Thunder in the East

by Maloney, Mack;

  So Yaz and the others sat silently and watched as the Russians ate, and came in and out of the small building they were guarding and tinkered with their big Kenworth and Mack trucks, which were parked right next to the ballfield that was located right next to the Hall of Fame itself.

  Yaz had to wonder what The Babe would have thought of all this …

  CHAPTER 49

  “THERE HE GOES!” SEVERAL PEOPLE cried out at once as they watched the reconditioned F-16 take-off, turn on its tail and roar straight up into the heavens.

  Inside the cockpit, Hunter feared that he would have an involuntary bodily function. Back in the old days, flying his F-16 felt so close to having sex that he sometimes worried about whether or not his libido was pointing in exactly the right direction.

  And that was the “old” F-16 …

  Now, he was approaching Mach 1 in this … this new airplane and the sensation running through him was identical to the feeling he would get by having sex with a completely new, absolutely beautiful, exciting, intelligent, versatile, uninhibited woman.

  For every loss, there is a gain. The cosmos had just paid him back.

  It was true that the engineers at the GD plant in Dallas didn’t have the parts to restore the F-16 to its original condition. The jet had been battered, shot full of holes and had crashed in the Saudi Arabian desert during his relentless pursuit of Viktor. When it finally arrived back in the States inside the hold of a C-5, it was so beat-up, the GD engineers knew it was hopeless to try to rebuild it in its original condition starting from square one.

  So what they did was modify it—a lot. What he got back was a radically different airplane, technically known as an F-16XL …

  To the casual observer the biggest difference was in the fighter’s outward appearance. The F-16 was now “cranked”—its tail wings were gone and its front wings were now shaped in a delta pattern and extended all way back to the rear of the aircraft. In the business, it was called SCAMP—for Supersonic Cruise And Maneuvering Prototype. But with the overall effect looking like an arrowhead, it was no surprise that the few previous pre-war models of the F-16XL led to its nickname, “The Cranked Arrow.”

  But there was more that was new about his beloved ship than just the shape of its wings. The engineers had slapped a number of flight technologies onto the airplane. It was now an official “CCV” meaning control-configured vehicle. Canard surfaces—actually small stubby wings—were added beneath the air intakes on each side of the nose wheel housing. The fuel system was modified to allow better control over the airplane’s center of gravity. The flight control system was rewired and reprogrammed.

  All this changed the way the aircraft could maneuver. Normal aircraft flight was simply a case of cause and effect. One movement was often related to another movement. To go left, the pilot would bank, twisting the airplane to go in the desired direction. To climb, the pilot had to put the airplane’s nose up. To dive, he had to put its nose down.

  But with the new modifications, all that twisting and turning was now obsolete. Now, the F-16 could raise or lower its nose while still staying level. No longer would the up-or-down maneuver affect its flight path. It was called “pitched axis pointing”—the airplane would simply rise in a “vertical translation.” It could now move side to side without banking—a “lateral translation.” The new abilities would allow the airplane to move cleaner, faster, with less effort and stress.

  But the weirdest talent of them all was its new talent to perform “yaw axis pointing.” This allowed the nose to be moved side-to-side without changing the direction of flight. Like a controlled skid of an automobile, no longer would the nose of the aircraft have to be pointing in the direction it was traveling. He could sway the snout of the airplane about 20-degrees to either side while still traveling in a straight line. It was hard to explain, but even stranger—almost spooky—to try.

  The GD engineers had also thrown in an alphabet soup of new dogfighting technologies. The F-16XL CCV, was also fully AFTO—meaning it had Advanced Fighter Technology Integration to control its new CCV systems. It was also christened with an AMAS—Automatic Maneuvering Attack System, whose main components were a sensor pod containing a FLIR (Forward Looking Infra-Red) system, a new, more powerful laser range finder, a switch-on helmet-mounted sight which would display all necessary dogfighting information to him right on the visor of this strange other-wordly headgear. It also now had a digital fire-control system, a radar altimeter, and an extra computer which would allow data from FLIR to automatically steer the ship toward the target, if he wanted it to.

  The GD engineers had left the original engine intact—they couldn’t have improved on his redesigned GE F110-FC turbo-fan turbine which he had reworked just before The Circle War to carry him past 2000 mph and close to Mach 3. They also didn’t tamper with his Vulcan “Six Pack”—the half dozen Gatling guns that stuck out of the airplane’s nose, three on each side. The increased wing area of the delta shape would allow him to carry more under wing munitions though, and for that he was grateful.

  They did repaint the airplane however, as just one night in the wind-blown Arabian desert had so ruined the finish it looked like someone had taken an electric sander to it. They retained his original red-white-and-blue Thunderbird colors. But now the entire delta wing surface was red, the trim along the top of the fuselage was blue and everything else was white. It looked sharp—very sharp. It also looked bad—very bad, as in bad-ass. But the best touch of all was what the GD engineers had painted on its underwing. The outline of the Thunderbird logo was still there. But surrounding it, in a slightly luminous enamel, they had painted a large “W.”

