by Mack Maloney
“We have four teams—two Texan, two of my guys, waiting at the border, Dave,” St. Louie continued. “We’re waiting for whatever comes across. We figure we’ll be seeing the whites of their eyes in two days. Good luck, buddy …”
The tape flickered and ended.
What characters, Jones thought. He was about to watch both of them again when he was surprised to hear the situation room’s scramble radio crackled to life.
“Denver, Tango-Six-Maxwell calling …”
Jones instantly recognized Hunter’s radio call sign.
He immediately picked up the radio microphone. “Hawk?” Jones answered. “That you, pal?”
The transmission was very faint, so much so, it sounded like Hunter was calling from another planet.
“General, got to be … fast,” the static filled voice said. “I put a convoy together. I’d like to take them through tonight. Right over you. As soon as that weather front clears …”
“Do I copy, ‘convoy,’ Hawk?”
“That’s … a … roger … sir,” the voice faded in between annoying bursts of static. “Out … of Oregon, Request top priority radio boot.”
Jones was twisting dials and punching buttons in an effort to clear up the signal, but to no avail. He knew a request for top priority “radio boot” meant absolutely no radio contact from here on in, even in an emergency. Even this call from the coast, scrambled as it was, was risky.
“Understand and copy, Hawk,” Jones said as slowly and distinctly as he could. “What’s the mission …?”
“Psyche-Ops …” came the reply. “Repeat Special … mission.” Then the radio signal went dead.
The weather cleared just as night fell. Jones and Dozer stationed themselves out on the air station’s tarmac, with a pair of NightScopes and a radio phone hook-up. Crunch was in the control tower, at the other end of the radio-phone watching over the shoulders of two radar operators.
Nothing happened until 10:30. Then one of the operators spoke. “We’re getting blips, Captain,” he told Crunch.
The Phantom pilot watched the screen as first one, then two more radar blips appeared, indicating aircraft approaching from the west. He immediately called down to Jones and Dozer.
“Here they come, General,” he reported. “One big boy riding out front. Two more, also heavies, right on his tail. You should see them soon, your north-by-northwest.”
Both Jones and Dozer craned their necks, scanning the now-cloudless sky with the infra-red NightScopes. After a few minutes, they both saw the three faint lights at the same time.
“That front one looks like the B-36!” Jones exclaimed as the light started to take shape in the Scope. “Jesus, don’t tell me he got that shitbox running …”
“Those look like the C-141s coming next,” Dozer said, focusing on the trailing images. “He must have bribed a bunch of our cargo flyboys to follow him on this one.”
The radio crackled once. It was Crunch. “Picking up three more, medium size, right behind them,” he reported.
Sure enough, Jones picked out three more aircraft, moving silently across the star-studded sky.
“Those are the old 727 cargo ships,” he said, directing Dozer to the three other lights.
Jones noticed a small, barely visible object bringing up the rear of the air train, an object that Crunch would never see on the radar screen. Jones knew this had to be the Stealth with Hunter behind the controls.
By this time, many of the people at the air station were outside, looking up at the strange menagerie of airplanes 60,000 feet over their heads.
“Well, he was right,” Jones said. “He’s heading directly into the ’Bads. Probably through that SAM hole near Oakley. That’s probably another reason why he really squashed them in that area the other night.”
They watched as the airplanes passed directly overhead. Then, on what had to be a pre-arranged signal, all six airplanes flicked their wing lights three times.
A spontaneous round of cheers went up from observers at the airport. “Hunter’s way of saying ‘Hello,’” Jones said, laughing for the first time in days.
They stood and watched until the convoy disappeared from view. “He’s got something in that mind of his,” Dozer said. “God only knows what.”
“I have a feeling we’ll know soon enough,” Jones said.
Suddenly the radio-phone crackled. “General,” they heard Crunch say. “We’re getting small outline readings in the trail of those airplanes, sir. It’s like one of them dropped something.”
Jones looked up and could barely see a bunch of tiny white specks falling from the sky. They also looked like snowflakes for a moment. Then, as they got bigger, he saw they were leaflets of some kind.
