Suddenly Yaz was up and over the barricades. The paratroopers who had reached the battlements before him were engaging the Circle soldiers in vicious hand-to-hand fighting. Yaz was instantly firing at Circle troops in every direction. He ran forward, making room for the APC to break through the battered enemy line. The air was filled with not only bullets now, but hand grenades, shrapnel and thick heavy smoke. There was an awful symphony of sounds going on around him. Men screaming, gasping, groaning, shouting, crying. Men dying …
A Circle soldier lunged at him with a bayonet. Yaz shot him square in the heart. Another leveled his rifle at him. Yaz put three bullets into his head. A third enemy soldier was about to stab a trooper in front of him in the back. Yaz shot the man first on the ass, then in the groin and chest. A small explosion—probably a grenade—went off beside him, knocking him to his knees. He regained his footing just in time to shoot another enemy soldier who was drawing a bead on him.
He happened to look up to see one of the MiGs, its wings aflame, roar overhead, the F-16XL right on its tail, blasting away with all six Vulcan cannons. The Soviet jet hit the ground some 200 feet down the slope, cartwheeling into cherry blossom trees.
A few seconds later, the third and fourth waves broke through the barricades as did the second APC. Shane himself was manning the big .50-caliber machine gun on the vehicle’s small turret and his stream of fire was cutting through enemy troops with wild abandon.
Just then Yaz saw a group of Circle soldiers moving away from the fighting around the Monument and toward the book tower. One of them was carrying a flamethrower …
Suddenly Captain Dozer himself was beside Yaz. He too had seen the squad of Circle troopers making their way to the tower of books.
“They’re going to torch it!” Yaz yelled.
A second later, he and the Marine captain were running after the enemy soldiers. The F-16 roared overhead, using its cannons to strafe a clump of Circle soldiers who were still holding the far end of the barricade. But Yaz knew that Hunter could not risk a shot at the soldiers he and Dozer were pursuing. One spark and the books would be gone in a matter of seconds. At the same time, the second MiG came crashing to the ground not 100 feet away. Hunter had riddled the Soviet airplane with his cannon, then had to literally shoot the plane away from the book tower as the pilot was making a kamikaze-like dive into the high stack of volumes.
Dozer stopped about 25 feet from the book tower and shot one of the Circle fire team dead. But it was too little, too late. The man carrying the flame thrower immediately lit it and started spraying the gasoline-soaked books with a stream of fire.
“Jesus Christ, they’re burning it!” Yaz screamed.
Both he and Dozer opened up with their weapons, instantly cutting down the fire team. But the damage had been done: a long tongue of flame was quickly working its way up the side of the tower of books. The flamethrower strapped to the dead man’s back then exploded, adding to the mounting conflagration.
Both he and Dozer were stunned, unable to move for the moment, watching the flames grow higher up the tall stack of books.
“No! We can’t let this happen!” Yaz yelled out.
Dozer looked around desperately. Then he shouted: “We’ve got to knock it over!”
With that he was off and running back into the thick of the battle at the barricades. As Yaz watched, the Marine jumped up onto the nearest APC and quickly ordered the crew out. Then, jumping behind the controls himself, he gunned the engine and in a cough of smoke, was rumbling right toward the flaming section of the book tower.
“Jesus, he’ll kill himself!” Yaz yelled out.
Then Yaz spotted three Circle soldiers, who, having seen Dozer’s actions, were preparing to fire an anti-tank weapon at him. Yaz raised his rifle and fired, hitting two of the men just as they were firing the missile. His action distracted their aim enough so that the rocket hit the rear portion of the APC.
However it wasn’t enough to stop Dozer. The vehicle roared right by Yaz and hit the bottom of the book tower full force. The impact managed to tip the book tower substantially.
“It worked!” Yaz yelled.
But before he could reach the crippled APC, it exploded, once, then twice, the force knocking Yaz right on his ass and dazing him.
When he finally looked up and his vision cleared, the book tower was still standing, though barely.
