Circle War

by Maloney, Mack;

  Ever since they were broken up, the many American states and countries had frequently been at war with one another—wars started in large part by Soviet agents and their agitating terrorist allies. The latest battle had pitted the democratic forces of the West against a Soviet-infiltrated, cultish Eastern army known as The Circle. The leader of The Circle had been a Soviet agent named Viktor Robotov. Hunter had successfully led the air forces for the West in defeating The Circle, despite the fact that Viktor’s Russian allies had secretly infiltrated thousands of SAM antiaircraft batteries and troops into the American Badlands.

  The victory was a costly one for the West, though. Many major cities as well as small towns had been destroyed in the fighting. The vital air trade routes between Free Canada and Los Angeles—plied by convoys of airliners now turned into cargo carriers—had been disrupted for a long period of time. Shortages of all kinds had been felt on both sides.

  What was worse, thousands of Americans on both sides had died in the civil war. And this was the real reason Viktor and the Kremlin had started The Circle War. Their aim was to continue the distablization of America, thus forestalling any notions that the American states and territories might have about reuniting and carrying out their revenge on Mother Russia.

  But the fighting aside, The Circle War had had a very personal effect on Hawk Hunter. Before the war broke out, Viktor had kidnapped the pilot’s true love, a stunning Bardot look-alike named Dominique. He had drugged her, forced himself on her, and used her viciously—through a kind of pornographic psychological warfare—to control his Circle troops. Hunter had finally rescued Dominique, literally crashing in on a party being given for Viktor atop one of New York City’s World Trade Center buildings. Once she was safe, Hunter had made arrangements for her to live in the relative security of Free Canada.

  But he could not let Viktor get away with his crime. The man had violated the two things that meant the most to Hunter—his country and his woman. Hunter had vowed to track Viktor down.

  He was gone the day the war ended. Somehow, he had gotten to New York City and retrieved his F-16 from its hiding place at the abandoned JFK Airport. Then he had set out across the Atlantic in pursuit of Viktor. Crunch and Elvis had no idea how Hunter knew Viktor had headed for the Mediterranean after The Circle War ended. He just knew. The fact was that Hunter had been born with an amazing aptitude for ESP. Hunter’s extraordinary abilities were particularly acute in detecting enemy aircraft. Besides being the ultimate fighter pilot, Hunter was also a kind of human radar. But he also had an astounding sixth sense about many things. Knowing where Viktor fled to after the war was one of them.

  Everyone—from the Russians to the PAAC pilots to the air pirates that roamed the North American skies—knew that a man of such intelligence and skill as Hunter was an automatic threat to those who ran The New Order. These Soviet puppets, firmly ensconced in the Bahamas, had put a price of $500 million on Hunter’s head. He was wanted—dead or alive—for “crimes against The New Order.” Crimes such as carrying an American flag. Or espousing reunification of the states. Or even uttering the words “United States of America.”

  But Hunter had decided long ago that if these were the kinds of crimes that made The New Order put a price on his head, then he would continue to commit them freely and openly.

  Besides, the amount of money a bounty hunter could get for his hide was source of amusement for the pilot. He would tell people that he wasn’t worth even half that much.

  He was, however, very valuable to PAAC and all the democratic peoples who wanted to reunite America again. That’s why his overall commander at PAAC, General Dave Jones, had sent Crunch and Elvis after Hunter. Crunch and Elvis made up one half of a free-lance F-4 fighter unit known as the Ace Wrecking Company. They were, in effect, under contract to PAAC. So General Jones was their employer. Jones knew Crunch, a veteran F-4 Phantom pilot from way back, was best suited for the mission. At best he and Elvis could convince Hunter to return to America. At worst, they could give him protection in his search for Viktor.

  But they would have to find him first.

  “Well, we know he was here in the Azores two and a half days ago,” Crunch said, looking at a large map of the Atlantic and Mediterranean. “He could be in Portugal, Gibraltar, maybe North Africa by now.”

