The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  He fired up the F-16’s engine and moved out onto the runway. He could feel the missiles coming in from the northeast, probably launched by an aircraft somewhere out of the Med. He switched on his radar and immediately got three clear readings. They were sophisticated “fire-and-forget” missiles—deadly flying bombs that locked into a target from far off and homed in unerringly over distances of up to 100 miles or even more. Hunter knew these missiles were just 50 miles from the British base and closing fast.

  He roared off the runway, noting out of the corner of his eye that the two British pilots were running to their Tornados.

  Hunter was still unarmed, his firing system still disconnected. But he knew he had to stop the missiles somehow. He turned the 16 in the direction of the oncoming rockets and booted in the afterburner. He had a visual sighting on them in twenty seconds.

  They were flying in a straight line separated by a mile apiece—mindless instruments of destruction all too reminiscent of the Nazi buzz bombs of World War II.

  Hunter would have to work fast, and still he doubted if he could stop all three of them.

  The night was pitch-black and the inside of his cockpit was ashimmer in the green light of his TV screens. He put the 16 into a wicked 180-degree turn, the G-forces stretching the muscles on his face into a grim smile. He got on the tail of the third trailing missile and quickly calculated its exact speed and altitude. He pumped the numbers into his flight computer and pushed a button. More lights flashed as the computer went to work. Instantly, the F-16 moved right up beside the missile. He took over manual control of the jet again and maneuvered the 16’s wing towards the short control and steering stub of the missile. Deftly, he moved the airplane up a little. Then more to the right. Now down a touch. It was a dangerous, delicate maneuver—both he and the missile were traveling at 400 mph plus. One wrong move and they’d be picking him up in little pieces all over the desert.

  He took a deep gulp from his oxygen mask and slid the 16 in closer to the missile. With an irritating scraping noise, the F-16’s right wing moved up and underneath the missile’s. He knew he could only hold the precarious position for a few seconds. With the flick of his wrist, he jerked the control stick to the left. The F-16’s wing bumped the missile’s stub just enough to upset its predetermined course. The missile’s gyro-system immediately overloaded, causing its targeting system to go blank. The missile did a complete flip-over, then plunged into the sands below, detonating in a huge explosion.

  But Hunter didn’t even see the flash. He was already moving up and into position on the second missile.

  He didn’t have time to be so fancy with rocket number two. The base was just ten miles away. He caught up with the missile and pulled ahead and slightly above it. Then he gradually brought the F-16 down until the jet engine’s hot exhaust was blowing directly into the missile’s air-intake duct. Instantly the missile’s fuel-combustion chamber became overheated by the F-16’s aftersmoke. Hunter bit his lip and held the risky position for seven long seconds before sharply veering away. Just in time, as the fuel ignited and the missile self-destructed in midair.

  But there was still one missile left and now, with the base in view, he knew he would not be able to stop it.

  The missile impacted exactly where his F-16 had been parked, causing a large blast of fire and dust. Luckily the two scramble pilots had warned the rest of the base before taking off in the two Tornados. The explosion was far enough away from the base’s other two airplanes so as not to cause any damage. However, as he streaked over the base and watched helplessly, Hunter could see that three of the base tents—those holding their valuable supplies—were burning ferociously. The base’s water supply was also hit.

  He landed by the light of the fires and taxied to the far end of the runway. Without water, the base’s personnel were helpless in fighting the flames. They could only move as much equipment as possible away from the blazing supply tents.

  Hunter jumped out of the F-16 and ran to meet Heath, who was directing the emergency operation.

  “That was a bad one, it was,” Heath said, looking at the base’s supplies going up in smoke.

  “You’ve been attacked like this before?” Hunter asked.

  “Twice,” Heath said grimly. “But only by one missile at a time. Three missiles at us means someone was serious this time. If you hadn’t stopped those other two, we’d have all been killed.”

  But Hunter wasn’t taking any bows. The one rocket that made it through had impacted exactly where the 16 had been parked.

