But he was alive, though miserable, and, at the moment, sitting in a makeshift office on the perimeter of the Syracuse Aerodrome, waiting for a cartel of arms dealers to arrive. He was certain that the Circle leadership-its main HQ
now located in Washington DC-had gone completely in-248
sane. One moment he had been a near-prisoner of the Soviet Spetsnaz. The next he was in charge of purchasing weapons for the defense of the Aerodrome. It was a demotion in rank, to be sure, but that he could live with. If only he could get some white lady, it might even be bearable.
His being plucked from the noose only underlined the desperation that was creeping into The Circle Army. The United American Forces had swept into Football City without hardly firing a shot, managing at the same time to save their POWs. That victory was a testament to The Circle's scheme of Tactical Defense, which, when properly translated, meant: hold out then get out. Dick knew The Circle never really intended on making a fight of it for Football City, so the United Americans' triumph there wasn't as fluky as it might have seemed.
But The Circle High Command was absolutely astonished when they learned that it was United American undercover agents operating in New Chicago that had engineered the devastating battle between the Circle Army and the Family. Now the reconditioned POW soldiers from Football City were in control of the strategic city, with some help from the Free Canadians.
The Circle soldiers that survived the battle outside New Chicago had been straggling eastward ever since. Some were being diverted to DC, while others were directed to Syracuse, where everyone knew the next battle would take place. And this would be no cakewalk like in Football City or an inside job as in New Chicago. No, for this looming battle The Circle would need every able-bodied man it could muster, the more experienced, the better. And through these improbabilities of military incompetence, Viceroy Dick had been named the man in charge of buying weapons for that battle.
The weapons cartel, a shady group of dealers known as The Party, arrived outside the concrete bunker that served as Viceroy Dick's headquarters. The four men walked in and immediately began sniffing around-literally. It was obvious from the smell of the place that the Viceroy's concrete office building was once used as an ammunition bunker for aircraft operating out of the Aerodrome itself.
Viceroy Dick greeted the men quickly and formally. They all sat around a large wooden table and, declining an offer of a drink, got down to business.
The blond man named Frankel made it known quickly that he was the spokesman for the group.
"Each of us represents a weapons' specialty," he said. "You tell us what you want and how much you have to spend and we'll see what can be done to accommodate you."
Viceroy Dick: pulled out his shopping list.
"I don't have to bore you gentlemen with the details of what we are up against here," he told them. "We're expecting a combined land and air attack by the United Americans sometime within the next two weeks. We are in an obvious defensive posture here. And although I hesitate to use the term 'Tactical Defense,' our orders are to hold out against them until . . ."
"Until your invasion fleet arrives from Europe," Frankel finished for him.
Viceroy Dick eyed the man suspiciously. The news of the Soviet-sponsored fleet was supposed to be secret. "That's correct," he said. "Though I 250
was under the impression that the fleet's arrival was not common knowledge."
"That's an incorrect impression," Frankel told him, his voice oozing arrogance.
Viceroy Dick didn't like Frankel, or the other three Party members. They were all dressed in the same jet black, yet nondescript uniform, with riding pants and knee-high patent leather boots. They all carried non-functional riding crops and Lugers. And they all seemed to look alike, as if they were close first cousins.
"In any case," Dick went on. "We'll need tanks, rocket launchers and heavy artillery for the defense of the airport and the city itself.
"Also SAMs and radar-guided AA guns, if you have them. Plus any interceptor aircraft. We've got the pilots, we just need something for them to drive."
Frankel nodded and, as one, each man dove into his briefcase.
"We can sell you forty M-ls and M-60 tanks," one of the other three said.
"We've also got some leftover APCs and about a hundred converted half tracks .
. ."
"Converted to what?" Viceroy Dick asked.
"To whatever you want," the tank man said. "SAMs, movable artillery, even flamethrowing capability."
"Sounds good," Viceroy Dick said, making a note in his orders book. "What about rocket launchers, TOW missiles, mines . . ."
A second Party member spoke up. "We can deliver one thousand Claymore mines to you within the week," he said. "TOWs will take longer. Maybe ten days."
