Circle War

by Maloney, Mack;

  Jones had just lifted off in Ghost Rider 1, the lead ship of the Eureka B-1s. As he circled the Denver Air Station, he saw the other four B-1s taxi and take off in cool precision. The small armada banded up and then turned to the southeast. “Won’t be long now,” Jones thought. “Then we’ll finally know whether it was all worth it or not …”

  Ten minutes out of Denver, the B-1s formed up into a diamond pattern. Jones was at the lead point, with Ghost Rider 2 and 3 taking the sides and Ghost Rider 4 in the rear. Ghost Rider 5 took up its position in the middle of the formation. As soon as Jones was sure each of the airplanes was in place, he leveled the flight off at 20,000 feet, and threw a series of switches on his control board.

  These signals were instantly transmitted to Ghost Rider 5, which carried the bulk of the formation’s electronic gear. At the speed of light, the fifth aircraft’s computer started printing out computations, calculations relating airspeed to altitude, engine exhaust heat to fuel consumption, bomb load to the rotation of the earth. Slowly but surely, every aspect of the five airplanes’ radar “signatures” was identified by the super-computer, and then, carefully masked electronically.

  Jones saw one of the red lights on his black panel blink once then stay on. “Ghost Rider 2, on lock,” he heard J. J. Toomey, the second bomber’s pilot say.

  A few seconds later, another of the red lights blinked on, followed by the radio call: “Ghost Rider 3, locked.”

  Jones checked his location. They were ten minutes from target.

  “Ghost 4, on lock,” he heard a pilot call while the fourth red light blinked on.

  His aircraft would be next. He closed up the formation slightly, giving the tons of electronics on Ghost Rider 5 every advantage.

  Suddenly the red light on his control panel that had been blinking, stopped. It was now burning a bright, constant red. He was in.

  “Ghost 1, locked,” he called into his microphone. Thirty seconds later, the fifth and last red light came on. He heard the message he’d been waiting for a few seconds later:

  “Ghost 5, locked on, sir.”

  “Verify, Ghost 5,” Jones radioed.

  “Verified, sir,” the pilot of Ghost Rider 5 called back. “We are now ‘in system.’”

  Jones smiled. They were invisible …

  The Soviet general stood on top of the roof of his own personal BMP, looked over his column and smiled …

  Most of his SAM launchers were now in place and ready to go operational when the Western Forces’ jets returned. He knew the Yak fighters would soon arrive. His men had counted only about 30 Western Forces’ jets in the brief air attack; he was expecting about 40 Yaks to appear shortly. The combination of his SAMs and the Yaks would make him unbeatable.

  Best of all, he was finally rid of the ragged Circle soldiers. He could see the last of their army marching west toward the ridgeline and the Western Forces’ trenches that lay beyond. Good, the Soviet thought. Let them all kill each other off. His column, with its professional Soviet troops, the SAMs and the Yaks, were now a self-contained fighting force. Once they defeated the Western Forces’ air corps, he would be able to roam the countryside at will. No longer would he be bogged down by the hooligans of The Circle Army. The American word for them was “suckers.” They had followed Viktor like a bull with a ring in its nose; fallen for his elaborate “exotic Queen,” psych-ops, fallen for his call to arms, fallen for his whole line of Circle bullshit. The Soviet general knew that The Circle soldiers had been just pawns in Viktor’s game all along.

  He watched as the Western Forces’ aircraft streaked over the horizon, bombing The Circle troops. He laughed. The PAAC jets wouldn’t dare come close to the column now that the SAMs were “hot.” The sounds of the bombing and gunfire coming from the other side of the ridge was music to his ears.

  He knew there was never any real plan for The Circle to take over the continent, never any real alliance between The Circle and the Soviets. The whole thing was masterfully staged with just one purpose in mind: destabilization. Keep the Americans fighting amongst themselves, even if it took every SAM trooper the Russians could muster. They had reached their goal with a minimum of effort—the Americans would wipe out each other’s army and the Soviets would be the ruling force on the continent. The capitalists had finally hung themselves.

