Wingman (33 page)

Hunter had to duck out the way of the rotor pieces of the doomed helicopter, but now was up on his feet and running toward the Stallion once again. More Mid-Aks had reached the helipad door and were blasting away at the big chopper. The assault force gunners were returning the favor with a vicious stream of lead. Somewhere, someone had fired a shoulder-launched SAM and it streaked by, spraying the helipad with sparks and fuel exhaust and adding to the pandemonium on the roof of the building.

Hunter finally reached the door of the Stallion and the pilots prepared to lift off when something caught his eye. It was just a glint of light reflecting off a metal bar on the uniform of one of the building's defenders. It struck a note in his head, and he turned and stopped. Then, as the incredulous assault force looked on, Hunter dashed back across the helipad, dodging the flames of the burning Huey chopper and the blizzard of lead. He reached the man with the metal bar on his shoulder and started dragging him back across the pad toward the Sea Stallion.

The gunfire around them had increased twofold as more and more 'Ak gunners found the range. Finally, Hunter again reached the edge of the Stallion's door, and with the help of the Troopers aboard, lifted the man's body onto the chopper. He then leaped just as the Stallion started to pull away, two Troopers grabbing him by the seat of his pants in order to prevent him from falling to the streets below.

The ship was out away from the building and picking up speed as he was finally hauled aboard. Bullets were still zinging past them as the chopper's door was closed and secured. Only then did he stop to take a deep breath. It was the most intense combat he had ever experienced and it had seemed to have gone on for hours. Actually, the rescue mission had lasted less than 15 minutes.

The Cobras were now linked up and leading the way out of the burning city. The three choppers raced toward the open sea, reaching the harbor and lowering down to barely wave-top level. The harbor contained a number of Mid-Ak warships, targets of opportunity that Hunter just could not pass up. He ordered the Stallion's missile platform lowered, and the large acquisition system turned on. Instantly, bits of information started popping up on the video display terminals. Computer lock-on firing systems started firing the small, guided missiles at the anchored ships. Each missile packed a mighty wallop of HE3X explosive. Targeted to hit each ship below the water line, a dozen missiles flew out independently and found their mark. Soon, after a dozen brilliant explosions, the bottom of Boston Harbor was home for a good part of the Mid-Ak occupying fleet.

The chopper force quickly left the land behind and were out in the safer confines of the Atlantic Ocean. Only then did Hunter turn his attention to the man he had dragged aboard. With a gang of Troopers gathered around him, he turned the body over. The man was dead, a bullet had caught him in the throat. But it was his uniform that interested Hunter. It was green, not brown like the standard Mid-Ak soldier, and of a completely different texture.

Hunter began stripping the man's suit coat off, then his shirt. The bars he wore on his collar indicated that the dead man was a captain. But a captain in what army?

That's what Hunter wanted to know.

He ripped away the man's shirt collar and found a tag with the number 561 stitched in. He flipped the label over and then had his answer.

There was writing on the other side of the tag. Not English, as one might expect a Mid-Ak soldier's uniform to read.

"What the hell kind of writing is that?" one of the Troopers asked. "Dixieland?"

"Nope," Hunter said, pushing the dead man away from him and concentrating on the writing on the collar. It wasn't any kind of language found on the continent, not naturally anyway. His mind went into its flashback mode. The Kalashnikov rifles they had found in New York City. The East European cargo plane he'd sabotaged. The MIGs over Football City's Grand Stadium. None of that had convinced him before of Jones' grand conspiracy theory. But now he had the proof positive.

The label indicated the shirt had been sewn somewhere in the Ukraine. The man wearing it was a Russian

They had pulled it off, with very little damage to themselves. Three strike

force members wounded was the final toll, none of them seriously. They had

struck-hard-in the heart of the Mid-Ak empire and left it burning. They had rescued a talented group of pilots and ground personnel and taught the Middle-Atlantics a lesson they wouldn't soon forget. There was nothing more valuable than good security.

