"We may have our target," he told Ben as he tuned the device for clarity.
"Mark it," Ben said, as he checked his coordinates.
"That's them," Yaz confirmed. Six trailers moving fast along the open highway.
"They're emitting a lot of heat," he reported. "Been traveling for a while . .
."
"That's a good sign," Ben said, calling back to Football City to immediately report their find. "If we're real lucky, they'll pull over in a couple hours."
They continued to pace the convoy, up too high for anyone on the ground to notice. An hour passed . . . The mystery trucks continued to barrel 224
eastward, their accompanying military vehicles straining to keep up with them.
Suddenly the A-37's intercom was buzzing.
"Dragonfly? Fastball here. Come in," both of them heard coming from their helmet speakers. Yaz recognized the voice as that of Major Shane, the Football City Special Forces commander.
"Fastball, we read you," Yaz answered. "What's your location?"
"We are about twenty minutes behind you," came the reply. "You'll be picking us up on your scope soon."
Yaz knew the Strike Force had been waiting on stand-by for two days. The revised plan was for he and Ben to locate the convoy after it had left Indianapolis, track it and call for the chopper troops.
Ben brought the A-37 down to 9000 feet and, within the half hour, the strike force chopper was off their left wing. They would maintain radio silence from then on, so their greetings were confined to waves and hand signals. Ben put the Dragonfly into a wide-out circle as the chopper sped ahead to a pre-determined spot 50 miles up the highway.
Now they would try a more unorthodox means of determining just what the mystery trucks were carrying.
Team Leader Lieutenant Yuri Sudoplatov was getting hungry . . .
The convoy of six tractor trailers and four jeeps had been on the road for more than six hours without a stop for food or rest. Yet they were still three and a half hours away from their rendezvous
225
with the fuel trucks, and their orders were not to stop for anything until then.
He settled back into his seat in the lead tractor trailer, lighting a cigarette to help quell his rumbling stomach. Everything is so flat, he thought, looking out at the Indiana countryside. And the roads so wide and well-paved. It was a far cry from Soviet Georgia, where he had been raised, and where the main road was nothing but a worn down trail of packed dirt and oil.
He knew they had to be careful. They were just at the beginning of their long journey. Another group of trucks was attacked a few days before while they were awaiting orders. It was only by chance that a new detachment of Spetsnaz was also at the location waiting for deployment that the attackers were driven off. But the attackers were not just bandits or a small air pirate raiding party. They had had coordinated air support, a fairly modern helicopter and sophisticated communications. The thinking around his camp was that the raiders were actually part of the democratic forces who had recently taken over Football City.
But all this made no difference to him. As a member of Spetsnaz, his job was to deliver the trucks to their ultimate location, stopping at the assigned points along the way. It was not for him to question his orders or even wonder why his commanders thought the cargo in the semis was so important. Just do it, quickly. Efficiently. And kill anyone who gets in the way.
He routinely radioed back to each of this trucks, checking on the two-man crews. Other than the expected complaints about not eating, everything was going well. When they had started
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out from Football City, he and his men had many problems figuring out how to handle the big American rigs. Now, with several hundred miles under their belts, they were cruising along like experts, even managing to master the CB
radios found in each cab.
He finished his cigarette and leaned back further in the cab of the big Kenworth. If he could sleep for a hour or so, then the refueling point would be that much nearer and his stomach that much closer to being filled.
He had drifted off for only a few moments when he was suddenly awakened by his driver applying the brakes of the truck.
His head hit the windshield and opened up a slight cut. Somewhat dazed, he was about to turn to his driver and chastise him when he saw why the man had stopped so suddenly in the first place: there was a large helicopter hovering in the middle of the highway, no more than a quarter mile up ahead.
Lieutenant Sudoplatov immediately got on the CB and screamed orders out to his team. "Prepare for action," he told them. "And protect the trailers at all costs!"
He brought up his own AK-47 and quickly checked that its magazine was full.
The truck was now crawling along at 20 mph, its driver not quite sure what to do.
