“Not a chance,” Hunter replied.
He had other plans….
“I think the worst thing for Devillian in this whole thing,” Catfish said, “was that a black man had a hand in beating him. That must have hurt almost as much as Hawk’s missile.”
“Not to mention that a bunch of Indians wound up on the winning side,” Crossbow added. “I hope we are just rid of him for good.”
It was the only piece of uncertainty left. Hunter had told them that while his last Sidewinder shot had been true, it had been hastily fired as he was turning in a hurry to get back to the train as it was being attacked by the last of Devillian’s forces. Thus all the talk about the demise of Devillian left Hunter with a slightly uneasy feeling.
But he quickly shook it off when they were informed via the scrambler that General Jones would be on hand for their entrance into LA the following day.
“He wanted to be with us for the whole trip,” Hunter said. “But his security people would never have allowed it.”
Fitz smiled and raised his glass of beer in a toast. “I never felt for one minute that he wasn’t here with us,” he said.
That comment brought a few moments of silence, as most of the men in the group recalled experiences they had shared in the past with the general. Finally Hunter raised his bottle of beer again and proposed a second toast. “To the general—the second father of his country.”
Chapter 72
FOR A LONG TIME, the man lay in the smoldering ruins of the helicopter, feeling nothing.
Finally, consciousness began to return. And with it came an overwhelming sensation of pain. His entire body felt as if it was broken in half. Much of his skin was burned. And the frigid desert night air was nearly as unbearable as the flames in the chopper had been.
But Duke Devillian was alive.
It took what seemed to be an eternity, but finally he managed to pull his battered body away from the wreckage and the gruesome skeleton of Lieutenant Kolotov. Everything started spinning around in his head, and he nearly collapsed again. But he fought the urge to pass out and, through sheer determination, continued crawling.
Slowly, his head cleared, and he was able to sit up and look around. It was freezing, the full moon mocking him with its display of false warmth. He painfully turned his head in every direction, only to find nothing but flat, endless desert and rocks.
Devillian began staggering across the barren landscape. For nearly an hour he wandered aimlessly, tripping over dozens of animal and human skulls lying in the desolation of the aptly named Death Valley. Finally, his battered body could carry him no farther, and he collapsed, facedown, in the ice-cold sand.
Just before dawn, a single helicopter appeared on the horizon.
It was a Soviet-built Hook, capable of flying long distances and carrying as many as two dozen people. The sharp-eyed female pilot spotted the body lying in the desert, and turned back for a second look. Flying low enough to see the man’s features, the pilot called back to her crew to prepare to land.
Within five minutes the chopper was down and the unconscious body of Duke Devillian loaded aboard. Taking off shortly thereafter, the female commander of the Hook pushed a series of buttons on her console and sent a coded message back to the chopper’s secret base, a location deep in the wilds of Alberta, Free Canada.
“Tell Elizabeth that we’ve found him” was all the message said.
Also shivering in the desert night air was Red Banner.
He had turned religious about twelve hours before, after one of the helicopters from the train fired a barrage of missiles into the gun and communication station where Banner had been doing his enforced play-by-play commentary of the Grand Canyon battle.
Miraculously, the missiles had killed everyone at the position but Banner.
It had taken him more than a couple hours to recover from the shock and to convince himself that he was indeed still alive and breathing. Then he spent another eight hours climbing down from the high, all-encompassing perch.
Now he was hiding behind a large boulder, watching as a huge helicopter took off and turned to the north. He had just witnessed the crew—all women, so it appeared—retrieving what may have been a wounded soldier from the desert floor.
He had surprised himself by not running toward the chopper as soon as it appeared. He’d been scanning the skies for nearby choppers all night and into the early morning, planning to flag down the first one he saw in an effort to get rescued. But something inside him—they could call it newsman’s instinct he supposed—told him that he wanted nothing to do with this particular chopper.
Instead he waited for another hour when the sun was finally rising and the desert air was beginning to heat up. Within minutes of the dawn, the sky was filled with helicopters belonging to the Coasters as well as the LA militia, sweeping back and forth over the battle area, looking for survivors.
All it took was several waves of his bright red toupee for him to attract a Coaster Chinook, and soon Banner was on his way back to LA, already composing the speech he intended to deliver to Wild Bill which would list his demands for a doubling of his salary—at the very least.
Chapter 73
PREPARATIONS FOR WELCOMING THE Freedom Express to Los Angeles dwarfed the festivities that had been planned for the ill-fated train of the Modern Pioneers, now more than a month before.
Nearly every citizen within reach of Los Angeles tried to jam into the vicinity of the hastily rebuilt Amtrak station, awaiting the arrival of the United Americans’ famous train. Stretching for miles from the station into the outskirts of the sprawling city, the train tracks were lined with flags, banners, balloons, and more than a million people, all of them eager for a glimpse of their new heroes.
