The Circle War by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online Page B

was demarked by several waves of barbed wire. In front of this was a half-mile wide, 55
    heavily-mined and booby-trapped defoliated area that would discourage the feistiest infiltrator. Guard towers appeared at 200-yard intervals and the perimeter was patrolled endlessly by the base's security forces and the local civilian militia. The commanders of PAAC-Oregon were vigilant to a fault. But with good reason. Just beyond the no-man's land and the barbed wire sat the hills and forests of old Oregon. This is where the uncertainty began. The land that stretched all the way down the coast and east to the Rockies and beyond, was filled with bandits, raiders, terrorists. The PAAC-Oregon base was the exception, not the rule in New Order America, just like the old U.S. Cavalry forts in the old Wild West days. Along with the Frontier Guardsmen outposts that were scattered throughout eastern Oregon serving as the trip-wire for the main base, PAAC-Oregon was an island of sanity and civilization on the edge of a lawless, out-of-control countryside.
    Finishing his patrol of the base's outer defense ring, Hunter headed due east.
    It was a beautiful day for flying, mostly clear except for huge cumulus clouds that waited for him at 20,000 feet off to the northeast. But great flying weather or not, he was filled with a troubled feeling he could not shake. It had clawed at him since the last recon flight. Despite Dozer's encouragement, Hunter blamed himself for not detecting the mysterious Russian fighters sooner. How could he have been so lax as to let the Soviets build a fighter base —and somehow make it disappear—right under his nose?
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    He flew higher.
    When he had joined PAAC, he had thought of it as the best way to continue his personal vendetta against the enemies of old America. He knew it would take not only fancy flying but hard work —in intelligence, in logistics, in procurement—to continue his crusade. He knew that to be successful, he would have to keep his hand on the pulse of what was happening across the continent and beyond. He designed the role of America's sentinel for himself. And, until now, he was always confident that it was thumbs-up and "do-able." Now, he wondered if that confidence was just cockiness. Some sentinel! He had radars and radios and long, dramatic recon flights and yet he let the Russians build a base so close to him he was surprised he hadn't smelled the borscht cooking.
    He flew even higher—up to 40,000 and into the white mist of the huge, billowing cloud.
    Betrayal. He felt that he had betrayed his own people —the other servicemen in Pacific American Armed Forces. The butchered frontier guardsmen and the sailors missing from the abandoned patrol boat. And how about the civilians that he pledged to protect? How had he served the murdered citizens of Way Out? No doubt the time he'd spent drinking and gambling and whoring and joy riding should have been put to better use.
    And if he was such a great intelligence expert, what the hell happened down near Vegas? What the hell was going on over the Great Lakes? What the hell really happened to St. Louie's recon troops in the Badlands? And where the hell were those God-51
    damned Russian jets?
    Now he went even higher. 50,000 feet. 55,000, 60,000.
    What the hell was he doing? Flying around, playing soldier. Harboring some stupid dream of reuniting his country. He knew he was the last of the sentimental Americans. Why couldn't he accept the reality of the New Order and just live with it? Make some money. Make a lot of money! He was once hired to retrieve some diamonds for St. Louie, a job that paid him more than $100,000.
    Most of it was gone now —put toward purchases of PAAC-Oregon aircraft. And soldiering was the least profitable business to be in these days. Freelance convoy protection duty. That's where he should be. Hire out to the highest bidder. He'd been offered incredible sums to ride shotgun for "special"
    cargoes. Let the rest of them