Wingman w 1, p.30
Wingman w-1, page 30
part #1 of Wingman Series
100 feet… 50… 25…
"Now!" he yelled to his bombardier, who flipped a switch letting the hundreds of incendiary bombs tumble out. Simultaneously he yanked the controls back and put the big plane into a climb. He knew the Mitchells and the other B-24 would do the same maneuver. He pitched the plane to the left and looked back. The fire bombs had covered the oil tank and were burning like lights on a Christmas tree.
But nothing was happening…
It was like everything stood still. He knew he had to get lucky on this one. One of those bombs had to touch something off, or the party wasn’t worth coming to.
"C'mon Jones," he implored to the spirits in himself. "Light the match."
Suddenly, one of the fires hit the right spot, probably a feeder line, and the tank exploded with a tremendous blast. The shock wave buffeted the B-24, so much so, he and Ernie the co-pilot had to work together to keep the plane level.
"Jesus!" Dozer yelled, nearly thrown from his seat by the blast. "What did you hit?"
"Probably a tank used to store jet fuel," Hunter said looking back at the conflagration he had caused. The Mitchells and the other B-24 had roared in and ignited smaller tanks nearby. Within 15 seconds of his drop, about a tenth of the huge oil facility was exploding and already burning.
He radioed back to the other bombers. "This is Group Leader," he called.
"B-47 flight. Go to Plan B. Drop early. Repeat. Drop early. We took the oil tanks.
You take out the railroad yards."
"Roger, leader," came the replies.
He called back to the B-29's flying five minutes behind him and bringing up the rear. "B-29 flight leader, what's your ETA over the city?"
"One minute, Group Leader," the answer came back. "We hear you've caused an instant oil shortage in New Chicago."
"That's correct," Hunter confirmed. "Play Mrs. O'Leary's cow, will you? Drop your incendiaries over the city. Chicago's been long enough without a big fire."
"You got it, Group," the B-29 leader called back.
"You pulled the inside straight, Hawk," Dozer said, looking out the B-24's porthole at the flames below.
"It pays to be flexible, Captain," Hunter said with the smile of relief. "That tank farm is going to burn for days as it is. Wait until the C-130s drop their TNT into it.
"How about the Hustler?" Ernie asked.
"Those blockbusters would do the most damage at the airport, I say," Hunter said, calling the Odd Duck flight. "C-130s, this is Group Leader. You proceed on Plan A. Drop on the oil yards."
"Roger, Group Leader," the call came back.
"Roger, 130s," Hunter replied. "Hustler, you double back and unload on O'Hare.
Wake 'em up. Repeat. Drop those big sons-of-bitches right down their throats."
"That's a roger, Group Leader," the B-58's pilot replied. "Then can I request permission to climb and kick this thing into afterburner?"
"That's affirmative, Hustler," Hunter radioed back. "You'll beat us all back.
Put the beer on ice, will you?"
"That's also a roger, Group," came the reply.
By this time, Hunter had swung the B-24 in a high 180 and was surveying the damage to the oil field. Fully one half of the tank farm was now a sheet of flame. And, the B-47s had done a number on the railroad yards. The huge napalm bombs had splashed down upon the railroad cars and tracks. Thousands of Family troops below were instantly burnt to a crisp. Many secondary explosions were going off. The railroad yards were engulfed in the trademark greenish flame that napalm was known for. As the last of the Stratojets passed over, the intensity of the flames coming from the marshalling yard rivaled the ones blazing next door at the oil farm.
"That's what you fuckers get for attacking a stadium full of innocent people,"
Hunter cursed.
Now, the C-130s were just arriving over the city. The AA fire was still intense, but the C-130s were best suited of all to fight back. Many of the planes were carrying Gatlings or cannons, even a few small howitzers. As they were passing low over the downtown, the gunners-mostly Dozer's 7th Cavalrymen-shot at anything and everything that moved. At times, the planes were actually lower than the tops of the skyscrapers and their gunners blasted away at any building that looked like a target.
Less than two minutes later, four of the C-130s were through the smoke of the rail yard and depositing their TNT canisters into the raging inferno of the oil yard.
