Yet Banner’s viewers were deprived of hearing his golden tones describe this scene of carnage and panic. He was too busy vomiting.
It would take almost a week for workers and volunteers to sort through the tons of wreckage surrounding what was left of the train and the station.
For days, the smell of seared wreckage and burned diesel fuel permeated downtown LA. The death toll finally was established at 502, many of the bodies burned or crushed beyond recognition.
The extent of the destruction made it virtually impossible for investigators to determine the cause of the crash. The locomotive was totally destroyed, so tracing any mechanical or electronic failure was out of the question.
But after dozens of hours of probing through the demolition, however, the city’s Civil Guard investigators were able to come up with one indisputable, haunting fact: When the death train roared into the LA station, no one had been on board.
Chapter 2
Washington, DC
“SO WHAT IN HELL happened to those guys?”
The speaker was General David Jones, the Commander in Chief of the United American Army. He and his top advisors were meeting in the conference room of his Washington headquarters in the mostly deserted Pentagon Building.
“And what does it mean?”
These were the two questions on just about everyone’s mind this morning.
Although the United Americans were now in control of the major cities on both coasts, they had long considered the Badlands a double threat: first, as a too-perfect spawning ground for new terrorist groups that might eventually arise and challenge the security of the newly united American nation, and second, as a refuge where once-defeated enemies of America could gather to regroup and plot their revenge.
It was obvious that the American continent would never be completely secure and free again until the Badlands were tamed. So the high command of the United Americans—Jones and his most-trusted colleagues—had watched with more than a passing interest as the adventurous Modern Pioneers attempted to make the first train journey through that section of the country since the war.
Then came the disaster in LA.
Jones repeated his question. “The guys on the train. What could have happened to them? Any ideas?”
He turned to the man seated to his right. Major Hawk Hunter was tall, handsome and widely regarded as the best fighter pilot who ever lived. Better known to his admirers and his enemies as the Wingman, Hunter was probably more responsible than any other person for keeping alive the struggle against oppression and tyranny in the dark days following World War III. From the cockpit of his highly advanced F-16XL fighter jet, it was Hunter who had led the forces of freedom to victory after victory over a series of brutal, power-mad enemies.
Now he turned to his Commander in Chief and friend, General Jones.
“I hope I’m wrong, but I think there’s only one reasonable explanation,” Hunter said. “That train was attacked, and everyone on board was either killed or taken hostage. I’ll also bet a bottle of booze that the accident in LA was no accident. I say it was planned. Someone wanted to send a message to us.”
“If that’s all true,” Jones replied, “then it had to be a fairly well-planned operation.”
“I agree,” Hunter said. “I mean, we all know that there are probably hundreds of half-assed bandit gangs roaming around the southwest Bads, right? And we also know that they spend a lot of the time fighting each other. But to pull off something like this would take some coordinated thinking, and that’s something the bandits are definitely not known for.”
“That’s for sure,” agreed Mike Fitzgerald, the burly Irishman sitting next to Hunter. A fighter pilot who had become a millionaire entrepreneur and arms merchant after the Big War, Fitzgerald was one of Jones’ most important advisors as well as one of Hunter’s closest friends.
“And despite what the LA press might have led everyone to believe,” Fitzgerald continued, “we all know those Modern Pioneers weren’t a bunch of beach bums. They kept it quiet, but all of them were soldiers—trained by the Football City Special Forces Rangers themselves—and they were well armed, too. Hell, they were carrying a howitzer, plus a few rocket launchers and even some SAMs. I know because my boys sold the stuff to them.”
Next to speak was the Oriental fighter ace, Ben Wa, a colleague of Hunter’s since before the war and a man who had provided strong aerial support on many of Hunter’s most dangerous missions.
“So, we’re saying that somewhere in the southwest Badlands there’s an organized, well-armed group,” he said. “One that was able to stop a well-defended train, overpower the small army on board, and then send it down through the mountains to crash into the middle of Los Angeles.”
Just about everyone present nodded at the grim assessment.
Jones looked around the room at the dozen men who had gathered there. All of them had been fighting the foes of freedom for what seemed like forever. And still it wasn’t over.
“I agree that it appears this was more than a random act of violence by a gang of roving hoodlums,” the general said with a low voice. “But just how big or how organized they are is still pretty unclear.”
“Maybe a few of the bandit gangs got together,” Wa offered. “Formed a small alliance….”
“That’s a dangerous possibility,” Jones replied. “If those other gangs see one alliance working, they might start to jump on the bandwagon, and it could get out of hand. Then we’d have a real problem.”
“The question is,” Fitzgerald said, “how can we find out what really happened?”
“We don’t have much of a choice,” Jones replied. “We have to track down whoever attacked that train and stop them before they turn into a bigger threat. But finding them in the Badlands is going to be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack.”
“A haystack filled with rattlesnakes,” Wa added.
No one spoke for several moments. The men gathered in the room wrestled inwardly with their emotions, for the most part a mixture of anger and frustration. These were professional warriors, patriotic men afraid of virtually nothing. They had proved that over and over again during the last few years. And if another threat had to be overcome, then they would do it.
