by Mack Maloney
“Fair,” the general said, coolly lighting a cigar to camouflage his smile. “Just keep your nose up and don’t be so much of a hot dog and you’ll make it.”
“Yes, sir,” Hunter replied, knowing he deserved some ribbing. “Thank you, sir. How many more of these you got?”
Jones suddenly turned serious. “That’s the bad news, Hawk.”
Hunter waited.
“We’ve looked all over, asked around, offered good money,” Jones said slowly. “Couldn’t find a single one, next to this one.”
“You mean …?” Hunter said, fearing the worst.
“You’re right on top of it, Hawk,” Jones said, looking at the F-16. “The New Order got to all of them. Pranged them. The incredible fools.”
Hunter closed his eyes.
“As far as we know,” Jones said, “this is the last F-16 left.”
CHAPTER FIVE
LATER ON THAT NIGHT, after chow and before the bourbon was broken out, Hunter and Jones sat in the pilot’s lounge smoking cigars. The room was small and cramped, but homey, thanks to the half dozen overstuffed chairs that were jammed into it. Its walls were covered with snapshots of the Thunderbirds in action in the old days. In the corner, a VCR—the only TV available these days—cranked away, displaying a porn movie on a jumpy black and white screen. Hunter avoided watching it for fear he’d burst a seam. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made love to a woman. Was it in France?
It had been one hell of a day for Hunter—his reunion with the general and the Thunderbirds, Jones’ updating him on the radical changes across the continent, the exhilarating flight, the shock of knowing that there was probably but one F-16 left in the world. It was hard for Hunter to believe that less than 48 hours before, he was still cooped up in the cabin on the mountain.
“Well,” Jones said, finishing off a cup of coffee. “Do you want a job or don’t you?”
“Job?” Hunter asked.
“Yes, Major. That’s what one gets when one has to earn a living. It’s a totally alien subject to you?”
It was true, from his childhood, through M.I.T., through the Air Force Academy and into the service, he had never held a regular job.
“Look,” Jones said, leaning forward in his chair. “It’s not much pay. Just enough to keep some silver—some real stuff—jingling in your pocket. But these days, what’s to buy? Booze. Women. Cheap cigars.
“But I’ll guarantee you all the flying time we can manage to give you fuel for. And, it’s your ’16 if you want it.”
“I accept,” Hunter said quickly.
“Now wait a minute,” Jones said, holding up his hand in caution. “Let me explain the job. We are talking about routine stuff. Escorting tanker deliveries, border patrol, training new guys if we get them planes to fly. Chasing pirates if they break our airspace is about the only action I can promise you. At least, for a while.”
“I accept,” Hunter said again.
“Will you wait a goddamn minute? You had better lay out your options, Hawk. Like I said, you could make a fortune as a free-lancer, doing trans-continentals. There’s a company, right up in Boston. Head-hunters, always looking for flyboys for convoy duty. They’ll pay you more in a week than I can give you in a year.”
“But I accept your offer,” Hunter repeated.
“Will you cool your goddamn jets?”
“Look, will I be working with you and the guys?” Hunter asked.
“Yes,” Jones said, with a wave of his cigar. “But …”
“And will I be flying that ’16 out there?”
“Of course, but …”
“Then, I accept your offer,” he said with a smile.
“All right, wise ass,” Jones said in exasperation. “You’re hired. Now, will you listen to me?”
“Go ahead. Boss.”
“I’ll kick your butt,” Jones said, reaching for a label-less bottle of bourbon. “You listen to me you hot dog …”
The general stopped for a moment, looked around for a glass, settled on an old styrofoam coffee cup and poured himself a stiff double. Hunter realized that whatever Jones had to tell him wasn’t a laughing matter.
Jones took a deep belt from the coffee cup. The stuff was rot-gut; but moonshine’s biggest asset was that it was available. In the old days, you wouldn’t give it to your worst enemy.
“There’s going to be war,” the older men said deliberately.
Hunter was puzzled. “There’s already been a big one. I thought it was ‘the war to end all wars.’”