It was a blow that the 'Aks wouldn't recover from for some time.

Hunter found himself thinking about Jones as the helicopters raced north, back toward their hiding place off the coast of Maine. The general would have approved of the mission, especially its outcome. He could almost hear the old man's voice, whispering in his ear: "Good work, Major. Detonating that LNG facility was the next best thing to nuking the goddamn place." Looking back through the chopper's window toward Boston, he could still see a glow over the horizon as the city burned. "This one's for you, General," he said quietly.

They made their way back to the small island where they grudgingly gave the

Russian a proper, if hasty, burial. Hunter was now convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Soviets were involved in a destabilizing effort on the continent.

He may have rationalized away the Kalashnikovs in New York City, the East European plane at the Aerodrome and the MIGs over Football City. But now he had solid proof.

Logically, there could only be one reason a Russian soldier would be protecting the headquarters of the Mid-Ak occupying force-a deep concerted agreement between the two evil hierarchies so involved that lowly Russian troops were now guarding Middle-Atlantic installations. Was it any different in New Chicago? He thought of little else during the trip back to the Aerodrome.

He was glad to see the rescued pilots and monkeys, most of them close friends from his days with ZAP. He explained his plan to provide Football City with an air force to counter the threat from New Chicago. The Family, he told them, was closely, if secretly, allied with the Mid-Aks, and by implication, the Russians. With no prodding they unanimously agreed to join the fight. Nearly a year in Mid-Ak captivity had neither dulled their courage, enthusiasm or, on a deeper level, their patriotism.

Most were former military anyway who yearned for the old days. A fight for freedom was just what they needed after being cooped up for so long.

The three helicopters touched down at the Aerodrome just before dawn. The strike force and the rescued pilots, monkeys and MPs were exhausted, but exhilarated.

Fitzgerald was waiting for them, cigar in mouth, coffee cup in hand. He did a little jig when he heard the attackers had taken such painful toll on the Middle-Atlantic.

"Drinks are on me!" he yelled to the returning warriors as they emerged from the helicopters in the predawn light. He had set up a victory banquet for them at one of The Aerodrome's swankiest clubs. Despite the early morning hour, he transported the strike force-still dressed in their black fatigues-and the rescued to the club where a full sized jazz band played and an army of cooks, bartenders and waitresses were standing by to serve the returning heroes and the freed prisoners.

Sitting with Hunter and Dozer, Fitzgerald urged them to give him every last

detail of the mission, right down to the number of delayed-fuse bombs the strike force had left behind. The Irishman was clearly enjoying himself listening to the story of the stunning raid.

"You're not acting much like a neutral now," Hunter mockingly scolded him, as the early bird Welcome Back party got into full swing.

"In business, I'm neutral," Fitzgerald said, smiling. "In me heart, I'm with ya all the way."

"Well, I don't know how much business the ’AKs will be doing in the near future,"

Dozer said, draining a Bloody Mary and starting in on his second plate of scrambled eggs. "Not unless they plan to have a fire sale."

"We've heard from St. Louie, again," Fitzgerald said, pulling a yellow sheet of telex paper from his pocket and pasting it to Hunter. "It came in around midnight."

Hunter read the message: FAMILY AIR RAID EARLIER TONIGHT ON OUR AIRFIELD. HEAVY

LOSSES. CHICAGO TROOP BUILD-UP REPORTED.

"Things are getting worse out there," he said, stuffing the message into his pocket.

"Well, you've accomplished almost half your objective," Fitzgerald said.

"You've got yourself some fine pilots and ground people. Now all you have to do is get them some planes to fly."

"That's the hard part," Hunter nodded.

"Aye, there's not much on the open market anymore," Fitz agreed.

"Wright-Patterson is down to selling World War II and Korean War stuff. Those planes could probably fly one mission, maybe two, then they'd plow themselves into the earth and stay there."

