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 and looked inside the small, wooden base.
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-1 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-1 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.
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, diving. 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 identified 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 .60s 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 attack 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-1 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-1 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 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-1 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-1 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-1 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-1 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.