  Now if only those Yaks would arrive …

  The PAAC aircraft of the Delta One group plunged right into the heart of the advancing Yak force. A swirling, twisting dogfight of enormous proportions ensued. The Yaks were at a substantial advantage—their pilots were able to stop their aircraft on a dime, hover in the air as the attacking PAAC aircraft would swoop on by. Then suddenly the Yak would become the hunter.

  But the Western Forces’ had their own, not-so-secret yet radar-proof weapon. The Wingman was everywhere …

  PAAC pilots who were there that day told of how Hunter had purposely let several Yaks at once get on his tail, his Stealth fighter moving only enough to the left and right to prevent the Soviet pilots from getting a good missile lock on him. Drawing two or three Yaks at a time, Hunter would lead them on a merry chase, climbing to extreme altitudes, diving at nose-bleeding speeds. More than a few of the Yak pilots passed out from the g-forces, only to awake just as their airplanes were about to smash into the ground. As the other PAAC pilots held their own with the Yaks, Hunter was knocking them off two and three at a time. And all without yet firing a shot.

  Finally the Soviet officer in charge of the Yaks realized the insanity of chasing the Stealth and ordered his fighters to attack the other PAAC jets instead. That’s when Hunter got down to business.

  A Yak had locked onto the end of a F-104 and fired an Aphid air-to-air. Hunter suddenly flashed between the two airplanes blasting the missile with a well-placed cannon burst. He then twisted over backward and locked on his own Sidewinder missile. The Yak pilot pulled back on his controls to attempt a mid-air stop, but he was too late. Hunter went screaming by, and released a Sidewinder as if he was flying a torpedo-bomber. The missile went hot and impacted on the Yak’s exhaust tube simultaneously, blowing the Soviet jet to smithereens.

  Hunter was now tailing two Yaks at once. They were intent on downing a slow F-106 that was diving toward one of their comrades. The Russians had no idea Hunter was so close—their radars showed nothing but blue sky behind them. Two squeezes of his cannons’ trigger and two Yaks were soon on their way to fiery deaths.

  Although the Yaks outnumbered the Western Forces’ airplanes, the Soviet pilots were now getting panicky. The crazy man in the Stealth was shooting at them from every direction, or so it seemed. One second he was flying barely 20 feet off the deck. The next instant it seemed like he was diving on them from 40,000 feet. He was taking on everyone. Firing missiles, strafing with cannons. Any Soviet pilot who chose to stop in mid-air risked death by collision. The Stealth was even trying to ram the stationary Soviet fighters.

  All the while the other PAAC jets were chalking up wins. Soon the Kansas prairie below was littered with Yak wreckage. Several of the Russians had seen enough and fled to the south. Hunter let them go. He knew they wouldn’t get far. Just over the horizon he “saw” a flight of friendly jets approaching. F-20s. F-4s. St. Louie’s situation on the Texas border had lessened enough for him to send some help to the major battle area. He learned later that the Yaks ran head-on into the Football City-Texas Air Force airplanes with disastrous results for the Soviet side.

  Another group of Yaks also opted to break off the battle and roared off to the north. Their escape attempt too was futile. They met a flight of Fitzgerald’s ADF Thunderchiefs over the Nebraska border …

  Hunter searched the skies above the Kansas battlefield. All of the Soviet airplanes were either shot down or retreating. His mind flashed back to that arctic recon flight so long ago. The VTOL adversaries he had first found hugging the snow-covered ground near Nome, Alaska, had, for the most part, been defeated. It had been a long, tiring campaign, but at last h
e could say the right side won. He reached inside his flight suit pocket and pulled out the small tattered American flag. “Okay, old buddy,” he whispered. “Make it through another one …”

  The first bomb dropped from Ghost Rider 1 landed less than a mile in front of the Soviet general’s command car. It was a 10,000 super blockbuster, a huge explosive device that obliterated every truck, tank, APC and SAM launcher on a quarter mile stretch of the highway.

  The Soviet general was at first stunned, then angry. He was certain that one of the SAMs had exploded on its launcher. But suddenly another blockbuster detonated. This one barely a half mile from his position in the column. He saw a T-72 heavy tank thrown more than 200 feet in the air so powerful was the blast.

