Hunter systematically went about destroying primary and secondary targets on the base. He put a Sidewinder into the only Mid-Ak helicopter that was able to get airborne during the attack. He left the crucial radio antenna in ruins. The two warehouses were in flames. A row of Mid-Ak trucks was reduced to smoking hulks. He bombed a nearby dike, which allowed the sea to pour into the far end of the place, putting half the major runway under water.
He was running low on ammunition and fuel and knew it was time to start thinking about making a grand exit. He was carrying one last bomb—a napalm cannister he’d purposely saved for last. He wheeled around and headed directly for the control tower. There were two Mid-Aks foolishly firing at him from that position, with the majority of the ’Ak officers were still cowering inside.
He lowered his flaps and his landing gear to slow the jet down to almost a crawl. Lining up the control tower in his video display sight, he could see figures running inside panicking as he approached. At 200 yards out, he performed a perfect four-point turn—first on the right wing, then upside down, then on the left wing and back level again. At the end of the maneuver he was right on the control tower. A push of the weapons release and the napalm cannister splattered onto the side of the tower.
The building was instantly engulfed in flames. Streaking past, he could see fiery figures, diving or falling out of the building as the burning gelatin spread. For the coup de’ grace, he squeezed off a cannon burst which riddled the Mid-Ak flag flying above one of the buildings splintering its flagpole in the process.
Then he was gone in a flash …
The survivors of the murderous one-man air strike finally started to emerge once they felt sure the jet was gone. Looking around the base they saw almost the entire Mid-Ak helicopter corps in flames, every major building was burning, the control tower simply ceased to exist, two ships were sinking offshore, and the sea was uncontrollably pouring into the far end of the base carrying with it the bodies of the Mid-Aks killed in the attack.
On a sand dune, about a mile away, some of the civilians who only minutes before were slated to go before the firing squad, were bayonetting the remains of their would-be executioners. They would never forget what the pilot in the red, white and blue jet had done. Stealing the dead Mid-Aks’ weapons, they regrouped and prepared to evacuate the area, using the commandeered Mid-Aks trucks.
Something in the sky caught the eye of one of the survivors and he called to his comrades to look. Some of the few remaining Mid-Aks saw it too. Miles up, its tail exhaust leaving a contrail, the outline of the F-16 could be seen. The pilot was skywriting a huge letter 55,000 feet up and miles across. Then the F-16 was gone for good, leaving a sight both friend and foe would not soon forget—even as the huge “W” drifted and eventually faded away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE ONLY HAD ENOUGH fuel to fly another 500 miles, if he kept it high and steady and didn’t have to go into the fuel-gulping afterburner. Steering west, he was intent on getting out of the Mid-Ak controlled air space of what used to be the Northeast Economic Zone. They would certainly be looking for him—his plane was undoubtedly identified at the nuking of Baltimore. Now he had to wonder what the bounty on his head would be worth once word of the bombing of Otis reached the Mid-Ak High Command.
He was high over what was once called western Massachusetts when he got his answer …
He was aware of the two bogies even before they showed up on his radar scope. His sixth sense—that mysterious, almost spooky ability which set him apart from any other pilot who ever flew—had warned him that they were in the area. The blips on the radar screen just confirmed what he already knew—two fighters were gaining on him fast.
He remained cool and slowly drifted down through the cloud cover, emerging at 45,000 feet. They were coming out of the southwest, free-lancers, most likely, alerted by the Mid-Aks that a high-priced fugitive would be in their area. And the Mid-Aks would like him shot down for good.
Supersonic bounty hunters were one of the new breed of flyboy in the New Order world. They had a couple of ways to make their money and it was only their ability as pilots that determined how rich they could be.
Air bounties were paid in two ways. “Bring ’em back alive,” and the pilot—or a team of pilots—received the full reward. Shoot the fugitive down—and return the tail section of his plane as proof—and the hunter received half the bounty. Either way, a successful air hunter—mostly free-lancers looking for a little excitement to spell them from the monotony of convoy duty—could wind up rich very quickly.
