Thunder in the East

by Maloney, Mack;

  “They want to wipe the slate clean,” Dozer said, his voice also rising in anger. “They want to destroy our goddamn heritage …”

  “Exactly!” Hunter said. “But I know no one here misses the importance of this threat. We’ve got to stop this. It’s almost more important than beating them on the battlefield. We can lose to them in Syracuse or wherever, but we’re replaceable. A lot of the stuff they want to destroy is not!”

  He was getting emotional and he knew it. But he also saw that every one of the others was also feeling the same way he did.

  “What were the specifics of Yaz’s message?” Ben Wa asked. “Obviously those guys in Cooperstown are part of a bigger plan …”

  “That’s definitely the case,” Jones said. “These Spetsnaz gangs are roaming the eastern part of the country, following the Circle line of retreat. As far as the unit at Cooperstown, they’re looting the Hall of Fame but they’re also holding hostages there, with orders to kill them should anything go wrong.”

  “And now that this Spetsnaz officer is gone—Shane’s boys got him on ice—they might carry out those orders.”

  “What can we do about it?” one of the Texans asked. “Can Shane’s boys handle all those guys?”

  Jones shook his head. “Probably not now,” he said. “The element of surprise will be gone when they realize one of their guys is missing. They’ll be looking for him and expecting something at the same time.”

  “That means we’ve got to hit them quick,” J.T. said. “Fly in some reinforcements to Shane and nail them. Free the people they’re holding …”

  “We really don’t have any other choice,” Jones said in agreement. “Hawk? Can you put a plan together?”

  Hunter looked at all of them, his facial features were like granite. “I already have,” he said.

  CHAPTER 52

  SERGEANT MISHA BORSUK HAD just dispatched the third search party of the day when the big tractor-trailer truck rolled into the village square.

  He was about a quarter mile away, supervising the troops that were dragging the shallows of the lake for Lieutenant Sudoplatov’s body, when the big rig pulled in. He saw two Circle soldiers jump out and wave to him. He waved back. It was just another rig, moving through to Washington.

  The lieutenant had been gone for nearly 24 hours now and an extensive search of the nearby woods had proved fruitless. Sergeant Borsuk had ordered the dragging operation after the lieutenant’s hat had been found floating about 20 feet off the shore. Already, rumors were spreading through his troops that Sudoplatov had drowned himself.

  “We have something!” one of his corporals yelled. The man was standing in a small boat—one of two dozen the Spetsnaz troops had found at a tourist house nearby and had pressed into use. He was some 50 feet offshore.

  Borsuk climbed into his own boat and was rowed to the spot. Sure enough, the man’s line had snagged a leather boot. Pulling it aboard, they opened the top flap and saw Sudoplatov’s name and uniform number printed inside.

  The sergeant yelled for all the boats dispersed on the lake to gather in on the area. Slowly the ten additional skiffs closed in, their lines dragging behind them.

  “Here!” another man on another boat cried. Borsuk’s boat was moved to the spot just as the men were pulling in Sudoplatov’s uniform jacket. Its pockets were filled with rocks.

  Borsuk examined the coat. It wasn’t ripped or soiled in any way. “Maybe it was suicide …” he thought.

  He briefly considered ordering the rest of his men on shore to get more boats and join them in the search. Right now 30 men were out on the lake, 16 were guarding the prisoners. If three or four more boats could be launched, the task of finding the lieutenant’s body would be accomplished that much quicker.

  Once Sudoplatov’s body was found, Borsuk would have to assume command. His first orders would be to kill the prisoners. Then, once the Hall of Fame was completely looted, they would set fire to the entire town, poison the lake then move on.

  “Another boot!” the man in the boat next to him announced.

  “Here is his holster!” he heard from a boat further away.

  That was enough for Sergeant Borsuk—he told his rowers to move him to shore where he would dispatch three more boats and once and for all, find the lieutenant’s body. Perhaps he could even enlist the aid of the Circle troops who had just arrived.

