Circle War

by Maloney, Mack;

  He paused again.

  “What kind of shape are these guys in?” Jones asked. “Bottom line is, we don’t know. Our plan all along has been to hit their supply lines, cut them off, starve ’em. They’ve been through bad weather, their food supplies should be running low. They’ve been bombed every day, without so much as a single Yak to defend them. We’ll know whether our strategy has worked or not as soon as we see the condition of the first Circle soldier who hits our defense line.”

  A slight murmur went up from the assembled pilots.

  “But we have to expect the worse,” Jones continued. “They have enough guys to hit us on three sides. Our defense line is being compressed. We’ve got some artillery, howitzers, tanks dug in around the area where we expect them, but all they have to do is hit us with a series of coordinated attacks, and our lines will not be able to hold.

  “Now those B-1s you saw out on our runway are part of Top Secret project the Skunkworks cooked up before the Big War. We found them a few years ago. We’ve just got them working. How they do what they do, I couldn’t even begin to explain to you all. Simply put: When conditions are right, and those five airplanes are working together, they’re invisible on radar.”

  Jones waited a few seconds to let the news sink in. “Now that’s a big advantage we were sure we could use. But the bad news is, those B-1s alone can’t win this one for us. We can’t send those airplanes out there helter-skelter, because they can be shot down by visually-sighted heatseekers, manually-aimed AA guns, and worst of all, air-to-air missiles. And there are still some forty-odd Yaks out there, somewhere.”

  He paused again.

  “I don’t have to tell anyone of you how serious the situation is. We’re fighting for our Goddamn lives. We’re also fighting for something we used to call ‘democracy.’ It’s what our country used to be built on. If this is its last gasp, well, so be it.”

  Jones looked out at his pilots. Fighters, all. Brave men, all. Americans. Every last one of them.

  “So, it’s going to be up to us,” Jones said. “We’ve got fifty-five thousand guys sitting out there in that trench, with seventy-five thousand guys and a lot of SAM cover, coming at them. Anything we let get through will be going for our guys’ throats.

  “So we have no choice really. I’ve ordered all our airplanes to be fitted with heavy bombs. Stuff that can wipe out trucks, vehicles. I know that will slow everyone down and cut down on their maneuverability. But we’ll have to gamble. Half of us will have to go after the SAMs and the rest will have to dodge all the fucking missiles and get to those Circle grunts.”

  “And what about the B-1s?” someone asked.

  “At this moment,” Jones said slowly. “We’ll have to hold the B-1s in reserve. If we were in the driver’s seat for this one, I’d send them against the Circle Army right now. But as the last photo shows, they’re just too spread out. If they move toward us in a wide range of attacks, they’ll be too scattered for the B-1s to do much good. Remember B-1s are strategic bombers. I can’t risk sending them on tactical strikes, especially when they have to work together. They’ll wind up dropping ten thousand pounds of bombs on a couple of squads of Circle jerks.

  “So we have to keep the B-1s here. Have them ready to strike whenever the Circle breaks through. They’re the only ace in the hole we have left.”

  There was another long silence, then one pilot spoke up. “Any chance of more recon photos coming in, General?”

  Jones hated to hear the question. “Sorry, guys. The answer is no,” he said slowly. “That’s the last photograph we’ve taken of them.”

  Jones sensed the uneasiness on the part of the pilots in the room. Good recon was the most important element in a successful air strike. Without it, you were flying “dumb.”

  “As far as recon goes I’m sorry. But that’s the best we can do. And, after all our preparation, that’s what we need most …”

  “Jesus Christ,” one of the pilots said aloud. “If only Hunter was here with that Stealth of his …”

  The words were just barely out of the man’s mouth when the door to the situation room swung open. A bright light on the other side made it difficult for the pilots to clearly see who was standing in the doorway. But Jones knew who it was.

  “Well, Major Hunter,” he said with a wide grin. “Nice of you to join us …”

  Relief swept the room. The star pitcher had just declared himself ready for the Big Game. Hunter bounded up to the front of the room. The assembled pilots broke into a spontaneous round of applause. It was getting to be a habit. With the Wingman on hand, the pilots knew they now had a fighting chance.

