"You've got to see this," Hunter said in all urgency, handing a videotape to Jones. "I just shot it less than an hour ago.
"The Circle has just made what might be a big mistake. And if we move fast enough, we can catch them with their pants down…"
Chapter Thirty-eight
A sudden jolt of excitement ripped through the situation room. The video recorder and TV were turned on. Jones pushed in the videotape. Instantly the screen flickered to life.
"Holy Christ!" Jones said.
The screen showed long lines of Circle vehicles, headlights blazing in the pre-dawn darkness, all heading west.
"They're moving everything! In a line!" Hunter said. "It looks like a Goddamn May Day parade out there. Their infantry is riding on the launchers, trucks, jeeps, tanks, APCs, old cars, buses, you name it. They're jammed up on Route 70 like the LA Freeway at rush hour!"
"The fools!" Jones exclaimed. "Didn't they learn anything when we greased that column a few days ago?"
"Knowing the Russians, they probably hushed it all up. Kept it secret," Hunter said.
"Either that or they're desperate," Jones said.
"Whatever the hell is going on," Hunter continued. "They've closed their ranks. They've been maneuvering all night. They're attacking us with one major thrust."
"But why in hell would they move on us now?" Jones asked.
Hunter shook his head. "Any commander with an ounce of brain would complete his consolidation then dig in and sit tight. But the Russians are so clamped into their command structures that they have no freedom of thought, no freedom of action. If someone in Moscow says attack, they have to attack. And now."
Hunter turned to the situation room map. "They know our trenches are just over this ridge-line. They're making a dash for it. They want to get in position between the ridges and our lines, set up their missiles and attack. They're hoping to overwhelm us with numbers. That's why they've suddenly gone mobile.
Their commanders are no doubt kicking their butts all along that highway."
Jones had another question. "But if they're moving their guys on the SAM launchers, how are they handling their air defense?"
"That's just it," Hunter said, turning back to the video machine and speeding up the tape. He finally reached a spot that showed a close up, if hazy view, of the front of the approaching army column. "They're trying to leap-frog it.
The front of the column has about two hundred SA-2 launchers. Then every mile or so, they got anywhere from twenty to thirty more. These are the dedicated air defense guys.
They're not carrying any ground troops. They have their radars on and can go hot quick."
"But when they see anything coming," Jones interjected. "They'll still have to stop their vehicles and start launch procedures."
Hunter nodded. "And that's our chance to get them…"
Jones read Hunter's mind. "I get it," he said. "We send in the fighters first.
Just blow right over the top of them. Stop the column. That should cause them to dispatch their troops."
"That's right," Hunter said, barely containing the rising excitement in his voice. "Then we send in the B-1s…"
"… and even though the SAM radars will be hot," Jones said, finishing Hunter's thought. "They won't be picking anything up on them!"
"Exactly," Hunter said. "And you can be sure that when the shooting starts, those Reds will kick off their valiant Circle allies off their launchers and start firing every Goddamn SAM they have. But by the time the B-1s arrive, they'll be shooting blind."
The pilots were on their feet by this time, crowded around the TV set.
"While the B-1s take care of the SAMs, we'll have to go after the troops plus any Yaks that might show," Hunter said, summing it all up. "If we're lucky, we can cut their ground attack in half before they ever reach our defense line."
The general grabbed a red phone and was soon talking to the commander of the flight line personnel. He quickly told the man that all of the PAAC aircraft should be refitted with anti-personnel weapons and extra ammunition. The B-1s should be loaded up to the maximum with high explosive bombs, appropriately known as "super-blockbusters."
Jones again addressed the airmen. "Okay, that's the plan… let's go!
Launch now and go. We'll have the coordinates to you while you're taxiing.
Good luck guys!"
Chapter Thirty-nine
Roman candles…
The sky over the front of the long enemy column looked like the Fourth of July. Hundreds of long, fiery streaks of light and smoke were popping up from the roadway, shooting off in all different directions. Some were exploding in midair. Others traveled in smoky corkscrew flight lines, only to fall to the ground and blow up.
Desperation. The Soviets knew their attack had been discovered. They knew the Western Forces' air armada would soon strike. As predicted, they were sending up a wall of panicky SAMs.
Hunter's Stealth fighter was the first one over the scene. Behind him were Crunch's F-4s. Then came the A-7s, the F-104s, the F-106s, the A-10s and the T-38s.
Per Jones' orders, all of the airplanes were carrying not high explosive bombs, but guts filled with cannon shells and air-to-air missiles.
Most of the Circle Army troops riding in the long column had yet to see an aircraft the entire war. Now suddenly the sky was filled with them. Even the barrage of SAMs being sent up by the launchers at the head of the column offered no comfort. Even the lowest grunt knew you couldn't fire a SAM when it was moving along the highway. The column had quickly screeched to a halt. The ground troops were ordered off the launching trucks and over to the side of the road. They felt helpless. Exposed. Some of them panicked.
Hunter went in first. Twisting and turning to avoid getting hit by a lucky SAM shot, he opened up with the Stealth's powerful cannons. The airplane confidently shuddered as long spits of flame shot out from its nose. The streaks of burning shells found targets immediately on the overcrowded highway. Troop-carrying vehicles, tanks, APCs, fuel trucks, buses, and everywhere, the SAM launchers… nothing escaped Hunter's furious barrage.
He could see the hapless Circle troops scattering toward the sides of the highway. It was as if they had already read the script. Strange. He felt for them in a way. They had been taken in by Viktor's mind games, sold a bill of goods that was now going very sour. Now they would die fighting for that madman's twisted plan…
Hunter pulled the Stealth fighter straight up and spun around to his right.
Looking over his shoulder he could see Crunch's F-4s walking down the column's length, firing their cannons non-stop while dropping anti-personnel bombs all along the roadside.
Behind them came two A-10s. Then two F-106 Delta Darts. Then a pair of A-7 Strikefighters. Then the T-38s and the F-104s. On and on, two by two, the Western Forces aircraft swept down on the column, ripping up both flesh and metal targets, then sweeping away. All the while, SAMs were streaming, everywhere — and not hitting a thing.
That's when the feeling hit Hunter like a shot out of the blue…
Here they come, he thought. Directly over the horizon. To the east. At least 30 of them. The Yaks had decided to join the fray.
"Okay," Hunter called into his microphone. "We've got company."
Many of the PAAC fighters were only now picking up the faint images of the Soviet jets on their radar screens. Immediately the radio traffic between the fighters picked up. Vectors were given, coordinates checked. Enemy targets counted, attack patterns discussed.
"Delta One group, arm your air-to-airs," Hunter called out. "Crunch, you got Delta Two!"