The Wingman Adventures Volume One by Mack Maloney

Author:Mack Maloney
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504047395
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2017-06-22T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

JONES WAS WAITING ON the tarmac when the Yak landed.

Two runways over, a pair of A-7 “Strikefighters” roared away on take-off. Almost immediately, two more taxied out onto the strip and awaited permission to go. In back of them waited two F-106’s. Then another pair of A-7’s.

The VTOL craft settled down and Hunter jumped out. Jones saw the box and shook Hunter’s hand. “All right, Hawk,” he said breaking out in an appreciative grin. “How to come through, buddy.”

“Two down, three to go,” Hunter said, taking off his helmet for the first time in what seemed like days. He ran his hand through his long, sandy hair and looked around the base. The place was jumping with activity.

“You’ve found a forward base?” Hunter asked the general, correctly interpreting the reason behind all the hustle.

“Yes, old Denver airport,” Jones replied, leading the pilot toward the base’s all-purpose mess hall/saloon. “The city is deserted, of course. But the airport’s big and it’s got good mountain cover all around. We’ve found places to stick our mobile radar units and our own SAMs. The runways are still in good shape as are the maintenance shops.”

“What’s the word from Fitz and St. Louie?” Hunter asked. He was anxious to find out about his two friends.

“All reports are go,” Jones told him. “Everyone got out clean in both Syracuse and Football City. The F-20s are down in Dallas and Fitzie’s ’105s are sitting up in Winnipeg, waiting for us to tell them where to go.”

“Anything else from the Texans?” Hunter asked as they reached the mess hall.

“They were raided again during the night, I’m afraid,” Jones said, claiming the first table they could find. “They hit a place called Pampa, up near Amarillo. Really tore it up.”

“Same pattern?” Hunter asked.

“Yep,” Jones said. “Cavalry. Yaks. Hit and run. The town is fairly large, so they would seem to be getting bolder. More willing to take on big targets.”

“This is not good news,” Hunter said, reaching for the coffee pot a waitress had produced.

“It gets worse,” Jones said grimly. “The Texans did a photo recon overflight of New Orleans harbor this morning. The place is lousy with Russian subs.”

“Holy Christ,” Hunter said softly.

“And they weren’t little tin cans either,” Jones continued. “Those were big boys. Nuclear jobs. They took a shot of them hauling long metal cylinders out of the missile tubes. They’re probably bringing either more mean high-explosive, or SAM fuel.”

“Probably,” Hunter agreed. “They figure the tubes would protect them if something went unstable.”

“There is some good news,” Jones said. “Word’s getting around pretty quick. Not just about The Circle, but about the Russians, too. We have guys-volunteers—pouring into San Diego. Small militias and stuff, looking to sign up. And, the Texans tell us that people are crossing over from Louisiana and Arkansas who want no part of the Reds, or The Circle or Viktor. Canadians say the same thing. To make it easier, we’ve agreed to be known as the Western Forces.”

“Well, every last guy will help,” Hunter replied.

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