by Mack Maloney
Five minutes into his search he found the missing Yak. Pieces of it were lying on the side of a Kansas foothill, burning uncontrollably. One look told him that the pilot could not have survived. And the airplane did not simply crash, either. The wreckage had all the earmarkings of an airplane destroyed in flight.
The Soviet commander made a note of the location, opened his throttle and nervously sped up to rejoin his flight. His fourth man's fuel might have blown up, or perhaps one of his weapons had malfunctioned.
Or maybe an air-to-air missile did the job…
The commander linked up with his two remaining jets and they fell back into the same mile-spread pattern. The Soviet colonel now started clicking his microphone button every five minutes, an action which drew instantaneous responses from his equally-nervous Number Two and Three pilots.
It was twenty minutes later when the commander heard his Number Three man start clicking his microphone not twice but a rapid-fire 10, 20, 30 times! The colonel knew his pilot was panicking. Something was happening. He immediately yanked back on his stick, did a wide loop and headed back to investigate. He arrived just in time to see Number Three take an air-to-air missile right on its exhaust nozzle. The Yak burst into a ball of flame and smoke.
The Russian colonel instinctively looked to his radar screen. There was nothing there except the scattered blips of the Yak wreckage as it plunged to the ground. The deadly missile had come from nowhere. He wheeled the Yak around and armed his own weapons, four Aphid air-to-air missiles. The night was virtually cloudless with moderate light from a waning moon. Yet someone out there had shot down a second Yak.
The colonel was gripped with fear when he realized it had to be the Stealth airplane tracking them. He jerked his head from right to left, up and down, vainly looking for the airplane. He started zig-zagging, diving, climbing, trying to deny a clean shot at him by his unseen enemy. Dogfights, the Soviet commander could handle… maybe. But fighting a ghost, he could not.
He booted his throttle and sped ahead to link up with his Number Two ship. He knew his commanders would not want him to stay and fight whatever had knocked down the two Yaks. In the Soviet scheme of things, airplanes were more valuable than people. The Soviet colonel quickly planned to bring the flight down to the lowest possible altitude and make a run for it.
Just as he was getting a radar reading on Number Two, he saw a brilliant flash light up the night sky up ahead of him. He desperately reached for his microphone and started clicking frantically. He got no response. In seconds he was flying through the area of the flash, just in time to see the severed' front portion of his Number Two ship tumbling to earth, leaving a trail of fire and smoke.
Now he was alone. He immediately brought his Yak down to tree top level and headed south with all due haste. He knew the ghost jet was somewhere nearby.
It had to be. Something up ahead caught his eye. A glint of light. In a complete panic, he launched one of his air-to-air missiles only to see it impact on a radio tower — its red light blinking — standing on a hill a mile in front of him.
Another light, right ahead of him. He wildly opened up with his cannons, only to realize he was shooting at a truck, — it had to belong to The Circle — moving along the top of a ridge. The Soviet had been flying so low, he thought the faint spark of the truck's headlights was coming from something airborne. He was in such disarray he wasn't even reading his instruments. He felt a wave of vertigo — the nightmare of all pilots — overcome him. He sharply pulled back on his control stick and yanked the Yak back up to a higher altitude.
Now he saw something for real. It was a dark shape, barely visible in the faint moonlight. It was moving fast and heading right for him.
"He's going to ram me!" the Soviet's panicking reflexes told him. He momentarily froze at the controls. Then he saw the tell-tale burst of flame which indicated cannon fire. A split second later a small chunk of his canopy glass shattered and broke away. He could feel cannon shells perforating the Yak's fuselage and engine intakes. Still the black shape was streaking toward him, licks of flame protruding from it. He lamely tried to fire his own cannon, knowing full well an air-to-air missile would do no good in a head-on meeting. But his shells seemed to go haywire. No doubt his gun muzzle port had caught some of the enemy's well-placed opening shots.
The Soviet was just about to finally react and pull up when a burst of cannon fire found his cockpit. He was shot first in his shoulder then through his throat. Everything went from black to red. His uniform was soaked with blood.
In his last conscious moment, he realized his whole airplane was aflame. His own body was on fire, yet he couldn't feel any pain. Grabbing his throat, and squinting before his eyes closed for the last time, he saw the mysterious black fighter bank to the left and streak by him, its pilot invisible through the dark tinted canopy.
Ten hours later, General Jones was awakened from a restless sleep by a loud buzzing noise. It was one of his lieutenants, calling him on the intercom set up next to his bunk.
