Authors: Mack Maloney
I
T WAS 0600
.
With a great burst of power and steam, the Tornado GR.l roared down the deck of the
Fitzgerald
and screamed into the air. The A-4 attack bomber was right behind it, launching almost simultaneously from the carrier’s side catapult. Next came the pair of Viggens, one Strikefighter, and the Yugo.
Once all six airplanes were airborne, they formed up over the carrier and then turned toward the island of Okinawa. Although the CLF troopers were deep into the jungle by now, the Cult was still firing weapons along the entire eastern length of the Great Wall of guns. The smoke from these firings, mixed with its own perpetual smog, enveloped the island in a strange, thicker-than-usual morning haze, not the best of conditions for airstrikes.
But the flight of six jets pressed on, their wings literally sagging from the weight of overloaded bombs. The poor visibility would be challenging, if not daunting. While the entire Okinawa land-sea-air operation was based on pinpoint timing, the men watching the clock most closely were the
Fitz
’s pilots. They had to accomplish their missions not only accurately, but also very quickly, for several reasons: fuel consumption was a factor, but also security of the Task Force itself. For every airplane in action over Okinawa meant there was one less airplane to defend the United American ships from any Cult aerial counterattack.
So time was of the essence for the six pilots.
Once they were within two miles of Okinawa, they broke off into pairs. The Viggens immediately went down to 500 feet, and began a long, slow turn toward the northern tip of the island. The Strikefighter and the Yugo went down to a similar breathtaking altitude, steering toward the midsection of the battered, smoky battlefield.
The Tornado and the Skyhawk turned south, toward Shuri Mountain itself.
Hunter was streaking back from his last pass over the southernmost tip of the island when he made rendezvous with these two strike craft.
Below them, the situation was intensifying. Just about all the mid-range guns along the Great Wall were still going off, even though their shells were falling far short of the ships in the Task Force, cruising out of range six miles offshore. IF readings as well as intercepted Cult radio traffic told of furious activity within Shuri Mountain itself. Though they had been taken by surprise, the Cult defense and command systems were coming to life. The legitimate Task Force radio traffic from the ground told them that both landing parties were moving toward their objectives and meeting absolutely no resistance.
Hunter knew this would soon change.
He tucked into a triad formation with the A-4 and the Tornado, established a cleared radio link, and then went into a loose orbit at 4000 feet. The Tornado’s pilot, a British-Canadian named Tandy, activated his ultra-advanced terrain targeting gear and began sweeping the area around the eastern end of Shuri Mountain. Sure enough, within twenty seconds he’d identified a column of troop trucks exiting what had previously been a hidden passageway at the southern base of the mountain.
He radioed the information over to Hunter and the A-4 pilot, who quickly broke off from the formation. Hunter put the F-16XL into a low dive, pulling up at 300 feet about six miles north of the emerging troop column. Throttling down to a 210-mph crawl, he activated the target designator in the nose of his airplane, painting the lead truck of the convoy with laser-light. At four miles out, he was locked on solid to the target.
That’s when the A-4 came screaming right over the top of him at 400 knots. The pilot released a laser-guided Mk84 GP bomb and then rocketed away off to the right. The bomb deployed its tail control fins and in two seconds locked onto Hunter’s target laser beam. Holding the XL as steady as possible in the bumpy, smoggy air, Hunter guided the smart bomb in toward the target.
The missile slammed into the radiator of the lead truck, its 500-pound warhead exploding somewhere behind the driver’s compartment. The truck was blown backward into the truck behind it, and, fused together, they slammed into the next five trucks in a row. Flaming debris and shrapnel shot out in all directions, further destroying and heavily damaging the next six trucks, and igniting a large fire in the surrounding forest.
Hunter twisted the ’XL over and was quickly passing over the target from the south. The combined explosions had created a massive crater some thirty feet across, instantly rendering the road impassable. Already he could see those trucks that had survived the strike were hastily backing up and returning to the hidden mountain passageway.
