Текст книги "The Battle for New York"

Автор книги: T. I. Wade

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Chapter 12

The Hit Squads

Strong Air Force base was up early the next morning, three hours before dawn. It was cold outside. The temperature was 24 degrees out, which was normal for January. Carlos and Lee had taken turns monitoring the cell phones and the feed coming off the satellites.

General Allen was on his way to Japan, an hour from Alaska when the airport woke up. The technical guys had refueled and rearmed the aircraft throughout the night. Carlos’ P-51 was still being worked on and would not fly that day. General Allen called and asked that the food distribution be put off for 48 hours as he needed civilian help communicating with Fort Bragg, Seymour Johnson and Camp Lejeune. He wanted exact numbers of vehicles and available troops and, if necessary, they needed to start walking to New York.

Preston asked Maggie and Staff Sergeant Perry to fly into Pope Field in one of the 172s and find out what the largest Army base in the country could supply as defensive protection. John and Technical Sergeant Matheson were to fly the Cessna 210 into Seymour Johnson, and Pam Wallace and another sergeant were to fly the second 172 into McClutcheon Field—the main Marine airfield in Jacksonville, North Carolina.

Martie had been pretty quiet that night after she arrived home. Preston congratulated her on a good job and she began to get back to normal. Sally had been relieved by a new group of pilots and they had taken off for McGuire as soon as she landed. Sally had been living in her aircraft for five solid days and needed a bath and some sleep.

Lady Dandy was now the main troop transporter, and with the FedEx Cargomaster, was ready to help the ground troops near Heflin, Alabama just after dawn. Preston decided to fly the P-38 this time, its Hispano cannon was able to put a lot more power down on the enemy if need be. Carlos was totally exhausted, unable to fly, and needed sleep. They had tried to control incoming and outgoing communication all night, but had been unable to do so. The satellites were not, and they realized would never be controlled by anybody other than their Chinese controllers. Carlos hoped that they were in the Headquarters building, hopefully about to be destroyed by the AC-130 gunships under the command of General Allen in about 24 hours time.

Preston’s airstrip was busy two hours before dawn. First, Buck and Barbara flying Lady Dandy climbed into the dark sky, then Mike Mallory in the turboprop Cargomaster ten minutes later. The 172s took off an hour after Lady Dandy to arrive at their closer destinations at dawn, and then the 210. Lastly, Martie in her Mustang and finally Preston in his P-38 took off 70 minutes behind Lady Dandy.

Martie and Preston climbed quickly and reached a cruising altitude of 15,000 feet within 15 minutes. At a fast cruise of 370 miles an hour, they covered ground rapidly and arrived over Atlanta as the sun was coming over the horizon.

“Good morning, ground gentlemen. Your flying back-up is ten minutes out. What do you need from us? Over.”

“Good morning, flyboys,” was the reply from the ground troops. “We had a skirmish with some guys wanting to continue east just after midnight, and hit three more of their vehicles coming along the highway. Since then, we have seen nothing. Our guys inspected the three vehicles—they will not move again—and found two of those fancy cell phones you guys so desperately want. There were nine dead or nearly-dead Charlies and I think you should land about two to three miles behind the first road attack you guys did yesterday, form a sweep line along the road, and work your way inwards, towards us. We can do the same and you can coordinate us from the air. I suggest that you guys head west for 20 miles and see if any Charlie are retreating in that direction. Over.”

“Roger that,” replied Preston. “Buck, Mike, do you copy?”

“We copy,” replied Buck. “I suggest one of you check the road and look for 800 yards of open space so that our aircraft can get down, and you circle above the spot while we go in. Over.”

“Okay,” replied Preston. “Martie, follow me and let’s find a suitable landing strip,” and they headed over the battle ground. There were still wisps of black smoke rising here and there since there had been no wind the previous night. The smoke hung in the low-lying areas, making it difficult to see. They found a big enough flat piece of clear road just east of the exit to Heflin on the southern strip of road. The landing area was out of view from the bridge, between the bridge and the first attack and the only piece of straight road around. It would be safe for a landing, and there were only a couple of vehicles on the east-bound side and a rolled-over tractor trailer. The clearing had at least 800 yards of clean asphalt before it started curving slightly, and any pilot with a slowing aircraft could negotiate the slight bend if need be. They would have to fly in from the west to make it work, however.

