About 100 of the sheets fluttered down. “Talk about a precision drop,” Dozer said. “It’s like a phony war bombing.” He was referring to the time early in World War II when the Allies faced the Nazis in a six-month, non-shooting ‘phony war,’ when propaganda leaflets were the heaviest ordnance the enemies dropped on each other.
Jones grabbed the first one that blew his way. It was a photograph—taken in the correct and simple, propagandists style. But it was very strange …
It showed Hunter’s long-lost girlfriend, Dominique. She looked as beautiful as she did in the other mysterious photos that the Circle had been circulating of her earlier. But in this photo, she was standing next to the Stealth fighter, holding Hunter’s small American flag in one hand, and pointing a la Uncle Sam with her other. There was a printed message at the bottom of the photograph.
It read:
“VIKTOR IS DEAD. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS NOW AND GO TOME. REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE AMERICANS. YOU HAVE BEEN TRICKED BY THE RUSSIANS. EVERY AIRPLANE YOU SEE WILL BE DROOPING BOMBS ON YOU. DONT DIE AS RUSSIAN PUPPETS. THE WAR WILL SOON BE OVER.—QUEEN.”
“I guess this is his way of telling us what he’s up to,” Jones said, studying the leaflet. “Well, at least now we know what he was doing in the photo lab.”
“I thought I’d seen everything,” Dozer said, reading his own. “But this has to be the wildest stunt he’s ever tried …”
Jones read the message over and over. “Wild, yes,” he said. “But also quite effective, in a crude sort of way.
“If I’m guessing right, he’s got those big airplanes loaded with these things. He’s going to drop them all over the Circle’s Central Group troop concentrations. Shit, if it works on one tenth of those guys—that means they’ll be ten thousand less of them shooting at us.”
“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Dozer said. “He did say he would take care of ‘spooking’ the bastards. I guess every ‘Psyche Ops’ plan is a little weird.”
Then the Marine captain looked at the photograph even closer. “But I do have one question …”
“What’s that?” Jones asked.
Dozer pointed to the photo. “Is that really Yankee Stadium in the background?”
Chapter Thirty-three
THE RAIN HAD FINALLY STOPPED. But in the muck of the 9th Circle Regiment’s camp, it didn’t matter. The ground around the encampment was so soaked, many of the soldiers had abandoned their tents and were trying to sleep in the back of trucks, or on top of the group’s few tanks. Any place that was solid and could be made dry. Still, these places were at a minimum, so many of the men simply huddled together in the wet mud, and stayed awake all night, sharing cigarettes and what little whiskey they smuggled in.
To a man, they were cold, tired and mad. Their anger was directed toward the dozen “special” soldiers attached to their regiment. Rumors were rife that the “specials” were really Russians. And while The Circle troops shivered in the damp after-rain, they could also see the lights from the large, well-heated house trailers that served as the special troops’ bivouacs nearby. They also knew when chow came, these troops would be the first to eat.
It had been getting worse since they marched out of Football City. Before then, things hadn’t been as bad. Most of the men in the Circle 9th were former Mid-Aks soldiers from the West Virginia area. Before Viktor’s recruiters appeared, they had supported themselves by raiding small towns and hamlets in the Wheeling area, sometimes bringing their booty—young girls mostly—up to The Pitts for resale. With promises of gold, new weapons and conquest in the west—especially against the same hated democratic forces that had brought down their Mid-Atlantic Empire—the members of the 9th had greedily enlisted.
Most of them had managed to put up with the strange ways of The Circle. The “re-education sessions” during training—where they watched countless videos detailing the outlandish heroics of Viktor—were bearable because the food was plentiful and it was occasionally spiked with some kind of “feel-good” drug. While the good old mountain boys of the 9th quietly snickered at the suggestion that the “Video” Viktor was “the Cosmos Chosen Leader,” they knew many of the other recruits—especially the young ones in their teens—bought the foolishness lock, stock and barrel.
