Ghost War (11 page)

“Put air defense radars on high!” Hunter was yelling into the radio. “Lock down for evasive action …”

“What have you got, Hawk?” he heard Crunch’s voice ask through the increasing radio static.

“I don’t know,” Hunter replied honestly. His highly developed sixth sense was literally shaking him up and down. He’d come to know that feeling as meaning very bad news.

The nine C-5s were formed up in their mutual defense formation within a half minute of Hunter’s original warning.

The MiGs attacked about twenty seconds later.

Hunter saw them before the radar did—they came out of the northwest, flying so fast and so high, the C-5s’ air defense systems had barely picked up the blips.

There were four of them. They were MiG-25 Foxbats, super-duper-sonic interceptors built in the old Soviet Union years before, and now fairly prolific on the world’s high-priced weapons black market. Hunter was surprised the MiGs were flying this far out to sea. They wore no markings; no ID numbers. This told him they were probably free-lancers hired to patrol the coast of Vietnam.

Aerial attack was always a concern for the large airfleet. Hunter
did
notice as the Foxbats roared by that they were armed with cannon only, and this was some small measure of relief. If they had been carrying air-to-air missiles, the C-5s would have made very fat, very tempting long-range targets.

The MiGs passed over the C-5 formation and went into a flare attack formation. They turned back and their leader and his wingman opened up. Football City troop transport Number Two got it first, the two MiGs tearing cannon barrages across the C-5’s wing and tailplane. The third and fourth MiGs mimicked the leaders’ attack profile, strafing
Number Two
with a spray of deadly shells. Then the four interceptors streaked high above them, formed up again, and began another dive.

Hunter quickly identified the MiGs strategy. “They’re chicken bastards,” he yelled over to Ben. “They wouldn’t know a fair fight if they fell into it.”

In an instant he was back on the radio, screaming for the C-5 formation to get as tight as possible: the less room the MiGs had for maneuver, the less accurate their shots would be. But he also had another reason in mind. With the nine C-5s flying just about wing to wing, Hunter suddenly decreased
Bozo
’s power and began dropping behind the others.

The MiGs went by again, lacing the
JAWS
plane with a quartet of cannon barrages. Instantly the big, sharkmouth-adorned plane began smoking. The Foxbats started their turn back when the flight leader spotted
Bozo
falling behind the rest of the formation. He immediately identified it as the weak sister, the easy prey. That was obviously the MiGs MO—pick on the weakling. Predictably, they turned back south and then east again, passing up the rest of the formation to come at
Bozo
from its exposed left side.

And that, of course, was exactly what Hunter wanted.

“All weapons bays … activate!” he yelled back to the gun crew.

Instantly the airplane gave a little shudder as the twenty-one gun port slats snapped open at once.

“All weapons to On …” Hunter yelled.

At that moment the lights inside the cockpit dimmed slightly as the gaggle of weapons in the back went on primary power.

The first MiG came in tight, laying a string of cannon shells across
Bozo
’s tail. The airplane bucked once, but regained itself quickly. The second MiG also came in tight, lining a fiery barrage along
Bozo
’s left wing, perilously close to the inner engine. Once again the airplane shuddered; once again Hunter quickly brought it under control.

The next two MiGs came into together, very flat, their sights lined up on the fat part of
Bozo
’s left side fuselage.

And that was the whole idea.

Hunter counted to three, then yelled: “All engagement weapons …
fire!
”

Instantly the left side of the huge Galaxy erupted in a sheet of flame as all of the Gatlings, all of the AA-guns, all of the field artillery pieces fired at once.

The MiG pilots never knew what hit them. Both of the speedy interceptors flew right into the fusillade and were simply vaporized. There was nothing left of them but a cloud of microsized pieces of wreckage, hurtling through the air at 350 knots.

Seeing their companions’ destruction, the two remaining MiGs immediately went into a steep climb, circled once and then quickly roared off to the northwest from whence they came.

There was a round of cheers from the other C-5s as the MiGs exited the area; the threat for the moment seemed to be over.

But Hunter knew better. No sooner had the pair of MiGs disappeared from sight when his sixth sense began vibrating again.

“Damn!” he yelled. “I don’t believe this.”

