The Circle War (16 page)

land."

The explanation hit Hunter like a punch in the gut. In an instant, he realized the man's tragic plight. "How about airplanes? Some must have come through,"

he said.

"Sure," McDermott said, downing his drink. "Plenty of them in the first few weeks following the end of the war. All unauthorized. I was the fool. I decided to be all-Navy. I didn't believe for a minute that the country —that our armed forces would go along with the New Order double-cross. I was suje the fleet ... the real Navy . . . would come steaming over the horizon at any minute.

"Well, they didn't. And those assholes in the Hawaiian National Guard went on a rampage and destroyed every workable piece of military equipment on the islands. Sank all the ships in port. Pranged all the airplanes. Busted up all the radios. I've been stuck inside here ever since."

"You mean you never leave the base?" Hunter asked.

"I mean I never leave the building," McDermott answered. "The Tribes —the Tau Fin —rule this island, and me and the twenty-five guys I got left are all mainlanders. We're lucky they don't burn the place to the ground."

"Where are you from, Commander?" Hunter asked.

"Rhode Island," McDermott said, pouring another drink. Then he looked up at Hunter and asked, "Is it still there?"

Hunter slowly shook his head. The man laughed

163

bitterly. "Then why should I complain? I'm better off in the sun and fun of Hawaii."

Hunter wanted to get out of the place. He started to get back to business and ask the officer if he'd mind helping him search the Arizona, when he felt a very familiar feeling.

"Commander, are you sure you don't have any aircraft operating here?" he asked.

"Are you kidding?" McDermott laughed. "There hasn't been an airplane on any of these islands in three years."

Hunter's senses were tingling. "Well, there is now," he said, concentrating. "Heading this way. A lot of them."

"Ah, forget it," McDermott said, pouring his third drink. "No one within a thousand miles of here can fly a kite, never mind an airplane. Besides, it's Sunday. . ."

Hunter walked to the window and rubbed off some of the grime. He looked out to the northwest. Twenty, thirty of them, he thought. Slow. Low. Carrying something. Bombs, maybe.

He turned and looked McDermott. "Got any enemies, Commander?"

The officer pondered the question. But Hunter didn't have time to waste. "Get the hell of of here," he yelled to the man. Then he was out the door, down the stairs and running toward the Arizona Memorial. As he ran he could see the faint outline of a chevron of tiny dots approaching the island from out over the ocean. They were old airplanes, he knew. Prop jets.

164

He bounded down the pier next to the sunken battleship and up the gangplank.

If the airplanes were coming to attack, he couldn't take the chance of the black box being destroyed. The message that Josephs left behind said the box was stashed in the base of the flag pole that sat at the very top of the partially-submerged ship's conning tower.

Hunter scrambled up the ladder to the conning tower and was next to the flagpole just as the airplanes were turning toward the harbor. Two by two, the airplanes broke off and raced in low. They were old, but powerful A-l Skyraiders, similar to the ones back at PAAC-Oregon. The airplanes were dangerous. They were known for being able to carry more ordnance than B-17

bomber, yet were only slightly larger than the big fighters of World War II.

The first two airplanes streaked right over his head and released two bombs each. As if in slow motion, the four bombs slammed into a warehouse-like building two down from the dirty white officer's building. Four individual balls of smoke and flame erupted from the structure. The two A-Is peeled off to the right together.

Suddenly, two more attackers were over his head. They too let go a total of four bombs, theirs falling short of the first group and hitting the little used docking area nearby. He could see that other pairs of Skyraiders were attacking other targets in the base and in the city nearby.

Hunter knew it was a matter of time before the unknown assailants attacked the Memorial. He kicked out a panel at the bottom of the flagpole base 165

and looked inside the small, wooden base. I

Just like Josephs promised, there was a gray safe-like box inside the hollow base. Hunter dragged it out. A padlock was squeezing the lid shit. If the contents weren't so valuable he would have shot the lock off. But he chose to simply pick it instead. Using the stiletto he always kept with him, it twisted the padlock off and opened the box.