What the Circle recruiters never told them was signing up in the Army of the East meant a long separation from what man needed most—sex. No women were allowed in or anywhere near Circle Army camps. No Circle soldiers were allowed the wanton rape and pillage that had been the trademark of the Mid-Aks. Photos of women and girls were banned. Whoring was punishable by firing squad—several public executions drove the point home quickly enough. The life of The Circle grunt was one of enforced abstinence.
Except for The Queen …
She was beautiful, even the men of the 9th agreed. And she was the only woman they ever saw—and then only in carefully distributed, carefully staged photographs. They were passed out like medals—rewards for good duty, and then only rarely. Photos of the Queen quickly became status symbols. Soldiers in favor carried them proudly. They became items for trade, like cigarettes in a POW camp. How valuable was determined by The Queen’s varying states of undress. The more she showed, the more precious the photo. It was said that some officers possessed photos of the Queen partially nude and given to them by Viktor himself. But these photos were as rare as diamonds and never filtered down to the enlisted men. Not unless it was planned that way. It was all very controlled, just as the portions of “feel-good” slipped into the troops’ meal rations. The Circle ruled its soldiers with an iron fist tightly wrapped around their libido. The erotic photos of the unnamed, beautiful Queen were the only release. They became as valuable and as guarded a commodity as The Circle’s guns, and rockets and bombs.
But now even that had ended, at least for the 9th. Rumors had been sweeping the troops’ encampments for days before they marched out of Football City that Viktor was dead and The Queen was missing. Something big had gone down back in New York City. They were heading for a bloodbath in the Badlands.
And worst of all, the camp food didn’t taste as good as it did before …
Now, on this cold, wet night, new rumors were sweeping the 9th’s camp. They would start on a new march route the next day because a major bridge they had been slated to cross had been destroyed by an enemy air strike. Wild stories about the West’s aircraft bombing targets behind their column were running rampant. Some soldiers who had been up to the front claimed the skies were filled with enemy aircraft. Yet Viktor’s officers had told them there would be no enemy air force by the time they reached the front. There were SAMs installed at the front, which made flying anywhere east of the Badlands impossible.
Even worse were the stories about the West’s “ghost” jets. Supposedly they could appear or disappear on command. Foolish as the story was, many of The Circle soldiers suspected there was something to it—and they sensed their superiors were taking the claims seriously.
So when the soldiers of the 9th Circle Regiment heard the rumbling of aircraft approaching from the west, they were quick to find shelter. But they found it was no easy task. Their encampment was set up out in the open of the Missouri plain. There was no place to hide. As the sound of the airplanes got louder, there was much confusion as the soldiers ran around in the dark, sloshing in the mud, looking for a hole to jump in or a rock to cower against.
“How did those airplanes get through!?” was the cry through the camp as the PAAC aircraft passed overhead.
“What happened to the SAMs!”
So it was a complete surprise to the men of the 9th Circle Regiment—as well as to thousands of their comrades camped nearby—that the high-flying airplanes didn’t drop bombs on them. Instead, thousands of leaflets floated down out of the sky. Leaflets showing the woman known to them only as The Queen, carrying a message that Viktor was dead and that they should give up the fight. Gone were her slinky black pornographic costumes. She looked all-business in the combat-sty
le coveralls.
But many of the soldiers were startled more by the fact that she was holding an American flag. The symbol—and any talk of it—had been banned long ago by the New Order. It was the first time in years that many of them had seen the flag. Something stirred deep inside of a few of them. The picture of the Queen holding the stars and stripes was enough to kick some out of the hazy drug hangover they’d unknowingly been suffering from.
Still others wondered what the strange craft in back of her in the photo represented. Was this one of the “ghost jets” they’d been hearing about?
The leaflet drop added weight to the rumors that had swept the camp. If these airplanes got through the SAM line, what was to prevent others, carrying more deadly payloads from getting through? Maybe Viktor was dead. Maybe enemy aircraft were bombing positions behind them in the rear areas. Maybe there was a bloodbath waiting for them up ahead.
