by Mack Maloney
Ten minutes later, six Yaks appeared.
Three of the Yaks went after the gunships, the other trio pounced on the A-10s. Neither the Yaks nor the Thunderbolts were built for dog fighting but the Russian jets had it all over the slow, ground attack PAAC airplanes. The A-10s split up and attempted to flee, but one was quickly overtaken by two Yaks and mercilessly gunned out of the sky. Even after the airplane skidded to a fiery crash landing, the Yaks strafed the wreckage, just to make sure.
Meanwhile, the three other Russians attacked the prop-driven C-130s. Although the gun crews gamely tried to shoot it out with their Gatling guns, it was not even a close match. One gunship took an Aphid air-to-air missile on its starboard inside engine, destroying it and setting the wing on fire. The C-130 pilot ordered his crew to bail out. Rapidly, the five airmen went to the silk and watched as their pilot put the airplane in a steep dive, pulling back on the throttles to get his air speed down. He was going to try to put the big ship down, but a Yak was right on his tail. Another Aphid missile finished it.
The Soviet air-to-air caught the airplane's port wing, its explosion severing the wing from the C–130's body and killing the pilot. The gunship never pulled up. It plowed right into the ground, exploding on impact.
The parachuting survivors, watching their airplane go down in flames, never saw the other two Yaks. The jets systematically and ruthlessly strafed 362 the airmen as they descended helplessly in the parachutes. All five died horribly before they reached the ground.
Feeling smug in their cruel victory, the three Yaks climbed to join the uneven chase for the other two PAAC aircraft.
They found the second A-10 had been disintegrated by a barrage of Aphid missiles. But they soon realized their comrades had forced the second C-130 down on a plain ten miles from the highway. The airplane had landed more or less intact, but now the Yaks were playing a cruel game. They were hovering over the big airplane, taking turns dipping their noses and puncturing the fuselage with cannon fire. For the crew members still trapped inside, it was leading up to a particularly slow death.
That's when the Stealth appeared…
It came out of nowhere, without any warning. Now the hovering jets were the hunted. As the Soviet pilots scrambled with their flight controls to get their airplanes moving forward again, the Stealth ripped into two of them with its powerful cannons. Two Yaks immediately exploded in mid air.
The Stealth did a screaming loop and was soon on the tail of a third Soviet jet. One push of the button and a Sidewinder flashed from underneath the wing of the strange-looking airplane. Scratch one more Yak.
Wanting no part of the Stealth fighter, the three remaining Yaks made a break for it. Not quick enough as it turned out. The Stealth was on the tail of one Yak in 30 seconds, pumping cannon shots into its rear quarter until its fuselage broke up and its fuel supply exploded. The Stealth never stopping shooting — its shells were now licking at the wing tips of another of the fleeing Soviets. One pilot attempted to slow down by punching in his VTOL control to hover, hoping the strange airplane would overshoot him. Not a chance. The Stealth delivered a well-placed shot underneath the Yak's belly, igniting its fuel tank, flipping it over and causing it to plunge straight down at full throttle. The Yak impacted on the side of a butte, and exploded.
The Stealth caught up with the final fleeing Yak over the burning highway.
Once more a Sidewinder flashed out from beneath the mysterious black fighter.
It caught the Yak as it was trying to perform an outlandish maneuver. The missile bounced off the underside of the Soviet jet, exploding a split-second later. The force of the blast knocked the jet sideways then down. It slammed into the already burning wreckage of a group of Circle tanks.
The Stealth then strafed the entire length of the wreckage-strewn highway, then disappeared over the western horizon.
Chapter Thirty-five
Word of the bloody highway battle reached the Denver Air Station very quickly.
PAAC fighter-bombers, returning from air strikes deeper in Kansas, reported seeing the long stretch of burning vehicles, with wreckage of ten aircraft — both Soviet and Western Forces — scattered throughout the combat zone. A rescue helicopter was able to lift out the survivors from the second downed C-130 gunship. Jones requested to see the men as soon as they arrived and they told him the incredible story of how the Stealth came out of nowhere to blast the Yaks from the sky and save their lives.
