Thunder in the East (39 page)

The game was in the fifth inning when the P-3 flew over the battered, but well-lit RFK stadium. The stands were filled to capacity-with the civilians who had survived Circle captivity and soldiers who had finally wrested control of the city from the enemy.

The two teams on the field were made up mostly of the former professional players rescued during the Cooperstown Raid who had been waiting back at Boiling. A number of Football City Rangers, a few of 420

which were actually pro football players in the prewar days, were also in the game.

It was this spectacle that the mercenary leader named Karl stared out at through the window of the P-3, his jaw open in disbelief. Beside him was Hunter's Free Canadian ally, Major Frost.

"They fight for the city during the day and play baseball the same night?"

Karl said as the P-3 went into a slow orbit around the stadium.

"They won back their capital during the day," Frost corrected him. "This is how they celebrate . . ."

"Amazing . . ." Karl said quite candidly. "Simply amazing . . ."

The Orion then swung out and headed south, flying low over Boiling air base, now bustling with United American jet fighters and attack planes. A turn east brought it over National airport, where the five Ghost Rider B-ls had returned from a bombing raid against the retreating Circle Army. As the P-3 orbited the base, a flight of B-52s took off and headed northeast to continue pounding the remaining enemy troops.

After the Stratofortresses had launched, four F-20s came up to meet the P-3.

They would serve as its escort for the ride back up to Newfoundland.

"It's incredible," Karl the mercenary muttered. "I heard nothing but bragging from the Russians, from the Circle about how they controlled this territory.

"Now, all I see are your troopers. In control. Playing games. . ."

"You are convinced, then?" Frost asked him.

Karl slowly nodded, as he looked out into the night only to see the heavily armed F-20s flying close by. The fact that all four were carrying Penguin Mk 3

anti-shipping missiles under their wings was not lost on the leader of the seaborne mercenaries.

"Somehow they have done it," Karl replied. "Your friends the Yanks have taken back their country. It will cost me money, but obviously I cannot proceed with our plan. It would be very bad for business . . ."

For the first time in what seemed like years, Frost relaxed. "I'm glad you see it that way," he said.

The airplane returned for one last circle around RFK Stadium just as one of the players for the Gold Team had hit a three-run homer. The crowd erupted in delight at the first round-tripper to be hit in the game.

High above, Karl the mercenary thought he could actually hear the cheering . .

.

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It was a half hour before sunrise.

The sounds of the booming guns could be heard from the battle between the United American Army and The Circle that was still raging just ten miles away.

Rumbling down the abandoned roadway just outside of Annapolis was the gold APC. Its crew was intent on crossing the Chesapeake Bay before first light.

Then they would turn north, head into New Jersey and finally into the wilds of New York City.

The APC commander, a Spetsnaz major named Kruszilinski, knew that the no-law, no-order city was probably the only place left on the continent where the APC

crew could hide from the United American Army, now that the entire Circle Army was collapsing. He would wait there for further orders from Moscow.

The sun was just peeking over the bay when the APC reached the shore town of Cape St. Claire. Here the mile-long, straight as an arrow four lane 423

bridge over the bay began. Turning in his position atop the APC, Major Kruszilinski looked back to the west to see the dark sky still lighting up from the intense fighting outside Baltimore. The Circle was finished-he knew it, and everyone in his crew knew it. The United Americans had been pounding the remains of the once-great army all night with everything from heavy bombers to attack aircraft to massive ground-based artillery. Now the UA ground troops would soon assault The Circle positions and no doubt would overwhelm them. With that, the bizarre reign of The Circle in America would be over.

The Russian officer had to shake his head and laugh. So much for the highly-touted theory of Tactical Defense. It had lost the Circle four cities in less than two months. And the brainstorm to wage a war of iconoclasm had also gone bust. He had seen what happened in DC, just getting out in time.

Instead of demoralizing the American citizens brought to the capital to witness the destruction of their culture, the strategy actually galvanized them. The passive sheep had suddenly turned into a raving paek of wolves and The Circle had paid the price, in men and material, not a small amount of which was owned by the Soviet Army.

Major Kruszilinski tipped his hat in grudging respect for the Americans. It was that crazy man who chose to risk his life flying over the city towing the American flag who had started it all. Once the fuse was lit, there had been no way to put it out.

But all that was ancient history now, as far as the Soviet officer was concerned. His priority was getting to New York City with the valuable case he'd been carrying around inside the APC since the 424

retreat from Football City. Books and baseball bats may be important to the Americans, but they didn't amount to much compared to what he carried in the armored vehicle.

In his hands were the ultimate objects of American culture. He knew he might turn out to be the hero in this war after all...

The gold APC rolled onto the bay bridge just as the first rays of sunlight began to appear. They had adhered to their timetable. At this rate, Kruszilinski hoped they could reach the outskirts of New York by nightfall.

But suddenly he knew that was not going to happen . . .

A thick morning mist had enveloped the bridge and at first the Soviet officer welcomed the fog as cover for his escape. But now, up ahead on the straight, narrow bridge he saw first two red blinking lights, then a frighteningly familiar shape.

"Sir!" the APC driver yelled up to him in the turret. "Do you see it!"

