photo, the kind taken from an airplane camera, flying very high. Hunter looked at it.
It depicted an airport, easily identified by its crisscrossed runway lines. The runways were bare but alongside them were what looked like little dots, hundreds of them.
"I took that picture two days ago/' Jones said, still staring blankly.
"Where is it?" Hunter asked.
"It's Baltimore Airport," he answered. "Baltimore!" Hunter gasped. "The capital of Middle Atlantic?"
"Took that shot at 81,000 in the '111," Jones said, a hint of pride evident in the gloom of his voice. "Know what those dots are?"
"They're not airplanes," Hunter said, his trained eye studying the photo.
"You're right," Jones said. "They're helicopters."
"Choppers?" Hunter was really surprised. "Where the hell did they get them?"
"I'm not sure," Jones said. "Most of those copters are Hueys, old ones, just like we have. My guess is they're right out of the jungles of 'Nam, where they've been sitting with those little yellow bastards for years. With those choppers, the 'Aks can lift enough troops to take Boston, either by force or pretense. They could do it in less than a day's time. And we probably couldn't shoot 'em all down. We'd run out of ammo."
Hunter was just finishing counting the specks on the photo. There were 339 of them. "Lot of airlift," he whistled.
Hunter saw the general's spirits were sinking fast. "Fuck 'em," Hunter said. "We have the best guys. The best equipment. We'll still kick their ass!"
Jones looked up at him sadly. “You know Hawk he said, pulling out a cigar, "I believe you did lose your head sitting up on that mountain. You still think that having the best men, best equipment, best engine and best air-to-airs strapped to your wings is all it takes to win . . ."
"Well, isn't it?"
Jones slammed his fist down on the desk. "For Christ's sake, Hawk! It didn't help us the last time!"
With that, Jones stormed out of the office.
The last time . The words haunted Hunter for the rest of the day and the night.
The last time. The Battle for Western Europe. The sneak attack on Christmas Eve. The first desperate days. The valiant allied effort. The turning of the tide. The mind-boggling battles of the Second Campaign, when men killed each other in hand-to-hand combat on the battlefield as satellites destroyed each other in space hundreds and thousands of miles above. In the middle of it all were the air battles, fought by men like Hunter, Jones, Toomey, Wa, and others-American soldiers of the air, fighting not because they like it or want it. But fighting because that was what they were trained to do. To protect their country. To insure that men could live in peace, and in freedom-no matter what the price or sacrifice. No matter what color, or race, or country. All men should be free. It was as simple as that.
And yet, they lost the war . . .
Not because of their heroics, but in spite of them. They had the best men and the best machines. Yet they lost the war.
The last time. The memories stung his brain. France, the Ruhr Valley, the battles in the skies over Western Europe. Living men against living machines. Quality against quantity. Human decency against human disgrace. They had won all the battles, fought harder and braver, sacrificed more in the name of their country than any American soldier had ever had-and for what? The proud but not idle boast. All the guns fired, bombs dropped, poison gas inhaled, cruise missiles fired and cities destroyed. And in the end, they had had the best-and still lost the thing with a simple stab in the back.
It seemed like such a long time ago . . .
And Jones, the man who led the final victorious charge only to have it all erased with the push of a button-acted as if it was all his fault. The weight of the world rode so heavily on his shoulders that Hunter sometimes wondered how the general ever even got airborne.
It rained hard and cold the next day. Everything was
It depicted an airport, easily identified by its crisscrossed runway lines. The runways were bare but alongside them were what looked like little dots, hundreds of them.
"I took that picture two days ago/' Jones said, still staring blankly.
"Where is it?" Hunter asked.
"It's Baltimore Airport," he answered. "Baltimore!" Hunter gasped. "The capital of Middle Atlantic?"
"Took that shot at 81,000 in the '111," Jones said, a hint of pride evident in the gloom of his voice. "Know what those dots are?"
"They're not airplanes," Hunter said, his trained eye studying the photo.
"You're right," Jones said. "They're helicopters."
"Choppers?" Hunter was really surprised. "Where the hell did they get them?"
"I'm not sure," Jones said. "Most of those copters are Hueys, old ones, just like we have. My guess is they're right out of the jungles of 'Nam, where they've been sitting with those little yellow bastards for years. With those choppers, the 'Aks can lift enough troops to take Boston, either by force or pretense. They could do it in less than a day's time. And we probably couldn't shoot 'em all down. We'd run out of ammo."
Hunter was just finishing counting the specks on the photo. There were 339 of them. "Lot of airlift," he whistled.
Hunter saw the general's spirits were sinking fast. "Fuck 'em," Hunter said. "We have the best guys. The best equipment. We'll still kick their ass!"
Jones looked up at him sadly. “You know Hawk he said, pulling out a cigar, "I believe you did lose your head sitting up on that mountain. You still think that having the best men, best equipment, best engine and best air-to-airs strapped to your wings is all it takes to win . . ."
"Well, isn't it?"
Jones slammed his fist down on the desk. "For Christ's sake, Hawk! It didn't help us the last time!"
With that, Jones stormed out of the office.
The last time . The words haunted Hunter for the rest of the day and the night.
The last time. The Battle for Western Europe. The sneak attack on Christmas Eve. The first desperate days. The valiant allied effort. The turning of the tide. The mind-boggling battles of the Second Campaign, when men killed each other in hand-to-hand combat on the battlefield as satellites destroyed each other in space hundreds and thousands of miles above. In the middle of it all were the air battles, fought by men like Hunter, Jones, Toomey, Wa, and others-American soldiers of the air, fighting not because they like it or want it. But fighting because that was what they were trained to do. To protect their country. To insure that men could live in peace, and in freedom-no matter what the price or sacrifice. No matter what color, or race, or country. All men should be free. It was as simple as that.
And yet, they lost the war . . .
Not because of their heroics, but in spite of them. They had the best men and the best machines. Yet they lost the war.
The last time. The memories stung his brain. France, the Ruhr Valley, the battles in the skies over Western Europe. Living men against living machines. Quality against quantity. Human decency against human disgrace. They had won all the battles, fought harder and braver, sacrificed more in the name of their country than any American soldier had ever had-and for what? The proud but not idle boast. All the guns fired, bombs dropped, poison gas inhaled, cruise missiles fired and cities destroyed. And in the end, they had had the best-and still lost the thing with a simple stab in the back.
It seemed like such a long time ago . . .
And Jones, the man who led the final victorious charge only to have it all erased with the push of a button-acted as if it was all his fault. The weight of the world rode so heavily on his shoulders that Hunter sometimes wondered how the general ever even got airborne.
It rained hard and cold the next day. Everything was
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