by Mack Maloney
Jones looked around inside the ultra-sophisticated bomber. It was crammed with so much electronic gear, he was surprised it could get airborne.
“You got here just in time,” Jones told him. “We had a hell of a day yesterday. Ten airplanes shot down. We put a lot of hurt on The Circle and the Russians—but it was a costly couple of victories.”
Jones led the two men out of the airplane and toward the air station’s mess. They had been isolated from the battlefront since the war began. Jones quickly updated them.
“Here’s the situation, guys,” Jones began after they sat down to a pot of coffee and a large bowl of morning stew. “We’ve been able to divert the main Circle Forces into Kansas. Right now, they’re about a day away from our lines. And they’ve finally linked up with the Russians.”
“So the unholy alliance is complete,” Wa said.
Jones nodded. “They’re coordinated now. They finally got smart and started their SAMs rolling. So the SAM line as we knew it is no more.”
“How many enemy troops are we talking about,” Toomey asked.
“Well, we figure they lost about fifteen thousand guys thanks to Hunter’s Psyche-Ops plan,” Jones said. “And we’ve greased a lot more. But they still have about five divisions—seventy five thousand men—heading our way. And they’re bringing the SAMs with them. Anywhere between two and three thousand launchers, each with four missiles on its back.”
“Jesus Christ …” Toomey said softly, trying to imagine what three thousand SAM launchers in one concentrated area could do.
“We’ve got to hit them hard and quick, boys,” Jones said defiantly. “Just as soon as the sun is up, we have to get airborne and plaster the shit out of them. If we don’t then they’ll run over the fifty-five thousand men I have waiting on our defense line without even stopping.”
“What do we have for air support?” Toomey asked, pouring himself another coffee.
“Well, Mike Fitzgerald is sending down a squadron of his Thunderchiefs,” Jones said. “They should be here any time now. He has The Circle’s Northern group so screwed up in Minnesota, it’ll take them a week to figure out how to get out.
“St. Louie promised us six F-20s and the Texans are sending a squadron of their F-4s along with them. They wanted to send more—but they still have their hands full, hitting New Orleans everyday while trying to keep Circle Southern Army from crossing their border.”
Jones paused to light a half-burned cigar. “As for us,” he said, through a cloud of stale smoke. “I sent back word to PAAC Oregon and San Diego. Anything that can fly, and carry a gun or a bomb will be here by noon.”
Wa shook his head. “Even the World War II stuff?”
“You bet,” Jones said. “The Mustang. The P-38. Everyone’s coming to the party. Choppers, too. Any that we can spare, that is. We got the Crazy Eights and the Cobra Brothers working the defense line. God help them when the SAMs start flying.”
“Seems like you’ve done everything you could, General,” Toomey concluded. “By the book, too.”
“Well, we’re still missing one piece,” Jones said, chewing the end of his cigar. “One very valuable piece …”
Chapter Thirty-seven
“DOES ANYBODY HERE REMEMBER the movie, ‘High Noon?’” Jones asked.
It was still a half hour before dawn and the situation room at the Denver Air Station was crowded with pilots on hand to receive their pre-mission briefing.
“Well, that’s what it’s going to be like out there today,” Jones told the assembled airmen. “More bad guys than good guys.”
He displayed a photograph of a large portion of the encamped Circle Army taken just after sunset the day before. It showed tens of thousands of tiny lights, like a galaxy of candles in the night, dotting the west Kansas plains. They went on and on for miles.
“Those,” Jones said grimly, “are campfires …”
A wave of low volume swearing and whistles of amazement passed through the room.
“If we figure at least five men to a campfire,” Jones said. “Then we’re talking about a lot of bad guys. And they’ve been on the move. They’re only about fifteen miles away from our lines now.”
Now there was a deathly silence.
“We’ve been chipping away at them every day,” Jones continued. “And between defections and our air strikes, we figured The Circle lost close to two divisions and a hell of a lot of equipment.