  He roared through the cumulus, passed 35,000 feet, passed 40,000 … The airplane was incredible to fly. It felt like his old airplane, but it was very different just the same. He knew that its spiritual alignment was proper—the wave of the feeling that was pumping through his body was more intense than anything he’d experienced in the old design.

  For every loss there is a gain. He had lost Dominique, he had gained a new part of himself.

  Past 55,000 feet he was singing. Sweet streams of vapor flew by him. He looped at 61,000 and dove to 18,000, letting the five-g bathe him in a familiar excitement. Goddamn … he was flying a real airplane again.

  He experimented with the new maneuvering systems and attained new heights of pure aerodynamic ecstasy. He dropped down—in a “vertical translation”—to just 1500 feet, low enough for him to show off in front of the whole base. He put on a show for the next ten minutes. Looping, rolling, performing double-eights and six-point turns. Then he got into the exotic yaw axis pitching. The seemingly-impossible maneuver had them dropping their jaws back on the ground. He did a number of extreme “vertical translations” giving the impression that the F-16 was lifting almost vertical like a VTOL Harrier. He crisscrossed the base twice via a “lateral translation”—to the people on the ground it appeared that he was actually moving sideways.

  Finally, he brought it down to 250 feet and booted in the powerful afterburner, rocking the airfield with an explosive shock-wave as he roared by doing close to 2000 mph.

  Those that were there that day would later swear they had never seen such a display of flying, ever.

  Now even he believed it: The Wingman was back …

  CHAPTER 50

  IT WAS AN HOUR Later and the mid-morning briefing had just begun.

  Crowded around the table in Jones’s trailer was the general himself, Hunter, J.T., Ben Wa, Fitz, Captain Dozer, Crunch O’Malley, the Cobra Brothers plus representatives from the Football City Armed Forces and the Texas Army.

  “First of all,” Jones began. “We are now fully deployed to this base. I’m sure everyone saw the PAAC Heavy Bombardment Squadron come in, along with the other C-5. With their arrival, all of our forward air elements are here. As you know, we do have several squadrons in reserve, and the Free Canadians have taken over our long range air recon out on the west coast.
/>
  “Our infantry and armored forces have also all arrived and have taken up positions in and around the city. We are awaiting a number of water transports that are coming from the various lakes, and when they arrive, we will quickly get some of the ground troops on board and get them up in Lake Ontario for the assault on Oswego.”

  Everyone took the pause in Jones’s report to take a swig of coffee or light a cigarette.

  Jones himself sipped his cup of Java, then continued: “As for The Circle, we believe his southern forward line is now somewhere near Altoona, in the center of old Pennsylvania. It’s rough country down there, so I’m sure the going is slow and tough for them.”

  “Me heart is breaking …” Fitz yelled out in his thick brogue.

  “Well, their northern line had an easier time of it,” Jones went on. “They split their forces and the half that’s going through Old Penn will, I would guess, head straight for DC. Their northern line is already entrenched in and around the Aerodrome. And they’re just waiting for us.

  “We received a rather disturbing report that a large airlift is in progress at the Aerodrome. Fitzie’s spies tell us that unmarked Antonovs—from small An-72s right up to the big boy An-one 24s—have been coming in around the clock, off-loading and leaving again …”

  “They must have made a large arms purchase,” Hunter said. “I’m sure they have no shortage of weapons peddlers knocking at their door …”

  “The jackals never sleep,” Jones said. “They’re bringing in everything from M-1s and M-60s to small SAM batteries. It must have cost them a fortune …”

  “Ah, but money has never been a problem for them,” Fitz said.

  Everyone at the table nodded in agreement. The Circle spent money like a drunken sailor—funds no doubt supplied from Moscow. It seemed that the New Order Soviets had acquired a bad habit from the prewar democracies. If a problem persisted, try throwing money at it.

  “They’re well under way in deploying this new material around the Aerodrome and the city itself,” Jones went on, his voice taking on a grim tone. “They’re going to be armed to the whatzits and time is on their side. They’re making this stand at Syracuse because all they have to do is hold us up long enough for the mercenary fleet to reach the east coast. If that happens, well … we’ll be drinking vodka only for then on.”

  “Well, it’s not going to happen,” Hunter said sternly, his tone serious and decisive.

  “Well, then, right after this meeting, we should start laying out our timetables,” Jones said. “Strategic bombing. Tactical stuff. Invasion routes. The whole nine yards. Every minute we delay, that’s to The Circle’s advantage …”

  There was another murmur of agreement, this one subdued and somber.

  Jones shuffled some papers and went on.

  “Now, we’ve been getting some very odd reports about these damn tractor trailers, these ‘mystery trucks,’” he said. “Shane’s Rangers are right on the tail of the same bunch that we snatched the one rig from in Indiana. We just got a message from them through Yaz about an hour ago.

  “Now get this: They followed these guys to Cooperstown. Anyone here not know what Cooperstown is famous for?”

  No one raised his hand—they were all sports fans.

  Jones went on, shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying. “Well, they’ve got the Hall of Fame itself surrounded as well as a number of other buildings. They are particularly concerned with a smaller building at the edge of the town and Shane’s guys saw them bringing in bottles of water and packs of food into this building.”