Jones sighed and shook his head. “No, I mean right here, on the East Coast. With the Mid-Atlantic Division.”
“The Mid-Aks?” Hunter asked, looking out for a cup for himself.
“You got it. Things started to smell a few months ago. Little things. Here and there. Nothing that could stand on its own. But when you add them up …”
“Things like what?” Hunter asked, after locating a chipped and cloudy tea cup and pouring himself a drink.
“Well, the boys in Boston have never got along with Mid-Atlantic. They feel they’re just a little too cute for them. I mean, seeing them raise an army that could kick-ass on half the continent, that’s nothing to be taken lightly.”
“Especially when you have them for neighbors,” Hunter added.
“Check. There ain’t nothing between us and them except what’s left in New York City. Boston figured that if they wanted to put people to work, like a People’s Army, building roads, repairing things, then, what the hell?”
“People’s Army sounds a little too familiar,” Hunter said.
“I agree. It’s Russian to the gonads. But still, Boston didn’t mind all that much. I mean, there are eleven other countries out there now, and several free zones and unclaimed territories …”
“And the Badlands. And the pirates.”
“Right. Who can blame them for starting an army? There’s a lot of kookaboos running loose.”
Hunter nodded in agreement, refilled Jones’s cup and put a head on his own.
The general took a swig. “But it started with this shit at Fort Knox. I mean, they killed some people down there. Locals. People who just happened to live near the place, and who had some guns and squatted on it, using a little of the gold at a time.
“But you see, it was the way the Mid-Aks did it. They didn’t attack these folks right away. In fact, they did business with them. Then, they entered into a ‘mutual cooperation pact’ or something with these people, who were actually no more than four or five hundred, and calling themselves Kentucky Free State.
“Next thing you know, just when the Kentuckians thought they could do business with Mid-Atlantic—boom!—the Mid-Aks accuse them of some such nonsense, and they attack them. Wipe ’em out. It took all of an afternoon. Five hundred or more dead. The Mid-Aks sitting on top of a pile of gold. Who’s going to say a thing?”
“Well, is it common knowledge about what happened?” Hunter wanted to know.
“Maybe,” Jones replied. “There ain’t no more newspapers, Hawker. We used to complain about the press doing this and that. You know how much I hated sucking up to those bastards during the Thunderbirds’ days. Now that they’re gone, no one knows what the hell is happening on the other side of the mountain or in the next town over. We have one hundred million people still living on this continent, but ninety-nine point nine million of them are woefully uninformed.”
“What did the New Order Commissioner and his goons do?”
“Not a thing. And they knew about the Fort Knox thing. That I know for a fact. I’ve some good contacts up in Boston. Guys I’ve done favors for. They keep their ears to the ground and they keep me informed. The New Order heard about the Gold War within days of it happening. Did nothing.”
“Go on,” Hunter said.
“Well, the Mid-Aks used the gold to build an even bigger army and that’s when they went after the Florida-Alabama Union. But it was the same style. First, they played it cozy with them, o
pening up trading centers on their borders. Letting people travel back and forth without much hassle. Then again with this ‘mutual pact’ shit. Course, these Florida-’Bama Unionist guys didn’t exactly know what went down in Kentucky. Then the ’Aks proposed that the two regions ‘merge,’ to use their term.”
“Right,” Hunter said. “Just like when Hitler ‘merged’ with Poland.”
“You’re catching on, Hawk. But this time, the Mid-Aks didn’t even wait for an answer.”
“You mean they just walked in and took over?” Hunter asked.
“Just about,” Jones said. “But first they started a diversion. Now, remember, not many people know this is really what happened. It was real early one morning. A couple of ships sailed in from nowhere, anchored off Miami and opened up on the city with big guns. Then they started offloading troops! In landing craft, yet! These guys, armed to the teeth and all dressed in black, start splashing ashore. The Union guys don’t know what the fungoo is going on. These troops could be from Cuba, for all they know. So they stop ’em on the beach. Cut them up bad and bloody. But while they’re doing that, the ’Aks hit them from the north. Poured in like ants.