“But … we estimate they’ve still got five divisions to throw at us. And these guys are the hard-core radicals. They’re like the Shiites back in the ‘I-ah-toll-lah’s’ heyday. Anyone remember that old goat? Fanatics. Ready and willing to die for the cause. These bastards still believe that Viktor’s in charge. A lot of them were probably too blitzed to read the words on Hunter’s propaganda leaflets.”
He paused again.
“What kind of shape are these guys in?” Jones asked. “Bottom line is, we don’t know. Our plan all along has been to hit their supply lines, cut them off, starve ’em. They’ve been through bad weather, their food supplies should be running low. They’ve been bombed every day, without so much as a single Yak to defend them. We’ll know whether our strategy has worked or not as soon as we see the condition of the first Circle soldier who hits our defense line.”
A slight murmur went up from the assembled pilots.
“But we have to expect the worse,” Jones continued. “They have enough guys to hit us on three sides. Our defense line is being compressed. We’ve got some artillery, howitzers, tanks dug in around the area where we expect them, but all they have to do is hit us with a series of coordinated attacks, and our lines will not be able to hold.
“Now those B-1s you saw out on our runway are part of Top Secret project the Skunkworks cooked up before the Big War. We found them a few years ago. We’ve just got them working. How they do what they do, I couldn’t even begin to explain to you all. Simply put: When conditions are right, and those five airplanes are working together, they’re invisible on radar.”
Jones waited a few seconds to let the news sink in. “Now that’s a big advantage we were sure we could use. But the bad news is, those B-1s alone can’t win this one for us. We can’t send those airplanes out there helter-skelter, because they can be shot down by visually-sighted heatseekers, manually-aimed AA guns, and worst of all, air-to-air missiles. And there are still some forty-odd Yaks out there, somewhere.”
He paused again.
“I don’t have to tell anyone of you how serious the situation is. We’re fighting for our Goddamn lives. We’re also fighting for something we used to call ‘democracy.’ It’s what our country used to be built on. If this is its last gasp, well, so be it.”
Jones looked out at his pilots. Fighters, all. Brave men, all. Americans. Every last one of them.
“So, it’s going to be up to us,” Jones said. “We’ve got fifty-five thousand guys sitting out there in that trench, with seventy-five thousand guys and a lot of SAM cover, coming at them. Anything we let get through will be going for our guys’ throats.
“So we have no choice really. I’ve ordered all our airplanes to be fitted with heavy bombs. Stuff that can wipe out trucks, vehicles. I know that will slow everyone down and cut down on their maneuverability. But we’ll have to gamble. Half of us will have to go after the SAMs and the rest will have to dodge all the fucking missiles and get to those Circle grunts.”
“And what about the B-1s?” someone asked.
“At this moment,” Jones said slowly. “We’ll have to hold the B-1s in reserve. If we were in the driver’s seat for this one, I’d send them against the Circle Army right now. But as the last photo shows, they’re just too spread out. If they move toward us in a wide range of attacks, they’ll be too scattered for the B-1s to do much good. Remember B-1s are strategic bombers. I can’t risk sending them on tactical strikes, especially when they have to work together. They’ll wind up dropping ten thousand pounds of bombs on a couple of squads of
Circle jerks.
“So we have to keep the B-1s here. Have them ready to strike whenever the Circle breaks through. They’re the only ace in the hole we have left.”
There was another long silence, then one pilot spoke up. “Any chance of more recon photos coming in, General?”
Jones hated to hear the question. “Sorry, guys. The answer is no,” he said slowly. “That’s the last photograph we’ve taken of them.”
Jones sensed the uneasiness on the part of the pilots in the room. Good recon was the most important element in a successful air strike. Without it, you were flying “dumb.”
“As far as recon goes I’m sorry. But that’s the best we can do. And, after all our preparation, that’s what we need most …”
“Jesus Christ,” one of the pilots said aloud. “If only Hunter was here with that Stealth of his …”
The words were just barely out of the man’s mouth when the door to the situation room swung open. A bright light on the other side made it difficult for the pilots to clearly see who was standing in the doorway. But Jones knew who it was.
