Thunder in the East

by Maloney, Mack;

  “Shane did a great job getting his guys the hell out of there,” Jones told them. “He estimates there were at least one hundred fifty Spets hanging around that warehouse.”

  “Well, this certainly changes things a bit,” Hunter said with understatement. “The Kremlin gang doesn’t just send in its best troops to guard something so trivial as gold or even big SAMs …”

  Both sides were silent for a while. Then Hunter spoke up.

  “I think that we should try again to locate and open up one of those trailers,” he said. “But, also, we should agree that the gold APC may be the key here. Those mystery trucks were welded shut. But that tank had a laser lock on it that was more sophisticated than anything I’ve ever seen.

  “So whatever is in those trucks may be important, but it could very well be small potatoes compared to what they are hauling in the gold armored car. And God knows how many Spets they have guarding it …”

  “OK, let’s get in agreement,” Jones radioed. “We’ll see if we can locate more trailers, and determine the ones most vulnerable to attack. Plus, we’ll intensify efforts to locate the gold APC.”

  “Sounds good from this end,” Fitz said into the microphone.

  “Time to sign off,” Jones said. “Just wanted to let you know also that all our reserves have arrived here, plus we’ve armed the POWs. We also have six squadrons of aircraft. Sounds impressive, but I don’t have to remind you that our intelligence tell us that The Circle and The Family could field a combined army of one hundred ten thousand just in your neighborhood alone.”

  Hunter took the mike. “That’s all the incentive we need to complete our mission here,” he said. “If you can launch the next phase within forty eight hours, I guarantee those enemy troop numbers will drop …”

  “I’ll take that as a matter of faith,” Jones kidded him. “After all, it is coming from a thirty-to-one long shot …”

  Hunter turned and looked at the ten large piles of coins on the table next to the radio—the contents of 300 bags of gold, their winnings on the duel the day before.

  “And I’ll take that as a compliment, General,” he concluded. “Everyone knows that Americans love the underdog.”

  CHAPTER 37

  FOR HUNTER AND THE crew of the Nozo, the next 36 hours were devoted to eating, drinking and gambling—especially gambling. Each of the 15 agents were given five bags of gold and were told to go forth and multiply it. The tactics ranged from trying their luck at one of New Chicago’s dozen casinos, to bribing officials at the city’s harness track.

  Everyone agreed that intuition and innovation would be the keys. Thus, J.T. went out and bought himself the contract to a club fighter from the city’s still-uproarious South Side. All in one afternoon, he arranged a fight for the man, bribed the referee and judges, and artificially pumped the odds up on his guy, so that an hour before fight time, his fighter’s opponent was a rock-bottom 75-1 shot. J.T. then paid his fighter the equivalent of twice the winner’s purse for taking a dive. Hunter and Fitz had 100 bags of gold riding on the underdog; at fight’s end, they needed a truck to collect their 7500 bags of gold.

  The rest of the crew was just as successful although oh a smaller scale. The fact that they were from the Nozo—coupled by the fact that they were friends with the pilot who had so shrewdly beaten the air pirate on the shortest air duel in the city’s history—made them all instant celebrities. Celebrity status was essential in fixing the city’s myriad of gambling opportunities, and the Nozo crew soaked up every last drop of their instant fame.

  By the end of the 36 hours, they had amassed a staggering fortune in gold totaling 18,553 bags.

  It was in a mansion on the city’s east side that Hunter and Fitz met the man they called “The Kiss.”

  It had cost them 100 bags of gold just to arrange the meeting, but money couldn’t really buy the advice only The Kiss could give.

  The man—approaching his seventies, small, frail, and ailing—was still one of the most powerful men in New Chicago. He had more tentacles than a school of octopi, and ties into every last facet of the roaring city. He was a senior member of the board of The Family’s ruling committee, the overseers of all that went on in New Chicago. He alone controlled the finances of The Family’s army, who, for obvious reasons, stayed mostly to their barracks in a huge camp in the city of Aurora, right outside the old Chicago city limits. And he alone could bless who the next mayor would be to walk through the revolving door at City Hall.