"Again, sounds good," Dick confirmed. "How 251
about SAMs?"
The surface-to-air salesman handed him a ten-page typewritten document, with Polaroid photos attached. "Take your pick," he said. "We've got Stingers, Blowpipes, Rolands and SA-7s. All portable. All excellent for close-in fighting."
Viceroy Dick had to admit he was impressed. "You guys have quite the inventory," he said, looking over the document.
"It's our job," Frankel told him.
Dick made several more notes, then asked: "How about aircraft?"
"That's my line," Frankel said. He, too, whipped out a catalog and handed it to Viceroy Dick.
"Our standard package begins three squadrons of MiG-29 Fulcrum counter-air fighters," Frankel said. "They come complete with Doppler look-down/shootdown radar, and day/night, all-weather capability. They have a five hundred-mile combat radius, which should serve you nicely, and can go Mach two-point-two at altitude. They are fitted to carry up to eight AA-ten air-to-air missiles, plus an overhauled Vulcan gun in the nose. Also, in a pinch, you can convert them to a ground attack role.
"Along with this, we can offer you one squadron of MiG-27 Flogger Swing-Wings and Sukhoi SU-7 Fitters each, for the important ground attack role. Both airplane types carry two large guns in the nose and just about any bomb under the wings. Both have a combat radius of two hundred forty miles or so.
"Of course, each squadron comes complete with two service aircraft, an inflight-refueler, and a small shuttle craft for parts and repair."
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Viceroy Dick's head was spinning with the descriptions. The Party was offering five squadrons-nearly 60 aircraft. He doubted the United American forces had very much more.
"All this sounds great," he said. "But, what's it going to cost?"
For the first time a smile came to Frankel. "That depends . . ." he said.
Viceroy Dick prepared himself. Here comes the whammy, he thought.
"Depends on what?"
"It depends on whether you are interested in purchasing our Supreme Command package," Frankel answered. "If you do, then everything we've just described to you is free . . ."
Viceroy Dick resisted a temptation to clean out his ears.
"Did you say: 'free?' " he asked. "As in 'free of charge?'"
All four men nodded. "That's correct," Frankel said. "Absolutely free and guaranteed delivery with two weeks."
It sounded like the deal of the century-Viceroy Dick was immediately suspicious.
"OK, I'll bite," he said. "What's in the Supreme Command package?"
Frankel took a deep breath and lowered his voice. "Twenty-two battlefield nuclear weapons . . ." he said. "Small-end range. One-point-two kiloton. For a surface blast you would get a crater two hundred fifty feet deep, twelve-fifty across. Total blast radius is two-point-one miles for anything and everything: three-point-two for buildings. Double those numbers for an air-burst.
Radiation is low and cleared completely within twelve hours, except at absolute ground
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zero . . .
Viceroy Dick found that his jaw had dropped involuntarily. "You guys are selling nukes . . . ?" he asked, incredulously.
"Yes, we are," Frankel answered. "They are guaranteed nukes, I might add . .
."
"You guys are nuts . . ." Dick told them. "No one does nukes here . . ."
"No one does nukes, sir, because they are not so readily available," Frankel said, a hard edge returning to his voice. "Certainly you wouldn't expect your Soviet patrons to provide you with them ..."
"And I'm glad of it!" Dick exclaimed. "There'd be nothing left . . ."
Frankel shook his head. "You are missing the point," he said. "With the Supreme Command package, your victory in the upcoming battle is virtually assured . . ."
Dick was shaking his head. "No, no . . ." he said. "Believe me, the top New Order guys in Moscow wouldn't allow it. If one guy starts dropping nukes, there'll be a race to out-nuke everyone else and the place will look like the moon in a matter of weeks."
"More appropriately, it will look like the Badlands," Frankel said. "And that, sir, was courtesy of the top guys' in Moscow . . ."
Viceroy Dick was adamant. "No way am I buying nukes," he said. "Just give me a price on all the other stuff and we'll talk business. But no big ones."
