An uncomfortable tingle crept up and down Hawke's neck. He'd had this feeling many times before, in the presence of dictators, drug lords, mercenaries, and any number of thugs who had wanted him dead.
He never thought he'd get that same feeling from an officer in the US Navy.
Can I even call him that? He took a sideways glance out Airwolf's cockpit, watching the blue waters of the Pacific pass under him. At the same time, he also glimpsed Brent Ross sitting in the helicopter's right jump seat. The young lieutenant's intense eyes shifted back and forth between him and Santini, watching for the slightest hint of betrayal. Hawke had no doubt if either of them did anything suspicious, Ross wouldn't hesitate to kill them, even at the cost of his own life.
He sighed to himself. He wondered if Ross would be more comfortable in those dark blue World War II-style uniforms worn by Yonaga's crew instead of his beige US Navy fatigues. The guy seemed to show more loyalty toward Admiral Fujita and the Japanese than his own nation's navy.
Just how insane is that other Earth? The last two words made Hawke grimace under his helmet. He still found it hard to accept the fact there was more than one Earth.
The California coast soon appeared as a brown strip on the horizon. Black smudges stained the sky. Smoke from the fires in Los Angeles and San Diego. It wasn't long before Airwolf went "feet dry" and turned north. Forests and dark, rigid mountains stretched before them.
Ten minutes Hawke spotted a long dirt strip in the middle of the forest. A few battered Quonset huts were scattered around it, along with a Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopter and four Land Rovers, all painted green to make it look like they belonged to the US Forest Service.
Hawke swung Airwolf around, lowered the landing gear and flared the engine. A banshee-like wail filled his ears as the helicopter hovered to a landing on Parcel No. 34-FS53-118-G23, the rather innocuous name for The FIRM's secret airfield in the San Gabriel Mountains. As the rotorblades slowed to a halt, Hawke noticed three men approaching Airwolf. Two were stout, wearing green overalls and carrying Uzi submachine guns. Between them walked a stocky man with a white beard and bulging stomach. Hawke smiled as he opened the door and hopped out.
"Oh my Lord, the famous Stringfellow Hawke." The older man beamed at him. "I'm overwhelmed you'd choose to set foot on my humble airfield."
"Save the BS for someone who'd actually buy it." Hawke grinned wide before shaking hands with Lonnie Noles, the man in charge of this airstrip. The two had known one another for nearly twenty years, going back to Vietnam, when Hawke flew Hueys and Noles served as a ground crewman for the CIA's Air America.
"Good to see you again, String."
"You too, Lonnie."
Noles looked over Hawke's shoulder as Santini and Ross approached. "Dom, how're ya doin? Who's the new guy?"
"Lieutenant Brent Ross, US Navy," Hawke answered. "Sort of."
Noles' face scrunched in a perplexed look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, we're involved in a rather . . . unique operation. But before I tell you about it, you better get ready to receive some more aircraft."
"How many more?"
"Oh, several . . . dozen."
Noles' eyes widened. "You kiddin' me? For cryin' out loud, this isn't LAX. We're set up to handle only a few planes at a time, not a whole damn air wing."
"C'mon, Lonnie. I know these FIRM airstrips keep a lot of fuel in underground tanks. And if you park these planes along the strip wingtip-to-wingtip, you should have just enough room."
"I don't have the ground crew for that many planes."
"The pilots will help you," Ross stated.
Noles looked at him, then back to Hawke, still apparently unsure about all this. "What kind of planes are we talking about?"
He paused. "Japanese A6M Zeros."
Noles tilted his head, shooting him a disbelieving look. "You're not serious, are you?"
Hawke exhaled slowly. "Well, Lonnie, if you think that's crazy, wait till you here where we've been the past few hours."
He gave him the short version of his and Santini's experience on the Yonaga, and the impending threat by the Arab fleet from the other Earth. Noles gaped at him most of the time. The two guards just stared at Hawke like he was insane.