"Sir?" the younger officer called. "Sir, we have someone here who wants to talk to you…"
Jones's eyes barely opened. He was still dressed in his flight suit, not having the time to peel it off in the past two days of intense action. He had finally caught some shuteye a few hours before, buoyed only by the fact that the second day of air, strikes had gone better than any of them had hoped — thanks in good measure to Hunter's single-handed work on the enemy SAM lines.
"Sir?" the lieutenant repeated, his voice crackling over the intercom. "One of our PAAC cargo pilots is here. He says he spoke to Hunter a few hours ago…"
Jones was up in an instant. He fell into his boots, zipped up the front of his overalls, and ran out of the makeshift barracks toward the air station's flight ops building. It was still dark out — there was still an hour to go before sunrise — and it was raining ferociously. Jones was in the situation room in less than a minute, dripping wet.
"Captain Robinson reporting, sir," the pilot said, jumping to attention when Jones walked in.
"At ease, Robinson," Jones said, waving off the military formality. "You've just got in from Oregon? Must have been a hell of a flight in this weather."
"A little bumpy, sir," Robinson said.
"Well, we'll get you some grub and coffee," Jones told him, signalling to one of the night watch lieutenants.
"You spoke to Hunter?" Jones said, plopping down in to a chair. "When?"
"A few hours ago, General," Robinson said, finally sitting down. "He was at PAAC-Oregon."
"Really?" Jones asked. The general wasn't surprised that no one from PAAC-Oregon had radioed him about Hunter's presence there. They were just following orders. With the exception of emergency transmissions, there was a strict radio silence order in effect between Denver and the PAAC installations in Oregon and San Diego. It was standard for wartime footing. Jones was certain the Russians were monitoring every radio signal west of the SAM line, and they would have certainly picked up critical intelligence — especially about Ghost Rider — if the radio waves between the air station and the coast were used.
"Yes sir," Robinson replied. "That strange jet of his was there and he had a bunch of monkeys going over it."
"What was he doing?" Jones asked. He was intensely curious. "Plotting bombing patterns? Loading up with additional guns for his airplane?"
Robinson hesitated for a moment. "Well, no, General," he finally said. "In fact, he was working in the photo lab."
Jones looked up in surprise. "The photo lab?" he asked. "What the hell was he doing in there?"
"I'm not sure, sir," the captain answered. "I was there to pick up a barrel of photo developing wash. You know, for our photo recon boys here? So I went to the photo lab's dark room to get it and there was Hunter, working over a photo printer."
"He was developing pictures?"
"More accurately, he was developing a negative, sir," Robinson answered. "It was kind of funny-talking to him, because
the only light in the room was the red safety light they use so as not to screw up the developing. All he asked me was how it was going here in Denver, and I said it looked good what with the air strikes and all.
"Then he just said something about it was still a long road to go, and everyone had to pitch in. He was real busy. Very intense:,So I got my developer and left."
The junior officer arrived with a pot of steaming coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Both Jones and Robinson immediately dug in.
"Any idea what kind of negative he was developing?" Jones asked. "Recon mission stuff? Bombing targets?"
"No way of knowing, sir," Robinson said.
Jones scratched his head. "Is that it, Captain?" he asked.
"Just about, other than that one of the photo lab guys told me that Hunter wanted them standing by because he would need a lot of photos in a hurry. They had one of their big printers warmed up and ready to go. You know, one of those high speed jobs that can print a couple of thousand photos at a whack."
Jones thought about it for a moment then wondered out loud. "What the hell is that boy up to?"
"Beats me, sir," Robinson said. "But whatever it is, he was sure serious about it. If you could have seen the look in his eyes, you'd know what I mean."
Jones nodded his head slowly. "I know exactly what you mean, Captain."
The day dawned cold, wet and miserable. Jones knew a big weather front that stretched back across the Rockies was due to pass through the Badlands during the daylight hours. That was fine with him. It would give his pilots a breather, allow maintenance crews to do necessary work on PAAC's aircraft and would also give the ground forces another day — though a wet one — to continue work on the defense line.
At least two airplanes were flying though. One was an ADF F-105, its pilot carrying a secret pouch from Fitzgerald. It was a videotape the Irishman had just recorded of himself. Because of the strict radio silence order, videotapes were the means of communication the Western Forces allies had agreed on to keep in touch.
Jones slipped the tape into the situation room's video machine and the TV screen slickered to life. It was Fitz himself, giving the latest situation report from the northern front.
"We have our friends pretty well bogged down," the Irishman reported, sitting behind a desk somewhere at a secret base in Manitoba, a huge painting of a shamrock hanging on the wall behind him. "Ain't a bridge standing between Minneapolis and Sioux Falls. We go after the railroad lines today."
"The Canadians have their guys ready to strike,/ should we need ground forces.
