Mack Maloney - Wingman 04, page 26
“There must be fifty thousand bats in that pile.”
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Next to the bats were several piles of baseball mitts, some old, some new.
They were stacked at least twenty-five feet high and gave the impression of gigantic, leather-sided igloos.
Beyond the gloves were piles of tennis rackets and golf clubs. Piles of hockey sticks and skates, football uniforms and helmets, partially-deflated basketballs, sneakers, tenspeeds, snow skis, water skis, even a pile of bocci balls.
“Jesus, these guys are as efficient as the Nazis,” Yaz said. “All they need is baby hair and gold teeth …”
Shane nodded. “I think they take more than a few cues from Mein Kampf…” he said.
For the next two hours, Yaz and Shane and the other 25 members of the undercover team took mental notes of what they saw going on around them.
It would make for an astonishing report back to Syracuse.
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CHAPTER 65
The F-16XL banked over the old city of Schenectady and descended through the early morning clouds.
Inside, Hunter spotted the three-runway airfield below him and flipped his radio to-the transmit mode. “Schenectady base, this is an aircraft of the United American Air Corps. I am requesting landing clearance …”
There was no answer.
“Schenectady, request landing clearance, over …”
Still nothing.
“Schenectady this is Major Hawk Hunter, formerly of the 16th Tactical Fighter Squadron, US Air Force, requesting landing clearance.”
Suddenly his radio crackled. “Unidentified fighter, you can get in a lot of trouble using that handle,” a voice on the other end said. “Everyone knows Hawk Hunter is dead.”
Hunter refused to quote Mark Twain one more time. “I can assure you, Schenectady, that I am very much alive,” he said. “If you grant me landing clear-359
ance, you can see for yourself.”
While he was transmitting that message, Hunter lowered the F-16XL down to 1000
feet, and after first ascertaining that there were no hostile SAMs locked on to him, he did a slow, noisy turn over the base.
The long silence at the other end was suddenly broken.
“What the hell kind of airplane is that?” the voice asked, its owner getting a look at the ‘XL for the first time.
“It’s a long story,” Hunter replied. “But I’d be glad to tell you if you clear me to land.”
There was another silence, and finally the voice came back on: “You’re cleared for runway one-three. And you’d better have a good reason for dropping in on us.”
Hunter nodded. “I hope I do …” he said to himself.
Ten minutes later he was down and taxiing up to the base’s main hangar. His airplane was immediately surrounded by no less than 100 troops, all of them heavily armed. He pulled the jet to a stop, slowly popped the canopy and stood up.
“Peace …” he said, holding his hand up, as if in an American Indian greeting. “Just here to talk …”
The place was an Air National Guard base before the Big War, home to a squadron of specially-adapted C-130 Hercules cargo planes. Since then, the base personnel had gone into business at the New York Hercules Heavy Air Lift Corporation. They were moving vans of the sky, renting out the big C-130s for heavy lift jobs.
They were in the right location to do so. Right nearby there was a factory that built electric turbines and generators. Now it functioned as a new and used
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parts exchange for those territories around the country that needed their turbines tuned-up every once in a while. The factory, which employed many of the people in the surrounding area, was the best customer for the “New York Hercs.”
But Hunter was here to ask the Hercs a favor and it didn’t involve lifting turbines.
A man dressed in a dark blue uniform appeared and told the soldiers to stand at ease. Hunter climbed down out of the F-16 and introduced himself. The officer did likewise-he was Colonel Stagg, the top man at the base. Luckily he recognized Hunter right away.
“So Hawk Hunter is alive …” Stagg said, shaking hands with him.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell people,” Hunter said, with no small amount of exasperation. “I guess no one wants to believe me.”
Stagg took one look at his F-16XL and nodded. “Well, only one person could fly a jet like this,” he said. “God, it’s a beauty …”
Hunter had to agree. “It flies as good as it looks,” he said.
They walked to Stagg’s office and Hunter accepted his offer of a drink.
“Heard you guys made quite a racket out Syracuse way,” Stagg said, pouring out two whiskeys. “Congratulations …”
Hunter hit his glass in a toast and took a swig of the no-name liquor.
“Thanks,” he said. “But the party is far from over. In fact, I’m here to ask for help. We can pay you. But I’ll level with you, it’s a dangerous job.”
Stagg sipped his drink and lit a cigar. “We’re open to any offer,” he said.
“And it isn’t every day that the famous Wingman drops in on us. Back from the dead, no less. So, let’s talk. What’s your problem?”
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Hunter gave him a quick update on the recent campaigns of the United American Army, the victories at Football City, New Chicago and Syracuse. He also told him about the approaching mercenary fleet and the huge demonstration being planned by The Circle down in Washington.
“We’ve heard rumors of that,” Stagg said. “But we’re just a small outfit up here. Too small to mix it up with anyone, never mind The Circle. They’ve been around here a few times. Not lately though. When they are, they leave us pretty much alone. Just as long as we pay our taxes, that is. We thought the IRS was bad!”
Hunter nodded. “Well, if things work out, you won’t have to bother with any of them any more,” he said. “We dusted most of their guys over in Syracuse. Hurt them bad. So bad they won’t have any presence up here for a long time. If ever.”
