Mack Maloney - Wingman 04, page 18
“Also SAMs and radar-guided AA guns, if you have them. Plus any interceptor aircraft. We’ve got the pilots, we just need something for them to drive.”
Frankel nodded and, as one, each man dove into his briefcase.
“We can sell you forty M-ls and M-60 tanks,” one of the other three said.
“We’ve also got some leftover APCs and about a hundred converted half tracks .
. .”
“Converted to what?” Viceroy Dick asked.
“To whatever you want,” the tank man said. “SAMs, movable artillery, even flamethrowing capability.”
“Sounds good,” Viceroy Dick said, making a note in his orders book. “What about rocket launchers, TOW missiles, mines …”
A second Party member spoke up. “We can deliver one thousand Claymore mines to you within the week,” he said. “TOWs will take longer. Maybe ten days.”
“Again, sounds good,” Dick confirmed. “How 251
about SAMs?”
The surface-to-air salesman handed him a ten-page typewritten document, with Polaroid photos attached. “Take your pick,” he said. “We’ve got Stingers, Blowpipes, Rolands and SA-7s. All portable. All excellent for close-in fighting.”
Viceroy Dick had to admit he was impressed. “You guys have quite the inventory,” he said, looking over the document.
“It’s our job,” Frankel told him.
Dick made several more notes, then asked: “How about aircraft?”
“That’s my line,” Frankel said. He, too, whipped out a catalog and handed it to Viceroy Dick.
“Our standard package begins three squadrons of MiG-29 Fulcrum counter-air fighters,” Frankel said. “They come complete with Doppler look-down/shootdown radar, and day/night, all-weather capability. They have a five hundred-mile combat radius, which should serve you nicely, and can go Mach two-point-two at altitude. They are fitted to carry up to eight AA-ten air-to-air missiles, plus an overhauled Vulcan gun in the nose. Also, in a pinch, you can convert them to a ground attack role.
“Along with this, we can offer you one squadron of MiG-27 Flogger Swing-Wings and Sukhoi SU-7 Fitters each, for the important ground attack role. Both airplane types carry two large guns in the nose and just about any bomb under the wings. Both have a combat radius of two hundred forty miles or so.
“Of course, each squadron comes complete with two service aircraft, an inflight-refueler, and a small shuttle craft for parts and repair.”
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Viceroy Dick’s head was spinning with the descriptions. The Party was offering five squadrons-nearly 60 aircraft. He doubted the United American forces had very much more.
“All this sounds great,” he said. “But, what’s it going to cost?”
For the first time a smile came to Frankel. “That depends …” he said.
Viceroy Dick prepared himself. Here comes the whammy, he thought.
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on whether you are interested in purchasing our Supreme Command package,” Frankel answered. “If you do, then everything we’ve just described to you is free …”
Viceroy Dick resisted a temptation to clean out his ears.
“Did you say: ‘free?’ ” he asked. “As in ‘free of charge?’”
All four men nodded. “That’s correct,” Frankel said. “Absolutely free and guaranteed delivery with two weeks.”
It sounded like the deal of the century-Viceroy Dick was immediately suspicious.
“OK, I’ll bite,” he said. “What’s in the Supreme Command package?”
Frankel took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “Twenty-two battlefield nuclear weapons …” he said. “Small-end range. One-point-two kiloton. For a surface blast you would get a crater two hundred fifty feet deep, twelve-fifty across. Total blast radius is two-point-one miles for anything and everything: three-point-two for buildings. Double those numbers for an air-burst.
Radiation is low and cleared completely within twelve hours, except at absolute ground
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zero …
Viceroy Dick found that his jaw had dropped involuntarily. “You guys are selling nukes … ?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yes, we are,” Frankel answered. “They are guaranteed nukes, I might add . .
.”
