The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  It was now or never. Hunter took out his flare gun and let two rockets fly. This marked their hiding place for both the choppers and the enemy troops, now a half-mile away.

  The mortar shells started dropping closer to the farmhouse. The Aussies opened up on the approaching Sardinians, while the Spanish rocketmen fired on the lead Bradley Fighting Vehicle. Their first shot glanced off the front of the vehicle and careened into a group of soldiers unlucky enough to be nearby. The converted Stinger missile exploded, killing many of the soldiers.

  Now the firefight was going at full fury. The Sardinians looked like expert terrain fighters. They were crawling through the underbrush, and some were soon only a quarter-mile from the Aussies’ defense line. At the same time, other enemy troops were firing at the approaching helicopters. The gunners on the air ships were now also returning the fire.

  “Boy,” Hunter said to himself as he added his M-16 to the fray. “Did this idea get screwed up!”

  The first chopper came down right in the front yard of the farmhouse. Hunter and Sir Neil hustled the two women out and literally threw them on to the chopper. Three of Dundee’s men who had been wounded went next along with their stretcher-bearers. Then Dundee sent aboard another six men and gave the pilot the lift-off signal. The big British helicopter belched a large cloud of black smoke and then roared off, amidst a shower of tracer bullets.

  Thus the rescue began. The withering fire from the Aussies, the pinpoint accuracy of the Spanish Rocketeers, plus the fire from the chopper gunners held off the enemy long enough for four more choppers to come in and pick up troops.

  Soon there were only Hunter, Sir Neil, and a squad of Spanish rocketmen on the ground. The plan was for them to go out on the last chopper.

  But this sixth helicopter was going nowhere. Even before it touched down, a mortar round came crashing down right into its main rotor blade, blowing it off. The chopper yawed to its left, then came down hard right onto the abandoned farmhouse. Hunter and Sir Neil just barely ducked away from the scythe-like chopper blade as it spun over ahead, clipped a tree right off at its roots, and proceeded to chop up some Sardinian troops who had been crawling down in back of the strike force’s position.

  Hunter ran into the burning farmhouse and yanked the injured chopper pilot out of the burning machine. The gunner was dead. Sir Neil was beside Hunter to help, and together they managed to carry the pilot to safety before the entire house went up.

  Now, with no means of escape by air and a wounded person on their hands, Hunter had to think quick.

  “We’ve got to get the hell out of here,” Hunter said to Sir Neil, who had already rigged up a makeshift stretcher for the wounded pilot. Hunter told the Spanish rocketeers to send a barrage right into the enemy positions, then get prepared to fall back. With one great whoosh! the Spaniards let fly six rockets in unison, splattering the road and enemy vehicles with flame and causing the enemy infantry to take cover.

  Given the moment of diversion, Hunter, Sir Neil, and the six Spaniards took off into the bush, carrying the wounded pilot. The entire farmhouse, barn, and surrounding area was now a mass of flame and the enemy troops were still lobbing mortar shells and tracers into the conflagration. Despite the delay of having to carry the stretcher, the tiny band successfully melted away into the hedgerows at the end of the valley and into the farm country beyond.

  Chapter 21

  THEY HID OUT ON the island for the next day and night, moving only in darkness, hoping for a chance to signal one of the frigate helicopters that they knew would be looking for them. However, the Sardinian army troops kept on their tail the whole time, obviously under orders to capture the raiders dead or alive.

  The wounded pilot was now at least conscious, although his legs were pretty banged up. In addition, Hunter and the band had no provisions, no gear, no medicine. Hunter knew that by sunup the second day they would have to find some kind of transport if they were to finally shake their pursuers and get up into the hills of Sardinia in the north.

  The next morning, they got lucky, or so Hunter thought. Reconnoitering from a small hill, he spotted an enemy truck parked near the side of the road. The crew was bundled up in sleeping bags and sprawled on the road’s shoulder. Hunter guessed it was either some kind of long-range patrol, or perhaps a construction squad that traveled around the island checking on things such as radio lines. No matter. Whatever the case, the crew looked to be lightly armed and the truck was obviously in working order.

