INVASION USA (Book 2) - The Battle For New York (26 page)

It was a clear sparkling night, and it took three more hours before the dozers returned, parked, and the tired drivers were relieved of their lives, cell phones, and clothing. The salt team had also been terminated and the airport was finally clear of unfriendly visitors. It was time to get into action. The Chinese pilots were given two of the captured radios and the vehicles were inspected and relieved of two more radios and a lot of ammunition. The major worked out that the incoming aircraft would need to use the radios to ask for landing instructions and he prepared his Chinese guys, both C-17 pilots to call the shots.

It was midnight by the time they were finished. The terminal was cleaned and the pile of dead bodies was moved to another stranded aircraft, the blood and remains cleared away and the bar made to look like a party had taken place. The major’s men opened the clothing store and pulled several tables into the hallway, piling all the expensive coats, hats, and other winter items onto the tables as if the visitors had made a presentation for the incoming dignitaries.

He and his men also piled up a mountain of chairs and tables in front of where they had set up base as a wall against any incoming fire. He did the same on the other side of the bar area and called in the squad from the M-90. Patterson placed 30 of the soldiers on the other side of the mountain of furniture with sniper rifles, automatic rifles, and grenades. They were hidden behind the large assortment of steel and wooden furniture 50 yards from the bar area. The Major wanted to have 60 of his troops inside the terminal on both sides of the entrance door and an attack zone 100 yards wide.

He ordered 20 of his men in the 777 to exit and put on the confiscated clothing. This group would be led by one of his Chinese American pilots, Captain Chong, who would form a guard with all their captured shoulder rocket launchers.

Four of the Air Force personnel including Major Patterson, as well as the two Chinese-American pilots, could fly anything Air China flew into JFK on the now cleared runway. He allowed all his men to come into the warmer concourse and gave his orders.

“OK, guys, we believe we have two jets incoming just after dawn from Beijing or Shanghai. We need to get our pilots aboard each jet and hidden in a way that they can take over the jet once take-off is under way. Pilots, I think that the only people expected on board will be the flight crews on the way back. Also there will be no fighting until both aircraft are at least halfway down the runway, or already airborne. I’m hoping that most of the troops will be in here, in the middle of our ambush. If anybody gets over our wall of chairs and tables before our attack, take them out silently. I will place a lookout on the Van Wyck Expressway in case they have more men incoming with motor vehicles. The worst scenario is two jets with a maximum of 700 to 1,000 troops, but I’ve heard that there will be engineers included in the group. Do not—I say again—do not attempt to take out the engineers, unless they are a direct threat to your life, or you see them talking on a cell phone. We have to play this by ear, and until the aircraft are out of here, we only kill by hand, understand?” Every soldier nodded.

“You all have your orders. I want three of our best hand-to-hand killers behind our terminal. Take out by hand any enemy soldiers who go for a piss or walk around the building to smoke. The worst case, if there are more than one or two, use your silencers, understand?”

Again everybody nodded.

“I want every short man possible dressed in the semi-descent smelling civilian Chinese clothes we have taken off them. Hide your eyes and faces with new scarves from the store, look Chinese and everybody—do not kill any person dressed in civilian clothing! It could be one of our guys. Password if you have to question somebody is ‘Allen Key.’ Repeat after me, ‘Allen Key’.”

“Allen Key,” the crowd in front of him repeated.

“If you are about to get your throat slit by one of your own guys, say the code words ‘Allen Key’ quickly, guys,” instructed the major. “Okay everybody, get into a warm place and get five hours of sleep. We will head outside just before dawn.”

Thirty minutes before dawn, Major Patterson went outside with the remainder of his troops, now all dressed in white Arctic gear, and began to place them in sniper positions around the cleared areas where the two aircraft were expected to unload. They dug into the snow and disappeared from view. By dawn, he had 60 men with every sort of weapon at their fingertips around the area, as well as 20 men dug in on the roof of the terminal with sniper rifles at the ready. The rest were in the confiscated clothing as well as new clothing from the store, all had thick hats and bandanas across their faces, and apart from their eyes, were indistinguishable from the 42 men who had arrived at the airport 24 hours earlier.

