“Dave, we’ve got air cover, for what it’s worth,” said Wicker. “But we can’t assess damage right now, looks like everyone is on his own.”
“Aiee-Yah,” muttered Mike as his AR-15 rifle jammed. Tossing it aside, he reached behind his back and drew his Walther. He hoped this thing doesn’t last too much longer. The Walther held only seven shots.
The Marine flight leader’s radio suddenly came to life. “Digger, I’ve got a bogey at one o’clock on my screen, its range is, ah… approximately fifteen miles and she’s headed right for us. Request permission to break off and intercept.”
“I see him, be careful.”
“Roger.”
As the right wing man broke formation and banked right, he saw the fast approaching Maryland Air National Guard A-10 Warthog.
“Air Guard A-10, this is Marine Hornet. Request response. A-10?” radioed the right wing man as his Hornet approached the mysterious jet aircraft. “Digger, I’ve got an Air Guard Warthog who will not respond to my hailing frequency, please advise.”
“ATC says there are no other authorized aircraft assigned to this sector, Repeat, no other authorized aircraft.” The flight leader and his remaining wing man immediately banked right to join their colleague.
Just as the right wing man received that message, the pilot of the Warthog opened fire with his 30 millimeter Avenger cannon.
“Hostile fire,” said the Marine pilot as he pulled back on his control stick as hard as he could and went into a steep climb. Sweat poured profusely down his face, fogging his face mask. The Warthog made a steep bank, turned around, and climbed after the Marine’s Hornet. The tracers in the Avenger ammunition belt streamed toward the Hornet. The faster Hornet lengthened the distance between it and the Warthog, but not before some rounds reached their target. Mindful of his position, the Marine pilot banked toward the Chesapeake Bay so that the aerial battle would not be fought over populated areas.
The flight leader and his left wing man followed in pursuit of the two jets. Within seconds, the two Marine airmen caught up with the two jets and noted that some of the rounds from the aggressor jet had struck the Hornet. A thin contrail of white smoke issued from the right wing of the Hornet, although it remained airborne and under control.
The flight leader maneuvered his Hornet behind the Warthog as the formation of four jets streaked over the sky above the Chesapeake Bay. The pilot of the Warthog dropped to near water level in an attempt to escape the Marine jets. The flight leader dropped to wave height as well and fired a warning shot from his M61 20 millimeter gun. The ground effect of such low level flying buffeted the two jets. Staying in the air required intense concentration.
The Warthog initiated evasive action, slewing sideways, climbing rapidly, and hugging the treetops on the shore. For a moment, the pilot of the Warthog captured the admiration of the two Marine pilots in hot pursuit, but that admiration was short lived as the flight leader’s avionics and fire control electronics homed in on the fleeing Warthog.
As he heard the tone and saw the green box flash in his heads up display, the Marine flight leader pressed his fire button and a slim AIM-9 Sidewinder missile dropped from its rack and made a bee-line to the Warthog, leaving a thin white contrail. The pilot of the Warthog banked sharply to the left and climbed frantically in an effort to escape the fast approaching Sidewinder, to no avail. The heat-seeking Sidewinder easily sought and acquired the exhaust port of one of the Warthog’s jet turbines. Few recognizable parts of the Warthog splashed into the gray-blue waters of the Chesapeake.
The right wing man requested and received permission to break formation and return to Pautuxent. The flight leader and his remaining wing man banked right and headed back to the ground action on Huntersville Road.
“Pautuxent Control. What was that about?” radioed the flight leader. “One Maryland Air National Guard A-10 downed and one of my wing men hit. Over.”
“Red Leader, Maryland Air National Guard reported one of their Warthogs was missing this morning. We just received the report on DODNet. Guess you found it.”
“Hope there aren’t any more surprises.”
“Me too. Pautuxent Control out.”
On the ground, the attack was over. The superior firepower and training of the Marines were evident in the body count. Twelve attackers lay dead on the road and in the woods. Several were taken down as their ammunition ran out and they sought to flee. The fleeing assailants were easy targets for the laser-equipped marksmen.
Besides Bernstein and the Marine lance corporal, two more Marines lay dead. This left a complement of about eleven men, including the three wounded men and Mike.
Hearing only reports from his Marines’ weapons, Lee concluded that the battle had run its course and his men were now shooting at each other. Without any effective way to stop the gun battle, Lee decided to do the only thing he could to get his men to stop firing. He rushed onto the road screaming, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!”
As the deafening roar of small arms fire ceased, the young mother looked out of her front windshield, still shaking violently from the fear she had for her kids’ safety and her own welfare. A religious person, she quietly thanked the Lord for delivering them from this danger.
Still shaking, but trying to compose herself for her children’s sake, the young mother tried to make light of the situation. “My, wasn’t that exciting? Just like T.V.”
The left front door of her yellow Cutlass was yanked opened. The young mother screamed as an unshaven, middle-aged John Trent slid into the front seat, pushing her over to the passenger side of the car. Holding a small automatic to the woman’s back, Trent yelled, “Stop screaming, lady, god damn it. God damn it.” He started the car and placed it into reverse.
“Hey! Some asshole’s getting away!” shouted Wicker, noticing the yellow sedan backing up.
He ran for the Suburban and jumped into the driver’s seat. He put the vehicle into gear and roared off after the sedan. Mike and the rest of the men ran toward the Cutlass.
Wicker’s Suburban caught up with the sedan just as Trent placed it into drive. Seeing that the vehicle contained not just the fugitive but also a female civilian and two small children, Wicker decided he had to stop the sedan at all costs.
Trent stepped hard on the accelerator. The car jerked forward and its front tires squealed as they grabbed the road. Trent, the woman and her children were slammed back into their seats as the Cutlass bolted forward at great speed. Wicker stepped hard on the accelerator of his Suburban, catching up to the sedan in a matter of seconds.
As Wicker’s Suburban drew parallel to the yellow sedan, he pulled his steering wheel to the right. The Suburban slammed into the side of the Cutlass with a loud crunch. With this maneuver, Wicker bumped the Cutlass into the brush lining the narrow road. The Cutlass came to a stop. Trent opened the front door, grabbed the woman around the neck, and pulled her out of the car.
The young mother screamed uncontrollably, as did her two small kids who cried, “Mommy! Mommy! Don’t let him hurt Mommy!”
Trent pointed his automatic at Wicker and pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off the Lexan window. Wicker murmured to himself, “Thank God for modern science.”
By this time, Mike and the others had reached the scene. Rifles were aimed at Trent and the screaming, crying, hysterical woman.
Mike stepped forward, Walther in hand. “Drop that weapon. No one is going to hurt you if you let that woman go.”