Circle War

by Maloney, Mack;

  “Yes,” Jones said. “They were the last regular cavalry units left in the world. But the Russians disbanded them in the early ’Fifties. Gave ’em trucks instead.”

  “Well, they’ve been reactivated,” Hunter said. “I tangled with a bunch of them. They’re tough customers.”

  “It’s incredible,” Dozer said. “But I guess that would explain these horses we’ve been hearing about lately.”

  “But how did they do it? Did they swim over from Siberia?”

  Jones asked.

  Hunter shrugged. “They must have come across the Bering Straits in anything that could float, then let ’em off in the Yukon somewhere and pointed them toward the ’Bads.”

  “Like Hannibal and the elephants,” Dozer said incredulously. “And these guys are probably experts in working their horses in the snow, over mountains, through the desert, Jesus, wherever.”

  “And the plains of Kansas and Nebraska are perfect for operating cavalry,” Jones added.

  “So is Texas,” Hunter said ominously. “We know they’ve been flying some of these guys from a hidden base somewhere way out in northern Montana and ferrying them and their horses down to southern Oklahoma. That’s what that convoy was doing when I ran into them.”

  “No wonder that seven-o-seven looked like a stable,” Dozer said, laughing at the absurdity of it. “They’ve probably been flying the nags all over the Badlands.”

  They arrived at the base’s club and quickly took possession of a corner table. The bar maid brought over their usual brand of whiskey and a plateful of bar sandwiches. Hunter began wolfing down the first of several of the saloon delicacies.

  “A well-trained cavalry could do a lot of damage in Texas these days,” Jones said, pouring out the drinks. “They could drive the Texans crazy raiding along the border then provide cover for the infantry when the big push came.”

  “There are still two major questions,” Hunter said, downing his drink and reaching for another sandwich. “One: how the hell did they get all those SAMs over? And two, who’s supplying the infantry when the balloon goes up?”

  “We might have both answers,” Jones said, knocking back a shot of the no-name whiskey. “A lot of things have happened since you left.” He reached inside his flight jacket and produced a photograph. “But first of all take a look at this. It came from the Texans a couple of days ago.”

  Hunter took the photo and examined it. It was a typical recon picture, taken at low-level. The photo showed a long stretch of beach, perhaps two miles worth, dotted with what looked at first to be about fifty beached whales. A closer examination showed them to be not whales, but submarines. Russian submarines.

  “Christ,” Hunter exclaimed. “Where the hell was this taken?”

  “That’s Acapulco, Mexico,” Jones answered. “Two Texans in an F-4 took it about a week ago.”

  “The lost patrol boat. These have got to be the subs we’ve been looking for,” Hunter said.

  “Or some of them, anyway.” Dozer added.

  “We know they’re all diesel-powered boats,” Jones continued. “Russian mothballed stuff, mostly, but also a few North Korean and Indian. Most of them are old. I mean really old. Granddaddies. Some of them are lucky as hell they made it.”

  “Has anyone searched them?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” Jones said, swallowing a shot and lighting a massive cigar. “The Texas Special Forces choppered in a couple of squads the next day to look around. Each sub was stripped to the bone inside. No torpedos, no missies, no nothing. Not even any bunks. Every boat was stark empty. The controls were even modified so that a skeleton crew could bring them over.”

  “They were using them as cargo ships,” Hunter said, as he continued examining the minute details of the photo. “They were hauling only very exclusive cargo. Ammunition, fuel, anything too flammable to risk bringing it in by soarplane.”

  “You found Fitzie’s ‘UFOs?’” Dozer asked.

  “Yep,” Hunter said, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. “Just as we thought, they were very terrestrial gliders, running over the Great Lakes with their landing lights on so they wouldn’t have a fender-bender at 80,000 feet.”

  “My God,” Jones said. “You mean they skipped them over the Lakes and hoped to get a thermal around Milwaukee?”

  Hunter nodded a split-second before he downed his second shot of firewater.

  “Jesus, that’s one hell of a trip!” Dozer said, astonished.