“Mike, do you see the bridge underneath where I am? Over.” Preston asked.

“Roger, I have the bridge visual,” Mike Mallory replied from the Cargomaster, now over the area.

“I suggest that with your shorter landing distance, you go in on the southern side of the highway just before the bend to the bridge and get your guys out. I’m worried that there might be trouble under the bridge. The bend will cover you and then Lady Dandy can go in. Mike, Lady Dandy will need all the available space, and pilots, stay on the ground if it looks safe. I recommend you guys go in and clear the bridge first. Martie, you are back-up if need be.”

Mike went in while Preston flew off along the highway further to the west, searching for any vehicles moving along the highway. He heard the Cargomaster go in over the radio and then Lady Dandy landed and both aircraft stayed on the ground, saving fuel.

Ground fire erupted from under the bridge several seconds later, as Preston turned to fly back. It was only two guys with one vehicle, he heard over the radio, and the men on the ground soon had the situation secure with a machine gun taking out the enemy from an easy 400 yards. Martie hadn’t needed to get involved, but circled at 5,000 feet just in case.

Preston turned again and flew for another ten minutes, not seeing a single vehicle moving. He decided that 50 miles was far enough, and returned at low cruise to the two aircraft on the ground.

The men who had just gone in were already in a line across both highways and across the fences and into the woods on the southern side and working their way eastwards and towards the first attack area. Preston spoke into his radio.

“We have a line up and walking along both highways westwards of you and walking in your direction ground control. They cleared a bridge, found two injured guys and a broken vehicle. Over.”

“Roger that. We have a line up and will do the same, walking towards them,” came the reply. “We see a straight piece of road for about 100 yards and then it curves to the right. What is ahead of us? Over.”

“You have 100 yards before the road curves to the right for another 400 yards, then it curves to the left and the main attack was in the middle of this straight piece, which is about 1,800 yards long and full of smoking vehicles. By the time you get to this stretch, you should be able see our guys coming the other way. One of us will stay up here until you meet up. Then we need to… hold on. Martie, is that a tractor coming up to the highway bridge from Heflin?”

“Roger, he’s being stopped by our troops,” replied Martie, now lower and circling at 2,000 feet.

“He’s a farmer from the area, asking if he can help,” the troop leader reported over their radio.

“Get a situation report from him and ask him if he has any friends with aircraft in the area. They could fly into their local Air Force base and get supplies.

He also told Martie to go in and land and conserve fuel, but be ready for take-off.

For an hour, Preston flew over the two lines of men slowly converging on each other. The eastern group had just arrived on the final straight part when they got fired upon from the south side woods, a mile to the west of where the aircraft were waiting. He noticed three vehicles in the trees as far in as they could go, and he relayed a message to the ground troops. He pulled his P-38 away and went north at full power, climbing rapidly to 8,000 feet. Preston turned, fired several rounds with the cannon, and swept back into the area where he had seen the vehicles. He let go with the Hispano cannon a mile out and he watched as the large cannon rounds danced across the grass and into the area where the vehicles were hidden. A massive explosion rose up to meet him as he straightened out and radioed the guys on the ground to go in.

He watched as the line of Marines ran into the smoking area, began a firefight, and dispatched the last of the Chinese hit squads.

That was the end of Mr. Deng and his group. Preston flew around for another 15 minutes and saw that the second group of soldiers had already reached the site and searched for anybody alive in the carnage.

Just before he went in to land where the other three aircraft were waiting for him, he counted 43 stationary vehicles that he could see, and one under the bridge that made 44.

It was weird standing in the middle of a U.S. Interstate, with two World War II aircraft, a FedEx aircraft, and a DC-3 while chatting with a farmer sitting on a tractor older than the aircraft themselves. The farmer was about 70, born during the Second World War, and had been given the 1930s tractor by his father. It was the only thing left on his farm, which still worked, and he explained to Martie, Buck, Mike, and Preston that he could run his farm with it for the next century, or at least his sons could. Preston asked him about airports and military bases and the farmer told him that the closest Army base was Anniston Army Base due west. It had a lot of ammunition dumps and supplies. As far as airports, he thought the town with the same name would have the closest one.

