by Mack Maloney
“But it’s not impossible,” Frost said.
“But what’s in these gliders?” Wa wanted to know.
“Could be anything,” Hunter continued. “But my guess is troops. At the very least, officers and advisors. Sure, a few years ago we know the Soviets could disguise one of their big planes as being ‘East European,’ load it up with troops and fly right into the Aerodrome. But they knew then, and they know now, that with our intelligence network, we’d be on those airplanes as soon as they touched down and we’d stay with them the whole way.
“But how do you do it when you don’t want anyone to see or hear you? Sneaking in fighters is one thing. And maybe there are weapons and ammo on the subs. A sub you can dock in any number of places around the continent without a soul seeing you. But bringing in troops—raw manpower—on the QT, well, that takes some doing.”
“Jesus Christ!” Dozer said, putting the pieces together. “Are you saying they’re sneaking a whole Goddamned army into the country!”
Hunter nodded gravely. “They’re not doing this just to harass us. They’ve been doing that kind of Mickey Mouse stuff ever since the armistice. This is big time. Serious stuff.”
He paused. “I think what we’ve feared most is underway and has been underway for some time.
“The Russians are invading America.”
“But, wait a minute,” Toomey said. “What happened at Way Out, or the guardsmen’s post?”
“You mean, ‘Horses,’” Hunter asked. “I’m still working on that one. But we do know this much. Two men—the surviving guardsman and St. Louie’s recon guy—both saw some kind of intense action, and although they were more than a thousand miles apart, they both remembered one thing: Horses. And I’m personally going to find out what the hell they meant.”
Chapter Nine
A WEEK LATER, HUNTER sat in the hold of the Sea Stallion chopper, looking out at the darkened landscape below. They were heading east, over the old states of Idaho and Wyoming, over the South Platte River to where the borders of Colorado, Nebraska and Kansas once met. There was an almost full moon this night. He could see the contour of the land below him change from mountainous to hilly range land to flat open spaces. He checked his watch. 0150 hours. By 0230, the chopper would be on the edge of the Badlands. Then he would be on his own.
He had briefed the rest of the PAAC-Oregon officers on the mysterious convoy and wreck of the 707. The incident fit into his theory. If the Soviets had moved men and materiel into one end or the other of the Badlands, it would just be a matter of getting hold of some convoy jets, hiring on some fighter protection and moving freely anywhere in the midsection of the country. In all likelihood, the convoy he intercepted had strayed somewhat from its course, bringing it slightly west of the Dakotas. Again, not an unusual occurrence in these days of flying more by the seat of one’s pants than by sophisticated navigational gear.
Using the 419.10 miles he’d found on the 707’s distance indicator, he did some quick calculations which led to a very interesting discovery. Within the 420-mile radius of the crash site there were four airports—or former military air bases—that could handle 18 big airliners like the ones in the convoy. Three of these bases were inside the Badlands. Even the hay and the oats made a crazy sort of sense. “Horses,” again. Another piece of the puzzle seemed to be falling into place.
But the photo of Dominique was another story. That almost defied explanation. He told no one about it …
He checked his watch again. 0200 hours. His face was properly blackened as were his clothes. He did a final check of his gear. He was carrying Dozer’s smaller Uzi instead of his own, larger M-16. On his back was a satchel filled with HE (high explosive) hand grenades, several signal rockets, a long distance radio transmitter and receiver, a long, bayonet-like pack knife, and a .45 automatic. He also carried two gallons of water and six small bags of food. He knew he’d never eat any of the food—when he was this charged up, food was the farthest thing from his mind. But he took the packets along only as a favor to Mio and Aki.