In downtown LA, hundreds of bands had gathered to greet the train with rousing, very loud, patriotic music. As one witness put it, the long-awaited earthquake that people for years had feared would split California apart from the rest of the continent might well be caused by reverberations from this “battle of the bands.” The World Series quake of years ago would have seemed dull in comparison.
Red Banner, having survived his flight to LA by the Coaster rescue chopper earlier that morning, insisted that he was up to covering the arrival of the train for KOAS-TV. As many as twenty million people had listened to his “brave” and “stirring” commentary during the broadcast of the titanic Grand Canyon battle, making him as much of a hero as the men on the train.
Thus, the last thing he wanted to do was pass up the opportunity to bask in the sunshine of his mushroomed popularity.
But this time, he was keeping his feet solidly on terra firma. He had built a temporary broadcasting booth on a platform not far from the Amtrak station, giving him a good view—not an aerial, birds-eye view, but close enough—of the festivities. And just to be safe, he had insisted the booth was surrounded with bulletproof glass.
Bandaged and pleasantly sedated, Banner was warming up his audience now, assaulting them with a constant barrage of overblown language. “It won’t be long now, citizens. Not since Hannibal crossed the Alps … not since Columbus crossed the Atlantic … not since man first traveled to the moon … has there been a journey to match this one. Take it from one who was there, never in the history of mankind has a group of brave, valiant souls overcome such odds, suffered such horror …”
Banner rambled on, never suspecting that the TV audience for his masterful performance, the epitome of his reportorial career, had been reduced to little more than a handful of shut-ins. Just about everyone else in the LA region was on hand in person to witness the train’s arrival.
After hours of waiting, the crowd was rewarded with the first sign that the Freedom Express was coming.
Hunter’s Harrier came into view from the east, flying low along the tracks, leading the way for the train. Then came the two Cobras, their blades flashing in the bright California sunshine. Finally, the Freedom Express itself—or what was left of it—roared i
nto view, the two battered red, white and blue locomotives heralding its triumphant arrival.
There were only four cars still attached to the Dash-8’s, the rest of the damaged railway cars having been disconnected at a switchoff near San Bernardino. However, this quartet of cars was covered with the surviving Football City Rangers as well as Bad River’s Piutes. And serving as the caboose was the heavily damaged but still imposing weapons car carrying the gigantic cannon known as Big Dick, which had its share of Football City Rangers hanging all over it.
The City of Angels simply went wild at the first sight of the train. A mighty roar went up from the crowd, starting out in the valley and rolling like a huge tidal wave through the foothills, into downtown LA and to the shores of the Pacific.
On board, Fitz and Crossbow watched as the throngs thundered their welcome. Thousands of flags filled the air; guns fired ear-splitting salutes; bands blasted songs like “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The accumulated noise was louder than anything the United Americans had endured during the height of the Grand Canyon battle.
Finally, the train rumbled into the Amtrak station, where a huge, flag-draped platform had been erected for a welcoming ceremony. By this time, Hunter and the Cobras had landed nearby, and now they climbed onto the platform to join General Jones, Louie St. Louie, JT, Ben, the Wreckers and many other top officials of the United American Command. This distinguished group also included Catfish—whose troops were riding toward the city and were scheduled to arrive to another huge welcome later that evening—and the clearly bewildered, but very dignified Piute chief, Bad River.
General Jones took his place in front of the microphone, and at this point, the crowd’s roar reached an even greater crescendo.
Jones tried to quiet the crowd, but each time he held up his hands, the tumult only grew louder. Finally, after twenty minutes of cheering, flag waving and bursts of band music, the din began to subside enough for the general to start speaking into the microphone set up on the platform.
“My fellow Americans,” he began, “today we’re honoring an amazing band of patriots.”
With a sweep of his hand, he indicated Hunter and the other key figures in the Freedom Express adventure who were standing on the platform behind him.
“Because of their heroism,” Jones continued, “their willingness to risk their lives for a cause they believe in, they have opened a path of freedom through the heartland of this country.”
This brought more cheers.
“Don’t get me wrong, ladies and gentlemen,” Jones said when it was settled down enough for him to speak again. “We still have much work to be done before our country will be completely safe again. But these men have taken the first, giant step toward taming our new frontier. They have served notice to all of our enemies out there, in the Badlands and elsewhere, that the American continent no longer will be held captive by the forces of terror, racism and oppression….”
Jones’ words stirred the crowd into a new frenzy, and it was several minutes before he could make himself heard again.
Finally he shouted, “And now, I want you to meet someone who you’ve all heard about … a man whose feats of bravery and skill have inspired all those who have served with him in countless battles over the past few years … a man who stands for the very best in America’s past, present and future…. Ladies and gentlemen, Major Hawk Hunter!”
As Hunter reluctantly stepped forward to take Jones’ place at the microphone, the entire city of Los Angeles seemed to explode with cheers. It was another ten minutes before this latest tribute died down and Hunter was able to address the crowd.
