Those enemy soldiers straggling out of Detroit—still some 22,000 strong—had invaded the nearly deserted city of Cleveland and set up camp there temporarily before continuing their retreat. Just at the New York border, the Circle forces split up. Some headed for Pittsburgh, now the enemy’s most western outpost. But a much larger contingent headed for the Syracuse Aerodrome, the sprawling, former “truck stop of the sky” that was created by Mike Fitzgerald shortly after the New Order went down. As it would happen, The Aerodrome—whose territory actually encompassed the old city of Syracuse as well as its airport—was the next major target in the leap frog campaign of the United American Army.
The enigma of the mystery trucks had continued and deepened. A unit of PAAC paratroopers, operating out of huge C-141 Starlifters and complemented by Cobra helicopter gunships, had found and attacked a concentration of tractor trailers outside the old city of Cincinnati two weeks before. The Spetsnaz troops protecting the trucks had literally fought to the last man, finally succumbing to the much larger United American Force. When the victors pried open the ten trailers they had seized, they found these too were loaded with books.
However, the most disturbing news of all came from a report by a long-range Free Canadian P-3 Orion radar ship, that had ventured out nearly to Iceland just five days before. They had found the lead elements of the Soviet-sponsored invasion fleet that was heading for the east coast of America. Judging by its direction and its operational, but very slow speed, the Canadians estimated the entire fleet could arrive off the east coast of the American continent within two weeks, three at the latest.
So now the race against time had really begun …
Yet all this was strangely of little concern to Hunter at the moment. He could hear the airplane getting closer and wondered if the fog surrounding the base would affect its landing.
He felt himself shivering—not so much from the cold but from anxiety. He had arranged to meet this flight, thinking it would bring him some peace of mind. But in the three weeks he had waited—not knowing, but thinking of little else—the apprehension of what would be said this night had proved almost unbearable.
Finally he could see the airplane’s landing lights cutting through the thick fog. He felt the lump in his throat grow to over-sized proportions. His stomach was creaking—he hadn’t eaten in days—and he was embarrassed to feel his legs go a little wobbly as he shifted around in an effort to get warm.
The airplane—an ancient C-47—rumbled in to a relatively smooth, if not pretty, landing and taxied toward the beacon on the chopper’s tail rotor, just as the pilot had been instructed to do. Hunter took a deep breath as the airplane stopped about 25 feet from him, the pilot immediately fluttering the propellers, but not shutting them completely. The aircraft wouldn’t be staying that long.
The rear door finally opened after what seemed like an hour. He swallowed hard again as the dim cabin light caught the reflection of the fog, lighting up the otherwise gloomy setting.
Here goes, he thought as he slowly approached the airplane. However it goes, this was all of your own doing …
A single figure stepped out onto the tiny access ladder that automatically pushed out from the airplane. Slowly the figure walked toward Hunter. He wiped the mist from his eyes and tried to focus on the person. It took a few seconds as they drew closer, but finally his eyes saw the face that made his brain flash, his stomach leap and his heart start pounding—all at the same instant.
They finally came face to face and all of a sudden he wasn’t cold any more.
It was Dominique.
“Hi, honey …” he said, awkwardly stumbling on the words. “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she said, nervous and formal. “I suppose it is foolish for me to ask you the same question?”
“I’m the same, I guess,” was all he could come up with.
Right away he knew it was going badly. He expected an embrace, a kiss. She looked beautiful as always. Even the dark trenchcoat and the kerchief she wore couldn’t hide her lovely features. Yet they stood three feet apart, and it seemed like three miles.
“I … I had to see you,” he said. “I’ve missed you very much …”
She didn’t answer him; she just looked at the ground.
He hadn’t seen her in so long—since he’d rescued her from Viktor in New York City. Some allied commandos had taken her with them and escaped to the relative safety of’ Free Canada. Now, after Hunter had made a special request to Major Frost, his good friend in the Free Canadian Air Force to fly her here, she was before him. And he was almost speechless.
“You’ve become very popular down here,” he said finally, his throat dry, his voice cracking.
“I know …” she said. “People keep telling me about it. I can’t leave where I live without a crowd following me. It was even very difficult for me to come here.”
How could this turn into such a disaster? he asked himself, his emotions verging on panic. The only underlying positive point was that he knew no woman could ever make him feel like he did at the moment. He loved her and he knew it …
“Dominique,” he said, finally deciding to let it all hang out. “I can’t tell you how much I want to be with you. How much I think of you. But …”
He couldn’t get the rest of the sentence out. She was looking right at him. Through his eyes, into his soul. Her Bardot-like features were quivering only slightly. But those eyes …
“It’s a very difficult time for me right now, Hawker,” she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “I am having so many conflicting feelings …”
“About what?” he asked.
She lowered her eyes again. “About myself,” she answered, a touch of defiance in her voice. “About how I will live the rest of my life …”
He felt another shiver run up and down his spine. “You know I want us to be together,” he said. “When this is over, I will be able to …”
“When what is over?” she asked him suddenly. “This war? That war? Whatever war you’re fighting at the moment? Do you really think it will be the last?”
He couldn’t answer her.