As the sun rose over the horizon, the radio crackled on, and a voice in Chinese asked for conditions for landing. A few minutes later they could see two minute black aircraft shapes over the eastern horizon coming in to land. Major Patterson radioed McGuire and told them that they had incoming and would call again once they were ten minutes from take-off.

Where are the Hit Squads?

Back at the North Carolina farm, the dawn on the sixth day found aircraft and another group of soldiers getting ready for action. Preston had fueled every working aircraft to the brim the evening before, and the plan was to first go out as far as the two 172 spotter planes could, at least 200 miles out along I-40 and north along I-95 at 10,000 feet, and search for any movements on the two major incoming highways. With the snow and icy roads, the travel into North Carolina would be slow for anybody coming from the north and northwest, and Preston had a gut feeling that anybody using his brains would stay as far south as possible.

John and Pam were planning to fly out along I-40 and Maggie and Barbara were flying north. Martie, in the faster 210, was to fly south, first down 1-95 as far as South Carolina, and then west across country to pick up US 64 in case they were not using major highways.

A plan of action had been put together the previous day. All the fighter aircraft had been checked and their guns and Sidewinder rockets deemed ready for action. A fresh group of 100 well-trained and hardened Marines had been brought in from Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville via a C-130 that had returned from McGuire at dawn and picked them up. Carlos was happy to see that Sally was the pilot and the president, now comfortable in the house, was happy to see the First Family exit first out of the cargo door. They rushed up to greet him and he introduced them to the whole team.

Carlos and Lee had worked for 24 hours solid on the electrical equipment, and they figured that they could scramble the whole system if need be. Unfortunately, as he explained to General Allen over his own cell phone that he had now working, everyone would lose communication while they scrambled the satellite feeds. The general told him that every available aircraft in the United States would be up and running by the end of the sixth day, and that they would all be sent to McGuire, apart from Sally and her aircraft, which was the transport for the southern attack.

“Preston, John. Do you copy? Over,”
came the first mid-day radio call from the spotter aircraft.

“John, this is Preston.”

“Preston, we are at our limit, about 220 miles west of you. We are currently over the Ashville airport at 16,000 feet. We have binoculars on the highway over the mountains. Pam tells me there is no group of vehicles and she can just about see the Tennessee border. She confirms no convoy. In the last two hours we have seen three vehicles and more could be hidden by the mountains, but I must return, my tanks show half full. Over.”

“Roger that,” replied Preston, “Martie can head over that way a little later. Out.”

“Preston, this is Mike. Do you copy? Over.”

“Mike, this is Preston.”

“We are well into Virginia and have seen a couple of vehicles on I-95 North, but no convoy. I’m returning to base.”

“Roger that, Mike,” Preston replied.

The hangar was full of soldiers sitting around and waiting to board Tom, the C-130 patiently waiting on the runway. They carried a lot of gear and were ready for anything.

Baby Huey had arrived back from Andrews where Buck had flown the president’s family to meet up with the C-130 for the trip to North Carolina. Now it was time to change into Lady Dandy and do some convoy-spotting in comfort. The President and First Family were going along and were excited about it. The Secret Service agents would be in attendance and the furniture, snacks, and drinks from Baby Huey had been transferred into the DC-3.

Preston was planning to take the FedEx Cargomaster up in an hour and head out along US 64 and back over I-40 landing before dark. He had suggested to Buck to go south to South Carolina for an hour and then head northwards to the Virginia border. Preston was going to do a full western sweep of North Carolina. Earlier, Tom had gone into RDU with fresh pilots, packed what was left in the food and drink department at the terminal, and returned, leaving all the troops stationed there in case the convoy got through and decided to attack the Raleigh airport unannounced during the night. Two hundred enemy soldiers was a force to be reckoned with, and a plan had been arranged in case the incoming death squads didn’t arrive where the civilian air force personnel were setting up an ambush scenario like the one before. Everybody was keen to find the convoy and get the fight away from the farm.

