Thunder in the East

by Maloney, Mack;

  “That’s how Jones feels,” Ben said. “In fact, for all we know, they may have moved on already.

  “He suggested that we keep an eye on this group of trucks and hit them at a spot where they are most vulnerable …”

  They watched the brief videotape once again, before shutting down the VCR. “And there was no sign of the gold APC?” Hunter asked.

  Yaz shook his head. “No, not on this run,” he said. “And, if I’m not mistaken, we’re soon to reach a bingo point with how far we can fly the A-37. We just barely made the round-trip from Football City to Indianapolis and back.”

  There was a knock on the door and Fitzgerald was let in. He quickly greeted Ben and Yaz, then turned to Hunter.

  “You’ve got to make a statement to your new constituents,” the Irishman said. “We got a gang of people down in the lobby. They want to meet the guy who erased The Kiss, and they want to know what the hell gives with The Circle …”

  All five of them laughed. “I wish St. Louie were here right now,” Hunter said. “He’s the politician …”

  The Circle attack on the airport and the power station had been a ruse. Texans, flying captured MiGs with Circle markings, had carried out the raid. The inherent unpreparedness of the city’s air defenses, coupled with the big splash of taking out The Kiss and their fortune in gold, had propelled Hunter into the mayor’s seat faster than any candidate before him.

  Now, as the group walked out of the chamber to the balcony that overlooked the luxurious lobby, Hunter tried to put his thoughts in perspective. He knew he was at the most critical junction of the operation.

  The crowd gave him a spontaneous round of applause as he walked out on the balcony.

  He looked down on the sea of faces—mostly middle aged men wearing dark uniforms and handfuls of “fruit salad” on their hats and their chests. How many times have they been through this? he wondered.

  He cleared his throat and began: “As of one hour ago, we are at war …” he said, to a collective gasp of the crowd. “Our enemy is the army that sits no more than thirty miles from here. The Circle … And I don’t have to remind you that my predecessors allowed these misfits to camp so close to the city. Now, they are obviously trying to take us over. It’s our job to stop them …

  “We found out that The Kiss as well as many others in the New Chicago city government were in the employ of the Circle. Well, we don’t have to worry about these people any more, do we?”

  The crowd erupted into a long, sustained cheer.

  “But the time for celebrating is still far off,” Hunter continued. “As of this moment I am mobilizing the army. I will send orders to the line commanders to move out and attack The Circle encampments immediately. I also hereby order every able-bodied man in this city to report to the airport for mustering into irregular units.

  “The time for talk is over. The time for doing is at hand …”

  With that, Hunter dramatically saluted the crowd and walked back to the mayor’s chambers. The crowd once again exploded in applause.

  “That was quite a stirring talk,” Fitz told him. “You had me convinced …”

  Hunter was gulping down a glass of beer. “Don’t bullshit me, Mike,” he said. “I had to bribe my professor in college to pass me in Public Speaking …”

  J.T. helped himself to a beer also. “Is that right, Hawk?” he said facetiously. “What was her name?”

  CHAPTER 40

  THE SMALL FAMILY ARMED patrol boat had just passed from Lake Michigan into Lake Huron when the captain spotted the first barge.

  It was a big one—bigger than the coal boats he was used to seeing at this end of Lake Michigan. It sailed out of the thick lake fog silently. Ominously …

  The captain radioed down to his communications officer, telling the man to get the barge on the wireless. Then he ordered general quarters on the 150-foot ship. Within a minute, all eight of the ship’s guns were manned.

  “They’re Canadians, sir,” the radio officer reported. “Heading for New Chicago …”

  The captain had maneuvered his ship to a course parallel to the barge. It sat low in the water—but not quite low enough for a coal scow.

  “What’s he carrying?” the captain wanted to know.

  “Lumber and cement,” came the reply.

  Something didn’t smell right. The captain was the Family’s eyes and ears way up on this part of the lake, the first line of warning for any mischief makers who would be sailing the 250 miles down to New Chicago. “Tell him to prepare for boarding,” the captain barked.