  “Well, he had no trouble icing those MiGs,” Crunch said, shaking his head in admiration. “Maybe he doesn’t need any help in tracking down Viktor either.”

  “Well, I agree that Hunter is the best to ever fly, and so he’s very valuable to PAAC right now,” Elvis said. “But I also know him pretty well, as you do, captain. And when he gets something set in his mind, it’s impossible to talk him out of it. Viktor fooled with his lady big time. Screwed up the country too. That’s playing with fire as far as Hawk is concerned. I don’t blame him for going after Viktor. And he could probably track down the creep better if he is alone.”

  Crunch ran his fingers through his hair, then continued. “Hunter’s a good friend of mine and a good friend to all the guys in PAAC. But Jones is the boss. He says find him and drag him back. So we find him.”

  “Well, it’s not the finding him that will be difficult,” Elvis said. “It’s the ‘dragging him back’ part that worries me.”

  Chapter 2

  THE SKIES OVER CASABLANCA were busy the night Hunter arrived.

  He had seen the lights of the city from seventy miles out, reflecting off the atmosphere and the nearby Atlantic. Now, as he descended from 55,000 feet, the city’s blue-green glare got brighter, shining out like a beacon on the otherwise pitch-black Moroccan coastline.

  Fifty miles out, he brought his F-16 down to wavetop level and throttled back to a 350-mph crawl. The jet fighter’s terrain-radar-acquisition system had painted an infrared picture of the city’s airport onto one of his control panel’s TV screens and he had been studying it with much interest.

  He had assumed that the airport—and the city—would be deserted. But just the opposite was true. In fact, there were so many airplanes circling Casablanca, it looked like a typical stack-up over Chicago’s O’Hare in the old days.

  Suddenly, his radio crackled.

  “Casablanca control to approaching aircraft,” a high-pitched voice sang over the static. “We have you on our radar screens. You are on an unauthorized landing pattern. Break off! Break off!”

  Hunter calmly pushed his radio transmission button. “Casablanca Control, this is an aircraft of the Pacific American Air Corps. I am requesting emergency landing clearance. I am low on fuel.”

  “Break off,” the shrillish reply came back. “We are at over-capacity. Our airspace is at the critical point. We have no open landing zone for you. You are unauthorized.”

  Hunter checked his instruments. He was twelve miles off the coast. He tapped the back of the throttle bar twice, slowing the F-16 down further.

  “Casablanca Control, I am down to a hundred pounds of fuel. I must land.”

  “We have no fuel for you,” the air controller came back. “You are unauthorized … ”

  Hunter was carefully watching the action over the airport on his TV screen. The aircraft were stacked up ten high over the airport. More than forty airplanes at various altitudes were traveling around and around on the same lazy circling pattern. At the same time, other aircraft were taking off every thirty seconds from the airport’s single runway.

  Hunter could tell that most of the air traffic was made up of airliners. 747s, 707s, DC-10s, Airbuses. Some appeared to be riding on each other’s tails. Airplanes were taking off just as incoming aircraft bounced in. The radio chatter was a storm of pilot’s voices, yelling out their coordinates and doing everything they could to avoid a midair collision. It was the most confusing aircraft handling pattern he’d ever seen. But somehow the overworked air controllers were making it work.

  He checked his instruments again. Ten miles out, fuel getting lower. Time to negotiate.

  “Casablanca control,”
he said into his microphone. “What is your ‘landing authorization’ fee?”

  There was only the slightest of hesitation, then the answer came back. “Small aircraft. Jet fighter. One bag of gold, or five silver.”

  Steep, but expected. But he didn’t intend to pay anywhere near that just to land.

  “Casablanca control,” Hunter called just as he reached the coastline. “I have one bag of silver. It’s yours if you give me landing okay.”

  “Two bags,” came the reply.

  “Bag and a half,” Hunter said.

  “Land clear on seven,” the controller said, his shrill voice rising yet another octave. “Right behind the Air-India Jumbo.”

  Welcome to Casablanca.