“It took a little longer this time. There are some tough sons of bitches down Florida and Alabama way. I mean, Roll, Tide. They weren’t like a bunch of hillbillies sitting on six billion dollars in gold. They fought back. Man, they had tanks, howitzers, a few choppers.
“But they had no money. And no money meant no air cover. And no air cover meant it was just a matter of time before the bigger army won. The Mid-Aks finally squashed them. Took about a month. It was a bloodbath. And from what I hear, the Mid-Aks didn’t take kindly to the conquered population. Killed kids, old women. Sold the good looking women. Shit like that.”
“And, again, the brave New Order was on the sidelines?”
“With their fingers up their whatzis. I mean, this happened practically right next door to them. Florida’s not that far from Bermuda. They’re either scared shitless of Mid-Atlantic …”
“Or …?” Hunter asked.
“Or they’re in bed together,” Jones said, worry crossing his face.
Hunter ran his fingers through his long hair. It sure didn’t take the world very long to get screwed up.
“You said, you’ve smelled other things?” he asked Jones.
“Oh yes,” the general replied. “You see, most of the people on the continent want nothing to do with Mid-Atlantic. I mean, we won’t trade with them, and neither will the Coasters. The Texans demand real coin, up front from them, but that’s not a problem, since they locked up the gold supply.”
“Then the Mid-Aks are probably the richest of the countries,” Hunter said. “But are they the strongest?”
“Not yet,” Jones replied. “Right now, in the pecking order, with all things considered, we here in the Northwest are probably the strongest this side of the Badlands, and that’s in good part because we’re lucky. We have some airplanes and pilots. The Boston Army is strictly paid soldiers, but they seem loyal. Small, but good. When I get through with the training of the Special Force here, we’ll be better. The ’Aks don’t go in for jets. Probably too stupid to fly them. They have some ships, and I hear they’ve been buying up helicopters. But they’re too big, if anything, and they got a lot of territory to patrol and a lot of pissed off people under their control.
“On the other hand, we’ve got stable and easily patrolled borders to the west, thanks in part that New York State is now a Free Territory. The ocean covers our ass to the east and a friendly Canada sits over us.
“And the Coasters are the same way. No real enemies close by. They’re the strongest west of the Badlands, with maybe the Texans a close third. The Mid-Aks are definitely fourth on the list, but they’re trying like hell to be number one. God! I think I’d prefer those hoodlums in New Chicago than these bozos down in Mid-Atlantic.”
“So, what ‘smells?’” Hunter asked, draining his cup of hootch.
“Well, just this,” Jones said. “I was up in Boston last week. Just making the rounds, seeing my contacts. They run everything out of a skyscraper now. The old Prudential Insurance building, I think it was called. It’s one of the tallest things around.”
Hunter knew the building.
“Anyway, suddenly, I start hearing things like: ‘Maybe the Mid-Aks ain’t that bad,’ and ‘They’ve changed their ways. They want to play it straight from now on.’”
“You’re kidding?” Hunter was amazed.
“No shit. But you see, these guys in Boston didn’t stop being politicians just because someone dropped the bomb. They’re like the Texans. Texas didn’t stop pumping oil, and the Boston politicians didn’t stop making deals. I mean, these guys wrote the book on how to make a deal.”
Hunter was familiar with it, having spent a lot of time in Boston when he attended Aeronautics School at M.I.T.
“What these Boston pols have their eyes on is a piece of that real gold,” Jones continued. “I mean, forget the clad. The currency of choice now is silver. But that’s only because there’s so much of it still around. People settle for silver, but they do crazy things for gold.
“So now there’s talk on the Leaders’ Council about let’s give the Mid-Aks a chance. Exchange ambassadors. Get to know them. This kind of happy horseshit. Meanwhile, they’re building the biggest goddamn army since the Civil War!”
