Thunder in the East

by Maloney, Mack;

  Tomm was already running out of the tent, heading back down to the row of tents where he knew the SAM crews were sleeping. He planned to rouse them and get them down to their missiles.

  But the whining noise was now so loud, he didn’t have to wake anyone up. Men were standing outside the tents in various forms of dress, looking up through the trees to the early morning sky, searching for the airplane.

  Tomm spotted a squad of his former charges and ran up to them.

  “We’ve got to get down to the missiles!” he said. “That airplane is dropping flares.”

  “It looks like a cargo plane to me,” one of them said.

  “There’s only one reason an airplane drops flares and you guys know what it is,” Tomm told them sternly. “Now let’s go …”

  Only half the men decided to follow him. Tomm led them back down the hill, yelling back orders to them as he went. But by the time they reached the plain, they saw that the C-5 was now only 1000 feet above them and banking hard to its portside.

  Tomm and the others stopped dead in their tracks as they watched 21 separate hatchways open up on the left side of the ship and 21 muzzle snouts appear.

  “Jesus Christ,” Tomm said, unable to close his jaw.

  “It’s a gigantic gunship …”

  No sooner had the words left his lips then all 21 guns opened up.

  There was no rat-a-tat-tat or fire crackling sound. Only a strange, very mechanical whirring and a sudden rush of blue-gray smoke. The barrage only lasted 4.5 seconds but in that time, 7,481 spontaneously-combusting depleted uranium bullets had been sprayed at the SAM site. In a flash of fire and smoke, it seemed as if the field had suddenly been hit by an earthquake and a volcanic eruption at the same instant. There was a sheet of flame so intense, it instantaneously melted the needles on the pine trees surrounding the SAM field, quickly filling the air with a sickeningly sweet burnt pine smell.

  The airplane was gone in 15 seconds, climbing stiffly, the gun hatches closing all at once. Tomm had never seen anything like it. Complete, quick, total destruction. He felt faint and bit his lip in an effort to prevent his body from going numb in near-shock.

  When the smoke began to lift only 20 seconds after the attack, he saw all that remained of the Circle Army’s neatly lined-up SAMs was a deep hole and a few burning strips of metal.

  CHAPTER 32

  HUNTER AND FITZGERALD PULLED up to the front of the Chicago City Hall and were met by three security guards.

  “The mayor is waiting for you,” one of the soldiers said as they were led through the magnificent lobby and up to the mayor’s chambers.

  But it wasn’t Bruceland who sat behind the mayor’s desk. It was Colonel Crabb.

  “Is the mayor around?” Fitz asked.

  “You’re talking to him,” Crabb said with a mile-wide grin. “We had a quick example of democracy in action about thirty minutes ago.”

  Only in New Chicago, Hunter thought.

  “Well, I hope this doesn’t affect our previous agreement?” Fitz asked cautiously.

  “Not at all!” Crabb said, motioning for them to sit down. “In fact, a guy from The Circle was just here, paying up, both principal and interest …”

  “Glad to hear it …” Hunter told him. “Can we get paid now?”

  “Absolutely,” Crabb said. “What was the price again?”

  “It was negotiable with your predecessor,” Fitz said. “But ten bags of gold will do.”

  Crabb pushed an intercom button on his telephone and a few moments later an absolutely gorgeous, blond woman walked in. She was naked except for the barest of bikini panties.

  “Pay these gentlemen,” Crabb told her. “Fifteen bags of gold, apiece …”

  Both men were surprised at the mayor’s generosity. Fifteen bags of gold for four seconds of work, thought Hunter. He knew he could be a rich man if he wasn’t so damn honest.

  But the operation was more important than gold. He and Fitz had accomplished two things: first, getting into favor with the Chicago Machine (although its wheels seemed to be spinning at 8000 RPM), and as gravy, being paid for knocking out The Circle’s SAM capability.

  “That’s quite a flying machine you have there,” Crabb said, as the near-naked woman counted out 15 bags of gold for them. “I’m surprised you haven’t made a living just hiring out as ground support.”