Mike Mallory suggested to the farmer that he should drive over to the base and get food if need be, and Preston stated he would fly in to see what was going on there.

“Martie, why don’t you fly into Moody Air Force Base,” and he showed her on the map where it was, about 30 miles north of the Georgia-Florida border. “Tell them about General Allen and ‘Allen Key’ and see if they have anything flyable. If they do, tell them on behalf of General Allen to fly it up to Seymour Johnson. If they can’t refuel you, go straight into Robins Air Force Base in Macon, Georgia– it’s on your way home—and tell them the same thing. Hopefully they will give you fuel, but you should still have enough to get home. I’ll go into the Army base here and find out what the Army has in the area and try to get it moving up north.”

By this time, half of the ground troops were filing aboard the two aircraft and Mike and Buck took off to get the men back home. They would only have time for one more flight in and out during daylight and might have to get the last troops out the next morning.

Preston asked the farmer on the tractor if he could pull a few vehicles off the highway—three would be enough—so that anybody could land closer to the burned out wrecks on the other side of the bridge, and the farmer went about his mission with excitement.

An hour later Preston was sitting in the Army base commander’s office telling him the whole story. He had seen a straight piece of road inside the barracks. The 800 yards of two-lane tarmac road was clear, with no electrical wires, and he had gingerly put the P-38 down with several yards to spare on both sides.

The Army was pretty worried about an old aircraft landing in their private area, but it did have U.S. Air Force markings on it. For an hour, Preston told Colonel Peter Grady everything that had happened and that they were expecting an attack by the enemy in New York in about two weeks. The president was currently in North Carolina and was expected to start a food distribution program in a couple of days.

“What do you have that’s operational, Colonel,” Preston asked.

“We have 12 old transporters, and another ten loaned to the area’s National Guard that we can go and pick up,” he replied. “Apart from three old jeeps we use around here and a couple of fuel tankers from the 1980s, we have tried to start everything, and that’s all that works.”

“What sort of weapons and troops do you have?” was Preston’s next question.

“We have five old artillery pieces operational, training equipment from the 1970s. They are big boys, the older M198 155mm howitzers. They can fire two rounds per minute sustained, and we have 75 HE extended range 155mm projectiles in our armory. They have a range of up to 18 miles and the HE can put a good dent in anything out there that’s made of steel. Then, Mr. Strong we have ten of the older 105mm howitzers and those have a range of seven miles. We have 500 armor piercing projectiles stored for those. We have eight operational 5-ton howitzer transporters from the 1960s that still work and can pull those 155mm howitzers. We have another three flatbed trucks, which can carry the 100-lb. projectiles. Since we only have 75, we can fill the flatbeds up with the lighter 105mm projectiles that weigh just less than 50 pounds. As far as troops are concerned, we have 1,500 troops on alert and we need several companies of them to guard our base here. If we got a platoon of 30 troops into our 22 usable troop transporters each that would be 660 men with ten of the trucks pulling the 105mm howitzers. We could fill one of the jeeps with rations for a couple of days and head over to our nearest base just outside Atlanta for more rations. I know for sure that the colonel there has one or two more howitzers and I’m sure a couple of old trucks to pull them with.”

“Could your fuel tankers get you to each Army base between here and New York?” Preston asked.

“I think so. We might need the Air Force to drop us a bit of fuel, but if I stopped and picked up troops at each Army base between here and Fort Bragg, I reckon I would have three times as many vehicles, howitzers, and projectiles and we could have a convoy miles long by the time we reached New York.”

“Well, on behalf of the President of the United States of America, I have a letter enabling me to commandeer anything I think will help us defend the United States of America,” stated Preston pulling the letter out of his flight jacket.

“And what is your rank, Mr. Strong, if I may ask?” replied Colonel Grady checking the letter, direct from the White House.

“I’m of equal rank to General Allen, head of the U.S. Air Force, so that makes me a four-star general, Colonel.”

