O’Malley put the RF-4 into a tight turn, overflying a line of SAMs and several troop bivouacs. He lowered his landing gear and came in for a smooth landing on a long stretch of highway just 30 miles outside of Football City.
A ground service crew appeared out of the woods nearby and quickly directed O’Malley into a camouflaged aircraft shelter.
Twelve minutes later, O’Malley was sitting in the camp’s mess tent with General Jones.
“What’s the news in Circle-land today?” Jones asked him.
“The base was buzzing about the explosions during the night,” O’Malley told him. “All of our guys get out OK?”
“Yes, as far as we know,” Jones said. “They got a private officers’ club and two piers according to the preliminary report.”
“Well, it really shook up the people downtown,” O’Malley said. “Air raids they can deal with. But putting bombs under their barstools makes them nervous. They’re already spreading the word that the explosions were accidents …”
“That’s the sure sign of success when they start covering up,” Jones said. “What other kinds of bullshit stories are they dishing out?”
O’Malley washed down a mouthful of pancakes with a gulp of coffee. “Well, the lead mechanic who services my rig says he heard that a cocaine processing lab was in the back of the private club and that a tank of ether blew up.”
“A clever cover story,” Jones said, shaking his head in admiration. “Very feasible …”
“Well, he did say he heard rumors that saboteurs blew up the dock works,” O’Malley added quickly. “Hard to cover up the fact that two major loading piers simply went blooey!”
“Well, I hope he decides to spread that rumor,” Jones said, taking a gulp of his own coffee.
“I’m sure our message was delivered,” O’Malley said, lighting an after meal butt. “Between this and our recon misinformation campaign, the Circle will soon be getting very jittery.”
“They’re still buying our phony photos …” Jones shook his head in amazement. “I really thought they’d be smarter than that.”
“Me, too,” O’Malley confessed. “But for them, the proof is in those photos. They are convinced we’re sitting here with almost two hundred thousand troops and plenty of equipment. They have no choice but to believe it. They have no other means of surveillance. And God forbid that they should get an original idea and send out a long range patrol …”
“Like any other commander charged with defense of his city would do,” Jones said. “They certainly aren’t acting like an army that’s preparing for an all-out attack.”
“Their military guys are worried,” O’Malley said. “But old Viceroy Dick acts like he’s on vacation. He thinks that just as long as he’s holding our POWs, he’s sitting pretty.”
Jones shook his head once again. “And you know something?” he said. “The bastard is right.”
O’Malley finished his meal and he and Jones were met by one of the Western Forces’ photo experts. The man handed the pilot two rolls of still picture film and two rolls of movie film.
“What do we show them today?” O’Malley asked.
“More tanks, more SAMs,” the photo man said. “We’ve got a bunch of old Sunoco trucks in there, too, to give the impression that we’re bringing our fuel up to the front.”
O’Malley had to smile at the simple brilliance of the deception. The Western Forces had a similar RF-4 Phantom recon jet—it, too, was converted for this operation from O’Malley’s small Ace Wrecking Company fleet. The Westerners would load up their jet with film and fly it over any number of military staging sites—both active and abandoned—from Missouri back through the Badlands all the way back to the west coast. Whenever the topography was correct, they’d start the cameras whirring. This footage would then be mixed in with actual pictures of the Westerners’ strength near Football City, thus creating an impression of a huge army, when less than two-thirds that number was actually in place.
“How much longer do you think they’re going to fall for this?” Jones asked O’Malley. “I mean they’re dumb, but we don’t want to overplay our hand.”
O’Malley thought for a moment. “I say give it one more session after this one,” he said. “Then I’ll just quit. I’ll tell them I don’t want to be around when the shooting starts.”
Just then, Ben Wa and Twomey appeared. They’d been up almost all night flying the mapping mission with Hunter and were just now getting down to their morning chow.
“How’s the boy doing?” O’Malley asked them.
“Behaving himself?”
Both Wa and Twomey knew right away who O’Malley was talking about.
“Once again, the famous Wingman had us freezing our twinks off last night,” Twomey said. “But he got what he wanted and even more.”
“More of what?” Jones asked them.
“We got it in our written report, sir,” Wa said. “But in a nutshell, we picked up a very weird image on the radar last night.”
He went on to quickly explain to Jones and O’Malley about the underground storage facility containing what were apparently boxcars of some kind.
“It’s down near the river,” Twomey said. “Hawk is going to try to get down there tonight to check it out.”
Jones’s face became creased with worry. “God, if it’s ammunition, that means The Circle and their allies are stronger than we thought.”
O’Malley shook his head. “I’d be real surprised if it was an ammo dump,” he said. “These guys are too nervous for someone sitting on top of all that firepower.”
“Whatever it is, I hope our boy can get in there tonight,” Jones said.
Wa and Twomey went on to chow. Jones and O’Malley walked back out to the RF-4.
O’Malley shook his head in admiration. “I really got to feel for Hunter,” he said. “At least Elvis and the others are fairly secure underground in the catacombs. But Hawk …”
“He insisted that this was the way he wanted to play it,” Jones said. “You know how he is. Sometimes he works best when he’s left alone. If he feels that he has to stay topside at all times to keep a constant track of the situation, then I’m not going to argue with him.”
