by Mack Maloney
Hunter and Zal were enjoying Al’s story. Many a pilot had faced the same kind of thing in The Pitts.
“So,” Al continued. “Now I’ve got to wait for a couple hours for a Thud to fly down. So I go into the main terminal building to get some shut-eye. There’s more creeps there, sitting in the dark, playing with themselves. Terrible. But I stretch out and finally fall asleep.
“Next thing I know, the Thud pilot is shaking me awake. He’s got the money and the plane is back where it was. He says to me, ‘Where’s your shoes?’ I look at my feet and I can’t believe it. While I was asleep, sure as shit, someone stole my other boot!”
They all had a good laugh at Al’s tale, the last they’d have in a while. Up ahead, Hunter could see the faint outline of The Pitts’ landing lights. He nodded to Al.
“Pittsburgh,” Al said into the microphone. “C-47 Spooky requesting permission to land.”
There was a silence, then the radio crackled to life. “Whadda ya want?” came the reply.
Hunter and Al looked at each other and shrugged.
“Spooky requesting landing clearance,” Al said. “We are at ten miles out. One hundred thirty knots. From the north. Need your wind and weather.”
“Fuck your wind and weather,” the voice came back. “You got landing money?”
“Landing money, tower?” Al said, with a wink.
“Fuck you, asshole,” came the reply. “Half bag of silver when you touch down. Real stuff. If you ain’t got it, then get the fuck out of the airspace before we knock you out.”
“We got the money. Can we land?” Al asked.
“Sure,” the voice said. “Give it a shot. And pay the man in the black hat when you get here.”
They landed without incident although barely half the lights on the airport’s only functioning runway were working. The sun was just coming up and in the early morning light they could see why every flyboy who could avoided The Pitts like the plague.
They had to wheel their way in and out of tons of junk that littered the airport’s taxiing apron. There were pieces of tail sections, wings, landing gears scattered everywhere. Tools lying rusted where they’d been dropped probably years before. Jet fighters set up on blocks just like a farmer’s old Chevy set on milk crates. Everywhere, the place looked like a slum; a slum in a perpetual state of chaos.
The main terminal building, which was designed like a saucer, with a half dozen spoke-like passageways coming out of it, was dingy and rundown. Where huge plate-glass windows once stood, now there were makeshift barriers of plywood. The control tower, off to the left of the main terminal, was also in a state of decay. It was unpainted and sported more than a few boarded up windows. Several machine guns protruded from the deck surrounding the tower, though they were unmanned at the moment.
On the side of the tower, where there was once a sign reading, “Welcome to Pittsburgh International Airport,” someone had appropriately scraped off most of the letters and now the sign just read: Pitts.”
They rolled up to a station beside the saucer-shaped terminal building and cut the engines. So far, so good, Hunter thought. The two propellers on the C-47 had barely stopped turning when a man in a black hat drove up in a jeep and rapped on the side of the plane.
All three of them made their way back to the rear of the plane and Hunter popped the cargo door and threw out the step. The man in the black hat came aboard. Once Hunter got a good look at him, he realized he was looking at one of the ugliest individuals in the world.
The right side of the man’s face looked as if someone had taken an acetylene torch to it. It was the color of boiling blood and it looked as if it was still cooking. His left side had seven long deep scars running from eye to chin. The latest one was still stitched up, but a green, pus-like substance was oozing from it. He had no teeth and what looked to be only patches of hair. The man smelled rancid and his clothes—the hat, a full-length black coat and black boots, even his black wraparound sunglasses—all looked as though they’d hadn’t been washed in years.
The man didn’t introduce himself. Instead, he just said: “Got the money?”
His voice was barely a croak. Hunter couldn’t be sure if he was armed or not; underneath the coat would be a perfect hiding place for a shotgun. However, he was certain that more than a few guns were probably covering the man from the terminal building and the control tower.
“Got the money?” the man repeated, a green-oozy drool leaking out of the corners of his mouth.
Hunter produced a half bag of silver. The man took it and shook it once, as if he could tell it was real silver and the right amount just by listening to the coins jingle. He gave Hunter a curt nod and stuffed the bag of coins under his coat.
“What’s your business here?” he croaked, more green drool coming from his mouth.
“We’re nail drivers,” Hunter told him. “Here to pick up a load of nails. That is, if someone hasn’t stolen them yet.”
Nail drivers were pilots who carried loads of used nails from one location to another. While there was a slight rebirth of manufacturing in the days of the New Order, for some reason, no one was making nails, thus they were valuable items.
The man spat a long, green line close to Hunter’s boot.
“You calling us thieves?” he asked defiantly.
“Sure,” Hunter said, coming within an inch of the man’s deformed face. “Thieves like us …”
Hunter then produced another bag of coins, a quarter full this time. “No more questions?” he asked.
The man greedily accepted the bag and hastily stuck it under his coat, not wanting any of his counterparts to see him. He’s mine now, Hunter thought. Phase One of his plan was under way.
“We need someone to find our shipment,” he told the man. “You interested?”
The man looked around quickly, then said: “Got to know what I’m looking for.”
“The crate came in from Florida, two days ago,” Hunter told him. “It’s marked destination is The Aerodrome. Find it.”