After Hawke finished, Noles slowly shook his head. "String, if it wasn't for the fact I've known you for twenty years, I'd knock out your crazy ass, stuff you into one of our trucks and drive you to the nearest loony bin."
"Believe me, there've been times today I wanted to check myself in to a loony bin. But everything I said is true."
"And if you don't believe him, just look up there." Ross pointed toward the sky.
Several dark shapes appeared, all headed toward the airstrip.
"Well I'll be damned," Noles stammered. He shook his head, then started barking orders. Before long thirty men in green overalls hurried around the airfield. Two fuel trucks rolled out of one of the Quonset huts. Ground crewman got into position, ready to direct the Zeros to their parking areas.
Just as the first plane touched down on the dirt strip, Noles introduced the three to a lean, tan-skinned man with aviator shades.
"This is Rick Baldelli, my number two man here. I want you to tell him the same crazy-ass story you told me. We need to get this to Archangel."
"You mean you can radio him?" Surprise coated Santini's voice.
"No, we can't." Noles bobbed his head from side-to-side. "Well, that's not entirely true. We've been trying the radio regularly, and a few hours ago we did manage to contact FIRM HQ. Not that it amounted to much. We managed to exchange a handful of words before the static got too bad. The best we can do is give Rick here an R/T unit," he referred to a Radio/Telephone, "and have him drive about twenty miles east. That seems to be where this . . . electrical interference ends."
Hope shot through Hawke. He wondered, he prayed, that those few moments of radio contact meant the interference caused by the dimensional portal was abating.
More Zeros landed. As soon as the pilots got out of their planes, they were pressed into service as ground crewmen. Some complained, mainly the younger ones. Matsuhara put an end to that quickly. Hawke spoke no Japanese, but whatever Yonaga's air group commander shouted to his griping subordinates proved effective. They hurried off to pump fuel, stuff chock blocks against wheels, direct planes to parking areas, whatever they needed to do. Hawke and Santini, meanwhile, helped one of Noles' men unload all of Airwolf's missiles. With the interference still screwing up their guidance systems, they were nothing but dead weight. Getting rid of the missiles would help improve Airwolf's already outstanding maneuverability. Hawke had been in enough air battles to know even the smallest advantage could mean the difference between life and death.
He frowned as he watched some of Noles' ground crew haul off the missiles on trolleys. He didn't like taking Airwolf into a major battle with its offensive capability cut in half. All he had to rely on was his 30mm chain guns. He also had the Sunbursts, but so what? They were just flares, used for countering heat-seeking missiles, meaning they'd be useless in the upcoming battle.
Even with Yonaga's pilots helping, getting the Zeros fueled and moved into take-off position took too long for Hawke's liking. He found himself staring out beyond the forest, imagining Los Angeles many miles to the south, imagining the Al Bayda's planes reigning bombs on the Port of Los Angeles.
He tensed as the feeling returned, the same one he had back on Yonaga. The feeling that their mission was doomed from the start.
XXXXX
Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, aka Archangel, stared in silent contemplation at the secure phone on his polished desk. Finger resting on his cheek, he swiveled slowly in his chair, replaying the report from Rick Baldelli. A World War II Japanese carrier from a parallel Earth trying to stop an Arab carrier battle group, also from a parallel Earth, from attacking the Port of Los Angeles. Any sane man would dismiss such a report, no matter if it came from the second-in-command of a FIRM secret airstrip, no matter if he used all the proper authentication codes.
But Archangel was a sane man, a sane man who had seen a lot in his life. Or if he hadn't seen it, he read about it, read about things that sounded like something out of the pulp magazines he read as a kid.
Thank God Hawke and Dominic are involved in this. Those two had been through more than their share of intense situations, and were probably more capable of dealing with something this extraordinary than most people associated with The FIRM.
Well, they have their job to do, and I have mine.
