Wingman (37 page)

supporting the attack troops as they chased the remaining pirates through the woods.

"Where the hell did they ever get these planes, Hawk?" Dozer asked.

"Beats me," Hunter said, running his hand over the fuselage of a F-20. "They're right from the factory, never been flown."

"I admit I don't know anything about airplanes," Dozer said. "But these look like beauties to me." "Beauties is the word," Hunter agreed. "Long ago, the government didn't even want to buy these babies. Thought they would be too much plane for the pilots."

"Too much plane?"

"That's right," Hunter answered. "They can fly and turn faster than some pilots can handle it. The gs can be tremendous, even when the plane isn't kicked in all the way. The '16 is the same way. In many respects it's hotter than these planes, but I'm partial to it."

"Well, either way, St. Louie will be happy to see them, I'm sure." Hunter nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, moving to help one of the monkeys check an engine. "If we're not too late. . . ”

Within an hour, the first of the F-20s rolled out of the hangar. The pilot, the former ZAP flyboy named Digger Foxx, was in the cockpit. He gave the thumbs up signal, pushed his throttle and started the takeoff roll. Every eye was on the F-20 Tigershark as the plane sped down the captured runway. Suddenly, it leaped into the air. A cheer went up. The pilot did a neat 180 and the brilliant red and white fighter came in low over the field, wagging its wings.

Dozer shook Hunter's hand. "Success!"

"Yep," he said. "One up, eleven to go."

They watched as the plane sped off toward the north for its first refueling stop at the Aerodrome.

In two hours' time, all of the F-20s were successfully launched. A special squad of explosive experts had blown up the pirates' F-lOOs after stripping the planes of any usable parts and munitions. The rest of the attacking force climbed into their aircraft and they too were soon airborne and heading for the Aerodrome. All the while, the pirate defenders in the woods, under the mistaken notion that the main pirate force would soon return, had continually peppered the assault team during the F-20 takeoffs.

Dozer's men had returned the fire, but stayed at their positions on the perimeter of the base.

Finally, everyone was gone. Hunter was the last to leave. As he started his takeoff roll, a few mortar rounds came crashing down onto the runway, coming close, but missing by enough so as not to cause any damage.

He yanked the throttle back, left the ground and put the F-16 into a tight turn.

Streaking back low over the landing strip, he deposited four bombs in succession onto the runway. The bombs, specially made blockbusters, cratered the landing strip beyond repair. Then he put the F-16 into a screeching, steep climb. When he reached 40,000

feet, he leveled it out, knowing he was high enough for his jet engine to emit the water condensed contrails.

Far below, a few of the bedraggled pirate defenders crawled out of the woods to claim what was left of their base. The place was a total wreck, the bodies of their dead comrades were everywhere. They were mostly in a state of shock, having no idea who the attackers were or how they came to know that the F-20s were hidden there. Only later would they discover that one of the three prisoners who had escaped in the hot air balloon weeks earlier had led the raid.

One of the pirates looked up and saw something moving high above the destroyed base. He told his comrades and together they watched as a huge "W" formed in the sky.

It was a sight they wouldn’t soon forget

Two days later, the sun was shining over Football City. The city was under a complete war footing. Everywhere, tanks, APCs, howitzers, military trucks, moved through the streets. While St. Louie had found problems equipping his air force, buying land weapons was no problem at all. And, strangely enough, neither was manpower.

It was precisely at noon when they heard them coming. The low distant rumble, more akin to thunder than anything else. Getting louder, getting closer. The sound was deeper than the noise of the attacking MIG-21s. Soon, every eye in the city was looking upward, hand over brow to shut out the bright sun.

St. Louie was at the Grand Stadium when he heard the noise. The place had been turned into the main staging area for Football City's armed forces. All work at the stadium stopped as the soldiers looked up.

Then someone yelled: "There they are!"

St. Louie looked up. Sure enough, high up he could see six dots, flying in a chevron, emerging from a gigantic cumulus cloud. Right behind were six more. He felt an excitement run through him. Had Hunter really pulled it off?

