Circle War

by Maloney, Mack;

  “So?” Hunter said. “What was it carrying?”

  Jones looked at him for a moment, then took off his cap and scratched his wiffle-cut head. He slipped an envelope out of his pocket. “This,” he said, handing it to Hunter.

  Hunter took the envelope and ripped it open. He felt a lightning bolt come up his spine and explode in his brain. It was yet another photo of Dominique. Same shot, same pose.

  “It’s weird, Hawk,” Jones said. “The whole Goddamn airplane was filled with them!”

  Hunter looked at him. “What does you mean, sir?”

  “I mean there were crates of them,” Jones said, leaning forward and speaking in an urgent whisper. “Thousands—tens of thousands of copies of the same picture.”

  “This is crazy …” Hunter said.

  “Hawk, I can’t imagine what the hell is going on,” Jones said. “The Russians, The Circle, this Viktor guy—these things I can understand. But what the hell is it with these pictures? It looks as if they were going to drop them. Spread ’em around like propaganda leaflets or something.”

  Hunter could only shake his head and stare at the photo. Would he ever know?

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE GRAND CANYON BLACK box was hidden in a very unusual place. Yet Hunter had been there several times before.

  It was a secret airstrip that the CIA had built years before the Third World War; a place where ultrasensitive aircraft could land and take off from without anyone outside The Company knowing about it. Hunter knew the place existed during his Thunderbird days at Nellis Air Force Base at Las Vegas not a hundred miles to the west. At that time, he was asked to fly “special” visitors to the secret base on occasion. The approach to the strip was very tricky by design and thus, the best Thunderbird pilot was always asked to go.

  He’d been to the secret base—code named Phantom Ranch Ringo—a half dozen times. Yet he’d never actually met anyone who was stationed at the secret base except for the ground crew. His missions had called for him to fly in the “guests”—always in the jump seat of a specially-equipped F-5—drop them off then vamoose. Because the strip was so short, a launch-and-recovery arrangement—taken right off an aircraft carrier—was installed. It involved an arresting gear setup which would catch the hook especially attached to the bottom of the F-5 allowing it to come to a dead stop very quickly and a very powerful catapult system that launched him for the return flight. How the CIA got all the equipment to the bottom of the canyon and working was beyond him.

  Now he knew that black box 3 was hidden at the base, specifically in a laboratory that was built right into the solid rock wall close by the landing strip. In theory, he would fly into the canyon, check to see if the arresting gear was still in place, set down if it was, then get the box and leave by way of catapult. The alternative would involve a long, time-consuming climb down.

  He and Jones had discussed this part of the recovery mission at length. Really it was a job for a helicopter strike force—and they would have sent one, except for one thing. While no one really knew what the hell was going on in the Grand Canyon these days, the rumors were that right-wing fanatics—mostly from Utah—had retreated to the canyon after the war. The stories went on to say that these fanatics were well-armed and had adopted a “shoot first” attitude. Several small airplanes had been shot down around the canyon in the past two years and not just with small arms fire. A convoy airliner that had run into fuel trouble a year before had to fly low over the canyon while attempting to land at the deserted Nellis. Someone fired a small surface-to-air missile at the airplane, just missing it. Jones and Hunter were aware of the incident at the time, but in the wild and wooly New Order America, they couldn’t go around wasting valuable time, men and equipment chasing down every radical with a SAM launcher.

  But now Hunter had to go back and he had to do it in the airplane which would give him maximum maneuverability, firepower and escape potential. There was never any question that he’d take his F-16. In fact, while he was recovering the black box 2 from Wyoming, the PAAC monkey crew had worked round the clock and installed a Navy-style arrester hook on the belly of his jet.

  It was uncommonly overcast above the canyon when he arrived around noontime. He knew that ever since the Soviets had nuked the Badlands the continent’s weather patterns had changed—still a foggy cloud bank enveloping the crevices of the canyon was highly unusual.