We hope it doesn't come to that. Good luck down there, General."
Thirty minutes later, a Texas F-4 streaked in from the south under the weather to deliver another videotape, this one from St. Louie. It was shot out on a runway near Dallas and the white cowboy suited St. Louie looked more like a used car salesman than a leader in exile,
"Howdy, Dave!" the old ex-bomber pilot began. "Our buddies here are about to launch another air strike on the port of New Orleans." As if to confirm it, two Texas Air Force F-4s taxied by in the background.
"My flyboys plan to continue hammering the troops of the Circle Southern Group around Shreveport today.
"We have four teams — two Texan, two of my guys, waiting at the border, Dave,"
St. Louie continued. "We're waiting for whatever comes across. We figure we'll be seeing the whites of their eyes in two days. Good luck, buddy…"
The tape flickered and ended.
What characters, Jones thought. He was about to watch both of them again when he was surprised to hear the situation room's scramble radio crackled to life.
"Denver, Tango-Six-Maxwell calling…"
Jones instantly recognized Hunter's radio call sign.
He immediately picked up the radio microphone. "Hawk?" Jones answered. "That you, pal?"
The transmission was very faint, so muph so, it sounded like Hunter was calling from another planet.
"General, got to be… fast," the static filled voice said. "I put a convoy together. I'd like to take them through tonight. Right over you. As soon as that weather front clears…"
"Do I copy, 'convoy,' Hawk?"
"That's… a… roger… sir," the voice faded in between annoying bursts of static. "Out… of Oregon. Request top priority radio boot."
Jones was twisting dials and punching buttons in an effort to clear up the signal, but to no avail. He knew a request for top priority "radio boot" meant absolutely no radio contact from here on in, even in an emergency. Even this call from the coast, scrambled as it was, was risky.
"Understand and copy, Hawk," Jones said as slowly and distinctly as he could.
"What's the mission
"Psyche-Ops…" came the reply. "Repeat Special… mission." Then the radio signal went dead.
The weather cleared just as night fell. Jones and Dozer stationed themselves out on the air station's tarmac, with a pair of NightScopes and a radio phone hook-up. Crunch was in the control tower, at the other end of the radio-phone watching over the shoulders of two radar operators.
Nothing happened until 10:30. Then one of the operators spoke. "We're getting blips, Captain," he told Crunch.
The Phantom pilot watched the screen as first one, then two more radar blips appeared, indicating aircraft approaching from the west. He immediately called down to Jones and Dozer.
"Here they come, General," he reported. "One big boy riding out front. Two more, also heavies, right on his tail. You should see them soon, your north-by-northwest."
Both Jones and Dozer craned their necks, scanning the now-cloudless sky with the infra-red NightScopes. After a few minutes, they both saw the three faint lights at the same time.
"That front one looks like the B-36!" Jones exclaimed as the light started to take shape in the Scope. "Jesus, don't tell me he got that shitbox running…"
"Those look like the C-141s coming next," Dozer said, focusing on the trailing images. "He must have bribed a bunch of our cargo flyboys to follow him on this one."
The radio crackled once. It was Crunch. "Picking up three more, medium size, right behind them," he reported.
Sure enough, Jones picked out three more aircraft, moving silently across the star-studded sky.
"Those are the old 727 cargo ships," he said, directing Dozer to the three other lights.
Jones noticed a small, barely visible object bringing up the rear of the air train, an object that Crunch would never see on the radar screen. Jones knew this had to be the Stealth with Hunter behind the controls.
By this time, many of the people at the air station were outside, looking up at the strange menagerie of airplanes 60,000 feet over their heads.
"Well, he was right," Jones said. "He's heading directly into the 'Bads.
Probably through that SAM hole near Oakley. That's probably another reason why he really squashed them in that area the other night."
They watched as the airplanes passed directly overhead. Then, on what had to be a pre-arranged signal, all six airplanes flicked their wing lights three times.
A spontaneous round of cheers went up from observers at the airport. "Hunter's way of saying 'Hello,' " Jones said, laughing for the first time in days.
They stood and watched until the convoy disappeared from view. "He's got something in that mind of his," Dozer said. "God only knows what."
"I have a feeling we'll know soon enough," Jones said.
Suddenly the radio-phone crackled. "General," they heard Crunch say. "We're getting small outline readings in the trail of those airplanes, sir. It's like one of them dropped something."
Jones looked up and could barely see a bunch of tiny white specks falling from the sky. They also looked like snowflakes for a moment. Then, as they got bigger, he saw they were leaflets of some kind.
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 Al
lies 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, propagandistic 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:
"VlKTOR 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. DON'T 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?"