Archangel stood, stretching his tall, lanky frame. He grabbed his cane and exited his office. He headed down the hall to the elevator and punched the button for Sub-Level Seven. After enduring over a minute of a soft piano version of The Carpenters' "We've Only Just Begun," the elevator jerked to halt. When the door opened, Archangel found himself staring down a bland white corridor that ended in a thick steel door. He walked toward it and inserted his ID badge into a slot in the wall. The bulb just above it switched colors from red to green. He then leaned toward a small grill.
"Michael Coldsmith Briggs the Third, Deputy Director, Codename Archangel. Password, Snowbird Thirty-Three."
Seconds later a glass display above the grill lit up, revealing the words ACCESS GRANTED.
The steel door rose. Archangel entered the room and was greeted by the sight of rows and rows of filing cabinets. He headed for the third row to his left, past one cabinet, two, three, four . . .
He stopped at the fifth one. Bending down slightly, he pulled open the middle drawer and thumbed through the manila folders until he came to the one he wanted. He pulled it out and gazed at the cover.
SP1943-591-FG
CODENAME: PHILADELPHIA EXPERIMENT
XXXXX
Hawke's eyes flickered in all directions. He scanned the horizon for any sign of enemy planes. He scanned the Zeros around him. Most importantly, he scanned Airwolf's fuel gauge. Every time he did, he calculated how long it would be before he hit "Bingo Fuel" and would have to return to the FIRM airstrip. The nervous ripple in his gut intensified as he got closer to that time. Would Al Bayda's planes show up just when they'd have to leave? Would the Zeros in the second air group all be on station before the first group had to depart?
This would be so much easier with radar and radios. Hawke had tried both a few times over the past half-hour. He did pick up a few, garbled words over the radio. The radar screen, however, showed nothing but a big blue electronic blob.
Airwolf and the Zeros continued flying a racetrack pattern twenty to twenty-five miles southwest of the Port of Los Angeles. Hawke glanced at the fuel gauge and grimaced. In about ten minutes he'd have to head back to the air strip to refuel. Probably a good thing the Arabs haven't shown up yet. Air Combat Maneuvers ate up a lot of fuel. He'd rather have the second group of Zeros get here, with fuller tanks, to engage the Arabs. He checked to the northeast for any sign of the relief squadron.
"Multiple bandits from the southwest!" Ross hollered.
Hawke's head snapped in that direction. His heart pumped furiously.
Dozens of dark shapes appeared on the horizon. Al Bayda's air wing. It had to be.
Hawke steadied his breathing. "You ready for this, Dom?"
"Like I have a choice?" Santini scoffed.
"I'll take that as a yes." Hawke grinned beneath his helmet.
He scanned the approaching squadron again. They looked to be coming in at around 19,000 feet, roughly 2,000 feet lower than Airwolf and the Zeros.
Perfect.
Hawke's thumb hovered over the button for the turbojets. This would burn up a bunch of fuel, but Commander Matsuhara had been insistent on this before they left the FIRM airstrip.
"The sight of your helicopter using its jets, diving into their ranks, will surely surprise Kadafi's killers. Then my Zeros will pounce on them before they can recover."
He couldn't argue with Matsuhara's logic. They had to use any advantage they could against the larger Arab squadron. It meant being unable to return to the FIRM airstrip, but stopping the attack on the Port of Los Angeles took precedence.
"Dom, deploy the chain guns."
"Chain guns deployed."
"All right. Hold on."
Hawke smashed the turbojet button with his thumb.
A whoosh and a screech filled Airwolf's cockpit. The helicopter shot forward. The Arab squadron grew larger by the second. Hawke dipped Airwolf's nose and went into a dive. He started making out details of the planes. The blunt shape of the Me-109 fighters. The distinct gull wings of the Stuka dive bombers. The rounded fuselage of the A-6 Texan torpedo planes.