Suddenly a missile flashed out of the side of the chopper and exploded in the pavement just in front of them. His driver was able to veer to the left to avoid the gaping hole left by the explosion, but the truck began to fish-tail.
Just then, a large caliber machine gun opened up on them, puncturing the truck's radiator and breaking its head-227
lights.
"Go!" Sudoplatov screamed at his driver and into the CB microphone simultaneously. "Don't stop! Keep going!"
The convoy drivers obeyed and floored their rigs. The chopper meanwhile had lifted off and was moving backward, keeping pace ahead of the rigs, firing at least three machine guns at them.
Another missile-the Soviet officer recognized it as a TOW antitank weapon
-flashed over his cab and struck the jeep right behind him, instantly killing all five of his men inside. Still he was screaming into his CB: "Go! Don't stop!"
The chopper turned and hop-scotched ahead by about a quarter mile, its machine guns never once pausing.
"They are aiming for our military vehicles!" the lieutenant shouted to his driver. "They are trying not to damage the trucks!"
Suddenly he heard a screech behind him, and, by chance, caught a glimpse in his side view mirror of an aircraft bearing down on them. It was not a fighter-more like an armed recon jet.
He saw four puffs of smoke spit out of its wings, with long trails of fire behind. The four rockets struck the jeep at the end of the convoy, the resulting explosions lifting it up off the highway and throwing it into a ditch.
"Bastards!" he swore, scouting the road ahead. It was nothing but flat, open highway. There were no underpasses or tunnels in which they could hope to hide. The attackers had picked their spot well . . .
The big helicopter fired two more TOWs at his remaining jeeps, missing both, but just barely. Now it suddenly banked to its left and headed 228
back toward the convoy. As Sudoplatov watched in amazement, the copter pulled right alongside his rig, and kept pace no more than 20 feet away from him.
"These are crazy people," he yelled to his driver, who was doing all he could just to keep the truck on the roadway.
The lieutenant had his AK-47 out the window in an instant and began firing at the chopper. It was so close to him that he could see the faces of the men inside, firing back at him. He knew they were aiming for the tires on his rig
-if they had wanted to destroy him, another TOW missile at this distance would have done the job.
"Faster!" he commanded his driver, all the while firing at the helicopter. "Do not slow down!"
The copter pulled back and began peppering the third truck in line, its driver nearly losing control when the highway came to a slight curve. The attack jet once again roared aver head, spitting out four more rockets which hit one of his jeeps head on, destroying it instantly.
Still the convoy rolled on at its desperate pace. Lieutenant Sudoplatov saw it as an intractable situation. The helicopter would keep up the highspeed chase until it disabled one of the tractor trailers. He and his troops could fire at the aircraft all they wanted, but he knew it would take a one-in-a-million shot to bring it down.
In all his years of training for Spetsnaz-infiltration, sabotage, silent killing, psych-ops and be-hind-the-lines reconnaissance -nothing had prepared him for this insane confrontation.
Just then he heard a cry from the radio by one of his drivers. Hanging out the cab window he saw the last truck in the convoy wheeling out of 229
control, its right side rear tires shot out and in shreds. The truck yawed to its right and started to spin violently. The helicopter stayed right next to it, like a hawk waiting for its prey, thus allowing the other five trucks to pull ahead and escape.
Lieutenant Sudoplatov knew he had failed. The attackers-no doubt members of the democratic forces -had snagged their prize. It would be child's play for them to cut through the trailer's welds and discover what was hidden inside.
Then the secret would be known.
Suddenly, Lieutenant Sudoplatov wasn't hungry any more . . .
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It was windy on top of the building, the stiff breeze coming off the lake chilling the Wingman, and causing him to pull his coat collar up around his neck.
The sun was down and lights began popping on all over the city. His city. He could still see smoke rising to the south where the Circle and Family armies had clashed in 36 hours of bloody fratricide. Neither side had won -only the death was constant. They had succeeded in reducing their strength to half, meaning 40,000 bodies lay twisted in the woods and the valley where the battle had been fought.