Just how rich depended on the flyer’s skills. It took a special finesse of flying for a bounty hunter to stalk, locate and force a fugitive pilot to land—safely—to be brought back alive. This could be accomplished in a number of ways: Some air hunters could simply persuade a fugitive to give up without a fight and follow him back to the payer’s airfield. This tactic usually worked if the air hunter was loaded with buckshot and the fugitive was unarmed. If words and threats didn’t do it, a clip of the fugitive’s wing with a well-placed cannon burst just might. A good air marksman could blind the runner by sending a single shot through his radar. Or the tried and true tactic was to just stay on the runner’s ass until he ran out of fuel.
Still, the bounty hunter had to provide a living, breathing body to collect the big money. This is why many of them worked with accomplices on the ground—shady characters who could be radioed and told to speed to the site of a fugitive’s landing, find him, and capture him.
And if all else failed, the stalker could always blast the runner out of the sky and settle for half the reward. Either way it was a complicated, fast-moving, treacherous but ultimately profitable business. No wonder it attracted some of the best stick jockeys left on the continent.
“Fast Eddy calling one-niner-five F-16. Do you read me?”
Hunter had been tracking the two fighters visually for five minutes before they called him. They were about a mile below him and two miles back. A pair of F-104 Starfighters, fast, pencil-thin, short-winged jets. Both were painted in gaudy, red and yellow circus colors. As usual, the pilots were known by their gimmicky call names.
Hunter adjusted his UHF band frequency. The game had begun.
“F-16 acknowledging. Read you five-by-five, Star-fighter. What’s your problem?”
“You’ve got the problem, Mac,” came the static-filled reply. “You the one who busted up the air base down on old Cape Cod?”
“News travels fast,” Hunter replied, checking his remaining armament. No cannon ammo. One Sidewinder. Two Starfighters. It could get interesting.
“You pissed some people off, ’16,” the other pilot, known as Rick the Stick, radioed in.
“Mid-Aks? People?” Hunter said, re-checking his fuel load. “I don’t think they qualify.”
“Being a wise-ass will only make it harder on you, ’16,” Fast Eddie said. “We know you’re down on fuel. And you ain’t got enough to take the both of us on …”
“And we only see one air-to-air …” Rick the Stick added.
“Right,” Eddie continued. “So why not come quietly, ’16? Follow us on a three-seven heading.”
“I don’t know, boys,” Hunter replied. “What’s in it for me?”
“What’s in it for you, ’16, is that we don’t trash your pretty airplane,” Eddie said, a touch of hostility in his voice.
“Okay, Starfighter,” Hunter said, eyeing a bank of clouds ahead. “What’s in it for you?”
“We take you alive,” Fast Eddie replied. “Three bags of silver and quarter bag of gold. Real stuff.”
Gold, Hunter thought. The Mid-Ak’s favorite currency.
“Dead …?” Rick the Stick added, “You’re worth a dime bag of gold and a few lousy quarters.”
Hunter could see that while the bounty pilots were talking to him, they had slowly narrowed the gap between him and them. The large cloud bank was just ahead. The Starfighters were now just a half mile below and r
iding a quarter mile off his tail.
“Make it easy on us, ’16,” Fast Eddie said as he and the Stick moved up to within a quarter mile of Hunter’s jet. “Just lower your flaps and gear and follow us. The ’Aks ain’t that bad.”
“Yeah,” Rick the Stick added. “Just lose that Sidewinder too.”
At that moment all three jets entered the cloud bank simultaneously. When the Starfighters emerged a few seconds later, the F-16 was nowhere to be seen.
“Where did the son of a bitch go?” Rick the Stick exclaimed.
“Christ! Check radar, Stick!” Eddie said, panic rising in his voice.
“No need,” a voice, popping on in their headsets, said. “Just check your tail.”
The Stick looked back just in time to see the Sidewinder leave the wingtip of the F-16. The missile was swallowed up by the Starfighter’s jet exhaust duct. An instant later, Rick the Stick and his Starfighter were blown into a million little pieces.
“Air pollution,” Hunter muttered as he climbed slightly to avoid hitting the flying debris.
