Wingman (43 page)

But he was looking forward to seeing if it could be done.

He approached the bridge and hit the air brakes. The jet's computer brain set as if the plane was coming in for a landing. The throttle went back automatically and the nose came up. The Family troops crossing the bridge saw him coming and started firing at him, a tempting target because he was going so slowly. He zigzagged a little to deny them good aim. In a few seconds he was nearly under the bridge, wagging his wings to prevent the jet from plunging into the water just 30 feet below. The condition he had set up was as close as one could get to hovering in a jet, unless that jet was a VTOL

Harrier.

He gave the underside of the bridge a quick scan, then hit his throttle. The engines kicked and a second later he was back up to speed. Mission accomplished. The explosive charges were still there.

Now all he had to do was ignite them. The wire controls leading to the detonator on the Free Forces' side were probably damaged in the fight, or, perhaps, the man with his hand on the plunger had been killed. Hunter would rely on the six-pack to finish the job.

He radioed the Free Forces' commander battling to stem the flood of Family troops coming across the bridge. He told him of his plan to shoot the explosives and ice the Alexis. All of the Free Forces' troops had to be prepared to get behind cover. He told their leader that when they saw him do a quick four-point maneuver, his soldiers should hit the deck. The ground commander, his troops outnumbered 6-to-l and battling the attackers with bare hands, would have hung up on anyone else but Hunter. But knowing full well the reputation of the Wingman, he passed the word to his troops. "When the F-16 goes fancy, everyone duck!"

Hunter did a quick loop and approached the bridge again low over the water. The fire from the Family troops was much more intense this time. They were shooting at him from both levels of the bridge as well as the east side of the river. He kept the F-16

slow and steady as he approached the span, wheels down and air brakes engaged.

Slowly. Down a little. The cannon shot would have to find its way through the bridge's under structure to hit the TNT package. Up a hair. A little to the right. The Family was now starting to bring across tanks and APCs as the battle on the west side of the bridge turned into a simple holding action for the Free Forces' troops. Hunter figured there were probably a couple of hundred attackers on the west side already, and as many as a 1000 coming across the bridge's double decks.

Just 100 yards out. To the left. Steady.
Now
! He flipped the jet on its right wing, then it’s back, its left wing and upright again. That was the signal. The Free Forces' troops hit the dirt. Hunter pushed his weapons' trigger. A burst from the six-pack homed in on the explosive packages as if they were radar-guided. One package ignited, instantaneously blowing the 10 other charges

He had pulled back on the '16's side-stick at the last possible instant and

rode right up the side of the bridge, clearing it just as the TNT went off. There was an incredible explosion followed by a horrible creaking of bent metal so loud he could hear it in the cockpit above the noise of his engine and the non-stop radio chatter in his earphones.

When he flipped the jet over again, he saw the bridge had separated, the center span was gone and the two ends were twisting downward. The charging Family troops and vehicles that weren't blown up with the center span, couldn't stop their momentum in time and plunged into the water below. Those troops caught on the east side were now cut off. The Free Forces' troops re-emerged and began to slaughter them. In a matter of a minute, the attackers' flow across the Alexis bridge was severed and hundreds of enemy troops killed.

It was just about then that Hunter ran out of ammunition.

Football City airport was the scene of mass, if controlled, pandemonium. As

Hunter was making his final approach for landing, he could see eight of the 12 F-20s preparing for takeoff. These were his reserves-his last two aces in the hole. Time was running out, he had to play them.

The battle, still only a few hours old, had already changed. The C-130s, sent north to meet the Family flotilla sailing toward the battle scene, had sunk nearly half the collection of heavily-armed tugboats, river barges and assorted

yachts-turned-PT boats, before they ran out of ammunition and were forced to return.