He got his answer as the jets descended, and then flew in formation right over the stadium. They peeled off, one by one, with professional precision and made their landing approach to the battered, but still operating, Football City airport.

He immediately jumped into a jeep with three of his staff officers and was at the airport just as the third pair of F-20s were coming in.

"My God!" he exclaimed. "They're beautiful!"

Within minutes, all 12 were down and taxiing to their holding stations. Next the big C-5 landed, carrying the Sea Stallion inside, plus the Cobras. Two C-130s circled the field once, and set down, carrying Fitzie's army of "volunteer" monkeys, the ZAP

mechanics plus Dozer's strike force.

"Look!" one of St. Louie's officers said. "They look like F-4s!"

It was true. Captain Crunch and his F-4 Ace Wrecking Company had decided to join the Football City forces-free of charge, St. Louie would find out later.

The final plane to land was the lone F-16. St. Louie made sure he was at the station point when the jet taxied up.

The canopy popped and Hunter jumped out. St. Louie, overjoyed that his city now had not just an air force, but probably
the
most sophisticated air force on the continent, couldn't resist putting an old Texas bear hug on Hunter.

"You did it!" St. Louie told him. "You just might have pulled our asses out of the fire!"

"Not yet," Hunter said, cautiously. "We still have a lot of work to do and a tough fight ahead of us."

"I know it," St. Louie said, his initial exuberance disappearing. "And things have gotten worse."

Hunter turned the plane over to the airport ground crew and sat down in a long abandoned airport coffee shop with St. Louie. A bottle appeared. Dozer joined them.

"What's the situation?" Hunter asked.

"Bad," St. Louie said, pouring out three drinks. "We've spotted advance elements of Family troops sitting right across the river from us. Our recon boys tell us their main columns are stretched on the road and the rails from here all the way back to New Chicago."

"Any tanks, howitzers?" Hunter asked.

"A few, not many," St. Louie said, a slight note of relief in his voice. "But they've got a lot of artillery, a few rocket launchers, and some heavy mortars. They have it all loaded up on tractor trailers, old semis, Diamond Reos, things like that.

It appears like they're moving some of their troops by train and the rest plus the equipment by truck."

Hunter took another drink and thought for a moment. "Where are they getting all the fuel to move them? Those big rigs need diesel and I'm sure they've got

gasoline-powered vehicles, too."

"You're right," St. Louie said. "Our spies have seen them hauling fuel in old gasoline trucks-Mobil, Exxon, Sunoco-you name it."

"But, where is all the petro coming from?"

"Well," St. Louie said. "It's coming from New Chicago. The Family has an oil storage area-a big one-right near the downtown. Ships come in off the lake and unload.

Mostly under contract to East European concerns, I might add."

"And, what was this about some train yards up there?" Hunter asked, refilling his glass.

"That's right," St. Louie said. "Big marshalling yards right next to the oil storage farm. That's where they've been staging their troops."

Hunter was getting an idea.

"We'll need bombers," he said suddenly.

"Fighter-bombers?" Dozer asked, trying to read Hunter's mind.

"No, not just fighters," Hunter said. "I mean bombers, too. Big stuff. Nothing fancy, just good enough for one bombing mission."

"But where the hell are we going to find planes like that now, Hawk?"

"All we have to do," he said, "is find one man. If we do, we'll get our airplanes."

That man's name was Roy From Troy.

St. Louie's spies were good; they located the carnival-barker-turned-airplane salesman in two days. He had just returned from a selling trip to Canada when St. Louie's agents spirited him away, and with the help of one of the Cobra Brothers, got him to Football City in a matter of hours.

He nearly fainted when he saw Hunter.

"My God! I heard you were dead," he said to the airman. "They said the Mid-Aks got you over Baltimore. Or was it Otis?"

"Wishful thinking," Hunter told him. They were standing in St. Louie's command center in the basement of his mansion.