He turned his attention to the contraption sitting next to him. He’d spent the last week designing and building it, yet he still couldn’t come up with a proper name for it. It was kind of a combination ultra-light/hang-glider/mini-jet. He had started with a tricycle-type frame and enclosed it with a small, soapbox derby style cockpit. Inside was a seat, a main control steering column, and two mini-control panels. Located directly in back of the seat was an umbrella-like device on which was the vehicle’s presently-folded triangular sail. In the rear he had installed a small, intricate jet engine. Two stubby wings projected a foot and a half out from each side of the frame. They were just long enough to hold four small dual-purpose air-launched missiles, two on each wing. The missiles were also filled with HE. A tripod built next to the steering column held a swivel fastener on which he could bolt down the Uzi. A small radio was on board. Right next to the front landing wheel was a black box housing two miniature cameras. Hanging off the starboard side was an elaborate eavesdropping device he had taken off the U-2.
The entire mini-jet was painted dull black and—except for a few of the critical engine parts—was made entirely of plastic. This way it had “stealth,” meaning it wouldn’t show up on radar. It would also be very quiet. He had built the airplane from scratch, robbing pieces of material here, cannibalizing other pieces there. It was basically a very elaborate hang glider. The jet would give him the thrust he needed to stay airborne, then he would shut down the engine and just glide. Fuel would be the main concern. He designed an especially small combustion chamber for the engine—one which would efficiently use every drop of gas he could carry. Still, he knew the 25-gallon plastic tank he hooked up under the mini-jet’s seat would have to be used very carefully. That’s why he programmed the whole firing process into one of the aircraft’s two minicomputers. He didn’t relish the prospect of having to look for jet fuel in the middle of the Badlands.
And that was where he was going. He had to. PAAC needed intelligence and they needed it fast. He was convinced the Soviets were infiltrating men and arms into the country and hiding them somewhere. And the best hiding place on the continent was the ’Bads.
A perpetual fog had hung over the place since the day of the Soviet bombing. The mist was so thick in places, it was nearly impossible to photograph any of the Badlands from the air. With concentrations of radiation, nerve gas, germ gas, and God only knows what, only fools entered into the Badlands at all. Fools and soldiers.
Hunter knew very well the only sane way to see the forbidden place was from 50,000 feet up and traveling at top speed. But Hunter also knew the only way to get some real answers was to go in and see what was happening in the danger zone himself.
He made arrangements to contact Dozer whenever he could via a link-up with a radio on a C-130 gunship which would be on station just outside Badlands’ airspace from midnight to two every morning. There was just a little comfort in Hunter’s knowing that the C-130 would also be carrying 30 of Dozer’s best paratroopers. But if it got to the point of his calling them in, by the time they arrived, they just might be able to recover his body and that would be about it.
Still, the trip was critically necessary and that’s why he chose to do it. With him he carried two things on which he hoped to draw strength, luck and inspiration. In his breast pocket was the searing photo of Dominique and the tattered American flag.
The jumpmaster came back to the hold to tell Hunter they were approaching the drop-off point. The Wingman did a quick double-check of the chopper’s position, then prepared for his jump. Several years before when he reconditioned the Sea Stallion to prepare for rescuing the ZAP pilots being held in Boston, he had installed a movable platform in the center of the chopper’s belly. It was originally designed as a missile launcher, but for this mission, Hunter removed the missile tubes and adapted the platform to hold the mini-jet. Now, with the help of the jumpmaster, he fastened the small airplane onto the pla
tform and started feeding fuel to the engine.
With five minutes to drop, he was sitting in the jet clutching the wire which operated the umbrella device holding the folded-up wingsail. He saluted the jump-master, who gave him the thumbs-up sign and pushed a button. The chopper’s hold door opened and the platform began to lower. Slowly Hunter and his airplane descended into the black night. It was cold and the wind was blowing hard. After being lowered about eight feet, the platform creaked to a halt. Then the hold door slid shut above him. He hunkered down into the cockpit and started activating the aircraft’s minicomputers. He was reassured when the control panel’s lights instantly blinked on in proper sequence. But the noise! The helicopter’s rotating blades were making such a racket it was practically unbearable. Although he was wearing his standard flight helmet—another good luck piece—the noise was still deafening.