  The armed Family sailors climbed over to the barge and immediately went to the bridge. There they were met by the scow’s captain and his first officer.

  “What’s the problem, boys?” the friendly skipper asked.

  At that moment, the patrol boat commander came up to the bridge, surrounded by another complement of armed sailors.

  “You’re not riding very low to be carrying lumber and cement,” he told the skipper right out. “I demand to check your cargo hold and bilge.”

  The Family captain thought the scow skipper looked just a little uneasy.

  “Can we discuss this privately, Captain?” the skipper asked.

  Both men retired to the skipper’s quarters which was a two-room cabin just behind the barge’s bridge.

  “A drink, captain?” the skipper asked.

  “I’d much rather have an explanation,” the man answered. “If you are in violation of the Family’s rules of commerce, you’ll be sunk before you get within one hundred miles of New Chicago.”

  “I realize that, Captain,” the skipper, a man about 40, said. “Can you and I come to an … agreement?”

  The Family officer knew right away what the man was talking about. He’d been offered bribes before …

  “Talk,” he said to the man.

  “Ten bags of gold for free passage,” the skipper said, getting right to the point.

  Ten bags was about twice the size of the normal boodle offered in these parts.

  “A lot of money,” the Family captain said. “Are you aware that New Chicago is at war?”

  The scow skipper shook his head. “When? With who?”

  “As of this morning,” the captain said, “against The Circle …”

  “But I thought you were allies,” the skipper said.

  The Family officer nodded. “We were, until today,” he said. “So you see, this can not be an agreement as normally conducted out here. I must see what you are actually carrying. If it is war supplies, I cannot possibly let you pass. Even for one hundred bags of gold …”

  The skipper nodded. “I’m aware of your situation,” he said. “Come with me, I’ll show you our cargo …”

  They left the private cabin and walked down two flights to the barge’s hold. The skipper opened one fire door and let the Family officer peek inside. Even for a veteran like himself, the Family officer found his jaw dropping.

  The first cargo hold was filled with 100 or more young women. All of them were chained to mattresses; most looked heavily drugged.

  “This is a special order by the new mayor of your city,” the skipper said. “We were told to make New Chicago as fast as possible …”

  “Slavers?” the Family officer asked incredulously. “On a coal barge?”

  “These are dangerous times, Captain,” the skipper told him. “And we both sail in dangerous waters … I couldn’t very well sail a cruise ship down to New Chicago. I’d be attacked by the lake pirates or seaplanes in a minute.”

  The Family officer knew he was right. “How many are you carrying?” he asked, fascinated. This kind of human cargo usually flew on airliners and under heavy guard.

  “We have ten holds full,” the skipper said. “And I have two mates just a few hours behind. Nearly ten thousand of the wenches in all …”

  The Family officer whistled. “Ten thousand?” he said. “The new mayor must be quite an operator …”

  “He’s an en
terprising sort,” the skipper said. “Few things can turn such a profit these days as a nice young virgin. I believe me and my mates have the last ten thousand virgins left on the continent.”

  “Twenty bags of gold,” the Family officer said. “From you. Twenty bags for every barge that goes by me. No more discussion …”

  The Canadian looked at him and smiled.

  “Done,” he said.

  CHAPTER 41

  EX-MAJOR TOMM REACHED the top of the high bluff just as the first wave of Family soldiers reached the Circle Army’s front lines.

  “This is madness …” he said, as the air quickly began to fill with the sounds of gunfire and smoke. “How could this have happened, so suddenly?”

  He was deserting. He wanted no part of The Circle or the Russians or anything having to do with this insane, never-ending civil war. He had decided this even before the camp learned that a large Family army was marching their way and would attack soon.