“You guys are nuts …” Dick told them. “No one does nukes here …”
“No one does nukes, sir, because they are not so readily available,” Frankel said, a hard edge returning to his voice. “Certainly you wouldn’t expect your Soviet patrons to provide you with them …”
“And I’m glad of it!” Dick exclaimed. “There’d be nothing left …”
Frankel shook his head. “You are missing the point,” he said. “With the Supreme Command package, your victory in the upcoming battle is virtually assured …”
Dick was shaking his head. “No, no …” he said. “Believe me, the top New Order guys in Moscow wouldn’t allow it. If one guy starts dropping nukes, there’ll be a race to out-nuke everyone else and the place will look like the moon in a matter of weeks.”
“More appropriately, it will look like the Badlands,” Frankel said. “And that, sir, was courtesy of the top guys’ in Moscow …”
Viceroy Dick was adamant. “No way am I buying nukes,” he said. “Just give me a price on all the other stuff and we’ll talk business. But no big ones.”
“You are making a serious error, sir,” Frankel said, as the other three men started totaling up the charges for the conventional weapons. “Because, someone, somewhere, some day will buy
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one of our Supreme Command packages. And when that day comes, you’ll wish you got in first. I can assure you, that our Supreme Command Deterrent packages will be much more expensive, and they will not be offered with the free-of-charge conventional packages.”
They handed him a price list that totaled 263,000 bags of gold or 1,315,000
bags of real silver. It broke down to roughly 2000 bags of gold per airplane-just a tad higher than the going price-plus 63,000 bags for the rest of the equipment.
“The price is high,” Dick said. “Call it two hundred sixty thousand and you got a deal.”
“Done,” said Frankel. “Though you are not getting the best deal…”
Viceroy Dick ignored the comment. “You’ll get half in two days, half when the stuff is all delivered,” he said.
The Party members closed their briefcases and got up to leave. There were no handshakes, no small talk.
“Just out of curiosity,” Dick asked them. “What was the price on the nukes?”
“Twelve thousand bags of gold each,” Frankel said. “Or the entire package is irresistible at two hundred ten thousand.”
Dick was amazed at the low price. “Jesus, are you saying you’d sell a nuke to any scum bum who can come up with a lousy twelve grand of gold?”
Frankel nodded.
“But that’s incredibly cheap,” Dick said. “It’s almost like you want us to go at it with the heavy stuff…”
“Not at all,” Frankel said. “It’s just business.
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Strictly business.”
The Party cartel left and Viceroy Dick sat down at his desk and went about the procedure to request funds for the weapons.
Yet, he couldn’t get the men or their offerings out of his mind. There was something very odd about them, especially Frankel.
Viceroy Dick thought he had detected a slight German accent in the man’s voice
…
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CHAPTER 47
There’s a fire that burns in a man’s soul when something absolutely irreplaceable has been suddenly lost. The aching never really goes away, it is simply transformed into other means of action or reaction. The yearning turns to anger. The wanting turns to rage. The power of love can turn to pure hate.
Rarely at what has been lost-the positive memories still remain; they can’t be changed or transmuted.
So grief can make the human creature lash out, like the wounded animal.
Channel the feeling to another internal plane. Regardless of the consequences; regardless of the toll. Reverse the energies and hope for the best. And try to be cognizant of the fact that if only a spark remains, it can ignite the largest of conflagrations.
Hunter had burned with the fire for two days straight. No sleep, nothing to eat or drink. Sitting alone in his quarters, a mobile home similar to that 257
of General Jones, that was being towed by a deuce and half belonging to the Texan Army, The Wingman smoldered.
For every loss, there is a gain … he told himself over and over.
Dominique was gone. Lost not to some twisted, power-mad ego-maniac like Viktor, but to the callings of her own heart. Freaks like ; Viktor, Hunter could handle. But he was powerless over what was in Dominique’s heart …
For every loss, there is a gain …
He never thought he could hurt this much, but he was numb. He had been selfish, even greedy with the assumption that she would always want him, |
always love him. But to expect devotion like that required a return of absolute devotion. And he hadn’t come close to evening out the bargain. He was guilty. Of negligence. Of neglect. Of taking the I most important person in his life for granted. It seemed like such a foolish thing to do, yet he had done it rather easily. Never assume anything, Seth Jones used to tell him.