“Target destroyed,” he said coolly into his microphone.
In all the pinpoint airstrike had taken thirty-two seconds. More than two hundred Cult soldiers and a total of ten vehicles were incinerated.
He put the ’XL into a steep climb and rejoined the Skyhawk and the Tornado in the 4000-foot orbit. Already Tandy’s target system was beeping again.
“We’ve got some mechanized movement on the west side, at Two-Two-Henry-Victor,” he called over to Hunter. “Probably tanks, with some APCs. I’d say half dozen to a dozen vehicles.”
Hunter punched in the target’s coordinates and the F-16XL whooshed off to the next trouble spot. He was over the enemy column in ten seconds. Looking down from 4000 feet, he could see it snaking its way down a mountain road toward a bridge which spanned one of the island’s many ravine-like crevices.
“We’ve got nine tanks and two APCs,” he told the A-4 and Tornado pilots. “The bridge is a two-lane concrete. Support structure is obscured.”
“We can go right in on top,” the A-4 pilot radioed over. “I got a
PAVEWAY
on a 500-pounder that might collapse the bridge.”
“We can’t get them all,” Tandy reported, following the progress of the tank column via his TV screen target system. “Half will be over before we have time to frame it. Thirty seconds and they’ll all be over.”
Hunter considered the situation. Hitting both the bridge and the tank column was the most economical thing to do, given their limited resources. But how could he slow up the enemy convoy in its attempt to dash over the span before they could deliver the
PAVEWAY
laser bomb?
He had the solution in a quarter of a second. Flipping the ’XL over, he was soon screaming down toward the bridge. The first tank in the column had just reached the northern end of the bridge, but now, spotting the three prowling jets, it had shifted into high gear and in a burst of smoky exhaust began rumbling across, the other eight vehicles close behind.
Hunter brought the ’XL down to the tree-scraping height of seventy-five feet, and in one motion illuminated his laser target designator and opened up with his nose cannons. His first line of tracer shells impacted all over the lead tank just as it had reached the other side of the short span. Its driver, either hit or startled, predictably slammed on the brakes, causing the second-in-line tank to slam into his rear, and setting up a chain reaction that ran right through the column.
Three seconds later, the A-4 screeched overhead again, and unleashed the 500-pound
PAVEWAY
-equipped bomb. The bomb quickly deployed its steering mechanism and followed Hunter’s laser-beam-generated path to the target. The missile slammed into the bridge just behind the lead tank and exploded as it was passing through the roadway, taking tanks two and three with it.
The bridge teetered for what seemed like a very long time, long enough for Hunter to punch the ’XL into afterburner. As he was streaking directly over the bridge it began to go down, slowly at first, but then gaining deadly momentum as the combined weight of the trapped tanks aided in its fall. By the time he did a tight turn and passed over the target again, there was nothing left. Tanks, soldiers, and bridge were all gone, disappearing into the flame and jungle below.
“Second target scratched,” he reported.
Reports from the other two Task Force flights were coming in now.
The Viggens had destroyed a small, hidden port facility located on the north end of the island near a place called Huda, and then set aflame a vast fuel storage yard located on a small island off the western coast called Togi Shima. They were now attacking a column of troops moving down from the north with their cannons.
Using a
HARM
antiradiation missile, the Strikefighter and the Yugo had scored a major hit by finding and setting fire to what had to be the island’s major power station, a huge camouflaged facility located in a dug-out crevice area, about two miles south of Shuri. As soon as this report came over, radio traffic inside Shuri dropped by fifty percent, a sure sign that the underground facility had lost a substantial amount of its electrical power. The aerial odd couple were presently strafing the facility.
Hunter checked the time. It was now 0620. They were keeping pretty much to their timetable, despite the high levels of smog and smoke obscuring important targets.
Things were going so well, Hunter dreaded implementing the next phase: signaling the entire strike force that it was time to return to the
Fitzgerald.