  The man’s nickname was derived from “Kiss of Death.” While his profession was a high-paid “consultant” and fix-it man, many a hood had met a painful end after being fingered for one reason or the other by The Kiss. In the pre-war days, he would have been called a “don” or a godfather. The word around the town was pay him in advance, follow his advice and, don’t get him upset, or figuratively, he’d plant a big, wet one on you.

  Word of the meeting had spread around town, so much so that a crowd of on-lookers and minor city officials just happened to be in the neighborhood when Hunter and Fitz arrived at the grand mansion.

  The place looked old—almost antique—from the outside, but once past the front door, it was decorated in regal, if dark excellence. Hunter and Fitz were ushered into a large drawing room, where they found The Kiss sitting on a throne-like chair. They sat in plush seats before him, fully aware of the dozen bodyguards standing in the recesses of the room.

  “So you are the new heroes in town,” the man said, his voice raspy. “We’ve never had airmen as the upstarts here before.”

  “Maybe that’s why we’re so … well, popular these days,” Fitz told him. “People just can’t seem to have a good time without us.”

  “It passes the time,” The Kiss said. “We’re not what we used to be here—before the first big battles started after the New Order came in. But we’ve still got a big army and we’re learning that it’s better and easier and more profitable to make friends than it is to make enemies.”

  “That’s my kind of philosophy,” Hunter said. “There’s a lot of cash to be made on legit angles. And it primes the pump for the other business

  “We are in total agreement that,” The Kiss said. “And I compliment you. You are very smart for a pilot …”

  The Kiss poured them each a glass of wine, taking his own glass in his bony hands and sipping it.

  “So, gentlemen,” he said after a while. “This is a courtesy call, I understand. But tell me, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Advise us,” Hunter said. “We’re new here, we’ve only been down a few days and things happen very fast, as you know.

  Tell us what our next move should be …”

  The Kiss took another long sip of wine, then said: “You must strive to reach your potential just as fast as you can. Don’t let a moment pass you by. Use the resources at your disposal. Any obstacles in your way you must destroy—quickly. Because always—always—someone will be at your heels.

  “Now I understand you have a lot of money. Spend it. Buy the things you will need to achieve your goals. This is what makes our city turn. You have power in that airplane of yours. You have popularity because you so cleverly defeated the air pirate. Now you have money to get the things you want.”

  He took another sip of wine before continuing. For their part, Hunter and Fitz had no intention of interrupting him.

  “I’ll tell you a story,” he went on. “A while ago, back when the city was a little more, shall we say, ‘expansionist,’ we went into a small town near Football City, in preparation for our battle against Louie St. Louie. The people in the town were obviously aligned with the so-called democratic forces, therefore they were our enemies. So we routinely eliminated all the men of fighting age and the elderly. We sold the young kids to the Mid-Aks, and took all the attractive, fuckable women back here with us. It was all business, you see. And we made a tidy profit on the operation, where some bunglers like the Russians or The Circle would have just leveled the
town and killed everyone in it.

  “We’ve repeated this pattern over and over again ever since; in fact, we conduct these raids into Indiana frequently, and occasionally even up into the border towns of Free Canada. It’s become a money-maker, simply because we are doing what we do best. That’s why there are so many party girls in this city, and also, it is a major reason why we have so much money floating around.

  “And by liquidating the men of fighting age, we reduce the number of enemies in the area and the likelihood of armed uprisings and things of this nature. It’s a winning business philosophy.

  “The point I’m trying to make is that we use our resources wisely. We’re not wasteful and we turn a profit, simply because we were the conquerors.”

  Both Hunter and Fitz—hard-nosed veterans though they were—were shocked at the ease and self-removal with which The Kiss talked about the corporate massacres.

  “This is revealing advice, sir,” Fitz said. “And not surprising coming from you. Your reputation truly does you justice.”

