But even with all of these reports troubling him, it was a more personal matter that, deep down, bothered him most. Before St. Louie and Fitz flew off at the end of the confab, to leapfrog into Free Canada for their refueling stop, Hunter had asked the Irishman if his spies had any word on Dominique. Ever since she had disappeared in Free Canada after a flight Hunter had put her on landed safely in Montreal, Fitz had assigned two of his best men to try to find the woman. Nearly two years had passed since, and they had come up with complete dead ends in all that time. Sadly, Fitzgerald had to report to Hunter once again that he had no news. Dominique was nowhere to be found.
These troubles wrapped Hunter in a mental cold blanket that lasted the entire flight back. Dominique. Always his thoughts were absorbed with her. Hunter was a strikingly handsome young man; his looks, fittingly hawk-like in youth, were now more like an eagle as he reached his mid-20s. He was tall—taller than most pilots—and sported a shock of golden, sandy hair, usually worn long. He was a genius (first certified at the age of three), an athlete, had a sense of humor, though usually taken as quiet on first meeting. He had never experienced any trouble attracting women—from his days at MIT (where at 15, he was the youngest student ever admitted into that institution’s aeronautical doctorate program) and before, all the way through his USAF and Thunderbird days. But no woman—before or since—had ever affected him like Dominique.
They had met in a deserted French farmhouse where both had sought shelter during the wild days after the war had ended in Europe. They had spent one night together; he woke in the morning to find her gone. But later, she had come looking for him and found him at the ZAP base on Cape Cod. In what seemed to be a dream to him now, they had lived happily together at the base. But it was only for a few weeks. When a Mid-Ak attack on ZAP was imminent, Hunter put her on a flight to safe Montreal. Then she disappeared.
He was never the same. The yearning never stopped. There had been plenty of other women since for him. Sexual playmates all. But the thought of Dominique had stayed with him—a very private haunting since he last saw her.
Once the helicopters and escorts landed back at the Coos Bay base—which was known by all as PAAC-Oregon—Hunter immediately headed for the photo recon unit’s very elaborate development lab. Although it was close to midnight, Hunter was glad to find the technicians still working on the infra-red video image of the mysterious Soviet jets. It was a painstaking job. Working with a computer that Hunter had helped design, each enhancement of the image took several hours of calculations and programming. And each program produced another, more defined video image which had to be electronically “cleaned up,” also a long process.
The techs showed him what they had so far: they had been able to zoom in on the clearest image of the jet so much that they would soon be able to count the number of rivet spots on the jet’s midsection. Once this number was established, it was a matter of calculating the overall size and weight of the plane, then using the additional information from Hunter’s infra-red camera to determine the heat displacement of the aircraft. The techs hoped to match up these figures with previously stored data on Soviet fighter aircraft and come up with a reasonable guess as to what kind of jet Hunter photographed that day. It was intelligence work at its best—long, arduous, but in the end, hopefully fruitful.
The work looked promising but the technicians told him that a final determination was still about a day and a half away.
He finally headed home. Though exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. He found himself wandering around his huge log cabin—a place he’d built himself. The house sat on a hill which overlooked both the base’s runways and the Pacific Ocean. A twin-.50 antiaircraft battery was located to one side of the structure, the spinning dish of one of the base’s operations radar sat on the other. The lodge itself was crammed with radios, electronic gadgetry, a larger, fixed antenna capable of pulling in signals from all around the northern hemisphere when atmospheric conditions were right. Some nights Hunter would sit and listen to the radio traffic for hours, searching for any clue—like a sudden burst of radio chatter—that might tip an impending attack on America from the Soviets to the west.
The house had no kitchen; he ate and drank at the base. But a well-stocked bar sat in the main living room. Close by was a huge fireplace that heated the structure all too well in the often-damp Oregon climate. Two of the rooms were filled with his books, their topics ranging from advanced aeronautical design to theories on setting zone defenses in basketball. Another room was reserved for weekly poker games at which he hosted the likes of Dozer, The Cobra Brothers, the Ace Wrecking Company pilots, Captain Frost and anyone else with a week’s pay to lose. Still another, more private, room featured a waterbed whose dimensions approached those of an aircraft carrier, plus a single control switch which dimmed the lights and activated a continuous tape loop of sweet, electronic music.