About 100 of the sheets fluttered down. “Talk about a precision drop,” Dozer said. “It’s like a phony war bombing.” He was referring to the time early in World War II when the Allies faced the Nazis in a six-month, non-shooting ‘phony war,’ when propaganda leaflets were the heaviest ordnance the enemies dropped on each other.
Jones grabbed the first one that blew his way. It was a photograph—taken in the correct and simple, propagandists style. But it was very strange …
It showed Hunter’s long-lost girlfriend, Dominique. She looked as beautiful as she did in the other mysterious photos that the Circle had been circulating of her earlier. But in this photo, she was standing next to the Stealth fighter, holding Hunter’s small American flag in one hand, and pointing a la Uncle Sam with her other. There was a printed message at the bottom of the photograph.
It read:
“VIKTOR IS DEAD. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS NOW AND GO TOME. REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE AMERICANS. YOU HAVE BEEN TRICKED BY THE RUSSIANS. EVERY AIRPLANE YOU SEE WILL BE DROOPING BOMBS ON YOU. DONT DIE AS RUSSIAN PUPPETS. THE WAR WILL SOON BE OVER.—QUEEN.”
“I guess this is his way of telling us what he’s up to,” Jones said, studying the leaflet. “Well, at least now we know what he was doing in the photo lab.”
“I thought I’d seen everything,” Dozer said, reading his own. “But this has to be the wildest stunt he’s ever tried …”
Jones read the message over and over. “Wild, yes,” he said. “But also quite effective, in a crude sort of way.
“If I’m guessing right, he’s got those big airplanes loaded with these things. He’s going to drop them all over the Circle’s Central Group troop concentrations. Shit, if it works on one tenth of those guys—that means they’ll be ten thousand less of them shooting at us.”
“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Dozer said. “He did say he would take care of ‘spooking’ the bastards. I guess every ‘Psyche Ops’ plan is a little weird.”
Then the Marine captain looked at the photograph even closer. “But I do have one question …”
“What’s that?” Jones asked.
Dozer pointed to the photo. “Is that really Yankee Stadium in the background?”
Chapter Thirty-three
THE RAIN HAD FINALLY STOPPED. But in the muck of the 9th Circle Regiment’s camp, it didn’t matter. The ground around the encampment was so soaked, many of the soldiers had abandoned their tents and were trying to sleep in the back of trucks, or on top of the group’s few tanks. Any place that was solid and could be made dry. Still, these places were at a minimum, so many of the men simply huddled together in the wet mud, and stayed awake all night, sharing cigarettes and what little whiskey they smuggled in.
To a man, they were cold, tired and mad. Their anger was directed toward the dozen “special” soldiers attached to their regiment. Rumors were rife that the “specials” were really Russians. And while The Circle troops shivered in the damp after-rain, they could also see the lights from the large, well-heated house trailers that served as the special troops’ bivouacs nearby. They also knew when chow came, these troops would be the first to eat.
It had been getting worse since they marched out of Football City. Before then, things hadn’t been as bad. Most of the men in
the Circle 9th were former Mid-Aks soldiers from the West Virginia area. Before Viktor’s recruiters appeared, they had supported themselves by raiding small towns and hamlets in the Wheeling area, sometimes bringing their booty—young girls mostly—up to The Pitts for resale. With promises of gold, new weapons and conquest in the west—especially against the same hated democratic forces that had brought down their Mid-Atlantic Empire—the members of the 9th had greedily enlisted.
Most of them had managed to put up with the strange ways of The Circle. The “re-education sessions” during training—where they watched countless videos detailing the outlandish heroics of Viktor—were bearable because the food was plentiful and it was occasionally spiked with some kind of “feel-good” drug. While the good old mountain boys of the 9th quietly snickered at the suggestion that the “Video” Viktor was “the Cosmos Chosen Leader,” they knew many of the other recruits—especially the young ones in their teens—bought the foolishness lock, stock and barrel.