Hawke aimed for a gap between a pair of Me-109 formations. He glimpsed a few pilots looking up at him, the shock evident in their body language.
He blew past the fighters, focusing on a formation of Stukas below.
Short bursts. Short bursts.
The gun pipper settled over the lead plane. Hawke's finger tapped the trigger on his cyclic stick. A line of yellow tracers streaked through the sky. Flames burst from the Stuka's engine. The glass canopy shattered. The dive bomber lurched to the left and spun toward the ocean.
Several Arab planes banked away from Airwolf. Formations broke apart. Hawke targeted another Stuka. A burst of 30mm rounds blew off the dive bomber's tail. It twisted out of control and fell from the sky.
Hawke shoved the stick to the right. Airwolf went into a tight turn back to the Arab squadron. He clenched his teeth and groaned as an invisible hand pressed down on him.
Me-109s, Stukas and Texans turned wildly, flying in all directions. Some planes attempted to get back in formation. Others plowed through the sky with no idea what to do. Still others held their course and continued toward the Port of Los Angeles.
Hawke dove on a pair of Texans. Something flashed from the rear of one plane's canopy. Seconds later tracers shot past Airwolf. He held his breath for a moment, but kept going. The Texan's 7.9mm rear machine gun didn't have much chance of penetrating the helicopter's armor.
Two more bursts from the Texan's rear gun also missed Airwolf. Hawke tapped the cyclic stick's trigger. Tracers ripped into the Texan's left wing, slicing it off. As it spun toward the Pacific, the other Texan banked right and tried to make a run for it.
The lumbering torpedo bomber didn't have a prayer against Airwolf. Hawke easily caught up to it and triggered another 30mm burst. An immense fireball consumed the Texan. Two pings echoed through the cockpit. Shrapnel.
Musta hit the torpedo.
Silvery glints caught Hawke's attention. He looked up and spotted a Zero with a distinctive red cowling. Matsuhara's plane. Behind him flew several more Zeros. They shot past the Arab fighters, going for the slower bombers. Tracers tore through the sky. Three Stukas and two Texans tumbled toward the water in flames. The rear gunners from several Arab bombers fired back. None hit any Zeros that he could see.
More of Yonaga's fighters joined the furball. Dozens of planes twisted and turned and dove and burned in a chaotic and deadly ballet. A surge of elation went through Hawke. They'd knock down every single Arab plane before they got close to the Port of Los Angeles. He just knew it.
The adrenaline-induced joy quickly faded when he saw a Zero fall from the sky, trailing flames. Two Me-109s pounced on another Zero that was lining up a Stuka. The Japanese plane tried to bank away from the threat, but wound up peppered by 7.9mm slugs. Ugly black smoke poured from the Zero as it spiraled into the ocean.
Hawke spotted a formation of four Texans dropping toward the water, still on course for Los Angeles. He pointed Airwolf's nose at them and gave chase. It didn't take long to catch up to the slow-moving planes. Two of the rear gunners fired at him. Both sets of tracers went wide to the right. Hawke lined up the gun pipper on the trailing Texan and –
"Two fighters behind us!" Ross yelled.
Hawke immediately banked left. Yellow tracers shot past his peripheral vision. He swung Airwolf back to the right and checked his rearview mirror.
Two Me-109s barreled toward him.
He banked again. Another line of tracers missed him. The 109s were a lot more dangerous than the Stukas or the Texans. While Airwolf's armor could easily withstand the Me-109's 7.9mm machine guns, they also packed 20mm cannons. A few hits from those could seriously ruin their day.
Hawke climbed, checking on the Me-109s. Both stuck with him, their fuselage-mounted guns winking. More pings sounded from Airwolf's rear as 7.9mm rounds found their mark.
G-forces pushed against his body. He tightened his stomach and grunted, climbing higher, higher. With a prolonged grunt he twisted Airwolf to the left, leveled out and sped toward the open ocean.