Still, it was disheartening. After regaining control of much of America, wiping out the Nazi threat in the Panama Canal, and recapturing the traitorous vice-president who had plotted World War III in league with the fanatical Red Star, they had allowed themselves to hope that maybe the fighting was over for a while.
Obviously, it wasn’t.
Even JT “Socket” Toomey, a highly skilled if rather impulsive fighter pilot, didn’t have a quick answer. Usually his solution was to suggest an immediate air strike on the bad guys and ask questions later.
“I’d give anything to know who they are,” Toomey said. “And where they are.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” said Captain “Crunch” O’Malley of the Ace Wrecking Company, the free-lance F-4 fighter unit that had become a valuable part of the United Americans’ team.
Hunter spoke again. “One thing we do know. It doesn’t make sense to just send out a giant search party to look for these guys. There are several thousand square miles of territory out in the southwest Bads. They could be anywhere.”
“Are you saying we’re not going after them?” Toomey asked.
“Maybe not in the usual way,” Hunter replied. “I’ve been thinking about this since we got the news from LA, and I’ve got a suggestion.”
Jones leaned forward in his seat. Most of the world knew Hunter as the highly publicized, incredibly talented fighter pilot that he was. But Jones knew there were other facets to the Wingman. He had been a certified genius as a child and had earned a doctorate in aeronautics from MIT at seventeen. But even more, the man had an incredible intuition, one that went way beyond what some would simply call ESP. At times, Hunter’s foresight was downright spooky.
“Well, let’s hear it, Hawk
,” the general said.
Hunter ran his hand through his longish dark-blond hair and took a deep breath. “The next time a train tries to cross the Badlands, my guess is that our unseen enemy will be waiting to strike again,” he said. “When it happens, we should be ready.”
“You mean we follow the next train across the country?” Toomey asked.
“Not exactly,” said Hunter. “We are the next train.”
A silence enveloped the room for a moment as the others let Hunter’s proposal sink in.
“Could you explain that, please?” Wa finally asked.
Hunter shrugged good-naturedly. “We assemble a train,” he said. “Then we fill it with weapons and troops and follow the same route as the last train—”
“And when the attack comes,” Toomey said, excitedly interrupting him, “Ba-Boom!”
“Well, more or less,” Hunter replied. “But I think that should be only part of the plan. Just think for a minute about what the Badlands are like today. That whole territory has almost reverted back to the early days of this country. It’s totally untamed, just like the Wild West. To make it secure again, we’ve got to do more than just go after some bandit gangs or get one train safely across the continent. We’ve got to literally resettle that entire part of the country. So why not use the same approach the frontiersmen did when the West was settled the first time?”
“You mean wagon trains?” asked Captain Elvis Q, another member of the Ace Wrecking Company. “Like scouting parties, forts, the whole cowboy-and-Indian bit?”
“Basically, yes,” Hunter replied. “But more high-tech. We put together a modern version of the wagon train. I mean, a real goddamn train with powerful locomotives and dozens of railroad cars. Hell, hundreds of railroad cars. But some of these won’t be ordinary cars—they’ll be filled with weapons, medical supplies, food. Many of the cars can be, in effect, miniature, self-contained fortresses.
“As the train goes across the country, we drop off one or two of these special cars at strategic locations. Each one would have a contingent of soldiers on board. We can create instant settlements—mini-forts. By the time the train reaches the West Coast, we’ve left behind a trail of forts that can serve as the foundation for the eventual resettlement of the Badlands.”
“And fight these guys who attacked the first train?” Jones asked.
“Sure,” Hunter replied. “Why not? In fact, there’s a good chance that when they see what we’re doing, they might just think twice about getting buddy-buddy with their slimeball pals and disappear.”
“This is quite the flamboyant plan, even for you, Hawker,” said Fitzgerald in his thick Irish brogue. “But I like it. The only thing is that unlike many of our operations, don’t you think it will be difficult to keep this one under wraps?”
“Why should we have to?” Toomey replied. “At some point, the publicity could actually help us. I’m sure the lawful people out there will appreciate our coming. God, it might give them a chance to feel like they’re Americans again.”
There was a chorus of agreement from those gathered.
“However, I think we should try like hell to keep it quiet at first,” Hunter cautioned. “The fewer people who know we are putting this thing together, the better. We’d be dumb to let our enemies out there get ready for us. But it will be a hard story to keep quiet once we actually roll into the Bads. And at that point, I agree, the publicity will probably work in our favor.” He turned to Jones. “Well, General? What do you think?”
Jones pondered it all for a few moments, then spoke. “It will take a lot of planning,” he said. “A lot of coordination and a hell of a lot of money. But I like it, too. I think it’s the right time. Let’s just hope we can pull it off.”
Santa Fe, New Mexico Free Territory
At the same time the inner circle of the United Americans was gathering in Washington, another more sinister meeting was taking place halfway across the continent.
