The entire mini-jet was painted dull black and—except for a few of the critical engine parts—was made entirely of plastic. This way it had “stealth,” meaning it wouldn’t show up on radar. It would also be very quiet. He had built the airplane from scratch, robbing pieces of material here, cannibalizing other pieces there. It was basically a very elaborate hang glider. The jet would give him the thrust he needed to stay airborne, then he would shut down the engine and just glide. Fuel would be the main concern. He designed an especially small combustion chamber for the engine—one which would efficiently use every drop of gas he could carry. Still, he knew the 25-gallon plastic tank he hooked up under the mini-jet’s seat would have to be used very carefully. That’s why he programmed the whole firing process into one of the aircraft’s two minicomputers. He didn’t relish the prospect of having to look for jet fuel in the middle of the Badlands.
And that was where he was going. He had to. PAAC needed intelligence and they needed it fast. He was convinced the Soviets were infiltrating men and arms into the country and hiding them somewhere. And the best hiding place on the continent was the ’Bads.
A perpetual fog had hung over the place since the day of the Soviet bombing. The mist was so thick in places, it was nearly impossible to photograph any of the Badlands from the air. With concentrations of radiation, nerve gas, germ gas, and God only knows what, only fools entered into the Badlands at all. Fools and soldiers.
Hunter knew very well the only sane way to see the forbidden place was from 50,000 feet up and traveling at top speed. But Hunter also knew the only way to get some real answers was to go in and see what was happening in the danger zone himself.
He made arrangements to contact Dozer whenever he could via a link-up with a radio on a C-130 gunship which would be on station just outside Badlands’ airspace from midnight to two every morning. There was just a little comfort in Hunter’s knowing that the C-130 would also be carrying 30 of Dozer’s best paratroopers. But if it got to the point of his calling them in, by the time they arrived, they just might be able to recover his body and that would be about it.
Still, the trip was critically necessary and that’s why he chose to do it. With him he carried two things on which he hoped to draw strength, luck and inspiration. In his breast pocket was the searing photo of Dominique and the tattered American flag.
The jumpmaster came back to the hold to tell Hunter they were approaching the drop-off point. The Wingman did a quick double-check of the chopper’s position, then prepared for his jump. Several years before when he reconditioned the Sea Stallion to prepare for rescuing the ZAP pilots being held in Boston, he had installed a movable platform in the center of the chopper’s belly. It was originally designed as a missile launcher, but for this mission, Hunter removed the missile tubes and adapted the platform to hold the mini-jet. Now, with the help of the jumpmaster, he fastened the small airplane onto the platform and started feeding fuel to the engine.
With five minutes to drop, he was sitting in the jet clutching the wire which operated the umbrella device holding the folded-up wingsail. He saluted the jump-master, who gave him the thumbs-up sign and pushed a button. The chopper’s hold door opened and the platform began to lower. Slowly Hunter and his airplane descended into the black night. It was cold and the wind was blowing hard. After being lowered about eight feet, the platform creaked to a halt. Then the hold door slid shut above him. He hunkered down into the cockpit and started activating the aircraft’s minicomputers. He was reassured when the control panel’s lights instantly blinked on in proper sequence. But the noise! The helicopter’s rotating blades were making such a racket it was practically unbearable. Although he was wearing his standard flight helmet—another good luck piece—the noise was still deafening.
The helicopter had slowed to about 30 knots. Hunter made one last check of the controls then he pushed the engine start-up button. To his relief, it fired perfectly. He slowly raised the fuel feeder level and the little jet became hot. He checked his watch. Ten seconds to go. The Sea Stallion had now slowed to a near hover about 5000 feet above the flatlands below. Hunter gave each missile a tug just to make sure it was held on securely. He pulled the wire to release the safety switch on the wingsail’s spoke ring. Then he crouched back down into the small, open cockpit and started to count …
“5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … Now!”
Right on cue, three small explosive charges located where the mini-jet was fastened to the platform ignited and catapulted him into the night. The chopper then shot straight up and banked away to fly clear of him. Once free, Hunter floored the engine. A long thin spit of flame appeared from the jet’s exhaust tube and the craft started to pick up speed. Then he pulled the wire which raised the umbrella and locked the bat-like wingsail into place. The minijet shuddered for a few hairy seconds, but then wind caught the sail and immediately the craft started gaining altitude. “What d’ya know,” Hunter thought. “It works …”
He quickly slowed the engine and worked the controls to steer the airplane. From here it was up to him which way he wanted to go. There was a lot of territory to cover over the Badlands, and he preferred to start while it was still dark. He checked the missiles’ status then mounted the Uzi and connected an extra long magazine. He patted his breast pocket feeling both the sharp folded edges of Dominique’s photo and the softer, frayed border of the American flag. Then he banked the tiny jet into a 120-degree turn and sped off toward the eastern horizon.
