“That’s what we think,” O’Malley said. “What other airplane fits that profile?”
The Tupolev Tu-26 Backfire was similar in some ways to the B-1. It was an intercontinental bomber, with swing-wings and powerful engines and capable of dropping conventional bombs and launching cruise missiles. Considered one of the best machines the Russians ever managed to get off the ground, Hunter was surprised that the Soviets allowed such valuable aircraft to deploy to America.
“I count six of them,” he said. “That’s a good indication of the importance the Soviets are putting on this wing-ding.”
“There’s more,” O’Malley said. He pointed to a large hangar at the end of the former commercial airport. Though no whole aircraft could be seen, two tail sections were plainly visible sticking out of the rear of the building.
“How good are you at IDing airplanes by their tail sections?” O’Malley asked Hunter. “Because I got a bag of silver that says those are the ass-ends of two Bears …”
Once again, Hunter squinted to make out the shapes on the videotape. He immediately recognized the unmistakable sharp edges of the rear stabilizers, the thickness of the tail fins, the protruding twin cannons in the rear turret.
“You win,” he said. “Those are definitely Big Bears …”
The Bear was the nickname for the Tupolev Tu-95 heavy bomber—the B-52 of the Soviet Air Force.
“They’ve really trotted out the hardware,” O’Malley said. “But what the hell are heavy bombers doing here, in the country now? They didn’t even bring in this stuff during The Circle War …”
“Beats me,” Hunter said, worried now about this new threat. “They could be using them simply to ferry in Soviet bigshots for the party. Or maybe they’re planning to carpet bomb a couple of cities, as an encore to burning everything.”
The videotape continued, moving past the runways of National Airport, across the Potomac and eventually centering on yet another airport.
“OK, this is what we want,” O’Malley said. “Bolling Air Force Base …”
Compared to National, this air base was practically deserted. Only three airplanes were in evidence, each one an Antonov An-12 “Cub-B,” a Soviet-built cargo carrier which was frequently used as a Signals-Intelligence or Signet airplane. A few Circle Army trucks were meandering about, and there were a few SAM readings, but that was it.
Just to the south of the air base there was a strip of barren terrain. Stagg was the first to notice the long sandy stretch just off the end of the runways, leading down to the Potomac River.
“I’ve got a feeling this is where we come in,” he said.
Hunter nodded. “That’s it,” he said, “All of nineteen hundred and thirty four feet of sand. Slightly moist, but firm enough to handle your bird.”
Stagg looked plainly skeptical, O’Malley froze the frame so they could better study the area.
“It’s not the length that bothers me,” Stagg said. “It’s the width. We’ll be dropping from such a high altitude, so quickly, then negotiating the river edge. And at night—Jesus, it’s frankly going to be a very tight jink to set down on that straight and narrow. Especially with no option for a go-around …”
Hunter could sympathize with the man. They were asking him to commit his men and his airplane—his very livelihood—to helping them. But everyone in the room knew it was probably the only way …
“I have no doubt that you can do it,” Hunter said. “The question is: Will you do it?”
Stagg looked at them, then back at the screen. “What the hell,” he said finally. “Why not? If The Circle survivors and those mercenaries land, we’ll probably be out of business anyway.”
Hunter breathed a sigh of relief. Now at least one piece of his crucial plan was in place …
CHAPTER 67
YAZ’S ELBOWS AND KNEES were cut raw and bleeding by the time he returned to his spot in Lafayette Park.
He, like many of the other Rangers, had spent the first few hours of darkness crawling around the area, trying to gather as much intelligence as possible. He had perfected a method of moving about undetected. He had simply wrapped a blanket around himself and moved, knees and elbows, several feet at a time through the crowd of otherwise sleeping civilians. To the Circle guards standing watch, he was just another sleeper, trying to get comfortable. As soon as they turned away, he would quickly move another few feet. The ruse was aided greatly by the fact that there were so many civilians lying about and so few Circle guards on night duty. The civilians brought to DC were almost entirely too tired, hungry and dejected to pose any kind of crowd control problems for their handlers.