"Hunter again," Jones told Dozer and Crunch, as they grabbed a quick bite in the situation room. "He's been like our guardian angel up there."
The men discussed the combat reports of the day. Their plan appeared to be working — large concentrations of Circle troops were hit repeatedly. The Western Forces attack planes were squeezing all the Circle ground troops into Kansas and toward the relatively narrow front line on the Colorado border. Jones was certain that after word got around about the additional PAAC victories on the Kansas River, at El Dorado Lake and elsewhere, would only add to the Circle's defection rate.
Jones showed the two officers two additional videotapes he'd just received from Fitzie and St. Louie.
Fitzgerald's ADF fighters were roaming the skies of Minnesota at will, blasting everything that moved. At last report, the Circle Northern Group had completely stalled, and the Irishman vowed to keep the pressure up.
St. Louie reported that his F-20s had succeeded in driving most of the Circle Southern Group back into Shreveport. Round-the-clock bombing raids on that city were continuing. And St. Louie also reported the brazen Texans were still battering the key supply port of New Orleans.
But not one of the men felt anything approaching over-confidence. The battle on the highway had cost them two A-10s, two C-130s and a B-57, and a number of valuable men. Five additional PAAC aircraft were lost in other scattered actions around Kansas that day. All were shot down by SAMs.
"The Russians are finally getting smart to us," Jones said. "Their moving the SAMs around like crazy."
"Plus they committed the Yaks for the first time since our air strikes began,"
Dozer pointed out.
"Ten airplanes in one day," Crunch said grimly.
"At that rate, we'll be out of aircraft in a month." Jones ran his hand through his close-cropped hair. "We're winning the opening battles, but we need help, boys," he said. "And soon…"
Fifty miles to the northwest, a lone figure stood atop the mountain known as Comanche Peak. The snow cap was blowing, giving the summit a misty collar. The sun had long set and the sky was dazzling with stars., Hunter pulled his jacket collar tighter around his neck. He faced the west and closed his eyes. He was tired. Cold. Hungry. He'd spent more time in the air in the past few days than he had on the ground. He was beginning to think that too much adrenaline was bad for his body, his mind, his psyche. He'd been on combat binges before, but nothing like this. He was pulling out all the stops — the night of destroying SAM radars, the leaflet drop, the round-the-clock air missions — anything and everything to keep the superior Circle Army off balance.
But he knew the war was entering a critical phase.
He opened his eyes. The night sky was now lit up with brilliant crimsons. It was the Aurora Borealis again, flashing across the sky. How strange they were.
Arching. Streaming. Disappearing here, only to reappear there. Like a rainbow, yet so completely different. Electricity swirling in the atmosphere. Memories swirling in his head. His lonely arctic overflights. Discovering the Yaks. The strangeness in the Oregon mountains, and off the coast, and around Las Vegas. Pearl Harbor. Devil's Tower. The girls in the Grand Canyon. Scary Mary. New York City. Dominique. All during it, these strange lights had followed him.
Lighting the way. Aurora Borealis! He could feel their electrical charges in the wind…
Then, deep down inside him, he now felt something else. It shot up and out of his soul, through his heart and into his brain. He closed his eyes again.
Slowly, surely as th
e wind-blown snow touched his face, it was coming to him.
The Feeling! That undescribable beautiful feeling. It was the fix he needed.
He let it wash over him, immerse him, soak him through to his spine and bone.
They were coming. He could sense them. Feel them in his soul. Smell them. And finally, hear them. Approaching from the northwest. Five lights, dim now against the Milky Way, but getting brighter. He felt his body recharging. Are you ready? he asked himself. Are you ready to fight harder, faster, stronger?
He felt his breast pocket. The flag was still there. It was always there. Not just to comfort him, but to strengthen him.
This is for you, Seth Jones! his mind shouted. Your wingman is still on the job.