  “We pick and choose how we use it very carefully,” Hunter told him. “Also we can’t hire out to those dogooders out West …”

  Crabb waved his hand in disgust. “Those people make me sick,” he said. “What a bunch of dreamers! They kicked the Circle out of Football City. So what? Everyone knows the Circle jerks were just marking time there anyway.

  “Now these flag-wavers are all hopped up I suppose. Thinking they can kick ass on what’s left of The Circle. Well, I got news for them, there’s plenty more enemies where The Circle came from. And all of them get paid in rubles, if you catch my drift …”

  Hunter and Fitz did.

  “But take you guys,” Crabb went on, allowing the blonde to sit on his lap. “No flags. No causes. Just do the job and get paid. I like that kind of work ethic. And how many are there of you? Fourteen in all? That’s amazing. You can throw a lot of weight around, just you guys and that big airplane ….”

  Crabb’s next thought got caught in his throat. Hunter immediately sensed that the man realized he was talking a little too much, giving them ideas.

  He cleared his throat and began fondling the blonde’s breast. “Well, anyway,” he said after a few moments. “If you stick around, I might have some more work for you. Interested?”

  “We’re always interested in making this kind of money,” Fitz said.

  “Glad to hear it,” Crabb concluded. “Tonight, we’re having a big bash here—right here at City Hall. It’s my inauguration. I want you guys to be my guests of honor. Then we can talk about using you—on a retainer basis.”

  Hunter gave Fitz a quick thumbs-up sign.

  “What time does the party start?” he asked.

  CHAPTER 33

  YAZ HAD TO STARE at the infra-red scope for a few moments—it was the first time he had a legitimate target.

  “I’ve got something, Ben,” he said finally, adjusting the A-37’s infra-red scope power.

  They were 40 miles west of what used to be Terre Haute, Indiana, but what was now part of the fiefdom of a notorious air pirate gang named McDeath. They had stopped searching for the “assumed route” of the semis, and instead started looking for the mystery trucks further east.

  Now it appeared as if they had struck paydirt.

  “Call it out,” Ben said, as he steered the Dragonfly through the night, once again at treetop level.

  “I got six readings, twenty miles straight ahead,” Yaz said. “All uniform, all emitting actively. They’re coming back with numbers that could correspond to the tractor-trailers.”

  “Just six, eh?” Ben said, activating the A-37’s ECM pod. “Maybe that’s our answer. Maybe the semis split up right after crossing into Illinois …”

  “Could be,” Yaz said, turning back to his scope. “Readings still strong. Fifteen miles now … I see no threat activity.”

  “Roger, we’re level at one hundred fifty feet,” Ben said. “We’ll do one pass quick, see if anyone’s awake.”

  They bore down on the target area, which was set into the side of a mountain. The infra-red readings were telling Yaz that six targets as big as semis were parked around a long, rectangular building. The tractor trailers stuck out like so many sore thumbs—these kinds of trucks were virtually non-existent in New Order America.

  “OK, target right ahead,” he told Ben as they both dropped their NightScope visors down. Suddenly Yaz felt like he was in another world. A world of ghosts moving through the bluish haze of nightvision.

  “I see them!” he called out when they were just three miles from the target.

  “OK, hang on,” Ben said, switching on the airplane�
��s infra-red nose camera.

  They flashed over the building ten seconds later. Yaz heard the A-37’s camera whirring away, but it was what his own eyes saw—via the NightScope—that told him they were on the right track. There were six tractor-trailers parked right alongside the building, covered with tree branches as a quick form of camouflage.

  “That’s got to be them,” he called out as they passed by the building. “I’m picking up some heat from defensive weapons. Small rockets, maybe a Stinger or two. Nothing’s active though …”

  “No guards on night watch …” Ben said, as he pulled the A-37 up and banked to the right. “I guess they weren’t expecting company.”

  “Could they have made a deal with McDeath?” Yaz asked. “You know, pay them a fee to pass through their turf?”

  “Maybe,” Ben answered. “Although it must have been expensive. Everything I’ve heard about McDeath leads me to believe they don’t play cheap.”

