he could see the bodies begin to pile up. The soil was actually turning blood-red. Fires were everywhere. Smoke was obscuring the battlefield.

  Then, the battle began to turn …

  The Mongols were slowly being drawn into the center of the defenders’ lines. Urged on by Dozer’s Marines, the volunteers on the flank, bolstered by the air support’s decimation of the Mongols and smelling victory, swept out of their trenches and began a pincer movement to contain the horsemen. Many minutes of intense combat followed until the Mongol attack finally ground to a halt. Completely surrounded, the attackers began to panic. They faced the crack Western Forces’ troops to their front, the advancing volunteer irregulars on their flanks and, now, to the rear. Helicopters were peppering them from above. Jets continued to streak in low, rattling the horses.

  In the middle of the battle, the Great Obo knew he had been betrayed—by The Circle and in turn, by the Russians. “We are like lambs,” he thought, as he watched his once fierce army be slaughtered. “We are being sacrificed.”

  The fighting continued. Obo had his horse shot out from underneath him by one of the attacking Cobras. Unaccustomed to fighting on foot, he emptied his rifle into the Caucasian soldiers, then started flailing away with his sword.

  Out of the sea of faces, he saw a powerful-looking, stocky man moving his way. The soldier was wearing what Obo recognized as the uniform of a U.S. Marine captain. The name tag sewn above the man’s left breast pocket clearly read: Dozer. They were suddenly face-to-face. The Marine was chopping away with a captured Mongol saber. Obo raised his own blade to deflect the Marine’s thrust. The power of the Leatherneck’s blow knocked Obo off-balance. The Marine pressed his attack relentlessly. Obo wished he had the time to impale himself on his own sword, but the attacking officer showed no let-up. Another thrust from the Marine. Obo managed to deflect it, but lost his sword in the process and fell backward. On his back, looking up at the American, the fighting swirling around them, Obo reached into his belt for the dagger he kept there. Too late, as the Marine ran him through. A puff of blood exploded from Obo’s nose and mouth. The fierce Marine put his boot on the Mongol’s chest and brought his face close up to the dying man.

  “What the hell are you doing here!” the Marine screamed at him. “What the hell are you doing in my country!”

  They were the last words the Great Obo ever heard …

  The battle was over by noon. Every one of the Mongols had died, most at the hands of the Western Forces, some by their own swords.

  Hunter had landed the Stealth on a highway nearby. Jones had been airlifted to the site also. Both men met with Dozer on the battlefield.

  “We lost about four thousand men,” the Marine told them. “Young men, most of them. Good troops.”

  Scattered from the plateau to the trenches lay thousands of dead Mongols, covering the bodies of the dead Circle soldiers. On the ridges surrounding the valley, huge fires still burned.

  Hunter looked out on the battlefield as the victorious Western Force soldiers collected rifles and swords from the dead Mongols.

  “This was needless,” he said to Jones and Dozer. “It was nothing more than a mass suicide, with these creeps pulling some of our guys into hell with them …”

  Hunter walked out into the battlefield alone. He faced the east. The sky was turning red. It was not the Aurora Borealis this time. The red was in his eyes. They were burning. Burning with hate.

  Viktor was responsible for this. The devil himself had gored the American continent and watched it bleed. And for what? Ego? Power? Or was he just following orders?

  Hunter was convinced. Viktor’s mission all along was twofold: Conquer America at best, keep it destabilized at worst. He would have won either way. It would take the continent years to recover from this. Hunter’s dream of reunification—a long shot before—was now even further stalled.

  He felt his senses start rippling. Jolts of energy pumped through him. He closed his eyes. He called on the feeling. That’s when he saw him. Viktor. Alive. He was sure of it. Fleeing. Escaping. Across the Atlantic.

  And Hunter was going after him …

  Wingman

  The Lucifer Crusade

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Preview: Thunder in the East

  A Biography of Mack Maloney

  Chapter 1

  THE F-4 PHANTOM JET fighter touched down on the deserted runway and taxied towards a nearby row of hangars.

  Just off the landing strip, next to the aircraft parking area, the remains of a MiG-21 were still burning. Another MiG had crashed through the roof of one of the hangars, and the resulting fire had burned down half the building. Still another Soviet fighter had crashed into the base’s only radar antenna, scattering pieces of the huge, once-revolving dish all over the tarmac.

  Smoke from the three smoldering fighters had spread out over the small airbase like a dark and dirty fog.

  The F-4 came to a halt in front of the burning hangar and its pilot popped the airplane’s canopy. Standing up in the open cockpit, Captain “Crunch” O’Malley removed his flight helmet and looked around.

  “Welcome to the Azores,” he muttered.

  Crunch’s rear-seat weapons officer, a lieutenant named Elvis, also stood up and surveyed
the damage. “Do you think he’s been here?” he asked Crunch.

  “Well, we got three MiGs shot down here and two more burning on the beach,” Crunch said. “All apparently iced by one person. Only one pilot I know that could do that.”

  Then Elvis noticed an odd thing: through the smoke and next to the burning hangar, he could see a man tied to a chair. “Captain,” he said pointing toward the bound and gagged man. “Who the hell is that?”

  The two pilots climbed out of the F-4 and cautiously walked toward the man. Crunch was armed with an M-16, Elvis with a 9mm pistol.

  The man sat silently as they approached. The only noise was the jet’s engine winding down and the crackling of the three MiG fires. Directly above, the noon sun was beating down unmercifully.

  Crunch took out a knife and immediately cut off the man’s gag.

  “Gracias, señor,” the man gasped, taking a quick succession of deep breaths. He was about sixty years old, with a slight build and wearing the sweaty remains of a mechanic’s overall. The two pilots, themselves clad in sleek dark-blue flight suits, towered over him.

  “How long you been here, Pops?” Crunch asked, hesitating to undo the ropes holding the man’s hands and feet to the chair.

  “Two days,” the old man answered, with a slight accent. “They come. Wreck my home. Wreck the base. Look at that hangar. It’s ruined. Burnt. I’m an old man. I cannot repair it myself.”

  “Who wrecked this place?” Crunch asked, deciding the man was harmless enough to untie. He quickly undid the ropes.

  “Air pirates. Russians. I don’t know,” the man answered, rubbing his wrists made raw by the twine.

  “Russians?” Elvis asked, catching Crunch’s eye.

  “Si,” the man said, stretching his arms and legs. “Russian air pirates. Bounty hunters. They land here, three days ago. Five MiGs. They don’t call ahead. They don’t contact me in control tower. They just land, with no permission. Steal my fuel. Steal my food.”