This time was no different.
Hunter fully intended to take J.T.'s advice and 234
was descending the stairs to his chambers when he saw Yaz and Ben Wa rushing up to meet him. "We hit the jackpot!" Yaz told him as they quickly walked into his office. "We stopped one of the semis, just around Muncie."
Hunter immediately brightened up. Time to get back to work, he told himself.
"What happened?" he asked. Ben quickly told him about the high speed interception of the convoy of mystery trucks. "Everyone OK?" Hunter asked. "No casualties on our side," Ben told him. "We do have a bunch of dead Spetsnaz though ..." "So they are in charge of running those trucks east," he said.
"The Strike Force meeting them in the woods that night wasn't a fluke ..."
"That's an affirmative," Yaz said. "There wasn't a Circle guy around. It was strictly a Spets operation . . ."
Ben continued. "When we left, the Football City guys were just breaking into the trailer. In fact, we heard the chopper landed at the airport just after we did."
"Any idea what they found inside?" Hunter asked.
Both Yaz and Ben shook their heads. "We had agreed not to discuss it even on the secure channels," Ben said. "But whatever it is, those Soviet Special Forces guys sure busted ass trying to protect it."
Then, as if on cue, Major Shane of the Football City Special Forces was let into the room.
But the normally smiling cowboy was wearing a very perplexed look.
"Shane, good to see you, man," Hunter said, rising to greet him with a handshake. He got right
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to the point. "Did you bust into the truck?"
Shane nodded, his face still a mask of puzzlement.
"Yeah, we got into it," he said, removing his beret and running his fingers through his hair. "But, I'll tell you, I almost wish we hadn't."
"What do you mean?" Hunter asked him, his curiosity getting the best of him.
"What the hell was in the goddamn truck?"
Shane looked him straight in the eye and said just one word: "Books."
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"Books?" Jones exclaimed over the radio. "What the hell are they doing hauling
'books' around?"
"Beats me," Hunter told him, adjusting the radio's tuning knob to get rid of some pesky static. "But that's what they were carrying. A trailer full of books. About eight thousand in all ..."
It was about an hour after Shane had reported the find. He, Hunter, Ben and Yaz beat their brains out trying to come up with a logical reason as to why the Soviets would assign their top special teams to escort convoys of tractor trailers carrying books. But it was a fruitless session-there seemed to be no logical answer.
"Did Shane say what kind of books they were?" Jones asked.
"All kinds," Hunter told him. "Hard covers. Paperbacks. Large print, small print. Everything from the Bible to some skin books. Even had a bunch of cookbooks . . ."
Hunter could just imagine seeing Jones, brow furrowed, fingers twirling, trying as he had to figure out what it all meant.
"And should we assume that these trucks, the same 237
ones hidden under Football City, are all filled with books?" he asked Hunter through a field of static.
"At this point, who knows?" Hunter answered. "We'll just have to hook another one and find out . . ."
There was a short pause, then Jones asked him: "Is this the craziest thing we've run up against yet, Hawk?"
Hunter didn't answer right away; they'd seen some pretty crazy things since the New Order came into force.
"It's certainly in the running for Number One," he finally replied.
Nearly 800 miles away, in the old nation's capital of Washington, DC, a massive traffic jam was in the making.
There were soldiers on every corner-Circle Army troops mostly-trying their best to direct traffic. But it was proving to be an impossible task. Even the man responsible for control of the city, a Spetsnaz General named Andrei Yetimov, had spent the last two days tearing around the streets in his staff car, trying to unsnarl the city's gridlock, but all to no avail.
It was just an oversight, though now one of potentially serious, if not frustrating, ramifications. No one in the planning stages-no Soviet or Circle officer-had realized what a problem the traffic would become.
And so it went on for days, as the thousands of trucks from all of the eastern half of the continent converged on Washington, pulling trailers loaded with books ...
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PART THREE
It had started to rain again.
