by Mack Maloney
But, right in the middle of the place was the biggest flag at all. It was a huge, blood-red, hammer and sickle design. The flag of the Soviet Union, fluttering in the Kansas breeze.
Chapter Ten
THE RADIO ABOARD THE C-130 gunship crackled to life with a burst of static. “Alpha Diana Romeo,” the distant, but familiar voice began. “Repeat. Alpha Diana Romeo.”
The aircraft’s radio operator immediately acknowledged the password and called back to PAAC-Oregon’s communications center to alert Dozer that a message from Hunter was coming through. Once he had Dozer on the line, he patched the radio transmission from deep in the Badlands to the PAAC line, ran it through a scramble device so the two men were able to talk openly to each other.
“Hawk, what’s going on out there?” Dozer asked.
Hunter replied slowly and in careful measures. “Our thinking was on track, Bull. We have trouble out here. Russians. Russian equipment. I spotted them about noon today. Been with them ever since. And they’re carrying more than just popguns.”
For the next ten minutes, Dozer listened incredulously as Hunter told him he’d spotted the SAM column and how it eventually led him to the Soviet’s castle-like main base. When the sun was down completely, he had brazenly flown low over the city, sometimes as low as the gun turrets. No one had spotted him. He had taken a lot of photos over the walled city and especially over the multitude of military equipment located around its perimeter.
He told Dozer he spotted a few tanks and personnel carriers. But it was the SAMs that were most in evidence. The Soviet castle was ringed with them, all of them mobile like the SA-3s. Inside the walls of the base, Hunter saw many people wearing Soviet uniforms. His eavesdropping device had also picked up a number of Russian conversations as well.
“How about aircraft, Hawk?” Dozer asked over the increasingly annoying static.
Hunter’s reply was distant. “I found the Yak jump jets. Ten of them, anyway. Parked just outside of the city. They’ve got a working airfield out there. A few Hind gunships.”
“Christ, Hawk,” Dozer said. “How could they have brought all this stuff into the country right under our noses?”
Hunter’s reply came back even fainter. “From what I’ve seen—to get this much stuff in—they must have started sneaking it in at least two years ago.”
Dozer tried to save the dying signal: “You mean while we were so busy screwing around with the ’Aks and The Family, the Sovs were backdooring us all along?”
He was answered by a loud burst of static, then silence.
“… Hawk?”
The Marine never got his reply. The signal had faded away for good.
The next day, Hunter struck out to the north. He was back to flying high and quiet enough so that anyone chancing to spot him in the Badlands haze would think they were looking at a bird—perhaps an eagle or more likely, a buzzard.
Hunter was astounded. Not a mile went by when he didn’t see some kind of evidence of the Soviet hidden army. He spotted 15 more Yaks at an airfield about 150 miles north of the Soviet castle on the old Kansas-Nebraska line. There were another five Yaks at an auxiliary field 20 miles north of that, near where Omaha used to be.
But it was the hidden army’s SAM missiles that most worried Hunter. There were tens of thousands of them. He spotted SAMs of all types and sizes. There were more mobile units—SA-2s, SA-4s, SA-6s, SA-8s and SA-9s. He saw units equipped with the short-range, shoulder-launched SA-7s. He even spotted concrete foundations he knew would handle the long-range SA-5s, a missile that could hit a target 95,000 feet high and 185 miles away.
All the time his cameras were snapping away, capturing it all on special high speed film. For that entire day and most of the rest of the night, he flew on northward. It seemed as if on top every hill or mountain he came upon sat another concentration of Soviets. Everywhere were the SAMs. He saw rings of them around two more sizable bases and two or three units atop of isolated mountaintops. They were scattered throughout the great plains of Nebraska, and on up into South Dakota.
And every single one of them was pointing west …
Hunter knew what the overabundance of SAMs meant. The Soviets knew who their enemy would be: the only stable governments left on the continent—the free states of Texas to the south and the Pacific American Armed Forces Protectorates to the west. Both democracies were heavily into air power. The SAMs were here to put an end to that.