“Jeezus!” Eddie exclaimed as he watched his wingman become one with the clouds. “How did you do that?”
“Practice,” Hunter said, smiling. The old 360 loop-dee-loop—a quick climb, roll back and level—had been in the fighter pilot’s bag of tricks since World War I. The Thunderbirds perfected it. But no pilot did it quicker than Hunter.
Fast Eddie, a former Air National Guard pilot gone bad, knew there was only one pilot in the world who could loop that quickly without killing himself with gas.
“Hawk Hunter?” he asked almost meekly into his radio set.
“The one and only,” Hunter replied.
“Oh, God! Those goddamn ’Aks,” Eddie said, nearly screaming. “They didn’t tell us we was going up against you, Hunter.”
“That’s bad employee relations, Eddie.”
“Jesus, I should have known by the F-16,” the bounty pilot said, turning to see Hunter directly behind him.
“Not many of them left,” Hunter said.
“And there’ll be one less,” Fast Eddie said, a light bulb going off in his head. “’cause, you ain’t got no more air-to-airs left. And if you had any ammo, you’d have blasted me by now.” Just because Eddie was a pilot didn’t mean he was extraordinarily bright.
“Maybe I just like talking,” Hunter said as he watched Eddie peel off to the south.
“I got three Sidewinders, Hunter,” Eddie said, a new confidence evident in his voice. “And one of them is for you. When I bring back the tail section of the great Hawk Hunter, the ’Aks will pay me double the live rate. And I’ll be famous!”
More likely they’d feed you into a hot engine, Eddie, Hunter thought. But he had wasted enough time with the Starfighter already. He had places to go. With a touch of the F-16’s side-stick controller, he put the jet into a screaming dive.
Fast Eddie was on his tail in a second, prematurely launching one of his Sidewinders. It streaked by off to Hunter’s left, missing by an eighth of a mile.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that, Eddie?” Hunter asked, as he passed 20,000 feet and still diving. “A video arcade?”
“I got two more, Hunter,” Eddie replied, arming his second missile and lining up the F-16 on the Starfighter’s relatively crude targeting acquisition system. “Say your prayers …”
“In the name of the father. And of the son,” Hunter began, “Out of the park. Home run.”
Eddie’s second missile missed by a full 100 yards.
“Now I know why your plane looks like it belongs in a carnival, Eddie,” Hunter said, checking his altitude at 5000 feet and still dropping. “A loser every time.”
“Fuck you, Hunter,” Eddie said with a mouthful of frustration.
They were both closing in on 1000 feet when Eddie launched his last Sidewinder. A deft flick of Hunter’s wrist on the side-stick and the ’16 casually moved out of the way of the deadly missile. It shot straight past and exploded on the side of a mountain below.
They were flying through the heart of the Berkshires, close to where ZAP had battled the Cherry Busters in the Thruway War a year before. Hunter was now down to 500 feet, following the twists and turns of a river as it wound itself through the mountains. Eddie was close on his tail.
“Still got my cannon, Hunter,” Eddie boasted. “And you ain’t got yours.”
Hunter saw a stream of shells pass him on the right. He zigged in that direction, just in time to see another burst shoot by on his left. A zag back to his left put him back on his original heading. When Fast Eddie tried to shoot low; Hunter would take the F-16 up a notch. He’d shoot high, Hunter would be scraping the treetops. Whatever the bounty pilot did, Hunter was a split-second ahead of him. While Eddie was spewing out every curseword in the book—and inventing new ones—Hunter was enjoying the view.
The high-speed cat-and-mouse game continued for miles as the F-16 twisted and turned through the river valley of the Berkshires, the F-104 in close pursuit.
Suddenly, the river disappeared and a mountain loomed straight ahead. Hunter saw it. Eddie didn’t.
“Goodbye, Eddie,” Hunter said as he pulled back on the stick and stood the F-16 on its tail. The Starfighter, notorious for its bad handling at low altitude, just kept right on going. It slammed into the side of the mountain, its fuel tanks exploding on impact, spreading burning jet fuel over a wide area and igniting a forest fire.
