by Mack Maloney
Despite some grumbling from their soldiers after many had read the leaflets dropped by the enemy the night before, all was going smoothly for the Circle commanders charged with sailing the makeshift fleet to Manhattan. The sappers were a cut above the ordinary Circle Army soldiers, therefore their resolve was more reliable. And now, with only ten miles to go to the landing port at Rocky Ford, the commanders were confident the force would arrive intact and on-time. Some were even beginning to enjoy the view along the pleasant, tree-lined river bank.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, they heard a loud chopping sound. There was a flash of smoke and flame from the northern shore treeline, and one of the boats—a huge commandeered yacht traveling third in line—exploded with a horrendous sound. The yacht went under in a matter of seconds.
The overall Circle commander, riding on a fishing vessel safely placed in the middle of the pack, leaped to his feet to see an Apache helicopter rise above the treeline. It had fired the missile that took out the boat, and was in the process of firing another one. The commander’s eyes were diverted to the southern shoreline where another Apache had risen up just over the treeline. It too was firing at the boats. Then another Apache rose up beside it. Then another and another. All were firing TOW rockets into the tightly packed line of boats. All were hitting their targets.
In a matter of 20 seconds, the air was filled with buzzing Apaches, strange-looking bug-like choppers, that were loaded with cannons and TOW missile launchers. The Circle commander realized they had foolishly sailed right into an ambush. They were literally sitting ducks for the Apaches. He could only watch as the helicopters methodically rocketed and strafed the boats. There were explosions everywhere. Bodies and pieces of bodies were being flung high into the air as it seemed like every TOW missile launched founds its mark. Some of the sappers gamely attempted to return the fire, but most were only armed with M-16s and hand guns and their effort was useless in the face of the vicious onslaught.
Then, in the middle of the battle, a small, black jet fighter swooped down over the river, strafing the boats, sinking two before disappearing over the western horizon. The Circle commander knew he had seen such an airplane before. It was the same as the one in the propaganda leaflets dropped by the Western Forces the day before.
One by one, the Circle boats went down. Some troopers tried to swim for it, others were caught up in the many gasoline fires raging on the surface of the water. The commander’s boat took a TOW right on the bridge, killing him and everyone stationed there. Now leaderless, the boats were twisting and turning in every direction. But the fire from the squadron of Apaches was so intense, it seemed useless to even attempt an escape.
Within five minutes, the Apaches’ deadly work was complete. Every one of the boats had been hit, more than three quarters of them sent to the bottom. The sapper unit was destroyed.
Back at the Circle stronghold in Topeka, troops guarding the city’s bridges noticed the swift moving Kansas River had turned red with blood …
The 40-mile stretch of Kansas Interstate Route 135 between Salina and McPherson was the scene of an incredible traffic jam …
A convoy of 300 trucks, carrying six battalions of Circle ground troops, was traveling south on the highway when it met a large column of Circle tanks and armored personnel carriers moving in the opposite direction. Someone had screwed up. Strange radio reports had reached both commanders earlier in the day, countermanding their previous orders. The armored column was trying to get to Salina to get on Route 70 heading west. The infantry convoy had been directed south—off Route 70—and toward McPherson to take Route 56 west. Both of the column commanders used all four lanes of the abandoned interstate to get where they were going. They had met roughly halfway, near the small town of Bridgeport, Kansas and had been stalled, in place, while the Circle High Command tried to figure it out.
It didn’t matter. The Western Forces were about to do that for them.
The first PAAC aircraft to arrive on the scene was a pair of C-130 Spooky gunships flying 10 miles south of Salina. Each one was equipped with three rapid-fire GE Gatling guns poking out of its portside. The Spookies overflew the area once. Then while one headed south to ascertain the length of the exposed enemy, the other climbed and went into an orbit 1000 feet above the stalled infantry column. Before their commanders could order their troops to scatter, the C-130 opened on the trucks, its gun spitting out bullets at an incredible rate of 6000 rounds a minute.
Next on the scene were four aging PAAC B-57 bombers. The pre-Viet Nam era, two-engine jobs had been outfitted with deadly array dispensers. Fitted beneath the belly of the airplane, each dispenser contained hundreds of small, globe-like bombs. When released, the hand-sized bombs—which packed the punch of ten hand grenades—floated to earth via small parachutes. Exploding on impact, they would burst with a scattershot of deadly shrapnel going highspeed in all directions. The dispensers were originally designed to destroy an enemy’s crowded runways. They would work just as fine on the traffic jam …
The B-57s came in low and streaked just above the tops of the trucks, trailing a small cloud of little parachute bombs. The deadly globes slowly sank to earth, then started exploding as they landed on the tops of trucks, jeeps and people. A five mile stretch of the highway was soon the scene of incredible carnage. The small bombs tore up metal and flesh. Even the soldiers who were able to take cover at the side of the road were sliced up by the flaming pieces of bomb fragments.
But the Circle troops were not defenseless. A Stinger missile flashed up from the truck column, catching the starboard engine of one of the B-57s. The small jet bomber lost its wing immediately, and went into a freakish cartwheel above the crowded highway. It finally slammed into the traffic jam, exploding on impact and destroying a dozen more trucks in the process.
Their work done, the surviving B-57s turned west and headed back to their base. Meanwhile, the two C-130 gunships had moved south and were firing on the tanks and APCs of the armored column.
Then two PAAC A-10 Thunderbolts appeared on the scene. The C-130s again backed off and let the small, squat Thunderbolt “Tankbusters” do their thing. Carrying a powerful cannon in their noses, the A-10s swept up the highway, further chopping up the column and adding to the destruction. Several small SAMs rose to meet the ’Bolts, but the PAAC pilots were able to maneuver their rather slow-moving but effective ground attack airplanes out of harm’s way.
But there was trouble ahead for the A-10s.
A Russian general and his entourage had been unlucky enough to be caught in the deadly traffic jam. He had seen a number of his command staff shot to pieces in the first pass of the gunships. By the time the B-57s had wreaked their destruction, the Russian was on the line to his headquarters, demanding that air support come to the aid of the beleaguered column.
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 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 the 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-l 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-l 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-l group commanders, Ben Wa and J.T. Toomey.
“The system works, General,” Toomey 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.”