“I think you assume too much, Hawk,” she said. “You just assume that I will always be there, waiting for you. But you have to realize that every day I wait, I wonder when it will end. If ever …
“I just don’t know if I can wait any more.”
He was stunned, although he knew he shouldn’t have been.
“Is … is there someone else?” he asked her, not really wanting to know the answer.
“Does that really concern you?” she asked him softly. “What would you answer if I asked you the same question?”
Suddenly the rain started falling harder. A wind swept up and tossed her hair around. Why couldn’t he just reach out and hold her?
“I have to go,” she said, giving him one last, long look. Then she turned and walked back to the airplane.
He stood there as if frozen to the spot. She was leaving, walking away, and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop her. She was right. He had assumed too much. Taken too much for granted. Now as she climbed back into the airplane without a wave good-bye or a look back, he knew he was on the verge of losing her forever. He was crushed. And he knew it would never be the same again.
Before she disappeared into the airplane, he thought he saw a tear running down her cheek. But he knew it might have been the rain …
CHAPTER 46
VICEROY DICK WISHED HE HAD just one line of cocaine …
He was trembling and sweating and his head felt like it would burst open at any moment. He had no sense of taste, or smell, and his nose bled every morning when he woke up.
It had been like this ever since the Soviets spirited him out of Football City, just ahead of the advancing United American Forces. At the time, he was certain that he would be hanged or shot by the Soviet Special Forces, and considering the coke withdrawals he’d been going through, he often wished they had execut
ed him.
But he was alive, though miserable, and, at the moment, sitting in a makeshift office on the perimeter of the Syracuse Aerodrome, waiting for a cartel of arms dealers to arrive. He was certain that the Circle leadership—its main HQ now located in Washington DC—had gone completely insane. One moment he had been a near-prisoner of the Soviet Spetsnaz. The next he was in charge of purchasing weapons for the defense of the Aerodrome. It was a demotion in rank, to be sure, but that he could live with. If only he could get some white lady, it might even be bearable.
His being plucked from the noose only underlined the desperation that was creeping into The Circle Army. The United American Forces had swept into Football City without hardly firing a shot, managing at the same time to save their POWs. That victory was a testament to The Circle’s scheme of Tactical Defense, which, when properly translated, meant: hold out then get out. Dick knew The Circle never really intended on making a fight of it for Football City, so the United Americans’ triumph there wasn’t as fluky as it might have seemed.
But The Circle High Command was absolutely astonished when they learned that it was United American undercover agents operating in New Chicago that had engineered the devastating battle between the Circle Army and the Family. Now the reconditioned POW soldiers from Football City were in control of the strategic city, with some help from the Free Canadians.
The Circle soldiers that survived the battle outside New Chicago had been straggling eastward ever since. Some were being diverted to DC, while others were directed to Syracuse, where everyone knew the next battle would take place. And this would be no cakewalk like in Football City or an inside job as in New Chicago. No, for this looming battle The Circle would need every able-bodied man it could muster, the more experienced, the better. And through these improbabilities of military incompetence, Viceroy Dick had been named the man in charge of buying weapons for that battle.
The weapons cartel, a shady group of dealers known as The Party, arrived outside the concrete bunker that served as Viceroy Dick’s headquarters. The four men walked in and immediately began sniffing around—literally. It was obvious from the smell of the place that the Viceroy’s concrete office building was once used as an ammunition bunker for aircraft operating out of the Aerodrome itself.
Viceroy Dick greeted the men quickly and formally. They all sat around a large wooden table and, declining an offer of a drink, got down to business.
The blond man named Frankel made it known quickly that he was the spokesman for the group.
“Each of us represents a weapons’ specialty,” he said. “You tell us what you want and how much you have to spend and we’ll see what can be done to accommodate you.”
Viceroy Dick pulled out his shopping list.
“I don’t have to bore you gentlemen with the details of what we are up against here,” he told them. “We’re expecting a combined land and air attack by the United Americans sometime within the next two weeks. We are in an obvious defensive posture here. And although I hesitate to use the term ‘Tactical Defense,’ our orders are to hold out against them until …”
“Until your invasion fleet arrives from Europe,” Frankel finished for him.
Viceroy Dick eyed the man suspiciously. The news of the Soviet-sponsored fleet was supposed to be secret. “That’s correct,” he said. “Though I was under the impression that the fleet’s arrival was not common knowledge.”
“That’s an incorrect impression,” Frankel told him, his voice oozing arrogance.
Viceroy Dick didn’t like Frankel, or the other three Party members. They were all dressed in the same jet black, yet nondescript uniform, with riding pants and knee-high patent leather boots. They all carried non-functional riding crops and Lugers. And they all seemed to look alike, as if they were close first cousins.
“In any case,” Dick went on. “We’ll need tanks, rocket launchers and heavy artillery for the defense of the airport and the city itself.
“Also SAMs and radar-guided AA guns, if you have them. Plus any interceptor aircraft. We’ve got the pilots, we just need something for them to drive.”
Frankel nodded and, as one, each man dove into his briefcase.