What the Circle recruiters never told them was signing up in the Army of the East meant a long separation from what man needed most—sex. No women were allowed in or anywhere near Circle Army camps. No Circle soldiers were allowed the wanton rape and pillage that had been the trademark of the Mid-Aks. Photos of women and girls were banned. Whoring was punishable by firing squad—several public executions drove the point home quickly enough. The life of The Circle grunt was one of enforced abstinence.
Except for The Queen …
She was beautiful, even the men of the 9th agreed. And she was the only woman they ever saw—and then only in carefully distributed, carefully staged photographs. They were passed out like medals—rewards for good duty, and then only rarely. Photos of the Queen quickly became status symbols. Soldiers in favor carried them proudly. They became items for trade, like cigarettes in a POW camp. How valuable was determined by The Queen’s varying states of undress. The more she showed, the more precious the photo. It was said that some officers possessed photos of the Queen partially nude and given to them by Viktor himself. But these photos were as rare as diamonds and never filtered down to the enlisted men. Not unless it was planned that way. It was all very controlled, just as the portions of “feel-good” slipped into the troops’ meal rations. The Circle ruled its soldiers with an iron fist tightly wrapped around their libido. The erotic photos of the unnamed, beautiful Queen were the only release. They became as valuable and as guarded a commodity as The Circle’s guns, and rockets and bombs.
But now even that had ended, at least for the 9th. Rumors had been sweeping the troops’ encampments for days before they marched out of Football City that Viktor was dead and The Queen was missing. Something big had gone down back in New York City. They were heading for a bloodbath in the Badlands.
And worst of all, the camp food didn’t taste as good as it did before …
Now, on this cold, wet night, new rumors were sweeping the 9th’s camp. They would start on a new march route the next day because a major bridge they had been slated to cross had been destroyed by an enemy air strike. Wild stories about the West’s aircraft bombing targets behind their column were running rampant. Some soldiers who had been up to the front claimed the skies were filled with enemy aircraft. Yet Viktor’s officers had told them there would be no enemy air force by the time they reached the front. There were SAMs installed at the front, which made flying anywhere east of the Badlands impossible.
Even worse were the stories about the West’s “ghost” jets. Supposedly they could appear or disappear on command. Foolish as the story was, many of The Circle soldiers suspected there was something to it—and they sensed their superiors were taking the claims seriously.
So when the soldiers of the 9th Circle Regiment heard the rumbling of aircraft approaching from the west, they were quick to find shelter. But they found it was no easy task. Their encampment was set up out in the open of the Missouri plain. There was no place to hide. As the sound of the airplanes got louder, there was much confusion as the soldiers ran around in the dark, sloshing in the mud, looking for a hole to jump in or a rock to cower against.
“How did those airplanes get through!?” was the cry through the camp as the PAAC aircraft passed overhead.
“What happened to the SAMs!”
So it was a complete surprise to the men of the 9th Circle Regiment—as well as to thousands of their comrades camped nearby—that the high-flying airplanes didn’t drop bombs on them. Instead, thousands of leaflets floated down out of the sky. Leaflets showing the woman known to them only as The Queen, carrying a message that Viktor was dead and that they should give up the fight. Gone were her slinky black pornographic costumes. She looked all-business in the combat-style coveralls.
But many of the soldiers were startled more by the fact that she was holding an American flag. The symbol—and any talk of it—had been banned long ago by the New Order. It was the first time in years that many of them had seen the flag. Something stirred deep inside of a few of them. The picture of the Queen holding the stars and stripes was enough to kick some out of the hazy drug hangover they’d unknowingly been suffering from.
Still others wondered what the strange craft in back of her in the photo represented. Was this one of the “ghost jets” they’d been hearing about?
The leaflet drop added weight to the rumors that had swept the camp. If these airplanes got through the SAM line, what was to prevent others, carrying more deadly payloads from getting through? Maybe Viktor was dead. Maybe enemy aircraft were bombing positions behind them in the rear areas. Maybe there was a bloodbath waiting for them up ahead.