Trouble was, as many as 150 of the enemy craft made it through the air raid and had arrived at a critical part of the fighting. Football City commanders all along the front were frantically calling for air support against Family troops that were now in the boats and crossing the river en masse. Artillery fire from the east side had, if anything, increased, rivaling the intensity of the barrage the night before. The only difference was this time, the Free Forces' troops were the targets, not the once-glamorous buildings of Football City.

The F-20s, loaded up with the last of the 1000pound bombs, would go after the Family gun emplacements. The returning C-130s, some with as many as 30 gun ports drilled into their starboard side, would rearm, refuel and join the remaining B-29s, the choppers, the two B-25s and even the cranky B-58, and go after the enemy amphibious forces. At this point, Hunter honestly had no idea which way the battle would go.

The Free Forces' were outnumbered by at least 3-to-l, a disadvantage he had hoped to offset with the use of Football City's airpower. And the Family’s energy crisis.

The Free Forces were fighting valiantly, but, after all, they were made up almost two thirds of untrained volunteers. The New Chicago army was a well-trained band of thugs. Paid soldiers. They were fighting for money. The Free Forces were fighting for their lives and a way of life. Was he foolish enough to think that could make a difference But there was something more. He had a very strange feeling in his bones.

It was very intense, so much so, his thinking was becoming blurred. The feeling hit him just as he was landing. By the time he was taxiing the '16, he was visibly shaking.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Far off. Getting closer
.

He had just pulled up to his taxi station when he heard St. Louie's voice come over the radio. He was calling from the airport control tower.

"Hawk! Get up here now!"

Hunter climbed out of the '16 and sprinted over to the structure and up the

stairs. In the control room, he found St. Louie and a group of Football City officers crowded around a radar screen. Their expressions ranged from extremely concerned to outright panic.

"Hawk," St. Louie said, the normally measured voice rising an octave with concern. "You'd better see this."

Hunter moved to the radar screen and took a look. The round, green video display had an arm of light sweeping 360-degrees every five seconds. At first, he saw nothing unusual-just blips of the Football City aircraft he knew were operating in the area.

Then the light arm swept up to indicate the air traffic coming in from the northeast.

He gasped.

"Holy shit!"

Now at least he knew what had caused the strange feeling that had come over

him. He waited for the arm to sweep up to the northeast again. When it did, he knew he wasn't seeing things. There were at least 100 blips on the screen, heading south-southwest.

"They're coming this way," St. Louie said.

Hunter had
felt
them. As always, he knew, just by the feeling, seconds, even minutes before any radar. This time his special extrasensory perception almost overloaded and short-circuited.

"They're not just MIGs," he said, looking at the screen but actually
knowing
without its aid. "They're coming at us with everything. SU-14s, Mirages, Super Sabres, Starfighters."

"Christ!" one of the officers yelled. "What do we do?"

Hunter was still trembling, not with fear but with hate. Hate for the Family.

Hate for the Russians. Hate for the people who killed Saul Wackerman. Hate for the people who killed Jones. Hate for the people who killed his country.

He felt a curious strength wash through him. He suddenly not only felt stronger, his mind became clearer. Clearer than it had ever been before. He knew what he had to do. "Evacuate the airport!" he yelled. "Quick! They're heading this Way to ice us! Right here! We've got to get everything off the ground!"

The officers went into action, grabbing radios and contacting the various crews of the planes waiting to launch. Within seconds, the takeoff procedure was sped up.

The half-minute between takeoff protocol was dispensed with very quickly. Now the planes were rolling down the runway at the rate of one every 10 seconds. St. Louie got on another radio and started contacting the Football City aircraft already airborne.

He was primarily concerned about the F-20s. They wouldn't be able to come back and load up on missiles and ammo.

Hunter heard none of this. He was out of the control tower in a flash. Now, he was running. Running to the F-16. A band of monkeys was working on it. He didn't remember even talking to them. He was thinking of all the time he had put in back at the Aerodrome, working on modifications to the F-16. Now he was glad he did it. His mind was clear but racing fast. Next thing he knew, he was rolling down the runway, his cannons filled with ammunition, his wings weighted down by 20 Sidewinders, five times the number normally carried on a F-16.