The helicopter had slowed to about 30 knots. Hunter made one last check of the controls then he pushed the engine start-up button. To his relief, it fired perfectly. He slowly raised the fuel feeder level and the little jet became hot. He checked his watch. Ten seconds to go. The Sea Stallion had now slowed to a near hover about 5000 feet above the flatlands below. Hunter gave each missile a tug just to make sure it was held on securely. He pulled the wire to release the safety switch on the wingsail’s spoke ring. Then he crouched back down into the small, open cockpit and started to count …
“5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … Now!”
Right on cue, three small explosive charges located where the mini-jet was fastened to the platform ignited and catapulted him into the night. The chopper then shot straight up and banked away to fly clear of him. Once free, Hunter floored the engine. A long thin spit of flame appeared from the jet’s exhaust tube and the craft started to pick up speed. Then he pulled the wire which raised the umbrella and locked the bat-like wingsail into place. The minijet shuddered for a few hairy seconds, but then wind caught the sail and immediately the craft started gaining altitude. “What d’ya know,” Hunter thought. “It works …”
He quickly slowed the engine and worked the controls to steer the airplane. From here it was up to him which way he wanted to go. There was a lot of territory to cover over the Badlands, and he preferred to start while it was still dark. He checked the missiles’ status then mounted the Uzi and connected an extra long magazine. He patted his breast pocket feeling both the sharp folded edges of Dominique’s photo and the softer, frayed border of the American flag. Then he banked the tiny jet into a 120-degree turn and sped off toward the eastern horizon.
He wouldn’t see anybody or anything for the next two and a half days …
It was hot.
The people who claimed the sun didn’t shine in the Badlands were crazy. The thin, permanent layer of clouds that hung close to the ground might have blocked the view from the air but they also provided a textbook example of the Greenhouse Effect. If anything, the clouds magnified the sun’s rays, giving everything—including the air—a hot and steamy feel. Another myth—that nothing grew in the Badlands—also proved false. While there were many patches of dead vegetation dotting the landscape, Hunter did see other places where trees and bushes were growing at a lusty rate.
Water was another story. Most of the rivers were dried up and the few lakes he’d seen were all of a different color—none of which was blue. The water was poison. At the very least it contained traces of deadly radiation. Anywhere he saw water, he also saw nearby skeletons of hapless animals who long ago somehow managed to survive the Soviet holocaust only to fall victim to its after-effects as soon as they got thirsty.
His search carried him back and forth over vast stretches of western Kansas, Nebraska and the Dakotas. He found nothing. He was sunburned, dirty, and carrying an itchy, three-day beard. He was now glad to have the food that Mio and Aki prepared. He ate it out of sheer boredom. More than once he looked at the picture of Dominique. And more than once he began to think that his “hidden army” theory was a bunch of hooey. Still, he pressed on.
At least his flying machine was working perfectly. He had flown long distances, but the jet was needed only sporadically. He still had more than 18 gallons of fuel left and the way things were going, that would be plenty.
That first day, he had lain low, hiding out atop a huge mesa near the edge of the Black Hills. The position gave him a commanding view of the surrounding territory. But there was absolutely nothing to see. That night, as he was preparing to take off, he saw an air convoy passing over. It was flying way up there, at 50,000 feet at least, and had more than three dozen airplanes. Its direction was southeasterly; no doubt a legitimate skytrain making its way from Free Montreal to the trading mecca of Los Angeles. The sight had given Hunter a melancholy feeling. Life goes on, he thought at the time. No matter what you do, life goes on.
He flew all the next day and the next night, stopping only for short breathers and to check in with the radio on the gunship. His first two calls simply gave his position and the codewords “Delta Diana,” which meant “nothing to report.” Should something turn up, he would begin his transmission with the call “Alpha Diana Romeo,” and quickly follow with an coded report.
But would he would ever send that message?
He found his answer the next day. It was around noontime. He had just witnessed another myth dispelled: It did rain in the Badlands. A morning shower had temporarily grounded him. He was waiting it out, sitting on the lip of a small plateau somewhere in the middle of Nebraska. The rise overlooked a vast plain which stretched for miles, broken only by a north-to-south, two-lane road which started at one horizon and ended on the other. The closest it came to him was about four miles from his position.
