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Lee sincere stared in wonder at the blinking, beeping arrays of electronics that the AVA techies had jammed into his little relic of the first world war. My God, he thought to himself, they even managed to fit a basic radar system in here. He grinned and shook his head. His first mate glanced at him. "Whatcha thinkin’, Cap’n?" Lee just made a small, soft laugh and said: "Oh, nothing really. I’m just sort of amazed at having you, know, something from the first world war decked out with all this technology. You wouldn’t think of it, really… I mean, just the radar – the radar!" He sat down in the swiveling chair in front of the radar screen and radio, grabbing the headset and jamming it onto his head. "This is the Sincere One to Wingnut, do you read me? Over." Wing’s voice, cool but alert, came in over the airwaves. "This is Wingnut, I read you. What’s on your mind? Over." Relief evident in his tone, Lee responded: "Wingnut, I’ve got three bogies, inbound. From the size of their signatures on my screen, they’re either helo’s or flying buildings. I don’t think they know about me or you, probably just reconnaissance and maybe some harassing. I bet them fifties you’ve got under your wing would cut em down right nicely…" After a second, he remembered to add: "Over." After a few seconds, a dry chuckle and "Roger that! Over." Lee glanced out the right side port hole and, sure enough, there went that old P-51, off to see some battle once more. It fit in nicely with the whole theme that their tiny air force followed.
A.J. could feel that telltale spice of adrenaline, the ever-so-subtle increased heart rate, and the anticipatory heightening of breath that came with heading into battle – especially so heading in from the cockpit of a plane. He moved the flight stick in small, experimental circles – and the nose of the plane followed exactly. That’s right baby… Spot on… He, not having the benefit of radar, was going to have to spot the choppers with the good old Mark I eyeball – and that suited him fine. In fact, he would probably see them first – they’d be watching the ground. Bet I can take one down before they even see me. After a minute or so, he saw them. Little more than black specks on the horizon at first, they soon grew into ugly black blobs, the rotors that threw off such massive radar signatures just blurs on top. They were in line-abreast formation, two fat ones on the outside – probably Hueys, he thought – and a skinny one in the middle. Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, they must have gotten their hands on a snake. Then, he noticed, faint against the blue sky, something that scared the shit out of him real fast – the trail of smoke that appeared behind an air-to-air missile. Before he could think about it, his well-trained hands flipped the plane upside down in an overhead somersault, then rolled it right side up again, and adjusted the heading straight into the sun. He squeezed his eyes shut and, after ten or so seconds, rolled down and out of the sun’s blinding light. He looked over his shoulder and was glad to see a smoke trail as the heat-seeking head sought to blow up the sun… Then, grimly, he put his sights on the skinny little chopper, aimed a little up to give the shells space to fall, and squeezed the trigger. The airplane bucked a little and a line of tracers, dim in the bright midday sun, arced out in a line to meet their target. Some, of course, missed – but he kept the tracers on target as the distance closed, rolling this way and that to avoid shells coming from the attack choppers chin-mounted minigun. He zoomed past and immediately pulled up into a high overhead loop, intending to come back down on the helo’s from the direction of the sun. As they came into view, he saw – with great satisfaction – the attack chopper end it’s downward spiral as it collided with the ground. The sound never reached him, but the explosion was quite impressive from the low altitude at which they were flying. I feel like a Nazi taking down miniature B-17’s, he thought to himself. He didn’t know whether to be amused or mortified. It didn’t much matter: war was war was war. He cut down the other two helicopters as they attempted to turn and run – it was cruel, but they would have undoubtedly done the same, and he wanted the invaders to have as many surprises as possible.
"Senor! Senor! The gringos know we’re coming! They just shot down our helicopters!" The communications officer was so surprised he forgot to use the words "Generalissimo," and "Sir." The Generalissimo – so shocked he didn’t care about the lack of an honorific – stared at the man beside him in the back of the truck – his command truck, which had been modified to accept a large number of pieces of communications equipment. "What? How can this be!?" A thousand thoughts ran through the commander’s mind, foremost amongst them: If they are this well prepared, can we possibly win against them? He paused, terrified. "Generalissimo, what shall we do? Sir?" This was the communications officer, again, now remembering to use the correct form of address. He shook his head. "Advance as normal, but tell our anti-aircraft crews to be on the alert. This is, of course, the same pilot that attacked our fort – they have no real airpower. If he wandered into range of our SAM batteries with such an ancient aircraft…" His underling saluted. "Yes sir!" The communications officer resumed his work, and the Generalissimo returned to his work of groping the army’s most talented purveyor of pleasure. He hissed in pleasure.
"Well, shit. I don’t know if I ought to let you guys do this." Tesla doubtfully eyed the group of men in front of her. First and foremost in her mind stood the sullen creeper. True, he had just downed a couple of birds sent out by the Mexicans… But still, he was from Hell’s Angel’s, for God’s sake! Some of the stories that came out of towns that particular gang of creepers visited… Some of the towns they visited that didn’t have anyone to take a story out… Shit shit shit. One of the ment standing a little to the left of the creeper stepped out a little. "Bishop Singer, right?" she said to him. He nodded, then said: "Look, ma’am – we’re all of us experienced fighters here. If he turns on us, maybe even with the help of a couple of his buddies, chances are good that at least 2 of us would come out of it alive – and all the truckers." Tesla shook her head. "That aint good enough. I will not send five men out to a likely death to retrieve a mythical cache of weapons from the heart of one of the most-feared gangs of creepers out there! I will not! I need every vigilante, and even some of the creepers that have showed up, to defend this country until the United States Army, such as it is, can get here! Do you understand?" Once again Bishop shook his head. "Do you really expect me to believe that if we died, it would affect the outcome of this battle? Both you and I know that’s a lie. We also know that this cache may very well give the Mexicans a turn for the worse. I mean shit, the man said that he had a couple twelve inch artillery guns, and ammo to fire ‘em all day. If there are no guns there, no great loss-" Tesla winced at a man calling five lives "no great loss," even if he was close to right in this situation "- but if there are, we need to know!" Once again, she gave the group facing her a good long look. Experienced and tough sons of bitches, every last one of em. And the truckers – fifteen of them, with eighteen wheelers to match – weren’t spring chickens either. She sighed deeply. "Fine, go, just make sure you come back alive."
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