He wouldn’t see anybody or anything for the next two and a half days …
It was hot.
The people who claimed the sun didn’t shine in the Badlands were crazy. The thin, permanent layer of clouds that hung close to the ground might have blocked the view from the air but they also provided a textbook example of the Greenhouse Effect. If anything, the clouds magnified the sun’s rays, giving everything—including the air—a hot and steamy feel. Another myth—that nothing grew in the Badlands—also proved false. While there were many patches of dead vegetation dotting the landscape, Hunter did see other places where trees and bushes were growing at a lusty rate.
Water was another story. Most of the rivers were dried up and the few lakes he’d seen were all of a different color—none of which was blue. The water was poison. At the very least it contained traces of deadly radiation. Anywhere he saw water, he also saw nearby skeletons of hapless animals who long ago somehow managed to survive the Soviet holocaust only to fall victim to its after-effects as soon as they got thirsty.
His search carried him back and forth over vast stretches of western Kansas, Nebraska and the Dakotas. He found nothing. He was sunburned, dirty, and carrying an itchy, three-day beard. He was now glad to have the food that Mio and Aki prepared. He ate it out of sheer boredom. More than once he looked at the picture of Dominique. And more than once he began to think that his “hidden army” theory was a bunch of hooey. Still, he pressed on.
At least his flying machine was working perfectly. He had flown long distances, but the jet was needed only sporadically. He still had more than 18 gallons of fuel left and the way things were going, that would be plenty.
That first day, he had lain low, hiding out atop a huge mesa near the edge of the Black Hills. The position gave him a commanding view of the surrounding territory. But there was absolutely nothing to see. That night, as he was preparing to take off, he saw an air convoy passing over. It was flying way up there, at 50,000 feet at least, and had more than three dozen airplanes. Its direction was southeasterly; no doubt a legitimate skytrain making its way from Free Montreal to the trading mecca of Los Angeles. The sight had given Hunter a melancholy feeling. Life goes on, he thought at the time. No matter what you do, life goes on.
He flew all the next day and the next night, stopping only for short breathers and to check in with the radio on the gunship. His first two calls simply gave his position and the codewords “Delta Diana,” which meant “nothing to report.” Should something tur
n up, he would begin his transmission with the call “Alpha Diana Romeo,” and quickly follow with an coded report.
But would he would ever send that message?
He found his answer the next day. It was around noontime. He had just witnessed another myth dispelled: It did rain in the Badlands. A morning shower had temporarily grounded him. He was waiting it out, sitting on the lip of a small plateau somewhere in the middle of Nebraska. The rise overlooked a vast plain which stretched for miles, broken only by a north-to-south, two-lane road which started at one horizon and ended on the other. The closest it came to him was about four miles from his position.
He was just getting ready to leave when he heard a long, low rumble, somewhere off in the distance. Thunder? He looked to the north and saw rising above the road a distinctive puff of dust being kicked up by a vehicle.
He grabbed his binoculars and focused. Goddamn! Not just one vehicle—there were many. Too many.
Bursting through the cloud of dust came distinct gray shapes moving down the road at a fast clip. They weren’t cars; they were too big for trucks.
Tanks, maybe? Closer they came. He shielded the spyglasses from the bright, hazy sun. The shapes started taking a definite form …
“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered, not quite believing what he saw. “They’re SAMs. On wheels.”
SAMs. Surface-to-air missile batteries. First, he could see ten, then 20, then 50, then more than 100 of the mobile air batteries. The vehicles carrying them looked like dump-trucks. The missiles on their backs were Soviet SA-3s, NATO nickname: “Goa.” There were four of them per launcher. Hunter took a deep breath of the clammy air. This was bad news. The SA-3 was a very dangerous missile. It could hit a target 55,000 feet high and 18 miles away and travel at Mach 2 to do it.
He took out his notebook and started taking an accurate count. It took a full 10 minutes for the deadly parade to pass him, and when it was over, he had noted 306 launch vehicles. More than 1200 missiles. That was enough to end all the speculation as whether something fishy was going on in the Badlands or not.
