Final Storm (34 page)

“Remember, Hawk,” he yelled as he was being put in the car. “It’s no more. The country is gone. Don’t talk about it … to anyone …”

Jones was then literally thrown into the car. Five guards climbed in with him and with a screech of tires, the car drove away, down the flightline and out of the base.

At that point, one more deafening explosion thundered across the landing strip. The last F-16 reared up off its landing gear, propelled by an orange fireball that encircled the plane’s nose and wings, setting off a series of secondary explosions inside the jet’s fuselage.

The interceptor’s nose reared up almost vertically in an anguished breach to the cold Spanish sun. Then the crippled jet came down hard, smashing the thin struts of its main landing gear and nosewheel as the heavy fuselage slammed the ground. Sparks of flaming fuel and oil streamed from the airplane as if it were bleeding to death in the flames.

It was his all-white airplane.

Hunter felt sick as he watched the F-16 convulse in its death agony. How could this be happening? How many millions of dollars were being systematically destroyed? How could they ever be replaced?

His mind was now racing in afterburner. Had they really fought and won against impossible odds at the fighting front, only to be stabbed in the back? Had America been the victim of a deliberate, well-rehearsed plan?

It would be later before he learned all the details of the New Order: No more NATO. No more armies. No more weapons. No more flag.

No more America.

He knew in his consciousness that his country had been betrayed. Done in by an inside job. Someone up top. Hunter felt sick again, sick to his stomach that an American, one who undoubtedly held a position of trust, had been so callous—so ruthless as to sell out his own people. How many had died during the last few terrible days, just to prevent this type of tyranny? And how many innocents had died in the deadly Soviet nuclear strike?

He knew there was blood on somebody’s hands.

A secondary explosion ripped through his fighter and Hunter felt a sharp pain in his heart. It was as if he was experiencing the mortal agony of the dying F-16. In a real sense, he
was
dying. Along with his airplane. Along with his country.

But even in the depths of that terrible despair; even from the dark hole of a grave that Hunter found himself hurtling through; even though he was physically and mentally beaten, the pain stopped. Suddenly, he felt something was still beating deep inside him. Something down in the unfathomed reaches of his innermost soul was stirring. Lights flashed across his psyche. He knew his dreams during the drug-induced state were no mere coincidence. And now, he knew more about this seeping horror than Jones or the other pilots, or the Finns or the Soviets. He had lived side by side with this evil, thrashing it out in his dreams even as the dreams were becoming reality.

There was a new, terrible,
powerful
anger boiling within him now.

Somehow, he vowed silently—some way, some day—he would pay back those who had taken this from him.

I
T TOOK THREE DAYS
to present the entire book of testimony to the court.

As Dr. Leylah read every word aloud with conviction and feeling, the trial’s justices, the witnesses, the thousands of spectators, and even the defendant himself followed along, at times fascinated, at times angry.

Hunter’s own emotions swung from intense pride to acute embarrassment as he heard the re-telling of his exploits and those of his colleagues during the nightmarish days of the war.

But it was actually another thought that burned in his mind during the three days. It was the comment that Fitzie had made to him just before the second day of the trial—that America was in more danger now than ever before.

Throughout the trial, Hunter had kept an eye on the Irishman as he squirmed in his chair just behind the prosecution table, his ruddy face showing the signs of strain of someone who knew a terrible secret and could not unload it on anybody.

But it was a secret he wouldn’t have to keep much longer …

The fifth day of the trial dawned cold and rainy over Syracuse.

Once more the throngs crowded into the Dome; once more all the principals took their appointed seats. Now that the prosecution’s opening statement was finished, it was the defense team’s turn.

Just about everyone assumed that one of the Finnish lawyers would take the stand and, through an agonizing translation process, would read a rebuttal as lengthy as the one prepared by the prosecution.

So it was to just about everyone’s shock when the traitor himself rose to take the stand.