  While three of the Spanish rocketmen stayed with the wounded pilot, Hunter and Sir Neil took the three others and slowly worked their way down to the roadside. A number of empty wine bottles lay about their camp, a clue to why the crew was sleeping so soundly.

  “Looks like they had a bit of a party last night,” Sir Neil whispered to Hunter as they closed in on the truck. “Perhaps they’re eunuchs too and can only get what they are looking for in the old grape, what?”

  Hunter had to laugh at the Englishman. Swaggering, swashbuckling—that was Sir Neil. Christ, they’d been lost out in the Sardinian wilderness for a day and a half, and Sir Neil looked as if he had just done nothing more strenuous than giving his polo pony a morning workout. His uniform was still neatly pressed, his beret adjusted on his head at the correct angle. His boots were even spit-shined. The ever-present cigarette and holder completed the scene. Hunter shook his head. He had come to greatly admire Sir Neil. The Brit reminded him very much of both Seth and Dave Jones—the Air Force officers who were Hunter’s mentors. Yes, the Jones boys would have liked Sir Neil. Brave, professional, great sense of humor, as well as a great sense of purpose.

  Yes, Hunter told himself once again, only an Englishman could have talked him into this adventure.

  Hunter turned to the Spanish rocketeers and gave a hand signal which indicated that they would simply knock out the sleeping soldiers. Killing them wouldn’t be necessary. Then Hunter gave the signal to move out.

  They crept up on the side of the road and quietly broke into two groups. Hunter and two Spaniards moved towards the Sardinians’ encampment; Sir Neil and the other rocketeer would check out the truck itself.

  Hunter and his partners improvised a system for knocking out the sleeping soldiers. One Spaniard would shake the man awake, while Hunter held his hand over the victim’s mouth. The third rocketeer would hit the man square on the head with a satchel he’d filled with rocks. Because the soldiers were sleeping off a drunk, none of them woke up unexpectedly as Hunter and his companions moved through the camp. Within a minute, they had put seven soldiers out of action.

  Meanwhile, Sir Neil and the other Spaniard had crept up to the truck. While the Britisher was peeking in the cab, his partner checked underneath it. Finding nothing, Sir Neil and the Spaniard walked around to the rear of the truck.

  With a flick of his hand, Sir Neil pulled open the back flap of the truck.

  Behind it were two men, wide awake, manning a small-caliber machine gun. Sir Neil just caught a glimpse of the gunner’s finger pulling the trigger …

  Three bullets caught the Englishman square in the shoulder and the chest. Another sliced through his scalp carrying off the beret in a burst of cloth, hair, and blood. Sir Neil dropped immediately. The stunned Spanish mercenary raised his gun, but too late, as he caught a full burst square in the face. His head nearly obliterated, the Spaniard stood upright for two long, spooky seconds before falling over onto Sir Neil’s crumpled form.

  Hunter had seen the whole thing happen. Even now, as he and the two other rocketeers sprayed the back of the truck with gunfire, he felt a lump come up in his throat. Sir Neil was down, lifeless, covered in his own blood and that of the headless Spaniard.

  He was up and running towards the truck immediately, at the same time yelling for the other rocketeers to bring the wounded pilot down from the hill. The gunfire would bring company. He knew they would have to make good their escape now.

  Hunter reached the back of the truck and dragged the Span
iard’s body off Sir Neil. He turned the Englishman over and felt for a heartbeat or any signs of breathing. There were none. He stuck his hand down the man’s throat and cleared his passageway. Then he began giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation. He stopped and beat on the man’s heart.

  “Come on, you Limey bastard,” Hunter said as he furiously pumped on the man’s chest. “We need you!”

  By this time the other rocketeers had reached the truck and were loading on the wounded pilot. One Spaniard got behind the wheel and started the truck. Another helped Hunter load Sir Neil in the back.

  “Go North!” Hunter yelled to the driver, who immediately pulled a five-point U-turn and gunned the truck’s accelerator. Within seconds they were roaring down the dusty road.

