Most of these worshipped players were hooligans-where was their discipline?
Where was their dedication? What was the big deal about hitting a horsehide covered ball with a piece of wood?
No, he had already walked through the Hall a half dozen times and it was affecting him. So today he decided instead to walk along the lake.
Relaxation was not in his personal vocabulary, but 279
he came as close as his Spetsnaz training would allow him as he walked along the water's edge, feeling the sun's warmth and the lake's cool breeze at the same time. Flocks of singing birds flew over him. The sound of insects chirping and the water noises added to the symphony of natural sounds. Now this landscape reminded him of his home in Soviet Georgia.
He saw a fish jump out on the lake and immediately thought it would be a good idea to fashion a fishing line. Or better yet, many fishing lines. Fresh fish-a meal he had yet to enjoy in the service-would be such a welcome change from the beets and dried eggs he and his troopers had been gagging on lately.
They could leave that slop to the prisoners . . .
He was intent on jogging back to the camp site to order his troops to start making fishing poles. But when he turned around, he saw there was a half-man, half-bush standing behind him, a twelve-inch long knife in one hand, a wet rag in the other . . .
Hunter was in the Erie base's communications room when the message from Yaz came in.
One of the Texan communications specialists typed it out, deciphering the scrambled transmission that Yaz had bounced off the A-37 which was orbiting high over central New York.
Hunter read the message, shook his head, read it again then ran to Jones's office.
The general's reaction was identical to his own. "This is the craziest thing I've ever heard," he said. "I think . . ."
"They're sinister bastards," Hunter said, his insides , burning with anger.
"They're as bad as the Huns ..."
"We'll have to tell the others, quickly," Jones said, pushing a nearby radio button in order to summon
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the other principals at the base. "Now we've got two problems to deal with . .
."
The group was assembled inside Jones's mobile office within ten minutes.
"We've just got a very unusual report from Shane's boys in Cooperstown," the general began. "They were successful in capturing a prisoner and, after using some interrogation techniques that we don't have to get into right now, they were able to get this rather / startling piece of information out of him.
"Hawk, why don't you fill them in?"
Hunter stood up and faced the others. "Believe me, this is going to sound very strange," he said. "After I first heard it, it took a while to sink in, but, boy when it did ...
"In addition to backing up the Circle and arranging for that goddamn invasion fleet, the Soviets have apparently embarked on a campaign of, for want of a better word, iconoclasm."
Most of the men in the room had heard the term before, but some were shaky on exactly what it meant. Hunter had already anticipated the problem, so he had dug up a dictionary.
"Iconoclasm," he read. "The doctrine or strategy of the iconoclast,
i.e.
one who attacks and destroys cherished beliefs or institutions."
Hunter slammed the book shut.
"Simply put," he said in an angry tone, "They have their Spetsnaz guys running around the country, gathering up those things which stand for what made our country great.
"Those trucks full of books? They are on their way to Washington DC where they will be burned."
"What?" several of the members asked at once.
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"It's true," Hunter said, his teeth gritting in anger. "The Circle is force-marching as many citizens as it can find to Washington where they are going have a massive book burning. It's an ultimate act of Psych-Ops. The total demoralization of a people through the destruction of their culture."
It did take a few moments for the news to sink in. Then to a man, those gathered felt a rage well up inside.
"And why are the Spets stopping at sports stadiums?" Hunter asked. "Because among the other things they aim to destroy is our national pastime. They are gathering gloves, baseball bats, bases, uniforms-you name it. They're also robbing museums, libraries, closed-down TV stations. They're gathering the icons of American life and they're going to destroy them!"
"They want to wipe the slate clean," Dozer said, his voice also rising in anger. "They want to destroy our goddamn heritage . . ."
"Exactly!" Hunter said. "But I know no one here misses the importance of this threat. We've got to stop this. It's almost more important than beating them on the battlefield. We can lose to them in Syracuse or wherever, but we're replaceable. A lot of the stuff they want to destroy is not!"
