The Soviet general stood on top of the roof of his own personal BMP, looked over his column and smiled…
Most of his SAM launchers were now in place and ready to go operational when the Western Forces' jets returned. He knew the Yak fighters would soon arrive. His men had counted only about 30 Western Forces' jets in the brief air attack; he was expecting about 40 Yaks to appear shortly. The combination of his SAMs and the Yaks would make him unbeatable.
Best of all, he was finally rid of the ragged Circle soldiers. He could see the last of their army marching west toward the ridgeline and the Western Forces' trenches that lay beyond. Good, the Soviet thought. Let them all kill each other off. His column, with its professional Soviet troops, the SAMs and the Yaks, were now a self-contained fighting force. Once they defeated the Western Forces' air corps, he would be able to roam the countryside at will.
No longer would he be bogged down by the hooligans of The Circle Army. The American word for them was "suckers." They had followed Viktor like a bull with a ring in its nose; fallen for his elaborate "exotic Queen," psych-ops, fallen for his call to arms, fallen for his whole line of Circle bullshit. The Soviet general knew that The Circle soldiers had been just pawns in Viktor's game all along.
He watched as the Western Forces' aircraft streaked over the horizon, bombing The Circle troops. He laughed. The PAAC jets wouldn't dare come close to the column now that the SAMs were "hot." The sounds of the bombing and gunfire coming from the other side of the ridge was music to his ears.
He knew there was never any real plan for The Circle to take over the continent, never any real alliance between The Circle and the Soviets. The whole thing was masterfully staged with just one purpose in mind: destabilization. Keep the Americans fighting amongst themselves, even if it took every SAM trooper the Russians could muster. They had reached their goal with a minimum of effort — the Americans would wipe out each other's army and the Soviets would be the ruling force on the continent. The capitalists had finally hung themselves.
Now if only those Yaks would arrive…
The PAAC aircraft of the Delta One group plunged right into the heart of the advancing Yak force. A swirling, twisting dogfight of enormous proportions ensued. The Yajcs were at a substantial advantage — their pilots were able to stop their aircraft on a dime, hover in the air as the attacking PAAC aircraft would swoop on by. Then suddenly the Yak would become the hunter.
But the Western Forces' had their own, not-so-secret yet radar-proof weapon.
The Wingman was everywhere…
PAAC pilots who were there that day told of how Hunter had purposely let several Yaks at once get on his tail, his Stealth fighter moving only enough to the left and right to prevent the Soviet pilots from getting a good missile lock on him. Drawing two or three Yaks at a time, Hunter would lead them on a merry chase, climbing to extreme altitudes, diving at nose-bleeding speeds. More than a few of the Yak pilots passed out from the g-forces, only to awake just as their airplanes were about to smash into the ground. As the other PAAC pilots held their own with the Yaks, Hunter was knocking them off two and three at a time. And all without yet firing a shot.
Finally the Soviet officer in charge of the Yaks realized the insanity of chasing the Stealth and ordered his fighters to attack the other PAAC jets instead. That's when Hunter got down to business.
A Yak had locked onto the end of a F-104 and fired an Aphid air-to-air. Hunter suddenly flashed between the two airplanes blasting the missile with a well-placed cannon burst. He then twisted over backward and locked on his own Sidewinder missile. The Yak pilot pulled back on his controls to attempt a mid-air stop, but he was too late. Hunter went screaming by, and released a Sidewinder as if he was flying a torpedo-bomber. The missile went hot and impacted on the Yak's exhaust tube simultaneously, blowing the Soviet jet to smithereens.
Hunter was now tailing two Yaks at once. They were intent on downing a slow F-106 that was diving toward one of their comrades. The Russians had no idea Hunter was so close — their radars showed nothing but blue sky behind them. Two squeezes of his cannons' trigger and two Yaks were soon on their way to fiery deaths.
Although the Yaks outnumbered the Western Forces' airplanes, the Soviet pilots were now getting panicky. The crazy man in the Stealth was shooting at them from every direction, or so it seemed. One second he was flying barely 20 feet off the deck. The next instant it seemed like he was diving on them from 40,000 feet. He was taking on everyone. Firing missiles, strafing with cannons. Any Soviet pilot who chose to stop in mid-air risked death by collision. The Stealth was even trying to ram the stationary Soviet fighters.
All the while the other PAAC jets were chalking up wins. Soon the Kansas prairie below was littered with Yak wreckage. Several of the Russians had seen enough and fled to the south. Hunter let them go. He knew they wouldn't get far. Just over the horizon he "saw" a flight of friendly jets approaching.
F-20s. F-4s. St. Louie's situation on the Texas border had lessened enough for him to send some help to the major battle area. He learned later that the Yaks ran head-on into the Football City-Texas Air Force airplanes with disastrous results for the Soviet side.
Another group of Yaks also opted to break off the battle and roared off to the north. Their escape attempt too was futile. They met a flight of Fitzgerald's ADF Thunderchiefs over the Nebraska border…
Hunter searched the skies above the Kansas battlefield. All of the Soviet airplanes were either shot down or retreating. His mind flashed back to that arctic recon flight so long ago. The VTOL adversaries he had first found hugging the snow-covered ground near Nome, Alaska, had, for the most part, been defeated. It had been a long, tiring campaign, but at last he could say the right side won. He reached inside his flight suit pocket and pulled out the small tattered American flag.
"Okay, old buddy," he whispered. "Make it through another one…"
The first bomb dropped from Ghost Rider 1 landed less than a mile in front of the Soviet general's command car. It was a 10,000 super blockbuster, a huge explosive device that obliterated every truck, tank, APC and SAM launcher on a quarter mile stretch of the highway.
The Soviet general was at first stunned, then angry. He was certain that one of the SAMs had exploded on its launcher. But suddenly another blockbuster detonated. This one barely a half mile from his position in the column. He saw a T-72 heavy tank thrown more than 200 feet in the air so powerful was the blast.
Where were the bombs coming from?
He screamed to his BMP's radar operator to sweep the area. The report came back as a solid nyet. There wasn't an aircraft in sight.
Just then a third blockbuster exploded not a thousand feet away from him.
Horror struck him deep down. Someone was dropping bombs on them, but they weren't being picked up on radar. His first thought was it was the Stealth airplane. But he immediately discounted this notion. These bombs were too large to be carried by the Stealth.
He scanned the crystal-clear sky. Then he saw them…
About four miles up. No contrails. No sound. Five jets. Big ones. Flying in a precision formation. Were they B-1s?
He screamed to his radar man again. "We have nothing on the scope!" the man yelled back, realizing just as his general did that they were suddenly vulnerable.
The Soviet officer reached for his microphone even as he heard the next bomb screeching through the air. "Fire all missiles!" he screamed. "All units fire all…"
The next blockbuster landed directly on his BMP. His message was cut off by the blast of 10,000 pounds of explosives. In the instant between life and death that seemed to last an eternity, one last thought flashed through his mind. "These Americans… you cannot defeat them."