  But the sergeant never made it to the shoreline. A tracer bullet from an M-16 hit him square in the jaw and exited out his left ear. He fell back into the boat hard—capsizing it and throwing his two rowers into the water.

  One by one the men out in the boats were quickly picked off by gunmen hiding in the scrub bushes on the shore. Two boats went over, then a third and a fourth. Confusion reigned as the surviving unarmed men furiously tried to paddle their way out of range. But it was futile—RPGs were now being launched at them. One hit a boat carrying three Spetsnaz straight on—the explosion killed all three instantly and disintegrated the skiff. Other boats were being sunk in quick succession by near or direct hits from the rocket-propelled grenades.

  Those troopers who were the last to meet their fate thought they saw entire bushes moving along the shoreline, so complete was the camouflage of their attackers.

  Most of the soldiers guarding the prisoners immediately withdrew into the small brick building at the sound of the first gunshots. Six of them were cut down in the crossfire though. Now, as the 10 survivors watched from the front door, they saw United American troops pouring out of the back of the tractor trailer that had so innocently pulled into town a short time ago. The Soviets quickly began firing on the Americans as they ducked into doorways and behind walls for cover.

  The corporal in charge of the guard knew it was time to kill the prisoners. He chose three of his men and told them to follow him up to the second floor hallway where the 26 men were being held.

  “We will use pistols,” he told his men. “One shot, one man. We will save our rifle ammunition for the battle.”

  All four Spetsnaz troopers checked the clips on their 9-mm Makarov PM handguns, then moved up the stairs, fully aware that the intensifying gunfire they heard outside indicated that the Americans were slowly moving toward the building.

  The corporal was the first to reach the hallway. He looked down the two lines of men. Each one was gagged, tied hand and foot and propped up against the wall. He nodded to two of his charges to pick up the first prisoner and hold him against the wall. As the other prisoners watched in horror, the corporal cocked his pistol and placed the barrel against the back of the man’s neck.

  He slowly pulled the trigger …

  Suddenly there was a great explosion of glass at the near end of the corridor. The four Spetsnaz troopers whirled around in amazement to see a man wearing a pilot’s helmet had come crashing through the hallway window. The corporal’s pistol went off, but he was distracted enough at the last moment for the bullet to go into the prisoner’s shoulder, only wounding him.

  A bullet from the interloper caught the corporal in the eye a second later; another burst blew out one of the other troopers’ chest.

  Two more men leaped through the window, screaming at the prisoners: “Get down! Get down! We are Americans …”

  The prisoners did as told the best they could. The two remaining Russians had taken cover at the far end of the hall. Two more Spetsnaz soldiers were climbing the stairway, having heard the commotion from below.

  This stand-off didn’t last long. The man in the pilot’s helmet tossed a concussion grenade down into the stairwell, then threw a flash grenade at the two Russians hiding at the end of the hallway. The near-simultaneous explosions rocked the second story with a brilliant flash and an ear-splitting boom! that left Soviets and prisoners dazed alike.

  Suddenly the three Americans charged down the hallway and shot the blinded Soviets point blank. Two more American soldiers crashed through the splintered window and shot the wounded Russians who were sprawled on the stairs. />
  The action on the second story was over as quickly as it began. The battle down on the first floor was still going strong. The five Americans gathered at the top of the stairs after first indicating that the prisoners should lie still and quiet.

  One Soviet soldier poked his head into the stairwell and was immediately gunned down. The pilot flipped two more grenades down the stairs in such a way they bounced into the main room where the rest of the Spetsnaz troops were positioned. The two unexpected blasts killed three more Soviets.

  By that time, the Americans outside the building had concentrated enough firepower to blow away one entire side of the structure. The UA troops flooded in and made quick work of the remaining half dozen Soviet Special Forces soldiers.

  It was all over inside of three minutes.

  Most of the prisoners were just getting their vision back when the American soldiers started untying them. One of the first to be freed—an older black man—hugged the man wearing the pilot’s helmet.

  “Who the hell are you guys, anyway?” he asked him, laughing with relief.

  Hunter removed his helmet.