  “You’ve got to see this,” Hunter said in all urgency, handing a videotape to Jones. “I just shot it less than an hour ago.

  “The Circle has just made what might be a big mistake. And if we move fast enough, we can catch them with their pants down …”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  A SUDDEN JOLT OF excitement ripped through the situation room. The video recorder and TV were turned on. Jones pushed in the videotape. Instantly the screen flickered to life.

  “Holy Christ!” Jones said.

  The screen showed long lines of Circle vehicles, headlights blazing in the pre-dawn darkness, all heading west.

  “They’re moving everything! In a line!” Hunter said. “It looks like a Goddamn May Day parade out there. Their infantry is riding on the launchers, trucks, jeeps, tanks, APCs, old cars, buses, you name it. They’re jammed up on Route 70 like the LA Freeway at rush hour!”

  “The fools!” Jones exclaimed. “Didn’t they learn anything when we greased that column a few days ago?”

  “Knowing the Russians, they probably hushed it all up. Kept it secret,” Hunter said.

  “Either that or they’re desperate,” Jones said.

  “Whatever the hell is going on,” Hunter continued. “They’ve closed their ranks. They’ve been maneuvering all night. They’re attacking us with one major thrust.”

  “But why in hell would they move on us now?” Jones asked.

  Hunter shook his head. “Any commander with an ounce of brain would complete his consolidation then dig in and sit tight. But the Russians are so clamped into their command structures that they have no freedom of thought, no freedom of action. If someone in Moscow says attack, they have to attack. And now.”

  Hunter turned to the situation room map. “They know our trenches are just over this ridge-line. They’re making a dash for it. They want to get in position between the ridges and our lines, set up their missiles and attack. They’re hoping to overwhelm us with numbers. That’s why they’ve suddenly gone mobile. Their commanders are no doubt kicking their butts all along that highway.”

  Jones had another question. “But if they’re moving their guys on the SAM launchers, how are they handling their air defense?”

  “That’s just it,” Hunter said, turning back to the video machine and speeding up the tape. He finally reached a spot that showed a close up, if hazy view, of the front of the approaching army column. “They’re trying to leap-frog it. The front of the column has about two hundred SA-2 launchers. Then every mile or so, they got anywhere from twenty to thirty more. These are the dedicated air defense guys. They’re not carrying any ground troops. They have their radars on and can go hot quick.”

  “But when they see anything coming,” Jones interjected. “They’ll still have to stop their vehicles and start launch procedures.”

  Hunter nodded. “And that’s our chance to get them …”

  Jones read Hunter’s mind. “I get it,” he said. “We send in the fighters first. Just blow right over the top of them. Stop the column. That should cause them to dispatch their troops.”

  “That’s right,” Hunter said, barely containing the rising excitement in his voice. “Then we send in the B-1s …”

  “… and even though the SAM radars will be hot,” Jones said, finishing Hunter’s thought. “They won’t be picking anything up
on them!”

  “Exactly,” Hunter said. “And you can be sure that when the shooting starts, those Reds will kick off their valiant Circle allies off their launchers and start firing every Goddamn SAM they have. But by the time the B-1s arrive, they’ll be shooting blind.”

  The pilots were on their feet by this time, crowded around the TV set.

  “While the B-1s take care of the SAMs, we’ll have to go after the troops plus any Yaks that might show,” Hunter said, summing it all up. “If we’re lucky, we can cut their ground attack in half before they ever reach our defense line.”

  The general grabbed a red phone and was soon talking to the commander of the flight line personnel. He quickly told the man that all of the PAAC aircraft should be refitted with anti-personnel weapons and extra ammunition. The B-1s should be loaded up to the maximum with high explosive bombs, appropriately known as “super-blockbusters.”