  He brought the jet fighter down to barely 1000 feet and located the western mouth of the canyon near Lake Mead. Dropping even lower, he found the clouds ended completely at 500 feet.

  The secret base was cleverly hidden about 100 miles east of Lake Mead, in an extremely narrow and isolated part of the canyon. Built near an outcrop of rock that was nearly inaccessible by foot, when viewed from the air, one could only see canyon walls and the Colorado River snaking its way through. The buildings, the arresting gear and the catapult were all hidden from casual view. Only someone flying low off the river and expertly following two very hairy miles of the twists and turns of the canyon floor could reach the place. It was so well hidden that only a handful of the many excursion pilots that had flown the canyon before the war had tripped over the installation. When they did, the CIA tracked them down—then offered them a lucrative flying job. Only the most courageous or craziest of pilots would dare to fly the narrows that led to the base. But those were two qualities in demand at the CIA any time.

  Hunter located several landmarks and slowly brought the F-16’s airspeed down to barely 150 knots. Just off Steamboat Mountain, he carefully descended until he was below the rim of the canyon. Further down he went, gingerly edging the ’16’s right side control stick back and forth, staying with the twists of the river below.

  Soon he was just 50 feet off the water and his airspeed was down to 120 knots. He started to pick up some more fairly familiar landmarks. A cliff here, a set of rapids there. Although he’d had only flown the secret missions here years before at night, he had guided his way in then using a helmet-attached “NightScope.” The device made the flights seem like flying in the clearest of daylight.

  He recognized a bend in the river ahead as the two-miles-to-go landmark. He applied his airbrakes and lower his landing gear, reducing his speed to just 110 knots. He inched his way down to 40 feet off the deck. Above him he could see the outcrops of rocks jutting out this way and that. This was the hairy part. If any trouble developed, he could not pull up without smashing into one of the overhangs. All he had to do was keep it slow and steady and hope that the arresting cables were still there …

  Bang!

  Suddenly something hit his starboard wing. He turned to see a hole had drilled clearly through and a wispy stream of fuel starting to leak from the wound …

  Bang!

  Something—probably a .20 mm cannon shell—went through his port wing, just at the tip, close to his wingtip-mounted Sidewinder …

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  In a matter of seconds the air around him and in front of him was filled with streaks of anti-aircraft fire. He reacted quickly: he couldn’t go up, so dropped down, all the time trying to identify the source of the gunfire. Then he saw puffs of smoke—hundreds of them coming from guns hidden in every crevice and crack on both sides of the canyon wall. Only by his rocking of the F-16 in the narrows did he avoid getting hit.

  Up ahead he could see the firing was even more intense. But at the same time, it was sporadically placed. The gunners—whoever they were—weren’t aiming at him as much as setting up a wall of lead, which made it impossible for anything to get through. Bullets were glancing off the wings and body. He had no choice. He put the ’16 into a 180-degree roll—the tightest he’d ever performed. As most of the gunfire was coming from above him, he’d much rather take some hits on the bottom of the airplane than the top.

  But the maneuver was not enough. He still had at least a mile and a half to go. He had to fight back …

  He couldn’t imagine this many gunners were hiding in
the canyon just waiting for some airborne intruder to pass through. Then he got an idea. He immediately punched his Electronic Counter Measures console and heard the reassuring whine as the variety of radio jamming equipment came on.

  Suddenly the firing stopped. His gamble worked. He realized that these weren’t humans shooting at him—they were robot-controlled anti-aircraft guns. The CIA must have installed the things to finish off anyone—like a single fighter or even a cruise missile—they judged hostile before it even reached the base. His ECM equipment was effectively jamming the signals, confusing the guns’ automatic fire system and bringing the attack to a halt.

  But Hunter felt far from secure. Someone had activated the robot-controlled gauntlet—someone who didn’t want anybody getting into the base. The fact that his airplane was equipped with ECM counter-measures was the only reason he was still in one piece. Most of the aircraft flying around these days considered ECM equipment as an expensive and hard-to-maintain luxury.