"You are making a serious error, sir," Frankel said, as the other three men started totaling up the charges for the conventional weapons. "Because, someone, somewhere, some day will buy
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one of our Supreme Command packages. And when that day comes, you'll wish you got in first. I can assure you, that our Supreme Command Deterrent packages will be much more expensive, and they will not be offered with the free-of-charge conventional packages."
They handed him a price list that totaled 263,000 bags of gold or 1,315,000
bags of real silver. It broke down to roughly 2000 bags of gold per airplane-just a tad higher than the going price-plus 63,000 bags for the rest of the equipment.
"The price is high," Dick said. "Call it two hundred sixty thousand and you got a deal."
"Done," said Frankel. "Though you are not getting the best deal. . ."
Viceroy Dick ignored the comment. "You'll get half in two days, half when the stuff is all delivered," he said.
The Party members closed their briefcases and got up to leave. There were no handshakes, no small talk.
"Just out of curiosity," Dick asked them. "What was the price on the nukes?"
"Twelve thousand bags of gold each," Frankel said. "Or the entire package is irresistible at two hundred ten thousand."
Dick was amazed at the low price. "Jesus, are you saying you'd sell a nuke to any scum bum who can come up with a lousy twelve grand of gold?"
Frankel nodded.
"But that's incredibly cheap," Dick said. "It's almost like you want us to go at it with the heavy stuff. . ."
"Not at all," Frankel said. "It's just business.
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Strictly business."
The Party cartel left and Viceroy Dick sat down at his desk and went about the procedure to request funds for the weapons.
Yet, he couldn't get the men or their offerings out of his mind. There was something very odd about them, especially Frankel.
Viceroy Dick thought he had detected a slight German accent in the man's voice
. . .
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There's a fire that burns in a man's soul when something absolutely irreplaceable has been suddenly lost. The aching never really goes away, it is simply transformed into other means of action or reaction. The yearning turns to anger. The wanting turns to rage. The power of love can turn to pure hate.
Rarely at what has been lost-the positive memories still remain; they can't be changed or transmuted.
So grief can make the human creature lash out, like the wounded animal.
Channel the feeling to another internal plane. Regardless of the consequences; regardless of the toll. Reverse the energies and hope for the best. And try to be cognizant of the fact that if only a spark remains, it can ignite the largest of conflagrations.
Hunter had burned with the fire for two days straight. No sleep, nothing to eat or drink. Sitting alone in his quarters, a mobile home similar to that 257
of General Jones, that was being towed by a deuce and half belonging to the Texan Army, The Wingman smoldered.
For every loss, there is a gain ... he told himself \ over and over.
Dominique was gone. Lost not to some twisted, power-mad ego-maniac like Viktor, but to the callings of her own heart. Freaks like ; Viktor, Hunter could handle. But he was powerless over what was in Dominique's heart . . .
For every loss, there is a gain . . .
He never thought he could hurt this much, but he was numb. He had been selfish, even greedy with the assumption that she would always want him, |
always love him. But to expect devotion like that required a return of absolute devotion. And he hadn't come close to evening out the bargain. He was guilty. Of negligence. Of neglect. Of taking the I most important person in his life for granted. It seemed like such a foolish thing to do, yet he had done it rather easily. Never assume anything, Seth Jones used to tell him.
Good advice in life and love-advice that Hunter had chosen to ignore . . .
For every loss, there is a gain . . .
What was she doing right now? he wondered with an ache in his heart. Was she in the arms of some new lover? Was she warm and safe and happy and in love with someone who had recognized her needs and rushed forward to fill the vacuum? Were they making love right now? Was she laughing? Was she moaning in delight, the music he had heard when they had been together?
He couldn't bear to put his hand inside his breast pocket and feel for the flag-wrapped photograph of her. There was a limit even for an extraordinary person like himself. It would take him a long time just to touch the flag again. Whether he would ever
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look at the photo, was another story . . .
For every loss, there is a gain. If this was true, he thought angrily, then where is it? Where is my gain? He wanted it and he wanted it now.
The cosmos owed him one . . .