The Chief Justice was the first to recover his composure, slamming his gavel down three times to silence the huge crowd. With admirable aplomb, the judge led the ex-VP through the swearing-in process, emphasizing the words “…
so help you God
.”

Once done, the traitor took his seat, adjusted his microphone, looked out first on the crowd and then directly at Hunter and said:

“I hereby demand that this trial be stopped and that I be released immediately. If this is not done, then at noontime tomorrow, a Soviet ICBM will be launched and its nuclear-armed warhead will detonate at a height of twenty thousand feet directly above this dome.”

An absolute blanket of silence fell onto the crowd. Had they heard correctly? Had the traitor really threatened to nuke Syracuse?

Once again, the Chief Justice was the first person to come to his senses. He asked the ex-VP to repeat his statement, and the traitor, reciting the sentences like a child does his school lesson, respoke the dire threat, word for word.

That’s when all hell broke loose in the Dome. Some of the spectators attempted to charge the cordoned off trial area, only to be restrained by the strong arms of the Marine security forces. Others, obviously taking the traitor’s threat seriously, tried to flee the place. Once again, it took a strong action by the inside security forces to push back those panic-stricken spectators, thus preventing a disastrous stampede.

All the while the Chief Justice was smashing his gavel on the table, its pounding reverberating throughout the Dome via the sophisticated public address system.

“Order!” the judge screamed. “
Order
in this court!”

It took five full minutes before some semblance of calm returned to the Dome. All the while the traitor sat in the dock, a maddening smirk on his face.

Once the place had quieted down, the Chief Justice, angry beyond words, turned to the head of the defense team and demanded an explanation.

The Finnish lawyer obediently stood up and carried a document to the Justices’ bench, handing it to the lead judge. A quick, hushed conversation ensued, then an uneasy silence fell on the place as the Chief Justice read the document.

Hunter, sitting in the witness gallery, had been watching the latest development with a mixture of shock and anger. He knew the bombshell that Fitzie had talked about had been dropped. Now, he felt an uncomfortable empty feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the Chief Justice’s face turn from angry red to ashen white.

Suddenly the judge pounded his gavel loudly twice. Then he pulled the microphone closer to him and said:

“In light of irrefutable evidence just handed to me, I hereby declare these proceedings a mistrial…. I am also hereby ordering the security forces both inside and outside this building to commence a safe and orderly evacuation of all citizens from this area.

“From the information just handed to me, I am convinced that an atomic bomb will be dropped on this city at noontime tomorrow …”

A
LMOST TWO HOURS LATER
, Hunter, Jones, Fitzgerald, Toomey, Wa, and several other members of the United American Army Command Staff were assembled in the Dome’s adjacent conference center.

Outside, a massive, not entirely orderly evacuation was taking place. By the judge’s orders, everyone was to leave Syracuse as quickly as possible with the multitude of civilians going first. Most people needed no further prompting. However, huge C-5A Galaxy transports were flying into the city, picking up those civilians who had no other means of escape.

By the judge’s own estimate, there were close to 150,000 people within the potential blast area. It would take all night and most of the next morning to clear them all out.

But the men meeting in the conference center could not be concerned with the evacuation. They had an even more serious problem to face.

None of them had been able to grab more than a few hours of sleep in the past few days, and their tired eyes and beard stubble showed their fatigue. Most of the men in the room poured hot coffee into their mugs, this time without the benefit of the usual liberal splashes of “medicinal” whiskey.

This was hardly time for drinking alcohol. Clear heads were needed all around.

Fitzgerald was the first to speak.

“What the traitor told us during his interrogation was the same information contained in that statement handed to the judge. It is apparent now, and without a shadow of a doubt, that the Soviet military clique now running things over there has enough hardware to launch ICBMs at this country.”

Although most in the conference room knew the gist of what the ex-VP’s lawyer had told the judge, the news still hit them like a lightning bolt.

“We are certain now that they gained this launch capability in two ways,” Fitz continued, wearily. “First, they were able to patch together some of their own hardware left over from the Big War, not an easy task.