This is for you, Saul Wackerman! Your flag is still here and so is your spirit!
This is for you, Dominique, honey…
He opened his eyes. The lights had grown larger and brighter and they were heading right for him.
The noise filled him. He threw his fist up in the air. The Russians have dared invade his country? The Circle has dared to enslave its citizens? Viktor dared to take his woman? They had yet to taste his full wrath.
He looked up as the formation of five beautiful white B-1s streaked directly over his head.
"That's just what I need…" he said.
Chapter Thirty-six
The five B-1s touched down at the Denver Air Station less than a half hour later. They did not radio ahead, so to those few monkeys and ground personnel who first saw the airplanes in the still-dark early morning, it was quite a shock.
"General!" Jones's situation room intercom crackled to life. It was the watch officer in the air station's control tower. "You've got to see this, sir.
Coming in on runway-two-right…"
Jones, Dozer and Crunch hurried out of the situation room, just in time to see the B-1 known as Ghost Rider 4 touch down. All three men felt a thrill shoot through them.
"Hallelujah!" Crunch yelled.
"You mean, Eureka!" Jones said.
"They even look good to a Marine," Dozer added. "But can they do what we hope they can do?"
"Only one way to find out," Jones said, heading back to the situation room and calling the air station control tower.
A few seconds later, he was talking to the tower's radar operator.
"I can't understand it, sir," the somewhat confused young radarman told him.
"Five big airplanes — B-1 bombers no less — and they didn't make so much as a blip."
Jones smiled for the first time in days. "That's okay, son," Jones said.
"That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
A half hour later, Jones was sitting in the cockpit of Ghost 1 talking to the B-1 group commanders, Ben Wa and J.T. Twomey.
"The system works, General," Twomey told him. "But we couldn't have done it without all five boxes. We found out the Goddamn things were designed to self-destruct if anyone tried to pry 'em open. We still don't fully understand what makes them tick."
Jones looked around inside the ultra-sophisticated bomber. It was crammed with so much electronic gear, he was surprised it could get airborne.
"You got here just in time," Jones told him. "We had a hell of a day yesterday. Ten airplanes shot down. We put a lot of hurt on The Circle and the Russians — but it was a costly couple of victories."
Jones led the two men out of the airplane and toward the air station's mess.
They had been isolated from the battlefront since the war began. Jones quickly updated them.
"Here's the situation, guys," Jones began after they sat down to a pot of coffee and a large bowl of morning stew. "We've been able to divert the main Circle Forces into Kansas. Right now, they're about a day away from our lines.
And they've finally linked up with the Russians."
"So the unholy alliance is complete," Wa said.
Jones nodded. "They're coordinated now. They finally got smart and started their SAMs rolling. So the SAM line as we knew it is no more."
"How many enemy troops are we talking about," Toomey asked.
"Well, we figure they lost about fifteen thousand guys thanks to Hunter's Psyche-Ops plan," Jones, said. "And we've greased a lot more. But they still have about five divisions — seventy five thousand men — heading our way. And they're bringing the SAMs with them. Anywhere between two and three thousand launchers, each with four missiles on its back."
"Jesus Christ…" Twomey said softly, trying to imagine what three thousand, SAM launchers in one concentrated area could do.
"We've got to hit them hard and quick, boys," Jones said defiantly. "Just as soon as the sun is up, we have to get airborne and plaster the shit out of them. If we don't then they'll run over the fifty-five thousand men I have waiting on our defense line without even stopping."
"What do we have for air support?" Twomey asked, pouring himself another coffee.
"Well, Mike Fitzgerald is sending down a squadron of his Thunderchiefs," Jones said. "They should be here any time now. He has The Circle's Northern group so screwed up in Minnesota, it'll take them a week to figure out how to get out.
"St. Louie promised us six F-20s and the Texans are sending a squadron of their F-4s along with them. They wanted to send more — but they still have their hands full, hitting New Orleans everyday while trying to keep Circle Southern Army from crossing their border."