  He had stood by and watched as his superiors fell into lock-step and without question set up their defense lines, certain to throw more lives to the slaughter. No reasons were given as to why the erstwhile ally was about to attack; the aerial destruction of their SAM contingent had been just a slap on the wrist, or so they thought. Now the New Chicagoans were bent on all-out war. So sudden was the action—more than 55,000 Family troops had left the city just hours before—that The Circle commanders set no plan of defense. They simply regressed back to the days of medieval warfare when war was won by the numbers: whoever had the most soldiers left standing was the winner.

  Now Tomm watched from his safe vantage point as the carnage began. It was hand-to-hand fighting; some of The Circle soldiers hadn’t even had time to put on their boots, the battle was joined so swiftly. At some points along the two mile front he could see Family soldiers had instantly breached The Circle line. At other points, the attackers simply disappeared into a cloud of smoke and fire. Missiles flew from both sides, grenades were launched, mortars fired, artillery brought to bear.

  It was all so senseless, he thought.

  That’s when he heard the frighteningly familiar sound of the whining jet engines …

  Fitz handed Hunter a fistful of cotton and suggested that he get it into his ears, pronto.

  The big C-5 was now only ten miles from the battlefield, and already Hunter could see the clouds of smoke rising from the mountain valley where The Circle Army had camped. He routinely activated the flare dispensing system. Although he knew that The Circle had practically no good-sized SAMs left, there was always the possibility that they had a few shoulder-launched missiles operating.

  “Crew to posts,” he called through the Nozo intercom, as he turned the large airplane into a slight leftward bank. In back, he could hear the 21 shutters—nine forward of the wing, 12 behind it—snap open and the Avenger cannons deploy out. “Check in …”

  Fitzgerald was in the co-pilot’s seat and he patiently went down the pre-firing list with each of the 10 gunners and the four ammunition control men. Hunter could hear him call out the essential equipment checks: “Forward firing generator to on …” and he heard ten separate affirmative responses come back.

  “Video screen anti-interference mode secured …”

  “Check!”

  “Power drift stabilizers to on …”

  “Check!”

  “Ammunition engage light lit …”

  “Check!”

  On it went as Hunter drew the C-5 closer to the battle. He throttled back and checked his fuel capacity. It was down to one half; he had taken off intentionally with a light load, all the better to maneuver the big ship at low altitudes.

  “We are go, Hawk …” Fitz finally told him. “Ready when you are …”

  Hunter nodded and slowly brought the C-5 down to 500 feet. It was if everything was going in slow motion, a sensation he rarely experienced in his fighter.

  J.T. was manning the fuselage-mounted TV camera monitor which gave them a wide angle, color view of the battle below.

  “Doesn’t appear that any one side is in advantage,” J.T. called up to Hunter and Fitz.

  “Just the way we like it,” Fitz responded.

  Hunter did a final check of his instruments, then told the crew to get ready. They were going in for the first run.

  Hunter had just got the cotton in his ears when he put the big plane into the sudden plunge and dipped to the left. Suddenly his body was vibrating. A tremendous sound wave passed right through his feet, ran up his spine to his brain. Hunter and Fitz felt the same thing. It was the combined electricity of the 21 Avengers firing at once.

  He turned and looked out the window to see the tremendous wave of smoke and flame fire out of the 21 openings. His earphones filled with the gunners chattering, back and forth, calling out coordinates, matching them with their video targeting systems, confirming hits.

  He brought the C-5 across the Circle’s rear area in one long sweep, the Avengers firing more or less as one for a span of ten seconds. Once again, nothing but a smoldering hole in the ground was left in the airplane’s wake.

  Hunter put the Nozo into a sharp 180-degree bank and once again crossed the Circle’s lines.

  “Fire!” he heard Fitz yell as soon as their coordinates matched up. Once again, the airplane shuddered as the rapid-firing cannons erupted. Once again, a massive tongue of fiery destruction rained down on the hapless soldiers below. Once again, bodies were instantly reduced to only bits of marrow and tissue …

  “Mechanical death,” were the words that came to Hunter. “Clinical, electric, mechanical death …”

  The airplane made ten more passes—marking a dozen in all before Hunter turned it back toward the airport.