  “We’re from the United American Army,” he said, staring closely at the man. “But I know who you are, don’t I?”

  The man shrugged. “You might …”

  Hunter felt the name of the tip of his tongue. “You’re Lamarr Johnson. Of the Cleveland Indians.”

  “Been a long time since someone put those two names together,” the man said. “That is until these creeps came along …”

  Other prisoners were being untied and helped to their feet.

  “Jesus,” Hunter exclaimed, looking at two close by. “That’s Ken Dowling of the Orioles. And Greg Masto of the Mets!”

  Johnson laughed again. “Yep, and that’s Mickey Ruggeri of the Cardinals,” he said pointing to another prisoner being untied. “There’s Keith Sullivan of the Red Sox, Jason Kelleher of the Cubs over there. Scooter Vogel and Fred Haas of the Reds …”

  “You guys are all professional baseball players?” Hunter asked, somewhat astonished.

  “Former professional ball players,” Johnson told him. “Most of us were captured like a lot of people when the Circle took over. We were scattered all over in work camps, prisons and such. Then the Ruskies started looking through someone’s files and started gathering us together. And here, in Cooperstown, of all places …”

  “What were they planning on doing with you?” Hunter asked, secretly vowing to get each man’s autograph later.

  Johnson shook his head. “They were going to line us up and shoot us,” he said angrily. “They’re planning this big demonstration in Washington DC.”

  “We’ve heard about that,” Hunter said.

  “Yeah, well we were going to be one of the star attractions,” Johnson continued. “They were going to execute us, as kind of a symbol. Killing the national pastime. It’s sick …”

  “That it is,” Hunter said, bitterly.

  CHAPTER 53

  IT WASN’T UNTIL TWO days later that word of the Cooperstown Raid reached the Circle headquarters in Syracuse.

  Viceroy Dick heard the news from his superior, a major general of the Circle Air Corps named Herr.

  “Christ, those Russians are fucking thick!” Herr said upon repeating the news to Dick. “They’re supposed to be these elite shitheads and they fall for the oldest trick in the book …”

  “I’m glad it doesn’t affect us too much here,” Dick said. “That party going down in DC, I’d just as soon avoid.”

  “Me, too,” Herr admitted. “That’s the Russians’ show, not ours. We can’t argue with them if they think they’re going to accomplish something. But, in my opinion, if you gather a bunch of civvies together, force march them to DC, show ’em the country’s books burnings and all the sports celebs getting shot, I think they’ll have a riot on their hands.”

  Dick nodded in agreement, dabbing his perpetually runny nose with a hankie. “They’re making a big mistake thinking the people left in this country are like Russians. You know, sheep who will do what they’re told and when they’re told. There’s a lot of hotheads still running around this part of the continent. And God knows what the Cowboy Army will do.”

  “That’s just my point,” Herr said. “Frigging Russians expect us to duke it out with the Cowboys while they have their little weenie roast down in DC. That way when that invasion fleet gets here, they figure all the citizens will be bummed out and pacified.”

  “And most of us up here will be dead …” Viceroy Dick finished for him.

  Herr nodded dejectedly. “Exactly …”

  Just then, one of their radar officers burst into Herr’s office.

  “We got bogies coming our way, sir!” he just about screamed. “Big ones and there’s a lot of them!”

  Herr and Viceroy Dick were in the Aerodrome’s Combat Control Center within a minute. On a large radar screen before them they could clearly see the large airborne force moving in their direction.

  “Jesus, heavy bombers,” Herr said. “They look like B-52s.”

  “And fighter escorts,” Dick said, pointing out a series of smaller blips surrounding the bomber points.

  Herr reached for a nearby microphone. “Sound the attack alert!” he shouted. “Get the scramble jets up now! Get the mobile SAMs and Triple-A guns hot. We’re going to be under attack in fifteen minutes!”

  The CIC was instantly engulfed in a swirl of confusion, ringing phones, blinking lights, warning buzzers and fear. The United Americans weren’t wasting any time, Dick thought, wondering where the hell the Weapons Requisition Officer was supposed to hide during an air raid.