“Well General Strong, that’s good enough for me, sir. I can have my soldiers ready and out of our gates in six to eight hours. I aim to make four stops at other Army bases close to our route to increase our convoy before we reach Fort Bragg. I think that I can reach Fort Bragg in 48 to 60 hours, depending on how long the bases take to get their men ready.”

“Tell them to head north up I-95. You can clear the way, and with less traffic, they should catch up with you. Also remember, Colonel, its cold up there. Take every luxury you can to keep warm and all the food you can carry. You can stay at my place on your way up. The address is on this piece of paper. I will give you this letter dated four days ago from the president, and this is your authority to commandeer everything you can on your way to my location. Once you get close to Fort Bragg, use our frequency. I’ve also written it on this letter, and if you need supplies I will try and get a C-130 to land close to you. I suggest that you move a bulldozer or two out right now to start clearing a route for your men. The highways are congested with over-turned tractor trailers.”

“I forgot that we have an old tractor trailer carrying a bulldozer,” added the colonel. “The tractor itself has an armored front and steel fender to clear a pathway and the dozer can be pulled off to clear larger trucks. I’ll get them kitted up and out within the hour.”

After a few more minutes of discussion, Preston walked outside and hitched a ride with the colonel in one of the old jeeps back to his P-38, which was being guarded by a couple of armed soldiers. They shook hands, and Preston started the aircraft, much to the delight of the dozen military onlookers. He taxied as far down the road as he could, turned around, and completed his final checks. It was a well-paved piece of asphalt about 200 feet shorter than his airfield. Luckily, there were no buildings to get over at the end, only a 4-foot high fence surrounding a sports field.

Just to make sure, he gunned both engines before releasing the brakes and sped down the road, past the onlookers halfway down, and left the road 100 feet before the fence. He pulled the stick back hard and went high and fast to get out of the building area before turning his aircraft back towards I-20 East and bringing his engine revs down a notch.

He landed back on the road 20 minutes later where the famer had cleared enough space to get pretty close to the burned-out vehicles. He had only been away two hours, and already the fires were out and there were several soldiers carrying dead bodies and equipment as he turned the aircraft around and closed down the engines. He got a situation report from a Marine lieutenant and was handed three unharmed satellite cell phones.

The lieutenant went through the list of injured. They had one dead soldier and three slightly wounded men. On the enemy’s side there were nine injured. The two medics had done their best, but seven of them had already died. Two were still alive, but they were not sure they would make it through the rest of the day.

So, his final count was two still alive, 143 bodies and 51 sets of Chinese boots. His men had done a full sweep and had found several more dead bodies, but nobody alive. There were 50 vehicles, of which two still worked but had flat tires. Thirty-three were blackened remains, and 17 had given up a little merchandise here and there. There was very little equipment that wasn’t damaged. The farmer on the tractor came up and smiled, his job done. Preston was about to thank him when he heard the unmistakable sound of a C-130 coming in.

It came from the east at 500 feet and very low. Preston asked for a radio and called up to the aircraft as it flew overhead.

“Hi, Preston, Jennifer here. I’ve come to take some boys up north. Buck and Mike are two hours behind me and I have a doctor and three medics on board. I’ve got to head up north to help with a big fight up there.”

“There is enough room to land here. A kind farmer has cleared 700 yards on both sides of the highway for us, and I suggest you come in on the other side of the P-38. Over.”

She did, and let the engines shut down before getting out and coming over. She was introduced to the excited old farmer and then the tired Marines, who were excited that they were going with her to New York. Tired or not, they certainly didn’t want to miss any action. They would need every soldier up there.

There was a problem with the dead enemy bodies here though. The farmer spoke up and told them that he and the townsfolk had enough old equipment to dig a mass grave and that a communal grave just off the road was as good a place as any.

Preston told Jennifer about his luck with the Army base and the movement of troops beginning in a few hours from Anniston. He asked the farmer if he could give the two confiscated phones to Colonel Grady, who would be coming through in seven to ten hours, if he left written instructions for how the phone should be used. The farmer replied that they would dig the communal hole and then wait for the Army to show up.