Their flight leader had steered them toward the north end of the facility, the only part of the tank farm that hadn't been ignited by Hunter's flight's bombing run. Taking the initiative, the C-130 flight leader had three of his ships hold their TNT bombs and fly on over a docking facility nearby. A large tanker was tied at the pier, as were hundreds of smaller boats. The C-130s came in, their rear doors wide open. With one kick, the TNT barrels started rolling out and landing with tremendous blasts on the docks. One hit the tanker amidships, which set off an even bigger blast, immediately sending the ship to the bottom of Lake Michigan.
Hunter had the B-24 right over the C-130s and really appreciated the flight leader's improvisation.
"I'll have to remember to buy that flyboy a drink when we get back," Hunter told his crew.
There were several other big ships at anchor in the harbor. Hunter could tell they were troopships, and thereby worthy targets. Suddenly, the two F-4s of the Ace Wrecking Company flashed into view.
"Group Leader, Captain Crunch here," Hunter's radio crackled. "Do you see what I see?"
"Sure do, Phantom," Hunter replied. "Make Fitzie proud of you."
"Roger," came the reply.
Hunter watched as the two Phantoms dove at the troopships. Small arms fire erupted from the soldiers on board desperately trying to stop the attacking F-4s. Crunch fired his missile first, a Sidewinder he correctly assumed would home in on something-anything-on the ship emitting an infrared signal. The missile impacted below the waterline, exploding in the bowels of the ship and igniting its boilers. With a great geyser of water, the ship was raised off the water, cracked in two, then came back down again and sank.
"Good shooting, Captain," Hunter radioed to the lead F-4.
The second Phantom of the Ace Wrecking Crew took on the other warship. Someone on board had ordered the ship's assault guns to fire at the jet, foolishly as it turned out, because the shells were missing the fighter by an eighth of a mile and crashing into the dock facility on shore. Phantom Number two made quick work of the ship, first blasting it with its cannons, then dropping two 500-pounders right down its stack. The impact of the bombs immediately capsized the ship, and causing it to turn hull up. A large cloud of steam rose as the explosions ignited under water.
"You guys make a great team," Hunter said, praising the Ace men.
"Our pleasure, Major," the pilot of Phantom Number two replied. Hunter circled around again and drew even. Down below, the B-29s were running the gauntlet of AA fire and approaching New Chicago. Per his orders, they spread out and proceeded to dump incendiary devices all over the city. Hunter could see fires starting up on block after block. More secondary explosions were going off. One B-29 took a SAM in the tail, partially severing it. As Hunter watched, the fatally-stricken plane continued its bombing run then plunged into the burning streets below.
Finally, the last of the B-29s had dropped its load and had turned for home. The, F-20s, hardly scratched, had dropped down by this time, having shot down 28 MIGs and scared the rest away. They, along with the F-4s, would provide a more than adequate escort home.
Hunter couldn't resist taking a final pass over the city. He counted fourteen separate major fires rising above it. The oil farm continued to explode as did the stricken tanker. The railroad yards were now nothing more than flaming debris. He could also see four large columns of smoke rising from the direction of the airport, indicating the Hustler had done its work well. Back over the city, the fire itself were so intense, the heated air above it buffeted the B-24 as it made its flyover.
He brought the big bomber up to 50,000 feet, so high, the crew had to bundle up and go on oxygen masks. The engines sprouting pure white contrails, he swung the bomber back and forth high above the burning city, carving an enormous white "W" out of the clear blue sky.
Then, he switched to the Family’s radio frequency and said: "Mrs. O'Malley's cow just kicked over another lantern, boys, courtesy of the Free Forces of Football City."
Then, he turned the B-24 south and headed for home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hunter nursed the lumbering B-24 back to a safe landing at the Football City Airport. Its engines straining and smoking, the plane's wings creaked and groaned the entire return trip. It had taken more than a few hits from ground fire, yet kept on flying, plugging along. The old bomber had served them well. But he doubted if the bird would ever fly again. As the crew slid through the exit hatches, Hunter remained behind to take one long last look at the plane. All those years frozen in ice, just to be melted out for one last mission. The B-24's official name was "Liberator." He ran his hand over the control cabin's wall, "Perfect handle," he thought.