"Okay," Roy said, getting down to business as usual. "You guys got me here in the middle of the night, so I hope it's for doing a deal."

"We want bombers," Hunter told him simply.

"Bombers? I thought you were strictly fighters?"

"We need anything that will carry bombs a long way," Hunter said.

"Bombers are rare these days," Roy said. "Good ones anyway."

"I told you," Hunter said, already seeing dollar signs in Roy's eyes. Some things never change. "We don't need fancy. We just need something that's going to make one mission. That's all."

"Well, they are still in short supply," Roy said. "For some reason, bombers don't last as long as fighters."

"What have you got?" Hunter asked. "Well, we'd be scraping the bottom of the barrel at Wright-Patterson.''

"I said, 'Nothing fancy.' " Hunter reminded him.

"It's going to cost," Roy said, holding his hand up in mock caution.

"We don't give a bull's ass what it costs," St. Louie told him, the anger evident in his voice. "We're fighting for our lives here, mister."

"Okay," Roy said, dropping his huckster front for the first time that Hunter could remember. "I can see I you guys are in a bad way here. Everyone on the continent knows you are. I got bombers. But I'm warning you. It's old stuff."

"How old?" Hunter wanted to know what he had to work with. "Would you believe everything from a few B-24s up to a B-58 Hustler?" Roy said.

"B-24s?" Hunter said. "Liberators? They were retired at the end of World War II."

"Well, just about," Roy said. "But, you gotta remember, I'm in the airplane salvage business, too. We found a couple of B-24s that got stuck in the snow way up in Canada.

Happened in 1943. They were heading over to Europe when they had to put down at an emergency strip because of weather. Well, the weather turned out to be a blizzard and it iced them right over. Preserved them perfectly. No one ever bothered to dig 'em out, until the Free Canadians let me do it. In fact, they paid me to get them out. I did and the boys at Wright-Patterson did them over real nice."

"But will they fly?" Hunter wanted to know. "Shit, yes," Roy said. "Carry a shitload of bombs for you, too. Still got the Norden bombsights in them, for Christ's sake. They're collector's items, but you guys can get them for cheap."

Hunter looked at St. Louie, who shrugged.

"What else you got?" Hunter asked.

"I got four B-25 Mitchells. Got 'em from a flying club down south that didn't want the Mid-Aks to get them. They're also in good shape. These were ship busters from the South Pacific. Got double cannons in the nose, one on top, two on each side and one on the ass. Buy all four I'll give you a deal."

Hunter nodded. "Mitchells were a good plane. That's what Doolittle bombed Tokyo with. What else?"

"Got twelve B-29s," Roy continued. "Real good shape, only saw a little action at the end of World War II, and minimum stuff during Korea. I found them at an air museum out in California.

"I've got a lot of B-47s. Strange airplanes. No one wants them. They're stretched-out fighters. Long wings and bodies. Carry three guys, but two sit like they're in a fighter, one in back of the other. I'd hate to go a long way in one. They threw them together in the 50s, just so they'd have a jet that could make it to Russia carrying the Big One. You can get them for a song. I'm looking to get rid of them."

"You said you've still got a B-58?" Hunter was almost afraid to ask.

"The Hustler?" Roy said. "Yep. I got one. It's got to be the last one in existence.

First big bomber to go supersonic, you know. And I don't mean one click over the line either. I talking about Mach 2-plus! Another stretched out fighter. Like a big F-106

Delta Dart. Fucking this is
too
big and it's got some mean engines. But I'll tell you something: it sucks up the JP8 like crazy, but that shitbox can haul ass. Scares you to be moving that fast in something that big."

"What's left?" Hunter asked. "I got a few C-130s," Roy said. "Just fixed them up. They could help you out. You can open the back and roll bombs out. Plus you put everything from a popgun to a howitzer in them. That's what they used 'em for 'Nam.

Spectre gunships, they called them. Or Puff the Magic Dragons."