"Jesus Christ!" he had to exclaim. "It's here!" The box was black —shiny black. He could tell by the various connections and receptacles on its side the box was the genuine article. It had a tiny red light on its top and it was blinking. It was then he realized that for the first time in his trip, he really believed that the long-distance recovery operation might just work.

His excitement was cut short. He heard the unmistakable whine of a propeller airplane as it was turning to attack. He looked out and saw an A-l coming in at wavetop level, heading straight for the Memorial and his position.

He was up and firing the M-16 in less than a second. The A-l was fitted with a Vulcan cannon, which now opened up. A rain of shells exploded around him.

Hunter kept firing away trying to puncture the engine beyond the whirling prop enough times to make it stall. But the airplane was on him. Two bombs released from its wings and seem to hang in the air. With quick precision Hunter pumped four shots into each bomb, exploding one in mid-air and deflecting the other to fall short of the Memorial and into the water.

166

He knew he'd just made two of the luckiest shots in his career. He couldn't duplicate them if he tried. That's why he didn't want to be in the conning tower when the airplane came back. He quickly slammed the safe shut again and slipped it into his backpack. Then he was back down the conning ladder and running down the ship's deckways toward the gangplank.

The entire base and city were now under a crushing attack. It seemed like the entire sky was filled with airplanes — bombing, strafing, twisting, turning, div-,-ing. Another swarm of A-Is had joined the attack and they were mercilessly pounding everything from the dock to the skyscrapers nearby. He could see people running in terror through the streets outside the base. But no one was rushing to mount a defense from the inside.

He remembered the APC he'd seen near the base's main gate and ran toward, it.

There were a few sailors —all in the dirty, unpressed uniforms — running about, looking confused. Their commander— McDermott — was nowhere to be found.

Christ, where are the officers of these sailors? Hunter thought. No matter where he looked, he saw only enlisted men. It quickly became apparent that he would have to rally a defense.

He grabbed a sailor and pointed toward the APC.

"Can you drive that thing?" he yelled to him. The man nodded uncertainly.

"Then let's go!"

Hunter dragged the man with him toward the tankish-looking personnel carrier.

There was a .60 caliber machine gun mounted on it with a belt of 167

ammunition hanging off its side. Hunter crossed his fingers and hoped the gun would work.

Zig-zagging through the rain of exploding bombs and fiery debris, he and his reluctant ally reached the vehicle and climbed on-board. Explosions were going off all around them. A huge fire raged just 20 paces from the tracked vehicle.

Some of the attacking Skyraiders were strafing the APC, trying to take out what they had identifed as the only formidable piece of gunpower on the base.

Hunter knew he had to move fast.

The sailor crawled down into the driver's seat, while the airman positioned himself behind the big gun. He squeezed the .6tfs trigger. The gun bucked. He squeezed again, it bucked once, then twice. "C'mon you mother . . ." He squeezed again. This time the gun kicked and a short burst streamed out of the muzzle. "Solid," Hunter yelled, turning to the man at the controls. "Get me down to the pier!"

Slowly the APC creaked to life and right away Hunter knew the thing was a shitbox. Black smoke was belching out of the back, nearly choking him and making them a perfect target for the angrily buzzing Skyraiders. The engine sounded like it was going to throw a rod. The nervous sailor was driving like he'd just drunk a fifth of bad scotch. Somehow they dodged the shrieking bombs, the building fires and the smoking debris and rolled out onto the pier.

Despite the absolute lack of return groundfire, the A-Is were relentlessly pressed home their attack. Hunter had no idea who the attackers were, but they were polished airmen, he knew that much. The at-168

tack was being conducted in a very effective workmanlike manner. They had done this kind of thing before. The airplanes were all painted in the same uniform gray color, too, indicating some kind of organized force, as opposed to just a pirate gang. The only insignia he could see was three small red dots painted on the tails. Where the attackers came from or why they would choose to strike at the defenseless base and city was a mystery. But it made no difference to him. He didn't really care who they were. One of America's most precious memorials was, in danger of being destroyed and he refused to let it happen without firing back.