Good advice in life and love-advice that Hunter had chosen to ignore …
For every loss, there is a gain …
What was she doing right now? he wondered with an ache in his heart. Was she in the arms of some new lover? Was she warm and safe and happy and in love with someone who had recognized her needs and rushed forward to fill the vacuum? Were they making love right now? Was she laughing? Was she moaning in delight, the music he had heard when they had been together?
He couldn’t bear to put his hand inside his breast pocket and feel for the flag-wrapped photograph of her. There was a limit even for an extraordinary person like himself. It would take him a long time just to touch the flag again. Whether he would ever
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look at the photo, was another story …
For every loss, there is a gain. If this was true, he thought angrily, then where is it? Where is my gain? He wanted it and he wanted it now.
The cosmos owed him one …
Their new forward base was located in the old city of Erie, Pennsylvania.
The site suited the United American Forces well. There was a workable airfield in the mostly-abandoned city, and with its access to Lake Erie-and therefore Lake Michigan-the bulk of their equipment and troops could be moved over water from New Chicago and Milwaukee, both of which were now in friendly Free Canadian hands.
Erie also put them within 220 miles of the Syracuse Aerodrome, an acceptable distance for most of the American Forces aircraft, even without their substantial mid-air refueling capabilities. And, by using the Niagara River, they could move large forces of men from Lake Erie up into Lake Ontario and float them over to Oswego, which was only 40 miles north of Syracuse. The roads leading from Erie to the Syracuse area were fairly passable, and most important, the civilians between Erie and the Aerodrome were, to a man, loyal to the United American cause.
The United American convoy-including the trailers used by Jones and Hunter-arrived at the former Erie International Airport just after midnight.
Looking out on the tarmac, Hunter could see that most of their fighter aircraft had already arrived, as well as the C-5 called Nozo.
No sooner had he arrived than Hunter was driving a jeep up and down the flight line. As commander of the UA air corps, it was his duty to make a status check on the airplanes at hand. But even Jones had told him it could wait until morning.
Trouble was, Hunter was in no mood to wait for anything …
The Football City Air Force was already deployed to Erie-14 rare, high-tech F-20 Tigersharks, among the hottest fighters on the continent. Hunter felt a personal affinity for the aircraft (which were actually souped up F-5Es) because he had engineered their confiscation from a band of air pirates just before the first Battle of Football City.
Next to the Football City contingent were two squadrons from his own unit-the Pacific American Air Corps. Of these 32 PAAC airplanes, 24 were dedicated to ground support. Specifically 14 A-7E Strikefighters and eight A-10
Thunderbolts, the squat, rugged airplane known to its enemies as “The Tankbuster,” because of the powerful Avenger cannon it carried in its snout.
Two A-4E Skyhawks-the same ones that had performed so well over Football City-rounded out the air attack arm.
The remaining ten PAAC aircraft were fighters-five F-5E Tigers, two aging F-106 Delta Darts, two F-101 Voodoos and a single F-104 Starfighter.
Next to the PAAC deployment area were the 12 F-4E Phantoms of the Texas Air Force. The Texans were incredible pilots, with a seeming disregard for life or limb. They flew the elderly Phantoms as if they were just pups, something helped along by a radical re-engining of the Vietnam-era warplanes.
Also attached to the Texans, not just for convenience but for camaraderie, were the two F-4X “Super Phantoms” flown by Captain “Crunch” O’Malley’s famed Ace Wrecking Company. These F-260
4s had a longer range, and could carry more bombs and ammo than the Texan F-4s.
