by Mack Maloney
The final clue: although Hunter was calling the control tower asking for landing clearance, no one was responding. Finally, he just landed on his own, having to reduce his airspeed to the bare minimum so he would use less runway and not wind up colliding with the gaggle of airplanes at the end of the landing strip. It was a close run thing though, as he had to zigzag down the strip, trying to dodge the tails of some planes that had become stuck in the side ditches. He finally slowed down enough to pop his scratched canopy and taxi by the haphazard parking lot of warplanes located at the end of the runway.
He was horrified by what he saw. Some of the planes still had pilots strapped into them. Slumped over their controls, they were all dead, killed by poison gas. And at that moment, Hunter was glad that he hadn't taken off his oxygen mask. He quickly closed the canopy again and kept on taxiing.
He moved to the end of the airplane ramps, past the hangars, the admin buildings, and the living quarters. He taxied right out of the air base itself, steering the F-16 on to the base access highway and rolling for a half mile or so before he finally stopped. He paused a moment, then popped the canopy again.
He was guessing that the air base had been hit by soft gas, a type that dissipated quickly. He was certain the Soviets would want to occupy any allied military bases for their own use eventually and therefore would have been unlikely to lob some hard gas at the place, as it could make the area inaccessible for months. So while the interior of the base was still probably too hot to spend any time in, one deep breath told him the outlying areas were clean.
It was very strange to be driving a fighter jet down the highway as if it were a land vehicle, but that's what he did for about another mile. He eventually reached an off-base housing complex. To his surprise, he found five more jets here: three F-15s, and a pair of A-10s. They were parked in a blacktop lot outside one of the larger buildings.
He knew there was only one reason these planes were here. Their pilots had landed at the base, and just like Hunter, had determined the situation enough to know that they were best in a closed environment — their aircraft — and wise to put a mile or so between them and the base.
Hunter pulled his F-16 into the parking lot as well. He popped the canopy, shut everything down, and jumped to the ground. He walked into the main building. Here he found the five pilots, huddled in the corner of the lobby, helmets still on, masks attached, sucking on portable oxygen tanks.
"Who's in charge here?" Hunter asked them sternly.
One man took his mask off long enough to say: "You are… until you drop dead from the gas."
Hunter took a quick scan of the men's uniforms. Three were lieutenants, two were captains. He, meanwhile, was wearing the uniform of a major. He was the senior man.
"Take those masks off," he told them. "You don't need them. The gas didn't spread this far."
"How the fuck do you know?" one pilot cursed right through his mask.
"Because if it was hard gas, we'd all be dead by now," Hunter shot back at them.
They mulled this over for a few moments, and then gingerly, each man lowered his mask and took a tentative breath.
"Hey, how about that?" one said. "The dude is right…"
Hunter was instantly furious. "Get up off your asses," he roared at them. "That's an order."
The five men reluctantly got to their feet. Hunter looked about the first floor of the building. It was typical off-base housing, more like a college dorm than anything else. It was also clear that whoever lived here had cleared out quickly. Scattered belongings, from clothes to record albums, littered the floor and the stairs leading to the upper rooms. He also detected the scent of liquor in the heavy air.
The men formed a ragged line in front of him, and Hunter proceeded to read them the riot act. He couldn't remember exactly what he said, losing each angry word the instant it came off his tongue. But he reviewed for them the tough situation the U.S. was suddenly facing, the need for America to counterattack, and the need for every able-bodied soldier to pitch in. The men just stared blankly back at him.
He then told them what he'd experienced coming over the Atlantic, and how his orders stated that an aerial assault on the advancing Soviets was critical before the situation got further out of hand.
"We have to fuel up, bomb up, get our asses up over West Germany," Hunter told them. "If we can stop them there, we've got a chance to—"
The five men all burst out laughing at him. Hunter was so mad, he couldn't speak.
"Major," one of the captains finally said. "You're a little behind on this thing. "There is no more West Germany. The Soviets took it over last night. The last we heard, they were marching on Paris."
Hunter was stunned to hear this news. But he instantly formulated a new plan. If indeed the Soviets were already as far as France, that meant their lines of communication were stretched even thinner than before. It also meant more targets for American aircraft, more bridges to bomb, more supply columns to attack.
"The farther these guys move west, the more they'll be strung out," Hunter said now. "If we can hit them somewhere in the middle at a choke point, we can have a very big effect. Plus their soldiers are weighed down by all that chem gear. They must be dragging ass for at least a hundred miles by now."
But the pilots just laughed at him again.
"Who the fuck made you the hero?" one asked. "We just want to get the hell back home."
Another pilot spoke up: "I've got a wife and three kids. I want to see them one more time before the world comes to an end."
A third said, "Why should we die trying to save a bunch of assholes in France?"
Hunter was momentarily stumped for a reply. Finally he shot back with the only response he could think of.
"You're going to go," he said. "Because I'm giving you a direct order to go."
They found a large fuel truck on the edge of the base that was filled with JP-8.