On top of the house he had built a turret in which he installed a moderately powerful telescope. On clear nights he could be found studying the cosmos through its lens. It was usually an exercise in wishful thinking for him. The most ironic day in his life was the Christmas Eve he arrived at Cape Canaveral to begin training as a pilot for the Space Shuttle, only to find that the Soviets had launched a devastating nerve gas attack on Western Europe and that his F-16 squadron was being activated. Although he had missed the chance to pilot the space ship—just one more thing he blamed on the Soviets—he never gave up his dream of flying in space one day.
Hunter lived alone but that didn’t mean he slept alone. He had two frequent houseguests. Mio and Aki, two bisexual Oriental beauties who had first lived with him when he worked for a short time for Fitzgerald at The Aerodrome. They had moved west with him when he joined PAAC. The two girls—Mio was 21, Aki 19—lived in a smaller log cabin he built nearby. But they spent most of their time at Hunter’s, serving in every capacity from his maids to his mistresses. They kept his house neat and his bed warm. They instinctively knew when he wanted to be alone and when he wanted company. They also knew of the woman Dominique, whose name he had once whispered while he slept.
The house was strictly functional; it had very few decorations other than his aircraft design drawings cluttering up the walls. However, over the fireplace encased in a heavy glass and metal picture frame hung his most valuable possession. It was a small, now-tattered American flag. He had first come upon it in war-torn New York City right after the war. Trying to make it across town to the relative safety of Jersey, Hunter (who was traveling with Dozer’s 7th Cavalry at the time) saw an innocent man shot in the back by a sniper. The man was Saul Wackerman, a tailor who had been caught up in the battle that raged in Manhattan between rival National Guard troops trying to claim the island. These days New York City was a pit of anarchy, murder, street wars, drug dealing and black market arms sales. But Hunter never forgot Saul Wackerman or the look on his face when he died in Hunter’s arms. He was holding this very flag in his hands at the time and Hunter took it from his body.
One of the rules of the New Order made it illegal to carry the stars and stripes—a crime punishable by death. It was a law Hunter detested and habitually broke. In fact, during the ZAP days right through the Football City War, he had kept the flag folded up and in his pocket at all times, drawing strength from it almost daily. To him it represented his major goal, his dream, his reason for being. That was that some day, this country would be reunited again. Some day, there would be the United States again. He had vowed to make it happen. Or die trying. The flag was the symbol of that crusade.
He finally fell asleep for a couple of hours, but was up again and at the base before the sun had fully risen. He had work to do. Jones had placed the base on a Code Three Alert, meaning they were two notches away from a war or “attack-imminent” situation. As overall commander, it was Hunter’s duty to make a status check on PAAC-Oregon’s aircraft as well as the base’s ground defenses.
Requisitioning a jeep, the pilot methodically
worked his way down the flight line. When he performed similar duty at ZAP’s old Jonesville base, the task would take all of 15 minutes—as famous as ZAP was, the corps never had more than 18 aircraft on hand. Now, thanks to the bulging coffers of PAAC, the Oregon base had more than three times that many.
At the southern edge of the base sat the PAAC support fleet which consisted of four C-130 Hercules tankerplanes and two C-141 Starlifters—huge jets used for dropping paratroopers as well as carrying supplies. Moving on, Hunter reached the 12-aircraft PAAC Ground Attack Support Group. This unit, primarily dedicated to supporting the ground operations of the base’s 12,000-man infantry division, had four more C-130s, modified to carry up to six GE Gatling guns apiece. These frightful weapons, capable of firing more than 100 rounds a second, were all installed on the planes’ port side. In action, the aircraft—known as “Spooky” gunships—would slowly circle the battle area, tipped to the left and deliver an incredible barrage.
The ground support arm also flew six A-10 Thunderbolts, the famous “tank busters” that were the scourge of every Soviet commander during the war in Europe. The unusual-looking ’Bolts—more flying weapons platforms than graceful jet fighters—had wings strong enough to carry tons of varied ordnance, as well as two Vulcan cannons in their noses. The Cobra Brothers’ helicopters were also assigned to the ground support arm, its pilots shared duty as the unit’s operational commanders.