It was enough for many of the veteran soldiers of the 9th. They quickly packed their meager belongings and started marching again—this time toward the east, back to the West Virginia hills. When their officers appeared and ordered them to stop, they ignored them and kept moving. And when their officers shot a few of them, the members of the 9th, returned the fire, killed the officers then fled.
The scene was repeated all over eastern Kansas and Missouri. Wherever the leaflets fell, the “borderline” Circle troops—veteran Mid-Aks, Family soldiers, mercenaries mostly—began questioning their resolve. Scattered mutinies, uprisings, and random defections started to take place. More than a few Circle commanders resorted to force to keep their soldiers in line. By morning, The Circle High Command estimated that they’d lost anywhere from 10 to 15 percent of their troops. The Russians believed even more had deserted. How this would affect the planned link-up of their forces was anyone’s guess.
What they didn’t know was the worst was yet to come …
Back at the Denver Air Station, General Jones studied a video tape shot by an A-7 Recon Strike-fighter and rushed to the situation room. Taken only an hour earlier, the tape clearly showed small groups of Circle Army deserters moving east along highways and secondary roads. Most were walking, some riding in commandeered trucks. Everywhere—blowing in wind, or scattered amongst the trees—were Hunter’s propaganda leaflets. The Wingman had succeeded in covering most of eastern Kansas and Missouri with them.
Jones turned to the principal officers who had also gathered to watch the tape.
“Well, it looks like Hunter’s brainstorm worked as well as could be expected,” the general said. “It’s certainly not a rout, but they are losing at least some of their paycheck soldiers.”
“And those are the guys who are their veterans,” Dozer added. “Most of them have been in combat before, some of them would have been tough nuts to crack. Leave it to Hunter to push the right buttons in them, and at the right time.”
The others agreed.
“We can probably expect more of this after we hit their troop concentrations—with real bombs—today,” Jones said. “But there’s another certainty we have to be prepared for from this, and I’m sure Hunter is as aware of it as we are.
“That is, as The Circle loses their veterans, only the die-hard fanatics will remain.” A grim silence descend
ed on the room. Jones continued. “When that Central Group hits our defense line, we can expect everything, even kamikaze attacks. That means we’ll have to kill every last one of the bastards …”
Chapter Thirty-four
THE TWO F-4X PHANTOMS known as the Ace Wrecking Company swept in over El Dorado Lake without warning. Coming in side-by-side, each jet deposited a fat napalm canister right into the heart of the Circle encampment. A tidal wave of murderous burning jelly washed across the camp in an instant, igniting trees and flesh alike. For the thousands of Circle troops just waking up to the first light of dawn, it seemed as if they were still locked inside a horrible nightmare. Everywhere they saw their comrades running in panic, with their clothes, hair, faces on fire. Blood-curdling screams echoed throughout the old state park camping area. The flames reached ammunition stores, blowing them up and causing additional carnage. Many soldiers fled from their tents and leaped into the nearby lake.
The Phantoms pulled up, banked to the left and bore down on the encampment again. Two more large napalm cannisters were dropped. Another wave of fire tore through the camp. More screams.
More burning flesh. More horrible death.
By the time the Wrecking Company made its third and final bombing run, a small firestorm was sweeping the encampment. Huge trees were exploding from the heat alone, perforating any soldiers nearby with thousands of searing deadly splinters. The heat from the gasoline-jelly flames now threatened those soldiers who had sought refuge in the lake. The temperature had become so unbearable near the shoreline, those troops who could had to swim for it. Those who couldn’t were forced back into the deeper water until they drowned.
Eventually, the fires became so hot, the lake itself began to steam …
High above, watching the action, was a small, dark, mysterious-looking fighter plane.
Thirty miles west of Topeka, a convoy of small boats was making its way on the Kansas River. The vessels—work barges, pleasure ships, fishing boats—were carrying an elite brigade of Circle Army sappers to Manhattan, Kansas, where they would be dispatched to the front. Moving the 2,000 troops by water had become necessary after an entire 20-mile stretch of the division’s original route—Route 70—had been destroyed by Western Forces aircraft two days before.