He also knew with one look at the burning APC, that Dozer was dead …
At the same instant, high above, something went off in Hunter’s brain. He heard a scream tear through the fabric of his psyche. His body shuddered once, then was overtaken by a strange calmness.
He knew instantly what it meant: Something had just been lost. A spirit had passed on. A friend was dead …
He swooped low over the battle on Monument Hill and saw the teetering book tower and the blazing APC. He immediately pieced it together: Only one man would have dared to ram the tower. He knew Dozer was gone …
He could see the fighting around the Monument was now tapering off, the United Americans finally gaining the upper hand. But flames were still roaring up one side of the leaning pillar of books. That’s when Hunter felt another sensation run through him.
More enemy airplanes, coming out of the south …
Just then his radio crackled on. “Hawk!” he heard Jones call out. “You’re going to have more company … The big Soviet stuff is taking off now, along with a bunch of MiGs for cover …”
“OK, I copy,” he radioed back. “The MiGs will probably head this way, while the bombers try to escape …”
“That’s exactly what they’re doing,” Jones confirmed. “But listen, Hawk. We shot down one of the MiGs when it was taking off. It went up like a box of matches. I’d bet it’s carrying napalm …”
That was just what Hunter didn’t want to hear.
“If they’re carrying ’palm, it’s for one reason only,” he called back to Jones. “They’re going to finish off these books …”
“Our A-tens are only a minute away,” Jones said. “We’ll gut the runways so nothing will be able to land … But you’ll still have to deal with the ones that are already up there …”
Hunter signed off just as the three-ship flight of MiGs appeared over the Capitol Building.
He felt a jolt of anger rip through him with an intensity that rivaled anything he’d experienced before. “You bastards!” he screamed. “My country. My friends. Is there no end to it!”
But he knew before he faced the MiGs he would have to deal with the burning book tower. Putting the F-16 down low, he swung out, then lined the pillar up in his HUD sighting cross. Then with a push of the throttle, he kicked in the airplane’s afterburner …
Those on the ground were startled by the tremendous boom as the gallons of raw fuel were pumped into the rear section of the Fulcrums engine. The aircraft shot across the sky like a bullet, heading straight for the smoking, flaming tower of books. Not a second before it would have hit the tower, the airplane lifted straight up—almost magically—its underbelly just nicking the very pinnacle of the stack.
The tower continued to teeter for a moment. But then the full rush of the sonic wave, combined with the incredible jet wash from the powerful afterburning engine, hit the tower of books like a giant mighty fist.
Suddenly the books looked as if they were caught up in a tornado. The intricate stacking pattern instantly came unraveled—books were suddenly flying everywhere, wildly scattering in the man-made maelstrom. What was left of the tower came crashing down. Most of the fire went out instantly, adding billions of sparks to the whirlwind. The three fire engines were on hand to extinguish any smoldering volumes.
Hunter turned toward the MiGs, not once letting up on his afterburner.
The lead Soviet airplane, its wings loaded down with the weight of four napalm bombs, was the first victim. After spotting the F-16XL, the enemy pilot tried to turn away, but it was too late. One of Hunter’s two Sidewinders caught
the mid-section of the Flogger as it attempted a bank to the right. The resulting explosion broke the airplane in two separate flaming pieces, both of which crashed to the ground near the West Potomac Park.
With this, the two other Floggers suddenly climbed in an effort to get away.
Hunter put the F-16XL into a gut-wrenching vertical translation, and tore straight up toward the fleeing Soviet jets. He leveled a quarter mile behind them and lit his afterburner a second time. Within seconds he was on their tails.
He had only one air-to-air remaining. With a flick of the wrist, he commanded the airplane into a yaw-axis maneuver, meaning while the F-16 continued in a straight line, its nose swung out at an angle. He let his last Sidewinder fly and watched as it was immediately sucked up into the Soviet’s tailpipe.
He counted to three and suddenly the MIG was blown to smithereens by the powerful AIM-9 missile.