The airport was bustling with activity. On the way back, he had taken advantage of a low cloud cover to fly the B-24 over the Family’s troop concentrations waiting now just across the Mississippi River. He wished he could bomb up again and strike at the New Chicago army, but there was a more pressing matter.
St. Louie was waiting for him and Dozer on the tarmac.
"Congratulations, Major, once again," the man said, shaking his hand.
"Thanks," Hunter said. "But there were a hundred guys up there with me." Then, changing the subject, he asked St. Louie what the situation was with the Family army.
"My agents tell me there are eighty thousand Family troops right across the river,"
St. Louie answered soberly. "They've got tanks and hundreds of artillery pieces. It's only a matter of time before they attack."
"Tonight," Dozer said. "They'll start throwing everything at us tonight."
Hunter looked at both of them. St. Louie's inner grief was so apparent, the man appeared to be aging right in front of him. Dozer looked like a man who hadn't slept in a year. At that moment, he realized these men were more than his comrades-in-arms.
They were also his friends.
"Well, if they are going to attack us tonight," he said. "That means we only have a few hours to figure out how we're going to beat them, too."
They returned to the battle command center and took account of their forces. They still had enough men-almost 40,000-to fill three divisions. Thirty of the city's howitzers were operational and were in place along the river bank, and there was an odd assortment of mobile guns, rocket launchers and tanks.
All of the F-20s were still in flying condition, likewise the F-4s and the choppers. Hunter had previously ordered all of the B-29s, the B-25s, and the C-130s to be refueled, re-armed and made ready to stand by. Even the shitbox B-58 Hustler was gassed up and ready to go. But the surviving B-47 Stratojets would be practically useless to them now-they could neither bomb low nor provide ground support. Hunter ordered them stripped of usable parts, and their tanks drained. But even with that, the supplies would soon begin to dwindle. There was only so much JP-8 fuel to go around; the Texans had sent all they could spare and more. Now the pipeline was shut off. Hunter estimated he had enough left over to refuel the bombers once, the F-20s and the F-4s twice and the '16 three times. Then they would be dry. And dry meant grounded.
St. Louie ordered all of the city's troops deployed to positions along the west bank of the Mississippi River. Across the muddy waters, the Football City forces could clearly see the Family troops bringing up artillery and digging in. Football City's ammunition supply was also low; if it hadn't been, St. Louie would have fired on anything that moved on the east bank of the river. But now, every commander in the Free Forces was under orders to "make every shot count."
On a suggestion from Hunter, Dozer sent his best explosives men to mine the seven bridges that spanned the Mississippi and led into Football City. He knew that eventually, every one of the bridges would be blown-by waiting, there was a good chance that they would catch some enemy troops or equipment on the bridges when they went down.
The Mississippi hugged the Football City border for 15 miles. By nightfall, St.
Louie's intelligence corps reported as many as 2500 of the Family’s large guns and tanks along that stretch. There were reports of gunboats and smaller ferries coming down the river from the interior of the Family’s territory. Worse still, Football City airport radar had picked up many airborne blips on its screens shortly before nightfall.
Hunter wasn't surprised when the enemy aircraft report reached them in command center. He, St. Louie and Dozer were studying an enormous map of the city and its defenses at the time.
"One of two things has happened," he told them, reading the report. "Either they've hired on air pirates, or they've been supplied very quickly with more MIGs. Maybe both."
"Where the hell could they get MIGs so goddamn fast?" St. Louie asked, the exasperation coming through, loud and clear.
"If I had to guess," Hunter said. "I'd say the same people who own those East European ships we saw in the New Chicago harbor had something to do with it."
"The Russians?" St. Louie asked, his voice still containing a trace of disbelief.
"I'm convinced, without a doubt," Hunter said, adding, "Finally."
"Where does that leave us, Hawk?" Dozer asked, wearily rubbing his eyes.