Stationed beside the center-strip runway was the base’s Bombardment Group. There were 18 aircraft in all, including ten massive B-52s, four nearly-antique B-57s, two A-3 “Whales,” plus a cranky, old B-58 “Hustler,” left over from the Football City War.
Next to the bombers sat the fighter-interceptor squadron—among them four F-104 “Starfighters,” two F-106 “Delta Darts,” six souped-up A-7 “Strike-fighters,” six converted T-38 “Talon” trainers and two F-105X “Super Thunderchiefs.” Two of these airplanes were always in the scramble mode—armed, fueled-up and ready to go up and intercept any perceived threat to the base. And, with proper configuration, each of these airplanes could be converted to a fighter-bomber role.
Further along the flight line sat the “oddball” unit. The twelve airplanes—known throughout the base as “The Dirtiest Dozen”—were favorites of Hunter. PAAC had come upon them in a variety of ways—some were thrown in free when the base purchased other high-end aircraft, others were found abandoned at air bases throughout the west. Still others were liberated from a small air museum in old Utah. There was the F-84, a veteran of the Korean War; an F-94, the two-seat mid-50s interceptor that was designed with chasing UFOs in mind. And there were two A-l “Skyraiders,” hulking prop-driven planes that were already grandfathers when they were used in Viet Nam.
But these planes were youngsters compared to aircraft that the base’s ground crew mechanics (known by all as “monkeys”) had somehow resurrected from the Utah museum. There was one P-38 “Lightning,” and a P-51 “Mustang,” both heroes of America’s effort in World War II. The oldest plane on the base was a veteran Curtis biplane, which carried a still-working Vickers machine-gun.
Then there were the five B-47 “Stratojets,” bombers nearly as big as B-52 and nearly as old. Hunter had purchased them for duty in the Football City War and they served well, if briefly. Now the PAAC had inherited them, as well as the oddest duck of all: an enormous B-36 bomber. This airplane, built just before the Jet Age dawned in the late 1940s, had six propeller engines fitted backwards onto ultra-long wings. Hunter kept promising himself that he would take the big bird up for a ride one day, but he never seemed to find the time.
The base also maintained a small fleet of helicopters, including the Crazy Eights, and used three Boeing 727 converted airliners as cargo planes and also on convoy duty.
It was an air fleet that rivaled any power on the continent—even PAAC-San Diego could boast only six more aircraft. In free-for-all New Order America, air power was usually the determining factor in most disputes, big or small. The continent was united—for trade purposes—only by air travel. Huge supply convoys—made up of reconditioned airliners like Boeing 707s, 727s, and 747 Jumbo jets—traveled between eastern Free Canada and the West Coast. As the skies were filled with air pirates who made a living shooting down stray airliners, convoy protection—in some cases provided by freelance fighter pilots—was in high demand.
But it was one pilot—and one jet fighter—that was known as the best in the business. The pilot was Hunter. The airplane was his F-16. And within minutes of the status report being completed, Hunter was roaring down the base’s center runway, taking his jet up for its daily workout.
Chapter Five
IT WAS THE SAME airplane Hunter had flown when he was part of the USAF’s Thunderbirds aerobatic demonstration team. When the Soviets “won” the war and the New Order became a reality, one of the dictates was that sophisticated weapons like the F-16s—along with just about every front-line weapon in the West’s mighty arsenal—be destroyed. In the wave of disarmament fever that followed—carried out for the most part by fanatical, if slightly suspicious National Guardsmen in the U.S.—literally billions of dollars of equipment was blown up, dismantled or otherwise made useless. Except for this one F-16 …
A year after the war, General Seth Jones, the late twin brother of PAAC’s Commander-in-Chief, Dave Jones, had found the plane locked away in an isolated hangar at the abandoned Thunderbirds’ HQ at Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas, Nevada. Why the plane had escaped the disarmament destruction, he never knew. But to be caught with the aircraft was a crime in the eyes of the New Order, punishable by death. Nevertheless, as part of his plan to draw Hunter out of his self-imposed exile on a New Hampshire mountain, Jones risked death by firing squad and had the aircraft disassembled, then flown piece by piece back to ZAP’s Jonesville base on Cape Cod where it was put back together in secret. Once Hunter got a look at the ’16—probably the last one left in the world—he immediately agreed to give up the hermit’s life and to join ZAP.