This left only one son-of-a-bitch to go …
The Soviet climbed and turned northeast hoping to put enough distance between himself and the crazy man in the strange American jet. But this was not his lucky day. Before he knew it, the red-white-and-blue jet was right behind him, and 100 yards below his tail. Suddenly its nose rose up, even though the airplane itself didn’t. It was called pitch-axis pointing. But the Soviet pilot would never know that. Hunter squeezed off his Six Pack trigger and the powerful shells found their way into the two large napalm bombs the Soviet was carrying.
There was no explosion—at least, not right away. The Flogger evaporated with a loud sizzle and a cloud of green-yellow flame. Then came the tremendous explosion …
“That’s for Bull …” Hunter said, steering the F-16XL through the burning MiG remnants and turning back toward Bolling.
CHAPTER 74
NIGHT FELL OVER THE peaceful, yet smoky skies above Washington, DC.
The Free Canadian P-3 Orion maritime patrol plane arrived just after sunset, its flight delayed due to a detour around the stormy skies near Baltimore.
Twenty miles south of that city, the retreating Circle forces had collided head-on with the United American Army near the old Fort Meade and a full-scale battle had been in progress for the past 12 hours.
Back in DC, another event, similar in importance, was underway.
The game was in the fifth inning when the P-3 flew over the battered, but well-lit RFK stadium. The stands were filled to capacity—with the civilians who had survived Circle captivity and soldiers who had finally wrested control of the city from the enemy.
The two teams on the field were made up mostly of the former professional players rescued during the Cooperstown Raid who had been waiting back at Bolling. A number of Football City Rangers, a few of which were actually pro football players in the prewar days, were also in the game.
It was this spectacle that the mercenary leader named Karl stared out at through the window of the P-3, his jaw open in disbelief. Beside him was Hunter’s Free Canadian ally, Major Frost.
“They fight for the city during the day and play baseball the same night?” Karl said as the P-3 went into a slow orbit around the stadium.
“They won back their capital during the day,” Frost corrected him. “This is how they celebrate …”
“Amazing …” Karl said quite candidly. “Simply amazing …”
The Orion then swung out and headed south, flying low over Bolling air base, now bustling with United American jet fighters and attack planes. A turn east brought it over National airport, where the five Ghost Rider B-1s had returned from a bombing raid against the retreating Circle Army. As the P-3 orbited the base, a flight of B-52s took off and headed northeast to continue pounding the remaining enemy troops.
After the Stratofortresses had launched, four F-20s came up to meet the P-3. They would serve as its escort for the ride back up to Newfoundland.
“It’s incredible,” Karl the mercenary muttered. “I heard nothing but bragging from the Russians, from the Circle about how they controlled this territory.
“Now, all I see are your troopers. In control. Playing games …”
“You are convinced, then?” Frost asked him.
Karl slowly nodded, as he looked out into the night only to see the heavily armed F-20s flying close by. The fact that all four were carrying Penguin Mk 3 anti-shipping missiles under their wings was not lost on the leader of the seaborne mercenaries.
“Somehow they have done it,” Karl replied. “Your friends the Yanks have taken back their country. It will cost me money, but obviously I cannot proceed with our plan. It would be very bad for business …”
For the first time in what seemed like years, Frost relaxed. “I’m glad you see it that way,” he said.
The airplane returned for one last circle around RFK Stadium just as one of the players for the Gold Team had hit a three-run homer. The crowd erupted in delight at the first round-tripper to be bit in the game.
High above, Karl the mercenary thought he could actually hear the cheering …
CHAPTER 75
IT WAS A HALF hour before sunrise.
The sounds of the booming guns could be heard from the battle between the United American Army and The Circle that was still raging just ten miles away. Rumbling down the abandoned roadway just outside of Annapolis was the gold APC. Its crew was intent on crossing the Chesapeake Bay before first light. Then they would turn north, head into New Jersey and finally into the wilds of New York City.
