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The fighting in and around Football City lasted most of the morning. But by noontime, the main elements of the advancing Western Forces troops found they had very few people to shoot at.
General Jones arrived in the city itself at two that afternoon. By that time, the invading troops were mopping up against ragtag stragglers and the few unlucky foreign hired-guns The Circle had double-crossed in their hasty, but nevertheless successful retreat.
Jones directed his driver to the enormous Football City stadium which was now serving as a rallying point for the commanders of all the invading units. He wasn't there more than ten minutes when the large Sea Stallion helicopter appeared in the sky above the stadium and came in for a landing.
This time, Hunter was at the controls . . .
"It feels like I haven't flown anything in 135
months," the fighter pilot told him as they met outside the big chopper's access door. "J.T. and Ben let me hop over here in this."
Jones shook his hand, long and hard. "Congratulations, Hawk," he said sincerely. "We pulled it
off and the lion's share of the credit goes to you ยป
Hunter immediately held up his hand. "Please, don't heap the praise on me," he said, rather glumly. "It was guys like Elvis and Ace and the rest of them that did the hump work . . ."
Hunter's attitude disturbed Jones. Here they had just recaptured their first major objective and still the pilot was serious and unsmiling.
"I'm assuming that you've just returned from the river," Jones said, as they walked toward his mobile command center, which was actually an armored Winnebago. "What's the situation down there?"
"They're still fishing some of the POWs out of the river," Hunter told the senior officer. "But the breakout went like clockwork. We busted the water gate in the catacombs just after midnight, and by four this morning, every POW
and friendly civvie was out.
"The inner tubes worked very well. Guys that would never have made it because of their wounds or whatever were coming out of that culvert like it was an amusement ride. Our barges got to most of them, and they picked up a lot of the healthy guys who were able to swim out to them. Meanwhile, the bridges are filled with Circle troops just bugging the hell out of the city. I'll tell you, it was quite a scene . . ."
A smile spread across Jones's face. "Our casualties were so low, it's almost unbelievable. Those
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nickel-and-dime soldiers in the Circle trenches were a joke. Then all the way in, my line commanders kept radioing back that they were not encountering any opposition whatsoever. So, we just figured it was better to put the pedal to the metal and see how far we'd go. Never did I expect to take back the whole city with barely firing a shot."
"They obviously fell for O'Malley's fake recon pictures lock and stock,"
Hunter said, as they sat down inside the command center. Jones had produced a no-name bottle of whiskey and was pouring out two drinks. "But they also took something very valuable with them."
"What do you mean?" Jones asked, sipping the whiskey.
Hunter ran his hand through his long hair. "In the middle of the retreat, they moved those trailer trucks I told you about, plus that strange APC. We were shooting at them from the river's edge, got some of the guards riding on top, but we didn't have the firepower to get one of those big rigs."
Jones shook his head. "What could be so valuable inside those trucks that they would bother to save it?" he asked.
"It's a real mystery to me," Hunter said, swigging his drink. "But to tell you the truth, I think whatever it was, it was more important to them than hanging on to this city."
By nightfall, the stadium was mobbed with thousands of victorious Western Forces troops.
A bank of searchlights provided the illumination for the hastily-erected stage at the 50 yard line. Among the leaders on the platform were Jones, 137
Hunter, O'Malley, Elvis, Yaz and Louie St. Louie, the founder of Football City. The ceremony, in which Jones officially turned the city back to St.
Louie, was filled with emotion, especially for the tough Football City Army troops, who hadn't seen the inside of their city in what must have seemed like ages.
Jones then made a stirring speech in which he outlined the plans for the battles ahead, a campaign which had been appropriately named: Operation Eastern Thunder. This war is just beginning, he told the assembled troops, warning them not to take the relatively easy task of regaining Football City as a false indication of the Circle Army's unwillingness to fight.
Then the general put forth a proposal to those gathered:
"We are all Americans here-our Canadian friends included," he said, his voice booming around the stadium via a loudspeaker system. "And this is a war of Liberation. From the tyranny of the Circle. From the tyranny of the New Order.