  “Some of them must have made it,” Hunter said. “There’s a bunch of sailplanes—every inch of them wood and plastic—sitting out in South Dakota. I’ve got pictures of them. And, just like these subs, they were used strictly for a one-way mission.”

  Hunter turned his attention back to the photo. “But why Acapulco?” he said, almost to himself.

  Jones re-lit his cigar and ran his hand over his close-cropped head. “Let’s say the Russians knew that both the Texans and PAAC do a long-range recon to the Gulf of California on occasion,” he said between puffs. “They would have been sitting ducks for our anti-shipping patrols in those narrow waters.”

  “So they must have hired on some local help to unload the subs,” Dozer said, picking up on the theory. “Then they could float the stuff right up to the Colorado River. But from there, they could have kept right on going right up to …”

  “To Las Vegas,” Hunter filled in. “Or, the desert near Las Vegas …”

  “Then that must have been what all the commotion was about down there,” Jones said. “They were carrying a load of ammo and someone dropped a cigarette butt. Bang! Goodbye cruel world.”

  “Could have been an accident,” Hunter said, pouring himself a drink. “Could have been our patrol boat guys, letting us know where they were. If that’s the case, they were probably blown up in the explosion too.”

  “But there’s another thing,” Jones said. “Although whatever went off out there made a hole big enough to see down to China, it still was probably just the cargo from one of those subs.”

  “Well, they’re carrying some pretty heavy stuff,” Dozer said.

  Hunter pounded the table softly. “But it still doesn’t say how they got all those SAMs over here,” he said. “They wouldn’t dare fly them in. And they couldn’t fit them on these subs. How the hell they get ’em in?”

  “We have our theories on that,” Jones said. “But, Christ, it bothers me that the Reds are being innovative all of a sudden. Gliders. Cavalry. A million Goddamed SAMSs. Supplying criticals by sub then overland. Busting those Yaks in was a feat in itself.”

  “Yeah, and it’s not like them to be so smart,” Hunter said. “That’s what’s got me worried.”

  “Wait until you see this,” Dozer said. He produced a pouch that was marked TOP SECRET and handed it to Hunter. “One of Fitzie’s boys flew it in late last night, up and across Free Canada. And in the shittiest Piper Cub you’ve ever seen.”

  “Typical of Fitzie,” Hunter said, as he opened the pouch. “His intelligence guys are the best, but he’ll have them fly cheap junk.”

  His smile quickly faded as he read once, then twice, the telex-type message inside. “Oh God,” he said slowly. “This is very bad.”

  “When we asked Fitz to keep his eyes open on the East Coast,” Dozer said, his voice almost weary, “he blanketed the area with recon flights from old upstate New York all the way down to Florida. Got guys on the ground too. God knows if he ever thought that this is what he’d find.”

  “I think that answers your question as to who will be supplying the manpower—if not the missiles—for the Soviets, Hawk.” Jones said gravely.

  Hunter read the message over another time:

  SECRET TRAINING BASES … INFANTRY, SOME ARMOR FOUND IN PENNSYLVANIA. VIRGINIA. NORTH CAROLINA. GEORGIA. POSSIBLY MORE … HAVE I.D. FAMILY, PIRATES, AKS, MAYBE OFFSHORE MERCENARIES … ESTIMATE 10 DIVISIONS MINIMUM. FLYING UNDER CIRCLE FLAG. PHOTOS LATER.

  “The Circle!” Hunter spat the words out. />
  “They’re for real, Hawk,” Jones said. “And in a big way. Not only is this ‘Viktor’ character, whoever the hell he is, whipping the Mid-Aks and The Family and God knows what other morons into a blood frenzy—the fucker is organized.”

  “If anyone else but Fitzie had sent this, I wouldn’t have believed it,” Hunter said. “But ten divisions! That could be one hundred fifty thousand men or more. At their best, the ’Aks and The Family couldn’t field one hundred twenty thousand guys, tops.”

  He was quiet for a moment, letting the new information sink in.

  “I wasn’t all that worried about this Viktor or The Circle until this,” Hunter began again. “Now it looks like everyone on the eastern side of the continent who wants to go play soldier.”