"Well, if they commit the MIGs to ground support or to bomb us, we can engage them with the F-20s," Hunter said. "But dogfights suck up fuel. We use the fuel to fight them and we lose the F-20s in the ground support role."
"And if we commit the F-20s to ground support too soon," Dozer continued the theory. "The MIGs can jump us once we've gone dry."
"That's the situation," Hunter agreed.
"What about the B-29s?" St. Louie asked.
"They've got full tanks, enough gas for two missions," Hunter answered. "I've ordered each of them to have as many guns as they can carry standing by. Machine guns, recoilless rifles, even RPGs if they can handle them. They'll stick them all out of one side, punch holes in the fuselage if they have to."
"To use as gunships?" Dozer asked.
"Right. First, we'll have them unload what we have left in bombs on the east side of the river, then come back, pick up their extra guns and turn them into Spookys. We'll assign at least one to each bridge. The rest will be vectored to where they are needed.
Same with the C-130s and the B-25s. I don't know if they'll get the B-24s airborne, though."
"How about SAMs?" St. Louie asked.
"I'm sure we'll see a lot of them. Stingers, Blowpipes, the works," Hunter said grimly.
"Whew!" Dozer exclaimed. "It's gonna get crowded up there."
"We'll keep the choppers on this side of the river," Hunter continued. "They can help on ground support and recon, plus watch for the amphibious crossings."
St. Louie peered at the map of his dream city. "We just can't let any of those bastards get across the river," he said. "If we do, we're sunk."
"We'll blow the bridges," Dozer said, pointing at the huge map. "But I'm not so sure that will stop them. If they don't get across here, they could cross at any number of points north or south of the city. We know they've got boats they've floated down from Peoria. And, they've got pontoon bridges. If they do cross either north or south, we'll have to commit troops there, and leave our center and other flank open."
Hunter stared at the map and the markers indicating the Family’s troop and gun concentrations. It was a matter of numbers. The Family’s forces outnumbered Football City 2-to-l. They were better equipped. He couldn't imagine what their strength would be-materially and mentally-if his thrown-together air force hadn't bombed New Chicago.
Nevertheless, what remained still added up against the Free Forces. It had all the makings of a last stand. Yet he was never one to give up hope.
"We'll have to take risks," he said finally. "Do the unpredictable. They won’t be expecting us to launch all the bombers at once against them. It'll knock them for a loop, at least for a while. But then, we'll have to keep them off balance and…"
Dozer and St. Louie looked at him, both saying "And?"
"And," Hunter said. "Hope for a miracle."
The first shells from the Family’s artillery started landing on the west side of the river at precisely midnight. The Free Forces' troops dug in along the river bank hunkered down as the artillery barrage intensified. Soon, Family guns all along the 15 mile stretch of river were firing into the city. The night sky was lit brighter than daytime. Streaks of red crisscrossed above the soldiers. It was at once fascinating and frightening.
Soon the shells were coming in so fast and loud, the Free Forces' Troopers found their ears had started to bleed. They bravely held their fire. Most of the Family’s shells were going over the Troopers' heads anyway; the target of this opening barrage was Football City itself. Many of the beautiful buildings and casinos were reduced to rubble. Fires erupted everywhere. The massive Grand Stadium, a marshalling yard for the Free Forces, was taking an inordinate amount of pounding. Fortunately, the airport, located a few miles northwest of the stadium, was just out of range of the Family’s gunners.
The nightmare continued for three hours. Slowly, the proud city, once a symbol of freedom, commerce and rebuilding, began to crumble. Small fires joined to create larger ones. Roads were damaged beyond repair, making the movement of emergency vehicles next to impossible. All the while, the Free Forces didn't fire a shot. In this, possibly last, battle, each bullet was worth its weight in gold.
Then the barrage stopped. The air, heavy with the smell of cordite, was suddenly silent, the only sounds being the crackling of the fires back in the city. An eeriness settled over the Free Forces lines. Many of the soldiers, without sleep, could see ghosts of shapes moving on the far side of the river 300 yards away. But they resisted all temptations to shoot at the spirits.