The question now was: Where were the SAMs going?
He trailed the column for the next four hours, staying a good 4000 feet above the absolutely flat land, firing the engine only when needed. He could do little more than follow as the convoy of SAMs continued southward along the perfectly straight, seemingly endless highway. He knew that no one below could spot him as the Badlands haze proved to be an adequate shield and the plastic construction of the mini-jet made it all but radar-proof.
Finally, the column reached a crossroads in south-central Kansas where it found five tanker trucks waiting. As he circled high above, he saw each vehicle get a quick fill up, then head east. It was getting dark by this time. If he got lucky, the column would reach its destination just before nightfall.
Another hour passed and the trucks showed no signs of slowing down. He figured he was somewhere just west of where Wichita used to be. This was close to the area where St. Louie’s recon troops ran into trouble. Off in the distance, a new moon was rising. It was full and orange and spooky. He shook off a chill and did a weapons check.
Then he saw it. Off on the eastern horizon. At first it appeared as a single, greenish light, reflecting off the perpetual Badlands haze. As he drew closer, he saw the green hue was the reflection of many, many lights. Still closer, he found the lights were coming from a settlement of some sort.
The closer he got the more ominous the place looked. It was completely surrounded by an elaborate yet medieval-looking stone wall. It was high and thick like parapets of old; yet it was complete with many turrets and towers each which held some definitely un-medieval looking gun batteries. Inside, he saw more SAMs than he’d ever thought was possible. But not just SAMs. There were also trucks with guns riding on the back, some personnel carriers, even a few pre-World War III-vintage American tanks. And everywhere, he could see soldiers.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that he had discovered the main base for the “hidden army.”
He climbed to 8000 feet. From there he wasn’t surprised to see three cooling towers belching steam about 20 miles from the base. Another piece of the puzzle fit. It was the nuclear plant the recon trooper had reported. A castle-like Soviet military base being powered by a nuke plant in the middle of the Badlands. Only in The New Order.
He started to head back down to a lower altitude. The SAM column had come to a halt outside the base where its drivers appeared to be parking their trucks and setting up for the night.
The darker it got, the better Hunter liked it. He circled the Soviet castle, gradually reducing his altitude. The thermal updrafts over the city allowed him to almost hover at times, letting him work both his surveillance cameras and his eavesdropping device at will. The Soviet castle was a strange place. He felt as if he was dropping in on another planet. Many of the buildings inside the walls were topped off by spires and minarets. Every structure was painted a different garish color, and was flying one of hundreds of flags that flapped in the thick night air.
But, right in the middle of the place was the biggest flag at all. It was a huge, blood-red, hammer and sickle design. The flag of the Soviet Union, fluttering in the Kansas breeze.
Chapter Ten
THE RADIO ABOARD THE C-130 gunship crackled to life with a burst of static. “Alpha Diana Romeo,” the distant, but familiar voice began. “Repeat. Alpha Diana Romeo.”
The aircraft’s radio operator immediately acknowledged the password and called back to PAAC-Oregon’s communications center to alert Dozer that a message from Hunter was coming through. Once he had Dozer on the line, he patched the radio transmission from deep in the Badlands to the PAAC line, ran it through a scramble device so the two men were able to talk openly to each other.
“Hawk, what’s going on out there?” Dozer asked.
Hunter replied slowly and in careful measures. “Our thinking was on track, Bull. We have trouble out here. Russians. Russian equipment. I spotted them about noon today. Been with them ever since. And they’re carrying more than just popguns.”
For the next ten minutes, Dozer listened incredulously as Hunter told him he’d spotted the SAM column and how it eventually led him to the Soviet’s castle-like main base. When the sun was down completely, he had brazenly flown low over the city, sometimes as low as the gun turrets. No one had spotted him. He had taken a lot of photos over the walled city and especially over the multitude of military equipment located around its perimeter.
He told Dozer he spotted a few tanks and personnel carriers. But it was the SAMs that were most in evidence. The Soviet castle was ringed with them, all of them mobile like the SA-3s. Inside the walls of the base, Hunter saw many people wearing Soviet uniforms. His eavesdropping device had also picked up a number of Russian conversations as well.
“How about aircraft, Hawk?” Dozer asked over the increasingly annoying static.
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.
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 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.
Circle War Page 7