The Circle War (38 page)

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In the middle of the battle, the Great Obo knew he had been betrayed—by The Circle and in turn, by the Russians. "We are like lambs," he thought, as he watched his once fierce army be slaughtered. "We are being sacrificed."

The fighting continued. Obo had his horse shot out from underneath him by one of the attacking Cobras. Unaccustomed to fighting on foot, he emptied his rifle into the Caucasian soldiers, then started flailing away with his sword.

Out of the sea of faces, he saw a powerful-looking, stocky man moving his way.

The soldier was wearing what Obo recognized as the uniform of a U.S. Marine captain. The name tag sewn above the man's left breast pocket clearly read: Dozer. They were suddenly face-to-face. The Marine was chopping away with a captured Mongol saber. Obo raised his own blade to deflect the Marine's thrust. The power, of the Leatherneck's blow knocked Obo off-balance. The Marine pressed his attack relentlessly. Obo wished he had the time to impale himself on his own sword, but the attacking officer showed no let-up. Another thrust from the Marine. Obo managed to deflect it, but lost his sword in the process and fell backward. On his back, looking up at the American, the fighting swirling around them, Obo reached into his belt for the dagger he kept there. Too late, as the Marine ran him through. A puff of blood exploded from Obo's nose and mouth. The fierce Marine put his boot on the Mongol's chest

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and brought his face close up to the dying man.

"What the hell are you doing here!" the Marine screamed at him. "What the hell are you doing in my country!"

They were the last words the Great Obo ever heard . . .

The battle was over by noon. Every one of the Mongols had died, most at the hands of the Western Forces, some by their own swords.

Hunter had landed the Stealth on a highway nearby. Jones had been airlifted to the site also. Both men met with Dozer on the battlefield.

"We lost about four thousand men," the Marine told them. "Young men, most of them. Good troops."

Scattered from the plateau to the trenches lay thousands of dead Mongols, covering the bodies of the dead Circle soldiers. On the ridges surrounding the valley, huge fires still burned.

Hunter looked out on the battlefield as the victorious Western Force soldiers collected rifles and swords from the dead Mongols.

"This was needless," he said to Jones and Dozer. "It was nothing more than a mass suicide, with these creeps pulling some of our guys into hell with them .

. ."

Hunter walked out into the battlefield alone. He faced the east. The sky was turning red. It was not the Aurora Borealis this time. The red was in 412

his eyes. They were burning. Burning with hate.

Viktor was responsible for this. The devil himself had gored the American continent and watched it bleed. And for what? Ego? Power? Or was he just following orders?

Hunter was convinced. Viktor's mission all along was twofold: Conquer America at best, keep it destabilized at worst. He would have won either way. It would take the continent years to recover from this. Hunter's dream of reunification

—a long shot before —was now even further stalled.

He felt his senses start rippling. Jolts of energy pumped through him. He closed his eyes. He called on the feeling. That's when he saw him. Viktor.

Alive. He was sure of it. Fleeing. Escaping. Across the Atlantic.

And Hunter was going after him . . .

The end...for now