God help us, Hunter thought, looking back at the ball of flame rising from the side of the mountain, if the Mid-Aks ever get any real pilots.
Thirty minutes later, he saw his immediate destination appear on the western horizon. A cross-check of his instruments confirmed he had about 10 minutes of fuel left—just enough to get where he was going. He started monitoring all UHF frequencies, searching for the right one on which he could announce his arrival. He knew he had probably already been picked up on radar and that dozens of SAM crews were tracking him. He just hoped they kept their cool long enough.
Syracuse. The once-bustling city stuck in the middle of upstate New York had long ago been evacuated, its residents now either scattered or citizens of Canada. But a new smaller city had sprung up, not in the middle of town, but at its airport. The Aerodrome they called it, and the last Hunter knew, an old friend of his was running the place.
The Aerodrome was a true product of the New Order era. Because most of New York state was now the Free Territory of New York, it was anything-goes as far as governments went. Most of the state was made up of small hamlets, where like the few larger cities not completely evacuated, the people had reverted to a kind of benign anarchy. Most of the people, though monetarily poor, enjoyed the set-up. But there was still a price to pay for the no-government-at-any-cost approach. Bandits perpetually roamed the deserted highways, and every so often, a roving air pirate squadron might blow through and terrorize the skies above the rugged mountainous country.
In the middle of this sat The Aerodrome, a haven of profitability and capitalism. It was all a question of location. Syracuse sat at an important crossroads of the air convoy routes. Single aircraft—cargo planes to fighters—used the place as a refueling stop. In the past, many air trains leaving Boston would fly a heading straight to Syracuse, where, if an aircraft had trouble—either mechanical or from pirates—it could set down safely. Smaller convoys flying down from Canada or from other places, would drop off goods and supplies at The Aerodrome for pick-up by other planes heading west. The base also afforded a large and well-staffed aircraft maintenance service; a place where an airplane could be overhauled, its engines torn down and rebuilt, its body rewelded, its avionics replaced or updated.
In many ways, the place was a modern version of the old-style truck-stop. Several eating establishments were located there, as were twice as many barrooms. Other enterprises—uniforms, used flying equipment, custom aircraft painting—thrived at the airbase. Many escort pilots and free-lancers called the place home. The currency ra
n from old silver coins to an occasional piece of gold or a diamond. And outright bartering—a short escort mission in exchange for a bellyfull of jet fuel, a paint job for a new landing gear assembly—was common.
So was the more deviant activity. While the half dozen large hotels surrounding the airport were converted into flophouses for weary pilots, the 20 or so smaller ones served as whorehouses. One of The Aerodrome’s main attractions was its Sodom and Gomorrah atmosphere. And flesh was just one commodity available. A black market flourished at the base. Guns, ammo, missiles, bombs, anything that could be attached to the underside of a jet or to its wings could be bought at The Aerodrome in any and all quantities. It seemed like everything—legal, illegal or otherwise—could be had at the place.
Although The Aerodrome started out as a private enterprise, all the activity at the base attracted many people to settle around it. Soon a city had arisen. Though born from the same idea as Jonesville—people liked safety in numbers in the New Order world—the place made Otis look like a hick town. More than 30,000 lived in the general vicinity, and more than three thousand passed in and out each day. The crime rate was high, the quality of liquor was low with the availability of a nice-looking piece of ass falling somewhere in the middle.
There was no police force, but common sense dictated the need for a standing army. Supported by the landing tax imposed on everyone flying through, the Aerodrome Defense Force—the ADF—was well-known for its tough, no-nonsense approach to protecting the base. ADF crews manned the radar stations, the SAM sites, the control tower and patrolled the border of the ten-square mile area claimed by The Aerodrome’s operators. A squadron of ADF fighters—flying vintage F-105 Thunderchiefs—kept a close eye on The Aerodrome’s airspace. The bandits, the air pirates and other troublemakers usually gave the place a wide berth. Of if they did find themselves at The Aerodrome, more often than not they would behave themselves, lest they feel the wrath of the ADF.
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