Jones was silent once again. He was plainly worried about dragging Hunter and the other pilots into what could be a deadly situation. Not that they couldn’t fend for themselves. But who wants to risk getting his ass shot off for a country that hasn’t been around long enough to feel any kind of loyalty to?
“Well, the long and short of it, Hawk, is that one of the last things I heard when I was up there was some asshole talking about a ‘mutual cooperation pact’ with Mid-Atlantic.”
“Sounds like they’re going down the primrose path,” Hunter said, sensing Jones’s rising alarm.
“Oh, some of them want to get screwed, do you see?” Jones said. “There’s really nothing in the Northeast Economic Zone that’s not worth selling out for. And, if the Mid-Aks can come in the back door, well, it sure would make it a lot easier on them.”
“So you mentioned something about a war?” Hunter asked, getting the general back to his original statement.
“Oh yeah,” Jones answered. “But not right away. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. But it’s coming. I can feel it. My bosses—the good ones anyway—won’t let this dirty dealing go on, if they can help it. They might not be full military guys, Hawk, but Jesus, they have a better perspective on right and wrong than most of these chowderheads in Boston do.”
“And you’ll fight?” Hunter asked him.
“I don’t know,” Jones said slowly. “I don’t have any real loyalty to the Northeast, although it sure is better than a lot of the gabonzo that’s going down for governments these days.
“I’d like to fight because the Mid-Aks are like the commies in my eyes. They’re pigs. No respect for human life or rights. They rape. They sell young girls. They kill old people and kids. What the hell ever happened to live and let live? I refuse to traffic with sub-humans!”
He took a slug right from the hootch bottle for effect.
“But if they got into the pants of the crooked pols in Boston, we’d be overwhelmed, I think. They’d start cutting our fuel rations. They’d start yanking me around, so I’d be missing the details of running this place. Just when things would be at the worst, the ’Aks would come down on us like a ton of bricks. When that shit starts happening, I’ll know it’s just a matter of time. And we could fight. But I don’t believe in killing a lot of good pilots just because a bunch of politicians get screwed and like it.”
Hunter thought for a moment. Need to fight for a cause, the old man had told him earlier in the day. But he also wanted to serve the general.
“I’m with you all the way, sir,” he said.
“Thanks, Hawk.”
There was an awkward moment of silence between them. The general was like a father to him. He would go the extra mile and then some for the man.
“Just one more thing, Hawk?” Jones said.
“Name it, sir,” he replied.
“Get a hair cut and a shave. You’re a mess.”
Just then, Ben Wa and Toomey burst in. They were obviously drunk, a state that Jones and Hunter were also reaching.
“Hawk, old buddy, your compadres have arrived!” Ben announced. “Girls?”
With that, four of the most beautiful girls in the world walked into the lounge. There was a blonde, two brunettes and a redhead, each one wearing a tight sweater and short skirt, each one made up to the hilt. Each one obviously looking for a good time. They had come to the right place. Hunter’s eyes went wide and he felt a pulsating start up in his loins.
“Ladies?” J. T. announced. “Meet the famous Hawk Hunter, cover-boy, fighter pilot, whiz kid and astronaut-in-waiting.”
There was a round of greetings and an orgy of eyelash fluttering, but he was oblivious to it all. His eyes were transfixed on the redhead’s breasts.
Jones leaned over to him. “Go ahead boy,” he said. “Get your pipes cleaned. Just leave one for this old man and make sure you’re down on the flight line at eight tomorrow morning.”
Hunter took the redhead by the hand and headed for the quarters Jones had issued him earlier.
It had been quite a day …
CHAPTER SIX
HUNTER SETTLED INTO THE base. For the next six months he enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant routine of a fighter pilot in the New Order world. It was a life of daily patrols of the Northeast Economic Zone’s outlying borders, keeping an eye on the nearby sea lanes, and an occasional tanker escort mission. Jones had decided long before to leave the air convoy protection business to the free-lancers. He needed live pilots—not dead mercenaries. Thanks to the growing power of the air pirates and the increasingly treacherous skies above the Badlands, the life expectancy of a free lancer was now measured in days.