Jones paused to light a half-burned cigar. "As for us," he said, through a cloud of stale smoke. "I sent back word to PAAC Oregon and San Diego. Anything that can fly, and carry a gun or a bomb will be here by noon."
Wa shook his head. "Even the World War II stuff?"
"You bet," Jones said. "The Mustang. The P-38. Everyone's coming to the party.
Choppers, too. Any that we can spare, that is. We got the Crazy Eights and the Cobra Brothers working the defense line. God help them when the SAMs start flying."
"Seems like you've done everything you could, General," Twomey concluded. "By the book, too."
"Well, we're still missing one piece," Jones said, chewing the end of his cigar. "One very valuable piece…"
Chapter Thirty-seven
"Does anybody here remember the movie, 'High Noon?' " Jones asked.
It was still a half hour before dawn and the situation room at the Denver Air Station was crowded with pilots on hand to receive their pre-mission briefing.
"Well, that's what it's going to be like out there today," Jones told the assembled airmen. "More bad guys than good guys."
He displayed a photograph of a large portion of the encamped Circle Army taken just after sunset the day before. It showed tens of thousands of tiny lights, like a galaxy of candles in the night, dotting the west Kansas plains. They went on and on for miles.
"Those," Jones said grimly, "are campfires…"
A wave of low volume swearing and whistles of amazement passed through the room.
"If we figure at least five men to a campfire," Jones said. "Then we're talking about a lot of bad guys. And they've been on the move. They're only about fifteen miles away from our lines now."
Now there was a deathly silence.
"We've been chipping away at them every day," Jones continued. "And between defections and our air strikes, we figured The Circle lost close to two divisions and a hell of a lot of equipment.
"But… we estimate they've still got five divisions to throw at us. And these guys are the hard-core radicals. They're like the Shiites back in the 'I-ah-toll-lah's' heyday. Anyone remember that old goat? Fanatics. Ready and willing to die for the cause. These bastards still believe that Viktor's in charge. A lot of them were probably too blitzed to read the words on Hunter's propaganda leaflets."
He paused again.
"What kind of shape are these guys in?" Jones asked. "Bottom line is, we don't know. Our plan all along has been to hit their supply lines, cut them off, starve 'em. They've been through bad weather, their food supplies should be running low. They've been b
ombed every day, without so much as a single Yak to defend them. We'll know whether our strategy has worked or not as soon as we see the condition of the first Circle soldier who hits our defense line."
A slight murmur went up from the assembled pilots.
"But we have to expect the worse," Jones continued. "They have enough guys to hit us on three sides. Our defense line is being compressed. We've got some artillery, howitzers, tanks dug in around the area where we expect them, but all they have to do is hit us with a series of coordinated attacks, and our lines will not be able to hold.
"Now those B-1s you saw out on our runway are part of Top Secret project the Skunkworks cooked up before the Big War. We found them a few years ago. We've just got them working. How they do what they do, I couldn't even begin to explain to you all. Simply put: When conditions are right, and those five airplanes are working together, they're invisible on radar."
Jones waited a few seconds to let the news sink in. "Now that's a big advantage we were sure we could use. But the bad news is, those B-1s alone can't win this one for us. We can't send those airplanes out there helter-skelter, because they can be shot down by visually-sighted heatseekers, manually-aimed AA guns, and worst of all, air-to-air missiles. And there are still some forty-odd Yaks out there, somewhere."
He paused again.
"I don't have to tell anyone of you how serious the situation is. We're fighting for our Goddamn lives. We're also fighting for something we used to call 'democracy.' It's what our country used to be built on. If this is its last gasp, well, so be it."
Jones looked out at his pilots. Fighters, all. Brave men, all. Americans.
Every last one of them.
"So, it's going to be up to us," Jones said. "We've got fifty-five thousand guys sitting out there in that trench, with seventy-five thousand guys and a lot of SAM cover, coming at them. Anything we let get through will be going for our guys' throats.