Shane had stayed behind, expertly sending off brief messages back to Syracuse every half hour, despite the presence of a trio of Circle guards nearby. He broadcast his most important message earlier that evening: they had learned that the iconoclastic demonstration would take place the next day, starting sometime in the afternoon. This had made the Rangers’ “crawling” intelligence patrols even more crucial.
Now, as Yaz made his way up to him, Shane had just received a new piece of information transmitted from Syracuse.
“Our troops are coming in tonight,” he said to Yaz.
“What?” Yaz couldn’t believe it.
“It’s true,” Shane whispered. “They’re going to try and head this thing off with a smaller force, while a bigger one fights its way down from Syracuse. I couldn’t get any details. Hunter just told us to keep our eyes open and be ready for anything.”
“Well, I’ve got some important news for them,” Yaz said. “Can we get off one more message to them tonight before they jump off?”
“We can try,” Shane said. “But only if the info is essential.”
Yaz nodded. “It is,” he said. “I found the gold APC …”
Shane hesitated for a moment, then asked: “Are you sure?”
“Damn sure, sir,” Yaz said. “I just saw it ten minutes ago. It’s parked right beside the Treasury Building. And it’s covered with Spetsnaz.”
“Well, Hawk will definitely want to know about this,” Shane said, fingering the small radio and playing out the flexible antenna. “Any idea what it’s doing here or what they are planning to do with it?”
“I’m not sure,” Yaz said, grimly. “But tell him there’s a gasoline truck parked right next to it.”
It was three A.M. when the first of the New York Hercs appeared just outside of the Circle’s Washington radar net.
Stagg himself was at the controls of this ship—designated Yankee One. Strapped down in the back were Hunter, Dozer and a squad of his famous 7th Cavalry Marines, plus 40 members of a PAAC Rapid Deployment Unit. Each man was wearing a black uniform and had a blackened face. They were armed with concussion grenades, flash grenades and a variety of side arms, the largest being a RPG launcher.
A red light began flashing in the otherwise darkened cargo hold of the C-130. “Ten minutes to go …” Hunter said to Dozer, who in turn called it out loud enough for everyone on board to hear.
“Let’s start our final mental preparation, people,” the Marine Corps officer added.
One hundred miles behind them were two more New York Hercs. One of them was carrying twenty more members of the PAAC RDU, plus some heavier weapons such as recoilless rifles and a few heavy mortars. Inside the other were more of Dozer’s men, two squads of Football City Rangers and 15 of the baseball players rescued during the Cooperstown Raid.
Everyone was wearing the same black military coveralls except the ball players. They were being brought along not to fight but for another very important purpose—one that might prove even more crucial than anything else the United Americans would do that day.
For this special mission, they were wearing baseball uniforms …
Back in the hold of the lead ship, a green light began flashing.
“OK … one minute to drop down,” Hunter said to Dozer. “Get your pathfinders ready …”
Hunter then unstrapped
himself and walked up to the cockpit.
“Any problems?” he asked Stagg.
“Not yet, Hawk,” the officer answered. “Not so far anyway. We’ve been flying dark for the past hour … Haven’t heard anyone talking about us on the Circle frequencies …”
Through the cockpit window Hunter could see the faint lights of Washington off in the distance. Below them was the dark shimmering of the Potomac River.
“No threat signals as yet,” the Herc’s co-pilot reported. He had his eyes glued to the APG radar Hughes had hastily installed in the cargo plane’s cockpit. If they were spotted on an enemy SAM radar screen, the set would start buzzing and they would have to take evasive measures. This in turn would effectively end their plan. But as for now, the buzzer was silent.