Ben stared at him and then straight ahead of C-5 formation. That’s when he saw the swarm of MiGs streaking right towards them.

“Jessuz, there’s a hundred of them!” Ben cried.

He wasn’t too far off. In an instant Hunter counted as many as 50 MiGs of all types, shapes and sizes. They were rising up from the lower altitude, where they’d obviously been hiding while the first four MiGs probed the C-5 fleet’s air defenses.

“We’ve got to get into that weather now!” Hunter yelled in his lip mic, eyeing the huge storm which was now about a half minute off their left wing.

The nine C-5s instantly turned south, their engines on full power, desperately racing into the heart of the violent storm. They reached it in record time.

The MiGs followed them in.

In all his years of flying, Hunter had never seen anything like it. The nine huge C-5s were suddenly in the middle of a storm of typhoon-proportions—with a swarm of MiGs streaking all around them, firing barrage after barrage at the near-defenseless Galaxys.

Hunter had the guns in
Bozo
firing almost nonstop. Any MiG that came anywhere near the gunship received a broadside unlike anything in aerial warfare. In the confusion of the storm and the air attack the gunners on
Bozo
destroyed seven MiGs in little more than a minute. Meanwhile Hunter and Ben were wrestling with the huge C-5’s flight controls. In the near zero visibility they could see MiGs flashing by, followed by parts of C-5s, then more MiGs, then more C-5s. It was total, frightening confusion. The flight panel was lit up like a Christmas tree, and every few seconds or so they could feel the big airplane shudder after receiving a barrage of MiG cannon shells somewhere on its fuselage or wings.

The battle went on like this for what seemed like forever—some of the MiGs apparently figured out that
Bozo
was defenseless when attacked from the right side, and they poured it into the huge airplane, even as the tremendous storm roared on around them.

At some point
Bozo
crossed over land itself, where the storm actually grew worse. The weather was so bad, it took them a few minutes to realize the battle was over. The MiGs had disappeared; all the firing had stopped. They’d also lost sight of the rest of the C-5s.

Now the C-5 was lurching blindly through the thundering sky.

“I can’t see a damned thing, Hawk!” Ben shouted over the intercom.

Hunter clenched his teeth and tried with all his might to keep his control column steady. He’d been in tight spots before—but this was the worse by far.

The sky was dark as night even though it was the middle of the day. Sheets of rain totally blocked out any hint of guiding light, either from the ground or from the sun. The C-5’s wipers raced back and forth across the windscreen, trying vainly to clear away the pounding rain. Every warning bell, buzzer, and beeper on the airplane’s control panel was going off at once—all adding to the chaos inside the dimly lit cockpit.

Bozo
had given the MiGs a hell of a surprise with its massive, aerial broadsides—but the C-5 hadn’t escaped unharmed. The damage report was grim. Hundreds of MiG cannon rounds had ripped across the fuselage and wings during the air battle, severing hydraulic hoses, electrical wires, and fuel lines. Most critically, the right wing’s stabilizers were shot to pieces, causing the already-unbalanced airship to list even more horribly to the left.

The flight controls were shaking so violently now that both Hunter and Ben had to struggle just to hang on. An earsplitting vibration was rattling through the entire airplane—it seemed that all the rivets holding the Galaxy together were going to pop at any second. Loud banging and screeches of steel on steel were echoing through the cavernous hold behind them. Shouts of concern and outright fear were coming from the gun crews below.

The dials, gauges, and hydraulic pressure LEDs on the airplane’s shattered control panel all told the same story—the big transport-turned-gunship was in serious trouble.

And things were quickly getting worse: because of their shot-up wing tanks, they were now running out of gas.

Hunter rapped on the fuel gauge with his knuckle. “We’ve got about two minutes to put this baby down,” he yelled to Ben. “Maybe less …”

“Easier said than done, Hawk …” Ben yelled back. “We need something long and flat, very quick!”

They put the giant lumbering plane into a wide descending circle, trying to eyeball the jungle below through the horrible blackness of the storm. They were searching for anything clear enough to land the Galaxy, but no matter where they looked, nothing—no landmark, terrain, or landscape feature—could be made out. It was an eerie feeling, flying completely blind—if it wasn’t for quick glances at the gyro, they could have easily been flying sideways or even upside down.