In a dingy bar on the outskirts of the city of Santa Fe, two men leaned over their mugs of beer. Sitting a discreet distance away were no less than thirty bodyguards—fifteen for each man—on hand to ward off the myriad of dangers floating around the lawless southwestern city these days.
Once a thriving tourist and cultural center, Santa Fe was now a hotbed of drug smugglers, gunrunners and illicit sex—a suitable capital for the wild and wooly New Mexico Free Territory. Technically, the Free Territory was a protectorate of the Republic of Texas. Realistically, it was the underbelly of the southwest Badlands. And just like their staunch United American allies, the government of Texas had its hands full just securing and patrolling its own borders; they had neither the manpower nor the logistics at present to stamp out moral crimes like drugs and prostitution in places like Santa Fe. That would all come later.
But the two men sucking down the warm Texas beer weren’t talking about cocaine or teenage hookers.
“Your guys really pulled it off,” said a stocky, red-haired, cross-eyed Texan named Duke. “I’ll have to admit, I didn’t think you could do it.”
The second man was lean, blond and spoke with a German accent. “It was hardly a challenge,” he replied arrogantly. “Those fools on the train had no idea what was happening until it was too late.”
“What did you do with them?” the red-haired man asked. “Are there any bodies to be found?”
“What difference does that make?” the second man replied, a twisted smirk crossing his face. “The job has been done.”
The Texan rolled his oddly-spaced eyes in glee. “I would have loved to have been in LA with my camera to see that empty train roll in,” he said. “From what I hear, it barrel-assed right through the fucking town.” He laughed a little too wildly, and then suggested a toast. “Congratulations, my friend,” Duke said to the blond man with the crooked smile. “You and your men will be a most welcome addition to our cause.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of four teenage girls, all chained at the waist, who were brought through the cordon of bodyguards by a squad of black-uniformed soldiers.
“And what is this?” the German man asked.
“A thank-you present,” Duke replied. “For a job well done.”
The German carefully inspected each of the quartet of manacled girls.
“Interested?” Duke asked him.
“Why not?” the man replied, breaking into another rare, if nervously twisted smile. “We can talk business another time….”
Chapter 3
Two weeks later
THE AV-8BE HARRIER JET streaked across the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, heading out over the gray Atlantic.
Hawk Hunter was bathed in the rush of exhilaration that always came over him whenever he was at the controls of an aircraft hurdling across the sky. During the last couple of weeks, as he and the United Americans’ brain trust shaped their plans for the cross-country train mission, he had done just about everything else but fly, and he had missed it terribly, both physically and mentally. For Hunter, climbing back into a cockpit after even a brief absence was a lot like being reunited with a passionate lover. It was a stirring experience.
He rolled the AV-8BE northward and started up the coastline. He had always enjoyed flying Harriers. Of course, they didn’t have the power and range of his usual craft, the F-16. Few airplanes did. But the Harrier had one distinct advantage over his beloved F-16, and that made it the perfect companion for his next mission.
The Harrier was a VTOL jumpjet—a vertical takeoff and landing aircraft. It could take off and land vertically, like a helicopter, without the need for a runway. Not only that, but it could come to abrupt halts in flight at any altitude and at any speed and simply hover in midair. It could even move backward.
Its ability to come to sudden stops was certainly a major advantage during dogfights with faster, but less mobile, aircraft. The attacker almost always became the attackee once the Harrier pilot “slammed on the brakes.” But it was the verti
cal takeoff and landing feature that caused Hunter to select the Harrier jet for his next mission.
Now dubbed “Project Freedom Express” by the United Americans’ inner circle, Hunter’s assignment in the impending adventure was to act as the advance scout for the modern-day wagon train. Flying on ahead of the train’s progress every day, he would check out the upcoming terrain, the condition of the track and whatever else might be lurking around the next bend.
His F-16 would still have fit the bill nicely except for two problems: There would be few landing strips along the Amtrak southern tier route that the train would follow, and even he would be hard-pressed to land an F-16 on top of a boxcar.
But a Harrier jet could practically set down on a dime.
Hunter had spent many hours during the past week designing and building a special flatbed “landing deck” railroad car. On the drawing board, its fold-down metal planks would provide more than twice the room required to land the Harrier. But the extra space would be needed. Dropping a jet out of the sky to land on a moving train wouldn’t be easy. Most times the train would have to be stopped or at least moving very slowly when he set down, and even that would take all of Hunter’s skill.
Once the special landing car was completed, Hunter turned his attention to finding and customizing a Harrier to meet his requirements. He had faced one dilemma: He didn’t want to give up the myriad of computerized controls and special features built into the cockpit of his F-16. Yet the Freedom Express mission cried for the VTOL craft.
His eventual solution was rather simple: He decided to transfer the entire cockpit from his F-16 to the Harrier jumpjet.
He knew right off that this would require a Harrier with an unusually large cockpit. Fortunately, Hunter recalled seeing such a plane at Andrews Air Force Base several months before. He contacted a drinking buddy at Andrews and learned that the airplane was still there.
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