  “Maybe they have a bunch of honeys in there,” J.T. offered. “I’m sure even the Spets have to get a little scooty now and then …”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jones said. “Those guys make robots look human.”

  “Maybe they have some prisoners inside,” Hunter said. “Like hostages or something …”

  “Could be,” Jones said, with a few others nodding in agreement. “But why would they start taking prisoners now? They didn’t back in Football City.”

  Hunter shrugged. “Maybe they’re special prisoners, someone they can ransom, or someone who is … well, irreplaceable.”

  “Well, if they are holding prisoners,” Jones said. “They’re really watching over them.”

  “There’s got to be a way to find out what’s going on,” Dozer said.

  “There’s really only one way, that I can think of,” Hunter said. “Capture one of the Spets and beat the crap out of him until he talks.”

  Jones smiled for the first time. “I just sent an order to that effect to Yaz,” he said. “My guess is that they’re planning just how to do that right now.”

  CHAPTER 51

  SPETSNAZ LIEUTENANT YURI SUDOPLATOV had an hour to kill before he took over as officer of the watch.

  He had contemplated walking through this Hall of Fame again—he had become fascinated in a way by who the Americans had chosen to call their sports heroes: Babe Ruth, a drunken, oversexed, repressed adolescent; Ty Cobb, a mean-spirited man who left his cleat imprints on many an opponent’s head; Jackie Robinson, a bitter man who was spat on by the white fans who didn’t want their bourgeois game of baseball sullied by the presence of a black man. Most of these worshipped players were hooligans—where was their discipline? Where was their dedication? What was the big deal about hitting a horsehide covered ball with a piece of wood?

  No, he had already walked through the Hall a half dozen times and it was affecting him. So today he decided instead to walk along the lake.

  Relaxation was not in his personal vocabulary, but he came as close as his Spetsnaz training would allow him as he walked along the water’s edge, feeling the sun’s warmth and the lake’s cool breeze at the same time. Flocks of singing birds flew over him. The sound of insects chirping and the water noises added to the symphony of natural sounds. Now this landscape reminded him of his home in Soviet Georgia.

  He saw a fish jump out on the lake and immediately thought it would be a good idea to fashion a fishing line. Or better yet, many fishing lines. Fresh fish—a meal he had yet to enjoy in the service—would be such a welcome change from the beets and dried eggs he and his troopers had been gagging on lately. They could leave that slop to the prisoners …

  He was intent on jogging back to the camp site to order his troops to start making fishing poles. But when he turned around, he saw there was a half-man, half-bush standing behind him, a twelve-inch long knife in one hand, a wet rag in the other …

  Hunter was in the Erie base’s communications room when the message from Yaz came in.

  One of the Texan communications specialists typed it out, deciphering the scrambled transmission that Yaz had bounced off the A-37 which was orbiting high over central New York.

  Hunter read the message, shook his head, read it again then ran to Jones’s office.

  The general’s reaction was identical to his own. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “I think …”

  “They’re sinister bastards,” Hunter said, his insides burning with anger. “They’re as bad as the Huns …”

  “We’ll have to tell the others, quickly,” Jones said, pushing a nearby radio button in order to summon the other principals at the base. “Now we’ve got two problems to deal with …”

  The group was assembled inside Jones’s mobile office within ten minutes.

  “We’ve just got a very unusual report from Shane’s boys in Cooperstown,” the general began. “They were successful in capturing a prisoner and, after using some interrogation techniques that we don’t have to get into right now, they were able to get this rather startling piece of information out of him.

  “Hawk, why don’t you fill them in?”

  Hunter stood up and faced the others. “Believe me, this is going to sound very strange,” he said. “After I first heard it, it took a while to sink in, but, boy when it did …

  “In addition to backing up
the Circle and arranging for that goddamn invasion fleet, the Soviets have apparently embarked on a campaign of, for want of a better word, iconoclasm.”

  Most of the men in the room had heard the term before, but some were shaky on exactly what it meant. Hunter had already anticipated the problem, so he had dug up a dictionary.

  “Iconoclasm,” he read. “The doctrine or strategy of the iconoclast, i.e. one who attacks and destroys cherished beliefs or institutions.”

  Hunter slammed the book shut.

  “Simply put,” he said in an angry tone, “They have their Spetsnaz guys running around the country, gathering up those things which stand for what made our country great.

  “Those trucks full of books? They are on their way to Washington DC where they will be burned.”

  “What?” several of the members asked at once.

  “It’s true,” Hunter said, his teeth gritting in anger. “The Circle is force-marching as many citizens as it can find to Washington where they are going have a massive book burning. It’s an ultimate act of Psych-Ops. The total demoralization of a people through the destruction of their culture.”

  It did take a few moments for the news to sink in. Then to a man, those gathered felt a rage well up inside.

  “And why are the Spets stopping at sports stadiums?” Hunter asked. “Because among the other things they aim to destroy is our national pastime. They are gathering gloves, baseball bats, bases, uniforms—you name it. They’re also robbing museums, libraries, closed-down TV stations. They’re gathering the icons of American life and they’re going to destroy them!”