“I think he’s just antsy,” O’Malley said, retrieving his helmet and climbing back into his airplane’s cockpit. He routinely checked the extra photo equipment which had been loaded in the now-empty rear seat of the RF-4. “That’s what happens when someone loses their rig …”
The pilot was referring to the fact that Hunter’s beloved F-16—the only fighter of that type known to exist—had been all but destroyed in the hours following the great Suez battle. The remains of the airplane were eventually airlifted back to America and were presently at a former General Dynamics plant near Dallas in the Texas Republic. There, some GD engineers were trying to determine whether or not the famous airplane was a complete loss.
“You’re probably right,” Jones said. “He misses that airplane. He also misses his lady friend. He misses the way things used to be. Plus just about everyone on the continent thinks he’s dead. You never think of a guy like that as being lonely or even bummed-out. But he’s definitely in a funk. I think he still feels guilty for leaving us so long to go after Viktor.”
“Well, I’d be surprised it was affecting his work habits,” O’Malley said. “I know from experience that he can turn these things around. He works harder …”
“That’s for sure,” Jones confirmed. “Somehow he manages to keep in steady contact with us and with Elvis and the others, and he’s single-handedly exploring every possible escape route for when D-Day comes, plus he’s doing the laser-siting work, along with a whole bunch of other things.
“As to where he is living in that city, or how he is disguising himself—who knows?”
“He’s probably holed up in some cellar somewhere, living with the rats,” O’Malley said. “You know, doing penance for taking off on his Club Med adventure.”
CHA
PTER 14
HUNTER WOKE UP TO THE feeling of someone massaging his back.
“The shoulders, please,” he said, still groggy.
The topless woman began concentrating her efforts on the bruised area near his upper left shoulder.
“How did that happen?” she asked, whispering in his ear.
He turned over and finally opened his eyes. She was beautiful …
“Occupational hazard,” he told her.
Another very attractive woman, also topless, walked into the massive bedroom suite, carrying a tray of hot bread and coffee.
“You came in pretty late last night,” the second woman told him. “Running with those bitches downtown again?”
Instantly the girl massaging his shoulder stopped. “Were you down in the cathouses again?” she asked him sternly.
Hunter pulled himself up, and fashioned a backrest of a half dozen silk pillows. “C’mon now, ladies, be nice,” he told them, smiling. “Why would I have to go to a cathouse, when I have you two lovely girls right here?”
“What a bullshit artist,” the girl with the food said.
Their names were Kara (the massager) and Jackie (the cook). He had met them several weeks before at one of the Football City nightclubs where he had gone on a surveillance mission. They were out of Las Vegas, which was now practically abandoned, where they had been “working girls” before the Big War. It was natural that they would wind up in Football City during its heyday. Somehow they survived the war against the Family and the Circle Army occupation.
They had taken him in to their luxurious penthouse right on the edge of the downtown section, and into their bed, which they shared anyway. The reminded him of Uni and Aki, his two housemates back at his base in Oregon. Like those two girls, Kara and Jackie were smart, beautiful, warm, giving, into being erotic and, when the mood struck them, imaginatively bi-sexual.
They were also the highest-priced call girls in Football City.
“Big doings downtown last night,” Kara said, returning to rubbing his shoulder. “The Executive Club was blown up. A lot of Circle big shots went up with it.”
Hunter tried to look surprised, but could manage only a satisfied smile. It was apparent that Elvis and the others had gotten Phase Two off on a good start.
“My trick told me there were also some explosions down near the docks,” Jackie said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “I suppose you know nothing about any of this?” she asked him.
Hunter shrugged. “What would I know?” he said. “I’m just an innocent bystander. Violence gives me a headache.”
“Sure it does,” Kara said with no small amount of disbelief. She knew he kept a stash of hand grenades, ammunition, an M-16 and some other crazy electronic contraption under their bed, as well as several boxes filled with different styles of clothing. One night he would go out looking like a vagrant, the next night, he’d be dressed to the nines. He had Circle Army uniforms, from colonels to privates, plus uniforms of some of the Circle allies. She and Jackie knew he was involved in something very mysterious and dangerous every night. But they were much too discreet to ask him exactly what it was. Besides, they really didn’t want to know …
He finished his breakfast and reached out for Jackie to join them on the bed. She was tall. At 6-1, just an inch shorter than he was. She had blonde hair, cut in the shag style and long, inviting legs. Kara on the other hand was a brunette, somewhat petite, but with a nice figure.
They both cuddled up to his chest. “What should we do today?” Kara asked. “I don’t have my first appointment until after sundown.”
He kissed them both and drew them closer to him. Despite the presence of the two beauties, he still felt empty. Even melancholy.
Too many things are missing … he thought.
“Don’t worry,” he said, knowing he had a few hours to try to raise his spirits. “We’ll think of something …”
CHAPTER 15
VICEROY DICK WAS FILMING.