Hunter was able to reestablish radio contact with Dozer two nights later, and then was able to talk to him for three more consecutive nights. Each transmission brought even grimmer news, which Dozer would soberly report to the PAAC-Oregon officers at their daily 0600 briefing. General Jones was also getting several daily reports on the crisis via top secret courier deliveries. PAAC-Oregon and PAAC-San Diego were brought up to Code 2 Alert, just a step away from a war situation. As was the custom at PAAC-Oregon, every officer on the base was given a briefing on the situation and they in turn delivered the reports to their chain of command on down. The philosophy was that if PAAC was going to ask their troops to go to war, then they owed them at least the courtesy of being open about the reasons for it.
Reports were also being secretly transmitted to Fitzgerald and St. Louie. The situation was particularly ominous for them, especially Football City, which was right next door to the ’Bads. With their major allies—the Pacific American Armed Forces—far to the west, Football City and The Aerodrome suddenly found themselves on the wrong side of the Soviet hidden army.
By the 10th day, Hunter found himself near the edge of the Dakota foothills. Here he made another discovery. The northern anchor of the Soviet hidden army appeared to be an old abandoned air force base near Aberdeen, South Dakota. A number of convoy-type airliners were in evidence. Some of them no doubt part of the mysterious convoy he had intercepted days before. But boldly lined up on three of the five runways were also hundreds of large gliders. These had to be what Fitz’s people were seeing when they reported strange lights over the Lakes.
The gliders looked like they were manufactured especially for this particular Soviet adventure. They were probably made of wood, Hunter guessed, then covered with plastic sheeting. That way they wouldn’t have shown up on radar either. And he knew that correctly piloted, a glider released off the coast of northeastern Canada at a height of, say, 80,000 feet or more, could soar for hundreds if not thousands of miles. He was sure that just one Russian Bear bomber could tow six or seven of the gliders out and turn them loose just beyond the reach of the Free Canadian radar sweep. From there they would have to rely on the continent’s high night winds and thermal currents to “bounce” off Lakes Ontario and Erie. With a turn north after Lake Michigan and with enough height and wind, they could make it the last 600 miles or so.
But why light shows over the Lakes? Because, while the gliders were able to run high and silent, they still needed to travel in bunches with the lead guy somehow navigating. The sky can get very crowded when you’re soaring 14 miles high, at night, without an engine, in a crowd of other wooden airplanes that don’t have engines either. So you kept your anti-collision lights on and hoped for the best. It was a hell of a way to fly; damned cold and at the mercy of the winds. He was sure the Soviets lost more than a few gliders along the way, especially over the Lakes. Yet somehow their more plucky pilots made the trip and lived to tell about it.
Hunter made several high passes over the occupied airfield. He was not surprised to count 10 more Yaks at the base, plus the usual orgy of SAM sites surrounding the place.
It was the morning of the eleventh day when he landed and finally rested for a spell, 100 miles north of the Aberdeen glider base. He had to change his film and collect his notes. It was not a job he looked forward to. Glumly, he sat down and calculated that just from what he had seen in materiel strength alone, the Soviet hidden army would have to have more than 15,000 troops on hand to operate the thousands of pieces of equipment. That’s some infiltration! Jesus,
these guys made pushing a bike down the Ho Chi Minh Trail while dodging the U.S. Air Force look like a Sunday morning stroll.
But Hunter had a question: How could the Soviets maintain—as in “feed”—such an army? Sneaking in troops, advisors or, more accurately, technicians to run all this gear, was one thing—continually sneaking in chow for them was another. An army runs on its stomach and he knew there wasn’t an edible piece of corn in the entire Badlands. Even if it grew there, you wouldn’t want to eat it.
Another question: If war against the western democracies was the Soviets’ intent, who would do the dirty work? The bust-ass, slogging in the blood and mud, hand-to-hand combat? A bunch of SAM techs? No way. So there was another funny thing about the Soviet hidden army—it was an army without any infantry he could find.