“We’re down to a minute-twenty of gas, Hawk,” Ben yelled, his voice filling with resignation. “This might be it, old buddy.”

Hunter had no reason to disagree with him. Then, suddenly, he felt a tingling in the back of his neck. It was
the feeling
, his incredibly developed ESP, breaking through to his conscious state. He steadied himself, reacting purely on instinct as well as his learned acceptance of this lifelong unexplained phenomenon. For an instant, everything seemed calm inside the battered cockpit.

“Southwest,” he told Ben. “About twelve miles …”

Ben didn’t hesitate a beat. Together, they fought the murderous headwind and slowly turned the big plane to the southwest. As they did so,
the feeling
got stronger, telling Hunter that he was heading in the right direction.

But it was also telling him something else….

They continued to wrestle with the flight yokes, nearly out of control in the brunt of the howling wind and rain storm. The Galaxy shook under the strain of the turn and Hunter, Ben, and the gun crew in the hold were bounced around mercilessly as the plane was battered by powerful hurricane-strength airstreams.

Then suddenly, Hunter spotted a flash of light below.

“Do you see that?” he yelled to Ben. “About ten miles dead ahead …”

Ben did. There was a bright glow cutting through the clouds.

“What the hell is it?” Ben yelled back. “Searchlights? A fire? Explosions?”

Hunter didn’t know—but it was all they had to go on.

They brought the bucking C-5 down to 1500 feet—finally breaking through the overcast. In that instant, they found what they were looking for—a long strip of black asphalt cutting through the rain and haze on a north-south position. Once again,
the feeling
had not failed; they were approaching a landing strip.

They eased the C-5 down to 1000 feet and reduced their airspeed to just 150 knots. They were over a very mountainous area, mostly covered with thick jungle and foliage. The glow up ahead got brighter and gradually, they could see what was causing it. Flashes of lights, balls of flame, a long column of black smoke rising into the sky; Hunter and Ben were startled. They’d seen such things before. There was a battle going on down below. A big one.

“Jesuzz—are we really going to land in the middle of a firefight?” Ben yelled.

“We’ve got no choice,” Hunter yelled back. A second later, the left side outer engine kicked once—then died. The right outer one instantly followed suit. Both were out of gas. “We’ve got to go in….”

The C-5 was down to 800 feet when a flare round went up from the treeline to their left, bursting right in front of them. Despite the torrential downpour, the magnesium round brilliantly illuminated the area for a brief moment. Hunter and Ben were astounded at what they saw below.

Thousands of soldiers were charging from the treeline across an open marsh towards a haphazard collection of bunkers, foxholes, and shallow trenches that stood between them and the airstrip. The airstrip itself was littered with dozens of crashed airplanes—not a very good omen. Even worse, it didn’t look like a single round was being fired in defense from the airbase’s fortifications.

In the blink of an eye, Hunter knew he had to make a tough decision. He had no idea who was fighting who on the ground, or who was on who’s side. But he
did
know from the hundreds of Mayday calls they’d received that the people of Vietnam were under attack. His gut then was telling him the thousands of attacking soldiers below were the bad guys.

And he was about to land right in the middle of them.

“I think we’re about to join the underdogs,” he yelled over to Ben.

Ben took a quick glance out the window as the human wave attack was drawing closer to the weakly defended fortifications.

“I don’t think you’ll get any argument from anyone on board,” he yelled back.

Hunter brought the C-5 down even further as Ben patched into the plane’s intercom system to the gun crews in the back. At that moment, tracer fire came up from the ground directly at the plane, pinging off the huge nose, and left wing. That was it—they had just made an enemy.

Holding the huge plane fifty feet above the treeline, Hunter twisted it into a wide arc, giving the guns on weapon engagement side just enough angle to be used effectively. Then he took a deep breath and called back for the half dozen GE Gatling guns to open fire on the massive human wave assault.

Instantly, the six guns, each firing at a rate of 4,000 rounds per minute, tore into the mass of charging soldiers. Through the blaze of gunfire flaming from the port side of the C-5, Hunter could see the deadly Gatlings chew up the ranks of the attackers.