"Got to give these boys a reception," he thought as he took off and turned toward the northeast.

At the same time, the battle at the Mississippi had again taken a dangerous turn.

It was now obvious that another large enemy force had been held in reserve to see the outcome of the initial attack. When the Free Forces' held their own, the Family commanders, acting on orders from the top men in the Black Tower back in New Chicago, threw their reserves into the fray.

At the front, most of the Free Forces were getting their first look at what was left of the enemy flotilla Most of the enemy craft were tugboats outfitted with heavy field cannons and RPGs. Others were actually small cargo ships and barges that once plied the Grand Lakes. The boats served two purposes for the Family. Some transported reserve troops from shore to shore while others used their firepower to keep the Free Forces' defenders occupied.

Every aircraft fighting for Football City had now joined in the battle. The rearmed Cobra Brothers were braving the violently choppy, shrapnel-filled air above the river to fly low and scorch enemy landing craft with their special flamethrowing weapons.

The Stallion, with Dozer aboard and operating on the hit-and-run, attacked several key targets in the enemy rear. The Marine captain had also toyed with the idea of bolting up to New Chicago and blasting away at the Black Tower, just to take out the brains of the new Family attack. But like Hunter, he knew the situation at Football City was desperate, and that the Free Forces needed every gun they could get.

Hunter could feel the weight of the 20 Sidewinders cause the wings of the F-16

to bounce. No matter. He had reinforced the jet's body and wings long ago and was confident that the airplane could handle the strain.

Whether the pilot could or not was another matter. . .

He was boiling with hate. Too much hate. It was affecting his reflexes, his logical way of thinking and his inner vision. He couldn't wait to intercept the incoming Family air armada, although he was outnumbered 100-to-l. This could be it, he kept thinking.

This could be the end of the line. But
he didn't care
. And that's what was bothering him.

He knew that none of the other Football City aircraft would be able to leave the river battle to help him. With the arrival of the enemy boats and reserves, that situation was beyond desperate. Anything short of divine intervention wouldn’t be enough to turn the tide.

Tangling with the force of enemy planes coming his way would be no different.

He was good. The best, in fact. But one jet against 100? Even he doubted it. But he vowed long ago to go down fighting, and if this was to be his fate, so be it. He realized he felt just as Jones did when he launched his one-man war against the Mid-Aks. Some things are worth dying for. He remembered his rebirth on the mountain in Vermont the day Jones died. He had worked and sacrificed and almost without feeling it, had changed since then as a man and a pilot. The innocence was lost. He hoped something was gained.

For the first time ever, he felt ready to meet his destiny.

Suddenly, his target acquisition system started to go crazy. The Family aircraft were just over the horizon. There were so many of them that even the '16's sophisticated radar system couldn't handle them all. In fact, the number of blips showing up on his radar screen was only serving to confuse his onboard computers. If he set the Sidewinders on computer-command fire, they too would become confused and possibly detonate prematurely, it would all be too much for the machines.

So he had to take a chance. First, he armed all the missiles at once. Then, he flipped the weapons release switch from "Automatic" to "Manual." Finally, he coolly shut his radar off completely. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let "the feeling" overwhelm him, blast through him, take him apart and make him whole again.

When he opened his eyes, he knew he could carry out this attack entirely on

instinct.

Then he saw them. First, there were the MIGs. At least two dozen of them, all of them painted shiny black and riding out front, looking for any opposition Next came the Mirages-20 of the French-built fighter-bombers, each one armed to the teeth with Exocet missiles. Then came 32 SU-17 Fitters-the Russian-built' fighter-bomber he and his squadron faced in the battle over Europe. He was certain that no Family pilot had enough smarts to fly such a hotshit jet. That led him to the only other conclusion.