He was just getting ready to leave when he heard a long, low rumble, somewhere off in the distance. Thunder? He looked to the north and saw rising above the road a distinctive puff of dust being kicked up by a vehicle.
He grabbed his binoculars and focused. Goddamn! Not just one vehicle—there were many. Too many.
Bursting through the cloud of dust came distinct gray shapes moving down the road at a fast clip. They weren’t cars; they were too big for trucks.
Tanks, maybe? Closer they came. He shielded the spyglasses from the bright, hazy sun. The shapes started taking a definite form …
“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered, not quite believing what he saw. “They’re SAMs. On wheels.”
SAMs. Surface-to-air missile batteries. First, he could see ten, then 20, then 50, then more than 100 of the mobile air batteries. The vehicles carrying them looked like dump-trucks. The missiles on their backs were Soviet SA-3s, NATO nickname: “Goa.” There were four of them per launcher. Hunter took a deep breath of the clammy air. This was bad news. The SA-3 was a very dangerous missile. It could hit a target 55,000 feet high and 18 miles away and travel at Mach 2 to do it.
He took out his notebook and started taking an accurate count. It took a full 10 minutes for the deadly parade to pass him, and when it was over, he had noted 306 launch vehicles. More than 1200 missiles. That was enough to end all the speculation as whether something fishy was going on in the Badlands or not.
The question now was: Where were the SAMs going?
He trailed the column for the next four hours, staying a good 4000 feet above the absolutely flat land, firing the engine only when needed. He could do little more than follow as the convoy of SAMs continued southward along the perfectly straight, seemingly endless highway. He knew that no one below could spot him as the Badlands haze proved to be an adequate shield and the plastic construction of the mini-jet made it all but radar-proof.
Finally, the column reached a crossroads in south-central Kansas where it found five tanker trucks waiting. As he circled high above, he saw each vehicle get a quick fill up, then head east. It was getting dark by this time. If he got lucky, the column would reach its destination just before nightfall.
Another hour passed and the trucks showed no signs of slowing down. He figured h
e was somewhere just west of where Wichita used to be. This was close to the area where St. Louie’s recon troops ran into trouble. Off in the distance, a new moon was rising. It was full and orange and spooky. He shook off a chill and did a weapons check.
Then he saw it. Off on the eastern horizon. At first it appeared as a single, greenish light, reflecting off the perpetual Badlands haze. As he drew closer, he saw the green hue was the reflection of many, many lights. Still closer, he found the lights were coming from a settlement of some sort.
The closer he got the more ominous the place looked. It was completely surrounded by an elaborate yet medieval-looking stone wall. It was high and thick like parapets of old; yet it was complete with many turrets and towers each which held some definitely un-medieval looking gun batteries. Inside, he saw more SAMs than he’d ever thought was possible. But not just SAMs. There were also trucks with guns riding on the back, some personnel carriers, even a few pre-World War III-vintage American tanks. And everywhere, he could see soldiers.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that he had discovered the main base for the “hidden army.”
He climbed to 8000 feet. From there he wasn’t surprised to see three cooling towers belching steam about 20 miles from the base. Another piece of the puzzle fit. It was the nuclear plant the recon trooper had reported. A castle-like Soviet military base being powered by a nuke plant in the middle of the Badlands. Only in The New Order.
He started to head back down to a lower altitude. The SAM column had come to a halt outside the base where its drivers appeared to be parking their trucks and setting up for the night.
The darker it got, the better Hunter liked it. He circled the Soviet castle, gradually reducing his altitude. The thermal updrafts over the city allowed him to almost hover at times, letting him work both his surveillance cameras and his eavesdropping device at will. The Soviet castle was a strange place. He felt as if he was dropping in on another planet. Many of the buildings inside the walls were topped off by spires and minarets. Every structure was painted a different garish color, and was flying one of hundreds of flags that flapped in the thick night air.