"MEs turning with us," Santini reported, his voice strained by the Gs.
Hawke grimaced. He didn't want to do this and burn up more fuel, but given the circumstances . . .
He fired the turbojets and circled around. When the Me-109s came into view he cut the jets. Both fighters maintained their turn. Hawke briefly wondered if the two pilots were stunned by how fast Airwolf could fly and turn.
The thought evaporated. Time to get down to business.
Hawke's first burst missed wide left. Dammit! It was like he had unlimited ammo in the chain guns.
His next burst chopped off the lead Me-109's left wing. It nosedived toward the ocean. Hawke noticed a human figure fall from the plane and open a parachute just as he lined up on the second fighter. Tracers ripped into the fuselage just behind the canopy. The Me-109 went up in a cloud of orange and black as its fuel tank detonated. No one would be bailing out of that plane.
Hawke searched for more targets, specifically more bombers. They were the priority.
He spotted well over a dozen, a mixture of Stukas and Texans, growing smaller by the second, all headed toward the Port of Los Angeles.
All around him Zeros and Me-109s dueled. He saw a few Zeros try to break away and go after the bombers. Most were set upon by Arab fighters. Some Zeros turned to engage. Others fell into the ocean in flames.
Hawke's lips tightened. He didn't want to run out on the Japanese, yet he couldn't let those bombers reach the port.
Matsuhara and the others can take care of themselves. The mission comes first.
He figured Matshuara, Fujita and the other Japanese would agree.
That's when he turned around to face Brent Ross.
The Navy officer, this "American Samurai," met his gaze with a penetrating one of his own. Hawke felt a slight chill, like the younger man could read his thoughts.
"Let's get 'em," Ross said coolly, nodding in the direction of the bombers.
Hawke nodded. He turned back around and gunned the engine. He held off using the turbos. One more burst and he doubted he'd have enough fuel to take out all the Arab bombers.
He coaxed every ounce of speed he could from Airwolf's engines. Still he never seemed to be able to catch up with the Stukas and Texans.
And the Port of Los Angeles stood out clearly several miles away.
C'mon, girl. C'mon!
His breathing increased. Slowly, much too slowly, he gained on the Arabs.
An A-6 Texan droned over the ocean five hundred yards away. Four hundred. Three hundred. Its rear gunner opened up. The tracers didn't come close to Airwolf. Hawke waited until he was two hundred yards away when he opened fire. Smoke belched from the Texan's rear. It plunged into the ocean. A wall of blue and white exploded around it.
The Port of Los Angeles came into full view. Rows of multi-colored crates stretched out in all directions, interspersed by warehouses and administrative buildings. Cranes lined the docks, many of which were occupied by cargo vessels of all sizes, along with a couple gleaming white, multi-story cruiseships.
A Stuka went into a near-vertical dive. Seconds later a dark object fell from its belly. A string of curses went through Hawke's mind as he helplessly watched the bomb continue its decent.
A gusher of flames erupted from one of the big steel corrugated buildings.
"Dammit!" Hawke scowled, pushing the engine to full military power. To hell with worrying about fuel. He wanted to kill all these bastards.
A Texan dropped its torpedo into the water. A white wake raced just under the surface toward one of the massive cargo ships. Hawke shook with rage as a volcanic blast of water erupted next to the vessel. An instant later smoke and flames rose from the deck.
Less than a minute later Airwolf entered the fray.
A Stuka just started its dive when Hawke raked it with 30mm fire. The plane split in two. He then turned on two other Stukas. Both planes took evasive action, their rear gunners firing, and missing.
Hawke loosed a 30mm burst. A miss! He fired again. Fire and smoked poured from the trailing Stuka's right wing. It corkscrewed into the ground, exploding next to a row of cargo containers.
Hawke's next burst went into the second Stuka's cockpit. It exploded into a hundred shards of glass. The plane went into a dive and smashed into the water.