Meanwhile the diversion had worked; the backdoor had been left open. Even now, retreating Family troops were still streaming back to New Chicago, only to be astonished to find Free Canadians were now in control and disarming anyone 231
carrying a weapon.
Yet, now, as he beheld the city before him, the huge metropolis of which he was the head of state, he felt yet another wave of melancholy wash over him.
For the second time in only a few weeks, the United American Army had succeeded in taking over a key city without incurring any casualties. Yet he felt lost. It was like he had been moving on auto-pilot for the past few weeks, two large parts of him missing, doing things by rote. It really came down to one question: Did he want his airplane or his woman most? A frightening thought-that he may someday have to choose between them-ran him through like a sword. He shook his head as if to knock out the disturbing thoughts. He turned and faced the north, 300 miles away was Free Canada .
. . and Dominique. It was because of her that his heart ached. He missed her that much. He suddenly felt an insane desire to get ripping drunk, acquire one of the many Dominique look-alike that were still roaming the city and bed her immediately. Wouldn't it be the next best thing? "Hawk?"
He turned, the voice behind him liberating him from the disturbing thoughts.
It was J.T. "What are you doing, pal?" J.T. asked him. Hunter turned back to look out on the city. "Just thinking, partner," he said. "Thinking about where it's all going to end . . ." J.T. joined him at the railing. "I hope it ends back on the east coast in a few weeks," J.T. told him. "That is the plan. It's been going like clockwork so far . . ." "We've been lucky . . ." Hunter said.
"The Circle is so disorganized, they can't shoot straight, at least in this part of the country. As for The Family ... I mean, look out there. You would never know that a major battle was fought just thirty miles from here.
"The lights are all on. Look at those cars and trucks in the streets. The casinos are open. Bars are open. It's just another day for them. They've become used to even the most insane conditions . . ."
"And you're their mayor . . ." J.T. said, smiling, trying to cheer him up.
"Yes," Hunter said. "And that's the most insane notion of all ..."
J.T. had known Hunter for years. It didn't take a shrink to know what was bothering him.
"You're operating under a double-whammy, Hawk," J.T. said. "You can't be with your lady and you can't fly your airplane. But the world doesn't stop turning
..."
Hunter just shrugged. He wasn't surprised that J.T. had guessed his plight.
But this hero stuff was suddenly getting very old.
"Now, you can do two things, Mr. Wingman," J.T. continued. "You can sit up here like Hamlet, pissed off and feeling sorry for yourself, or you can do something about it.
"Put a goddamn call into Jones and have him tell those cowpokes in Texas to get your goddamn airplane flying. If it's a question of money, shit, send them some of the gold we got. There's still a pile of it left-and we haven't even collected our first taxes yet."
Hunter remained silent. He knew his friend was right. Self-flagellation was not the solution.
"As for that beautiful lady of yours," J.T. continued. "Well, at least you know she's safe . . ."
Hunter nodded slowly in agreement.
"You know, our old buddy General Seth Jones would kick your ass if he saw you moping like this," J.T. said, putting his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know a lot of the heavy stuff gets left to you, Hawk. But that's the price you have to pay for being a super-duper kind of hero. You made the name for yourself, now you have to uphold it. You're like the power hitter on a baseball team. People have just come to expect it from you. So, until you decide to quit the business, you'll have to keep the old lip stiff and upper."
"Yeah, yeah," Hunter said, in a tone of voice like he had heard it all before.
J.T. slapped him on the back. "That's the spirit!" he said. "Now, let's go get something to eat, something to drink and something to poke . . ."
Hunter turned toward him for the first time. "You go ahead, I'll catch up," he said.
J.T. smiled and nodded. "Sure, Hawk," he said, walking away "We're partying right over at that Palmer House. I'll save you a seat . . ."
Hunter thanked him and he left.
He took several deep breath of the night air, hoping it would help clear his head. Almost unconsciously, he put his hand over his breast pocket and felt the reassuring folds of the flag he always kept there, wrapped around the photo of Dominique. When he got like this he always seemed to be able to draw strength from it.