Question Number Three: Where was the army’s rear area? Where were all the extra ammo, fuel, spare parts kept? The answer was: nowhere. As far as he could tell, the jagged line that ran 600 miles from just west of Wichita, Kansas to just north of Aberdeen, South Dakota wasn’t so much a frontline as it was a self-contained forward firing zone, about a mile or two wide and filled with a lot of SAMs. There was no depth to the Soviet positions, no backups that would normally be sequestered 20 to 30 miles to the rear.
He suddenly realized what the Soviet hidden army had done. They had managed to set up another wall—like a Berlin Wall—this one made of surface-to-air missiles. Once the SAM line was in operation, no airplane—be it a fighter or an airliner in a convoy—would be safe to fly through the center of the continent. In the next breath, Hunter realized that he was peeking in on a project that was not yet completed. He was sure that if he had made this trip two months later, he would have seen a line of SAMs extending through the wilderness of Oklahoma in the south, up through the rugged Dakotas to the Free Canadian border in the north. Once this “missile alley” was complete, Texas—and all that oil—would be in a dangerously isolated position. All the Soviets would have to do is station a few hundred of their new supermissiles—like the 70-mile range SA-12s he spotted—and they could knock down anything flying above the Louisiana-Texas border. The continent would thus be split in two, and easy access between the lifeline markets in Los Angeles and Free Canada would be blocked.
Early the next morning, he ate the last of his food, took off and immediately climbed to 10,000 feet. The minijet was still operating well but the fuel was down to nine gallons. And he still had one more place to go. He would have to catch strong winds at the higher altitude and glide most of the way to his destination.
He headed south, then east. His goal was located somewhere near the Soviet castle. He decided to locate the same ravine where St. Louie’s recon guys met their deaths. Since his discovery of the Soviet hidden army, he knew now that anything was possible. Yet he still had to solve the mystery of the horses.
Using the upper air currents, he made it back over the big Soviet main base in less than 14 hours. Along the way he took many high-altitude photos of the Soviet emplacements. It was dark again when he bypassed the Soviet castle, steered clear of the steaming nuke plant, turned east then lowered down to 1000 feet. Now he tried as best he could to pick up the route the doomed patrol traveled.
It was close to midnight when he spotted a piece of terrain that seemed to match the patrol’s description of the ravine. He reconnoitered the area for 10 miles around and, not seeing a soul, landed the minijet near the area.
Then he waited. The moon rose. The wind kicked up some dust and blew it across the vast, deserted plain. He walked some distance from the minijet, taking the Uzi with him. He was surprised how bright the stars were shining even through the murk of the Badlands’ atmosphere. Somewhere, a surviving coyote called at the moon. At least he thought it was a coyote …
That’s when he heard the sound of hoofbeats.
Chapter Eleven
HUNTER FROZE …
Off to the west, five riders, their horses at full gallop, were coming toward him. He quickly undid the safety on the Uzi and checked the magazine. It was full. He retrieved one of his two HE hand grenades, then he slowly crouched down, never once taking his eyes off the approaching horsemen.
He was about 25 feet away from the minijet, but the riders were coming on so fast, he would be spotted instantly if he attempted to get to the aircraft. And the way the horsemen were riding, their route would carry them right past the vehicle. What would happen then was anyone’s guess.
The lead rider was the first to spot the small airplane. He immediately pulled up the reins on his horse and slowed down. His four comrades did the same. Hunter heard the simultaneous sound of five rifles being cocked. That meant the horsemen weren’t just out for a pleasure ride. Whoever they were, these guys meant business.
He strained to make out forms behind the five silhouettes. They appeared to be wearing some kind of armor and metal-visored helmets. And were those swords they were carrying in the belts?
The leader slowly urged his horse toward the mini-jet. He withdrew his sword and used it to poke at the airplane’s deployed wingsail. Hunter watched, barely breathing. If the guy started jabbing and hit the wrong connecting wire or fuel line, then the minijet would be inoperable and Hunter would be stranded.
He had to act. The chances of these horsemen being friendlies was remote. He unslung his powerful belt lantern and switched it on. Instantly a beam of light cut across the night and caught the five riders in its path. That’s when he saw their faces …
They were Orientals. Soldiers. They were wearing armor and metal helmets. They carried AK-47s Soviet assault rifles. Swords hung from each man’s belt. The horses were also elaborately dressed. Jesus Christ! These guys looked like … Mongolians!