  Somehow, bouncing along the road, Hunter had managed to raise a heartbeat in the seriously wounded Sir Neil. His breathing was irregular and he was losing a lot of blood, yet the Englishman was still alive.

  They dressed his wounds as best they could, yet the plucky Brit was losing a lot of blood and getting whiter by the minute.

  “The sea … ” Hunter said suddenly. “We’ve got to get him to the sea.”

  Less than thirty minutes later they came upon a seaside villa. Its name was Casillino and, by the looks of it, it had once been a fancy, high-priced resort area.

  But it wasn’t the expensive-looking hotels or the fancy yachts abandoned in the harbor that caught Hunter’s attention. It was the medium-sized freighter that was tied up to its pier.

  “That’s our ticket home, boys,” he said.

  But it wouldn’t be easy. As they approached the town, Hunter could clearly see that the entrance to the harbor area was guarded by Sardinians. He could also see several soldiers on the freighter itself.

  “Okay,” he yelled up to the driver through the cab’s access window. “Just pretend like we are the guys who were supposed to be driving this truck.”

  The driver nodded and headed straight through the abandoned town and right up to the main gate. Two soldiers were sitting in a guardhouse, and as soon as they saw the Spanish driver’s uniform, they knew something was amiss.

  It didn’t matter. Hunter ripped a hole in the truck’s canvas siding and was spraying the guard hut with M-16 fire. The Spanish driver then hit the accelerator and the truck bolted into the harbor area.

  “Head right for the ship!” Hunter yelled to the driver, while he reloaded his M-16. The driver spun the truck around and they were soon roaring down the dock going toward the freighter. They were beginning to take some return fire now but, judging by its intensity, Hunter determined there were only a dozen or so soldiers guarding the otherwise deserted resort docks.

  They reached the ship and quickly piled out of the truck, taking pains not to unduly upset Sir Neil or the wounded pilot.

  Hunter and the Spaniards shot their way up the gangplank, causing the soldiers who were guarding the ship to jump overboard instead of shooting it out with the wildmen from the truck.

  But then Hunter saw that the force of Sardinians that had been tracking them for two days had just appeared at the far end of town.

  “We need a diversion,” Hunter said to one of the rocketeers as soon as they were all aboard. Just as soon as he said it, he saw exactly what he needed. It was a fuel tank, not very large, but conveniently placed between the ship and the entrance to the docking area.

  Using his M-16 on single-shot, he started peppering the fuel tank’s top ringer valve. After about a dozen shots, he had managed to start a small fire. That was all he needed.

  With the rocketeers returning the guards’ fire and the two wounded members of the party safely put aboard, Hunter went about the task of trying to get the freighter underway. He knew some—but not much—about how to get a ship of this size moving. Luckily, the vessel was fairly modern and had a number of automatic start-up controls. It was also equipped with electronic start motors that revved the ship’s main screws and jump-started its main engines at the same time. What the hell, Hunter thought, he would simply drive the ship out of the harbor on these electric motors—no doubt burning them out in the process, but at least they’d be underway. He yelled to the Spaniards to cast off the lines. Then he pushed some buttons, turned some dials, and—to his surprise—the ship actually started to move.

  By this time, the pursuing Sardinians had arrived on the dock just as the fuel tanks he’d set ablaze blew up. The dock area was suddenly awash with flame. That put an end to the enemy fire.

  “Now all I’ve got to do is figure out how to sail this thing,” he said to himself.

  As it turned out, he wouldn’t have to. The wounded pilot, a Norwegian named Olaaf, hobbled to the center of the bridge and volunteered to steer the ship.

  “I used to be a skipper,” he told Hunter. “This is all automatic anyway. May I?”

  Hunter gladly stepped aside and let the Norseman take over. Soon they were sailing quickly out of the harbor, Olaaf having gotten the main engine to work.

  Hunter checked Sir Neil. He was stable but still in bad shape. He leaned over and said in the man’s ear, “Don’t worry, sir, we’re out now. We’re heading back to the Saratoga.”

