Just as he was getting a radar reading on Number Two, he saw a brilliant flash light up the night sky up ahead of him. He desperately reached for his microphone and started clicking frantically. He got no response. In seconds he was flying through the area of the flash, just in time to see the severed' front portion of his Number Two ship tumbling to earth, leaving a trail of fire and smoke.
Now he was alone. He immediately brought his Yak down to tree top level and headed south with all due haste. He knew the ghost jet was somewhere nearby.
It had to be. Something up ahead caught his eye. A glint of light. In a complete panic, he launched one of his air-to-air missiles only to see it impact on a radio tower — its red light blinking — standing on a hill a mile in front of him.
Another light, right ahead of him. He wildly opened up with his cannons, only to realize he was shooting at a truck, — it had to belong to The Circle — moving along the top of a ridge. The Soviet had been flying so low, he thought the faint spark of the truck's headlights was coming from something airborne. He was in such disarray he wasn't even reading his instruments. He felt a wave of vertigo — the nightmare of all pilots — overcome him. He sharply pulled back on his control stick and yanked the Yak back up to a higher altitude.
Now he saw something for real. It was a dark shape, barely visible in the faint moonlight. It was moving fast and heading right for him.
"He's going to ram me!" the Soviet's panicking reflexes told him. He momentarily froze at the controls. Then he saw the tell-tale burst of flame which indicated cannon fire. A split second later a small chunk of his canopy glass shattered and broke away. He could feel cannon shells perforating the Yak's fuselage and engine intakes. Still the black shape was streaking toward him, licks of flame protruding from it. He lamely tried to fire his own cannon, knowing full well an air-to-air missile would do no good in a head-on meeting. But his shells seemed to go haywire. No doubt his gun muzzle port had caught some of the enemy's well-placed opening shots.
The Soviet was just about to finally react and pull up when a burst of cannon fire found his cockpit. He was shot first in his shoulder then through his throat. Everything went from black to red. His uniform was soaked with blood.
In his last conscious moment, he realized his whole airplane was aflame. His own body was on fire, yet he couldn't feel any pain. Grabbing his throat, and squinting before his eyes closed for the last time, he saw the mysterious black fighter bank to the left and streak by him, its pilot invisible through the dark tinted canopy.
Ten hours later, General Jones was awakened from a restless sleep by a loud buzzing noise. It was one of his lieutenants, calling him on the intercom set up next to his bunk.
"Sir?" the younger officer called. "Sir, we have someone here who wants to talk to you…"
Jones's eyes barely opened. He was still dressed in his flight suit, not having the time to peel it off in the past two days of intense action. He had finally caught some shuteye a few hours before, buoyed only by the fact that the second day of air, strikes had gone better than any of them had hoped — thanks in good measure to Hunter's single-handed work on the enemy SAM lines.
"Sir?" the lieutenant repeated, his voice crackling over the intercom. "One of our PAAC cargo pilots is here. He says he spoke to Hunter a few hours ago…"
Jones was up in an instant. He fell into his boots, zipped up the front of his overalls, and ran out of the makeshift barracks toward the air station's flight ops building. It was still dark out — there was still an hour to go before sunrise — and it was raining ferociously. Jones was in the situation room in less than a minute, dripping wet.
"Captain Robinson reporting, sir," the pilot said, jumping to attention when Jones walked in.
"At ease, Robinson," Jones said, waving off the military formality. "You've just got in from Oregon? Must have been a hell of a flight in this weather."
"A little bumpy, sir," Robinson said.
"Well, we'll get you some grub and coffee," Jones told him, signalling to one of the night watch lieutenants.
"You spoke to Hunter?" Jones said, plopping down in to a chair. "When?"
"A few hours ago, General," Robinson said, finally sitting down. "He was at PAAC-Oregon."
"Really?" Jones asked. The general wasn't surprised that no one from PAAC-Oregon had radioed him about Hunter's presence there. They were just following orders. With the exception of emergency transmissions, there was a strict radio silence order in effect between Denver and the PAAC installations in Oregon and San Diego. It was standard for wartime footing. Jones was certain the Russians were monitoring every radio signal west of the SAM line, and they would have certainly picked up critical intelligence — especially about Ghost Rider — if the radio waves between the air station and the coast were used.
"Yes sir," Robinson replied. "That strange jet of his was there and he had a bunch of monkeys going over it."
"What was he doing?" Jones asked. He was intensely curious. "Plotting bombing patterns? Loading up with additional guns for his airplane?"
Robinson hesitated for a moment. "Well, no, General," he finally said. "In fact, he was working in the photo lab."
Jones looked up in surprise. "The photo lab?" he asked. "What the hell was he doing in there?"
"I'm not sure, sir," the captain answered. "I was there to pick up a barrel of photo developing wash. You know, for our photo recon boys here? So I went to the photo lab's dark room to get it and there was Hunter, working over a photo printer."
"He was developing pictures?"
"More accurately, he was developing a negative, sir," Robinson answered. "It was kind of funny-talking to him, because the only light in the room was the red safety light they use so as not to screw up the developing. All he asked me was how it was going here in Denver, and I said it looked good what with the air strikes and all.
"Then he just said something about it was still a long road to go, and everyone had to pitch in. He was real busy. Very intense:,So I got my developer and left."
The junior officer arrived with a pot of steaming coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Both Jones and Robinson immediately dug in.
"Any idea what kind of negative he was developing?" Jones asked. "Recon mission stuff? Bombing targets?"
"No way of knowing, sir," Robinson said.
Jones scratched his head. "Is that it, Captain?" he asked.
"Just about, other than that one of the photo lab guys told me that Hunter wanted them standing by because he would need a lot of photos in a hurry. They had one of their big printers warmed up and ready to go. You know, one of those high speed jobs that can print a couple of thousand photos at a whack."
Jones thought about it for a moment then wondered out loud. "What the hell is that boy up to?"
"Beats me, sir," Robinson said. "But whatever it is, he was sure serious about it. If you could have seen the look in his eyes, you'd know what I mean."
Jones nodded his head slowly. "I know exactly what you mean, Captain."
The day dawned cold, wet and miserable. Jones knew a big weather front that stretched back across the Rockies was due to pass through the Badlands during the daylight hours. That was fine with him. It would give his pilots a breather, allow maintenance crews to do necessary work on PAAC's aircraft and would also give the ground forces another day — though a wet one — to continue work on the defense line.
At least two airplanes were flying though. One was an ADF F-105, its pilot carrying a secret pouch from Fitzgerald. It was a videotape the Irishman had just recorded of himself. Because of the strict radio silence order, videotapes were the means of communication the Western Forces allies had agreed on to keep in touch.
Jones slipped the tape into the situation room's video machine and the TV screen slickered to life. It was Fitz himself, giving the latest situation report from the northern front.