From the tyranny of the Soviets. Right across that river, our fellow Americans are waiting for us. Waiting for the day when they hear us coming. We can't let them down!
"So I think we should rename our combined army. Our goal is to reunite this country. So, I propose that we should be known from now on as The United American Army!"
The proposal was met with a thunderous ovation.
"I'd say the motion has passed," Dozer leaned over and said to Jones.
The ceremony was a case of real-life deja vu for Hunter. In what seemed like ages ago to him, he
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recalled another celebration, held right in this very stadium on the occasion of defeating the Family Army from taking over the city. It was the first big battle between the democratic forces and those aligned with the Soviet-backed New Order.
But now, here he was again. The enemy called itself by a different name, yet the cause was the same. By force of habit, he reached to his breast pocket and felt the reassuring bulge of the small American flag he always kept there.
This is what they were fighting for. America. To his dying breath-all for his country. Yes, he had been here before, but one thing was different: this time, the democratic forces-the men of the United American Army -were on the offensive . . .
Now if only the deep, empty ache inside his heart would stop . . .
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Mike Fitzgerald walked out into the clear Texas morning sunshine and beheld the two massive airplanes in front of him.
They were C-5 Galaxy's, the largest airplane ever built in the Free World. A cargo giant-it could haul 130 tons, more than three times that of the not-at-all diminutive C-141-a Soviet "wanna-be" called the An-124 was now larger by a few inches.
But the C-5 was tougher and smarter than the Russian flying dumptruck. The Galaxy could carry more, fly higher, faster and for longer spans of time.
Despite its massive size-its length was only 53 feet shorter than that of a football field-it could operate from unfinished or even cratered runways.
Most importantly, pilots loved it ...
Up until the outbreak of World War III, the only gun a C-5 had carried was one to shoot off emergency flares. It was strictly a behind-the-lines supply animal.
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But Mike Fitzgerald had changed that.
He wasn't exactly sure when the idea had first hit him, but it was a few days after he had arrived in Dallas at the request of General Dave Jones to inspect some aircraft for possible lease. The trip had meant he had missed the surprisingly quick outcome at Football City two weeks before, but even that couldn't dampen the excitement about his idea for the two airplanes.
Everyone on the continent who was familiar with the art of air support for ground troops, knew Puff the Magic Dragon. Born in Viet Nam, Puff was the brainchild of a nameless Air Force officer who first got the idea to stick three machine guns into the side of a C-47, a small, two-prop cargo-only airplane. Then, by flying the airplane into a slight left hand bank, he found out that he could support ground troops below with an accurate, ever-moving, concentrated and manageable field of fire. The idea caught on quickly in Viet Nam, much to the bad luck of the Vietnamese communists.
The idea was made one better when the Air Force installed three 6000-round per minute Gatling guns into the side of the larger, more sophisticated C-130
Hercules cargo carrier. Dubbed "Spookys," a number of these gunships were still in operation in the Pacific American Air Corps, the outfit home of Hunter, Jones, Toomey and Ben Wa.
Now Fitzie had taken the idea to its next logical extreme. He had armed the C-5.
The best part was that the Texans had given him two airplanes at a reasonable price, leaving plenty of money left over for him to work with. And there was no shortage of weapons the Texans could give him to stick inside the cavernous C-5 hold.
In fact he had enough to pack three airplanes. So
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Fitzie got another idea: one aircraft-C-5B-23E/R No. 1-would be fitted with one and only kind of weapon: the GE GAU8/A 30mm Avenger cannon. Later on he would admit that he might have gotten carried away with the number of guns he'd installed on Number 1. Some thought the number was excessive-that is, until they saw all 21 Avengers firing as one at an enemy. The critics shut up after that.
Each Avenger was capable of firing 4500 rounds per minute of cannon shells made of depleted uranium, the projectile which spontaneously ignited on striking its target. The effect, especially at night, was so frighteningly breathtaking it was almost otherworldly.