  Hunter inserted the F-16 into the melee of landing and departing airliners. A fog bank in the night sky over the airport made the approach even more hazardous. He dodged at least a half-dozen airliners, nearly clipped the tail section of a stray 727, and actually landed ahead of the red Air-India 747. As his wheels touched the ground, a DC-10 was lifting off no more than 500 feet ahead of him.

  He followed the line of yellow runway lights to a taxiing path lined with blue. The number of aircraft above the airport was nothing compared to what was on the ground. The place was a traffic jam of airliners.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he asked himself as he rolled up to a very thin empty station point near the bustling terminal. There were people everywhere—some carrying luggage, others just bags on their backs. Men, women, kids. They were in the terminal, on its roof and walkways, even on parts of the runway. There were flashing lights everywhere and he could hear sirens even over the noise of his jet engine.

  He noticed there was a slight twinge of panic in the way the crowds were behaving. The loading of a nearby DC-9 was not going at an orderly pace. People were pushing and shoving each other—squeezing themselves up the loading ramp and into the airplane. Fistfights were breaking out near other airplanes.

  This isn’t just another busy night at the airport, he reasoned. It looked more like an evacuation …

  He shut down the 16 and punched up his exotic anti-theft computer program. Once it kicked in, the airplane was not only theft-proof but, thanks to a zapping electrical charge that ran throughout its body, it was also tamper-proof. Convinced the airplane was secure, Hunter popped the canopy, grabbed his M-16, and climbed out.

  The noise was deafening. He walked across the crowded tarmac, avoiding the crowds as best he could. He could see desperation in their faces, but they weren’t a refugee rabble. They looked well-fed and mostly well-clothed. Yet people were battering each other to get on the airliners. But why? He noticed another curious thing: the incoming aircraft were not discharging anyone. They were flying in empty, loading up, and taking off without so much as a wipe of the windshield.

  There were a lot of bad vibes in the air. He felt like a full-scale panic could break out at any moment.

  Instinctively, he looked around for some kind of police force or military presence. There was none. Nor were any of the aircraft of non-civilian design. His F-16 was the only military aircraft in the airport.

  He made his way through the confusion to the control tower and found it too was a madhouse. There were more than forty air controllers, all barking orders into the microphones and frantically looking into their radar screens. The place was strewn with plates, half-eaten meals, pots of bubbling tea and coffee, and more than a few empty wine bottles. Hunter felt lucky he had made it down in one piece.

  He was here to pay his landing fee, and perhaps get a little information. He sought out the head of the place, figuring this would be the man who should receive his “authorization fee.” A man sitting at a desk slightly away from the pandemonium seemed to fit the bill.

  Hunter threw a bag and a half of silver onto his desk. The man looked up immediately from the Arabic-language newspaper.

  “I own that F-16 that just came in,” Hunter told him.

  The man looked him over. “Aren’t you Hawk Hunter?” he said with a surprised look.

  Hunter was taken aback slightly. Who the hell knew him way out here?

  “Yes,” he replied, looking into the older man’s steel-black eyes. He was completely bald: a small, tough, a very distinguished-looking Arab. “My name is Hunter. I’m from the Pacific American—”

  “—from the United States Air Force,” the man said, cutting him off knowingly. “And the Thunderbirds. And the Northeast Economic Zone Air Patrol.”

  Hunter was speechless. He knew he had made somewhat of a name for himself back in America. But had news of his exploits carried all the way over to North Africa?

  The answer was no. However, a less-than-flattering mug shot of him had made the trip. The man reached inside his desk draw and came out with a bounty poster. It was for Hunter. His old service ID picture was on it, as were these words:

  ONE BILLION DOLLARS IN SILVER OR GOLD FOR THE CAPTURE OR PROOF OF DEATH OF HAWK HUNTER, CRIMINAL WANTED BY THE NEW ORDER. COLLECTION POINTS: PARIS, THE BAHAMAS, MOSCOW.

  “One billion?” Hunter blurted out. “Christ.” He knew The Circle had put a price of a half-billion on his head about a year ago. But a billion? Apparently the New Order had doubled the pot.