“Second, we have learned that the hardened SAC faculties that housed this country’s own ICBM command, control, and communications system were looted during the Circle War, their critical components smuggled over to the Soviets.

“The most critical of this equipment were systems that control targeting and re-entry of the ICBMs. This system, which was developed secretly here in the US before the war, uses satellites put into orbit by the space shuttle. These satellites are incredibly advanced and in several ways. Foremost to us here right now, they can direct with incredible accuracy ICBMs launched from anywhere on the globe.

“The Soviets have incorporated this technology into their own patchwork system and come up with a launch and detonation procedure that has the ability to hit us anywhere, at anytime.”

“It’s Goddamn nuclear blackmail!” Toomey cried out.

“Exactly …” Fitz agreed, nodding his head glumly.

An absolutely stone-cold silence descended on the room.

Fitz cleared his throat and began again. “You may recall a series of secret space shuttle launches in the years right before the war,” he said. “Despite what was told—or leaked—to the media at the time, those launches really had to do with putting this particular system into space. And as I said, these satellites have incredible features. Besides the targeting system, they have the ability to clearly photograph any point and anything on our continent that’s bigger than a cigarette pack.”

“If that’s true,” Jones said. “That means they can watch our every move …”

“But wait a minute,” Toomey said, holding up his hand. “Don’t these satellites revolve around the earth? If they do, then there must be times when they
can’t
see us …”

Once more, Fitz shook his head. They are all thousands of miles straight up, in a series of geo-synchronic orbits. This means that they can match the speed of the earth’s revolution and therefore stay right on top of us, day and night …”

“Jesus Christ, Big Brother
is
watching us …” Ben said angrily.

“That’s correct,” Fitz replied somberly.

“But how did the Soviets know that this sophisticated system was even in place?” Jones asked. “I was working in Pentagon secret operations during those years and this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

Suddenly everyone in the room knew the answer.

“
He
told them,” Fitz confirmed, his face flushing with anger at the mere mention of the traitor. “Only a handful of people knew just how advanced these satellites were. The Vice-President was one of them.”

“And he tipped the Soviets,” Wa said, speaking the conclusion all of them had already reached.

“Tipped them about the system,” Fitz said. “
And
how they could integrate it into their own system.”

Another pall of silence came over the room.

“So he
can
make good with his threat to nuke this city,” Jones asked. “Or any other place?”

“Can and will,” Fitz said. “After spending so much time with him, during the interrogation, I’m convinced that he would stop at nothing. His threat today is a definite one. I’m sure they have a spy or two in the audience and in the area. If he isn’t set free in twenty-four hours, they’ll launch. I’m certain of it, and apparently so is the Chief Justice.”

“You don’t think they’ll actually let him go, do you?” Ben asked.

Fitz could only shrug. “It’s either that or this place gets nuked,” he said. “He’s even put a proviso into his threat. That is, if anything untoward happens to him, the Soviets will launch anyway.”

“So in other words,” Jones said, “even if we strung the bastard up right now, they’ll still come down on us.”

“That’s correct, sir,” Fitz replied.

At this point, Hunter stood up.

“Just where are they supposed to be launching these ICBMs from, Mike?” he asked.

It was the first time the Wingman had spoken at the meeting. Suddenly all eyes in the room turned to him.

“Just where the particular missile launchers are being kept, we have no idea,” Fitz told him. “I’m sure there are SS-20 mobile launchers, so they can be moved around at anytime.

“But as for this hybrid control center, they were quite open about it being located in the same complex as the big phased array radar in Soviet Central Asia. It’s called Krasnoyarsk, and it’s in the Soviet republic of Khazakstan.

“They can control the remainder of their ICBM missiles from that one point. All they really have to do is push the button. The satellites do the rest: begin the launch sequence, flight time, reentry curves, targeting adjustments, determine ground blast or air burst.”