He was getting emotional and he knew it. But he also saw that every one of the others was also feeling the same way he did.
"What were the specifics of Yaz's message?" Ben Wa asked. "Obviously those guys in Cooperstown are part of a bigger plan . . ."
"That's definitely the case," Jones said. "These Spetsnaz gangs are roaming the eastern part of the country, following the Circle line of retreat. As far as the unit at Cooperstown, they're looting the Hall of 282
Fame but they're also holding hostages there, with orders to kill them should anything go wrong."
"And now that this Spetsnaz officer is gone-Shane's boys got him on ice-they might carry out those orders."
"What can we do about it?" one of the Texans asked. "Can Shane's boys handle all those guys?"
Jones shook his head. "Probably not now," he said. "The element of surprise will be gone when they realize one of their guys is missing. They'll be looking for him and expecting something at the same time."
"That means we've got to hit them quick," J.T. said. "Fly in some reinforcements to Shane and nail them. Free the people they're holding . . ."
"We really don't have any other choice," Jones said in agreement. "Hawk? Can you put a plan together?"
Hunter looked at all of them, his facial features were like granite. "I already have," he said.
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Sergeant Misha Borsuk had just dispatched the third search party of the day when the big tractor-trailer truck rolled into the village square.
He was about a quarter mile away, supervising the troops that were dragging the shallows of the lake for Lieutenant Sudoplatov's body, when the big rig pulled in. He saw two Circle soldiers jump out and wave to him. He waved back.
It was just another rig, moving through to Washington.
The lieutenant had been gone for nearly 24 hours now and an extensive search of the nearby woods had proved fruitless. Sergeant Borsuk had ordered the dragging operation after the lieutenant's hat had been found floating about 20
feet off the shore. Already, rumors were spreading through his troops that Sudoplatov had drowned himself.
"We have something!" one of his corporals yelled. The man was standing in a small boat-one of two dozen the Spetsnaz troops had found at a tourist 284
house nearby and had pressed into use. He was some 50 feet offshore.
Borsuk climbed into his own boat and was rowed to the spot. Sure enough, the man's line had snagged a leather boot. Pulling it aboard, they opened the top flap and saw Sudoplatov's name and uniform number printed inside.
The sergeant yelled for all the boats dispersed on the lake to gather in on the area. Slowly the ten additional skiffs closed in, their lines dragging behind them.
"Here!" another man on another boat cried. Bor-suk's boat was moved to the spot just as the men were pulling in Sudoplatov's uniform jacket. Its pockets were filled with rocks.
Borsuk examined the coat. It wasn't ripped or soiled in any way. "Maybe it was suicide . . ." he thought.
He briefly considered ordering the rest of his men on shore to get more boats and join them in the search. Right now 30 men were out on the lake, 16 were guarding the prisoners. If three or four more boats could be launched, the task of finding the lieutenant's body would be accomplished that much quicker.
Once Sudoplatov's body was found, Borsuk would have to assume command. His first orders would be to kill the prisoners. Then, once the Hall of Fame was completely looted, they would set fire to the entire town, poison the lake then move on.
"Another boot!" the man in the boat next to him announced.
"Here is his holster!" he heard from a boat further away.
That was enough for Sergeant Borsuk-he told his rowers to move him to shore where he would dispatch
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three more boats and once and for all, find the lieutenant's body. Perhaps he could even enlist the aid of the Circle troops who had just arrived.
But the sergeant never made it to the shoreline. A tracer bullet from an M-16
hit him square in the jaw and exited out his left ear. He fell back into the boat hard-capsizing it and throwing his two rowers into the water.
One by one the men out in the boats were quickly picked off by gunmen hiding in the scrub bushes on the shore. Two boats went over, then a third and a fourth. Confusion reigned as the surviving unarmed men furiously tried to paddle their way out of range. But it was futile-RPGs were now being launched at them. One hit a boat carrying three Spetsnaz straight on-the explosion killed all three instantly and disintegrated the skiff. Other boats were being sunk in quick succession by near or direct hits from the rocket-propelled grenades.