A quick note was written, including Preston’s new cell phone number and General Allen’s, which he got from Jennifer. He then wrote down the instructions on how to use the phone, to always state the two words ‘Allen Key’ when starting to speak, and explaining why not to answer if the red number called. Both phones were from the batch the lieutenant had given him and still had full battery life. A charger had been found unharmed in one of the trucks and Preston also left that for the Army commander. It had a vehicle-lighter attachment and the phone could be charged while driving. He told the colonel to call General Allen when he got it and provide him with a sitrep.

The men were piling up all the workable weapons in the C-130. The two injured Chinese were also loaded, the new medics looking after them as well as the injured Americans. The dead American soldier was lifted into the C-130 with the remaining troops.

Jennifer took off to the west 15 minutes later and Preston waited for her to climb away. He waved goodbye to the nice old farmer, who saluted him as he gunned the engines for departure.

“With Americans like that, this country will certainly survive,” he thought to himself, and as he flew over the bridge spanning the highway, he felt good and had hope for the future for the first time in several days.

He beat Jennifer in by 30 minutes after telling Buck and Mike to turn back. They were half an hour out from the farm when they turned back and reached the airstrip together. Preston had radioed Martie earlier, and she was just taking off from Robins Air Force Base and on her way home—she was an hour out and had enough fuel.

It was 4:00 pm and an hour before dark, when Martie came in and Jennifer went out, saying “Hi” as they passed each other in flight. The wind was coming from the south, and Preston noticed that landing was from the north for the first time this year. He hoped the winds were the winds of change. Somehow, he knew that this day had been a real victory for the United States. Now it was all up to General Allen. Hopefully, he would cut off the head of the “serpent” in the next 24 hours. America had certainly just cut off the tail.

Chapter 13

‘Z’ Day 7 – China Attacked

At the exact moment that Preston was thinking about General Allen, the general had been in Japan for 20 minutes. Carlos, before he packed up to leave, had guided General Patterson and his aircraft into an overcast Japan. Luckily, the overcast conditions were only ranging about 20 miles offshore, but during the night Carlos had changed the three aircraft’s course three times as they flew over the ocean for the second half of their 12-hour flight. Carlos and Lee needed to be set up at McGuire within four hours to help guide General Allen and Lee’s wife into mainland China.

The first half of the trip had been easy. They had followed the Alaskan islands in a southwest direction from Anchorage, with the Bering Sea on the left and the Pacific Ocean on the right. They had passed over Atukan and Unalaska four hours into the flight, the infrared scanners and the antiquated but working 100-mile radar systems onboard the gunships giving them eerie views of the islands 29,000 feet below them. After five hours, they needed to head away from the land as it began to stretch in a west-northwest direction and towards Russia. For the next several hours, they needed Carlos to guide them.

All the way through the flight, General Allen, with his cell phone permanently on charge from the flight deck, made and received calls. For the first few hours, it was Major Patterson giving him sitreps, and by the time they left the last islands on their radar and infrared scanners behind, the fight was over and it sounded like they had their first prize—an intercontinental aircraft to ferry troops back to the States. He had given orders to get it checked out, refueled, and ready to meet him either in Ramstein, Germany, or at their main Air Force base in Turkey. General Allen wanted to move troops away from all front lines immediately and get them into safer areas.

He managed a couple of hours of sleep before they were scheduled to call Carlos again and get their latest position in relation to a line they had drawn on a map. He called Carlos at the appointed time, got all the aircrafts’ transponders switched on for several seconds, and within minutes Carlos was telling them that they were over 100 miles off their line to the south. They changed flight direction, and everyone not doing anything went back to sleep.

It was weird, flying over pure blackness and having only one person in the world to talk to, several thousand miles away, who could give them accurate information on where they were.

Two hours later, they did the same and this time they were only 20 miles off course. The winds from the north must have must have lessened. At this point, seven hours into the flight, they decided to add 1,500 gallons into each gunship from the tanker. It took an nearly an hour to get both aircraft refueled, and half the fuel was used during the refueling period, but it got them 275 miles closer to their targets. Once this fuel was used up, they started small electrical gravity feed pump motors that pumped the stored fuel from the soft bladders in their holds into the fuselage fuel tanks, which in turn pumped any excess up and into the wing tanks. That took another hour, and by the time they were finished, they expected to land in just three more hours.