  “They might have been going for me,” he told Heath. “The New Order has a hefty price on my head and I think someone is trying to collect.”

  “Don’t be crazy, old boy,” Heath said, smiling and giving him a reassuring pat on the back. “There’s no way you can be certain that missile had your name on it. As I said, we’ve been attacked before. They’re trying to soften us up before the war starts up again. Anyone trying to start trouble in the Med knows they have to deal with our Tornados. They were just being a bit, well, ‘preemptive,’ I’d say.”

  Hunter appreciated Heath’s effort to cheer him up, but he also knew the officer was wrong: those long-range missiles could definitely be targeted down to the last inch. All it would have taken was for a spy atop one of the sand dunes overlooking the base to send a message back to the launch crew in the Med, pinpointing the exact position of Hunter’s F-16. In fact, all three missiles could have been targeted for the F-16. If it hadn’t been for his own “early warning system,” his precious jet would be a piece of charred wreckage right now. And Hunter would be the first to admit that taking out his airplane was the next best thing to putting a bullet between his eyes.

  Still, he couldn’t be absolutely certain the missile attack was an assassination attempt.

  “Okay,” Hunter said, knowing it was smart to consider all possibilities. “Do you think this is the work of Viktor—or Lucifer, if you prefer?”

  “More likely one of his many rotting allies,” Heath answered. “Those missiles were probably launched somewhere off Melilla or near the coast of Algeria. Off a boat, I’d say. You might have guessed airplanes, but we don’t find many airborne free-lancers in these parts. There’s a definite shortage of working fighters.

  “That’s why our Tornados—and your F-16 there—are so valuable.”

  A junior officer ran up to them. “They got the radio, sir,” he said smartly. “The bugger fused together when the missile hit.”

  “Blast!” Heath said. “I needed that radio to report this and to request more stores. Well, I guess now we’ll have to jump in one of the Tors and go tell Command personally.”

  The flames started to die down. The sun was just peeking over the sand dunes. Already, the cold desert night air was beginning to warm up.

  “Let me help,” Hunter said. “You’ll need an escort. I’ll gladly go along.”

  “Well, that’s sporting of you, Hunter,” Heath said. “I accept. I know my commanders will want to talk to you anyway.”

  “Talk?” Hunter asked. “About what?”

  Heath looked at him and grinned. “Oh, about this Lucifer,” he said. “The war. Maybe some employment.”

  “Well, I’m not looking for a job,” Hunter told him.

  Heath let out a hearty laugh. “I must warn you, major,” he said. “My commanders can be very persuasive … ”

  Chapter 6

  HUNTER HAD NEVER SEEN the Rock of Gibraltar before. The goddamn thing was four times as big as he’d imagined it to be. It was one of the world’s most important crossroads: the tip of Europe, the beginning of Africa. The only entrance to the western end of the Med and traditionally a strategic piece of real estate, Gibraltar was even more vital in the New Order world.

  The trip up to the RAF base took only a matter of twenty minutes for the two supersonic jets. Hunter accompanied Heath after quickly jury-rigging two of the F-16’s six nose cannons. The British officer told him it would be easier and
quicker to fix the rest of his Six Pack along with the Sidewinder launch system at the main Gibraltar base.

  They had flown out over the Atlantic and approached from the west. The landing pattern brought them in right next to the big rock. Hunter could see the Brits had put gun and SAM emplacements all over it, as well as some long-range missiles near its peak. A battery of radar dishes was spinning at its absolute summit, and a swarm of helicopters looked to be in perpetual orbit around the massive chunk of stone. It was defense in depth. Anyone unfriendly—either floating or flying—who attempted to enter the Med would find themselves at the mercy of the British guns and missiles.

  Within minutes, Hunter found himself down and taxiing up to a camouflaged terminal building. Heath had been right when he said jet fighters were in short supply in the area. Hunter saw only a few Tornados, a Sea Harrier jet minus its VTOL Pegasus engine, and an ancient Jaguar. Not surprisingly, a crowd gathered around Hunter’s F-16 as soon as he pulled up to his holding station. Next to the Tornados, the jet was the most sophisticated piece of equipment to fly through the base in two years.