“OK, there’s the Wilson Memorial bridge,” Stagg said, pointing to the faint line of gray crossing the Potomac. The pilot put on a special NightScope flight helmet which would allow him to see in the dark. “Starting the descent in ten seconds. You’d better strap down, Hawk. This is going to feel like a runaway elevator ride.”
Hunter quickly buckled in beside the Herc’s navigator. No sooner had he fastened the safety belt than Stagg put the C-130 into a screaming plunge.
Down they went, the Hercules wings shaking in defiance against the unorthodox maneuver.
“C’mon, baby,” Stagg urged. “Stay together just a while longer …”
Hunter was being thrown around in his cramped space; he was instantly glad he was wearing his trusty flight helmet. He couldn’t imagine what it was like back in the cargo hold.
“Down to seven hundred feet,” Stagg reported. “OK, we’re at six hundred … five hundred feet … four fifty …”
Hunter was wondering if his stomach would ever catch up with them. He’d been in perilous dives before, but usually only when he was behind the control stick. It was a completely different experience when someone else was driving.
“Down to two hundred … one fifty …” Stagg was ticking off the numbers coolly. “… seventy five feet … down to fifty … I’m pulling up and holding at twenty five … hang on!”
Hunter took his advice and for good reason. Stagg yanked back on his control yoke and the airplane felt as if it had stopped in mid-air. Hunter was thrown against the navigator’s weather table, then whiplashed back against the radio set.
By the time he stopped bouncing around, they were at the prescribed height of 12 feet above the waters of the Potomac.
“Looks good so far,” Stagg said, adjusting his NightScope helmet. “I see the landing spot … we have about twenty five seconds to go.”
Hunter managed to catch a peek of the landing strip over the co-pilot’s shoulder. It was a long and sandy strip of land, almost like a sandbar. But it was very thin and had more than a few puddles freckling it.
“Jesus, where’d that water come from?” the co-pilot asked as Stagg put full flaps down on the big Herc.
“Too late to worry about that now,” Stagg said. He pushed a button on his control panel which started a yellow warning light blinking back in the cargo hold. “You still strapped in back there, Hawk?”
“You better believe it,” Hunter replied, assuming the crash position.
“OK,” Stagg said, cutting his engines back. “We’re going in …”
They hit the sandy strip three seconds later, the Herc’s special ski-type landing gear plowing up two large furrows as Stagg fought with the controls to keep the airplane from pitching into the Potomac.
“Reverse engines!” Stagg yelled to the co-pilot, as they careened along. “Full air brakes … flaps on lock!”
They screeched and scraped and skidded along the sand, the C-130’s engines howling in protest. Finally, they began to slow down.
“C’mon baby,” Stagg whispered urgently. “Be nice to me …”
Somehow he was able to stop the big bird before it reached the dense overgrowth at the very end of the Bolling runways. Now it was suddenly quiet inside the Herc …
“Everyone OK back there?” Hunter yelled back to the cargo hold while unstrapping himself.
“Few bumps and bruises,” Dozer yelled back. “Nothing serious …”
Hunter was up and standing in two seconds. He patted Stagg on the back. “You did it, sir,” he said. “Thanks for keeping us in one piece …”
He was back into the cargo hold in an instant, helping some of the more battered troopers get unhooked and up on their feet.
“Ready, Hawk?” Dozer asked him as he made his way to the back of the airplane. Already the Herc’s big rear door was lowering.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said just as he and Dozer ran down the ramp. “The big question is: did anyone hear us?”
Their hope all along was that with the two air fields less than a half mile apart, the people at National would think any racket was coming from Bolling and vice versa.
He and Dozer scrambled to the top of the undergrowth and peeked over.
The airbase looked deserted. The three Soviet airplanes were sitting in the same position as on O’Malley’s video tape and there didn’t seem to be any undue activity taking place at the base.
“Dare I say ‘so far, so good’?” Dozer asked.