  The Kiss did a slight head bow. “Thank you for your kind words,” he said a bit wistfully. “It is the advice of an old man, true. But sound advice nevertheless …”

  “Thank you for your time, sir,” Hunter said. “We will take your counsel to heart.”

  “One more thing,” the man said, his mood now lighter than at first, no doubt due to the wine and the compliments. “If you want to make a move—then make a big splash. Do something that will make the people in this town take notice. The bigger, the better. Get the respect of the people, so you won’t be just another flash in the pan.

  “Do you understand what I mean?”

  Hunter and Fitz both nodded.

  “Perfectly,” Hunter told him.

  CHAPTER 38

  IT WAS TWO HOURS after Hunter and Fitz left their meeting with The Kiss when those who lived near the mansion heard the strange, whining noise and saw the vapor trail crisscross the sky above them.

  Bodyguards for The Kiss disregarded the noise—they weren’t too far from the airport, and big planes flew in and out on a routine basis.

  Even when the speck at the end of the vapor trail began to descend, turning the whine into a growing roar, they ignored it. Their boss was safely ensconced in his castle, so why sweat a little noise?

  It was only when the huge C-5 passed no more than 1000 feet overhead that the bodyguards began to worry. And by that time, it was too late …

  The C-5 turned once again and came in at an altitude of 600 feet. Those in the neighborhood fortunate—or smart enough—to take cover, saw the airplane go into a sharp bank, its port wing dropping noticeably.

  Then they heard the mechanical whirring, saw the long terrifying stream of smoke and fire pour out of the side of the ship and engulf the mansion. It lasted no more than five seconds—still long enough for more than 8,000 uranium incendiary shells to perforate the building and incinerate all those inside.

  After the airplane had departed and the smoke and noise and fire cleared away, there was nothing left of The Kiss or his grand house …

  Mayor Crabb woke up to the sound of an air raid siren, blaring right outside his City Hall chamber window.

  “Up, girls!” he said, shooing the three naked women from his bed. “Who ever called this drill will be shot …”

  It was two in the afternoon, but Crabb was still recovering from another marathon night of drinking and debauchery, courtesy of Madame Meenga’s girls.

  He wrapped a bathrobe around his ample frame and opened the nearest window. Not fifteen feet away, the klaxon set up on a telephone pole was blowing so hard, the glass in the window was shaking.

  He reached for his phone, punched a button and was soon talking to his chief of City Security, a colonel named Roy Boy.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Crabb screamed at the man. “It sounds like these sirens are going up all over the city.”

  “They are!” Colonel Boy shouted back. “We’re under air attack!”

  Crabb was stunned by the news. New Chicago hadn’t been attacked by air since the democratic forces bombed the railroad yards and the oil dumps during the first Battle for Football City.

  Besides, Crabb knew there was a good chance that Roy Boy was drinking.

  “Who’s attacking us?” he demanded of the man.

  “The fucking Circle!” came the reply. “There’s four MiGs bombing the airport right now. I can see them from my window. We also have a report that two more are attacking our main power station at Evanston …”

  As if to confirm the report, the lights in Crabb’s chamber started to blink. Then he could hear the sounds of explosions coming from the direction of the airport.

  “Jesus, what the hell are you doing about this?” he shouted, pulling on his pants.

  “What do you want me to do?” Roy Boy asked defiantly. “We don’t have any interceptors and not many SAMs. The AA guns are going like crazy at the airport, but they haven’t hit anything yet …”

  Crabb blew his stack at this point. “You sniveling little bastard!” he shouted into the phone. “Your ass is fried after this is over …”

  He hung up on the man, and quickly dialed a special number only the mayor of the city was privy to. It went to a secure line that led to the mansion owned by The Kiss. Crabb knew it was his duty to inform the Family member of the air raid.