  Where were the bombs coming from?

  He screamed to his BMP’s radar operator to sweep the area. The report came back as a solid nyet. There wasn’t an aircraft in sight.

  Just then a third blockbuster exploded not a thousand feet away from him. Horror struck him deep down. Someone was dropping bombs on them, but they weren’t being picked up on radar. His first thought was it was the Stealth airplane. But he immediately discounted this notion. These bombs were too large to be carried by the Stealth.

  He scanned the crystal-clear sky. Then he saw them …

  About four miles up. No contrails. No sound. Five jets. Big ones. Flying in a precision formation. Were they B-1s?

  He screamed to his radar man again. “We have nothing on the scope!” the man yelled back, realizing just as his general did that they were suddenly vulnerable.

  The Soviet officer reached for his microphone even as he heard the next bomb screeching through the air. “Fire all missiles!” he screamed. “All units fire all …”

  The next blockbuster landed directly on his BMP. His message was cut off by the blast of 10,000 pounds of explosives. In the instant between life and death that seemed to last an eternity, one last thought flashed through his mind. “These Americans … you cannot defeat them.”

  Orders were orders and so the panicking SAM technicians started launching every missile from every launcher, hoping to hit the radar-invisible bombers.

  The Ghost Riders were not carpet bombing the column. Rather they were using their invisibility shield to precision-bomb the highway. One bomb from each plane then the whole formation would swing around and start the whole procedure again.

  It was a devastating strategy. The B-1s bombed with impunity. The hundreds of SAMs—their radar-homing target devices rendered useless—were being shot every which way. Many fell back to earth, hitting vehicles in the column. This only added to the fright and confusion of the Soviet troops. They were leaderless yet ordered to stay at their positions. They were being bombed but were unable to fight back. Some ran. Some tried to maneuver their vehicles out of the burning, twisted traffic jam. But it was of no use. The blockbusters were coming down in clockwork precision. The column and all the precious SAMs were being systematically destroyed. Thousands lay dying in the Kansas sun. Russian blood mixing with American soil.

  Another Soviet foreign adventure was coming to an end …

  Chapter Forty

  “SHARPSHOOTERS! FRONT AND CENTER!” Dozer yelled into his radiophone.

  The advancing Circle army was now only a quarter of a mile away from the Western Forces’ defense line. He had yet to order his ground troops to fire. The sight of the approaching rabble, most of them young kids with no weapons, was causing his head and his belly to ache.

  Up and down the line, the sharpshooters of Dozer’s 7th Cavalry got into position. “Pick off the ones they’ve strapped with TNT,” Dozer’s order went out.

  One by one the crack Marine riflemen aimed and fired at the approaching human bombs. One by one The Circle kamikazes were hit by the rifle bullets, exploding in a flash of fire and a spray of bloody guts. Each human bomb that went up killed a dozen of the comrades closest to them.

  Yet still the human wave advanced.

  All along the defense line, the Western Forces soldiers were getting anxious. They, too, could see the approaching army was little but a rabble, yet, not every human bomb had been destroyed. They were assuming the worst and figuring that many of The Circle troops were also booby-trapped. Yet the trench soldiers would hold their fire until they received the order …

  Dozer had made his decision. He couldn’t risk the lives of his troops in the hand-to-hand fighting that would follow if he had his soldiers hold their fire now.

  The Marine captain shook his head. His radioman nearby heard him whisper: “God forgive me …” Then the captain grabbed his radiophone and yelled: “Fire!”

  As one, the entire two-mile line of Western Forces opened up on the approaching horde. The first line of Circle troops fell. Another line appeared. Another volley and these unarmed soldiers were mowed down. Another line, another volley. Line after line of the enemy simply walked into the murderous barrage of lead. Stomachs were ripped open, skulls exploded. The brainwashed rabble kept marching. Over the horribly shot up bodies of their comrades and sometimes crunching right through them. The air was heavy with smoke and the smell of gunfire and blood.