The riders turned and pointed their rifles toward him. They started shouting at each other in an indecipherable language. Hunter knew they would be momentarily blinded by light. An HE grenade would get most of them, but would also take out the minijet. The Uzi could get three, maybe four, but the fifth would probably get him in a crossfire. So he did the only thing he could do to draw them away from the minijet: He killed the light and ran in the opposite direction.
The riders followed. He scrambled up a hill and down the other side. He heard the horse’s hooves trailing him close behind, and spun around as soon as he was sure the horsemen had reached the top of the hill. That’s when they started shooting at him.
Their Ak-47s were loaded with tracer bullets. He saw streaks of light whiz by close to his left, then even closer to his right. Well, enough of this bullshit. He hit the ground, rolled and threw the HE grenade just a la John Wayne. It exploded right in front of the first two horsemen, lighting up the desert plain and blowing the riders and their horses to bits. The next horseman unwittingly rode into the bomb’s resulting fire, which ignited his clothing as well as his mount’s. Like something out of a horror film the man, trapped atop his flaming horse, rode off screaming into the darkness.
There were two riders left and both survived the grenade’s explosion. Hunter kept rolling and spinning away from their tracer-laden-bursts of gunfire. In a second, the Uzi was in his hand and firing. A barrage of bullets ripped across one man’s face; he could hear the distinct pings as the slugs hit his metal helmet. The man slumped off his saddle, only to catch his boot in one of the stirrups. Hunter squeezed off another burst, just over the horse’s head and the animal bolted in panic, dragging its hapless rider with it.
Undeterred, the lone rider continued firing at Hunter. At the same time he was diving away from the tracers, the airman realized that off on the horizon he could see in the dim light of the moon, hundreds—no thousands of riders. In an instant his mind clicked and another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Cavalry. That’s what St. Louie’s recon patrol ran into. And that was one way the Soviets intended to defend their SAM positions. But Mongolian cavalry? Here in America?
He didn’t have time to think about it. He spun around. The last rider bore down on him, AK-4
7 in hand. But he was so close, he couldn’t get a good aim on the airman. With the rider just a few feet away, Hunter reached back to his belt, drew his bayonet and threw it. The blade ran true, slicing into the man’s throat. Hunter had to step out of the way as the horse, with its rider bleeding horribly, galloped by.
He had no time to lose. The main force of the cavalry was heading his way and he was sure they’d seen the action. He was back up and over the hill in seconds, neatly side-stepping the bloody goop of the first two riders he’d dispatched.
The cavalry was just a quarter of a mile away by the time he reached the minijet. He jumped in and started punching his computers to life. He quickly opened the fuel feeder valves and watched the fuel pressure needle rise. “C’mon baby, just fire one more time …” He crossed his fingers and pushed the engine’s ignition switch. The little jet turbine instantly came to life.
He released the brakes and steered around in a circle. He would have to take off the same way he came in. Unfortunately, that was in the exact direction that the cavalry was bearing down on him. Having no other choice, he hit the throttle and the minijet started moving. He opened it up and it moved faster. All the while, his eyes and brain were working the calculations of how close he would have to come to the on-rushing cavalry before he could get airborne. The numbers were not with him this time. He knew by the time he could get off the ground, the aircraft would be twenty deep into the onrushing horde.
With a flick of a switch, he armed the minijet’s missiles. They went green just as only 300 feet separated him from the lead element of the charging horsemen. He pushed a button and his outside starboard missile was gone, spiraling toward the riders. It impacted on the fourth man in, the HE splattering over two dozen or so of his comrades. Hunter launched his outside port missile a split-second later. It became imbedded in a lead horse’s body, toppling it and delaying its detonation for a moment. But when it did blow—it was big, fiery, and bloody. Twenty more horsemen were mowed down. The lead horses immediately went into a panic. Those in the rest of the rest of the column that could, quickly swerved either right or left.