Hunter went way back with O’Malley-he and Elvis (who was now running the military side of things back in Football City) were the pilots dispatched by Jones to track Hunter to the Middle East on his search for Viktor. The Aces and their support had arrived just in time during the Battle for the Suez Canal, and saved a lot of good guys from dying in the process.
Using the same facilities of the F-4s were Mike Fitzgerald’s Shamrock Squadron of F-105X Thunderchiefs. These 18 re-engineered fighter-bombers were originally based at the Syracuse Aerodrome when Fitz ran the place, but they had been orphans ever since The Circle conquered the eastern half of the country. Officially “neutral” in the war against the first Battle for Football City, the “Potato Heads” served with distinction during The Circle War.
Operating out of secret bases just over the line in Free Canada, the F-105s continually bombed and harassed the Circle northern forces, causing them to finally stall, and thereby not play a major role in the ultimate battle at the Platte River.
Hunter moved down the line, passed the four PAAC C-130 gunships and the berth where Nozo was being serviced. A squadron of PAAC Huey attack helicopters were just coming in, having leapfrogged over from Toledo. With them were the Cobra Brothers, the four-man, two-chopper attack team that had also served bravely in New Order America’s all-too-frequent wars. Also on hand was the big CH-53
Sea Stallion chopper known as The Mean Machine, which usually served as the lift for the United American Strike Teams.
At the end of the flight line was the real Bastard 261
Squadron, a mix and match dozen of airplanes that PAAC and the Texans had picked up along the way. One of these was the valuable A-37 Dragonfly. There were also two ancient F-94, 1950s-era fighters, a creaking F-100 Super Sabre, three T-38 Talons, which were actually trainers converted for attack duty, two F-8 Crusaders, originally a Navy interceptor, and the granddaddy of them all, an A-1E prop-driven Skyraider.
Hunter had been taking notes as he drove along and now, his inspection tour complete, he returned to his trailer to spend the time until sunrise filling out the status report.
Two hours went by. Hunter had just lit a stick of incense when he felt an almost imperceptible vibration run through him.
He looked up from his paperwork and focused on the sensation.
Far off. Getting closer …
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
Coming from the west. Up high now, but starting to descend …
He stood up and let it all come to him clearer.
There’s a lot of them …
Five out front, maybe eight or nine more close behind. In the center, a really big one …
“There’s something inside the big one,” he said out loud.
For every loss, there is a gain …
His breathing became rapid, his pulse began to race. Suddenly electricity was running through him from head to feet and back again. It had been so long, he thought he’d never experience it again.
It was the feeling …
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There was no way to describe it. It was one thing and it was a million things.
It was ESP and it was deja vu. It was pure intuition. It was synergy. It was the feeling that came to him when aircraft were approaching, although they were still too far away to be seen on any radar screen. It was the feeling that he got when he took off in an aircraft and not so much flew it as became part of it. It was the feeling that let him know that all things ethereal could be real. All things were not causal. Synchronicity was a fact.
/
It was the feeling that made him the best fighter pilot that had ever lived .
. .
For every loss, there is a gain …
He ran outside, jumped into the jeep and drove like hell to the end of the runway. The sunrise was still a half hour away and a slight fog was hanging low over the airfield. The synchronized landing lights gave the place the eerie look of a gigantic video game. There was no wind, no noise …
He waited …
Twenty minutes went by before he saw the first lights. Two reds and a white, blinking out of sync. He heard them next-first a whine coming from way off, but now getting louder by the second. Then he saw more lights and the whine turned into a dull roar. The lights were circling, high up, slowly descending
…
Here they come, he thought.
The first of the 12 B-52 Stratofortresses came in low and smooth, its tail-chute deployed, its engines spewing clouds of brown smoke. Right down over him, down the center of the beckoning landing lights, its eight jet engines screaming now in unabashed power. It was a sight that never failed to move him. Wings, fuselage, bombs and jet engines-the Tort was one tough motherfucker …
