Orders were orders and so the panicking SAM technicians started launching every missile from every launcher, hoping to hit the radar-invisible bombers.
The Ghost Riders were not carpet bombing the column. Rather they were using their invisibility shield to precision-bomb the highway. One bomb from each plane then the whole formation would swing around and start the whole procedure again.
It was a devastating strategy. The B-1s bombed with impunity. The hundreds of SAMs — their radar-homing target devices rendered useless — were being shot every which way. Many fell back to earth, hitting vehicles in the column. This only added to the fright and confusion of the Soviet troops. They were leaderless yet ordered to stay at their positions. They were being bombed but were unable to fight back. Some ran. Some tried to maneuver their vehicles out of the burning, twisted traffic jam. But it was of no use. The blockbusters were coming down in clockwork precision. The column and all the precious SAMs were being systematically destroyed. Thousands lay dying in the Kansas sun.
Russian blood mixing with American soil.
Another Soviet foreign adventure was coming to an end…
Chapter Forty
"Sharpshooters! Front and center!" Dozer yelled into his radiophone.
The advancing Circle army was now only a quarter of a mile away from the Western Forces' defense line. He had yet to order his ground troops to fire.
The sight of the approaching rabble, most of them young kids with no weapons, was causing his head and his belly to ache.
Up and down the line, the sharpshooters of Dozer's 7th Cavalry got into position. "Pick off the ones they've strapped with TNT," Dozer's order went out.
One by one the crack Marine riflemen aimed and fired at the approaching human bombs. One by one The Circle kamikazes were hit by the rifle bullets, exploding in a flash of fire and a spray of bloody guts. Each human bomb that went up killed a dozen of the comrades closest to them.
Yet still the human wave advanced.
All along the defense line, the Western Forces soldiers were getting anxious.
They, too, could see the approaching army was little but a rabble, yet, not every human bomb had been destroyed. They were assuming the worst and figuring that many of The Circle troops were also booby-trapped. Yet the trench soldiers would hold their fire until they received the order…
Dozer had made his decision. He couldn't risk the lives of his troops in the hand-to-hand fighting that would follow if he had his soldiers hold their fire now.
The Marine captain shook his head. His radioman nearby heard him whisper: "God forgive me…" Then the captain grabbed his radiophone and yelled: "Fire!"
As one, the entire two-mile line of Western Forces opened up on the approaching horde. The first line of Circle troops fell. Another line appeared. Another volley and these unarmed soldiers were mowed down. Another line, another volley. Line after line of the enemy simply walked into the murderous barrage of lead. Stomachs were ripped open, skulls exploded. The brainwashed rabble kept marching. Over the horribly shot up bodies of their comrades and sometimes crunching right through them. The air was heavy with smoke and the smell of gunfire and blood.
It was a slaughter. Still no Circle soldier fired a shot. Only later would the Western Forces discover that of the few Circle soldiers carrying guns, none of them had ammunition. The Circle commanders and their Russian allies had hoarded it all, preferring to send The Circle grunts into the mouth of death without so much as a bullet.
Two volleys from the trench hit The Circle line just 100 feet away. Several of the enemy troops broke into a run toward the defense line, but they were quickly cut down. One last volley all along the trench and then it was over…
The gunfire stopped. The gentle wind blew the smoke away. It was quiet for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. The Western Forces soldiers looked up from over their rifles and took in the carnage in front of them. A few screams and moans could be heard coming from the field of dead and dying before the trench. Tens of thousands of the enemy lay mangled and twisted before them.
Not a single Circle soldier had made it to the defense line…
Now, more news was flashed back to the Western Forces' troops in the line. The enemy column on Route 70 had been stopped. There would be no more Circle soldiers charging the trenches. The back of the evil Circle-Soviet alliance was broken.
Although the war was apparently over, the soldiers in the trenches couldn't relax. The anxious hours, days, weeks. Adrenaline pumping. All to end in the slaughter of innocents? The mass killing of the hopped up brainwashed kids. It was disgusting. Death for death's sake.
But the calm did not last too long…
Dozer scanned the horizon. He felt something. Out there. Beyond the ridgeline.
Something much more dangerous than the helpless troops they had just gunned down.
Then he saw them…
"Jesus Christ…" Dozer said, blindly reaching for his radiophone to call Hunter. "There's thousands of them…"
For miles in every direction, on the ridges in front of them, sat the 30,000 men of the 1st Mongolian Cavalry…
They had come out of nowhere. The unexpected variable. The troops in the trenches suddenly found themselves alert again. Tense again. It was frightening. The line of the Mongolian soldiers covered the whole horizon.
Dozer radioed all along to his officers. Each report was the same. The Mongol horde stretched for miles. And it was preparing to attack.
Word was instantly flashed back to the Denver Air Station. Most of the jets that had defeated the Yaks had returned and shut down. Now they learned they had to quickly refuel, bomb up and speed back to the front.
Hunter was the first one off the ground…
"Here they come!"
The cry went up in the Western Forces' trench-works. Every soldier stared out on to the flatlands before them.
The Mongols were bringing their horses up to a canter.
"Get ready!" the word passed through the Western Forces' lines.
Dozer's Marines walked among their volunteer troops on the flank, making sure everyone was in position with a full-load of ammo. The regular Pacific American soldiers in the middle of the line waited patiently in grim anticipation — to finally to draw blood from the Asian horsemen.
Two miles out, the Mongols kicked their horses into a fast trot. They fanned out until their line was nearly two miles across. Many of them were wearing uniforms akin to those worn by their ancestors — bright, colorful, evil-looking.
Others were simply dressed in used Chinese Army fatigues. Each carried some kind of rifle — the Mongols' proficiency was shooting well from a moving horse — and the mandatory, razor-sharp sword.
The leader of the horde, a man known as the Great Obo, was at the head of the column, dressed to the nines in the ancient oriental costume, riding a tall, pure-white stallion. He would lead his men into battle this time, just as he had done for the past few months. They would move as he moved.
The moments passed tensely through the Western Forces' line. Dozer, the powerful pair of electronic spyglasses pressed against his face, had identified the Great Obo as the cavalry's leader and watched him every step of the way. Even through the scope, the warrior looked fierce, fearless and proud.
When the horse column reached a mile out, Obo broke his horse into a slow gallop. His army followed in kind. Dozer raised his hand. The young Marine radioman stood close by, holding a phone which crackled continuously with static. High above and far away, the sound of jet engines could be heard…
Dozer had Obo in full view now. Suddenly the Mongol gave his steed two, sharp cracks with his whip and the horse responded by breaking into a full gallop.