“Just cross your fingers when you do,” Hunter replied. “I say let’s get the rest of the gang up here …”
Dozer ran back down to the airplane and passed the word. Within a half minute the elite troopers were silently scurrying up to the edge of the runway. Stagg appeared with his NightVision helmet and a long extension cord. He scanned the far off hangars.
“No one around, that I can see …” he said. “Maybe they’re all asleep.”
Hunter unstrapped his M-16 and checked the magazine. It was full, as always, with tracer rounds.
“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” he said, scrambling over the top. “Everyone stay together and keep an eye on your brother …”
“And stay in the shadows …” Dozer urged them, checking the clip on his own Uzi. “Remember how we planned it. Just like Entebbe.”
With that, the soldiers followed the two officers over the brush and out onto the runway.
Quickly, silently, they headed for the base’s control tower.
CHAPTER 68
THERE WERE SIX CIRCLE officers and ten enlisted men inside the Bolling base tower, having just come on duty at 3 A.M.
Four of the officers were already drunk when they reported for their shift. The two others were under the influence of the cocaine that was so readily available to all of the Circle’s commanders. Even the enlisted men were drinking beer on duty.
The men assigned to the moribund Bolling air base were from the bottom of the Circle’s rather cruddy barrel. Anyone with a half a brain and some airport experience was based over at National. The occupation at Bolling was merely an afterthought for the Circle commanders, a place to station a few dozen malcontents, criminals and substance abusers where they would be out of the way.
The shift had been on duty only thirty minutes when the girls were brought in. They had been bought, of course, right in downtown Washington, near the old “J” street intersection, with a bag of money pooled from the officers and men. It had been a weekly activity with this particularly repulsive graveyard shift of Circle soldiers. Two girls, sixteen men, a case of booze and a lot of drugs.
The senior officer, a captain named Lutt, picked over the girls like a man buying livestock. Both of them were barely 17, if that, and they had been dressed up in the faddish “Queenie” clothes of the day. Lutt fondled their breasts, grabbed their rear ends, felt between their legs.
“OK, they’ll do …” he finally declared. “Get them ready …”
The girls were led to the large table that had been placed in the middle of the control tower’s main office. It had been covered with three dilapidated mattresses and a mish-mash of army blankets. The girls were hoisted onto the table and made to guzzle from a bottle of no-name whi
skey. Then, with a barely-operating video camera turned on, the soldiers drew lots. The first winner could then order the girls to do anything of his bidding. Once he was through, the next man would step up and demand the same and on down through the line.
On this night, the first man to win demanded the girls start off by fondling each other, a favorite of the nightshift. Then he decided they would perform oral sex on him at the same time, much to the whooping delight of his comrades. He finished up by attempting to have regular sex with both of them, a near-impossible task for a man who was a regular cocaine abuser. His less-than-sterling performance lasted all of three minutes, then it was time for the next soldier in line to make his demands.
They were on the fifth trooper when the group heard, but ignored, a quick but fairly loud scraping noise coming from the river’s edge.
“Those assholes over at National, screwing something up,” was how Captain Lutt decided to dismiss the commotion. “Lay out some more lines and let’s get on with it …”
His underlings did so, but as they watched the fifth soldier of the night take measure of the young girls, Lutt suddenly found himself looking up a strange face on the other side of the control room door.
“Who the fuck is that?” he asked, but before anyone could respond, the door had opened and something was thrown inside.
The next thing he knew, he was blinded by a tremendous white light, so intense, it actually stung his eyes.
“Flash grenade!” someone yelled, but those were the last words Lutt ever heard. Through painfully stinging eyes he could just barely see the black-suited men pouring into the room and making short work of his contingent of soldiers.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
One man, one shot. Lutt could tell the invaders were highly-trained, efficient. He made a vain attempt to reach his gun, but he heard one last pop! and then everything turned to black …
It took only sixteen bullets to capture the air base control tower, two fairly quiet concussion grenades to neutralize the remaining enemy soldiers in the base’s only occupied barracks.
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