Hunter had teamed up with two Texas F-4 Phantoms and provided air cover for the advancing United American troops. When Dozer's scouts reported that the Circle was using a tower on the campus as an observation post, Hunter laid his Paveway laser-guided bomb at the base of the steeple, destroying its foundation and toppling it altogether.
Hunter was moving in a controlled frenzy, providing a kind of "flying artillery" for the advancing American troops. Every Circle fighter that dared to fight him was quickly dispatched. Any SAM crew that chose to fire at him was instantly perforated with
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Vulcan cannon shells. When he got a call from the commander of the troops advancing into North Syracuse that a large concentration of howitzers were pounding his troops from the edge of the Aerodrome, he programmed his AGM-109
MRASM cruise missile to the coordinates and let the "fire-and-forget" rocket fly. It was more than ten minutes later when he heard from the commander that the missile had found its target and destroyed more than a dozen big guns in the one, long-range, shot.
By the time night had fallen, the Americans had forced the enemy troops into two large pockets-the northatide of the university campus and the perimeter of the Aerodrome itself. A day of bitter fighting had finally come to an end.
Casualties on both sides had been heavy; close to 6000 dead and wounded for the Americans, more than twice that for The Circle.
Now as a large orange full moon rose in the sky, both sides hunkered down to contemplate their next move.
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That night back in Erie, a council of war was held in Jones's trailer. Hunter, Fitz, Ben Wa, J.T. and Dozer were in attendance as well as the various unit and air corps commanders. Each person had a glass of whiskey before them.
The topic of the meeting was simple: How best to knock out the enemy troops before they were were able to break out of their encirclements. It was a grim discussion, because it centered on the most efficient way to kill some 30,000
humans.
"We can't let them escape wholesale," Jones said, not at all relishing his role as head executioner. "Between the problems we still have to face in Washington and with the mercenary fleet, I'm afraid this is no time to be magnanimous . . ."
The five others solemnly nodded in agreement. Unlike their continental enemies, these men detested war, detested the taking of a single human life.
But they also shared the near-religious belief and devotion to the preservation of what used to be the great country of America. Blood had been shed to bring this idea into being, blood had been shed to maintain it. Now 333
more blood would be shed to preserve it.
"I don't think we have any choice but to launch major air strikes on both targets," Jones said. "The priority being the Aerodrome where the largest concentration of their forces are now gathered."
He turned to Fitzgerald. "I'm sorry about this, Mike," he continued. "I feel I have to send in the heavy stuff over your place . . ."
Hunter thought he could see tears well up in his friend's eyes. The Aerodrome was Fitzie's life. He had built it up from a one garage airplane repair shop to one of the most profitable enterprises in the post-New Order world. Now he would have to not just witness, but actually participate in its destruction.
He accepted his fate well. "Won't be the first time that something has to be destroyed in order to preserve it," he said. "We can always build again, if not there, then somewhere . . ."
Jones took a strong belt of his drink-they all did.
Dozer spoke next. He was still dressed in his battle fatigues, having been shuttled back to Erie by one of the Crazy Eights. "I think our first priority is to knock out their Central Command Center. They run everything from there, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were a bunch of Soviet techs doing the brain-work. If we put the kibosh on it, then, the chicken will be without its head. Our northern units can sweep into the Aerodrome and our southern guys can move on the encirclement at the university."
"Do we even know where this CIC is?" JT asked.
"We just have to look where they've got all their SAMs stacked," Ben Wa said.
"I'd guess it's somewhere in the main terminal building at the air base."
"It's probably under the control tower itself," Fitz said. "There's a bunker we put in underground to keep our state secrets, codes, important stuff like that. I'm
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sure that's where they set up shop. And I have to agree with Ben, they've probably got the SAMs three deep around it right now."
Jones rubbed his chin in thought. "Well, we all know there's only one way to take it out then," he said. He turned to J.T. and Ben. "Will you guys handle that, please?"
They both nodded.