“How much?” the man asked nervously.
Hunter produced another quarter bag. “You get this now, and another half when you deliver.”
The man was salivating green at the prospect of all that money. Hunter was sure the typical bribe at The Pitts was half as much.
“Might take a while,” the man said.
“Get it here by sunset,” Hunter said in no uncertain terms. “Or we come and get you.”
“If it’s here,” the man said, jingling the silver under his coat, “I’ll find it.”
He left the plane quickly, got in his jeep and drove away.
“Do we trust a guy like that?” Zal asked. He and Al had been fingering their loaded .45s throughout the encounter.
“We really don’t have a choice,” Hunter said. “We’re in his ballpark. We play by his rules. For now.”
But Hunter had to laugh to himself. Entrusting a $200 million shipment of diamonds to a drooling idiot would have been unthinkable a few years ago. Now it served as a good example of how business was done these days. Welcome to the New Order.
They returned to the cabin where Al broke out a deck of cards. They knew it would be a long, anxious wait.
They sat and played cards and watched as a bewildering array of aircraft came and went.
One airliner, an old Boeing 707, landed. Its smoking engine completely ignored by its pilots and the ground crew, they unloaded hundreds of crates marked: RIFLES. Another plane, an old P-3 Orion Navy aircraft with its markings painted over, touched down and was emptied of thousands of small bales plainly marked: “Marijuana. Panama People’s Republic.” Another 707 was loaded with boxes marked: DANGER EXPLOSIVES—TNT. Hunter couldn’t help but notice that half the ground crew servicing the jet was smoking either cigarettes or joints. If the crates contained TNT and a spark found its way inside, the name Pitts would take on a whole new meaning—that of a half-mile deep crater where an airfield used to be.
All th
e while, large and small planes—each painted in strange bright colors—landed, unloaded passengers, turned around and flew off again. No two planes looked alike, but all of those disembarking were of the same ilk: Dirty-looking, shady characters. Each one scurried off their plane and to the main terminal building as quickly as they could, as if they didn’t want to present themselves as too good a target. Hunter kept a close watch on the arrivals. Everyone was armed. Everyone was watching everyone else.
Another airliner, a Boeing 727 that was painted a ghastly pink, arrived and unloaded human cargo. Pulling right up next to the C-47, the rear door of the plane was lowered. Emerging from the inside were about fifty young girls, each naked to the waist and manacled and tied together with a long white rope. Two mean-looking women herded the young girls out of the plane and into the terminal, laying a cat o’ nine tails on the back of anyone who was not keeping up.
“A slave plane,” Zal said, finally.
“That’s a crime,” Al said. “Tying up and selling young stuff like that.”
“It’s a business,” Hunter said, his own distaste evident. “Everything nowadays is a goddamn business.”
They went back to their card game but were disturbed once again, this time by the arrival of three fighter jets. They were ancient F-100 Super Sabres, each one painted a garish color or pattern. The jets taxied up to the terminal and the pilots climbed out, barking orders to obedient monkeys that were scurrying around the planes.
One jet, flown by the pilot who appeared to be the leader, was painted entirely in shiny black, with a hideous looking laughing shark’s face on its snout. The second jet sported a bright yellow and green camouflage scheme, though Hunter had to wonder what the pilot was thinking of when he painted it. The colors alone would make the plane stick out in a storm at night. The third jet was decorated in a white and red checkerboard pattern that covered the entire plane. All three planes were armed with cannons and Sidewinders.
Each of the pilots was dressed in leather from head to toe. Upon removing their flight helmets, they all revealed heads shaved bald. The insignia on the back of their coats read: “The Stukas.”
Hunter realized that he was seeing, for the first time close up, some authentic air pirates. And these bandits were from The Stukas, a notorious pirate squadron that roamed the skies of western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio.
The three men checked over their planes, then brazenly strolled into the terminal building and disappeared. Hunter noted that each one was carrying a sidearm and a rifle of some kind.
During the afternoon and on toward evening, more planes arrived, off-loading all kinds of deviant looking characters.
“There must be a party going on here tonight,” Zal observed.
“Yeah,” Hunter said. “And we’re not invited.”
But now, it was getting dark and there was still no sign of the man in the black hat. Hunter was getting more anxious by the minute. He had hoped to avoid going into the terminal and raising suspicions by looking for the nails himself. But he knew that it would be easier to look for the man in the black hat than it would be to look for the right crate. He would give the man another two hours, then he would have to act.
Darkness fell and a few of the rundown airport’s dingy lights flickered on. By peering into the main terminal with binoculars, Hunter could see an event of some kind was about to take place inside. All of the characters who had flown in were gathering in the saucer shaped building. Soon a makeshift stage was set up and a spotlight of some kind rigged up.
That’s when the first of the young girls was brought in. The crowd, many with bags of money in their hands, started shouting and waving their hands, much in the direction of another man, standing on stage with the young girl.
“A slave auction,” Hunter said to Al, handing him the spyglass. “That’s what the party is about.”