  Oddly, he couldn’t get a ring on the other end of the line. He dialed the number once again, but still got only an earful of dead air …

  He slammed the receiver down and hastily put on his uniform jacket. “Those Circle bastards will pay for this …” he vowed.

  Once dressed, he burst out of the living chamber and into his office. He was surprised to see there was a crowd of people already there.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked no one in particular in the crowd of 40 or so soldiers.

  The small man with a heavy Irish accent stepped from the crowd.

  “It’s a coup, Colonel Crabb …” Fitzgerald told him. “We’ve taken over …”

  CHAPTER 39

  IT WAS DUSK WHEN the A-37 Dragonfly touched down at New Chicago airport.

  Ben Wa and Yaz could see several fires still burning around the periphery of the air field, and the smoldering remains of two transport aircraft littered one of the main runways.

  Off toward the main terminal they saw the huge C-5 called Nozo, parked snugly beside the C-46 decoy. Neither airplane had received so much as a scratch from the air raid.

  Ben taxied the Dragonfly up to the C-5 where they were greeted by J.T. Twomey.

  “It seems like years …” the ever-cool J.T. told them.

  “Never thought I’d be landing here unopposed,” Ben said.

  “Things change,” J.T. said simply with a grin. “Now secure your aircraft and come with me. There’s someone who’s been waiting for you.”

  The ride to the City Hall was quick, thanks to the squad of Family motorcycle cops leading the way.

  A doorman let them out of the big white limousine, for which J.T. rewarded him with a handful of gold. They walked into the lobby and he waited a few moments for Wa and Yaz to gawk at the palatial setting.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Yaz said. He was particularly impressed with the bevy of semi-naked women who were lounging around the lobby, relaxing and drinking.

  “You get used to it,” J.T. told them, as they walked up the magnificent staircase to the set of huge doors marked Mayor’s Chambers.

  J.T. routinely saluted the Family guards outside and one of them courteously opened the door for them.

  “Your guests are here, Mr. Mayor …” J.T. boomed in mock seriousness.

  The big leather chair behind the desk slowly turned around.

  “Good to see you guys,” said Hunter, leaning back in the chair. “Welcome to New Chicago …”

  A sumptuous meal followed, interrupted only by Family bureaucrats shuttling in and out asking Hunter to authorize th
is, sign that. All in all, Yaz thought his friend was handling the rigors of the office very well.

  Whenever they were alone, Ben and Yaz updated Hunter and J.T. on the situation in Football City—the gathering of the ground forces and supplies, the readying of the air squadrons, the launching of spying activities in the east.

  But most important was the videotape the A-37 crew had brought with them. Hunter had a large video playback machine brought into his office and left orders with the captain of the security force that he was not to be disturbed. Then, between glasses of beer, they watched the footage that Ben and Yaz had shot the night before.

  “You can see we located another six semis,” Ben said narrating the video. “We found them inside Indianapolis, near the Colts’ football stadium. The same situation as the warehouse—half dozen trucks, a few APCs and jeeps. We’ve got to assume these rigs are being protected by Spetsnaz, too, although the general feels that it’s a much lighter force, maybe twenty to thirty guys …”

  Hunter watched as the infra-red videotape showed the domed Colts stadium with the six semis parked as if they were covered wagons ready for an Indian attack. The unmarked black military vehicles were lined up nearby. The infra-red device was able to shoot right through the fabric that made up the dome. Inside figures could be seen moving through the stadium stands, almost as if they were gathering something.

  “What are those guys up to?” Hunter asked. “It looks like they’re piling something on the field.”

  “We can’t figure it out,” Yaz told him. “Maybe they’re looting the place for blankets, or bandages or something along those lines.”

  The videotape, which consisted of one, quick, high-altitude sweep, came to an end.

  “So what’s the next step?” J.T. asked. “Those guys won’t be hanging out in Indianapolis forever.”

  “We’ve got to find a way to get to them without running into another bee’s nest like the last time,” Hunter said. “Trying to take them in that stadium might prove disastrous.”