Wingman (28 page)

The limo ride through Football City was eye-popping. It was obvious why no one called it St. Louis anymore. The place no longer even faintly resembled that old city.

A massive reconstruction project had been undertaken. Gone were the slums and the seedy downtown business district. In its place a city of gambling and entertainment establishments had been planted. Now the downtown contained block upon city block of casinos, night clubs, restaurants, barrooms, hotels and what he was sure were high class whorehouses. The new city stretched for a mile in every direction. The streets were so brightly lit from the establishments' marquees, that street lights weren't needed.

There were people everywhere, walking, talking, drinking, eating, leaving one casino to duck into another.

There were all
kinds
of people. Soldiers, airmen, cowboys, Canadians, children, couples-some who could only be described as tourists-who looked as if the bomb had never been dropped. And there were women. All kinds of women. He saw showgirls walking down the street in their costumes. He saw hookers, fine looking mamas of all races. Young girls, older women, women dancing naked in the windows of casinos. Women dressed like men. Possibly some men dressed like women. He saw a lot of women wearing men's suit coats, vests, ties, hats-and miniskirts. Others wore only bathing suits. Some were even topless. Everywhere he looked, he saw women.

"The woman to man ratio is 3-to-l," Gus told him. "This places makes Las Vegas look like a crap game in the backroom," Hunter said, his eyes glued to the window of the limousine.

"That's right, Mr. Hunter," Murray said. "It's more like Disneyland. You do remember Disneyland, don't you?"

Murray was a small, balding man around 50 years old. Hunter wouldn’t be surprised later when Gus told him that Murray took care of the books for the city. He may have been one of the few accountants to survive World War HI. Max, a tall, thin, scholarly type around 40, was the city lawyer, a nearly ceremonial job in a place where just about everything-short of murder and rape-was legal.

Gus was the fix-it man. They all worked for a man they called The Boss. His real name, Hunter would find out later, was Louis St. Louis, or, bowing to the local dialect, Louie St. Louie. He was the kingpin of the whole operation; the person, according to Gus, who conceived of the city, designed it, financed it, built it, and now reaped the profits. It was hard to believe he'd done it all in less than five years. But Hunter knew Louie St. Louie was now at least $200 million richer, and according to Gus, the man was very anxious to meet the pilot who had delivered his diamonds.

They turned a corner and ahead of them loomed a mammoth stadium. It covered more than 20 city blocks, and was magnificently lit by at least a hundred sky-high light towers. The outside walls of the stadium were made of marble, with authentic gold inlay.

Thousands of flags and banners flew in the breeze above its walls. It had a retractable dome, many ramps and walkways leading in and out, plus two very tall needle-nose towers, one at each end, that afforded anyone sitting in them the best seat in the house. The whole thing was beautiful-a beautiful monstrosity.

They pulled up in front of the stadium so Hunter could get a good look at it.

"Major Hunter," Gus Said. "You wanted to know why we call this place Football City. Well, this is why."

"You play football here?" Hunter said, looking at the awesome structure. "Well, not just any football, Major," Gus said. "Professional football. Football people who can remember what the old NFL was like can enjoy."

"And let me guess," Hunter said. "Football everyone can bet on."

"That's correct, Major," Gus said. "The revenues we need to survive here in Football City come from betting The Game."

"The Game?" Hunter asked. "You make it sound like there is only one game played here."

"That's quite correct, Major," Max told him. "There is only one game. A game that never ends."

"What?"

"It's true, almost," Gus continued. "It's just one long game of football. It doesn't end until the season ends and the season is three hundred days long. The Game goes on, day after day, twenty-four-hours a day. The teams-and there are only two-are made up of five hundred men each. They substitute constantly, man for man, and team for team. The game always goes on. The point spread is always changing as the players enter and leave. The betting always constant."

In the pre-war days, Hunter loved football as much as the next guy. But a perpetual game'?

"People can bet by the periods, quarters we used to call them," Max explained.

"Or by the half’s, or by a match, which is four quarters. Some high rollers will bet by the day, or the week, or the month."

"The diamonds you picked up for us?" Gus asked. "They were payment from a man who had bet the entire three-hundred-day season."

"And lost?" Hunter asked.

“And lost,” Gus confirmed.

:Lost two-hundred million,” Murray the accountant interjected. “That’s the kind of money we are dealing with here.”

“The final score last year was seventy-six thousand, nine-hundred eighty-one to seventy-three thousand, four-hundred fifty-two, “ Gus said. “It was pretty close until the end when the Gold team suffered injuries to six of its quarterbacks in less than two weeks."

"The Gold team?" Hunter asked.

"Right," Gus answered. "The two teams that always play each other are the Gold and Silver. A lot of the players are actually NFL players who were on teams when the war broke out. We scoured both coasts for good players. A lot of them are from Texas too. They are terrific athletes, and they make good money. Trouble is, there are so many of them that a lot of the players don't even know the majority of their teammates."

"But the place is empty right now," Hunter said, noting the lack of hustle and bustle that he imagined would be associated with such an occasion.

"That's correct, Major," Max the lawyer said. "Our season will open again tomorrow. It's our biggest holiday of the year. Mister St. Louis will throw out the first football and the game will be on again, for another three-hundred days.

"Hunter was fascinated at the idea. Sports as a city life? A never-ending football game? Bets from a piece of silver worth a dollar to nearly a quarter of a billion dollars?

They drove on, soon arriving at a palatial estate containing a building that was a cross between a hotel and a cathedral. It was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence that stretched for a mile square. Many soldiers were on guard outside the fence; many tanks and armored personnel carriers were in evidence. Several small SAM positions were also directly placed around the perimeter. Inside the fence there was an area the size of a small city park, complete with trees, brooks and rolling greens. It was a golf course at one time, Hunter realized and now the place was still well-kept-and well-guarded. Hunter estimated another 200 or so soldiers patrolled these interior grounds.