It was enough for many of the veteran soldiers of the 9th. They quickly packed their meager belongings and started marching again—this time toward the east, back to the West Virginia hills. When their officers appeared and ordered them to stop, they ignored them and kept moving. And when their officers shot a few of them, the members of the 9th, returned the fire, killed the officers then fled.
The scene was repeated all over eastern Kansas and Missouri. Wherever the leaflets fell, the “borderline” Circle troops—veteran Mid-Aks, Family soldiers, mercenaries mostly—began questioning their resolve. Scattered mutinies, uprisings, and random defections started to take place. More than a few Circle commanders resorted to force to keep their soldiers in line. By morning, The Circle High Command estimated that they’d lost anywhere from 10 to 15 percent of their troops. The Russians believed even more had deserted. How this would affect the planned link-up of their forces was anyone’s guess.
What they didn’t know was the worst was yet to come …
Back at the Denver Air Station, General Jones studied a video tape shot by an A-7 Recon Strike-fighter and rushed to the situation room. Taken only an hour earlier, the tape clearly showed small groups of Circle Army deserters moving east along highways and secondary roads. Most were walking, some riding in commandeered trucks. Everywhere—blowing in wind, or scattered amongst the trees—were Hunter’s propaganda leaflets. The Wingman had succeeded in covering most of eastern Kansas and Missouri with them.
Jones turned to the principal officers who had also gathered to watch the tape.
“Well, it looks like Hunter’s brainstorm worked as well as could be expected,” the general said. “It’s certainly not a rout, but they are losing at least some of their paycheck soldiers.”
“And those are the guys who are their veterans,” Dozer added. “Most of them have been in combat before, some of them would have been tough nuts to crack. Leave it to Hunter to push the right buttons in them, and at the right time.”
The others agreed.
“We can probably expect more of this after we hit their troop concentrations—with real bombs—today,” Jones said. “But there’s another certainty we have to be prepared for from this, and I’m sure Hunter is as aware of it as we are.
“That is, as The Circle loses their veterans, only the die-hard fanatics will remain.” A grim silence descended on the room. Jones continued. “When that Central Group hits our defense line, we can expect everything, even kamikaze attacks. That means we’ll have to kill every last one of the bastards …”
Chapter Thirty-four
THE TWO F-4X PHANTOMS known as the Ace Wrecking Company swept in over El Dorado Lake without warning. Coming in side-by-side, each jet deposited a fat napalm canister right into the heart of the Circle encampment. A tidal wave of murderous burning jelly washed across the camp in an instant, igniting trees and flesh alike. For the thousands of Circle troops just waking up to the first light of dawn, it seemed as if they were still locked inside a horrible nightmare. Everywhere they saw their comrades running in panic, with their clothes, hair, faces on fire. Blood-curdling screams echoed throughout the old state park camping area. The flames reached ammunition stores, blowing them up and causing additional carnage. Many soldiers fled from their tents and leaped into the nearby lake.
The Phantoms pulled up, banked to the left and bore down on the encampment again. Two more large napalm cannisters were dropped. Another wave of fire tore through the camp. More screams.
More burning flesh. More horrible death.
By the time the Wrecking Company made its third and final bombing run, a small firestorm was sweeping the encampment. Huge trees were exploding from the heat alone, perforating any soldiers nearby with thousands of searing deadly splinters. The heat from the gasoline-jelly flames now threatened those soldiers who had sought refuge in the lake. The temperature had become so unbearable near the shoreline, those troops who could had to swim for it. Those who couldn’t were forced back into the deeper water until they drowned.
Eventually, the fires became so hot, the lake itself began to steam …
High above, watching the action, was a small, dark, mysterious-looking fighter plane.
Thirty miles west of Topeka, a convoy of small boats was making its way on the Kansas River. The vessels—work barges, pleasure ships, fishing boats—were carrying an elite brigade of Circle Army sappers to Manhattan, Kansas, where they would be dispatched to the front. Moving the 2,000 troops by water had become necessary after an entire 20-mile stretch of the division’s original route—Route 70—had been destroyed by Western Forces aircraft two days before.
