Mike Mallory suggested to the farmer that he should drive over to the base and get food if need be, and Preston stated he would fly in to see what was going on there.
“Martie, why don’t you fly into Moody Air Force Base,” and he showed her on the map where it was, about 30 miles north of the Georgia-Florida border. “Tell them about General Allen and ‘Allen Key’ and see if they have anything flyable. If they do, tell them on behalf of General Allen to fly it up to Seymour Johnson. If they can’t refuel you, go straight into Robins Air Force Base in Macon, Georgia— it’s on your way home—and tell them the same thing. Hopefully they will give you fuel, but you should still have enough to get home. I’ll go into the Army base here and find out what the Army has in the area and try to get it moving up north.”
By this time, half of the ground troops were filing aboard the two aircraft and Mike and Buck took off to get the men back home. They would only have time for one more flight in and out during daylight and might have to get the last troops out the next morning.
Preston asked the farmer on the tractor if he could pull a few vehicles off the highway—three would be enough—so that anybody could land closer to the burned out wrecks on the other side of the bridge, and the farmer went about his mission with excitement.
An hour later Preston was sitting in the Army base commander’s office telling him the whole story. He had seen a straight piece of road inside the barracks. The 800 yards of two-lane tarmac road was clear, with no electrical wires, and he had gingerly put the P-38 down with several yards to spare on both sides.
The Army was pretty worried about an old aircraft landing in their private area, but it did have U.S. Air Force markings on it. For an hour, Preston told Colonel Peter Grady everything that had happened and that they were expecting an attack by the enemy in New York in about two weeks. The president was currently in North Carolina and was expected to start a food distribution program in a couple of days.
“What do you have that’s operational, Colonel,” Preston asked.
“We have 12 old transporters, and another ten loaned to the area’s National Guard that we can go and pick up,” he replied. “Apart from three old jeeps we use around here and a couple of fuel tankers from the 1980s, we have tried to start everything, and that’s all that works.”
“What sort of weapons and troops do you have?” was Preston’s next question.
“We have five old artillery pieces operational, training equipment from the 1970s. They are big boys, the older M198 155mm howitzers. They can fire two rounds per minute sustained, and we have 75 HE extended range 155mm projectiles in our armory. They have a range of up to 18 miles and the HE can put a good dent in anything out there that’s made of steel. Then, Mr. Strong we have ten of the older 105mm howitzers and those have a range of seven miles. We have 500 armor piercing projectiles stored for those. We have eight operational 5-ton howitzer transporters from the 1960s that still work and can pull those 155mm howitzers. We have another three flatbed trucks, which can carry the 100-lb. projectiles. Since we only have 75, we can fill the flatbeds up with the lighter 105mm projectiles that weigh just less than 50 pounds. As far as troops are concerned, we have 1,500 troops on alert and we need several companies of them to guard our base here. If we got a platoon of 30 troops into our 22 usable troop transporters each that would be 660 men with ten of the trucks pulling the 105mm howitzers. We could fill one of the jeeps with rations for a couple of days and head over to our nearest base just outside Atlanta for more rations. I know for sure that the colonel there has one or two more howitzers and I’m sure a couple of old trucks to pull them with.”
“Could your fuel tankers get you to each Army base between here and New York?” Preston asked.
“I think so. We might need the Air Force to drop us a bit of fuel, but if I stopped and picked up troops at each Army base between here and Fort Bragg, I reckon I would have three times as many vehicles, howitzers, and projectiles and we could have a convoy miles long by the time we reached New York.”
“Well, on behalf of the President of the United States of America, I have a letter enabling me to commandeer anything I think will help us defend the United States of America,” stated Preston pulling the letter out of his flight jacket.
“And what is your rank, Mr. Strong, if I may ask?” replied Colonel Grady checking the letter, direct from the White House.
“I’m of equal rank to General Allen, head of the U.S. Air Force, so that makes me a four-star general, Colonel.”
“Well General Strong, that’s good enough for me, sir. I can have my soldiers ready and out of our gates in six to eight hours. I aim to make four stops at other Army bases close to our route to increase our convoy before we reach Fort Bragg. I think that I can reach Fort Bragg in 48 to 60 hours, depending on how long the bases take to get their men ready.”
“Tell them to head north up I-95. You can clear the way, and with less traffic, they should catch up with you. Also remember, Colonel, its cold up there. Take every luxury you can to keep warm and all the food you can carry. You can stay at my place on your way up. The address is on this piece of paper. I will give you this letter dated four days ago from the president, and this is your authority to commandeer everything you can on your way to my location. Once you get close to Fort Bragg, use our frequency. I’ve also written it on this letter, and if you need supplies I will try and get a C-130 to land close to you. I suggest that you move a bulldozer or two out right now to start clearing a route for your men. The highways are congested with over-turned tractor trailers.”
“I forgot that we have an old tractor trailer carrying a bulldozer,” added the colonel. “The tractor itself has an armored front and steel fender to clear a pathway and the dozer can be pulled off to clear larger trucks. I’ll get them kitted up and out within the hour.”
After a few more minutes of discussion, Preston walked outside and hitched a ride with the colonel in one of the old jeeps back to his P-38, which was being guarded by a couple of armed soldiers. They shook hands, and Preston started the aircraft, much to the delight of the dozen military onlookers. He taxied as far down the road as he could, turned around, and completed his final checks. It was a well-paved piece of asphalt about 200 feet shorter than his airfield. Luckily, there were no buildings to get over at the end, only a 4-foot high fence surrounding a sports field.
Just to make sure, he gunned both engines before releasing the brakes and sped down the road, past the onlookers halfway down, and left the road 100 feet before the fence. He pulled the stick back hard and went high and fast to get out of the building area before turning his aircraft back towards I-20 East and bringing his engine revs down a notch.
He landed back on the road 20 minutes later where the famer had cleared enough space to get pretty close to the burned-out vehicles. He had only been away two hours, and already the fires were out and there were several soldiers carrying dead bodies and equipment as he turned the aircraft around and closed down the engines. He got a situation report from a Marine lieutenant and was handed three unharmed satellite cell phones.
The lieutenant went through the list of injured. They had one dead soldier and three slightly wounded men. On the enemy’s side there were nine injured. The two medics had done their best, but seven of them had already died. Two were still alive, but they were not sure they would make it through the rest of the day.
So, his final count was two still alive, 143 bodies and 51 sets of Chinese boots. His men had done a full sweep and had found several more dead bodies, but nobody alive. There were 50 vehicles, of which two still worked but had flat tires. Thirty-three were blackened remains, and 17 had given up a little merchandise here and there. There was very little equipment that wasn’t damaged. The farmer on the tractor came up and smiled, his job done. Preston was about to thank him when he heard the unmistakable sound of a C-130 coming in.