"And how about the university?" Dozer asked. "They've got a lot of guys packed in there, and frankly, we're very thin around the lines. They could concentrate on one side and break out with not much problem. If they do, we'll lose them again."
"Then we won't give them the chance," Jones said firmly. He turned to Fitz.
"Mike, you know what to do . . ."
Fitz nodded and took another good stiff belt from his drink.
All during the meeting Hunter had kept silent. He was simply listening, watching, preparing himself for the next day's battle. And wondering what Dominique was doing at that moment ... /
The next morning dawned crystal clear and warm.
The Circle troops that had spent the night within the university grounds were now preparing to break out to the east and retreat from the city. Each infantryman was issued a full ration of ammunition, and given a small breakfast. By 0700, the breakout would begin, led by the two dozen tanks that had withdrawn to the campus the afternoon before.
But it was just 0630, as the Circle troopers were finishing their morning meal when they heard a strange whining noise coming from the west. Most of them had no idea what the racket was. But the troopers who had retreated to Syracuse from New Chicago
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knew the sound represented a flying death . . .
They saw the vapor trails a few moments later. Two thick ones, cutting across the deep blue morning sky, trailed by a half dozen thinner ones. Someone, somewhere on the campus fired a SA-7 shoulder launched SAM at the aircraft, but they were much too high for the missile to be effective. Several larger, longer-range SA-2s were then launched, their flight being controlled by the mobile radar station the Circle commander had placed out on a playing field at the university. But these missiles too fell short, stopped no doubt by intensive ECM being put out by the airplanes.
Suddenly one of the thinner vapor trails disappeared, indicating that the airplane was diving out of the cooler air that caused the icy crystals to form in the first place, to the warmer air below. Suddenly another streak was seen crossing the sky. Its tail was spitting fire-the tell-tale sign of an incoming air-to-surface missile.
Those Circle soldiers who had been watching the aircraft pass over now rushed for cover. The missile-an AGM-45A Shrike, launched from the F-16XL-flew right over their heads and impacted square on the mobile radar station, destroying it. The Circle AA teams on the campus were now effectively blinded.
The two thick vapor trails had now separated and they too disappeared from view, indicating the airplanes were dropping in altitude.
At the campus encirclement, the Circle soldiers were forming up their lines, waiting patiently as the tanks were started up and loaded. The fire resulting from the Shrike missile strike was still crackling in the background, but the commanders had ordered the mobile SAMs to pack up and get in line directly behind the tanks.
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Suddenly the ethereal whining heard earlier returned. This time louder and stronger. Veterans of the New Chicago debacle now began to worry anew. With good reason ...
Then they saw them. Not one but two huge C-5s, starting a lazy circle around the university, like hands of a clock at opposite ends of the dial. Flying slightly above each of the gigantic airplanes were three smaller jet fighters.
And in amongst all these was the strange, arrowhead-shaped red-white-and-blue jet fighter.
The first C-5, the one with the name Nozo emblazoned on its tailfin, opened up without warning. The whining of the C-5's big engines was suddenly drowned out by a sinister whirring noise. The airplane was down to about 450 feet and it looked like a solid sheet of flame was shooting out of its side. Suddenly the ground directly below it erupted into fire and a gas-like vapor. When this smoke cleared, the head of the tank column and several hundred soldiers huddled nearby were simply gone . . .
Panic immediately ensued among the soldiers who had witnessed the action.
Those who had been lined up at the head of the column were now falling back toward the buildings of the university. Soldiers at the end of the line had heard the racket but had no idea what had happened.
They would soon find out . . .
The second C-5, the one with the name Bozo painted on its rear, dipped to its port side toward a thick concentration of troops located near the school's dome-covered sports stadium. At once, six Catling guns, five Mk 19 automatic grenade launchers and two Rheinmetal 120-mm converted antiaircraft guns opened fire. The massive aircraft shuddered from the recoil-a long thick stream of fire
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flashing to the ground. There was nowhere to run for the hapless Circle soldiers. More than 200 of them were massacred on the spot.
