"Jesus Christ…" Twomey said softly, trying to imagine what three thousand, SAM launchers in one concentrated area could do.
"We've got to hit them hard and quick, boys," Jones said defiantly. "Just as soon as the sun is up, we have to get airborne and plaster the shit out of them. If we don't then they'll run over the fifty-five thousand men I have waiting on our defense line without even stopping."
"What do we have for air support?" Twomey asked, pouring himself another coffee.
"Well, Mike Fitzgerald is sending down a squadron of his Thunderchiefs," Jones said. "They should be here any time now. He has The Circle's Northern group so screwed up in Minnesota, it'll take them a week to figure out how to get out.
"St. Louie promised us six F-20s and the Texans are sending a squadron of their F-4s along with them. They wanted to send more — but they still have their hands full, hitting New Orleans everyday while trying to keep Circle Southern Army from crossing their border."
Jones paused to light a half-burned cigar. "As for us," he said, through a cloud of stale smoke. "I sent back word to PAAC Oregon and San Diego. Anything that can fly, and carry a gun or a bomb will be here by noon."
Wa shook his head. "Even the World War II stuff?"
"You bet," Jones said. "The Mustang. The P-38. Everyone's coming to the party.
Choppers, too. Any that we can spare, that is. We got the Crazy Eights and the Cobra Brothers working the defense line. God help them when the SAMs start flying."
"Seems like you've done everything you could, General," Twomey concluded. "By the book, too."
"Well, we're still missing one piece," Jones said, chewing the end of his cigar. "One very valuable piece…"
Chapter Thirty-seven
"Does anybody here remember the movie, 'High Noon?' " Jones asked.
It was still a half hour before dawn and the situation room at the Denver Air Station was crowded with pilots on hand to receive their pre-mission briefing.
"Well, that's what it's going to be like out there today," Jones told the assembled airmen. "More bad guys than good guys."
He displayed a photograph of a large portion of the encamped Circle Army taken just after sunset the day before. It showed tens of thousands of tiny lights, like a galaxy of candles in the night, dotting the west Kansas plains. They went on and on for miles.
"Those," Jones said grimly, "are campfires…"
A wave of low volume swearing and whistles of amazement passed through the room.
"If we figure at least five men to a campfire," Jones said. "Then we're talking about a lot of bad guys. And they've been on the move. They're only about fifteen miles away from our lines now."
Now there was a deathly silence.
"We've been chipping away at them every day," Jones continued. "And between defections and our air strikes, we figured The Circle lost close to two divisions and a hell of a lot of equipment.
"But… we estimate they've still got five divisions to throw at us. And these guys are the hard-core radicals. They're like the Shiites back in the 'I-ah-toll-lah's' heyday. Anyone remember that old goat? Fanatics. Ready and willing to die for the cause. These bastards still believe that Viktor's in charge. A lot of them were probably too blitzed to read the words on Hunter's propaganda leaflets."
He paused again.
"What kind of shape are these guys in?" Jones asked. "Bottom line is, we don't know. Our plan all along has been to hit their supply lines, cut them off, starve 'em. They've been through bad weather, their food supplies should be running low. They've been bombed every day, without so much as a single Yak to defend them. We'll know whether our strategy has worked or not as soon as we see the condition of the first Circle soldier who hits our defense line."
A slight murmur went up from the assembled pilots.
"But we have to expect the worse," Jones continued. "They have enough guys to hit us on three sides. Our defense line is being compressed. We've got some artillery, howitzers, tanks dug in around the area where we expect them, but all they have to do is hit us with a series of coordinated attacks, and our lines will not be able to hold.
"Now those B-1s you saw out on our runway are part of Top Secret project the Skunkworks cooked up before the Big War. We found them a few years ago. We've just got them working. How they do what they do, I couldn't even begin to explain to you all. Simply put: When conditions are right, and those five airplanes are working together, they're invisible on radar."
Jones waited a few seconds to let the news sink in. "Now that's a big advantage we were sure we could use. But the bad news is, those B-1s alone can't win this one for us. We can't send those airplanes out there helter-skelter, because they can be shot down by visually-sighted heatseekers, manually-aimed AA guns, and worst of all, air-to-air missiles. And there are still some forty-odd Yaks out there, somewhere."
He paused again.
"I don't have to tell anyone of you how serious the situation is. We're fighting for our Goddamn lives. We're also fighting for something we used to call 'democracy.' It's what our country used to be built on. If this is its last gasp, well, so be it."
Jones looked out at his pilots. Fighters, all. Brave men, all. Americans.
Every last one of them.
"So, it's going to be up to us," Jones said. "We've got fifty-five thousand guys sitting out there in that trench, with seventy-five thousand guys and a lot of SAM cover, coming at them. Anything we let get through will be going for our guys' throats.
"So we have no choice really. I've ordered all our airplanes to be fitted with heavy bombs. Stuff that can wipe out trucks, vehicles. I know that will slow everyone down and cut down on their maneuverability. But we'll have to gamble.
Half of us will have to go after the SAMs and the rest will have to dodge all the fucking missiles and get to those Circle grunts."
"And what about the B-1s?" someone asked.
"At this moment," Jones said slowly. "We'll have to hold the B-1s in reserve.
If we were in the driver's seat for this one, I'd send them against the Circle Army right now. But as the last photo shows, they're just too spread out. If they move toward us in a wide range of attacks, they'll be too scattered for the B-1s to do much good. Remember B-1s are strategic bombers. I can't risk sending them on tactical strikes, especially when they have to work together.
They'll wind up dropping ten thousand pounds of bombs on a couple of squads of Circle jerks.
"So we have to keep the B-1s here. Have them ready to strike whenever the Circle breaks through. They're the only ace in the hole we have left."
There was another long silence, then one pilot spoke up. "Any chance of more recon photos coming in, General?"
Jones hated to hear the question. "Sorry, guys. The answer is no," he said slowly. "That's the last photograph we've taken of them."
Jones sensed the uneasiness on the part of the pilots in the room. Good recon was the most important element in a successful air strike. Without it, you were flying "dumb."
"As far as recon goes I'm sorry. But that's the best we can do. And, after all our preparation, that's what we need most…"
"Jesus Christ," one of the pilots said aloud. "If only Hunter was here with that Stealth of his…"
The words were just barely out of the man's mouth when the door to the situation room swung open. A bright light on the other side made it difficult for the pilots to clearly see who was standing in the doorway. But Jones knew who it was.
"Well, Major Hunter," he said with a wide grin. "Nice of you to join us…"
Relief swept the room. The star pitcher had just declared himself ready for the Big Game. Hunter bounded up to the front of the room. The assembled pilots broke into a spontaneous round of applause. It was getting to be a habit. With the Wingman on hand, the pilots knew they now had a fighting chance.