"St. Louie has been trying to hire on freelancers," Dozer said. "But no one wants the job. They're all convinced that The Family will win this one, and no freelancer wants to be on the losing side."

"Yes," Fitz said. "It's
very
bad for business."

The three friends were silent for a moment, then Fitz perked up. "So what's your next step, Hawker? Mio and Aki are standing by."

Hunter finished off his breakfast and poured another drink. "Later," he said.

With that, the airman stood and, clicking his spoon against a glass, got the attention of everyone in the banquet hall.

"I'm glad to see we all made it" he told them. "Please enjoy yourselves for the next five days. That's how long we've got before the next mission. And this one will be more dangerous than our excursion to Boston. And when it's over, we go to Football City and that will be the biggest, most dangerous battle of all."

The hall was completely silent. Every eye was on him, taking in every word he had to say.

"We have dangerous times ahead, but the important thing to remember is that we stick together. Together, we can do it. Together, we can put the hurt on the Family just like we did to the 'Aks. We can put the hurt on anyone, whether they're from this continent. Or any other. We can make sure that if anyone tries to deprive us or anyone else of their rights, their basic freedoms, then they will have to think twice. Because they won’t know where well be, or when we'll strike. We proved it in Boston. We'll prove again very soon. Word travels fast these days. People will know who we are.

"So, have a good time now. There are plenty of bars here at The Aerodrome. Eat up. Drink up," he paused and smiled toward Fitzgerald, "... and tell them to put it all on Fitzie's tab."

A look of mock horror came across the Irishman's face as the assembled men

laughed and applauded.

"Now," Hunter said to Fitzgerald and Dozer, his speech over, "I have to go grow a beard."

With that, the airman drained his glass and disappeared from the hall.

"What the hell does he mean by that?" Fitzgerald asked the bewildered Marine captain.

No one saw Hunter for the next four days. He was holed up in the cheap hotel room located above Broken Wing bar, on the periphery of The Aerodrome's territory.

He left orders that no one-not even Fitzgerald, or Dozer or Aki and Mio-should disturb him. He asked only that any reports from St. Louie should be delivered immediately to him care of the bartender downstairs.

Those messages started coming in at a rate of one every two hours. Fitzgerald promptly summoned one of his most trusted officers who shuttled the messages back and forth, leaving them with the seedy-looking barkeep at the saloon beneath Hunter's room.

The dispatches told a story of a deteriorating situation for Football City.

War with New Chicago was now inevitable. St. Louie's agents reported the Family was completely mobilized and had begun stationing its troops near the city's extensive railroad yards. The Family leaders, headquartered in the ultra skyscraper once known as the Sears Building, had been making huge purchases of oil lately. They were stocking up to feed an army that would move south to Football City by rail, river and road.

The MIG-21s had attacked the city twice more since the raid that destroyed a third of Football City's airfield. St. Louie was trying to purchase as much SAM

equipment as possible, but he was certain that the Family was intimidating most of the war suppliers. His attempts to get freelance fighter pilots was going no better.

Convoy duty was paying even better than ever. No pilot wanted to lose his plane-or his life-in a war between two cities that in the grand scheme of things, apparently meant nothing. Football City itself was all but closed down. The party-party atmosphere was put on hold as the army prepared the city for war. Most of the population left after the first attack on the Grand Stadium and never returned. Defensive emplacements were being erected along the western shore of the Mississippi River, the natural barrier between Football City and the invaders from the north.

One of the last reports sent to Hunter gave the Football City intelligence corps'

estimate that the Family would attack across the Mississippi within the next three weeks.

Thus was the situation when Hunter emerged from his self-imposed exile . . .

On the fifth day, Fitzgerald and Dozer got a message to meet Hunter in the Broken Wing. The Irishman and the Marine immediately drove to the bar, taking the necessary precaution to go well-armed, and found Hunter sitting at the same table Fitz had used to discuss the mission to The Pitts. The rest of the bar was empty.