He had the sailor drive right past the Arizona on out toward the furthest point on the pier which ran about a hundred yards out into the harbor. The bombs were falling uncomfortably close to the Memorial. At least he could draw some of the fire from it. As the APC bumped its .way along, Hunter spotted his first target. It was a rogue A-l sweeping in from the north, just 10 feet off the water. The attackers had become emboldened and were now flying slow and easy, routinely depositing their bombs.

It was their mistake. Hunter lined up the first A-l in his sights and opened fire on it, no more than 50 feet away from him. A stream of shells walked up the surface of the bay toward a rendezvous with the Skyraider. Unlike his M-16

bullets, the .60 shells were able to rip into the airplane's fuselage. Hunter moved the stream of fire up to the airplane's canopy. The pilot, finally realizing he was under attack, tried to

169

accelerate. But Hunter saw his bullets hitting the plane's bubble-top and, just as it was passing out of his range, the airplane's canopy shattered and exploded. Its pilot mortally wounded, the A-l turned up slightly, then twisted and plunged into the water, exploding on impact.

He thought he heard his cohort let out a cheer, but Hunter didn't have time to celebrate. Another A-l was bearing down on them from the south.

"Back up! Back up!" Hunter yelled to the driver. He had to stay moving or the Skyraiders would eat him up. The APC slammed into reverse just as he unleased another burst at the A-l coming in at him about 300 feet away. This time he aimed at the Skyraiders' external belly tank. The shells hit home and the fuel inside the teardrop shaped tank exploded, obliterating the airplane just a hundred feet away from them.

Suddenly, a stream of cannon shells raked the APC from the rear. Hunter swung the big gun around to find another A-l bearing down on them. But before he could squeeze off a burst at the attacker, the vehicle was buffeted by a second accurate barrage, this one coming from his left. It was another Skyraider, sneaking in low and from the west. Hunter knew in a matter of seconds, the APC would be caught in a deadly crossfire.

He yelled at the sailor to bust the thing into forward and the driver rammed the APC into drive. The transmission screamed. Hunter was nearly knocked out of the turret and off the back of the vehicle. Recovering, he swung the gun around did

170

some instant calculations then took careful aim on the first A-l's starboard wing. He counted to three, then pulled the trigger and a two-foot section of the airplane's steering control ripped away. This caused the big prop plane to bank suddenly to the right and directly into the path of the second attacker.

The two A-Is hit head-on a few seconds later. The sound of the blazing collision was tremendous. A rain of smoking debris fell all over the APC. This time, Hunter didn't have to yell to the driver, he had already jammed the APC

back into reverse. The two Skyraiders, now strangely joined, plunged to earth, striking the pier near where the APC was seconds before. The airplanes exploded again, then kept right on going, taking out a large section of the dock and sinking into the harbor.

Hunter whistled. That was too close. A momentary break in the action let him take stock of the situation. He was glad to finally hear some return fire

—feeble as it was —coming from the city itself. Probably Tribesmen firing their small arms at the attackers. He could see a few sailors were up and about and doing the same thing.

The attack was gradually winding down. In twos and threes, the A-Is were dropping the last of their bombs and turning away off to the west. He told the driver to stop. No more Skyraiders came within his range. Within a minute, the attackers were gone.

They spun around and rolled forward again, back toward the base. Nearly half its buildings were in flames, as was a good portion of the city. Survivors were staggering about the docks, some still in their 171

sleepwear. Those few who had taken part in the defense were half-heartedly celebrating. Some of them rallied around the APC.

But Hunter knew the celebration was premature. High above the harbor he saw a single Skyraider slowly circling. He knew it was a spotter plane, charged with assessing the damage of the sneak air attack —and identifying targets for a second strike.

"They'll be back within two hours," Hunter told the ragged sailors around the APC." Get your asses in gear and find your CO. Get something coordinated with the people in the town and be ready when they come again."

He then climbed down from the APC and clasped the hand of the sailor who did the driving. "Thanks, pal. What's your name."

"Murphy, sir," the sailor said. "Mark Murphy."