  The battle continued, but at a vast advantage for the Family troops. However, as soon as the C-5 cleared the area, six MiGs appeared and began a methodical strafing of the Family troops.

  On it went, bitter hand-to-hand fighting in the dense woods of the Circle encampment, neither side willing to give ground, each side’s commanders ordering more and more troops into the fray.

  Into the dusk, the battle dragged on. Hunter brought the C-5 back over the area and completed eleven additional runs, the furious fire from the 21 Avengers lighting up the night sky like some enormous monster from outer space. Once again, as soon as he cleared the area, the Circle-marked MiGs appeared and provided air support for the Circle commanders even though not one officer on the ground had any idea where the MiGs had come from and who was behind their deployment.

  Night fell and the fighting tapered off, at least temporarily. The sides fell back and were content to batter each other with long-range artillery. Neither side had won anything in the long day of brutal fighting. As the moon came up and the streaks of artillery passed overhead, the dead lay rotting and unburied and the wounded screamed in pain, unattended.

  The sounds of the battle could be heard in the city the next morning. And all available men of fighting age were either at the front or heading toward it.

  So it was only the hookers and the barmaids who noticed the three enormous lake barges that had appeared out of the morning mist to anchor just off the old Navy pier near the place they called Ogden Slip.

  Quickly, small boats were launched from the rear of the barges, and soon a precision-type operation was going full tilt. Loaded boats would drop their passengers ashore, then return to the barges for more. On it went for two hours, practically unnoticed, never mind unopposed.

  By nine that morning, 10,000 members of the Free Canadian Volunteer division were moving through the deserted streets of New Chicago.

  From his perch in the mayor’s chambers, Hunter watched as the Canadians moved through the city, taking over key installations without firing a shot.

  It was quick, efficient and easy.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE A-37 WAS AT 21,000 feet, just south of Muncie, Indiana, when Yaz’s infra-red terrain scope started buzzing.

  “We may
have our target,” he told Ben as he tuned the device for clarity.

  “Mark it,” Ben said, as he checked his coordinates.

  “That’s them,” Yaz confirmed. Six trailers moving fast along the open highway. “They’re emitting a lot of heat,” he reported. “Been traveling for a while …”

  “That’s a good sign,” Ben said, calling back to-Football City to immediately report their find. “If we’re real lucky, they’ll pull over in a couple hours.”

  They continued to pace the convoy, up too high for anyone on the ground to notice. An hour passed … The mystery trucks continued to barrel eastward, their accompanying military vehicles straining to keep up with them.

  Suddenly the A-37’s intercom was buzzing.

  “Dragonfly? Fastball here. Come in,” both of them heard coming from their helmet speakers. Yaz recognized the voice as that of Major Shane, the Football City Special Forces commander.

  “Fastball, we read you,” Yaz answered. “What’s your location?”

  “We are about twenty minutes behind you,” came the reply. “You’ll be picking us up on your scope soon.”

  Yaz knew the Strike Force had been waiting on stand-by for two days. The revised plan was for he and Ben to locate the convoy after it had left Indianapolis, track it and call for the chopper troops.

  Ben brought the A-37 down to 9000 feet and, within the half hour, the strike force chopper was off their left wing. They would maintain radio silence from then on, so their greetings were confined to waves and hand signals. Ben put the Dragonfly into a wide-out circle as the chopper sped ahead to a pre-determined spot 50 miles up the highway.

  Now they would try a more unorthodox means of determining just what the mystery trucks were carrying.

  Team Leader Lieutenant Yuri Sudoplatov was getting hungry …

  The convoy of six tractor trailers and four jeeps had been on the road for more than six hours without a stop for food or rest. Yet they were still three and a half hours away from their rendezvous with the fuel trucks, and their orders were not to stop for anything until then.