“Well, Major Hunter,” he said with a wide grin. “Nice of you to join us …”
Relief swept the room. The star pitcher had just declared himself ready for the Big Game. Hunter bounded up to the front of the room. The assembled pilots broke into a spontaneous round of applause. It was getting to be a habit. With the Wingman on hand, the pilots knew they now had a fighting chance.
“You’ve got to see this,” Hunter said in all urgency, handing a videotape to Jones. “I just shot it less than an hour ago.
“The Circle has just made what might be a big mistake. And if we move fast enough, we can catch them with their pants down …”
Chapter Thirty-eight
A SUDDEN JOLT OF excitement ripped through the situation room. The video recorder and TV were turned on. Jones pushed in the videotape. Instantly the screen flickered to life.
“Holy Christ!” Jones said.
The screen showed long lines of Circle vehicles, headlights blazing in the pre-dawn darkness, all heading west.
“They’re moving everything! In a line!” Hunter said. “It looks like a Goddamn May Day parade out there. Their infantry is riding on the launchers, trucks, jeeps, tanks, APCs, old cars, buses, you name it. They’re jammed up on Route 70 like the LA Freeway at rush hour!”
“The fools!” Jones exclaimed. “Didn’t they learn anything when we greased that column a few days ago?”
“Knowing the Russians, they probably hushed it all up. Kept it secret,” Hunter said.
“Either that or they’re desperate,” Jones said.
“Whatever the hell is going on,” Hunter continued. “They’ve closed their ranks. They’ve been maneuvering all night. They’re attacking us with one major thrust.”
“But why in hell would they move on us now?” Jones asked.
Hunter shook his head. “Any commander with an ounce of brain would complete his consolidation then dig in and sit tight. But the Russians are so clamped into their command structures that they have no freedom of thought, no freedom of action. If someone in Moscow says attack, they have to attack. And now.”
Hunter turned to the situation room map. “They know our trenches are just over this ridge-line. They’re making a dash for it. They want to get in position between the ridges and our lines, set up their missiles and attack. They’re hoping to overwhelm us with numbers. That’s why they’ve suddenly gone mobile. Their commanders are no doubt kicking their butts all along that highway.”
Jones had another question. “But if they’re moving their guys on the SAM launchers, how are they handling their air defense?”
“That’s just it,” Hunter said, turning back to the video machine and speeding up the tape. He finally reached a spot that showed a close up, if hazy view, of the front of the approaching army column. “They’re trying to leap-frog it. The front of the column has about two hundred SA-2 launchers. Then every mile or so, they got anywhere from twenty to thirty more. These are the dedicated air defense guys. They’re not carrying any ground troops. They have their radars on and can go hot quick.”
“But when they see anything coming,” Jones interjected. “They’ll still have to stop their vehicles and start launch procedures.”
Hunter nodded. “And that’s our chance to get them …”
Jones read Hunter’s mind. “I get it,” he said. “We send in the fighters first. Just blow right over the top of them. Stop the column. That should cause them to dispatch their troops.”
“That’s right,” Hunter said, barely containing the rising excitement in his voice. “Then we send in the B-1s …”
“… and even though the SAM radars will be hot,” Jones said, finishing Hunter’s thought. “They won’t be picking anything up on them!”
“Exactly,” Hunter said. “And you can be sure that when the shooting starts, those Reds will kick off their valiant Circle allies off their launchers and start firing every Goddamn SAM they have. But by the time the B-1s arrive, they’ll be shooting blind.”
The pilots were on their feet by this time, crowded around the TV set.
“While the B-1s take care of the SAMs, we’ll have to go after the troops plus any Yaks that might show,” Hunter said, summing it all up. “If we’re lucky, we can cut their ground attack in half before they ever reach our defense line.”
The general grabbed a red phone and was soon talking to the commander of the flight line personnel. He quickly told the man that all of the PAAC aircraft should be refitted with anti-personnel weapons and extra ammunition. The B-1s should be loaded up to the maximum with high explosive bombs, appropriately known as “super-blockbusters.”
Jones again addressed the airmen. “Okay, that’s the plan … let’s go! Launch now and go. We’ll have the coordinates to you while you’re taxiing. Good luck guys!”
