Previously on Jake Hammer:  On his way home from a routine delivery flight, Jake encountered severe thunderstorms that forced him to make an emergency landing in the San Gabriel Mountains.  There, after sustaining a concussion and head wound that grounded him for two days, he was nursed back to health by the remaining members of the Tongva tribe.  The tribe’s elder, Chief Moon-in-the-Water, told Jake of an unusual prophecy and suggested that Jake might play a part in it.  Now,

 

     Jake Hammer and Department of Defense Special Agent Thomas Compton stood by as Miguel “Sparks” Gonzalez, ace mechanic, inspected the landing gear on Jake’s plane, Lady Luck.  After what seemed like an eternity, Miguel turned to the men waiting behind him. 

     “No question, it’s pretty torn up, but we have parts and I can get the main spar replaced today.  As for the other damage—”

     “It’ll have to wait,” Compton snapped.  “We have to get the plane armed and back in the air as soon as we can.  This is the fastest ship in California and we need her.”  Miguel looked at Jake for his approval.

     Jake nodded his affirmation to Miguel who immediately began gathering his equipment.  Jake and Compton turned and walked to Jake’s office in the hangar.  Jake tilted his head toward the newspaper on his desk with its blaring headlines.  “When did it start?”

     “The Mexicans crossed the border the day your plane went down in the storm, and it was clear from the start they meant to stay.  Unfortunately,” Compton said, as he looked vacantly at the floor, “the United States government cannot offer much assistance right now.  Most of the US Army has been deployed in Colorado where they are dealing with pro-union Anarcho-Syndicalists who think mine owners are giving the miners a raw deal.  To retaliate, the anarchists are dynamiting mines and railroad bridges.”

     “Funny how there’s nothing in the paper about that.” Jake kept his gaze level and neutral.  “And what do mean by the expression, ‘dealing with them’?”

     Compton had been cradling his head in his hand.  Now he looked up and met Jake’s gaze.  “Times are tough for miners Jake, but they are tough for everybody.  And you know the US simply cannot halt its mining operations.  But let’s talk about California.  The National Guard troops from California are getting the worst of it.  We have an infantry brigade and an armored cavalry regiment trying to stop two full divisions of Mexican infantry, plus a mysterious armored unit, not to mention—“

     “The Blue Wolf?” Jake said, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

     Compton grimly nodded.

     Jake stood motionless for a few seconds.  Then he met Compton’s look: “I need to go to the front and see things for myself.  That’s the only way I’m going to be able to help you.”

     “We can get going in a minute,” Compton said.  Then he removed his suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster and sidearm.  He undid the holster’s laces and handed it to Jake, who took the gun out of the holster:  It was a brand-new Colt .38 Special snub-nosed Police Revolver, complete with hammer shroud.  Jake looked back at Compton.

     “You’ll need it,” Compton replied in response to Jake’s look. “The .38 Special slugs flatten out when they hit, making a nice mess out of the guy who gets in the way of one.  If anybody tries to give you any bunco, that’ll settle their hash.”

     “Thanks Tom.” Jake said appreciatively.

     They needed only an hour to drive to the area south of Los Angeles where the heaviest fighting was taking place.  Disembarking from Compton’s car, they picked their way on foot forward the last several hundred yards to the sound of sporadic gunfire.  Jake spotted a detachment of light armor that was in a hull-down position facing the assumed attack lines.  He was surprised to see the section seemed to be commanded by a Marine sergeant.  They were not challenged as they approached the unit, Jake singling out the Marine who seemed to be leading.

     “Gunny, my name is Jake Hammer, I run a flying service.  This is Special Agent Thomas Compton, we’re here to observe and help.”

     The Marine immediately came to attention and saluted:  “Sir!  Gunnery Sergeant Mark Bello, USMC, Detachment A, Easy Company, 7th Armored Cavalry, formerly, USN Bremerton.

     “I’m not wearing a uniform sergeant, so why are you saluting?  For all you know, I’m not even an officer.”

     “Sir!  I can tell you are one sir.”

     “Ok, well, you’re right.  I’m still a captain in the Air Guard Reserves.  At ease.  But how did you wind up here?”