Stagg was genuinely happy. “I’m damn glad to hear that,” he said, pouring out another drink for both of them.
“But we still have this problem of the mercenaries,” Hunter said seriously.
“If they land and get a foothold on the east coast, the New Order will pay them overtime just to stay here and bail out the Circle jerks.”
“What can we do?” Stagg asked.
It was the question Hunter was waiting for.
“I understand that before the Big War started, you used to fly cargo runs up to the Early Warning stations in the arctic? Is that right?”
Stagg nodded. “Sure is,” he replied. “That’s why we got skis on our Hercs. We were the only unit that was adapted for snow landings. They still come in handy these days too. Makes deliveries a cinch in the winter…”
“OK, I’m glad to hear that,” Hunter said. “Now, for 362
the big question: could you land one of those babies on sand?”
“Sand?” Stagg asked, surprised by the question. “Boy, let me think about that for a moment …”
He did, then said: “It really depends, Major. How rough is the sand? Is it wet? Is it level?”
“It’s not wet,” Hunter answered. “And it’s level. But it isn’t fine stuff. In fact, it’s fairly rocky.”
Stagg thought it over a little more. “Well, it would probably tear up the birds’ undercarryiage,” he said. “But it could be done, I suppose …”
“OK,” Hunter said. “Then tell me what you think of this plan …”
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CHAPTER 66
Captain “Crunch” O’Malley’s RF-4 Phantom recon jet landed at the battered Aerodrome just after the F-16XL and the three modified C-130s of the New York Hercs.
“Good timing,” Hunter yelled over to O’Malley as he climbed out of their venerable Phantom. “You’ve got some ‘game highlights,’ I assume?”
“Low-lights is more like it,” O’Malley said. “There isn’t a street or a park or a building within ten miles of DC that isn’t covered with people. You know that when your infra red monitor starts flashing in the high end just picking up combined body heat that you got one hell of a crowd.
“It’s like Woodstock, for all the wrong reasons …”
Ten minutes later they were sitting in a makeshift video viewing room, reviewing the tapes just made by O’Malley’s spy cameras. Along with the crew of the RF-4 and Hunter, Stagg and two of his officers from the New York Hercs were in attendance.
“We were way up there as you’ll see,” O’Malley said, switching on the battery operated VCR. “We topped out sixty-nine thousand at one point…”
The video started playing with a long-range overall shot of Washington.
O’Malley had been correct when he told them the place was one massive people-and traffic-jam.
“God, there must be more than a half million people 364
down there,” Stagg said.
“At least,” O’Malley agreed. “Now right here, near the Washington Monument, you can see the towers that Yaz and Shane reported. This big one has to be the books. These smaller, thicker ones the sports equipment and so on …”
Hunter shook his head in disgust. “Some shithead sitting in the Kremlin must be real proud of this,” he said bitterly. “I’m sure it’s documented somewhere in their greasy little psych-op books: How to destroy a culture …’”
“With an audience of a half million …” Stagg added.
The video continued with a series of zooms in and out of the center of the city. Then, it moved slowly toward the southwest.
“OK, here we are coming up on National Airport,” O’Malley continued. “You can see the line of MiGs right there. I count eighteen of them in the first row.
Floggers, a few moldy MiG-twenty ones, too.
“Now get a load of this, beside that big hangar there. What kind of planes are those Hawk?”
Hunter strained his eyes to look at the bare outlines of the airplanes O’Malley was referring to. They were too big to be fighters.
“Christ, are they Backfires?” he asked with no small amount of astonishment.
“That’s what we think,” O’Malley said. “What other airplane fits that profile?”
The Tupolev Tu-26 Backfire was similar in some ways to the B-l. It was an intercontinental bomber, with swing-wings and powerful engines and capable of dropping conventional bombs and launching cruise missiles. Considered one of the best machines the Russians ever managed to get off the ground, Hunter was surprised that the Soviets allowed such valuable air-365
craft to deploy to America.
“I count six of them,” he said. “That’s a good indication of the importance the Soviets are putting on this wing-ding.”
“There’s more,” O’Malley said. He pointed to a large hangar at the end of the former commercial airport. Though no whole aircraft could be seen, two tail sections were plainly visible sticking out of the rear of the building.
“How good are you at IDing airplanes by their tail sections?” O’Malley asked Hunter. “Because I got a bag of silver that says those are the ass-ends of two Bears …”
Once again, Hunter squinted to make out the shapes on the videotape. He immediately recognized the unmistakable sharp edges of the rear stabilizers, the thickness of the tail fins, the protruding twin cannons in the rear turret.
“You win,” he said. “Those are definitely Big Bears …”
The Bear was the nickname for the TUpolev Tu-95 heavy bomber-the B-52 of the Soviet Air Force.
“They’ve really trotted out the hardware,” O’Malley said. “But what the hell are heavy bombers doing here, in the country now? They didn’t even bring in this stuff during The Circle War …”
“Beats me,” Hunter said, worried now about this new threat. “They could be using them simply to ferry in Soviet bigshots for the party. Or maybe they’re planning to carpet bomb a couple of cities, as an encore to burning everything.”