Chapter Thirty-nine
ROMAN CANDLES …
The sky over the front of the long enemy column looked like the Fourth of July. Hundreds of long, fiery streaks of light and smoke were popping up from the roadway, shooting off in all different directions. Some were exploding in midair. Others traveled in smoky corkscrew flight lines, only to fall to the ground and blow up.
Desperation. The Soviets knew their attack had been discovered. They knew the Western Forces’ air armada would soon strike. As predicted, they were sending up a wall of panicky SAMs.
Hunter’s Stealth fighter was the first one over the scene. Behind him were Crunch’s F-4s. Then came the A-7s, the F-104s, the F-106s, the A-l0s and the T-38s.
Per Jones’ orders, all of the airplanes were carrying not high explosive bombs, but guts filled with cannon shells and air-to-air missiles.
Most of the Circle Army troops riding in the long column had yet to see an aircraft the entire war. Now suddenly the sky was filled with them. Even the barrage of SAMs being sent up by the launchers at the head of the column offered no comfort. Even the lowest grunt knew you couldn’t fire a SAM when it was moving along the highway. The column had quickly screeched to a halt. The ground troops were ordered off the launching trucks and over to the side of the road. They felt helpless. Exposed. Some of them panicked.
Hunter went in first. Twisting and turning to avoid getting hit by a lucky SAM shot, he opened up with the Stealth’s powerful cannons. The airplane confidently shuddered as long spits of flame shot out from its nose. The streaks of burning shells found targets immediately on the overcrowded highway. Troop-carrying vehicles, tanks, APCs, fuel trucks, buses, and everywhere, the SAM launchers … nothing escaped Hunter’s furious barrage.
He could see the hapless Circle troops scattering toward the sides of the highway. It was as if they had already read the script. Strange. He felt for them in a way. They had been taken in by Viktor’s mind games, sold a bill of goods that was now going very sour. Now they would die fighting for that madman’s twisted plan …
Hunter pulled the Stealt
h fighter straight up and spun around to his right. Looking over his shoulder he could see Crunch’s F-4s walking down the column’s length, firing their cannons non-stop while dropping anti-personnel bombs all along the roadside.
Behind them came two A-10s. Then two F-106 Delta Darts. Then a pair of A-7 Strikefighters. Then the T-38s and the F-104s. On and on, two by two, the Western Forces aircraft swept down on the column, ripping up both flesh and metal targets, then sweeping away. All the while, SAMs were streaking everywhere—but shooting too late and not hitting a thing.
That’s when the feeling hit Hunter like a shot out of the blue …
Here they come, he thought. Directly over the horizon. To the east. At least 30 of them. The Yaks had decided to join the fray.
“Okay,” Hunter called into his microphone. “We’ve got company.”
Many of the PAAC fighters were only now picking up the faint images of the Soviet jets on their radar screens. Immediately the radio traffic between the fighters picked up. Vectors were given, coordinates checked. Enemy targets counted, attack patterns discussed.
“Delta One group, arm your air-to-airs,” Hunter called out. “Crunch, you got Delta Two!”
“Roger, Major,” Hunter heard Crunch’s reply. The Ace Wrecking Company’s two F-4s would break off with half the attacking PAAC force and go after the Circle infantry now moving toward the ridges near the Western Forces’ defense line. Hunter would take the remaining fighters and go after the approaching Yaks.
As the air armada neatly split in two, a curious calm settled over the stalled enemy column. Just as the sky was filled with jets a moment before, now it was empty. Quiet. Almost serene. A few wisps of smoke rose above the wrecked vehicles. The PAAC attack had been swift, sharp, accurate. Like a long wound delivered, the column was bleeding. But the worst was yet to come …
Captain Bull Dozer adjusted his electronic binoculars. He had been warned by radio that the first elements of the approaching Circle Army would be coming into view shortly. Looking out over the Western Forces’ defense line, the Marine could see nothing but the ridgeline two miles away. But then, slowly, surely, he saw small groups of soldiers appear on top of the ridge. Within two minute’s time, the enemy soldiers were swarming over the ridgeline like an army of ants.