After Zal had taken a look, Hunter peered through the glasses once again. Another young girl—a redhead—was up on the stage. Her hands tied above her head, the auctioneer, a crude looking man in a bright red suit, turned her around like a piece of merchandise, poking his barker’s cane into her ass, between her legs and between her breasts.
The redhead was quickly sold and another girl brought up on stage. This one, a blonde, was crying as the crowd yipped and yapped at her. Hunter could see the three pirates were as close to the stage as possible, bidding for the girl. The barker soon pointed to the pirates as the winners and the young girl was turned over to them. Laughing and guzzling liquor, they carried the weeping child off to the side of the auction stage where two held her and a third proceeded to rape her, much to the delight of the crowd.
The auction continued, each girl sold one after the other. The crowd was getting drunker and rowdier and a few disappointed bidders started trouble at one point. But it all calmed down and the bidding started once more.
Suddenly the dusky air was split by the noise of a jet landing. As it taxied close to them, Hunter could see in the twilight that it was a two-seat, F-101 Voodoo. It carried the markings of the Free Canadian Armed Forces. Maybe this was the break he was looking for.
No monkeys appeared, so the back-seat pilot had to leap from the wing and block the plane off himself. That done, both pilots were on the tarmac quickly checking the undercarriage of the jet fighter. Hunter could tell by their uniforms that these were Canadian Sky Marshals, airborne versions of the famous Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He could see they were intently studying the three pirate jets parked nearby.
Hunter told Al and Zal to stay alert, then he left the C-47 and went over to meet the Canadians. They eyed him suspiciously as he approached.
He was direct. “I’m Major Hawker Hunter,” he told them. “Of ZAP.”
They both shook their heads.
“You’re the Hawker Hunter?” the pilot, a captain named Frost said, disbelievingly. “Of The Thunderbirds?”
“That’s right,” Hunter said, hoping they’d recognize his face.
The pilots looked around, as if searching for Hunter’s F-16. He started throwing out a few names of higher ups he knew in the Free Canadian Air Corps. They stared at him for a few more moments then, apparently convinced he was the authentic item, asked almost in unison: “What the hell are you doing here?”
He knew he could trust the Canadians. Their air force had been closely allied with ZAP and helped keep the northern border clean of pirates. They carried with them an unblemished reputation of integrity and honesty. Like their counterparts in another time, they always got their man.
He told them the whole story. The diamonds. The Aerodrome. The man in the black hat. “Dangerous mission, Hunter,” Captain Frost told him after hearing it all.
They were in The Pitts looking for a particular air bandit.
“Yesterday morning, he shot down an airliner over Lake Erie,” Frost said. “Killed one hundred thirty six people.”
“It was a senseless act,” the co-pilot, Lieutenant LaFleur said. “He used the airliner as target practice. Put a Sidewinder into the side and watched it go down.”
The pilot of the doomed plane was able to radio a description of the attacker before the airliner hit the water. The Free Canadians matched the description with a known pirate by the name of Rocko. While they didn’t expect the murderer to be in such a public place so soon, they did want to put the word out that they—and about a hundred air bounty hunters—were looking for him.
Hunter then made them a promise. If they covered his ass in getting out of The Pitts with the diamonds, he promised to keep an eye out for the pirate named Rocko. They agreed.
Much relieved, Hunter walked back to the C-47.
As soon as the Sky Marshals entered the terminal, the bidding on the girls stopped. The Canadians had no jurisdiction in The Pitts, and it was not their style to go looking for trouble. But they did want to question the Stukas as Rocko had been seen on previous occasions flying with that particularly notorious group.
Hunter saw th
is as his chance to sneak into the terminal and search for the man with the black hat. He told Al to warm up the engines and be ready for a quick getaway. Then he and Zal loaded up two M-16s, took two high-flash percussion grenades each and left the plane.
Hunter found an unlocked door on the side of one of the spokes and they entered the terminal. The noise of the crowd in the main building was dampened as he knew the Canadians were questioning some of the low-lifes attending the flesh-peddling event. He and Zal headed in the opposite direction. Soon they were into the far reaches of the sprawling terminal building—a bizarre area lit only by constant flickering lights.
The place was a mess. Debris was strewn everywhere. Windows were smashed. Businesses, some of which appeared to have been opened even recently, were trashed. The walls were covered with vulgar graffiti and crude drawings. This part of the airport lived up to its nickname quite nicely.
They walked slowly, carefully searching each room, waiting area and corridor they came to. Sometimes they could hear shouts and laughter in the distance. But the peculiar set up of the airport building made it difficult to determine—even for someone with acute senses like Hunter’s—where the noise was coming from. It was eerie, and the further they walked into the building, the spookier it got. The only sound they heard, aside from the shouts, was the low, steady drone of the C-47’s engines warming up in the distance.
Suddenly, the air was pierced by a long, high-pitched scream. Hunter and Zal froze in their tracks as the blood-curdling cry echoed through the empty passageways. Hunter was able to pick up a direction this time, and signalled Zal to check his weapon and follow him.
Ten minutes later, they found the man in the black hat …
His hands and feet were bound and he was left sitting in a chair of one of the waiting areas, his hat sitting on his lap. His throat was slashed, a pool of blood splattering on the floor beneath his seat.