The APC commander, a Spetsnaz major named Kruszilinski, knew that the no-law, no-order city was probably the only place left on the continent where the APC crew could hide from the United American Army, now that the entire Circle Army was collapsing. He would wait there for further orders from Moscow.
The sun was just peeking over the bay when the APC reached the shore town of Cape St. Claire. Here the mile-long, straight as an arrow four lane bridge over the bay began. Turning in his position atop the APC, Major Kruszilinski looked back to the west to see the dark sky still lighting up from the intense fighting outside Baltimore. The Circle was finished—he knew it, and everyone in his crew knew it. The United Americans had been pounding the remains of the once-great army all night with everything from heavy bombers to attack aircraft to massive ground-based artillery. Now the UA ground troops would soon assault The Circle positions and no doubt would overwhelm them. With that, the bizarre reign of The Circle in America would be over.
The Russian officer had to shake his head and laugh. So much for the highly-touted theory of Tactical Defense. It had lost the Circle four cities in less than two months. And the brainstorm to wage a war of iconoclasm had also gone bust. He had seen what happened in DC, just getting out in time. Instead of demoralizing the American citizens brought to the capital to witness the destruction of their culture, the strategy actually galvanized them. The passive sheep had suddenly turned into a raving pack of wolves and The Circle had paid the price, in men and material, not a small amount of which was owned by the Soviet Army.
Major Kruszilinski tipped his hat in grudging respect for the Americans. It was that crazy man who chose to risk his life flying over the city towing the American flag who had started it all. Once the fuse was lit, there had been no way to put it out.
But all that was ancient history now, as far as the Soviet officer was concerned. His priority was getting to New York City with the valuable case he’d been carrying around inside the APC since the retreat from Football City. Books and baseball bats may be important to the Americans, but they didn’t amount to much compared to what he carried in the armored vehicle.
In his hands were the ultimate objects of American culture. He knew he might turn out to be the hero in this war after all …
The gold APC rolled onto the bay bridge just as the first rays of sunlight began to appear. They had adhered to their timetable. At this rate, Kruszilinski hoped they could reach the outskirts of New York by nightfall.
But suddenly he knew that was not going to happen …
A thick morning mist had enveloped the bridge and at first the Soviet officer welcomed the fog as cover for his escape. But now, up ahead on the straight, narrow bridge he saw first two red blinking lights, then a frighteningly familiar shape.
“Sir!” the APC driver yelled up to him in the turret. “Do you see it!”
“Yes, I do,” Kruszilinski said. “Just don’t stop, whatever you do …”
How the pilot had ever managed to land the strange, arrow-shaped, red-white-and-blue jet on the bridge the Russian would never know. But there it sat, blocking their way. Its nose cannons and God knows what else, armed and ready to fire. It was a showdown. Kruszilinski knew only one of them could survive.
The APC drew closer and the Soviet saw the pilot was standing straight up in the open cockpit, M-16 up and ready. Suddenly a stream of tracers came right toward him. The Russian ducked just in time to avoid the phosphorous shells bouncing off the turret.
“Keep going!” he screamed to his driver. But then he saw the pilot push something with the tip of his boot. Now just twenty yards away, the nose of the jet fighter suddenly erupted in a flash of fire and smoke. It was only a short burst—no more than a second and a half. But in that instant, the APCs driver and gunner were dead, and the front end of the vehicle blown off.
That left only Kruszilinski and the remaining gunner. It was obvious to the Soviet officer that the pilot—this legendary madman who was famous for flying the strange jet—was determined to stop them regardless of the damage it might cause to the contents of the sealed iron box just below the APCs control column. With this in mind, the officer and his gunner quickly abandoned the vehicle and jumped over the side of the bridge, plunging to the safety of the cold waters below.
Hunter didn’t bother to shoot the two Russians as they swam away from the bridge.
There had already been enough killing—on both sides. The loss of Dozer was still imbedded in him. It was still hard to believe the man who had led his famous 7th Cavalry through the wild post-war days and established them as the premier democratic fighting force of the land was really gone.
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