Those troopers who were the last to meet their fate thought they saw entire bushes moving along the shoreline, so complete was the camouflage of their attackers.
Most of the soldiers guarding the prisoners immediately withdrew into the small brick building at the sound of the first gunshots. Six of them were cut down in the crossfire though. Now, as the 10 survivors watched from the front door, they saw United American troops pouring out of the back of the tractor trailer that had so innocently pulled into town a short time ago. The Soviets quickly began firing on the Americans as they ducked into doorways and behind walls for cover.
The corporal in charge of the guard knew it was time to kill the prisoners. He chose three of his men and told them to follow him up to the second floor 286
hallway where the 26 men were being held.
"We will use pistols," he told his men. "One shot, one man. We will save our rifle ammunition for the battle."
All four Spetsnaz troopers checked the clips on their 9-mm Makarov PM
handguns, then moved up the stairs, fully aware that the intensifying gunfire they heard outside indicated that the Americans were slowly moving toward the building.
The corporal was the first to reach the hallway. He looked down the two lines of men. Each one was gagged, tied hand and foot and propped up against < the wall. He nodded to two of his charges to pick up the first prisoner and hold him against the wall. As the other prisoners watched in horror, the corporal cocked his pistol and placed the barrel against the back of the man's neck.
He slowly pulled the trigger . . .
Suddenly there was a great explosion of glass at the near end of the corridor.
The four Spetsnaz troopers whirled around in amazement to see a man wearing a pilot's helmet had come crashing through the hallway window. The corporal's pistol went off, but he was distracted enough at the last moment for the bullet to go into the prisoner's shoulder, only wounding him.
A bullet from the interloper caught the corporal in the eye a second later; another burst blew out one of the other troopers' chest.
Two more men leaped through the window, screaming at the prisoners: "Get down!
Get down! We are Americans..."
The prisoners did as told the best they could. The two remaining Russians had taken cover at the far end of the hall. Two more Spetsnaz soldiers were climbing the stairway, having heard the commotion from below.
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This stand-off didn't last long. The man in the pilot's helmet tossed a concussion grenade down into the stairwell, then threw a flash grenade at the two Russians hiding at the end of the hallway. The near-simultaneous explosions rocked the second story with a brilliant flash and an ear-splitting boom! that left Soviets and prisoners dazed alike.
Suddenly the three Americans charged down the hallway and shot the blinded Soviets point blank. Two more American soldiers crashed through the splintered window and shot the wounded Russians who were sprawled on the stairs.
The action on the second story was over as quickly as it began. The battle down on the first floor was still going strong. The five Americans gathered at the top of the stairs after first indicating that the prisoners should lie still and quiet.
One Soviet soldier poked his head into the stairwell and was immediately gunned down. The pilot flipped two more gredades down the stairs in such a way they bounced into the main room where the rest of the Spetsnaz troops were positioned. The two unexpected blasts killed three more Soviets.
By that time, the Americans outside the building had concentrated enough firepower to blow away one entire side of the structure. The UA troops flooded in and made quick work of the remaining half dozen Soviet Special Forces soldiers.
It was all over inside of three minutes.
Most of the prisoners were just getting their vision back when the American soldiers started untying them. One of the first to be freed-an older black man-hugged the man wearing the pilot's helmet.
"Who the hell are you guys, anyway?" he asked him, laughing with relief.
Hunter removed his helmet.
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"We're from the United American Army," he said, staring closly at the man.
"But I know who you are, don't I?"
The man shrugged. "You might ..."
Hunter felt the name of the tip of his tongue. "You're Lamarr Johnson. Of the Cleveland Indians."
"Been a long time since someone put those two names together," the man said.
"That is until these creeps came along . . ."