Wingman (2 page)

"Where have you been, Major? Hibernating?"

"Worse than that, sir," Hunter replied, still standing ramrod straight at attention. "I've been contemplating my existence."

"Obviously, you're suffering from post-World War III syndrome," the general said.

"It's been going around."

Hunter continued. "Got a bunch of books, went up to a mountain and tried to find the meaning of life, sir."

"Jesus, not that!"

" 'Fraid so, sir."

And what conclusions did you reach, Major?”

Hunter paused a moment for effect, then replied, "Well, sir, I discovered that every man has to believe in something."

"And . . . ?"

"And," Hunter said, looking around the general's empty office. "And, I believe I'll have a drink, sir."

"Scotch?"

"Neat, sir."

With the wave of his hand, Jones dismissed the properly impressed, if slightly confused sentry. He walked around the desk and hugged Hunter.

"Good to see you, Hawk," he said.

"Same here, sir."

Jones locked the office door and broke out his emergency bottle.

"Had breakfast yet?" he asked.

Despite the early morning hour, they sat and ate stale doughnuts, while mixing the no-brand whiskey in with cups of steaming coffee. Then they talked.

"Well, Hawk," Jones said, swigging his laced coffee. "What the hell happened to you after Rota?"

"You really want to know?"

"Sure as hell," Jones said, smiting. "You tell me your story and I'll tell you mine."

Hunter took a deep breath. It seemed like so long ago. "Okay," he said. "Hang onto your hat."

Hunter began his story. After Jones had been led away, everyone took for granted he was heading for a firing squad. The members of the 16th scattered. But Hunter was determined to get back to America, or what was left of it. He knew there was an American sub base up in Loch Lomond, Scotland, and figured it was the only place where ships might be trying to get back home. So he walked. Right through Spain, through France and, after bribing a Frenchman to take him across the Channel, right up through England.

It took him more than two months to reach Loch Lomond only to find the place filled with ex-GIs who had had the same idea as he. There were at least 10,000 men trying to get on no more than a half dozen Navy warships docked in the harbor. No one was in charge.

The base was in a state of utter chaos.

Then he got lucky. At one corner of the sprawling base he found a battalion of Marines. They had set up an orderly camp on a hill inside the base and were grimly going about the task of staying civilized in the middle of all the disorder. Hunter fell in with them after pulling rank on a couple of the camp's guards and demanding to be taken to their commanding officer. His name was Captain John "Bull" Dozer and after a brief talk, he offered Hunter some grub and a place to sleep.

Dozer's outfit was going by the curious name of the 7th Cavalry-odd because the Marine Corps had no cavalry, per se. Over a pot of coffee, Dozer explained to Hunter that his unit had been fighting in Turkey when the last great battles of the war were raging. At one point they were surrounded by four Soviet army regiments near Ankara.

Yet his Marines fought ferociously, and, unlike Custer's 7th Cavalry, caused the enemy to back off the siege and rethink the situation. By the time Dozer got his troops to more defensible ground, the war in Europe had been won and the Russians had agreed to the cease-fire.

Dozer promised his men that if they stuck together, he would get them home. He commandeered two Turkish airliners at gunpoint and forced the pilots to fly his 900

soldiers to England. His goal too was Loch Lomond and they had arrived two weeks before.

When Hunter told him America was his goal too, they shook hands and agreed to work toward it together.

By the second afternoon, the six ships in port were overflowing with the survivors.

One by one, they disappeared over the horizon. Hunter knew their chances of making it to America were nil.

Two days later the enormous outline of an aircraft carrier appeared off to the south. It was the
John F. Kennedy
. The captain came ashore and word quickly spread through the 5,000 remaining ex-GIs that they could hitch a ride to America as long as it was an orderly evacuation. The 7th Cavalry saddled up, and with Hunter tagging along, were among the first group to be taken aboard the great ship.

The voyage west took ten days, and as the faint outline of Manhattan appeared on the horizon, questions ran through the minds of the men onboard. What was the country like now? Was there any country left to come home to?

They got their answers soon enough. As the ship neared the harbor they could see that what looked to be a mist enveloped the city. The mist was actually smoke. The city was burning. A collective shudder went through the men on the ship when they got a look at the Statue of Liberty. It was headless. The top had been blown off by some unknown catastrophe. As the
JFK
neared a docking point just off the southern tip of Manhattan, sounds of gunfire could be heard coming from the city streets. Welcome to New Order America, was all that Hunter could think of.

The ship docked and the passengers began filing off. Some stayed in groups, others just disappeared into the streets alone. Not many of them had any destination planned.

Hunter gladly joined the Marines as they smartly formed up and marched down the gangplank.

Dozer told him that the 7th had decided to stay together no matter what.

Technically, they were no longer Marines and Dozer was no longer their commanding officer. But they agreed to stay with him and try to reach Fort Meade, Maryland.

The Marine captain asked Hunter to go with them, but Hunter had made up his mind that if New York City was an indication of the state of the country—and he was certain it was—then he wanted no part of it. He had already set his sights on getting to the mountain in New Hampshire. Still he knew it would be wise to stay with the Marines until they were out of the horrible Beirut-like Manhattan.

Dozer formed his troops into one main column and gave them the order to march.

Their destination was the George Washington Bridge. The sound of gunfire was everywhere. No one had a clue as to who was fighting whom, but most of the destroyed equipment they came across bore the markings of the National Guards of New York and New Jersey. Were the two states battling it out for possession of the island?

They were nearing Central Park East when they ran into trouble. Scouts stationed ahead of the column got word back to Dozer that a small group of armed men were holding two women at gunpoint three blocks away
.
Using hand signals, Dozer instructed his men to surround the gunmen. When one of the gang members raised his rifle the armed men were cut down in a volley of murderous gunfire.

