Final Storm by Mack Maloney

consumption would be higher at the relatively slow speeds they’d be traveling to stay with the big cargo planes.
    Also assigned to the third group was a squadron of AC-130U gunships. The attack version of the Hercules transport, these planes were the latest incarnation of the “Puff the Magic Dragon” AC-47 gunships that served in Vietnam. Flying out of Hurlburt Field near Fort Walton Beach, Florida, the AC-130s were on their way to support Special Forces Operations in Europe and the Med. They carried an awesome amount of firepower—a 25-mm Gatling gun capable of a sustained fire rate of 6,000 rounds per minute, a 40-mm cannon, and a 105-mm howitzer on special mounts by the left rear cargo door.
    And they were all wired in to a AN/APG-70 digital fire-control radar system. With their Forward-Looking InfraRed (FLIR) and Low Light-level TV (LLTV) sensors, they could pinpoint an enemy position with devastating accuracy, day or night.
    Hunter had seen these planes do their deadly work before and it had definitely left an indelible impression. In a test run performed on a designated target area, one AC-130 gunship making one pass had blanketed an area the size of a football field with thousands of rounds of multicaliber shells from their Gatlings, cannon, and howitzers. When the smoke cleared away, every single square foot of earth had been hit. Nothing could survive that kind of fire control intensity.
    Of course, Hunter had to once again remind himself that the gunships, like the smaller Thunderbolts, didn’t have much of a defensive capability. The AC-130s slow speed and nonexistent maneuverability limited its effectiveness against heavily defended targets or targets protected by enemy fighters. Their new Kevlar lightweight armor would protect the crew against stray small arms fire from defending troops, but that was about it.
    Now, as the AC-130s took off, their fuselages crammed with spare ammo for their Gatlings, cannons, and 105mm howitzers, Hunter’s F-16s were to fall in behind them, lifting off last to form the trailing edge of the air bridge. By “riding drag” on the tail of the convoy, the supersonic fighters would be able to kick in their afterburners and catch up to the others if there was any trouble.
    But what kind of trouble could there possibly be at 40,000 feet over the Atlantic?
    Plenty …
    “Falcon flight leader ready for takeoff. Request tower clearance …”
    Hunter was surprised at how detached his voice was—as if he were outside himself listening to another person.
    “Roger, Falcon leader,” the tower’s own disembodied voice replied. “Your flight is cleared for take off on runway three-niner, eastbound. Wind speed is five knots, from the east-southeast. Ceiling at fifty-thousand …”
    Hunter then led the six F-16s down the runway, gradually building speed until they ascended into the bright December sky over Virginia. Once they were airborne and organized, he picked up the proper heading for the first leg of the journey, then rose to join up with the rest of the convoy.
    He looked out of the F-16’s canopy at the fading coastline of the eastern United States. The sky was clear, the sun was bright; but still his uncanny “sixth sense” told him that somehow, it would be a long, long time before his eyes would see another dawn in America.

Chapter 9
    T HE FIRST FIVE HOURS of escort duty passed without incident.
    The convoy, stretched out over 75 miles, was riding smoothly, seven miles high, and so far executing a perfect chapter out of the textbook on formation flying.
    The flight of F-16s, led by Hunter, traced long, lazy ‘S’ curves above the ponderous flock of AC-130s and airborne tankers, who plodded straight ahead. The zig-zagging was necessary to keep the speedier Falcons from racing ahead of the slower transports.
    Still, the time gave Hunter the opportunity to think—not always the best thing to do when one was about to go to war. He remembered one of Jones’s more famous