The videotape continued, moving past the runways of National Airport, across the Potomac and eventually centering on yet another airport.
“OK, this is what we want,” O’Malley said. “Boiling Air Force Base …”
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Compared to National, this air base was practically deserted. Only three airplanes were in evidence, each one an Antonov An-12 “Cub-B,” a Soviet-built cargo carrier which was frequently used as a Signals-Intelligence or Signet airplane. A few Circle Army trucks were meandering about, and there were a few SAM readings, but that was it.
Just to the south of the air base there was a strip of barren terrain. Stagg was the first to notice the long sandy stretch just off the end of the runways, leading down to the Potomac River.
“I’ve got a feeling this is where we come in,” he said.
Hunter nodded. “That’s it,” he said, “All of nineteen hundred and thirty four feet of sand. Slightly moist, but firm enough to handle your bird.”
Stagg looked plainly skeptical, O’Malley froze the frame so they could better study the area.
“It’s not the length that bothers me,” Stagg said. “It’s the width. We’ll be dropping from such a high altitude, so quickly, then negotiating the. river edge. And at night-Jesus, it’s frankly going to be a very tight jink to set down on that straight and narrow. Especially with no option for a go-around .
. .”
Hunter could sympathize with the man. They were asking him to commit his men and his airplane-his very livelihood-to helping them. But everyone in the room knew it was probably the only way …
“I have no doubt that you can do it,” Hunter said. “The question is: Will you do it?”
Stagg looked at them, then back at the screen. “What the hell,” he said finally. “Why not? If The Circle survivors and those mercenaries land, we’ll probably be out of business anyway.”
Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. Now at least one piece of his crucial plan was in place …
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CHAPTER 67
Yaz’s elbows and knees were cut raw and bleeding by the time he returned to his spot in Lafayette Park.
He, like many of the other Rangers, had spent the first few hours of darkness crawling around the area, trying to gather as much intelligence as possible.
He had perfected a method of moving about undetected. He had simply wrapped a blanket around himself and moved, knees and elbows, several feet at a time through the crowd of otherwise sleeping civilians. To the Circle guards standing watch, he was just another sleeper, trying to get comfortable. As soon as they turned away, he would quickly move another few feet. The ruse was aided greatly by the fact that there were so many civilians lying about and so few Circle guards on night duty. The civilians brought to DC were almost entirely too tired, hungry and dejected to pose any kind of crowd control problems for their handlers.
Shane had stayed behind, expertly sending off brief messages back to Syracuse every half hour, despite the presence of a trio of Circle guards nearby. He broadcast his most important message earlier that evening: they had learned that the iconoclastic demonstration
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would take place the next day, starting sometime in the afternoon. This had made the Rangers’ “crawling” intelligence patrols even more crucial.
Now, as Yaz made his way up to him, Shane had just received a new piece of information transmitted from Syracuse.
“Our troops are coming in tonight,” he said to Yaz.
“What?” Yaz coukhrt believe it.
“It’s true,” Shane whispered. “They’re going to try and head this thing off with a smaller force, while a bigger one fights its way down from Syracuse. I couldn’t get any details. Hunter just told us to keep our eyes open and be ready for anything.”
“Well, I’ve got some important news for them,” Yaz said. “Can we get off one more message to them tonight before they jump off?”
“We can try,” Shane said. “But only if the info is essential.”
Yaz nodded. “It is,” he said. “I found the gold APC …”
Shane hesitated for a moment, then asked: “Are you sure?”
“Damn sure, sir,” Yaz said. “I just saw it ten minutes ago. It’s parked right beside the Treasury Building. And it’s covered with Spetsnaz”
“Well, Hawk will definitely want to know about this,” Shane said, fingering the small radio and playing out the flexible antenna. “Any idea what it’s doing here or what they are planning to do with it?”
“I’m not sure,” Yaz said, grimly. “But tell him there’s a gasoline truck parked right next to it.”
It was three A.M. when the first of the New York Hercs appeared just outside of the Circle’s Washington radar net.
Stagg himself was at the controls of this ship-des-369
ignated Yankee One. Strapped down in the back were Hunter, Dozer and a squad of his famous 7th Cavalry Marines, plus 40 members of a PAAC Rapid Deployment Unit. Each man was wearing a black uniform and had a blackened face. They were armed with concussion grenades, flash grenades and a variety of side arms, the largest being a RPG launcher.
A red light began flashing in the otherwise darkened cargo hold of the C-130.
“Ten minutes to go…” Hunter said to Dozer, who in turn called it out loud enough for everyone on board to hear.
“Let’s start our final mental preparation, people,” the Marine Corps officer added.
One hundred miles behind them were two more New York Hercs. One of them was carrying twenty more members of the PAAC RDU, plus some heavier weapons such as recoilless rifles and a few heavy mortars. Inside the other were more of Dozer’s men, two squads of Football City Rangers and 15 of the baseball players rescued during the Cooperstown Raid.
Everyone was wearing the same black military coveralls except the ball players. They were being brought along not to fight but for another very important purpose-one that might prove even more crucial than anything else the United Americans would do that day.