  He could see the secret base less than a mile ahead of him. In an instant he knew that the arresting gear was still in working order, because there was another jet—a banged-up Lear—sitting next to the midget runway. The only way it could have landed safely was to use the arresting device. He switched on his forward-looking topographic infra-red radar system and got a clear TV picture of the base. He could see at least seven individuals running about the installation. Obviously, they knew they were about to have some uninvited company dropping in.

  Suddenly, a warning light flashed on his control panel. Someone had launched a small SAM at him. His ECM was still working, but it wasn’t needed. Whoever fired the missile was an amateur—and that was being generous. The SAM—it looked like a Stinger—bounced off the canyon wall about a quarter mile from his position, exploded and fell into the river causing a minor avalanche in the process.

  He pressed on. He had two options and he was running out of time. One choice was to rip up the base with his Vulcan cannon six pack then pull up, go around again, survey the damage, before going around a third time and trying to land. He didn’t want to shoot up the place for fear of destroying the precious black box … Suddenly he knew he didn’t have time to consider option one. The fuel leak from the hit on his starboard wing had just gone from bad to worse.

  He had no choice but to set the F-16 down.

  He cut back his powerful engine to almost nothing, lowered the specially-installed arrester hook and crossed his fingers …

  The F-16 hit the arresting wire at 105 knots. With a great squealing of tires and a cloud of dust, the airplane jerked to a halt in less than two seconds. It was more of a controlled crash than a landing. Now Hunter knew why the Navy flyboys described carrier landings like “having sex in a car wreck.”

  When the smoke and dust cleared he saw he was on a small stretch of sandy beach, no more than a quarter mile long. The escape catapult was about 300 yards, directly in front of him. A dangerous set of Colorado River rapids cascaded nearby. The base looked the same as when he flew the secret missions in some years before—nothing more than four concrete bunkers built into the side of the canyon wall.

  He immediately popped the canopy and leaped out of the jet fighter, his M-16 up and ready.

  That’s when he saw the naked woman …

  She was tall, thin with blond hair flowing almost to her waist. On second look, he realized she wasn’t completely naked—she was wearing the thinnest of bikini bottoms, but that was it. She was standing about 25 feet away next to one of the concrete bunkers. She was also aiming an M-16 at him …

  He held his hand up to a gesture of peace.

  “How!” he called to her. “Friend …”

  She lowered the gun slightly. Then another woman appeared from behind the bunker. She was smaller, a brunette with shorter hair, but besides an even skimpier bikini brief, quite naked, too. She was carrying a shotgun.

  He clicked the safety off his M-16, though he would never use it against the women. Slowly he walked toward them, his right hand still raised.

  “Go away,” the blonde yelled.

  “I need fuel,” he told them. “Your robots back there are pretty good shots.” He was having a hard time keeping his eyes on their weapons and off their beautiful, bare breasts. Both women were gorgeous.

  “Who are you?” he heard a third voice call out. Off to the left of the two women, a third emerged from behind a large, arrowhead shaped boulder. She was a redhead, clad in cut-off dungarees, but also naked to the waist. Her breasts were, in a word, enormous.

  Hunter felt like he had dropped in on an X-rated Amazon movie.

  “I’m Major Hawk Hunter,” he called out. “From the Pacific American Air Corps. I’m a friend, if you are. I took a hit back there on my gas line.”

  He was walking slowly toward them all the time and could see they were slowly relenting to him. The closer he got, the younger he realized the women were. The blonde couldn’t have been 23, the brunette and the redhead even younger.

  He finally stopped about ten feet from them. “Who are you, girls?” The question came from nowhere. He just had to know.

  “We’re members of the Church of the Canyon,” the redhead said to him as she walked over to join the others. “You’re trespassing on our property.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, ladies,” Hunter said. “But I’m on a very important mission. I have to retrieve something—a black box—that I’ve been told is hidden here. Have you seen such a thing here?”

  The women looked at each other. The redhead seemed to be the spokesperson for the group. “Maybe,” she said, her interest growing. “What do you need it for?”