“Preston, this is Martie. Do you copy me? Over.”

“Martie, it’s Preston,” he replied.

“Preston, I went as far as Charleston. I’m currently at 15,000 feet and have turned northwest, following 77 north and about to fly over Columbia, South Carolina. I have seen several vehicles going in different directions, but nobody within ten miles of each other. I plan to fly over Charlotte and then turn northeast over Mount Pleasant and follow US 64 home.”

“Roger that, Martie,” replied Preston. “Carlos has just come in and said that we should take the Mustangs for a ride around the block. He said that he’s sick of radio work and needs some fresh air. His buddy can look after things while he is away.”

“Preston, that’s not fair!”
retorted Martie with everybody listening in
. “You send me out in a 210 to do your dirty work and then the boys go out and play with their toys!”

“You tell him, girl!”
crowed Maggie through her radio.

“Well, if you see those bad boys,”
added Mike on his radio,
“Stop their forward movement and blow their transportation to bits. Then we can all have a good night’s sleep while they are fixing their engines and flat tires!”

“See?” replied Preston. “Martie, there is method to my madness. I promise you will be flying with us tomorrow, okay?”

“Bloody load of old codswallop, or whatever those weird English say! I’m going to complain to the Equal Rights Commission!”

“There isn’t one left, love,”
added Barbara.
“It’s now us against them again. Us against the men, I mean. From now on and in our next civilization, I’ll be the one carrying the wooden club and you’d better be listening, Buck!”
she added.

Preston mentioned to Carlos that they should take off before Martie got back, and Carlos readily agreed, prompting a grim look from Sally in sympathy for her friend.

An hour later, and after the final reports from all three pilots, Preston and Carlos both took off in formation ten minutes after Lady Dandy headed north. Their tanks, guns, and rockets were full, and heavily loaded they headed west to meet up with Martie who was currently over Siler City 30 miles west of the farm. She was flying high at 12,000 feet and they rose to meet her five minutes later and got into formation on each side of her.

“Want two good-looking men to escort you home, darling?” joked Preston, and got one finger pointing upwards from the right window of her 210 in response.

“Go out and play, little boys,”
she said, trying to be cross
. “And you’d better get take-out on the way home, because after a hard day at the office, I’m cooking corned beef and hash. The First Family said that they were looking forward to some good home cooking and we are all going to eat corned beef just to piss you off, General Preston,”
and with that she pushed the joystick down and pushed the 210 in a dive for home, leaving the two Mustangs flying by themselves.

“Come on, Carlos. Let’s go get the bounty on some bad guys,” and Preston turned his aircraft to the right and headed in formation west towards Charlotte at 5,000 feet with Carlos just behind him.

They flew over Charlotte 15 minutes later at 320 miles an hour. That was as far as Martie had come, and Preston decided to check out several of the roads leading in from the west. They stayed above I-85 and cruised down to Atlanta, arriving over Atlanta 40 minutes later. They had only seen one old truck and the highway looked pretty empty of dead cars.

“If they are staying out of the weather and coming from the west, I reckon they would use I-20, wouldn’t they?”
suggested Carlos.
“How’s your fuel, Preston?”

“Three quarters full, and I agree,” replied Preston. “Let’s continue along I-20 to Birmingham, and then turn north up 59 to Chattanooga. If we haven’t seen anybody by then, we can turn for home. If they are further out, they won’t get to us until morning. I suggest we climb up to 15,000 so we can see more. The weather is so clear out there.”

At 15,000 feet, they were just under the requirements for oxygen masks, and from that altitude they could see for 30-40 miles in either direction.

“There looks like a long convoy of moving vehicles coming towards us, about 12 miles west of us on the highway,”
stated Carlos a few minutes later.
“On my map, they are passing a highway exit to a town called Helfin or Heflin, a mile to the north of the highway. Do you see them?”

“Roger, I have visual. Do you think they can hear us at this altitude?” asked Preston.