  He thought he saw the slightest look of acknowledgment on the Englishman’s face.

  Just then one of the rocketeers came forward and indicated to Hunter that he should follow him.

  “Big, sir,” the Spaniard kept saying. “Big. What we need.”

  Hunter followed him into the hold of the ship and flicked on the lights.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” he said, stunned.

  Inside the hold were at least a hundred crates marked “SIDEWINDERS.”

  Chapter 22

  THE F-4 CIRCLED THE Gibraltar air base five times before finally coming for a landing. Although the base’s landing lights, radar dishes, and other equipment were operating, Crunch had gotten no response to his repeated attempts to radio the control tower.

  “I got a very bad feeling about this,” the pilot said as he rolled the airplane up to a hardstand. No ground personnel appeared to greet them, as would normally be the case at any airfield. “Did everyone take the day off?” he wondered.

  “I can’t believe they all went off on this crusade,” Elvis said.

  “Well, if they did,” Crunch said, looking around, “they left a lot of equipment on.”

  Suddenly Elvis called out, “Christ! What the hell are those things?” Crunch turned to see Elvis pointing at something directly over them. The pilot looked up and saw a dozen or more huge birds lazily circling the base.

  “Are they what I think they are?” Elvis asked.

  “Jesus, I’m afraid so,” Crunch said, slowly. “Goddamned vultures.”

  He rolled the ship around to the back of the hangar, and it was there they made a gruesome discovery. Not only were there several dozen bodies scattered about, there were also five or six dead vultures lying nearby.

  At once Crunch and Elvis were both glad that they hadn’t popped the F-4’s canopy and removed their oxygen masks.

  “These guys were gassed,” Crunch said. “We could probably find a SCUD missile casing around here somewhere if we looked hard enough. Painted with a big red star on its side, no doubt.”

  “The gas killed the people, then the poison in the people’s blood killed the vultures,” Elvis said.

  “That’s it,” Crunch replied, looking back up at the buzzards circling overhead. “And those guys up there are still trying to figure it out.”

  Crunch rolled the F-4 closer to the bodies. They looked like base help as opposed to RAF personnel. He was sure that other groups of bodies in twos and threes could be found around the base. But then Elvis pointed out something.

  “Captain, look at the bodies closest to us,” the Weapons Officer said. “Their pockets have been pulled out. Like they were searched or something.”

  “Either that,” Crunch said, “or they got some pretty smart vultures in this part of the world.”

  �
��Who the hell would want to go through the pockets of a bunch of stiffs like these?” Elvis asked. “Looters of some kind?”

  “Either that or whoever greased this place was looking to kill one person in particular,” Crunch observed.

  They were quiet for a moment, then Elvis asked, “Do you … do you think they were aiming to kill Hawk?”

  Crunch had been thinking the exact same thing. “It would be difficult to say,” he answered. “But there is a possibility that’s exactly what happened.

  “Remember, our boy has a billion-dollar price tag on his head. And I believe the Russians would gladly supply some wacko everything he needed to bump off our good buddy. Even SCUD missiles.

  “Or they’d probably take on the job themselves. I don’t think the New Order boys would mind turning over a billion dollars to the gang in Moscow.”

  “It’s probably their money to begin with,” Elvis said.

  Crunch fired up the engine and rolled the F-4 toward the runway.

  “I’ve seen enough,” he said to Elvis. “I think it’s time to call home and tell them what’s going on over here. Between some nutty crusade and the fact that every other weirdo in Europe is looking to bump him off, I think Mr. Hunter is going to need a little more help than just you and I can provide.”

  Chapter 23

  THEY WERE AT SEA for only an hour before they were met by two of the Norwegian frigates sailing off the northern end of Sardinia. The ship’s chopper was instantly used to evacuate Sir Neil back to the Saratoga, where two Italian doctors—members of the communications group—could attend to his serious wounds. Although Hunter and the Spanish rocketeers had been able to stem the bleeding from the Englishman’s wounds, Hunter knew the swaggering Brit would never be the same again.