Testing his theory that soft gas had been used against the base at Rota, Hunter drove the truck back to where the jets were parked without the aid of oxygen. The pilots reluctantly worked together to fuel their aircraft. While this was going on, Hunter returned to the periphery of the base and canvassed it for ordnance. There was plenty to be found on the outlying edges. Mostly 2,000-pound blockbusters, but also antipersonnel weapons and even some high-explosive bombs.
This time he wore his oxygen mask not for the gas but because there were hundreds of bodies lying about. The air was getting fetid. He loaded up an ordnance truck by himself, using a portable hangar crane to do the heavy lifting. By the time he returned to the others, they had fueled up their aircraft.
Loading the bombs was long and sweaty, and a major pain in the ass. They were pilots, not ground crew guys, so it was trial and error at first. After a few hairy moments, they'd finally bombed up the A-10s. They would carry the heaviest loads.
The F-15s came next. They, too, could carry an awesome amount of munitions, plus they were easier to work than the A-lOs. Lastly, Hunter's F-16 was given two 2,000-pound bombs, plus an additional 5,000 pounds of antipersonnel munitions.
By the time they were through, night was falling. Hunter ordered the pilots to get some sleep, which they did right on the first floor of the off-base housing building. Hunter, however, stayed awake all night planning the route they would take tomorrow.
The flight up from Spain to the Franco-German border would burn more than half their fuel, this due to the overloads of bombs they would be carrying and the route they had to take. No matter which way Hunter spun the numbers, there just would not be enough gas for them to return to Rota. That was OK, though. Why would they want to come back here?
But where was their alternative base? If the latest news reports were accurate, most of Western Europe was flooded with deadly gas. Hard or soft, that meant many, many rotting corpses or lots of territory under control of the Soviets.
So there was no way Hunter could find a safe place for them to set down once they'd unloade
d the munitions.
Unless some sort of miracle came along then, this was going to be a one-way mission.
Dawn arrived.
The sky was bloodred, always a sign of bad things to come. Hunter woke the five reluctant pilots and lied to them. He told them that he'd identified an air base still in friendly hands just outside Paris. They could fly their missions, land at this base, possibly load up again, and go up again. The five pilots greeted the news with only mild grumbling. They did one last check of their airplanes, and then it was time to go.
By design, the highways leading into the base at Rota were long and straight and wide. Their size allowed them to be used as emergency runways. The six airplanes lined up on the highway heading north. They took off, one by one. Hunter was the last to get airborne.
Per his orders, the three F-15s took the lead, forming a loose chevron about 1,000 feet in front of Hunter. The two bomb-heavy A-10s took up positions in between.
They flew in silence. Hunter's flight plan took them out over Spain to the French Alps. It was a slightly roundabout route, and would use up precious fuel, but there was a method to Hunter's madness. The small strike force had one main enemy: radar. If they were picked up too soon, no doubt the Soviets would send masses of aircraft after them. While the F-15s and Hunter's plane could dogfight with ordnance attached, the A-10s were not aerial combat weapons. They would be sitting ducks.
Hunter knew they could not avoid being picked up on radar forever; the idea was to delay detection as long as possible. Thus the strange flight plan. The Soviets would have many air defense radars attached to the columns advancing into Western Europe. These radars would be activated to protect the nose of their columns, but would they be watching the flanks? Possibly not. Not if the Soviets were trying to make as much headway as possible.
That's why they were taking the long way around. They would hit these guys where they weren't looking.
It was strange because at first the terrain below them appeared fine. Small villages, red roofs, winding roadways, gradually filling with snow. The French Alps seemed positively idyllic, the new sun glistening off the snow.
But everything changed once they got over the mountains. Below them now was complete devastation. Cities, villages, dams, power stations, military bases — all of them utterly destroyed. The horror seemed to get worse every mile they flew north.
About ten minutes into this, the other pilots broke radio silence. They started freaking out. They wanted to turn back. They wanted to give up.
Hunter's blood pressure went through his eyeballs. His first instinct was to tear each one of these guys a new one. But he stopped himself, keyed his microphone, and calmly but firmly ordered the five of them to press on — and to stop talking on the radio.
But Hunter knew what he was seeing below didn't make any sense. Poison gas killed people, but it did not cause widespread destruction.
Why then the devastation below?
They went over a number of French cities, all of which had been leveled. Their rivers seemed to be running black with debris, their streets rainbow-colored by gasoline.
Then off in the distance, Hunter could see storm clouds. They stretched across the entire northern horizon. This was strange. The weather all around them was ironically pleasant and fair. No cloud banks. And certainly no atmospherics that would lead to any major storms. So what was this out on the horizon?
Hunter ordered the five pilots to stay their course, then he zoomed up to the ear-bleeding altitude of 50,000 feet. From here, using his amazing eyesight, he could see the source of the tremendous commotion. This was no storm. Not a typical one, anyway. It was the Red onslaught. No less than ten Soviet armies on the march, pouring out of the lowlands of southern Germany like a long river of blood. Tanks, trucks, APCs, mobile rocket launchers, millions of Soviet soldiers, swallowing up the territory in a massive and ravenous fashion. Hunter felt his stomach do a flip.
This was getting serious now.