“What in hell happened down on those docks last night, Colonel?” he asked sternly.
They were in the Viceroy’s working chamber. There were no teen age girls about; no massive quantity of cocaine. Viceroy Dick was dressed in his standard black Circle Army general’s uniform and he looked all business.
Colonel Muss could only shrug at his question. “Someone blew up two piers and a small oil holding tank,” he said. “We exchanged fire with them from the bridge, but by the time we got down to the docks, they were gone.”
“And this bombing disrupted the prisoner executions?” Viceroy Dick was just about frothing at the mouth.
Muss nodded glumly. “They blew the docks and started firing on us,” he said. “We didn’t know the extent of their strength, so we withdrew and postponed the executions.”
Viceroy Dick pounded his desk top once—hard.
“You have no idea what could happen now, Colonel,” he shouted. “If those goddamn Russians get wind of this, they can make big trouble for me. And that means big trouble for you, Muss.”
Viceroy Dick took a minute to regain his composure. He wished he was within snorting distance of his cocaine bowl.
“Now who planted those bombs down at the docks? And where the hell did they come from?” he asked Muss sternly.
“It’s hard to say, sir,” Muss stumbled. “They probably had a boat and came across from the Illinois side. As to who they were, I guess they were saboteurs …”
“You guess they were saboteurs?” Viceroy Dick asked, his voice rising in anger. “And do you guess that they were also responsible for blowing up the Executive Club?”
“I … I really don’t know, sir,” Muss admitted.
“We lost twenty seven officers last night,” he told Muss. “Twenty seven men who were very close to the inner-workings of our army. Their knowledge and expertise will be sorely missed when it comes time for us to make our move …
“Now you’re responsible for the overall defense of this city inside and out, Colonel. That’s why when I ask you for answers I’d better get some!”
“I’ve increased patrols around the city from downtown to the docks,” Muss told him. “We’ll triple the number of soldiers on-duty in the streets by tonight. And we’ve increased patrols along our western border. We’re also in the process of doubling the buffer zone minefields between us and them and we’ve increased our NightScope capability up and down our line.”
“This is just standard bullshit, Colonel!” Dick screamed. “Just track down those saboteurs …”
Muss bowed to the waist. “Sir, believe me,” he said.
“We will. And we will also accelerate the executions starting tonight. This part of our plan will not fail ….”
Viceroy Dick simply stared at him. “It had better not, Muss,” he said. “Because if it does, you’ll go over that bridge railing right along with the rest of the scum …”
CHAPTER 16
IT WAS JUST PAST MIDNIGHT when Hunter found the spot in the catacombs closest to the underground storage area he had spotted on the radar imager the night before.
Using the imager printout as a guide, he was able to determine that the storage area was four feet in from a particular junction of two tunnels on the very northeast section of the network. Confident that he had the correct location, he unstrapped the shovel from his back and started to dig.
It took him less than an hour to break through the clayish soil, but once he did, he came to a thin, metal heating shaft which passed right through a thin concrete wall. Using his jack knife, he was able to chip a hole in the wall large enough for him to put his eye to.
It was completely dark on the other side of the wall, which was just the way he had hoped to find it. Working patiently for another half hour, he was able to cut a hole in the heat shaft wide enough for him to squeeze through. Climbing into the shaft, it wasn’t long before he came to a grate, which he quietly kicked out.
Only after he had passed through the grate opening and had his feet on
solid ground did he unhook his flashlight and turn it on.
It was a parking garage, an old one that had been recently, and rather amateurishly, reenforced. But the construction of the facility wasn’t what interested him. It was what it held. When he had viewed the area through the radar imager he had guessed it contained boxcars. It turned out he was wrong—but not by much.
The garage held more than one hundred tractor trailer trucks. Kenworths, Macks, Ward La France and many others, there were trucks of all shapes and sizes, each one hooked up to a plain, unpainted trailer.
“No way this is all to store ammunition,” Hunter said to himself. It was so hot inside the garage, he was perspiring. Knowing that was a relief. Even the dummies who ran The Circle knew better than to store ammo in such a humid space.
Yet what did the trailers contain?
To find out, he climbed up on the back of one rig and tried to open its rear loading door. He yanked, but the door wouldn’t budge. He jiggled the lock and handle and gave it another yank. Still, it would not open. He played the flashlight along the sides of the door.
That’s when he saw that the door was welded shut.
“Now what the hell does this mean?” he wondered.
He checked several other trucks and found that they too had their doors welded shut.
He moved along the two lines of trucks. There were many more of them down here than had shown up on the imager’s narrow beam. Easily 100 rigs or more.
But it was at the front of the garage that he saw the strangest vehicle of all …
It was an APC that looked as if it had been stretched out half its size again. It was painted gold, carried no guns or grenade launchers, only several long radio antennas. And although the custom-made vehicle had more than a dozen means of access, all but one of these was also welded shut.
The only hatchway not welded was the one over the driver’s position and this was secured by a very sophisticated electronic lock. It defied 10 minutes of his expert lock-picking skills, his conclusion being that the device was laser activated.
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