Despite some grumbling from their soldiers after many had read the leaflets dropped by the enemy the night before, all was going smoothly for the Circle commanders charged with sailing the makeshift fleet to Manhattan. The sappers were a cut above the ordinary Circle Army soldiers, therefore their resolve was more reliable. And now, with only ten miles to go to the landing port at Rocky Ford, the commanders were confident the force would arrive intact and on-time. Some were even beginning to enjoy the view along the pleasant, tree-lined river bank.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, they heard a loud chopping sound. There was a flash of smoke and flame from the northern shore treeline, and one of the boats—a huge commandeered yacht traveling third in line—exploded with a horrendous sound. The yacht went under in a matter of seconds.
The overall Circle commander, riding on a fishing vessel safely placed in the middle of the pack, leaped to his feet to see an Apache helicopter rise above the treeline. It had fired the missile that took out the boat, and was in the process of firing another one. The commander’s eyes were diverted to the southern shoreline where another Apache had risen up just over the treeline. It too was firing at the boats. Then another Apache rose up beside it. Then another and another. All were firing TOW rockets into the tightly packed line of boats. All were hitting their targets.
In a matter of 20 seconds, the air was filled with buzzing Apaches, strange-looking bug-like choppers, that were loaded with cannons and TOW missile launchers. The Circle commander realized they had foolishly sailed right into an ambush. They were literally sitting ducks for the Apaches. He could only watch as the helicopters methodically rocketed and strafed the boats. There were explosions everywhere. Bodies and pieces of bodies were being flung high into the air as it seemed like every TOW missile launched founds its mark. Some of the sappers gamely attempted to return the fire, but most were only armed with M-16s and hand guns and their effort was useless in the face of the vicious onslaught.
Then, in the middle of the battle, a small, black jet fighter swooped down over the river, strafing the boats, sinking two before disappearing over the western horizon. The Circle commander knew he had seen such an airplane before. It was the same as the one in the propaganda leaflets dropped by the Western Forces the day before.
One by one, the Circle boats went down. Some troopers tried to swim for it, others were caught up in the many gasoline fires raging on the surface of the water. The commander’s boat to
ok a TOW right on the bridge, killing him and everyone stationed there. Now leaderless, the boats were twisting and turning in every direction. But the fire from the squadron of Apaches was so intense, it seemed useless to even attempt an escape.
Within five minutes, the Apaches’ deadly work was complete. Every one of the boats had been hit, more than three quarters of them sent to the bottom. The sapper unit was destroyed.
Back at the Circle stronghold in Topeka, troops guarding the city’s bridges noticed the swift moving Kansas River had turned red with blood …
The 40-mile stretch of Kansas Interstate Route 135 between Salina and McPherson was the scene of an incredible traffic jam …
A convoy of 300 trucks, carrying six battalions of Circle ground troops, was traveling south on the highway when it met a large column of Circle tanks and armored personnel carriers moving in the opposite direction. Someone had screwed up. Strange radio reports had reached both commanders earlier in the day, countermanding their previous orders. The armored column was trying to get to Salina to get on Route 70 heading west. The infantry convoy had been directed south—off Route 70—and toward McPherson to take Route 56 west. Both of the column commanders used all four lanes of the abandoned interstate to get where they were going. They had met roughly halfway, near the small town of Bridgeport, Kansas and had been stalled, in place, while the Circle High Command tried to figure it out.
It didn’t matter. The Western Forces were about to do that for them.
The first PAAC aircraft to arrive on the scene was a pair of C-130 Spooky gunships flying 10 miles south of Salina. Each one was equipped with three rapid-fire GE Gatling guns poking out of its portside. The Spookies overflew the area once. Then while one headed south to ascertain the length of the exposed enemy, the other climbed and went into an orbit 1000 feet above the stalled infantry column. Before their commanders could order their troops to scatter, the C-130 opened on the trucks, its gun spitting out bullets at an incredible rate of 6000 rounds a minute.
Circle War Page 25