  He turned the A-37 back west and climbed up to 5000 feet. They settled in for the trip back to Football City.

  But Yaz was still shaking his head. “What the hell could those semis be carrying that’s so damn important?”

  CHAPTER 34

  “I’VE GOT SEVERAL THEORIES on what was in those semis,” J.T. was saying as he took a drink of a gigantic Scotch and water.

  Hunter, Fitz and he were in the lobby of the ornate New Chicago City Hall for the occasion of Colonel Crabb’s inauguration party. The place was packed with cretins of all persuasions: out-and-out gun-toting criminals with the obligatory moll on each arm, uniformed officers from the myriad of New Chicago’s Family-affiliated militias, several skunky Soviet plainclothesmen, even a few leather-jacket air pirates. Two Circle Army majors cowered over in one corner, trying their best to avoid contact with anyone, for fear someone would threaten to raise their rent.

  Hunter and his friends had been at the party for just an hour, eating and drinking and looking at the girls. The mayor had introduced them to a number of big shots as the guys “who put the hurt on the Circle” earlier in the day.

  Now they had drifted to a relatively deserted corner of the hall to hold a more private discussion.

  “I say they retrieved a bunch of the bigger SAMs from the Badlands,” J.T. said, keeping his voice low. “You know, the ones that have to be set in concrete and so on. Some of those babies can go up to ninety-seven thousand feet and range out at two hundred miles. I’d say the Russians would be very anxious to get those kinds of missiles back and that would explain why The Circle never bothered to set up any of them around Football City.”

  “That’s A possibility,” Hunter replied. “Although if they’ve got one hundred semis out there, that would mean a lot of big missiles have fallen into their possession. I’m not sure that many SAMs of any size survived the first Circle War.”

  “Could be they dug up the launchers and controls too, and they’re shipping them alongside,” Fitz offered.

  “Maybe it’s just gold,” Hunter said, hoping it was all that simple. “I mean, they welded the stuff inside and kept the hiding place secret within Football City. I’ll bet that ninety-five percent of their own people never even knew what was going on inside that underground garage.”

  Fitz guzzled his drink and in the same motion, took another one off the tray of a passing waitress. “But if they’re so rich in gold, why would they welch on the rent money to the Family?” he asked. “They just lost their assembled SAM capability because they didn’t pay their rent.”

  “We’ll know more if and when Yaz and Ben find the goddamn things,” Hunter said.

  Just then Colonel Crabb called for the attention of the guests.

  “Welcome, my friends,” he said with a true politician’s flair. “Thank you for coming. I’m not one for speeches, but just let me say that my administration will be dedicated to keeping New Chicago strong. We will continue to be tough with anyone who doesn’t play by the rules …”

  He eyed the two Circle Army officers with this line. Just about everyone else broke into applause.

  “All right, I have a surprise for all you guys out there—maybe some of you ladies, too.”

  He clapped his hands once, and suddenly the lights in the lobby dimmed. A soft, seductive melody oozed from several speakers around the hall. From a side door, a group of women appeared. “My good friend Madam Meenga has sent over some of her best, ah … students,” Crabb announced. “These are very generous gals, so guys—and ladies—help yourselves!”

  The women began filtering through the crowd, automatically mingling with the guests. Hunter, Fitz, and J.T. were on the opposite side of the room, and with the lights dimmed, they had yet to catch a good glimpse of the women.

  “Crabb seems to know how to keep his constituents happy,” Fitz remarked.

  “Free food, free booze, free chicks,” J.T. replied. “That’s a platform I can get behind …”

  But Hunter couldn’t say anything. He had just got a good look at one of the “students.”

  She was a petite blonde who had made her way through the crowd and was now being fondled by an air pirate. It wasn’t what she looked like that had startled Hunter. It was what she was wearing …

  Women’s style tuxedo coat. Low cut silk blouse that showed a lot of boob. Black nylons and short black boots. It was the exact ensemble that Dominique was wearing in the photo he kept in his pocket.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he said through gritting teeth.