Airwolf swung around. A Stuka put its bomb into a row of containers. Two Texans lined up for a torpedo run on one of the cruiseships. Hawke dove on them. He sent 30mm rounds into the engine of the lead plane. It shuddered and crashed into the water. He sent another burst into the other Texan's wing, but not before it released its torpedo. Hawke growled as the plane spiraled into the water and shattered. Not long after that, a large column of water went up along the side of the cruiseship.
Another Texan, the last one Hawke could see, dropped to less than thirty feet above the water. Its nose was pointed at another huge cargo ship.
Hawke swung around, making a head on approach with the Texan. Thankfully, it didn't carry any forward-facing machine guns.
A line of tracers from the chain guns ripped through the Texan's engine. A cloud of black smoke burst from it as it dropped into the water.
Hawke drew back the stick and climbed, going for the remaining Stukas. One had dropped its bomb into one of the admin buildings. Anger boiled inside him. How many people were in that building?
Two Stukas remained, and both went into dives. One targeted a dry dock, the other a row of containers.
He could only get one.
The Stuka going for the containers was closest. He banked toward it, led the dive bomber and fired.
Miss.
He fired again.
Miss.
Hawke fought off the panic swelling inside him. He couldn't afford it. That bomb was going to drop any second.
He triggered another burst. The tracers tore through the Stuka's fuselage.
A bright flash blinded him. Sledgehammer blows rocked Airwolf. Nasally buzzes filled the cockpit.
Hawke gripped the cyclic stick and blinked. The world around him gradually came into focus.
"String!" Santini shouted. "You okay?"
He blinked a few more times before answering, "Yeah, I'm fine. What about you guys?"
"I'm okay," Santini answered.
"So am I," said Ross. "You must've hit that Stuka's bomb."
"Yeah, lucky me. Dom, what's the damage?"
"We've got a drop in engine power, radar mast is knocked out. Heh! Like that's a big deal, since it wasn't working in this interference anyway." Santini paused. "Aw, this ain't good."
"What?"
"The chain guns are off-line. Some'a that shrapnel musta taken out the firing mechanisms."
"Well isn't that dandy," Hawke growled. "What are we supposed to do without guns?"
Santini just sighed. "We still have the Sunbursts. Fat lot of good they'll do. Can't shoot down planes with flares, can we?"
"We may not have to worry, gentlemen. Look."
Hawke followed the direction Ross' finger was pointed. Hope punched through his anger.
The surviving Stukas and Texans were headed off toward the open ocean. Without any bombs or torpedoes, they couldn't do much more damage to the port.
More importantly, he didn't see any more bombers coming toward the port.
Maybe the Zeros dealt with the rest of them.
The tension that had been gripping his body melted off him. Hawke sagged in his chair. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
We did it. We actually did it.
He looked around the Port of Los Angeles. He couldn't help but frown when he saw the smoke and flames coming from the ships and buildings the Arabs had hit. Still, they'd only managed to connect with a half-a-dozen bombs or torpedoes. The damage to the Port of Los Angeles could have been much worse.
"So what now?" asked Santini.
"Well, we don't have a lot of fuel left. I'm sure this place has a heliport somewhere. As soon as we find it we'll -"
"Below, to the left!" Ross shouted.
Hawke snapped his head left. He felt the blood drain from his cheeks.
The water bubbled violently. Three metallic, cigar-shaped objects broke through the waves.
"Oh crap," Santini said in a hushed voice. "You gotta be kiddin' me."
Hawke didn't respond to his friend. He just stared at the objects, remembering the briefing on Yonaga about the Arab fleet.
One carrier, one cruiser, four destroyers. "They might have a couple old Gato-class submarines tagging along, though that hasn't been confirmed."
Well Hawke could confirm it. The Arabs didn't have a couple Gato-class subs. They had three of them sitting at the main entrance to the Port of Los Angeles.
TO BE CONTINUED