  This would only mean more trouble for Hunter.

  “I could shoot you right now and collect, major,” the man said.

  Hunter had his M-16 off his shoulder and ready in an instant.

  “But I won’t,” the man quickly added.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t need a billion dollars?” Hunter asked defiantly.

  “No, it’s because I know who you really are, major,” the man said, confidently lighting a long, dark cigarette. He was a native Moroccan. Hunter could tell by his accent. “And I know you’re not a criminal.”

  The man rose, gathered in the silver, and motioned Hunter to a miniscule office at the rear of the control tower. They went inside and the man closed the door, effectively blocking out the noisy confusion of the air controllers.

  “Said el-Fauzi,” the man said, introducing himself, extending his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, major.”

  Hunter shook his hand. “Really? ‘An honor’?”

  “Yes, major,” el-Fauzi said, producing a bottle and pouring out two drinks into miniature, porcelain cups. “I worked with US Naval Intelligence during the war. We—everyone—knew of your F-16 squadron and the big air battles. After the war, the Russians let everyone know that you and your squadron were officially ‘war criminals.’ That’s what you get for kicking their asses.”

  “But you also knew about the Zone Air Patrol,” Hunter said.

  “You mean ZAP?” el-Fauzi said. “Oh, we hear a lot of things here, major. All the time.”

  The office’s window looked right out onto the tarmac. Hunter couldn’t help but be distracted by the pandemonium outside.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “Those people?” el-Fauzi said, sipping his drink. “Well, they’re escaping, of course.”

  “Escaping?”

  “Yes, major,” el-Fauzi said, looking surprised. “Escaping. Getting out. Flying to South America. All of them. Before the war breaks out again.”

  “That seems to be on everyone’s minds these days,” Hunter said, tasting the thick, ultra-bitter liquor. His friend, Diego on the Azores, had talked about the imminent war.

  “As well it should be, major,” el-Fauzi said. “But isn’t that why you are here in Casablanca?”

  “To fight?” Hunter asked.

  “Why, yes,” el-Fauzi answered. “To join The Modern Knights.”

  “I don’t know anything about any Modern Knights,” Hunter said, reaching into his pocket. He produced a picture of Viktor.

  “I am chasing this man,” he said, handing the photo to el-Fauzi.

  El-Fauzi took the photo and instantly dropped it as if it were on fire. “That’s him!” he nearly screamed, his unflappable manner temporarily
leaving him. “That is Lucifer!”

  “Lucifer?” Hunter said. “Who the hell is Lucifer? That man is Viktor Robotov. He’s a Russian agent. Caused a rather large misunderstanding back in America—one that left a couple hundred thousand or so people dead. So now I’m tracking him. Heard he might have passed through here.”

  “This man is the one they call Lucifer,” el-Fauzi said, downing his drink and pouring another. He was slowly regaining his composure. “He passed over us, some time ago.”

  “‘Passed over’?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” el-Fauzi said. “In his horrible black airplane. He had several free-lance fighters with him. Ran right through our airspace, shot down several planes, simply for being in their way.”

  Sounds like Viktor, Hunter thought.

  “But, we know him as Lucifer,” the Moroccan continued. “He’s the most powerful man left in the Mediterranean. Europe. The Middle East. Anywhere. His allies hold every piece of major territory east of Tunisia all the way to the Sinai. He controls everything east of that. It is he who is to make war on the rest of the Mediterranean. People know it’s coming. They’re trying to get out now.”

  “And that’s what this is all about?” Hunter asked, motioning towards the mass of humanity outside trying to fit onto the waiting airliners.

  “Yes,” el-Fauzi said, refilling their cups. “World War Three, major, is about to heat up again.”

  Hunter shook his head. That’s just what Diego had said. He still couldn’t believe it.

  “Where is this Lucifer?” he asked. “Where’s his base? His headquarters? Where is he right now?”

  El-Fauzi laughed, then quickly became dead serious.

  “He is everywhere,” he whispered.