  Hunter wanted to keep it simple. “My commanding officer needs it to get an old airplane of his back up and flying.”

  The redhead smiled at him, while the other two girls broke into a giggle. “You mean the B-1s Project Ghost Rider of Eureka?”

  Hunter was startled. How would she know that?

  “Surprised, flyboy?” the redhead asked. She nonchalantly cupped her huge breasts in her hands and gave them a seductive scratch. Hunter felt his biological juices starting to act up.

  “How do you know about ‘Ghost Rider’” he asked.

  The women laughed again. “That’s all we hear about,” the blonde said.

  “From whom?” Hunter was determined to get to the bottom of this one.

  “From our ‘high priest,’” the brunette said, lowering the shotgun completely.

  “‘High’ is right,” the redhead said with a laugh. She walked forward and extended her hand. “My name is Tracy,” she said, shaking his leather-gloved hand. “This is Stacy and Lacey.”

  Tracy, Stacy, and Lacey?

  “Or at least those are the names he gave us,” Tracy said.

  “Who’s ‘he’?” Hunter asked.

  “Our fearless leader,” said Stacy, the blonde. “Come on, we’ll show you.”

  They led him to the door of the first bunker. The place looked like someone had jammed a concrete quonset hut into a wall of sheer granite. Hunter knew the bunker was built that way by the CIA for one reason: It was nuke proof.

  Stacy opened the door and the three women allowed Hunter to go in first. It was dark inside, the only light being provided by about a dozen candles. The air was thick with a sickly sweet smell of incense mixed with the unmistakable scent of marijuana. There was music playing somewhere—a prickly, sour pinging that Hunter recognized as an Indian sitar. He had once owned one.

  He was aware of several bodies moving at the far end of the bunker’s first room. Stacy closed the heavy metal door behind them and Hunter’s eyes instantly adjusted to the darkness. He saw a man, dressed in dingy white robes, sitting on a large chair in the bunker’s far corner. He had shoulder-length scraggly brown hair, a long, apparently unwashed beard, a headband and rose-colored sunglasses. He was drowzily smoking an elaborate looking water pipe.

  Around him were four more girls. All of them absolutely naked—Hunter was s
ure of it this time. Water pipes lay strewn around the floor near them. One of the women had her head on the man’s right knee, her hand buried in his crotch. It didn’t matter; she was asleep. Another woman lay at the man’s feet. She, too, was out like a light. The two other women were embracing and kissing each other. Amidst the cloud of reefer smoke, Hunter thought he detected a whiff of opium.

  “Major Hunter,” he said, hoping to wake the nodding man. “P-A-A-C.”

  The man looked up. “Hunter?” he said, barely mumbling the name. “Hawk Hunter?”

  The pilot was surprised. Did this man know him?

  “Yes,” he replied. “Hawk Hunter.”

  The man took off his sunglasses and even in the flickering candlelight, Hunter could see his eyes were bloodshot beyond recognition. He shakily pointed at Hunter and managed to wheeze out: “Eur-ee-ka!”

  This was not some ordinary kook. Hunter took a good look at the man. Despite the long hair and beard, he knew he’d seen the man somewhere before.

  “How do you know about ‘Ghost Rider’ and Eureka?” Hunter asked him.

  “Ha! I know all about it,” the man said. A smile washed across his face, revealing a jagged set of teeth. “And I know all about Hawk Hunter.”

  Then Hunter knew where he’d seen the man. It was in a photograph Jones had showed him. The man was Captain Travis, General Josephs’ aide-de-camp! This was the very man who, at Josephs’ direction, hid the black boxes.

  “Hawk Hunter,” Travis said. “I saw you fly in an air show at Nellis. It was incredible, girls. I didn’t think an airplane could move like that.”

  “What the hell is going on here, Travis?” Hunter said sharply, and loud enough to wake up the woman at the man’s feet.

  “I am holding my position, Hunter,” Travis said with an air of woozy importance. “I’m guarding the black box. Following orders.”