And then a strange thing happened. One by one, civilians started to appear.

They had been hiding in doorways, alleys and in buildings. Shyly, cautiously at first, they began to emerge from their hiding places. Soon, there were a couple of hundred of them—old men, women, children. Some of them were wounded; all of them were caught in the terrifying madness of the anarchy in New York City.

One man was particularly happy. He was running up and down the street, waving a small American flag and yelling "The Marines are here!" Just as he was running up to Hunter and Dozer, a shot rang out. The man's chest exploded from the sniper's bullet. He fell r igh t in t o H un t er ' s ar m s . H e g as p ed an d t r ie d t o speak. but all that came out was ". . . Why . . . shoot me?"

Then he died.

Hunter laid the man's body down on the street. He was about 65 years old,

Hunter figured, just one of millions of New Yorkers. He located the man's wallet and looked inside. His driver's license said he was Saul Wackerman. A photo showed him, his white-haired wife and two daughters. Another photo showed his

son—apparently an Israeli soldier—in full uniform.

H u n t e r l o o k e d b a c k a t t h e m a n . H e w a s s t i l l gripping the American flag, so much so that Hunter had some difficulty prying it from his fingers. He folded the flag and put it in his own pocket. The look on Saul Wackerman's face would haunt the pilot for many years to come.

T h e n D o z e r s h o w e d H u n t e r s o m e t h i n g w h i c h would also haunt him: one of the gunmen had been carrying a AK-47 Kalishnikov assault rifle. Obviously, there were plenty of guns in New York City these days. What was startling was the AK-47

was the standard issue rifle for the Soviet Army.

Several hours later they reached the George Washington Bridge. The Marines

were heading south. Hunter was going north, determined to get to the mountain in New Hampshire before the whole world came crashing down. He thanked Dozer and bid him and his troops farewell, knowing he'd never see any of them again.

he general listened to it all, quietly sipping his morning brew and at one

point, breaking out a box of Havana cigars.

Hunter reached into his pocket and produced a piece of cloth. He unfolded

it. It was the flag he took from Saul Wackerman.

"We could both be shot just for your having that," Jones said nonchalantly.

"So that's what it's come to," Hunter said defiantly. He felt the flag for a moment, fingering the bloodstains that dotted one edge of it. He always carried it with him so he would never forget what it was like . . . before. He folded it carefully and returned it to his pocket. "They'll have to pry it from
my
fingers, before they take it away from me."

"They probably will," Jones said smiling grimly.

There was silence between them for a few moments. Then Jones clapped his hands together and reached for the bottle.

"Well, shit, Hawk." he said, freshening his coffee. "That's one hell of a story.

No wonder you headed for the hills:'

Hunter had to laugh. It must have sounded like an incredible adventure. And

he didn't even tell him the part about how he had met and bedded down with a beautiful girl along the way in France.

" S o w h a t h a p p e n e d t o y o u ? " h e a s k e d J o n e s , reaching for the whiskey bottle himself. "We thought we'd seen the last of you when the Finns drove you away."

Jones let out a loud laugh and clapped his hands again.
"I
was in Paris, Hawk, old buddy. And did you miss some party, boy!”

When the New Order came down and the general was led away by the Finns, Hunter had assumed that the old man would be thrown in prison at best, or worse, executed.

Actually, the officer had a free ride to the French capital where his handlers inexplicably set him free. Once there, he met many other ex-military officers who were of the same mind as he: We won the war and we still got screwed. With nothing else to do, they proceeded to drink the Paris nightclubs dry.

"It was great," Jones testified. "More booze than I've ever seen."

Paris was one of the major cities Hunter thought he was prudent in avoiding during his odyssey to Scotland. He had visions of deserted streets filled only with rotting corpses, it’s beautiful buildings in ruins, the curtains drawn on the proud French republic, finally defeated.

"You'd be surprised how good a shape the city was in," Jones told him. "Of course, considering that the largest battle ever fought in the history of mankind took place about 30 clicks away, and that half the people had either been gassed or had
vamoosed
before the first shot was even fired, the ones who stayed were great. Writers, politicians, musicians, artists, old bucks who had fought the Nazis. These people just kept on celebrating. They didn't give a shit who won. They didn't give a shit that the Russians-or what was left of them-were just over the next hill. They just wanted to get back to their food, booze and getting laid. Everything else was secondary to them.

"I was traveling around with a bunch of crazy Brits. RAF guys. We busted up the town pretty good. But after a few weeks, we realized that the city was getting real hot-real fast. We knew Ivan was just over the hill, licking his wounds and getting ready to play the conquering heroes." He spat in disgust. "The filthy swine! We kicked their asses and they made like they just took over the world."

“They did, Hunter reminded him.

The general went on. A bunch of senators and government bozos were stuck in Paris after the armistice was signed. They had the Concorde-the famous SST-waiting at Orly Airport. Jones said a seat on that plane couldn't have been bought for a million dollars.

The politicos were getting itchy to get out of Europe before it went Red. Trouble was, the pilot never showed up. Now they needed someone to fly it. Somehow, they knew Jones was in town.

"They got word to me while I was shitfaced, sleeping under a table in a bar on the Left Bank. Or was it the Right Bank? Anyway, they sobered me up and fed me. Then, we loaded the sucker up with French wines and chow, and it was
oeuvre
!

He clapped his hands in joy, just thinking about it. "You should have come to Paris, Hawk, my boy. We had a hell of the time there!"

He got up and started another pot of coffee brewing. Hunter was astounded at the general's ability to land on his feet. There he was, crossing the Atlantic lashed to a bulkhead on the JFK in the middle of a hurricane, and Jones made the trip