  “Could be some kind of cult,” Dozer said. “And he’s drawing in anyone who can shoot a gun and wants to eat. After losing Football City and Boston, I imagine there’s more than a few out-of-work Family soldiers or ’Aks out there.”

  “And what’s worse,” Hunter said. “We know that The Circle has the capability of producing weapons and ammunition. But if they were giving guns to only half these guys, it would mean that somehow, somewhere, there must be some major munitions factories or a large arsenal operating.”

  He bit his lip and was silent for a moment. “And if they can turn out one hundred thousand M-16s plus ammo,” he went on, “How hard would it be for them to start manufacturing SAM components? Russian SAM components. I mean, you don’t have to be Albert Einstein to figure out how to attach part A to part B. If someone’s giving you the directions, that is.”

  “Russian weapons factories? Here in America?” Jones asked.

  “That’s crazy,” Dozer said.

  “So is sneaking in a Mongol horde,” Hunter said, his voice going up one notch in excitement. “But that’s got to be it. It’s the missing piece. We’ve been trying to figure out how the Russians got all those SAMs into the country. The answer is: They didn’t. They didn’t have to. They’re being made right here!”

  “Using Russian blueprints …” Jones filled in.

  “Exactly,” Hunter said. “They could even have ten, twenty, Christ—a hundred little factories churning these things out. And how would we know? Look at all the abandoned territory just in New England. The microelectronics sites around Boston, Route 128. No one trashed those places when the New Order came down. No one used them during the good old ZAP day, but only because there was nothing there the Northeast Economic Zone could sell.”

  “But now there is …” Jones said.

  “And the Russians are buying.” Dozer said.

  “I’ve got a feeling that it’s more like a partnership,” Hunter said. “They both have what the other one needs. The Circle has industrial savvy and now they’re raising an army.”

  “And the Russians are providing the high-tech stuff and advisors,” Dozer said.

  “That’s a roger,” Hunter agreed. “It was a policy of theirs for years before the war—however crudely it was handled. They haven’t changed.”

  “But what’s their purpose?” Jones asked.

  Hunter shook his head. “It has to be what the Russians have wanted all along. They want to control America. And we’re the only ones who can stop them.

  The three men were quiet for a long time. Finally, Hunter broke the silence. “But, then again, we’ve got a few aces up our sleeves, too …”

  “As in ‘Top Secret’ aces?” Dozer asked.

  “God, do we have to reach deep down into our bags of tricks so early?” Jones said. “I thought we could keep those deep-sixed for ten, fifteen years.”

  “Me, too,” Hunter said, feeling his body fill with emotion. “But we’re going to be faced with at least ten divisions of infantry, a small air force of Russians and a wall of SAMs that runs from Texas to the Dakotas.”

  “And not to forget the Mongolian People’s Mounted Army,” Jones said.

  “And the lid is coming off,” Hunter said. “Damned quick. Not only did I trade shots with their ‘comrade’ horse soldiers, they’ll be missing that Yak soon. Also their other Yaks were on the move earlier today. Heading south. Loaded for bear.”

  Jones poured another drink. “I’ve called an emergency meeting of Security Group tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll have to get some Texans up here, and some Free Canadians. It’s going to be their fight, too. Can we show the film you shot during your trip to the ’Bads? They’ll need convincing.”

  Hunter pulled on his jacket and got up to leave. “If the Marines will help, I can have an edited print along with ballpark locations by noon tomorrow.”

  Dozer also got up, grabbing what was left of the whiskey bottle. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to spend the night watching movies,” the Marine captain said.

  “That’s right,” Hunter said. “Remind me to tell you how I grabbed the Yak later …”

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT WASN’T UNTIL LATE the next morning that they found out why the Soviet Yaks were scrambled on Hunter’s last day in the Badlands.

  A small, camouflaged Lear Jet, carrying markings of the Texas Air Force, touched down at the base shortly before noon. Its occupants flew in to attend the emergency Security Group meeting that Jones had called. Hunter had finished developing the last reels of his aerial recon film and as commander of the PAAC-Oregon air base, he was on hand to meet the Texans.

