The Circle War (10 page)

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.

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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 99

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 100

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 101

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 102

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

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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 104

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.

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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

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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 minijet. 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 108

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.