“We can sell you forty M-1s and M-60 tanks,” one of the other three said. “We’ve also got some leftover APCs and about a hundred converted half tracks …”
“Converted to what?” Viceroy Dick asked.
“To whatever you want,” the tank man said. “SAMs, movable artillery, even flame-throwing capability.”
“Sounds good,” Viceroy Dick said, making a note in his orders book. “What about rocket launchers, TOW missiles, mines …”
A second Party member spoke up. “We can deliver one thousand Claymore mines to you within the week,” he said. “TOWs will take longer. Maybe ten days.”
“Again, sounds good,” Dick confirmed. “How about SAMs?”
The surface-to-air salesman handed him a ten-page typewritten document, with Polaroid photos attached. “Take your pick,” he said. “We’ve got Stingers, Blowpipes, Rolands and SA-7s. All portable. All excellent for close-in fighting.”
Viceroy Dick had to admit he was impressed. “You guys have quite the inventory,” he said, looking over the document.
“It’s our job,” Frankel told him.
Dick made several more notes, then asked: “How about aircraft?”
“That’s my line,” Frankel said. He, too, whipped out a catalog and handed it to Viceroy Dick.
“Our standard package begins three squadrons of MiG-29 Fulcrum counter-air fighters,” Frankel said. “They come complete with Doppler lookdown/shootdown radar, and day/night, all-weather capability. They have a five hundred-mile combat radius, which should serve you nicely, and can go Mach two-point-two at altitude. They are fitted to carry up to eight AA-ten air-to-air missiles, plus an overhauled Vulcan gun in the nose. Also, in a pinch, you can convert them to a ground attack role.
“Along with this, we can offer you one squadron of MiG-27 Flogger Swing-Wings and Sukhoi SU-7 Fitters each, for the important ground attack role. Both airplane types carry two large guns in the nose and just about any bomb under the wings. Both have a combat radius of two hundred forty miles or so.
“Of course, each squadron comes complete with two service aircraft, an inflight-refueler, and a small shuttle craft for parts and repair.”
Viceroy Dick’s head was spinning with the descriptions. The Party was offering five squadrons—nearly 60 aircraft. He doubted the United American forces had very much more.
“All this sounds great,” he said. “But, what’s it going to cost?”
For the first time a smile came to Frankel. “That depends …” he said.
Viceroy Dick prepared himself. Here comes the whammy, he thought.
“Depends on what?”
“It depends on whether you are interested in purchasing our Supreme Command package,” Frankel answered. “If you do, then everything we’ve just described to you is free …”
Viceroy Dick resisted a temptation to clean out his ears.
“Did you say: ‘free?’” he asked. “As in ‘free of charge?’”
All four men nodded. “That’s correct,” Frankel said. “Absolutely free and guaranteed delivery with two weeks.”
It sounded like the deal of the century—Viceroy Dick was immediately suspicious.
“OK, I’ll bite,” he said. “What’s in the Supreme Command package?”
Frankel took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “Twenty-two battlefield nuclear weapons …” he said. “Small-end range. One-point-two kiloton. For a surface blast you would get a crater two hundred fifty feet deep, twelve-fifty across. Total blast radius is two-point-one miles for anything and everything: three-point-two for buildings. Double those numbers for an air-burst. Radiation is low and cleared completely within twelve hours, except at absolute ground zero …”
Viceroy Dick found that his jaw had dropped involuntarily. “You guys are selling nu
kes … ?” he asked, incredulously.
“Yes, we are,” Frankel answered. “They are guaranteed nukes, I might add …”
“You guys are nuts …” Dick told them. “No one does nukes here …”
“No one does nukes, sir, because they are not so readily available,” Frankel said, a hard edge returning to his voice. “Certainly you wouldn’t expect your Soviet patrons to provide you with them …”
“And I’m glad of it!” Dick exclaimed. “There’d be nothing left …”
Frankel shook his head. “You are missing the point,” he said. “With the Supreme Command package, your victory in the upcoming battle is virtually assured …”
Dick was shaking his head. “No, no …” he said. “Believe me, the top New Order guys in Moscow wouldn’t allow it. If one guy starts dropping nukes, there’ll be a race to out-nuke everyone else and the place will look like the moon in a matter of weeks.”
“More appropriately, it will look like the Badlands,” Frankel said. “And that, sir, was courtesy of the ‘top guys’ in Moscow …”
Viceroy Dick was adamant. “No way am I buying nukes,” he said. “Just give me a price on all the other stuff and we’ll talk business. But no big ones.”
“You are making a serious error, sir,” Frankel said, as the other three men started totalling up the charges for the conventional weapons. “Because, someone, somewhere, some day will buy one of our Supreme Command packages. And when that day comes, you’ll wish you got in first. I can assure you, that our Supreme Command Deterrent packages will be much more expensive, and they will not be offered with the free-of-charge conventional packages.”
They handed him a price list that totalled 263,000 bags of gold or 1,315,000 bags of real silver. It broke down to roughly 2000 bags of gold per airplane—just a tad higher than the going price—plus 63,000 bags for the rest of the equipment.
“The price is high,” Dick said. “Call it two hundred sixty thousand and you got a deal.”
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