  Jones again addressed the airmen. “Okay, that’s the plan … let’s go! Launch now and go. We’ll have the coordinates to you while you’re taxiing. Good luck guys!”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ROMAN CANDLES …

  The sky over the front of the long enemy column looked like the Fourth of July. Hundreds of long, fiery streaks of light and smoke were popping up from the roadway, shooting off in all different directions. Some were exploding in midair. Others traveled in smoky corkscrew flight lines, only to fall to the ground and blow up.

  Desperation. The Soviets knew their attack had been discovered. They knew the Western Forces’ air armada would soon strike. As predicted, they were sending up a wall of panicky SAMs.

  Hunter’s Stealth fighter was the first one over the scene. Behind him were Crunch’s F-4s. Then came the A-7s, the F-104s, the F-106s, the A-l0s and the T-38s.

  Per Jones’ orders, all of the airplanes were carrying not high explosive bombs, but guts filled with cannon shells and air-to-air missiles.

  Most of the Circle Army troops riding in the long column had yet to see an aircraft the entire war. Now suddenly the sky was filled with them. Even the barrage of SAMs being sent up by the launchers at the head of the column offered no comfort. Even the lowest grunt knew you couldn’t fire a SAM when it was moving along the highway. The column had quickly screeched to a halt. The ground troops were ordered off the launching trucks and over to the side of the road. They felt helpless. Exposed. Some of them panicked.

  Hunter went in first. Twisting and turning to avoid getting hit by a lucky SAM shot, he opened up with the Stealth’s powerful cannons. The airplane confidently shuddered as long spits of flame shot out from its nose. The streaks of burning shells found targets immediately on the overcrowded highway. Troop-carrying vehicles, tanks, APCs, fuel trucks, buses, and everywhere, the SAM launchers … nothing escaped Hunter’s furious barrage.

  He could see the hapless Circle troops scattering toward the sides of the highway. It was as if they had already read the script. Strange. He felt for them in a way. They had been taken in by Viktor’s mind games, sold a bill of goods that was now going very sour. Now they would die fighting for that madman’s twisted plan …

  Hunter pulled the Stealth fighter straight up and spun around to his right. Looking over his shoulder he could see Crunch’s F-4s walking down the column’s length, firing their cannons non-stop while dropping anti-personnel bombs all along the roadside.

  Behind them came two A-10s. Then two F-106 Delta Darts. Then a pair of A-7 Strikefighters. Then the T-38s and the F-104s. On and on, two by two, the Western Forces aircraft swept down on the column, ripping up both flesh and metal targets, then sweeping away. All the while, SAMs were streaking everywhere—but shooting too late and not hitting a thing.

  That’s when the feeling hit Hunter like a shot out of the blue …

  Here they come, he thought. Directly over the horizon. To the east. At least 30 of them. The Yaks had decided to join the fray.

  “Okay,” Hunter called into his microphone. “We’ve got company.”

  Many of the PAAC fighters were only now picking up the faint images of the Soviet jets on their radar screens. Immediately the radio traffic between the fighters picked up. Vectors were given, coordinates checked. Enemy targets counted, attack patterns discussed.

  “Delta One group, arm your air-to-airs,” Hunter called out. “Crunch, you got Delta Two!”

  “Roger, Major,” Hunter heard Crunch’s reply. The Ace Wrecking Company’s two F-4s would break off with half the attacking PAAC force and go after the Circle infantry now moving toward the ridges near the Western Forces’ defense line. Hunter would take the remaining fighters and go after the approaching Yaks.

  As the air armada neatly split in two, a curious calm settled over the stalled enemy column. Just as the sky was filled with jets a moment before, now it was empty. Quiet. Almost serene. A few wisps of smoke rose above the wrecked vehicles. The PAAC attack had been swift, sharp, accurate. Like a long wound delivered, the column was bleeding. But the worst was yet to come …

  Captain Bull Dozer adjusted his electronic binoculars. He had been warned by radio that the first elements of the approaching Circle Army would be coming into view shortly. Looking out over the Western Forces’ defense line, the Marine could see nothing but the ridgeline two miles away. But then, slowly, surely, he saw small groups of soldiers appear on top of the ridge. Within two minute’s time, the enemy soldiers were swarming over the ridgeline like an army of ants.