  It was a slaughter. Still no Circle soldier fired a shot. Only later would the Western Forces discover that of the few Circle soldiers carrying guns, none of them had ammunition. The Circle commanders and their Russian allies had hoarded it all, preferring to send The Circle grunts into the mouth of death without so much as a bullet.

  Two volleys from the trench hit The Circle line just 100 feet away. Several of the enemy troops broke into a run toward the defense line, but they were quickly cut down. One last volley all along the trench and then it was over …

  The gunfire stopped. The gentle wind blew the smoke away. It was quiet for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. The Western Forces soldiers looked up from over their rifles and took in the carnage in front of them. A few screams and moans could be heard coming from the field of dead and dying before the trench. Tens of thousands of the enemy lay mangled and twisted before them.

  Not a single Circle soldier had made it to the defense line …

  Now, more news was flashed back to the Western Forces’ troops in the line. The enemy column on Route 70 had been stopped. There would be no more Circle soldiers charging the trenches. The back of the evil Circle-Soviet alliance was broken.

  Although the war was apparently over, the soldiers in the trenches couldn’t relax. The anxious hours, days, weeks. Adrenaline pumping. All to end in the slaughter of innocents? The mass killing of the hopped up brainwashed kids. It was disgusting. Death for death’s sake.

  But the calm did not last too long …

  Dozer scanned the horizon. He felt something. Out there. Beyond the ridgeline. Something much more dangerous than the helpless troops they had just gunned down.

  Then he saw them …

  “Jesus Christ …” Dozer said, blindly reaching for his radiophone to call Hunter. “There’s thousands of them …”

  For miles in every direction, on the ridges in front of them, sat the 30,000 men of the 1st Mongolian Cavalry …

  They had come out of nowhere. The unexpected variable. The troops in the trenches suddenly found themselves alert again. Tense again. It was frightening. The line of the Mongolian soldiers covered the whole horizon.

  Dozer radioed all along to his officers. Each report was the same. The Mongol horde stretched for miles. And it was preparing to attack.

  Word was instantly flashed back to the Denver Air Station. Most of the jets that had defeated the Yaks had returned and shut down. Now they learned they had to quickly refuel, bomb up and speed back to the front.

  Hunter was the first one off the ground …

  “Here they come!”

  The cry went up in the Western Forces’ trench-works. Every soldier stared out on to the flatlands before them.

  The Mongols were bringing their horses up to a canter.

  “Get ready!” the word passed
through the Western Forces’ lines.

  Dozer’s Marines walked among their volunteer troops on the flank, making sure everyone was in position with a full-load of ammo. The regular Pacific American soldiers in the middle of the line waited patiently in grim anticipation—to finally to draw blood from the Asian horsemen.

  Two miles out, the Mongols kicked their horses into a fast trot. They fanned out until their line was nearly two miles across. Many of them were wearing uniforms akin to those worn by their ancestors—bright, colorful, evil-looking. Others were simply dressed in used Chinese Army fatigues. Each carried some kind of rifle—the Mongols’ proficiency was shooting well from a moving horse—and the mandatory, razor-sharp sword.

  The leader of the horde, a man known as the Great Obo, was at the head of the column, dressed to the nines in the ancient oriental costume, riding a tall, pure-white stallion. He would lead his men into battle this time, just as he had done for the past few months. They would move as he moved.

  The moments passed tensely through the Western Forces’ line. Dozer, the powerful pair of electronic spyglasses pressed against his face, had identified the Great Obo as the cavalry’s leader and watched him every step of the way. Even through the scope, the warrior looked fierce, fearless and proud.

  When the horse column reached a mile out, Obo broke his horse into a slow gallop. His army followed in kind. Dozer raised his hand. The young Marine radioman stood close by, holding a phone which crackled continuously with static. High above and far away, the sound of jet engines could be heard …

  Dozer had Obo in full view now. Suddenly the Mongol gave his steed two, sharp cracks with his whip and the horse responded by breaking into a full gallop. Obo, reins and a rifle in one hand, raised his sword with the other and pointed it toward the trenches. Dozer could almost read the man’s lips as Obo screamed the Mongol equivalent to “Charge!”