"Yes, I do," Kruszilinski said. "Just don't stop, whatever you do . . ."

How the pilot had ever managed to land the strange, arrow-shaped, red-white-and-blue jet on the bridge the Russian would never know. But there it sat, blocking their way. Its nose cannons and God knows what else, armed and ready to fire. It was a showdown. Krusziliniski knew only one of them could survive.

The APC drew closer and the Soviet saw the pilot was standing straight up in the open cockpit, M-16 up and ready. Suddenly a stream of tracers came right toward him. The Russian ducked just in time to avoid the phosphorous shells bouncing off

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the turret.

"Keep going!" he screamed to his driver. But then he saw the pilot push something with the tip of his boot. Now just twenty yards away, the nose of the jet fighter suddenly erupted in a flash of fire and smoke. It was only a short burst-no more than a second and a half. But in that instant, the APC's driver and gunner were dead, and the front end of the vehicle blown off.

That left only Kruszilinski and the remaining gunner. It was obvious to the Soviet officer that the pilot-this legendary madman who was famous for flying the strange jet-was determined to stop them regardless of the damage it might cause to the contents of the sealed iron box just below the APC's control column. With this in mind, the officer and his gunner quickly abandoned the vehicle and jumped over the side of the bridge, plunging to the safety of the cold waters below.

Hunter didnt bother to shoot the two Russians as they swam away from the bridge.

There had already been enough killing-on both sides. The loss of Dozer was still imbedded in him. It was still hard to believe the man who had led his famous 7th Cavalry through the wild postwar days and established them as the premier democratic fighting force of the land was really gone.

The only small comfort Hunter could take was that the man died fighting for his country. A quote from somebody-maybe Emerson-came to him the night before and he just couldn't get it out of his head: "Heroism feels and never reasons and therefore is always right. . "

"Goodbye Bull," he had already said a thousand times. "We wont forget. . ."

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Hunter leaped up into the smoldering wreckage of the APC and climbed down inside. He found the strongbox easily enough-it had been the very key to locating the APC in the first place. After the battle in DC, and in between flying air strikes against The Circle that night, Hunter had been able to rewire the F-16's terrain search radar to pick up the faint, yet discernible signal being emitted by the laser lock on the APC and the strongbox itself.

Like a beacon in the night, he had followed the signal to this area and had guessed correctly that the APC crew was trying to make it to New York. The bridge was their only route and Hunter had used his expertise to set the 'XL

down on the narrow span.

Now at last he had secured the strongbox and the mystery of what The Circle and Spetsnaz thought was so precious was about to be revealed.

He hauled the box out of the vehicle and using a small pocket mirror, quickly disarmed the laser lock. Then he took a deep breath and opened it...

All at once he realized why his intuition told him-ordered him-not to shoot at the APC that night up on the Thruway. Had he done that, this precious American treasure that lay before him most likely would have been destroyed.

The pieces all fell into place now. The looting of the American culture had begun long before the battle for Football City. And this had been The Circle's major theft. He supposed they would have burned it sometime after all the books had been destroyed. Or perhaps they might have waited and shipped it to Moscow, for a more ceremonious burning there.

Whatever, it was in his hands now, and just like

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the flag in his pocket, nothing short of death would allow him to give it up.

He lifted its case and fingered the slightly yellowed document.

"Where would we have been without this?" he wondered.

Then he began to read it, feeling an especially strong jolt of pride as he whispered the first three words:

"We, The People . . .»

The Wingman returned to Boiling later that day, carrying the strongbox with the document safely inside. He turned it over to Jones in exchange for a promise that it would be guarded around the clock from now on and forever. It was a fitting price to pay for the tenuous, but nevertheless real reunification of the country.

There was still much to be done. The United Americans held only a handful of key cities. The countryside was as wild and treacherous as ever, and nothing could be done about that for a long time. Ana Jones and the others knew that the defeat of the Circle Army would in no way deter the enemies of America in their goal of ultimately destroying the fabiic of the country. In many respects they knew the biggest battles were yet to come.

After passing the strongbox to Jones, Hunter disappeared. Refueled the airplane and just took off, not telling a soul about where he was going or when he'd be back. Several hours later Jones had received a 429

report from a radar station up in Syracuse that a strange-looking aircraft had been spotted high overhead, steering north, toward Canada, but Jones never could confirm that it was the F-16XL . . .

In the meantime, the revival of Washington DC had begun. The last of the Circle Army north of the city had been destroyed and only mopping up operations remained. Over the next few weeks, the United American troops, with the help of the civilians, worked day and night to restore some normalcy to the city. Everyone breathed easier when reports from the Free Canadian Air Force confirmed that the mercenary fleet had indeed turned back and was heading east toward Europe.

The biggest task facing those inside the city was cleaning up and saving all the objects the enemy had gathered in its efforts to destroy.the artifacts of American culture. The bats and balls, and gloves and uniforms were all cleaned and separated and packed into boxes for shipment to the major cities where they would be dispersed to the population.

And for years to come, fathers would tell their children of Hunter and Dozer and Jones and the battle for Washington DC and explain why all the books left in the country smelled of gasoline.

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