It was not the smart thing to do, but Hunter booted in his afterburner and went down to almost ground level. Soon he was zooming right above the advance columns of the Soviet juggernaut. He seemed to be moving in slow motion again. The scene below him was indeed like a nightmare. Soviet soldiers were marching in step in parade formations, insanity in a combat environment. They were all spit and polish, their bayonets gleaming in the early sun. And civilians were lining the roads, greeting the Red Army as heroes. The Soviets just about ignored Hunter as he flew over. As before, those that did acknowledge him, did so with laughter and derision.
It went on like this for miles. Small towns. Villages. Red flags flying everywhere. Then, on the outskirts of one large city, Hunter saw a most horrible sight. Thousands of American soldiers lying on a vast killing field. Among the still bodies, American flags were burning.
This was worse than any nightmare for Hunter. He had to get away. He put the F-16 on its tail and climbed for five miles straight up. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was having trouble breathing. He turned over and found his five reluctant pilots in almost the same spot where he left them, as if they'd been standing still all this time.
He put on his best bravado voice and told the five pilots he'd identified the choke-point target he'd been hoping for. It was a bridge spanning the Vogel River, close to the border between France and Germany. It was approximately 300 miles behind the head of the Soviet columns.
Hunter went back down to the deck, the five other planes grudgingly following behind. They soon had the huge span in sight. It was at least two miles long, with large cities on either side. Soviet tanks were rolling over the bridge four across. Troop concentrations were also in evidence on both sides of the nverbank, as were typical rear area components such as fuel dumps, staging areas, and repair stations.
Hunter flew over the bridge at high speed, not dropping any ordnance, simply hoping to draw any antiaircraft fire away from the main attack force. But not a single round was fired in his direction. Even though Hunter could see mobile AA units in the nonstop Red Army parade, none of them seemed to want to bother to stop and shoot at him. He did three passes while the rest of the strike group orbited at low altitude nearby; still no one even looked up at him.
Hunter radioed back to the other five jets. No need for military niceties here. He simply told them to bring it on. He went up to 3,000 feet and began circling over the target area. As they had planned, the A-10s went in first. Just one 2,000-pound bomb could drop the bridge's middle span if it hit right. Each plane was carrying four of the kick-ass bombs.
The Thunderbolts streaked in, again with absolutely no antiaircraft fire being thrown up against them. The A-10s were side by side, and each dropped two of its big bombs in tandem. Hunter's heart leapt from his chest when he saw the four iron bombs heading dead-on for the middle span of the bridge. And all four hit; but just like his attack earlier on the Soviet carrier, incredibly, all four bounced off. Right behind were the three F-15s in a ragged line. They were on the scene even before the A-10s' pulled off. These three pilots saw the A-10s bombs bounce off, but they were already into the delivery runs. Perhaps the A-10s' bombs were duds.
The F-15s roared in and dropped two 2,000-pound bombs apiece, plus a 750-pound high-shrapnel bomb. Each explosive had more than enough firepower to sink the span or at least grease everyone on it. But incredibly, all of their bombs bounced off, too.
Hunter felt he was being sucked further down into this bad dream. He flipped over and bore in on the bridge himself, this time making a lengthwise approach. He intended to drop his entire load right in the middle of the central span. No one fired at him as he turned into his bomb run. Those soldiers below riding on tanks and APCs hardly re-acted to his presence at all. He let loose everything he had, coming in hard and fast…
But all his bombs just skidded off the edge and fell harmlessly into the river. Furious, he turned over and strafed the columns. But his bullets had no effect. Just like before, it looked like his cann
on rounds were bouncing off anything they hit.
His radio came alive. It was one of the F-15 pilots. "Can we go home now?" he asked.
But before Hunter could answer, he saw the F-15 in front of him suddenly get blown out of the sky. There was no way to tell what happened. It was just gone in a ball of flame.
Screams in his ears now. The other pilots were flipping out again.
"We told you so!" one bellowed — before he, too, was hit by something and destroyed. The two A-10s turned to escape, but they were quickly shot down as well. The remaining F-15 pilot simply drove his plane into the ground.
Then Hunter felt his own plane get hit. Suddenly there were flames all around him.
Instinct alone made him reach for the ejection lever. There was a burst of smoke and flames, and an instant later he was floating in the air. No noise. No motion. Just him floating and the bridge and flames below.
Then came a sudden jerk; his chute had opened, a small miracle. Now he seemed to be dropping even faster. The river passed out of view; he was approaching another killing field, a place where many more thousands of recent American graves had been laid out. American flags were everywhere, smoldering on the ground.
It seemed to take forever for him to make it to the surface. He hit hard, rolled, and came up on his feet. The chute disappeared. He was right in the middle of the field of the dead. American rifles with American helmets stuck on top of them. He heard gunfire. Bullets were suddenly zipping by him. He started to run.
Russian soldiers in perfectly pressed uniforms began chasing him through the graveyard. They were laughing at him even as they were shooting at him. Hunter looked down at his uniform and saw it was threadbare. His boots were suddenly without their soles. His hands were dirty, and his fingernails cracked and sore.