Those lucky enough to escape the first fusillade ran in every direction. The guns on the airplane were silenced for a moment. Then the AP/AV 700
triple-barrel multi-grenade launcher opened up, followed by the 120-mm Soltan mobile field gun firing illuminated rounds. A second later, the pair of Royal Ordnance 105-mm field artillery pieces also started firing.
Once again, it was a massacre-more than 700 soldiers fell to the awesome, terrible scythe of fire.
Still the airplane continued on its lazy circle. It dipped toward an administration building where some of the fleeing troops had sought refuge.
The latest weapons were silenced only to be followed by the incredible blast of the LARS II110-mm multiple rocket launcher, its prominent backfire spouting straight down and out of the C-5's tail. More than 500 rockets were fired in a ten-second span, reducing the building to its crumbling foundation.
For the next ten awful minutes, the two aerial leviathans continued to circle the university, firing at ten second intervals. No missiles were shot at them, no one challenged them with an AA gun. There was no resistance-only the blood-curdling screams of those about to die. There was nowhere to hide, all of the buildings had been reduced to rubble. Those Circle soldiers not yet killed in the onslaught were reduced to non-functioning, instantaneous cases of shell shock. For many, it was as if the end of the world had finally arrived ...
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By contrast, things were quiet at the Aerodrome, the only disturbing noise being the screams of the Circle commanders coming through the radio speakers from the bloodbath at the university. Grim-faced officers listened helplessly as they heard their brothers in arms decimated by the UA flying battle forts.
In amongst the officers sat Viceroy Dick, his head wounds still wrapped by healing, his bloodstream pounding with the force of the painkillers. He never imagined things would go so badly for the Circle, but the rout of their forces the day before probably had few parallels in military history.
"Should have bought those nukes," he whispered to himself.
Just then the overall commander of the Circle forces at the Aerodrome called an emergency general staff meeting in the CIC. The officer, a Soviet five-star general named Chestopalov, told those assembled that he had received orders from his superiors that the Aerodrome had to be held at all costs. An audible 339
groan went up from the officers; many wanted to bug out now, get beyond the perimeter of the air base and strike out for the swampy, and therefore hard-to-track terrain to their east. It wouldn't be an orderly retreat-more like every man for himself.
"We must stay!" Chestoplatov said sternly after detecting the officers'
negativity. "There is something bigger than our petty lives here at stake. Our comrades in Washington are counting on us . . ."
"Fuck them!" someone yelled out.
All eyes turned to Viceroy Dick. He sat with his mouth open and wearing an expression that said: Did I say that?
"What was that comment?" Chestoplatov demanded of them.
Suddenly Dick found himself standing up and beginning to speak. It was like someone else had taken over his body. He swore right there that he would stop taking all kinds of drugs.
"I said fuck those guys in Washington!" he heard himself scream. "Our asses are on the line here-not theirs. We got a bunch of chicken-ass soldiers here, who will be lucky to get one shot off when the Americans roll in. And the pilots are even worse. They're too chicken-shit to take off, for Christ's sake, because they believe that ghost called The Wingman is up there flying around. Face it, the situation is hopeless. Dying just so they can have their party down in DC is ridiculous . . ."
The Russian general's face turned bright crimson. "This is out-and-out subversion!" he screamed in heavily-accented English.
"Well, fuck you too then!" Dick screamed back at him. His mind was gone, he kept telling himself. He had finally cracked from using too many drugs.
Someone else had taken over his body and that some-340
one was about to get both of them shot.
Suddenly his handgun was out of his holster and he was firing it at the general. Three bullets hit the man square on the forehead, pitching him back over his chair and slamming him against the wall. He was dead before he hit the floor.
"OK, I'm in charge here now!" Viceroy Dick's other being shouted. "Any problems with that?"
One man started to raise his hand, so Dick shot him in the head too.