Jones had the plane repainted in its original Thunderbird red-white-and-blue colors, but it was Hunter who modified the aircraft to carry up to a dozen Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, instead of the usual four. He also installed a “six-pack” of Vulcan cannons, three on each side of the jet’s nose. The pilot put his aeronautical doctorate to work when he disassembled the jet’s GE engine and uprated it to nearly twice its power. Now the F-16 could reach speeds of nearly 2000 m.p.h. with the afterburner kicked in.
Even before the war, Hunter was well recognized as the best fighter pilot who had ever lived. Now, in the dangerous, post-war world, his fighter was well known and accorded the highest respect across the continent. Consequently, the F-16 was known as the best fighter ever built. If any plane was built with a pilot in mind, it was the F-16 and Hunter. They were made for each other.
Hunter put the F-16 into a long slow turn back over the base. At this point he knew he was serving as a “target” for the anti-aircraft crews below—these daily flights allowed the crews to test their tracking and aiming equipment.
His flight path brought him over the dozens of quonset huts that served as the base’s barracks. There were about 15,000 troops in all stationed at the base—the infantry division, the Airborne group, Dozer’s 7th Cavalry. With their support groups and families, the population at PAAC-Oregon reached 25,000. And just as with the old ZAP base on Cape Cod, a large community of ordinary citizens had sprung up around the installation. In the anarchaic New Order, the prime real estate was near the protection of friendly forces like PAAC. Not only did the citizens know that in times of trouble they could seek refuge inside the base, but living next to the installation also provided them with work in the many support operations needed to run the huge operation.
Once he received radio confirmation that the AA crews around the center of the base had completed their exercises, Hunter steered the fighter toward the outer defense perimeter of the base. Below him he could see the acres of
farmlands, tilled by citizens, that supplied the base with its food. Just as the small fleet of fishing boats docked near the base provided the servicemen with fresh catches daily, these farms put the vegetables on the mess tables. The neat squared-out patterns on the ground were broken occasionally by an anti-aircraft battery or a SAM site. Corn grew right next to a string of ack-ack guns, and a Hawk missile system cohabitated with a field of carrots.
The outer defense line was located some 11 miles out from the center of the base. Its perimeter ran nearly 30 miles and was demarked by several waves of barbed wire. In front of this was a half-mile wide, heavily-mined and booby-trapped defoliated area that would discourage the feistiest infiltrator. Guard towers appeared at 200-yard intervals and the perimeter was patrolled endlessly by the base’s security forces and the local civilian militia. The commanders of PAAC-Oregon were vigilant to a fault. But with good reason. Just beyond the no-man’s land and the barbed wire sat the hills and forests of old Oregon. This is where the uncertainty began. The land that stretched all the way down the coast and east to the Rockies and beyond, was filled with bandits, raiders, terrorists. The PAAC-Oregon base was the exception, not the rule in New Order America, just like the old U.S. Cavalry forts in the old Wild West days. Along with the Frontier Guardsmen outposts that were scattered throughout eastern Oregon serving as the trip-wire for the main base, PAAC-Oregon was an island of sanity and civilization on the edge of a lawless, out-of-control countryside.
Finishing his patrol of the base’s outer defense ring, Hunter headed due east. It was a beautiful day for flying, mostly clear except for huge cumulus clouds that waited for him at 20,000 feet off to the northeast. But great flying weather or not, he was filled with a troubled feeling he could not shake. It had clawed at him since the last recon flight. Despite Dozer’s encouragement, Hunter blamed himself for not detecting the mysterious Russian fighters sooner. How could he have been so lax as to let the Soviets build a fighter base—and somehow make it disappear—right under his nose?
Circle War Page 4