The building itself, tall and red, with a rotating red beacon on top, was

surrounded by a wide functional moat. It was at one time an exclusive golf

club-cum-hotel, maybe a Hyatt or a Sheraton, before someone came in and did some extensive renovations. The building was big enough to house hundreds if not thousands of people. But as he soon learned, now only one man lived there: Louie St. Louie.

A quarter mile long road wound through the pleasant grounds leading to the moat.

Four checkpoints also marked the way. The soldiers checked the limo at each checkpoint, and carefully scrutinized Gus, Max and Murray. Although all three were well-known in these parts, the soldiers went about their job professionally. Something about them sparked in Hunter's memory, but he couldn't grab hold of it. The last checkpoint was at the bridge, which was lowered for the limo to cross the moat.

Five minutes later, after a tour of the ornate lobby, Hunter was ushered in, alone, to the lush living quarters of Louie St. Louie, the man who served as designer, bankroller and, for all practical purposes, king of Football City. The room was huge. One wall was taken up by a long, well-stocked bar. Another looked like it doubled as a movie screen. An immense window faced the east and provided a view out over the grounds of the former golf course. The remaining wall was covered with pictures of football players and scenes from football games.

Sitting in a chair looking out the window was Louie St. Louie. He was a tall, white haired-man of about 60, dressed in an all-white, three-piece-suit. A dignified chin off-set his ruddy complexion and a quick, down-home smile. He rose immediately and greeted Hunter like a long-lost son, putting a bear hug on him that threatened the airman with suffocation. Hunter detected a distinct twang in his voice when he spoke.

"Major Hunter," Louie beamed. "This is certainly an honor to meet you, sir. I am grateful for that, shall we say, little favor you did for me."

"My pleasure," Hunter said. The twang registered: Louie St. Louie was definitely of Texas stock.

"Well," St. Louie said. "Come on in, boy, sit down and talk to an old flyboy, would you?"

"You're a pilot?"

"I was," Louie said, heading for the room's wet bar. "Scotch, Major? Made yesterday."

"Sounds good," Hunter said, settling in a chair near the large window. Out on the grounds he could see a couple of hundred of the estate's soldiers doing calisthenics.

Others patrolled in and out of the dots of woods that marked the course.

St. Louie returned with two glasses and an unlabeled bottle of Scotch.

"I haven't flown in years," St. Louie said, picking up the conversation. "Not real flying anyway. I have a T-38 at the airfield. Fly down to Texas every great while.

But I'm too busy here."

"You flew before the war?" Hunter asked, taking a taste of the bitter, strong Scotch.

"Before and during," St. Louie laughed. "B-52s. Stationed in Guam, moved back to California, when the shit hit. Me and my squadron took out half the goddamn Russian Pacific fleet with cruise missiles before they made us stop having so much fun. Fired the little buggers right off our wings. Go up with eight of them at a time. We must have flown fifty missions during the three weeks, bombing those Commie bastards right across the Pacific, all the way back to Guam, for Christ's sake."

There were a few moments of silence as St. Louie's eyes wandered off into space.

Hunter knew the man was thinking about the Great Betrayal, the stab in the back, brave men lost for no good reason.

St. Louie suddenly came back to the present with the clap of his hands and a great smile.

"But gosh darn it, Major, I sure admire your flying. I saw you guys perform once when I was up in Boston, before the Zone went Mid-Ak."

"That seems like a long time ago," Hunter said.

"That's how things are these days, Major. We remember what it used to be like.

Before the war. Before the New Order. Ever since, things seem to take longer. You can't move like you used to. I miss it."

"So do I," Hunter agreed.

"You've seen our city?"

"It's quite a place."

"And it's good for the people, Major. We've brought back more than half the original population, and thousands of people visit us every day. It gives them some excitement in their lives. There's not much excitement any more if you ain't a pilot or a soldier. People spend most of their time cooped up in their homes or wherever they live. They don't want to take a chance being out at night with all the scum roaming around the continent. But there isn't a whole lot that you can do at home either. Ain't got TV like we used to. No radio really. No new books. Football City gives 'em someplace to go. Something to do. Some link with the past. It's safe. We got sports. We got eating places. Music. Entertainment ...

"Women ..." Hunter interjected.

"Wooo-eee, do we ever!" St. Louie laughed, reaching for the bottle to refill his glass. "They just come from all over, Major. They like it here. They ain't bumping around some small town somewhere or getting raped or killed."

"Sounds like it's worth fighting for," Hunter said, his eyes traveling back to the soldiers drilling out on the fairway.

"Now, Major, I must confess something," St. Louie said, draining his Scotch. "We have a surprise for you."

"Surprise?"

St. Louie laughed. "Yes," he said, getting up to push a button. "I want you to meet our commander of my private security forces."

The security forces, the soldiers patrolling St. Louie's mansion and grounds, and now visible out the window, drilling in the field below. They seemed familiar to him.

"Captain," St. Louie called into an intercom. "Would you come in here please?

Major Hunter is waiting to meet you."

Hunter stood and saw St. Louie was wearing a look of undeniable delight on his face. The door beside him opened and a man in battle fatigues walked in. He, too, was smiting.

Hunter looked at the man. He was stocky, ruddy complexion and a mass of black hair.

Then the face registered.

It was Captain Bull Dozer . . .

He put a bear hug on Dozer. It was so good to see the man again. It was as if everything had come full circle.

"I can't believe it," Hunter told him. "What the hell are you doing here?"