  Heath joined him as he climbed down from the cockpit and together they walked to the base’s command center. Hunter couldn’t help but notice the harbor base was buzzing with activity.

  “All this is preparation for Lucifer?” Hunter asked Heath.

  “You might say that,” Heath said, an air of mystery in his voice.

  They entered the building and bounded up the stairs. Everywhere people were bustling, moving about. There was a smell of urgency to it all.

  Heath knocked smartly on a glass office door and let himself in. Hunter followed him into the office, where six men—all RAF officers—stood around a large map located in the center of the room.

  “Heath reporting, sir!”

  “Heath,” the oldest of the officers responded. “Good to see you, man.” The officer who spoke was about fifty, wore a neatly trimmed mustache, and was obviously tough as nails. “We weren’t expecting you, although we couldn’t raise you in the Marconi earlier this morning.”

  “Had a bit of trouble, sir,” Heath told the man. “Some bastard tried to take us out last night, sir. With three missiles, sea-launched, I suspect.”

  “Really, Heath?” the man said, walking from around the table and towards them. “Anyone hurt?”

  “No sir,” Heath replied. “Only one missile made it through. Caught three of our supply tents and the water supply, sir. Melted down the radio when it hit too, sir.”

  “Three missiles and only one hit?” the senior officer asked.

  “Yes, sir, thanks to Major Hunter here,” Heath said, by way of introducing Hunter.

  The officer looked him over. “Hawk Hunter?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Hunter answered, shaking hands with the man. Hunter was thinking he was maybe too well known in these parts.

  Heath politely completed the introduction. “This is Sir Neil Asten, commanding officer of the Royal Gibraltar Defense Forces.”

  The three men walked to a private office off the main conference room. Heath quickly filled in the officer on how Hunter had come to land at the desert highway base.

  “Odd how these things happen, Major Hunter,” Sir Neil said, settling behind the office’s desk and rummaging through its drawers. “We heard you were in Casablanca and we’ve been trying to locate you ever since. Now, here you walk right in on us.”

  “You were trying to contact me?” Hunter asked. “Why?”

  Sir Neil gave Heath a wink and then grinned broadly. He pulled a bottle out of his bottom drawer, along with three shot glasses. He quickly filled each glass with what looked to Hunter to be bathtub gin.

  Taking his glass and raising it in toast, Neil said, “To the Crown!”

  “To the Crown!” Heath joined in.

  “Cheers,” Hunter said, “I guess.”

  All three men knocked back the gin in one motion, then sat down.

  “Yes, major, we were very interested in getting in touch with you when we heard you’d landed at Casablanca,” Sir Neil said. “You’re a brave man cavorting about North Africa with a billion-dollar price tag on your head.”

  “I’m going after the man you’ve come to know as Lucifer,” Hunter told him, quickly retelling the story of the Circle War and Viktor/Lucifer’s hand in it. “He succeeded in disrupting our rebuilding efforts back in America, and he did it with a lot of Soviet help. I’m tracking him down to make sure he doesn’t get away with it.”

  “Well, I’m sure my officers have told you that Mister Lucifer is rather … preoccupied now,” Sir Neil said.

  “So I’ve heard,” Hunter replied. “But I can’t let that stop me.”

  “And it shouldn’t!” Sir Neil said enthusiastically. He gave a conspiratorial look to Heath. “In fact, major, I think our goals are similar. We too want to stop Lucifer before he re-ignites this never-ending war again.”

  Hunter wished the Englishman would get to the point.

  “We would like to offer you a proposition, major,” Sir Neil said, refilling their glasses. “A ‘consulting’ job, you might say.”

  Hunter held up his hand and said politely: “As I told Captain Heath, I’m not looking for a job. I am on a mission—technically speaking, for the Pacific American Air Corps—to apprehend Lucifer. I know the dangers involved. It’s almost like trying to kidnap Hitler, I suppose. But this is what I’m here for. I feel I have to work alone on it.”