  “Boy, I could sure use a few lines of blow right now,” he thought, wiping his nose again.

  General Dave Jones was leading “Buick Flight,” the first wave of three B-52s that would cross over the enemy target. Behind him was J.T.’s “Chevy Flight”—the second trio to go in. Finally would come Ben Wa’s “Dodge Flight.”

  The nine B-52s were cruising at 33,000 feet, high enough to avoid most of the low-level SAMs in the Circle’s arsenal. But even at this height, they would be vulnerable to the SA-2 and SA-3 SAMs that they knew were set up at various points around the city and the Syracuse Aerodrome.

  This was to be a strategic bombing strike. The United American Command had decided they had two priorities: destroy as many Circle Army troops as possible before the inevitable land invasion of the Syracuse area, and destroy as much of the enemy’s air power as possible. In line with the first aim, Jones had directed that this initial B-52 strike be concentrated on the city itself, where most of the Circle infantry troops were billeted and where their supplies were stored. A secondary strike on the Circle air base at the Aerodrome would be carried out simultaneously by the PAAC A-7 Strikefighters.

  “Five minutes to target,” Jones called out to all the aircraft involved.

  Ahead of him, he saw the two F-106 Delta Darts get into positions. They were carrying dispensers that would, on his command, release a cloud of chaff—the radar reflective tin foil which would serve to confuse the enemy’s SAM and AA radar beams. It was quite possible that these F-106 pilots were in the most dangerous position of the mission. The drag of the chaff dispensers attached to their underbellies slowed down the normally quick, if aging, fighters. Also the cloud of chaff blossoming behind each airplane marked its location like a red flag for the AA operators.

  Jones looked to his left and saw five Football City F-20s move up into position ahead of the bombers. The Tigersharks—these five and six more behind—were riding fighter escort for the B-52s. This meant these fighters would stick close to the bombers throughout their bombing runs.

  Farther out on the flight’s perimeter he saw four Texas Air Force F-4s riding a little higher than the rest of the group. The Texans would be providing the CAP—or “combat air patrol.” This meant they would roam the skies above and below the bomber flights pursuing any enemy fighters that rose to meet them. T
hose Circle aircraft getting through the CAP would be dealt with by the Football City Tigersharks.

  Assuming all nine B-52s reached the target area, they would unleash a total of 270 tons of heavy bombs on the Circle supply and troop concentrations. Jones knew it would also wipe out a large portion of downtown Syracuse in the process. But, in war, some things just couldn’t be helped.

  “Three minutes to target …” he radioed, and once again checked the position of the escort and CAP fighters. They were the B-52s’ bodyguards and, as such, lent a good amount of security and confidence to the bomber crews.

  But Jones knew the flights had an additional weapon. He scanned the skies above him and off to his sides.

  Somewhere, out there, he knew Hunter and his new F-16XL were waiting to pounce …

  The Circle’s Fulcrum MiGs had been lifting off from the Aerodrome’s main runway two at a time for the past ten minutes. The newly reconditioned fighters—purchased from the Party arms cartel—were loaded with AA-10 air-to-air missiles as well as nose cannons for close-in fighting. Their pilots—some of them Circle regulars, others mercenaries and allied air pirates—were beaming with the knowledge that every confirmed kill they registered meant 100 bags of gold.

  As each Fulcrum rose, the Circle’s Combat Center air controllers vectored them toward the nine heavy bombers approaching Syracuse. On their present course, the B-52s would have to pass close to the Aerodrome on their way to their bombing runs over the city of Syracuse itself. The Circle’s fairly sophisticated radar net was providing up to the second information on the bombers as well as the escorting fighters. Thirty enemy interceptors had already launched—they alone outnumbered the 28 escorting United American aircraft—and two dozen more were warmed up and waiting in reserve.

  So with all of the Circle’s radar screens and operators concentrating on the heavy bombers, those at the Aerodrome were caught completely by surprise when the lead wave of A-7 Strikefighters roared in on the occupied airbase at treetop level.