But it had to be done. The airstrikes, while certainly beneficial, were actually a little bit of window dressing. Their ferocity and accuracy had apparently convinced the Cult that they were being attacked in force from the air from all sides. Indeed, this was the intent.
But each airplane was using up precious fuel, and that was the lifeblood of the Task Force. So the plan called for the first strike to return to the carrier after barely twenty minutes of operation. Only Hunter would remain over the island.
The woman named Aja opened the massive door to her underground chamber on the first knock.
Two men—a major general of her Imperial Guard and a young ensign pilot—walked in. Both were trembling, and with good reason. The entire mountain was shaking—not with the usual sounds of its underground machinery, but with the crash and rumble of explosions impacting all around it. The lights inside the chamber were flickering, the result of power outages and short circuiting that were now running rampant through the huge manufacturing facility.
Yet the major fear of the two men was the woman herself. She looked very serene in light of what was happening …
too
serene. Plus she had asked for both of them—the high officer and the lowly pilot—specifically by name. For what reason, they did not know.
She turned to the major general first.
“What is the present situation?” she asked him calmly.
“We are still under attack,” the senior officer replied shakily, the mountain suddenly rumbling again as if to underscore his point. “However, our troops are deploying to counter the enemy.”
“Are these United Americans who are bombing us?”
“We believe they are,” the officer replied quickly.
“But where did they come from?”
“We believe they have connived to gather approximately twenty ships within the area,” the officer answered, again with some zip. “Possibly more. It appears to be some kind of last-ditch effort.”
“Could it be the same people who bombed our homeland?”
The officer froze. He had no idea that the Home Islands had been bombed.
“I can’t say …” he stuttered for a reply. “I wasn’t made aware of trouble back in …”
She held up her hand to interrupt him.
“Has there been an amphibious landing?”
The officer was recovering slowly. “We have no indications of a major landing, no,” he finally answered.
“Have any helicopter troops been spotted? Is it likely we will be invaded from the air?”
The officer froze again. He had no quick answer to this one. In all the confusion, he’d neglected to consider this very frightening possibility.
“With these people,” he said slowly, “anything is possible, apparently.”
“How many of our airplanes are in flying condition?”
“Eighty percent!” the general replied, almost in a shout, the volume of his voice belying his terrified state.
The woman smiled at him. “And how many can be launched from our cave airstrip?”
“If all the elevators are working, four can launch simultaneously every ten seconds,” he replied nervously. “Most of the entire workable fleet can be away in three hours. I believe they are waiting for your order to escape to safety, my lady.”
She laughed in his face. “You don’t really believe we have three hours, do you?” she asked him.
The woman then reached down, picked up the phone from her nightstand, and shouted three words into the receiver. Though the words were actually in code, the two men knew she had just given the go-word for the Zeros still within the underground facility to take off.
She added that the airplane known as the Sukki be brought up to the airstrip and prepared for launch. Then she calmly hung up the phone and turned to the trembling young ensign.
“What is your name again?” she asked him.
“Ensign Soho, my lady …”
“Can you fly the Sukki jet, Soho?”
He nervously nodded his head yes. “I am the only one here who can,” he replied.
“Then take off your pants,” she commanded him.
Both men became very confused.
“My pants?”
She nodded very serenely. “Yes, hurry,” she said.
The young pilot quickly complied, his face equal shades of flushed embarrassment and ghost-white pallor.
The woman immediately went to her knees and began performing fellatio on the man. He became aroused. Then, letting her gown drop, she guided the young man to her bed and ordered him to insert himself. He did, and after fifteen seconds of furious pumping, the bewildered man climaxed.
She then ordered him to get dressed again.
“Have you ever heard of the
Fire Bats?”
she asked him. “Do you know what they are?”
The young ensign nodded, still confused as he put his pants back on. Every member of the Cult knew of the ultrasophisticated submarines which had their nuclear-tipped missiles pointing at the West Coast of America. That they were under Cult control was considered a major achievement, an example of the Cult’s projection and power. It was a point hammered home by the Cult’s high command on the lower ranks continuously.