  He calmly reached for his radiophone and called up and down the Western Forces’ defense line. “Get ready …”

  A push of another button and he was talking to the Denver Air Station air controllers. “Enemy troops within sight,” he radioed. “Entering buffer zone now. No SAMs …”

  Dozer heard the thunder less than a minute later. Over the top of the hills to their rear came six B-52 Stratofortresses that had been loitering nearby. Now they were flying so low, Dozer could read small lettering on their bellies. The SAM-vulnerable big bombers could only be expected to make one ground-hugging bombing run, then scoot. Dozer knew the napalm bombs they were carrying would further reduce the number of enemy soldiers who would reach the defense line. But, judging by the thousands of enemy troops he saw through the scope, the quick B-52 strike would only serve as a delaying action.

  As the Stratofortresses roared over The Circle troops and started dropping their bombs, Dozer was on the phone to his officers up and down the line. The biggest job of the veteran 7th Cavalry Marines was keeping the many volunteer troops on the flank from panicking. Luckily the all-important center line was made up of professional Pacific American soldiers.

  All of the Western Forces soldiers could see the great wallops of flame rise above the plain before them, incinerating the lead element of the approaching Circle troops. Suddenly, a shoulder-launched SA-7 flashed up from the mass of enemy soldiers, catching one of the B-52s on its port wing. The big airplane immediately flipped over and plowed into the swarm of enemy soldiers, exploding with a force that shook the ground like an earthquake.

  Still The Circle troops kept coming …

  Their work done, the B-52s cleared the area, just as Crunch’s Delta Two group appeared from the east. The fighter jets immediately pounced on the front of the enemy column which was now spreading out into walking lines nearly two miles across. It was an odd way to attack a trenchline. The Circle soldiers looked more like an advancing army of British redcoats than anything else—throwbacks to the set-piece battles of the American Revolutionary War.

  One by one, the attacking PAAC jets swooped in on The Circle troops, dropping napalm and anti-personnel bombs then roaring away. But still the enemy troops kept coming …

  Dozer grabbed his radiophone and was instantly in touch to the artillery commander a half mile behind his line. He yelled one word: “Fire!” On his command, thirty howitzers opened up. The Western Forces troops in the trench watched as the big shells streaked over their heads and slammed into the plain around the adva
ncing Circle troops. For awhile the front of the enemy lines were obscured by smoke and flame. But then, one by one, then by the thousands, surviving Circle troops emerged from the smoke.

  Crunch’s aircraft appeared again, this time sweeping in in pairs and raking the enemy with cannon fire. More soldiers were hit, ripped up by the cannon shells. Yet still The Circle soldiers kept advancing.

  “This is incredible,” Dozer told one of his officers nearby. “These guys just don’t know how to retreat …”

  There was something very peculiar about how the advancing Circle lines were acting. They were now just a half mile away from the Western Forces trenches, yet they were still walking, and very slowly. Dozer had told the soldiers in his line to hold their fire until his command. But strangely the enemy was doing the same. Except for the one SA-7 that brought down the B-52, not another shot had been fired by the advancing Circle soldiers.

  Dozer zoomed in on the approaching line with his electronic scope. Faces of the soldiers were now becoming clear. He focused the high-power spyglasses, keying in on several Circle soldiers at the front of the advancing line.

  “Jesus Christ …” he whispered. “They’re … just kids!”

  What Dozer saw was a line of teenagers. Most were not wearing helmets or boots or anything expected of ground soldiers. Many of them weren’t even carrying arms! But the Marine captain immediately saw The Circle troops were carrying something more sinister.

  Wrapped neatly around the waist of some of the soldiers were strings of sticks of TNT.

  “Oh God,” Dozer said. “Hunter was right. They’re coming at us with human bombs …”

  General Jones looked at the console of the ultra-sophisticated B-l bomber. In its center was a flat black panel containing five red lights. Right now only one of the lights was blinking.