  He watched as the jet taxied into the visitors parking area. A squad of monkeys materialized out of nowhere and proceeded to block off the airplane. The jet’s whining engines started to wind their way off as the door to the airplane opened and two Texans stepped out. Both were tall, of course and dressed in the standard issue uniform of the Texas Air Rangers—blue one-piece flight fatigues, snakeskin boots and no less than a ten-gallon cowboy hat.

  Hunter met them and introduced himself. They had flown up not just to attend the Security meeting, but also to brief PAAC on a border incident early the morning before. They quickly told Hunter their story. It had a sickeningly familiar ring to it.

  A dozen towns along the border of Texas and Oklahoma were attacked the night before. The populations butchered. The towns were in isolated locations, obviously selected to be hit. The pleas for help from citizens started coming in over the radios about midnight. By the time Texas Border Guards arrived in each town, it was too late.

  Except once. Just before dawn, the Texans airlifted a company of Special Forces into the dot of the town of Kilcoyne, Texas figuring it might be next on the raiders’ hit list. The Texans arrived just as the town was about to be attacked by cavalry. Three mounted companies. The Texans dropped down right in front of them just on the outskirts of the town. It was three-to-one against the Texans, but the choppers spooked the horses and gave the troopers the advantage they needed to kill about 50 of the raiders before the others retreated.

  No sooner had the Texans moved into the town to take up positions when four Yaks appeared overhead. One by one, the jets came in low and dropped napalm. The Texans had some Stinger missiles and they hit at least one of the attacking jets. But it was of no use; the town was burned to the ground. Only 30 of 100 Texas soldiers made it—about the same number of citizens were killed.

  The Air Rangers said that other towns along the border were also napalmed that same night and early that morning. The Texans rushed troops to the border and had been patrolling the area intensely since the attacks. But as yet the raiders had not returned.

  Hunter felt a charge of anger well up inside of him as the Rangers told him the story. Attacking and burning indiscriminate little towns was done for no military value—it was done for propaganda reasons. This wasn’t war. This was terrorism.

  Hunter immediately offered the Rangers all the services PAAC could spare. The Air Rangers graciously accepted. They would return to Texas immediately after the emergency session.

  Who were the raiders? The surviving Texas chopper troops had searched the bodies of the horsemen killed
in the clash at Kilcoyne. The attackers carried no papers or identification, but they were men of Oriental features and they were armed with a variety of weapons including Soviet AK-47s.

  Again, it sounded all too familiar to Hunter. He quickly told the Texans about his recon mission to the Badlands and his discovery of elements of the Mongolian People’s Cavalry. The Texans listened intently. It must have been the Mongols who raided the Texas border towns. But there was one odd twist: the chopper troops had found one of the attackers was carrying some unusual items in his saddle bag. The Air Rangers produced the well-worn brown leather sack and handed it over to Hunter. He reached inside and pulled out a handful of beat-up photographs.

  They were pictures of Dominique …

  The conference room was absolutely still. The only noise was the whirring sound of a film projector flickering images on a large screen at one end of the room. Every person crowded into the darkened room had their eyes riveted to the screen. No one spoke as the hour long film ran from beginning to end.

  It was the recon film Hunter had shot over the Badlands. It began abruptly with his tracking the convoy of SAMs, ran through his dramatic low-level sweeps of the Soviet’s castle-like base, and then, in what seemed like a never-ending series of sequences, focused in on the hundreds of Russian SAM installations stretching across the continent’s devastated mid-section.

  Finally—mercifully—the film ended with shots of the glider base in South Dakota and some high-level north-to-south panoramas of the Russian missile sites. When it was over, someone threw on the lights and the projector cranked to a stop. Still the room was completely silent.

  Jones finally rose slowly and stood at the end of the table. He looked out on the men seated around him. The Ace Wrecking Company was there, as were the Cobra Brothers and officers from The Crazy Eights. Captain Frost sat beside Dozer. The two Texas Air Rangers were to Dozer’s left. Crowded in the back of the room were the approximately 50 PAAC-Oregon pilots, plus the senior officers of the base’s security force and infantry division. Sitting apart in a far corner of the room, totally alone from them all, was Hunter.