     Bello relaxed.  “Sir, I was part of the Marine complement on Bremerton, which was refitting in Sand Dog.  When the shooting started, they ordered all the Marines off and assigned us to Cal National Guard units—that’s how I ended up with this outfit.  Supposed to be temporary.  But as soon as the border crossing was confirmed, Bremerton made steam and pulled out.  I was left in command of this section when Lieutenant Barber was KIA the first day.”

     “I guess that answers that question.  What’s the situation now?”

     “We’re outnumbered and outgunned.  With these popguns we have,” Bello gestured at the light tank nearby, “we can’t take on their tanks, they must have 2 inches of armor, at least, on the glacis, and there’s no way we’re putting a hit on that.  As far as their tactics, they just have one number.  They scout out what looks like our weakest point.  Then the black plane shows up and shoots down our air cover, guns ‘em down like it was no bigger deal than watering the hibiscus.”

     Jake shot Compton a glance, who merely nodded back.

     Bello continued:  “Then they attack that point in our lines with their armor unit supported by special infantry in armored vehicles.  When they break through, which they always do, we disengage, retreat, and dig in again a few miles back up the coast.  Then they make the most lazy-ass pursuit you ever saw.  The next day, they repeat the whole dog-and-pony show.  Our losses have not been heavy so far, but we can’t stop them either.

     “Who’s providing air cover?  And what are they flying?”

     “California Air Guard, they’re flying mostly P26s.”

     Jake winced.  He knew that was the most advanced fighter the US had, and it was no good against the Blue Wolf.

     “Thanks Gunny.  I’ve got a plane that might be able to stand up to theirs.  But we need some time to work out a plan.”

     “Thanks Captain Hammer.  We need all the help we can get.  And sir, there’s one other thing.”

     “Sure, what’s that?”

     “Don’t take too long.”

 

     Early the next day Jake flew to the Lockheed plant, where he had been instructed to land on a secret runway.  He was met on the ground by his friend, Bill Mobley, an aeronautical engineer.  They shook hands briefly; then Mobley wasted no time beginning his briefing.  “As soon as we got the photos you took from DOD, we built a mock-up of the Blue Wolf’s plane and ran it through some wind-tunnel tests.”  He looked at some graphs in a thick sheaf of papers.  “Having the two engines in-line like that is going to lower his parasitic drag.  So he’ll be able to roll-out faster than you, and his top speed in level flight will probably be higher than yours.”  He studied one graph in particular.  “But,” he added, “There’s one factor in your favor.  Lady Luck should have a faster rate of climb than his plane.”

     “To take him on,” he continued, “You’re going to need some firepower.  We’ve studied Lady Luck’s airframe and we know we can arm her without hurting her performance profile.  Today, we’re going to put four 20 mm Hispano air-to-air cannons in the fuselage belly—they’ll fit, but just.  We’re also going to add four .30 caliber Brownings to the nose.  If you can get a shot at him, that ought to do the job.”

     Jake pondered all that for a moment, and then asked about the tanks.  “Bello told me our infantry can’t touch their tanks.  What are we going to do about them?”

     “We might have a solution.”  Mobley looked around, even though it was obvious their situation was secure.  “Our friends at Caltech have been working on a project that is super hush-hush, the nickname is ‘Holy Moses’.  It’s an air-to-ground rocket—”

     “A rocket!” Jake interjected incredulously.

     “Jake, hear me out.  Their chemists have formulated a propellant that sends these things off at 1400 feet per second.  Each one carries 7.5 pounds of TNT.”

     “Is that enough?”

     “Jake, let’s put it this way:  When you see what happens to your friends in a tank when they get hit with one of these babies, your breakfast is coming back up on you.”

     Jake grinned broadly, “That sounds good enough for me.”

      “There’s just one hitch,” Mobley continued, “To carry the eight rockets on wing mounts, we have to weld a rack, and it’s a complicated piece of work for sure.  The specs give us almost no room for error.  I’m not sure we have the personnel to get it done.”

     Jake’s grin widened even further.  “Well I know just the guy for the job.  Get the guns installed and the rockets ready to load.  I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with the rack completed.  And that’s a promise.”