Two hours later, they phoned Carlos and got a third location report. This time it looked like they were 40 miles north of their line into Misawa Air Force Base and 400 miles away from Japan. The area around the base was also overcast, and it could be snowing. They were 100 miles behind schedule and it was going to be tight on fuel.

Then General Allen got a call. The call was not from the red number, but an American voice with a southern drawl called up and said, “Allen Key.”

“Name and location?” asked the General.

“Grady, Army, State-Alpha Lima (AL),” was the reply.

“Nice to hear from you, Mr. Grady. What can I do for you this cold winter evening?” the general asked.

“Got this phone from a Mr. Strong, sir,” Grady answered. “He told me to contact you when I got it and give you a sitrep.”

“Well, get on with it, Mr. Grady. I assume you know who you are talking to. I don’t, yet.”

“Allen Key, we are heading due east on I-20 in the direction of Bragg. I have 700 men in 22 trucks. We are towing five 155mm howitzers and ten 105mm howitzers, tons of ammo, and I estimate we will find more men and materials at four more Alpha-Lima bases on our way to November-Charlie (NC), where Preston lives. Did you copy?” asked the colonel.

“Roger that, Grady. Best news I’ve heard all day. What is your end station?”

“November-Yankee (NY) in six days, I hope,” Grady replied.

“We are going to need you Army guys. You’ve seen what the Alpha-Foxtrot (Air Force) boys are working with. The November (Navy) boys are even worse off than us, with four or five boats that can’t even catch fish. Anyway, I’m heading to the other side of the world. When you get to Preston’s, I want at least 100 big guns, 10,000 buddies, and I don’t care if they have to walk to November-Yankee, just get them there. I hope to be there a day or two after you and I’ll buy you a beer, Mr. Grady. Good luck. Out.” He signed off as he heard his radio operator trying to contact the Air Force base 350 miles in front of them.

It took several minutes, but every person aboard the three aircraft was very relieved to finally hear a voice respond from somewhere in front of them. After several codes and two-way communication was exchanged, information was received. The weather wasn’t bad. Cloud height was at 3,000 feet above ground with a very light snow. Wind was from the northwest at five to ten and the temperature was 32 degrees. The runway was clear. They had had no traffic for a week but they did have flares to help the general land. The landing lights were operational with several generators and the runway slightly slippery, but it would be checked out and cleared with their one working bulldozer by the time they got there.

General Allen called Carlos, thanked him for saving all of their lives, and for providing radio communications, and told him that he was free to head up to McGuire. There was already a C-130 flying down to get him, and he had four hours to get there and set up his equipment in case the general needed help flying into South Korea.

Twenty minutes later, the three 130s lowered themselves to 3,000 feet and began to pass under the cloud layer. Visibility was about ten miles and they hoped to see the flares or at least be heard from the ground. Ten miles out, they saw flares through the infrared scanning systems and they quickly brought the three aircraft to the correct course and began their landing checks. The two gunships would go in first, and then the tanker, who could still get to Korea without refueling.

The bright and welcomed landing lights formed into two lines in front of them, and with less than 30 minutes of flying time left in their tanks, they went in and touched ground for the first time in 12.5 hours.

Four hours later, fully fueled and totally out of the salmon they had brought with them, they took off and headed on their 3-hour trip to Osan, South Korea 840 miles away. It had taken an extra two hours for the tanker to suck the fuel out of the dead tanker trucks, transfer the fuel to the gunships, and then take on her full load. While they were being refueled, the men stationed there had emptied the Misawa Air Force Base’s armored bunker of all the 105mm HE rounds, which amounted to 120 projectiles per gunship. General Allen knew that there would be more in South Korea, but he wanted to go in with twice the ammunition he would normally have on board.

Fresh pilots had taken over the flying duties. The relieved pilots got a couple of hours of sleep, and the general started thinking about these old birds. They had been flying for nearly 40 years, had gone through several wars, and still they just flew and flew and flew. A third gunship was expected to be located at Osan, and the Japanese bases, now behind them, had absolutely nothing flying. At least they had used their clean and readied runway for a few landings and take offs.