But after he had had the 21 guns-and their literally miles of ammunition belts-installed in Number 1, he still had many weapons left over, including 19
Avengers. But Fitz was a born Irishman and therefore one side of him leaned to the unconventional. So instead of lining up another neat row of deadly Avengers on C-5B-23E/R No. 2, he installed everything but.
He started with six elderly GE Gatling guns-each capable of firing 8000 rounds a minute. Then came the five Mk 19 automatic grenade launchers, complemented by a single Italian-made AP/AV 700, three-barrel multiple grenade-launcher.
Only then did he get into the heavy stuff. First there was the Soltam 120-mm mobile field gun, which was capable of firing IMI illuminating rounds, as well as rocket assisted charges. Then there were the two Royal Ordnance 105-mm field artillery pieces and the three German-made Rheinmetal 20-mm converted antiaircraft guns.
A reasonable man would have stopped there. But Fitz hadn't become a Thunderbird pilot and now a
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millionaire soldier/businessman by being terminally reasonable. So he installed the 17-ton West German-made LARS II 110-mm Multiple Rocket Launcher, specially-fitted with a "rearend blast" deflector, which piped the backfire down and out of the airplane. The monster was capable of firing 36, six-foot-long, high-explosive-filled rockets in less than 20 seconds.
So if the effect of Number 1 firing all its guns was beautiful but scary, the sight of Number 2 firing all its guns was beyond description . . .
Fitzgerald, whose philosophy training came to him from the bottom of tea boxes, was now a firm believer in the school of thought that machines-like people-have personalities. He had proof. The two C-5s in front of him were brothers, yet they were worlds apart. From their crews to the way they flew, they were complete opposites, the yin and yang of deadly air support.
Inside Number 1, was a portrait of high tech. The 21 guns were lined up like so many soldiers preparing to fire a salute. The automatic ammunition racks ran in almost artistic cylindrical patterns around the inside of the cabin.
Batteries of video targeting gear, radar imager's, electronic counter measures devices and a host of other futuristic doo-dads highlighted the starboard side of the aircraft. When the humans on the right side worked with the guns on the left side, the result was a neat, concentration of fire that was spit out at a rate of 94,000 rounds a minute, or 1575 rounds per second. The firepower was so intense, that special cowlings had to be installed on the C-5's portside engines, so the jet turbines wouldn't suck up all the smoke and gas resulting from the awesome 21-gun "salute."
Inside Number 2 was a portrait of nightmare. The : menagerie of weapons and their various ammunition ?
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and venting needs had turned the guts of the ship into a spaghetti bowl of wires, ammo belts, oil lines, gas lines, electrical generators, shell dispensers and everywhere, firing mechanisms. Number 2 also carried a battery of four Sidewinder missiles under its belly, and the controls for these were also jammed into the melee. Added to all this were four flare dispensers and a half dozen chaff dispensers. No wonder the air crews had dubbed the clownish Number 2 "Bozo."
Soon after that, Number 1 was labeled "Nozo."
So now Fitzgerald had all this fire power, plus two KC-135 aerial tankers to keep it flying, what was he to do with it?
He asked General Jones that question two days after the successful reclamation of Football City. The senior officer asked him two questions in return: first, could he get both planes and both tankers first to Football City, then prepare for a risky covert operation? Fitz answered yes, although he couldn't imagine the two flying leviathans going undercover.
Jones's second question was more technical: Could Fitzgerald fit a recently-reconditioned F-16 into the hold of one of the massive airplanes?
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It was three weeks to the day after the victory at Football City when C-5
Number l-"Nozo"-screeched in for a landing at New Chicago's airport.
Fitzgerald himself was behind the controls of the big plane, which had been given a hasty coat of dull black paint for the occasion. It also had all of its guns dismantled and packed away.
Fitz rolled the C-5 to a stop at the end of the airport's longest runway and found the airplane immediately surrounded by a half dozen tanks and APCs.
"New Chicago Tower, this is C-5 requesting taxi and parking directions . . ."
Fitz called into his microphone, ignoring the ring of hostile vehicles.