  “Hawk? You OK?” J.T. asked, seeing the strange look come across his friend.

  Hunter didn’t answer him. He walked over to the girl and literally pulled her away from the air pirate.

  “What’s with that get up?” he asked her, an anger building inside him.

  The woman, surprised by his sudden action, was at a loss for words.

  But the air pirate wasn’t …

  “Hey, asshole,” he hissed at Hunter. “What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

  Hunter ignored the man.

  “You got a hearing problem, jerk-off?” the air pirate said, louder this time.

  But still Hunter didn’t acknowledge him. Instead, he repeated his question to the girl.

  “It’s the Queen’s outfit, mister,” she said, straightening out her jacket. “What’s the big deal? All the girls are doing it …”

  She was right. As more of Madam Meenga’s “students” came toward him, Hunter could see they were all dressed in the same, alluring outfit.

  “Who’s The Queen?” Hunter asked her, once again paying no attention to the air pirate’s rebuke, even though the man was drunk and his voice near the 90-decibel range.

  “You know, man, ‘The Queen,’” the girl said. “The one that Viktor nabbed? The one that all the Circle guys are in love with. She’s the most. The absolute most! Everyone is into wearing her style …” She then shocked Hunter by pulling out a photograph that was exactly like the one he kept in his pocket.

  “You must be new around here, mister,” the girl said, showing him the picture. “The Circle gave this snapshot of the Queen to all their guys. They went nuts over her. Fought a big war with some people out west. Of course, no one really knows who she is. But now these photos are like gold, man. I had to turn five tricks in one night just to get the cash to buy this one, and I’m never giving it up. It’s the only way I can get my look right …”

  Hunter couldn’t believe it. Could it really be that the X-rated get-up that Viktor had Dominique wear for those infamous photos was now the fashion rage of hookers in New Chicago?

  “Not just here either, man,” the blonde told him. “All over the east, I hear the women are really getting into it.”

  Just then, the air pirate came up behind Hunter and screamed in his ear: “Hey asshole, I’m talking to you!”

  For the first time, Hunter turned around and confronted the man. He was about 6-5, built like a barrel and with a face so scarred it looked as if he’d been ejected out of a c
anopy without bothering to open it.

  “What’s your problem,” Hunter asked him.

  “You’re my problem,” the man said threateningly, as a small crowd gathered around them. “No one just comes up and takes …”

  Hunter cut him off. “Take a fucking walk …” he said, dismissing him.

  The man became so enraged, it seemed as if steam would start pouring out of his ears.

  Hunter had partially turned back toward the girl when he just caught sight of the punch coming. Instantly his hand was locked around the man’s wrist, using the momentum to toss the pirate head over ass. He even managed to land a punch upside the man’s face as he was tumbling by.

  A gasp went up around them as the air pirate hit the hard marble floor head-first, echoing a brutal crack. Hunter’s boot was on the man’s chin in a second. “You were saying?” Hunter asked the man sarcastically.

  Suddenly, the mayor himself was standing beside Hunter.

  “Jesus Christ, do you know who that is?” Crabb asked him in an urgent whisper. Even the two girls hanging all over him looked nervous.

  Hunter just shrugged and pressed his boot harder into the man’s face.

  “I don’t give a damn who he is …” he said to Crabb. “He’s bothering me …”

  Crabb looked like he would expire on the spot. “He’s a group leader for McDeath.” the mayor mumbled in Hunter’s ear. “They’re the guys who we hire for our air protection.”

  Hunter stared down at the man, who was just coming out of a semi-conscious state. He was so big, Hunter couldn’t believe he could fit into the cockpit of a jet fighter.

  “So, what do you want me to do with him?” Hunter asked Crabb.

  “Jesus! Let him up!” Crabb said shakily.

  Hunter complied and two of the air pirate’s cohorts helped the man to his feet.

  “You’re a dead man,” the pirate hissed at Hunter, his face no more than an inch from his.

  Hunter hit him again. This time square in the jaw. The man once again hit the solid marble floor like a ton of bricks.