  Sir Neil thought a moment, then said, “Once again, major, I must say that I admire your courage. Lucifer has committed a huge crime against America in starting that Circle War, and obviously you Yanks want to make him pay. To that I say, ‘Here! Here!’

  “But you must be realistic, major. We are on the brink of a major war here too. One that will affect America as much as it affects us here in the Med. In fact, it will likely affect the entire world as much as the Big One did.

  “You see, when we say that World War Three never really ended, it’s not just a matter of historical note. We never signed any armistice agreement with The New Order, and in our opinion, neither did you Yanks. You were betrayed, pure and simple. And that stopped the major fighting. But the war—its causes, its aims, its effects—did not end when your traitor Vice-President signed away your country. It provided a lull, major. A satisfying lull for the Reds, as they were so beaten—and still are—they could barely lift a finger to pull a trigger.

  “But look at what they did do. Weakened as they were, they still gambled and brought the battle to you back in America. Sure, they were using Lucifer in order to disrupt your rebuilding efforts. But don’t you see? Mr. Lucifer was also using them. He’s a war profiteer of the highest, ugliest order.

  “It is not the first time in history, major, that a war has started and had its direction, its motives, its eventual winners and losers change midstream. We British are maybe more sensitive to it than you Americans, because our history is longer and, I’m almost ashamed to say, more militant. Centuries ago, we fought wars that went on for years—decades—even more than a hundred years. These wars were a constant shifting of alliances, with many prolonged lulls in actual battles too, I might add.

  “Things are no different here, major. Yes, World War Three started when the Soviets gassed Western Europe. Yes, huge battles were fought around the world, battles that NATO and the democracies won. And, yes, your Vice-President was a traitor and he signed America off. But that did not end the war, Hunter. In fact, you could look at your Circle War as just one more campaign of World War Three.”

  Hunter knew Heath had been right when he said his commanding officer could be very persuasive. The Wingman had never thought of The Circle War as being anything more than just that—a war for the American continent, just like the Battle for Football City. But putting it in the larger context of a continuation of World War III made some sense. It also served to light yet another fire deep down inside Hunter. Simply put: if World War III was not yet ov
er, then the United States didn’t really lose.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “You see, major,” Heath said. “Those countries and states left in Western Europe are just now beginning to recognize the evil and destructiveness this Lucifer represents. No one had even heard about him until a few months ago. But obviously he’s been planning this war all along, even while he was devastating your country.

  “Only now are the Western Europeans in the process of raising armies. But it’s not like the old days, when governments could issue a draft or call-up. Much of Europe now is similar to the feudal societies that prevailed hundreds of years ago. Not the strictly lord-over-peasant rubbish. But in most cases, the people work for the person who owns the land they live on or the factory they work in. Remember, while a good part of Western Europe’s population was killed in the Soviets’ gas attack, many of the buildings and factories were left standing. Indeed, that was the Russians’ aim! Kill the people but preserve the industry, the very spoils of war.

  “Now some of those factories are back up and working. And the workers owe allegiance to the factory owner or whoever. It is these rather wealthy people who are raising their armies to try and stop Lucifer. They are known by the rather grandiose name of The Modern Knights.

  “But you see, Hunter, we were already in place here. When the specter of Lucifer rose, The Modern Knights contacted us and asked for one thing: time. Time for them to raise, equip, train, and—most important—move their armies. We immediately saw their point and, knowing full well the critical situation, we agreed. Now they have agreed to fund our operation—with certain qualifications, that is.”

  Sir Neil poured out three more drinks. Gradually, Hunter was becoming fascinated by this contemporary history lesson. Still, he had no desire to be caught up in anything which would steer him away from his very personal goal: the pursuit of Viktor.

  Sir Neil lifted his glass in another toast, but this was confined to a quick and unelaborate “Cheers” before the man drained the shot. Hunter and Heath did likewise.