Hunter pulled his coat tighter around him, though it did no good, as it was already soaked through. His hair was wet, and the last drops of black hair dye were running out onto his forehead and dripping down his cheek, like strange black tears.
The air base was deserted. From the looks of it, no airplane of any importance had landed there in years. Yet now his sixth sense told him an airplane was approaching. He looked back at the Sea Stallion helicopter that had carried him to this place, and saw J.T. and Wa, their faces lit by the green glow of the cockpit instrument panel, talking about something and paying no attention to him.
For this, he was glad. It was going to get very personal in a few moments . .
.
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The air field was somewhere near the undefined border of the Free Territory of New York and Free Canada. They had passed over Niagara Falls in getting here, and had seen the lights of Toronto briefly before that.
It had been four weeks since the takeover of Chicago. The newly liberated army of POWs had moved in and were now helping the Free Canadians run the city.
Hunter and his allies had stayed on only for ten days before the next phase of the operation had to begin. The remnants of The Circle Army that survived the battle against the Family had retreated eastward, first to old South Bend, Indiana, then to Detroit, where they were forced to move again after incessant air strikes from the United American Air Corps and from the Free Canadian Air Force.
Those enemy soldiers straggling out of Detroit-still some 22,000 strong-had invaded the nearly deserted city of Cleveland and set up camp there temporarily before continuing their retreat. Just at the New York border, the Circle forces split up. Some headed for Pittsburgh, now the enemy's most western outpost. But a much larger contingent headed for the Syracuse Aerodrome, the sprawling, former "truck stop of the sky" that was created by Mike Fitzgerald shortly after the New Order went down. As it would happen, The Aerodrome-whose territory actually encompassed the old city of Syracuse as well as its airport-was the next major target in the leap frog campaign of the United American Army.
The enigma of the mystery trucks had continued and deepened. A unit of PAAC
paratroopers, operating out of huge C-141 Starlifters and complemented by Cobra helicopter gunships, had
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found and attacked a concentration of tractor trailers outside the old city of Cincinnati two weeks before. The Spetsnaz troops protecting the trucks had literally fought to the last man, finally succumbing to the much larger United American Force. When the victors pried open the ten trailers they had seized, they found these too were loaded with books.
However, the most disturbing news of all came from a report by a long-range Free Canadian P-3 Orion radar ship, that had ventured out nearly to . Iceland just five days before. They had found the lead elements of the Soviet-sponsored invasion fleet that was heading for the east coast of America. Judging by its direction and its operational, but very slow speed, the Canadians estimated the entire fleet could arrive off the east coast of the American continent within two weeks, three at the latest.
So now the race against time had really begun
Yet all this was strangely of little concern to Hunter at the moment. He could hear the airplane getting closer and wondered if the fog surrounding the base would affect its landing.
He felt himself shivering-not so much from the cold but from anxiety. He had arranged to meet this flight, thinking it would bring him some peace of mind.
But in the three weeks he had waited-not knowing, but thinking of little else-the apprehension of what would be said this night had proved almost unbearable.
Finally he could see the airplane's landing lights cutting through the thick fog. He felt the lump in
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his throat grow to over-sized proportions. His stomach was creaking-he hadn't eaten in days - and he was embarrassed to feel his legs go a little wobbly as he shifted around in an effort to get warm.
The airplane-an ancient C-47-rumbled in to a relatively smooth, if not pretty, landing and taxied toward the beacon on the chopper's tail rotor, just as the pilot had been instructed to do. Hunter took a deep breath as the airplane stopped about 25 feet from him, the pilot immediately fluttering the propellers, but not shutting them completely. The aircraft wouldn't be staying that long.
The rear door finally opened after what seemed like an hour. He swallowed hard again as the dim cabin light caught the reflection of the fog, lighting up the otherwise gloomy setting.
Here goes, he thought as he slowly approached the airplane. However it goes, this was all of your own doing . . .