“I don’t have that much to add to what General Jones already has said so eloquently,” Hunter began. “Only that I was just one of many people who made this mission a success. And we just want you to know how much we appreciate this tremendous welcome today. As the general indicated, our work is far from over. But with your support, we will continue the struggle to overcome the enemies of liberty … and one day, in the not too distant future, Americans once again will stand proudly as the greatest monument to the freedom of the human spirit this world has ever seen.”
Just then a voice up close to the stage yelled, “Would you do it again?”
Hunter managed to force his face into a smile.
“Not in a million years,” he replied.
Chapter 74
TWO DAYS LATER, A CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter set down briefly onto the virtually deserted mesa top that had been Duke Devillian’s headquarters.
“Jesus Christ, will you guys listen to reason?” Studs Mallox pleaded with the members of the chopper crew and Michael Crossbow in particular. “If you leave me up here, I’ll die. There’s no way for me to get off.”
“Sorry, Studs,” Crossbow told him as he literally kicked the man out of the chopper’s cargo bay. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”
On this point, even the Skinhead knew Crossbow was right. He had survived the Ten Miles of Hell ordeal, curled up in the fetal position inside of one of the Freedom Express’s weapons cars, whimpering and crying as the battle raged all around him. Wounds to both his knees—caused by severe cowering—were treated by a Coaster doctor upon the train’s arrival in LA. But the injuries were bad enough to prevent Studs from walking without the aid of crutches. This meant any activity that needed the use of his legs—like rock climbing—was totally out of the question.
“But what about our deal, you bastards!?” Mallox screamed at Crossbow as the CH-53 began to pull up and away. “You gave me your word that you’d let me go if I called my guys off.”
“Tough luck, Studs,” Crossbow yelled back to him over the roar of the chopper’s blades. “Guess we’re just a bunch of Indian givers.”
With that the huge helicopter pulled up and away from the mesa. It immediately turned northeast, bound for Oklahoma Territory where Crossbow would have a long-awaited reunion with his tribe.
Mallox began crying again as the copter disappeared. He shakily looked around the deserted mesa top. It seemed like years—and not days—since he’d been snatched from its summit. Now, as he hobbled over toward a set of the barracks, he wondered how long he could hold out on the fortress top. There had already been a shortage of food and water when he was kidnapped; he couldn’t imagine much of these necessities being left behind when the majority of the Burning Cross troops moved out for the disastrous battle in the Grand Canyon.
He heard the first voice just as he was about twenty-five feet away from the camouflaged barracks. At first, he was heartened at the sound; if there were still people on top of the mesa, then perhaps they would help him escape. But as he entered the barracks his last hope for life quickly evaporated.
There were five men gathered around a table at the far end of the small billet. The moment they looked up at him, he could tell they were all insane. Their eyes were glistening madly, but this was not what petrified him so. Nor was it the blood that covered their mouths and fingers.
No—it was the quick glimpse of what lay on the table in front of the five crazed individuals that convinced Studs that he was going to the real hell by a particularly painful route.
The food must have run out damn quick, was the Skinhead’s last thought in life as the five men approached him, fully revealing the half-eaten human body on the table before them.
Chapter 75
AT ABOUT THE SAME moment, one thousand miles to the east, a man named Frank Derrick looked up from tilling his small farm’s tomato garden and spotted a strange speck of light in the sky that looked like it was heading right toward him.
Because Derrick lived in the rough and tumble woods of West Virginia, his rifle was always close by. Now, he instinctively reached for the carbine, still startled at the sight of the light that was rapidly descending toward his cornfield no more than fifty feet away.
“Ma! Get out here, quick!” he yelled to his wife. “And bring your gun, too!”
But not like one they’d ever seen before.
This jet was coming straight down, landing like a helicopter right next to their cornfield.
“What is it, Pa?” Emerald yelled, loading her own rifle.
But her husband could not answer; she saw that two streams of tears were pouring down his face.
“My God,” the man was saying as he tentatively stepped toward the strange hovering jet fighter. “Could it be?”
His wife soon realized that he was looking at the person in the back seat of the plane’s cockpit who was waving madly at the both of them.
Was it really her? Emerald dared to think.
Instantly, they both dropped their guns and were running toward the airplane just as it was setting down.
Through the wind and dust and exhaust the plane had kicked up, they could see that a miracle had just happened. Waving and crying from the airplane’s back seat was their long lost daughter, Diamond, whom they had given up for dead after she’d been snatched by a band of raiding white slavers four years before.
The girl leapt out of the airplane, jumped down off the wing and was instantly crushed in the warm embrace of her parents.
“Oh, God,” her mother was crying and laughing at the same time. “An angel has brought you back to us.”
Even two hours later, after a quick meal of greens and cornmeal, Diamond’s parents couldn’t believe that their daughter was home again safe, never mind that she had been delivered by none other than the famous Hawk Hunter.
Now, as Hunter and the young girl walked back out to his Harrier, it was her turn to cry.
“Please don’t go …” she weeped softly, hanging on tight to Hunter’s arm. “Can’t you stay, just for a while?”
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