A single figure stepped out onto the tiny access ladder that automatically pushed out from the airplane. Slowly the figure walked toward Hunter. He wiped the mist from his eyes and tried to focus on the person. It took a few seconds as they drew closer, but finally his eyes saw the face that made his brain flash, his stomach leap and his heart start pounding-all at the same instant.
They finally came face to face and all of a sudden he wasn't cold any more.
It was Dominique.
"Hi, honey . . ." he said, awkwardly stumbling on the words. "How are you?"
"I'm fine," she said, nervous and formal. "I suppose it is foolish for me to ask you the same question?"
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"I'm the same, I guess," was all he could come up with.
Right away he knew it was going badly. He expected an embrace, a kiss. She looked beautiful as always. Even the dark trenchcoat and the kerchief she wore couldn't hide her lovely features. Yet they stood three feet apart, and it seemed like three miles.
"I ... I had to see you," he said. "I've missed you very much . . ."
She didn't answer him; she just looked at the ground.
He hadn't seen her in so long-since he'd rescued her from Viktor in New York City. Some allied commandos had taken her with them and escaped to the relative safety of Free Canada. Now, after Hunter had made a special request to Major Frost, his good friend in the Free Canadian Air Force to fly her here, she was before him. And he was almost speechless..
"You've become very popular down here," he said finally, his throat dry, his voice cracking.
"I know . . ." she said. "People keep telling me about it. I can't leave where I live without a crowd following me. It was even very difficult for me to come here."
How could this turn into such a disaster? he asked himself, his emotions verging on panic. The only underlying positive point was that he knew no woman could ever make him feel like he did at the moment. He loved her and he knew it ...
"Dominique," he said, finally deciding to let it all hang out. "I can't tell you how much I want
to be with you. How much I think of you. But
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He couldn't get the rest of the sentence out. 245
She was looking right at him. Through his eyes, into his soul. Her Bardot-like features were quivering only slightly. But those eyes . . .
"It's a very difficult time for me right now, Hawker," she said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. "I am having so many conflicting feelings . . ."
"About what?" he asked.
She lowered her eyes again. "About myself," she answered, a touch of defiance in her voice. "About how I will live the rest of my life . . ."
He felt another shiver run up and down his spine. "You know I want us to be together," he said. "When this is over, I will be able to . . ."
"When what is over?" she asked him suddenly. "This war? That war? Whatever war you're fighting at the moment? Do you really think it will be the last?"
He couldn't answer her.
"I think you assume too much, Hawk," she said. "You just assume that I will always be there, waiting for you. But you have to realize that every day I wait, I wonder when it will end. If ever . . .
"I just don't know if I can wait any more."
He was stunned, although he knew he shouldn't have been.
"Is ... is there someone else?" he asked her, not really wanting to know the answer.
"Does that really concern you?" she asked him softly. "What would you answer if I asked you the same question?"
Suddenly the rain started falling harder. A wind swept up and tossed her hair around. Why couldn't he just reach out and hold her?
"I have to go," she said, giving him one last, 246
long look. Then she turned and walked back to the airplane.
He stood there as if frozen to the spot. She was leaving, walking away, and he couldn't move. He couldn't stop her. She was right. He had assumed too much.
Taken too much for granted. Now as she climbed back into the airplane without a wave goodbye or a look back, he knew he was on the verge of losing her forever. He was crushed. And he knew it would never be the same again.
Before she disappeared into the airplane, he thought he saw a tear running down her cheek. But he knew it might have been the rain ...
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Viceroy Dick wished he had just one line of
cocaine , . .
He was trembling and sweating and his head felt like it would burst open at any moment. He had no sense of taste, or smell, and his nose bled every morning when he woke up.
It had been like this ever since the Soviets spirited him out of Football City, just ahead of the advancing United American Forces. At the time, he was certain that he would be hanged or shot by the Soviet Special Forces, and considering the coke withdrawals he'd been going through, he often wished they had executed him.